The Stratford jubilee: A new comedy of two acts, as it has been lately exhibited at Stratford upon Avon, with great applause. To which is prefixed Scrub's trip to the jubilee.

Table of contents

- [titlepage]

- TO SAMUEL FOOTE, Esq.

- SCRUB'S TRIP TO THE JUBILEE. SPOKEN BY MR. WESTON.

- To the PUBLIC.

- Dramatis Personae.

- ACT I.

- SCENE I.

- ACT THE SECOND.

- SCENE THE FIRST.

- SCENE II. A Masquerade Shop.

THE STRATFORD JUBILEE.

FINIS.

THE STRATFORD JUBILEE. A NEW COMEDY OF TWO ACTS, AS IT HAS BEEN LATELY EXHIBITED AT STRATFORD UPON AVON, WITH GREAT APPLAUSE. To which is prefixed SCRUB'S TRIP TO THE JUBILEE.

LONDON. Printed for T. LOWNDES, No. 77. in Fleet-Street, and J. BELL, Successor to Mr. BATHOE, near Exeter Exchange in the Strand. M.DCC.LXIX. [PRICE ONE SHILLING.]

TO SAMUEL FOOTE, Esq.

THE comic muse in consultation,

Where I should point my dedication;

Kindly vouchsaf'd to recommend

Her warmest patron; ablest friend:

Who with more skill than Warwick-Lane

Pale spleen can cure i' th'comic vein;

Then Sir! receive this hasty birth,

A slight attempt at harmless mirth;

Which dares not hope much critic praise,

Conceiv'd and born within eight days;

Your smiles much credit must reflect,

On him who signs, with just respect,

The AUTHOR.

SCRUB'S TRIP TO THE JUBILEE. SPOKEN BY MR. WESTON.

FROM Stratford arriv'd—piping hot—gentle folks,

From the rarest fine shows and most wonderful jokes,

Your simple acquaintance, Scrub, comes to declare

'Twas fuller by far than our Litchfield great fair,

Such crouds of fine ladies, serenading and singing

Such firing of loud pateraroes and ringing,

To tell it in London must seem all a fable

And yet I will tell it as well as I'm able:

First something in linguo of schools call'd an ode;

All critics they told me allow'd very good,

One said—you may take it for truth I assure ye

'Twas made by the little great man of old Drury,

By my brother Martin—for whose sake d'ye hear,

This night I'd a mind for a touch at Shakespeare[*].

But honestly speaking I take more delight in

A bit of good fun, than drums, trumpets and fighting.

The Procession, 'twas said, would have been a fine train;

But could not move forwards—oh la, for the rain.

Such tragical, comical folks and so fine—

What pity it was that the sun did not shine,

Since ladies and baronets, aldermen, squires,

All went to this Jubilee full of desires,

In crouds as they go for to see a new play

And when it was done—why they all came away.

Don't let me forget—a main part of the show

Was long tailed fine comets by fam'd Angelo,

Some turtle I got which they call'd pashapee—

But honest roast beef's the best turtle for me.

I hate all ragouts, and, like a bold Briton,

Prefer good plumb pudding to ought I e'er bit on.

I drank too—and now I a poet may be—

From a charming fine cup of the mulberry tree.

To bed I must go—for which like a ninny

I paid—like my betters—no less than a guinea.

For rolling—not sleeping—in linen so damp

As struck my great toe ever since with the cramp,

Thus fleec'd—in my pocket I felt a great smarting

Yet griev'd not when I and the splinters were parting,

'Twas worth ten times more to hear sweet brother Martin.

He spoke till poor Scrub was just fit, with one eye

To laugh, while the other was ready to cry:

Which makes me now tell you without any brag

He's second to none but the Warwickshire wag.

The Jubilee over, I come to this place

To tell you my story and sue for your grace.

You never refus'd it—yet never before

With granting such kindness bound gratitude more.

I love but to own with a diligent spirit

Your favours have ever out-run my slight merit.{inverted ⁂}

Notes

*
This alludes to Mr. Weston's intention of playing Richard.
↵

{inverted ⁂}
The reader will easily perceive that this Prologue is merely occasional
↵

To the PUBLIC.

THE Author thinks it incumbent upon him to observe, that the following Occasional Piece was imagined, and put into its present State within the Space of a very few Days; and has some Reason to believe, that it would have been presented at the Theatre Royal in the Hay-Market, if the Thought had been suggested in Time for Mr. FOOTE's Season. Some kind, and perhaps partial Friends, having urged the Publication, it thus steps into Life with many Imperfections on its Head; yet not, the Author flatters himself, without some degree of Merit, to Apologize for submitting it to Public Perusal.

Dramatis Personae.

MEN.

- Lord Spangle.

- Sir John Hearty.

- Sir Charles Planwell.

- Scrapeall.

- Captain Blarney.

- Pasquin.

- Toby Dumplin.

- Sleekem.

- Longcork.

WOMEN.

- Lady Shanker.

- Mrs. Dumplin.

- Emmeline.

- Jackonet.

SCENE, Stratford upon Avon. Time, the same as in Representation.

ACT I.

SCENE I.

Enter Sir John Hearty and Scrapeall.

Sir John.

LET me see; half past five—enough for this evening.—To-morrow by dinner time we shall beat up the quarters of my old friend Jack Soakwell; rest with him two or three days, and then for Yorkshire.—What think you at present of a bottle of madeira and a pipe or two of Oroonoko to entertain us till supper time?

Scrapeall.

I would rather be excused from drinking any thing Sir John.

Sir John.

From paying any thing you mean—rot the money old boy, what was it made for but circulation? why, you have more of it than you can count, and yet take as little enjoyment of life as if you was not worth a single shilling.

Scrapeall.

Oeconomy—oeconomy is a very fine thing Sir John.

Sir John.

Ay, ay, we have heard of that doctrine sufficiently of late—but for my own part, I would have every man live according to his station and circumstances—not disgrace and starve himself for the sake of hoarding rascally pelf—therefore now I have got you out of the smoke of London you shall bleed a little.—Here, house!— Rings.

Scrapeall.

I never loved bleeding in my life; neither from my veins nor pockets.

Enter Longcork.

Long.

Coming, Sir!—What would you please to have gentlemen?

Sir John.

A bottle of madeira—clean pipes, and a paper of mild.

Long.

