Part 3

Sable (half recovered from his fright) soon was heard to utter these words.—My loved companion, and adopted son, indulge me a few minutes to recover my breath.—White with great tenderness, begged he would make no apology, for though he was exceeding anxious to know what had caused the fright he was in, he would not think of being gratified till he was perfectly recovered—after a few minutes pause the frighted veteran thus broke forth.—Where is the philosophy, the calm resignation, I fancied I could meet my last hour with? alas! I find I have learned nothing that is worth retaining, since I have not learned to bear the near approach of my dissolution without trembling; why should I wish to exist, or linger in this decayed and miserable state, when the momentary shock of death is succeeded by a total annihilation?—Here White interrupting him, begged to know the cause of such sad reflections. My son, returned Sable, bear with the infirmities of age; the frequency of contemplating on death, believe me, greatly lessens its terrors:—the danger is now over, and my fears are subsided—. Here Sable recounted his late adventure with the dealer in old cloaths,—which having concluded, he proceeded in the relation of the many and surprizing changes of fortune—(But here, reader, lest thou should imagine this digression from the chain of adventures as related by our Black Hero, is an artifice calculated to extend this work, and that no such interruption ever happened, but what was made by ourselves, on purpose to eke out this part of our performance, we do assure thee, that nothing but sacred truth obliged us to relate it, and which we shall at all times think ourselves bound in justice to do; therefore, courteous reader, if thou shouldst meet in the progress of this entertaining history, with instances of a similar nature, we advise thee not to pronounce them fiction; for were we inclined to enlarge this performance, the bare recital of numberless minutes, which we have and shall suppress, would extend it to volumes; and if thou will favour us with thy company to the end of this work, thou wilt find such little arts were needless, the sage’s narrative alone affording us ample matter for thy entertainment, and which thou may’st find faithfully recorded in the following pages—The sharper, resumed Sable, being arrived at the play-house, and going to the box-door, he overtook a company of ladies and gentlemen, who were going into the house, and stepping before them, ordered the box-keeper to open the door, saying the servant belonging to the company would pay for all—the box-keeper seeing the company behind, imagined our spark of the party, therefore without hesitation lets him in: as soon as he was within he posts himself in such a manner as to hear what passed at the box-door without being seen, the company being come up were surprized to find themselves charged with one more than they knew of, and disowning acquaintance with my adventurer, refused to pay for him; the box-keeper not having time to go in search of him then, ordered an under box-keeper to look sharp for him as he came out; our spark hearing this seemed very well satisfied—which was much more than I was—and after going from box to box, he at length seated himself in one of the corner green boxes, in which was only an old gentleman; but on the latter account our number was encreased by the addition of two ladies of the town, and two gentlemen—the sharper prudently sat as far back in the box as he could, to avoid being seen, I concluded.—The entertainment being ended, and the company preparing to depart, to my amazement, this bold adventurer seizes a red rocqueleau that was hung in the box, and was going to put it on—when the old gentleman told him, with great politeness, he fancied he had made a mistake, for the rocqueleau belonged to him.—The sharper, with astonishing effrontery, replyed, by your leave, Sir, ’tis you that mistake, for the rocqueleau is mine.—Your rocqueleau? returned the gentleman, indeed it is, replied this son of impudence. Sir, says the stranger, as you have the appearance of a gentleman, I cannot think you mean any thing more than a jest; but let me tell you, Sir, added he, I am not used to be treated so with impunity.—Sir, returned the sharper, it is not my custom to jest with men of your appearance, nor do I expect such treatment from you.—Why sure, says the gentleman, you will not pretend to persuade me seriously that this is not my rocqueleau? That this rocqueleau is mine, Sir, says my companion, I do aver, and will maintain my property,—adding this is the strangest piece of impudence that ever was practised.—Indeed, says the gentleman, so it is, if you pretend to say this is your rocqueleau, when I brought it in, and hung it up before you came.—The sharper alledged he brought it in, and hung it up on his coming in.—This strange dispute whose property the rocqueleau was, created much mirth in the ladies and gentlemen in the box, but created far different sensations in me, who saw no possibility of our hero’s maintaining his assertion with any credit, consequently there was little probability of my escaping a horse-pond, or some such dire mishap, especially as I saw the old gentleman begin to wax warm.—But to proceed,—the owner of the rocqueleau persisted in claiming it, and the sharper as strongly insisted on its being his—in conclusion, my ingenious companion asked him, if he could point out any mark or any thing whereby it might be determined by the company that it was his.