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HARVARD
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HARVARD
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SHERIDAN'S COMEDIES

THE RIVA
THE SCH/aCH^FOR SCANDAL

EDITED WITH AN INTRODUCTION AND
NOTES TO EACH PLAY

AND

BRANDER MATTHEWS

ly/T/f ILLUSTRATIONS BY E. A. ABBEY, FRED. BARNARD, R. BLUM,

C. S. REIN HART, ETC.

BOSTON

JAMES R. OSGOOD AND COMPANY

1885

n'^7'f.2i,./3./o

UNIVIMITV

ueaARv

Ml Rights Reserved,

AUSTIN DOBSON,

A POET WITH THE GIFT OF COMEDY^

THIS EDITION OF SHERIDAN'S FLAYS

Irs lEnscribcIi

BY HIS FRIEND THE EDITOR.

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.

1. Richard Brinsley Sheridan . . . , Frontispiece

Etched by M. Richeton, from a portrait by John Russell, R. A.

2. Vignette drawn by R. Brennan 12

3. Fac-simile of Autograph Letter of Richard Brinsley

Sheridan Face page 56

4. Vignette drawn by R. Brennan 62

5. Mr. Joseph Jefferson as Bob Acres .... Face page 62

Drawn by R. Blum, from a photograph by Sarony. Engraved by the Photo-
Electro Company.

6. Mrs. John Drew as ATrs. Malaprop .... Face page 148

Drawn by R. Blum, from a photograph by Sarony. Engraved by the Photo-
Electro Company.

7. Mr. John Brougham as Sir Lucius 0'7'rigger, Face page 174

Drawn from life by C. S. Rcinhart. Engraved by E. Hcincmann.

8. Vignette drawn by G. R. Halm 188

9. Mr. John Gilbert as Sir Peter Teazle . . . Face page 212

Drawn from life by E. A. Abbey. Engraved by J. H. E. Whitney.

10. Mr. Charles Coghlan as Charles Surface . . Face page 258

Drawn from life by E. A. Abbey. Engraved by J. P. Davis.

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS,

II.

12.

The Family Pictures Face page

Frontispiece to the original edition of the ' School for Scandal.* DuUin :
1785. Reproduced by the Lewis Engraving Company.

iMiss Ellen Terry as Lady Teazle
Mr. H

}. . Face pagt

enry Irving as Joseph Surface

Drawn from life by Fred. Barnard. Engraved by the Photo-Engraving
Company.

268

278

13. Mrs. G. H. Gilbert as Mrs, Candour .... Face page 296

Drawn from life by E. A. Abbey. Engraved by Miss C. A. Powell.

[The editor desires to thank tlic Century Company for the loan of tlie emblematic vignettes by
R. Bkknnan and G. R. Halm, pp. 12, 62, and iSS.j

RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN

T3ICHARD BRINSLEY BUTLER SHERIDAN, dramatist,
-*-^ orator, and wit, was born at No. 12 Dorset Street, Dublin,
Ireland, in September, 1751. He died in Saville Row, London,
England, July 7, 18 16, and was buried in the Poet's Corner of West-
minster Abbey.

" Most men," says Saint Beuve, " have not read those whom they
judge ; they have a ready-made opinion got by word of mouth, one
scarcely knows how." No one has suffered more from these off-hand
judgments than Richard Brinsley Sheridan. A ready-made opinion
of a man who found so many and such various means of expressing
himself, an opinion got by word of mouth, one hardly knows how,
can scarcely be other than unjust. The case against Sheridan, as a
man of letters, may be briefly stated. It is substantially, that he
stole the characters and the plots of his plays, that he pilfered the
points of his speeches, and that he prepared his jokes in advance,
appropriating to his own use any jest he found ready to his hand.
The counsel for the prosecution got access to an English review a
few years ago, and declared with forensic emphasis that Sheridan
was "a plodding and heavy Beaumarchais, with all the tricks, but
without the genuine brightness and originality of the Frenchman."

14 RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN.

When one reads a solemn statement like this, the question forms
itself of its own accord : Was he really plodding and heavy and
without brightness ? Had he no originality of his own ? Was he a
wit, or had he none ? To a question put thus bluntly the answer is
easy. Sheridan ivas a wit ; and he was but little else. As far a^
mere wit could carry him, Sheridan went, and but little further, H^
had wit raised to the zenith, and he could bend it to his bidding. I ^
his early youth poetry of the Pope period was in fashion ; Sherida
set his wits to work and brought forth Papal verse, quite as infallibl
as any made in his time. A little later he saw that through the stag
door lay the shortest way to fame and fortune ; and he wrote play"
brimful of a wit which even now, after the lapse of a century an
more, is well nigh as fresh as when it was first penned. When i
after years he went to Parliament and needs must be an orator, agai
his wit was equal to the task, and he delivered orations which th
great speakers, in that time of great speakers, declared to be unsu
passed. Had any other call been made on his wits, they would have
done their best, and their best would have been good indeed. What
ever he produced, poem, or play, or speech, was but the chameleo
expression of his wit. If in intellectual quality any of his work wa9>
thin, in (juantity it was full beyond all cavil. No one ever more truly
— to use the phrase with no invidious intent — no one ever more
truly lived on his wits than Sheridan, not even the arch wit, M. de
Voltaire, or the Caron de Beaumarchais to whom the stolid British
reviewer deemed him inferior.

Richard Brinslcy Sheridan was the son of Thomas and Frances
Sheridan, and the grandson of Dr. Sheridan, the friend and corre-
spondent of Swift. Thomas Sheridan was a teacher of elocution, a

A BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 15

player, a manager, a lexicographer, and altogether an odd eharacter.
He thought himself a greater actor than David Garrick, and the
author of a better dictionary than Samuel Johnson's. He seems
to have had no great love for Richard Brinsley, and to have
given him little care. Frances Sheridan was a woman of singular
gifts and singular charm. Garrick and Johnson liked her, although
they did not like her husband ; and they appreciated her remarkable
literary merits. Garrick brought out and acted in the * Discovery,'
a comedy of her's ; and Dr. Johnson praised her novel, the * Memoirs
of Miss Sidney Biddulph,* saying he knew not if she had a right,
on moral principles, to make her readers suffer so much. It can
scarcely be doubted that her influence upon her son's character
would have been highly beneficial, but unfortunately he was not
always with her, and she died in 1766, when he was only fifteen
years old. The absence of parental care left a fatal impress on his
character, and it is to his unregulated youth that we may ascribe
most of the wanderings, the mis-steps, and the mishaps of his
manhood.

When Sheridan was seven years of age he was placed at school
with Mr. Thomas Whyte, who was afterward the teacher of Sheri-
dan's biographer, Moore. Here he was considered a dunce. The
next year, in 1759, they removed to England ; and in 1762 Richard
Brinsley was sent to Harrow, where he remained for about three
years, unwillingly picking up such crumbs of learning as might
suffice to sustain life. He was popular with his school-fellows, and
his teachers believed in his ability despite his deficient scholarship.
He showed already the indolence which was always one of his most
marked characteristics, and which he possessed in conjunction,
curiously enough, with an extraordinary power of application when-
ever he was aroused by an adequate motive. He seems to have

l6 RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN.

acquired some understanding of Latin and Greek. He formed many
friendships at Harrow. The chief partner of his youthful sports
and studies was Nathaniel Brassey Halhed, with whom he translated
the seventh idyl of Theocritus and many of the minor poem^
credited to that " singer of the field and fold."

In 1769 the elder Sheridan returned to London from France with""^

his favorite son, Charles ; and calling Richard to his side, he begai ^

to instruct both boys in English grammar and in oratory. ''The^M^
attended also the fencing and riding schools of Mr. Angelo," whc=^
has recorded the fretful dignity of Thomas Sheridan, and the genial — ^'
ity and good humor of his younger son. In the middle of 1770 th<
Sheridans moved to Bath, a hot-bed of fast and fashionable society,
and about as unsuitable and unwholesome a place as could be imag
incd for a young man of eighteen with Richard Brinsley Shcridan*i
lack of training and want of prospects, lie kept up a lively corres-- -^'
pondcnce with Halhed, who was then at Oxford. The friends wen
ambitious and hopeful; and they determined to attempt literatun
together, fondly dreaming that they might awake one morning am
find themselves famous. They planned a play and a periodical
paper; Halhed wrote most of the former, and Sheridan sketched^
out the only number of the latter which Aloore could discover.
Then they attempted a metrical version of the love-epistles credited
to the Greek sophist, Aristaenetus. It is to be noted that Le Sage
also began his literary life by translating Aristxnetus. In Novem-
ber, 1770, Halhed had done his share of this; it was not until
December that Sheridan, in his usual dilatory way, set about his
task, aided by a Greek dictionary. There is a French version (Poic-
tiers, 1597), but Sheridan had not gone to France in 1764 with the
family, and he knew little French, and came in time to hate the
language. He took several months over his work, and though

A BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH, I?

the completed manuscript was to have been given to the publisher
in March, it was not received by him until May ; and it was only in
August, 1 77 1, that there appeared for sale "The Love Epistles of
Aristaenetus, Translated from the Greek into English metre."

** Love refines

The thoughts, and heart enlarges ; hath his seat

In reason, and is judicious." — Milt. Par, Lo$t^ B. 8,

"London: Printed for J. Wilkie, No. 71 St. PauKs Churchyard. MDCCLXXI."

The quotation from Milton we may credit to Sheridan ; it is
impudently humorous in the eyes of those who know how light and
lively are some of the love-passages related by the Greek tale-teller.
The translation was anonymous, and the preface was signed with the
joint initials of the young poets, H. S. It is highly comic to
read that one of the reviews fathered it on *' Mr. Johnson, author of
the English Dictionary, etc." Moore and Sheridan's other biogra-
phers agree in calling the translation a failure in that it met with no
favor from the public. It may be that the authors made no money
by it ; but it succeeded at least in getting itself into a second edition,
which does not look exactly like flat failure. It has since been
reprinted with Propertius, Petronius Arbiter, and Johannes Secun-
dus, in a volume of Bohn's Classical Library. Halhed soon after
went to India, where he wrote a volume of imitations of Martial,
and began to be known as a distinguished Orientalist. Two original
poems of Sheridan's were published in the Bath Chronicle during
this year. One was a description of the principal beauties of Bath,
called ' Clio's Protest ; or the Picture Varnished,* being an answer
to some verses called the ' Bath Picture ; * and the second was a
humorous description of the opening of the new Assembly Rooms,
'An Epistle from Timothy Screw, to his brother Henry, Waiter at
Almack's.'

1 8 RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN.

There was at Bath at this time a family of Linleys, all musicians
of marked ability. The eldest daughter, Miss Elizabeth Linley, was
as beautiful to see as to hear. She was between sixteen and seven-
teen when Sheridan first met her. She was sought by many suitors,
good and evil, young and old. Among them were Sheridan's elder
brother Charles, Halhed, a Mr. Long, to whom her parents engaged
her, and a Captain Mathews, who happened to have a wife already.
Charles Sheridan gave up the struggle and wrote Miss Linley a
letter of farewell. Halhed soon sailed for India. To Mr. Long she
secretly represented that she could never be happy as his wife, and
he magnanimously took on himself the blame of breaking off the
match and appeased her parents by settling three thousand pounds
on her. Captain Mathews was not as generous or as readily got rid
of ; he persecuted her incessantly ; until at last she confided in Sheri-
dan, who expostulated in vain with the married rake. To avoid him
she resolved to take refuge in a convent in France : this was early
in 1772. Sheridan offered to accompany her; and when they had
reached France he persuaded her to marry him. After the idle
ceremony he placed her in a convent at Lisle, where she fell sick,
and where her father found her.

It was known at Bath that Miss Linlev and Sheridan had dis-
appeared together; one rumor had it that they had "set off on a
matrimonial expedition to Scotland." The baffled Captain Mathews
blustered boldly during Sheridan's absence, and even published an
abusive advertisement. When Sheridan returned to England with
Miss Linley and her father, he called Mathews out at once. The
elder Angelo had instructed Sheridan in "the use of the small
sword, and it was in consequence of the skill acquired under
this tuition that he acquitted himself with so much address when
opposed to the captain, whose reputation was well known in the

circles of C^Lsiuoa zs 23. tTztarmt'Tt:: svifismsKx. " Ijesgscs^
tation. Captain llari&ew^ *e£!ri* zz irf* iecr i rcnrir-i i* w^ is ^
bully. At first he oad^ed rie iaiti . imf «iex x ■•xs f loigr: ie
begged his lite aod vrxe az. ziigiit igntiitr^ LiicBSSirfij afrgr oie
lied about the a£zir. At -a:*c tim^ -^-irrt az, bic irccai iiicc::
him, that he «as c*xisCrizaeI 11 zii^aZst^t S^sriixs t^ a seccoi
meeting, at which Soerkia:i mi:s ^^2»^7 »:»i3ti«2si Az;^^^ =»Xes r?iiT
Mathews had learned itr^z^ ^ Fnztzs 23d wls rccksaier^ tkt
skilful ; and he reooGected " I>jck Sosriiia iis zrce-ZiiSra zhtn >
shewing me a wound in his zedk. tiieriic in a Sjce sCLte, wric^ be lo^i
rac he had received froen his aaia=r>Li5t jq tx jrrr^JzJi^ Plainly
enoucch Mathews had the best ot tbe secood dsel, ^ihoc::;::: Sberv
dan's courage was berood qoesrko, and be refnsed to be^ his life.
After his recovery he was sent into ii»e countr%% where be remained
until the spring of the next year, 1773- Ehiring all this time his
father and Miss Linle^'s were determined to keep them aparL
Moore tells us, that Sheridan contrived many stratagems "* for the
purpose of exchanging a few words with her. and that be more than
once disguised himself as a hackney-coachman, and drove her borne
from the theatre," where she had been singing. At last Mr. Linley
yielded, and they were married by Lcense, April 13, 1773, after a
courtship as romantic in its \'icissitudes as 3fiss Lrdia Languish or
Miss Blanche Amory could possibly wish.

Mrs. Sheridan was perhaps the most gifted <rf a gifted family.
Dr. Bumey refers to the Linleys "as a nest of singingbirds"; and
Michael Kelly records that Mozart spoke in high terms of the
talents of Mrs. Sheridan's brother. Her services were in good
demand as a singer of oratorios, and might have been rewarded
sufficiently to support the young couple in ease, if not in affluence.
But Sheridan was not a man to live at his wife's apron-strings, or to

20 RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN.

grow fat on the money she earned. With manly pride he refused all
offers, and declined even to allow her to fulfil the engagements made
for her by her father before the marriage. This was honorable and
high-minded, but it deprived them of a certain income. Dr. Johnson's
praise might please Sheridan's heart, — if it was reported to him, —
but it could not fill his stomach. With abundant belief in himself,
Sheridan meant to make his own way in the world and to owe his
support to his own hand. He had nothing, not even a serious
education. He had been entered a student of the Middle Temple
just before his marriage, but he had not pursued the law further.
Without money, and without a profession, but with a full confidence
in himself, and a hereditary connection with the theatre, it is no
wonder that Sheridan determined to write for the stage. His father
was an actor and a manager, and had written one play ; and his
mother had written several. With these antecedents and the repu-
tation of ability which he had already achieved somehow, he was
asked by Harris, the manager of Covent Garden Theatre, to write a
comedy.

The time was most propitious for the appearance of a new comic
author. The works of Wycherley, Vanbrugh, Farquhar, and Con-
greve, were falling, or had already fallen, out of the list of acting
plays. Evelina blushed at the dialop:ue of Congreve's ' Love for
Love,' and was ashamed at the plot. Only Sheridan himself
could make Vanbrugh's * Relapse ' presentable. Farquhar and
Wycherley fared but little better, though the * Country Wife' of
the latter, deodorized into something like decency by the skilful
touch of Garrick, retained sufficient vitality to linger on the stage,
under the name of the 'Country Girl,' until the end of the century.

A BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 21

There were many symptoms of a rapid improvement in virtue and of
an evolution in morals, and this helped to make the way straight
before the feet of a new dramatist who could keep his eye on the
signs of the times. The comedies of Congreve and Wycherley, Far-
quhar and Vanbrugh, seem to have been written to show that the
true road to happiness was to hate your neighbor and to love your
neighbor's wife. Sydney Smith said that their morality was "that
every witty man may transgress the seventh commandment, which
was never meant for the protection of husbands who labor under
the incapacity of making repartees." M. Taine, with all his French
tolerance for wit, is disgusted with the indecency of the comic
writers of the Restoration, and says, " We hold our nose and read
on." These old-fashioned plays were beginning to be unpalatable
to a new-fangled taste. The times were ripe for a new writer.

Few of the dramatists of the day were formidable rivals. The
one man who might have been a competitor to be feared, a fellow-
Irishman — for, as Latin comedy was imitated from the Greek, and
as French comedy was modelled upon the Italian, so English comedy
has in great part been written by Irishmen — the author of
the 'Good-natured Man,' Oliver Goldsmith, died in 1774. 'She
Stoops to Conquer,* produced the year before, had scotched senti-
mental comedy, an imported French fashion, which was slowly
strangling the life out of the comic muse ; and although Sheridan,
in the ' Rivals,' might choose to do obeisance to this passing fancy
by the introduction of those two most tedious t^qtsoxis, Faulkland and
Julia^ he was soon to repent him of his sins, an J in the ' School for
Scandal' deal it a final and fatal blow. Cumberland, the sole survivor
of the school, had but little life left in him after the appearance of the
'Critic' ; and no life is now left in his plays, which have hardly seen
the light of the lamps these fifty years. Better luck has attended

22 RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN.

the more worthy work of George Colman the elder, the author of
the 'Jealous Wife,' and of David Garrick, the author probably of
* High Life Below Stairs,' who had also collaborated in the * Clandes-
tine Marriage * ; these three plays keep the stage to this day. But
in 177s both Colman and Garrick had ceased to write for the thea-
tre. The coarse, vigorous, hardy satires of Samuel Foote, and the
namby-pamby tragedies and wishy-washy comedies — '* not transla-
tions only, taken from the French *' — of Arthur Murphy, were alike
beginning to pall upon playgoers. Among all these dramatists,
and greater than any of them, appeared the author of the * Rivals.*
Although written hastily at the request of Harris, the manager of
Covcnt Garden Theatre, the * Rivals * was not wholly a new compo-
sition ; it is rather an elaboration of earlier sketches and inchoate
memorandums jotted down by Sheridan at various times after he was
seventeen years old, when the hope of gaining independence by
writing for the stage first flitted before his eyes. And this rework^
ing of accumulated old material was characteristic of Sheridaim
throughout life, and in whatever department of literature he might
venture himself. His poems, his plays, his jests, and his speeches
abound in phrases and suggestions set down years before. Sheri*
dan must needs have had aid from earlier work, since we find him
telling his father-in-law, November 17, 1774, that he would have the
comedy in rehearsal in a few days, and that he had not written a
line of it two months before, " except a scene or two, which I believe
you have seen in an odd act of a little farce/* Haste of composi-
tion is shown in the inordinate bulk of the play, which was at least
double the length of any acting comedy — so Sheridan tells us in
the preface — when he put it into Harris's hands. ** I profited by
his judgment and experience in the curtailing of it, till, I believe, his
feeling for the vanity of a young author got the better of his desire

A BIOGKAPHICAL SKETCH. 2^

for correctness, and be left many excrescences remaining because
he had assisted in pruning so many more. Hence, though I was
not uninformed that the acts were still too long, I flattered mj^self
that, after the first tiial, I might with safer judgment proceed to
remove what should appear to have been most dissatisfactory', "

The * Rivals ' was first acted at Covent Garden Theatre on
the evening of January- 17, I77S» and it was damned out of hand.
It was repeated the next night, and then withdrawn for repairs, A
change of front in the face of the enemy is always a risky experi-
ment, but Sheridan operated it successfully. Lightened of the
feebler scenes by condensation, and strengthened by the substitution
of Clinch as Sir Litcius O' Trigger for Lee, who had acted the I'wirt
very badly, the * Ri\*als ' was again offered to the public, and was
acted fourteen or fifteen times before the season closed on June ist.
On the tenth night a new prologue was spoken by Mrs. Bulkley,
in which Sheridan made adroit use of the figures of Comedy and
Tragedy, which stood on each side of the stage, and defended his
use of broader comic effects than the partisans of sentimental
comedy could tolerate. After the first few nij^hts, however, the
' Rivals ' picked up and held its o)^^!. Its brisk and bristling action,
its highly ingenious equivoque, its broadly limned and sharply con-
trasted characters, its close sequence of highly comic situations —
all these soon began to tell with the public, and the piece became
one of the first favorites of the play-goer.

As Goldsmith had shown his gratitude to Quick, who acted Tony
Lumpkin to his satisfaction, by signing the ' Grumbler,* an adapta-
tion of the 'Grondeur' of Brueys, acted for Quick*s benefit, so
Sheridan, in gratitude to Clinch, who had bravely lent his aid to
pluck the flower success from the nettle danger, wrote 'St. Patrick's
Day ; or the Scheming Lieutenant,' a farce in two acts, produced for

24 RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN.

Clinch's benefit, May 2, 1775, and acted six times before the close of
the season at the end of the month. * St. Patrick's Day ' is a lively
enough little play, of no great consequence or merit, owing some-
thing in the conduct of its plot and the comicality of its situations
to Moliire, and containing only a few of the brilliant flashes of wit
which we are wont to consider as Sheridan's especial property.

Sheridan devoted the summer to the writing of a comic opera, the
music for which was selected and composed by his father-in-law, Mr.
Linley. "We owe to Gay," said Dr. Johnson, "the ballad-opera — a
mode of comedy which at first was supposed to delight only by its
novelty, but has now, by the experience of half a century, been so
well accommodated to the disposition of a popular audience that it is
likely to keep long possession of the stage." And of all ballad-
operas. Gay's first was easily the foremost until this of Sheridan's ;
the * Beggar's Opera ' had no real rival until the production of the
* Duenna.' While, however, the * Beggar's Opera* owed part of its
extraordinary vogue to its personal and political satire, the * Duenna '
had no political purport ; its only aim was to please, and in this it
succeeded abundantly. Brought out originally at Covent Garden
on November 21, 1775, it was performed seventy-five times during
the ensuing season — an extraordinary number in those days —
twelve more than the * Beggar's Opera' had achieved. In order to
counteract this great success of the rival house, Garrick, then the
manager of Drury Lane, as Moore tells us, " found it necessary to
bring forward all the weight of his own best characters, and even
had recourse to the expedient of playing off the mother against the
son, by reviving Mrs. Frances Sheridan's comedy of the * Discovery,'
and acting the principal part in it himself. In allusion to the
increased fatigue which this competition with the * Duenna' brought
upon Garrick, who was then entering on his sixtieth year, it was said

A BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 2$

by an actor of the day that ' the old woman would be the death of
the old man.'*' The success of Sheridan's opera was not confined to
one season ; it lasted nearly fifty years.

The plot, suggested perhaps by an episode in the ' Country Wife *
of Wycherley, or perhaps by the * Sicilien ' of Moli^re, and not owing
very much to either source, lends itself to several amusing scenes of
equivoke and cross-purpose. But the characters in the 'Duenna'
have far less strength, as well as far less originality, than their
brothers and sisters in the * Rivals,' in the * School for Scandal,' and
in the 'Critic* There is no Sir Anthony Absolute ^ or Mrs. Malapropy
no Sir Peter or Lady Teazle^ no Mr, Puff or Sir Fretful Plagiary ;
there is for the most part nothing but half a dozen of the usual
types — the young lover, the romantic girl, the jealous rival, the lively
coquette, the arbitrary father, the intriguing old woman. Among all
these, the character of the little Portuguese Jew, Isaac Mendozay
stands out in bold relief as the only figure in the play really worthy
of its illustrious authorship. He is knavish, and always overreaches
himself; like Dickens's yi?^ Bagstock, who was "sly, devilish sly,
sir," he is "a cunning dog, ain't 1} A sly little villain, eh ? . . .
Roguish, you'll say, but keen, hey? — Devilish keen?" Did
Dickens, who wrote a comic opera at the very beginning of his
literary career, — did Dickens remember this passage, I wonder?

Not only in the drawing of character, but also in dialogue, is the
' Duenna ' inferior to Sheridan's better-known plays. In spite of all
its brightness and lightness, it is impossible not to acknowledge that
it does not contain his best work. It has few specimens of the
recondite wit and quaint fancy which make the * School for Scandal '
so brilliant and unequalled a comedy. If Sheridan's wit, like quick-
silver, is always glistening, perhaps at times, like mercury, it seems a
little heavy. Now and again the dialogue vies in sparkle and point

26 RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN.

with the talk of its author's other plays, but not as often as might
be wished. It seems hastier, at once less happy and less polished.
One thing to be remarked about all of Sheridan's plays is that
the dialogue is easy to speak. The son of an elocutionist and
lecturer and himself an orator, Sheridan worked his words until
they fell trippingly from the tongue. And the songs in the 'Duenna*
have a quality not as common as might be thought ; they are all
singable. The words of many songs and especially of many modern
songs, are so loaded with harsh consonants and combinations of
consonants, and with sounds which shut instead of opening the
mouth, that they arc very difficult to sing. But the songs of the
* Duenna/ like the songs of all true songsters — Moore, for instance,
and Lover, and a few other poets who have sung their verses into
being — arc as easy to sing as they are appropriate to music. And
they san^G^ themselves at once into popularity. Moore refers to them
fifty years after they were first heard in public as though they were

tlicn known to all his readers. Here is one of Don Antonio's

songs : —

" I ne*er could any lustre see
In eves 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 mv heart
Cheeks of rose, untouched by art,
I will own the color true.
When yielding blushes aid their hue.

** Is her hand so soft and pure?
I must press it to be sure ;
Nor can I be certain then
Till it, grateful, press again.
Must I with attentive eye
Watch her heaving bosom sigh?
I will do so when I see
That heaving bosom sigh for me."

A BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 2/

From the correspondence between Sheridan and Linley, it is evi-
dent that the symmetry and the success of the 'Duenna* was due
largely to the high confidence the composer had in the author ; and
to the perfect accord between them, Linley nowhere seeking to
display himself, but only to second ShcriJau as best he might. In
an opera the music should fit the words as the words fit the music,
until they both seem to be the result of a single inspiration and to
have only one body — just as the Aztecs, on first beholding the
Spanish troopers, mistook horse and man for a single being. Sheridan
had no voice ; he could not sing ; and he knew nothing about music.
But he was a born dramatist, and he had a keen ear for what was
likely to be most effective in a given situation ; and Linley was
intelligent enough to take every hint, and to turn it to best advan-
tage. Many years after the ' Duenna,' when Sheridan brought out his
last play, ' Pizarro,' Michael Kelly, was required to compose the music
it needed, for it was a sort of melodrama, in the early sense of the
word as well as the later : and in his reminiscences Kelly records the
conversation he had with Sheridan in regard to it. " My aim was to
discover the situations of the different choruses and the marches,
and Mr. Sheridan's ideas on the subject ; and he gave them in the
following manner : ' In the Temple of the Sun,' said he, ' I want the
Virgins of the Sun and their High-Priest to chant a solemn invoca-
tion to their Deity.* I sang two or three bars of music to him,
which I thought corresponded with what he wished, and marked
them down. He then made a sort of rumbling noise with his voice
(for he had not the smallest idea of turning a tune), resembling a
deep, gruff, bow, wow, wow ; but though there was not the slightest
resemblance of an air in the noise he made, yet so clear were his
ideas of effect that I perfectly understood his meaning, though
conveyed through the medium of a bow, wow, wow." A story not

28 RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN.

unlike this is told of Victor Hugo, who is equally unmusical and who
outlined or hinted at the kind of tune he needed for a song in one
of his pliys.

'I'he 'Rivals/ 'St. Patrick's Day,' and the 'Duenna/ — a comedy
in five acts, a farce in two acts, and a comic opera in three acts, —
were all produced in the year 1775 at Covent Garden Theatre.
IJcforc the run of the ' Duenna ' was ended, Sheridan was in negotia-
tion with (iarrick for the purchase, in conjunction with Linlcy and
\)x. l*'ord, of the great actor's half of Drury Lane Theatre. Although
(larrick and Thomas Sheridan were rival actors and never exactly
hit it off to^^cther, the former always had a cordial esteem for
MrH. .Sheridan, and he was prepared to carry this over to her
son. So when he made up his mind to give up acting and to
abandon !nana;;cincnt, he was ready to think well of Sheridan's offer
to buy him out. C'olman, to whom the management was first offered,
would purchase solely on condition that he could buy the whole;
(larrick was only half owner, and young Lacey, who had the other
half, refused to sell. While Garrick was giving his farewell perform-
ances, the ne|;otiations with Sheridan were pending. The great
actor — probably the f^reatest who ever trod the stage — spoke his
last speech and made his last exit on June 10, 1776; and on June
24, so Davies tells us, he signed the contract of sale to Sheridan,
1 Juicy and I'ord. By twenty-eight years of good management the
value of Drury Lane Theatre had been trebled, and the selling price
was fixed at ^70,000, or ^£35,000 for Garrick's half. Sheridan and
Linley were to fmd ;£'io,ooo each, and their friend Dr. Ford was to
supj)ly the remaining ;jCiS.ooo. Where Sheridan raised the money
for his share has been one of the mighty mysteries of theatrical
history. There is a general belief that he borrowed it — but from
whom ? Watkins, his first biographer, mentions a mortgage to Dr.

A BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 29

Ford, and suggests that Garrick stood behind Ford. Moore, his
second biographer, disbelieves in and discredits any loan from either
Ford or Garrick.

So far as I know, nobody has yet cited the evidence of Sydney
Smith, who said that Creepy told him that once when dining with
Sheridan, after the ladies had departed, Sheridan drew his chair to
the fire and confided to Creevy that they had just had a fortune left
to them. •' Mrs. Sheridan and I," said he, " have made the solemn
vow to each other to mention it to no one, and nothing induces me
now to confide it to you but the absolute conviction that Mrs.
Sheridan is at this moment confiding it to Mrs. Creevy upstairs."
Now, this may be nothing more than the exaggeration of a humorist
reported with exaggeration by another humorist. And then, again,
it may be true; it is not at all impossible, or even improbable, that a
fortune had been left suddenly and unexpectedly to Sheridan, or,
more likely, to his wife ; but I have been able to find no other
reference to this wealth from the skies ; and I fear the story is not
to be taken seriously. The wonder as to where Sheridan got the
money to pay for one-seventh of Drury Lane Theatre is augmented
and completed by wonder as to how two years or so later he got
money to buy out Lacey's half of the theatre. What was a wonder to
Sheridan's contemporaries, has been also a wonder to all his biogra-
phers. His later critics make no attempt whatever to find an answer
to the enigma.

It is with great diffidence therefore that I venture to express a
belief, that I have plucked out the heart of the mystery : it must be
admitted, I think, that I have at least made out a plausible case.
Here, then, is my explanation : Of the original ;£3S,ooo paid Garrick,
Sheridan was to find ;;^io,ooo. Dr. Watkins asserts that he raised
^8,700 of this ;£io,000 by two mortgages, one of ;£ 1,000 to a Mr.

JO RICHARD BRIASLEY SHERIDAN,

Wallis, and another of £7,700 to Dr. Ford. If we accept this asser-
tion, — and I can see no reason why we should not, — all that Sheridan
had to make up was ;£ 1,300, a sum he could easily compass after the
success of the ' Rivals * and the ' Duenna,' even supposing that he did
not encroach on, or had already exhausted, the j£^3,ooo settled on his
wife by Mr. Long. Before the end of 1776, dissensions arose between
Sheridan, Linley and Ford, on one side, and Lacey on the other,
in the course of which Lacey sought to sell part of his half to two
friends. But these, dissensions were ended in 1778 by Sheridan's pur-
chase of Lacey's half. A note in Sheridan's handwriting, quoted by
Moore, says that Lacey was paid " a price exceeding £43,000" —
which would go to show that the total value of the property had risen
in two years from ^'70,000 to ;£ 90,000. Most writers on the subject
have taken this note of Sheridan's to mean that he paid at least
;t45,ooo in cash, and they have all exhausted their efforts in guessing
where he got the money. But if wc compare Moore's statement with
Watkins's, we get nearer a solution of the difficulty. Watkins says
that Lacey's share was already mortgaged for ;£3 1,500, and that
Sheridan assumed this mortgage, and agreed further to pay in re-
turn for the equity of redemption, two annuities of ;£500 each. This
double obligation, (the mortgage for ^31,500 and the annuities) rep-
resents "a price exceeding ;£45,ooo;" but it did not call for the
expenditure of a single penny in cash. On the contrary the purchase
of Lacey's lialf of the theatre, actually put money into Sheridan's
pocket, for he at once divided his original one-seventh between Linley
and Dr. Ford, making each of their shares up to one-fourth ; and even
if they paid him no increase on the original price, he would have been
enabled to pay off the ;£8,70D mortgages to Dr. Ford, and to Mr.
Wallis, and to get back the ;£ 1,300 which he seems to have advanced
himself. In fact, it appears that Sheridan invested only ;£ 1,300 in

A BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 3 1

cash when he bought one-seventh of Drury Lane Theatre, in 1776, and
that he received this back when he became possessed of one-half of
Drury Lane Theatre, in 1778, then valued at £,0/0,000. Sheridan
afterward bought Dr. Ford's one-fourth for £,17^^00 \ and Moore
found among Sheridan's papers, letters of remonstrance from Dr.
Ford's son, indicating that this debt had not been paid promptly.

Richard Brinsley Sheridan succeeded David Garrick as the man-
ager of Drury Lane in the middle of 1776. A sharp contrast
was at once visible between the care and frugality of the old
management, and the reckless carelessness of the new. Garrick
planned everything in advance with the utmost skill and forethought,
and was never taken unawares. Sheridan trusted to luck and to
prompt action on the spur of the moment. The elder Sheridan be-
came acting manager, a post for which his somewhat doubtful temper
more or less unfitted him. Garrick continued to advise with Sheri-
dan, and probably helped him in the first important production of
the new management, the revival with judicious omissions of Con-
greve's 'Old Bachelor,' which had not been acted for sixteen years.
The 'Rivals' originally performed at Covent Garden, was now
brought out at the theatre of which its author was manager. Early
in 1777, on February 24, Sheridan produced his first new play at his
own house. This was 'A Trip to Scarborough,' and its chief fault
was that it was neither new nor Sheridan's, being in fact a deodorized
adaptation of Vanbrugh's 'Relapse.' As an incident in the * Country
Wife' of Wycherley — whom Sheridan denied ever having read —
may have suggested a chief scene of the ' Duenna,' and as more than
one scene of the forthcoming ' School for Scandal,' was to recall Con-
greve, it was only fair that Vanbrugh should have his turn. Oddly
enough, Farquhar is the only one of the four foremost dramatists of
the Restoration from whom Sheridan did not borrow directly, and it

32 RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN.

is Farquhar with whom he has the most intellectunl sympathy.
Sir Walter Scott compares Sheridan with Vanbrugh, and Congfreve,
and Lord Macaulay, classes together Congreve and Sheridan — and
yet it is Farquhar whose influence over liim is greatest, and whom he
imitated from afar, much as Thackeray imitated Fielding, and Dick-
ens, Smollett.

Vanbrugh's * Relapse * is hopelessly unfit for the modem stage.
Moore wonders that Sheridan could have hoped to defecate the play
and leave any of the wit. But Vanbrugh differs from Congreve.
Of all attempts to deodorize Congreve, Sheridan said, " Impossible !
he is like a horse, — deprive him of his vice and you rob him of his
vigor." The merit of Congrcve's comedy lies in the dialogue, while
the merit of Vanbrugh's play lies rather in the situations; and a
cleansing of the conversation of Vanburgh's play, although it scoured
off many si)angles, still left the stuff strong enough for ordinary
wear. And it is a fact that although in the beginning, the * Trip to
Scarborougli ' was a great disappointment to those who had hoped
much from the new manager's first play, it w:i3 not at all a failure, for
it soon recovered its ground and held its own for years. Geneste
accepts it as one of the very best adaptations of old comedy, and
declares that "Sheridan has retained everything in the original that
was worth retaining, has omitted what was exceptionable, and has
improved it by what he has added." Much of its success was due,
no doubt, to the skill with whicli it was fitted to the chief actors of
the company, Lord Foppitigtou being played by Dodd, Miss Hoyden
by Mrs. Abington, and Amanda by Mrs. Robinson, the beautiful
Pcrdiiay whom Sheridan had coaxed back to the stage.

Like Shakspere and like Moli^re, Sheridan was both author and
manager, and like them he wrote parts to suit his players. Of this
the * School for Scandal ' is a far better instance than the * Trip to

A BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 33

Scarborough.' Made out of two earlier drafts of plays, condensed
by infinite labor from a mass of inchoate material, toiled over inces-
santly, polished and burnished until it shone again, the * School for
Scandal' was at last announced before the whole play was in the
hands of the actors — an incident repeated with the 'Critic,* and
again with 'Pizarro.* At the end of the hurriedly-finished rough
draft of the fifth act, Moore found a " curious specimen of doxology,
written hastily, in the handwriting of the respective parties : "

*^ Finished at last^ thank God!

"R. B. Sheridan."
" Amen !

"W. Hopkins" [the prompter].

The 'School for Scandal' was first performed May 8th, 1777, a
little less than a year after the purchase from Garrick. The acting of
the comedy was beyond all praise. Geneste remarks that ** no new
performer has ever appeared in any one of the principal characters,
that was not inferior to the person who acted it originally." The
success of the comedy itself was instant, and it has been lasting.
It is at once Sheridan's masterpiece, and the chief English comedy
of the eighteenth century. So far at least, in the nineteenth century,
it has had no equal. It was acted twenty times till the end of the
season, and the next year sixty-five. It drew better houses than any
other piece ; indeed, it killed all competition. Dr. Johnson recom-
mended Sheridan for membership in The Club, as the author of the
best modem comedy. Lord Byron, in like manner, called it the best
comedy. Garrick's opinion of it was equally emphatic ; he was proud
of the success of his successor both as author and manager; and
when one of his many flatterers said that, though this piece was very
good, still it was but one piece, and asked what would become of the

34 RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN.

theatre, now the Atlas that propped the stage had left his station,
Garrick retorted quickly that, if that were the case, he had found
another Hercules to succeed to the office.

Cumberland was the only one dissatisfied. It is related that he
took his children to see it, and when they screamed with delight
their irritable father pinched them, exclaiming: "What are you laugh-
ing at, my dear little folks } You should not laugh, my angels, there
is nothing to laugh at;" adding in an undertone, "Keep still, you
little dunces !** When this was reported to Sheridan, he said, "It
was ungrateful of Cumberland to have been displeased with his chil-
dren for laughing at my comedy, for, when I went to see his tragedy,
I laughed from beginning to end." But even Cumberland, in his
memoirs, when defending his own use of a screen in the 'West-
Indian,' took occa.sion to praise the * School for Scandal.' "I could
name one now living," said he, "who has made such a happy use of
his screen in a comedy of the very first merit, that if Aristotle him-
self had written a whole chapter professedly against screens, and
Jerry Collier had edited it, with notes and illustrations, I would not
have placed Lady Teazle out of car-shot to have saved their ears
from the pillory." Sir Walter Scott found in the 'School for Scan-
dal ' the gentlemanlike ease of Farquhar united to the wit of Con-
greve. liazlitt held it to be "the most finished and faultless comedy
we have." The verdict of the public did not change as Scott and
liazlitt came to the front, and Garrick and Johnson slowly faded
away; it did not change when Scott and liazlitt in their turn
departed ; it has not changed since. A few years ago, an American
critic of the highest culture and the widest experience, Mr. Henry
James, referred to the Old Comedies only to declare that, "for real
intellectual effort, the literary atmosphere and tone of society, there
has long been nothing like the ' School for Scandal.' It has been

A BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 35

played in every English-speaking quarter of the globe, and has
helped English wit and taste to make a figure where they would
otherwise, perhaps, have failed to excite observation."

During the next season (on October 15, 1778), there was acted
a temporary trifle called the *Camp,' often credited to Sheridan, and
even rashly admitted into several editions of his works ; in reality it
was written by Tickell, who had married Mrs. Sheridan's sister. On
January 20, 1779, David Garrick died, and Sheridan was a chief
mourner at the splendid funeral. And on March 2d, the monody
which Sheridan wrote to Garrick's memory was recited at Drury
Lane Theatre by Mrs. Yates, to the accompaniment of appropriate
music. This monody is the longest of Sheridan's serious poetic pro-
ductions, and it is the least interesting and the least satisfactory.
He could write a song as well as any one ; and he could turn the
sharp lines of satire ; but a sustained and elevated strain seems too
high an effort for his nimble wit. It is written in "the straight-
backed measure, with its stately stride," which, as Dr. Holmes
reminds us,

*' Gave the mighty voice of Dryden scope;
It sheathed the steel-bright epigrams of Pope."

Now, Sheridan had not a mighty voice ; and steel-bright epigrams
would have been out of place over the grave of Garrick. There is a
want of real feeling in these verses ; there is no d^pth in them, and
little heart. There is cleverness, of course, and in plenty ; but even
of this not as much as might have been expected. One looks in
vain for some characterization of Garrick himself, or for some apt
allusion to his chief parts, to his private character, to his writings, to
his position as a man of the world and as a man of letters. Instead,
we have cold and elaborate declamation on the transitory nature of
the actor's art. This comparison of the histrionic with other arts,

36 RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN.

pictorial and plastic, had been made in verse by Garrick himself in
the prologue to the * Clandestine Marriage * :

*' The painter *% dead, vet still he charms the eye,
While England lives his fame can never die;
But he who struts his hour upon the stage
Can scarce protract his fame through half an age;
Nor (>en, nor pencil can the actor save;
The art and artist have one common grave."

It is this assertion of Garrick's and Sheridan's, it may be, that
Campbell answered in his verses to Kemble :

*' For ill can Poetry express

Full many a tone of thought sublime;
And Painting, mute and motionless,

Steals but a glance of time.
But by the mighty actor brought,

Illusion's perfect triumphs come;
Vei'^o reaves to be airy thought,

Ami Sculpture to be dumb."

Althouiih the ' Monoclv on Garrick' is somewhat labored, it does
not lack fine lines. I '.specially good is Sheridan's use of a chance
remark made by Burke at Garrick's funeral, that the statue of Shak-
spere looked toward Garrick's grave. On this stray hint Sheridan
hung this couplet :

••Wliile Shak-^pcre's iniai^c, from its hallowed base,
Seemed to prescribe tlie jLjrave, and point the place."

After the death of Garrick, Sheridan made only one important
contribution to dramatic literature, the farce of the 'Critic; or a
Tragedy Rehearsed,' produced October 30, 1779. It shows great
versatility of wit in a diamatist to have written three plays strong
enough to last a hundred years and more, and as unlike one another
as the * Rivals,' the * School for Scandal,' and the 'Critic* As
different from its two predecessors as they arc from each other, the

A BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 37

* Critic ' is frankly a farce ; it has something of the breadth of the

• Rivals,' and not a little of the point of the * School for Scandal ' ;
it sets the model of high-class farce ; and as a farce it has but two
rivals in our drama — one, the * Katherine and Petruchio,' which
David Garrick made out of Shakspere's * Taming of the Shrew,*
and the other, ' High Life Below Stairs ' (probably Garrick's own
handiwork, although problematically ascribed to a Rev. James
Townley). It is idle to deny the indebtedness of the * Critic '
to the ' Rehearsal ' of George Villiers, Duke of Buckingham ; it
is, however, charitable to believe that those who have gone so
far as to call the * Critic ' a mere adaptation of the * Rehearsal,*
have never read Buckingham's piece or seen Sheridan's. The one
obvious resemblance between the two farces is in the rehearsal
of a play, directed by its author, who interrupts with comment
and suggestion. But this is a commonplace of the stage ; it has
been used and abused. time and again both before and since Buck-
ingham and Sheridan. The real similarity is in the signal success
of the * Rehearsal ' and of the * Critic,' casting into the shade all
other plays on the same subject ; and the real grievance of Buck-
ingham is that the ' Critic ' supplanted the * Rehearsal ' in popular
favor. Buckingham's farce, originally acted in 1672, was in the main
a personal attack on Dryden, satirized in the character of Bayes^ the
whimsical poet. Garrick had given the play a new lease of life by
the use he made of Bayes to give imitations of the more prominent
of his fellow-actors ; but Garrick's successor as manager of Drury
Lane killed the old farce with his new one ; and Mr, Puff nailed the
centenarian Bayes in his coffin at last.

The idea of writing a comic play about a rehearsal was not new to
Sheridan. Moore quotes from his first attempt a mythological bur-
lesque on the celestial intrigues of Lxion, written in imitation of the

38 RICHARD DRINSLEY SHERIDAN.

burletta of * Midas.' It is a little curious to note that this same sub-
ject was afterward treated in an early novelette, * Ixion in Heaven/ by
Benjamin Disraeli, the only man in the history of England whose
career can fairly be compared with Sheridan's. This 'Jupiter* was
sketched out by Sheridan in collaboration with Halhed in 1770, about
the time they were at work on their joint version of Aristaenetus.
The burlesque itself, a rather clever mingling of the Ixion-Juno
legend with the Jupitcr-Alcmena intrigue, seems to have been Hal-
hed's work, while the rehearsal scenes in which it was set arc
Sheridan's. The MS. is now in the British Museum, and the cata-
logue credits it to Sheridan, despite Moore's disclaimer. After an
examination of this MS. I can say that the 'Critic* owes very little
to its elder l^rother ; whatever has been carried over from one play
into the other is <;rcally benefitted by the journey. For example,
the drama to l)c rehearsed in ' Ixion,' being in itself avowedly comic,
docs not afford a tithe of the opportunity of jocular comment and
satiric remark offered by tlie more serious tragedy rehearsed in the
* Critic'

The success of the 'Critic' was indisputable. We have not the
contemporary tril)iitcs to the representation of the * Critic' which we
have to the marvellously fine jierformance of the * School for Scandal,*
but doul)tlcss tlic manai;er's play was as well acted in the one case as
in the other. The com})any of Drury Lane was very nearly the same
in October, 1779, as it was in May, 1777, and many of the same
names are to be seen in the cast of l)oth pieces. When Mr, Puff in
the first act rcjX'ats an imai^inary tlieatrical criticism of his \.o Dangle
and Snti'7'y the actor be^q;ins by praising his two fellow-players then
on the sta;re with him, and ends bv a humorouslv extravagant eulo}2:v
on himself. " Mr. Dodd," says Mr, Puff, '' was astonishingly great
in the character of Sir Harry, That universal and judicious actor,

A BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH, 39

Mr. Palmer, perhaps never appeared to more advantage than in the
Colonel, But it is not in the power of language to do justice to Mr.
King; indeed, he more than merited those repeated bursts of ap-
plause which he drew from a most brilliant and judicious audience."
Mr. Puff was of course King himself : he had filled the important
part of Sir Peter Teazle in the * School for Scandal.' Dodd, who
had been Sir Benjamin Backbite , was now Dangle y and Palmer was
Snecr^ after having played Joseph Sinface to the satisfaction even of
the fastidious author. Parsons, once Crabtree^ now took the wholly
dissimilar part of Sir Fretful Plagiary, In later days Charles
Mathews doubled the parts of Mr, Puff Tva^ Sir Fretful, and was
followed in the attempt by his son, the late Charles James Mathews,
an actor who had just the alert brilliancy needed to keep alive and
lively the accumulating humors of the rehearsal scenes.

The * Critic ' was the fifth and last play of its author. It had been
preceded by the ' Rivals,' * St. Patrick's Day,* the * Duenna,' and the
'School for Scandal ;' and with these it constitutes Sheridan's title to
fame as a dramatist. Afterward he put his name to * Pizarro,' and
the public chose to attach it to the * Camp,' to the ' Stranger,* to
'Robinson Crusoe,' and to the * Forty Thieves.' But he was not the
author of any one of these in the same sense that he was the author
of the 'Critic' and of its predecessors, or, indeed, in any strict sense
of the word whatever. 'Pizarro 'was avowedly an adaptation from
the German of Kotzebue ; as Sheridan knew no German, his share of
the work at best was but the altering of the ready-made translation,
and the strengthening of Rollas part by the addition of patriotic
harangues taken from Sheridan's own political speeches. It is to
be noted, however, that * Pizarro ' was perhaps the most profitable
play produced during Sheridan's management of Drury Lane. It
was first acted May 24, 1799; it was performed thirty-one times in

40 RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN.

less than six weeks ; it took the King to the theatre for the first time
in years ; nineteen editions of a thousand copies each were sold in
rapid succession ; and Sheridan got two thousand guineas for the
copyright. The * Camp,* although printed among his works, was not
his, as we have seen. Sheridan's share in the ' Stranger * was hut
little more than a very careful shaping of the somewhat redundant
and exuberant prose of the translator, Benjamin Thompson, to the
exigencies of the stage. His contributions to the spectacular and
very successful * Forty Thieves,* and to the pantomime of * Robinson
Crusoe,' were confined to a hasty sketch of the plot ; as manager of
the theatre he knew what he wanted, and he drafted his suggestions
on paper, leaving to other hands the drudgery Qf elaboration.

Thus, the * Critic ' remains really Sheridan's latest contribution to
the stage. While retaining his vast pecuniary interest in Drury
Lane Theatre and keeping up an active interest in the drama, he
longed for a larger stage on which to show his brilliant abilities in the
eyes of all his countrymen. He was not desirous of wholly giving up
literature for politics. He intended, rather — like Canning in the
next generation and Disraeli in ours — to use literature as a stepping-
stone to politics, and as a support after he had taken the decisive
step. His time soon came. His * Critic' was brought out near the
end of October, 1779, ^^^^ before the end of October, 1780, Richard
Brinsley Sheridan, as one of the members for Stafford, had taken his
scat in Parliament bv the side of his friends Charles Fox and Edmund
Burke.

Before leaving Sheridan the dramatist, to consider briefly the
career of Sheridan the politician, mention must be made of projected
and unfinished dramas he left behind him. In 1768, when he was
only seventeen, he planned a play out of the 'Vicar of Wakefield.'
Among his papers Moore found the rough draft of three acts of

A BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH, A\

a musical drama, wild in subject and apparently satiric in intent,
and he quotes several pages of it, including one song which was
suggested by a sonnet o£ Sir Philip Sidney's ; the general scheme
seems to be borrowed from the 'Goblins' of Sir John Suckling.
Later than this unfinished opera-book, and apparently evolved from
it with much modification, was a play called the 'Foresters.' Moore
could find only crude fragments of this piece, yet the Octogenarian
who has since written Sheridan's life, asserts that at least two acts
were wholly completed, having been read both to him and by him.
This later biographer it is who fixes the date of this piece as just
after his second marriage, 1795. Most to be regretted, however, is
the comedy of 'Affectation,' in the composition of which he had
advanced no further than the jotting down of many memorandums.
These stray notes do not preserve a single scene or any vestige of a
plot; they record only a few embryos of character, and germs of
jests and jokes. Affectation was a subject as fertile as Scandal, and
as suitable to Sheridan's gifts ; he excelled in the art of setting up a
profile figure and sending successive bullets through its heart. With
a target like Affectation he could have been relied on, to ring the
bell every time off-hand. Yet it may be questioned whether Sheri-
dan, even under other circumstances, would ever have taken heart
and given his mind to the finishing of this comedy. Moli^re used
to turn aside compliments on his work with a "Wait until you
see my 'Homme de Cour.'" So Sheridan used to say, "Wait till
you see my 'Foresters.'" But we may well doubt whether he ever
really intended to finish and polish and produce either the 'Fores-
ters' or 'Affectation.' Like Rossini after 'William Tell,' Sheridan,
after the * School for Scandal ' was content to quit work and to bask
lazily in the sunshine of his reputation. As Scott said of Campbell,
Sheridan was *' afraid of the shadow that his own fame cast before

42 RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN,

him." And Michael Kelly records that when he heard that Sheridan
had told the Queen he had a new comedy in preparation, he, Kelly,
took occasion to say to him, Sheridan, ** You will never write again ;
you are afraid to write."

Sheridan fixed his penetrating eye on Kelly and asked, "Of
whom am I afraid } "

And Kelly retorted quickly :

** You are afraid of the author of the ' School for Scandal.' "

III.

When Sheridan entered the House of Commons in 1780, the
chosen representative of the independent borough of Stafford, as Mr.
Rae reminds us, ''William Pitt took his seat for the first time as the
nominee of Sir James Lowther, for the pocket-borough of Appleby."
Pitt's first speech was well received. Sheridan*s was not. It is
easier for an unknown man to succeed in Parliament than a celeb-
rity ; for the Mouse is jealous of all reputation got elsewhere.
Addison kept silent; Steele was greeted with shouts of " Tatler,"
'' Tatler ; " lu-skine and Jeffrey and Mackintosh barely held their
own in the House ; ]\Iacaulay and Lytton did little more ; Disraeli
like Sheridan, failed at first, and at last became the favorite speaker
of the Commons Sheridan's first speech was made November 20,
1780, and he was heard with great attention. The impression he
made was not favorable ; to Woodfall, who confessed this to him,
he exclaimed vehemently, "It is in me, however, and by God, it
shall come out ! " It will be remembered that Disraeli was ill
received, and that he told the storm v House a time would come
when they sliould hear him.

Sheridan kept very quiet for a year or more, speaking little, and
always precisely and to the point, with no attempt at display. After

A BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 43

he had been in Parliament some sixteen months, Lord North's
administration was turned out, and the change of ministry which
gave peace and independence to these United States of America
also gave his first seat in office to Sheridan, who was appointed one
of the Under Secretaries of State. The ^ death of the Marquis of
Rockingham broke up the new cabinet after a brief life of four
months, and although he disapproved of the step, Sheridan loyally
followed Fox in resigning. The unwise coalition of Fox with Lord
North succeeded in driving Lord Shelburne out of office ; and in the
new government, Sheridan was Secretary of the Treasury. But in
December, 1783, the ministry fell, and Sheridan left office, not to
return for nearly twenty years. In 1784, he was re-elected for Staf-
ford, although the unpopularity of the Coalition was so great that no
less than one hundred and sixty of its followers were defeated and
left with only the barren consolation of calling themselves " Fox's
Martyrs."

In June, 1785, Burke gave notice that he would, at a future day,
make a motion respecting the conduct of a gentleman just returning
from India; and in 1786, he formally impeached Warren Hastings
for high crimes and misdemeanors during his rule over hapless India.
While it was Burke who, moved by the deepest moral revolt against
wrong, inspired and animated the prosecution against Hastings, it
was perhaps more due to Sheridan, who had been gaining steadily as
an orator, than to Burke, that public opinion, at first favorable to
the defendant, soon shifted against him. Sheridan was a popular
speaker ; he spoke well and he was listened to with expectation and
pleasure. Burke spoke ill ; and with so little effect that his oppo-
nents thought it needless to answer some of the orations to which
men now refer as storehouses of political wisdom. Any comparison
of Sheridan's political understanding with Burke's is unkind to the

44 RICHARD DRINSLEY SHERIDAN,

dramatist, who was not a statesman by instinct or by training. But
that Sheridan was a better speaker than Burke admits of little
doubt. Burke bored his audience ; Sheridan charmed, captivated,
converted. It may be that Burke's eloquence was too fine and too
good for human creature's daily food. Sheridan's was not ; it was
direct, clear, convincing. Burke had a depth and an elevation that
Sheridan had not ; but Sheridan had the commonplace which is
needed for popular consumption, and the common sense which Burke
not infrequently lacked. It was noted that Burke's notes for the
speeches against Hastings were dates, facts, figures ; and that Sheri-
dan's were bits of ornamental rhetoric, illustrations, and witticisms.
This is not to Sheridan's discredit ; each orator had set down what
he most needed. Burke could rely on his exuberant imagination and
his burning indignation to furnish him with figures of speech ; and
Sheridan treasured up carefully prepared literary ornaments, sure
of himself in any treatment of the facts which his clear mind had
once fully mastered by dint of hard labor.

It was on February 7, 1787, that Sheridan, following Burke,
brought forward against Hastings the charge relative to the Prin-
cesses of Oude, in the speech whose effect upon its hearers, Moore
considers to have " no parallel in the annals of ancient or modern
eloquence." Burke, enthusiastic for his cause, and generous in his
praise, although already and always jealous of Sheridan, declared it
to be ''the most astonishing effort of eloquence, argument, and wit
united, of which there was any record or tradition.*' Fox said, " that
all he had ever heard, all that he had ever read, when compared with
it, dwindled into nothing, and vanished like vapor before the sun."
And Pitt acknowledged, *' that it surpassed all the eloquence of an-
cient and modern times, and possessed everything that genius or art
could furnish to agitate and control the human mind." Immediately

A BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 45

after the delivery of the speech, an adjournment of the House was
moved, on the ground that Sheridan's speech had left such an impres-
sion that it was impossible to arrive at a determinate opinion. Un-
fortunately, no report of this speech exists. There is a wretched
summary, with an attempt here and there to record a few of Sheri-
dan's actual words, but the speech itself has not come down to us ; and
it is unfair to attempt to judge it by the feeble and twisted fragments
which remain. It was this speech which made Sheridan's fame as an
orator.

The impeachment of Warren Hastings having been voted, Sheri-
dan was appointed one of the managers of the trial before the House
of Lords. On June 3, 1787, he began a speech of four days on the
charge he had presented in the earlier oration. No harder test of
a man's ability could well be devised, than the making of a second
speech on a subject which had already called forth the utmost exer-
tion of his powers. Hopeless of the success of a second attempt
to hit the midday sun with the same arrow, Fox advised a revision
and repetition of the first speech. Sheridan was not the man
thus to confess feebleness and exhaustion. He girded himself for
the combat, and was again victorious. Yet, as Walpole explains, he
" did not quite satisfy the passionate expectation that had been raised ;
but it was impossible he could, when people had worked themselves
into an enthusiasm of offering fifty guineas for a ticket to hear
him." But Burke declared that "of all the various species of ora-
tory that had ever been heard, either in ancient or modern times,
whatever the acuteness of the bar, the dignity of the senate, or the
morality of the pulpit, could furnish, had not been equal to what that
House had heard that day in Westminster Hall." Burke was then
Sheridan's political friend ; but Wraxall, who was his political oppo-
nent and who had heard his speech, records, "that the most ardent

46 RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN.

admirers of Burke, of Fox, and of Pitt, allowed that they had been
outdone as orators by Sheridan."