You shall have them in a moment, Sir!Exit.

Sir John.

A smart well looking fellow that.

Scrap.

Smart enough. I'll warrant him!—how the coxcomb's hair is plaistered with flour, which, I suppose, we must pay for!—Ah! no wonder money is scarce and provisions dear, when such a fellow as this wastes, on his empty noddle, what would make a two-penny cake.

Sir John.

At it again!—the same dull theme over-again!—Oons, so much of it, is worse than a methodist sermon an hour long, or a scolding wife when a man has got the head-ach.—Take a glass of Lethe, to the forgetfulness of care, old cent per cent, and live for this evening at least.

Scrap.

Lethe!—pray how much is that a bottle?

Sir John.

A bottle!—ha! ha! ha!—step into the other world and you may have hogshead's for nothing.—But here comes my Lethe.

Enter Longcork.

Sir John.

An honest soldier's bottle, faith!—Is it the right sort friend?

Long.

Good as ever was tipped.—Neat as imported, Sir.—Vintage sixty two, five years in cask and two in bottles.

Sir John.

It has the right smack.—And how long have you lived here?

Long.

Only two days, Sir.—Mons. Fricassée, a celebrated French cook—the best hand at a turtle in Europe—and myself, came down from London in a post chaise and four last Saturday to assist at this here Jubilee.

Sir John.

Jubilee! what's that?

Long.

Good eating and drinking to the memory of Shakespeare, I believe.

Scrap.

Shakespeare! what was he? the first woolcomber!

Long.

Woolcomber! what do not you know Shakespeare, Sir?

Sir John.

No!—how the devil should we—he never lived in our neighbourhood.

Long.

Nor the sign of him in Covent-Garden, where I have the honour to reside?

Scrap.

No truly.

Long.

What a couple of rum prigs!—I shall laugh in their faces.— Aside. You must know, gentlemen, this Shakespeare was a writer of plays.

Scrap.

I hate plays.

Sir John.

Now I like them!—There's Whittington and his cat.—Captain Bateman.—Punch in the suds, and two or three more make me laugh by the hour;—and so because this Shakespeare wrote such things, the corporation meet to get drunk for joy.—Jolly dogs, I warrant then!

Long.

Corporation!—what, Sir, do you think—a dozen French cooks, and fifty of the smartest waiters London can produce, would come to accommodate a pitiful country corporation!—No, no, gentlemen, all the world will be here!

Sir John.

The Devil it will!

Long.

True, upon my honour.—I'll engage you might fire cannon from the Royal Exchange to St. James's to morrow, without killing any thing but hackney-coachmen or apple-women:—London will be quite empty—entirely populated!—

Scrap.

You lie—you lie, scape grace; Change-Alley won't be empty; and that's the best part of London!—A very fine thing indeed, if East India stock; South Sea; three per cents consols and lottery tickets, were left for Jubilee, which, as I have heard, is a rank piece of popery, Sir John.

Sir John.

Popery! adso if that's the case it's time for me to look about!—I'll call a Bench upon it—I'll—but I am not of the peace for this county; however, at our quarter sessions I can move for a petition against such things.

Long

Lack-a-day, gentlemen, you need not be so angry!—Do you think if there was any religion in the matter, so many persons of fashion and quality would be concerned with it?

Sir John.

Well said, boy! I think there's no great danger!

Long.

Quite innocent and polite, I assure you, Sir; if you want a description, I can sing you a new song just made upon the occasion.

Sir John.

With all my heart, honesty.—Here wet the way first. Drinks.

SONG.

'Tis Shakespeare invites—to his Jubilee haste,

All you who profess either spirit or taste,

Young and old come away,

Be frolic be gay,

And let your old bard with due honour be grac'd.

Lo the call is obey'd—see! see, they approach,

From nimble tim whisky, to the lumb'ring old coach.

Full bent one and all

On the Jubilee ball,

Which even Diogenes could not reproach.

Miss Tripsy expecting that Stratford will prove

A delicate region of pleasure and love;

Puts on her best face,

Adorn'd with each grace,

As ready to bill, and to coo as a dove.

To the market, old dowagers also repair,

With borrowed complexions, teeth, eye-brows, and hair;

Each wooes with her purse,

For better for worse,

The female that's wealthy must surely be fair.

Kept mistresses too, and galant modish wives,

Whom I join as devoted to similar lives;

Set out on the jaunt,

To ogle and flaunt,

Who, who can resist it when dear fashion drives?

Smart beaux, whom stern cynics call rational apes,

Haste hither to shew their fine cloaths and fine shapes,

They know Shakespeare's name,

And have heard of his fame,

Though his merit their shallow conception escapes.

Some authors, some critics, some actors advance,

Gay fidlers of Rome, and trim barbers of France;

Lords, ladies, and squires

Confess strong desires,

To join the gay round of our Jubilee dance,

Would any one miss then, this great Jubilee,

Where so much you may hear and so much you may see,

Since in approbation

The wise corporation

Will give each a slip of the mulberry tree.

Scrapeall.

A mighty hopeful description, I must confess.

Sir. John.

Ay, ay, the song's well enough; but there's a blind fiddler that plays at my house who sings three times as loud; he rattles away old Roger, the hunting of the Fox, Bumper squire Jones, and Roast Beef, till he makes my great hall ring again.—Body o'me it would do any body good to hear him.

Scrapeall.

Ah, sir John, there's nothing better than old songs—but old gold.

Sir John.

Well friend you must order us a couple of beds with well aired sheets and we'll think of somewhat for supper presently.

Longcork.

Supper you may have gentlemen, from five shillings to five guineas, but as to a bed in this house you could not have one for any sum.

Sir John.

Not a bed!—how so, fellow?

Long.

Lord sir, they have been all bespoke these six-weeks; would you believe it; lord Blazingstar has engaged the roost of one of our chambermaids four story high, and lady Betty Soylainet is obliged to content herself with an ostler's apartment over the stables.

Sir John.

Very pretty accommodation truly!—look ye, firrah, beds we must and will have.

Scrape.

Ay or we'll stop them out of the bill.

Long.

Must and will have!—So you may gentlemen if you can get them.—Let me see—I would oblige you if I could—there is an alderman of the town who has one bed disengaged, and I believe you may have it three nights for five guineas.

Scrape.

