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PREFACE.
THi M:moir prefixed to the present edition of Sheridan's
Dramatic Works contains the most striking circumstances
that marked the eventful life of the author. These are necessarily condensed, and such only recorded as are based upon
unimpeachable testimony; the numerous apocryphal auecdotes which have found their way into circulation having been
intentionally rejected. The object of the editor has been to
place before the public, in a single volume, both the Memoirs
and the Plays in as authentic a form as existing materials
permit. The difficulties attendant upon such a task may be
gathered from the facts hereinafter narrated..
G. G. S.




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CONTENTS.
BIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIR.
Sheridan, his birth, 8.-Sent to Harrow, 9.-First attempts in literat-re, 10
-Visits Bath, 12.-Elopes with Miss Linley, 19.-Duel with Captain
Matthews, 32.-Domestic circumstances, 38.-Comedy of the "Rivals,"
89.-Its popularity, 41.-The "Duenna," 44.-Correspondence between
Linley and Garrick, 47.-Rauzzini's career, 48.-Garrick resigns Drury
Lane, 49.-Purchase of the theatre, 51.-The " Trip to Scarborough," 52.
-Comedy of the "School for Scandal," ib.-Its striking features, 53.Falsehoods respecting it, 62.-Jealousy of Cumberland, 64.-Remarks on
the play, 65.-Retirement of Mr. King from the stage, 72.-Story of
Sheridan and Palmer, 74.-Gentleman Smith, 78.-Dodd and Parsons,
79.-Mismanagement at Drury Lane, 81.-Further purchase of theatrical
property, 82.-Monody on the death of Garrick, 83.-The "Critic," b.
-Its impression on the public mind, 85.-Bannister, Waldron, Farren,
and Miss Pope, 86.-Anecdote of Sheridan, 87.-Essay on absenteeism.
89.-State of the political world, 91.-Elected for Stafford, 92.-His
first speeches in the House, 93.-Moves for a better regulation of the
police, 95.-Bill for preventing Desertion, 96.-Opposes Fox on the Mar- -
riage Act, ib.-Attacks Rigby, Paymaster of the Forces, 97.-Declares
against the American war, 98.-Unpopularity of Lord North, 99.-Rockingham Administration, 100.-Appointed one of the under Secretaries of
State, ib.-Coalition, ib.-Collision with Pitt, 101.-Becomes Secretary
of the Treasury, ib.-Struggles on the East India Bill, 102.-Bitterly
opposes Pitt's measures, 103.-Reelected for Stafford, ib.-Distinguishes
himself on the Westminster scrutiny, ib.-The "Rolliad," 104.-Quarrel
with Mr. Rolle, 106.-Vigorous speech on Irish Commercial Propositiolls,
107.-Charges against Warren Hastings, 108.-Sheridan's splendid speech
on the occasion, 112.-Eulogium passed upon it by Burke, Pitt, and Fox,
113.-Impeachment of Warren Hastings, 120.-Account of the trial,
121.-Eagerness of the public to hear Sheridan, 123.-His eloquent address, 126.-Exultation of his family, 129.-Illness of the King, 130.Account of the malady from Miss Burney's Memoirs, 131.-The Regency
Question, 34.-Views of Sheridan on the subject, 135.-Debates in
the House, 136.-His Majesty's restoration to health, 141.-Deeth of
Sheridan's father, ib.-The French Revolution, 143.-Assiduity nt




viii..*.
\'11


COASIENTS


Sheridan in his parliamentary duties, 145.-Secures his reelection at Stafford with difficulty, 147.-Virulence of Horn Tooke, 148.-Burke's opposition to the French Revolution, 149.-His breach with Sheridan, ib.Separation of Fox and Burke, 150.-Rebuilding of Drury Lane, 153.Death of Mrs. Sheridan, 154.-Serious aspect of public affairs, 155.Debates in Parliament, 156.-Declaration of war with France, 160.Schism amongst the Whigs, ib.-Sheridan's memorable speech, 161.-His
reply to Lord Mornington, 165.-Drury Lane finished, 166.-" The first
of June," 167.-Debts of the Prince of Wales, 168.-Progress of Warren
Hastings's trial, 169.-Irritated state of public feeling, 170.-Violent conduct towards the King in his progress to the House, 171.-Second marriage of Sheridan, 173.-Pamphlet of Mr. Reeves, ib.-Tom  Sheridan,
176.- Mutiny in the Channel Fleet, 181.-Ireland's Shakspeare forgeries, 182.-Speeches in Parliament, 185.-Anecdote of Pitt and
Sheridan, 187-Ministry of Addington, ib.-State of parties, ib.-Offer
of a place to Tom Sheridan, 188.-Sheridan appointed Receiver General
of the Duchy of Cornwall, ib.-Becomes Treasurer of the Navy, ib. —
Loses office on the Death of Fox, ib.-Destruction of Drury Lane Theatre
by fire,. 189.-Mr. Whitbread, 190.-Plan for a third theatre, ib.-Mr.
Canning, 191.-Sheridan's last speech in Parliament, ib.-Close of his
political career, 192.-Summary of his character, 193.-His procrastination, 195.-Opening of the new theatre at Drury Lane, 200.-Lord
Byron, ib.-Distresses of Sheridan, 201.-Illness, 203.-Death and funeral, 205.
DRAMATIC WORKS.
THE RIVALS, a Comedy.......      27
ST. PATRICK'S DAY; or the Scheming Lieutenant, a Farce.   88
THE DUENNA, a comic opera..... 310
TnH SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL, a Comedy... 859
THE CRITIC; or, a Tragedy Rehearsed, a Drama.      440
TRIP TO SCARBOROUGH.....                            8483
PIZARRo........ 521
VERSES TO THE MEMORY Of GARRICK...            661




I


THE LIFE


V                THE RIGHT HONOURABLE
RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN.
SCARCELY anything remains at the present hour to attest
the superiority of Richard Brinsley Sheridan over the great
men of the times just passed away, but his contributions to the
dramatic literature of the country, yet was' he acknowledged
to be at one period of his existence the most gifted genius of,   his age. Unfortunately for his memory, his last and least
happy moments are those best remembered. He has been
judged of when the decay of his intellect, the carelessness,
nay, even the recklessness of his conduct, and the perplexities in which he was involved, had changed the character of
the man. He has been regarded as the dissipated thoughtless butterfly that passed through an ephemeral existence;
as one who was merely a brilliant ornament of society, or the
boon companion of an idle hour. Far superior, however, was
he to almost all those great personages who figured with him
on the stage of existence in those qualities which are most,s.     highly prized in the busy section of the world.
His life is a romance. Even those who are wont to receive with incredulity the narrative of the biographer, believing him either a panegyrist labouring to exalt the hero
who has excited his fancy, or the promulgator of some visionary doctrine, must acknowledge that the incidents which
marked the career of Sheridan are too singular not to be re',     corded, and that they are of sufficient importance to be narrated by different individuals according to the respective
L \    views they entertain of the many events in which, from his
B




I JIFE OF SHERIDAN.
position in the world, he was necessarily involved. If genius
of the highest order in literature, if the eloquence that enchants, rivets the attention, and likewise touches the human
heart, if the mingling in every question that agitates an empire, and produces an influence upon it, if splendid success
followed by the sad vicissitudes of Fate are ever objects of
our curiosity, they are in no one instance more singularly
exemplified than in Sheridan.
He lived in an age of excitement, of which those who are
now in the meridian of their days can, from the repose which
they have enjoyed, form but a feeble idea. He was one of
the most active, the most intelligent, the most fascinating of
those who have stamped their names upon that singular page
of history. There was no event in which he was not a leader,
there was no great question, whether foreign or domestic, that
he did not investigate and pronounce an opinion upon, which
was listened to with respect and admiration by a large portion
of the nation. His voice was the guide of a great and influ-  "
ential party; he was the attached friend of a band of patriots;
and through good and evil repute supported, with manly
ardour, a cause which did not bring with it the emoluments
of the world, nor did he leave the camp when it was unguarded by some, and almost betrayed by others.
Professor Smyth thus speaks of him:-" There were three
others that flourished at the same time with him, the great
minister and splendid debater, Mr. Pitt, the great philanthro.
pist and orator, Mr. Fox, the great philosopher and enlightened statesman, Mr. Burke; but he who to a certain degree
might be said to unite the powers of all was Mr. Sheridan.
He had not in such high superiority the distinguishing qualities of each-he had not the lofty tone and imposing declamation of Pitt-he had not the persuasive vehemence of Fox-he
had not the inexhaustible literature and ready philosophy of
Burke; but when he spoke on a great occasion, and prepared
himself with all the necessary knowledge, nothing appeared
wanting to the perfect orator. Grace of manner, charm of
voice, fluency of language, and above all a brilliancy of sarcasm, a wit and a humour, and again a felicity of statement
that made him the delight of every audience, and that excited
the admiration of his opponents themselves."
The eulogium pronounced upon him by Lord Byron is


1




LIFE OF SHERIDAIN.


3


now somewhat trite, but it is most true: " Whatever Sheridan
has done or chosen to do, has been, par excellence, always the
best of its kind. He has written the best comedy, 'The
School for Scandal;' the best opera,' The Duenna'-in my
mind far before that St. Giles' lampoon, the 'Beggar's Opera;'
-the best farce, ' The Critic;' it is only too good for an after'        piece; and the best address, 'The Monologue on Garrick;'
and to crown all, delivered the very best oration, the famous Be
s    gum speech, ever conceived or heard in this country." These,
*     however, are but a portion of the claims which he has to the
highest consideration; for scarcely had he attained the foremost rank amongst the comic writers of the age, when he
astonished and delighted the statesmen who surrounded him
*    ith the clearness of his political views, developed with all
the power and splendour of eloquence. His friends had but
just marvelled at the dexterity with which he gained an influence over the heir apparent to the throne, and-were canvassing the merits of the advice which guided that prince
through paths of considerable difficulty, when even his opponents were unanimously praising him in the loudest language for the exhibition of the purest patriotism, and admiring the conduct that he pursued during one of the most
perilous moments that ever occurred in the annals of England
-the Mutiny at the Nore.
' *       The circumstances that are detailed in the following pages
will, we think, plead an apology for many of the errors that
have been strongly condemned; it will be found that a large
portion of his pecuniary embarrassments did not originally
spring from improvidence, but from the peculiar sources of his
means, and from the unexpected position in which, at the
very outset of his life, he found himself. He was placed, in
'**     an unaccountable manner, at the head of a great establishment, which seemed to yield unceasing means of expenditure,
from whose treasury he was enabled to draw almost without,      acknowledgment; it appeared to offer endless wealth-the very
purse of the Fortunatus of his childish days was in his hands.
It was not only the inexhaustible vein of daily treasure, but
it enablsd him to multiply his means; to create new shares,
to issue debentures, and to follow the thousand devices of the
skilful financier was, for a length of time, as easy as to draw
a cheque upon his banker. It afforded him a marriage set-                                       B 2




-*            LIFE OF SHERIDAN.
tlemenlt, or a new edifice, hence the mind became vitiated,
false, and factitious views of property took possession of it;
all was however paper money, based upon no solid means, it
lured the credulous victim on, until he expected at every step
more gold-he found at last that his wealth was visionary,
and when compelled to acknowledge the melancholy truth,
it was too late to recede. Harassed at every step, he had
recourse to deception till it became systematic, he lost his
caste in society, he sought relief in dissipation, and when. his
home was invaded by his angry creditors, he rushed to places
where he gradually learnt habits that undermined his constitution and weakened his intellect. If, however, Sheridan was
to be blamed, how much more so were his friends! how much
more the public! It is a deep reflection upon the morals
and upon the character of the country that such a man was
allowed to suffer distress and misery; the selfishness of the
great, the heartlessness of society, the mammon worship of
the many was never more conspicuous than in its treatment
cf its devoted servant.
In this country virtue and talents may be respected by the
few-wealth by all-he who loses the one may in vain pos —
sess the other, his welcome in that world which hung upon
his shadow is past; the good that he has done is forgotten.
Such was the fate of Sheridan; those who had been the
warmest admirers of his splendid talents, were at first amused
with the narratives of his cleverness in eluding the vigilance
of his numerous creditors, but gradually they spoke of his
imprudence, and then learnt to treat him with contempt. He
had to stoop to the meanest subterfuges to escape from present embarrassment, or to degrade himself by the vilest cunning for a momentary supply of funds. How humiliating to
his own mind must have been the comparison of the days
when listening senates were hushed when he spoke!-how fearful to him must have been the remembrance of those brilliant
hours of his youth, when he was the theme of general obser
vation! Consider him, however, in what light we may, still
did he maintain some superiority over all those by whom he
was surrounded, and in almost every scene of his eventful
lifs he was an actor who obtained and excited the wonder, if
pot the admiration of his contemporaries.
Even the romantic incidents attending upon his private life




LIFE OF SHERIDAN.                  0
are such only as occur to men unlike the ordinary class of our
fellow-beings. The celebrated object of his choice, the clever
manner in which he contrived to outwit his rivals in love,
' '     becoming not only the theme of conversation in a fashionable
watering-place, but of newspaper controversy, drew upon him
at an early age the general attention; from that period every
circumstance of his life became public property, indeed it
was then evident that his lot could not be cast in obscurity,
",       but that he had that within him, which, when duly exercised,
would lead to his filling a distinguished position in society.
*      How, too, did the bold daring with which he undertook the
management of a great theatrical establishment tell upon the
1 ~       public mind, for all knew that he must be dependent on his
own abilities for his financial resources! Surrounded at an
early age by men of the highest talent, he was quickly remarked amongst them for the brilliancy of his conversation,
his flashes of wit, and the ease and elegance of his manner.
These qualifications which made him so delightful in society,
are too apt to render their possessor self-indulgent, vain and
careless, nor was Sheridan on these points unlike the rest of
his fellow-beings, gradually faults began to ripen into vices,
the feebleness with which he resisted the first inroads upon
his original sense of honour and of virtue, led to a recklessness and sensuality which eventually were remembered,..     wwhen his brighter qualities were somewhat dimmed. As the
generation passed away in which his nobler characteristics
had been developed they were almost forgotten, and those
who were rising in the world saw only that state which was,
in comparison, one of degradation, and hence they estimated
him less than those who had been dazzled by the early lustre
of his career..a,.       Valuable, doubtless, would be considered the moral lessons
deducible from a scrutiny into his errors and defects; but
sufficient for us is it in our sketch to relate the prominent
circumstances of his life, to delineate him with that fair and
honest colouring which is required for truth, more consonant
would it be with our feelings to throw a veil over his follies
and inconsistencies rather than to scan them too deeply, the. brilliancy of his talents, and the severity of his misfortunes,
command for the thoughtlessness of Richard Brinsley Sheridan, oblivion-for his sorrows, respect.






6


LIFE OF SHERIDAN.




He has found two biographers, both of whom have entered
with some degree of warmth into his political career. The
first, Dr. Watkins, was a Tory of the old school, the other, a
Whig, of equally uncompromising caste.  They have seen
through glasses which operate on every subject of their examination with power of a totally different kind; the same topic
is magnified or diminished according to the respective instrument that each holds. Much is to be said in praise of the
diligence with which Dr. Watkins has investigated the numer
ous great questions which engaged the attention of Sheridan,
but his strong bias shines forth on all occasions. He views
everything as a good consistent follower of Pitt would naturally do, he thinks only of the heaven-born minister, he insinuates that his opponents were actuated by malevolence,
were besotted in ignorance, and were worthy condign punishment. His detestation of the French Revolution was only
surpassed by his terror lest parliamentary reform should
ever be brought about in England. From so decided a partisan there was little to be expected, and he has throughout
evinced too much of the politician, of the humblest grade, to
be the judge of one who had any pretension to rank amongst
statesmen. Of his private life he has drawn but a feeble
sketch, whatever he knew and gave was derived from Mr.
Samuel Whyte, who had for a short period been Sheridan's,eacher.                                                      '-,
Moore's life has greater claims to our consideration; although it has the internal evidence of its being a laboured
panegyric upon the great Whig statesman, Fox, it furnishes
us with a consistent narrative of the most remarkable events
in which Sheridan became a partaker, still they are more or
less tinted with the colouring which, as a decided Whig,
Moore was likely to make use of. The private life is of a  '
most poetic character. It is the work of a rich fancy, rendering everything it touches more beautiful than nature in her
sweet simplicity usually attempts. He sought from the immediate family and friends materials for his publication, and
of course received from them only such as were likely to
embellish his narrative, and produce the most favourable
effect.  It is not to be supposed that truth has ever been
wantonly sacrificed, but much has been suppressed, and much
has been overcharged; so that a picture somewhat gaudy,




LIFE OF SHERIDAN.


7


but bearing the general character, has been produced. Mrs
Lefanu, the youngest sister of Sheridan, communicated tho
romantic details of the love affair in which Sheridan was
*      so early in life involved, and they are necessarily tinctured
with the feeling which an affectionate relation would naturally wish should be experienced by all those who would read
the memoirs.      The great advantage which Moore had was
free access to all the manuscripts that Sheridan left behind
him; of these he has admirably availed himself; he has
shown us the gradual development of the School for Scandal
from the first germ; he has exhibited to us that it was the slow
and laborious effort of long consideration; that it reached by
a gradual process that perfection to which it ultimately attained. From the evident study bestowed upon this and his
other plays, Moore has attempted to deduce, and his opinion
has been followed by others, that Sheridan was not a man of
quick ideas, of rapid and vigorous fancy, but that all he did,'     was carefully and slowly prepared, patiently digested and
long paused upon before it was made public. That this may
have been the case in his early career, and that in his latter
days he may have had recourse to his memory rather than to
his imagination may be granted, but no man was possessed of
greater readiness in his best days, and few have exhibited,
more quickly, unpremeditated wit, bursts of genius, and glow
of fancy.
A most interesting narrative has been drawn up by the
distinguished Professor of History at Cambridge, who lived
under the roof of Sheridan, as the tutor of his son Thollas,
and has been read by a few; it is eloquent, as everything must
be from that ornament of our literature, Professor Smyth.
We have also a slight sketch by the hand of Leigh Hunt.
A, <     The modesty with which he has given it, would forbid any
att'empt to find fault with it, but when we remember the
position he holds, as a poet and a critic, that "nihil non
tetigit quod non ornavit," we must be excused from  expressing our regret that he has so cursorily glanced at the
dramatic works of Sheridan, and so heedlessly admitted, as
facts, the wanton assertions of those who have pretended to,.      be acquainted with the circumstances of his life. The few
observations on the education of Sheridan are erroneous, for
although he gave little or no attention to classical knowledge,




R


LfAE OF SHERIDAN,


he was not so thoroughly incapable as he has described him
to have been; nor ought the epithets, applied to the gentleman who fought two duels with Sheridan, to have been given
without some inquiry as to the propriety of their adoption.
There is, however, such polish and so much fancy in the
little brochure, that it will be perused with infinite pleasure.
Sheridan was born in Dublin, in the year 1751. His family
boasted on both sides genius. His grandfather, Dr. Sheridan,
was the friend, nay it is said the instructor, of Swift, and was
not only distinguished for his classic attainments, but "for
such a ready wit and flow of humour, that it was impossible
for any, even the most splenetic man, not to be cheerful in
his company."   He was not a fortunate man, and by no
means a careful one. He lost his appointment as one of the
Court Chaplains by a somewhat ludicrous incident. He was
called upon to preach before the Lord Lieutenant, and as
he had not prepared himself for such an event, he hastily
snatched up a sermon, innocent enough of politics, but the
text of which was, " Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof;" unfortunately for him the day on which he delivered a
discourse, so headed, was the first of August, the anniversary
of the accession to the throne of George the First, an occasion
on which every species of flattery to the powers in authority
would have been much more acceptable. He was, therefore,
suspected of Jacobinism, and lost all chance of rising in his
profession. Thomas, the third son of Dr. Sheridan, and the
father of Richard Brinsley Sheridan, was distinguished as
an actor, a teacher of elocution, and as the author of a pronouncing dictionary, that has, from its first appearance, been
generally received as a useful addition to our literature.
Although an unsuccessful person on the great stage of life,
he played his part with much energy, and his name has descended to posterity amongst those who have been useful in
their generation.
It is one of the pet theories of the day, that men of genius
have had on the female side a parent much above the ordinary class of women in intellectual power, and certainly
Sheridan is one of the instances that may be adduced. The
authoress of so many works of merit deserves a niche in the
Temple of Fame; it is, however, not to be forgotten, that one
of her plays, " The Dupe," was condemned for some passages




LIFE OF SHERIDAN


9


that were considered as offensive to the laws of decorum.
" The Discovery" was more fortunate, it was hailed as a " moral,
sentimental, yet entertaining performance;" but the length
and languor of its scenes became somewhat insupportable.
Garrick, it was, who bore the whole onus of the play, and
performed a pedantic character, considered to be quite unsuited to him, in such a way as to elicit infinite entertainment;
he seemed entirely to have relinquished his natural ability,
and to have assumed an air of unutterable dulness; the
younger Colman says, "he made the twin stars which nature
had stuck in his head, look like two coddled gooseberries."
Her "Memoirs of Sidney Biddulph" have been much ad.
mired, not only for their power of awakening our sympathy
*  for the sorrows of man upon this transitory globe, but for the
beautiful language in which they point out the blissful rewards of a hereafter to those who. by their conduct, may deserve them.
e'        Amongst other productions of her pen Nourjahad is particularly distinguished alike for the development of the story
and the gracefulness of its diction, and even to the present
hour it enjoys a high degree of popularity amongst youthful
readers, who, if they are not able to detect the moral of aC tale
that shows that the gifts of perpetual youth and of endless
riches, if not properly estimated, will produce sensuality and
brutality, are at any rate delighted with the beautiful pictures
of oriental manners that she has so admirably delineated.
In his seventh year Sheridan was placed, together with his
brother, under the tuition of Mr. Samuel Whyte of Dublin;
they were the first two pupils he had; their mother, in giving
them to his care, made use of an expression which has been
oftentimes repeated as if it had been applied to Sheridan in the
" r      latter days of his boyhood. She pointed out to Mr. Whyte
that in the profession he had undertaken patience was absolutely necessary.  "These boys will be your tutors in that
respect. I have hitherto been their only instructor, they
have sufficiently exercised mine, for two such impenetrable
dunces I never met with;" from such an expression, at such an
age, it would be most unfair to form an opinion of the intel
lectual capabilities of a child.
On his parents settling in England, which was in the year
1762, Harrow was selected as the best school for his educa




10


LIFE OF SHERIDAN


tion, here he exhibited none of that superior intellect for which
his future life was to be distinguished. Dr. Parr has given
evidence as to his deficiency in those studies which were the
pride of that seminary, but observes, "He was a favourite
amongst his schoolfellows, mischievous, and his pranks were
accompanied by a sort of vivacity and cheerfulness; he was a
great reader of English poetry, but was careless about literary
fame; he appears to have been removed too early from school."
He, however, in after life was, according to the same testimony, given to classic reading, and was well acquainted with
the orations of Cicero and of Demosthenes, and impressed Dr.
Parr with an idea that he was possessed of considerable classic
attainments. Mr. Roderic, Dr. Sumner's assistant during
the time that Sheridan was at Harrow, says, " that he was a
shrewd, artful, and supercilious boy, without any shining ac
complishments or superior learning."
During his residence at Harrow he lost his excellent and
amiable mother who died at Blois, where the family had for
some time resided, in the year 1766.
Whilst at Harrow he formed an intimacy with a fellow
pupil Mr. Halhed, with whom   he entered into a literary
partnership, which was not dissolved by their both quitting
their school, the one for Oxford, the other for Bath. Together they laboured upon a farce in three acts, called "Jupiter," from which they anticipated to reap a sum of no less than
~200, but they were doomed to disappointment, for it never
was brought before the public, and whatever of merit it may
have possessed, we are unable to judge; for, with the excep
tion of some extracts which Moore has given, we are not in
possession of any remains of a burlesque which has been supposed to have remained long on the memory of Sheridan, and
to have been the model on which the " Critic" was founded.
A miscellany was projected by the friends, but it did not live
beyond one number; this was but poor, if we may be allowed
to form a judgment from the short specimen that has been
preserved. A collection of occasional poems, and a volume of
crazy tales, were amongst the dreams that flitted across the
imaginations of the enthusiasts, but beyond fancy's first sketch
it would appear that they were not allowed to proceed.
One, however, of the united productions of these aspirants
to literary fame was actually committed to the press, and has




LIFE OF SHERIDAN.


]1


reached us; it has been the means of exhibiting positive
proof that they were indifferent judges of that which was
likely to impress the public with a favourable opinion of
their merits. They selected a Greek author, but little known,
Aristeenetus, and rendered his Greek prose into English verse.
The facetious Tom Brown had previously translated, or rather
imitated, some select pieces from the epistles of this author,
but the young poets thought that he had failed in giving the
elegance and the wit of the original. They stated that " their, object was not so much to bring to light the merits of an
undistinguished author, as to endeavour to introduce into
the language a species of poetry not frequently attempted,
and but very seldom with success, that species which has
been called the 'simplex munditiis' in writing, where the
thoughts are spirited and fanciful without quaintness, and
the style simple, yet not inelegant." There is a great variation of the metres employed, and each epistle has its
own particular measure, and it would be difficult to point out
upon what particular species of poetry they relied for their
claim to success. The epistles of Aristenetus are altogether
unknown, and what could have tempted young and cultivated
minds to bestow a thought upon a writer who had neither a
name amongst classical authors, nor a single recommendation
from a modern critic, we are utterly at a loss to imagine.
We can only ascribe it to an enthusiastic taste for compositions which occasionally captivate youth, and for which we
are doubtless indebted for Moore's translation of Anacreon,
and for his juvenile poems which are admired at the commencement of our career in life. They were compelled to
soften many passages which were indelicate in the original,
and to suppress others as indecent, the preface to which the
't     initials H. S. are added is concluded by a passage informing
us that the original is divided into two parts, the present
essay containing only the first, by its success must the fate
of the second be determined. Carefully did they watch the
impression made on the public by their labours, they saw
that they were unsuccessful, and they wisely attempted no
more. There is but one Epistle " The Garden of Phyllion,"
that possesses much merit, and this is spoilt by the introduction, not only of language somewhat too glowing, but of libertinism totally uncalled for in a descriptive pastoral. Tho




1.


LIFE OF SHERIDAN.


Tenth Epistle has some striking passages; but with every
\vish to view the first productions of youth with kindness and
lenity, we cannot but express our gratification that the second
part never appeared, and that the first has been but little
read. One of the reviews of the period has very justly said,
"W e have been idly employed in reading it, and our readers
will in proportion lose their time in perusing this article."
In the year 1771 Sheridan's father took his young family
to Bath, there to reside whilst he was fulfilling his theatrical
engagements elsewhere.  No place could have been more
unfortunately selected for the debut in life of a young man;
for whatever may have been the charm of society there, nothing could by possibility be more destructive to habits of
industry and the exercise of the higher qualities of the mind
and the heart, than the unvarying monotony of indolence and
selfishness in which the visitors of that once fashionable
watering-place constantly indulged themselves. The lounge
in the pump room and in the streets of Bath may have furnished young Sheridan with sketches of those characters
which have rendered his dramas the admiration of those who
are initiated into society, but it was the very worst school for
the education of a man whose destiny was forcibly urging
him on to figure as one of the most prominent men in public
life. From all quarters of the globe congregated not only the
invalid to gain health from the thermal springs, but the idle,
the dissipated, and also the lovers of the arts. Bilious East
Indians, Irish fortune-hunters, gouty statesmen, ladies of
rank, "chiefly remarkable for the delicacy of their reputation," went there to seek relief from ennui. To furnish relief for them, there was an admirable theatre, time out of
mind the nursery for the London stage, and concerts, such as
were not to be outrivalled in Europe, and private parties of  '
every description, where music, dancing, or poetry, was the ruling passion. Every aspirant to fame wrote poetry, in some
guise, nor was Sheridan the last amongst those who sought
for a laurel from the reigning Queen of Bath, Lady Miller.
This lady, so admirably described to us by Horace Walpole
and by Madame D'Arblay, held at her house at Bath Easton,
every Thursday, a "fair of Parnassus."  We are told by the
latter lady "that, notwithstanding Bath Easton is so much
laughed at in London, nothing is here more tonish than to




LIFE OF SHERIDAN.


13


visit Lady Miller, who is extremely curious in her company,
admitting few people who are not of rank or fame, and exeluding of those all who are not people of character very un
blemished."   Horace Walpole says, "All the flux of quality
contended for prizes gained for rhymes and themes; a Roman
vase, dressed with pink ribbons and myrtle, received the
poetry which was drawn out at every festival.  Six judges of
I       these Olympic Games retired and selected the brightest composition, which was rewarded by permission for the author to
kneel and kiss the hands of Lady Miller, who crowned the
victor with myrtle."  This Lady Miller, whose reputation had
spread far and wide, as the ruling star of Bath, was a round,
coarse, plump looking dame, whose aim it was to appear a
woman of fashion, and succeeded only in having the appearance of an ordinary woman in very common life with fine
clothes on. Her manners were bustling, her air mock important, and appearance very inelegant. She was, however,,-'   extremely good humoured, and remarkably civil.
Many are the pieces of poetry which Sheridan, scarcely then
in his twentieth year, produced; amongst them the exquisite
stanzas"Dry be that tear, my gentlest love,
Be hushed that struggling sigh,
~ Nor seasons, day, nor fate shall prove
More fix'd, more true than I.
Hush'd be that sigh, be dry that tear,
Cease boding doubt, cease anxious fear.
Dry be that tear.
'Ask'st thou how long my love will stay,.                MTWhen all that's new is past?
How long, ah Delia, can I say
-            How long my life will last?
Dry be that tear, be hush'd that sigh,
At least I '11 love thee till I die.
Hushed be that sigh.
"And does that thought affect thee too,
4           The thought of Sylvio's death,
That he who only breath'd for you,
Must yield that faithful breath?




14


LIFE OF SHEmDAN.


Hushed be that sigh, be dry that tear.
Nor let us lose our Heaven here
Dry be that tear."
In a poem addressed to Lady Margaret Fordyce are those
ines which have been so universally admired-.".  Marked you her cheek of rosy hue?
Marked you her eye of sparkling blue?
That eye, in liquid circles moving;
That cheek abashed at Man's approving            *
The one, Love's arrows darting round;
The other, blushing at the wound:
Did she not speak, did she not move,
Now Pallas-now the Queen of Love!"
The rest of the poem is very indifferent, and it appears
strange that lines of such singular beauty should have been
introduced. Amongst the light trifles published one is to be  X,
noticed as exhibiting his varied talent, it was written on the
occasion of the opening of that splendid pile of buildings, the
Upper Assembly Rooms, Sept. 30th, 1771. It is entitled
"An Epistle from Timothy Screw to his Brother Henry,
Waiter at Almack's," of which the following is an extract.
"Two rooms were first opened-the long and the round one,
(These Hogstyegon names only serve to confound one,)
Both splendidly lit with the new chandeliers,
With drops hanging down like the bobs at Peg's ears:
While jewels of paste reflected the rays,
And Bristol-stone diamonds gave strength to the blaze:
So that it was doubtful, to view the bright clusters,
Which sent the most light out, the ear-rings or lustres.
*       *      *       *      *       *           9
Nor less among you was the medley, ye fair!
I believe there were some beside quality there.
Miss Spiggot, Miss Brussels, Miss Tape, and Miss Socket,
Miss Trinket, and aunt, with her leathern pocket,
With good Mrs. Soaker, who made her old chin go,
Four hours, hobnobbing with Mrs. Syringo:
Had Tib staid at home, I b'lieve none would have misn:d
her,
Or pretty Peg Runt, with her tight little sister," &c,.&




,LIFE OF SHERIDAN.               15
The allusions are to the splendid ball room and to the
octagon room, two of the most perfect specimens of domestic
architecture which we possess. The chandeliers, which still
remain, were once considered perfect models, and as chefd'oeuvres of the art of glass making.  They have been so
thoroughly surpassed by modern productions, as to excite our
wonder that they should still be retained.
Besides the motley group that lounged in the Crescent,
the Circus or the Parades, there were many individuals of
great talent with whom  Sheridan had the opportunity of
mixing. He, however, to judge from his letters, had no
wish to be intimate with any of them, and speaks of Mr.
Wyndham and Mr. Luttrel, a brother of the colonel, as the
only acquaintance he had made. Amongst those who were
there was the pious and clever Hannah More; the lively
Mrs. Thrale; Fanny and Harriott Bowdler, both blue stock
ings of the deepest dye; Anstey, the author of the "Bath
Guide" "with an air, look, and manner, mighty heavy and
unfavourable;" Mrs. Dobson, the translator of Petrarch; Mr.
Melmoth, the Pliny Melmoth, " thinking nobody half so
great as himself, therefore, playing first violin without further
ceremony;" Cumberland "so querulous, so dissatisfied, so
determined to like nobody and nothing, but himself;" Dr.
Harrington, " dry, comic, and very agreeable," and a whole
host of people who have been celebrated in their day, but
whose memory alas has faded away.
But the great and ruling passion at Bath was music. The
public concerts were delightful recreations, they were the
first in England; the private concerts were as detestable,
although first rate talent was engaged, and there were amateurs of high consideration.  There was Jerningham, the
poet; "a mighty gentleman, who looks to be painted, and is
all daintification in manner, speech, and dress, singing to his
own accompaniment on the harp, whilst he looks the gentlest
of all dying Corydons." Miss Latouche singing " not in your
Italian style, no, that she hates, and holds very cheap; but
all about Daphne and Chloe, Damon and Phyllis;" but the
parties in which they sung, were usually all " confusion, worse
confounded."    " There were quartettos and overtures by gentlemen performers whose names and faces I never knew;
such was the never ceasing battling and noise of the card,' _
/                                                                  4




10G


LIFE OF SHERIDAN.


room, that a general humming of musical sounds, and now
and then a twang, was all I heard," says Madame D'Arblay.
The concerts, however, in the great Assembly Room, were
of the highest character.  Here the works of such composers as Rauzzini, Jackson, the Linleys, and Dr. Harrington, were for the first time produced in a style that had
never yet been equalled; here talent of this kind found its
devoted admirers.  Miss Guest, afterwards the celebrated
Mrs. Miles, and her father, were heard with rapture, and
many of those artists whose talents have commanded the
admiration of Europe.
Amongst those who sang, not only at the oratorios at Bath,
but who had gained a high reputation in all musical circles,
was Miss Linley, the daughter of the eminent composer,
upon whom Nature seems to have lavished her richest treasures, and Art to have nobly seconded her.
This young lady was destined to have a lasting influence
upon the conduct, the talents, and the happiness of young
Sheridan. Various are the versions of the love tale, and difficult, most difficult, is it to arrive at the real truth of the affair.
At lovers' perjuries they say Jove laughs; and there were,
and there are, many who look upon the whole of this singular event as a tissue of absurd longings after notoriety on
the part of more than one of the individuals engaged in it.
Miss Linley was, beyond a doubt, one of the most accom
plished, as well as beautiful, young women ever seen.
At the early age of sixteen she was surrounded by a host
of admirers, and there is but little doubt that she was one of
the most decided coquettes that ever existed, but beyond this
pretty piece of female folly we sincerely believe that there
was no indiscretion; though a letter written by herself, ad
dressed to Miss Saunders, would almost lead us to imagine
even something beyond it, if that letter be genuine.  She
was admitted to be a model of personal beauty, and the
charms of the fair Maid of Bath were universally acknowledged. As a public singer, she, was naturally exposed to allurements and temptations, and was very probably obliged to
listen to offers which, in her heart, she might disdain. The
catalogue of her lovers is somewhat long. Halhed, the poetic  J
partner of Sheridan, was not only one, but even Sheridan's
own brother Charles entertained a passion for her. Norria


J




LIFE OF SHERIDAN.


17


who was supposed to have sung himself into her affections;
Mr. Watts, a gentleman commoner of Oxford; Mr. Long,
a man of large fortune; Sir Thomas Clarges, and several
others less known to fame, swelled up a long list. But every
student at Oxford, where she sang at the oratorios, was enchanted with this beautiful girl, to whom the title of the divine St. Cecilia was unanimously given. Nothing seemed to
fright the University from its propriety so much as a rumour
that was industriously circulated that one youth, happier
than the rest, had found the soft hour when she had listened,
and had consented to accompany him to Scotland, and that a
splendid fortune was the result of this matrimonial adventure.
Whatever may have been the merits of these candidates
for her love, neither poetry in the shape of Halhed, music
in that of Norris, nor wealth in others, had power to move her.
Whatever may have been the earlier fancies of her heartand there seems, from her own confession, to have been
some-Richard Brinsley Sheridan had silently, and unsuspiciously, succeeded in winning her affections, and in wooing
her for his bride; he contrived, for all is fair in love, to
mystify Halhed, to blind his brother Charles, to make the
man she fancied that she loved actually odious in her eyes,
and by dint of some persuasive power, which lovers only understand, wove a web around her from which there was no
possibility of escaping, and eventually carried her off in spite
of parents and of lovers, of threats and of swords.
Amongst the characteristics of the ancient city of King
Bladud is a lively curiosity, and an innate love of becoming
intimately acquainted with the particularities of every body
and of every thing, which furnishes forth rich food for constant prattle.  Any thing connected with an individual so
x    gifted as Miss Linley, naturally excited the peculiarly inquisitive thirst after subjects for conversation, and soon there arose
this matter of a singularly gratifying description for them,
of which they failed not to avail themselves; and their appetites were richly tickled by a series of occurrences that involved Miss Linley, Sheridan, and Mr. Matthews, a gentleman of fortune, as principals; and as accessories, the master of ceremonies, Capt. Wade, Capt. Paumier, and several
men moving in the highest circles; and they were commented




18


LIFE OF SHERIDAN.


on in the " Bath Herald," conducted by Meyler, a man o(f corsiderable ability, and in the " Bath Chronicle" under the direction of Richard Cratwell.
Captain Matthews was the possessor of a large property in
Wales, and usually passed the season at Bath in the enjoy
ment of those gratifications which the fashionable city afforded. He was not altogether, what Leigh Hunt has designated him, a married blackguard, but a man of elegant exterior, and whatever may have been his folly, with regard
to Miss Linley, of kindly disposition, of lively manners,
and of agreeable conversation, nor was he deficient in intellectual power; and had he bestowed as much time on the cultivation of any of the arts or sciences as he did upon whist,
he might have become a useful member of society: but to this
game his life was devoted, and the treatise, for a long period
the whist player's grammar, which he wrote upon it, evinces
that he did not consider it as a means of passing an idle
hour, but as a study requiring observation, memory, and the
powers of calculation. When the events, about to be narrated,
were almost forgotten, and the obloquy, which had been heaped:
upon him in certain circles, was somewhat washed away by
the healing hand of time, Captain Matthews became the
centre of a circle, every member of which entertained a strong
regard for him, and listened with respect and confidence to
his own relation of all the facts, which were much at variance
with those detailed by Moore, in his life of Sheridan, and by
those who were, from their connection with Sheridan, inclined
to believe the statement which from the beginning he had
made. Led away by the opinion that prevailed at that period that every female who came prominently before the pub
lie was open to the attentions of any man of sufficient fortune
to make a handsome settlement, Captain Matthews became a
professed admirer of Miss Linley. Admitted into the bosom
of the family, he, according to the assertion of Sheridan and
of Miss Linley, forgot his own position as a married man, and
with more than the usual licence of the times persevered in
offers, which, at any rate, were received at first with love and
affection, but afterwards with indignation and with expressions of abhorrence. In public he was her constant shadow,
and appeared determined to prevent any other man from approaching her too nearly, and this it was said arose from a




LIFE OF SHERIDAN.


19


wish on his part to make it appear that he had succeeded
in the lawless object of his incessant desire, and that having
failed to make any impression upon her by entreaties, by pres ents, by threats of the committal of suicide, he sought to
accomplish his wishes by the ruin of her character, and the
dissemination of the vilest calumnies, which would for ever
blast her reputation. To her father she dared not breathe a
syllable against this individual, for he was courted and respected by her family; but at length she was determined to
disclose to Sheridan, who had already gained her heart, the
painful position in which she was placed. After a consultation
with his sister, the singular step of a flight to the continent
was resolved upon, an elopement took place, and a marriage
at a village in the neighbourhood of Calais was the consequence; but as it was deemed right to keep the ceremony a
secret, she afterwards went to a convent at Lisle, there to
remain till such time as Sheridan might publicly claim her
as his wife.
Miss Linley's extraordinary letter, which has fortunately
been preserved, will best explain her share in these events.
"Bath, May 2, 1772.
' After so long a silence, and after the many unfavourable
ieports which must, I dare say, have prejudiced my dear
friend against me, how shall I endeavour to vindicate a conduct which has but too much deserved her censure? But if
my dear friend will suspend her judgment till I have made
her acquainted with my real motives, I flatter myself she will
rather be induced to pity than condemn me.
" At the time I wrote last, my mind was in a state of distraction not to be conceived; but I little thought, then,
I should ever be forced to the cruel necessity of leaving
my friends, and becoming an exile from every thing I hold
dear.
" In your answer to that letter, you hinted that you thought
I loved Mr. R-, and that that was the cause of my uneasiness; but in that you, as well as many others, have been deceived. I confess myself greatly to blame in my behaviour
to him; but I cannot explain myself on this subject, without
acquainting you with the first cause of every uneasiness and
indiscretion I have since been guilty of  Let me, then, my
c a




20


LIFE OF SHERIDAN.


dear girl, beg your patience; for, though my story is long,
and not very enlivening, yet such is the affection I have for
you, that I cannot bear to think it possible, by the various
reports which are so industriously propagated, I may entirely
lose your good opinion and esteem-a thing of all others I
should most regret. Excuse my being tedious; and when
you know the motive which induced me to take this last step,
I flatter myself you will once more restore me to your friendship.
" At the age of twelve years, I was brought from the country, where I had been all my life, and introduced into public,
with a heart capable of receiving the softest impressions, and
too sincere ever to suspect deceit in another. I was led into
scenes of dissipation, when reason and experience were not
allowed to assist me in the many temptations which ever surrounded a young girl in such a situation. But, though my
credulity often made me feel for the pretended distresses of
others, yet my heart was entirely free from love, nor could I
be seduced by flattery and compliments; I always considered
them as words of course; and never looked upon those people as my friends who made too much use of them.
"In an evil hour my father was introduced to Mr. Matthews,
as one who wished to serve him. My father, who is, like me,
too apt to believe every one his friend who professes himself
so, gladly embraced the opportunity of gaining the friendship of
a man who had it in his power to be of service to him in his
business: little did he think he was seeking the serpent who
was designed to sting his heart. Mr. Matthews, from the first
moment he saw me, resolved to make me his prey, and (child
as I then was) left no means untried to make himself master
of my affections, thinking but too justly that an impression
fixed so early in life could not easily be removed. If it were
possible to describe the many arts he made use of to effect
this end, you would, I am sure, at once excuse me; but as
these are not to be conceived by any one but those who are
capable of acting so basely, I must still rely on your goodness.
For three years he never ceased his assiduities to me; and
though at times my conscience would upbraid me, yet by his
respectful behaviour, his counterfeit distress, and by averring
sentiments foreign to his heart, he made me, instead of flying
from him, not only pity him, but promise him my friendship




LTFE OF SHERIDAN.


21


This was my first fault; he saw too plainly that he was not
indifferent to me, and made use of every artifice to increase
my regard.
" About this time the people began to take notice of his particular behaviour to me, and my friends all spoke to my father
to hinder my seeing him; but my father, thinking that my youth
was a sufficient safeguard for me, and unwilling to lose, as he
thought, a good friend, took no notice of this first alarm. I
' then began to feel myself, for the first time, wretchedly involved
in an unhappy passion for a man whom (though I thought
him equally to be pitied) yet it was criminal in me even to
think of. When he went into the country for the summer, I
resolved, whatever it cost me, to tear him from my heart, and
when he returned, to avoid him everywhere.  With these
resolutions I consoled myself till winter. When he returned,
he had not been in town a week before we had repeated invi*      tations to his house. Conscious that I could never forget
him, if I was always to be exposed to his solicitations, I informed my mother of every thing he had said to me, and, at
the same time, told her how far he had gained my heart.
* " Oh, my dear friend, had my mother but then acted properly, I had now been happy; but she, too much attached to
interest, laughed at my uneasiness, and told me that novels
had turned my head; and that I fancied, if any one was civil
to me, he must certainly be in love. She desired I would
put such thoughts out of my head; for no man could tIdink
seriously of such a child. Thus was I again led into temptation, and exposed to all the artifices of a man whom I already
loved but too well, and who was but too sensible of it. I
could not fly from the danger; after my first reproof, I was
ashamed to mention it again to my mother, and I had every
thing to fear from my father's violent temper.
" For another year we went on in the same manner; till, at
last, finding it impossible to conquer my inclinations, he soon
brought me to a confession of my weakness, which has been
the cause of all my distress. That obstacle removed, many
others fell of course, and the next season he prevailed on me
to meet him at the house of a friend, as we were not permitted
to talk together in public. During this time I had many
offers of marriage very much to my advantage; but I re



LIFE OF STTRIDAN.:


fused them all. So far had he gained my love, that I resolved never to marry.
" About this time, Mr. Long addressed me. You know by
what means I was induced to suffer his visits, though you do
not know likewise that another great motive was the hope of
forgetting Matthews, and retiring into solitude. After I had
consented to receive Mr. Long's visits, I forbade Matthews
ever to speak to me; to the consequences of which you yourself were witness. He immediately pretended to be dying,
and by that artifice very nearly made me really so. You
know how ill I was for a long time. At last he wrote me
word, that he must see me once more; that he would then
take a final leave of me, and quit the kingdom directly; but
he could not resolve to go without seeing me. I was weak
enough to comply with his request, as I thought it would be
the last time.
" Some way or other, my mother was told of it, when she
taxed me with it. I immediately confessed every thing that
had passed since I first acquainted her with his behaviour.
She was at first greatly enraged; but on my telling her how
unexceptionably he had behaved, she was pacified, and consented to conceal it from my father. And indeed, my dear,
had any impartial person been present at our meeting, they
would have thought Matthews the most unhappy but amiable
man in the world; his behaviour was always consistent with
the strictest honour; nor did he ever, in the smallest degree,
give me any reason to think he had any intentions that were
in the least alarming to my virtue. Deceived by such conduct, his merit shone more conspicuous; nor did I wish to
get the better of my passion for one whom I thought every
way so worthy of it. I considered myself as the cause of all
his wretchedness, and thought it would be the height of cruelty
if I did not endeavour to alleviate it. But to proceed; my
mother resolved to see Matthews herself, and therefore insisted that I should write, and desire to see him again that
evening. I did so, and my mother went in my place. You
may imagine he was very much surprised at seeing her. She
went with a full resolution to upbraid him; yet so far did his
arts prevail, that he not only made her forgive but pity him,
and promise that this should never make any alteration in




LIFE OF SHERIDAlN.


23


our behaviour to him; and we would still continue our visits
and intimacy with him. He promised, however, that he
never would for the future attempt to see me.
" About this time my marriage with Mr. Long broke off, and
my father went to London to commence a law-suit. During
the time he was absent, I went on a visit to Mr. and Mrs.
Norton, where you saw me. She had been informed by undoubted authority that my father would not only lose his suit,
but that I should be exposed to the public court; as Mr
Long had been informed of my meeting Matthews, and intended to make use of that as a plea in court. This being
told me suddenly, and at a time when my spirits were greatly
distressed, flung me into a high fever. I lost my senses some
time, and when I recovered was so weak, and had such strong
symptoms of a rapid decline, that, when my father returned,
I was sent to the Wells to drink the waters. While I was
there, I was told that Matthews, during my illness, had
spoken disrespectfully of me in public, and had boasted it
was owing to my love for him I was so ill. This behaviour
from one for whom I had suffered so much shocked me
greatly, and I resolved in my first heat of passion that he
should not have it in his power to triumph over my weakness.
The resentment I felt was of service to me, as it roused me
from a state of stupid despondence, which perhaps would have
occasioned my death. It was then that you received my first
letter, which must have shown you in what a wretched state
of mind I was.
" When I had so far recovered my spirits and health as to be
able to walk and ride, I became acquainted with Mr. R-,
who, from the first time he saw me, was particular in his
behaviour to me.  I did not at first observe it, and, as I
thought him an agreeable man, and one who I was told bore
an unexceptionable character, I did not avoid him so much
as I certainly ought. I wished, likewise, by turning my attention to him, to eradicate every impression of Matthews;
but, though Mr. R. behaved with the greatest delicacy, I
found it impossible for me to love him. I went on in this
manner some time, and by Mr. R.'s attention to me incurred
the ill will of all the ladies, who did not spare to censure
my conduct; but as I was conscious in my own heart of no ill,
and wished to convince Matthews he had not so much reason




24


LIFE OF 0HERIDAN.


to boast of his conquest, I paid very little attention to the
envy of the women.
" Mr. R —    had not, as yet, made any professions; but one
day he confessed to me that he loved me, but that it was not
in his power to marry publicly, as he was entirely dependent
on his father, except a pension which he had; but, at the
same time, begged me to consent to marry him privately, and
to go off with him to any part of the world, till his father
died; when he said he would marry me again in the face of
the world. This proposal, had I loved him, I should certainly have rejected; but, in the state of mind I then was, I
was very angry, and refused seeing him for a great while.
" At this time, Mr. and Mrs. Norton came over to be with
me, as they had heard of R-. Through his means, Mr.
R — entreated me to forgive him, and permit him to be on
the footing of a friend, and assured me I never should have
farther cause to be offended with him. As Mr. Norton,
under whose protection I then was, had no objection, and as I
really had an esteem for Mr. R —, and thought him a good
young man, I consented, and we continued to walk and ride
together, but never without Mr. Norton. I was thus situated
when Matthews came to the Wells in his road to Wales.
He had been extremely ill at Bath, and when I saw him in
the public walk at the Wells I could scarce keep myself from
fainting. There was such an alteration in his person that I
could not believe it possible. He spoke to me once in the
walk, and asked me if I resolved to be his death, declared
his illness proceeded from the accounts he had heard of me
and R —, and that he was now going into the country to
die. You may be sure I was greatly affected with his words;
but, as I had suffered so much in my reputation by being
seen with him, I would not stay to explain myself, or upbraid
him with his behaviour to me; I merely told him that the
only way to convince me of his sincerity was to leave me, and
never see me more. I left him immediately, and went home
where, soon after, a lady informed me he had fainted in the
Long Room, and that his friends had taken him to Wales,
given over by all. This news made me relapse, and had very
nearly cost me my life, till I heard again that he was well,
and in good spirits, laughing at my distress, and exulting in
the success of his scheme. This once more raised my re



LIFE OF SHERIDAN.


25


sentment, and I was resolved to encourage Mr. R —; and
though I could not consent to go off with him, I told him,
(with my father's consent,) that when it was in his power,
if he still retained his love for me, and I was free from
any other engagements, I would marry him. When I returned to Bath, he followed me, but, as he was very much
talked of, I would not suffer him to be so particular. When he
was going to D —, he begged me to give him a letter to you,
that he might, by you, sometimes hear from me; as I refused
to correspond with him. As I wished to have my dear girl's
opinion of him, I was not unwilling to trust him with a letter,
in which I mentioned something relative to my misfortunes;
but luckily mentioned no names, nor could he, if he had read
it, understand whom or what it meant. He wrote to me that
he was in D —, but never mentioned your name, which I
was surprised at, and as I had not heard any thing from you,
was a good deal hurt, thinking you would not keep your word
'   with me. In answer to his letter, I desired to know if he
had seen you, and begged to be informed of some other circumstances in his letter, which made me uneasy. To this I
received no answer, and the account you gave me afterwards,
convinced me that he was like all other men-deceitful. I
then gave him entirely up, and contented myself with thinking how unworthy all men were of a woman's affection!
*     "I was in this state of mind when Matthews returned;
when, in spite of all I could do or say, I was obliged to visit
them, and scarcely a day passed without my having some
conversation with him.  In these conversations he cleared
himself of the imputations alleged against him, and set my
conduct in such a point of view, that he made me appear the
criminal, and himself the injured person.  This and being
*  constantly with him, joined to his engaging behaviour, soon
regained him that love which had never been quite extin
guished. That gained, I was soon prevailed on to see him;
but this did not hinder him from behaving so particular in
public, that at last everybody talked of it, and many people
spoke to my father.
" I was one night going to bed, when I heard my father and
mother talking very loud, and my name and Matthews's were
repeated very often; this induced me to listen, and I heard
my mother tell my father that I was miserable, and that




LIFE OF SHERIDAN.


Matthews was equally wretched; that we had loved one another for these some years, and that she was sure it would be
my death. My father seemed sometimes to pity and sometimes to condemn me, but at last he resolved I should never
see him again. In the morning, when I came to breakfast, my
spirits were low, and I could not refrain from tears; this soon
brought on an explanation with my father, to whom I confessed every thing that had passed; his behaviour was tender
to a degree, and by that method he gained more upon me
than if he had treated me harshly. Anger I can withstand,
but tenderness I never could. My father, after many arguments, wherein he convinced me of the folly, if not wickedness, of such a connection, made me promise never to see him
more, and told me he would break off all intercourse with the
family immediately.  In the afternoon of this day Mrs.
Sheridan called, by Matthews's desire, to know the reason
why they had not seen me that day.
" Old Mr. Sheridan (who is now in Dublin) is my father's
particular friend. When they came to settle in Bath, the
strictest intimacy commenced between our families.  Miss
Sheridan is the only person (besides yourself) that I would
place any confidence in; she is one of the worthiest girls
breathing, and we have been always united in the strictest
friendship. The same connection subsists between our two
younger sisters. There are two brothers, who, on our first
acquaintance, both professed to love me; but, though I had
the greatest esteem for them, I never gave either of them
the least hope that I should ever look on them in any other
light than as the brothers of my friend; I own I preferred
the youngest, as he is by far the most agreeable in person,
understanding, and accomplishments. He is a very amiable
young man, beloved by every one, and greatly respected by
all the better sort of people in Bath. He became acquainted
with Matthews, and was at first deceived in him, but he soon
discovered the depravity of his heart, under the specious
appearance of virtue, which he at times assumed; but, per
ceiving the attachment between us, he resolved to make use
of a little art to endeavour if he could to save me from such a
villain. For this purpose, he disguised his real sentiments,
and became the most intimate friend of Matthews, who at
last entrusted him with all his designs in regard to me, and




LIFE OF SHERIDAN.


27


boasted to him how cleverly he had deceived me; for that I
believed him to be an angel.
". Excuse my being thus tedious, but it was necessary to let
you so far into my connection with the Sheridans, before I
could account for my behaviour latterly.
"When Mr. Sheridan came to me in the evening, I only
told him something had happened to make me uneasy; but
bid him tell Matthews I would write to him. I accordingly
wrote, and told him every circumstance that had happened,
*   showed him how impossible it was for us to continue any
such connection, and begged (for still I thought him worthy)
that he would write to tell me he was convinced by my arguments, and that we might part friends, though unhappy ones.
*   He wrote to me, and comforted me greatly by assuring me
of his approbation of my conduct, and that he was ready to
acquiesce in any thing to make me happy, as he was unwilling
to see my father. Mr. Sheridan was appointed to settle
every thing; he accordingly came to my father, and told him
what Matthews had said, and that he intended to write to my
father and bind himself in the most solemn manner never to
*   see me again. My father was satisfied with this, and pitied
Matthews greatly. He kept his word, and my father was
happy that he had settled every thing so amicably.
" Mr. Sheridan was with me every day, and did every thing
in his power to make me happy. He said if Matthews ever
broke his word to my father, he never would be seen with
him again; as he had engaged him in the affair, he was resolved to act the part of a man of honour. I applauded his
sentiments, but said I thought it impossible that Matthews
ever should;-the next day convinced me how cruelly I had
deceived myself. I received a letter from Matthews, wherein
*   he told me he was going to London, but would return in less
than two months, and if I did not consent to see him sometimes, he would shoot himself that instant. He said my an-.   swer would determine his fate. This letter flung me into
fits, as I must either break my word to my father, or consent
to the death of the man, on whose life my own depended.
At last I wrote and expostulated with him once more on the
baseness of such a proceeding. This letter, instead of having the wished effect, produced another still more alarming;
*     in this he flung off the tender behaviour for which I al.




OQ


T IU 'l /fti QTl'tTtr AT




ways loved him, and put on the language of a tyrant-told
me he would see me, that no father on earth should hinder
him, and if I would not consent, he would take me off by
force. I answered this with some warmth, as I began to see
I had been deceived in him. I then insisted he should never
write to me again; but he contrived to make me read a letter
directed in another hand, wherein he told me we had both
been deceived through some mistake; said he had something
to communicate of the utmost consequence to my future happiness; and if I would indulge him with ten minutes' conversation, he never after would desire to see me again; but if I
refused this last request, I must expect the worst.
" Terrified as I was, with no friend to advise me, I at last
consented, and appointed an hour, but the moment he saw
me, he locked the door, and drawing a pistol from his pocket
uttered the most horrid imprecations; and swore if I would
not bind myself by the most solemn oaths to see him again on
his return from London, he would shoot himself before my face.
Think, my dear girl, on my cruel situation; what could I do?
Half distracted, I told him I would do any thing rather than
see him commit so rash an action. This was Saturday, and
I promised him (if I was alive) to see him on Wednesday
evening during the concert. On this condition he let me go.
"I was to spend the day with Miss Sheridan, who was ill
with the tooth-ache. All the time I was with her, I was resolving in my own mind what way I was to act. To break
my word with my father was impossible. If I did not see
Matthews, I expected worse to ensue. What resource was
there left? At length (I tremble while I write) I came to
the horrid resolution of destroying my own wretched being,
as the only means to prevent my becoming still more guilty,
and saving my parents from still more distress. With these
horrid thoughts, I searched Miss Sheridan's room for some
laudanum, which I knew she had for the tooth-ache; I found
a small bottle full, and put it in my pocket.
" The next day (Sunday), after church, I left my mother and
sisters walking. I sat down, made my will, and wrote a
letter to my father, and one to Matthews. While I was
about it, Mr. Sheridan came in; he had observed me taking
the laudanum, and when he saw me writing, he seemed very
much alarmed. At last, after swearing him to secrecy, I told




LIFE OF SHERTIDAN.


29


lim what I intended to do, and begged him to take charge of
the letters. He used every argument in the world to dissuade me from it; but finding them all useless, he entreated.:     me at least not to take it till the afternoon, as he then would
tell me something which he was sure would make me lay
aside such thoughts entirely. Fearful of his betraying me.
I consented; but the moment he was gone took half the
quantity, and after dinner, finding it had no effect, I took
the rest. My fears were true. He had gone to Dr. Harrington and Dr. W., and begged of them for God's sake to go to
our house that night, in case I should have taken it before
he returned in the evening. When he came I was on the
settee in a state of lethargy. He immediately ran for the
doctors; but before they could give me any assistance, I
dropped down, as they thought, dead. I lay for some time
in that dreadful state, till by force they opened my teeth, and
poured something down my throat, which made me bring up
a great deal of the poison.
" To describe the distress of my family at this time is impossible; but such a scene by all accounts cannot be conceived
or imagined. It was happy for me that I was insensible of
it, as it would certainly have had a severer effect upon me
than all the poison.
"( After I had taken every thing that was proper, I was put
to bed, where I passed the night in the most dreadful agonies
of mind, at the thoughts of what would be the consequence of
this affair.
" Monday evening, Sheridan came to me. He expostulated
with me with the greatest tenderness, and showed me the
dreadful crime I had been about to commit. and for one who
was every way unworthy of my least consideration. He then
told me every circumstance relative to myself, which Matthews
* had told him. He showed me letters he had received from
him, and wherein his villany was fully explained.
" Judge what must be my feelings, on finding the man, for
whom I had sacrificed life, fortune, reputation, every thing
that was dear, the most abandoned wretch that ever existed
In his last letter to Sheridan he had told him that I had
given him so much trouble, that he had the greatest inclina
* tion to give me up, but his vanity would not let him do that
without having gained his point. He therefore said he was




80


LTFE OF SHERIDAIT.


resolved the next time I met him to throw off the mask, and
if I would not consent to make myself still more infamous, to
force me, and then leave me to repent at leisure. He then
told how he had acted on Saturday; and that I had promised
to see him on Wednesday. He then said he would suffi3iently revenge himself for all the trouble I had given him;
but if I changed my mind, and would not see him, he was resolved to carry me off by force. The moment I read this
horrid letter I fainted, and it was some time before I could
recover my senses sufficiently to thank Mr. Sheridan for his
opening my eyes. He said he had made Matthews believe
he was equally infamous, that he might the sooner know his
designs; but he said it was not in his power to appear on a
friendly footing any longer with such a villain. Mr. Sheridan
then asked me what I designed to do. I told him my mind
was in such a state of distraction, between anger, remorse,
and fear, that I did not know what I should do; but as
Matthews had declared he would ruin my reputation, I was
resolved never to stay in Bath. He then first proposed my
going to France, and entering a convent, where he said I
should be safe from all kind of danger, and in time I might
recover my peace and tranquillity of mind; his sister would
give me letters of recommendation to St. Quintin, where she
had been four years, and he would go with me to protect me,
and after he had seen me settled, he would return to England, and place my conduct in such a light that the world
would applaud and not condemn me
" You may be assured I gladly embraced his offer, as I had
the highest opinion of him. He accordingly settled every
thing; so that we resolved to go on that fatal Wednesday
which was to determine my fate. Miss Sheridan came to
me, approved the scheme, and helped me in putting up my
clothes. I kept up my spirits very well till the day came,
and then I thought I should go distracted. To add to my
affliction, my mother miscarried the day before, owing to the
fright of Sunday. the being obliged to leave her in such a
situation, with the thoughts of the distress in which my whole
family would be involved, made me almost give up my resolution; but, on the other hand, so many circumstances concurred to make it absolutely necessary, that I was, in short,
almost distracted.




LIFE OF SHERIDAN.


31


"At last Sheridan came with two chairs, and having put mo
half fainting into one, and my trunks into the other, I was
carried to a coach that waited in Walcot Street. Sheridan: '    had engaged the wife of one of his servants to go with me as
a maid without my knowledge. You may imagine how pleased
I was with his delicate behaviour  Before he could follow
the chairs he met Matthews, who was going to our house,
as I had not undeceived him for fear of the consequence.
*       Sheridan framed some excuse, and after telling him that my
mother had miscarried, and that the house was in such confu'*     sion it was impossible for him to go in, begged he would go
to his sister's, and wait there till he sent for him, as he had
an affair of honour on his hands, and perhaps should want
his assistance; by this means he got rid of him.
" We arrived in London about nine o'clock the next morning. From London we went to Dunkirk by sea, where we
were recommended to an English family, who treated me
very politely. I changed my name to Harley, as I thought
my own rather too public. From thence we proceeded to
Lisle, where by chance Sheridan met with an old schoolfellow, who immediately introduced us to an English family,
with whom he boarded. They were very amiable people, and
recommended us to a convent, which we resolved to accept
without going farther.
"Adieu! my dear girl, and believe me yours,
"E. LINLEY."
Miss Linley was at that time but eighteen years of age,
and was under articles of apprenticeship to her father until
the age of twenty-one, but she was in possession of ~3000,
which she had obtained under singular circumstances. Mr..     Long, a man of fortune, had wooed her for his wife, but she
had avowed to him that, if obliged to marry him, she could
never bestow her affections on him; he not only resigned
himself to his disappointment, but actually took it upon himself to be the responsible cause of the breaking off the match,
and paid the sum mentioned as an indemnity for the breach
of covenant. Mr. Linley went to Lisle, and, after an explanation with Sheridan, it was resolved that his daughter should
fulfil her engagement to him, and they returned together to
England


k.0




82                LIFE OF SHERIDAN.
Scarcely had the elopement become known in Bath, than
Matthews, breathing nothing but fury and rage, inserted an
advertisement in the " Bath Chronicle," in which he stated
that Mr. Richard Sheridan had left behind him a letter "to
account for his scandalous method of running away from the
place by insinuations derogatory to his character, ard that of
a young lady innocent as far as relates to him or to his knowledge;" and then bestows on him the most scurrilous epithets,
and denounces "some malevolent incendiaries concerned in
the propagation of this infamous lie," whom he threatens to
~chastise in the most public manner. Sheridan having read
these accusations in France, and received letters containing
the most abusive threats from Matthews, he determined to
meet his opponent face to face, and declared that he would
not lie down to sleep until he had obtained an ample apology.
The details of the first duel are of the most extraordinary
character, and reflect no honour either upon the principals or
their seconds, and the long war of words subsequent to it is
scarcely intelligible.
Their first meeting in Hyde Park was a most ridiculous
rencontre ending in nothing; and, fearful of observations, they
thence retired to a coffee-house; and the scene that ensued, of
which we have a minute description furnished in a published
letter of Sheridan, is one over which the biographer may as
well draw a veil, as so much of mystification exists that it
would be difficult to arrive at a fair conclusion. The most
favourable inference is, that Sheridan, unacquainted with the
law of duelling-he could not be of fencing-for he had been
a pupil of Angelo's, rushed in upon Matthews's guard somewhat unseasonably, and at the point of the sword obtained an
apology. Be the circumstances what they may, the partizans
of each of the duellists were busily occupied in relating the
affair according to their own views; each insinuating that
much was withheld by the other. The apology, however, was
ample. Matthews retracted what he had said, and begged
pardon for the advertisement in the " Chronicle." A second
duel was determined on, according to Moore's version of the
tale, in consequence of the coolness with which Matthews found
himself received in Wales, and the interference of a Mr. Barnett, whose duelling propensities were to be gratified, whilst
the mortification of his principal was to be thus relieved  but




LIFE OF SHERTDAN


33


those who read even Sheridan's own statement must acknow
ledge that the first duel was, to the duellists of that day, little
more than a disgraceful scuffle, and that the fact of Sheridau's
breaking his adversary's sword was quite enough to justify a
second meeting. The following letter addressed to Captain
Knight must be read.
"Sir,-On the evening preceding my last meeting with
Mr. Matthews, Mr. Barnett* produced a paper to me, written
by Mr. Matthews, containing an account of our former meetings in London. As I had before frequently heard of Mr.
Matthews's relation of that affair, without interesting myself
much in contradicting it, I should certainly have treated this
in the same manner, had it not been seemingly authenticated
by Mr. Knight's name being subscribed to it. My asserting
that the paper contains much misrepresentation, equivocation,
and falsity, might make it appear strange that I should apply
to you in this manner for information on the subject: but,
as it likewise contradicts what I have been told were Mr.
Knight's sentiments and assertions on that affair, 1 think I
owe it to his credit, as well as my own justification, 'first, to
be satisfied from himself whether he really subscribed and will
support the truth of the account shown by Mr. Matthews.
Give me leave previously to relate what I have affirmed to
have been a real state of our meeting in London, and which
I am now ready to support on my honour, or my oath, as the
best account I can give of Mr. Matthews's relation is, that it
is almost directly opposite to mine.
"Mr. Ewart accompanied me to Hyde Park, about six m
the evening, where we met you and Mr. Matthews, and we
walked together to the ring.  Mr. Matthews refusing to
make any other acknowledgment than he had done, I observed that we were come to the ground: Mr. Matthews
objected to the spot, and appealed to you. We proceeded to
the back of a building on the other side of the ring, the
ground was there perfectly level. I called on him, and drew
my sword (he having previously declined pistols). Mr. Ewart
observed a sentinel on the other side of the building; we
advanced to another part of the park. I stopped again at a
* The friend of Matthews in the second duel.
J)




84


LIFE OF SHERIDAN.


seemingly convenient place: Mr. Matthews objected to tho
observation of some people at a great distance, and proposed
to retire to the Hercules' Pillars till the park should be
clear: we did so.  In a little time we returned. I again
drew my sword; Mr. Matthews again objected to the observation of a person who seemed to watch us. Mr. Ewart observed that the chance was equal, and engaged that no one
should stop him, should it be necessary for him to retire to
the gate, where we had a chaise and four, which was equally
at his service.  Mr. Matthews declared that he would not
engage while any one was within sight, and proposed to defer
it till next morning. I turned to you and said that 'this was
trifling work,' that I could not admit of any delay, and engaged to remove the gentleman (who proved to be an officer,
and who, on my going up to him, and assuring him that
any interposition would be ill timed, politely retired). Mr.
Matthews, in the mean time, had returned towards the gate;
Mi. Ewart and I called to you, and followed. We returned
to the Hercules' Pillars, and went from thence, by agreement, to the Bedford Coffee House, where, the master being
alarmed, you came and conducted us to Mr. Matthews at the
Castle Tavern, Henrietta Street. Mr. Ewart took lights up
in his hand, and almost immediately on our entering the
room we engaged. I struck Mr. Matthews's point so much
out of the line, that I stepped up and caught hold of his
wrist, or the hilt of his sword, while the point of mine was at
his breast. You ran in and caught hold of my arm, exclaiming, 'Don't kill him.' I struggled to disengage my arm, and
said his sword was in my power. Mr. Matthews called out
twice or thrice, 'I beg my life'-We were parted.   You
immediately said, 'There, he has begged his life, and now
there is an end of it;' and on Mr. Ewart's saying that when
his sword was in my power, as I attempted no more, you
should not have interfered, you replied that you were wrong,
but that you had done it hastily and to prevent mischief-or
words to that effect. Mr. Matthews then hinted that I was
rather obliged to your interposition for the advantage; you
declared that 'before you did so, both the swords were in
Mr. Sheridan's power.' Mr. Matthews still seemed resolved
to give it another turn, and observed that he had never
quitted his sword. Provoked at this, I then swore (with too




LIFE OF SHERIDAN.


35


much heat, perhaps) that he should either give up his sword
and I would break it, or go to his guard again. He refused*     but, on my persisting, either gave it into my hand, or flung
it on the table, or the ground (which, I will not absolutely
affirm). I broke it, and flung the hilt to the other end of
the room. He exclaimed at this. I took a mourning sword
from Mr. Ewart, and presenting him with mine, gave my
honour that what had passed should never be mentioned by
me, and he might now right himself again. He replied that
he 'would never draw a sword against the man who had given
him his life:'-but, on his still exclaiming against the indignity of breaking his sword, (which he had brought upon himself,) Mr. Ewart offered him the pistols, and some altercation
passed between them.  Mr. Matthews said, that he could
never show his face if it were known how his sword was
broke-that such a thing had never been done-that it cancelled all obligations, &c., &c. You seemed to think it was
wrong, and we both proposed, that if he never misrepresented
the affair, it should not be mentioned by us. This was
settled. I then asked Mr. Matthews, whether (as he had
expressed himself sensible of, and shocked at the injustice
and indignity he had done me in his advertisement) it did
not occur to him that he owed me another satisfaction; and
that, as it was now in his power to do it without discredit, I
supposed he would not hesitate. This he absolutely refused,
unless conditionally: I insisted on it, and said I would not
leave the room till it was settled. After much altercation,
and with much ill-grace, he gave the apology, which afterwards appeared.  We parted, and I returned immediately
to Bath.  I there, to Colonel Gould, Captain Wade, Mr.
Creaser, and others, mentioned the affair to Mr. Matthews's
credit-said that chance had given me the advantage, Mr.
Matthews had consented to that apology, and mentioned
nothing of the sword. Mr. Matthews came down, and in two
days I found the whole affair had been stated in a different
light, and insinuations given out to the same purpose as in
the paper, which has occasioned this trouble.  I had un
doubted authority that these accounts proceeded from Mr
Matthews, and likewise that Mr. Knight had never had any
share in them. I then thought I no longer owed Mr. MatD 2




8so


LIFE OF SHERIDAN.


thews the compliment to conceal any circumstance, and I
related the affair to several gentlemen exactly as above.
" Now, Sir, as I have put down nothing in this account but
upon the most assured recollection, and as Mr. Matthews's
paper either directly or equivocally contradicts almost every
article of it, and as your name is subscribed to that paper, I
flatter myself that I have a right to expect your answer to
the following questions. First,
"Is there any falsity or misrepresentation in what I have
advanced above?
" With regard to Mr. Matthews's paper-did I, in the
park, seem in the smallest article inclined to enter into conversation with Mr. Matthews? He insinuates that I did.
" Did Mr. Matthews not beg his life? He affirms he did
not.
" Did I break his sword without warning? He affirms I
did it without warning, on his laying it on the table.
"Did I not offer him mine? He omits it.
"Did Mr. Matthews give me the apology, as a point of
generosity, on my desisting to demand it? He affirms he
did.
"I shall now gwe my reasons for doubting your having
authenticated this paper.
" 1. Because I think it full of falsehood and misrepresentation, and Mr. Knight has the character of a man of truth
and honour.
" 2. When you were at Bath, I was informed that you had
never expressed any such sentiments.
" 3 I have been told that, in Wales, Mr. Matthews never
told his story in the presence of Mr. Knight, who had never
there insinuated any thing to my disadvantage.
" 4. The paper shown me by Mr. Barnett contains (if my
memory does not deceive me) three separate sheets of writing-paper.  Mr. Knight's evidence is annexed to the last,
which contains chiefly a copy of our first proposed advertisements, which Mr. Matthews had, in Mr. Knight's presence,
agreed should be destroyed as totally void; and which (in a
letter to Colonel Gould, by whom I had insisted on it) he
declared upon his honour he knew nothing about, nor should
ever make the least use of.




LIFE OF SHERIDAN.


" These, Sir, are my reasons for applying to yourself, in
preference to any appeal to Mr. Ewart, my second on that
occasion, which is what I would wish to avoid. As for Mr.
Matthews's assertions, I shall never be concerned at them
I have ever avoided any verbal altercation with that gentle
man, and he has now secured himself from any other.
"I am your very humble servant,
"R. B. SHERIDAN."
The second duel took place near Bath: there is something
exceedingly ludicrous in the descriptions which have appeared
of this ferocious rencontre. Captain Matthews was anxious
to have recourse to pistols, fearful that Sheridan, if the sword
was employed, wound again rush in upon him, and that an
ungentlemanly scuffle would be the consequence; he was, however, overruled, not by any arguments or by any decision, but
by Sheridan drawing his sword and advancing upon Matthews
in a vaunting manner; according to the " St. James's Chronicle" of July 4th, "Both their swords breaking upon the first
lunge they threw each other down, and with the broken pieces
hacked at each other rolling upon the ground, the seconds
standing by quiet spectators." The newspapers teemed with
the marvellous deeds of valour of both parties, but the favourite was young Sheridan. The letter of Mr. Barnett, the
second of Matthews, descriptive of the scene, was not so satisfactory, however, to this hero of the drama as might be expected; for he declared that Mr. Matthews discovered as
much genuine cool and intrepid resolution as man could do,
and that Sheridan's wounds, which were proclaimed to be of a
most terrific character, were but skin deep, and that the fist
or the hilt of the sword, was as likely to have produced them
as the weapons used.
Certain it is that the second duel was received as a most
apocryphal proof of the gallantry of Sheridan; and it is an
undeniable fact that Matthews's version of the story was essentially different. There are many now resident in Bath who
remember to have heard him repeat his tale, in a consistent
manner, and who imagine that Moore was made acquainted
with it.
Matthews, who, even in his days of wrath, looked upon
Sheridan as an exceedingly delightful companion, and as a




LIFE OF SHERIDAN.


lover of practical jokes, always spoke of the duel as a specimen of the exhibition of these qualifications. He stated that
a friendly communication actually passed between them on
the night previous to the duel, amounting to an invitation
from Sheridan to sup with him and the seconds; that Sheridan
remained at table drinking claret until the time of appointment; that when he quitted it, he walked up Milsom Street,
and observing Captain Matthews's chaise waiting at the door
to take him to the spot, he reeled into it himself, and insisted
upon his seconds following his example; he then desired the
driver to proceed to the ground, which Matthews could not  '
have reached in time, had not the carriage of Captain Paumier taken him there. He found Sheridan in a high state of
excitement from potations deep. The duel soon commenced,
and, as described by Barnett, Sheridan rushed upon him and
tried to wrest his sword out of his grasp; he succeeded in
breaking it, and then fell down dragging Matthews upon him;
a few slight wounds were made, but the blood, of which so
much had been spoken, was, in fact, the claret discharged from
the stomach of Sheridan. It would be impossible to arrive
at any just conclusion from the statement of both parties.
The reply of Sheridan to the injurious reports in several
papers was so long delayed that it was at last forgotten. He
had requested Woodfall to print, in the " Morning Advertiser,"
the articles that reflected upon his own conduct, promising
to send his refutation; unfortunately, his request was complied
with, and the statements of his opponents were more largely
promulgated, whilst his defence, from his indolence, was never
to be read. Sheridan, however, became the theme of conversation and of curiosity: thus his first step in life led to notoriety, and in the minds of many to reputation, which he fortunately was capable of maintaining.
Immediately after the public announcement of their marnage, the young couple lived for a short time in retirement
at East Burnham, and it was soon generally promulgated that
the fair siren had retired from the musical world; the cause
was by some said to be her own dislike of appearing before
large audiences, by others, the delicacy of feeling on the part
of young Sheridan. The reputation which her talents had
acquired, the curiosity which her adventures had excited, led
every one to be anxious that Mrs. Sheridan should continue a




LIFE OF SHERIDAN.


39


profession which she had so much ornamented. She was, in.
deed, under an engagement to sing at the Triennial Festival
at Worcester, and the remuneration to which she would have
been entitled was one thousand pounds for twelve nights,
and this not for one year only, but for several seasons; besides which, it was averaged that a large sum would be produced by a benefit; but notwithstanding the assistance of
Lord North, at that time Chancellor of the University of
Oxford, who was called into the negotiation, that she might
sing at the meeting, the determination was inflexibly adhered
to, and Sheridan would not listen to any proposal that would
lead to her reappearance. The stern moralist, Dr. Johnson,
spoke of this resolution to Boswell with expressions of approbation, when he learnt that a young man without a shilling
would not permit his wife to become the public gaze.
From this time forward, it would appear that Sheridan had
made up his mind to depend upon his own mental resources
'    for his success in life, and to strain every nerve to acquire
wealth, although, alas! for his own peace of mind and happiness, he knew little of the art by which, when once gained, it
is to be kept. The first great result of this resolution was
the production of one of the best comedies ever penned, and
which, in spite of many deserving claimants to public approbation, has outlived the greater number of its successors.
|f       The " Rivals" was first performed at Covent Garden, the
17th of January, 1775, and on that eventful night was proclaimed a failure. It was scarcely borne with, and all Shleridan's fond anticipations were nearly overthrown. The unfavourable reception was attributed to its being double the length
of any acting comedy; to Sir Lucius O'Trigger, as being a
national reflection, and likewise to the representative of Sir
Lucius O'Trigger, Mr. Lee, for in this he so miserably acted
as to call down shouts of disapprobation. Fortunately, on the
following night, Mr. Clinch was his substitute; and so well did
he satisfy Sheridan, that he prepared for Mr. Clinch's benefit
the humorous farce of "St. Patrick's Day," or the " Scheming
Lieutenant," which was brought out successfully in the following May. It, however, wanted any great claim to favour, and
m ust be considered rather as a piece written for a particular
occasion, than as a dramatic effort. Not so with the "Rivals;"




43


4LIFE OF SHERIDAN.


this was a master-piece of art on which young Sheridan had
bestowed time and labour.
The comedy was brought out with all the strength of the
company; Shuter was the representative of the impetuous
and boisterous Sir Anthony Absolute; Quick was the AcresLewis, Falkland; and Mrs. Green, Mrs. Malaprop; a prologue written by Sheridan was spoken by Woodward and
Quick, under the characters of a Sergeant-at-Law and an Attorney; Woodward presents himself as counsel for the poet;
but notwithstanding he stated that he never faced a milder
jury, the storm of disapprobation commenced so early as to
justify the observation afterwards made by Sheridan in his
preface, that much of it must have arisen from virulence of
malice rather than severity of criticism. On the tenth night
Sheridan produced another prologue, which was admirably delivered by Mrs. Bulkley, whose Julia appears to have been
a marked favourite with the audience. Both of the prologues
are well written, and though they are not peculiarly adapted
for the particular play which they ushered in, but might belong to any comedy for which the favour of an audience is to
be solicited, they show that Sheridan had capacity which stood
in lieu of experience, and that he had the judgment which
prevented the natural vanity of a young author from becoming offensive. The epilogue was also spoken by Mrs. Bulkley, and deserves to be preserved as one of those lively and
clever specimens of a style in which Sheridan would have excelled, had he bestowed some portion of time on its cultivation. It is an epigrammatic, terse, and well turned compliment to the gentler sex. The moral of his comedy is, that on
the world's great stage woman rules:
"One moral's plain, without more fuss,
Man's social happiness all rests on us;
Through all the drama, whether damned or not,
Love gilds the scene, and women guide the plot."
Mrs. Sheridan's family ascribed this epilogue to her, so
highly did they estimate her abilities; however, no doubt exists but that Sheridan himself composed it; he had the gratification to find his playgradually grow in public estimation,
and it was received in the provinces with great enthusiasm.




T MIT.'IT, CLTdTn'VTT A I T


A T


Of course, in Bath it was speedily produced, and as the thea.
trical tribunal in that city was looked up to as of the highest
order, its success there gave the greatest satisfaction. Mr.
Dimond, afterwards the proprietor of the theatre, produced a
great impression; Keaseberry, the Acres, was an admirable
'omic performer, and, as acting manager, bestowed great pains
apon it. At Bristol, Mrs. Canning was much admired in
Julia. During the popularity of the "'Rivals," Sheridan's father, who had for some years been estranged from Brinr.ey,
and who obstinately refused a reconciliation, went to the
theatre, accompanied by his daughters, to judge for himself
of its merits; his son placed himself at the side scene opposite his parent, and continued throughout the performance to
gaze at him with tenderness and affection. On his return
home he was overpowered with emotion, and in reply to some
inquiries from Mrs. Sheridan as to the cause of his apparent
agitation, observed that he painfully felt that his father and
sisters should sit before him, and he be unable to join them.
It would be a task of no small difficulty at this time of day
to criticise the " Rivals," to hold up to admiration the scenes
which are most deserving praise, or to point out the delicate
touches which distinguish each character. We cannot, however refrain from making an observation in reply to those
who have studied the beautiful imaginings of Sheridan, and
have found several of those defects, which certainly may exist
in the most carefully digested works.  They have pointed
out that every individual who appears on the scene is a wit
of his kind, and that the humblest personage, be he a coachman, a usurer, a valet, or an humble friend, is a humourist in
his way, and occasionally much too clever for his situation.
To a certain extent this may be correct; but we shall never
/      find a single smart saying, a jest, or a sneer, put into the
mouth not adapted for it.  Not one single phrase is misplaced; if it came from any one person but the one for
whom it was written, it would appear like a daub upon a
picture.. Not one of his personages but is perfectly distinct
in his conversation from his neighbour; a clever thing oecomes doubly so, if appropriate to the situation of him who
speaks it, and this is precisely the case with these dramas.
Nobody else could utter the things which the Coachman or Fag
says in the first scene; neither Acres nor Sir Lucius O'Trigger




42


LIFE 6F SHEERIDAN.


could be borne with, if they had not each their own sly hits
and extravagant observations, adapted with admirable judgment
to their respective positions, and the characteristics by which
they are distinguished. Mrs. Malaprop has been censured by
critics as an outrageous caricature; but there are those in
Bath to whom it has been handed down that there was an
original from whom a tolerably well drawn portrait was
taken, and that a lady who distinguished herself as a minuet
dancer, was as remarkable for the singular "choice of epitaphs," as the She Dragon whom Sheridan has given to the
world. We must confess we find it much more difficult to
discover the history of his marriage, and the duel in which
he was involved, in the drama. It is true that he has laid
the scene in Bath, with which he was familiar; and where
such persons as an Irish fortune hunter, a booby squire, a
female matrimonial adventurer with a marriageable niece, an
irritable country gentleman, and a love sick youth, were likely
to rendezvous, but why on this account it should be found
to correspond with his own romantic adventures, we cannot
imagine. The clever touches at the state of society in that
fashionable town, its lounges, its early hours, its circulating
libraries, its abbey thickly peopled with the dead, are the
natural results of the observation which even a superficial
stranger might make, without it being attributed to him that
a love of scandal and of satire, was predominant in him.
The least interesting of his delineations, Falkland and Julia,
partake of the same talent; and although they have been objected to as unnecessary to the general action of the comedy,
yet they exhibit an intimate acquaintance with the springs
that guide the lover's heart, and the peculiar form of jealousy
which is held up to reprobation is one that required castigation. The language which the lovers express themselves in
has been considered to exhibit false finery, by one who has
himself given to the world much more elaborate ornament, and
much more of false taste, than any other author of our age.
The youth of Sheridan must be borne in mind when we pass
any critical remarks upon the "Rivals," and we then shall
be disposed to view it as the production of natural genius.
At the age of twenty-three, a comedy remarkable for its wit,
its ingenuity, and its knowledge of the world, must be the result of innate powers. There had been no time for deep ob



LIFE OF SHERIDAN.


43


servation, reflection, and the study of human nature. There
must have been a quick perception of character, a power of
adaptation, and a rapid insight into the effects produced upon
an audience by dramatic skill. We find individuals brought
before us whom we recognise as the fair objects of legitimate
comedy, their peculiarities, their foibles presented to us so as
to excite our laughter, without any of that harshness or asperity which demands severe chastisement. In the midst of all
their extravagances they have some redeeming good qualities,
which make us pleased that they sufficiently suffer by the exposure of their follies, and the same holds good with his more
matured tomedy, "The School for Scandal." If the " Rivals"
does not abound with the same sparkle, if there be less polish
in the dialogue, if the turn of satircal wit be less epigrammatic,
there is much more of the character of common life about it,
there is more ingenuity in the several contrivances, the peculiarities of each individual lead to more decided ends, and
are more skilfully combined to produce an effect. It is more
like the usual comedies of the stage, and there are more of
those conventional personages to whom time has reconciled
us, and given to them its acknowledged sanction. We have
had most of them placed before us by other comic writers,
but they have not been so dexterously managed, nor have
they appeared in so vivid a light, or been so cleverly brought
together.    The materials are of a very slight texture, yet
the whole is woven into a solid fabric well suited to the ordinary taste. We are told that Sir Anthony Absolute and
Mrs. Malaprop remind us of honest Matthew Bramble and
his sister Tabitha, and that Acres is a distinct descendant
of Sir Andrew Aguecheek. Granted that it is so; the greater
the praise due to Sheridan in having placed in so ingenious
a form before us our old favourites; and as much right have
we to complain of the want of variety in the lovely flowers
that are created by the hand of nature, because the petals
of some of them are distinguishable in shape only by very
slight apparent variations, and yet when we examine them
we find they possess colouring totally distinct, and qualities quite at variance.  The Irish fortune hunter, the romantic loving girl, the poltroon, and the dictatorial father,
are subjects with whom we daily meet in novels and in plays;
but it cannot detract from the originality of Sheridan that he




44


LIFE OF SHERIDAN.


has ingeniously introduced them into a drama, made them act
and react upon each other, until they produce a most agreeable impression upon the mind, and give us rational amusement by the display of the singularities which it is the peculiar
province of the dramatist to depict.
The "Duenna" was brought out on the 21st of November,
1775, and immediately became a favourite with the public; it
had, at the outset, a much longer career than the Beggars'
Opera, which was looked upon as the most successful drama
of its class ever placed upon the stage; for the progress of
the composition, dramatic, poetic, and musical, a reference
must be made to Moore, who has given the letters which
passed between Sheridan and Linley previous to its performance.  We believe that the popularity of this opera has
never been exceeded, and even to this hour the common
quotations from its songs prove how much they were in the
thoughts of every one. Many sayings which have become
proverbial, and whose origin is altogether forgotten, have
their source from this old favourite of our forefathers, to
which they listened with rapture, and from which it was
at one period considered fashionable to repeat lines. Indeed, independently of the conversation, which is of no ordinary cast, there are so many beautiful expressions in the
songs, that we cannot be surprised at their reception, nor that
many should be committed to memory. We are astonished
at the many comments which have been made as to the
direct violation of probability in the plot of the "Duenna."
It is contended that no Spanish nobleman would allow his
daughter to marry a Jew recently baptized, and that it is
inconsistent that Seville, the very seat of the Inquisition,
should be laid down as the scene of the adventure described.
So far from a recently converted Jew being an object of either
suspicion or dislike, every favour was shown in Spain to those
who abandoned the faith of their fathers from conviction, and
they became persons of weight and respectability. Nor do
we see the force of the objection that a man hackneyed in the
world should marry an old duenna instead of a young and
lovely girl, whose description indeed he had just heard; but
the person who had drawn the picture was the parent, and
naturally enough might have been supposed to have viewed
his own offspring with a father's predilection, whilst the sordid




LIFE OF SHERIDAN.                 4&
lover thought only of the wealth he was to obtain, and to hirm
the want of beauty was a secondary consideration. Whatever
may be the objections which have been raised, the " Duenna"
has maintained a high reputation; and should we ever again
have to boast upon the stage the talents and the powers of
Leoni or Braham, it will again be brought forward, its dialogue be listened to with delight, its airs refresh the memories of the old, and kindle enthusiasm in the young.
Neither prologue nor epilogue seems to have been thought
necessary for an Opera, but a playful poetic finale sung by
the various characters on the stage brings it to a happy conclusion.  It appears that it was first printed in 1794; but
upon what authority we cannot trace, for Sheridan himself
disavowed ever having revised any edition.  In 1807, we
learn from Kelly that he performed the part, in the " Duenna,"
of Ferdinand. It was customary with him, when he played
at night, to read his part over in the morning, in order to
refresh his memory; one morning after reading the part of
Ferdinand, he left the printed play of the " Duenna," as then
acted, on the table. On his return home he found Sheridan
reading it, and with pen and ink before him correcting it.
He said to him, " Do you act the part of Ferdinand from this
printed copy?" To this Kelly replied in the affirmative, and
added that he had done so for twenty years. Then said he,
"You have been acting great nonsense." He examined every
sentence, and corrected it all through before he left him. The
corrections Kelly preserved in Sheridan's own hand writing;
but he observes, what could prove his negligence more than
correcting an opera which he had written in 1775, in the
year 1807, and then abusing the manner in which it was
printed. Kelly, however, had many more opportunities of
becoming acquainted with Sheridan's sins of omission, which
he does not fail to communicate to his readers in those reminiscences which he has written to the great satisfaction of
the lovers of music and the drama. Whatever may have been
the carelessness with which the dialogue of the " Duenna"
may have been produced, such. was not the case either with
the poetry or the music; they both of them are exquisite
of their kind, and the airs were borrowed from     Linley,
Rauzzini, and Dr. Harrington. The letters, which are preserved, of all the parties interested in the success of the




43


LIFE OF SHERIDAN.


opera show that no pains were spared; in those of Sheridan,
which are given by Moore, we see that he was laborious,
anxious, and painstaking.  We are let almost too much
behind the scenes, for we find that Sunday was fixed for a
musical rehearsal, and we learn how much was done for the
individuals who happened at that time to take a prominent
lead; thus the fondness of Leoni for a flourish, in which he
was followed by Braham, was to be indulged in; Miss Brown
was to show off her execution, and as Mr. " Simpson's hautboy
is to cut a figure, Echo, who is always allowed to play her
part, is lugged in."  Linley, upon whom all the music rested,
seems to have amply fulfilled the expectations of his son-inlaw, and to have taken up his ideas with great quickness. The
finale to the first act, so generally admired, in which Isaac
and Donna Louisa sing a duet, and after Don Carlos has
sung the beautiful air, " Gentle Maid," join with him in a
glee, is the idea of Sheridan carried out by Linley. Don
Jerome's song, "Oh the days when I was young," once in.
the mouth of every boy in the street, is another of Sheridan's
hints. That beautiful air, "By him we love offended, how
soon our anger flies," was originally composed by that celebrated Master, Rauzzini, "Fuggiamo de questo loco in piena
liberta." When we compare the trash usually composed for
English operas with the exquisite specimens of taste with
which Sheridan has adorned the " Duenna," we cannot but express our surprise that there should be found audiences to
tolerate the vile nonsense.  "Had I a heart for falsehood
famed;" " Oh had my love ne'er smiled on me;" " How oft,
Louisa, hast thou told;" " I ne'er could any lustre see," may
vie with any compositions of a similar character; they are
delicate, polished, and refined; they are full of tenderness of
expression, and awaken the gentlest emotions. Nor are the
livelier songs to be passed over, for they are animated and full
of joyous feelings.
The " Duenna," like the " Rivals," was produced at Covent
Garden. We find, however, that Mr. Linley was most anxious
to direct the attention of Garrick to his son-in-law, and to prepare the way for his being amongst those who offered their
incense at the shrine over which he presided; and he seems
gradually to have paved the road for his success at Drury
Lane Theatre. There is a letter, amongst the mass of those




LIFE OF SHERIDAN.


47


collected in the Garrick correspondence, from Linley to Dr.
Hoadley, and another also from him to Mr. Garrick. In
*    the former he says, " I have engaged to assist my son-in-law,
Sheridan, in composing an opera which he is to bring out at
Covent Garden this winter. I am a good deal distressed
that from some misunderstanding between him and Mr. Garrick, that he is not connected with Drury Lane House, for
though I believe they are now on very good terms, yet Sheridan thinks that he has been so honourably treated by Mr.
Harris, that he ought not to keep any thing that he has written from him. However, I hope Mr. Garrick will not take
any thing amiss in my assisting him on this occasion, for it is
a matter of absolute necessity that he should endeavour to
*  get money by this means, as he will not be prevailed on to
let his wife sing." To Garrick he says, " I have promised to
assist Sheridan in compiling-I believe this is the properest
term-an opera, which I understand from him he has engaged to produce at Covent Garden this season. I have already set some airs which he has given me, and he intends
writing new words to some other tunes of mine. My son has
*  likewise written some tunes for him, and I understand he is
to have some others from Mr. Jackson of Exeter. This is
a mode of proceeding in regard to his composition which I
by no means approve of. I think he ought first to have
finished his opera with the songs he intends to introduce in it,
and have got it entirely new set. No musician can set a song
properly, unless he understands the character and knows the
performer who is to exhibit it. For my part, I shall be very
unwilling for either my own name or my son's to appear in
this business, and it is my present resolution to forbid it; for
I have great reason to be diffident of my own abilities and
genius, and my son has not had experience in theatrical com.
positions, though I think well of his invention and musical
skill. I would not have been concerned in this business at
all, but that I know there is an absolute necessity for him to
endeavour to get some money by this means, as he will not bb
prevailed upon to let his wife sing, and indeed at present she
is incapable, and nature will not permit me to be indifferent. s    to his success. You are deservedly at that point of fame
which few of the great geniuses the world has produced have
arrived at-above the reach of envy-and are the protector




4L LIFE OF SHERIDAN.
of dramatic merit, in what place or shape soever you find
it, and I look up to you as the patron and director of both
theatres, virtually, if not officially. I hope Sheridan has done
nothing to forfeit the protection you have hitherto shown
him." These appeals to the generous and liberal feelings of
the great Roscius were not in vain. Not only did he. wherever his influence extended, assist Sheridan in his way into
literary society, but when the time was fully come, placed him
on a pinnacle where he should have established himself, without being dazzled with the "ignes fatui" that played before
his sight.
From these letters we may fairly conclude that Linley did
not then sufficiently appreciate the value of his son-in-law,
that he was hardly satisfied with his determination to prevent his daughter again appearing before the public, and that
he was an unwilling labourer with him in the vineyard which
was to produce such a valuable harvest.  It must indeed
have been gratifying to him to find that the " Duenna" was
hailed with such rapturous delight, and that it maintained a
position on the stage for so many years. Much is undoubtedly owing to the judgment and musical talent of Linley, some
of the airs he introduced will ever be heard with delight.
The air with Sheridan's touching words, " By him we love
offended," the production of the well known Rauzzini, was a
favourite in the musical world throughout Europe. It was the
production of that great master to whom England is so deeply
indebted for some of the first vocalists we have had; for, together with his own instruction, he instilled into the minds of
his pupils, amongst whom Braham is the last, to visit Italy, to
study at Rome under Latilla, or at Naples under Monopoli,
Finerolli, or Porpori, at that time the most distinguished of
music masters. Rauzzini himself, however, was unequalled
as a musician; from his rich stores much has been gleaned
up to the present hour. His career was a singular one. He
was a native of Rome, and from the exquisite sweetness of
his voice had been selected, in compliance with the miserable
taste of that age, to be rendered fit for singing in a style then
much admired, but which modern judgment has rejected
He performed the parts of the principal female, as no woman
was allowed upon the stage in the Holy City. His singular
beauty became the theme of general conversation; he was




LIFE OF SHERIDAN.


courted and flattered everywhere. On his visit to Munich, a
distinguished personage evinced such admiration, and heaped
such caresses upon him, that the ruling prince gave him a
delicate hint, to which he was compelled to pay attention,
that the time had arrived when his talent had ceased to be
attractive. Rauzzini with some indignation resented the
want of hospitality, and serious results were apprehended,
when an invitation to England induced him to undertake an
engagement at the Italian Opera; for the farore had spread to
London, and his acting, his singing, and his compositions were
at once fashionable. G arrick pronounced his "Pyramus " ' the
finest piece of representation he had ever witnessed on the
Italian stage;" but alas! a change came over the " spirit of
the dream;" the climate affected his voice, and he never perfectly recovered from its effects. He settled in Bath, where
for years he continued to teach, to compose, and preside at
the pianoforte at all the great musical festivals.  Beloved
by every one, he was the centre of a most accomplished
circle, comprising all the taste and talent of Bath.  At
Christmas Eve, Billington, Storace, Mora, Braham, and all
the first-rate musicians of the day, assembled; a concert, consisting of the Messiah, was given to the public, from which
Rauzzini drew a portion of his income.  This alas! never
equalled his expenditure; the consequence of which was the,    embitterment of his latter days; but to the last he maintained
a splendid establishment, and was looked up to as one of
those to whom Bath was indebted for its popularity. Whenever the venerable old man took his accustomed seat in the
orchestra, tokens of regard and respect awaited him, and to
the last he preserved beauty of countenance of a striking
character.
In the year 1775 Garrick decided to quit the scene of his
many triumphs, and to retire from the theatre, which he had
for so long a period managed with singular felicity. He had
just then attained the sixtieth year of his age; and although
whenever he appeared before the public he met with an enthusiastic reception, he resolved to resign his position, and
to place in other hands the power he had so long wielded.
He had very lately gone to considerable expense for various
improvements in Drury Lane Theatre, hence his determination appeared somewhat sudden, and produced considerable
UK




50


LIFE OF SHERIDAN


surprise.  When it was whispered who the individual was
into whose guidance he was likely to commit the management, much conversation was naturally excited. Although
it was known that Garrick had always most favourably expressed himself of the talent and character of the youthful
author, and had specially introduced him to the first literary
men of the day, it was likewise borne in mind that Sheridan's
father had never been on good terms with Roscius, and that,
on several occasions, he had expressed himself with considerable animosity against him, and had shown a degree of haughtiness in his demeanour towards him, that was likely to alienate
the kind feelings which actuated Garrick, who when, according to Davies, he spoke to a publisher of Mrs. Sheridan's
comedy, "The Discovery," eulogized it in language of the
most favourable character, and even went so far as to say
that the play was one of the best that he had ever read, and
that money would be well laid out in its purchase. It is
true that from the elder Sheridan there was little of rivalry
to be dreaded by Garrick, although he was occasionally thrust
forward as his equal. As a speaker and declaimer few were
to be compared with him; but his monotonous tones, his
pedantic manner, and his studied action, came but badly into
competition with the impassioned tones and the naturally
expressed feelings of Garrick. However much the theatrical
world was surprised at the predilection which the veteran  s
master of the stage exhibited for the youthful aspirant, no
one doubted that the choice had fallen upon one fully equal
to the task he had undertaken. He had already shown a
thorough knowledge of the stage, and had brought forward the
labour of his intellect, with considerable acquaintance of the
points which tell with an audience. He had evinced much
skill in placing before the public the "Duenna;" he had
contrived to unite the dialogue and the music in a more
pleasing way than usual, and his assiduity peculiarly touched
the fancy of Garrick, who would not listen to numerous applicants, who no sooner heard of the probable change than
they stood forward in hopes of becoming his successor. Colman would have willingly been the purchaser, but was desirous of being the sole proprietor, and as this could not be
arranged, he abandoned a negotiation which he had commenced. Most probably Sheridan would not have been his




LIFE OF SHERIDAN.


5i


successor, had not Garrick anticipated from the kind manner, and the thoughtlessness of his young friend, that he
himself would continue to direct the theatre. and to maintain
an influence which he felt loath at once to abandon. In the
month of June a contract was entered into by which Sheridan
came into possession of two-fourteenths, Mr. Linley the same,
and Dr. Ford three-fourteenths, making, for the purchase of
Garrick's share, the total sum of thirty-five thousand pounds:
the letters which passed between Sheridan and Linley on the
subject were placed in the hands of Moore, and were published by him in his biography.
Every one who looked on this transaction was astonished
at the speculative disposition of Sheridan; they marvelled at
the whole of this singular transition from nothingness to
the possession of an immense property.  Unaccustomed as
they were in those days to the bold operations of which the
present age affords such numerous instances, of purchases
made without one single sixpence of money being advanced,
all looked with an eye of wonder and suspicion at the sudden
acquisition. It was already whispered that the young author
lived far beyond his means; that he was associating with the
great and the wealthy; that he ventured to entertain upon a
liberal scale, and that there were no visible funds from which
his wealth was drawn. Various have been the explanations
offered, and many channels have been pointed at, as those
from which he was enabled to meet the demands which were
made upon him. There is, however, little doubt that he was
advised by some able financier at his first outset, and that
from Garrick he experienced the most generous consideration; but with whatever assistance he was furnished, it was
not sufficient, as the embarrassments which gradually grew
upon him fully proved. From this period may be traced the
commencement of those difficulties which harassed him in
after life, and that carelessness which ended in a recklessness
that almost became proverbial. The embarrassments which
he had to encounter, and which he fought off with adroitness,
with wit, with practical jokes, and with every species of cunning, have been the theme of the humourist for many a day,
and anecdotes, which sprang out of them, have been repeated
~ ~    from father to son till they became the standing jest of families. His first commencement as a manager was not of that
F 2




LIFE OF SHERIDAN.


brilliant kind to give any promise of great improvement in
the conduct of the theatre. An alteration of Vanburgh's play
the "Relapse" was the first production, under the name of a
"Trip to Scarborough;" it was brought out February 24th,
1777. This was an unfortunate commencement; neither the
public nor the actors were satisfied. On the second night
there was a decided opposition to its performance, but the
actors were taught that, whatever opinion they might themselves form of the merits of a piece, it was their duty to
perform their parts with propriety and with energy.  The
"Tempest" was also brought forward; parts of Dryden's version were given, which, together with some songs by Thomas
Linley, served for a short time to fill up the night; but still
there was a general feeling that the public had lost by the
exchange of managers, when the town was astonished and
delighted by the production of a comedy that has deservedly
gained for its author an undying reputation, the " School
for Scandal."
On the 8th of May, 1777, that inimitable comedy, which
has become a standard play wherever the English language
is spoken, the " School for Scandal," was first brought forward. There was no doubt from the earliest moment that it
was listened to, that it was one of those brilliant and captivating productions of the human mind that are to be classed
amongst the results of that inspiration of real genius with
which some individuals, more fortunate than the rest of our
race, are occasionally gifted. It was felt throughout its performance that there were those qualities in it which excite
our admiration, and leave behind the happiest impression.
It is neither from the artifice of the plot, the delineation of
character, nor the exhibition of those strong emotions of the
heart, which either astonish us or awaken sympathy, that we
derive so much pleasure. It is from the correct adaptation
of such person to the scene, and from the happy management
of incidents, which, though few in number, always occur at
the right moment, whilst the light, airy, sparkling dialogue
suits the understanding of every auditor. It may safely be
pronounced the genuine effusion of an imagination alive to
conversational power and beauty, and to the effect of striking
contrasts. Moore was enabled, through his influence with the
remaining relations of Sheridan, to lay before the public a




LIFE OF SHERIDAN.


58


large portion of the manuscripts which were originally drawn
rup by the author. He has shewn us how gradually, from two
distinct plays, he was led to produce a perfect one, and to incorporate in that the leading ideas, which he had intended to
work up into two separate pieces. It altogether forms a literary curiosity, and exhibits to us by what repeated efforts, by
what lengthened process an author gradually weaves one beautiful piece of workmanship out of the various raw materials
placed in his hands; and we draw the inference that the powers
of man are very limited, and that time, labour, and unceasing
exertion are necessary for a work which, at first sight, appears
easy of construction, and simple in its development. We do
not, perhaps, feel that it adds to the interest we take in the
author; we are disappointed to find that the bright sparks
which we fancied were struck off by a moment's collision are
the effects of slow hammering; that a sparkling expression,
seemingly so instantaneous and happy, has been at first a
dull, dry remark, gradually elaborated into the shape in
which it appears.  The slow transformation of Solomon
Teazle, a widower, having had five children, talking over his
wife's extravagance with his butler, into the elegant, highminded, disappointed Sir Peter Teazle; of Plausible into
Joseph Surface; of a silly country girl, ill-bred, and impertinent, into the lively, elegant, fashionable, but thoughtless
Lady Teazle, is interesting amongst the curiosities of literature, but by no means impresses us with that feeling of ad
miration for him whom we find so much an artist. We feel
that we have been admitted behind the scenes, where lately
we have seen a spectacle of gorgeous splendour, and the gaudy
trappings, the false jewels, and the sparkling tinsel from
-which the magnificence of the decorations was produced, pre-. ~     sent us with a contrast somewhat too forcible to be pleasing.
Much, therefore, as we feel indebted to the biographer who
has ransacked every escritoir which might contain a memorandum of his hero, we almost wish that he had not shown
us every erasure, every superfluity, every blot that could be
seen. As no man, let his position be the highest, can conceal
'from those immediately around him his peculiarities and his
t^    defects, so none can bear the inquisitive examination of those
f     who trace literary history for perfection; Minerva springs




54


LIFE OF SHERIDAN


armed from the head of no one but Jupiter.  The only advantage in the general view of Sheridan's character to be
gained by this exhibition is, that he was neither careless nor
indolent, as was generally supposed, but that he laboured
with assiduity and constant diligence, and that although he
might be desirous to astonish with the rapidity of his productions, he was indebted for their perfection as much to art and
laborious consideration, as he was to nature and his own genius.
It is evident that there were two different sketches drawn
up by Sheridan, which he afterwards blended. One of them
was more properly the " School for Scandal," the other a two
act Comedy for the Teazles. The following were the dramatis persona of the latter:Sir Rowland Harpur.              Old Teazle.
-  Plausible.
Capt. H. Plausible.             Mrs. Teazle
Freeman.                         Maria.
and the following was the opening scene:"ACT I
"SCENE I.-OLD TEAZLE, alone.
" In the year 44, I married my first wife; the wedding was
at the end of the year-ay, 'twas in December; yet, before
Ann. Dom. 45, I repented. A month before, we swore we
preferred each other to the whole world-perhaps we spoke
truth; but, when we came to promise to love each other till
death, there I am sure we lied. Well, Fortune owed me a
good turn; in 48 she died. Ah, silly Solomon, in 52 I find
thee married again! Here, too, is a catalogue of ills-Thomas, born February 12; Jane, born Jan. 6; so they go on
to the number of five. However, by death I stand credited  \
but by one.' Well, Margery, rest her soul! was a queer creature; when she was gone, I felt awkward at first, and being
sensible that wishes availed nothing, I often wished for her
return.  For ten years more I kept my senses and live.
single. Oh, blockhead, dolt Solomon! Within this twelvemonth thou art married again-married to a woman thirty
years younger than thyself; a fashionable woman.  Yet I
took her with caution; she had been educated in the country,




LIFE OF SHERIDAN.


55


but now she has more extravagance than the daughter of an
Earl, more levity than a Countess. What a defect it is in
our laws, that a man who has once been branded in the fore.
head should be hanged for the second offence.
" Enter JARVIS.
" Teaz. Who 's there? Well, Jarvis?
"Jarv. Sir, there are a number of my mistress's trades.
men without, clamorous for their money.
" Teaz. Are those their bills in your hand?
" Jarv. Something about a twentieth part, sir.
Teaz. What! have you expended the hundred pounds I
gave you for her use.
"Jarv. Long ago, sir, as you may judge by some of the
items:-' Paid the coachmaker for lowering the front seat of
the coach.'
' Teaz. What the deuce was the matter with the seat?
"Jarv. Oh Lord, the carriage was too low for her by a foot
when she was dressed-so that it must have been so, or have
had a tub at top like a hat-case on a travelling trunk. Well,
sir, (reads,) ' Paid her two footmen half a year's wages, ~50.
"Teaz. 'Sdeath and fury! does she give her footmen a
hundred a year?
" Jarv. Yes, sir, and I think, indeed, she has rather made
a good bargain, for they find their own bags and bouquets.
" Teaz. Bags and bouquets for footmen!-halters and tastinadoes!
Jarv. ' Paid for my lady's own nosegays, 501.'
" Teaz. Fifty pounds for flowers! enough to turn the Pantheon into a green-house, and give a Fete Champetre at
Christmas.,      I "Lady Teaz. Lord, Sir Peter, I wonder you should grudge
me the most innocent articles in dress-and then, for the
expense-flowers cannot be cheaper in winter-you should
find fault with the climate, and not with me. I am sure I
wish with all my heart that it was spring all the year round,
and roses grew under one's feet.
" Sir P. Nay, but, madam, then you would not wear them;
but try snow-balls, and icicles. But tell me, madam, hovw
can you feel any satisfaction in wearing these, when you
might reflect that one of the rose-buds would have furnished
a poor family with a dinner?






56


LIFE OF SHERIDAN


"Lady T. Upon my word, Sir Peter, begging your pardon,
that is a very absurd way of arguing. By that rule, why de
you indulge in the least superfluity? I dare swear a beggar
might dine tolerably on your greatcoat, or sup off your laced
waistcoat-nay, I dare say, he wouldn't eat your gold-headed
cane in a week. Indeed, if you would reserve,nothing but
necessaries, you should give the first poor man you meet your
wig, and walk the streets in your night-cap, which, you know,
becomes you very much.
"Sir P. Well, go on to the articles.
"Jarv. (reading.) 'Fruit for my lady's monkey, ~5 per
week.'
" Sir P. Five pounds for the monkey!-why 'tis a dessert
for an alderman!
" Lady T. Why, Sir Peter, would you starve the poor animal? I dare swear he lives as reasonably as other monkeys
do.
"Sir P. Well, well, go on.
"Jarv. ' China for ditto'
"Sir P. What, does he eat out of china?
" Lady T. Repairing china that he breaks-and I am sure
no monkey breaks less.
"Jarv. 'Paid Mr. Warren for perfumes-milk of roses,
301.'
"Lady T. Very reasonable.
"Sir P. 'Sdeath, madam, if you had been born to these
expenses I should not have been so much amazed; but I took
you, madam, an honest country squire's daughter —
" Lady T. Oh, filthy; don't name it. Well, heaven forgive my mother, but I do believe my father must have been a
man of quality.
" Sir P. Yes, madam, when first I saw you, you were drest
in a pretty figured linen gown, with a bunch of keys by your
side; your occupations, madam, to superintend the poultry;
your accomplishments, a complete knowledge of the family
receipt-book-then you sat in a room hung round with fruit
in worsted of your own working; your amusements were to
play country-dances on an old spinet to your father while he
went asleep after a fox-chase-to read Tillotson's Sermons to
your aunt Deborah. These, madam, were your recreations,
and these the accomplishments that captivated me. Now,
forsooth, you must havo two footmen to your chair, and a pair




LIFE OF SHERIDAN.


57


of white dogs in a phaeton; you forget when you used to rido
double behind the butler on a docked bay coach-horse....
Now you must have a French hair-dresser; do you think you
did not look as well when you had your hair combed smooth
over a roller?...... Then you could be content to sit
with me, or walk by the side of the Ha! ha!
" Lady T. True, I did; and, when you asked me if I could
love an old fellow, who would deny me nothing, I simpered
and said, ''Till death.'
"Sir P. Why did you say so?,     ( "Lady T. Shall I tell you the truth?
"Sir P. If it is not too great a favour.
"Lady T. Why, then, the truth is, I was heartily tired of
all these agreeable recreations you have so well remembered,
and having a spirit to spend and enjoy fortune, I was determined to marry the first fool I should meet with...
you made me a wife, for which I am much obliged to you, and
vt     if you have a wish to make me more grateful still, make me
a widow."
"Sir P. Then, you never had a desire to please me, or add
to my happiness?
" Lady T. Sincerely, I never thought about you; did you
imagine that age was catching? I think you have been over-,  paid for all you could bestow on me. Here am I surrounded
by half a hundred lovers, not one of whom but would buy a
single smile by a thousand such baubles as you grudge me.
"Sir P. Then you wish me dead?
" Lady T. You know I do not, for you have made no settlement on me.,     " Sir P. I am but middle-aged.
"Lady T. There's the misfortune; put yourself on, or back,
twenty years, and either way I should like you the better.
Yes, sir, and then your behaviour too was different; you
would dress, and smile, and bow; fly to fetch me any thing
I wanted; praise every thing I did or said; fatigue your stiff
face with an eternal grin; nay, you even committed poetry,
and muffled your harsh tones into a lover's whisper to sing
it yourself, so that even my mother said you were the


9.




LIFE OF SHERIDJ)AN,


smartest old bachelor she ever saw-a billet-doux engrossed
on buckram!!!!!!
*    *     *    *.    *    *    *     * *
Let girls take my advice and never marry an old bachelor.
He must be so either because he could find nothing to love in
women, or because women could find nothing to love in him."
The scene, now so admirably elaborated into the screen
scene, was thus in the author's imagination, to judge from the
first draught.
" Scene-YOUNG PLIANT'S Room.
"Young P. I wonder her ladyship is not here; she promised me to call this morning. I have a hard game to play
here, to pursue my designs on Maria. I have brought myself into a scrape with the mother-in-law. However, I think
we have taken care to ruin my brother's character with my
uncle, should he come to-morrow. Frank has not an ill
quality in his nature; yet, a neglect of forms, and of the
opinion of the world, has hurt him in the estimation of all
his graver friends. I have profited by his errors, and contrived to gain a character, which now serves me as a mask to
lie under.
"Enter LADY TEAZLE.
"Lady T. What, musing, or thinking of me?
"Young P. I was thinking unkindly of you; do you know
now that you must repay me for all this delay, or I must be
coaxed into good humour?
" Lady T. Nay, in faith you should pity me-this old curmudgeon of late is grown so jealous, that I dare scarce go
out, till I know he is secure for some time.
" Young P. I am afraid the insinuations we have had spread
about Frank have operated too strongly on him-we meant
only to direct his suspicions to a wrong object.
"Lady T. Oh, hang him! I have told him plainly that
if he continues to be so suspicious, I'11 leave him entirely, and
make him allow me a separate maintenance.
Young P But, my charmer, if ever that should be the case,
you see before you the man who will ever be attached to you.
But you must not let matters come to extremities; you can
never be revenged so well by leaving him, as by living with him,
and let my sincere affection make amends for his brutality.




LIFE OF SHERIDAN.


"Lady T. But how shall I be sure now that you are sin
cere? I have sometimes suspected, that you loved my niece.
' Young P. Oh, hang her! a puling idiot, without sense
or spirit.
"Lady T. But what proofs have I of your love to me, for
I have still so much of my country prejudices left, that if I
were to do a foolish thing (and I think I can't promise) it
shall be for a man who would risk every thing for me alone.
How shall I be sure you love me?
' Young P. I have dreamed of you every night this week
past.
" Lady T. That's a sign you have slept every night for this
week past; for my part, I would not give a pin for a lover
#    who could not wake for a month in absence.
"Young P. I have written verses on you out of number.
"Lady T. I never saw any
"Young P. No-they did not please me, and so I tore
them.
"Lady T. Then it seems you wrote them only to divert
yourself.
" Young P. Am I doomed for ever to suspense?
"Lady T. I don't know-if I was convinced"Young P. Then let me on my knees
"Lady T. Nay, nay, I will have no raptures either. This
*    much I can tell you, that if I am to be seduced to do wrong,
I am not to be taken by storm, but by deliberate capitulation,
and that only where my reason or my heart is convinced.
" Young P. Then, to say it at once-the world gives itself
liberties"Lady T. Nay, I am sure without cause; for I am as yet
unconscious of any ill, though I know not what I may be
forced to.
" Young P. The fact is, my dear Lady Teazle, that your
extreme innocence is the very cause of your danger; it is the
integrity of your heart that makes you run into a thousand
imprudences which a full consciousness of error would make
you guard against. Now, in that case, you can't conceive
how much more circumspect you would be.,      " Lady T. Do you think so?
" Young P. Most certainly. Your character is like a per
son in a plethora, absolutely dying of too much health.






03            LIFE OF SHERIDAN.
' Lady T. So then you would have me sin in my own do
fence, and part with my virtue to preserve my reputation.
"Young P. Exactly so, upon my credit, ma'am."
We may see, in the following extract, the first germ of one
of the most striking passages of the play as it now exists.
Spat. 0 Lud, ma'am, I'11 undertake to ruin the character
of the primmest prude in London with half as much. Ha!
ha! Did your ladyship never hear how poor Miss Shepherd
lost her lover and her character last summer at Scarborough?
-this was the whole of it. One evening at Lady -- 's the
conversation happened to turn on the difficulty of breeding
Nova Scotia sheep in England.   I have known instances,'
says Miss --, ' for last spring a friend of mine, Miss Shepherd of Ramsgate, had a Nova Scotia sheep that produced
her twins.'-' What!' cries the old deaf dowager Lady Bowlwell, ' has Miss Shepherd of Ramsgate been brought to-bed
of twins?' This mistake, as you may suppose, set the company a laughing. However, the next day, Miss Verjuice
Amarilla Lonely, who had been of the party, talking of Lady
Bowlwell's deafness, began to tell what had happened; but,
unluckily, forgetting to say a word of the sheep, it was understood by the company, and, in every circle, many believed,
that Miss Shepherd of Ramsgate had actually been brought
to-bed of a fine boy and girl; and, in less than a fortnight,
there were people who could name the father, and the farmhouse where the babes were put out to nurse."
The production of the "School for Scandal" was accompanied by one of the most exquisite poetic eulogiums ever
penned. Sheridan presented the beautiful Mrs. Crewe with
a revised copy of his drama, together with a poem, to which he
attached the title of a portrait; there does not exist in the English language a more perfect model of elegant flattery clothed
in suitable language, neither fulsome nor overstrained; he has
most carefully avoided those hyperbolic expressions which are,
found in the dedications of the dramatic writers who preceded him, and has cleverly shunned the errors into which they,.
were usually betrayed. The dread of ridicule taught him to
eschew those bolder flights in which they indulged, and he




LIFE OF SHERIDAN.


61


has contrived to surround the object of his admiration with
those attributes, which, even if they be painted in somewhat an exaggerated form, cannot fail to be looked upon
with a partial eye.  There is a sincerity of expression, and a
chivalrous boldness in the ebullition of so much approbation,
that we should be carried away by the high colouring used,
even had we been inclined to censure it as somewhat too gaudy.
Garrick wrote a prologue, not certainly in his best style, but,
well suited to the taste of the day; he alludes to Sheridan as
a bard " too young to think that he
'           Can stop the full spring tide of calumny;
and
Proud of your smiles, once lavishly bestowed,
Again our young Don Quixote takes the road
To show his gratitude he draws his pen,
And seeks this hydra Scandal in his den.
For your applause all perils he would through,
He '11 fight-that's write-a cavalliero true, *           Till every drop of blood-that's ink-is spilt for you."
The epilogue was written by Colman, and was committed
to the care of Mrs. Abingdon as Lady Teazle; it has remained
a favourite, and, though only spoken occasionally on the provincial stage, has much merit. The parody on the beautiful
lines in " Othello"-" Farewell the tranquil mind"-has been.
much admired, and the author has cleverly enough adapted
the glorious circumstances of war to those of fashionable life,
and we hear that Lady Teazle's occupation is o'er, if not
with the same deep sympathy that we do the pathetic adieu
from the lips of " Othello," it is with the feeling that both
personages have, in their respective ways, added to the common stock of enjoyment. We unfortunately possess no printed
copy of this play authenticated by its author; some incorrect
*   editions have been printed. The one which appeared in Ireland
in the year 1788 has been usually followed, and although pronounced incorrect, it has greater pretension to be " authority"
than any we possess, for it is taken from   the manuscript
which Sheridan forwarded to his sister for the use of the
manager of the Dublin Theatre, who gave her one hundred
guineas and free admission for her family for the privilege of
performing it.    Sheridan had made an arrangement with
Ridgway of Piccadilly for the purchase of the copyright, but
when he was urged to furnish the manuscript, his answer was,




et                TLIFE OF SHERIDAN.
"that he had been nineteen years endeavouring to satisfy
himself with the style of the ' School for Scandal,' but had
not succeeded." It is a well known fact that the last act of
" Pizarro" was in an unfinished state on the very night of its
first representation, and upon good authority it is affirmed,
that notwithstanding the incessant labour which Sheridan had
bestowed for a considerable length of time, the " School for
Scandal" was announced for representation before the actors
had received copies of their respective parts. Moore, on a
reference to the original manuscript, found that the last five
scenes bore evident marks of the haste in which they were
finished, there being but one rough draught of them scribbled
upon detached pieces of paper, whilst of all the preceding
acts there were numerous manuscripts. On the last leaf
appears in his own handwriting, "Finished at last, thank
God," to which the prompter has added "Amen, W. Hopkins." Great attention was bestowed on the production of the
comedy, each was desirous of supporting the new manager.
Garrick, as we learn from Murphy, was never known on any
former occasion to be more anxious for a favourite piece; he
was proud of the new manager, and in a triumphant manner
boasted of the genius to whom he had consigned the conduct
of the theatre. Amongst the praise which he bestowed upon
Sheridan, a ready reply to a gentleman who wished to exalt
the Roscius, at the expense of the new candidate for fame,.
has been recorded. "This is but a single play," observed
the critic, " and in the long run will be but a slender help
to support the theatre. To you Mr. Garrick, I must say the
Atlas that propped the stage has left his station."  "Has
he?" said Garrick; " if that be the case he has found another
Hercules to succeed him." Isaac Reed has, in the " Biographia Dramatica," very slightly alluded to an assertion that has
been made that the plan was taken from a manuscript which
had been previously delivered at Drury Lane by a young lady,
who afterwards died of a pectoral disease; he observes that
this is probably mere scandal, founded on envy of the great,
success of the piece. Dr. Watkins has somewhat laboriously
expatiated on this report, and drawn upon himself the severe
censure of Moore, who was enabled to detect the falsehood,
and to show how utterly unfounded was the stupid rumour;
not content with borrowing this idea from Isaac Reed, and




LIFE OF SfIERIDAN.


63


setting it off with as much ingenuity as he could muster, Dr
Watkins throws out a surmise that Mrs. Sheridan was the
person to whom the rank of the first dramatic writer of the
day ought to have been assigned. He indulges too in some
hypercritical remarks, which are only worthy of notice, as exhibiting the anxiety of the biographer to scrape up from every
source some material for his labour, regardless both of the
useless information he was bestowing, and the nothingness of
the detraction to which he was giving circulation. In spite
of all that has been written, from the first night of its performa ance up to the present hour, the "School for Scandal" has
maintained its position, and even when indifferently brought
forward proves an unceasing attraction.  Its uninterrupted
run, its certainty of producing money to the treasury, its collecting together all the playgoers, are the best proofs of the
estimation in which it is held; its intrinsic merit carries
every thing before it. Cumberland, the irritable opponent of
*    all merit but his own, has praised the judicious introduction of
the screen; but there is an anecdote on record that he was"\
-with his young family at an early performance of the " School
for Scandal; " they were seated in the stage box, the little children screamed with delight, but the less easily pleased fretful
author pinched them, exclaiming, "What are you laughing at,
my dear little folks? you should not laugh, my angels, there is
^   nothing to laugh at! " and then in an under tone, " keep still,
you little dunces."  When Sheridan was told of this, he said
"it was ungrateful of Cumberland to have been displeased
with his children for laughing at my comedy, for when I
went to see his tragedy I laughed from beginning to end."  J
There is another version of the story extant; for the friends
of Sheridan were most anxious to find a reason for the hostile
feelings which he was supposed to bear towards Cumberland,
and which induced him to use such an unmerciful rod of
flagellation in the " Critic." It is, that Sheridan being most
anxious to collect the opinions of the acknowledged judges of
dramatic merit, earnestly asked what Mr. Cumberland had
said on the first night of the performance; " not a syllable,"
was the answer. "But did he seem amused?" "Why, faith,
he might have been hung up beside Uncle Oliver's picture.
v   He had the damned disinheriting countenance, like the
ladies and gentlemen on the walls, he never moved a muscle."




LIFE OF SHERIDAN.


"Devilish ungrateful that," said Sheridan, "for I sat out his
tragedy last week, and laughed from beginning to end." Cumberland, however, most strenuously denied that he was present
when the "School for Scandal" was first performed.  The
tragedy alluded to is said to be the "Carmelites," which was
the theme of ridicule of Sheridan's friends; in the " Rolliad"
they heap upon it the most extravagant and ludicrous praise,
calling Cumberland " the most exalted genius of the present
age," and in describing this tragedy, say, "the beauties of which
we will venture confidently to assert will be admired vnd
felt when those of Shakspeare, Dryden, Otway, Southerne and
Rowe shall no longer be held in estimation."  Again, "Our
readers, we trust, will pardon our having been diverted from
the task we have undertaken, by the satisfaction of dwelling
upon a few of the many beauties of this justly popular and  '
universally admired tragedy, which, in our humble opinion,.
infinitely surpasses every other theatrical composition, being
in truth an assemblage of every possible dramatic excellence;
nor do we believe that any production, whether of ancient or
modern date, can exhibit a more uncommon and peculiar
selection of language, a greater variety of surprising incidents,
a more rapid succession of extraordinary discoveries, a more
curious collection of descriptions, similes, metaphors, images,
storms, shipwrecks, challenges and visions; or a more miscellaneous and striking picture of the contending passions of,.
love, hatred, pity, madness, rage, jealousy, remorse and
anger, than this unparalleled performance presents to the admiration of the enraptured spectator. Mr. Cumberland has
been represented, perhaps unjustly, as particularly jealous of
the fame of his cotemporaries, but we ar; persuaded he will not
be offended when, in the rank of modern writers, we place him
second only to the inimitable author of the Rolliad." Such
at any rate was the feeling which took possession of Sheridan's
mind, that he gladly sought the opportunity of holding him
up to public ridicule; whenever the occasion offered, his name
was dragged forth. It was also alleged that every piece pre-  I
sented at Drury Lane, by Cumberland, met with a decided
refusal; and the newspapers secfmed willing to support the
disappointed author.  Criticisms, ill-natured, were hurled
against the "School for Scandal," and comparisons wer,     '
drawu between the moral tendency of the plays that issued.




LIFE OF SHERIDAN.


65


from the prolific pen of Cumberland, and those which Sheridan
had furnished to the world. This only continued to aggra
vate the quarrel, and led to further jealousies, which soon exhibited themselves in the production of Cumberland upon
the stage, as Sir Fretful Plagiary.
It would be hypercriticism to descant upon the beauties
and defects of a play that has undergone, from its very first
appearance up to the present moment, investigation the most
severe; that has been the theme of every dramatic censor
who has examined into its construction, or pointed to it as a
fair subject of comparison with the works of those who have
either preceded or succeeded its author. The too constant
sparkle of the dialogue, the want of connection of the scandalous college with the plot of the play, the imitation of Fielding's Blifil and Tom Jones, the investment of such a libertine
as Charles with qualities that make us forget his vices, and
a vast number of incongruities have been very wisely and
very learnedly pointed out, and have been descanted upon
with very commendable severity; but, after all, we are so
charmed with the ingenuity, with the endless richness of the
dialogue, that we are never tired with reading it, or with seeing it on the stage. We admire Sir Peter Teazle in spite of
his uxoriousness, his old bachelor ideas; in the hand of any
other dramatist he would have been ridiculous, but he is in*    vested with a certain dignity, a tenderness of feeling, and a
sense of honour, that although we must laugh at him when
his unenviable position is discovered, we are glad to find that
he is likely to become a happy husband after all his mortifications.  We are just on the point of thinking that Lady
Teazle must become the victim of her taste for extravagance
and shining in scandalous society, whilst we feel she deserves
v    a better fate, when we gladly find that she is rescued from
her false position. Even Joseph Surface is delightful to us;
the duplicity of his conduct, the sentimental hypocrisy of his
heart are so thoroughly laid open to us, that we are convinced
that he cannot be ultimately successful; we are not so anxious for even-handed justice being done to him, as we are to
the dramatic villain of a novel, and we are perfectly satisfied
with the punishment he meets in the exposure of his schemes,
Charles's irregularities do not shock or disgust us they are
punished by the reproaches which he has to encounter from
F




LIFE OF SHER1DAN.


ever/ one. We are happy in the conclusion that every thing
that annoyed the different parties is amicably arranged; it is
this that reconciles us to the fifth act, for at the end of the
fourth act the denouement has taken place, the fall of the
screen in a common play would have been the be all and end
all, and, as occurs in the " Merchant of Venice," the act after
the condemnation of the principal character, however beautiful is the poetry, the interest would altogether have ceased.
Yet after this exciting scene we are pleased that there is
another act to wind up the story, and to tell us how everybody has got out of the scrape. Of the original acting we
have heard much. That Garrick was delighted with it, we
may conclude not only from Murphy's observations in his
life of the great actor, but from a letter from him which  ~
has been preserved, in which he makes some remarks upon
the length of time the characters on the stage stood after
the falling of the screen; he observes "that they should be
astonished, a little petrified, yet it may be carried to too
great a length." The conventional points, which have been
handed down to us, are not many in number, but such as they
are they show that the manner of acting was carefully studied,
and, therefore, are strictly preserved. The acting of the late
Matthews in Sir Peter Teazle is said to have been in strict
conformity with the early stage directions; the pointing to the
screen with the thumb, the leer and the movements of the
elbows were precisely the same as practised by King, and as
they usually convulsed the audience with laughter, we have
a right to suppose that man, in different generations, expresses his feelings much in the same way. It has, however,
been said that Sheridan was himself never satisfied; he requested permission to read the part over to Matthews, with
whose delineation he expressed himself by no means pleased.,
The personation of Lady Teazle has been supposed to be
one of extreme delicacy, and although we seldom find an
actress of a certain grade who does not think herself fully
equal to the task, yet the fastidious lover of good acting is
very apt to require a lady of personal attractions, of good
judgment, and of elegant manners, and he repudiates the
flippant attempts which have occasionally been made to
introduce her as a being made up of levity, imprudence,
and assumption. There is to be found in " Blackwood's Maga



LIFE OF STERIDAN.                 0.
zine" for the year 1826, a remarkably well written essay, " On
Cant in Criticism," elicited by some letters which appeared
from Miss Kelly to the stage manager of Drury Lane Theatre,
in consequence of an ill-natured censure in which one of the
newspapers indulged upon the occasion of Miss Kelly's performance of Lady Teazle. Of the high intellectual powers of
Miss Kelly no doubt can exist, of her capability of sustaining
some of the most difficult characters in a particular depart
ment of the drama no one who has ever seen her inimitable
personations could express an hesitation, but that she does
not possess the necessary qualifications for Lady Teazle the
letters we have mentioned are an indisputable proof, and
bear out the remark that we are compelled to make, that the
many remarkable traits which are to be clearly painted to
the audience are beyond the power of many an otherwise
gifted actress. That Miss Kelly's reading of the character
should lead her to give an air of rusticity to Lady Teazle, to
assert that there is not a single line in the whole play which
describes her either as a beautiful or an elegant woman, but,
on the contrary, as having been six months before a girl of
limited education and of the most homely habits, are singularly opposed to the author's ideas, and to those which have
been entertained by all who have been considered judges of
pure and genuine comedy. The invariable reading of the
part has assigned to Lady Teazle the graces and the manners
of a woman of fashion, of one who, with the quick perception
of the female character, has been enabled rapidly to assume
all the refinement and all the manners of the haut ton. The
first complaint urged against her by Sir Peter Teazle, is that,
though wholly bred in the country, " She plays her part in all
the extravagant foppery of the fashion and the town with as
ready a grace as if she had never seen a bush or a grass plot
out of Grosvenor Square;" " then the charming air with which
she contradicts him;" the great satisfaction he has in quarrelling with her, as " she never appears to such advantage, as when
she is doing every thing in her power to plague him;" his
sarcasms on having made her " a woman of fashion, her elegant
expenses, her luxuries;" and after the exposure in Joseph
Surface's library, the spontaneous burst of admiration with
which he rushes to a reconciliation, on seeing her in another
room, " She looks this way-what a remarkably elegant turn
F 2.






LIFE OF SHERIDAN.


of the head she has-Rowley, I '11 go to her," are all evidences
that she possessed those charms which belong only to a superior woman, who had, if they were not natural to her, rapidly
acquired the graces which fascinate mankind. There is, too,
throughout an unmistakable lady-like bearing, there is a
choice of language, a quick appreciation of the defects of
others, much less bordering on ill nature than is perceptible
in any of the scandalous school, and a purer sense of honour,
after the almost fatal error.into which she had fallen, expressed
in the determined tone of contrition, with a knowledge of the
worldly views of man, which must impress us with the conviction of her being endowed with the perception of what was most
appreciated in society, and with a tact of the highest order.
Probably there never was a dramatist who more thoroughly
understood the exact province of comedy than did Sheridan,
no one could excite in us more cheerfulness and mirth at the
follies and inconsistencies of human nature, no one could
portray them better, and certainly no one has ever interested
us more, even in the imperfections and immoralities of his
personages. Whatever faults and vices they may exhibit, they
are portrayed so as to instruct our understanding, but not
to shock our feelings. His object has been to amuse, even
where he censures, and the punishment which he inflicts, is
that ridicule and exposure which are more mortifying than
any indignation or anger. It is not only a picture of the
manners of the day in which he lived, but the general features are those which will be perceptible in all ages and all
times, as long as there shall be a privileged class in society,
distinguished from the others by social and domestic differences. There will always be uxorious husbands, confiding
women, irascible fathers, careless spendthrifts, romantic girls,
hypocrites, and slanderers; such characters, modified by circumstances, and by national habits, will exist in every age and
in every clime. He has not slightly sketched these characters, but has displayed them in all their full vigour; he has
made them by the skill of his dialogue their own painters;
each betrays his own obliquities; there is no forced effort to
deceive the audience; until the development of the plot is
brought about, incidents follow one upon another which explain the position of each actor in the drama, and we are
gradually led on to take a warm interest in t e success of




LIFE OF SHERIDAN.


69


each, even when we find that we are bordering on dislike of
the selfishness and immoral tendency which are beginning to
show themselves. It is not only the inventive and creative
faculty that we admire in the fable, but the light play of wit
with which the conversation abounds; we feel that we are in
good company, that every man is striving to be clever and
entertaining to his neighbour, and there is nothing so flattering to our vanity as to find that the amusing persons, amongst
whom we chance to be mingling, are exerting themselves to
please us, that they are unloading the stores of their intellect
for the purpose of making us satisfied with ourselves. There
is a disposition to heighten the effect by the sallies of a
sportive wit, but there is no caricature, no exaggeration.
There is nothing improbable, nothing but what may have
occurred, every thing is perspicuous and easily developed.
We have neither our hopes nor our fears painfully excited,,       but every thing that passes before us inspires us with the
confidence that we have nothing to do, but to laugh at the
exposure of the follies of the world, the mistaken views of
men, the rogueries of some, the foibles of others, and that
these are often blended together in such a manner as to excite our mirth and our good feeling, and to dispel the gloom
which the realities of life are too often calculated to collect.
b        In the same volume of the " Edinburgh Review," which contains an examination into the merits of Moore as the biographer of Sheridan, there is an essay on the works of Machiavelli, by Macauley, which has been much admired for its depth
of thought and its terseness of expression; a few sentences
have been often quoted from ft on the subject of Sheridan's
plays, and Leigh Hunt, in his brief but brilliant sketch of
Sheridan, has placed them in juxtaposition with an extract
from one of Hazlitt's lectures on the comic writers.  We
have thus the bane and antidote before us. To the comedies
of Machiavelli, the reviewer apportions the correct and vigorous delineation of human nature, and considers that this is
the highest kind of excellence. He believes that comedy is
corrupted by wit. To Congreve and to Sheridan he imputes
their having deeply injured the comedy of England.  He
admits that they were men of splendid wit and of polished
taste, but that their indiscriminate prodigality of sparkling
language produces a dazzling glare, and that they unhappily




Jo


LIFE OF SHERIDAN.


made all their characters in their own likeness. We must
confess that we cannot assent to the axiom laid down that tho
real object of the drama is the exhibition of the human character.  We would rather look to the comedy as not only
a representation of what is amusing in character, and in the
contrast of situations and combinations, but as a picture of
the manners, the feelings, and the language of the class of
persons who are painted. Most of Shakspeare's comedies are
romantic love tales, there is no attempt at a skilful plot,
they are made up of slight materials, the incidents are few,
the conclusions are brought about in a very arbitrary way,
probabilities overlooked, plots scarcely wound up, characters
broadly delineated, and they are altogether compositions of
an extraordinary kind, produced before the rules of art had
-yet "cabined, cribbed, confined" the human imagination.
In the age in which Shakspeare lived, the lively, elegant
and sparkling dialogue would have been less understood
than quaint expressions, play upon words, and logical disquisitions. Ir. the earlier stages of society nature had her
freshness yet unaltered, and those who painted her met with
those who could appreciate her beauties. As man changed
by cultivation, by refinement, he began to admire art, and
although he can still love the first early impression that was
made upon his youthful heart, he looks to those artificial
ornaments by which he has been surrounded as the chiet
source of his delight. Congreve, Wycherley, Farquhar had
prepared the audiences, before whom Sheridan's plays were
produced, to enjoy his brilliancy of wit and repartee. These
did not corrupt the taste, they were adapted to it, they were
precisely the food on which the public were anxious to live,
they were the delicacies best suited to their already pampered
appetites. They have continued to delight the rising generation for whom in vain has been prepared other luxurious
viands. After the exciting melodramas of the German school,
their exaggerated sentimentality, their mawkish sensibility,
after the light intrigue of the French comedy, its good
natured gaiety, and its enticing sensuality, we still can turn
with redoubled pleasure to the epigrammatic points, the sparkling dialogues, the pungent satire of Sheridan. All may
be too highly wrought, too elaborate, too ornamental, still
are we delighted; we feel whilst we pry into the follies and




LIFE OF SHERIDAN.7


71


foibles of our brethren that they are exhibited in their
richest point of view; and even the hypocrisy of a Joseph, or
the cowardice of an Acres, whilst we abhor them, are laughed
at, because they are genuine, and whilst they seem to belong
to human nature are the best of their kind.
No one is more likely to become "laudator temporis acti"
than the theatrical amateur; the first impressions of life, the
earliest illusions strike so forcibly upon the imagination, that
they are recollected at subsequent periods with ail their fresh*     ness, and with a large proportion of the pleasure they first
excited. Judgment has had but little to do with the verdict
our senses have early pronounced, and when in later days
we make comparisons, we naturally forget that we have, from
the course of events, grown fastidious; that objects which
surprised and delighted us have become familiar, and have
therefore lost that which was their principal charm-their
originality.  We are apt to fancy that the actors of the
present day are far inferior to those who formerly delighted
us; we are alive to their defects, and are not struck with
their peculiar merits.  There can, however, be but little
doubt that when the " School for Scandal "was originally produced, there was upon the boards of Drury Lane Theatre,
as complete a company as ever was collected together; and
that though some of the characters may have been filled at
different periods by individuals of equal merit to them, yet
that the play was performed in a most masterly manner, and
worthy the school of the never dying Garrick. The Sir Peter
Teazle was intrusted to King, who has been traditionally
spoken of as one of the most perfect performers in his department, which was, however, somewhat limited. He had distinguished himself as Lord Ogleby, a character that Garrick
had originally intended for himself, and which, with the
assistance of Colman had been rendered admirably adapted
tfor the great master of his art; but he excused himself on
the plea that he was unwilling to study a new part. In fact, in
his own farce, "' Lethe," the character of Lord Chalkstone was
sufficiently like to prevent his having any great desire to undertake the new one. No one could deliver such dialogue, as
is found in Lord Ogleby, and in Sir Peter Teazle, with
greater point than Mr. King. He excelled in a quiet, sententious mode of expressing feeling and sentiment. There was




72


LIFE OF SHERIDAN.


an epigrammatic style in every thing he uttered; for although
he could, when occasion required, give rapid utterance to his
thoughts, he seemed generally to dwell upon his words, and
then make all the happy points tersely and cleverly; his
voice was musical, his action slow, his countenance expressive
of benignity, and yet of firmness.  He had the reputation of
speaking prologues and epilogues better than any actor of the
day, rendering them, when written with spirit, little dramas
perfect in themselves; his delivery of the couplet was in the
true spirit of poetry, and, without any mixture of buffoonery
or mimicry, he painted the ludicrous and the gay with great
felicity and tact.
He continued to perform the character at Drury Lane
until his retirement, occasionally lending his aid at the other
theatres where his Sir Peter was duly estimated.    In this
he took leave of the public on the 24th of May, 1802, after
fifty-four years of unremitting zeal.  Although he had on
other occasions shown that memory is not tenacious in old age
of that with which it was once most strongly impressed, he,
for the last time, displayed, to the great admiration of those
who love the scenic art, his admirable delineation of the disappointed, anxious old bachelor. His face, which was from
an early period strongly marked, was furrowed with age; his
eye had still some lustre, but there was much feebleness in
his step; there was, however, sufficient to teach the young
actor how great had been the veterans of Garrick's day.
With trembling lips and faltering voice he delivered an address, written by Cumberland, of which the following lines
are a specimen:
"Patrons, farewell!
Though you still kindly my defects would spare,
Constant indulgence who would wish to bear?
Who that retains the sense of brighter days,
Can sue for pardon, whilst he pants for praise?
On well-earned fame the mind with pride reflects,
But pity sinks the man whom it protects.
Your fathers had my strength, my only claim
Was zeal; their favour was my only fame."
Amidst shouts of applause the venerable old man made his
bow, and retired to the green room, where an affectionate
compliment awaited him from his dramatic brethren. in the




LIFE OF SHERIDAN


73


shape of a handsome silver cup, with an engraved motto from
"Henry the Fifth," happily adapted to the occasion:e *       "If he be not fellow with the best king,
l           Thou shalt find him the best king of good fellows."
From this cup his health was drunk, and he returned the
compliment almost overpowered with the intensity of his feelings, for as yet these marks of admiration and of approbation
had not become common, they were the spontaneous tributes
of high and honourable affection; as such they were offered, as
such accepted. The lavish manner in which stage compliments are now distributed, the hackneyed offerings, behind and
before the curtain, which managers, actors, and audiences be*  stow in so many shapes, have rendered all such expressions
so ludicrous that they are rather to be avoided than courted.
With him it was naturally said that Sir Peter had quitted
the stage.  We have, however, seen many representatives
who have delighted us. It is true that, at the present moment, Farren is the only actor who will leave behind him the
impression of 'greatness, he deserves to be recorded as one
worthy to be ranked with any of his predecessors.
Palmer's Joseph Surface seems to have been perfectly unapproachable by any competitor. So admirable a hypocrite
has never yet been seen; his manners, his deportment, his
address, combined to render him the very man he desired to
i paint. His performance on the stage bore a very strong simi-! larity to that he was famous for in private life; he was plausiI ble, of pleasing address, of much politeness, and even of great
grace. He was fond of pleasure, which he pursued with so
much avidity as to be generally very careless of his theatrical
duties, but when he had committed some gross absurdity, or
had been, through complete neglect of his duties, on the verge
of hearing a loud shout of disapprobation, " he threw up his
eyes with an expression of astonishment, or cast them down
as if in penitent humility, drew out his eternal white handkerchief to smother his errors, and bowed himself out of his
scrapes."  His plausibility and insidious arts shone forth in
Joseph. Palmer opened the Royalty Theatre in 1787, in Wellclose Square, Goodman's Fields, in opposition to his former
friends at Drury Lane Theatre, and attempting to perform
plays he was served with a threatening notice from the pro






74


LIFE OF SHERIDAN.


prietors of Drury Lane, Covent Garden, and the Haymarket,
which obliged him to abandon his undertaking. lie therefore
changed his plan, but being ultimately unsuccessful he was
compelled to return to Drury Lane; he was received before
the curtain with the sincerest demonstrations of welcome; he
felt that he was surrounded by his friends, and received the
applause with all his usual mute expressions of gratitude, but
the difficulty was to reconcile the manager. The meeting between the two men of address-Sheridan and Palmer-was,
as Boaden narrates it, expected to produce something remarkable. Palmer, making a profound bow, approached the author
of the " School for Scandal" with an air of penitent humility;
his head declined; the whites of his eyes turned upwards; his
i hands clasped together, and his whole air exactly that of
i Joseph Surface before Sir Peter Teazle. He began thus: "My
dear Mr. Sheridan, if you could but know what I feel at this
moment HERE,'- laying one hand upon his heart. Sheridan,
with inimitable readiness stopped him, " Why, Jack, you forgot I wrote it." Palmer, in telling the story himself, added,
"that the manager's wit cost him something, for I made him
add three pounds per week to the salary I had before my dei sertion." There is one story related by Boaden which shows
that Palmer was even superior to the manager. A friend
complimenting him one day upon his address, he disclaimed
any remarkable possession of the quality. " No," said he, "I
really don't give myself the credit of being so irresistible as
you have fancied me; there is, however, one thing in the way
of address that I think I am able to do. Whenever I am
arrested I think I can always persuade the sheriffs' officers to
bail me." This feat, however, has been surpassed by a more
modern actor of considerable talent, who not only persuaded
the keeper of a spunging-house to be his bail, but to lend
him two guineas to pay the attention of the servants of the
establishment, whom he declared he knew not how sufficiently
to recompense they were so full of civility and sympathy; he actually paid them out of the loan with three shillings, pocketing
the surplus for a future occasion, and not forgetting to drink
the health of the lender, as a man who ought to be encouraged
as a good master and an honest friend, having no confined
notions.
On an occasion when a new play was to be produced at




LIFE OF SHERIDAN.


