The Works of Henry Fielding, vol. 12. Fielding Harold

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       Luck. So! what news bring you?

       Jack. An't please your honour I have been at my lord's, and his lordship thanks you for the favour you have offered of reading your play to him; but he has such a prodigious deal of business, he begs to be excused. I have been with Mr Keyber too – he made me no answer at all. Mr Bookweight will be here immediately.

       Luck. Jack.

       Jack. Sir.

       Luck. Fetch my other hat hither; – carry it to the pawnbroker's.

       Jack. To your honour's own pawnbroker!

       Luck. Ay – and in thy way home call at the cook's shop. So, one way or other, I find my head must always provide for my belly.

      SCENE V. – LUCKLESS, WITMORE

       Luck. I am surprized! dear Witmore!

       Wit. Dear Harry!

       Luck. This is kind, indeed; but I do not more wonder at finding a man in this age who can be a friend to adversity, than that Fortune should be so much my friend as to direct you to me; for she is a lady I have not been much indebted to lately.

       Wit. She who told me, I assure you, is one you have been indebted to a long while.

       Luck. Whom do you mean?

       Wit. One who complains of your unkindness in not visiting her – Mrs Lovewood.

       Luck. Dost thou visit there still, then?

       Wit. I throw an idle hour away there sometimes. When I am in an ill-humour I am sure of feeding it there with all the scandal in town, for no bawd is half so diligent in looking after girls with an uncracked maidenhead as she in searching out women with cracked reputations.

       Luck. The much more infamous office of the two.

       Wit. Thou art still a favourer of the women, I find.

       Luck. Ay, the women and the muses – the high roads to beggary.

       Wit. What, art thou not cured of scribling yet?

       Luck. No, scribling is as impossible to cure as the gout.

       Wit. And as sure a sign of poverty as the gout of riches. 'Sdeath! in an age of learning and true politeness, where a man might succeed by his merit, there would be some encouragement. But now, when party and prejudice carry all before them; when learning is decried, wit not understood; when the theatres are puppet-shows, and the comedians ballad-singers; when fools lead the town, would a man think to thrive by his wit? If you must write, write nonsense, write operas, write Hurlothrumbos, set up an oratory and preach nonsense, and you may meet with encouragement enough. Be profane, be scurrilous, be immodest: if you would receive applause, deserve to receive sentence at the Old Bailey; and if you would ride in a coach, deserve to ride in a cart.

       Luck. You are warm, my friend.

       Wit. It is because I am your friend. I cannot bear to hear the man I love ridiculed by fools – by idiots. To hear a fellow who, had he been born a Chinese, had starved for want of genius to have been even the lowest mechanick, toss up his empty noddle with an affected disdain of what he has not understood; and women abusing what they have neither seen nor heard, from an unreasonable prejudice to an honest fellow whom they have not known. If thou wilt write against all these reasons get a patron, be pimp to some worthless man of quality, write panegyricks on him, flatter him with as many virtues as he has vices. Then, perhaps, you will engage his lordship, his lordship engages the town on your side, and then write till your arms ake, sense or nonsense, it will all go down.

       Luck. Thou art too satirical on mankind. It is possible to thrive in the world by justifiable means.

       Wit. Ay, justifiable, and so they are justifiable by custom. What does the soldier or physician thrive by but slaughter? – the lawyer but by quarrels? – the courtier but by taxes? – the poet but by flattery? I know none that thrive by profiting mankind, but the husbandman and the merchant: the one gives you the fruit of your own soil, the other brings you those from abroad; and yet these are represented as mean and mechanical, and the others as honourable and glorious.

       Luck. Well; but prithee leave railing, and tell me what you would advise me to do.

       Wit. Do! why thou art a vigorous young fellow, and there are rich widows in town.

       Luck. But I am already engaged.

       Wit. Why don't you marry then – for I suppose you are not mad enough to have any engagement with a poor mistress?

       Luck. Even so, faith; and so heartily that I would not change her for the widow of a Croesus.

       Wit. Now thou art undone, indeed. Matrimony clenches ruin beyond retrieval. What unfortunate stars wert thou born under? Was it not enough to follow those nine ragged jades the muses, but you must fasten on some earth-born mistress as poor as them?

       Mar. jun. [within]. Order my chairman to call on me at St James's. – No, let them stay.

       Wit. Heyday, whom the devil have we here?

       Luck. The young captain, sir; no less a person, I assure you.

      SCENE VI. – LUCKLESS, WITMORE, MARPLAY, jun

       Mar. jun. Mr Luckless, I kiss your hands – Sir, I am your most obedient humble servant; you see, Mr Luckless, what power you have over me. I attend your commands, though several persons of quality have staid at court for me above this hour.

       Luck. I am obliged to you – I have a tragedy for your house, Mr Marplay.

       Mar. jun. Ha! if you will send it to me, I will give you my opinion of it; and if I can make any alterations in it that will be for its advantage, I will do it freely.

       Wit. Alterations, sir?

       Mar. jun. Yes, sir, alterations – I will maintain it. Let a play be never so good, without alteration it will do nothing.

       Wit. Very odd indeed!

       Mar. jun. Did you ever write, sir?

       Wit. No, sir, I thank Heaven.

       Mar. jun. Oh! your humble servant – your very humble servant, sir. When you write yourself, you will find the necessity of alterations. Why, sir, would you guess that I had altered Shakspeare?

       Wit. Yes, faith, sir, no one sooner.

       Mar. jun. Alack-a-day! Was you to see the plays when they are brought to us – a parcel of crude undigested stuff. We are the persons, sir, who lick them into form – that mould them into shape. The poet make the play indeed! the colourman might be as well said to make the picture, or the weaver the coat. My father and I, sir, are a couple of poetical tailors. When a play is brought us, we consider it as a tailor does his coat: we cut it, sir – we cut it; and let me tell you we have the exact measure of the town; we know how to fit their taste. The poets, between you and me, СКАЧАТЬ