Wallace, Lady Eglantine. The Ton; or, Follies of Fashion. Edited with an Introduction by Daniel J. O'Quinn. British Women Playwrights around 1800. 15 June 2004 .The text was typed from the 1788 edition of The Ton, published in London by T. Hookham. In cases of missing or illegible text the play has been corrected against the edition printed in Dublin (1788); such alterations are indicated by their enclosure in {—}. In Act II, scene iv, the first prompt for Villiers has been created in order to reposition the text for comprehensibility of reading. I would like to thank Mark Stephen for his invaluable help in the preparation of this edition and Donna Andrew not only for drawing my attention to Lady Wallace, but also for her assistance with a range of historical issues arising from the text.About the text
The Ton; or, Follies of Fashion.A Comedy.
as it was acted at the
Theatre Royal, Covent Garden.
[On April 8, 1788.]By Lady Wallace
London:
Printed for T. Hookham, New Bond Street.M, DCC, LXXXVIII.
To lash the follies and vices of the day in a play is the certain way to insure ill success; and the more natural the pictures, the more sure the opposition. Such was the fate of the Follies of Fashion.—Many trembled before its appearance with the fears of seeing themselves unveiled, and declared, before it was brought upon the stage, an intention of opposing it. They used every illiberal art so to do, although it was supported by the noblest and most respectable audience that ever graced a theatre;—who distinguished it by every mark of approbation, both when read and acted. But the merits or demerits of the piece did not actuate many of the hissers; for their opposition began before they heard, saw, or were made acquainted with any part of the play—They took every step which rage or malice could dictate, to prevent the mirror from being placed before them. They spread abroad, that it was filled with indecencies, and sent information to several Ladies who had boxes, that they had better stay away, as a riot was determined upon, even before its appearance; and had it not been for the loudest applause of the most distinguished and numerous part of the audience, it certainly would have been damned unheard. From the riot which the mention of Mr. Erskine's name occasioned, although the names of Elliot, Rodney, Charles Fox, and Governor Johnstone, and many others have been mentioned on the stage without even having been disapproved of.—But the author is convinced that she was wrong in naming him, since it has proved so disagreeable to Mr. E. who never saw the comedy or heard any part of it.—It requires no panegyric on his merits to render them known, admired, and respected, and the author would not have fallen into such an error, but from having been tempted to contrast unworthy characters with one so very amiable.
Preface
But against such parties, headed by the Daffodils, Macpharos, and Lord Bontons of the day, no play could escape;—and indeed its fate was expected. Thus the pictures being so like real life, for once injured the success of the painter. But whilst it suppresses the exhibition of them, it only attests their justness and resemblance, as well as the truth of that satire which probed their vices too much to the quick.
Had candid critics been allowed to speak, had they not been silenced by the clamours of malevolence, they would have found but too much just cause for censure in those various errors which sprung from the author's ignorance of the mechanism of dramatic writing, stage effect, and the necessity which there is for constant action, and little moral, sentimental talk in a comedy.—These faults the piece in a great degree possesses, as sentiment, satire, and story, unsupported by business and action, she is now sensible, from the mildest critics merit reprobation:—but to be taxed with indecency of language, where no one idea tending to indelicacy was meant to be conveyed, proves the ungenerous malevolence of those who resolved to oppose it, unheard, from imagined personalities. It is to be observed that those plead guilty who put on caps meant for no particular person. And if any expression can bear to be twisted and perverted to a double meaning, it was evidently not the intention of the author, nor observable to the most respectable and delicate minds existing; who examined the comedy before it was rehearsed. But, to guard against such misrepresentations, it perhaps requires a depraved mind accustomed to study every idea tending that way;—which is a part of study as yet unknown to the author:—therefore, if she has erred in unmeant expressions, which admit perversion, it arises from ignorance of that evil-minded grossness which leads some to misrepresent every thing, and turn it to their own corrupt ideas. A sensible author says that 'the nicest people have always the filthiest ideas;'—and if it is possible for such misrepresentations to affix an improper meaning to any part of this comedy, it is a proof that the purest ideas may become contaminated, when communicated to the depraved.