Five guineas, coxcomb!—I had rather pass three nights in purgatory; what do you think we coin or find our money, Scapegrace? Jubilee, quotha! give it the right name, the High Season at Bath, where the Extravagants eat silver

Sir John.

Hold! they shan't rob us, old Truepenny—we'll prime our noddles and when they can hold up no longer e'en take a nap in our chairs; so there's bite the biter.—The devil's in it if Yorkshire and Change-alley can't be a match for Stratford upon Avon at any time.

Scrapeall.

Why that is true, yet I wish we had gone the other road, and missed this confounded Jubilee.—Egad there is an excellent thought come into my head, cousin; I'll go inquire if any body deals in Lottery Tickets, and if I meet with a chap, it shall go hard if I do not tickle his soft side out of as much as will pay our thievish expences.

Sir. John.

Well said old Two-and-go-three, in the mean time I will remove to the garden for air, here Jack, Tom, Jonathan, what is your name? carry the remains of that bottle, into an arbour, or summer house and I will follow you.

Long.

This way, this way, Sir;—what a couple of bears they are!Aside.

Sir John.

Success, old Main-chance.

Scrap.

Ah somebody had need mind the main chance; or else your Jubilee folks, would soon turn the world topsy turvy. Exeunt.

Enter Lord Spangle and Toupee.

L. Spang.

So at length we have gained, this occasional seat of mimic elegance.—How long have we been coming the last fifty miles?

Toupee.

Exactly four hours, ten minutes and thirty-fire seconds by my stop watch, my lord.

L. Spangle.

Pretty tolerable driving—though the minutes and seconds were quite unnecessary.—Don't you think I may lay the odds upon doing it under three and a half?

Toupee.

Most certainly, my lord, with relays of your nag tailed bays, the full tailed blacks, and the switched roans.

L. Spangle.

Mum then—say no more—now must I lay myself out for one of Moore's flying Phaetons without horses, and then brother knowing ones have at ye.—Ring the bell Toupee; order my baggage to the lodgings and afterwards attend me here.

Exit Toupee.

Enter Longcork.

Long.

Did you call, Sir!—oh, my lord—I beg your lordship ten thousand pardons.

L. Spangle.

Lord! prithee fellow hast thou ever seen me before? or dost thou read nobility in my face?

Long.

Ah my lord many a half crown have I touched of your money.

L. Spangle.

Ay! my glass to recognize this old acquaintance.—What Longcork from the Piazzas?

Long.

The very fame and entirely at your lordship's service.

L. Spangle.

Thou hast been serviceable in the affairs of love, and may'st be so again.—Any of the game expected here

Long.

Great plenty my lord, of practised ladies for country gentlemen; and I make no doubt but there will be rare poaching for experienced sportsmen among unflush'd game; we shipped off from Bow-street and the garden three waggon loads last week:—Forty-five, as we call Bet Tawdry, is to pass here for a baronet's daughter—Sall Bottlenose for a young clergyman's widow, Suky Trapes for a country girl, and Peggy Nimwell, all your lordship's acquaintances—for an East-India captain's lady.

L. Spangle.

Excellent!—the game hunted down by us gallants of fashion do well enough for mistresses, or even wives, for fellows in this part of the world, but have you fixed your eye on nothing fresh yet Longcork: no soft, blooming, languishing fair, on whom a few soft words a few promises with a silk gown or two could prevail; point out such a one, and ten gold-finches in one cage shall chirp a most engaging piece of music to reward thee.

Long.

I am bound to you, my lord, and shall have a sharp look out.

L. Spangle.

But snug let it be; for the impertinent hungry news writers do so search out and bastinado the modish failings of nobility; that a peer can not debauch his neighbour's wife or daughter with any safety; and hypocrisy is become almost as essential to us as to a Moorfields preacher.

Long.

Insolent villains! their pens should be crammed down their throats: I shall be as secret as a free-mason my lord—not even a sign shall blab.

L. Spangle.

Enough: nature designed thee for a successful minister of intrigues and in due time I'll recommend thee to a snug place in the customs.—Men of merit should be rewarded.

Long.

I thank your lordship; but I would not give up my present perquisites to be any thing under a comptroller? besides I can only just scrawl my name.

L. Spangle.

That's hard!—then thou art fit for nothing but a commissioner.—Hey day, either my glass deceives me, or that spirited fair-one, lady Spanker, approaches;—'tis see faith.

Enter Lady Spanker.

What no people of fashion yet!—no real Jubilee!—oh, my lord Spangle, your presence has relieved me from the deplorable apprehensions that I was the only person of condition arrived.

L. Spangle.

Your ladyship's most obedient: Stratford has on Shakespeare's account been always admitted the region of poetry; bur, enlightened by lady Spanker's presence, it shines forth the hemisphere of beauty.

L. Spanker.

Politely, flattering, I confess, my lord; bur perhaps at present I am flushed with a little accidental beauty; for about half an hour since, as I was driving my phaeton and four, at the rate of fourteen miles an hour; an odious chimney sweeper's savage ass, set up his horrid bray, started my cream colours, turned them out of the road, and tipped me head-foremost into a ditch.

L. Spang.

Alarming chance! both the two legged and the four legged ass should have been sacrificed to your hardship's perilous situation: I am determined to bring in an act next sessions to prevent any such animals from appearing by day-light.

L. Spank.

Why indeed my lord it is a pity that creatures who have no adequate idea of quality, should exist at all.—I will request my uncle, sir Toby Hubblebubble, to support your patriotic motion.—Has your lordship any thing at Newmarket for the next meeting.

L. Spang.

Nothing, madam—my roan by Regulus broke down in a trial sweat last week and must forfeit two hundred—my grey filly has put out a spavin and my bay by Sampson has slipped a shoulder.

L. Spank.

Quite unfortunate; I am matched against captain Clumsy a three mile heat which I expect to win hollow; for you know he rides like a woolpack.

L. Spang.

True madam—ha! ha! ha!

L. Spank.

I have a match depending also with lord Scapegrace for five hundred a side on leaping five barred gates—bets run pretty even.

L. Spang.

I will back your ladyship in both—six to four for any sum.