This speech has fortunately been preserved to us in the shorthand
report of the trial, taken by Mr. Gurney's reporters and published
at the suggestion of the late Sir George Cornwall Lewis. Unfortu-
nately, an earlier perversion of the oration, due to the imaginative
inaccuracy of a reporter of the old school of Dr. Johnson, has gained
almost universal acceptance, to the lowering of Sheridan's reputation
as an orator. It is this ludicrously inexact report which figures as
the real oration in both of the collections of Sheridan's speeches.
True it is, that Sheridan was artificial and that he was frequently
guilty of the oratorical and architectural fault of constructing his
ornament instead of ornamenting his construction. But he was
wholly incapable of the bathos and bombast of the speech which is
only too often quoted as his. The prime quality of his oratory was
its common sense. The prime defect was its exuberance of rhetoric :
it mi^ht be said of him as Joubert said of a French orator, that "his
speech is flowery, but his flowers are not a natural growth; they are
rather like the paper-flowers one finds in shops." This seems a
minor failing when we recall Sheridan's possession of the one absolute
essential of the orator — he was persuasive. Sir Gilbert Minto
records that Pitt was waked up at seven in the morning to see a man
who was supposed to be bringing news of a victory, but who "told
Mr. Pitt that he had travelled all night from Brighton, that his name
was Jenkins and his business not about the navy, but the army,
which he had a plan for recruiting. lie had been reading * Pizarro,'
and was persuaded that Rollas first speech was irresistible ; that he
had read it to numbers at Brighton, and to all he met in the way.
l^lvery soul felt its power, and had enlisted. Mere he produced a list
of all their names, and insisted that if empowered, he could soon raise

A BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 47

two hundred thousand men." Now, Roi/as first speech was a recast-
ing of one of Sheridan's own speeches in the House. Sheridan was
not only a born orator ; he was a very carefully trained speaker ; one
may say almost, that he had been bred to the trade. His father
taught him oratory when he was a boy ; and Dr. Parr bears witness
to his school-boy knowledge of Cicero and Demosthenes. From the
time he first came before the public as a speaker, to the end of his
career as a politician, he spared no pains to make the best possible
appearance.

As oratory is an art, Sheridan's careful preparation should be
counted for him, not against him. Most extempore speakers have
accumulated a fund of phrases and figures, on which they can
draw at will. When Daniel Webster was complimented on the
admirable description of the British drum-tap circling the world with
the rising sun, a description seemingly the inspiration of the moment,
and called out in an unexpected debate, he confessed frankly that
he had first thought of it one morning in a Canadian citadel, and
that, taking his seat on a cannon, he had at once given it shape on
paper, and then committed it to his capacious memory, where it was
stored up, ready for instant use. Sheridan in this, as in more than
one other thing, was like Webster. He set down every chance sug-
gestion, and sought to be prepared against the moment of danger.
But, however carefully elaborated his epigram might be, there was
no trace of the workshop ; all the tools were put aw^ay, and the shav-
ings swept up. His wit, whether old or new, had always the appear-
ance of spontaneity. It could not be said of him, as Joubcrt said of
a would-be French wit, who was ever trying to entice you into the
ambuscade of a ready-made joke, and whose jests had no trace of
inspiration, " 1/ ne serf fas cAaud.** Sheridan always served piping
hot. No one ever saw the trains which fired the corruscating wheel.

48 RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN.

Had it not been for Moore's indiscretion, no one would ever have
suspected the workshop, the kitchen, or the quick match. And it
must be remembered that very few of Sheridan's strokes of wit,
and not at all his best ones, could have been considered in advance.
When taken unawares he was as ready as when armed for the
encounter. There are instances, almost without number, in which
the steel of Sheridan's wit struck fire from the chance flint of the
moment.

To say that because Sheridan sometimes used the wit of others,
he had none of his own ; and that because he always prepared, when
possible, he could do naught impromptu, is absurd — although it is
said, now and again. Strike out of his comedies all the jests he may
have lifted from his predecessors, and the loss would scarcely be
noticed, — we doubt, in fact, whether it would be detected at all,
except by professed students of dramatic literature. Strike out of
his record as a speaker in public and in private, all the suggestions
derived from others, and again the loss is scarcely to be seen. Sheri-
dan gave to his work the labor of the artist who knows the value of
his conception, and seeks to bring out the final perfection. The
care he bestowed on the polishing of his diamond till it should be as
brilliant and as cutting as possible, led him at times to repeat him-
self; indeed, in later life he reverted so often to his earlier and easier
writings for stones to set more elaborately, that he incurred the
reproach of borrowing from himself. Even in the * Duenna,' more
than one song was taken from this or that copy of verses written to
Miss Linley, or some other fair lady, during his bachelor days in
Bath. The curt assertion that a political opponent relied on his
imagination for his facts, and on his memory for his wit, he tried
in several forms before he was finally satisfied with it. It is difficult
to say whether this repetition of what he had used once already

A BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH, 49

came more from a desire to leave all his wit in the best shape for
posterity, lightened of superfluity, or whether it sprang from his
natural laziness, which led him always to fall back on what he had
on hand when it was possible to avoid the exertion of originality.
So far did he carry this, not only in public but in private, that, as
Mr. Harness tells us, he endangered the peace of his household ; his
second wife was found one day walking up and down her drawing-
room, apparently in a frantic state of mind, calling her husband a
villain, because, as she explained after some hesitation, she had just
discovered that the love letters he sent her were the very same as
those which he had written to his first wife. As a writer in the
Quarterly Review has remarked, " It is singular enough that the
treasures of wit which Sheridan was thought to possess in such
profusion, should have been the only species of wealth which he ever
dreamt of economizing."

To the quick wit and good hunwr of Sheridan's conversation we
have the testimony of well-nigh all who met him. An easy nature,
an unfailing readiness, and an innocent delight in the exercise of his
powers, made him a most enjoyable companion, and therefore to be
bidden to every conviviality. It is true that Byron tells us that
"Sheridan's humor, or rather wit, was always saturnine and some-
times savage. He never laughed, at least that I saw, and I watched
him." But Byron only saw him in his soured and tormented age.
In his youth, and in early manhood, he was lively and full of
fun, abundant in boyish pranks and practical jokes. With Tickell,
who had married Mrs. Sheridan's sister, he was ever ready for a
fantastic freak, only too often of the practical sort. One Saturday
night he volunteered to write a sermon to be preached by a reverend
friend visiting him, and it was only months after the clergyman had
delivered the admirable discourse on The Abuse of Riches, which

so RICHARD BRIXSLEY SHE RID AX.

Sheridan had spent the evening in composing, that he discovered it
to be a covert attack on a local magnate generally accused of ill-
treating the poor. In later life, in his sad decadence, after unchecked

conviviality had done its work, coming one night very late out of a

tavern, he was so overtaken with liquor as to need the aid of passers,
who asked his name and abode, and to whom he gravely made
answer, "Gentlemen, I am not often in this way; my name is
Wilberforcc." This is a reckless jest, at which even M. Tainc,
nowhere disposed to be over-amiable to Sheridan, smiles perforce.
A UYiiW capable of practical jokes like these, even in his saddest
a^e, is as far removed as may be from moroseness. Sydney Smith's
opinion lies directly across Hyron's; "the charm of Sheridan's speak-
\\y^t' said he, "was his multifariousness of style." Now, a man
s:iv.'i;^^(', saliirninc, or morose can hardly have a multifariousness
of styl(! in sjx.akinj^ ; and (Hie is at a loss to account for Byron's
.isscrtjon. Sydney Smith has been cited, because, like Byron, he
nu't Shrridiin oidv when the author of the 'School for Scandal ' was
old and worn and wearied. In his bright and brilliant youth, after
h(! had snddenly from nothing sprung to the front, and the ball lay at
his feel, lie was every wliere hailed as a wit of the first water. Lord
John 'I'ownsliend made a dinner party for Fox to meet Sheridan ; and
he records : " The first interview between them I shall never forget.
l**ox told me, after breaking up from dinner, that he had always
thought Ilarc, after my uncle Charles Townshend, the wittiest man
he ever met with, but that Sheridan surpassed them both infinitely."
And this, let it be noted, wa3 after the host had specially raised
V^^\s expectations by dwelling at length on Sheridan's extraordinary
powers.

Unless Sheridan's manner when Byron was present was unusual,
oi unless he had changed unaccountably with the thickening years.

A BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 51

Sydney Smith's opinion is more to be relied on than the poet's.
-And Sydney Smith, it is to be remembered, is one who had wit enough
of his own to appreciate Sheridan's. There is indeed one quality in
"which the dramatist and the Dean were alike. Lord Dudley said to
the latter, — " You have been laughing at me constantly, Sydney, for
the last seven years, and yet in all that time, you never said a single
thing to me that I wished unsaid." In like manner, Sheridan was
^ver girding at Michael Kelly — '* Composer of Wines and Importer
of Music" — and yet his cuts were kindly and left no scar, and
xiowhere is Sheridan treated with more honest affection than in
]Kelly*s recollections. Sydney Smith's wit has been compared to
•'summer lightning, that never harmed the object illumined by its
:flash " ; and to continue the parallel, in the verses Moore wrote just
sfter Sheridan's death, he declared him one

** Whose humor, as gay as the fire-fly*8 light,

Played round every subject, and shone as it played ;
Whose wit, in the combat as gentle as bright,
Ne*er carried a heart-stain away on its blade."

Even in political debate, however sharp or acrimonious, Sheridan
seems ever to have been courteous to his adversary ; and although
every shot hit its mark with fatal effect, there was no mangling of
the corpse ; he never made use of explosive bullets. However keen
his thrust and his enjoyment of it, there was nothing vindictive or
malignant to be detected. Even when his great rival, Burke, moved
partly, it may be, by jealousy, but mainly, no doubt, by growing
political distrust, broke with his friends and crossed over to the
ministerial benches, with the cry, " I quit the camp,"— Sheridan
did not hasten to seize the occasion for taunting invective ; he only
hoped that as the Honorable Gentleman had quitted the camp as
a deserter, he would never attempt to return as a spy.

52 RICHARD BR/XSLEY SHERIDAX,

Again when Pitt chose to taunt him with his theatrical triumphs,
he retorted with a stroke sharp and swift, but in no way passing the
limits of friendly debate. The good-humored point of Sheridan's
parry is evident even from the imperfect parliamentary reports of
those days. Mr. Pitt said that no man admired more than he did
"the abilities of that Right Honorable Gentleman, the elq;ant sallies
of his thought, the gay effusions of his fancy, his dramatic turns and
his epigrammatic point ; and if they were reserved for the proper
stage, they would, no doubt, receive what the Honorable Gentleman's

abilities always did receive, the plaudits of the audience But

this was ncit the proper scene for the display of these elegancies."
Sheridan, rising to reply, calmly left the question of the taste of Pitt's
personality to the House; and then went on. "But let me assure
the Ri;;lit Houorahlf: Cicntlcman, that I do now, and wull, at any time
he ( lio(;s(:s to repeat this sort of allusion, meet it with the most
sineere ;;f)Ofl-hnmor. N:iy, I will say more — flattered and encour-
a;;ed by the Ki;;ht Honorable Gentleman's panegyric on my talents,
if ever I again engage in the compositions he alludes to, I may be
temi)ted tf) an act of presumption — to attempt an improvement on
one of Hen Jonson's best characters, the character of the Angry Boy,
in the 'Alchemist.'" Recondite as this allusion seems now, it was
not so then, for (larriek's performance of Abel Dmgger V!2iS one of
his best; and the play kept the stage till the beginning of this
century.

Sheridan's oratory was like his dramatic writing and his poetry,
in that all three things, speeches, plays, poems, are only varied
forms of expression for the wit which was his chief characteristic.
After he entered public life, and until he fell under the evil influence
of the Prince of Wales, his wit and his oratory were always used in
the good cause. Like Burke, Sheridan was at once a true Irishman

A BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 53

and an English patriot. In the preface of the ' Rivals/ he declares
his attachment to Ireland ; and at all times throughout his career he
could be relied on to do whatever in him lay for the greater honor,
dignity, and peace of the British empire. When the French Revo-
lution came and "the great army of the indolent good, the people
who lead excellent lives and never use their reason, took violent
alarm," and when in 1793 Pitt, to use Mr. Morley's apt expression,
"lost his feet, though he did not lose his head,** Sheridan stood with
Fox by "the old flag of freedom and generous common-sense."
When the country really was in danger from French aggression
in 1799, Sheridan did not falter; and, as we have seen, 'Pizarro'
was worth many a recruit. And when the mutiny at the Nore
broke out, Sheridan sacrificed party to patriotism, and gave prompt
aid to the putting down of the revolt in a manner creditable alike to
his heart and his head, and in marked contrast with the conduct
of other politicians then, like him, in opposition.

IV.

From his marriage and the production of the ' Rivals,' to the trial
of Warren Hastings, Sheridan's position and reputation had been
steadily rising. For a while they maintained themselves at the
exalted level to which they had attained. But slowly the good for-
tune which had waxed began in time to wane. In 1788, Sheridan's
father died, and in 1792 Sheridan's wife died also, to his great grief.
Moore and Smythe bear witness to the strength of Sheridan's love
for his wife, and to the depth of his sorrow at her loss. Had she
lived, perhaps Sheridan's later life would have been other than it
was ; one may at least hazard this suggestion. While she was yet
alive, Sheridan had begun to yield to the temptations of society, to
live beyond his means, and to neglect the business of the theatre.

54 filCHAfil LrjySLEY SHUFJZKAX.

«.•_•: LV.fv.t.r.v.tlv there irsi zever ^tsicr Dree ce exactness and
«;Vy'.vr:-'. ::.'ar- th'rr. f.r the Drjrk- Lsnt tbcatre tra5 CDndemiied
•y; V.', 'cz\':J.\*z'*.\ zrr t'.rr. '-',wz. 2j::i the :3:ne}- to erect a new theatre
f.i.': v> ry: rjjiyr'i by the issue cc ^ifo^occ in debentnrcs of ^500 each.
J'Tr.'.::.;^ t:,*; rtVj :!:!.':::, the company penonned at the Opera-
If'. :v:, tstA iiVrr a: the H2^^n2^ke^ Unexpected delay in the
'.'/;;.;>,':'.:'/.'. */. the :.'-*.v theatre ci-icd great loss, and b^an that
ii", -:.';-. ;*:o:i 'i :r; ':•.-*:/. tenets which was not to be CiCareJ oft
', -;.;./, i'/'.'.-r.'.'jrjS ]!:'•:. At last the theatre was complete, and oti
A;,.'.! .M:*, I7>;, i*. Was ojxrned with a jx-rfurmance of * Macbetb.
-' ••• '■'-> .'j**'r, on the receij/t of the news of Lord Ho^ire ^
:•: lyroii;:'.t out an occasional piece, called 'The CJl^^

.'.s . I .. * 'f J '."." -r:':t',hcd by himself, written, rehearsed, 3-^^^

'III II- • ».f(-^. f-'t''.
i ' • ■ ,'

/.. ^.• : . . . : ' *■ y-^- i./t!;'- fancy li;^^ht]y turns to thoughts ^
•' ' • •'• ' • ' ' ' ^/"Of* Shicri^hm, a young man of iort^'

!•' ' . ij..i::.' '. ' / M; . O'^lc, a yoiHi^ daughter of the Dean ^^
'.'/*!.' i.' ''I; li.i ii. ". .' '!.■'! i;;'un licr, as a condition precedent to th*^
v 'i'lii.;;, ,1 .urn oj / \ ',(/)' ), i\:i-e'l bv dcbcuturcs ou the theatre^
l^'Mj," il,'- li. .! it.v,' \r.ir;:. lil^ difficulties increased. At last, in
I.*;"', 'iiij'- :i liii.i! l.!'/v.-. Til*- tlicatre was burnt to the ground. As
III' ;;l.ii»- '^1 Hh- 1)111 niii;; biiil-iin^^ li;_;htc(l up the House of Commons
V. In \r Ml' li'l.iM ?..il ill .'.ilciicc, a motion was made to adjourn, out of
I'.'.imI lui : .111! id. Ill, who (;j)|)o.se(l it, l)oi)in.c; that whatever might be
111' «\ifni ol l.i., private calamity it would not interfere with the
public l»ii:,inr:,s ol ilu: country. There seems to be a doubt whether
\\r icin.mu-d thereafter at his post in the House, or whether he went
lo the M'cnc of liis loss and the theatre of his triumphs. After the
dcsl ruction of Drury Lane, Sheridan was a ruined man. Mr

A BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 55

Whitbread took charge of the erection of the new theatre ; an act
of Parliament was passed enabling it to be rebuilt by subscriptions ;
Sheridan was paid £2^^000 for his interest in the property, and his
son Thomas £12,000 for his quarter share. But this was conditional
on Sheridan's absolute abandonment of all connection with the
theatre ; and Whitbread enforced this stipulation with pitiless
exactness. Whitbread was the one man whose heart was too hard
even for Sheridan to soften. It was three years before Sheridan set
foot in the theatre he had ruled for twenty-five of the most prosper-
ous and glorious years of its career. Deprived of the revenues of
the theatre, and sinking deeper into embarrassment, he was at last
unable to raise the money needed for his election at Stafford. In
1 812 he made his final speech in the House of Commons ; it was a
warning against the rapacious designs of Napoleon. From this
time, Moore tells us, "the distresses of Sheridan now increased every
day, and through the short remainder of his life it is a melancholy
task to follow him." He was forced to sell his books, his plate, his
pictures, and even to part with the portrait of Mrs. Sheridan by
Sir Joshua Reynolds. In the spring of 181 5 came " one of the most
humiliating trials of his pride ; " " he was arrested and carried to a
sponging-house, where he remained two or three days." That
Sheridan should have been neglected in this condition by the Prince
whom he had served to his own discredit, is only what one might
have expected from the First Gentleman in Europe ; but there are
those who declare that a sum of money, about ;^3,ooo, was sent
Sheridan by the Prince, although it was "either attached by his
creditors, or otherwise dissipated in such manner that very little of
it actually reached its destination." It is to be remembered that he
had no pension like Burke, and that no public or private subscription
was ever taken up for Sheridan as it was for Pitt and Fox, for

56 RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN.

Lamartine and for Daniel Webster. It must be remembered, too,
that the settlement on the second Mrs. Sheridan was ;£i 5,000, and
that Sheridan's debts at his death were found to be less than ^5,000
— far less than the debts of Fox or Pitt. The anonymous "Octoge-
narian/' in whose biography is to be found the best account of
Sheridan's last hours, describes Mrs. Sheridan's grief and her
constant attention in his last days. Peter Moore, Dr. Bain, and
Samuel Rogers were also true to their fast failing friend. None
the less is it a fact, that he was under arrest when he was dying,
"on a writ issued at a time when the invalid was in a state of
unconsciousness." Fortunately, the sheriff's officer had a kind heart,
and, as the custodian of the dying man, he protected him against
any other suit which might be urged against him. Mrs. Sheridan
sent for the Bishop of London to read prayers for him, but Sheridan
was wholly insensible. At nine o'clock on the morning of Sunday,
July 7, 1S16, he said "Good-bye;" these were his last words. He
sank rapidly, and died at twelve noon.

On the following Saturday, July 13, the body of the man who had
died in neglect was buried with great pomp in Westminster Abbey,
with Dukes and Earls as pall-bearers, and with a long string of Royal
and Noble mourners.

Sheridan's character is enigmatic ; it is not to be read off-hand
and at random ; it is complicated and unequal ; and it is to be under-
stood and explained only at the cost of effort. Sheridan was good-
natured and warm hearted ; he never did any one any intentional
injury ; but he brought trouble on all who trusted him. While he
was gentle, kind and affectionate, his wife had reason to feel
neglected, and his father parted from him in anger. He earned

1 ^

Fac-similb of Autograph Letter of Sheridan.

A BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. $7

«k

enormous sums of money, and his advice to others was always admi-
rable, but his own affairs were in ever-increasing confusion. He was
always involved in debt ; yet his accounts as a government officer
were scrupulously accurate. To continue the antitheses would be
easy, for the story of his life is a series of antithesis ; but to suggest
a clue to the labyrinth of his character is not so easy. Briefly, I am
inclined to think that it is to be sought in the uncommon conjunction
in Sheridan of two irreconcilable things, a very high standard of
morals with an absence of training and discipline. The latter failing
vitiated the former virtue. Incapable of keeping himself up in the
clear air and on the high level of exalted principle to which he
aspired, he was far less careful in the ordinary duties of life than are
those whose aim is not so lofty. When he found that he could not
attain the high standard he had set before him, he cared little how
much he fell short of it — and so sank below the ethical mean of
ordinary mortals. There was nothing venal or sordid about him ; he
was liked by all, though all who liked him did not respect him ; he
was a humorist even in his code of morality. He always meant well,
but while the spirit might be willing the flesh was often weak. He
intended to be not merely generous with everybody, but also, abso-
lutely honest and upright ; his heart was in the right place, as the
saying is, but his views were too magnificent for his means ; and he
had neither self-denial nor self-discipline ; when, therefore, he had
once put himself in a position where he was unable to do exactly
what he had agreed to do, and what he always desired to do,
he ceased to care whether or not he did all he could do. In
time this habit grew upon him, and the frequency of failure to
accomplish what he had intended, blunted his aspirations. He
always meant well, as I have said, and as time went on people
had to be content to take the will for the deed. This type of char-

58 RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN.

acter is not as uncommon as it may seem at first sight. Substan-
tially it does not differ greatly from the Thirise of *Elle et Lui'
which George Sand's latest biographer declares to be " a faithful
picture of a woman not quite up to the level of her own principles,
which arc so high that any lapse from them on her part brings down
more disasters on herself and on others than the misdemeanors of
avowedly unscrupulous persons." In Sheridan this type was modified
for the worse by an ambition perilously akin to vanity, and by an
indolence accompanied by an extraordinary power of hard work when-
ever spurred to it by an extraordinary motive. This vanity and this
indolence were the contending evil spirits who strove for the mastery
in Sheridan's later days. The indolence encouraged his carelessness
ill money matters, and the vanity or ambition or pride stiffened his
inii)raclieal)ly high code of morality. He was always paying his
(Ul)ts in a lar-e-liandetl, reckless way, but he was never out of debt,
lie >C(»ined to examine an account or to catechize a claimant; when
he lia'l money he i)aiil, and when he had none he promised to pay —
and he kept his word, if reminded of it when money came in. All, or
nearlv all, of Ids .sliares in the rebuilt theatre were given to creditors
wiihonl any (jueslion as to their claims. Sheridan stripped himself
anil died in poverty and left but few creditors unpaid. From sheer
hceiUessness he ])robal)ly had paid far more than he actually owed,
but he never made an effort to investigate his liabilities, or to set
tliem off against his as>Lts to see the exact state of his affairs,
lie had not the mercantile morality, as he had not the mercantile
training, which would have stood him in good stead so often in
his checkered career. P)Ut he had j)ersonal morality in money mat-
ters, and he had political morality. II is nice sense of honor led him
to withdraw his wife from the concert-stage as soon as they were
married. He told a creditor who had his bond, and who found him

A BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 59

in unexpected possession o£ money, that he had to use the money to
meet a debt of honor, whereupon the creditor burnt his bond before
his face and declared his debt was thereafter a debt of honor, and
Sheridan paid it at once. In his political career he more than once
sacrificed place to principle.

As Carlyle says of Schiller, " we should not lightly think of com-
prehending the very simplest character in all its bearings ; and it
might well argue vanity to boast of even a common acquaintance
with one like " Sheridan's, which was even more complex and prob-
lematic than Schiller's. "Such men as he are misunderstood by their
daily companions, much more by the distant observer, who gleans his
information from scanty records and casual notices of characteristic
events, which biographers are often too indolent or injudicious to
collect, and which the peaceful life of a man of letters usually supplies
in little abundance." From this injudicious indolence of biographers
no man has suffered more than Richard Brinsley Sheridan. And for
this there is no better corrective than a reading of the * Monody on
the Death of Sheridan,' which Byron wrote, to be delivered at the
opening of Drury Lane Theatre in the autumn. Two extracts from
Byron's poem may serve fitly to close this brief and hasty summary
of Sheridan's career and character : —

'* But should there be to whom the fatal blight
OrraiIii;;ig wisdom yields a base delight —
Men who exult when minds of heavenlv tone
Jar in the music which was born their own —
Still let them pause — at little do they know
That what to them seemed vice might be but woe.**

• • ■ • •

" Long shall we seek his likeness, long in vain.
And turn to all of him which mav remain.
Sighing that nature formed but one such man,
And broke the die, in moulding Sheridan!*'

THE RIVALS.

Mr. Joseph Jepferson as Bob Acres.

THE RIVALS.

TN the days now departed, and perhaps forever, when every town
^ in this broad land had its theatre, with its own stock-company
of actors and actresses, the manager was wont once and away to
announce, with more or less flourish of trumpets, and as though he
^ere doing a most meritorious thing, a series of old-comedy revivals.
And the custom still obtains in two or three of the larger cities,
notably in New York and Boston. Whenever the announcement
was put forth, the regular playgoer retired within himself, and made
ready for an intellectual treat. To the regular playgoer the old
comedies were a most important part of the Legitimate Drama.
Just what the Legitimate Drama is I have never been able to get
defined exactly ; nor can I see why one play, any more than another,
should bear the bar sinister; to me a play of one kind is as legiti-
mate as a play of another kind, each in its place. But, whatever the
Legitimate Drama might be, there was no doubt in the mind of the
regular playgoer that the Old Comedies were an integral part of it.
If you asked the regular playgoer for a list of the Old Comedies, it
was odds that he rattled off, glibly enough, first, the * School for
Scandal,' second, 'She Stoops to Conquer,* and third, the 'Rivals.'
After these he might hesitate, but if you pushed him to the wall, he
would name a few more, plays, of which ' A New Way to Pay Old

64 THE RIVALS.

Debts ' was the oldest, and ' Money ' the youngest. Leaving tl
regular playgoer, and investigating for yourself, you will find th
the Old Comedies are mostly those which, in spite of their beii
more than a hundred years old, are yet lively and sprightly enouj
to amuse a modern audience.

The life of a drama, even of a successful drama, is rarely thn
score years and ten ; and the number of dramas which live to be cc
tenarians is small indeed. In the last century the case was differei
and a hundred years ago the regular playgoer had a chance to s
frequently eight or ten pieces by Massinger, Ben Joflson, Beaumc
and Fletcher, and Shirley. Nowadays, Shaksperc's are the oi
Elizabethan plays which keep the stage, with one solitary cxcepti
— Massingcr's ' A New Way to Pay Old Debts.' The * Chances,'
Beaumont and Fletcher ; the * City Madam,' of Massinger ; a
* Every Man in his Humor,' of Ben Jonson — these have all, c
after another, dropped out of sight. The comedies of the last centi
have now in their turn become centenarians ; of these there are \
a score which have a precarious hold on the theatre, and are seen
lengthening intcn^als ; and there are half a dozen which hold th
own firmly. Of this scant half-dozen, the * School for Scandal '
perhaps, in the greatest request, followed closely by ' She Stoops
Conquer," and by the * Rivals.' Of late the * Rivals' has been s<
most often in these United States, since Mr. Joseph Jefferson, lay:
aside the accent and the tatters of that ne'er-do-weel, Rip I
Wifiklcy has taken on the counterfeit presentment of Bob Aa
full of strange oaths and of a most valiant bearing ; and he 1
been aided and abetted by that sterling artist, Mrs. John Dn
as the voluble Mrs. Malaprop,

The * Rivals ' was Sheridan's first play ; it was produced
Covent Garden, January 17, 1775. Like the first plays of ma

INTRODUCTION. 65

another dramatist who has afterward succeeded abundantly, it failed
dismally on its first performance, and again on the second, the night
after. It was immediately withdrawn ; in all probability, it was
somewhat rewritten ; and of a certainty it was very much shortened.
Then, on January 28, after a ten days' absence from the bills, it
reappeared, with Mr. Clinch in the place of Mr. Lee, as Sir Lucius
a Trigger.

Moore remarks that as comedy, more than any other species of
composition, requires '' that knowledge of human nature and the
world which experience alone can give, — it seems not a little extra-
ordinary that nearly all our first-rate comedies should have been
the productions of very young men." Moore then cites Farquhar,
and Vanbrugh, and especially Congreve, all of whose comedies
were written before he was twenty-five. It is these three writers
who gave the stamp to English comedy ; and Sheridan's die was not
unlike theirs. Now, a consideration of the fact that English comedy
is thus, in a measure, the work of young men, may tend to explain at
once its failings and its force. As Lessing says : " Who has nothing
can give nothing. A young man, just entering upon the world him-
self, cannot possibly know and depict the world." And this is just
the weak point of English comedy ; it is brilliant and full of dash,
and it carries itself bravely, but it does not show an exact knowledge
of the world, and it does not depict with precision. " The greatest
comic genius," Lessing adds, " shows itself empty and hollow in its
youthful works." Empty and hollow are harsh words to apply to
English comedy, but I think it easy to detect, behind all its glitter
and sparkle, a want of depth, a superficiality, which is not far from
the emptiness and hollowness of which Lessing speaks. Compare
this English comedy of Congreve and of Sheridan, which is a battle
of the wits, with the broader and more human comedy of Moliire

66 THE RIVALS.

and of Shakspere, and it is easy to see what Lessing means. In
place of a broad humanity, is an exuberance of youthful fancy and
wit, delighting in its exercise. What gives value to these early
plays, and especially to Sheridan's, is the touch of the true dramatist
to be seen in them ; and the dramatist is like the poet in so far that
he is bom, not made.

