AMBROSE GWINETT; OR, A SEA-SIDE STORY:

A MELO-DRAMA,

In Three Acts,

BY D. W. JERROLD,

Author of The Mutiny at the Nore, John Overy, The Devil’s Ducat, Golden Calf, Bride of Ludgate, &c.

PRINTED FROM THE ACTING COPY, WITH REMARKS, BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL, BY D—G.

To which are added,

A DESCRIPTION OF THE COSTUME,—CAST OF THE CHARACTERS, ENTRANCES AND EXITS,—RELATIVE POSITIONS OF THE PERFORMERS ON THE STAGE,—AND THE WHOLE OF THE STAGE BUSINESS,

As now performed at the

METROPOLITAN MINOR THEATRES.

EMBELLISHED WITH A FINE ENGRAVING.

LONDON:

JOHN CUMBERLAND, 2, CUMBERLAND TERRACE, CAMDEN NEW TOWN.

p. 5REMARKS. Ambrose Gwinett.

Hypercriticism has presumed to find fault with this drama, which a better taste has denominated “the serious domestic historical,” because, forsooth, it smacks of the Old Bailey!—and, when justification has been pleaded by citing George Barnwell, we have received the retort courteous, in the story of the witling who affected to wear glasses because Pope was near-sighted. But a much better plea may be urged than the example of a bard so moderately gifted as Lillo! “The Ravens of Orleans,” “Dog of Montargis,” “Family of Anglade,” and numerous other public favourites, speak daggers to such hypercriticism.—Ambrose Gwinett is a strange tale and a true one; and a tale both strange and true what playwright can afford to let slip through his fingers? A murder or so may be prudently relinquished, for the season will come round again; but he cannot expect to see a man hanged and resuscitated for his especial accommodation every day in the week.

Ambrose Gwinett favoured the world with his autobiography at a period when autobiography was a rarity. He is unquestionably the only historian who has written his life after being gibbetted—drawn and quartered we leave to the autobiographers and dramatists of another generation! Egotism under such extraordinary circumstances may surely be pardoned; and if honest Ambrose dwell somewhat complacently on certain events of deep interest and wonder, he may plead a much better excuse than our modern autobiographers, who invent much and reveal little but a tedious catalogue of fictions and vanities; a charge that applies not to the startling narrative of the poor sweeper of the once insignificant village of Charing.

The story, which occurred in the reign of Queen Anne, is simple and well told. Ambrose had a tale to tell—(what autobiographer would not be half hanged to be entitled to tell a similar one?)—passing strange and pitiful; therefore, like a skilful dramatist, who depends solely on his plot, he affected no pomp of speech: of tropes and figures he knew nothing; but he knew full well that he had been hanged without a trope, and his figure brought to life again!

p. 6“I was born,” says he, “of respectable parents in the city of Canterbury, where my father dealt in slops. He had but two children, a daughter and myself; and, having given me a school education, at the age of sixteen he bound me apprentice to Mr. George Roberts, an attorney in the same town, with whom I stayed four years and three quarters, to his great content and my own satisfaction.

“My sister, having come to woman’s estate, had now been married something more than a twelvemonth to one Sawyer, a seafaring man, who, having got considerable prizes, my father also giving him 200l. with my sister, quitted his profession, and set up a public-house near the place of his nativity, which was Deal, in the county of Kent. I had frequent invitations to pass a short time with them; and, in the autumn of 1709, having obtained my master’s consent for that purpose, I left the city of Canterbury on foot, on Wednesday morning, being the 17th day of September; but, through some unavoidable delays on the road, the evening was considerably advanced before I reached Deal; and so tired was I, being unused to that way of travelling, that, had my life depended on it, I could not have gone so far as my sister’s that night. At this time there were many of her majesty, Queen Anne’s ships lying in the harbour, the English being then at war with the French and Spaniards; besides which, I found this was the day for holding the yearly fair, so that the town was filled to that

degree, that not a bed was to be gotten for love nor money. I went seeking a lodging from house to house to no purpose; till, being quite spent, I returned to the public-house, where I had first made inquiry, desiring leave to sit by their kitchen-fire to rest myself till morning.

“The publican and his wife where I put up happened, unfortunately for me, to be acquainted with my brother and sister; and finding by the discourse that I was a relation of theirs, and going to visit them, the landlady presently said she would endeavour to get me a bed; and, going out of the kitchen, she quickly called me into a parlour that led from it. Here I saw, sitting by the fire, a middle-aged man, in a nightgown and cap, who was reckoning money at a table. ‘Uncle,’ said the woman, as soon as I entered, ‘this is a brother of our friend, Mrs. Sawyer; he cannot get a bed anywhere, and is tired after his journey. You are the only one that lies in this house alone: will you give him a part of your’s?’ To this the man answered, that she knew he had been out of order,—that he was blooded that day, p. 7and consequently a bedfellow could not be very agreeable. ‘However,’ said he, ‘rather than the young man shall sit up, he is welcome to sleep with me.’ After this, we sat some time together; when, having put his money in a

canvas bag into the pocket of his nightgown, he took the candle, and I followed him up to bed.”