That no room may be left for saying that it is altered, the comedy is published incorrectly, as at first acted. Those speeches left out, from its being too long, are marked with inverted commas.
Prologue
Written by J. JEKYLL, Esq.
Spoken by Mr. FARREN.While reformation lifts her tardy hand,
To scourge at length transgression from the land;
And dormant statutes, rous'd by Proclamation,
Affright the petty sinners of the nation,
Who shall presume the rule of right to draw,
For those who make, enforce, and break the law?
The country Justice, with terrifick frown,
May scar a district, or appal a town;
May hurl dire vengeance on the guilty elf
Who dares to do—just what he does himself;
But who shall rule the justice?—Who shall dare
To tell his worship that he must not swear;
Drive him to church; prohibit his diversions,
Or fine him well for Sabbath-days excursions?In London, happily, our zeal's more warm;
Here live the great examples of reform:
With pure disint'rest, each devoutly labours
To mend, if not himself, at least his neighbours.
No secret canker now corrupts the state:
The name of vice is lost among the great.
The virtues in St. James's-street that dwell,
Spread thro' the Square, and all along Pall-Mall,
Are such! 'tis quite impossible to tell.However, with great search and studious care,
A female bard has glean'd some follies there.
Bred among those who wou'd not fear to own 'em,
Had there been vices there, she must have known 'em.
Some trifling faults, perhaps intriguing, gaming,
Pride, and the like, may want a little shaming;
'Gainst these she aims, in aid of law to use
The supplemental sanctions of the Muse. Assist, ye fair!—She fights for you and virtue;
Ye great, support her!—for she cannot hurt you;
Ye rich, ye poor; above, below the laws,
Applaud her, and promote the common cause:
And, if there live who still disgrace the age,
Bid them revere the vengeance of the stage.DRAMATIS PERSONAE
Lord Bonton,
Mr. Wewitzer.
Lord Raymond,
Mr. Farren.
Lord Ormond,
Mr. Pope.
Captain Daffodil,
Mr. Lewis.
Macpharo,
Mr. Johnstone.
Villiers,
Mr. Aickin.
Pink,
Mr. Bernard.
Trusty,
Mr. Fearon.
Ben Levy,
Mr. Quick.
Master of the Club,
Lady Bonton,
Mrs. Mattocks.
Lady Raymond,
Mrs. Pope.
Lady Clairville,
Miss Brunton.
Clara,
Mrs. Wells.
Mrs. Tender,
Mrs. Bernard.
Mademoiselle,
Mrs. Morton.
Maid to Lady Clairville,
The Ton;
OR,
FOLLIES OF FASHION.ACT I.SCENE I.
[St. James's Park. Enter Trusty and Mademoiselle]
MADEMOISELLE.
Est-il possible, Monsieur Trusty, that Lord Ormond promise to marry your lady?TRUSTY.
It certainly is so;—I must know who am her steward; every thing is settled—they will be married next week.MADEMOISELLE.
But den I be gouvernante to Miss Raymond, and I must know, dat he have change his mind—dat be all:—He now marry my charge, sister to Lord Raymond—a sweet girl, not yet fifteen. We came from school to the wedding—and I be resolve dat Miss got one hosban.TRUSTY.
Don't pronounce Lord Ormond the most respectable of men, such a villain, as basely to desert Lady Clairville,—who is the loveliest, worthiest lady in England.MADEMOISELLE.
Oh, dat be nothing!—great men be frivole, dey chuse from caprice, and change wit the wind—and laugh at the loveliest, de wordiest, and all dat sort of ting.TRUSTY.
But my lady has such a fortune, that I cannot imagine what can tempt him to think of your miss.MADEMOISELLE.
