University of Virginia Library

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.