L. Spank.

That is encouragement however—and I have been in close training these six weeks—do not you think my lord the Sampsons have shewn more bottom than Foot of late?—little Gimcrack he is the star of the turf, I would freely give two thousand for him; then as a groom theres Singleton beats the globe; I hope when he dies, for he must fall as well as Alexander, Marlborough, and other great men; I hope there will be a Jubilee of commemoration appointed for him at Newmarket.—I am sure he deserves it much better than the old musty scribbler Shakespeare; so fine a finger, so steady a hand, so firm a seat; in short he rides so well that if the fellow had but genteel blood in his veins I think no lady could refuse him for a husband.

L. Spang.

Your ladyship's approbation does his merit singular honour and the preference given against Shakespeare is most happily Judicious; no critic of any delicacy, can bear the fellow's hum drum pieces now.

L. Spank.

Quite intolerable.—Though if some of them were turned into singing affairs they might be endured well enough, the opera of Hamlet; the opera of Othello; the opera of Richard; in short, the opera of ever thing, to banish that antiquated barbarous word Tragedy.—But my Lord, have you fixed upon your character for the masquerade yet.

L. Spang.

Not yet, madam; if your Ladyship, as in real life, will personate Venus; I must consequently attempt the character of Adonis.

L. Spank.

Infinitely polite! but my choice rather bends to the Queen of the Amazons.

L. Spang.

Then madam you will metamorphose me into Alexander, who was her admirer.

L. Spank.

Well, since I find there is no escape from your excessive gallantry it shall be so—that valuable creature Mr. Pasquin the habit-man, from Tavistock-Street is to be here with at infinite variety; if it is agreeable to your lordship we will have a view.

L. Spang.

It is happiness to attend Lady Spanker any where.

L. Spank.

Then we will step first to the stable; give some directions about my cream colours and proceed immediately. Exeunt.

Enter Emmeline and Jackonet.

Emmel.

Well I vow, Jackonet, this flying from place to place is pure. What would my old papa say now if he knew that I was come to the Jubilee?

Jack.

Say! why the same that all such old cuffs as he would say upon the same occasion; that you was a wild mad-headed girl, that you was a flaunting baggage, that you did not know the pains required to get money, nor the value of it when got; that your head runs upon whirligigs and that you think of nothing but plays, assemblies fine cloaths and fine sweethearts.

Emmel.

Ha! ha! ha! well I vow you take him off to a hair; if it was not for my aunt Fiddle-de-dee, I should have known no circumstance of polite life I should have been fit for nothing but mending stockings and making pies, if it was not for her I should not have you to wait on me, Jackonet.—He would have brought me up just such an unfashionable creature as himself; but nature has given me spirit, and my aunt has given me taste; so I am resolved not to be shut up in the horrid smoke of Watling street any longer.

Jack.

You are perfectly in the right of it, madam; get yourself tranlplanted to Grosvenor, Berkley, or Cavendish Square as soon as possible; set up a vis-a-vis bespeak an elegant sedan of four hundred guineas price; hire two of the handsomest chairmen, and six of the genteelest footmen than can be found; with every other article of a grand household, keep visiting days, routs, &c. and shine forth an ornament of the gay world.

Emmel.

Ravishing picture!—What an unreasonable mortal is this Papa of mine to think I would give up such a round of delights; for that hateful creature Omnium, the change broker, and his country house at Islington. Did I ever sing you a song I made upon being plagued to have him, Jackonet?

Jack.

Not that I recollect, madam.

Emmel.

Then you shall have it.

SONG.

How cruel, Papa, to insist upon that,

Which nature must always deny,

How can you resist a denial so flat?

Before you shall force me I'll die.

'Tis base in the tonge, to proclaim a fair show:

When fill'd with abhorrence the heart cries out no.

Love only shall ever dispose of my hand,

Love only shall make me a wife;

No parent has justly a right to command.

To command away comfort, for life,

My Tongue then shall never proclaim a fair show

When filled with abhorrence, my heart cries out no.

Jack.

A good resolution and well expressed, madam; I recollect a short ballad much to the same, purpose; I'll endeavour to give it you as well as I can,

Emmel.

I long to hear it of all things.

Jackonet.

SONG,

The subject of marriage

So oft meets miscarriage,

'Tis ticklish for maidens to try;

Gallants in this matter

So oft lie and flatter,

We scarce can tell how to comply.

Since seeking a blessing we oft meet a curse,

When blushing, we answer, for better for worse.

Should parents presuming,

Like tyrants assuming,

Unkindly forbid a free choice:

The girl who has spirit

Will freedom inherit,

By list'ning to nature's kind voice.

If I am to be wretched I'll chuse my own curse,

And the man of my heart take, for better for worse.

Emmel.

Admirable! Jackonet, you shall be first lady of my bed-chamber, and shall have my wedding cloaths.—Sir Charles promised to meet me here this evening, and, when the enchanting Jubilee is over, we shall fly for Scotland immediately.

Jack.

A charming convenient country that, for matrimonial affairs, madam,—heigh ho!—I wish I was taking a trip there with one I know, upon the same occasion.—The invitation which carried your father into Yorkshire at this critical time was very fortunate.

Emmel.

The luckiest thing in the world, the very name of a Jubilee would have frightened him out of his senses!—But, Jackonet—what would you have me get for the masquerade?

Jack.

Lard, madam! there is such a variety, that it is almost impossible to advise. When I lived with lady Bab. Rattle, she employed six hours a day for three months, and could scarce fix upon any thing at last;—one day she would be a Turk; the next a Christian; the third a Chinese; the fourth a Dutch woman; next a Heathen, Goddess; then a Savoyard; soon after a gipsy, a witch, and twenty others:—at last she thought of transforming herself into a moving bee-hive, intimating that beauty is pregnant with the stings of love—but, alas! upon entering the ballroom, she saw two other bee-hives dancing a cotilion with the sun, the moon, a bear, an ostrich, Hamlet's ghost, and an animated butter-cask.—This had such an effect upon her, that she retired immediately, and almost fretted herself into a consumption.

Emmel.

Poor lady! such terrible shocks must hurt any constitution; I have cause enough myself; but a good heart and pleasing hopes bear me up.—I would have a dress odd and whimsical—I'll make a bargain with you, Jackonet; you shall chuse for me and I'll chuse for you.

Jack.

As you please, madam!—Bless me, yonder's one of Sir Charles's men come post haste into the yard—his master must be near at hand!

Emmel.

Oh dear! I am so tumbled and tossed with the journey—my head is in such terrible disorder,—I can't see Sir Charles in this pickle, positively.