Drury Lane, and the greatest anxiety prevailed that it should
be well brought out, it was pretty evident, at the rehearsal,
that Palmer knew not one line of his part; but it was expected that as he was aware that great anticipation had been
formed of its success that he would study it, more particu.
larly as it was one that would do him much credit, and with
*   which he had appeared more than usually pleased.   The
house was sure to be crowded, for the boxes were fully taken,
and the night for the performance had been for some time
fixed. At three o'clock on the eventful day arrived however, at the stage door, a letter; it was presented by Powell,
the prompter, in the presence of Michael Kelly, to Sheridan
in due form. He perused it; it was from John Palmer, an*   nouncing, as a deplorable fact, that he was taken dangerously
ill, and that his appearance that night might be fatal to him.
Sheridan knowing his man tolerably well, said, " I'll lay my
life this is a trick of Plausible Jack, and that there is nothing
the matter with him, except indeed not knowing a line of
the part he has to act to-night. Let you and I call upon
him," turning to Kelly, "and I am sure we shall find him as
well as ever."   They went to Lisle Street, where Palmer
lived, but Kelly managed to slip away, and act the good natured part of preparing Palmer for the visit. He found him
in the enjoyment of good health, a good dinner, and his social. circle. He gave him the hint to clear away the table, and to
do all he could to mystify Sheridan, who never would forgive
him for postponing the play  Palmer seized the moment,
swore endless gratitude for the kindness received from Kelly;
rushed into his bedroom, was quickly enveloped in a dressing gown, with a large woollen nightcap on, and a face of the
most becoming length; at first he could not make up his,   mind as to the nature of the dangerous illness with which he
was to be afflicted-a dreadful and most excruciating toothache at last presented itself to his mind. His face was im
mediately swollen; a handkerchief tied to his jaw, and lamentable groans issued from the agonized sufferer. Sheridan
arrived; he gazed with pity and with sympathy upon the admirable actor, who, with his hand upon the usual place, and
*   with a white handkerchief at his eyes, assured the anxious
manager that his suffering corporeal was not equal to his
mental, in consequence of his conviction that it vas injuring




LIFE OF SHERIDAN.


the establishment. Sheridan was completely taken in; kindly
suggested the extraction of the tooth, and then to study the
part and get perfect in the new play, and never had the
slightest idea of the trick played upon him.  One of the
happy excuses which Palmer played forth on every occasion
was the accouchement of his wife. He would postpone an engagement by sighing forth, with his white handkerchief to his
eyes, " My best of friends, this is the most awful period of
my life; I cannot be with you, my beloved wife, the partner
of my sorrows and my joys, is just confined."  He was engaged to act at Reading for the benefit of a poor actor, and
at the very moment of expectation, a letter was despatched by
Palmer instead of himself, announcing such an occurrence
just to have taken place. It was read to the audience, who,
of course, felt the deepest sympathy with him on such an in
teresting domestic occurrence, and all opposition was silenced.
He merely smiled with his usual bland benignity when congratulated by Kelly upon the happiness of having a wife who,
at least, once in two months rendered him a contented father.
During the period that Palmer attempted to perform at
Goodman's Fields, the magistrates summoned him to appear
before them, and calling upon him to show the licence by
which he acted, threatened instantaneous committal unless it
was produced. He bowed with excessive humility, and lamenting very much that he did not know that it was their
wish that it should be laid before them, entreated their indulgence whilst he went home, which was but a short distance, for
the important document. After some discussion this was assented to; Palmer's gratitude for this indulgence knew no
bounds, he called upon heaven to bless them for their kindness, laying his hand as usual upon that part of the chest
where he supposed he had a heart, respectfully bowed, and
departed upon his errand. The magistrates waited for a considerable length of time in the room at the tavern, discussing
the weather and the political topics of the day, until at length
their patience was exhausted, they rang the bell to order the
waiter to go to Mr. Palmer's lodgings, and desire him to say
they could wait no longer. The waiter on tIying to open the
door, to learn the pleasure of the quorum assembled, found
that it was locked, and requested the party within to open it,
and they then learnt that they were fairly locked in; for Mr,




LIFE OF SHERIDAN.


77


Palmer, fully aware that there was no such document in existence, and fearing that the magistrates would, as they had tho
power, actually commit him, had, on shutting the door, quietly
turned the key in the lock, pocketed it, and had gone his way to
follow his business, as "every man hath business," and was
careful to attend to nothing but that, and to be seen by nobody
until the storm had blown over. A more specious representative of Joseph Surface was not to be found, nor has any one
ever won such laurels. He played the part naturally; indeed,
study was always out of the question with him. It is a fact
that on the occasion of the production of Hayley's tragedy of
"Lord Russell," he was completely incapable of giving effect
to the character of Lord Russell, as he had as usual neglected
to study it; but as he knew the tragedy of the " Earl of Essex,"
and that there was some similarity in the fate of the two
heroes, he very dexterously recited passages from that play,
contriving to fit them in, so that the audience never discovered
[* '  his incapacity. With all his faults-and they were many-he
was one of the greatest favourites of the public; he was always hailed with loud approbation; he appeared to have been
made for the profession, and trod the stage as no other man
could do. There was something in his departure from the
great scene of life that created considerable sensation. He
was performing at Liverpool the character of the Stranger,
and had just pronounced the words, "there is another and a
better world," when he was seized with a paroxysm, from
which he never recovered. It does not appear that, as has
generally been received, he died instantaneously; but from
the moment of his fall upon the stage there were but feeble
indications of existence.
Charles Surface fell to the lot of William Smith, who has
' been characterized by Churchill in the " Roscaid," as " Smith
the genteel, the airy, and the smart." All agree that he was
one of the most elegant men of the day, his acquirements
were of no ordinary kind. He had received a first-rate education, and had completed his studies with much credit to himself at Cambridge. He was admitted into the highest circles
of society, and was particularly remarkable for the elegance.    of his manners. He had many of those qualifications which
enabled him to perform respectably in tragedy, but he never
attained any thing like excellence in that walk, In comedy,
I                                                                     A




LIFE OF SHERIDAN.


however, as the fine gentleman, his powers were universally
acknowledged. The graces of his person, the elegance of his
manners, and the dignity of his deportment, admirably qualified him for that character. The style of the man moving in
good society, it must be remembered, was essentially different
from what it now is. The dress, the distinctions, the acquirements necessary, were so unlike any thing which we now see,
that we can form but an indifferent idea of the qualifications
demanded for the accomplished actor in this walk. There
was more stage effect then even in private life; 'the powdered
hair, the folding hat, the sword, the short breeches with
buckles, the embroidered coat, the ruffles, and all the accessories of dress, served to distinguish the class; dancing a minuet, fencing, and fashionable raillery were amongst the indispensable accomplishments  To portray upon the stage a
man of the true school of gentility required pretensions of no
ordinary kind, and Smith possessed these in a singular degree, and he gave to Charles Surface all that finish for which
he was remarkable  He had acquired the sobriquet of Gentleman Smith from his unvarying exhibition of an air of
distinction without any false assumption. He had made it
an indispensable article of his agreement with managers that
his face was never to be blackened, and that he was never to
be lowered through a stage door. He retired from the stage
in 1787. The house was enormously crowded; and such had
been the desire to be present amongst the fashionable admirers of Smith, that the pit was for the occasion converted
into boxes, but there was not room for the accommodation of
all; he took his farewell, he said, after having served thirtyfive campaigns under the ablest generals, Garrick and Barry,
and now resigned the youthful gaiety of Charles Surface to
younger blood. The modern style of fine gentleman is so distinct from that of the day in which the " School for Scandal"
was produced, that we cannot attempt to picture what then
fascinated the audience, but the opinion of the playgoers of
tile day was, that "the Charles of the School for Scandal
died with Smith;" but that for this " we are to blame the alteration of our dress, and the consequent familiarity of our
manners." In a subsequent year he once again appeared, when
his old friend King bade farewell to the stage; he was thcu
living in retirement, surrounded by all the comforts of life;




LIFE OF SHERIDAN.


p


still, anxious to assist a brother veteran upon whom fortune
had not so kindly bestowed her blessings, he played Charles
with great spirit, and gave an admirable picture of the gentleman of the old school, and although associations, ideas, and
habits were much altered from what they had been when he
was in his zenith, his audience caught the spirit of his acting,
and their applause urged him on to exhibit a high flow of
spirits.  He concluded with some lines written for the occasion.,           "At friendship's call, ne'er to be heard in vain,
My spirits rise-Richard's himself again."
The two scandal-mongers, uncle and nephew, each having
his characteristic line of tattle, of censoriousness, and slander, fell into the hands of two excellent comedians, Dodd
and Parsons, they eagerly contributed to the amusement of
the public; Dodd was the most perfect fopling ever placed
upon the stage, he was the most exquisite coxcomb, the most
ridiculous chatterer ever seen, he took his snuff, or applied
the quintessence of roses to his nose, with an air of complacent superiority, such as won the hearts of all conversant with
that style of affectation. His walk upon the boards bespoke
the sweet effeminacy of the person, the pink heels, the muslin
of his cravat and frills are dwelt upon by the amateurs of the. ~    day as specimens of his understanding the range of his art.
He is spoken of as " the prince of pink heels, and the soul of
empty eminence." Parsons was the Crabtree, and was a perfect old detractor and crabbed calumniator; he was an actor of
great merit too, but he never appeared to greater advantage
than he did in the " Critic;" he was the original Sir Fretful
Plagiary, and from his delineation most of our modern actors
have borrowed their idea: it was his last performance on the
29th of January, 1795, and on the fifth of February he died.
A compliment paid to his memory, on the opening of the
Haymarket Theatre, in the summer, was caught at by the
*  audience with loud expressions of their concurrence in the
sentiment. A prelude was written by Colman, entitled " New
Hay at the Old Market;" the audience was supposed to bo
made acquainted with the wants of the concern, and a dialogue
between Prompter and Carpenter occurs, during which tlei
following expressions were used




LIFE OF SHEPRIATN.


"Carpenter. We want a new scaffold for the Surrender of
Calais.
" Prompter. Ah! where shall we get such another hangman?
Poor fellow, poor Parsons! the old cause of our mirth is now
the cause of our melancholy; he who so often made us forget
our cares may well claim a sigh to his memory.
"Carpenter. He was one of the comicalest fellows I ever
see.
"Prompter. Ay, and one of the honestest, Master Carpenter. When an individual has combined private worth with
public talent, he quits the bustling scene of life with twofold
applause, and we doubly deplore his exit."
The allusion here was to the play of the " Surrender of
Calais," in which Parsons performed the chief workman at the
gallows erected for the patriots who were to be hung by the
decree of King Edward. The scene was an imitation of the
grave diggers in " Hamlet." On an occasion when the king,
George the Third, had commanded the play, Parsons, instead
of saying the words set down for him, " So the king is coming:
an the king like not my scaffold, I am no true man," gave a
new reading, which, as it was expressed with peculiar humour,
and a saucy assumption of independence, excited great laughter, more especially from the monarch. Parsons exclaimed,
" An the king were here, and did not admire my scaffold, I
would say da-n 't he has no taste." Such a liberty in the
present day would most probably cause any thing but a shout
of approbation; the actors in those times were a privileged
class, for whom the public at large entertained a kind of
affection, which they now and then gladly evinced. These
two clever performers supported each other in the scandalous
school with wonderful effect; the dry sarcasm of Parsons had
additional sting given to it by the thoughtless and impertinent volubility of Dodd; youth and age each had their privileged sneer and jest; the total insensibility to the wounds
they were inflicting seemed, in the one instance, to arise
from reckless folly, in the other, from cold, calculating illnature.  As they are generally given at the present day,
there is a want of unity in the two performers, each seems
totally independent of the other, and they express their
villanous fancies without that force and vigour which would
arise from a mutual good understanding. The two characters.,




LIFE OF SHERIDAN.


81


are by no means so easily delineated as may be imagined,
and considerable study is required to satisfy those who are
neither pleased with buffoonery nor burlesque.
Baddeley is not to be forgotten as Moses. He had taken
infinite pains to study the characteristics by which the Jews
are distinguished from other nations, and was particularly
happy in expressing them.  He was to have appeared at
Drury Lane, on the 20th of November, in this character, but
whilst dressing for it was seized with a fit, and expired on
the following day. He was originally a cook, and was employed by Foote, with whom he quarrelled, and challenging
him to fight, the great comedian declined, saying, " Here is
a pretty fellow! I allowed him to take my spit from the rack,
and stick it by his side, and now he wants to stick me with
it." His bequest of a cake and wine for the green room, on
twelfth night, has tended to keep his memory alive. Lamash
was an actor too of considerable experience and of much
merit, and was, as the coxcombical valet, and underbred fine
gentleman, a great favourite.
Nothing could exceed the mismanagement which, at this
time, marked every thing that was attempted at Drury Lane
Theatre; numerous were the letters addressed to Garrick.
Mrs. Clive, the original Nell in the " Devil to Pay," once
so great a favourite with the public, then residing in quiet
'*    tranquillity at Twickenham, yet anxiously turning her eyes
to her favourite haunts of old, wrote to her old friend,
"Everybody is raving against Sheridan for his supineness,
there never was in nature such a contrast as Garrick and
Sheridan; what have you given him that he keeps so?"
But a letter from Hopkins, the prompter, will show what a
change had taken place in a short time after the retirement
of the great actor and manager. "We played last night
'Much Ado about Nothing,' and had to make an apology for
three principal parts. About twelve o'clock Mr. Henderson
sent word that he was not able to play. We got Mr. Lewis
from  Covent Garden, who supplied the part of Benedick.
Soon after, Mr. Parsons sent word he could not play, Mr.
Moody supplied the part of Dogberry; and about four in the
afternoon Mr. Vernon sent word he could not play, Mr.
Mattocks supplied his part of Balthazar. I thought myself
very happy in getting these wide gaps so well stopped. In
G




82


LIFE OF SHERIDAN.


the middle of the first act a message was brought me that Mr.
Lamash, who was to play the part of Borachio, was not come
to the house. I hai nobody there that would go on for it, so
I was obliged to cut his scenes in the first and second act
entirely out, and get Mr. Wrighton to go on for the remainder of the part. At length we got the play over without the
audience finding it out. We had a very bad house. Mr.
Parsons is not able to play in the " School for Scandal" tomorrow night; do not know how we shall be able to settle that.
I hope the pantomime may prove successful, and relieve us
from this dreadful situation."  All these communications
could not fail to be distressing to Garrick, who, independent
of the large pecuniary interest he had at stake, felt very great
anxiety for the welfare of Sheridan and his colleagues; he
ends a correspondence between himself and Mr. T. King,
" Poor Old Drury, I feel that it will very soon be in the hands
of the Philistines."  The complaints against Sheridan were
strongly urged; he neglected to open his letters; they were
collected into an indiscriminate heap, and oftentimes, when
their accumulation rather alarmed the manager, they were
consigned to the flames, and frequently communications of
considerable importance were thus sacrificed. Authors not
only complained of the loss or neglect of their manuscripts,
but boldly asserted that their plots, their incidents, and their
conversations were pilfered and brought out in such shapes
that the parent only recognised his offspring by some unmistakeable feature. Sheridan had occasionally to pay for this
heedlessness, and under the name of gratuity, or the expression of admiration of a play not quite suited for the stage,
was compelled to silence some urgent claimant with money.
Occasionally this obtained for him the name of liberality; but
he soon found that more were ready to take advantage of his
good nature than had any real claims upon it.
The year 1788 was remarkable in the life of Mr. Sheridan
from the circumstance of his becoming still further committed
to the speculation at Drury Lane Theatre, for he purchased
Mr. Willoughby Lacy's interests, and for the introduction
on the stage of a musical entertainment entitled the " Camp."
It now appears that it was the work of his brother-in law,
Tickell, and what could have induced Sheridan to lend the
lustre of his reputation to so worthless a piece of nonsense it


4




LIFE OF SHERIDAN.


is difficult to imagine.  Tate Wilkinson has rescued him
from the discredit of the authorship, and, therefore, it is unnecessary to say a word more than that this, together with
the carelessness with which the theatre was managed, under
the father of Sheridan, excited some degree of displeasure
amongst the habituis of Drury Lane; nor did the monody
which he wrote on the death of Garrick, and which, with
a musical accompaniment, was given the next year, please
the public. There seemed to be a tendency to reaction in
the theatrical world, and the playgoers were apparently preparing themselves for an outbreak against their newly established friend, when he succeeded in amusing the town with
that which seldom fails to please-a caricature of an author
whose irritability was the source of much ridicule, and a satire
which travestied the dramatic compositions of the day with
great humour and fidelity.
The farce called the ' Critic " was brought out on the 30th of
October, and was the last dramatic effort of this great genius;
for "Pizarro" is only an adaptation to the English stage
of a play of Kotzebue, and the larger proportion a complete
translation.  The period, however, at which it was placed
upon the stage, whilst a species of enthusiastic loyalty to the
king, a detestation of the ruler of France, and a host of concomitant events, together with the acting of IKemble, of Mrs.
Siddons, of Mrs. Jordan, gave a popularity to it which probably has never been equalled
The " Critic" has remained a favourite, even after the
causes that gave rise to its being thoroughly appreciated have
ceased.  During the lifetime of Cumberland, a satire such
as this was certain to please; nor do we agree with one of
his admirers, who some time since prophesied " that the works
of Cumberland will delight and edify remote generations, when
the attempt to render him contemptible, on account of some
little infirmity in his temper, shall have lost its point and be
forgotten." So far from being realized is this, that the author
of the " West Indian," and of the " Jew," is almost unknown
to fame. His plays are rarely acted, and then rather for the exhibition of some favourite actor; whilst the "Critic," although
the parties at whom the sarcasms were levelled are not even
thought of, and although the passages which are ridiculed are
scarcely known to exist, proves attractive, and mirth and merriG 2




LIFE OF SHIEIUIAL'.


ment are called forth by every scene of a burlesque which hs
neither plot, nor character, nor moral to develop   The
audience troubles itself not for a single instant to comprehend the hidden meaning with which each scene is pregnant;
it enters into a joke which one would imagine would only be
intelligible to those who study dramatic lore; for the " Critic"
is as much a satire upon the plays of the present day, as it
was upon those of the generation just passed away.
That Cumberland was the Sir Fretful Plagiary there cannot be the slightest doubt, and that Sheridan hit his peculiarities off in the happiest manner is equally true. There is a
letter from Cumberland in the Garrick correspondence tendering a piece, probably the "Battle of Hastings," which had
been rejected at Covent Garden, so much like what Sir Fretful would have written, that it is enough to stamp the similitude of the two; there is another from him to Garrick complaining of Sheridan exactly like the man.  "I read the
tragedy in the ears of the performers on Friday morning,
I was highly flattered by the audience, but your successor in
management is not a representative of your polite attention
to authors on such occasions, for he came in yawning at the
fifth act, with no other apology than having sat up two nights
running. It gave me not the slightest offence, as I put it
all to the habit of dissipation and indolence, but I fear his
office will suffer from want of due attention, and the present
drop upon the theatre justifies my apprehension."  His letters
exhibit his character, there is flattery of Garrick, self-conceit,
insinuations against every one. Garrick endorsed upon the
back of those he sent to him upon the subject of his tragedy,
the "Battle of Hastings," "a true picture of the man."  Of
his inflicting upon his friends the horrors of listening to the
reading of his plays, there are many stories on record; none,
however, are better told than by Michael Kelly, who relates
what occurred to himself and Banister, who were invited to
partake Cumberland's hospitality at Tunbridge Wells, but
were condemned to hear him go through a manuscript play,
entitled "Tiberius:" his sensitiveness upon the subject of
his writings may have been excusable, but his envy of 'he
success of any other dramatist, and his inveterate dislike o
Sheridan, are sufficient grounds for his being held up to idicule




LIFE OF SHERIDAN,


Vaughan was the person portrayed under the name of
Dangle, he was always busied in the progress of the dramatic,    world, and exceedingly anxious to be considered as possessing
great power with the press and with managers. He had occupied himself about the Richmond Theatre, and had written
some letters in the " Morning Post."  He was fairly characterized as a theatrical Quidnunc, and a mock Mecenas. Colman
had launched some shafts of ridicule against him in a periodical paper which he brought out under the title of Genius
where Vaughan figured as Dapper. The stupid nonsense so
often quoted from Dr. Watkins, that the exposure of these
foolish individuals to public ridicule is an offence to humanity,
is scarcely worth refutation. These persons had made themselves public property, their talents were never called in question; but those offensive foibles, which led them to depreciate.all but themselves, were held up as fair objects for merriment,
the castigation they received was in proportion to their ofr   fences, and has served as an example to those who would:thrust themselves impertinently forward without duly regarding the claims of others.
Some have supposed that there are sundry sly hits at
Woodfall, who was the theatrical critic in the " Morning Chronicle," to which allusion is made, but the well-known independence of character of that excellent man shields him from
any attack; he was fully capable of asserting the rights of
the press, and of maintaining that high position which, as a,critic, he had taken up. His admirable letters to Garrick in
the year 1776 show that, however willing to acknowledge
the claims of genius, he would inflexibly maintain a straightforward integrity in the conduct of his journal, and that he
would steadily adhere to truth.
* *       Such was the impression left upon the public mind by the
"Critic," so strongly were its points felt, that no tragedy could
be offered to the managers for a long time after its production.
Every author saw the ridicule which must attend a repetition
of those turgid, incongruous, unnatural attempts, which had
so long usurped the place of tragedy. Zorayda was brought
out, but was borne with for eight nights only; its author was
-a man of considerable genius, had distinguished himself at
Cambridge, having gained the Seatonian prize, but his heroine was found to be forestalled in Tilburina, and vain was




so


LIFE OF SHERIDAN.


the effort to restore to the stage any of those rhapsodies which
Sheridan had thus banished. It would not be difficult for any
one in the habit of reading the plays of the period to show the
different passages that are burlesqued. Holcroft had at one
time an idea of publishing a key to the Critic; such has been
done for the Rehearsal.
Parsons, as Sir Fretful Plagiary, quickly won the kindest
interpretation of his peculiar view of the character, though
he did not altogether please Sheridan. Miss Pope, as Tilburina, was hailed with great rapture; every one, in a moment, recognised the heroine they had been accustomed to
see whining, raving, and killing herself and her lover, in the
last act of every tragedy that had been produced for a quarter of a century. Her entrance in white satin, stark mad, according to custom, was the signal for a loud and long burst of
applause; " nobody could ever desire to see any body madder."
She mangled her metre in the most approved fashion of the
day. Bannister supported her with great tact, as Don Ferolo
Whiskerandos; his whimsical situation, his combat with the
captain, ' Am I a beef-eater now?" furnished him with admirable opportunities for burlesque acting, of which he availed
himself. Short as is the part, it has always been a favourite
with the public. The refusal to "stay dying all night," which
was an impromptu expression of weariness the first night of
dress rehearsal was seized upon by Sheridan, and immediately
introduced.  Indeed, several of the points were instantaneously struck off on that occasion. Mr. Waldron, as Sir
Christopher Hatton, was more popular in that short and insignificant character than in any that he performed. It was
said by Sheridan, that he made more points by his toes than
by his brains. The "Critic" loses nothing of its value by
frequent repetition. Farren has in modern times been received as a skilful delineator of Sir Fretful Plagiary, and has
deservedly been admired.
It is a well-authenticated fact, that two days before the
"Critic" was announced to be played Sheridan had not
finished the last scene. Every body was anxious and nervous; Mr. Linley and Dr. Ford were in no enviable statethey were joint managers, and responsible. The performers
looked at each other with dread and dismay. King, who had
the part of Puff to sustain, was the stage manager; it was his




LIFE OF SHERIDAN.


87


especial duty to find out Sheridan, and to weary him with remonstrances on the backward state of things; but matters
went on much as usual; Sheridan came to the theatre, made
the customary promise that he was just going home to finish
it; that in fact it was completed, and only wanted an additional
line or two. His father-in-law, Linley, knew the only spur
to his industry and his genius; he therefore ordered a night
rehearsal, and invited Sheridan to dine with him, gave him a
capital dinner, proposed a lounge to Drury Lane whilst the
supper was preparing; Sheridan assented, and they sauntered
together up and down the stage previous to the rehearsal,
when King stepped up to Sheridan, requested a moment's
audience, and went with him into the small green-room, where
there was a comfortable fire, a good arm chair, a table furnished with pens, ink, and paper, two bottles of claret, a
tempting dish of anchovy sandwiches, and the prompter's unfinished copy of the " Critic." King, immediately Sheridan
"',    entered the room, popped out, locked the door, when Ford
and Linley made their pleasure known to him, that he was to
finish the wine and the farce, but not to be allowed to stir out
of the room until they were both at an end. Sheridan laughed
heartily at the joke, sat to in good earnest, and finished the
work to the great delight of all parties.
This last act contains an inimitable scene, almost unknown
~..    to the theatrical world, as it is rarely, if ever, performed; it
boasts some of the most genuine hits at the winding up of
dramas and novels that have ever appeared. The family recognition of the Justice, and the wife of the highwayman, is
admirable.  It is a supposed hit at the tumid language of
Home, the author of "Douglas," in the " Fatal Discovery," a
tragedy of bombast and nonsense, which, singularly enough,
was warmly patronized by Garrick, who had repudiated the
popular play of " Douglas " as unfitted for the stage. We have
had occasion to observe that there exists no copy of the
"School for Scandal," excepting the Dublin edition, nor of the
"Duenna," authorized by Sheridan himself; but, fortunately,
we possess something like circumstantial evidence that the
" Critic" was given in such a shape to the world as he could approve of; for, in the library of Mr. Henry Bohn, there exists a
presentation copy to one of the Duke of Marlborough's family,
with the undoubted autograph of the author.  From this




88


LIFE OP SHERIDAN.


treasurs we are enabled to produce an authentic version. It
is a thin octavo volume, with a frontispiece beautifully engraved, having the masks of tragedy and comedy admirably
executed, printed for T. Beckett, Adelphi, Strand, 1781.
There are no very striking differences in the text, from that
which has been usually received as genuine; indeed, it is only
in the stage directions, and in the printing of the dialogue,
that there is much perceptible variation.  Such, however, as
is the original version, we have taken care that it should be
preserved in the present volume. One or two of the passages,
as they appear there, are rendered somewhat striking by the
introduction of italics and capitals; thus, the accusation that
Sheridan plagiarized from his fellow labourers, who sent
their plays for acceptance at Drury Lane Theatre, is unhesitatingly met, and sneered at, in the following dialogue, which
is thus prited: —
" Dangle. Sir Fretful, have you sent your play to the
managers yet? or can I be of any service to you??
" Sir Fretful. No, no, I thank you; I believe the piece had
sufficient recommendation with it. I thank you, though I
sent it to the manager of COVENT GARDEN THEATRE this
morning.
" Sneer. I should have thought now that itmight have been
cast (as the actors call it) better at DRURY LANE.
"Sir Fretful. 0 lud, no!-never send a play there while I
live, harkee!  [Whispers Sneerwell.]
"Sneer. Writes himself! I know he does!"
"Sir Fretful. I say nothing- I take away from no man's
merit-am hurt at no man's good fortune —I say nothing, but
this I say-through all my knowledge of life I have observed
that there is not a passion so strongly rooted in the human
heart as envy.
"Sneer. I believe you have reason for what you say, indeed.
"Sir Fretful. Besides-I can tell you it is not always so
safe to leave a play in the hands of those who write themselves.
"Sneer. What! they may steal from them, my dear Plagiary.
" Sir Fretful. Steal! to be sure they may, and egad! servo
your best thoughts as gypsies do stolen children, disfigure
them to make their, pass for their own




LIFE OF SHERIDAN.


89


" Sneer. But your present work is a sacrifice to Melpomene,
and HE, you know, never -
"Sir Fretful. That's no security-a dexterous plagiarist
may do anything. Why, Sir, for aught I know, he might
take out some of the best things in my tragedy, and put them
into his own comedy."
From the same stores that were opened for the use of
Moore, and from which he has collected a vast quantity of
amusing information as to the early career of Sheridan in the
dramatic and literary world, have been collected proofs that
many things were commenced by him which were never
thoroughly carried out; several unfinished pieces attest his
labours and his talents. He had meditated over many designs, of which slight sketches were drawn, the outlines of
characters delineated, and heads of conversation prepared, all
of which never arrived at that degree of perfection which
would warrant their being given to the public in any other
Y '     character than as literary curiosities, these, from the eminence of the author, are well worth preserving. The memorandums of a comedy entitled "Affectation," three acts of a
drama, fragments of epilogues, of poems, lead us to regret
that so early in life he abandoned, for political strife, the
Muses, who were so willing to hover around him, and lend
him their influence..    About the year 1780 a change came over the spirit of his
1 dream. " That year a dissolution of Parliament took place;
he felt 'aspiring passions;' he bade adieu to the triumphs
which a theatrical auditory had afforded him, and sought a
new scene for the exhibition of talents which doubtless he felt
that he possessed, and wanted only an opportunity for their
display. Amongst his manuscripts are to be found indica*,     tions that, even whilst he was busy in the theatrical world,
he had bestowed some portion of his time and attention to
politics. A paper on absenteeism, embracing some views of
the cruelty practised by England upon the sister isle, by restraining her commercial freedom, and other proofs exist
that he did not entirely yield himself up to the fascinations
of the theatre.
The neglect, however, which necessarily followed upon his
new career was soon felt at Drury Lane Theatre; and it is to
be inferred that, about this time, those embarrassments corn




)0                 LIFE OF SHERIDAN.
menced which haunted and embittered his future life. Mur.
murs began to be heard as to the payment of certain salaries
-whispers which gradually grew into loud complaints-that
there was no regular system followed in the management,
and no regard paid to economy. The father of Sheridan directed the affairs of Drury Lane with great difficulty; and
at last so many obstacles were thrown in his way by one set
of persons, and so little apparent wish to support him by
those who had most interest in his management, that he was
compelled to relinquish the undertaking. Sheridan himself
seemed altogether careless; invited into society by those who  u
were delighted with his gaiety and his talent, he plunged into
expenses for entertaining others, which very rapidly absorbed
large sums of money, whilst the facility of drawing from the
treasury led him to forget that it was only by persevering
economy fortunes are to be realized, and those we love rendered independent of the pressure of want. Light-hearted,
amiable, open to flattery, caressed for his talents by all who had
any claim to public fame, he launched into the bustle of life.
At the age of twenty-nine he had achieved a brilliant reputation, had gained an immense property, and was apparently
master of large resources, but he rushed upon an ambitious
career which dazzled him; he abandoned that of which he was
certain for that which was yet unknown. He neglected the
business of that concern by which he could have gained, as
Garrick had done before him, a splendid fortune, left it almost
without management, content to be called the kind-hearted
proprietor, and to draw money from it. An epilogue to Miss
Hannah Moore's play of " Fatal Falsehood," from his pen,
and a pantomime, " Robinson Crusoe, or Harlequin Friday,"
attributed to him, seem, for a time, to have been all that he
considered necessary for him to do for the theatre.
The biographer, who is endowed with Spurzheim's organ of
comparison, would feel some difficulty in assigning to Sheridan
his proper rank as a statesman, if he sought to elucidate the
circumstances of his political career by drawing a parallel between his position and that of any of the distinguished men who
at the present moment sway the public mind. Indeed, events
are of so different a character, that another race of individuals has sprung up, who would most probably have been little
thought of had they attempted to bring themselves into




LIFE OF SHERIDAN.


notice at an earlier period.  The eloquence which was required in the stormier moments of a nation's existence would
now be of little avail; the passions are no longer to be
aroused-the reason is to be addressed.   Men have time
leisurely to reflect upon the nightly debates; these are occupied with subjects which require facts, statistic details, and
knowledge of business; assiduity and practical information
are more looked to than brilliancy of language or beautiful
imagery. The representative of a manufacturing district, or
a railway proprietor who can stutter forth his own conviction,
commands more attention than the chaste speaker, or the
acute logician; such, however, was not the case when Sheridan
won the admiration of his country.
Politics were then more universally discussed; all ranks of
society engaged in public affairs; the spirit of party ran high;
matters of the deepest happiness to the human race were
boldly investigated; the attempt by one set of men to stifle
v   the expression of the general voice had engendered a rankling hatred in the bosom of others, and kindled the passions
that were sought to be extinguished; these, however, have
now died away. In England, since the secession from active
exertion for the party of the people, of their last great leader,
Sir Francis Burdett, there has been little of that enthusiasm
which once animated the whole kingdom and led society to
t.   rank itself under two great sections, which, whatever might
have been their subdivisions, represented, on one hand, the
love of power, on the other, that of liberty. From the commencement of the great American War, until the overthrow
of Napoleon, there was a constant excitement in the public
mind; the mightiest changes were going forward, and opportunities offered themselves, to men to distinguish themselves,
',  more by their power of influencing others by personal ability
and their more apparent qualifications, than by their research,
their inventions, or their discoveries. Above all, eloquence,
which addresses itself at once to the senses, and leads them on' wards, was worshipped, and brought to its possessor, not only
admiration, but, beyond that, the actual affection of its auditors.
No one more successfully obtained this than did Sheridan.
He was listened to, even by such a man as Professor Smyth,
as a being that belonged to another sphere, as one to whom
no ordinary mortal was for a moment to be brought into like.




LIFE OF SHERIDAN.


ness or comparison;" such was the wondrous power of Sheri
dan, that his vehement and affecting torrents of eloquence
left an impression upon the mind that no subsequent series
of events could ever efface; if, indeed, all that his eulogists
have said of him be true, those who once listened to him have
had a greater enjoyment than has fallen to the lot of the most
enthusiastic admirer of public speaking. Yet, when Sheridan
entered upon his career, he by no means gave promise of becoming so splendid an orator. There were, twenty years ago,
at Bath, many who remembered him there as a young man
walking about in a cocked hat and scarlet waistcoat, with his
pockets most deplorably empty, trying various means of filling
them and amusing himself.  Amongst other thoughts that
crossed his mind was a private play, but in rehearsal he was
found incapable of filling any prominent position.
When, in 1780, Sheridan made his first address upon the
subject of his return to Parliament for Stafford, in answer to
a petition against his election, he was listened to with great
attention, the House being uncommonly still while he was
speaking, for his reputation had prepared for him a willing
audience; he made, however, but little impression-it appeared, to those who were anxious to judge of his real capabilities. that nature never intended him for an orator; his
enunciation was evidently very imperfect; he spoke as if his
tongue was too thick for the due action of the muscles which
close the teeth upon it; there was an indistinctness, of which
indeed he never got rid, so that his mental powers appeared
to be very far superior to his physical qualifications. He was
himself agitated during the delivery of his speech, and upon
its conclusion he went into the gallery where Woodfall was
reporting, and with much evident anxiety tried to obtain
from him his opinion of the probability of his ultimate suecess. With his usual frankness, Woodfall told him that he
candidly advised him to stick to his former pursuits, for he
had now got out of his depth; Sheridan, however, felt that
within him which urged him on to future fame, and, resting
his head upon his hand, exclaimed, " I know that it is in me,
and out it shall come! " Woodfall was nearly right; Sheridan
became, with as much labour as Demosthenes had employed,
a great orator, and mind overcame the deficiencies of the
earthly frame; but even to the latest moments he had occasion




LIFE OF SHERIDAN.


ally a defect which, for a short time, impeded the power of
producing an impression; but when carried away by his subject all minor thoughts were dissipated by the excitement of
his language, the fervour of his manner, and the wondrous
lustre and expression of his eye; so that, when he ceased, all
seemed to wait with the hope of something more.
This first attempt made by Sheridan to address the House
naturally excited great interest. He was heard with particular
attention and unusual silence; he replied to a complaint
against his election for Stafford, by means of bribery and
corruption; he defended his constituents from an accusation
made by the lowest and most unprincipled voters. He thought
it a great hardship, and wished that some adequate penalties
should be inflicted on those who traduced and stigmatized a
respectable body of men.  Mr. Rigby did not allow these
observations to pass unnoticed, but ridiculed the idea of any
member being concerned for the character of his consti'   tuents. Mr. Fox threw his shield over the young member,
and made some sarcastic remarks on the ministerial members,
who chiefly robbed and plundered their constituents, and
afterwards affected to despise them. Sheridan, himself, took
the opportunity, on the next occasion of his addressing the
House, which was a few evenings after, when he spoke on
the Vote of Thanks to Earl Cornwallis and General Sir Henry
"o.. Clinton, for their conduct in America, to show that he was
not likely tamely to submit to the taunts of Mr. Rigby. He
apologized to him for not answering some things that had
fallen from him, in the same ludicrous strain in which he
chose to view every thing, excepting what related to his own
immediate interest. He acknowledged the gentleman had a
kind of drollery and humour, but he liked his ingenuity, his
", humour and his counsels, better than his political arguments.
Sheridan's next speech, which occurred on the second reading of the bill for " The better Regulation of his Majesty's Civil
List," was the first indication that he gave of his readiness of
*reply, and of the happy tact with which he could seize on the
observations of an adversary, and turn the weapons of ridicule
upon the practised debater. Mr. Courtenay, instead of discussing a serious and grave question, which involved the
characters of the ministry for retaining several useless, expensive, and inconvenient places, and diverting the money of




94


LIFE OF SHERIDAN.


the public from its proper channels into the purse of indivi.
duals, attacked the opposition members, and observed that Ohl,
liberty! Oh, virtue! Oh, my country! had been the incessant,
pathetic, but fallacious cry of former oppositions. The present
he was sure acted on purer motives. They wept over their
bleeding country; yet the patriot " eye, in a fine frenzy rolling," deigned to cast a wishful squint on riches and honour
enjoyed by the minister and his venal supporters. He compared their conduct to the sentimental alderman in Hogarth's
print, who, when his daughter is dying, wears a face of parental
grief and solicitude; but it is to secure a diamond ring which  -
he is drawing off her finger. He proceeded, in a ludicrous
strain, to poiit out the anxious wish of the opposition to
breathe a fresh air, but implored them not to put the drag
chain upon a rising state.  Mr. Sheridan, after reproving
Mr. Courtenay for the unsuitable manner in which he had
introduced his opinion, observed that, if they could not act
with dignity, they ought to debate with decency; that he  '
would not attempt seriously to reply to that which had an
infusion of ridicule in every part; but two of his similes he
must take notice of. The one was that the opposition was
envious of those who basked in court sunshine, and were
desirous only of getting into their places. To this insinuation
he would reply, that though the sun afforded a genial warmth,
it also occasioned an intemperate heat that tainted and infected every thing that it reflected on; that this excessive
heat tended to corrupt, as well as to cherish, to putrefy, as
well as to animate, to dry and soak up the wholesome juices
of the body politic, and to turn the whole into one mass of
corruption.  If those, therefore, who sat near him did not
enjoy so genial a warmth as the honourable gentleman, and
those who, like him, kept near the nobleman in the blue   '
riband (Lord North), he was certain that they breathed a
purer air, an air less infected and less corrupt. The drag
chain, of the gentleman's allusion, was never applied but
when a machine was going down hill, and then it was applied
wisely.  He concluded a felicitous speech by assuring the
honourable gentleman that the most serious part of his argument appeared the most ludicrous.
It was on the 5th of March that the first parliamentary effort,
demanding talent and judgment, was made by Sheridan, and




^                        LIFE OF SHERIDAN.                  95(
the universal opinion expressed in favour both of the matter
and manner of his speech gave him a decided position in the, W     political world.  Mr. Sheridan had previously given notice
of his intention to bring forward a motion for the better regulation of the police of Westminster, and he took the opportunity of coming before the house with a well-digested view
of the circumstances which had presented themselves during
the month of June, in the past year, when the metropolis was
left for several days at the mercy of an ignorant and fanatic
mob. His motions were:
"1. That the military force intrusted to his Majesty by
parliament' cannot justifiably be applied to the dispersing
illegal and tumultuous assemblies of the people, without waiting for directions from the civil magistrates, but where the
outrages have broke forth with such violence that all civil
authority is overborne, and the immediate subversion of all,   legal government directly threatened "
" 2. That the necessity of issuing that unprecedented order
to the military, on the 7th of June last, to act without waiting
for directions from the civil magistrates, affords a strong presumption of the defective state of the magistracy of Westminster, where the riots began."
"3. That a committee be appointed to inquire into the
conduct of the magistracy and civil power of the city of Westminster, with respect to the riots in June last; and to ex
amine and report to the House the present state of the magistracy and government of the said city."
The language he employed was not peculiarly striking, but
it was to the point.
On the 13th of May, and on the 17th, the readiness of
Sheridan excited much amusement in the House. On the first
occasion he made some observations on lotteries, and con.
cluded with observing, that "As the learned gentleman (the
Solicitor General) who brought in the bill had already on
one occasion stood forward, not only as the censor morum, but
as the arbiter elegantiarum, at once the Cato and the Petronius of the age, he hoped he would be active in his new
character, and join in putting a stop to lottery gaming, by
5'      bringing in a bill to abolish all the present lottery offices, and
preventing the opening of any new ones in future."
On the other, on the bill for preventing desertion, Sheridan




96


LIFE OF SHE1IDAN.


pithily observed, " That the honourable gentleman (Mr. Penton) had omitted to take notice of one objection adduced by
Mr. Dunning, which was, that when sailors, suspected to
be deserters, were brought before a justice of the peace by
virtue of this act, though the suspicion turned out to be
groundless, they might nevertheless, by authority of former
statutes, be impressed.  He ironically complimented the
board of Admiralty for the high sense they seemed here to
entertain of the honour of British sailors;-it might be illustrated by a very trite anecdote of Julius Caesar; for, like his
wife, the character of our seamen must be as clear of suspicion
as of impeachment; they not only must not be deserters,
but not suspected to be so."
A few words upon the bill to amend and explain the marriage act, brought in by Mr. Fox, gave that great leader of the
opposition an opportunity of complimenting, somewhat insidiously, his friend Mr. Sheridan, who opposed Mr. Fox's favourite
views. "He said.his honourable friend (Mr. Fox), who brought
in the bill, appeared not to be aware that, if he carried the
clause enabling girls to marry at sixteen, he would do an
injury to that liberty of which he had always shown himself
the friend, and promote domestic tyranny, which he could
consider only as little less intolerable than public tyranny.
If girls were allowed to marry at sixteen, they would, he conceived, be abridged of that happy freedom of intercourse,
which moder custom had introduced between the youth of
both sexes; and which was, in his opinion, the best nursery
of happy marriages. Guardians would, in that case, look on
their wards with a jealous eye, from a fear that footmen and
those about them might take advantage of their tender years
and immature judgment, and persuade them into marriage as
soon as they attained the age of sixteen. In like manner,
young men, when mere boys, in a moment of passion, however ill directed, or perhaps in a moment of intoxication,
might be prevailed upon to make an imprudent match, and
probably be united to a common prostitute."
Fox's reply to this was, "that his honourable friend, Mr.
Sheridan, had so much ingenuity of mind, that he could contrive to give an argument what turn he pleased; he considered pot, 4herefore, when what he said was really in support of domestic tyranny, he should ground it on a wish to




LIFE OF SHERIDANI.


97


preserve liberty." This terminated all that fell from Sheridan
during his first session.
The second session was marked by no striking proof of his
D'    senatorial ability. He seemed to wait his opportunity, and
to examine carefully the opinions and strength of parties.
He once took occasion to reproach his former antagonist, Mr.
Rigby, for the contemptuous manner in which he spoke of
his constituents, when that gentleman, attempting to reply to
a forcible speech of Mr. Fox on the prosecution of the American war, animadverted on the doctrine of taking counsel
from their constituents, which he proclaimed unconstitutional,
if not illegal. On one occasion Sheridan commented with
much energy on some expressions which fell from Lord
North, "that many of our best officers were unemployed and
disgusted;" for it by no means appeared they had not just
cause for their disgust; but the only speech worthy of being
recorded is one upon a motion, made by Lord John Cavendish, of censure on Lord North.  Here he had another
opportunity of attacking Mr. Rigby, the paymaster of the
forces. " Mr. Sheridan meant to speak to the purpose; but
he wished not to be judged by the test laid down by the right
honourable gentleman (Mr. Rigby), for he meant to give no
offence in what he should say, though, it was true, the rule
had been proposed from high authority; for undoubtedly, if
A,    the degree of offence which speeches gave was to be considered as the criterion of eloquence, the right honourable
gentleman must be looked up to as the Demosthenes of that
assembly. He had acted, however, in that day's debate perfectly consistent; he had assured the House that he thought
the noble lord ought to resign his offices; and yet he would
give his vote for his remaining in it. The honourable gentleman had long declared that he thought the American war
ought to be abandoned; but he had uniformly given his vote
for its continuance. He did not mean, however, to insinuate
any motives for such conduct-he believed the right honourable gentleman to have been sincere; he believed that, as a
member of parliament, as a privy-councillor, as a private
gentleman, he had always detested the American war as much
as any man, but that he had never been able to persuade the
paymaster that it was a bad war: and, unfortunately, in what
ever character he spoke, it was the paymaster who always
H




98


LIFE OF SHERIDAN


voted in that House. His attacks on the noble lord, he said,
appeared only an ingenious method of supporting him; it
was figurative; but ay and no were speeches that did not
admit of a trope." Mr. Sheridan then attacked the language
used by that honourable gentleman, on all occasions, when
the constituents of that House were mentioned. " His manner
of treating the late petitions on the American war was highly
indecent, and at that time extremely impolitic. The people
began to be sufficiently irritated; gentlemen should be careful to drop no expressions of contempt towards them in that
House; they had borne a great deal; and it might be imprudent to treat their patience with insult. The way to prevent the interference of the people-the way to destroy those
associations and petitions, which seemed so offensive to the
right honourable gentleman, was to endeavour to make Parliament respectable. Let that House show itself independent;
let it show itself consistent; and the people will never think
of interfering; but, if Parliament became contemptible in the
eyes of the nation, the people would interfere, and neither
threats nor influence would prevent them."
Sheridan was now fairly launched upon the troubled sea of
politics; he had displayed that kind of talent which naturally
made him an acquisition to either of the parties which sought
to direct the affairs of this great empire. His eloquence, his
tact, his elegance of manner, his brilliant conversation, all led
to his being recognised as one who had a claim to rank
amongst the leading men of the age; but it was evident that
he was much better adapted to become an independent chieftain than a partisan. Although he followed the footsteps of
the Whigs, he occasionally deviated from their line of march;
and it was soon evident that he would act, think, and speak
for himself, and that, though he was bound in strict ties of
regard and of friendship to the great and good leader of
the party, he would even combat him, and, when the occasion required it, would assert his own views in opposition
to the man who, from his position, was entitled to express the
opinions of a numerous body. The period was one of great
excitement, men's minds were directed with unusual energy
towards the solution of a great difficulty. A struggle carried
on between the mother-country and her excited offspring
had tended to awaken, in England and in the United States,




LI FE OF SHERIDAN.


the spirit of liberty, and a hatred to despotic sway. Lord
North, as the ostensible minister of the crown, had accumulated upon himself the uncompromising hatred of a large por-,    tion of the people; they had been urged on by the violent declamations of Charles Fox, of Lord John Cavendish, of Edmund
Burke, and of the great leaders of the Whig party. Sheridan
took but little interest in this inexhaustible theme for parliamentary eloquence; and, notwithstanding the inducements he
met with to exert himself, he appears to have remained almost an indifferent spectator of the struggle. There is, how^    ever, a rumour " coming," as Moore says, " from an authority
worthy in every respect of the most implicit belief, that the
government of the United States made him an offer of ~20,000
as a mark of the high estimation in which his talents were
held, but that Sheridan would not accept it." " With respect
to the credibility of the transaction," continues Moore, ( it is far
less easy to believe that the Americans had so much money
to give, than that Mr. Sheridan should have been sufficiently
high-minded to have refused it."
He seemed at this period to be intent on learning the tone
and temper of the House. When he spoke, it was with conciseness, and without any ambitious desire to win approbation;
he felt the difficulties of his new position, and was determined
to surmount them; his judgment and good taste drew upon.  him the notice and admiration of Charles Fox, who already,
charmed with his talents, had bestowed upon him his warmest
friendship.
Lord North's administration now drew to a close; the general murmuring against the war at last acted upon the supporters of the premier. On an address being moved by General
Conway for a discontinuance of hostilities with America, Lord
~     North's majority had dwindled down to a bare unit; on a similar resolution being again brought forward, he was left in a
minority of nine. Mr. Sheridan made a speech on this occasion, in ridicule of Sir William Dolben, who intimated his
intention of voting against the motion, although he had voted
in its favour a few evenings before; this speech, which has not
been recorded, is said to have been an admirable piece of
satire. A few nights afterwards, Lord North announced that
his administration had ceased to exist. Sheridan seems to
have contented himself with general censure of the adminisHa




100


LIFE OF SHERIDAN.


tration, but did not so virulently declaim against it as did
others of the party into whose hands the reins of government
now fell.
Such was, however, the respect in which Sheridan was held
by his party, that when Lord North's ministry was overthrown,
and the Marquis of Rockingham formed a new one, from which
the country anticipated great results, he was appointed one of
the under secretaries of state, a post which he had then reason to believe would be a permanent one, but in this he was
doomed to disappointment. There were seeds of dissolution in
that administration, which very rapidly sprung up and quickly
choked the promising growth of the tree of Whiggism: but
one short speech has been recorded to have been delivered by
him in his new official position, and that upon a point which
failed to interest the public; but he spoke briefly on another
occasion, memorable in the annals of reform, when a young
man, destined to rule the destinies of a mighty empire, and
afterwards to oppose with all his strength the doctrines which
he at first supported with zeal and enthusiasm-William
Pitt-moved for a committee to inquire into the state of the
representation.
The death of the Marquis of Rockingham led to such disunion, that after a short existence of four months this administration was dissolved, and made way for that coalition which
was execrated by the politicians of the day, and at this hour
is looked upon as having so far shaken all confidence in the
integrity of public men, as to have laid the foundation for the
formation of a party of the people, the principle of whose political creed was the distrust of both Whig and Tory.
Lord North and his opponent Charles Fox, antagonists in
every public measure that had ever been agitated, listening to
the tone of the charmers who sang of the sweets of office, of
the mutability of the people, and of the smiles from the
throne, threw aside every idea of the moral strength of public
opinion, and fraternized. It is universally allowed that on
this occasion Sheridan upheld the dignity of the statesman's
character, that he boldly proclaimed his dissent from this
sacrifice of character, and that he held an interview with
Fox, during which he vainly attempted to change his decision;
it was terminated by the remarkable expression of the great
Whig leader, " It is as fixed as the Hanover succession"




ITFE OF SHERIDAN.              ]01
Once only did Sheridan make any allusion to this coalition.
The debate in which it occurred, on the preliminary articles of
peace, is more remarkable from its bringing him into collision
with Mr. Pitt, and his triumphant reply to some sarcasms,
which the future prime minister indulged in. The following
portions of their speeches are amongst the reports of the
House of Commons. "No man," observed Mr. Pitt, "admired
more than he did the abilities of that right honourable gentleman, the elegant sallies of his thought, the gay effusions of
his fancy, his dramatic turns, and his epigrammatic points;
and, if they were reserved for a proper stage, they would, no
doubt, receive what the honourable gentleman's abilities always
did receive, the plaudits of the audience; and it would be his
fortune 'sui plausu gaudere theatri.' But this was not the
proper scene for the exhibition of these elegancies." To this
Sheridan's instantaneous reply was: "On that particular sort
of personality which the right honourable gentleman had
thought proper to introduce, I need make no comment-the
propriety, the taste, the gentlemanly point of it, must have
been obvious to the House.  But let me assure the right
honourable gentleman, that I do now, and will at any time
when he chooses, meet it with the most sincere good humour.
Nay, I will say more, flattered and encouraged by the right
honourable gentleman's panegyric on my talents, if I ever
again engage in the compositions he alludes to, I may be
tempted to an act of presumption, to attempt an improvement
on one of Ben Jonson's best characters, the character of the
Angry Boy in the 'Alchymist.'"
During this unnatural coalition, Mr. Sheridan became secretary of the treasury, his coadjutor, Richard Burke, was the
brother of Edmund. Of the business-like manner in which he
discharged the duties which devolved upon him, his warmest
friends are necessarily silent; but his opponents speak of a
laughable afiche which was found upon the doors of the
treasury: " No applications can be received here on Sundays,
nor any business done here during the remainder of the week."
This was the first proof of his inaptitude to the discharge of
public duty. Mr. Sheridan attempted, as did his colleagues,
to justify their conduct in associating with that ministry,
whose chief they had not only loudly denounced as dangerous, but actually declared their intention of impeaching fof




LIFE OF SHERIDAN.


unconstitutional conduct. His speech was clever, was ingenious, but failed to convince; he, in common with the rest of
his party, lost caste by this inconsistent union. The only de
bate which he enlivened with his wit was the threatened taxation of tombstones, actually proposed by Mr. Coke of Norfolk, as one which could meet with no objections. To which
Sheridan replied, " that the only reason why the proposed tax
could not be objected to was, because those out of whose property it was to be paid would know nothing of the matter,
as they must be dead before the demand could be made;
but then, after all, who knows but that it may not be rendered unpopular in being represented as a tax upon persons,
who, having paid the debt of nature, must prove that they
have done so, by having the receipt engraved upon their
tombs? "
The great struggle between parties took place on the celebrated India Bill, which has been universally acknowledged
to have been a measure, introduced for the government of
India, that would have given to the existing ministry such
patronage, and such power, as to have rendered it independent both of the sovereign and the people. The advocates
of Whiggism pronounce it a master stroke of policy, for
they hold that, as their doctrines are the only true principles
upon which government should be carried on, they admire
the minister who could have devised means which would have
given their promulgators means of perpetuating themselves
in office. These views were not satisfactory to the British
people, who enthusiastically received the intelligence, that the
monarch had so influenced the House of Lords that the measures were rejected. The ministry that had been received
with indignation was dismissed amidst expressions of triumph.
Although Sheridan took no conspicuous part in the debates,
he shared the odium of his party; he momentarily ceased
to be a favourite with the people, who could not admire the
fidelity with which he adhered to his friends, and who learnt
with regret that he lent his aid in the concoction of the obnoxious measure.  Once again he was to be seen in the
ranks of the opposition, leading a determined attack upon the
young minister, Mr. Pitt, who by a fortuitous occurrence of
events was hailed as the leader of a party, at once supported
by the king and the people.  Sheridan was amongst the




LIFE OF SHERIDAN.


103


bitterest of his opponents; he lost no opportunity of assailing
him with taunts and invectives. " How shuffling," exclaimed,    he, "is this conduct of a young minister, unhackneyed in the
ways of man! This is an instance of duplicity scarcely to be
paralleled by the most hoary hypocrite that ever guided the
principles of a great nation. If, in the very onset, this young
minister thus tramples on the constitution, what may you not
expect from the audacity of his riper years?" Nor was such
a style of language disliked by the House of Commons, to
~     whom Sheridan had rendered his eloquence not only tolerable, but almost necessary.
The determined energy of the king's conduct inspired Mr.
Pitt with resolution; in spite of the hostility of the House of
Commons, he continued to pursue his policy until a dissolution of Parliament would allow him to take the sense of the
country; for he felt assured that, whenever this occurred, he
should be enabled to command a majority,for the clamour was
loud, and the conduct of the coalition had shown too much of
the old leaven of corruption, instead of the promised reform
so long proclaimed.  Sheridan, more fortunate than many of
*  his co-mates, found himself in Parliament after a dissolution. Stafford, faithful to him, had returned him once again,
and had shown a greater sympathy with their representative than many a borough that had vaunted its love of liberty;      and its disinterestedness.  The next two sessions were not
marked by any vigorous display of Sheridan's abilities. He
made no bold attacks upon the minister, and in this conduct
he was borne out by Fox, who almost absented himself from
the field, and rarely made his appearance at all. Sheridan
acted as a guerilla chief, occasionally hanging on the flanks
of his enemy, making a bold excursion, showing his capability of injuring, but rarely committing himself to any thing
in the shape of a regular attack. The Westminster scrutiny,
now a subject forgotten by all, was the one in which Sheridan
most distinguished himself. Upon the general election, Lord
Hood was declared duly elected; but there was a doubt raised
by Sir Cecil Wray, who, together with Mr. Fox, were the
other candidates. A scrutiny was demanded, as to the legality of the majority of 235, which the latter claimed, to which
the high bailiff assented.  The opposition in the House of
Commons sought to censure the high bailiff's conduct, and




104


LIFE OF SHERIDAN.


a long battle of words, renewed during the two subsequent
stssions of Parliament, gave rise to two very clever speeches
from Sheridan.  He was also eloquent upon various reform      t
questions; upon taxation; and upon questions connected with
India.  Throughout the whole of the period, he gained upon
the nation by his temperate zeal, and, singular to say, by his
apparent acquaintance with financial measures, and rose into
consideration amongst the calculating politicians of the day
for the soundness of his views and the carefulness with which
he promulgated them; on one or two occasions he spoke with
great deference of the prime minister, congratulating the
country in rather an insidious way upon the consistency of his
conduct as a parliamentary reformer.  On one occasion he
came into collision with Mr. Rolle, the member for Devonshire, afterwards known as Lord Rolle, and exhibited his
usual tact in answering his charges, and denying his co-operation with those who had attacked him in the " Polliad."
No ephemeral production ever produced a greater sensation
than the " Rolliad;" it was hailed with rapturous shouts of
laughter; impression after impression issued from the press;
not even the " Antijacobin," nor " The Rejected Addresses,"
was read by the whole nation with greater avidity. Though now
slumbering in peaceful quiet, and completely forgotten, it will
amply repay the lovers of genuine mirth by its happy vein
of ridicule, its playfulness, its allusions to classic literature,
and its sparkling satire. The name of Rolle is scarcely known
to the present generation; the only occasion on which it has
come of late before the public was when, on the coronation or
her Majesty, the venerable peer, the hero of the " Rolliad, i
stumbled on approaching to do homage to the Queen. It was
forgotten that he had ever been apostrophized thus:"Illustrious Rolle, 0 may thy honour'd name
Roll down distinguished on the rolls of fame;
Still first be found on Devon's county polls,
Still future senates boast their future Rolles,
Since of all Rolls, which in this world we see,
The world has ne'er produced a roll like thee."
The work purports to be criticisms on a poem supposed to
have been written upon the actions of Rollo, Duke of Nor-,
mandy, from whom Mr. Rolle had imprudently boasted his
descent; the quotations, the subject of the pretended exertion




LIFE OF SHERIDAN.


105


of the critic's art, alluded to the general supporters of the
minister, who were handled with caustic severity, and ludicrous animadversions; to this was added a series of political
eclogues, in which Mr. Rose, Mr. Banks, Lord Liverpool,
Jekyll, and other prominent characters, were chastised with
no measured hand for their political principles. The same
volume contains some inimitable burlesque compositions,
pretended to be written by candidates for the laureateship,
vacant by the death of William Whitehead. They are supposed to be such odes as are written by the laureate on such
an occasion as a birthday by a number of candidates for the
post. The persons selected for this medium of holding them
up to ridicule were the most remarkable men of the day, all
of whom were treated with much humour, and with that species
of lashing which has always been considered fair in political
warfare. Sheridan's brother-in-law, Tickell, General Fitzpatrick, George Ellis, Dr. French Laurence, and Joseph Richardson, took a very active portion of these publications upon
themselves, and were the authors. They formed themselves
into a club, and continued to exercise their ingenuity in tormenting their public opponents. The relationship in which
Sheridan stood with one of those who were most actively employed, and his well-known mental resources, led to the suspicion that he was a member of the coterie, and that he gave
to their united efforts his own acknowledged powers; and those
who will bestow some little time on the perusal of the criticisms may fancy that they can detect " the fine old Roman
Hand."
Sheridan went considerably out of his way to clear himself
from the suspicion of being one of the tormentors of Mr.
Rolle, and took a very early opportunity of denying in the,*     House his connection with the critics. He had spent some
part of the previous summer in Lancashire, and had paid so
much attention to the state of the Manchester manufacturers,
as to have excited some foolish jealousy in the minds of Mr.
Pitt's followers; and when Mr. Pitt brought in a bill to amend
the acts for imposing a duty by excise on certain cotton manufacturers-Mr. Fox seconding the motion-an animated
discussion sprung up, during which Mr. Pitt somewhat incautiously threw out an imputation on the evidence given
before a committee of the House by some of the manufactu



10)6


LIFE OF SHERIDAN.


rers. Mr. Sheridan warmly replied to him, " declaring that
he had most unjustly aspersed those parties, whose conduct
had been most laudable, and whose evidence was unquestionable." Upon this Mr. Rolle rose up, and with great warmth
charged Sheridan with having made an inflammatory speech in
she country, with a view to excite alarm and discontent. He
said he would not mention the member who had gone down
to Lancashire to stir up the manufacturers, to set them against
the taxes, andto promote tumults and discontent; neitherwould
he say who it was that distributed, or caused to be distributed,
seditious and inflammatory handbills, and had them circulated
all round the country; but the fact was so, and, if he could
bring the proof home to the party, he would take the proper
steps to have his head stuck upon Temple Bar. He went
on in a similar strain, charging Fox and Sheridan with declaring in favour of Mr. Pitt, nay, even of seconding his motion, and then voting against it, and stigmatized them as
abandoning and deserting ground once taken in a most
shameful manner. After Mr. Fox had replied to the empty
threat of having heads stuck upon Temple Bar, and to the
folly of supposing that circulating handbills was a capital offence, Mr. Sheridan rose, and denied any participation in
the handbills, but said, he was not surprised at the soreness
evinced by him about publications. The handbills were not the
compositions that hurt him, but compositions less prosaic, but
more popular, he was afraid had made Mr. Rolle so sore. This
allusion was quickly taken up by the House, and received
with loud laughter. He continued by saying that he was
aware that the honourable gentleman had suspected that he
was either the author of these compositions, or in some other
way concerned in them. He did assure him, upon his honour,
he was not, nor had he ever seen a line of them till they were
in print in the newspaper. Mr. Rolle was not very courteous upon this manly avowal, but continued his assertions of
doing all within his power to punish the author of these seditious publications. With regard to the " Rolliad," he said that
he held the author of those compositions in sovereign contempt
as well as his works; but as the cap fitted the right honour
able gentleman he was welcome to wear it. Sheridan again
replied, and in a firm and manly tone assured the right
honourable gentleman that whilst he talked at random he




LIFE OF SHERIDAN.


107


should not notice him; but, if he charged him with being concerned in circulating any seditious handbills, he would an'   swer him both there and elsewhere very plainly and very
coarsely. This language was of course unmistakeable, and
completely silenced Mr. Rolle, who bore it unmoved"Here to the ferule Rolle his hand resigned,
Here to the rod he bared the parts behind,
But him no strifes subdued-and him no fear
Of menaced wrath, in future more severe."
Mr. Sheridan next distinguished himself in a speech of
great vigour and power upon the propositions made by the
government to give commercial freedom to Ireland. Of the
soundness of his views there must be considerable question,
and although he was supported by the liberal party in Ireland, and by the English manufacturers, his opposition to the
ministry, rather than his patriotism, must have led him to the,      expression of opinions, which, however plausible, are inconsistent with the principles which regulate trade, and upon
which the commercial prosperity of a nation must depend,
Animated and forcible were the doctrines in the style of their
delivery, but futile and inconsistent in themselves; the principal ground on which Sheridan rested his opposition to the
measure brought forward was, that the Parliament of Great
a.     Britain was about to extend its power, and to legislate for
Ireland; that the Irish Parliament had neither hinted at, nor
alluded to a proposal that the laws for regulating trade and
navigation should be the same in both countries.!In the following session Mr. Pitt introduced a measure for
effectually providing for the security of his majesty's dockyards at Plymouth and at Portsmouth by a permanent system of fortification, for enabling the fleet to act with full
vigour and effect for the protection of commerce, the support
of our distant possessions, and the prosecution of offensive
operations.  Mr. Sheridan, in opposing the motion, seized
upon the argument that had been advanced, that a system of
defence by fortification would diminish the number of troops,
and therefore would give less cause for the constitutional
jealousy of the power of the crown.
A question of a most extraordinary character now arose,
which gave Sheridan an admirable opportunity of exhibiting,
to the whole empire the ability, the genius, and the eloquence




1oe


LIFE OF SHERIDAN.


which had already acquired for him a high reputation. The
impeachment of Warren Hastings, before the House of Lords,
afforded to his accusers an opportunity of appealing to the
high sense of honour, to the feelings, to the judgment of the
nation. It was neither to the political nor to the fashionable
circles they had to address themselves, but to an enlightened
people, who for the first time heard that the most distin
guished rulers of nations could be brought, by legitimate authority, before the tribunal of public opinion, and could be
subjected to bitter accusations, and to the most inquisitorial
treatment. They were astonished to behold a man, to whom
power over nations had been delegated, arraigned as a culprit
and denounced as a villain. That Warren Hastings had been
guilty of the most daring acts of tyranny and of oppression
there can be little doubt; but that the peculiarity of his position, the extraordinary nature of the government he held, the
ignorance of those principles which are now the guides of our
conduct, are in a great measure to plead as a justification,
is almost as generally acknowledged. Like Pizarro in Peru,:Cortes in Mexico, or his predecessor in India, Lord Clive,
he was compelled to have recourse to measures as bold as
they are dangerous, and which are incompatible with that
state of civilization best understood by European nations.
Hurried onward by the anxious desire to retain power, he
left the straightforward path that prudence keeps, and involved himself in mazes of deceit, which led to the grossest
violations of national faith and honour. His delinquencies,
however, would have most probably passed unknown, had they
not been dragged into daylight by men who themselves were
endowed with singular powers, and had the mightiest energies
of mind to direct them. The grandeur of the question, and
the necessity for its solution, seem to have acted on those
who were engaged upon it, and urged them on with irresistible ardour in their attack.  Posterity has derived a noble
lesson from their labours. The delegated governors over a
feeble people have learnt that they dare not trample upon
the laws and the privileges which have existed; they have
seen that the pride of an oppressor has been humbled by
individuals, and that, even where criminality cannot be proved,
the suspicion of its existence is sufficient to excite attention
and to call for inquiry




LIFE OF SHERIDAN.


109


The good sense of the present age has taught us, however,
that it is altogether unfair to judge of a man, filling a high
position in former days, by the standard which we now pronounce to be the guide of conduct. The Governor General
of India was, at the period at which Warren Hastings was
called to the station, the chief of a handful of conquerors over
millions whom he was led to consider of an inferior race;
he fancied that he should acquit himself of the charge committed to his care, if he extended widely the dominion of a
company of merchants in England; and that, if he remitted
wealth to them, he was at liberty to have recourse to such
means as the people, over whom he ruled, had been accustomed to.   He therefore employed artifice to encounter
artifice; resolute boldness and an arm of strength, to dismay
and overrule those who had submitted to the first who dared
to conquer. He looked upon himself as a stranger, suddenly
introduced into the midst of nations, timid and anxious to be,  relieved from the last batch of tyrants who were placed over
them. The monarchs who nominally ruled were shadows,
under whose pretended sway ministers, more powerful than
themselves, exacted all that they chose to demand, and
whose despotism none dared to resist.  Warren Hastings
was called upon to divide and to conquer his enemies, to look
upon the whole system of government as a machine to be
guided by the will of the person who chose, either by daring
or by intrigue, to seize the helm; and all those who held
power, as tools which were to be used as best might suit the
views of the chief of the moment. It never crossed the mind
of Warren Hastings that England was anxious to bestow the
blessings of a paternal government upon the nations of Asia,
or that the time would ever arrive that she would seek to be
beloved instead of feared; that she should ever dream of
making the natives venerate, admire, and love her laws and
her institutions. He sought to avail himself of the system
he found in existence, not because it was contrary to the
wishes of the mother country, and opposed to the best interests of the people, but because it allowed no one but himself to exact, and to enrich themselves. The only opposition
he had to encounter was from the members of the Council
v1    the stand they took was unfortunately upon personal, not upou
moral grounds; there was too much of bitterness in their ani



110


LIFE OF SHERIDAN


mosity to act upon a mind constituted as his was, and too
much of cabal to produce an influence upon the British residents in India.
The observations made by that great advocate Erskine are
perhaps the best palliation for the line of conduct pursued
by Hastings-they are founded upon the great truth, that he
who gives authority is responsible for its due exercise.
Whilst the charges against Warren Hastings were published
by the House of Commons, Mr. Logie, a clergyman of the
church of Scotland, wrote a pamphlet, in which they were investigated with considerable warmth and energy. On the 15th
of February Mr. Fox moved in the House that a pamphlet,
entitled "A Review of the principal Charges against Warren
Hastings," contains matter disrespectful to his Majesty, and
scandalous and indecent paragraphs reflecting on the motives which induced this House to impeach Warren Hastings,
Esq., of high crimes and misdemeanors." The principal passage from which this charge sprung is —" Such an exertion   *.
of public virtue (the impeachment of Mr. Hastings}-if to
public virtue it shall be referred-is, indeed, above all Greek,
all Roman fame, and will furnish a memorable example to
future times, that no abilities, however splendid, no services,
however beneficial or meritorious, that even not the smile
of the sovereign, nor the voice of the people, can protect a
British subject from impeachment, and a public delinquent
from punishment, if found guilty. For the future, when any
officer shall return home from a situation of responsibility,
his only hope must be in joining a powerful faction; for his
services, let them be ever so high, or his loyalty, be it ever so
exemplary, would be insufficient for his security." Mr. Pitt
moved as an amendment that the words "his Majesty" be
omitted. Mr. Sheridan observed that the passage insinuated
that an impeachment was a mode of prosecution which leaves
the sovereign no power of extending mercy after conviction,
and, in reply to an observation of the Chancellor of Exchequer,
who spoke of Mr. Hastings' position as a person impeached
as not a very exalted one, remarked, that till he was convicted
the station of Mr. Hastings was not in the eye of the law,
reason, or common sense, to be considered one of degradation.
Mr. Fox at length moved that "An address be presented to his
Majesty, most humbly to desire that he will be graciously




,IFE OF SHERTDAN


Ill


pleased to give directions to his Majesty's Attorney General
to prosecute." The motion was unanimously agreed to. On,     the 9th December, 1789, Mr. John Stockdale, the printer, was
tried on a criminal information, filed by the Attorney General.
It was the lot of Erskine, the noble defender of the helpless,
to plead for him. The speech is a perfect model of eloquence,
and exhibits that style of devotion to the cause of him whom
he supported which gave such peculiar interest to all he
said. He did not plead for another in the cold dispassionate
manner of the hireling, he rushed into the very midst of the
peril which surrounded his client, he felt with him, he thought
with him, he proclaimed that he acted as he himself would
have done, and, with that generous zeal which belonged to his
character, he would have shared his punishment if despotism and tyranny would have dared to inflict it. Not con
tent with clearly showing the innocence of Stockdale, he
threw his shield over Hastings, and with impetuous ardour
and elegant words he spoke of the charges against him.
He boldly expatiated on the striking absurdity exhibited by
a power, itself the author of all the rapine and the oppression,
in presuming to sit in judgment upon those to whom it had
delegated its authority, and by whom its own tyranny had
been exercised. He dwelt upon the ridiculous conduct of the
nation that proceeded onwards in the most iniquitous career
of plunder and rapacity, and then suddenly saying to the
subordinate instruments of its usurpation, "Thus far shalt
thou go, and no further. The nation was responsible for the
violation of human happiness in the exercise of her Eastern
dominion." With that happy power of seizing every incident
that occurred, observing some slight appearance of approba
tion of what he had said in one or two of the jurymen, he
concluded the topic thus: " Gentlemen, you are touched by
the way of considering the subject, and I can acccount for it:
I have been talking of man, and his nature, not as they are
seen through the cold medium of books, but as I have seen
them in climes reluctantly submitting to our authority. I
have seen an indignant savage chief surrounded by his subjects, and holding in his hand a bundle of sticks, the notes of
his untutored eloquence.    'Who is it, 'said the jealous
ruler of a forest, encroached upon by the restless foot of the
English adventurer,-' who is it that causes the mountaing




112


LIFE OF SHERIDAN


to lift up their lofty heads?  Who raises the winds of tle
winter, and calms them again in the summer?' 'The same
Being who gave to you a country on your side of the water,
and ours to us on this.'" Of this, the most perfect speech ever
pronounced by Erskine, the result was the triumph of Stock.
dale, of Warren Hastings, and of liberty over that party
which ought to have disdained to prosecute for libel an individual who was nobly fighting intellectually against power,
dominion, and a mighty array of talent.
Warren Hastings, as Governor of India, found from his
masters at home that money was the chief object which they
required from their delegate. He, too anxious to fulfil their
commands, was regardless of the means he employed; and,
though he himself was neither sordid nor rapacious, he lent all
the faculties of his mind to the plunder and the rapine which
rendered India a scene of desolation and of misery.  The
iniquities of his government were excusable in his eyes, for
they were the result of stern necessity; there could be no,
check to his despotism, no limit to his avarice, but the helplessness to which he had reduced nations, and the poverty
to which he exposed them. Edmund Burke was the great
leader who undertook to hold up to public detestation, and to
condign punishment, the individual whom he believed to be
guilty of the greatest enormities, and to have trampled with
unscrupulous cruelty upon the helpless beings with whom he
was thrown into contact. He was supported by Sheridan, by
Wyndham, and men whose names belong to the history of
their country; but by no one more enthusiastically, or more
powerfully, than by Sheridan.
It is deeply to be deplored that we possess such mutilated
remains of his speech, which created throughout the whole of
the country such an extraordinary sensation, that was listened
to by the House with the most profound admiration, that
elicited even from his adversaries expressions of their wonder
at the mighty powers he displayed. Of the speech of February 7th, 1787, before the House of Commons, a feeble outline only has been handed down to us. All the records of that
day speak of it as one of the most magnificent displays of
human intellect that had ever been exhibited.  For five.
hours and a half he commanded the universal attention of
a crowded House. When he had concluded a speech which






LIFE OF SHERIDAN.


113


I

had riveted his audience, a loud and long-continued burst
of enthusiastic applause seemed to echo simultaneously from
all quarters; the usual decorum was forgotten, all seemed
carried away by the impulse they had received. " Burke declared it to be the most astonishing burst of eloquence, argument, and wit united, of which there was any record or tradition."  Fox pronounced an eulogium, and declared "all that
he ever heard, all that he had ever read, when compared with it,
dwindled into nothing, and vanished like vapour before the
sun." The debate was suspended, and after a short expression
*     of the opinion of several members, who declared that, though
they came prepossessed in favour of Hastings, a miracle had
been wrought upon their minds, whilst others wished time to
cool before they were called to vote, the House adjourned,
with the concurrence of Sheridan's great adversary, Pitt, who
acknowledged that the speech surpassed all the eloquence
of ancient or moder times, and possessed every thing that,*    genius or art could furnish to agitate and control the human
mind.
Mr. Burke spoke of his address thus:  Of all the various
speeches of oratory, of every kind of eloquence that had been
heard either in ancient or modern times, whatever the acuteness of the bar, the dignity of the senate, or the morality of
the pulpits could furnish, had not been equal to what that
^    House had that day heard in Westminster Hall.  No holy
religionist, no man of any description as a literary character,
could have come up in the one instance to the pure sentiments
of morality, or, in the other, to the variety of knowledge,
force of imagination, propriety and vivacity of allusion, beauty
and elegance of diction, and strength of expression to which
they had this day listened. From poetry up to eloquence, there
was not a species of composition of which a complete and perfect specimen might not have been culled from one part or
other of the speech to which he alluded, and which he was
persuaded had left too strong an impression on the minds of
that House to be easily obliterated."  We learn from Moore,
that there exists a copy of this speech, taken in short hand
by Mr. Gurney, which was some time in the possession of the
Duke of Norfolk, then in the hands of Sheridan, and afterwards in those of Moore himself. He has furnished us with
some extracts, but it is a matter of regret that the public has
A




114                      uLFE OF SHERIDAN.
not an opportunity of seeing it. We are now dependent upon
that which has been published in the debates, from which,
of course, we can form but a superficial idea of its merits.
Sheridan commenced by showing that "In truth, the prosecution was not begotten in prejudice, or nursed in error. It
was founded in the clearest conviction of the wrongs which
the natives of Hindostan had suffered through the mal-administration of those in whose hands the country had placed
extensive powers, which ought to have been exercised for
the benefit of the governed, but which had been used by
the prisoner at the bar for the shameful purposes of oppression.
" To convince their lordships that the British government
-which ought to have been a blessing to the powers in India
connected with it-had been a scourge to the natives, and the
cause of desolation to the most flourishing provinces in Hindostan, he had only to read a letter that had been received not
long since from Lord Cornwallis, the present Governor-General
of Bengal. In that letter the noble lord stated he had been
received by the Nabob Visier with every mark of friendship
and respect; but the honours he received at the court of
Lucknow had not prevented him from seeing the desolation
that overspread the face of the country, the sight of which had
shocked his very soul. He spoke to the nabob on the subject,
and earnestly recommended it to him to adopt some system of
government that might restore the prosperity of his kingdom,
and make his people happy. The nabob's answer was strikingly remarkable. That degraded prince said to his lordship,
that as long as the demands of the English government upon
the revenue of Oude should remain unlimited, he (the nabob)
could have no interest in establishing any system of economy;
and, whilst the English should continue to interfere in the internal government of his country, it would be in vain for him
to attempt any salutary reform; for his subjects knew he was
only a cypher in his own dominions, and therefore laughed at
and despised his authority and that of his ministers."
He then observes, that it ought to be shown that the ruling
powers at home will not countenance future delinquents. " In
looking round for an object fit to be held out to the world as
an example of national justice, their lordships must necessarily
fix their eyes upon Mr. Hastings. He was the great cause of




LIFE OF SHIERIDAN.


115


the degradation of our character in India, and of the oppression of its devoted inhabitants; and he was the only victim
that could atone for the calamities he had occasioned.
" But, whilst he pointed out the prisoner at the bar as a
proper object of punishment, he begged leave to observe, that
he did not wish to turn the sword of justice against that man,
merely because an example ought to be made; such a wish
was as far from his heart as it was incompatible with equity
and justice. If he called for punishment upon Mr. Hastings,
it was because he thought him a great delinquent, and the
greatest of all those who, by their rapacity and oppression,
had brought ruin on the natives of India, and disgrace upon
the inhabitants of Great Britain.
" Whilst he called for justice upon the prisoner, he could
wish also to do him justice.  He would be sorry that the
weight and consequence of the Commons of Great Britain, in
whose name the prosecution had been set on foot, should operate to his prejudice. Indeed, whilst he had such upright
judges as their lordships, it was impossible that any thing
could injure him but the clearest and most unequivocal proofs
of guilt." —" It is not the peering suspicion of apprehending
guilt-it is not any popular abhorrence of its wide-spread
consequences-it is not the secret consciousness in the bosom
of the judge, which can excite the vengeance of the law, and
authorize its infliction! No: in this good land, as high as it
is happy, because as just as it is free, all is definite, equitable,
and exact; the laws must be satisfied before infliction ensues,
and ere a hair of the head can be plucked LEGAL GUILT
must be established by LEGAL PROOF!"
He dwelt upon the enormity of the attack upon the princesses. " Having alluded to the different defences made by
the prisoner, Mr. Sheridan next adverted to the allegations
in the second charge that had been supported in evidence.
He said, that the managers had proved the high birth and
great rank of the Begums, or Princesses of Oude; they had
also proved from  the evidence of Sir Elijah Impey, Mr.
Middleton, Mr. Goring, and others, how sacred was the residence of women in India. A threat, therefore, to force that
residence, and violate its purity by sending armed men into
it, was a species of torture, the cruelty of which could not be
conceived by those who were unacquainted with the customs
I 2




116


LIFE OF SHERIDAIT.


and notions of the inhabitants of Hindostan.  A knowledge
of the customs and manners of the Mussulmen of Turkey
would not enable one to judge of those of Mussulmen in
India: in the former, ladies went abroad veiled, and, though
not so free as those in Christian countries, still they were not
so closely shut up as were the ladies professing the same religion in Hindostan. The confinement of the Turkish ladies
was in a great measure to be ascribed to the jealousy of their
husbands; in Hindostan the ladies were confined, because
they thought it contrary to decorum that persons of their sex
should be seen abroad: they were not the victims of jealousy
in the men; on the contrary, their sequestration from the
world was voluntary; they liked retirement, because they
thought it best suited to the dignity of their sex and situation: they were shut up from liberty, it was true; but liberty,
so far from having any charms for them, was derogatory to
their feelings; they were enshrined rather than immured;
they professed a greater purity of pious prejudice than the
Mahomedan ladies of Europe and other countries, and more
zealously and religiously practised a more holy system of
superstition. Such was their sense of delicacy, that to them
the sight of man was pollution; and the piety of the nation
rendered their residence a sanctuary.  What, then, would
their lordships think of the tyranny of the man who could
act in open defiance of those prejudices, which were so interwoven with the very existence of ladies in that country, that
they could not be removed but by death? What, he asked,
would their lordships think of the man who could threaten to
profane and violate the sanctuary of the highest description
of ladies in Oude, by saying that he would storm it with his
troops, and remove the inhabitants from it by force?"
"Mr. Sheridan showed next, that there was a very good
ground for presuming that the treasures possessed by the
Begum were the property of that princess; she had endeared
herself to her husband, the late nabob, by flying to him in
the moment of his distress, after his defeat at Buxar, and carry
ing with her to his relief the jewels with which, in happier
days, his fondness for her had enriched her: upon these she
raised him a large supply. When the political generosity of
this country restored him afterwards to his throne, his gratitude to his wife knew no bound  hha ascendancy over hiua




LIFE OF SHERIDAN.


117


was such, that she prevailed upon him to appoint his son, by
her, his successor.,.         " The present nabob, as had appeared from a passage in a
letter written by Mr. Hastings to him, and since proved in
evidence, owed to her not only his birth and succession to
the crown, but also the preservation of his life; for one day,
his savage father in a rage attempting to cut him down with
his scimitar, the Begum rushed between her husband and
her son, and saved the latter through the loss of some of
her own blood; for she was wounded by the blow that was
not aimed at her.  A son so befriended and so preserved,
Mr. Hastings had armed against such a mother: he invaded the rights of that prince, that he might compel him
*   to violate the laws of nature by plundering his parent; and
he made him a slave, that he might afterwards make him a
monster. Mr. Hastings was bound to be the protector of the
]Begum, instead of her plunderer; for her husband, on his
death-bed, bequeathed her to his friendship; and Mr. Hast.
ings had always called that husband his brother: but no consideration could make him discharge the duties of any obligation that could set bounds to his rapacity."
He next adverts to the conduct of Sir Elijah Impey. '" The
transactions in which Sir Elijah Impey bore a share, and the
tenor of his evidence, were the next objects of Mr. Sheridan's
animadversion. The late chief-justice of Bengal, he remarked,
had repeatedly stated that Mr. Hastings had left Calcutta
with two resources in his view-those of Benares and of Oude.
It appeared, however, from every circumstance, that the latter
resource was never in his contemplation, until the insurrection in Benares, terminating in the capture of Bedjegur, had
destroyed all his hopes in that province. At that instant the
mind of Mr. Hastings; fertile in resources, fixed itself on the
treasures of the Begums, and Sir Elijah Impey was despatched
to collect materials for their crimination. ' But I have ever
thought,' said Mr. Sheridan,' the selection of such a personage, for such a purpose, one of the greatest aggravations of the
guilt of Mr. Hastings.' That he, the purity of whose character should have influenced his conduct, even in his most do*.      mestic retirements-that he, who, if consulting the dignity of
British justice, should have remained as stationary as his court
in Calcutta-that such a man should be called to travel 500


I/




118


LIFE OF SHERIDAN.


miles for the transactions of such a business, was a deviation
without a plea, and a degradation without example. This,
however, was in some degree a question to be abstracted for
the consideration of those who adorned and illumined the seats
of justice in Britain, and the purity of whose character precluded the necessity of any further observations on so different
a conduct."
"' This giddy chief-justice,' said Mr. Sheridan, ' disregards
business. He wants to see the country: like some innocent
school-boy, he takes the primrose path, and amuses himself
as he goes: he thinks not that his errand is on danger and
death; and that his party of pleasure ends in loading others
with irons.' When at Lucknow, he never mentions the affidavits to the nabob;-no, he is too polite;-he never talks of
them to Mr. Hastings-out of politeness too. A master of
ceremonies in justice! When examined at the bar, he said,
-he imagines there must have been a sworn interpreter,
from  the looks of the manager.  How I looked, Heaven
knows, said Mr. Sheridan, but such a physiognomist there is
no escaping. He sees a sworn interpreter in my looks;-he
sees the manner of taking an oath in my looks!-he sees the
Bason and the Ganges in my looks! As for himself, he only
looks at the tops and bottoms of affidavits! In seven years
he takes care never to look at these swearings; and then
goes home one night, and undoes the whole; though, when
he has seen them, Sir Elijah seems to know less about them
than when he had not."
The termination of this speech has been most admired.
"But justice is not this halt and miserable object! it is not
the ineffective bauble of an Indian pagod!-it is not the portentous phantom of despair;-it is not like any fabled monster, formed in the eclipse of reason, and found in some unhallowed grove of superstitious darkness and political dismay!
No, my lords!
" In the happy reverse of all these, I turn from this disgusting caricature to the real image! Justice I have now before
me, august and pure; the abstract idea of all that would be
perfect in the spirits and the aspirings of men!-where the
mind rises, where the heart expands-where the countenance
is ever placid and benign-where her favourite attitude is to
stoop to the unfortunate-to hear their cry and to help them,




LIFE OF SHERIDAN.


119


to rescue and relieve, to succour and save: —majestic from its
mercy; venerable from its utility; uplifted without pride;
firm without obduracy; beneficent in each preference; lovely,
though in her frown!
" On that justice I rely; deliberate and sure, abstracted from
all party purpose and political speculations! not in words, but
on facts! You, my lords, who hear me, I conjure by those
rights it is your best privilege to preserve; 'by that fame it is
your best pleasure to inherit; by all those feelings which refer to the first term in the series of existence, the original
compact of our nature-our controlling rank in the creation.
This is the call on all to administer to truth and equity, as
they would satisfy the laws and satisfy themselves, with the
most exalted bliss possible, or conceivable for our nature,the self-approving consciousness of virtue, when the condemnation we look for will be one of the most ample mercies accomplished for mankind since the creation of the world!
" My lords, I have done."
On the following day, the House of Commons resolved
that a Committee should be appointed to prepare articles of
impeachment against Warren Hastings.
Edmund Burke.               Welbore Ellis, Esq.
Right Hon. C. J. Fox.       Right Hon. F. Montague.
R. B. Sheridan, Esq.        Sir Grey Cooper.
Sir James Erskine.          Phillip Francis, Esq.
Right Hon. T. Pelham.       Sir Gilbert Elliott,
Right Hon. W. Wyndham.      Dudley Long, Esq.
Right Hon. And. St. John.   Viscount Maitland.
J. Anstruther, Esq.         Hon. G. A. North
Wm. Adam, Esq.              General Burgoyne.
M. A. Taylor, Esq.          Charles Grey, Esq.
A division took place upon the nomination of Mr. Francis,
who had been a member of counsel in India, had fought a
duel with Hastings, and had been personally at variance with
Hastings; he was rejected by a majority of 96 to 44. On the
25th of April, there were laid upon the table the articles of impeachment which had been prepared by the Committee; they,  were read a first time, and ordered to be taken into consideration on the 9th of May. On that day a division took place
on the question whether the report should be received  Mr.








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LIFE OF SHERID&N.


Pitt, the Prime Minister, and his friends, either convinced of
the necessity of yielding to the reiterated demands of the
opposition, or unwilling to expose himself to the unpopularity
of shielding Hastings, or, as it has been stated, jealous of the
favour bestowed upon him by the king, joined the ranks of
those to whom they were habitually opposed, and, by a ma
jority of 175 to 89, the report was read a second time. Mr
Burke then rose and moved, " That Warren Hastings, Esqbe impeached of high crimes and misdemeanours upon the said
articles." Mr. Frederic Montague next rose, and moved that
"Mr. Burke, in the name of the House of Commons, and of
all the Commons of England, do go to the bar of the House
of Lords and impeach Warren Hastings, Esq., late GovernorGeneral of Bengal, of high crimes and misdemeanours, and
do acquaint the Lords that the Commons will, with all convenient speed, exhibit articles against him, and make good
the same."  The motion being agreed to, Mr. Burke, attended
by the members of the House of Commons, appeared before
the Lords at their bar, and solemnly impeached Mr. Hastings.
A day was named, and, on Mr. Burke's report to the House of
Commons, he moved that the Committee already named be
appointed managers of the trial, and that the House of Commons attend as a Committee of the whole House; assent to
these motions was given, and each party prepared for the trial
On the 13th of February commenced, in Westminster Hall,
this remarkable trial.  Macaulay has, with singular felicity,
given us a graphic sketch of the scene; he has associated with
it the best historical recollections, and mingled them with
the leading characters of the day. The author of " Evelina,"
who was present on the occasion, has described to us her own
sensations, and furnished us even with the chit-chat of " the
ingenious, the chivalrous, the high-souled" Wyndham, as
well as of Burke, and of many principal actors in the scene.
She has, in less poetic language, placed before our eyes all
that struck her fancy. We find her shuddering and drawing
involuntarily back, when Burke, the head of the committee,
made his solemn entry, holding a scroll in his hands, walking
alone, his brow knit with corroding care and deep-labouring
thought; trembling when Hastings was brought to the bar, and
summoned by a loud voice, "Warren Hastings, come forth,
answer to the charges brought against you, save your bail, or




LIFE OF SHERIDAN.               121
forfeit your recognizances." There stood the late GovernorGeneral of Bengal; he moved on slowly, he made a low bow
to the chancellor and to the court, he bowed again, and then
advancing to the bar he leant his hands upon it, and dropped
upon his knees; but a voice, in the same moment, proclaiming
he had leave to rise, he stood up almost instantaneously, and
a third time profoundly bowed to the court.  What an
awful moment this for such a man-a man fallen from such
height of power to a situation so humiliating-from the most
unlimited command of so large a portion of the Eastern
World, to be cast at the feet of his enemies, of the great
tribunal of his country, and of the nation at large, assembled
thus in a body to try and to judge him."
*   In the striking words of Macaulay, we may say " that
neither the culprit nor his advocates attracted so much attention as his accusers. In the midst of the blaze of red drapery
a space had been fitted up with green benches and tables for
the Commons. The managers, with Burke at their head,
appeared in full dress. The collectors of gossip did not fail
to remark that even Fox, generally so regardless of his appearance, had paid to the illustrious tribunal the compliment
of wearing a bag and sword. The box in which the managers
stood contained an array of speakers such as perhaps had not
appeared together since the great age of Athenian eloquence.
There were Fox and Sheridan, the English Demosthenes and
the English Hyperides. There was Burke, ignorant indeed
or negligent of the art of adapting his reasonings and his
style to the capacity and taste of his hearers, but in amplitude of comprehension, and richness of imagination, superior
to every orator, ancient or modem."  He proceeds, in a
splendid passage, which it would be criminal to mutilate by
'     extracts, to delineate two of the master minds of their age,
Wyndham and Earl Grey. The first day was passed in reading the charges against Hasting; this was done in so monotonous a tone that little interest was taken in the proceedings.
From Madame DArblay we may draw our conclusion that,
amongst the auditory assembled, there were many who looked
upon the accused with eyes of pity and of respect, and that at
*'    the commencement of the trial he was rather the object of
commiseration than of dislike. It was on the third day that
Burke opened the charges; and during the four following days


i
I




LIFE OF SI-ERIDAN.


he occupied the attention of the House of Lords with what may
be considered to be a general outline of the charges brought
against Hastings. He delivered an eloquent address, such as
might be expected from one who had for months studied his
subject with the utmost care; who had brooded over the wrongs
which nations had endured; who deeply felt, and had ample
means of giving expression to his feelings. He was listened
to with the profoundest attention; and as he painted the manners, the habits, and the government of the nations of Asia, and
portrayed the wrongs inflicted by Hastings, torrents of fervid
eloquence were poured forth which touched the hearts of his
enraptured auditory.  " When he narrated, he was easy, flowing, natural; when he declaimed, energetic, warm, and brilliant. The sentiments he interspersed were as nobly con,
ceived as they were highly coloured; the wild and sudden
flights of his fancy burst forth from his creative imagination,
fluent, forcible, and vivid."
Fox was the next of the accusers; his speech occupied a
space of five hours. The impression produced by both these
speeches upon Madame D'Arblay is worthy to be remembered, particularly as it is well known that her report was
listened to with the deepest interest by the queen, and that,
from that high quarter, it reached his majesty, who, during the whole of the early portion of the trial, exhibited
the greatest anxiety.  She states "that Burke's opening
struck me with the highest admiration of his powers, from
the eloquence, the fire, the diversity of expression, and the
ready flow of language with which he seemed gifted. When
he came to his two narratives, when he related the particulars of those dreadful murders, he interested, he engaged, he at last overpowered me. I felt my cause lost. I
could hardly keep my seat. My eyes dreaded a single glance
towards so accused a man as Mr. Hastings, I wanted to sink
on the floor, that they might be saved from so fearful a sight.
I had no hope he could clear himself, not another wish in his
favour remained; but when, from this narration, Mr. Burke
proceeded to his own comments and declamation, when the
charges of rapacity, cruelty, and tyranny were general, and
made with all the violence of personal detestation, and continued and aggravated without any further fact, or illustration,
then there appeared more of study than of truth, more of




LIFE OF SHERIDJI1i.


123


invective than of justice, and, in short, so little of proof to so
much of passion, that, in a very short time, I began to lift my
I head; my seat was no longer uneasy, my eyes were indifferent
which way they looked, or what object caught them, and
before I was aware of the declension of Mr. Burke's power
over my feelings, I found myself a mere spectator in a public
place, and looking all around me, with my opera-glass in my
hand."
She says, "Mr. Fox spoke with a violence which had a
sort of monotony, that seemed to result from its being factitious; he looked all good humour and negligent care the
instant before he began a speech of uninterrupted passion and
vehemence; and he wore the same careless and disengaged
air the very instant he had finished. A display of talents,
in which the inward man took so little share, could have no
powers of persuasion to those who saw them in that light, and,
therefore, however brilliant they might be, they were useless
to their cause, for they left the mind of the hearers in the
same state that they found it."
The eagerness displayed by the public to hear Burke and
Fox was even surpassed on the third of June, when it was
known that upon that day the task of continuing the accusation
devolved upon Sheridan. His speech in the House of Commons still vibrated on the ears of his audience; and the press
' had been busy in drawing comparisons between what had
been heard in the House of Commons, and before the Lords.
Westminster Hall presented a most extraordinary sight; on
no one day had there been such an array of talent, of beauty,
or of rank. As early as eight o'clock the avenues leading to
the Hall were thronged, the passages through Old and New
Palace Yard are described as having been crowded with per" sons of the first distinction; many of them peeresses in full
dress, who stood in the open air upwards of an hour before
the gates were opened.  The exertions made in pressing
forward to get convenient seats had nearly proved fatal to
many. It seemed as if the eyes of the whole kingdom was
on that day fixed on Sheridan. The eager quidnuncs in
the country, who were not so speedily gratified with the intel* ligence of the day as they now are, had made every exertion
to obtain the earliest report of the speech; every printing
press was called into use, and every means used to forward






1RL


LIFE OF SHERIDAN.


it to the country. The usual forms of opening the business
of the day, even the procession of the Lords, previously so
attractive, seemed tedious, and the impatient auditory could
scarcely wait the hour of twelve, when the peers took their
places. Large sums were offered and declined for tickets, or
for privilege; even fifty guineas it has been said was refused.
When Sheridan entered the manager's box every eye was
turned towards him. When the Lord Chancellor signified
that the assembly was prepared to hear him, he rose, and
commenced a speech which was continued on four several occasions. On one of these he was so completely exhausted as
to be compelled to retire, and the House adjourned the court;
on his recovery, three days afterwards, he again warmed into
his subject, and completed his masterly address. With his
great display of eloquence, it may be said that the interest of
the drama ceased. The trial, it was true, proceeded, but it
dragged slowly on; all the enthusiasm which had been excited seemed, after Sheridan had delivered his address, to
have died away. It was scarcely to be expected that a second
speech would strike the minds of the public with the same
success as the first. The freshness of the materials was over;
the feelings were not to be roused by a second edition, as they
had been by the first impression.  Fox, it has been said,
strenuously recommended that the speech should only be the
echo of the one that had excited such boundless admiration.
This opinion was not in unison with that of Sheridan, who
felt that he could draw upon his own genius for new resources.
He boldly dared and succeeded. He was listened to with delight, and again won the applause of his country.
Sheridan appears to have made himself intimately acquainted
with every fact that had occurred in India, and with every individual who had been in communication with Hastings. He"
had deeply studied the characters of all the parties implicated,
had sought out the motives of their actions, and commeated
upon them with masterly discrimination.  He clearly saw
that Warren Hastings, with a view of supplying the wants of
the Indian treasury, had cast a longing eye upon the sacred
city of Benares, and had marked it out as a legitimate object
of plunder. Here he expected to draw resources for his army,
and remittances for his employers at home. Cheyte Sing, the
ruling prince, had annually paid a rich tribute; but it waw




LIFE OF SHERIDAN.


125


imagined that he had accumulated from his large revenues
considerable treasures; demand upon demand was made upon
him. In order to soothe Hastings a bribe of twenty thousand
pounds was offered, and received; the transaction was for a
time concealed, but after some delay the money was paid over
to the company; and then not only were the previous contributions required, but fines were demanded for the delay, and
a requisition was made that the unfortunate ruler should keep
a body of cavalry for the service of the company. After every
species of humiliating treatment, Hastings went himself to
" Benares, and demanded half a million; " determined to make
Cheyte Sing pay largely for his pardon, or to exact a severe
vengeance for past delinquency."  The prince, notwithstanding every attempt to conciliate the Governor, was made
prisoner in his own capital; his subjects rushed to arms,
released him, and so hemmed in Hastings, that he was in the
utmost peril. At one moment the people of the whole pro" vince were in commotion; an army was raised, which almost
threatened the annihilation of the English, but discipline and
valour soon put it to the rout.  Cheyte Sing fled, the do-. minions passed away from him. Hastings annexed them to
the British possessions; but he was grievously disappointed,
not only that the amount of the treasure was far inferior to
the calculations that had been made, but that the army
- claimed it as conquerors. To Oude he next looked; but he
was well aware that the reigning vizier was too poor to assist
him; that from him he could not look for that money which
became every moment of greater importance to him. The
two chieftains, however, met, each having his own views.
Hastings, desirous of some pretext to lay an impost, Asaph
ul Dowlah ruminating how he was to avoid payment of what
*- he already owed. In whose mind the tempter first created
the suggestion of their uniting to pillage a third party, we
cannot surmise; but upon that point they both agreed, and
the two sagacious statesmen, without appearing to have much
repugnance, determined that they should confiscate the wealth
of the mother and the grandmother of one of the parties.
These two princesses, known under the title of the Beguma
a of Oude, had succeded to the revenues of the last nabob, and
possessed his treasures, which were estimated at three millions. The son had at different periods made attacks upon his




126


LIFE OF SHERIDAN.


mother's property, and had extorted money from her. She
had turned with the utmost anxiety to the English Govern
ment to protect her, and a treaty under its auspices had been
drawn up, in which, under the condition of certain subsidies
being paid to her son, he undertook never again to molest her.
Disgraceful as is the fact, the Government that had stood
forward as a mediatory power, and as a guarantee that no
further extortions should occur, became a partner in an atrocious robbery; and, in the most discreditable manner, plundered and abused the helpless princesses. Under the pretext
that these aged ladies had instigated the rebellion at Benares,
it was resolved that their entire possessions should be taken
from them, and that this wholesale spoliation should be regarded as a set-off against the debt due from the vizier of Oude
to Hastings.  The palace in which these ladies resided was
stormed. The company's troops took possession, and, shameful to relate, the princesses were almost starved into giving
up twelve hundred thousand pounds; whilst two unfortunate
beings, who acted as their prime ministers, were thrown into
prison, and actually put to the torture. Of the influence of
Hastings over the authorities in India, there can be no stronger
proof than that the chief judge, Sir Elijah Impey, anxious to
partake the infamy of the deed, left his judicial seat at Calcutta to obtain any thing in the shape of evidence by which to
criminate the Begums, rushed to Lucknow, administered oaths
to any one ready to swear, and tarnish the purity of his ermine.
Here, then, was ample material for the impassioned eloquence
of Sheridan. How much is it to be deplored that we have but
a meagre outline of that splendid harangue which astonished
his contemporaries. A few extracts will show the style in
which he treated the subject.
Of the character of Hastings he spoke in the following
words:-" After having stated his complicated infamy in
terms of the severest reprehension, Mr. Sheridan proceeded
to observe, that he recollected to have heard it advanced by
some of those admirers of Mr. Hastings who were not so
explicit as to give unqualified applause to his crimes, that
they found an apology for the atrocity of them in the greatness of his mind. To estimate the solidity of such a defence,
it would be sufficient merely to consider in what consisted
this prepossessing distinction, this captivating characteristih




LIFE OF SHERIDAN.


127


of greatness of mind. Is it not solely to be traced in great
actions directed to great ends?  In them, and them alone,
we are to search for true estimable magnanimity. To them
only can we justly affix the splendid title and honours of real
greatness. There was indeed another species of greatness,
which displayed itself in boldly conceiving a bad measure,
and undauntedly pursuing it to its accomplishment.  But
had Mr. Hastings the merit of exhibiting either of these descriptions of greatness-even of the latter?-He saw nothing
great-nothing magnanimous-nothing open-nothing direct
in his measures or in his mind;-on the contrary, he had too
often pursued the worst objects by the worst means.  His
course was an eternal deviation from rectitude. He either
tyrannized or deceived; and was by turns a Dionysius and a
Scapin. As well might the writhing obliquity of the serpent
be compared to the swift directness of the arrow, as the duplicity of Mr. Hastings's ambition to the simple steadiness of
0    genuine magnanimity.   In his mind all was shuffling; ambiguous, dark, insidious, and little: nothing simple, nothing
unmixed: all affected plainness, and actual dissimulation;a heterogeneous mass of contradictory qualities; with nothing
great but his crimes; and even those contrasted by the littleness of his motives, which at once denoted both his baseness
and his meanness, and marked him for a traitor and a trick
*    ster. Nay, in his style and writing there was the same mix.
ture of vicious contrarieties;-the most grovelling ideas were
conveyed in the most inflated language; giving mock consequence to low cavils, and uttering quibbles in heroics; so
that his compositions disgusted the mind's taste, as much as
his actions excited the soul's abhorrence. Indeed this mixture of character seemed by some unaccountable, but inherent
quality, to be appropriated, though in inferior degrees, to
every thing that concerned his employers. He remembered
to have heard an honourable and learned gentleman (Mr
Dundas) remark, that there was something in the first frame
and constitution of the company, which extended the sordid
principles of their origin over all their successive operations;
connecting with their civil policy, and even with their boldest
achievements, the meanness of a pedlar, and the profligacy
of pirates. Alike in the political and the military line could
be observed auctioneering ambassadors and trading generals;




128


LIFE OF SHERIDAN.


-and thus we saw a revolution brought about by affidavits;
an army employed in executing an arrest; a town besieged
on a note of hand; a prince dethroned for the balance of an
account.  Thus it was they exhibited a government which
united the mock majesty of a bloody sceptre and the little
traffic of a merchant's counting-house, wielding a truncheon
with one hand, and picking a pocket with the other."
The speech, on the 2nd of April, on the acceptance of various bribes, by Hastings, went to prove that corruption had
been the leading principle of all his actions in India; and
attempted to overthrow the prevailing opinion, that as he did
not amass treasures for his own use, he was not corrupt for
interested purposes-that he was not mercenary.
" Mr. Sheridan declared he had been among those, who, at
one time, conceived that Mr. Hastings was not stimulated
in his conduct, as Governor-General, by any view to his own
emolument; and that his fortune was trifling, compared with
the advantages which fell within his power. But the more
close and minute investigation which it was his duty to apply
to the facts contained in the charge had completely altered
his opinion; and he scarcely harboured even the slightest
doubt of being able to satisfy the committee that Mr. Hastings
had all along governed his conduct by corruption, as gross
and determined, as his oppression and injustice had proved
severe and galling. In reviewing his conduct, he had found
it to spring from a wild, eccentric, and irregular mind. He
had been everything by fits and starts.  Now proud and
lofty; now mean and insidious; now generous; now just;
now artful; now open; now deceitful; now decided;-in
pride, in passion, in everything changeable, except in corruption. In corruption he had proved uniform, systematic, and
methodical;-his revenge a tempest, a tornado, blackening,
in gusts of pride, the horizon of his dominion, and carrying
all before it."
It was on the fourth day that, in the presence of the great
historian Gibbon, he exclaimed, " I do-say, that if you search
the history of the world, you will not find an act of tyranny
and fraud to surpass this! If you read all past histories,
peruse the annals of Tacitus, read the luminous page of
Gibbon, and all the ancient or modern writers that have
searched into the depravity of former ages, to draw a lesson




LIFE OF SHERIDAN.


for the present, you will not find an act of treacherous,
deliberate, cool cruelty that could exceed this!"  Gibbon delighted with this compliment-spoke of it in his memoirs.
He says: " Before my departure from England, I was present
at the august spectacle of Mr. Hastings' trial in Westminster
Hall.  It is not my province to absolve or condemn the
Governor of India, but Mr. Sheridan's eloquence demanded
my applause; nor could I hear without emotion the personal
compliment that he paid me in the presence of the British
nation." Little did the innocent man dream that the ever
r eady wit of Sheridan had neutralized this elegant encomium;
for some one asking him how he could bestow the epithet
luminous on Gibbon's work, in a half whisper, he said, " I
called it voluminous."
It is true that Miss Sheridan's partiality for her brother
may have given a bias to her judgment, but she has expressed
herself on the occasion of having heard the principal speakers on
the trial. "And last, not least," says she, "I heard my brother.
I cannot express to you the sensation of pleasure and of pride
that filled my heart the moment that he rose. Had I never
seen or heard his name before, I should have conceived him the
first man among them at once. There is a dignity and grace
in his countenance and deportment very striking, at the same
time that one cannot trace the smallest degree of coxcomb
superiority in his manner. His voice, too, appeared to me exextremely fine."  There are letters, too, extant from Mrs.
Sheridan, in which she speaks of her husband's success with
all the natural triumph of an attached woman; her exultation
springs from the heart. Burke seems occasionally to have
written to her, when he was anxious to have an impression
made upon the memory of Sheridan. In a letter, he says to
her, " I know that his mind is seldom unemployed, but then.
like all such great and vigorous minds, it takes an eagle's
flight by itself, and we can hardly bring it to rustle along the
ground with us birds of meaner wing in covey. I only beg
that you will prevail on Mr. Sheridan to be with us this day,
at half after three, in the committee.  Mr. Wombell, the
paymaster of Oude, is to be examined there to-day; Oude is
Mr. Sheridan's particular province, and I do most seriously
ask that he would favour us with his assistance. WhVat will
come of the examination I know not, but without him I do
K




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uot expect a great deal from it; with him I fancy we may get
out something material." It appears that this beautiful and
highly-gifted woman rendered every assistance to her husband
in his pursuit of information.  Amongst his papers there
exist ample proofs that she wrote out, with diligence and
assiduity, pages of importance to him; she copied pamphlets,
and collected from various sources memorandums bearing
upon any subject that occupied his attention; these she pasted
together, or by some contrivance of her own made easy of
reference.
His triumph has been thus acknowledged by Lord Byron:
"When the loud cry of trampled Hindostan
Arose to Heaven in her appeal to Mlan,
His was the thunder, his the avenging rod,
The wrath-the delegated voice of God,
Which shook the nations through his lips, and blazed,
Till vanquished senates trembled as they praised."
An event, of a nature calculated to excite the most lively
interest in the nation, now occurred, and demanded from each
individual taking a lead in the direction of the public mind
the utmost anxiety and reflection. Early in the month of
July, 1788, a visible alteration took place in the health of the
king. The physicians in attendance recommended that his
majesty should go to Cheltenham to try the effects of the
mineral waters there, as some tendency to excitement had
been observed. It was resolved that the journey should be
taken without the usual pomp and ceremony; the party, therefore, was the smallest possible, without guards or state; still
the loyalty of the people would not allow the monarch to pass,
without exhibiting affectionate homage. " Every town seemed
all face, filled with people, as closely fastened to one another
as they appear in the the pit of the playhouse." To this
journey, which was undertaken as a change from the monotony of Windsor, and as likely to divert the attention of the
king, and to the life at Cheltenham, has been ascribed the
direction which this malady now took. Early in the month
of October the royal household saw, with unspeakable alarm,
the gradual advance of a mental disorder.
Amongst the most interesting narratives of the day is that
which the authoress of our classic novels, Cecilia and Evelina,




LIFE OF SHERIDAN.


131


has furnished us with in her memoirs, published not long
since under the name of her diary and letters. Miss Burney was in immediate attendance on the queen, and hence
has been enabled to describe to us with the utmost fidelity
the commencement, progress, and termination of the disease. We are let into the inmost recesses of the royal palace;
we have graphically described the state of alarm and anxiety
felt by all, and are taught to look with veneration and admiration at the tenderness and solicitude of the afflicted queen.
Such a work is invaluable; and if it be not quite equal in interest to that melancholy but interesting narration which
Clery has given us of his attendance upon Louis XVI
when in the Temple, it is only because from the different catastrophes our feelings are not so deeply impressed with sympathy and terror. No one could more faithfully delineate the
first approach of one species of frenzy than Miss Burney has
done. She thus speaks: " I had a sort of conference with his
Majesty, or rather I was the object to whom he spoke, with a
manner so uncommon, that a high fever could alone account
for it: a rapidity, a hoarseness of voice, a volubility, an earnestness, a vehemence rather-it startled me inexpressiblyyet with a graciousness exceeding even all I met with beforeit was almost kindness. The following day," she goes on with.
her diary, telling us, " I met him in the passage from the
Queen's room, he stopped me, and conversed upon his health
near half an hour; still with the extreme quickness of speech
and manner that belongs to fever; and he hardly sleeps, he
tells me, one minute all night; indeed, if he recovers not his
rest, a most delirious fever seems to threaten him. He is all
agitation, all emotion, yet all benevolence and goodness, even
to a degree that makes it touching to hear him speak. He
assures every body of his health, he seems only fearful to
give uneasiness to others." November 1st, we find her describing him with a hoarse and altered countenance. "Nor
can I ever forget him in what passed this night; when I came
to the queen's dressing-room he was still with her. He was
begging her not to speak to him when he got to his room,
that he might fall asleep, as he felt great want of that refreshment. He repeated his desire at least a hundred times,
though far enough from needing it,-the -poor queen never
uttered one syllable. He then applied to me, saying he was
K 2




LIFE OF SHERIDAN.


really very well, except in that one particular, that lih could
not sleep."
As we peruse these and similar passages in her diary, we
are strongly reminded of the interview between Hamlet and
Ophelia in the play-scene; and are struck with admiration of
the knowledge which Shakespeare must have possessed of
the workings of the mind under the first approaches of mental
derangement.   She proceeds to describe the deep distress
of the queen, her solitary anguish, overpowered with terror,
lest she should betray her feelings, and express the inevitable danger towards which she saw the king was gradually
verging.  Harassed by his state-believing it unknown to
any but herself and her household-she at length found
that a whispering of the infirmity of the king had commenced; and then read in the "MAorning Herald" some
anecdote which she was desirous that the editor should
retract, and answer, at his peril, any further such treasonable
paragraph.  On the 5th of November a terrible scene occurred, which rendered all further hesitation as to the nature
of his malady impossible. The king in the afternoon went
out in his chaise with the princess royal for an airing; he was
all smiling benignity, but gave so many orders to the postillions, and got in and out of the carriage twice, with such
agitation, as to excite Miss Burney's alarm. Retiring in her
own room, she was struck in the evening with the uncommon
stillness that reigned throughout the palace; nobody stirred,
not a voice was heard, not a step, not a motion, there seemed
a strangeness in the house most extraordinary-the equerries
then passed to and fro with unusual gravity, whisperings only
were exchanged, all was mysterious horror; at length the
news was told her, that the king at dinner had broken forth
into positive delirium, which had long been apprehended by
all who saw him most closely: the queen was so overpowered
as to fall into violent hysterics; all the princesses were in
misery, and the Prince of Wales burst into tears.
The night that followed was a fearful one. Miss Bunmey
was called upon to attend her Majesty. " My poor royal mistress, never can I forget her countenance —pale, ghastly pale,
she was seated to be undressed, and attended by Lady Elizabeth Waldegrave and Miss Goldsworthy; her whole frame
was disordered, yet she was still and quiet; these two ladies




LIFE OF SHERIDAN.


assisted me to undress her, or rather I assisted them, for they
were firmer from being longer present; my shaking hands.*       and blinded eyes could scarce be of any use. The king, at
the instance of Sir George Baker, had consented to sleep in
the next apartment; in the middle of the night, the king
insisted upon seeing if the queen was not removed from the
house, and he had come into the room with a candle in his
hand, and satisfied himself she was there; he stayed a full
half-hour, and the depth of that terror during that time no
words can paint."    The confirmation of the worst fears that
had been apprehended gave now no pretence for keeping
from the nation the sad change that had occurred in a monarch who had gradually become popular, and for whom the
tenderest solicitude was from that period displayed.  The
earlier days of the king's reign had not been propitious, and
he had incurred displeasure from his obstinate adherence to
his own preconceived views; but now all was forgotten, all
was anxious affection, and, amid hopes and fears, the nation
turned to Parliament to learn from its deliberations what
would be the steps which, in consonance with the spirit of
the constitution. would be taken: various were the surmises
which were afloat, as to the placing the power in the hands of
the heir apparent to the throne, and to whose custody would
be committed the person of the afflicted monarch. Upon the
first assembling of Parliament, it was resolved that an adjournment should take place for a fortnight, and on the 4th
of November a report of the Privy Council was laid on the
table, and another adjournment took place till the 8th of De
cember.
The Prince of Wales had, from the previous circumstances
of his career, become the centre around which the opposition
of the time revolved; its members looked forward to the day
when he should be in possession of power as that on which
their triumph would be secured, and they therefore displayed
the greatest anxiety that he should be proclaimed unrestricted
regent; and the doctrines they upheld were that he at once
had a right to assume the royal authority. To these preten
sions the administration of the day, headed by Mr. Pitt, was
strenuously opposed, and the feelings of the great mass of
the people were also decidedly hostile to them. It unfortunately happened that the taste and morals of the party de



t134


LIFE OF SHERIDAN.


sirous of seeing his Eoyal Highness at the head of affairs were
most questionable.  Mir. Fox, its leader, however highly
gifted with intellectual power, and loved for his generous and
affectionate temper, was too much addicted to those social
pleasures which border on folly to be generally esteemed.
Sheridan's prudence had begun to be more than doubted, and
reports were widely disseminated of the recklessness of those
who frequented Carlton House. Hence the slow and protracted steps which were taken by the House of Commons,
the caution exercised, and the apparent wisdom of deep reflection, (whilst in fact intrigue of every description was going
forward in various sections of the parties,) were quite in consonance with public opinion.
Mr. Fox was sent for from Italy; and when Mr. Pitt came
forward to propose that a committee be appointed to examine
the journals of the House, and report precedents of such authority as may have been had in cases of the personal exercise of
the royal authority being prevented or interrupted by infancy,
siclmess, infirmity, or otherwise, with a view to provide for
the same, Mr. Fox at once took up the position, " That whenever the sovereign, from sickness, infirmity, or other incapacity, was unable to exercise the functions of his high office,
the heir apparent, being of full age and capacity, had as clear
and express a right to assume the reins of government, and
exercise the power of sovereignty, as in the case of his majesty's demise." Mr. Pitt's reply kindled a fire throughout
the country. In the collection made of the works and the
correspondence of Dr. Parr, is to be found a letter upon the
subject of the king's illness from IMrs. Sheridan, in which she
says, "An unlucky word about right, made use of ly Charles
Fox in the House, has made some little confusion in the
heads of a few old Parliamentaries, who did not understand
him, and Pitt has taken advantage of this, and means to move
a question about it on Tuesday, which our friends wish to
avoid by moving the previous question, thinking Pitt's motion mischievous and quite unnecessary."  Mr. Pitt said,
" That the very announcement of a claim of right rendered an
inquiry into precedent and history of the greater consequence,
for if such an authority should be discovered, all further debate in that House would be unnecessary; but he boldly said,
that the assertion of such a right in the Prince of Wales, or




LIFE OF SHERIDAN.


any one else, was little short of treason against the constitu.
tion of the country. He pledged himself to prove that in the
case of the interruption of the personal exercise of the royal
authority, without the existence of any lawful provision being
previously made for carrying on the government, it belonged
to the other branches of the nation at large to provide, accord
ing to their discretion, for the temporary exercise of the regal
functions in the name and behalf of the sovereign, as they
should deem requisite, and that the Prince of Wales had no
more right of himself, without their decision, to assume the
government than any other individual in the country."  This
great constitutional doctrine was generally assented to; neither the replies of Mr. Fox, nor the invectives of Mr. Burke
could shake it.
Upon the assertions of the two heads of parties, it was impossible for Sheridan, who was looked upon in the House as
the personal friend of his Royal Highness, to be silent; yet
his situation was one of the utmost delicacy. He had, in a
letter which still exists, given the most judicious advice to
that illustrious personage. He had stated " That it would
greatly advance his Royal Highness's credit, and lay the strongest grounds to baffle every attempt at opposition to what he
considered the just claims and rights of his Royal Highness,
that the language of those who may be in any sort suspected
' c     of knowing his wishes and feelings should be of great moderation in disclaiming all party views, and avowing the utmost
readiness to acquiesce in any reasonable delay."
When Mr. Pitt moved that the House will, on Tuesday next,
resolve itself into a committee to take into consideration the
state of the nation, Sheridan began a temperate and cautious
speech. He said, " That he felt it his duty to contend against
* '     the propriety and expediency of putting the abstract proposition of the right of the Prince of Wales.  It could not con
ciliate, but, on the contrary, it might create dissension and
animosities, and therefore he insisted it would be unwise, as
it was obviously unnecessary, to agitate it, or to press the
House to come to any vote on it." The next sentence called
down a long and continued hear, hear, from both sides of the
'   House; by both parties it was hailed as indiscreet at first,
but after reflection it was considered to be called for by the
circumstances of the case. " He begged leave to remind the




136


LIFE OF SHERIDAN.


right honourable Gentleman of the danger of provoking that
claim to be asserted (a loud cry of Hear! hear!), which he observed had not yet been preferred. (Another cry of hear! hear!)
He then repeated the words, and asked, " Would the right
honourable gentleman choose to have his own proposition
put upon the journals, to have it recorded as his opinion, that
the Prince of Wales had no more right to exercise the royal
authority, during the incapacity of the king, than any other
individual?" If he would not, why would he press an abstract
proposition that must throw the nation into anarchy and confusion? Mr. Pitt replied to this somewhat insidiously, by saying "That he trusted the House would do their duty in spite
of any threat, however high the authority from which it might
proceed." Mr. Sheridan then denied that his language could
be construed into a threat, he had only spoken of the danger'
which might arise if the prince should be provoked to assert
a claim which he had not yet referred, and the discussion of
which he must continue to think as mischievous in its tendency as it was absolutely unnecessary.  Resolutions were
carried on the 25nd December, on the motion of Mr. Pitt,
which virtually brought the matter to a formal decision, taking from the Prince of Wales any claim, as a right, which
he might wish to establish of acting as regent of the kingdom. The House indeed divided, but the resolutions were
carried by a majority of 93; 158 voting on an amendment251 against it.
The readiness, the quickness with which Mr. Pitt seized
every word uttered by his adversaries, to aid his arguments, either by ridiculing any accidental blunder, exposing some doctrine incautiously advanced, or dexterously
leading them into some glaring avowal of opinions inconsistent with the principles of Whiggery, have been generally
acknowledged.  When Mr. Fox used the rash andunadvised
words to which we have alluded, a smile irradiated the usual
gloomy and haughty face of the Prime Minister; and when
the sentence was concluded, he slapped his thigh with exultation, and turning to the member who was seated near him,
triumphantly exclaimed, "I '11 unwhig the gentleman for the
rest of his life " and certainly, during the whole of the de
bates that followed, he took up a doctrine before unknown to
a party that asserted the right divine of kings, and laid downe
~YrUI~ rr ~ ~     0 VIV0VIVr




LIFE OF SHERIDAN


131


an axiom, somewhat inconsistent with their usual creed, that
the voice and the sense of the people, through their constituents, were to be consulted in the choice of a substitute for
kingly power. Having carried the essential point, that theLords spiritual and temporal and the Commons of Great Britain
now assembled, and lawfully, fully, and freely representing all
the estates of the people of this realm, have the right, and are
in duty bound, to provide the means of supplying the defect
of the personal exercise of the royal authority arising from
his Majesty's indisposition, Mr. Pitt, on the 16th of January,
moved " That it was expedient that his Royal Highness the
Prince of Wales should be empowered to exercise and administer the royal authority under the style and title of regent
of the kingdom;" and then brought forward a series of resolutions as restrictions upon his power. A debate of great
interest ensued, during which Sheridan exhibited considerable tact and readiness. Lord Belgrave having concluded a
'    complimentary speech in favour of the minister, with a quotation from Demosthenes, Sheridan promptly rose and immediately pointed out the misapplication of the lines, and, in
defence of his party, uttered an eulogium, certainly called
for by the insinuations of his adversaries, that the prince
would be surrounded by bad advisers.
"The right honourable gentleman had more than once
wantonly attacked that side of the House as containing a political party.  As for himself, (Mr. Sheridan added,) he made
no scruple to declare he thought it the glory and honour of
his life to belong to that party. He who knew the character
of that party, knew it was an honour which any man might
covet.  Was it a disgrace to have been formed under the
Marquis of Rockingham; and under his banners to have corn-.*     bated on behalf of the people with success?  Was it a disgrace to be connected with the Duke of Portland, a nobleman
who, swayed by no mean motives of interest, nor influenced
by any ambitious designs to grasp at power, nor with a view
to any other purpose than the welfare of the country, dedicated his mornings unremittingly to the promotion of the
public good!?  Mr. Sheridan remarked, he could not advert
'   to his right honourable friend (Mr. Fox) without declaring it
was the characteristic distinction of his heart to compel the
most submissive devotion of mind and affection from all thoso




.138


LIFE OF SHERIDAN.


who came under the observation of it; and force them, by the
most powerful and amiable of all influence, to become tho
inseparable associates of his fortune.  With respect to his
talents, he would not speak of them; they would derive no
support from any man's attestation, nor from the most flattering panegyric of the most enlightened of his friends. Thus
much he would only observe, with regard to the abilities of
his honourable friend, that it was the utmost effort of any
other man's talents, and the best proof of their existence,
that he was able to understand the extent, and comprehend
the superiority of them. It was the pride and glory of his
life to enjoy the happiness and honour of his friendship; and
he desired to be told whether the Duke of Portland and Mr.
Fox were less worthy of the confidence of their country, or
more unfit to become ministers, because an arrogant individual chose presumptuously to load them with calumny
Were he an independent man, standing aloof from party,
and wholly unconnected with it, he could not, with patience,
hear the right honourable gentleman's insulting language;
but, as a party man, boasting himself to be one, how did the
right honourable gentleman imagine he should receive his
reflections but with that scorn and disdain which became a
man conscious of the worth and value of those with whom he
was connected?"
His observations on the patronage reserved. were-;He
reprobated the idea of reserving the patronage of the royal
household, and adverted to the right honourable gentleman's
having charged his right honourable friend (when on a former
occasion he quitted office) with having left a fortress behind
him. The charge was true; he admitted that his right honourable friend had done so; but then, like a coarse, clumsy
workman, he had built his plan in open day, and retired with
his friends, who served without pay, though their services had
been long continued. Not so the right honourable gentleman
over the way; like a more crafty mason, he had collected his
materials with greater caution, and worked them up with
abundantly more art. Perhaps he had taken the advice of
the noble duke, famous for fortification, and, with the aid of
that able engineer, had provided a corps of royal military
artificers, and thrown up impregnable ramparts to secure
himself and his garrison. Upon this occasion the king's arms




LIFE OF SHERIDAN.


139


doubtless might be seen flying as a banner on the top of his
fortress, and powerful indeed must prove the effect of the
*     right honourable gentleman's thundering eloquence from without, and the support of the royal artificers from within, against
his political adversaries. Mr. Sheridan reprobated the per
son, whoever it might be, that advised her Majesty to lend
her name to such a proposition as that which was then made
to the committee; and declared that were the one ground of
suspicion of the bad advisers of the regent to be taken away,
*   the right honourable gentleman could not be said to have
produced a single argument in support of his system. He
described the power that the ex-minister would derive from
retaining the patronage of the king's household; and contended that the pretext that his Majesty's feelings would be
shocked when he recovered and found his household changed,
was ridiculous."  He then added, " To talk, therefore, of his
~.   Majesty's feelings, when he should recover and find his household changed, was to suppose that he would be less shocked
to learn that the constitution of his country was changed, part
of his dominions ceded to foreign potentates, and other essential and important calamities and disgraces entailed on his
country, which was like a man, who having been entrusted
with the mansion-house of a person during his incapacity to,    take care of it, should suffer it to go to ruin, and the winds
of heaven to blow through almost every part of it, the inclosures to be broken down, the flocks of sheep to be shorn
and exposed to the storms, and all left to ruin and decay,
except a few looking-glasses and old worthless gilt lumber.
that were locked up in an old-fashioned drawing-room. Mr.
Sheridan represented the ex-minister coming down to the
House in state, with the cap of liberty on the end of a white
staff, a retinue of black and white sticks attending him, and
an army of beef-eaters (whom the master of the horse, the
lord steward, and lord chamberlain, were to be employed in
~   marshalling) to clear his way through the lobby."
During the long protracted debates Mr. Sheridan assiduously attended the House; made many useful observations
upon the various stages of the Restriction Bill. The occasions on which he distinguished himself were many, evincing
throughout a great anxiety to serve his Royal Highness, and
to preserve the royal prerogative intact.




1-10


LIFE OF SHERIDAN


That which most tended to give the public a bad opinion
of Fox, of Burke, and even of Sheridan, was the somewhat indecorous manner in which they treated the malady of the
king; th ttoo visible worship of the rising sun, and, above all,
the party spirit with which they treated all public questions.
Even the physicians were treated as partisans; their evidence
handled with levity, sarcasm, or flat denial, just as it pleased
those who addressed the House. The admirable prognostics
of Dr. Willis, who was thoroughly conversant with mental
maladies, were made the theme of abuse; whilst the attainments of Dr. Warren (whose practical skill, notwithstanding
his reputation as a scholar, was generally questioned) were
lauded to the skies; because the one was ready, and somewhat talkative, whereas the other, a slow-thinking man, was
silent, reserved, and only expressed his opinions when called
upon to do so. That Dr. Warren's hastily-formed judgment
should have been put into competition with Dr. Willis's longcontinued study is to be regretted, because it misled the
party, and induced Sheridan to make a most unsuitable
speech in the House, and to boldly accuse Dr. Willis of prevarication and evasion, to call him a hasty decider, and a random speaker; to say that the physic he administered "reminded him of those nostrums which were to cure this and
that malady, and also disappointments in love, and long seavoyages."
Of the letter which was addressed to Mr. Pitt, and attributed to Mr. Sheridan, so widely circulated and generally
admired, the evidence of Sir James Mackintosh has settled
the doubted question of its authorship; and to Mr. Burke is
due whatever of merit it may exhibit. The rumour that was
so generally prevalent that Sheridan had written it plainly
shows that every literary production of merit was supposed to
be derived from his pen. It is unnecessary to pursue the
course which was followed by Sheridan throughout the long
discussions which this interesting subject provoked. Whatever of good feeling he may have gained in the bosom of the
rince and his royal brothers, he must have offended the queen
by the whole drift of his arguments on the clauses which gave
ner Majesty the custody of the royal sufferer.
Among the thirty-two clauses which constituted the Regency
Bill, was a clause that provided against the regent marrying




LIFE OF SHERIDAN.


141


a Papist. Mr. Rolle, with considerable indelicacy, renewed
the discussion which had once been opened on the subject of
the supposed alliance of the Prince of Wales with Mrs. Fitzherbert, by moving that the words "or who is or should be married
in law or in fact to a Papist," be inserted. Lord North, Mr.
Gray, and Mr. Courtenay replied in somewhat strong language.
In the course of the debate Sheridan alluded to Mr. Pitt having, on several occasions, signified his departure from office.
"Mr. Pitt said, the honourable gentleman had indulged
himself in imputing words to him which he had never spoken,
and applying arguments which he had never uttered. The
honourable gentleman contended that he had not signified
his departure from office. Surely the honourable gentleman
had a perverse memory. His successors had been named to
him, but he had never yet heard of the least circumstance
which authorized him to declare that he was about to quit
his place. When he did hear anything like it, he should
*   have much to say to that House, to express his acknowledgments for the support he had received, to confess his obligations to them, and to declare his hopes, that he should not
quit his situation avowing principles less worthy of their regard and esteem than he brought with him into office."
"Mr. Sheridan observed that the right honourable gentleman, he did not doubt, would make a fine speech at his exit
from office; or, according to the vulgar expression, an excellent delivery of his last dying words and confession."
These lengthened debates were drawn to a conclusion by
the announcement that his Majesty was restored to his usual
state. The news was received with unbounded joy by the
people, who were thoroughly wearied of the procrastination of
the Ministry. Tedious, however, as may have been the dis-.   cussions, they have been of deep value, and have furnished
us with one of the landmarks by which the nature of the
British constitution may be judged of.
The health of his father, Thomas Sheridan, had gradually declined. He for some time resided at Margate, and from thence,
if he should find no amendment, he intended to proceed to
Lisbon; his complaints, however, did not diminish, and on the
14th of August, 1788, he expired. He had, for some short
time, retired from the stage, and had given public readings
at Freemason's Hall, at Hickford's Rooms, and Coachmakers




142


LIFE OF SHERIDAN.


Hall. His works, with the exception of "the Loyal Subject,"
"Romeo and Juliet," and " Coriolanus," which he altered and
produced whilst manager of the Dublin stage, and a life of
Dean Swift, were prilcipally devoted to the elements of language. They are "A Discourse delivered in the Theatre at
Oxford, and in the Senate House at Cambridge;" "A Dissertation on the Causes of the Difficulties which occur in learning
the English Language;' "A Course of Lectures on Elocution; " "A Plan of Education for the Young Nobility and Gentry of Great Britain;" "Lectures on the Art of Reading;"
"A General Dictionary of the English Language; " " Elements
of English." A likeness, said to be exceedingly good, is prefixed to the second edition of his Dictionary. Although at one
period of his life the father was estranged from the son, and
always seemed to give a preference to the elder brother, a re
conciliation had taken place, in consequence of efforts repeatedly made, and oftentimes spurned by the father. Sheridan,
however, paid unremitting attention to him in his last illness,
and evinced for him the sincerest filial affection. His eldest
sister, referring to the existence of those differences, which
she lamented, says in a letter, " and yet it was that son, and
not the object of his partial fondness, who at last closed his
eyes." Dr. Parr wrote, at the request of Sheridan, a tribute
to his memory, which, however, was not inscribed upon the
cenotaph, intended by the son for St. Peter's Church, Margate
It is, however, worthy to be recorded. "This monument,
A. D. 1824, was, by subscription, erected to the memory of
Thomas Sheridan, Esq., who died in the neighbouring parish
of St. John, August 14th, 1788, in the 69th year of his age,
and according to his own request was there buried. He was
grandson to Dr. Thomas Sheridan, the brother of Dr. William, a conscientious nonjuror, who in 1691 was deprived of
the bishopric of Kilmore. He was the son of Dr. Thomas
Sheridan, a profound scholar and eminent schoolmaster, intimately connected with Dean Swift and other illustrious
writers in the reign of Queen Anne. He was husband to
the ingenious and amiable author of " Sidney Biddulph," and
several dramatic pieces favourably received. He was the
father of the celebrated orator and dramatist, Richard Brinsley Sheridan.  He had been the schoolfellow, and through
lift was the companion of the amiable Archbishop of Mark



LIFE OF SHERIDAN


143


ham. He was the friend of the learned Dr. Sumnet, master
of Harrow school, and the well known Dr. Parr. He took
his first academical degree in the University of Dublin,
about 1736. He was honoured in the University of Oxford
with the degree of A.M. in 1758, and in 1759 he obtained the same distinction at Cambridge. He for many
years presided over the theatre of Dublin, and at Drury
Lane; he in public estimation stood next to David Garrick.
In the literary world he was distinguished by numerous and
useful writings on the pronunciation of the English language.
Through some of his opinions ran a vein of singularity mingled
with the rich ore of genius. In his manners there was dig
nified ease, in his spirit invincible firmness, and in his habits
and principles unsullied integrity."
This elegant summary of the principal characteristics of
the life of a man who had used indefatigable exertions, but
unsuccessfully, to promote the cause of education, is one of
*    those productions of the classic pen whose judgment in the
selection of ideas and of words to express them has been unequalled. There now is a plain monument raised to the
memory of Mr. Thomas Sheridan, in St. Peter's, Margate, by
a friend of Mr. Jarvis, who attended him professionally during
his illness.
The great movements which occurred in France began to.,    excite the attention of the people of England, and caused
them to watch each event which sprung up, and to turn with
anxious eye to the views taken of them by the parties who
most deeply interested themselves in the direction of the pub
lic mind. The great Revolution of France, it must ever be
borne in recollection, commenced with moderation, displaying
only a determination to obtain by simple means a constitution
worthy a free people, but innumerable difficulties presented
themselves; a disastrous series of occurrences led to the ruin
of all established forms; unquiet and ambitious minds were
opposed to capriciousness and to feebleness; horror followed
upon horror, until Europe, dismayed with the frightful scenes
enacted upon the stage, shrunk back with loathing from the
contemplation. All at first was anticipation of good; but the
end was shame and destruction. It first appeared as the
gentle breeze which refreshes as it passes along, but soon became the whirlwind, destroying as it swept by. Many of those




'14~


LIFE OF SHERIDAN.


who at,ilst beheld a nation attempting to contribute to tho
increase of the happiness of human nature by the establish
ment of a government which should lead to freedom, to public order and security, were pleased to see the overthrow of a
tyranny which arbitrarily pressed upon the humbler classes of
society. They were prepared for a bold struggle, carried on
by daring and determined innovators; but they did not expect the eccentric course which they took. They did not anticipate the violence that arose, nor the murders that were
committed; the transition state is always one of prodigious
effort, during which none can foresee its results. For those
who had to encounter the dreadful position of society consequent upon the thorough overthrow of all that existed in
royalty and in aristocracy, it must, indeed, have been fearful;
but that which has been obtained from the rude shocks-is
liberty, social order, and contentment. The perils that have
been gone through could only have been borne and supported
by the insane; but another race enjoys the benefits, and feels
the harmony that has arisen out of discord, the mildness
which was wrung from tyranny and oppression.
Sheridan was amongst those who gazed with unspeakable
satisfaction at the earliest struggles of the manacled slave to
unbind his fetters, to raise himself from the ground, and draw
in the free breath of heaven: with him were associated men
"who were deeply imbued with the love of a pure, free, and mild
<constitution, who saw in the government of France corruption,
imbecility, cupidity, and all those crimes which a long indulg-,ence in despotism engenders and fosters.  They were delighted to find a people rousing themselves from their slumber, proclaiming their rights with an irresistible and an omnipotent voice, seeking that which justice entitled them to, and
determined to obtain it. They could not foresee all that arose
out of this patriotic energy; and, as events occurred, their
minds were often reconciled to circumstances which cooler reflection might not have sanctioned. The distrust which those
who governed in France brought upon themselves shook the
loyalty of those who would have supported them, and eventually led to their own destruction. It is impossible for those
who merely read the page of history to form any just idea of
the impressions produced by these events upon the people of
England; the changes were so various they followed so ra



LiFE OF SHERIDAN.


145


pidly one upon the other, that all reasoning was set at defiance.
The fears of men were soworked upon, too, that no one became
a dispassionate witness of the occurrences. Rank and power,,,    were annihilated in one country, and those who possessed them
in England began to dread that their time was fully come;
they prepared themselves for the struggle, and the champion
of free institutions had but little chance against odds most discouraging. Sheridan, and those with whom he acted, boldly
proclaimed opinions unpalatable to them, and a war of words,
mingled with hatred and with fear, soon sprang up..    At this period Sheridan gave incessant labour to the duties
of the House; he was a frequent speaker, selected points of
interest to the community, and brought assiduity and labour
to assist his natural abilities. Had the indefatigable industry
with which he pursued the various subjects of discussion been
exhibited by an individual connected with the administration,
he would soon have filled a most distinguished post; but all
his zeal, all his efforts, were directed against the system pursued by Mr. Pitt. His investigations of the public revenue,
his statement of the resources and of the expenditure of the
empire, led him to perceive many of the fallacious views, to
combat, expose, and ridicule them. His lengthened speeches
on the appointment of a Committee of Finance upon the
Tobacco Regulation Bills proved to the country that he was
neither indolent nor superficial; but that he diligently inquired, and clothed the result of his examination in eloquence,
such as rendered abstruse questions interesting and intelligi
ble. He sometimes met with abuse from the press; but what
man, who stands prominently before the public, can escape the
calumnies, the gibes, and the scoffs of those who are opposed
to him? And if on the one side he is loaded with censure,
he is certain on the other to meet with flattery and adulation.
On one occasion he was rather carried away by too anxious
a desire to defend himself, and he introduced a notice of the
feelings that some entertained towards himself.  He said
that "Uncommon pains had been taken, in the public prints,
to defame all those who had taken any part in endeavouring
to procure a repeal of the Tobacco Act; and no one had been
more distinguished on the occasion than himself. He begged
leave to apologize for speaking concerning himself; he at all
times disliked egotisms, and more so on the present occasion,
L


I




146


LIFE OF SHERIDAN


when the attention of the committee was to be taken up with,he consideration of important subjects; but still, as it was
the part which he had taken in this business that had drawn
upon him the ill-will of those who had traduced him, and as
they had connected his personal character with the important
business in which he was then engaged, he hoped that the
committee would suffer him to trespass, for some few minutes,
on their patience, whilst he should proceed to a few remarks
upon the attacks that had been made upon him. Those who
made those attacks had gone out of the common path, and instead of pursuing the old sober staple of abuse had descended
to the lowest scurrilities, and fallen without mercy, not only
upon his public conduct, but also on his private life. They
had made charges of a singular nature, and endeavoured to
rob him of the esteem and friendship of those whom he valued
most in society. Fortunately, however, their charges were as
void of truth as they were fraught with malice.  He had,
hitherto, treated them with contemptuous silence, and would
have continued in this disposition to the present day, if he
had not felt some reason to think, which reason he had not
heard till a few hours ago, that some of those charges were
considered as founded in truth. What he more particularly
alluded to were whispers or reports of jealousies among some
of his dearest friends, and of a certain opposition affirmed to
have been made by a noble duke (Portland) against some views
or expectations which he (Mr. Sheridan) was said to have entertained; concerning such whispers and reports, he could
truly declare that there was not in them one grain of truth.
The opinion which they ascribed to the noble take had never
been entertained by him.  Mr. Sheridan observed, that he
would not venture to state to the committee the opinion that
the noble duke was pleased to entertain of him, lest he should
be accused of vanity in publishing what he might deem highly
flattering; all, therefore, that he would assert on this occasion
was, that if he had it in his power to make the man whose
good opinion he should most highly prize think flatteringly
of him, he would have that man to think of him precisely as
the noble duke did; and then his wish on that subject would
be most amply gratified.
" The jealousies to which he was described as having given
occasion existed only in the brain of the traducers; they did




LIFE OF SHERIDAN.