** A dramatic author," says M. Alexandre Dumas, filsy " as he
advances in life, can acquire higher thoughts, can develop a higher
philosophy, can conceive and execute works of stronger tissue, than
when he began ; in a word, the matter he can cast into his mold will
be nobler and richer, but the mold will be the same." M. Dumas
proceeds to show how the first plays of Corneille, of Moliere, and of
Racine, from 'a technical point of view, are as well constructed as the
latest. So it is with Congreve, and Vanbrugh, and Farquhar, and
Slicridan ; they gave up the stage before they had great experience
of the world ; but they were born dramatists. All their comedies
were made in the head, not in the heart. But made where or hoiv
you please, they are well made. It is impossible to deny that the

* Rivals,* however hollow or empty it may appear on minute critical
inspection, is a very extraordinary production for a young man of
twenty-three.

Humor rijK-ns slowly, but in the case of Sheridan some forcing-
house of circumstance seems to have brought it to an early maturity,
not as rich, perhaps, or as mellow as it might have become with time,
and yet full of a flavor of its own. Strangely enough, the early

* Rivals ' is more humorous and less witty than the later 'School for
Scandal,' — perhaps because the humor of the ' Rivals* is rather the
frank feeling for fun and appreciation of the incongruous (both of
which may be youthful qualities) than the deeper and broader humor
which we see at its full in Moliere and Shakspere.

INTRODUCTION. 67

So we have the bold outlines of Mrs, Mahprop^ and Bob Acres^
personages having only a slight likeness to nature, and not always
even consistent to their own projection, but strong in comic effect
and abundantly laughter-compelling. They are caricatures, if you
will, but caricatures of great force, full of robust fun, tough in texture,
and able to stand by themselves, in spite of any artistic inequality.
Squire Acres is a country gentleman of limited intelligence, inca-
pable of acquiring, even by contagion, the curious system of referen-
tial swearing by which he gives variety to his speech. But " odds,
bullets, and blades ! " as he says, his indeterminate valor is so
aptly utilized, and his ultimate poltroonry in the duel scene is so
whimsically developed, and so sharply contrasted with the Irish assur-
ance and ease of Sir Liuius O'Trigger^ that he would be a hard-
hearted critic indeed who could taunt Mr Acres with his artistic
short-comings. And it surely takes a very acute mind to blunder so
happily in the "derangement of epitaphs" as does Mrs, Malaprop ;
she must do it with malice prepense, and as though she, and not her
niece, were as "headstrong as an allegory on the banks of the Nile."
It is only a sober second thought, however, which allows us to " cast
aspersions on her parts of speech." While Bob Acres and Mrs.
Malaprop are before us we accept them as they are ; and here we
touch what was at once Sheridan's weakness and his strength, which
lay side by side. He sought, first of all, theatrical effect ; dramatic
excellence was a secondary and subservient consideration. On the
stage, where all goes with a snap, consistency of character is not as
important as distinctness of drawing. The attributes of a character
may be incongruous if they make the character itself more readily
recognizable ; and the attention of the spectator may be taken from
the incongruity by humor of situation and quickness of dialogue.
Acres' s odd oaths are no great strain on consistency, and they help

68 THE RIVALS. ;

to fix him in oar memory. Mrs. MaU^nfts ingenuity in dislocating
the dictionary is very amusing, and Sheridan did not hesitate to
invent extravagant blunders for her, any more than he hesitated to
lend his own wit to Fag and David, the servants^ who were surely as
incapable of appreciating it as they were of inventing it After all.
Sheridan had to live on his wit ; and he wrote his plays to make
money by its disjday. And the more of himself he put into each ot
his characters, the more brilliant the play. To say this is. of course
to say that Sheridan belongs in the second rank of comedy writers,
with Congreve and Regnaid, and not in the dass with Shakspere
and Molidre. But humor and an insight into human nature are not
found united with the play-making faculty once in a century ; there
is only one Shakspere. and only one Molidre. It is well that a quick
wit and a lively fancy can amuse us not unsatisfactorily, and that.
in default of Shakspere and Molidre, we have at least Beaumarchais
and Sheridan.

It is well that Sheridan wrote the * Rivals' just when h^ did, or
else both wit and humor might have been banished from the English
stage for years. That there was ever any danger of English comedy
stiffening itself into prudish priggishness it is not easy now to
credit ; but a hundred and ten years ago the danger was real
school of critics had arisen who prescribed that comedy should be gen-
teel, and that it should eschew all treatment of ordinary human nature^
confining itself chiefly to sentiment in high life. A school of drama-
tists, beginning with Steele (whom it is sad to see in such company),
^nd including Cumberland and Hugh Kelly, taught by example what
these critics set forth by precept. The bulk of playgoers were never
converted to these principles, but they obtained in literary society
and were, for the moment, fashionable. There were not lacking
those who protested Fielding, who had studied out something of

INTRODUCTION, 69

nhe secret of Molifere's humor in the adaptations he made from the
author of the * Miser,' had no sympathy with the new school ; and
when he came to write his great novel, ' Tom Jones,' he had a sly
thrust or two at the fashion. He introduces to us, for example, a
puppet-show which was performed " with great regularity and
decency. It was called the fine and serious part of the * Provoked
Husband,' and it was indeed a very grave and solemn entertainment,
without any low wit, or humor, or jests ; or, to do it no more than
justice, anything which could provoke a laugh. The audience were
all highly pleased."

'Tom Jones' was published in 1749, and in 1773 sentimental
comedy still survived, and was ready to sneer at Goldsmith's * She
Stoops to Conquer,' and to call its hearty and almost boisterous
humor "low." But Tony Lumpkin's country laugh cleared the
atmosphere. Genteel comedy had received a death-blow. Some
months before * She Stoops to Conquer ' was brought out, Foote had
helped to make the way straight for a revival of true comedy,
whereat a man might venture to laugh, by announcing a play for
his " Primitive Puppet-show," called the * Handsome Housemaid, or
Piety in Pattens,' which was to illustrate how a maiden of low
degree, by the mere effects of her morality and virtue, raised herself
to honor and riches. In his life of Garrick, Tom Davies tells us that
* Piety in Pattens' killed sentimental comedy, although until then
Hugh Kelly's * False Delicacy ' had been the favorite play of the
times. It is, perhaps, true that Foote scotched the snake ; it is
certain, however, that it was Sheridan who killed it. Two years
after Goldsmith and Foote came Sheridan ; and after the * Rivals '
there was little chance for genteel comedy. Moore prints passages
from an early sketch of a farce, from which we can see that Sheridan
never took kindly to the sentimental school. Yet so anxious was he

70 THE RIVALS.

for the success of the ' Rivals/ and so important was this success to
him, that he attempted to conciliate the wits and iine ladies who were
bitten by the current craze ; at least it is difficult to see any other
reason for the characters oi Julia and /^j/Z^AtimT, so different from
all Sheridan's other work, and so wholly wanting in the sparkle in
which he excelled. And the calculation was seemingly not unwise ;
the scenes bet ween ////rVi and /^M/>t/d:;f^, to which we now listen with
dumb impatience, and which Mr. Jefferson, in his version of the
piece, has trimmed away, were received with delight. John Ber-
nard, who was at one time secretary of the Beefsteak Club, and
afterward one of the first of American managers, records in his amus-
ing * Retrospections * that the audience at the first performance of
the 'Rivals' contained **two parties — those supporting the pre-
vailing taste, and those who were indifferent to it, and liked nature.
On the first night of a new play it was very natural that the former
should predominate, and what was the consequence ? Why, that
Faulk /and and Julia (which Sheridan had obviously introduced to
conciliate the sentimentalists, but which, in the present day, are con-
sidered incumbrances) were the characters most favorably received,
whilst Sir Anthony Absolute, Bob Acres, and Lydia, those faithful
and diversified pictures of life, were barely tolerated."

But the sentimentalists were afterward present in diminishing
force ; and the real success of the comedy came from those who could
appreciate its fun and who were not too moral to laugh. So Sheri-
dan, writing a new prologue to be spoken on the tenth night, drew
attention to the figure of Comedy (which stood on one side of the
stage, as Tragedy did on the other), and bade the audience

" Look on her well — docs she seem form'd to teach?
Should you expect to hear this ladv — preach?
Is gray experience suited to her youth ?
Do solemn sentiments become that mouth?

INTRODUCTION. 7^

Yet, thuft adorned with every graceful art
To charm the fancy and to reach the heart,
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 spring of rue !
There fixed in usurpation should she stand,
She*ll snatch the dagger from her sister's hand ;
And having made her votaries -weef afloody
Good heaven ! she*ll end her comedies in blood!**

Sheridan's use of the figures of Comedy and Tragedy is charac-
teristic of his aptness in turning to his own advantage any accident
upon which his quick wit could seize. Characteristic, too, is the wil-
lingness to borrow a hint from another. Sheridan was not above
taking his matter wherever he found it. Indeed, there are not want-
ing those who say that Sheridan had nothing of his own, and was
barely able to cover his mental nakedness with rags stolen every-
where. Mr. John Forster declared that Lydia Languish and her
lover owed something to Steele's 'Tender Husband.' Mr. Dibdin, in
his " History of the Stage," says that Lydia is stolen from Colman's
Polly Honeycambe, Mr. E. P. Whipple finds that Sir Anthony Abso-
lute is suggested by Smollett's Matthew Bramble; and, improving on
this, Mr. T. Arnold, in the article on English Literature in the new
Encyclopedia Britannica, speaks of the * Rivals * as dug out of ' Hum-
phrey Clinker.' Watkins, Sheridan's first biographer, had already
pretended to trace Mrs. Malaprop to a waiting-woman in Fielding's
* Joseph Andrews;' other critics had called her a reproduction of
Mrs, Heidelbergy in Colman and Garrick's ' Clandestine Marriage.'
And a more recent writer spoke of Theodore Hook's *Ramsbottom
Papers ' as containing the original of all the Mrs, Malaprops and
Mrs. Partingtans. Not only were the characters thus all copied here
and there, but the mcidents also are stolen. Moore and Mrs. Inch-

72 THE RIVALS.

bald point out that Falkland's trial oi Julia's affection by a pretended
danger and need of instant flight, is anticipated both in Prior's ' Nut-
brown Maid/ and in Smollett's ' Peregrine Pickle ; ' and Boaden, in
his biography of Kemble, finds the same situation m the ' Memoirs of
Miss Sidney Biddulph/ a novel by Sheridan's mother, which was once
very popular, but which Sheridan told Rogers he had never read.
Not content with thus robbing Sheridan of the constituent parts of
his play, an attempt has been made to deprive him of the play itself.
Under the head of Literary Gossip, the " Athenxum " of January i,
1876, had this paragraph : —

"A very curious and most interesting fact has come to light at the
British Museum. Among the collection of old plays (presented to that
institution by Mr. Coventry Patmore in 1864) which formerly belonged to
Richard Brinsley Sheridan, has been found the holograph original of the
comedy *The Trip to Bath/ written in 1749, by Mrs. Frances Sheridan, his
mother, and which, it is said in Moore's * Life of Sheridan,' was the source
of his play of the * Rivals/ A very slight comparison of the two plays
leaves no doubt whatever of the fact; and in the character of Mrs,
Malaprop^ Sheridan has actually borrowed some of her amusing blunders-
from the original Mrs, Tryfort without any alteration whatever."

I have massed these accusations together to meet them with a
general denial. I have compared Sheridan's characters and inci-
dents with the so-called originals ; and I confess that I can see very
little likeness in any case, and no ground at all for a charge of plagi-
arism. It is not that Sheridan was at all above borrowing from
his neighbor ; it is that in the ' Rivals ' he did not so borrow, or that
his borrowings are trifling and trivial both in quantity and quality.|
Polly Honeycombcy for example, is like Lydia Languish in her taste
for novel-reading, in her romantic notions, and in nothing else ; Polly
figures in farce, and Lydia in high comedy ; Polly is a shop-keeper's

INTRODUCTION. 73

daughter, and L^dia has the fine airs of good society. It is as hard
to see a likeness between Po/fy and Lydia, as it is to see just what
Sheridan owes to Steele's 'Tender Husband.^The accusation that the
•Rivals' is indebted to "Humphrey Clinker" is Bbsurdg Sir A nt/iony
Absolute is not at all like Mr. Matthew Bramd/e/j indeed, in all of
Smollett's novel, of which the humor is so rich, not to say oily, there
is nothing which recalls Sheridan's play, save possibly Mistress
TaHtha Bramble, who is an old woman, anxious to marry, and mis-
taking a proposal for her niece to be one for her own hand, and who
blunders in her phrases. How far, however, from Sheridan's neat
touch is Smollett's coarse stroke! "Mr. Gwynn," says Mistress
Tabit/ta to Quin the actor, " I was once vastly entertained with your
playing the 'Ghost of Gimlet' at Drury Lane, when you rose up
through the stage with a white face and red eyes, and spoke of
quails upon the frightful porcupine*' Mrs, Slipslop, in 'Joseph
Andrews,' has also a misapplication of words, but never so aptly
incongruous and so exactly inaccurate as Mrs. Malaprop, This trick
of speech is all either Mistress Bramble or Mrs. Slipslop have in
common with Mrs, Malaprop ; and Mrs, Heidelberg has not even
this. The charge that Mrs. Malaprop owes aught to Theodore
Hook is highly comic and preposterous, as Hook was born in
1788, and published the 'Ramsbottom Papers" between 1824 and
1828 — say half a century after Mrs. Malaprop has proved her claim
to immortality. And it is scarcely less comic and preposterous to
imagine that Sheridan could have derived the scene between Julia
and Faulkland from Prior's * Nut-brown Maid,' and from Smollett's
' Peregrine Pickle,' and from Mrs. Sheridan's * Sydney Biddulph ' ; the
situation in the play differs materially from those in the three other
productions. Remains only the sweeping charge of the "Athe-
naettm;" and this well nigh as causeless as the rest The manuscript

74 THE RIVALS,

of which the "Athenaeum " speaks is No. 25,975, and it is called 'A
Journey to Bath * ; it ends with the third act, and two more are evi-
dently wanting. It is only "a very slight comparison " of this comedy
of Mrs. Sheridan's with her son's 'Rivals,' which "leaves no doubt
whatever " of the taking of the latter from the former. I have read
the 'Journey to Bath ' very carefully ; it is a rather lively comedy, such
as were not uncommon in 1750; and it is wholly unlike the ' Rivals.'
The characters of the 'Journey to Bath' are: Lord Hewkly ; Sir
Jeremy Bully Bart, ; Sir Jonathan Bull, his brother, a city knight ;
Edward, son to Sir Jonatlian ; Champignon ; Stapleton ; Lady Fil-
mot ; Lady Bel Aircastle ; Mrs, Try fort, a citizen's widow; Lucy^ her
daughter ; Mrs, Surface, one who keeps a lodging-house at Bath.
Mrs, Surface, it may be noted, is a scandalmonger, who hates scan-
dal ; and Sheridan used both the name and the character in his later
and more brilliant comedy. In the 'Journey to Bath' and the
* Rivals,' the scenes are laid at Bath ; and here the likeness ends —
except that Mrs. Tryfort seems to be a sort of first draft of Mrs.
Malaprop. It is difficult to doubt that Sheridan had read his
mother's comedy and had claimed as his by inheritance this Airs,
Tryfort, who is described by one of the other characters as the
"vainest poor creature, and the fondest of hard words, which, with-
out miscalling, she always takes care to misapply." None of her
misapplications, however, are as happy as those of Mrs, Malaprop.

After all, the invention is rather Shakspere's than Mrs. Sheri-
dan's. Mrs. Malaprop is but Dogberry in petticoats. And the fault
of which Mr. Whipple accuses Sheridan may be laid at Shakspere's
door also. Mr. Whipple calls Mrs, Malapropos mistakes "too felici-
tously infelicitous to be natural," and declares them "character-
istics, not of a mind flippantly stupid, but curiously acute," and that
we laugh at her as we should at an acquaintance "who was exercising

INTRODUCTION, 75

his ingenuity, instead of exposing his ignorance." This is all very
true, but true it is also that Dogberry asked, " Who think you to be
the most desertless man to be constable?" And again, "Js our
whole dissembly appeared ? And "O villain ! thou wilt be condemned
into everlasting redemption for this!" Sheridan has blundered in
good company, at all events.

Not content with finding suggestions for Sheridan's work in
various fictions, his earliest biographer, Dr. Watkins, suggests that
the plot of the ' Rivals ' was taken from life, having been suggested
by his own courtship of Miss Linley and the ensuing duel with Cap-
tain Mathews. And his latest biographer, Mrs. Oliphant, chooses
to identify Miss Lydia Languish with Mrs. Sheridan. Both sugges-
tions are absurd. There is no warrant whatever for the assumption
that any similarity existed between Miss Linley and Miss Languish^
and the incidents of Sheridan's comedy do not at all coincide with
the incidents of Sheridan's biography. Already, in his 'Maid of
Bath,' had Foote set Miss Linley and one of her suitors on the
stage ; and surely Sheridan, who would not let his wife sing in
public, would shrink from putting the story of their courtship into a
comedy. It has been suggested, though, that in the duel scene
Sheridan profited by his own experience on the field of honor; and
also, that in the character oi Faulk land hQ sketched his own state of
mind during the long days of waiting, when he was desperately in
love, and saw little hope of marital happiness ; in the days when he
had utilized the devices of the stage, and for the sake of getting
near to her for a few minutes, he had disguised himself as the coach-
man who drove her at night to her father's house. This may
be true ; but it is as dangerous as it is easy to apply the speeches of
a dramatist, speaking in many a feigned voice, to the circumstances
of his own life.

76 THE RIVALS.

The ' Rivals/ as a play, has suffered the usual vicissitudes of all
old favorites. Although never long forgotten, it has been now and
again neglected and now and again harshly treated. Of late years
the parts of Faulkland 2Xi^ Julia have been much curtailed when the
comedy has been acted in England ; and in the admirable revival
effected in 1880 by Mr. Joseph Jefferson in the United States, y«/iV?
was wholly omitted and Faulkland was suffered to remain only that
he might serve as a foil to Bob Acres. It is pleasant to note that
when the play was produced at the Haymarket Theatre in London
by Mr. and Mrs. Bancroft, the parts of Julia and Faulkland were
restored to their pristine importance. In the Haymarket revival of
1884, as in a highly successful revival at the Vaudeville Theatre
(where in 1882-3 the comedy was acted more than two hundred
times), the part of Mrs, Malaprop was performed by Mrs. Sterling,
whose reading of the part, although more conscious and affected
than Mrs. Drew*s, was as effective as any author could desire. In
the United States we are fortunate in the possession of Mr. John
Gilbert, whose Sir Anthony Absolute may be matched with the
great Sir Anthonys of the past. Wc may be sure that Mr. Gilbert's
fine artistic conscience would forbid his repetition of a freak of
Dowton's, who once for a benefit, gave up Sir Anthony to appear as
Mrs. Malaprop.

Nor was this the only occasion when a man played a woman's
part in this comedy. In his autobiography, Kotzebue (from whom
the author of the 'Rivals' was afterward to borrow *Pizarro'),
records the performance of the English comedy in German in the
cloister of the Minoret's Convent, a performance in which the future
German dramatist, then a mere youth, doubled the parts ol Julia and
Acres ! In German as in French, there is more than one translation
or adaptation of the ' Rivals ; * and some of them are not without

INTRODUCTION.

a comicality of their own. It is to be remembered, also, that on the
celebrated visit of the English actors to Paris, in 1827, — a visit
which had great influence on the development of French dramatic
literature, and which may, indeed, be called the exciting cause of
the Romantic movement, — the first play presented to the Parisian
public by the English actors was the ' Rivals.'

AUTHOR'S PREFACE.

A PREFACE to a play seems generally to be considered as a
'^^ kind of closet-prologue, in which — if his piece has been suc-
cessful — the author solicits that indulgence from the reader which
he had before experienced from the audience ; but as the scope and
immediate object of a play is to please a mixed assembly in represen-
tation (whose judgment in the theatre at least is decisive), its degree
of reputation is usually as determined as public, before it can be
prepared for the cooler tribunal of the study. Thus any farther
solicitude on the part of the writer becomes unnecessary at least, if
not an intrusion ; and if the piece has been condemned in the per-
formance, I fear an address to the closet, like an appeal to posterity,

is constantly regarded as the procrastination of a suit, from a con-
sciousness 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 rep-
resentation, but that its success has probably been founded on a
circumstance which the author is informed has not before attended a
theatrical trial, and which consequently ought not to pass unnoticed.
I need scarcely add, that the circumstance alluded to was the
withdrawing of the piece, to remove those imperfections in the first
representation which were too obvious to escape reprehension, and too

8o THE RIVALS,

numerous to admit of a hasty correction. There are few writers, I
believe, who, even in the fullest consciousness of error, do not wish
to palliate the faults which they acknowledge ; and, however trifling
the performance, to second their confession of its deficiencies, by
whatever plea seems least disgraceful to their ability. In the present
instance, it cannot be said to amount either to candor 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 candor and judgment with which an impartial
public distinguishes between the errors of inexperience and inca-
pacity, and the indulgence which it shows even to a disposition to
remedy the defects of either.

It were unnecessary to enter into any further extenuation of what
was thought exceptionable in this play, but that it has been said, that
the managers should have prevented some of the defects before its
appearance to the public — and in particular the uncommon length of
the piece as represented the first night. It were an ill return for the
most liberal and gentlemanly conduct on their side, to suffer any
censure to rest where none was deserved. Hurry in writing has long
been exploded as an excuse for an author; — however, in the dra-
matic 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 hasti-
ness not altogether culpable. The season was advanced when I first
put the play into Mr. Harris's hands ; it was at that time at least
double the length of any acting comedy. I profited by his judgment
and experience in the curtailing of it — till, I believe, his feeling for

AUTHOR'S PREFACE. 8 1

the vanity of a young author got the better of his desire for correct-
ness, and he left many excrescences remaining, because he had
assisted in pruning so many more. Hence, though I was not unin-
formed that the acts were still too long, I flattered myself that, after
the first trial, I might with safer judgment proceed to remove what
should appear to have been most dissatisfactory. Many other errors
there were, which might in part have arisen from my being by no
means conversant with plays in general, either in reading or at the
theatre. Yet I own that, in one respect, I did not regret my
ignorance ; for as my first wish in attempting a play was to avoid
every appearance of plagiary, I thought I should stand a better
chance of effecting this from being in a walk which I had not
frequented, and where, consequently, the progress of invention was
less likely to be interrupted by starts of recollection ; for on subjects
on which the mind has been much informed, invention is slow of
exerting itself. Faded ideas float in the fancy like half-forgotten
dreams ; and the imagination in its fullest enjoyments becomes sus-
picious of its offspring, and doubts whether it has created or
adopted.

With regard to some particular passages which on the first night's
representation seemed generally disliked, I confess, that if I felt any
emotion of surprise at the disapprobation, it was not that they were
disapproved of, but that I had not before perceived that they
deserved it. As some part of the attack on the piece was begun too
early to pass for the sentence of judgment y which is ever tardy in
condemning, it has been suggested to me, that much of the disappro-
bation 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

82 THE RIVALS.

have been unprovoked However, if it was so, and I could even
mark the quarter from whence it came, it would be ungenerous to
retort ; for no passion suffers more than malice from disappointment.
For my own part, I see no reason why the author of a play should
not regard a first night's audience as a candid and judicious friend
attending, in behalf of the public, at his last rehearsal If he can
dispense with flattery, he is sure at least of sincerity, and even
though the annotation be rude, he may rely upon the justness of the
comment. Considered in this light, that audience, whose fiat is
essential to the poet's claim, whether his object be fame or profit,
has surely a right to expect some deference to its opinion, from
principles of politeness at least, if not from gratitude.

As for the little puny critics, who scatter their peevish strictures
in private circles, and scribble at every author who has the eminence
of bcin^ unconnected with them, as they are usually spleen-swoln
from a vain idea f)f increasing their consequence, there will always be
found a petulance and illiberality in their remarks, which should
place them as far beneath the notice of a gentleman, 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 justi-
fying myself from the charge of intending any national reflection in
the character of Sir Lucius O'Trigger. If any gentlemen opposed the
piece from that idea, I tlianV 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
successful morality of a thousand stage-novels will ever effect.

AUTHOR'S PREFACE,

It is usual, I believe, to thank the performers in a new play, for the
exertion 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 audi-
ences, 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 candor 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 COVKNT-GARDEN THEATRE IN IHft.

Sir Anthony Absolute Mr, Shuter,

Captain Absolute Mr, Woodward,

Falkland Mr, Lewis,

Acres Mr, Quick,

Sir Lucius OTrigger Mr, Lee,*

Fag Mr, Lee Lewes,

David Mr. Dunstal.

Thomas Mr, Fcaron,

Mrs. Malaprop Afrs, Green,

Lydia Languish Miss Barsanti,

Julia Mrs, Bulkley,

Lucy Mrs, Lessingham,

Maid, Boy, Servants, etc.

SCENE — Bath.
Time of Action — Five Hours,

• Aflcru'arils by Mr. Clinch.

PROLOGUE.

BY THE AUTHOR.

SPOKEN BY MR. WOODWARD AND MR. QUICK.

Enter Serjeant-at-law, atid Attorney following and giving a

paper.

Serf, What 's here ! — a vile cramp hand ! I cannot see

Without my spectacles.

Att, He means his fee.

I^ay, Mr. Serjeant, good sir, try again. [Gives money.

Serj, The scrawl improves ! [more] O come, 't is pretty plain.

I^ey ! how 's this ? Dibble ! — sure it cannot be !

-A poet's brief ! a poet and a fee !

Aft, Yes, sir ! though you without reward, I know,

ArVould gladly plead the Muse's cause.

Serf. So ! — so !

An, And if the fee offends, your wrath should fall

^Dn me.

Sefy. Dear Dibble, no offence at all.

AtL Some sons of Phoebus in the courts we meet,

Serf. And fifty sons of Phoebus in the Fleet !

An. Nor pleads he worse, who with a decent sprig

CDf bays adorns his legal waste of wig.

Serf, Full-bottom*d heroes thus, on signs, unfurl

A leaf of laurel in a grove of curl I

86 THE RIVALS.

Yet tell your client that, in adverse days,
This wig is warmer than a bush of bays.

Att, Do you, then, sir, my client's place supply,

Profuse of robe and prodigal of tie

Do you, with 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 to the ground, I know, *t is hard to deal
With this dread courts from whence there *s no appeal ;
No tricking here, to blunt the edge of lawy
Or, damned in equity, escape hy flaw:
\\\x\. judgment given, your sentence must remain ;
No writ of error lies — to Drury-lane !

Yet when so kind you seem, 't is past dispute
We gain some favor, 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 candor, without fear
My client waves all riglit of challenge here.
No newsman from our session is dismiss'd.
Nor wit nor critic we scratch off the list ;
His faults can never hurt another's ease.
His crime, at worst, a bad attempt to please :
Thus, all respecting, he appeals to all,
And by the general voice will stand ox fall.

PROLOGUE.

BY THE AUTHOR.
SPOKEN ON THE TENTH NIGHT, BY MRS. BULKLEY.

Granted our cause, our suit and trial o'er,
The worthy Serjeant need appear no more :
In pleasing I a different client choose,
He served the Poet — I would serve the Muse :
Like him, I *11 try to merit your applause,
A female counsel in a female's cause.

Look on this form,* — where Humor, 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 f orm'd to teach ?
Should you expect to hear this lady preach }
Is gray 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.

♦ Pointing to the figure of Comedy.

88 THE RIVALS.

Yet, thus adom'd with ever)' graceful art
To charm the fancy and yet reach the heart

Must wc displace her ? And instead ac\'ance
The Goddess of the wof ul countenance —
The sentimental Muse I — Her emblems \-iew.
The Pilgrim's Progress, and a sprig of rue !
View her — too chaste to look like flesh and blood -
Primly portrayed 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 floods
Good heaven ! she *11 end her comedies in blood —
liid 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 fav'ritc 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.

♦ Pointing to Tragedy.

THE RIVALS

A COMEDY.

ACT I.

Scene I. — A Street in Bath,

Enter Thomas ; he crosses the Stage ; Fag follows^ looking after him.

Fag, What ! Thomas ! — Sure 't is he ! — What ! Thomas !
Thomas !

Thos, Hey ! — Odd's life I Mr. Fag ! — give us your hand, my old
fellow-serva nt.

Fag, Excuse my glove, Thomas : — I 'm devilish glad to see you, •
my lad. Why, my prince of charioteers, you look as hearty ! — but
who the deuce thought of seeing you in Bath }

Thos. Sure, master, Madam Julia, Harry, Mrs. Kate, and the
postillion, be all come.

Fag. Indeed !

Thos, Ay, master thought another fit of the gout was coming to
make him a visit ; — so he *d a mind to gi't the slip, and whip ! we
were all off at an hour's warning.

Fag. Ay, ay, hasty in everything, 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 I

90 THE RIVALS,

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 did n*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.

TJios. 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 Iialf-pax /vAcyV;/ fV)^|^ jf 9\\e^ Icnew \\o
was son and heir to Sir Anthony Absolute, a baronet of three thou-
sand a year.

Thos. That is an odd taste indeed ! — But has she got the stuff,
Mr. Fag } Is she rich, hey }

Fag. Rich ! Why, I believe she owns half the stocks ! Zounds i

A COMEDY. 91

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 !

T/tos. 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, Mis.q Ifydi^ T^np ^uish. — 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 matri-
mony. — 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 — 't is 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 stupefy 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 — ^Zf
you '11 like him much. / -^

T/ias. Sure I know Mr, Dij-Ppiprne — you know his master is to
marry Madam Ju lia.

