The rivals: a comedy. As it is acted at the Theatre-Royal in Covent-Garden.

ACT I.

SCENE I.

A STREEET in Bath.

Coachman crosses the stage.—Enter Fag, looking after him.

Fag.

WHAT!—Thomas!—Sure 'tis he?— What!—Thomas!—Thomas!

Coach.

Hay!—Odd's life!—Mr. Fag!—give us your hand, my old fellow-servant.

Fag.

Excuse my glove, Thomas:—I'm dev'lish glad to see you, my lad: why, my prince of cha∣rioteers, you look as hearty!—but who the deuce thought of seeing you in Bath!

Coach.

Sure, Master, Madam Julia, Harry, Mrs. Kate, and the postillion be all come!

Fag.

Indeed!

Coach.

Aye! Master thought another fit of the gout was coming to make him a visit:—so he'd a mind to gi't the slip, and whip we were all off at an hour's warning.

Fag.

Aye, aye! hasty in every thing, or it would not be Sir Anthony Absolute!

Coach.

But tell us, Mr. Fag, how does young Master? Odd! Sir Anthony will stare to see the Captain here!

Fag.

I do not serve Capt. Absolute now.—

Coach.

Why sure!

Fag.

At present I am employ'd by Ensign Be∣verley.

Coach.

I doubt, Mr. Fag, you ha'n't changed for the better.

Fag.

I have not changed, Thomas.

Coach.

No! why didn't you say you had left young Master?

Fag.

No—Well, honest Thomas, I must puzzle you no farther:—briefly then—Capt. Ab∣solute and Ensign Beverley are one and the same person.

Coach.

The devil they are!

Fag.

So it is indeed, Thomas; and the Ensign half of my master being on guard at present—the Captain has nothing to do with me.

Coach.

So, so!—what, this is some freak, I war∣rant!—Do, tell us, Mr. Fag, the meaning o't—you know I ha' trusted you.

Fag.

You'll be secret, Thomas.

Coach.

As a coach-horse.

Fag.

Why then the cause of all this is—LOVE,— Love, Thomas, who (as you may get read to you) has been a masquerader ever since the days of Jupiter.

Coach.

Aye, aye;—I guessed there was a lady in the case:—but pray, why does your Master pass only for Ensign?—now if he had shamm'd General indeed—

Fag.

Ah! Thomas, there lies the mystery o'the matter.—Hark'ee, Thomas, my Master is in love with a lady of a very singular taste: a lady who likes him better as a half-pay Ensign than if she knew he was son and heir to Sir Anthony Absolute, a baronet with three thousand a-year!

Coach.

That is an odd taste indeed!—but has she got the stuff, Mr. Fag; is she rich, hey?

Fag.

Rich!—why, I believe she owns half the stocks!—Z—ds! Thomas, she could pay the national debt as easy as I could my washerwoman! —She has a lap-dog that eats out of gold,—she feeds her parrot with small pearls,—and all her thread-papers are made of bank-notes!

Coach.

Bravo!—faith!—Odd! I warrant she has a set of thousands at least:—but does she draw kindly with the Captain?

Fag.

As fond as pigeons.

Coach.

May one hear her name?

Fag.

Miss Lydia Languish—But there is an old tough aunt in the way;—though by the bye—she has never seen my Master—for he got acquainted with Miss while on a visit in Gloucestershire.

Coach.

Well—I wish they were once harness'd together in matrimony.—But pray, Mr. Fag, what kind of a place is this Bath?—I ha' heard a deal of it—here's a mort o' merry-making—hey?

Fag.

Pretty well, Thomas, pretty well—'tis a good lounge. Though at present we are, like other great assemblies, divided into parties—High∣roomians and Low-roomians; however, for my part, I have resolved to stand neuter; and so I told Bob Brush at our last committee.

Coach.

But what do the folks do here?

Fag.