Jack.

If you please, madam, I'll call the chambermaid to shew a private room and put you to rights: in a quarter of an hour you shall look so killingly, that the baronet's impatience for Scotland shall make him think the Jubilee seven years long.

Emmel.

Come then, dear Jackonet—do make me look very killingly, and every silk sack and petticoat I have at present, shall be your's when we return from Scotland. Exeunt.

END OF THE FIRST ACT.

ACT THE SECOND.

SCENE THE FIRST.

Sir JOHN HEART and SCRAPEALL.

Sir JOHN.

WHAT! no lottery gudgeons in this town?

SCRAPEALL.

No no, Sir John; I could pick up nothing but a premium of ten shillings for number forty-five—they are all jubilee gudgeons here.—When I asked a bookselling fellow, who dabbles a little that way, whether he wanted any tickets—he answered—Shakespeare is to be crowned to-morrow; and his wife, before I could open my mouth again, said, there was to be a masquerade to-morrow, which every-body would be at.—For my part, I think they are all Shakespeare-mad, and I wish we were fairly out of the town.

Sir JOHN.

Body o'me, why so? Can't people be merry and wise?—For my own part, I should like to stay and see the fun—ay and we will, old True-penny.—When it is over, I'll take you to such gardens, groves, and purling streams in Yorkshire, as shall make you young again.

SCRAPEALL.

With your leave, Sir John, I had rather go back to London.—Pray where can you find a garden of equal value to that of Covent Garden?—Where can you match the golden grove of Lombard street?—Where meet more delightful retreats than the arbours of the Alley?—Where more comfortable walks than those of the Exchange, or a stream equal to the Thames between Bridge and Deptford? Besides, I am very uneasy about my girl, she's at the ticklish age of nineteen, has twenty thousand pounds at her own disposal, when of age, besides the inheritance of all my estate.

Sir JOHN.

What, then, friend, touch and take, ten to one, do all you can, she'll please herself at last, and throw herself away upon some poverty-struck lord, who, being out at the elbows, will marry her money to mend bad circumstances; then keep a mistress to please his inclinations.

SCRAPEALL.

I am no friend to popery, yet I wish we had nunneries amongst us to lock up head-strong young hussies.—Ah, why had not I a son? by this time he might have been thoroughly educated in those schools of useful knowledge, Lloyd's and Jonathan's—I might have lived to see him double my fortune.

Sir JOHN.

Why, then, old boy, since you can't be sure who will get it, or how it may go, take my advice and regale yourself with a little of it before you are shipped off for the other world.—Now I am here, I'm resolved to see what sort of an affair this jubilee is—though I suppose it won't be half so good as a country feast or a fox chace.

SCRAPEALL.

No, nor half so fine as my Lord Mayor's show, which may be seen for nothing into the bargain.

Sir JOHN.

Nothing! prithee don't grumble so in the gizzard—it is my humour to see what all this bustle's about; and if you'll promise to throw off your melancholy face, body o'me, I'll bring you off scot free—I'll pay for both; I have three hundred pounds a quarter, and don't wish to save a shilling of it.

SCRAPEALL.

As you please, Sir John.—What a prodigal old fool it is. Aside.

Sir JOHN.

Besides, man, I never saw a coronation in my life; and, for aught I know, the crowning of king Shakespeare may be as pretty a piece of diversion as the crowning of any other king—so brush up your phiz, and we'll sally forth to see what's stirring.

SCRAPEALL.

I follow, Sir John—I wish I knew how East-India stock was done to-day; and what news there is from the Nabobs. Exeunt.

SCENE II. A Masquerade Shop.

PASQUIN and SLEEKEM.

PASQUIN.

Well, if every freedom presented in a mulberry-box was to produce a masquerade, I could wish all the authors, actors, and critics in England were made burgesses of Stratford—I shall love the name of Shakespeare as long as I live. What a delightful bustle does this jubilee make! so many country 'squires and their ladies, who know nothing of the matter, apply for dresses, that we can fleece them genteelly—but what of that? they, in return, will rack their tenants; and the tenants consequently raise provisions; so that, upon the whole, no-body is affected but the low mechanical vulgar, whom nature has formed as mere necessary utensils for the sport and profit of us in polite spheres of life.

SLEEKEM.

Why, Sir, this promises fair to beat the royal masquerade.

PASQUIN.

Most certainly—we had too many of the knowing ones there—here we shall have well-fledged tame pigeons to pluck in plenty.—Let me hear how articles stand in the memorandum-book for to day.

SLEEKEM.

Touchstone's dress for Alderman Numskull.

PASQUIN.

Never were the cap and bells more happily adapted; though in chusing the dress, his worship observed, that as the world thought him a wise man, he was for once resolved to look and play the fool—which in reality he does every day of his life.

SLEEKEM.

For Mr. Alderman—

PASQUIN.

Pshaw, pshaw, skip all the corporation—I furnish them and their wives for nothing, which is a little hard; but as they have countenanced this polite sheep shearing, I must make other people pay for them, and the unconscionable long credit expected by most of my quality customers.

SLEEKEM.

Lady Giggle the habit of a vestal.

PASQUIN.

A vestal! ha! ha! ha! ha!—most admirable, as Numskull's outside will describe exactly what he is—her ladyship's garment will show what she absolutely is not.—Go on.

SLEEKEM.

The vest, drawers and axe of an execution for Mr. Whim—the mask to be truly dismal.

PASQUIN.

How! what! an executioner and an axe!—who the devil ever heard of such a character in a masquerade?—You might as well introduce a rope at St. Giles's.—Scratch it out immediately—why, it would not only frighten all the ladies, but half the noblemen present out of their senses.—Out with it, I'll lend no memento mori, unless it be Hamlet's ghost.

SLEEKEM.

Nancy Pickup, from the Garden—a nun's dress.

PASQUIN.

Very good, the reverse of reality again—a wolf in lamb's cloathing.—This article goes on tick, but Nancy's a girl of honour, and will pay well if the bait takes.

SLEEKEM.

Mr. Eitherside, a Nabob's dress.

PASQUIN.

What, Dick Eitherside, the Swiss news-paper scribbler—the composer of ghosts, bloody murders, and barbarous ballads, the fellow that dives for a dinner four days a week, and fasts the other three—that would kill or marry any-body with his pen for six-pence—he a Nabob!

