No More Learning

Faith, begging your honour's pardon, I'm sorry they taught him
any philosophy at all; it has only served to spoil him. This same
philosophy is a good horse in a stable, but an errant jade on a
journey. For my own part, whenever I hear him mention the name on't,
I'm always sure he's going to play the fool.

SIR WILL. Don't let us ascribe his faults to his philosophy, I entreat
you. No, Jarvis, his good-nature arises rather from his fears of
offending the importunate, than his desire of making the deserving
happy.

JARVIS. What it rises from, I don't know. But, to be sure, every body
has it, that asks it.

SIR WILL. Ay, or that does not ask it. I have been now for some time a
concealed spectator of his follies, and find them as boundless as his
dissipation.

JARVIS. And yet, faith, he has some fine name or other for them all. He
call his extravagance, generosity; and his trusting every body,
universal benevolence. It was but last week he went security for a
fellow whose face he scarce knew, and that he called an act of exalted
mu-mu-munificence; ay, that was the name he gave it.

SIR WILL. And upon that I proceed, as my last effort, though with very
little hopes to reclaim him. That very fellow has just absconded, and I
have taken up the security. Now, my intention is, to involve him in
fictitious distress, before he has plunged himself into real calamity;
to arrest him for that very debt, to clap an officer upon him, and then
let him see which of his friends will come to his relief.

JARVIS. Well, if I could but any way see him thoroughly vexed, every
groan of his would be music to me; yet, faith, I believe it impossible.
I have tried to fret him myself every morning these three years; but,
instead of being angry, he sits as calmly to hear me scold, as he does
to his hair-dresser.

SIR WILL. We must try him once more, however, and I'll go this instant
to put my scheme into execution; and I don't despair of succeeding, as
by your means, I can have frequent opportunities of being about him,
without being known. What a pity it is, Jarvis, that any man's good
will to others should produce so much neglect of himself, as to require
correction! Yet, we must touch his weakness with a delicate hand. There
are some faults so nearly allied to excellence, that we can scarce weed
out the vice without eradicating the virtue.

_Exit. _

JARVIS. Well, go thy ways, Sir William Honeywood. It is not without
reason that the world allows thee to be the best of men. But here comes
his hopeful nephew; the strange, good-natured, foolish,
open-hearted—And yet, all his faults are such that one loves him still
the better for them.

_Enter_ HONEYWOOD.

HONEYW. Well, Jarvis, what messages from my friends this morning!

JARVIS. You have no friends.

HONEYW. Well; from my acquaintance, then?

JARVIS. (_Pulling out bills. _) A few of our usual cards of compliment,
that's all. This bill from your tailor; this from your mercer; and this
from the little broker in Crooked-lane. He says he has been at a great
deal of trouble to get back the money you borrowed.

HONEYW. That I don't know; but I am sure we were at a great deal of
trouble in getting him to lend it.

JARVIS. He has lost all patience.

HONEYW. Then he has lost a very good thing.

JARVIS. There's that ten guineas you were sending to the poor gentleman
and his children in the Fleet. I believe that would stop his mouth for
a while at least.

HONEYW. Ay, Jarvis, but what will fill their mouths in the meantime?
Must I be cruel because he happens to be importunate; and, to relieve
his avarice, leave them to insupportable distress?

JARVIS. 'Sdeath, sir, the question now is, how to relieve yourself.
Yourself—Haven't I reason to be out of my senses, when I see things
going at sixes and sevens?

HONEYW. Whatever reason you may have for being out of your senses, I
hope you'll allow that I'm not quite unreasonable for continuing in
mine.

JARVIS. You're the only man alive in your present situation that could
do so—Every thing upon the waste. There's Miss Richland and her fine
fortune gone already, and upon the point of being given to your rival.

HONEYW. I'm no man's rival.

JARVIS. Your uncle in Italy preparing to disinherit you; your own
fortune almost spent; and nothing but pressing creditors, false
friends, and a pack of drunken servants that your kindness has made
unfit for any other family.