Oh! there are little amusements enough— in the morning we go to the pump-room (though neither my Master nor I drink the waters); after breakfast we saunter on the parades or play a game at billiards; at night we dance: but d—n the place, I'm tired of it: their regular hours stupify me—not a fiddle nor a card after eleven! —however Mr. Faulkland's gentleman and I keep it up a little in private parties;—I'll introduce you there, Thomas—you'll like him much.

Coach.

Sure I know Mr. Du-Peigne—you know his Master is to marry Madam Julia.

Fag.

I had forgot.—But Thomas you must po∣lish a little—indeed you must:—here now—this wig!—what the devil do you do with a wig, Tho∣mas?—none of the London whips of any degree of Ton wear wigs now.

Coach.

More's the pity! more's the pity, I say.—Odd's life! when I heard how the lawyers and doctors had took to their own hair, I thought how 'twould go next:—Odd rabbit it! when the fashion had got foot on the Bar, I guess'd 'twould mount to the Box!—but 'tis all out of character, believe me, Mr. Fag: and look'ee, I'll never gi' up mine—the lawyers and doctors may do as they will.

Fag.

Well, Thomas, we'll not quarrel about that.

Coach.

Why, bless you, the gentlemen of they professions ben't all of a mind—for in our village now tho'ff Jack Gauge the exciseman, has ta'en to his carrots, there's little Dick the farrier swears he'll never forsake his bob, tho' all the college should appear with their own heads!

Fag.

Indeed! well said Dick! but hold—mark! mark! Thomas.

Coach.

Zooks! 'tis the Captain—Is that the lady with him?

Fag.

No! no! that is Madam Lucy—my Master's mistress's maid.—They lodge at that house—but I must after him to tell him the news.

Coach.

Odd! he's giving her money!—well, Mr. Fag—

Fag.

Good bye, Thomas.—I have an appoint∣ment in Gydes' Porch this evening at eight; meet me there, and we'll make a little party.

[Exeunt severally.

SCENE II.

A Dressing-room in Mrs. Malaprop's lodgings.

Lydia sitting on a sopha with a book in her hand.— Lucy, as just returned from a message.

Luc.

Indeed, Ma'am, I transferr'd half the town in search of it:—I don't believe there's a circulat∣ing library in Bath I ha'n't been at.

Lyd.

And could not you get 'The Reward of Constancy?'

Lucy.

No, indeed, Ma'am.

Lyd.

Nor 'The Fatal Connection?'

Lucy.

No, indeed, Ma'am.

Lyd.

Nor 'The Mistakes of the Heart?'

Lucy.

Ma'am, as ill-luck would have it, Mr. Bull said Miss Sukey Saunter had just fetch'd it away.

Lyd.

Heigh-ho!—Did you inquire for 'The Delicate Distress?'

Lucy.

—Or 'The Memoirs of Lady Woodford?' Yes indeed, Ma'am.—I ask'd every where for it; and I might have brought it from Mr. Frederick's, but Lady Slattern Lounger, who had just sent it home, had so soiled and dog's-ear'd it, it wa'n't fit for a christian to read.

Lyd.

Heigh-ho!—Yes, I always know when Lady Slattern has been before me.—She has a most observing thumb; and I believe cherishes her nails for the convenience of making marginal notes.— Well, child, what have you brought me?

Lucy.

On! here Ma'am.

[Taking books from under her cloke, and from her pockets.]

This is 'The Gordian Knot,'—and this 'Peregrine Pickle.' Here are 'The Tears of Sensibility' and 'Humphry Clinker.' This is 'The Memoirs of a Lady of Quality, written by herself,'—and here the second volume of 'The Sentimental Journey.'

Lyd.

Heigh-ho!—What are those books by the glass?

Lucy.

The great one is only 'The whole Duty of Man'—where I press a few blonds, Ma'am.

Lyd.

Very well—give me the sal volatile.

Lucy.

Is it in a blue cover, Ma'am?

Lyd.

My smelling bottle, you simpleton!

Lucy.

O, the drops!—here Ma'am.

Lyd.

No note, Lucy?

Lucy.

No indeed, Ma'am—but I have seen a certain person—

Lyd.

What, my Beverley!—well Lucy?

