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BOHN'S STANDARD LIBRARY. 
 
 SHERIDAN'S DRAMATIC WORKS, 
 
 MEMOIR OF HIS LIFE, 
 
"Of Sheridan, as a dramatist," says an able, but by no means partial critic, 
 " there can be but one opinion. He stands at the head of all comedy since 
 Shakspeare. Tried on the three questions of plot, character, and dialogue, 
 he is superior to all of France, Spain, and England." | 
 
 " "Whatever Sheridan has done, has been, -par excellence, always the best 
 of its kind. He has written the best comedy (School for Scandal), the best 
 drama (the Duenna), the best farce (the Critic), and the best address (Mono- 
 logue on Garrick) ; and, to crown all, delivered the very best oration (the 
 * famous Begum Speech) ever conceived or heard in this country." — Byron. 
 
 ».t .% 
 
I 
 
 
 , 
 

THE 
 
 DRAMATIC WORKS 
 
 RIGHT HONOURABLE 
 
 RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN. 
 
 MEMOIR OF HIS LIFE, 
 BY G. G. S. 
 
 LONDON: 
 HENRY G. BOHN, YORK STREET, COYENT GARDEN. 
 
 1854. 
 

 
 LONDON : 
 PRINTED BY WOODFALL AND KINDER, 
 
 ANGEL COURT, SKINNER STREET. 
 
 Library of Congress 
 
 By transfer i . o.n 
 
 State bepar. tuont. 
 
 KM 
 
' 
 
 , 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 
 The Memoir 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 neces- 
 sarily condensed, and such only recorded as are based upon 
 unimpeachable testimony; the numerous apocryphal anec- 
 dotes 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. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIR. 
 
 Sheridan, his birth, 8. — Sent to Harrow, 9. — First attempts in literature, 10. 
 — Visits Bath, 12. — Elopes with Miss Linley, 19. — Duel with Captain 
 Matthews, 32. — Domestic circumstances, 38. — Comedy of the "Rivals," 
 39. — 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," ib. 
 — 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. — Rock- 
 ingham 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 Propositions, 
 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 ad- 
 dress, 126.— Exultation of his family, 129.— Illness of the King, 130.— 
 Account of the malady from Miss Burney's Memoirs, 131. — The Regency 
 Question, 134. — Views of Sheridan on the subject, 135. — Debates in 
 the House, 136. — His Majesty's restoration to health, 141. — Death of 
 Sheridan's father, ib. — The French Revolution, 143. — Assiduity of 
 
Vlll CONTENTS. 
 
 Sheridan in his parliamentary duties, 145. — Secures his reelection at Staf- 
 ford with difficulty, 147. — Virulence of Horn Tooke, 148. — Burke's op- 
 position 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 con- 
 duct towards the King in his progress to the House, 171. — Second mar- 
 riage of Sheridan, 173. — Pamphlet of Mr. Reeves, ib. — Tom Sheridan, 
 176 Mutiny in the Channel Fleet, 181. — Ireland's Shakspeare for- 
 geries, 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 procrastina- 
 tion, 195. — Opening of the new theatre at Drury Lane, 200. — Lord 
 Byron, ib. — Distresses of Sheridan, 201. — Illness, 203. — Death and fu- 
 neral, 205. 
 
 DRAMATIC WORKS. 
 
 207 
 
 The Rivals, a Comedy 
 
 St. Patrick's Day ; or the Scheming Lieutenant, a Farce . . 288 
 
 The Duenna, a comic opera 310 
 
 The School for Scandal, a Comedy 359 
 
 The Critic; or, a Tragedy Rehearsed, a Drama .... 440 
 
 Trip to Scarborough . . . 483 
 
 Pizarro 521 
 
 Verses to the Memory op Garriok .... .561 
 
 
THE LIFE 
 
 OP 
 
 THE RIGHT HONOURABLE 
 
 RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN. 
 
 Scarcely anything remains at the present hour to attest 
 the superiority of Kiehard Brinsley Sheridan over the great 
 men of the times just passed away, hut 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 perplexi- 
 ties in which he was involved, had changed the character of 
 the man. He has been regarded as the dissipated thought- 
 less 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 
 highly prized in the busy section of the world. 
 
 His life is a romance. Even those who are wont to re- 
 ceive with incredulity the narrative of the biographer, be- 
 lieving him either a panegyrist labouring to exalt the hero 
 who has excited his fancy, or the promulgator of some vision- 
 ary 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 nar- 
 rated by different individuals according to the respective 
 views they entertain of the many events in which, from his 
 
 B 
 
LIFE OF SHEKIDAN. 
 
 position in the world, he was necessarily involved. If genius 
 of the highest order in literature, if the eloquence that en- 
 chants, rivets the attention, and likewise touches the human 
 heart, if the mingling in every question that agitates an em- 
 pire, 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 un- 
 guarded 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 enlight- 
 ened 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 quali- 
 ties of each — he had not the lofty tone and imposing declama- 
 tion 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 sar- 
 i 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 
 

 LIFE OF SHERIDAN. 
 
 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 
 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 fore- 
 most rank amongst the comic writers of the age, when he 
 astonished and delighted the statesmen who surrounded him 
 with 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 in- 
 fluence over the heir apparent to the throne, and were can- 
 vassing the merits of the advice which guided that prince 
 through paths of considerable difficulty, when even his op- 
 ponents were unanimously praising him in the loudest lan- 
 guage for the exhibition of the purest patriotism, and admir- 
 ing 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 establish- 
 ment, 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 enabled 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 
 
4 LIFE OF SHERIDAN. 
 
 tlement, or a new edifice, hence the mind hecame 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 leamt habits that undermined his consti- 
 tution 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 
 of 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 pre- 
 sent embarrassment, or to degrade himself by the vilest cun- 
 ning 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 fear- 
 ful 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 
 life he was an actor who obtained and excited the wonder, if 
 not the admiration of his contemporaries. 
 
 Even the romantic incidents attending upon his private life 
 
LIFE OF SHERIDAN. 
 
 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 
 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 re- 
 marked 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 reck- 
 lessness and sensuality which eventually were remembered, 
 when 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. 
 
 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 Sheri- 
 dan, oblivion — for his sorrows, respect. 
 
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 exami- 
 nation with power of a totally different kind ; the same topic 
 is magnified or diminished according to the respective instru- 
 ment that each holds. Much is to he 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 natu- 
 rally do, he thinks only of the heaven-born minister, he in- 
 sinuates that his opponents were actuated by malevolence, 
 were besotted in ignorance, and were worthy condign punish- 
 ment. His detestation of the French Kevolution was only 
 surpassed by his terror lest parliamentary reform should 
 ever be brought about in England. From so decided a par- 
 tisan 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 
 teacher. 
 
 Moore's life has greater claims to our consideration; al- 
 though 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, render- 
 ing everything it touches more beautiful than nature in her 
 sweet simplicity usually attempts. He sought from the im- 
 mediate 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 the 
 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 natu- 
 rally 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 at- 
 tained. 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 Thomas, 
 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. 
 The modesty with which he has given it, would forbid any 
 attempt 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 ex- 
 pressing 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, 
 
8 LIFE OF SHERIDAN, 
 
 he was not so thoroughly incapable as he has described him 
 to have been ; nor ought the epithets, applied to the gentle- 
 man who fought two duels with Sheridan, to have been given 
 without some inquiiy 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 there- 
 of;" 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 pro- 
 nouncing dictionary, that has, from its first appearance, been 
 generally received as a useful addition to our literature. 
 Although an unsuccessful person on the great ^tage of life, 
 he played his part with much energy, and his name has de- 
 scended 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 ordi- 
 nary 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 Discover" 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 un- 
 suited 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 Oolman 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 re- 
 wards of a hereafter to those who, by their conduct, may de- 
 serve them. 
 
 Amongst other productions of her pen Nourjahad is parti- 
 cularly 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 a 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 
 latter days of his boyhood. She pointed out to Mr. Whyte 
 that in the profession he had undertaken patience was abso- 
 lutely 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 testi- 
 mony, 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. To- 
 gether they laboured upon a farce in three acts, called " Jupi- 
 ter," 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 sup- 
 posed to have remained long on the memory of Sheridan, and 
 to l}ave 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 tbat 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. 11 
 
 reached us; it has heen 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, 
 Aristaenetus, 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 va- 
 riation 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 Aristaenetus 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 composi- 
 tions 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 com- 
 mencement of our career in life. They were compelled to 
 soften many passages which were indelicate in the original y 
 and to suppress others as indecent, the preface to which the 
 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 introduc- 
 tion, not only of language somewhat too glowing, but of liber- 
 tinism totally uncalled for in a descriptive pastoral. The 
 
12 LIFE OF SHERIDAN. 
 
 Tenth Epistle has some striking passages ; but with every 
 wish 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, 
 " We 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 j r oung family 
 to Bath, there to reside whilst he was fulfilling his theatrical 
 engagements elsewhere. No place could have been more 9 
 unfortunately selected for the debut in life of a young man; I 
 for whatever may have been the charm of society there, no- 
 thing could by possibility be more destructive to habits of I 
 industry and the exercise of the higher qualities of the mind 
 and the heart, than the unvarying monotony of indolence and j 
 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 fur- 
 nished young Sheridan with sketches of those characters j 
 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 reputa- 
 tion," went there to seek relief from ennui. To furnish re- 
 lief 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 ru- 
 ling passion. Eveiy 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'Arbl ay, 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 ex- 
 cluding 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 
 these Olympic Games retired and selected the brightest com- 
 position, 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 appear- 
 ance of an ordinary woman in very common life with fine 
 clothes on. Her manners were bustling, her air mock im- 
 portant, 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, 
 When 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, 
 The thought of Sylvio's death, 
 That he who only breath 'd for you, 
 Must yield that faithful breath? 
 
14 LIFE OF SHERIDAN. 
 
 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 
 lines 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 
 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. 
 ***** * 
 
 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 miss'd 
 
 her, 
 Or pretty Peg Runt, with her tight little sister," &c.&c. 
 
LIFE OF SHEEIDAN. 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 chef- 
 d'ceuvres 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 ama- 
 teurs of high consideration. There wa.s 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 gen- 
 tlemen performers whose names and faces I never knew; 
 such was the never ceasing battling and noise of the card 
 
16 LIFE OF SHEEIDAN. 
 
 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 com- 
 posers as Rauzzini, Jackson, the Linleys, and Dr. Harring- 
 ton, 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 trea- 
 sures, 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 diffi- 
 cult, 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 singu- 
 lar 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 acknow- 
 ledged. As a public singer, she, was naturally exposed to al- 
 lurements and temptations, and was very probably obliged to 
 listen to oilers which, in her heart, she might disdain. The 
 catalogue of her lovers is somewhat long. Halhed, the poetic 
 partner of Sheridan, was not only one, but even Sheridan's 
 own brother Charles entertained a passion for her. Norris 
 
 : 
 
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 en- 
 chanted with this beautiful girl, to whom the title of the di- 
 vine 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 adven- 
 ture. 
 
 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 heart — 
 and there seems, from her own confession, to have been 
 some — Richard Brinsley Sheridan had silently, and unsus- 
 piciously, 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 un- 
 derstand, 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 con- 
 stant prattle. Any thing connected with an individual so 
 gifted as Miss Linley, naturally excited the peculiarly inqui- 
 sitive 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 appe- 
 tites were richly tickled by a series of occurrences that in- 
 volved Miss Linley, Sheridan, and Mr. Matthews, a gentle- 
 man of fortune, as principals; and as accessories, the mas- 
 ter of ceremonies, Capt. Wade, Capt. Paumier, and several 
 men moving in the highest circles ; and they were commented 
 
 c 
 
18 LIFE OF SHEEIDAN. 
 
 on in the " Bath Herald," conducted by Meyler, a man of con- 
 siderable ability, and in the " Bath Chronicle" under the di- 
 rection of Richard Crutwell. 
 
 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 af- 
 forded. He was not altogether, what Leigh Hunt has desig- 
 nated him, a married blackguard, but a man of elegant ex- 
 terior, 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 intel- 
 lectual power ; and had he bestowed as much time on the cul- 
 tivation 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 pe- 
 riod that every female who came prominently before the pub- 
 lic 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 
 ■Action, hut afterwards with indignation and with expres- 
 sions of abhorrence. In public he was her constant shadow, 
 and appeared determined to prevent any other man from ap- 
 proaching her too nearly, and tins it was said arose from a 
 

 LIFE OF SHERTDAN. 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 pre- 
 sents, 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 re- 
 spected 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 conse- 
 quence ; 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 
 reports which must, I dare say, have prejudiced my dear 
 friend against me, how shall I endeavour to vindicate a con- 
 duct 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 dis- 
 traction 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 uneasi- 
 ness ; but in that you, as well as many others, have been de- 
 ceived. 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 2 
 
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 friend- 
 ship. 
 
 " At the age of twelve years, I was brought from the coun- 
 try, 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 sur- 
 rounded 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 peo- 
 ple 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, limes my conscience would upbraid me, yet by his 
 respectful behaviour, liis 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 SHEKIDAN. 21 
 
 This was my first fault ; lie 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 par- 
 ticular 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 in- 
 formed 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 pro- 
 perly, 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 think 
 seriously of such a child. Thus was I again led into tempta- 
 tion, 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- 
 
22 LIFE OF SHEEIDAN. 
 
 fused them all. So far had he gained my love, that I re- 
 solved 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 your- 
 self 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 con- 
 sented 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 con- 
 duct, 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 in- 
 sisted that I should write, and desire to see him again that 
 evening. I did so, and my mother went in my place. You 
 mav imagine ho 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 SHEK1DAN. S3 
 
 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 un- 
 doubted 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 in- 
 tended 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, T did not avoid him so much 
 as I certainly ought. I wished, likewise, by turning my at- 
 tention 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 SHERIDAN. 
 
 
 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 ; hut 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 bim 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 cer- 
 tainly 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 1 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 T 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 pood spirits, laughing at my distress, and exulting in 
 the success of his scheme. This once more raised my re- 
 
LIFE OF SHEE1DAN. 25 
 
 sentment, and I was resolved to encourage Mr. K ; 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 re- 
 turned 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 cir- 
 cumstances 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 think- 
 ing 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 
 
26 LIFE OF SHERIDAN. 
 
 Matthews was equally wretched ; that we had loved one an- 
 other for these some years, and that she was sure it would be 
 my death. My father seemed sometimes to pity and some- 
 times 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 con- 
 fessed 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 argu- 
 ments, wherein he convinced me of the folly, if not wicked- 
 ness, 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 SHEKIDAN. 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 argu- 
 ments, 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. 
 Mm again ; as he had engaged him in the affair, he was re- 
 solved 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 some- 
 times, 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 hav- 
 ing the wished effect, produced another still more alarming ; 
 in this he flung off the tender behaviour for which I al- 
 
28 LIFE OF SHERIDAN. 
 
 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 hy 
 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 happi- 
 ness ; and if I would indulge him with ten minutes' conver- 
 sation, 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 re- 
 solving 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 T knew she had for the tooth-ache; I found 
 a smnll 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 
 
LTFE OF SHERTDAN. 29 
 
 him what I intended to do, and begged him to take charge of 
 the letters. He used every argument in the world to dis- 
 suade 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. Harring- 
 ton 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 im- 
 possible ; 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 
 
30 I'TFP; OF SHEKIDAN. 
 
 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 suffi- 
 ciently revenge himself for all the trouhle I had given him ; 
 but if I changed my mind, and would not see him, he was re- 
 solved 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 Eng- 
 land, 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 t 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 resolu- 
 tion; but, on the other hand, so many circumstances con- 
 curred 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 me 
 half fainting into one, and my trunks into the other, I wa3 
 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 morn- 
 ing. 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 schoolfel- 
 low, 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. LlNLEY." 
 
 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 him- 
 self 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 explana- 
 tion with Sheridan, it was resolved that his daughter should 
 fulfil her engagement to him, and they returned together to 
 England. 
 
38 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, and that of 
 a young lady innocent as far as relates to him or to his know- 
 ledge ; " 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 some- 
 what unseasonably, and at the point of the sword obtained an 
 apology. Be the circumstances what they may, the partizans 
 Oi 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 
 dud was determined on, according to Moore's version of the 
 (ale, in consequence of the coolness with which Matthews found 
 himself received in Wales, and the interference of a Mr. Bar- 
 nett, whose duelling propensities were to be gratified, whilst 
 the mortification of his principal was to be thus relieved; but 
 
LIFE OF SHEKTDAN. 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 Sheridan'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. Bamett* produced a paper to me, written 
 by Mr. Matthews, containing an account of our former meet- 
 ings 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, I 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 in 
 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 ob- 
 served 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. 
 
34 LIFE OF SHERIDAN. 
 
 seemingly convenient place: Mr. Matthews objected to the 
 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 observ- 
 ation of a person who seemed to watch us. Mr. Ewart ob- 
 served 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 en- 
 gaged 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 ; 
 Mr. Ewart and I called to yon, and followed. We returned 
 to the Hercules' Pillars, and went from thence, by agree- 
 ment, 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. 1 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. Ton ran in and caught hold of ray arm, exclaim- 
 ing. ' 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, lie has begged his life, and now 
 la as end of it;' and on Mr. Ewart's saying that when 
 Lis sword was in uiv power, as I attempted no more, yon 
 should not have inlerf red, you replied that you were wrong, 
 bui that youhad done it hastily and to prevent mischief — or 
 words to thai effect Mr Matthews then hinted that I was 
 rather obliged to vmir 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 SHEBIDAN. 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 y 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 indig- 
 nity of breaking his sword, (which he had brought upon him- 
 self,) 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 can- 
 celled all obligations, &c, &o. 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 after- 
 wards 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 lonser owed Mr. Mat- 
 
 d 2 
 
36 LIFE OF SHEKLDAN. 
 
 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 con- 
 versation 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 give my reasons for doubting your having 
 authenticated this paper. 
 
 " 1. Because T think it full of falsehood and misrepresent- 
 ation, 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. 
 
 "31 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 writ- 
 ing) xiper. Mr. Knight's evidence is annexed to the last, 
 which contains chiefly a copy of our first proposed advertise- 
 ments, 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 lie knew nothing about, nor should 
 ever make the least use of. 
 

 LIFE OF SHEEIDAN. 87 
 
 " 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. Sheeidan." 
 
 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, wouM again rush in upon him, and that an 
 ungentlemanly scuffle would be the consequence ; he was, how- 
 ever, 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 Chro- 
 nicle" 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 fa- 
 vourite was young Sheridan. The letter of Mr. Barnett, the 
 second of Matthews, descriptive of the scene, was not so satis- 
 factory, however, to this hero of the drama as might be ex- 
 pected; 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 es- 
 sentially 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 
 
88 LIFE OF SHERIDAN. 
 
 lover of practical jokes, always spoke of the duel as a speci- 
 men 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 appoint- 
 ment ; 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 Pau- 
 mier taken him there. He found Sheridan in a high state of 
 excitement from potations deep. The duel soon commenced, 
 an£, 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 con- 
 versation and of curiosity : thus his first step in life led to no- 
 toriety, aud in the minds of many to reputation, which he for- 
 tunately was capable of maintaining. 
 
 Immediately after the public announcement of their mar- 
 riage, the young couple lived for a short time in retirement 
 at Bast Bur&ham, 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 
 Inge audiences, by others, the delicacy of feeling on the part 
 of yo^ng Sheridan. The reputation which her talents had 
 acquired, ili«' curiosity which her adventures had excited, led 
 one bo 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, hat for several seasons ; he- 
 sides which, it was averaged that a large sum would be pro- 
 duced 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 appro- 
 bation, 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 happi- 
 ness, 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 appro- 
 bation, has outlived the greater number ef its successors. 
 
 The " Rivals" was first performed at Covent Garden, the 
 17th of January, 1775, and on that eventful night was pro- 
 claimed a failure. It was scarcely borne with, and all Sheri- 
 dan's fond anticipations were nearly overthrown. The unfa- 
 vourable reception was attributed to its being double the length 
 of any acting comedy; to Sir Lucius "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 follow- 
 ing May. It, however, wanted any great claim to favour, and 
 must be considered rather as a piece written for a particular 
 occasion, than as a dramatic effort. Not so with the "Rivals; " 
 
40 LIFE 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 Acres ; 
 Lewis, Falkland ; and Mrs. Green, Mrs. Malaprop ; a pro- 
 logue written by Sheridan was spoken by Woodward and 
 Quick, under the characters of a Sergeant-at-Law and an At- 
 torney ; 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 de- 
 livered 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 be- 
 long 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 becom- 
 ing offensive. The epilogue was also spoken by Mrs. Bulk- 
 ley, and deserves to be preserved as one of those lively and 
 clever specimens of a style in which Sheridan would have ex- 
 celled, had he bestowed some portion of time on its cultiva- 
 tion. It is an epigrammatic, terse, and well turned compli- 
 ment 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 ex- 
 ists but that Sheridan himself composed it; he had the grati- 
 fication to find his playgradually grow in public estimation, 
 and it was received in the provinces with great enthusiasm. 
 
LIFE OF SHERIDAN. 41 
 
 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 
 comic performer, and, as acting manager, bestowed great pains 
 upon it. At Bristol, Mrs. Canning was much admired in 
 Julia. During the popularity of the " Rivals," Sheridan's fa- 
 ther, who had for some years been estranged from Brinsley, 
 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 oppo- 
 site 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, how- 
 ever 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 coach- 
 man, 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 mis- 
 placed; 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 be- 
 comes 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 OF SHERIDAN. 
 
 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 epi- 
 taphs," as the She Dragon whom Sheridan has given to the 
 world. We must confess we find it much more difficult to 
 discover the histoiy 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 ob- 
 jected 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 castiga- 
 tion. 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 Qg£ of twenty-three, a, comedy remarkable for its wit, 
 its ingenuity, and its knowledge of the world, must be the re- 
 sult 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 aspe- 
 rity 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 ex- 
 posure of their follies, and the same holds good with his more 
 matured £omedy, " 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 pe- 
 culiarities 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 or- 
 dinary 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 quali- 
 ties quite at variance. The Irish fortune hunter, the ro- 
 mantic 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 agree- 
 able impression upon the mind, and give us rational amuse- 
 ment 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 perform- 
 ance. 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. In- 
 deed, independently of the conversation, which is of no ordi- 
 nary 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 SHEKIDAN. 4:5 
 
 lover thought only of the wealth he was to obtain, and to him 
 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 dia- 
 logue be listened to with delight, its airs refresh the memo- 
 ries 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 con- 
 clusion. 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 re- 
 miniscences 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 pre- 
 served, of all the parties interested in the success of the 
 
46 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-in- 
 law, 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 hoy 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 cele- 
 brated 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 ex- 
 press 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, 
 Louisn, 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, ;;ml awaken the gentlest emotions. Nor are the 
 livelier Bongs to be passed over, for they are animated and full 
 of joyous feelings. 
 
 The " Duenna," like the " Rivals," "was produced at Covent 
 (i;i'il n. We find, howevt r, thai Mr. Linley was most anxious 
 to direct the attention of Garricfe to his son-in-law, and to pre- 
 ■ the way for his being amongst those Who offered their 
 incense at tie sha which he presided; and he seems 
 
 gradually to bays pawed Ihe road for his success at Drury 
 Lace Theatre. There is a letter, amongst the mass of those 
 
LIFE OF SHEKIDAN. 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. Gar- 
 rick, that he is not connected with Drury Lane House, for 
 though I believe they are now on very good terms, yet Sheri- 
 dan thinks that he has been so honourably treated by Mr. 
 Harris, that he ought not to keep any thing that he has writ- 
 ten 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 Ins 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 en- 
 gaged to produce at Covent Garden this season. I have al- 
 ready 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 be 
 prevailed upon to let his wife sing, and indeed at present she 
 is incapable, and nature will not permit me to be indifferent 
 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 
 
48 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, wher- 
 ever 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, with- 
 out 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 pre- 
 vent 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 undoubt- 
 edly 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, to- 
 gether 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. 49 
 
 courted and nattered 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. Eauzzini 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 furore had spread to 
 London, and his acting, his singing, and his compositions were 
 at once fashionable. Garrick 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 per- 
 fectly 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, con- 
 sisting of the Messiah, was given to the public, from which 
 Eauzzini 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. When- 
 ever 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 en- 
 thusiastic 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 determina- 
 tion appeared somewhat sudden, and produced considerable 
 
50 LIFE OF SHEEIDAN 
 
 surprise. When it was whispered who the individual was 
 into whose guidance he was likely to commit the manage- 
 ment, much conversation was naturally excited. Although 
 it was known that Garrick had always most favourably ex- 
 pressed 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 consider- 
 able animosity against him, and had shown a degree of haughti- 
 ness in his demeanour towards him, that was likely to alienate 
 the kind feelings which actuated Garrick, who when, accord- 
 ing 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 w r as 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 
 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 ap- 
 plicants, who no sooner heard of the probable change than 
 they stood forward in hopes of becoming his successor. Col- 
 umn would have willingly been the purchaser, hut was de- 
 sirous of being the sole proprietor, and as this could not be 
 arranged, he abandoned a negotiation which he had com- 
 menced. Most probably .Sheridan would not have been hig 
 
LIFE OF SHERIDAN. 51 
 
 successor, had not G-arrick anticipated from the kind man- 
 ner, 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 pub- 
 lished 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 Grarrick he experienced the most generous considera- 
 tion ; 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 cun- 
 ning, 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 fami- 
 lies. His first commencement as a manager was not of that 
 
 e 2 
 
52 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 them- 
 selves 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 ver- 
 sion 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 for- 
 ward. There was no doubt from the earliest moment that it 
 was listened to, that it was one of those brilliant and captivat- 
 ing 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 per- 
 formance 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 tho 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 SHF.MDAN. 53 
 
 large portion of the manuscripts which were originally drawn 
 up by the author. He has shewn us how gradually, from two 
 distinct plays, he was led to produce a perfect one, and to in- 
 corporate in that the leading ideas, which he had intended to 
 work up into two separate pieces. It altogether forms a lite- 
 rary curiosity, and exhibits to us by what repeated efforts, by 
 what lengthened process an author gradually weaves one beau- 
 tiful 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 necessaiy 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, high- 
 minded, disappointed Sir Peter Teazle ; of Plausible into 
 Joseph Surface ; of a silly country girl, ill-bred, and imperti- 
 nent, into the lively, elegant, fashionable, but thoughtless 
 Lady Teazle, is interesting amongst the curiosities of litera- 
 ture, 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 memo- 
 randum 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 
 defects, so none can bear the inquisitive examination of those 
 who trace literary history for perfection; Minerva springs 
 
54 LIFE OF SHERIDAN. 
 
 armed from the head of no one but Jupiter. The only ad- 
 vantage 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 produc- 
 tions, 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 drama- 
 tis person® of the latter : — 
 
 Sir Rowland Harpur. Old Teazle. 
 
 Plausible. 
 
 Capt. H. Plausible. Mrs. Teazle 
 
 Freeman. Maria. 
 
 and the following w r as 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 — Tho- 
 mas, born February 1-2; Jane, born Jan. 0; so they go on 
 to the number of live. However, by death I stand credited 
 but by one. Well, Margery, rest her soul ! was a queer crea- 
 tine; when she was gone, I fell awkward at first, and being 
 sensible thai wishes availed nothing, I often wished for her 
 return. For ten years more 1 kept my senses and lived 
 single. Oh, blockhead, dolt Solomon ! Within this twelve- 
 month thou arl married again — married to a woman thirty 
 yean younger than thyself; a fashionable woman. Yet I 
 took her v\itb canti bad 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 mj 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 basti- 
 nadoes ! 
 
 Jarv. ' Paid for my lady's own nosegays, 50L' 
 
 " Teaz. Fifty pounds for flowers ! enough to turn the Pan- 
 theon into a green-house, and give a Fete Champetre at 
 Christmas. 
 
 " 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, how 
 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 do 
 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. 
 
 " Jnrv. {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 ani- 
 mal ? 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. Ptepairing china that he breaks — and I am sure 
 no monkey breaks less. 
 
 " Jarv. ' Paid Mr. Warren for perfumes — milk of roses, 
 30L' 
 
 " 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 for- 
 give 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 have two footmen to your chair, and a pair 
 
LIFE OF SHERIDAN. 57 
 
 of white dogs in a phaeton ; you forget when you used to ride 
 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? 
 
 11 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 deter- 
 mined to marry the first fool I should meet with 
 
 you made me a wife, for which I am much obliged to you, and 
 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 settle- 
 ment 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 
 
58 LIFE OF SHEKIDAN. 
 
 smartest old bachelor she ever saw — a billet-doux engrossed 
 on buckram !!!!!! 
 
 S|» 3gC Sf* i|^ «|C qC 9|* «|C ifi 
 
 Let girls take my advice and never many 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 pro- 
 mised me to call this morning. I have a hard game to play 
 here, to pursue my designs on Maria. I have brought my- 
 self 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 w T orld, has hurt him in the estimation of all 
 his graver friends. I have profited by his errors, and con- 
 trived 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 cur- 
 mudgeon 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 bis 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 yon lite man who will ever be attached to you. 
 But you must not let matters conic 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. 59 
 
 " 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. 
 
60 LIFE OF SHERIDAN. 
 
 11 Lady T. So then you would have me sin in my own de- 
 fence, and part with my virtue to preserve my reputation. 
 " Young P. Exactly so, upon my credit, ma'am." 
 
 $ # $ H* # * 
 
 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. 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 Shep- 
 herd of Kamsgate, had a Nova Scotia sheep that produced 
 her twins.' — 'What! ' cries the old deaf dowager Lady Bowl- 
 well, ■ has Miss Shepherd of Kamsgate been brought to-bed 
 of twins?' This mistake, as you may suppose, set the com- 
 pany 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 under- 
 stood by the company, and, in every circle, many believed, 
 that Miss Shepherd of Kamsgate 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 farm- 
 house where the babes were put out to nurse." 
 
 The production of the " School for Scandal" was accom- 
 panied 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 Eng- 
 lish 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 pre- 
 ceded him, and has cleverly shunned the errors into which they 
 were usually bet raved. The dread of ridicule taught him to 
 eschew those holder flights in which they indulged, and he 
 
and 
 
 LIFE OF SHERIDAN. 61 
 
 has contrived to surround the object of his admiration with 
 those attributes, which, even if they be painted in some- 
 what 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 ; 
 
 Proud of your smiles, once lavishly hestowed, 
 
 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 Mood — 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 pro- 
 vincial 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 com- 
 mon 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 pro- 
 nounced 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 
 Eidgway of Piccadilly for the purchase of the copyright, but 
 when he was urged to furnish the manuscript, his answer was, 
 
62 LIFE 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 w T hich Sheridan bad 
 bestowed for a considerable length of time, the " School for 
 Scandal" was announced for representation before the actors 
 bad 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. Hop- 
 kins." 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 " Biogra- 
 phia 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 DruryLane by a young lady, 
 who afterwards died of a pectoral disease ; he observes that 
 ibis is probably mere scandal, founded on envy of the great 
 Buccess of the piece. Dr. Watkins has somewhat laboriously 
 expatiated on this report, and drawn upon himself the severe 
 (•insure of Moore, wLo was enabled to detect the falsehood, 
 and bo show how utterly unfounded was the stupid rumour; 
 not conteut with borrowing tin's idea from Isaac Reed, and 
 
LIFE OF SHERIDAN. 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 ex- 
 hibiting 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 perform- 
 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 col- 
 lecting 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 chil- 
 dren screamed with delight, but the less easily pleased fretful 
 author pinched them, exclaiming, 41 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." 
 
 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. 
 He had the damned disinheriting countenance, like the 
 ladies and gentlemen on the walls, he never moved a muscle." 
 
64 LIFE OF SHERIDAN. 
 
 " Devilish ungrateful that," said Sheridan, "for I sat out his 
 tragedy last week, and laughed from beginning to end." Cum- 
 berland, 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 and 
 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 miscel- 
 laneous and striking picture of the contending passions of 
 love, hatred, pity, madness, rage, jealousy, remorse and 
 anger, than this unparalleled performance presents to the ad- 
 miration of the enraptured spectator. Mr. Cumberland has 
 been represented, perhaps unjustly, as particularly jealous of 
 the fame of his cotemporaries, but we are 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- 
 sented at Drury Lane, by Cumberland, met with a decided 
 refusal ; and the newspapers seemed willing to support the 
 disappointed author. Criticisms, ill-natured, were hurled 
 against the "School for Scandal," and comparisons were 
 drawn 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 ex- 
 hibited 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 scandal- 
 ous college with the plot of the play, the imitation of Field- 
 ing'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 see- 
 ing 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 mortifi- 
 cations. 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 
 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 anxi- 
 ous 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 
 
66 LIFE OF SHERIDAN. 
 
 every one. We are happy in the conclusion that every thing 
 that annoyed the differeut 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 beauti- 
 ful 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 every- 
 body 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 
 con fori n it y 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, ex- 
 presses his feelings much in the same way. It has, however, 
 1m i 11 said that Sheridan was himself never satisfied; he re- 
 quested permission to read the part over to Matthews, with 
 whose delineation he expressed himself by no means pleased. 
 The personation of Lady Teazle lias 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 tQ the task, yel the fastidious lover of good acting is 
 v«iy apt to require a lady of personal attractions, of good 
 judgment, and of elegant manners, and he repudiates the 
 flippant attempts winch have occasionally been made to 
 introduce her as a being made up of levity, imprudence, 
 and assumption, There is to befoundin " Blackwood's Maga- 
 
LIFE OF SHEEIDAN. 67 
 
 zine" for the year 1826, a remarkably well written essay, V 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 per- 
 formance 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 # doe& 
 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 singu- 
 larly 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 
 t 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 
 I out of Grosvenor Square ; " " then the charming air with which 
 she contradicts him ; " the great satisfaction he has in quarrel- 
 ling with her, as " she never appears to such advantage, as when 
 she is doing every thing in her power to plague him ; " his 
 I sarcasms on having made her " a woman of fashion, her elegant 
 I expenses, her luxuries ; " and after the exposure in Joseph 
 Surface's library, the spontaneous burst of admiration with 
 which he rashes to a reconciliation, on seeing her in another 
 room, " She looks this way — what a remarkably elegant turn 
 
 f 2 
 
68 LIFE OF SHERTDAN. 
 
 of the head she has — Rowley, 1 11 go to her," are all evidences 
 that Bhe possessed those charms which belong only to a supe- 
 rior 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 convic- 
 tion 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 j 
 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 fea- 
 tures 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 differ- 
 ences. There will always be uxorious husbands, confiding 
 women, irascible fathers, careless spendthrifts, romantic girls, 
 hypocrites, and slanderers ; such characters, modified by cir- 
 cumstances, and by national habits, will exist in every age and 
 in every clime. He has not slightly sketched these charac- 
 ters, 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 ex- 
 plain the position of each actor in the drama, and we are 
 gradually led on to take a warm interest in the 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 flatter- 
 ing 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 ex- 
 cite our mirth and our good feeling, and to dispel the gloom 
 which the realities of life are too often calculated to collect. 
 
 In the same volume. of the " Edinburgh Review," which con- 
 tains an examination into the merits of Moore as the biogra- 
 pher of Sheridan, there is an essay on the works of Machia- 
 velli, 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 it 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 vigor- 
 ous 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 
 
70 LIFE OF SHERIDAN. 
 
 made all their characters in their own likeness. We must 
 confess that we cannot assent to the axiom laid down that the 
 real object of the drama is the exhibition of the human cha- 
 racter. 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 Shakspeares 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 dis- 
 quisitions. In the earlier stages of society nature had her 
 freshness yet unaltered, and tliose 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 chief 
 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 genera- 
 tion 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 
 Batumi gaiety, and its enticing sensuality, we still can turn 
 with redoubled pleasure to the epigrammatic points, the spark- 
 ling 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. 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 iicres, 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 pro- 
 duced, 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 depart- 
 ment, which was, however, somewhat limited. He had dis- 
 tinguished 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 
 for 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 un- 
 dertake 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, senten- 
 tious 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 dis- 
 appointed, 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 ad- 
 dress, written by Cumberland, of which the following lines 
 arc a specimen : — 
 
 " Patrons, farewell ! 
 Though you still kindly my defects would spare. 
 Constant indulgence who would wish to bear'] 
 AYho 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, 
 J!ui pity sinks the man whom it protects. 
 Your fathers had my strength, my only claim 
 Was zeal; their favour was my only fame." 
 
 Amid8l shouts of applause the venerable old man made his 
 bow, ami retired to the green room, where an affectionate 
 compliment awaited him from his dramatic brethren, in tho 
 
LIFE OF SHERIDAN 73 
 
 shape of a handsome silver cup, with an engraved motto from 
 " Henry the Fifth," happily adapted to the occasion : — 
 
 " If he be not fellow with the best king, 
 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 feel- 
 ings, 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 compli- 
 ments 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 mo- 
 ment, 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 un- 
 approachable 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 
 paint. His performance on the stage bore a very strong simi- 
 larity to that he was famous for in private life ; he was plausi- 
 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 hand- 
 kerchief 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 Well- 
 close 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. He therefore 
 changed his plau, 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 be- 
 tween the two men of address — Sheridan and Palmer — was, 
 as Boaden narrates it, expected to produce something remark- 
 able. 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 
 hands clasped together, and his whole air exactly that of 
 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 for- 
 got 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 de- 
 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 b} r a more 
 modern actor of considerable talent, who not only persuaded 
 tin; 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 ac- 
 tually paid (hem 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. 75 
 
 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 ex- 
 pected 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 how- 
 ever, 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 na- 
 tured 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 dress- 
 ing 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 tooth- 
 ache at last presented itself to his mind. His face was im 
 mediately swollen ; a handkerchief tied to his jaw, and la- 
 mentable groans issued from the agonized sufferer. Sheridan 
 arrived ; he gazed with pity and with sympathy upon the ad- 
 mirable 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 was injuring 
 
76 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 en- 
 gagement 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 en- 
 gaged 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 con- 
 gratulated 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 la- 
 menting very much that he did not know that it was their 
 wish that it should be laid before them, entreated their indul- 
 gence whilst he went home, which was but a short distance, for 
 the important document. After some discussion this was as- 
 sented to ; Palmer's gratitude for this indulgence knew no 
 bounds, he called upon heaven to bless them for their kind- 
 ness, laving his hand as usual upon that part of the chest 
 whore ho supposed he had a heart, respectfully bowed, and 
 departed upon his errand. The magistrates waited for a con- 
 siderable 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 trying to open the 
 dour, in 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 thoy wore fairly locked in; for Mr. 
 
LIFE OF SHERIDAN. 77 
 
 Palmer, fully aware that there was no such document in exist- 
 ence, and fearing that the magistrates would, as they had the 
 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 representa- 
 tive 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 al- 
 ways 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 " Rosciad," 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 educa- 
 tion, and had completed his studies with much credit to him- 
 self 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, 
 
78 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 quali- 
 fied 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 acquire- 
 ments 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 accesso- 
 ries of dress, served to distinguish the class ; dancing a mi- 
 nuet, fencing, and fashionable raillery were amongst the in- 
 dispensable 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 de- 
 gree, and he gave to Charles Surface all that finish for which 
 he was remarkable. He had acquired the sobriquet of Gen- 
 tleman 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 ad- 
 mirers of Smith, that the pit was for the occasion converted 
 into boxes, but there was not room for the accommodation of 
 all ; lie took his farewell, he said, after having served thirty- 
 five 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 dis- 
 tinct from that of the day in which the " School for Scandal" 
 was produced, that we cannot attempt to picture what then 
 fascinated the audience, hut the opinion of the playgoers of 
 Hie day was, thai, " the Charles of the School for Scandal 
 died with Smith;" but thai for this "we are to blame the al- 
 teration of our drtsr., and the consequent familiarity of our 
 manners.' 1 In a subsequent year he once again appeared, when 
 his old friend King bade farewell to thestage; he was then 
 living in eetirement, surrounded by all the comforts of life; 
 
LIFE OF SHERIDAN. 79 
 
 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 gentle- 
 man 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 oc- 
 casion. 
 
 " 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 slan- 
 der, 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 compla- 
 cent 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 per- 
 fect 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 be 
 made acquainted with the wants of the concern, and a dialogue 
 between Prompter and Carpenter occurs, during which the 
 following expressions were used 
 
80 LIFE OF SHERIDAN. 
 
 " Carpenter. We want a new scaffold for the Surrender of 
 Calais. 
 
 " Prompter. Ah! where shall we get such an other 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 Carpen- 
 ter. 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 laugh- 
 ter, 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 clay 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 imperti- 
 nent volubility of Dodd ; youth and age each had their privi- 
 leged 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 ill- 
 nature. 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 
 villimoiis fancies without that force and vigour which would 
 arise from a mutual good understanding. The two characters 
 
LIFE OF SHEKIDAN. 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 em- 
 ployed 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 OE 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 had 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 remain- 
 der 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" to- 
 morrow 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 unmis- 
 takeable feature. Sheridan lfad occasionally to pay for this 
 heedlessness, and under the name of gratuity, or tbe expres- 
 sion 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 
 

 LIFE OF SHEEIDAN. 83 
 
 is difficult to imagine. Tate Wilkinson has rescued him 
 from the discredit of the authorship, and, therefore, it is un- 
 necessary 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 habitues 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 pre- 
 paring themselves for an outbreak against their newly estab- 
 lished 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 con- 
 comitant events, together with the acting of Kemble, of Mrs. 
 Siddons, of Mrs. Jordan, gave a popularity to it which pro- 
 bably 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 ex- 
 hibition 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 merri- 
 
 g2 
 
84 LIFE OF SHEEIDAN. 
 
 ment are called forth by every scene of a burlesque which has 
 neither plot, nor character, nor moral to develop The 
 audience troubles itself not for a single instant to compre- 
 hend 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 can- 
 not be the slightest doubt, and that Sheridan hit his pecu- 
 liarities off in the happiest manner is equally true. There is a 
 letter from Cumberland in the Garrick correspondence tender- 
 ing a piece, probably the " Battle of Hastings," which had 
 been rejected at Covent Garden, so much like what Sir Fret- 
 ful would have written, that it is enough to stamp the simi- 
 litude of the two ; there is another from him to Garrick com- 
 plaining 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 
 bark 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 the 
 success of any other dramatist, and his inveterate dislike to 
 Sheridan, ace sufficient grounds for his being hold up to ridi- 
 cule. 
 
