The Works of Henry Fielding Part 42

_Q. Ign. To ease your subjects from that dire oppression They groan beneath, which longer to support Unable, they invited my redress.

_Q. C. S_. And can my subjects then complain of wrong?

Base and ungrateful! what is their complaint?

_Q. Ign_. They say you do impose a tax of thought Upon their minds, which they're too weak to bear.

_Q. C. S_. Wouldst thou from thinking then absolve mankind?

_Q. Ign_. I would, for thinking only makes men wretched; And happiness is still the lot of fools.

Why should a wise man wish to think, when thought Still hurts his pride; in spite of all his art, Malicious fortune, by a lucky train Of accidents, shall still defeat his schemes, And set the greatest blunderer above him.

_Q. C. S_. Urgest thou that against me, which thyself Has been the wicked cause of? Which thy power, Thy artifice, thy favourites have done?

Could Common Sense bear universal sway, No fool could ever possibly be great.

_Q. Ign_. What is this folly, which you try to paint In colours so detestable and black?

Is't not the general gift of fate to men?

And though some few may boast superior sense, Are they not call'd odd fellows by the rest?

In any science, if this sense peep forth, Shew men the truth, and strive to turn their steps From ways wherein their gross forefathers err'd, Is not the general cry against them straight?

_Sneer_. This Ignorance, Mr Fustian, seems to know a great deal.

_Fust_. Yes, sir, she knows what she has seen so often; but you find she mistakes the cause, and Common Sense can never beat it into her.

_Q. Ign_. Sense is the parent still of fear; the fox, Wise beast, who knows the treachery of men, Flies their society, and skulks in woods, While the poor goose, in happiness and ease, Fearless grows fat within its narrow coop, And thinks the hand that feeds it is its friend; Then yield thee, Common Sense, nor rashly dare Try a vain combat with superior force.

_Q. C. S_. Know, queen, I never will give up the cause Of all these followers: when at the head Of all these heroes I resign my right, May my curst name be blotted from the earth!

_Sneer_. Methinks, Common Sense, though, ought to give it up, when she has no more to defend it.

_Fust_. It does indeed look a little odd at present; but I'll get her an army strong enough against its acted. Come, go on.

_Q. Ign_. Then thus I hurl defiance at thy head.

Draw all your swords.

_Q. C. S_. And, gentlemen, draw yours.

_Q. Ign_. Fall on; have at thy heart.

[_A fight_

_Q. C. S_. And have at thine.

_Fust_. Oh, fie upon't, fie upon't! I never saw a worse battle in all my life upon any stage. Pray, gentlemen, come some of you over to the other side.

_Sneer_. These are Swiss soldiers, I perceive, Mr Fustian; they care not which side they fight of.

_Fust_. Now, begin again, if you please, and fight away; pray fight as if you were in earnest, gentlemen. [_They fight_.]

Oons, Mr Prompter! I fancy you hired these soldiers out of the trained bands--they are afraid to fight even in jest. [_They fight again_.] There, there--pretty well. I think, Mr Sneerwell, we have made a s.h.i.+ft to make out a good sort of a battle at last.

_Sneer_. Indeed I cannot say I ever saw a better.

_Fust_. You don't seem, Mr Sneerwell, to relish this battle greatly.

_Sneer_. I cannot profess myself the greatest admirer of this part of tragedy; and I own my imagination can better conceive the idea of a battle from a skilful relation of it than from such a representation; for my mind is not able to enlarge the stage into a vast plain, nor multiply half a score into several thousands.

_Fust_. Oh; your humble servant! but if we write to please you and half a dozen others, who will pay the charges of the house? Sir, if the audience will be contented with a battle or two, instead of all the raree-fine shows exhibited to them in what they call entertainments----

_Sneer_. Pray, Mr Fustian, how came they to give the name of entertainments to their pantomimical farces?

_Fust_. Faith, sir, out of their peculiar modesty; intimating that after the audience had been tired with the dull works of Shakspeare, Jonson, Vanbrugh, and others, they are to be entertained with one of these pantomimes, of which the master of the playhouse, two or three painters, and half a score dancing-masters are the compilers. What these entertainments are, I need not inform you, who have seen 'em; but I have often wondered how it was possible for any creature of human understanding, after having been diverted for three hours with the production of a great genius, to sit for three more and see a set of people running about the stage after one another, without speaking one syllable, and playing several juggling tricks, which are done at Fawks's after a much better manner; and for this, sir, the town does not only pay additional prices, but loses several fine parts of its best authors, which are cut out to make room for the said farces.

_Sneer_. 'Tis very true; and I have heard a hundred say the same thing, who never failed being present at them.

_Fust_. And while that happens, they will force any entertainment upon the town they please, in spite of its teeth. [_Ghost of_ COMMON SENSE _rises_.] Oons, and the devil, madam! what's the meaning of this? You have left out a scene. Was ever such an absurdity as for your ghost to appear before you are killed.

_Q. C. S_. I ask pardon, sir; in the hurry of the battle I forgot to come and kill myself.

_Fust_. Well, let me wipe the flour off your face then. And now, if you please, rehea.r.s.e the scene; take care you don't make this mistake any more though, for it would inevitably d.a.m.n the play if you should. Go to the corner of the scene, and come in as if you had lost the battle.

_Q. C. S_. Behold the ghost of Common Sense appears.

_Fust_. 'Sdeath, madam, I tell you you are no ghost--you are not killed.

_Q. C. S_. Deserted and forlorn, where shall I fly.

The battle's lost, and so are all my friends.

_Enter a_ Poet.

_Poet_. Madam, not so; still you have one friend left.

_Q. C. S_. Why, what art thou?

_Poet_. Madam, I am a poet.

_Q. C. S_. Whoe'er thou art, if thou'rt a friend to misery, Know Common Sense disclaims thee.

_Poet_. I have been d.a.m.n'd Because I was your foe, and yet I still Courted your friends.h.i.+p with my utmost art.

_Q. C. S_. Fool! thou wert d.a.m.n'd because thou didst pretend Thyself my friend; for hadst thou boldly dared, Like Hurlothrumbo, to deny me quite, Or, like an opera or pantomime, Profess'd the cause of Ignorance in publick, Thou might'st have met with thy desired success; But men can't bear even a pretence to me.

_Poet_. Then take a ticket for my benefit night.

_Q. C. S_. I will do more--for Common Sense will stay Quite from your house, so may you not be d.a.m.n'd.

_Poet_. Ha! say'st thou? By my soul, a better play Ne'er came upon a stage; but, since you dare Contemn me thus, I'll dedicate my play To Ignorance, and call her Common Sense: Yes, I will dress her in your pomp, and swear That Ignorance knows more than all the world. [_Exit_.