The date of this fragment, which Nichols named The Gentleman, is uncertain; it was first printed in 1809, together with The School for Scandal. The autograph MS. is in the British Museum (Add. MS. 5145c). Steele had written of high life below stairs in the Spectator (No. 88), where he says that menservants "are but in a lower degree what their masters themselves are; and usually affect an imitation of their manners: And you have in liveries, beaux, fops, and coxcombs, in as high perfection as among people that keep equipages. It is a common humour among the retinue of people of quality when they are in their revels, that is when they are out of their master's sight, to assume in a humorous way the names and titles of those whose liveries they wear." He then describes their behaviour at an ordinary at Westminster, where he "heard the maid come down and tell the landlady at the bar that my Lord Bishop swore he would throw her out at window if she did not bring up more mild beer, and that my Lord Dick would have a double mug of purl." When news arrived that the House of Lords was rising, "down came all the company together, and away!" Servants were wont to congregate at the entrance to Hyde Park, while the gentry were at the Ring. "There are men of wit in all conditions of life; and mixing with those people at their diversions, I have heard coquets and prudes as well rallied, and insolence and pride exposed (allowing for their want of education), with as much humour and good sense as in the politest companies." (See page 281.)

THE GENTLEMAN.

Enter Tom Dimple and Sir Harry Severn.

Tom. I'll serve you very faithfully in this particular, since you have a curiosity to pry into the affairs of us poor servants.

Sir Har. I think you are happier than we masters. But how do you contrive it, to be at a ball and masquerade of your own, all the time we are at ours, and yet be in readiness to attend when we break up or want you?

Tom. Sir, we leave sentries at all the places where you come out. All of us cannot expect to be at the diversion every night; but the forty or fifty who are to stay about the playhouse, or the person of quality's who entertains, send frequent expresses to us. Besides, I own to you, sir, that we find means to have tickets of our own, and can send in among you, by the help of them, when we please, and have warning enough of your motions. If we are a little too tardy, the coachmen can, when they think it convenient, make stops so as no one can stir, and keep everything in a ferment till all troops are come together.

Sir Har. You put me in mind of a great many things that have been till now unaccountable. Why, then, the sudden motion when we have been all locked fast, tearing and swearing, coachmen lashing, footmen bawling, and link-boys offering help to call chairs or coaches, and striving to lead or light you, is usually a hurry contrived and made up on purpose; and the sudden getting loose of one another, is only that the word is given, "all are come," "all is right"!

Tom. It is nothing else in the world.

Sir Har. But, then, how do you do for your habits and your music, and all the rest of the conveniences?

Tom. You have been so good and kind a master, that I'll hide nothing that may contribute to your diversion. We are in fee with the wardrobe keepers at the playhouses; and when the play is over, and all the parties concerned are disposed of, as you are at your diversions, the whole stock of clothes are in their hands; and they let them out for so many hours, and pack [them] up again with great order, and no harm done.

Sir Har. Well, well, now there is no mystery; there is nothing so easy, as all is safe without possibility of disappointment or surprise.—But as to what is to be done to-night——

Tom. This alehouse, where we all meet, is joining to a great house very well furnished; and the care of letting it is committed to our landlord. He has broken down a partition, which he can, in a day or two, make up again; and we have noble apartments for our entertainments, not inferior to those wherein our masters themselves are received.

Sir Har. You divert me extremely with this new scene of pleasure.

Tom. We shall be in our tip-top jollity to-night; all the lower world [will] be together in as much pleasure as ever the upper themselves enjoyed.

Sir Har. What have you extraordinary at this time more than any other?

Tom. Our landlord is giving up[142] his business, and marries his daughter, Mrs. Jenny, my Lady Dainty's chambermaid, to the favourite footman of Sir John Plover, who is a great leader among us, and will keep and increase the custom of the house. But the humour is, no one is to know which is the bridegroom; for none but the girl herself [knows] which of the company is Sir John.

Sir Har. How! Sir John?