LIFE OF SHEEIDAN, 85 
 
 Vaughan was the person portrayed under the name of 
 Bangle, he was always busied in the progress of the dramatic 
 world, and exceedingly anxious to he considered as possessing 
 great power with the press and with managers. He had oc- 
 cupied himself about the Richmond Theatre, and had written 
 some letters in the " Morning Post." He was fairly character- 
 ized as a theatrical Quidnunc, and a mock Mecaenas. Colman 
 had launched some shafts of ridicule against him in a perio- 
 dical 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 them- 
 selves public property, their talents were never called in ques- 
 tion ; 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 of- 
 fences, and has served as an example to those who would 
 thrust themselves impertinently forward without duly regard- 
 ing the claims of others.. 
 
 Some have supposed that there are sundry sly hits at 
 Woodfall, who was the theatrical critic in the " Morning Chro- 
 nicle," to which allusion is made, but the well-known inde- 
 pendence 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 straight- 
 forward 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 he- 
 roine was found to be forestalled in Tilburina, and vain was 
 
86 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 I 
 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 Til- 
 burina, was hailed with great rapture ; every one, in a mo- 
 ment, 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 quar- 
 ter of a century. Her entrance in white satin, stark mad, ac- 
 cording 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 ad- 
 mirable 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 instanta- 
 neously struck off on that occasion. Mr. Waldron, as Sir 
 Christopher Hatton, was more popular in that short and in- 
 significant character than in any that he performed. It was 
 said by Sheridan, that he made more points by his toes than 
 by bis brains. The "Critic" loses nothing of its value by 
 frequent repetition. Farren has in modern times been re- 
 ceived 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 ner- 
 vous ; Mr. Linlcy and Dr. Ford were in no enviable state — 
 they 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 SHEBIDAN. 87 
 
 especial duty to find out Sheridan, and to weary him with re- 
 monstrances 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 fur- 
 nished with pens, ink, and paper, two bottles of claret, a 
 tempting dish of anchovy sandwiches, and the prompter's un- 
 finished 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 re- 
 cognition 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 ap- 
 prove 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 OF SHERIDAN. 
 
 treasure we are enabled to produce an authentic version. It 
 is a thin octavo volume, with a frontispiece beautifully en- 
 graved, 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 unhesi- 
 tatingly met, and sneered at, in the following dialogue, which 
 is thus printed : — 
 
 " 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 it might have been 
 cast (as the actors call it) better at DRURY LANE. 
 
 " Sir Fretful. lud, no ! — never send a play there while I 
 live, harkee! [Whispers Sneenvell.] 
 
 " 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 them- 
 selves. 
 
 "Sneer. What! they may steal from them, my dear Pla- 
 giary. 
 
 M Sir Fretful. Steal ! to be sure they may, and egad! serve 
 your best thoughts as gypsies do stolen children, disfigure 
 them to make them 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 de- 
 signs, 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 
 character than as literary curiosities, these, from the emi- 
 nence of the author, are well worth preserving. The memo- 
 randums 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 
 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 re- 
 straining 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 com- 
 
90 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 di- 
 rected 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 
 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 ren- 
 dered 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 reputa- 
 tion, 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 bad 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 propel rank as a statesman, if he sought to elucidate the 
 circumstances of his political career by drawing a parallel be- 
 tween his position and that of any of the distinguished men who 
 at the present momenl sway the public mind. Indeed, events 
 are of so different a character, that another race of indivi- 
 duals has sprung up, wbo would most probably have been little 
 thought of had they attempted to bring themselves into 
 
LIFE OF SHERIDAN. 9] 
 
 notice at an earlier period. The eloquence which was re- 
 quired 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 occu- 
 pied 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 
 the expression of the general voice had engendered a rank- 
 ling 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 
 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 com- 
 mencement of the great American War, until the overthroAV 
 of Napoleon, there was a constant excitement in the public 
 mind ; the mightiest changes were going forward, and oppor- 
 tunities 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- 
 
92 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 he 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 be- 
 coming 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 w r aistcoat, 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 ap- 
 peared, to those who were anxious to judge of his real capa- 
 bilities, 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 suc- 
 cess. 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 SHERTDAN. 93 
 
 ally a defect which, for a short time, impeded the power of 
 producing an impression ; but when carried away by his sub- 
 ject 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 
 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 read- 
 ing 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 dis- 
 cussing a serious and grave question, which involved the 
 characters of the ministry for retaining several useless, ex- 
 pensive, 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 Oh, 
 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 roll- 
 ing," deigned to cast a wishful squint on riches and honour 
 enjoyed by the minister and his venal supporters. He com- 
 pared 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 point 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 in- 
 fected 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 
 tthain, 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 argu- 
 ment 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 SHEEIDAN. 95 
 
 the universal opinion expressed in favour both of the matter 
 and manner of his speech gave him a decided position in the 
 political world. Mr. Sheridan had previously given notice 
 of his intention to bring forward a motion for the better regu- 
 lation of the police of Westminster, and he took the oppor- 
 tunity 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 wait- 
 ing 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 pre- 
 sumption of the defective state of the magistracy of West- 
 minster, 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 West- 
 minster, with respect to the riots in June last; and to ex- 
 amine and report to the House the present state of the magis- 
 tracy 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 Petro- 
 nius of the age, he hoped he would be active in his new 
 character, and join in putting a stop to lottery gaming, by 
 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 SHERIDAN. 
 
 pithily observed, " That the honourable gentleman (Mr. Pen- 
 ton) 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 illus- 
 trated 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 mar- 
 riage act, brought in by Mr. Fox, gave that great leader of the 
 opposition an opportunity of complimenting, somewhat insidi- 
 ously, 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 con- 
 ceived, be abridged of that happy freedom of intercourse, 
 which modern 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, how- 
 ever ill directed, or perhaps in a moment of intoxication, 
 mighl be prevailed upon to make an imprudent match, and 
 probably bo united to a common prostitute." 
 
 Fox's reply to this was, "that his honourable friend, Mr. 
 Sheridan, bad so much ingenuity of mind, that he could con- 
 trivo to give an argument what turn he pleased; he con- 
 sidered oot, therefore, when what he said was really in sup- 
 port of domestic tyranny, he should ground it on a wish to 
 
LIFE OF SHERIDAN. 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 
 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. 
 Eigby, 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 Ame- 
 rican 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 Caven- 
 dish, of censure on Lord North. Here he had another 
 opportunity of attacking Mr. Eigby, 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. Eigby), 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 
 the degree of offence which speeches gave was to be con- 
 sidered 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 per- 
 fectly consistent ; he had assured the House that he thought 
 the noble lord ought to resign Ins offices ; and yet he would 
 give his vote for his remaining in it. The honourable gentle- 
 man 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 honour- 
 able 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 care- 
 ful to drop no expressions of contempt towards them in that 
 House ; they had borne a great deal ; and it might be im- 
 prudent to treat their patience with insult. The way to pre- 
 vent 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 Par- 
 liament respectable. Let that House show 7 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 land 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 chief- 
 tain 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 oc- 
 casion 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, 
 
LIFE OF SHEEIDAN. 99 
 
 the spirit of liberty, and a hatred to despotic sway. Lord 
 North, as the ostensible minister of the crown, had accumu- 
 lated upon himself the uncompromising hatred of a large por- 
 tion of the people ; they had been urged on by the violent de- 
 clamations 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 parlia- 
 mentary eloquence ; and, notwithstanding the inducements he 
 met with to exert himself, he appears to have remained al- 
 most 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 concise- 
 ness, 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 gene- 
 ral murmuring against the war at last acted upon the sup- 
 porters 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 si- 
 milar resolution being again brought forward, he was left in a 
 minority of nine. Mr. Sheridan made a speech on this oc- 
 casion, 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 adminis- 
 
 h 2 
 
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 rea- 
 son 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 dis- 
 union, that after a short existence of four months this admi- 
 nistration 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 po- 
 litical 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." 
 
LIFE OF SHEEIDAN. 101 
 
 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 gentle- 
 man, 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 theatric 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 secre- 
 tary of the treasury, his coadjutor, Bichard 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 affiche 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 danger- 
 ous, but actually declared their intention of impeaching for 
 
102 LIFE OF SHERIDAN. 
 
 unconstitutional conduct. His speech was clever, was inge- 
 nious, 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 tax- 
 ation of tombstones, actually proposed by Mr. Coke of Nor- 
 folk, 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 pro- 
 perty 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 ren- 
 dered 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 straggle between parties took place on the cele- 
 brated 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 independ- 
 ent both of the sovereign and the people. The advocates 
 of Wbiggism 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 mea- 
 sures 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 ob- 
 noxious 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 \\;is bailed as (he lender of a party, at once supported 
 by the king and (he 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 toler- 
 able, 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 dissolu- 
 tion 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 dissolu- 
 tion. Stafford, faithful to him, had returned him once again, 
 and had shown a greater sympathy with their representa- 
 tive 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 banging on the flanks 
 of his enemy, making a bold excursion, showing his capa- 
 bility 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 legal- 
 ity 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 SHEFJDAN. 
 
 a long battle of words, renewed during the two subsequent 
 sessions of Parliament, gave rise to two very clever speeches 
 from Sheridan. He was also eloquent upon various reform 
 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 Devon- 
 shire, afterwards known as Lord Rolle, and exhibited his 
 usual tact in answering his charges, and denying his co-opera- 
 tion with those who had attacked him in the " Rolliad." 
 
 No ephemeral production ever produced a greater sensation 
 than the " Ptolliad ; " 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 of 
 her Majesty, the venerable peer, the hero of the " Rolliad," 
 stumbled on approaching to do homage to the Queen. It was 
 forgotten that he had ever been apostrophized thus : — 
 
 " Illustrious Rolle, 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 sec, 
 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 SHEKIDAN. 105 
 
 of the critic's art, alluded to the general supporters of the 
 minister, who were handled with caustic severity, and ludi- 
 crous 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 sup- 
 posed 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 Fitzpa- 
 trick, George Ellis, Dr. French Laurence, and Joseph Richard- 
 son, 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 tor- 
 menting their public opponents. The relationship in which 
 Sheridan stood with one of those who were most actively em- 
 ployed, and his well-known mental resources, led to the sus- 
 picion 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 criti- 
 cisms 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 ma- 
 nufacturers — Mr. Fox seconding the motion — an animated 
 discussion sprung up, during which Mr. Pitt somewhat in- 
 cautiously threw out an imputation on the evidence given 
 before a committee of the House by some of the manufactu- 
 
106 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 unquestion- 
 able." Upon this Mr. Rolle rose up, and with great warmth 
 charged Sheridan with having made an inflammatory speech in 
 the 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, and to promote tumults and discontent; neither would 
 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 de- 
 claring in favour of Mr. Pitt, nay, even of seconding his mo- 
 tion, 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 of- 
 fence, 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 veiy cour- 
 teous upon this manly avowal, but continued his assertions of 
 doing ;ill within his power to punish the author of these sedi- 
 tious publications. With regard to the " Rolliad,"he said that 
 he held I lie 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, ami in a firm and manly tone assured the right 
 honourable gentleman thai whilst he talked at random he 
 
LIFE OF SHEKIDAN. 107 
 
 should not notice him ; but, if he charged him with being con- 
 cerned 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 Eolle 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 Ire- 
 land, 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 incon- 
 sistent 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 prin- 
 cipal ground on which Sheridan rested his opposition to the 
 measure brought forward was, that the Parliament of Great 
 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 dock- 
 yards at Plymouth and at Portsmouth by a permanent sys- 
 tem 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 
 
108 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 au- 
 thority, 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 posi- 
 tion, 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 in- 
 volved 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 irresist- 
 ible 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 tranrple 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 pro- 
 nounce to he 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 com- 
 mitted 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 accus- 
 tomed 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 inter- 
 ests of the people, but because it allowed no one but him- 
 self to exact, and to enrich themselves. The only opposition 
 he had to encounter was from the members of the Council ; 
 the stand they took was unfortunately upon personal, not upon 
 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 resi- 
 dents 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 in- 
 vestigated with considerable warmth and energy. On the 15th 
 of February Mr. Fox moved in the House that a pamphlet, 
 entitled "A Eeview of the principal Charges against Warren 
 Hastings," contains matter disrespectful to his Majesty, and 
 scandalous and indecent paragraphs reflecting on the mo- 
 tives which induced this House to impeach Warren Hastings, 
 Esq., of high crimes and misdemeanors." The principal pas- 
 sage 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 Koman 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 stiit ion of Mr. Hastings was not in the eye of the law, 
 Mason, 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 
 
LIFE 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 despot- 
 ism 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 sub- 
 jects, 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 mountains 
 
112 LIFE OF SHERIDAN 
 
 to lift up their lofty heads ? Who raises the winds of the 
 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 in- 
 dividual 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 help- 
 lessness 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 Feb- 
 ruary 7th, 1787, before the House of Commons, a feeble out- 
 line only lias 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 SHEEIDAN. 113 
 
 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 de- 
 clared it to be the most astonishing burst of eloquence, argu- 
 ment, and wit united, of which there was any record or tradi- 
 tion." 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 modem 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 acute- 
 ness 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 per- 
 fect 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 after- 
 wards in those of Moore himself. He has furnished us with 
 some extracts, but it is a matter of regret that the public has 
 
 i 
 
114 LIFE 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 prose- 
 cution 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-admi- 
 nistration 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 oppres- 
 sion. 
 
 " 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 nourishing provinces in Hin- 
 dostan, he had only to read a letter that had been received not 
 long since from Lord Corn wallis, 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 strik- 
 ingly 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 in- 
 ternal government of his country, it would be in vain for him 
 to attempt any salutary reform ; for his subjects knew ho 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 SHEBIDAN. 115 
 
 the degradation of our character in India, and of the oppres- 
 sion 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 ope- 
 rate 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 peoof ! " 
 
 He dwelt upon the enormity of the attack upon the prin- 
 cesses. " 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 resi- 
 dence 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 SHERIDAN. 
 
 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 re- 
 ligion 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 situa- 
 tion : 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 inter- 
 woven 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, 1 lis 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 grati- 
 tude to his wife knew no bounds: her ascendancy over him 
 
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 in- 
 vaded 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 con- 
 sideration could make him discharge the duties of any obliga- 
 tion 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 insurrec- 
 tion 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 person- 
 age, for such a purpose, one of the greatest aggravations of the 
 guilt of Mr. Hastings.' That he, the purity of whose charac- 
 ter 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 
 
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 pre- 
 cluded the necessity of auy further observations on so different 
 a couduct." 
 
 " ' 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 affi- 
 davits to the nabob ; — no, he is too polite ; — he never talks of 
 them to Mr. Hastings— rout 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 por- 
 tentous phantom of despair ; — it is not like any fabled mon- 
 ster, formed in the eclipse of reason, and found in some un- 
 hallowed grove of superstitious' darkness and political dismay! 
 No, my lords ! 
 
 " In the happy reverse of all these, I turn from this disgust- 
 ing 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 re- 
 fer 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 condem- 
 nation we look for will be one of the most ample mercies ac- 
 complished 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. 
 
 Eight Hon. C. J. Fox. Eight Hon. F. Montague. 
 
 E. B. Sheridan, Esq. Sir Grey Cooper. 
 
 Sir James Erskine. Phillip Francis, Esq. 
 
 Eight Hon. T. Pelham. Sir Gilbert Elliott. 
 
 Eight Hon. W. Wyndham. Dudley Long, Esq. 
 
 Eight 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 im- 
 peachment which had been prepared by the Committee ; they 
 were read a first time, and ordered to be taken into considera- 
 tion on the 9th of May. On that day a division took place 
 on the question whether the report should be received. Mr. 
 
120 LIFE OF SHERIDAN. 
 
 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 heen 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, Esq. 
 be 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 Governor- 
 General of Bengal, of high crimes and misdemeanours, and 
 do acquaint the Lords that the Commons will, with all con- 
 venient 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 Com- 
 mons 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 SHEEIDAN. 121 
 
 forfeit your recognizances." There stood the late Governor- 
 General 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 atten- 
 tion 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 ap- 
 pearance, 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 ampli- 
 tude of comprehension, and richness of imagination, superior 
 to every orator, ancient or modern." 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 read- 
 ing the charges against Hastings ; this was done in so mo- 
 notonous a tone that little interest was taken in the proceedings. 
 From Madame D'Arblay 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 
 
122 LIFE OF SHERIDAN. 
 
 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 man- 
 ners, 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, flow- 
 ing, natural ; when he declaimed, energetic, warm, and bril- 
 liant. 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 remem- 
 bered, 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, dur- 
 ing 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 par- 
 ticulars of those dreadful murders, he interested, he en- 
 gaged, 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, 1 wanted to sink 
 on the floor, that they might be saved from so fearful a sight. 
 I had no hope lie 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 con- 
 tinued ;ni»l aggravated without any further fact, or illustration, 
 then there appeared more of study than of truth, more of 
 

 LIFE OF SHEKIDAN. 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 
 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 fac 
 titious ; 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 Com- 
 mons 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 v%-ere 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 
 
124 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 oc- 
 casions. 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 ex- 
 cited 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 de- 
 light, 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 in* 
 dividual 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 commented 
 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 was 
 
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 contri- 
 butions 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, notwithstand- 
 ing every attempt to conciliate the Governor, w T as 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 Begums 
 of Oude, had succeded to the revenues of the last nabob, and 
 possessed his treasures, which were estimated at three mil- 
 lions. 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 atro- 
 cious robbery; and, in the most discreditable manner, plun- 
 dered 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 re- 
 garded 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, shame- 
 ful 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 Cal- 
 cutta 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 great- 
 ness 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 characteristic 
 
LIFE OF SHEEIDAN. 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 de- 
 scriptions 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 dupli- 
 city of Mr. Hastings's ambition to the simple steadiness of 
 genuine magnanimity. In his mind all was shuffling; am- 
 biguous, 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 little- 
 ness 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 conse- 
 quence 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 mix- 
 ture 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 vari- 
 ous 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 corrup- 
 tion. 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." 
 
 J t 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. 129 
 
 for the present, you will not find an act of treacherous, 
 deliberate, cool cruelty that could exceed this ! " Gibbon de- 
 lighted 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 
 ready 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 ex- 
 extremely 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 Oudc, is to be examined there to-day ; Oucle is 
 Mr. Sheridan's particular province, and I do most seriously 
 ask that he would favour us with his assistance. What will 
 come of the examination I know not, but without him I do 
 
130 LIFE OF SHEKIDAN. 
 
 not 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 Man, 
 His was the thunder, his the avenging rod, 
 The wrath — the delegated voice of God, 
 "Which shook the nations through his lips, and Mazed, 
 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, there- 
 fore, 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 mo- 
 notony 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 Bur- 
 ney 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 dis- 
 ease. 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 admira- 
 tion at the tenderness and solicitude of the afflicted queen. 
 Such a work is invaluable ; and if it be not quite equal in in- 
 terest 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 ca- 
 tastrophes our feelings are not so deeply impressed with sym- 
 pathy 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 ear- 
 nestness, a vehemence rather — it startled me inexpressibly — 
 yet with a graciousness exceeding even all I met with before — 
 it 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 de- 
 scribing 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 re- 
 freshment. 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 
 
132 LIFE OF SHERIDAN. 
 
 really very well, except in that one particular, that he 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 inevit- 
 able 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 com- 
 menced ; and then read in the "Morning 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 oc- 
 curred, 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 pos- 
 tillions, 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 Burney 
 Was called upon to attend her Majesty. " My poor royal mis- 
 tress, never can I forget her countenance — pale, ghastly pale, 
 she was seated to be undressed, and attended by Lady Eliza- 
 beth Waldegrave and Miss Goldsworthy; her whole frame 
 was disordered, yet she was still and quiet; these two ladies 
 
LIFE OF SHEKIDAN. 133 
 
 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 mo- 
 narch 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 w 7 as 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 ad- 
 journment 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 unfor- 
 tunately happened that the taste and morals of the party de- 
 
134 LIFE OF SHEKIDAN. 
 
 sirous of seeing his Royal Highness at the head of affairs were 
 most questionable. Mr. 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 began to be more than doubted, and 
 reports were widely disseminated of the recklessness of those 
 who frequented Carlton House. Hence the slow and pro- 
 tracted steps which were taken by the House of Commons, 
 the caution exercised, and the apparent wisdom of deep re- 
 flection, (whilst in fact intrigue of every description was going 
 forward in various sections of the parties,) were quite in con- 
 sonance with public opinion. 
 
 Mr. Fox was sent lor 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 au- 
 thority as may have been had in cases of the personal exercise of 
 the royal authority being prevented or interrupted by infancy, 
 sickness, infirmity, or otherwise, with a view to provide for 
 the same, Mr. Fox at once took up the position, " That when- 
 ever the sovereign, from sickness, infirmity, or other incapa- 
 city, 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 ma- 
 jesty's demise." Mr. Pitt's reply kindled a fire throughout 
 the couutry. 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 Mrs. Sheridan, in which she 
 says, tc An unlucky word about right, made use of by 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 mo- 
 tion mischievous and quite unnecessary." Mr. Pitt said, 
 " That the very announcement of a claim of right rendered an 
 inquiry inio precedent and history of the greater consequence, 
 lbr if such an authority should be discovered, all further de- 
 bate in thai House would be unnecessary; but he boldly said, 
 thai the assertion of such a right in the Prince of Wales, or 
 
LIFE OF SHERIDAN. 135 
 
 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; nei- 
 ther the replies of Mr. Fox, nor the invectives of Mr. Burkf. 
 could shake it. 
 
 Upon the assertions of the two heads of parties, it was im- 
 possible for Sheridan, who was looked upon in the House as 
 the personal friend of his Eoyal 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 Eoyal Highness's credit, and lay the strong- 
 est grounds to baffle every attempt at opposition to what he 
 considered the just claims and rights of his Eoyal Highness, 
 that the language of those who may be in any sort suspected 
 of knowing his wishes and feelings should be of great mode- 
 ration 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 propo- 
 sition 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 ob- 
 served 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 con- 
 fusion ? Mr. Pitt replied to this somewhat insidiously, by say- 
 ing " 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 ten- 
 dency as it was absolutely unnecessary. Eesolutions were 
 carried on the 22nd December, on the motion of Mr. Pitt, 
 which virtually brought the matter to a formal decision, tak- 
 ing from the Prince of Wales any claim, as a right, which 
 he might wish to establish of acting as regent of the king- 
 dom. The House indeed divided, but the resolutions were 
 carried by a majority of 93 ; 158 voting on an amendment — 
 251 against it. 
 
 The readiness, the quickness with which Mr. Pitt seized 
 every word uttered by his adversaries, to aid his argu- 
 ments, either by ridiculing any accidental blunder, ex- 
 posing some doctrine incautiously advanced, or dexterously 
 leading them into some glaring avowal of opinions inconsis- 
 tent with the principles of Whiggery, have been generally 
 acknowledged. When Mr. Fox used the rash and unadvised 
 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 exult- 
 ation, 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- 
 bales that followed, he took up a doctrine before unknown to 
 a party that asserted the right divine of kings, and laid down 
 

 LIFE OF SHERIDAN. 137 
 
 an axiom, somewhat inconsistent vrith their usual creed, that 
 the voice and the sense of the people, through their consti- 
 tuents, were to be consulted in the choice of a substitute for 
 kingly power. Having carried the essential point, that the 
 Lords 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 ad- 
 minister the royal authority under the style and title of regent 
 of the kingdom ; " and then brought forward a series of re- 
 solutions as restrictions upon his power. A debate of great 
 interest ensued, during which Sheridan exhibited consider- 
 able tact and readiness. Lord Belgrave having concluded a 
 complimentary speech in favour of the minister, with a quo- 
 tation from Demosthenes, Sheridan promptly rose and imme- 
 diately 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 poli- 
 tical 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 com- 
 bated on behalf of the people with success ? Was it a dis- 
 grace 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, dedi- 
 cated 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 those 
 
138 LIFE OF SHEBIDAN. 
 
 who came under the observation of it ; and force them, by the 
 most powerful and amiable of all influence, to become the 
 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 flatter- 
 ing 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 indi- 
 vidual 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, w r ere — " 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 ho- 
 nourable 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 
 tin noble dukfl, 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 with- 
 out, 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 con- 
 tended 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 house- 
 hold 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 essen- 
 tial 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 in- 
 closures 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 assidu- 
 ously attended the House ; made many useful observations 
 upon the various stages of the Restriction Bill. The occa- 
 sions on which he distinguished himself were many, evincing 
 throughout a great anxiety to serve his Eoyal Highness, and 
 to preserve the royal prerogative intact. 
 
140 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 in- 
 decorous manner in which they treated the malady of the 
 king ; the too 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 attain- 
 ments 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 some- 
 what 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 long- 
 continued 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 pre- 
 varication and evasion, to call him a hasty decider, and a ran- 
 dom speaker; to say that the physic he administered "re- 
 minded him of those nostrums which were to cure this and 
 that malady, and also disappointments in love, and long sea- 
 voyages." 
 
 Of the letter which was addressed to Mr. Pitt, and attri- 
 buted 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 w T as 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. What- 
 ever of good feeling ho may have gained in the bosom of the 
 prince and his royal brothers, ho must have offended the queen 
 by the whole drift of his arguments on the clauses which gave 
 her 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. Fitzher- 
 bert, 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 hav- 
 ing, 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 acknowledg- 
 ments for the support he had received, to confess his obliga- 
 tions to them, and to declare his hopes, that he should not 
 quit his situation avowing principles less worthy of their re- 
 gard and esteem than he brought with him into office." 
 
 " Mr. Sheridan observed that the right honourable gentle- 
 man, he did not doubt, would make a fine speech at his exit 
 from office ; or, according to the vulgar expression, an excel- 
 lent 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 de- 
 clined. 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 Hickforcl's Piooms, 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 principally devoted to the elements of lan- 
 guage. They are " A Discourse delivered in the Theatre at 
 Oxford, and in the Senate House at Cambridge ; " "A Disserta- 
 tion on the Causes of the Difficulties which occur in learning 
 the English Language;' "A Course of Lectures on Elocu-. 
 tion ; " "A Plan of Education for the Young Nobility and Gen- 
 try 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 pre- 
 fixed 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 repeat- 
 edly 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. Wil- 
 liam, 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, in- 
 timately 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 
 sevci-.il dramatic pieces favourably received. He was the 
 father of the celebrated orator and dramatist, Richard Brins- 
 ley Sheridan. He had been the schoolfellow, and through 
 life was the companion of the amiable Archbishop of Mark- 
 
LIFE OF SHEKIDAN. 143 
 
 ham. He was the friend of the learned Dr. Sumnei, 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 ob- 
 tained 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 un- 
 equalled. 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 Kevolution 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 be- 
 came the whirlwind, destroying as it swept by. Many of those 
 
144 LIFE OF SHERIDAN. 
 
 ■who at first beheld a nation attempting to contribute to the 
 increase of the happiness of human nature by the establish- 
 ment of a government which should lead to freedom, to pub- 
 lic 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 ex- 
 pect the eccentric course which they took. They did not an- 
 ticipate 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 conse- 
 quent 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 de- 
 lighted to find a people rousing themselves from their slum- 
 ber, proclaiming their rights with an irresistible and an omni- 
 potent 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 re- 
 flection 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 even- 
 tually 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 so worked upon, too, that no one became 
 a dispassionate witness of the occurrences. Hank and power 
 were annihilated in oue 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 dis- 
 couraging. 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 pur- 
 sued 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 countiy that he was 
 neither indolent nor superficial; but that he diligently in- 
 quired, 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 
 
146 LIFE OF SHEBIDAN 
 
 when the attention of the committee was to be taken up with 
 the 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 in- 
 stead 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 en- 
 tertained ; 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 ~ ake 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 
 
LFFE OF SHERIDAN. 147 
 
 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 play- 
 ful 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 busi- 
 ness, 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 apprehen- 
 sion, 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." 
 
 Home Tooke, instead of finding a proposer and seconder, 
 
 L 2 
 
148 LIFE OF SHEFvTDAN. 
 
 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 him- 
 self. He told the crowd that, as so many of these fine quali- 
 ties 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 tho 
 other. Mr. Burke's work, " Reflections on the French Revo- 
 lution," 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 re- 
 pudiated 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 counter- 
 act 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 reduc- 
 tion 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 stand- 
 ing army had been removed. Mr. Burke, after some elo- 
 quently 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 SHEKIDAN. 
 
 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 in- 
 formation 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 in- 
 struction 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 wami compliments to Mr. 
 Burke's general principles ; but said that he could not con- 
 ceive 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 pro- 
 vocation. He vehemently defended the general views and 
 conduct of the national assembly. He could not even under- 
 stand 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 adju- 
 dications of venal magistrates. What their revenues? Na- 
 tional bankruptcy. This he thought the fundamental error 
 of the right honourable gentleman's argument, that he ac- 
 cuse d 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 oul of employ; trade was languishing; 
 famine clung upon the poor ; despair on all. }n this situa- 
 

 LIFE OF SHERIDAN. 151 
 
 tion, the wisdom and feelings of the nation were appealed to 
 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 reve- 
 nues? 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 pur- 
 pose. 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 ac- 
 cursed 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 pur- 
 poses of their own private and personal ambition, had insti- 
 gated those outrages, they, whatever their rank, birth, or 
 fortune, deserved the execration of Mankind. Justice, how- 
 ever, 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, hence- 
 forth, 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 re- 
 markable display of talent on both sides. Burke was, how- 
 ever, implacable; all communication ceased between them; 
 and though Sheridan spoke of him, in the House of Com- 
 mons, 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 separa- 
 tion 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 ex- 
 isted in that great party, whose chief end and aim was de- 
 clared to be the love of a pure and well-defined constitution, 
 which, whilst it guarded the liberties of a people, acknow- 
 ledged 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 informa- 
 tion, 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 Bri- 
 tish House of Commons to advise the Crown, and by a due ap- 
 plication 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 impru- 
 dence, their neglect, or their corruption. 
 
 Mr. Sheridan retired, in the month of April, from the busi- 
 

 LIFE OF SHEEIDAN. 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 com- 
 pletion of the plans that were now devised, and from which 
 hopes were entertained that ultimate advantages would ac- 
 crue. 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 re- 
 putation. His popularity, his talents, and his exertions were 
 all the theme of general eulogy. Though some slight em- 
 barrassments had occurred, they had passed away like the fleet- 
 ing 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 thou- 
 sand 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 com- 
 pany 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 difficul- 
 ties, fresh expenses, vexatious negotiations, combined to re- 
 tard the completion of the new theatre ; and duiing 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 he- 
 reft him of the cherished partner of his happiest days ; from 
 that moment a blight fell upon him — he soon became an al- 
 tered 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 pro- 
 nounced her the most beautiful flower that ever grew in na- 
 ture's garden. " This beautiful mother of a beautiful race" 
 united so many charms, was so gifted by art as well by na- 
 ture, as to surpass the ordinary beings of the earth. The in- 
 cense that was offered at her shrine doubtless produced some 
 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 for- 
 getfulness 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 under- 
 takings. She assisted him in all the varieties of public cha- 
 racter 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 elec- 
 tioneering ; and everything that to him was an object of im- 
 portance 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 re- 
 flected. 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 be- 
 came 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 SHERIDAN. 
 
 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 determin- 
 ation 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 amend- 
 ment 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 buck- 
 ram." " 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, lie should vote that English ministers be impeached 
 
UFE OF SHERIDAN. 157 
 
 who 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." 
 
 The amendment was negatived. The majority of 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 calami- 
 ties 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, 
 11 if it could not be obtained, he should vote for vigorous war — 
 not 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 Ma- 
 jesty'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 in- 
 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 sono- 
 rous declamation to cover a meagreness of argument? Any 
 
158 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 re- 
 sorted to ? Unquestionably, in all these respects, the Chan- 
 cellor 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 in- 
 formation 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 mani- 
 festo? 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 pro- 
 voked 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 
 whetted the axe now suspended over the unfortunate monarch; 
 — was the nation ready to subscribe to this absurd and detest- 
 able 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 
 
LIFE OF SHERIDAN. 159 
 
 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 hollo wness 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 cata- 
 strophe 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 Eevolution 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 
 25,000 men for the service of the year, that he expressed sen- 
 timents which even his adversaries, with the exception of him 
 who was called " the Eenegade" 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 propo- 
 sition 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 de- 
 struction of the old despotism in France, and who had eagerly 
 hoped, that, to whatever extremes, as to principles of govern- 
 ment, 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, 
 
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 ac- 
 cusers and his judges, and his destruction was inevitable." He 
 launched out into misrepresentations, to which Sheridan re- 
 plied, observing, "he would not attribute them to any ill pur- 
 pose, 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 paci- 
 fication 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 re- 
 ceived 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 diminu- 
 tion 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 in- 
 sinuations 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 Dumber of friends left to the object of his 
 persecution, ill became him, of all mankind; but he trusted, 
 
LIFE OF SHERIDAN. 161 
 
 however small that number was, there ever would be found 
 among them men not afraid, upon such a subject, to oppose 
 truth and temper to passion and declamation, however elo- 
 quently 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 contrast- 
 ing 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 contra- 
 diction 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 pre- 
 ferred 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 constitu- 
 tion of Poland ? No ; not a word, not a sigh, not an ejacula- 
 tion for the destruction of all he had held up to the world as 
 a model for reverence and imitation ! In his heart is a re- 
 cord of brass for every error and excess of liberty, but on his 
 
 M 
 
162 LIFE OF SHERIDAN. 
 
 tongue a sponge to blot out the foulest crimes and bin chest 
 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 busi- 
 ness, 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 mur- 
 murs 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 apology, in his 
 mouth, and one of his best speeches. He laughed at the sup- 
 posed 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 had 
 already had a great effect ; and, indeed, it was much too ge- 
 neral 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 undent and- 
 ings 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. 168 
 
 nations had been misled, and had acted upon such false alarms. 
 There were many instances in which a panic had been com- 
 municated by one class of men to the other. 
 
 Sic quisque pavendo 
 
 Dat vires famae : nulloque auctore malorum, 
 Quse finxere timent. Nee 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, agree- 
 able 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 selected by 
 the original proprietor of the journal were — 
 
 " Solem quis dicere falsum 
 
 Audeaf?" 
 
 It was also on this occasion that he taunted Burke as hav- 
 ing 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 liber- 
 ality in the supplies, but at the same time to watch with vigi- 
 lance and even jealousy. Sberidan 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 House. 
 
 m 2 
 
164 LIFE OF SHERIDAN. 
 
 There was little novelty in it, excepting the novelty of intro- 
 ducing, in a day devoted to figures, all the aits 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 fur- 
 nished him with several opportunities of expressing his opi- 
 nion 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 com- 
 ing 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, trea- 
 sons, 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 despe- 
 rate 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, sway- 
 ing 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 se- 
 curity 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 SHERIDAN. 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 nation — 
 in what is now considered a hackneyed style, though then ad- 
 mired 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 no- 
 thing in the ordinary form of eloquence, commenced an elabo- 
 rate speech to prove that, as long as the French maintained 
 the principles they had adopted, the war should not be relin- 
 quished. "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 Eevolution 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 w r as evidently not proceed- 
 ing 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 re- 
 presented. Had this speech only remained for the judg- 
 ment of posterity of the general principles maintained, and 
 the soundness of the policy pursued by the advocates for 
 
166 LIFE OF SHERIDAN. 
 
 peace, it ■would have been enough. The frenzy, folly, rash- 
 ness of individuals in France had been roused by the sur- 
 rounding 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 ex- 
 plain to the minister, who in his simplicity and innocence 
 seemed to be ignorant of its meaning, the nature of a minis- 
 terial job ; and he gave a curious list of persons who had re- 
 ceived 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 sub- 
 ject, 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 de- 
 fensive 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- 
 mbs< a and fee 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 SHEKIDAN. 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 sys- 
 tem 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 Koyal 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 regu- 
 larity 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 
 
168 LIFE OF SHERIDAN. 
 
 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 re- 
 ward, as had been insinuated, from the Prince of Wales, and 
 positively asserted in the face of the Parliament and the coun- 
 try that he had not even been presented with a horse or a 
 picture, and that he was independent iu his views and opinions 
 of the Pioyal Prince. 
 
 Whenever the opportunity presented itself, Sheridan pur- 
 sued 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 for- 
 gotten, 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 \\\e 
 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, t lie 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 SHEEIDAN. 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 super- 
 abundance, 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 argu- 
 ments 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 de- 
 volved ; 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 im- 
 peachment, 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 
 
170 LIFE OF SHEKJDAN. 
 
 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 hag, 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 forti- 
 tude, 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 always to anxiety to know how the sovereign will be re- ■ 
 ceived. 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 SHEEIDAN. 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 ldng's carriage. In passing 
 through Palace Yard a window was broken ; and it was as- 
 serted 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 Bucking- 
 ham 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 satis- 
 faction to me to reflect that, notwithstanding the many un- 
 favourable 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, ii-ritated and clamorous people — to come down 
 to the House and express his satisfaction. He spoke of the 
 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 the 
 throne. 
 
172 LIFE OF SHEKIDAN. 
 
 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 recep- 
 tion, 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 de- 
 bates 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 be- 
 tween 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 ministe- 
 rial 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 
 or 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 Cor- 
 responding Society. He produced a work, attributed to Mr. 
 Beeves, the framer and president of several associations 
 
LIFE On' SHERIDAN. 173 
 
 against republicans and levellers, in which a doctrine was as- 
 serted " that the government of England was a monarchy ; 
 but the monarch was the ancient stock, from which have 
 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, con- 
 taining 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 princi- 
 ples of our free constitution, and that the said pamphlet is a 
 high breach of the privileges of this House." He made seve- 
 ral 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. Mi- 
 nisters, 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 
 Mr. Reeves were found guilty, he would be called a convicted 
 innocent, as others had been called acquitted felons. The 
 trial, however, was resolved on ; Sheridau having been in- 
 duced 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 ex- 
 cited 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 Winches- 
 ter, and grand-daughter of the former Bishop of Winchester, 
 by the mother's side, appeared so irresistible, that he was de- 
 termined, 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 to 
 
174 LIFE OF SHERTDAN. 
 
 form an inference that nothing but his determination to con- 
 quer, 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 ele- 
 gant young lady it seems, with bewitching frankness, was in 
 the habit of openly giving epithets which she thought appro- 
 priate 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; intem- 
 perance had stamped her marks upon his features in legible 
 characters ; the purple cheek, the fiery nose, its common off- 
 springs, were too strongly developed not to be discerned by 
 the quick glance of woman ; indeed they had already begim 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 de- 
 termined that, notwithstanding the visible defects of his out- 
 ward 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 emo- 
 tion experienced at his presence, at length her heart was irre- 
 sistibly 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 con- 
 sulted ; any hint from him at the disparity of their years was un- 
 heeded ; 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 con- 
 sent to his daughter's union with any man who could not put 
 down fifteen thousand pounds in addition to five which he 
 
LIFE OF SHERIDAN. 175 
 
 himself 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 Po- 
 lesden, 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 communi- 
 cation; 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 affectiouate 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, and am 
 
176 LIFE OF SHERIDAN. 
 
 likely to be ; my father I have never seen, and all that I 
 can hear of him is, that instead of dining with me on Wednes- 
 day 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 where- 
 about ; but what must have been the state of nervous anxiety 
 in which he w 7 as kept for the next ten or twelve weeks, dur- 
 ing 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, in- 
 closing 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 ex- 
 treme 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 fasci- 
 nated by the conversation of the man, but none for one who 
 had arrived at a period of life when prudence, if he ever pos- 
 sessed any, was called for, and the exertion of his intellects for 
 more useful purposes in life. The answer was to this effect : — 
 
 11 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 OP 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 per- 
 sonally 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 re- 
 solved 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 kno.w, 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 
 
178 LIFE OF SHEEIDAN. 
 
 and tormented to death; and if you, at this moment, de- 
 sert 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 can- 
 not redeem myself and make you some amends for your kind- 
 ness 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, 
 M I came into the room like a lion, and went out like a lamb ; " 
 11 1 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 
 he were doing anything that Sheridan considered to be at- 
 
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 qualifi- 
 cations. 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 ex- 
 pected 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 LH r E 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." "T under- 
 stand 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 com- 
 mencement 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 govern- 
 ment 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 gentle- 
 man, 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 Fitz- 
 patrick, to obtain the release of La Fayette, through the inter- 
 cession of his Majesty with the Emperor of Germany, called 
 forth from Sheridan some well expressed opinions on the in- 
 famy of the detention of that great man in the prison of 01- 
 mutz. Pie 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 2Gth 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 tha 
 
LIFE OF SHERTDAN. ] 81 
 
 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 im- 
 mediate 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 ex- 
 hibit 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 de- 
 signs, that by timely cutting and breaking off the connection 
 there might be hopes of the old gentlewoman once more re- 
 gaining her credit and injured reputation." Mr. Harrison's 
 motion for the reduction of useless places gave him an oppor- 
 tunity of making a short but useful appeal to those who were 
 at that time battening upon the public spoil; he more parti- 
 cularly alluded to Mr. Rose, whose name he publicly gave, as 
 one holding several sinecures and situations which amounted 
 to £10,000 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 an- 
 nounced' 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. 
 