Having occasion to visit the garden during the night, the landlord lent him his pen-knife, that he might more easily open the door, the latch being broken. From this knife a piece of money falls, which Gwinett pockets. Returning to his room, he finds, to his great surprize, that his companion is absent. At six o’clock he rises, dresses himself hastily, and, impatient to see his sister (the reckoning being paid overnight), lets himself out at the street door.

He has not been above an hour or two with his relations, before three horsemen arrive, arrest him for robbery and murder, and he is carried back to Deal, to be dealt with accordingly.

He is taken with the knife in his possession, tried, condemned, and executed: yet, strange to say, the man yet lived; his groans were heard from the gibbet, and he was rescued from his frightful situation by his master’s dairymaid. He took ship, went abroad, and encountered Collins, the supposed victim, who, it appeared, had been forced from his home by a press-gang. After enduring many perils, he returned to his native land, crippled and poor, and subsequently became sweeper of the road at Charing Cross.

Mr. Jerrold has heightened the interest of his drama by superadding the passions of love and jealousy. We have no objection to fiction when it conduces to effect; and three rounds of applause are sufficient to justify any interpolation. This piece was well acted, and brought ample receipts to the treasury of the Coburg.

D—G.

p. 14Costume.

AMBROSE GWINETT.—First dress—Short brown tunic and vest, with full trunks—hose and half boots.—Second dress—Tunic and long cloak—hat and feathers.

NED GRAYLING.—First dress—That of a Blacksmith.—Second dress—A short plain tunic—full trunks—hose, and a small round hat.—Third dress—that of a mere mendicant.

GILBERT.—First dress—A short close tunic—shoes and stockings.—Second dress—Suitable to the advanced age of the wearer.

COLLINS.—First dress—Short tunic.—Second dress—A morning gown.

LABEL.—Barber’s dress—three cornered hat and cane.

WILL ASH and BLACKTHORN.—Short tunics, &c.

GEORGE.—Sailor’s dress.

BOLT.—Dark tunic, &c.

OFFICER.—The usual costume.

REEF.—Blue jacket—white trowsers—straw hat.

LUCY FAIRLOVE.—First dress—Plain bodied gown—straw hat.—Second dress—A black open gown with train.

JENNY.—First dress—That of a peasant girl.—Second dress—Gown—cap—and apron.

MARY.—Peasant’s dress.

Villagers, Peasants, &c. in the usual costume.

Cast of the Characters

As sustained at the Coburg Theatre.

Ambrose Gwinett

Mr. Cobham.

Ned Grayling (The Prison Smith.)

Mr. Davidge.

Gilbert (Waiter at the Blake’s Head.)

Mr. Sloman.

Collins (Landlord of the Blake’s Head.)

Mr. Mortimer.

Label (an Itinerant Barber Surgeon.)

Mr. E. L. Lewis.

George (a Smuggler condemned to Die.)

Mr. Gale.

Blackthorn

Mr. H. George.

Will Ash

Mr. Gann.

Bolt (a Gaoler.)

Mr. Porteus.

1st Villager

Mr. J. George.

2nd Ditto

Mr. Waters.

Officer

Mr. Worrell.

Reef

Mr. Elsgood.

1st Sailor

Mr. Saunders.

Lucy Fairlove

Miss Watson.

Jenny

Mrs. Congreve.

Mary

Miss Boden.

Child

Master Meyers.

A Lapse of Eighteen Years is supposed to have taken Place between the Second and Third Acts.

p. 15ACT. I.

SCENE I.—View of the Country.

Enter Grayling and Collins. R.

Gray. Softly, master Collins, softly,—come, there is life in you yet, man.

Col. To be thrown from a horse after my experience—

Gray. Oh, the best man may be thrown, and the best horse throw too; but come, you have no bones broken. Had any man but myself, Ned Grayling, shoed your horse, I should have said something had been amiss with his irons—but that couldn’t be.

Col. No matter, I can now make my way homeward: but, hark’ye, not a word about this accident, not a syllable, or I shall never be able to sit in a saddle again, without first hearing a lecture from my wife and Lucy.

Gray. Lucy—aye, master Collins, she has a tender heart I warrant—I could work at my forge all day in the hottest June, so that Lucy would but smile, when—

Col. There must be no more of this. You know I have told you more than a hundred times that Lucy cannot love you.

Gray. How do you know that?

Col. She has said so, and do you suppose she would speak any thing but truth?

