



Produced by Oliver Walden





THE FEMALE GAMESTER

A TRAGEDY


By Gorges Edmond Howard


  Et quando uberior vitiorum copia? quando
  Major avaritiae patuit sinus? alea quando
  Hos animos? neq; enim loculis comitantibus itur,
  Ad casum tabulae, posita sed luditur arca.
                                     Juv. Sat. I.

  Sure none in crimes could erst beyond us go!
  None such a lust for sordid avarice show!
  Was e'er the Die so worn in ages past?
  Purses, nay Chests, are now stak'd on a cast.



  To the
  Countess of Charlemont,
  the Lady Viscountess Southwell,
  and Lady Lifford.


As the example of Persons of rank and quality, must ever have
a powerful influence upon all others in society, and as I know
none among the many eminently virtuous characters of your sex,
(for which this kingdom is above all others distinguished) with
whom I have the honour of being acquainted, more conspicuous
than your Ladyships, for excellence of conduct in every female
department in life, I, therefore, thus presume in taking the
liberty of presenting the following DRAMATIC ESSAY to your
patronage, and am, with the highest respect,

    Your Ladyships'

    Most obedient servant, &c.
    The Author.




To the Reader.


I have always been of the same opinion with the Author of
the Preface to the translation of Brumoy's Greek Theatre;
in which, speaking of Tragedy, he hath expressed himself
in the following lines: "In England, the subject is frequently
too much exalted, and the Scenes are too often laid too high.
We deal almost solely in the fate of Kings and Princes, as if
misfortunes were chiefly peculiar to the great.  But our Poets
might consider, that we feel not so intensely the sorrows of
higher powers, as we feel the miseries of those who are nearer
upon a level with ourselves.  The revolution and fall of empires
affect us less, than the distresses of a private family.  Homer
himself had wandered like Ulysses, and although by the force
of imagination he so nobly described the din of battle, and
the echoing contests of fiery princes, yet his heart still
sensibly felt the indigence of the wandering Ithacan, and
the contemptuous treatment shewn to the beggar, whose soul
and genius deserved a better fate."

This having confirmed me in my opinion, I set about the following
dramatic attempt upon that horrid vice of Gaming, of all others
the most pernicious to society, and growing every day more and
more predominant amongst all ranks of people, so that even the
examples of a Prince, and Princess, pious, virtuous, and every way
excellent, as ever a people were blessed with, contrary to the
well-known axiom,

  Regis ad exemplum totus componitur orbis,
  have had but small effect.


I finished it, part in prose, and part in blank verse, in about six
weeks, and having shewn it to several of my literary acquaintance,
the far greater part were of opinion, that it should be entirely
one, or the other; but, as the scene was laid in private life, and
chiefly among those of middling rank, it ought to be entirely prose;
and that, not much exalted; and accordingly, with no small labour,
I turned it all into prose.  But in some short time after, having
communicated this to Dr. Samuel Johnson, his words (as well as I
remember) were, "That he could hardly consider a prose Tragedy as
dramatic; that it was difficult for the Performers to speak it;
that let it be either in the middling or in low life, it may,
though in metre and spirited, be properly familiar and colloquial;
that, many in the middling rank are not without erudition;
that they have the feelings and sensations of nature, and every
emotion in consequence thereof, as well as the great, and that
even the lowest, when impassioned, raise their language; that
the writing of prose is generally the plea and excuse of poverty
of Genius."  And some others being of the same opinion, I have
now chang'd it all into metre.


  Fired is the Muse! and let the Muse be fired.
  Who's not inflam'd, when what he speaks he feels?
                                             Young.


The introduction by the moderns of confidents, those friends
in Tragedy, to whom the chief personages discover their secrets
and situation, has been also objected to by critics.  The discovery
is indeed purposely made to the audience, and supplies the want of
a chorus.  But to speak in Monsieur Brumos's own stile: "If Homer,
in his Epic poem, found a Patroclus necessary to his Achilles, and
Virgil an Achates to Aeneas, such examples may well justify the
Dramatic Poets in calling in the assistance of associates, who
generally appear of more use than ornament to the piece."  Besides,
were it not for them, long and disgusting soliloquies must be
innumerable, especially if there be any plot in the piece of
either love, ambition, or conspiracy.  In short, as he again says,
"they are the mortar which forms the proper cement to fix the
corner stones of the building."

But I declare, that the avoiding on the one hand, a style too high,
as on the other, too mean and vulgar for the subject, or the persons
concerned therein, has been a talk far more difficult to me than
any of the best formed lines in either of my other Tragedies,
so that I tremble at the thought of the reception this may meet with;
and had it not been on account of the moral it inculcates, and the
solicitation of some of my friends, I never should have published it.




PROLOGUE,

By Mr. R. Lewis,

Author of the Candid Philosopher, &c. &c.


     The Muse prolific of a Vet'ran Bard
     Again brings forth;--but yet with labour hard.
     Nor is it strange, that such a Muse feels pain,
     When her child starts, like Pallas, from the brain,
     Arm'd at all points; when bold, she dares engage,
     With Truth's bright arms, the monsters of the age;
     When with just aim she points keen Satire's dart,
     And stabs the foul fiend GAMING to the heart.