Lucy.

O Ma'am! he looks so desponding and melancholic!

Lyd.

Hold Lucy!—here's some one coming— quick, see who it is.—

[Exit Lucy.]

Surely I heard my cousin Julia's voice!

[Re-enter Lucy.

Lucy.

Lud! Ma'am, here is Miss Melville.

Lyd.

Is it possible!—

Enter Julia.

Lyd.

My dearest Julia, how delighted am I!— (Embrace) How unexpected was this happiness!

Jul.

True, Lydia—and our pleasure is the greater;—but what has been the matter?—you were denied to me at first!

Lyd.

Ah! Julia, I have a thousand things to tell you!—but first inform me, what has conjur'd you to Bath?—Is Sir Anthony here?

Jul.

He is—we are arrived within this hour— and I suppose he will be here to wait on Mrs. Ma∣laprop as soon as he is dress'd.

Lyd.

Then before we are interrupted, let me impart to you some of my distress!—I know your gentle nature will sympathize with me, tho' your prudence may condemn me!—My letters have inform'd you of my whole connexion with Beverley; —but I have lost him, Julia!—my aunt has dis∣cover'd

our intercourse by a note she intercepted, and has confin'd me ever since!—Yet, would you believe it? she has fallen absolutely in love with a tall Irish baronet she met one night since we have been here, at Lady Macshuffle's rout.

Jul.

You jest, Lydia!

Lyd.

No, upon my word.—She absolutely car∣ries on a kind of correspondence with him, under a feigned name though, till she chuses to be known to him;—but it is a Delia or a Celia, I assure you.

Jul.

Then, surely, she is now more indulgent to her niece.

Lyd.

Quite the contrary. Since she has dis∣covered her own frailty, she is become more sus∣picious of mine. Then I must inform you of another plague!—That odious Acres is to be in Bath to-day; so that I protest I shall be teased out of all spirits!

Jul.

Come, come, Lydia, hope the best.—Sir Anthony shall use his interest with Mrs. Malaprop.

Lyd.

But you have not heard the worst. Un∣fortunately I had quarrell'd with my poor Beverley, just before my aunt made the discovery, and I have not seen him since, to make it up.

Jul.

What was his offence?

Lyd.

Nothing at all!—But, I don't know how it was, as often as we had been together, we had never had a quarrel!—And, somehow I was afraid he would never give me an opportunity.—So, last Thursday, I wrote a letter to myself, to inform myself that Beverley was at that time paying his addresses to another woman.—I sign'd it your Friend unknown, shew'd it to Beverley, charg'd him with his false∣hood, put myself in a violent passion, and vow'd I'd never see him more.

Jul.

And you let him depart so, and have not seen him since?

Lyd.

'Twas the next day my aunt found the matter out. I intended only to have teased him three days and a half, and now I've lost him for ever.

Jul.

If he is as deserving and sincere as you have represent••d him to me, he will never give you up so. Yet consider, Lydia, you tell me he is but an ensign, and you have thirty thousand pounds!

Lyd.

But you know I lose most of my fortune, if I marry without my aunt's consent, till of age; and that is what I have determin'd to do, ever since I knew the penalty.—Nor could I love the man, who would wish to wait a day for the alter∣native.

Jul.

Nay, this is caprice!

Lyd.

What, does Julia tax me with caprice?— I thought her lover Faulkland had enured her to it.

Jul.

I do not love even his faults.

Lyd.

But a-propos—you have sent to him, I suppose?

Jul.

Not yet, upon my word—nor has he the least idea of my being in Bath.—Sir Anthony's re∣solution was so sudden, I could not inform him of it.

Lyd.

Well, Julia, you are your own mistress, (though under the protection of Sir Anthony) yet have you, for this long year, been the slave to the caprice, the whim, the jealousy of this ungrateful Faulkland, who will ever delay assuming the right of a husband, while you suffer him to be equally imperious as a lover.

Jul.