Gray. Why, perhaps she would, and perhaps she wouldn’t. I tell you, master Collins, my heart’s set upon the girl—if she refuse me—why I know the end on’t.—Ned Grayling, once the sober and industrious smith, will become an outcast and a vagabond.

Col. This is all folly—a stout able fellow turning whimperer.

Gray. Stout, able,—yes, I was, and might be so again; but thoughts will sometimes come across me, and I feel—I tell you once more, master Collins, my heart is set upon the girl.

Col. You’ll get the better of this, think no more of her: nothing so easy.

Gray. There are some matters very, very easy. It is easy for you, a man well in trade, with children flourishing about you, and all the world looking with a sunny face upon you—it is easy for you to say to a man like me, p. 16“You are poor and friendless—you have placed your affections on a being, to sweeten the bitterness of your lot, to cheer and bless you on the road of life, yet she can never be yours—think no more of her,” this is easy—“nothing so easy.”

Col. Farewell, good fellow, I meant not to insult or offend you. If you can obtain my niece’s consent, why, to prove that I love honesty, for its own sake, I’ll give you whatever help my means afford. If, however, the girl refuses, strive to forget her. Believe me, there is scarcely a more pitiable object than a man following with spaniel-like humility, the woman who despises him.

[Exit L.

Gray. Despises!—did she ever say,—no! no! she couldn’t, yet when I met her last, though she uttered not a sound, her eyes looked hate—as they flashed upon me, I felt humbled—a wretch! a very worm.

Enter Gilbert R. (singing.) “A merry little plough Boy.”

Gil. Well, now master’s gone out, I think I have a little time to see my Jenny—master and mistress have no compassion for us lovers—always work, work; they think once a week is quite enough for lovers to see one another, and unfortunately my fellow servant is in love as well as I am; and being obliged to keep house, I could only get out once a fortnight, if it wasn’t for Lucy.

Gray. (starting.) Lucy! who said any thing about Lucy?

Gil. I did! It’s a good Christian name, isn’t it? and no treason in it.

Gray. No, no, but you startled me.

Gil. I should like to know what right a man has to be startled when I say Lucy—why one would think you were married, and it was the name of your wife.

Gray. Lucy my wife, no, no.

Gil. No, I should think not indeed.

Gray. And why should you think? but I’m wrong to be so passionate—think no more of it, good Gilbert.

Gil. A cool way of settling matters: you first fly at a man like a dragon—make his heart jump like a tennis ball—and then say, think nothing of it, good Gilbert.

Gray. I confess I am very foolish.

Gil. Oh, spare your confession: people will judge for themselves.

Gray. (aside.) I am almost ashamed to do it, yet I will.

Gil. Why, what’s the matter? you are looking at p. 17me as if, like a highwayman, you were considering which pocket I carried my money in.

Gray. Pray, good Gilbert, tell me, do you know whether Miss Lucy has any admirers?

Gil. Admirers! to be sure she has.

Gray. She has!

Gil. Hundreds—don’t the whole town admire her? don’t all our customers say pretty things to her? don’t I admire her? and hav’n’t I seen you looking at her?

Gray. Looking at her!—how?

Gil. How, why like a dog that had once been well kicked, and was afraid of being known a second time.

Gray. Villain! do you make mirth of my sufferings? am I sport for fools? answer my question, or I’ll shake your soul out on the wind—tell me—

Gil. If the fox had never ventured where he had no business, he’d have kept his tail.

Gray. What mean you?

Gil. If you had minded your own affairs, you’d not have lost your temper.

Gray. Answer—

Gil. Not a word; if you are inclined to ask questions, a little farther on there’s a finger post—when you have read one side, you know you can walk round to the other.

Gray. I shall but make my agitation the more apparent. Never till this moment did I feel the fulness of my passion. Come, rouse man, stand no longer like a coward, eying the game, but take the dice, and at one bold throw, decide your fate.

[Exit L.

Gil. Aye, it’s all no use, master Grayling; Lucy Fairlove is no match for you. No, no, if I mistake not there’s another, smoother faced young man has been asking if any body’s at home at the heart of Lucy—but mum—I’m sworn to secrecy,—and now for Jenny! dear me, I’ve been loitering so long, and have so much to say to her—then I’ve so much to do—for the Judges are coming down to-morrow to make a clear place of the prison—and then there’s—but stop, whilst I am running to Jenny, I can think of these matters by the way.

[Exit L.

SCENE II.—Wood.

Enter Ambrose Gwinett. (running.) L.