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 ion wear.wigs now.

Tkos. 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,

92 THE RIVALS,

I thought how 't would go next: — Odd rabbit it! when the fashion
had got foot on the bar, I guessed 'twould mount to the box! — but
't is all out of character, believe me, Mr. Fag : and look'ee, I '11 never
gi' up mine — the lawyers and doctors may do as they wilL

Fag. Well, Thomas, we *11 not quarrel about that.

Thos. Why, bless you, the gentlemen of they professions ben't all
of a mind — for in our village now, thoflf Jack Gauge, the exciseman
has ta'en to his carrots, there *s little Dick the farrier swears he 'U
never forsake his bob, though all the college should appear with their
own heads I

Fag, Indeed ! well said, Dick ! — But hold ! — mark I — mark !
Thomas.

Thos, Zooks ! *t is 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 Di essiug-room in Mrs. Malaprop's Lodgings.

Lydia sitting on a sofa, with a book in her hand, Lucy, as jusi

returned from a message,

Lucy, Indeed, ma'am, I traversed half the town in search of it ;
I don't believe there 's a circulating library in Bath I ha'n't been at
Lyd. And could not you get The Reivard of Constancy t
Lucy. No, indeed, ma'am.
Lyd, Nor The Fatal Connection t •

A COMEDY. 93

Lucy, No, indeed, ma*am.

Lyd, Nor The Mistakes of the Heart f

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 f

Lucy, Or, The Memoirs of Lady Woodford? Yes, indeed, ma'am.
I asked everywhere 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, — and this Pere-
grine Pickle, Here are The Tears of Sensibility and Humphrey
Clinker. This is The Memoirs of a Lady of Quality, written by
herself and here the second volume of The Sentimental Journey,

Lyd. Heigh-ho ! — What are those books by the glass ?

Lucy. The great one is only The Whole Duty of Man, where I
press a few blonds, ma*am.

Lyd, Very well — give me the sal volatile.

Lucy. Is it in a blue cover, ma'am }

Lyd, My smelling-bottle, you simpleton !

Lucy, Oh, the drops ; — here, ma'am. /

Lyd, Hold ! — here 's some one coming — quick, see who it is. —
Exit Lucy.]. Surely I heard my cousinJiilia*s voice.

Re-Enter Lucv.
Lucy, Lud ! ma'am, here is Miss Melville.

Lyd. Is it possible ! — \^Exit Lucv.

94 THE RIVALS.

Enter Julia.

Lyd. My dearest Julia, how delighted am I! — [Embrace,] How
unexpected was this happiness !

y)//. True, Lydia, and our pleasure is the greater. — But what has
been the matter i — 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 Antho ny
_here ?

JuL He is — we are arrived within this hour — and I suppose he
will be here to wait on Af^rc Malapmp 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 sympathize with
me, though your prudence may condemn me ! My letters have in-
formed you of my whole connection vvith Beverley ! but I have lost
him, Julia ! My aunt has discovered our intercourse by a note she
intercepted, and has confined me ever since ! Yet, would you believe
it ? she has absolutely fallen in love with a tall Irish baronet she met
one night since we have been here, at Lady Macshuffle's rout.

JuL You jest, Lydia !

Lyd. No, upon my word. She really carries on a kind of corre-
spondence with him, under ajjdjin ed name thoug h, till she chooses
to be known to him ; — but it is a Delia or a Celia, I assure you.

JiiL Then, surely, she is now more indulgent to her niece.

Lyd. Quite the contrary. Since she has discovered her own
frailty, she is become more suspicious of mine. Then I must inform
you of another plague ! — That odious Acres is to be in Bath to-day ;
so that I protest I shall be teased out of all spirits !

Jul. Come, come, Lydia, hope for the best. — Sir Anthony shall
use his interest with Mrs. Malaprop.

Lyd. But you have not heard the worst. Unfortunately I ha

A COM ED y. 95

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 bow it was, as often as
we had been together, we had never had a quarrel, and, somehow, I
was afraid he would never give me an opportunity. So, last Thurs-
day, I wrote a letter to myself, to inform myself that Beverley was at
that tipie paying his addresses to another woman. I signed it your
friend unknown, showed it to Beverley, charged him with his false-
hood, 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 forever.

Jul. If he is as deserving and sincere as you have represented
him to me, he will never give you up so. Yet consider, Lydia, you
tell me he is but an ensign, and you have thirty thousand pounds.

Lyd. But you know I lose most of my fortune if I marry without
my aunt's consent, till of age ; and that is what I have determined
to do, ever since I knew the penalty. Nor could I love the man,
who would wish to wait a day for 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.

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

96 THE RIVALS.

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 Faulk-
land, who will ever delay assuming the right of a husband, while you
suffer him to be equally imperious as a lover.

Jul, Nay, you are wrong entirely. We were contracted before
my father's death. That, and some consequent embarrassments,
have delayed what I know to be my Faulkland's most ardent wish.
He is too generous to trifle on such a point : — and for his character,
you wrong him there too. No, Lydia, he is too proud, too noble to
be jealous ; if he is captious, *t is without dissembling ; if fretful,
without rudeness. 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 emotion of his mistress
to move in unison with his. Yet, though his pride calls for this full
return, his humility makes him undervalue those qualities in him
which would entitle him to it ; and not feeling why he should be
loved to the degree he wishes, he still suspects that he is not loved
enough. This temper, I must own, has cost me many unhappy
hours ; but I have lenrned to think myself his debtor for tho.se
imperfections which arise from the ardor of his attachment.

Lyd. Well, I cannot blame \o\\ 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.

////. Gratitude may have strengthened my attachment to Mr —
Faulkland, but I loved him before he had preserved me; yet surel>—
that alone were an obligation sufficient.

Lyd, Obligation I why a water-spaniel would have done as much '

A COMEDY. 97

— Well, I should never think of giving my heart to a man because
he could swim.

Jul. Come, Lydia, you are too inconsiderate.

Lyd, Nay, I do but jest. — What *s here ?

Re-Enter Lucy in a hurry.

Lucy. O ma am, here is Sir Anthony Absolute just come home
with your aunt.

Lyd. They '11 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.

Re-Enter Lucy.

Lucy. O Lud ! ma'am, they are both coming up stairs.

Lyd. Well, I 'II 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 LvoiA, and exit.

Lyd. Here, my dear Lucy, hide these books. Quick, quick. —

Fling Peregrine Pickle under the toilet — throw Roderick Random

into the closet — put The Innocent Adultery into The Whole Duty

of Man — thrust Lord Aimworth under the sofa — cram ^'/V/ behind

the bolster — there — put the Man of Feeling into your pocket — so,

so — now lay Mrs. Chapone in sight, and leave Fordyces Sermons

open on the table.

Lucy. Oh burn it, ma'am ! the hair-dresser has torn away as far

as Proper Pride.

Lyd. Never mind — open at Sobriety. — Fling me Lord Chester-
field's Letters. — Now for 'em. [Exit Lucy.

98 "^ THE RIVALS,

\
Enter j/ivs, Malafk qp and Sir Anthony Absolute.

Mrs. Mai, There, Sir Anthony, there sits the deliberate simple-
ton who wants to disgrace her family, and lavish herself 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 womanl
But the point we would request of you is, that you v/ill 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 y if a person chooses to set about it. Tm sure I have
as much forgot your poor dear uncle as if he had never existed —
and I tliought it my duty so to do ; and let me tell you, Lydia, these
violent memories don't become a young woman.

Sir AntJi. 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 preference
for any one else, the choice you have made would be my aversion.

Mrs. Mai. What business have you, miss, with preference and
aversion I They don't become a young woman ; and you ought to
know, that as both always wear off, 't is safest in matrimony to begin
with a little aversion. I am sure 1 hated your poor dear uncle before

A COMEDY. 99

marriage as if he'd been a blackamoor — and yet, miss, you are sen-
sible 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 company
for nothing but your own ill-humors.

Lyd, Willingly, ma'am. — I cannot change for the worse. [Exit.

Mrs, Mai, There 's a little intricate hussy for you !

Sir Antk, It is not to be wondered at, ma'am, — all this is the
natural consequence of t eaching girls to read. Had \ a ^hnusap d
d i i"g'^t^*"r^ Ky i-f^>iiro« f T M ^c| «^p/^p }^^t,o th^"^ tailtrht th^-^^"^^' """^
ast heir alph abet !

Mrs, Mai, Nay, nay. Sir Anthony, you are an absolute misan-
thropy.

Sir Antk, 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 ever-
green 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 laconically.

Sir Antk. Why, Mrs. Malaprop, in moderation, now, what would
you have a woman know ?

100 THR RIVALS.

Mrs. Mai Observe me, Sir Anthony. I would bjr 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 inflammatory branches of learning —
neither would it be necessary for her to handle any of your mathe-
matical, astronomical, diabolical instruments — But, Sir Anthony, I
* would send her, at nine years old, to a boarding-school, in order to
learn a little ingenuity and artifice. Then, sir, she should have a
supercilious knowledge in accounts; — and as she grew up, I would
have her instructed in geometry, that she might know something of
I the contagious countries ; — but above all. Sir Anthony, she should
be mistress of orthodoxy, that she might not mis-spell, and mis-pn>-
i nounce words so shamefully as girls usually do ; and likewise that
V* she might rguidbuind the true meaning of what she is saying. This,
Sir Anthony, is what I would have a woman know; — and I don't
think there is a superstitious article in it.

Sir Anth, Well, well, Mrs. Malaprop, I will dispute the point
no further with you ; though I must confess that you are a truly
moderate and polite arguer, for almost every third word you say is on
my side of the question. But, Mrs. Malaprop, to the more important
point in debate — you say you have no objection to my proposal?

Mrs. MaL None, I assure you. I am under no gositiye engage-
.mcnt with Mr. Acres, and as Lydia is so obstinatfe^againstjiim,
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 L
hope no objection on his side.

"-*

A COMEDY. lOl

Sir Anth, Objection! — let him object if he dare! — No, no,
Mrs. Malaprop, Jack Jcnows that the least demur puts me in a frenzy
directly. My process was always very simple — iu their younger
days 't was *' 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 I —
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 altogether illegible.

Sir Atith. Madam, I will handle the subject prudently. — Well, I
must leave you ; and let me beg you, Mrs. Malaprop, to enforce this
matter roundly to the girl. — Take my 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 Sir Antii.

Mrs. Mai. Well, at any rate I shall be glad to get her from under ^
my intuition. She has somehow discovered my partiality for Sir — ^
Lucius OTrigge r — sure, Lucy can't have betrayed me I — 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 hen

Re-Enter Lucy.
Luey. Did you call, ma'am }

Mrs. Mai. Yes, girl. — Did you sec 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 mcntioned-

*■^^

I02 THE RIVAEJS.

Lucy. Oh Gemini ! I 'd sooner cat 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 1 11 give you another
letter to Sir Lucius ; but mind, Lu<^ — if ever you betray what you
are entrusted with (unless it be other people's secrets to me), you
forfeit my mateyQl gnce forever ; and your being a simpleton shall be
no excuse for your locality. [Exit Mrs. Mal.

Lucy. Ha ! ha ! ha ! — So, my dear Simplicity, let me give you a
little respite. — [Alieriug 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. — \Loois at a papcr!\ For abetting Miss
Lydia La nguish i n a_dcsijjii_Q£_rJUUiins^^ away with an ensi ^i ! — in
money ^ sundry times ^ twelve pounds twehe ; gowns^five ; hats^rtiffles^
capSy &e, &c.y numberless ! — From the said ensign, within this last
month, six guineas and a half, — about a quarter s pay! — Item,
from Mrs. Mal a prop, for betraying the young people to her — when I
found matters were likely to be discovered — two guineas, and a black
padusoy. — Item, from Mr. Aeres, for carrying divers letters — which
I never delivered — iivo guineas, and a pair of buckles, — Item, from
Sir Lucius O' Ttigger, three crowns, two gold pocket-pieces ^ and a silver
snuff-box I — 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, [-^^^

A COMEDY. 103

ACT II.

Scene I. — Captain Absolute's Lodgings.
Captajn Absolute and Fag.

Fag. Sir, while I was there Sir^ Anthony came in : I told 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 that 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 Ijed, sir — I forget the precise lie ; but you may depend
on 't, he got no truth from me. Yet, with submission, for fear of
blunders in future, I should be glad to fix what has brought us to
Bath ; in order that we may lie a little consistently. Sir Anthony's
servants were curious, sir, very curious indeed.

Abs. You have said nothing to them ?

Fag. Oh, not a word, sir, — not a word ! Mr. Thomas, indeed,
the coachman (whom I take to be the discreetest of whips)

Abs. *Sdeath ! — you rascal ! you have not trusted him !

Fag. Oh, nOi sir — no — no — not a syllable, upon my veracity!
— he was, indeed, a little inquisitive; but I was sly, sir — devilish
sly! M^_iQaster (said I), hoae^t Thomas, (you know, sir, one says
fumest to one's inferiors,) i&^cgme to Bath to recruit — yes sir, I
,said to ncruit — and whether for men, money, or constitution,
you know, sir, is nothing to him, nor anyone else.

104 THE RIVALS.

A6s, 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 honor had already enlisted five
disbanded chairmen, seven minority waiters, and thirteen billiard-
markers.

Abs, You blockhead, never say more than is necessary.
I Fag, I beg pardon, sir — I beg pardon — but, with submission, a

lie is nothing unless one supports it. Sir, whenever I draw on my
invention for a good current lie, I always forge indorsements as well
as the bill.
1 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 dre^s.

Abs. Can you tell whether he has been informed of Sir Anthony's
and Miss Melville's arrival ?

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. — [Goijig.'] I beg pardon, sir, but should Sir
Anthonv call, vou will do me the favor to remember that we are
recruiting, if you please.

Abs. Well, well.

Fag. And, in tenderness to my character, if your honor could
bring in the chairmen and waiters, I should esteem it as an obliga-
tion ; for thoni;h I never scruple to lie to serve my master, yet it —
hurts one's conscience tf> be found out. \Exit —

Abs. Now for mv whimsical friend — if he does not kno>^^
that his mistress is here, I'll tease him a little before I teL^
him —

A COMEDY, iOS

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, a nd lose two-third s of her fortune } you forget that,^ ,
itcj friend. — No, no, I could have brought her to that long ago.

Faulk, Nay then, you trifle too long — if you are sure of hcr^
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 I am by no means cer-
tain that she would take me with the impediment of our friends'
consent, a regular humdrum wedding, and the reversion of a good
fortune on my side : no, no ; I must prepare her gradually for the
discovery, and make myself necessary to her, before I risk it. —
Well, but Faulkland, you *11 dine with us to-day at the hotel }

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 / a lover ; ay, and a romantic one too } Yet do I
carry everywhere with me such a confounded farrago of doubts,
fears, hopes, wishes, and all the flimsy furniture of a country miss'.s
brain!

•J

IC6 THE MiVALS,

Faulk. Ah ! Jack, your heart and aool are oot, like minep fiaed
hnmutaMy oo one only object Yoo thnnr lor a higie staki^ baft
fesinsb yoa couM stake and throw agsun : — but I have set my smn
of happinctt on this cast, and ool to snccecd were to be atrqiped

Abs. But, for Heaven's sake I what grovnds lor apprehension
can yonr whimsical btain conjure op at present?

Faulk. What gronnds for apprehension, did yon say ? HeavensI
are there not a thousand I 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 temper : and for her health,
does not every hour bring me cause to be alarmed ? If it rains^
some shower may even then have chOled her delicate frame ! If
the wind be keen, some rude blast may have a£Fected her! The heat
of noon, the dews of the evening, may endanger the life of her, for
whom only I value mine. O 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, Faiilkland, if you were convinced that Julia were
well and in spirits, you would be entirely content ?

Faulk, I should be happy beyond measure — I am anxious only
for that.

Abs. Then to cure your anxiety at once — Miss Melville is in
perfect health, and is at this moment in Bath.

Faulk, Nay, Jack — don't trifle with me.

Abs, She is arrived here with my father within this hour.

Faulk, Can you be serious }

Abs, I thought you knew Sir Anthony better than to be sur-

A COMEDY. 107

prised at a sudden whim of this kind. — Seriously, then, it is as I tell

you — upon my honor.

Faulk. My dear friend ! — Hollo, Du Peigne ! my hat. — My

dear Jack — now nothing on earth can give me a moment's

uneasiness.

Re-Enter Fag.

Fag, Sir, Mr. Acres, just arrived, is below.

Abs, Stay, Faulkland, this Acres lives within a mile of Sir
Anthony, and he shall tell you how your mistress has been ever
since you left her. — Fag, show the gentleman up. [Exit Fag.

Faulk. What, is he much acquainted in the family }

Abs. Oh, very intimate : I insist on your not going : besides, his
character will divert you.

Faulk. Well, I should like to ask him a few questions.

Abs. He is likewise a rival of mine— vt hat i s, ot my^pt/ier sclfs
for he. does not jhink his friend Capta ii L Ab*^^^"*^^ ^^^^'^ ^"'" ^^^ lady
in qu estion ; and it is ridiculous enou gh to hear .hi.m,camplaia tome

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 ser-
vant. — 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

MS THE MiVALS.

Abi. Ay, Bob^ Miss Mdvfllc's llr. FaidkfaiML
AcreM. Od'so ! she and your father can be but just arrived bcfaie
me: — I suppose you have seen them. Ah! llr FanlkJand, yon

are indeed a happy man.

Faulk. I have not seen Miss Melville yet, sir; — I hope she
enjoyed full health and spiriu in Devonshure?

Acm. Never knew her better in my Iife^ ur, — never better.
Odds Uushes and blooms ! she has been as healthy as the German
Spa. *

Faulk. Indeed ! — I did hear that she had been a little indisposed

Acres. False, false, sir — only said to vex you : quite the reverse^
I assure yoa

Faulk. There, Jack, you see she has the advantage of me ; I had
almost fretted myself ill.

Abs, Nr)w arc you angry with your mistress for not having been
ftick }

Faulk, No, no, you misunderstand me : yet surely a little trifling
indisj)osilion is not an unnatural consequence of absence from those
wc love. — Now confess — is n*t there something unkind in this
violent, robust, unfeeling health ?

Ahs, Oh, it was very unkind of her to be well in your absence, to
be sure !

Acns. Ciood apartments. Jack.

Faulk, Well, sir, but you were saying that Miss Melville has
been so cxccvdifif;ly 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 humor !

Faulk\ There, Jack, there. — Oh, by my soul I there is an innate

A COMEDY. 109

levity in woman, that nothing can overcome. — What ! happy, and I
away I

Abs, Have done ! — How foolish this is ! just now you were only
apprehensive for your mistress's spirits.

Faulk. Why, Jack, have I been the joy and spirit of the com-
pany ?

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 humor }

Abs. No, faith, to do you justice, you have been confoundedly
stupid indeed.

Acres. What 's the matter with the gentleman }

Abs. He is only expressing his great satisfaction at hearing that
Julia has been so well and happy — that *s all — hey, Faulkland }

Faulk. Oh ! I am rejoiced to hear it — yes, yes, she has a happy
disposition !

Acres. That she has indeed — then she is so accomplished — so
sweet a voice — so expert at her harpsichord — such a mistress of
flat and sharp, squallante, rumblante, and quiverante ! — There was
this time month — ^Odds minims and crotchets ! how she did chirrup
at Mrs. Piano's concert f

Faulk. There again, what say you to this } you see she has been
all mirth and song — not a thought of me !

Abs. Pho ! man, is not music the food of love ?

Faulk. Well, well, it may be so. — Pray, Mr. , what 's his

damned name? — Do you remember what songs Miss Melville
sung?

Acres. Not I indeed.

Abs. Stay, now, they were some pretty melancholy purling-

no THE RIVALS.

Stream airs, I warrant; perhaps you may recollect; — did she sing,
When absent from my soul's delight?

Acres, No, that wa'n't it.

Abs. Or, Go, gentle gales ! — 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.

Faidk. 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
oven in the choice of a song — she might have been temperately
healthy, and somehow, plaintively gay; — but she has been danc-
ing 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, docs she — there was at our last race ball

Faulk. Hell and the devil I There I there — I told you so ! I
tuld vou sol Oh I she thrives in my absence ! — Dancing! but
her whole fcclin^^s have been in opposition with mine; — I have
been anxious, silent, pensive, scdentar\' — my days have been hours
of care, my nights of watchfuhK>s. — She ha:^ been all health! spirit I
laugh ! song 1 dance ! — Oh I danincd, damned levity !

Abs. For Heaven's sake, Faulkland, don't expose yourself so! —
Suppose she has danced, what then ? - - does not the ceremony of
society often oblige

A COMEDY. • HI

Faulk. Well, well, I '11 contain myself — perhaps as you say — for
form sake. — What, Mr. Acres, you were praising Miss Melville's
manner of dancing a minuet — hey ^

Acres. Oh, I dare insure her for that — but what I was going to
speak of was her country-daucing. Odds swimmings ! she has such
an air with her !

Faulk, Now disappointment on her! — Defend this, Absolute;

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

iTiinded that — I say I should not have regarded a minuet — but

^^^nntry-dances ! — Zounds! had she made one in a cotillion — I

t>cilieve I could have forgiven even that — but to be monkey-led for a

^^i^ht! — to run the gauntlet through a string of amorous palming

I^^«j)pies! — to show paces like a managed filly! — Oh, Jack, there

'^ <^ ^er can be but one man in the world whom a truly modest and

"Plicate woman ought to pair with in a country-dance ; and, even

*^ ^in, 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 't will spread

* ^ a contagion — the action of their pulse beats to the lascivious

vement of the jig — their quivering, warm-breathed sighs impreg-

:e the very air — the atmosphere becomes electrical to love, and

:h amorous spark darts through every link of the chain ! — I must

^^.ve you — I own I am somewhat flurried — and that confounded

^^by has perceived it. [Going,

Abs. Nay, but stay, Faulkland, and thank Mr. Acres for his good

Faulk. Damn his news I [Exit.

Abs. Ha! ha! ha! poor Faulkland, five minutes since — "noth-
ing on earth could give him a moment's uneasiness ! "

113 TJIE XIVAIS.

Acrts. The gentleman wa'n't angiy at my praiung bis misCress,
was he?

Ahs. A little jealous, I believe^ Bob.

Atrts, You don't say so ? Ha, ha t jealous of me — that 's a
good joke.

Abs. There 's nothing strange in that. Bob ; let me teH you, that
q}rigbtly grace and insinuating manber of yours will do some mis-
chief among the giris here.

Acns. Ahl you joke — hal ha! mischii^t — hat lul but you
know I am not my own property, my dear Lydia has forestalled me.
She could never abide roe io the country/because I used to dress ju>
badly — but odds frogs and tambours I I shan't take matters so here,
now ancient madam has no voice in it : I 'U make my old clothes
know who's master. I shall straightway cashier the hunting-frock,
and render my leather breeches incapable. My hair has been in
training some time.

Abs. Indeed !

Acres. Ay — and iho'ff the side curls are a little restive, my
hind-part takes it very kindly.

Abs. Oh, you'll polish, I doubt not.

Acres. Absolutely I propose so — then if I can find out this
Ensign Beverley, odds triggers and flints ! I '11 make him know the
difference o't.

Abs. Spoke like a man ! But pray, Boh, I observe you have got
an odd kind of n new method of swearing

Aars. Ha ! ha ! you 'vc taken notice of it — 't is genteel is n't it ?
— I didn't invent it myself though ; but a commander in our militia,
a great scholar, I assure you, s.iys that there is no meaning in the
common oaths, and that nothing but their antiquity makes then
respectable ; — because, he says, the ancients would never stick to

A COMEDY. 113

an oath or two, but would say, by Jove ! or by Bacchus ! or by Mars !
or by Venus I 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 sentiment
ial swearing — ha ! ha ! 't is genteel, is n'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 parlor ?

Abs. Ay — you may.

Acres, Well, I must be gone 1

Abs, Stay ; who is it, Fag }

Fag. Your father, sir.

Abs. You puppy, why did n't you show him up directly }

^ {Exit Fag.

Acres, You have business with Sir Anthony. — I expect a mes-
sage from Mrs. Malaprop at my lodgings. I have sent also to
my dear friend Sir Lucius O'Trigger. Adieu, Jack ! we must
meet at night, when you shall give me a dozen bumpers to little
Lydia.

Abs, That I will with all my heart. — \Exit Acres.] Now for a
parental lecture — I hope he has heard nothing of the business that
has brought me here — I wish the gout had held him fast in Devon-
shire, 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.

114 THE RIVALS,

Sir Anth. Ver)* apprehensive, I dare say. Jack. — Wliat, you are
recruiting here, he)' ?

Abi. Yes, sir, I am on dutv.

Sir Anth, Well, Jack, I am glad to sec you, though I did not
expect it, for I was going to write you on a little matter of business.
— Jack, I have been considering that I grew old and infirm, and
shall probably not trouble ycu 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 arc very good.

Sir Aiitli. And it is my wish, while yet I live, to have my boy
make some fi;;ure in the world. I have resolved, therefore, to fix
you at once in a noble independence.

Abs. Sir, your kindness overpowers mc — such generosity makes
the gratitude of reason more lively than the sensations even of filial
affection.

Sir Auth. I am ^^lad you arc so sensible of my attention — and
you sliall be master of a lar^^c estate in a few weeks.

Abs. Let my future life, sir, speak my gratitude; I cannot express
tlie sense I have of your munificence. — Yet, sir, I presume you
would not wish me to cjiiit the army }

Sir Anth. Oh, that shall be as your wife chooses.

Abs. My wife, sir !

Sir Aiitli. Ay, ay, settle that between you — settle that be-
tween you.

A COMEDY. 115

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 must n't forget her though. — Yes, Jack,
the independence I was talking of is by 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 and duty.

Abs. I was, sir, — you talked to me of independence and a for-
tune, 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
t:o love, and to marry her directly.

Abs. Sure, sir, this is not very reasonable to summon my affec-
tions for a Jady I know nothing of !

Sir Anth. I am sure, sir, 't is 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 arc ^
not worth redeeming; besides, you have the angcFs vows in c>
change, I suppose ; so there can be no loss there.

116 THE KIVAIS.

Ah. You must cMuse me. sir, if I tell yoo, once for all, that in
this poiot I caDDOt obey you.

SirAHlk. Hark'ee, Jack ; — I have heard you for some time wttti
patience — I liave been cool — quite coed; but take care — you
Icnowlam compliance itself — when I am not thwarted; — no one
more easily led — wlien I have uy own way;— but don't put me in
a frenzy. '

AAt, Sir, I must repeat it — in this I cannot obey you.

&> AntJt. Now damn me I if ever I call you Jack again while I
live! .

Ait. Nay, ur, hut hear me.

Sir Anih. Sir, I won't hear a word — not a word I not one word I
so give me your promise by a nod — and I *U 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. Zotinds ! sirrah ! the lady shall be as ugly as I choose :
she shall have a hump on each shoulder I she shall be as crooked as
the Crescent ; her one eye shall roll like the bull's in Cox's Museum ;
she shall have a skin like a mummy, and the beard of a Jew — she
shall be all this, sirrah ! ~ yet I will make you ogle her all day, and
sit up all night to write sonnets on her beauty.

Abs. This is reason and moderation indeed t

Sir Anth. None of your sneering, puppy! no grinning, jacka-
napes !

Abs. Indeed, sir, I never was in a worse humor for mirth in my
life.

Sir Anth. 'Tis false, sir, I know yon are laughing in your
teeve; I know you'll grin when 1 am gone, sirrah t
**^ Abs. Sir, I hope I know my duty better.

A COMEDY. iiy

Sir A^ilL^ ii o i^G of your paooi on^ sir ! none of your violence, if
you please ! — It won't do with me, I promise you.

A6s, Indeed, sir, I never w^as cooler in my life.
Sir Anth, 'Tis a confounded lie! — I know you are in a passion
in your heart ; I know you arc, you hypocritical young dog ! but it
won't do.

Abs. Nay, sir, upon my word

Sir Ant/u So you will fly out ! can't you be cool like me ? What
the devil good can passion do ? — Passion is of no service, 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
everj'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 lisfht
with me ; but get an atmosphere and sun of your own ! I '11 strip
you of your commission ; I *11 lodge a five-and-threepence in the
hands of trustees, and you shall live on the interest. — I '11 disown
you, I '11 disinherit you, I Ml unget you ! and damn me ! if ever I call
you Jack again ! [Exit Sir Anth.

Abs. Mild, gentle, considerate father — I kiss your hands! —
What a tender method of giving his opinion in these matters Sir
Anthony has ! I dare not trust him with the truth. — I wonder what
old wealthy hag it is that he wants to bestow on mc ! — Yet he mar-
pVfl i^jipcj^if fr>|» ]py|> I ^{^(1 ^y^3 {|^ \^\r^ youth a bold intriguer, and a

gay companion I

Il8 THE RIVALS.

Re-Enter Fag.

Fag, Assuredly, sir, your father is wrath to a degree; he comes
down stairs eight or ten steps at a time — muttering, growling, and
thumping the banisters all the way : I and the cook's dog stand
bowing at the door — rap ! he gives me a stroke on the head with
his cane ; bids me carry that to my master ; then kicking the poor
turnspit into the area, damns us all, for a puppy triumvirate! — Upon
my credit, sir, were I in your place, and found my father such very
bad company, I should certainly drop his acquaintance.

Abs, Cease your impertinence, sir, at present. — Did you come in
for nothing more } — Stand out of the way.