Nay, you are wrong entirely.—We were contracted before my father's death.—That, and some consequent embarrassments, have delay'd what I know to be my Faulkland's most ardent wish.— He is too generous to trifle on such a point.— And for his character, you wrong him there too.—

No, Lydia, he is too proud, too noble to be jea∣lous; if he is captious, 'tis without dissembling; if fretful, without rudeness.—Unus'd to the sop∣pery of love, he is negligent of the little duties expected from a lover—but being unhackney'd in the passion, his love is ardent and sincere; and as it engrosses his whole soul, he expects every thought and emotion of his mistress to move in unison with his.—Yet, though his pride calls for this full return —his humility makes him undervalue those qualities in him, which should entitle him to it; and not feeling why he should be lov'd to the degree he wishes, he still suspects that he is not lov'd enough: —This temper, I must own, has cost me many un∣happy hours; but I have learn'd to think myself his debtor, for those imperfections which arise from the ardour of his love.

Lyd.

Well, I cannot blame you for defending him.—But tell me candidly, Julia, had he never sav'd your life, do you think you should have been attach'd to him as you are?—Believe me, the rude blast that overset your boat was a prosperous gale of love to him.

Jul.

Gratitude may have strengthened my at∣tachment to Mr. Faulkland, but I lov'd him be∣fore he had preserv'd me; yet surely that alone were an obligation sufficient.

Lyd.

Obligation!—Why a water-spaniel would have done as much.—Well, I should never think of giving my heart to a man because he could swim!

Jul.

Come, Lydia, you are too inconsiderate.

Lyd.

Nay, I do but jest.—What's here?

Enter Lucy in a hurry.

Lucy.

O Ma'am, here is Sir Anthony Absolute just come home with your aunt.

Lyd.

They'll not come here.—Lucy do you watch.

[Exit Lucy.

Jul.

Yet I must go.—Sir Anthony does not know I am here, and if we meet, he'll detain me, to shew me the town.—I'll take another oppor∣tunity of paying my respects to Mrs. Malaprop, when she shall treat me, as long as she chooses, with her select words so ingeniously misapplied, without being mispronounced.

Re-enter Lucy.

Lucy.

O Lud! Ma'am, they are both coming up stairs.

Lyd.

Well, I'll not detain you Coz.—Adieu, my dear Julia, I'm sure you are in haste to send to Faulkland.—There—through my room you'll find another stair-case.

Jul.

Adieu.—(Embrace.)

[Exit Julia.

Lyd.

Here, my dear Lucy, hide these books.— Quick, quick.—Fling Peregrine Pickle under the toilet—throw Roderick Random in to the closet—put the Innocent Adultery into The Whole Duty of Man —thrust Lord Aimworth under the sopha—cram Ovid behind the bolster—there—put the Man of Feeling into your pocket—so, so, now lay Mrs. Chapone in sight, and leave Fordyce's Sermons open on the table.

Lucy.

O burn it, Ma'am, the hair-dresser has torn away as far as Proper Pride.

Lyd.

Never mind—open at Sobriety.—Fling me Lord Chesterfield's Letters.—Now for 'em.

Enter Mrs. Malaprop and Sir Anthony Absolute.

Mrs. Mal.

There, Sir Anthony, there sits the deliberate Simpleton, who wants to disgrace her fa∣mily, and lavish herself on a fellow not worth a shilling!

Lyd.

Madam, I thought you once—

Mrs. Mal.

You thought, Miss!—I don't know any business you have to think at all—thought does not become a young woman; the point we would request of you is, that you will promise to for∣get this fellow—to illiterate him, I say, quite from your memory.

Lyd.

Ah! Madam! our memories are inde∣pendent of our wills.—It is not so easy to forget.

Mrs. Mal.

But I say it is, Miss; there is no∣thing on earth so easy as to forget, if a person chooses to set about it.—I'm sure I have as much forgot your poor dear uncle as if he had never ex∣isted—and I thought it my duty so to do; and let me tell you, Lydia, these violent memories don't become a young woman.

Sir Anth.

Why sure she won't pretend to re∣member what she's order'd not!—aye, this comes of her reading!