HONEYW. Then they have the more occasion for being in mine.

JARVIS. So! What will you have done with him that I caught stealing
your plate in the pantry? In the fact; I caught him in the fact.

HONEYW. In the fact? If so, I really think that we should pay him his
wages, and turn him off.

JARVIS. He shall be turned off at Tyburn, the dog; we'll hang him, if
it be only to frighten the rest of the family.

HONEYW. No, Jarvis: it's enough that we have lost what he has stolen,
let us not add to the loss of a fellow-creature.

JARVIS. Very fine; well, here was the footman just now, to complain of
the butler; he says he does most work, and ought to have most wages.

HONEYW. That's but just: though perhaps here comes the butler to
complain of the footman.

JARVIS. Ay, it's the way with them all, from the scullion to the
privy-counsellor. If they have a bad master, they keep quarrelling with
him; if they have a good master they keep quarrelling with one another.

_Enter_ BUTLER _drunk_.

BUTLER. Sir, I'll not stay in the family with Jonathan: you must part
with him, or part with me, that's the ex-ex-position of the matter,
sir.

HONEYW. Full and explicit enough. But what's his fault, good Phillip?

BUTLER. Sir, he's given to drinking, sir, and I shall have my morals
corrupted, by keeping such company.

HONEYW. Ha! ha! he has such a diverting way—

JARVIS. O! quite amusing.

BUTLER. I find my wines a-going, sir; and liquors don't go without
mouths, sir; I hate a drunkard, sir.

HONEYW. Well, well, Philip, I'll hear you upon that another time, so go
to bed now.

JARVIS. To bed! Let him go to the devil.

BUTLER. Begging your honour's pardon, and begging your pardon, master
Jarvis, I'll not go to bed, nor to the devil neither. I have enough to
do to mind my cellar. I forgot, your honour, Mr. Croaker is below. I
came on purpose to tell you.

HONEYW. Why didn't you show him up, blockhead?

BUTLER. Show him up, sir? With all my heart, sir. Up or down, all's one
to me.

_Exit. _

JARVIS. Ay, we have one or other of that family in this house from
morning till night. He comes on the old affair, I suppose; the match
between his son, that's just returned from Paris, and Miss Richland,
the young lady he's guardian to.

HONEYW. Perhaps so. Mr. Croaker, knowing my friendship for the young
lady, has got it into his head that I can persuade her to what I
please.

JARVIS. Ah! if you loved yourself but half as well as she loves you, we
should soon see a marriage that would set all things to rights again.

HONEYW. Love me! Sure, Jarvis, you dream. No, no; her intimacy with me
never amounted to more than friendship—mere friendship. That she is the
most lovely woman that ever warmed the human heart with desire, I own.
But never let me harbour a thought of making her unhappy, by a
connection with one so unworthy her merits, as I am. No, Jarvis, it
shall be my study to serve her, even in spite of my wishes; and to
secure her happiness, though it destroys my own.

JARVIS. Was ever the like? I want patience.

HONEYW. Besides, Jarvis, though I could obtain Miss Richland's consent,
do you think I could succeed with her guardian, or Mrs. Croaker, his
wife; who, though both very fine in their way, are yet a little
opposite in their dispositions, you know?

JARVIS. Opposite enough, Heaven knows; the very reverse of each other;
she all laugh and no joke, he always complaining and never sorrowful; a
fretful poor soul, that has a new distress for every hour in the
four-and-twenty—

HONEYW. Hush, hush, he's coming up! he'll hear you.

JARVIS. One whose voice is a passing bell—

HONEYW. Well, well, go do.

JARVIS. A raven that bodes nothing but mischief; a coffin and cross
bones; a bundle of rue; a sprig of deadly nightshade; a—(HONEYWOOD,
_stopping his mouth, at last pushes him off_. )

_Exit_ JARVIS.

