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Now, madam, good as this moral is, I should rather, in generosity, have had it recommended from any mouth than that of Andromache: For what is the consolation she receives? What are the expedients she so much rejoices in? Why, in the first place, the murder of a prince who loved her more than his own glory, and to whom she had just given her faith, as a second husband, though forced to it, from a laudable motive: and next the self-murder of Hermione, the distraction of Orestes, and the prospect of succeeding with her son to the throne of the murdered prince; from which, however, she could not expect but to be driven, and her son at last to be destroyed, by those vengeful confederates who had joined by a solemn embassy to demand his life, and who now, by his elevation, had stronger reasons to apprehend danger from him, and less difficulty to effect his ruin, since Pyrrhus was no more.

But judge, my dear lady, what, after the play was over, I must think of the epilogue, and indeed of that part of the audience which called out for it.

An epilogue spoken by Mrs. Oldfield in the character of Andromache, that was more shocking to me than the most terrible parts of the play; as, by lewd and even senseless double-entendre, it could be calculated only to efface all the tender, all the virtuous sentiments, which the tragedy was designed to raise.

The pleasure this was received with by the men was equally barbarous and insulting; every one turning himself to the boxes, pit, and galleries, where ladies were, to see how they looked, and how they stood an emphatical and too well pronounced ridicule, not only upon the play in general, but upon the part of Andromache in particular, which had been so well sustained by an excellent actress; and I was extremely mortified to see my favourite (and the only perfect) character debased and despoiled, and the widow of Hector, prince of Troy, talking nastiness to an audience, and setting it out with all the wicked graces of action, and affected archness of look, attitude, and emphasis.

I stood up-Dear sir!-Dear miss!-said I.

What's the matter, my love? said Mr. B—, smiling, who expected, as he told me afterwards, to see me moved by this vile epilogue-for it is always called for, it seems.

Why have I wept the distresses of the injured Hermione? whispered I: Why have I been moved by the murder of the brave Pyrrhus, and shocked by the madness of Orestes? Is it for this? See you not Hector's widow, the noble Andromache, inverting the design of the whole play, satirising her own sex, but indeed most of all ridiculing and shaming, in my mind, that part of the audience who have called for this vile epilogue, and those who can be delighted with it, after such scenes of horror and distress?

He was pleased to say, smiling, I expected, my dear, that your delicacy and Miss Darnford's too, would be shocked on this preposterous occasion. I never saw this play, rake as I was, but the impropriety of the epilogue sent me away dissatisfied with it, and with human nature too: and you only see, by this one instance, what a character that of an actor or actress is, and how capable they are to personate anything for a sorry subsistence.

Well, but, sir, said I, are there not, think you, extravagant scenes and characters enough in most plays to justify the censures of the virtuous upon them, that the wicked friend of the author must crown the work in an epilogue, for fear the audience should go away improved by the representation? It is not, I see, always narrowness of spirit, as I have heard some say, that opens the mouths of good people against these diversions.

In this wild way talked I; for I was quite out of patience at this unnatural and unexpected piece of ridicule, tacked to so serious a play, and coming after such a moral.

Here is a specimen, my dear lady, of my observations on the first play I saw. How just, or how impertinent, I must leave to your better judgment. I very probably expose my own ignorance and folly in them; but I will not say, presumption, because you have put me upon the task, which otherwise I should hardly have attempted. I have very little reason, therefore, to blame myself on this

score; but, on the contrary (if I can escape your ladyship's censure), I have cause to pride myself in the opportunity you have thereby given me to show my readiness to obey you; and the rather, since I am sure of your kindest indulgence, now you have given me leave to style myself Your ladyship's obliged sister,

And humble servant,

P. B

LETTER LIV.

Mrs. B to Lady Davers.

MY DEAR LADY,-I gave you, in my last, my bold remarks upon a tragedy-The Distressed Mother. I will now give you my shallow notions of a comedy-The Tender Husband.