1*'7


not, they could not, exist anywhere else. He was, therefore,
perfectly at his ease whilst the traducers were propagating
their calumnies. He defied any man to charge him with any
one act which could be tortured into a violation of any en
gagement founded in honour and integrity. If he could be
charged, in truth, with any dishonourable, mean, or unmanly
act, he should feel very differently indeed; his mind, in that
case, would sting him more than the most bitter reproaches of
his most calumniating enemies. As to any pretensions which
might be ascribed to him, to situations far beyond his natural
'   weight in the community, he would only observe, that it was
the peculiar excellence of the British constitution, that a man
could push forward into notice and distinction the talents or
abilities, whatever they might be, with which Providence had
endowed him."
Occasionally happy thoughts, sparkling allusions, and playful raillery enliven his dullest speeches; but it would be the
* *      height of injustice to quote them, for they are so incorporated
with the rest of the matter that they would lose all their value
were they to be extracted and placed alone before the reader's
eye. When the Session terminated, which it did amidst the
complaints of Sheridan of the procrastination of public business, the Parliament was dissolved; he hastened down to
Stafford and secured his election, but not without difficulty
and expense. He then returned to London to lend his aid to
Charles Fox, who stood for Westminster.  Here he had to
meet one of the most unflinching politicians of the day, Home
Tooke; no one dared to express his sentiments more freely;
no one had more sarcastic power. No man better understood
the art of carrying with him the working classes, and the
humbler orders of society; ready in wit, quick in apprehension, his sallies, his repartees, neither delicate nor fashioned
to any but those he addressed, were listened to with delight.
As a candidate for Westminster, no one but the great and
good Sir Francis Burdett better knew his supporters. It was
understood that Sheridan had been anxious to try his power
in Westminster, and in a letter from Mrs. Sheridan to him,
whilst on his canvass at Stafford, this passage occurs. " I am
half sorry you have any thing to do with them, and more than
ever regret you did not stand for Westminster with Charles."
Horne Tooke, instead of finding a proposer and socondcr,
x. 9




148


LIFE OF SHERIDAN.


boldly came forward, and put himself in nomination; and ---
saying that the two candidates should have been ashamed to
have sat and heard such ill-deserved praise bestowed upon
them by their respective proposers and seconders-offered himself. He told the crowd that, as so many of these fine qualities and virtues had never done them the least good, they
might as well now choose a candidate without them."
Various are the sallies which are recorded, as marking the
sarcastic vein of the man; but there was one so personal to
Sheridan that he never forgave it, and although at one period
some degree of intimacy had existed between them, it ceased.
Charles Fox, who was seldom listened to with patience by
the surrounding crowd, left the hustings; while Sheridan,
whose good humoured stories, and lively wit, were rather in
favour, remained. Tooke observed upon this, " that it was
usual with the quack doctor, when he quitted the stage, to
leave his jack-pudding behind him." His ready answer to a
partizan of Charles Fox has been recorded; who, addressing
him, said, "Well, Mr. Tooke, as this is Monday you are sure
to have all the blackguards with you."  " I am delighted to
hear it, sir," was the reply, " more especially when it comes
from such good authority." Sheridan found himself quite un
equal to cope with his virulent antagonist; the personalities,
the invectives he had to encounter were not at all to his taste.
He winced under the merciless infliction of the scourge; he
felt how much more potent was his adversary, and was not
sorry when Tooke was defeated.
The first session of the new Parliament saw Sheridan an
active opponent of the administration: little, however, is
worthy of notice, except the still further widening of the breach
between Burke on the one side, and Fox and Sheridan on the
other. Mr. Burke's work, "P Reflections on the French Revolution," had attracted the deepest attention; it had produced
an effect upon the followers of the Whig school, though the
great leaders remained unchanged and unchangeable. The
party was nearly broken up; the spirit of loyalty, which was
maintained throughout the work, overpowered, in many in
stances, the newly-awakened feeling for liberty. The doctrines
of equality, of fraternization, had alarmed the privileged classes;
and they hailed the book as the manifesto of those who loved
royalty, and would uphold the church in opposition to that




LIFE OF SHERIDAN.                149
which they so much dreaded. On the 6th of May, the House
of Commons was witness to an unequalled display of passion on
one side, and tenderness on another. Burke with violence and
impetuosity severed the ties of friendship that so long had
bound the two great men together. Burke's warning voice
against the danger of trying new theories, his wish to cherish
the British constitution, and to save it from the influence of
French philosophy, passed by unheeded; but when Fox
whispered that there would be no loss of friendship, Burke repudiated the idea, " Yes there was a loss of friendship-he
knew the price of his conduct-he had done his duty at the
price of his friend-their friendship was at an end." Here Fox
betrayed an amiable weakness, tears coursed each other down
his cheek, as he rose to reply. The House was visibly affected;
not a sound was heard. It was felt that men of noble nature,
long deeply attached, were torn from each other by a high
sense of honour, by a sacred feeling of duty, and the love of
their native land. Although the greater part of those with
whom Sheridan usually acted saw without apprehension the
commencement of the conflict in France, there was one mas*   ter spirit of the age who feared danger in the struggle, and
left the old companions of his political views. Burke, with
whom  Sheridan had lived on terms of intimacy, who had
fought the battle against Hastings so nobly with him, who
had cheered him on, and who had received him fainting in
his arms, after his great effort in the House of Lords, from
the earliest moment expressed his dissent from his former
friend, and by his writings and speeches attempted to counteract his opinions.  On the 9th of February came on the
discussion on the Army Estimates; the Session had been
opened on the 1st of February, and as early as the 5th, Mr.
* '     Fox had taken an opportunity, whilst discussing the reduction of the army, to observe that the army in Paris had, by
its refusal to obey the court, set a glorious example, and
shown that men by becoming soldiers had not ceased to be
citizens; and, therefore, one of his great objections to a standing army had been removed.   Mr. Burke, after some eloquently expressed compliments on Mr. Fox, deprecated the
effects which such language was likely to produce; and said
" that so strongly was he opposed to any the least tendency
towards the means of introducing a democracy like that of




150


LIFE OF SHERIDAN.


the French, as well as to the end itself, that, much as it
would afflict him if such a thing should be attempted, and
that any friend of his should concur in such measures-he was
far, very far, from believing they could-he would abandon his
best friends, and join with his worst enemies to oppose either
the means or the end." This declaration called forth from
Fox one of the most beautiful eulogiums ever pronounced by
one friend upon another. After stating the value he placed
upon his friendship, he thus spoke of the splendid powers of
that great orator:-" If he were to put all the political information which he had learned from books, all which he had
gained from  science, and all which any knowledge of the
world, and in affairs, into one scale, and the improvement
which he had derived from his right honourable friend's instruction and conversation were placed in the other, he should
be at a loss to decide to which to give the preference."
Burke was evidently pleased with these explanations, and
rose to express his satisfaction; but Sheridan was not so easily
acted upon. He uttered " some warm compliments to Mr.
Burke's general principles; but said that he could not conceive how it was possible for a person of such principles, or
for any man who valued our own constitution, and revered
the Revolution that obtained it for us, to unite with such
feelings an indignant and unqualified abhorrence of all the
proceedings of the patriotic party in France.
"He conceived theirs to be as just a revolution as our
own, proceeding upon as sound a principle and a greater provocation.  He vehemently defended the general views and
conduct of the national assembly. He could not even understand what was meant by the charge against them of having
overturned the laws, the justice, and the revenues of their
country. What were their laws? The arbitrary mandates of
capricious despotism. What their justice? The partial adjudications of venal magistrates. What their revenues? National bankruptcy. This he thought the fundamental error
of the right honourable gentleman's argument, that he accused the national assembly of creating the evils which they
had found existing in full deformity at the first hour of their
meeting.  The public creditor had been defrauded; the
manufacturer was out of employ; trade was languishing;
famine clung upon the poor; despair on all. In this situa



LIFE OF SHERIDAN.


151i


ion, the wisdom and feelings of the nation were appealed tc
by the government; and was it to be wondered at'by English** *     men, that a people, so circumstanced, should search for the
cause and source of all their calamities; or that they should
find them in the arbitrary constitution of their government,
and in the prodigal and corrupt administration of their revenues? For such an evil, when proved, what remedy could
be resorted to, but a radical amendment of the frame and
fabric of the constitution itself? This change was not the
object and wish of the national assembly only, it was the
claim and cry of all France, united as one man for one purpose. He joined with Mr. Burke in abhorring the cruelties
that had been committed; but what was the striking lesson,
the awful moral that was to be gathered from the outrages of
the populace? What, but a superior abhorrence of that accursed system of despotic government which had so deformed,       and corrupted human nature, as to make its subjects capable
of such acts; a government that sets at nought the property,
the liberty, and lives of the subjects; a government that
deals in extortion, dungeons, and tortures; sets an example
*  of depravity to the slaves it rules over; and, if a day of power
comes to the wretched populace, it is not to be wondered at,
however it is to be regretted, that they act without those,,      feelings of justice and humanity which the principles and
the practice of their governors have stripped them of. At
the same time if there were any persons who, for the purposes of their own private and personal ambition, had instigated those outrages, they, whatever their rank, birth, or
fortune, deserved the execration of mankind. Justice, however, required that no credit should be given to mere rumours
on such a subject."
Mr. Burke replied that he most sincerely lamented over
the inevitable necessity of now publicly declaring that, henceforth, he and his honourable friend were separated in politics.
He complained "that he had not represented his arguments
fairly; it was not what he expected in the moment of departed
friendship.  On the contrary, was it not evident that the
honourable gentleman had made a sacrifice of his friendship
for the sake of catching some momentary popularity?-all the
applause which he could gain from clubs was scarcely worthy
the sacrifice which he had chosen to make for such an acqui



152


LIFE OF SHERIDAN


sition." Attempts were in vain made to heal the breach thus
made between two men who had so often fought together
mighty battles against power, against corruption and tyranny
A meeting took place at Burlington House, according to a
previous arrangement; it lasted from ten o'clock at night
until three in the morning; and never was there a more remarkable display of talent on both sides. Burke was, however, implacable; all communication ceased between them;
and though Sheridan spoke of him, in the House of Commons, as one for whose talents and personal virtue he had
the highest esteem, veneration, and regard, all was in vain.
Burke spoke of him with asperity from that time forward;
and attributed to his unwarrantable interference his own
secession from his former party.
It was alleged that Sheridan had hastened on this separation by his imprudent speeches, and that this was the result of
jealousy, and an anxious desire to fill the place in Charles Fox's
esteem that for a quarter of a century Burke had enjoyed.
Of the littleness that could invent this calumny we may
speak with contempt; but of the eagerness to diffuse the venom
we think with disgust. It is not unlikely that Sheridan should
have urged on this explanation of the differences which existed in that great party, whose chief end and aim was declared to be the love of a pure and well-defined constitution,
which, whilst it guarded the liberties of a people, acknowledged frankly the great principles of royalty, and of a House
of Lords.
A speech made by Sheridan on a motion of Mr. Grey,
against any interference in the war between Russia and the
Porte, is well worthy of perusal, as illustrating the information, and likewise the discretion and tact with which he could
handle a subject of difficulty. It is remarkable for the avowal
of a doctrine that the prerogative of the crown to declare war
might prove obnoxious to the House, and that there existed
an ancient, constitutional, and most useful function of a British House of Commons to advise the Crown, and by a due application of their preventive wisdom to save the country from
that expense and calamity into which they might otherwise
be plunged, either by the terror of ministers, their imprudence, their neglect, or their corruption.
Mr. Sheridan retired, in the month of April, from the busi




IIFE OF BSERIDAN.


153


ness of the House; during this period there are no records of
speeches to be met with, no traces of his occupation. In fact,,   his mind was harassed by many conflicting thoughts; Mrs.
Sheridan's state of health excited the deepest apprehension.
She was compelled to seek change of air at Clifton. The state
of Drury Lane Theatre, too, was such as to be a source of much
anxiety to him; it had been pronounced by competent persons
to be unfit to receive large audiences, and that it was necessary
that it should be rebuilt. The circumstances attending such,,  a determination could not fail to require all the attention of
Mr. Sheridan; his time and mind were devoted to the completion of the plans that were now devised, and from which
hopes were entertained that ultimate advantages would accrue. These hopes were not destined to be fulfilled; and we
may look to this period of this great man's life as the one
from which sprang-all the ultimate misfortunes that gradually
overpowered him. He had now attained the zenith of his reputation. His popularity, his talents, and his exertions were
all the theme of general eulogy. Though some slight embarrassments had occurred, they had passed away like the fleeting clouds across the summer sun; but he was now destined
to fall from the giddy height, and to feel how transitory
are all the gifts of fortune. He had, it would seem, three
establishments, and his style of living was such as became a
'  man mingling in the richer class of society, and enjoying all
that luxury can give. To build the theatre seemed an easy
task; all that was required was one hundred and fifty thousand pounds. This was raised with the utmost facility in three
hundred debentures of five hundred pounds each; but the
difficulty of paying the interest of that large sum was scarcely
calculated upon. Three instalments were to be paid up, and
as soon as one was paid all was prepared. On the 4th of
June, his Majesty's birthday, Old Drury Lane, the scene of
so many extraordinary circumstances, closed for ever; the company went to the Opera House, and from thence, when the
musical season commenced, to the Haymarket, where they
played at advanced prices. On the 4th of September the
first stone of the new theatre was laid. Unforeseen difficulties, fresh expenses, vexatious negotiations, combined to retard the completion of the new theatre; and during this inter
val a sad calamity occurred.




154


LIFE OF SHERIDAN.


It was in the year 1792 that Sheridan had to mourn over
the grave of his beautiful and affectionate wife. She was
only thirty-eight years of age, when a pulmonary disease bereft him of the cherished partner of his happiest days; from
that moment a blight fell upon him —he soon became an altered man. There was no one who was ever admitted into
her presence that did not feel there was a divinity about her.
Jackson, the great composer, said, "that to see her, as she
stood singing beside him at the pianoforte, was like looking
into the face of an angel." The Bishop of Norwich was wont
to say, that she seemed to him " the connecting link between
woman and angel;" even the licentious and coarse John
Wilkes was fascinated into respect and admiration: he pronounced her the most beautiful flower that ever grew in nature's garden. " This beautiful mother of a beautiful race"
united so many charms, was so gifted by art as well by nature, as to surpass the ordinary beings of the earth. The incense that was offered at her shrine doubtless produced tome
influence upon her mind, which from her earliest years had
been accustomed to the sweetest sounds of flattery.  She was
taught by a host of admirers that she was the theme of
general adoration; she listened to the voice of the charmer,
and the ill nature of the world, which never brooks superiority
in an individual, accused her of coquetry, of levity, nay, of forgetfulness of the high duties which women are called upon
to perform, when they would be held up as examples to their
sex.  Still she was a ministering angel to Sheridan; and
whatever may have been the occasional sources of their disunion,
she entered into all his cares and anxieties with the devotion
of an attached and affectionate woman. Her letters breathe
a spirit of tender love, of pride in the man of her choice, of
deep anxiety and solicitude for his success in each of his undertakings. She assisted him in all the varieties of public character he was called on to assume; the dramatist, the manager
of a playhouse, the statesman, found in her one fully capable of
appreciating his powers, of embellishing them, of drawing them
out. She was an admirable judge of poesy-herself a poet;
she was a useful critic of the drama; she was skilled in electioneering; and everything that to him was an object of importance became for her a source of inquiry. Probably most
of the readers of "Moore's Life of Sheridan" have felt that




LIFE OF SHERIDAN


155


the chapter dedicated to the death of Mrs. Sheridan is one of
the most perfect of all that have appeared; and to that we must,     refer for an insight into the character of this most interesting
woman. He has collected together a number of letters that
exhibit, in their full charms, all the bright virtues with which
she was adorned, and sufficiently account for the deep grief
which her loss inflicted upon her husband. Whatever may
have been those imperfections which she, in common with the
rest of mankind, inherited, they of course were forgotten, and
quickly buried in oblivion; whilst memory loved to cherish
the remembrance of those fascinations which charmed all who
approached her. Sheridan mourned over his sad loss, and
turned with hope to a child in whom he thought, perhaps, he
might see her mother's virtues, and her mother's charms reflected. Of this consolation, however, he was deprived; she
died under circumstances which must have poignantly added
to his grief. "A large party was assembled at Sheridan's to
'    spend a joyous evening in dancing, all were in the height of
merriment; he himself remarkably cheerful, and partaking of
the amusement, when the alarm was given that the dear little
angel was dying. It is impossible to describe the confusion and
horror of the scene." His affliction was severe. The child,
in death, was so like her mother that every one was struck
with the resemblance; for four or five days Sheridan lingered
over the remains.    His sense then taught him to bear up
against the affliction, which had bent him down, and he became resigned to the loss of his cherished hopes.
Kelly says, " I never beheld more poignant grief than Mr.
Sheridan felt for the loss of his beloved wife; and, although
the world, which knew him only as a public man, will perhaps
scarcely credit the fact, I have seen him night after night.    sit and cry like a child, while I sang to him, at his desire, a
pathetic little song of my composition" They bore her to a grassy grave.'"
On the 13th of December the House assembled; during
the vacation the aspect of affairs had gradually become
more serious. The speech from the throne announced the
necessity of calling out the militia; that there existed a
design to attempt the overthrow of the constitution, evidently
pursued in connection and concert with persons in foreign




156


LIFE OF SHERIi:AN.


countries; that the utmost efforts had been made to observe a
strict neutrality in the war on the continent, and to avoid
any interference in the internal affairs of France. But there
existed strong and increasing indications there of a determination to excite disturbance in other countries, to disregard
the rights of neutral nations, to extend its limits by conquest,
as well as to adopt, towards other states, general measures
not conformable with the laws of nations or existing treaties
It was incumbent on Parliament to take steps to augment the
naval and military force, and to maintain internal tranquillity.
The speech concluded.
The address was moved by Sir James Sanderson, the Lord
Mayor of London, and seconded by Mr. Wallace. An amendment was moved by Mr. Fox, who, looking upon it as the
production of the ministry, felt that he had a right to deny
the assertions contained in the speech; he did not believe in
the existence of an insurrection, nor any desire to excite one;
that the alarm only existed in the artful designs and practices
of the ministry; there never was at home a greater spirit of
loyalty; and as for those who were fighting for liberty in
France, he wished them success. His amendment was, " that
the House should enter into an immediate examination of the
facts which were stated in the speech, and had been the cause
of thus summoning Parliament." An animated debate ensued;
in which, on one side, the opinions of Burke, of Wyndham, and
of Dundas, were given; on the other, those of Grey, of Erskine,
and of Sheridan.
Wyndham expressed his regret that he was compelled to
oppose his former friends, but was satisfied that the nation
was in peril; and though there might be tranquillity on the
surface, there was beneath confusion and tumult.
Sheridan's speech was concise, but admirably to the point.
"He believed the formidable band of republicans which had
been mentioned to exist in this country to be men in buckram."   " Such was his idea of the character of Englishmen,
that he would take upon him to assert, that were but one
French soldier to land upon our coast, under the idea of
effecting any change in our government, every hand and heart
in the country would be roused by the indignity, and unite
to oppose so insulting an attempt."  "As to the question
-of war, he should vote that English ministers be impeached




LIFE OF SHERIDAN.


15V'


wh1o should enter into a war for the purpose of re-establishing
the former despotism in France; who should dare in such
a cause to spend one guinea, or shed one drop ot blood."
v t     The amendment was negatived. The majorityof the minister
had, by the desertion of so many from the Whig party, largely
increased; 290 voted with him, 50 against him. Mr. Fox,
still desirous that peace should be maintained, moved, on the
following day, an amendment-" Trusting that your Majesty
will employ every species of negotiation, to prevent the calamities of war, that may be deemed consistent with the honour and
dignity of the British nation." He was seconded by Sheridan.
"Peace he wished for, by all means peace;" but, he added,
"if it could not be obtained, he should vote for vigorous warnot a war of shifts and scraps, of timid operation or protracted
effort, but a war conducted with such energy as shall evince
to the world that the nation was fighting for its dearest and
most invaluable privileges." The motion was negatived; but
undismayed by defeat, desirous that the nation should not
plunge into that long and fearful train of calamities which
war brings with it, Fox, even on the following day, proposed
that a minister should be sent to France to treat with the
* provisional committee. Burke observed, " that he thought the
debate should not proceed during the unavoidable absence of
Mr. Pitt, who was absent at Cambridge, for the university of
which he was canvassing."  Sheridan replied: " He must be
excused for paying no respect whatever to the observation of a
right honourable gentleman (Mr. Burke), that it was improper
to bring forward these discussions in the absence of his Majesty's first minister! This was a tender respect to the dignity
of office in that right honourable gentleman; but he must be
permitted to say, that the representation of the country was fn
deed placed in a degraded light, if it was to be maintained that
the great council of the nation was not, in this momentous
crisis, a competent court to discuss the dearest interests of the
people, unless the presence of a certain minister of the crown
*  sanctioned their deliberations. But on what ground did they
regret the absence of the treasury leader? Had there ap
peared any want of numbers or ability to compensate for this
loss?  What exertion that he could have furnished had been
unsupplied? Had there been any want of splendid and sonorous declamation to cover a meagreness of argument? Any




LIFE OF SHERIDAN.


want of virulence of invective to supply the place of proof
in accusation?  Any want of inflammatory appeals to the
passions where reason and judgment were unsafe to be resorted to? Unquestionably, in all these respects, the Chancellor of the Exchequer had not been missed; in one article
indeed they might be justified in regretting his absence.
They had been pressed to prove the facts asserted in the
king's speech and in the proclamation; not an atom of information could any present member of the government
furnish; doubtless, therefore, the insurrection was a secret
deposited in the breast of the Chancellor of the Exchequer;
and he had taken in his pocket all the proofs of the plot to
assist his election at Cambridge."  He then touched upon
what is now universally acknowledged, that the French nation
was maddened by the interference of foreign powers; that to
them all the horrors that stained that glorious desire to be
free, which marked the first onset of the Revolution, are
owing. He asked, "Were the free and generous people of
England ready to subscribe to the Duke of Brunswick's manifesto? that hateful outrage on the rights and feelings of
human nature; that wretched tissue of impotent pride, folly
and inhumanity; that proclamation which had steeled the
heart and maddened the brain of all France; which had provoked those it had devoted to practise all the cruelties it had
impotently threatened to inflict; which had sharpened the
daggers of the assassins of the 2nd of September; which had  'a
whetted the axe now suspended over the unfortunate monarch;
-was the nation ready to subscribe to this absurd and detestable rhapsody? An honourable officer (Sir James Murray) had
attempted to defend his performance-but how? By deny
ing that it intended what it professed and threatened. From
a British officer of his character and understanding a different
defence might be expected; the honourable baronet had given
instances where the conduct of the Prussian army contradicted
the spirit of their manifesto;-what instances on the contrary
side might be adduced he would not then discuss. One case
alone had been sufficient to decide him as to the true spirit
of the league-the brutal rigour with which La Fayette
had been treated: whatever else he was, he was a brave man,
and he was in their power.  The use they had made of
that power sufficiently showed how they would have treated




LTFE OF SHERIDAN..      15;
'    others whom they might well consider as entitled to tenfold
enmity."  This speech was, indeed, worthy the occasion, and
was amongst his happiest efforts in defence of his feelings and
his opinions.
Goaded on to madness by the injudicious interference of
foreign powers, feeling that they could place no reliance on
royal promises, that all was hollowness and subterfuge, the
French nation committed a mighty crime which separated it
from the rest of Europe. A feeble yet good king-the very
original from whom Shakspere might have drawn his Henry
the Sixth-was sacrificed; the apprehension of such a catastrophe had for some time haunted the imagination of those
who were most eager for that temperate reform of abuses
to which they trusted that the French Revolution would have
* gradually led. No one can read the speech which Sheridan
next made in the House, whilst yet the fearful tribunal was
sitting, which might commit an act of inhuman cruelty, without
feeling that he was actuated by the sincerest love of his country,
and the hope that the furious spirit raging in Paris might be
allayed. It was on the 20th of December, when Mr. Hobart
brought up a report from the committee of supply granting
2 5,000 men for the service of the year, that he expressed sentiments which even his adversaries, with the exoeption of him
who was called " the Renegade" Burke, applauded. He stated
"that he was most willing, should the hateful necessity arise,
to join in the unanimous support of the House to every proposition tending to give vigour and effect to the war; still he
thought that there existed in France a sincere disposition to
listen to and respect the opinion of the British nation; he in
his soul and conscience believed that there was not one man of
any party or description who did not deprecate, and who would
not deplore the fate of those persecuted and unfortunate vic~ *   tims, should the apprehended catastrophe take place; amongst
those whose hearts would be most revolted and disgusted,
would be those who had been foremost in rejoicing at the destruction of the old despotism in France, and who had eagerly
loped, that, to whatever extremes, as to principles of governmlent, a momentary enthusiasm might lead a people new to
the light of liberty, that however wild their theories might be,
Yet there would have appeared in the quiet, deliberate acts of
their conduct those inseparable characteristics of real liberty,


I




160


LIFE OF SHERIDAN.


and of true valour, justice, magnanimity, and mercy."  Burke
rose and reprobated the use of such words. " The truth was,
the king was in the hands of assassins, who were both his accusers and his judges, and his destruction was inevitable." He  -
launched out into misrepresentations, to which Sheridan replied, observing, "he would not attribute them to any ill purpose, or'any ill motive, but to ill temper, that had so run
away with him, that he scarcely knew what he meant, or what
he said."  Events rapidly succeeded each other, scarcely a
day intervened without some new shock to public feeling by
the impetuous progress of the Revolution. The execution of
the king decided many who had previously wavered in their
opinions; the Whig party in Parliament dwindled to the
smallest span, the great mass of the people were awe-struck
by the daring act, and listened to the approach of war with
less repugnance than was expected; nay, they even doubted
the sagacity of Pitt, who seemed to hesitate, until he was
urged on by his new associates. At length, on the 12th of
February, the message came from  the throne, announcing
that a declaration of war had been made; an address was
moved, assuring his Majesty that he might rely on the firm.
and effectual support of the representatives of the people in
the prosecution of a just and necessary war.  Mr. Fox's
amendment still led to the expression of a hope that a pacification should be the means followed. Burke opposed him
in language totally uncalled for; he laid great stress upon
the fact that the healths of Fox and of Sheridan had been received with great enthusiasm in Paris. He dwelt upon the
impiety of the French, their open avowal of Atheism, and
was bitter upon his former friends, exulting at the diminution of their numbers, and designating them as a phalanx.
Sheridan greatly distinguished himself by his memorable
reply: he brought the full force of his eloquence into play,
mingling retort, ridicule, and argument in the most forcible
manner. He said that he was provoked to rise by the insinuations and charges of Mr. Burke against his honourable
friend Fox. Never before had he indulged himself in such a
latitude of ungoverned bitterness and spleen towards the man
he still occasionally professed to respect. His ridicule of the
smallness of the number of friends left to the object of his
persecution, ill became him, of all mankind; but he trusted,




LIFE OF SIERIDAN.


161


however small that number ivas, there ever would be found
among them men not afraid, upon such a subject, to oppose
truth and temper to passion and declamation, however eloquently urged or clamorously applauded. He made a bold
attack on the different set of principles he had at different
times urged, and taunted him with his own changes of views,
which ought to forbid his allusion to the change of opinion in
others. " A book was produced, and he was proceeding to read
a former speech of his (Mr. Fox's), as if he had ever once re
tracted his opinion on this subject. When the Speaker called
him to order, the honourable gentleman did not seem to take
the interruption kindly, though certainly he ought to have
been grateful for it; for never, sure, was there a man who
had a greater interest in discouraging the practice of contrasting the past and present speeches, principles and professions
of any public man. Was the hon. gentleman ready to invite
such a discussion respecting himself? If he were, and his
consistency could be matter of regular question in that House,
he did not scruple to assert that there was scarcely an iota of
his new principles to which there was not a recorded contradiction in his former professions. Let a set of his works be
produced, one member might read, paragraph by paragraph,
his present doctrines, and another should refute every syllable
of them out of the preceding ones; it was a consolation to
those who differed from his new principles to know where to
resort for the best antidote to them."
His invectives against Burke were concluded by a bitter
attack upon the Allies then marching on France; he preferred seeing England fight single-handed against France.
He feared the enemy less than the Ally; he disliked the cause
of war, but abhorred the company we were to fight in still
more. He denounced the conduct of the Allies in the Polish
Revolution, as having massacred the fairest offspring of virtue
-truth, and valour. " Could the right honourable gentleman
palliate these things?  No!  But had he ever arraigned
them? Why had he never come to brandish in that House a
Russian dagger, red in the heart's blood of the free constitution of Poland? No; not a word, not a sigh, not an ejaculatici for the destruction of all he had held up to the world as
a model for reverence and imitation!  In his heart is a record of brass for every error and excess of liberty, but on his
M




102


LIFE OF SHERIDAXI.


tongue a sponge to blot out the foulest crimes and blackest
treacheries of despotism." This allusion to the fact, that on
one occasion Burke went to the House of Commons, and with
prodigious attempt at stage effect, brandished a dagger which
his fancy or bewildered imagination led him to believe was
precisely similar to one which must be used in the French
Revolution, told with great effect upon the House.
Mr. Sheridan gave notice of his intention to bring forward
a motion relative to the existence of seditious practices in the
country; and, with a view of obtaining a full attendance, a call
of the House was ordered for the 4th of March, but when
the motion was to be brought forward after the ordinary business, no Mr. Sheridan made his appearance. Mr. Lambton
apologized; Mr. Thornton moved an adjournment; Mr. Fox
hoped every body would be punctual; Sir Henry Houghton
thought that a minister ought to be waited for; Mr. Pitt said
he was always anxious to be punctual; and everything was
said that could be said to gain time, and to allay the murmurs which began to rise, and the many little anecdotes
which were whispered about Sheridan never being punctual,
when at last he appeared, with a very proper apologyin his
mouth, and one of his best speeches. He laughed at the supposed sedition, the lurking treason, and the panic; of the
latter he gave a good picture, and placed his late friends;
Wyndham and Burke, in the foreground. " This panic hai
already -ld a great effect; and, indeed, it was much too general an impression to proceed from real danger; a general
panic was always created by phantoms and imaginary evils.
It had been always so in the panics of armies; for instance.
he believed that there was not once to be found in history an
instance in which the panic of an army had proceeded from
real danger; it always proceeded either from accident or some
stratagem of the enemy. Indeed the thing bore evidence for
itself; had the danger been real, there must have been a
difference of opinion as to the amount of it; for while there
was a difference in the size and character of the understandings of men, there must be a difference in their opinions;
but those who believed anything upon the tales of sedition,
which he had before alluded to, believed everything that was
said about it, and that of itself proved its fallacy. There were
numerous instances recorded, both in prose and verse, where




LIFE OF SHERIDAN.


163


nations had bean misled, and had acted upon such false alarms,
There were many instances in which a panic had been communicated by one class of men to the other.
---     Sic quisque pavendo
Dat vires famae: nulloque auctore malorum,
Quse finxere timent. Nec solum vulgus inani
Percussum terrore pavet: Sed curia, et ipsi
Sedibus exiluere patres, invisaque belli
Consulibus fugiens mandat decreta senatus.'
"His friend (Mr. Wyndham) had been panic-struck, and now
strengthened the hand of government, who, last session, agreeable to a vulgar adage, ' Rolled his Majesty's ministers in
the dirt.' At that period he pulled off the mask of perfidy,
and declaimed loudly against that implicit confidence which
some had argued ought to be placed in ministers. He now
thought such arguments were impolitic, and no man was more
strenuous for that confidence which he had before with so
much warmth reprobated.   Another friend (Mr. Burke), to
whose doctrines Mr. Wyndham had become a convert, had
also been panic-struck. He had been so affected that he saw
nothing but a black and clouded sky; a bleak opposition,
where there was not a shrub or bush to shelter him from the
gloomy aspect of public affairs; but he had taken refuge in
the ministerial gaberdine, where he hoped for security from
_      the approaching storm."
It was in this speech that the motto of the Sun newspaper
afforded him one of his happiest hits. The lines Elected by
the original proprietor of the journal were-" Solem quis diaere falsum
Audeat "
It was also on this occasion that he taunted Burke as having quitted the camp, but of returning to it as a spy.
A few nights afterwards Pitt took the House by surprise,
by a most eloquent speech, when stating the ways and means
for the ensuing year; he recommended unanimity and liberality in the supplies, but at the same time to watch with vigilance and even jealousy. Sheridan spoke in reply with great
readiness. "He said he gave the minister credit for the fairness
of some of his observations; but he must frankly say he had
felt the jealousy recommended much awakened by the very
extraordinary and sudden appeal to the passions of the Houso,
)lvd




164


LIFE OF SHERIDAN.


There was little novelty in it, excepting the novelty of introducing, in a day devoted to figures, all the arts of declamation
He had suddenly laid down his pencil and slate, as it were,
and grasping the truncheon, had finished with an harangue,
more calculated for the general of an army going to storm a
French redoubt, than a minister of finance discussing accounts,
in a sober hour of calculation, with the stewards and attorneys
of a burdened people."
The debates on the Traitorous Correspondence Bill furnished him with several opportunities of expressing his opinion upon the fallacious views entertained of the existence of
treason. Lord Auckland's memorial to the States General,
and the Sheffield Petition for Parliamentary Reform, both
engaged his attention. He had several opportunities of coming into collision with Burke, and seemed rather to court
them; he contrived to praise his eloquence, but to stigmatize
his opinions. On one occasion, after his usual compliments to
his wit, mirth and humour, he said he generally employed
them on subjects which did not call for either; but wars, treasons, murders, or massacres. In alluding to Burke's praise
of the King of Prussia, he compared the king's conduct in
Dantzic with that of France-no act of hers was more desperate or more infamous. The party robbed cared not whether
he was plundered by a man with a white feather, or one with
a nightcap on his head; but a head with a crown, and a head
with a nightcap totally altered the moral quality of the action
-death inflicted by a hand wielding a pike was murder, swaying a sceptre was innocent.
The session of this year was opened on the 24th of January.
The address from the throne stated that upon the issue of
the contest in which the nation was engaged depended the
maintenance of the constitution, laws, religion, and the security of civil society; it dwelt upon the advantages obtained
by the allied forces, and the necessity of prosecuting the war
with energy and vigour; it stated that the internal discontent
and confusion in France were produced by a system which
violated every restraint of justice, humanity, and religion; that
the principles which were promulgated in France, tended to
destroy all property, to subvert the laws and the religion of
every civilized nation, and to introduce universally that wild
and destructive system of rapine, anarchy, and impiety-the




LIFE OF SHERIDAIN


165


effects of which, as manifested in France, furnished a dreadful
but useful lesson to the present age and posterity. The
speech was of considerable length, and called upon the nationin what is now considered a hackneyed style, though then admired as original-to exert itself to pay for all the expenses
of the war.
Lord Mornington, after the mover and the seconder had
gone through the usual routine of saying a vast deal about nothing in the ordinary form of eloquence, commenced an elaborate speech to prove that, as long as the French maintained
the principles they had adopted, the war should not be relinquished.  "Mr. Sheridan began with observing, that the
noble lord who had just sat down had divided a speech, more
remarkable for its ability than its brevity, into two parts:
the first, a detail of all the atrocities that had been committed
during the whole course of the Revolution in France; the
second a kind of posthumous arraignment of the offences of
Brissot and his associates. As he did not perceive any noble
or learned member inclined to rise on behalf of the accused,
so he conceived the pleadings on the part of the prosecution
to-be closed; and as the Speaker was evidently not proceeding to sum up the evidence, he hoped he might be permitted
to recall the attention of the House to the real object of that
day's consideration. He admired the emphasis of the noble
lord in reading his voluminous extracts from his various
French documents; he admired, too, the ingenuity he had
displayed in his observations upon those extracts; but he
could not help farther expressing his admiration, that the
noble lord should have thought proper to have taken up so
many hours in quoting passages in which not one word in ten
was to the purpose; and often where they did apply to the
question, they directly overset the principles they were brought
forward to support." He then delivered a speech which has
been handed down to us corrected by himself; hence are we
enabled to form some opinion of the readiness with which
he could answer an opponent, the immense mass of matter
connected with the politics of Europe that he had thoroughly
digested, and the soundness of the views of the party he represeuted.    Had this speech only remained for the judgment of posterity of the general principles maintained, and
the soundness of the policy pursued by the advocates for




166              TLIFE OF SHERIDAN.
peace, it would have been enough. The frenzy, folly, rash.
ness of individuals in France had been roused by the surrounding nations, their fears had been excited, great and
dreadful enormities had been committed at which the heart
shuddered, and which not merely wounded every feeling of
humanity, but disgusted and sickened the soul-all this was
most true; but what did it prove?-what but that eternal and
unalterable truth which had always presented itself to his
mind. A few days afterwards Sheridan took occasion to explain to the minister, who in his simplicity and innocence
seemed to be ignorant of its meaning, the nature of a ministerial job; and he gave a curious list of persons who had received money for services not performed, observing that he
was only influenced by motives of good-will to the persons,
Mr. Pitt very injudiciously asked, if he made that assertion,
could any member of the House credit it. Mr. Sheridan was
about to rise, when he was interrupted by Mr. Fox declaring
that in his opinion, founded upon experience, Mr. Sheridan
had as much personal credit in that House as Mr. Pitt.
Sheridan rose: " Whether," said he, " if I repeat my assertion,
any member of the House will doubt it, or not, I cannot say;
but I believe that it is in this House alone that the right
honourable gentleman will venture to tell me so." The subject, however, dropped, after some remarks from Mr. Hanley
and Mr. Yorke on the impropriety of personalities during the
serious business of the House.  Mr. Sheridan spoke this
session ably on several subjects which have now lost their
interest; such as on the naval force at that period; on the defensive state of Halifax; on a petition from Fysche Palmer
suffering from imprisonment; on a judgment of the court of
session in Scotland upon the introduction of foreign troops
into the country; on voluntary aid for raising troops without
the consent of Parliament; and on taxing placemen upon the
suspension of the Habeas Corpus Act.
At length Drury Lane was rebuilt; heavy had been the ex
penses and the disappointments; and, above all, the law had
been appealed to. On the 10th of March, a grand concert,
formed of selections from Handel, collected together a large
audience, and on the 21st of April the first dramatic perform
ance took place. The play was "Macbeth," the afterpiece,
"The Virgin Unmasked."    The prologue on the occasion




LIFE OF SHERIDAN.


167


was by General Fitzpatrick. The house was found generally
well adapted for performances, and gave great satisfaction.
*,    There was a tribute to the memory of the old house, which
was universally approved of; a plank of the stage, which
Garrick had so often trod, was preserved, and formed a part
of the new flooring.  In a short time a little piece was
brought out by Sheridan in honour of Lord Howe's victory;
it was called the " First of June."
On the 30th of December, parliament met for the despatch
of business; Sheridan was at his post, still maintaining the
same opinions, still fighting against his great adversary. A
speech of his upon the repeal of the Bill for suspending the
Habeas Corpus Act gave him an opportunity, of which he
fully availed himself, of showing that it was uncalled for by
the state of the country; he expatiated on the detestable system of spies and informers, of the charges of sedition, of
levying war, of trials, and solemnly asked Mr. Pitt, what
would be the state of the country which would restore to
British freemen the most glorious bulwark of their freedom.
Upon Mr. Fox's motion for a committee on the state of the
*  nation he spoke with great ability; the two friends, backed
by a small minority, still continued to express with freedom
those opinions which were entertained by a large body of men
in England, who, satisfied with the security which the laws
gave them, wished for no other change but such as would give
to the people at large more ample opportunity of expressing
their wishes through their representatives, and whose desire
was such a reform in the House of Commons, as might take
from the proprietors of boroughs the preponderating influence
they held.
On the 1st of June, Mr. Anstruther, Solicitor General to
the Prince of Wales, as Duke of Cornwall, acquainted the
House that his Royal Highness had authorized him to assure
the House that he was anxious that some regulation should
be adopted for the purpose of establishing order and regularity in the expenditure of his income, and to prevent the
incurring of debt in future, and further, to appropriate such
a part of his income for the liquidation of his debts as might
seem proper to the House. The prince was no longer on
terms of intimacy with the leading Whigs, nor did they feel
any wish to renew their homage to him. Mr. Grey, although


I
I




168


LIFE OF SIIERIDAN.


he would vote for his having an income sufficient to support
him in his position, would not pay his debts from the money
of the people. Mr. Fox asked if he was well advised to apply
to the House after the promise in 1787. Mr. Sheridan
thought the prince's debts ought to be paid, but his Majesty
should set the example. He accused those who had given
him advice. By the plan now proposed, the prince had not
the grace of suggesting retrenchments, nor the checks upon
his future conduct. His past misconduct was exhibited in the
harshest point of view; he was set in a gilded pillory, sent
to do public penance in an embroidered sheet. He was left
in possession of too much income to exempt him from envy,
and too little to exempt him from scorn. To pay the debts
something ought to be given by the king. He afterwards
proposed that the estates belonging to the Duchy of Cornwall
should be sold to assist in the liquidation of the debts. Mr.
Sheridan continued to make remarks on the king. In the
course of the debates he repudiated having received any reward, as had been insinuated, from the Prince of Wales, and
positively asserted in the face of the Parliament and the country that he had not even been presented with a horse or a
picture, and that he was independent in his views and opinions
of the Royal Prince.
Whenever the opportunity presented itself, Sheridan pursued his former friend, Burke, with the same determination he
had done in the previous session; but some of the allusions are
now almost unintelligible sarcasms. Ill-natured observations
abounded on both sides. A quotation from a convivial writer
of the day, Captain Morris, whose songs are almost now forgotten, was hailed from Burke with great cheers by his party,
and responded to by Sheridan's friends, when he had with
great felicity quoted also from the same author.  On the
occasion of the Volunteer Bill, Mr. Francis expressed his
regret that all freedom of debate was lost by confining every
discussion to three or four persons.  That if it were the
object of eloquence to weary and deaden the attention of an
unhappy audience, to exhaust all patience, to stupify rather
than convince, then, indeed, the gentlemen he alluded to were
supremely eloquent. Mr. Burke said he should take the
hint which was drawn from a writer of very high authority
with the gentleman opposite.




LIFE OF SHERIDAN.


169


"Solid men of Boston, make no long potations,
Solid men of Boston, make no long orations,
Bow, wow, wow."
Sheridan observed that the injunction against long orations
was not the only moral precept in that system of ethics
alluded to. He would remind him of another passage:"He went to Daddy Jenky, by Trimmer Hall attended,
In such good company! good lack! how his morals must be mended."
Mr. Burke complained of the attack upon his morals.
Sheridan answered —" He had supposed him to have a superabundance, and he might spare some to the gentlemen that
surrounded him."  Once again was Sheridan called upon to
appear in Wesminster Hall as an accuser of Warren Hastings.
On the 14th of May, he replied to the evidence and arguments offered by the counsel for Mr. Hastings, in answer to
the Begum charge. It was customary for a brother manager
to accompany the manager who was to speak, with a bag
containing whatever minutes might be referred to. Michael
Angelo Taylor was the individual upon whom this duty devolved; and he requested Sheridan to give him the bag and
papers. Sheridan's answer was " he had none, and he must
get on as well as he could without them." " He would abuse
Ned Law, afterwards Lord Ellenborough, ridicule Plumer's, long speech, make the court laugh, please the women, and, in
short, with Taylor's aid, would get triumphantly through his
task." The case was opened, and he got on very well for
some time, but the chancellor asked for a minute to which
he was referring; Sheridan said his friend Taylor would read
it. Mr. Taylor despatched a messenger for the bag, whilst
Sheridan requested permission in the mean time to proceed.
*   But soon again the chancellor wished to see the minutes; a
great outcry was raised for the bag; the blame was laid
on the solicitor's clerk; another messenger was sent off to
Sheridan's house. On went Sheridan brilliantly and cleverly;
and when the chancellor a third time anxiously required the
minute, Sheridan, with great coolness and dignity, said
"On the part of the Commons, and as a manager of the impeachment, I shall conduct my case as I think proper. I
mean to be correct, and your lordships, having the printed
minutes before you, will afterwards see whether I am right




17O


LIFE OF SHERIDAN


or wrong."  Fox, who was in the manager's room, ran eagerly
to the Hall, and, fearing that Sheridan would suffer incon
venience from the want of the bag, asked Taylor what could
be done; he, hiding his mouth with his hand, whispered him,
as Moore says, in a tone of which they alone who have heard
the gentleman relate the anecdote can feel the full humour,
" The man has no bag."  The speech itself is so poor, when
contrasted with his former efforts upon the same subject, that
it is not surprising that it has been universally condemned;
and the introduction of some observations on woman, her fortitude, her power of bearing suffering, which have been much
applauded, was altogether in worse taste than Sheridan usually
exhibited. He had, however, upon the two former occasions,
exhausted every source of interest; and spoke unprepared and
almost forgetful of the subject of his former triumphs.
The session of 1795 commenced untowardly. The people
of the humbler class in London were doubtless much irritated
at the constant suspicions of disloyalty which the ministers
so loudly proclaimed; their irritation was excessive; they
disliked the repeal of the Habeas Corpus Act, which they
had been taught to believe was the palladium of their liberty.
The line of conduct pursued by Mr. Pitt was too evidently
in favour of rank and wealth, and of those classes that
enjoyed privileges which were denied to them. There was
no outlet for the expression of their feelings; the press was
gagged; for prosecutions for libel, whilst they only pretended
to prevent sedition, were most unwisely urged against the
free expression of thoughts very generally entertained by
those whom neither corruption nor power could intimidate.
The hatred of the system showed itself on the occasion of his
Majesty's progress to Parliament, for the purpose of opening
the session.
On the 29th of October the king went, with the usual
pomp, to the house of peers; an opportunity which the people
of London usually embrace to receive the monarch with the
expression of the loyalty which animates their hearts. It is
not only curiosity which collects so many together; but there
is alwavs an anxiety to know how the sovereign will be received. The park was on this day thronged; but instead of
loud acclamations from a contented people, there were loud
murmurs, groans, and threatening words. The carriage was




LIFE OF SHERIDAN


171


surrounded by persons loudly demanding " the dismissal of
Mr. Pitt; peace;" and even the expression "down with:    the king" was heard. As it approached the Horse Guards,
stones were thrown at the king's carriage.  In passing
through Palace Yard a window was broken; and it was asserted that this had been done by an air gun. His Majesty,
with great calmness and composure, proceeded to execute the
function for which the day was to be remarked-the delivery
of the speech from the throne-and then returned to Buckingham Palace. But the infuriated populace had increased in
numbers, in daring, and in violence; and with considerable
difficulty did the royal cortege proceed from St. James's to
Buckingham Palace. The speech was, in every sense of the
word, unsatisfactory. Sheridan was exceedingly happy in his
comments upon it. It commenced with " It is a great satisfaction to me to reflect that, notwithstanding the many unfavourable events:" he observed, " He would venture to say,
if any person could have previously known the speech, and
had written to any part of England or Scotland, they would
not have found a single man who would not have been sur*   prised at the first noun substantive being satisfaction; or at
that substantive being used in any other part of the speech.
It was said to be the mark of a resigned and religious temper
to be easily satisfied. If that were true, there never were
ministers of more meek and primitive piety than the present;
for what they had been satisfied he knew not." He then took
a view of affairs foreign and domestic, and expressed his
astonishment that ministers could suffer the king, when he
passed through his starving and oppressed people-and, sorry
was he to hear, irritated and clamorous people-to come down
to the House and express his satisfaction. He spoke of the
i    wretched and miserable expedition to Quiberon, where it was
true the blood of French emigrants only had flowed; it was
not British blood, but British honour that bled at every vein
*    He believed that all the efforts made were to restore the
House of Bourbon-a race always inimical to England as far
as he could judge of the spirit of their intentions; from their
prevarications he thought they were simply watching for an
opportunity of effecting a counter revolution for the establish
ment of monarchy, and placing Louis XVIII. upon thithrone.




172


LIFE OF SHERIDAN.


The violent conduct of the people had now given to the
administration the pretence which they had so long wanted.
They could no longer be told that disaffection existed in their
own imaginations, that the plots were of their own begetting,
that their spies and their informers had concocted the tales
which alarmed the timid, and imposed upon the credulous.
( The King of England had," said they, " encountered a reception, such as the regicides of Paris had given to their king.'
The Lords and the Commons addressed the king after evidence
had been taken of the outrage of the day. A Bill was brought
into the House of Commons for securing the king's person
and government against treasonable and seditious practices,
and several days were occupied in its consideration. Sheridan
took a prominent part in the discussion, and his speeches
were full of vigour, thought, and wit. During one of the debates he related a curious anecdote respecting himself, in
consequence of some observations of Mr. Hardinge on the
licence of the stage; showing that the restrictions were in
principle moral, and not political. "The origin of the licence
was in order to repress indecencies and abuses, such as a man
must want common decorum to introduce. As a proof that
the licence was sometimes abused, on the night before the
first appearance of the " School for Scandal," he was informed
that it could not be performed, as a licence was refused. It
happened at this time there was the famous city contest between Wilkes and Hopkins; the latter had been charged with
some practices, similar to those of Moses the Jew, in lending
money to young men under age, and it was supposed that the
character of the play was levelled at him, in order to injure
him in his contest, in which he was supported by the ministerial interest. In the warmth of a contested election the piece
was represented as a factious and seditious opposition to a
court candidate. Sheridan, however, went to Lord Hertford,
then Lord Chamberlain, who laughed at the affair, and gave
the licence. For his own part he deemed a theatre no fit
place for politics; nor would he think much of the principles
wa taste of the man who should wish to introduce them into
stage representation."  On the 23rd of November, Mr. Stuart
brought up a petition against the Bill from the London Corresponding Society. He produced a work, attributed to Mr.
Reeves, the framer and president of several associations




LIFE OF SHERIDAN.


173


against republicans and levellers, in which a doctrine was asserted " that the government of England was a monarchy;
but the monarch was the ancient stock, from which have
t    sprung those goodly branches of the legislature-the Lords
and Commons; that these, however, were still only branches,
and that they might be lopped off, and the tree be a tree still,
shorn, indeed, of its honours, but not, like them, cast into the
fire." The pamphlet was read. Sheridan moved " that the said
pamphlet is a malicious, scandalous, and seditious libel, containing matter tending to create jealousies and divisions.'    amongst his Majesty's subjects; to alienate the affection from
our present form of government, and subvert the true principles of our free constitution, and that the said pamphlet is a
high breach of the privileges of this House."  He made several speeches, and concluded by moving, "that the books be
burnt by the common hangman." This punishment was all
he proposed; he peremptorily objected to a prosecution. Ministers, however, preferred a trial, as they thought some of its
odium would naturally fall on the Whigs, and they did not
object to their willingness to increase the list of libellers.
Sheridan said that he never recommended prosecutions for
libels, because ministers had taken such matters into their
own hands; he read a list of fifty or sixty persons who in
the last three years had been prosecuted. He knew, that if
iMr. Reeves were found guilty, he would be called a convicted
innocent, as others had been called acquitted felons. The
trial, however, was resolved on; Sheridan having been induced no longer to oppose it, of course an acquittal took place,
in a case where neither party took any interest in the trial.
The incidents attendant upon Sheridan's first marriage excited some surprise, and if those which marked the second
hymen are not altogether as wondrous, they are sufficient to
show that he had not forgotten his powers over the female
heart, and that, when he chose, he could successfully exert it.
He was at the mature age of forty-four, when the charms of
Miss Esther Jane Ogle, daughter of the Dean of Winchester, and grand-daughter of the former Bishop of Winchester,
by the mother's side, appeared so irresistible, that he was determined, in spite of any obstacle, to become her affianced
husband. The first interview of the two personages was any
thing but flattering to the vanity of Sheridan, and leads us t




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LIFE OF SHERTDAN.


form an inference that nothing but his determination to conquer, and his firm reliance upon his own resolves, would have
ultimately led to a consummation of his hopes. At a fete given
at Devonshire House sat Miss Ogle, where Sheridan for the
first time saw her; he was walking before her; he heard her
exclamation, "fright! terrible creature!" and other names of
similar unmistakable import, applied to himself; for this elegant young lady it seems, with bewitching frankness, was in
the habit of openly giving epithets which she thought appropriate to men and things.  Sheridan's countenance had, at this
period of his life, lost much of the manly beauty it might once
have had; little remained but the brilliancy of his eye; intemperance had stamped her marks upon his features in legible
characters; the purple cheek, the fiery nose, its common offsprings, were too strongly developed not to be discerned by
the quick glance of woman; indeed they had already begun to
be subjects of public comment, and served for the merriment
of a hustings mob, where allusions often, in his latter day
more especially, were made to his being able to light a fire by
the glare of his nose. Whether Sheridan felt that the young
lady's reproach might be true or not, he was at any rate determined that, notwithstanding the visible defects of his outward form, he would, by the fascinations of his mind, efface
the first impression; certain it is that he exerted himself to
please, and succeeded. Even his first advances produced some
slight civility, the next meeting a little attention, another, a
declaration from her that, although he was a monster, he was
very clever; she subsequently found that though he was very
ugly, he was very agreeable. Gradually there was a little emotion experienced at his presence, at length her heart was irresistibly attracted, and then altogether lost. He was, indeed,
the only man with whom she could live: mutual vows of love
and fidelity were exchanged. The dean, her father, was consuited; any hint from him at the disparity of their years was unheeded; he in vain hesitated-they urged. He learnt enough
of the private affairs of Sheridan to convince him that it would
be what the world terms a bad match; he thought that he
had found out a decent excuse to prevent the ill-assorted
marriage, which was, to say that he would not give his consent to his daughter's union with any man who could not put
down fifteen thousand pounds in addition to five which he




1IFJ OF SHERIDAN.


175


ahimself would give for a settlement upon his daughter; this
he flattered himself would bring the affair to a conclusion,
for where Sheridan was to find such a sum no ordinary mind
could have imagined. But such were the admirable financial
contrivances of his future son-in-law, that the dean found the
money safely lodged in the banker's hands, to his own confu
sion, and the astonishment even of the most enthusiastic ad
mirer of the skill of Sheridan. There was no deceit about it,
shares were sold in Drury Lane Theatre, an estate called Polesden, at Leatherhead in Surrey, was purchased; it was care'*   fully settled upon Mrs. Sheridan and her children; the
trustees to this settlement being the late Lord Grey and Mr.
Whitbread. The young lady, charming and desperately in love,
was quickly united to the man of her choice, and they went
to Southampton to enjoy the honeymoon, enraptured in each
other's society-such was the progress of the love-match.
Sheridan of course reflected that he must take an early
opportunity of imparting the information of his intended mar
riage to his son Tom, who was at that moment supposed to be
deeply immersed in study, under the care of his tutor, Mr.
Smyth, at Bognor, where they had been staying for two or
three months without having received the slightest communication; the long silence was at length interrupted by the ar
rival of a letter, whilst they were at the breakfast table.
"My dear Tom,-Meet me at dinner, at six o'clock on
Wednesday next, at Guildford; I forget the inn; I want to
see you.-Ever your affectionate father,   R. B. S.".
This note startled Tom, who marvelled what his father
could have to say; a discussion sprung up between pupil and
tutor as to the possible cause of this sudden invitation;-was
it to propose a seat in Parliament? could it be to point out a
'     good marriage? was it anything to do with Drury Lane Theatre?
Sundry conjectures occupied their minds until the eventful
Wednesday arrived, when, followed by his groom, off rode Tom.
Mr. Smyth was left alone to ruminate until his pupil's return,
which he naturally must have expected on the following day;
but the Thursday rolled on without his appearance; Friday,
Saturday, and Sunday, not a line from either father or son.
At length, on Monday, came a letter to this effect:
" My dear Mr. Smyth, -Here I am, have been nud am




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LIFE OF SHERIDAN.


likely to be; my father I have never seen, and all that [
can hear of him is, that instead of dining with me on Wednesday last, he passed through Guildford on his way to town, with
four horses and lamps, about 12. I have written to him letter
after letter to beg he will send me his orders, and at all events
some money, for I have only a few shillings, having paid the
turnpikes faithfully, and I am so bored and wearied out with
waiting here, and seeing neither father nor money, nor any
thing but the stable and the street, that I almost begin to
wish myself with you and the books again.
" Your dutiful pupil,   T. S "
It must at any rate have been some relief to Mr. Smyth's
mind to have read a note acknowledging his pupil's whereabout; but what must have been the state of nervous anxiety
in which he was kept for the next ten or twelve weeks, during which he had to pace the beach at Bognor, hoping that
every succeeding day might bring with it some solution to this
strange enigma? At length came a frank from Sheridan, inclosing an epistle from Tom, which, in some measure, threw
a light upon the mysterious occurrences which had naturally
excited such singular conduct, both from father and son. He
learned from it the step, which he characterizes as one of extreme folly and vanity on both sides, which Sheridan and Miss
Ogle were about to take. He could find some excuse for the
lady, who was doubtless dazzled by the reputation and fascinated by the conversation of the man, but none for one who
had arrived at a period of life when prudence, if he ever possessed any, was called for, and the exertion of his intellects for
more useful purposes in life. The answer was to this effect:" My dear Mr. Smyth,-It is not I that am to be married,
nor you. Set your heart at rest, it is my father himself; the
lady, a Miss Ogle, who lives at Winchester; and that is the
history of the Guildford business. About my own age-better
me to marry her, you will say. I am not of that opinion.
My father talked to me two hours last night, and made out to
me that it was the most sensible thing he could do. Was
not this very clever of him? Well, my dear Mr. S —, you
should have been tutor to him, you see. I am incomparably
the most rational of the two, and now and ever
"Yours very truly and affectionately, T. S."




LIFE OF SHERIDAN.


177


Sheridan, who wanted Wanstead " for his hymeneal doves,"
was desirous to drive thence his volatile son and his amiable
tutor, and determined that they should go to Cambridge.,+    Mr. Smyth, who had received, for his attention to Tom, nothing
in the shape of salary, and who saw that, though treated personally with the greatest respect and attention, he was left on
every occasion to shift for himself, wrote a strong letter to
Sheridan; receiving no answer, he posted to town, determined
to tender his resignation. " Never did minister," says he,
"enter a royal apartment more full of rage and indignation at
the abominable behaviour of his sovereign master than I did
the drawing room  of Mr. Sheridan.  I have since often
thought of the interview that passed; of the skill with which
Sheridan conducted himself; the patience with which he
listened to my complaints, and the concern which he seemed
to express by his countenance when I intimated to him that
though I had rather serve him for nothing, than the best
nobleman in the land for the best salary he could give me,
still that my family were in ruin about me, and that it was
impossible --; and that he had used me, since his intended
marriage, so unceremoniously, and outraged me in a variety of
ways so intolerably, that neither with proper prudence nor
proper pride could I continue with him any longer; nor would
I sanction, by staying with his son, any measure so contrary
to my opinion and so pregnant with ruin, as the one now resolved upon, his going to Cambridge." Sheridan listened with
great attention, offering little or no resistance. At last, he
began: " All this ruin and folly, which I entirely confess," said
he, " originates in this one source, this marriage of mine with
Miss Ogle; but you know, my dear Smyth," patting him on the
shoulder, "' no one is very wise on such subjects. I have no
place to put her in but Wanstead. I did not consult you about
'    Tom's going to Cambridge, for I knew you would be quite
against it. The boy is totally ruined if you do not accompany
him. It will be impossible for any one else to have any chance
with him, nor should I be satisfied with any one else. I can
not put him in the army, as you suppose, the ministers really
make such blundering expeditions. To crown all, the theatre
Is out of order; our last new piece, the "Iron Chest," that
should have been a golden one, is really iron. And the result
of my folly-my madness if you please-is that I am worried




LIFE OF SlERIDAN


and tormented to death; and if you, at this moment, desert me and join this general combination of circumstances
against me, I know not what is to become of me, and in
short, you must give me further trial, and let me see if I cannot redeem myself and make you some amends for your kindness and consideration for me. I do not deserve it, I fully
admit."
It may well be imagined that a young and confiding spirit,
such as that possessed by Mr. Smyth, was soon soothed and
flattered by similar expressions of confidence and regard
from a man whose genius had been his charm and delight,
and who was looked to, even then, with all his faults, as one
of the greatest men of the day. He gradually yielded, and,
"at last, like the month of March in the Calendar," says he,
* I came into the room like a lion, and went out like a lamb;"
"I recovered myself," continues he, " a little as I went down
stairs. What a clever fellow this is, I thought to myself as I
went out of the door; and, after a few paces down the street,
I made one discovery more-what a fool am I!" But the
most characteristic incident occurred just at the conclusion of
the interview. " I wrote you a letter," said Smyth, " it was
but an angry one, you will be so good as to think no more of
it." "' Oh, certainly not, my dear Smyth! " replied Sheridan,
" I shall never think of what you have said in it, be assured."
Putting his hand in his pocket, " Here it is," giving it up to
Smyth; who was glad enough to get hold of it, and throw it
into the fire. " Lo and behold, I saw that it had never been
opened." The attachment of Sheridan to his son was of the
most affectionate character; his anxiety was constantly shown
at school, and whilst he was under the tuition of Mr. Smyth.
On one occasion, Sheridan sent for him in the greatest haste
from Warwickshire, where he was under the tuition of Dr.
Parr, having dreamt that he had seen Tom fall from a high
tree, the consequence of which had been a broken neck. It
is singular that a man of so much common sense should have
been so superstitious; but to his dreams he was wont to give
implicit confidence; and another curious fact is that he would
neither travel on a Friday, nor allow a new play to be brought
out upon that which he considered an unlucky day. If Tom
was upon the ice on a frosty day, if he were out shooting, if
ie were doing anything that Sheridan considered to be at

1 -



LIFE OF SHERIDAN.


179


tended with danger, there was no peace until he had aban
doned it.  So much tenderness seems hardly reconcilable
with the general conduct of Sheridan; such, however, was it
that it could not but tend to render Mr Smyth's charge by no
means a pleasant one.  Attached, however, to the public
character of the father, and pleased with the frank genuine
disposition of the son, he seems to have borne, with true phi
losophy, the awkward position in which he was placed, until no
longer human nature could endure it. The younger Sheridan
seems to have possessed social qualities of a high order, and.    to have been endowed with many excellent intellectual qualifications. He had naturally a good voice and a taste for music.
Though he returned his father's affection, he was not blind to
his faults; he used frequently to lament his indolence and
want of regularity, and at times, though proud of his great
abilities, was unable to refrain from indulging in sarcasm at
his father's expense.,      Tom Sheridan was the idol of the young men at Cambridge,
who pronounced him the cleverest fellow in the place, as in
point of humour and fun he certainly was. His father once
said to him, what really was the case, " Tom, you have genius
enough to get a dinner every day in the week at the first
tables in London, and that is something, but that is all, you
can go no further." They thoroughly understood each other;
the son was equally complimentary to the father, as many
well-known anecdotes testify. On one occasion, Tom Sheridan
complained, over the bottle, to him, that his pockets were
empty. " Try the highway," was the father's answer. " I
have," said Tom, "but I made a bad hit, I stopped a caravan
full of passengers who assured me they had not a farthing,
for they all belonged to Drury Lane Theatre and could not
get a single penny of their salary."  Kelly tells a somewhat
similar story. He says that father and son were supping with
him one night after the Opera, at a period when Tom expected to get into Parliament; "I think, father," says he,
that many men who are called great patriots in the House
of Commons are great humbugs.    For my own part, if I
get into Parliament, I will pledge myself to no party but
write upon my forehead, in legible characters, to be let.". "And under that, Tom," said his father, "unfurnished."
Tom took the joke, but was even with him upon another
N 2




180


LIFE OF SHERIDAN.


occasion. Mr. Sheridan had a cottage, about half a mile from
Hounslow Heath: Tom, being very short of cash, asked his
father to let him have some money; "I have none," was the
reply.  " Be the consequence what it may, money I must
have," said Tom. "If that is the case," said the affectionate
parent, "you will find a case of loaded pistols up stairs, and
a horse ready saddled in the stable; the night is dark, and
you are within half a mile of Hounslow Heath." "I understand what you mean," said Tom, "but I tried that last night,
I unluckily stopped Peake, your treasurer, who told me that
you had been beforehand with him, and had robbed him of
every sixpence in the world."
The session of this year was not distinguished at its commencement by any striking feature. Sheridan had manfully
expressed his opinions and his feelings upon the great points
which had been agitated; the minor questions which were now
brought forward, and were principally to enable the government to carry on the war into which they had entered, en-,
grossed but little of his attention; he carefully abstained from
throwing any impediments in the way; he simply pointed out
the steps which he thought should be pursued, and supported
Mr. Fox on every occasion when he thought that support
necessary. After a very brilliant speech from that gentleman, on a motion which he made to censure the ministers
for advancing money to the Emperor of Austria without the
consent of Parliament, Sheridan made an admirable address
to the House, which concluded with a contest between Lord
Chatham and Mr. Pitt. A motion made by General Fitzpatrick, to obtain the release of La Fayette, through the intercession of his Majesty with the Emperor of Germany, called
forth from Sheridan some well expressed opinions on the infamy of the detention of that great man in the prisor of 1-.
mutz. He expressed the highest veneration for his character,
and believed that he might vie with the brighest characters
in English History. To the spirit of a Hampden he united
the loyalty of a Falkland.
On the 26th of February, the ministry was compelled to
take a step, which alarmed the times, and seemed to hold
forth the dread of an impending calamity. An order was
issued by the Privy Council, prohibiting the directors of the
Bank of England from issuing any cash payments till the




LIFE OF SHERTDAN


181


sense of Parliament could be taken, and proper measures
adopted to support the public and commercial credit of the
kingdom. On the following day a message was sent to the
House of Commons, recommending the subject to their immediate and serious attention. The debates were long and
arduous, they were frequent and monotonous, yet did Sheridan
give unwearying attention to them, and night after night exhibit the same energy and industry of which his adversaries
have doubted. The annals of the country show how well he
fought her battles, and how sincere he then was, in his bold
attacks upon the corruption and profligacy of the system he
opposed; occasionally he introduced some happy hits, even
upon the driest subjects. Thus, during the debate on the
stoppage of cash payments, he made a fanciful allusion to
the Bank, "an elderly lady in the city, of great credit and
long standing, who had lately made a faux pas, which was
not altogether inexcusable.  She had unfortunately fallen
into bad company, and contracted too great an intimacy and
connection at the St. James's end of the town. The young
gentleman, however, who had employed all his arts of soft
persuasion to seduce the old lady, had so far shown his designs, that by timely cutting and breaking off the connection
there might be hopes of the old gentlewoman once more regaining her credit and injured reputation."  Mr. Harrison's
motion for the reduction of useless places gave him an opportunity of making a short but useful appeal to those who were
at that time battening upon the public spoil; he more particularly alluded to Mr. Rose, whose name he publicly gave, as
one holding several sinecures and situations which amounted
to J10,000 annually, so that he did not spare those whom he
condemned, and pointed out those whom he accused of cor' '   ruption. If during the early part of the spring the nation
had been somewhat alarmed at the state of its credit, it had
now reason to feel the utmost anxiety. A mutiny was announced to have broken out in the Channel fleet; the dismay
with which the intelligence was received was unequalled by
any terror which the disasters of those times had occasioned.
The stoutest hearts quailed, the kingdom was agitated from
one end to the other, men looked at each other as they
dreaded that there was something more to be told, and that
at last the downfall of the British empire was at hand.




182


LIFE OF SHERIDAN.


e,


The particular subjects to which Sheridan devoted his attention during the remainder of the session were, an expedition to the West Indies, and that to Quiberon Bay, he still
continued to enliven the House by his reading, and his sallies
of wit and his humour; there are several speeches extant,
from which extracts unfortunately cannot be made, which
show that he possessed that readiness of reply, and quickness
of thought, which some have denied to him. The dissolution
of Parliament, which took place on the 20th of May, sent him
back to his constituents at Stafford, who welcomed him there
with every mark of respect, and returned him unopposed to
the next Parliament. Mr. Sheridan now became mixed up
in one of those singular literary disputes, which at the time of
their occurrence excite the deepest interest, but are soon consigned like every other marvel to oblivion, excepting amongst
those who love the curiosities of literature. William John
Ireland was the son of a gentleman well known amongst the
well-informed writers of the day. He had published some
illustrations of Hogarth which had pleased the public, and he
had likewise given to the world other works —" A Picturesque
Tour through Holland; "  Picturesque Views on the Rivers
Thames and Medway." Young Ireland had received a good
education, had early imbibed a love of the drama, and one
of his earliest recollections was that he had been delighted
by a private play performed at Sheridan's residence in Bruton Street. At the early age of eighteen he wrote a tragedy,
but, instead of bringing it before the public under his own
name, he conceived the singular idea of producing it as a
work of Shakspeare's which had accidentally come to light
after a long lapse of years. He told his father that a grand
discovery had accidentally been made at the house of a
gentleman of property, that among a quantity of family papers
the contracts between Lowin, Condell, and Shakspeare, and
the lease granted by him and Herring to Michael Fraser,
had been found; that soon afterwards the deed of gift to William Henry Ireland, described as the friend of Shakspeare,
in consequence of having saved his life on the Thames when
in extreme danger of being drowned, and also the deed of
trust to John Heminge, had been discovered; that in pursuing the search he had been so fortunate as to find some deeds
establishing beyond all controversy the title of this gentleman




LIFE OF SHERIDAN.


188


to a considerable property, deeds of which the gentleman was
as ignorant as of his having in possession any of the MS. of
Shakspeare; that in return for this service, in addition to
the remarkable circumstance of the young man bearing the
same name and arms with the person who saved Shakspeare's
life, the gentleman promised him every thing relative to the
subject, which had been or should be found either in town or
at his house in the country. He then produced some MS.
It is singular that the father should have lent so credulous an
ear to the tale of his son, and should have become his tool;
still more so, that so many men of high character and acknowledged talent should not have been able to discover the
deception. It seems, from the young man's confession after
the discovery, that he learnt to imitate the signature of
Shakspeare, from the fac-simile in Steevens' edition, and
by the assistance of a book written in the days of Elizabeth
he was enabled to produce something which bore the resem
blance to a play written about that period. It is to be regretted that he did not bestow his ingenuity and his assiduity
upon a better cause. Had he done so, he would not have
*  been characterized as a forger, but as a man of high talent.
A worthy magistrate for London had once said that hanging
a man for forgery is an infringement of the privilege of writing; Ireland thought the privilege of writing in imitation of
those who are dead was no infringement upon the rights of
any one. Men of the highest condition crowded to Norfolk
Street, all were in raptures at what they saw; Dr. Parr fell
on his knees to thank Heaven he had lived to see the autograph of Shakspeare, Dr. Warton and others were equally
pleased.  The commentators on the great bard, however,
were not so easily duped-Malone, Steevens, and Boaden
' ~    pronounced the documents forgeries.
A goodly folio appeared at the price of ~4 4s., containing
miscellaneous papers and legal instruments, under the hand
and seal of William  Shakspeare, including the tragedy of
"King Lear," and a small fragment of " Hamlet," from the
original MS.  Malone wrote a letter to Lord Charlemont,
proclaiming these forgeries. An original play, entitled " Vor*     tigern," was taken to Sheridan, who, like the late Lord Byron,
was not so enthusiastic in his admiration of the great dramatist as have been all the leading men of literature for the




184


LIFE. OF SHERIDAN.


last two centuries; that, however, he was well acquainted
with the writings of the bard, may be judged by an observa-:ion which he made whilst perusing it, upon coming to one
line-" This is strange, for, though you are acquainted with
my opinion of Shakspeare, he always wrote poetry."  On
reading a little further he laid down the play, observing,
" There are certainly some bold ideas, but they are crude and
undigested. It is very odd, one would think that Shakspeare
must have been very young when he wrote the play. As to
the doubting whether it be really his or not, who can possibly
look at the papers and not believe them ancient?"  The
general excitement on the subject fully justified Sheridan in
determining to bring out the play at Drury Lane; and a
negotiation was entered into for its purchase, which was at
length concluded by the payment to Ireland of three hundred
pounds, and an agreement to divide the profits of the performances for sixty nights. An immense assemblage was collected
on the 2nd of April, expectation was on the tiptoe, a handbill was circulated at the entrance doors, complaining of a
violent and malevolent attack upon the MS., promising to
produce an answer to the most illiberal and unfounded assertions in Malone's Inquiry, and " requesting that the play of
'Vortigern' may be heard with that candour that has ever
distinguished a British audience."  The appeal was not in
vain. The prologue, which gave Shakspeare as the author of
the play, was read by Mr. Whitfield, who was too flurried to
speak it. Kemble appeared any thing but satisfied with his
part; he, however, went through it until the audience, provoked by the poverty of the play, began to express loudly its
dissatisfaction. Kemble came forward, about the beginning
of the fourth act, begging for a candid hearing. This was
granted, until he pronounced some bombastic lines, which he
seemed himself to feel to be ludicrous. The house bore it no
longer; Mr. Barrymore attempted in vain to give "Vortigern"
out for repetition; its fate was sealed, and the stamp of ridicule
was attached to all those who had signed a document expressive
of their confidence in the genuineness of the forgery, at the
head and front of which stood forth the name of Samuel Parr
During the greater part of this session the leaders of the
liberal party took little or no interest in the proceedings of
the House of Commons; they found that with their small




LTFE OF SHERIDAN.


185


minority it was useless to attempt to oppose the ministerial
neasures, and that the country was sufficiently alive to pass
ing events without having their attention directed to them.
On the 14th of December Sheridan and Fox were for the
first time present, and were received with an ironical speech
from Mr. Yorke. It was briefly noticed by Sheridan, in e
speech in opposition to a motion of Mr. Pitt's, that the bill
for raising a sum for the supplies of the year, by an increased
assessment of taxes, be read a second time; finding the minority only 50, and the majority 175, he retired from further
discussion for the session.
The following session was not allowed to pass by without
the display of his varied knowledge and of his political prin*  ciples.  On the 4th of January he delivered an address
worthy his great talents. It is ingenious, classical, worthy a
statesman; the views on the condition of France and of England show that he had allowed none of the great occurrences
of the day to pass without anxious examination and reflection.
Some observations on libels were delivered by him on the 4th of
April, which breathe much sound constitutional doctrine, and
in which he states that the rights and liberties of the people
owed more to Erskine than any lawyer; but on the 24th of
April he made a great impression by the avowal of his dread
of French ambition, by an eager desire to show that he was
no longer an advocate of that government. A message was
brought down from his Majesty stating that he had received
information that great preparations were making for the invasion of England, and that the enemy was encouraged by correspondence and communication with traitorous and disaffected
persons. He dwelt upon the dangers which threatened the
country as of no ordinary magnitude, and wished to rouse and
"      stimulate the nation into exertion-to provide every means
of resistance to the insolent menaces and attempts of the
enemy. The same evening he expressed his entire disapprobation of a bill, brought into the house by Mr. Pitt, to suspend again the Habeas Corpus Act. He considered the nation's great and best privilege was trial by jury. Any successful attempt to check its attributes or diminish its virtues,
he regarded as the death-blow to the vitality of constitutional
liberty.
No one who reads these speeches can for a moment doubt the




186


LIFE OF SHERIDAN.


genuine patriotism which animated the speaker: it is manly,
just, and virtuous, when danger from a foreign foe threaten the
subversion of our native land, to forget how great may be tho
differences of opinion which may exist between parties; to
think only of opposing peril, but not wantonly to suspend the
liberties of the people, because suspicion is engendered, and
doubts as to the honesty of some few may exist. Sheridan's
opinions were hailed with delight by the great mass, and
though, amongst those with whom he acted, the doctrines he
promulgated were not so favourably received, and indeed shook
his influence with many, he gained a higher degree of popularity than he had ever reached. He had carefully watched
the tide of events, and had trimmed his bark in so skilful a
manner as to have escaped the rocks and quicksands whiclh
threatened his brother Whigs.  On the 18th of June he
again made a brilliant speech; the subject was one admirably
adapted to his powers-" The state of Ireland;" with this
concluded his efforts during this exciting period. The following year he principally devoted his energies to oppose the
means which were taken to bring about the abolition of the
Irish Parliament under the specious name of a Union. His
principal object was to have the free consent and approbation
of the two parliaments then sitting, and to prevent the Government using either corruption or intimidation to obtain its
appearance. Vain were his efforts, and nearly half a century's
experience has shown to us how fallacious were the hopes and
promises held out; the evils that then afflicted Ireland have
not diminished, and Sheridan's arguments are to this day unanswered - unanswerable.  His absence from the general
business of the House drew down upon him some censure,
on occasion of his seconding a motion of Sir Francis Burdett,
relative to the state of Cold Bath Fields Prison; he observed
in reply that nothing would satisfy gentlemen with regard to
him; they blamed him for absenting himself, and took care
never to bid him welcome when he came; but whenever he
saw public principle abandoned or humanity outraged, and
especially when he saw iniquity protected by the names and
authority of members of that House, and the House called
upon to give its sanction to such conduct, he would come for
ward. He then ably supported the liberal Baronet, whose
noble conduct on the occasion of the disclosures at the prison




LIFE OF SHERIDAN.


187


gained for him that public respect which he enjoyed to the
last hour of his highly valuable life.
He made an elaborate speech this session on the failure of
the expedition to Holland, and others of some historical interest on the overtures made by Napoleon Bonaparte for peace;
but it began to be evident that he was more careless both in
the matter and the manner of his speeches, and in 1801 he
spoke but once, and that somewhat feebly.
The session of 1802 was commenced with an incident which
excited considerable amusement. The Prime Minister and
Mr. Sheridan, entering the House at the same moment, walked
up to the table, and took the oath at the same time. The
Premier, who was almost as careless in pecuniary matters as
his great opponent, fumbled about in his pockets for two
shillings, usually paid, but found nothing. He turned round
to Sheridan, who, by some extraordinary freak of fortune, had
r      money, and was actually able to be a lender and not a borrower: this gave rise to many witticisms. One of the morning papers contained the following paragraph:-" Something
is certainly on the carpet at present between the ministry
and opposition, for we assert, from undoubted authority, that
yesterday a loan was negotiated between Mr. Pitt and Mr.
Sheridan." On the 14th of May he showed that, however
careless he might have grown, he still retained a vigorous
fancy, power of sarcasm, and consummate skill in party politics. Mr. Pitt had ceased to be Minister of Great Britain;
he had allowed Mr. Addington to seize the reins of government until it might suit him to resume them, and Sheridan
took the occasion to speak of the state of parties.
December the 8th he made an admirable speech which separated him still further from Fox, who, having been nobly received by Bonaparte, had conceived a high opinion of him, and
designated him as an instrument in the hands of Providence
to restore Switzerland to happiness, and to elevate Italy to
*  splendour and importance; whilst Sheridan pronounced him
" an instrument in the hands of Providence to make the English love their constitution better, to cling to it with more
fondness, to hang round it with true tenderness." It is impossible by means of extracts to do justice to the beauties
contained in this admirable specimen of parliamentary eloquence. It made a deep and lasting impression on the coun



188


LIFE OF SHERIDAIf.


try, and did more to urge the nation on to resist the power of
the ruler of France than any of the laboured harangues of any
of the statesmen of the day.
An offer of the place of Registrar to the High Court of
Malta was offered for the acceptance of Tom Sheridan by
Lord St. Vincent, but was with a high tone of feeling declined
by his father, who, determined to avoid giving to his enemies
any opportunity of assailing his political character, preferred
making a pecuniary sacrifice of no little importance.  The
subject of the Prince of Wales's establishment was the only
one on which he exerted his talents-a humorous description
of what majesty would be without its externals, exemplified in
the appearance that would be presented, were the Speaker and
the House to be deprived of their trappings, was the only feature worthy recording. A report was prevalent that Sheridan
was prepared to form a coalition with Mr. Addington-his
defence of Lord St. Vincent rather led to this idea; but
the return of Mr. Pitt to power put a stop to any further
thought of this alliance.  Sheridan resumed his position.
Some speeches made by him on the increase of the military
establishments of the country, will be perused, even now that
the circumstances with which they were accompanied have lost
their interest, with the best results, giving, as they do, incontestable proofs of his parliamentary ability, and his knowledge
of the true principles upon which the freedom of a nation is
based. Sheridan was now gratified by the recollection of the
services which he had rendered the Prince of Wales; he was
installed in the office of Receiver-General of the Duchy of
Cornwall, the nobleman holding that position being in India;
he was to fill it until his return in the year 1808: however,
it became permanently his own, in consequence of the death
of Lord Lake. Upon the death of Mr. Pitt, and the formation of a short-lived administration of the Whig party, Sheridan
was appointed Treasurer of the Navy, a situation far beneath
his expectation and the talent he had displayed. His want of
industry, his known habits of life, took from him the chance
of a higher post; nor whilst he filled the one for which he
was selected did he show any of his usual ability. The death
of Mr. Fox soon drove him from the brief taste of the sweets
of office; from that period the instances of his parliamentary
exertions are but rare.




LIFE OF SHERIDAN.


189


On the 24th February occurred the most serious calamity
which could have befallen Sheridan; the Theatre Royal,
Drury' Lane, whose erection had so lately as 1794 been
accomplished at so vast expense, was on that day totally de
stroyed by fire. It happened that there was no performance
on that evening; that whilst Sheridan was in attendance in
the House of Commons, on the occasion of Mr. Ponsonby's
motion on the conduct of the war in Spain, the principal
actors and officers of the theatre were enjoying the hospitality
of Mr. Richard Wilson at his house in Lincoln's Inn Fields;
all was mirth and glee there; a bumper, Success and prosperity to Drury Lane Theatre, was just pledged around, and
the glass raised to the lips, when the youngest daughter of the
host rushed into the room, screaming out that Drury Lane
Theatre was on fire. All rushed into the square; the fire
raged with tremendous fury, the whole horizon was illuminated; no doubt could exist as to the sad truth. Messrs.
r      Peake and Dunn, the treasurers, Kelly, the acting manager,
rushed to the spot, dashed up stairs, and at the hazard of
their lives succeeded in saving the iron chest, which contained
documents of great importance. The House of Commons was
speedily made acquainted with the fearful event-indeed the
interior of the House was illuminated by such blazes of light
that there could be no doubt that some catastrophe was taking
*      place. Every eye was turned to Sheridan, who sat in respectful silence, whilst that assembly, with due regard to its accomplished member, entertained a motion that the House
should be adjourned; but with great composure he said,
"that whatever might be the extent of the private calamity,
he hoped it would not interfere with the public business of
the country." Kelly, the acting manager, states that with
Roman fortitude he remained at his post whilst his playhouse was burning, and this really appears to have been the
case. The ordinary version, as told by Moore, is not only
that he left the House, proceeded to Drury Lane, witnessed,
with a fortitude which strongly interested all who observed
him, the entire destruction of his property, but gives currency to an anecdote which he does not evidently believe.,   "It is said, that as he sat at the Piazza Coffee House, during the fire, taking some refreshment, a friend of his having
remarked on the philosophic calmness with which he bore his




190


LIFE OF SHERIDAN.


misfortune, Sheridan answered, 'A man may surely be allowed
to take a glass of wine by his own fireside.' Without vduching
for the authenticity or novelty of this anecdote," adds Moore,
" which may have been, for aught I know, like the wandering
Jew, a regular attendant upon all fires since the time of Hierocles, I give it as I heard it."
The following day the actors assembled to dine with Mr.
Wroughton, the stage manager, and Sheridan was requested
to meet them, which he did with unusual punctuality. He
spoke after dinner in a most feeling and honourable manner, gaining the approbation of all who heard him by the
soundness of his advice, and the good taste with which it
was given. He strongly inculcated upon the minds of the
leading actors the necessity of adhering to each other. He
said that he was aware that many of the principal performers
might get profitable engagements at the different provincial
theatres, but what would then become of the inferior ones,
some of whom had large families? " Heaven forbid," he added,
" that they should be deserted. No! I most earnestly recommend and entreat that every individual belonging to the
concern should be taken care of. Elect yourselves into a committee, but keep in your remembrance even the poor sweepers
of the stage, who, with their children, must starve, if not protected by your fostering care." Such were the sentiments of
one who himself stood in the greatest need of consolation, who
lost every thing, even the pianoforte that belonged to her
whom most he had loved to hear sing in harmony to its notes.
It was a most embarrassing position in which to be placed, all
hopes of rebuilding the house seemed to be at an end.  A
casual conversation which Sheridan held with Mr. Whitbread led to an arrangement by which an act of Parliament
was obtained for reconstructing it by subscription. It was
agreed on that Sheridan was to receive ~24,000 for his
moiety of the property, ~4000 for the property of the fruit
offices and reversion of boxes and shares, and that Thomas,
his son, was to receive for his quarter ~12,000; but he was to
have no concern or connection of any kind whatever with the
new undertaking, nor was he to be paid until the theatre was
built. Cruel, bitterly cruel were these stipulations, harshly
were they enforced by Whitbread; and those who read the
agonizing letters of Sheridan, and the matter-of-fact ones of




LIFE OF SHERIDAN


191


'    Whitbread as given by Moore, will readily see that the eclipse
of the greatest genius of England is to be attributed to his
coming into contact with one of the coldest pieces of organizar    tion that ever moved in any orbit. Sheridan had no money
to secure his re-election at Stafford, he was now a broken man,
left to the mercy of strangers, a melancholy example of the
vanity of trusting to those who usurp the name of friends.
In 1812, for the last time, was heard in the House of
Commons that voice which had so frequently been listened to
with respect and admiration; its richness was somewhat di.
minished, its tones were not so musical, nor was there any at'   tempt to dazzle or to delight. The younger members looked
upon George Canning as having already surpassed the favourite of their predecessors.  Sheridan seemed conscious
that his opponents and his former friends paid less attention
to him; and one evening, in somewhat of a splenetic mood, he
observed, " I am now run over by these young ones, I am like
an old clock thrust behind the door."-"Very true," said
a brother wit, Dudley North, "it's all tick, tick, tick, with
you now." He, however, closed his career with a speech
worthy of his mighty talent, on the overtures made by France
for peace; he characterized Napoleon as rapacious, insatiable,
and treacherous, as one with whom it was impossible to negotiate on an honourable basis; he concluded an animated address thus:-" If after the general subjugation and ruin of
Europe there should ever exist an impartial historian to record the awful events that produced this universal calamity,
let that historian have to say Britain fell, and with her fell
all the best securities for the charities of human life, for the
power, the honour, the fame, the glory and the liberties, not
only of herself, but of the whole civilized world." This speech
was in opposition to the opinions of those with whom he usu-t    ally acted, for they would have unhesitatingly accepted the
propositions which were made; whilst he, firmly believing that
no faith was to be kept with Napoleon, protested against
them, and declared them to be a wretched manceuvre to cloke
his designs upon Russia. Whatever may have been the views
of his party, Sheridan's were the most popular with the nation.
Happily for the repose of mankind his voice was listened to
amidst the many who thought with him    He must be looked




LIFE OF SHERIDAN.


upon as a true patriot, who, laying aside all party considerstions, and preferring the interests of his country to all others,
boldly proclaims his opinions when founded upon honest conviction. Sheridan had the gratification of seeing the overthrow of the man whom he had ever held up to light as an
enemy to true freedom, and of seeing the realization of his
long entertained hopes. His political career was now closed.
On a dissolution of Parliament he found that Stafford was
not prepared to return him, he had no money, he had no
offices to give to the independent electors. They had not
the noble spirit to recollect that he had been the ornament
of the country, and that he conferred honour upon them,
of which their children might be proud to the latest generation, by accepting the post of their representative.
Sheridan usually held his levee in a most extraordinary
manner; his visitors were distributed in various rooms according to their station, their intimacy, or their business with
him. Some had access to his private room, others lounged
about in the library, looking at the paintings, which had the
appearance of being covered with dust and dirt; another
party occupied the well-worn chairs of the parlours. Up and
down paced, with fury in his eye-a determination to speak
his mind, and no longer to be wheedled out of his moneysome infuriated creditor who for days had in vain beset the
avenues of Drury Lane Theatre with the hope of seeing the
deeply indebted proprietor. In the butler's room were the
equally anxious tradespeople; there was a vast deal of grumbling every where; each person had some want which must be
instantaneously supplied. At every sound each eye was directed to a particular door from which it was expected that,
unless the great man stole out quietly and unnoticed, he
would at one time or other make his appearance. At length
it was opened, a sweet-toned voice was heard uttering something which seemed to please the listener, if a gentle laugh
could enable the stander by to form a judgment-Sheridan
then came out. There was something in his appearance that,
even in the days of his intemperance, at once captivated all
who saw him. There was in the shape and form of his head,
as John Kemble was wont to say, something eminently Shake
pearian; at any rate the prints of the immortal bard bore some




LIFE OF SHERIDAN.


19s


resemblance   His eye was strikingly brilliant; his hair,
powdered in the fashion of the day, softened down the ruddy
tints of certain portions of his features; his smile was winning;
lhe was in the elegant costume of the hour, with sufficient
attention to his toilette to show that he did not disdain those
additions which add to personal appearance.  He walked
through the crowd of suitors with an easy, unembarrassed air,
bowing courteously to each, and to each he had something
kind to say; and, as Boden tells us, so cordial were his manners,
his glance so masterly, and his address so captivating, that
the people, for the most part, seemed to forget what they
actually wanted, and went away as if they had come only to
look at him. It has been observed by Mr. Adolphus, in his
life of that first-rate comedian, John Bannister, that, although
the committee appointed for Drury Lane, in which Mr. Whitbread took an active part, was composed of men known to be
conversant with business and punctual in their dealings, yet
they were unable to raise funds more promptly or inspire more
confidence in the public than Sheridan had done. There was
in the gracious and winning manner of Sheridan something
which animated hope in defiance of probability, and inspired
confidence without the sanction of judgment. In trusting him,
men were aware that they must catch an inspiration from his enthusiasm, and they sought it. In following out the plans of the
more methodical committee, they became calculators, arithme"    ticians, accountants; while they considered the certainty of expenditure, and the bare possibilities of gain, they were never animated with a cheering spirit, or impelled by a vigorous feeling.
That which irresistibly gained upon the heart of every one
was the peculiarly modest demeanour of Sheridan.  Those
who knew him by the splendour only of his reputation were
at once delighted with the suavity, the courtesy, and the un
~    pretending manner with which he listened to every one, and
the promptitude with which he seemed not only to compre
hend the feelings of others, but to enter into them, to sym
pathize with them, and thoroughly to appreciate them. His
whole mind seemed for the moment to be engrossed with the
subject that was placed before him; and on no occasion did
an unfeeling expression escape from him. He might say the,.   most bitter thing, but the brilliancy of the idea made every
0






194


LIFE OF SHERIDAN.


one forget it; and even when he was most sarcastic it was as
if he was compelled to become so.  Over his creditors he
seemed, as long as he had any personal intercourse with them,
to have an absolute control. The most unrelenting seemed
to yield to the very happy method of placing the state of his
affairs before them: Michael Kelly had an admirable opportunity of judging on many occasions; but on none more
strikingly than when he was arrested for a debt which he had
incurred as acting manager for Drury Lane Theatre.  He
was asked, by one of the tradesmen who supplied the establishment, for his opinion upon some furniture which Sheridan
had ordered for it, and innocently enough pronounced it, according to the best of his judgment; the circumstance slipt
entirely from his memory until it was, singularly enough,
somewhat unpleasantly recalled to it, by his being compelled
to accompany a sheriff's officer to a spunging house, whilst he
was fulfilling a theatrical engagement at Liverpool. Fortunately for him, a friend relieved him from the unpleasant
predicament. He immediately despatched a servant to London with a letter to Sheridan, telling him the situation he
had been placed in by the forgetfulness on his part to make
the payment at the proper time, and giving him a full, true,
and particular account of the unhandsome treatment to which
he had been subjected. Sheridan, with great promptitude,
sent for the hard-hearted creditor, Henderson, remonstrated
with him on the great cruelty of which he had been guilty,
reasoned with him on the hardship of the law of imprison
ment for debt, made him feel that shutting a man up in a
prison was a most unchristian deed, pointed out to him that
he had acted arbitrarily, unjustly, until the heart of this most
determined creditor was not only thoroughly softened, but his
mind led to the conviction that he had done very wrong, and
at last his purse was actually offered to Mr. Sheridan, from
which, after much unwillingness and decent hesitation on his
side and great perseverance on the other, he consented, with
considerable reluctance, to draw a sum. Before the interview
was concluded, Sheridan had contrived to borrow two hundred
pounds from Henderson, and to render him the happiest man
alive by condescending to accept such a loan. All, it is true,
were not equally fortunate in gaining an interview with him,




LIFE OF SHERIDAN.


195


A gentleman who was one day waiting, as he had been the
day before, by appointment, in the parlour, observed a gentleman walking about, and, in a sort of attempt to be civil to
him, unfortunately said to him, " A fine day this-I had the
pleasure of seeing you here yesterday."-" Yesterday, sir!
Yes, sir, and so you might the day before, and any day for the
last six weeks; and, if I have walked one yard, I have walked
fifty miles on this damned carpet." This he said, grinding
his teeth, his fist clenched, and pacing to and fro with much
the appearance of a maniac.
On his first election at Stafford the general voice was all in
Sheridan's favour; his manners were so elegant, his liberality
so unbounded, his promises so free, and, what was more rare,
they were uniformly kept. Each voter who wanted a place,
to his great delight, had one given to him; not one who asked
it but was gratified with an offer either at Drury Lane
Theatre or the Opera House, to which he immediately repaired and found that he was unhesitatingly installed in his
new berth. This generosity gained Sheridan his election, hid
return was triumphant; and he had the good fortune always
to be enabled to oblige new friends, for most of those who
occupied posts quickly resigned them, as their salaries were
only promises to pay, which were realized, if at all, at such
a distance of time as to wear out the patience of ordinary
men.   Much of the inconvenience to which Sheridan was
subjected arose from his procrastination: whether it was a
deed that he had to sign or a letter to frank, he would still
put off doing it. Nothing was ever done in time or place
Letters containing money, or bearing intelligence of importance, remained unopened. Whether private or official business demanded his attention, still was there the same indolence, the same unwillingness to apply, which eventually led
to the most serious results.
Professor Smyth was waiting one morning for him in his
ante-room, and happened to cast his eyes on a table that
stood in the middle of the room covered with manuscripts,
plays, pamphlets, and papers of every description. As he
proceeded to tumble them over and look at their superscriptions, he observed that the letters were most of them un
opened, and that some of them had coronets on the seal.
He remarked to Mr. Westley, the treasurer of Drury Lane,
o 2




19O


LIFE OF SHERIDAN.


who was sitting by the fire, having also for a long time
danced attendance, that Mr. Sheridan treated all alike, wafer
or coronet, pauper or peer, the letters seemed equally un
opened. "Just so," was the treasurer's reply; "indeed, last
winter I was occupying myself much as you are doing, and
for the same reason, and what should I see among these
letters but one from myself, unopened like the rest-a letter
that I knew contained a 101. note within it. The history, Sir,
was that I had received a note from Mr. Sheridan, dated
Bath, and headed with the words 'Money bound,' and entreating me to send the first 1 01. I could lay my hands upon
This I did. In the meantime I suppose some one had given
him a cast in his carriage up to town, and his application to
me had never more been thought of; and, therefore, there lay
my letter, and would have continued to lie till the housemaid
had swept it with the rest into the fire, if I had not accidentally seen it."
Mr. Smyth could not help, on going down stairs, telling
the story to his valet, Edwards, suggesting to him to look after
the letters; to which he replied-" What can I do for such a
master? The other morning I went to settle his room after
he had gone out, and, on throwing open the windows, found
them stuffed up with paper of different kinds, and amongst
them bank-notes; there had been a high wind in the night,
the windows, I suppose, had rattled; he had come in quite
intoxicated, and in the dark, for want of something better,
stuffed the bank-notes into the casement; and, as he never
knows what he has in his pocket or what he has not, they
were never afterwards missed."
The following is a characteristic specimen of his correspondence with the treasurer of Drury Lane Theatre, when
in want of money or any assistance which was to be obtained
through that channel:(Feb. 3rd, 1814. Biggleswade Post-mark.)
" Southhill, Friday.
"Dr. Ward,-Beg, borrow, steal, forge 101. for me, and
send by return of Post, then I am with you.
" Yours truly.
" What do you think of Kean? I am glad he is to play
ktichard. And note of post, how is Brinsley?"




LIFE OF SHERIDAN.


197


(Post-mark, 1814, Feb. 18th, Biggleswade. Not cranked.)
"(Private.)                             Southhill, Thursday.
Dr. Ward,-Thou art a trusty man, and when I write to
you I get an answer and the thing done if it can be; and you
don't write or want to receive love letters, which are my horror. I have been very ill with a violent attack of bile, kept
my bed three days; but don't say this to a soul, it always does
harm in my situation. I am now quite well, and the better
* '    for it; pray let two or three theatre chaps, or their connections, put up a little scaffolding in my hall that may serve
to wash the walls and whitewash the ceiling as soon as you receive this. I will explain my motive when I arrive on Sunday.
As I suppose I have replaced the last 101. you stole for me, I
trust you may reputably renew the theft; when I arrive,
should it again be wanted, as I greatly fear it will. I have
had a very civil letter from Hudson, from whom I have great
resources coming. There are political events (home) brewing
One letter more will catch me here. Ever yours, R. B. S.
"Charles Ward, Esq.,
" Secretary's Office, Theatre, Drury Lane."
Although no man ever made a greater impression in a
social circle, in his better days, than did Sheridan, yet, in
the later period of his life, he was generally taciturn for the
greater part of the evening, and towards his close he not
unfrequently annoyed the party by a species of raillery which
was sometimes not at all understood, and was even occasion
ally offensive. He would, after playing the accomplished
listener with the utmost deference to each individual, begin
recapitulating all that had passed, repeating, with sundry
"e     observations interspersed with his own anecdotes, every re
mark that had been made, exhibiting great shrewdness and a
wit of a peculiar character. He was very fond of a butt, and
nobody ever came in his way of whom he made a better use
than the good-hearted Michael Kelly, a warm Irishman, whom
he loved to represent as an eternal maker of genuine newly
imported blunders. No man had in those days furnished the
*      stage with more popular songs than Michael Kelly, but they
all had the reputation of being plagiarisms from the conti.




198


LIFE OF SHERIDAN.


nental composers. Kelly, finding the world wag slowly o:
with him, had an idea of adding to his occupations as stagemanager and music-seller that of wine-merchant, in consequence of there being such good vaults at the Opera House,
close to his warehouse. He consulted Sheridan, who said" My dear fellow, write over your door, ' Michael Kelly, composer of wines and importer of music.'" Kelly has, in his
" Reminiscences," a version of his own, and adds, as his own
repartee, " I will take the hint, Sir, and be a composer of all
wines except old Sherry; for that is so notorious for its intoxicating and pernicious qualities, that I should be afraid of
poisoning my customers."
Kelly, on another occasion, said a very happy thing to him,
according to his own account. One evening that their Majesties honoured Drury Lane with their presence, the play, by
royal command, was the School for Scandal. When Mr.
Sheridan was in attendance to light their Majesties to their
carriage, the King said to him —" I am much pleased with
your comedy of the School for Scandal, but I am still more
so with your play of the Rivals; that is my favourite, and I
will never give it up."  His Majesty at the same time said" When, Mr. Sheridan, shall we have another play from your
masterly pen?" He replied, that he was writing a comedy,
which he expected very shortly to finish. " I was told of
this," says Kelly, " and the next day, walking along Piccadilly, I asked him if he had told the Queen that he was
writing a play. He said he had, and he was actually about
one. ' Not you,' said I to him, ' you will never write again,
you are afraid to write.' ' Of whom am I afraid?' said he,
fixing his penetrating eye on me. I said-' You are afraid of
the author of the School for Scandal.' " There is an anecdote
of this sort that has been ascribed to Garrick, when he heard
that Sheridan would bring out the School for Scandal. " He
has," said he, " great things against pleasing the town."
" What are they?" was the question. " His powerful Rivals."
One of Sheridan's jests against Kelly was, that, on arriving
together at Kemble's house on one occasion, Kelly went up
the steps of the house, and begged Sheridan, who was scraping
his own shoes, to scrape for him whilst he would knock at the
door.




LIFE OF SHERIDAN.


199


Another blunder, which Sheridan vouched for with perfect
gravity, was that Kelly, on peeping through the hole in the
stage curtain, exclaimed-(' ByJasus, you can't stick a pin's head
into any part of the house, it is literally choke-full; but how
much fuller will it be to-morrow night when the King comes!"
Some of these, although told by Michael Kelly with great
good humour, are a little too bad of their kind, such as that
on the first night when Lodoiska was got up, with great attention to the scenery; but during the storming of the castle, in
the last scene, an accident occurred which might have proved
fatal to Kelly and to Mrs. Crouch. Sheridan related all the
circumstances, in his usual style, to the Duchess of Devonshire, and concluded by saying that Kelly had put a very
puzzling question to him, which was —" Suppose, Mr. Sheridan, I had been killed by the fall, who would have maintained me for the rest of my life?"
But certainly the best practical joke that Sheridan played
upon Kelly was told by him with the greatest naivete. On
the 2nd of July, a musical piece, called " The Glorious First of
June," was brought out with unusual pomp. There was a pro
logue spoken by John Kemble himself, a grand sea-fight, a
splendid fete, and every thing was done to give it effect, as it
was for the benefit of the widows of those who fell on that memorable occasion. It was brought out in three days; Kelly had
been active in getting up the music, and had little time for
the study of a part; he therefore went to Sheridan, and entreated him to make his speeches as short as possible, and to
give him as little as he could to do. Sheridan received the
request with his usual benignity of manner, and gave Kelly
his assurance that he would comply with his wish. Kelly
had to come on early in the piece to sing a song-" When in
"     war on the ocean we meet the proud foe."  There was a cottage in the distance, and Frederic (Kelly) was desired by the
stage directions to look earnestly for a moment or two at the
cottage, and to exclaim-" There stands my Louisa's cottage,
she must be either in it or out of it," he then was to begin
his song, and not one other word was there in the whole part.
The audience quickly took up the joke, and this sublime and:,    solitary speech produced the loudest laughter. At the conclusion of the entertainment, Sheridan went into the green




200


LIFE OF SHERIDAN.


room, and with the most perfect gravity complimented Kelly
on the quickness he had displayed, and at his being so very
perfect in the part which he had taken so much pains to write
for him; and, considering the short time he had to study it,
it was truly astonishing. All these jokes only served to
amuse; for, as Kelly himself has said, that during the fiveand-twenty years through which he enjoyed his friendship, he
never heard him say a single word that could wound the feelings of a single individual.
The new theatre at Drury Lane was at length finished,
and under the direction of a committee it was opened,
on the 10th of October, with Hamlet and the Devil to
Pay: but Sheridan was not present; and although a resolution had been passed by the committee,*offering the use
of a box to MArs. Sheridan, as a gratifying mark of attention
to him through her, and the offer had been twice announced
by letter from Mr. Whitbread, he studiously avoided entering
it for three years; at the end of that time he was persuaded
by that excellent-hearted nobleman, the Earl of Essex, to dine
with him, and accompany him      to see Kean, whom he had
once only heard in private read Othello, and of whom he
had formed a very high opinion. Once there, he found again
the spirit of the past. He had left the box, as Lord Essex
imagined, to return home, but he found him in the old classic
haunt, the green-room, where, surrounded by a happy group
of those who under his banners had reaped many a glorious
laurel, he was welcomed to a festive scene with the warmest
rejoicings; and, as they filled bumpers to his health, he once
again felt his hopes revive within him, and the remembrance
of the days that were past, nor did he forget his conversational talent when occasion presented itself to display it.
When dining at the house of Mr. Rogers, with Lord Byron
* There was something irresistibly ludicrous in the first step taken by
this body, " with due modesty and with the true spirit of tradesmen they
advertised for the best poetical addresses, to be sealed and delivered within
a certain number of days, folded and directed in a given form, in short,like the tender of a public contract;" forty-three persons contended for the
prize, but all were rejected, and a composition of Lord Byron's was substituted; the only advantage which the public derived was the publication or
one of the most successful series of parodies, under the name of the Rejected
Addresses, that has ever appeared.




LIFE OF SHERIDAN.


201


and Moore, the conversation turned upon the addresses which
had been sent to the Committee of Drury Lane Theatre for
selection. Amongst others who had become competitors was
Mr. Whitbread; his, like the others, in allusion to the New
Drury rising out of the fire, had some verses about the
phoenix; but Sheridan said that Whitbread made more of
this bird than any of them-he entered into particulars, and
described its wings, beak, tail,-in short it was a poulterer's
description of a phoenix.
AMisery now rapidly accumulated on him; his creditors
hoped, by cruelty exercised on his person, to draw from the
pockets of his family and his friends the money which they
held dearer than those virtues which Christian charity teaches.
At length they seized him, after having taken possession of
all that he had; his books, his jewels, his pictures, even that
of his first wife, were become the property of others. He
was taken to a spunging-house! So much was he affected,
that, upon his release, bitter tears flowed rapidly down his
cheek; sensitive of personal honour, he deeply felt the humiliation to which he had been exposed, and ever afterwards
spoke with bitterness of that which he called the profanation
of his person.
Whatever may have been his distresses owing to his reck
lessness and his carelessness, both friends and enemies have
expressed their belief that Sheridan possessed as anxious a
desire to do his duty to his creditors as any man of the nicest
sense of honour could do; but that the untoward events
which crowded on him-the fire at Drury Lane-the loss of
his seat in Parliament-prevented his carrying out his views
The struggles he had to encounter were those of an honest
man hoping to be able to pay, not of a dishonest one anxious
*~    to evade his just debts. Had he lived in these more commercial days, he would have escaped much of the obloquy
that was heaped upon him.
So much has been urged against his Majesty George the
Fourth for his desertion of Sheridan-so anxiously has it
been attempted to impress upon the public mind that, forgetful of the earnest devotion, of the unceasing exercise of his
talents in behalf of his Royal Master, he was allowed to
linger on in penury and embarrassment without obtaining the
slightest notice-that it has become a byeword and a blot upol.




202


LIUE OF SHERIDAI.


the memory of the monarch. The pen of Moore was dipped
in the bitterest gall when he wrote his well-known " Lines on
the death of Sheridan," which hand down to posterity the
opinions of Sheridan's friends on the conduct of the Sovereign.
Still it would be unjust to pass over in silence those circumstances which, though derived from private sources,
deserve to be known, and tend to rescue the character of the
King from the charges of neglect and ingratitude. There is
no one who does not admit one fact, that when Sheridan lost
his seat for Stafford, when " he was excluded both from the
theatre and from Parliament-the two anchors by which he
held in life were gone, and he was left a lonely and helpless
wreck upon the waves," that his Royal Highness offered, at
his own expense, to find a seat for him in the House of Commons, that he stepped forward to shield him from the threats
of arrest and imprisonment which began to harass him.
Writers in the Westminster and Quarterly Reviews have
stated that he actually presented him with four thousand
pounds for this purpose; from this statement Mr. Moore
withheld his belief, but the Edinburgh Review, in its admirable discussion of that author's Life of Sheridan, thus
gives the actual case;-" With regard to the alleged gift of
40001. by his Majesty, we have the most sincere pleasure in
saying that we have every reason to believe that the Illustrious Person is fully entitled to the credit of that act of
munificence, though, according to our information, its unhappy
object did not derive from it the benefit which was intended.
The sum, which we have heard was about 30001., was by his
Royal Highness's order placed in the hands of an attorney
for Sheridan's benefit, but was there either attached by his
creditors, or otherwise dissipated in such a manner that very
little of it actually reached its destination.  Nor is it to be
forgotten that, however desirous his Royal Highness might
have been to assist Sheridan, he was himself an embarrassed
man; he had been careless of his own expenditure, and there
was not in his treasury the means adequate to afford the relief
he might have felt an inclination to give. Every portion of
the Prince's revenue was apportioned long before it was
received; and though there was a sum annually devoted to
objects of charity, and to works of benevolence, there was




LIFE OF SHERIDAN.


203


little left for the casual instances which presented themselves.
But it was not royal munificence that was required, it was tho
assistance of his own immediate family that was denied him;
the whole of his debts did not amount to five thousand
pounds, and Mrs. Sheridan's settlement had been fifteen
thousand, and, however kind her conduct was towards him
from the first moment of his malady, she does not seem to
have influenced her friends to step forward to his pecuniary
relief: all that has been affirmed of his forlorn situation at
the hour of his death is borne out by the testimony of those
who saw the utter destitution in which he was; a neglected
house-the most deplorable want of the common necessaries
of life, of decent control over the servants, whose carelessness, even of the physician's prescriptions, was remarkeddo not speak of a wife's domestic management, however pure
and sincere may have been her affection."
Professor Smyth has most graphically described what he
observed on the melancholy occasion. He was in Kent when
he heard that Sheridan was dangerously ill-he immediately
went to his house in Saville Row-he was told by one of the
old servants that his master was upon his death-bed. Nothing
could be more deplorable than the appearance of every thing:
there were strange-looking people in the hall; the parlour
seemed dismantled; on the table lay a bit of paper, thrown
carelessly and neglected-it was a prescription-it was a
strong cordial. He sent up his card to Mrs. Sheridan, to
whose room he was summoned. Collecting all the firmness he
could, for he was unprepared for such a meeting, he found
Mrs. Sheridan displaying the virtues of her sex with a
greater dignity and calmness than he had expected from her.
She went to Sheridan for him, who sent by her a kind mesft     sage to say, if he would wait, he would get ready and see
him; but, after waiting, a bell was rung, and an announcement came, to say that he was unequal to the interview
"You have come from the country," said Mrs. Sheridan,
"you must have something to eat;" on his declining it,
"You think," said she, " that our poor house can furnish
nothing, I do believe we can; let me try," and she rang the
bell. He thanked her, but excused himself, telling her ho
would return the next day. The next day, however, Sheridan
was no better; he talked with his wife, but his sensibility..
*I




-04


LIFE OF SHERIDAN.


prevented his speaking much; she told him that she had sent
for her friend Dr. Howley, the Bishop of London, who hadt
instantly come up from Oxfordshire to pray by him. On Mr.
Smyth's venturing to ask after Mr. Sheridan, her reply was,
" I never saw such awe as there was painted in his countenance-I shall never forget it." Thus passed away this great
man, to whom was intrusted one of the finest minds, and
originally one of the best hearts
Melancholy was the close of his existence. Early in the
year 1816 symptoms of severe illness gradually exhibited
themselves; his habits of life enfeebled his powers of digestion-his anxieties preyed upon his mind-until at length he
sank beneath a load of misery. A diseased state of the stomach developed itself, with symptoms of a harassing nature.
There was, however, in him a natural tone and vigour of constitution which would have enabled him, with adequate attention to himself, to have withstood the inroads that were
making upon his constitution; but he had throughout life
suffered but little, and therefore had not a monitor within
him to advise a total change of his habits of life, nor to point
out the necessity of obtaining medical aid, until at length Dr.
Bain, to whose professional assistance his family usually had
recourse, felt it his duty to warn him that his life was in
danger. The first public notice of his illness was his absence
from a dinner in honour of St. Patrick's Day, on which occasion the Duke of Kent presided, and announced the afflicting
cause of Sheridan's absence. The intelligence was received
with marks of sympathy and affection, but these were but
empty tokens of respect, which, too, would speedily have been
forgotten, had not an article appeared in the Morning Post
calculated to rouse his friends from their apathy, and to point
out the state in which he, who was once a public favourite,
was now situated.-" Oh, delay not to draw aside the curtain
wvithin which that proud spirit hides its suffering.  Prefer
ministering in the chamber of sickness to mustering at the
splendid sorrows that adorn the hearse. I say, ' Life and
succour' against ' Westminster Abbey and a funeral.'" This
appeal, which was made without the name of the sufferer
being mentioned, is ascribed by Moore to one who, though on
no very cordial terms with him, forgot every other feeling in
a generous pity for his fate, and in honest indignation against




1


LIFE OF SHERIDA                 205
those who now deserted him. It was quickly responded to;
at his door the names of those who stand high in the ranks
of the aristocracy, who had been the friends of his prosperity,.     were left as visitors. This was mockery. These great and
rich personages came too late. They should have shown their
feeling for him before.  Already had his death-bed been
brutally and shamefully outraged; a sheriff's officer had
arrested him-such were the laws of England-even in those
fearful agonies when the soul is about to quit this mortal
frame, had prepared to carry him in his blankets to a vile
*  spunging-house, and would have perpetrated the horrid act
which would have disgraced the country, had not his physician threatened the man of law with the responsibility which
he would incur if the prisoner died upon his road,-an event
of which there was every probability.
On Sunday, July 7th, 1816, Sheridan expired. He was
then in the sixty-fifth year of his age. The feelings of the
public received a shock from an unfounded report, that even
his corpse was dishonoured, and that it had been arrested
Such an insult upon the morals of a people-such an abuse
of the laws of the country-fortunately did not occur, and
the rumour has been traced to have arisen out of the circum
stance of the body being removed to the house of his attached
friend, Mr. Peter Moore, in Great George Street, Westminster, from the residence of Sheridan, in Saville Row, as
the distance to the Abbey would render a walking funeral
from the shorter distance more convenient. On the following
Saturday the last tribute of respect, empty as it was, was paid
him by a royal and noble train, who followed the funeral
pomp with the usual trappings of outward woe. There were
two royal brothers-the Duke of York and the Duke of
Sussex. There were noble pall-bearers-the Duke of Bed"     ford, the Earl of Lauderdale, Earl M[ulgrave, the Lord
Bishop of London, Lord Holland and Lord Spencer. Mr.
Charles Brinsley Sheridan was the chief mourner. Amongst
the titled phalanx was the Duke of Argyle, the Marquises of
Anglesey and of Tavistock, several earls, lords, viscounts;
amongst the least were the two men, " walking humbly
side by side," who were the only real friends who soothed
"'    his dying hours-the author of the Pleasures of Memory,.
Samuel Rogers., and the excellent physician, Dr. Bain. It




206               LIFE OF SHERIDAN.
was with great difficulty that an unoccupied spot could bo
found in the Poet's Corner for the remains; but at last, close
to his great patron and attached friend, the immortal Garrick,
they found their resting-place, and a plain flat stone tells the
passer by that there is to be foundRICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN,
Born 1751,
Died 7th July, 1816.
This marble is the tribute of an attached friend,
Peter Moore.




THE RIVALS.
A  COMEDY.
P EFACE
A PREFACE to a play seems generally to be considered as a kind of closet
prologue, in which-if his piece las been successful-the author solicits that
indulgence from the reader which he had before experienced from the audience: but as the scope and immediate object of a play is to please a mixed
assembly in representation (whose judgment in the theatre at least is decisive), its degree of reputation is usually as determined as public, before it
can be prepared for the cooler tribunal of the study. Thus any farther solicitude on the part of the writer becomes unnecessary at least, if not an intrusion: and if the piece has been condemned in the performance, I fear an
address to the closet, like an appeal to posterity, is constantly regarded as
the procrastination of a suit, from a consciousness of the weakness of the cause.
From these considerations, the following comedy would certainly have been
submitted to the reader, without any farther introduction than what it had
in the representation, but that its success has probably been founded on a circumstance which the author is informed has not before attended a theatrical
trial, and which consequently ought not to pass unnoticed.
I need scarcely add, that the circumstance alluded to was the withdrawing
of the piece, to remove those imperfections in the first representation which
were too obvious to escape reprehension, and too numerous to admit of a hasty
correction. There are few writers, I believe, who, even in the fullest consciousness of error, do not wish to palliate the faults which they acknowledge;
and, however, trifling the performance, to second their confession of its deficiencies, by whatever plea seems least disgraceful to their ability. In the
present instance, it cannot be said to amount either to candour or modesty
in me, to acknowledge an extreme inexperience and want of judgment on
matters, in which, without guidance from practice, or spur from success, a
young man should scarcely boast of being an adept. If it be said, that under
such disadvantages no one should attempt to write a play, I must beg leave
to dissent from the position, while the first point of experience that I have
gained on the subject is, a knowledge of the candour and' judgment with
which an impartial public distinguishes between the errors of inexperience
and incapacity, and the indulgence which it shows even to a disposition to
remedy the defects of either.
It were unnecessary to enter into any farther extenuation of what was
thought exceptionable in this play, but that it has been said, that the managers should have prevented some of the defects before its appearance to the
public-and in particular the uncommon length of the piece as represented




208


TilH RIVALS


the first night. It were an ill return for the most liberal and gentlemanly
conduct on their side, to suffer any censure to rest where none was deserved,
Hurry in writing has long been exploded as an excuse for an author;-however, in the dramatic line, it may happen, that both an author and a manager
may wish to fill a chasm in the entertainment of the public with a hastiness
not altogether culpable. The season was advanced when I first put the play
into Mr. Harris's hands: it was at that time at least double the length of
any acting comedy. I profited by his judgment and experience in the curtailing of it-till, I believe, his feeling for the vanity of a young author got
the better of his desire for correctness, and he left many excrescences remaining, because he had assisted in pruning so many more. Hence, though I
was not uninformed that the acts were still too long, I flattered myself that,
after the first trial, I might with safer judgment proceed to remove what
should appear to have been most dissatisfactory. Many other errors there
were, which might in part have arisen from my being by no means conversant with plays in general, either in reading or at the theatre.  Yet I -own
that, in one respect, I did not regret my ignorance: for as my first wish in
attempting a play was to avoid every appearance of plagiary, I thought I
should stand a better chance of effecting this from being in a walk which I
had not frequented, and where, consequently, the progress of invention was
less likely to be interrupted by starts of recollection: for on subjects on which
the mind has been much informed, invention is slow of exerting itself. Faded
ideas float in the fancy like half-forgotten dreams; and the imagination in its
fullest enjoyments becomes suspicious of its offspring, and doubts whether it
has created or adopted.
With regard to some particular passages which on the first night's representation seemed generally disliked, I confess, that if I felt any emotion of
surprise at the disapprobation, it was not that they were disapproved of, but
that I had not before perceived that they deserved it. As some part of the
attack on the piece was begun too early to pass for the sentence of jicdgment,
which is ever tardy in condemning, it has been suggested to me, that much
of the disapprobation must have arisen from virulence of malice, rather than
severity of criticism: but as I was more apprehensive of there being just
grounds to excite the latter than conscious of having deserved the former, I
continue not to believe that probable, which I am sure must have been unprovoked. However, if it was so, and I could even mark the quarter from
whence it came, it would be ungenerous to retort: for no passion suffers
more than malice from disappointment. For my own part, I see no reason
why the author of a play should not regard a first night's audience as a can(dii and judicious friend attending, in behalf of the public, at his last rehearsal. If he can dispense with flattery, he is sure at least of sincerity, and
even though the annotation be rude, he may rely upon the justness of the comsent. Considered in this light, that audience, whose fiat is essential to the
poet's claim, whether his object be fame or profit, has surely a right to expect some deference to its opinion, from principles of politeness at least, if not
friom gratitude.
As for the little puny critics, who scatter their peevish strictures in private
circles, and scribble at every author who has the eminence of being unconnected
with them, as they are usually spleen-swoln from a vain idea of increasing
their consequence, there will always be found a petulance and illiberality in




THE RIVALS.


211


Yet when so kind you seem, 'tis past dispute
We gain some favour, if not costs of suit.
No spleen is here! I see no hoarded fury;I think I never faced a milder jury!
Sad else our plight! where frowns are transportation,
A hiss the gallows, and a groan damnation!
But such the public candour, without fear
My client waves all right of challenge here.
No newsman from our session is dismiss'd,
Nor wit nor critic we scratch off the list;
His faults can never hurt another's ease,
His crime, at worst, a bad attempt to please:
Thus, all respecting, he appeals to all,
And by the general voice will stand or fall.
PROLOGUE.
BY THE AUTHOR.
SPOKEN ON THE TENTH NIGHT, BY MRS. BULKLEY.
GRANTED our cause, our suit and trial o'er,
The worthy serjeant need appear no more:
In pleasing I a different client choose,
He served the Poet-I would serve the Muse'
Like him, I '11 try to merit your applause,
A female counsel in a female's cause.
Look on this form*,-where humour, quaint and sly,
Dimples the cheek, and points the beaming eye;
Where gay invention seems to boast its wiles
In amorous hint, and half-triumphant smiles;
While her light mask or covers satire's strokes,
Or hides the conscious blush her wit provokes.
Look on her well-does she seem form'd to teach?
Should you expect to hear this lady preach?
Is grey experience suited to her youth?
Do solemn sentiments become that mouth?
Bid her be grave, those lips should rebel prOve
To every theme that slanders mirth or love.
Yet, thus adorn'd with every graceful art
To charm the fancy and yet reach the heart ---
* Pointing to the figure of Comedy.




THE RIVALS.


FACT.


Must we displace her? And instead advance
The goddess of the woful countenanceThe sentimental Muse!-Her emblems view,
The Pilgrim's Progress, and a sprig of rue!
View her-too chaste to look like flesh and bloodPrimly portray'd on emblematic wood I
There, fix'd in usurpation, should she stand,
She'll snatch the dagger from her sister's hand:
And having made her votaries weep a flood,
Good heaven! she '11 end her comedies in bloodBid Harry Woodward break poor Dunstal's crown t
Imprison Quick, and knock Ned Shuter down;
While sad Barsanti, weeping o'er the scene,
Shall stab herself-or poison Mrs. Green.
Such dire encroachments to prevent in time,
Demands the critic's voice-the poet's rhyme.
Can our light scenes add strength to holy laws!
Such puny patronage but hurts the cause:
Fair virtue scorns our feeble aid to ask;
And moral truth disdains the trickster's mask
For here their favourite stands *, whose brow severe
And sad, claims youth's respect, and pity's tear;
Who, when oppress'd by foes her worth creates,
Can point a poniard at the guilt she hates.
'  /           ACT I.
0       SCENE I.-A Street.
1,,:ter THOMAS; he crosses the Stage; FAG follows, looking
after him.
Fag. What! Thomas! sure 'tis he?-What! Thomas!
Thomas!
Thos. Hey!-Odd's life! Mr. Fag!-give us your hand,
my ild fellow-servant.
iag. Excuse my glove, Thomas:-I 'm devilish glad to see
you, my lad. Why, my prince of charioteers, you look as
hearty!-hut who the deuce thougl.t of seeing you in Bath?
Poiting to Tragedy.




SC. I.]


THE RIVALS.


213


Thos. Sure, master, Madam Julia, Harry, Mrs. Kate, and  -
the postillion, be all come.
Fag. Indeed!
/       Thos. Ay, master thought another fit of the gout was
coming to make him a visit;-so he'd a mind to gi't the slip,
and whip! we were all off at an hour's warning.
Fag. Ay, ay, hasty in every thing, or it would not be Sir
Anthony Absolute!
Thos. But tell us, Mr. Fag, how does young master? Odd!
Sir Anthony will stare to see the Captain here!
Fag. I do not serve Captain Absolute now.
Thos. Why sure!
Fag. At present I am employed by Ensign Beverley
Thos. I doubt, Mr. Fag, you ha'n't changed for the better
Fag. I have not changed, Thomas.
Thos. No! Why didn't you say you had left young master?
Fag. No.-Well, honest Thomas, I must puzzle you no
I     farther:-briefly then-Captain Absolute and Ensign Beverley
are one and the same person.
Thos. The devil they are!
Fag. So it is indeed, Thomas; and the ensign half of my
master being on guard at present-the captain has nothing
to do with me.
Thos. So, so!-What, this is some freak, I warrant!-Do
r     tell us, Mr Fag, the meaning o't-you know I ha' trusted
you.
Fag. You '11 be secret, Thomas?
Thos. As a coach-horse.
Fag. Why then the cause of all this is-Love,-Love,
Thomas, who (as you may get read to you) has been a
masquerader ever since the days of Jupiter.
r       Thos. Ay, ay;-I guessed there was a lady in the case:but pray, why does your master pass only for ensign?-Now
if he had shammed general indeedFag. Ah! Thomas, there lies the mystery o' the matter
Iark'ee, Thomas, my master is in love with a lady of a very
singular taste: a lady who likes him better as a half pay
ensign than if she knew he was son and heir ta Sir Anthony
r    Absolute, a baronet of three thousand a year.
Thos. That is an odd taste indeed!-But has she got the
stuff, Mr. Fag? Is she rich, hey?




THE RIVALS.


[ACT r.


Faj. Rich!-Why, I believe she owns half the stocks!
Zounds! Thomas, she could pay the national debt as easily as
I could my washerwoman! She has a lapdog that eats out of
gold,-she feeds her parrot with small pearls,-and all her
thread-papers are made of bank-notes!
Thos. Bravo, faith!-Odd! I warrant she has a set of
thousands at least:-but does she draw kindly with the
captain?
Fag. As fond as pigeons.
Thos. May one hear her name?
Fag. Miss Lydia Languish.-But there is an old tough
aunt in the way; though, by the by, she has never seen my
master-for we got acquainted with miss while on a visit il
Gloucestershire.
Thos. Well-I wish they were once harnessed together in
matrimony.-But pray, MIr. Fag, what kind of a place is this
Bath?-I ha' heard a deal of it-here's a mort o' merrymaking, hey?
Fag. Pretty well, Thomas, pretty well-'tis a good lounge;
in the morning we go to the pump-room (though neither my
master nor I drink the waters); after breakfast we saunter on
the parades, or play a game at billiards; at night we dance;
but damn the place, I'm tired of it: their regular hours
stupify me —not a fiddle nor a card after eleven!-However,
Mr. F3ulkland's gentleman and I keep it up a little in private
parties;-I '11 introduce you there, Thomas-you'll like him
much.
Thos. Sure I know Mr. Du-Peigne-you know his master
is to marry Madam Julia.
Fag. I had forgot.-But, Thomas, you must polish a little
— indeed you must.-Here now-this wig!-What the devil
do you do with a wig, Thomas?-None of the London whips
of any degree of ton wear wigs now.
Thos. More's the pity! more's the pity! I say.-Odd's
life! when I heard how the lawyers and doctors had took to
their own hair, I thought how 'twould go next:-odd rabbit
it! when the fashion had got foot on the bar, I guessed
'twould mount to the box!-but 'tis all out of character,
oelieve me, Mr. Fag: and look'ee, I'11 never gi' up minethe lawyers and doctors may do as they will.
Faq, Well, Thomas, we '11 not quarrel about that.




Sc. II.]


THE RINVAk-S.


215


Thos. Why, bless you, the gentlemen of the professions
ben't all of a mind-for in our village now, thoff Jack Gauge,
the exciseman, has ta'en to his carrots, there's little Dick the
farrier swears he '11 never forsake his bob, though all the
college should appear with their own heads!
Fag. Indeed! well said, Dick!-But hold-mark! mark!
Thomas.
Thos. Zooks! 'tis the captain.-Is that the lady with him?
Fag.. No, no, that is Madam Lucy, my master's mistress's
maid. They lodge at that house-but I must after him to
tell him the news.
Thos. Odd! he's giving her money!-Well, Mr. FagFag. Good-bye, Thomas. I have an appointment in Gyde's
Porch this evening at eight; meet me there, and we '11 make
a little party.                       [Exeunt severally.
SCENE II.-A Dressing-room in MRS. MALAPEOF'S Lodgings.
LYDIA sitting on a sofa, with a book in her hand. Lucy, as
just returned from a message
Lucy. Indeed, ma'am, I traversed half the town in search
of it: I don't believe there's a circulating library in Bath I
ha'n't been at.
Lyd. And could not you get The Reward of Constancy?
Lucy. No, indeed, ma'am.
Wl       Lyd. Nor The Fatal Connexion?
Lucy.' No, indeed, ma'am.
Lyd. Nor The Mistakes of the Heart?
Lucy. Ma'am, as ill luck would have it, Mr. Bull said Miss
Sukey Saunter had just fetched it away.
Lyd. Heigh-ho!-Did you inquire for The Delicate Distress?
Lucy. Or, The Memoirs of Lady Woodford? Yes, indeed,
r     ma'am. I asked every where for it; and I might have brought
it from Mr. Frederick's, but Lady Slattern Lounger, who had
just sent it home, had so soiled and dog's-eared it, it wa'n't fit
for a Christian to read.
Lyd. Heigh-ho!-Yes, I always know when Lady Slattern
has been before me. She has a most observing thumb; and,
I believe, cherishes her nails for the convenience of making
F     marginal notes.-Well, child, what have you brought me?
Lucy. Oh! here, ma'am.-[Taking books from under her
cloak, and from her pockets.] This is The Gordian Knot,



216


THE    1RTNAL!i.


[ACT l.


and this Peregrine Pickle. Here are The Tears of Sensibility,
and Humphrey Clinker.   This is The Memoirs of a Lady of
Quality, written by herself, and here the second volume of
The Sentimental Journey.
Lyd. Heigh-ho!-What are those books by the glass?
Lucy. The great one is only The Whole Duty of Man.
where I press a few blonds, ma'am.
Lyd. Very well-give me the sal volatile.
Lucy. Is it in a blue cover, ma'am?
Lyd. My smelling-bottle, you simpleton!
Lucy. Oh, the drops!-here, ma'am.
Lyd. Hold!-here 's some one coming —quick, see who it
is.-[Exit LucY.]  Surely I heard my cousin Julia's voice.
Re-enter LUCY.
Lucy. Lud! ma'am, here is Miss Melville.
Lyd. Is it possible!-                    [Exit Loc.
Enter JULIA.
Lyd. My dearest Julia, how delighted am I '-[Embrace.]
How unexpected was this happiness!
Jul. True, Lydia-and our pleasure is the greater.-But
what has been the matter?-you were denied to me at first!
Lyd. Ah, Julia, I have a thousand things to tell you!-But
first inform  me what has conjured you to Bath?-Is Sir
Anthony here?
Jul. He is-we are arrived within this hour-and I suppose
he will be here to wait on Mrs. Malaprop as soon as he is
dressed.
Lyd. Then before we are interrupted, let me impart to you
some of my distress!-I know your gentle nature will sympa.
thize with me, though your prudence may condemn me! My
letters have informed you of my whole connection with
Beverley; but I have lost him, Julia! My aunt has dis
covered our intercourse by a note she intercepted, and has
confined me ever since! Yet, would you believe it? she has
absolutely fallen in love with a tall Irish baronet she met one
night since we have been here, at Lady Macshuffle's rout.
Jul You jest, Lydia!
Lyd. No, upon my word.-She really carries on a kind of
correspondence with him, under a feigned name though, till




sc. II.]


THIE RIVALS.


217


she chooses to be known to him;-but it is a Delia or a
Celia, I assure you.
Jul. Then, surely, she is now more indulgent to her niece.
Lyd. Quite the contrary.  Since she has discovered her
own frailty, she is become more suspicious of mine. Then I
must inform you of another plague!-That odius Acres is to
be in Bath to-day; so that I protest I shall be teased out of
all spirits!
Jul Come, come, Lydia, hope for the best-Sir Anthony
shall use his interest with Mrs. Malaprop.
Lyd. But you have not heard the worst. Unfortunately
I had quarrelled with my poor Beverley, just before my aunt
made the discovery, and I have not seen him since, to make
it up.
Jul. What was his offence?
Lyd. Nothing at all!-But, I don't know how it was, as
often as we had been together, we had never had a quarrel,
and, somehow, I was afraid he would never give me an opportunity.  So, last Thursday, I wrote a letter to myself, to
inform myself that Beverley was at that time paying his
addresses to another woman.  I signed it your friend unknown, showed it to Beverley, charged him with his falsehood,
put myself in a violent passion, and vowed I'd never see
him more.
Jul. And you let him depart so, and have not seen him
since?
Lyd. 'Twas the next day my aunt found the matter out.
I intended only to have teased him three days and a half, and
now I 'e lost him for ever.
Jul. If he is as deserving and sincere as you have represented him to me, he will never give you up so. Yet consider, Lydia, you tell me he is but an ensign, and you
have thirty thousand pounds.
Lyd. But you know I lose most of my fortune if I marry
without my aunt's consent, till of age; and that is what I
have determined to do, ever since I knew the penalty. Nor
could I love the man, who would wish to wait a day for ttle
alternative.
Jul. Nay, this is caprice!
Lyd. What, does Julia tax me with caprice? —I thought
her lover Faulkland had inured her to it.




218


THE RIVALS.


[ACT I


Jul. I do not love even his faults.
Lyd. But apropos —you have sent tc him, I suppose?
Jll. Not yet, upon my word-nor has he the least idea of
my being in Bath. Sir Anthony's resolution was so sudden,
T could not inform him of it.
Lyd. Well, Julia, you are your own mistress, (though under
the protection of Sir Anthony,) yet have you, for this long
year, been a slave to the caprice, the whim, the jealousy of
this ungrateful Faulkland, who will ever delay assuming the
right of a husband, while you suffer him to be equally imperious as a lover.
' Jul. Nay, you are wrong entirely.  We were contracted
before my father's death. That, and some consequent embarrassments, have delayed what I know to be my Faulkland's
most ardent wish. He is too generous to trifle on such a
point:-and for his character, you wrong him there too. No,
Lydia, he is too proud, too noble to be jealous; if he is
captious, 'tis without dissembling; if fretful, without rudeness. Unused to the fopperies of love, he is negligent of the
little duties expected frorn a lover-but being unhackneyed in
the passion, his affection is ardent and sincere; and as it
engrosses his whole soul, he expects every thought and emotion of his mistress to move in unison with his. Yet, though
his pride calls for this full return, his humility makes him
undervalue those qualities in him which would entitle him to
it; and not feeling why he should be loved to the degree he
wishes, he still suspects that he is not loved enough. This
temper, I must own, has cost me many unhappy hours; but
I have learned to think myself his debtor, for those imperfections which arise from the ardour of his attachment.
Lyd. Well, I cannot blame you for defending him. But
tell me candidly, Julia, had he never saved your life, do you
think you should have been attached to him as you are?Believe me, the rude blast that overset your boat was a
prosperous gale of love to him.
Jul. Gratitude may have strengthened my attachment to
Mr. Faulkland, but I loved him before he had preserved me;
yet surely that alone were an obligation sufficient.
Lyd. Obligation! why a water spaniel would have done as
much!-Well, I should never think of giving my heart to a
man because he could swim.




6Co. II.]


THE RIVALS.


~19


Jul. Come, Lydia, you are too inconsiderate.
Lyd. Nay, I do but jest.-What's here?
Re-enter Lucy in a hurry.
Lucy. 0 ma'am, here is Sir Anthony Absolute just come
home with your aunt.
Lyd. They'll not come here.-Lucy, do you watch.
[Exit LucY.
Jul. Yet I must go. Sir Anthony does not know I am
* 4   here, and if we meet, he '11 detain me, to show me the town.
I'11 take another opportunity of paying my respects to Mrs.
Malaprop, when she shall treat me, as long as she chooses,
with her select words so ingeniously misapplied, without being
mispronounced.
Re-enter LucY.
Lucy. 0 Lud! ma'am, they are both coming up stairs.
Lyd. Well, I'll not detain you, coz.-Adieu, my dear Julia,
I'm sure you are in haste to send to Faulkland.-Therethrough my room you'll find another staircase.
Jul. Adieu!                 [Embraces LYDIA, and exit.
Lyd. Here, my dear Lucy, hide these books.' Quick,
quick.-Fling Peregrine Pickle under the toilet-throw Roderick Random into the closet-put The Innocent Adultery into
The Whole Duty of Man-thrust Lord Aimworth under the
sofa-cram Ovid behind the bolster-there-put The Man of
Feeling into your pocket-so, so-now lay Mrs. Chapone in
sight, and leave Fordyce's Sermons open on the table.
Lucy. 0 bun it, ma'am! the hair-dresser has torn away as
far as Proper Pride.
Lyd. Never mind-open at Sobriety.-Fling me Lord Chest     terfield's Letters.-Now for 'em.            [Exit LucY.
Enter Mrs. MALAPROP, and Sir ANTHONY ABSOLUTE.
Mrs. Mal. There, Sir Anthony, there sits the deliberate
simpleton who wants to disgrace her family, and lavish herself on a fellow not worth a shilling.
Lyd. Madam, I thought you onceMrs. Mal. You thought, miss! I don't know any business
you have to think at all-thought does not become a young


A




Z:.'>                 Ti1E PIVALS              rACT 1t
woman. But the point we would request of you is, that you
will promise to forget this fellow-to illiterate him, I say,
quite from your memory.                                   L
Lyd. Ah, madam! our memories are independent of our
wills. It is not so easy to forget.
Mirs. Mal. But I say it is, miss; there is nothing on earth
so easy as to forget, if a person chooses to set about it. I'm
sure I have as much forgot your poor dear uncle as if he had
never existed-and I thought it my duty so to do; and let
me tell you, Lydia, these violent memories don't become a
young woman.
Sir Anth. Why sure she won't pretend to remember what
she's ordered not!-ay, this comes of her reading!
Lyd. What crime, madam, have I committed, to be treated
thus?
Mrs. Mal. Now don't attempt to extirpate yourself from
the matter; you know I have proof controvertible of it.-But
tell me, will you promise to do as you're bid? Will you take
a husband of your friends' choosing?
Lyd. Madam, I must tell you plainly, that had I no preference for any one else, the choice you have made would be my
aversion.
Mrs. Mal. What business have you, miss, with preference
and aversion? They don't become a young woman; and you
ought to know, that as both always wear off, 'tis safest in
matrimony to begin with a little aversion. I am sure I hated
your poor dear uncle before marriage as if he 'd been a blackamoor-and yet, miss, you are sensible what a wife I made!and when it pleased Heaven to release me from him, 'tis
unknown what tears I shed!-But suppose we were going to
give you another choice, will you promise us to give up this
Beverley?
Lyd. Could I belie my thoughts so far as to give that
promise, my actions would certainly as far belie my words.
Mrs. Mal. Take yourself to your room.-You are fit company for nothing but your own ill-humours.
Lyd. Willingly, ma'am-I cannot change for the worse.
[Exit.
Mrs. Mal There's a little intricate hussy for you!
Sir Anth. It is not to be;wondered at, ma'am,-all this is




fc. ir.]


THAE RIVALS.


2 t - n~


the natural consequence of teaching girls to read. Had I, T
thousand daughters, by Heaven! I'd as soon have thcuii
taught the black art as their alphabet!
Mrs. Mal. Nay, nay, Sir Anthony, you are an absolute
misanthropy.
'Sir Anth. In my way hither, Mrs. Malaprop, I observed
your niece's maid coming forth from a circulating library!She had a book in each hand-they were half-bound volumes,
with marble covers!-From that moment I guessed how full
of duty I should see her mistress!
Mrs. Mal. Those are vile places, indeed!
Sir Anth. Madam, a circulating library in a town is as an
evergreen tree of diabolical knowledge! It blossoms through
the year!-And depend on it, Mrs. Malaprop, that they who
are so fond of handling the leaves, will long for the fruit at
last.
Mrs. Mal. Fy, fy, Sir Anthony! you surely speak laconically.
Sir Anth. Why, Mrs. Malaprop, in moderation now, what
would you have a woman know?
Mrs. Mal. Observe me, Sir Anthony. I would by no means
wish a daughter of mine to be a progeny of learning; I don't
think so much learning becomes a young woman; for instance,
1 would never let her meddle with Greek, or Hebrew, or
algebra, or simony, or fluxions, or paradoxes, or such inflammatory branches of learning-neither would it be necessary for
her to handle any of your mathematical, astronomical, diabolical instruments.-But, Sir Anthony, I would send her, at
nine years old, to a boarding-school, in order to learn a little
ingenuity and artifice. Then, sir, she should have a superc cilious knowledge in accounts;-and as she grew up, I would
have her instructed in geometry, that she might know something of the contagious countries;-but above all, Sir Anthony,
she should be mistress of orthodoxy, that she might not misspell, and mis-pronounce words so shamefully as girls usually
do; and likewise that she might reprehend the true meaning
of what she is saying. This, Sir Anthony, is what I would
have a woman know; —and I don't think there is a superstitious article in it.
Sir Anth. Well, well, Mrs. Malaprop, I will dispute the
point no further with you; though I must confess, that you


",   " j   'i
Iil
I
I~




THE RIVALS.


FACT I


are a truly moderate and polite arguer, for almost every third! word you say is on my side of the question.   But, Mrs.
Malaprop, to the more important point in debate-you say
you have no objection to my proposal?
Mrs. Mal. None, I assure you. I am under no positive
engagement with Mr. Acres, and as Lydia is so obstinate
against him, perhaps your son may have better success.
Sir Anth. Well, madam, I will write for the boy directly.
I He knows not a syllable of this yet, though I have for some
time had the proposal in my head. He is at present with
his regiment.
Mrs. Mal. We have never seen your son, Sir Anthony;
but I hope no objection on his side.
Sir Anth. Objection!-let him object if he dare!-No, no,
Mrs. Malaprop, Jack knows that the least demur puts me in
a frenzy directly. My process was always very simple-in
their younger days, 'twas " Jack, do this;"-if he demurred,
I knocked him down-and if he grumbled at that, I always,
sent him out of the room.
Mrs. Mal. Ay, and the properest way, o' my conscience!nothing is so conciliating to young people as severity.Well, Sir Anthony, I shall give Mr. Acres his discharge, and
prepare Lydia to receive your son's invocations;-and I hope
you will represent her to the captain as an object not alto
gether illegible.,
Sir Anth. Madam, I will handle the subject prudently.Well, I must leave you; and let me beg you, Mrs. Malaprop,
to enforce this matter roundly to the girl.-Take my advicekeep a tight hand: if she rejects this proposal, clap her under
lock and key; and if you were just to let the servants forget to
bring her dinner for three or four days, you can't conceive how
she'd come about.                               [Exit
Mrs. Mal. Well, at any rate I shall be glad to get her from
under my i tuit.n.  She has somehow discovered my partiality for Sir Lucius O'Trigger-sure, Lucy can't have betrayed me!-No, the girl is such a simpleton, I should have
made her confess it.-Lucy!-Lucy — [Calls.]    Had she
been one of your artificial ones, I should never have trusted
her.
Re-enter LucY
Lucy. Did you call, ma'am?




,LOT rn. SC.,j


RIf Ar,S.