What do you say?—She have grande fortune!—Oh! den I fear he love her ver much—I begin to tink dat dere be some trute in your story.—If so—ah, pauvre Ma'mselle Raymond!TRUSTY.
Loves her!—it is not three days since he lov'd her tenderly, therefore you can't have much reason to expect he means to marry Miss Raymond.MADEMOISELLE.
But sure I have—He have ask her, and more dan all dat—but I will make her ver happy, by telling her what a rival he sacrifice for her.TRUSTY.
If such a cruel disappointment to another can give her pleasure, she can have but a bad heart.—What profligate coquettes the fine gentlemen are now-a-days.—No wonder, that in following their example, their wives and daughters should become contemptible.MADEMOISELLE.
I see Pink coming;—do you know his master, Captain Daffodil?TRUSTY.
Yes, yes; he is the greatest coxcomb in town—quite the Ton—and thinks himself very clever, by prying into every body's history, and exaggerating it into ridicule.MADEMOISELLE.
O! if he can write a scandalous epigram, hit off a dark inuendo against de respectable, he have all de wit of de Ton.TRUSTY.
If the man be like the master, I'm off. [Exit Trusty.[Enter PINK.]
PINK.
Your devoted, Ma'mselle! I'm quite fortunate in meeting with you, for I seldom can stir abroad.—'Pon my soul, we persons of fashion have a sad time of it—much splendor, but no rest.MADEMOISELLE.
I should tink de valet to Captain Daffodil be no great trouble, but grand plaisir.PINK.
Ah, Ma'mselle! You know not half my woe! I'm but the shadow of the Pink that I was, when I went into his service—Up all night—put from sleep even in the morning, when he comes home in bad humour—because unvited to a ball; or having lost money—and then all the rainy morning forc'd to fag after Jew-brokers—tell lies to tradesmen—carry billet-doux to women of quality—then hurry, hurry home again to dress him for St. James's-street:—better far the life of a hackney-coach horse.MADEMOISELLE.
Captain Daffodil be so pretty a man, he sure never want money—de great lady gave him plenty.PINK.
Why, some of them pay him for attendance pretty well;—there is Lady Bonton—ah, Ma'mselle, I suppose you know how matters stand at Bonton-House?MADEMOISELLE.
It be the grandest assemblee in town—grand faro—and petit soupé,—trés gallant.PINK.
I wish that was all; but we that are in the secret, are quite distrest at present.—'Pon my soul, I fear, they'll shut up shop—Lady Bonton has had a cursed bad run;—Lady Va-tout has touch'd her for a devilish large sum. [Looking at his watch.] But I must tear myself away, for it's near twelve; the Captain will be ringing—I must run.MADEMOISELLE.
No, no; pray, Monsieur Pink, do tell me more of de grand monde to tell my pupil—now she go to shine in it.PINK.
'Pon my soul the Captain will be quite frantic, if I should be absent when he awakes; -to go out in the morning, I dress him en demi coquette—then before dinner, I finish him off in high style, en prince; but after dinner comes the hardest task of all!MADEMOISELLE.
What do you do den?—he sure not dress tree times?PINK.
Oh, he turns home before he goes to the party's, to have the left side chifonnèe, and it must be arranged in so very easy a manner, as to seem as if done by a lady's cap—then here—(pointing to his face) just half on the whisker, and half on the curl, I must put on loosely a little rouge, as if it had been left there by a lady's cheek.—Then his coat here—I must powder with the most natural appearance, as if it had been done by a lady's having fainted in his arms; and if all is not done to his mind, the poor Pink has a devil of a life.MADEMOISELLE.
A ha! so Captain Daffy not have a fine lady to do all this for him?PINK.
No, no; he only wishes that it should be thought they do—that pleases a beau ten times better than it's really being so.MADEMOISELLE.
But dere is Mr. Macpharo, he not tink so; Ah! he de grand fine looking man!—He make the ladies hearts go pit a pat!PINK.