Lyd.

What crime, Madam, have I committed to be treated thus?

Mrs. Mal.

Now don't attempt to extirpate your∣self from the matter; you know I have proof con∣trovertible of it.—But tell me, will you promise to do as you're bid?—Will you take a husband of your friends choosing?

Lyd.

Madam, I must tell you plainly, that had I no preference for any one else, the choice you have made would be my aversion.

Mrs. Mal.

What business have you, Miss, with preference and aversion? They don't become a young woman; and you ought to know, that as both always wear off, 'tis safest in matrimony to begin with a little aversion. I am sure I hated your poor dear uncle before marriage as if he'd been a black-a-moor—and yet, Miss, you are sensible what a wife I made!—and when it pleas'd Heav'n to release me from him, 'tis unknown what tears I shed!—But suppose we were going to give you

another choice, will you promise us to give up this Beverley?

Lyd.

Could I belie my thoughts so far, as to give that promise, my actions would certainly as far belie my words.

Mrs. Mal.

Take yourself to your room.—You are fit company for nothing but your own ill-hu∣mours.

Lyd.

Willingly, Ma'am—I cannot change for the worse.

[Exit Lydia.

Mrs. Mal.

There's a little intricate hussy for you!

Sir Anth.

It is not to be wonder'd at, Ma'am— all this is the natural consequence of teaching girls to read.—Had I a thousand daughters, by Hea∣vens! I'd as soon have them taught the black-art as their alphabet!

Mrs. Mal.

Nay, nay, Sir Anthony, you are an absolute misanthropy.

Sir Anth.

In my way hither, Mrs. Malaprop, I observed your niece's maid coming forth from a circulating library!—She had a book in each hand —they were half-bound volumes, with marbled covers!—From that moment I guess'd how full of duty I should see her mistress!

Mrs. Mal.

Those are vile places, indeed!

Sir Anth.

Madam, a circulating library in a town is, as an ever-green tree, of diabolical know∣ledge!—It blossoms through the year!—And de∣pend on it, Mrs. Malaprop, that they who are so fond of handling the leaves, will long for the fruit at last.

Mrs. Mal.

Well, but Sir Anthony, your wife, Lady Absolute, was fond of books.

Sir Anth.

Aye—and injury sufficient they were to her, Madam.—But were I to chuse another help∣mate, the extent of her erudition should consist in her knowing her simple letters, without their

mischievous combinations;—and the summit of her science be—her ability to count as far as twenty.—The first, Mrs. Malaprop, would enable her to work A. A. upon my linen;—and the latter would be quite sufficient to prevent her giving me a shirt, No. 1. and a stock, No. 2.

Mrs. Mal.

Fie, fie, Sir Anthony, you surely speak laconically!

Sir Anth.

Why, Mrs. Malaprop, in moderation, now, what would you have a woman know?

Mrs. Mal.

Observe me, Sir Anthony.—I would by no means wish a daughter of mine to be a pro∣geny of learning; I don't think so much learning becomes a young woman; for instance—I would never let her meddle with Greek, or Hebrew, or Al∣gebra, or Simony, or Fluxions, or Paradoxes, or such inflammatory branches of learning—neither would it be necessary for her to handle any of your mathe∣matical, astronomical, diabolical instruments;— But, Sir Anthony, I would send her, at nine years old, to a boarding-school, in order to learn a little ingenuity and artifice.—Then, Sir, she should have a supercilious knowledge in accounts;—and as she grew up, I would have her instructed in geometry, that she might know something of the contagious countries;—but above all, Sir Antho∣ny, she should be mistress of orthodoxy, that she might not mis-spell, and mis-pronounce words so shamefully as girls usually do; and likewise that she might reprehend the true meaning of what she is saying.—This, Sir Anthony, is what I would have a woman know;—and I don't think there is a superstitious article in it.

Sir Anth.

Well, well, Mrs. Malaprop, I will dispute the point no further with you; though I must confess, that you are a truly moderate and po∣lite arguer, for almost every third word you say is

on my side of the question.—But, Mrs. Malaprop, to the more important point in debate,—you say, you have no objection to my proposal.