Mrs. Mal. Yes, girl.-Did you see Sir Lucius while you
was out?
Lucy. No, indeed, ma'am, not a glimpse of him.
Mrs. Mal. You are sure, Lucy, that you never mentioned —
Lucy Oh gemini! I'd sooner cut my tongue out.
Mrs. Mal. Well, don't let your simplicity be imposed on.
Lucy. No, ma'am.
Mrs. Mal. So, come to me presently, and I '11 give you
another letter to Sir Lucius; but mind, Lucy-if ever you
betray what you are entrusted with (unless it be other people's
secrets to me), you forfeit my malevolence for ever; and your
being a simpleton shall be no excuse for your locality. [Exit.
Lucy. Ha! ha! ha!-So, my dear Simplicity, let me give
you a little respite.-[Altering her manner.] Let girls in my
station be as fond as they please of appearing expert, and
knowing in their trusts; commend me to a mask of silliness,
and a pair of sharp eyes for my own interest under it!-Let
me see to what account have I turned my simplicity lately.[Looks at a paper.] For abetting Miss Lydia Languish in a
design of running away with an ensign!-in money, sundry
times, twelve pound twelve; gowns, five; hats, ruffles, caps,
dc. cd., numberless! —From the said ensign, within this last
month, six guineas and a half.-About a quarter's pay!Item, from Mrs. Malaprop, for betraying the young people to
her —when I found matters were likely to be discoveredtwo guineas, and a black paduasoy.-Item, from Mr. Acres,
for carrying divers letters-which I never delivered-two guineas, and a pair of buckles.-Item, from Sir Lucius O'Trigger, three crowns, two gold pocket-pieces, and a silver snuff-box!
-Well done, Simplicity!-Yet I was forced to make my
Hibernian believe, that he was corresponding, not with the
aunt, but with the niece: for though not over rich, I found
he had too much pride and delicacy to sacrifice the feelings of
a gentleman to the necessities of his fortune.    [Exit.
ACT II.
SCENE I.-CAPTAIN ABSOLUTE'S Lodgings.
CAPTAIN ABSOLUTE and FAG.
Fag. Sir, while I was there Sir Anthony came in: I told




'224


THE, RIVALS.


[ACT ri


him, you had sent me to inquire after his health, and to know
if he was at leisure to see you.
Abs. And what did he say, on hearing I was at Bath?
Fag. Sir, in my life I never saw an elderly gentleman more
astonished! He started back two or three paces, rapped out
a dozen interjectural oaths, and asked, what the devil had
brought you here.
Abs. Well, sir, and what did you say?
Fag. Oh, I lied, sir-I forget the precise lie; but you may
depend on't, he got no truth from me. Yet, with submission,
for fear of blunders in future, I should be glad to fix what has
brought us to Bath; in order that we may lie a little consistently. Sir Anthony's servants were curious, sir, very
curious indeed.
Abs. You have said nothing to them?
Fag. Oh, not a word, sir,-not a word! Mr. Thomas,
indeed, the coachman (whom I take to be the discreetest of
whips)Abs. 'Sdeath!-you rascal! you have not trusted him!
Fag. Oh, no, sir-no-no —not a syllable, upon my
veracity!-He was, indeed, a little inquisitive; but I was sly,
sir-devilish sly! My master (said I), honest Thomas, (you
know, sir, one says honest to one's inferiors,) is come to Bath
to recruit-Yes, sir, I said to recruit-and whether for men,
money, or constitution, you know, sir, is nothing to him, nor
any one else.
Abs. Well, recruit will do-let it be so.
Fag. Oh, sir, recruit will do surprisingly-indeed, to give
the thing an air, I told Thomas, that your honour had already
enlisted five disbanded chairmen, seven minority waiters, and
thirteen billiard-markers.
Abs. You blockhead, never say more than is necessary.
Fag. I beg pardon, sir-I beg pardon-but, with submission, a lie is nothing unless one supports it. Sir, whenever I
draw on my invention for a good current lie, I always forge
indorsements as well as the bill.
Abs. Well, take care you don't hurt your credit, by offering
too much security.-Is Mr. Faulkland returned?
Fag. He is above, sir, changing his dress.
Abs. Can you tell whether he has been informed of Sir
Anthony and Miss Melville's arrival?


1




SC. I.]


THE RIVA1.S.


Fag I fancy not, sir; he has seen no one since he came in
but his gentleman, who was with him at Bristol.-I think, sir,
I hear Mr. Faulkland coming downAbs. Go, tell him I am here.
Fag. Yes, sir.-[Going.] I beg pardon, sir, but should Sir
Anthony call, you will do me the favour to remember that we
are recruiting, if you please.
Abs. Well, well.
Fag. And, in tenderness to my character, if your honour
could bring in the chairmen and waiters, I should esteem it
as an obligation; for though I never scruple a lie to serve
my master, yet it hurts one's conscience to be found out.
[Exit.
Abs. Now for my whimsical friend-if he does not know
that his mistress is here, I'11 tease him a little before I tell
himEnter FAULKLAND.
Faulkland, you're welcome to Bath again; you are punctual
in your return.
Faulk. Yes; I had nothing to detain me, when I had
finished the business I went on. Well, what news since I
left you? how stand matters between you and Lydia?
Abs. Faith, much as they were; I have not seen her since
our quarrel; however, I expect to be recalled every hour.
Faulk. Why don't you persuade her to go off with you at
once?
Abs. What, and lose two-thirds of her fortune? you forget
that, my friend.-No, no, I could have brought her to that
long ago.
Faulk. Nay then, you trifle too long-if you are sure of her,
propose to the aunt in your own character, and write to Sir
Anthony for his consent.
Abs. Softly, softly; for though I am convinced my little
Lydia would elope with me as Ensign Beverley, yet am I by
no means certain that she would take me with the impediment
of our friends' consent, a regular humdrum wedding, and the
reversion of a good fortune on my side: no, no; I must prepare her gradually for the discovery, and make myself necessary to her, before I risk it.-Well, but Faulkland, you'll dine
with us to-day at the hotel?
%Q




226


THE RIVALS.


[ACT II.


Faulk. Indeed I cannot; I am not in spirits to be of such
a party.
Abs. By heavens! I shall forswear your company. You
are the most teasing, captious, incorrigible lover! —Do love
like a man
Faulk. I own I am unfit for company.
Abs. Am not I a lover; ay, and a romantic one too? Yet
do I carry every where with me such a confounded farrago of
doubts, fears, hopes, wishes, and all the flimsy furniture of a
country miss's brain!
Faulk. Ah! Jack, your heart and soul are not, like mine,
fixed immutably on one only object. You throw for a large
stake, but losing, you could stake and throw again:-but I
have set my sum of happiness on this cast, and not to succeed,
were to be stripped of all.. Abs. But, for Heaven's sake! what grounds for apprehension can your whimsical brain conjure up at present?
Faulk. What grounds for apprehension, did you say?
Heavens! are there not a thousand! I fear for her spiritsher health-her life.-My absence may fret her; her anxiety
for my return, her fears for me may oppress her gentle temper: and for her health, does not every hour bring me cause
to be alarmed? If it rains, some shower may even then have
chilled her delicate frame! If the wind be keen, some rude
blast may have affected her! The heat of noon, the dews of
the evening, may endanger the life of her, for whom only I
value mine. 0 Jack! when delicate and feeling souls are
separated, there is not a feature in the sky, not a movement
of the elements, not an aspiration of the breeze, but hints
some cause for a lover's apprehension!
Abs. Ay, but we may choose whether we will take the hint
or not.-So, then, Faulkland, if you were convinced that Julia
were well and in spirits, you would be entirely content?
Faulk. I should be happy beyond measure-I am anxious
only for that.
Abs. Then to cure your anxiety at once-Miss Melville is
in perfect health, and is at this moment in Bath.
Faulk. Nay, Jack-don't trifle with me.
Abs. She is arrived here with my father within this hour.  X
Faulk. Can you be serious?
Abs. I thought you knew Sir Anthony better than to be




C. I.]


THE RIVALS.


surprised at a sudden whim of this kind.-Seriously, then, it
is as I tell you-upon my honour.
Faulk. My dear friend!-Hollo, Du Peigne! my hat.-My
dear Jack-now nothing on earth can give me a moment's uneasiness
Re-enter FAG.
Fag. Sir, Mr. Acres, just arrived, is below.
Abs. Stay, Faulkland, this Acres lives within a mile of Sir
Anthony, and he shall tell you how your mistress has been
ever since you left her. —Fag, show the gentleman up.
[Exit FAG.
Faulk. What, is he much acquainted in the family?
Abs. Oh, very intimate: I insist on your not going: besides,
his character will divert you.
Faulk. Well, I should like to ask him a few questions.
Abs. He is likewise a rival of mine-that is, of my other
self's, for he does not think his friend Captain Absolute ever
saw the lady in question; and it is ridiculous enough to hear
him complain to me of one Beverley, a concealed skulking
rival, whoFaulk. Hush!-he 's here.
Enter ACRES.
Acres. Ha! my dear friend, noble captain, and honest Jack,
how do'st thou? just arrived, faith, as you see.-Sir, your
humble servant.-Warm    work on the roads, Jack!-Odds
whips and wheels! I 've travelled like a comet, with a tail of
dust all the way as long as the Mall....
Abs. Ah! Bob, you are indeed an eccentric planet, but we
know your attraction hither.-Give me leave to introduce Mr.
Faulkland to you; Mr. Faulkland, Mr. Acres.
Acres. Sir, I am most heartily glad to see you: sir, I solicit
your connections.-Hey, Jack-what, this is Mr. Faulkland,
whoAbs. Ay, Bob, Miss Melville's Mr. Faulkland.
Acres. Odso! she and your father can be but just arrived
before me:-I suppose you have seen them. Ah! Mr. Faulkland, you are indeed a happy man.
Faulk. I have not seen Miss Melville, yet, sir;-I hope sho
enjoyed full health and spirits in Devonshire?
Q 2




228
PWu


THE RIVALS.


[ACT II.


Acres. Never knew her better in my life, sir,-never better.
Odds blushes and blooms! she has been as healthy as the
German Spa.
Faulk. Indeed! —I did hear that she had been a little indisposed,
Acres. False, false, sir-only said to vex you: quite the reverse, I assure you.
Faulk There, Jack, you see she has the advantage of me;
I had almost fretted myself ill.
Abs. Now are you angry with your mistress for not having
been sick?
Faulk. No, no, you misunderstand me: yet surely a little
trifling indisposition is not an unnatural consequence of absence from those we love.-Now confess-isn't there something unkind in this violent, robust, unfeeling health?
Abs. Oh, it was very unkind of her to be well in your absence, to be sure!
Acres. Good apartments, Jack.
Faulk. Well, sir, but you was saying that Miss Melville
has been so exceedingly well-what then she has been merry
and gay, I suppose?-Always in spirits-hey?
Acres. Merry, odds crickets! she has been the belle and
spirit of the company wherever she has been-so lively and
entertaining! so full of wit and humour!
Faulk. There, Jack, there.-Oh, by my soul! there is an
innate levity in woman, that nothing can overcome.-What!
happy, and I away!
Abs. Have done.-How foolish this is! just now you were
only apprehensive for your mistress' spirits.
Faulk. Why, Jack, have I been the joy and spirit of the
company?
Abs. No indeed, you have not.
Faulk. Have I been lively and entertaining?
Abs. Oh, upon my word, I acquit you.
Faulk. Have I been full of wit and humour?
Abs. No, faith, to do you justice, you have been confoundedly stupid indeed.
Acres. What's the matter with the gentleman?
Abs. He is only expressing his great satisfaction at hearing
that Julia has been so well and happy-that's all-hey,
anulklnd?




-


J      SOc..J               THE RIVALS.                  229
Faulk. Oh! I am rejoiced to hear it-yes, yes, she has a
happy disposition!.    Acres. That she has indeed-then she is so accomplished
-so sweet a voice-so expert at her harpsichord-such a
mistress of flat and sharp, squallante, rumblante, and quiverante! - There was this time month - odds minims and
crotchets! how she did chirrup at Mrs. Piano's concert!
Faulk. There again, what say you to this? you see she has
been all mirth and song-not a thought of me!
Abs. Pho! man, is not music the food of love?
Faulk. Well, well, it may be so.-Pray, Mr. -, what's
his damned name?-Do you remember what songs Miss Melville sung?
Acres. Not I indeed.
Abs. Stay, now, they were some pretty melancholy purling-stream airs, I warrant; perhaps you may recollect;-did
- she sing, When absentfrom my soul's delight?
Acres. No, that wa'n't it.
Abs. Or, Go, gentle gales!                     [Sings.
Acres. Oh, no! nothing like it. Odds! now I recollect one
of them-My heart's my own, my will is free.      [Sings.
Faulk. Fool! fool that I am! to fix all my happiness on
such a trifler! 'Sdeath! to make herself the pipe and balladmonger of a circle! to soothe her light heart with catches and
glees!-What can you say to this, sir?
Abs. Why, that I should be glad to hear my mistress had
been so merry, sir.
Faulk. Nay, nay, nay-I 'm not sorry that she has been
happy-no, no, I am glad of that-I would not have had her
sad or sick-yet surely a sympathetic heart would have shown
itself even in the choice of a song-she might have been
temperately healthy, and somehow, plaintively gay;-but she
has been dancing too, I doubt not!.....
Acres. What does the gentleman say about dancing?
Abs. He says the lady we speak of dances as well as she
sings.
Acres. Ay, truly, does she-there was at our last race ballFaulk. Hell and the devil! There!-there-I told you.J      so! I told you so! Oh! she thrives in my absence!-Dancing! but her whole feelings have been in opposition with
mine;-I have been anxious, silent, pensive, sedentary-my




230


THE RIVALS.


I AOT II.


days have been hours of care, my nights of watchfulness.-She
has been all health! spirit! laugh! song! dance! -Oh!
damned, damned levity!
Abs. For Heaven's sake, Faulkland, don't expose yourself
so!-Suppose she has danced, what then? - does not the
ceremony of society often oblige
Faulk. Well, well, I '11 contain myself-perhaps as you say
-for form sake.-What, Mr. Acres, you were praising Miss
Melville's manner of dancing a minuet-hey?
Acres. Oh, I dare insure her for that-but what I was going
to speak of was her country-dancing. Odds swimmings! she
has such an air with her!
Faulk. Now disappointment on her!-Defend this, Absosolute; why don't you defend this?-Country-dances! jigs and
reels! am I to blame now? A minuet I could have forgiven
-I should not have minded that-I say I should not have
regarded a minuet-but country-dances!-Zounds! had she
made one in a cotillion-I believe I could have forgiven even
that-but to be monkey-led for a night!-to run the gauntlet
through a string of amorous palming puppies!-to show paces
like a managed filly!-Oh, Jack, there never can be but one
man in the world whom a truly modest and delicate woman
ought to pair with in a country-dance; and, even then, the
rest of the couples should be her great-uncles and aunts!
Abs. Ay, to be sure!-grandfathers and grandmothers!
Faulk. If there be but one vicious mind in the set, 'twill
spread like a contagion-the action of their pulse beats to
the lascivious movement of the jig-their quivering, warmbreathed sighs impregnate the very air-the atmosphere becomes electrical to love, and each amorous spark darts through
every link of the chain!-I must leave you-I own I am
somewhat flurried-and that confounded looby has perceived
it                                            [Going.
Abs. Nay, but stay, Faulkland, and thank Mr. Acres for his
good news.
Faulk. Damn his news!                         [Exit.
Abs. Ha! ha! ha! poor Faulkland five minutes since"nothing on earth could give him a moment's uneasiness! "
Acres. The gentleman wa'n't angry at my praising his mistress, was he?
Abs. A little jealous, I believe, Bob.




SC. I.]


THE RIVALS.


031


Acres. You don't say so? IHa ha! jealous of me-that's
a good joke.
Abs. There's nothing strange in that, Bob; let me tell you,
that sprightly grace and insinuating manner of yours will do
some mischief among the girls here.
Acres. Ah! you joke-ha! ha! mischief-ha! ha! but you
know I am not my own property, my dear Lydia has forestalled
me. She could never abide me in the country, because I
used to dress so badly-but odds frogs and tambours! I shan't
take matters so here, now ancient madam has no voice in it:
I '11 make my old clothes know who 's master. I shall straightway cashier the hunting-frock, and render my leather breeches
incapable. My hair has been in training some time.
Abs. Indeed!
Acres. Ay-and tho'ff the side curls are a little restive, my
hind-part takes it very kindly.
Abs. Oh, you '11 polish, I doubt not.
Acres. Absolutely I propose so-then if I can find out this
Ensign Beverley, odds triggers and flints! I '11 make him know
the difference o't.
Abs. Spoke like a man! But pray, Bob, I observe you have
got an odd kind of a new method of swearingAcres. Ha! ha! you've taken notice of it-'tis genteel,
isn't it!-I didn't invent it myself though; but a commander
in our militia, a great scholar, I assure you, says that there is
no meaning in the common oaths, and that nothing but their
antiquity makes them respectable;-because, he says, the an
cients would never stick to an oath or two, but would say, by
Jove! or by Bacchus! or by Mars! or by Venus! or by Pallas,
according to the sentiment: so that to swear with propriety,
says my little major, the oath should be an echo to the sense;
and this we call the oath referential or sentimental swearingha! ha! 'tis genteel, isn't it?
Abs. Very genteel, and very new, indeed!-and I dare say
will supplant all other figures of imprecation.
Acres. Ay, ay, the best terms will grow obsolete.-Damns
have had their day.
Re-enter FAG.
Fag. Sir, there is a gentleman below desires to see you.Shall I show him into the parlour?




232


THE RIVALS.


FACT IT


Abs. Ay-you may.
Acres. Well, I must be gone ---
Abs. Stay; who is it, Fag?
Fag. Your father, sir.
Abs. You puppy, why didn't you show him up directly?
[Exit FAC
Acres. You have business with Sir Anthony.-I expect a
message from Mrs. Malaprop at my lodgings. I have sent
also to my dear friend Sir Lucius )'Trigger. Adieu, Jack!
we must meet at night, when you shall give me a dozen bumpers to little Lydia.
Abs. That I will with all my heart.-[Exit ACRES.] Now
for a parental lecture-I hope he has heard nothing of the
business that has brought me here-I wish the gout had held
him fast in Devonshire, with all my soul!
Enter Sir ANTHONY ABSOLUTE.
Sir, I am delighted to see you here; looking so well! your
sudden arrival at Bath made me apprehensive for your health.
Sir Anth. Very apprehensive, I dare say, Jack.-What, you
are recruiting here, hey?
Abs. Yes, sir, I am on duty.
Sir Anth. Well, Jack, I am glad to see you, though I did
not expect it, for I was going to write to you on a little matter
of business.-Jack, I have been considering that I grow old
and infirm, and shall probably not trouble you long.
Abs. Pardon me, sir, I never saw you look more strong and
hearty; and I pray frequently that you may continue so.
Sir Anth. I hope your prayers may be heard, with all my
heart. Well then, Jack, I have been considering that I am
so strong and hearty I may continue to plague you a long
time. Now, Jack, I am sensible that the income of your
commission, and what I have hitherto allowed you, is but a
small pittance for a lad of your spirit.
Abs. Sir, you are very good.
Sir Anth. And it is my wish, while yet I live, to have my
boy make some figure in the world. I have resolved, therefore, to fix you at once in a noble independence.
Abs. Sir, your kindness overpowers me-such generosity
makes the gratitude of reason mc re lively than the sensations
even of filial affection..I —ICT   ~.                      ____




sc. I.]               THE RIVALS.                  983
Sir Anth. I am glad you are so sensible of my attentionand you shall be master of a large estate in a few weeks.
Abs. Let my future life, sir, speak my gratitude; I cannot
express the sense I have of your munificence.-Yet, sir, I
presume you would not wish me to quit the army?
Sir Anth. Oh, that shall be as your wife chooses.
Abs. My wife, sir!
Sir Anth. Ay, ay, settle that between you-settle that between you.
Abs. A wife, sir, did you say?
v: Sir Anth. Ay, a wife-why, did not I mention her before?
Abs. Not a word of her, sir.
Sir Anth. Odd so!-I mustn't forget her though.-Yes,
Jack, the independence I was talking of is by a marriage-the
fortune is saddled with a wife-but I suppose that makes na
difference.
Abs. Sir! sir!-you amaze me!
Sir Anth. Why, what the devil's the matter with the fool?
Just now you were all gratitude and duty.
Abs. I was, sir,-you talked to me of independence and a
fortune, but not a word of a wife.
Sir Anth. Why-what difference does that make?   Odds
life, sir! if you have the estate, you must take it with the live
stock on it, as it stands.
Abs. If my happiness is to be the price, I must beg leave
to decline the purchase.-Pray, sir, who is the lady?
Sir Anth. What's that to you, sir?-Come, give me your
promise to love, and to marry her directly.
Abs. Sure, sir, this is not very reasonable, to summon my
affections for a lady I know nothing of!
Sir Anth. I am sure, sir, 'tis more unreasonable in you to
object to a lady you know nothing of.
Abs. Then, sir, I must tell you plainly that my inclinations
are fixed on another-my heart is engaged to an angel.
Sir Anth. Then pray let it send an excuse. It is very
sorry-but business prevents its waiting on her.
Abs. But my vows are pledged to her.
Sir Anth. Let her foreclose, Jack; let her foreclose; they
are not worth redeeming; besides, you have the angel's vows
in exchange, I suppose; so there can be no loss there.




234


THE RIVALS,


rACT II.


Abs. You must excuse me, sir, if I tell you, once for all,
that in this point I cannot obey you.
Sir Anth. Hark'ee, Jack;-I have heard you for some timo
with patience-I have been cool-quite cool; but take care —
you know I am compliance itself-when I am not thwarted;
-no one more easily led-when I have my own way;-but
don't put me in a frenzy.
Abs. Sir, I must repeat it-in this I cannot obey you.
Sir Anth. Now damn me! if ever I call you Jack again
while I live!
Abs. Nay, sir, but hear me.
Sir Anth. Sir, I won't hear a word-not a word! not one
word! so give me your.promise by a nod-and I '11 tell you
what, Jack-I mean, you dog-if you don't, byAbs. What, sir, promise to link myself to some mass of
ugliness! toSir Anth. Zounds! sirrah! the lady shall be as ugly as I
choose: she shall have a hump on each shoulder; she shall
be as crooked as the crescent; her one eye shall roll like the
bull's in Cox's Museum; she shall have a skin like a mummy,
and the beard of a Jew-she shall be all this, sirrah!-yet I
will make you ogle her all day, and sit up all night to write
sonnets on her beauty.
Abs. This is reason and moderation indeed!
Sir Anth. None of your sneering, puppy! no grinning,
jackanapes!
Abs. Indeed, sir, I never was in a worse humour for mirth
in my life.
Sir Anth. 'Tis false, sir, I know you are laughing in your
sleeve; I know you '11 grin when I am gone, sirrah!
Abs. Sir, I hope I know my duty better.
Sir Anth. None of your passion, sir! none of your violence,
if you please!-It won't do with me, I promise you.
Abs. Indeed, sir, I never was cooler in my life.
Sir Anth. 'Tis a confounded lie!-I know you are in a
passion in your heart; I know you are, you hypocritical young
dog! but it won't do.
Abs. Nay, sir, upon my wordSir Anth. So you will fly out! can't you be cool like me?
What the devil good can passion do?-Passion is of no ser



SO. r.|               THE RIVALS.                 235
vice, you impudent, insolent, overbearing reprobate!-There,
you sneer again! don't provoke me!-but you rely upon the
mildness of my temper-you do, you dog! you play upon the
meekness of my disposition!-Yet take care-the patience of
a saint may be overcome at last!-but mark! I give you six
hours and a half to consider of this: if you then agree, without
any condition, to do every thing on earth that I choose, whyconfound you! I may in time forgive you.-If not, zounds!
don't enter the same hemisphere with me! don't dare to
breathe the same air, or use the same light with me; but get
an atmosphere and a sun of your own! I '11 strip you of your
commission; I'11 lodge a five-and-threepence in the hands of
trustees, and you shall live on the interest.-I '11 disown you,
I'11 disinherit you, I'11 unget you! and damn me! if ever I
call you Jack again!                            [Exit.
Abs. Mild, gentle, considerate father-I kiss your hands!
-What a tender method of giving his opinion in these matters Sir Anthony has! I dare not trust him with the truth.
-I wonder what old wealthy hag it is that he wants to bestow
on me!-Yet he married himself for love! and was in his
youth a bold intriguer, and a gay companion!
Re-enter FAG.
Fag. Assuredly, sir, your father is wrath to a degree; he
comes down stairs eight or ten steps at a time-muttering,
growling, and thumping the banisters all the way: I and the
cook's dog stand bowing at the door-rap! he gives me a
stroke on the head with his cane; bids me carry that to my
master; then kicking the poor turnspit into the area, damns
us all, for a puppy triumvirate!-Upon my credit, sir, were I
in your place, and found my father such very bad company, I
should certainly drop his acquaintance.
Abs. Cease your impertinence, sir, at present.-Did you
come in for nothing more?-Stand out of the way!
[Pushes him aside, and exit.
Fag. So! Sir Anthony trims my master: he is afraid to
reply to his father-then vents his spleen on poor Fag!When one is vexed by one person, to revenge one's self on
another, who happens to come in the way, is the vilest injustice! Ah! it shows the worst temper —the basest —




THE RIVALS.


rACT LI


Enter BoY.
Boy. Mr. Fag! Mr. Fag! your master calls you.
sFa. Well, you little dirty puppy, X ou need not bawl so!The: meanest disposition! the —
Boy. Quick, quick, Mr. Fag '
Fag. Quick! quick! you impudent jackanapes! am I to
be commanded by you too? you little impertinent, insolent,
kitchen-bred-              [Exit kicking and beating him.
SCENE II.-The North Parade.
Enter LucY.
Lucy. So —I shall have another rival to add to my mistress's
list-Captain Absolute. However, I shall not enter his name
till my purse has received notice in form. Poor Acres is dismissed! —Well, I have done him a last friendly office, in
letting him know that Beverley was here before him.-Sir
Lucius is generally more punctual, when he expects to hear
from his dear Dalia, as he calls her: I wonder he's not here!
-I have a little scruple of conscience from this deceit;
though I should not be paid so well, if my hero knew that Delia
was near fifty, and her own mistress.
Enter SIR Lucius O'TRIGGER.
Sir Luc. Ha! my little ambassadress-upon my conscience,
I have been looking for you; I have been on the South Parade
this half hour.
Lucy. [Speaking simply.] 0 gemini! and I have been
waiting for your worship here on the North.
Sir Luc. Faith!-may be that was the reason we did not
meet; and it is very comical too, how you could go out and I
not see you-for I was only taking a nap at the Parade Coffeehouse, and I chose the window on purpose that I might not
miss you.
Lucy. My stars! Now I'd wager a sixpence I went by
while you were asleep.
Sir Luc. Sure enough it must have been so-and I never
dreamt it was so late, till I waked. Well, but my little girl,
have you got nothing for me?
Lucy. Yes, but I have-I 've got a letter for you in my
pocket


-Icrrrrrr, - -- -- . i




SC. II.]


THE RIVALS.


237


Sir Luc. 0 faith! I guessed you weren't come empty-handed
-Well-let me see what the dear creature says.
Lucy. There, Sir Lucius.             [Gives him a letter.
Sir Luc. [Reads.] Sir —there zs often a sudden incentive
impulse in love, that has a greater induction than years of
domestic combination: such was the commotion I felt at the
first superfluous view of Sir Lucius O'Trigger.-Very pretty,
upon my word.-Female punctuation forbids me to say more;
yet let me add, that it will give me joy infallible to find Sir
tLucius worthy the last criterion of my affections.  DELIA.
Upon my conscience! Lucy, your lady is a great mistress of
Language. Faith, she's quite the queen of the dictionary! —
for the devil a word dare refuse coming at her call-though
one would think it was quite out of hearing.
Lucy. Ay, sir, a lady of her experienceSir Luc. Experience! what, at seventeen?
Lucy. 0 true, sir —but then she reads so-my stars! how
she will read off hand!
Sir Luc. Faith, she must be very deep read to write this
way —though she is rather an arbitrary writer too-for here
are a great many poor words pressed into the service of this
note, that would get their habeas corpus from any court in
Christendom,
Lucy. Ah! Sir Lucius, if you were to hear how she talks
of you!
Sir Luc. Oh, tell her I'11 make her the best husband in
the world, and Lady O'Trigger into the bargain! —But we
must get the old gentlewoman's consent-and do every thing
fairly.
Lucy. Nay, Sir Lucius, I thought you wa'n't rich enough
to be so nice!
Sir Luc. Upon my word, young woman, you have hit it:
I am so poor, that I can't afford to do a dirty action. —If I
did not want money, I'd steal your mistress and her fortune
with a great deal of pleasure. —However, my pretty girl,
[Gives her money,] here's a little something to buy you a
ribbon; and meet me in the evening, and I'11 give you an
answer to this. So, hussy, take a kiss beforehand to put you
in mind.                                      [Kisses her.
Lucy. 0 Lud! Sir Lucius —I never seed such a gemman
My lady won't like you if you're so impudent




THE RIVALS


ACT II.


Sir Luc. Faith she will, Lucy! —That same-pho! what's
the name of it?-modesty-is a quality in a lover more praised
by the women than liked; so, if your mistress asks you
whether Sir Lucius ever gave you a kiss, tell her fifty-my
dear.
Lucy. What, would you have me tell her a lie?
Sir Luc. Ah, then, you baggage! I'11 make it a truth
presently.
Litcy. For shame now! here is some one coming.
Sir Luc. Oh, faith, I'11 quiet your conscience!
[Exit, humming a tune
Enter FAG.
Fag. So, so, ma'am! I humbly beg pardon.
Lucy. 0 Lud! now, Mr. Fag —you flurry one so.
Fag. Come, come, Lucy, here's no one by —so a little less
simplicity, with a grain or two more sincerity, if you please.You play false with us, madam. —I saw you give the baronet
a letter.-My master shall know this —and if he don't call
him out, I will.
Lucy. Ha! ha! ha! you gentlemen's gentlemen are so
hasty.-That letter was from Mrs. Malaprop, simpleton.-She
is taken with Sir Lucius's address.
Fag. How! what tastes some people have!-Why, I suppose I have walked by her window a hundred times.-But
what says our young lady? any message to my master?
Lucy. Sad news, Mr. Fag.-A worse rival than Acres! Sir
Anthony Absolute has proposed his son.
Fag. What, Captain Absolute?
Lucy. Even so-I overheard it all.
Fag. Ha! ha! ha! very good, faith. Good bye, Lucy, I
must away with this news.
Lucy. Well, you may laugh-but it is true, I assure you.[Going.] But, Mr. Fag, tell your master not to"be cast down
by this.
Fag. Oh, he'll be so disconsolate!
Lucy. And charge him not to think of quarrelling with
young Absolute.
Fag. Never fear! never fear!
Lucy. Be sure-bid him keep up his spirits.
Fag. We will-we will.                [Exeunt severally




ACT IL. SC. I ]


THE RIVALS.


239


ACT III.
SCENE I.-The North Parade
*               Enter CAPTAIN ABSOLUTE.
Abs. 'Tis just as Fag told me, indeed. Whimsical enough,
faith! My father wants to force me to marry the very girl I
am plotting to run away with! He must not know of my connection with her yet awhile. He has too summary a method
of proceeding in these matters. However, I'11 read my recantation instantly. My conversion is something sudden, indeed-but I can assure him it is very sincere.  So, so-here
he comes. He looks plaguy gruff.            [Steps aside
Enter Sir ANTHONY ABSOLUTE.
Sir Anth. No-I '11 die sooner than forgive him. Die, did
I say? I'11 live these fifty years to plague him. At our last
meeting, his impudence had almost put me out of temper.
An obstinate, passionate, self-willed boy! Who can he take
after?  This is my return for getting him before all his
brothers and sisters!-for putting him, at twelve years old,
into a marching regiment, and allowing him fifty pounds a
year, besides his pay, ever since! But I have done with
him; he's anybody's son for me. I never will see him more,
never-never-never.
Abs. [Aside, comingforward.] Now for a penitential face.
Sir Anth. Fellow, get out of my way!
Abs. Sir, you see a penitent before you.
Sir Anth. I see an impudent scoundrel before me.
Abs. A sincere penitent. I am come, sir, to acknowledge
my error, and to submit entirely to your will.
Sir Anth. What's that?
Abs. I have been revolving, and reflecting, and considering
on your past goodness, and kindness, and condescension to me.
Sir Anth. Well, sir?
A bs. I have been likewise weighing and balancing what you
were pleased to mention concerning duty, and obedience, and
authority.
Sir Anth. Well, puppy?
Abs. Why then, sir, the result of my reflections is-a reso
lution to sacrifice every inclination of my own to your satisfaction.




240


THE RIVALS.


rACT tm


Sir Anth. Why now you talk sense-absolute sense --
never heard any thing more sensible in my life. Confoumd
you! you shall be Jack again
Abs. I am happy in the appellation.
Sir Anth. Why then, Jack, my dear Jack, I will now in
form you who the lady really is. Nothing but your passion
and violence, you silly fellow, prevented my telling you at
first. Prepare, Jack, for wonder and rapture-prepare. What
think you of Miss Lydia Languish?
Abs. Languish! What, the Languishes of Worcestershire?
Sir Anth. Worcestershire! no. Did you never meet Mrs.
Malaprop and her niece, Miss Languish, who came into our
country just before you were last ordered to your regiment?
Abs. Malaprop! Languish! I don't remember ever to have
heard the names before. Yet, stay-I think I do recollect
something. Languish! Languish!   She squints, don't she?
A little red-haired girl?
Sir Anth. Squints! A red-haired girl! Zounds! no.
Abs. Then I must have forgot; it can't be the same person.
Sir Anth. Jack! Jack! what think you of blooming, lovebreathing seventeen?
Abs. As to that, sir, I am quite indifferent. If I can
please you in the matter, 'tis all I desire.
Sir Anth.. Nay, but Jack, such eyes! such eyes! so innocently wild! so bashfully irresolute! not a glance but speaks
and kindles some thought of love! Then, Jack, her cheeks!
her cheeks, Jack! so deeply blushing at the insinuations
of her tell-tale eyes! Then, Jack, her lips! 0 Jack, lips
smiling at their own discretion; and if not smiling, more
sweetly pouting; more lovely in sullenness!
Abs. That's she indeed. Well done, old gentleman. [Aside.
Sir Anth. Then, Jack, her neck! 0 Jack! Jack!
Abs. And which is to be mine, sir, the niece, or the aunt?
Sir Anth. Why, you unfeeling, insensible puppy, I despise
you! When I was of your age, such a description would have
made me fly like a rocket! The aunt indeed! Odds life!
when I ran away with your mother, I would not have touched
any thing old or ugly to gain an empire.
Abs. Not to please your father, sir?
Sir Anth. To please my father! zounds! not to pleaseOh, my father-odd so!-yes-yes; if my father indeed had




Tc. I.]               THE RIVALS.                 241
desired-that's quite another matter. Though he wa'n't the
indulgent father that I am, Jack.
Abs. I dare say not, sir.
Sir Anth. But, Jack, you are not sorry to find your mistress
is so beautiful?
Abs. Sir, I repeat it-if I please you in this affair, 'tis all
I desire. Not that I think a woman the worse for being handsome; but, sir, if you please to recollect, you before hinted
something about a hump or two, one eye, and a few more
graces of that kind-now, without being very nice, I own I
should rather choose a wife of mine to have the usual number
of limbs, and a limited quantity of back: and though one eye
may be very agreeable, yet as the prejudice has always run in
favour of two, I would not wish to affect a singularity in that
article.
Sir Anth. What a phlegmatic sot it is! Why, sirrah, you 're
an anchorite!-a vile, insensible stock. You a soldier!
you're a walking block, fit only to dust the company's regimentals on! Odds life! I have a great mind to marry the
girl myself.
Abs. I am entirely at your disposal, sir: if you should think
of addressing Miss Languish yourself, I suppose you would
have me marry the aunt; or if you should change your mind,
and take the old lady-'tis the same to me-I -11 marry the
niece.
Sir Anth. Upon my word, Jack, thou 'rt either a very great
hypocrite, or-but, come, I know your indifference on such a
subject must be all a lie-I 'm sure it must-come, now-damn
your demure face!-come, confess Jack-you have been lying
-ha'n't you? You have been playing the hypocrite, hey!I '11 never forgive you, if you ha'n't been lying and playing
the hypocrite.
Abs. I 'm sorry, sir, that the respect and duty which I bear
to you should be so mistaken.
Sir Anth. Hang your respect and duty! But come along
with me, I '11 write a note to Mrs. Malaprop, and you shall
visit the lady directly. Her eyes shall be the Promethean
torch to you-come along, I '11 never forgive you, if yoe don't
come back stark mad with rapture and impatience-if you
don't, egad, I will marry the girl myself!   [Exeunt
R                   I




THE RIVALS.


LACT IIL


SCENE II.-JULIA'S Dressing-room.
FAULKLAND discovered alone.
Faulk. They told me Julia would return directly; I wonder
she is not yet come! How mean does this captious, unsatisfied temper of mine appear to my cooler judgment! Yet I
know not that I indulge it in any other point: but on this one
subject, and to this one subject, whom I think I love beyond
my life, I am ever ungenerously fretful and madly capricious!
I am conscious of it-yet I cannot correct myself! What
tender honest joy sparkled in her eyes when we met! how delicate was the warmth of her expressions! I was ashamed to
appear less happy-though I had come resolved to wear a face
of coolness and upbraiding. Sir Anthony's presence prevented
my proposed expostulations: yet I must be satisfied that she
has not been so very happy in my absence. She is coming
Yes!-I know the nimbleness of her tread, when she thinks
her impatient Faulkland counts the moments of her stay.
Enter JULmA.
Jul. I had not hoped to see you again so soon.
Faulk. Could I, Julia, be contented with my first welcomerestrained as we were by the presence of a third person?
Jul. 0 Faulkland, when your kindness can make me thus
happy, let me not think that I discovered something of coldness in your first salutation.
Faulk. 'Twas but your fancy, Julia. I was rejoiced to see
you-to see you in such health. Sure I had no cause for
coldness?
Jul. Nay then, I see you have taken something ill. You
must not conceal from me what it is.
Faulk. Well, then-shall I own to you that my joy at hearing of your health and arrival here, by your neighbour Acres,
was somewhat damped by his dwelling much on the high
spirits you had enjoyed in Devonshire-on your mirth-your
singing-dancing, and I know not what! For such is my
temper, Julia, that I should regard every mirthful moment il
your absence as a treason to constancy. The mutual tear that
steals down the cheek of parting lovers is a compact, that no
smile shall live there till they meet again




dC. IU.]


THE 1%ITALS,


Jul. Must I never cease to tax my Faulkland with this
teasing minute caprice? Can the idle reports of a silly boor
weigh in your breast against my tried affection?
*Faulk. They have no weight with me, Julia: No, no-I
am happy if you have been so-yet only say, that you did not
sing with mirth-say that you thought of Faulkland in the
dance.
Jul. I never can be happy in your absence. If I wear a
countenance of content, it is to show that my mind holds no
doubt of my Faulkland's truth. If I seemed sad, it were to
make malice triumph; and say, that I had fixed my heart on
one, who left me to lament his roving, and my own credulity.
Believe me, Faulkland, I mean not to upbraid you, when I
say, that I have often dressed sorrow in smiles, lest my friends
should guess whose unkindness had caused my tears.
Faulk. You were ever all goodness to me. Oh, I am a
brute, when I but admit a doubt of your true constancy!
Jul. If ever without such cause from you, as I will not suppose possible, you find my affections veering but a point, may
I become a proverbial scoff for levity and base ingratitude.
Faulk. Ah! Julia, that last word is grating to me. I would
I had no title to your gratitude! Search your heart, Julia;
perhaps what you have mistaken for love, is but the warm
effusion of a too thankful heart.
Jul. For what quality must I love you?
Faulk. For no quality! To regard me for any quality of
mind or understanding, were only to esteem me. And for
person-I have often wished myself deformed, to be convinced.hat I owed no obligation there for any part of your affection.
Jul. Where nature has bestowed a show of nice attention in
the features of a man, he should laugh at it as misplaced. I
have seen men, who in this vain article, perhaps, might rank
above you; but my heart has never asked my eyes if it were
so or not.
Faulk. Now this is not well from you, Julia-I despise
person in a man-yet if you loved me as I wish, though I were
an Ethiop, you'd think none so fair.
Jul. I see you are determined to be unkind! The contract
which my poor father bound us in gives you more than a lover's,rivilege.
Faulk Again, Julia, you raise ideas that feed and justify
R 2




t14


THIE RIVALS.


[ACT Inli


my doubts. I would not have been more free-no-I am
proud of my restraint. Yet-yet —perhaps your high respect
alone for this solemn compact has fettered your inclinations,
which else had made a worthier choice. How shall I be sure,
had you remained unbound in thought and promise, that I
should still have been the object of your persevering love?
Jul. Then try me now. Let us be free as strangers as to
what is past: my heart will not feel more liberty!
Faulk. There now! so hasty, Julia! so anxious to be free!
If your love for me were fixed and ardent, you would not lose
your hold, even though I wished it!
Jul. Oh! you torture me to the heart! I cannot bear it.
Faulk. I do not mean to distress you. If I loved you less
I should never give you an uneasy moment. But hear me.
All my fretful doubts arise from this. Women are not used
to weigh and separate the motives of their affections: the cold
dictates of prudence, gratitude, or filial duty, may sometimes
be mistaken for the pleadings of the heart. I would not boast
— yet let me say, that I have neither age, person, nor character, to found dislike on; my fortune such as few ladies could
be charged with indiscretion in the match. 0 Julia! when
love receives such countenance from prudence, nice minds will
be suspicious of its birth.
Jul. I know not whither your insinuations would tend:but as they seem pressing to insult me, I will spare you the
regret of having done so.-I have given you no cause for this!
[Exit in tears.
Faulk. In tears'! Stay, Julia: stay but for a moment.The door is fastened! -Julia!-my soul-but for one moment!
-I hear her sobbing!-'Sdeath! what a brute am I to use her
thus! Yet stay.-Ay-she is coming now:-how little resolution there is in woman!-how a few soft words can turn
them!-No, faith!-she is not coming either.-Why, Juliamy love-say but that you forgive me-come but to tell me
that-now this is being too resentful. Stay! she is coming
too-I thought she would-no steadiness in any thing: her
going away must have been a mere trick then-she sha'nt see
that I was hurt by it.-I '11 affect indifference-[Humns a tune:
ther listens.] No-zounds! she 's not coming!-nor don't intend it, I suppose.-This is not steadiness, but obstinacy!
Yet I deserve it.-What, after so long an absence to quarrel




SC. III.]


THE RIVALS.


245


with her tenderness!-'twas barbarous and unmanly! —1
should be ashamed to see her now. —I '11 wait till her just ro
sentment is abated-and when I distress her so again, may 1
lose her for ever! and be linked instead to some antique
virago, whose gnawing passions, and long hoarded spleen, shall
make me curse my folly half the day and all the night.
[Exit.
SCENE III.-MRS. MALAPROP'S Lodgings.
MRS. MALAPROP, with a letter in her hand, and CAPTAIN
ABSOLUTE.
Mrs. Mal. Your being Sir Anthony's son, captain, would
itself be a sufficient accommodation; but from the ingenuity
of your appearance, I am convinced you deserve the character
here given of you.
Abs. Permit me to say, madam, that as I never yet have
had the pleasure of seeing Miss Languish, my principal inducement in this affair at present is the honour of being allied
to Mrs. Malaprop; of whose intellectual accomplishments,
elegant manners, and unaffected learning, no tongue is silent.
Mrs. Mal. Sir, you do me infinite honour! I beg, captain,
you'll be seated.-[They sit.] Ah! few gentlemen, now-adays, know how to value the ineffectual qualities in a woman!
few think how a little knowledge becomes a gentlewoman!Men have no sense now but for the worthless flower of
beauty!
Abs. It is but too true, indeed, ma'am;-yet I fear our
ladies should share the blame-they think our admiration of
beauty so great, that knowledge in them would be superfluous.
Thus, like garden-trees, they seldom show fruit, till time has
robbed them of the more specious blossom.-Few, like Mrs.
Malaprop and the orange-tree, are rich in both at once!
Mrs. Mal. Sir, you overpower me with good-breeding.He is the very pine-apple of politeness!-You are not ignorant, captain, that this giddy girl has somehow contrived to
fix her affections on a beggarly, strolling, eaves-dropping
ensign, whom none of us have seen, and nobody knows anything of.
Abs. Oh, I have heard the silly affair before.-I 'm not at
all prejudiced against her on that account.
Mrs. Mal. You are very good and very considerate, captain




246


THE RIVALS.


[LCT III


I am sure I have done every thing in my power since I exploded the affair; long ago I laid my positive conjunctions on
her, never to think on the fellow again;-I have since laid
Sir Anthony's preposition before her; but, I am sorry to say,
she seems resolved to decline every particle that I enjoin
her
Abs. It must be very distressing, indeed, ma'am.
Mrs. Mal. Oh! it gives me the hydrostatics to such a
degree.-I thought she had persisted from corresponding with
him; but, behold, this very day, I have interceded another    -
letter from the fellow; I believe I have it in my pocket.
Abs. Oh, the devil! my last note.              [Aside.
Mrs. Mal. Ay, here it is.
Abs. Ay, my note indeed! 0 the little traitress Lucy.
[Aside.
Mrs. Mal. There, perhaps you may know the writing.
[Gives him the letter.
Abs. I think I have seen the hand before-yes, I certainly
must have seen this hand beforeMrs. Mal. Nay, but read it, captain.
Abs. [Reads.] My soul's idol, my adored Lydia!-Very tender indeed!
Mrs. Mal. Tender! ay, and profane too, o' my conscience.
Abs. [Reads.]  I am excessively alarmed at the intelligence
you send me, the more so as m1y new rival —
Mrs. Mal. That's you, sir.
Abs. [Reads.]  Has universally the character of being an
accomplished gentleman and a man of honour.-Well, that's
handsome enough.
Mrs. Mal. Oh, the fellow has some design in writing so.
Abs. That he had, I'11 answer for him, ma'am.
Mrs. Mal. But go on, sir-you'11 see presently.
Abs. [Reads.]  As for the old weather-beaten she-dragon
who guards you-Who can he mean by that?
Mrs. Mal. Me, sir!-me!-he means me!-There-what
do you think now?-but go on a little further.
Abs. Impudent scoundrel!-[Reads.] it shall go hard but
I will elude her vigilance, as I ant told that the same ridiculous vanity, which makes her dress up her coarse features,
and deck her dull chat with hard words which she don't understand —




sC. 1.l.]             THE RIVALS.                   24J
' Mrs. Mal. There, sir, an attack upon my language! what
do you think of that?-an aspersion upon my parts of speech!
was ever such a brute! Sure, if fIreprehend any thing in this
world, it is the use of my oracular tongue, and a nice derangement of epitaphs!                                             I
Abs. He deserves to be hanged and quartered! let me see
-[Reads.] same ridiculous vanity ---Mrs. Mal. You need not read it again, sir.
Abs. I beg pardon, ma'am.-[Reads.] does also lay her
open to the grossest deceptions from flattery and pretended ad
miration-an impudent coxcomb!-so that I have a scheme
to see you shortly with the old harridan's consent, and even
to make her a go-between in, our interview.-Was ever such
assurance!
Mrs. Mal. Did you ever hear any thing like it?-he '11 elude
my vigilance, will he-yes, yes! ha! ha! he's very likely to
enter these doors;-we '11 try who can plot best!
Abs. So we will, ma'am-so we will! Ha! ha! ha! a conceited puppy, ha! ha! ha!-Well, but Mrs. Malaprop, as the
girl seems so infatuated by this fellow, suppose you were to
wink at her corresponding with him for a little time-let her
even plot an elopement with him-then do you connive at
her escape-while I, just in the nick, will have the fellow
laid by the heels, and fairly contrive to carry her off in his
stead.
Mrs. Mal. I am delighted with the scheme; never was anything better perpetrated!
Abs. But, pray, could not I see the lady for a few minutes
now?-I should like to try her temper a little.
Mrs. Mal. Why, I don't know-I doubt she is not prepared for a visit of this kind. There is a decorum in these
matters.
Abs. 0 Lord! she won't mind me-only tell her Bever
leyMrs. Mal. Sir!
Abs. Gently, good tongue.                      [Aside
Mrs. Mal. What did you say of Beverley?
Abs. Oh, I was going to propose that you should tell her,
by way of jest, that it was Beverley who was below; she'd
come down fast enough then-ha! ha! ha!
Mrs. Mal. 'Twould be a trick she well deserves; besides,




248


THE RIVALS


[ACT III.


you know the fellow tells her he '11 get my consent to see
her-ha! ha! Let him if he can, I say again. Lydia, come
down here! —[Calling.]  He'11 make me a go-between in
their interviews!-ha! ha! ha! Come down, I say, Lydia!
I don't wonder at your laughing, ha! ha! ha! his impudence
is truly ridiculous.
Abs. 'T:s very ridiculous, upon my soul, ma'am, ha!
ha! ha!
Mrs. Mal. The little hussy won't hear. Well, I '11 go and
tell her at once who it is-she shall know that Captain Absolute is come to wait on her. And I '11 make her behave as
becomes a young woman.
Abs. As you please, ma'am.
Mrs. Mal. For the present, captain, your servant. Ah!
you've not done laughing yet, I see-elude my vigilance;
yes, yes; ha! ha! ha!                            [Exit.
Abs. Ha! ha! ha! one would think now that I might
throw off all disguise at once, and seize my prize with security;
but such is Lydia's caprice, that to undeceive were probably
to lose her. I 11 see whether she knows me.
[Walks aside, and seems engaged in looking at the pietures.
Enter LYDIA.
Lyd. What a scene am I now to go through! surely nothing can be more dreadful than to be obliged to listen to
the loathsome addresses of a stranger to one's heart. I have
heard of girls persecuted as I am, who have appealed in behalf
of their favoured lover to the generosity of his rival suppose I were to try it-there stands the hated rival-an officer
too!-but oh, how unlike my Beverley! I wonder he don't
begin-truly he seems a very negligent wooer!-quite at his
ease, upon my word!-I '11 speak first-Mr. Absolute.
Abs. Ma'am.                            [Turns round.
Lyd. 0 heavens! Beverley!
Abs. Hush!-hush, my life! softly! be not surprised
Lyd. I am so astonished! and so terrified! and so overjoyed!-for Heaven's sake! how came you here?
Abs. Briefly, I have deceived your aunt-I was informed
that my new rival was to visit here this evening, and contriving to have him kept away, have passed myself on her
for Captain Absolute.


--- -------- 1 _ ___. __




sC. III.]


THE RIVALS,


a49


Lyd. 0 charming! And she really takes you for young
Absolute?
Abs. Oh, she's convinced of it.
Lyd. Ha! ha! ha! I can't forbear laughing to think how
her sagacity is overreached!
Abs. But we trifle with our precious moments-such another
opportunity may not occur; then let me now conjure my
kind, my condescending angel, to fix the time when I may
rescue her from undeserving persecution, and with a licensed
warmth plead for my reward.
Lyd. Will you then, Beverley, consent to forfeit that portion of my paltry wealth?- that burden on the wings of
love?
Abs. Oh, come to me-rich only thus-in loveliness!
Bring no portion to me but thy love —'twill be generous in
you, Lydia-for well you know, it is the only dower your
poor Beverley can repay.
Lyd. How persuasive are his words!-how charming will
poverty be with him!                            [Aside.
Abs. Ah! my soul, what a life will we then live! Love
shall be our idol and support! we will worship him with a
monastic strictness; abjuring all worldly toys, to centre every
thought and action there. Proud of calamity, we will enjoy
the wreck of wealth; while the surrounding gloom of adversity shall make the flame of our pure love show doubly
bright. By Heavens! I would fling all goods of fortune from
me with a prodigal hand, to enjoy the scene where I might
clasp my Lydia to my bosom, and say, the world affords no
smile to me but here-[Embracing her.] If she holds out
now, the devil is in it!                        [Aside.
Lyd. Now could I fly with him to the antipodes! but my
persecution is not yet come to a crisis.        [Aside.
Re-enter MRS. MAiLPROP, listening.
Mrs. Mal. I am impatient to know how the little hussy
deports herself.                                [Aside
Abs. So pensive, Lydia!-is then your warmth abated?
Mrs. Mal. Warmth abated!-so!-she has been in a pas
sion, I suppose.                                [Asid~
Iadd. No-nor ever can while I have life.




250                  THE RIVALS.             FACT II
Mrs. Mal. An ill tempered little devil! She '11 be in a
passion all her life-will she?                [Aside.
Lyd. Think not the idle threats of my ridiculous aunt
can ever have any weight with me.
Mrs. Mal. Ve'ry dutiful, upon my word!       [Aside.
Lyd. Let her choice be Captain Absolute, but Beverley
is mine.
Mrs. Mal. I am astonished at her assurance!-to his face
-,thTs is to his face!                         [Aside
Abs. Thus then let me enforce my suit.    [Kneeling.
Mrs. Mal. [Aside.] Ay, poor young man!-down on his knees
entreating for pity!-I can contain no longer.-[Coming for
ward.] Why, thou vixen!-I have overheard you.
Abs. Oh, confound her vigilance!             [Aside
Mrs. Mal. Captain Absolute, I know not how to apologize
for her shocking rudeness.
Abs. [Aside.] So all's safe, I find.-[Aloud.] I have hopes,
madam, that time will bring the young lady ---
Mrs. Mal. Oh, there's nothing to be hoped for from her!
she's as headstrong as an allegory on the banks of Nile.
Lyd. Nay, madam, what do you charge me with now?
Mrs. Mal. Why, thou unblushing rebel-didn't you tell
this gentleman to his face that you loved another better?
-didn't you say you never would be his?
Lyd. No, madam-I did not.
Mrs. Mal. Good Heavens! what assurance!-Lydia, Lydia,
you ought to know that lying don't become a young woman!
-Didn't you boast that Beverley, that stroller Beverley, possessed your heart?-Tell me that, I say.
Lyd. 'Tis true, ma'am, and none but BeverleyMrs. Mal. Hold!-hold, Assurance!-you shall not be so
rude.
Abs. Nay, pray, Mrs. Malaprop, don't stop the young lady's
speech: she's very welcome to talk thus-it does not hurt
me in the least, I assure you.
Mrs. Mal. You are too good, captain-too amiably patientbut come with me, miss.-Let us see you again soon, captainremember what we have fixed.
Abs. I shall ma'am.
Mrs. Mal. Come, take a graceful leave of the gentleman


_ ~




SI. IV.]


THE PIVALS.


251


Lyd. May every blessing wait on my Beverley, my loved
Bev
Mrs. 1Ma. Hussy! I '11 choke the word in your throat!come along-come along.
[Exeunt severally; CAPTAIN ABSOLUTE kissing his hand to
LYDIA-Mrs. MALAPROP stopping her froms speaking.
SCENE IV.-ACREs' Lodgings.
ACRES, as just dressed, and DAVID.
Acres. Indeed, David-do you think I become it so?
Dav. You are quite another creature, believe me, master,
by the mass! an' we've any luck we shall see the Devon mon
kerony in all the print-shops in Bath!
Acres. Dress does make a difference, David.
Dav. 'Tis all in all, I think.-Difference! why, an' you
were to go now to Clod-hall, I am certain the old lady wouldn't
know you: master Butler wouldn't believe his own eyes, and \
Mrs. Pickle would cry, Lard presarve me! our dairy-maid
would come giggling to the door, and I warrant Dolly Tester,
your honour's favourite, would blush like my waistcoat.Oons! I '11 hold a gallon, there an't a dog in the house but
would bark, and I question whether Phillis would wag a hair
of her tail
Acres. Ay, David, there's nothing like polishing.
Dav. So I says of your honour's boots; but the boy never
heeds me!
Acres. But, David, has Mr. De-la-grace been here?  I
must rub up my balancing, and chasing, and boring.
Dav. I '11 call again, sir.
Acres. Do-and see if there are any letters for me at the
post-office
Dav. I will.-By the mass, I can't help looking at your
head!-if I hadn't been by at the cooking, I wish I may die
if I should have known the dish again myself!    [Exit.
Acres. [Practising a dancing-step.] Sink, slide-coupee.Confound the first inventors of cotillons! say I-they are as
bad as algebra to us country gentlemen-I can walk a minuet
easy enough when I am forced!-and I have been accounted
a good stick in a country-dance.-Odds jigs and tabors! I
never valued your cross-over to couple-figure in-right and
left-and I'd foot it with e'er a captain in the county! —but




265


THE RIVALT,.


[ACT:1I


these outlandish heathen allemandes and cotillons are quito
beyond me!-I shall never prosper at 'em, that's sure-mine
are true-born English legs-they don't understand their curst
French lingo!-their pas this, and pas that, and pas t'other!
-damn me! my feet don't like to be called paws! no, 'tis
certain I have most Antigallican toes!
Enter SERVANT.
Serv. Here is Sir Lucius O'Trigger to wait on you, sir.
Acres. Show him in.                   [Exit SERVANT.
Enter SIR Lucius O'TRIGGER.
Sir Luc. Mr. Acres, I am delighted to embrace you.
Acres. My dear Sir Lucius, I kiss your hands.
Sir Luc. Pray, my friend, what has brought you so suddenly to Bath?
Acres. Faith! I have followed Cupid's Jack-a-lantern, and
find myself in a quagmire at last.-In short, I have been very
ill used, Sir Lucius.-I don't choose to mention names, but
look on me as on a very ill-used gentleman.
Sir Luc. Pray what is the case?-I ask no names.
Acres. Mark me, Sir Lucius, I fall as deep as need be in
love with a young lady-her friends take my part-I follow
her to Bath-send word of my arrival; and receive answer,
that the lady is to be otherwise disposed of.-This, Sir Lucius, I call being ill used.
Sir Luc. Very ill, upon my conscience.-Pray, can you divine the cause of it?
Acres. Why, there's the matter; she has another lover,
one Beverley, who, I am told, is now in Bath.-Odds slanders
and lies! he must be at the bottom of it.
Sir Luc. A rival in the case, is there?-and you think ho
has supplanted you unfairly?
Acres. Unfairly! to be sure he has. He never could have
done it fairly.
Sir Luc. Then sure you know what is to be done!
Acres. Not I, upon my soul!
Sir Luc. We wear no swords here, but you understand me.
Acres. What! fight him!
Sir Luc. Ay, to be sure: what can I mean else?
Acres. But he has given me no provocation.
Sir Luc. Now, I think be has given you the greatest pro




ec. Iv.j


THE RIVALS.


253


vocation in the world. Can a man commit a more heinous
offence against another than to fall in love with the same
woman? Oh, by my soul! it is the most unpardonable breach
of friendship.
Acres. Breach of friendship! ay, ay; but I have no acquaintance with this man. I never saw him in my life.
Sir Luc. That's no argument at all-he has the less right
then to take such a liberty.
Acres. Gad, that's true-I grow full of anger, Sir Lucius!
-I fire apace! Odds hilts and blades! I find a man may
have a deal of valour in him, and not know it! But couldn't
I contrive to have a little right of my side?
Sir Luc. What the devil signifies right, when your honour
is concerned? Do you think Achilles, or my little Alexander
the Great, ever inquired where the right lay? No, by my
soul, they drew their broad-swords, and left the lazy sons of
peace to settle the justice of it.
Acres. Your words are a grenadier's march to my heart
I believe courage must be catching! I certainly do feel a
kind of valour rising as it were-a kind of courage, as I may
say.-Odds flints, pans, and triggers! I'11 challenge him
directly.
Sir Luc. Ah, my little friend, if I had Blunderbuss Hall
here, I could show you a range of ancestry, in the O'Trigger
e    line, that would furnish the new room; every one of whom
had killed his man!-For though the mansion-house and dirty
acres have slipped through my fingers, I thank heaven our
honour and the family-pictures are as fresh as ever.
Acres. 0, Sir Lucius! I have had ancestors too!-every man
of 'em colonel or captain in the militia!-Odds balls and
barrels! say no more-I 'm braced for it. The thunder of
_    your words has soured the milk of human kindness in my
breast;-Zounds! as the man in the play says, I could do
such deeds!
Sir Luc. Come, come, there must be no passion at all in
the case-these things should always be done civilly.
Acres. I must be in a passion, Sir Lucius-I must be in a
rage.-Dear Sir Lucius, let me be in a rage, if you lore me.
Come, here's pen and paper.-[Sits down to write.] I would
the ink were red!-Indite, I say indite!-How shall I be



THE RIVALS.


I ACT III. SO IV.


gin?  Odds bullets and blades! I '11 write a good bold hand,
however.
Sir Luc. Pray compose yourself.
Acres. Come-now, shall I begin with an oath?  Do, Sir
Lucius, let me begin with a damme.
Sir Luc. Pho! pho! do the thing decently, and like a
Christian. Begin now-SirAcres. That's too civil by half.
Sir Luc. To prevent the confusion that might ariseAcres. Well
Sir Luc. From our both addressing the same ladyAcres. Ay, there's the reason-same lady-well —
Sir Luc. I shall expect the honour of your company —
Acres. Zounds! I'm not asking him to dinner.
Sir Luc. Pray be easy.
Acres. Well then, honour of your company —
Sir Luc. To settle our pretensions —
Acres. Well.
Sir Luc. Let me see, ay, King's-Mead-Field will do-in
King's-Mead-Fields.
Acres. So, that's done-Well, I'11 fold it up presently;
my own crest-a hand and dagger shall be the seal.
Sir Luc. You see now this little explanation will put a stop
at once to all confusion or misunderstanding that might arise
between you.
Acres. Ay, we fight to prevent any misunderstanding.
Sir Luc. Now, I'11 leave you to fix your own time.-Take
my advice, and you'11 decide it this evening if you can; then
let the worst come of it, 'twill be off your mind to-morrow.
Acres. Very true.
Sir Luc. So I shall see nothing more of you, unless it be by
letter, till the evening.-I would do myself the honour to
carry your message; but, to tell you a secret, I believe I shall
have just such another affair on my own hands. There is a
gay captain here, who put a jest on me lately, at the expense
of my country, and I only want to fall in with the gentleman,
to call him out.
Acres. By my valour, I should like to see you fight first!
Odds life! I should like to see you kill him, if it was only
to get a little lesson.




,CT IV. SC. I.j


THE RYVAL.S.


2Ou


Sir Luc. I shall be very proud of instructing you. —Well
for the present-but remember now, when you meet your antagonist, do everything in a mild and agreeable manner.Let your courage be as keen, but at the same time as polished,
as your sword.                        [Exeunt severally.
ACT IV.
SCENE I.-ACRES' Lodgings.
AcREs and DAVID.
Dav.'Then, by the mass, sir! I would do no such thing
-ne'er a Sir Lucius O'Trigger in the kingdom should make
me fight, when I wa'n't so minded.  Oons! what will the old
lady say, when she hears o't?
Acres. Ah! David, if you had heard Sir Lucius!-Odds
sparks and flames! he would have roused your valour.
Dav. Not he, indeed. I hate such bloodthirsty cormorants.
Look'ee, master, if you'd wanted a bout at boxing, quarterstaff, or short-staff, I should never be the man to bid you cry
off: but for your curst sharps and snaps, I never knew any
good come of 'em.
Acres. But my honour, David, my honour! I must be very
careful of my honour.
Dav. Ay, by the mass! and I would be very careful of it;
and I think in return my honour couldn't do less than to be
very careful of me.
Acres. Odds blades! David, no gentleman will ever risk
the loss of his honour!
Dav. I say then, it would be but civil in honour never
to risk the loss of a gentleman.-Look'ee, master, this honour
seems to me to be a marvellous false friend: ay, truly, a very
courtier-like servant.-Put the case, I was a gentleman (which,
thank God, no one can say of me;) well-my honour makes
me quarrel with another gentleman of my acquaintance.-So
-we fight. (Pleasant enough that!) Boh!-I kill him(the more's my luck!) now, pray who gets the profit of it?Why, my honour. But put the case that he kills me!-by
the mass! I go to the worms, and my honour whips over to
my enemy.
Acres. No, David-in that case!-Odds crowns and laurels
your honour follows you to the grave.




THE RIVALS.


[ACT IV.


Dav. Now, that's just the place where I could make a shift
to do without it.
Acres. Zounds! David, you are a coward!-It doesn't become my valour to listen to you.-What, shall, disgrace my
ancestors?-Think of that, David-think what it would be to
disgrace my ancestors!
Dav. Under favour, the surest way of not disgracing them,
is to keep as long as you can out of their company. Look'ee
now, master, to go to them in such haste-with an ounce of
lead in your brains-I should think might as well be let
alone. Our ancestors are very good kind of folks; but they
are the last people I should choose to have a visiting acquaintance with.
Acres. But, David, now, you don't think there is such
very, very, very great danger, hey?-Odds life! people often
fight without any mischief done!
Dav. By the mass, I think 'tis ten to one againsc you!Oons! here to meet some lion-headed fellow, I warrant,
with his damned double-barrelled swords, and cut-and-thrust
pistols!-Lord bless us! it makes me tremble to think o't!
-Those be such desperate bloody-minded weapons! Well, I
never could abide 'em-from a child I never could fancy 'em!
-I suppose there a'nt been so merciless a beast in the world
as your loaded pistol!
Acres. Zounds! I won't be afraid!-Odds fire and fury!
you shan't make me afraid.-Here is the challenge, and I
have sent for my dear friend Jack Absolute to carry it for me.
Dav. Ay, i 'the name of mischief, let him be the messenger.-For my part, I wouldn't lend a hand to it for the
best horse in your stable.  By the mass! it don't look like
another letter! It is, as I may say, a designing and malicious-looking letter; and I warrant smells of gunpowder like a
soldier's pouch!-Oons! I wouldn't swear it mayn't go off!
Acres. Out, you poltroon! you ha'nt the valour of a grasshopper.
Dav. Well, I say no more-'twill be sad news, to be sure.
at Clod-Hall! but I ha' done.-How Phillis will howl when
she hears of it! —Ay, poor bitch, she little thinks what shooting her master's going after! And I warrant old Crop, who
has carried your honour, field and road, these ten years, will
curse the hour he was born.               [Whimpering,




sc I.]                THE RIVALS.                  i5't
Acres. It won't do, David-I am determined to fight-soget along you coward, while I'm in the mind
Enter SERVANT.
Ser. Captain Absolute, sir
Acres. Oh! show him up.               [Exit SERVANT.
Dav. Well, Heaven send we be all alive this time tomorrow.
Acres. What's that?-Don't provoke me, David!
Dav. Good-bye, master.                 [WThimpering.
Acres. Get along, you cowardly, dastardly, croaking raven!
[Exit DAVID.
Enter CAPTAIN ABSOLUTE.
Abs. What's the matter, Bob?
Acres. A vile, sheep-hearted blockhead! If I hadn't the
valour of St. George and the dragon to boot —
Abs. But what did you want with me, Bob?
Acres. Oh!-There-             [Gives him the challenge.
Abs. [Aside.] To Ensign Beverley.-So, what's going on
now!-[Aloud.] Well, what's this?
Acres. A challenge!
Abs. Indeed! Why, you won't fight him; will you, Bob9
Acres. Egad, but I will, Jack. Sir Lucius has wrought me
to it. He has left me full of rage-and I'11 fight this evening, that so much good passion mayn't be wasted.
Abs. But what have I to do with this?
Acres. Why, as I think you know something of this fellow,
I want you to find him out for me, and give him this mortal
defiance.
Abs. Well, give it to me, and trust me he gets it.
Acres. Thank you, my dear friend, my dear Jack; but it is
giving you a great deal of trouble.
Abs. Not in the least-I beg you won't mention it. ---No
Irouble in the world, I assure you.
Acres. You are very kind.-What it is to have a friend!You couldn't be my second, could you, Jack?
Abs. Why no, Bob-not in this affair-it would not bo
quite so proper.
Acres. Well, then, I must get my friend Sir Lucius. I
shall have your good wishes, however, Jack?
s




258


THE RIVALS.


[ACT In.


Abs. Whenever he meets you, believe me.
Re-enter SERVANT.
Ser. Sir Anthony Absolute is below, inquiring for the captain.
Abs. I'11 come instantly.-[Exit SERVANT.] Well, my little
hero, success attend you.                       [Going.
Acres.-Stay-stay, Jack.-If Beverley should ask you
what kind of a man your friend Acres is, do tell him I am a
devil of a fellow-will you, Jack?
Abs. To be sure I shall. I '11 say you are a determined
dog-hey, Bob!
Acres. Ay, do, do-and if that frightens him, egad, per
haps he mayn't come. So tell him I generally kill a man a
week; will you, Jack?
Abs. I will, I will; I'll say you are called in the country
Fighting Bob.
Acres. Right-right-'tis all to prevent mischief; for I
don't want to take his life if I clear my honour.
Abs. No!-that's very kind of you.
Acres. Why, you don't wish me to kill him-do you, Jack?
Abs. No, upon my soul, I do not. But a devil of a fellow,
hey?                                           [Going.
Acres. True, true-but stay-stay, Jack-you may add,
that you never saw me in such a rage before-a most devouring rage!
Abs. I will, I will
Acres. Remember, Jack-a determined dog!
Abs. Ay, ay, Fighting Bob!           [Exeunt severally.
SCENE. JI.-MRS. MALAPROP's Lodgings.
I                    MRS. MALAPROP and LYDIA.
Mrs _Mat. Why, thou perverse one — tell me what you can
object to him? Isn't he a handsome man?-tell me that.
A genteel man? a pretty figure of a man?
Lyd. [Aside.] She little thinks whom she is praising!
[Aloud.] So is Beverley, ma'am.
Mrs Mla. No caparisons, miss, if you please. Caparisons
don't become a young woman.    No! Captain Absolute is
indeed a fine gentleman!




,C. II.j


THE RIVALS.


25(9


Lyad. Ay, the Captain Absolute you have seen.  [Aside.
Mrs. nal. Then he's so well bred;-so full of alacrity, and
adulation!-and has so much to say for himself:-in such
good language too! His physiognomy so grammatical! Then
his presence is so noble! I protest, when I saw him, I thought
of what Hamlet says in the play: —
' esperian curls-the front of Job himself!An eye, like March, to threaten at command!A station, like Harry Mercury, new-"
Something about kissing-on a hill-however, the similitude
struck me directly.
Lyd. How enraged she '11 be presently, when she discovers
her mistake!                                    [Aside.
Enter SERVANT.
Ser. Sir Anthony and Captain Absolute are below, ma'am.
Mrs. Mal. Show them up here.-[Exit SERVANT.] Now,
Lydia, I insist on your behaving as becomes a young woman.
Show your good breeding, at least, though you have forgot
your duty.
Lyd. Madam, I have told you my resolution!-I shall not
only give him no encouragement, but I won't even speak to,
or look at him.
[Flings herself into a chair, with herfacefrom the door.
Enter SIR ANTHONY ABSOLUTE and CAPTAIN ABSOLUTE.
Sir Anth. Here we are, Mrs. Malaprop; come to mitigate
the frowns of unrelenting beauty,-and difficulty enough I
had to bring this fellow.-I don't know what's the matter;
but if I had not held him by force, he'd have given me the
slip.
Mirs. Mal. You have infinite trouble, Sir Anthony, in the
affair.  I am ashamed for the cause!-[Aside to LYDIA.]
Lydia, Lydia, rise, I beseech you!-pay your respects!
Sir Anth. I hope, madam, that Miss Languish has reflected
on the worth of this gentleman, and the regard due to her
aunt's choice, and my alliance.-[Aside to CAPTArIN ABSOLUTE.]
Now, Jack, speak to her.
Abs. [Aside.] What the devil shall I do!-[Aside to SIT
NiNTHONY.] You see, sir, she won't even look at me whilst




'260


THE RIVALS.


[ACT TV.


you are here. I knew she wouldn't! I told you so. Iet
me entreat you, sir, to leave us together!
[Seems to expostulate with his father.
Lyd. [Aside.] I wonder I ha'n't heard my aunt exclaim
yet! sure she can't have looked at him!-perhaps their regimentals are alike, and she is something blind.
Sir Anth. I say, sir, I won't stir a foot yet!
ilrs. Mal. I am sorry to say, Sir Anthony, that my affluence over my niece is very small.-[Aside to LYDIA.] Turn
round, Lydia: I blush for you!
Sir Anth. May I not flatter myself, that Miss Languish
will assign what cause of dislike she can have to my son!
[Aside to CAPTAIN ABSOLUTE.] Why don't you begin, Jack?Speak, you puppy-speak!
Mrs. Mal. It is impossible, Sir Anthony, she can have any.
She will not say she has.-[Aside to LYDIA.] Answer, hussy!
why don't you answer?
Sir Anth. Then, madam, I trust that a childish and hasty
predilection will be no bar to Jack's happiness.-[Aside to
CAPTAIN ABSOLUTE.]-Zounds! sirrah! why don't you speak!
Lyd. [Aside.] I think my lover seems as little inclined to
conversation as myself.-How strangely blind my aunt must
be!
Abs. Hem! hem! madam-hem!-[Attempts to speak, then
returns to SIR ANTHONY.] Faith! sir, I am so confounded!and-so-so-confused!-I told you I should be so, sir-I
knew it.-The-the-tremor of my passion entirely takes
away my presence of mind.
Sir Anth. But it don't take away your voice, fool, does it?
-Go up, and speak to her directly!
[CAPTAIN ABSOLUTE makes signs to MRS. MALAPROP to
leave them together.
Mrs. Mal. Sir Anthony, shall we leave them together?[Aside to LYDIA.] Ah! you stubborn little vixen!
Sir Anth. Not yet, ma'am, not yet!- [Aside to CAPTAIN
ABSOLUTE.] What the devil are you at? unlock your jaws,
sirrah, orAbs. [Aside.] Now Heaven send she may be too sullen to
look round!-I must disguise my voice.-[Draws near LYDIA,
and speaks in a low hoarse tone.] Will not Miss Languish
lend an ear to the mild accents of true love? Will not



4       SC. 11.1


THE R YVALS.


261


Sir Anth. What the devil ails the fellow?  Why don't
you speak out?-not stand croaking like a frog in a quinsy!
Abs. The-the-excess of my awe, and my-my-my mo
desty, quite choke me!
Sir Anth. Ah! your modesty again!-I '11 tell you what,
Jack; if you don't speak out directly, and glibly too, I shall
be in such a rage!-Mrs. Malaprop, I wish the lady would
favour us with something more than a side-front,
[MRS. MALAPROP seems to chide LYDIA.
*       Abs. [Aside ] So all will out, I see! —[Goes up to LYDIA,
speaks softly.] Be not surprised, my Lydia, suppress all supprise at present.
Lyd. [Aside.] Heavens! 'tis Beverley's voice!  Sure he
can't have imposed on Sir Anthony too!-[Looks round by
degrees, then starts zip.] Is this possible!-my Beverley!how can this be?-my Beverley?
Abs. Ah! 'tis all over.                        [Aside
Sir Anth. Beverley!-the devil-Beverley! —What can
the girl mean?-This is my son, Jack Absolute.
Mrs. Mal. For shame, hussy! for shame! your head runs
so on that fellow, that you have him always in your eyes!beg Captain Absolute's pardon directly.
Lyd. I see no Captain Absolute, but my loved Beverley!
Sir Anth. Zounds! the girl's mad!-her brain's turned by
reading.
Mrs. Mal. O' my conscience, I believe so! —What do you
mean by Beverley, hussy?-You saw Captain Absolute before
to-day; there he is-your husband that shall be.
Lyd. With all my soul, ma'am-when I refuse my BeverleySir Anth. Oh! she's as mad as Bedlam!-or has this fellow been playing us a rogue's trick!-Come here, sirrah,
who the devil are you?
Abs. Faith, sir, I am not quite clear myself; but I '11 en*  deavour to recollect.
Sir Anth. Are you my son or not?-answer for your mo
ther, you dog, if you won't for me.
Mrs. Mlal. Ay, sir, who are you?  0 mercy 1 I begin to
suspect!Abs. [Aside.] Ye powers of impudence, befriend me! —
[Aloud.] Sir Anthony, most assuredly I am your wife's son




2~2


TlHE RIVALS.


[ACT IV


and that I sincerely believe myself to be your's also, I hope
my duty has always shown.-Mrs. Malaprop, I am your most
respectful admirer, and shall be proud to add affectionate
nephew.-I need not tell my Lydia, that she sees her faithful
Beverley, who, knowing the singular generosity of her temper,
assumed that name and station, which has proved a test of the
most disinterested love, which he now hopes to enjoy in a more
elevated character.
Tlyd. So -there will be no elopement after all! [Sullenly.
Sir Anth. Upon my soul, Jack, thou art a very impudent
fellow! to do you justice, I think I never saw a piece of more
consummate assurance!
Abs. Oh, you flatter me, sir-you compliment-'tis my
modesty you know, sir,-my modesty that has stood in my
way.
Sir Anth. Well, I am glad you are not the dull, insensible
varlet you pretended to be, however!-I 'm glad you have
made a fool of your father, you dog-I am. So this was your
penitence, your duty and obedience!-I thought it was damned
sudden!-You never heard their names before, not you!-what
the Languishes of Worcestershire, hey?-if you could please me
in the affair it was all you desired!-Ah! you dissembling
villain!-What!-[Pointing to LYDIA] she squints, don't she?
-a little red-haired girl!- hey? —Why, you hypocritical
young rascal!-I wonder you an't ashamed to hold up your
head!
Abs. 'Tis with difficulty, sir.-I am confused-very much
confused, as you must perceive.
Mrs. Mal. 0 Lud! Sir Anthony!-a new light breaks in
upon me!-hey!-how! what! captain, did you write the
letters then?-What-am I to thank you for the elegant com*ilation of an old weather-beaten she-dragon-hey!-O mercy!
-was it you that reflected on my parts of speech?
Abs. Dear sir! my modesty will be overpowered at last, if
yoil don't assist me -I shall certainly not be able to stand
it!
Sir Anth. Come, come, Mrs. Malaprop, we must forget and
forgive;-odds life! matters have taken so clever a turn all of
a sudden, that I could find in my heart to be so good-humoured! and so gallant! hey! Mrs. Malaprop!
Mrs. Mal. Well, sir Anthony, since you desire it, we will




SC. II.]


THE RIVALS,


not anticipate the past!-so mind, young people-our retrospection will be all to the future.,.       Sir Anth. Come, we must leave them together; Mrs. lalaprop, they long to fly into each other's arms, I warrant!Jack-isn't the cheek as I said, hey?-and the eye, you
rogue!-and the lip-hey?  Come, Mrs. Malaprop, we '11 not
disturb their tenderness-theirs is the time of life for happiness!-Youth's the season madeforjoy-[Sings]-hey!-Odds
life! I'm in such spirits,-I don't know what I could not do!
— Permit me, ma'am-[Gives his hand to Mrs. MALAPROP.]
Tol-de-rol-'gad, I should like to have a little fooling myself
-Tol-de-rol! de-rol.
[Exit, singing and handing MRs. MALAPROP.-LYDIA sits
sullently in her chair.
Abs. [Aside.] So much thought bodes me no good. -[Aloud.]
So grave, Lydia!
Lyd. Sir!
Abs. [Aside.] So! - egad! I thought as much! - that
damned monosyllable has froze me!-[Aloud.]  What, Lydia,
now that we are as happy in our friends' consent, as in our
mutual vows
Lyd. Friends' consent indeed!             [Peevishly.
Ibs. Come, come, we must lay aside some of our romance
-a little wealth and comfort may be endured after all. And
for your fortune, the lawyers shall make such settlements
as —
Lyd. Lawyers! I hate lawyers!
Abs. Nay, then, we will not wait for their lingering forms,
but instantly procure the licence, andLyd. The licence!-I hate licence!
Abs. Oh my love! be not so unkind!-thus let me entreat                                          [Kneeling.
Lyd. Psha! —what signifies kneeling, when you know I
must have you?
Abs. [Rising.] Nay, madam, there shall be no constraint
upon your inclinations, I promise you.-If I have lost your
heart-I resign the rest-[Aside.] 'Gad, I must try what a
little spirit will do.
Lyd. [Rising.] Then, sir, let me tell you, the interest you
had there was acquired by a mean, unmanly imposition, and
deserves the punishment of fraud.-What, you have beer




261


THE RIVALS.


[ACT IV


treating me like a child!-humouring my romance! and
laughing, I suppose, at your success!
Abs. You wrong me, Lydia, you wrong me-only hearLyd. So, while I fondly imagined we were deceiving my
relations, and flattered myself that I should outwit and incense
them all-behold my hopes are to be crushed at once, by my
aunt's consent and approbation-and I am myself the only
dupe at last!-[Walking about in a heat.]  But here, sir,
here is the picture-Beverley's picture! [taking a miniature
from her bosom] which I have worn, night and day, in spite of
threats and entreaties!-There, sir; [flings it to him] and be
assured I throw the original from my heart as easily.
Abs. Nay, nay, ma'am, we will not differ as to that.-Here,
[taking out a picture] here is Miss Lydia Languish.-What a
difference!-ay, there is the heavenly assenting smile that
first gave soul and spirit to my hopes!-those are the lips
which sealed a vow, as yet scarce dry in Cupid's calendar!
and there the half-resentful blush, that would have checked
the ardour of my thanks!-Well, all that's past!-all over
indeed!-There, madam-in beauty, that copy is not equal
to you, but in my mind its merit over the original, in being
still the same, is such-that-I cannot find in my heart to
part with it.                          [Puts it up again.
Lyd. [Softening.] 'Tis your own doing, sir-I, J, I suppose
you are perfectly satisfied.
Abs. 0, most certainly-sure, now, this is much better than
being in love!-ha! ha! ha!-there's some spirit in this!What signifies breaking some scores of solemn promises:-all
that's of no consequence, you know.-To be sure people will
say, that miss don't know her own mind-but never mind
that! Or, perhaps, they may be ill-natured enough to hint,
that the gentleman grew tired of the lady and forsook herbut don't let that fret you.
Lyd. There is no bearing his insolence. [Bursts into tears
Re-enter MRS. MALAPROP and SIR ANTHONY ABSOLUTE.
Mrs. Mal. Come, we mustinterruptyour billing and cooing
awhile.
Lyd. This is worse than your treachery and deceit, you base
ingrate!                                     [Sobbing.
Sir Anth. What the devil's the matter now!-Zounds.




SC     HII.'


THE RIVALS.


265


Mrs. Malaprop, this is the oddest billing and cooing I ever
heard!-but what the deuce is the meaning of it?-I am quite
astonished!
Abs. Ask the lady, sir.
Mrs. Mal. Oh mercy!-I'm quite analysed, for my part!
-Why, Lydia, what is the reason Df this?
Lyd. Ask the gentleman, ma'am.
Sir Anth. Zounds! I shall be in a frenzy!-Why, Jack,
you are not come out to be any one else, are you?
Mrs. Mal. Ay, sir, there's no more trick, is there?-you
are not like Cerberus, three gentlemen at once, are you?
Abs. You'll not let me speak-I say the lady can account
for this much better than I can.
Lyd. Ma'am, you once commanded me never to think of
Beverley again-there is the man-I now obey you: for, from
this moment, I renounce him for ever.            [Exit.
Mrs. Mal. 0 mercy! and miracles! what a turn here is-why
sure, captain, you haven't behaved disrespectfully to my niece.
Sir Anth. Ha! ha! ha!-ha! ha! ha!-now I see it. Ha!
ha! ha!-now I see it-you have been too lively, Jack.
Abs. Nay, sir, upon my wordSir Anth. Come, no lying, Jack-I'm sure 'twas so.
Mrs. Mal. 0 Lud! Sir Anthony!-0 fy, captain!
Abs. Upon my soul, ma'am
Sir Anth. Come, no excuses, Jack; why, your father, you
rogue, was so before you:-the blood of the Absolutes was
always' impatient.-Ha! ha! ha! poor little Lydia! why,
you've frightened her, you dog, you have.
Abs. By all that's good, sir
Sir Anth. Zounds! say no more, I tell you-Mrs. Malaprop
shall make your peace.-You must make his peace, Mrs. Malaprop:-you must tell her 'tis Jack's way-tell her 'tis all out
ways-it runs in the blood of our family!-Come away, Jack
-Ha! ha! ha! Mrs. Malaprop -a young villain!
[Pushing him out.
Mrs. Mal. O! Sir Anthony!-0 fy, captain!
[Exeunt severally,
SCENE III.-The North Parade.
Enter SIR Lucius O'TRIGGER.
Sir Luc I wonder where this Captain Absolute hides him




M6


THE RIVALS.


LACT 1V


self! Upon my conscience! these officers are always in one'c
way in love affairs:-I remember I might have married lady
Dorothy Carmine, if it had not been for a little rogue of a
major, who ran away with her before she could get a sight of
me! And I wonder too what it is the ladies can see in them
to be so fond of them-unless it be a touch of the old serpent in 'em, that makes the little creatures be caught, like
vipers, with a bit of red cloth.  Ha! isn't this the captain
coming?-faith it is!-There is a probability of succeeding
about that fellow, that is mighty provoking! Who the devil
is he talking to?                        [Steps aside.
Enter CAPTATN ABSOLUTE.
Abs. [Aside.] To what fine purpose I have been plotting!
a noble reward for all my schemes, upon my soul!-a little
gipsy!-I did not think her romance could have made her so
damned absurd either. 'Sdeath, I never was in a worse humour in my life!-I could cut my own throat, or any other
person's, with the greatest pleasure in the world!
Sir Luc. Oh, faith! I'm in the luck of it. I never could
have found him in a sweeter temper for my purpose-to be
sure I'm just come in the nick! Now to enter into conversation with him, and so quarrel genteelly.-[Goes up to CAPTAIN
ABSOLUTE.] With regard to that matter, captain, I must beg
leave to differ in opinion with you.
Abs. Upon my word, then, you must be a very subtle disputant:-because, sir, I happened just then to be giving no
opinion at all.
Sir Luc. That's no reason. For give me leave to tell you,
a man may think an untruth as well as speak one.
Abs. Very true, sir; but if a man never utters his thoughts,
I should think they might stand a chance of escaping controversy.
Sir Luc. Then, sir, you differ in opinion with me, which
amounts to the same thing.
Abs. Hark'ee, Sir Lucius; if I had not before known you
to be a gentleman, upon my soul, I should not have discovered
it at this interview: for what you can drive at, unless you
mean to quarrel with me, I cannot conceive!
Sir Luc. I humbly thank you, sir, for the quickness of
your apprehension.-[Bowing.] You have named the very
thing I would be at.


I




t       r.j


THE RIVALS.


267


Abs. Very well, sir, I shall certainly not balk your inclina
tions.-But I should be glad you would please to explain.     your motives.
Sir Luc. Pray sir, be easy; the quarrel is a very pretty
quarrel as it stands; we should only spoil it by trying to explain it. However, your memory is very short, or you could
not have forgot an affront you passed on me within this week
So, no more, but name your time and place.
Abs. Well, sir, since you arb so bent on it, the sooner the
better; let it be this evening-here, by the Spring Gardens,
We shall scarcely be interrupted.
Sir Luc. Faith! that same interruption in affairs of this
nature shows very great ill-breeding. I don't know what's
the reason, but in England, if a thing of this kind gets
wind, people make such a pother, that a gentleman -an never
fight in peace and quietness. However, if it's the same to
you, captain, I should take it as a particular kindness if you'd
let us meet in King's-Mead-Fields, as a little business will
call me there about six o'clock, and I may despatch both matters at once.
Abs. 'Tis the same to me exactly. A little after six, then,
we will discuss this matter more seriously.
Sir Luc. If you please, sir; there will be very pretty smallsword light, though it won't do for a long shot. So that matter 's settled, and my mind 's at ease!             [Exit.
Enter FAULKLAND.
Abs. Well met! I was going to look for you. 0 Faulkland! all the demons of spite and disappointment have conspired against me!  I 'm so vexed, that if I had not the
prospect of a resource in being knocked o' the head by-and%     by, I should scarce have spirits to tell you the cause.
Faulk. What can you mean?-Has Lydia changed her
mind?-I should have thought her duty and inclination would
now have pointed to the same object.
Abs. Ay, just as the eyes do of a person who squints:
when her love-eye was fixed on me, t'other, her eye of duty,
was finely obliqued: but when duty bid her point that the
same way, off t'other turned on a swivel, and secured its rotreat with a frown!
Faulk. But what's the resource you —


0.




268


THIIE RIVALS.


[ACT IV. SO. ITI.


Abs. Oh, to wind up the whole, a good-natured Irishman
here has-[M3imicking SIR Lucius]-begged leave to have
the pleasure of cutting my throat; and 1 mean to indulge
him-that's all.
Faulk. Prithee, be serious!
Abs. 'Tis fact, upon my soul! Sir Lucius O'Trigger-you
know him by sight-for some affront, which I am sure I
never intended, has obliged me to meet him this evening at
six o'clock: 'tis on that account I wished to see you; you
must go with me.
Faulk. Nay, there must be some mistake, sure. Sir Lucius
shall explain himself, and I dare say matters may be accommodated. But this evening did you say? I wish it had been
any other time.
Abs. Why? there will be light enough: there will (as Sir
Lucius says) be very pretty small-sword light, though it will
not do for a long shot. Confound his long shots.
Faulk. But I am myself a good deal ruffled by a difference I have had with Julia. My vile tormenting temper has
made me treat her so cruelly, that I shall not be myself till
we are reconciled.
Abs. By heavens! Faulkland, you don't deserve her!
Enter SERVANT, gives FAULKLAND a letter, and exit.
Faulk. Oh, Jack! this is from Julia. I dread to open it!
1 fear it may be to take a last leave!-perhaps to bid me
return her letters, and restore-  Oh, how I suffer for my
folly!
Abs. Here, let me see.-[Takes the letter and opens it.]
Ay, a final sentence, indeed!-'tis all over with you, faith!
Faulk. Nay, Jack, don't keep me in suspense!
Abs. Hear then.-[Reads.] As I am convinced that my
dear Faulkland's own reflections have already upbraided him
for his last unkindness to me, I will not add a word on the
subject. I wish to speak with you as soon as possible. Yours
ever and truly, JULIA. There's stubbornness and resentment
for you! -[Gives him the letter.]  Why, man, you don't seem
one whit the happier at this '
Faulk. 0 yes, I am; but-butAbs. Confound your buts! you never hear any thing that




ACT 7. SC. I.j


THE RIVALS.


239


would make another man bless himself, but you immediately
damn it with a but!
Faulk. Now, Jack, as you are my friend, own honestlydon't you think there is something forward, something indelicate, in this haste to forgive? Women should never sue for
reconciliation: that should always come from  us.  They
should retain their coldness till wooed to kindness; and their
pardon, like their love, should "not unsought be won."
Abs. I have not patience to listen to you! thou'rt incorrigible! so say no more on the subject. I must go to settle
a few matters. Let me see you before six, remember, at my
lodgings. A poor industrious devil like me, who have toiled,
and drudged, and plotted to gain my ends, and am at last
disappointed by other people's folly, may in pity be allowed
to swear and grumble a little; but a captious sceptic in love,
a slave to fretfulness and whim, who has no difficulties but of
his own creating, is a subject more fit for ridicule than com-,     passion!                                         [Exit.
Faulk. I feel his reproaches; yet I would not change this
too exquisite nicety for the gross content with which he
tramples on the thorns of love! His engaging me in this
duel has started an idea in my head, which I will instantly
pursue. I '11 use it as the touchstone of Julia's sincerity and
disinterestedness. If her love prove pure and sterling ore.
my name will rest on it with honour; and once I've stamped
it there, I lay aside my doubts for ever! But if the dross of
selfishness, the alloy of pride, predominate, 'twill be best to
leave her as a toy for some less cautious fool to sigh for!
[Exit.
ACT V.
SCENE I.-JULIA'S Dressing-Room.
JULIA discovered alone.
Jul How this message has alarmed me! what dreadful
accident can he mean? why such charge to be alone? —
Faulkland!-how many unhappy moments-how many tears
have you cost me.


I




I73


THE RIVALS.


[4CT. v.


Enter FAULKLAND.
Jul. What means this?-why this caution, Faulkland?
Faulk. Alas! Julia, I am come to take a long farewell.
Jul. Heavens! what do you mean?
Faulk. You see before you a wretch, whose life is forfeited.
Nay, start not!-the infirmity of my temper has drawn all
this misery on me. I left you fretful and passionate-an
untoward accident drew me into a quarrel-the event is, that
I must fly this kingdom instantly. 0 Julia, had I been so
fortunate as to have called you mine entirely, before this mischance had fallen on me, I should not so deeply dread my
banishment!
Jul. My soul is oppressed with sorrow at the nature of
your misfortune: had these adverse circumstances arisen from
a less fatal cause, I should have felt strong comfort in the
thought that I could now chase from your bosom every doubt
of the warm sincerity of my love. My heart has long known
no other guardian-I now entrust my person to your honour
-we will fly together. When safe from pursuit, my father's
will may be fulfilled-and I receive a legal claim to be the
partner of your sorrows, and tenderest comforter. Then on
the bosom of your wedded Julia, you may lull your keen regret to slumbering; while virtuous love, with a cherub's hand,
shall smooth the brow of upbraiding thought, and pluck the
thorn from compunction.
Faulk. 0 Julia! I am bankrupt in gratitude! but the time
is so pressing, it calls on you for so hasty a resolution.Would you not wish some hours to weigh the advantages you
forego, and what little compensation poor Faulkland can make
you beside his solitary love?
Jul. I ask not a moment. No, Faulkland, I have loved
you for yourself: and if I now, more than ever, prize the
solemn engagement which so long has pledged us to each
other, it is because it leaves no room for hard aspersions on
my fame, and puts the seal of duty to an act of love. But
let us not linger. Perhaps this delayFaulk. 'Twill be better I should not venture out again till
dark. Yet am I grieved to think what numberless distresses
will press heavy on your gentle disposition!




SC. I,,J


THE RIVAlS


271


Jul. Perhaps your fortune may be forfeited by this unhappy act.-I know not whether 'tis so; but sure that alone
can never make us unhappy.    The little I have will be
sufficient to support us; and exile never should be splendid.
Faulk. Ay, but in such an abject state of life, my wounded
pride perhaps may increase the natural fretfulness of my
temper, till I become a rude, morose companion, beyond your
patience to endure. Perhaps the recollection of a deed my
conscience cannot justify may haunt me in such gloomy and
unsocial fits, that I shall hate the tenderness that would
relieve me, break from your arms, and quarrel with your
fondness!
Jul. If your thoughts should assume so unhappy a bent,
you will the more want some mild and affectionate spirit to
watch over and console you: one who, by bearing your infirmities with gentleness and resignation, may teach you so to
bear the evils of your fortune.
Faulk. Julia, I have proved you to the quick! and with
this useless device I throw away all my doubts. How shall
I plead to be forgiven this last unworthy effect of my restless,
unsatisfied disposition?
Jul. Has no such disaster happened as you related?
Faulk. I am ashamed to own that it was pretended; yet
in pity, Julia, do not kill me with resenting a fault which
never can be repeated: but sealing, this once, my pardon, let
me to-morrow, in the face of Heaven, receive my future guide
and monitress, and expiate my past folly by years of tender
adoration.
Jul. Hold, Faulkland!-that you are free from a crime,
which I before feared to name, Heaven knows how sincerely
I rejoice! These are tears of thankfulness for that! But
that your cruel doubts should have urged you to an imposition
that has wrung my heart, gives me now a pang more keen
than I can express!
Faulk. By Heavens! Julia —
Jul. Yet hear me.-My father loved you, Faulkland! and
you preserved the life that tender parent gave me; in his
presence I pledged my hand-joyfully pledged it-where
before I had given my heart. When, soon after, I lost that
parent, it seemed to me that Providence had, in Faulkland,
shown me whither to transfer without a pause, my grateful




a72


THE RTVALS.


[ACT V.


duty, as well as my affection: hence I have been content to
bear from you what pride and delicacy would have forbid me
from another. I will not upbraid you, by repeating how you
have trifled with my sincerity —
Faulk. I confess it all! yet hear
Jul. After such a year of trial, I might have flattered
myself that I should not have been insulted with a new probation of my sincerity, as cruel as unnecessary! I now see
it is not in your nature to be content or confident in love.
With this conviction-I never will be yours. While I had
hopes that my persevering attention, and unreproaching kindness, might in time reform your temper, I should have been
happy to have gained a dearer influence over you; but I will
not furnish you with a licensed power to keep alive an incorrigible fault, at the expense of one who never would contend
with you.
Faulk. Nay, but, Julia, by my soul and honour, if after
this
Jul. But one word more.-As my faith has once been
given to you, I never will barter it with another.-I shall
pray for your happiness with the truest sincerity; and the
dearest blessing I can ask of Heaven to send you will be to
charm you from that unhappy temper, which alone has prevented the performance of our solemn engagement. All I
request of you is, that you will yourself reflect upon this
infirmity, and when you number up the many true delights it
has deprived you of, let it not Le your least regret, that it lost
you the love of one who woul) have followed you in beggary
through the world!                              [Exit.
Faulk. She's gone-for ever!-There was an awful resolution in her manner, that riveted me to my place.-O fool
-dolt!-barbarian! Cursed as I am, with more imperfec
tions than my fellow wretches, kind Fortune sent a heavengifted cherub to my aid, and, like a ruffian, I have driven her
from my side! -I must now haste to my appointment. Well,
my mind is tuned for such a scene. I shall wish only to become a principal in it, and reverse the tale my cursed folly
put me upon forging here.-O Love!-tormentor!-fiend!whose influence, like the moon's, acting on men of dull souls,
makes idiots of them, but meeting subtler spirits, betrays
their course, and urges sensibility to madness!  [Exit.




s0. I.]


THE RIVALS.


273


Enter LYDIA and MAID.
Maid. My mistress, ma'am, I know, was here just nowperhaps she is only in the next room.           [Exit.
Lyd. Heigh-ho! Though he has used me so, this fellow
runs strangely in my head. I believe one lecture from my
grave cousin will make me recall him.  [Re-enter JULIA.]
O Julia, I am come to you with such an appetite for consolation.-Lud! child, what's the matter with you? You have
been crying!-I '11 be hanged if that Faulkland has not been
tormenting you!
Jul. You mistake the cause of my uneasiness!-Something
has flurried me a little. Nothing that you can guess at.[Aside.] I would not accuse Faulkland to a sister!
Lyd. Ah! whatever vexations you may have, I can assure
you mine surpass them. You know who Beverley proves to
be?
Jul. I will now own to you, Lydia, that Mr. Faulkland
had before informed me of the whole affair. Had young Absolute been the person you took him for, I should not have
accepted your confidence on the subject, without a serious endeavour to counteract your caprice.
Lyd. So, then, I see I have been deceived by every one!
But I don't care-I '11 never have him.
Jul. Nay, LydiaLyd. Why, is it not provoking? when I thought we were
coming to the prettiest distress imaginable, to find myself
made a mere Smithfield bargain of at last! There, had I
projected one of the most sentimental elopements!-so becoming a disguise!-so amiable a ladder of ropes!-Conscious
moon-four horses-Scotch parson-with such surprise to
Mrs. Malaprop-and such paragraphs in the newspapers!Oh, I shall die with disappointment!
Jul. I don't wonder at it!
Lyd. Now-sad reverse!-what have I to expect, but, after
a deal of flimsy preparation with a bishop's licence, and my
aunt's blessing, to go simpering up to the altar; or perhaps
be cried three times in a country church, and have an unmannerly fat clerk ask the consent of every butcher in tho
parish to join John Absolute and Lydia Languish, spinster!
Oh that I should live to hear myself called spinster!


i




274


THE RIVALS.


[ACT V.


Jul. Melancholy indeed!
Lyd. How mortifying, to remember the dear delicious shifts
I used to be put to, to gain half a minute's conversation with
this fellow! How often have I stole forth, in the coldest night
in January, and found him in the garden, stuck like a dripping
statue! There would he kneel to me in the snow, and sneeze
and cough so pathetically! he shivering with cold and I with
apprehension! and while the freezing blast numbed our joints,
how warmly would he press me to pity his flame, and glow
with mutual ardour!-Ah, Julia, that was something like being
in love.
Jul. If I were in spirits, Lydia, I should chide you only
by laughing heartily at you; but it suits more the situation of
my mind, at present, earnestly to entreat you not to let a man,
who loves you with sincerity, suffer that unhappiness from
your caprice, which I know too well caprice can inflict.
Lyd. 0 Lud! what has brought my aunt here?
Enter MRS MALAPROP, FAG, and DAVID.
Mrs. Mal. So! so! here's fine work!-here's fine suicide,
parricide, and simulation, going on in the fields! and Sir Anthony not to be found to prevent the antistrophe!
Jul. For Heaven's sake, madam, what's the meaning of
this?
Mrs. Mal. That gentleman can tell you-'twas he enveloped
the affair to me.
Lyd. Do, sir, will you, inform us?         [To FAG.
Fag. Ma'am, I should hold myself very deficient in every
requisite that forms the man of breeding, if I delayed a moment to give all the information in my power to a lady so
deeply interested in the affair as you are.
Lyd. But quick! quick sir!
Fag. True, ma'am, as you say, one should be quick in divulging matters of this nature; for should we be tedious,
perhaps while we are flourishing on the subject, two or three
lives may be lost!
Lyd. 0 patience!-Do, ma'am, for Heaven's sake! tell us
what is the matter?
Mrs. Mal. Why, murder's the matter! slaughter's the
matter! killing's the matter!-but he can tell you the perpendiculars.




BO. I.J


THE RIVALS.


276


Lyd. Then, prithee, sir, be brief.
Fag. Why then, ma'am, as to murder-I cannot take upon
m e to say-and as to slaughter, or manslaughter, that will be
as the jury finds it.
Lyd. But who, sir-who are engaged in this?
Fag. Faith, ma'am, one is a young gentleman whom I
should be very sorry any thing was to happen to-a very pretty
behaved gentleman! We have lived much together, and always on terms.
Lyd. But who is this? who! who! who?
Fag. My master, ma'am-my master-I speak of my mas
ter.
Lyd. Heavens! What, Captain Absolute!
Mrs. Mal. Oh, to be sure, you are frightened now!
Jul. But who are with him, sir?
Fag. As to the rest, ma'am, this gentleman can inform you
better than I.
Jul. Do speak, friend.                        [To DAVID.
Dav. Look'ee, my lady-by the mass! there's mischief
going on. Folks don't use to meet for amusement with firearms, firelocks, fire-engines, fire-screens, fire-office, and the
devil knows what other crackers beside!-This, my lady, I
say, has an angry favour.
Jul. But who is there beside Captain Absolute, friend?
Dav. My poor master-under favour for mentioning him
first. You know me, my lady-I am David-and my master
of course is, or was, Squire Acres. Then comes Squire Faulkland.
Jul. Do, ma'am, let us instantly endeavour to prevent mischief.
Mrs. Mal 0 fy!-it would be very inelegant in us:-we
should only participate things.
Dav. Ah! do, Mrs. Aunt, save a few lives-they are desperately given, believe me.-Above all, there is that bloodthirsty Philistine, Sir Lucius O'Trigger.
Mrs. Mal. Sir Lucius O'Trigger? 0 mercy! have they
drawn poor little dear Sir Lucius into the scrape?-Why, how
you stand, girl! you have no more feeling than one of the
Derbyshire petrifactions
Lyd. What are we to do, madam?
T 2




270


THE RIVALS.


[ACT V.


Mrs. Mal. Why fly with the utmost felicity, to be sure, to
prevent mischief!-Here, friend, you can show us the place?
Fag. If you please, ma'am, I will conduct you.-David, do
you look for Sir Anthony.                 [Exit DAVID.
Mrs. MIal. Come. girls! this gentleman will exhort us.Come, sir, you 're our envoy-lead the way, and we'11 precede.
Fag. Not a step before the ladies for the world!
Mrs. Mal. You 're sure you know the spot?
Fag. I think I can find it, ma'am; and one good thing is,
we shall hear the report of the pistols as we draw near, so we
can't well miss them;-never fear, ma'am, never fear.
[Exeunt, he talking.
SCENE II.-The South Parade.
Enter CAPTAIN ABSOLUTE, putting his sword under his great
coat.
Abs. A sword seen in the streets of Bath would raise as
great an alarm  as a mad dog.-How provoking this is in
Faulkland!-never punctual! I shall be obliged to go without him at last.-Oh, the devil! here's Sir Anthony! how
shall I escape him?
[Muffles up his face, and takes a circle to go off.
Enter SIR ANTHONY ABSOLUTE.
Sir. Anth. How one may be deceived at a little distance I
only that I see he don't know me, I could have sworn that
was Jack!-Hey! Gad's life! it is.-Why, Jack, what are you
afraid of? hey!-sure I'm right.-Why Jack, Jack Absolute!
[Goes up to him.
Abs. Really, sir, you have the advantage of me:-I don't
remember ever to have had the honour-my name is Saunderson, at your service.
Sir Anth. Sir, I beg your pardon-I took you-hey?why, zounds! it is-Stay-[Looks up to his face.] So, soyour humble servant, Mr. Saunderson! Why, you scoundrel,
what tricks are you after now?
Abs. Oh, a joke, sir, a joke! I came here on purpose to
look for you, sir.
Sir Anth. You did! well, I am glad you were so lucky:but what are you muffled up so for?-what's this for?-hey!




SC. Il.]


THE RIVALS.


Abs. 'Tis cool, sir; isn't?-rather chilly somehow:-but
I shall be late-I have a particular engagement.
Sir Anth. Stay!-Why, I thought you were looking for
me?-Pray, Jack, where is 't you are going?
Abs. Going, sir!
Sir Anth. Ay, where are you going?
Abs. Where am I going?
Sir Anth. You unmannerly puppy!
Abs. I was going, sir, to-to-to —to Lydia-sir, to Lydia
-to make matters up if I could;-and I was looking for you,
sir, to-toSir Anth. To go with you, I suppose.-Well, come along.
Abs. Oh! zounds! no, sir, not for the world!-I wished to
meet with you, sir,-to-to-to-You find it cool, I'm sure,
sir-you'd better not stay out.
Sir Anth. Cool!-not at all.-Well, Jack-and what will
you say to Lydia?
Abs. Oh, sir, beg her pardon, humour her-promise and
vow: but I detain you, sir-consider the cold air on your gout.
Sir Anth. Oh, not at all!-not at all! I'm in no hurry.Ah! Jack, you youngsters, when once you are wounded here
[Putting his hand to CAPTAIN ABSOLUTE'S breast.] Hey! what,the deuce have you got here?
Abs. Nothing, sir-nothing;
Sir Anth. What's this?-here's something damned hard
Abs. Oh, trinkets, sir! trinkets!-a bauble for Lydia!
Sir Anth. Nay, let me see your taste.-[Pulls his coat open,
the sword falls.] Trinkets!-a bauble for Lydia!-Zounds!
sirrah, you are not going to cut her throat, are you?
Abs. Ha! ha! ha!-I thought it would divert you, sir,
though I didn't mean to tell you till afterwards.
Sir Anth. You didn't?-Yes, this is a very diverting trinket,
truly!
Abs. Sir, I'11 explain to you.-You know, sir, Lydia is romantic, devilish romantic, and very absurd of course: now,
sir, I intend, if she refuses to forgive me, to unsheath this
sword, and swear-I '11 fall upon its point, and expire at her
feet!
Sir Anth. Fall upon a fiddlestick's end!-why, I suppose
it is the very thing that would please her.-Get along, you,fool!




278


THE RIVALS.


[ACT V.


Abs. Well, sir, you shall hear of my success-you shall
hear.-O Lydia! —forgive me, or this pointed steel-says I.
Sir Anth. 0, booby! stab away and welcome-says she.Get along! and damn your trinkets! [Exit CAPTAIN ABSOIUTE.
Enter DAVID, running.
Dav. Stop him! stop him! Murder! Thief! Fire!Stop fire! Stop fire!-O Sir Anthony-call! call! bid 'm
Stop! Murder! Fire!
Sir Anth. Fire! Murder!-Where?
Dav. Oons! he's out of sight! and I 'm out of breath! for
my part! O Sir Anthony, why didn't you stop him? why
didn't you stop him?
Sir Anth. Zounds! the fellow's mad!-Stop whom? stop
Jack?
Dav. Ay, the captain, sir!-there's murder and slaughter —
Sir Anth. Murder!
Dav. Ay, please you, Sir Anthony, there 's all kinds of murder, all sorts of slaughter to be seen in the fields: there's
fighting going on, sir-bloody sword-and-gun fighting!
Sir Anth. Who are going to fight, dunce?
Dav. Every body that I know of, Sir Anthony:-every body
is going to fight, my poor master, Sir Lucius O'Trigger, your
son, the captain —
Sir Anth. Oh, the dog! I see his tricks.-Do you know the
place?
Dav. King's-Mead-Fields.
Sir Anth. You know the way?
Dav. Not an inch; but I'11 call the mayor-aldermenconstables-churchwardens-and beadles-we can't be too
many to part them.
Sir Anth. Come along-give me your shoulder! we '11 get
assistance as we go-the lying villain!-Well, I shall be in
such a frenzy!- So-this was the history of his trinkets! I '11
bauble him!                                    [Exeu!t.
SCENE III.-King's-Mead-Fields.
Enter Sir LucIus O'TRIGGER and ACRES, with pistols.
Acres. By my valour! then, Sir Lucius, forty yards is a
good distance. Odds levels and aims!-I say it is a good
distance.




oe. III.]


TE  RIVALS.


279


Sir Luc. Is it for muskets or small field-pieces? Upon my
conscience, Mr. Acres, you must leave those things to me.Stay now-I '11 show you.-[Measures paces along the stage.]
There now, that is a very pretty distance-a pretty gentleman's distance.
Acres. Zounds! we might as well fight in a sentry-box  I
tell you, Sir Lucius, the farther he is off, the cooler I shall
take my aim.
Sir Luc. Faith! then I suppose you would aim at him best
of all if he was out of sight!
Acres. No, Sir Lucius; but I should think forty or eightand-thirty yardsSir Luc. Pho! pho! nonsense! three or four feet between
the mouths of your pistols is as good as a mile.
Acres. Odds bullets, no!-by my valour! there is no merit
in killing him so near: do, my dear Sir Lucius, let me bring
him down at a long shot:-a long shot, Sir Lucius, if you love
r    me!
Sir Luc. Well, the gentleman's friend and I must settle
that.-But tell me now, Mr. Acres, in case of an accident, is
there any little will or commission I could execute for you?
Acres. I am much obliged to you, Sir Luoilas-but I don't
understandSir Luc. Why, you may think there's no being shot at
without a little risk-and if an unlucky bullet should carry a
quietus with it-I say it will be no time then to be bothering
you about family matters.
Acres. A quietus!
Sir Luc. For instance, now-if that should be the casewould you choose to be pickled and sent home?-or would it be
the same to you to lie here in the Abbey?-I 'm told there is
very snug lying in the Abbey.
Acres. Pickled!-Snug lying in the Abbey!-Odds trmors! Sir Lucius, don't talk so!
Sir Luc. I suppose, Mr. Acres, you never were engaged in
an affair of this kind before?
Acres. No, Sir Lucius, never before.
Sir Luc. Ah! that's a pity!-there's nothing like being
used to a thing.-Pray now, how would you receive the g-entleman's shot?
Acres. Odds files!-I 'e practised that-there, Sir Lucius




280


THE RIVALS.


fACT V.


-there.-[Puts himself in an attitude.]  A side-front, hey?
Odd! I '11 make myself small enough: I '11 stand edgeways.
Sir Luc. Now-you're quite out-for if you stand so when
I take my aim-                         [Levelling at him.
Acres. Zounds! Sir Lucius-are you sure it is not cocked?
Sir Luc. Never fear.
Acres. But-but —you don't know-it may go off of its own
head!
Sir Luc. Pho! be easy.-Well, now if I hit you in the
body, my bullet has a double chance-for if it misses a vital
part of your right side-'twill be very hard if it don't succeed
on the left!
Acres. A vital part!
Sir Luc. But, there-fix yourself so-[Placing him]-let
him see the broad-side of your full front-there-now a ball
or two may pass clean through your body, and never do any
harm at all.
Acres. Clean through me!-a ball or two clean through
me!
Sir Luc. Ay-may they-and it is much the genteelest attitude into the bargain.
Acres. Look'ee! Sir Lucius-I 'd just as lieve be shot in
an awkward posture as a genteel one; so, by my valour! I will
stand edgeways.
7      Sir Luc. [Looking at his watch.]  Sure they don't mean to
disappoint us-Hah!-no, faith-I think I see them coming.
Acres. Hey!-what!-coming! —
Sir Luc. Ay.-Who are those yonder getting over the stile?
Acres. There are two of them indeed! —well-let them
come-hey, Sir Lucius!-we-we-we-we-won't run.
Sir Luc. Run!
Acres. No-I say-we won't run, by my valour!
Sir Luc. What the devil's the matter with you?
Acres. Nothing-nothing-my dear friend-my dear Sir
Lucius-but I-I-I don't feel quite so bold, somehow, as I
did.
Sir Luc. 0 fy!-consider your honour.
Acres. Ay-true-my honour. Do, Sir Lucius, edge in a
word or two every now and then about my honour.
Sir Luc. Well, here they're coming.         [Looking.
Acres. Sir Lucius-if I wa'n't with you, I should almost




1


C III.]               THE RIVALS.                   281
think I was afraid.-If my valour should leave me!-Valout,
will come and go.
Sir Luc. Then pray keep it fast, while you have it.
Acres. Sir Lucius-I doubt it is going-yes-my valour is
certainly going!-it is sneaking off!-I feel it oozing out as it
were at the palms of my hands!
Sir Luc. Your honour-your honour.-Here they are.
Acres. 0 mercy!-now-that I was safe at Clod-Hall! or
could be shot before I was aware!
*          Enter FAULKLAND and CAPTAIN ABSOLUTE.
Sir Luc. Gentlemen, your most obedient.  Hah!-what,
Captain Absolute!-So, I suppose, sir, you are come here,just
like myself-to do a kind office, first for your friend-then to
proceed to business on your own account.
Acres. What, Jack!-my dear Jack!-my dear friend!
Abs. Hark'ee, Bob, Beverley 's at hand.
Sir Luc. Well, Mr. Acres-I don't blame your saluting the
gentleman civilly.-[To FAULKLAND.]  So, Mr. Beverley,. if
you '11 choose your weapons, the captain and I will measure the
ground.
Faulk. My weapons, sir!
Acres. Odds life! Sir Lucius, I'm not going to fight Mr.
Faulkland; these are my particular friends.
Sir Luc. What, sir, did you not come here to fight Mr. Acres?
Faulk. Not I, upon my word, sir.
Sir Luc. Well, now, that's mighty provoking! But I hope,
Mr. Faulkland, as there are three of us come on purpose for
the game, you won't be so cantanckerous as to spoil the party
by sitting out.
Abs. 0 pray, Faulkland, fight to oblige Sir Lucius.
p   Faulk. Nay, if Mr. Acres is so bent on the matter --
Acres. No, no, Mr. Faulkland;-I '11 bear my disappointment
like a Christian.-Look'ee, Sir Lucius, there's no occasion at
all for me to fight; and if it is the same to you, I'd as lieve
let it alone.
Sir Luc. Observe me, Mr. Acres-I must not be trifled
with. You have certainly challenged somebody-and you came
~     here to fight him. Now, if that gentleman is willing to represent him-I can't see, for my soul, why it isn't just the
same thing.




9.82


THE RIVALS.


[ACT V,


Acres. Why no-Sir Lucius-I tell you, 'tis one Beverley
I 've challenged-a fellow, you see, that dare not show his
face!-If he were here, I'd make him give up his pretensions
directly!
Abs. Hold, Bob-let me set you right-there is no such man
as Beverley in the case. —The person who assumed that name
is before you; and as his pretensions are the same in both
characters, he is ready to support them in whatever way you
please.
Sir Luc. Well, this is lucky.-Now you have an opportunityAcres What, quarrel with my dear friend Jack Absolute?not if he were fifty Beverleys! Zounds! Sir Lucius, you would
not have me so unnatural.
Sir Luc. Upon my conscience, Mr Acres, your valour has
oozed away with a vengeance
' Acres. Not in the least! Odds backs and abettors! I'11 be
your second with all my heart-and if you should get a quietus,
you may command me entirely. I'11 get you snug lying in
the Abbey here; or pickle you, and send you over to Blunderbuss-hall, or any thing of the kind, with the greatest
pleasure.
Sir Luc. Pho! pho! you are little better than a coward.
Acres. Mind, gentlemen, he calls me a coward; coward was
the word, by my valour!
Sir Luc. Well, sir?
Acres. Look'ee, Sir Lucius, 'tisn't that I mind the word
coward-coward may be said in joke-But if you had called
me a poltroon, odds daggers and ballsSir Luc. Well, sir?
Acres. I should have thought you a very ill-bred man.
Sir Luc. Pho! you are beneath my notice.
Abs. Nay, Sir Lucius, you can't have a better second than
my friend Acres —He is a most determined dog-called in
the country, Fighting Bob.-He generally kills a man a week
-don't you, Bob?
Acres. Ay-at home!
Sir Luc. Well, then, captain, 'tis we must begin-so come
out, my little counsellor-[Draws his sword]-and ask the gentleman, whether he will resign the lady, without forcing you
to proceed against him?
to


4




s43. iI.J


THE RIVALS..83
0-Ot


Abs. Come on then, sir-[Draws]; since you won't let it be
an amicable suit, here's my reply.
Enter SIR ANTHONY ABSOLUTE, DAVID, MRS. MALAPROP,
LYDIA, and JULIA.
Dav. Knock'em all down, sweet Sir Anthony; knock down
my master in particular; and bind his hands over to their
good behaviour!
Sir Anth. Put up, Jack, put up, or I shall be in a frenzyhow came you in a duel, sir?
Abs. Faith, sir, that gentleman can tell you better than I;
'twas he called on me, and you know, sir, I serve his majesty.
Sir Anth. Here's a pretty fellow; I catch him going to cut
a man's throat, and he tells me, he serves his majesty!-Zounds!
sirrah, then how durst 'you draw the king's sword against one
of his subjects?
Abs. Sir, I tell you! that gentleman called me out, without
4    explaining his reasons.
Sir Anth. Gad! sir, how came you to call my son out, without explaining your reasons?
Sir Luc. Your son, sir, insulted me in a manner which my
honour could not brook.
Sir Anth. Zounds! Jack, how durst you insult the gentleman
in a manner which his honour could not brook?
Mrs. Mal. Come, come, let 's have no honour before ladies
-Captain Absolute, come here-How could you intimidate us
so?-Here 's Lydia has been terrified to death for you.
Abs. For fear I should be killed, or escape, ma'am?
Mrs. Mal. Nay, no delusions to the past-Lydia is convinced; speak, child.
Sir Luc. With your leave, ma'am, I must put in a word
here: I believe I could interpret the young lady's silence.
Now markLyd. What is it you mean, sir?
Sir Luc. Come, come, Delia, we must be serious now-this
is no time for trifling.
Lyd. 'Tis true, sir; and your reproof bids me offer this gentleman my hand, and solicit the return of his affections.
Abs. 0! my little angel, say you so!-Sir Lucius-I perceive there must be some mistake here, with regard to tho
affront which you affirm I have given you. I can only say,




~84


THE RTVALS.


ACT V.


that it could not have been intentional. And as you must be
convinced, that I should not fear to support a real injury-you
shall now see- that I am not ashamed to atone for an inadvertency-I ask your pardon.-But for this lady, while honoured
with her approbation, I will support my claim against any man
whatever.
Sir Anth. Well said, Jack, and I'11 stand by you, my boy.
Acres. Mind, I give up all my claim-I make no pretensions to any thing in the world; and if I can't get a wife with
out fighting for her, by my valour! I '11 live a bachelor.
Sir Luc. Captain, give me your hand: an affront hand
somely acknowledged becomes an obligation; and as for the
lady, if she chooses to deny her own hand-writing, here[Takes out letters.
Mrs. Mal. 0, he will dissolve my mystery!-Sir Lucius,
perhaps there 's some mistake-perhaps I can illuminateSir Luc. Pray, old gentlewoman, do'nt interfere where you
have no business.-Miss Languish, are you my Delia, or not?
Lyd. Indeed, Sir Lucius, I am not.
[Walks aside with CAPTAIN ABSOLUTE.
Mrs. Mal. Sir Lucius O'Trigger-ungrateful as you are-I
own the soft impeachment-pardon my blushes, I am Delia.
Sir Luc. You Delia-pho! pho! be easy.
Mrs. Mal. Why, thou barbarous Vandyke-those letters are
mine-When you are more sensible of my benignity-perhaps
I may be brought to encourage your addresses.
Sir Luc. Mrs. Malaprop, I am extremely sensible of your
condescension; and whether you or Lucy have put this trick
on me, I am equally beholden to you. —And, to show you I am
not ungrateful, Captain Absolute, since you have taken that
lady from me, I'11 give you my Delia into the bargain.
Abs. I am much obliged to you, Sir Lucius; but here's my
friend, Fighting Bob, unprovided for.
Sir Luc. Hah! little Valour-here,will you make your fortune?
Acres. Odds wrinkles! No.-But give me your hand, Sir
Lucius, forget and forgive; but if ever I give you a chance of
pickling me again, say Bob Acres is a dunce, that's all.
Sir Anth. Come, Mrs. Malaprop, don't be cast down-you
are in your bloom yet..
Mrs. Mal. 0 Sir Anthony-men are all barbarians.
[All retire but JULIA and FAULKLAND
I



SC. III.]             THE RIVALS                  285
Jul. [Aside.] He seems dejectdd and unhappy-not sullen;.
there was some foundation, however, for the tale he told me —
0 woman! how true should be your judgment, when your resolution is so weak!
Faulk. Julia!-how can I sue for what I so little deserve?;
I dare not presume-yet Hope is the child of Penitence.
Jul. Oh! Faulkland, you have not been more faulty in your
unkind treatment of me, than I am now in wanting inclinationa
to resent it. As my heart honestly bids me place my weakness to the account of love, I should be ungenerous not to ade mit the same plea for yours.                                        "~
Faulk. Now I shall be blest indeed!
Sir Anth. [Comingforward.] What's going on here?-So
you have been quarrelling too, I warrant! Come, Julia, I
never interfered before; but let me have a hand in the matter
at last.-All the faults I have ever seen in my friend Faulkland seemed to proceed from what he calls the delicacy and
warmth of his affection for you-There, marry him directly,.
Julia; you '11 find he '11 mend surprisingly!
[The rest come forward.
Sir Luc. Come, now, I hope there is no dissatisfied person,
but what is content; for as I have been disappointed myself,
it will be very hard if I have not the satisfaction of seeing
other people succeed better.
Acres. You are right, Sir Lucius.-So Jack, I wish you joy-.
Mr. Faulkland the same.-Ladies,-come now, to show you
I'm neither vexed nor angry, odds tabors and pipes! I '11
order the fiddles in half an hour to the New Rooms-and I
insist on your all meeting me there.
Sir Anth. 'Gad! sir, I like your spirit; and at night we
single lads will drink a health to the young couples, and a
husband to Mrs. Malaprop.
Faulk. Our partners are stolen from us, Jack-I hope to
be congratulated by each other-yours for having checked in
time the errors of an ill-directed imagination, which might
have betrayed an innocent heart; and mine, for having, by her
gentleness and candour, reformed the unhappy temper of one,
who by it made wretched whom he loved most, and tortured
the heart he ought to have adored..'    Abs. Well, Jack, we have both tasted the bitters, as well as




286


EPILOGUE.


the sweets of love; with this difference only, that you always
prepared the bitter cup for yourself, while I —
Lyd. Was always obliged to me for it, hey! Mr. Modesty?
— But, come, no more of that-our happiness is now as
unalloyed as general.
Jul. Then let us study to preserve it so: and while Hope
pictures to us a flattering scene of future bliss, let us deny its
pencil those colours which are too bright to be lasting.-When
hearts deserving happiness would unite their fortunes, Virtue
would crown them with an unfading garland of modest hurtless flowers; but ill-judging Passion will force the gaudier rose
into the wreath, whose thorn offends them when its leaves are
dropped!                                 [Exeunt omnes.
EPILOGUE.
BY THE AUTHOR.
SPOKEN BY MRS. BULKLEY.
LADIES, for you-I heard our poet sayHe'd try to coax some moral from his play:
" One moral's plain," cried I, " without more fuss;
Man's social happiness all rests on us:
Through all the drama-whether damn'd or notLove gilds the scene, and women guide the plot.
From every rank obedience is our dueD' ye doubt?-The world's great stage shall prove it true."
The cit, well skill'd to shun domestic strife,
Will sup abroad; but first he '11 ask his wife:
John Trot, his friend, for once will do the same,
But then-he '11 just step home to tell his dame.
The surly squire at noon resolves to rule,
And half the day-Zounds! madam is a fool t
Convinced at night, the vanquish'd victor says,
Ah, Kate! you women have such coaxing ways
The jolly toper chides each tardy blade,
Till reeling Bacchus calls on Love for aid:
Then with each toast he sees fair bumpers swim,
And kisses Chloe on the sparkling brim!


e




EPILOGUE.


Atci


Nay, I have heard that statesmen-great and wiseWill sometimes counsel with a lady's eyes
The servile suitors watch her various face,
She smiles preferment, or she frowns disgrace,
Curtsies a pension here-there nods a place.                e
Nor with less awe, in scenes of humbler life,
Is view'd the mistress, or is heard the wife.
The poorest peasant of the poorest soil,
The child of poverty, and heir to toil,
Early from radiant Love's impartial light
Steals one small spark to cheer this world of night:   -
Dear spark! that oft through winter's chilling woes
Is all the warmth his little cottage knows!
The wandering tar, who not for years has press'd,
The widow'd partner of his day of rest,
On the cold deck, far from her arms removed,
Still hums the ditty which his Susan loved;
And while around the cadence rude is blown,
The boatswain whistles in a softer tone.
The soldier, fairly proud of wounds and toil,                i
Pants for the triumph of his Nancy's smile;^
But ere the battle should he list her cries,
The lover trembles-and the hero dies!
That heart, by war and honour steel'd to fear,
Droops on a sigh, and sickens at a tear!
But ye more cautious, ye nice-judging few,
Who give to beauty only beauty's due,                       I;!
Though friends to love-ye view with deep regret
Our conquests marr'd, our triumphs incomplete,
Till polish'd wit more lasting charms disclose,
And judgment fix the darts which beauty throwsl '             l
In female breasts did sense and merit rule,
The lover's mind would ask no other school;
Shamed into sense, the scholars of our eyes,
Our beaux from gallantry would soon be wise;
Would gladly light, their homage to improve,
The lamp of knowledge at the torch of love IA
^'!




ST. PATRICK'S DAY,
OR,
THE SCHEMING LIEUTENANT.
A FARCE.
DRAMATIS PERSONS,
AS ORIGINALLY ACTED AT COVENT-GARDEN THEATRE IN 1775.
LIEUTENANT O'CONNOR Mr. Clinch.  LAURETTA... Mrs. Cargil.
DOCTOR ROSY.. Mr. Quick.  MRS. BRIDGET COE- Mrs.
JUSTICE CREDULOUS. Mr. Lee Lewes.  DULOUS.    s
SERJEANT TROUNCE. Mr. Booth.  Drummer, Soldiers, Countrymen, and
CORPORAL FLINT.                      Servant.
SCENE.-A TOWN IN ENGLAND.
ACT I.
SCENE I.-LIEUTENANT O'CONNOR's Lodgings.
Enter SERJEANT TROUNCE, CORPORAL FLINT, andfour
SOLDIERS.
1 Sol. I say you are wrong; we should all speak together,
each for himself, and all at once, that we may be heard the
better.
2 Sol. Right, Jack, we '11 argue in platoons.
3 Sol. Ay, ay, let him have our grievances in a volley, and
if we be to have a spokesman, there's the corporal is the lieu-  *
tenant's countryman, and knows his humour.
Flint. Let me alone for that. I served three years, within
a bit, under his honour, in the Royal Inniskillions, and I
never will see a sweeter tempered gentleman, nor one more
free with his purse. I put a great shammock in his hat this
morning, and I'11 be bound for him he '11 wear it, was it as
big as Steven's Green.
4. Sol. I say again then you talk like youngsters, like militia striplings: there's a discipline, look'ee, in all things,
whereof the serjeant must be our guide; he 's a gentleman of
words; he understands your foreign lingo, your figures, and
such like auxiliaries in scoring. Confess now for a reckoning,
whether in chalk or writing, ben't he your only man?
Flint. Why the serjeant is a scholar to be sure, and has
the gift of reading.
T;ounce. Good soldiers, and fellow gentlemen, if you mako
A



SO. 1.j


ST. PATRICK S DAY.


me your spokesman, you will show the more judgment; and
let me alone for the argument. I'11 be as loud as a drum,
and point blank from the purpose.
All. Agreed, agreed.
Flint. Oh, fait! here comes the lieutenant.-Now, serjeant.
Trounce. So then, to order.-Put on your mutiny looks;
every man grumble a little to himself, and some of you hum
the Deserter's March.
Enter LIEUTENANT O'CONNOR.
O'Con. Well, honest lads, what is it you have to complain
of?
Sol. Ahem! hem!
Trounce. So please your honour, the very grievance of the
matter is this:-ever since your honour differed with Justice
Credulous,, our inn-keepers use us most scurvily. By my
halbert, their treatment is such, that if your spirit was willing
to put up with it, flesh and blood could by no means agree;
so we humbly petition that your honour would make an end
of the matter at once, by running away with the justice's
daughter, or else get us fresh quarters,-hem! hem!
O'Con. Indeed! Pray which of the houses use you ill?
1 Sol. There's the Red Lion an't half the civility of the
old Red Lion.
2 Sol. There 's the White Horse, if he wasn't casehardened,
ought to be ashamed to show his face.
O'Con. Very well; the Horse and the Lion shall answer
for it at the quarter sessions.
Trounce. The two Magpies are civil enough; but the Angel uses us like devils, and the Rising Sun refuses us light to
go to bed by.
O'Con. Then, upon my word, I'11 have the Rising Sun put
down, and the Angel shall give security for his good behaviour; but are you sure you do nothing to quit scores with
them?
Flint. Nothing at all, your honour, unless now and then
we happen to fling a cartridge.into the kitchen fire, or put a
spatterdash or so into the soup; and sometimes Ned drums
up and down stairs a little of a night.
O'Con. Oh, all that's fair; but hark'ee lads, I must have
no grumbling on St. Patrick's day; so here, take this, and diU




093


S'T. PATRICK(, nAY: OR,


[ACT I,vide it amongst you. But observe me now,-show yourselves
men of spirit, and don't spend sixpence of it in drink.
Trounce. Nay, hang it, your honour, soldiers should never
bear malice; we must drink St. Patrick's and your honor's
health.
All. Oh, damn malice! St. Patrick's and his honour's by
all means.
Flint. Come away, then, lads, and first we'll parade round
the Market-cross, for the honour of King George.
1 Sol. Thank your honour.-Come along; St Patrick, his
honour, and strong beer for ever!     [Exeunt SOLDIERS.
O'Con. Get along, you thoughtless vagabonds! yet, upon
my conscience, 'tis very hard these poor fellows should scarcely
have bread from the soil they would die to defend.
Enter DOCTOR ROSY.
Ah, my little Dr. Rosy, my Galen a-bridge, what's the news?
Rosy. All things are as they were, my Alexander; the justice is as violent as ever: I felt his pulse on the matter again,
and, thinking his rage began to intermit, I wanted to throw in
the bark of good advice, but it would not do. He says you
and your cut-throats have a plot upon his life, and swears he
had rather see his daughter in a scarlet fever than in the arms
of a soldier.
O'Con. Upon my word the army is very much obliged to
him. Well, then, I must marry the girl first, and ask his consent afterwards.
Rosy. So, then, the case of her fortune is desperate, hey?
O'Con. Oh, hang fortune,-let that take its chance; there
is a beauty in Lauretta's simplicity, so pure a bloom upon her
charms.
Rosy. So there is, so there is. You are for beauty as nature made her, hey! No artificial graces, no cosmetic varnish, no beauty in grain, hey!
O'Con. Upon my word, doctor, you are right; the London
ladies were always too handsome for me; then they are so
defended, such a circumvallation of hoop, with a breast-work
of whalebone that would turn a pistol-bullet, much less Cupid's arrows,-then turret on turret on top, with stores of concealed weapons, under pretence of black pins,-and above all,
a standard of feathers that would do honour to a knight of the




S0. I.]


THE SCHEMING LIEUTENANT.


291


Bath. Upon my conscience, I could as soon embrace an
Amazon, armed at all points.
Rosy. Right, right, my Alexander! my taste to a tittle.
O'Con. Then, doctor, though I admire modesty in women,
I like to see their faces. I am for the changeable rose; but
with one of these quality Amazons, if their midnight dissipations had left them blood enough to raise a blush, they have
not room enough in their cheeks to show it. To be sure,
bashfulness is a very pretty thing; but, in my mind, there is
nothing on earth so impudent as an everlasting blush
Rosy. My taste, my taste!-Well, Lauretta is none of these.
Ah! I never see her but she puts me in mind of my poor
dear wife.
O'Con. Ay, faith; in my opinion she can't do a worse thing.
Now he is going to bother me about an old hag that has been
dead these six years!                            [Aside.
Rosy. Oh, poor Dolly! I never shall see her like again;
such an arm for a bandage-veins that seemed to invite the
lancet. Then her skin, smooth and white as a gallipot; her
mouth as round and not larger than the mouth of a penny
phial; her lips conserve of roses; and then her teeth -none
of your sturdy fixtures-ache as they would, it was but a          4
small pull, and out they came. I believe I have drawn half
a score of her poor dear pearls-[weeps]-But what avails, *     her beauty?  Death has no consideration-one must die as
well as another.
O'Con. [Aside.] Oh, if he begins to moralize[Takes out his snuff-box.
Rosy. Fair and ugly, crooked or straight, rich or poor-flesh
is grass-flowers fade!
O'Con. Here, doctor, take a pinch, and keep up your spirits.
Rosy. True, true, my friend; grief can't mend the matter
-all's for the best; but such a woman was a great loss, lieutenant.
O'Con. To be sure, for doubtless she had mental accom
plishments equal to her beauty.
Rosy. Mental accomplishments! she would have stuffed an
alligator, or pickled a lizard, with any apothecary's wife in the
kingdom. Why, she could decipher a prescription, and invent the ingredients, almost as well as myself: then she was
such a hand at making foreign waters!-for Selfzer, Pyrmout,
u 2




292


ST. PATRICK'S DAY; OR,


"ACT I.
1.


Isliugton, or Chalybeate, she never had her equal; and her
Bath and Bristol springs exceeded the originals.-Ah, poor
Dolly! she fell a martyr to her own discoveries.
O'Con. How so, pray?
Rosy. Poor soul! her illness was occasioned by her zeal in
trying an improvement on the Spa-water, by an infusion of
rum and acid.
O'Con. Ay, ay, spirits never agree with water-drinkers,
Rosy. No, no, you mistake. Rum agreed with her well
enough; it was not the rum that killed the poor dear creature,
for she died of a dropsy. Well, she is gone never to return,
and has left no pledge of our loves behind. No little babe, to
hang like a label round papa's neck. Well, well, we are all
mortal-sooner or later-flesh is grass-flowers fade.
O'Con. Oh, the devil!-again!                  [Aside.
Rosy. Life's a shadow-the world a stage-we strut an
hour.
O'Con. Here, doctor.                     [Offers snuff.
Rosy. True, true, my friend: well, high grief can't cure it.
All's for the best, hey! my little Alexander.
O'Con. Right, right; an apothecary should never be out of
spirits. But come, faith, 'tis time honest Humphrey should
wait on the justice; that must be our first scheme.
Rosy. True, true; you should be ready: the clothes are
at my house, and I have given you such a character that he
is impatient to have you: he swears you shall be his bodyguard. Well, I honour the army, or I should never do so
much to serve you.
O'Con. Indeed I am bound to you for ever, doctor; and
when once I'm possessed of my dear Lauretta, I will endeavour to make work for you as fast as possible.
Rosy. Now you put me in mind of my poor wife again.
O'Con. Ah, pray forget her a little: we shall be too late.
Rosy. Poor Dolly!
O'Con. 'Tis past twelve.
Rosy. Inhuman dropsy!
O'Con. The justice will wait.
Rosy. Cropped in her prime!
O'Con. For Heaven's sake, come!
Rosy. Well, flesh is grass.
O'Con; 0. the devil!




sC. II.I


THE SCHTEMING TLIEUTENANT.


5 93


Rosy. We must all die —
O'Con, Doctor!
Rosy. Kings, lords, and common whores[Exeunt, LIEUTENANT O'CONNORforcing RosY off.
SCENE II.-A Room in JUSTICE CREDULOUS' House.
Enter LAURETTA and MRS. BRIDGET CREDULOUS.
Lau. I repeat it again, mamma, officers are the prettiest
men in the world, and Lieutenant O'Connor is the prettiest
officer I ever saw.
Mrs. Bri. For shame, Laura! how can you talk so?-or if
you must have a military man, there's Lieutenant Plow, or
Captain Haycock, or Major Dray, the brewer, are all your
admirers; and though they are peaceable, good kind of men,
they have as large cockades, and become scarlet as well'as the
fighting folks.
Lau. Psha! you know, mamma, I hate militia officers; a
set of dunghill cocks with spurs on-heroes scratched off a
church door-clowns in military masquerade, wearing the
dress without supporting the character.  No, give me the
bold upright youth, who makes love to-day, and his head shot
off to-morrow. Dear! to think how the sweet fellows sleep
on the ground, and fight in silk stockings and lace ruffles.
Mrs. Bri. Oh, barbarous! to want a husband that may
X "     wed you to-day, and be sent the Lord knows where before
night; then in a twelvemonth perhaps to have him come
like a Colossus, with one leg at New York and the other at
Chelsea Hospital.
Lau. Then I'11 be his crutch, mamma.
Mrs. Bri. No, give me a husband that knows where his
limbs are, though he want the use of them:-and if he should
take you with him, to sleep in a baggage-cart, and stroll about
the camp like a gipsy, with a knapsack and two children at
your back;-then, by way of entertainment in the evening, to
make a party with the serjeant's wife to drink bohea tea, and
play at all-fours on a drumhead:-'tis a precious life, to be
sure!
Lau. Nay, mamma, you shouldn't be against my lieutenant,
for I heard him say youi were the best natured and best looking woman in the world
Mrs. Bri. Why, child, I never said but that Lieutenant




ST. PATRICK'S DAY; OR,


[ACT I


O'Connor was a very well-bred and discerning young man;
tis your papa is so violent against him.
Lau. Why, Cousin Sophy married an officer.
Mrs. Bri. Ay, Laury, an officer in the militia.
Lau. No, indeed, mamma, a marching regiment.
Mrs. Bri. No, child, I tell you he was major of militia.
Lau. Indeed, mamma, it wasn't.
Enter JUSTICE CREDULOUS.
Just. Bridget, my love, I have had a message,
Lau. It was Cousin Sophy told me so.
Just. I have had a message, love —
Mrs. Bri. No, child, she would say no such thing.
Just. A message, I say.
Lau. How could he be in the militia, when he was ordered
abroad?
Mrs. Bri. Ay, girl, hold your tongue!-Well, my dear.
Just. I have had a message from Doctor Rosy.
fMrs. Bri. He ordered abroad! He went abroad for his
health.
Just. Why, Bridget!JMrs. Bri. Well, deary.-Now hold your tongue, miss.
Just. A message from Dr. Rosy, and Doctor Rosy saysLau. I'm sure, mamma, his regimentals —
Just. Damn his regimentals!-Why don't you listen?
Mrs. Bri. Ay, girl, how durst you interrupt your papa?
Lau. Well, papa.
Just. Doctor Rosy says he '11 bring
Lau. Were blue turned up with red, mamma.
Just. Laury!-says he will bring the young manMrs. Bri. Red! yellow, if you please, miss.
Just. Bridget!-the young man that is to be hired —
Mrs Bri. Besides, miss, it is very unbecoming in you to
want to have the last word with your mamma; you should
knowJust. Why, zounds! will you hear me or no?
Mrs. Bri. I am listening, my love-I am listening!-But
what signifies my silence, what good is my not speaking a
word, if this girl will interrupt and Jet nobody speak but
herself?-Ay, I don't wonder, my life, at your impatience;
your poor dear lips quiver to speak; bat I suppose she '11 run




SC. II.]     THE SCHEMING LIEUTENANT.           295
on, and not let you put in a word.-You may very well bo
angry; there is nothing, sure, so provoking as a chattering,
talking —
Lau. Nay, I'm sure, mamma, it is you will not let papa
speak now.
Mrs. Bri. Why, you little provoking minxJust. Get out of the room directly, both of you-get out!
Mrs Bri. Ay, go, girl.
Just. Go, Bridget, you are worse than she, you old hag.
I wish you were both up to the neck in the canal, to argue
there till I took you out.
Enter SERVANT.
Ser. Doctor Rosy, sir.
Just. Show him up.                    [Exit SERVANT.
Lau. Then you own, mamma, it was a marching regiment?
Mrs. Bri. You're an obstinate fool, I tell you; for if that,   had been the caseJust. You won't go?
Mrs. Bri. We are going, Mr. Surly.-If that had been the
case, I say, how could —
Lau. Nay, mamma, one proof —
Mrs. Bri. How could Major —
Lau. And a full proof-, a                  [JUSTICE CREDULOUS drives them off.
Just. There they go, ding dong in for the day.  Good
lack! a fluent tongue is the only thing a mother don't like
her daughter to resemble her in.
Enter DOCTOR ROSY.
Well, doctor, where's the lad-where's Trusty?
Rosy. At hand; he '11 be here in a minute, I'11 answer for 't.
*  He's such a one as you an't met with,-brave as a lion, gentle
as a saline draught.
Just. Ah, he comes in the place of a rogue, a dog that was
corrupted by the lieutenant. But this is a sturdy fellow, is
he, doctor?
Rosy. As Hercules; and the best back-sword in the country.
Egad, he'll make the red-coats keep their distance.
Just. 0 the villains! this is St. Patrick's day, and tho
rascals have been parading my house all the morning.  I
know they have a design upon me; but I have taken all pro



ST. PATRICK S DAY; OR,


[ACT I. SC IL


cautions: I have magazines of arms, and if this fellow does
but prove faithful, I shall be more at ease.
Rosy. Doubtless he '11 be a comfort to you.
Re-enter SERVANT.
Ser. There is a man below, sir, inquires for Doctor Rosy.
Rosy. Show him up.
Just. Hold! a little caution-How does he look?
Ser. A country-looking fellow, your worship.
Just. Oh, well, well, for Doctor Rosy; these rascals try
all ways to get in here.
Ser. Yes, please your worship; there was one here this
morning wanted to speak to you: he said his name was
Corporal Breakbones.
Just. Corporal Breakbones!
Ser. And drummer Crackskull came again.
Just. Ay! did you ever hear of such a damned confounded
crew? Well, show the lad in here!      [Exit SERVANT.
Rosy. Ay, he '11 be your porter; he '11 give the rogues an
answer.
Enter LIEUTENANT O'CONNOR, disguised.
Just. So, a tall-Efacks! what! has lost an eye?
Rosy. Only a bruise he got in taking seven or eight highwaymen.
Just. He has a damned wicked leer somehow with the other.
Rosy. Oh, no, he's bashful-a sheepish look —
Just. Well, my lad, what 's your name?
O'Con. Humphrey Hum.
Just. Hum-I don't like Hum!
O'Con. But I be mostly called honest HumphreyRosy. There, I told you so, of noted honesty.
Just. Well, honest Humphrey, the doctor has told you my
terms, and you are willing to serve, hey?
O'Con. And please your worship I shall be well content.
Just. Well, then, hark'ye, honest Humphrey,-you are
sure now you will never be a rogue-never take a bribe, hey,
honest Humphrey?
O'Con. A bribe! What's that?
Just. A very ignorant fellow indeed!
Rosy. His worship hopes you will never part with your
honesty for money.




w


AOT II. SC. I.]  THE SCHEMING LIEUTENANT.        297
O'Con. Noa, noa.
Just. Well said, Humphrey-my chief business with you
is to watch the motions of a rake-helly fellow here, one
Lieutenant O'Connor.
Rosy. Ay, you don't value the soldiers, do you, Humphrey?
O'Con. Not I; they are but zwaggerers, and you'll see
they '11 be as much afraid of me as they would of their captain.
Just. And i'faith, Humphrey, you have a pretty cudgel
there!
O'Con. Ay, the zwitch is better than nothing, but I should
be glad of a stouter: ha' you got such a thing in the house as
an old coach-pole, or a spare bed-post?
Just. Oons! what a dragon it is!-Well, Humphrey, come
with me.-I'11 just show him to Bridget, doctor, and we ll
agree.-Come along, honest Humphrey.            [Exit.
O'Con. My dear doctor, now remember to bring the justice
presently to the walk: I have a scheme to get into his confidence at once.
Rosy. I will, I will.             [They shake hands.
Re-enter JUSTICE CREDULOUS.
Just. Why, honest Humphrey, hey! what the devil are
you at?
Rosy. I was just giving him a little advice.-Well, I must
go for the present.-Good morning to your worship-you
need not fear the lieutenant while he is in your house.
Just. Well, get in, Humphrey.  Good morning to you,
doctor.-[Exit DOCTOR ROSY.] Come along, Humphrey.Now I think I am a match for the lieutenant and all his
gang.                                        [Exeunt
ACT II.
SCENE I.-A Street.
Enter SERJEANT TROUNCE, DRUMMER, and SOLDIERS.
Trounce. Come, silence your drum-there is no valour
stirring to day. I thought St. Patrick would have given us
a recruit or two to-day.
Sol. Mark, serjeant!




