Wild Oats Part 1

Wild Oats.

by John O'Keeffe.

REMARKS.

With a double respect for talents, and for misfortune, these remarks are begun.

The present comedy is written by O'Keeffe, who saw not the traces of his pen as he marked the paper; whose days pa.s.s away, uncheered by the sun or any visible object; but whose mind supports with resignation his bitter calamity, and is enlightened by imagination, whilst his eyes are shut in utter darkness.

Were each close imitator of an author's style punishable by law, like the perpetrator of other wrongs, Mr. O'Keeffe might have been an independent, though not a happy man; for that source of a new kind of mirth, termed by some exquisite nonsense, of which he was the first discoverer, made the town so merry, that, like good wine, he might have sold it at any price; but this rich juice of hilarity, polluted by the false spirit of imitation, at length gave a stupor to those, whom the beverage had before revived; and the pure and the adulterated became distasteful together.

This comedy is the only attempt of the author to produce a drama above opera and farce. His productions, in the latter species of writing, are perfect compositions: nothing of the kind can be superior to his "Agreeable Surprise," and his "Son-in-Law." He has a number of other farces of little less attraction; such as "Peeping Tom."--Another cla.s.s after that, and each possessing infinite fancy, whim, and novelty.

Still success did not follow all his productions: a few years past he wrote very frequently, and sometimes too hastily.

On the first night of representing any of those whimsical dramas, amidst loud peals of laughter at the comic dialogue or incidents, there was generally a most affecting spectacle behind the curtain.

O'Keeffe, stone-blind, (not an affliction of birth, but of late years) led by his little son, as a guide, down to the stage-door--to the lock of which he would anxiously place his ear to catch the quickest information how his work was received--and when, unhappily hisses from the audience would sound louder than applause--in strong agitation he would press his hands to each side of his head, as if he had yet one sense too much. Thus he would remain, without sight or hearing, till some unexpected sally of humour in his drama once more put the house in good temper, and they would begin to laugh and applaud;--on which, his son, rapid as lightning, would pull him by the elbow, and cry out, "Now, father, listen again."

"Wild Oats," would not disgrace an author of much higher pretensions in dramatic writing than Mr. O'Keeffe. There is great pleasantry throughout the play, many natural touches of simplicity, and some well-written dialogues and sentiments. The plot is interesting, the characters new, or at least in new situations, and the whole forms an evening's entertainment for an auditor of taste--such a one having at the same time in his memory, certain popular sentences from certain well-known comedies and tragedies: for without intimate acquaintance with all the quotations made use of by the hero of the piece, it must totally lose its effect, and this hero appear like a madman.

Perhaps, no comedy, on a first night, was ever more fortunate in a list of excellent comic actors to represent the characters.

Lewis, in Rover, fervid as usual, seemed so enamoured of his stage exploits, that every spectator forgave him his folly, for the bewitching ardour with which he pursued it.

In Ephraim, the quaker, the spirit moved Munden--as it always does--to act just as he should do.

Quick was on the London stage when this play was first performed, and though Sir George Thunder was by no means a part best suited to his abilities--yet Quick gave comic importance to all he undertook.

Mr. Thomas Blanchard, since dead, played the little part of Sim with wond'rous skill.

Mrs. Pope (once Miss Young) was excellent in Lady Amaranth.

And the silly Jane can never have so good a representative as Mrs.

Wells.

ACT THE FIRST.

SCENE I.

_A Parlour in_ LADY AMARANTH'S _House_.

_Enter_ JOHN DORY.

_John._ Fine cruizing this! without flip or biscuit! don't know who's the Governor of this here fort; but if he can victual us a few--how hollow my bread room sounds! [_Striking his sides._] I'm as empty as a stoved keg, and as tired as an old Dutchman--my obstinate master, Sir George, to tow my old hulk--aboard the house, ha, hoy!

_Sir Geo._ [_Without._] John! John Dory!

_John._ [_Sits._] I'm at anchor.

_Enter_ SIR GEORGE THUNDER.

_Sir Geo._ I don't know who's house we've got into here, John; but I think, when he knows me, we may hope for some refreshment--Eh!

[_Looking at_ JOHN.] was not I your captain?

_John._ Yes; and I was your boatswain. And what of all that?

_Sir Geo._ Then how dare you sit in my presence, you bluff head?

_John._ Why, for the matter of that, I don't mind; but had I been your captain, and you my boatswain, the man, that stood by me at sea, should be welcome to sit before me at land.

_Sir Geo._ That's true, my dear John; offer to stand up, and, damme, if I don't knock you down--zounds! I am as dry as a powder match--to sail at the rate of ten knots an hour, over fallow and stubble, from my own house, but half a league on this side of Gosport, and not catch these deserters!

_John._ In this here chase you wanted the ballast of wisdom.

_Sir Geo._ How, sirrah! hasn't my dear old friend, d.i.c.k Broadside, got the command of the s.h.i.+p I so often fought myself--to man it for him with expedition, didn't I (out of my own pocket) offer two guineas over the king's bounty to every seaman that would enter on board her?

Hav'n't these three scoundrels fingered the shot, then ran, and didn't I do right to run after them? d.a.m.n the money! I no more mind that than a piece of clinker; but 'twas the pride of my heart to see my beloved s.h.i.+p (the Eagle) well mann'd, when my old friend is the commander.

_John._ But since you've laid yourself up in ordinary, retired to live in quiet, on your estate, and had done with all sea affairs--

_Sir Geo._ John, John, a man should forget his own convenience for his country's good.--Though Broadside's letter said these fellows were lurking about this part of Hamps.h.i.+re, yet still it's all hide and seek.

_John._ Your ill luck.

_Sir Geo._ Mine, you swab?

_John._ Ay, you've money and gold; but grace and good fortune have shook hands with you these nineteen years, for that rogue's trick you play'd poor Miss Amelia, by deceiving her with a sham marriage, when you pa.s.sed yourself for Captain Seymour, and then putting off to sea, leaving her to break her poor heart, and since marrying another lady.

_Sir Geo._ Wasn't I forc'd to it by my father?

_John._--Ay; because she had a great fortin, her death too was a judgment upon you.

_Sir Geo._ Why, you impudent dog-fis.h.!.+--upbraid me for running into false bay, when you were my pilot? Wasn't it you, even brought me the false clergyman that performed the sham marriage with Amelia?

_John._ Yes, you think so; but I took care to bring you a real clergyman.

_Sir Geo._ But is this a time or place for your lectures? At home, abroad, sea, or land, you will still badger me! mention my Wild Oats again and--you scoundrel, since the night my bedcurtains took fire, when you were my boatswain aboard the Eagle, you've got me quite into leading strings--you s.n.a.t.c.hed me upon deck, and tossed me into the sea,--to save me from being burnt, I was almost drowned.

_John._ You would but for me--

_Sir Geo._ Yes, you dragged me out by the ear, like a waterdog--last week, 'cause you found the tenth bottle uncorked, you rushed in among my friends, and ran away with me; and, next morning Captain O'Shanaghan sends me a challenge for quitting the company, when he was in the chair! so, to save me from a headach, you'd like to've got my brains blown out.