Sneer. ‘Tis very true; and I have heard a hundred say the same thing, who never failed being present at them.

  Fust. And while that happens, they will force any entertainment upon the town they please, in spite of its teeth. [Ghost of COMMON SENSE rises.] Oons, and the devil, madam! what’s the meaning of this? You have left out a scene. Was ever such an absurdity as for your ghost to appear before you are killed.

  Q. C. S. I ask pardon, sir; in the hurry of the battle I forgot to come and kill myself.

  Fust. Well, let me wipe the flour off your face then. And now, if you please, rehearse the scene; take care you don’t make this mistake any more though, for it would inevitably damn the play if you should. Go to the corner of the scene, and come in as if you had lost the battle.

  Q. C. S. Behold the ghost of Common Sense appears.

  Fust. ‘Sdeath, madam, I tell you you are no ghost — you are not killed.

  Q. C. S. Deserted and forlorn, where shall I fly. The battle’s lost, and so are all my friends.

  Enter a Poet.

  Poet. Madam, not so; still you have one friend left.

  Q. C. S. Why, what art thou?

  Poet. Madam, I am a poet.

  Q. C. S. Whoe’er thou art, if thou’rt a friend to misery, Know Common Sense disclaims thee.

  Poet. I have been damn’d Because I was your foe, and yet I still Courted your friendship with my utmost art.

  Q. C. S. Fool! thou wert damn’d because thou didst pretend

  Thyself my friend; for hadst thou boldly dared,

  Like Hurlothrumbo, to deny me quite,

  Or, like an opera or pantomime,

  Profess’d the cause of Ignorance in publick,

  Thou might’st have met with thy desired success;

  But men can’t bear even a pretence to me.

  Poet. Then take a ticket for my benefit night.

  Q. C. S. I will do more — for Common Sense will stay Quite from your house, so may you not be damn’d.

  Poet. Ha! say’st thou? By my soul, a better play

  Ne’er came upon a stage; but, since you dare

  Contemn me thus, I’ll dedicate my play

  To Ignorance, and call her Common Sense:

  Yes, I will dress her in your pomp, and swear

  That Ignorance knows more than all the world. [Exit.

  Enter FIREBRAND.

  Fireb. Thanks to the Sun for this desired encounter.

  Q. C. S. Oh, priest! all’s lost; our forces are o’erthrown — Some gasping lie, but most are run away.

  Fireb. I knew it all before, and told you too The Sun has long been out of humour with you.

  Q. C. S. Dost thou, then, lay upon the Sun the faults Of all those cowards who forsook my cause?

  Fireb. Those cowards all were most religious men: And I beseech thee, Sun, to shine upon them.

  Q. C. S. Oh, impudence! and darest thou to my face? —

  Fireb. Yes, I dare more; the Sun presents you this, [Stabs her. Which I, his faithful messenger, deliver.

  Q. C. S. Oh, traytor! thou hast murder’d Common Sense.

  Farewel, vain world! to Ignorance I give thee,

  Her leaden sceptre shall henceforward rule.

  Now, priest, indulge thy wild ambitious thoughts;

  Men shall embrace thy schemes, till thou hast drawn

  All worship from the Sun upon thyself:

  Henceforth all things shall topsy-turvy turn;

  Physick shall kill, and Law enslave the world;

  Cits shall turn beaus, and taste Italian songs,

  While courtiers are stock-jobbing in the city.

  Places requiring learning and great parts

  Henceforth shall all be hustled in a hat,

  And drawn by men deficient in them both.

  Statesmen — but oh! cold death will let me say

  No more — and you must guess et caetera. [Dies.

  Fireb. She’s gone! but ha! it may beseem me ill

  T’ appear her murderer. I’ll therefore lay

  This dagger by her side; and that will be

  Sufficient evidence, with a little money,

  To make the coroner’s inquest find self-murder.

  I’ll preach her funeral sermon, and deplore

  Her loss with tears, praise her with all my art.

  Good Ignorance will still believe it all. [Exit.

  Enter Queen IGNORANCE, &c.

  Q. Ign. Beat a retreat; the day is now our own;

  The powers of Common Sense are all destroy’d;

  Those that remain are fled away with her.

  I wish, Mr Fustian, this speech be common sense.

  Sneer. How the devil should it, when she’s dead?

  Fust. One would think so, when a cavil is made against the best thing in the whole play; and I would willingly part with anything else but those two lines.

  Harl. Behold! where welt’ring in her blood she lies. I wish, sir, you would cut out that line, or alter it, if you please.

  Fust. That’s another line that I won’t part with; I would consent to cut out anything but the chief beauties of my play.

  Harl. Behold the bloody dagger by her side, With which she did the deed.

  Q. Ign. ‘Twas nobly done!

  I envy her her exit, and will pay

  All honours to her dust. Bear hence her body,

  And let her lie in state in Goodman’s fields.

  Enter Messenger.