Mrs. Mal.

None, I assure you.—I am under no positive engagement with Mr. Acres, and as Lydia is so obstinate against him, perhaps your son may have better success.

Sir Anth.

Well, Madam, I will write for the boy directly.—He knows not a syllable of this yet, though I have for some time had the proposal in my head. He is at present with his regiment.

Mrs. Mal.

We have never seen your son, Sir Anthony; but I hope no objection on his side.

Sir Anth.

Objection!—let him object if he dare! —No, no, Mrs. Malaprop, Jack knows that the least demur puts me in a frenzy directly.—My process was always very simple—in their younger days, 'twas 'Jack, do this;'—if he demur'd—I knock'd him down—and if he grumbled at that— I always sent him out of the room.

Mrs. Mal.

Aye, and the properest way, o' my conscience!—nothing is so conciliating to young people as severity.—Well, Sir Anthony, I shall give Mr. Acres his discharge, and prepare Lydia to receive your son's invocations;—and I hope you will represent her to the Captain as an object not altogether illegible.

Sir Anth.

Madam, I will handle the subject pru∣dently.—Well, I must leave you—and let me beg you, Mrs. Malaprop, to enforce this matter roundly to the girl;—take my advice—keep a tight hand —if she rejects this proposal—clap her under lock and key:—and if you were just to let the servants forget to bring her dinner for three or four days, you can't conceive how she'd come about!

[Exit Sir Anth.

Mrs. Mal.

Well, at any rate I shall be glad to get her from under my intuition.—She has some∣how

discovered my partiality for Sir Lucius O'Trig∣ger—sure, Lucy can't have betray'd me!—No, the girl is such a simpleton, I should have made her confess it.—Lucy!—Lucy!—(calls) Had she been one of your artificial ones, I should never have trusted her.

Enter Lucy.

Lucy.

Did you call, Ma'am?

Mrs. Mal.

Yes, girl.—Did you see Sir Lucius while you was out?

Lucy.

No, indeed, Ma'am, not a glimpse of him.

Mrs. Mal.

You are sure, Lucy, that you never mention'd—

Lucy.

O Gemini! I'd sooner cut my tongue out.

Mrs. Mal.

Well, don't let your simplicity be impos'd on.

Lucy.

No, Ma'am.

Mrs. Mal.

So, come to me presently, and I'll give you another letter to Sir Lucius;—but mind Lucy—if ever you betray what you are entrusted with—(unless it be other people's secrets to me) you forfeit my malevolence for ever:—and your being a simpleton shall be no excuse for your lo∣cality.

[Exit Mrs. Malaprop.

Lucy.

Ha! ha! ha!—So, my dear simplicity, let me give you a little respite—(altering her manner) —let girls in my station be as fond as they please of appearing expert, and knowing in their trusts; —commend me to a mask of silliness, and a pair of sharp eyes for my own interest under it!—Let me see to what account I have turn'd my simplicity lately—

(looks at a paper)

For abetting Miss Lydia Languish in a design of run∣ning away with an Ensign!—in money—sundry times— twelve pound twelve—gowns, five—hats, ruffles, caps,

&c. &c.—numberless!—From the said Ensign, within this last month, six guineas and a half.—About a quar∣ter's pay!—Item, from Mrs. Malaprop, for betraying the young people to her—when I found matters were likely to be discovered—two guineas, and a black pa∣duasoy.—Item, from Mr. Acres, for carrying divers letters—which I never deliver'd—two guineas, and a pair of buckles.—Item, from Sir Lucius O'Trigger— three crowns—two gold pocket-pieces—and a silver snuff∣box!—Well done, simplicity!—yet I was forced to make my Hibernian believe, that he was corre∣sponding, not with the Aunt, but with the Niece: for, though not over rich, I found he had too much pride and delicacy to sacrifice the feelings of a gentleman to the necessities of his fortune.

[Exit.

END OF THE FIRST ACT.