[Pushes him aside, and exit.

Fag. Soh ! 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 revenue one's self on another, who happens
to come in the way, is the vilest injustice ! Ah! it shows the worst

temper — the basest

Enter Errand Bo v.

Boy, Mr. Fa,i; ! Mr. Fag ! your master calls you.

Fag, Well, you little dirty puppy, you need not bawl so! — The
meanest disposition ! the

Boy. Quick, quiclc, ^Ir. Fag !

Fng. Quick ! quick I you impudent jackanapes ! am I to be
commanded by you too? you little impertinent, insolent, kitchen-
bred

[Exit licking and beating him.

A COMEDY. 119

Scene II. — The North Parade,

Enter Lucv.
Lucy, So — I shall have another rival to add to my mistress's list
— <^aptafn AKcnlnt-#> However, I shall not enter his name till my
purse has received notice in form. Poor Acres is dismissed ! —
Well, I have done him a last friendly office, in letting him know that
Beverley was here before him. — Sir Lucius is generally more punc-
tual, when he expects to hear from his dear Dalia^ as he calls her : I
wonder he 's not here I — I have a little scruple of conscience from
this deceit ; though I should not be paid so well, if my hero knew
thsX jDjdia w as near fifty, and her own mistress.

Enter Sir Lucius O'Trigger.

Sir Luc, Ha ! my little ambassadress — upon my conscience, I
have been looking for you ; I have been on the South Parade this
half hour.

Lucy, [Speaking simply.^ O 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 's 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.

Lticy. 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 mt f

Lucy. Yes, but I have — I 've got a letter for you in my pocket.

Sir Luc. O faith! I guessed you weren't come empty-handed —
well — let me Mtf what the dear creature says.

I20 THE RIVALS.

Lucy, There, Sir Lucius. \Gives him a letter.

Sir Luc, [Reads.] Sir — there is often a sudden ifuentive impulse
in lovCf that has a greater induction than years of domestic combipta-
tion : such was the commotion I felt at the first superfluous view of Sir
Lucius O' Trigger. — Very pretty, upon my word. — Female punctu-
ation forbids me to say more, yet let me add, that it will 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 to 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. O 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. Oil, tell her I'll make her the best husband in the
world, and Lady OTrigg^.jj)to the bargain ! — But we must get the
old gentlcwoman^s consent — and do everything fairly.

Lucy. Nay, Sir Lucius, I thought you wa'n't rich enough to be
so nice !

Sir Luc. Upon my word, young woman, you have hit it : — I am
so poor, that I can't afford to do a dirty action. — If I did not
want money, I 'd steal your mistress and her fortune with a great
deal of pleasure. — However, my pretty girl, \Givcs her money]

A COMEDY, 121

here 's a little something to buy you a ribbon ; and meet me in the
evening, and I *11 give you an answer to this. So, hussy, take a kiss
beforehand to put you in mind. {Kisses her,

Lucy, O Lud ! Sir Lucius — I never seed such a gemman. My
lady won't like you if you 're so impudent.

Sir Lite, 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.

Lticy, 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 !

[Sees Fag, — Exity humming a tune.

Enter Fag.

Fag, So, so, ma'am ! I humbly beg pardon.

Lucy, O Lud ! now Mr. Fag — you flurry one so.

Fag, Come, come, Lucy, here 's no one by — so a little less sim-
plicity, 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 arc so hasty. —
That letter was from Mrs. Malaprop, simpleton. — She is taken with
Sir Lucius's address.

Fag, How ! what tastes some people have ! — Why, I suppose I
have walked by her window a hundred times. — But what says our
young lady ? any message to my master }

Lucy, Sad news, Mr. Fag. — A worse rival than Acres ! Sir
Anthony Absolute has proposed his son.

Fag, What, Captain Absolute }

122

THE RIVALS.

Lucy, Even so — I overheard it alL

Fag, Ha ! ha ! ha ! very good, faith. Good- bye, Lucy, I must
away with this news.

Lucy, Well, you may laugh — but it is true, I assure you. —
\Goingi\ But, Mr. Fag, tell your master not to be cast down by this.

Fag, Oh, he *11 be so disconsolate !

Lucy, And charge him not to think of quarrelling with young
Absolute.

Fag, Never fear ! never fear I

Lucy, Be sure — bid him keep up his spirits

Fag* We will — we wilL \Exeunt severally.

A COATED y. 123

ACT III.

Scene I. — TAe North Parade,

Enter Captain Absolute.

Abs. 'T is just as Fag told me, indeed. Whimsical enough, faith !
My father wants to force me to marry the very girl I am plotting to
run away with ! He must not know of my connection with her yet
awhile. He has too summary a method of proceeding in these mat-
ters. However, I *11 read my recantation instantly. My conversion
is something sudden, indeed — but I can assure him it is very sincere.
So, so — here he comes. He looks plaguy g^ff. \Steps aside.

Enter Sir Anthony Absolute.

Sir Anth. No — I '11 die sooner than forgive him. Die, did I
say ? I '11 live these fifty years to plague him. At our last meeting,
his impudence had almost put me out of temper. An obstinate,
passionate, self-willed boy ! Who can he take after } This is my
return for getting him before all his brothers and sisters I — for
putting him, at twelve years old, into a marching regiment, and
allowing him fifty pounds a year, besides his pay, ever since I 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 fonvard.] 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.

124

THE RIVALS,

SirAnilL 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 wcr^
pleased to mention concerning duty, and obedience, and authority.

Sir Atti/i. Well, puppy ?

Abs. Why then, sir, the result of my reflections is — a resolutio
to sacrifice every inclination of my own to your satisfaction.

Sir Anth, Why now you talk sense — absolute sense — I nev
heard anything more sensible in my life. Confound you ! you she
be Jack again.

Abs. I am hapi)y in the appellation.

Sir Anth. Why then Jack, my dear Jack, I will now inform y
who the lady really is. X()thin<j: but your passion and violcn <,
you silly fellow, j)rcvcnlcd my telling you at first. Prei)are, Ja c:
for wonder and ra])lure — ])repare. What think you of Miss Ly cj
Lani^nisb ?

Abs. Lani^iiish ! What, the Languishes of Worcestershire?

Sir Autli. W«»rre>tei\shire ! no. Did you never meet Mrs. ]\Ial=s
prop and her nieee, Miss Lanicuish, who came into our country jii
before voii were last ordered to your reiriment }

Abs. Malaprnp! Languish! I don't remember ever to hav
hoard the names before. Yet, stav — I think I do recollect some
tbin;j:. Lan.u'ni.Nb I Lan.i;uish I She s(iuints, don't she? A little:
reddiaired ''irl ?

Sir Auth. Squints I A red-haired L^irl ! Zounds! no.

Abs. Then I must liave forL^ol ; it ean't be the same person.

.S7/' .7/7///. Jaek ! Jack ! wiuit think you of blooming, lovc-brealh
ing seventeen ?

»u
-e.

A COMEDY, 125

Abs, As to that, sir, I am quite indifferent. If I can please you
in the matter, 't is all I desire.

Sir Anth. Nay, but Jack, such eyes ! such eyes ! so innocently
wild ! so bashfully irresolute ! not a glance but speaks and kindles
some thought of love ! Then, Jack, her cheeks ! her checks, Jack !
so deeply blushing at the insinuations of her tell-tale eyes! Then,
Jack, her lips ! O 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 ! O 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 I Odds life ! when I ran away with
your mother, I would not have touched anything old or ugly to gain
an empire.

Abs, Not to please your father, sir }

Sir Anth, To please my father ! zounds ! not to please — O, my
father — odd so! — yes — yes; if my father indeed had desired —
that *s quite another matter. Though he wa'n't the indulgent father
that I am. Jack.

Abs. I dare say not, sir.

Sir Anth, But, Jack, you are not sorry to find your mistress is so
beautiful }

Abs. Sir, I repeat it — if I please you in this affair, 'tis all I
desire. Not that I think a woman the worse for being handsome ;
but, sir, if you please to recollect, you before hinted something about
a hump or two, one eye, and a few more graces of that kind — now,
without being very nice, I own I should rather choose a wife of mine
to have the usual number of limbs, and a limited quantity of back :

Ml OUi

■Ml ttMift Me eye nqr fee my qpsoUiv ytt a* Oc VV^BdicE feM
ahtqrina m fnor of twa^ 1 «mU Mt «i* to flCect ft riBK^Hi^ B

^joa'rem

el—a vfle^ i
Eblocl[.fita^ted
Kiel I have a grevt Miod t» BUiy Ae pd aqvdC

^Uk. I ai» eatiidy at yo«r diyMal, Mr: if yoa ■hoald iMak rf
addiesiiiig IfiM Laagntsh joandt, I w i p poac jtm would bne He
many tfie aunt ; cr if yon shoold dn^e yoar aUad and take tte old
hdy — *t U tbe ame to im — I *& waxty Ac BJecb

SirAmtk. Upoa 1117 void, Jad[, thou 'it either a voy gnat fcypo-
o^ (V— ^bnt come, I know yovr indiffeieiice on mdi a ndtject
most be all a lie — I'm sore it mat — com^ now — damn yoor
demure face! — come, confess. Jack — you have been lying — haVt
you? You have been playing the hypocrite, hey! — I'll never
forgive you, if you ha'n't been lying and playing the hypocrite.

Ads. I 'm sorry, sir, that the respect and duty which I bear to yon
should be so mistaken.

Sir AtttJi, Hang your respect and duty ! But come along with
me, I '11 write a note to Mrs. Malaprop, and you shall visit the lady
directly. Her eyes shall be the Promethean torch to you — come
along, I 'U 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 I \ExmU.

A COMEDY. 127

Scene II. — Julia's Dressing-room,

Faulkland discovered alone,

Fanlk. They told me Julia would return directly ; I wonder she
is not yet come ! How mean does this captious, unsatisfied temper
of mine appear to my cooler judgment ! Yet I know not that I
indulge it in any other point ; but on this one subject, and to this
one subject, whom I think I love beyond my life, I am ever ungen-
erously fretful and madly capricious! I am conscious of it — yet
I cannot correct myself ! What tender, honest joy sparkled in her
eyes when we met ! how delicate was the warmth of her expressions !
I was ashamed to appear less happy — though I had come resolved
to wear a face of coolness and upbraiding. Sir Anthony's presence
prevented my proposed expostulations : yet I must be satisfied that
she has not been so very happy in my absence. She is coming!
Yes I — I know the nimbleness of her tread, when she thinks her
impatient Faulkland counts the moments of her stay.

Enter ]vi.\\.

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. O Faulkland, when your kindness can make me thus happy,
let me not think that I discovered something of coldness in your first
salutation.

Faulk. 'Twas but your fancy, Julia. I was rejoiced to see you —
to see you in such health. Sure I had no cause for coldness }

Jul. Nay, then, I see you have taken something ill. You must
not conceal from me what it is.

Faulk. Well, then, shall I own to you that my joy at hearing of
your health and arrival here, by your neighbor Acres, was somewhat

IJt THE MlfAlS.

dsMpcd By Ui dvcuBif MB™ on nc V^t ipirifs TM bso cbjo^co in
DevDnihire — <n jroarmiith — yvrnwaa^mg—AMoaa^md I know
not «iiat ? For gndi b my tcnqier, Jofi^ Hot I AmSA icgard evoy
■liitlrfnl inumau m ymr ilwcace » ■ titaMa M o w wtinq r. The
nMtm] tear that iteih down Uie chedc cf patting lowers b n coin-
pnct that no fmfle slid lire there tai tb(7 meet iWlin.

ys/. Halt I never ceue to tn my Fanlfcl— rl with thii toni^
minnte cajnice ? Can the idle rcjiart* of a aHIy boor weigh in yoor
fafcaBt againtt my tried affectioa?

Fault. They have no wdgfat with m^JaHa: Bo^ DO — lamhappy
if ytmlSve beenio — yet only 17 that yon did not ring wbh mirth
— say that you thooght of Faolldaad in the dance.

Jui. I never can be bappy in yoo' sbaeace. If I wear a counte-
nance of content, it is to show that my mind holds no doubt d my
Faulkland's truth. If I seemed sad, it were to make malice tri-
umph ; and say that I had fixed my heart on one who left me to
lament his roving and my own credulity. Believe me, Faulkland, 1
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 e^■cr all goodness to me. Oh, I am a brutti .»
when I but admit a doubt of jwir true constancy! ' ~^ '

Jul. If ever without such cause from you, as I will not suppose*
possible, you find my affections vcerin;; but a point, may I become :s
proverbial scoff for levity and base ingratitude.

Faulk. Ah ! Julia, that last word is grating to me. I would I ha— -
no title to your gratitude ! Search your heart, Julia ; perhaps whMi l
you have mistaken for love is but the warm effusion of a too thaDft*
ful heart.

Jul. Fcr what quality must I love you?

A COMEDY. 129

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 obli-
gation 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 nie as I wish, though I were an ^Ethiop,
you 'd think none so fair.

Jul. I see you are determined to be unkind ! The contract which
my poor father bound us in gives you more than a lover's privilege.

Faulk. Again, Julia, you raise ideas that feed and justify 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 arc not used to weigh and
separate the motives of their affections : the cold dictates of pru-

THE RIVALS.

deocc, gr aJ ited^ or filid du^, msjr mmUmm be — i«*«fcfTi ior thr
fkadings e< the heart. I vdoU aat boMt— yet kt me ■grtlnt I
have neither ag^ persm, nor f^acacter, to faud dsHke on; mjr
fortune luch as lew ladies couU be di a iyed vidi indb cre li oB in Ibe
■latdL O Jnltal when love reodvea am^ oonrteance from !■»-
denoe, aice miods wiU be snqicioas tt ib faB^

JiU. I know not vrtiither yoiir imimMtaoBi would tend: — butm
Uw)r ■eem pressing to insult me, I will ^are jTOU the R^ret of baring
done sa I have i^ven you no cause lor this I [Emt m Umrj.

FomU. In tears! Stay. Julia: stay bat for a moment — The
door is ^tened ! — Jolia I — I my soul — but for one moment 1 — I
hear her sobbing — 'Sdeath! — what a brute am I to use her thus I
Yet stay. — Ay— she is coming now : — how little resolotioD there
is in woman ! — how a few soft words can turn them I — No, &ith ! —
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 anything: her going away must have been a mere
trick then — she sha'n't see that I was hurt by it. — I '11 affect indi^
fercnce — [Hums a /mic: /hen listens.'] No — zounds! she's not
coming! — nor don't intend it, I suppose. — This is not steadiness,
but obstinacy! Yet I deserve it. — What, after so long an absence
to quarrel with her tenderness ! — 'twas barbarous and unmanly! — I
should be ashamed to see her now. — I 'II wait til! her just resent-
ment is abated — and when I distress her so again, may I lose her
(orei'cr ! and be linked instead to some antique virago, whose gnaw-
ing passions and long-hoarded spleen shall make me curse my folly
half the day and all the night [Exit.

A COMEDY. 131

Scene III. — Mrs. Malaprop's Lodgings.
Mrs. Malaprop, with a letter in her handy and Captain Absolute.

Mrs, MaL Your being Sir Anthony's son, captain, would itself be
a sufficient accommodation ; but from the ingenuity of your appear-
ance, I am convinced you deserve the character here given of you.

Abs, Permit me to say, madam, that as I never yet have had the
pleasure of seeing Miss Languish, my principal inducement in this
affair at present is the honor of being allied to Mrs. Malaprop, of
whose intellectual accomplishments, elegant manners, and unaffected
learning, no tongue is silent.

Mrs, MaL Sir, you do me infinite honor ! I beg, captain, you '11 be
seated. — \Thcy sit^ Ah ! few gentlemen, now-a-days, know how to
value the ineff ectual 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 ignorant, captain,
that this giddy girl has somehow contrived to fix her affections on a
beggarly, strolling, eaves-dropping ensign, whom none of us have seen,
and nobody knows anything of.

Abs. Oh, I have heard the silly affair before. — I 'm not at all
prejudiced against her on that account.

"3«

Mn. MaL T«i are veiy good aad TCfj cnnident^ captain. I
am stne I hnc dooe CT ci ytt u i g m mj yo m u. aiaoe I exploded the
afbir;kMicasoIlaidiii7|)usiUKaHiBiictiaBsanher,ne«crtodiiiik '
«■ the Cdlov agun; — I baic aoKe hid Sir Aattiony's prqtositkm
brfore her; ba^ I am sony to ajr she seeaM le wJ fed to decUne
every partide that IcnjoiDher.

Ait, It mnit be vcsy d i i t f e Miii & iadeed. ma'am.

Mrt. Mai. CNi, it gives me the bydrdstatics to lodi a d^ree. — I
tiioaglit slie bad persisted from corre^iondiiig with him ; but, befaf^,
this veiy day, I have interceded another kcter from the feUow ; I
believe I have it in my pocket

Abs. Ob, the devil ! my last note. [AsuU.

Mrs. Mat Ay. here it is.

Abs. Ay, my note indeed ! O the li tt k ti jIliMS b ugy. [Aside.

Mrs. Mai. There, perhaps you may know the writing,

[Gives Aim the letter.

Abs. I think I have seen the hand before — yes, I certainly roust
have seen this hand before —

Mrs. Mai Nay, but read it, captain.

Abs. [Reads] My soul's idol, my adored Lydia I — Very tender
indeed !

Mrs. Mai. Tender ! ay, and profane too, o' my conscience.

Abs. [Reads.] / am excessively alanncd at the ititelUgence you
send me, the more so as my »ciu rival •

Mrs. Mai. That 's yoii, sir.

Abs. [Reads,] Has universally the character of being an accom-
plished gentleman and a man of honor. — 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.

A COATED V, 133

Mrs, Mai. But go on, sir — you '11 see presently.

Abs, [Reads.] As for the old ivcathcr-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. Impudent scoundrel ! — .[Reads.] // shall go hard but I will
elude her vigilance^ as I am told that the same ridiculous vanity zuhich
makes her dress up her coarse features and deck her dull chat with hard
words zuhich she don't understand

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 anything in this world, it
is the use of my oracular tongue, and a nice derangement of
epitaphs !

Abs, He deserves to be 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.] docs also lay her open to
^Jie grossiTst deceptions from flattery and pretended admiration — an
impudent coxcomb — so tluxt I have a scheme to sec you shortly zvith
^Jie old harridans consent^ and even to make her a go-bctzvccn in our
^nterjiezv. — Was ever such assurance !

Mrs, Mai. Did you ever hear anything like it } — he '11 elude my
Vigilance, will he — yes, yes ! ha ! ha ! he 's very likely to enter these
doors ; — we 'U try who can plot best !

Abs. So we will, ma'am — so we will ! Ha ! ha ! ha ! a conceited
puppy, ha! ha! ha! — Well, but Mrs. Malaprop, as the girl seems so
infatuated by this fellow, suppose you were to wink at her corre-
sponding 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

134 THE MVALS.

v^i / aide, will have the fdlow Ud by the heds, and biAy cmtrive to
p c«iy her off in lug itead.

Mn. Mai I am ddighted with the ■cbeDw; never was anything
better perpetrated 1

Ah. But, pnty, could not X ice the lady for a lev minotes now ?
•» I ihonld like to try her temper a UtUe.

Mn, iStU. Why, I don't know— I doabt ibe it not prepared for
a Tl»it of thit kind. There is a decorum in these matters.

Abs. O Lord! she won't mind me— oofy tell her Beveriey—

Mrt.MeL Sirl

Abs, Gently, good tonguCi \AsiA.

Mn, Mat, What did yon say of Bereriqr ?

Abs. Oh, I was going to propose that yon diould tell her, by way
of jest, that it was Beverley who was below ; she 'd come down fast
enough then — ha I ha I ha 1

Mrs. Mai. 'T would be a trick she well deserves ; besides, you
know the fellow tells her he '11 get my consent to see her — ha I ha !
Let him i£ he can, I say again. Lydia, come down here I — \CaUiftg^
He '11 make me a go-between in their interviews ! — ha ! ha ! ha !
Come down, 1 say, Lydia ! I don't wonder at your laughing, ha !
ha! hal his impudence is truly ridiculous.

Abs. 'Tis very ridiculous, upon my soul, ma'am, ha! ha! ha!

Mrs. Mai. The little hussy wou't hear. Well, I '11 go and tell her
at once who it is — she shall know that Captain Absolute is come
to wait on her. And I '11 make her behave as becomes a .young
woman.

Abs. As yoii please, ma'am.

Mrs. Mai. For the present, captain, your servant. Ah ! you 've
not done laughing yet, I sec — elude my vigilance; yes, yes; ha!
ha! hal \Exit.

A COMEDY. 135

Abs, Ha ! ha ! ha ! one would think now that I might throw ofif \
all disguise at once, and seize my prize with security ; but such is
Lydia s caprice, that to undeceive were probably to lose her. I 'U
see whether she knows me.

[ Walks aside, and seems engaged in looking at the pictures,^

Enter Lydia.

Lyd, What a scene am I now to go through ! surely nothing
can be more dreadful than to be obliged to listen to the loathsome
addresses of a stranger to one's heart. I have heard of girls perse-
cuted as I am who have appealed in behalf of their favored lover to
the generosity of his rival ; suppose I were to try it — there stands
the hated rival — an officer too! — but oh, how unlike my Bever-
ley! I wonder he don't begin — truly he seems a very negligent
wooer!. — quite at his ease, upon my word! — I'll speak first —
Mr. Absolute.

Abs, Ma'am. [Turns round.

Lyd, O heavens ! Beverley !

Abs. Hush ! — hush, my life ! softly ! be not surprised !

Lyd, I am so astonished ! and so terrified 1 and so overjoyed! for
Heaven's sake ! how came you here }

Abs, Briefly, I have deceived your aunt — I was informed that my
new rival was to visit here this evening, and, contriving to have him
kept away, have passed myself on her for Captain Absolute.

Lyd. O charming ! And she really takes you for young Abso-
lute ?

Abs. Oh, she 's convinced of it.

Lyd. Ha! ha I 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

136 THE RIVALS.

condescending angel, to fix the time when I may rescue her fron
undeserving persecution, and with a licensed warmth plead for mj
reward.

Lyd, Will you, then, Beverley, consent to forfeit that portion o
my paltry wealth ? that burden on the wings of love ?

Abs. Oh, come to me — rich only thus — in loveliness ! Brinj
no portion to me but thy love — *t will be generous in you, Lydi
— for well you know, it is the only dower your poor Beverley cai
repay.

Lyd, How persuasive are his words ! — how thai luing will povert
be with him ! \Asidi

Abs, Ah ! my soul, what a life will we then live ! love shall b
our idol and support ! we will worship him with a monastic stric
ness; abjuring all worldly toys, to centre every thought and actio
there. Proud of calamity, we will enjoy the wreck of wealth ; whi
the surrounding gloom of adversity shall make the flame of our pui
love show doubly bright. By Heavens ! I would fling all goods «
fortune from me with a prodigal hand, to enjoy the scene whe;
1 I might clasp my Lydia to my bosom, and say, the world affords i
smile to me but here — {Embracing herP^ If she holds out now, tl
devil is in it ! {Asia

Lyd, Now could I fly with him to the antipodes 1 but my pers
cution is not yet come to a crisis. \Asu

Re-Enter Mrs. Malaprop, listening.

Mrs, Mai, I am impatient to know how the little hussy dep>oi
herself. \Asii

Abs. So pensive, Lydia ! — is then your warmth abated ?

Mrs, Mai, Warmth abated ! — so ! — she has been in a passion
suppose. \Asu

Lyd, No — nor ever can while I have life.

A COMEDY. 137

Mrs. Mai, An ill-tempered little devi l ! she *11 be \t \ a paccmn ail
her life — will she ? [Aside,

Lyd, 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 be Captain Absolute, but Beverley is mine.

Mrs, Mai. I am astonished at her assurance ! — to his face — this
is to his face ! [Aside.

A6^, 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 /onvard.]
Why, thou vixen ! I have overheard you.

Ads, 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

A/rs. Mai, Oh, there 's nothing to be hoped for from her ! she 's
as headstro ng as an alleg^ory on t he banks of the 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 ! — Did n't
you boast that Beverley, that stroller Beverley, possessed your heart }
— Tell me that, I say.

Lyd. 'Tis true, ma'am, and none but Beverley

Mrs. Mai. Hold ! hold, Assurance ! — you shall not be so rude.

138 THE RIVALS.

Abs, Nay, pray, Mrs. Malaprop, don't stop the young lady's
speech : — she 's very welcome to talk thus — it does not hurt vie 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 have fixed.

Abs, I shall ma'am.

Mrs. Mai, Come, take a graceful leave of the gentleman.

Lyd, May every blessing wait on my Beverley, my loved Bev

Mrs, Mai, Hussy ! I *1I choke the word in your throat ! — come
along — come along.

[Excuut severally, Captain Absolute kissing his Jiand to
LvDiA — Mrs. Malaprop stopping her from speaking.

Scene IV. — Acres's Lodgings.

Acres, as just dressed^ and David.

Acres, Indeed, David — do you think I become it so?

Dav, You arc quite another creature, believe me, master, by the
mass ! an* we 've any luck we shall see the Devon m onkeron y in all
the print-shops in Bath !

^cres. Dress does make a difference, David.

Dav. T is all in all, I think. — Difference ! why, an' you were to
go now to Clod-Hall, I am certain the old lady would n't know you :
Master Butler would n'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 honor's favorite, would blush
like my waistcoat. — Oons! I *11 hold a gallon, there a'nt a dog in the

A COMEDY, 139

lioiise but would bark, and I question whether Phillis would wag a
liair of her tail !

Acres, Ay, David, there 's nothing like polishing.

Dav, So I says of your honor'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 ! —
i f I had n't been by at the cooking, I wish I may die if 1 should have
known the dish again myself ! [ExiL

Acres. \Comes fonvard^ practising a dancing stcp.\ Sink, slide —
croupee. — Confound the first inventors of cotillons! say I — they
^re as bad as algebra to us country gentlemen — I can walk a minuet
^asy 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
crross-over to couple — figure in — right and left — and I'd foot it
Avith e'er a captain in the county! — but these outlandish heathen
^Eillemandes and cotillons are quite beyond me! — I shall never
jDrosper at 'em, that's sure — mine are true-born English legs —
they don't understand their curst French lingo! — their /^.r this,
-^nA pas that, and pas t'other! — damn me! my feet don't like to
be called paws! no 'tis certain I have most Antigallican toes I

Enter Servant.

Serv, Here is Sir Lucius OTrigger to wait on you, sir.

Acres. Show him in ! {Exit Servant.

Enter Sir Lucius OTrigger.

Sir Luc. Mr. Acres, I am delighted to embrace you.

Acres. My dear Sir Lucius, I kiss your hands.

140 THK JUVAtS.

Sir LiK. Pray, my fiieo'J, what lias brought you so suddeoly to
Balh?

Aenx. F^itb! 1 bave followed Cnpid's Jack-a-lantem, and iind
myself io a quagmire at Use — In short, 1 have been very ill used
Sir Lucius. — I don't cboMC to mention names, but look on me as
-pu a very ill tued gentleman.

Sir LiK. Pray what is the cose ? ~~ I ask no names.

Acrts. Mark me, Str Luciua, I fall as deep as need be in love
with a young lady — her friuud^ lake my part — I follow her to Bath
— send word of ray arri\-al ; and receive answer, that the lady is to
be otherwise disposed o£. — This. Sir Lucius, I call being ill used.

Sir Luc. Very ill, upon my conscience. — Pray, can you divine
the cause of it ?

Airrs. Why. there "a the matter ; she has another lover, one Bev-
erley, 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?

Acns. Unfairly! to be sure he has. He never could have don^
it fairly.

Sir Luc. Then sure you know what is to be done t

Acres. Not I, upon my soul !

Sir Luc. We wear no swords here, but you understand me.

Acres. What ! fight him !

Sir Luc. Ay, to be sure : what can I mean else?

Acres. But he has given me no provocation.

Sir Luc. Now, I think he has given you the greatest provocaticrr^
in the world. Can a man commit a more heinous offence again ^^
another than (o fall in love with the same woman ? Oh, by my soisi
it is the most unpardonable breach of friendship.

j4 comedy. 141

Acres, Breach of friendship ! Ay, ay ; but I have no acquaintance
with this man. I never saw him in my life.

Sir Luc. That's no argument at all — he has the less right then
to take such a liberty.

Acres. Gad, that's true — I grow full of anger". Sir Lucius! I
fire apace ! Odds hilts and blades ! ^I find a man may have a deal of
valor in him, and not know it ! But could n't I contrive to liave a
little right of my side ?'

Sir Luc. What the devil signifies rights when your hofior is con-
cerned.^ Do you think Achilles or my little Alexander the Great
ever inquired where the right lay.^ No, by my soul, they drew their
broadswords, 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 be-
lieve courage must be catching ! I certainly do feel a kind of valor
rising as it were — a kind of courage, as I may say. — Odds flints,
pans, and triggers ! I '11 challenge him directly.

Sir Luc. Ah, my little friend! if I had Blunderbuss-Hall here, I
could show you a range of ancestry, in the OTriggcr 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 honor and the family pictures
are as fresh as ever.

Acres. O, 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, ' / could do such deeds I '

Sir Luc, Come, come, there must be no passion at all in the case^
— these things should always be done civilly. i

142

THE RIVALS.