 The particular subjects to which Sheridan devoted his at- 
 tention during the remainder of the session were, an expedi- 
 tion 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 con- 
 signed 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 Bra- 
 ton 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 Wil- 
 liam 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 pursu- 
 ing the search In' bad been so fortunate as to find some deeds 
 establishing beyond all controversy the title of this gentleman 
 
LIFE OF SHEEIDAN. 183 
 
 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 ac- 
 knowledged 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 re.sem 
 blance to a play written about that period. It is to be re- 
 gretted 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 writ- 
 ing ; 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 auto- 
 graph 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 drama- 
 tist as have been all the leading men of literature for the 
 
184= LIFE OF SHEEIDAN. 
 
 last two centuries ; that, however, he was well acquainted 
 with the writings of the bard, may be judged by an observa- 
 tion 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 w 7 hen 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 perform- 
 ances for sixty nights. An immense assemblage was collected 
 on the 2nd of April, expectation was on the tiptoe, a hand- 
 bill 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 asser- 
 tions 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, pro- 
 voked 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 
 
LIFE OF SHERIDAN. 185 
 
 minority it was useless to attempt to oppose the ministerial 
 measures, 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 a 
 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 mino- 
 rity 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 Eng- 
 land 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 inva- 
 sion of England, and that the enemy was encouraged by cor- 
 respondence 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 disappro- 
 bation of a bill, brought into the house by Mr. Pitt, to sus- 
 pend again the Habeas Corpus Act. He considered the na- 
 tion's great and best privilege was trial by jury. Any suc- 
 cessful 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 
 
18G 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 the 
 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 popu- 
 larity 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 which 
 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 follow- 
 ing 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 Go- 
 vt ■rnincnt using either corruption or intimidation to obtain its 
 appearance. Vain were his efforts, and nearly half a century's 
 experi< ace 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 un- 
 answered— unanswerable. His absence from the general 
 hu flinooa of the House drew down upon him some censure, 
 Da oooasioD of his seconding a motion of Sir Francis Burdett, 
 late of Cold Bath Fields Prison ; he observed 
 in reply that nothing would Batisfy gentlemen with regard to 
 him; the) blamed aim for absenting himself, and took care 
 never to bid him welcome when he came; but whenever he 
 ■aw public principle abandoned or humanity outraged, and 
 ,llv when he saw iniquity protected by the names and 
 ■othoritj of members of that House, and the House called 
 ttpoo to ,"i\. its sanction to such conduct, he would come for- 
 ward, fie then ablj supported the Liberal Baronet, whose 
 noble coiulu.t 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 inter- 
 est 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 \ie 
 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 
 money, and was actually able to be a lender and not a bor- 
 rower : this gave rise to many witticisms. One of the morn- 
 ing 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 poli- 
 tics. Mr. Pitt had ceased to be Minister of Great Britain; 
 he had allowed Mr. Addington to seize the reins of govern- 
 ment 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 sepa- 
 rated him still further from Fox, who, having been nobly re- 
 ceived 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 Eng- 
 lish love their constitution better, to cling to it with more 
 fondness, to hang round it with true tenderness." It is im- 
 possible by means of extracts to do justice to the beauties 
 contained in this admirable specimen of parliamentary elo- 
 quence. It made a deep and lasting impression on the coun- 
 
188 LIFE OF SHERIDAN. 
 
 try, and did more to urge the nation on to resist the power of 
 tlie 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 fea- 
 ture 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, incon- 
 testable 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 Keceiver-General of the Duchy of 
 Cornwall, the nobleman holding that position being in India; 
 he was t" till 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 forma- 
 tion of a Bhort-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 tin; chance 
 Df a higher post \ nor whilst, he tilled the one for which he 
 looted did he show any of his usual ability. The death 
 of .Mr. l'o\ soon drove him from the brief taste of the sweets 
 of office; from thai period the instances of his parliamentary 
 exertions me hut rare. 
 
LIFE OF SHEK1DAN. 189 
 
 On the 24th February occurred the most serious calamity 
 which couid 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 pro- 
 sperity 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 illumi- 
 nated; no doubt could exist as to the sad truth. Messrs. 
 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 respect- 
 ful silence, whilst that assembly, with due regard to its ac- 
 complished 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 play- 
 house 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 cur- 
 rency to an anecdote which he does not evidently believe. 
 " It is said, that as he sat at the Piazza Coffee House, dur- 
 ing 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 vouching 
 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 Hie- 
 rocles, 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 man- 
 ner, 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 re- 
 commend and entreat that every individual belonging to the 
 concern should be taken care of. Elect yourselves into a com- 
 mittee, but keep in your remembrance even the poor sweepers 
 of the stage, who, with their children, must starve, if not pro- 
 tected 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 be had loved to hear sing in harmony to its notes. 
 It was B most embarrassing position in which to be placed, all 
 hopes of rebuilding the house seemed to be at an end. A 
 otsnal conversation which Sheridan held with Mr. Whit- 
 bread Led to as 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 ami reversion of boxes ami shares, and that Thomas, 
 his son. was t«» receive for his quarter 612,000; but he was to 
 hare no concern or connection of any kind whatever frith the 
 now undertaking, nor was be to be paid until the theatre was 
 fault. Cruel, bitterly cruel wore these stipulations, harshly 
 were they enforced by Whitbread; and those who read the 
 agonizing letters of Sheridan, and the niatter-of-facl ones of 
 
LIFE OF SHEEIDAN. 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 organiza- 
 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 fa- 
 vourite 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 nego- 
 tiate on an honourable basis ; he concluded an animated ad- 
 dress thus : — " If after the general subjugation and ruin of 
 Europe there should ever exist an impartial historian to re- 
 cord 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- 
 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 manoeuvre 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 
 
192 LIFE OF SHERIDAN. 
 
 upon as a true patriot, who, laying aside all party considera- 
 tions, and preferring the interests of his country to all others, 
 boldly proclaims his opinions when founded upon honest con- 
 viction. Sheridan had the gratification of seeing the over- 
 throw 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 gene- 
 ration, by accepting the post of their representative. 
 
 Sheridan usually held his levee in a most extraordinary 
 manner ; his visitors were distributed in various rooms ac- 
 cording 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 money — 
 some 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 grumb- 
 ling every where ; each person had some want which must be 
 instantaneously supplied. At every sound each eye was di. 
 rected 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 some- 
 thing which seemed to please (lie 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 wonl i<> Bay, something eminently Shaks- 
 pearian ; at any rale the prints of the immortal bard bore some 
 
LIFE OF SHEKIDAN. 193 
 
 resemblance His eye was strikingly brilliant; bis bair, 
 powdered in tbe fashion of the day, softened down the ruddy 
 tints of certain portions of his features; his smile was winning; 
 he 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. Whit- 
 bread 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 
 oonfidence 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 en- 
 thusiasm, 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 ex- 
 penditure, and the bare possibilities of gain, they were never ani- 
 mated 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 
 
 o 
 
194 LIFE OF SHERIDAN. 
 
 one forget it ; and even when lie 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 oppor- 
 tunity 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 esta- 
 blishment, for his opinion upon some furniture which Sheridan 
 had ordered for it, and innocently enough pronounced it, ac- 
 cording 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. Fortu- 
 nately for him, a friend relieved him from the unpleasant 
 predicament. He immediately despatched a servant to Lon- 
 don 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 ottered 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. J 95 
 
 A gentleman who was one day waiting, as he had been the 
 day before, by appointment, in the parlour, observed a gentle- 
 man 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 re- 
 paired and found that he was unhesitatingly installed in his 
 new berth. This generosity gained Sheridan his election, his 
 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 import- 
 ance, remained unopened. Whether private or official busi- 
 ness demanded his attention, still was there the same indo- 
 lence, 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 superscrip- 
 tions, 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 
 
196 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 10Z. 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 en- 
 treating me to send the first 101. 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 accident- 
 ally 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 corre- 
 spondence with the treasurer of Drury Lane Theatre, when 
 in want of money or any assistance which was to be obtained 
 through that channel : — 
 
 'n' 
 
 (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 
 Richard. And note of post, how is Brinsley?" 
 
LIFE OF SHERIDAN. 197 
 
 (Post-mark, 1814, Feb. 18th, Biggleswade. Not franked.) 
 " (Private.) Southhill, Thursday. 
 
 " Dr. Ward, — Thou art a trust y 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 hor- 
 ror. 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 con- 
 nections, put up a little scaffolding in my hall that may serve 
 to wash the walls and whitewash the ceiling as soon as you re- 
 ceive this. I will explain my motive when I arrive on Sunday. 
 As I suppose I have replaced the last 10Z. 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 
 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, rinding the world wag slowly on 
 with him, had an idea of adding to his occupations as stage- 
 manager and music-seller that of wine-merchant, in conse- 
 quence 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, com- 
 poser 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 in- 
 toxicating 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 Majes- 
 ties 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 Picca- 
 dilly, 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 t said he, 
 fixing his penetrating eye on me. I said — 'You are afraid of 
 tlic author of the School for Scandal.' " There is an anecdote 
 of lli is 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." 
 11 What are they?" was the question. " His powerful Rivals." 
 One of Sheridan's jests against Kelly was, that, on arriving 
 together at KemhSe's house on one occasion, Kelly went up 
 the house, and begged Sheridan, who was scraping 
 ■ 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 — " By Jasus, 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 atten- 
 tion to the sceneiy ; 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 Devon- 
 shire, and concluded by saying that Kelly had put a very 
 puzzling question to him, which was — " Suppose, Mr. Sheri- 
 dan, I had been killed by the fall, who would have main- 
 tained 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 ' k 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 me- 
 morable 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 en- 
 treated 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 cot- 
 tage 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 con- 
 clusion 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 five- 
 aud-twenty years through which he enjoyed his friendship, he 
 never heard him say a single word that could wound the feel- 
 ings 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 reso- 
 lution had been passed by the committee,* offering the use 
 of a box to Mrs. 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 conversa- 
 tional 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 
 tli is body, " with due modesty and with the true spirit of tradesmen they 
 ed 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 ;i composition of Lord Byron's was substi- 
 tuted ; the only advantage which the public derived was the publication of 
 one of the most successful scries 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. 
 
 Misery 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 hu- 
 miliation 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 com- 
 mercial 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, forget- 
 ful 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 upon 
 
202 LIFE OF SHERIDAN. 
 
 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 Sove- 
 reign. 
 
 Still it would be unjust to pass over in silence those cir- 
 cumstances 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 Com- 
 mons, 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 ad- 
 mirable discussion of that author's Life of Sheridan, thus 
 gives the actual case ; — " With regard to the alleged gift of 
 4000Z. by his Majesty, we have the most sincere pleasure in 
 saying that we have every reason to believe that the Illus- 
 trious 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 SOOOZ., 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 the 
 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 careless- 
 ness, even of the physician's prescriptions, was remarked — 
 do 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 mes- 
 sage to say, if he would wait, he would get ready and see 
 him ; but, after waiting, a bell was rung, and an announce- 
 ment 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 he 
 would return the next day. The next day, however, Sheridan 
 was no better; he talked with his wife, but his sensibility 
 
204 LIFE OF SHERIDAN. 
 
 prevented his speaking much ; she told him that she had sent 
 for her friend Dr. Howley, the Bishop of London, who had 
 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 counte- 
 nance — 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 diges- 
 tion — his anxieties preyed upon his mind — until at length he 
 sank beneath a load of misery. A diseased state of the sto- 
 mach developed itself, with symptoms of a harassing nature. 
 There was, however, in him a natural tone and vigour of con- 
 stitution which would have enabled him, with adequate atten- 
 tion 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 occa- 
 sion 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 
 within 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 
 
LIFE OF SHERIDAN 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 phy- 
 sician 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 eveiy 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, Westmin- 
 ster, 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 Mulgrave, 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 be 
 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 found — 
 
 RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN, 
 
 Born 1751, 
 
 Died 7th July, 1816. 
 
 This marble is the tribute of an attached friend, 
 
 Peter Moore. 
 
THE EIVALS. 
 
 A COMEDY. 
 
 PREFACE 
 
 A pkeface to a play seems generally to be considered as a kind of closet- 
 prologue, in which — if Ms piece has been successful — the author solicits that 
 indulgence from the reader which he had before experienced from the au- 
 dience : 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 deci- 
 sive), 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 so- 
 licitude on the part of the -writer becomes unnecessary at least, if not an in- 
 trusion : 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 cir- 
 cumstance which the author is informed has not before attended a theatrical 
 trial, and w T hich 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 con- 
 sciousness of error, do not wish to palliate the faults which they acknowledge ; 
 and, however, trifling the performance, to second their confession of its defi- 
 ciencies, 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 ma- 
 nagers 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 
 
 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. 
 Hum* in writing has long been exploded as an excuse for an author ; — how- 
 ever, 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 cur- 
 tailing 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 remain- 
 ing, because he had assisted in pruning so many more. Hence, though I 
 was not uninformed that the acts Avere still too long, I flattered myself that, 
 after the first trial, I might with safer judgment proceed to rcrnove 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 conver- 
 sant witli 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 repre- 
 sentation 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 1 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 judgment, 
 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 un- 
 provoked. 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- 
 did and judicious friend attending, in behalf of the public, at his last re- 
 hearsal. It he can dispense with ilattery, he is sure at least of sincerity, and 
 even though the annotation be rude, he may rely upon the justness of the com- 
 ment. 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 ex- 
 pect some deference to its opinion! from principles of politeness at least, if not 
 from gratitude. 
 
 As lor 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. 
 
 209 
 
 their remarks, which should place them as far beneath the notice of a gen- 
 tleman, as their original dulness had sunk them from the level of the most 
 unsuccessful author. 
 
 It is not without pleasure that I catch at an opportunity of justifying my- 
 self from the charge of intending any national reflection in the character of 
 Sir Lucius O'Trigger. If any gentleman opposed the piece from that idea, 
 I thank them sincerely for their opposition ; and if the condemnation of this 
 comedy (however misconceived the provocation) could have added one spark 
 to the decaying flame of national attachment to the country supposed to be 
 reflected on, I should have been happy in its fate ; and might with truth 
 have boasted, that it had done more real service in its failure, than the suc- 
 cessful morality of a thousand stage-novels will ever effect. 
 
 It is usual, I believe, to thank the performers in a new play, for the exer- 
 tion of their several abilities. But where (as in this instance) their merit 
 has been so striking and uncontroverted, as to call for the warmest and 
 truest applause from a number of judicious audiences, the poet's after-praise 
 comes like the feeble acclamation of a child to close the shouts of a multitude. 
 The conduct, however, of the principals in a theatre cannot be so apparent to 
 the public. I think it therefore but justice to declare, that from this theatre 
 (the only one I can speak of from experience) those writers who wish to try 
 the dramatic line will meet with that candour and liberal attention, which 
 are generally allowed to be better calculated to lead genius into excellence, 
 than either the precepts of judgment, or the guidance of experience. 
 
 THE AUTHOR. 
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONS, 
 
 AS ORIGINALLY ACTED AT COVENT-GARDEN THEATRE IN 1775. 
 
 < yAb -}Mt. 
 
 Skitter. 
 
 Sir Anthony Ab- 
 solute 
 Captain Absolute Mr. Woochvard. 
 Fattl eland . . . Mr. Lewis. 
 Acres .... Mr. Quid: 
 SiRLrcrosO'TRia-? 
 
 Fag . 
 David 
 
 Mr. Lee. 
 
 . Mr. Lee Lewes. 
 . Mr. Dunstal. 
 
 Thomas . . . 
 Mrs. Malaprop 
 Lydia Languish 
 Julia . . . . 
 
 Lucy . . . . 
 
 Mr. Fearon. 
 Mrs. Green. 
 Miss Bavsanh 
 Mrs. Bulhley. 
 \ Mrs. Lessing- 
 1 ham. 
 
 Maid, Boy, Servants, &c. 
 
 SCENE— Bath. 
 Time of Action — Five Hours 
 
210 THE RIVALS. 
 
 PROLOGUE. 
 BY THE AUTHOR. 
 
 SPOKEN BY MR. WOODWARD AND MR. QUICK. 
 
 Enter Serjeant-at-law, and Attorney following, and giving 
 a paper. 
 
 Serj. What "s here ! — a vile cramp hand ! I cannot see 
 Without my spectacles. 
 
 Att. He means his fee. 
 
 Nay, Mr. Serjeant, good sir, try again. [Gives money. 
 
 Serj. The scrawl improves ! [more] come, 'tis pretty plain. 
 Hey ! how 's this ? Dibble ! — sure it cannot be ! 
 A poet's brief ! a poet and a fee ! 
 
 Att. Yes, sir ! though you without reward, I know, 
 Would gladly plead the Muse's cause. 
 
 Serj. So !— so ! 
 
 Att. And if the fee offends, your wrath should fall 
 On me. 
 
 Serj. Dear Dibble, no offence at all. 
 
 Att. Some sons of Phoebus in the courts we meet, 
 
 Serj. And fifty sons of Phoebus in the Fleet ! 
 
 Att. Nor pleads he worse, who with a decent sprig 
 Of bays adorns his legal waste of wig. 
 
 Serj. Full-bottom'd heroes thus, on signs, unfurl 
 A leaf of laurel in a grove of curl ! 
 Yet tell your client, that, in adverse days, 
 This wig is warmer than a bush of bays. 
 
 Jit. Do you, then, sir, my client's place supply, 
 Profuse of robe, and prodigal of tie- 
 
 Do you, will) all those blushing powers of face, 
 And wonted bashful hesitating grace, 
 Rise in the court, and flourish on the case. [Exit. 
 
 Serj. For practice then suppose— this brief will show it, — 
 Me, Serjeant Woodward, — counsel for the poet. 
 Used t<» ill-' ground, I know 'lis bard to deal 
 With tins dread court, from whence there's no appeal; 
 No tricking here to blunt the edge of law, 
 ( >r, damn'd in equity, escape by flaw : 
 Hut judgment given, your sentence must remain; 
 No writ of error lies — to Drury-lane! 
 
THE KIVALS. 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 clismiss'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 MES. BULKLEY. 
 
 Gbanted 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, 1 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. 
 
 p 2 
 
212 THE RIVALS. [ACT I. 
 
 Must we displace her ? And instead advance 
 The goddess of the woful countenance — 
 The sentimental Muse !— Her emblems view. 
 The Pilgrim's Progress, and a sprig of rue ! 
 View her — too chaste to look like flesh and blood — 
 Primly portray 'd on emblematic wood ! 
 There, fix'd in usurpation, should she stand, 
 She 11 snatch the dagger from her sister's hand : 
 And having made her votaries weep a flood, 
 Good heaven ! she '11 end her comedies in blood — 
 Bid Harry Woodward break poor Dunstal's crown ! 
 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. 
 
 Scene I. — A Street. 
 
 Enter 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 old fellow-servant. 
 
 Fog. Excuse my glove, Thomas : — I'm devilish glad to see 
 you, my bid. Why, my prince of charioteers, you look aa 
 hearty ! — but who the deuce thought of seeing you in Bath? 
 
 * Pointing to Tragedy. 
 
SC. I.J THE KIVALS. 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 hours 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 
 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 
 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. 
 
 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 indeed 
 
 Fag. Ah ! Thomas, there lies the mystery o' the matter 
 Hark'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 to Sir Anthony 
 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 ? 
 
214 THE RIVALS. [ACT I. 
 
 Fag. 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 in 
 Gloucestershire. 
 
 Thos. Well — I wish they were once harnessed together in 
 matrimony.— But pray, Mr. Fag, what kind of a place is this 
 Bath? — I ha' heard a deal of it — here 's a mort o' merry- 
 making, 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. Faulkland's gentleman and I keep it up a little in private 
 parties; — 1 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, 
 believe me, Mr. Fag: and look'ee, I'll never gi' up mine — 
 die lawyers and doctors may do as they will. 
 
 Fag. Well, Thomas, well not quarrel about that. 
 
SC. II.] THE EIVALS. 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. Fag 
 
 Fag. 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 Mes. Malapeop's Lodgings. 
 
 Lydia sitting on a sofa, with a hook 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. 
 
 I/yd. And could not you get The Reivard of Constancy? 
 
 Lticy. No, indeed, ma'am. 
 
 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, 
 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 
 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 EIVALS. [ACT I. 
 
 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 
 Hie 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 Lucy. 
 
 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 
 (online, I me ever since! Yet, would you believe it? she has 
 ul»olutely fallen in love with a tall Irish baronet she met one 
 night since we have been here, at Lady Macshuffle's rout. 
 
 Jul. Von jest, Lydia! 
 
 Lyd. No, upon my word. — She really carries on a kind of 
 correspondence with him, under a feigned name though, till 
 
SC. IT.] THE RIVALS. 217 
 
 she chooses to he known to him; — hut 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 hecome 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 he 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 oppor- 
 tunity. So, last Thursday, I wrote a letter to jnyself, to 
 inform myself that Beverley was at that time paying his 
 addresses to another woman. I signed it your friend un- 
 known, 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 Ve lost him for ever. 
 
 Jul. If he is as deserving and sincere as you have repre- 
 sented him to me, he will never give you up so. Yet con- 
 sider, 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 many 
 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 the 
 alternative. 
 
 Jul. Nay, this is caprice ! 
 
 Lyd. What, does Julia tax me with caprice? — I thought 
 her lover Faulkland had inured her to it. 
 
318 THE EIVALS. [ACT I 
 
 Jul. I do not love even his faults. 
 
 Lyd. But apropos — you have sent to him, I suppose ? 
 
 Jul. Not yet, upon my word — nor has he the least idea of 
 my being in Bath. Sir Anthony's resolution was so sudden, 
 I 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 impe- 
 rious as a lover. 
 
 Jul. Nay, you are wrong entirely. We were contracted 
 before my father s death. That, and some consequent em- 
 barrassments, 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 rude- 
 ness. Unused to the fopperies of love, he is negligent of the 
 little duties expected from 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 emo- 
 tion 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 imperfec- 
 tions 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. (Jratitude may have strengthened my attachment to 
 Mr. Faulkland, but I loved him before he had preserved me ; 
 yet sun lv that alone were an obligation sufficient. 
 
 Lyd. Obligation ! why a water spaniel would have done as 
 mnofa !- Well, I should never think of giving my heart to a 
 man Ixraiisr lie could swim. 
 
SC. II.] THE BIVALS. 219 
 
 Jul. Come, Lydia, you are too inconsiderate. 
 Lyd. Nay, I do but jest. — What 's here ? 
 
 Be-enter Lucy in a hurry. 
 
 Lucy. 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 
 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. 
 
 Be-enter Lucy. 
 
 Lucy. 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. — There — 
 through my room you '11 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 Bode- 
 riclc Bandom 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. 
 
 Eiicy. burn it, ma'am ! the hair-dresser has torn away as 
 far as Proper Pride. 
 
 Lyd. Never mind — open at Sobriety. — Fling me Lord Ches- 
 terfield's Letters. — Now for 'em. [Exit Lucy. 
 
 Enter Mrs. Malapeop, and Sir Anthony Absolute. 
 
 Mrs. Mai. There, Sir Anthony, there sits the deliberate 
 simpleton who wants to disgrace her family, and lavish her- 
 self on a fellow not worth a shilling. 
 
 Lyd. Madam, I thought you once 
 
 Mrs. Mai. You thought, miss ! I don't know any business 
 you have to think at all — thought does not become a young 
 
220 THE RIVALS [ACT II 
 
 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. 
 
 Lyd. Ah, madam! our memories are independent of our 
 wills. It is not so easy to forget. 
 
 Mrs. Mai. 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. Mai. 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 prefer- 
 ence for any one else, the choice you have made would be my 
 aversion. 
 
 Mrs. Mai. 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 blacka- 
 moor — 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. Mai. Take yourself to your room. — You are fit com- 
 pany for nothing but your own ill-humours. 
 
 Lyd. Willingly, ma'am — I cannot change for the worse. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Mrs. Mai There 's a little intricate hussy for you ! 
 
 Sir A nth. It is not to be wondered at, ma'am, — all this is 
 
SC. II.] THE RIVALS. 221 
 
 the natural consequence of teaching girls to read. Had I a 
 thousand daughters, by Heaven! I'd as soon have them 
 taught the black art as their alphabet ! 
 
 Mrs. Mai. 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. Mai. 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. Mai. Fy, fy, Sir Anthony ! you surely speak la- 
 conically. 
 
 Sir Anth. Why, Mrs. Malaprop, in moderation now, what 
 would you have a woman know ? 
 
 Mrs. Mai. 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, 
 I would never let her meddle with Greek, or Hebrew, or 
 algebra, or simony, or fluxions, or paradoxes, or such inflamma- 
 tory branches of learning — neither would it be necessary for 
 her to handle any of your mathematical, astronomical, dia- 
 bolical 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 super- 
 cilious knowledge in accounts ; — and as she grew up, I would 
 have her instructed in geometry, that she might know some- 
 thing of the contagious countries ; — but above all, Sir Anthony, 
 she should be mistress of orthodoxy, that she might not mis- 
 spell, 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 super- 
 stitious article in it. 
 
 Sir Anth. Well, well, Mrs. Malaprop, I. will dispute the 
 point no further with you ; though I must confess, that you 
 
222 THE KIVALS. [ACT I, 
 
 are a truly moderate and polite argiier, 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. Mai. 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. 
 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. Mai. 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. Mai. 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, 1 must leave you; and let me beg you, Mrs. Malaprop, 
 to enforce this matter roundly to the girl. — Take my advice — 
 keep 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. Mai. Well, at any rate I shall be glad to get her from 
 under my intuition. She has somehow discovered my par- 
 tiality for Sir Lucius 'Trigger — sure, Lucy can't have be- 
 trayed 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 '? 
 
ACT H. SC. I.] THE RIVALS. 223 
 
 Mrs. Mai. Yes, girl. — Did you see Sir Lucius while you 
 was out? 
 
 Lucy. No, indeed, ma'am, not a glimpse of him. 
 
 Mrs. Mai. You are sure, Lucy, that you never mentioned 
 
 Lucy Oh gemini ! I 'd sooner cut my tongue out. 
 
 Mrs. Mai. Well, don't let your simplicity be imposed on. 
 
 Lucy. No, ma'am. 
 
 Mrs. Mai. So, come to me presently, and I '11 give you 
 another letter to Sir Lucius ; hut 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, Jive; hats, ruffles, caps, 
 &c. Sc, numberless I — 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 discovered — 
 two guineas, and a black paduasoy. — Item, from Mr. Acres, 
 for carrying divers letters — which I never delivered — two gui- 
 neas, and a pair of buckles. — Item, from Sir Lucius O'Trig- 
 ger, 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 II. 
 
 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 con- 
 sistently. 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 submis- 
 sion, 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 ? 
 
SC. I.] THE RIVALS. 225 
 
 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 down 
 
 Abs. 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, 1 11 tease him a little before I tell 
 him — 
 
 Enter 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 pre- 
 pare her gradually for the discovery, and make myself neces- 
 sary to her, before I risk it. — Well, but Faulkland, you '11 dine 
 with us to-day at the hotel ? 
 
 Q 
 
226 THE KIVALS. [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 apprehen 
 sion 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 spirits — 
 her health — her life. — My absence may fret her ; her anxiety 
 for my return, her fears for me may oppress her gentle tem- 
 per : 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. 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 aarived here with my father within this hour. 
 
 Faulk. Can you be serious? 
 
 Abs. I thought you knew Sir Anthony better than to be 
 
SC. I.] THE RIVALS. 227 
 
 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 un- 
 easiness 
 
 '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, who 
 
 Faulk. 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, 
 who 
 
 Abs. 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. Faulk- 
 land, you are indeed a happy man. 
 
 Faulk. I have not seen Miss Melville, yet, sir; — I hope she 
 enjoyed full health and spirits in Devonshire ? 
 
 Q 2 
 
228 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 in- 
 disposed. 
 
 Acres. False, false, sir — only said to vex you: quite the re- 
 verse, 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 ab- 
 sence from those we love. — Now confess — isn't there some- 
 thing unkind in this violent, robust, unfeeling health? 
 
 Abs. Oh, it was very unkind of her to be well in your ab- 
 sence, 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 confound- 
 edly 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, 
 Faulkland? 
 
SC. I. 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 quive- 
 rante! — 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 Mel- 
 ville sung? 
 
 Acres. Not I indeed. 
 
 Abs. Stay, now, they were some pretty melancholy purl- 
 ing-stream airs, I warrant; perhaps you may recollect; — did 
 she sing, When absent from my souVs 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 ballad- 
 monger 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 ball 
 
 Faulk. Hell and the devil ! There ! — there — I told you 
 so! I told you so! Oh! she thrives in my absence! — Danc- 
 ing! 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 t — Suppose she has danced, what then ? — does not the 
 
 ceremony of society often oblige 
 
 Faulk. Well, well, 1 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, Abso- 
 solute; 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, warm- 
 breathed sighs impregnate the very air — the atmosphere be- 
 comes electrical to love, and each amorous spark darts through 
 every link of the chain! — I must leave you — I own lam 
 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 mis- 
 tDBSS, was he? 
 
 Abs. A little jealous, I believe, Bob. 
 
SC. I.] THE MVALS. 231 
 
 Acres. You don't say so? Ha! 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 straight- 
 way cashier the hunting-frock, and render my leather breeches 
 incapable. My hair has been in training some time. 
 
 Abs. Indeed! 
 
 Acres. Ay — and tho'ffthe 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 ! 1 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 swearing 
 
 Acres. 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 swearing — 
 ha! 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 EIYALS. [ACT II. 
 
 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. ITou 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 bum- 
 pers to little Lydia. 
 
 Abs. That I wall 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, there- 
 fore, to fix you at once in a noble independence. 
 
 Abs. Sir, your kindness overpowers me — such generosity 
 makes the gratitude of reason more lively than the sensations 
 even of filial affection. 
 
SC I.] THE RIVALS. 'iSS 
 
 Sir Anth. I am glad you are so sensible of my attention — 
 and 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 be- 
 tween you. 
 
 Abs. A wife, sir, did you say? 
 
 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 no 
 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 aiad 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, £o 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 EIVALS. [ACT 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 time 
 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 nfe your promise by a nod — and 1 11 tell you 
 what, Jack — I mean, you dog — if you don't, by 
 
 Abs. What, sir, promise to link myself to some mass of 
 ugliness! to 
 
 Sir 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 sldn 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 word 
 
 Sir Anth. So you will fly out! can't you be cool like me? 
 What the devil good ran passion do? — Passion is of no ser- 
 
SO.,1.] THE KIVALS. 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, why — 
 confound 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 ! 1 11 strip you of your 
 commission ; 1 11 lodge a five-and-threepence in the hands of 
 trustees, and you shall live on the interest. — 1 11 disown you, 
 1 11 disinherit you, 1 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 mat- 
 ters 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, w^ere 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 hi?n 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 in- 
 justice ! Ah ! it shows the worst temper — the basest 
 
236 THE EIVALS. [ACT II 
 
 Enter Boy. 
 
 Boy. Mr. Fag ! Mr. Fag ! your master calls you. 
 
 Fag. Well, you little dirty puppy, you 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 dis- 
 missed! — 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 ! 
 — rl 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 'Trigger. 
 
 Sir Iaic. 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.'] 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 Coffee- 
 house, 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? 
 
 Lacy. Yes, but I have — I ve got a letter for you in my 
 pocket. 
 
SC. II.] THE RIVALS. 237 
 
 Sir Luc. 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 is 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 ivill give me joy infallible to find Sir 
 Lucius 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 experience 
 
 Sir Luc. Experience ! what, at seventeen ? 
 
 Lucy. 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 '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. — Jf 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'll give you an 
 answer to this. So, hussy, take a kiss beforehand to put you 
 in mind. [Kisses her. 
 
 Lucy. Lud ! Sir Lucius — I never seed such a gemman 
 My lady won't like you if you 're so impudent. 
 
238 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. 
 
 Lucy. 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. 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 sup- 
 pose 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 1 his news. 
 
 Lucy. Well, you may laugh — but it is true, I assure you. — 
 [Going.] But, Mr. bag, tell your master not to be cast down 
 by tlii h 
 
 Fag. Oh, hell be so disconsolate! 
 
 hucy. And charge him not to think of quarrelling with 
 young Absolute* 
 
 Wag, Never fear ! never fear ! 
 
 Lucy. Be sure — hid him keep up his spirits. 
 
 Fag. Wc \vill — wo will. [Exeunt severally 
 
ACT HI. SC. I ] THE EIVALS. 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 con- 
 nection with her yet awhile. He has too summary a method 
 of proceeding in these matters. However, 1 11 read my re- 
 cantation instantly. My conversion is something sudden, in- 
 deed — 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 — 1 11 die sooner than forgive him. Die, did 
 I say ? 1 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, coming forward.'] 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? 
 
 Abs. 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 satis- 
 faction. 
 
240 THE RIVALS. [ACT HI. 
 
 Sir AntJi. Why now you talk sense — absolute sense — I 
 never heard any thing more sensible in my life. Confound 
 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, love- 
 breathing 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 inno- 
 cently 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 ! 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 ! 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 please — 
 Oh, my father — odd so! — yes — yes; if my father indeed had 
 
SC. 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 hand- 
 some ; 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 regi- 
 mentals 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 
 — han't you ? You have been playing the hypocrite, hey ! — 
 1 11 never forgive you, if you han'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, 1 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 you don't 
 come back stark mad with rapture and impatience — if you 
 don't, egad, I will marry the girl myself! [Exeunt. 
 
 E 
 
242 THE RIVALS. [ACT HI. 
 
 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, unsatis- 
 fied 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 de- 
 licate was the warmth of her expressions ! I was ashamed to 
 appear less happy — though 1 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 Julia. 
 
 Jul. I had not hoped to see you again so soon. 
 
 Faulk. Could I, Julia, be contented with my first welcome — 
 restrained as we were by the presence of a third person ? 
 
 Jul. Faulkland, when your kindness can make me thus 
 happy, let me not think that I discovered something of cold- 
 ness 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 1 own to you that my joy at hear- 
 ing of your health and arrival here, by your neighbour Acres, 
 was somewhat damped by bis 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, thai I should regard every mirthful moment in 
 your absence as a treason to constancy. The mutual tear that 
 steals down the check of parting lovers is a compact, that no 
 smile shall live there till they meet again. 
 
SC. II.] THE BIVALS, 243 
 
 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 sup- 
 pose 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 
 that 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 iEthiop, 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 
 privilege. 
 
 Faulk. Again, Julia, you raise ideas that feed and justify 
 
 b 2 
 
244 THE RIVALS. [ACT III 
 
 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 charac- 
 ter, to found dislike on ; my fortune such as few ladies could 
 be charged with indiscretion in the match. 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 reso- 
 lution there is in woman ! — how a few soft words can turn 
 them ! — No, faith ! — she is not coming either. — Why, Julia — 
 my 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 — [Hums a tune: 
 thew listens.] No — zounds ! she 's not coming! — nor don't in- 
 tend 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. Q45 
 
 with her tenderness! — 'twas barbarous and unmanly! — I 
 should be ashamed to see her now. — I '11 wait till her just re- 
 sentment is abated — and when I distress her so again, may I 
 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. Malapeop's Lodgings. 
 
 Mrs. Malaprop, with a letter in her hand, and Captain 
 Absolute 
 
 Mrs. Mai. 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 in- 
 ducement 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. Mai. Sir, you do me infinite honour ! I beg, captain, 
 you'll be seated. — [They sit.] Ah! few gentlemen, nowa- 
 days, 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. Mai. Sir, you overpower me with good-breeding. — 
 He is the very pine-apple of politeness ! — You are not igno- 
 rant, 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 any- 
 thing of. 
 
 Abs. Oh, I have heard the silly affair before. — I 'm not at 
 all prejudiced against her on that account. 
 
 Mrs. Mai. You are very good and very considerate, captain. 
 
£46 THE EIVALS. [ACT III 
 
 I am sure I have done every thing in my power since I ex- 
 ploded 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 eveiy particle that I enjoin 
 her 
 
 Abs. It must be very distressing, indeed, ma'am. 
 
 Mrs. Mai. Oh ! it gives me the hydrostatics to such a 
 degree. — I thought she had persisted from corresponding with 
 him ; but, behold, this very day, T have interceded another 
 letter from the fellow ; I believe I have it in my pocket. 
 
 Abs. Oh, the devil ! my last note. [Aside. 
 
 Mrs. Mai. Ay, here it is. 
 
 Abs. Ay, my note indeed ! the little traitress Lucy. 
 
 Mrs. Mai. 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 before — 
 
 Mrs. Mai. Nay, but read it, captain. 
 
 Abs. [Reads.] My souVs idol, my adored Lydia ! — Very ten- 
 der indeed ! 
 
 Mrs. Mai. Tender ! ay, and profane too, o' my conscience. 
 
 Abs. [Reads.] I am excessively alarmed at the intelligence 
 you send me, the more so as my new rival 
 
 Mrs. Mai. That 's you, sir. 
 
 Abs. [Reads.] Has universally the character of being an 
 accompli* It <ul gentleman and a man of honour. — Well, that's 
 handsome enough. 
 
 Mrs. Mai. Oh, the fellow has some design in writing so. 
 
 Abs. That he had, I '11 answer for him, ma'am. 
 
 Mrs. Mai. 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. Mai. Me, sir! — me! — he means me! — There— what 
 do you think now? — but go on a little further. 
 
 Abs. [mpudent sc Ldrel! — [Reads.] it shall go hard but 
 
 I will elude, her vigilance, as I am told that the same ridi- 
 culous ran in/, which makes her dress up her coarse features, 
 and deck her (lull chat with hard words which she doiit un- 
 derstand 
 
SC. III.] THE KIVALS. 247 
 
 Mrs. Mai. 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 I reprehend any thing in this 
 world, it is the use of my oracular tongue, and a nice de- 
 rangement of epitaphs ! 
 
 Abs. He deserves to he hanged and quartered ! let me see 
 — [Reads.] same ridiculous vanity 
 
 Mrs. Mai. 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. Mai. 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 con- 
 ceited 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. Mai. I am delighted with the scheme ;• never was any- 
 thing 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. Mai. Why, I don't know — I doubt she is not pre- 
 pared for a visit of this kind. There is a decorum in these 
 matters. 
 
 Abs. Lord! she won't mind me — only tell her Bever- 
 ley 
 
 Mrs. Mai. Sir! 
 
 Abs. Gently, good tongue. [Aside. 
 
 Mrs. Mai. 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. Mai. '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'll 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. Tis very ridiculous, upon my soul, ma'am, ha! 
 ha! ha! 
 
 Mrs. Mai. The little hussy won't hear. Well, 1 11 go and 
 tell her at once who it is — she shall know that Captain Ab- 
 solute is come to wait on her. And 1 11 make her behave as 
 becomes a young woman. 
 
 Abs. As you please, ma'am. 
 
 Mrs. Mai. 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. 1 11 see whether she knows me. 
 
 [Walks aside, and seems engaged in looking at the pic- 
 tures. 
 
 Enter Lydia. 
 
 Lyd. What a scene am I now to go through ! surely no- 
 thing 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 sup- 
 pose 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 ho seems a very negligent wooer ! — quite at his 
 ease, upon my word ! — I 11 speak first — Mr. Absolute. 
 
 Abs. Ma'am. [Turns round. 
 
 Lyd. heavens ! Beverley ! 
 
 Abs. Hush! — hush, my life! softly! be not surprised ' 
 
 Lyd. I am so astonished! and so terrified! and so over- 
 joyed! — 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 con- 
 triving to have liim kept away, have passed myself on her 
 for Captain Absolute. 
 
SC. III.] THE BIVALS 249 
 
 Lyd. 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 por- 
 tion 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-hjm ! [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 ad- 
 versity 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 Mks. Malapkop, listening. 
 
 Mrs. Mai. I am impatient to know how the little hussy 
 deports herself. [Aside 
 
 Abs. So pensive, Lydia ! — is then your warmth abated ? 
 
 Mrs. Mai. Warmth abated ! — so ! — she has been in a pas 
 sion, I suppose. [Aside 
 
 Jjyd. No — nor ever can while I have life. 
 
Q50 THE KIVALS. [ACT III 
 
 Mrs. Mai. An ill tempered little devil ! She '11 be in a 
 passion all her life — will she ? [Aside. 
 
 Lycl. Think not the idle threats of my ridiculous aunt 
 can ever have any weight with me. 
 
 Mrs. Mai. Very dutiful, upon my word ! [Aside. 
 
 Lyd. Let her choice he Captain Absolute, but Beverley 
 is mine. 
 
 Mrs. Mai. I am astonished at her assurance ! — to his face 
 — this is to his face ! [Aside 
 
 Abs. Thus then let me enforce my suit. [Kneeling. 
 
 Mrs. Mai. [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. Mai. 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. Mai. 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. Mai. 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. Mai. 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, pos- 
 sessed your heart? — Tell me that, I say. 
 
 Ljd. 'Tis true, ma'am, and none but Beverley 
 
 Mrs. Mai. 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. Mai. You are too good, captain — too amiably patient — 
 but come with me, miss. — Let us see you again soon, captain — 
 remember what we bawe fixed*. 
 
 Abs. I shall ma'am. 
 
 Mrs. Mai. Come, take a graceful leave of the gentleman. 
 
SC. IV.] THE RIVALS. 251 
 
 Lycl. May every blessing wait on my Beverley, my loved 
 
 Bev 
 
 Mrs. Mai. Hussy ! 1 11 choke the word in your throat ! — 
 come along — come along. 
 
 [Exeunt severally ; Captain Absolute kissing his hand to 
 Lydia — Mrs. Malapeop stopping her from 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 
 
252 THE RIVALS [ACT III 
 
 these outlandish heathen allemandes and cotillons are quite 
 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^as 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 'Trigger to wait on you, sir. 
 Acres. Show him in. [Exit Servant. 
 
 Enter Sir Lucius '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 sud- 
 denly 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 Lu- 
 cius, I call being ill used. 
 
 Sir Luc. Very ill, upon my conscience. — Pray, can you di- 
 vine the cause of it V 
 
 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 he 
 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, 1 think he lias given you the greatest pro- 
 
SC. IV. J THE KIVALS. 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 ac- 
 quaintance 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 ! 1 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 Trigger 
 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 love 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- 
 
254 THE RIVALS. [ACT III, SC 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 — Sir 
 
 Acres. That 's too civil by half. 
 
 Sir Luc. To prevent the confusion that might arise 
 
 Acres. Well 
 
 Sir Luc. From our both addressing the same lady- 
 Acres. 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'll 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. 
 
 A cres. 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 bore, who put a jest on me lately, at the expense 
 of my country, and I only want to fall in with the gentleman, 
 to cab him out. 
 
 Acres. By my valour, I should like to see you fight first ! 
 Odd. life! I should like to see you kill him, if it was only 
 to get a little lesson. 
 
ACT IV. SC. I.] THE KIVALS. 255 
 
 Sir Luc. I shall be very proud of instructing you. — Well 
 for the present — but remember now, when you meet your an- 
 tagonist, 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 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 Scene I. — Aches' Lodgings. 
 Aches 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, quarter- 
 staff, 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. 
 
256 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 be- 
 come my valour to listen to you. — What, shall I 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 acquaint- 
 ance 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 blood} r -minded weapons ! Well, I 
 never could abide 'em — from a child I never could fancy 'em! 
 — I suppose there ant 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 mes- 
 senger. — 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 mali- 
 cious-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 grass- 
 hopper. 
 
 Dav. Well, I say no more — 'twill be sad news, to be sure, 
 at Clod-Hall ! but I ha' clone. — How Phillis will howl when 
 she hears of it ! — Ay, poor bitch, she little thinks what shoot- 
 ing her master's going after! And I warrant old Crop, who 
 has carried your honour, field and road, these ten years, will 
 curse ili<' hour he was born [Whimpering. 
 
SO. I.] THE BIVALS. 257 
 
 Acres. It won't do, David — I am determined to fight — so 
 get 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 to- 
 morrow. 
 