     Yet has our Bard, to simple Nature true,
     Not brought up scenes of grandeur to your view;
     Not sought by magic arts to strike your eyes,
     Nor made the gods descend, or fiends arise:
     His plan is humble, and his fable plain,
     The town his scene, and artless is his strain:
     Yet in that strain some lambent sparks still glow
     Of that bright flame which shew'd Almeyda's woe,
     Which far-fam'd Tamor's Siege so well display'd,
     To fire each hero, and to charm each maid.

     Attend, ye Fair and Brave!--Our daring Bard
     Hopes in your smiles to meet his best reward.
     And you, ye Critics! if to censure bent,
     Think on this fact, and scorn the harsh intent;
     Our Bard would fain discordant things unite,
     As hard to reconcile as day and night:
     He strives within chaste Hymen's bands to draw
     The tuneful maids and sages of the law;
     Or, what's alike--nor think he means a joke--
     Melpomene to wed with old judge Coke.
     Yet still, if you'll not let his faults pass free,
     The Grecian rev'rence pay to sixty-three.




PERSONS OF THE DRAMA.


Men.

     ANDREWS, merchant and banker.
     WILSON,
     GOODWIN, merchants, his neighbours.
     Lord BELMOUR, an English peer.
     Lord WESTON, nephew to lord BELMOUR.
     JEFFERSON, first clerk and cashier to Mr. ANDREWS.
     THOMAS, steward to Mr. ANDREWS.


Women.

     Mrs. ANDREWS.
     Lady BELMOUR.
     CONSTANTIA, daughter to Mr. ANDREWS, by a former wife.
     LUCIA, her kinswoman.
     MARIA, waiting-woman to Mrs. ANDREWS, and wife to THOMAS.


Attendants and other servants, bailiffs, &c.


Scene, London.





THE FEMALE GAMSTER.




ACT I.



     SCENE I.

     Mr. ANDREWS's house.

     Enter MARIA and THOMAS.

     MARIA.  But why these moping, melancholy looks?
     Each eye observes and marks them now unseemly,
     Whilst every countenance but your's speaks joy,
     At the near wedding of our master's daughter.
     Sure none so well deserv'd this noble prize:
     And young lord Weston will be bless'd indeed.

     THOMAS.  It has been countermanded.

     MARIA.      What again?
     This is the second time.  What can this mean?
     Then, his unusual absence, now a month,
     Nor any cause assign'd.

     THOMAS.      Some accident.
     I know a truer flame was ne'er profess'd:
     A fondness which commenced in his apprenticeship,
     Here in this house, then but the late lord's nephew,
     Nor next in heirship to estate or title.

     MARIA.  And sure all must approve his well-judg'd choice!
     In charms and virtues there are none surpass her.

     THOMAS.  Heav'n grant my fears are groundless! but, Maria,
     To think on what of late I daily see,
     Afflicts my soul.

     MARIA.      What is't your fears suggest?

     THOMAS.  A wasted fortune and a sinking credit,
     With the near ruin of this worthy family;
     The thought materially concerns us both.

     MARIA.  But, why again, should we distress ourselves
     For that we cannot help?

     THOMAS.      Ungenerous thought!
     Duty and love and gratitude demand it.
     'Twas here we met each other; here we wedded,
     And ever have receiv'd the kindest treatment.
     But what disturbs me most--I have been privy
     To matters which I should not have conceal'd
     From our good friend her father.

     MARIA.      Think not of it.
     It is not possible to save them now.

     THOMAS.  Would in his second marriage he had met
     With one more suited to his years and rank!

     MARIA.  But are not all things for the better alter'd?
     Our house fill'd often with the best of company?

     THOMAS.  The best saidst thou?  O! no, the worst of all,
     A shameless crew of fashionable pillagers;
     So that this bank house, by their nightly riot,
     Might rather seem a rake-frequented tavern;
     And ruin is their sport.  Is not each servant
     A worn-out victim to those midnight revels,
     Without a sabbath's rest?  (For in these times,
     All sanctity is scoff'd at by the great,
     And heaven's just wrath defy'd.)  An honest master,
     Scarcely a month beyond his fiftieth year,
     (Heart-rent with trouble at these sad proceedings,)
     Wears to the eye a visage of fourscore:
     Nor to be wondered at.

     MARIA.      You dream too much.

     THOMAS.  O! it is seen by all.  Oft through his groves,
     With folded arms and downcast looks he saunters,
     Ev'n'midst the dank inclemency of night.

     MARIA.  You're too severe, too scrupulous; why, man,
     My mistress is a perfect saint, compar'd
     With some of those I formerly have serv'd.

     THOMAS.  Her conduct has of late been foully censur'd.
     But I've disclos'd the whole to our kind neighbours
     Wilson and Goodwin, his most faithful friends--

     MARIA.  For which ten thousand blisters scald your tongue!  [Aside]

     THOMAS.  Who are resolv'd (the task howe'er ungrateful)
     Quickly to lay his desp'rate state before him.