To say the truth of it, he is the only friend the Captain has,—who seems formed to please you Ladies—for he makes no fuss about it; yet, loves a pretty girl in his soul.MADEMOISELLE.
Ver surprising, dat de English women love to have in public, what de French always wish to have en privacy.PINK.
Those ladies who wish to be the height of Ton, like to be followed by the men, for nothing but vanity,—But that don't prevent the sly fellows, like Macpharo, from faring as well in London, as any Englishman does in Paris.MADEMOISELLE.
He be fine fellow—make game of every body.PINK.
That is his business you know; he gave it out when he came from Ireland, that he was descended from the Kings of Ireland;—and I do believe there was this family likeness among them; that neither of them had a Crown in their possession.MADEMOISELLE.
Ha! ha! but he now be ver rich!PINK.
He is none of Pharaoh's lean kine; he has made a devilish large fortune by duping fools:—A young Buck of fortune takes a pride in boasting his losses and thinks it gives him an air of fashion, being without a guinea, but what costs him twelve shillings in the pound to borrow from a Jew broker.MADEMOISELLE.
Ha, ha, ha! if Lord Ormond marry dis Lady Clairville, I will try to get dis Macpharo for my charge.PINK.
Adieu, Ma'mselle! I must force myself away—I'll fly to you the first spare moment, to attend you to the masked ball. [Exit Pink.MADEMOISELLE.
I now will run tell Ma'mselle Julia what a fine Lady, Lord Ormond give up for her. [Exit.SCENE II.
[Captain Daffodil's Room—Sopha,a number of pillows, Toilet. Daffodil looking in the Glass, in his Powder Gown—pulling off a pair of gloves.]
DAFFODIL.
It is strange, Pink is not returned,—Those chicken-skin gloves are very bad, I must enquire of Moseneau to day for more softening—[Enter Pink.]
Well, Pink, have you learned when lady Raymond goes out to-day?
PINK.
The coach is ordered at two.—I left your note at Lady Bonton's—and gave your letter to the Jew broker at the Salopain.DAFFODIL.
Well, make haste, Pink; I'm in a great hurry.PINK.
Will you have the Olimpian dew, the Venetian cream, or the Milk of roses to prepare for the rouge to-day?DAFFODIL.
Neither; I han't time now; only give me the rouge, and the black for my eye-brows.[Whilst he is painting, a loud knocking, which makes Pink hide the paint.]
[Enter Macpharo.]
MACPHARO.
What Daffodil! not drest yet?DAFFODIL.
[Putting on his clothes whilst conversing.] Why it an't late—only one o'clock. I protest I have only allowed myself one hour to-day to dress—because in a great hurry. But, Macpharo, have you heard the news? I'm quite elated with hope.MACPHARO.
What news? That there is to be a war?DAFFODIL.
[Terrified.] A war!—O heavens and earth forbid! Did you really hear such horrid news?MACPHARO.
Not I; faith—but I suppose you mean Raymond's marriage with the Cit.DAFFODIL.
Yes.—I vow I was quite overwhelm'd in Ennui, till I heard of this glorious piece of vulgar fresh game.MACPHARO.
Glorious indeed!—A hundred thousand pounder, is she not?—Oh my conscience I'll eat no meat for this six weeks, but sago broth, to be cool for him in the evenings—just when new married, is the only time at all, at all, to have at him—when he's flush'd with success, plenty of shiners—then you know he'll stay as long as you please at the club, lest we should laugh at him, as that stupid, dull dog—A fond husband.DAFFODIL.
Stupid indeed!—but a devilish rare sort of stupidity.—Par Dieu, Macpharo, I'm more to be pitied than I can express, that the husbands are all become such contented, indifferent fellows.MACPHARO.
Indeed, now, I thought that you men of intrigue found great advantage in that.DAFFODIL.
