University of Virginia Library

ACT I.

SCENE I.

Chambers in the Temple.
Tom Careless and Mr. Cycle.
Careless.
Whate'er the success of your journey may be,
My dear rural sage, you are welcome to me:
Your benevolent projects I hope you'll complete,
By this trip from your snug scientific retreat.
In return for amusement you've given me there,
By your fine apparatus, and lectures on air,
I'll shew you the town; and the town is a science.

Mr. Cycle.
On my tutor, dear Tom, I've a perfect reliance,
For I know in that study what vigils you've kept.

Careless.
'Tis the only one, truly, where I'm an adept;
For as to the law, that's the science of thorns,
And tho' its black robe my lean figure adorns,
Perhaps twice a year, for my father's good pleasure,
I've renounc'd, I confess, both its toil and its treasure.
From my sapient Lord Coke this advantage I gain;
He led me to find out a flaw in my brain,
That title! on which, as wise parents have done,
My father laid claim to the seals for his son.

Mr. Cycle.
Such language, dear Tom, is in truth but a brogue,
That betrays the young heir as an indolent rogue.
'Tis the cant of ye all—ye want talents to drudge.

Careless.
Well! think me, my friend, wise enough for a judge,
I still must rejoice I have nothing to do,
As my heart now inclines me to wait upon you.
I wish I could raise you the cash you require,
But you know I depend on a close-handed sire,
Who promises largely, and often has said
He will make me a Crœsus whenever I wed;
But to drive me, I think, to the conjugal state,
Keeps the purse of the batchelor woefully strait;
And guineas at present are scarce, to my sorrow.
How much are you now come to London to borrow?
Two thousand, d'ye say?

Mr. Cycle.
Yes! two thousand at least,
And perhaps rather more, as my plan is increas'd.
I wish for no profit, but public esteem;
And much good to the world must arise from my scheme.

Careless.
Well! I wish you may prosper, but, as I'm a sinner,
I as soon should expect a roast Phenix for dinner,
As in times like the present such loans from a friend,
When Opulence has not a stiver to lend.
You philosophers look with contempt upon cash;
But the fools of this town are so fond of the trash,
That as you're a chemist, both skillful and bold,
You had best try to make a few odd lumps of gold;
And this newly-found art you may try with less cost,
Since to borrow with ease seems an art that is lost.

Mr. Cycle.
Dear Careless, you're welcome to rally my hopes;
So attack them with all your rhetorical tropes!
The man is ill-wrapt in philosophy's cloak,
Whose bosom is ruffled, dear Tom, by a joke.
I know money's scarce; yet I will not despond:
I've two friends who'll supply what I want, on my bond.

Careless.
What! two such good friends! so rich, open, and free!
Dear Cycle, I pray introduce them to me;
For not one of that cast my long list can produce:
Why! man, such a friend is the golden-egg'd goose;
You may hunt for the bird e'en as long as you're able,
But at last you will find it is only a fable.
I wanted but one hundred pound, t'other day,
And ask'd fifty friends, that chance threw in my way,
But they all shook their heads, with a negative nod,
So I dunn'd my old father, in spite of the rod.
But pray do I know the good creatures you mean?

Mr. Cycle.
Aye! both.—They're two friends, whom for years I've not seen;
But in juvenile days I held each as my brother,
And I trust that we all are still dear to each other.
You're acquainted with Beril—

Careless.
Well! there, I confess,
Your wishes have some little chance of success.
If there's one in the world, who, regardless of pelf,
Would relieve a friend's wants, tho' he straiten'd himself,
You have now nam'd the man. Yet perhaps he can't lend:
I know he has suffer'd by aiding a friend;
And I fancy he has but a slender estate.
'Tis true, he ne'er plays, tho' carest by the great;
Yet in statues and books he's expensive, 'tis said—
I have seen him bid high for a porphyry head.