098


ST. PATRICK'S DAY; OR,


[ACT I


Enter two COUNTRYMEN.
Trounce. Oh! these are the lads I was looking for: they
have the looks of gentlemen.-A'n't you single, my lads?
1 Coun. Yes, an please you, I be quite single: my r ealtns
be all dead, thank heavens, more or less. I have ht oWo
poor mother left in the world, and she 's an helpless.oman.:
Trounce. Indeed! a very extraordinary case-quite your owh
master then-the fitter to serve his Majesty.-Can you read,?
1 Coun. Noa, I was always too lively to take to learning;
but John here is main clever at it.
Trounce. So, what you're a scholar, friend?
2 Coun. I was born so, measter. Feyther kept grammarschool.
Trounce. Lucky man-in a campaign or.two put yourself
down chaplain to the regiment. And I;warrant you have
read of warriors and heroes?
2 Coun. Yes, that I have: I have read of Jack the Giantkiller, and the Dragon of Wantly, and the-Noa, I believe
that's all in the hero way, except once about a comet.
Trounce. Wonderful knowledge!-Well, my heroes, I '11
write word to the king of your good intentions, and meet me
half an hour hence at the Two Magpies.
Coun. We will, your honour, we will.
Trounce. But stay; for fear I shouldn't see you again in
the crowd, clap these little bits of ribbon into your hats.
1 Coun. Our hats are none of the best.
Trounce. Well, meet me at the Magpies, and I '11 give you
money to buy new ones.
Coun. Bless your honour, thank your honour.  [Exeunt.
Trounce. [Winking at SOLDIERS.] Jack! [Exeunt SOLDIERS.
Enter LIEUTENANT O'CONNOR.
So, here comes one would make a grenadier-Stop, friend,
will you list?
O'Con. Who shall I serve under?
Trounce. Under me, to be sure.
O'Con. Isn't Lieutenant O'Connor your officer?
Trounce. He is, and I am commander over him.
O'Con. What! be your serjeants greater than your captains?
Trounce To be sure we' are; 'tis our business to keep them




t  C I.]


THE SCHEMING LIEUTENANT.


299


in order For instance now, the general writes to me, dear
Serjeant, or dear Trounce, or dear Serjeant Trounce, according
tv) his hurry, if your lieutenant does not demean himself accordingly, let me know.-Yours, General Deluge.
O'Con. And do you complain of him often?
Trounce. No, hang him, the lad is good-natured at bottom,
so I pass bver small things. But hark'ee, between ourselves,
he is most confoundedly given to wenching.
Enter CORPORAL FLINT.
Flint. Please your honour, the doctor is coming this way
with his worship-We are all ready, and have our cues. [Exit.
O'Con. Then, my dear Trounce, or my dear Serjeant, or my
*   dear Serjeant Trounce, take yourself away.
Trounce. Zounds! the lieutenant-I smell of the black
hole already.                                   [Exit
*         Enter JUSTICE CREDULOUS and DOCTOR ROSY.
Just. I thought I saw some of the cut-throats.
Rosy. I fancy not; there 's no one but honest Humphrey.
Ha! Odds life, here come some of them-we '11 stay by these
trees, and let them pass.
Just. Oh, the bloody-looking dogs!
[Walks aside with DOCTOR RosY
Re-enter CORPORAL FLINT and two SOLDIERS.
Flint. Halloa, friend! do you serve Justice Credulous?
O'Con. I do.
Flint. Are you rich?
O'Con. Noa.
Flint. Nor ever will be with that old stingy booby. Look
here-take it.                       [Gives him a purse.
O'Con. What must I do for this?
Flint. Mark me, our lieutenant is in love with the old
rogue's daughter: help us to break his worship's bones, and
carry off the girl, and you are a made man.
O'Con. I'11 see you hanged first, you pack of skurry villains!                         [Throws away the purse.
Flint. What, sirrah, do you mutiny? Lay hold of him.
O'Con. Nay then, I '11 try your armour for you. [Beats them.
All. Oh! oh! —quarter! quarter!
[Exeunt CORPORAL FLINT and SOLDIERS.




soo


ST. PA4TRICK'S DAY; OR,


[AcT n1..


Just. [Coming forward.] Trim them, trounce them, break
their bones, honest Humphrey -What a spirit he has!
Rosy. Aquafortis.
O'Con. Betray your master!
Rosy. What a miracle of fidelity!
Just. Ay, and it shall not go unrewarded-I '11 give him
sixpence on the spot. Here, honest Humphrey, there 's for
yourself: as for this bribe, [takes up the purse,] such trash is
best in the hands of justice. Now then, doctor, I think I may
trust him to guard the women: while he is with them I may
go out with safety.
Rosy. Doubtless you may-I '11 answer for the lieutenant's
behaviour whilst honest Humphrey is with your daughter.
Just. Ay, ay, she shall go nowhere without hin. Come
along, honest Humphrey. How rare it is to meet with such
a servant!                                   [Exeunt.
SCENE II. —A Garden.
LAURETTA discovered. Enter JUSTICE CREDULOUS and
LIEUTENANT O'CONNOR.
Just. Why, you little truant, how durst you wander so far
from the house without my leave? Do you want to invite
that scoundrel lieutenant to scale the walls and carry you off?
Lau. Lud, papa, you are so apprehensive for nothing.
Just. Why, hussyLau. Well then, I can't bear to be shut up all day so like
a nun. I am sure it is enough to make one wish to be run
away with-and I wish I was run away with-I do-and I wish
the lieutenant knew it.
Just. You do, do you, hussy?  Well, I think I'11 take
pretty good care of you. Here, Humphrey, I leave this lady
in your care. Now you may walk about the garden, Miss
Pert; but Humphrey shall go with you wherever you go. So
mind, honest Humphrey, I am obliged to go abroad for a little
while; let no one but yourself come near her; don't be shamefaced, you booby, but keep close to her. And now, miss, let
your lieutenant or any of his crew come near you if they can.
[Exit.
Lau. How this booby stares after him! [Sits down and sings.
O'Con. Lauretta!
Lau. Not so free, fellowl                    [Singe,




cO. rL.]


THE SCHEMING LIEUTENANT.


301


O'Con. Lauretta! look on me.
Lau. Not so free, fellow!
O'Con. No recollection!
Lau. Honest Humphrey, be quiet.
O'Con. Have you forgot your faithful soldier?
Lau. Ah! Oh preserve me!
O'Con. 'Tis, my soul! your truest slave, passing ou your
father in this disguise.
Lau. Well now, I declare this is charming-you are so disguised, my dear lieutenant, and you look so delightfully ugly.
I am sure no one will find you out, ha! ha! ha!-You know
I am under your protection; papa charged you to keep close
to me.
O'Con. True, my angel, and thus let me fulfilLau. 0 pray now, dear HumphreyO'Con. Nay, 'tis but what old Mittimus commanded,
[Offers to kiss her
Re-enter JUSTICE CREDULOUS.
Just. Laury, my-hey! what the devil 's here?
Lau. Well now, one kiss, and be quiet.
Just. Your very humble servant, honest Humphrey! Don't
let me-pray don't let me interrupt you!
Lau. Lud, papa! Now that's so good-natured-indeed
there's no harm. You did not mean any rudeness, did you,
Humphrey?
O'Con. No, indeed, miss; his worship knows it is not in me.
Just. I know that you are a lying, canting, hypocritical
scoundrel; and if you don't take yourself out of my sightLau. Indeed, papa, now I'll tell you how it was. I was
sometime taken with a sudden giddiness, and Humphrey,    seeing me beginning to totter, ran to my assistance, quite
frightened, poor fellow, and took me in his arms.
Just. Oh! was that all-nothing but a little giddiness, hey!
O'Con. That's all, indeed, your worship; for seeing miss
change colour, I ran up instantly.
Just. Oh, 'twas very kind in you!
O'Con. And luckily recovered her.
Just. And who made you a doctor, you impudent rascal,
hey? Get out of my sight, I say, this instant, or by all the
statutes



302


ST. PATRICK'S DAY; OR,


[ACT IL


Lau. Oh now, papa. you frighten me, and I am giddy again!
-Oh, help!
O'Con. 0 dear lady, she '11 fall! [Takes her into his arms.
Just. Zounds! what before my face-why then, thou miracle
of impudence!-[Lays hold of him and discovers him.]-Mercy
on me, who have we here?-Murder! Robbery! Fire! Rape t
Gunpowder! Soldiers! John! Susan! Bridget!
O'Con. Good sir, don't be alarmed; I mean you no harm
Just. Thieves! Robbers! Soldiers!
O'Con. You know my love for your daughter —
Just. Fire! Cut-throats!
O'Con. And that aloneJust. Treason! Gunpowder!
Enter a SERVANT with a blunderbuss.
Now, scoundrel! let her go this instant.
Lau. 0 papa, you '11 kill me!
Just. Honest Humphrey, be advised. Ay, miss, this way,
if you please.
O'Con. Nay, sir, but hear meJust. I'11 shoot.
O'Con. And you'll be convincedJust. I '1 shoot.
O'Con. How injurious-,Tust. I '11 shoot-and so ycur very humble servant, honest
II umphrey Hum.                      [Exeunt separately.
SCENE III.-A Walk.
Enter DOCTOR ROSY.
Rosy. Well, I think my friend is now in a fair way of suc.
ceeding. Ah! I warrant he is full of hope and fear, doubt
and anxiety; truly he has the fever of love strong upon him:
faint, peevish, languishing all day, with burning, restless
nights. Ah! just my case when I pined for my poor dear
Dolly! when she used to have her daily colics, and her little
doctor be sent for. Then would I interpret the language of
her pulse-declare my own sufferings in my receipt for hersend her a pearl necklace in a pill-box, or a cordial draught
with an acrostic on the label. Well, those days are over: no
happiness lasting: all is vanity-now sunshine, now cloudy —
we are, as it were, king and beggar-then what avails —




SI. T;1M I


THEll SCHEMING LIE UTEP]NANT.


r              Enter LIEUTENANT O'CONNOR.
O'Con. 0 doctor! ruined and undone.
Rosy. The pride of beautyO'Con. I am discovered, andRosy. The pudly palaceO'Con. The justice isRosy. The pompous wig
O'Con. Is more enraged than ever.
Rosy. The gilded cane —
O'Con. Why, doctor!      [Slapping him on the? shoulder.
Rosy. Hey!
O'Con. Confound your morals! I tell you I am discovered,
discomfited, disappointed.
Rosy. Indeed! Good lack, good lack, to think of the instability of human affairs! Nothing certain in this worldmost deceived when most confident-fools of fortune all.
O'Con. My dear doctor, I want at present a little practical
wisdom. I am resolved this instant to try the scheme we were
going to put in execution last week. I have the letter ready,
and only want your assistance to recover my ground.
Rosy. With all my heart-I '11 warrant you I '11 bear a part
in it: but how the deuce were you discovered?
O'Con. I '11 tell you as we go; there's not a moment to
be lost.
Rosy. Heaven send we succeed better!-but there's nm
knowing.
O'Con. Very true.
Rosy. We may, and we may not.
O'Con. Right.
Rosy. Time must show.
O'Con. Certainly.
Rosy. We are but blind guessers
O'Con. Nothing more.
Rosy.. Thick-sighted mortals.
O'Con. Remarkably.
Rosy. Wandering in error
O'Con. Even so.
Rosy. Futurity is dark.
O'Con. As a cellar.
Losy. Men are moles
[Exeunt, LIEUTENANT O'CONNOR forcing out ROSY




804


ST. PATRICKS D&Y', O0 &


[ACT IL


SCENE IV.-A Room in JUSTICE CREDULOUS' House.
Enter JUSTICE CREDULOUS and MRS. BRIDGET CREDULOUS.
Just. Odds life, Bridget, you are enough to make one mad!
I tell you he would have deceived a chief justice: the dog
seemed as ignorant as my clerk, and talked of honesty as if
he had been a churchwarden.
Mrs. Bri. Pho! nonsense, honesty!-what had you to do,
pray, with honesty? A fine business you have made of it with
your Humphrey Hum; and miss, too, she must have been
privy to it. Lauretta! ay, you would have her called so; but
for my part I never knew any good come of giving girls these
heathen christian names: if you had called her Deborah, or
Tabitha, or Ruth, or Rebecca, or Joan, nothing of this had
ever happened; but I always knew Lauretta was a runaway
name.
Just. Psha, you're a fool!
Mrs. Bri. No, Mr. Credulous, it is you who are a fool, and
no one but such a simpleton would be so imposed on.
Just. Why, zounds, madam, how durst you talk so? If
you have no respect for your husband, I should think unus
'quorum might command a little deference.
Mrs. Bri. Don't tell me!-Unus fiddlestick! you ought to
be ashamed to show your face at the sessions: you '11 be a
laughing-stock to the whole bench, and a byword with all the
pig-tailed lawyers and bag-wigged attorneys about town.
Just. Is this language for his majesty's representative? By
the statutes, it's high treason and petty treason, both at once!
Enter SERVANT.
Ser. A letter for your worship.
Just. Who brought it?
Ser. A soldier.
Just. Take it away and burn it.
Mrs. Bri. Stay!-Now you're in such a hurry-it is some
canting scrawl from the lieutenant, I suppose.-[Takes the
letter.-Exit SERVANT.] Let me see:-ay, 'tis signed O'Con
inor.
Just. Well, come read it out.
Mrs. Bri. [Reads.] Revenge is sweet.
Just. It begins so, does it? I'm glad of that; I'll let tho
dog know I'm of his opinion.




sc. IV.]


1HE SCHEMING LIEUTENANT


805


Mrs. Bri. [Reads.] And though disappointed of my designs
upon your daughter, I have still the satisfaction of knowing I
am revenged on her unnaturalfather; for this morning, in your
chocolate, I had the pleasure to administer to you a dose of
poison.-Mercy on us!
Just. No tricks, Bridget; come, you know it is not so; you
know it is a lie.
Mrs. Bri. Read it yourself.
Just. [Reads.] Pleasure to administer a dose of poison.tOh, horrible! Cut-throat villain!-Bridget!
Mrs. Bri. Lovee, stay, here's a postcript.-[Reads.] N.B.
'Tis not in the power of medicine to save you.
Just. Odds my life, Bridget! why don't you call for help?
I've lost my voice.-My brain is giddy-I shall burst, and
no assistance.-John!-Laury!-John!
Mrs. Bri. You see, lovee, what you have brought on yourself.
Re-enter SERVANT.
Ser. Your worship!
Just. Stay, John; did you perceive any thing in my choco.
late cup this morning?
Ser. Nothing, your worship, unless it was a little grounds.
Just. What colour were they?
Ser. Blackish, your worship.
Just. Ay, arsenic, black arsenic!-Why don't you run for
Doctor Rosy, you rascal?
Ser. Now, sir?
Mrs. Bri. Oh lovee, you may be sure it is in vain: let him
run for the lawyer to witness your will, my life.
Just. Zounds! go for the doctor, you scoundrel. You are
all confederate murderers.
Ser. Oh, here he is, your worship.               [Exit.
Just. Now, Bridget, hold your tongue, and let me see if my
horrid situation be apparent.
Enter DOCTOR RosY.
Rosy. I have but just called to inform-hey! bless me,
what's the matter with your worship?
Just. There, he sees it already!-Poison in my face, in capitals! Yes, yes, I'm a sure job for the undertakers indeed!
Mrs. Bri. Oh! oh! alas, doctor!




306


ST PATRICK S DAY; OR,


[ACT II


Just. Peace, Bridget!-Why doctor, my dear old friend, do
you really see any change in me?
Rosy. Change! never was man so altered: how came
these black spots on your nose?
Just. 'Spots on my nose!
Rosy. And that wild stare in your right eye!
Just. In my right eye!
Rosy. Ay, and alack, alack, how you are swelled!
Just. Swelled!
Rosy. Ay, don't you think he is, madam?
Mrs. Bri. Oh, 'tis in vain to conceal it!-Indeed, lovee,
you are as big again as you were this morning.
Just. Yes, I feel it now-I 'm poisoned!-Doctor, help me,
for the love of justice! Give me life to see my murderer
hanged.
Rosy. What?
Just. I'm poisoned, I say!
Rosy. Speak out!
Just. What! can't you hear me?
Rosy. Your voice is so low and hollow, as it were, I can't
hear a word you say.
Just. I 'm gone then!-Hic jacet, many years one of his
majesty's justices!
Mrs. Bri. Read, doctor!-Ah, lovee, the will!-Consider,
my life, how soon you will be dead.
Just. No, Bridget, I shall die by inches.
Rosy. I never heard such monstrous iniquity.-Oh, you
are gone indeed, my friend! the mortgage of your little bit of
clay is out, and the sexton has nothing to do but to close.
We must all go, sooner or later-high and low-Death's a
debt; his mandamus binds all alike-no bail, no demurrer.
Just. Silence, Doctor Croaker! will you cure me or will you
not?
Rosy. Alas! my dear friend, it is not in my power, but I'll
certainly see justice done on your murderer.
Just. I thank you, my dear friend, but I had rather see it
myself.
Rosy. Ay, but if you recover, the villain will escape.
Mrs. Bri. Will he? then indeed it would be a pity you
should recover. I am so enraged against the villain, I can't
bear the thought of his escaping the halter.




SC. IV.]


THE SCHEMING LIEUTENANT.


307


Just. That's very kind in you, my dear; but if it's the same
thing to you, my dear, I had as soon recover, notwithstanding.
— What, doctor, no assistance!
Rosy. Efacks, I can do nothing, but there's the German
quack, whom you wanted to send from town; I met him at
the next door, and I know he has antidotes for all poisons.
Just. Fetch him, my dear friend, fetch him!  '11 get him
a diploma if he cures me.
Rosy. Well, there's no time to be lost; you continue to
swell immensely.                                [Exit.
Mrs. Bri. What, my dear, will you submit to be cured by
a quack nostrum-monger? For my part, as much as I love
you, I had rather follow you to your grave than see you owe
your life to any but a regular-bred physician.
Just. I'm sensible of your affection, dearest; and be assured nothing consoles me in my melancholy situation so
much as the thoughts of leaving you behind.
Re-enter DOcTOR RosY, with LIEUTENANT O'CONNOR disguised
Rosy. Great luck; met him passing by the door.
O'Con. Metto dowsei pulsum.
Rosy. He desires me to feel your pulse.
Just. Can't he speak English?
Rosy. Not a word.
O'Con. Palio vivem mortem soonem.
Rosy. He says you have not six hours to live.
Just. 0 mercy! does he know my distemper?
Rosy. I believe not.
Just. Tell him 'tis black arsenic they have given me
Rosy. Geneable illi arsnecca.
O'Con. Pisonatus.
Just. What does he say?
Rosy. He says you are poisoned.
Just. We know that; but what will be the effect?
Rosy. Quid effectum?
O'Con. Diable tutellum.
Rosy. He says you'll die presently.
Just. Oh horrible! What, no antidote?
O'Con. Curum benakere bono fullum.
Just. What, does he say I must row in a boat to Fulham?
Rosy. He says he '11 undertake to cure you for three thousand pounds.
x 2




ST. PATRICK'S DAY; OR,


[ACT -u


Mrs. Bri. Three thousand pounds! three thousand halters!
-No, lovee, you shall never submit to such impositions; die
at once, and be a customer to none of them.
Just. I won't die, Bridget-I don't like death.
Mrs. Bri. Psha! there is nothing in it: a moment, and it
is over.
Just. Ay, but it leaves a numbness behind that lasts a
plaguy long time.
Mrs. Bri. 0 my dear, pray consider the will.
Enter LAURETTA.
i         Lau. 0 my father, what is this I hear?
O'Con. Quiddam seomriam deos tollam rosam.
Rosy. The doctor is astonished at the sight of your fair;        daughter.
F         Just. How so?
O'Con. Damsellum livivum suvum rislibani.
Rosy. He says that he has lost his heart to her, and that if
you will give him leave to pay his addresses to the young lady,
and promise your consent to the union, if he should gain her
affections, he will on those conditions cure you instantly, without fee or reward.
Just. The devil! did he say all that in so few words? What
a fine language it is! Well, I agree, if he can prevail on the
girl.-[Aside.]  And that I am sure he never will.
Rosy. Greal.
O'Con. Writhum bothum.
Rosy. He says you must give this under your hand, while
he writes you a miraculous receipt.
[Both sit down to write.
Lau. Do, mamma, tell me the meaning of this.
Mrs. Bri. Don't speak to me, girl.-Unnatural parent!
Just. There, doctor; there's what he requires.
Rosy. And here's your receipt: read it yourself.
Just. Hey! what's here? plain English!
Rosy. Read it out; a wondrous nostrum, I '11 answer for it.
Just. [Reads.] In reading this you are cured, by your affectionate son-in-law, O'CONNOR.-Who, in the name of Beelzebub, sirrah, who are you?
O'Con. Your affectionate son-in-law, O'Connor, and your
very humble servant, Humphrey Hum.
Just 'Tis false, you dog! you are not my son-in-law; for




SC. IV.]


THE SCHEMING LIEUTENANT.


S09


I 11 be poison'd again, and you shall be hanged.-I'll die,
sirrah, and leave Bridget my estate.
Mrs. Bri. Ay, pray do, my dear, leave me your estate: I 'm
sure he deserves to be hanged.
Just. He does, you say!-H-ark'ee, Bridget, you showed
such a tender concern for me when you thought me poisoned,
that for the future I am resolved never to take your advice
again in any thing.-[To LIEUTENANT O'CONNOR.] So, do you
hear, sir, you are an Irishman and a soldier, an't you?
O'Con. I am, sir, and proud of both.
Just. The two things on earth I most hate; so I 11 tell you
what-renounce your country and sell your commission, and
I'11 forgive you.
O'Con. Hark'ee, Mr. Justice-if you were not the father of
my Lauretta, I would pull your nose for asking the first, and
break your bones for desiring the second.
Rosy. Ay, ay, you're right.
Just. Is he? then I'm sure I must be wrong.-Here, sir,
I give my daughter to you, who are the most impudent dog I,ever saw in my life.
O'Con. Oh, sir, say what you please; with such a gift as
Lauretta, every word is a compliment.
Mrs. Bri. Well, my lovee, I think this will be a good subject for us to quarrel about the rest of our lives.
Just. Why, truly, my dear, I think so, though we are seldom at a loss for that
Rosy. This is all as it should be.-My Alexander, I give
you joy, and you, my little god-daughter; and now my sincere
wish is, that you may make just such a wife as my poor dear
Dolly.                                   [Exeunt omnes




THE DUENNA.
A COMIC OPERA.
DRAMATIS PERSONE.
AS ORIGINALLY ACTED AT COVENT GARDEN THEATRE, NOV. 21, 1775.
DON FERDINAND   Mr. Mattocks. LOPEZ.       Mr. Wewitzer.
DON JEROME..   Mr. Wilson.
DON ANTONIO.   Mr. Dubellamy. DONNA LOUISA.. Mrs. Mattocks.
DON CARLOS..   Mr. Leoni.  DONNA CLARA.. Mrs. Cargill.
IsAAC MENDOZA. Mr. Quick.  THE DUENNA.. Mrs. Green.
FATHER PAUL.   Mr. Mahon.
FATHER FRANCIS.Mr. Fox.     Masqueraders, Friars, Porter, Maids
FATHER AUGUSTINE Mr. Baker.          and Servants.
SCENE.-SEVILLE.
ACT I.
SCENE I. —The Street before DON JEROME'S House.
Enter LOPEZ, with a dark lantern.
Lop. Past three o'clock!-So! a notable hour for one of
my regular disposition, to be strolling like a bravo through
the streets of Seville! Well, of all services, to serve a young
lover is the hardest.-Not that I am an enemy to love; but
my love and my master's differ strangely.-Don Ferdinand is
much too gallant to eat, drink, or sleep:-now, my love gives
me an appetite-then I am fond of dreaming of my mistress,
and I love dearly to toast her.-This cannot be done without
good sleep and good liquor: hence my partiality to a featherbed and a bottle. What a pity, now, that I have not further
time for reflections! but my master expects thee, honest
Lopez, to secure his retreat from Donna Clara's window, as
I guess. —[Music without.]   Hey! sure, I heard music!
So, so! who have we here?  Oh, Don Antonio, my master's
friend, come from the masquerade, to serenade my young mistress, Donna Louisa, I suppose: so! we shall have the old
gentleman up presently.-Lest he should miss his son, I had
best lose no time in getting to my post.           [Exit




ACT I. SC. i.'


THE DUENNA.


311


Enter DON ANTONIO, with MASQUERADERS and music.
SONG.-Don Ant.
Tell me, my lute, can thy soft strain
So gently speak thy master's pain?
So softly sing, so humbly sigh,
That, though my sleeping love shall know
Who sings-who sighs below,
Her rosy slumbers shall not fly ]
Thus, may some vision whisper more
Than ever I dare speak before.
1 Mas. Antonio, your mistress will never wake, while you
sing so dolefully; love, like a cradled infant, is lulled by a
sad melody.
Don Ant. I do not wish to disturb her rest.
1 Mas. The reason is, because you know she does not regard you enough to appear, if you awaked her
Don Ant. Nay, then, I'll convince you.                  [Sings.
The breath of morn bids hence the night,
Unveil those beauteous eyes, my fair;
For till the dawn of love is there,
I feel no day, I own no light.
DONNA LOUIsA-replies from a window.
Waking, I heard thy numbers chide,
Waking, the dawn did bless my sight;
'Tis Phoebus sure that woos, I cried,
Who speaks in song, who moves in light.
DON JEROME-from a window.
What vagabonds are these, I hear,
Fiddling, fluting, rhyming, ranting,
Piping, scraping, whining, canting,
Fly, scurvy minstrels, fly!
TRIO.
Don. Louisa. Nay, prithee, father, why so roughl
Don Ant..     An humble lover I.
Don Jer...How durst you, daughter, lend an ea'
To such deceitful stuff
Quick, from the window fly!
Don. Louisa. Adieu, Antonio!
Don Ant... Must you go?
Don. Louisa  We soon, perhaps, may meet again.
Don Ant..     For though hard fortune is our foe,
The god of love will fight for us.
Dot Jer... Reach me the blunderbuss.
Don. oAnti    he god of love, who knows our painDon. Louisa ]
Don Jer.. Hence, or these slugs are through your brain.
[Exeunt severally




$81


THE DUENNA


[ACT I


SCENE II.-A Piazza
Enter DON FERDINAND and LOPEZ
Lop. Truly, sir, I think that a little sleep once in a week
or soDon Ferd. Peace, fool! don't mention sleep to me.
Lop. No, no, sir, I don't mention your lowbred, vulgar,
sound sleep; but I can't help thinking that a gentle slumber,
or half an hour's dozing, if it were only for the novelty of the
thing
Don Ferd. Peace, booby, I say!-Oh Clara, dear, cruel
disturber of my rest!
Lop. And of mine too.                           [Aside.
Don Ferd. 'Sdeath, to trifle with me at such a juncture as
this!-now to stand on punctilios!-Love me! I don't believe she ever did.
Lop. Nor I either.                              [Aside.
Don Ferd. Or is it, that her sex never know their desires
for an hour together?
Lop. Ah, they know them oftener than they'll own them.
[Aside.
Don Ferd. Is there, in the world. so inconstant a creature
as Clara?
Lop. I could name one.                          [Aside.
Don Ferd. Yes; the tame fool who submits to her caprice.
Lop. I thought he could'nt miss it.             [Aside.
Don Ferd. Is she not capricious, teasing, tyrannical, obstirate, perverse, absurd? ay, a wilderness of faults and follies;
her looks are scorn, and her very smiles-'Sdeath! I wish I
hadn't mentioned her smiles; for she does smile such beaming loveliness, such fascinating brightness-Oh, death and
madness! I shall die if I lose her.
Lop. Oh, those damned smiles have undone all!   [Aside.
AIR.-Don Ferd.
Could I her faults remember,
Forgetting every charm,
Soon Would impartial reason
The tyrant love disarm:
But when enraged I number
Each failing of her mind,
Love still suggests each beauty,
And sees-while reason's blind.
Lop Here comes Don Antonio, sirDon Ferd. Well, go you home-I shall be there presently




Ce. II.!


THE DUENNA


318


Lop. Ah, those cursed smiles!                 [Exit
Enter DON ANTONIO.
Don Ferd. Antonio, Lopez tells me he left you chanting
before our door-was my father waked?
Don Ant. Yes, yes; he has a singular affection for music,
so I left him roaring at his barred window, like the print of
Bajazet in the cage. And what brings you out so early?
Don Ferd. I believe I told you, that to-morrow was the
day fixed by Don Pedro and Clara's unnatural stepmother,
for her to enter a convent, in order that her brat might possess
her fortune: made desperate by this, I procured a key to the
door, and bribed Clara's maid to leave it unbolted; at two
this morning, I entered, unperceived, and stole to her chamber-I found her waking and weeping.
Don Ant. Happy Ferdinand!
Don Ferd. 'Sdeath! hear the conclusion.-I was rated as.;   the most confident ruffian, for daring to approach her room at
that hour of night.
Don Ant. Ay, ay, this was at first.
Don Ferd. No such thing! she would not hear a word from
me, but threatened to raise her mother, if I did not instantly
leave her.
Don Ant. Well, but at last?Don Ferd. At last! why I was forced to leave the house as
I came in.
Don Ant. And did you do nothing to offend her?
Don Ferd. Nothing, as I hope to be saved!-I believe, I
might snatch a dozen or two of kisses.
Don. Ant. Was that all? well, I think, I never heard of
such assurance!
Don Ferd. Zounds! I tell you I behaved with the utmost
respect.
Don Ant. 0 Lord! I don't mean you, but in her. But,
hark ye, Ferdinand, did you leave your key with them?
*   Don Ferd. Yes; the maid, who saw me out, took it from
the door.
Don. tnt. Then, my life for it, her mistress elopes after
you.
Don Ferd. Ay, to bless my rival, perhaps. I am in a humour to suspect every body.-You loved her once, and thought
her an angel, as I do now.




814


THE DUENNA


[ACT z.


Don Ant. Yes, I loved her, till I found she wouldn't love
me, and then I discovered that she hadn't a good feature in
her face.
AIR.
I ne'er could any lustre see
In eyes that would not look on me;
I ne'er saw nectar on a lip,
But where my own did hope to sip.
Has the maid who seeks my heart
Cheeks of rose, untouch'd by art
I will own the colour true,
When yielding blushes aid their hue.
Is her hand so soft and pure?
I must press it, to be sure;
Nor can I be certain then,
Till it, grateful, press again.
Must I, with attentive eye,
Watch her heaving bosom sigh ]
I will do so, when I see
That heaving bosom sigh for me.
Besides, Ferdinand, you have full security in my love for
your sister; help me there, and I can never disturb you
with Clara.
Don Ferd. As far as I can, consistently with the honour of
our family, you know I will; but there must be no eloping.
Don Ant. And yet, now, you would carry off Clara?
Don Ferd. Ay, that's a different case!-we never mean
that others should act to our sisters and wives as we de
to others'.-But, to-morrow, Clara is to       be forced into a
convent.
Don Ant. Well, and am not I so unfortunately circumstanced? To-morrow, your father forces Louisa to marry Isaac,
the Portuguese-but come with me, and we'll devise something, I warrant.
Don Ferd. I must go home.
Don Ant. Well, adieu!
Don Ferd. But, Antonio, if you did not love my sistor,
you have too much honour and friendship to supplant me with
Clara?
AIR.-Don Ant.
Friendship is the bond of reason;
But if beauty disapprove,
Heaven dissolves all other treason
In the heart that's true to loveo




a C. III.]


THE DUENN&


315


The faith which to my friend I swore,
As a civil oath I view;
But to the charms which I adore,
'Tis religion to be true.               [Exit.
Don Ferd. There is always a levity in Antonio's manner of
replying to me on this subject that is very alarming.-'Sdeath!
if Clara should love him after all!
SONG.
Though cause for suspicion appears,
Yet proofs of her love, too, are strong;,              I'm a wretch if I'm right in my fears,
And unworthy of bliss if I'm wrong.
What heart-breaking torments from jealousy flow,
Ah! none but the jealous-the jealous can know!
When blest with the smiles of my fair,
I know not how much I adore:
Those smiles let another but share,
And I wonder I prized them no more I
Then whence can I hope a relief from my woe,
When the falser she seems, still the fonder I grow!  [Exit.
SCENE III.-A Room       in DON JEROME'S House.
Enter DONNA LOUISA and DUENNA.
Don. Louisa. But, my dear Margaret, my charming Duenna,
do you think we shall succeed?
Duen. I tell you again, I have no doubt on't; but it must
be instantly put to the trial. Every thing is prepared in your
room, and for the rest we must trust to fortune.
Don. Louisa. My father's oath was, never to see me till I
had consented toDuen. 'Twas thus I overheard him say to his friend, Don
Guzman,-I will demand of her to-morrow, oncefor all, whether
she will consent to marry Isaac Mendoza; if she hesitates, I
will make a solemn oath never to see or speak to her till she returns to her duty.-These were his words.
Don. Louisa. And on his known obstinate adherence to what
he has once said, you have formed this plan for my escape.
-    But have you secured my maid in our interest?
Duen. She is a party in the whole; but remember, if we
succeed, you resign all right and title in little Isaac, the Jew,
over to me.
Don. Louisa. That I do with all my soul; get him, if you
can, and I shall wish you joy, most heartily. He is twenty
times as rich as my poor Antonio.




816


THE DUENNA.


[ACT L.


AIR.
Thou canst not boast of fortune's store,
My love, while me they wealthy call:
But I was glad to find thee poorFor with my heart I'd give thee all.
And then the grateful youth shall own
I loved him for himself alone.
But when his worth my hand shall gain,
No word or look of mine shall show
That I the smallest thought retain
Of what my bounty did bestow:
Yet still his grateful heart shall own
I loved him for himself alone.
Duen. I hear Don Jerome coming.-Quick, give me the
last letter I brought you from Antonio-you know that is
to be the ground of my dismission-I must slip out to seal it
up, as undelivered.                                 [Exit.
Enter DON JEROME and DON FERDINAND..
Don Jer. What, I suppose you have been serenading too!
Eh, disturbing some peaceable neighbourhood with villanous
catgut and lascivious piping! Out on't! you set your sister,
here, a vile example; but I come to tell you, madam, that I '11
suffer no more of these midnight incantations-these amorous
orgies, that steal the senses in the hearing; as, they say, Egyptian embalmers serve mummies, extracting the brain through
the ears.  However, there 's an end of your frolics-Isaac
Mendoza will be here presently, and to-morrow you shall
marry him.
Don. Louisa. Never, while I have life!
Don Ferd. Indeed, sir, I wonder how you can think of such
a man for a son-in-law.
Don Jer. Sir, you are very kind to favour me with your
sentiments-and pray, what is your objection to him?
Don Ferd. He is a Portuguese, in the first place.
Don Jer. No such thing, boy; he has forsworn his country
Don. Louisa. He is a Jew.
Don Jer. Another mistake: he has been a Christian these
six weeks
Don Ferd. Ay, he left his old religion for an estate, and
has not had time to get a new one.
Don. Louisa. But stands like a dead wall between church
and synagogue, or like the blank leaves between the Old and
New Testament.




SC. TII. 1


317


THE DUENNA.


Don Jer. Any thing more?
Don Ferd. But the most remarkable part of his character
is his passion for deceit and tricks of cunning.
Don. Louisa. Though at the same time the fool predominates so much over the knave, that I am told he is generally
the dupe of his own art.
Don Ferd. True; like an unskilful gunner, he usually
misses his aim, and is hurt by the recoil of his own piece.
Don Jer. Any thing more?
Don. Louisa. To sum up all, he has the worst fault husband can have-he 's not my choice.
Don Jer. But you are his; and choice on one side is sufficient-two lovers should never meet in marriage-be you sour
as you please, he is sweet-tempered; and for your good fruit,
there 's nothing like ingrafting on a crab.
Don. Louisa. I detest him as a lover, and shall ten times
more as a husband.
Don Jer. I don't know that-marriage generally makes a
great change-but, to cut the matter short, will you have him
or not?
Don. Louisa. There is nothing else I could disobey you in.
Don Jer. Do you value your father's peace?
Don. Louisa. So much, that I will not fasten on him the
regret of making an only daughter wretched.
Don Jer. Very well, ma'am, then mark me-never more
will I see or converse with you till you return to your dutyno reply-this and your chamber shall be your apartments;
I never will stir out without leaving you under lock and key,
and when I'm at home no creature can approach you but
through my library: we'll try who can be most obstinate.
Out of my sight — there remain till you know your duty.
[Pushes her out.
Don Ferd. Surely, sir, my sister's inclinations should be
consulted in a matter of this kind, and some regard paid to
Don Antonio, being my particular friend.
*   Don. Jer. That, doubtless, is a very great recommendation!
-I certainly have not paid sufficient respect to it.
Don Ferd. There is not a man living I would sooner choose
for a brother-in-law.
Don Jer. Very possible; and if you happen to have o'er a
sister, who is not at the same time a daughter of mine, I'm




THE DUENNA.


[ACT I.


sure I shall have no objection to the relationship; but at
present, if you please, we '11 drop the subject
Don Ferd. Nay, sir, 'tis only my regard for my sister makes
me speak.
Don Jer. Then, pray, sir, in future, let your regard for your
father make you hold your tongue.
Don Ferd. I have done, sir. I shall only add a wish that
you would reflect what at our age you would have felt, had
you been crossed in your affection for the mother of her you
are so severe to.
Don Jer. Why, I must confess I had a great affection for
your mother's ducats, but that was all, boy. I married her
for her fortune, and she took me in obedience to her father,
and a very happy couple we were. We never expected any
love from one another, and so we were never disappointed.
If we grumbled a little now and then, it was soon over, for we
were never fond enough to quarrel; and when the good woman died, why, why,-I had as lieve she had lived, and I wish
every widower in Seville could say the same. I shall now go
and get the key of this dressing-room-so, good son, if you
have any lecture in support of disobedience to give your sister,
it must be brief; so make the best of your time, d'ye hear?
[Exit.
Don Ferd. I fear, indeed, my friend Antonio has little to
hope for; however, Louisa has firmness, and my father's anger
will probably only increase her affection.-In our intercourse
with the world, it is natural for us to dislike those who are
innocently the cause of our distress; but in the heart's attachment a woman never likes a man with ardour 'till she has suffered for his sake-[Noise.] so! What bustle is here! between my father and the Duenna too-I 11 e'en get out of the
way.                                              [Exit.
Re-enter DON JEROME with a letter, pulling in DUENNA.
Don Jer. I'm astonished! I'm thunder-struck! here's
treachery and conspiracy with a vengeance! You, Antonio's
creature, and chief manager of this plot for my daughter's
eloping!-you, that I placed here as a scarecrow?
Duen. What?
Don Jer. A scarecrow-to prove a decoy-duck! What havo
you to say for yourself?




S  III.!


THE DUENNA.


319


Duen. Well sir, since you have forced that letter from me,
and discovered my real sentiments, I scorn to renounce them.
-I am Antonio's friend, and it was my intention that your
daughter should have served you as all such old tyrannical
sots should be served-I delight in the tender passions, and
would befriend all under their influence.
Don Jer. The tender passions! yes, they would become
those impenetrable features! Why, thou deceitful hag! I
placed thee as a guard to the rich blossoms of my daughter's
beauty.  I thought that dragon's front of thine would cry aloof
to the sons of gallantry: steel traps and spring guns seemed
-writ in every wrinkle of it.-But you shall quit my house this
instant. The tender passions, indeed! go, thou wanton sibyl,
thou amorous woman of Endor, go!
Duen. You base, scurrilous, old-but I won't demean myself by naming what you are.-Yes, savage, I '11 leave your
den; but I suppose you don't mean to detain my apparel-I
may have my things, I presume?
Don Jer. I took you, mistress, with your wardrobe onwhat have you pilfered, eh?
Duen. Sir, I must take leave of my mistress; she has valuables of mine: besides, my cardinal and veil are in her room.
Don Jer. Your veil, forsooth! what, do you dread being
gazed at? or are you afraid of your complexion?    Well, go
take your leave, and get your veil and cardinal! so! you quit
the house within these five minutes.-In-in-quick!-[Exit
DUENNA.] Here was a precious plot of mischief. -these are
the comforts daughters bring us!
AIR.
If a daughter you have, she's the plague of your life,
No peace shall you know, though you've buried your wife!
r         At twenty she mocks at the duty you taught herOh, what a plague is an obstinate daughter!
Sighing and whining,
Dying and pining,
Oh, what a plague is an obstinate daughter!
When scarce in their teens, they have wit to perplex us,
With letters and lovers for ever they vex us;
While each still rejects the fair suitor you've brought her;
"         Oh, what a plague is an obstinate daughter!
Wrangling and jangling,
Flouting and pouting,
Oh, what a plague is an obstinate daughter t




320


THE DUENNA.


[ACT I.


Pe-enter DONNA LOUISA, dressed as DUENNA, with cardinal and
veil, seeming to cry.
This way, mistress, this way.-What, I warrant, a tender
parting; so! tears of turpentine down those deal cheeks.Ay, you may well hide your head-yes, whine till your heart
breaks; but I'11 not hear one word of excuse-so you are right
to be dumb. This way, this way.               [Exeunt
Re-enter DUENNA
Duen. So, speed you well, sagacious Don Jerome! Oh,
rare effects of passion and obstinacy! Now shall I try whether
I can't play the fine lady as well as my mistress, and if I succeed, I may be a fine lady for the rest of my life-I '11 lose no
time to equip myself.                            [Exit.
SCENE IV.-The Court before DON JEROME'S House.
Enter DON JEROME and DONNA LOUISA.
Don Jer. Come, mistress, there is your way-the world
lies before you, so troop, thou antiquated Eve, thou original
sin! Hold, yonder is some fellow skulking; perhaps it is
Antonio-go to him, d'ye hear, and tell him to make you
amends, and as he has got you turned away, tell him I say it
is but just he should take you himself; go.-[Exit DoNNA
LOUISA.]  So! I am rid of her, thank heaven! and now I
shall be able to keep my oath, and confine my daughter with
better security.                                 [Exit.
SCENE V.-The Piazza.
Enter DONNA CLARA and MAID.
Maid. But where, madam, is it you intend to go?
Don. Clara. Any where to avoid the selfish violence of my
mother-in-law, and Ferdinand's insolent importunity.
Maid. Indeed, ma'am, since we have profited by Don Ferdinand's key, in making our escape, I think we had best find
him, if it were only to thank him.
Don. Clara. No-he has offended me exceedingly. [Retire
Enter DONNA LOUISA.
Don. Louisa. So I have succeeded in being turned out of
doors-but how shall I find Antonio? I dare not inquire for
him, for fear of being discovered; I would send to my friend
Clara, but that I doubt her prudery would condemn me.




sC. v,


THE DUENNA.


Maid. Then suppose, ma'am, you were to try if your friend
Donna Louisa would not receive you?
Don. Clara. No, her notions of filial duty are so severe, she
would certainly betray me.
Don. Louisa. Clara is of a cold temper, and would think this
step of mine highly forward.
Don. Clara. Louisa's respect for her father is so great, she
would not credit the unkindness of mine.
[DONNA LOUISA turns, and sees DONNA CLARA and MAnD.
Don. Louisa. Ha! who are those? sure one is Clara-if it
be, I '11 trust her.  Clara!                      [Advances.
Don. Clara. Louisa! and in masquerade too!
Don. Louisa. You will be more surprised when I tell you,
that I have run away from my father.
Don. Clara. Surprised indeed! and I should certainly chide
you most horridly, only that I have just run away from mine.
Don. Louisa. My dear Clara!                     [Embrace
2Don. Clara. Dear sister truant! and whither are you going?
Don. Louisa. To find the man I love, to be sure: and, I presume, you would have no aversion to meet with my brother?
Don. Clara. Indeed I should: he has behaved so ill to me,
I don't believe I shall ever forgive him.
AIR.
#           When sable night, each drooping plant restoring,
Wept o'er the flowers her breath did cheer,
As some sad widow o'er her babe deploring,
Wakes its beauty with a tear;
When all did sleep whose weary hearts did borrow
One hour from love and care to rest,
Lo! as I press'd my couch in silent sorrow,
My lover caught me to his breast!
He vow'd he came to save me
P              From those who would enslave me!
Then kneeling,
Kisses stealing,
Endless faith he swore;
But soon I chid him thence,
For had his fond pretence
Obtain'd one favour then;
And he had press'd again,
I fear'd my treacherous heart might grant him more.
Don. Louisa. Well, for all this, I would have sent him to
plead his pardon, but that I would not yet a while have him
know of my flight. And where do you hope to find protection.
Y




822


THE DUENNA.


[ACT I


Don. Clara. The Lady Abbess of the convent of St. Catharine is a relation and kind friend of mine-I shall be secure
with her, and you had best go thither with me.
Don. Louisa. No; I am determined to find Antonio first;
and, as I live, here comes the very man I will employ to seek
him for me.
Don. Clara. Who is he? he's a strange figure!
Don. Louisa. Yes; that sweet creature is the man whom
my father has fixed on for my husband.
Don. Clara. And will you speak to him? are you mad?
Don. Louisa. He is the fittest man in the world for my
purpose; for, though I was to have married him to-morrow,
he is the only man in Seville, who, I am sure, never saw me
in his life.
Don. Clara. And how do you know him?
Don. Louisa. He arrived but yesterday, and he was shown
to me from the window, as he visited my father.
Don. Clara. Well, I '11 begone.
Don. Louisa. Hold, my dear Clara-a thought has struck
me: will you give me leave to borrow your name, as I see
occ sion?
Don. Clara. It will but disgrace you; but use it as you
please: I dare not stay.-[Going.]-But, Louisa, if you should
see your brother, be sure you don't inform him that I have taken
refuge with the Dame Prior of the convent of St. Catharine,
on the left hand side of the piazza, which leads to the church
of St. Anthony.
Don. Louisa. Ha! ha! ha! I '11 be very particular in my
directions where he may not find you.-[Exeunt DONNA
CLARA and MAID.]-SO! my swain, yonder, has done admir
ing himself, and draws nearer.                 [Retires.
Enter IsaAc and DON CARLOS.
Isaac. [Looking in a pocket-glass.] I tell you, friend Carlos,
I will please myself in the habit of my chin.
Don Car. But, my dear friend, how can you think to please
a lady with such a face?
Isaac. Why, what's the matter with the face! I think it is
a very engaging face; and, I am sure, a lady must have very
little taste who could dislike my beard.-[Sees DoNNALoUIsA.]
-See now! I '11 die if here is not a little damsel struck with
it already




8C. V.]


THE DUENNA.


o,~t


Don. Louisa. Signor, are you disposed to oblige a lady who
greatly wants your assistance?                [Unveils.
Isaac. Egad, a very pretty black-eyed girl! she has certainly
taken a fancy to me, Carlos. First, ma'am, I must beg the
favour of your name.
Don. Louisa. [Aside.] So! it's well I am  provided.[Aloud.]-My name, sir, is Donna Clara d'Almanza.
Isaac. What? Don Guzman's daughter? I'faith, I just now
heard she was missing.
Don. Louisa. But sure, sir, you have too much gallantry
and honour to betray me, whose fault is love?
Isaac. So! a passion for me! poor girl! Why, ma'am, as
for betraying you, I don't see how I could get any thing by
it; so, you may rely on my honour; but as for your love, I
am sorry your case is so desperate.
Don. Louisa. Why so, signor?
Isaac. Because I am positively engaged to another-an't
I, Carlos?
Don. Louisa. Nay, but hear me.
Isaac. No, no; what should I hear for? It is impossible
for me to court you in an honourable way; and for any thing
else, if I were to comply now, I suppose you have some un
grateful brother, or cousin, who would want to cut my throat
for my civility-so, truly, you had best go home again.
Don. Louisa. [Aside.] Odious wretch!-[Aloud.]-But, good
signor, it is Antonio d'Ercilla, on whose account I have eloped
Isaac. How! what! it is not with me, then, that you are in
love?
Don. Louisa. No, indeed, it is not.
Isaac. Then you are a forward, impertinent simpleton! and
I shall certainly acquaint your father.
Don. Louisa. Is this your gallantry?
Isaac. Yet hold-Antonio d'Ercilla, did you say? egad, I
may make something of this-Antonio d'Ercilla?
Don. Louisa. Yes; and, if ever you hope to prosper in love,
you will bring me to him.
Isaac. By St. Iago and I will too!-Carlos, this Antonio is
one who rivals me (as I have heard) with Louisa-now, if I
could hamper him with this girl, I should have the field to
myself; hey, Carlos! A lucky thought, isn't it?
Don Car. Yes, very good-very good!
Isaac. Ah! this little brain is never at a loss —cuiiug
Y




824


THE DUENNA.


[ACT 1. SO. V.


Isaac! cunning rogue!      Donna Clara, will you trust yourself
awhile to my friend's direction?
Don. Louisa. May I rely on you, good signor?
Don Car. Lady, it is impossible I should deceive you.
AIR.
Had I a heart for falsehood framed,
I ne'er could injure you;
For though your tongue no promise claim'd,
Your charms would make me true.
To you no soul shall bear deceit,
No stranger offer wrong;
But friends in all the aged you '11 meet,
And lovers in the young.
But when they learn that you have blest
Another with your heart,
They '11 bid aspiring passion rest,
And act a brother's part:
Then, lady, dread not here deceit,
Nor fear to suffer wrong;
For friends in all the aged you '11 meet,
And brothers in the young.
Isaac. Conduct the lady to my lodgings, Carlos; I must
haste to Don Jerome. Perhaps you know Louisa, ma'am.
She 's divinely handsome, isn't she?
Don. Louisa. You must excuse me not joining with you.
Isaac. Why, I have heard it on all hands.
Don. Louisa. Her father is uncommonly partial to her; but
I believe you will find she has rather a matronly air.
Isaac. Carlos, this is all envy.-You pretty girls never speak
well of one another.-[To DON CARLOS.] Hark ye, find out
Antonio, and I '11 saddle him with this scrape, I warrant.
Oh, 'twas the luckiest thought!    Donna Clara, your very obe.
dient. Carlos to your post.
DUET.
Isaac.... My mistress expects me, and I must go to her,
Or how can I hope for a smile.
Don. Louisa. Soon may you return a prosperous wooer,
But think what I suffer the while
Alone, and away from the man whom I love,
In strangers I'm forced to confide.
Iaac.... Dear lady, my friend you may trust, and he '11 prove
Your servant, protector, and guide.
AIR.
DAo  Car.. Gentle maid, ah! why suspect me?
Let me serve thee-then reject me.




Ar lOT. sc. 1.]


THE DUENNIA'.


825


Canst thou trust, and I deceive thee?
Art thou sad, and shall I grieve thee?
Gentle maid, ah! why suspect ie s
Let me serve thee-then reject me.
TRIO.
Don. Louisa. Never mayst thou happy be,
If in aught thou 'rt false to me.
Isaac... Never may he happy be,
If in aught he 's false to thee.
Don Car.. Never may I happy be,
If in aught I'm false to thee.
Don. Louisa. Never mayst thou, &c.
Isaac.... Never may he, &c.
Don Car..Never may I, &c.                      [Exeetl
ACT II.
SCENE I.-A Library in DON JEROME'S House.
Enter Dox JEROME and ISAAC.
Don Jer. Ha! ha! ha! run away from her father! has she
given him the slip?  Ha! ha! ha! poor Don Guzman!
Isaac. Ay; and I am to conduct her to Antonio; by which
means you see I shall hamper him so that he can give me no
disturbance with your daughter-this is trap, isn't it? a nice
stroke of cunning, hey?
Don Jer. Excellent! excellent! yes, yes, carry her to him,
hamper him by all means, ha! ha! ha! poor Don Guzman!
an old fool! imposed on by a girl
Isaac. Nay, they have the cunning of serpents, that's the
truth on 't.
Don Jer. Psha! they are cunning only when they have
fools to deal with. Why don't my girl play me such a trick
-let her cunning over-reach my caution, I say-hey, little
Isaac!
Isaac. True, true; or let me see any of the sex make a fool
of me!-No, no, egad! little Solomon (as my aunt used to call
me) understands tricking a little too well.
Don Jer. Ay, but such a driveller as Don Guzman!
Isaac. And such a dupe as Antonio!
Don Jer. True; never were seen such a couple of credulous
simpletons! But come, 'tis time you should see my daughter
-you must carry on the siege by yourself, friend Isaac.
Isaac. Sir, you '11 introduce — -
Don Jer. No-I have sworn a solemn oath not to see or




826


THE DUENNA.


[ACT I.


speak to her till she renounces her disobedience; win her to
that, and she gains a father and a husband at once.
Isaac. Gad, I shall never be able to deal with her alone;
nothing keeps me in such awe as perfect beauty-now there
is something consoling and encouraging in ugliness.
SONG.
Give Isaac the nymph who no beauty can boast,
But health and good humour to make her his toast;
If straight, I don't mind whether slender or fat,
And six feet or four-we'll ne'er quarrel for that.
Whate'er her complexion, I vow I don't care;
If brown, it is lasting-more pleasing, if fair:
And though in her face I no dimples should see,
Let her smile-and each dell is a dimple to me.
Let her locks be the reddest that ever were seen,
And her eyes may be e'en any colour but green;
For in eyes, though so various the lustre and hue,
I swear I 've no choice-only let her have two.
'Tis true I 'd dispense with a throne on her back,
And white teeth, I own, are genteeler than black;
A little round chin too 's a beauty, I 've heard;
But I only desire she mayn't have a beard.
Don Jer. You will change your note, my friend, when you've
seen Louisa.
Isaac. Oh, Don Jerome, the honour of your allianceDon Jer. Ay, but her beauty will affect you-she is, though
I say it, who am    her father, a very prodigy.    There you
will see features with an eye like mine-yes, i' faith, there
is a kind of wicked sparkling-something of a roguish brightness, that shows her to be my own.
Isaac. Pretty rogue!
Don Jer. Then, when she smiles, you '11 see a ittle dimple
in one cheek only; a beauty it is certainly, yet you shall not
say which is prettiest, the cheek with the dimple, or the cheek
without.
Isaac. Pretty rogue!
Don Jer. Then the roses on those cheeks are shaded with
a sort of velvet down, that gives a delicacy to the glow of
health.
Isaac. Pretty rogue!
Don Jer. Her skin pure dimity, yet more fair, being spangled
here and there with a golden freckle.




sc nH.


TIE DUENNA.


Isaac. Charming pretty rogue! pray how is the tone of her
voice?
Don Jer Remarkably pleasing-but if you could prevail on
her to sing, you would be enchanted-she is a nightingalea Virginia nightingale!  But come, come; her maid shall
conduct you to her antechamber.
Isaac. Well, egad, I'11 pluck up resolution, and meet her
frowns intrepidly.
Don Jer. Ay! woo her briskly-win her, and give me a
proof of your address, my little Solomon.
Isaac. But hold-I expect my friend Carlos to call on me
here. If he comes, will you send him to me?
Don Jer. I will. Lauretta!-[Calls.]-Come-she '11 show
you to the room. What! do you droop? here 's a mournful
face to make love with!                       [Exeunt.
SCENE II.-DONNA LOUISA's Dressing Room.
"                Enter IsAAc and MAID.
Maid. Sir, my mistress will wait on you presently.
[Goes to the door
Isaac. When she's at leisure-don't hurry her.-[Exil
MAID.]-I wish I had ever practised a love-scene-I doubt I
shall make a poor figure-I couldn't be more afraid if I was
going before the Inquisition. So, the door opens-yes, she's
coming-the very rustling of her silk has a disdainful sound.
Enter DUENNA, dressed as DONNA LOUISA.
Now dar'n't I look round for the soul of me-her beauty will
certainly strike me dumb if I do. I wish she 'd speak first.
Duen. Sir, I attend your pleasure.
Isaac. [Aside.] So! the ice is broke, and a pretty civil beginning too!-[Aloud.]  Hem! madam-miss —I'm all attention.
Duen. Nay, sir, 'tis I who should listen, and you propose.
Isaac. [Aside.] Egad, this isn't so disdainful neither-I believe I may venture to look. No-I dar'n't-one glance of
those roguish sparklers would fix me again.
Duen. You seem thoughtful, sir. Let me persuade you to
sit down.
Isaac. [Aside.] So, so; she mollifies apace-she 's estruck
with my figure! this attitude has had its effect.
Duen. Come, sir, here's a chair.






3M8


THE DUENNA.


[ACT n


Isaac. Madam, the greatness of your goodness overpowers
me-that a lady so lovely should deign to turn her beauteous
eyes on me so.    [She takes his hand, he turns and sees her.
Duen. You seem surprised at my condescension.
Isaac. Why, yes, madam, I am a little surprised at it.[Aside.]  Zounds! this can never be Louisa-she's as old as
my mother!
Duen. But former prepossessions give way to my father's
commands.
Isaac. [Aside.] Her father! Yes, 'tis she then.-Lord,
Lord; how blind some parents are!
Duen. Signor Isaac!
Isaac. [Aside.] Truly, the little damsel was right-she has
rather a matronly air, indeed! ah! 'tis well my affections are
fixed on her fortune, and not her person.
Duen. Signor, won't you sit?                [She sits.
Isaac. Pardon me, madam, I have scarce recovered my
astonishment at-your condescension, madam.-[Aside.]
She has the devil's own dimples, to be sure!
Duen. I do not wonder, sir, that you are surprised at my
affability-I own, signor, that I was vastly prepossessed against
you, and, being teased by my father, I did give some encouragement to Antonio; but then, sir, you were described to me as
quite a different person.
Isaac. Ay, and so you were to me, upon my soul, madam.
Duen. But when I saw you I was never more struck in my
life.
Isaac. That was just my case too, madam: I was struck all
on a heap, for my part.
Duen. Well, sir, I see our misapprehension has been mutual-you expected to find me haughty and averse, and I was
taught to believe you a little black, snub-nosed fellow, without
person, manners, or address.
Isaac. Egad, I wish she had answered her picture as well!
[Aside.
Duen. But, sir, your air is noble-something so liberal in
your carriage, with so penetrating an eye, and so bewitching
a smile
Isaac. Egad, now I look at her again, I don't think she is
so ugly!                                         [Aside.
Duen. So little like a Jew, and so much like a gentle
man




ec. II.J


THE DUENNA.


329


Isaac. Well, certainly, there is something pleasing in the
tone of her voice..                           [Aside.
Duen. You will pardon this breach of decorum in praising
you thus, but my joy at being so agreeably deceived has given
me such a flow of spirits!
Isaac. Oh, dear lady, may I thank those dear lips for this
goodness?-[Kisses her.]   Why she has a pretty sort of velvet
down, that's the truth on 't.                         [Aside.
Duen. 0 sir, you have the most insinuating manner, but
indeed you should get rid of that odious beard-one might as
well kiss a hedgehog.
Isaac. [Aside.] Yes, ma'am, the razor wouldn't be amissfor either of us.-[Aloud.] Could you favour me with a song?
Duen. Willingly, sir, though I am rather hoarse-ahem!
[Begins to sing.
Isaac. [Aside.] Very like a Virginia nightingale!-[Aloud.]
Ma'am, I perceive you're hoarse-I beg you will not distress
Duen. Oh, not in the least distressed.  Now, sir.
SONG.
When a tender maid
Is first assay'd
By some admiring swain,
How her blushes rise
If she meet his eyes,
While he unfolds his pain!
If he takes her hand, she trembles quite I
Touch her lips, and she swoons outright!
While a pit-a-pat, &c.
Her heart avows her fright.
But in time appear
Fewer signs of fear;
The youth she boldly views:
If her hand he grasp,
Or her bosom clasp,
No mantling blush ensues I
Then to church well pleased the lovers move
While her smiles her contentment prove;
And a-pit-a-pat, &c.
Her heart avows her love.
Isaac. Charming, ma'am! enchanting! and, truly, your
notes put me in mind of one that's very dear to me —a lady,
indeed, whom you greatly resemble!
Duen. How! is there, then, another so dear to you?




THE DUENNA.


LACT U.


Isaac. Oh, no, ma'ami, you mistake; it was my mother 1
meant.
Duen. Come, sir, I see you are amazed and confounded at
my condescension, and know not what to say.
Isaac. It is very true, indeed, ma'am; but it is a judgment,
I look on it as a judgment on me, for delaying to urge the
time when you '11 permit me to complete my happiness, by
acquainting Don Jerome with your condescension.
Duen. Sir, I must frankly own to you, that I can never be
yours with my father's consent.
Isaac. Good lack! how so?
Duen. When my father, in his passion, swore he would
never see me again till I acquiesced in his will, I also made
a vow, that I would never take a husband from his hand; nothing shall make me break that oath: but, if you have spirit
and contrivance enough to carry me off without his knowledge, I'm yours.
Isaac. Hum!
Duen. Nay, sir, if you hesitateIsaac. [Aside.] I'faith, no bad whim this!-If I take her at
her word, I shall secure her fortune, and avoid making any
settlement in return; thus I shall not only cheat the lover,
but the father too. Oh, cunning rogue, Isaac! ay, ay, let
this little brain alone! Egad, I '11 take her in the mind!
Duen. Well, sir, what's your determination?
Isaac. Madam, I was dumb only from rapture-I applaui.
your spirit, and joyfully close with your proposal; for whicE
thus let me, on this lily hand, express my gratitude.
Duen. Well, sir, you must get my father's consent to walk
with me in the garden. But by no means inform him of my
kindness to you.
Isaac. No, to be sure, that would spoil all: but, trust me
when tricking is the word-let me alone for a piece of cunning'
this very day you shall be out of his power.
Duen. Well, I leave the management of it all to you; I
perceive plainly, sir, that you are not one that can be easily
outwitted.
Isaac. Egad, you're right, madam-you 're right, i' faith.
Re-enter MAID.
Maid. Here's a gentleman at the door, who begs permissior
to speak with Signor Isaac.




sc. II.]


THE DUENNA.


331


Isaac. A friend of mine, ma'am, and a trusty friend —let
him come in-[Exit MAID.]      He is one to be depended on,
maa'am.
Enter DON CARLOS.
So, coz.                      [Talks apart with DON CARLOS.
Don Car. I have left Donna Clara at your lodgings, but can
nowhere find Antonio.
Isaac. Well, I will search him out myself. Carlos, you
rogue, I thrive, I prosper!
-*     Don Car. Where is your mistress?
Isaac. There, you booby, there she stands.
Don Car. Why, she's damned ugly!
Isaac. Hush!                             [Stops his mouth
Duen. What is your friend saying, signor?
Isaac. Oh, ma'am, he is expressing his raptures at such
charms as he never saw before. Eh, Carlos?,      Don Car. Ay, such as I never saw before, indeed!
Duen. You are a very obliging gentleman. Well, signor
Isaac, I believe we had better part for the present.  Renmen
her our plan.
Isaac. Oh, ma'am, it is written in my heart, fixed as the
image of those divine beauties. Adieu, idol of my soul!-yet
once more permit me —                            [Kisses her.
Duen. Sweet, courteous sir, adieu!
Isaac. Your slave eternally! Come, Carlos, say something
civil at taking leave.
Don Car. I' faith, Isaac, she is the hardest woman to compliment I ever saw; however, I '11 try something I had studied
for the occasion.
SONG.
*               Ah! sure a pair was never seen
So justly form'd to meet by nature!
The youth excelling so in mien,
The maid in ev'ry grace of feature.
Oh, how happy are such lovers,
When kindred beauties each discovers t
For surely she
Was made for thee,
And thou to bless this lovely creature I
So mild your looks, your children thence
Will early learn the task of dutyThe boys with all their father's sense,
The girls with all their mother's beauty I




THE DUENNA.


[Ac T u


Oh, how happy to inherit
At once such graces and such spirit!
Thus while you live
May fortune give
Each blessing equal to your merit!  [Exeunt.
SCENE III.-A Library in DON JEROME'S House.
DoN JEROME and DON FERDINAND discovered.
Don Jer. Object to Antonio! I have said it. His poverty,
can you acquit him of that?
Don Ferd. Sir, I own he is not over rich; but he is of as
ancient and honourable a family as any in the kingdom.
Don Jer. Yes, I know the beggars are a very ancient family
in most kingdoms; but never in great repute, boy.
Don Ferd. Antonio, sir, has many amiable qualities.
Don Jer. But he is poor; can you clear him of that, I say?
Is he not a gay, dissipated rake, who has squandered his
patrimony?
Don Ferd. Sir, he inherited but little; and that, his generosity, more than his profuseness, has stripped him of; but he
has never sullied his honour, which, with his title, has outlived his means.
Don Jer. Psha! you talk like a blockhead! nobility, without an estate, is as ridiculous as gold lace on a frieze coat.
Don Ferd. This language, sir, would better become a Dutch
or English trader than a Spaniard.
Don Jer. Yes; and those Dutch and English traders, as
you call them, are the wiser people. Why, booby, in England
they were formerly as nice, as to birth and family, as we are:
but they have long discovered what a wonderful purifier gold
is; and now, no one there regards pedigree in any thing but
a horse. Oh, here comes Isaac! I hope he has prospered in
his suit.
Don Ferd. Doubtless, that agreeable figure of his must
have helped his suit surprisingly.
Don Jer. How now?          [DON FERDINAND walks aside
Enter ISAAC.
Well, my friend, have you softened her?
Isaac. Oh, yes; I have softened her.
Don Jer. What, does she come to?
Isaac. Why, truly, she was kinder than I expected to find
her.




EC. T..]


THE DUENNA.


Don Jer. And the dear little angel was civil, eh?
Isaac. Yes, the pretty little angel was very civil.
Don Jer. I'm transported to hear it! Well, and you were
astonished at her beauty, hey?
Isaac. I was astonished, indeed! Pray, how old is miss?
Don Jer. How old! let me see-eight and twelve-she is
twenty.
Isaac. Twenty?
Don Jer. Ay, to a month.
Isaac. Then, upon my soul, she is the oldest-looking girl of
her age in Christendom!
Don Jer. Do you think so? But, I believe, you will not
see a prettier girl.
*  Isaac. Here and there one.
Don Jer. Louisa has the family face.
Isaac. Yes, egad, I should have taken it for a family face,
and one that has been in the family some time too.  [Aside.
Don Jer. She has her father's eyes.
Isaac. Truly, I should have guessed them to have been so!
If she had her mother's spectacles, I believe she would not
see the worse.                                   [Aside.
Don Jer. Her aunt Ursula's nose, and her grandmother's
forehead, to a hair.
Isaac. Ay, 'faith, and her grandfather's chin, to a hair.
*                                        [Aside.
Don Jer. Well, if she was but as dutiful as she's handsome
-and hark ye, friend Isaac, she is none of your made-up
beauties-her charms are of the lasting kind.
Isaac. I' faith, so they should-for if she be but twenty now,
she may double her age before her years will overtake her face.
Don Jer. Why, zounds, Master Isaac! you are not sneering,
are you?
Isaac. Why now, seriously, Don Jerome, do you think your
daughter handsome?
Don Jer. By this light, she's as handsome a girl as any in
Seville.
Isaac. Then, by these eyes, I think her as plain a woman
as ever I beheld.
Don Jer. By St. Iago! you must be blind.
Isaac. No, no; 'tis you are partial.
Don Jer. How! have I neither sense nor taste? If a fair
skin, fine eyes, teeth of ivory, with a lovely bloom, and a deli




334


THE DUENNA,


[ACT II


cato shape-if these, with a heavenly voice, and a world of
grace, are not charms, I know not what you call beautiful.
Isaac. Good lack, with what eyes a father sees! As I have
life, she is the very reverse of all this: as for the dimity skin
you told me of, I swear 'tis a thorough nankeen as ever I saw!
for her eyes, their utmost merit is not squinting-for her
teeth, where there is one of ivory, its neighbour is pure ebony,
black and white alternately, just like the keys of a harpsichord.
Then, as to her singing, and heavenly voice-by this hand, she
has a shrill, cracked pipe, that sounds, for all the world, like a
child's trumpet.
Don Jer. Why, you little Hebrew scoundrel, do you mean
to insult me? Out of my house, I say!
Don Ferd. [Coming forward.] Dear sir, what's the matter?
Don Jer. Why, this Israelite here has the impudence to say
your sister's ugly.
Don Ferd. He must be either blind or insolent.
Isaac. So, I find they are all in a story. Egad, I believe I
have gone too far!                                  [Aside.
Don Ferd. Sure, sir, there must be some mistake; it can't
be my sister whom he has seen.
Don Jer. 'Sdeath! you are as great a fool as he! What
mistake can there be? Did not I lock up Louisa, and haven't
I the key in my own pocket? and didn't her maid show him
into the dressing-room? and yet you talk of a mistake! No,
the Portuguese meant to insult me-and, but that this roof
protects him, old as I am, this sword should do me justice.
Isaac. I must get off as well as I can-her fortune is not
the less handsome                                   [Aside
DUET.
Isaac.  Believe me, good sir, I ne'er meant to offend;
My mistress I love, and I value my friend:
To win her and wed her is still my request,
For better for worse-and I swear I don't jest.
Don Jer. Zounds! you 'd best not provoke me, my rage is so high!
Isaac.  Hold him fast, I beseech you, his rage is so high!
Good sir, you're too hot, and this place I must fly.
Don Jer. You're a knave and a sot, and this place you'd best fly.
Isaac. Don Jerome, come now, let us lay aside all joking,
and be serious.
Don Jer. How?
Isaac. Ha! ha! ha!    I'11 be hanged if you haven't takem
my abuse of your daughter seriously.




SW. IV.]


ITHE DUENNA


585


Don Jer. You meant it so, did not you?
Isaac. 0 mercy, no! a joke-just to try how angry it would
make you,
Don Jer. Was that all, i'faith?  I didn't know you had
been such a wag. Ha! ha! ha! By St. Iago! you made me
very angry, though. Well, and you do think Louisa handsome?
Isaac. Handsome! Venus de Medicis was a sibyl to her.
Don Jer. Give me your hand, you little jocose rogue!
Egad, I thought we had been all off.
Don Ferd. So! I was in hopes this would have been a
quarrel; but I find the Jew is too cunning.       [Aside.
Don Jer. Ay, this gust of passion has made me dry-I am
seldom ruffled.  Order some wine in the next room-let us
drink the poor girl's health.  Poor Louisa! ugly, eh! ha!
ha! ha! 'twas a very good joke, indeed!
Isaac. And a very true one, for all that.       [Aside.
Don Jer. And, Ferdinand, I insist upon your drinking
success to my friend.
Don Ferd. Sir, I will drink success to my friend with all
my heart.
Don Jer. Come, little Solomon, if any sparks of anger k'ad
remained, this would be the only way to quench them
TRIO
A bumper of good liquor
Will end a contest quicker
Than justice, judge, or vicar;
So fill a cheerful glass,
And let good humour pass.
But if more deep the quarrel,
Why, sooner drain the barrel
Than be the hateful fellow
-^               That's crabbed when he's mellow.
A bumper, &c.               [Exeunt.
SCENE IV.-ISAAC's Lodgings.
Enter DONNA LOUISA.
Don. Louisa. Was ever truant daughter so whimsically circumstanced as I am? I have sent my intended husband to
look after my lover-the man of my father's choice is gone to
bring me the man of my own: but how dispiriting is this
interval of expectation!




30o


THE DUENNA.


LACT 11


SONG,
What bard, 0 Time, discover,
With wings first made thee more!
Ah! sure it was some lover
Who ne'er had left his love!
For who that once did prove
The pangs which absence brings,
Though but one day
He were away,
Could picture thee with wings
What bard, &c.
Enter DON CARLOS.
So, friend, is Antonio found?
Don Car. I could not meet with him, lady; but I doubt
not my friend Isaac will be here with him presently.
Don. Louisa. Oh, shame! you have used no diligence.       Is
this your courtesy to a lady, who has trusted herself to your
protection?
Don Car. Indeed, madam, I have not been remiss.
Don. Louisa. Well, well; but if either of you had known
how each moment of delay weighs upon the heart of her who
loves, and waits the object of her love, oh, ye would not then
have trifled thus!
Don Car. Alas, I know it well!
Don. Louisa. Were you ever in love, then?
Don Car. I was, lady; but, while I have life, will neverbe again.
Don. Louisa. Was your mistress so cruel?
Don Car. If she had always been so, I should have boon
happier.
SoN(.
Oh, had my love ne'er smiled on me,
I ne'er had known such anguish;
But think how false, how cruel she,
To bid me cease to languish;
To bid me hope her hand to gain,
Breathe on a flame half perish'd;
And then, with cold and fix'd disdain,
To kill the hope she cherish'd.
Not worse his fate, who on a wreck,
That drove as winds did blow it,
Silent had left the shatter'd deck,
To find a grave below it.
Then land was cried-no more resig'd,
He glow'd with joy to hear it;
Not worse his fate, his woe, to find
The wreck must sink ere near it!




so. IV.]


THE DUENNA.


337


Don Louisa. As I live, here is your friend coming with
Antonio! I '11 retire for a moment to surprise him.  [Exit.
Enter ISAAc and DON ANTONIO.
Dotn Ant. Indeed, my good friend, you must be mistaken.
Clara d'Almanza in love with me, and employ you to bring me
to meet her! It is impossible!
Isaac. That you shall see in an instant.  Carlos, where is
the lady?-[DoN CARLOS points to the door.]  In the next
room, is she?.'     Don Ant. Nay, if that lady is really here, she certainly
wants me to conduct her to a dear friend of mine, who has
long been her lover.
Isaac. Psha! I tell you 'tis no such thing-you are the
man she wants, and nobody but you. Here 's ado to persuade
you to take a pretty girl that's dying for you!
Don Ant. But I have no affection for this lady,
Isaac. And you have for Louisa, hey? But take my word
for it, Antonio, you have no chance there-so you may as well
secure the good that offers itself to you.
Don Ant. And could you reconcile it to your conscience to
supplant your friend?
Isaac. Pish! Conscience has no more to do with gallantry
than it has with politics. Why, you are no honest fellow if
love can't make a rogue of you-so come, do go in and speak
to her, at least.
Don Ant. Well, I have no objection to that.
Isaac. [Opens the door.] There-there she is-yonder by
the window-get in, do.-[Pushes him in, and half shuts the
door.] Now, Carlos, now I shall hamper him, I warrant!
Stay, I'11 peep how they go on. Egad, he looks confoundedly
*  posed! Now she's coaxing him. See, Carlos, he begins to
come to-ay, ay, he'11 soon forget his conscience.
Don Car. Look-now they are both laughing!
Isaac. Ay, so they are-yes, yes, they are laughing at that
* dear friend he talked of-ay, poor devil, they have outwitted him
Don Car. Now he's kissing her hand.
Isaac. Yes, yes, 'faith, they're agreed-he's caught, he's
entangled. My dear Carlos, we have brought it about. Oh,
this little cunning head! I 'm a Machiavel-a very Machiavel!
Don Car. I hear somebody inquiring for you-I '11 see who
it is.                                           [Exit
z




838


THE DUENNA.


[ACT U.


Re-enter DON ANTONIO and DONNA LOUISA.
Don Ant. Well, my good friend, this lady has so entirely
convinced me of the certainty of your success at Don Jerome's,
that I now resign my pretensions there.
Isaac. You never did a wiser thing, believe me; and, as for
deceiving your friend, that's nothing at all-tricking is all fair
in love, isn t it, ma'am?'
Don. Louisa. Certainly, sir; and I am particularly glad to
find you are of that opinion.
Isaac. 0 lud! yes, ma'am-let any one outwit me that can,
I say! But here, let me join your hands. There, you lucky
rogue! I wish you happily married, from the bottom of my soul!
Don. Louisa. And I am sure, if you wish it, no one else
should prevent it.
Isaac. Now, Antonio, we are rivals no more; so let us be
friends, will you?
Don Ant. With all my heart, Isaac.
Isaac. It is not every man, let me tell you, that would have
taken such pains, or been so generous to a rival.
Don Ant. No, 'faith, I don't believe there's another beside
yourself in all Spain.
Isaac. Well, but you resign all pretensions to the other
lady?
Don Ant. That I do, most sincerely.
Isaac. I doubt you have a little hankering there still.
Don Ant. None in the least, upon my soul.
Isaac. I mean after her fortune.
Don Ant. No, believe me. You are heartily welcome to
every thing she has.
Isaac. Well, i' faith, you have the best of the bargain, as to
beauty, twenty to one. Now I'11 tell you a secret-I am to
carry off Louisa this very evening.
Don. Louisa. Indeed!
Isaac. Yes, she has sworn not to take a husband from her
father's hand-so I've persuaded him to trust her to walk
with me in the garden, and then we shall give him the slip.
Don. Louisa. And is Don Jerome to know nothing of this?
Isaac. 0 Lud, no! there lies the jest. Don't you see that,
by this step, I over-reach him? I shall be entitled to the
girl's fortune, without settling a ducat on her. Ha! ha! hal
I 'm a cunning dog, an't I? a sly little villain, ch?




so. Ti.]


THE DUENNA.


339


Don Ant. Ha! ha! ha! you are indeed!
Isaac. Roguish, you'll say, but keen, hey?  devilish keen?
Don Ant. So you are indeed-keen-very keen.
Isaac. And what a laugh we shall have at Don Jerome's
when the truth comes out! hey?
Don. Louisa. Yes, I'11 answer for it, we shall have a good
laugh when the truth comes out. Ila! ha! ha!
Re-enter DON CARLOS.
*          Don Car. Here are the dancers come to practise the fan
dango you intended to have honoured Donna Louisa with.
Isaac. Oh, I shan't want them; but, as I must pay them,
I '11 see a caper for my money. Will you excuse me?
Don. Louisa. Willingly.
Isaac. Here's my friend, whom you may command for any
service. Madam, your most obedient-Antonio, I wish you
all happiness.-[Aside.]  Oh, the easy blockhead! what a tool
I have made of him!-This was a masterpiece!       [Exit.
Don. Louisa. Carlos, will you be my guard again, and convey me to the convent of St. Catharine?
Don Ant. Why, Louisa-why should you go there?
Don. Louisa. I have my reasons, and you must not be seen
to go with me; I shall write from thence to my father;
perhaps, when he finds what he has driven me to, he may
relent.
Don Ant. I have no hope from him.   0 Louisa! in these
arms should be your sanctuary.
Don. Louisa. Be patient but for a little while —my father
cannot force me from thence. But let me see you there before
evening, and I will explain myself.
Don Ant. I shall obey.
Don. Louisa. Come, friend.  Antonio, Carlos has been a
lover himself.
Don Ant. Then he knows the value of his trust.
Don Car. You shall not find me unfaithful.
TRIo.
Soft pity never leaves the gentle breast
Where love has been received a welcome guest;
As wandering saints poor huts have sacred made,
He hallows every heart he once has sway'd,
And, when his presence we no longer share,
Still leaves compassion as a relic there.  [Exeuwx.
z.




THE DUENNA.


IAo=  =.


ACT III.
SCENE I.-A Library in DON JEROME'S House.
Enter DON JEROME and SERVANT.
Don Jer. Why, I never was so amazed in my life! Louisa
gone off with Isaac Mendoza! What! steal away with the
very man whom I wanted her to marry-elope with her own
husband, as it were-it is impossible!
Ser. Her maid says, sir, they had your leave to walk in the
garden while you were abroad. The door by the shrubbery
was found open, and they have not been heard of since. [Exit.
Don Jer. Well, it is the most unaccountable affair! 'sdeath!
there is certainly some infernal mystery in it I can't comprehend!
Enter SECOND SERVANT, with a letter.
Ser. Here is a letter, sir, from Signor Isaac.  [Exit.
Don Jer. So, so, this will explain-ay, Isaac Mendoza-let
me see —                                       [Reads.
Dearest Sir,
You must, doubtless, be much surprised at my flight with your
daughter!-yes, 'faith, and well I may —I had the happiness
to gain her heart at our first interview.-The devil you had!But, she having unfortunately made a vow not to receive a husband from your hands, I was obliged to comply with her whim!
-So, so! —We shall shortly throw ourselves at your feet, and
I hope you will have a blessing ready for one, who will then be
your son-in-law,                     ISAAC MENDOZA.
A whim, hey? Why, the devil's in the girl, I think! This
morning, she would die sooner than have him, and before
evening she runs away with him! Well, well, my will's
accomplished —let the motive be what it will-and the Portuguese, sure, will never deny to fulfil the rest of the article.
Re-enter SERVANT, with another letter.
Ser. Sir, here's a man below, who says he brought this
from my young lady, Donna Louisa.                [Exit.
Don Jer. How! yes, it's my daughter's hand, indeed!
Lord, there was no occasion for them both to write; well,
let's see what she says —                      [Reads.
My dearest Father,
How shall I entreat your vardon for the rash step I have




SC. 1.j


THE DUENNA.


841


taken —how confess the motive. —Pish! hasn't Isaac just told
me the motive? —one would think they weren't together when
they wrote.-If I have a spirit too resentful of ill usage, I have
also a heart as easily affected by kindness. —So, so, here the
whole matter comes out; her resentment for Antonio's ill
usage has made her sensible of Isaac's kindness-yes, yes, it
is all plain enough.  Well.-I am not married yet, though with
a man, I am convinced, adores me.-Yes, yes, I dare say Isaac
is very fond of her.-But I shall anxiously expect your answer,
in which, should I be so fortunate as to receive your consent,
you will make completely happy your ever affectionate daughter,
LOUISA.
My consent! to be sure she shall have it! Egad, I was never
better pleased —I have fulfilled my resolution-I knew      I
should.  Oh, there 's nothing like obstinacy! Lewis! [Calls
Re-enter SERVANT.
Let the man, who brought the last letter, wait; and get me a
pen and ink below.-[Exit SERVANT.]     I am impatient to set
poorLouisa's heart at rest.  Holloa! Lewis! Sancho! [Calls.
Enter SERVANTS.
See that there be a noble supper provided in the saloon tonight; serve up my best wines, and let me have music, d'ye
hear?
Ser. Yes, sir.
Don Jer. And order all my doors to be thrown open;
admit all guests, with masks or without masks. —[Exeunt
SERVANTS.] I' faith, we '11 have a night of it! and I'11 let
them see how merry an old man can be.
SONG.
Oh, the days when I was young,
When I laugh'd in fortune's spite;
Talk'd of love the whole day long,
And with nectar crown'd the night t
Then it was, old father Care,
Little reck'd I of thy frown;
Half thy malice youth could heal,
And the rest a bumper drown.
Truth, they say, lies in a well,
Why, I vow I ne'er could see;
Let the water-drinkers tell,
There it always lay for me,




OA


THE DUENNA.


FAcT la


For when sparkling wine went round,
Never saw I falsehood's mask;
But still honest truth I found
In the bottom of each flask.
True, at length my vigour's flown,
I have years to bring decay;
Few the locks that now I own,
And the few I have are grey.
Yet, old Jerome, thou mayst boast,
While thy spirits do not tire;
Still beneath thy age's frost
Glows a spark of youthful fire.       [Exit,
SCENE II.-The New Piazza.
Enter DON FERDINAND and LOPEZ.
Don Ferd. What, could you gather no tidings of her? nor
guess where she was gone?   0 Clara! Clara!
Lop. In truth, sir, I could not. That she was run away
from her father, was in everybody's mouth; and that Don
Guzman was in pursuit of her, was also a very common report.
Where she was gone, or what was become of her, no one could
take upon them to say.
Don Ferd. 'Sdeath and fury, you blockhead! she can't be
out of Seville.
Lop. So I said to myself, sir. 'Sdeath and fury, you blocihead, says I, she can't be out of Seville.  Then some said,
she had hanged herself for love; and others have it, Don An.
tonio had carried her off.
Don Ferd. 'Tis false, scoundrel! no one said that.
Lop. Then I misunderstood them, sir.
Don Ferd. Go, fool, get home! and never let me see you
again till you bring me news of her.-[Exit LOPEZ.] Oh,
how my fondness for this ungrateful girl has hurt my disposition.
Enter IsAAc.
Isaac. So, I have her safe, and have only to find a priest
to marry us. Antonio now may marry Clara, or not, if he
pleases.
Don Ferd. What! what was that you said of Clara?
Isaac. Oh, Ferdinand! my brother-in-law that shall be,
who thought of meeting you?
Don Ferd. But what of Clara?
Isaac. I'faith, you shall hear. This morning, as I was




sc. n.J


THE DUENNA.


343


coming down, I met a pretty damsel, who told me her name
was Clara d'Almanza, and begged my protection.
Don Ferd. How!
Isaac. She said she had eloped from her father, Don
Guzman, but that love for a young gentleman in Seville was
the cause.
Don Ferd. Oh, Heavens! did she confess it?
Isaac. Oh, yes, she confessed at once. But then, says
she, my lover is not informed of my flight, nor suspects my
intention.
Don Ferd. [Aside.] Dear creature! no more I did indeed!
Oh, I am the happiest fellow!-[Aloud.] Well, Isaac?
Isaac. Why then she entreated me to find him out for her,
and bring him to her.
Don Ferd. Good Heavens, how lucky! Well, come along;
let's lose no time.                        [Pulling him.
Isaac. Zooks! where are we to go?.       Don Ferd. Why, did any thing more pass?
Isaac. Any thing more! yes; the end on't was, that I was
moved with her speeches, and complied with her desires.
Don Ferd. Well, and where is she?
Isaac. Where is she! why, don't I tell you? I complied
with her request, and left her safe in the arms of her lover.
Don Ferd. 'Sdeath, you trifle with me!-I have never seen
her.
Isaac. You! 0 Lud, no! how the devil should you? 'Twas
Antonio she wanted; and with Antonio I left her.
Don Ferd. [Aside.] Hell and madness!-[Aloud.] What,
Antonio d'Ercilla?
Isaac. Ay, ay, the very man; and the best part of it was,
he was shy of taking her at first. He talked a good deal about
honour, and conscience, and deceiving some dear friend; but,
Lord, we soon overruled that!
Don Ferd. You did!
Isaac. Oh, yes, presently.-Such deceit! says he. —Pish!
says the lady, tricking is all fair in love. But then, my friend,
says he.-Psha! damn your friend, says I. So, poor wretch,
he has no chance.-No, no; he may hang himself as soon as
he pleases.
Don Ferd. I must go, or I shall betray myself.  [Aside.
Isaac. But stay, Ferdinand, you ha'n't heard the best of the
joke.




8314


THE DUENNA.


C[ACT ru


Don Ferd. Curse on your joke!
Isaac. Good lack! what's the matter now? I thought tc
have diverted you.
Don IFerd. Be racked! tortured! damned!
Isaac. Why, sure you are not the poor devil of a lover, are
you?-I' faith, as sure as can be, he is! ThIs is a better joke
than t'other. Ha! ha! ha!
Don Ferd. What! do you laugh? you vile, mischievous
varlet! —[Collars him.]  But that you're beneath my anger;
I'd tear your heart out!          [Throws him from him.
Isaac. 0 mercy here's usage for a brother-in-law!
Don Ferd. But, hark ye, rascal! tell me directly where
these false friends are gone, or, by my soul —   [Draws.
Isaac. For Heaven's sake, now, my dear brother-in-law,
don't be in a rage! I '11 recollect as well as I can.
Don Ferd. Be quick then!
Isaac. I will, I will!-but people's memories differ; some
have a treacherous memory: now mine is a cowardly memory
-it takes to its heels at sight of a drawn sword, it does,
i' faith; and I could as soon fight as recollect.
Don Ferd. Zounds! tell me the truth, and I won't hurt
you.
Isaac. No, no, I know you won't, my dear brother-in-law;
but that ill-looking thing thereDon Ferd. What, then, you won't tell me?
Isaac. Yes, yes, I will; I '11 tell you all, upon my soul!but why need you listen, sword in hand?
Don Ferd. Why, there.-[Puts up.]  Now.
Isaac. Why, then, I believe they are gone to-that is, my
friend Carlos told me, he had left Donna Clara-dear Ferdinand, keep your hands off-at the convent of St. Catharine.
Don Ferd. St. Catharine!
Isaac. Yes; and that Antonio was to come to her there.
Don Ferd. Is this the truth?
Isaac. It is indeed; and all I know, as I hope for life!
Don Ferd. Well, coward, take your life! 'tis that false, dishonourable Antonio, who shall feel my vengeance.
Isaac. Ay, ay, kill him; cut his throat, and welcome.
Don Ferd. But, for Clara! infamy on her! she is not
worth my resentment.
Isaac. No more she is, my dear brother-in-law. I' faith, I




BO. III.]


THE DUENNA.


345


would not be angry about her; she is not worth it, iu.
deed.
Don Ferd. 'Tis false! she is worth the enmity of princes!
Isaac. True. true, so she is; and I pity you exceedingly
for having lost her.
Don Ferd. 'Sdeath, you rascal! how durst you talk of pitying me?
Isaac. Oh, dear brother-in-law, I beg pardon! I don't pity
you in the least, upon my soul!
Don Ferd. Get hence, fool, and provoke me no further;
nothing but your insignificance saves you!
Isaac. [Aside.] I'faith, then, my insignificance is the best
friend  I have.-[Aloud.]    I'm  going, dear Ferdinand.[Aside.] What a curst hot-headed bully it is!
[Exeunt severally.
SCENE III.-The Garden of the Convent
Enter DONNA LOUISA and DONNA CLARA.
Don. Louisa. And you really wish my brother may not find
you out?
Don. Clara. Why else have I concealed myself under th's
disguise?
Don. Louisa. Why, perhaps, because the dress becomes
you; for you certainly don't intend to be a nun for life.
Don. Clara. If, indeed, Ferdinand had not offended me so
last nightDon. Louisa. Come, come, it was his fear of losing you
made him so rash.
Don. Clara. Well, you may think me cruel, but I swear, if
he were here this instant, I believe I should forgive him.
SONG.
By him we love offended,
How soon our anger flies!
One day apart, 'tis ended;
Behold him, and it dies.
Last night, your roving brother,
Enraged, I bade depart;
And sure his rude presumption
Deserved to lose my heart.
*               Yet, were he now before me,
In spite of injured pride,
I fear my eyes would pardon
Before my tongue could chido.




846


THE DUENNA.


[ACT III


Don. Louisa. I protest, Clara, I shall begin to think you
are seriously resolved to enter on your probation.
Don. Clara. And, seriously, I very much doubt whether the
character of a nun would not become me best.
Don. Louisa. Why, to be sure, the character of a nun is
a very becoming one at a masquerade; but no pretty woman,
in her senses, ever thought of taking the veil for above a
night.
Don. Clara. Yonder I see your Antonio is returned-I shall
only interrupt you; ah, Louisa, with what happy eagerness
you turn to look for him!                             [Exit.
Enter DON ANTONIO.
Don Ant. Well, my Louisa, any news since I left you?
Don. Louisa. None. The messenger is not yet returned
from my father.
Don Ant. Well, I confess, I do not perceive what we are
to expect from him.
Don. Louisa. I shall be easier, however, in having made
the trial: I do not doubt your sincerity, Antonio; but thero
is a chilling air around poverty, that often kills affection, that
was not nursed in it.  If we would make love our household
god, we had best secure him a comfortable roof.
SoNG.-Don Antonio.
How oft, Louisa, hast thou told,
(Nor wilt thou the fond boast disown,)
Thou wouldst not lose Antonio's love
To reign the partner of a throne.
And by those lips, that spoke so kind,
And by that hand, I've press'd to mine,
To be the lord of wealth and power,
By Heavens, I would not part with thine!
Then how, my soul, can we be poor,
Who own what kingdoms could not buy?
Of this true heart thou shalt be queen,
In serving thee, a monarch I.
Thus uncontroll'd, in mutual bliss,
I rich in love's exhaustless mine,
Do thou snatch treasures from my lips,
And I'll take kingdoms back from thine!
Enter MAID, with a letter.
Dn. Louisa. My father's answer, I suppose.




8C. III.]


THE DUENNA.


347


Don Ant. My dearest Louisa, you may be assured that it
contains nothing but threats and reproaches.
Don. Louisa. Let us see, however.-[Reads.] Dearest daughter, make your lover happy; you have my full consent to marry
as your whim has chosen, but be sure come home and sup with
your affectionate father.
Don Ant. You jest, Louisa!
Don. Louisa. [Gives him the letter.]  Read! read!
Don Ant. 'Tis so, by Heavens! Sure there must be some
mistake; but that's none of our business.-Now, Louisa, you
have no excuse for delay.
Don. Louisa. Shall we not then return and thank my father?
Don Ant. But first let the priest put it out of his power to
recall his word.-I '11 fly to procure one.
Don. Louisa. Nay, if you part with me again, perhaps you
may lose me.
Don Ant. Come then-there is a friar of a neighbouring
convent is my friend; you have already been diverted by the
manners of a nunnery; let us see whether there is less hypocrisy among the holy fathers.
Don. Louisa. I'm afraid not, Antonio-for in religion, as
in friendship, they who profess most are ever the least sincere.
[Exeunt.
*               Re-enter DONNA CLARA.
Don. Clara. So, yonder they go, as happy as a mutual and
confessed affection can make them, while I am left in solitude.
Heigho! love may perhaps excuse the rashness of an elopement from one's friend, but I am sure nothing but the presence of the man we love can support it. Ha! what do I
see! Ferdinand, as I live, how could he gain admission? By
*    potent gold, I suppose, as Antonio did. How eager and dis
turbed he seems! He shall not know me as yet.
[Lets down her veil
*               Enter DON FERDINAND.
Don Ferd. Yes, those were certainly they-my information
was right.                                       [Going.
Don. Clara. [Stops him.] Pray, signor, what is your business here?
Don Ferd. No matter-no matter! Oh, they stop.-[Looks
out.] Yes, that is the perfidious Clara indeed!




348


THE DUENNA.


[ACT IIL


Don. Clara. So, a jealous error-I n' glad to see him so
moved,                                           [Aside.
Don Ferd Her disguise can't conceal her-no, no, I know
her too well.
Don. Clara. [Aside.] Wonderful discernment!-[Aloud.]
But, signorDon Ferd. Be quiet, good nun; don't tease me! —By
Heavens, she leans upon his arm, hangs fondly on it! 0
woman, woman!
Don. Clara. But, signor, who is it you want?
Don Ferd. Not you, not you, so pr'ythee don't tease me.
Yet pray stay-gentle nun, was it not Donna Clara d'Almanza
just parted from you?
Donl. Clara. Clara d'Almanza, signor, is not yet out of the
garden.
Don Ferd. Ay, ay, I knew I was right! And pray is not
that gentleman, now at the porch with her, Antonio d'Ercilla?
Don. Clara. It is indeed, signor.
Don Ferd. So, so; now but one question more-can you
inform me for what purpose they have gone away?
Don. Clara. They are gone to be married, I believe.
Don Ferd. Very well-enough. Now if I don't mar their
wedding!                                          [Exit.
Don. Clara. [Unveils.] I thought jealousy had made lovers
quick-sighted, but it has made mine blind. Louisa's story
accounts to me for this error, and I am glad to find I have
power enough over him to make him so unhappy. But why
should not I be present at his surprise when undeceived?
When he's through the porch, I'11 follow him; and, perhaps,
Louisa shall not singly be a bride.
SONG.
Adieu, thou dreary pile, where never dies
The sullen echo of repentant sighs!
Ye sister mourners of each lonely cell,
Inured to hymns and sorrow, fare ye well!
For happier scenes I fly this darksome grove,
To saints a prison, but a tomb to love!  [Exi
SCENE IV.-A Court before the Priory.
Enter ISAAC, crossing the stage, DON ANTONIO following.
Don Ant. What, my friend Isaac!
Isaac. What, Antonio! wish me joy! I have Louisa safe
Don Ant. Have you? I wish you joy with all my soul.




co. v.J


TIlE DUENNA.


349


Isaac. Yes, I am come here to procure a priest to marry us.
Don Ant. So, then, we are both on the same errand; I am
come to look for Father Paul.
Isaac. Ha! I am glad on 't-but, i 'faith, he must tack mo
first; my love is waiting.
Don Ant. So is mine-I left her in the porch.
Isaac. Ay, but I am in haste to go back to Don Jerome
Don Ant. And so am I too.
Isaac. Well, perhaps he'll save time, and marry us both
together-or I '11 be your father, and you shall be mine.
Come along-but you're obliged to me for all this.
Don Ant. Yes, yes.                            [Exeunt.
SCENE V.-A Room in the Priory.
FATHER PAUL, FATHER FRANCIS, FATHER AUGUSTINE, and
other FRIARS, discovered at a table drinking.
GLEE AND CHORUS..,                This bottle's the sun of our table,
His beams are rosy wine:
We, planets, that are not able
Without his help to shine.
Let mirth and glee abound!
You 'll soon grow bright
With borrow'd light,
And shine as he goes round.
Paul. Brother Francis, toss the bottle about, and give me
your toast.
Fran. Have we drunk the abbess of St. Ursuline?
Paul. Yes, yes; she was the last.
Fran. Then I'11 give you the blue-eyed nun of St. Catha.
rine's.
Paul. With all my heart.-[Drinks.] Pray, brother Augustine, were there any benefactions left in my absence?
Aug. Don Juan Corduba has left a hundred ducats, to remember him in our masses.
Paul. Has he? let them be paid to our wine-merchant,
and we'll remember him in our cups, which will do just as
well. Any thing more?
Aug. Yes; Baptista, the rich miser, who died last week,
has bequeathed us a thousand pistoles, and the silver lamp he
* used in his own chamber, to burn before the image of St.
Anthony.
Paul. 'Twas well meant, but we '11 employ his money better




3$50


TIIE DUENNA.


[ACT III


-Baptista's bounty shall light the living, not the dead. St.
Anthony is not afraid to be left in the dark, though he was.[Knockinq.]  See who's there.
[FATHER FRANCIS goes to the door and opens it.
Enter PORTER.
Port. Here's one without, in pressing haste to speak with
father Paul.
Fran. Brother Paul!
[FATHER PAUL comes from behind a curtain, with a glass
of wine, and in his hand a piece of cake.
Paul. Here! how durst you, fellow, thus abruptly break in
upon our devotions?
Port. I thought they were finished.
Paul. No, they were not-were they, brother Francis?
Fran. Not by a bottle each.
Paul. But neither you nor your fellows mark how the hours
go; no, you mind nothing but the gratifying of your appetites; ye eat and swill, and sleep, and gourmandise, and thrive,
while we are wasting in mortification.
Port. We ask no more than nature craves.
Paul. 'Tis false, ye have more appetites than hairs! and
your flushed, sleek, and pampered appearance is the disgrace
of our order-out on't! If you are hungry, can't you be content with the wholesome roots of the earth? and, if you are
dry, isn't there the crystal spring?-[Drinks.]  Put this
away,-[Gives the glass] and show me where I'm wanted.[PORTER drains the glass.-PAUL, going, turns.] So, you would
have drunk it, if there had been any left! Ah, glutton!.
glutton!                                       [Exeunt.
SCENE VI.-The Court before the Priory.
Enter ISAAC and DON ANTONIO.
Isaac. A plaguy while coming, this same father Paul!
He's detained at vespers, I suppose, poor fellow.
Don Ant. No, here he comes.
Enter FATHER PAUL.
Good father Paul, I crave your blessing.
Isaac. Yes, good father Paul, we are come to beg a favour.
Paul. What is it, pray?
Isaac. To marry us, good father Paul; and in truth thou
dost look the very priest of Hymen.




6(3. VI. I
11


THE DUJENNA.


351


Paul. In short, I may be called so; for I deal in repentance and mortification.
Isaac. No, no, thou seemest an officer of Hymen, becauso
thy presence speaks content and good humour.
Paul. Alas! my appearance is deceitful. Bloated I am,
indeed! for fasting is a windy recreation, and it hath swollen
me like a bladder.
Don Ant. But thou hast a good fresh colour in thy face,
father; rosy, i' faith!
Paul. Yes, I have blushed for mankind, till the hue of my
shame is as fixed as their vices.
Isaac. Good man!
Paul. And I have laboured too, but to what purpose? they
continue to sin under my very nose.
Isaac. Efecks, father, I should have guessed as much, for
your nose seems to be put to the blush more than any other
part of your face.
Paul. Go, you're a wag!
Don Ant. But, to the purpose, father-will you officiate for
us?
Paul. To join young people thus clandestinely is not safe:
and, indeed, I have in my heart many weighty reasons against
it.
Don Ant. And I have in my hand many weighty reasons
'     for it. Isaac, haven't you an argument or two in our favour
about you?
Isaac. Yes, yes; here is a most unanswerable purse.
Paul. For shame! you make me angry: you forget who I
am, and when importunate people have forced their trashay, into this pocket, here-or into this-why, then the sin
was theirs.-[Th1ey put money into his pockets.] Fie, now how
He    you distress me! I would return it, but that I must touch it
that way, and so wrong my oath.
Don Ant. Now then, come with us.
Isaac. Ay, now give us our title to joy and rapture.
Paul. Well, when your hour of repentance comes, don't
blame me.
Don Ant. [Aside.] No bad caution to my friend Isaac. —
[Aloud.] Well, well, father, do you do your part, and I'll
abide the consequence.
Isaac. Ay, and so will I.




362


THE DUENNA.


AOT.ll


Enter DONNA LOUISA, runlnmg.
Don. Louisa. 0 Antonio, Ferdinand is at the porch, and
inquiring for us.
Isaac. Who? Don Ferdinand! he's not inquiring for me,
I hope.
Don Ant. Fear not, my love; I'1l soon pacify him.
Isaac. Egad, you won't. Antonio, take my advice, and run
away; this Ferdinand is the most unmerciful dog, and has
the cursedest long sword!-and, upon my soul, he comes on
purpose to cut your throat.
Don Ant. Never fear, never fear.
Isaac. Well, you may stay if you will; but I'll get some
one to marry me; for, by St. Iago, he shall never meet me
again, while I am master of a pair of heels.
[Runs out.-DONNA LOUISA lets down her veil.
Enter DON FERDINAND.
Don Ferd. So, sir, I have met with you at last.
Don Ant. Well, sir.
Don. Ferd. Base, treacherous man! whence can a false,
deceitful soul, like yours, borrow confidence to look so steadily
on the man you've injured?
Don. Ant. Ferdinand, you are too warm: 'tis true you find
me on the point of wedding one I loved beyond my life; but
no argument of mine prevailed on her to elope-I scorn deceit, as much as you. By heaven I knew not that she had
left her father's till I saw her!
Don Ferd. What a mean excuse! You have wronged your
friend, then, for one, whose wanton forwardness anticipated
your treachery-of this, indeed, your Jew pander informed
me; but let your conduct be consistent, and, since you have
dared to do a wrong, follow me, and show you have a spirit to
avow it.
Don. Louisa. Antonio, I perceive his mistake-leave him
to me.
Paul. Friend, you are rude, to interrupt the union of two
willing hearts.
Don Ferd. No, meddling priest! the hand he seeks is
mine.
Paul. If so, I'll proceed no further. Lady, did you ever
promise this youth your hand?
[To DONNA LOUISA, who shakes her head




F. VI.]


THE DUENNA.


Don Ferd. Clara, I thank you for your silence-I would
not have heard your tongue avow such falsity; be't your
punishment to remember I have not reproached you.
Enter DONNA CLARA, veiled.
Don. Clara. What mockery is this?
Don Ferd. Antonio, you are protected now, but we shall
meet
[Going, DONNA CLARA holds one arm, and DONNA IOUIsA
the other.
DUET.
Don. Louisa. Turn thee round, I pray thee,
Calm awhile thy rage.
Don. Clara. I must help to stay thee,
And thy wrath assuage.
Don. Louisa. Couldst thou not discover
One so dear to thee?
Don. Clara. Canst thou be a lover,
And thus fly from met    [Bock sunvil.
Don Ferd. How's this? My sister! Clara too-I 'm confounded.
Don. Louisa. 'Tis even so, good brother.
Paul. How! what impiety? did the man want to marry his
own sister?
Don. Louisa And ar'n't you ashamed of yourself not to
know your own sister?
Don. Clara. To drive away your own mistressDon. Louisa. Don't you see how jealousy blinds people?
Don. Clara. Ay, and will you ever be jealous again?
Don Ferd. Never-never! -You, sister, I know will forgive
me-but how, Clara, shall I presumeDon. Clara. No, no, just now you told me not to tease you
-" Who do you want, good signor?" " Not you, not you! "
Oh, you blind wretch! but swear never to be jealous again,
and I11 forgive you.
Don Ferd. By allDon. Clara. There, that will do-you '1 keep the oath just
as well.                                [Gives her hand
Don. Louisa. But, brother, here is one to whom some apology is due.
Don Ferd. Antonio, I am ashamed to think —
Don Ant. Not a word of excuse, Ferdinand-I havo not


I


A A




Te DUENNA.


[ACT III.


been in love myself without learning that a lover's anger
should never be resented. But comeo-let us retire with this
good father, and we '11 explain to you the cause of this error.
GLEE AND CHORUS.
Oft does Hymen smile to hear
Wordy vows of feign'd regard;
Well he knows when they're sincere,
Never slow to give reward:
For his glory is to prove
Kind to those who wed for love.     [AExeL.
ScmEE VII. —    Grand Saloon in DON JEROME'S HoUm.
Enter DON JEROME, LOPEZ, and SERVANTS.
Don Jer. Be sure, now, let every thing be in the best order
-let all my servants have on their merriest faces: but tell
them  to get as little drunk as possible, till after supper.[Exeunt SERVANTS.]  So, Lopez, where's your master? sha'n't
we have him at supper?
Lop. Indeed, I believe, not, sir-he's mad, I doubt! I'm
sure he has frighted me from him.
Don Jer. Ay, ay, he's after some wench, I suppose: a young
rake! Well, well, we'll be merry without him. [Exit LOPEZ
Enter a SERVANT.
Ser. Sir, here is Signor Isaac.                  [Exit.
Enter ISAAC.
Don Jer. So, my dear son-in-law-there, take my blessing'
and forgiveness.  But where 's my daughter? where's Louisa?
Isaac. She's without, impatient for a blessing, but almost
afraid to enter.
Don Jer. Oh, fly and bring her in.-[Exit Isaac.]  Poor
girl, I long to see her pretty face.
Isaac [Without.] Come, my charmer! my trembling angel!
Renter ISAAC with DUENNA; DON JEROME runs to meet them;
she kneels.
Don Jer. Come to my arms, my-[Starts back.] Why, who
the devil have we here?
Isaac. Nay, Don Jerome, you promised her forgiveness;
soe how the dear creature droops




80. VII]


THE DUENNA.


855


Don Jer. Droops indeed! Why, Gad take me, this is old
Margaret! But where's my daughter? where's Louisa?
Isaac. Why, here, before your eyes-nay, don't be abashed,
my sweet wife!
Don Jer. Wife with a vengeance! Why, zounds, you have
not married the Duenna!
Duen. [Kneeling.] Oh, dear papa! you'll not disown me,
sure!
Don Jer. Papa! papa! Why, zounds, your impudence is as
great as your ugliness!
Isaac. Rise, my charmer, go throw your snowy arms about
his neck, and convince him you areDuen. Oh, sir, forgive me!            [Embraces him.
Don Jer. Help! murder!
Enter SERVANTS.
Ser. What's the matter, sir?
Don Jer. Why, here, this damned Jew has brought an old
harridan to strangle me.
Isaac. Lord, it is his own daughter, and he is so hardhearted he won't forgive her!
Enter DON ANTONIO and DONNA LOUISA; they kneel.
Don Jer. Zounds and fury! what's here now? who sent
for you, sir, and who the devil are you?
Don Ant. This lady's husband, sir.
Isaac. Ay, that he is, I '11 be sworn; for I left them with a
priest, and was to have given her away.
Don Jer. You were?
Isaac. Ay; that's my honest friend, Antonio; and that's
the little girl I told you I had hampered him with.
Don Jer. Why, you are either drunk or mad-this is my
daughter.
Isaac. No, no; 'tis you are both drunk and mad, I thinkhere's your daughter.
Don Jer. Hark ye, old iniquity! will you explain all this,
or not?
Duen. Come then, Don Jerome, I will-though our habits
might inform you all. Look on your daughter, there, and on me
Isaac. What's this I hear?
Duen. The truth is, that in your passion this morning you
made a small mistake; for you turned your daughter out of
doors, and locked up your humble servant.
A A 2




THE DUENNA.


[ACT III


Isaac. C Lud! 0 Lud! here's a pretty fellow, to turn his
daughter out of doors, instead of an old Duenna!
Don Jer. And, 0 Lud! 0 Lud! here's a pretty fellow, to
marry an old Duenna instead of my daughter! But how came
the rest about?
Duen. 1 have only to add, that I remained in your daughter's place, and had the good fortune to engage the affections
of my sweet husband here.
Isaac. Her husband! why, you old witch, do you think I '11
be your husband now? This is a trick, a cheat! and you ought
all to be ashamed of yourselves.
Don Ant. Hark ye, Isaac, do you dare to complain of tricking? Don Jerome, I give you my word, this cunning Portuguese has brought all this upon himself, by endeavouring to
over-reach you, by getting your daughter's fortune, without
making any settlement in return.
Don Jer. Over-reach me!
Don. Louisa. 'Tis so, indeed, sir, rnd we can prove it to
you.
Don Jer. Why, Gad take me, it must be so, or he could
never have put up with such a face as Margaret's-so, little
Solomon, I wish you joy of your wife, with all my soul.
Don. Louisa. Isaac, tricking is all fair in love —let you
alone for the plot!
Don Ant. A cunning dog, ar'n't you?  A sly little villain,
eh?
Don. Louisa. Roguish, perhaps; but keen, devilish keen!
Don Jer. Yes, yes; his aunt always called him little Solomon.
Isaac. Why, the plagues of Egypt upon you all!-but do
you think I '11 submit to such an imposition?
Don Ant. Isaac, one serious word-you 'd better be content
as you are; for, believe me, you will find that, in the opinion
of the world, there is not a fairer subject for contempt and
ridicule than a knave become the dupe of his own art.
Isaac. I don't care-I'll not endure this. Don Jerome,
'tis you have done this-you would be so cursed positive about
the beauty of her you locked up, and all the time I told you
she was as old as my mother, and as ugly as the devil.
D)uen. Why, you little insignificant reptile!Don Jer. That's right!-attack him, Margaret.
JDuen. Dare such a thing as you pretend t ttalk of beauty?




so. *rlj.]


THE DUENNA.


I357


-A  walking rouleau!-a body that seems to owe all its con
sequence to the dropsy!-a pair of eyes like two dead beetles
in a wad of brown dough!-a beard like an artichoke, with
dry shrivelled jaws, that would disgrace the mummy of a
monkey!
Don Jer. Well done, Margaret!
Duen. But you shall know that I have a brother who wears
a sword-and, if you don't do me justiceIsaac. Fire seize your brother, and you too! 1'11 fly tc
Jerusalem to avoid you!
Dllen. Fly where you will, I'11 follow you.
Don Jer. Throw your snowy arms about him, Margaret.[Exeunt ISAAC and DUENNA.] But, Louisa, are you really married to this modest gentleman?
Don. Louisa. Sir, in obedience to your commands, I gave
him my hand within this hour.
Don Jer. My commands!
Don Ant. Yes, sir; here is your consent, under your own hand.
Don Jer. How! would you rob me of my child by a trick,
a false pretence? and do you think to get her fortune by the
same means?  Why, 'slife, you are as great a rogue as Isaac
Don Ant. No, Don Jerome; though I have prolited by this
paper in gaining your daughter's hand, I scorn to obtain her
fortune by deceit. There, sir.-[Gives a letter.] Now give
her your blessing for a dower, and all the little I possess shall
be settled on herin return. Had you wedded her to a prince,
he could do no more.
Don Jer. Why, Gad take me, but you are a very extraordinary fellow!  But have you the impudence to suppose no
one can do a generous action but yourself?  Here, Louisa,
tell this proud fool of yours that he's the only man I know
that would renounce your fortune; and, by my soul, he 's the
only man in Spain that's worthy of it. There, bless you
both: I'm an obstinate old fellow when I'm in the wrong;
but you shall now find me as steady in the right.
Enter DON FERDINAND and DONNA CLARA.
Another wonder still! Why, sirrah I Ferdinand, you have not
stole a nun, have you?
Don Ferd. She is a nun in nothing but her habit, sir-look
nearer, and you will perceive 'tis Clara d'Almanza, Don Guz

Vf




S58                       THE DUENNA.          [ACT III. SO. VIL
man's daughter; and, with pardon for stealing a wedding, sho
is also my wife.
Don Jer. Gadsbud, and a great fortune!        Ferdinand, you
are a prudent young rogue, and I forgive you: and, ifecks, you
are a pretty little damsel.  Give your father-in-law a kiss, you
smiling rogue!
Don. Clara. There, old gentleman; and now mind you behave well to us.
Don Jer. Ifecks, those lips ha'n't been chilled by kissing
beads!    Egad, I believe I shall grow       the best-humoured
fellow in Spain.   Lewis! Sancho! Carlos! d'ye hear? are all
my doors thrown open?       Our children's weddings are the
only holidays our age can boast; and then we drain, with
pleasure, the little stock of spirits time has left us.-[Music
within.]   But see, here come our friends and neighbours
Enter MASQUERADERS.
And, i' faith, we '11 make a night on' t, with wine, and dance,
and catches-then old and young shall join us.
FIN'ALE.
Don Jer..    Come now for jest and smiling,
Both old and young beguiling,
Let us laugh and play, so blithe and gay,
Till we banish care away.
Don. Louisa. Thus crown'd with dance and song,
The hours shall glide along,
With a heart at ease, merry, merry glees
Can never fail to please.
DoA Ferd.. Each bride with blushes glowing,
Our wine as rosy flowing,
Let us laugh and play, so blithe and gay,
Till we banish care away.
Don A,t.. Then healths to every friend
The night's repast shall end,
With a heart at ease, merry, merry glees
Can never fail to please.
D,,,. C,'rra. Nor, while we are so joyous,
Shall anxious fear annoy us;
Let us laugh and play, so blithe and gay,
Till we banish care away.
lD)o Jer..   For generous guests like these
Accept the wish to please,
So we '11 laugh and play, so blithe and gay,
Your smiles drive care away.  [Lxeum amU,




THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL..
A COMEDY.
DRAMATIS PERSONS.
AS ORIGINALLY ACTED AT DRURY-LANE THEATRE IN 1777.
SIR PETER TEAZLE. fMr. King.    CRABTRE...      Mr. Parsu".
SIR OLIVER SURFACE Mr. Yates.    ROWLEY.. Mr. Aickin.
SIR HARRY BUMPER. ir. Gawdry. MosES....         Mr. Baddely.t
SIR BENJAMIN BACK- Mr. Dodd      TRIP.... Mr. LMsmash.
BITE....                 LADY TEAZLE. Mrs. Abington.
JOSEPH SURFACE. Mr. Pa!ner.   LADY SNEERWELL Miss Sherry.
CHARLES SURFACE. Mr. Smith.     MRS. CANDOUR. Mi1.s Pope.
CARELESS.... Mr. Farren.    MARIA....iss P. Hopbin.
SN......   Mr. Packer.    Gentlemen, Maid, add Servants.
SCENE.-LONDON.
A PORTRAIT;
ADDRESSED TO MRS. CREWE, WITH THE COMEDY OF THE SCHOOL
FOR SCANDAL.
BY R. B. SHERIDAN, ESQ.
TELL me, ye prim adepts in Scandal's school,
Who rail by precept, and detract by rule,
Lives there no character, so tried, so known,
So deck'd with grace, and so unlike your own,
That even you assist her fame to raise,
Approve by envy, and by silence praise I
Attend!-a model shall attract your viewDaughters of calumny, I summon you I
You shall decide if this a portrait prove,
t                 Or fond creation of the Muse and Love.
Attend, ye virgin critics, shrewd and sage,
Ye matron censors of this childish age,
Whose peering eye and wrinkled front declare
*             A fix'd antipathy to young and fair;
By cunning, cautious; or by nature, cold,
In maiden madness, virulently bold!Attend, ye skillid to coin the precious tale,
Creating proof, where inuendos fail!
Whose practised memories, cruelly exact,
Omit no circumstance, except the fact!Attend, all ye who boast,-or old or yourngThe living lbel of a slanderous tongue I




o00


THE SCHOOL FOR SCANiDA.


So shall my theme as far contrasted be,
As saints by fiends, or hymns by calumny.
Come, gentle Amoret (for 'neath that name
In worthier verse is sung thy beauty's fame);
Come-for but thee who seeks the Muse   and whis
Celestial blushes check thy conscious smile,
With timid grace, and hesitating eye,
The perfect model, which I boast, supply:Vain Muse! couldst thou the hwmblest sketch create
Of her, or slightest charm couldst imitateCould thy blest strain in kindred colours trace
The faintest wonder of her form and facePoets would study the immortal line,
And Reynolds own his art subdued by thine;
That art, which well might added lustre give
To Nature's best, and Heaven's superlative:
On Granby's cheek might bid new glories rise,
Or point a purer beam from DevoB's eyes!
Hard is the task to shape that beauty's praise,
Whose judgment scorns the homage flattery pays t
But praising Amoret we cannot err,
No tongue o'ervalues Heaven, or flatters her
Yet she by fate's perverseness-she alone
Would doubt our truth, nor deem such praise her own
Adorning fashion, unadom'd by dress,
Simple from taste, and not from carelessness;
Discreet in gesture, in deportment mild,
Not stiff with prudence, nor uncouthly wild:
No state has Amoret; no studied mien;
She frowns no goddess, and she moves no queen.
The softer charm that in her manner lies
Is framed to captivate, yet not surprise;
It justly suits the expression of her face,'Tis less than dignity, and more than grace!
On her pure cheek the native hue is such,
That, form'd by Heaven to be admired so much,
The hand divine, with a less partial care,
Might well have fix'd a fainter crimson there,
And bade the gentle inmate of her breastInshrined Modesty-supply the rest.
But who the peril of her lips shall paint 1
Strip them of smiles-still, still all words are fi&
But moving Love himself appears to teach
Their action, though denied to rule her speech;
And thou who seest her speak, and dost not hear,
Moun not her distant accents 'scape thine ear;
Viewing those lips, thou still may'st make pretence
To judge of what she says, and swear 'tis sense:
Clothed with such grace, with such expression fraught,
- They move in meaning, and they pause in thought I




*                   THE scHooL FOR SCANDAL.                       $o1
But dost thou farther watch, with charm'd surprise,
The mild irresolution of her eyes,
t             Curious to mark how frequent they repose,
In brief eclipse and momentary closeAh! seest thou not an ambush'd Cupid there,
Too tim'rous of his charge, with jealous care
Veils and unveils those beams of heavenly light,
Too full, too fatal else, for mortal sight 1
Nor yet, such pleasing vengeance fond to meet,
In pard'ning dimples hope a safe retreat.
What though her peaceful breast should ne'er allow
Subduing frowns to arm her alter'd brow,
By Love, I swear, and by his gentle wiles,
More fatal still the mercy of her smiles!
Thus lovely, thus adorn'd, possessing all
Of bright or fair that can to woman fall,
The height of vanity might well be thought
Prerogative in her, and Nature's fault.
Yet gentle Amoret, in mind supreme
As well as charms, rejects the vainer theme;
And, half mistrustful of her beauty's store,
She barbs with wit those darts too keen before:Read in all knowledge that her sex should reach,
Though Greville, or the Muse, should deign to tewth
Fond to improve, nor timorous to discern
How far it is a woman's grace to learn;
In Millar's dialect she would not prove
Apollo's priestess, but Apollo's love,
Graced by those signs which truth delights to own,
The timid blush, and mild submitted tone:
Whate'er she says, though sense appear throughout,
Displays the tender hue of female doubt;
Deck'd with that charm, how lovely wit appears,
How graceful science, when that robe she wears!
Such too her talents, and her bent of mind,
As speak a sprightly heart by thought refined:
A taste for mirth, by contemplation school'd,
f             A turn for ridicule, by candour ruled,
A scorn of folly, which she tries to hide;
An awe of talent, which she owns with pride!
Peace, idle Muse! no more thy strain prolong,
But yield a theme, thy warmest praises wrong;
Just to her merit, though thou canst not raise
Thy feeble verse, behold th' acknowledged praise
Has spread conviction through the envious train,
And cast a fatal gloom o'er Scandal's reign!
t                  And lo! each pallid hag, with blister'd tongue,
Mutters assent to all thy zeal has sungOwns all the colours just-the outline true;
Thee my inspirer, and my model-C-uw'a
I




tOW                 THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL.
PROLOGUE.
WRITTEN BY MR. GARRICK
A SCHOOL for Scandal! tell me, I beseech you,
Needs there a school this modish art to teach youl
No need of lessons now, the knowing think;
We might as well be taught to eat and drink.
Caused by a dearth of scandal, should the vapours
Distress our fair ones-let them read the papers;
Their powerful mixtures such disorders hit;
Crave what you will-there's quantum sufficit.
"Lord!" cries my Lady Wormwood (who loves tattl,
And puts much salt and pepper in her prattle),
Just risen at noon, all night at cards when threshing
Strong tea and scandal-" Bless me, how refreshing I
Give me the papers, Lisp-how bold and free! [Sip,
Last night Lord L. [Sips] was caught with Lady D.
For aching heads what charming sal volatile! [Sips.
If Mrs. B. will still continue flirting,
We hope she 'll rRAw, or we'll UNDRAW the curtain.
Fine satire, poz-in public all abuse it,
But, by ourselves [Sips], our praise we can't refuse it.
Now, Lisp, read you-there, at that dash and star '
"Yes, ma'am-A certain lord had best beware,
Who lives not twenty miles from Grosvenor Square;
For, should he Lady W.find willing,
Vormwood is bitter"-" Oh! that's me! the villain t
Throw it behind the fire, and never more
Let that vile paper come within my door."
Thus at our friends we laugh, who feel the dart;
To reach our feelings, we ourselves must smart.
Is our young bard so young, to think that he
Can stop the full spring-tide of calumny?
Knows he the world so littlse, and its trade
Alas! the devil's sooner raised than laid.
So strong, so swift, the monster there's no gagging:
Cut Scandal's head off, still the tongue is wagging.
Proud of your smiles once lavishly bestow'd,
Again our young Don Quixote takes the road;
To show his gratitude he draws his pen,
And seeks this hydra, Scandal, in his den.
For your applause all perils he would through —
He'll fight-that's write-a cavalliero true,
Till every drop of blood -that's ink-is spilt for you




JLT I. SC. I.  THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL.


so3


ACT I.
SCENE I.-LADY SNEERWELL'S Dressing-rom.
LADY SNEERWELL discovered at her toilet; SNAKE drinking
chocolate.
Lady Sneer. The paragraphs, you say, Mr. Snake, were all
inserted?
Snake. They were, madam; and, as I copied them myself
in a feigned hand, there can be no suspicion whence they
came.
Lady Sneer. Did you circulate the report of Lady Brittle's
intrigue with Captain Boastall?
Snake. That's in as fine a train as your ladyship could
wish. In the common course of things, I think it must reach
Mrs. Clackitt's ears within four-and-twenty hours; and then,
you know, the business is as good as done.
Lady Sneer. Why, truly, Mrs. Clackitt has a very pretty
talent, and a great deal of industry.
Snake. True, madam, and has been tolerably successful in
her day. To my knowledge, she has been the cause of six
matches being broken off, and three sons being disinherited; of
four forced elopements, and as many close confinements; nine
separate maintenances, and two divorces. Nay, I have more
than once traced her causing a tete-d-tete in the "Town and
Country Magazine," when the parties, perhaps, had never seen
each other's face before in the course of their lives.
Lady Sneer. She certainly has talents, but her manner is
gross.
Snake. 'Tis very true. She generally designs well, has a
free tongue and a bold invention; but her colouring is too
dark, and her outlines often extravagant. She wants that
delicacy of tint, and mellowness of sneer, which distinguish
your ladyship's scandal.
Lady Sneer. You are partial, Snake.
Snake. Not in the least; every body allows that Lady
Sleerwell can do more with a word or look than many can
with the most laboured detail, even when they happen to have
a little truth on their side to support it.
Lady Sneer. Yes, my dear Snake; and I am no hypocrite
to deny the satisfaction I reap from the success of my efforts.
Wounded myself, in the early part of my life, by the envenomed tongue of slander, I confess I have since known no




8s4


THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL.


rT.,aAiCT L.


pleasure equal to the reducing others to the level of my owu
reputation.
Snake. Nothing can be more natural. But, Lady Sneerwell,
there is one affair in which you have lately employed me,
wherein, I confess, I am at a loss to guess your motives.
Lady Sneer. I conceive you mean with respect to my
neighbour, Sir Peter Teazle, and his family?
Snake. I do. Here are two young men, to whom Sir Peter
has acted as a kind of guardian since their father's death; the
eldest possessing the most amiable character, and universally
well spoken of-the youngest, the most dissipated and extravagant young fellow in the kingdom, without friends or
character: the former an avowed admirer of your ladyship,
and apparently your favourite; the latter attached to Maria,.
Sir Peter's ward, and confessedly beloved by her. Now, on
the face of these circumstances, it is utterly unaccountable to
me, why you, the widow of a city knight, with a good jointure,
should not close with the passion of a man of such character
and expectations as Mr. Surface; and more so why you should
be so uncommonly earnest to destroy the mutual attachment
subsisting between his brother Charles and Maria.
Lady Sneer. Then, at once to unravel this mystery, I must
inform you that love has no share whatever in the intercourse
between Mr. Surface and me.
Snake. No!
Lady Sneer. His real attachment is to Maria, or her fortune;
but, finding in his brother a favoured rival, he has been obliged
to mask his pretensions, and profit by my assistance.
Snake. Yet still I am more puzzled why you should interest
yourself in his success.
Lady Sneer. Heavens! how dull you are! Cannot you surmise the weakness which I hitherto, through shame, have concealed even from you?  Must I confess that Charles-that
libertine, that extravagant, that bankrupt in fortune and reputation-that he it is for whom I am thus anxious and malicious,
and to gain whom I would sacrifice every thing?
Snake. Now, indeed, your conduct appears consistent: but
how came you and Mr. Surface so confidential?
Lady Sneer. For our mutual interest. I have found him
out a long time since. I know him to be artful, selfish, and
malicious-in short, a sentimental knave; while with Sir
Peter, and indeed with all his acquaintance, he passes for a
youthful miracle of prudence. good sense, and benevolence.




Eo. I.]


THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL.


Sn a.ke Yes; yet Sir Peter vows he has not his equal it
England; and, above all, he praises him as a man of
sentiment.
Lady Sneer. True; and with the assistance of his sentj*
ment and hypocrisy he has brought Sir Peter entirely into his
interest with regard to Maria; while poor Charles has no
friend in the house-though, I fear, he has a powerful one in
Maria's heart; against whom we must direct our schemes.
Enter SERVANT.
Ser. Mr. Surface.                                             -;Lady Sneer. Show him up. [Exit SERVANT.] He generally     '
calls about this time. I don't wonder at people giving him         i
so me for a lover.
Enter JOSEPH SURFACE.
Jos. Surf. My dear Lady Sneerwell, how do you do to-day?
Mr. Snake, your most obedient.
Lady Sneer. Snake has just been rallying me on our mutual
attachment but I have informed him of our real views. You
know how useful he has been to us; and, believe me, the con*fidence is not ill placed.
Jos. Surf. Madam, it is impossible for me to suspect a man
of Mr. Snake's sensibility and discernment.
Lady Sneer. Well, well, no compliments now; but tell me '
when you saw your mistress, Maria-or, what is more material
to me, your brother.
Jos. Surf. I have not seen either since I left you; butt,
can inform you that they never meet. Some of your stories   - -.
have taken a good effect on Maria.
Lady Sneer. Ah, my dear Snake! the merit of this belongs    ' p
to you. But do your brother's distresses increase'?.
Jos. Surf. Every hour. I am told he has had another ex-    ' '
ecution in the house yesterday. In short, his dissipation azd::
extravagance exceed any thing I have ever heard of.
Lady Sneer. Poor Charles!
Jos. Surf. True, madam; notwithstanding his vices, one
can't help feeling for him. Poor Charles! I'm sure I wish it  -:
were in my power to be of 'any essential service to him; for,
the man who does not share in the distresses of a brother,:
even though merited by his own misconduct, deserves —
Lady Sneer. 0 Lud! you are going to be moral, and forget
that you are among friends.




THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL.


[Ar T 1


Jos. Surf. Egad, that's true! I '11 keep that sentiment till
I see Sir Peter.  However, it is certainly a charity to rescue
Maria from such a libertine, who, if lie is to be reclaimed, can
be so only by a person of your ladyship's superior accomplish
ments and understanding.
Snake. I believe, Lady Sneerwell, here's company comingI ll go and copy the letter I mentioned to you. Mr. Surface,
your most obedient.
'Jos. Surf. Sir, your very devoted.-[Exit SNAKE.] Lady
Sneerwell, I am very sorry you have put any farther confidence
in that fellow.
Lady Sneer. Why so?.  Jos. Surf. I have lately detected him in frequent conference
with old Rowley, who was formerly my father's steward, and
has never, you know, been a friend of mine.
Lady Sneer. And do you think he would betray us?
Jos. Surf. Nothing more likely: take my word for't, Lady
Sreerwell, that fellow hasn't viritue enough to be faithful even
to his own villany. Ah, Maria!
Enter MARIA.
Lady Sneer. Maria, my dear, how do you do? What's the
matter?
Mar. Oh! there's that disagreeable lover of mine, Sir
Benjamin Backbite, has just called at my guardian's, with
his odious uncle, Crabtree; so I slipped out, and ran hither to
avoid them.
Lady Sneer. Is that all?
Jos. Surf. If my brother Charles had been of the party,
madam, perhaps you would not have been so much alarmed.
Lady Sneer. Nay, now you are severe; for I dare swear the
truth of the matter is, Maria heard you were here. But, my
dear, what has Sir Benjamin done, that you should avoid him
so?
Mar. Oh, he has done nothing-but 'tis for what he has
said: his conversation is a perpetual ilibel on all his acquainto ance.
Jos. Surf. Ay, and the worst of it is, there is no advantage
in not knowing him; for he'll abuse a stranger just as soon
as his best friend: and his uncle's as bad.
Lady Sneer. Nay, but we should make allowance; Si&
Benjamin is a wit and a poet.




sc. r.I


THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL.,q07


Mar. For my part, I own, madam, wit loses its respect
with me, when I see it in company with malice. What do you
think, Mr. Surface?
Jos. Surf. Certainly, madam; to smile at the jest which
plants a thorn in another's breast is to become a principal in
the mischief.
Lady Sneer. Psha! there's no possibility of being witty
without a little ill nature: the malice of a good thing is the
barb that makes it stick. What's your opinion, Mr. Surface?
Jos. Surf. To be sure, madam; that conversation, where the
spirit of raillery is suppressed, will ever appear tedious and
insipid.
Mar. Well, I'11 not debate how far scandal may be allowable; but in a man, I am sure, it is always contemptible. We
have pride, envy, rivalship, and a thousand motives to depreciate each other; but the male slanderer must have the cowardice of a woman before he can traduce one.
Re-enter SERVANT.
Ser. Madam, Mrs. Candour is below, and, if your ladyship 's
at leisure, will leave her carriage.
Lady Sneer. Beg ner to walk in.-[Exit SERVANT.]  Now,
Maria, here is a character to your taste; for, though Mrs. Candour is a little talkative, every body allows her to be the best
natured and best sort of woman.
Mar. Yes, with a very gross affectation of good nature and
benevolence, she does more mischief than the direct malice of
old Crabtree.
Jos. Surf. I' faith that 's true, Lady Sneerwell: whenever I
hear the current running against the characters of my frienda,
I never think them in such danger as when Candour undertakes their defence.
Lady Sneer. Hush!-here she is I
Enter MRS. CANDOUR.
Mrs. Can. Iy dear Lady Sneerwell, how have you been this
century?-Mrr. Surface, what news do you hear?-though
indeed it is no matter, for I think one hears nothing else but
scandal.
Jos. Surf. Just so, indeed, ma'am.
Mrs Can. Oh, Maria! child, —what, is the whole affair


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568


THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL.


(ACT L


off between you and Charles? His'extravagance, I presume
-the town talks of nothing else.
Mar. I am very sorry, ma'am, the town has so little to do.
Mrs. Can. True, true, child: 'but there's no stopping
people's tongues. I own I was hurt to hear it, as I indeedwas
to learn, from the same quarter, that your guardian, Sir Peter,
and Lady Teazle have not agreed lately as well as could be
wished.
Mar. 'Tis strangely impertinent for people to busy themselves so.
Mrs. Can. Very true, child: but what's to be done? People
will talk-there's no preventing it. Why, it was but yesterday I was told that Miss Gadabout had eloped with Sir Filigree
Flirt. But, Lord! there's no minding what one hears;
though, to be sure, I had this from very good authority.
Mar. Such reports are highly scandalous.
Mrs. Can. So they are, child-shameful, shameful! But
the world is so censorious, no character escapes. Lord, now
who would have suspected your friend. Miss Prim, of an indiscretion? Yet such is the ill nature of people, that they say
her uncle stopped her last week, just as she was stepping into
the York Mail with her dancing-master.
Mar. I '11 answer for't there are no grounds for that report.
Mrs. Can. Ah, no foundation in the world, I dare swear:
no more, probably, than for the story circulated last month, of
Mrs. Festino's affair with Colonel Cassino-though, to be
sure, that matter was never rightly cleared up.
Jos. Surf. The licence of invention some people take is
monstrous indeed.
Mar. 'Tis so; but, in my opinion, those who report such
things are equally culpable.
Mrs. Can. To be sure they are; tale-bearers are as bad as
the tale-makers-'tis an old observation, and a very true one:
but what's to be done, as I said before? how will you prevent
people from talking? To-day, Mrs. Clackitt assured me, Mr.
and Mrs. Honeymoon were at last become mere man and wife,
like the rest of their acquaintance.  She likewise hinted that
a certain widow, in the next street, had got rid of her dropsy
and recovered her shape in a most surprising manner. And at
the same time Miss Tattle, who was by, affirmed, that Lord
Buffalo had discovered his lady at a house of no extraordinary




60. t.J         THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL.            309
fame; and that Sir Harry Bouquet and Tom Saunter were to
measure swords on a similar provocation. But, Lord, do you
think I would report these things! No, no! tale-bearers, as
I said before, are just as bad as the tale-makers.
Jos. Surf. Ah! Mrs. Candour, if every body had your forbearance and good nature!
Mrs. Can. I confess, Mr. Surface, I cannot bear to hear
people attacked behind their backs; and when ugly circumstances come out against our acquaintance I own I always love
to think the best. By the by, I hope 'tis not true that your
brother is absolutely ruined?
Jos. Surf. I am afraid his circumstances are very bad indeed,
ma'am.
Mrs. Can. Ah! I heard so-but you must tell him to keep
up his spirits; every body almost is in the same way: Lord
Spindle, Sir Thomas Splint, Captain Quinze, and Mr. Nickit
-all up, I hear, within this week; so, if Charles is undone,
he 'll find half his acquaintance ruined too, and that, you
know, is a consolation.
Jos. Surf. Doubtless, maeam-a very great one.
Re-enter SERVANT.
Ser. Mr. Crabtree and Sir Benjamin Backbite.   [Exit.
Lady Sneer. So, Maria, you see your lover pursues you;
positively you sha'n't escape.
Enter CRABTREE and SIR BENJAMIN BACKBITE.          t;
Crab. Lady Sneerwell, I kiss your hand. Mrs. Candour, I
don't believe you are acquainted with my nephew, Sir Benjamin
Backbite? Egad, ma'am, he has a pretty wit, and is a pretty
poet too. Isn't he, Lady Sneerwell?
Sir Ben. Oh, fie, uncle!
Crab. Nay, egad it's true; I back him at a rebus or a
charade against the best rhymer in the kingdom. Has your
ladyship heard the epigram he wrote last week on Lady Frizzle's feather catching fire?-Do, Benjamin, repeat it, or the
charade you made last night extempore at Mrs. Drowzie's
conversazione. Come now; your first is the name of a fish,
your second a great naval commander, andSir Ben. Uncle. now-pr'ytheeCrab. I' faith, ma'am, 'twould surprise you to hear how ready
he is at all these sort of things.




3YiO


THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL.


[ACT 1


Lady Sneer. I wonder, Sir Benjamin, you never publish
any thing.
Sir Ben. To say truth, ma'am, 'tis very vulgar to print;
and, as my little productions are mostly satires and lampoons
on particular people, I find they circulate more by giving
copies in confidence to the friends of the parties. However,
I have some love elegies, which, when favoured with ths lady's
smiles, I mean to give the public.   [Pointing to MARIA.
Crab. [To MARIA.] 'Fore heaven, ma'am, they'll immortalize you!-you will be handed down to posterity, like Petrarch's Laura, or Waller's Sacharissa.
Sir Ben. [To MARIA ] Yes, madam, I think you will like
them, when you shall see them on a beautiful quarto page,
where a neat rivulet of text shall meander through a meadow
of margin. 'Fore Gad they will be the most elegant things
of their kind!
Crab. But, ladies, that's true-have you heard the news?
Mrs. Can. What, sir, do you mean the report of —
Crab. No, ma'am, that's not it.-Miss Nicely is going to be
married to her own footman.
Mrs. Can. Impossible.
Crab. Ask Sir Benjamin.
Sir Ben. 'Tis very true, ma'am: every thing is fixed, and
the wedding liveries bespoke.
Crab. Yes-and they do say there were pressing reasons
for it.
Lady Sneer. Why, I have heard something of this before.
Mrs. Can. It can't be-and I wonder any one should believe such a story of so prudent a lady as Miss Nicely.
Sir Ben. 0 Lud! ma'am, that's the very reason 'twas believed at once. She has always been so cautious and so reserved, that every body was sure there was some reason for it
at bottom.
Mrs. Can. Why, to be sure, a tale of scandal is as fatal to
the credit of a prudent lady of her stamp as a fever is generally to those of the strongest constitutions. But there is a
sort of puny sickly reputation, that is always ailing, yet will
outlive the robuster characters of a hundred prudes.
Sir Ben. True, madam, there are valetudinarians in reputation as well as constitution, who, being conscious of their
weak part, avoid the least breath of air, and supply their want
of stamina by care and circumspection.




7
SO. I.]        THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL.             371
Mrs. Can. Well, but this may be all a mistake. You know,
Sir Benjamin, very trifling circumstances often give rise to the
most injurious tales.
Crab. That they do, I'11 be sworn, ma'am. Did you ever
hear how Miss Piper came to lose her lover and her character last summer at Tunbridge?-Sir Benjamin, you remember it?
Sir Ben. Oh, to be sure!-the most whimsical circumstance.
Lady Sneer. How was it, pray?
Crab. Why, one evening, at Mrs. Ponto's assembly, the
conversation happened to turn on the breeding Nova Scotia
sheep in this country. Says a young lady in company, I have
known instances of it; for Miss Letitia Piper, a first cousin
of mine, had a Nova Scotia sheep that produced her twins.
"What!" cries the Lady Dowager Dundizzy (who you know is
as deaf as a post), "has Miss Piper had twins?" This mistake,
as you may imagine, threw the whole company into a fit of
laughter. However, 'twas the next morning every where reported, and in a few days believed by the whole town, that
Miss Letitia Piper had actually been brought to bed of a fine
boy and a girl: and in less than a week there were some
people who could name the father, and the farm-house where
the babies were put to nurse.
Lady Sneer. Strange, indeed!
Crab. Matter of fact, I assure you. 0 Lud! Mr. Surface,
pray is it true that your uncle, Sir Oliver, is coming home?
Jos. Surf. Not that I know of, indeed, sir.
Crab. He has been in the East Indies a long time. You
can scarcely remember him, I believe? Sad comfort, whenever he returns, to hear how your brother has gone on!
Jos. Surf. Charles has been imprudent, sir, to be sure; but
1 hope no busy people have already prejudiced Sir Oliver
against him. He may reform.
Sir Ben. To be sure he may: for my part, I never believed
him to be so utterly void of principle as people say; and,
though he has lost all his friends, I am told nobody is better
spoken of by the Jews.                                            i
Crab. That's true, egad, nephew. If the Old Jewry was
a ward, I believe Charles would be an alderman: no mall
more popular there, 'fore Gad! I hear he pays as many annuities as the Irish tontine; and that, whenever he is sick,
B    2


i




THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL.