Acn:t. I mubt be in a passion. Sir Lucius — I must be in a rjge,
— Dear Sir Lucius, let nic be in a rage, if you love mc. Come,
here's pen and paper. — [Sits down to wrilf.^ I would the ink were
red ! -- Indite, I say indite ! — I low shall I begin ? Odds bullets and
blades ! I 'II write a good bold hand, however.

Sif Liu. Pray compose yourself.

Acits. Come — now, shall I begin with an oath ? Do, Sir Lucius,
let me begin with a damme.

Sir Luc. Pho ! plio! 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 samt lady

Acres. Ay, there 's the reason — same lady — wei".

Sir Luc. I shall expect the honor of your company

Acres. Zounds! I'm not asking him to dinner.

Sir Luc. Pray be easy.

Acres. Well then, honor of your company

Sir Luc. To settle our pretensions

Acres. Well.

Sir Luc. Let me see, ay, King's-Mead-Ficld will do — in King's-
Mead-Fields.

Acres. So, that 's done — Well, I 'H fold it up presently ; my own
crest — a hand and dagger shall be the seal.

Sir Liic. You see now this little explanation will put a stop at
once to all confusion or misunderstanding that might arise between
you.
1 Acres. Ay, \vc fight to prevent any misunderstanding.

Sir Liic. Now, I'll leave you to Tlv your own time. — Take my

A COMEDY,

143

advice, and you *II decide it this evening if you can ; then let the worst
come of it, 't will be off your mind to-morrow.

Acres. Very true.

Sir Luc. So I shall see nothing more of you, unless it be by
letter, till the evening. — I would do myself the honor to carry your
message; but, to tell you a secret, I believe I shall have just such
another affair on my own hands. There is a gay captain here, who
put a jest on me lately at the expense of my coun try, and I only
want to fall in with the gentleman to call him out.

Acres. By my valor, I should like to see you fight first ! Odds
life ! I should like to see you kill him if it was only to get a little
lesson.

Sir Luc, I shall be very proud of instructing you. — Well for the '
present — but remember now, when you meet your antagonist, do
everything in a mild and agreeable manner. — Let your courage be
as keen, but at the same time as polished, as your sword.

[Exeufif severally.

THE RIVALS.

Scene I. — Acres's Lodgings.
Acres and David.

Dav, Tlieu, by the mass, sir 1 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 vnlor.

Dav. Not he, indeed. I hates 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 ciy off : but for
your curst sharps and snaps, I never knew any good come of 'em.

Acres. But my honor, David, my honor ! I must be very careful
of my honor.

Dav. Ay, by the mass ! and I would be very careful of it ; and I
think in return my homr could n't do less than to be very careful
of me.

Acres. Odds blades ! David, no gentleman will ever risk the loss
of his honor !

Dav. i say then, it would be but civil in honor never to risk the
loss of z. gentleman. — Look'ee, master, this honor 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) i well — my honor makes me quarrel with another gentleman

A COMEDY. 1 45

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 honor. But put the case that he kills me ! — by
the mass ! I go to the worms, and my honor whips over to my
enemy.

Acres. No, David — in that case! — Odds crowns and laurels!
your honor follows you to the grave.

Vav. Now that *s just the place where I could make a shift to
do without it.

Acres. Zounds ! David, you are a coward ! — It does n't become
my valor 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 favor, the surest way of not disgracing them is to
keep as long as you can out of their company. Look*ee now,
master, to go to them in such haste — with an ounce of lead in your
brains — I should think might as well be let alone. Our ancestors
are very good kind of folks ; but they are the last people I should
choose to have a visiting acquaintance with.

Acres. But, David, now, you don't think there is such very, very,
very great danger, hey ? — Odds life ! people often fight without any
mischief done I

Dav. By the mass, I think 't is ten to one against you I — Oons !
here to meet some lion-headed fellow, I warrant, with his damned
double-barrelled swords, and cut-and-thrust pistols I — Lord bless
us I it makes mc tremble to think o't ! — Those be such desperate
bloody-minded weapons ! Well, I never could abide 'cm — from a
child I never could fancy 'em I — I suppose there a'n't been so mer-
ciless a beast in the world as your loaded pistol 1

Acr^s. Zounds I I won't be afraid I — Odds fire and fury I yon

•^ THE MfKtlS.

•baa*t make nc abaid. — Hoc ts tbe challenge, and I have sent tor
n; dear fhead >ck A&Mfate U csTj it iorine.

Act. Aj^. r Ae ame «C ■J Bchi e f . let Aim be tlte messenger. —
I^MT mv port. I WDoM at Wad i band to it for the best horse in youi-
stable. Bjr tbe mau ! it doa't look &kc another letter ! It is, as L
ta^j $a,j, » dei^n^ aad malicioiasJooki&g letter ; — and I wartaDi:^
somUb oi gnapowder like a sol£er*s pouch ! — Oons ! I would u'c:
swear it aay a*t go off !

Acm. Out, joa poltiaan '. yoo ha*D'l the valor of a grasshopper,
AfT. Well. I sxf oo more — 't will be sad nevs, to be sure. aC^
Ckd-HaQ ! bot I ha' done — Hotr Phillis will howl when she hears o-£
it! — Ajr, poor bitch, she Uule thiaks what shooting her master';^
gotnf after \ — And I warrant old Crop, who has carried your bon(» — ^
field and road, these ten years, will cunc the hour he was born.

Acres. It won't do, Darid — 1 am determined to fight — so g^^
along, you coward, while I 'm in the mind.
Enter Servast.
Ser. Captain Absolute, sir.

Acres. Oh ! show him up. \Exit Servan

Dav. Well, Heaven send we be all alive this time to-morrow.
Acres. What s that ? — Don't provoke me, David !
Davi Goodby, master. [ Whimperir^J^^

Acres. Get along, you cowardly, dastardly, croaking raven !

Enter Capt.mn Absolute.
Abs. What 's the matter, Rob ?
Acres. A vile, sheep-hearted blockhead ! — If I had n't the valoro^

St. George and the dragon to boot

Abs. But what did you want with me, Bob?

A COMEDY. 147

Acres, Oh ! — there [Gives him the challenge.

Ads. [Aside.] To Ensign Beverley. — So, what *s going on now ?
— [Aloud.] Well, what 's this ?

Acres. A challenge !

Ads. 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 I '11 fight this evening, that so
much good passion may n't be wasted.

Ads. 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
could n'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 }

Abs. Whenever he meets you, believe me.

Re-Enter Servant.

Scr. Sir Anthony Absolute is below, inquiring for the captain.

Abs. I '11 come instantly. — [Exit Servant.] Well, my little

hero, success attend you. [Going.

Acres. Stay — stay. Jack. — If Beverley should ask you what

kind of a man your friend Acres is, do tell him I am a devil of a
fellow — will you, Jack ?

148 THE RIVALS.

Ads, To be sure I shall. I '11 say you are a determined dog —
hey, Bob !

Acfrs, Ay, do, do- and if that frightens him, egad, perhaps he
may n't come. So tell him I generally kill a man a week ; will you.
Jack ?

A6s, 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 honor.

Aks. No ! — that 's very kind of you.

Acres, Why, you don't wish me to kill him — do you, Jack ?

Abs, No, upon my soul, I do not. — But a devil of a fellow, hey?

\Going^

Acres. True, true — but stay — stay, Jack — you may add that
you never saw me in such a rage before — a most devouring rage !

Abs. I will, I will.

Acres. Remember, Jack --a determined dog!

Abs. Ay, ay, FigJiiing Bob ! [Exeunt severally

Scene II. — Mrs. Malaprop's Lodgings.

]\Iks. Maeaprop atui Lvdia.

Mrs. J/ij/. Why, ihou perverse one! — tell me what you ca.
object to him? Isn't he a handsome man .^ — tell me that.
^^entecl man } a pretty figure of a man ?

Lyd. \^Asidc?\ She little thinks whom she is praising! — [Aloud. J
So is Beverley, ma'am.

Mrs, Mai, No caparisons, miss, if you please. Caparisons don't:

A COMEDY. 149

become a young woman. No ! Captain Absolute is indeed a fine
gentleman !

Lyd, Ay, the Captain Absolute ^^^ have seen. [Aside,

Mrs, MaL 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 pres-
ence 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 sta-
tion, like Harry Mercury, new — *' Something about kissing —
on a hill — however, the similitude struck me directly.

Lyd, How enraged she'll be presently, when she discovers her

mistake I {Aside,

Enter Servant.

Ser, Sir Anthony and Captain Absolute are below, ma*am.

Mrs, MaL Show them up here. — {Exit Servant.] Now, Lydia,
I insist on your behaving as becomes a young woman. Show your
good breeding, at least, though you have forgot your duty.

Lyd, Madam, I have told you my resolution ! — I shall not only
give him no encouragement, but I won't even speak to or look at
Kim. {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, MaL You have infinite trouble. Sir Anthony, in the affair.
I am ashamed for the cause! — {Aside to Lydia.] Lydia, Lydia,
rise, I beseech you ! — pay your respects !

ISO THE mtVALS.

Sir Amk. I hope, f rt a^ m . that Mm Languish hu reflected oq
the worth of thb gcntlenua, and the le^aid due to her aunt's
choice and my alliance. — \Atide t9 Cattaui Amollte.] Now,
Jack, fpeak to her.

A^. \AsuU.^ What the devil xhall I do! — \A1id4 /« SiK
AXTMOKV.} Yoti sec, itr, ^le won't even look at me whilst you are
here. — I knew she would n't t — I told j-on so. — Let me entreat y^ou,
•ir, to leave m together ! \SeaKX to exf^stmUtt -witk his/atker.

t.yd. \Atuit.'\ I wonder I h'an't beard my atmt exclaim yetl
tore abc can't have looked at him ! — perhaps their regimentals are
alike, and she is something blind.

Str Antk. I *ay, sir, I won't stir a foot yet !

Mrs. Mai. I am sorry to say, Sir Anthony, that my affluence over
my niece is very small. — [Atide to Lvdia.] Turn round, Lydia :
I blush lor 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 Authony, 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 pre-
dilection will be no bar to Jack's happiness. — [Aside to Captain
Absolute.] — Zounds ! sirrah ! why don't you speaki

/.yd. [Aside.] I think my lover seems as little inclined to
conversation as myself. — How strangely blind my aunt must
be!

A^s. Hem! hem! madam — hem! — [Attempts to speak, then
returns to Sir Anthony.] Faith ! sir. I am so confounded ! — and —

A COMEDY. 151

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 Aut/i, But it don't take away your voice, fool, does it ? — Go
up, and speak to her directly !

[Captain Absolute makes sigtis to Mrs. Malaprop to

leave them together,

Mrs, Mai. Sir Anthony, shall we leave them together ? — [Aside
to Lvdia.] Ah ! you stubborn little vixen !

Sir Antk, Not yet, ma'am, not yet ! — {Aside to Captain
Absolute.] What the devil are you at ? unlock your jaws, sirrah,
or

Abs. [Aside,"] Now Heaven send she may be too sullen to look
round! — I must disguise my voice. — [Draws near Lydia, and speaks
in a low /loarse tone,] Will not Miss Languish lend an ear to the
mild accents of true love ? Will not

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 mod-
esty, quite choke me!

Sir Anth. Ah ! your modesty again ! — I '11 tell you what, Jack ;
if you don't speak out directly, and glibly too, I shall be in such
a rage ! — Mrs. Malaprop, I wish the lady would favor 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 surprise at
present

Lyd. \A$ide^ Heavens I 't is Beverley's voice ! Sure he can't
have imposed on Sir Anthony too ! — [Looks round by degrees^ then

>«^T til

Mt. Ah! ta iC ••«. [Aside.

SirjMaL BE«cxI^f~(bedBva — IwerieyS—WTat can the girl
sen ■*— Hub m wq aon. |adb Afciuhln,

Jfrx. AU For ftoBi^ inaiT' f far ifanne ! jreor head nins so on
tioK ic9ow, dnc j«« kaic kia stv^s m jmtr eyes ! — beg Captain
AflBokite s puouB flHccAr,

Ljid. I 9ee M CaptaK Ahsofattc; bat mjr lored Beinerley !

Sir AmA Zamaitl Ifee pd** nad! — her brain's torned by

Jfn. S/al O* my CMo ao epce. I be&eTe So * — Wliat do you
mean by Bcreriey. bussy ? — You saw Captain Absolate before
to-diy , then; be is — yoor hmbond that sfaall be.

Lj/J. With all my soul, ma'am — when 1 refuse my Beverley

Sir AntA. Oh! she's as mad as Bedlam! — or has this fellow
been playing us a rogue's trick! — Come here, sirrah, who the
devil are you ?

Abs. Faith, sir, I am not quite clear myself ; but I "11 endeavor
to recollect.

Sir Anlk. Arc you my son or not? — answer for your mother,
you dog, if you won't for me.

Mrs. Mai. Ay, sir, who are you? Oh, mercy! I begin to
suspect ! —

Abs. [Aside.] Yc powers of Impudence, befriend me! — [A/oud.]
Sir Anthony, most assuredly I am your wife's son ; and that I sin-
cerely believe myself to be yours also, I hope my duty has always
dhown, — Mrs. Malaprop, I am your most respectful admirer, and
■hnll be proud to add affectionate nephew. — I need not tell my
Lydia that she sees her faithful Beverley, who, knowing the singu-

A COAfEDy. . 153

lar 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! [Sulleuly,

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 mod-
esijy 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 yowr penitence,
your duty and obedience ! — I thought it was damned sudden ! — You
never heard their names before^ not you! — ivhat the Languishes
^Worcestershire, hey.^ — if you could please me in the affair it
was all you desired I — Ah! you dissembling villain I — 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, *T is with difficulty, sir. — I am confused — very much con-
fused, as you must perceive.

Mrs, Mai. O 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 compilation of an old
wisather-beaten she-dragon — hey! — Oh, 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
f orgi ve ; — odds life! matters have taken so clever a turn all of a

154 THE RIVALS.

sudden, that I could find in my heart lo be 80 good-humored!
and so gallant ! hey ! Mrs. Malaprop !

Mrs. Mai. Well, Sir Anthony, since >tf« desire it, we will not
anticipate the past! — so mind, young people — our -retrospection
will be all to the future.

Sir Aiith. Come, we must leave thera together; Mrs. Malaprop,
they long to fly into each other's arms, I warrant! — Jack — isn't
the check as I said, hey? — and the eye, you rogue! — and the
lip — hey.' Come, Mrs. Malaprop. we'll not disturb their tender-
ness — theirs is the time of life for happiness! — Youth's the
season made for joy — XSingsl — hey! — Odds life! I'm in such
spirits, — I don't know what I could not do! — Permit me, ma'am —
[Gives kis hand lo Mrs. Malaproj-.] {Sittgs.'\ Tol-de-rol — 'gad, I
should like to have a little fooling myself — Tol-de-rol! de-rol,

[Exit, singing and handing Mrs. Malaprop. — Lydia sits
sulUntly in her chair.

Abs. \Asidc.'\ So much thought bodes me no good, — [A/oud.]
So grave, Lydia !

Lyd Sir!

Ads. [Aside.] So! — egad! I thought as much! — that damned
monosyllable has froze me! — [Aloud.'] What, Lydia, now that we
are as happy in our friends' consent, as in our mutual vows

Lyd. Friends' eonsent indeed I [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 licence ! — I hate licence I

A COMEDY. 155

Abs, Oh, my love ! be not so unkind ! — thus let me en-
treat [Kneeling,

Lyd, Psha ! — what signifies kneeling, when you know I mnst
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 spiril
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 treating me like a

child ! — humoring my romance ! and laughing, I suppose, at your

success ! «

Abs, You wrong me, Lydia, you wrong me — only hear

Lyd, So, while / fondly imagined we were deceiving my rela-
tions, and flattered myself that I should outwit and incense them
all — behold my hopes are to be crushed at once, by my aunt's
consent and approbation — and / am myself the only dupe at
last ! — [ Walking about in a heat,] But here, sir, here is the pic-
ture — 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 dif-
ference! — ay, there is the heavenly assenting smile that first gave
soul and spirit to my hopes! — those are the lips which sealed
a vow, as yet scarce dry in Cupid's calendar I and there the half-
resentful blush, that would have checked the ardor of my
thanks !^— Well, all that *s past ! — all over indeed !— There, madam —

f'-^tmAy, tbat copy is not equal to yuc, but in my mind its
■nerit over the origiml, in being still the same, is such —
that — I cannot find in my heait to port with iL [PtiU it up again.

Ljd. \Spfuning^ Tis jw^ tteM doing, sir — I — I — I suppose
yoa are perfectly satisfied.

Ats. Oh, most certainly — sure, now, this is tnoch betler than
being in love ! — ha ! ha t ba ! — there 's some spirit in tMs / — SVlax
■Ignifies breaking some uores of solemn promises: — all that's tS
no consequence, you know. — To be sure people will say thai
miss don't know her own mind — but never mind that .' Or,
perhaps, they may be ill-natured enough to hint that the gentle-
man grew tired of the lady and forsook her — but don't let that
iret you. >

Zyi/. There a no bearing his Insolence. [Bursts into tears.

Rc-Entcr Mrs. Malaprop and Sir Astiioky Absolute.

Mrs. Ma!. \Etttenng?^ Come, we must interrupt your billing
and cooing awhile.

Lyd. This is worse than your treachery and deceit, you base
ingrate ! \Sobbing.

Sir Anth. What the devil 's the matter now ! — Zounds. Mrs.
Malaprop, this is the oddest billing and coottig I ever heard! —
but what the deuce is the meaning of it.' — lam quite astonished!

Abs. Ask the lady, sir.

Mrs. Mai. Oh mercy! — I'm quite analyzed, for my part! —
Why, Lydia, what is the reason of this ?

Lyd, Ask the gentleman, ma'am.

Sir Aittk. Zounds! I shall be in a frenzy! — Why, Jack, you
arc not come out to be any one else, are you ?

Mrs, Mai. Ay, sir, there 's no more trick, is there ? — you are not
like Cerberus, three gentlemen at once, arc you ?

A COMEDY. 157

Abs, You *11 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 Lydia.

Mrs, Mai, Oh, mercy ! and miracles ! what a turn here is — why
sure, captain, you have n'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 't was so.

Mrs, Mai, O Lud ! Sir Anthony ! — Oh, fie, 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 im-
patient. — 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! [Pushes him out,

Mrs. MaL O ! Sir Anthony ! — Oh, fie, captain !

[Exeunt severally.

THE JUVALS.

Scnc lit — Tit XrrtA Pandt.

EmterSa. Lcavs OTkjccejl

Sir Lme. I vooder where Uiu Csptaio Abeulute hides himself !

aa Joy cnnscicnce ' these o&ixn are always io one's way in love

5 : — 1 rcaumber I might ha Buricu l^^l^Y p^j tfftthy {'arminc

had not been iar a little of a major, who ran away with

re she could get a tight (A me ! And I wonder too what it

e ladies can we in them lo be so fond of them — unlc&s it be a

)f the old serpent in 'era, that makes the little creatures be

, like vipers, with a bit of red cloth. Ha! isn't this the

».ptaiii coming .' — faith it is ! — There is a probability of succeeding

about that fellow that is mighty provoking ! Who the devil is he

talking to ? [Sufs aside.

Enter Captain Absolute.

Ab$. [Aside.] To what fine purpose I have been plotting! a noble

reward for all my schemes, upon my soul ! — a little gypsy ! — I did

not think her romance coutd have made her so damned absurd either.

'Sdeath, I never was in a worse humor in my life ! — I could cut my

own throat, or any other person's, with the greatest pleasure in the

world !

Sir Luc. Oh, faith ! I 'm in the luck of it. I never could have
found him in a sweeter temper for my purpose — to be sure I 'm just
come in the nick ! Now to enter into conversation with him, and so
quarrel genteelly. — [Gms up to Captain Absolute.] — With regard
to that matter, captain, I must beg leave to differ in opinion with
you.

Abs. Upon my word, then, you must be a very subtle disputant:
— because, sir, I happened just then to be giving no opinion
at all.

A COMEDY. 159

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 con-
troversy.

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 quar-
rel with me, I cannot conceive !

Sir Luc. I humbly thank you, sir, for the quickness of your
apprehension. — {Bowing.^ You have named the very thing I
would be at.

Abs. Ver)' well, sir ; I shall certainly not balk your inclinations.
— But I should be glad you would please to explain your motives.

Sir Luc. Pray sir, be easy ; — the quarrel is a very pretty quarrel
as it stands; — we should only spoil it by trying to explain it. —
However, your memory is very short, or you could not have forgot
an affront you passed on me within this week. — So, no more, but
name your time and place.

Abs. Well, sir, since you are so bent on it, the sooner the better ;
let it be this evening — here by the Spring Gardens. — \Vc 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 can never fight in peace and quietness.
However, if it *s the same to you, captain, I should take it as a par-
ticular kindness if you 'd let us meet in King's-Mcad-Fields, as a little

itfo

THE RIVALS.

buuneu will call mc there about six o'clock, and I may despatch
both matters at once.

. Ats. 'T is the same to mc 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 matter "s settled,
and my mind 's at case. [£xit Sir Lucius.

Enter I'aulklasd, rnteting Absolute.

M$^ Well met ! I was going to look for you. — O Faulkland ! all
- tlM demons of spite and dts:ippointmcnt have conspired against mc !
I'm to vexed, that jf I bad not the prospect of a resource in btiiig
Imocked o' the head by-and-by, I should scarce have spirits to tell you J

the cause. J

Fanlk. What can you mean ? — Has Lydla 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 -x=
love-eye was fixed on me, t "other, her eye of duty, was finely obliqued : z J
but when duty bid her point that the same way, off t'other turned i>s
on a swivel, and secured its retreat with a frown !

Faulk. But what 's the resource you

Abs. Oh, to wind up the whole, a good-natured Irishman here has^s.^ 43
— \MimUking Sir Llxius] — begged leave to have the pleasure ofio c
cutting my throat : and I mean to indulge him — that 's all

Faulk. Prithee, be serious I

Abs. 'Tis fact, upon my soul ! Sir Lucius O'Trigger — you kno*^«='»'
him by sight — for some affront, — which I am sure I never in.C"* 'Ji-
tended, has obliged me to meet him this evening at six o'clock : 't is S- is
on that account I wished to see you ; — yon must go with me.

Faalk. Nay, there must be some mistake, sure. Sir Lucius sha^^ ,

A COMEDY, l6l

explain himself, and I dare say matters may be accommodated. But
this evening did you say ? I wish it had been any other time.

Abs. Why } there will be light enough : there will (as Sir Lucius
says), " be very pretty small-sword light, though it will not do for a
long shot." Confound his long shots!

Faulk, But I am myself a good deal ruffled by a difference I have
had with Julia — my vile tormenting temper has made me treat her
so cruelly, that I shall not be myself till we are reconciled.

Abs, By heavens ! Faulkland, you don't deserve her !

Enter Servant, gives Faulkland a letter, and exit,

Faulk, O Jack! this is from Julia. I dread to open it! I fear
it maybe to take a last leave! — perhaps to bid me return her letters,
and restore oh, how I suffer for my folly !

Abs, Here, let me see. — \Takes the letter and opens it,] Ay, a
final sentence, indeed ! — 'tis all over with you, faith!

Faulk, Nay, Jack, don't keep me in suspense !

Abs, Hear then. — [Reads.] As I am convinced that my dear
Faulkland* s own rejections have already upbraided him for his last
unkindness to mCy I will not add a word on the subject, I wish to
speak with you as soon as possible. Yours ever and truly ^ Julia.
There's stubbornness and resentment for you! — [Gives him the
letter.] Why, man, you don't seem one whit the happier at this !

Faulk, Oh, yes, I am : but — but

Abs, Confound your buts ! you never hear anything that would
make another man bless himself, but you immediately damn it with
?ibut!

Faulk. Now, Jack, as you are my friend, own honestly — don't
you think there is something forward, something indelicate in this
haste to forgive? Women should never sue for reconciliation : that
should always come from us. They should retain their coldness till

i6j

"et flKBct^eSu!

il for ri&vle than

{wor#ed to k
•fiiMMight be

Ah. I have aoC
nft <ia)r no more on the
l>et me nee you before
hi'luMri'iUn devil like mc;
I'' Kdln my cndji^ and an at hit
MiMy )ri pity Ikt allowed to
«f»-|fn« 111 I'/vCf a flavc to
fl*-q liiif of hi» own creatii^isa

' M»M|»(fQ<;iM|| f

/'M/// I frcl hit reproaches; jct I woold aot dioiige this too

• •'|iiK:iN !))( rty for the gross content with vhidi kt tramples on the
iliMMi,, nf Imvi t MiM engaging me in this dod has started an idea

'•• "•. '" "1. ^'.I.mIi \ will instantly pursue. I'll use i: as the touch-
■'■'"■ "' ImIii'. '.ini'iiiy i\\v\ disinterestedness. If her love prove
I" •' I'iImi- iin. mv n.'ime will rest on it with honor ; and once

* ' H.ij.. .1 II Ml, ir, f i.iy aside my doubts forever! But if the
'* •' • >'• J'H. . i. ihr .illny of pride, predominate, 'twill be best to

'' * ' '•' • ■• ' » I'M l"i '."lur less cautious fool to sigh for!

[Exit Faulklaxd.

A COMEDY. 163

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 ? — O Faulkland ! — how
many unhappy moments — how many tears have you cost me.

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. O Julia, had I been so fortunate as to have called you
mine entirely, before this mischance had fallen on me, I should not
so deeply dread my banishment !

Jul. My soul is oppressed with sorrow at the nature of your mis-
fortune : 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 honor — 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 tcndcrest comforter.
Then on the bosom of your wedded Julia, you may lull your keen

l64 THE BIVALS,

rcfret to tlumbering ; while virtuoas lov^ wUh a Aerob's band, li
mooth the brow o( tqibnidiiig tboa|^ and plaAtiie tinira fi

FmM, O Julial I am bankntpt in gratitude I but the time is so
prawiag, it calls on yoa for so hasty a retolotioiL — Would you not
wiah lome bonrs to weigh the advantages you fcn^Oi and what little
compeosatioD poor Faulkland can msJce yon 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 sc^emn engagement
, which 40 long has pledged us to each other,.it is because it leava no
room for hard aspersions on my fame, and pots the seal of duty to
an act of love. But let us not linger. Perhaps this^elay

FauU. 'Twill be better I should not venture out again till daik.
Yet am I grieved to think what numberless distresses will press
heavy on your gentle disjMJsition !

y«/. Perhaps your fortune may be forfeited by this unhappy act.
— I know not whether 't is 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 prid^,
perhaps may increase the natural fretfulness of my temper, till C
become a rude, morose companion, beyond your patience to endure^-
Perhaps the recollection of a deed my conscience cannot justify ma;.^
haunt me in such gloomy and unsocial fits, that I shall hate WimrX
tenderness that woidd relieve me, break from your arms, and quarrw-^
with your fondness !

Jul. If your thoughts should assume so unhappy a bent, you \ivll
the more want some mild and affectionate spirit to watch overai»(/
console you : one who, by bearing your infirmities with gentleness
and resignation, may teach you so to bear the evils of your fortune

A COMEDY. I6S

Faulk. Julia, I have proved you to the quick ! and with this use-
less device I throw away all my doubts. How shall I plead to be
forgiven this last unworthy effect of my restless, unsatisfied dis-
position ?

JtiL 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 ! — thnt 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, ray grateful duty, as well as my affection : hence
I have been content to bear from you what pride and delicacy would
have forbid me from another. I will not upbraid you by repeating
how you have trifled with my sincerity

Faulk. I confess it all I yet hear

////. After such a year of trial,.! might have flattered myself that
I should not have been insulted with a new probation of my sin-
cerity, as cruel as unnecessary 1 I now see it is not in your nature
to be content or confident in love. With this conviction — I never

1 66 THE RIVALS.

will be yours. While I had hopes that my persevering attention
and unreproaching kindness might in time reform your temper, I
should have been happy to have gained a dearer influence over you ;
but I will not furnish you with a licensed power to keep alive an
incorrigible fault at the expense of one who never would contend
with you.

Faulk, Nay, but Julia, by my soul and honor, if after this

JuL But one word more. — As my faith has once been given to
you, I never will barter it with another. — I shall pray for your
happiness with the truest sincerity ; and the dearest blessing I
can ask of Heaven to send you will be to charm you from that
unhappy temper which alone has prevented the performance of
our solemn engagement. — All I request of you is, that you will
yourself reflect upon this infirmity, and when you number up the
many true delights it has deprived you of, let it not be your Uasi
regret, that it lost you the love of one — who would have followed
you in beggary through the world ! {Exit

Faulk, She's gone — forever! — There was an awful resolutior
in her manner, that riveted me to my place. — O fool! — dolt! —
barbarian ! Cursed as I am, with more imperfections than m)
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 nov
haste to my appointment. Well, my mind is tuned for such \
scene. I shall wish only to become a principal in it, and reverse
the tale, my cursed folly put me upon forging here. — O Love
— tormentor! — fiend! — whose influence, like the moon's, actinj
on men of dull souls, makes idiots of them, but, meeting subtle:
spirits, betrays their course and urges sensibility to madness !

\Exii

A COMEDY. 167

Enter Lydia and Maid.

Maid. My mistress, ma am, I know, was just here now — perhaps
she is only in the next room. [Exit Maid.

Lyd. Heigh-ho! Though he has used me so, this fellow runs
strangely in my head. I believe one lecture from my grave cousin
will make me recall him. [Re-enter Julia.] O Julia, I am come to
you with such an appetite for consolation. — Lud ! child, what 's the
matter with you } You have been crying ! — I '11 be hanged if that
Faulkland has not been tormenting you !