Mr. Cycle.
'Tis hard, fortune still should torment him with crosses;
I sooth'd him to bear the severest of losses:
I was with him, when blasted in youth's blooming charms
His lovely Sophia was torn from his arms.
You knew not, I think, that unfortunate fair,
The victim of cruelty, love, and despair.
She was bound to our friend by a mutual affection,
But her rich sordid parents oppos'd the connection.
The canker of sorrow incessantly prey'd
On the perishing bloom of the delicate maid:
Her duty, her suff'rings, made nature relent,
And wrung from her father a tardy consent;
But death render'd vain the late sanction he gave,
And his child's bridal bed was the pitiless grave.
Many years have now soften'd the lover's wild grief:
Perhaps some new beauty now yields him relief.
He's still single, I think?

Careless.
Yes! in learning and art
He has sought the chief balm for the wounds of his heart;
Hence a pleasing mild elegance runs thro' his life;
And had I a sister I'd wish her his wife.—
But now for your second friend!—What is his name?
For acquaintance with him too I'll certainly claim.
You say that I know him: come! tell me who is it!

Mr. Cycle.
Yes! indeed, it is one whom you frequently visit.
And here you must own, that my hopes are well founded,
Since in kindness and wealth he has ever abounded;
And a legacy lately—

Careless.
You don't mean Bijou,
That collector of knick-knacks?

Mr. Cycle.
Indeed, Tom, I do.
I've a title to ask any favor from him:
He has some little vanity, some little whim,
Yet still he's a friendly, benevolent man.

Careless.
You may rap at his door—but get in if you can!
Your friend, when you saw him, was jocund and free,
His heart full of bounty, his spirit of glee;
His vanities too had so mirthful a cast,
That Friendship herself even wish'd them to last.
But Marriage, that changer of mind and of feature,
Has made poor Bijou quite a different creature.

Mr. Cycle.
I am told that his wife, with a pocket well laden,
Was a little, fat, ancient, and well-behav'd maiden;
Who, having a similar taste for virtù,
Put her cabinet under the care of Bijou.

Careless.
Yes, indeed! in an odd fit of amorous hunger,
He married an old curiosity-monger,
Who is ready to faint, if a visitor knocks
While she's brushing the dust from her raree-shew box.
Her maid t'other day threw her into a swoon,
By cracking the eye of a great stuff'd baboon;
For instead of young children, whose troublesome noise
Might disturb their sedate, virtuosical joys,
She fills their fine house with new monsters of mummies.

Mr. Cycle.
Of your story, dear Tom, I perceive what the sum is.
You don't like the lady:—she may not please you,
And yet be an excellent wife for Bijou.
I am told she has really much merit and taste.
In her morals they say she's remarkably chaste;
So with lectures, perhaps, she has wounded your ear,
And you rakes of the Temple may think her severe.

Careless.
No, faith! with the lady I stand very well,
I bought her esteem with an old empty shell.
I own she has piety, morals, and sense:
To chastity no one will doubt her pretence.
But tho' with these virtues I freely invest her,
My heart, I confess, is inclin'd to detest her.
She has ruin'd her husband—at least so I think;
To a dwarf she has made his benevolence shrink,
And puff'd up his vanity into a giant.
To all her strange whims he's so servilely pliant,
He'd obey her caprice, whatsoe'er it might hint,
And deny himself bread to buy her an odd flint.

Mr. Cycle.
Why, Tom, that's a proof of his fond tender heart.

Careless.
To me it proves nought but her ladyship's art:
And so you yourself would explain the whole riddle,
If you heard her once flatter his pencil or fiddle,
As a more wretched brush never blotted poor paper,
And ne'er squeak'd a Cremona beneath a worse scraper.
Tho' pamper'd with flattery thus by his wife,
Our friend has quite lost all his humor and life;
And whenever I look on his cold chearless face,
As he stands by the side of his wife's fossil-case,
I think her a perfect Medusa, I own,
Who has turn'd her poor husband himself into stone.

Mr. Cycle.
You loungers, dear Tom, in your idle disputes,
Love to ridicule all life's amusing pursuits:
But they all have their use; and the lady who joys
In collecting an odd set of whimsical toys,
Is herself a rare gem, that my judgment regards,
More than all the fair votaries of scandal and cards.
I know I shall like her, in spite of your stricture,
And I'm going to see how you've fail'd in her picture.
My old friend's good-will I shall put to the trial,
And solicit his aid without fear of denial.