There you mistake,—it renders the conquest so easy, that one dares not absolutely shew the least favor to those ladies. Some time ago, one could not favor a lady, but her Lord was all impatience for a divorce, and to publish one's success.—But now, one is continually granting favors to women of the first quality, and one has no notice taken of then except she chance to quarrel with her confidante, who tells out of spite, and one hears one's name in a list of half a score more who have been equally civil to her.MACPHARO.
As for me now, I care nothing at all, at all, for talking about it; if it were not, that it is a sure letter of recommendation to all the rest of the sex.DAFFODIL.
Aye to be sure it is; and as for my part, I vow the only joy I know of intrigue, is teizing a husband, setting him a spy over his wife:—his jealousy sets one's name up, and wherever one appears all the women exclaim—"Oh! here comes the dear, dangerous, seducing wretch!"—Then the wife, par contradiction, is so anxious for an opportunity to slip a billet-doux,—give a promising look, and it is so delightful to baulk her at last, he, he, he!—These are the joys of intrigue,—but they are chilled, nipt in the bud, by the husbands all being so indifferent.MACPHARO.
Ha! by St. Partrick, my boy, I forgot now that your corps are more for shew than use:—You like all the parade and shew of the business; now as for me, by the Lord Harry, I'm quite different.DAFFODIL.
Oh thou art a most graceless varlet—have you no compunction for transgression?—Thank God, I have no sins of that sort to answer for!—Whenever the lady comes to that, D. I. O., say I.MACPHARO.
D. I. O.—Oh, that is a new game I suppose—I hope it will take; and to be sure play will take a man from the woman he loves, the best upon earth.DAFFODIL.
A new game! He, he, he! La, it is only a way of saying, dammee, I'm off, without the grossiertè of an oath. Could you really suppose me such a ninny, as to give up my person to the mercy of a cormorant woman of quality? How then shou'd I be able to fly here and there, with the Duchess of Dash—the Countess of Careless—Lady Giggle—and a thousand others upon my list?MACPHARO.
Burn me, but they get little for their reputation by your own account of it.—You are a choice fellow faith, for an heir of entail to recommend to a childless Peer for cicisbeo; yet you are a sad dog, upon my conscience, for you ruin the husband's quiet, and the wife's reputation, all for nothing at all, at all.DAFFODIL.
Yet every female heart flutters at my approach, and joy graces the fair one's face with smiles of triumph, whose box I honor with my presence.MACPHARO.
I met Lord Bonton as I came here;—he said he would call in a few minutes.DAFFODIL.
Then let me be gone, for he is quite a bore at home—When abroad, he is well enough; being a peer, to show in one's party, as one does a running footman in one's suite—he, he, he!MACPHARO.
He is the tip top of taste—has no one propensity or passion but what fashion dictates.DAFFODIL.
His lady is quite the empress of whim and dissipation—She tempts the men to follow her by hanging out all the lures of coquettry, and the women by being the leader of every pleasure.MACPHARO.
I believe she has no tendresse; yet she has all the scandal of lovers for nothing at all.DAFFODIL.
Yet I believe she would do any thing, rather than lose a flirt:—she is one of those sort of women that may be piqued to that purpose, for which in vain you would court them—But I will leave you to receive his Lordship, and fly to meet lady Raymond.—I must take pity on the poor thing, and give her a Ton by attending her.—Je me flater, my attentions will not be thrown away. [Exit.MACPHARO.
By my soul, but hers will.—What a damn'd insignificant he-she thing this man-milliner is!—yet by looking like what he is not, by a most creative fancy for scandal, with the art of playing off one silly woman against another—he has ruin'd half a score female reputations, from mere appearances, backed by his own inuendos.—Ah, my Lord![Enter Lord Bonton.]
What news from Newmarket? I hope you had good sport.—LORD BONTON.
Pas mal—most confoundedly beat—touch'd for ten thousand.—What is doing at the club?MACPHARO.
Faith, few of us in {town—} Raymond has got a bit of supply, a pretty girl{; and sure} he has got a plumb with her—he lost several thousand last night—he still is forced to borrow from Ben Levy; for his wife's fortune is not to be paid till Easter.LORD BONTON.