 Acres. What's that? — Don't provoke me, David! 
 
 Dav. Good-bye, master. [Whimpering. 
 
 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, Bob? 
 
 Acres. Egad, but I will, Jack. Sir Lucius has wrought me 
 to it. He has left me full of rage — and 1 11 fight this even- 
 ing, 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 
 trouble 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 be 
 quite so proper. 
 
 Acres. Well, then, I must get my friend Sir Lucius. I 
 shall have your good wishes, however, Jack ? 
 
258 THE RIVALS. [ACT IV. 
 
 Abs. Whenever he meets you, believe me. 
 Re-enter Servant. 
 
 Ser. Sir Anthony Absolute is below, inquiring for the cap- 
 tain. 
 
 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. 1 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 '11 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 devour- 
 ing 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. 
 Mrs. Malaprop and Ltdia. 
 
 Mrs Mai. 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 Mai. No caparisons, miss, if you please. Caparisons 
 don't become a young woman. No! Captain Absolute is 
 indeed a fine gentleman ! 
 
SC. II. ] THE RIVALS. 259 
 
 Lyd. Ay, the Captain Absolute you have seen. [Aside. 
 
 Mrs. Mai. 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 : — 
 
 ■' Hesperian 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. Mai. 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 her face from 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. 
 
 Mrs. Mai. 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 Captain Absolute.] 
 Now, Jack, speak to her. 
 
 Abs. [Aside.] What the devil shall I do ! — [Aside to Sir 
 Anthony.] You see, sir, she won't even look at me whilst 
 
 s 2 
 
260 THE RIVALS. [ACT IV. 
 
 you are here. I knew she wouldn't ! I told you so. Let 
 me entreat you, sir, to leave us together ! 
 
 [Seems to expostulate with his father. 
 
 Lyd. [Aside.] I wonder I han't heard my aunt exclaim 
 yet ! sure she can't have looked at him ! — perhaps their regi- 
 mentals are alike, and she is something blind. 
 
 Si? % Anth. I say, sir, I won't stir a foot yet! 
 
 Mrs. Mai. I am sorry to say, Sir Anthony, that my afflu- 
 ence 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. Mai. 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. Mai. Sir Anthony, shall we leave them together? — 
 [Aside to Lydia.] All ! 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, or 
 
 Abs. [Aiide.] Now Heaven send she may be too sullen to 
 look round] — I musl disguise my voice. — [Draws near Lydia, 
 and speaks in a low hoars,' tone.] Will not Miss Languish 
 lend an car to the mild accents of true love? Will not 
 
SC. II.] THE RIVALS. 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 ! — 1 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 sup- 
 prise 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 up.] 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. Mai. 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. Mai. 0' 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 Bever- 
 ley 
 
 Sir Anth. Oh ! she 's as mad as Bedlam ! — or has this fel- 
 low 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. Mai. Ay, sir, who are you? mercy! I begin to 
 suspect ! — 
 
 Abs. [Aside.] Ye powers of impudence, befriend me ! — 
 [Aloud.] Sir Anthony, most assuredly I am your wife's son : 
 
262 THE HIVALS. [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. 
 
 Lyd. 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 — 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, dont 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. Mai. 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- 
 pilation of an old weather-beaten she-dragon — hey! — mercy! 
 — was it you that reflected on my parts of speech? 
 
 Abs. Dear sir ! my modesty will be overpowered at last, if 
 you don't assist me — I shall certainly not be able to stand 
 it! 
 
 Sir Anth. Come, come, Mrs. Malaprop, we must forget and 
 forgive : oddi life! matters have taken so clever a turn all of 
 a pudden, that 1 could find in my heart to be so good-hu- 
 nioinv.l! and 90 gallant ! hey! Mrs. Malaprop ! 
 
 Mrs. Mai. Well, sir Anthony, since you desire it, we will 
 
SC. II.] THE KIVALS. 263 
 
 not anticipate the past ! — so mind, young people — our retro- 
 spection will be all to the future. 
 
 Sir Anth. Come, we must leave them together ; Mrs. Mala- 
 prop, 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 happi- 
 ness ! — Youth's the season made for joy — [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. Malapkop.] 
 Tol-de-rol — 'gad, I should like to have a little fooling myself 
 — Tol-de-rol ! de-rol. 
 
 [Exit, singing and handing Mks. Malapeop. — 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 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. 
 
 Abs. 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, and 
 
 Lyd. The liceuce !— I hate licence ! 
 
 Abs. Oh my love ! be not so unkind! — thus let me en- 
 treat [Kneeling. 
 
 Lyd. Psha! — what signifies kneeling, when you kuow 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 been 
 
264 THE RIVALS. [ACT IT. 
 
 like a child ! — humouring my romance ! and 
 laughing, I suppose, at your success 
 
 Abs. You wrong me) Lydia, you wrong me — only hear 
 
 Lycl. 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 he 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 Cupids 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, I, 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 her — 
 but don't let that fret you. 
 
 Lyd. There is no bearing his insolence. [Bursts into tears. 
 
 He-enter Mrs. Malaprop and Sin Anthony Absolute. 
 
 Mrs. Mai. Come, we must interruptyour billing and cooing 
 awhile. 
 
 Lyd. This is worse than your treachery and deceit, you base 
 ingrate ! [Sobbing. 
 
 Sir Audi. What the devil's the matter now! — Zounds! 
 
SC. HI.] THE EIVALS. 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. Mai. Oh mercy! — I'm quite analysed, for my part! 
 — Why, Lydia, what is the reason of this ? 
 
 Lyd. Ask the gentleman, ma'am. 
 
 Sir Antli. Zounds ! I shall be in a frenzy ! — Why, Jack, 
 you are not come out to be any one else, are you ? 
 
 Mrs. Mai. A.j, 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. Mai. 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 word 
 
 Sir Anth. Come, no lying, Jack — I 'm sure 'twas so. 
 
 Mrs. Mai. Lud ! Sir Anthony !— 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. Mala- 
 prop : — you must tell her 'tis Jack's way — tell her 'tis all our 
 ways— it runs in the blood of our family!— Come away, Jack 
 — Ha ! ha ! ha ! Mrs. Malaprop —a young villain ! 
 
 [Pushing him out. 
 
 Mrs. Mai. ! Sir Anthony !— fy, captain ! 
 
 [Exeunt severally. 
 
 Scene III. — The North Parade. 
 
 Enter Sir Lucius 'Trigger. 
 
 Sir Luc. I wonder where this Captain Absolute hides him 
 
268 THE RIVALS. [ACT IV 
 
 self ! Upon my conscience ! these officers are always in one's 
 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 ser- 
 pent 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 Captain 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 hu- 
 mour 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 conversa- 
 tion 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 dis- 
 putant : — 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 contro- 
 versy. 
 
 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 1 would be at. 
 
sc. ni.] THE ELVALS. 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 ex- 
 plain 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 an> 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 jan 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 mat- 
 ters 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 small- 
 sword light, though it won't do for a long shot. So that mat- 
 ter 's settled, and my mind 's at ease ! [Exit. 
 
 Enter Faulkland. 
 
 Abs. Well met ! I was going to look for you. Faulk- 
 land ! all the demons of spite and disappointment have con- 
 spired 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 re- 
 treat with a frown ! 
 
 Faulk. But what 's the resource you 
 
268 THE RIVALS. [ACT IV. SC. III. 
 
 Abs. Oh, to wind up the whole, a good-natured Irishman 
 here has — [Mimicking 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 '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 accom- 
 modated. 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 differ- 
 ence 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! 
 I 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. ;i una] Bentence, indeed! — 'tis all over with you, faith! 
 
 Faulk. Nay, -lack, don't keep me in suspense ! 
 
 Abs. Hear then.— [Reads.] As I am convinced that my 
 dear Fatdkland's own reflections have ahead;/ upbraided him 
 for his last, unkind ness to me, I will not add a word on the 
 subject. I wish /" speak with you as soon as possible. Yours 
 ever and truly, Julia. There s stubbornness and resentment 
 i'ov you ! '[Owes him the letter.] Why, man, you don't seem 
 one v.liit the happier al this ! 
 
 Faulk. yes, J am; but — but 
 
 Abs. Confound your butsl you never hear any thing that 
 
ACT V. SC. I. J THE RIVALS. 269 
 
 would make another man bless himself, but you immediately 
 damn it with a but ! 
 
 Faulk. Now, Jack, as you are my friend, own honestly — 
 don't you think there is something forward, something indeli- 
 cate, 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 incor- 
 rigible ! 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. 
 
270 THE RIVALS. [ACT 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. Julia, had I been so 
 fortunate as to have called you mine entirely, before this mis- 
 chance 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 re- 
 gret to slumbering ; while virtuous love, with a cherub s hand, 
 shall smooth the brow of upbraiding thought, and pluck the 
 thorn from compunction. 
 
 Faulk. Julia ! I am bankrupt in gratitude ! but the time 
 
 30 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 delay 
 
 Faulk, 'Twill be better 1 should not venture out again till 
 dark. Yet am 1 grieved to think what numberless distresses 
 will pros heavy on your gentle disposition! 
 
EC. I.] THE EIYALS, 271 
 
 Jul. Perhaps your fortune may be forfeited by this un- 
 happy 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 in- 
 firmities 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 
 
272 THE RIVALS. [ACT V. 
 
 duty, as well as my affection : hence I have been content to 
 hear 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 nattered 
 myself that I should not have been insulted with a new pro- 
 bation 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 kind- 
 ness, 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 incor- 
 rigible 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 pre- 
 vented 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 be your least regret, that it lost 
 you the love of one who would have followed you in beggary 
 through the world ! [Fxit. 
 
 Faulk. She s gone — for ever ! — There was an awful reso- 
 lution in her manner, that riveted me to my place. — fool ! 
 — dolt ! — barbarian ! Cursed as I am, with more imperfec- 
 tions than my fellow wretches, kind Fortune sent a heaven- 
 gifted 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 be- 
 come a principal in it, and reverse the tale my cursed folly 
 put me upon forging here. — Love ! — tormentor ! — fiend ! — 
 whose innuenoe, 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. 
 
SG. I.] THE 11IVALS. 273 
 
 Enter Ltdia and Maid. 
 
 Maid. My mistress, ma'am, I know, was here just now — 
 perhaps 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 conso- 
 lation. — 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 vexatious 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 Ab- 
 solute been the person you took him for, I should not have 
 accepted your confidence on the subject, without a serious en- 
 deavour to counteract your caprice. 
 
 Lyd. So, then, I see I have been deceived by every one ! 
 But I don't care — 1 11 never have him. 
 
 Jul. Nay, Lydia 
 
 Lyd. 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 becom- 
 ing 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 w T onder 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 
 J be cried three times in a country church, and have an un- 
 ' mannerly fat clerk ask the consent of every butcher in the 
 parish to join John Absolute and Lydia Languish, spinster I 
 Oh that I should live to hear myself called spinster ! 
 
274 THE EIVALS. [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 ! — All, 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. Lud ! what has brought my aunt here ? 
 
 Enter Mrs. Malapkop, Fag, and David. 
 
 Mrs. Mai. So ! so ! here 's fine work ! — here 's fine suicide, 
 parricide, and simulation, going on in the fields ! and Sir An- 
 thony not to be found to prevent the antistrophe ! 
 
 Jul. For Heaven's sake, madam, what's the meaning of 
 this ? 
 
 Mrs. Mai. 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 mo- 
 ment 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 di- 
 vulging matters of this nature; for should we be tedious, 
 perhaps while we arc flourishing on the subject, two or three 
 lives may be lost ! 
 
 Lyd. <) patience I — Do, ma'am, for Heaven's sake ! tell us 
 what is the matter? 
 
 Mrs. Mai. Why, murder's the matter! slaughter's the 
 matter! killings the matter! — but he can tell you the per- 
 pend icuhirs. 
 
SC. I.J THE KIYALS. 275 
 
 Lyd. Then, prithee, sir, be brief. 
 
 Fag. Why then, ma'am, as to murder — I cannot take upon 
 me 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 al- 
 ways 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. Mai. 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 fire- 
 arms, 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 Faulk- 
 land. 
 
 Jul. Do, ma'am, let us instantly endeavour to prevent mis- 
 chief. 
 
 Mrs. Mai fy ! — it would be very inelegant in us : — we 
 should only participate things. 
 
 Dav. Ah ! do, Mrs. Aunt, save a few lives — they are des- 
 perately given, believe me. — Above all, there is that blood- 
 thirsty Philistine, Sir Lucius 'Trigger. 
 
 Mrs. Mai. Sir Lucius 'Trigger? mercy! have they 
 drawn poor little dear Sir Lucius into the scrape ? — Why, how 
 you staud, girl ! you have no more feeling than one of the 
 Derbyshire petrifactions ! 
 
 Lyd. What are we to do, madam ? 
 
 T 2 
 
276 THE RIVALS. [ACT V. 
 
 Mrs. Mai. 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. Mai. 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. Mai. 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 with- 
 out 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 ! 
 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 Saunder- 
 son, 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, so — 
 your 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 9 — hey ! 
 
SC. II.] THE BIYALS. 277 
 
 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 — to — 
 
 Sir 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. Xay, 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 ro- 
 mantic, devilish romantic, and very absurd of course : now, 
 sir, I intend, if she refuses to forgive me, to unsheath this 
 sword, and swear — 1 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 EIVALS. [ACT V. 
 
 Abs. Well, sir, you shall hear of my success — you shall 
 hear. — Lijdia !— 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 Absolute. 
 Enter David, running. 
 
 Dav. Stop him! stop him! Murder! Thief! Fire! — 
 Stop fire ! Stop fire ! — 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! 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 slaugh- 
 ter 
 
 Sir Anth. Murder! 
 
 Dav. Ay, please you, Sir Anthony, there 's all kinds of mur- 
 der, 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 — aldermen — 
 constables — churchwardens — and beadles — we can't be too 
 many to part them. 
 
 Sir Anth. Come along — give me your shoulder! we'll get 
 assistance as we go — the lying villain ! — Well, I shall be in 
 such a frenzy ! — So — this was the history of his trinkets ! 1 11 
 bauble him ! [Exeunt. 
 
 Scene III. — King's-Mead-Fields. 
 
 Enter Sir Lucius O'Tiugger 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. 
 
SC. III.] THE EIVALS. 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 — 1 11 show you. — [Measures paces along the stage.] 
 There now, that is a very pretty distance — a pretty gentle- 
 man'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 eight- 
 and-thirty yards 
 
 Sir Luc. Pho ! pho ! nonsense ! three or four feet between 
 the mouths of your pistols is as good as a mils. 
 
 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 
 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 Lucius — but I don't 
 understand 
 
 Sir 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 case — 
 would 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 tre- 
 mors ! 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 Imc. Ah ! that 's a pity ! — there 's nothing like being 
 used to a thing. — Pray now, how would you receive the gentle- 
 man's shot? 
 
 Acres. Odds files ! — I 've practised that — there, Sir Lucius 
 
280 THE EIVALS. [ACT V. 
 
 — there. — [Puts himself in an attitude.] A side-front, hey? 
 Odd ! 1 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 T 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 
 
 i &' 
 
 Sir Luc. Ay — may they — and it is much the genteelest atti- 
 tude 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. 
 
 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. 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 corning. [Looking. 
 
 Acres. Sir Lucius — if I wa'n't with you, I should almost 
 
SC. III.] THE EIVALS. 281 
 
 think I was afraid. — If my valour should leave me ! — Valour 
 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. mercy! — now — that I was safe at Clod-Hall! or 
 could be shot before I was aware ! 
 
 Enter Faulkland and Captatn 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. pray, Faulkland, fight to oblige Sir Lucius. 
 
 Faulk. Nay, if Mr. Acres is so bent on the matter 
 
 Acres. No, no, Mr. Faulkland; — 1 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 re- 
 present him — I can't see, for my soul, why it isn't just the 
 same thing. 
 
282 THE K1VALS. [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 oppor- 
 tunity 
 
 Acres 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 Blun- 
 derbuss-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 balls 
 
 Sir Luc. Well, sir? 
 
 Acres. I should have thought you a very ill-bred man. 
 
 Sir Luc. Pho ! you arc 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 homei 
 
 Sir Luc. Well, then, captain, 'tis we must begin— so come 
 out, my little counsellor — [Draws his sivord] — and ask the gen- 
 tleman, whether he will resij n the lady, without forcing you 
 to proceed against him? 
 
SC. III.] THE RIVALS. 283 
 
 Abs. Come on then, sir — [Draws] ; since you won't let it be 
 an amicable suit, here 's my reply. 
 
 Enter Sir Anthony Absolute, Dayid, Mes. Malapeop, 
 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 Antli. Put up, Jack, put up, or I shall be in a frenzy — 
 how 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 
 explaining his reasons. 
 
 Sir Anth. Gad ! sir, how came you to call my son out, with- 
 out 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. Mai. 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. Mai. Nay, no delusions to the past — Lydia is con- 
 vinced ; 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 mark 
 
 Jjyd. What is it you mean, sir? 
 
 Sir Luc. Come, come, Delia, we must be serious now — this 
 is no time for trifling. 
 
 Lnjd. Tis true, sir ; and your reproof bids me offer this gen- 
 tleman my hand, and solicit the return of his affections. 
 
 Abs. ! my little angel, say you so ! — Sir Lucius — I per- 
 ceive there must be some mistake here, with regard to the 
 affront whioh you affirm I have given you. I can only say, 
 
284 THE RIVALS. ACT V. 
 
 that it could not have been intentional. And as you must he 
 convinced, that I should not fear to support a real injury— you 
 shall now see that I am not ashamed to atone for an inadver- 
 tency — 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 preten- 
 sions 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. Mai. 0, he will dissolve my mystery! — Sir Lucius, 
 perhaps there 's some mistake — perhaps I can illuminate 
 
 Sir 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. Mai. Sir Lucius OTrigger— ungrateful as you are — I 
 own the soft impeachment — pardon my blushes, I am Delia. 
 
 Sir Luc. You Delia — pho ! pho ! be easy. 
 
 Mrs. Mai. 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. 
 
 Al>s. 1 am much obliged to you, Sir Lucius; but here's my 
 friend, Fighting Bob, unprovided for. 
 
 Sir Luc. 1 [ah ! 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 
 arc in your bloom yet. 
 
 Mrs. Mai. Sir Anthony- men arc all barbarians. 
 
 [All retire but Julia and Faulkland, 
 
SC. III.] THE RIVALS. 285 
 
 Jul. [Aside.] He seems dejected and unhappy — not sullen; 
 there was some foundation, however, for the tale he told me — 
 
 woman ! how true should be your judgment, when your re- 
 solution is so weak ! 
 
 Faulk. Julia ! — how can I sue for what I so little deserve ? 
 
 1 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 inclination 
 to resent it. As my heart honestly bids me place my weak- 
 ness to the account of love, I should be ungenerous not to ad- 
 mit the same plea for yours. 
 
 Faulk. Now I shall be blest indeed ! 
 
 Sir Antli. [Coming forward.'] 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 Faulk- 
 land 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 Booms — 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 hurt- 
 less 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 MKS. BULKLEY. 
 
 Ladies, for you — I heard our poet say — 
 
 He 'd try to coax some moral from his play : 
 
 " One moral's plain," cried I, (t without more fuss; 
 
 Man's social happiness all rests on us : 
 
 Through all the drama— whether damn'd or not — 
 
 Love gilds the scene, and women guide the plot. 
 
 From every rank obedience is our due — 
 
 D'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 — be '11 just step home to tell his dame. 
 
 The surly squire at noon resolves to rule, 
 Ami half the day — Zounds ! madam is a fool! 
 Convinced at night, the vanquished victor says, 
 Ali, 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 be sees fair bumpers swim, 
 And kisses Chloe on the sparkling brim ! 
 
EPILOGUE. 287 
 
 Nay, I have heard that statesmen — great and wise — 
 Will 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. 
 
 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, 
 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, 
 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 throws ! 
 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 ! 
 
ST. PATRICK'S DAY; 
 
 OR, 
 
 THE SCHEMING LIEUTENANT. 
 A FARCE. 
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONS, 
 
 AS ORIGINALLY ACTED AT CO VENT-GARDEN THEATRE IN 1775. 
 
 Lieutenant O'Connor Mr. Clinch. 
 Doctor Rosy . . Mr. Quick. 
 Justice Credulous . Mr. Lee Lewes 
 Serjeant Trounce . Mr. Booth. 
 
 Corporal Flint 
 
 Lauretta .... Mrs. Cargill. 
 Mrs. Bridget Cre- > .^ 
 
 DULOUS. y 
 
 Drummer, Soldiers, Countrymen, and 
 Servant. 
 
 SCENE.— A Town in England. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 Scene I. — Lieutenant O'Connor's Lodgings. 
 Enter Serjeant Trounce, Corporal Flint, and four 
 Soldiers. 
 
 1 Sol. I say you are wrong ; we should all speak together, 
 each for himself, aud 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 mi- 
 litia striplings: there's a discipline, look'ee, in all things, 
 whereof the Serjeant must be our guide ; he 's a gentleman of 
 words ; Ik; 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. 
 
 Trounce. Good soldiers, and fellow gentlemen, if you make 
 
SC. J.j ST. PATRICKS DAY. 289 
 
 me jour spokesman, you will show the more judgment ; and 
 let me alone for the argument. 1 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 An- 
 gel 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 beha- 
 viour ; 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 di- 
 
 u 
 
290 st. patkick's day; 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 honour's 
 health. 
 
 All. Oh, damn malice! St. Patrick's and his honour's by 
 all means. 
 
 Flint. Come away, then, lads, and first we 11 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 jus- 
 tice 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 con- 
 sent afterwards. 
 
 Rosy. So, then, the case of her fortune is desperate, hey ? 
 
 0"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 na- 
 ture made her, hey! No artificial graces, no cosmetic var- 
 nish; 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 ciroumvallation of hoop, with a breast-work 
 of whalebone that would turn a pistol-bullet, much less Cu- 
 pid's arrows, — then turret on turrel on top, with stores of con- 
 cealed weapons, under pretence of black pins, — and above all, 
 a standard of feathers that would do honour to a knight of the 
 
SC. 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 dissipa- 
 tions 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. 
 
 Bosy. 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 
 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, lieu- 
 tenant. 
 
 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 in- 
 vent the ingredients, almost as weU as myself: then she was 
 such a hand at making foreign waters ! — for Seltzer, Pyrmont, 
 
 u 2 
 
292 st. Patrick's day; or, [act i. 
 
 Islington, 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 body- 
 guard. 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 en- 
 deavour 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. 
 
 0' Con. 0, the devil! 
 
SC II.] THE SCHEMING LIEUTENANT. 293 
 
 Rosy. We must all die 
 
 O'Con, Doctor! 
 
 Rosy. Kings, lords, and common whores 
 
 [Exeunt, Lieutenant O'CoNNOR/omn^r Rosy off. 
 Scene II. — A Room in Justice Credulous' House. 
 Enter Laueetta 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 
 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 1 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 you were the best natured and best look- 
 ing woman in the world. 
 
 Mrs. Bri. Why, child, I never said but that Lieutenant 
 
294 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. 
 
 Mrs. Bri. He ordered abroad ! He went abroad for his 
 health. 
 
 Just. Why, Bridget! 
 
 Mrs. Bri. Well, deary. — Now hold your tongue, miss. 
 
 Just. A message from Dr. Rosy, and Doctor Rosy says 
 
 Lau. 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 man 
 
 Mrs 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 
 know 
 
 Just. 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 iliis girl will interrupt and let nobody speak but 
 herself? — Ay, I don't wonder, my life, at your impatience; 
 your poor dear lips quiver to speak ; but I suppose she 11 run 
 
SC. II.] THE SCHEMING LIEUTENANT. 295 
 
 on, and not let you put in a word. — You may very well be 
 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 minx 
 
 Just. 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 case 
 
 Just. 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 
 
 [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 '11 make the red-coats keep their distance. 
 
 Just. O the villains ! this is St. Patrick's day, and the 
 rascals have been parading my house all the morning. I 
 know they have a design upon me ; but I have taken all pre* 
 
296 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 Cracks kull 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 high- 
 waymen. 
 
 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? 
 
 OVon. Humphrey Hum. 
 
 Just. Hum — I don't like Hum ! 
 
 O'Con. But I be mostly called honest Humphrey 
 
 Rosy. There, I told you so, of noted honesty. 
 
 Just. Well, honest Humphrey, the doctor has told you my 
 terms, and you arc 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? 
 
 OTon. A bribe ! What 's that ? 
 
 Just. A very ignoranl r<-ll<»w indeed I 
 
 "Rosy. His worship hopes you will never part with your 
 honesty for money. 
 
ACT 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 ! 
 
 CfCon. Ay, the z witch 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 '11 
 agree. — Come along, honest Humphrey. [Exit. 
 
 0"Con. My dear doctor, now remember to bring the justice 
 presently to the walk : I have a scheme to get into his confi- 
 dence at once. 
 
 Rosy. I will, I will. [They shake hands. 
 
 Re-enter Justice Ckedulous. 
 
 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! 
 
298 st. Patrick's day; or, [act n 
 
 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 relations 
 be all dead, thank heavens, more or less. I have but one 
 poor mother left in the world, and she 's an helpless woman. 
 
 Trounce. Indeed ! a very extraordinary case — quite your own 
 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 grammar- 
 school. 
 
 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 Giant- 
 killer, 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, lie is, and 1 am commander over him. 
 
 CCon. What! be your Serjeants greater than your captains? 
 
 Trounce. To be sure we are ; 'tis our business to keep them 
 
SC. 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 
 to his hurry, if your lieutenant does not demean himself ac- 
 cordingly, 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 over small things. But hark'ee, between ourselves, 
 he is most confoundedly given to wenching. 
 
 Enter Coepoeal Flint. 
 
 Flint. Please your honour, the doctor is coming this way 
 with his worship — We are all ready, and have our cues. [Exit. 
 
 OVon. 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 I 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. 1 11 see you hanged first, you pack of skurry vil- 
 lains ! [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. 
 
800 ST. PATRICKS day; or, [act n. 
 
 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 — 1 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 him. 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, hussy 
 
 Lau. 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 1 lumphrcy, T am obliged to go abroad for a little 
 while ; let no one but yourself come near her ; don't be shame- 
 faced, 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. 
 
 J jiii. How this booby Btares after him! [Sits down and sings. 
 
 O'Con. Lauretta! 
 
 Lau. Not so free, fellow 1 [Sings. 
 
SC. n.] THE SCHEMING LIEUTENANT. 301' 
 
 O'Con. Lauretta! look on me. 
 
 La u. 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 on your 
 father in this disguise. 
 
 Lau. Well now, I declare this is charming — you are so dis- 
 guised, my dear lieutenant, and }^ou 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 fulfil 
 
 Lau. pray now, dear Humphrey 
 
 O'Con. Nay, 'tis but what old Mittimus commanded 
 
 [Offers to kiss her. 
 
 He-enter Justice Ceedulous. 
 
 Just. Lauiy, 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 sight 
 
 Lau. Indeed, papa, now I' 11 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. Patricks day; or, [act n. 
 
 Lau. Oh now, papa, you frighten me, and I am giddy again ! 
 —Oh, help! 
 
 O'Con. dear lady, she '11 fall ! [Takes her into his arms. 
 
 Just. Zounds ! what before my face — why then, thou miraclo 
 of impudence ! — [Lays hold of him and discovers him.] — Mercy 
 on me, who have we here ? — Murder ! Robbery ! Fire ! Rape ! 
 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 alone 
 
 Just. Treason ! Gunpowder ! 
 
 Enter a Servant with a blunderbuss. 
 Now, scoundrel ! let her go this instant. 
 
 Lau. papa, you '11 kill me ! 
 
 Just. Honest Humphrey, be advised. Ay, miss, this way, 
 if you please. 
 
 O'Con. Nay, sir, but hear me 
 
 Just. I '11 shoot. 
 
 O'Con. And you '11 be convinced 
 
 Just. I '11 shoot. 
 
 O'Con. How injurious 
 
 Just. I '11 shoot — and so your very humble servant, honest 
 Humphrey 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 1 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 her — 
 send her a pearl necklace in a pill-box, or a cordial draught 
 with an acrostic on the label. Well, those days are over : no 
 happiljese lasting: all is vanity — now sunshine, now cloudy— 
 we are, as it were, king and beggar — then what avails 
 
SO. m/| THE SCHEMING LIEUTENANT. 303 
 
 Enter Lieutenant O'Connor. 
 O'Con. doctor ! ruined and undone. 
 
 Bosy. The pride of beauty 
 
 OVon. I am discovered, and 
 
 Bosy. The gaudy palace 
 
 O'Con. The justice is 
 
 Bosy. The pompous wig 
 
 O'Con. Is more enraged than ever. 
 
 Bosy. The gilded cane ■ 
 
 O'Con. Why, doctor ! [Slapping him on the shoulder. 
 
 Bosy. Hey! 
 
 O'Con. Confound your morals ! I tell you I am discovered, 
 discomfited, disappointed. 
 
 Bosy. Indeed ! Good lack, good lack, to think of the in- 
 stability of human affairs ! Nothing certain in this world — 
 most 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. ' 
 
 Bosy. With all my heart — 1 11 warrant you I '11 bear a part 
 in it : but how the deuce were you discovered ? 
 
 O'Con. 1 11 tell you as we go ; there 's not a moment to 
 be lost. 
 
 Bosy. Heaven send we succeed better ! — but there 's no 
 knowing. 
 
 O'Con. Very true. 
 
 Bosy. We may, and we may not. 
 
 O'Con. Right. 
 
 Bosy. Time must show. 
 
 O'Con. Certainly. 
 
 Bosy. We are but blind guessers. 
 
 O'Con. Nothing more. 
 
 Bosy. Thick-sighted mortals. 
 
 O'Con. Remarkably. 
 
 Bosy. Wandering in error. 
 
 O'Con. Even so. 
 
 Bosy. Futurity is dark. 
 
 O'Con. As a cellar. 
 
 Bosy. Men are moles 
 
 [Exeunt, Lieutenant O'Connor forcing out Rosy. 
 
304 st. Patrick's day; or, [act n. 
 
 Scene IV. — A Boom 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 
 nor. 
 
 Just. Well, come read it out. 
 
 Mrs. Bri. [Reads.] Revenge is sweet. 
 
 Just. Jt begins so, does it? I 'm glad of that ; I '11 let the 
 dog know I 'm of his opinion. 
 
SC. IV.] THE SCHEMING LIEUTENANT. 305 
 
 Mrs. Bri. [Reads.] And though disappointed of my designs 
 upon your daughter, I ham still the satisfaction of knowing I 
 am revenged on her unnatural father ; 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 ! — 
 Oh, 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 your- 
 self. 
 
 Re-enter Seevant. 
 
 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 Doctoe 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 ca- 
 pitals ! Yes, yes, I 'm a sure job for the undertakers indeed ! 
 
 Mrs. Bri. Oh ! oh ! alas, doctor ! 
 
 x 
 
306 ST. PATRICKS day; or. [act ti. 
 
 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 ! — Hie 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 iudeed, 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 1 11 
 certainly see justice done on your murderer. 
 
 Just. I thank you, my dear friend, but I had rather see it 
 myself. 
 
 Rosy. Ay, bul if you recover, the villain will escape. 
 
 Mr*. Bri, Will be? then indeed it would be a pity you 
 should recover. I am 90 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 clear ; but if it 's the same 
 thing to you, my dear, I had as soon recover, notwithstanding. 
 — What, doctor, no assistance ! 
 
 . Bosy. 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 ! I '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 curecl 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 as- 
 sured nothing consoles me in my melancholy situation so 
 much as the thoughts of leaving you behind. 
 
 Re-enter Doctor Eosy, 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. 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 11 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 thou- 
 sand pounds. 
 
 x 2 
 
308 st. Patrick's day; or, [act ii 
 
 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. my dear, pray consider the will. 
 
 Enter Lauretta. 
 
 Lau. 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. 
 
 Just. How so ? 
 
 O'Con. Damsellum livivum suvum rislibani. 
 
 Bosy. 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, with- 
 out 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, 1 11 answer for it. 
 
 Just. [Reads.] In reading this you are cured, by your af- 
 fectionate son-in-law, O'Connor. — Who, in the name of Beel- 
 zebub, Birrah, who are you ? 
 
 (/'('mi. Ymir 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. 309 
 
 1 11 be poison'd again, and you shall be hanged. — 1 11 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! — Hark'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'Connoe.] 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 1 11 tell you 
 what — renounce your country and sell your commission, and 
 1 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 sub- 
 ject for us to quarrel about the rest of our lives. 
 
 Just. Why, truly, my dear, I think so, though we are sel- 
 dom 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 PERSONS. 
 
 AS ORIGINALLY ACTED AT COVENT GARDEN THEATRE, NOT. 21, 1775. 
 
 Don Ferdinand . Mr. Mattocks. | Lopez Mr. Wewitzer. 
 
 Don Jerome . . . Mr. Wilson. 
 
 Don Antonio . . Mr. Dubellamy. I Donna Louisa . . Mrs. Mattocks. 
 
 Don Carlos . . . Mr. Leoni. 
 Isaac Mendoza . . Mr. Quick. 
 Father Paul . . Mr. Mahon. 
 Father Francis . Mr. Fox. 
 Father Augustine Mr. Baker. 
 
 Donna Clara . . Mrs. Cargill. 
 The Duenna . . Mrs. Green. 
 
 Masqueraders, Friars, Porter, Maid, 
 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 feather- 
 bed 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 mis* 
 tre s, Donna Louisa, I suppose: so! we shall have the old 
 gentleman up presently. — Lest he should miss his son, I had 
 best lose no lime in getting In my po8t. [Exit. 
 
ACT I. SC. I. J 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 1 
 
 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 re- 
 gard you enough to appear, if you awaked her. 
 
 Don Ant. Nay, then, I '11 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 rough ? 
 Don Ant. . . An humble lover I. 
 Don Jer. . . How durst you, daughter, lend an ear 
 
 To such deceitful stuff? 
 
 Quick, from the window fly ! 
 Don. Louisa . Adieu, Antonio ! 
 Don Ant. . . Must you go? 
 Don. Louisa 1 We soon, perhaps, may meet again. 
 Don Ant. . J For though hard fortune is our foe, 
 
 The god of love will fight for us. 
 Don Jer. . . Reach me the blunderbuss. 
 Don Ant. _ . 1 The d of j who knQwg Qur -_ 
 Don. Loutsa J r 
 
 Don Jer. , . Hence, or these slugs are through your brain. 
 
 [Exeunt severally. 
 
319 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 so- 
 
 Don 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 be- 
 lieve 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, obsti- 
 nate, 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 beam- 
 ing 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. N'T. mini's Don Antonio, sir. 
 
 Don Ferd. Well, go you home — I shall be there presently. 
 
SC. II.] THE DUENNA. 313 
 
 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 cham- 
 ber — 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. 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. Ant. Then, my life for it, her mistress elopes after 
 you. 
 
 Don Ferd. Ay, to bless my rival, perhaps. I am in a hu- 
 mour to suspect every body. — You loved her once, and thought 
 her an angel, as 1 do now. 
 
314 THE DUENNA. [ACT I 
 
 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. 
 
 Aik. 
 
 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 1 ? 
 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 do 
 to others'. — But, to-morrow, Clara is to be forced into a 
 convent. 
 
 Don Ant. Well, and am not I so unfortunately circum- 
 stanced? To-morrow, your father forces Louisa to marry Isaac, 
 the Portuguese — but come with me, and we '11 devise some- 
 thing, I warrant. 
 
 Don Ferd. I must go home. 
 
 Don Ant. Well, adieu ! 
 
 Don Ferd. But, Antonio, if you did not love my sister, 
 you have too much honour and friendship to supplant me with 
 
 Clara? 
 
 Air. — Don Ant. 
 
 Friendship is the bond of reason ; 
 
 But if linuiiv disapprove, 
 Heaven dissolves all other treason 
 
 In the heart that's true to love. 
 
 
SC. HI.] THE DUENNA. 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 ! 
 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 Jekome'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 to 
 
 Duen. 'Twas thus I overheard him say to his friend, Don 
 Guzman, — I will demand of her to-morrow, once for 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 re- 
 turns 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. 
 
316 THE DUENNA. [ACT I 
 
 AlE. 
 Thou canst not boast of fortune's store, 
 
 My love, while me they wealthy call : 
 But I was glad to find thee poor— 
 For 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, Egyp- 
 tian 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, ho left his old religion for an estate, and 
 has not had time to get a new one. 
 
 Don. Louisa. Bui st;m<U like a dead wall between church 
 and Bynagogue, or like the blank loaves between the Old and 
 New Testament. 
 
SC. Til.] THE DUENNA. $^1 
 
 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 predomi- 
 nates 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 hus- 
 band can have — he 's not my choice. 
 
 Don Jer. But you are his ; and choice on one side is suffi- 
 cient — 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 duty — 
 no 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 '11 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 e'er a 
 sister, who is not at the same time a daughter of mine, I 'm. 
 
318 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 co'nfess 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 wo- 
 man 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 attach- 
 ment a woman never likes a man with ardour till she has suf- 
 fered for his sake — [Noise.] so ! What bustle is here ! be- 
 tween 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 1) ore as a scarecrow? 
 
 Duen. Wli;i! ? 
 
 Don Jer. A scarecrow — to prove a decoy-duck! What have 
 you to say for yourscli '.' 
 
SC. IH.] 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 my- 
 self by naming what you are. — Yes, savage, 1 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 on — 
 what have you pilfered, eh ? 
 
 Duen. Sir, I must take leave of my mistress ; she has valu- 
 ables 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 ! 
 
 Aie. 
 If a daughter you have, she's the plague of your life, 
 No peace shall you know, though you 've buried your wife ! 
 At twenty she mocks at the duty you taught her— 
 Oh, 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 ! 
 
320 THE DUENNA. [ACT I. 
 
 Re-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 1 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 suc- 
 ceed, 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 Fer- 
 dinand's key, in making our escape, I think we had best find 
 him, if it were only to thank him. 
 
 Don. Clara. No — lie 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. 321 
 
 - 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 Maid, 
 
 Don. Louisa. Ha ! who are those ? sure one is Clara — if it 
 be, 1 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 ! \Lmbrace 
 
 Don. Clara. Dear sister truant ! and whither are you going? 
 
 Don. Louisa. To find the man I love, to be sure : and, I pre- 
 sume, 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. 
 
 Aie. 
 
 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 
 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, 
 t 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 
 
322 THE DUENNA. [ACT L 
 
 Don. Clara. The Lady Abbess of the convent of St. Catha- 
 rine 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'll 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 *8 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 Donna Louisa.] 
 — See now ! I '11 die if here is not a little damsel struck with 
 it already. 
 
SC. V.] THE DUENNA. 323 
 
 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 wane 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 — cunning 
 
 y 2 
 
824 THE DUENNA. [ACT I. SC. 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 yon 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 1 
 Don. Louisa. Soon may you return :i prosperous wooer, 
 
 But think what I suffer the while I 
 Alone, and away from the man whom I love, 
 
 In itrangera I 'm forced to confide. 
 Isaac. . . Dear lady, my friend you may trust, and he T. prove 
 
 Your servant, protector, and guide. 
 
 A IK. 
 Don Car. . Gentle mail, all ! why suspect me? 
 Let nie serve thee — then reject me. 
 
ACT II. SC. I.] THE DUENNA. 325 
 
 Canst thou trust, and I deceive thee ? 
 Art thou sad, and shall I grieve thee 1 
 Gentle maid, ah ! why suspect me ] 
 Let me serve thee — then reject me. 
 
 Teio. 
 Don. Louisa. Never mayst thou happy he, 
 
 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. [Exeunt, 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 Scene I. — A Library in Don Jerome's House. 
 Enter Don Jerome and Isaac. 
 
 Von 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 cunniug 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 shoulcl 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 
 
326 THE DUENNA. [ ACT H* 
 
 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 '11 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 alliance 
 
 Don 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 bright- 
 ness, that shows her to be my own. 
 
 Isaac. Pretty rogue ! 
 
 Don Jer. Then, when she smiles, you '11 see a little 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 
 heal tli. 
 
 /sane. Pretty rogue ! 
 
 Don Jer. Her skin pure dimity , yet more fair, being spangled 
 here and there with a golden freckle. 
 
SC. H.] THE DUENNA. 327 
 
 Isaac. Charming pretty rogue ! pray how is the tone of her 
 voice ? 
 
 Don Jer. Bemarkably pleasing — but if you could prevail on 
 her to sing, you would be enchanted— she is a nightingale — 
 a 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 Boom. 
 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. — [Exit 
 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 be- 
 ginning too! — [Aloud.] Hem! madam — miss — I'm all at- 
 tention. 
 
 Duen. Nay, sir, 'tis I who should listen, and you propose. 
 
 Isaac. [Aside.] Egad, this isn't so disdainful neither — I be- 
 lieve 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 struck 
 with my figure ! this attitude has had its effect. 
 
 Duen. Come, sir, here 's a chair, 
 
328 THE DUENNA. [ACT IT. 
 
 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 1 was vastly prepossessed against 
 you, and, being teased by my father, I did give some encourage- 
 ment 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 mu 
 tual — 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 1 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! 
 
SC. II.] 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. 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 amiss — 
 for 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 dis- 
 tress 
 
 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 ! 
 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 ? 
 
830 THE DUENNA. [ACT H. 
 
 Isaac. Oh, no, ma'atc, you mistake ; it was my mother I 
 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 ; no- 
 thing shall make me break that oath : but, if you have spirit 
 and contrivance enough to carry me off without his know- 
 ledge, I 'm yours. 
 
 Isaac. Hum ! 
 
 Duen. Nay, sir, if you hesitate 
 
 Isaac. [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 applaud 
 your spirit, and joyfully close with your proposal ; for which 
 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, 1 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. Hero 's a gentleman at the door, who begs permission 
 to speak with Signor Isaac. 
 
SC. n.J 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, 
 ma'am. 
 
 Enter Don Caelos. 
 
 So, coz. [Talks apart with Don Caelos. 
 
 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. 
 
 Dnen. 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. Remem- 
 ber 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 com- 
 pliment I ever saw ; however, 1 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 I 
 For surely she 
 "Was made for thee, 
 And thou to bless this lovely creature ! 
 