HONEYW. I must own, my old monitor is not entirely wrong. There is
something in my friend Croaker's conversation that quite depresses me.
His very mirth is an antidote to all gaiety, and his appearance has a
stronger effect on my spirits than an undertaker's shop. —Mr. Croaker,
this is such a satisfaction—

_Enter_ CROAKER.

CROAKER. A pleasant morning to Mr. Honeywood, and many of them. How is
this? You look most shockingly to-day, my dear friend. I hope this
weather does not affect your spirits. To be sure, if this weather
continues—I say nothing—but God send we be all better this day three
months.

[Illustration:

"CROAKER. —_A pleasant morning to Mr. Honeywood. _"—_p. _ 272.
]


HONEYW. I heartily concur in the wish, though, I own, not in your
apprehensions.

CROAKER. May be not. Indeed, what signifies what weather we have, in a
country going to ruin like ours? Taxes rising and trade falling. Money
flying out of the kingdom, and Jesuits swarming into it. I know at this
time no less than a hundred and twenty-seven Jesuits between
Charing-cross and Temple-bar.

HONEYW. The Jesuits will scarce pervert you or me, I should hope?

CROAKER. May be not. Indeed what signifies whom they pervert in a
country that has scarce any religion to lose? I'm only afraid for our
wives and daughters.

HONEYW. I have no apprehensions for the ladies, I assure you.

CROAKER. May be not. Indeed what signifies whether they be perverted or
not? The women in my time were good for something. I have seen a lady
dressed from top to toe in her own manufactures formerly. But
now-a-days the devil a thing of their own manufacture about them,
except their faces.

HONEYW. But, however these faults may be practised abroad, you don't
find them at home, either with Mrs. Croaker, Olivia, or Miss Richland.

CROAKER.
The best of them will never be canonised for a saint when
she's dead. By the by, my dear friend, I don't find this match between
Miss Richland and my son much relished, either by one side or t'other.

HONEYW. I thought otherwise.

CROAKER. Ah, Mr. Honeywood, a little of your fine serious advice to the
young lady might go far: I know she has a very exalted opinion of your
understanding.

HONEYW. But would not that be usurping an authority that more properly
belongs to yourself?

CROAKER. My dear friend, you know but little of my authority at home.
People think, indeed, because they see me come out in a morning thus,
with a pleasant face, and to make my friends merry, that all's well
within. But I have cares that would break a heart of stone. My wife has
so encroached upon every one of my privileges, that I'm now no more
than a mere lodger in my own house.

HONEYW. But a little spirit exerted on your side might perhaps restore
your authority.

CROAKER. No, though I had the spirit of a lion. I do rouse sometimes.
But what then? always haggling and haggling. A man is tired of getting
the better, before his wife is tired of losing the victory.

HONEYW. It's a melancholy consideration indeed, that our chief comforts
often produce our greatest anxieties, and that an increase of our
possessions is but an inlet to new disquietudes.

CROAKER. Ah, my dear friend, these were the very words of poor Dick
Doleful to me not a week before he made away with himself. Indeed, Mr.
Honeywood, I never see you but you put me in mind of poor Dick. Ah,
there was merit neglected for you! and so true a friend; we loved each
other for thirty years, and yet he never asked me to lend him a single
farthing.

HONEYW. Pray what could induce him to commit so rash an action at last?

CROAKER. I don't know, some people were malicious enough to say it was
keeping company with me; because we used to meet now and then, and open
our hearts to each other. To be sure I loved to hear him talk, and he
loved to hear me talk; poor dear Dick! He used to say, that Croaker
rhymed to joker; and so we used to laugh—Poor Dick!

[_Going to cry. _

HONEYW. His fate affects me.

CROAKER. Ay, he grew sick of this miserable life, where we do nothing
but eat and grow hungry, dress and undress, get up and lie down; while
reason, that should watch like a nurse by our side, falls as fast
asleep as we do.