Gwin. I’ve distanced them—but i’faith I’ve had to run for it.—No, no, fair gentlemen, I hope yet to have many a blithe day ashore—high winds, roaring seas, and p. 18the middle-watch have no relish for Gwinett—make a sailor of me, what, and leave Lucy Fairlove?—I’ve hurt my wrist in the struggle with one of the gang—(takes his handkerchief, which is stained with blood, from around his arm.) It is but a scratch—if I bind it up again it may excite the alarm of Lucy—no, Time is the best surgeon, and to him I trust it. (puts the handkerchief in his pocket.) Eh! who have we here? by all my hopes, Lucy herself.

Enter Lucy Fairlove. R.

Lucy. Ambrose.

Gwin. Come, this is kind of you—nay, it is more than I deserve.

Lucy. What is kind or more than you deserve?

Gwin. Why coming to meet me through this lone road!

Lucy. Meet you—what vanity—not I indeed, I was merely taking my morning’s walk, thinking of—of—

Gwin. Come, come, confess it.

Lucy. Well then I do confess, I wished to meet you, to tell you that—

Gwin. You have spoken to your uncle?

Lucy. On the contrary—to desire you to defer—

Gwin. Why, do you fear a refusal? Why should he refuse—have I not every prospect—will not my character—

Lucy. Yes, more than satisfy him, but—

Gwin. Or perhaps Lucy there is another whom you would prefer to make this proposal.

Lucy. This is unkind—you do not believe so.

Gwin. Well, be it as you will: I believe nought but truth, but innocence in Lucy Fairlove, and by this kiss—

Grayling looking from wing. R.

Gray. Hem! holloa! there.

Gwin. How now—what want you?

Gray. Want! (aside.) Oh! Lucy, Lucy! nothing.

Gwin. Then wherefore did you call?

Gray. Because it pleased me: a man may use his own lungs I trow.

Lucy. (aside.) Alas! I fear some violence.

Gwin. Aye and his own legs, they cannot do him better service than by removing him from where he is not wanted.

Gray. (Coming between them, folding his arms, and looking doggedly at Gwinett.) Now I sha’n’t go.

Gwin. Would you quarrel, fellow?

Gray. Aye—yes—come will you fight with me?

p. 19Lucy. (Interposing.) For heaven’s sake! subdue this rashness—Gwinett—Grayling—good kind Master Grayling—

Gray. Good kind Master Grayling—you speak falsely Lucy Fairlove—

Gwin. Falsely?

Gray. Aye, Falsely! she thinks me neither good nor kind—but I see how it is—I have thought so a long time, (after eying Gwinett and Lucy with extreme malice.) I see how it is—ha! ha! ha! (Laughing sarcastically.)

Gwin. Fellow, look not with such devilish malice but give your venom utterance.

Gray. Venom—aye—the right word, venom,—and yet who’d have thought we should have found it where all looked so purely.

Gwin. Wretch! would you say—

Gray. Nothing—nothing—where we have facts what need of words? the artless timid Lucy, she who moves about the town with closed lips and downcast eyes—who flutters and blushes at a stranger’s look—can steal into a wood—oh! shame—shame.

Gwin. Shame! villain! but no, to infamy so black as this, the best return is the silent loathing of contempt.

Gray. What! would you go with him, Lucy?

Lucy. Grayling, never again, in town or field, under my uncle’s roof, or beneath the open sky, that you have so lately made a witness to your infamy, dare to pronounce my name; there is a poison festering in your lips, and all that passes through is tainting—your words fall like a blight upon the best and purest—to be named by you, is to be scandalised—once whilst I turned from, I pitied you—you are now become the lowest, the most abject of created things—the libeller, the hateful heartless libeller of an innocent woman. Farewell, if you can never more be happy, at least strive to be good.

[Exit with Gwinett. L.

Gray. Lucy, Lucy, upon my knees—I meant not what I said—’twas passion—madness—eh, what—now she takes him by the arm—they’re gone—I feel as I had drank a draught of poison—never sound her name again? yes, and I deserve it—I am a wretch!—a ruffian,—to breathe a blight over so fair a flower. I feel as if all the world,—the sky, the fields, the bright sun were passing from me, and I stood fettered in a dark and loathsome den—my heart is numbed, and my brain palsied.

p. 20Enter Reef and Sailors. R.

Reef. A plague take these woods, I see no good in ’em—there’s no looking out a head the length of a bow sprit; I know he run down here.

1 Sail. That’s what I said at first, and if you had taken my advice we should have come here without staying beating about the bushes like a parcel of harriers.

Reef. He was a smart clean fellow, and would have done credit to the captain’s gig.—Eh! who have we here?—come, one man is as good as another, and this fellow seems a strong one.

Gray. How now!—what would you?

Reef. What would we?—why, what do you think of topping your boom—pulling your halyards taut, and turning sailor?

Gray. Sailor!

Reef. Aye—why you look as surprised as if we wanted to make you port admiral at once.

Gray. Turn sailor?