By that time it probably will be all forenail'd—I'm told this cit is a fine-made thing, spite of her breed.MACPHARO.
Sure the breed is good, for her father married a women of quality.LORD BONTON.
Then, enough said—I have not a doubt but that mamma took care she was thorough bred.—Does it take after the dam? Will it train to be a sporting thing?MACPHARO.
Pon my conscience, then, she is all fire and faggot;—and will no more submit to be the neglected rib that Raymond will make her, then the blood of the Macpharo's will to stomach an affront.LORD BONTON.
Her Lord and she are quite different—He is all dissipation.MACPHARO.
They are as opposite as alkaline and acid, and may chance, like hartshorn and vinegar, to fret till the one destroy the other.LORD BONTON.
The hartshorn may get uppermost, perchance.MACPHARO.
She is all artless simplicity—has a most eloquent blood in her cheek, and a promising, melting softness in her eye.—She may profit by the lectures of Mrs. Tender—who has got her in tow; and she, you know, is quite Pandora's box, never opens her lips, but all sorts of ills fly out upon her neighbours—She is—but what is she not?—for she professes to be all virtue in public and in private—She is every thing that is bad.LORD BONTON.
Lady Bonton is just gone to call upon her—and 'gad I must have a peep at her Ladyship to-night at the masked ball, to be given al fresco, by the Duke in Kensington Gardens—But what has he done with Clara?MACPHARO.
Why sure, as cash is low, she must be in great poverty—She pretended to sentimentals, and left him because he got married.—and now that Raymond has got so rich a wife, he will be for having a girl that will not be after moping it in a corner—but spend his money and rant it like a favorite sultana.LORD BONTON.
Let us enquire after her—I have a fancy for her, if it won't take too much trouble;—but I hate attendance and courtship.—Will ye, or will ye not Madam, is my way.MACOHARO.
Raymond won't easily forgive you; you know a man of Ton thinks his wife fair game for every one; but to seduce a mistress whom he loves would be rather dishonorable.LORD BONTON.
Very true—but now she has quitted him 'tis all fair—Allons donc. [Exeunt.SCENE III.
[Lady Raymond's House. Enter Lady Raymond and Lady Bonton.]
LADY RAYMOND.
How cruelly I have been disappointed of my promised joy—those balls and fites I intended to have at my wedding.LADY BONTON.
I protest, my dear Lady Raymond, we have past this week in such a somber, domestic style, that it is enough to give you an aversion to the blest state of matrimony; which, Heaven knows, is triste enough, even embellished with all those pleasures every one can find in the gay world to keep one from that monster ennui, which ever devours one in a family party. [Yawns.LADY RAYMOND.
Lord Ormond's illness and Miss Raymond's melancholy has thrown a damp on all my promised pleasures.LADY BONTON.
How could your Lord fetch such a tiny Miss from school?LADY RAYMOND.
Do you know that Ormond has asked her in marriage?LADY BONTON.
Impossible! Why he is engaged, and attached beyond description to Lady Clairville, whose rank and fortune Julia Raymond can't rival; and their marriage is daily expected.LADY RAYMOND.
Sure the amiable Ormond can't act so dishonorable a part?LADY BONTON.
To resign the riches and éclat of Lady Clairville I should wonder at; as for the honor part of it that's easily got over by gay men.—But you, child, brought up the other side of St. Paul's, don't yet know the creed of honor at St. James's—Men laugh at all perfidies and promises broken; you are yet to learn what a soul-less thing a man of fashion is.LADY RAYMOND.
All my hopes I have placed on my loved Lord, and sure I am, he never can prove ungenerous.LADY BONTON.
So says every fond fair in the honey moon. Perhaps your Lord may turn out a phìnix; but they are singular productions.—I have lived long enough in the beau monde to be convinced that we should deaden our feelings as much as we can, and substitute the pleasures of dissipation for the domestic comfort, which is seldom or never realized—Submit to me, and I will teach you.[Enter Mrs. Tender.]