—The gentleman replied, he knew of no mark upon it, for that it was never on his back before that afternoon, being quite new; upon that my gentleman exclaimed Amazement! that a man of your years should undertake to play the sharper with no other abilities than bare impudence.—Zounds, returned the strange gentleman, you are a sharper, and since you talk of marks, by what mark do you know it—let us see how you will prove it to be yours—make that appear, Sir, exulting and appealing to the company, who yet could not tell what to make of the affair, sometimes inclining one way, and sometimes another.—Why, Sir, says the impostor, I would have come to that at first, but that I was willing to see what ingenious device you would make use of to support your unjust pretensions; but as I see you take advantage of the coolness of my temper, and confidently think to bully me out of my property, I will submit to the company to determine whom the rocqueleau belongs to, and, continues he, I believe I shall put an end to the dispute very shortly to your confusion; and then turning to the company, told them if the rocqueleau was his there were two X’s marked in the inside near the bottom: the gentlemen looked and found two X’s mark’d in the place our ingenious sharper had directed.—The old gentleman stood petrified with amazement—but recovering himself, swore still the rocqueleau was his, but how those damned X’s came there he could not tell.—The rocqueleau being adjudged the property of our hero, he now put it on, telling the old gentleman, his age should protect him from punishment, and advised him to leave off a profession he seemed unable to succeed in. The gentleman knowing the rocqueleau was his, still urged strongly he brought it in with him, and that it was his.—The ladies now began to revile him,—whom he treated in very free terms; the gentlemen stood up for their doxies, and the loser of the rocqueleau had no friends, but abused every one in the box with being accomplices in robbing him; upon which the ladies fell upon him, and seizing his large powered wig, boxed him about the face with it till he was almost blind, and then flinging it into the pit, among the people who were gathered under the box with the noise that began to be made, the old gentleman’s full-bottom was soon disposed of as well as his rocqueleau.—Our adventurer took this opportunity to quit the box, and with the addition of the rocqueleau, and by timely using his handkerchief as he passed the box-keeper, went away without suspicion of being the person who bilked him on his coming in.—You will, no doubt wonder, says Sable, how this genius could come by the knowledge of the private marks upon the rocqueleau, and your wonder will be no less when I tell you that he himself put them there, whilst the old gentleman was engaged with the performance on the stage: for he, whose study it was to refine upon sharping, never wanted materials, in the various adventures he might meet with, consequently he was as expert with his needle in sewing the two X’s upon the rocqueleau, as a surgeon would be in using his lancet on a sudden emergency.—But to finish with this gentleman.—This last exploit being ended, he takes me through many alleys and dark passages; at length ascending a mean stair-case as high as he could, he gave the signal of admittance, and the door was opened, when there appeared to my sight, sitting round a table, four persons, one in the habit of a clergyman, another in the character of a farmer; a third was a laced beau, and the fourth an honest looking tradesman, and I observed every one had before him watches, rings, swords, snuff-boxes, purses with money, and other things of value, which I afterwards found were the several labours of the day, which had been gained by these honest looking gentlemen in the same capacity as my adventurer—but our ingenious spark producing the watch by Tompion, gold chain, rocqueleau, and an exceeding good hat instead of a bad one, he was deemed the most meritorious of the whole fraternity for that day. A division being made, and the several characters fixed for the succeeding day (when my companion was to assume the appearance of a country farmer) they all adjourned to a tavern, where they spent the evening in recounting the methods they had taken in acquiring the valuable collection I had seen upon the table; on leaving the tavern each took a separate road, my adventurer taking me to the place from whence we last came, and I understood the rendezvous of the next day was to be at the parson’s lodging, which I found they changed nightly.—In the morning early this industrious gentleman conducted me to my old habitation in Monmouth-Street, unhurt, after all the perils of the preceding day, to my great satisfaction, where after suffering the corroding brush, and racking press as usual, I was at liberty to indulge my reflections, and the last day’s expedition afforded me ample matter. Gods! exclaimed Sable, could I have credited that such things were really practised, had I not been a witness to them!

Is it not, says the sage adventurer to his gay companion, greatly to be lamented, that men of such excellent talents, should prostitute them to such hurtful purposes to the community, and reversing morality, industriously pursue evil, that they may boast of blemishes they should rather blush for; as he amongst these pillagers of society, is esteemed the most worthy who is the most wicked. But I will not, continued Sable, spend the precarious minutes in making reflections which your own perspicuity will furnish you with, but proceed in the detail of my next adventure.

