The Gamester | Page 5

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? Oh! this pernicious vice of gaming!
But methinks his usual hours of four or five in the morning might have
contented him; 'twas misery enough to wake for him till then: need he
have staid out all night? I shall learn to detest him.
_Mrs. Bev._ Not for the first fault. He never slept from me before.
_Char._ Slept from you!