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Edward Moore
The Gamester (1753)
Published by Good Press, 2019
EAN 4064066242695
Table of Contents
PREFACE.
It having been objected to this tragedy, that its language is prose, and its catastrophe too horrible, I shall entreat the reader's patience for a minute, that I may say a word or two to these objections.
The play of the Gamester was intended to be a natural picture of that kind of life, of which all men are judges; and as it struck at a vice so universally prevailing, it was thought proper to adapt its language to the capacities and feelings of every part of the audience: that as some of its characters were of no higher rank than Sharpers, it was imagined that (whatever good company they may find admittance to in the world) their speaking blank verse upon the stage would be unnatural, if not ridiculous. But though the more elevated characters also speak prose, the judicious reader will observe, that it is a species of prose which differs very little from verse: in many of the most animated scenes, I can truly say, that I often found it a much greater difficulty to avoid, than to write, measure. I shall only add, in answer to this objection, that I hoped to be more interesting, by being more natural; and the event, as far as I have been a witness of it, has more than answered my expectations.
As to the other objection, the horror of its catastrophe, if it be considered simply what that catastrophe is, and compared with those of other tragedies, I should humbly presume that the working it up to any uncommon degree of horror, is the merit of the play, and not its reproach. Nor should so prevailing and destructive a vice as Gaming be attacked upon the theatre, without impressing upon the imagination all the horrors that may attend it.
I shall detain the reader no longer than to inform him, that I am indebted for many of the most popular passages in this play to the inimitable performer, who, in the character of the Gamester, exceeded every idea I had conceived of it in the writing.
PROLOGUE.
Written and spoken by Mr. GARRICK.
Like fam'd La Mancha's knight, who launce in hand, Mounted his steed to free th' enchanted land, Our Quixote bard sets forth a monster-taming, Arm'd at all points, to fight that hydra—Gaming. Aloft on Pegasus he waves his pen, And hurls defiance at the caitiff's den. The First on fancy'd giants spent his rage, But This has more than windmills to engage: He combats passion, rooted in the soul, Whose pow'rs, at once delight ye, and controul; Whose magic bondage each lost slave enjoys, Nor wishes freedom, though the spell destroys. To save our land from this Magician's charms, And rescue maids and matrons from his arms, Our knight poetic comes. And Oh! ye fair! This black Enchanter's wicked arts beware! His subtle poison dims the brightest eyes, And at his touch, each grace and beauty dies: Love, gentleness and joy to rage give way, And the soft dove becomes a bird of prey. May this our bold advent'rer break the spell, And drive the demon to his native hell. Ye slaves of passion, and ye dupes of chance, Wake all your pow'rs from this destructive trance! Shake off the shackles of this tyrant vice: Hear other calls than those of cards and dice: Be learn'd in nobler arts, than arts of play, And other debts, than those of honour pay: No longer live insensible to shame, Lost to your country, families and fame. Could our romantic muse this work atchieve, Would there one honest heart in Britain grieve? Th' attempt, though wild, would not in vain be made, If every honest hand would lend its aid.
Dramatis Personae.
| MEN. | |
| Beverley, | Mr. Garrick. |
| Lewson, | Mr. Mossop. |
| Stukely, | Mr. Davies. |
| Jarvis, | Mr. Berry. |
| Bates, | Mr. Burton. |
| Dawson, | Mr. Blakes. |
| Waiter, | Mr. Ackman. |
| WOMEN. | |
| Mrs. Beverley, | Mrs. Pritchard. |
| Charlotte, | Miss. Haughton. |
| Lucy, | Mrs. Price. |
| SCENE, London. | |
THE
GAMESTER.
A
TRAGEDY.
ACT I. SCENE I.
Enter Mrs. Beverley, and Charlotte.
Mrs. BEVERLEY.
BE comforted, my dear; all may be well yet. And now, methinks, the lodgings begin to look with another face. O sister! sister! if these were all my hardships; if all I had to complain of were no more than quitting my house, servants, equipage and show, your pity would be weakness.
Char. Is poverty nothing then?
Mrs. Bev. Nothing in the world, if it affected only Me. While we had a fortune, I was the happiest of the rich: and now 'tis gone, give me but a bare subsistance, and my husband's smiles, and I'll be the happiest of the poor. To Me now these lodgings want nothing but their master. Why d'you look so at me?
Char. That I may hate my brother.
Mrs. Bev. Don't talk so, Charlotte.
Char. Has he not undone you?