HONEYW. To say truth, if we compare that part of life which is to come,
by that which we have passed, the prospect is hideous.

CROAKER. Life at the greatest and best is but a froward child, that
must be humoured and coaxed a little till it falls asleep, and then all
the care is over.

HONEYW. Very true, sir; nothing can exceed the vanity of our existence,
but the folly of our pursuits. We wept when we came into the world, and
every day tells us why.

CROAKER. Ah, my dear friend, it is a perfect satisfaction to be
miserable with you. My son Leontine shan't lose the benefit of such
fine conversation. I'll just step home for him. I am willing to show
him so much seriousness in one scarce older than himself—And what if I
bring my last letter to the Gazetteer on the increase and progress of
earthquakes? It will amuse us, I promise you. I there prove how the
late earthquake is coming round to pay us another visit from London to
Lisbon, from Lisbon to the Canary Islands, from the Canary Islands to
Palmyra, from Palmyra to Constantinople, and so from Constantinople
back to London again.

_Exit. _

HONEYW. Poor Croaker! His situation deserves the utmost pity. I shall
scarce recover my spirits these three days. Sure, to live upon such
terms is worse than death itself. And yet, when I consider my own
situation, a broken fortune, a hopeless passion, friends in distress;
the wish but not the power to serve them—(_pausing and sighing. _)

_Enter_ BUTLER.

BUTLER. More company below, sir; Mrs. Croaker and Miss Richland; shall
I show them up? But they're showing up themselves.

_Exit. _

_Enter_ MRS. CROAKER _and_ MISS RICHLAND.

MISS RICH. You're always in such spirits.

MRS. CROAKER. We have just come, my dear Honeywood, from the auction.
There was the old deaf dowager, as usual, bidding like a fury against
herself. And then so curious in antiques! herself the most genuine
piece of antiquity in the whole collection.

HONEYW. Excuse me, ladies, if some uneasiness from friendship makes me
unfit to share in this good humour: I know you'll pardon me.

MRS. CROAKER. I vow, he seems as melancholy as if he had taken a dose
of my husband this morning. Well, if Richland here can pardon you, I
must.

MISS RICH. You would seem to insinuate, madam, that I have particular
reasons for being disposed to refuse it.

MRS. CROAKER. Whatever I insinuate, my dear, don't be so ready to wish
an explanation.

MISS RICH. I own I should be sorry Mr. Honeywood's long friendship and
mine should be misunderstood.

HONEYW. There's no answering for others, madam; but I hope you'll never
find me presuming to offer more than the most delicate friendship may
readily allow.

MISS RICH. And, I shall be prouder of such a tribute from you, than the
most passionate professions from others.

HONEYW. My own sentiments, madam: friendship is a disinterested
commerce between equals; love, an abject intercourse between tyrants
and slaves.

MISS RICH. And, without a compliment, I know none more disinterested or
more capable of friendship than Mr. Honeywood.

MRS. CROAKER. And indeed I know nobody that has more friends, at least
among the ladies. Miss Fruzz, Miss Odbody, and Miss Winterbottom,
praise him in all companies. As for Miss Biddy Bundle, she's his
professed admirer.

MISS RICH. Indeed! an admirer! I did not know, sir, you were such a
favourite there. But is she seriously so handsome? Is she the mighty
thing talked of?

HONEYW. The town, madam, seldom begins to praise a lady's beauty, till
she's beginning to lose it.

[_Smiling. _

MRS. CROAKER. But she's resolved never to lose it, it seems; for as her
natural face decays, her skill improves in making the artificial one.
Well, nothing diverts me more than one of those fine old dressy things,
who thinks to conceal her age by everywhere exposing her person;
sticking herself up in the front of a side-box; trailing through a
minuet at Almack's; and then, in the public gardens, looking for all
the world like one of the painted ruins of the place.

HONEYW. Every age has its admirers, ladies. While you, perhaps, are
trading among the warmer climates of youth, there ought to be some to
carry on a useful commerce in the frozen latitudes beyond fifty.