 So mild your looks, your children thence 
 
 Will early learn the task of duty — 
 The boys with all their father's sense, 
 
 The girls with all their mother's beauty 1 
 
332 THE DUENNA. [ACT II. 
 
 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 gene- 
 rosity, more than his profuseness, has stripped him of; but he 
 has never sullied his honour, which, with his title, has out- 
 lived his means. 
 
 Don Jer. Psha ! you talk like a blockhead ! nobility, with- 
 out 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. 
 
SC. in.] THE DUENNA. 333 
 
 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. T 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. 
 
 cate 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 taken 
 my abuse of your daughter seriously. 
 
SC. IV.] THE DUENNA 335 
 
 Don Jer. You meant it so, did not you ? 
 
 Isaac. 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 ! Yenus 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 had 
 remained, this would be the only way to quench them. 
 
 Teio 
 
 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 cir- 
 cumstanced 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 ! 
 
336 the duenna. [act ii. 
 
 Song. 
 
 What bard, Time, discover, 
 
 With wings first made thee move] 
 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 never be again. 
 Don. Louisa. Was your mistress so cruel? 
 Don Car. If she had always been so, I should have been 
 happier. 
 
 Song. 
 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 chcrish'd. 
 Not worse his fate, who on a wreck, 
 That drove as winds did blow it, 
 Silent had left the shattered deck, 
 
 To find a grave below it. 
 Then land w;is cried — no more resign 'd, 
 
 He glow'd with joy to hear it ; 
 Not worse bii fate, his woe, to find 
 The wreck must sink ere near it! 
 
SC. IV.] THE DUENNA 337 
 
 Don Louisa. As I live, here is your friend coming with 
 Antonio ! 1 11 retire for a moment to surprise him. [Exit. 
 
 Enter Isaac and Don Antonio. 
 
 Don 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, 1 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 — 1 11 see who 
 it is. [Exit 
 
 z 
 
338 THE DUENNA. [ACT II. 
 
 He-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. 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 
 3hould 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. 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 fori line, without settling ;i ducat on her. Ha! ha! ha! 
 I'ma cunning dog, an't I ? a sly little villain, eh? 
 
SO. IV.] THE DUENNA. 339 
 
 Don Ant. Ha ! ha ! ha ! you are indeed ! 
 
 Isaac. Koguish, you'll say, but keen, hey? devilish keen? 
 
 Bon 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, 1 11 answer for it, we shall have a good 
 laugh when the truth comes out. Ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 He-enter Don Caklos. 
 
 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 con- 
 vey 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. 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 myselt. 
 
 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. 
 
 Tkio. 
 
 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. [Exeunt. 
 
 z 2 
 
840 THE DUENNA. [ACT III, 
 
 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 compre- 
 hend! 
 
 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 I — 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 hus- 
 band 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, tvho 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 wills 
 accomplished — let the motive be what it will — and the Por- 
 tuguese, 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 sec what she says [Heads. 
 
 My (I a i rest "Father, 
 How shall I entreat your jmrdon for the rash step I have 
 
SC. I.] THE DUENNA. 34.1 
 
 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. 
 
 He-enter Seevant. 
 
 Let the man, who brought the last letter, wait ; and get me a 
 pen and ink below. — [Exit Seevant.] I am impatient to set 
 poor Louisa's heart at rest. Holloa ! Lewis ! Sancho ! [Calls. 
 
 Enter Servants. 
 
 See that there be a noble supper provided in the saloon to- 
 night; serve up my best wines, and let me have music, d'ye 
 hear? 
 
 Ser. Yes, sir. 
 
 Bon 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 ! 
 Then it Avas, old father Care, 
 
 Little reck'd I of thy frown ; 
 Half thy malice youth could hear, 
 , 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 , 
 
342 THE DUENNA. [ACT III 
 
 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 ? 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 block- 
 head, 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 dis- 
 position. 
 
 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. 1' faith, you shall hear. This morning, as I was 
 
SC. n.] 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 ! 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 han't heard the best of the 
 joke. 
 
3 U THE DUENNA. [ACT IU 
 
 Don Ferd. Curse on your joke ! 
 
 Isaac. Good lack! what 's the matter now? I thought to 
 have diverted you. 
 
 Don Ferd. 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 j-ou 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. 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 there 
 
 Don 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 Fer- 
 dinand, keep your hands off — at the convent of St. Catha- 
 rine. 
 
 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, dis- 
 honourable Antonio, who shall feci my vengeance. 
 
 Isaac. Ay, ay, kill him; Clll 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 
 
SC. III.] THE DUENNA. 345 
 
 would not be angry about her; she is not -worth it, in- 
 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 pity- 
 ing 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 Claea. 
 
 Don. Louisa. And you really wish my brother may not find 
 you out ? 
 
 Don. Clara. Why else have I concealed myself under this 
 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 night 
 
 Don. 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 chide. 
 
34C THE DUENNA. [ACT IIL 
 
 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 there 
 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. 
 Don. Louisa. My fathers answer, I suppose. 
 
SC. III.] THE DUENNA. 347 
 
 Don Ant. My dearest Louisa, you may be assured that it 
 contains nothing hut threats and reproaches. 
 
 Don. Louisa. Let us see, however. — [Reads.] Dearest daugh- 
 ter, 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.] Bead ! 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 fa- 
 ther? 
 
 Don Ant. But first let the priest put it out of his power to 
 recall his word. — 1 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 hypo- 
 crisy 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 elope- 
 ment from one's friend, but I am sure nothing but the pre- 
 sence 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 busi- 
 ness here ? 
 
 Don Ferd. No matter — no matter ! Oh, they stop. — [Looks 
 out.] Yes, that is the perfidious Clara indeed ! 
 
348 THE DUENNA. [ACT III. 
 
 Don. Clara. So, a jealous error — I 'ni 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, signor 
 
 Don Ferd. Be quiet, good nun; don't tease me! — By 
 Heavens, she leans upon his arm, hangs fondly on it ! O 
 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 ? 
 
 Don. 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'll 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 ! [Exit. 
 
 Scene IV. — A Court before the Priory. 
 Enter Isaac, crossing the stage, Don Antonio following. 
 Don Ant. What, my friend Isaac ! 
 
 Jsatic. What, Antonio ! wish me joy! I have Louisa safe 
 Don Ant. Have you? I wish you joy with all my soul. 
 
SC. V.] THE DUENNA. 349 
 
 Isaac. Yes, I am come here to procure a priest to many 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 me 
 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 '11 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 Augus- 
 j tine, were there any benefactions left in my absence ? 
 
 Aug. Don Juan Corduba has left a hundred ducats, to re- 
 member him in our masses. 
 
 Paid. Has he ? let them be paid to our wine-merchant, 
 and we '11 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 
 
350 THE 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. — 
 [Knocking.] 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. 
 
 Paid. 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 appe- 
 tites ; 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 con- 
 tent 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. 
 
SC. VI.] THE DUENNA. 351 
 
 Paul. In short, I may be called so ; for I deal in repent- 
 ance and mortification. 
 
 Isaac. No, no, thou seejnest an officer of Hymen, because 
 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 trash — 
 ay, into this pocket, here — or into this — why, then the sin 
 was theirs. — [They put money into his pockets.'] Fie, now how 
 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 '11 
 abide the consequence. 
 
 Isaac. Ay, and so will I. 
 
352 THE DUENNA. [ACT III. 
 
 Enter Donna Louisa, running. 
 
 Don. Louisa. 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 '11 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 1 11 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 de- 
 ceit, 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. 
 
 Paid. Friend, you are rude, to interrupt the union of two 
 willing hearts. 
 
 Don Ferd. No, meddling priest! the hand he seeks is 
 mine. 
 
 Paid. If so, I '11 proceed no further. Lady, did you ever 
 promise this youth y<>ur hand? 
 
 [To Donna Louisa, ivJw shakes her head 
 
SG. VI.] THE DUENNA. 353 
 
 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 Claea, 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 Louisa 
 the other. 
 
 Duet. 
 
 Don. Louisa. Turn thee round, I pray thee, 
 
 Calm awhile thy rage. 
 Bon. 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 me? [Both unveil. 
 
 Don Ferd. How 's this ? My sister ! Clara too — I 'm con- 
 founded. 
 
 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 mistress 
 
 Don. 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 presume 
 
 Don. 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 1 11 forgive you. 
 
 Don Ferd. By all 
 
 Don. Clara. There, that will do — you 11 keep the oath just 
 as well. [Gives her hand. 
 
 Don. Louisa. But, brother, here is one to whom some apo- 
 logy is due. 
 
 Don Ferd. Antonio, I am ashamed to think 
 
 Don Ant. Not a word of excuse, Ferdinand — I have not 
 
 A A 
 
354 THE DUENNA. [ACT III. 
 
 been in love myself without learning that a lover's anger 
 should never be resented. But come— let us retire with this 
 good father, and we 11 explain to you the cause of this error. 
 
 Glee and Choeus. 
 
 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. [Exeunt. 
 
 Scene VII. — A Grand Saloon in Don Jerome's House. 
 
 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! 
 
 He-enter 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 ; 
 see how the dear creature droops! 
 
sc. yti ] the duenna. 355 
 
 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 '11 not disown me, 
 sure ! 
 
 Don Jer. Papa ! papa ! Why, zounds, your impudence is as 
 great as your ugliness ! 
 
 Isaac. Eise, my charmer, go throw your snowy arms about 
 his neck, and convince him you are— 
 
 Duen. Oh, sir, forgive me ! [Embraces him. 
 
 Don Jer. Help! murder! 
 
 Enter Sekvants. 
 
 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 hard- 
 hearted 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, 1 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 think — 
 here 's your daughter. 
 
 Don Jer. Hark ye, old iniquity ! will you explain all this, 
 I 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 
 
356 THE DUENNA. [ACT III. 
 
 Isaac. Lud ! Lud ! here 's a pretty fellow, to turn his 
 daughter out of doors, instead of an old Duenna ! 
 
 Don Jer. And, Lud ! Lud ! here 's a pretty fellow, to 
 marry an old Duenna instead of my daughter ! But how came 
 the rest ahout ? 
 
 Duen. I have only to add, that I remained in your daugh- 
 ter'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 trick- 
 ing? Don Jerome, I give you my word, this cunning Portu- 
 guese 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, and 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 Solo- 
 mon. 
 
 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 '11 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 <>1<1 as my mother, and as ugly as the devil. 
 
 J)uoi. Why, you little insignificant reptile ! 
 
 Don Jer. That's right ! — attack him, Margaret. 
 
 Duen. Dare such a thing as you intend to talk of beauty? 
 
SC. YII.J THE DUENNA. 357 
 
 — 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 justice 
 
 Isaac. Fire seize your brother, and you too! I'll fly tc 
 Jerusalem to avoid you ! 
 
 Duen. Fly where you will, 1 11 follow you. 
 
 Don Jer. Throw your snowy arms about him, Margaret. — 
 [Exeunt Isaac and Duenna.] But, Louisa, are you really mar- 
 ried 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 profited 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 her in return. Had you wedded her to a prince, 
 he could do no more. 
 
 Don Jer. Why, Gad take me, but you are a very extraor- 
 dinary 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 ! Ferdinand, you have not 
 stole a nun, have you? 
 
 Don Fcrd. She is a nun in nothing but her habit, sir — look 
 nearer, and you will perceive 'tis Clara d'Almanza, Don Guz- 
 
358 THE DUENNA. [ACT III. SC. VII. 
 
 man's daughter; and, with pardon for stealing a wedding, she 
 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 be- 
 have 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. 
 
 Finale. 
 
 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. 
 Don Ferd. . Each bride with blushes glowing, 
 Our wine as rosy flowing, 
 
 Let us laugh and play, so blithe and gay, 
 Till wc banish care away. 
 Don Ant. . Then healths to every friend 
 The night's repast shall end, 
 
 With a heart at ease, merry, marry glees 
 Can never fail to please. 
 Don. Clara » 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. 
 Don Jer. . . For generous guests like these 
 Accept the wish to please, 
 
 So we '11 laugh and play, so blithe and gay, 
 Your smiles drive eare away. [Exeunt omnes, 
 
THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. 
 
 A COMEDY. 
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONS. 
 
 AS ORIGINALLY ACTED AT DRURY-LANE THEATRE IN 1777. 
 
 Sir Peter Teazle . Mr. King. 
 Sir Oliver Surface Mr. Yates. 
 Sir Harry Bumper . Mr. Gaivdry, 
 Sir Benjamin Back- \ M j, , , 
 
 bite .... 3 
 Joseph Surface . Mr. Palmer. 
 Charles Surface . Mr. Smith. 
 Careless .... Mr. Farren. 
 Snake Mr. Packer. 
 
 Crabtree . . 
 
 . Mr. Parsons. 
 
 Rowley . . 
 
 . Mr. Aickin. 
 
 Moses . . . 
 
 . Mr. Baddeley. 
 
 Trip . . . 
 
 . Mr. Lamash. 
 
 Lady Teazle 
 
 . Mrs. Abington 
 
 Lady Sneerwell Miss Sherry. 
 Mrs. Candour . Miss Pope. 
 Maria . . . Miss P. Eophh 
 Gentlemen, Maid, and 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 m 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 ! 
 Attend ! — a model shall attract your view — 
 Daughters of calumny, I summon you ! 
 You shall decide if this a portrait prove, 
 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 skill'd 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 young,-— 
 The living libel of a slanderous tongue ! * 
 
8G0 , THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. 
 
 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 while 
 
 Celestial blushes check thy conscious smile, 
 
 "With timid grace, and hesitating eye, 
 
 The perfect model, which I boast, supply : — 
 
 Vain Muse ! couldst thou the humblest sketch create 
 
 Of her, or slightest charm couldst imitate — 
 
 Could thy blest strain in kindred colours trace 
 
 The faintest wonder of her form and face — 
 
 Poets 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 Devon's eyes ! 
 
 Hard is the task to shape that beauty's praise, 
 
 Whose judgment scorns the homage flattery pays ! 
 
 But praising Amoret Ave 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 I 
 
 Adorning fashion, unadorn'd by dress, 
 
 Simple from taste, and not from carelessness ; 
 
 DJscreet 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 breast — 
 
 Inshrined Modesty — supply the rest. 
 
 But who the peril of her lips shall*paint ? 
 
 Strip them of smiles — still, still all words are faint ! 
 
 But moving Love himself appears to teach 
 
 Their action, though denied to rule her speech; 
 
 And thou who seest her .-peak, and dost not hear, 
 
 Mourn not her distant accents 'scape thine car; 
 
 Viewing tho.se 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*inove in meaning, and they pause in thought ! 
 
THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. 
 
 But dost thou farther watch, with charm'd surprise, 
 
 The mild irresolution of her eyes, 
 
 Curious to mark how frequent they repose, 
 
 In brief eclipse and momentary close — 
 
 Ah ! seest thou not an ambush'd Cupid there, 
 
 Too tim'rous of his charge, with jealous care 
 
 Yeils and unveils those beams of heavenly light, 
 
 Too full, too fatal else, for mortal sight ] 
 
 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 : — 
 
 Bead in all knowledge that her sex should reach, 
 
 Though Greville, or the Muse, should deign to teach, 
 
 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 : 
 
 YVhate'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, 
 
 A turn for ridicule, by candour ruled, 
 
 A scorn of folly, w r hich 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 ! 
 And lo ! each pallid hag, with blister'd tongue, 
 Muuers assent to all thy zeal has sung — 
 Owns all the colours just — the outline true; 
 Thee my inspirer, and my model — Crewe ! 
 
 861 
 
862 THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. 
 
 PKOLOGUE. 
 
 WRITTEN BY MR. GARRICK. 
 
 A School for Scandal ! tell me, I beseech you, 
 Needs there a school this modish art to teach you] 
 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 tattle, 
 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 ! 
 Give me the papers, Lisp — how bold and free ! [Sips. 
 Last night Lord L. [Sips\ was caught zoith Lady D. 
 For aching heads what charming sal volatile ! [Sips. 
 If Mrs. B. will still continue flirting, 
 We hope she '11 draw, or we '11 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 Orosvenor Square ; 
 For, should he Lady W. find ziilling, 
 
 Wormwood is bitter" " Oh ! that 's me ! the villain J 
 
 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 little, and its trade 1 
 
 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 cavallicro true, 
 
 Till every drop of blood — that's ink — is spilt for you. 
 
ACT I. SC. I.] THE SCHOOL FOE SCANDAL. 363 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 Scene I. — Lady Sneeewell's Dressing-room. 
 
 Lady Sneeewell 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 he 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 husiness 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 heen tolerably successful in 
 her day. To my knowledge, she has heen 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-a-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 
 Sneerwell 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 en- 
 venomed tongue of slander, I confess I have since known no 
 
364 THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. [ACT I. 
 
 pleasure equal to the reducing others to the level of my own 
 reputation. 
 
 Snake. Nothing can be more natural. Bat, 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 extra- 
 vagant young fellow in the kingdom, without friends or 
 character: the former an avowed admirer of } r our 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 sur- 
 mise the weakness which I hitherto, through shame, have con- 
 cealed even from you? Must I confess that Charles — that 
 libertine, that extravagant, that bankrupt in fortune and repu- 
 tation — that he it is for whom I am thus anxious and malicious, 
 and to gain whom I would sacrifice eveiy 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 liinr since. I know him to be artful, selfish, and 
 malicious — in snort, 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. 
 
SC. I.] THE SCHOOL FOE SCANDAL. 365 
 
 Snake. Yes ; yet Sir Peter vows he has not his equal in 
 England ; and, above all, he praises him as a man of 
 sentiment. 
 
 Lady Sneer. True ; and with the assistance of his senti- 
 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 
 to 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 ; but I 
 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 
 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 and 
 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. Lud ! you are going to be moral, and forget 
 that you are among friends. 
 
36G THE SCHOOL FOE SCANDAL. [a*(JT I. 
 
 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 he 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 coming : 
 I '11 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 
 Sneerwell, that fellow hasn't virtue 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 libel on all his acquaint- 
 ance. 
 
 Jos. Surf Ay, and 1 lie worst of it is, there is no advantage 
 in not knowing him ; for lie '11 abuse a stranger just as soon 
 as his best friend : and his uncle 's as bad. 
 
 Lady Sneer. Nay, but we should make allowance; Sir 
 Benjamin is ;i wil and a poet. 
 
SC. I.J THE SCHOOL FOE SCANDAL. 367 
 
 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, 1 11 not debate how far scandal may be allow- 
 able; but in a man, I am sure, it is always contemptible. We 
 have pride, envy, rivalship, and a thousand motives to depre- 
 ciate each other; but the male slanderer must have the cow- 
 ardice 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. Can- 
 dour 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. T faith that 's true, Lady Sneerwell : whenever I 
 hear the current running against the characters of my friends, 
 I never think them in such danger as when Candour under- 
 takes their defence. 
 
 Lady Sneer. Hush! — here she is ! 
 
 Enter Mrs. Candour. 
 
 Mrs. Can. My dear Lady Sneerwell, how have you been this 
 century? — Mr. 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 
 
368 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 indeed was 
 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 them- 
 selves so. 
 
 Mrs. Can. Very time, child : but what 's to be done ? People 
 will talk — there 's no preventing it. Why, it was but yester- 
 day 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 in- 
 discretion ? Yet such is the ill nature of people, that they say 
 her uncle stopped her last week, just as she was stej:>phig 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. 1 [oneymoon were at last become mere man and wife, 
 like the rest of their acquaintance. She likewise hinted that 
 a certain widow, in tho next street, had got rid of her dropsy 
 and recovered her shape in ;i most surprising maimer. And at 
 the same time I\Iiss Tattle, who was by, affirmed, that Lord 
 Buffalo had discovered his lady at a house of no extraordinary 
 
SC. I.] THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. 369 
 
 fame ; and that Sir Harry Bouquet and Torn 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 for- 
 bearance and good nature ! 
 
 Mrs. Can. I confess, Mr. Surface, I cannot bear to hear 
 people attacked behind their backs ; and when ugly circum- 
 stances 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. All ! 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 11 find half his acquaintance ruined too, and that, you 
 know, is a consolation. 
 
 Jos. Surf. Doubtless, ma'am — 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 shan't escape. 
 
 Enter Crabtree and Sir Benjamin Backbite. 
 
 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 Friz- 
 zle'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, and 
 
 Sir Ben. Uncle, now — pr'ythee 
 
 Crab. T faith, ma'am, 'twould surprise you to hear how ready 
 he is at all these sort of things. 
 
 B B 
 
370 THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. [ACT I. 
 
 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 11 immor- 
 talize you ! — you will be handed down to posterity, like Pe- 
 trarch'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 be- 
 lieve such a story of so prudent a lady as Miss Nicely. 
 
 Sir Ben. Lud ! ma'am, that's the very reason 'twas be- 
 lieved at once. She has always been so cautious and so re- 
 served, that eveiy 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 gene- 
 rally 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 repu- 
 tation 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. 
 
SC. I.] THE SCHOOL FOE 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 charac- 
 ter last summer at Tunbridge ? — Sir Benjamin, you remem- 
 ber it? 
 
 Sir Ben. Oh, to be sure ! — the most whimsical circum- 
 stance. 
 
 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 eveiy where re- 
 ported, 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. 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, when- 
 ever he returns, to hear how your brother has gone on ! 
 
 Jos. Surf. Charles has been imprudent, sir, to be sure ; but 
 I hope 110 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. 
 
 Crab. That's true, egad, nephew. If the Old Jewry was 
 a ward, I believe Charles would be an alderman : no man 
 more popular there, 'fore Gad ! I hear he pays as many an- 
 nuities as the Irish tontine ; and that, whenever he is sick, 
 
 B B 2 
 
372 THE SCHOOL FOE SCANDAL. [ACT I 
 
 they have prayers for the recovery of his health in 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. 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, 1 11 assist you. 
 
 Sir Ben. Mr. Surface, I did not mean to hurt you ; but de- 
 pend on 't your brother is utterly undone. 
 
 Crab. Lud, ay ! undone as ever man was — can't raise a 
 guinea ! 
 
 Sir Ben. And every thing sold, I 'in told, that was mov- 
 able. 
 
 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 11 tell you all another opportunity. 
 
 [Exeunt Craetuee and Sir Benjamin. 
 
 Lady Sneer. l!;t! ha! 'lis 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. 
 
SC. II.] THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. 373 
 
 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, I '11 go 
 and plot mischief, and you shall study sentiment. [Exeunt 
 
 Scene II. — A Boom 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 fop- 
 peries 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 para- 
 graphed 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 Eowley. 
 
 Boiv. 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. 
 
 Bow. What can have happened since yesterday ? 
 
 Sir Pet. A good question to a married man ! 
 
 Bow. 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 ? 
 
 Bow. Come, come, Sir Peter you love her, notwithstanding 
 your tempers don't exactly agree. 
 
 Sir Pet. But the fault is entirely hers, Master Pvowley. I 
 am, myself, the sweetest-tempered man alive, and hate a teas- 
 ing temper ; and so I tell her a hundred times a day. 
 
 Bow. Indeed ! 
 
374 THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. [ACT I. 
 
 Sir Pet. Ay ; and what is very extraordinary, in all our dis- 
 putes 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 de- 
 termined 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, T have always taken the liberty 
 to differ with you on the subject of these two young gentle- 
 men. 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 in- 
 dependence : of course, no person could have more opportuni- 
 ties 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 for- 
 tune. 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 to- 
 gether : — 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 tneir dispositions, 
 
 Sir Pet. Ah! there needs no art to discover their merits 
 
ACT IT. SC. I.] THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. 375 
 
 —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 consump- 
 tion ! Ah ! Oliver will laugh at me. We used to rail at 
 matrimony together, but he has been steady to his text. 
 W T ell, he must be soon at my house, though — 1 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. 
 
 Bow. I understand you :— but then you must be very care- 
 ful 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, w 7 hen 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, 1 11 not bear it ! 
 
 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 au- 
 thority 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, 
 1 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 would 
 
376 THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. [ACT II, 
 
 suffice to turn the Pantheon into a greenhouse, and give &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. Re- 
 collect, Lady Teazle, when I saw you first sitting at your tam- 
 bour, 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, super- 
 intend 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 ser- 
 mon 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 recollec- 
 tion, I suppose, when you were content to ride double, behind 
 the butler, on a ducked coach-horse-. 
 
 Lady Teaz. No — I swear I never did that : I deny the 
 butler and the coach-horse. 
 
 Sir Pet. This, madam, was your situation ; and what have I 
 done for you? I have made you a woman of fashion, of for- 
 tune, of rank — in short, I have made you my wife. 
 
 Lady Teaz. Well, then, and there is but one tiling more 
 you can make me to add to the obligation, that is 
 
 Sir Pet. My widow, I suppose ? 
 
SC. I.] THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. 377 
 
 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 
 jangle, I presume I may go to my engagement at Lady Sneer- 
 welTs. 
 
 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 cha- 
 racter 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 toler- 
 able grace. 
 
 Sir Pet. Grace indeed ! 
 
 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 pro- 
 mised to come to Lady Sneerwell's too. 
 
378 THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. [ACT 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. 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 Phoebus , m ounted — in deed, Sir B enj amin ! 
 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, I '11 do 
 as your ladyship pleases 
 
SC. II. J THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. 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, 1 11 die ; but you are so scandalous, I '11 
 forswear your society. 
 
 Lady Teaz. What 's the matter, Mrs. Candour? 
 
 Mrs. Can. They 11 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 ! 1 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? OLord! she 's six-and-fifty 
 if she 's an hour ! 
 
 Mrs. Can. Now positively you wrong her ; fifty-two or fifty- 
 three 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 con- 
 noisseur 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 
 
380 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 were — 
 thus : How 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. Qua- 
 drilles 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- 
 
SC. II. J THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL 381 
 
 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 rela- 
 tion ! 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 counte- 
 nance 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 locks 
 
 Sir 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'hote at Spa 
 — where no two guests are of a nation 
 
 Crab. Or a congress at the close of a general war — wherein 
 all the members, even to her eyes, appear to have a different 
 
382 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 too 
 peevish to allow wit in others. 
 
 Sir Pet. Ah, madam, true wit is more nearly allied to 
 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 poach- 
 ing 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. Lud ! Sir Peter ; w r ould you deprive us of 
 our privileges ? 
 
 Sir Pet. Ay, madam ; and then no person should be per- 
 mitted to kill characters and run down reputations, but qua- 
 lified 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 scan- 
 dalous tale without some foundation. 
 
sc. il] the school fob scandal. 383 
 
 Lady Sneer, Come, ladies, shall we sit down to cards in the 
 next room ? 
 
 Enter Servant, tvho whispers Sir Peter. 
 
 Sir Pet. I'll be with them directly. — [Exit Servant.] 1 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-uatured 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 wan- 
 tonly is more despicable than to falsify from revenge. But 
 can you, Maria, feel thus for others, and be unkind tp me 
 alone ? Is hope to be denied the tenderest passion ? 
 
 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. 
 
384 THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. [ACT II. 
 
 Re-enter Lady Teazle behind. 
 
 [Aside.] Gad's life, here 's Lady Teazle. — [Aloud to Maria.] 
 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 suspect • 
 
 Lady 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 ten- 
 der mode of reasoning — do you usually argue on your knees? 
 
 Jos. Surf. Oh, she 's a child, and I thought a little bom- 
 bast But, Lady Teazle, when are you to give me your judg- 
 ment 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 
 
 Job. 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 the company. 
 
 Jos. Surf. But we had best not return together. 
 
 Lady Teaz. Well, don't stay; for Maria shan'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, al first, only to ingratiate myself with Lady 
 Teazle, that she might nol be my enemy with Maria ; and I 
 %a\o, I don't know how, become her serious lover. Sincerely 
 I begin to wish I had never made such a point of gaining so 
 
SC III. J THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. 3S5 
 
 very good a character, for it lias led me into so many cursed 
 rogueries that I doubt I shall be exposed at last. [Exit. 
 
 Scene III. — A Room in Sir Peter Teazle's House. 
 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 a 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 charac- 
 ters 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 ? 
 
 Row. Sir, 'tis this reflection gives me assurance that 
 i Charles may yet be a credit to his family. But here comep 
 ' Sir Peter. 
 
 Sir Oliv. Egad, so he does ! Mercy on me ! he 's greatly 
 
 c c 
 
386 THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. [ACT II. 
 
 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, time, Sir Peter; old friends should not 
 begin on grievances at first meeting. No, no, no. 
 
 Bow. [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 dis- 
 appointment there ; he 's a lost young man, indeed. How- 
 ever, 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 charac- 
 ter 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 ; 
 
SC. I.] THE SCHOOL FOE SCANDAL. 387 
 
 and niy friend Rowley and I have planned something for the 
 purpose. 
 
 How. And Sir Peter shall own for once he has been mis- 
 taken. 
 
 Sir Pet. Oh, my life on Joseph's honour ! 
 
 Sir Oliv. Well — come, give us a bottle of good wine, and" 
 we '11 drink the lads' health, and tell you our scheme. 
 
 Sir Pet. Allons, then ! 
 
 Sir Oliv. And don't, Sir 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. — A Boom 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. 
 
 How. Why, sir, this Mr. Stanley, whom I was speaking of, is 
 nearly related to them by their mother. He was once a mer- 
 . chant in Dublin, but has been ruined by a series of unde- 
 served misfortunes. He has applied, by letter, since his con- 
 finement, 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 the midst of his own dis- 
 tresses, 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 to 
 
 How. Why, sir, I will inform Charles and his brother' that 
 Stanley has obtained permission to 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 oppor- 
 tunity of judging, at least, of the benevolence of their dispo- 
 sitions : and believe me, sir, you will find in the youngest 
 
 c c 2 
 
388 THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. [ACT III. 
 
 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 de- 
 tected 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 3 r ou have 
 done all in your power for him, honest Moses ? 
 
 Mos. Yes, he knows that. This very evening I was to have 
 
SC. I.] THE SCHOOL FOE SCANDAL. 389 
 
 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 op- 
 portunity of satisfying yourself than by an old romancing tale 
 of a poor relation : go with my friend Moses, and represent 
 Premium, and then, 1 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. 
 
 Floiv. Well, this is taking Charles rather at a disadvantage, 
 to be sure. However, Moses, you understand Sir Peter, and 
 will be faithful ? 
 
 Mos. 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 
 
 1 be able to pass for a Jew '? 
 
 Mos. 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 in 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. 
 
390 THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. lACT HI. 
 
 Sir Oliv. Hey ! what, the plague ! how much then ? 
 
 Mos, That depends upon the circumstances. If he ap- 
 pears not very anxious for the -supply, you should require only 
 forty 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 Oliv. 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 I ? 
 
 Mos. And your friend is an unconscionable dog : but you 
 can't help that. 
 
 Sir Oliv. My friend an unconscionable dog, is he ? 
 
 Mos. 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'll 
 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. 
 
 Bow. And lament that a young man now must be at years 
 of discretion before he 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 arc partial, Rowley, and would have prepared Charles for 
 the other plot. 
 
 Row. No, upon my word, Sir Peter. 
 
SC. I.j THE SCHOOL FOE SCANDAL. 391 
 
 Sir Pet, Well, go bring me this Snake, and 1 11 hear what 
 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 Maeia. 
 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 con- 
 verse 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 atten- 
 tion 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 dis- 
 tresses. 
 
 Bur 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 re- 
 gard 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. 
 
392 THE SCHOOL FOB SCANDAL. [ACT III. 
 
 How 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 ill- 
 humoured 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 good- 
 humoured 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 attentive 
 
 Lady 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 he my father, I have always defended 
 you, and said, I didn't think you so ugly by any means. 
 
 Sir Pel. Thank you. 
 
 Lady Teaz. And I dared say you 'd make a very good sort 
 of a husband. 
 
SC. I.] THE SCHOOL FOE SCANDAL. 393 
 
 Sir Pet. And you prophesied right ; and we shall now be the 
 happiest couple 
 
 Lady 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 dear 
 
 Sir 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 tiy to be friends with you any more ! 
 
 Lady Teaz. So much the better. 
 
 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 he 
 never could meet with any one who would have him. 
 
 Sir Pet. Ay, ay, madam ; but you were pleased enough to 
 listen to me : you never had such an offer before. 
 
894 THE SCHOOL FOE 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 unfeel- 
 ing, 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 in- 
 sinuate any such thing ! 1 11 not be suspected without cause, 
 I promise you. 
 
 Sir Pet. Very well, madam ! very well ! A separate main- 
 tenance as soon as you please. Yes, madam, or a divoore ! 
 1 11 make an example of myself for the benefit of all old 
 bachelors. Let us separate, madam. 
 
 Lady Teaz. Agreed ! agreed ! And now, 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 inter- 
 rupt 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 1 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 Chaeles Surface's House. 
 Enter Trip, Moses, and Sir Oliver Surface. 
 
 Trip. Here, Master Moses ! if you 11 stay a moment, 1 11 
 try whether — what 's the gentleman's name ? 
 
 Sir Oliv. Mr. Moses, what is my name ? [Aside to Moses. 
 
 Mos. 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 to 
 him was more reprehensible by half. 
 
SC. II.] THE SCHOOL FOE SCANDAL. 895 
 
 Be-enter Teip. 
 
 Trip. 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, per- 
 haps 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 ? 
 
 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. 
 
 Mos. 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 '11 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, 
 
39G THE SCHOOL FOE SCANDAL. [ACT HI. 
 
 with a few pair of point ruffles, as a collateral security — hey, 
 my little fellow ? 
 
 Mas. 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, 1 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. 
 Chaeles Sueface, Sie Haeey Bumpee, Caeeless, and Gen- 
 tlemen, discovered drinking. 
 
 Chas. Surf. Tore heaven, 'tis true ! — there 's the great de- 
 generacy 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 sub- 
 stantial 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 be- 
 liever 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 bewitclysd you. 
 
 Care. Now then, Charles, be honest, and give us your real 
 favourite. 
 
 Chas. Surf. Why, I have withheld her only in compassion 
 
SC, II.] THE SCHOOL FOE 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 Loves 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 dropped in by chance ? 
 
398 THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. [ACT Til 
 
 Chas. Surf. 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 T in. 
 
 1 Gent. Ay, and the broker too, by all means. 
 
 2 Gent. Yes, yes, the Jew and the broker. 
 
 Chas. Surf. Egad, with all my heart ! — Trip, bid the gen- 
 tlemen 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 11 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. 
 
 He-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, Moses ? 
 
 Mos. 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, 1 11 give you a senti- 
 ment; here's Success to usury! — Moses, fill the gentleman 
 a bumper. 
 
 Mos. 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 ! [Drinks. 
 
 Care. No, no, that won't do ! Mr. P/emium, you have 
 demurred at the toast, and must drink it in a pint bumper. 
 
 1 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 ! 1 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. 
 
 f Aside. 
 
SC. III.] 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 '11 join us when you have finished your 
 business with the gentlemen ? 
 
 Chas. Surf. I will ! I will ! — [Exeunt Sir Harry Bumper 
 and Gentlemen; Careless following.] 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 under- 
 takes. Mr. Premium, this is 
 
 Chas. Surf. Psha ! have done. Sir, my friend Moses is a 
 very honest fellow, but a little slow at expression : he '11 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. Eight. 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. Surf Not a mole-hill, nor a twig, but what's in the 
 bough-pots out of the window ! 
 
400 THE SCHOOL FOE 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 heard 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 '11 persuade me presently I 'm at 
 Bengal. [Aside. 
 
 Chas. Surf. Now I propose, Mr. Premium, if it's agree- 
 able 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 
 could 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 
 dun 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. 
 
; 
 
 SC. III.] 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. O 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. 
 
 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 I 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 full of ancestors 
 
 D D 
 
402 THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. [ACT III. SC. III. 
 
 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 ? 
 
 Chas. Surf. Ay, and my great-grandfathers and grand- 
 mothers 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'll be the purchaser: I think I can dis- 
 pose of the family canvas. — [Aside.] Oh, I'll never forgive 
 him this ! never ! 
 
 He-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 all 
 my ancestors ! 
 
 Care. Oh, burn your ancestors ! 
 
 Chas. Surf. No, he may do that afterwards, if he pleases. 
 Stay, Careless, we want you : egad, you shall be auctioneer — 
 so 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. Surf. 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 ? [Exeunt. 
 
 Sir Oliv. I '11 never forgive him ; never ! never ! 
 
ACT IV. SC I.] THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. 403 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 Scene I. — A Picture Room in Charles Surface's House. 
 
 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, begin — 
 A-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 Malpla- 
 quet. What say you, Mr. Premium ? look at him — there 's a 
 
 d 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 
 Kichard 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 ten — 
 the 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's 
 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 
 little 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 cir- 
 cuit. — 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 11 take 
 them at your own price, for the honour of parliament. 
 
SO. I.] THE SCHOOL FOE SCANDAL. 405 
 
 Care. Well said, little Premium ! 1 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 
 manner ; do let us deal wholesale : what say you, little Pre- 
 mium ? 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. AVhat, 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. Surf. 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 disin- 
 heriting 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. 
 
406 THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. [ACT IV. 
 
 Chas. Surf. Don't tease me, master broker ; I tell you I '11 
 not part -with it, and there 's an end of it. 
 
 Sir Oliv. [4 side.] How like his father the dog is ! — 
 [Aloud.] Well, well, I have done. — [Aside.] 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 11 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 '11 prepare lodgings for these gentle- 
 men. 
 
 Sir Oliv. Yes, yes, 1 11 send for them in a day or two. 
 
 Chas. Surf But hold ; do now send a genteel conveyance 
 for them, for, I assure jou, 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 1 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 follow, indeed. Let me see, two-thirds of these 
 
eC. II. J THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. 407 
 
 five hundred and thirty odd pounds are mine by right. 'Fore 
 Heaven ! I find one 's ancestors are more valuable relations 
 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 hun- 
 dred pounds of it immediately to old Stanley. 
 
 Row. A hundred pounds ! Consider only 
 
 Chas. Surf. Gads 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 proverb 
 
 Chas. 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, oue hour's reflection 
 
 Chas. Surf. Ay, ay, it 's very true ; but, hark'ee, Rowley, 
 while I have, by Heaven 1 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 extrava- 
 gant. 
 
 Sir Oliv. True, but he would not sell my picture. 
 
408 THE SCHOOL FOB 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 
 Bowley. 
 
 Enter Bowley. 
 
 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 — J. mean, though, in your neces- 
 sitous 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, 1 11 pay his debts, and his benevolence 
 too. But now I am no more a broker, and you shall intro- 
 duce me to the elder brother as old Stanley. 
 
 Row. Not yet awhile ; Sir Peter, I know, means to call 
 there about this time. 
 
 Enter Teip. 
 
 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 I 
 
 Row. Indeed ! 
 
 Sir Oliv. Yes, they are now planning an annuity business. 
 Ah, Master Bowley, 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 birth- 
 day 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 sus- 
 pect me. Yet I wish I may not lose the heiress, through 
 
SC. III.] THE SCHOOL FOE 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 ? Lud ! don't pretend to look grave. 
 I vow I couldn't come before. 
 
 Jos. Surf. 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, cer- 
 tainly 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 
 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 IV. 
 
 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 conscious- 
 ness 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 sus- 
 picious, 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 sus- 
 picion 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 preju- 
 dice 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 trifling faux 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. 
 
SC. III.] THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. 411 
 
 Lady Teaz. So, so ; then I perceive your prescription is, 
 that I must sin in rny own defence, and part with my virtue 
 to preserve my reputation ? 
 
 Jos. Surf. 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 con- 
 vinced 
 
 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 ? [Eises. 
 
 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 ! 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 stairs — 
 
 I '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. — 
 
412 THE SCHOOL FOE 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, } T ou 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 knowledge- 
 hung, 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 any 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 beg 
 
 Sir Pet. Well, now we are alone, there is a subject, my 
 dear friend, on which I wish to unburden my mind to you — 
 a 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 ! you astonish me ! 
 
 Sir Pet. Yes ! and, between ourselves, I think I 've dis- 
 covered 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 } t ou. 
 
 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 se- 
 crets. 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 I'd. Oh, my dear friend, the goodness of your own 
 heart misleads you You judge of others by your < if. 
 
SC. HI.] THE SCHOOL FOE SCANDAL. 413 
 
 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 ; hut your brother has no sentiment — you 
 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 af- 
 fection 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 w T hat 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 
 I 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 re- 
 move all ground of quarrel between us. She has lately re- 
 proached me more than once with having made no settlement 
 ■k 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 IV. 
 
 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 independ- 
 ent while I live ; and, by the other, the bulk of my fortune at 
 my death. 
 
 Jos. Surf. This conduct, Sir Peter, is indeed truly gene- 
 ous. — [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 man who is en- 
 trusted with his friend's distresses can never 
 
 Re-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, then 
 
SC in.] THE SCHOOL FOK 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 oppor- 
 tunity 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 — 1 11 swear I saw a petticoat ! 
 
 Jos. Surf. Ha ! ha ! ha ! Well, this is ridiculous enough. 
 1 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 be- 
 hind 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 ! — Tore Gad, I wish I 
 had a key to the door. 
 
 Filter Chakles Sukface. 
 
 Chas. Surf. Holla ! brother, what has been the matter ? 
 Your follow would not let me up at first. What ! have you 
 had a Jew or a wench with you? 
 
416 THE SCHOOL FOE SCANDAL. [ACT 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 un- 
 easiness. 
 
 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 ? 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 laugh 
 
 Chas. 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. [Baising 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 attach- 
 ment to Maria. 
 
 Jos. Surf. But sure, brother, even if Lady Teazle had 
 betrayed the fondest partiality for you 
 
 Chas. 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 exceed- 
 ingly, by naming me with Lady Teazle; for, i'faith, I always 
 understood you were her favourite. 
 
SC. in.] THE SCHOOL FOE SCANDAL 417 
 
 Jos. Surf. Oil, 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 here- 
 
 Jos. Surf Nay, pry thee, Charles 
 
 Chas. Surf. And found you together ■ 
 
 Jos. Surf. Zounds, sir, I insist — — 
 
 Chas. Surf. And another time when your servant- 
 
 Jos. 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, 1 11 have him out. Sir 
 Peter, come forth ! 
 
 Jos. Surf. No, no 
 
 Chas. Surf. I say, Sir Peter, come into court. — [Pulls in 
 Sik Peter.] What ! my old guardian ! — What ! turn in- 
 quisitor, and take evidence incog. ? Oh, fie ! Oh, fie! 
 
 Sir Pet. Give me your hand, Charles — I believe I have 
 i 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, 'tw T as 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 '? 
 