MRS. TENDER.
To carry on as many intrigues as you please, and yet escape detection.—This I doubt not is what Lady Bonton would have said—and if to be, in a sly way, a woman of intrigue is your Ladyship's intention, she will indeed prove a most convenient friend;—for she is the very soul of Ton, and understands every art, from that of placing with grace a feather in your Ladyship's cap, to the secreting a lover in your Lord's bed-chamber.LADY BONTON.
And if, my dear, you should chuse to mope, be constant to your husband, fret in solitude for his losses at the club—his amourettes—and other follies; or if led from spirit and good humour, you partake the gaieties of society; rigid virtue will avail you nothing since Mrs. Tender's over-scrupulous religion will set down every man you speak to, as a favored gallant.LADY RAYMOND.
Heavens! Ladies, you astonish me! till now, I thought it sufficient to be really virtuous, to preserve one's reputation.LADY BONTON.
Lord, child! they an't so alarmed at the idea of gallantry now in the beau monde, since one finds purity of virtue, and excessive delicacy, neglected by the women, and laughed at by the men.—The sure way to be sought after by every gay circle, and have your virtue and charms resounded by every beau, is to have a little condescension.—It raises one to eclat, fashion, and general admiration—it is that—MRS. TENDER.
And money now that stamps the value on individuals, and often insures the most unworthy the best welcome; every where it is the passe-partout;—but reputation is of no more use in the gay world, than pattens to a lady who never walks; they are valued by the bourgeois only. Fashion asks, what fortune, what eclat you have; not what virtues you possess.LADY BONTON.
Oh, no; your heroines of sentiment are for Arcadian scenes, or solitude, where conscience only accompanies them.MRS. TENDER.
So, only favor a few of the puffing coxcombs of fashion, and see that your Lord don't by an unlucky run lose your fortune, and you may do what you please.—Oh! what a world we live in!—I am petrified with its wickedness!LADY BONTON.
I protest I never hear a woman rail so at gallantry, but I suppose that it is occasioned by her want of success. The same reason that I rail at play, tho' I cannot go one night without it.LADY RAYMOND.
It surely is very painful to be so religious, Mrs. Tender; for you absolutely go through a kind of purgatory, for the sins of all your acquaintance.LADY BONTON.
I keep all my morality for my closet.MRS. TENDER.
That is, because your Ladyship's house, being a new-fashioned one, has no closets.MRS. BONTON.
It is a pity—they are mighty convenient things on many occasions, besides moments of reflection.—Don't you find it so Mrs. Tender?MRS. TENDER.
Yes, to fly from dubious characters, and profligate men.—I vow I cannot look at a fellow without blushing;—filthy creatures!LADY BONTON.
These are illiberal prejudices, which embitter all the comforts of life.LADY RAYMOND.
And destroy thousands of reputations, spotless as innocence.MRS. TENDER.
If you countenance vile women, you'll soon be—LADY RAYMOND.
What? because I will not credit every scandal, which oftener arises from malice at superior virtue, than a hatred of vice.LADY BONTON.
Which never exists in a breast, eager to credit the infamy of others.LADY RAYMOND.
Too often to be innocent and unfortunate is a crime which draws with it the suspicion of every other from those who credit the existence of no virtue, Mrs. Tender, from possessing none of their own.MRS. TENDER, [looking at her watch.]
Bless me, ma chere, I fear I shall be too late for my sick friend.—Good bye, my love!—[Aside.] Preaching impertinence; but I will be revenged. [Exit Mrs. Tender.
LADY RAYMOND.
What a starched piece of spite this is! Lord! how I hate those bad hearts, who feed on the misery and reproach of their neighbours.LADY BONTON.
She is a tedious creature! Come, let's walk in the park.LADY RAYMOND.