Careless.
Come along!—I will see if your welcome is hearty;
Indeed I may serve you by joining the party,
And I'm eager to know (for my portrait is true)
What you think of the change she has wrought in Bijou.
To a knowledge of nature I ne'er will pretend,
If, when you have seen, in the house of our friend,
All the natural rarities rang'd in a glass,
You don't rank his heart in the petrified class.

[Exeunt.
SCENE changes to a Drawing Room at Mrs. Bijou's, with a Door open into an interior Cabinet of Curiosities—Several stuff'd Creatures and other Rarities discovered in the Apartment.
Joan
, with a Brush.
Lackaday! would I once were well out of this house,
Where I tremble to move, full as much as a mouse!
And Nanny's afraid to come into this room;
Indeed the poor creature can scarce hold a broom,
For my mistress, she says, has done nothing but bait her,
Since she brush'd off the tail of the new alligator.
I've a great mind to lay up my brush on the shelf,
And leave madam to dust all her monsters herself.
Would my master would make her, for these stocks and stones,
A young little plaything of good flesh and bones!
But, alas! these old ladies who can't raise a baby,
Are as full of nonsensical maggots as may be.
And our house is so cramm'd with this whimsical jumble,
That if you touch one thing, another will tumble.
Madam says, I misplace whatsoever I clean,
But I'll venture to wipe off the dust from this screen.
[Throws it down.
A plague take the things! they do nothing but fall.
Lud! my fingers have run thro' the cover and all.
[Taking up the Screen, and uncovering it.
'Tis my master's new drawing—how madam will thunder—
This fine naked beauty I've torn quite asunder:
And the rent must be seen—I can thrust my whole thumb in,
And I've no time to mend it—my mistress is coming.—

Mrs. Bijou
(entering in a dark brown Bed-gown, with a Brush of Peacock's Feathers.)
Some new mischief's done here.—Lord! Joan, what's the matter?
I am sure you broke something—I heard such a clatter.

Joan.
Indeed, Ma'am, I've had a most cruel disaster.
The screen—

Mrs. Bijou.
What! the beautiful work of your master!

Joan.
My finger slipt thro, as I wip'd it in haste,
But I'm sure I can mend it again with some paste.

Mrs. Bijou.
You awkward, pert hussey! pray let it alone!
Can paste mend a flaw in a goddess's zone?
Ye stars! give me patience!—Get out of this door,
And pray let me never set eyes on you more!
I knew I should suffer as soon as you came,
For taking a thing with so gothic a name.

Joan.
I'll go—for I live but the life of a cur:
Yet pray! on my name do not throw any slur!
I am sure 'tis good English, altho' it is Joan,
And that's more than you're able to say of your own.

[Exit.
Mr. Bijou
(entering.)
What's the matter, my dear?—What new plague from your maids?
You for ever are vext by these pestilent jades:
If bred in this town, you object to their morals;
If rustics, they break all your glasses or corals.
Let 'em come whence they will, they bring trouble and strife,
And your quarrels have made me half sick of my life.

Mrs. Bijou.
Don't say so!—You know, my dear Mr. Bijou,
I take no young maids, out of fondness to you;
And these middle-ag'd creatures are all so unhandy,
They make me as fretful as old Mr. Shandy.
But, my dear, if you see me sometimes in a flame,
I think you won't say that my temper's to blame:
'Twas my love for the works of your delicate hand,
Which produc'd an emotion I could not command.
If I rated old Joan in a great agitation,
I am sure you will own I had much provocation,
When you see this sad cause of the bustle between us:
She has utterly ruin'd your very best Venus,
This new lovely drawing! the joy of all eyes!
I vow I could cry.—

Mr. Bijou.
What sweet softness!—she cries!—
These feelings, indeed, prove the true connoisseur:
This ill treatment of Art her fine sense can't endure.
Henceforth, of my works let them say what they will,
No painter can boast such a test of his skill.—
Come, chear up, my dear Cognoscente! come! come!
I can mend it again with a brush-full of gum.

Mrs. Bijou.
D'ye think you can mend it?—and won't it look brown,
If you don't hide the skin with the skirt of a gown?
'Twould be pity to cloak up a body so fine,
Especially since you have drawn it from mine.
And you know I caught cold, when I stript to the waist,
To sit for the figure, in true attic taste:
But I did it from fondness, that you might not roam,
And wickedly hunt after models from home.
To be sure I love art—but all artists, they say,
By their studies of nature are tempted to stray;
And I own that your genius gives me great alarms.