 Sir Pet. Well, well, I believe you. 
 1 1 Jos. Surf. Would they were both out of the room ! [Aside. 
 
 Sir Pet. And in future, perhaps, we may not be such 
 strangers. 
 
 E E 
 
413 THE SCHOOL FOIl SCANDAL. [ACT IV. 
 
 Re-enter Servant, and whispers Joseph Surface. 
 
 Sew. 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 par- 
 ticular 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.] 
 I'll 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. Pie 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 appre- 
 hensive 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, 1 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. 
 
 Chai. 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 you. [Points to the screen. 
 
 Chas. Surf. Behind the screen ! 'Slife, let 's unveil her ! 
 
£#. £H.J THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. 4J9 
 
 Sir Pet. No, no, he"s coming : — you shall '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. 1 11 stand by you 
 
 Sir Pet. Odds, here he is ! 
 
 [Charles Surface throws down the screen. 
 
 Be-enter Joseph Surface. 
 
 Chas. Surf. Lady Teazle, by all that 's wonderful ! 
 
 Sir Pet. Lady Teazle, by all that 's damnable ! 
 
 Chas. Surf. 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 1 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 pa- 
 tience — 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? 
 
 E E 2 
 
420 THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. [ACT V 
 
 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. Surf. [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 '11 find she '11 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 gentle- 
 man'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 ex- 
 pressed 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 to 
 
 Sir Pet. Oh, damn your sentiments ! 
 
 [Exeunt Sir Peter and Joseph Surface, tallring. 
 
 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 
 see him ? you must know he comes to ask something. 
 
SC. I.] THE SCHOOL FOE 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 lady 
 
 Jos. Surf. Go, fool ! — [Exit Sekvant.] 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 shan'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 Sib Oliver Surface and Rowley. 
 
 Sir Oliv. What ! does he avoid us ? That was he, was it not ? 
 
 How. 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 ! 
 
 Bow. 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 Oliv. Yet he has a string of charitable sentiments at his 
 fingers' ends. 
 
 Roiv. 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 
 begins at home. 
 
 Sir Oliv. And his, I presume, is of that domestic sort which 
 never stirs abroad at all. 
 
 Roiv. I doubt you 11 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 in your real 
 character. 
 
 Sir Oliv. True ; and afterwards you'll meet me at Sir Peter's. 
 
 Row. Without losing a moment. [Exit. 
 
422 THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. [ACT V. 
 
 Sir Oliv. I don't like the complaisance of his features. 
 
 He-enter Joseph Surface. 
 
 Jos. Surf. Sir, I beg yon 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, T 
 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 wealthy. 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 re- 
 commend 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 bullion — 
 rupees — pagodas ? 
 
 Jos. Surf. Oh, dear sir, nothing of the kind! No, no; a 
 few presents now and then — china, shawls, congou tea, avada- 
 vats, 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 
 
SC. I.] THE SCHOOL FOB SCANDAL. 423 
 
 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 cul- 
 pable, 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 sorry 
 
 Jos. Surf. 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 Servant. 
 
 Sir. Oliv. Oh, dear sir, no ceremony. 
 
 Jos. Surf. Your veiy obedient. 
 
 Sir Oliv. Your most obsequious. 
 
 Jos. Surf. You may depend upon -hearing from me, when- 
 ever 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 quali- 
 ties ; whereas the sentimental French plate I use instead of 
 it makes just as good a show, and pays no tax. 
 
 Re-enter Rowley. 
 Row. Mr. Surface, your servant : I was apprehensive of in- 
 terrupting you, though my business demands immediate at- 
 tention, 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 ! 
 
 Bow. 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. 1 11 tell him how impatiently you expect him. 
 
 Jos. Surf. Do, do; pray give my best duty and affec- 
 tion. Indeed, I cannot express the sensations I feel at the 
 thought of seeing him. — [Exit Rowley.] Certainly his com- 
 ing 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 Maid.] Dear heart, how provoking ! I 'm not mistress 
 of half the circumstances ! We shall have the v>hole 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 Backbtte. 
 
 Oh, dear Sir Benjamin ! you have heard, I suppose 
 
 Sir Ben. Of Lady Teazle and Mr. Surface 
 
 Mrs. Can. And Sir Peter's discovery 
 
 Sir Ben. Oh, the strangest piece of business, to be sure! 
 
SC. H.] THE SCHOOL FOE SCANDAL. 425 
 
 Mrs. Can. Well, I never was so surprised in my life. I am 
 80 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. 
 
 Mrs. 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 one 
 
 Sir 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. Surface 
 
 Sir 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, 1 11 not dispute with you, Mrs. Candour ; 
 I but, be it which it may, I hope that Sir Peter's wound will 
 not 
 
 Mrs. 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 hear. 
 
420 THE SCHOOL FOE SCANDAL. [ACT 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 ungrateful fellow." 
 
 Mrs. Can. Ay, to Charles 
 
 Sir Ben. No, no — to Mr. Surface — a most ungrateful fel- 
 low ; and old as I am, sir, says he, I insist on immediate satis- 
 faction. 
 
 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 imme- 
 diate 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 swords 
 
 Enter Ceabteee. 
 
 Crab. With pistols, nephew — pistols ! I have it from un- 
 doubted authority. 
 
 Mrs. Can. Oh, Mr. Crabtree, then it is all true ! 
 
 Crab. Too true, indeed, madam, and Sir Peter is danger- 
 ously wounded 
 
 Sir 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 know- 
 
 Crab. Do, nephew, let me speak ! — and insisted on imme- 
 diate 
 
 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 extra- 
 ordinary, the ball struck against a little bronze Shakspeare 
 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 con- 
 fess ; 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 ac- 
 counted 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. 
 
 Mrs. Can. I believe so, and Lady Teazle, I suppose, at- 
 tending 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 
 
 
428 THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. [ACT V. 
 
 Crab. Shot in the breast ■ 
 
 Sir Ben. By one Mr. Surface 
 
 Crab. 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 believe there can be no doubt of that. 
 
 Sir Oliv. Then, upon my word, for a person in that situ- 
 ation, 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 small- 
 sword 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 with- 
 out 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 misfor- 
 tune. 
 
 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. [Exit. 
 
SC. II.] 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 ! 
 
 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. 
 
 Flow. 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 sneer- 
 ing you have heard the whole affair. I shall go mad among 
 you! 
 
 Roiv. 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 ! ha I 
 
 Sir Pet. 'Twas very pleasant. 
 
430 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! 
 
 Ron\ To be sure, Joseph with his sentiments ! ha! ha! ha. 
 
 Sir Pet. Yes, yes, his sentiments ! ha ! ha ! ha ! Hypo- 
 critical villain ! 
 
 Sir Oliv. Ay, and that rogue Charles to pull Sir Peter out 
 of the closet : ha ! ha! ha! 
 
 Sir Pet. Ha! ha! 'twas devilish entertaining, to be sure! 
 
 Sir Oliy. 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, if 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 ac- 
 count : 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 Surface. 
 
 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 be- 
 coming in a wife. Don't you think it will do her good to let 
 her pine a little ? 
 
SC. III.] THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. 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 V 
 
 Plow. A mere forgery, Sir Peter ! laid in your way on pur- 
 pose. 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 ! Rowley, 1 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. 
 
 Roiv. Let them laugh, and retort their malice only by 
 showing them you are happy in spite of it. 
 
 Sir Pet. V faith, so I will ! and, if I 'm not mistaken, we 
 may yet be the happiest couple in the country. 
 
 Roiv. Nay, Sir Peter, he who once lays aside suspicion 
 
 Sir 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 TIL — 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, 
 
432 THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. [ACT V. 
 
 and supplanting your brother, but you must endeavour to 
 seduce his wife ? I hate such an avarice of crimes ; 'tis an 
 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 neces- 
 sary, to swear and prove, that Charles is at this time con- 
 tracted 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 Sneer. I have no diffidence of your abilities : only be 
 constant to one roguery at a time. 
 
 Jos. Surf. I will, I will ! — [Exit Lady Sneekwell.] 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, 1 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 acquainted. 
 
SC. III.] THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. 433 
 
 Jos. Surf. Zounds, sir ! then I insist on your quitting the 
 room directly 
 
 Sir Oliv. Nay, sir 
 
 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 every 
 
 Chas. Surf. 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. Gentlemen 
 
 Jos. Surf. Sir, by Heaven you shall go ! 
 
 Chas. Surf. Ay, out with him, certainly! 
 
 Sir Oliv. This violence ■ 
 
 Jos. Surf. Sir, 'tis your own fault. 
 
 Chas. Surf. Out with him, to be sure. 
 
 [Both forcing Sir Oliver 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 
 a first visit ! 
 
 F F 
 
434 THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. [ACT V 
 
 Lady Teaz. Indeed, Sir Oliver, 'twas well we came in to 
 rescue you. 
 
 Bow. 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- 
 tleman ; 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 Eowley 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 desti- 
 tute of truth, charity, and gratitude ! 
 
 Sir Pet. Sir Oliver, I should be more surprised at this de- 
 claration, if I had not myself found him to be mean, treacher- 
 ous, 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 punish- 
 ment, 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, there 
 
 Chas. Surf. 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. [Aside. 
 
 Sir Oliv. I suppose you would undertake to justify your- 
 self? [To JosEni Surface. 
 
 Jos. Surf. I 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. III.] THE SCHOOL FOE SCANDAL. 435 
 
 Sir Oliv. What ! — Little Premium has been let too much 
 into the secret, I suppose ? 
 
 Chas. Surf. 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 morti- 
 fied 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 Maeia. 
 
 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 ap- 
 peared an incorrigible rake, you would give your hand to no 
 one else ; and now that he is likely to reform 1 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 a 
 
436 THE SCHOOL FOE SCANDAL [ACT V 
 
 Enter Lady Sneerwell. 
 
 Sir Pet. So ! another French milliner ! Egad, he has one 
 in every room in the house, I suppose ! 
 
 Lady Sneer. Ungrateful Charles ! Well may you be sur- 
 prised, 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. — Row- 
 ley, you were perfectly right to bring him with us, and pray 
 let him appear. 
 
 Boiv. Walk in, Mr. Snake. 
 
 Enter Snake. 
 
 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 unfortu- 
 nately have been offered double to speak the truth. 
 
 Sir Pet. Plot and counter-plot, egad ! I wish your lady- 
 ship 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 which 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. 
 
 Lady Sneer. You too, madam! — provoking — insolent! 
 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 ? 
 
 Jjady Teaz. Oh, no ! 
 
SC. III.] THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. 437 
 
 Sir 01 iv. Well, sir, and what have you to say now ? 
 
 Jos. Surf. Sir, I am so confounded, to find that Lady Sneer- 
 well 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 OUv. Ay, and marry her, Joseph, if you can. Oil and 
 vinegar ! — 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 cha- 
 racter ; 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 OUv. 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 OUv. 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. Surf. 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 OUv. 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 
 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, 1 11 make no 
 promises, and that I take to he a proof that I intend to set 
 about 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 midience. 
 
 You can, indeed, each anxious fear remove, 
 
 For even Scandal dies, if you approve. [Exeunt omnes* 
 
 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 ! 
 
 So wills our virtuous bard — the motley Bayes • 
 
 Of crying epilogues and laughing plays ! 
 
 Old bachelors, who marry smart young wives, 
 
 Learn from our play to regulate your lives : 
 
 Each bring his dear to town, all faults upon her — 
 
 London will prove the very source of 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 condemn'd to such a dismal doom ] 
 
 Save money — when I just knew how to waste it! 
 
 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 FOE 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 ? 
 
 Seven 's the main ! Dear sound that must expire, 
 
 Lost at hot cockles round a Christmas fire; 
 
 The transient hour of fashion too soon 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 ! 
 
 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 clear, 
 
 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 fail- like you ; her faults who stopp'd, 
 
 And closed her folhes when the curtain dropp'd ! 
 
 No more in vice or error to engage, 
 
 Or play the fool at large on life's great stage." 
 
THE CRITIC; 
 
 OK, 
 
 A TEAG.EDY EEHEARSED. 
 
 A DRAMATIC PIECE IK THKEE ACTS. 
 
 TO MRS. GREVILLE. 
 
 Madam, — In requesting your permission to address the following pnges 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 ven- 
 tured 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 emi- 
 nently 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 parti- 
 cular 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, 3 r our very sincere and obedient humble servant, 
 
 R. B. SHERIDAN. 
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONS, 
 
 AS ORIGINALLY ACTED AT DRURY LANE THEATRE IN 1779. 
 
 Sir Fretful Plagiary Mr. Parsons. Mw TT rtM . T1M \Mr. Hon- 
 
 Puff Mr. King. \ hns. 
 
 £ ANGLE % r '%f L Mrs. Dangle. . .1*5* Uo P' 
 
 Sneer Mr. Palmer. I ***»• 
 
 Signor Pasticcio Ri- \ MrDdinL ' Sionore Pasticcio Rr \ M{ ? , ™ d 
 
 tornello . . {^d the Miss 
 [ Abrams. 
 
 tornello . , 
 
 T ) Mr. JJaddc- 
 
 iNTERl'RETKR . . . \ , 
 
 \ ley. 
 
 „ ^ ) Mr. Pkilli- 
 
 Under Prompter . \ 
 
 more. 
 
 Scenemon, Musicians, and 
 Servants. 
 
PROLOGUE. 
 
 441 
 
 CHARACTERS OF THE TRAGEDY. 
 
 :} 
 
 E } 
 
 Mr. Moody. 
 Mr. Wrighten. 
 
 Mr. Burton. 
 
 Mr. Waldron. 
 
 Mr. Kenny. 
 
 Justice . 
 Son . . 
 Constable 
 Thames . 
 Tilburina 
 
 confidant 
 
 Lord Burleigh 
 Governor of Til- 
 bury Fort 
 
 Earl of Leices- 1 ,- ^ 
 
 y Mr. barren. 
 ter . . . . J 
 
 Sir Walter Ra- 1 
 
 LEIGH .... J 
 Sir Christopher 1 
 
 Hatton . . . j 
 Master of the ' 
 
 Horse . 
 Don Ferolo Whis- \ Mr. Bannis- 
 
 KERANDOS . . .J ter, jwtl. 
 
 Beefeater .... Mr. Wright. 
 
 Scene, — London : in D angle's House during the First Act, and throughout 
 the rest of the Play in Drurt Lane Theatre. 
 
 . Mr. Packer 
 
 . Mr. Lamash. 
 
 . Mr. Fawcett. 
 
 . Mr. Gawdry. 
 
 . Miss Pope. 
 
 J Mrs. Brad' 
 
 \ shaw. 
 
 . Mrs.Johnston. 
 
 . Miss Collett. 
 
 . Miss Kiroy. 
 Constables, Senti- 
 nels, Servants, Chorus, Rivers, At- 
 tendants, &c, &c. 
 
 Justice's Lady 
 First Niece . 
 Second Niece . 
 Knights, Guards, 
 
 PROLOGUE, 
 
 BI THE HONOURABLE RICHARD FITZPATRICK. 
 
 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 Dryden writ, 
 
 The tragic queen, to please a tasteless crowd, 
 
 Had learn'd to bellow, rant, and rear 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 CEITIC; OE, JACT 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, undenled 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 ai£. 
 
 To this, a friendly, just, and powerful court, 
 
 I come ambassador to beg support. 
 
 Can he undaunted brave the critic's rage 1 ? 
 
 In civil broils with brother bards engage? 
 
 Hold forth their errors to the public eye, 
 
 Nay more, e'en newspapers themselves defy 1 
 
 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 Boom in Dangles House. 
 
 Me. and Mes. 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 intelli- 
 gence extraordinary. — We hear there is a new tragedy in re- 
 hearsal 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 Puff's 
 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 read 
 
 Mrs. 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, demon- 
 strating the certainty of an invasion, and proving that the nation 
 is utterly undone. But you never will read any thing to en- 
 tertain 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 Maecenas to second-hand authors '? 
 
 Dang. True ; my power with the managers is pretty noto- 
 rious. 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, how- 
 ever ; 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 eveiy 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 can- 
 didate actors, and poets without character. — Then to be con- 
 tinually 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 divi- 
 sions in their outlandish throats — with foreign emissaries and 
 French spies, for aught I know, disguised like fiddlers and 
 figure-dancers ? 
 
 Dang. Mercy ! Mrs. Dangle ! 
 
 Mrs. Dang. And to employ yourself so idly at such an 
 alarming crisis as this too — when, if you had the least spirit, 
 you w r ould 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 re- 
 commendation 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 w T ell, 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. 
 
SC. I.] A TEAGEDY REHEARSED. 445 
 
 Mrs. Dang. With all my heart ; you can't he more ridi- 
 culous 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. 
 
 Mrs. 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 no- 
 thing 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 mo- 
 rality; but now, I am sorry to say it, people seem to go 
 there principally for their entertainment ! 
 
446 THE CEITIC ; OE, [act I. 
 
 Mrs. Dang. It would have been more to the credit of the 
 managers to have kept it in the other line. 
 
 Sneer. 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 con- 
 versation 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-entente, no smart in- 
 nuendo 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 sub- 
 jects 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 pillory- 
 ing 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, because 
 everybody else abuses him. 
 
 Sneer. Very much to the credit of your charity, madam, if 
 not of your judgment 
 
9C. I.J A TRAGEDY REHEARSED. 447 
 
 Dang. But, egad, he allows no merit to any author but him- 
 self, 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 hu- 
 mility 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 stric- 
 tures; 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. yes ; he sent it to me yesterday. 
 
 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 Fretful — 
 never 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 know Mrs. 
 Dangle. — My friend Sneer was rallying just now T : — he knows 
 how she admires you, and 
 
 Sir Fret. Lord, I am sure Mr. Sneer has more taste and 
 sincerity than to [Aside] A damned double-faced fellow! 
 
 Dang. Yes, yes — Sneer will jest — butabetter humoured 
 
 Sir Fret. Oh, I know 
 
 Dang. He has a ready turn for ridicule— his wit costs him 
 nothing. 
 
448 the ceitic; or, [act I. 
 
 Sir Fret. No, egad — or I should wonder how he came by 
 it. [Aside. 
 
 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 suf- 
 ficient 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. lud! no — never send a play there while I 
 live — hark'ee ! [Whispers Sneer. 
 
 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 clear Pla- 
 giary ? 
 
 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 their 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 
 whole 
 
 Dang. If it succeeds. 
 
 Sir Fret. Ay, but with regard to this piece, I think I can 
 hit that gentleman, for 1 can safely swear he never read it. 
 
 Sneer. I '11 tell you how you may hurt him more. 
 
 Sir Fret. How ? 
 
 1 
 
 
SC. J.] A TRAGEDY REHEARSED. -149 
 
 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, to 
 
 Sir 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 de- 
 fect 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 w 7 hole, yet there is one small objection ; 
 which, if you '11 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. Beally I can't agree with my friend Sneer. I think 
 the plot quite sufficient ; and the four first acts by many de- 
 grees 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? 
 
 g a 
 
450 THE ceitic ; OE, [act I. 
 
 Mrs. Dang. No, indeed, I 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. Dang. lud! no. — I speak only with reference to 
 the usual length of acting plays. 
 
 Sir Fret. Then I am very happy — very happy indeed — be- 
 cause 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. 
 D angle'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, 1 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. 
 
 Dang. 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 villan- 
 ous — licentious — abominable — 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 reputa- 
 tion is only in danger from their support. 
 
 Sneer. Why that 's true — and that attack, now, on you the 
 other dav 
 
 Sir Fret. What? where? 
 
 Dang. Ay, you mean in a paper of Thursday : it was com- 
 pletely 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 
 
SC. I.] A TRAGEDY REHEARSED. 451 
 
 Sir Fret. You don't happen to recollect what the fellow 
 said, do you? 
 
 Sneer. Pray, Dangle — Sir Fretful seems a little an- 
 xious 
 
 Sir Fret. O lud, no! — anxious ! — not I, — not the least. — 
 I — but one may as well hear, you know. 
 
 Dang. Sneer, do you recollect ? — [Aside to Sneer.] Make 
 out something. 
 
 Sneer. [Aside to Dangle.] I will.— [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 common-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 
 ground 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 
 
 G G 2 
 
452 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 ! ha ! — 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 in- 
 terpreter, and three young ladies, and a dozen musicians, who 
 say they are sent by Lady Eondeau and Mrs. Fugue. 
 
 Dang. Gadso! they come by appointment! — Dear Mrs. 
 Dangle, do let them know 1 11 see them directly. 
 
 Mis. Dang. You know, Mr. Dangle, I shan't understand a 
 word they say. 
 
 Dang. But you hear there 's an interpreter. 
 
 Mrs. Dang. Well, 1 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. Sneer 
 
 Sir Fret. Zounds ! no, Mr. Dangle ; don't I tell you these 
 things never fret me in the least ? 
 
 Dang. Nay, I only thought 
 
 Sir 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. 
 
SO. II.] 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 D angle's House. 
 
 Mrs. Dangle, Signor Pasticcio Ritornello, Signore Pas- 
 ticcio Ritornello, Interpreter, and Musicians, dis- 
 covered. 
 
 Interp. Je dis, madame, j'ai l'honneur to introduce et de 
 vous demander votre protection pour le signor Pasticcio Ritor- 
 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. 
 
454 the critic; or, [act i. 
 
 Interp. Madame — nie interpret. — C'est a dire — in English 
 — qu'ils vous prient de leur faire l'honneur 
 
 Mrs. Vang. I say again, gentleman, I don't understand a 
 word you say. 
 
 Signor Past. Questo signore spieghero 
 
 Interp. Oui — me interpret. — Nous avons les lettres de re- 
 commendation pour monsieur Dangle de 
 
 Mrs. Dang. Upon my word, sir, I don't understand you. 
 
 Signor Past. La contessa Eondeau e nostra padrona. 
 
 3 Signora Past. Si, padre, et miladi Fugue. 
 
 Interp. ! — me interpret. — Madame, ils disent — in Eng- 
 lish — Qu'ils ont Thonneur d'etre proteges de ces dames, — You 
 understand ? 
 
 Mrs. Dang. No, sir, — no understand ! 
 
 Enter Dangle and Sneer. 
 
 Interp. Ah, voici monsieur Dangle ! 
 
 A 11 Italians. Ah ! signor Dangle ! 
 
 Mrs. Dang. Mr. Dangle, here are two very civil gentle- 
 men 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 same time. 
 
 Interp. Monsieur Dangle, le grand bruit de vos talens pour 
 la critique, et. de votre interet avec messieurs les directeurs a 
 tous les theatres 
 
 Signor Past. Vosignoria siete si famoso par la vostra con- 
 oscenza, e vostra interessa colla le direttore da 
 
 Dang. Egad, I think the interpreter is the hardest to be 
 understood of the two ' 
 
 Sneer. Why, I thought, Dangle, you had been an admirable 
 linguist ! 
 
 Dang. So I am, if they would not talk so damned fast. 
 
 Sneer. Well, 1 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 whispers Dangle. 
 Dang. Show him up. — [Ea.it Servant.] Bravo ! admirable! 
 
SC. II. J A TKAGEDY REHEARSED. 455 
 
 bravissimo ! adinirablissimo ! — Ah ! Sneer ! where will you 
 find voices such as these in England? 
 Sneer. Not easily. 
 
 Dang. But Puff is coming. — Signor and little signoras ob- 
 ligatissimo ! — Sposa signora Dauglena — Mrs. Dangle, shall I 
 beg you to offer them some refreshments, and take their address 
 in the next room. 
 
 [Exit Mrs. Dangle with Signor Pasticcio, Signore Pas- 
 ticcio, Musicians, and Interpreter, ceremoniously. 
 
 He-enter Servant. 
 Ser. Mr. Puff, sir. [Exit. 
 
 Enter Puff. 
 
 Bang. My dear Puff! 
 
 Puff. My dear Dangle, how is it with you ? 
 
 Bang. Mr. Sneer, give me leave to introduce Mr. Puff to 
 you. 
 
 Puff. 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 judgment 
 
 Sneer. Dear Sir 
 
 Bang. Nay, don't be modest, Sneer ; my friend Puff only 
 talks to you in the style of his profession. 
 
 Sneer. His profession ! 
 
 Puff. 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 service — or anybody 
 else's. 
 
 Sneer. Sir, you are very obliging ! — I believe, Mr. Puff, I 
 have often admired your talents in the daily prints. 
 
 Puff. Yes, sir, I natter 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, — the winter managers were a little sore, I believe. 
 
 Bang. No ; I believe they took it all in good part. 
 
 Puff. Ay ! then that must have been affectation in them ; 
 for, egad, there were some of the attacks which there was no 
 laughing at ! 
 
 Sneer. Av, the humorous ones. — But I should think, Mr. 
 
456 the ceitic; OR, [A.CT I. 
 
 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 manufac- 
 tured by me in the way of business. 
 
 Sneer. Indeed ! 
 
 Puff. Even the auctioneers now — the auctioneers, I say — 
 though the rogues have lately got some credit for their lan- 
 guage — 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 phrase- 
 ology 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 — to 
 teach courteous shrubs to nod their approbation of the grate- 
 ful soil ; or on emergencies to raise upstart oaks, where there 
 never had been an acorn ; to create a delightful vicinage with- 
 out 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 Mer- 
 cury, 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 ! 
 
 Sneer. How, pray. 
 
 Puff. Sir, I supported myself two years entirely by my mis- 
 fortunes. 
 
SC. n.] A TRAGEDY REHEARSED. 457 
 
 Sneer. By your misfortunes ! 
 
 Puff. Yes, sir, assisted by long sickness, and other occa- 
 sional disorders ; and a very comfortable living I had of it. 
 
 Smer. 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 I 
 
 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 unavoid- 
 able misfortunes : then, sir, though a very industrious trades- 
 man, I was twice burned out, and lost my little all both times : 
 I lived upon those fires a month. 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. 
 
 Bang. Egad, I believe that was when you first called on 
 me. 
 
 Puff. In November last ? — no ; I was at that time a 
 close prisoner in the Marshalsea, for a debt benevolently con- 
 tracted to serve a friend. I was afterwards twice tapped for a 
 dropsy, which declined into a very profitable consumption. I 
 was then reduced to — 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 hand- 
 some 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, 
 
458 THE CRITIC ; OR, [ACT I. 
 
 through my favourite channels of diurnal communication — 
 and so, sir, you have my history. 
 
 Sneer. Most obligingly communicative indeed ! and your con- 
 fession, 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. 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 collu- 
 sive, 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, Observa- 
 tion from Correspondent, or Advertisement from the Party. 
 
 Sneer. The puff direct, I can conceive 
 
 Puff. 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. Smatter, 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 humour — 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 ap- 
 peared 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 
 loss which to admire most, the unrivalled genius of the author, 
 the great attention and liberality of the managers, the won- 
 derful abilities of the painter, or the incredible exertions of all 
 the performers." 
 
 Sneer. That 's pretty well indeed, sir. 
 
 _ 
 
SC. II.] 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. lud, yes, sir ! the number of those who undergo 
 the fatigue of judging for themselves is very small indeed. 
 
 Sneer. Well, sir, the puff preliminary ? 
 
 Puff. 0, that, 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 dan- 
 gerous 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 observ- 
 ation 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 anec- 
 dote. — " Yesterday, as the celebrated George Bonmot was 
 sauntering down St. James's Street, he met the lively Lady 
 Maiy Myrtle coming out of the park : — ' Good God, Lady 
 Mary, 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-office, the corner of Ivy Lane, Paternoster 
 Row, price only one shilling.'" 
 
 Sneer. Very ingenious indeed ! 
 
460 THE CRITIC ; OK, [ACT I. 
 
 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 Champetre, 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 every- 
 body 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 ! 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 li- 
 mitation 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 parliament- 
 ary 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 gen- 
 tlemen, who know nothing of the matter themselves. It can 
 hint a ribbon for implied services in the air of a common re- 
 port ; and with the carelessness of a casual paragraph, sug- 
 gest officers into commands, to which they have no pretension 
 but their wishes. This, sir, is the last principal class of the 
 art of puffing — an art which I hope you will now agree with 
 me is of the highest dignity, yielding a tablature of benevo- 
 lence 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 
 
SC. I.] A TBAGEDY EEHEARSED. 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 honour — ■ 
 I shall be infinitely happy — highly flattered 
 
 Dang. I believe it must be near the time — shall we go to- 
 gether ? 
 
 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 memoran- 
 dums.] 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 di- 
 \ rectly. — Here too are some political memorandums — I see ; 
 i 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 mor- 
 i row, besides, to establish the unanimity of the fleet in the Pub- 
 lic Advertiser, and to shoot Charles Fox in the Morning 
 Post. — So, egad, I han't a moment to lose ! 
 
 Dang. Well, we '11 meet in the Green Room. 
 
 [Exeunt severally. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 Scene I. — The Theatre, before the Curtain. 
 
 Enter Dangle, Puff, and Sneek. 
 
 Puff. No, no, sir ; what Shakspeare says of actors may be 
 better applied to the purpose of plays; they ought to be the 
 
462 the critic; or, [act ii. 
 
 abstract and brief chronicles of the time. Therefore when, his- 
 tory, and particularly the history of our own country, furnishes 
 any thing like a case in point, to the time in which an au- 
 thor writes, if he knows his own interest, he will take advan- 
 tage 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 ! 
 
 Bang. 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. jNo scandal about Queen Elizabeth, I hope? 
 
 Puff. 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, that though they never did, they might happen. 
 
 Sneer. Certainly nothing is unnatural, that is not physically 
 impossible. 
 
 Puff. Very true — and for that matter Don Ferolo Whisker- 
 andos, 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. — How- 
 ever, 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 Low great the conflict must be between her passion 
 and her duty ; her love for her country, and her love for Don 
 Ferolo Whiskerandos ! 
 
 Puff. Oh, -amazing ! — her poor susceptible heart is swayed 
 to and fro by contending passions like 
 
SC. IT.] A TRAGEDY EEHEARSED. 4G3 
 
 Enter Under Prompter. 
 
 Und. Promp. Sir, the scene is set, and every thing is ready 
 to begin, if yon please. 
 
 Puff. Egad, then we 11 lose no time. 
 
 Und Promf. Though, I believe, sir, you will find it very 
 short, for all the performers have profited by the kind per- 
 mission 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. 
 
 Puff. 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 to 
 
 Puff. 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 per- 
 formance ; — 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 the 
 case is, that two great men are coming to this very spot to be- 
 
464 the ceitic; OR, [act II. 
 
 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 Chris- 
 topher Hatton. You 11 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 Waiter Raleigh and Sir Christopher Hatton. 
 Sir Christ. True, gallant Raleigh !" — 
 
 Dang. What, they had been talking before ? 
 
 Puff. O 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 before — 
 What mean these mighty armaments ] 
 This general muster? and this throng of chiefs V 
 
 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 ! 
 
 Puff. But you will hear what he thinks of the matter 
 
 "Sir 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 stern defence, 
 I cannot but surmise — forgive, my friend, 
 If the conjecture's rash — I cannot but 
 Surmise the state some danger apprehends J " 
 
 Sneer. A very cautious conjecture that. 
 
SC. II.] 
 
 A TRAGEDY REHEARSED 
 
 465 
 
 Puff. Yes, that 's his character ; not to give an opinion hut 
 on secure grounds. — Now then. 
 
 ** Sir Walt. most accomplish' d Christopher!" 
 
 Puff. He calls him by his christian name, to show that they 
 are on the most familiar terms. 
 91 Sir Walt. most accomplish'd Christopher ! I find 
 
 Thy staunch sagacity still tracks the future, 
 In the fresh print of the o'ertaken past." 
 
 Puff. Figurative! 
 
 91 Sir Walt. Thy fears are just. 
 
 Sir Christ. But where 1 whence 1 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 t 
 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 realms 
 
 Sir 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 Walt. The same — by chance a prisoner hath been ta'en, 
 
 And in this fort of Tilbury 
 
 Sir Christ. Is now 
 
 Confined — 'tis true, and oft from yon tall turret's top 
 
 I 've mark'd the youthful Spaniard's haughty mien — 
 
 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 ; hut I think you manage ill : for there cer- 
 tainly appears no reason why Sir Walter should be so commu- 
 nicative. 
 
 Puff. 'Fore Gad, now, that is one of the most ungrateful 
 observations I ever heard ! — for the less inducement he has to 
 
 H H 
 
408 the cbitic; 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 !" 
 
 Puff. 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 commander- 
 in-chief, the Earl of Leicester, who, you know, was no fa- 
 vourite 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 Tear'd, 
 
 That staff might well become an abler grasp. 
 Sir Christ. . And so, by Heaven ! think I ; but soft, he 's here !•' 
 
 Puff. Ay, they envy him ! 
 Sneer. But who are these with him ? 
 
 Puff. 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 Horse, 
 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 TEAGEDY REHEARSED. 467 
 
 Puff. There it is — followed up ! 
 
 "Sir Walt No more ! — the freshening breath of thy rebuke 
 
 Hath nll'd the swelling canvas of our souls ! 
 
 And thus, though fate should cut the cable of 
 
 [All take hands. 
 
 Oar topmost hopes, in friendship's closing line 
 
 We 11 grapple with despair, and if we fall, 
 
 We '11 fall in glory's wake ! 
 Laic. . . . There spoke old England's genius ! 
 
 Then, are we all resolved ] 
 
 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! 
 
 Puff. yes ! — where they do agree on the stage, their 
 unanimity is wonderful ! 
 "Leic. . . Then let 's embrace — and now [Kneels." 
 
 Sneer. What the plague, is he going to pray ? 
 
 Puff. Yes ; hush ! — in great emergencies, there is nothing 
 like a prayer. 
 " Leic. ... 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 rise — hear me ! [Kneeh. 
 
 Mast. . . . And me ! [Kneels. 
 
 Knight . . And me ! [Kneels. 
 
 Sir Walt. . And me ! [Kneels. 
 
 Sir Christ. And me ! [Kneels." 
 
 Puff. Now pray altogether. 
 
 * All. . . . 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 ! — Is that well managed or 
 not ? Have you such a prayer as that on the stage ? 
 Sneer. Not exactly. 
 
 H H 2 
 
468 the critic; or, [act it. 
 
 Leic. [To Puff.] But, sir, you haven't settled how we are 
 to get off here. 
 
 Tuff. You could not go off kneeling, could you ? 
 
 Sw Walt. [To Puff.] 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 ! — I '11 
 answer for it, the audience won't care how. 
 
 Puff. Well, then, repeat the last line standing, and go oft 
 the old way. 
 
 " All. . . . And sanctify whatever means we use 
 
 To gain them. [Exeunt." 
 
 Dang. Bravo ! a fine exit. 
 
 Sneer. Well, really, Mr. Puff 
 
 Puff. 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 
 
 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. lud, sir! if people, who want to listen or over- 
 hear, 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 
 done with it. — You have no more cannon to fire ? 
 
 Und. Promp. [Within.] No, sir. 
 
 Puff. Now, then, for soft music. 
 
 Sneer. Pray what 's that for? 
 
 Puff. It shows that Tilburina is coming ; — nothing intro- 
 duces you a heroine like soft music. Here she comes ! 
 
OC. II.] A TKAGEDY EEHEAKSED. 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. 
 Till. . . 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 them — 
 The 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 feather'd warblers tune their notes 
 Around, and charm the listening grove. The lark ! 
 The linnet ! chaffinch ! bullfinch ! goldfinch ! greenfinch ! 
 But 0, to me no joy can they afford ! 
 Nor rose, nor wallflower, nor smart gillyflower, 
 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. 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 ! " ■• V 
 
 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 1 
 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, 
 It cannot taste of merriment." 
 
 Dang. That 's certain ! 
 
 * Con.. . . But see where your stern father comes : 
 
 It is not meet that he should find you thus." 
 
470 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 fight — 
 and 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; hut 'tis no easy task 
 
 For barefaced grief to wear a mask of joy. 
 Enter Governor. 
 Gov. . . . How's this! — in tears? — Tilburina, shame I 
 
 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 scale? 
 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 land 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 see 
 
 Gov. . . . Hold, daughter ! peace ! this love hath turn'd thy brain : 
 
 The Spanish fleet thou canst not see — because 
 
 — It is not yet in sight ! " 
 
 Dang. Egad, though, the governor seems to make no allow- 
 ance for this poetical figure you talk of. 
 
 Puff. No, a plain matter-of-fact man ; — that 's his character. 
 
 " Tilb. 
 Gov. . 
 Tilb. . 
 Gov. . 
 Tilb. . 
 
 . But will you then refuse his offer? 
 
 . I must — I will — I can — I ought — I do. 
 
 . Think what a noble price. 
 
 . No more — you urge in vain. 
 
 . . His liberty is all he asks." 
 
SC. IT. 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. 
 u — 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. . 
 
 . . My 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 con- 
 science. Then flankonade with a thousand pounds — and a 
 palpable hit, egad ! 
 
 " Tilb. . . Canst thou — 
 
 Reject 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 ! [Exit. 
 
 Dang. Ay, that antithesis of persons is a most established 
 figure. 
 
 "Tilb. . . 'Tis well, — hence then, fond hopes, — fond passion, hence ; 
 
 Duty, behold I am all over thine 
 
 Whisk. . . [Without.] Where is my love — my 
 
 Tilb. ... Ha! 
 
 Enter Don Ferolo Whiskehandos. 
 
 Whish . '. My beauteous enemy ! " 
 
472 the critic; or, [act II. 
 
 Puff. dear, ma'am, you must start a great deal more than 
 that ! Consider, you had just determined in favour of duty— 
 when, in a moment, the sound of his voice revives your pas- 
 sion — overthrows your resolution — destroys your obedience. 
 If you don't express all that in your start, you do nothing at all. 
 
 Tilb. Well, well try again ! 
 
 Dang. Speaking from within has always a fine effect. 
 
 Sneer. Very. 
 
 " Whisk. . My conquering Tilburina ! How ! is 't thus 
 
 We meet 1 ? why are thy looks averse? what means 
 
 That falling tear — that frown of boding woe ] 
 
 Ha ! 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 ! 
 
 Tilb. ... no ! how little dost thou know thy Tilburina ! 
 
 WhisL . . 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 ? 
 
SC. II. J A TEAGEDY REHEARSED 473 
 
 Puff. You ! pshaw ! what the devil signifies how you get off! 
 edge away at the top, or where you will — [Pushes the Con- 
 fidant off.] Now, ma'am, you see 
 
 Tilb. We understand you, sir. 
 
 " Ay, for ever. 
 Both. . . Oh ! [Turning hack, and exeunt. — Scene closes." 
 
 Bang. 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 '11 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. no, that always has a fine effect — it keeps up ex- 
 pectation. 
 
 Dang. But are we not to have a battle ? 
 
 Puff Yes, yes, you will have a battle at last ; but, egad, 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. 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 main- 
 plot as possible. — I flatter myself nothing can be more dis- 
 tinct than mine ; for as in my chief plot the characters are all 
 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. Proinp. Sir, the carpenter says it is impossible you 
 can go to the park scene yet. 
 
474 THE CRITLC ; OR, [act III. 
 
 Puff. The park scene ! no ! I mean the description scene 
 here, in the wood. 
 
 Und. Promp. Sir, the performers have cut it out. 
 
 Puff. Cut it out ! 
 
 Under Promp. Yes, sir. 
 
 Puff. What ! the whole account of Queen Elizabeth ? 
 
 Under Promp. Yes, sir. 
 
 Puff- And the description of her horse and side-saddle ? 
 
 Under Promp. Yes, sir. 
 
 Puff. So, so ; this is very fine indeed ! — Mr. Hopkius, how 
 the plague could you suffer this ? 
 
 Mr. Hop. [Within.'] Sir, indeed the pruning-knife 
 
 Puff. 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, 1 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 horse ! — 
 Well, sir, go on. — Sir, it was one of the finest and most 
 laboured things. — Very well, sir ; let them go on. — There you 
 had him and his accoutrements, from the bit to the crupper. 
 — Very well, sir; we must go to the park scene. 
 
 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 Graves- 
 end 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. dear, sir, these little things will happen. 
 
 Puff. To cut out this scene ! — but 1 11 print it — egad, 1 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, Constables, &c, discovered." 
 Sneer. This, I suppose, is a sort of senate scene. 
 
 
SC. I.] A TRAGEDY REHEARSED. 475 
 
 Puff. 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 most 
 shocking manner. 
 
 Dang. It 's a great pity ! 
 
 Puff. Now, then, Mr. Justice, if you please. 
 
 " Just. . . Are all the volunteers without 1 
 
 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 
 
 In honour's cause. 
 Just 'Tis well — 'tis justice arms him ! 
 
 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 
 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." 
 
 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 
 My fluttering heart, and to myself I said, 
 An if our Tom had lived, he 'd surely been 
 This stripling's height ! 
 . . . Ha ! sure some powerful sympathy directs 
 
 Us both 
 
 Re-enter Constable with Son. 
 What is thy name 1 
 Son. .... My name is Tom Jenkins — alias have I none — 
 Though orphan'd, and without a friend ! 
 
476 the critic; or, [act in. 
 
 Just. . . . Thy parents ? 
 
 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 ! 
 
 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 thou — 
 
 I am thy father ; here 's thy mother ; there 
 
 Thy uncle — this thy first cousin, and those 
 
 Are all your near relations ! 
 Lady. ... ecstacy of bliss ! 
 
 Son most unlook'd for happiness ! 
 
 Just wonderful event ! [They faint alternately in each other's amis." 
 
 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 ! " [Exeunt." 
 
 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 Soenemen, 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 al- 
 ways 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 ?, 
 
SC. I.] A TRAGEDY REHEARSED. 477 
 
 Dang. Yes, I think there is something like it in Othello. 
 
 Puff. Gad! now you put me in mind o'n '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 Shak- 
 speare 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. 1 " 
 
 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 per- 
 son ! Pray, gentlemen step this way — softly — I only hope 
 the Lord High Treasurer is perfect — if he is but perfect ! 
 " Enter Lord Burleigh, goes sloivly to a chair, and sits." 
 
 Sneer. Mr. Puff! 
 
 Puff. Hush ! — Vastly well, sir ! vastly w T ell ! a most interest- 
 ing 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 talk- 
 ing? 
 
 Dang. That 's very true, upon my word ! 
 
 " Lord Burleigh comes forward, shakes his head, and exit." 
 
 Sneer. He is very perfect indeed ! Now, pray what did he 
 mean by that ? 
 
 Puff. You don't take it ? 
 
478 the critic; on, [act hi. 
 
 Sneer. No, I don't, upon my soul. 
 