[AoT r


they have prayers for the recovery of his health m all the
synagogues.
Sir Ben. Yet no man lives in greater splendour. They tell
me, when he entertains his friends he will sit down to dinner
with a dozen of his own securities; have a score of tradesmen
waiting in the antechamber, and an officer behind every guest's
chair.
Jos. Surf. This may be entertainment to you, gentlemen,
but you pay very little regard to the feelings of a brother.
Mar. [Aside.] Their malice is intolerable!-[Aloud.] Lady
Sneerwell, I must wish you a good morning: I'm not very
well.                                           [Exit
Mrs. Can. 0 dear! she changes colour very much.
Lady Sneer. Do, Mrs. Candour, follow her: she may want
your assistance.
Mrs. Can. That I will, with all my soul, ma'am.-Poor dear
girl, who knows what her situation may be       [Exit.
Lady Sneer. 'Twas nothing but that she could not bear to
hear Charles reflected on, notwithstanding their difference.
Sir Ben. The young lady's penchant is obvious.
Crab. But, Benjamin, you must not give up the pursuit for
that: follow her, and put her into good humour. Repeat her
some of your own verses. Come, I'11 assist you.
Sir Ben. Mr. Surface, I did not mean to hurt you; but depend on't your brother is utterly undone.
Crab. 0 Lud, ay! undone as ever man was-can't raise a
guinea!
Sir Ben. And every thing sold, I'm told, that was movable.
Crab. I have seen one that was at his house. Not a thing
left but some empty bottles that were overlooked, and the
family pictures, which I believe are framed in the wainscots.
Sir Ben. And I'm very sorry also to hear some bad stories
against him.                                   [Going.
Crab. Oh, he has done many mean things, that's certain.
Sir Ben. But, however, as he's your brother —   [Going.
Crab. We'll tell you all another opportunity.
[Exeunt CRABTREE and SIR BENJAMIN'
Lady Sneer. Ha! ha! 'tis very hard for them to leave a
subject they have not quite run down.
Jos. Surf. And I believe the abuse was no more acceptable
to your ladyship than Maria.




so ILi


TEE SCHOOT, FOR SCANDAL.


798


Lady Sneer. I doubt her affections are farther engaged than
we imagine. But the family are to be here this evening, so
*      you may as well dine where you are, and we shall have an
opportunity of observing farther; in the meantime,/ 'll go
and plot mischief, and you shall study sentiment. ', [Exeunt
SCENE II. —A Room in SIR PETER TEAZLE'S House.
Enter SIR PETER TEAZLE
Sir Pet. When an old bachelor marries a young wife, what
is he to expect? 'Tis now six months since Lady Teazle
made me the happiest of men-and I have been the most
miserable dog ever since! We tift a little going to church,
and fairly quarrelled before the bells had done ringing, I
was more than once nearly choked with gall during the
honeymoon, and had lost all comfort in life before my friends
had done wishing me joy. Yet I chose with caution-a girl
bred wholly in the country, who never knew luxury beyond
one silk gown, nor dissipation above the annual gala of a race
ball. Yet she now plays her part in all the extravagant fopperies of fashion and the town, with as ready a grace as if
she never had seen a bush or a grass-plot out of Grosvenor
Square! I am sneered at by all my acquaintance, and paragraphed in the newspapers. She dissipates my fortune, and
contradicts all my humours; yet the worst of it is, I doubt I
love her, or I should never bear all this. However, I '11 never
be weak enough to own it.
Enter ROWLEY.
Row. Oh! Sir Peter, your servant: how is it with you, sir?
Sir Pet. Very bad, Master Rowley, very bad. I meet with
nothing but crosses and vexations.. ~      Row. What can have happened since yesterday?
Sir Pet. A good question to a married man!
Row. Nay, I'm sure, Sir Peter, your lady can't be the cause
of your uneasiness.
Sir Pet. Why, has any body told you she was dead?
Row. Come, come, Sir Peter you love her, notwithstanding
your tempers don't exactly agree.
Sir Pet. But the fault is entirely hers, Master Rowley. I
am, myself, the sweetest-tempered man alive, and hate a teas.
ing temper; and so I tell her a hundred times a day.
Row. Indeed!




374


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[A.CT   t


Sir Pet. Ay; and what is very extraordinary, in all our disputes she is always in the wrong! But Lady Sneerwell, and
the set she meets at her house, encourage the perverseness of
her disposition. Then, to complete my vexation, Maria, my
ward, whom I ought to have the power of a father over, is determined to turn rebel too, and absolutely refuses the man
whom I have long resolved on for her husband; meaning, I
suppose, to bestow herself on his profligate brother.
Row. You know, Sir Peter, I have always taken the liberty
to differ with you on the subject of these two young gentlemen. I only wish you may not be deceived in your opinion
of the elder. For Charles, my life on 't he will retrieve his
errors yet. Their worthy father, once my honoured master,
was, at his years, nearly as wild a spark; yet, when he died,
he did not leave a more benevolent heart to lament his loss.
Sir Pet. You are wrong, Master Rowley. On their father's
death, you know, I acted as a kind of guardian to them both,
till their uncle Sir Oliver's liberality gave them an early independence: of course, no person could have more opportunities of judging of their hearts, and I was never mistaken in
my life. Joseph is indeed a model for the young men of the
age. He is a man of sentiment, and acts up to the sentiments
he professes; but, for the other, take my word for 't, if he had
any grain of virtue by descent, he has dissipated it with the
rest of his inheritance. Ah! my old friend, Sir Oliver, will
be deeply mortified when he finds how part of his bounty has
been misapplied.
Row. I am sorry to find you so violent against the young
man, because this may be the most critical period of his fortune. I came hither with news that will surprise you.
Sir Pet. What! let me hear.
Row. Sir Oliver is arrived, and at this moment in town.
Sir Pet. How! you astonish me! I thought you did not
expect him this month.
Row. I did not: but his passage has been remarkably quick.
Sir Pet. Egad, I shall rejoice to see my old friend. 'Tis
sixteen years since we met. We have had many a day together:-but does he still enjoin us not to inform his nephews
of his arrival?
Row. Most strictly.  He means, before it is known, to
make some trial of their dispositions.
Sir Pet. Ah! there needs no art to discover their merits




aCT IT. SC. I.]  THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL.


87.5


— however he shall have his way; but, pray, does he know I
am married?
Row. Yes, and will soon wish you joy.
Sir Pet. What, as we drink health to a friend in a consumption! Ah! Oliver will laugh at me. We used to rail at
matrimony together, but he has been steady to his text.
Well, he must be soon at dhy house, though-I '11 instantly
give orders for his reception. But, Master Rowley, don't drop
a word that Lady Teazle and I ever disagree.
* Row. By no means.
Sir Pet. For I should never be able to stand Noll's jokes;
so I '11 have him think, Lord forgive me! that we are a very
happy couple.
Row. I understand you:-but then you must be very careful not to differ while he is in the house with you.
Sir Pet. Egad, and so we must-and that's impossible.
Ah! Master Rowley, when an old bachelor marries a young
wife, he deserves-no —the crime carries its punishment along
with it                                       [Exeunt
ACT II.
SCENE I.-A Room in SIR PETER TEAZLE'S House.
Enter SIR PETER and LADY TEAZLE.
Sir Pet. Lady Teazle, Lady Teazle, I '11 not bear it1
Lady Teaz. Sir Peter, Sir Peter, you may bear it or not, as
you please; but I ought to have my own way in every thing,
and, what's more, I will too. What! though I was educated
in the country, I know very well that women of fashion in
London are accountable to nobody after they are married.
Sir Pet. Very well, ma'am, very well; so a husband is to
have no influence, no authority?
Lady Teaz. Authority! No, to be sure:-if you wanted authority over me, you should have adopted me, and not married
me: I am sure you were old enough.
Sir Pet. Old enough!-ay, there it is. Well, well, Lady
Teazle, though my life may be made unhappy by your temper,
I '11 not be ruined by your extravagance!
Lady Teaz. My extravagance!  I 'm sure I'm not more
extravagant than a woman of fashion ought to be.
Sir Pet. No, no, madam, you' shall throw away no more
sums on -such unmeaning luxury. 'Slife! to spend as much
to furnish your dressing-room with flowers in winter as wouUl






THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. '
I


[ACT II


suffice to turn the Pantheon into a greenhouse, and give a fete
champetre at Christmas.
Lady Teaz. And am I to blame, Sir Peter, because flowers
are dear in cold weather? You should find fault with the
climate, and not with me. For my part, I 'm sure I wish it was
spring all the year round, and that roses grew under our feet
Sir Pet. Oons! madam-if you had been born to this, I
should'nt wonder at your talking thus; but you forget what
your situation was when I married you.
Lady Teaz. No, no, I don't; 'twas a very disagreeable one,
or I should never have married you.
Sir Pet. Yes, yes, madam, you were then in somewhat a
humbler style-the daughter of a plain country squire. Recollect, Lady Teazle, when I saw you first sitting at your tamhour, in a pretty figured linen gown, with a bunch of keys at
your side, your hair combed smooth over a roll, and your
apartment hung round with fruits in worsted, of your own
working.
Lady Teaz. Oh, yes! I remember it very well, and a curious
life I led. My daily occupation to inspect the dairy, superintend the poultry, make extracts from the family receipt-book,
and comb my aunt Deborah's lapdog.
Sir Pet. Yes, yes, ma'am, 'twas so indeed.
Lady Teaz. And then you know, my evening amusements!
To draw patterns for ruffles, which I had not materials to
make up; to play Pope Joan with the curate; to read a sermon to my aunt; or to be stuck down to an old spinet to strum
my father to sleep after a fox-chase.
Sir Pet. I am glad you have so good a memory. Yes,
madam, these were the recreations I took you from; but now
you must have your coach-vis-a-vis-and three powdered
footmen before your chair; and, in the summer, a pair of
white cats to draw you to Kensington Gardens. No recollection, I suppose, when you were content to ride double, behind
the butler, on a docked coach-horse.
Lady Teaz. No-L4swear I never did that: I deny the
butler and the coach- rse.
Sir Pet. This, madam. was your situation; and what have I
done for you? I have made you a woman of fashion, of fortune, of rank-in short, I have made you my wife.
Lady Teaz. Well, then, and there is but one thing more
you can make me to add to the obligation, that isSir Pet. My widow, I suppose?




*    SC. I.]            SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL.            3YT
Lady Teaz. Hem! hem!
Sir Pet. I thank you, madam-but don't flatter yourself;,*    for, though your ill conduct may disturb my peace of mind, it
shall never break my heart, I promise you: however, I am
equally obliged to you for the hint.
Lady Teaz. Then why will you endeavour to make yourself
so disagreeable to me, and thwart me in every little elegant
expense?
Sir Pet. 'Slife, madam, I say, had you any of these little
elegant expenses when you married me?
Lady Teaz. Lud, Sir Peter! would you have me be out of
the fashion?
Sir Pet. The fashion, indeed! what had you to do with the
fashion before you married me?
Lady Teaz. For my part, I should think you would like to
have your wife thought a woman of taste.
Sir Pet. Ay-there again-taste! Zounds! madam, you
had no taste when you married me!
Lady Teaz. That's very true, indeed, Sir Peter! and, after
having married you, I should never pretend to taste again, I
~     allow But now, Sir Peter, since we have finished our daily
le, I presume I may go to my engagement at Lady Sneerwell's.
Sir Pet. Ay, there 's another precious circumstance-a
charming set of acquaintance you have made there!
Lady Teaz. Nay, Sir Peter, they are all people of rank and
fortune, and remarkably tenacious of reputation.
Sir Pet. Yes, egad, they are tenacious of reputation with a
vengeance; for they don't choose any body should have a character but themselves! Such a crew! Ah! many a wretch has
rid on a hurdle who has done less mischief than these utterers
of forged tales, coiners of scandal, and clippers of reputation.
Lady Teaz. What, would you restrain the freedom of speech?
Sir Pet. Ah! they have made you just as bad as any one of
the society.
Lady Teaz. Why, I believe I do bear a part with a tolerable grace.
Sir Pet. Grace indeed!
a4       Lady Teaz. But I vow I bear no malice against the people
I abuse: when I say an ill-natured thing, 'tis out of pure good
humour; and I take it for granted they deal exactly in the
same manner with me. But, Sir Peter, you know you promised to come to Lady Sneerwell's too.




378


THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL.


LACT II


Sir Pet. Well, well, I '11 call in, just to look after my own
character.
Lady Teaz. Then. indeed, you must make haste after me,
or you '11 be too late.  So good by to ye.         [Exit.
Sir Pet. So-I have gained much by my intended expostu.
lation! Yet with what a charming air she contradicts every
thing I say, and how pleasantly she shows her contempt for
my authority! Well, though I can't make her love me, there
is great satisfaction in quarrelling with her; and I think she
never appears to such advantage as when she is doing every
thing in her power to plague me.                   [Exit.
SCENE II.-A Room in LADY SNEERWELL'S House.
LADY SNEERWELL, MRS. CANDOUR, CRABTREE, SIR BENJAMIN
BACKBITE, and JOSEPH SURFACE, discovered.
Lady Sneer. Nay, positively, we will hear it.
Jos. Surf. Yes, yes, the epigram, by all means.
Sir Ben. 0 plague on 't, uncle! 'tis mere nonsense.
Crab. No, no; 'fore Gad, very clever for an extempore!
Sir Ben. But, ladies, you should be acquainted with the
circumstance. You must know, that one day last week, as
Lady Betty Curricle was taking the dust in Hyde Park, in a
sort of duodecimo phaeton, she desired me to write some
verses on her ponies; upon which, I took out my pocket-book,
and in one moment produced the following: —
Sure never were seen two such beautiful ponies;
Other horses are clowns, but these macaronies:
To give them this title I 'm sure can't be wrong,
Their legs are so slim, and their tails are so long.
Crab. There, ladies, done in the smack of a whip, and on
horseback too.
Jos. Surf. A very Phcebus, mounted-indeed, Sir Benjamin!
Sir Ben. Oh dear, sir! trifles-trifles.
Enter LADY TEAZLE and MARIA.
Mrs. Can. I must have a copy.
Lady Sneer. Lady Teazle, I hope we shall see Sir Peter?
Lady Teaz. I believe he '11 wait on your ladyship presently.
Lady Sneer. Maria, my love, you look grave. Come, you
shall sit down to piquet with Mr. Surface.
Mar. I take very little pleasure in cards-however, 1 '11 di
as your laiyship pleases




SC. rI.]


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379


Lady Teaz. I am surprised Mr. Surface should sit down
with her; I thought he would have embraced this opportunity.   of speaking to me before Sir Peter came.         [Aside.
Mrs. Can. Now, I'11 die; but you are so scandalous, I '11
forswear your society.
Lady Teaz. What's the matter, Mrs. Candour?
Mrs. Can. They'll not allow our friend Miss Vermilion to
be handsome.
Lady Sneer. Oh, surely she is a pretty woman
Crab. I am very glad you think so, ma'am.
Mrs. Can. She has a charming fresh colour.
Lady Teaz. Yes, when it is fresh put on.
Mrs. Can. Oh, fie! I '11 swear her colour is natural: I have
seen it come and go!
Lady Teaz. I dare swear you have, ma'am: it goes off at
night, and comes again in the morning.
Sir Ben. True, ma'am, it not only comes and goes; but,
what's more, egad, her maid can fetch and carry it!
Mrs. Can. Ha! ha! ha! how I hate to hear you talk so!
But surely, now, her sister is, or was, very handsome.
Crab. Who? Mrs. Evergreen? 0 Lord! she's six-and-fifty
if she's an hour!
Mrs. Can. Now positively you wrong her; fifty-two or fiftythree is the utmost-and I don't think she looks more.
Sir Ben. Ah! there's no judging by her looks, unless one
could see her face.
Lady Sneer. Well, well, if Mrs. Evergreen does take some
pains to repair the ravages of time, you must allow she effects it
with great ingenuity; and surely that's better than the careless
manner in which the widow Ochre caulks her wrinkles.
Sir Ben. Nay, now, Lady Sneerwell, you are severe upon
the widow. Come, come, 'tis not that she paints so ill-but,
when she has finished her face, she joins it on so badly to her
neck, that she looks like a mended statue, 'in which the connoisseur may see at once that the head is modern, though the
trunk's antique.
Crab. Ha! ha! ha! Well said, nephew!
Mrs. Can. Ha! ha! ha! Well, you make me laugh; but I,    vow I hate you for it. What do you think of Miss Simper?
Sir Ben. Why, she has very pretty teeth.
Lady Teaz. Yes; and on that account, when she is neither




THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL.


[ACT II


speaking nor laughing (which very seldom happens), she never
absolutely shuts her mouth, but leaves it always on a-jar, as it
were-thus.                              [Shows her teeth.
Mrs. Can. How can you be so ill-natured?
Lady Teaz. Nay, I allow even that's better than the pains
Mrs. Prim takes to conceal her losses in front. She draws her
mouth till it positively resembles the aperture of a poor's-box,
and all her words appear to slide out edgewise, as it werethus: THow do you do, madam?  Yes, madam.     [Mimics.
Lady Sneer. Very well, Lady Teazle; I see you can be a
little severe.
Lady Teaz. In defence of a friend it is but justice. But
here comes Sir Peter to spoil our pleasantry.
Enter SIR PETER TEAZLE.
Sir Pet. Ladies, your most obedient.-[Aside.}  Mercy on
me, here is the whole set! a character dead at every word, I
suppose.
Mrs. Can. I am rejoiced you are come, Sir Peter. They
have been so censorious-and Lady Teazle as bad as any
one.
Sir Pet. That must be very distressing to you, indeed,
Mrs. Candour.
Mrs. Can. Oh, they will allow good qualities to nobody;
not even good nature to our friend Mrs. Pursy.
Lady Teaz. What, the fat dowager who was at Mrs. Quadrille's last night?
Mrs. Can. Nay, her bulk is her misfortune; and, when she
takes so much pains to get rid of it, you ought not to reflect
on her.
Lady Sneer. That's very true, indeed.
Lady Teaz. Yes, I know she almost lives on acids and small
whey; laces herself by pulleys; and often, in the hottest noon
in summer, you may see her on a little squat pony, with her
hair plaited up behind like a drummer's and puffing round the
Ring on a full trot.
Mrs. Can. I thank you, Lady Teazle, for defending her.
Sir Pet. Yes, a good defence, truly.
Mrs. Can. Truly, Lady Teazle is as censorious as Miss
Sallow.
Crab. Yes, and she is a curious being to pretend to be cen




s6.  It.j


THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL


881


sorious-an awkward gawky, without any one good point under
heaven.
Mrs. Can. Positively you shall not be so very severe. Miss
Sallow is a near relation of mine by marriage, and, as for her
person, great allowance is to be made; for, let me tell you, a
woman labours under many disadvantages who tries to pass
for a girl of six-and-thirty.
Lady Sneer. Though, surely, she is handsome still-and
for the weakness in her eyes, considering how much she reads
by candlelight, it is not to be wondered at.
Mrs. Can True, and then as to her manner; upon my word
I think it is particularly graceful, considering she never had
the least education: for you know her mother was a Welsh
milliner, and her father a sugar-baker at Bristol.
Sir Ben. Ah! you are both of you too good-natured!
Sir Pet. Yes, damned good-natured! This their own relation! mercy on me!                             [Aside.
Mrs. Can. For my part, I own I cannot bear to hear a
friend ill spoken of.
Sir Pet. No, to be sure!
Sir Ben. Oh! you are of a moral turn. Mrs. Candour and
I can sit for an hour and hear Lady Stucco talk sentiment.
Lady Teaz. Nay, I vow Lady Stucco is very well with the
dessert after dinner; for she 's just like the French fruit one
cracks for mottoes-made up of paint and proverb.
Mrs. Can. Well, I will never join in ridiculing a friend;
and so I constantly tell my cousin Ogle, and you all know
what pretensions she has to be critical on beauty.
Crab. Oh, to be sure! she has herself the oddest countenance that ever was seen; 'tis a collection of features from all
the different countries of the globe..      Sir Ben. So she has, indeed-an Irish front —
Crab. Caledonian locksSir Ben. Dutch nose  -
Crab. Austrian lips —
'     Sir Ben. Complexion of a Spaniard ---
Crab. And teeth a la Chinoise
Sir Ben. In short, her face resembles a table d'h6te at Spa
-where no two guests are of a nationCrab. Or a congress at the close of a general war —wherein
all the memt ers, even to her eyes, appear to have a different




3'2


THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL.


[ACT II


interest, and her nose and chin are the only parties likely to
join issue.
Mrs. Can. Ha! ha! ha!
Sir Pet. Mercy on my life!-a person they dine with twice
a week!                                          [Aside.
Mrs. Can. Nay, but I vow you shall not carry the laugh off
so-for give me leave to say, that Mrs. Ogle
Sir Pet. Madam, madam, I beg your pardon-there's no
stopping these good gentlemen's tongues.   But when I
tell you, Mrs. Candour, that the lady they are abusing is
a particular friend of mine, I hope you '11 not take her part.
Lady Sneer. Ha! ha! ha! well said, Sir Peter! but you are
a cruel creature-too phlegmatic yourself for a jest, and toc
peevish to allow wit in others.
Sir Pet. Ah, madam, true wit is more nearly allied tc
good nature than your ladyship is aware of.
Lady Teaz. True, Sir Peter: I believe they are so near
akin that they can never be united.
Sir Ben. Or rather, suppose them man and wife, because
one seldom sees them together.
Lady Teaz. But Sir Peter is such an enemy to scandal, I
believe he would have it put down by parliament.
Sir Pet. 'Fore heaven, madam, if they were to consider the
sporting with reputation of as much importance as poaching on manors, and pass an act for the preservation of
fame, as well as game, I believe many would thank them for
the bill.
Lady Sneer. 0 Lud! Sir Peter; would you deprive us of
our privileges?
Sir Pet. Ay, madam; and then no person should be permitted to kill characters and run down reputations, but qualified old maids and disappointed widows.
Lady Sneer. Go, you monster!
Mrs. Can. But, surely, you would not be quite so severe
on those who only report what they hear?
Sir Pet. Yes, madam, 1 would have law merchant for them
too; and in all cases of slander currency, whenever the drawer
of the lie was not to be found, the injured parties should have
a right to come on any of the indorsers.
Crab. Well, for my part, I believe there never was a scandalous tale without some foundation.




Rc IL.]


THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL.


883


Lady Sneer. Come, ladies, shall we sit down to cards in the
next room?
Enter SERVANT, who whispers SIR PETER.
Sir Pet. I'll be with them directly.-[Exit SERVANT ] I 11
get away unperceived.                            [Aside.
Lady Sneer. Sir Peter, you are not going to leave us?
Sir Pet. Your ladyship must excuse me; I'm called away
by particular business. But I leave my character behind me.
[Exit.
Sir Ben. Well-certainly, Lady Teazle, that lord of yours
is a strange being: I could tell you some storie of him would
make you laugh heartily if he were not your husband.
Lady Teaz. Oh, pray don't mind that; come, do let's
hear them.     [Exeunt all but JOSEPH SURFACE and MARIA.
Jos. Surf. Maria, I see you have no satisfaction in this
society.
Mar. How is it possible I should? If to raise malicious
smiles at the infirmities or misfortunes of those who have
never injured us be the province of wit or humour, Heaven
grant me a double portion of dulness!
Jos. Surf. Yet they appear more ill-natured than they are;
they have no malice at heart.
Mar. Then is their conduct still more contemptible; for, in
my opinion, nothing could excuse the intemperance of their
tongues but a natural and uncontrollable bitterness of mind.
Jos. Surf. Undoubtedly, madam; and it has always been a
sentiment of mine, that to propagate a malicious truth wantonly is more despicable than to falsify from revenge. But
can you, Maria, feel thus for others, and be unkind to me
alone? Is hope to be denied the tenderest passicn?
Mar. Why will you distress me by renewing this subject?
Jos. Surf. Ah, Maria! you would not treat me thus, and
oppose your guardian, Sir Peter's will, but that I see that
profligate Charles is still a favoured rival.
Mar. Ungenerously urged! But, whatever my sentiments
are for that unfortunate young man, be assured I shall not
feel more bound to give him up, because his distresses have
lost him the regard even of a brother.
Jos. Surf. Nay, but, Maria, do not leave me with a frown:
by all that's honest, I swear  -                [Kneels




THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL.


[,CT a


Re-enter LADY TEAZLE behind.
'Aside.] Gad's life, here's Lady Teazle.-[Aloud to 1ARIA.]
You must not-no, you shall not-for, though I have the
greatest regard for Lady Teazle ---
Mar. Lady Teazle!
Jos. Surf. Yet were Sir Peter to suspectLady Teaz. [Coming forward.] What is this, pray? Does
he take her for me?-Child, you are wanted in the next
room.-[Exit MARIA.] What is all this, pray?
Jos. Surf. Oh, the most unlucky circumstance in nature!
Maria has somehow suspected the tender concern I have for
your happiness, and threatened to acquaint Sir Peter with
her suspicions, and I was just endeavouring to reason with
her when you came in.
Lady Teaz. Indeed! but you seemed to adopt a very tender mode of reasoning-do you usually argue on your knees?
Jos. Surf. Oh, she's a child, and I thought a little bombast-   But, Lady Teazle, when are you to give me your judgment on my library, as you promised?
Lady Teaz. No, no;, I begin to think it would be impru.
dent, and you know I admit you as a lover no farther than
fashion requires.
Jos. Surf. True-a mere Platonic cicisbeo, what every wife
is entitled to.
Lady Teaz. Certainly, one must not be out of the fashion.
However, I have so many of my country prejudices left,
that, though Sir Peter's ill humour may vex me ever so, it
never shall provoke me to
Jos. Surf. The only revenge in your power.  Well, I
applaud your moderation.'
Lady Teaz. Go-you are an insinuating wretch! But we
shall be missed —let us join tihe company.
Jos. Surf. But we had' best not return together.
Lady Teaz. Well, don't stay; for Maria sha'n't come to hear
any more of your reasoning, I promise you.      [Exit.
Jos. Surf. A curious dilemma, truly, my politics have run me
into! I wanted, at first, only to ingratiate myself with Lady
Teazle, that she might not be my enemy with Maria; and I
have, I don't know how, become her serious lover. Sincerely
I begin to wish I had never made such a point of gaining so




RC. III.1


THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL.


385


very good a character, for it has led me into so many cursed
rogueries that I doubt I shall be exposed at last.  [Exit,
SCENE II.-A Room in SIR PETER TEAZLE'S House.                 I
Enter SIR OLIVER SURFACE and ROWLEY.
Sir Oliv. Ha! ha! ha! so my old friend is married, hey?
-a young wife out of the country. Ha! ha! ha! that he
should have stood bluff to old bachelor so long, and sink into    '
a husband at last!
Row.,But you must not rally him on the subject, Sir
Oliver; 'tis a tender point, I assure you, though he has been
married only seven months.
Sir Oliv. Then he has been just half a year on.the stool of
repentance!-Poor Peter! But you say he has entirely given
up Charles-never sees him, hey?
Row. His prejudice against him is astonishing, and I am
sure greatly increased by -jealousy of him with Lady Teazle,
which he has industriously been led into by a scandalous
society in the neighbourhood, who have contributed not a
little to Charles's ill name. Whereas the truth is, I believe,
if the lady is partial to either of them, his brother is the
favourite.
Sir Oliv. Ay, I know there are a set of malicious, prating,
prudent gossips, both male and female, who murder characters to kill time, and will rob a young fellow of his good
name before he has years to know the value of it. But I am
not to be prejudiced against my nephew by such, I promise
you! No, no: if Charles has done nothing false or mean, I
shall compound for his extravagance.
Row. Then, my life on't, you will reclaim him. Ah, sir,
- it gives me new life to find that your heart is not turned
against him, and that the son of my good old master has one
friend, however, left.
Sir Oliv. What! shall I forget, Master Rowley, when I was
at his years myself? Egad, my brother and I were neither
of us very prudent youths; and yet, I believe, you have not
seen many better men than your old master was?
1tow. Sir, 'tis this reflection gives me assurance that
Charles may yet be a credit to his family. But here comes
Sir Peter.
Sir Oliv. Egad, so he does! Mercy on me! he's greatly
c cc




386


THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL.


[ACT IL


altered, and seems to have a settled married look! One may
read husband in his face at this distance!
Enter SIR PETER TEAZLE.
Sir Pet. Ha! Sir Oliver-my old friend! Welcome to
England a thousand times!
Sir Oliv. Thank you, thank you, Sir Peter! and i' faith I
am glad to find you well, believe me
Sir Pet. Oh! 'tis a long time since we met-fifteen years,
I doubt, Sir Oliver, and many a cross accident in the time.
Sir Oliv. Ay, I have had my share. But, what! I find
you are married, hey, my old boy?  Well, well, it can't be
helped; and so-I wish you joy with all my heart!
Sir Pet. Thank you, thank you, Sir Oliver.-Yes, I have
entered into-the happy state; but we 11 not talk of that
now.
Sir Oliv. True, true, Sir Peter; old friends should not
begin on grievances at first meeting. No, no, no.
Row. [Aside to SIR OLIVER.] Take care, pray, sir.
Sir Oliv. Well, so one of my nephews is a wild rogue,
hey?
Sir Pet. Wild! Ah! my old friend, I grieve for your disappointment there; he's a lost young man, indeed. However, his brother will make you amends; Joseph is, indeed,
what a youth should be-every body in the world speaks well
of him.
Sir Oliv. I am sorry to hear it; he has too good a character to be an honest fellow. Every body speaks well of him!
Psha! then he has bowed as low to knaves and fools as to the
honest dignity of genius and virtue.
Sir Pet. What, Sir Oliver! do you blame him for not
making enemies?
Sir Oliv. Yes, if he has merit enough to deserve them.
Sir Pet. Well, well-you '11 be convinced when you know
him. 'Tis edification to hear him converse; he professes the
noblest sentiments.
Sir Oliv. Oh, plague of his sentiments  If he salutes me
with a scrap of morality in his mouth, I shall be sick directly.
But, however, don't mistake me, Sir Peter; I don't mean
to defend Charles's errors: but, before I form my judgment
of either of them, I intend to make a trial of their hearts;




so 11.


TlE SCHOOL FOR SCANDA,.


397


and my friend Rowley and I have planned something for the
purpose.
Row. And Sir Peter shall own for once he has been mistaken.
Sir Pet. Oh, my life on Joseph's honour!
Sir Oliv. Well-come, give us a bottle of good wine, and
we'll dritfk the lads' health, and tell you our scheme.
Sir Pet. Allons, then!
Sir Oliv. And don't, Shr Peter, be so severe against your
old friend's son. Odds my life! I am not sorry that he has
run out of the course a little: for my part, I hate to see
prudence clinging to the green suckers of youth; 'tis like
ivy round a sapling, and spoils the growth of the tree.
[Exeunt.
ACT III.
SCENE I.-.1 Room& in SIR PETER TEAZLE'S House.
Enter SIR PETER TEAZLE, SIR OLIVER SURFACE, and ROWLEY
Sir Pet. Well, then, we will see this fellow first, and have
our wine afterwards  But how is this. Master Rowley? I
don't see the jet of your scheme.
Row. Why, sir, this Mr. Stanley, whom I was speaking of, is
nearly related to them by their mother. He wa once a merchant in Dublin, but has been ruined by a series of undeserved misfortunes. He has applied, by letter, since his confinement, both to Mr. Surface and Charles: from the former
he has received nothing but evasive promises of future service,
while Charles has done all that his extravagance has left him
power to do; and he is, at this time, endeavouring to raise a
sum of money. part of which, in th'e midst of his own distresses. I know he intends for the service of poor Stanley.
Sir Oliv. Ah! he is my brother's son.
Sir Pet. Well, but how is Sir Oliver personally toRow. Why, sir, I will inform Charles and his brother that
Stanley has obtained permissionrto apply personally to his
friends; and, as they have neither of them ever seen him, let
Sir Oliver assume his character, and he will have a fair opportunity of udging, at least, of the benevolence of their dispo
sitions: and believe me, sir, you will find in the youngest
c c




I 
j
l
I
I
i




THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL.


[ACnr Ir


brother one who, in the midst of folly and dissipation, has.
still, as our immortal bard expresses it," a heart to pity, and a hand,
Open as day, for melting charity."
Sir Pet. Psha! What signifies his having an open hand or
purse either, when he has nothing left to give? Well, well,
make the trial, if you please. But where is the fellow whom
you brought for Sir Oliver to examine, relative to Charles's
affairs?
Row. Below, waiting his commands, and no one can give
him better intelligence. -This, Sir Oliver, is a friendly Jew,
who, to do him justice, has done every thing in his power to
bring your nephew to a proper sense of his extravagance.
Sir Pet. Pray let us have him in.
Row. Desire Mr. Moses to walk up stairs.
[Calls to SERVANT.
Sir Pet. But, pray, why should you suppose he will speak
the truth?
Row. Oh, I have convinced him that he has no chance of
recovering certain sums advanced to Charles but through the
bounty of Sir Oliver, who he knows is arrived; so that you
may depend on his fidelity to his own interests. I have also
another evidence in my power, one Snake, whom I have detected in a matter little short of forgery, and shall shortly
produce to remove some of your prejudices, Sir Peter, relative
to Charles and Lady Teazle.
Sir Pet. I have heard too much on that subject.
Row. Here comes the honest Israelite.
Enter MosEs.
-This is Sir Oliver.
Sir Oliv. Sir, I understand you have lately had great deal.
ings with my nephew Charles.
Mos. Yes, Sir Oliver, I have done all I could for him; but
he was ruined before he came to me for assistance.
Sir Oliv. That was unlucky, truly; for you have had no
opportunity of showing your talents.
Mos. None at all; I hadn't the pleasure of knowing his
distresses till he was some thousands worse than nothing.
Sir Oliv. Unfortunate, indeed! But I suppose you have
done all in your power for him, honest Moses?
iJIos. Yes, he knowc that. This very evening T was to have




I.c. I.]        TIHE SCEIOOL FOR SCANDAL.           38q
brought him a gentleman from the city, who does not know
him, and will, I believe, advance him some money.
Sir Pet. What, one Charles has never had money from be
fore?
Mos. Yes, Mr. Premium, of Crutched Friars, formerly a
broker.
Sir Pet. Egad, Sir Oliver, a thought strikes me!-Charles,
you say, does not know Mr. Premium?
Mos. Not at all.
Sir Pet. Now then, Sir Oliver, you may have a better opportunity of satisfying yourself than by an old romancing tale
of a poor relation: go with my friend Moses, and represent
Premium, and then, I 11 answer for it, you '11 see your nephew
*   in all his glory.
Sir Oliv. Egad, I like this idea better than the other, and
I may visit Joseph afterwards as old Stanley.
Sir Pet. True-so you may.
Row. Well, this is taking Charles rather at a disadvantage,
to be sure. However, Moses, you understand Sir Peter, and
will be faithful?
Mlos. You may depend upon me.-[Looks at his watch.]
This is near the time I was to have gone.
Sir Oliv. I'11 accompany you as soon as you please, Moses
--  But hold! I have forgot one thing-how the plague shall
I be able to pass for a Jew?
Alos. There 's no need-the principal is Christian.
Sir Oliv. Is he?  I'm very sorry to hear it. But, then
again, an't I rather too smartly dressed to look like a money
lender?
Sir Pet. Not at all; 'twould not be out of character, if you
went in your own carriage-would it, Moses?
Mos. Not iv the least.
Sir Oliv. Well, but how must I talk? there's certainly
some cant of usury and mode of treating that I ought to know
Sir Pet. Oh, there's not much to learn.- The great point,
as I take it, is to be exorbitant enough in your demands.
Hey, Moses?
Mos. Yes, that's a very great point.
Sir Oliv. I'11 answer for't I'11 not be wanting in that.
I 11 ask him eight or ten per cent. on the loan, at least.
Mos. If you ask him no more than that, you '11 be discovered
immediately.




800


THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL.


(ACT mI.


Sir Oliv. Hey! what, the plague! how much then?
31os. That delends upon the circumstances. If he ap
pears not very anxious for the supply, you should require only
olrty or fifty per cent.; but if you find him in great distress,
and want the moneys very bad, you may ask double.
Sir Pet. A good honest trade you're learning, Sir Oliver!
Sir Oliu. Truly, I think so-and not unprofitable.
Mos. Then, you know, you haven't the moneys yourself,
but are forced to borrow them for him of a friend.
Sir Oliv Oh! I borrow it of a friend, do 1?
Mos. And your friend is an unconscionable dog: but you
can't help that.
Sir Otiv. My friend an unconscionable dog, is he?
Mlos. Yes, and he himself has not the moneys by him, but
is forced to sell stock at a great loss.
Sir Oliv. He is forced to sell stock at a great loss, is he?
Well, that's very kind of him.
Sir Pet. I'faith, Sir Oliver-Mr. Premium, I mean-you '11
soon be master of the trade. But, Moses! would not you
have him run out a little against the annuity bill?  That
would be in character, I should think.
Mos. Very much.
Row. And lament that a young man now must be at years
of discretion before le is suffered to ruin himself?
Mos. Ay, great pity!
Sir Pet. And abuse the public for allowing merit to an act
whose only object is to snatch misfortune and imprudence
from the rapacious gripe of usury, and give the minor a chance
of inheriting his estate without being undone by coming into
possession.
Sir Oliv. So, so-Moses shall give me farther instructions
as we go together.
Sir Pet. You will not have much time, for your nephew
lives hard by.
Sir Oliv. Oh, never fear! my tutor appears so able, that
though Charles lived in the next street, it must be my own
fault if I am not a complete rogue before I turn the corner.
[Exit with MOSEs.
Sir Pet. So, now, I think Sir Oliver will be convinced:
you are partial, Rowley, and would have prepared Charles for
the other plot.
Row, No, upoj my word, Sir Peter




SC. I.1


THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL.


391


Sir Pet. Well, go bring me this Snake, and T '11 hear wha
he has to say presently. I see Maria, and want to speak with
her.-[Exit ROWLEY.] I should be glad to be convinced my
suspicions of Lady Teazle and Charles were unjust. I have
never yet opened my mind on this subject to my friend Joseph
-I am determined I will do it-he will give me his opinion
sincerely.
Enter MARIA.
So, child, has Mr. Surface returned with you?
Mar. No, sir; he was engaged.
Sir Pet. Well, Maria, do you not reflect, the more you converse with that amiable young man, what return his partiality
for you deserves?
Mar. Indeed, Sir Peter, your frequent importunity on this
subject distresses me extremely-you compel me to declare,
that I know no man who has ever paid me a particular attention whom I would not prefer to Mr. Surface.
Sir Pet. So-here's perverseness!  No, no, Maria, 'tis
Charles only whom you would prefer. 'Tis evident his vices
and follies have won your heart.
Mar. This is unkind, sir. You know I have obeyed you
in neither seeing nor corresponding with him: I have heard
enough to convince me that he is unworthy my regard. Yet
I cannot think it culpable, if, while my understanding severely
condemns his vices, my heart suggests some pity for his distresses.
Sir Pet. Well, well, pity him as much as you please; but
give your heart and hand to a worthier object.
Mar. Never to his brother!
Sir Pet. Go, perverse and obstinate!  But take care,
madam; you have never yet known what the authority of a
guardian is: don't compel me to inform you of it.
Mar. I.can only say, you shall not have just reason. 'Tis
true, by my father's will, I am for a short period bound to regard you as his substitute; but must cease to think you so,
*       when you would compel me to be miserable.        [Exit.
Sir Pet. Was ever man so crossed as I am, every thing
conspiring to fret me! I had not been involved in matrimony
a fortnight, before her father, a hale and hearty man, died,
on purpose, I believe, for the pleasure of plaguing me with
the care of his daughter.-[Lady Teazle sings without.] But
here comes my helpmate! She appears in great good humour.




3d2


THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL.


[ACT UI


iow happy I should be if I could tease her into loving me,
though but a little!
Enter LADY TEAZLE.
Lady Teaz. Lud! Sir Peter, I hope you haven't been
quarrelling with Maria? It is not using me well to be illhumoured when I am not by.
Sir Pet. Ah, Lady Teazle, you might have the power to
make me good humoured at all times.
Lady Teaz. I am sure I wish I had; for I want you to be
in a charming sweet temper at this moment. Do be goodhumoured now, and let me have two hundred pounds, will you?
Sir Pet. Two hundred pounds; what an't I to be in a good
humour without paying for it! But speak to me thus, and
i' faith there's nothing I could refuse you. You shall have
it; but seal me a bond for the repayment.
Lady Teaz. Oh, no-there-my note of hand will do as well.
[Offering her hand.
Sir Pet. And you shall no longer reproach me with not
giving you an independent settlement. I mean shortly to
surprise you: but shall we always live thus, hey?
Lady Teaz. If you please. I'm sure I don't care how soon we
leave off quarrelling, provided you '11 own you were tired first.
Sir Pet. Well-then let our future contest be, who shall
be most obliging.
Lady Teaz. I assure you, Sir Peter, good nature becomes
you. You look now as you did before we were married, when
you used to walk with me under the elms, and tell me stories
of what a gallant you were in your youth, and chuck me under
the chin, you would; and ask me if I thought I could love an
old fellow, who would deny me nothing-didn't you?
Sir Pet. Yes, yes, and you were as kind and attentiveLady Teaz. Ay, so I was, and would always take your part,
when my acquaintance used to abuse you, and turn you into
ridicule.
Sir Pet. Indeed
Lady Teaz. Ay, and when my cousin Sophy has called you
a stiff, peevish old bachelor, and laughed at me for thinking of
marrying one who might be my father, I have always defended
you, and said, I diln't think you so ugly by any means.
Sir Pet. Thank you.
Lady Teaz. And I dared say you'd make a very good sort
of a husband.






_ ___ I?C. 1.]        THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL             39
Sir Pet. And you prophesied right; and we shall now be tho
happiest coupleLady Teaz. And never differ again?
Sir Pet. No, never!-though at the same time, indeed, my
dear Lady Teazle, you must watch your temper very seriously;
for in all our little quarrels, my dear, if you recollect, my love,
you always began first.
Lady Teaz. I beg your pardon, my dear Sir Peter: indeed,
you always gave the provocation.
Sir Pet. Now see, my angel! take care-contradicting isn't
the way to keep friends.
Lady Teaz. Then don't you begin it, my love!
Sir Pet. There, now! you-you are going on. You don't.
perceive, my life, that you are just doing the very thing which
you know always makes me angry.
Lady Teaz. Nay, you know if you will be angry without
any reason, my dearSir Pet. There! now you want to quarrel again.
Lady Teaz. No, I'm sure I don't: but, if you will be so
peevish  --
Sir Pet. There now! who begins first?
Lady Teaz. Why, you, to be sure. I said nothing-but
there's no bearing your temper.
Sir Pet. No, no, madam: the fault's in your own temper.
Lady Teaz. Ay, you are just what my cousin Sophy said you
would be.
Sir Pet. Your cousin Sophy is a forward, impertinent gipsy.
Lady Teaz. You are a great bear, I'm sure, to abuse my
relations.
Sir Pet. Now may all the plagues of marriage be doubled
on me, if ever I try to be friends with you any more!
Lady Teaz. So much the better.
J      Sir Pet. No, no, madam: 'tis evident you never cared a pin
for me, and I was a madman to marry you-a pert, rural
coquette, that had refused half the honest 'squires in the
neighbourhood!
Lady Teaz. And I am sure I was a fool to marry you-an
old dangling bachelor, who was single at fifty, only because ho
never could meet with any one who would have him.
Sir Pet. Ay, ay, madam; but you were pleased enough to
l'sten to me: you never had such an offer before.




4




804


THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL.


[ACT III.


Lady Teaz. No! didn't I refuse Sir Tivy Terrier, who every
body said would have been a better match? for his estate is
just as good as yours, and he has broke his neck since we have
been married.
Sir Pet. I have done with you, madam! You are an unfeeling, ungrateful-but there's an end of every thing. I believe
you capable of every thing that is bad. Yes, madam, I now
believe the reports relative to you and Charles, madam. Yes,
madam, you and Charles are, not without grounds —
Lady Teaz. Take care, Sir Peter! you had better not insinuate any such thing! I '11 not be suspected "'ithout cause,
I promise you.
Sir Pet. Very well, madam! very well! A separate maintenance as soon as you please. Yes, madam, or a divoore!
I'11 make an example of myself for the benefit of all old
bachelors. Let us separate, madam.
Lady Teaz. Agreed! agreed! And nov, my dear Sir
Peter, we are of a mind once more, we may be the happiest
couple, and never differ again, you know: ha! ha! ha! Well,
you are going to be in a passion, I see, and I shall only interrupt you-so, bye! bye!                            Exit.
Sir Pet. Plagues and tortures! can't I make her angry
either! Oh, I am the most miserable fellow! But I '11 not
bear her presuming to keep her temper: no! she may break
my heart, but she shan't keep her temper.        [Exit
SCENE II.-A Room in CHARLES SURFACE'S Iouse.
Enter TRIP, MOSES, and SIR OLIVER SURFACE.
Trip. Here, Master Moses! if you '11 stay a moment, I '11
try whether-what's the gentleman's name?
Sir Oliv. Mr. Moses, what is my name? [Aside to MosEs.
Mlos. Mr. Premium.
Trip. Premium-very well.           [Exit, taking snuff.
Sir Oliv. To judge by the servants, one wouldn't believe the
master was ruined. But what!-sure, this was my brother's
house?
Mos. Yes, sir; Mr. Charles bought it of Mr. Joseph, with
the furniture, pictures, &c., just as the old gentleman left it.
Sir Peter thought it a piece of extravagance in him.
Sir Oliv. In my mind, the other's economy in selling it tc
him was more reprehensible by half.




SC. IT.j


THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL.


395


Re-enter TRIP.
'rip. My master says you must wait, gentlemen: he has
company, and can't speak with you yet.
Sir Oliv. If he knew who it was wanted to see him, perhaps he would not send such a message?
Trip. Yes, yes, sir; he knows you are here-I did not
forget little Premium: no, no, no.
Sir Oliv. Very well; and I pray, sir, what may be your
name?
Trip. Trip, sir; my name is Trip, at your service.
Sir Oliv. Well, then, Mr. Trip, you have a pleasant sort of
place here, I guess?
t  Trip. Why, yes-here are three or four of us pass our time
agreeably enough; but then our wages are sometimes a little
in arrear-and not very great either-but fifty pounds a year,
and find our own bags and bouquets.
Sir Oliv. Bags and bouquets! halters and bastinadoes!
[Aside.
Trip. And a propos, Moses, have you been able to get me
that little bill discounted?
*     Sir Oliv. Wants to raise money too!-mercy on me! Has
his distresses too, I warrant, like a lord, and affects creditors
and duns.                                        [Aside.
Mos. 'Twas not to be done, indeed, Mr. Trip.
Trip. Good lack, you surprise me! My friend Brush has
indorsed it, and I thought when he put his name at the back
of a bill 'twas the same as cash.
Mfos. No, 'twouldn't do.
Trip. A small sum-but twenty pounds. Hark'ee, Moses,
do you think you couldn't get it me by way of annuity?
Sir Oliv. An annuity! ha! ha! a footman raise money by
way of annuity! Well done, luxury, egad!          [Aside.
Mos. Well, but you must insure your place.
Trip. Oh, with all my heart! I'll insure my place, and my
life too, if you please
Sir Oliv. It's more than I would your neck.    [Aside.
Mos. But is there nothing you could deposit?
Trip. Why, nothing capital of my master's wardrobe has
dropped lately; but I could give you a mortgage on some of
his winter clothes, with equity of redemption before November
-or you shall have the reversion of the French velvet, or a
post-obit on the blue and silver;-these, I should think, Moses,




396             THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL.         [ACT IIL.
with a few pair of point ruffles, as a collateral security-hey,
my little fellow?
Mos. Well, well.                           [Bell rings.
Trip. Egad, I heard the bell! I believe, gentlemen, I can
now introduce you. Don't forget the annuity, little Moses!
This way, gentlemen, I '11 insure my place, you know.
Sir Oliv. [Aside.] If the man be a shadow of the master,
this is the temple of dissipation indeed!       [Exeunt.
SCENE III.-Another Room in the same.
CHARLES SURFACE, SIR HARRY BUMPER, CARELESS, and GENTLEMEN, discovered drinking.
Chas. Surf. 'Fore heaven, 'tis true!-there 's the great degeneracy of the age. Many of our acquaintance have taste,
spirit, and politeness; but, plague on't, they won't drink.
Care. It is so, indeed, Charles! they give into all the substantial luxuries of the table, and abstain from nothing but
wine and wit. Oh, certainly society suffers by it intolerably!
for now, instead of the social spirit of raillery that used to
mantle over a glass of bright Burgundy, their conversation is be.
come just like the Spa-water they drink, which has all the pert
ness and flatulency of champagne, without its spirit or flavour.
1 Gent. But what are they to do who love play better than
wine?
Care. True! there 's Sir Harry diets himself for gaming, and
is now under a hazard regimen.
Chas. Surf. Then he '11 have the worst of it. What! you
wouldn't train a horse for the course by keeping him from corn?
For my part, egad, I am never so successful as when I am a little
merry: let me throw on a bottle of champagne, and I never lose.
All. Hey, what?
Care. At least I never feel my losses, which is exactly the
same thing.
2 Gent. Ay, that I believe.
Chas. Surf. And then, what man can pretend to be a believer in love, who is an abjurer of wine? 'Tis the test by
which the lover knows his own heart. Fill a dozen bumpers
to a dozen beauties, and she that floats at the top is the maid
that has bewitched you.
Care. Now then, Charles, be honest, and give us your real
favourite.
Chas. Surf. Why, I have withheld her only in compassion




Bsc. II.]


THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL.


397


to you. If I toast her, you must give a round of her peers,
which is impossible-on earth.
Care. Oh! then we '11 find some canonised vestals or heathen
goddesses that will do, I warrant!
Chas. Surf. Here then, bumpers, you rogues! bumpers!
Maria! Maria!
Sir Har. Maria who?
Chas. Surf. Oh, damn the surname!-'tis too formal to be
registered in Love's calendar-Maria!
All. Maria!
Chas. Surf. But now, Sir Harry, beware, we must have
beauty superlative.
Care. Nay, never study, Sir Harry: we 11 stand to the
toast, though your mistress should want an eye, and you know
you have a song will excuse you.
Sir Har. Egad, so I have! and I '11 give him the song in- stead of the lady.                                          [Sings.
Here's to the maiden of bashful fifteen;
Here's to the widow of fifty;
Here's to the flaunting extravagant quean,. And here's to the housewife that's thrifty.
Chorus. Let the toast pass,Drink to the lass,
I'11 warrant she '11 prove an excuse for the glass.
Here's to the charmer whose dimples we prize;
Now to the maid who has none, sir:
Here's to the girl with a pair of blue eyes,
And here's to the nymph with but one, sir.
Chorus. Let the toast pass, &c.
Here's to the maid with a bosom of snow:
Now to her that's as brown as a berry:
Here's to the wife with a face full of woe,
And now to the damsel that's merry.
Chorus. Let the toast pass, &c.
For let'em be clumsy, or let 'em be slim,
Young or ancient, I care not a feather;
So fill a pint bumper quite up to the brim,
So fill up your glasses, nay, fill to the brim,
And let us e'en toast them together.
Chorus. Let the toast pass, &c.
All. Bravo! bravo!
Enter TRIP, and whispers CHARLES SURFACE.
Chas. Surf. Gentlemen, you must excuse me a little. —
Careless, take the chair, will you?. Care. Nay, pr'ythee, Charles, what now?         This is one of
your peerless beauties, I suppose, has dronUed in by chance?




?98


THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL.


tacT nI


Chas. Suif. No, faith! To tell you the truth, 'tis a Jew and
a broker, who are come by appointment.
Care. Oh, damn it! let's have the Jew in.
1 Gent. Ay, and the broker too, by all means.
2 Gent. Yes, yes, the Jew and the broker.
Chas. Stuf. Egad, with all my heart!-Trip. bid the gentlemen walk in.-[Exit TRIP.]  Though there's one of them
a stranger, I can tell you.
Care. Charles, let us give them some generous Burgundy,
and perhaps they'll grow conscientious.
Chas. Surf. Oh, hang 'em, no! wine does but draw forth a
man's natural qualities; and to make them drink would only
be to whet their knavery.
Re-enter TRIP, with SIR OLIVER SURFACE and MOSES.
Chas. Surf. So, honest Moses; walk in, pray, Mr. Premium
-that's the gentleman's name, isn't it, Mioses?
11os. Yes, sir.
Chas. Surf. Set chairs, Trip.-Sit down, Mr. Premium.Glasses, Trip.-[TRIP gives chairs and glasses, and exit.]  Sit
down, Moses.-Come, Mr. Premium, I'11 give you a sentiment; here's Success-to usuty! —Moses, fill the gentleman
a bumper.
MAos. Success to usury!                      [Drinks
Care. Right, Moses-usury is prudence and industry, and
deserves to succeed.
Sir Oliv. Then here 's-All the success it deserves! [ I)riks.
Care. No, no, that won't do! Mr. Premium, you have
demurred at the toast, and must drink it in a pint bumper.
I Gent. A pint bumper, at least.
Mos. Oh, pray, sir, consider-Mr. Premium 's a gentleman
Care. And therefore loves good wine.
2 Gent. Give Moses a quart glass-this is mutiny, and a
high contempt for the chair.
Care. Here, now for't I'11 see justice done, to the last
drop of my bottle.
Sir Oliv. Nay, pray, gentlemen-I did not expect this
usage.
Chas. Surf. No, hang it, you shan't; Mr. Premium 's a
stranger.
Sir Oliv. Odd! I wish I was well out of their company.
[Aside.




*  C. InI.       THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL.            399
Care. Plague on'em then! if they won't drink, we '11 not
sit down with them. Come, Harry, the dice are in the next
room.-Charles, you'll join us when you have finished your
business with the gentlemen?
Chas. Surf. I will! I will!-[Exeunt SIR HARRY BUMPER
and GENTLEMEN; CARELESSfollowing.] Careless!
Care. [Returning.] Well!
Chas. Surf. Perhaps I may want you.
Care. Oh, you know I am always ready: word, note, or
bond, 'tis all the same to me.                  [Exit.
Mos. Sir, this is Mr. Premium, a gentleman of the strictest
honour and secrecy; and always performs what he undertakes. Mr. Premium, this isChas. Surf. Psha! have done. Sir, my friend Moses is a
very honest fellow, but a little slow at expression: he'll be
an hour giving us our titles. Mr. Premium, the plain state
of the matter is this: I am an extravagant young fellow who
wants to borrow money; you I take to be a prudent old
fellow, who have got money to lend. I am blockhead enough
to give fifty per cent. sooner than not have it; and you, I
presume, are rogue enough to take a hundred if you can get
it. Now, sir, you see we are acquainted at once, and may
proceed to business without farther ceremony.
Sir Oliv. Exceeding frank, upon my word. I see, sir, you
are not a man of many compliments.
Chas. Surf. Oh, no, sir! plain dealing in business I always
think best.
Sir Oliv. Sir, I like you the better for it. However, you
are mistaken in one thing; I have no money to lend, but I
believe I could procure some of a friend; but then he's an
unconscionable dog. Isn't he, Moses? And must sell stock
to accommodate you. Mustn't he, Moses?
]Mos. Yes, indeed! You know I always speak the truth,
and scorn to tell a lie!
*   Chas. Surf. Right. People that speak truth generally do.
But these are trifles, Mr. Premium. What! I know money
isn't to be bought without paying for 't!
Sir Oliv. Well, but what security could you give?  You
have no land, I suppose'?
Chas. SuIf. Not a mole-hill, nor a twig, but what's in the
bough-pots out of the window




400


THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL


[ACT III


Sir Oliv. Nor any stock, I presume?
Chas. Surf. Nothing but live stock-and that's only a few
pointers and ponies.  But pray, Mr. Premium, are you
acquainted at all with any of my connexions?
Sir Oliv. Why, to say truth, I am.
Chas. Surf. Then you must know that I have a devilish
rich uncle in the East Indies, Sir Oliver Surface, from whom
I have the greatest expectations?
Sir Oliv. That you have a wealthy uncle, I have heard;
but how your expectations will turn out is more, I believe,
than you can tell.
Chas. Surf. Oh, no!-there can be no doubt. They tell me
I'm a prodigious favourite, and that he talks of leaving me
every thing.
Sir Oliv. Indeed! this is the first I 've heara of it.
Chas. Surf. Yes, yes, 'tis just so. Moses knows 'tis true;
don't you, Moses?
Mos. Oh, yes! I'11 swear to 't.
Sir Oliv. Egad, they'll persuade me presently I'm at
Bengal.                                        [Aside.
Chas. Surf. Now I propose, Mr. Premium, if it's agreeable to you, a post-obit on Sir Oliver's life: though at the
same time the old fellow has been so liberal to me, that I
give you my word, I should be very sorry to hear that any
thing had happened to him.
Sir Oliv. Not more than I should, I assure you. But the
bond you mention happens to be just the worst security you
oiuld offer me-for I might live to a hundred and never see
the principal.
Chas. Surf. Oh, yes, you would! the moment Sir Oliver dies,
you know, you would come on me for the money.
Sir Oliv. Then I believe I should be the most unwelcome
iun you ever had in your life.
Chas. Surf. What! I suppose you're afraid that Sir Oliver
is too good a life?
Sir Oliv. No, indeed I am not'; though I have heard he is
as hale and healthy as any man of his years in Christendom.
Chas. Surf. There again, now, you are misinformed. No,
no, the climate has hurt him considerably, poor uncle Oliver.
Yes, yes, he breaks apace, I'm told-and is so much altered
lately that his nearest relations would not know him




Be. nI.]


THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL,


401


Sir Oliv. No! Ha! ha! ha! so much altered lately that
his nearest relations would not know him! Ha! ha! ha!
egad-ha! ha! ha!
Chas. Surf. Ha! ha!-you're glad to hear that, little
Premium?
Sir Oliv. No, no, I'm not.
Chas. Surf. Yes, yes, you are-ha! ha! ha!-you know
that mends your chance.
Sir Oliv. But I'm told Sir Oliver is coming over; nay,
some say he is actually arrived.?.
Chas. Surf. Psha! sure I must know better than you
whether he's come or not. No, no, rely on't he's at this
moment at Calcutta. Isn't he, Moses?
Mos. Oh, yes, certainly.
Sir Oliv. Very true, as you say, you must know better than:
I, though I have it from pretty good authority. Haven't I,
Moses??
Mos. Yes, most undoubted!
Sir Oliv. But, sir, as I understand you want a few hundreds
immediately, is there nothing you could dispose of?
Chas. Surf. How do you mean?
Sir Oliv. For instance, now, I have heard that your father
left behind him a great quantity of massy old plate.
Chas. Surf. 0 Lud! that's gone long ago. Moses can;   tell you how better than I can.
Sir Oliv. [Aside.] Good lack! all the family race-cups and
corporation-bowls!-[Aloud.] Then it was also supposed that
his library was one of the most valuable and compact.               B
Chas. Surf. Yes, yes, so it was-vastly too much so for a
private gentleman. For my part, I was always of a commu-           'nicative disposition, so 1 thought it a shame to keep so much
knowledge to myself.
Sir Oliv. [Aside.] Mercy upon me! learning that had run
in the family like an heir-loom!-[Aloud.] Pray, what are
become of the books?
Chas. Surf. You must inquire of the auctioneer, Master
Premium, for I don't believe even Moses can direct you.
Mos. I know nothing of books.
Sir Oliv. So, so, nothing of the family property left, I
suppose?
Chas. Surf. Not much, indeed; unless you have a mind
to the family pictures. I have got a room fu' of ancestors:D D:




a4qt


THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. [ACT III. SC. In


above; and if you have a taste for old paintings, egad, you
shall have 'em a bargain!
Sir Oliv. Hey! what the devil! sure, you wouldn't sell
your forefathers, would you?
Chas. Surf. Every man of them, to the best bidder.
Sir Oliv. What! your great-uncles and aunts?
C'has. Surf. Ay, and my great-grandfathers and grandmothers too.
Sir Oliv. [Aside.] Now I give him up!-[Aloud.] What
the plague, have you no bowels for your own kindred? Odd's
life! do you take me for Shylock in the play, that you would
raise money of me on your own flesh and blood?
Chas. Surf. Nay, my little broker, don't be angry: what
need you care, if you have your money's worth?
Sir Oliv. Well, I'11 be the purchaser: I think I can dispose of the family canvas.-[Aside.] Oh, I'll never forgive
him this I never!
Re-enter CARELESS.
Care. Come, Charles, what keeps you?
Chas. Surf. I can't come yet. I'faith, we are going to
have a sale above stairs; here's little Premium will buy a!l
my ancestors!
Care. Oh, burn your ancestors!
Chas. Swuf. No, he may do that afterwards, if he pleases
Stay, Careless, we want you: egad, you shall be auctioneerso come along with us.
Care. Oh, have with you, if that's the case. I can handle
a hammer as well as a dice-box! Going! going!
Sir Oliv. Oh, the profligates!                 [Aside.
Chas. Suwf. Come, Moses, you shall be appraiser, if we
want one. Gad's life, little Premium, you don't seem to like
the business?
Sir Oliv. Oh, yes, I do, vastly! Ha! ha! ha! yes, yes, I
think it a rare joke to sell one's family by auction-ha! ha![Aside.] Oh, the prodigal!
Chas. Surf. To be sure! when a man wants money, where
the plague should he get assistance, if he can't make free
with his own relations? 9Exeunt.
Sir Oliv. I '11 never forgive him; never! never I




ACT TV. SO. 1.]  THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL.           4t8
ACT IV.
SCENE I.-A Picture Room in CHARLES SURFACE'S 02House.
Enter CHARLES SURFACE, SIR OLIVER SURFACE, MOSES, and
CARELESS.
Chas. Surf. Walk in, gentlemen, pray walk in;-here they
are, the family of the Surfaces, up to the Conquest.
Sir Oliv. And, in my opinion, a goodly collection.
Chas. Surf. Ay, ay, these are done in the true spirit of
portrait-painting; no volontiere grace or expression. Not
like the works of your modern Raphaels, who give you the
strongest resemblance, yet contrive to make your portrait
independent of you; so that you may sink the original and
not hurt the picture.  No, no; the merit of these is the
inveterate likeness-all stiff and awkward as the originals,
and like nothing in human nature besides.
Sir Oliv. Ah! we shall never see such figures of men again.
Chas. Surf. I hope not. Well, you see, Master Premium,
what a domestic character I am; here I sit of an evening
surrounded by my family. But come, get to your pulpit,
Mr. Auctioneer; here's an old gouty chair of my grandfather's
will answer the purpose.
Care. Ay, ay, this will do.  But, Charles, I haven't a
hammer; and what's an auctioneer without his hammer?
Chas. Surf. Egad, that's true. What parchment have we
here?  Oh, our genealogy in full. [Taking pedigree down.]
Here, Careless, you shall have no common bit of mahogany,
here's the family tree for you, you rogue! This shall be your
hammer, and now you may knock down my ancestors with
their own pedigree.
Sir Oliv. What an unnatural rogue!-an ex post facto
parricide!                                      [Aside.
Care. Yes, yes, here's a list of your generation indeed;faith, Charles, this is the most convenient thing you could
have found for the business, for 'twill not only serve as a
hammer, but a catalogue into the bargain. Come, beginA-going, a-going, a-going!
Chas. Surf. Bravo, Careless! Well, here's my great-uncle,
Sir Richard Raveline, a marvellous good general in his day, I
assure you.  He served in all the Duke of Marlborough's
wars, and got that cut over his eye at the battle of Malplaquet. What say you, Mr, Premium? look at him-there's a
D   2




404


THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL.


[ACT IV


hero! not cut out of his feathers, as your modern clipped
captains are, but enveloped in wig and regimentals, as a
general should be. What do you bid?
Sir Oliv. [Aside to Moses.] Bid him speak.
Mos. Mr. Premium would have you speak.
Chas. Surf. Why, then, he shall have him for ten pounds,
and I'm sure that's not dear for a staff-officer.
Sir Oliv. [Aside.] Heaven deliver me! his famous uncle
Richard for ten pounds!-[Aloud.] Very well, sir, I take him
at that.
Chas. Surf. Careless, knock down my uncle Richard.Here, now, is a maiden sister of his, my great-aunt Deborah,
done by Kneller, in his best manner, and esteemed a very
formidable likeness. There she is, you see, a shepherdess
feeding her flock. You shall have her for five pounds tenthe sheep are worth the money.
Sir Oliv. [Aside.] Ah! poor Deborah! a woman who set
such a value on herself!-[Aloud.] Five pounds ten-she '
mine.
Chas. Surf. Knock down my aunt Deborah! Here, now,
are two that were a sort of cousins of theirs.-You see, Moses,
these pictures were done some time ago, when beaux wore
wigs, and the ladies their own hair.
Sir Oliv. Yes, truly, head-dresses appear to have been a
litthe lower in those days.
Chas. Surf. Well, take that couple for the same.
Mos. 'Tis a good bargain.
Chas. Surf. Careless!-This, now, is a grandfather of my
mother's, a learned judge, well known on the western circuit.-What do you rate him at, Moses?
Mos. Four guineas.
Chas. Surf. Four guineas! Gad's life, you don't bid me
the price of his wig.-Mr. Premium, you have more respect
for the woolsack; do let us knock his lordship down at fifteen.
Sir Oliv. By all means.
Care. Gone!
Chas. Surf. And there are two brothers of his, William and
Walter Blunt, Esquires, both members of parliament, and
noted speakers; and, what's very extraordinary, I believe, this
is the first time they were ever bought or sold.
Sir Oliv. That is very extraordinary, indeed! I ' take
them at your own price, for the honour of parliament.




sC. 1.]


THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL.


406


Care. Well said, little Premium! I '11 knock them down
at forty.
Chas. Surf. Here's a jolly fellow-I don't know what
relation, but he was mayor of Norwich: take him at eight
pounds.
Sir Oliv. No, no; six will do for the mayor.
Chas. Surf. Come, make it guineas, and I'11 throw you the
two aldermen there into the bargain.
Sir Oliv. They're mine.
Chas. Surf. Careless, knock down the mayor and alder
men. But, plague on 't! we shall be all day retailing in this  i:
manner; do let us deal wholesale: what say you, little Premium? Give me three hundred pounds for the rest of the
family in the lump.
Care. Ay, ay, that will be the best way.
Sir Oliv. Well, well, any thing to accommodate you; they
are mine. But there is one portrait which you have always
passed over.
Care. What, that ill-looking little fellow over the settee?
Sir Oliv. Yes, sir, I mean that; though I don't think him
so ill-looking a little fellow, by any means.
Chas. Su:f. What, that?  Oh; that's my uncle Oliver!
'twas done before he went to India.
Care. Your uncle Oliver! Gad, then you'll never be
friends, Charles. That, now, to me, is as stern a looking
rogue as ever I saw; an unforgiving eye, and a damned disinheriting countenance! an inveterate knave, depend on 't.
Don't you think so, little Premium?
Sir Oliv. Upon my soul, sir, I do not; I think it is as
honest a looking face as any in the room, dead or alive. But
I suppose uncle Oliver goes with the rest of the lumber?
Chas. Surf. No, hang it! I '11 not part with poor Noll.
The old fellow has been very good to me, and, egad, I 11 keep
his picture while I've a room to put it in.
Sir Oliv. [Aside.] The rogue's my nephew after all![Aloud.]  But, sir, I have somehow taken a fancy to that
picture.
Chas. Surf. I'm sorry for't, for you certainly will not have
it. Oons, haven't you got enough of them?
Sir Oliv. [Aside.] I forgive him every thing!-[Aloud.]
But, sir, when I take a whim in my head, I don't value
money. I '11 give you as much for that as for all the rest.




THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL.


[ACT It.


Chas. Surf. Don't tease me, master broker; I tell you I II
not part with it, and there 's an end of it.
Sir Oliv. [Aside.] How like his father the dog is![Aloud.] Well, well, I have done.-[Aside.1 I did not perceive
it before, but I think I never saw such a striking resemblance.
-[Aloud.] Here is a draught for your sum.
Chas. Surf. Why, 'tis for eight hundred pounds!
Sir Oliv. You will not let Sir Oliver go?
Chas. Surf. Zounds! no! I tell you, once more.
Sir Oliv. Then never mind the difference, we'll balance
that another time. But give me your hand on the bargain;
you are an honest fellow, Charles-I beg pardon, sir, for being
so free.-Come, Moses.
Chas. Surf. Egad, this is a whimsical old fellow!-But
hark'ee, Premium, you'll prepare lodgings for these gentlemen.
Sir Oliv. Yes, yes, I'1l send for them in a day or two.
Chas. Surf. But hold; do now send a genteel conveyance
for them, for, I assure you, they were most of them used to
ride in their own carriages.
Sir Oliv. I will, I will-for all but Oliver
Chas. Surf. Ay, all but the little nabob.
Sir Oliv. You're fixed on that?
Chas. Surf. Peremptorily.
Sir Oliv. [Aside.] A dear extravagant rogue!-[Aloud.]
Good day!-Come, Moses.-[Aside.] Let me hear now who
dares call him profligate!             [Exit with MOSES.
Care. Why, this is the oddest genius of the sort I ever
met with!
Chas. Surf. Egad, he's the prince of brokers, I think. I
wonder how the devil Moses got acquainted with so honest a
fellow.-Ha! here's Rowley.-Do, Careless, say I'11 join the
company in a few moments.
Care. I will-but don't let that old blockhead persuade
you to squander any of that money on old musty debts, or
any such nonsense; for tradesmen, Charles, are the most
exorbitant fellows.
Chas. Surf. Very true, and paying them is only encouraging
them.
Care. Nothing else.
Chas. Surf. Ay, ay, never fear.-[Exit CARELESS.] So! this
was an odd old fellow, indeed. Let me see, two-thirds of these




I.]         NTHE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL.            if
five hundred and thirty odd pounds are mine by right  'Fore
Heaven! I find one's ancestors are more valuable relations          i
than I took them for!-Ladies and gentlemen, your most
obedient and very grateful servant.
[Bows ceremoniously to the pictures.
Enter ROWLEY.
Ha! old Rowley! egad, you are just come in time to take
leave of your old acquaintance.
Row. Yes, I heard they were a-going. But I wonder you
can have such spirits under so many distresses.
Chas. Surf. Why, there's the point! my distresses are so
many, that I can't afford to part with my spirits; but I shall
be rich and splenetic, all in good time. However, I suppose
you are surprised that I am not more sorrowful at parting
with so many near relations; to be sure, 'tis very affecting:
but you see they never move a muscle, so why should I?
Row. There's no making you serious a moment.
Chas. Surf. Yes, faith, I am so now. Here, my honest
Rowley, here, get me this changed directly, and take a hundred pounds of it immediately to old Stanley.
Row. A hundred pounds! Consider onlyChas. Surf. Gad's life, don't talk about it! poor Stanley's
wants are pressing, and, if you don't make haste, we shall have
some one call that has a better right to the money.
Row. Ah! there's the point! I never will cease dunning
you with the old proverbChas. Surf. Be just before you're generous.-Why, so I
would if I could; but Justice is an old, hobbling beldame,
and I can't get her to keep pace with Generosity, for the soul
of me.
Row. Yet, Charles, believe me, one hour's reflectionChas. Surf. Ay, ay, it's very true; but, hark'ee, Rowley,
while I have, by Heaven I '11 give; so, damn your economy!
and now for hazard.                            [Exeunt
SCENE II.-Another room in the same.
Enter SIR OLIVER SURFACE and MosEs.
Mos. Well, sir, I think, as Sir Peter said, you have seen?     Mr. Charles in high glory; 'tis great pity he's so extravagant.
Sir Oliv. True, but he would not sell my picture.




408


THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL.


[ACT IV


Mos. And loves wine and women so much.
Sir Oliv. But he would not sell my picture.
Mos. And games so deep.
Sir Oliv. But he would not sell my picture. Oh, here 's
Rowley.
Enter ROWLEY.
Row. So, Sir Oliver, I find you have made a purchase —
Sir Oliv. Yes, yes, our young rake has parted with his
ancestors like old tapestry.
Row. And here has he commissioned me to re-deliver you
part of the purchase money-I mean, though, in your necessitous character of old Stanley.
Mos. Ah! there is the pity of all; he is so damned chari
table.
Row. And I left a hosier and two tailors in the hall, who,
I 'm sure, won't be paid, and this hundred would satisfy them.
Sir Oliv. Well, well, I '11 pay his debts, and his benevolence
too. But now I am no more a broker, and you shall introduce me to the elder brother as old Stanley.
Row. Not yet awhile; Sir Peter, I know, means to call
there about this time.
Enter TRIP.
Trip. Oh, gentlemen, I beg pardon for not showing you
out; this way-Moses, a word.           [Exit with MOSES.
Sir Oliv. There's a fellow for you! Would you believe it,
that puppy intercepted the Jew on our coming, and wanted to
raise money before he got to his master!
Row. Indeed!
Sir Oliv. Yes, they are now planning an annuity business.
Ah, Master Rowley, in my days servants were content
with the follies of their masters, when they were worn a little
threadbare; but now they have their vices, like their birthday clothes, with the gloss on.                [Exeunt.
SCENE III.-A Library in JOSEPH SURFACE'S House.
Enter JOSEPH SURFACE and SERVANT.
Jos. Surf. No letter from Lady Teazle?
Ser. No, sir.
Jos. Surf. [Aside.] I am surprised she has not sent, if she
is prevented from coming. Sir Peter certainly does not suspect me. Yet I wish I may not lose the heiress, through




se. m.]


THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL.


409


the scrape I have drawn myself into with the wife; however,
Charles's imprudence and bad character are great points in
my favour.                              [Knocking without.
Ser. Sir, I believe that must be Lady Teazle.
Jos. Surf. Hold! See whether it is or not, before you go
to the door: I have a particular message for you if it should
be my brother.
Ser. 'Tis her ladyship, sir; she always leaves her chair at
the milliner's in the next street.
Jos. Surf. Stay, stay; draw that screen before the window
— that will do;-my opposite neighbour is a maiden lady of
so curious a temper.-[SERVANT draws the screen, and exit.]
I have a difficult hand to play in this affair. Lady Teazle
has lately suspected my views on Maria; but she must by no
means be let into that secret,-at least, till I have her more
in my power.
Enter LADY TEAZLE.
Lady Teaz. What, sentiment in soliloquy now? Have you
been very impatient? 0 Lud! don't pretend to look grave.
I vow I couldn't come before.
Jos. Surf. 0 madam, punctuality is a species of constancy
very unfashionable in a lady of quality.
[Places chairs, and sits after LADY TEAZLE is seated.
Lady Teaz. Upon my word, you ought to pity me. Do you
know Sir Peter is grown so ill-natured to me of late, and so
jealous of Charles too-that 's the best of the story, isn't it?
Jos. Surf. I am glad my scandalous friends keep that up.
[Aside
Lady Teaz. I am sure I wish he would let Maria marry
him, and then perhaps he would be convinced; don't you,
Mr. Surface?
Jos. Surf. [Aside.] Indeed I do not.-[Aloud.] Oh, certainly I do! for then my dear Lady Teazle would also be
convinced how wrong her suspicions were of my having any
*  design on the silly girl.
Lady Teaz. Well, well, I'm inclined to believe you. But
isn't it provoking, to have the most ill-natured things said of
one? And there's my friend Lady Sneerwell has circulated
7     I don't know how many scandalous tales of me, and all without
any foundation too; that's what vexes me.
Jos. Surf. Ay, madam, to be sure, that is the provoking




410


THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL


[ACT rV


circumstance - without foundation; yes, yes, there's the
mortification, indeed; for, when a scandalous story is believed
against one, there certainly is no comfort like the consciousness of having deserved it.
Lady Teaz. No, to be sure, then I'd forgive their malice;
but to attack me, who am really so innocent, and who never
say an ill-natured thing of any body-that is, of any friend;
and then Sir Peter, too, to have him so peevish, and so suspicious, when I know the integrity of my own heart-indeed
'tis monstrous!
Jos. Surf. But, my dear Lady Teazle, 'tis your own fault if
you suffer it. When a husband entertains a groundless suspicion of his wife, and withdraws his confidence from her, the
original compact is broken, and she owes it to the honour of
her sex to endeavour to outwit him.
Lady Teaz. Indeed! So that, if he suspects me without
cause, it follows, that the best way of curing his jealousy is to
give him reason for't?
Jos. Surf. Undoubtedly-for your husband should never be
deceived in you: and in that case it becomes you to be frail
in compliment to his discernment.
Lady Teaz. To be sure, what you say is very reasonable,
and when the consciousness of my innocence —
Jos. Surf. Ah, my dear madam, there is the great mistake!
'tis this very conscious innocence that is of the greatest prejudice to you. What is it makes you negligent of forms, and
careless of the world's opinion? why, the consciousness of
your own innocence. What makes you thoughtless in your
conduct, and apt to run into a thousand little imprudences?
why, the consciousness of your own innocence. What makes
you impatient of Sir Peter's temper, and outrageous at his
suspicions? why, the consciousness of your innocence.
Lady Teaz. 'Tis very true!
Jos. Surf. Now, my dear Lady Teazle, if you would but
once make a triflingfaux pas, you can't conceive how cautious
you would grow, and how ready to humour and agree with
your husband.
Lady Teaz. Do you think so?
Jos. Surf. Oh, I am sure on 't; and then you would find
all scandal would cease at once, for-in short, your character
at present is like a person in a plethora, absolutely dying
from too much health.




S3. nm.]


THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL.


411.


Lady Teaz. So, so; then I perceive your prescription is,
that I must sin in my own defence, and part with my virtue
to preserve my reputation?
Jos. Suif. Exactly so, upon my credit, ma'am.
Lady Teaz. Well, certainly this is the oddest doctrine, and
the newest receipt for avoiding calumny!
Jos. Surf. An infallible one, believe me. Prudence, like
experience, must be paid for.
Lady Teaz. Why, if my understanding were once convinced
Jos. Surf. Oh, certainly, madam, your understanding should
be convinced. Yes, yes-Heaven forbid I should persuade
you to do any thing you thought wrong. No, no, I have too
much honour to desire it.
Lady Teaz. Don't you think we may as well leave honour
out of the argument?                            [Rises.
Jos. Surf. Ah, the ill effects of your country education, I
see, still remain with you.
Lady Teaz. I doubt they do indeed; and I will fairly own
to you, that if I could be persuaded to do wrong, it would be
by Sir Peter's ill usage sooner than your honourable logic,
after all.
Jos. Surf. Then, by this hand, which he is unworthy of[Taking her hand..                Re-enter SERVANT.
'Sdeath, you blockhead-what do you want?
Ser. I beg your pardon, sir, but I thought you would not
choose Sir Peter to come up without announcing him.
Jos. Surf. Sir Peter!-Oons-the devil'
Lady Teaz. Sir Peter! 0 Lud! I'm ruined! I'm ruined!
Ser. Sir, 'twasn't I let him in.
Lady Teaz. Oh! I'm quite undone! What will become of
me? Now, Mr. Logic-Oh     mercy, sir, he's on the stairsI'11 get behind here-and if ever I 'm so imprudent again[Goes behind the screen.
Jos. Surf. Give me that book.
[Sits down. SERVANT pretends to adjust his chair.
Enter SIR PETER TEAZLE.
Sir Pet. Ay, ever improving himself-Mr. Surface, Mr.
Surface                     [Pats JOSEPH on the shoulder.
Jos. Surf. Oh, my dear Sir Peter, I beg your pardon.



112


THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL.


[ACT IV,


[Gaping, throws away the book.] I have been dozing over a
stupid book. Well, I am much obliged to you for this call.
You haven't been here, I believe, since I fitted up this room.
Books, you know, are the only things I am a coxcomb in.
Sir Pet. 'Tis very neat indeed. Well, well, that's proper;
and you can make even your screen a source of knowledgehung, I perceive, with maps.
Jos. Surf. Oh, yes, I find great use in that screen.
Sir Pet. I dare say you must, certainly, when you want to
find a: thing in a hurry.
Jos. Surf. Ay, or to hide any thing in a hurry either.
[Aside.
Sir Pet. Well, I have a little private business —
Jos. Surf. You need not stay.            [To SERVANT.
Ser. No, sir.                                  [Exit.
Jos. Surf. Here's a chair, Sir Peter-I begSir Pet. Well, now we are alone, there is a subject, my
dear friend, on which I wish to unburden my mind to youa point of the greatest moment to my peace; in short, my
good friend, Lady Teazle's conduct of late has made me very
unhappy.
Jos. Surf. Indeed! I am very sorry to hear it.
Sir Pet. Yes, 'tis but too plain she has not the least regard
for me; but, what's worse, I have pretty good authority to
suppose she has formed an attachment to another.
Jos. Surf. Indeed 1 you astonish me!
Sir Pet. Yes! and, between ourselves, I think I've discovered the person.
Jos. Surf. How! you alarm me exceedingly.
Sir Pet. Ay, my dear friend, I knew you would sympathise
with me!
Jos. Surf. Yes, believe me, Sir Peter, such a discovery
would hurt me just as much as it would you.
Sir Pet. I am convinced of it. Ah! it is a happiness to
have a friend whom we can trust even with one's family secrets. But have you no guess who I mean?
Jos. Surf. I haven't the most distant idea. It can't be
Sir Benjamin Backbite!
Sir Pet. Oh, no! What say you to Charles?
Jos. Surf. My brother! impossible!
Sir Pet. Oh, my dear friend, the goodness of your own
heart misleads you  You judge of others by yourself




Wc. n.1


THE SCHOOL FOB SCANDAL.


415


Jos. Surf. Certainly, Sir Peter, the heart that is conscious
of its own integrity is ever slow to credit another's treachery.
Sir Pet. True; but your brother has no sentiment —you
t   never hear him talk so.
Jos. Surf. Yet I can't but think Lady Teazle herself has
too much principle.
Sir Pet. Ay; but what is principle against the flattery of
a handsome, lively young fellow?
Jos. Surf. That's very true.
Sir Pet. And then, you know, the difference of our ages
makes it very improbable that she should have any great affection for me; and if she were to be frail, and I were to
make it public, why the town would only laugh at me, the
foolish old bachelor, who had married a girl.
Jos. Surf. That's true, to be sure-they would laugh.
Sir Pet. Laugh! ay, and make ballads, and paragraphs,
and the devil knows what of me.
Jos. Surf. No, you must never make it public.
Sir Pet. But then again-that the nephew of my old friend,
Sir Oliver, should be the person to attempt such a wrong,
hurts me more nearly.
Jos. Surf. Ay, there's the point. When ingratitude barbs
the dart of injury, the wound has double danger in it.
Sir Pet. Ay-I, that was, in a manner, left his guardian;
in whose house he had been so often entertained; who never
in my life denied him-my advice!
Jos. Surf. Oh, 'tis not to be credited! There may be a
man capable of such baseness, to be sure; but, for my part,
till you can give me positive proofs, I cannot but doubt it.
However, if it should be proved on him, he is no longer a
brother of mine-I disclaim kindred with him: for the man
who can break the laws of hospitality, and tempt the wife of
his friend, deserves to be branded as the pest of society.
Sir Pet. What a difference there is between you! What
noble sentiments!
Jos. Surf. Yet I cannot suspect Lady Teazle's honour.
Sir Pet. I am sure I wish to think well of her, and to remove all ground of quarrel between us. She has lately reproached me more than once with having made no settlement
t    on her; and, in our last quarrel, she almost hinted that she
should not break her heart if I was dead. Now, as we seem
to differ in our ideas of expense, I have resolved she shall




414


THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL.


[ACT Irv


have her own way, and be her own mistress in that respect
for the future; and, if I were to die, she will find I have not
been inattentive to her interest while living. Here, my friend,
are the drafts of two deeds, which I wish to have your opinion
on. By one, she will enjoy eight hundred a year independent while I live; and, by the other, the bulk of my fortune at
my death.
Jos. Surf. This conduct, Sir Peter, is indeed truly geneous.-[Aside.] I wish it may not corrupt my pupil.
Sir Pet. Yes, I am determined she shall have no cause to
complain, though I would not have her acquainted with the
latter instance of my affection yet awhile.
Jos. Surf. Nor I, if I could help it.         [Aside.
Sir Pet. And now, my dear friend, if you please, we will
talk over the situation of your hopes with Maria.
Jos. Surf. [Softly.] Oh, no, Sir Peter; another time, if you
please.
Sir Pet. I am sensibly chagrined at the little progress you
seem to make in her affections.
Jos. Surf. [Softly.] I beg you will not mention it. What
are my disappointments when your happiness is in debate![Aside.] 'Sdeath, I shall be ruined every way!
Sir Pet. And though you are averse to my acquainting Lady
Teazle with your passion, I'm sure she's not your enemy in
the affair.
Jos. Surf. Pray, Sir Peter, now oblige me. I am really
too much affected by the subject we have been speaking of to
bestow a thought on my own concerns. The mail who is entrusted with his friend's distresses can neverRe-enter SERVANT.
Well, sir?
Ser. Your brother, sir, is speaking to a gentleman in the
street, and says he knows you are within.
Jos. Surf. 'Sdeath, blockhead, I'm not within-I 'm out
for the day.
Sir Pet. Stay-hold-a thought has struck me:-you shall
be at home.
Jos. Surf. Well, well, let him up.-[Exit SERVANT.] He 11
interrupt Sir Peter, however.                   [Aside.
Sir Pet. Now, my good friend, oblige me, I entreat you.
Before Charles comes, let me conceal myself somewhere, ther




SC. M.]


THRE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL.


415


do you tax him on the point we have been talking, and his
answer may satisfy me at once.
Jos. Surf. Oh, fie, Sir Peter! would you have me join in so
mean a trick?-to trepan my brother too?
Sir Pet. Nay, you tell me you are sure he is innocent; if
so, you do him the greatest service by giving him an opportunity to clear himself, and you will set my heart at rest.
Come, you shall not refuse me: [Going up,] here, behind
the screen will be-Hey! what the devil! there seems to be
one listener here already-I '11 swear I saw a petticoat!
Jos. Surf. Ha! ha! ha! Well, this is ridiculous enough.
I 11 tell you, Sir Peter, though I hold a man of intrigue to be
a most despicable character, yet, you know, it does not follow
that one is to be an absolute Joseph either! Hark 'ee, 'tis a
little French milliner, a silly rogue that plagues me; and
having some character to lose, on your coming, sir, she ran behind the screen.
Sir Pet. Ah, Joseph! Joseph! Did I ever think that
you —  But, egad, she has overheard all I have been saying of
my wife.
Jos. Surf. Oh, 'twill never go any farther, you may depend
upon it!
Sir Pet. No! then, faith, let her hear it out.-Here's a
closet will do as well.
Jos. Surf. Well, go in there.
Sir Pet. Sly, rogue! sly rogue!    [Goes into the closet.
Jos. Surf. A narrow escape, indeed! and a curious situation
I 'm in, to part man and wife in this manner.
Lady Teaz. [Peeping.] Couldn't I steal off?
Jos. Surf. Keep close, my angel!
Sir Pet. [Peeping.] Joseph, tax him home.
Jos. Surf. Back, my dear friend!
Lady Teaz. [Peeping.] Couldn't you lock Sir Peter in?
Jos. Surf. Be still, my life!
Sir Pet. [Peeping.] You're sure the little milliner won't
blab?
Jos. Surf. In, in, my dear Sir Peter!-'Fore Gad, I wish I
had a key to the door.
Enter CHARLES SURFACE.
Chas. Surf. Holla! brother, what has been the matter?
Your fellow would not let me up at first. What! have you
had a Jew or a wench with you?




- t16


THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL,


LACT IV


Jos. Surf. Neither, brother, I assure you.
Chas. Surf. But what has made Sir Peter steal off?  I
thought he had been with you.
Jos. Surf. He was, brother; but, hearing you were coming,
he did not choose to stay.
Chas. Surf. What! was the old gentleman afraid I wanted
to borrow money of him?
Jos. Surf. No, sir: but I am sorry to find, Charles, you
have lately given that worthy man grounds for great uneasiness.
Chas. Surf. Yes, they tell me I do that to a great many
worthy men. But how so, pray?
Jos. Surf. To be plain with you, brother, he thinks you
are endeavouring to gain Lady Teazle's affections from
him.
Chas. Surf. Who, I? 0 Lud! not I, upon my word.Ha! ha! ha! ha! so the old fellow has found out that he has
got a young wife, has he?-or, what is worse, Lady Teazle
has found out she has an old husband?
Jos. Surf. This is no subject to jest on, brother. He who
can laughChas. Surf. True, true, as you were going to say-then,
seriously, I never had the least idea of what you charge me
with, upon my honour.
Jos. Surf. Well, it will give Sir Peter great satisfaction to
hear this.                           [Raising his voice
Chas. Surf. To be sure, I once thought the lady seemed to
have taken a fancy to me; but, upon my soul, I never gave
her the least encouragement. Besides, you know my attachment to Maria.
Jos. Surf. But sure, brother, even if Lady Teazle had
betrayed the fondest partiality for youChas. Surf. Why, look'ee, Joseph, I hope I shall never
deliberately do a dishonourable action; but if a pretty woman
was purposely to throw herself in my way-and that pretty
woman married to a man old enough to be her father —
Jos. Surf. Well!
Chas. Surf. Why, I believe I should be obliged to —
Jos. Surf. What?
Chas. Surf. To borrow a little of your morality, that's all
But, brother, do you know now that you surprise me exceedingly, by naming me with Lady Teazle; for, i'faith, I always
understood you were her favourite.




so. Il.]


THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL.


417


Jos. Surf. Oh, for shame, Charles! This retort is foolish.
Chas. Surf. Nay, I swear I have seen you exchange such
significant glances —
Jos. Surf. Nay, nay, sir, this is no jest.
Chas. Surf. Egad, I'm serious! Don't you remember one
day, when I called hereJos. Surf. Nay, pr'ythee, CharlesChas. Surf. And found you togetherJos. Surf. Zounds, sir, I insist —
Chas. Surf. And another time when your servantJos. Surf. Brother, brother, a word with you!-[Aside.]
Gad, I must stop him.
Chas. Surf. Informed, I say, that
Jos. Surf. Hush! I beg your pardon, but Sir Peter has
overheard all we have been saying. I knew you would clear
yourself, or I should not have consented.
Chas. Surf. How, Sir Peter! Where is he?
Jos. Surf. Softly, there!         [Points to the closet.
Chas. Surf. Oh, 'fore Heaven, I'11 have him out. Sir
Peter, come forth!
Jos. Surf. No, noChas. Surf. I say, Sir Peter, come into court.-[Pulls in
SIR PETER.] What! my old guardian!-What! turn inquisitor, and take evidence incog.? Oh, fie! Oh, fie!
A       Sir Pet. Give me your hand, Charles-I believe I have
suspected you wrongfully; but you mustn't be angry with
Joseph-'twas my plan!
Chas. Surf. Indeed!
Sir Pet. But I acquit you. I promise you I don't think
near so ill of you as I did: what I have heard has given me
great satisfaction.
Chas. Surf. Egad, then, 'twas lucky you didn't hear any
more. Wasn't it, Joseph?
Sir Pet. Ah! you would have retorted on him.
Chas. Surf. Ah, ay, that was a joke.
Sir Pet. Yes, yes, I know his honour too well.
Chas. Surf. But you might as well have suspected him as
me in this matter, for all that. Mightn't he, Joseph?
r       Sir Pet. Well, well, I believe you.
Jos. Surf. Would they were both out of the room! [Aside
Sir Pet. And in future, perhaps, we may not be such
strangers.




416


THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL.


[ACT v.


Re enter SERVANT, and whispers JOSEPH SURFACE.
Serv. Lady Sneerwell is below, and says she will come up.
Jos. Surf. Lady Sneerwell!  Gad's life! she must not
come here. [Exit SERVANT.]  Gentlemen, I beg pardon-I
must wait on you down stairs: here is a person come on particular business.
Chas. Surf. Well, you can see him in another room. Sir
Peter and I have not met a long time, and I have something
to say to him.
Jos. Surf. [Aside.] They must not be left together.-[Aloud.]
I11 send Lady Sneerwell away, and return directly.-[Aside
to SIR PETER.] Sir Peter, not a word of the French milliner.
Sir Pet. [Aside to JOSEPH SURFACE.] I! not for the world!
-[Exit JOSEPH SURFACE.] Ah, Charles, if you associated
more with your brother, one might indeed hope for your
reformation. He is a man of sentiment. Well, there is
nothing in the world so noble as a man of sentiment.
Chas. Surf. Psha! he is too moral by half; and so apprehensive of his good name, as he calls it, that I suppose he
would as soon let a priest into his house as a wench.
Sir Pet. No, no,-come, come,-you wrong him. No, no!
Joseph is no rake, but he is no such saint either, in that
respect.-[Aside.] I have a great mind to tell him-we
should have such a laugh at Joseph.
Chas. Surf. Oh, hang him! he's a very anchorite, a young
hermit!
Sir Pet. Hark'ee-you must not abuse him: he may
chance to hear of it again, I promise you.
Chas. Surf. Why, you won't tell him?
Sir Pet. No-but-this way.-[Aside.] Egad, T '11 tell him.
— [Aloud.] Hark'ee-have you a mind to have a good laugh
at Joseph?
Chas. Surf. I should like it of all things.
Sir Pet. Then, i'faith, we will! I '11 be quit with him for
discovering me. He had a girl with him when I called.
[Whispers.
Chas. Surf. What! Joseph? you jest.
Sir Pet. Hush!-a little French milliner-and the best of
the jest is-she's in the room now.
Chas. Surf. The devil she is!
Sir Pet. Hush! I tell vou.        [Points to the screen
Chas. Surf. Behind the screen I 'Slife, let's unveil her!




419


P',.:1.J


THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL.


Sir Pet. No, no, he's coming,:-you sha'n't, indeed!
Chas. Surf. Oh, egad, we'll have a peep at the little
milliner!
Sir Pet. Not for the world!-Joseph will never forgive me.
Chas. Surf. I '11 stand by youSir Pet. Odds, here he is!
[CHARLES SURFACE throws down the screen
Re-enter JOSEPH SURFACE.
Chas. Surf. Lady Teazle, by all that's wonderful!
Sir Pet. Lady Teazle, by all that's damnable!
Chas. Suif. Sir Peter, this is one of the smartest French
milliners I ever saw. Egad, you seem all to have been
diverting yourselves here at hide and seek, and I don't see
who is out of the secret. Shall I beg your ladyship to inform
me? Not a word!-Brother, will you be pleased to explain
this matter?  What! is Morality dumb too? —Sir Peter,
though I found you in the dark, perhaps you are not so now!
All mute!-Well-though I can make nothing of the affair,
I suppose you perfectly understand one another; so I '11 leave
you to yourselves.-[Going.] Brother, I'm sorry to find you
have given that worthy man grounds for so much uneasiness.
-Sir Peter! there's nothing in the world so noble as a man
of sentiment!                                    [Exit.
Jos. Surf. Sir Peter-notwithstanding-I confess- that
appearances are against me-if you will afford me your patience-I make no doubt-but I shall explain every thing to
your satisfaction.
Sir Pet. If you please, sir.
Jos. Surf. The fact is, sir. that Lady Teazle, knowing my
pretensions to your ward Maria-I say, sir, Lady Teazle,
being apprehensive of the jealousy of your temper-and
knowing my friendship to the family-she, sir, I say-called
here-in order that-i might explain these pretensions-but
on your coming-being apprehensive-as I said-of your
jealousy-she withdrew-and this, you may depend on it, is
the whole truth of the matter.
Sir Pet. A very clear account, upon my word; and I dare
swear the lady will vouch for every article of it.
Lady Teaz. For not one word of it, Sir Peter!
Sir Pet. How! don't you think it worth while to agree in
the lie?




420


THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL.


[ACT r


Lady Teaz. There is not one syllable of truth in what that
gentleman has told you.
Sir Pet. I believe you, upon my soul, ma'am!
Jos. Suif. [Aside to LADY TEAZLE.] 'Sdeath, madam, will
you betray me?
Lady Teaz. Good Mr. Hypocrite, by your leave, I '11 speak
for myself.
- Sir Pet. Ay, let her alone, sir; you'll find she'll make out
a better story than you, without prompting.
Lady Teaz. Hear me, Sir Peter!-I came here on no
matter relating to your ward, and even ignorant of this gentleman's pretensions to her. But I came, seduced by his insidious
arguments, at least to listen to his pretended passion, if not to
sacrifice your honour to his baseness.
Sir Pet. Now, I believe, the truth is coming, indeed!
Jos. Surf. The woman's mad!
Lady Teaz. No, sir; she has recovered her senses, and
your own arts have furnished her with the means.- -Sir Peter,
I do not expect you to credit me-but the tenderness you expressed for me, when I am sure you could not think I was a
witness to it, has so penetrated to my heart, that had I left
the place without the shame of this discovery, my future life
should have spoken the sincerity of my gratitude. As for that
smooth-tongued hypocrite, who would have seduced the wife of
his too credulous friend, while he affected honourable addresses
to his ward-I behold him now in a light so truly despicable,
that I shall never again respect myself for having listened to
him.                                             [Exit.
Jos. Surf. Notwithstanding all this, Sir Peter, Heaven
knows —
Sir Pet. That you are a villain! and so I leave you to your
conscience.
Jos. Surf. You are too rash, Sir Peter; you shall hear me
The man who shuts out conviction by refusing toSir Pet. Oh, damn your sentiments!
[Exeunt SIR PETER and JOSEPH SURFACE, talking.
ACT V.
SCENE I.-The Library in JOSEPH SURFACE'S House.
Enter JOSEPH SURFACE and SERVANT.
Jos. Surf. Mr. Stanley! and why should you think I would
we him? you must know he comes to ask something.




8C. I.I


THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL.


421


Ser. Sir, I should not have let him in, but that Mr. Rowley
came to the door with him.
Jos. Surf. Psha! blockhead! to suppose that I should now
be in a temper to receive visits from poor relations!-Well,
why don't you show the fellow up?
Ser. I will, sir.-Why, sir, it was not my fault that Sir
Peter discovered my ladyJos. Surf. Go, fool!-[Exit SERVANT.] Sure Fortune never'
played a man of my policy such a trick before! My character
with Sir Peter, my hopes with Maria, destroyed in a moment!
I 'm in a rare humour to listen to other people's distresses!
I sha'n't be able to bestow even a benevolent sentiment on
Stanley.-So! here he comes, and Rowley with him. I must
try to recover myself, and put a little charity into my face,
however.                                         [Exit.
Enter SIR OLIVER SURFACE and ROWLEY.
Sir Oliv. What! does he avoid us? That was he, was it not?
Row. It was, sir. But I doubt you are come a little too
abruptly. His nerves are so weak, that the sight of a poor
*   relation may be too much for him. I should have gone first
to break it to him.
Sir Oliv. Oh, plague of his nerves! Yet this is he whom Sir
Peter extols as a man of the most benevolent way of thinking!
Row. As to his way of thinking, I cannot pretend to decide;
for, to do him justice, he appears to have as much speculative
benevolence as any private gentleman in the kingdom, though
he is seldom so sensual as to indulge himself in the exercise
of it.
Sir Oriv. Yet he has a string of charitable sentiments at his
fingers' ends.
Row. Or, rather, at his tongue's end, Sir Oliver; for I be-'
lieve there is no sentiment he has such faith in as that Charity i
begins at home.
Sir Oliv. And his, I presume, is of that domestic sort which
never stirs abroad at all.
Row. I doubt you'll find it so;-but he's coming.   I
mustn't seem to interrupt you; and you know, immediately as
you leave him, I come in to announce your arrival it your real
character.
Sir Oliv. True; and afterwards you 11 meet me at Sir Peter's.
R//w. Without losing a moment.                 [,'xi.




THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL.


[ACT V.


Sir Oliv. I don't like the complaisance of his features.
Re-enter JOSEPH SURFACE.
Jos. Surf. Sir, I beg you ten thousand pardons for keeping
you a moment waiting.-Mr. Stanley, I presume.
Sir Oliv. At your service.
Jos. Surf. Sir, I beg you will do me the honour to sit down
-I entreat you sir.
Sir Oliv. Dear sir-there's no occasion.-[Aside.] Too
civil by half!
Jos. Surf. I have not the pleasure of knowing you, Mr.
Stanley; but I am extremely happy to see you look so well.
You were nearly related to my mother, I think, Mr. Stanley?
Sir Oliv. I was, sir; so nearly that my present poverty, I
fear, may do discredit to her wealthy children, else I should
not have presumed to trouble you.
Jos. Surf. Dear sir, there needs no apology:-he that is in
distress, though a stranger, has a right to claim kindred with
the weaithy. I am sure I wish I was one of that class, and
had it in my power to offer you even a small relief.
Sir Oliv. If your uncle, Sir Oliver, were here, I should
have a friend.
Jos. Surf. I wish he was, sir, with all my heart: you should
not want an advocate with him, believe me, sir.
Sir Oliv. I should not need one-my distresses would recommend me. But I imagined his bounty would enable you
to become the agent of his charity.
Jos. Surf. My dear sir, you were strangely misinformed.
Sir Oliver is a worthy man, a very worthy man; but avarice,
Mr. Stanley, is the vice of age. I will tell you, my good
sir, in confidence, what he has done for me has been a mere
nothing; though people, I know, have thought otherwise, and,
for my part, I never chose to contradict the report.
Sir Oliv. What! has he never transmitted you bullionrupees-pagodas?
Jos. Surf. Oh, dear sir, nothing of the kind! No, no; a
few presents now and then-china, shawls, congou tea, avadavats, and Indian crackers-little more, believe me.
Sir Oliv. Here 's gratitude for twelve thousand pounds!Avadavats and Indian crackers!                   [Aside.
Jos. Surf. Then, my dear sir, you have heard, I doubt
not, of the extravagance of my brother: there are very few




b'. 1.]


THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL.


428


would credit what I have done for that unfortunate young
man.
Sir Oliv. Not I, for one!                         [Aside.
Jos. Surf. The sums I have lent him! Indeed I have been
exceedingly to blame; it was an amiable weakness; however,
I don't pretend to defend it-and now I feel it doubly culpable, since it has deprived me of the pleasure of serving you,
Mr. Stanley, as my heart dictates.
Sir Oliv. [Aside.] Dissembler!-[Aloud.]  Then, sir, you
can't assist me?
Jos. Surf. At present, it grieves me to say, I cannot; but,
whenever I have the ability, you may depend upon hearing
from me.
Sir Oliv. I am extremely sorryJos. Suf. Not more than I, believe me; to pity, without
the power to relieve, is still more painful than to ask and be
denied.
Sir Oliv. Kind sir, your most obedient humble servant.
Jos. Surf. You leave me deeply affected, Mr. Stanley.William, be ready to open the door.   [Calls to SEBVANT.
*    Sir. Oliv. Oh, dear sir, no ceremony.
Jos. Surf. Your very obedient.
Sir Oliv. Your most obsequious.
Jos. Surf. You may depend upon hearing from me, whenever I can be of service.
Sir Oliv. Sweet sir, you are too good!
Jos. Surf. In the meantime I wish you health and spirits.
Sir Oliv. Your ever grateful and perpetual humble servant
Jos. Surf. Sir, yours as sincerely.
Sir Oliv. [Aside.] Now I am satisfied.         [Exit.
Jos. Surf. This is one bad effect of a good character; it in*      vites application from the unfortunate, and there needs no
small degree of address to gain the reputation of benevolence
without incurring the expense. The silver ore of pure charity
is an expensive article in the catalogue of a man's good qualities; whereas the sentimental French plate I use instead of
it makes just as good a show, and pays no tax.
B Re-enter ROWLEY.
Row. Mr. Surface, your servant: I was apprehensive of in.
terrupting you, though my business demands immediate attention, as this note will inform you.




424


THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL.


[ACT V.


Jos. Surf. Always happy to see Mr. Rowley,- a rascal.[Aside. Reads the letter.]  Sir Oliver Surface -My uncle
arrived!
Row. He is, indeed: we have just parted-quite well, after
a speedy voyage, and impatient to embrace his worthy nephew.
Jos Surf. I am astonished!-William! stop Mr. Stanley,
if he 's not gone.                    [Calls to SERVANT.
Row. Oh! he's out of reach, I believe.
Jos. Surf. Why did you not let me know this when you
came in together?
Row. I thought you had particular business. But I must
be gone to inform your brother, and appoint him here to meet
your uncle. He will be with you in a quarter of an hour.
Jos. Surf. So he says. Well, I am strangely overjoyed at
his coming.-[Aside.]  Never, to be sure, was any thing so
damned unlucky!
Row. You will be delighted to see how well he looks.
Jos. Surf. Oh! I'm overjoyed to hear it.-[Aside.] Just
at this time!
Row. I'11 tell him how impatiently you expect him.
Jos. Surf. Do, do; pray give my best duty and affection. Indeed, I cannot express the sensations I feel at the
thought of seeing him.-[Exit ROWLEY.] Certainly his coming just at this time is the cruellest piece of ill fortune. [Exit.
SCENE II.-A Room in SIR PETER TEAZLE'S House.
Enter MRS. CANDOUR and MAID.
Maid. Indeed, ma'am, my lady will see nobody at present.
Mrs. Can. Did you tell her it was her friend Mrs. Candour?
Maid. Yes, ma'am; but she begs you will excuse her.
Mrs. Can. Do go again; I shall be glad to see her, if it be
only for a moment, for I am sure she must be in great distress.
-[Exit MAD.] Dear heart, how provoking! I 'm not mistress
of half the circumstances! We shall have the whole affair in
the newspapers, with the names of the parties at length, before
I have dropped the story at a dozen houses.
Enter SIR BENJAMIN BACKBITE.
Oh, dear Sir Benjamin! you have heard, I suppose —
Sir Ben. Of Lady Teazle and Mr. SurfaceMrs. Can. And Sir Peter's discover —
Sir Ben. Oh, the strangest piece of business, to be sure I




N. u.I


THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL..


420


Mrs. Can. Well, I never was so surprised in my life. I f.m
so sorry for all parties, indeed.
Sir Ben. Now, I don't pity Sir Peter at all: he was so ex
travagantly partial to Mr. Surface.
Mrs. Can. Mr. Surface! Why, 'twas with Charles Lady
Teazle was detected.
Sir Ben. No, no, I tell you: Mr. Surface is the gallant.
iMrs. Can. No such thing! Charles is the man. 'Twas Mr.
Surface brought Sir Peter on purpose to discover them.
Sir Ben. I tell you I had it from one —
Mrs. Can. And I have it from oneSir Ben. Who had it from one, who had it —
Mrs. Can. From one immediately. But here comes Lady
Sneerwell; perhaps she knows the whole affair.
Enter LADY SNEERWELL.
Lady Sneer. So, my dear Mrs. Candour, here's a sad affair
of our friend Lady Teazle!
Mrs. Can. Ay, my dear friend, who would have thought ---
Lady Sneer. Well, there is no trusting appearances; though,
indeed, she was always too lively for me.
Mrs. Can. To be sure, her manners were a little too free;
but then she was so young!
Lady Sneer. And had, indeed, some good qualities.
Mrs. Can. So she had, indeed. But have you heard the
particulars?
Lady Sneer. No; but every body says that Mr. SurfaceSir Ben. Ay, there; I told you Mr. Surface was the man.
Mrs. Can. No, no: indeed the assignation was with Charles.
Lady Sneer. With Charles! You alarm me, Mrs Candour!
Mrs. Can. Yes, yes; he was the lover. Mr. Surface, to do
him justice, was only the informer.
Sir Ben. Well, I'11 not dispute with you, Mrs. Candour;
but, be it which it may, I hope that Sir Peter's wound will
notMrs. Can. Sir Peter's wound! Oh, mercy! I didn't hear a
word of their fighting.
Lady Sneer. Nor I, a syllable.
Sir Ben. No! what, no mention of the duel?
Mrs. Can. Not a word.
Sir Ben. Oh, yes: they fought before they left the room
Lady Sneer. Pray, let us heat




426


THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL.


[CT v.


Mrs. Can. Ay, do oblige us with the duel.
Sir Ben. " Sir," says Sir Peter, immediately after the dis.
covery, " you are a most ungratefulfellow."
Mrs. Can. Ay, to CharlesSir Ben. No, no-to Mr. Surface-a most ungrateful fellow; and old as I am, sir, says he, I insist on immediate satisfaction.
Mrs. Can. Ay, that must have been to Charles; for 'tis
very unlikely Mr. Surface should fight in his own house.
Sir Ben. Gad's life, ma'am, not at all-giving me immediate satisfaction.-On this, ma'am, Lady Teazle, seeing Sir
Peter in such danger, ran out of the room in strong hysterics,
and Charles after her, calling out for hartshorn and water;
then, madam, they began to fight with swordsEnter CRABTREE.
Crab. With pistols, nephew-pistols! I have it from undoubted authority.
Mrs. Can. Oh, Mr. Crabtree, then it is all true!
Crab. Too true, indeed, madam, and Sir Peter is dangerously woundedSir Ben. By a thrust in segoon quite through his left
side
Crab. By a bullet lodged in the thorax.
Mrs. Can. Mercy on me! Poor Sir Peter!
Crab. Yes, madam; though Charles would have avoided
the matter, if he could.
Mrs. Can. I told you who it was; I knew Charles was the
person.
Sir Ben. My uncle, I see, knows nothing of the matter.
Crab. But Sir Peter taxed him with the basest ingra.
titude  -
Sir Ben. That I told you, you knowCrab. Do, nephew, let me speak!-and insisted on immediate
Sir Ben. Just as I said
Crab. Odds life, nephew, allow others to know something
too! A pair of pistols lay on the bureau (for Mr. Surface, it
seems, had come home the night before late from Salthill,
where he had been to see the Montem with a friend, who has
a son at Eton), so, unluckily, the pistols were left charged.
Sir Ben. I heard nothing of this.
Crab. Sir Peter forced Charles to take one, and they fired




SC,. II ]


THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL.


427


it seems, pretty nearly together.  Charles's shot took effect,
as I tell you, and Sir Peter's missed; but, what is very extraordinary, the ball struck against a little bronze Shakspearm
that stood over the fire-place, grazed out of the window at a
right angle, and wounded the postman, who was just coming
to the door with a double letter from Northamptonshire.
Sir Ben. My uncle's account is more circumstantial, I confess; but I believe mine is the true one, for all that.
Lady Sneer. [Aside.] I am more interested in this affair
than they imagine, and must have better information. [Exit.
Sir Ben. Ah! Lady Sneerwell's alarm is very easily accounted for.
Crab. Yes, yes, they certainly do say-but that's neither
here nor there.
Mrs. Can. But, pray, where is Sir Peter at present?
Crab. Oh! they brought him home, and he is now in the
house, though the servants are ordered to deny him.
IMrs. Can. I believe so, and Lady Teazle, I suppose, attending him.
Crab. Yes, yes; and I saw one of the faculty enter just
before me.
Sir Ben. Hey! who comes here?
Crab. Oh, this is he: the physician, depend on 't.
Mrs. Can. Oh, certainly! it must be the physician; and
now we shall know.
Enter SIR OLIVER SURFACE.
Crab. Well, doctor, what hopes?
Mrs. Can. Ay, doctor, how's your patient?
Sir Ben. Now, doctor, isn't it a wound with a small-sword?
Crab. A bullet lodged in the thorax, for a hundred!
Sir Oliv. Doctor! a wound with a small-sword! and a
bullet in the thorax!-Oons! are you mad, good people?
Sir Ben. Perhaps, sir, you are not a doctor?
Sir Oliv. Truly, I am to thank you for my degree, if
I am.
Crab. Only a friend of Sir Peter's, then, I presume. But,
sir, you must have heard of his accident?
Sir Oliv. Not a word!
Crab. Not of his being dangerously wounded?
Sir Oliv. The devil he is!
Sir Ben. Run through the body —




V28


THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL.


[ACT 7,


Crab. Shot in the breastSir Ben. By one Mr. SurfaceCrab. Ay, the younger.
Sir Oliv. Hey! what the plague! you seem     to differ
strangely in your accounts: however, you agree that Sir Peter
is dangerously wounded.
Sir Ben. Oh, yes, we agree in that.
Crab. Yes, yes, I beineve there can be no doubt of that.
Sir Oliv. Then, upon my word, for a person in that situation, he is the most imprudent man alive; for here he comes,
walking as if nothing at all was the matter.
Enter SIR PETER TEAZLE.
Odds heart, Sir Peter! you are come in good time, I promise
you; for we had just given you over!
Sir Ben. [Aside to CRABTREE.] Egad, uncle, this is the
most sudden recovery!
Sir Oliv. Why, man! what do you out of bed with a smallsword through your body, and a bullet lodged in your thorax?
Sir Pet. A small-sword and a bullet!
Sir Oliv. Ay; these gentlemen would have killed you without law or physic, and wanted to dub me a doctor, to make me
an accomplice.
Sir Pet. Why, what is all this?
Sir Ben. We rejoice, Sir Peter, that the story of the duel
is not true, and are sincerely sorry for your other misfortune.
Sir Pet. So, so; all over the town already!   [Aside.
Crab. Though, Sir Peter, you were certainly vastly to
blame to marry at your years.
Sir Pet. Sir, what business is that of yours?
Mrs. Can. Though, indeed, as Sir Peter made so good a
husband, he 's very much to be pitied.
Sir Pet. Plague on your pity, ma'am! I desire none of it.
Sir Ben. However, Sir Peter, you must not mind the
laughing and jests you will meet with on the occasion.
Sir Pet. Sir, sir! I desire to be master in my own house.
Crab. 'Tis no uncommon case, that's one comfort.
Sir Pet. I insist on being left to myself: without ceremony,
I insist on your leaving my house directly!
Mrs. Can. Well, well, we are going; and depend on't,
we '11 make the best report of it we can         [Ex/i.




.  w. I']


THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL.


429


Sir Pet. Leave my house!
Crab. And tell how hardly you've been treated.  [Exit.
Sir Pet. Leave my house!
I Sir Ben. And how patiently you bear it.        [Exit,
Sir Pet. Fiends! vipers! furies! Oh! that their own
venom would choke them!
Sir Oliv. They are very provoking indeed, Sir Peter.
Enter ROWLEY.
Row. I heard high words: what has ruffled you, sir?
Sir Pet. Psha! what signifies asking? Do I ever pass a
day without my vexations?
Row. Well, I 'm not inquisitive
Sir Oliv. Well, Sir Peter, I have seen both my nephews in
the manner we proposed.
Sir Pet. A precious couple they are!
Row. Yes, and Sir Oliver is convinced that your judgment
was right, Sir Peter.
Sir Oliv. Yes, I find Joseph is indeed the man, after all.
Row. Ay, as Sir Peter says, he is a man of sentiment.
Sir Oliv. And acts up to the sentiments he professes.
Row. It certainly is edification to hear him talk.
Sir Oliv. Oh, he's a model for the young men of the age!
-But how's this, Sir Peter? you don't join us in your friend
Joseph's praise, as I expected.
Sir Pet. Sir Oliver, we live in a damned wicked world, and
the fewer we praise the better.
Row. What! do you say so, Sir Peter, who were never
mistaken in your life?
Sir Pet. Psha! plague on you both! I see by your sneering you have heard the whole affair. I shall go mad among
you!
Row. Then, to fret you no longer, Sir Peter, we are indeed
acquainted with it all. I met Lady Teazle coming from Mr.
Surface's so humbled, that she deigned to request me to be
her advocate with you.
Sir Pet. And does Sir Oliver know all this?
Sir Oliv. Every circumstance.
Sir Pet. What of the closet and the screen, hey?
Sir Oliv. Yes, yes, and the little French milliner. Oh, I
have been vastly diverted with the story! ha! ha! hal
Sir Pet. 'Twas very pleasant.




130


THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL.


[ACT v


Sir Oliv. I never laughed more in my life, I assure you:
ah! ah! ah!
Sir Pet. Oh, vastly diverting! ha! ha! ha!
Row. To be sure. Joseph with his sentiments! ha! ha! ha.
Sir Pet. Yes, yes his sentiments! ha! ha! ha! Hypocritical villain!
Sir Oliv. Ay, and tnat rogue Charles to pull Sir Peter out
of the closet: ha! ha! ha!
Sir Pet. Ha! ha! 'twas devilish entertaining, to be sure!
Sir Oliv. Ha! ha! ha! Egad, Sir Peter, I should like to
have seen your face when the screen was thrown down:
ha! ha!
Sir Pet. Yes, yes, my face when the screen was thrown
down: ha! ha! ha! Oh, I must never show my head again!
Sir Oliv. But come, come, it isn't fair to laugh at you
neither, my old friend; though, upon my soul, I can't
help it.
Sir Pet. Oh, pray don't restrain your mirth on my account: it does not hurt me at all! I laugh at the whole affair
myself. Yes, yes, I think being a standing jest for all one's
acquaintance a very happy situation. Oh, yes, and then of a
morning to read the paragraphs about Mr. S —, Lady T —,
and Sir P —, will be so entertaining!
Row. Without affectation, Sir Peter, you may despise the
ridicule of fools. But I see Lady Teazle going towards the
next room; I am sure you must desire a reconciliation as
earnestly as she does.
Sir Oliv. Perhaps my being here prevents her coming to
you. Well, I'11 leave honest Rowley to mediate between
you; but he must bring you all presently to Mr. Surface's,
where I am now returning, if not to reclaim a libertine, at
least to expose hypocrisy.
Sir Pet. Ah, I'11 be present at your discovering yourself
there with all my heart; though 'tis a vile unlucky place for
discoveries.
Row. We'11 follow.          [Exit SIR OLIVER SURFACB.
Sir Pet. She is not coming here, you see, Rowley.
Row. No, but she has left the door of that room open, you
perceive. See, she is in tears.
Sir Pet. Certainly a little mortification appears very becoming in a wife. Don't you think it will do her good to let
her pine a little?




so. III,]
I


THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAt.


431


Row. Oh, this is ungenerous in you!
Sir Pet. Well, I know not what to think. You remember
*   the letter I found of hers evidently intended for Charles'
Row. A mere forgery, Sir Peter! laid in your way on purpose. This is one of the points which I intend Snake shall
give you conviction of.
Sir Pet. I wish I were once satisfied of that. She looks
this way. What a remarkably elegant turn of the head she
has i Rowley, I '11 go to her.
Row. Certainly.
Sir Pet. Though, when it is known that we are reconciled,
people will laugh at me ten times more.
Row. Let them laugh, and retort their malice only by
*   showing them you are happy in spite of it.
Sir Pet. I' faith, so I will! and, if I'm not mistaken, wo
may yet be the happiest couple in the country.
Row. Nay, Sir Peter, he who once lays aside suspicionSir Pet. Hold, Master Rowley! if you have any regard for
me, never let me hear you utter any thing like a sentiment:
I have had enough of them to serve me the rest of my life.
[Exeunt.
SCENE III.-The Library in JOSEPH SURFACE'S House.
Enter JOSEPH SURFACE and LADY SNEERWELL.
Lady Sneer. Impossible! Will not Sir Peter immediately
be reconciled to Charles, and of course no longer oppose his
union with Maria? The thought is distraction to me.
Jos. Surf. Can passion furnish a remedy?
Lady Sneer. No, nor cunning either. Oh, I was a fool,
an idiot, to league with such a blunderer!
Jos. Surf. Sure, Lady Sneerwell. I am the greatest sufferer;
yet you see I bear the accident with calmness.
Lady Sneer. Because the disappointment doesn't reach your
heart; your interest only attached you to Maria. Had you
felt for her what I have for that ungrateful libertine, neither
your temper nor hypocrisy could prevent your showing the
sharpness of your vexation.
Jos. Surf. But why should your reproaches fall on me for
this disappointment?
Lady Sneer. Are you not the cause of it? Had you not a
sufficient field for your roguery in imposing upon Sir Peter,




4352


THE SCHOOL FOR SOANDAL.


[ACT V,


and supplanting your brother, but you must endeavour to
seduce his wife? I hate such an avarice of crimes; 'tis as
unfair monopoly, and never prospers.
Jos. Surf. Well, I admit I have been to blame. I confess
I deviated from the direct road of wrong, but I don't think
we 're so totally defeated neither.
Lady Sneer. No
Jos. Surf. You tell me you have made a trial of Snake since
we met, and that you still believe him faithful to us?
Lady Sneer. I do believe so.
Jos. Surf. And that he has undertaken, should it be necessary, to swear and prove, that Charles is at this time contracted by vows and honour to your ladyship, which some of
his former letters to you will serve to support?
Lady Sneer. This, indeed, might have assisted.
Jos. Surf. Come, come; it is not too late yet.-[Knocking
at the door.] But hark! this is probably my uncle, Sir Oliver:
retire to that room; we '11 consult farther when he is gone.
Lady Sneer. Well, but if he should find you out too?
Jos. Surf. Oh, I have no fear of that. Sir Peter will hold
his tongue for his own credit's sake-and you may depend on
it I shall soon discover Sir Oliver's weak side!
Lady Snleer. I have no diffidence of your abilities: only be
constant to one roguery at a time.
Jos. Surf. I will, I will!-[Exit LADY SNEERWELL.] SO!
'tis confounded hard, after such bad fortune, to be baited by
one's confederate in evil. Well, at all events, my character
is so much better than Charles s, that I certainly-hey!-what
— this is not Sir Oliver, but old Stanley again. Plague on't
that he should return to tease me just now! I shall have Sir
Oliver come and find him here-and
Enter SIR OLIVER SURFACE.
Gad's life, Mr. Stanley, why have you come back to plague me
at this time? You must not stay now, upon my word.
Sir Oliv. Sir, I hear your uncle Oliver is expected here, and
though he has been so penurious to you, I '11 try what he '11 do
for me.
Jos. Surf. Sir, 'tis impossible for you to stay now, so I must
beg -Come any other time, and I promise you, you shall be
assisted
Sir Oliv. No: Sir Oliver and I must be acquaintedc




g. in.3


THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL.


433


Jos. Surf. Zounds, sir! then I insist on your quitting the
room directly
\   Sir Oliv. Nay, sir-                                             I
Jos. Surf. Sir, I insist on't!-Here, William! show this
gentleman out. Since you compel me, sir, not one moment
-this is such insolence.         [Going to push him out.
Enter CHARLES SURFACE.
Chas. Surf. Heyday! what's the matter now? What the
devil, have you got hold of my little broker here?  Zounds,
brother, don't hurt little Premium. What's the matter, my
little fellow?
Jos. Surf. So! he has been with you too, has he?
Chas. Surf. To be sure, he has. Why, he's as honest a
little — But sure, Joseph, you have not been borrowing money
too, have you?
Jos. Surf. Borrowing! no! But, brother, you know we
expect Sir Oliver here everyChas. Surf. 0 Gad, that's true! Noll mustn't find the
little broker here, to be sure.
Jos. Surf. Yet Mr. Stanley insists ---
Chas. Surf. Stanley! why his name's Premium.
Jos. Surf. No, sir, Stanley.
Chas. Surf. No, no, Premium.
Jos. Surf. Well, no matter which-but ---
Chas. Surf. Ay, ay, Stanley or Premium, 'tis the same
thing, as you say; for I suppose he goes by half a hundred
names, besides A. B. at the coffee-house.   [Knocking.
Jos. Surf. 'Sdeath! here's Sir Oliver at the door.-Now I
beg, Mr. Stanley —
Chas. Surf. Ay, ay, and I beg, Mr. Premium —
Sir Oliv. GentlemenJos. Surf. Sir, by Heaven you shall go!
Chas. Surf. Ay, out with him, certainlyl
Sir Oliv. This violenceJos. Surf. Sir, 'tis your own fault.
Chas. Surf. Out with him, to be sure.
[Both forcing SIR OUVEB out
Enter SIR PETER and LADY TEAZLE, MARIA, and ROWLEY.
Sir Pet. My old friend, Sir Oliver-hey! What in the name
of wonder-here are dutiful nephews-assault their uncle at
first visit
^ lo6 W


L




434


THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL.


[LCT V


Lady Teaz. Indeed, Sir Oliver, 'twas well we came in to
rescue you.
Row. Truly it was; for I perceive, Sir Oliver, the character
of old Stanley was no protection to you.
Sir Oliv. Nor of Premium either: the necessities of the
former could not extort a shilling from that benevolent gentle
mnan; and with the other I stood a chance of faring worse than
my ancestors, and being knocked down without being bid for.
Jos. Surf. Charles!
Chas. Surf. Joseph!
Jos. Surf. 'Tis now complete!
Chas. Surf. Very.
Sir Oliv. Sir Peter, my friend, and Rowley too-look on
that elder nephew of mine. You know what he has already
received from my bounty; and you also know how gladly I
would have regarded half my fortune as held in trust for him:
judge then my disappointment in discovering him to be destitute of truth, charity, and gratitude!
Sir Pet. Sir Oliver, I should be more surprised at this declaration, if I had not myself found him to be mean, treacherous, and hypocritical.
Lady Teaz. And if the gentleman pleads not guilty to
these, pray let him call me to his character.
Sir Pet. Then, I believe, we need add no more: if he
knows himself, he will consider it as the most perfect punishment, that he is known to the world.
Chas. Surf. If they talk this way to Honesty, what will
they say to me, by and by?                      [Aside.
[SIR PETER, LADY TEAZLE, and MARIA retire.
Sir Oliv. As for that prodigal, his brother, thereChas. Suif. Ay, now comes my turn: the damned family
pictures will ruin me!                           [Aside.
Jos. Surf. Sir Oliver-uncle, will you honour me with a
hearing?
Chas. Surf. Now, if Joseph would make one of his long
speeches. I might recollect myself a little.     FAside.
Sir Oliv. I suppose you would undertake to justify yourself?                               [To JOSEPH SURFACE.
Jos. Surf. T trust I could.
Sir Oliv. [To CHARLES SURFACE.] Well, sir!-and you
could justify yourself too, I suppose?
Chas. Surf. Not that I know of, Sir Oliver.




SC. 1fI.?      THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL.             435
Sir Oliv. What!-Little Premium has been let too much
into the secret, I suppose?
Chas. S    Trf. True, sir; but they were family secrets, and
should not be mentioned again, you know,
Row. Come, Sir Oliver, I know you cannot speak of Charles's
follies with anger.
Sir Oliv. Odd's heart, no more I can; nor with gravity
either.  Sir Peter, do you know the rogue bargained with me
for all his ancestors; sold me judges and generals by the foot,
and maiden aunts as cheap as broken china.
Chas. Surf. To be sure, Sir Oliver, I did make a little free
with the family canvas, that's the truth on't. My ancestors
may rise in judgment against me, there 's no denying it; but
believe me sincere when I tell you-and upon my soul I
would not say so if I was not-that if I do not appear mortified at the exposure of my follies, it is because I feel at this
moment the warmest satisfaction in seeing you, my liberal
benefactor.
Sir Oliv. Charles, I believe you. Give me your hand again:
the ill-looking little fellow over the settee has made your peace.
Chas. Surf. Then, sir, my gratitude to the original is still
increased.
Lady Teaz. [Advancing.] Yet, I believe, Sir Oliver, here is
one whom Charles is still more anxious to be reconciled to..                                [Pointing to MARIA.
Sir Oliv. Oh, I have heard of his attachment there; and, with
the young lady's pardon, if I construe right-that blush —
Sir Pet. Well, child, speak your sentiments!
Mar. Sir, I have little to say, but that I shall rejoice to
hear that he is happy; for me, whatever claim I had to his
attention, I willingly resign to one who has a better title,
Chas. Surf. How, Maria!
Sir Pet. Heyday! what's the mystery now? While he appeared an incorrigible rake, you would give your hand to no
one else; and now that he is likely to reform I '11 warrant you
won't have him!
Mar. His own heart and Lady Sneerwell know the cause.
Chas. Surf. Lady Sneerwell!
Jos. Surf. Brother, it is with great concern I am obliged to
speak on this point, but my regard to justice compels me, and
Lady Sneerwell's injuries can no longer be concealed.
[Opens the door..                                                 F F 2




436


THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL


IACT  V


Enter LADY SNEERWELL.
Sir Pet. So! another French milliner! Egad, he has one
ir every room in the house, I suppose!
Lady Sneer. Ungrateful Charles! Well may you be surprised, and feel for the indelicate situation your perfidy has
forced me into.
Chas. Surf. Pray, uncle, is this another plot of yours? For,
as I have life, I don't understand it.
Jos. Surf. I believe, sir, there is but the evidence of one
person more necessary to make it extremely clear.
Sir Pet. And that person, I imagine, is Mr. Snake.-Rowley, you were perfectly right to bring him with us, and pray
let him appear.
Row. Walk in, Mr. Snake.
Enter SsNAKE.
I thought his testimony might be wanted: however, it happens
unluckily, that he comes to confront Lady Sneerwell, not to
support her.
Lady Sneer. A villain! Treacherous to me at last! Speak,
fellow, have you too conspired against me!
Snake. I beg your ladyship ten thousand pardons: you paid
me extremely liberally for the lie in question; but I unfortunately have been offered double to speak the truth.
Sir Pet. Plot and counter-plot, egad! I wish your ladyship joy of your negociation.
Lady Sneer. The torments of shame and disappointment
on you all!                                     [Going.
Lady Teaz. Hold, Lady Sneerwell-before you go, let me
thank you for the trouble you and that gentleman have taken,
in writing letters from me to Charles, and answering them
yourself; and let me also request you to make my respects to
the scandalous college, of Nhich you are president, and inform
them, that Lady Teazle, licentiate, begs leave to return the
diploma they granted her, as she leaves off practice, and kills
characters no longer.
Lcxy Sneer.  You too, madam!-provoking-insolentt
May your husband live these fifty years!         [Exit
Sir Pet. Oons! what a fury!
Lady Teaz. A malicious creature, indeed!
Sir Pet. What! not for her last wish?,ILady Tcaz. Oh, no!




.1_   s. nIi.]


THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL


438


Sir Oliv. Well, sir, and what have you to saJ now?
Jos. Surf. Sir, I am so confounded, to find that Lady Sneerwell could be guilty of suborning Mr. Snake in this manner,
to impose on us all, that I know not what to say: however, lest
her revengeful spirit should prompt her to injure my brother,
I had certainly better follow her directly. For the man who
attempts to-                                     [Exit.
Sir Pet. Moral to the last!
Sir Oliv. Ay, and marry her, Joseph, if you can. Oil and
*   inegar!-egad you '11 do very well together.
Row. I believe we have no more occasion for Mr. Snake at
present?
Snake. Before I go, I beg pardon once for all, for whatever
uneasiness I have been the humble instrument of causing to
the parties present.
Sir Pet. Well, well, you have made atonement by a good
deed at last.
Snake. But I must request of the company, that it shall
never be known.
Sir Pet. Hey! what the plague! are you ashamed of having
done a right thing once in your life?
Snake. Ah, sir, consider-I live by the badness of my character; and, if it were once known that I had been betrayed into
an honest action, I should lose every friend I have in the world.
Sir Oliv. Well, well-we '11 not traduce you by saying any
thing in your praise, never fear.          [Exit SNAKE.
Sir Pet. There 's a precious rogue!
Lady Teaz. See, Sir Oliver, there needs no persuasion now
to reconcile your nephew and Maria.
Sir Oliv. Ay, ay, that's as it should be, and, egad, we 11
have the wedding to-morrow morning.
Chas. Surf. Thank you, dear uncle.
Sir Pet. What, you rogue! don't you ask the girl's consent
first?
Chas. Su:f. Oh, I have done that a long time-a minute
ago-and she has looked yes.
Mar. For shame, Charles!-I protest, Sir Peter, there has
not been a word ---
Sir Oliv. Well, then, the fewer the better; may your love
for each other never know abatement.
Sir Pet. And may you live as happily together as Lady
Teazle and I intend to do!




438


THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL.


Chas. Surf. Rowley, my old friend, I am       sure you congra.
tulate me; and I suspect that I owe you much.
Sir Oliv. You do, indeed, Charles..
Sir Pet. Ay, honest Rowley always said you would reform
Chas. Surf. Why, as to reforming, Sir Peter, I'11 make no
promises, and that I take to be a proof that I intend to set
a]outt it.  But here shall be my monitor-my gentle guide.Ah! can I leave the virtuous path those eyes illumine?
Though thou, dear maid, shouldst waive thy beauty's sway,
Thou still must rule, because I will obey:
An humble fugitive from Folly view,
No sanctuary near but Love and you:        [To the audience&
You can, indeed, each anxious fear remove,
For even Scandal dies, if you approve.       [Exeunt omne,
EPILOGUE.
BY MR. COLMAN.
SPOKEN BY LADY TEAZLE,
I, WHO was late so volatile and gay,
Like a trade-wind must now blow all one way,
Bend all my cares, my studies, and my vows,
To one dull rusty weathercock-my spouse!
wills our virtuous bard-the motley Bayes
f crying epilogues and laughing plays!
'~ Old bachelors, who marry smart young wives,
Learri'from our play to regulate your lives:
Each bring his dear to town, all faults upon herLondon will prove the very sourcekof honour.
Plunged fairly in, like. a cold bath it serves,
When principles relax, to.brace the nerves:
Such is my case; and yet I must deplore
That the gay dream of dissipation 's o'er.
And say, ye fair! was ever lively wife,
Born with a genius for the highest life,
Like me untimely blasted in her bloom,
Like me candemn'd to such a dismal doom 1
Save money-when I just knew how to waste it I
Leave London-just as I began to taste it
Must I then watch the early crowing cock,
The melancholy ticking of a clock;
In a lone rustic hall for ever pounded,
With dogs, cats, rats, and squalling brats surrounded




THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL.


439


With humble curate can I now retire,
(While good Sir Peter boozes with the squire,)
And at backgammon mortify my soul,
That pants for loo, or flutters at a vole 1
Seven's the main! Dear sound that must expire,
Lost at hot cockles round a Christmas fire;
The transient hour of fashion tosoon spent,
Farewell the tranquil mind, farewell content!
Farewell the plumed head, the cushion'd tete,
That takes the cushion from its proper seat!
That spirit-stirring drum!-card drums I mean
Spadille-odd trick-pam-basto-king and queen I
And you, ye knockers, that, with brazen throat,
The welcome visitors' approach denote; -
Farewell all quality of high renown,
Pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious town!
Farewell! your revels I partake no more,
And Lady Teazle's occupation's o'er!
All this I told our bard; he smiled, and said 'twas clea,
I ought to play deep tragedy next year.
Meanwhile he drew wise morals from his play,
And in these solemn periods stalk'd away:" Bless'd were the fair like you; her faults who stopp'!,;
And closed her follies when the curtain dropp'd!
No more in vice or error to engage,
Or play the fool at large oi. life's great stag.
'i
VJ, 5W                                                      i
S A:,
/ S-_




THE CRITIC;
OR,
A TRAGEDY REHEARSED.
A DRAMATIC PIECE IN THREE ACTS.
TO MRS. GREVILLE.
MADAM,-In requesting your permission to address the following pages to
you, which, as they aim themselves to be critical, require every protection and
allowance that approving taste or friendly prejudice can give them, I yet ventured to mention no other motive than the gratification of private friendship
and esteem. Had I suggested a hope that your implied approbation would
give a sanction to their defects, your particular reserve, and dislike to the
reputation of critical taste, as well as of poetical talent, would have made
you refuse the protection of your name to such a purpose. However, I am
not so ungrateful as now to attempt to combat this disposition in you. I
shall not here presume to argue that the present state of poetry claims and
expects every assistance that taste and example can afford it; nor endeavour
to prove that a fastidious concealment of the most elegant productions of
judgment and fancy is an ill return for the possession of those endowments.
Continue to deceive yourself in the idea that you are known only to be eminently admired and regarded for the valuable qualities that attach private
friendships, and the graceful talents that adorn conversation. Enough of
what you have written has stolen into full public notice to answer my purpose;
and you will, perhaps, be the only person, conversant in elegant literature,
who shall read this address and not perceive that by publishing your particular approbation of the following drama, I have a more interested object than
to boast the true respect and regard with which I have the honour to be,
Madam, your very sincere and obedient humble servant,
R. B. SHERIDAN.
DRAMATIS PERSONE,
AS ORIGINALLY ACTED AT DRURY LANE THEATRE IN 1779.
SIR FRETFUL PLAGIARY Ir. Parsons.      HOPKNS.         Mr    Ho
PUFF...... Mr. King.                          kins.
DANGLE.... M.r. Dodd.   MRS. DANLE           Mrs. Hop.
SNEER... Mr. Palmer.                        kins.
SIGNOR PASTICCIO RI-  Mr.D         SIGNORE PASTICCIO EI        Fie
TORNELLO..     M.       n                         and the Misi
IMTEPtEsTER.         Mr. Badde  *.                     Abrams.
ley.
UDh PROXPTE.        Mr. Philli        Scenemen, Musicians, and
more                  Servants.




PROLOGUE.


'41


CHARACTERS OF THE TRAGEDY.


k      LORD BURLEIGH..Mr. Moody.
GOVERNOR OF TIL-} Ar. TVr  ten
BURY FORT.      Mr.   qlen.
EARL OF LEICES-   Mr. Farre.
TER...   J.Farr.
SIR WALTER RA-    M. Burto.
LEIGH....Brto.
SIR  CHIRISTOPHER  Mr. Waldron
HATTON... J
4  MASTER  OF TJIRE
HORSE...             nny
DON FEROLO WnIs- MIr. BannisKERANDOS..     ter, jun.
BEEFEATER....MI. Wright.


JUSTICE.... Mr. Packer
SON......r. Lamash.
CONSTABLE....r. Fawcett.
THAMES...         Mr. Gawdry.
TILBURINA....Miss Pope.
CONFIDANT.         Mrs.  Brad.
{   shaw.
JUSTICE'S LADY.. Mrs.Johnston,
FIRST NIECE... Miss Collett.
SECONI NIECE... Miss Kirby.
Knights, Guards, Constables, Sentinels, Servants, Chorus, Rivers, Attendants, &c., &c.


SCENE,-LONDON: in DANGLE'S House during the First Act, and throughoi
the rest of the Play in DRURY LANE THEATRE.


PROLOGUE,
BY THE HONOURABLE RICHARD           FITZPATRIC.I
THE sister muses, whom these realms obey,
Who o'er the drama hold divided sway,
Sometimes, by evil counsellers, 'tis said,
Like earth-born potentates have been misled.
In those gay days of wickedness and wit,
When Villiers criticised what Drvden writ,
The tragic queen, to please a tasteless crowd,
Had learn'd to bellow, rant, and roar so loud,
That frighten'd Nature, her best friend before,
The blustering beldam's company forswore;
Her comic sister, who had wit 'tis true,
With all her merits, had her failings too;
And would sometimes in mirthful moments use
A style too flippant for a well-bred muse;
Then female modesty abash'd began
To seek the friendly refuge of the fan,
Awhile behind that slight intrenchment stood,
Till driven from thence, she left the stage for good.
In our more pious, and far chaster times,
These sure no longer are the Muse's crimes!
But some complain that, former faults to shun,
The reformation to extremes has run.
The frantic hero's wild delirium past,
Now insipidity succeeds bombast;
So slow Melpomene's cold numbers creep,
Here dulness seems her drowsy court to keep,
And we are scarce awake, whilst you are fast asleep




442


THE CRITIC; OR,


'ACT I


Thalia, once so ill-behaved and rude,
Reform'd, is now become an arrant prude;
Retailing nightly to the yawning pit
The purest morals, nndefiled by wit!
Our author offers, in these motley scenes,
A slight remonstrance to the drama's queens:
Nor let the goddesses be over nice;
Free-spoken subjects give the best advice.
Although not quite a novice in his trade,
His cause to-night requires no common aid.
To this, a friendly, just, and powerful court,
I come ambassador to beg support.
Can he undaunted brave the critic's rage?
In civil broils with brother bards engage?
Hold forth their errors to the public eye,
Nay more, e'en newspapers themselves defy?
Say, must his single arm encounter all?
By numbers vanquish'd, e'en the brave may fall;
And though no leader should success distrust,
Whose troops are willing, and whose cause is just;
To bid such hosts of angry foes defiance,
His chief dependence must be, your alliance.
ACT I.
SCENE I.-A Roon in DANGLE'S House.
MR. and MRS. DANGLE discovered at breakfast, and reading
newspapers.
Dang. [Reading.] Brutus to Lord North.-Letter the second
on the State of the Army-Psha! To the first L dash D       of the
A  dash   Y.-Genuine extract of a Letter from       St. Kitt's.Coxheath Intelligence.-It is now confidently asserted that Sir
Charles Hardy-Psha! nothing but about the fleet and the
nation!-and     I hate all politics but theatrical politics.Where's the Morning Chronicle?
Mrs. Dang. Yes, that's your Gazette
Dang. So, here we have it.-[Reads.]         Theatrical intelligence extraordinary.-We hear there is a new tragedy in rehearsal at Drury Lane Theatre, called the Spanish Armada,
said to be written by Mr. Puff, a gentleman well known in the
theatrical world. If we may allow ourselves to give credit to
the report of the performers, who, truth to say, are in general
but indifferent judges, this piece abounds with the most striking
and received beauties of modern composition.-So! I am very




-     SC. I.]


A TRAGEDY REHEARSED.


443


glad my friend Puff's tragedy is in such forwardness.-Mrs
Dangle, my dear, you will be very glad to hear that Puffs
tragedy
Mrs. Dang. Lord, Mr. Dangle, why will you plague me
about such nonsense?-Now the plays are begun I shall have
no peace. -Isn't it sufficient to make yourself ridiculous by your
passion for the theatre, without continually teasing me to join
you? Why can't you ride your hobby-horse without desiring
to place me on a pillion behind you, Mr. Dangle?
Dang. Nay, my dear, I was only going to readMrs. Dang. No, no; you will never read anything that's
worth listening to. You hate to hear about your country;
there are letters every day with Roman signatures, demonstrating the certainty of an invasion, and proving that the nation
is utterly undone. But you never will read any thing to entertain one.
Dang. What has a woman to do with politics, Mrs. Dangle?
Mrs. Dang. And what have you to do with the theatre, Mr.
Dangle? Why should you affect the character of a critic? I
have no patience with you!-haven't you made yourself the
jest of all your acquaintance by your interference in matters
where you have no business? Are you not called a theatrical
Quidnunc, and a mock Meecenas to second-hand authors?
Dang. True; my power with the managers is pretty notorious. But is it no credit to have applications from all quarters
for my interest-from lords to recommend fiddlers, from ladies
to get boxes, from authors to get answers, and from actors to
*   get engagements?
Mrs. Dang. Yes, truly; you have contrived to get a share
in all the plague and trouble of theatrical property, without
the profit, or even the credit of the abuse that attends it.
Dang. I am sure, Mrs. Dangle, you are no loser by it, however; you have all the advantages of it. Mightn't you, last
winter, have had the reading of the new pantomime a fortnight
~   previous to its performance? And doesn't Mr. Fosbrook let
you take places for a play before it is advertised, and set you
down for a box for every new piece through the season? And
didn't my friend, Mr. Smatter, dedicate his last farce to you
at my particular request, Mrs. Dangle?
Mrs. Dang. Yes; but wasn't the farce damned, Mr. Dangle?
And to be sure it is extremely pleasant to have one's house
made the motley rendezvous of all the lackeys of literature;




444


THE CRITIC; OR,


[ACT I,


the very high 'Change of trading authors and jobbing critics?
-Yes, my drawing-room is an absolute register office for candinate actors, and poets without character.-Then to be continually alarmed with misses and ma'ams piping hysteric
changes on Juliets and Dorindas, Pollys, and Ophelias; and
the very furniture trembling at the probationary starts and
unprovoked rants of would-be Richards and Hamlets!-And
what is worse than all, now that the manager has monopolized
the Opera House, haven't we the signors and signoras calling
here, sliding their smooth semibreves, and gargling glib divisions in their outlandish throats-with foreign emissaries and
French spies, for aught I know, disguised like fiddlers and
figure-dancers?
Dang. Mercy! Mrs. Dangle!
IMrs. Dang. And to employ yourself so idly at such an
alarming crisis as this too-when, if you had the least spirit,
you would have been at the head of one of the Westminster
associations-or trailing a volunteer pike in the Artillery
Ground! But you-o' my conscience, I believe, if the French
were landed to-morrow, your first inquiry would be, whether
they had brought a theatrical troop with them.
Dang. Mrs. Dangle, it does not signify-I say the stage is
the Mirror of Nature, and the actors are the Abstract and brief
Chronicles of the Time: and pray what can a man of sense
study better?-Besides, you will not easily persuade me that
there is no credit or importance in being at the head of a band
of critics, who take upon them to decide for the whole town,
whose opinion and patronage all writers solicit, and whose recommendation no manager dares refuse.
Mrs. Dang. Ridiculous! - Both managers and authors of
the least merit laugh at your pretensions.-The public is their
critic-without whose fair approbation they know no play can
rest on the stage, and with whose applause they welcome such
attacks as yours, and laugh at the malice of them, where they
can't at the wit.
Dang. Very well, madam-very well!
Enter SERVANT.
Ser. Mr. Sneer, sir, to wait on you.
Dang. Oh, show Mr. Sneer up.-[Exit SERVANT.] Plague
on't, now we must appear loving and affectionate, or Sneer
will hitch us into a story




80. I.]


A TRAGEDY REHEARSED.