  Mess. Madam, I come an envoy from Crane-court.

  The great society that there assemble

  Congratulate your victory, and request

  That firm alliance henceforth may subsist

  Between your majesty’s society

  Of Grub-street and themselves: they rather beg

  That they may be united both in one.

  They also hope your majesty’s acceptance

  Of certain curiosities, which in

  That hamper are contain’d, wherein you’ll find

  A horse’s tail, which has a hundred hairs

  More than are usual in it; and a tooth

  Of elephant full half an inch too long;

  With turnpike-ticket like an ancient coin.

  Q. Ign. We gratefully accept their bounteous gifts,

  And order they be kept with proper care,

  Till we do build a place most fit to hold

  These precious toys: tell your society

  We ever did esteem them of great worth,

  And our firm friends: and tell ‘em ‘tis our pleasure

  They do prepare to dance a jig before us.

  [Exit Messenger

  My lords of Law and Physick, you shall find

  I will not be ungrateful for your service:

  To you, good Harlequin, and your allies,

  And you, Squeekaronelly, I will be

  A most propitious queen — But ha!

  [Music under the stage.

  What hideous music or what yell is this?

  Sure ‘tis the ghost of some poor opera tune.

  Sneer. The ghost of a tune, Mr Fustian!

  Fust. Ay, sir, did you never hear one before? I had once a mind to have brought the apparition of Musick in person upon the stage, in the shape of an English opera. Come, Mr Ghost of the Tune, if you please to appear in the sound of soft musick, and let the ghost of Common Sense rise to it.

  [Ghost of COMMON SENSE rises to soft musick.

  Ghost. Behold the ghost of Common Sense appears. Caitiffs, avaunt! or I will sweep you off, And clean the land from such infernal vermin.

  Q. Ign. A ghost! a ghost! a ghost! haste, scamper off, My friends; we’ve kill’d the body, and I know The ghost will have no mercy upon us.

  Omnes. A ghost! a ghost! a ghost! [Run off.

  Ghost. The coast is clear, and to her native realms

  Pale Ignorance with all her host is fled,

  Whence she will never dare invade us more.

  Here, though a ghost, I will my power maintain,

  And all the friends of Ignorance shall find

  My ghost, at least, they cannot banish hence;

  And all henceforth, who murder Common Sense,

  Learn from these scenes that, though success you boast.

  You shall at last be haunted with her ghost.

  Sneer. I am glad you make Common Sense get the better at last; I was under terrible apprehensions for your moral.

  Fust. Faith, sir, this is almost the only play where she has got the better lately. But now for my epilogue: if you please to begin, madam.

  EPILOGUE

  GHOST.

  The play once done, the epilogue, by rule,

  Should come and turn it all to ridicule;

  Should tell the ladies that the tragic bards,

  Who prate of Virtue and her vast rewards,

  Are all in jest, and only fools should heed ‘em;

  For all wise women flock to mother Needham.

  This is the method epilogues pursue,

  But we to-night in everything are new.

  Our author then, in jest throughout the play,

  Now begs a serious word or two to say.

  Banish all childish entertainments hence;

  Let all that boast your favour have pretence,

  If not to sparkling wit, at least to sense.

  With soft Italian notes indulge your ear;

  But let those singers, who are bought so dear,

  Learn to be civil for their cheer at least,

  Nor use like beggars those who give the feast.

  And though while musick for herself may carve,

  Poor Poetry, her sister-art, must starve;

  Starve her at least with shew of approbation,

  Nor slight her, while you search the whole creation

  For all the tumbling-skum of every nation.

  Can the whole world in science match our soil?

  Have they a LOCKE, a NEWTON, or a BOYLE?

  Or dare the greatest genius of their stage

  With SHAKSPEARE or immortal BEN engage?

  Content with nature’s bounty, do not crave

  The little which to other lands she gave;

  Nor like the cock a barley corn prefer

  To all the jewels which you owe to her.

  TUMBLE-DOWN DIC K

  OR, PHAETON IN THE SUDS

  CONTENTS

  ARGUMENT

  DRAMATIS PERSONÆ

  TUMBLE-DOWN DICK

  TO MR. JOHN LUN, VULGARLY CALLED ESQUIRE

  SIR,

  Though Pasquin has put dedications in so ridiculous a light, that patrons may, perhaps, pay some shame for the future for reading their own praises; yet, I hope you will not begin to be affected with so troublesome a passion, when I tell you, I know no man in England to whom I can so properly dedicate the following pages as yourself.

  It is to you, sir, we owe (if not the invention) at least the bringing into a fashion, that sort of writing which you have pleased to distinguish by the name of Entertainment. Your success herein (whether owing to your heels or your head I will not determine) sufficiently entitles you to all respect from the inferior dabblers in things of this nature.