MISS RICH. But then the mortifications they must suffer before they can
be fitted out for traffic! I have seen one of them fret a whole morning
at her hair-dresser, when all the fault was her face.

HONEYW. And yet I'll engage, has carried that face at last to a very
good market. This good-natured town, madam, has husbands, like
spectacles, to fit every age, from fifteen to four-score.

MRS. CROAKER. Well, you're a dear good-natured creature. But you know
you're engaged with us this morning upon a strolling party. I want to
show Olivia the town and the things; I believe I shall have business
for you for the whole day.

HONEYW. I am sorry, madam, I have an appointment with Mr. Croaker,
which it is impossible to put off.

MRS. CROAKER. What! with my husband? Then I'm resolved to take no
refusal. Nay, I protest you must. You know I never laugh so much as
with you.

HONEYW. Why, if I must, I must, I'll swear, you have put me into such
spirits. Well, do you find jest, and I'll find laugh, I promise you.
We'll wait for the chariot in the next room.

[_Exeunt. _

_Enter_ LEONTINE _and_ OLIVIA.

LEONT. There they go, thoughtless and happy. My dearest Olivia, what
would I give to see you capable of sharing in their amusements, and as
cheerful as they are!

OLIVIA. How, my Leontine, how can I be cheerful, when I have so many
terrors to oppress me? The fear of being detected by this family, and
the apprehensions of a censuring world, when I must be detected——

LEONT. The world! my love, what can it say? At worst, it can only say
that, being compelled by a mercenary guardian to embrace a life you
disliked, you formed a resolution of flying with the man of your
choice; that you confided in his honour, and took refuge in my father's
house; the only one where yours could remain without censure.

[Illustration:

"CROAKER. —_Well, and you have both of
you a mutual choice. _"—_p. _ 279.
]


OLIVIA. But consider, Leontine, your disobedience and my indiscretion:
your being sent to France to bring home a sister; and, instead of a
sister, bringing home——

LEONT. One dearer than a thousand sisters; one that I am convinced will
be equally dear to the rest of the family, when she comes to be known.

OLIVIA. And that I fear, will shortly be.

LEONT. Impossible till we ourselves think proper to make the discovery.
My sister, you know, has been with her aunt, at Lyons, since she was a
child; and you find every creature in the family takes you for her.

OLIVIA. But mayn't she write? mayn't her aunt write?

LEONT. Her aunt scarce ever writes, and all my sister's letters are
directed to me.

OLIVIA. But won't your refusing Miss Richland, for whom you know the
old gentleman intends you, create a suspicion?

LEONT. There, there's my masterstroke. I have resolved not to refuse
her; nay, an hour hence I have consented to go with my father, to make
her an offer of my heart and fortune.

OLIVIA. Your heart and fortune!

LEONT. Don't be alarmed, my dearest. Can Olivia think so meanly of my
honour, or my love, as to suppose I could ever hope for happiness from
any but her? No, my Olivia, neither the force, nor permit me to add,
the delicacy of my passion, leave any room to suspect me. I only offer
Miss Richland a heart, I am convinced she will refuse; as I am
confident, that without knowing it, her affections are fixed upon Mr.
Honeywood.

OLIVIA. Mr. Honeywood! You'll excuse my apprehensions; but when your
merits come to be put in the balance—

LEONT. You view them with too much partiality. However, by making this
offer, I show a seeming compliance with my father's commands; and
perhaps, upon her refusal, I may have his consent to choose for myself.

OLIVIA. Well, I submit. And, yet my Leontine, I own, I shall envy her,
even your pretended addresses. I consider every look, every expression
of your esteem, as due only to me. This is folly, perhaps: I allow it;
but it is natural to suppose, that merit which has made an impression
on one's own heart, may be powerful over that of another.

LEONT. Don't, my life's treasure, don't let us make imaginary evils,
when you know we have so many real ones to encounter.