I liked this part of the title; though I can't say I was pleased at all with the other, explanatory of it; or,-The Accomplished Fools. But when I was told it was written. by Sir Richard Steele, and that Mr. Addison had given some hints towards it, if not some characters, Oh dear sir! said I, give us your company to this play; for the authors. of the Spectators' cannot possibly produce a faulty scene. Mr. B indeed smiled; for I had not then read the play: and the Earl of F―, his countess, Miss Darnford, Mr. B——, and myself, agreed to meet with a niece of my lord's in the stage box, which was taken on purpose.

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There seems to me, my dear lady, to be a great deal of wit and satire in the play: But, upon my word, I was grievously disappointed as to the morality of it: nor, in some places, is probability preserved; and there are divers speeches so very free, that I could not have expected to meet with such, from the names I mentioned.

I should be afraid of being censured for my presumption,

were I to write to anybody less indulgent to me than your ladyship. But I will make no apologies to you, madam.— Let me see, then; can I give you the brief history of this Comedy, as I did of the Tragedy?—I profess I hardly know whether I can or not; at least, whether I should or not.But I'll try.

The tender husband, Mr. Clerimont, has for his wife a lady who has travelled, and is far gone in all the French fashions: She brought me,' says he, a noble fortune; ' and I thought she had a right to share it; therefore 'carried her to see the world, forsooth, and make the tour of France and Italy, where she learned to lose her money gracefully, to admire every vanity in our sex, and contemn every virtue in her own; which, with ten thou'sand other perfections, are the ordinary improvements of ' a travelled lady.'

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Tender as the husband was to be supposed to the wife, which, by the way, is not extremely apparent, in proper or right instances of tenderness, I presume to think he shows no great politeness to the sex in general in this speech; and the poet will be the less excusable for it, if he has not drawn a general character of travelled ladies; and much less still, if it shall appear, that that of Mrs. Clerimont, on which this general reflection is founded, is carried beyond nature and probability too.

But what is the method the tender husband takes to reclaim the lady?-Why this: he sets a former mistress of his own to work, in man's clothes, to insnare her: and thus he declares himself:-' Now I can neither mortify her ' vanity, that I may live at ease with her, nor quite discard 'her, till I have catched her a little enlarging her innocent 'freedoms, as she calls them. For this end I am content 'to be a French husband, though, now and then, with the secret pangs of an Italian one; and therefore, sir, or 'madam' (to his mistress Lucy, under the name of Mr. Fainlove, in the dress of a young coxcomb), you are thus ' equipped to attend and accost her ladyship.' A speech unnecessary to Fainlove, who was dressed before for that

purpose, and had actually won money, in that character, of Mrs. Clerimont. But the poet had no other way to let the audience know it, as it should seem-' It concerns you,' continues he, to be diligent: if we (i.e., himself and his 'lady) wholly part―I need say no more: if we do not—I'll 'see thee well provided for.

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Here's a fine moral scene opened, my lady, with regard to Mr. Clerimont, his lady, and his kept mistress! Mr. Fainlove, alias Mrs. Lucy, undertakes the task, in hopes to live with Mr. Clerimont, in case of a divorce from his wife; or to be provided for, in case the plot does not succeed; which makes it apparent, that, to say nothing of his morality, poor Lucy had not met with a generous man in Mr. Clerimont; since, after the forfeiture of her honour, she was still to do a more infamous job, if possible, to procure for herself a provision from him.

Then Mr. Clerimont proceeds to instruct the new-made man how to behave like a coxcomb, in order to engage his lady's attention, and to join in all her foibles, till she can furnish him with an opportunity to detect them in such a way, as shall give a pretence for a divorce (a hint that has been scandalously improved, and made more fashionable, since this play was written); and this he does in such free language and action, as must disgust any modest person of either sex.

Then the poet causes this faithful mistress, in order to make her character shine above that of the wife, and indeed above his own likewise, to present her employer with bills for five hundred pounds, which she tells him she won of his wife the preceding night; and makes up two thousand pounds which, Mr. Clerimont says, this unprovidedfor mistress of his has won from his lady, and honestly given him; or else he could not, he owns, have supplied her gaming losses. And Lucy declares, she will gain him for ever from his lady, if she can: Yet, you'll see by and by, that it is not love to his particular person, more than any other, that is Lucy's inducement: of course, then, it must be wickedness for wickedness' sake.

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