     MARIA.  But pray, why should not we as well as others,
     Avail ourselves of something, whilst all's going?

     THOMAS.  Think'st thou to tempt me by a thought so vile?
     No; I defy ev'n Envy's cankering tongue
     To brand me with the name of faithless steward
     Still steady to my trust, nor love, nor fear,
     Shall reason from my soul, its inbred honesty.
     What then would be the transport of the thought,
     That I, from wreck had sav'd this shatter'd bark,
     Though poverty and want were my reward!

     MARIA.  I see you are as obstinate as usual,
     And still persist in your old-fashion'd ravings.
     Does not experience daily prove that wealth
     Alone gives honour; poverty disgrace?

     THOMAS.  All this concerns this transient world alone;
     Nor is it worth a single moment's thought.
     A slender pittance, earn'd by honest industry,
     Surpasses mines of wealth acquir'd by fraud.

     MARIA.  It cannot sure be wrong to make reprisals!
     Hath she not got in loan from us our earnings
     From time to time, nor heeds our pressing calls?

     THOMAS.  Ay, as she wastes the honest tradesman's dues,
     Which from her husband she receives to pay.
     But would her crime be an excuse for ours?
     Were that the rule, 'twould be a desp'rate world.

     MARIA.  'Tis not a wonder he should be distress'd.
     Six months are scarcely past since one cashier,
     In whom you know he plac'd the highest confidence,
     Absconded with some thousands.

     THOMAS.  So 'tis said,  [Bell rings]
     But time will quickly shew the truth of all.

     MARIA.  Heard you the bell? 'tis he, just come to town.

     THOMAS.  And well he came so late, or he had met
     On their retreat, that group of restless rioters,
     Who day and night pursue this misled woman.  [Bell rings again.]
     It is the bell again.  I am resolv'd
     To speak my fears, receive them as he may.

     MARIA.  Prithee, forbear till you revolve it further.  [He, goes off]
     Doubtless she's daily plunging into ruin
     The poor infatuated man her husband,
     Whom fondness hath made blind to her misconduct.
     But I must hear what passes at this meeting;
     Wherefore, I'll to the closet next the chamber,
     Where usually they meet for private conference.  [She goes off.]



     SCENE II.

     Another room in Mr. ANDREWS's house.

     Mr. ANDREWS and THOMAS.

     ANDREWS.  What strange disorder runs thro' all this house!
     It seems more like a place of midnight revelling,
     Than habitation of a sober family,
     And every servant in it looks a spectre.

       [A servant delivers Mr. ANDREWS a letter, which he reads;
       servant retires.]

       "This from your late unfortunate cashier, serves
       to inform you that he never wrong'd you; 'tis true,
       he was deficient much when he departed, yet, by
       that Power to whom all thoughts lie open! he knows
       not how it happened; but, if the present rumours
       are not false, your greatest foe is nearest to
       your heart."

     Such secret notices of late are frequent.
     When was this letter brought?

     THOMAS.      'Twas left last night.

     ANDREWS.  Is my wife up?

     THOMAS.      She's not long gone to rest.

     ANDREWS.  Too much her practised course.  Unthinking woman!
     Thus she precipitates our common ruin.  [Aside.]
     Did not you tell me that my neighbour Wilson
     Had been enquiring for me here to-day?

     THOMAS.  He was three times, and now I hear his voice.

     ANDREWS.  'Tis opportune; return when he departs.  [THOMAS goes off]

       Enter WILSON.

     Welcome! thrice welcome! truest, best of friends.

     WILSON.  I hope 'twill speedily be in my power,
     As 'tis my wish sincere, to give you joy
     On the most happy marriage of your daughter.

     Andrew.  A thousand thanks! 'twas to have been to morrow,
     But is postponed a while.

     WILSON.      There is no prize,
     Wealthy, or noble, which she doth not merit.

     ANDREWS.  Again I thank my friend; but tell me wherefore,
     We meet not now as we were wont? time was
     When scarce a single day knew us asunder;
     Of late we're so for weeks.

     WILSON.  Where lies the blame?
     You then were us'd to join your happy friends,
     In all their harmony and mirthful innocence;
     But you and yours have quite estrang'd yourselves,
     Scorning to mingle in our humble circles.

     ANDREWS.  And is this mode of life to us peculiar?
     The tide of fashion, in these days of riot,
     Sweeps all before it that its torrent meets.

     WILSON.  To our eternal shame!--All sense is fled,
     And ev'ry social pleasure with their virtues.
     Nor boast we more that wholesome plain economy
     Which made our ancestors so justly fam'd
     For honestly, and every gen'rous deed;
     But in its stead a splendid, wasteful vanity
     (Regardless of the toiler's hard-earn'd claims,)
     Pervades each rank, and all distinction levels:
     Too sure fore-runners of the loss of freedom.

     ANDREWS.  Your picture is as just as it is gloomy.
     But you can firmly stem th' infection's