Mr. Bijou.
My dear, tender creature! pray trust your own charms!

Mrs. Bijou.
Affectionate terrors will rise in my head.
I was jealous, I own, t'other day of the dead.

Mr. Bijou.
What fond sensibility! exquisite feeling!

Mrs. Bijou.
I hope I was wrong, but strange fancies will steal in,
When fondness has open'd the heart to suspicion.
You're so dear to the females of every condition:
But, I hope, Lady Fancybird was not so vicious;
There was nothing, indeed, in her air meretricious;
Yet a jealous pang seiz'd me, I own, when I found
That by will she bequeath'd to you three thousand pound.
'Tis true, that a legacy's very commodious;
Yet the money appears to me utterly odious,
When I think it was possibly meant as the price
Of endearments, to which she had art to entice,
And not in return for the pictures you drew,
Of her parrot, her bull-finch, and old cockatoo.

Mr. Bijou.
Lord! my dear, if such phantoms your quiet consume,
You will make the old lady jump out of her tomb.
'Tis true, that I flatter'd her favourite passion,
As I love to be well with old ladies of fashion:
But pray don't suppose, I was e'er so absurd
As to stroke her pale cheek for the pole of her bird.

Mrs. Bijou.
Ah! you humorous man, you've such infinite wit,
You can turn to a jest whatsoe'er you think fit!—
But my heart on this point can be never at ease,
Unless you'll allow me to spend, as I please,
Half the money, of which you're so oddly possest;
And then I shall think it an honest bequest.
Besides, there's an auction at Lady Toy-Truckle's,
And I long for a rap at the Duchess's knuckles,
Who out-bid me, you know, t'other day, for a shell.
'Tis all for your credit.

Mr. Bijou.
Well! well! my dear, well!
I never refuse you the cash I can spare.

Mrs. Bijou.
You are sure I shall turn it to something most rare:
For indeed I'm no pitiful hoarder of pelf;
And I've now set my heart on some true antient delf.

Mr. Bijou.
'Tis time you were drest.

Mrs. Bijou.
As I live, there's a rap;
I'm not fit to be seen, in this bed-gown and cap.
Run! and charge them, my dear, not to let in a foul!—
With my cabinet dust I'm as black as a coal.

Mr. Bijou
(looking out.)
I'm too late.

Mrs. Bijou.
For my orders they don't care a pin;
And to vex me, old Joan has let somebody in.
I'll escape—I can't bear to be seen in this trim.

Mr. Bijou.
'Tis only Tom Careless—you need not mind him.

Enter Careless and Mr. Cycle.
Careless.
Here, good folks! I have brought you a very rare bird;
'Tis five years since his notes in this town have been heard.

Mr. Bijou.
Mr. Cycle! my worthy, old friend! how d'ye do?—
Give me leave to present to you Mrs. Bijou!

Mrs. Bijou.
I'm asham'd to be found in this garb.

Mr. Bijou.
O! my dear,
From a man of true science you've nothing to fear;
He'll freely allow, for he's candid and just,
Philosophical ladies must dabble in dust.—
Mr. Cycle, my wife is a curious collector:
In natural knowledge I hope you'll direct her;
You are master of all, from the earth to the stars,
And may aid her in ranging her fossils and spars.

Mr. Cycle.
She shall freely command all the little I know.

Mrs. Bijou.
You're extremely obliging, dear Sir, to say so!
But I cannot attend you in this dusty vest.
I'll soon slip it off.

Careless.
You sha'n't stir, I protest.
To talk of your dress, my dear Ma'am, is a joke,
To a sage, who exists but in chemical smoke.
Your robe is indeed like the robe of Saint Bruno,
Yet still by your air we might take you for Juno,
While the tail of your peacock, that type of command,
With such dignity waves in your awful white hand.

Mrs. Bijou.
You're a young saucy creature!