SLEEKEM.

Sir, he says he has written six letters, dated Avon, to the Public Advertiser; six copies of verses, four epigrams, and twenty puff paragraphs to raise public curiosity; so he claims it gratis as a right, and says, if you don't comply, he'll anatomize you; but if you do, he promises to recommend and promote masquerades as much as possible.

PASQUIN.

Well, let the poor rascal have his humour this once.—What's next?

SLEEKEM.

Sir John Asiaticus, the apparatus of a blind fiddler.

PASQUIN.

Hey-day!—Hey-day! why this is masquerading with a witness. Nabob turned beggar, and a beggar turned Nabob.—Go on.

SLEEKEM.

Mrs. Lapell, a sultana.

PASQUIN.

Oh the advertising taylor's wife—let her be charged double price, because the scoundrel her husband works so low as fifteen per cent. profit; the ne—oh, I hear some customers—mind, Sleekem, your best bow, a smooth tongue and a right smirking Tavistock-street countenance.

Enter Mrs. DUMPLIN and TOBY.

Mrs. DUMPLIN.

Are you the person who furnishes masquerade affairs?

PASQUIN.

Yes, Madam; and tho' I say it, can produce the richest variety in England: I have habits from one guinea to ten for the night, with Venetian and caricatura masks in abundance. My shop, in the jocular stile, Madam, may be called a mill to grind old people young.—Please to look over my book of figures, Madam—you'll find them a most noble collection from Cleopatra to Mother Shipton; from Pekin in China, to John a Groat's house in Scotland. You have every thing remarkable in that volume—look it over, Madam, and, in the mean time, I'll consult the young gentleman's taste, that we may accomodate him agreeably.

Mrs. DUMPLIN.

Very well, friend—the boy may please himself,—he has a good taste—and is as sharp as a needle?

TOBY.

Ay, ay, moother, sharp enough for matter o'that—Toby Dumplin knows which side his bread's buttered on, tho'f he has never getten to London yet.

PASQUIN.

That's a pity indeed, young gentleman, though from your politeness and fashionable appearance I should not have suspected so much.

TOBY.

Ise very mickle obliged to your good-natures. To be seere all voaks in our town say as how I be a pratty lad, and almost as woise as parson, potecary, or exciseman.

PASQUIN.

No doubt of it, Sir; but as time will rather press, let us to business: What would you choose to appear in?

TOBY.

Nay, I know not.

PASQUIN.

Suppose then as a Turk?

TOBY.

Then I mun have a turbut on my head and whiskers on my face.

Mrs. DUMPLIN.

What did you say, a Turk?—No, no, you shan't make an infidel of my child neither—any thing else he pleases.

TOBY.

Do, moother, let me have wiskers; I shall look so pure and so comical.—He! he! he!

Mrs. DUMPLIN.

It must not be.—Any thing else, I say.

PASQUIN.

What think you of a cardinal's dress then, to make him a very good Christian?

Mrs. DUMPLIN.

By no means; I hate the Pope as much as I do Mahomet. Any thing else the boy likes.

PASQUIN.

As you seem to like the comic strain, suppose you personate a Dutchman, with a short pipe in your mouth?

TOBY.

Whoy, well enough; but not so well as wiskers though.

Mrs. DUMPLIN.

A Dutchman! Oh, frightful! spoil the boy's fine shape with filthy great breeches! make him all bottom and no top!—No, no; any thing else.

TOBY.

Why, moother, I thinks as how this any thing else, will come to nothing at last.

PASQUIN.

Well said, young gentleman; I think so too.

Mrs. DUMPLIN.

Well, to cut the matter short, I'll choose for him. Let me see, as my dear Mr. Dumplin is not above two months dead, I would pay some respect to his memory in my appearance.—Can you make me represent Niobe, Sir?

PASQUIN.

Exactly, Madam; I have the finest weeping mask in the world.

Mrs. DUMPLIN.

Tolerable features, I hope.

PASQUIN.

Exquisitely delicate; a most attractive picture of beauty in distress.

Mrs. DUMPLIN.

Enough: though my heart is buried with my husband, one would not appear deformed, you know.

TOBY.

Moother! moother! here's a feace now for all the world like auld Cicely's, our black-pooding wife:—and here's one as like the vicar as two pease; what a rare handle it has! For my part, I think they ha' getten half our town here.

Enter Captain BLARNEY.

Madam, your most obedient—Sir, I'm yours also.

Mrs. DUMPLIN.

Upon my word, a handsome portly figure!Aside.

Captain BLARNEY.

You must know, I come by long sea, over land.

PASQUIN.

I hope you have had a pleasant journey.

Exeunt Toby and Sleekem.

Captain BLARNEY.

Well enough for that, only I was like to be shipwrecked six miles off.

PASQUIN.

Six miles off! Why, we have not the sea within many miles of this place, Sir.

Captain BLARNEY.

Sea! by my soul it was the turnpike-road.—I'll tell you about it, honeys.—As my horse was trotting along, in a fine easy walk, a spalpeen thief catches hold of the bridle, and says, Your money, or your life!—Ara, nabacklesh, says I, why would you depose upon a stranger? I am going to the jubilee, and this is not so civil now. Oh, devil burn you, says he, Terence, (it is my name sure enough) if you go to the jubilee, you'll be robb'd there, so you may as well be robbed here; and if you don't, I'll shoot you through the head.

Mrs. DUMPLIN.

Oh dear, what a terrible fellow! You was in great danger, Sir.

Captain BLARNEY.

Ara, nothing at all when a body's us'd to it!—And so, as I was after telling you, cush la ma cree, when I would not give my splenters to the Raparee, he fired his pistol strait at me of one side: though as luck would have it, it did not go off neither; so I ups with little sweet lips, shillela, that never miss'd fire in its life, and giving him a stouter on the noggin, I laid him as flat as a flounder, agra.

PASQUIN.

Bravely done, upon my word, Sir.

Mrs. DUMPLIN.

Upon my word, Sir, it is very happy he did not get up again and murder you.

Captain BLARNEY.

Oh, by my soul, he's safe enough for that; he's as dead as Henry the Eighth. Why, he told me himself that he was dead; and so I said, if he did not like it, he might carry himself to a surgeon, and get his head heel-tapp'd.

Mrs. DUMPLIN.

Very witty and clever, I vow.