445


Mrs. Dana. With all my heart; you cant be more ridicilous than you are.
Dang. You are enough to provoke —
Enter SNEER.
Ha! my dear Sneer, I am vastly glad to see you.-My dear,
here's Mr. Sneer.
JMrs. Dang. Good morning to you, sir.
Dang. Mrs. Dangle and I have been diverting ourselves
with the papers. Pray, Sneer, won't you go to Drury Lane
'   Theatre the first night of Puff's tragedy?
Sneer. Yes; but I suppose one shan't be able to get in, for
on the first night of a new piece they always fill the house
with orders to support it. But here, Dangle, I have brought
you two pieces, one of which you must exert yourself to make
the managers accept, I can tell you that; for 'tis written by a
person of consequence.,      Dang. So! now my plagues are beginning.
Sneer. Ay, I am glad of it, for now you '11 be happy. Why,
my dear Dangle, it is a pleasure to see how you enjoy your
volunteer fatigue, and your solicited solicitations.
Dang. It's a great trouble-yet, egad, it's pleasant too.Why, sometimes of a morning I have a dozen people call on
me at breakfast-time, whose faces I never saw before, nor ever
desire to see again.
Sneer. That must be very pleasant indeed!
Dang. And not a week but I receive fifty letters, and not a
line in them about any business of my own.
Sneer. An amusing correspondence!
Dang. [Reading.] Bursts into tears, and exit.-What, is this
a tragedy?
Sneer. No, that's a genteel comedy, not a translation-only
taken from the French: it is written in a style which they
have lately tried to run down; the true sentimental, and nothing ridiculous in it from the beginning to the end.
Mrs. Dang. Well, if they had kept to that, I should not
have been such an enemy to the stage; there was some edifi
cation to be got from those pieces, Mr. Sneer!
Sneer. I am quite of your opinion, Mrs. Dangle: the theatre,
in proper hands, might certainly be made the school of uorality; but now, I am sorry to say it, people seem to go
there principally for their entertainment!




446


THE CRITIC; OR,


[ACT I


Mrs. Dang. It would have been more to the credit of tho
managers to have kept it in the other line.
6aeer. Undoubtedly, madam; and hereafter perhaps to have
had it recorded, that in the midst of a luxurious and dissipated
age, they preserved two houses in the capital, where the conversation was always moral at least, if not entertaining!
Dang. Now, egad, I think the worst alteration is in the
nicety of the audience!-No double-entedlre, no smart innuendo admitted; even Vanbrugh and Congreve obliged to
undergo a bungling reformation!
Sneer. Yes, and our prudery in this respect is just on a par
with the artificial bashfulness of a courtesan, who increases the
blush upon her cheek in an exact proportion to the diminution
of her modesty.
Dang. Sneer can't even give the public a good word! But
what have we here?-This seems a very odd —
Sneer. Oh, that's a comedy, on a very new plan; replete
with wit and mirth, yet of a most serious moral! You see it
is called The Reformed House-breaker; where, by the mere
force of humour, house-breaking is put into so ridiculous a
light, that if the piece has its proper run, I have no doubt
but that bolts and bars will be entirely useless by the end of
the season.
Dang. Egad, this is new indeed!
Sneer. Yes; it is written by a particular friend of mine, who
has discovered that the follies and foibles of society are subjects unworthy the notice of the comic muse, who should be
taught to stoop only at the greater vices and blacker crimes of
humanity-gibbeting capital offences in five acts, and pillorying petty larcenies in two.-In short, his idea is to dramatise
the penal laws, and make the stage a court of ease to the Old
Bailey.
Dang. It is truly moral.
Re-enter SERVANT.
Ser. Sir Fretful Plagiary, sir.
Dang. Beg him to walk up.-[Exit SERVANT.] Now, Mrs.
Dangle, Sir Fretful Plagiary is an author to your own taste.
Mrs. Dang. I confess he is a favourite of mine, becaase
everybody else abuses him.
Sneer. Very much to the credit of your charity, madam, if
not of your judgment.




Fe. I.]


A TRAGEDY REHEARSED


447


Dang. But, egad, he allows no merit to any author but himself, that's the truth on't-though he's my friend.
Sneer. Never.-He is as envious as an old maid verging on
the desperation of six-and-thirty; and then the insidious humility with which he seduces you to give a free opinion on any
of his works, can be exceeded only by the petulant arrogance
with which he is sure to reject your observations.
Dang. Very true, egad-though he's my friend.
Sneer. Then his affected contempt of all newspaper striotures; though, at the same time, he is the sorest man alive,
and shrinks like scorched parchment from the fiery ordeal of
true criticism: yet is he so covetous of popularity, that he had
rather be abused than not mentioned at all.
Dang. There's no denying it-though he is my friend,
Sneer. You have read the tragedy he has just finished,
haven't you?
Dang. 0 yes; he sent it to me yesterday.
E       Sneer. Well, and you think it execrable, don't you?
Dang. Why, between ourselves, egad, I must own-though
he is my friend-that it is one of the most- He 's here[Aside]-finished and most admirable perform
Sir Fret. [Without.] Mr. Sneer with him, did you say?
Enter SIR FRETFUL PLAGIARY.,      Dang. Ah, my dear friend!-Egad, we were just speaking
of your tragedy.-Admirable, Sir Fretful, admirable!
Sneer. You never did any thing beyond it, Sir Fretfulnever in your life.
Sir Fret. You make me extremely happy; for without a
compliment, my dear Sneer, there isn't a man in the world
whose judgment I value as I do yours and Mr. Dangle's.
Mrs. Dang. They are only laughing at you, Sir Fretful;
for it was but just now that ---
Dang. Mrs. Dangle!-Ah, Sir Fretful, you knot Mrs.
Dangle.-My friend Sneer was rallying just now:-he knows
how she admires you, and -
Sir Fret. 0 Lord, I am sure Mr. Sneer has more taste and
sincerity than to- [Aside] A damned double-faced fellow!
Dang. Yes, yes-Sneerwill jest-but a better humoured —
Sir Fret. Oh, I knowDang. He has a ready turn for ridicule-his wit costs him
nothing.




$8


',-HE CRUTIO; OB,


[l T. L


Sir Fret. No, egad-or I should wonder how he came by
it.                                             rAsid.
Mrs. Dang. Because his jest is always at the expense of his
friend.                                         [Aside.
Dang. But, Sir Fretful, have you sent your play to the
managers yet?-or can I be of any service to you?
Sir Fret. No, no, I thank you: I believe the piece had sufficient recommendation with it.-I thank you though.-I sent
it to the manager of Covent Garden Theatre this morning.
Sneer. I should have thought now, that it might have been
cast (as the actors call it) better at Drury Lane.
Sir Fret. 0 lud! no-never send a play there while I
live-hark'ee!                          [Whispers SNEE.
Sneer. Writes himself!-I know he does.
Sir Fret. I say nothing-I take away from no man's merit
-am hurt at no man's good fortune-I say nothing.-But this
I will say-through all my knowledge of life, I have observed
-that there is not a passion so strongly rooted in the human
heart as envy.
Sneer. I believe you have reason for what you say, indeed.
Sir Fret. Besides-T can tell you it is not always so safe to
leave a play in the hands of those who write themselves.
Sneer. What, they may steal from them, hey, my dear Plagiary?
Sir Fret. Steal!-to be sure they may; and, egad, serve
your best thoughts as gypsies do stolen children, disfigure
them to make 'em pass for thor own.
Sneer. But your present work. is a sacrifice to Melpomene,
and he, you know, never —
Sir Fret. That's no security: a dexterous plagiarist may
do any thing. Why, sir, for aught I know, he might take out
some of the best things in my tragedy, and put them into his
own comedy.
Sneer. That might be done, I dare be sworn.
Sir Fret. And then, if such a person gives you the least
hint or assistance, he is devilish apt to take the merit of the
wholeDang. If it succeeds.
Sir Fret. Ay, but with regard to this piece, I think I ca
hit that gentleman, for I can safely swear he never read it.
Sneer. I '11 tell you how you may hurt him moro.
Sir Fret. How?




SC. l-.


A TRAGEDY REHEARSED.


449


Sneer. Swear he wrote it.
Sir Fret. Plague on 't now, Sneer, I shall take it ill!-I
believe you want to take away my character as an author.
Sneer. Then I am sure you ought to be very much obliged
to me.
Sir Fret. Hey!-sir!Dang. Oh, you know, he never means what he says.
Sir Fret. Sincerely then-you do like the piece?
Sneer. Wonderfully!
Sir Fret. But come now, there must be something that you
think might be mended, hey?-Mr. Dangle, has nothing
struck you?
Dang. Why, faith, it is but an ungracious thing, for the most
part, toSir Fret. With most authors it is just so indeed; they are
in general strangely tenacious! But, for my part, I am never
so well pleased as when a judicious critic points out any defect to me; for what is the purpose of showing a work to a
friend, if you don't mean to profit by his opinion?
Sneer. Very true.-Why then, though I seriously admire
the piece upon the whole, yet there is one small objection;
which, if you'll give me leave, I '11 mention.
Sir Fret. Sir, you can't oblige me more.
Sneer. I think it wants incident.
Sir Fret. Good God! you surprise me!-wants incident!
Sneer. Yes; I own I think the incidents are too few.
Sir Fret. Good God! Believe me, Mr. Sneer, there is no
person for whose judgment I have a more implicit deference.
But I protest to you, Mr. Sneer, I am only apprehensive that
the incidents are too crowded.-My dear Dangle, how does it
strike you?
Dang. Really I can't agree with my friend Sneer. I think
the plot quite sufficient; and the four first acts by many degrees the best I ever read or saw in my life. If I might
venture to suggest any thing, it is that the interest rather falls
off in the fifth.
Sir Fret. Rises, I believe you mean, sir
Dang. No, I don't, upon my word.
Sir Fret. Yes, yes, you do, upon my soul!-it certainly
don't fall off, I assure you.-No, no; it don't fall off.
Dang. Now, Mrs. Dangle, didn't you say it struck you in
the same light?
a




&50


THm CRrITIC; OR,


[ACT L


Mrs. Dang. No, indeed, T did not-I did not see a fault in
any part of the play, from the beginning to the end.
Sir Fret. Upon my soul, the women are the best judges
after all!
Mrs. Dang. Or, if I made any objection, I am sure it was
to nothing in the piece; but that I was afraid it was, on the
whole, a little too long.
Sir Fret. Pray, madam, do you speak as to duration of
time; or do you mean that the story is tediously spun out?
Mrs. Dalng. 0 lud! no.-I speak only with reference to
the usual length of acting plays.
Sir Fret. Then I am very happy-very happy indeed-because the play is a short play, a remarkably short play.  I
should not venture to differ with a lady on a point of taste;
but, on these occasions, the watch, you know, is the critic.
Mrs. Dang. Then, I suppose, it must have been Mr.
Dangle's drawling manner of reading it to me.
Sir Fret. Oh, if Mr. Dangle read it, that's quite another
affair!-But I assure you, Mrs. Dangle, the first evening you
can spare me three hours and a half, I'11 undertake to read
you the whole from beginning to end, with the prologue and
epilogue, and allow time for the music between the acts.
Mrs. Dang. I hope to see it on the stage next.
Dangl. Well, Sir Fretful, I wish you may be able to get rid
as easily of the newspaper criticisms as you do of ours.
Sir Fret. The newspapers! Sir, they are the most villanous-licentious —abominlable-infernal-Not that I ever
read them-no-I make it a rule never to look into a news
paper.
Dang. You are quite right; for it certainly must hurt an
author of delicate feelings to see the liberties they take.
Sir Fret. No, quite the contrary! their abuse is, in fact, the
best panegyric-I like it of all things. An author's reputation is only in danger from their support.
Sneer. Why that's true-and that attack, now, on you the
other daySir Fret. What? where?
Dang. Ay, you mean in a paper of Thursday: it was oompletely ill-natured, to be sure.
Sir Fret. Oh, so much the better.-Ha! ha! ha       I
wouldn't have it otherwise.
Dang. Certainly it is only to be laughed at; for



6B 1.]          A TRAGEDY RFl.HEAnSED              45I1
Sir Fret. You don't happen to recollect what the fellow
said, do you?
Sneer. Pray, Dangle-Sir Fretful seems a little anxious   -
Sir Fret. 0 lud, no! -anxious!-not I, —not the least.I-but one may as well hear, you know.
Dang. Sneer, do you recollect? —[.side to SNEER.] Make
out something.
Sneer. [Aside to DANGLE.] I w\ill.-[Aloud.] Yes, yes, I
remember perfectly.
Sir Fret. Well, and pray now-not that it signifies-what
might the gentleman say?
Sneer. Why, he roundly asserts that you have not the
slightest invention or original genius whatever; though you
are the greatest traducer of all other authors living.
Sir Fret. Ha! ha! ha!-very good!
Sneer. That as to comedy. you have not one idea of your
own, he believes, even in your commoln-place-book-where
stray jokes and pilfered witticisms are kept with as much
method as the ledger of the lost and stolen office.
Sir Fret. Ha! ha! ha!-very pleasant!
Sneer. Nay, that you are so unlucky as not to have the skill
even to steal with taste:-but that you glean from the refuse
of obscure volumes, where more judicious plagiarists have been
before you; so that the body of your work is a composition of
dregs and sediments-like a bad tavern's worst wine.
Sir Fret. Ha! ha!
Sneer. In your more serious efforts, he says, your bombast
would be less intolerable, if the thoughts were ever suited to
the expression; but the homeliness of the sentiment stares
through the fantastic encumbrance of its fine language, like a
*      clown in one of the new uniforms!
Sir Fret. Ha! ha!
Sneer. That your occasional tropes and flowers suit the
general coarseness of your style, as tambour sprigs would a
grouna of linsey-woolsey; while your imitations of Shakspeare
resemble the mimicry of Falstaff s page, and are about as near
the standard of the original.
Sir Fret. Ha!
Sneer. In short, that even the finest passages you steal are
of no service to you; for the poverty of your own language
prevents their assimilating; so that they lie on the surface
oG2




THE CRITIC; OR,


[ACT I


like lumps of marl on a barren moor, encumbering what it is
not in their power to fertilise!
Sir Fret. [After great agitation.] Now, another person
would be vexed at this.
Sneer. Oh! but I wouldn't have told you-only to divert
you.
Sir Fret. I know it-I am diverted.-Ha! ha! ha!-not
the least invention!-Ha! ha! ia!-very good!-very good!
Sneer. Yes-no genius! ha! ha! ha!
Dang. A severe rogue! ha! ha! ha! But you are quite
right, Sir Fretful, never to read such nonsense.
Sir Fret. To be sure-for if there is any thing to one's
praise, it is a foolish vanity to be gratified at it; and, if it is
abuse,-why one is always sure to hear of it from one damned
good-natured friend or another!
Enter SERVANT
Ser. Sir, there is an Italian gentleman, with a French interpreter, and three young ladies, and a dozen musicians, who
say they are sent by Lady Rondeau and Mrs. Fugue.
Dang. Gadso! they come by appointment!-Dear Mrs.
Dangle, do let them know I '11 see them directly.
Ms. Dang. You know, Mr. Dangle, I shan't understand a
word they say.
Dang. But you hear there 's an interpreter.
Mrs. Dang. Well, I'11 try to endure their complaisance till
you come.                                       [Exit
Ser. And Mr. Puff, sir, has sent word that the last rehearsal
is to be this morning, and that he '11 call on you presently.
Dang. That's true-I shall certainly be at home.-[Exit
SERVANT.] Now, Sir Fretful, if you have a mind to have justice
done you in the way of answer, egad, Mr. Puff's your man.
Sir Fret. Psha! Sir, why should I wish to have it answered,
when I tell you I am pleased at it?
Dang True, I had forgot that. But I hope you are not
fretted at what Mr. SneerSir Fret. Zounds! no, Mr. Dangle; don't I tell you these
things never fret me in the least?
Dang. Nay, I only thoughtSir Fret. And let me tell you, Mr. Dangle, 'tis damned
affronting in you to suppose that I am hurt when I tell you I
am not




it  ~.]


A TRAGEDY REHEARSED.


453 -

Sneer. But why so warm, Sir Fretful?
Sir Fret. Gad's life!  Mr. Sneer, you are as absurd as
Dangle: how often must I repeat it to you, that nothing can
vex me but your supposing it possible for me to mind the
damned nonsense you have been repeating to me!-and, let
me tell you, if you continue to believe this, you must mean to
insult me, gentlemen-and, then, your disrespect will affect
me no more than the newspaper criticisms -and I shall treat
it with exactly the same calm indifference and philosophic
contempt-and so your servant.                   [Exit.
Sneer. Ha! ha! ha! poor Sir Fretful! Now will he go
and vent his philosophy in anonymous abuse of all modern
critics and authors.-But, Dangle, you must get your friend
Puff to take me to the rehearsal of his tragedy.
Dang. I '11 answer for't, he '11 thank you for desiring it.
But come and help me to judge of this musical family: they
are recommended by people of consequence, I assure you.
Sneer. I am at your disposal the whole morning;-but I
thought you had been a decided critic in music as well as in
literature.
Dang. So I am-but I have a bad ear. I'faith, Sneer.
though, I am afraid we were a little too severe on Sir Fretful
-though he is my friend.
Sneer. Why, 'tis certain, that unnecessarily to mortify the
vanity of any writer is a cruelty which mere dulness never.
can deserve; but where a base and personal malignity usurps
the place of literary emulation, the aggressor deserves neither
quarter nor pity.
Dang. That s true, egad!-though he's my friend!
SCENE II.-A Drawing-room in DANGLE'S House.
MRS. DANGLE, SIGNOR PASTICCIO RITORNELLO, SIGNORE PASTICCIO RITORNELLO, INTERPRETER, and MUSICIANS, discovered.
Interp. Je dis, madame, j'ai l'honneur to introduce et do
vous demander votre protection pour le signor Pasticcio RiLor
nello et pour sa charmante famille.
Signor Past. Ah! vosignoria, noi vi preghiamo di favoritevi
colla vostra protezione.
1 Signora Past. Vosignoria fatevi questi grazie
2 Signora Past. Si, signora.




15it


TIIE CRITIC; OR,


[ACT L


Interp. Madame-me inlterpret.-C'est h dire-in English
-qu'ils vous prient (te leur faire l'honlneur ---
Mrs. Dang. I say again, gentleman, I don't understand a
word you say.
Signor Past. Questo signore spieghlerIntep. Oui —me interl-)i'et.-Nous avons les lettres do recommendation pour monsieur Dangle de —
Mrs. Dang. Upon my word. sir, I don't understand you.
Signor Past. La contessa Rondeau i nostra padrona.
3 Signora Past. Si. padre, et niladli Fugue.
Interp. O -me interprlet. -Madame, ils disent-in English-Qu'ils ont 1 honneur d' tre protcg6s de ces dames.-You
understand?
Mrs. Dang. No, sir,-no understand!
Enter DANGLE and SNEER.
Interp. Ah, voici monsieur Dangle!
All Italians. Ahl! signor Dangle!
Mrs. Dang. MJr. Dlagle, here are two very civil gentlemen trying to make themselves understood, and I don't know
which is the interpreter.
Dang. Eh, bien!
[The INTERPRETER and SIGNOR PAsTIccIO here speak at
the samue time.
Interp. Monsieur Dangle, le grand bruit de vos talens pour
la critique, et de votre inlteret avec messieurs les directeurs a
tous les theatres
Signor Past. Vosignoria siete si famoso par la vostra conoscenza, e vostra intieressa colla le direttore daDang. Egad, I think the interpreter is the hardest to be
understood of the two
Sneer. Why, 1 thought, Dangle, you had been an admirable
linguist!
Dang. So I am, if they would not talk so damned.fast.
Sneer. Well, I 11 explain that-the less time we lose in
hearing them the better-for that, I suppose, is what they are
brought here for.
[Speaks to SIGNOR PAsTIccIO-they sina trios, dc., DANGLE
beating out of time.
Enter SERVANT and nwhlpers DANGLE.
Dang. Show him up. —[Eit SE1RVANT.] Bravo! admirable!




C., II.]


A TRAtGEIY REIHEARSED..f


bravissimo! admnirablissimo!-Ah! Sneer  where will you
find voices such as these in Enlland?
0      Sneer. Not easily.
Dang. But Puff is coming.-Signor and little signoras obligatissimo!-Sposa signora Danglena-lMrs. Dangle, shall I
beg you to offer them some refreshlments, and take their address
in the next room.
[Exit MnR. DANGT E Iwith SIGNOR PASTICCIO, SIGNORE PASTICCIO, MUSicIANs, and IsNTERPlRETR, ceremoniously.
Re-enter SERVANT.
Ser. Mr. Puff, sir.                             [Ext.
Enter PUFF.
Dang. My dear Puff!
Puff. My dear Dangle, how is it with you?
Dang. Mr. Sneer, give me leave to introduce Mr. Puff to
you.
Ptff. Mr. Sneer is this?-Sir, he is a gentleman whom I
have long panted for the honour of knowing-a gentleman
whose critical talents and transcendent judgmentSneer. Dear SirDang. Nay, don't be modest, Sneer; my friend Puff only
talks to you in the style of his profession.
Sneer. His profession!
Ptff. Yes, sir; I make no secret of the trade I follow:
among friends and brother authors, Dangle knows I love to
be frank on the subject, and to advertise myself viva voce.-I
am, sir, a practitioner in panegyric, or, to speak more plainly,
a professor of the art of puffing, at your scrvice-or anybody
else's.
t   Sneer. Sir, you are very obliging!-I believe, Mr. Puff, I
have often admired your talents in the daily prints.
Pwff. Yes, sir, I flatter myself I do as much business in
that way as any six of the fraternity in town.-Devilish hard
work all the summer, friend Dangle,-never worked harder!
But, hark'ee,-tbe winter malagers were a little sore,Ibelieve.
Dang. No; I believe they took it all in good part.
Ptuf. Ay! then that must have been affectation in them;
for, egad, there were some of the attacks which there was no
laughing at!
Sneer. Ay, the humorous ones.-But I should think, Mr




456


THE    CRRITn: OR,


CAcT r.


Puff, that authors would in general be able to do this sort of
work for themselves.
Puff. Why, yes-but in a clumsy way. Besides, we look on
that as an encroachment, and so take the opposite side. I
dare say, now, you conceive half the very civil paragraphs and
advertisements you see to be written by the parties concerned,
or their friends? No such thing: nine out of ten manufactured by me in the way of business.
Sneer. Indeed!
Puff. Even the auctioneers now-the auctioneers, I saythough the rogues have lately got some credit for their language-not an article of the merit theirs: take them out of
their pulpits, and they are as dull as catalogues!-No, sir;
twas I first enriched their style-'twas I first taught them to
crowd their advertisements with panegyrical superlatives, each
epithet rising above the other, like the bidders in their own
auction-rooms! From me they learned to inlay their phraseology with variegated chips of exotic metaphor: by me too
their inventive faculties were called forth:-yes, sir, by me
they were instructed to clothe ideal walls with gratuitous fruits
-to  insinuate obsequious rivulets into visionary groves-tc
teach-courteous shrubs to nod their approbation of the grateful soil; or on emergencies to raise upstart oaks, where there
never had been an acorn; to create a delightful vicinage without the assistance of a neighbour; or fix the temple of Hygeia
in the fens of Lincolnshire!
Dang. I am sure you have done them infinite service; for
now, when a gentleman is ruined, he parts with his house with
some credit.
Sneer. Service! if they had any gratitude, they would erect
a statue to him; they would figure him as a presiding Mercury, the god of traffic and fiction, with a hammer in his hand
instead of a caduceus.-But pray, Mr. Puff, what first put you
on exercising your talents in this way?
Puff. Egad, sir, sheer necessity!-the proper parent of an
art so nearly allied to invention. You must know, Mr. Sneer,
that from the first time I tried my hand at an advertisement,
my success was such, that for some time after I led a most
extraordinary life indeed!
&neer. How, pray.
Puff. Sir, I supported myself two years entirely by my misfortunes




Et IT.]


A TRAGEDY REHEARSED.


457


Sneer. By your misfortunes!
Puf. Yes, sir, assisted by long sickness, and other occasional disorders; and a very comfortable living I had of it.
Snser. From sickness and misfortunes! You practised as
a doctor and an attorney at once?
Puff. No, egad; both maladies and miseries were my own.
Sneer. Hey! what the plague!.
Dang. 'Tis true, i'faith.
Puff. Hark'ee!-By advertisements-To the charitable and
humane! and To those whom Providence hath blessed with
affluence!
Sneer. Oh, I understand you.
Puff. And, in truth, I deserved what I got; for I suppose
never man went through such a series of calamities in the
same space of time. Sir, I was five times made a bankrupt,
and reduced from a state of affluence, by a train of unavoidable misfortunes: then, sir, though a very industrious tradesman, I was twice burned out, and lost my little all both times:
I lived upon those fires a mouth. I soon after was confined
by a most excruciating disorder, and lost the use of my limbs:
*  that told very well; for I had the case strongly attested, and
went about to collect the subscriptions myself.
Dang. Egad, I believe that was when you first called on
me.
Puff. In November last?-O no; I was at that time a
close prisoner in the Marshalsea, for a debt benevolently contracted to serve a friend. I was afterwards twice tapped for a
dropsy, which declined into a very profitable consumption. I
was then reduced to-O no —then, I became a widow with six
helpless children, after having had eleven husbands pressed,
and being left every time eight months gone with child, and
without money to get me into an hospital!
Sneer. And you bore all with patience, I make no doubt?
Puff. Why, yes; though I made some occasional attempts
at felo de se; but as I did not find those rash actions answer,
I left off killing myself very soon. Well, sir, at last, what
with bankruptcies, fires, gouts, dropsies, imprisonments, and
other valuable calamities, having got together a pretty handsome sum, I determined to quit a business which had always
gone rather against my conscience, and in a more liberal way
still to indulge my talents for fiction and embellishments,




4$9


THE CRTTTil: OR,


grAuT r


through my favourite channels of diurnal communicationand so, sir, you have my history.
Sneer. Most olligingly communicative indeed! and your confession, if published, might certainly serve the cause of true
charity, by rescuing the most useful channels of appeal to
benevolence from the cant of imposition.  But surely, Mr.
Puff, there is no great mystery in your present profession?
Puff  Mystery, sir! I will take upon me to say the matter
was never scientifically treated nor reduced to rule before.
Sneer. Reduced to rule!
Puff. 0 lud, sir, you are very ignorant, I am afraid!-Yes,
sir, puffing is of various sorts; the principal are, the puff
direct, the puff preliminary, the puff collateral, the puff collusive, and the puff oblique, or puff by implication. These all
assume, as circumstances require, the various forms of Letter to
the Editor, Occasional Anecdote, Impartial Critique, Observation from Correspondent, or Advertisement from the Party.
Sneer. The puff direct, I can conceive
Puff. 0 yes, that's simple enough! For instance,-a new
comedy or farce is to be produced at one of the theatres
(though by-the-by they don't bring out half what they ought
to do)-the author, suppose Mr. Snmater, or Mr. Dapper, or
any particular friend of mine-very well; the day before it is
to be performed, I write an account of the manner in which it
was received; I have the plot from the author, and only add
-" characters strongly drawn - highly coloured- hand of a
master-fund of genuine hlumour-mine of invention-neat
dialogue-Attic salt." Then for the performance-" Mr. Dodd
was astonishingly great in the character of Sir Harry. That
universal and judicious actor, Mr Palmer, perhaps never appeared to more advantage than in the colonel;-but it is not
in the power of language to do justice to Mr. King: indeed
he more than merited those repeated bursts of applause which
he drew from a most brilliant and judicious audience. As to
the scenery-the miraculous powers of Mr. De Loutherbourg's
pencil are universally acknowledged. ' In short, we are at a
toss which to admire most. tile unrivalled genius of the author,
the great attention and liberality of the managers, the wonderful abilities of the painter, or the incredible exertions of all
the performers."
Sneer. That's pretty well indeed, sir.




v so. Itn


A TRAGEDY REHEARSED


459


Puff. Oh, cool!-quite cool!-to what I sometimes do.
Sneer. And do you think there are any who are influenced
*   by this?
Puff. 0 lud, yes, sir! the number of those who undergo
the fatigue of judging for themselves is very small indeed.
Sneer. Well, sir, tle puff p)reliminary?
Puff. 0, tlat. sir, does well in the form of a caution. In
a matter of gallantry now —Sir Flimsy Gossamer wishes to be
well with Lady Fanny Fete-he applies to me-I open
trenches for him with a paragraph in the Morning Post.* It is recommended to the beautiful and accomplished Lady
F four stars F dash E to be on her guard against that dangerous character, Sir F dash G; who, however pleasing and
*   insinuating his manners may be, is certainly not remarkable
for the constancy of his attachments! -in italics. Here, you
see, Sir Flimsy Gossamer is introduced to the particular
notice of Lady Fanny, who perhaps never thought of him
before —she finds herself publicly cautioned to avoid him,
which naturally makes her desirous of seeing him; the observation of their acquaintance causes a pretty kind of mutual
*   embarrassment; this produces a sort of sympathy of interest,
which if Sir Flimsy is unable to improve effectually, he at least
gains the credit of having their names mentioned together,
by a particular set, and in a particular way-which nine times
*   out of ten is the full accomplishment of modern gallantry.
Dang. Egad, Sneer, you will be quite an adept in the
business!
Puff. Now, sir, the puff collateral is much used as an
appendage to advertisements, and may take the form of anecdote.-'" Yesterday, as the celebrated George Bonmot was
sauntering down St. Janmes's Street, he met the lively Lady
t   Mary Myrtle coming out of the park:-'Good God, Lady
Mlar, I 'm surprised to meet you in a white jacket, —for I
expected never to have seen you. but in a full-trimmed uniform
and a light horseman's cap!' —  Heavens, George, where
could you have learned that?' -' Why,' replied the wit, ' I
just saw a print of you, in a new publication called the
Camp Magazine; which, by the by, is a devilish clever thing,
and is sold at No. 3, on the right hand of the way, two doors
from the printing-ollice. the corner of Ivy Lane, Paternoster
Row, price only one shilling.'"
Sneer. Very ingenious indeed I




THE CRITIC; OR,


IAJI' r


Puff. But the puff collusive is the newest of any; for it
acts in the disguise of determined hostility. It is much used
by bold booksellers and enterprising poets.-" An indignant
correspondent observes, that the new poem called Beelzebub's
Cotillon, or Proserpine's Fete Champe'tre, is one of the most
unjustifiable performances he ever read. The severity with
which certain characters are handled is quite shocking: and
as there are many descriptions in it too warmly coloured for
female delicacy, the shameful avidity with which this piece is
bought by all people of fashion is a reproach on the taste of
the times, and a disgrace to the delicacy of the age." Here
you see the two strongest inducements are held forth;
first, that nobody ought to read it; and secondly, that everybody buys it: on the strength of which the publisher boldly
prints the tenth edition, before he had sold ten of the first;
and then establishes it by threatening himself with the pillory,
or absolutely indicting himself for scan. mag.
Dang. Ha! h ha ha;-'gad, I know it is so.
Puff. As to the puff oblique, or puff by implication, it is
too various and extensive to be illustrated by an instance: it
attracts in titles and presumes in patents; it lurks in the limitation of a subscription, and invites in the assurance of
crowd and incommodation at public places; it delights to draw
forth concealed merit, with a most disinterested assiduity;
and sometimes wears a countenance of smiling censure and
tender reproach. It has a wonderful memory for parliamentary debates, and will often give the whole speech of a favoured
member with the most flattering accuracy. But, above all, it
is a great dealer in reports and suppositions. It has the
earliest intelligence of intended preferments that will reflect
honour on the patrons; and embryo promotions of modest gentlemen, who know nothing of the matter themselves. It can
hint a ribbon for implied services in the air of a common report; and with the carelessness of a casual paragraph, suggest officers into commands, to which they have no pretension
but their wishes. This, sir, is the last principal class of tle
art of puffing-an art which I hope you will now agree with
me is of the highest dignity, yielding a tablature of benevolence and public spirit; befriending equally trade, gallantry,
criticism, and politics: the applause of genius-the register
of charity-the triumph of heroism-the self-defence of con
tractors --- the fame of orators -and the gazette of ministers




PC. 11           A TRAGEDY REHEARSED.             461
Sneer. Sir, I am completely a convert both to the import,
ance and ingenuity of your profession; and now, sir, there is
but one thing which can possibly increase my respect for you,
and that is, your permitting me to be present this morning at
the rehearsal of your new trage
Puff. Hush, for heaven's sake!-My tragedy!-Egad,
Dangle, I take this very ill: you know how apprehensive I
am of being known to be the author.
Dang. I' faith I would not have told-but it's in the papers,
and your name at length in the Morning Chronicle.
Puff. Ah! those damned editors never can keep a secret!
-Well, Mr. Sneer, no doubt you will do me great honourI shall be infinitely happy-highly flatteredDang. I believe it must be near the time-shall we go together?
Puff. No; it will not be yet this hour, for they are always
late at that theatre: besides, I must meet you there, for I
*   have some little matters here to send to the papers, and a few
paragraphs to scribble before I go.-[Looking at memorandums.] Here is A conscientious Baker, on the subject of the
Army Bread; and A Detester of visible Brickwork, in favour
of the new-invented Stucco; both in the style of Junius, and
promised for to-morrow. The Thames navigation too is at
a stand. Misomud or Anti-shoal must go to work again directly.-Here too are some political memorandums-I see;
ay-To take Paul Jones, and get the Indiamen out of the
Shannon-reinforce Byron-compel the Dutch to-so!-I
must do that in the evening papers, or reserve it for the
*  Morning Herald; for I know that I have undertaken to morrow, besides, to establish the unanimity of the fleet in the Public Advertiser, and to shoot Charles Fox in the Morning
Post.-So, egad, I ha'n't a moment to lose!
Dang. Well, we '11 meet in the Green Room.
[Exeunt sevrally,
ACT II.
SCENE I.-The Theatre, before the Curtatn.
Enter DANGLE, PUFF, and SNEER.
Puff. No, no, sir; what Shakspeare says of actors may be
better applied to the purpose of plays; they ought to be t/v




46'


THE CRMTIC: OR,


LACT r'L


abstract and brief chronicles of the time. Therefore when history, and particularly the history of our own country, furnishes
any thing like a case in point, to the time in which an author writes, if he knows his own interest, he will take advantage of it; so, sir, I call my tragedy The Spanish Armada;
and have laid the scene before Tilbury Fort
Sneer. A most happy thought, certainly!
Dang. Egad it was-I told you so. But pray now, I don't
understand how you have contrived to introduce any love into it.
Puff: Love! oh, nothing so easy! for it is a received point
among poets, that where history gives you a good heroic out,
line for a play, you may fill up with a little love at your own
discretion: in doing which, nine times out of ten, you only
make up a deficiency in the private history of the times.
Now I rather think I have done this with some success.
Sneer. No scandal about Queen Elizabeth, I hope?
Puff. 0 lud! no, no;-I only suppose the governor of
Tilbury Fort's daughter to be in love with the son of the
Spanish admiral.
Sneer. Oh, is that all!
Dang. Excellent, i'faith! I see at once. But won't this
appear rather improbable?
Puff. To be sure it will-but what the plague! a play is not
to show occurrences that happen every day, but things just so
strange, tht thtough they nlever did, they might happen.
Sneer. Certainly nothing is unnatural, that is not physically
impossible.
Puff. Very true-and for that matter Don Ferolo Whiskerandos, for that's the lover's name. might have been over here
in the train of the Spanish Ambassador; or Tilburina, for
that is the lady's name. might have been in love with him,
from having heard his character, or seen his picture; or from
knowing that he was the last man in the world she ought to
be in love with-or for any other good female reason.-However, sir, the fact is, that though she is but a knight's daughter,
egad! she is in love like any princess!
Dang. Poor young lady! I feel for her already! for I can
conceive how great the conflict must be between her passion
and her duty; her love for her country, and her love for Dou
Ferolo Whiskerandos!
Puff. Oh, amazing!-her poor susceptible heart is swayed
to and fro by contending  assl.us like



0 n.]            A TRAGEDY REHEARSED.             L43
Enter UNDER PROMPTER.
Und. Pronp. Sir, the scene is set, and every thing is ready
to begin, if you please.
Puff. Egad, then we'll lose no time.
Und Prorap. Though, I believe, sir, you will find it very
short, for all the performers have profited by the kind permission you granted them.
Puff. Hey! what?
Und. Promp. You know, sir. you gave them leave to cut
out or omit whatever they found heavy or unnecessary to the
plot, and I must own they have taken very liberal advantage
of your indulgence.
Puf. Well, well.-They are in general very good judges,
and I know I am luxuriant.-Now, Mr. Hopkins, as soon as
you please.
Und. Promp. [To the Orchestra.] Gentlemen, will you play
a few bars of something, just toPuff. Ay, that's right; for as we have the scenes and
dresses, egad, we '11 go to't, as if it was the first night's performance;-but you need not mind stopping between the acts
*  -[Exit UNDER PROMPTER.-Orchestra play-then the bell
rings.] So! stand clear, gentlemen.  Now you know there
will be a cry of Down! down!-Hats off! -Silence!-Then
up curtain, and let us see what our painters have done for us.
[Curtain rises.
SCENE II.-Tilbury Fort.
"Two SENTINELS discovered asleep."
Dang. Tilbury Fort!-very fine indeed!
Puff. Now, what do you think I open with?
Sneer. Faith, I can't guess —
Puff. A clock.-Hark!-[Clock strikes.] I open with a clock
striking, to beget an awful attention in the audience: it also
marks the time, which is four o'clock in the morning, and saves
a description of the rising sun, and a great deal about gilding
the eastern hemisphere.
Dang. But pray, are the sentinels to be asleep?
Puff. Fast as watchmen.
Sneer. Isn't that odd though at such an alarming crisis?
Puff. To be sure it is.-but smaller things must give way
to a striking scene at the opening; that's a rule. And thb
case is, that two great men are coming to this very spot to by




THE CRITIC; OR,


ACT u


gin the piece: now, it is not to be supposed they would open
their lips, if these fellows were watching them; so, egad, I
must either have sent them off their posts, or set them asleep.
Sneer. Oh, that accounts for it.-But tell us, who are these
coming?
Puff. These are they-Sir Walter Raleigh, and Sir Christopher Hatton. You 1l know Sir Christopher by his turning
out his toes-famous, you know, for his dancing.         I like to
preserve all the little traits of character.-Now attend.
"Enter SIR WALTER RALEIGH and SIR CHRISTOPHER HATTON.
Sir Christ. True, gallant Raleigh!"Dang. What, they had been talking before?
Puff. 0 yes; all the way as they came along.-[To the
Actors.] I beg pardon, gentlemen, but these are particular
friends of mine, whose remarks may be of great service to us.
-[To SNEER and DANGLE.] Don't mind interrupting them
whenever any thing strikes you.
"Sir Christ. True, gallant Raleigh
But oh, thou champion of thy country's fame,
There is a question which I yet must ask:
A question which I never ask'd beforeWhat mean these mighty armaments I
This general muster ' and this throng of chiefs I"
Sneer. Pray, Mr. Puff, how came Sir Christopher Hatton
never to ask that question before?
Puff. What, before the play began?-how the plague could
he?
Dang. That's true, i' faith!
Puf. But you will hear what he thinks of the matter
NSir Christ. Alas! my noble friend, when I behold
Yon tented plains in martial symmetry
Array'd; when I count o'er yon glittering lines
Of crested warriors, where the proud steeds neigh,
And valour-breathing trumpet's shrill appeal,
Responsive vibrate on my listening ear;
When virgin majesty herself I view,
Like her protecting Pallas, veil'd in steel,
With graceful confidence exhort to arms!
When, briefly, all I hear or see bears stamp
Of martial vigilance and ster defence,
I cannot but surmise-forgive, my friend,
If the conjecture's rash-I cannot but
Surmise the state some danger apprehends I"
Swer. A very cautious conjecture that.




SO.!I.J            A TRAGEDY REHEARSED                       465[
Puff. Yes, that's his character; not to give an opinion but
on secure grounds.-Now then.
"Sir Walt. 0 most accomplish'd Christopher!" —
Puff. He calls him by his christian name, to show that they
are on the most familiar terms
" Sir Walt. 0 most accomplish'd Christopher! I find
Thy staunch sagacity still tracks the future,
In the fresh print of the o'ertaken past."
Puff. Figurative!
"Sir Walt. Thy fears are just.
Sir Christ. But where'? whence? when  and what
The danger is,-methinks I fain would learn.
Sir Walt. You know, my friend, scarce two revolving suns,
And three revolving moons, have closed their course,
Since haughty Philip, in despite of peace,
With hostile hand hath struck at England's trade.
Sir Christ. I know it well.
Sir Walt. Philip, you know, is proud Iberia's king!
Sir Christ. He is.
Sir Walt.         His subjects in base bigotry
And Catholic oppression held;-while we,
You know, the Protestant persuasion hold.
Sir Christ. We do.
Sir Walt. You know, beside, his boasted armament,
The famed Armada, by the Pope baptized,
With purpose to invade these realmsSir Christ.                                     Is sailed,
Our last advices so report.
Sir Walt. While the Iberian admiral's chief hope,
His darling son —
Sir Christ.                 Ferolo Whiskerandos hight —
Sir Wait. The same-by chance a prisoner hath been ta'en,
And in this fort of TilburySir Christ.                           Is now
Confined-'tis true, and oft from yon tall turret's top
I've mark'd the youthful Spaniard's haughty mienI Unconquer'd, though in chains.
Sir Walt.                              You also know"Dang. Mr. Puff, as he knows all this, why does Sir Walter
go on telling him?
Puff. But the audience are not supposed to know any thing
of the matter, are they?
Sneer. True; but I think you manage ill: for there certainly appears no reason why Sir Walter should be so communicative.
Puff. 'Fore Gad, now, that is one of the most ungrateful
* bservations I ever heard!-for the less inducement he has to
la H




466


THE CRITIC; OR.


[ACT II


tell all this, the more, I think, you ought to be obliged to
him; for I am sure you'd know nothing of the matter with
out it.
Dang. That's very true, upon my word.
Puff. But you will find he was not going on.
"Sir Christ. Enough, enough-'tis plain-and I no more
Am in amazement lost!"
Puf. Here, now you see, Sir Christopher did not in fact
ask any one question for his own information.
Sneer. No, indeed: his has been        a most disinterested
curiosity!
Dang. Really, I find, we are very much obliged to them
both.
Puff. To be sure you are. Now then for the commanderin-chief, the Earl of Leicester, who, you know, was no favourite but of the queen's.-We left off-in amazement lost!
"Sir Christ.           Am in amazement lost.
But, see where noble Leicester comes! supreme
In honours and command.
Sir Walt..                       And yet, methinks,
At such a time, so perilous, so fear'd,
That staff might well become an abler grasp.
Sir Christ.. And so, by Heaven! think I; but soft, he's here '
Puf. Ay, they envy him!
Sneer. But who are these with him?
Puf. Oh! very valiant knights: one is the governor of the
fort, the other the master of the horse. And now, I think,
you shall hear some better language: I was obliged to be
plain and intelligible in the first scene, because there was so
much matter of fact in it; but now, i' faith, you have trope,
figure, and metaphor, as plenty as noun-substantives.
"Enter EARL OF LEICESTER, GOVERNOR, MASTER OF THE HORSR,
KNIGHTS, &C.
Leic.... How's this, my friends! is 't thus your new-fledged zeal
And plumed valour moulds in roosted sloth?
Why dimly glimmers that heroic flame,
Whose reddening blaze, by patriot spirit fed,
Should be the beacon of a kindling realm.
Can the quick current of a patriot heart
Thus stagnate in a cold and weedy converse,
Or freeze in tideless inactivity
No! rather let the fountain of your valour
Spring through each stream of enterprise,
Each petty channel of conducive daring,
Till the full torrent of your foaming wrath
O'erwhelm the flats of sunk hostility "




SC.    II.]


A TRAGEDY REHEARSED.


407


Puff. There it is-followed up!
"Sir Walt. No more!-the freshening breath of thy rebuke
Hath fill d the swelling canvas of our souls!
And thus, though fate should cut the cable of
[All take hands.
Our topmost hopes, in friendship's closing line
We '11 grapple with despair, and if we fall,
We '11 fall in glory's wake!
Leic.... There spoke old England's genius I
Then, are we all resolved I
All..     We are-all resolved.
Leic.... To conquer-or be free
All.... To conquer, or be free.
Leic...    All?
All.       All."
Dang. Nem. con. egad!
Puf. 0    yes!-where they do agree on the stage, teir
unanimity is wonderful!
"Leic... Then let's embrace-and now —        [Kneis."
Sneer. What the plague, is he going to pray?
Puff. Yes; hush!-in great emergencies, there is nothing
like a prayer.
"Leic.... 0 mighty Mars!"
Dang. But why should he pray to Mars?
Puff. Hush!
" Leic....                 If in thy homage bred,
Each point of discipline I've still observed;
Nor but by due promotion, and the right
Of service, to the rank of major-general
Have risen; assist thy votary now!
Gov.... Yet do not ris —hear me!               [Kneels
Mast.... And me I                               [Kneels.
Knight..   And me I                               Kneels.
Sir Walt.. And me!                              [Kneels.
Sir Christ. And me!                              [Kneels."
Puff. Now pray altogether.
"A Alb... Behold thy votaries submissive beg,
That thou wilt deign to grant them all they ask;
Assist them to accomplish all their ends,
And sanctify whatever means they use
To gain them!"
Sneer. A very orthodox quintetto!
Puff. Vastly well, gentlemen! —s that well managed or
not?   Have you such a prayer as that on the stage?
Sneer. Not exactly.
H 2




THE CRITIC; OR,


a&CT Ir.


Leic. [To PUFF.] But, sir, you haven't settled how we aro
to get off here.
Puff. You could not go off kneeling, could you?
Sir Walt. [To PUFF.] 0 no, sir; impossible!
Puff. It would have a good effect, i'faith, if you could
exeunt praying!-Yes, and would vary the established mode
of springing off with a glance at the pit.
Sneer. Oh, never mind, so as you get them    off! —I11
answer for it, the audience won't care how.
Puff. Well, then, repeat the last line standing, and go off
the old way.
"All...And sanctify whatever means we use
To gain them.                  [ExeutU.
Dang. Bravo! a fine exit.
Sneer. Well, really, Mr. PuffPuff. Stay a moment!
" The SENTINELS get up.
1 Sent... All this shall to Lord Burleigh's ear.
2 Sent... 'Tis meet it should.          [Exeunt."
Dang. Hey!-why, I thought those fellows had been
asleep?
Puff. Only a pretence; there's the art of it: they were
spies of Lord Burleigh's.
Sneer. But isn't it odd they never were taken notice of, not
even by the commander-in-chief?
Puff. 0 lud, sir! if people, who want to listen or overhear, were not always connived at in a tragedy, there would
be no carrying on any plot in the world.
Dang. That's certain!
Puff. But take care, my dear Dangle! the morning-gun is
going to fire.                             [Cannon fires.
Dang. Well, that will have a fine effect!
Puff. I think so, and helps to realise the scene.-[Cannon
twice.] What the plague! three morning guns! there never
is but one! —Ay, this is always the way at the theatre: give
these fellows a good thing, and they never know when to have
uvne with it.-You have no more cannon to fire?
Und. Prorp. [Within.] No, sir.
Puff. Now, then, for soft music.
Sneer. Pray what's that for?
Puff. It shows that Tilburina is coming;-nothing intro
iuces you a heroine like soft music. Here she comes I




SC. 1.]


A TRAGEDY REHEARSED.


469


Dang. And her confidant, I suppose?
Puff. To be sure!       Here they are-inconsolable to the
minuet in Ariadne!                                     [Soft music,
"Enter TILBURINA and CONFIDANT.
Tillh.. Now has the whispering breath of gentle morn
Bid Nature's voice and Nature's beauty rise;
While orient Phoebus, with unborrow'd hues,
Clothes the waked loveliness which all night slept
In heavenly drapery! Darkness is fled.
Now flowers unfold their beauties to the sun,
*               And, blushing, kiss the beam he sends to wake themThe striped carnation, and the guarded rose,
The vulgar wallflower, and smart gillyflower,
The polyanthus mean-the dapper daisy,
Sweet-william, and sweet marjoram-and all
The tribe of single and of double pinks!
Now, too, the Seather'd warblers tune their notes
Around, and charm the listening grove. The lark!
The linnet! chaffinch! bullfinch! goldfinch! greenfinch I
But 0, to me no joy can they afford!
Nor rose, nor wallflower, nor smart gillyflo er,
Nor polyanthus mean, nor dapper daisy,
Nor William sweet, nor marjoram-nor lark,
Linnet, nor all the finches of the grove "
Puff. Your white handkerchief, madam!
Tilb. I thought, sir, I wasn't to use that till heart-rending
woe.
Puff. 0 yes, madam, at the finches of the grove, if you please.
"Tilb....                 Nor lark,
Linnet, nor all the finches of the grove!  [Weeps."
Puff. Vastly well, madam!
Dang. Vastly well, indeed!
" Tilb...For, 0, too sure, heart-rending woe is now
The lot of wretched Tilburina!"
rf            Dang. Oh!-'tis too much!
Sneer   Oh!-it is indeed!
' Con...Be comforted, sweet lady; for who knows,
But Heaven has yet some milk-white day in store I
Tilb.... Alas! my gentle Nora,
Thy tender youth as yet hath never mourn'd
Love's fatal dart. Else wouldst thou know, that when
The soul is sunk in comfortless despair,
v              It cannot taste of merriment."
Dang. That's certain!
"Cona... But see where your stern father comes:
It is not meet that he should find you thus."




?70


THE CRITIC; OR,


[ACT It.


Puff. Hey, what the plague!-what a cut is here!         Why,
what is become of the description of her first meeting with
Don Whiskerandos-his gallant behaviour in the sea fightand the simile of the canary-bird?
Tilb. Indeed, sir, you '11 find they will not be missed.
Puff. Very well, very well!
Tilb. [To CONFIDANT.] The cue, ma'am, if you please.
"Con... It is not meet that he should find you thus.
Tilb.... Thou counsel'st right; but 'tis no easy task
For barefaced grief to wear a mask of joy.
EEnter GOVERNOR.
Gov...  How's this!-in tears?-0 Tilburina, shame
Is this a time for maudling tenderness,
And Cupid's baby woes?-Hast thou not heard
That haughty Spain's pope-consecrated fleet
Advances to our shores, while England's fate,
Like a clipp'd guinea, trembles in the scaled
Tilb.... Then is the crisis of my fate at hand!
I see the fleets approach-I see —"
Puff. Now, pray, gentlemen, mind. This is one of the
most useful figures we tragedy writers have, by which a hero
or heroine, in consideration of their being often obliged to
overlook things that are on the stage, is allowed to hear and
see a number of things that are not.
Sneer. Yes; a kind of poetical second-sight!
Puff. Yes.-Now then, madam.
" Tilb....                     I see their decks
Are clear'd!-I see the signal made!
The line is form'd!-a cable's length asunder!I see the frigates station'd in the rear;
And now, I hear the thunder of the guns!
I hear the victor's shouts!-I also hear
The vanquish'd groan!-and now 'tis smoke-and now
I see the loose sails shiver in the wind!
I see-I see-what soon you '11 seeGov.... Hold, daughter! peace! this love hath turn'd thy brain:
The Spanish fleet thou canst not see-because
-It is not yet in sight I"
Dang. Egad, though, the governor seems to make no allowance for this poetical figure you talk of.
Puff. No, a plain matter-of-fact man;-that's his character
" Tilb.. But will you then refuse his offer?
Gov.... I must-I will-I can-I ougt —I do.
Tilb.... Think what a nobl! price.
Got.... No more-you urge in vain.
TEm... His liberty is all he aaks."




so. Ir.J


A TRAGEDY REHEARSED


471


Sneer. All who asks, Mr. Puff?   Who is
Puff. Egad, sir, I can't tell! Here has been such cutting
and slashing, I don't know where they have got to myself.
Tilb. Indeed, sir, you will find it will connect very well.
" -And your reward secure."
Puff. Oh, if they hadn't been so devilish free with their
cutting here, you would have found that Don Whiskerandos has
been tampering for his liberty, and has persuaded Tilburina to
make this proposal to her father. And now, pray observe the
conciseness with which the argument is conducted.      Egad,
the pro and con goes as smart as hits in a fencing-match. It
is indeed a sort of small-sword logic, which we have borrowed
from the French.
" Tilb..A retreat in Spain!
Gov..   Outlawry here!
Tilb..   Your daughter's prayer?
Gov.... Your father's oath.
Tilb....     My lover!
Gov.... MIy country!
Tilb.... Tilburina!
Gov..     England!
Tilb..   A title!
Gov.      Honour!
Tilb....  A pension!
Gov...   Conscience!
Tilb.....  A thousand pounds!
Gov.... Ha! thou hast touch'd me nearly!"
Puff. There you see —she threw in Tilburina, Quick, parry
quarte with England!-Ha! thrust in tierce a title!-parried
by honour.   Ha! a pension over the arm!-put by by conscience. Then flankonade with a thousand pounds-and a
palpable hit, egad!
" Tilb... Canst thouReject the suppliant, and the daughter too
Gov....   No more; I would not hear thee plead in vain:
The father softens-but the governor
Is fix'd! 4                                  [Ex.
Dang. Ay, that antithesis of persons is a most established
figure.
Tilb... 'Tis well,-hence then, fond hopes,-fond passion, hence;
t            Duty, behold I am all over thineWhisk... [ Without.] Where is my love-myTilb....  HaIl
Enter DoN FEROLO WHISKERANDOS.
W.hisk.  My beauteous enemy I — "




THE CRITIC; OR,


[ACT II


Puff   0 dear, ma'am, you must start a great deal more than
that!   Consider, you had just determined in favour of dutywhen, in a moment, the sound of his voice revives your passion-overthrows your resolution-destroys your obedience.
If you don't express all that in your start, you do nothing at all
Tilb. Well, we'll try again!
Dang. Speaking from within has always a fine effect.
Sneer. Very.
" Whisk.. My conquering Tilburina! How! is 't thus
We meet' why are thy looks averse? what means
That falling tear-that frown of boding woe i
Ha I now indeed I am a prisoner!
Yes, now I feel the galling weight of these
Disgraceful chains-which, cruel Tilburina!
Thy doating captive gloried in before.But thou art false, and Whiskerandos is undone I
Tilb.... 0 no! how little dost thou know thy Tilburina!
Whisk... Art thou then true?-Begone cares, doubts, and fears,
I make you all a present to the winds;
And if the winds reject you-try the waves."
Puff. The wind, you know, is the established receiver of all
stolen sighs, and cast-off griefs and apprehensions,
' Tilb... Yet must we part!-stern duty seals our doom:
Though here I call yon conscious clouds to witness,
Could I pursue the bias of my soul,
All friends, all right of parents, I'd disclaim,
And thou, my Whiskerandos, shouldst be father
And mother, brother, cousin, uncle, aunt,
And friend to me!
Whisk.. Oh, matchless excellence! and must we part?
Well, if-we must-we must-and in that case
The less is said the better."
Puff. Heyday! here's a cut!-What, are all the mutual
protestations out?
Tilb. Now, pray, sir, don't interrupt us just here: you ruin
our feelings.
Puff. Your feelings!-but zounds, my feelings, ma'am!
Sneer. No; pray don't interrupt them.
' Whisk.. One last embrace.
Tilb...  Now,-farewell, for ever.
Whisk... For ever!
Tilb.... Ay, for ever!                           [Going."
Puff. 'Sdeath and fury!-Gad's life!-sir! madam! if you
go out without the parting look, you might as well dance out.
Here, here!
Con. But pray, sir, how am I to get off here?




irC. II.J


A TRAGEDY REHEARSED


473


Puff. You! pshaw! what the devil signifies how you get off!
edge away at the top, or where you will-[Pushes the Coa
FIDANT off.] Now, ma'am, you seeTilb. We understand you, sir.
" Ay, for ever.
Both... Oh! [Turning back, and exeunt.-Scene closes."
Dang. Oh, charming!
Puff. Hey!-'tis pretty well, I believe: you see I don't
attempt to strike out any thing new-but I take it I improve
on the established modes,
Sneer. You do, indeed! But pray is not Queen Elizabeth
to appear?
Puff. No, not once-but she is to be talked of for ever; so
that, egad, you'll think a hundred times that she is on the
point of coming in.
Sneer. Hang it, I think it's a pity to keep her in the green
room all the night.
Puff. 0 no, that always has a fine effect-it keeps up expectation.
Dang. But are we not to have a battle?
Puff. Yes, yes, you will have a battle at last; but, egsA, it's
not to be by land, but by sea-and that is the only quite new
thing in the piece.
Dang. What, Drake at the Armada, hey?
Puff. Yes, i'faith-fire-ships and all; then we shall end
with the procession. Hey, that will do, I think?
Sneer. No, doubt on't.
Puff. Come, we must not lose time; so now for the under
plot.
Sneer. What the plague, have you another plot?
Puff. 0 Lord, yes; ever while you live have two plots to
your tragedy. The grand point in managing them is only to
let your under-plot have as little connection with your mainplot as possible.-I flatter myself nothing can be more dis
tinct than mine; for as in my chief plot the characters are al
great people, I have laid my under-plot in low life; and as the
former is to end in deep distress, I make the other end as
happy as a farce.-Now, Mr. Hopkins, as soon as you please.
Enter UNDER PROMPTER
Und. Promp. Sir, the carpenter says it is impossible you
can go to the park scene yet.




474


THE CRITIC; OR,


[ACT   1i.


Pzff. The park scene! no! I mean the description se -uo
here, in the wood.
Und. Prormp. Sir, the performers have cut it out.
Puff. Cut it out!
Under Prop01. Yes, sir.
Puff. What! the whole account of Queen Elizabeth
Under Prormp. Yes, sir.
Pu/f. And the description of her horse and side-saddle?
Under Pronip. Yes, sir.
Puff. So, so; this is very fine indeed!-Mr. Hopkin. how
tile plague could you suffer this?
3Ir. Hop. [Within.] Sir, indeed the pruning-knife ---
PuJff The pruning-knife-zounds!-the axe! Why, here has
been such lopping and topping, I shan't have the bare trunk of
my play left presently!-Very well, sir-the performers must
do as they please; but, upon my soul, I '11 print it every word.
Sneer. That I would, indeed.
Puff. Very well, sir; then we must go on.-Zounds     I
would not have parted with the description of the horl! ---
Well, sir, go on.-Sir, it was one of the finest and I.ost
laboured things.-Very well, sir; let them go on.-Thei, you
had him and his accoutrements, from the bit to the cruper.
-Very well, sir; we must go to the park sceme.
Under Promp. Sir, there is the point: the carpenters say,
that unless there is some business put in here before the drop,
they shan't have time to clear away the fort, or sink Gravesend and the river.
Puff. So! this is a pretty dilemma, truly!-Gentlemen,
you must excuse me-these fellows will never be ready, unless
I go and look after them myself.
Sneer. 0 dear, sir, these little things will happen.
Puff. To cut out this scene!-but I '11 print it-egad, I 11
print it every word!                             [Exeunt.
ACT III.
SCENE I.,-The Theatre, before the Curtain.
Enter PUFF, SNEER, and DANGLE.
Puff. Well, we are ready; now then for the justices.
[Curtain rises
" JUSTICeS, CONSTABLFES, &c., discovered."
Sneer This, I suppose, is a sort of senat-m.-ane.




SC. I.]


A TRAGEDY REHEARSED.


475


Puzff. To be sure; there has not been one yet.
'Dang. It is the under-plot, isn't it?
Puff. Yes.-What, gentlemen, do you mean to go at once
to the discovery scene?
Just. If you please, sir.
Puff. Oh, very well -Hark'ee, I don't choose to say any
thing more; but, i' faith, they have mangled my play in a moat
shocking manner.
Dong. It's a great pity!
Puff. Now, then, Mr. Justice, if you please.
"Just.. Are all the volunteers without?
Const...                              They are.
Some ten in fetters, and some twenty drunk.
Just...Attends the youth, whose most opprobrious fame
And clear convicted crimes have stamp'd him soldier?
Const.... He waits your pleasure; eager to repay
The blest reprieve that sends him to the fields
Of glory, there to raise his branded hand
f              In honour's cause.
Just....                   'Tis well-'tis justice arms him I
Oh! may he now defend his country's laws
With half the spirit he has broke them all!
If 'tis your worship's pleasure, bid him enter.
Const.... I fly, the herald of your will.        [Exit"
Puff. Quick, sir.
Sneer. But, Mr. Puff, I think not only the Justice, but the
f    clown seems to talk in as high a style as the first hero among
them.
Puff. Heaven forbid they should not in a free country!Sir, I am not for making slavish distinctions, and giving all
the fine language to the upper sort of people.
Dang. That's very noble in you, indeed.
"Enter JUSTICE's LADY."
T      Puff. Now, pray mark this scene.
" Lady... Forgive this interruption, good my love;
But as I just now pass'd a prisoner youth,
Whom rude hands hither lead, strange bodings seized
hMy fluttering heart, and to myself I said,
An if our Tom had lived, he'd surely been
This stripling's height!
Just.... Ha! sure some powerful sympathy directs
Us bothRe-enter CONSTABLE with SON.
What is thy name?
Ion... My name is Tom Jenkins-ctaas have I none —
Though orphan'd, and without a friend!




476


THE CRITIC: OR,


[ACT I L


Just....                           Thy parents 1
Son.... My father dwelt in Rochester-and was,
As I have heard-a fishmonger-no more."
Puff. What, sir, do you leave out the account of your birth,
parentage and education?
Son. They have settled it so, sir, here.
Puff. Oh! oh!
"Lady... How loudly nature whispers to my heart I
Had he no other name?
Son....                          I've seen a bill
Of his sign'd Tomkins, creditor.
Just..... This does indeed confirm each circumstance
The gipsy told!-Prepare!
Son....                             I do.
Just..... No orphan, nor without a friend art thouI am thy father; here's thy mother; there
Thy uncle-this thy first cousin, and those
Are all your near relations!
Lady.... O ecstacy of bliss!
Son..... 0 most unlook'd for happiness!
Just.....  0 wonderful event! [They faint alternately in each other's armsn
Puff. There, you see relationship, like murder, will out.
"Just.. Now let's revive-else were this joy too much!
But come-and we'11 unfold the rest within;
And thou, my boy, must needs want rest and food.
Hence may each orphan hope, as chance directs,
To find a father-where he least expects!"    [Exeuntt."
Puff. What do you think of that?
Dang. One of the finest discovery-scenes I ever saw!Why, this under-plot would have made a tragedy itself.
Sneer. Ay, or a comedy either.
Puff. And keeps quite clear you see of the other.
Enter SCENEMEN, taking away the seats.
Puff. The scene remains, does it?
Sceneman. Yes, sir.
Puff. You are to leave one chair, you know.-But it is always awkward in a tragedy, to have you fellows coming in in
your playhouse liveries to remove things.-I wish that could
be managed better.-So now for my mysterious yeoman.
" Enter BEEFEATER.
Beef... Perdition catch my soul, but I do love thee."
Sneer. Haven't I heard that line before?
Puff. No, I fancy not.-Where, pray?




-   EC I.]


A TRAGEDY REHEARSED.


477


Dang. Yes, I think there is something like it in Othello.
Puff. Gad! now you put me in mind on 't, I believe there
is-but that's of no consequence; all that can be said is, that
two people happened to hit on the same thought-and Shakspeare made use of it first, that's all.
Sneer. Very true.
Puff. Now, sir, your soliloquy-but speak more to the pit,
if you please-the soliloquy always to the pit, that's a rule
"Beef.. Though hopeless love finds comfort in despair,
-         It never can endure a rival's bliss!
But soft-I am observed.             [Exit."
Dang. That's a very short soliloquy.
Puff. Yes-but it would have been a great deal longer if he
had not been observed.
Sneer. A most sentimental Beefeater that, Mr. Puff!
Puff. Hark'ee-I would not have you be too sure that he
is a Beefeater.
Sneer. What, a hero in disguise?
Puff. No matter-I only give you a hint. But now for my
principal character. Here he comes-Lord Burleigh in person! Pray, gentlemen step this way-softly-I only hope
the Lord High Treasurer is perfect-if he is but perfect!
" Enter LORD BURLEIGH, goes slowly to a chair, and sits."
Sneer. Mr. Puff!
Puff. Hush!-Vastly well, sir! vastly well! a most interesting gravity!
Dang. What isn't he to speak at all?
Puff. Egad, I thought you'd ask me that!-Yes, it is a very
likely thing-that a minister in his situation, with the whole
affairs of the nation on his head, should have time to talk!But hush! or you '11 put him out.
Sneer. Put him out! how the plague can that be, if he 's
not going to say any thing.!
Puff. There's the reason! why, his part is to think; and
how the plague do you imagine he can think if you keep talking?
Dang. That's very true, upon my word!
"t    LORD BURLEIGH comes forward, shakes his head, and exit."
Sneer. He is very perfect indeed! Now, pray what did he
mean by that?
X      Puff. You don't take it?




d78


THE. CRITIC; OR,


[ACT III,


Sneer. No, I din't, upon my soul.
Puff. Why, by that shake of the head, he gave you to understand that even though they had more justice in their
cause, and wisdom in their measures —yet, if there was not a
greater spirit shown on the part of the people, the country
would at last fall a sacrifice to the hostile ambition of the
Spanish monarchy.
Sneer. The devil! did he mean all that by shaking his head?
Puff. Every word of it-if he shook his head as I taught him.
Dang. Ah! there certainly is a vast deal to be done on the
stage by dumb show and expression of face; and a judicious
author knows how much he may trust to it.
Sneer. Oh, here are some of our old acquaintance.
" Enter SIR CHRISTOPHER HATTON and SIR WALTER RALEIGH.
Sir Christ. My niece and your niece too!
By Heaven! there's witchcraft in't.-He could not else
Have gain'd their hearts.-But see where they approach:
Some horrid purpose lowering on their brows!           v
Sir Walt. Let us withdraw and mark them.        [They wit&raw."
Sneer. What is all this?
Puff. Ah! here has been more pruning!-but the fact is,
these two young ladies are also in love with Doi Whiskerandos.-Now, gentlemen, this scene goes entirely for what we
call situation and stage effect, by which the greatest applause
may be obtained, without the assistance of language, sentiment,
or character: pray mark!
" Enter the two NIECES.
lst Niece.. Ellena here!
She is his scorn as much aw I —that is
Some comfort still!"
Puff. 0 dear, madam, you are not to say that to her face!
-aside, ma'am, aside.-The whole scene is to be aside.
"1st Niece. She is his scorn as much as I-that is
Some comfort still.                           [Asid
2nd Niece. I know he prizes not Pollina's love;
But Tilburina lords it o'er his heart.        [Asidsz.
1st Niece.. But see the proud destroyer of my peace.
Revenge is all the good I 've left.           [Asiae,
2sd Niece. He comes, the false disturber of my qaiet.
Now, vengeance do thy worst.                   [Ad
Enter DON FEROLO WHISKERANDOS.
Wkik.,. 0 hateful liberty-ifthus in vain
I seek my Tilburina!




So. I.]


A TRAGEDY REHEARSED


Both Nieces... And ever shalt!
SIR CHRISTOPHER HATTON and SIR WALTER RALEIGH comeforward,
Sir Christ. and Sir Walt. Hold! we will avenge you.
Whisk.. Hold you-or see your nieces bleed!
[The two NIECES draw their two daggers to strike WHmISxBANDOS: the two UNCLES at the instant, with their two
swords drawn, catch their two NIECES' arms, and turn
the points of their swords to WHISKERANDOS, who immediately draws two daggers, and holds them to the two
NIECES' bosoms."
Puff. There 's situation for you! there 's an heroic group!
-You see the ladies can't stab Whiskerandos-he durst not
strike them, for fear of their uncles-the uncles durst not kill
him, because of their nieces-I have them all at a dead lock I
-for every one of them is afraid to let go first.
Sneer. Why, then they must stand there for ever!
Puff. So, they would, if I hadn't a very fine contrivance
for 't.-Now mind
" Enter BEEFEATER, with his halberd.
Beef.... In the queen's name I charge you all to drop
Your swords and daggers!
[They drop their swords and dayge!.t
Sneer. That is a contrivance indeed!
Puff. Ay-in the queen's name.
"Sir Christ. Come, niece!
Sir Walter. Come, niece!               [Exeuret with the two NImor
Whisk.. W.hat's he, who bids us thus renounce our guard
Beef... Thou must do more-renounce thy love!
Whisk.. Thou liest-base Beefeater!
Beef.....                            Ha! hell! the lie!
By Heaven thou 'st roused the lion ih my heart!
Off, yeoman's habit -base disguise! off! off!
[Discovers himself, by throwing off his upper dress aEd ap.
a,                      pearing in a very fine waistcoat.
Am I a Beefeater now?
Or beams my crest as terrible as when
In Biscay's Bay I took thy captive sloop?"
Puff   There, egad! he comes out to Se the very captain of
the privateer who had taken Whiskerandos prisoner-and was
himself an old lover of Tilburina's.
Dang. Admirably managed, indeed!
Puff. Now, stand out of their way.
Whis... I thank thee, Fortune, that hast thus-bestowed
A weapon to chastise this insolent. [Takes up one of the swordr




THE CRITIC; OR,


[ACT UL


Beef.... I take thy challenge, Spaniard, and I thank thee,
Fortune, too I           [Takes up the other sword."
Dang. That's excellently contrived!-It seems as if the
two uncles had left their swords on purpose for them.
Puf. No, egad, they could not help leaving them.
"Whisk.. Vengeance and Tilburina 1
Beef.                              Exactly so[They fight-and after the usual number of wounds given,
WHISKERANDOS falls.
Whisk... 0 cursed parry!-that last thrust in tierce
Was fatal.-Captain, thou hast fenced well!
And Whiskerandos quits this bustling scene
For all eter
Beef....              -   nity-he would have added, but stern death
Cut short his being, and the noun at once!"
Puff. Oh, my dear sir, you are too slow: now mind me.
-Sir, shall I trouble you to die again?
Whisk.    And Whiskerandos quits this bustling scene
For all eter
Beef...                 -   nity-he would have added,Puff. No, sir-that's not it-once more, if you please.
Whisk. I wish, sir, you would practise this without me-I
can't stay dying here all night.
Puff. Very well; we '11 go over it by-and-by.-[Exit WHIS,
KERANDOS.]    I must humour these gentlemen!
"Beef.. Farewell, brave Spaniard! and when next"Puff. Dear sir, you needn't speak that speech, as the body
has walked off.
Beef. That's true, sir-then I '11 join the fleet.
Puff. If you please.-[Exit BEEFEATER.]       Now, who comes
on?
"Enter GOVERNOR, with his hair properly disordered.
Go..... A hemisphere of evil planets reign!
And every planet sheds contagious frenzy!
My Spanish prisoner is slain I my daughter,
Meeting the dead corse borne along, has gone
Distract!             [A loud flourish of trumpets.
But hark! I am summon'd to the fort:
Perhaps the fleets have met! amazing crisis '
0 Tilburina! from thy aged father's bard
Thou 'st pluck'd the few brown hairs which time had left!
[Exit"
Sneer. Poor gentleman!




A TRAGEDY RTEHEARSFE).


481


Puff. Yes-and no one to blame but his daughter!
Dang. And the planets —
Puff. True.-Now enter Tilburina!
Sneer. Egad, the business comes on quick here.
Puff. Yes, sir-now she comes in stark mad in white
satin.
Sneer. Why in white satin?
Puff. 0 Lord, sir-when a heroine goes mad, she always
goes into white satin.-Don't she, Dangle'?
J)ang. Always-it's a rule.
Puff. Yes-here it is-[Lookig at the book.] " Enter Tilburina stark mad in white satin, and her confidant stark mad
in white linen."
"Enter TILBURINA and CONFIDANT, mad, according to custom."
Sneer. But, what the deuce, is the confidant to be mad
too?
Puff. To be sure she is: the confidant is always to do
whatever her mistress does; weep when she weeps, smile
when she smiles, go mad when she goes mad.-New, madam
confidant-but keep your madness in the back-ground, if you
please.
" Tilb.. The wind whistles-the moon rises-see,
They have kill'd my squirrel in his c:ge
Is this a grasshopper-lIa! no; it is my
Whiskerandos-you shall not keep himI know you have him in your pocket —
An oyster may be cross'd in love!-Who says
A whale's a bird?-Ha! did you call. my love.He's here! he's there!-He 's everywhere!
Ah me I he's nowhere!            [Exit."
Puff. There, do you ever desire to see any body madder
than that?
Sneer. Never, while I live!
Puff. You observed how she mangled the metre?
Dang. Yes-egad, it was the first thing made me suspect
she was out of her senses'!
Sneer. And pray what becomes of her?
Puff. She is gone to throw herself into the sea, to be sure
-and that brings us at once to the scene of action, and so to
my catastrophe-my sea-fight, I mean.
Sneer. What, you bring that in at last?
Puff. Yes, yes —yu know my play is called The Spanish
Armada; otherwise, ogad, I have no occasion for the battle at
I T




482


THE CRITIC


[A, MII.


all.-Now then for my magnificence!-my battle I-my noise I
— nd my procession!-You are all ready?
Und. Promp. [TWithin.] Yes, sir.
PtqJ' Is the Thames dressed?
"Enter THAMES with two ATTE^DATsr."
Thames. Here I am, sir.
Puff. Very well, indeed!-See, gentlemen, there's a river
for you!-This is blending a little of the masque with my
tragedy-a new fancy, you know-and very useful in my
case; for as there must be a procession, I suppose Thames,
and all his tributary rivers, to compliment Britannia with
a fete in honour of the victory.
Sneer. But pray, who are these gentlemen in green with
him?
Puf. Those?-those are his banks.
Sneer. His banks?
Puff. Yes, one crowned with alders, and the other with
a villa!-you take the allusions?-But hey! what the plague!
you have got both your banks on one side.-Here, sir, come
round.-,Ever while you live, Thames, go between     your
banks.-[Bell rings.]  There, so! now for't!-Stand aside,
my dear friends!-Away, Thames!
[Exit THAMES between his bankl.
[Flourish of drums, trumpets, camton, dc. dc.  Scene
changes to the sea-the fleets engage-the music plays
"Britons strike home." —Spanish fleet destroyed by
fire-ships, fc. —inglish fleet advances-music plays
"RIule Britanllia." —The procession of all the English
rivers, and their tributaries, with their emblems, cfc.,
begins with Handel's water music, ends with a chorus,
to the march in Judas Mfaccabeus.-During this scene,
PUFF directs and applauds every thing-then
Puff. Well, pretty well-but not quite perfect.-So, ladies
and gentlemen, if you please, we '11 rehearse this piece again
to-morrow.                                [Curtain drops




A TRIP TO SCARBOROUGH
A COMEDY.
DRAMATIS PERSONIE.
AS ORIGINALLY ACTED AT DRURY-LANE THEATRE IN 1777.


LORD FOPPINGTON. AMr. Dodd.
SIR TUNBELLY   1r. Moo
CLUMSY.


COLONEL TOWNLY.
LoEESS..
ToM FASHION.
LA VAROLE...
LORY..
PROBE...
MENDLEGS...
JWuLER..


afr. Brereton.
3Mr. Smith.
Jr... 'almer.
Mir. Barton.
Mr. 1Baddeley.
JM.  1Parsons.
Mr. Norris.
Mr. Lamnash.


SIOEMIAKER.. Mr. Carpenter.
TAILOR... Mr. Parker.
A MANDA... Mrs. Robinson.
BERINTIIIA.. Miss Farren.
Miss HOYDEN.. Mrs. Abington.
Mlts. COUPLER. Mrs. Booth.
NURSE.... Mrs. Bradshaw.
SEMPSTRESS, POSTILION, MAID, and
SERVANTS.


SCENE-SCARBOROUGH AND ITS NE1GHBOURHOOD.


PROLOGUE,
SPOKEN BY MR. KING.
WHAT various transformations we remark,
From east Whitechapel to the west Hyde Park!
Men, women, children, houses, signs, and fashions,
State, stage, trade, taste, the humours ana the passions;
The Exchange, 'Change Alley, wheresoe'er you're ranging,
Court, city, country, all are changed or cllanging:
The streets, some time ago, were paved with stones,
Which, aided by a hackney-coach, half broke your bonea
The purest lovers then i:ndulgred in bliss;
They run great hazard if they stole a kiss.
One chaste s:alute!-the damsel cried-Oh, fie!
As they approach'd-slap went the conch awryPoor Sylvia got a bump, an(I Damon a black eye.
But now weak nerves in hackney-coaches roam,
And the cramm'd glutton snores, unjolted, home:
Of former times, that polish d thing a beau,
Is metamorphosed now from top to toe;
Then the full flaxen wig, spread o'er the shoulders,
Conceal'd the sh;llow head from the beholders!
But now the whole 's reverse(l-each fop appears,
Cropp'd and trilm'd up, exposing lead and ears:
The buckle then its modest limits knew,
Now, like the ocean, dreadful to the view,
Hath broke its bounds, and swallows up the shoe;
I1




JRJ4


A TRTP TO SCARBOROUGH.


[ACT I.


The wearer's foot, like his once fine estate,
Is almost lost, the encumbrance is so great.
Ladies may smile-are they not in the plot?
The bounds of nature have not they forgot?
Were they design'd to be, when put together,
Made up, like shuttlecocks, of cork and feather?
Their pale-faced grandmammas appear'd with graote
When dawning blushes rose upon the face;
N( blushes now their once-loved station seek;
The foe is in possession of the cheek!
No heads of old, too high in feather'd state,
Hinder'd the fail to p:ss the lowest gate;
A church to enter now, they must be bent,
If ever they should try the experiment.
As change thus circulates throughout the nation,
Some plays may justly call for alteration;
At least to draw some slender covering o'er,
That graceless wit * which was too bare before:
Those writers well and wisely use their pens,
Who turn our wantons into Magdalens;
And howsoever wicked wits revile 'em,
We hope to find in you their stage asylum.
ACT I.
SCENE I.-T/ie Hall of an Inn.
Enter TOM FASHION and LORY, POSTILION following with a portmanteats.
Fash. Lory, pay the postboy, and take the portmanteau.
Lory. [Aside to TOM FASHION.] Faith, sir, we had better let the postboy
take the portmanteau and pay himself.
Fash. [Aside to LORY.] Why, sure, there's something left in it!
Lory. Not a rag, upon my honour, sir! We eat the last of your wardrobe
at Newmalton-and, if we had had twenty miles further to go, our next meal
must have been of the cloak-bog.
Fash. Why, 'sdeath, it appears full!
Lory. Yes, sir-I made bold to stuff it with hay, to save appearances, and
look like baggage.
Fash. [Aside.] What the devil shall I do -[Aloud.] Hark'ee, boy,
what's the chaise
Post. Thirteen shillings, please your honour.
Fash. Can you give me change for a guinea
Post. Oh, yes, sir.
Lory. [Aside.] So, what will he do nowi-[Aloud.] Lord, sir, you had
better let the boy be paid below.
Fash. Why, as you say, Lory, I believe it will be as well
Lory. Yes, yes; I'll tell them to discharge you below, honest friend.
Post. Please your honour, there are the turnpikes too
Fash. Ay, ay, the turnpikes by all means.
Post. And I hope your honour will order me something for myself.
* " And Van Want grace, who never wanted wit."-Popx




I


80e. t.]               A TRIP TO SCARBOROUGH.                       ~85
Fash. To be sure; bid them give you a crown.
Lory. Yes, yes-my master doesn't care what you charge them-so get
along, youPost. And there's the hostler, your honour.
Lory. Psha! damn the ostler -would you impose upon the gentleman's
generosity -[Pushes him ouzt.] A rascal, to be so cursed ready with his
change!
Fash. Why, faith, Lory, he had nearly posed me.
Lory. Well, sir, we are arrived at Scarborough, not worth a guinea! I
Ilope you '11 own yourself a happy man —you have outlived all your cares.
Fash. How so, sir?
Lory. Why you have nothing left to take care of.
Fash. Yes, sirrah, I have myself and you to take care of still.
Lory. Sir, if you could prevail with somebody else to do that for you. I
fancy we might both fare the better for it. But now, sir, for my Lord Fop*       pington, your elder brother.
Fash. Damn my eldest brother!
Lory. With all my heart; but get him to redeem your annuity, however.
Look you, sir, you must wheedle him, or you must starve.
Fash. Look you, sir, I will neither wheedle him nor starve.
Lory. Why, what will you do, then 2
Fash. Cut his throat, or get some one to do it for me.
Lory. 'Gad so, sir, I'm glad to find I was not so well acquainted with the
strength of your conscience as with the weakness of your purse.
Fash. Why, art thou so impenetrable a blockhead as to believe he'll help
me with a farthing?
Lory. Not if you treat him de haut en has, as you used to do.
Fash. Why, how wouldst have me treat him?
Lory. Like a trout-tickle him.
Fash. I can't flatter.
Lory. Can you starve:
Fa2sh. Yes.
Lory. I can't —good by t' ye, sir.
Fash. Stay -- thou'lt distract me. But who comes here  My old friend,
Colonel Townly.
Enter COLONEL TOWNLY.
^     y dear Colonel, I am rejoiced to meet you here..
Col. Town. Dear Tom, this is an unexpected pleasure! What, are you
come to Scarborough to be present at your brother's wedding?
Lory. Ah, sir, if it had been his funer:l, we should have come with pleasure.
Col Town. What, honest Lory, are you with your master still?
*    Lory. Yes, sir, I have been starving with him ever since I saw your
honour last.
Fash. Why, Lory is an attached rogue-there's no getting rid of him.
Lory. True, sir, as my master says, there's no seducing me from his
service.-[Aside.] Till he's able to pay me my wages.
Fash. Go, go, sir-and take care of the baggage.
Lory. Yes, sir-the bagrgage!-O Lord! LTakes up the portmanteau. 1
ulppose, sir, I must charge the landlord to be very particular where he st:,ws
this




46S


A TRIP TO SCARBOROUGH.


[ACT I


Fash. Get along, you rascal -[Exit LORY, with the pomtmanteau.]  But,
Colonel, are you acquainted with my proposed sister-in-law.
Col. Town. Only by character -- her father, Sir Tunbelly Clumsy, lives
within a quarter of a mile of this place, in a lonely old house, which nobody
comes near. She never goes atlro:d, nor sees company at home; to prevent
all misfortunes, she has her breeding within doors; the parson of the parish
teaches her to play upon the dulcimer, the clerk to sing, her nurse to dress,
and her father to dance;-in short, nobody has free admission there but our
old acquaintance, Mother Colpler, who has procured your brother this match,
and is, I believe, a distant relation of Sir Tunbelly's.
Fash. But is her fortune so considerable 1
Col. Town. Three thousand a year, and a good sum of money, independent
of her father, beside.
Fash. 'Sdeath! that my old acquaintance, Dame Coupler, could not have
thought of me, as well as my brother, for such a prize.
Col. Town. Egad, I wouldn't swear that you are too late-his lordship, I
know, hasn't yet seen the lady-and, I believe, has quarrelled with his
patroness.
Fash. My dear Colonel, what an idea have you started!
Col. Town. Pursue it, if you can, and I promise you you shall have my
assistance; for, besides my natural contempt for his lordship, I have at present
the enmity of a rival towards him.
Fash. What, has he been addressing your old flame, the widow Berinthia?
Col. Town. Faith, Tom, I am at present most whimsically circumstanced.
I came here a month ago to meet the lady you mention; but she failing in
her promise, I, partly froth pique and partly from idleness, have been diverting
my chagrin by offering up incense to the beauties of Amanda, our friend
Loveless's wife.
Fash. I never have seen her, but have heard her spoken of as a youthful
wonder of beauty and prudence.
Col. Town. She is so indeed; and, Loveless being too careless and insensible of the treasure he possesses, my lodgiog in the same house has given
me a thousand opportunities of making my assiduities acceptable; so that, in
less than a fortnight, I began to bear my disappointment from the widow
with the most Christian resignation.
Fash. And Berinthia has never appeared '
Col. Town. Oh, there's the perplexity! for, just as I began not to care
whether I ever saw her again or not, last night she arrived.
Fash. And instantly resumed her empire.
Col. Town. No, faith-we met-but, the lady not condescending to give
me any serious reasons for having fooled me for a month, I left her in a huff.
Fash. Well, well, I'11 answer for it she 'll soon resume her power,
especially as friendship will prevent your pursuing the other too far.-But
my coxcomb of a brother is an admirer of Amanda's too, is he l
Col. Town. Yes, and I believe is most heartily despised by her. But
come with me, and you shall see her and your old friend Loveless.
Fash. I must pay my respects to his lordship-perhaps you can direct me
to his lodgings.
Col. Town. Come with me; I shall pass by it.
Fash. I wish you could pay this visit for me, or could tell me what I
hould say to him.




I
rr.]                   A TRIP TO SCARBOROUGH.                     487
Col. Towon. Say nothing to him-apply yourself to his bag, his sword, his
feather, his snuff-box; and when you are well with them desire him to lend
you a thousand pounds, and I '11 eng:ige you prosper.
Fash. 'Sdeath and furies! why was that coxcomb thrust into the world
before me l 0 Fortune, Fortune, thou art a jilt, by Gad I   [Exeuart
SCENE II.-LORD FOPPINGTON'S Dressing-room.
Enter LORD FOPPINGTON in his nifghtgown, and LA VAROLB.
Lord Fop. [Aside.] Well, 'tis an unspeakable pleasure to be a man of quality
-strike me dumb! Even the boors of this northern spa have learned the
respect due to a title. —[Aloud.] La Varole!
La Var. Milor
Lord Fop. You han't yet been at Muddymoat Hall, to announce my
arrival, have you
La Var. Not yet, milor.
Lord Fop. Then you need not go till Saturday-[Exit LA VAROLE] as I
am in no particular haste to view my intended sposa. I shall sacrifice a day
or two more to the pursuit of my friend Loveless's wife. Amanda is a
charming creature-strike me ugly! and. if I have any discernment in the
world, she thinks no less of my Lord Foppington.
Re-enter LA VAROLE.
La Var. Milor, de shoemaker, de tailor, de hosier, de sempstress, de per,
be all ready, if your lordship please to dress.
*        Lord Fop. 'Tis well; admit them.
La Var. Hey, messieurs, entrez!
Enter TAILOR, SHOEMAKER, SEMPSTRESS, JEWELLER, and MENRDLESO
Lord Fop. So, gentlemen, I hope you have all taken pains to show yourselves masters in your professions 2
Tai. I think I may presume, sirLa Var. Milor, you clown, you!
Tai. My lord-I ask your lordship's pardon, my lord. I hope, my lord,
your lordship will be pleased to own I have brought your lordship as accom
plished a suit of clothes as ever peer of England wore, my lord-will your
lordship please to view 'em now
Lord Fop. Ay; but let my people dispose the glasses so that I may see
myself before and behind; for I love to see myself all round.
[Puts on his dcothA.
Enter TOM FASHION and LORY. They remain behind, conversing apart.
Fash. Heyday! what the devil have we here. Sure my gentleman's
grown a favourite at court, he has got so many people at his levee.
Lory. Sir, these people come in order to make him a favourite at courtthey are to establish him with the ladies.
Fash. Good Heaven! to what an ebb of taste are women fallen, that it
should be in the power of a laced coat to recommend a gallant to them I
Lory. Sir, tailors and hair-dressers debauch all the women.
Fash. Thou sayest true. But now- for my reception.
Lord Fop. [To Tailor.] Death and eternal tortures I Sir-I say the cat
is too wide here by a foot.




4 S8


A TRIP TO SCARBOROUGH.


[AcT I


Tai. My lord, if it had been tighter, 'twould neither have hooked nor
buttoned.
Lord Fop. Rat the hooks and buttons, sir! Can any thing be worse than
this l As (Gad shall jedge me, it hangs on my shoulders like a chairman's
surtout.
Tai. 'Tis not for me to dispute your lordship's fancy.
Lory. There, sir, observe what respect does.
Fash. Respect! damn him for a coxconb! —But let's accost him.[Comingforward.] Brother, I'm your humble servant.
Lord Fop. 0 Lard, Tam! I did not expect you in England-brother, I'm
glad to see you. - But what has brought you to Scarborough, Tam?-[To the
TAILOR.] Look you, sir, I shall never be reconciled to this nauseous wrappinggown, therefore pray get me another suit with all possible expedition; for
this is my eternal aversion. —[Exit TAILOR.] Well but, Tam, you don't tell
me what has driven you to Scarborough. —Mrs. Calico, are not you of my
mind?
Semup. Directly, my lord.-I hope your lordship is pleased with your ruffles 1
Lord Fop. In love with them, stap my vitals!-Bring my bill, you shall
be paid to-morrow.
Semop. I humbly thank your lordship.                        [Exit.
Lord. Fop. Hark thee, shoemaker, these shoes aren't ugly, but they don't
fit me.
Shoe. My lord, I think they fit you very well.
Lord Fop. They hurt me just below the instep.
Shoe. [Feels hisfoot.] No, my lord, they don't hurt you there.
Lord Fop. I tell thee they pinch me execrably.
Shoe. Why then, my lord, if those shoes pinch you, I'11 be damned.
Lord Fop. Why, wilt thou undertake to persuade me I cannot eel?
Shoe. Your lordship may please to fel what you think fit, but that shoe
does not hurt you-I think I understand my trade.
Lord Fop. Now, by all that's good and powerful, thou art an incomprehensive coxcomb!-but thou makest good shoes, and so I'll bear with thee.
Shoe. My lord, I have worked for half the people of quality in this town
these twenty years, and 'tis very hard I shouldn't know when a shoe hurts,
and when it don't.
Lord Fop. Well, pr'ythee be gone about thy business.-[Exit SHOEMAKER.]
Mr. Mendlegs, a word with you.-The calves of these stockings are thickened a little too much; they make my legs look like a porter's.
Mend. My lord, methinks they look mighty well.
Lord Fop. Ay, but you are not so good a judge of those things as I am
-I have studied them all my life-therefore pray let the next be the thickness of a crown-piece less.
Mend. Indeed, my lord, they are the same kind I had the honour to furnish your lordship with in town.
Lord Fop. Very possibly, Mr. Mendlegs; but that was in the beginning
of the winter, and you should always remember, MIr. Hosier, that if you
make a nobleman's spring legs as robust as his autumnal calves, you commit a manstrous impropriety, and make no allowance for the fatigues of the
winter.                                             IExit MWIDLIGS.
Jewel. I hope, my lord, these buckles have had the unspeakable satisfan
tion of being honoured with your lordship's approbation I




C.    JI.


A TRIP TO SCARBOROUGH.


Lord Fop. Why, they are of a pretty fancy; but don't you think them
rather of the smallest?
Jewel. My lord, they could not well be larger, to keep on your lordship's
shoe.
Lord Fop. My good sir, you forget that these matters are not as they
used to be; formerly, indeed, the buckle was a sort of machine, intended to
keep on the shoe; but the case is now quite reversed, and the shoe is of no
earthly use, but to keep on the buckle.-Now give me my watches, [SERVANT fetches the watches,] my chapeau, [SERVANT brings a dress hat,] my
handkerchief, [SERVANT poutrs some scentcd liquor on a handkerchief and
brings it,] my snaff-bax, [SERVANT brings snqiffbox.]  There, now the bsiness of the morning is pretty well over.                 [Exit JEWELLER.
Fash. [Aside to LORY.] Well, Lory, what dost think on't?-a very
friendly reception from a brother, after three years' absence
Lory. [Aside to TOM FASHION.] Why, sir, 'tis your own fault-here you
have stood ever since you came in, and have not commended any one thing
that belongs to him.                              [SERVANTS all go of:
Fash. [Aside to LORY.] Nor ever shall, while they belong to a coxcomb.
-[To LORD FOPIINGTON.] Now your people of business are gone, brother, I
hope I may obtain a quarter of an hour's audience of you.
r          Lord Fop. Faith, Tam, I must beg you'll excuse me at this time, for I
have an engagement which I would not break for the salvation of mankind.
-Hey!-there! —is my carriage at the door?-You '11 excuse me, brother.
[Going.
Fash. Shall you be back to dinner?
Lord Fop. As Gad shall jedge me, I can't tell; for it is passible I may
dine with some friends at Donner's.
Fash. Shall I meet you there? for I must needs talk with you.
Lord Fop. That I 'm afraid mayn't be quite so praper; for those I commonly eat with are people of nice conversation; and you know, Tam, your
education has been a little at large.-But there are other ordinaries in town
-very good beef ordinaries-I suppose, Tam, you can eat beef?-However,
dear Tam, I'm glad to see thee in England, stap my vitals!
[Exit, LA VAROLE following.
Fash. Hell and furies! is this to be be borne l
Lory. Faith, sir, I could almost have given him a knock o' the pate myself.
Fash. 'Tis enough; I will now show you the excess of my passion, by
being very calm.-Come, Lory, lay your loggerhead to mine, and, in cold
^        blood, let us contrive his destruction.
Lory. Here comes a head, sir, would contrive it better than both our loggerheads, if she would but join in the confederacy.
Fash. By this light, Madam Coupler! she seems dissatisfied at something: let us observe her.
Enter MRS. COUPLER.
Airs. Coup. So! I am likely to be well rewarded for my services, truly;
my suspicions. I find, were but too just.-What! refuse to advance me a
petty sum, when I am upon the point of making him master of a galleon!
But let him look to the consequences; an ungrateful narrow-minded coxcomb!
FacA. So he is, upon my soul, old lady; it must be my brother you speak of




400                 A TRIP TO SCARBOROUGH.          [ACT I. SC. II
Mrs. Coup. Ha! stripling, how came you herel TWhat, hast spent all,
eh? And art thou come to dun his lordship for assistance?
Faslh. No, I want somebody's assistance to cut his lordship's throat, without the risk of being hanged for him.
Mrs- Coup. Egad, sirrah, I could help thee to do him almost as good a
turn, without the danger of being burned in the hand for't.
Fash. How-how, old Mischief?
Mrs. Coup. Why, you must know I have done you the kindness to make
up a match for your brother.
Fash. I am very much beholden to you, truly!
Mrs. Coup. You may before the wedding-day yet: the lady is a great
heiress, the match is concluded, the writings are drawn, and his lordship is
come hither to put the finishing hand to the business.
Fash. I understand as much.
Mrs. Coup. Now, you must know, stripling, your brother's a knave.
Fash. Good.
Mrs Coup. He has given me a bond of a thousand pounds for helping him
to this fortune, and has promised me as much more, in ready money, upon
the day of the mariage; which, I understand by a friend, he never designs
to pay me; and his just now refusing to pay me a part is a proof of it. If,
therefore, you will be a generous young rogue, and secure me five thousand
pounds, I'll help you to the lady.
Fash. And how the devil wilt thou do that
Mrs. Coup. Without the devil's aid, I warrant thee. Thy brother's face
not one of the family ever saw; the whole business has been managed by
me, and all his letters go through my hands. Sir Tunbelly Clumsy, my
relation-for that's the old gentleman s n;me —is apprised of his lordship's
being down here, and expects him to-morrow to receive his daughter's hand;
but the peer, I find, means to bait herc a few days longer, to recover the
fatigue of his journey, I suppose. Now you shall go to IMuddymoat Hall in
his place.-I 11 give you a letter of introduction: and if you don't marry the
girl before sunset, you deserve to be hanged before morning.
Fash. Agreed! agreed! and for thy reward —
Mrs. Coup. Well, well;-though I warrant thou hast not a farthing of
money in thy pocket now-no-one may see it in thy face.
Fash. Not a sous, by Jupiter!
Mrs. Coup. Must I advance, then? W ell, be at my lodgings, next door,
this evening, and I '11 see what may be done-we'll sign and seal, and when
I have given thee some further instructions, thou shalt hoist sail and begone.
[ECit.
Fash. So, Lory, Fortune, thou seest, at last takes care of merit I we are
in a fair way to be great people.
Lory. Ay, sir, if the devil don't step between the cup and the lip, as he
used to do.
Fash. Why, faith, he has played me many a damned trick to spoil my
fortune; and, egad, I am almost afraid he's at work about it again now;
but if I should tell thee how, thou'dst wonder at me.
Lory. Indeed, sir, I should not.
Fasl. How dost know ]
Lory. Because, sir, I have wondered at you so often, I can wonder at you
Wo more.




ACT IT. SC. I.]       A TRIP TO SCARBOROUGH,


491


Fash. No! What wouldst thou say, if a qualm of conscience should spoil
my design 1,       Lory. I would eat my words, and wonder more than ever.
Fash. Why faith, Lory, though I have played many a roguish trick, this
is so full-grown a cheat, I find I must take pains to come up to 't-I have
scruples,
Lory. They are strong symptoms of death.   If you find they increase,
sir, pray make your will.
Fash. No, my conscience shan't starve me neither: but thus far I '11 listen
to it. Before 1 execute this project, I '11 try my brother to the bottom.  If
he has yet so nimch humanity il(out him as to assist me-though with a
~     moderate aid-I '11 drop my project at his feet, and show him how I can do
for him much moie than what 1 'd ask he'd do for me. This one conclusive
trial of him I resolve to make.Succeed or tail, still victory is my lot;. If I subdue his heart, 'tis well-if not,
I will subdue my conscience to my plot.         [ExeunL
v                                    ACT II.
SCENE I.-LOVELESS'S Lodgings.
Eiter LOVELESS and AMANDA.
Love. How do you like these lodgings, my dear?  For my part, I am so
pleased with them, I shall hardly remove whilst we stay here, if you are
satisfied.
Aman. I am satisfied with every thing that pleases you, else I had not
come to Scarborough at all.
Love. Oh, a little of the noise and folly of this place will sweeten the pleasures of our retreat; we shall find the charms of our retirement doubled
when we return to it.
Aman. That pleasing prospect will be my chiefest entertainment, whilst,
much against my will, I engage in those empty pleasures which 'tis so much
the fashion to be fond of.
Love. I own nlost of them are, indeed, but empty; yet there are delights of wlhich a private life is destitute, which may divert an honest man,
and be a harmless entertainmentl to a virtuous woman: good music is one;
and truly (with some small allowance) the plays, I think, may be esteemed
another.
Aman. Plays, I must confess, have some small charms. What do you
think of that you saw last night'?
Love. To say truth. I did not mind it much-my attention was for some
time taken off to admire the worklmalship of nature, in the face of a young
lady who sat some distance fiom mne, she was so exquisitely handsome.
Aman. So exquisitely handsome!
Love. Why do you repeat lmy words, my dear?
Arman. Because you seemed to speak them with such pleasure, I thought I
might oblige you with their echo.
Lowe. Then, you are alarmed, Amandal




492


A TRIP TO SCARBOROUGH.


[ACT II.


Aman. It is my duty to be so when you are in danger.
Love. You are too quick in apprehending for me.  I viewed her with a
world of admiration, but not one glance of love.
A Aman. Take heed of trusting to such nice distinctions. But were yo'l
eves the only things that were inquisitive? Had I been in your place, my
tongue, I fancy, had been curious too. I should have asked her where she
lived-yet still without design-who was she, pray
Love. Indeed I cannot tell.
Aman. You will not tell.
Love. Upon my honour, then, I did not ask.
Aman. Nor do you know what company was with her
Love. I do not. But why are you so earnest?
Aman. I thought I had cause.
Love. But you thought wrong, Amanda; for turn the case, and let it be
your story: should you come home and tell me you had seen a handsome
man, should I grow jealous because you had eves?
Aman. But should I tell you he was exquisitely so, and that I had gazed
on him with admiration, should you not think 'twere possible I might go one
step further, and inquire his name?
Love. [Aside.] She has reason on her side; I have talked too much; but
I must turn off another way.-[Aloud.] Will you then make no difference,
Amanda, between the language of our sex and yours l There is a modesty
restrains your tongues, which makes you speak by halves when you commend;
but roving flattery gives a loose to ours, which makes us still speak double
what we think.
Enter SERVANT.
Serv. Madam, there is a lady at the door in a chair desires to know
whether your ladyship sees company; her name is Berinthia.
Aman. Oh dear! 'tis a relation I have not seen these five years; pray
her to walk in.-[Exit SERVANT ] Here's another beauty for you; she was,
when I saw her last, reckoned extremely handsome.
Love. Don't be jealous now; for I shall gaze upon her too.
Enter BERINTHIA.
Ha! by heavens, the very woman!                           [Aside.
Ber. [Salutes AMANDA.] Dear Amanda, I did not expect to meet you in
Scarborough.
Anman. Sweet cousin, I 'm overjoyed to see you.-Mr. Loveless, here's a
relation and a friend of mine, I desire you '11 be better acquainted with.
Love. [Salutes BERINTHIA.] If my wife never desires a harder thing,
madam, her request will be easily granted.
Re-enter SERVANT.
Serv. Sir, my Lord Foppington presents his humble service to you, and desires to know how you do. He's at the next door; and, if it be not inconvenient to you, he'll come and wait upon you.
Love. Give my compliments to his lordship, and I shall be glad to see
him.-[Exit SERVANT.] If you are not acquainted with his lordship, madam,
you will be entertained with his character.
Aman. Now it moves my pity more than my mirth to see a man whom
nature has made no fool be so very industrious to pass for an ass.




SC. 1.]


A TRIP TO SCARBOROUGH.


493


Love. No, there you are wrong, Amanda; you should never bestow your
pity upon those who take pains for your contempt: pity those whom nature
abuses, never those who abuse nature.
Enter LORD FOPPINGTOr.
Lord Fop. Dear Loveless, I am your most humble servant.
Love. My lord, I'm yours.
Lord Fop. Madam, your ladyship's very obedient slave.
Love. My lord, this lady is a relation of my wife's.
Lord Fop. [Salutes BEtINTHIA.] The beautifulest race of people upon
earth, rat me! Dear Loveless, I am overjoyed that you think of continuing here: I am, stap my vitals!-[To AMANDA.]  For Gad's sake, madam,
how has your ladyship been able to subsist thus long, under the fatigue of a
country life!
Aman. My life has been very far from that, my lord: it has been a very
quiet one.
Lord Fop. Why, that's the fatigue I speak of, madam; for 'tis impossible to be quiet without thinking: now thinking is to me the greatest
fatigue in the world.
Amsan. Does not your lordship love reading, then.       Lord Fop. Oh, passionately, madam; but I never think of what I read.
For example, madam, my life is a perpetual stream of pleasure, that glides
through with such a variety of entertainments, I believe the wisest of our ancestors never had the least conception of any of 'em. I rise, madam, when
in tawn, about twelve o'clock. I don't rise sooner, because it is the worst
thing in the world for the complexion: nat that I pretend to be a beau; but
a man must endeavour to look decent, lest he makes so odious a figure in the
side-bax, the ladies should be compelled to turn their eyes upon the play,
So at twelve o'clock, I say, I rise. Naw, if I find it is a good day, I resalve
*    to take the exercise of riding; so drink my chocolate, and draw on my bootfby two. On my return, I dress; and, after dinner, lounge perhaps to the
opera.
Ber. Your lordship, I suppose, is fond of music?
Lord Fop. Oh, passionately, on Tuesdays and Saturdays; for then there
Is always the best company, and one is not expected to undergo the fatigue
of listening.
An4ma. Does your lordship think that the case at the opera?
Lord Fop. Most certainly, madam. There is my Lady Tattle, my Lady
Prate, my Lady Titter, my Lady Sneer, my Lady Giggle, and my Lady Grinthese have boxes in the front, and while any favourite air is singing, are the
prettiest company in the waurld, stap my vitals!-Mayn't we hope for the
honour to see you added to our society, madam?
*       Aman. Alas! my lord, I am the worst company in the world at a concert,
I "m so apt to attend to the music.
Lord Fop. Why, madam, that is very pardonable in the country or at
church, but a monstrous inattention in a polite assembly. But I am afraid I
tire the company?
Love. Not at all. Pray go on.
Lord Fop. Why then, ladies, there only remains to add, that I generally
conclude the evening at one or other of the clubs; nat that I ever play deep;




494


A TRIP TO SCARBOROUGH.


fACT 1!


indeed I have been for some time tied up from losing above five thousand
paunds at a sitting.
Love. But isn't your lordship sometimes obliged to attend the weighty
'affairs of the nation?
Lord Fop. Sir, as to weighty affairs, I leave them to weighty heads; I
never intend mine shall be a burden to my body.
Ber. Nay, my lord, but you are a pillar of the state.
Lord Fop. An ornamental pillar, madam; for sooner than undergo any
part of the fatigue, rat me, but the whole building should fall plump to the
ground!
Aman. But, my lord, a fine gentleman spends a great deal of his time in
his intrigues; you have given us no account of them yet.
Lord Fop. [Aside.] So! she would inquire into my amours-that's
jealousy, poor soul!-I see she's in love with me.-[Aloud.] 0 Lord, madam,
1 had like to have forgot a secret I must needs tell your ladyship.-Ned, you
must not be so jealous now as to listen.
Love. [Leadiing BERINTHIA up the stage.] Not I, my lord; I am  too
fashionable a husband to pry into the secrets of my wife.
Lord Fop. [Aside to AMANDA, squeezing her hand.] I am in love with
you to desperation, strike me speechless!
Aman. [Strikes Ahin on the ear.] Then thus I return your passion.-An
impudent fool!
Lord Fop. Gad's curse, madam, I am a peer of the realm!
Love. [tastily returning.] Hey  what the devil, do you affront my wife,
air?  Nay, then —                                [Draics. They fight.
Aman. What has my folly done?-Help! murder! help I Part them,
for Heaven's sake.
Lord Fop. [Falls back and leans on his sword.]  Ah! quite through
the body, stap my vitals!
Enter SERVANTS.
Love. [Runs to LORD FOPPINGTON.1  I hope I han't killed the fool, how.
ever. Bear him up. —Call a surgeon there.
Lord Fop. Ay. pray make haste.                     [Exit SERVAIT.
Love. This mischief you may thank yourself for.
Lord Fop. I may so; love's the devil indeed, Ned.
Re-enter SERVANT, with PROBE.
Ser. Here's Mr. Probe, sir, was just going by the door.
Lord Fop. He's the welcomest man alive.
Probe. Stand by, stand by, stand by; pray, gentlemen, stand by. Lord
have mercy upon us, did you never see a man run through the body b.
fore I-Pray stand by.
Lord Fop. Ah, Mr. Probe, I'm a dead man.
Probe. A dead man, and I by! I should laugh to see that, egad.
Love. Pr'ythee don't stand prating, but look upon his wound.
Probe. Why, what if I won't look upon his wound this hour, sirl
Love. Why, then he'll bleed to death, sir.
Probe. Why, then I '11 fetch him to life again, sir.
Love. 'Slife! he's run through the body, I tell thee.
Probe, I wish he was run through the heart, and I should get thb




0o. I.]             A TRIP TO SCARBOROUGH.                      4 f5
by his cute. Now I hope you are satisfied? Come, now let me come at him
-now let me come at him.-[ Viewing his wound.]   Oons! what a gash is
here! why, sir, a man may drive a coach and six horses into your body.
Lord Fop. Oh!
Probe. Why, what the devil have you run the gentleman through with a
scythe i-[Aside.] A little scratch between the skil and tile ribs, that's alL
Love. Let me see his wound.
Probe. Then you shall dress it, sir; for if any body looks upon it I won't
Love. WEy thou art the veriest coxcomb I ever saw!
Probe. Sir, I am not master of my trade for nothing.
Lord Fop. Surgeon!
Probe. Sir.
Lord. Fop. Are there any hopes?
Probe. Hopes! I can't tell.  What are you willing to give for a curel
Lord Fop. Five hundred paunds with pleasure.
Probe. Why then perhaps there may be hopes; but we must avoid
*   further delay.-Here, help the gentleman into a chair, and carry him to my
house presently-that's the properest place —[Aside] to bubble him out of
his money.-[Aloud.]  Cuore, a chair-a chair quickly-there, in with him.
[SERVANTS put LORD) FOPPINGTON into a chair.
Lord Fop. Dear Loveless, adieu! if I die, I forgive thee; and if I live,
I hope thou wilt do as much by me. I am sorry youl and I should quarrel,
but I hope here 's an end on 't; for, if you are satisfied, I am.
Love. I shall hardly think it worth my prosecuting any further, so you
may be at rest, sir.
Lord Fop. Thou art a generous fellow, strike me dumb!-[Aside.]    But
thou hast an impertinent wife, stap my vitals!
Probe. So-carry him off, carry him off!-We shall have him prate himself into a fever by-and-by.-Carry him off! [Exit uit/ LORD FOPPINGToN.
C                       Enter COLONEL TOWNLY.
Col. Town. So, so, I am glad to find you all alive-I met a wounded
peer carrying off. For heaven's sake what was the matter 1
Love. Oh, a trifle! he would have made love to my wife before my face,
so she obliged him with a box o' the ear, and I run him through the body,
that was all.
Col. Town. Bagatelle on all sides. But pray, madam, how long has this
noble lord been an humble servant of yours
*           Amaan. This is the first I have heard on't-so, I suppose, 'tis his quality
more than his love has brought him into this adventure. He thinks his
title an authentic passport to every woman's heart below the degree of a
peeress.
Col. Town. He's coxcomb enough to think any thing; but I would not
have you brought into trouble for him. I hope there's no danger of his lifel
Love. None at all. He 's fallen into the hands of a roguish surgeon, who,
I perceive, designs to fiighten a little money out of him: but I saw his
wound-'tis nothing: he may go to the ball to-night if he pleases.
Col. Town. I am glad you have corrected him without further mischief, or
you might have deprived me of the pleasure of executing a plot against his
ordship, which I have been contriving with an old acquaintance of yours
L"e. Explain.




496                 A TRIP TO SCARBOROUGH.                FACT I.
Col. Town. His brother, Tom Fashion, is come down here, and we have
it in contemplation to save him the trouble of his intended wedding; but we
want your assistance. Tom would have called, but he is preparing for his
enterprise, so I promised to bring you to him-so sir, if these ladies can
apare you
Love. I'11 go with you with all my heart.-[Aside.] Though I could wish,
methinks, to stay and gaze a little longer on that creature. Good gods!
how engaging she is!-but what have I to do with beauty? I have already
had my portion, and must not covet more.
Aman. Mr. Loveless, pray one word with you before you go.
[Exit COLONEL TOWNLY.
Love. What would my dear?
Aman. Only a woman's foolish question: how do you like my cousin
here?
Love. Jealous already, Amanda?
Aman. Not at all: I ask you for another reason.
Love. [Aside.] Whate'er her reason be, I must not tell her true.-[Aloud.]
Why, I confess, she's handsome: but you must not think I slight your
kinswoman, if I own to you, of all the women who may claim that character,
she is the last that would triumph in my heart.
Aman. I'm satisfied.
Love. Now tell me why you asked I
Aman. At night I will-adieu!
Love. I'm yours.                             [Kisses her, and exit.
Aman. I'm glad to find he does not like her, for I have a great mind to
persuade her to come and live with me.                     [Aside.
Ber. So! I find my colonel continues in his airs: there must be something more at the bottom of this than the provocation he pretends from me.
[Aside.
Aman. For Heaven's sake, Berinthia, tell me what way I shall take to
persuade you to come and live with me.
Ber. Why, one way in the world there is, and but one.
Amas. And pray what is that
Ber. It is to assure me —I shall be very welcome.
Aman. If that be all, you shall e'en sleep here to-night.
Ber. To-night!
Aman. Yes, to-night.
Ber. Why, the people where I lodge will think me mad.
Aman. Let'em think what they please.
Ber. Say you so, Amanda     Why, then, they shall think what they
please: for I'm a young widow, and I care not what any body thinks. —
Ah, Amanda, it's a delicious thing to be a young widow!
Aman. You'll hardly make me think so.
Ber. Poh! because you are in love with your husband.
Aman. Pray,'tis with a world of innocence I would inquire whether you
think those we call women of reputation do really escape all other men as
they do those shadows of beaux
Ber. Oh no, Amanda; there are a sort of men make dreadful work
amongst 'em, men that may be called the beau's antipathy, for they agree
in nothing but walking upon two legs.  These have brains, the beau
has none. These are in love with their mistress, the beau with himself




sc. 1I


A TRIP TO SCARBOROUGH.


They take care of their reputation, the beau is industrious to destroy it.
They are decent, he's a fop; in short, they are men, lie's an ass.
Amant. If this be their character, I fancy we had here, e'en now, a
pattern of 'em both.
Ber. His lordship and Colonel Townly?
Aman. The same.
Ber. As for the lord, he is eminently so; and for the other, I can assure
you there's not a man in town who has a better interest with the women,
that are worth having an interest with.
Aman. He answers the opinion I had ever of him.-[Takes her hand.]
I must acquaint you with a secret-'tis not that fool alone has talked to me
of love; Townly has been tampering too.
*   Ber. [Aside.] So, so! here the mystery comes out!-[Aloud.]  Colonel
Townly! impossible, my dear!
Aman. 'Tis true, indeed; though he has done it in vain; nor do I think
that all the merit of mankind combined could shake the tender love I bear
my husband; yet I will own to you, Berinthia, I did not start at his addresses,
as when they came from one whom I contemned.
Ber. [Aside.] Oh, this is better and better!-[Aloud.]  Well said,
Innocence! and you really think, my dear, that nothing could abate your
constancy and attachment to your husband I
e   Aman. Nothing, I am convinced.
Ber. What, if you found he loved another woman better
Aman. Well!
Ber. Well!-why, were I that thing they call a slighted wife, somebody
* should run the risk of being that thing they call-a husband. Don't I talk
madly?
Aman. Madly indeed!
Ber. Yet I'm very innocent.
Aman. That I dare swear you are. I know how to make allowances for
your humour: but you resolve then never to marry agaiin
Ber. Oh no! I resolve I will.
Aman. How so?
Ber. That I never may.
Aman. You banter me.
Ber. Indeed I don't: but I consider I'm a woman, and form my resolutions
accordingly.
Aman. Well, my opinion is, form what resolution you will, matrimony
will be the end on 't.
Ber. I doubt it-but a-   Heavens! I have business at home, and am
half an hour too late.
Aman. As you are to return with me, I '11 just give some orders, and walk
with you.
Ber. Well, make haste, and we'll finish this subject as we go.-[Exit
A!NANDA.] Ah, poor Amanda! you have led a country life. Well, this discovery is lucky! Base Townly! at once false to me and treacherous to his
friend!-And my innocent and demure cousin too! I have it in my power
to be revenged on her, however. Her husband, if I have any skill in countenance, would be as happy in my smiles as Townly can hope to be in hers. I 'U
make the experiment, come what will on't. The woman who can forgive the be.
Ing robbed of a favoured lover, must be either an idiot orsomething worse. [Exst
K E




496


A TRIP TO SCARBOROUGIL


[ACT IL


ACT III.
SCENE I.-LORD FOPPINGTON'S Lodgings.
Enter LORD FOPPINGTON and LA VAROLE.
Lord Fop. Hey, fellow, let my vis-a-vis come to the door.
La VTar. Will your lordship venture so soon to expose yourself to th
weather
Lord Fop. Sir, I will venture as soon as I can to expose myself to the
ladies.
La Var. I wish your lordship would please to keep house a little longer;
I'm afraid your honour does not well consider your wound.
Lord Fop. My wound!-I would not be in eclipse another day, though
I had as many wounds in my body as I have had in my heart. So mind,
Varole, let these cards be left as directed; for this evening I shall wait on
my future father-in-law, Sir Tunbelly, and I mean to commence my devoirs
to the lady, by giving an entertainment at her father's expense; and hark
thee, tell Mr. Loveless I request he and his company will honour me with
their presence, or I shall think we are not friends.
La Var. I will be sure, milor.                              [Exit
Enter ToM FAmHIoN.
Fash. Brother, your servant; how do you find yourself to-day?
Lord Fop. So well that I have ardered my coach to the door-so there 's
no danger of death this baut, Tam.
Fash. I'm very glad of it.
Lord Fop. [Aside.] That I believe's a lie.-[Aloud.]  Pr'ythee, Tarn
tell me one thing,-did not your heart cut a caper up to your mauth, when
you heard I was run through the bady?
Fash. Why do you think it should?
Lord Fop. Because I remember mine did so, when I heard my uncle waM
shot through the head.
Fash. It then did very ill.
Lord Fop. Pr'ythee, why so?
Fash. Because he used you very well.
Lord Fop. Well!-Naw, strike me dumb! he'starved me; he has let mo
want a thausand women for want of a thausand paund.
Fash. Then he hindered you from making a great many ill bargains
for I think no woman worth money that will take money.
Lord Fop. If I was a younger brother I should think so too.
Fash. Then you are seldom much in love
Lord Fop. Never, stap my vitals!
Fash. Why, then, did you make all this bustle about Amanda?
Lord Fop. Because she's a woman of insolent virtue, and I thought
myself piqued, in honour, to debauch her.
Fash. Very well.-[Aside.] Here's a rare fellow for you, to have the
spending of ten thousand pounds a year I But now for my business with him.
[Aloud.] Brother,though I know to talk of any business (especially of money)
is a theme not quite so entertaining to you as that of the ladies, my necessities
are such, I hope you 'U have patience to hear me.




so. r.l


A TRIP TO SCARBOROUGH.


Lord Fop. The greatness of your necessities, Tam, is the worst argument
in the waurld for your being patiently heard. I do believe you are going to
make a very good speech, but, strike me dumb! it has the worst beginning
of any speech I have heard this twelvemonth.
Fash. I'm sorry you think so.
Lord Fop. I do believe thou art: but come, let's know the affair quickly.
Fash. Why then, my case in a word is this: the necessary expenses of
my travels have so much exceeded the wretched income of my annuity, that
I have been forced to mortgage it for five hundred pounds, which is spent.
So, unless you are so kind as to assist me in redeeming it, I know no remedy
but to take a purse.
Lord Fop. Why faith, Tam, to give you my sense of the thing, I do
think taking a purse the best remedy in the watrld; for if you succeed,
you are relieved that way, if you are taken, [Drawing his hand round his
neck,] you are relieved t'other.
Fash. I'm glad to see you are in so pleasant a humour; I hope I shall
find the effects on't.
Lord Fop. Why, do you then really think it a reasonable thing, that
I should give you five hundred paunds?
Fash. I do not ask it as a due, brother; I am willing to receive it as
a favour.
Lord Fop. Then thou art willing to receive it any how, strike me speechless!
But these are damned times to give money in; taxes are so great, repairs so
exorbitant, tenants such rogues, and bouquets so dear, that, the devil take me,
I am reduced to that extremity in my cash, I have been forced to retrench
in that one article of sweet pawder, till I have brought it down to five
guineas a maunth-now judge, Tamn, whether I can spare you five hundred
paunds.
Fash. If you can't, I must starve, that's all.-[Aside.] Damn him!
Lord 1'op. All I can say is, you should have been a better husband.
Fash. Ouns! if you can't live upon ten thousand a year, how do you think
should do't upon two hundred?
Lord Fop. Don't be in a passion, Tam, for passion is the most unbecoming thing in the waurld-to the face. Look you, I don't love to say
any thing to you to make you melancholy, but upon this occasion I must
take leave to put you in mind that a running horse does require more attendance than a coach-horse. Nature has made some difference 'twixt you
and me.
'    Fash. Yes-she has made you older.-[Aside.] Plague take her I
Lord Fop. That is not all, Tam.
Fash. Why, what is there else I
Lord Fop. [Looksfirst on himself, aid thee on his brother.] Ask the ladies.
Fash. Why, thou essence-bottle, thou musk-cat! dost thou then think
thou hast any advantage over me but what Fortune has given thee 1
Lord Fop. I do, stap my vitals!
Fash. Now, by all that's great and powerful, thou art the prince of coxcombs!
Lord Fop. Sir, I am proud at being at the head of so prevailing a party.
Fcsh. Will nothing provoke thee?-Draw, coward!
Lord Fop. Look you, Tam, you know I have always taken you for a
mighty dull fellow, and here is one of the foolishest plats broke out that
KS K 2




500


A TRIP TO SCARBOROUTGI.


LcT Ita


have seen a lang time. Your poverty makes life so burdensome to you, yar
would provoke me to a quarrel, in hopes either to slip through my lungs into
my estate, or to get yourself run through the guts, to put an end to your
pain. But I will disappoint you in both your designs; far with the temper
of a philasapher, and the discretion of a statesman-I shall leave the room
with my sword in the scabbard.                              [Exit,
Fash. So! farewell, brother; and now, conscience, I defy thee. Lory I
Enter LORY.
Lory. Sir!
Fash. Here's rare news, Lory; his lordship has given me a pill has
purged off all my scruples.
Lory. Then my heart's at ease again: for I have been in a lamentable
fright, sir, ever since your conscience had the impudence to intrude into your
company.
Fash. Be at peace; it will come there no more: my brother has given it
a wring by the nose, and I have kicked it down stairs. So run away to the
inn, get the chaise ready quickly, and bring it to Dame Coupler's without a
moment's delay.
Lory. Then, sir, you are going straight about the fortune?
Fash. I am.-Away-fly, Lory!
Lory. The happiest day I ever saw. I'm upon the wing already. '6bw
then I shall get my wages.                                [Exeunt.
SCENE II.-A Garden behind LOVELESS'S Lodgings.
Enter LOVELESS and SERVANT.
Love. Is my wife within
AServ. No, sir, she has gone out this half hour.
Love. Well, leave me.-[Exit SERVANT.] How strangely does my mind
run on this widow!-Never was my heart so suddenly seized on before.
That my wife should pick out her, of all womankind, to be her playfellow!
But what fate does, let fate answer for: I sought it not. So! by Heavens I
here she comes.
Enter BERINTHIA.
Ber. What makes you look so thoughtful, sir? I hope you are not ill.
Love. I was debating, madam, whether I was so or not, and that was it
which made me look so thoughtful.
Ber. Is it then so hard a matter to decide? I thought all people were
acquainted with their own bodies, though few people know their own minds
Love. What if the distemper I suspect be in the mind?
Ber. Why then I '11 undertake to prescribe you a cure.
Love. Alas! you undertake you know not what.
Ber. So far at least, then, you allow me to be a physician.
Love. Nay, I '11 allow you to be so yet further; for I have reason to believe, should I put myself into your hands, you would increase my disteanpe
Ber. How?
Love. Oh, you might betray me to my wife.
Ber. And so lose all my practice.
Love. Will you then keep my secret
Ber. I will




S. II.]            A TRIP TO SCARBOROUGH.                      501
Love. Well-but swear it.
Ber. I swear by woman.
Love. Nay, that's swearing by my deity; swear by your own, and I shall
believe you.
Ber. Well then, I swear by man!
Love. I'm satisfied. Now hear my symptoms, and give me your advice.
The first were these; when I saw you at the play, a random glance you threw
at fir-st alarmed me. I could not turn my eyes from whence the danger came
-I gazed upon you till my heart began to pant-nay, even now, on your
approaching me, my illness is so increased that if you do not help me I shall,
whilst you look on, consume to ashes.                [Takes her land.
Ber. 0 Lord, let me go! 'tis the plague, and we shall be infected.
[Breaking from him.
Love. Then we '11 die together, my charming angel.
Ber. 0 Gad! the devil's in you! Lord, let me go!-here's somebody
coming.
Ie-enter SERVANT.
Serv. Sir, my lady's come home, and desires to speak with you.
Love. Tell her I 'm coming.-[Exit SERVANT.]  But before I go, one glass
of nectar to drink her health.                       [To BERINTHIA.
Ber. Stand off, or I shall hate you, by Heavens
Love. [Kissing her.] In matters of love, a woman's oath is no more to be
minded than a man's.                                           [Exit.
Ber. Urn!
Enter COLONEL TOWNLY.
Col. Town. [Aside.]  So! what's here-Berinthia and Lovelesc-and in
such close conversation!-I cannot now wonder at her indifference in excusing herself to me!-0 rare woman!-Well then, let Loveless look to his, X      wife, 'twill be but the retort courteous on both sides.-[Aloud.]  Your servant, madam; I need not ask you how you do, you have got so good a colour.
Ber. No better than I used to have, I suppose.
Col. Town. A little more blood in vour cheeks.
Ber. I have been walking!
Col. Town. Is that all  Pray was it Mr. Loveless went from here just
now
Ber. 0 yes-he has been walking with me.
Col. Town. He has!
Ber. Upon my word I think he is a very agreeable man; and there is cer.
tainly something particularly insinuating in his address!
Col. Town. [Aside.]  So, so! she hasn't even the modesty to dissemble I
[Aloud.] Pray, madam, may I, without impertinence, trouble you with a
few serious questions 1
Ber. As many as you please; but pray let them be as little serious as
possible.
Col. Town. Is it not near two years since I have presumed to address
you u
Ber. I don't know exactly-but it has been a tedious long time.
Col. Town. Have I not, during that period, had every reason to believe
that my assiduities were far from being unacceptable 2
Ber. Why, to do you justice, you have been extremely troublesome-and
I confess I have been more civil to you than you deserved.




;02                 A TRIP TO SCARBOROUGH.                 LACT HI
Col. Town. Did I not come to this place at your express desire, and for
no purpose but the honour of meeting you?-and after waiting a month in
disappointment, have you condescended to explain, or in the slightest way
apologise, for your conduct?
Ber. 0 heavens! apologise for my conduct!-apologise to you 1 O you
barbarian! But pray now, my good serious colonel, have you any thing
more to add
Col. Town. Nothing, madam, but that after such behaviour I am less surprised at what I saw just now; it is not very wonderful that the woman who
can trifle with the delicate addresses of an honourable lover should be found
coquetting with the husband of her friend.
Ber. Very true: no more wonderfill than it was for this honourable lover
to divert himself in the absence of this coquette, with endeavouring to seduce
his friend's wife! O colonel, colonel, don t talk of honour or your friend,
for Heaven's sake!
Col. Town. [Aside.] 'Sdeath! how came she to suspect this!-[Aloud.]
Really. madam, I don't understand you.
Ber. Nay, nay, you saw I did not pretend to misunderstand you.-But
here comes the lady: perhaps you would be glad to be left with her for an
explanation.
Col. Town. 0 madam, this recrimination is a poor resource; and to convince you how much you are mistaken, I beg leave to decline the happiness
you propose me.-Madam, your servant.
Enter AMANDA. COLONEL TOWNLY whispers AMANDA, and exit.
Ber. [Aside.] He carries it off well, however; upon my word, very well!
How tenderly they part!-[Aloud.]  So, cousin; I hope you have not been
chiding your admirer for being with me. I assure you we have been talking
of you.
Arnan. Fy, Berinthia!-my admirer! will you never learn to talk in
earnest of any thing?
Ber. Why this shall be in earnest, if you please; for my part, I only tell
you matter of fact.
Anman. I'm sure there's so much jest and earnest in what you say to me
on this subject, I scarce know how to take it. I have just parted with Mr.
Loveless; perhaps it is fancy, but I think there is an alteration in his manner
which alarms me.
Bar. And so you are jealous! is that all?
Aman. That all! is jealousy, then, nothing?
Ber. It should be nothing, if I were in your case.
Aman. Why, what would you do?
Ber. I'd cure myself.
Aman. How?
Ber. Care as little for my husband as he did for me.  Look you, Amanda,
you may build castles in the air, and fume, and fret, and grow thin, and
lean, and pale, and ugly, if you please; but I tell you, no man worth having
is true to his wife, or ever was, or ever will be so.
Aman. Do you then really think he 's false to me? for I did not suspect him.
Ber. Think so? I am sure of it.
Aman. You are sure on't?
Ber. Positively-he fell in love at the play.
Aman. Right-the very same 1 But who could have told you thisl




SO. IL]             A TRIP TO SCARBOROUGB                      560
Ber. Um!-Oh, Townly! I suppose your husband has made him his eon
fidant.
Amnan. 0 base Loveless! And what did Townly say on't?
Ber. [Aside.]     So, so! why should she ask that — [Aloud.]  Say! why
he abused Loveless extremely, and said all the tender things of you in the
world.
A man. Did he?.-Oh! my heart!-I'm very ill-dear Berinthia, don't
leave me a moment.                                          [Exeunt
SCENE III.-Outside of SIR TUNBELLY CLUMSY'S House.
L nter TOM FASHION and LORY.
Fash. So, here's our inheritance, Lory, if we can but get into possession
But methinks the seat of our family looks like Noah's ark, as if the chief
part on't were designed for the fowls of the air, and the beasts of the field.
Lory. Pray, sir, don't let your head run upon the orders of building here:
get but the heiress, let the devil take the house.
Fash. Get but the house, let the devil take the heiress! I say.-But
come, we have no time to squander; knock at the door.-[LoRY knocks two
or three times at the gate.]  What the devil! have they got no ears in this
house L-Knock harder.
Lory. Egad, sir, this will prove some enchanted castle; we shall have
the giant come out, by-and-by, with his club, and beat our brains out.
[Kocks again.
Fash. Hush, they come.
Serv. [Within.] Who is there?
Lory. Open the door and see: is that your country breeding?
Serv. Ay, but two words to that bargain.-Tummas, is the blunderbuss
primed?
Fash. Ouns! give 'em good words, Lory,-or we shall be shot here a for' *     tune catching.
Lory. Egad, sir, I think you're in the right on't.-Ho! Mr. What-d'ye
call-'um, will you please to let us in? or are we to be left to grow like willows by your moat side
SERVANT appears at the window with a blunderbuss.
Serv. Well naw, what's ya're business?
Fash. Nothing, sir, but to wait upon Sir Tunbelly, with your leave.
Serv. To weat upon Sir Tunbelly! why you'll find that's just as Sir
Tunbelly pleases.
Fash. But will you do me the favour, sir, to know whether Sir Tunbel'y
pleases or not?
Serv. Why, look you, d' ye see, with good words much may be done.Ralph, go thy ways, and ask Sir Tunbelly if he pleases to be waited upon
-and dost hear, call to nurse, that she may lock up Miss Hoyden before the
gates open.
Flash. D' ye hear that, Lory
*      Enter SIR TUNBELLY CLUMSY, witIh SERVANTS, armed with guns, clubs, pitck
forks, dxc.
Lory. Oh! [Runs behind his master.]  0 Lord I 0 Lord I Lord I t! eav
both dead men I




50J


A TRIP TO SCARBOROUGH. [ACT III. SC. IV


Fash. Fool! thv fear will ruin us.                  [Aside to LORY.
Lory. My fear, sir? 'sdeath, sir, I fear nothing.-[Aside.] Would I were
well up to the chin in a horsepond!
Sir Tun. Who is it here hath any business with me?
Fash. Sir, 'tis I, if your name be Sir Tunbelly Clumsy.
Sir Tun. Sir, my name is Sir Tunbelly Clumsy, whether you have any
business with me or not.-So you see I am not ashamed of my name, nor
my face either.
Fash. Sir, you have no cause that I know of.
Sir Tun. Sir, if you have no cause either, I desire to know who you are;
for, till I know your name, I shan't ask you to come into my house: and
when I do know your name, 'tis six to four I don't ask you then.
Fash. Sir, I hope you '11 find this letter an authentic passport.
[Gives him a letter.
Sir Tun. Cod's my life, from Mrs. Coupler!-I ask your lordship's pardon ten thousand times.-[To a SERVANT.] Here, run in a-doors quickly;
get a Scotch coal fire in the parlour, set all the Turkey work chairs in their
places, get the brass candlesticks out, and be sure stick the socket full of
laurel-run!-[Turns to ToNI FASHION.] My lord, I ask your lordship's
pardon.-[To SERVANT.] And, do you hear, run away to nurse; bid her let
Miss Hoyden loose again.-rExit SERVANT.]    I hope your honour will
excuse the disorder of my family. We are not used to receive men of your
lordship's great quality every day. Pray where are your coaches and servants, my lord?
Fash. Sir, that I might give you and your daughter a proof how impatient
I am to be nearer akin to you, I left my equipage to follow me, and came
away post with only one servant.
Sir Tun. Your lordship does me too much honour-it was exposing your
person to too much fatigue and danger, I protest it was; but my daughter
shall endeavour to make you what amends she can; and, though I say it that
should not say it, Hoyden has charms.
Fash. Sir, I am not a stranger to them, though I am to her; common fame
has done her justice.
Sir Tun. My lord, I am ccmmon fame's very grateful, humble servant.
My lord, my girl's young-Hoyden is young, my lord: but this I must say
for her, what she wants in art she has in breeding; and what's wanting in
her age, is made good in her constitution.-So pray, my lord, walk in; pray,
my lord, walk in.
Fash. Sir, I wait upon you.                               [Exeunt.
SCENE IV.-A Room in SIR TUNBELLY CLUMSY'S House.
MIss IIOYDEN discovered alone.
Miss Hoyd. Sure, nobody was ever used as I am! I know well enough
what other girls do, for all they think to make a fool o'me. It's well I
have a husband a-coming, or ecod I'd marry the baker, I would sa.
Nobody can knock at the gate, but presently I must be locked up; anl
here's the young greyhound can run loose about the house all the day long,
so she can.-'Tis very well!
Nurse. [ Without, opening the door.1  Miss Hoyden! miss, miss, mAss
Miss Hoyden I




ACT IV. SC. I.]  A TRIP TO SCARBOROUGH.


505


Enter NURSE.
Miss Hoyd. Well, what do you make such a noise for, ha? What do you
din a body's ears for? Can't one be at quiet for you?
Nur7se. What do I din your ears for? Here's one come will din your eara
for you.
Miss Hoyd. What care I who's come?   I care not a fig who comes, or
who goes, so long as I must be locked up like the ale-cellar.
*    Nurse. That, miss, is for fear you should be drank before you are ripe.
Miss Hoyd. Oh, don't trouble your head about that; I'm as ripe as you,
though not so mellow.
Nurse. Very well! Now I have a good mind to lock you up again, and
not let you see my lord to-night.
Miss Hoyd. MIy lord: why, is my husband come?
Nurse. Yes, marry, is he; and a goodly person too.
Miss Hoyd. [Hugs NURSE.]   Oh, my dear nurse, forgive me this once,
and I '11 never misuse you again; no, if I do, you shall give me three thumps
on the back, and a great pinch by the cheek.
Nurse. Ah, the poor thing! see now it melts; it's as full of good-nature
as an egg's full of meat.
Miss Hoyd. But, my dear nurse, don't lie now-is he come, by your
troth?
Nurse. Yes, by my truly, is he.
Miss Hoyd. 0 Lord! I'll go and put on my laced tucker, though I 'm
locked up for a month for't.
[Exeunt.  MIss HOYDEN goes off capering, and twirling her doll
by its leg.
ACT IV.
SCENE I.-A Room in SIR TUNBELLY CLUMSY'S House.
En.ter MIss HOYDEN and NURSE.
Nurse. Well, miss, how do you like your husband that is to be?
Miss Hoyd. 0 Lord, nurse, I'm so overjoyed I can scarce contain myself!
Nurse. Oh, but you must have a care of being too fond; for men, now.
adays, hate a woman that loves 'em.
MIiss IHoyd. Love him! why, do you think I love him, nurse?  Ecod, I
would not care if he was hanged, so I were but once married to him. No,
that which pleases me is to think what work I'll make when I get to Lona      don; for when I am a wife and a lady both, ecod, I'll flaunt it with the best
of 'em.  Ay, and I shall have money enough to do so too, nurse.
Nurse. Ah, there's no knowing that, miss; for though these lords have a
power of wealth indeed, yet, as I have heard say, they give it all to their
luts and their trulls, who joggle it about in their coaches, with a murrain to
em, whilst poor madam sits sighing and wishing, and has not a spare halfcrown to buy her a Practice of Piety.
Aiss HIoyd. Oh, but for that, don't deceive yourself, nurse; for this I
must say of my lord, he 's as free as an open house at Christmas; for this
very morning he told me I should have six hundred a year to buy pins.
Now if he gives me six hundred a year to buy pins, what do you think he 'll
give me to buy petticoats?.Nurse. Ah, my dearest, he Receives thee foully, and he's no better thaa




506


A TRIP TO SCARBOROUGH.


[ACT IV


a rogue for his pains! These Londoners have got a gibberish with 'em
would confound a gipsy. That which they call pin-money, is to buy everything in the versal world, down to their very shoe-knots. Nay, I have
heard some folks say that some ladies, if they'll have gallants as they call
'em, are forced to find them out of their pin-money too.-But look, look, if
his honour be not coming to you!-Now, if I were sure you would behave
yourself handsomely, and not disgrace me that have brought you up, I 'd
leave you alone together.
liss lioyd. That's my best nurse; do as you'd be done by. Trust us
together this once, and if I don't show my breeding, I wish I may never be
married, but die an old maid.
Nurse. Well, this once I '11 venture you. But if you disparage meMiss Hoyd. Never fear.                              [Exit NURSE.
Enter TOM FASHION.
Fash. Your servant, madam; I'm glad to find you alone, for I have
something of importance to speak to you about.
Miss Hoyd. Sir (my lord, I meant), you may speak to me about what you
please, I shall give you a civil answer.
Fash. You give so obliging an one, it encourages me to tell you in a few
words what I think, both for your interest and mine. Your father, I suppose you know, has resolved to make me happy in being your husband; and
I hope I may obtain your consent to perform what he desires.
Miss Hoyd. Sir, I never disobey my father in any thing but eating green
gooseberries.
Fash. So good a daughter must needs be an admirable wife. I am therefore impatient till you are mine, and hope you will so far consider the violence of my love, that you won't have the cruelty to defer my happiness so
long as your father designs it.
Miss Hoyd. Pray, my lord, how long is that?                          0
Fash. Madam, a thousand years-a whole week..Miss Hoyd. Why I thought it was to be to-morrow morning, as soon as I
was up. I'm sure nurse told me so.
Fash. And it shall be to-morrow morning, if you '11 consent.
Miss Iloyd. If I'11 consent! Why I thought I was to obey you as my
husband?
Fash. That's when we are married. Till then, I'm to obey you.
Afiss Hoyd. Why then, if we are to take it by turns, it's the same thing.
I '11 obey you now, and when we are married, you shall obey me.
Fash. With all my heart. But I doubt we must get nurse on our side,
or we shall hardly prevail with the chaplain.
Miss Hoyd. No more we shan't, indeed; for he loves her better than he
loves his pulpit, and would always be a-preaching to her by his good will.
Fash. Why then. my dear, if you'll call her hither, we 'll persuade her
presently.
Miss Hoyd. 0 Lud! I'll tell you a way how to persuade her to any
thing.
eFash. How's that?
Miss Hoyd. Why tell her she's a handsome comely woman, and give het
half-a-crown.
Fash. Nay, if that will do, she shall have half a score of 'em.




8c. I.I


AI TRIP TO SCARh30ROUGH.I


507


Miss Hoyd. 0 gemini! for half that she'd marry you herself.-I '11 run
and call her.                                                   [Exit.
Fash. So! matters go on snimnmingly. This is a rare girl, i'faith. I shall
have a fine time on't with her at London.
Enter IAty.
So, Lory, what's the matter?
Lory. Here, sir-an intercepted packet from the enemy; your brother's
postillion brought it. I knew the livery, pretended to be a servant of Sir
Tunbelly's, and so got possession of the letter.
Fash. [Looks at the letter.] Ouns! he tells Sir Tunbelly here that he
will be with him this evening, with a large party to supper.-Egad, I must
marry the girl directly.
Lory. Oh, zounds, sir, directly to be sure. Here she comes.   [Exit.
FJash. And the old Jezebel with her.
Re-enter Miss HOYDEN and NURSE.
How do you do, good Mrs. Nurse    I desired your young lady would give
me leave to see you, that I might thank you for your extraordinary care and
kind conduct in her education: pray accept of this small acknowledgment for
it at present, and depend upon my further kindness when I shall be that
happy thing her husband.                             [Gives her money.
Nurse. [Aside.] Gold, by the maakins!-[Alocd.] Your honour's goodness is too great. Alas! all I can boast of is, I gave her pure good milk,
and so your honour would have said, an you had seen how the poor thing
thrived, and how it would look up in my face, and crow and laugh, it
would.
Miss Hoyd. [To NURSE, taking her angrily aside.] Pray, one word with
you. Pr'ythee, nurse, don't stand ripping up old stories, to make one
ashamed before one's love. Do you think such a fine proper gentleman as he
is cares for a fiddlecome tale of a child ] If you have a mind to make him
have a good opinion of a woman, don't tell him what one did then, tell him
what one can do now.-[To TosM FASHION.] I hope your honour will excuse
my mis-manners to whisper before you; it was only to give some orders about
the family.
Fash. Oh, every thing, madam, is to give way to business; besides, good
housewifery is a very commendable quality in a young lady.
Miss IHoyd. Pray, sir, are young ladies good housewives at London-town
Do they darn their own linen?
Fash. Oh no, they study how to spend money, not to save.
Miss Iloyd. Ecod, I don't know but that may be better sport, ha, nurse]
Fash. Well, you shall have your choice when you come there.
Miss Hoyd. Shall I? then, by my troth, I'11 get there as fast as I can.[To NuaSE.] His honour desires you '11 be so kind as to let us be married
to-morrow.
Nurse. To-morrow, my dear madam I
Fash. Ay, faith, nurse, you may well be surprised at miss's wanting to
& '    put it off so long.  To-morrow! no, no; 'tis now, this very hour, I would
Lave the ceremony performed.
Miss lloyd. Ecod, with all my heart.
Nurse 0 mercy! worse and worse I




V08


A TRIP TO SCARBOROUGH.