Tom. I should have told you that we always call one another by the names of our masters; and you must not be surprised at hearing me answer to your honour's to all who call to me; for, as I am a manager, and to be barefaced, I cannot disguise that I am you.

Sir Har. It is no matter if they will take me as readily for your fellow-servant.

Tom. They'll never suspect you for my master.—But here comes my landlord.

Landlord. Come, Sir Harry, Sir Harry, 'tis past nine o'clock; the company is coming—they have put all in at the masquerade and the assemblies.

Tom. [Whispering Sir Harry.] As I am barefaced, you can come to me when you please, when you are at a loss.—But you see I must attend my charge.

Sir Har. I beg your pardon; I'll interrupt you no more; but if I like—you understand.

Tom. You know my skill and diligence, my good master; but adieu.—Landlord, you see the house fills; let all the waiters be ready; pipes, tobacco, bread, cheese and the like, for those who are in habits proper for such coarse fare. What! none of the stewards ready but myself?

Enter three others with wands, barefaced.

2nd Steward. Ay, ay, here we are—here we are.

3rd Steward. We stayed only till we saw some quality figures coming in.

2nd Steward. Look you, how we are overrun with nymphs and shepherds!—But look, look! there is some sense in those stalking things, which move like pageants, and are not of human shape.

1st Steward. Right, they cannot be out in their parts—there are no such things in nature—but patched-up beings, out of mere fancy and imagination.

3rd Steward. But have a care, ladies, shepherdesses, nymphs; run, run—Here, here is a dragon that devours virgins, as a pike does small fish.

2nd Steward. Have a care—here he comes, here he come—he eats all virgins without mercy, but will touch nobody else.

Several women's voices together.

Let him come, let him come.

An old withered Maid, crying out.

Old Maid. Have a care, have a care, have a care; let me get off, let me get off; oh me—oh me! [Running off.

Figure of St. George—Dicky, borne on a war-horse.

Dicky. Fear not, fair one, fear not. I am St. George, I'll save thee.

Dragon and St. George fight.

The crowd cry out. Ho-boy, St. George! Ho-boy, dragon!—there's the knight of the world.

1st Masquer. Hear, hear, the knight is going to speak. As he's stout, he's merciful. He is going to give the dragon his life—no, no, he's going to speak to him.

Constable. Hold, hold, sir knight; the dragon's my neighbour—he's a tailor in my neighbourhood.

2nd Masquer. Open the dragon; open the dragon; keep the peace; take out the tailor.

Lawyer Masquer. Take care what you do; take care what you do. If he is a denizen, the law is very severe.—Though there are nine to make up a man, by a fiction of law it is murder to kill any one of them: the law supposes him a whole man.

1st Steward. Ho! Mr. Fly-flap, Mr. Wardrobe-keeper, give the company an account of the knight and of his horse.

Wardrobe-keeper. This is the poet's horse that trod down all the persons who have been killed in tragedy ever since I came to the house. The gentleman that rides him has some verses about him, if he would speak them.

Many Masquers. Hear, hear!—Hear the verses!

St. George. On this bold steed, with this dead-doing arm,
Without art magic, help of draught or charm,
Crowds have I slain, and routed from the field,
Or made, as captives, to my mercy yield.
My horse and me none could escape by flying,
But saved their lives by well dissembled dying.

Cobbler Masquer. Very well, very well, i'faith. Look ye, look ye, gentlemen, I know the humour of that. I live just by in Vinegar Yard, and I know the humour of that. You must know he means by that—that by pretending to be dead, the men whom the valiant man in the play rides over, or cuts down, are carried [off] safe and sound. Why, I have been called in, when there has been a great battle in the house, to help to carry off the dead; and I have brought a man off dead over-night, and mended his shoes next morning.

4th Masquer. Ho, brave Crispin!—that's a good jest, i'faith.

Cobbler. But my wife said a very good thing upon that. "Look thee, Will," said she, for you must know my name is William, "we shall never make anything of this, if we are to wait for dead men's shoes."

4th Masquer. Ho-boy, Crispin! Thou art a merry rogue, Crispin!