Captain BLARNEY.

I am glad you like it—Glogha too sneeshen—Musha, upon my soul, Madam, you're a very engageing person, and Captain Terence Blarney (meaning myself) would be very glad of a better acquaintance with you.

Mrs. DUMPLIN.

Your are very polite, Sir; but the loss of a good husband so lately, makes me indifferent to all the world.

Captain BLARNEY.

Upon my soul now, if you have had one good husband, it is a very good reason you should get another. My poor Sheela was buried at Monaghan last Friday se'nnight was five weeks, so I came to this Jubilee to look out for another; and, if your ladyship's not engaged, what's the reason but we may join giblets without any balderdash pribble-prabble?

PASQUIN.

Well said, Captain; a right widow's man.

Mrs. DUMPLIN.

Lard, Sir, you overpower me;—so sudden,—so short an acquaintance.

Captain BLARNEY.

Ara, what magnifies that; must not every acquaintance be short before it is long?—I'm a gentleman, every inch of me; I have a pretty little estate, after the man that owns it is dead: and you see I'm as well timbered about the legs and face, as one can meet in a long summer's day.

Mrs. DUMPLIN.

Your person is unexceptionable, Sir; and your manner very agreeable; but I must not think of marriage; I must not, indeed, Sir.

Captain BLARNEY.

By my soul, Gra ma cree, you may go further and fare worse.

Enter TOBY, dressed and masqued as a monkey, skipping about.

Mrs. DUMPLIN.

Oh, dear, Sir, defend me from that ugly creature! Runs into Blaney's arms.

Captain BLARNEY.

By my soul, and that I will, as long as there's a rag of shilleta together.

TOBY squeaking.

Do you know me?

Mrs. DUMPLIN.

Bless us! the thing speaks!

TOBY.

Do you know me, Captain?

Captain BLARNEY.

Captain, ara; by what the devil relationship are we acquainted?

TOBY.

I knows you, but you don't know me.

Captain BLARNEY.

Keep off your fore foots; or, devil burn me, but I'll crack your noggin for you.

PASQUIN.

Ha! ha! ha!—Admirably performed, young gentleman! There's a dress! there's a mask! as natural as any East-India jacko that ever came over.

TOBY.

Nay, now you have spoiled the masquerading frolic; that young man told me what to say.—Is'n't it pure and comical, moother?

Mrs. DUMPLIN.

What, my graceless turned into a monkey! Would you make me mother of a baboon!—I'll teach you, sirrah!

Captain BLARNEY.

Och, never heed it, it's only a trick of youth; he'll forget it when he grows old.

Mrs. DUMPLIN.

A trick of youth! Ill trick him: take this, sirrah! and this! and this!Beats him.

TOBY.

Fine masquerading this, Ise sure. Runs out.

Mrs. DUMPLIN.

Oh dear, this mad-headed boy will run out of doors, and have all the dogs in the street after his monkey's tail. Going off, returns. Oh, bless me, I'm so flustered, that I forgot to tell you, Sir, I lodge at the White Hart, where I shall be glad to see you at breakfast to-morrow morning.

Captain BLARNEY.

Och, and that I will, my jewel; and put a clumsey piece of toast under my girdle. But would not you let me touch your fair lips for good fellowship? Och, 'pon my soul they're sweet as the honey of by-bla.

Mrs. DUMPLIN.

You flatter me.—I shall expect you, Sir. Exit.

Captain BLARNEY.

Never fear, little Terence; don't you think, Mr. Mascarade, the lady's in love with my parson?

PASQUIN.

It looks very like it; but considering your country and address, it is not at all surprising, Sir.

Captain BLARNEY.

Why, as you say it's very nat'ral for us Hibernians. A word in your ear: if she has the mopus's, I'll have her as snug as a bug in a rug. You could not take part of a bottle, could you?

PASQUIN.

Business won't permit.

Captain BLARNEY.

Musha, you should be as welcome as flowers in May; you must get me some dress, either a cardinal, or a miller, or a sweep-chimney, or any thing you like best yourself.

PASQUIN.

Very well, Sir, I shall endeavour to please you.

Captain BLARNEY.

Sir, your most obedient. Going backwards, jostles Lord Spangle entering. I beg your pardon, young man; but if my ears had not seen you before you was in sight, 'pon my soul I should have walked on top of you. Exit.

Lord SPANGLE.

What an over-grown Irish bear! Sure the creature has not been to hire a disguise, Mr. Pasquin! Nature has made his whole figure a mask of humanity.

PASQUIN.

Your Lordship's wit, like the sun, will break out. He has ordered me to chuse for him.

Lord SPANGLE.

Then pray provide a bull's hide, horns and all, that the monster may have characteristic cloathing—Ha! ha! ha!

PASQUIN.

Brilliant to the last degree; quite the diamond cut—Ha! ha! ha!

Enter Lady SPANKER.

Lady SPANKER.

My Lord, I beg ten thousand pardons, but I have been quite flustered since you left me; for that eternal talker, lady Mary Tattle, fast held me so long by the ears, that I lost all patience; then, tripping one foot as I came up stairs, an officious Irishman laid hold of this arm, and grasped it in such a manner with his monstrous paw, that I don't know whether it will recover strength time enough to ride my October match at Newmarket.

Lord SPANGLE.

Provoking as well as painful.

Lady SPANKER.

Mr. Pasquin, your servant; is this affair like to be tolerably brilliant?

PASQUIN.

Entirely to your Ladyship's taste, I believe.

Lady SPANKER.

Well, positively we of the turf must establish a Newmarket Jubilee: I'll mention it to the Duchess of Foxchase, at our next meeting.

PASQUIN.

A design worthy such spirited ladies.

Lord SPANGLE.

And I'll mention it in the Jockey-Club.

Lady SPANKER.

Then, my Lord, I'll lay six to four, the thing takes; we shall carry it quite hollow, and double distance Disappointment.

Enter a footman, delivers two letters.

Lady SPANKER.

Black! black! what melancholy tales do these bring?—Your Lordship's excuse—Um—um—your sister, lady Charlotte, died this afternoon.—Poor Charlotte! she was a good-natured girl, but wanted spirit: she fell in love with a young fellow of inferior station, and being crossed, pined herself into a consumption, which carried her off. Well, that's better than disgracing the family. Reads again Your ladyship's bay hunter, Buck, was seized with the staggers, and died in five minutes.—Unfortunate chance! insupportable loss!—so fine a creature!—besides, there will be two hundred and fifty forfeit on my play or pay Bargate Match; I can never endure it.—Miserable woman!