[ACT IV


Fash. Yes, sweet nurse, now and privately; for all things being signed
and sealed, why should Sir Tunbelly make us stay a week for a weddingdinner!
V'Nurse. But if you should be married now, what will you do when Sir
Tunbelly calls for you to be married?
Miss Hoyd. Why then we will be married again.
Nurse. What twice, my child?
Miss Hoyd. Ecod, I don't care how often I'm married, not I.,urse. Well, I 'm such a tender-hearted fool, I find I can refuse you no.
thing. So you shall e'en follow your own inventions.
Miss Hoyd. Shall I   O Lord, I could leap over the moon!
Fash. Dear nurse, this goodness of yours shall be still more rewarded.
But now you must employ your power with the chaplain, that he may do
his friendly office too, and then we shall be all happy. Do you think you
can prevail with him?
Nurse. Prevail with him! or he shall never prevail with me, I can tell
him that.
Fash. I 'm glad to hear it; however, to strengthen your interest with
him, you may let him know I have several fat livings in my gift, and that
the first that falls shall be in your disposal.
Nurse. Nay, then, I '11 make him marry more folks than one, I'11 promise him!
Miss Hoyd. Faith, do, nurse, make him marry you too; I'm sure he '11
do't for a fat living.
Fash. Well, nurse, while you go and settle matters with him, your lady
and I will go and take a walk in the garden.-[Exit NURSE.] Come, madam,
dare you venture yourself alone with me? [Takes Miss IOYDEN by the hand.
Miss Hoyd. Oh dear, yes, sir; I don't think you '11 do any thing to me I
need be afraid on.                                          [Exeunt.
SCENE II.-AMANDA'S Dressing-room.
Enter AMANDA, followed by her MAID.
Maid. If you please, madam, only to say whether you'll have me buy
them or not?
Aman. Yes-no-Go, teaser; I care not what you do. Pr'ythee leave
me.                                                      [Exit MAID.
Enter BERINTHIA.
Ber. What, in the name of Jove, is the matter with you?
Aman. The matter, Berinthia! I'm almost mad; I'm plagued to death.
Ber. Who is it that plagues you?
Aran. Who do you think should plague a wife but her husband?
Ber. O, ho! is it come to that?-We shall have you wish yourself a widow,
by-and-by.
Aman. Would I were any thing but what I am! A base, ungrateful man,
to use me thus!
Ber. What has he given you fresh reason to suspect his wandering I
Aman. Every hour gives me reason.
Ber. And yet, Amanda, you perhaps at this moment cause in another's
breast the same tormenting doubts and jealousies which you feel so aemibly
) ourself




G. nr.J


A TRIP TO SCARBOROUGH.


Aman. Heaven knows I would not.
Ber. Why, you can't tell but there may be some one as tenderly attached to
Townly, whom you boast of as your conquest, as you can be to your husband?.*      Anma. I 'm sure I never encouraged his pretensions.
Ber. Psha! psha! no sensible man ever perseveres to love without encouragement. Why have you not treated him as you have Lord Foppington
Arman. Because he presumed not so far. But let us drop the subject.
MIen, not women, are riddles. Mr. Loveless now follows some flirt for variety, whom I'm sure he does not like so well as he does me.
Ber. That's more than you know, madam.
Aman. Why, do you know the ugly thing 2
Ber. I think I can guess at the person; but she 's no such ugly thing neither.
I       Aman. Is she very handsome?
Ber. Truly I think so.
Aman. Whate'er she be, I'm sure he does not like her well enough to bestow
any thing more than a little outward gallantry upon her.
Ber. [Aside.] Outward gallantry! I can't bear this.-[Aloud.] Come,
come, don't you be too secure, Amanda: while you suffer Townly to imagine
that you do not detest him for his designs on you, you have no right to complain that your husband is engaged elsewhere. But here comes the person
we were speaking of.
Enter COLONEL TOWNLY.
Col. Town. Ladies, as I come uninvited, I beg, if I intrude, you will use
the same freedom in turning me out again.
Aman. I believe it is near the time 'Lveless said he would be at home.
He talked of accepting of Lord Foppington's invitation to sup at Sir Tunbelly
Clumsy's.
Col. Town. His lordship has done me the honour to invite me also. If
you '11 let me escort you, I '11 let you into a mystery as we go, in which you,     must play a part when we arrive.
Aman. But we have two hours yet to spare; the carriages are not ordered
till eight, and it is not a five minutes' drive. So, cousin, let us keep the colonel
to play at piquet with us, till Mr. Loveless comes home.
Ber. As you please, madam; but you know I have a letter to write.
Col. Town. Madam, you know you may command me, though I am a very
wretched gamester.
Aman. Oh, you play well enough to lose your money, and that's all the
ladies require; and so, without any more ceremony, let us go into the next
'     room, and call for cards and candles.                     [Exeunt.
SCENE III.-BERINTHIA'S Dressing-room.
Enter LOVELESS.
*   Loe. So, thus far all's well: I have got into her dressing-room, and it
being dusk, I think nobody has perceived me steal into the house. I heard
Berinthia tell my wife she had some particular letters to write this evening,
before she went to Sir Tunbelly's, and here are the implements of correspondence.-How shall I muster up assurance to show myself when she comes
I think she has given me encouragement; and, to do my impudence justice, I
have made the most of it.-I hear a door open, and some one coming. If it
should be my wife, what the devil should I say ] I believe she mistrusts




510


A TRIP TO SCARBOROUGH.  [ACT IV. SC. IlL


me, and, by my life, I don't deserve her tenderness; however, I am deter.
mined to reform-though not yet.  Ha! Berinthia!-So, I '11 step in here,
till I see what sort of humour she is in.         [Goes into the closet.
Enter BERINTHIA.
Ber. Was ever so provoking a situation! To think I should sit and hear
him compliment Amanda to my face! I have lost all patience with them
both! I would not for something have Loveless know what temper of
mind they have piqued me into; yet I can't bear to leave them together.
No, I'11 put my papers away, and return to disappoint them.-[Goes to ths
closet.]-0 Lord! a ghost! a ghost! a ghost!
Re-enter LOVELESS.
Love. Peace, my angel! it's no ghost, but one worth a hundred spirits.
Ber. How, sir, have you had the insolence to presume to --- run in again,
here's somebody coming.                   [LOVELESS goes into the closet.
Enter MAID.
Maid. 0 Lord, ma'am! what's the matter?
Ber. 0 Heavens! I'm almost frightened out of my wits! I thought verily
I had seen a ghost, and 'twas nothing but a black hood pinned against the
wall  You may go again; I am the fearfullest fool!      [Eit MAD.
Re-enter LOVELESS.
Love. Is the coast clear?
Ber. The coast clear!  Upon my word, I wonder at your assurance!
Love. Why then you wander before I have given you a proof of it. But
where's my wife?
Ber. At cards.
Love. With whom I
Ber. With Townly.
Love, Then we are safe enough.
Ber. You are se! Some husbands would be of another mind, were he at
cards with their wives.
Love. And they 'd be in the right on ' too; but I dare trust mine.
Ber. Indeed! and she, I doubt not, has the same confidence in you. Yet
do you think she 'd be content to come and find you here l
Love. Egad, as you say, that's true!-Then, for fear she should come,
hadn't we better go into the next room, out of her way?
Ber. What, in the dark t
Love. Ay, or with a light, which you please.
Ber. You are certainly very impudent.
Love. Nay, then-let me conduct you, my angel!
Ber. Hold, hold! you are mistaken in your angel, I assure you.
Love. I hope not; for by this hand I swearBer. Come, come, let go my hand, or I shall hate you!-I 'II cry out a I
hve!
Love. Impossible! you cannot be so cruel.
Ber. Ha! here's some one coming. Begone instantly!
Love. Will you promise to return, if I remain here?
Ber. Never trust myself in a room again with you while I lie.
Love. But I have something particular to communicate to 0ou.




ACT V. SO. I.   A TRIP TO SCARBOROUGH.


611


Ber. Well, well, before we go to Sir Tunbelly's, I '11 walk upon tho lawn.
If you are fond of a moonlight evening, you '11 find me there.
Love. I'faith, they're coming here now!-I take you at your word.
[Exit into the closet.
Ber. 'Tis Amanda, as I live! I hope she has not heard his voice; though
I mean she should have her share of jealousy in her turn.
Enter AMAnDA.
Ancan. Berinthia, why did you leave mel
Ber. I thought I only spoiled your party.
Aman. Since you have been gone, Townly has attempted to renew his
importunities.  I must break with him-for I cannot venture to acquaint
Mr. Loveless with his conduct.
Ber. Oh, no  Mr. Loveless mustn't know of it by any means.
Aman. Oh, not for the world!-I wish, Berinthia, you would undertake
to speak to Townly on the subject.
Ber. Upon my word, it would be a very pleasant subject for me to talk
upon ' But, come, let us go back; and you may depend on't I'11 not
leave you together again, if I can help it.                 [Exeua.
Re-enter LOVELESS.
Love. So-so! a pretty piece of business I have overheard! Townly
makes love to my wife, and I am not to know it for all the world. I must
inquire into this —and, by Heaven, if I find that Amanda has, in the smallest
degree-yet what have I been at here!-Oh, 'sdeath! that's no rule.
That wife alone unsullied credit wins,
Whose virtues can atone her husband's sins.
Thus, while the man has other nymphs in view,
It suits the woman to be doubly true.            [ExiZ
ACT V.
SCENE I.-The Garden behind LOVELBSS'S Lodgings,
Enter LOVELESS.
Love. Now, does she mean to make a fool of me, or not! I shan't wait
much longer, for my wife will soon be inquiring for me to set out on our
supping party. Suspense is at all times the devil, but of all modes of suepense, the watching for a loitering mistress is the worst.-But let me accuse
her no longer; she approaches with one smile to o'erpay the anxieties of
a year.
EEnter BERINTHIA.
0 Berinthia, what a world of kindness are you in my debt! had you slda
ffe minutes longerBer. You would have gone, I suppose!
Love. Egad, she's right enough.                            [Atide.
Ber. And I assure you 'twas ten to one that I came at 4. In short,
I begin to think you are too dangerous a being to trifle with; and as I shall
probably only make a fool of you at last, I believe we had better let matters
rest as they are.
Love. You cannot mean it, sure?
Ber. What more would you have me give to a married manu




512


& TRIP TO SCARBORIOUGOH.


[ACT v


Love. How doubly cruel to remind me of my misfortunes!
Ber. A misfortune to be married to so charming a woman as Amanda?
Love. I grant all her merit, but — 'sdeath! now see what you have done
by talking of her-she's here, by all that's unlucky, and Townly with her,
-I'll observe them.
Ber. 0 Gad, we had better get out of the way; for I should feel as
awkward to meet her as you.
Love. Ay, if I mistake not, I see Townly coming this way also. I must
see a little into this matter.                           [Steps aside.
Ber. Oh, if that's your intention, I am no woman if I suffer myself to be
outdone in curiosity.                           [Goes on the other side.
Enter AMANDA.
Aman. Mr. Loveless come home, and walking on the lawn! I will not
suffer him to walk so late, though perhaps it is to show his neglect of me.Mr. Loveless, I must speak with you.-Ha! Townly again!    How I am
persecuted!
Enster COLONEL TOWNLY.
Col. Town. Madam, you seem disturbed.
Aman. Sir, I have reason.
Col. Town. Whatever be the cause, I would to Heaven it were in my
power to bear the pain, or to remove the malady.
Aman. Your interference can only add to my distress.
Col. Town. Ah, madam, if it be the sting of unrequited love you suffer
from, seek for your remedy in revenge: weigh well the strength and beauty
of your charms, and rouse up that spirit a woman ought to bear. Disdain
the false embraces of a husband. See at your feet a real lover; his zeal may
give him title to your pity, although his merit cannot claim your love.
Love. So, so, very fine, i' faith!                        [Aside.
Amsan. Why do you presume to talk to me thus? Is this your friendship
to Mr. Loveless? I perceive you will compel me at last to acquaint him with
your treachery.
Col. Tawn. He could not upbraid me if you werp-He deserves it from
me; for he has not been more false to you than faithless to me.
Aman. To you?
Col. Town. Yes, madam; the lady for whom he now deserts those charms
which he was never worthy of, was mine by right; and, I imagined too, by
inclination. Yes, madam, Berinthia, who now
Aman. Berinthia! Impossible!
Col. Town. 'Tis true, or may I never merit your attention. She is the
deceitful sorceress who now holds your husband's heart in bondage.
Aman. I will not believe it.
Col. Town. By the faith of a true lover, I speak from conviction. This
very day I saw them together, and overheardAman. Peace, sir! I will not even listen to such slander-this is a poor
device to work on my resentment, to listen to your insidious addresses. Nc,
sir, though Mr. Loveless may be capable of error, I am convinced I cannot
be deceived so grossly in him, as to believe what you now report; and for
Berinthia, you should have fixed on some more probable person for my
rival than her who is my relation and my friend: for while I am mysel fireo




Ec. T.J


A TRIP TO SCARBOROUGH.


Iy5


from guilt, I will never believe that love can beget injury, or confidence
create ingratitude.
Col. Town. If I do not prove to you
A            Yan. You never shall have an opportunity. From the artful manner in
wh ch you first showed yourself to me, I might have been led, as far as virtue
permitted, to have thought you less criminal than unhappy; but this last
unmanly artifice merits at once my resentment and contempt.    [Exit.
Col. Town. Sure there's divinity about her; and she has dispensed some
portion of honour's light to me: yet can I bear to lose Berinthia without
revenge or compensation?  Perhaps she is not so culpable as I thought her.
I was mistaken when I began to think lightly of Amanda's virtue, and may
be in my censure of my Berinthia. Surely I love her still, for I feel I should
be happy to find myself in the wrong.                             [Exit.
Re-enter LOVELaSS a>d BERINTHIA.
Ber. Your servant, Mr. Loveless.
Love. Your servant, madam.
Ber. Pray what do you think of this?
Love. Truly, I don't know what to say.
Ber. Don't you think we steal forth two contemptible creatures?
Love. Why tolerably so, I must confess.
Ber. And do you conceive it possible for you ever to give Amanda the
least uneasiness again
Love. No, I think we never should indeed.
Ber. We why, monster, you don't pretend that I ever entertained a
thought?
Love. Why then, sincerely and honestly, Berinthia, there is something in
my wife's conduct which strikes me so forcibly, that if it were not for shame,
and the fear of hurting you in her opinion, I swear I would follow her, confess my error, and trust to her generosity for forgiveness.
Ber. Nay, pr'ythee, don't let your respect for me prevent you; for as my
object in trifling with you was nothing more than to pique Townly, and as I
perceive he has been actuated by a similar motive, you may depend on't I
shall make no mystery of the matter to him.
Love. By no means inform him; for though I may choose to pass by
his conduct without resentment, how will he presume to look me in the face
again?
Ber. How will you presume to look him in the face again?
Love. He, who has dared to attempt the honour of my wife!
Ber. You, who have dared to attempt the honour of his mistress! Come,
come, be ruled by me, who affect more levity than I have, and don't think
of anger in this cause. A readiness to resent injuries is a virtue only in
those who are slow to injure.
Love. Then I will be ruled by you; and when you shall think proper to
undeceive Townly, may your good qualities make as sincere a convert of him
as Amanda's have of me.-When truth's extorted from us, then we own the
robe of virtue is a sacred habit.
Could women but our secret counsels scanCould they but reach the deep reserve of manTo keep our love they'd rate their virtue high,
They live together, and together die.            [ECum.
L L




514                 A TRIP TO SCARBOROUGH.                  [ACT V.
SCENE II.-A Room in SIR TUNBELLY CLUMSY'S House,
Enter Miss HOYDEN, NURSE, and TOM FASHION.
Fash. This quick despatch of the chaplain's I take so kindly, it shall gi re
him claim to my favour as long as I live, I assure you.
Miss Hoyd. And to mine too, I promise you.
Nurse. I most humbly thank your honours; and may your children swarm
about you like bees about a honeycomb!
Miss Boyd. Ecod, with all my heart-the more the merrier, I say-ha,
nurse I
Enter LORY.
Lory. One word with you, for Heaven's sake.
[Taking ToM FASHION hastily aside.
Fash. What the devil's the matter?
Lory. Sir, your fortune's ruined if you are not married. Yonder's youm
brother arrived, with two coaches and six horses, twenty footmen, and a
coat worth fourscore pounds-so judge what will become of your lady's
heart.
Fash. Is he in the house yet?
Lory. No, they are capitulating with him at the gate. Sir Tunbelly
luckily takes him for an impostor; and I have told him that we have heard
of this plot before.
Fash. That's right.-[Turning to MISs HOYDEN.] My dear, here's a
troublesome business my man tells me of, but don't be frightened; we shall
be too hard for the rogue. Here's an impudent fellow at the gate (not
knowing I was come hither incognito) has taken my name upon him, in hopes
to run away with you.
Miiss Hoyd. Oh, the brazen-faced varlet! it's well we are married, or
may be we might never have been so.
Fash. [Aside.] Egad, like enough. —[loud.] Pr'ythee, nurse, run to Sir
Tunbelly, and stop him from going to the gate before I speak with him.
Nurse. An't please your honour, my lady and I had best lock ourselves up
till the danger be over.
Fash. Do so, if you please.
Miss Hoyd. Not so fast; I won't be locked up any more, now    I'm
married.
Fash. Yes, pray, my dear, do, till we have seized this rascal.
Miss HIoyd. Nay, if you '11 pray me, I'11 do any thing. [Exit with NURSE.
Fash. Hark you, sirrah, things are better than you imagine. The wedding's over.
Lory. The devil it is, sir!                         [Capers about.
Facsh. Not a word-all's safe-but Sir Tunbelly don't know it, nor must
not yet. So I am resolved to brazen the brunt of the business out, and have
the pleasure of turning the impostor upon his lordship, which I believe may
easily be done.
Enter SIR TUNBELLY CLUMSY.
Did you ever hear, sir, of so impudent an undertaking?,Sir  usn. Never, by the mass; but we '11 tickle him, I'11 warrant you.




sc. n.1


A TRIP TO SCARBOROUGH.


515


Fash. They tell me, sir, he has a great many people with him, disguised
like servants.
Sir Tun. Ay, ay, rogues enow, but we have mastered them. We only
fired a few shot over their heads, and the regiment scoured in an instant.Here, Tummas, bring in your prisoner.
Fash. If you please, Sir Tunbelly, it will be best for me not to confront
the fellow yet, till you have heard how far his impudence will carry him.
Sir Tun. Egad, your lordship is an ingenious person. Your lordship then
will please to step aside.
Lory. [Aside.] 'Fore heaven, I applaud my master's modesty!
[Exit with TOM FASHION.
Enter SERVANTS, with LORD FOPPINGTON disarmed.
Sir Tun. Come, bring him along, bring him along.
Lord Fop. What the plague do you mean, gentlemen? is it fair time, that
you are all drunk before supper?
Sir Tun. Drunk, sirrah! here's an impudent rogue for you now. Drunk
or sober, bully, I'm a justice o' the peace, and know how to deal with
strollers.
Lord Fop. Strollers!
Sir Tun. Ay, strollers. Come, give an account of yourself. What's your
name? where do you live 2 do you pay scot and lot? Come, are you a freeholder or a copyholder?
Lord Fop. And why dost thou ask me so many impertinent questions?
Sir Tun. Because I'11 make you answer 'em, before I have done with
you, you rascal you!
Lord Fop. Before Gad, all the answers I can make to them is, that you
are a very extraordinary old fellow, stap my vitals!
Sir Tun. Nay, if thou art joking deputy lieutenants, we know how to
deal with you.-Here, draw a warrant for him immediately.
Lord Fop. A warrant! What the devil is't thou wouldst be at, old gentleman?
Sir Tun. I would be at you, sirrah, (if my hands were not tied as a magistrate,) and with these two double fists beat your teeth down your throat,
you dog you!                                          [Driving Im.
Lord Fop. And why wouldst thou spoil my face at that rate?
Sir Tun. For your design to rob me of my daughter, villain.
Lord Fop. Rob thee of thy daughter! Now do I begin to believe I am
in bed and asleep, and that all this is but a dream. Pr'ythee, old father, wilt
thou give me leave to ask thee one question
Sir Tun. I can't tell whether I will or not, till I know what it is.
Lord Fop. Why, then, it is, whether thou didst not write to my Lord
Foppington, to come down and marry thy daughter?
Sir Tun. Yes, marry, did I, and my Lord Foppington is come down, and
shall marry my daughter before she's a day older.
Lord Fop. Now give me thy hand, old dad; I thought we should understand one another at last.
Sir Tun. The fellow 's mad!-Here, bind him hand and foot.
[They bind him.
Lord Fop. Nay, pr'ythee, knight, leave fooling; thy jest begins to grow
dull.
LL'




b10


A TRIP TO SCARBOROUGH.


[ACT t


Sir Tun. Bind him, I say-he's mad: bread and water, a dark room, and
a whip, may bring him to his senses again.
Lord Fop. Pr'ythee, Sir Tunbelly, why should you take such an aversion
to the freedom of my address as to suffer the rascals thus to skewer down my
arms like a rabbit!-[Aside.]  Egad, if I don't awake, by all that I can
see, this is like to prove one of the most impertinent dreams that ever I
dreamt in my life.
Re-enter Miss HOYDEN and NURSE.
Jliss Hoyd. [Going up to LORD FOPPINGTON.] Is this he that would have
run-Fough, how he stinks of sweets!-Pray, father, let him be dragged
through the horsepond.
Lord Fop. This must be my wife, by her natural inclination to her husband.                                                       [Aside.
Miss Hoyd. Pray, father, what do you intend to do with him-hang
him I
Sir Tun. That at least, child.
rNurse. Ay, and it's e'en too good for him too.
Lord Fop. Madame la gouvernante, I presume: hitherto this appears to
me to be one of the most extraordinary families that ever man of quality
matched into.                                              [Aside,
Sir Tun. What's become of my lord, daughter?
Miss Hoyd. He's just coming, sir.
Lord Fop. My lord, what does he mean by that, now!      [Aside.
Re-enter TOM FASHION and LORY.
Stap my vitals, Tam, now the dream 's out!                 [Runs.
Fcash. Is this the fellow, sir, that designed to trick me of your daughter?
Sir Tun. This is he, my lord; how do you like him; is not he a pretty
fellow to get a fortuneS
Fash. I find by his dress he thought your daughter might be taken with
a beau.
Miss Hloyd. Oh, gemini! is this a beau let me see him again. [Surveys
him.] Ha! I find a beau is no such ugly thing, neither.
Fash. [Aside.]  Egad, she'll be in love with him presently-I 'll e'en
have him sent away to jail.-[To LORD FOPPINGTON.] Sir, though your undertaking shows you a person of no extraordinary modesty, I suppose you
han't confidence enough to expect much favour from me?
Lord Fop. Strike me dumb, Tam, thou art a very impudent fellow.
Nurse. Look, if the varlet has not the effrontery to call his lordship plain
Thomas!
Lord Fop. My Lord Foppington, shall I beg one word with your lordship?
Nurse. Ho, ho, it's my lord with him now! See how afflictions will
humble folks.
Mliss Hoyd. Pray, my lord-[To FASHION]-don't let him whisper too
close, lest he bite your ear off.
Lord Fop. I am not altogether so hungry as your ladyship is pleased to
imagine.-[Aside to ToM FASHION.] Look you, Tam, I am sensible I have
not been so kind to you as I ought, but I hope you '11 forgive what's past.
and accept of the five thousand pounds I offer-thou mayst live in extreme
splendour with it, stap my vitals I




G     nit]


A TRIP TO SCARBOROUGH.


517


Fash. It's a much easier matter to prevent a disease than to cure it. A
quarter of that sum would have secured your mistress, twice as much cannot
redeem her.                                [Aside to LORD FOPPINGTON.
Ser Tun. Well, what says he?
Fash. Only the rascal offered me a bribe to let him go.
Sir Tun. Ay, he shall go, with a plague to him!-Lead on, constable.
Enter SERVANT.
Serv. Sir, here is Muster Loveless, and Muster Colonel Townly, and some
ladies to wait on you.                             [To TOM FASHION.
Lory. [Aside to TOM FASHION.]  So, sir, what will you do now.
Fash. [Aside to LORY.] Be quiet; they are in the plot.-[Aloud.] Only
*         a few friends, Sir Tunbelly, whom I wish to introduce to you.
Lord Fop. Thou art the most impudent fellow, Tam, that ever nature yet
brought into the world.-Sir Tunbelly, strike me speechless, but these are my
friends and acquaintance, and my guests, and they will soon inform thee
whether I am the true Lord Foppington or not.
Enter LOVELESS, COLONEL TOWNLY, AMANDA, and BERINTHIA.-LORD FoPPINGTON accosts them as they pass, but none answer him.
Fash. So, gentlemen, this is friendly; I rejoice to see you.
Col Town. My lord, we are fortunate to be the witnesses of your lordship's
happiness.
Love. But your lordship will do us the honour to introduce us to Sir
Tunbelly Clumsy?
Aman. And us to your lady.
Lord Fop. Gad take me, but they are all in a story          [Aside.
Sir Tun. Gentlemen, you do me much honour; my Lord Foppington's
friends will ever be welcome to me and mine.
Fash. My love, let me introduce you to these ladies.
lMiss Hoyd. By goles, they look so fine and so stiff, I am almost ashamed
to come nigh 'em.
Anman. A most engaging lady, indeed!
Miss Hoyd. Thank ye, ma'am.
Ber. And I doubt not will soon distinguish herself in the beau-monde.
Miss Hoyd. Where is that?
Fash. You'll soon learn, my dear.
Love. But Lord FoppingtonLord Fop. Sir!
Love. Sir! I was not addressing myself to you, sir!-Pray who is this
gentleman?  He seems rather in a singular predicamentCol. Town. For so well-dressed a person, a little oddly circumstanced,
indeed.
Sir Tun. Ha! ha! ha!-So, these are your friends and your guests, ha,
my adventurer?
Lord Fop. I am struck dumb with their impudence, and cannot positively
say whether I shall ever speak again or not.
Sir Tun. Why, sir, this modest gentleman wanted to pass himself upon
me as Lord Foppington, and carry off my daughter.
Love. A likely plot to succeed, truly, ha! ha!
Lord Fop. As Gad shall judge me, Loveless, I did not expect this from
thee. Come, pr'ythee confess the joke; tell Sir Tunbelly that I am the real




518


A TRIP TO SCARBOROUGH.


IACT V


Lord Foppington, who yesterday made love to thy wife; was honoured by
her with a slap on the face, and afterwards pinked through the body by
thee.
Sir Tun. A likely story, truly, that a peer would behave thus!
Love. A pretty fellow, indeed, that would scandalize the character he
wants to assume; but what will you do with him, Sir Tunbelly?
Sir Tun. Commit him, certainly, unless the bride and bridegroom choose
to pardon him.
Lord Fop. Bride and bridegroom! For Gad's sake, Sir Tunbelly, 'tis
tarture to me to hear you call 'em so.
Miss Hoyd. Why, you ugly thing, what would you have him call us-dog
and cat?
Lord Fop. By no means, miss; for that sounds ten times more like man
and wife than t' other.
Sir Tun. A precious rogue this to come a-wooing!
Re-enter SERVANT.
Serv. There are some gentlefolks below to wait upon Lord Foppington.
[Exit.
Col. Town. 'Sdeath, Tom, what will you do now?
[Aside to TOM FASHION.
Lord Fop. Now, Sir Tunbelly, here are witnesses who I believe are not
corrupted.
Sir Tun. Peace, fellow!-Would your lordship choose to have your guests
shown here, or shall they wait till we come to 'em?
Fash. I believe, Sir Tunbelly, we had better not have these visitors here
yet.-[Aside.]  Egad, all must out.
Love. Confess, confess; we'11 stand by you.  [Aside to TOM FASHION.
Lord Fop. Nay, Sir Tunbelly, I insist on your calling evidence on both
sides-and if I do not prove that fellow an impostor
Fash. Brother, I will save you the trouble, by now confessing that I am
not what I have passed myself for.-Sir Tunbelly, I am a gentleman, and I
fittter myself a man of character; but 'tis with great pride I assure you I
am not Lord Foppington.
Sir Tun. Ouns — what 's this — an impostorz —a cheat?-fire and faggots,
sir, if you are not Lord Foppington, who the devil are you?
Fash. Sir, the best of my condition is, I am your son-in-law; and the
worst of it is, I am brother to that noble peer.
Lord Fop. Impudent to the last, Gad dem me!
Sir Tun. My son-in-law! not yet, I hope.
Fash. Pardon me, sir; thanks to the goodness of your chaplain, and the
kind offices of this gentlewoman.
Lory. 'Tis true, indeed, sir; I gave your daughter away, and Mrs,
Nurse, here, was clerk.
Sir Tun. Knock that rascal down!-But speak, Jezebel, how's this?
Nurse. Alas! your honour, forgive me; I have been overreached in this
business as well as you. Your worship knows, if the wedding-dinner had
been ready, you would have given her away with your own hands.
Sir Tun. But how durst you do this without acquainting me!
Nurse. Alas! if your worship had seen how the poor thing begged and
prayed, and clung and twined about me like ivy round an old wall, you




11        rC. U1.1


LA TRIP TO SCARBOROUGrH.


would say, I who had nursed it, and reared it, must have had a heart like
dtone to refuse it.
Sir Tun. Ouns I I shall go mad! Unloose my lord there, you scounrels!
Lord Fop. Why, when these gentlemen are at leisure, I should be glad to
congratulate you on your son-in-law, with a little more freedom of address.
Miss Hoyd. Egad, though, I don't see which is to be my husband after all.
Lobe, Come, come, Sir Tunbelly, a man of your understanding must perceive, that an affair of this kind is not to be mended by anger and reproaches.
Col. Town. Take my word for it, Sir Tunbelly, you are only tricked into
a son-in-law you may be proud of: my friend Tom Fashion is as honest a
fellow as ever breathed.
Love. -That he is, depend on 't; and will hunt or drink with you most
affectionately: be generous, old boy, and forgive themSir Tun. Never! the hussy!-when I had set my heart on getting her a
title.
Lord Fop. Now, Sir Tunbelly, that I am untrussed-give me leave to
thank thee for the very extraordinary reception I have met with in thy
damned, execrable mansion; and at the same time to assure you, that of all
the bumpkins and blockheads I have had the misfortune to meet with, thou
art the most obstinate and egregious, strike me ugly!
Sir Tun. What's thisl I believe you are both rogues alike.
Lord Fop. No, Sir Tunbelly, thou wilt find to thy unspeakable mortification, that I am the real Lord Foppington, who was to have disgraced myselt
by an alliance with a clod; and that thou hast matched thy girl to a beggarly younger brother of mine, whose title-deeds might be contained in thy
tobacco-box.
Sir Tun. Puppy! puppy!-I might prevent their being beggars, if I
chose it; for I could give 'em as good a rent-roll as your lordship.
Lord Fop. Ay, old fellow, but you will not do that-for that would be
acting like a Christian, and thou art a barbarian, stap my vitals.
Sir Tun. Udzookers! now six such words more, and I'11 forgive them
directly.
Love. 'Slife, Sir Tunbelly, you should do it, and bless yourself-Ladies,
what say you?
Aman. Good Sir Tunbelly, you must consent.
Ber. Come, you have been young yourself, Sir Tunbelly.
Sir Tun. Well then, if I must, I must; but turn-turn that sneering
lord out, however, and let me be revenged on somebody. But first look
whether I am a barbarian or not; there, children, I join your hands; and
when I'm in a better humour, I '11 give you my blessing.
Love. Nobly done, Sir Tunbelly I and we shall see you dance at a grandson's christening yet.
Miss Hoyd. By goles, though, I don't understand this! What, an't I to
be a lady after all? only plain Mrs.-What's my husband's name, nurse
Nurse. Squire Fashion.
Miss Hoyd. Squire, is he — Well, that's better than nothing.
Lord Fop. [Aside.] Now I will put on a philosophic air, and show these
people, that it is not possible to put a man of my quality out of countenance.
-[Aloud.] Dear Tam, since things are fallen out, pr'ythee give me leave tJ




a                  A TRIP TO SCARBOROUGH.           [iCT.V SC. It.
wish thee joy; I do it de bon cceur, strike me dumb! You have married
into a family of great politeness and uncommon elegance of manners, and
your bride appears to be a lady beautiful in person, modest in her deportment, refined in her sentiments, and of nice morality, split my windpipe!
Miss Hoyd. By goles, husband, break his bones, if he calls me names!
Fash. Your lordship may keep up your spirits with your grimace, if you
please; I shall support mine by Sir Tunbelly's favour, with this lady and
three thousand pounds a year.
Lord Fop. Well, adieu, Tamr!-Ladies, I kiss your hands.-Sir Tunbelly, I shall now quit this thy den; but while I retain the use of my arms
I shall ever remember thou art a demned horrid savage; Ged demn me!
[Exit.
Sir Tun. By the mass, 'tis well he's gone-for I should ha' been provoked, by-and-by, to ha' dun un a mischief. Well, if this is a lord, I think
Hoyden has luck o' her side, in troth.
Col. Town. She has indeed, Sir Tunbelly.-But I hear the fiddles; his
lordship, I know, had provided 'em.
Love. Oh, a dance and a bottle, Sir Tunbelly, by all means!
Sir Tun. I had forgot the company below; well-what-we must be
merry then, ha? and dance and drink, ha? Well, 'fore George, you shan't
say I do these things by halves. Son-in-law there looks like a hearty
rogue, so we '11 have a night on 't: and which of these ladies will be the
old man's partner, ha?-Ecod, I don't know how I came to be in so good a
humour.
Ber. Well, Sir Tunbelly, my friend and I both will endeavour to keep
you so: you have done a generous action, and are entitled to our attention.
If you should be at a loss to divert your new guests, we will assist you to
relate to them the plot of your daughter's marriage, and his lordship's deserved mortification; a subject which perhaps may afford no bad evening's
entertainment.
Sir Tun. Ecod, with all my heart; though I am a main bungler at a long
story.
Ber. Never fear; we will assist you, if the tale is judged worth being
repeated; but of this you may be assured, that while the intention is evidently to please, British auditors will ever be indulgent to the errors of the
performance.                                         [ExEu6t om"s




PIZARRO.
A TRAGEDY.
ADVERTISEMENT.
As the two translations which have been published of Kotzebue'a
"Spaniards in Peru" have, I understand, been very generally read, the
public are in possession of all the materials necessary to form a judgment on
the merits and defects of the Play performed at Drury-lane Theatre.
DEDICATION.
To her, whose approbation of this Drama, and whose peculiar delight in
the applause it has received from the public, have been to me the highest
gratification derived from its success-I dedicate this Play.
RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN.
DRAMATIS PERSONIE.
AS ORIGINALLY ACTED AT DRURY-LANE THEATRE IN 1799.
ATALIBA... Mr. Powell.    OLD BLIND MAN. Mr. Cory.
ROLLA.....r. Kemble.      BY..... Master Chatterley.
OROZEMBO... Mr. Dowton.     SENTINEL.. Mr. Holland.
ORANO... Mr. Archer.     ATTENDANT.. Mr. Maddocks.
ALONZO.... Mr. C. Kemble. CORA.. Mrs. Jordan.
PIZARRO....       Mr. Barrymore. ELIRA....     rs. Siddons.
ALMAGRO... Mr. Caulfield.   ZULUGA
GONZALO.... Mr. Wentworth. Peruvian Warriors, Women, and
DAVILLA...     Mr. Trueman.      Children, High-priest, Priests, and
GOMEZ... Mr. Surmount.     Virgins of the Sun, Spanish Officers,
VALVERDE.. Mr. R. Palmer.   Soldiers, Guards, &c. &c.
S-CASAS... Mr. Aickin.
SCENE-PERU.
PROLOGUE,
WRITTEN BY RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN.
SPOKEN BY MR. KING.
CHILL'D by rude gales, while yet reluctant May
Withholds the beauties of the vernal day;
As some fond maid, whom matron frowns reprove,
Suspends the smile her heart devotes to love;




522


PIZARRO.


[ACT i. sc. r.


The season's pleasures too delay their hour,
And Winter revels with protracted power:
Then blame not, critics, if, thus late, we bring
A Winter Drama-but reproach-the Spring.
What prudent cit dares yet the season trust,
Bask in his whisky, and enjoy the dust?
Horsed in Cheapside, scarce yet the gayer spark
Achieves the Sunday triumph of the Park;
Scarce yet you see him, dreading to be late,
Scour the New Road, and dash through Grosvenor Gate:Anxious-yet timorous too-his steed to show,
The hack Bucephalus of Rotten Row.
Careless he seems, yet vigilantly sly,
Woos the gay glance of ladies passing by,
While his off heel, insidiously aside,
Provokes the caper which he seems to chide.
Scarce rural Kensington due honour gains;
The vulgar verdure of her walk remains!
Where night-robed misses amble two by two,
Nodding to booted beaux-" How'do, how'do?"
With generous questions that no answer wait,
"How vastly full! An't you come vastly late?
Isn't it quite charming? When do you leave town?
An't you quite tired? Pray, can't we sit down?"
These suburb pleasures of a London May,
Imperfect yet, we hail the cold delay;
Should our Play please-and you're indulgent everBe your decree —"'Tis better late than never."
ACT I.
SCENE I.-A Pavilion near PIZARRO'S Tent.
ELVIRA discovered sleeping under a canopy. VALVERDE enters, gazes os
ELVIRA, kneels, and attempts to kiss her hand; ELVIRA, awakened, rises
and looks at him with indignation.
Elv. Audacious! Whence is thy privilege to interrupt the few moments of
epose my harassed mind can snatch amid the tumults of this noisy camp't
Shall I inform thy master, Pizarro, of this presumptuous treachery?
Val. I am his servant, it is true-trusted by him-and I know him well;
and therefore 'tis I ask, by what magic could Pizarro gain your heart? by
what fatality still holds he your affection?
Elv. Hold! thou trusty secretary!
Val. Ignobly born! in mind and manners rude, ferocious, and unpolished,
though cool and crafty if occasion need-in youth audacious-ill his first
manhood-a licensed pirate-treating men as brutes, the world as booty;
yet now the Spanish hero is he styled-the first of Spanish conquerors! and,
for a warrior so accomplished, 'tis fit Elvira should leave her noble family,
her fame, her home, to share the dangers, humours, and the crimes, of such a
lover as Pizarro i




tC. I f


PIZARRO.


5'23


Elv. What! Valverde moralising! But grant I am in error, what is my
incentive 2 Passion, infatuation, call it as you will; but what attaches thee
to this despised, unworthy leader? Base lucre is thy object, mean fraud thy
means. Could you gain me, you only hope to win a higher interest in
Pizarro. I know you.
Val. On my soul, you wrong me! What else my faults, I have none
towards you. But indulge the scorn and levity of your nature; do it while
yet the time permits; the gloomy hour, I fear, too soon approaches.
Elv. Valverde a prophet too!
Val. Hear me, Elvira. Shame from his late defeat, and burning wishes
for revenge, again have brought Pizarro to Peru; but trust me, he overrates
his strength, nor measures well the foe. Encamped in a strange country,
e   where terror cannot force, nor corruption buy a single friend, what have we
to hope?  The army murmuring at increasing hardships, while Pizarro
decorates with gaudy spoil the gay pavilion of his luxury, each day diminishes our force.
Elv. But are you not the heirs of those that fall?
Val. Are gain and plunder, then, our only purpose l Is this Elvira's
heroism?
Elv. No, so save me Heaven! I abhor the motive, means, and end of
your pursuits; but I will trust none of you. In your whole army there is
not one of you that has a heart, or speaks ingenuously-aged Las-Casas, and
he alone, excepted.
Val. He! an enthusiast in the opposite and worst extreme!
Elv. Oh! had I earlier known that virtuous man, how different might my
~ lot have been!
Val. I will grant Pizarro could not then so easily have duped you: forgive me, but at that event I still must wonder.
Elv. Hear me, Valverde. When first my virgin fancy waked to love,
Pizarro was my country's idol. Self-taught, self-raised, and self-supported,
he became a hero; and I was formed to be won by glory and renown. 'Tis
known that, when he left Panama in a slight vessel, his force was not a
hundred men. Arrived at the island of Gallo, with his sword he drew a line
upon the sands, and said, "Pass those who fear to die or conquer with their
leader."  Thirteen alone remained, and at the head of these the warrior stood
his ground. Even at the moment when my ears first caught this tale, my
heart exclaimed, "Pizarro is its lord!"  What since I have perceived, or
thought, or felt, you must have more worth to win the knowledge of.,     Val. I press no further, still assured that, while Alonzo de Molina, our
general's former friend and pupil, leads the enemy, Pizarro never more will
be a conqueror.                                   [Trumpets without.
Elv. Silence! I hear him coming; look not perplexed. How mystery and
fraud confound the countenance! Quick, put on an honest face, if thou
' canst.
Piz. [Without.] Chain and secure him; I will examine him myself.
Enter PIZARRO. VALVERDE bows-ELVIRA laughs..  Piz. Why dost thou smile, Elvira
Elv. To laugh or weep without a reason is one of the few privileges poc
women have.
Piz. Elvira, I will know the cause, I am resolved!




524


PIZARRO


[ACT t


Elv. I am glad of that, because I love resolution, and am resolved not to
tell you. Now my resolution, I take it, is the better of the two, because it
depends upon myself, and yours does not
Piz. Psha! trifler!
Val. Elvira was laughing at my apprehensions that
Piz. Apprehensions!
Val. Yes-that Alonzo's skill and genius should so have disciplined and
informed the enemy, as to —
Piz. Alonzo! the traitor! How I once loved that man! His noble
mother intrusted him, a boy, to my protection. [ELvIRA walks about pensively itr the background.]  At my table did he feast-in my tent did he
repose, I had marked his early genius, and the valorous spirit that grew
with it. Often had I talked to him of our first adventures-what storms we  a
struggled with-what perils we surmounted! When landed with a slender
host upon an unknown land-then, when I told how famine and fatigue,
discord and toil, day by day, did thin our ranks amid close-pressing enemieshow still undaunted I endured and dared-maintained my purpose and my
power in despite of growling mutiny or bold revolt, till with my faithful few
remaining I became at last victorious!-when, I say, of these things I spoke,
the youth Alonzo, with tears of wonder and delight, would throw him on
'my neck, and swear his soul's ambition owned no other leader.
Val. What could subdue attachment so begun?
Piz. Las-Casas.-He it was, with fascinating craft and canting precepts of
humanity, raised in Alonzo's mind a new enthusiasm, which forced him, as
the stripling termed it, to forego his country's claims for those of human
nature.
Val. Yes, the traitor left you, joined the Peruvians, and became thy
enemy, and Spain's.
Piz. But first with weariless remonstrance he sued to win me from my
purpose, and untwine the sword from my determined grasp. Much he spoke
of right, of justice, and humanity, calling the Peruvians our innocent and
unoffending brethren.
Val. They! Obdurate heathens! They our brethren!
Piz. But, when he found that the soft folly of the pleading tears he
dropped upon my bosom fell on marble, he flew and joined the foe: then,
profiting by the lessons he had gained in wronged Pizarro's school, the youth
so disciplined and led his new allies, that soon he forced me-ha! I burn
with shame and fury while I own it!-in base retreat and foul discomfiture to
quit the shore.
Val. But the hour of revenge is come.
Piz. It is; I am returned: my force is strengthened, and the audacious
boy shall soon know that Pizarro lives, and has-a grateful recollection of
the thanks he owes him.
Val. 'Tis doubted whether still Alonzo lives.
Piz. 'Tis certain that he does; one of his armour-bearers is just made
prisoner: twelve thousand is their force, as he reports, led by Alonzo and
Peruvian Rolla. This day they make a solemn sacrifice on their ungodly
altars. We must profit by their security, and attack them unprepared-the.*
sacrificers shall become the victims.
Eta. Wretched innocents! And their own blood shall bedew their
altars!




aC. T.1


PIZARRO.


Piz. Right!-[Trumpets without.] Elvira, retire t
Elv. Why should I retire?
Piz. Because men are to meet here, and on manly business.
Elv. 0 men! men! ungrateful and perverse! 0 woman! still affectionate
though wronged! [VALVERDE retires back.]   The beings to whose eyes you
turn for animation, hope, and rapture, through the days of mirth and revelry;
and on whose bosoms, in the hour of sore calamity, you seek for rest and
consolation; them, when the pompous follies of your mean ambition are the
question, you treat as playthings or as slaves!-I shall not retire.
Piz. Remain then; and, if thou canst, be silent.
Elv. They only babble who practise not reflection.  I shall think-and
thought is silence.
q      Piz. [Aside.] Ha! there's somewhat in her manner lately[Looks sternly and suspiciously at ELVIRA, who meets his glance with
a commanding and unaltered eye.
Enter LAS-CASAs, ALMAGRO, GONZALO, DAVILLA, OFFICERS and SOLDIERS.'                      Trumpets without..
Las-Cas. Pizarro, we attend thy summons.
Piz. Welcome, venerable father!-My friends, most welcome!-Friends
and fellow soldiers, at length the hour is arrived, which to Pizarro's hopes
*   presents the full reward of our undaunted enterprise and long-enduring toils.
Confident in security, this day the foe devotes to solemn sacrifice: if with
bold surprise we strike on their solemnity-trust to your leader's word-we
shall i.ot fail.. Abm. Too long inactive have we been mouldering on the coast; our stores
exhausted, and our soldiers murmuring.  Battle! battle!-then death to the
armed, and chains for the defenceless.
Dav. Death to the whole Peruvian race!
Las-Cas. Merciful Heaven!,   Alm. Yes, general, the attack, and instantly! Then shall Alonzo, basking
at his ease, soon cease to scoff our sufferings, and scorn our force.
Las-Cas. Alonzo!-scorn and presumption are not in his nature.
Almn. 'Tis fit Las-Casas should defend his pupil.
Piz. Speak not of the traitor! or hear his name but as the bloody summons
to assault and vengeance. It appears we are agreed
Alm. Dav. We are.
Gon. All.-Battle! battle!
Las-Cas. Is, then, the dreadful measure of your cruelty not yet complete?
Battle! gracious Heaven! against whom? Against a king, in whose mild
bosom your atrocious injuries even yet have not excited hate! but who, insulted or victorious, still sues for peace. Against a people who never wronged
the living being their Creator formed: a people who, children of innocence!
*   received you as cherished guests with eager hospitality and confiding kindness,
Generously and freely did they share with you their comforts, their treasures,
and their homes: you repaid them by fraud, oppression, and dishonour.
These eyes have witnessed all I speak-as gods you were received; as fiends
have you acted.
Piz. Las-Casas 1
Las-Cas. Pizamro, hear me i-Hear me, chieftains!-And thou, all-powerful!
whose thunders can shiver into sand the adamantine rock-whose lightnings




626


P1ZARRO


[ACT I,


can pierce to the core of the rived and quaking earth-oh! let thy power
give effect to thy servant's words, as thy spirit gives courage to his will — Do
not, I implore you, chieftains-countrymen-do not, I implore you, renew the
foul barbarities which your insatiate avarice has inflicted on this wretched,
unoffending race!-But hush, my sighs!-fall not, drops of useless sorrow!heart-breaking anguish, choke not my utterance!-All I entreat is, send me
once more to those you call your enemies.-Oh! let me be the messenger of
penitence from you; I shall return with blessings and with peace from them.
-[Turning to ELVIRA.] Elvira, you weep!-Alas! and does this dreadful
crisis move no heart but thine.
Alm. Because there are no women here but she and thou.
Piz. Close this idle war of words: time flies, and our opportunity will be
lost. Chieftains, are ye for instant battle
Aim. We are.
Las-Cas. Oh, men of blood!-[Kneels.] God! thou hast anointed me thy
servant-not to curse, but to bless my countrymen: yet now my blessing on
their force were blasphemy against thy goodness.-[Rises.] No! I curse your
purpose, homicides! I curse the bond of blood by which you are united.
May fell division, infamy, and rout, defeat your projects and rebuke your
hopes! On you, and on your children, be the peril of the innocent blood
which shall be shed this day! I leave you, and for ever! No longer shall
these aged eyes be seared by the horrors they have witnessed.  In caves, in
forests, will I hide myself; with tigers and with savage beasts will I commune; and when at length we meet before the blessed tribunal of that
Deity, whose mild doctrines and whose mercies ye have this day renounced,
then shall you feel the agony and grief of soul which tear the bosom of your
accuser now!                                                  [Going.
Elv. [Rises and takes the hand of LAS-CasAS.]  Las-Casas! Oh, take
me with thee, Las-Casas!
Las-Cas. Stay! lost, abused lady! I alone am useless here. Perhaps
thy loveliness may persuade to pity, where reason and religion plead in vain.
Oh! save thy innocent fellow-creatures if thou canst: then shall thy frailty
be redeemed, and thou wilt share the mercy thou bestowest.     [Exit.
Piz. How, Elvira! wouldst thou leave me?
Elv. I am bewildered, grown terrified! Your inhumanity-and that good
Las-Casas-oh! he appeared to me just now something more than heavenly:
and you! ye all looked worse than earthly.
Piz. Compassion sometimes becomes a beauty.
Elv. Humanity always becomes a conqueror.
Aim. Well! Heaven be praised, we are rid of the old moralist.
Gon. I hope he'll join his preaching pupil, Alonzo.
liz. [Turning to ALMAGRO.]   Now to prepare our muster and our march.
At midday is the hourof the sacrifice. [ELVIRA sits.] Consulting with our
guides, the route of your divisions shall be given to each commander.  If we
surprise, we conquer; and, if we conquer, the gates of Quito will be open to us.
A 1m. And Pizarro then be monarch of Peru.
Piz. Not so fast-ambition for a time must take counsel from discretion.
Ataliba still must hold the shadow of a sceptre in his hand-Pizarro still appear dependent upon Spain: while the pledge of future peace, his daughter's
hand, [ELVIRA rises much agitated,] secures the proud succession to the
crown I seek.




sC. I.]                       PIZARRO.                          527
Alm. This is best. In Pizarro's plans observe tLe statesman's wisdom
guides the warrior's valour.
Val, [Aside to ELVIRA.] You mark, Elvira?
Elv. Oh, yes —this is best-this is excellent!
Piz. You seem offended. Elvira still retains my heart. Think-a sceptre
waves me on.
Elv. Offended?-no! Thou knowest thy glory is my idol; and this will
be most glorious, most just and honourable.
Piz. What mean you?
Elv. Oh, nothing!-mere woman's prattle —a jealous whim, perhaps:
but let it not impede the royal hero's course.-[Trumpets without.]  The call of
arns invites you.-Away! away! you, his brave, his worthy fellow-warriors.
Piz. And go you not with me?
Elv. Undoubtedly! I needs must be first to hail the future monarch ot
Peru.
Enter GOMEZ.
Aim. How, Gomez! what bringest thou
Gom. On yonder hill, among the palm-trees, we have surprised an old
cacique: escape by flight he could not, and we seized him and his attendant
unresisting; yet his lips breathe nought but bitterness and scorn.
Piz. Drag him before us.-[ELVIRA sitspensively. GOMEZ goes out and
returns with OROZEMBO and Attendant, in chains, guarded.] What art thou,
stranger?
Oro. First tell me which among you is the captain of this band of robbers.
Piz. Ha!
Aim. Madman!-Tear out his tongue, or elseOro. Thou 'lt hear some truth.
Dav. [Showing his poniard.] Shall I not plunge this into his heart?
Oro. [To PIZARRO.] Does your army boast many such heroes as this?
Piz. Audacious! this insolence has sealed thy doom.  Die thou shalt
grey-headed ruffian. But first confess what thou knowest.
Oro. I know that which thou hast just assured me of-that I shall die.
Piz. Less audacity perhaps might have preserved thy life.
Oro. My life is as a withered tree; it is not worth preserving.
Piz. Hear me, old man. Even now we march against the Peruvian army.
We know there is a secret path that leads to your stronghold among the rocks:
guide us to that, and name thy reward. If wealth be thy wish —
Oro. Ha! ha! ha! ha!
Piz. Dost thou despise my offer?
Oro. Thee and thy offer! Wealth!-I have the wealth of two dear gallant sons-I have stored in heaven the riches which repay good actions here
-and still my chiefest treasure do I bear about me.
Piz. What is that? inform me.
Oro. I will; for it never can be thine-the treasure of a pure, unsullied
conscience.      [ELVIRA sits, still paying marked attention to OROZEMBO.
Piz. I believe there is no other Peruvian who dares speak as thou dost.
Oro. Would I could believe there is no other Spaniard who dares act as
thou dost!
Gon. Obdurate Pagan! How numerous is your army?
Oro. Count the leaves of yonder forest.




528                         PtZARRO.                        [ACT L
Aim. Which is the weakest part of your camp 1
Oro. It has no weak part; on every side 'tis fortified by justice
Piz. Where have you concealed your wives and your children t
Oro. In the hearts of their husbands and their fathers.
Piz. Knowest thou Alonzo 1
Oro. Know him! Alonzo! Know him! Our nation's benefactor! the
guardian angel of Peru!
Piz. By what has he merited that title?
Oro. By not resembling thee.
Alm. Who is this Rolla, joined with Alonzo in command?
Oro. I will answer that; for I love to hear and to repeat the hero's name.
Rolia, the kinsman of the king, is the idol of our army; in war a tiger,
chafed by the hunter's spear; in peace more gentle than the unweaned lamb.
Cora was once betrothed to him; but, finding she preferred Alonzo, he resigned his claim, and, I fear, his peace, to friendship and to Cora's happiness;
yet still he loves her with a pure and holy fire.
Piz. Romantic savage!-I shall meet this Rolla soon.
Oro. Thou hadst better not! the terrors of his noble eye would strike thee
dead.
Dav. Silence, or tremble!
Oro. Beardless robber! I never yet have trembled before God; why
should I tremble before man 2 Why before thee, thou less than man?
Dav. Another word, audacious heathen, and I strike!
Oro. Strike, Christian!  Then boast among thy fellows-I too have
murdered a Peruvian!
Dav. Hell and vengeance seize thee!                    [Stabs him.
Piz. Hold!
Dav. Couldst thou longer have endured his insults '
Piz. And therefore should he die untortured.
Oro. True! Observe, young man-[To DAVILLA,] Thy unthinking
rashness has saved me from the rack; and thou thyself hast lost the
opportunity of a useful lesson; thou mightst thyself have seen with what
cruelty vengeance would have inflicted torments-and with what patience
virtue would have borne them.
Elv. [Supporting OROZEMBO'S head vpon her bosom.] Oh, ye are monsters
all! Look up, thou martyred innocent-look up once more, and bless me
ere thou diest.  God! how I pity thee!
Oro. Pity me!-me! so near my happiness! Bless thee, lady!-Spaniards
-Heaven turn your hearts, and pardon you as I do.
Piz. Away!-[OROZEMBO is borne off dying.]  Away! Davilla! if thus
rash a second timeDav. Forgive the hasty indignation which —
Piz. No more! Unbind that trembling wretch-let him depart: 'tis well
he should report the mercy which we show to insolent defiance-Hark! our
troops are moving.
Attend. [On passing ELVIRA.] If through your gentle means my master's
poor remains might be preserved from insult —
Elv. I understand thee.                                                *
Attend. His sons may yet thank your charity, if net avenge their father's
fate.                                                         [Exit
Piz. What says the slave I




'C. I.J                        PIZARRO.                          529
Elv. A parting word to thank you for your mercy.
Piz. Our guards and guides approach.-[SOLDIERi march through the tents.l
Follow me, friends-each shall have his post assigned, and ere Peruvia's godt
shall sink beneath the main, the Spanish banner, bathed in blood, shall float
above the walls of vanquished Quito.
[Exeunt all but ELVIRA and VALVERDE.
Vca. Is it now presumption that my hopes gain strength with the increasing horrors which I see appal Elvira's soul.
Elv. I am mad with terror and remorse! Would I could fly these dreadful scenes!
Val. Might not Valverde's true attachment be thy refuge.
Elv. What wouldst thou do to save or to avenge me?
Val. I dare do all thy injuries may demand-a word-and he lies bleeding at your feet.
Elv. Perhaps we will speak again of this. Now leave me.-[Exit VALVERDE.] No! not this revenge-no! not this instrument.  Fie, Elvira! even
for a moment to counsel with this unworthy traitor! Can a wretch, false to
a confiding master, be true to any pledge of love or honour?-Pizarro will
abandon me-yes; me-who, for his sake, have sacrificed-oh, God! what
have I not sacrificed for him! Yet, curbing the avenging pride that swells
this bosom, I still will further try him.  Oh, men! ye who, wearied by the
fond fidelity of virtuous love, seek in the wanton's flattery a new delight,
oh, ye may insult and leave the hearts to which your faith was pledged, and,
stifling self-reproach, may fear no other peril; because such hearts, howe'er
you injure and desert them, have yet the proud retreat of an unspotted fame
-of unreproaching conscience. But beware the desperate libertine who forsakes the creature whom his arts have first deprived of all natural protection
- -of all self-consolation! What has he left her 2   Despair and vengeance!
[Exit.
ACT II.
SCENE I.-A Bank surrounded by a wild wood, and rocks.
CORA is discovered playing with her CHILD; ALONZO hanging over them with
delight.
Cora. Now confess, does he resemble thee, or not?
Alon. Indeed he is liker thee-thy rosy softness, thy smiling gentleness.
Cora. But his auburn hair, the colour of his eyes, Alonzo.-Oh, my lord's
image, and my heart's adored!           [Presses the CHILD to her bosom.
Alon. The little darling urchin robs me, I doubt, of some portion of thy
love, my Cora. At least he shares caresses, which till his birth were only
mine.
Cora. Oh no, Alonzo! a mother's love for her sweet babe is not a stealth
from the dear father's store; it is a new delight that turns with quickened
gratitude to Him, the author of her augmented bliss.
Alon. Could Cora think me serious.
Cora. I am sure he will speak soon: then will be the last of the three
holidays allowed by Nature's sanction to the fond, anxious mother's heart..lon. What are those three?
Cora. The ecstasy of his birth I pass; that in part is selfish: but when
~                                                             M t M




330


PIZARRO.


[ACT U


fuist the white blossoms of his teeth appear, breaking the crimson buds that
did incase them, that is a day of joy; next, when from his father's ai ms
ae runs without support, and clings, laughing and delighted, to his mother's
knees, that is the mother's heart's next holiday; and sweeter still the third,
whene'er his little stammering tongue shall utter the grateful sound of father!
mother!-Oh, that is the dearest joy of all!
Alon. Beloved Cora
Cora. Oh, my Alonzo! daily, hourly, do I pour thanks to Heaven for the
dear blessing I possess in him and thee.
Alon. To Heaven and Rolla!
Cora. Yes, to Heaven and Rolla: and art thou not grateful to them tob,
Alonzo? art thou not happy]
Aloe. Can Cora ask that question
Cora. Why then of late so restless on thy couch? Why to my waking,
watching ear so often does the stillness of the night betray thy struggling
sighs?
Alon. Must not I fight against my country, against my brethren?
Cora. Do they not seek our destruction? and are not all men brethrenl
Alon. Should they prove victorious?
Cora. I will fly, and meet thee in the mountains.
Alon. Fly, with thy infant, Coral
Cora. What! think you a mother, when she runs from danger, can feel
the weight of her child'?
Alon. Cora, my beloved, do you wish to set my heart at rest?
Cora. Oh yes! yes! yes!
Alon. Hasten then to the concealment in the mountains; where all our
matrons and virgins, and our warriors' offspring, are allotted to await the
issue of the war. Cora will not alone resist her husband's, her sisters', and
her monarch's wish.
Cora. Alonzo, I cannot leave you. Oh! how in every moment's absence
would my fancy paint you, wounded, alone, abandoned I No, no, I cannot
leave you.
Alon. Rolla will be with me.
Cora. Yes, while the battle rages, and where it rages most, brave Rolla
will be found. He may revenge, but cannot save thee. To follow danger,
he will leave even thee. But I have sworn never to forsake thee but with
life.  Dear, dear Alonzo! canst thou wish that I should break my vow?
Alon. Then be it so.' Oh! excellence in all that's great and lovely, in
courage, gentleness, and truth; my pride, my content, my all! Can there
on this earth be fools who seek for happiness, and pass by love in the pursuit?
Cora. Alonzo, I cannot thank thee: silence is the gratitude of true
affection: who seeks to follow it by sound will miss the track.-[Shouts without.]  Does the king approach?
Alon. No, 'tis the general placing the guard that aill surround the temple
during the sacrifice. 'Tis Rolla comes, the first and best of heroes.
[Trumpets sound,
Rol. [Withodu.]  Then place them on the hill fronting the Spanish camp.
Enter ROLLA.
Cons. Rolla! my friend, my brother!




[O II.I


PIZARRO.


531


Alon. Rolla! my friend, my benefactor! how can our lives repay the ob.
igations which we owe thee?
Rol. Pass them in peace and bliss.  Let Rolla witness it, he is overpaid.,*           Cora. Look on this child.  He is the life-blood of my heart; but, if ever
he loves or reveres thee less than his own father, his mother's hate fall on
him!
Rol. Oh, no more! What sacrifice have I made to merit gratitude? The
object of my love was Cora's happiness. I see her happy. Is not my object gained, and am I not rewarded? Now, Cora, listen to a friend's advice.
Thou must away; thou must seek the sacred caverns, the unprofaned recess,
whither, after this day's sacrifice, our matrons, and e'en the virgins of the
sun, retire.
Cora. Not secure with Alonzo and with thee, Rolla?
Rol. We have heard Pizarro's plan is to surprise us. Thy presence, Cora,
cannot aid, but may impede our efforts.
Cora. Impede!
q            Rol. Yes, yes. Thou knowest how tenderly we love thee; we, thy husband and thy friend.  Art thou near us? our thoughts, our valour-vengeance
will not be our own.  No advantage will be pursued that leads us from the
spot where thou art placed; no succour will be given but for thy protection.
The faithful lover dares not be all himself amid the war, until he knows that
the beloved of his soul is absent from the peril of the fight.
Alon. Thanks to my friend! 'tis this I would have urged.
Cora. This timid excess of love, producing fear instead of valour, flatters,
but does not convince me: the wife is incredulous.
Rol. And is the mother unbelieving too?
Cora. [Kisses child.]  No more! do with me as you please.  My friend,
my husband! place me where you will.
Alon. My adored! we thank you both.-[MAarch without.]    Hark! the
king approaches to the sacrifice. You, Rolla, spoke of rumours of surprise.
A servant of mine, I hear, is missing; whether surprised or treacherous, I
know not.
Rol. It matters not. We are every where prepared. Come, Cora, upon
the altar 'mid the rocks thou'lt implore a blessing on our cause.  The pious
supplication of the trembling wife, and mother's heart, rises to the throne of
mercy, the most resistless prayer of human homage.           [Exeunt.
SCENE II.-The Temple of the Sun.
The HIIG-PRIEST, PRIESTS, and VIRGINS of the SUN, discovered.. solemn
march.  ATALIBA and the PERUVIAN WARRIORS enter on one side; on the
other ROLLA, ALONZO, and CoRA with the CaIID.
Ata. Welcome, Alonzo!-[To ROLLA.]   Kinsmanj thy hand.-[To CORA.]
Blessed be the object of the happy mother's love.
Cora. May the sun bless the father of his people!
Ata. In the welfare of his children lives the happiness of their king.Friends, what is the temper of our soldiers?
Rol. Such as becomes the cause which they support; their cry is, Victory,         or death! our king! our country! and our God.
Aa, Thou, Rolla, in the hour of peril, hast been wont to animate tho
spirit of their leaders, ere wtv proceed to consecrate the banners which thy
valour knows so well to guard.,  ltM2




PIZARRO.


[AC? n.


Rol. Yet never was the hour of peril near, when to inspire them word
were so little needed.  My brave associates-partners of my toil, my feelings, and my fame!-can Rolla's words add vigour to the virtuous energies
which inspire your hearts?  No! You have judged, as I have, the foulness
of the crafty plea by which these bold invaders would delude you. Your
generous spirit has compared, as mine has, the motives which, in a war like
this, can animate their minds and ours.  They, by a strange frenzy driven,
fight for power, for plunder, and extended rule: we, for our country, our
altars, and our homes. They follow an adventurer whom they fear, and obey
a power which they hate: we serve a monarch whom we love-a God whom
we adore.  Whene'er they move in anger, desolation tracks their progress!
Whene'er they pause in amity, affliction mourns their friendship.  They
boast they come but to improve our state, enlarge our thoughts, and free as
from the yoke of error! Yes: they will give enlightened freedom to oar
minds! who are themselves the slaves of passion, avarice, and pride.  They
offer us their protection: yes, such protection as vultures give to lambs-covering and devouring them! They call on us to barter all of good we have inherited and proved, for the desperate chance of something better which they
promise.  Be our plain answer this:-The throne we honour is the people's
choice; the laws we reverence are our brave father's legacy; the faith
we follow teaches us to live in bonds of charity with all mankind, and die
with hope of bliss beyond the grave. Tell your invaders this, and tell them
too, we seek no change; and, least of all, such change as they would bring
us.                            [Loud shouts of the PERUVIAN WARRIORS.
Ata. [Embracing ROLLA.] Now, holy friends, ever mindful of these sacred
truths, begin the sacrifice.-[A solemnes procession conmmences.  The PRIESTS
and VIRGINs arrange themselves on either side of the altar, which the HIGHPRIEST approaches, and the solemnity begins.  The invocation of the HIGHPRIEST is followed by the choruses of the PRIESTS and VIRGINS.  Fire from
above lights upon the altar. The whole assembly rise, and join in the thanksgiving.] Our offering is accepted. Now to arms, my friends; prepare for battle.
Enter ORANO.
Ora. The enemy.
Ata. How nearl
Ora. From the hill's brow, e'en now as I o'erlooked their force, suddenly
I perceived the whole in motion: with eager haste they march towards our
deserted camp, as if apprised of this most solemn sacrifice.
Pol. They must be met before they reach it.
Ata. And you my daughters, with your dear children, away to the appcinted place of safety.
Cora. Oh, Alonzo!                                 [Embracing him.
Alons. We shall meet again.
Cora. Bless us once more ere you leave us.
Aion. Heaven protect and bless thee, my beloved; and thee, my innocent I
Ata. Haste, haste! each moment is precious!
Cora. Farewell, Alonzo! Remember thy life is mine.
Pol. [As she is passing him.]  Not one farewell to Rolla?
Cora. [Giving him her hand.]  Farewell! The god of war be with you:
but bring me back Alonzo.                        [Exit with the CHILD.
Ata. [Drawzs his ssword.]  Now, my brethren, my sons, my friends, I


0




SC. IV.]


PIZAPRRO.


know your valour. Should ill success assail us, be despair the last feeling of
your hearts.  If successful, let mercy be the first.-Alonzo, to you I give to
defend the narrow passage of the mountains.  On the right of the wood be
Rolla's station. For me straight forwards will I march to meet them, and
fight until I see my people saved, or they behold their monarch fall. Be the
word of battle-God! and our native land.         [A march. Exeunt.
SCENE III.-A   Wood between the Temple and the Camp.
Enter ROLLA and ALONZO.
Rol. Hers, my friend, we separate-soon, I trust, to meet again in triumph.
Alo-,. Or perhaps we part to meet no more.-Rolla, a moment's pause;
we are yet before our army's strength; one earnest word at parting.
Rol. There is in language now no word but battle.
Alon. Yes, one word-one-Cora!
Rol. Cora!-speak!
Alon. The next hour brings usR/ol. Death or victory!
Alon. It may be victory to one-death to the other.
Rol. Or both may fall.
Alon. If so, my wife and child I bequeath to the protection of Heaven
and my king. But should I only fall, Rolla, be thou my heir.
_Rol. How '
Alon. Be Cora thy wife-be thou a father to my child.
Rol. Rouse thee, Alonzo! banish these timid fancies.
Alon. Rolla! I have tried in vain, and cannot fly from the foreboding
which oppresses me: thou knowest it will not shake me in the fight: but
give me the promise I exact.
Rol. If it be Cora's will-yes-I promise.            [Gives his hand.
Alon. Tell her it was my last wish; and bear to her and to my son my
I         last blessing!
Rol. I will.-Now then to our posts, and let our swords speak for us.
[They draw their swords.
Alon. For the king and Cora!
Rol. For Cora and the king.      [Exeunt severally. Alarms without.
SCENE IV.-The Peruvian Camp.
Enter an OLD BLIND MAN and a BOY.
Old Mlan. Have none returned to the camp?
+          Boy. One messenger alone. From the temple they all marched to meet
the foe.
Old Man. Hark! I hear the din of battle.  Oh, had I still retained my
sight, I might now have grasped a sword, and died a soldier's death! -Are
we quite alone
Boy. Yes!-I hope my father will be safe!
Old M7ean. He will do his duty.  I am more anxious for thee, my child.
Boy. I can stay with you, dear grandfather.
e            Old Man. But, should the enemy come, they will drag thee from me, my
boy.
Boy. Impossible, grandfather! for they will see at once that you are (ld
and blind, and cannot do without me.
Old Man. Poor child! thou little knowest the hearts of these inhuman umes.




534


PIZARRO.


[ACT II.


-[Discharge of cannon heard.]    Hark! the noise is near.  I hear the
dreadfil roaring of the fiery engines of these cruel strangers.-[Shouts at a
distance.] At every shout, with involuntary haste I clench my hand, and
fancy still it grasps a sword! Alas! I can only serve my country by my
prayers.  Heaven preserve the Inca and his gallant soldiers 1
Boy. 0 father! there are soldiers running -
Old Man. Spaniards, boy?
Jloy. No, Peruvians!
Old Maan. How! and flying from the field!-It cannot be.
Enter two PERUVIAN SOLDIERS.
Oh, speak to them, boy — whence come you! how goes the battle?,old. We may not stop; we are sent for the reserve behind the hill.
T! e day's against us.                              [Exeunt SOLDIERS.
Old Man. Quick, then, quick.
Boy. I see the points of lances glittering in the light.
Old Man. Those are Peruvians. Do they bend this way?
Enter a PERUVIAN SOLDIER.
Boy. Soldier, speak to my blind father.
Sold. I'm sent to tell the helpless father to retreat among the rocks: all
wll be lost, I fear. The king is wounded.
Old Maan. Quick, boy! Lead me to the hill, where thou mayst view the
pl in.                                                       [Alanrms.
Enter ATALIBA, wounded, with ORANO, OFFICERS, and SOLDIERS.
Ata. My wound is bound; believe me, the hurt is nothing: I may return
to the fight.
Ora. Pardon your servant; but the allotted pqste who attends the sacred
banner has pronounced that, the Inca's blood once shed, no blessing can await
the day until he leave the field.
Ata. Hard restraint! Oh my poor brave soldiers! Hard that I may
no longer be a witness of their valour.-But haste you; return to your comrades; I will not keep one soldier from his post. Go, and avenge your
fallen brethren.-[Exeunt ORANO, OFFICERS, a;Ind SOLDIERS.]  I will not repine; my own fate is the last anxiety of my heart. it is for you, my people,
that I feel and fear.
Old Man. [Coming forward.] Did I not hear the voice of an unfortunate
-Who is it complains thus!
Ata. One almost by hope forsaken.
Old Man. Is the king alive ]
Ata. The king still lives.
Old lMan. Then thou art not forsaken! Ataliba protects the meanest of
his subjects.
Ata. And who shall protect Ataliba
Old Mfan. The immortal powers, that protect the just.  The virtues of
our monarch alike secure to him the affection of his people and the benign
regard of Heaven.
Ata. How impious, had I murmured!     How wondrous, thou supreme
Disposer, are thy acts! Even in this moment, which I had thought the bitterest trial of mortal suffering, thou hast infused the sweetest sensation of my
life-it is the assurance of my people's love.                  [Aside




SC. IV.]                     PIZARRO                             5
Boy. [Turning forward.] 0 father!-Stranger    see those hideous men
that rush upon us yonder!
Ata. Ha! Spaniards! and I Ataliba-ill-fated fugitive, without a sword
even to try the ransom of a monarch's life.
Enter DAVILLA, ALMAGRO, and SPANISH SOLDIERS.
Dav. 'Tis he-our liapes are answered-I know him well-it is the
king 1
Aim. Away! Follow with your prize. Avoid those Peruvians, though in
flight. This way we may regain our line.
[Exeunt DAVILLA, ALMAGRO, and SOLDIERS, with ATALIBA prisoner.
Old Mlan. The king!-wretched old man, that could not see his gracious
form!-Boy, would thou hadst led me to the reach of those ruffians' swords I
Boy. Father! all our countrymen are flying here for refuge.
Old Man. No-to the rescue of their king-they never will desert him.
[Alarms without.
Enter PERUVIAN OFFICERS and SOLDIERS, flying across the stage; ORANo
following.
Ora. Hold, I charge you! Rolla calls you.
Officer. We cannot combat with their dreadful engines.
s                          Enter ROLLA.
Rol. Hold! recreants! cowards! What, fear ye death, and fear not
shame l By my soul's fury, I cleave to the earth the first of you that stirs,
or plunge your dastard swords into your leader's heart, that he no more may
witness your disgrace.  Where is the king 1
Ora. From this old man and boy I learn that the detachment of the
enemy, which you observed so suddenly to quit the field, have succeeded in
surprising him; they are yet in sight.
Rol. And bear the Inca off a prisoner — Hear this, ye base, disloyal rout!
Look there! The dust you see hangs on the bloody Spaniards' track, dragging with ruffian taunts your king, your father-Ataliha in bondage! Now
fly, and seek your own vile safety if you can.
Old Mlan. Bless the voice of Rolla-and bless the stroke I once lamented,
but which now spares these extinguished eyes the shame of seeing the pale,
trembling wretches who dare not follow Rolla, though to save their king!
Rol. Shrink ye from the thunder of the foe-and fall ye not at this rebuke? Oh! had ye each but one drop of the loyal blood which gushes to
waste through the brave heart of this sightless veteran! Eternal shame pursue you, if you desert me now!-But do-alone I go-alone-to die with
glory by my monarch's side!
Soldiers. Rolla! we '11 follow thee.
[Trumpets sound; ROLLA rushes out, followed by ORANO, OFFICERS and
SOLDIERS.
Old Man. 0 godlike Rolla!-And thou sun, send from thy clouds averging lightning to his aid! Haste, my boy; ascend some height, and tell to
my impatient terror what thou seest.
Boy. I can climb this rock, and the tree above.-[Ascends a rock, and
from thence into the tree.] Oh - now I see them-now-yes-and the Spawn
ards turning by the steep.




PIZARRO


[ACT:II.


Old Man. Rolla follows them
Boy. He does-he does-he moves like an arrow!. Now he waves his
arm to our soldiers.-[Report of cannon heard.] Now there is fire and
smoke.
Old Man. Yes, fire is the weapon of those fiends.
Boy. The wind blows off the smoke: they are all mixed together.
Old Man. Seest thou the king?
Boy. Yes-Rolla is near him! His sword sheds fire as he strikes!
Old AMan. Bless thee, Rolla! Spare not the monsters.
Boy. Father! father! the Spaniards fly!-Oh-now I see the king embracing Rolla.
[ Waves his cap for joy. Shouts of victory, flourish, of trumnpets, &c.
Old IMan. [Falls on his knees.] Fountain of life! how can my exhausted
breath bear to thee thanks for this one moment of my life -My boy, come
down, and let me kiss thee-my strength is gone.
Boy. [Running to the Old Man.] Let me help you, father-you tremble
so —
Old Aian. 'Tis with transport, boy!
[BOY leads the OLD MAN ff. Shouts, flourish, hdc.
Re-enter ATALIBA, ROLLA, and PERUvIAN OFFICERS and SOLDIERS.
Ata. In the name of my people, the saviour of whose sovereign thou hast
this day been, accept this emblem of his gratitude.-[Giving ROLLA his st;
of dianmonds.]  The tear that falls upon it may for a moment dim its lustre,
yet does it not impair the value of the gift.
Rol. It was the hand of Heaven, not mine, that saved my king.
Enter PERUVIAN OFFICER and SOLDIERS.
Rol. Now, soldier, from Alonzo?
Of. Alonzo's genius soon repaired the panic which early broke our ranks;
but I fear we have to mourn Alonzo's loss: his eager spirit urged him too far
in the pursuit!
Ata. How! Alonzo slain?
1st Sold. I saw him fall.
2nd Sold. Trust me, I beheld him up again and fighting-he was then
surrounded and disarmed.
A ta. 0 victory, dearly purchased!
Rol. 0 Cora! who shall tell thee this?
Ata. Rolla, our friend is lost-our native country saved! Our private sorrows must yield to the public claim for triumph. Now go we to fulfil the
first, the most sacred duty which belongs to victory-to dry the widowed
and the orphaned tear of those whose brave protectors have perished in their
country's cause.                       [Triaumphant march, and exeunt.
ACT III.
SCENE I.-A wild Retreat among stupendous rocks.
CORA and her CHILD, with other WIvEs and CHILDREN of the PERUVIAN
WARRIORS, discovered.  They sing alternately stanzas expressive of their
situation, with a Chorus, in which all join.
1    t Worn. Zuluga, seest thou nothing yet I




EC. 1.i


PIZARRO


637


Zul. Yes, two PeruNian soldiers-one on the hill, the other entering tho
thicket in the vale.
2nd IWorn. One more has passed.-He comes-but pale and terrified
Cora. My heart will start from my bosom.
Etter a PERUVIAN SOLDIER, panting for breath.
Wom. Well! joy or death?
Sold. The battle is against us. The king is wounded and a prisoner.
WVom. Despair and misery!
Cora. [In a faint voice.] And Alonzo!
Sold. I have not seen him.
1st Worn. Oh! whither must we fly
2nd Won. Deeper into the forest.
Cora. I shall not move.
2nd Sold. [ Without.] Victory  victory!
Enter another PERUVIAN SOLLIERB
2nd Sold. Rejoice! rjoice! we are victorious!
lWorn. [Springing up.] Welcome! welcome, thou messenger of joy:-but
the king!
2nd Sold. He leads the brave warriors who approach.
[The triunmphant smarch of the army is heard at a distance.     The
WOMEN and CHILDREN joitl in a strain expressive of canxiety and exueltation.
Enter the PERUVIAN WARRIORS, sining the Song of Vi'ctor.  ATALIBA
and ROLLA follow, and are greeted wzth rapturons shouts.  CORA, with
her CHILD in her arms, 'runs thleoulh the ranks searchilg fjr ALONZO.
Ata. Thanks, thanks, my children! I am well, believe it; the blood
once stopped, my wound was nothing.
Cora. [To ROLLA.] Where is Alonzo?-[ROLLA turns awzay in silence.]
Give me my husband; give this child his father.  [Falls at A"'ALIBA'sfeet.
Ala. I grieve that Alonzo is not here.
Cora. Hoped you to find him?
*   At. Most anxiously.
Cora. Ataliba! is he not dead?
Ata. No! the gods will have heard our prayers.
b          Cora. Is he not dead, Ataliba?
Ata. He lives-in my heart.
Cora. 0 king! torture me not thus! Speak out, is this child fatherless 1
A ta. Dearest Cora! do not thus dash aside the little hope that still remains.
Cora. The little hope! yet still there is hope! [Turns to ROLLA.]  Speak
to me, Rolla: you are the friend of truth.
Pol. Alonzo has not been found.
Cora. Not found! what mean you? will not you, Rolla, tell me truth I
Oh! let me not hear the thunder rolling at a distance; let the bolt fall and
crush my brain at once. Say not that he is not foundd: say at once that he is
dead.
Rol. Then should I say false.
Cora, False! Blessings on thee for that word! But snatch me from this




638                           PIZIRRO.                      [ACT II
terrible suspense.-[CoRA and CHILD kneel to ROLLA.]   Lift up thy little
hands, my child; perhaps thy ignorance may plead better than thy mothers
agony.
Rol. Alonzo is taken prisoner.
Cora. Prisoner! andby the Spaniards?-Pizarro's prisoner? Then is he
dead.
A ta. Hope better-the richest ransom which our realm can yield, a herald
shall this instant bear.
1Jeruv. Won, Oh! for Alonzo's ransom-our gold, our gems!-all! all I
lere, dear Cora-here! here!
[The PERUVIAN WOMEN eagerly tear of all their ornaments, and ofer
them to CORA.
Ata. Yes, for Alonzo's ransom  they would give all! —I thank thee,
Father, who has given me such hearts to rule over!
Cora. Now one boon more, beloved monarch. Let me go with the herald.
Ata. Remember, Cora, thou art not a wife only, but a mother too: hazard
not your own honour, and the safety of your infant.  Among these barbarians the sight of thy youth. thy loveliness, and innocence, would but rivet
faster your Alonzo's chains, and rack his heart with added fears for thee.
Wait, Cora, the return of the herald.
Cora. Teach me how to live till then.
A ta. Now we go to offer to the gods thanks for our victory, and prayers
for our Alonzo's safety.               [March and procession. Exeunt,
SCENE II.-TThe Wfood.
Enter CORA and CHILD.
Cora. Mild innocence, what will become of thee?
Enter ROLLA.
Rol. Cora, I attend thy summons at the appointed spot.
Cora. 0 my child, my boy! hast thou still a father?
Rol. Cora, can thy child be fatherless, while Rolla lives?
Cora. Will he not soon want a mother tool  For canst thou think I will
survive Alonzo's loss?
Rol. Yes! for his child's sake. Yes, as thou didst love Alonzo, Cora,
listen to Alonzo's friend.
Cora. You bid me listen to the world.-Who was not Alonzo's friend?
Rol. His parting wordsCora. His parting words! —[ Wildly.]  Oh, speak!
Rol. Consigned to me two precious trusts-his blessing to his son, and a
last request to thee.
Cora. His last request! his last!-Oh, name it
Rol. If I fall, said he (and sad forebodings shook him while he spoke),
promise to take my Cora for thy wife; be thou a father to my child. —
pledged my word to him, and we parted. Observe me, Cora, I repeat this
only, as my faith to do so was given to Alonzo: for myself, I neither cherish
claim nor hope,
Cora. Ha! does my reason fail me, or what is this horrid light that
presses on my brain? 0 Alonzo! it may be thou hast fallen a victim to thy
own guileless heart: hadst thou been silentj hadst thou not made a fatal
legacy of these wretched charms



gtC,. I.]


PIZhARRO


Rol. Cora! what hateful suspicion has possessed thy mind?
Cora. Yes, yes, 'tis clear!-his spirit was ensnared; he was led to the
fatal spot, where mortal valour could not front a host of murderers.  He fell
-in vain did he exclaim for help to Rolla.  At a distance you looked on and
smiled: you could have saved himn-could —but did not.
Rot. Oh, glorious sun! can I have deserved this — Cora, rather bid me
t     strike this sword into my heart.
Cora. No!-live! live for love!-for that love thou seekest; whose blossoms are to shoot from the bleeding grave of thy betrayed and slaughtered
friend! But thou hast borne to me the last words of my Alonzo! now hear
mine: sooner shall this boy draw poison from this tortured breast - sooner
would I link me to the pallid corse of the meanest wretch that perished with
Alonzo, than he call Rolla father-than I call Rolla husband!
Rol. Yet call me what I am-thy friend, thy protector!
Cora. [Distractedly.] Away! I have no protector but my God! With this
child in my arms will I hasten to the field of slaughter: there with these hands
will I turn up to the light every mangled body, seeking, howe'er by death
disfigured, the sweet smile of my Alonzo: with fearful cries I will shriek out
his name till my veins snap! If the smallest spark of life remain, he will
know the voice of his Cora, open for a moment his unshrouded eyes, and
bless me with a last look.  But if we find him not-oh! then, my boy, we
*     will to the Spanish camp-that look of thine will win my passage through a
thousand swords-they too are men.  Is there a heart that could drive back
the wife that seeks her bleeding husband; or the innocent babe that cries for
his imprisoned father? No, no, my child, every where we shall be safe. A
wretched mother, bearing a poor orphan in her arms, has nature's passport
through the world. Yes, yes, my son, we '11 go and seek thy father.,                                                       [Exit with the CHILD.
Rol. [After a pause of agitation.] Could I have merited one breath of, thy reproaches, Cora, I should be the wretch I think I was not formed to be.
Her safety must be my present purpose-then to convince her she has
wronged me!                                                    [Exit.
SCENE III.-PIZARRO'S Tent.
PIZARRO discovered, traversing the scene in gloomy and furious agitation.
Piz. Well, capricious idol, Fortune, be my ruin thy work and boast. To
myself I will still be true. Yet, ere I fall, grant me thy smile to prosper in
one act of vengeance, and be that smile Alonzo's death.; Enter ELVIRA.
Who 's there? who dares intrude?  Why does my guard neglect their duty?
Elv. Your guard did what they could —lut they knew their duty better
than to enforce authority, when I refused obedience.
Piz. And what is it you desire?.Elv. To see how a hero bears misfortune  Thou, Pizarro, art not now
collected-nor thyself.
Piz. Wouldst thou I should rejoice that the spears of the enemy, led by
accursed Alonzo, have pierced the bravest hearts -f my followers?
Elv. No! I would have thee cold and dark as the night that follows the
departed storm; still and sullen as the awful pause that precedes nature's convulsion: yet I would have thee feel assured that a new morning shall arise,
*




510


PIZARRO.


[ACT IIL


when the warriors spirit shall stalk forth-nor fear the future, nor lament
the past.
1'iz. Woman! Elvira!-why had not all my men hearts like thine?
BElv. Then would thy brows have this day worn the crown of Quito.
Piz. Oh! hope fails me while that scourge of my life and fame, Alonzo,
leads the enemy.
Elv. Pizarro, I am come to probe the hero farther: not now his courage,
but his magnanimity-Alonzo is your prisoner.
'ijz. How!
Elv. 'Tis certain; Valverde saw him even now dragged in chains within
your camp.   I chose to bring you the intelligence myself.
Piz. Bless thee, Elvira, for the news!-Alonzo in my power!-then I
am the conqueror -the victory is mine!
Elv. Pizarro, this is savage and unmanly triumph.  Believe me, you raise
impatience in my mind to see the man whose valour and whose genius awe
Pizarro; whose misfortunes are Pizarro's triumph; whose bondage is
Pizarro's safety.
Piz. Guard!
Enter GUARD.
Drag here the Sianish prisoner, Alonzo! Quick, bring the traitor here.
[Exit GUARD.
Elv. What shall be his fate?
Piz. Death! death! in lingering torments! protracted to the last stretch
that burning vengeance can devise, and fainting life sustain.
Elv. Shame on thee! Wilt thou have it said that the Peruvians found
Pizarro could not conquer till Alonzo felt that he could murder?
Piz. Be it said-I care not.  His fate is sealed.
Elv. Follow then thy will: but mark me, if basely thou dost shed the
blood of this brave youth, Elvira 's lost to thee for ever.
Piz. Why this interest for a stranger?  What is Alonzo's fate to thee?
Elv. His fate, nothing. thy glory, every thing! Thinkest thou I could
love thee, stripped of fame, of honour, and a just renown?  Know me better.
Piz. Thou shouldst have known me better. Thou shouldst have known,
that, once provoked to hate, I am for ever fixed in vengeance.
_R-enter GUARD uwith ALONZO in chains.
Welcome, welcome, Don Alonzo de Molina! 'tis long since we have met:
thy mended looks should speak a life of rural indolence.  How is it that,
samid the toils and cares of war, thou dost preserve the healthful bloom of  *
careless ease?  Tell me thy secret.
Alon. Thou wilt not profit by it.  Whate'er the toils or cares of war,
peace still is here.                      [Putting his hand to his heart.
Piz. Sarcastic boy!
Elv. Thou art answered rightly.  Why sport with the unfortunate?
Piz. And thou art wedded too, I hear; ay, and the father of a lovely boy.-the heir, no doubt of all his father's loyalty, of all his mother's faith?
Alon. The heir, I trust, of all his father's scorn of fraud, oppression, and
hypocrisy-the heir, I hope, of all his mother's virtue, gentleness, and truth
-the heir, I am sure, to all Pizarro's hate.
Piz. Really! Now do I feel for this poor orphan; for fatherless to-moer
row's sun shall see that child.  Alonzo, thy hours are numbered.




ws. m.]                      PIZARRO.                          641
Elv. Pizarro-no!
Piz. Hence-or dread my anger.
Elv. I will not hence; nor do I dread thy anger.
Alon. Generous loveliness! spare thy unavailing pity.  Seek not to
V     thwart the tiger with the prey beneath his fangs.
Piz. Audacious rebel! thou a renegado from thy monarch and thy God I
Alon. 'Tis false!
Piz. Art thou not, tell me. a deserter from thy country's legions-and,
with vile heathens leagued, hast thou not warred against thy native land?
Alon. No! deserter I am none! I was not born among robbers I pirates I
murderers t When those legions, lured by the abhorred lust of gold, and by
thy foul ambition urged, forgot the honour of Castilians, and forsook the
duties of humanity, they deserted me. I have not warred against my native
land, but against those who have usurped its power. The banners of my
country, when first I followed arms beneath them, were justice, faith, and
mercy. If these are beaten down and trampled under foot, I have no
A,    country, nor exists the power entitled to reproach me with revolt.
Piz. The power to judge and punish thee at least exists.
Alon. Where are my judges'?
Piz. Thou wouldst appeal to the war council?
Alon. If the good Las-Casas have yet a seat there, yes; if not, I appeal
to Heaven!
Piz. And, to impose upon the folly of Las-Casas, what would be the excuses of thy treason?
Elv. The folly of Las-Casas! Such, doubtless, his mild precepts seem to
thy hard-hearted wisdom! Oh, would I might have lived as I will die, a
sharer in the follies of Las-Casas!
Alon. To him I should not need to urge the foul barbarities which drove
I    me from your side; but I would gently lead him by the hand through all the
lovely fields of Quito; there, in many a spot where late was barrenness and
waste, I would show him how now the opening blossom, blade, or perfumed
bud, sweet bashful pledges of delicious harvest, wafting their incense to 'the
ripening sun, give cheerful promise to the hope of industry. This, I would
say, is my work! Next I should tell how hurtful customs and superstitions,
strange and sullen, would often scatter and dismay the credulous minds of
these deluded innocents; and then would I point out to him where now, in
clustered villages, they live like brethren, social and confiding, while through
the burning day Content sits basking on the cheek of Toil, till laughing
Pastime leads them to the hour of rest-this too is mine! And prouder yet,
at that still pause between exertion and repose, belonging not to pastime,
labour, or to rest, but unto Him who sanctions and ordains them all, I would
show him many an eye, and many a hand, by gentleness from error won,
raised in pure devotion to the true and only God!-this too I could tell him
is Alonzo's work! Then would Las-Casas clasp me in his aged arms; from
his uplifted eyes a tear of gracious thankfulness would fall upon my head,
and that one blessed drop would be to me at once this world's best proot. that
I had acted rightly here, and surest hope of my Creator's mercy and reward
t-ereafter.
Elv. Happy, virtuous Alonzo! And thou, Pizarro, wouldst appal with
fear of death a man who thinks and acts as he does 1
iz2. Daring, obstinate enthusiast! But know, the pious blessing of thy




542                          PIZARRO.                     tAcTr In
preceptor's tears does not await thee here: he has fled like thee-like thee,
so doubt, to join the foes of Spain. The perilous trial of the ne.xt reward
you hope is nearer than perhaps you 've thought; for, by my country's
wrongs, and by mine own, to-morrow's sun shall see thy death!
Elv. Hold! Pizarro, hear me: if not always justly, at least act always
greatly. Name not thy country's wrongs; 'tis plain they have no share in
thy resentment. Thy fury 'gainst this youth is private hate, and deadly personal revenge; if this be so, and even now thy detected conscience in that
look avows it, profane not the name of justice or thy country's cause, but let
him arm, and bid him to the field on equal terms.
Piz. Officious advocate for treason-peace! Bear him hence; he knows
his sentence.                                          [Retires back.
Alon. Thy revenge is eager, and I'm thankful for it-to me thy haste is
mercy.-[To ELVIRA.] For thee, sweet pleader in misfortune's cause, accept
my parting thanks.  This camp is not thy proper sphere. Wert thou among
yon savages, as they are called thou'dst find companions more congenial to
thy heart.
Piz. Yes; she shall bear the tidings of thy death to Cora.
Alon. Inhuman man! that pang, at least, might have been spared me;
but thy malice shall not shake my constancy. I go to death-many shall
bless, and none will curse my memory. Thou wilt still live, and still wilt
be-Pizarro.                                          [Exit, guarded.
Elv. Now, by the indignant scorn that burns upon my cheek, my soul is
shamed and sickened at the meanness of thy vengeance!
Piz. What has thy romantic folly aimed at  He is mine enemy, and in
my power.
Elv. He is in your power, and therefore is no more an enemy. Pizarro,
I demand not of thee virtue, I ask not from thee nobleness of mind, I require
only just dealing to the fame thou hast acquired: be not the assassin of thitle
own renown. How often have you sworn, that the sacrifice which thy wondrous valour's high report had won you from subdued Elvira, was the proudest
triumph of your fame! Thou knowest I bear a mind. not cast in the common mould, not formed for tame sequestered love, content mid household
cares to prattle to an idle offspring, and wait the dull delight of an obscure
lover's kindness: no! my heart was framed to look up with awe and homage
to the object it adored; my ears to own no music but the thrilling records of
his praise; my lips to scorn all babbling but the tales of his achievements;
my brain to turn giddy with delight, reading the applauding tributes of his
monarch's and his country's gratitude; my every faculty to throb with transport, while I heard the shouts of acclamation which announced the coming of
my hero; my whole soul to love him with devotion! with enthusiasm! to see
no other object-to own no other tie-but to make him my world! Thus to
lose is at least no common weakness. Pizarro! was not such my love for thee
Piz. It was, Elvira!
Elv. Then do not make me hateful to myself, by tearing off the mask at
once, baring the hideous imposture that has undone me! Do not an act
which, howe'er thy present power may gloss it to the world, will make thee
hateful to all future ages-accursed and scorned by posterity.
Piz. And, should posterity applaud my deeds, thinkest thou my mouldering bones would rattle then with transport in my tomb? This is renown for
visionary boys to dream of; I understand it not. The fame I value shall up.




4          so. UI.],0


P1ZARRO.


lift my living estimation, o'erbear with popular support the envy of my foes,
advance my purposes, and aid my power.
Elv. Each word thou speakest, each moment that I hear thee, dispels the
fatal mist through which I've judged thee.  Thou man of nmighty name but
little soul, I see thou wert not born to feel what genuine fame and glory are.
Go! prefer the flattery of thy own fleeting day to the bright circle of a deathless name-go! prefer to stare upon the grain of sand on which you trample, to musing on the starred canopy above thee. Fame, the sovereign deity
of proud ambition, is not to be worshipped so: who seeks alone for living
homage stands a mean canvasser in her temple's porch, wooing promiscuously, from the fickle breath of every wretch that passes, the brittle tribute
of his praise. He dares not approach the sacred altar-no noble sacrifice
#       of his is placed there, nor ever shall his worshipped image, fixed above,
claim for his memory a glorious immortality.
Piz. Elvira, leave me!
Elv. Pizarro, you no longer love me.
Piz. It is not so, Elvira. But what might I not suspect-this wondrous
interest for a stranger! Take back thy reproach.
Elv. No, Pizarro, as yet I am not lost to you; one string still remains,
and binds me to your fate. Do not, I conjure you-do not, for mine own
sake, tear it asunder-shed not Alonzo's blood!
Piz. My resolution's fixed.
Elv. Even though that moment lost you Elvira for ever?
Piz. Even so.
E'v. Pizarro, if not to honour, if not to humanity, yet listen to affection;
bear some memory of the sacrifices I have made for thy sake. Have I not
for thee quitted my parents, my friends, my fame, my native land' When
escaping, did I not risk, in rushing to thy arms, to bury myself in the bosom
of the deep? Have I not shared all thy perils-heavy storms at sea, and
P       frightful 'scapes on shorel  Even on this dreadful day, amid the rout of
battle, who remained firm and constant at Pizarro's side] Who presented
her bosom as his shield to the assailing foe?
Piz. 'Tis truly spoken all. In love thou art thy sex's miracle, in war the.    oldier's pattern; and therefore my whole heart and half my acquisitions are
P      thy right.
Elv. Convince me I possess the first; I exchange all title to the latter for
-mercy to Alonzo.
Piz. No more! Had I intended to prolong his doom, each word thou utterest now would hasten on hi3 fate.
Elv. Alonzo then at morn will die?
Piz. Thinkest thou yon sun will set? As surely at his rising shall
Alonzo die.
E'lv. Then be it done-the string is cracked-sundered for ever. But
mark me-thou hast heretofore had cause, 'tis ti e, to doubt my resolution,
howe'er offended; but mark me now-the lips which, cold and jeering, barb-:ng revenge with rancorous mockery, can insult a fallen enemy, shall never
more receive the pledge of love: the arm which, unshaken by its bloody
purpose, shall assign to needless torture the victim who avows his heart, never
more shbti press the hand of faith! Pizarro, scorn not my words; beware
you slight them not! I feel how noble are the motives -hich now animate




PIZARRO.


[ACT IV.


my thoughts. Who could not feel as I do, I condemn: who, feeling so, yet
would not act as I shall, I despise!
Piz. I have heard thee, Elvira, and know well the noble motives which
inspire thee-fit advocate in virtue's cause! Believe me, I pity thy tender
feelings for the youth Alonzo! He dies at sunrise!           [Exit.
Elv. 'Tis well! 'tis just I should be humbled-I had forgot myself, and
in the cause of innocence assumed the tone of virtue. 'Twas fit I should be
rebuked-and by Pizarro.  Fall, fall, ye few reluctant drops of weaknessthe last these eyes shall ever shed. How a woman can love, Pizarro, thou
hast known too well-how she can hate, thou hast yet to learn. Yes, thou
undaunted!-thou, whom yet no mortal hazard has appalled-thou, who on
Panama's brow didst make alliance with the raging elements that tore the
silence of that horrid night, when thou didst follow, as thy pioneer, the
crashing thunder's drift; and, stalking o'er the trembling earth, didst plant
thy banner by the red volcano's mouth! thou, who when battling on the sea,
and thy brave ship was blown to splinters, wast seen, as thou didst bestride a
fragment of the smoking wreck, to wave thy glittering sword above thy head,
as thou wouldst defy the world in that extremity!-come, fearless man! now
meet the last and fellest peril of thy life; meet and survive-an injured
woman's fury, if thou canst.                                  [lxit.
ACT IV.
SCENE I.-A Dungeon.
ALONZO is discovered in chains.  A SENTINEL walking near.
Alon. For the last time I have beheld the shadowed ocean close upon the
light. For the last time, through my cleft dungeon's roof, I now behold the
quivering lustre of the stars. For the last time, 0 sun! (and soon the hour)
I shall behold thy rising, and thy level beams melting the pale mists of
morn to glittering dew-drops. Then comes my death, and in the morning of  i
my day I fall, which-no, Alonzo, date not the life which thou hast run by
the mean reckoning of the hours and days which thou hast breathed: a life
spent worthily should be measured by a nobler line-by deeds, not years.
Then wouldst thou murmur not, but bless the Providence which in so short a
span made thee the instrument of wide and spreading blessings to the helpless and oppressed. Though sinking in decrepit age, he prematurely falls,
whose memory records no benefit conferred by him on man. They only have
lived long, who have lived virtuously.
Enter a SOLDIER, shows the SENTINEL a passport, who wicthdraws.
Alon. What bear you there?
Sold. These refreshments I was ordered to leave in your dungeon.
Alon. By whom ordered?
Sold. By the Lady Elvira: she will be here herself before the dawn.
Alon. Bear back to her my humblest thanks; and take thou the refreshments. friend-I need them not.
Solo,. I have served under you, Don Alonzo. Pardon my saying, that
my heart pities you.                                          [Exit
Aloa. In Pizarro's camp, to pity the unfortunate, no doubt requires for




~S..]


PIZARBO.


545


giN ness.-[Looking out.] Surely, even now, thin streaks of glimmering
lig  steal on the darkness of the east. If so, my life is but one hour more.
I N 11 not watch the coming dawn; but in the darkness of my cell, my last
pra) Jr to thee, Power Supreme! shall be for my wife and child! Grant
then to dwell in innocence and peace; grant health and purity of mind-all
else is worthless.                          [Retires into the dungeon.
Sent. Who's there I answer quickly! who's there?,*.     Rol. [Without.] A friar come to visit your prisoner.
Enter ROLLA, disguised as a MONK.
Rol. Inform me, friend-is not Alonzo, the Spanish prisoner, confined in
this dungeon?
t*       Sent. He is.
Rol. I must speak with him.
Sent. You must not.                   [Stopping him with hi spear.
Rol. He is my friend.
A       Sent. Not if he were your brother.
Rol. What is to be his fate?
Sent. He dies at sunrise.
Rol. Ha! then I am come in time.
Sent. Just-to witness his death.
Rol. Soldier, I must speak with him.
Sent. Back, back! It is impossibleRol. I do entreat thee but for one moment I
Sent. You entreat in vain; my orders are most strict.
Rol. Even now, I saw a messenger go hence.
Sent. He brought a pass, which we are all accustomed to obey
Rol. Look on this wedge of massive gold-look on these precious gems.
V      In thy own land they will be wealth for thee and thine beyond thy hope or
wish. Take them-they are thine. Let me but pass one minute with Alonzo.
Sent. Away! wouldst thou corrupt me —me! an old Castilian I I know
my duty better.
Rol. Soldier! hast thou a wife]
Sent. I have.
Rol. Hast thou children
Sent. Four-honest, lovely boys.
Rol. Where didst thou leave them?
Sent. In my native village-even in the cot where myself waw born.
R4 Rol. Dost thou love thy children and thy wife
Sent. Do I love them! God knows my heart-I do.
Rol. Soldier!-imagine thou wert doomed to die a cruet death, in this
strange land; what would be thy last request!
Sent. That some of my comrades should carry my dying blessing to my
wife and children.
Rol. Oh, but if that comrade was at thy prison gate-and should there be
told-thy fellow-soldier dies at sunrise-yet thou shalt not for a moment see
him-nor shalt thou bear his dying blessing to his poor children or his
*   wretched wife —what wouldst thou think of him, who thus could drive thy
comrade from the door?
Sent. How!




PIZARRO.


[ACT IV


Rol. Alonzo has a wife and child-I am come but to receive for her and
for her babe the last blessing of my friend.
Sent. Go in.                                              [Retires.
Rol. Oh, holy Nature! thou dost never plead in vain. There is not, of
eor earth, a creature bearing form, and life, human or savage, native of the
forest wild or giddy air, around whose parent bosom thou hast not a cord
entwined of power to tie them to their offspring's claims, and at thy will to
draw them back to thee. On iron pinions borne, the blood-stained vulture
cleaves the storm, yet is the plumage closest to her breast soft as the cygnet's
down, and o'er her unshelled brood the murmuring ringdove sits not more
gently! Yes, now he is beyond the porch, barring the outer gate!-Alonzo I
Alonzo! my friend! Ha! in gentle sleep!-Alonzo! rise
Re-enter ALONZO.
Alon. [Within.] How   is my hour elapsed? Well-[Returningfrom the
recess.] I am ready.
Rol. Alonzo, know me                                                 *
Alon. What voice is that?
Rol. 'Tis Rolla's.                          [Takes off his disguise.]
Alon. Rolla!-my friend!-[Embraces him.] Heavens! how couldst
thou pass the guard? Did this habitRol. There is not a moment to be lost in words. This disguise I tore
from the dead body of a friar, as I passed our field of battle; it has gained
me entrance to thy dungeon-now take it thou, and fly.
Alon. And RollaRol. Will remain here in thy place.
Alon. And die for me! No I rather eternal tortures rack me.
Rol. I shall not die, Alonzo. It is thy life Pizarro seeks, not Rolla's;
and from my prison soon will thy arm deliver me. Or, should it be etherwise, I am as a blighted plantain, standing alone amid the sandy desert;  6
nothing seeks or lives beneath my shelter. Thou art a husband, and a father;
the being of a lovely wife and helpless infant hangs upon thy life. Go! go!
Alonzo! go! to save not thyself, but Cora, and thy child!
A4on. Urge me not thus, my friend! I had prepared to die in peace.
Rol. To die in peace! devoting her thou'st sworn to live for, to madness,
misery, and death!  For, be assured, the state I left her in forbids all hope
but from thy quick return.
Alon. Oh, God!
Rol. If thou art yet irresolute, Alonzo, now heed me well.  I think
thou hast not known that Rolla ever pledged his word, and shrunk from its
fulfilment. And by the heart of truth I swear, if thou art proudly obstinate
to deny thy friend the transport of preserving Cora's life, in thee, no power
that sways the will of man shall stir me hence; and thou'lt but have the
desperate triumph of seeing Rolla perish by thy side, with the assured conviction that Cora and thy child are lost for ever.
Alon. Oh, Rolla! you distract me!
Rol. Begone i A moment's further pause, and all is lost. The dawn approaches. Fear not for me-I will treat with Pizarro as for surrender and submission. I shall gain time, doubt not, while thou, with a chosen band, passing
the secret way, mayst at night return. release thy friend, and bear him back in


J




,     SC. T.]                       PIZARRO.                           547
triumph. Yes, hasten, dear Alonzo I Even now I hear the frantic Cora
call thee! Haste! haste! haste!
Alon. Rolla, I fear thy friendship drives me from honour, and from
'-      right.
Rol. Did Rolla ever counsel dishonour to his friend?
Alon. Oh! my preserver!                             [Embraces him.
Rol. I feel thy warm tears dropping on my cheek. Go! I am rewarded.
- -[Throws the FRIAR'S garment over ALONZO.] There! conceal thy fae;
and, that they may not clank, hold fast thy chains. Now-God be with
thee!
Alon. At night we meet again.  Then, so aid me Heaven! I return to
save-or-perish with thee!                                           [Exit.
Rol. [Looking after him.] He has passed thesouter porch. He is safe! He
will soon embrace his wife and child I-Now, Cora, didst thou not wrofng me?
This is the first time throughout my life I ever deceived man. Forgive me,
God of truth! if I am wrong. Alonzo flatters himself that we shall meet.*'       again. Yes-there!-[Lifting his hands to heaven.] Assuredly, we shall
meet again: there possess in peace the joys of everlasting love and friendship-on earth, imperfect and embittered. I will retire, lest the guard return
before Alonzo may have passed their lines.    [Retires into the dungeon.
~ Enter ELVIRA.
Elv. No, not Pizarro's brutal taunts, not the glowing admiration which I
feel for this noble youth, shall raise an interest in my harassed bosom which
/       honour would not sanction.  If he reject the vengeance my heart has sworn
against the tyrant, whose death alone can save this land, yet shall the delight be mine to restore him to his Cora's arms, to his dear child, and to the
unoffending people, whom his virtues guide, and valour guards.-Alonzo,
come forth!
lRe-enter ROLLA.
Ha I who art thou? where is Alonzo?
Rol. Alonzo's fled.
Elv. Fled
Rol. Yes-and he must not be pursued. Pardon this roughness,[Seizing her hand.] but a moment's precious to Alonzo's flight.
Elv. What if I call the guard?
Ro4. Do so-Alonzo still gains time.
Etv. What if thus I free myself!                        [Shows a dagger.
Rol. Strike it to my heart-still, with the convulsive grasp of death, I 11
hold thee fast.
Elv. Release me-I give my faith, I neither will alarm the guard, nor
cause pursuit.
Rol. At once I trust thy word: a feeling boldness in those eyes assures
'         me that thy soul is noble.
Elv. What is thy name? Speak freely: by my order the guard is removed beyond the outer porch.
i C         Rol. My name is Rolla.
Elv. The Peruvian leaderS
Rot. I was so yesterday: to-day, the Spaniards' captive.
A.Alt And friendship for Alonzo moved thee to this act?
N N 2




618


PIZARRO.


[ACT IX.


Rol. Alonzo is my friend; I am prepared to die for him. Yet is the cause
a motive stronger far than friendship.
Elv. One only passion else could urge such generous rashness.
Rol. And that isElv, Love?
Rol. True!
Elv. Gallant, ingenuous Rolla I Know that my purpose here was thine;
and were I to save thy friendRol. How! a woman blessed with gentleness and courage, and yet not
Cora!
Elv. Does Rolla think so meanly of all female hearts?
Rol. Not so-you are worse and better than we are!
Elv. Were I to save thee, Rolla, from the tyrant's vengeance, restore thee
to thy native land, and thy native land to peace, wouldst thou not rank
Elvira with the good!
Rol. To judge the action, I must know the means.
Elv. Take this dagger.
Rol. How to be used?
Elv. I will conduct thee to the tent where fell Pizarro sleeps-the
scourge of innocence, the terror of thy race, the fiend that desolates thy
afflicted country.
Rol. Have you not been injured by Pizarro?
Elv. Deeply as scorn and insult can infuse their deadly venom.
Rol. And you ask that I shall murder him in his sleep!
Elv. Would he not have murdered Alonzo in his chains  He that sleeps,
and he that's bound, are equally defenceless. Hear me, Rolla-so may I
prosper in this perilous act, as, searching my full heart, I have put by all
rancorous motive of private vengeance there, and feel that I advance to my
dread purpose in the cause of human nature and at the call of sacred
justice..
Rol. The God of justice sanctifies no evil as a step towards good. Great
actions cannot be achieved by wicked means.
Elv. Then, Peruvian! since thou dost feel so coldly for thy country's
wrongs, this hand, though it revolt my soul, shall strike the blow.
Rol. Then is thy destruction certain, and for Peru thou perishest! Give
me the dagger!
Elv. Now follow me. But first-and dreadful is the hard necessity-thou
must strike down the guard.
Rol. The soldier who was on duty here?
Elv. Yes, him-else, seeing thee, the alarm will be instant.
Rol. And I must stab that soldier as I pass? Take back thy dagger.
Elv. Rolla!
Rol. That soldier, mark me, is a man. All are not men that bear the
human form. He refused my prayers, refused my gold, denying to admit
me, till his own feelings bribed him. For my nation's safety, I would not
harnm that man!
Elv. Then he must with us-I will answer for his safety.
Rol. Be that plainly understood between us: for, whate'er betide our
enterprise, I will not risk a hair of that man's head, to save my heart-strings
from consuming fire.                                       [Exeurt,


&*




SO 11.


PIZARRO


SOENE II.-PIZARRO'S Tent.
PIZARRO is discovered on a couch, in disturbed sleep.
Piz. [In his sleep.] No mercy, traitor!-Now at his heart — Stand off
there, you I-Let me see him bleed I-Ha! ha! ha!-Let me hear that
groan again.
Enter ROLLA and ELVIRA.
Elv. There! Now, lose not a moment.
Rol. You must leave me now. This scene of blood fits not a woman's
presence.
Elv. But a moment's pause mayRol. Go, retire to your own tent, and return not here-I will come to
you. Be thou not known in this business, I implore you!
Elv. I will withdraw the guard that waits.                  [Exit.,<         Rol. Now have I in my power the accursed destroyer of my country's
peace: yet tranquilly he rests.  God! can this man sleep?
Piz. [In his sleep.] Away! away! hideous fiends! Tear not my bosom
thus!
Rol. No: I was in error-the balm of sweet repose he never more can
know.   Look here, ambition's fools! ye, by whose inhuman pride the bleeding sacrifice of nations is held as nothing, behold the rest of the guilty!He is at my mercy-and one blow! -    No! my heart and hand refuse the
act: Rolla cannot be an assassin! Yet Elvira must be saved!-[Approaches
t/he couch.] Pizarro! awake!
Piz. [Starts up.] Who?-Guard!Rol. Speak not-another word is thy death. Call not for aid! this arm
will be swifter than thy guard., Piz. Who art thou? and what is thy will?
Rol. I am thine enemy! Peruvian Rolla! Thy death is not my will, or
I could have slain thee sleeping.
Piz. Speak, what else?
Rol. Now thou art at my mercy, answer me! Did a Peruvian ever yet
>        wrong or injure thee, or any of thy nation?  Didst thou, or any of thy
nation, ever yet show mercy to a Peruvian in thy power? Now shalt thou
feel, and if thou hast a heart thou 'lt feel it keenly, a Peruvian's vengeance!
*       -[Drops the dagger at his feet.] There I
*         Piz. Is it possible!                       [ Walks aside confounded.
Rol. Can Pizarro be surprised at this? I thought forgiveness of iniuries
had been the Christian's precept. Thou seest, at least, it is the Peruvian's
practice.
-~ $       Piz. Roll, thou hast indeed surprised-subdued me.
[Walks aside again as in irresolute thought.
v                   Re-enter ELVIRA, not seeing PIZARRO.
Elv. Is it done? Is he dead —[Sees PIZARRO.] Howl still living!
Then I am lost! And for you, wretched Peruvians I mercy is no more! 0
Rolla: treacherous, or cowardly?
P P. How         can it be that —




550


PIZARRO.


[ACT IV


Rol. Away I-Elvira speaks she knows not what!-[To ELVIRA.] Leave
me, I conjure you, with Pizarro.
Elv. How! Rolla, dost thou think I shall retract? or that I meanly will
deny, that in thy hand I placed a poniard to be plunged into that tyrant's
heart? No: my sole regret is, that I trusted to thy weakness, and did not
strike the blow myself.  Too soon thou'lt learn that mercy to that man is
direct cruelty to all thy race!
Piz. Guard! quick! a guard, to seize this frantic woman.
Ely. Yes, a guard! I call them too! And soon I know they'll lead me
to my death. But think not, Pizarro, the fury of thy flashing eyes shall awe
me for a moment! Nor think that woman's anger, or the feelings of an
injured heart, prompted me to this design. No! had I been only influenced
so-thus failing, shame and remorse would weigh me down. But, though       '
defeated and destroyed, as now I am, such is the greatness of the cause that
urged me, I shall perish, glorying in the attempt, and my last breath of life
shall speak the proud avowal of my purpose-tr have rescued millions of
innocents from the bloodthirsty tyranny of one-by ridding the insulted.,
world of thee.
Rol. Had the act been noble as the motive, Rolla would, not have shrunk
from its performance.
Enter GUARDS.
Piz. Seize this discovered fiend, who sought to kill your leader.
Elv. Touch me not, at the peril of your souls; I am your prisoner, and
will follow you. But thou, their triumphant leader, first shalt hear me. Yet,
first-for thee, Rolla, accept my forgiveness; even had I been the victim of.
thy nobleness of heart, I should have admired thee for it. But 'twas myself
provoked my doom-thou wouldst have shielded me. Let not thy contempt
follow me to the grave. Didst thou but know the fiend-like arts by which
this hypocrite first undermined the virtue of a guileless heart! how, even in
the pious sanctuary wherein I dwelt, by corruption and by fraud he practised
upon those in whom I most confided-till my distempered fancy led me, step
by step, into the abyss of guiltPiz. Why am I not obeyed   Tear her hence!
Elv. 'Tis past-but didst thou know my story, Rolla, thou wouldst pity me.
Rol. From my soul I do pity thee!                                        4
Piz. Villains! drag her to the dungeon!-prepare the torture instantly.
Elv. Soldiers, but a moment more-'tis to applaud your general. It is to
tell the astonished world that, for once, Pizarro's sentence is an act of justice:  i
yes, rack me with the sharpest tortures that ever agonised the human frame,
it will be justice. Yes, bid the minions of thy fury wrench forth the sinews
of those arms that have caressed-and even have defended thee! Bid them
pour burning metal into the bleeding cases of these eyes, that so oft-oh,
God!-have hung with love and homage on thy looks-then approach me
bound on the abhorred wheel-there glut thy savage eyes with the convulsive
spasms of that dishonoured bosom which was once thy pillow!-yet will I
bear it all; for it will be justice, all! and when thou shalt bid them tear me
to my death, hoping that thy unshrinking ears may at last be feasted with
the music of my cries, I will not utter one shriek or groan; but to the last
gasp my body's patience shall deride thy vengeance, as my soul defies thy
power.




sc. 1n.


PIZARRO.


Piz. Hearest thou the wretch whose hands were even now prepared for
murder?
Rol. Yes! and, if her accusation's false, thou wilt not shrink from hearing
her; if true, thy barbarity cannot make her suffer the pangs thy conscience
will inflict on thee.
Elv. And now, farewell, world!-Rolla, farewell!-farewell, thou con.
demned of Heaven! [To PIZARRO] for repentance and remorse, I know, will
*.    never touch thy hbet.-We shall meet again.-Ha! be it thy horror here to
know that we shall meet hereafter! And when thy parting hour approaches
-hark to the knell, whose dreadful beat will strike to thy despairing soul.
Then will vibrate on thy ear the curses of the cloistered saint from whom
thou stolest me. Then the last shrieks which burst from my mother's breaki ng heart, as she died, appealing to her God against the seducer of her child!
Then the blood-stifled groan of my murdered brother-murdered by thee, fell
monster!-seeking atonement for his sister's ruined honour. I hear them
now! To me the recollection's madness! At such an hour-what will it
be to thee?
Piz. A moment's more delay, and at the peril of your lives —
Elv. I have spoken-and the last mortal frailty of my heart is passed.
And now, with an undaunted spirit and unshaken firmness, I go to meet my
destiny. That I could not live nobly, has been Pizarro's act; that I will,       die nobly, shall be my own.                          [Exit guarded.
Piz. Rolla, I would not thou, a warrior, valiant and renowned, shouldst
t.     credit the vile tales of this frantic woman. The cause of all this fury-oh! a
wanton passion for the rebel youth Alonzo, now my prisoner.
*        Rol. Alonzo is not now thy prisoner.
Piz. How!
Rol. I came to rescue him-to deceive his guard. I have succeeded; I
remain thy prisoner.
Piz. Alonzo fled! Is then the vengeance dearest to my heart never to be
gratified?
Rol. Dismiss such passions from thy heart, then thou'lt consult its peace.
Piz. I can face all enemies that dare confront me-I cannot war against
>       my nature.
3        Rol. Then, Pizarro, ask not to be deemed a hero: to triumph o'er ourselves
is the only conquest where fortune makes no claim. In battle, chance may
snatch the laurel from thee, or chance may place it on thy brow; but, in a
contest with thyself, be resolute, and the virtuous impulse must be the victor..        PPiz. Peruvian! thou shalt not find me to thee ungrateful or ungenerous.
Return to your countrymen-you are at liberty.
Rol. Thou dost act in this as honour and as duty bid thee.
Piz. I cannot but admire thee, Rolla: I would we might be friends.
Rol. Farewell! pity Elvira! become the friend of virtue-and thou wilt
be mine.                                                     [Exit.
t          Piz. Ambition! tell me what is the phantom I have followed? where is
~        the one delight which it has made my own? My fame is the mark of envy,
my love the dupe of treachery, my glory eclipsed by the boy I taught, my
%      revenge defeated and rebuked by the rude honour of a savage foe, before
whose native dignity of soul I have sunk confounded and subdued! I would
I could retrace my steps!-I cannot. Would I could evade my own refleclions! No! thought and memory are my hell I                [EAix




bo2


PIZARRO.


[ACT V.


ACT V.
SCENE I.-A Forest. In the background a Hult,
CORA is discovered leaning over her CHILD, who is laid on a bed of leave
and moss.-A Storm, with thunder and lightning.
Cora. 0 Nature! thou hast not the strength of love.  My anxious spirit
is untired in its march; my wearied shivering frame sinks under it. And
for thee, my boy, when faint beneath thy lovely burden, could I refuse to
give thy slumbers that poor bed of rest! 0 my child! were I assured thy
father breathes no more, how quickly would I lay me down by thy dear side!
-but down-down for ever!-[Thunder and lightning.]      I ask thee not,
unpitying storm! to abate thy rage in mercy to poor Cora's misery; nor
while thy thunders spare his slumbers will I disturb my sleeping cherub;
though Heaven knows I wish to hear the voice of life, and feel that life is
near me. But I will endure all while what I have of reason holds. [Sings.
Yes, yes, be merciless, thou tempest dire;
Unaw'd, unshelter'd, I thy fury brave:
I'11 bare my bosom to thy forked fire,
Let it but guide me to Alonzo's grave!
O'er his pale corse then, while thy lightnings glare,;
I '1 press his clay-cold lips, and perish there.
But thou wilt wake again, my boy,
Again thou'lt rise to life and joyThy father never!Thy laughing eyes will meet the light,
Unconscious that eternal night
Veils his for ever.
On yon green bed of moss there lies my child,                    '
Oh! safer lies from these chill'd arms apart;
He sleeps, sweet lamb! nor heeds the tempest wild,
Oh! sweeter sleeps, than near this breaking heart.
Alas! my babe, if thou wouldst peaceful rest,                 +
Thy cradle must not be thy mother's breast.
Yet thou wilt wake again, my boy,
Again thou 'lt rise to life and joyThy father never!Thy laughing eyes will meet the light,
Unconscious that eternal night
Veils his for ever.        [Thunder and lighAting.
Still, still implacable! unfeeling elements! yet still dost thou sleep, my
smiling innocent! 0 Death! when wilt thou grant to this babe's mother
such repose I Sure I may shield thee better from the storm; my veil
may- -
[While she is wrapping her mantle and her veil over him, AONZo's
voice is heard in the distance.
Alon. Cora!
Co, a. Ha!                                                   [Ris/          ~




c. I.j                       PIZARRO                            558
Alon. Cora!
Cora. Oh, my heart! Sweet Heaven, deceive me not   Is it not Alonzo'g
voice?
Alon. [Nearer.] Corn!
Cora. It is-it is Alonzo!
A lon. [Nearer still.] Cora! my beloved!
Cora. Alonzo!-Here I here!-Alonzo!                    [Runs out.
Enter two SPANISH SOLDIERS.
1st Sold. I tell you we are near our out-posts, and the word we heard just
now was the countersign.
~       2nd Sold. Well, in our escape from the enemy, to have discovered their
secret passage through the rocks, will prove a lucky chance to us. Pizarro
will reward us.
1st Sold. This way: the sun, though clouded, is on our left.-[Perceives
the CHILD.]  What have we here — A child, as I'm a soldier!
d          2nd Sold. 'Tis a sweet little babe! Now would it be a great charity to
take this infant from its pagan mother's power.
1st Sold. It would so: I have one at home shall play with it.-Come
along.                                         [Exeunt with the CHILD.
Cora. [Without.] This way, dear Alonzo!
Re-enter CORA, aith ALONZO.
Now am   I right-there-there-under that tree. Was it possible the
instinct of a mother's heart could mistake the spot?  Now wilt thou look at
him as he sleeps, or shall I bring him waking, with his full, blue, laughing
eyes, to welcome you at once! Yes, yes! Stand thou there; I '11 snatch
him from his rosy slumber, blushing like the perfumed morn.
[She runs up to the spot, and finding only the mantle and veil, which she
tears from the ground, and the CHILD gone, shrieks.
A lon. [Running to her.] Cora! my heart's beloved!
Cora. He is gone!
Alon. Eternal God!
'    Cora. He is gone!-my child! my child!
Alon. Where didst thou leave him?
Cora. [Dashing herself on the spot.] Here!
Alon. Be calm, beloved Cora; he has waked and crept to a little distance;
)*       we shall find him. Are you assured this was the spot you left him in
Cora. Did not these hands make that bed and shelter for him ] and is not
this the veil that covered him?
Alon. Here is a hut yet unobserved.
Cora. Ha! yes, yes! there lives the savage that has robbed me of my
child.-[Beats at the door.] Give me back my child! restore to me my boy!,                             Enter LAS-CASAS from the hut.,         Las-Cas. Who calls me from my wretched solitude?
o ~        Cora. Give me back my child!-[Goes into the hut and calls.] Fernando I
Alon. Almighty powers! do my eyes deceive me I Las-Casas!
Las-Cas. Alonzo, my beloved young triend I
*           Alon. My revered instructor!                           [Embracing.




654


PIZARRO.


[ACT V


Re-enter CORA.
Cora. Will you embrace this man before he restores my boy I
A lon. Alas, my friend! in what a moment of misery do we meet!
Cora. Yet his look is goodness and humanity. Good old man, have compassion on a wretched mother, and I will be your servant while I live. But
do not-for pity's sake, do not say you have him not; do not say you have
not seen him.                                      [Runs into the wood.
Las-Cas. What can this mean?
A ton. She is my wife. Just rescued from the Spaniards' prison, I learned
she had fled to this wild forest. Hearing my voice, she left the child, and
flew to meet me: he was left sleeping under yonder tree.
Re-enter CORA.
Las-Cas. How! did you leave him?
Cora. Oh, you are right! right! unnatural mother that I was! I left my
child, I forsook my innocent!  But I will fly to the earth's brink, but I will
find him.                                                   [Runs out.
Alon. Forgive me, Las-Casas, I must follow her; for at night I attempt
brave Rolla's rescue.
Las-Cas. I will not leave thee, Alonzo. You must try to lead her to
the right: that way lies your camp. Wait not my infirm steps: I follow
thee, my friend.                                              [Exeunt.
SCRNE II.-The Outpost of the Spanish Camp. In the background a torrent,
over which a bridge isformed by a felled tree. Trumpets sound without.
Enter ALMAGRO, followed by SOLDIERS, leading ROLLA in chains.
Aim. Bear him along; his story must be false.
Rol. False! Rolla utter falsehood! I would I had thee in a desert with
thy troop around thee, and I but with my sword in this unshackled hand!
[Trumpets without.
Aim. Is it to be credited, that Rolla, the renowned Peruvian hero, should
be detected, like a spy, skulking through our camp!
Rol. Skulking!
Aim. But answer to the general; he is here.
Enter PIZARRo.
Piz. What do I see? Rolla!
Rol. Oh, to thy surprise, no doubt I
Piz. And bound too!
Rol. So fast, thou needest not fear approaching me.
Alm. The guards surprised him passing our outpost.
Piz. Release him instantly! Believe me, I regret this insult.
Rol. You feel then as you ought.
Piz. Nor can I brook to see a warrior of Rolla's fame disarmed.  Accept
this, though it has been thy enemy's.-[Gives a sword.] The Spaniards know
the courtesy that's due to valour.
Rol. And the Peruvians how to forget offence.
Piz. May not Rolla and Pizarro cease to be foes?
Rol. When the sea divides us; yes! May I now depart
Pis. Freely


V




SC. II.]


PIZARRO.


Rol. And shall I not again be intercepted?
Piz. No! Let the word be given that Rolla passes freely.;;          Enter DAVILLA and SOLDIERS, with ALONZO'S CHILD.
Dav. Here are two soldiers, captured yesterday, who have escaped from
the Peruvian hold-and by the secret way we have so long endeavoured to
discover.
Piz. Silence, imprudent!  Seest thou not-       [Pointing to RoLLA.
Dav. In their way, they found a Peruvian child, who seemsPiz. What is the imp to me 1 Bid them toss it into the sea.
Rol. Gracious Heavens! it is Alonzo's child! Give it to me.
' ~      Piz. Ha! Alonzo's child!-[Takes the CHILD.]  Welcome, thou pretty
hostage.  Now Alonzo is again my prisoner!
Rol. Thou wilt not keep the infant from its mother?
Piz. Will I not! What, when I shall meet Alonzo in the heat of the
victorious fight, thinkest thou I shall not have a check upon the valour
of his heart, when he is reminded that a word of mine is this child's death ]
Rol. I do not understand thee.
Piz. My vengeance has a long arrear of hate to settle with Alonzo! and
this pledge may help to settle the account. [Gives the CHILD to a SOLDIER.]
i          Rol. Man! Man! Art thou a man l  Couldst thou hurt that innocent --
By Heaven! it's smiling in thy face.
Piz. Tell me, does it resemble Cora 1
Rol. Pizarro! thou hast set my heart on fire. If thou dost harm that.  child, think not his blood will sink into the barren sand. No! faithful to
the eager hope that now trembles in this indignant heart, 'twill rise to the
common God of nature and humanity, and cry aloud for vengeance on his
accursed destroyer's head.
Piz. Be that peril mine.
Rol. [Throwing himself at hisfeet.] Behold me at thy feet-me, Rolla!
-me, the preserver of thy life!-me, that have never yet bent or bowed
before created man! In humble agony I sue to thee-prostrate I implore
thee-but spare that child, and I will be thy slave.
Piz. Rolla! still art thou free to go-this boy remains with me.
Rol. Then was this sword Heaven's gift, not thine!-[Seizes the CHILD.]
Who moves one step to follow me, dies upon the spot. [Exit with the CHILD.
Piz. Pursue him instantly-but spare his life.-[Exeunt DAVILLA and
ALMAGRO with SOLDIERS.]   With what fury he defends himself!  Ha! he
fells them to the ground-and now —
Re-enter ALMAGRO.
$,        Aim. Three of your brave soldiers are already victims to your command
to spare this madman's life; and if he once gain the thicketPiz. Spare him no longer.-[Exit ALMAGRO.]    Their guns must reach
him-he'll yet escape-holloa to those horse-the Peruvian sees them6       and now he turns among the rocks-then is his retreat cut off.-[RoLLA,crosses the wooden bridge over the cataract, pursued by the SOLDIERS-they
ire at him-a shot strikes him..]  Now!-quick! quick! seize the child!
[ROLLA tears from the rock the tree which supports the bridge, and re.
t                 treats by the background, bearing off the CHILD.




65 I                         PIZARRO.                       [&aC  V
Re-enter ALMAGRO and DAVILLA.
Aim. By hell! he has escaped!-and with the child unhurt.
Dav. No-he bears his death with him. Believe me, I saw him struck
upon the side.
Piz. But the child is saved-Alonzo's child! Oh! the furies of disappointed vengeance!
Aim. Away with the revenge of words-let us to deeds! Forget not we
have acquired the knowledge of the secret pass, which through the rocky
cavern's gloom brings you at once to the stronghold, where are lodged their
women and their treasures.
Piz. Right, Almagro! Swift as thy thought, draw forth a daring and a
chosen band-I will not wait for numbers.  Stay, Almagro! Valverde is
informed Elvira dies to-day?
A m. He is-and one request alone she  -
I'iz. I '11 hear of none.
Aim. The boon is small-'tis but for the noviciate habit which you first
beheld her in-she wishes not to suffer in the gaudy trappings which remind
her of her shame.
Piz. Well, do as th,u wilt-but tell Valverde, at our return, as his life
shall answer it, to let me hear that she is dead.   [Exeunt severally.
SCENE III.-ATALIBA'S Tent.
Enter ATALIBA, followed by CoRA and ALONZO.
Cora. Oh! avoid me not, Ataliba! To whom, but to her king, is the
wretched mother to address her griefs? The gods refuse to hear my prayers!
Did not my Alonzo fight for thee? and will not my sweet boy, if thou 'lt but
restore him to me, one day fight thy battles too 2
A lon. Oh! my suffering love-my poor heart-broken Cora!-thou but
wound'st our sovereign's feeling soul, and not reliev'st thy own.
Cora. Is he our sovereign, and has he not the power to give me back my
child.
Ata. When I reward desert, or can relieve my people, I feel what is the
real glory of a king-when I hear them suffer, and cannot aid them, I mourn
the impotence of all mortal power.
Soldiers. [Without.] Rolla! Rolla! Rolla!
Enter ROLLA, bleeding, with the CHILD, followed by PERUVIAN SOLDIERS.
Rol. Thy child!         [Gives the CHILD into CORA's arms, andfalle.
Cora. Oh, God! there's blood upon him!
Rol. 'Tis my blood, Cora!
Alon. Rolla, thou diest!
Rol. For thee, and Cora.                                     [Dies.
Enter ORANO.
Ora. Treachery has revealed our asylum in the rocks. Even now the foe
assails the peaceful band retired for protection there.
Alon. Lose not a moment! Soldiers, be quick! Your wives and children cry to you. Bear our loved hero's body in the van: 'twill raise the
fury of our men to madness. Now, fell Pizarro! the death of one of us
is near I Away! Be the word of assault, Revenge and Rolla!
[Exeunt.  Charg,




SO. iv.]                     PIZAnO                             5fI?
SCENE IV.-A Recess among the Rocks.
Enter PIZAsRO, ALMAGRO, VALVERDE, and SPANISH SOLDIERS
Pis. Well! if surrounded, we must perish in the centre of them. Where
do Rolla and Alonzo hide their heads I
Enter ALONZO, ORANO, and PERUVIAN WARRIORS..    Alon. Alonzo answers thee, and Alonzo's sword shall speak for Rolla.
Piz. Thou knowest the advantage of thy numbers. Thou darest not singly
face Pizarro.
Alon. Peruvians, stir not a man! Be this contest only ours.
Piz. Spaniards! observe ye the same.-LCharge. They fight. ALONZO'S
shield is broken, and he is beat down.]  Now, traitor, to thy heart!
[At this moment ELTIRA enters, habited as when PIZARRO first beheld
her. PIZARRO, appalled, staggers back. ALONZO renews the fight,
and slays him. Loud shoutsfrom the PERUVIANS.
',Enter ATALIBA.
Ata. My brave Alonzo!                            [Embraces ALONZO.
Aim. Alonzo, we submit. Spare us! we will embark, and leave the
coast.
Val. Elvira will confess I saved her life; she has saved thine.
Alon. Fear not.  You are safe.      [SPANIARDS lay down their arms.
Elv. Valverde speaks the truth; nor could he think to meet me here. An
awful impulse, which my soul could not resist, impelled me hither.
Alon. Noble Elvira! my preserver!     How can I speak what I, Ataliba,
and his rescued country, owe to thee! If amid this grateful nation thou
wouldst remainElv. Alonzo, no! the destination of my future life is fixed. Humbled in
penitence, I will endeavour to atone the guilty errors, which, however
masked by shallow cheerfulness, have long consumed my secret heart.
When, by my sufferings purified and penitence sincere, my soul shall dare
address the Throne of Mercy in behalf of others, for thee, Alonzo, for thy
Cora, and thy child, for thee, thou virtuous monarch, and the innocent race
thou reignest over, shall Elvira's prayers address the God of Nature.-Valverde, you have preserved my life. Cherish humanity, avoid the foul examples thou hast viewed.-Spaniards, returning to your native home, assure
>       your rulers they mistake the road to glory or to power. Tell them that the
ra    pursuits of avarice, conquest, and ambition, never yet made a people happy,
or a nation great.
[Casts a look of agony on the dead body of PIZARRO as she passes, and
exit.  Flourish of trumpets. VALVERDE, ALMAGRO, and SPANISH
A $        SOLDIERS, exeunt, bearing off PIZARRO'S body.
Alon. Ataliba! think not I wish to check the voice of triumph, when
I entreat we first may pay the tribute due to our loved Rolla's memory.
[A solemn march. Procession of PERUVIAN SOLDIERS, bearing ROLLA'S
body on a bier, surrounded by military trophies.   The PRIESTS and
PRIESTESSES attending chant a dirge over the bier. ALONZO and
CORA kneel on either side of it, and kiss ROLLA'S hands in silen
agony.  The curtain slowly descends




SPILOGUE,


WBITTEN BY THE HON. WILLIAM LAMB
SPOKEN BY MRS. JORDAN.
ERE yet suspense has still'd its throbbing four,
Or melancholy wiped the grateful tear,
While e'en the miseries of a sinking state,
A monarch's danger, and a nation's fate,
Command not now your eyes with grief to flow
Lost in a trembling mother's nearer wo;
What moral lay shall poetry rehearse,
Or how shall elocution pour the verse
So sweetly, that its music shall repay
The loved illusion which it drives away?
Mine is the task, to rigid custom due,
To me ungrateful as 'tis harsh to you,
To mar the work the tragic scene has wrought,
To rouse the mind that broods in pensive though!.To scare reflection, which, in absent dreams,
Still lingers musing on the recent themes;
Attention, ere with contemplation tired,
To turn from all that pleased, from all that fired;
To weaken lessons strongly now impress'd,
And chill the interest glowing in the breastMine is the task; and be it mine to spare
The souls that pant, the griefs they see, to share;
Let me with no unhallow'd jest deride
The sigh, that sweet compassion owns with prideThe sigh of comfort, to affliction dear,
That kindness heaves, and virtue loves to hear.
E'en gay Thalia will not now refuse
This gentle homage to her sister-muse.
O ye, who listen to the plaintive strain,
With strange enjoyment, and with rapturous pai,
Who erst have felt the Stranger's lone despair,
And Haller's settled, sad, remorseful care,
Does Rolia's pure affection less excite
The inexpressive anguish of delight?
Do Cora's fears, which beat without control,
With less solicitude engross the soul?
Ah, no! your minds with kindred zeal approve
Maternal feeling, and heroic love.
You must approve: where man exists below,
In temperate climes, or midst drear wastes of sno'w,
Or where the solar fires incessant flame,
Thy laws, all-powerful Nature, are the samno
Vainly the sophist boasts he can explain
The causes of thy universal reign



EPILOGUE.


More vainly would his cold presumptuoas art
Disprove thy general empire o'er the heart:
A voice proclaims thee, that we must believeA voice, that surely speaks not to deceive;
That voice poor Cora heard, and closely press'd
Her darling infant to her fearful breast;
Distracted dared the bloody field to tread,
*             And sought Alonzo through the heaps of dead,
Eager to catch the music of his breath,
Though faltering in the agonies of death,
To touch his lips, though pale and cold, once more,
#             And clasp his bosom, though it stream'd with gore;
That voice too Rolla heard, and, greatly brave,
His Cora's dearest treasure died to save;
Gave to the hopeless parent's arms her child,
Beheld her transports, and, expiring, smiled.
4'                  That voice we hear-oh! be its will obey'd!
'Tis valour's impulse, and 'tis virtue's aidIt prompts to all benevolence admires,
To all that heavenly piety inspires,
To all that praise repeats through lengthea'd years,
'hat honour sanctifies, and time reveres..,o


i








0




v


VERSES
TO THB
MEMORY OF GARRICK.
SPOKEN AS A MONODY, AT THE THEATRE ROYAL IN DRURY LANIB
To the right honourable COUNTESS SPENCER, whose approbation and
esteem were justly considered by MR. GARRICK as the highest panegyric his
*.      talents or conduct could acquire, this imperfect tribute to his memory is, with
great deference, inscribed by her ladyship's most obedient humble servant,
MarcA 25t1, 1779.                    RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN.
IF dying excellence deserves a tear,
If fond remembrance still is cherish'd here,
Can we persist to bid your sorrows flow
For fabled suff'rers and delusive woe
Or with quaint smiles dismiss the plaintive strains
Point the quick jest-indulge the comic veinEre yet to buried Roscius we assign
One kind regret-one tributary line!
i              His fame requires we act a tenderer part:
His memory claims the tear you gave his art!
The general voice, the meed of mournful verse,,             The splendid sorrows that a1 hn'd his hearse,
The throng that mourn'd as their dead favourite pased,
The graced respect that claim'd him to the last,
While Shakespere's image from its hallow'd base
Seem'd to prescribe the grave, and point the place,Nor these,-nor all the sar regrets that flow
From fond fidelity's domestic woe,So much are Garrick's praise-so much his dueAs on this spot-one tear bestow'd by you.
I               Amid the hearts which seek ingenuous fame,
Our toil attempts the most precarious claim I
To him whose mimic pencil wins the prize,
Obedient Fame immortal wreaths supplies:
Whate'er of wonder Reynolds now may raise,
i,            Raphael still boasts contemporary praise:
Each dazzling light and gaudier bloom subdued,
With undiminish'd awe his works are view'd:
E'en Beauty's portrait wears a softer prime,
Touch'd by the tender hand of mellowing Time.
*                                                00




O52          VERSES TO THE MEMORY F0 GARRICK.
The patient Sculptor owns an humbler part,
A ruder toil, and more mechanic art;
Content with slow and timorous stroke to trace
The lingering line, and mould the tardy grace:
But once achieved-though barbarous wreck c'erthrew
The sacred fane, and lay its glories low,
Yet shall the sculptured ruin rise to day,
Graced by defect, and worshipp'd in decay;
Th' enduring record bears the artist's name,
Demands his honours, and asserts his fame.
Superior hopes the Poet's bosom fire;
O proud distinction of the sacred lyre I
Wide as th' inspiring Phoebus darts his ray,
Diffusive splendour gilds his votary's lay.
Whether the song heroic woes rehearse,
With epic grandeur, and the pomp of verse;
Or, fondly gay, with unambitious guile,
Attempt no prize but favouring beauty's smile;
Or bear dejected to the lonely grove
The soft despair of unprevailing love,-                             j
Whate'er the theme-through every age and ciimtl
Congenial passions meet th' according rhyme;
The pride of glory-pity's sigh sincereYouth's earliest blush-and beauty's virgin tear.
Such is their meed-their honours thus secure,
Whose arts yield objects, and whose works endure.
The Actor, only, shrinks from Time's award;
Feeble tradition is his memory's guard;
By whose faint breath his merits must abide,
Unvouch'd by proof-to substance unallied!
E'en matchless Garrick's art, to heav'n resign'd,
No fix'd effect, no model leaves behind!
The grace of action-the adaptei mien,
Faithful as nature to the varied scene;
Th' expressive glance-whose subtle comment draw
Entranced attention, and a mute applause;
Gesture that marks, with force and feeling fraught,
A sense in silence, and a will in thought;                          A
Harmonious speech, whose pure and liquid tone
Gives verse a music, scarce confess'd its own;
As light from gems assumes a brighter ray,
And clothed with orient hues, transcends the day!
Passion's wild break-and frown that awes the sense
And every charm of gentler eloquenceAll perishable! like th' electric fire,
But strike the frame-and as they strike expire;
Incense too pure a bodied flame to bear,
Its fragrance charms the sense, and blends with air.
Where then-while sunk in cold decay he lies,
And pale eclipse for ever veils those eyes —




I ERSES TO THE MEMOBY OF GABRICIL
Where is the blest memorial that ensures
Our Garrick's fame.-whose is the trust — 'Tis youa.
<             And 0! by every charm his art essay'd
To sooth your cares!-by every grief allay'd I
By the hush'd wonder which his accents drew I
By his last parting tear, repaid by you!.             By all those thoughts, which many a distant night
Shall mark his memory with a sad delight I
Still in your hearts' dear record bear his name;
Cherish the keen regret that lifts his fame;
To you it is bequeath'd,-assert the trust,
And to his worth-'tis all you can-be just.
F                     What more is due from sanctifying Time,
To cheerful wit, and many a favour'd rhyme,
O'er his graced urn shall bloom, a deathless wreath,;                   Whose blossom'd sweets shall deck the mask beneath,
For these,-when Sculpture's votive toil shall rear
The due memorial of a loss so dearO loveliest mourner, gentle Muse! be thine
The pleasing woe to guard the laurell'd shrine.
l              As Fancy, oft by Superstition led
i                   To roam the mansions of the sainted dead,
Has view'd, by shadowy eve's unfaithful gloom
A weeping cherub on a martyr's tomb*            So thou, sweet Muse, hang o'er his sculptured bier
With patient woe, that loves the lingering tear;
With thoughts that mourn-nor yet desire relief
I              With meek regret, and fond enduring grief;
*                 With looks that speak-He never shall return I
Chilling thy tender bosom, clasp his urn;
And with soft sighs disperse th' irreverend due
I              Which Time may strew upon his sacred bust
r".


WN'rT N': PIN'vriD ay WILLiAM CLOWES ANSD 580^, STA)n'i   nagS?
AXD CHARING UORO.
















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