 Puff. Why, by that shake of the head, he gave you to un- 
 derstand 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 ! 
 
 Sir Walt. Let us withdraw and mark them. [They withdraw." 
 
 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 Don Whiskeran- 
 dos. — 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. 
 1st Niece. . Ellena here ! 
 
 She is his scorn as much as I — that is 
 Some comfort still ! " 
 
 Puff. 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. [Aside. 
 
 2nd Niece. I know he prizes not Pollina's love ; 
 
 But Tilburina lords it o'er his heart. [Aside. 
 
 1st Niece. . But see the proud destroyer of my peace. 
 
 Revenge is all the good I 've left. [Aside. 
 
 '2nd Niece. He comes, the false disturber of my quiet. 
 
 Now, vengeance do thy worst. [Aside. 
 
 Enter Don Ferolo Whiskerandos. 
 Whisk. . . hateful liberty — if thus in vain 
 I seek my Tilburina ! 
 
SC. I.] A TKAG-EDY BEHEABSED. 479 
 
 Both Nieces. . . And ever shalt ! 
 
 Sir Christopher Hatton and Sir Walter Raleigh come forward. 
 
 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 Whisker- 
 andos : 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 imme- 
 diately 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 ! 
 — 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 ! 
 
 [T/iey drop their swords and daggers." 
 
 Sneer. That is a contrivance indeed ! 
 Puff. Ay — in the queen's name. 
 
 " Sir Christ. Come, niece ! 
 
 Sir Walter. Come, niece ! [Exeunt with the two NiEOES. 
 
 Whisk. . . What'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 in my heart ! 
 
 Off, yeoman's habit ! — base disguise ! off! off! 
 
 [Discovers himself, by throwing off his upper dress, and ap- 
 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 be 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. 
 
 Whisk. . . I thank thee, Fortune, that hast thus bestowed 
 
 A weapon to chastise this insolent. [Takes up one of the swords. 
 
480 the ckitic; or, [act m. 
 
 Beef. ... I take thy challenge, Spaniard, and I thank thee, 
 
 Fortune, too ! [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. 
 Puff. No, egad, they could not help leaving them. 
 
 ** WhisTc. . Vengeance and Tilburina ! 
 
 Beef. Exactly so 
 
 [They Jlghfr— and after the usual number of wounds given, 
 Whiskerandos falls. 
 
 WhisTc. . . 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 ? 
 
 " WhisTc. . 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 1 11 join the fleet. 
 Puff If you please. — [Exit Beefeater.] Now, who comes 
 on? 
 
 "Enter Governor, with his hair properly disordered. 
 Gov. .... A hemisphere of evil planets reign ! 
 
 And every planet sheds contagious frenzy ! 
 My Spanish prisoner is slain ! 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 ! 
 Tilburina ! from thy aged father's beard 
 Thou'st pluck'd the few brown hairs which time had left ! 
 
 [Exit." 
 
 Sneer. Poor gentleman ! 
 
8C. I.J A TEAGEDT REHEARSED. 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. Lord, sir — when a heroine goes mad, she always 
 goes into white satin. — Don't she, Dangle ? 
 Bang. Always — it 's a rule. 
 
 Puff. Yes — here it is — [Looking at the book.] " Enter Til- 
 burina 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. — Now, madam 
 confidant — but keep your madness in the back-ground, if you 
 please. 
 
 " Till. . . The wind whistles — the moon rises — see, 
 They have kill'd my squirrel in his cage ! 
 Is this a grasshopper? — Ha ! no; it is my 
 Whiskerandos — you shall not keep him — 
 I know you have him in your pocket — 
 An oyster may be cross'd in love ! — Who says 
 A whale 's a bird 1 — Ha ! did you call, my love 1 — 
 He 's here ! he 's there ! — He 's everywhere ! 
 Ah me ! 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 — you know my play is called The Spanish 
 Armada; otherwise, egad, I have no occasion for the battle at 
 
 i t 
 
482 THE CEITIC. [ACT III. 
 
 all. — Now then for my magnificence ! — my battle ! — my noise ! 
 — and my procession ! — You are all ready ? 
 Und. Promp. [Within.] Yes, sir. 
 Puff. Is the Thames dressed? 
 
 "Enter Thames with two Attendants." 
 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? 
 
 Puff. 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 banks. 
 [Flourish of drums, trumpets, cannon, dc. <&c. Scene 
 changes to the sea — the fleets engage — the music plays 
 "Britons strike home." — Spanish fleet destroyed by 
 Jire-ships, dc. — English fleet advances — -music plays 
 "Ride Britannia." — The procession of all the English 
 rivers, and their tributaries, with their emblems, <&c, 
 begins with HandeVs water music, ends with a chorus, 
 to the march in Judas Maccabceus. — 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 TEIP 
 
 TO SCARBOROUGH. 
 
 A COMEDY. 
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONS. 
 
 AS ORIGINALLY ACTED AT DRURY-LANE THEATRE IN 1777. 
 
 Lord Foppington 
 Sir Tunbelly 
 
 Clumsy 
 Colonel Townly 
 Loveless 
 Tom Fashion 
 La Yarole 
 Lory . . 
 Probe . 
 Mend legs 
 Jeweller 
 
 Mr. Dodd. 
 
 ■Mr. Moody. 
 
 Mr. Brereton. 
 Mr. Smith. 
 Mr. J. Palmer, 
 Mr. Burton. 
 Mr. Baddeley. 
 Mr. Parsons. 
 Mr. Norris. 
 Mr. Lamash. 
 
 Shoemaker . 
 Tailor . . . 
 
 Amanda . . 
 Berinthia 
 Miss Hoyden . 
 Mrs. Coupler 
 Nurse . . . 
 
 Mr. Carpenter. 
 Mr. ParJcer. 
 
 Mrs. Robinson. 
 Miss Farren. 
 Mrs. Abington. 
 Mrs. Booth. 
 Mrs. Bradshaw. 
 
 Sempstress, Postilion, Maid, and 
 Servants. 
 
 SCENE — Scarborough and its Neighbourhood. 
 
 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 and the passions ; 
 The Exchange, 'Change Alley, wheresoe'er you 're ranging, 
 Court, city, country, all are changed or changing : 
 The streets, some time ago, were paved with stones, 
 "Which, aided by a hackney-coach, half broke your bones. 
 The purest lovers then indulged in bliss ; 
 They run great hazard if they stole a kiss. 
 One chaste salute ! — the damsel cried — Oh, fie ! 
 As they approach'd — slap went the coach awry — 
 Poor Sylvia got a bump, and 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 shallow head from the beholders ! 
 But now the whole 's reversed — each fop appears, 
 Cropp'd and trimm'd up, exposing head 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; 
 
 I I 2 
 
484 A TEIP 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 grace, 
 "When dawning blushes rose upon the face ; 
 No 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 fair to pass 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. — The Sail of an Inn. 
 Enter Tom Fashion and Lory, Postilion following with a 'portmanteau. 
 
 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-bag. 
 
 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 1 ? — [Aloud.] Hark'ee, boy, 
 what 's the chaise 1 
 
 Post. Thirteen shillings, please your honour. 
 
 Fash. Can you give me change for a guinea 1 
 
 Post. Oh, yes, sir. 
 
 Lory. [Aside.] So, what will he do now V— [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 '11 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 wants grace, who never wanted wit." — Pope. 
 
SC. I.J A TRIP TO SCARBOROUGH. 485 
 
 Fash. To be sure ; bid tbem give you a crown. 
 
 Lory. Yes, yes — my master doesn't care what you charge them — so get 
 along, you 
 
 Post. And there 's the hostler, your honour. 
 
 Lory. Psha ! damn the ostler ! — would you impose upon the gentleman's 
 generosity ] — [Pushes him otct] 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 
 nope 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? 
 
 Fash. Cut his throat, or get some one to do it for me. 
 
 Lory. 'Gfad 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 '11 help 
 me with a farthing 1 
 
 Lory. Not if you treat him de haut en las, 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 ? 
 
 Fash. Yes. 
 
 Lory. I can't — good by t' ye, sir. 
 
 Fash. Stay— thou 'It distract me. But who comes here % My old friend, 
 Colonel Townly. 
 
 Enter Colonel Townly. 
 My 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 1 
 
 Lory. Ah, sir, if it had been his funeral, we should have come with pleasure. 
 
 Col. Town. What, honest Lory, are you with your master still 1 
 
 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. Gro, go, sir — and take care of the baggage. 
 
 Lory. Yes, sir — the baggage ! — Lord ! [Takes up the portmanteau!] I 
 suppose, sir, I must charge the landlord to be very particular where he stows 
 this? 
 
486 A TRIP TO SCARBOROUGH. [ACT I 
 
 Fash,. Gret along, you rascal. — [Exit Loet, with the portmanteau.'] But, 
 Colonel, are you acquainted with my proposed sister-in-law 1 
 
 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 abroad, 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 Coupler, 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 ? 
 
 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 from 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 insen- 
 sible of the treasure he possesses, my lodging 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 1 
 
 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 '11 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 ] 
 
 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 Avish you could pay this visit for me, or could tell me what I 
 should say to him. 
 
SC. II.] A TEIP TO SCABBOEOUGH. 487 
 
 Col. Town. 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 engage you prosper. 
 
 Fash. 'Sdeath and furies ! why was that coxcomb thrust into the world 
 before me 1 Fortune, Fortune, thou art a jilt, by Gad ! [Exeunt, 
 
 Scene II. — Lord Foppington's Dressing-room. 
 Enter Lord Foppington in Ms nightgown, and, La Varole. 
 
 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 peru. 
 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 Mendlegs. 
 
 Lord Fop. So, gentlemen, I hope you have all taken pains to show your- 
 selves masters in your professions ? 
 
 Tai. I think I may presume, sir 
 
 La 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 clotlies. 
 
 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 court — 
 they 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 ! 
 
 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 ! Sir— I say tha coat 
 is too wide here by a foot. 
 
488 A TRIP TO SCARBOROUGH. [ACT I 
 
 Tat. 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 1 ? As Gad shall jedge me, it hangs on my shoulders like a chairman^ 
 surtout. 
 
 Tai. 'Tis not for me to dispute your lordship's fancy. 
 
 Lory. There, sir, observe what respect does. 
 
 Fash. Eespect ! damn him for a coxcomb ! — But let 's accost him.— 
 [Coming forward^] Brother, I'm your humble servant. 
 
 Lord Fop. Lard, Tarn ! I did not expect you in England— brother, I 'm 
 glad to see you. — But what has brought you to Scarborough, Tarn 1 ? — [To the 
 Tailor.] Look you, sir, I shall never be reconciled to this nauseous wrapping- 
 gown, therefore pray get me another suit with all possible expedition ; for 
 this is my eternal aversion. — [Exit Tailor.] Well but, Tarn, you don't tell 
 me what has driven you to Scarborough. — Mrs. Calico, are not you of my 
 mind? 
 
 Semp. Directly, my lord. — I hope your lordship is pleased with your ruffles ? 
 
 Lord Fop. In love with them, stap my vitals ! — Bring my bill, you shall 
 be paid to-morrow. 
 
 Semp. 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 his foot] 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 feel? 
 
 Shoe. Your lordship may please to feel 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 incompre- 
 hensive 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 thick- 
 ened 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 thick- 
 ness of a crown-piece less. 
 
 Mend. Indeed, my lord, they are the same kind I had the honour to fur- 
 nish 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, Mr. Hosier, that if you 
 make a nobleman's spring legs as robust as his autumnal calves, you com- 
 mit a manstrous impropriety, and make no allowance for the fatigues of the 
 winter. [Exit Mendlegs. 
 
 Jewel. I hope, my lord, these buckles have had the unspeakable satisfac- 
 tion of being honoured with your lordship's approbation ? 
 
SC. II. J A TRIP TO SCARBOROUGH. 489 
 
 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, [Ser- 
 vant fetches the watches,] my chapeau, [Servant Irings a dress 7iat,~\ my 
 handkerchief, [Servant pours some scented liquor on a handkerchief and 
 Irings it,~\ my snaff-bax, [Servant irings snuff-box.] There, now the busi- 
 ness 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 off. 
 
 Fash. [Aside to Lory.] Nor ever shall, while they belong to a coxcomb. 
 — [To Lord Foppington.] Now your people of business are gone, brother, I 
 hope I may obtain a quarter of an hour's audience of you ] 
 
 Lord Fop. Faith, Tam, I must beg you 11 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 1 — You '11 excuse me, brother. 
 
 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 1 for I must needs talk with you. 
 
 Lord Fop. That I 'm afraid mayn't be quite so praper ; for those I com- 
 monly 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 *Fam, 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 1 
 
 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 log- 
 gerheads, if she would but join in the confederacy. 
 
 Fash. By this light, Madam Coupler ! she seems dissatisfied at some- 
 thing : let us observe her. 
 
 Enter Mrs. Coupler. 
 
 Mrs. 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 cox- 
 comb ! 
 
 Fash. So he is, upon my soul, old lady j it must be my brother you speak o£ 
 
490 A TRIP TO SCARBOROUGH. [ACT I. SO. II. 
 
 Mrs. Coup. Ha ! stripling, how came you here ? What, hast spent all, 
 eh 1 And art thou come to dun his lordship for assistance 1 
 
 Fash. No, I want somebody's assistance to cut his lordship's throat, with- 
 out 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 marriage ; 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 '11 help you to the lady. 
 
 Fash. And how the devil wilt thou do that 1 
 
 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 name — ia 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 here a few days longer, to recover the 
 fatigue of his journey, I suppose. Now you shall go to Muddymoat 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 1 Well, 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. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Fash. So, Lory, Fortune, thou seest, at last takes care of merit ! 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. 
 Fash. How dost know 1 
 
 Lory. Because, sir, I have wondered at you so often, I can wonder at you 
 no more. 
 
ACT II. SC. I. J A TEIP TO SCABBOBOUGH. 491 
 
 Fash. No ! What wouldst thou say, if a qualm of conscience should spoil 
 my design 1 
 
 Lory. I would eat my word3, 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 I execute this project, I '11 try my brother to the bottom. If 
 he has yet so much humanity about him as to assist me — though with a 
 moderate aid — 1 11 drop my project at his feet, and show him how I can do 
 for him much more than what I 'd ask he 'd do for me. This one conclusive 
 trial of him I resolve to make.— 
 
 Succeed or fail, still victory is my lot ; 
 If I subdue his heart, 'tis well — if not, 
 I will subdue my conscience to my plot. [Exeunt. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 Scene I. — Loveless's Lodgings. 
 Enter 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. 
 
 Ijove. Oh, a little of the noise and folly of this place will sweeten the plea- 
 sures 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 most of them are, indeed, but empty ; yet there are de- 
 lights of which a private life is destitute, which may divert an honest man, 
 and be a harmless entertainment 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 1 
 
 Love. To say truth, I did not mind it much — my attention was for some 
 time taken off to admire the workmanship of nature, in the face of a young 
 lady who sat some distance from me, she was so exquisitely handsome. 
 
 Aman. So exquisitely handsome ! 
 
 Love. Why do you repeat my words, my dear"? 
 
 Aman. Because you seemed to speak them with such pleasure, I thought I 
 might oblige you with their echo. 
 
 Love. Then, you are alarmed, Amanda? 
 

 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. 
 
 Aman. Take heed of trusting to such nice distinctions. But were your 
 eyes 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 eyes 1 
 
 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 1 
 
 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 ? 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 wag, 
 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. 
 
 Aman. 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 de- 
 sires to know how you do. He 's at the next door ; and, if it be not incon- 
 venient to you, he '11 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. I.] A TEIP TO SCARBOROUGH. 493 
 
 Love. No, there you are wrong, Amanda ; you should never bestow your 
 I pity upon those who take pains for j r our contempt : pity those whom nature 
 abuses, never those who abuse nature. 
 
 ! 
 
 Enter Lord Foppington. 
 
 ! 
 
 Lord Fop, Dear Loveless, I am your most humble servant. 
 
 Love. My lord, I 'm yours. 
 
 Lord Fop. Madam, your ladyship's very obedient slaves 
 
 Love. My lord, this lady is a relation of my wife's. 
 
 Lord Fop, [Salutes Berinthia.] The beautifulest race of people upon 
 earth, rat me ! Dear Loveless, I am overjoyed that you think of continu- 
 ing 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 impos- 
 sible to be quiet without thinking : now thinking is to me the greatest 
 fatigue in the world. 
 
 Aman. Does not your lordship love reading, then 1 
 
 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 an- 
 cestors 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 boots 
 by two. On my return, I dress ; and, after dinner, lounge perhaps to the 
 opera. 
 
 Ber. Tour lordship, I suppose, is fond of music 1 
 
 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. 
 
 Aman. 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 Grin — 
 these 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 1 
 
 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 1 
 
 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 TKIP TO SCARBOROUGH. '[ACT II. 
 
 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 
 aflairs 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. 
 
 Per. 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 ! 
 
 Avian. 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.] Lord, madam, 
 I 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. [Leading 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 him 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. [Hastily returning.] Hey ! what the devil, do you affront my wife, 
 sir? Nay, then [Draws. They fight. 
 
 Aman. What has my folly done ? — Help ! murder ! help ! Part them, 
 for Heaven's sake. 
 
 Lord Fop. [Falls lack and leans on his sword.] Ah ! quite through 
 the body, stap my vitals ! 
 
 Enter Servants. 
 
 Love. [Runs to Lord Foppington.] I hope I han't killed the fool, how- 
 ever. Bear him up. — Call a surgeon there. 
 
 Lord Fop. Ay, pray make haste. [Exit Servant. 
 
 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 be- 
 fore ?— 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. 
 
 Tjove. Pr'ythee don't stand prating, but look upon his wound. 
 
 Probe. Why, what if I won't look upon his wound this hour, sjr? 
 
 Love. Why, then he '11 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 be was run through the heart, and I should get the more credit 
 
SC. I.] A TEIP TO SCAEBOEOUGH. 495 
 
 by his cure. Now I hope you are satisfied] Come, now let me come at Mm 
 — now let me come at him. — [ Viewing his zcound.] Oons ! what a gash ia 
 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 ? — [Aside.] A little scratch between the skin and the 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. Why 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 cure ] 
 
 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.] Come, 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 you 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 him- 
 self into a fever by-and-by. — Carry him off ! [Exit with Lord Foppington. 
 
 Enter Colonel Townlv. 
 
 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 ] 
 
 Aman. 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 life] 
 
 Love. None at all. He 's fallen into the hands of a roguish surgeon, who, 
 I perceive, designs to frighten 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 
 lordship, which I have been contriving with an old acquaintance of yours. 
 
 Love. Explain. 
 
496 A TKIP TO SCARBOROUGH. - [ACT II. 
 
 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 
 spare 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. 
 
 Amain. 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 ? 
 
 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 some- 
 thing 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. 
 
 Aman. And pray what is that 1 ? 
 
 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 '11 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. 7.] A TKIP TO SCARBOROUGH. 197 
 
 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, he 's an ass. 
 
 Aman. 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. 
 
 Avian. He answers the opinion I had ever of him. — [Takes her ha,nd.] 
 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!— [Alovd.] 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! — [Alozcd.] Well said, 
 Innocence ! and you really think, my dear, that nothing could abate your 
 constancy and attachment to your husband ] 
 
 Aman. Nothing, I am convinced. 
 
 Ber. What, if you found he loved another woman better 1 
 
 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 again ? 
 
 Ber. Oh no ! I resolve I will. 
 
 Aman. How so 1 
 
 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. 
 
 j 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 
 Amanda.] Ah, poor Amanda ! you have led a country life. Well, this dis- 
 covery 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 coun- 
 tenance, would be as happy in my smiles as Townly can hope to be in hers. I '11 
 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 or something worse. [Exit. 
 
 K K 
 
498 A TRIP TO SCARBOROUGH, [ACT IJL 
 
 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 Var. Will your lordship venture so soon to expose yourself to the 
 weather 1 ? 
 
 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 
 ray 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 T 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 Fashion. 
 
 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, Tam, 
 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 1 
 
 Lord Fop. Because I remember mine did so, when I heard my uncle was 
 shot through the head. 
 
 Fash. It then did very ill. 
 
 Lord Fop. Pr'ythee, why so 1 
 
 Fash. Because he used you very well. 
 
 Lord Fop. Well ! — Naw, strike me dumb ! he starved me; he has let me 
 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 1 
 
 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 ! But now for ray 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 
 arc such, I hope you '11 have patience to hear me. 
 
 LO, 
 
SC. I.] A TEIP TO SCAEBOEOUGH. 499 
 
 Lord Fop. The greatness of your necessities, Tarn, 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, Tarn, to give you my sense of the thing, I do 
 think taking a purse the best remedy in the waurld; 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 anyhow, 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, Tarn, whether I can spare you five hundred 
 paunds. 
 
 Fash. If you can't, I must starve, that 's all. — [Aside!] Damn him ! 
 
 Lord Fop. 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 
 I should do 't upon two hundred 1 
 
 Lord Fop. Don't be in a passion, Tarn, for passion is the most un- 
 becoming 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 at- 
 tendance than a coach-horse. Nature has made some difference 'twixt you 
 and me. 
 
 Fash. Yes — she has made you older. — [Aside.] Plague take her ! 
 
 Lord Fop. That is not all, Tarn. 
 
 Fash. Why, what is there else 1 
 
 Lord Fop. [Looks first on himself, and then 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 cox- 
 combs ! 
 
 Lord Fop. Sir, I am proud at being at the head of so prevailing a party. 
 
 Fash. Will nothing provoke thee ? — Draw, coward ! 
 
 Lord Fop. Look you, Tarn, you know I have always taken you for a 
 mighty dull fellow, and here is one of the foolishest plats broke out that I 
 
 K K 2 
 
500 A TKIP TO SCARBOROUGH. [ACT III 
 
 have seen a lang time. Your poverty makes life so burdensome to you, you 
 would provoke me to a quarrel, in hopes either to slip through my lungs into 
 mv 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 ! 
 
 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. Now 
 then I shall get my wages. [Exeunt. 
 
 Scene II. — A Garden behind Loveless's Lodgings. 
 Enter Loveless and Servant. 
 
 Love. Is my wife within? 
 
 Serv. 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 ! 
 here she comes. 
 
 Enter Berinthia. 
 
 Ber. What makes you look so thoughtful, sir 1 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 be- 
 lieve, should I put myself into your hands, you would increase my distemper. 
 
 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. 
 

 SC. 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 first 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 hand. 
 
 Ber. 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. Grad ! the devil 's in you ! Lord, let me go ! — here 's somebody 
 coming. 
 
 Re-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. Um! 
 
 Enter Colonel Townlt. 
 
 Col. Town. [Aside.] So ! what 's here — Berinthia and Loveless — and in 
 such close conversation ! — I cannot now wonder at her indifference in ex- 
 cusing herself to me ! — rare woman ! — Well then, let Loveless look to his 
 wife, 'twill be but the retort courteous on both sides. — [Aloud.] Tour ser- 
 vant, 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 your cheeks. 
 
 Ber. I have been walking ! 
 
 Col. Town. Is that all] Pray was it Mr. Loveless went from here just 
 now? 
 
 Ber. 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 ! 
 [Aloud.] Pray, madam, may I, without impertinence, trouble you with a 
 few serious questions ? 
 
 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? 
 
 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 ? 
 
 Ber. Why, to do you justice, you have been extremely troublesome — and 
 I confess I have been more civil to vou than you deserved. 
 
502 A TRIP TO SCARBOROUGH. [ACT III. 
 
 Col. Town. Did I not come to this place at your express desire, and for 
 no purpose but the honour of meeting you 1 ? — and after waiting a month in 
 disappointment, have you condescended to explain, or in the slightest way 
 apologise, for your conduct? 
 
 Ber. heavens ! apologise for my conduct ! — apologise to you ! 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 sur- 
 prised 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 wonderful than it was for this honourable lover 
 to divert himself in the absence of this coquette, with endeavouring to seduce 
 his friend's wife ! colonel, colonel, don't talk of honour or your friend, 
 for Heaven's sake ! 
 
 Col. Tozvn. [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. madam, this recrimination is a poor resource ; and to con- 
 vince 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. 
 
 Aman. 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. 
 
 Aman. 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. 
 
 Ber. 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 ! But who could have told you this? 
 
SC. in.] A TRIP TO SCARBOROUGH. 508 
 
 Ber. Um ! — Oh, Townly ! I suppose your husband has made him his con- 
 fidant. 
 
 Aman ,. 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. 
 
 Aman. Did he? — Oh 1 my heart ! — I 'm very ill — dear Berinthia, don't 
 leave me a moment. [Exeunt. 
 
 Scene III. — Outside of Sir Tunbelly Clumsy's House. 
 Enter 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? — 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. 
 
 [Knocks 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 wil- 
 lows 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 '11 find that 's just as Sir 
 Tunbelly pleases. 
 
 Fash. But will you do me the favour, sir, to know whether Sir Tunbelly 
 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 befcre the 
 gates open. 
 
 Fash. D' ye hear that, Lory? 
 
 Enter Sir Tunbelly Clumsy, with Servants, armed with guns, clubs, pitch- 
 forks, &c. 
 
 Lory. Oh ! [Runs behind his master.] Lord ! Lord f Lord ! we are 
 both dead men ! » 
 
504 A TRIP TO SCARBOROUGH. [ACT III. SC. IV 
 
 Fash. Fool ! thy 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 par- 
 don 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 Tom 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. — [Exit 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 ser- 
 vants, 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 common 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 Clttmsy's House. 
 Miss Hoyden discovered alone. • 
 
 Miss IToyd. 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 so. 
 Nobody can knock at the gate, but presently I must be locked up; and 
 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.] Miss Hoyden ! miss, miss, miss ! 
 Miss Hoyden ! 
 
ACT IV. SC. I.] A TKIP 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? 
 
 Nurse. What do I din your ears for? Here 's one come will din your ears 
 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. My 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 1 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. Lord ! I '11 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 Cltjhsy's House. 
 Enter Miss Hoyden and Nurse. 
 
 Nurse. Well, miss, how do you like your husband that is to be ? 
 
 Miss Hoyd. 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. 
 
 Miss Hoyd. 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 '11 make when I get to Lon- 
 don; for when I am a wife and a lady both, ecod, 1 11 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 
 sluts 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 half- 
 crown to buy her a Practice of Piety. 
 
 Miss Hoyd. 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 Christinas ; 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 11 
 give me to buy petticoats? 
 
 Nurse. Ah, my dearest, he deceives thee foully, and he 's no better than 
 
506 A TEIP 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 every- 
 thing in the versal world, down to their very shoe-knots. Nay, I have 
 heard some folks say that some ladies, if they '11 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. 
 
 Miss Hoyd. 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 1 11 venture you. But if you disparage me 
 
 Miss 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 sup- 
 pose 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 there- 
 fore impatient till you are mine, and hope you will so far consider the vio- 
 lence 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? 
 
 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 Hoyd. 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. 
 
 Miss 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 '11 call her hither, we '11 persuade her 
 presently. 
 
 Miss Hoyd. Lud ! I '11 tell you a way how to persuade her to any 
 thing. 
 
 Fash. How 's that? 
 
 Miss Hoyd. Why tell her she 's a handsome comely woman, and give her 
 half-a-crown. 
 
 Fash. Nay, if that will do, she shall have half a score of 'em. 
 
SC. I.] A TRIP TO SCAEBOROUGH. 507 
 
 Miss Hoyd. gemini ! for half that she 'd marry you herself. — 1 11 run 
 and call her. {Exit. 
 
 Fash. So ! matters go on swimmingly. This is a rare girl, i'faith. I shall 
 have a fine time on 't with her at London. 
 
 Enter Lory. 
 
 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, 
 
 Fash. And the old Jezebel with her. 
 
 Re-enter Miss Hoyden and Nurse. 
 
 How do you do, good Mrs. Nurse 1 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 
 
 j it at present, and depend upon my further kindness Avhen I shall be that 
 
 happy thing her husband. [Gives her money. 
 
 Nurse. [Aside.] Gold, by the maakins ! — [Aloud.] Your honour's good- 
 
 ! ness 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 
 
 I ashamed before one's love. Do you think such a fine proper gentleman as he 
 
 j is cares for a fiddlecome tale of a child 1 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 Tom Fashion.] I hope your honour will excuse 
 
 i 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 
 j housewifery is a very commendable quality in a young lady. 
 
 Miss Hoyd. Pray, sir, are young ladies good housewives at London- town? 
 i Do they darn their own linen ? 
 
 Fash. Oh no, they study how to spend money, not to save. 
 Miss Hoyd. 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. — 
 I [To Nurse.] His honour desires you '11 be so kind as to let us be married 
 to-morrow. 
 
 Nurse. To-morrow, my dear madam 2 
 
 Fash. Ay, faith, nurse, you may well be surprised at miss's wanting to 
 f put it off so long. To-morrow ! no, no ; 'tis now, this very hour, I would 
 have the ceremony performed. 
 
 Miss Hoyd. Ecod, with all my heart. 
 Nurse. mercy ! worse and worse ! 
 
508 A TEIP 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 wedding- 
 dinner 1 ? 
 
 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. 
 
 Nurse. 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 ? 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 pro- 
 mise 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 Hoyden 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 '11 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 ? 
 
 Aman. Who do you think should plague a wife but her husband ? 
 
 Ber. 0, 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 ? 
 
 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 sensibly 
 yourself. 
 
SC III.] A TK1P TO SCARBOROUGH. 509 
 
 I Annan. Heaven knows I would not. 
 
 JBer. 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 1 
 
 Aman. I 'm sure I never encouraged his pretensions. 
 
 Ber. Psha ! psha ! no sensible man ever perseveres to love without en- 
 couragement. Why have you not treated him as you have Lord Foppington ? 
 
 Aman. Because he presumed not so far. But let us drop the subject. 
 Men, not women, are riddles. Mr. Loveless now follows some flirt for va- 
 ■ riety, whom I 'm sure he does not like so well as he does me. 
 
 Ber. That 's more than you know, madam. 
 
 I Aman. Why, do you know the ugly thing 1 
 Ber. I think I can guess at the person ; but she 's no such ugly thing neither. 
 Aman. Is she very handsome? 
 i Ber. Truly I think so. 
 
 Aman. Whate'er she be, I'm sure he does not like her well enough to bestow 
 i 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 com- 
 plain 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 Loveless 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. — Bekinthia's Dressing-room. 
 Enter Loveless. 
 ' Love. 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 corre- 
 spondence. — 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. III. 
 
 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 the 
 closet] — 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. Lord, ma'am ! what's the matter? 
 
 Ber. 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 ! [Exit Maid. 
 
 Re-enter Loveless. 
 
 Love. Is the coast clear? 
 
 Ber. The coast clear ! Upon my word, I wonder at your assurance ! 
 
 Love. Why then you wonder before I have given you a proof of it. But 
 where 's my wife ? 
 
 Ber. At cards. 
 
 Love. With whom ? 
 
 Ber. With Townly. 
 
 Love. Then we are safe enough. 
 
 Ber. You are so ! Some husbands would be of another mind, were he at 
 cards with their wives. 
 
 Love. And they 'd be in the right on 't 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 ? 
 
 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 1 
 
 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 swear 
 
 Ber. Come, come, let go my hand, or I shall hate you ! — I '11 cry out as I 
 live ! 
 
 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 live. 
 
 Love. But I have something particular to communicate to jou. 
 
ACT V. SC. I.] A TEIP TO SCARBOROUGH. 511 
 
 Ber. Well, well, before we go to Sir Tunbelly's, I '11 walk upon the 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. 
 
 Aman. Berinthia, why did you leave me ? 
 
 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. [Exeunt. 
 
 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. [Exit. 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 Scene I. — The Garden behind Loveless'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 sus- 
 pense, 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. 
 
 Enter Berinthia. 
 
 Berinthia, what a world of kindness are you in my debt ! had you staid 
 five minutes longer 
 
 Ber. You would have gone, I suppose 1 ? 
 
 Love. Egad, she 's right enough. [Aside. 
 
 Ber. And I assure you 'twas ten to one that I came at all. In short, 
 
 1 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 man? 
 
512 A TREP TO SCARBOROUGH. [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 '11 observe them. 
 
 Ber. 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 ! 
 
 Enter 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. 
 
 Aman. 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. Town. He could not upbraid me if you were. — 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 overheard ■ 
 
 Aman. 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. No, 
 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 myself fre<» 
 
SC. I.] A TRIP TO SCARBOROUGH. 513 
 
 from guilt, I will never believe that love can beget injury, or confidence 
 create ingratitude. 
 
 Col. Toton. If I do not prove to you 
 
 Aman. You never shall have an opportunity. From the artful manner in 
 which 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 Loveless and 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, con- 
 fess 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 pas3 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 scan — 
 Could they but reach the deep reserve of man — 
 To keep our love they 'd rate their virtue high, 
 They live together, and together die. [Exeunt. 
 
 L L 
 
514 A TETP 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 give 
 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 Hoyd. Ecod, with all my heart — the more the merrier, I say — ha, 
 nurse ? 
 
 Enter Lory. 
 
 Lory. One word with you, for Heaven's sake. 
 
 [Taking Toil Fashion hastily aside. 
 
 Fash. What the devil 's the matter? 
 
 Lory. Sir, your fortune 's ruined if you are not married. Yonder 's your 
 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. 
 
 Miss 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. — [Aloud."] 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 Hoyd. 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 wed- 
 ding 's over. 
 
 Lory. The devil it is, sir ! [Capers about. 
 
 Fash. 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 Tun. Never, by the mass ; but we '11 tickle him, I '11 warrant you. 
 
SO.n.] A TRIP TO SCARBOROUGH. 515 
 
 Fasli. 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 zvith 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 ? do you pay scot and lot? Come, are you a free- 
 holder 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 gen- 
 tleman? 
 
 Sir Tim. I would be at you, sirrah, (if my hands were not tied as a magis- 
 trate,) and Avith these two double fists beat your teeth down your throat, 
 you dog you ! [Driving him. 
 
 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 T, 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 under- 
 stand one another at last. 
 
 Sir Tun. The fellow 's mad ! — Here, bind him hand and foot. 
 
 [They bind Mm. 
 
 Lord Fop. Nay, pr'ythee, knight, leave fooling; thy jest begins to grow 
 dull. 
 
 l l a 
 
516 A TRIP TO SCARBOROUGH. [ACT V, 
 
 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. 
 
 Hiss Boyd. [Going top 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 hus- 
 band. [Aside. 
 
 Miss Hoyd. Pray, father, what do you intend to do with him — hang 
 him] 
 
 Sir Tun. That at least, child. 
 
 Nurse. Ay, and it 's e'en too good for him too. 
 
 Lord Foj). 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, Tarn, now the dream 's out ! [Runs. 
 
 Fash. 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 fortune? 
 
 Fash. I find by his dress he thought your daughter might be taken with 
 a beau. 
 
 Miss Hoyd. 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 '11 be in love with him presently — I '11 e'en 
 have him sent away to jail. — [To Lord Foppington.] Sir, though your un- 
 dertaking 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 lord- 
 ship? 
 
 Nurse. Ho, ho, it 's my lord with him now ! See how afflictions will 
 humble folk3. 
 
 Miss Hoyd. Pray, my lord — [To Fashion] — don't let him whisper too 
 close, lest he bite your ear off. 
 
 L,ord 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 ! 
 
SO. II.] A TEIP TO SCARBOBOUGH. 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. 
 
 Sir Tun. "Well, what says he? 
 
 Fash. Only the rascal offered me a "bribe to let him go. 
 
 Sir Ttcn. Ay, he shall go, with a plague to him ! — Lead en, 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, Tarn, 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 Fop- 
 pington 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 
 
 Love. But your lordship will do us the honour to introduce us to Sir 
 Tunbelly Clumsy? 
 
 A man. And us to your lady. 
 
 Lord Fop. Grad 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. 
 
 Miss Hoyd. By goles, they look so fine and so stiff, I am almost ashamed 
 to come nigh 'em. 
 
 Aman. 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 '11 soon learn, my dear. 
 
 Love. But Lord Foppington ■ 
 
 Lord Fop. Sir ! 
 
 Love. Sir ! I was not addressing myself to you, sir ! — Pray who is this 
 gentleman? He seems rather in a singular predicament 
 
 Col. 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 
 nue as Lord Foppington, and carry off my daughter. 
 
 Love. A likely plot to succeed, truly, ha 1 ha ! 
 
 Lord Fop. As Grad 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 
 
5 IS A TRIP TO SCARBOROUGH. [ACT 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. 
 
 [Lxit. 
 
 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'll stand by you. [Aside to Tom Fashion. 
 
 Lord Fo]). Nay, Sir Tunbelly, I insist on j'our 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 
 natter 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 impostor? — 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 bogged and 
 prayed, and clung and twined about me like ivy round an old wall, you 
 
SC II.] A TEIP TO SCAEBOKOUGH. 519 
 
 •would say, I who had nursed it, and reared it, must have had a heart like 
 stone to refuse it. 
 
 Sir Tun. Ouns ! I shall go mad ! Unloose my lord there, you scoun- 
 drels ! 
 
 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. 
 
 Love. Come, come, Sir Tunbelly, a man of your understanding must per- 
 ceive, that an affair of this kind is not to be mended by anger and re- 
 proaches. 
 
 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 wall hunt or drink with you most 
 affectionately : be generous, old boy, and forgive them 
 
 Sir 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 Tim, What's this 1 ? I believe you are both rogues alike. 
 
 Lord Fop. No, Sir Tunbelly, thou wilt find to thy unspeakable mortifica- 
 tion, that I am the real Lord Foppington, who was to have disgraced myself 
 by an alliance with a clod; and that thou hast matched thy girl to a beg- 
 garly 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'mina better humour, I '11 give you my blessing. 
 
 Love. Nobly done, Sir Tunbelly ! and we shall see you dance at a grand- 
 son'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 Tarn, since things are fallen out, pr'ythee give me leave to 
 
520 A TEIP 10 SCARBOROUGH. [ACT V. SC. II. 
 
 wish thee joy; I do it de bon cceicr, 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 deport- 
 ment, 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 maj^ 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, Tarn ! — Ladies, I kiss your hands. — Sir Tun- 
 belly, 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 pro- 
 voked, 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 — Ave must be 
 merry then, ha 1 ? 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'll have a night on't: and which of these ladies will be the 
 old man's partner, ha 1 ? — 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 de- 
 served 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 evi- 
 dently to please, British auditors will ever be indulgent to the errors of the 
 performance. [Exeunt omnes. 
 
PIZARRO. 
 
 A TRAGEDY. 
 
 ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 As the two translations which have been published of Kotzebue's 
 "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 one the highest 
 gratification derived from its success — I dedicate this Play. 
 
 Richard Brinsley Sheridan. 
 
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONS. 
 
 AS ORIGINALLY ACTED AT DRURY-LANE THEATRE IN 1799. 
 
 Ataliba . . 
 
 . . Mr. Powell. 
 
 Old Blind Man . Mr. Cory. 
 
 ROLLA 
 
 . . Mr. Keirible. 
 
 Boy Master Chatterley. 
 
 Orozembo 
 
 . . Mr. Dowton. 
 
 Sentinel . . . Mr. Holland. 
 
 Orano 
 
 . . Mr. Archer. 
 
 Attendant , . Mr. Maddocks. 
 
 Alonzo . 
 
 . . Mr. C. Kemble. 
 
 Cora .... Mrs. Jordan. 
 
 PlZARRO . 
 
 . . Mr.Barrymore. 
 
 Eltira . . . Mrs. Siddons. 
 
 Almagro 
 
 . . . Mr. Caulfield. 
 
 Zuluga . . .' 
 
 GrONZALO . 
 
 . . 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. 
 
 Las-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. I. 
 
 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 1 ? 
 
 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 1" 
 
 With generous questions that no answer wait, • 
 
 "How vastly full ! An't you come vastly late? 
 
 Isn't it quite charming 1 ? 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 ever — 
 
 Be 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 on 
 Elvira, kneels, and attempts to hiss her hand ; Elvira, awakened, rises 
 and looks at him, with indignation. 
 
 Elv. Audacious ! Whence is thy privilege to interrupt the few moments of 
 repose my harassed mind can snatch amid the tumults of this noisy camp ? 
 Shall I inform thy master, Pizarro, of this presumptuous treachery? 
 
 Vol. 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 crimen, of such a 
 lover as Pizarro ! 
 
SC. I.] PIZARRO. 523 
 
 Elv. "What ! Valverde moralising ! But grant I am in error, what is my 
 incentive ? Passion, infatuation, call it as you will ; but what attaches thee 
 to this despised, unworthy leader 1 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, 
 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 di- 
 minishes our force. 
 
 Elv. But are you not the heirs of those that fall 1 
 
 Val. Are gain and plunder, then, our only purpose? 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 : for- 
 give me, but at that event I still must wonder. 
 
 Elv. Hear me, Valverde. "When first my virgin fancy waked to love, 
 Pizarro was nay country's idol. Self-taught, self-raised, and self-supported, 
 he became a hero ; and I was formed to be won by gloxy 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 Grallo, 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 lows — Elvira laughs, 
 d, ui Piz. Why dost thou smile, Elvira 1 ? 
 
 [ Elv. To laugh or weep without a reason is one of the few privileges poor 
 "a« women have. 
 
 Piz. Elvira, I will know the cause, I am resolved ! 
 
524 PIZARRO [ACT I 
 
 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 ahout pen- 
 sively in the backgroxind.~\ 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 
 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 enemies — 
 how 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 1 
 
 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 
 Eacrificcrs shall become the victims. 
 
 Elv. Wretched innocents ! And their own blood shall bedew their 
 altars ! 
 
SC. 1.] PIZARRO. 525 
 
 Piz. Right ! — [Trumpets toithout.] Elvira, retire ! 
 
 Eh. Why should I retire] 
 
 Piz. Because men are to meet here, and on manly business. 
 
 F.lv. men ! men ! ungrateful and perverse ! woman ! still affectionate 
 though wronged ! [Valverde retires bade] 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. 
 
 Eh. They only babble who practise not reflection. I shall think — and 
 thought is silence. 
 
 Piz. [Aside.] Ha ! there 's somewhat in her manner lately 
 
 [Looks sternly and suspiciously at Elvira, xvho meets his glance with 
 a commanding and unaltered eye. 
 
 Enter Las-Casas, Almagro, Gtonzalo, 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 not fail. 
 
 Aim. 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 ! 
 
 Aim. 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. 
 
 Aim. '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 1 
 
 Aim. 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, in- 
 sulted 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 ! 
 