Lord SPANGLE.

Madam, I allow the stroke to be very affecting; but, as some alleviation, permit me to present you with my roan colt, Stag; as the phrase is, he can snuff the moon, and will take the knowing-ones in deeply,

Lady SPANKER.

Your Lordship is the very essence of consolation: I'll have Stag to my leaping-bar, and throw him into training next week.—Now, if you please to divert my mind from poor Buck, we'll go into the inner warehouse-room, and fix upon our masquerade habiliments.—Come, Mr. Pasquin.

PASQUIN.

I attend your Ladyship. Exeunt.

Enter Sir JOHN, and SCRAPEALL.

Sir JOHN.

So, after hard limping of your side, cuz, we have reached the place at last; and now we'll see what they have got.

SCRAPEALL.

Ay, ay, foolery enough, I warrant.

Sir JOHN

Hey-day! Taking up a cap pray what's this young man?

SLEEKEM.

A cuckold's cap, at your service.

Sir JOHN.

My service! Will you wear it, square-toes? Nay, you need not start so: "Caesar and Pompey," as the old song says—What are all these?

SLEEKEM.

Masks to cover the faces, and mark characters.

SCRAPEALL.

Characters! I believe you deal in very suspicious characters. Why these baubles can only be fit for such as are, or should be ashamed to show their faces.

Sir JOHN.

Body o'me, here's one grins like a monkey; and there's so many, I don't know how to choose.

SLEEKEM.

If you please to walk that way, gentlemen, my master will help you to a choice immediately.

Sir JOHN.

Well said, lad. Come, old Multiplication.

SCRAPEALL.

Ah, stocks must fall at this rate. Exeunt.

SLEEKEM.

A rare trade this of ours; it takes in all from sixty to sixteen.

Sir CHARLES, EMMELINE, and JACKONET.

Sir CHARLES.

My dear Emmeline, the cordial punctuality of this meeting has confirmed me yours for ever.

EMMELINE.

I assure you, Sir Charles, Jackonet has been an active and stedfast friend in your favour.

Sir CHARLES.

I hope I have not been ungrateful; and if she has an inclination to follow your example, Madam, I'll endeavour to procure her a good husband.

JACKONET.

I thank you, Sir; but, according to the old proverb, I must please my eyes, though I plague my heart.

Sir CHARLES.

Then to our business.—Here, shew your book of dresses, young man. Retire.

Enter Sir JOHN, and SCRAPEALL.

SCRAPEALL.

Positively, Sir John, I'll stay no longer. What! six guineas for two dresses one night? Why it is absolute robbery.

EMMELINE.

Now, I think, Sir Charles, this infinitely pretty.

SCRAPEALL.

Bless me, what's this! my Emmy?

EMMILINE.

Oh la, papa! what, what shall I do?

SCRAPEALL.

Pretty! ay, it is pretty, hussey, to meet you here without my consent, without my knowledge, without my—Ad, I have lost all patience. And who is this fellow? I'll make an example of him for running away with an heiress.

JACKONET.

Why don't you think she able and willing enough to run away with herself, Sir?

SCRAPEALL.

Is she so, Mrs. Prate-a-pace! Ay, you're a hopeful maid of her aunt's providing: I know you well, sauce-box, and I'll turn over a new leaf. But who are you, scape-grace?

Sir CHARLES.

I am a gentleman, Sir, and not used to abusive language. To speak of myself may not be so proper, but my father, Sir Robert Planwell, was generally known and esteemed in the North of England.

Sir JOHN.

What, are you Bob Planwell's son of Lincolnshire? As honest a fellow, cousin Scrapeall, as ever tossed off a tankard!

SCRAPEALL.

But did he know any thing of the Alley?

Sir CHARLES

If he did not, I do, Sir; I have employed all my spare cash these five years in the stocks. Why, Sir, I have wrote two letters, dated India, to come over land, by Holland, one of which will raise that stock twenty per cent. and the other fall it thirty. Now, Sir, if you will countenance my pretensions to your daughter, I'll kill Heyder Ally, and make him conquer Madrass, as often as you please to sell out or buy in.

SCRAPEALL.

Nay, if that's the case, you may be a hopeful young fellow: but I hate a title. Howevever, if you can make what you say appear—

Sir CHARLES.

If not, Sir, I request no favour.

Sir JOHN.

Why, that's honest; and since you have all met together, I'll take care to bring you to a right understanding. I wear a title myself, and I'm no rogue for all that. We'll see what's to be seen here, and then all for Yorkshire, where we'll be as merry as grigs. But, d'ye hear, no more objections to titles, for

Titled or plain, still judge upon this plan,

That the heart only manifests the man.

Information about this book

Title statement

The Stratford jubilee: A new comedy of two acts, as it has been lately exhibited at Stratford upon Avon, with great applause. To which is prefixed Scrub's trip to the jubilee.

Gentleman, Francis, 1728-1784.

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University of Oxford Text Archive
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ID [ota]

http://ota.ox.ac.uk/id/4184

ID [isbn10]

110601183X

ID [isbn13]

9781106011831

ID [TCP]

K045301.000

ID [BIBNO]

CW3310071580

ID [ECLL]

0057600500

Availability

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Source

— The Stratford jubilee: A new comedy of two acts, as it has been lately exhibited at Stratford upon Avon, with great applause. To which is prefixed Scrub's trip to the jubilee., Gentleman, Francis, 1728-1784.. [8],40p. ; 8⁰. London :: printed for T. Lowndes, and J. Bell, successor to Mr. Bathoe,. 1769.. [Anonymous. By Francis Gentleman.] ['Scrub's trip to the jubilee' is a prologue by George Colman the Elder.] [A variant has a note "To the public" printed on the verso of the dramatis personæ (A4).] [Reproduction of original from the British Library.] [English Short Title Catalog, ESTCT48731.] [Electronic data. Farmington Hills, Mich. : Thomson Gale, 2003. Page image (PNG). Digitized image of the microfilm version produced in Woodbridge, CT by Research Publications, 1982-2002 (later known as Primary Source Microfilm, an imprint of the Gale Group).]

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