Mr. Cycle.
These idle rogues, Madam,
More like sons of the Serpent, than children of Adam,
Are apt to esteem it a dull occupation,
To study the wonders of this fair creation:
And hence they all rally, with humor ill-plac'd,
Those who seek for amusement in science and taste.

Mr. Bijou.
Well said! Mr. Cycle—I'm glad that Virtù
Has found both a friend and a champion in you.
Come and peep at my wife's philosophical treasure!
I hope you'll survey it again, at your leisure.—
My dear, d'ye allow me to shew your museum?—
I'm exact in all matters of tuum and meum.

Mrs. Bijou.
Mr. Cycle, I'm sure, is a privileg'd man.

Mr. Bijou.
It is open.—Come, Sir!

[Exit with Mr. Cycle, into the interior Apartment.
Mrs. Bijou.
Tell me, Tom, if you can,
Is not this Mr. Cycle a man of great worth,
Who wrote a most excellent book on the Earth.

Careless.
'Tis the author himself; and I know not what college
Can shew his superior in virtue and knowledge.
He's a man of few words, with a heart and a mind
Ever busied in schemes for the good of mankind;
And he now visits London, in hopes to procure
Some support in a plan for relieving the poor.

Mrs. Bijou.
The poor!—of their name I'm alarm'd at the mention:
Mr. Cycle, indeed, may have no ill intention,
But I fear he'll involve my good husband in trouble—
These projects of charity end in a bubble.
The poor are ungrateful, disorderly wretches,
Who can shift for themselves by their tricks and their fetches;
They deserve not a learned philosopher's thought.

Careless.
Your pardon!—He'll think, if he thinks as he ought,
That Philosophy, drawing from Heaven her birth,
Is the science of soft'ning the evils on earth.
By your fears you have done our friend infinite wrong,
For tho' his heart's tender, his judgment is strong:
To the projects of Folly he never can stoop—
Philanthropy's friend is not Phantasy's dupe.

Mrs. Bijou.
Why, Careless! you talk in a language quite new:
Who could dream of a charity-sermon from you?

Careless.
Oh! a cobler can preach, when his spirit's inflam'd.
Mine is apt to blaze forth, if I hear a friend blam'd;
And indeed I can't stifle my heart's ebullitions,
When such good folks as you harbour vile suppositions.
But I'm sure you'll forgive all the warmth I have shewn,
When the worth of our friend is to you better known.
If you're angry, I know that your anger will cease,
When you hear on what terms I can purchase my peace.
A shell I can bring you—my interest such is—
Very like what you lately gave up to the Duchess.
Perhaps I may give it you—

Mrs. Bijou.
You're a good soul—
As large as her Grace's, and perfectly whole?

Careless.
Yes, I think 'tis as large, and in colour as high.

Mrs. Bijou.
Are you sure of its shape?

Careless.
Do you question my eye?
I'll convince you I'm right; let us instantly look
At the fine colour'd plates in your great Danish book.

Mrs. Bijou.
Come—you give me more joy than I'm able to speak—
I can't bear that her Grace should possess an Unique.

[They retire into the interior Apartment, from whence Mr. Bijou and Mr. Cycle return.
Mr. Bijou.
This scheme, my good friend, does you honor indeed.
In a business so noble I hope you'll proceed;
And may you accomplish your utmost desires,
In raising the sum which your project requires!—
Pray look at this new little drawing of mine!
Don't you think it an elegant pretty design?

Mr. Cycle.
Very lively indeed!—But, my friend, you forget
What I've said on the point of incurring this debt.
Do not fly from the subject!—I hate all evasion:
I must say for your aid I have serious occasion.
You know what I've ask'd, and in asking I deem,
That I give you a proof of my cordial esteem.
In a poor-house myself I would rather work hard,
Than apply thus to one whom I did not regard.

Mr. Bijou.
Mr. Cycle, I know you're a man without guile,
And you think in a noble and singular style;
But if asking for cash is of love a sure test,
With affectionate friends all the wealthy are blest.

Mr. Cycle.
I have done, as I see that you wish to evade
A request, that I thought I with justice had made;
As you know, when of fortune you felt a reverse,
You had once the command of my prosperous purse;
And since you of opulence now are possest,
More enrich'd too of late by a friendly bequest,
I suppos'd, without trouble—

Mr. Bijou.
Dear Cycle, 'tis true:
You shall have it; but mum! towards Mrs. Bijou!

