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.

REMARKS.
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!

“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, and 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;