I was next, continued Sable, ordered by a tall long visaged person to be tried upon him, and the Monmouth-Street merchant pronounced that if I had been cut out on purpose for him, I could not have fitted him better; on this I was engaged by him for the day. I soon discovered by some detached pieces of poetry in blank verse, and other papers of the like nature put into my pocket, that I was accompanying an author.—His wan and dead complexion made me at first imagine him to be a person confined to a sedentary life, but notwithstanding his unfavourable aspect, I could conceive strong marks of the gentleman, and likewise imagined him to be a scholar, though the rays of learning which beamed from his countenance, seemed to be clouded by misfortune and care.—But to proceed, three times did this son of Apollo attend the door of a certain great man, before he could gain admittance: the first time the servant said his master was dressing, the second time he was busy, and the third we were so fortunate as to be shewn into a small antechamber, with directions to sit down, and my comrade should be informed when he could speak with this very great man, whom, but for the situation of the house, I should have imagined was a prime minister: at last, after waiting above an hour, my companion was desired to walk into a parlour, where was sitting by the fire side, surrounded by half a dozen little kittens, an old man (gentleman I cannot with propriety term him). Without asking the gentleman to sit, he began,—Well, sir, what do you want with me? I wait upon you, sir, replied the author, in relation to a play I some time ago left in your hands.—How long since? says this well mannered gentleman. Fifteen months, Sir, replied the author—O, is that all, says he,—well, and pray, what is this extraordinary play of yours, continues he; a tragedy, I suppose? It is a tragedy, Sir, answered the author, still standing, (which gave me an opportunity of remarking a letter that lay upon the table directed to the manager of one of the theatres). What do you call it? says this important gentleman. It is called ——, replied the author,—and hope it has met with your approbation, continued he.—O, to be sure, says the sneering manager, without reading it.—I imagined, says the author, you would have been kind enough to have indulged me with a couple of hours out of fifteen months to have perused it, or if you did not intend to peruse it, you would have returned it me again. Ay, ay, says the manager; you shall have it again, take it away with you in God’s name—(looking among a parcel of papers) I don’t mean, Sir, returned the author, to take it from you unless you should reject it, after you have read it.—Why, Sir, says the manager, did not you this moment ask me to return it? If you had no intention to peruse it, says the author. Peruse it! replies the manager—why, Sir, do you think I have nothing else to do than as soon as ever people of your way of living have wrote a thing, to play it immediately? what, I suppose, continues he, you think I should read it, alter it, expunge, and add to it, then rehearse it and so perform it, that you might receive the benefit all in ten days or a fortnight?—No, no, Sir you are too quick for me; let’s see where is this thing (looking over a bundle of manuscript plays)—what is the _procession_ in your play, continued the manager? I shall best find it by that, for they are all marked.—There is no procession at all in mine, Sir, says the author. No procession! Sir, says the amazed manager, what do you mean?—perhaps you call it—a _solemn dirge_—a _triumph_—or an—_ovation_—or—There is nothing at all of the kind Sir, says the author, in my play, nor did I apprehend, says he, it was absolutely necessary to.—Necessary? interrupted the manager,—pray, Sir, what would nine out of ten of the tragedies that have come out within these 20 years have been good for, if it had not been for the processions; but if yours has no procession, adds he, I am sure it is not amongst these; (laying the papers he had been looking over down)—but we shall find it presently somewhere, I warrant you—a procession not necessary!—(looking for the play).—By this time the author began to entertain a most sovereign contempt for him, as I judged from his countenance.—At length the manager produced the play, but in such a condition! some part wanting half a leaf, some a quarter, others three quarters, and what remained was in tatters, and strangely smeared and stained, having been frequently used no doubt in taking the tea-kettle off the fire, and other such worthy employments, as I saw him take it from _under a coffee pot_ that stood in the window.—The author at first was astonished when he saw it, but recovering himself, calmly said, he believed it had been perused, for by the appearance of it, it seemed to have been often in his _hands_; and opening it.—Really, Sir, says the author, you have been in a mistake, for it is evident you have read it over, and have _expunged_ several pages of it, (shewing him the dismembered play)—and, continues he, dare say you will be able to get through it in a short time, therefore will continue it in your hands, and hope you will be so obliging as to _add to it_—No, no, Sir, replied the manager, I shall give myself no farther trouble about it; as for the leaves being torn, some of the servants can give you the best account of them.—If, continued he, there had been a _procession_ in it.—Here he was interrupted, by the arrival of a person with a Harlequin’s dress, and the author laying the mangled play upon the table, took his leave, giving place to _Harlequin_—a circumstance that ought not to give him much pain, as it is no more than what the best dramatic authors both ancient and modern, have frequently done.

This tragic gentleman having conducted me home, continued Sable, I was again deposited among my old acquaintance, the _occasional gentlemen_, from whose conversation I received much useful knowledge and rational entertainment. But to proceed—.