 Las-Cas. Pizarro, hear me ! — Hear me, chieftains ! — And thou, all-powerful ! 
 whose thunders can shiver into sand the adamantine rock — whose lightnings 
 
526 PIZARRO [act t. 
 
 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 ] 
 
 Aim. 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 1 
 
 Aim. We are. 
 
 Las-Cas. Oh, men of blood ! — [Kneels.] Cod ! 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 
 Avhich 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 Avith savage beasts will I com- 
 mune ; 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 1 
 
 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. 
 
 Oon. I hope he '11 join his preaching pupil, Alonzo. 
 
 Piz. [Turning to Almagro.] Now to prepare our muster and our march. 
 At midday is the hour of 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. 
 
 Aim. 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 ap- 
 pear 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.] PJZARRO. 527 
 
 Aim. This is best. In Pizarro's plans observe the statesman's wisdom 
 guides the warrior's valour. 
 
 Vol. [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 
 arms invites you. — Away ! away ! you, his brave, his worthy fellow- warriors. 
 
 Piz. And go you not with me 1 
 
 Elv. Undoubtedly ! I needs must be first to hail the future monarch of 
 Peru. 
 
 Enter Gomez. 
 
 Aim. How, Gomez ! what bringest thou 1 ? 
 
 Goni. 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 sits pensively. Gomez goes out and 
 returns vnth 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 else 
 
 Oro. Thou 'It hear some truth. 
 
 Bav. [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 gal- 
 lant 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 PIZARRO. [act I. 
 
 Aim. Which is the weakest part of your camp ? 
 
 Oro. It has no weak part ; on every side 'tis fortified by justice. 
 
 Piz. "Where have you concealed your wives and your children 1 ? 
 
 Oro. In the hearts of their husbands and their fathers. 
 
 Piz. Knowest thou Alonzo ? 
 
 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. 
 
 Aim. 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. 
 Rolla, 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 re- 
 signed 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? 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 
 rasbness has saved me from the rack ; and thou thyself bast 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 time — 
 
 Dav. 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 not avenge their father's 
 fa to. [Exit, 
 
 Piz. What says the slave ? 
 
SC. I.] PIZAEKO. 529 
 
 Elv. A parting word to thank you for your mercy. 
 
 Piz. Our guards and guides approach. — [Soldiers march through the tents.] 
 Follow me, friends — each shall have his post assigned, and ere Peruvia's god 
 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. 
 
 Vol. Is it now presumption that my hopes gain strength with the in- 
 creasing horrors which I see appal Elvira's soul 1 
 
 JElv. I am mad with terror and remorse ! Would I could fly these dread- 
 ful scenes ! 
 
 Vol. Might not Yalverde's true attachment be thy refuge 1 
 
 JElv. What wouldst thou do to save or to avenge me % 
 
 Vol. I dare do all thy injuries may demand — a word — and he lies bleed- 
 ing at your feet. 
 
 Elv. Perhaps we will speak again of this. Now leave me. — [Exit Val- 
 verde.] 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 Avas 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 for- 
 sakes the creature whom his arts have first deprived of all natural protection 
 — of all self-consolation ! What has he left her 1 Despair and vengeance ! 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 Scene I. — A Bank surrounded by a wild wood, and rocks. 
 
 Cora is discovered flaying 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. 
 
 Alon. What are those three ?- 
 
 Cora. The ecstasy of his birth I pass ; that in part is selfish : but when 
 
 M M 
 
530 PIZAKRO. [act II. 
 
 first 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 arms 
 he 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 too, 
 Alonzo ? art thou not happy] 
 
 Alon. 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 brethren? 
 
 Alon. Should they prove victorious ? 
 
 Cora. I Avill fly, and meet thee in the mountains. 
 
 Alon. Fly, with thy infant, Cora? 
 
 Cwa. 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 ! 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 pur- 
 suit? 
 
 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 with- 
 out.] Does the king approach? 
 
 Alon. No, 'tis the general placing the guard that will surround the temple 
 during the sacrifice. 'Tis Rolla comes, the first and best of heroes. 
 
 [Trumpets sound. 
 
 Rol. [Without.'] Then place them on the hill fronting the Spanish camp. 
 
 Enter Rolla. 
 Cora. Rolla ! my friend, my brother ! 
 
SC II.] PIZAEEO. 531 
 
 Alon. Rolla ! my friend, my benefactor ! how can our lives repay the ob- 
 ligations 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! 
 
 Hoi. 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 ob- 
 ject 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, Bella 1 
 
 Rol. We have heard Pizarro's plan is to surprise us. Thy presence, Cora, 
 cannot aid, but may impede our efforts. 
 
 Cora. Impede ! 
 
 Rol. Yes, yes. Thou knowest how tenderly we love thee; we, thy hus- 
 band 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. — [March 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 'It 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 High-Priest, Priests, and Virgins of the Sun, discovered. A solemn 
 march. Ataliba and the Peruvian Warriors enter on one side ; on the 
 other Rolla, Alonzo, and Cora with the Child. 
 
 • Ata. Welcome, Alonzo ! — [To Rolla.] Kinsman, 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. 
 
 Ala. Thou, Rolla, in the hour of peril, bast been wont to animate the 
 spirit of their leaders, ere we proceed to consecrate the banners which thy 
 valour knows so well to guard. 
 
 M M 2 
 
532 pizareo. [act 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 feel- 
 ings, and my fame ! — can Holla'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 Grod whom 
 we adore. Whene'er they move in anger, desolation tracks their progress J 
 "Whene'er they pause in amity, affliction mourns their friendship. They 
 boast they come but to improve our state, enlarge our thoughts, and free us 
 from the yoke of error ! Yes : they will give enlightened freedom to our 
 minds ! who are themselves the slaves of passion, avarice, and pride. They 
 offer us their protection : yes, such protection as vultures give to lambs — cover- 
 ing and devouring them ! The}' call on us to barter all of good we have in- 
 herited 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. [Lozid shouts of the Peruvian Warriors. 
 
 Ata. [Embracing Holla.] Now, holy friends, ever mindful of these sacred 
 truths, begin the sacrifice. — [A solemn j^ocession commences. The Priests 
 and Virgins arrange themselves on either side of the altar, which the High- 
 Priest approaches, and the solemnity begins. The invocation of the High- 
 Priest is followed by the choruses of the Priests and Virgins. Fire from 
 above lights upon the altar. The whole assembly rise, and join in tlie thanks- 
 giving, .] Our offering is accepted. Now to arms, my friends; prepare for battle. 
 
 Enter Orano, 
 
 Ora. The enemy. 
 
 Ata. How near? 
 
 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. 
 
 Rol. They must be met before they reach it. 
 
 Ata. And you my daughters, with your dear children, away to the ap- 
 pointed place of safety. 
 
 Cora. Oh, Alonzo ! [Embracing him. 
 
 Alon. We shall meet again. 
 
 Cora. Bless us once more ere you leave us. 
 
 Alon. Heaven protect and bless thee, my beloved; and thee, my innocent ! 
 
 Ata. Haste, haste ! each moment is precious ! 
 
 Cora. Farewell, Alonzo ! Remember thy life is mine. 
 
 Rol. [As she is passing him.] Not one farewell to Eollal 
 
 Cora. [Giving him her hand.] Farewell ! The god of war be with you : 
 but bring me back Alonzo. [ Exit with the Child, 
 
 Ata. [Draws his xivord.] Now, my brethren, my sons, my friends, I 
 
SC. IV.] PIZAERO. 533 
 
 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 
 Holla'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 — Grod ! and our native land. [A march. Exeunt. 
 
 Scene III. — A Wood between the Temple and the Camp. 
 Enter Eolla and Alonzo. 
 
 Hoi. Here, my friend, we separate — soon, I trust, to meet again in triumph. 
 
 Alon. Or perhaps we part to meet no more. — Eolla, a moment's pause; 
 we are yet before our army's strength ; one earnest Avord at parting. 
 
 Hoi. There is in language now no word but battle. 
 
 Alon. Yes, one word — one — Cora ! 
 
 Hoi. Cora ! — speak ! 
 
 Alon. The next hour brings us 
 
 Rol. 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, Eolla, be thou my heir. 
 
 Rol. How] 
 
 Alon. Be Cora thy wife — be thou a father to my child. 
 
 Rol. ■ Bouse thee, Alonzo ! banish these timid fancies. 
 
 Alon. Eolla ! I have tried in vain, and cannot fly from the foreboding 
 which oppresses me : thou knowest it Avill 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 
 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 Man. Have none returned to the camp? 
 
 Boy. One messenger alone. From the temple they all marched to meat 
 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 1 
 
 Boy. Yes ! — I hope my father will be safe ! 
 
 Old Man. He will do his duty. I am more anxious for thee, my child. 
 
 Boy. I can stay with you, dear grandfather. 
 
 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 old 
 and blind, and cannot do without me. 
 
 Old Man. Poor child ! thou little knowest the hearts of these inhuman men. 
 
534 PIZARRO. [ACT II. 
 
 — {Discharge of cannon heard.'] Hark ! the noise is near. I hear the 
 dreadful 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 ! 
 
 Boy. father ! there are soldiers running 
 
 Old Man. Spaniards, boy? 
 
 Boy. No, Peruvians ! 
 
 Old Man. 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? 
 
 Sold. We may not stop ; we are sent for the reserve behind the hill. 
 The 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 
 will be lost, I fear. The king is wounded. 
 
 Old Man. Quick, boy ! Lead me to the hill, where thou mayst view the 
 plain. [Alarms. 
 
 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 priest 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 com- 
 rades ; I will not keep one soldier from his post. Gro, and avenge your 
 fallen brethren. — [Exeunt Orano, Officers, and Soldiers.] I will not re- 
 pine ; my own fate is the last anxiety of my heart. It is for you, my people, 
 that I feel and fear. 
 
 Old Man. [Coming fortvardJ] 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 Man. Then thou art not forsaken ! Ataliba protects the meanest of 
 his subjects. 
 
 Ata. And who shall protect Ataliba? 
 
 Old Man. 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. 
 
 Ala. How impious, had I murmured ! How wondrous, thou supreme 
 Disposer, are thy acts ! Even in this moment, which I had thought the bit- 
 terest 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. 535 
 
 Boy. [Turning forward.] 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 hopes are answered — I know him well — it is the 
 king! 
 
 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 Man. 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 ! 
 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 ! Holla calls you. 
 
 Officer. We cannot combat with their dreadful engines. 
 
 Enter Holla. 
 
 Rol. Hold ! recreants ! cowards ! What, fear ye death, and fear not 
 shame ] 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 ] 
 
 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 1 — Hear this, ye base, disloyal rout ! 
 Look there ! The dust you see hangs on the bloody Spaniards' track, drag- 
 ging with ruffian taunts your king, your father — Ataliba in bondage ! Now 
 fly, and seek your own vile safety if you can. 
 
 Old Man. 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 re- 
 buke ] 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 pur- 
 sue 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. 
 
 [Trximpets sound; Rolla rushes out, followed by Orano, Officers and 
 Soldiers. 
 
 Old Man. godlike Rolla ! — And thou sun, send from thy clouds aveng- 
 ing 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 tlience into the tree.] Oh— now I see them — now — yes — and the Spani- 
 ards turning by the steep. 
 
536 PIZARRO [act III. 
 
 Old Man. Rolla follows them 1 
 
 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 1 
 
 Boy. Yes — Rolla is near him ! His sword sheds fire as he strikes ! 
 
 Old Man. Bless thee, Rolla ! Spare not the monsters. ' 
 
 Boy. Father ! father ! the Spaniards fly ! — Oh — now I see the king em- 
 bracing Rolla. 
 
 [ Waves his cap for joy. Shouts of victory, flourish of trumpets, dr. 
 
 Old Man. [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 Man. 'Tis with transport, boy ! 
 
 [Boy leads the Old Man off. Shouts, flourish, &c. 
 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 Ms sitn 
 of diamonds.] 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 1 
 
 Off. Alonzo's genius soon repaired the panic which early broke our ranks ; 
 but I fear Ave 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. 
 
 Ata. victory, dearly purchased! 
 
 Rol. Cora ! who shall tell thee this ? 
 
 A la. Rolla, our friend is lost — our native country saved ! Our private sor- 
 rows 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. [Triumphant 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. 
 1st Worn. Zuluga, seest thou nothing yet 1 
 
SC. I.J PIZARRO. 537 
 
 Zul. Yes, two Peruvian soldiers — one on the hill, the other entering the 
 thicket in the vale. 
 
 2nd Worn. One more has passed. — He comes — but pale and terrified. 
 Cora. My heart will start from my bosom. 
 
 Enter a Peruvian Soldier, panting for breath. 
 
 Worn. "Well ! joy or death ? 
 
 Sold. The battle is against us. The king is wounded and a prisoner. 
 
 Worn. Despair and misery ! 
 
 Cora. [In a faint voice.] And Alonzo? 
 
 Sold. I have not seen him. 
 
 1st Worn. Oh ! whither must we fly ] 
 
 2nd Worn. Deeper into the forest. 
 
 Cora. I shall not move. 
 
 2nd Sold. [Without.'] Yictory! victory! 
 
 Enter another Peruvian Soldiek. 
 
 2nd, Sold. Bejoice ! rejoice ! we are victorious ! 
 
 Worn. [Springing up.] Welcome ! welcome, thou messenger of joy : — but 
 the king ! 
 
 2nd Sold. He leads the brave warriors who approach. 
 
 [The triumphant march of the array is heard at a distance. The 
 Women and Children join in a strain expressive of anxiety and ex~ 
 ultation. v 
 
 Enter the Peruvian Warriors, singing the Song of Victory. Ataliba 
 and Eolla follow, and are greeted with rapturous shouts. Cora, with 
 her Child in her arms, runs through the ranhs searching for Alonzo. 
 
 Ata. Thanks, thanks, my children ! I am well, believe it ; the blood 
 once stopped, my wound was nothing. 
 
 Cora. [To Eolla.] Where is Alonzo ? — [Eolla herns away in silence.] 
 Give me my husband; give this child his father. [Falls at Ataliba's feet. 
 
 Ata. I grieve that Alonzo is not here. 
 
 Cora. Hoped you to find him'? 
 
 Ata,. Most anxiously. 
 
 Cora. Ataliba ! is he not dead 1 
 
 Ata. No! the gods will have heard our prayers. 
 
 Cora. Is he not dead, Ataliba 1 
 
 Ata. He lives — in my heart. 
 
 Cora. king ! torture me not thus ! Speak out, is this child fatherless 1 
 
 Ata. Dearest Cora ! do not thus dash aside the little hope that still re- 
 mains. 
 
 Cora. The little hope ! yet still there is hope ! [Turns to Eolla.] Speak 
 to me, Eolla : you are the friend of truth. 
 
 Hoi. Alonzo has not been found. 
 
 Cora. Not found ! what mean you 1 will not you, Eolla, tell me truth ? 
 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 found : 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 thio 
 
538 PIZAERO. [act in. 
 
 terrible suspense. — [Cora and Child hieel to Rolla.] Lift up thy little 
 hands, my child ; perhaps thy ignorance may plead better than thy mother's 
 agony. 
 
 Rol. Alonzo is taken prisoner. 
 
 Cora. Prisoner! and by the Spaniards ? — Pizarro's prisoner ? Then is he 
 dead. 
 
 Ata. Hope better — the richest ransom which our realm can yield, a herald 
 shall this instant bear. 
 
 Peruv. Worn, Oh ! for Alonzo's ransom — our gold, our gems ! — all ! all ! 
 Here, dear Cora — here ! here ! 
 
 [The Peruvian Women eagerly tear off all tlieir ornaments, and offer 
 them to Cora. 
 
 Ata. Yes, for Alonzo's ransom they would give all 1 — 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 barba- 
 rians 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. 
 
 Ata. Now we go to offer to the gods thanks for our victory, and prayers 
 for our Alonzo's safety. [March and 'procession. Exeunt. 
 
 Scene 11.— The Wood. 
 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. 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 too ? 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 words 
 
 Cora. 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. — I 
 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? Alonzo ! it may be thou hast fallen a victim to thy 
 own guileless heart : hadst thou been silent, hadst thou not made a fatal 
 legacy of these wretched charms 
 
sc. hi.] pizarro. 539 
 
 Rol. Cora ! what hateful suspicion has possessed thy mind 1 ? 
 
 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 him — could — but did not. 
 
 Rol. Oh, glorious sun ! can I have deserved this ? — Cora, rather bid me 
 strike this sword into my heart. 
 
 Cora. No ! — live ! live for love ! — for that love thou seekest; whose blos- 
 soms 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 Holla father — than I call Holla husband ! 
 
 Rol. Yet call me what I am — thy friend, thy protector ! 
 
 Cora. [Distractedly^] Away ! I have no protector but my Grod ! 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 1 ? who dares intrude 1 ? Why does my guard neglect their duty? 
 
 Elv. Your guard did what they could — but 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 of 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 con- 
 vulsion : yet I would have thee feel assured that a new morning shall arise, 
 
540 P1ZARKO. [act iil 
 
 when the warrior's spirit shall stalk forth — nor fear the future, nor lament 
 the past. 
 
 Piz. Woman ! Elvira ! — why bad not all my men hearts like thine? 
 
 Elv. 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. 
 
 Piz. How! 
 
 Elv. 'Tis certain; Yalverde 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 Spanish 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. 
 
 lie-enter Guard with 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, 
 amid 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 I 
 
 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 faitli ? 
 
 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-mor- 
 row's sun shall see that child. Alonzo, thy hours are numbered. 
 
sc. in.] PIZARRO. 541 
 
 Elv. Pizarro — no ! 
 Piz. Hence — or dread my anger. 
 JElv. I will not hence; nor do I dread thy anger. 
 
 Alon. Gfenerous loveliness ! spare thy unavailing pity. Seek not to 
 thwart the tiger with the prey beneath his fangs. 
 
 Piz. Audacious rebel ! thou a renegado from thy monarch and thy Grod ! 
 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 ! pirates ! 
 murderers ! "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 
 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 ex- 
 cuses of thy treason 1 ? 
 
 JElv. 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 
 
 me from your side; but I would gently lead him by the hand through all the 
 
 I lovely fields of Quito; there, in many a spot where lace 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 
 
 I say, is my work ! Next I should tell how hurtful customs and superstitions, 
 
 I strange and sullen, would often scatter and dismay the credulous minds of 
 
 i these deluded innocents ; and then would I point out to him where now, in 
 
 i clustered villages, they live like brethren, social and confiding, while through 
 
 I 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, 
 
 1 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 Grod ! — this too I could tell him 
 
 I is Alonzo's work ! Then would Las-Casas clasp me in his aged arms; from 
 
 j 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 proof, that 
 
 I had acted rightly here, and surest hope of my Creator's mercy and reward 
 
 hereafter. 
 
 Elv. Happy, virtuous Alonzo ! And thou, Pizarro, wouldst appal with 
 fear of death a man who thinks and acts as he does ! 
 
 Piz. Daring, obstinate enthusiast ! But know, the pious blessing of thy 
 
542 pizakro. [act .in. 
 
 preceptor's tears does not await thee here : he has fled like thee — like thee, 
 no doubt, to join the foes of Spain. The perilous trial of the next 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 per- 
 sonal 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 bach 
 
 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 thine 
 own renown. How often have you sworn, that the sacrifice which thy won- 
 drous 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 com- 
 mon 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 trans- 
 port, 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 
 lo\e is at least no common weakness. Pizarro ! was not such my love for thee 1 
 
 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 moulder- 
 ing bones would rattle then with transport in my tomb 1 This is renown for 
 visionary boys to dream of; I understand it not. The fame I value shall up- 
 
sc. in.] pizarro. 543 
 
 lift my living estimation, o'erbear with poptilar support the envy of my foe% 
 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 mighty 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 death- 
 less name — go ! prefer to stare upon the grain of sand on which you tram- 
 ple, 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 promiscu- 
 ously, 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. 
 
 Elv. 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 
 frightful 'scapes on shore] 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 
 soldier's pattern ; and therefore my whole heart and half my acquisitions are 
 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 ut- 
 terest now would hasten on his fate. 
 
 Elv. Alonzo then at morn will die ? 
 
 Piz. Thinkest thou yon sun will set? As surely at his rising shall 
 Alonzc die. 
 
 Elv. Then be it done — the string is cracked — sundered for ever. But 
 mark me — thou hast heretofore had cause, 'tis true, to doubt my resolution, 
 howe'er offended ; but mark me now — the lips which, cold and jeering, barb- 
 ing revenge with rancorous mockery, can insult a fallen enemy, shall never 
 more receive the pledge of love : the arm which, unshaken by its bloody 
 I purpose, shall assign to needless torture the victim who avows his heart, never 
 more shall press the hand of faith ! Pizarro, scorn not my words ; beware 
 you slight them not ! I feel how noble are the motives w'hich now animate 
 
544 PIZAEEO. [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 weakness — 
 the 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. [Exit. 
 
 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, 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 
 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 help- 
 less 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 withdraws. 
 
 Alon. What bear you there 1 
 
 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 refresh- 
 ments, friend — I need them not. 
 
 Sold. I have served under you, Don Alonzo. Pardon my saying, that 
 my heart pities. you. [Exit 
 
 Alon. In Pizarro's camp, to pity the unfortunate, no doubt requires for- 
 
sc. i.] pizAiiRO. 545 
 
 giveness. — [Looking out."] Surely, even now, thin streaks of glimmering 
 light steal on the darkness of the east. If so, my life is but one hour more. 
 I will not watch the coming dawn ; but in the darkness of my cell, my last 
 prayer to thee, Power Supreme ! shall be for my wife and child ! Grant 
 them to dwell in innocence and peace ; grant health and purity of mind — all 
 else is worthless. [Retires into the dungeon. 
 
 Sent. Who's there? answer quickly ! who's there] 
 
 Hoi. [ 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? 
 
 Sent. He is. 
 
 Rol. I must speak with him. 
 
 Sent. You must not. [Stopping him with his sjpear. 
 
 Rol. He is my friend. 
 
 Sent. Not if he were your brother. 
 
 Rol. What is to be his fate 1 
 
 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 impossible ! 
 
 Rol. I do entreat thee but for one moment ! 
 
 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. 
 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 know 
 my duty better. 
 
 Rol. Soldier ! hast thou a wife? 
 
 Sent. I have. 
 
 Rol. Hast thou children 1 
 
 Sent. Four — honest, lovely boy3. 
 
 Rol. Where didst thou leave them 1 
 
 Sent. In my native village — even in the cot where myself was born. 
 
 Rol. Dost thou love thy children and thy wife 1 
 
 Sent. Do I love them ! Grod knows my heart — I do. 
 
 Rol. Soldier ! — imagine thou wert doomed to die a cruel death in this 
 strange land ; what would be thy last request 1 
 
 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 ! 
 
 N N 
 
546 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 iriend. 
 
 Sent. Go in. [Retires. 
 
 Rol. Oh, holy Nature ! thou dost never plead in vain. There is not, of 
 our 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 un shelled brood the murmuring ringdove sits not more 
 gently ! Yes, now he is beyond the porch, barring the outer gate ! — Alonzo ! 
 Alonzo ! my friend ! Ha ! in gentle sleep ! — Alonzo ! rise ! 
 
 Re-enter Alonzo. 
 
 Alon. [Within.'] How! is my hour elapsed 1 ? Well — [Returning from the 
 recess] I am ready. 
 
 Rol. Alonzo, know me? 
 
 Alon. "What voice is that 1 
 
 Rol. 'Tis Rolla's. [Takes off his disguise.] 
 
 Alon. Rolla ! — my friend ! — [Embraces him.~\ Heavens ! how couldst 
 thou pass the guard 1 Did this habit 
 
 Rol. 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 Rolla 
 
 Rol. Will remain here in thy place. 
 
 Alon. And die for me ! No ! rather eternal tortures rack me. 
 
 Rol. I shall not die, Alonzo. It is thy life Pizarro seeks, not Holla's ; 
 and from my prison soon will thy arm deliver me. Or, should it be other- 
 wise, I am as a blighted plantain, standing alone amid the sandy desert; 
 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 ! 
 
 Alon. 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 'It but have the 
 desperate triumph of seeing Holla perish by thy side, with the assured con- 
 viction that Cora and thy child are lost for ever. 
 
 Alon. Oh, Rolla ! you distract me ! 
 
 Rol. Begone ! A moment's further pause, and all is lost. The dawn ap- 
 proaches. Fear not for me— I will treat with Pizarro as for surrender and sub- 
 mission. 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 
 
SC. I.] P1ZAEE0. 547 
 
 triumph. Yes, hasten, dear Alonzo ! Even now I hear the frantic Cora 
 call thee ! Haste ! haste ! haste ! 
 
 Alon. Eolla, I fear thy friendship drives me from honour, and from 
 right. 
 
 Rol. Did Eolla ever counsel dishonour to his friend ? 
 
 Alon. Oh ! my preserver ! [Embraces him. 
 
 Rol. I feel thy warm tears dropping on my cheek. Gfo ! I am rewarded. 
 — [Throws the Fkiar's garment over Alonzo.] There ! conceal thy face ; 
 and, that they may not clank, hold fast thy chains. Now — Gfod he 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 the outer porch. He is safe ! He 
 will soon embrace his wife and child ! — Now, Cora, didst thou not wrong me ? 
 This is the first time throughout my life I ever deceived man. Forgive me, 
 God of truth ! if I am wrong. Alonzo natters 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 friend- 
 ship — 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 de- 
 light 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 ! 
 
 Re-enter Eolla. 
 
 Ha ! who art thou] where is Alonzo? 
 
 Rol. Alonzo's fled. 
 
 Elv. Fled! 
 
 Rol. Yes — and he must not be pursued. Pardon this roughness, — 
 [Seizing Iter hand.] but a moment 's precious to Alonzo's flight. 
 
 Elv. What if I call the guard? 
 
 Rol. Do so — Alonzo still gains time. 
 
 Elv. 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 re- 
 moved bej r ond the outer porch. 
 
 Rol. My name is Eolla. 
 
 Elv. The Peruvian leader? 
 
 Rol. I was so yesterday : to-day, the Spaniards' captive. 
 
 Elv. And friendship for Alonzo moved thee to this act? 
 
 N N 2 
 
548 PIZARRO. [act IV. 
 
 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 is 
 
 Elv. Love? 
 
 Rol True! 
 
 Elv. Gallant, ingenuous Rolla ! Know that my purpose here was thine ; 
 and were I to save thy friend 
 
 Rol. 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 
 wrong3, 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 
 harm 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 
 enteiprise, I will not risk a hair of that man's head, to save my heart-strings 
 from consuming fire. [Exeunt. 
 
SC. II.] PIZABEO. 549 
 
 Scene II. — Pizarro's Tent. 
 
 Pizarro is discovered on a couch, in disturbed sleep. 
 
 Piz. [In Ms sleepl] No mercy, traitor ! — Now at his heart ! — Stand off 
 there, you ! — Let me see him bleed ! — Ha ! ha ! ha ! — Let me hear that 
 groan again. 
 
 Enter Eolla and Elvira. 
 
 Elv. There ! Now, lose not a moment. 
 
 Hoi. You must leave me now. This scene of blood fits not a woman's 
 presence. 
 
 Elv. But a moment's pause may 
 
 Rol. Gfo, 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. Gf od ! can this man sleep ? 
 
 Piz. [In his sleep.] Away ! away ! hideous fiends ! Tear not my bosom 
 thus! 
 
 Pol. 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 bleed- 
 ing 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 
 the couch.] Pizarro ! awake ! 
 
 Piz. [Starts up.] Who?— Guard! 
 
 Pol. 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 ? 
 
 Pol. I am thine enemy ! Peruvian Rolla ! Thy death is not my will, or 
 I could have slain thee sleeping. 
 
 Piz. Speak, what else ? 
 
 Pol. Now thou art at my mercy, answer me ! Did a Peruvian ever yet 
 wrong or injure thee, or any of thy nation 1 ? 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 'It feel it keenly, a Peruvian's vengeance ! 
 —[Drops the dagger at his feet.] There ! 
 
 Piz. Is it possible ! [ Walks aside confounded. 
 
 Rol. Can Pizarro be surprised at this 1 ? I thought forgiveness of injuries 
 had been the Christian's precept. Thou seest, at least, it is the Peruvian's 
 practice. 
 
 Piz. Rolla, thou hast indeed surprised — subdued me. 
 
 [ Walks aside again as in irresolute thought. 
 
 Re-enter Elvira, not seeing Pizarro. 
 
 Elv. Is it done? Is he dead? — [Sees Pizarro.] How! still living! 
 Then I am lost ! And for you, wretched Peruvians ! mercy is no more ! 
 Rolla : treacherous, or cowardly ? 
 
 Piz. How ! can it be that 
 
550 pizaeko. [act rv 
 
 Rol. Away ! — Elvira speaks she knows not what ! — [To Elvira.] Leave 
 me, I conjure you. with Pizarro. 
 
 Eh. How ! Rolla, dost thou think I shall retract 1 ? or that I meanly will 
 deny, that in thy hand I placed a poniard to be plunged into that tyrant's 
 heart 1 No : my sole regret is, that I trusted to thy weakness, and did not 
 strike the blow myself. Too soon thou 'It learn that mercy to that man is 
 direct cruelty to all thy race ! 
 
 Piz. Guard ! quick ! a guard, to seize this frantic woman. 
 
 Eh. Tes, a guard ! I call them too ! And soon I know they '11 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 — to 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, Eolla would not have shrunk 
 from its performance. 
 
 Enter Guards. 
 
 Piz. Seize this discovered fiend, who sought to kill your leader. 
 
 Eh. 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 guilt 
 
 Piz. Why am I not obeyed 1 Tear her hence ! 
 
 Eh. 'Tis past — but didst thou know my story, Rolla, thou wouldst pity mc. 
 
 Rol. From my soul I do pity thee ! 
 
 Piz. Villains ! drag her to the dungeon ! — prepare the torture instantly. 
 
 Eh. 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 ofjustice : 
 yes, rack me with the sharpest tortures that ever agonised the human frame, 
 it will be justice. Tes, 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. II.] PIZABKO. . 551 
 
 Piz. Hearest thou the wretch whose hands were even now prepared for 
 murder 1 
 
 Rol. Tes ! 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 ! — Eolla, farewell ! — farewell, thou con- 
 demned of Heaven ! [To Pizakro] for repentance and remorse, I know, will 
 never touch thy heart. — 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 break- 
 ing 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 1 
 
 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 
 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 'It consult its peace. 
 
 Piz. I can face all enemies that dare confront me — I cannot war against 
 my nature. 
 
 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. 
 
 Piz. Peruvian ! thou shalt not find me to thee ungrateful or ungenerous. 
 Keturn 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. 
 
 Piz. Ambition ! tell me what is the phantom I have followed 1 where is 
 the one delight which it has made my own 1 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 reflec- 
 tions ! No ! thought and memory are my hell ! [Exit, 
 
552 PIZARRO. [act v. 
 
 ACT Y. 
 
 Scene I. — A Forest. In the background a Hut. 
 
 Cora is discovered leaning over her Child, who is laid on a bed of leaves 
 and moss. — A Storm, with thunder and lightning. 
 
 Cora. 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 ! 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. 
 
 Tes, 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 '11 press his clay-cold lips, and perish there. 
 
 But thou wilt wake again, my boy, 
 Again thou It rise to life and joy — 
 
 Thy 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. 
 
 Tet thou wilt wake again, my boy, 
 Again thou It rise to life and joy — 
 
 Thy father never ! — 
 Thy laughing eyes will meet the light, 
 Unconscious that eternal night 
 
 Veils his for ever. [Thunder and lightning. 
 
 Still, still implacable ! unfeeling elements ! yet still dost thou sleep, my 
 smiling innocent ! Death ! when wilt thou grant to this babe's mother 
 such repose] Sure I may shield thee better from the storm; my veil 
 
 may 
 
 [While she is wrapping her mantle and her veil over him, Alonzo's 
 voice is heard in the distance. 
 Alon. Cora! 
 Cora. Ha! [Rises, 
 
SC. I.] PIZABRO 553 
 
 Alon. Cora! 
 
 Cora. Oh, my heart ! Sweet Heaven, deceive me not ! Is it not Alonzo's 
 voice 1 
 
 Alon. [Nearer.] Cora! 
 
 Cora. It is — it is Alonzo ! 
 
 Alon. [Nearer still.] Cora ! my beloved ! 
 
 Cora. Alonzo !■ — Here ! 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 ! 
 
 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, with 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 1 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. 
 
 Alon. [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 1 
 
 Cora. Give me back my child I— [Goes into the hut and calls.] Fernando ! 
 
 Alon. Almighty powers ! do my eyes deceive me? Las-Casas ! 
 
 Las-Cas. Alonzo, my beloved young friend 1 
 
 Alon. My revered instructor ! [Embracing. 
 
554 PIZAKKO. [act V 
 
 Re-enter Cora. 
 
 Cora. "Will you embrace this man before be restores my boy ? 
 
 Alon. Alas, my friend ! in what a moment of misery do we meet ! 
 
 Cora. Yet bis look is goodness and humanity. Gfood old man, have com- 
 passion 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-Cos. What can this mean? 
 
 Alon. 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 iollow 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. 
 
 Scene II. — The Outpost of the Spanish Camp. In the background a torrent, 
 over which a bridge is formed 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 1 
 
 [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. Wbat do I see? Rolla ! 
 
 Rol. Oh, to thy surprise, no doubt ! 
 
 Piz. And bound too ! 
 
 Rol. So fast, thou needest not fear approaching me. 
 
 Aim. 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? 
 
 Piz. Freely. 
 
SC. II.] PIZARBO. 655 
 
 Rol. And shall I not again be intercepted 1 
 
 Piz. No ! Let the word be given that Rolla passes freely. 
 
 Enter Da villa 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 EoLLA. 
 
 Dav. In their way, they found a Peruvian child, who seems 
 
 Piz. 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 1 
 
 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.] 
 
 Rol. Man ! Man ! Art thou a man 1 Couldst thou hurt that innocent ? — 
 By Heaven ! it 's smiling in thy face. 
 
 Piz. Tell me, does it resemble Cora ? 
 
 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 his feet.] 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 wall 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 thicket 
 
 Piz. Spare him no longer. — [Exit Almagro.] Their guns must reach 
 him — he '11 yet escape — holloa to those horse— the Peruvian sees them — 
 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 
 fire at him, — a shot strikes him.'] Now ! — quick ! quick ! seize the child ! 
 [Rolla tears from the rock the tree which sujywrts the bridge, and re- 
 treats by the background, bearing off the Child. 
 
556 PIZAERO. [act 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 disap- 
 pointed 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 ? 
 
 Aim. He is — and one request alone she 
 
 Piz. 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 thou 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 1 The gods refuse to hear my prayers ! 
 Did not my Alonzo fight for thee 1 and will not my sweet boy, if thou 'It but 
 restore him to me, one day fight thy battles too 1 
 
 Alon. 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 ] 
 
 A ta. "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, Heeding, with the Child, followed oy Peruvian Soldiers. 
 Pol. Thy child ! [Gives the Child into Cora's arms, and falls. 
 
 Cora. Oh, God ! there 's blood upon him ! 
 Pol. 'Tis my blood, Cora ! 
 Alon. Rolla, thou diest ! 
 Pol. 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 chil- 
 dren 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 ! A way ! Be the word of assault, Revenge and Rolla ! 
 
 [Exeunt. Charge. 
 
SC. IV.] PIZARRO 557 
 
 Scene IV. — A Eecess among the Rocks. 
 
 Enter Pizarro, Almagro, Yalverde, and Spanish Soldiers. 
 
 Piz. Well ! if surrounded, we must perish, in the centre of them. Where 
 do Rolla and Alonzo hide their heads ] 
 
 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. — [Charge. They fight. Alonzo's 
 shield is broken, and lie is beat down.'] Now, traitor, to thy heart ! 
 
 [At this moment Elvira enters, habited as when Pizarro first beheld 
 her. Pizarro, appalled, staggers back. Alonzo renews tlie fight, 
 and slays Mm. Loud shouts from the Peruvians. 
 
 Enter Ataliba. 
 
 Ata. My brave Alonzo ! [Embraces Alonzo. 
 
 Aim. Alonzo, we submit. Spare us ! we will embark, and leave the 
 coast. 
 
 Vol. Elvira will confess I saved her life; she has saved thine. 
 Alon. Fear not. You are safe. [Spaniards lay down their arms. 
 
 Elv. Yalverde 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 remain 
 
 Elv. 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. — Yal- 
 verde, you have preserved my life. Cherish humanity, avoid the foul ex- 
 amples 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 
 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. Yalverde, Alhagro, and Spanish 
 Soldiebs, 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 Holla'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 Holla's hands in silent 
 agony. The curtain slowly descends. 
 
558 
 EPILOGUE, 
 
 WRITTEN BY THE HON. WILLIAM LAMB. 
 SPOKEN BY MRS. JORDAN. 
 
 Ere yet suspense has still'd its throbbing fear, 
 
 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 thought, 
 
 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 breast — 
 
 Mine 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 pride — 
 
 The 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. 
 
 ye, who listen to the plaintive strain, 
 With strange enjoyment, and with rapturous pain, 
 Who erst have felt the Stranger's lone despair, 
 And Haller's settled, sad, remorseful care, 
 Does Holla's pure affection less excite 
 The inexpressive anguish of delight ? 
 Do Cora's fears, which beat without control, 
 With less solicitude engross the soul 1 
 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 snow, 
 Or where the solar fires incessant flame, 
 Thy laws, all-powerful Nature, are the same : 
 Vainly the sophist boasts he can explain 
 The causes of thy universal reign — 
 
EPILOGUE. 559 
 
 More vainly -would his cold presumptuous art 
 Disprove thy general empire o'er the heart : 
 A voice proclaims thee, that we must believe — ■ 
 A 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 j 
 Grave to the hopeless parent's arms her child, 
 Beheld her transports, and, expiring, smiled. 
 That voice we hear — oh ! be its will obey'd ! 
 'Tis valour's impulse, and 'tis virtue's aid- 
 It prompts to all benevolence admires, 
 To all that heavenly piety inspires, 
 To all that praise repeats through lengthen'd yeaas, 
 That honour sanctifies, and time reveres.. 
 
VERSES 
 
 TO THE 
 
 MEMORY OF GARRICK. 
 
 SPOKEN AS A MONODY, AT THE THEATRE ROYAL IN DRURY LANE. 
 
 To the right honourable Countess Spencer, whose approbation and 
 esteem were justly considered by Mr. GtARRick 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, 
 
 March 25th, 1779. Bichard 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 strain, 
 
 Point the quick jest — indulge the comic vein — 
 
 Ere yet to buried Boscius we assign 
 
 One kind regret — one tributary line ! 
 
 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 adorn'd his hearse, 
 The throng that mourn'd as their dead favourite 
 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 sad regrets that flow 
 From fond fidelity's domestic woe, — 
 So much are Garrick's praise — so much his due — 
 As on this spot — one tear bestow'd by you. 
 
 Amid the hearts which seek ingenuous fame, 
 Our toil attempts the most precarious claim ! 
 To him whose mimic pencil wins the prize, 
 Obedient Fame immortal wreaths supplies : 
 Whate'er of wonder Beynolds now may raise, 
 Baphael still boasts contemporary praise : 
 Each dazzling light and gaudier bloom subdued, 
 With undiminished awe his works are view'd : 
 E'en Beauty's portrait wears a softer prime, 
 Touch'd by the tender hand of mellowing Time. 
 
562 VERSES TO THE MEMORY OF 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 o'erthrow 
 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 ; 
 proud distinction of the sacred lyre ! 
 Wide a3 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, — 
 Whate'er the theme — through every age and clime 
 Congenial passions meet th' according rhyme ; 
 The pride of glory — pity's sigh sincere — 
 Youth'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 adapted mien, 
 Faithful as nature to the varied scene ; 
 Th' expressive glance — whose subtle comment draws 
 Entranced attention, and a mute applause ; 
 Gesture that marks, with force and feeling fraught, 
 A sense in silence, and a will in thought ; 
 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 eloquence — 
 All 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 fo : ever veils those eyes — 
 
VERSES TO THE MEMORY OF GARRICK. 5 60 
 
 Where is the blest memorial that ensures 
 
 Our Grarrick's fame 1 — whose is the trust 1 — 'Tis yours. 
 
 And ! by every charm his art essay'd 
 To sooth your cares ! — by every grief allay'd ! 
 By the hush'd wonder which his accents drew ! 
 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 ! 
 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. 
 
 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 dear — 
 loveliest mourner, gentle Muse ! be thine 
 The pleasing woe to guard the laurell'd shrine. 
 As Fancy, oft by Superstition led 
 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; 
 With meek regret, and fond enduring grief; 
 With looks that speak — He never shall return ! 
 Chilling thy tender bosom, clasp his urn ; 
 And with soft sighs disperse th' ir reverend dust 
 Which Time may strew upon his sacred bust. 
 
Now on Sale, at a very reduced Price, 
 THE 
 
 SPEECHES 
 
 OP THE 
 
 RIGHT HONOURABLE 
 
 RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN, 
 
 EDITED BY 
 
 A CONSTITUTIONAL FRIEND. 
 
 New and handsome Library Edition, complete in 3 Vols. Svo, in extra 
 cloth boards, (originally publislied at 21. 5s.), now reduced to 18s. 
 
 " Whatever Sheridan has done, has been, par excellence, always the best 
 of its kind. He has written the best comedy (School for Scandal), the best 
 drama (the Duenna), the best farce (the Critic), and the best address (Mono- 
 logue on Garrick) ; and, to crown all, delivered the very best oration (the 
 famous Begum Speech) ever conceived or heard in this country." — Byron. 
 
 No speeches have ever contained a greater degree of the true fire of elo- 
 quence, or produced more effect upon the auditors, than those of Sheridan. 
 Mr. Burke declared his speech on the Begum Princesses of Oude, to be "the 
 most astonishing effort of eloquence, argument, and wit united, of which 
 there was any record or tradition." Mr. Fox said, " All that he had ever 
 heard, all that he had ever read, when compared with it, dwindled into 
 nothing, and vanished like vapour before the sun." And Mr. Pitt acknow- 
 ledged " that it surpassed all the eloquence of ancient and modern times, and 
 possessed everything that genius or art could fuwush, to agitaj^and control 
 the human mind." .„_ x * I ?~Jb 
 
 HENRY G. BOHN, YORK STREET, COVENT GARDEN. 
 


 
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