  But, sir, I have farther obligations to you than the success, whatever it be, which this little farce may meet with, can lay on me. It was to a play judiciously brought on by you in the May-month, to which I owe the original hint, as

  I have always owned, of the contrasted poets, and two or three other particulars, which have received great applause on the stage. Nor am I less obliged to you for discovering in my imperfect performance the strokes of an author, any of whose wit, if I have preserved entire, I shall think it my chief merit to the town. Though I cannot enough cure myself of selfishness, while I meddle in dramatic writings, to profess a sorrow that one of so superior a genius is led, by his better sense and better fortune, to more profitable studies than the stage. How far you have contributed to this, I will not presume to determine. Farther, as Pasquin has proved of greater advantage to me, than it could have been at any other play-house, under their present regulations, I am obliged to you for the indifference you showed at my proposal to you of bringing a play on your stage this winter, which immediately determined me against any farther pursuing that project; for as I never yielded to any mean or subservient solicitations of the great men in real life, I could by no means prevail on myself to play an underpart in that dramatic entertainment of greatness, which you are pleased to divert yourself with in private, and which, was you to exhibit it in public, might prove as profitable to you, and as diverting a Pantomime to the town, as any you have hitherto favoured us with.

  I am, moreover, much obliged to you for that satire on Pasquin, which you was so kind to bring on your stage; and here I declare (whatever people may think to the contrary) you did it of your own goodness, without any reward or solicitation from me. I own it was a sensible pleasure to me to observe the town, which had before been so favourable to Pasquin at his own house, confirming that applause, by thoroughly condemning the satire on him at yours.

  Whether this was written by your command, or your assistance, or only acted by your permission, I will not venture to decide. I believe every impartial honest man will conclude, that either lays me under the same obligation to you, and justly entitles you to this dedication. Indeed, I am inclined to believe the latter; for I fancy you have too strong a head ever to meddle with Common-sense, especially since you have found the way so well to succeed without her, and you are too great and good a Manager, to keep a needless supernumerary in your house.

  I suppose you will here expect something in the dedicatory style on your person and your accomplishments: but why should I entertain the town with a recital of your particular perfections, when they may see your whole merit all at once, whenever you condescend to perform the Harlequin? However, I shall beg leave to mention here (I solemnly protest, without the least design of flattery) your adequate behaviour in that great station to which you was born, your great judgment in plays and players, too well known to be here expatiated on; your generosity, in diverting the whole kingdom with your racehorses at the expense I might almost say, of more than your purse. To say nothing of your wit and other perfections, I must force myself to add, though I know every man will be pleased with it but yourself, that the person who has the honour to know your very inmost thoughts best, is the most sensible of your great endowments.

  But, sir, while I am pleasing myself, and I believe the world, I am, I fear, offending you: I will therefore desist, though I can affirm, what few dedicators can, that I can, and perhaps may, say much more; and only assure you that I am, with the sincerity of most of the foregoing lines,

  Your most obedient,

  And most humble Servant,

  PASQUIN.

  ARGUMENT

  PHAETON was the son of Phoebus, and Clymene, a Grecian oyster-wench. The parish boys would often upbraid him with the infamy of his mother Clymene, telling him she reported him to be the son of Apollo, only to cover her adultery with a serjeant of the Foot-guards. He complains to Clymene of the affront put upon them both. She advises him to go to the Round-house (the temple of his father), and there be resolved from his own mouth of the truth of his sire; bidding him at the same time beg some indubitable mark, that should convince the world that his mother was a virtuous woman, and whore to Phoebus. He goes to the said Round-house, where Apollo grants his request, and gives him the guidance of his lanthorn for a day. The youth falling asleep, was tumbled out of the wheelbarrow, and what became of him I could never learn.

  DRAMATIS PERSONÆ

  Machine, the Composer — Mr. Roberts,

  Fustian, an Author — Mr. Lacey.

  Sneerwell, a Critic — Mr. Machen.

  Promptes — Mr. Turner.

  Clymene — Mrs. Charke.

  Jupiter — Mr. Freeman.

  Neptune — Mr. Wallis.

  Phoebus — Mr. Topping,

  Old Phaeton — Mr. Smith.

  Young Phaeton — Mr. Boothby.

  Aurora — Mrs. Egerton.

  Aurora’s Maid — Miss Jones.

  Terra — Miss Burgess.

  Genius of Gin — Miss Burgess„

  Harlequin — Mr. Rosamond.

  Justice — Mr. Jones.

  Justice’s Clerk —— Mons. Castiglione.

  Stars — Miss Ferguson.

  Columbine — Mddle. Beaumaunt.

  1 Countryman — Mr. Stnith

  2 Countryman — Mr. Loicder.

  3 Countryman — Mr. Collerd.

  1 Rake — Mr. Boothby.

  2 Rake — Mr. Pullen.

  3 Rake — Mr. Wallis,

  4 Rake — Mr. Phenix.

  Chairmen — Mr. Smith.

  Pistol — Mr. Lowder.