Mr. Cycle.
O! I now understand all the cause of demur;
And if that is the case, I have done, my dear Sir.
At the hazard of discord the sum you sha'n't lend;
In family strife I'll not plunge my old friend.

Mr. Bijou.
Do not think me a slave!—there's no danger of strife:
But you'll find, if you e'er try the conjugal life,
It is best not to waken the frowns of a wife.
Besides, there is surely no reason why you
Should talk on such business to Mrs. Bijou.

Mr. Cycle.
There is certainly none—you shall do as you please.

Mr. Bijou.
One thousand, my friend, I can spare you with ease;
'Tis the sum I shall go to receive very soon;
If you'll call here again, you shall have it by noon.
And to tell you the truth, I would have you make haste,
Lest my wife should demand it for matters of taste.
When an auction is near, she is apt to be rash,
In laying her hand upon all my loose cash;
And as she is thought so judicious a buyer,
Her elegant wishes I seldom deny her.
Yet 'tis time to grow prudent:—but hush! here they come.
Remember my charge—dear philosopher, mum!

Enter Mrs. Bijou and Careless.
Mrs. Bijou.
O my dear! I'm in raptures: my young friend has cur'd
All the bitter vexation I've lately endur'd.
Now in shells by the Duchess I am not surpast;
Tom will bring me the fellow to what she bought last.

Mr. Bijou.
He's exceedingly kind!—But, my dear, it grows late;
Remember the guest, whom you must not make wait.
Old Baron Van-Bettle's appointed to-day
Your curious collection of flies to survey;
As some business abroad will oblige me to leave him,
I entreat you, my dear, to be drest to receive him.
These friends will excuse you.

Mrs. Bijou.
I'll bid them farewell.
Mr. Cycle, your servant!—Remember the shell!

[Exit.
Mr. Bijou.
O my friend! you've a thousand new drawings to see.—
I can tell you, our artists grow jealous of me.

Joan
(entering hastily.)
Sir, a coach is just stopt, and a man with a star on—

Mr. Bijou.
Od's life! I must leave you, to wait on the Baron.

Mr. Cycle.
I beg we mayn't keep you.

Mr. Bijou.
My good friends, adieu!
Dear Cycle! pray meet me again here at two!
I am sorry I'm forc'd thus to part with you now,
But for such an engagement I'm sure you'll allow;
For the flies are all rang'd in the parlour below,
And a guest like the Baron one can't leave, you know.
As the key's in the case, he perhaps might unlock it,
And whip the best butterfly into his pocket.
'Tis a law with the curious to watch a collector,
And you never must trust him without an inspector.

[Exit.
Careless.
Now, my friend, what d'ye say to the portrait I drew?
Were my colours too dark for good Madam Bijou?
But how have you far'd in your money-petition?
If you get it, I'll call you a mighty magician.
I can tell you, that Madam suspected a plot.

Mr. Cycle.
I've his promise—but shall I accept it, or not?

Careless.
If you can, by all means!—'twill be sav'd from her clutches,
Who would throw it away in out-bidding a Duchess:
And at auctions indeed she'd her husband undo,
Were she not in her house quite a close-handed Jew.
But on saving a penny she frequently ponders,
And her avarice scrapes what her vanity squanders.—
O! if I were her master, her whimsies I'd cure,
And make a good wife of this vile connoisseur.—
Now for Beril—he's one of a different cast.

Mr. Cycle.
Come along!—since I saw him some long years have past,
And I'm eager to clasp his affectionate hand.

Careless.
Stop a moment! and answer me this one demand!
Don't you see a sad change in our poor friend below?
Where's the lively companion, the humorous beau?
All his pleasantry's gone—

Mr. Cycle.
I confess, by his carriage,
He seems to be render'd more serious by marriage.

Careless.
By my life, I am griev'd, in thus seeing him grow
The poor trumpeting slave to his wife's raree-shew.—
Well! ye Gods! if, whenever my nuptial star twinkles,
I should wed an old hunter of odd periwinkles,
To engage her nice eye with unchanging attraction,
May I turn in her arms to a cold petrifaction!