With all my heart. [Exeunt.SCENE IV.
[Another Room in Lady Raymond's. Enter Mademoiselle and Daffodil.]
DAFFODIL.
But tell me, now, that you have given me such a freezing account of Lady Raymond's virtue;—what sort of thing is your pupil?MADEMOISELLE.
Indeed, Monsieur, she be the foolish baby; I do all I can to teach her de grace, and how she shou'd behave,—but she be so very shy, so modest, she can never be de least a Ton Lady.DAFFODIL.
Why, Ma'mselle, you're so charming a woman, that I'm amaz'd she don't pick up a little of your fashion.MADEMOISELLE.
Ah! Monsieur, you be so gallant, so clever—but she be so sad, it banish all de loves and graces:—I tell her de Ton Lady be all small talk, all manière; I teach her to practise de grace; de saucy look for de inferior, de inviting look for de men—de sneer for de infortunate, and de cringe for de leader of de Ton.DAFFODIL.
Charming creature! thou wert made to form the female mind, to all that we can desire!—But won't this little sentimental girl pick up nothing from your lessons?MADEMOISELLE.
No, ver' little!—I tell her dat in place of de blushing timidity dat she have, she ought to be bold like de fine lady.—Dis is de lesson I give—[Acts—goes to the door, comes in affectedly, and impudently staring.] How do!—reach me a chair—I'm so fatiguè, danced till four—den lost shockingly at faro.—Have you heard de terrible news of Lady Gaylove?—Entre nous, she always was suspected by me: [Starting up.] But mercy on me! I forgot de fine caps, dat are at Madam Beauvais.—And so I shew her, with a pretty little run, to go off, and leave all in admiration of her wit, spirit and Ton.DAFFODIL.
Vastly well! quite the woman of fashion.MADEMOISELLE.
Yes, but she not do it—she cry, O Ma'mselle, I am undone!—Alas, I feel! I stop her short, and cry, fy-done—de fine lady never feel—dey laugh at all de feeling, and have sent dem to de House of Commons.DAFFODIL.
He, he!—But prey, what does she mean by undone?MADEMOISELLE.
She be sad, cause she marry Lord Ormond, who give up Lady Clairville for her, from a ting dat I brought about.DAFFODIL.
She ought to be vain of this.MADEMOISELLE.
She say, she owe her ruin to my bad conduct, and dis is ver hard, when I do all I can to get her de hansom hosbon.DAFFODIL.
She is a fool, and you, ma chére, thrown away upon such a sentimental piece of prudery. 'Pon my soul it is a pity! Was it not for a few such governesses as thou art, we young fellows should not find one girl of spirit, above vulgar prejudices and the vestal purity of antiquated virgins.MADEMOISELLE.
When she talk of ruin, I tell here dere be no harm, where dere be no scandal; dat nature give the belle passion to be indulged; dey be da grand plaisir of life.DAFFODIL.
Talk of ruin! What is that you say, Ma'mselle?MADEMOISELLE. [Aside.]
Mon Dieu! my tongue run too fast, I must not tell him.—No, Sir; but you know it be provoking she not have him, cause he leave another for her.
DAFFODIL.
Hush! la, I think I hear some one coming; I would not be seen by Lady Raymond for the world; but I'll return when dark, and talk over matters.MADEMOISELLE.
Dat will do better, den no one see you.—Adieu, Monsieur. [Exit Mademoiselle.DAFFODIL.
This is what I could wish; I'll leave my carriage a little way from the house, place my servant at the door—tell, before I leave the club, that I must be pointed to a moment, to meet a kind fair one; then I know half the members will watch me; Dick Pont, or Tom Coggett will follow me, and to-morrow will whisper every where, that I was with Lady Raymond. Bravo! bravissimo! By thus cleverly conducting a few rencontres with waiting-maids, and gouvernantes, I have gained credit for half a dozen affairs with ladies of quality. [Exit.END OF THE FIRST ACT.