Jul. You mistake the cause of my uneasiness! — Something has
flurried me a little. Nothing that you can guess at. — [Aside."] I
would not accuse Faulkland to a sister !

Lyd. Ah I whatever vexations you may have, I can assure you
mine surpass them. You know who Beverley proves to be i

Jul. I will now own to you, Lydia, that Mr. Faulkland had before
informed me of the whole affair. Had young Absolute been the
person you took him for I should not have accepted your confi-
dence on the subject, without a serious endeavor to counteract
your caprice.

Lyd. So, then, I see I have been deceived by every one! But
I don't care — I '11 never have him.

Jul. Nay, 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 becoming a disguise! — so ami-
able a ladder of ropes! — Conscious moon — four horses — Scotch
parson — with such surprise to Mrs. Malaprop — and such para-
graphs in the newspapers! — Oh, I shall die with disappointment.

Jul, I don't wonder at it 1

168 T//E RIVALS,

Lyd, Now — s?.(l reverse! — what have I to expect, but, after a
deal of flimsy preparations with a bishop's licence, and my aunt's
blessing, to go simpering up to the altar ; or perhaps be cried three
times in a country church, and have an unmannerly fat clerk ask the
consent of every butcher in the parish to join John Absolute and
Lydia Languish, spinster ! Oh that I should live to hear myself
called Spinster !

JiiL 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 I-V 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 ardor! — Ah,
Julia, that was something like being in love.

Jul. If I were in spirits, Lydia, I should chide you only by laugh-
ing heartily at you ; but it suits more the situation of my mind, al
present, earnestly to entreat you not to let a man, who loves yoi
with sincerity, suffer that unhappiness from your caprice, which 1
know too well caprice can inflict.

Lyd. O Lud ! what has brought my aunt here ?

Enter Mrs. Malaprop, Fag, and David.
Mrs. Mai. So! so! here's fine work ! — here's fine suicide, par
ricide, and simulation, going on in the fields! and Sir Anthony not
to be found to prevent the antistrophe !

Jul. For Heaven's sake, madam, what 's the meaning of this ?
Mrs, Mai. That gentleman can tell you — *t was he enveloped thi
affair to me.

A COMEDY. 169

Lyd. Do, sir, will you, inform us ? [To Fag.

Fag, Ma'am, I should hold myself very deficient in every requi-
site that forms the man of breeding, if I delayed a moment to give
all the information in my power to a lady so deeply interested in the
affair as you are.

Lyd. But quick ! quick, sir !

Fag. True, ma'am, as you say, one should be quick in divulging
matters of this nature ; for should .we be tedious, perhaps while we
are flourishing on the subject, two or three lives may be lost !

Lyd, O patience ! — Do, ma'am, for Heaven's sake ! tell us what
is the matter ?

Mrs, Mai, Why, murder *s the matter ! slaughter 's the matter !
killing 's the matter! — but he can tell you the perpendiculars.

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 anything was to happen to — a very pretty behaved
gentleman ! We have lived much together, and always on terms.

Lyd, But who is this } who } who } who }

Fag, My master, ma'am — my master — I speak of my master.

Lyd, Heavens ! What, Captain Absolute !

Mrs, Mai. Oh, to be sure, you arc frightened now !
Jul. 3ut 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

J70

THE RIVALS.

on. Folks don't use to meet for amusement with firearms, firelocks,
fire-engines, fire-screens, firc-oflicc, and the devil knows what other
crackers beside \ — This, my lady, I say, has an angry bvor.

Jid. But who is there beside Captain Absolute, friend ?

Daw M y poor J iaster — under favor for mentioning; him finsL
You know me, my lady — I am D3\'id — and my master of course.
is, or was, SaukcAcr cs. Then comes Squire Faulkland.

Jui Uo, ma'am, let us instantly endeavor to prevent mischief,

Mrs. Mai. O fie ! — it would be very inelegant in us : — we should
only participate things.

An", Ah! do, Mrs, Aunt, save a few lives — they are desperately
given, believe me, — Alcove all, there is that blood-thirsty Philistine,
Sir Luciii'S O'Triggcr.

Mn. Mai. Sir Lucius O'Trigger ? O mercy ! have they drawn
poor little dear Sir Lucius into the scrape? — Why, how you stand,
girl I you have no more ffcling than one of the Derbj
factions !

Lyd. What are we to do, madam .'

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 wil l ■"htjir t us. — Come,
sir, you're our envoy — lead the way, and we'll precede.

Fag. Not a step before the ladies for the world!

Airs. Mai. You 're sure you know the spot ,'

Fag. I think I can find it, ma'am ; and one good thing is, we sbal'
hear the report of the pistols as wc draw near, so we can't well mis
them ; — never fear, ma'am, never fear. [Exeunt, lie talkin.

A COMEDY. 17'

Scene II. — The South Parade.

Enter Captain Absolute, putting his sword under his great coat.
Abs. A sword seen in the streets of Bath would raise as great an
alarm as a mad dog. — How provoking this is in Faulkland ! — never
punctual ! I shall be obliged to go without him at last. — Oh, the
devil ! here *s Sir Anthony ! — how shall I escape him ?

\AInfflcs up his face y 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 honor — ^my name is Saundcrson,
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 ? — hey !

Abs, 'Tis cool sir; isn't it? — 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 arc going ?

Abs. Going, sir!

Sir Anth. Ay, — where are you going ?

17- THE RIVALS'.

SirAMtk. Yon wiBMnperiy ptqipf I

^Uk I «u goiBfr rir, to— to— tD— 1» tjpda— aCr, to Lydia
—to make matten iqi if I fould; — and I was lookiiq; ibr jron,
rir, to— to—

SirAmtk. To go vith jroi^ I aoppoae — W^ coom dung.

Att. Obi Zouadtl ao, air. not for the wstUl — I wiahed to
meet whh yon, air.«-to — to — to— You And it ooid. I'm tur^
air— ^Nt'd better not auy oat

StrAuOk. Cooll— not at aa— Wcfl, Jade— and what wiD you
aay to LydiaF

. Ait. Cfb, ^, beg ber pardon, humor her — ptomiae and vov:
but I detain you, sir — coouder the cdd air on your goat

SirAMtk. Oh, not at aSI — not at altl I'm in no hony.-
Ah ! Jack, you youngsters, when once you are wounded here [Put-
ting his hand to Caftain Absolute's brcasl.\ Hey ! what the deuce
have you got here?

Abs. Nothing, sir — nothing.

Sir Anth. What 's this ? — here 's something damned hard.

Abs. Oh, trinkets, sir! trinkets! — a bauble for Lydia!

Sir Anth. Nay, let me see your taste. — [Pulls his coat open, the
sword falls.] Trinkets! — a bauble for Lydia! — Zounds! sirrah,
you are not going to cut her tJiroat, 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 isavcry diverting trinket, truly!

Abs. Sir, I'll explain to you. — You know, sir, Lydia is ro*nan-
tic, devilish romantic, and very absurd of course : now, sir, I intend,
if she refuses to forgive me, to unshcath this sword, and swear
■^I'll fall upon its point, and expire at her feet!

A COAfEDV. 173

Sir Anth, Fall upon a fiddlestick's end! — why, I suppose it is
the very thing that would please her. — Get along, you fool !

Abs. Well, sir, you shall hear of my success — you shall hear.
— O Lydia ! — forgive mcy or this pointed steel — says I.

Sir Anth. O^ 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! — O Sir Anthony — call! call! bid *m stop! Mur-
der ! fire !

Sir Anth, Fire ! Murder ! — Where }

Dav. Oons ! he *s out of sight ! and I 'm out of breath ! for my
part ! O Sir Anthony, why did n't you stop him } why did n't you
stop him }

Sir Anth. Zounds ! the fellow ^s mad ! — Stop whom } stop
Jack }

Dav, Ay, the captain, sir! — there's murder and slaughter

Sir Anth, Murder !

Dav, Ay, please you, Sir Anthony, there's all kinds of 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, Everybody that I know of. Sir Anthony: — everybody is
Soing to fight, my poor master. Sir Lucius O'Trigger, your son,
^hc captain

Sir Anth. Oh, the dog ! — I sec his tricks. — Do you know
^Hc place?

DaiK King's-Mead-Fields.

Sir Anth, You know the way ?

Dav. Not an inch; but I '11 call the mayor — aldermen — consta-

174 THE RIVALS.

bles — churchwardens — and beadles — wc can't be too many to
part them.

SirAnih. Come along— give me you* shoulder I we'll get
assistance as we go — the lying villain — Well, I shall be in such
a frenzy-1 — So — this was the history of his trinkets I 1 11 bauble
I [Exeunt

Scene lU.—Kin^sMiod-Fields.

Enter Sir Lucius OTrigger and Acres, wiik pieUls.

Acres. li>i my valor t then, Sir. Lucius^ forty yards is a good
distance. Odds levels and aims! — I say it is a good distance.

Sir Luc. Is it for muskets or small field-pieces? Upon my con-
science, Mr. Acres, you must leave those things to mc — Stay now
— I '11 show . you. — [Measures paces along iki x/e^.] There now,
that is a very pretty distance — a pretty gentleman's distance.

Acres. Zounds! we might as well fight in a sentxy-box! I tell
you, Sir Lucius, the farther he is off, the cooler I sludt take my aim.

Sir Luc, Faith ! then I suppose you would aim at him best of all
if he was out of sight !

Acres, Xo, Sir Lucius ; but I should think forty or eight-and-
thirty yards

Sir Luc. The* ! \)\\o ! nonsense ! three or four feet between tht
mouths of your pistols is as good as a mile.

Acres, Odds bullets, no! — by my valor! there is no merit v.
killing him so near : do, my dear Sir Lucius, let me bring him dow
at a long shot : — a long shot, Sir Lucius, if you love me !

Sir I^uc. Well, the gentleman's friend and I must settle that.
But tell me now, Mr. Acres, in case of an accident, is there any litt ^ '^
will or commission I could execute for you ?

A COMEDY. 175

Acres, I am much obliged to you, Sir Lucius — but I don*t under-
stand

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 tremors!
Sir Lucius, don't talk so !

Sir Luc. I suppose, Mr. Acres, you never were engaged in an
affair of this kind before }

Acres, No, Sir Lucius, never before.

Sir Luc, Ah ! that 's a pity — there *s nothing like being used to a
thing. — Pray now, how would you receive the gentleman's shot }

Acres. Odds files! — I've practised that — there. Sir Lucius —
there. — [^Puts hivisclf in an attitude^ A side-front, hey ? Odd !
I '11 make myself small enough : I *11 stand edgeways.

Sir Luc, Now — you're quite out — for if you stand so when I
take my aim [Lerc//in/f at hint.

Acres. Zounds I Sir Lucius — arc you sure it is not cocked }

Sir I^uc, Never fear.

Acres. But — but — you don't know — it may go off of its own
head !

Sir I^uc. Pho ! be easy. — Well, now if I hit you in the body my
bullet has a double chance — for if it misses a vital part of your right
side — 'twill be very hard if it don't succeed on the left !

THE RIVALS.

Acres. A vital jjart !

Sir Lnc. But, there — fix yourself so — \_placing Am] — let him
see the broadside of your full front ^thcre — now a ball or two may
pass clean through )our body, and never do any harm at all,

Atres. Clean through mc ! — a ball or two clean through mc !

Sir Lhc. Ay — may they — ami tt is much the gcnteelest atti-
tude into the bargain.

Acres. Lookoc ! Sir Lucius — ^ I 'd just as licvc l>c shot in an
Ewkward posture as a genteel one — so, by my valor! 1 will stand
edgeways.

Sir Luc, [Looking at Ais wir/cji,] Sure they don't mean to disap-
point U9 — Hah! — no, faith — I ibink I see them coming.

Acres. Hey ! — what ! — coming!

Sir Lue. Ay, — Who are those yonder getting over the slilc ?

Acres. There arc two of them indeed ! — well — let them come —
hey. Sir Lucius I — wc — wc — we — we — won't run.

Sir Luc. Rim !

Acres. No — I say — we won't run, by my valor [

Sir Luc. What the devil 's the matter with you ?

Acres. Nothing — nothings my dear friend — my dear Sir Luc5_
— but I — I — I don't feel quite so bold, somehow, as I did.

Sir Luc. O fie! — consider your honor.

Acres. Ay — true — my honor. Do, Sir Lucius, edge in aw «:rz^
or two every now and then about my honor.

Sir Luc. Well, here they 're coming. \Loot x' .i^'-'i

Acres. Sir Lucius — if I wa'n't with you, I should almost tt»£ ^k
I was afraid. — If my valor should leave me! — Valor will coTXie
and go.

Sir Luc. Then pray keep it fast, while you have it.
Acres. Sir Lucius — I doubt it is going — yes — my valor is cer-

A COMEDY, 177

tainly going ! — it is sneaking off! — I feel it oozing out as it were,
at the palms of my hands !

Sir Luc. Your honor — your honor. — Here they are.

Acres. O mercy ! — now — that I was safe at Clod- Hall ! or could
be shot before I was aware !

Enter Faulkland and Captain Absolute.

Sir Luc. Gentlemen, your most obedient. — Hah ! — what, Cap-
.tain 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 gen-
tleman 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. Faulk-
land ; 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 cantankerous as to spoil the party by sitting out.

Abs. O 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 licvc let it
alone.

Sir Luc. Observe me, Mr. Acres — I must not be trifled with.

178

THE RtrALS.

Von have — ceruinly clulleaged somebody — and you came here to
li};lt( him. — Ni>w, if thai gcDtlcnun is willing to represent btni —
I can't »ce, lot mjr sool, why it is n't just the same thing.

Acres. Why no — Sir Lucius — I tell you 't is one Beverley I 'v«
chaltenged — a fellow, you sec, that dare not show his face! — li kt
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. — Thv penon who assumed that name is before
you ; and as bis pretensions are the same in both characters, be is
ready to sup]x>rt them in whatever way you please.

Sir Ltu. Weil, this is lucky. — Now you have an opportunity

Acres. What, quarrel with my dear friend Jack Absolute? not if
he were fifty Bcverleys ! Zounds ! Sir Lucius, you would not have
me so unnatural.

Sir Luc. Upon my conscience, Mr. Acres, your valor 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 guieius you may
command me entirely. I '11 get you stiug lying in the Abbey here ;
or pickle you, and send you over to Blunderbuss-Hall, or anything of
the kind, with the greatest pleasure.

Sir Luc. Pho ! plio ! you are little better than a coward.

Acres. Mind, gentlemen, he calls me a coward; coward was the
word, by my valor.

Sir Luc. Well, sir ?

Acres. Look 'cc, Sir Lucius, 't is n't that I mind the word coward
— coivard may be said in joke — But if you had called me z. poltroon,
odds daggers and balls

Sir Luc. Well, sir?

Acres. 1 should have thought you a very ill-bred man.

^ r\

A COMEDY, 179

Sir Luc, Pho ! you are beneath my notice.

Abs, Nay, Sir Lucius, you can't have a better second than my
friend Acres — He is a most determined dog — called in the country
Fighting Bob, — He generally kills a man a week — don't you, Bob ?

Acres. Ay — at home !

Sir Luc, Well, then, captain, 'tis we must begin — so come out,
my little counsellor — [Draws his sword] — and ask the gentleman
whether he will resign the lady without forcing you to proceed
against him ?

Abs. Come on then, sir — [Draws] \ since you won't let it be an
amicable suit, here 's my reply.

Enter Sir Anthony Absolute, David, Mrs. Malaprop, Lvdia,

and Julia.

Dav, Knock 'em all down, sweet Sir Anthony ; knock down
my master in particular; and bind his hands over to their good
behavior !

Sir Anth. 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 ; 't was
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, without
explaining your reasons?

Sir Luc, Your son, sir, insulted me in a manner which my honor
could not brook.

Ito THE KtVALS^

Sir Aatk ZoDfkife ! Jack, bow dant voa mstUt the centlonaa in

a nunocr which hb booor ceald oat bnMik?

Mn. Mai. Come, raiDe, let's bare no boaor bc(are Udies —
Captain Absolute, come here — How could yoa intimidAte us ao ? —
Here '« LydU baa bccD tcnifiod to death for j'oa

Ah. For fear I aboukl be killed, or escape, nu'am f

Mr*. Mai. Nay, no dclusuMis to the past — Lydta is cooviitcal;
qicak, child.

Sir Liu. With your leave, ma'am, I must put in a word here —
I believe I could interpret the yuung lady's silence. — Xovr mark

Lyd. What is ii you mean, sir?

Sir Luf. Come, cumc, Delia, we roost be serious now — this is
no time for trilling.

Lyd. 'T is Imc, sir ; and yunr rcprooE bids me o0cr this gcntlc-
maii my Iiaufl, .nni vulki! thi; rL'Hirn nf liis afffclinns.

Abs. O ! my little angel, say you so .' — Sir Lucius — I perceive
there must be some mistake here, with regard to the affront which
you affirm I have given you. I can only say that it could not have
been intentional. And as you must be convinced that I should not
fear to support a real injury — you shall now see that I am not
ashamed to atone for an inadvertency — I ask your pardon. — But
for this lady, while honored with her approbation, I will support my
claim against any man whatever.

Sir Audi. Well said, Jack, and I '11 stand by you, my boy.

Acres. Mind, I give up all my claim — I make no pretensions to
anything in the world — and if I can't get a wife without fighting for
her, by my valor ! I '11 live a bachelor.

Sir Luc. Captain, give mc yoiir hand — an affront handsomely
acknowledged becomes an obligation ; — and as for the lady — if she
cliouscs to deny her own handwriting, here [Takes out letters.

_ r^

A COMEDY. l8l

Mrs. Mai, O, he will dissolve my mystery! — Sir Lucius, per-
haps there's some mistake, — perhaps I can illuminate

Sir Luc. Pray, old gentlewoman, don*t interfere where you have
no business. — Miss Languish, arc you my Delia, or not ?

Lyd. Indeed, Sir Lucius, I am not.

[ Walks aside with Captain Absolute.

Mrs, Ma L 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, MaL Why, thou barbarous Vandyke — those letters are
mine — When you are more sensible of my benignity — perhaps I
may be brought to encourage your addresses.

Sir Luc, Mrs. Malaprop, I am extremely sensible of your conde-
scension ; and whether you or Lucy have put this trick on me, I am
equally beholden to you. — And to show you I am not ungrateful.
Captain Absolute, since you have taken that lady from me, I '11 give
you my Delia into the bargain.

Abs, I am much obliged to you, Sir Lucius ; but here 's my
friend. Fighting Bob, unprovided for.

Sir Luc, Hah ! little Valor — here, will you make your for-
tune }

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 Anih. Come, Mrs. Malaprop, don't be cast down — you are in
your bloom yet.

Mrs. Mai. O Sir Anthony — men are all barbarians.

\All retire but Julia and Faulkland.

Jul. {Aside.'lYit, seems dejected and unhappy — not sullen; there

was some foundation, however, for the tale he told me — O woman I

THE MJfALS^

how true sliotiU be yoor jadcmcot. vliea ymt reaolution u so

weak.'

FmUt, JoHal — bow cas I sue for wfaal I so Ultk deserve?
I dan: not prooiDe — yet Hope U the ehDd of iVautc;ice.

Jui. Oh! Faulkland, yoa have not been luore taulty in your
unkttid treatment of me, than f an now in wanting indinatioD t»
resent il. A» my heart honcsUy bids ne pUce my weakness to thu
account of love, 1 tbouM be ungenerous not to admit the same plea
for yours,

J-'auli. Now I shall be blest tndeetl !

SirAnfA. [Oming^ //roan/.] What 's going on here ? — So )-oo
bnvc been quarrclIiDg too, I warrant ! — Come, Julia, I never iater-
fercd before ; but let mc ba\'e a hand in the matter at last. — All the
fault I have ever seen in my friend Faulkland seemed to proceed
from what he calls the delicacy and warmth of his affection for you.
— There, marry him directly, Julia ; you "11 find he '11 mend surpris-
ingly ! [T/ie rest cotue 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 suc-
ceed better

Acres. Vou are riyht, Sir Lucius. — So Jack, I wish you joy — Mr.
Faulliland the same. — Ladies, — come now, to show you I 'ni neither
vexed nor an_^ry, otitis tabors ant! pipes ! I '11 order the fiddles in half
an hour to the \ew Rooms — and I insist on your all meeting nic
there.

Sir Aiit/i. 'Gad ! .sir, I like your spirit ; and at night we single
lads will drink a liealth to llic jouny couples, and a husband to Mrs.
Mala prop.

J\iii!i:. Our parlncTs arc stolen from u.s, Jack — I hope to be con-

^ r^

A COMEDY, 183

gratulated by each other — yotirs 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 candor,
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 the
sweets of love ; with this difference only, that you always prepared the
bitter cup for yourself, while /

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
colors which are too bright to be lasting.— When hearts deserving
happiness would unite their fortunes, Virtue would crown them with
an unfading garland of modest hurtless flowers ; but ill-judging Pas-
sion will force the gaudier rose into the wreath, whose thorn offends
them when its leaves are dropped I [Exeunt ontnes.

EPILOGUE.
BY TUB AtrmoR.

SfOKES n «H£. BCIXLET.

LADtcs, for j«D — 1 besrd our poet say —

He 'd tr}- to coax some Mwm/fnnn his play :

" One moral'* pJaiu," cried I, •* without more fuss-

Throuyii all llic Jiania — ulicCiiei' liamnd or not —

Love giids the scene, and ivoineit guide thep/oi.

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 ; bat first he '11 ask his wi/e :
John Trot, his friend, for once will do the same,
But then — he '11 just step home to tcU his dame.

The surly Squire at noon resolves to rule,
And half the day — Zounds! madam is a fool!
Convinced at night, the vanquish'd victor says,
Ah, Kate! you women have such coaxing ways !

ThcypZ/j' Tti/rr chides each tardy blade,
Tilt reeling Bacchus calls on Love for aid :
Then with each toast he sees fair bumpers swim.
And kisses Cliloc on the sparkling brim !
1S4

EPILOGUE. I8S

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 viewd the fuistress^ 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 lov 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 ttiumph 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 honor steeVd 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,

THE mVALS.

Till pHliah'd Wit more lasting cUarius disclose.
And Judgment fix the d^iits which Beauty throw

In funiale breasts did sense and merit rule,
The lover's mind would ask no oilier scbot^ ;
Shamed into sense, the scholars of our eyes,
Our beaux from gallautry would soon be wise ;
Would gladly liiiht, their homage to improve,
The lamp of Knowledge at the torch of Love 1

THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL.

^ /"^

THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL.

TTARLY in the spring of 1776 Richard Brinsley Sheridan suc-
'^^-^ ceeded David Garrick as the manager of Drury Lane Theatre.
Within a little more than a year Sheridan had brought out the 'Rivals/
a comedy in five acts, *St. Patrick's Day,' a farce in one act, and the
* Duenna/ an opera in three acts. Great expectations were excited by
the announcement of his first play at his own theatre. The produc-
tion of the 'Trip to Scarborough' in February, 1777, was only a
temporary disappointment, for it was soon noised abroad that a more
important comedy in five acts was in preparation. At last, on May
8, 1777, the ' School for Scandal ' was acted for the first time on any
stage.

Garrick had read the play, and he thought even more highly of it
than he had thought of Mrs. Sheridan's 'Discovery* many years
before. He aided the author with much practical advice, and volun-
teered to write the prologue, a form of composition for which his
lively fancy and neat versification were particularly suited. The
great hopes excited for the comedy barely escaped disappointment —
for on the night before the first performance, as Sheridan told the
House of Commons many years later, he was informed that it could
not be performed, as a license was refused. It happened at this time
there was the famous city contest for the office of chamberlain,

189

■9° THE SCHOOL FOR SCAXDAU

between Wilkes and llopklrs. The bllcr hail been charged with
some practices simiUr to those o( Afgsts. the Jew, in lending mocey
to young men under age, and it was supposed that the character of
the play wa» levelled at him, in order to injure him in his contest, in
which be was supported by the mtni&terial interest. In the warmth
of a coDtcsted election, the piece was represented as a ^ctious and
seditioas opposition to a court candidate. We, however, went to Lord
Hertford, then lord chambcrUin, who bughcd at the affair and gave
the licence. Sheridan told l-ord Byron that the next night, after
the grand success of the ' School for Scandal * he was knocked down
and taken to the wntch-housc, for making a row in the street, and
being found intoxicated by the watchman.

Perhaps thi» was only a bit of Hibernian h)-pcrbo1c, though a
man's heail mi^ht well reel under a triumph so ovcrwhclminjj. There
seems to have been hardly a dissenting voice. Merry — Della-
Cruscan Merry, the future husband of Miss Brunton, who, under his
name, was afterward the leading actress of America — did, it is true,
object to the great scandal-scene. " Why do not the dramatis
fersofia," he said, ".stop talking, and let the play go on?" The
comedy was a snccess from the rising of the curtain, but it was the
falling of the screen — although Garrick thought the actors stood a
little too long without moving — which raised the audience to the
highest degree of enthusiasm. Reynolds, the dramatist, relates that
as he was passing about nine on this evening through the pit-passage,
" I heard such a tremendous noise over my head that, fearing the
theatre was proceeding to fall about it, I ran for my life ; but found
the next morning that the noise did not arise from the falling of the
house, but from the falling of the screen in the fourth act, so violent
and tumultuous were the applause and laughter."

The singular success of the 'School for Scandal' seems to have

INTRODUCTION. IQI

been greatly aided by the unusual excellence of the acting. Charles
Lamb says, " No piece was ever so completely cast in all its parts as
this manager's comedy." The characters fitted the actors as though
they had been measured for them ; as, indeed, they had. Sheridan
chose his performers, and modified his play, if needed, to suit their
peculiarities, with the same shrewdness that he showed in all such
matters. When reproached with not having written a love-scene for
Charles and Maria^ he said that it was because neither Mr. Smith
nor Miss P. Hopkins (who played the parts) was an adept at stage
love-making. King, the original Lord Ogleby in the 'Clandestine
Marriage' — a part written by Garrick for himself — was Sir Peter ^
and Mrs. Abington was Lady Teazle, No one was better suited than
John Palmer, from whom Sheridan may well have derived some hints
oi Joseph Surface; Boaden relates a characteristic interview between
him and the manager, when he returned to the theatre after an
escapade. "My dear Mr. Sheridan," began the actor, with clasped
hands and penitent humility, " if you could but know what I feel at
this moment here!** laying one hand upon his heart. Sheridan, with
his usual quickness, stopped him at once : " Why, Jack, you forgot /
wrote it ! " Palmer declared that the manager s wit cost him some-
thing, " for I made him add three pounds per week to the salary I
had before my desertion." The other actors were hardly inferior to
King and Palmer. Parsons, afterward the original Sir Fretful
Plagiary^ was Crabtree ; and Dodd, who has been called ** the Prince
of Pink Heels and Soul of Empty Eminence," was Sir Benjamin
Backbite. The various characters fitted the actors who played them
with the most exact nicety ; and the result was a varied and harmo-
nious performance of the entire comedy. The acting showed the
smoothness, and the symmetry, and the due subordination of the
parts to the whole, which is the highest, and, alas ! the rarest of

19* THE SCHOOL FQM XANDAL.

draraalic ezccDcncec Wilpate has noted thai there were more
parts better pbycd in the 'School lor Scandal ' than be almost ever
ronenibcnd to have seco in any other pUj; and CharW Lamb
tbou-iit it "wme compensaiun for growiae old. to have «en the
'School for Scandal ' in its glor^-."

Dr. Watkins, rn hi< unnecessary biography of Sheridan, $aw fit
to insinuate therein that Sheridan was not the real author of the
'School for Scandal,' hot that it was the composition of a yoong
lady, daughter of a merchant in Thames Street, who had left it
with Sheridan for his judgment as a manager, "soon after which
the fair writer, who was then in a «iaie of decline, went to Bristol
Hot-WcUs, where she died."

Pope well knew Ihe l)*pe to which this Dr. Watkins belonged
("with him most authors steal thdr works or buy ; Garth did not
write his own 'Dispensary'"); and the story which Pope crippled,
as if by anticipation, Moore readily brought to ground by the publi-
cation of the earlier and inchoate suggestions from which Sheridan
finally formed the finished play. With the evidence of these grow-
ing and gathering fragments before us, we can trace the inception of
the idea, and the slow accretion by which it got rounded at last into
its present complex symmetry. Moore fills page after page of his
Life of Sheridan with extracts from the notes and drafts of two dis-
tinct plays — one containing the machinery of the scandalous college,
to have been called possibly the ' Slanderers,' and the other setting
before us the Tcasla and the Surfaces. This latter was, perhaps,
the two-act comedy which Sheridan announced to Mr. Linley in
1775, as being in preparation for the stage. The gradual amalga-
mation of these two distinct plots, the growth of the happy thought
of using the malevolent tittle-tattle of the first play as a background
to set off the intrigues of the second, can be clearly traced in the

^ r^

INTRODUCTION, I93

extracts given by Moore. In the eyes of some small critics this
revelation of Sheridan's laborious method of working, this exhibition
of the chips of his workshop has had a lowering effect on their
opinion of Sheridan's ability. It is, perhaps, his own fault, for he
affected laziness and sought the reputation of an off-hand wit. But
the * School for Scandal ' is obviously not a spontaneous improvisa-
tion. It is not labored, for its author had the art to conceal art, but
its symmetrical smoothness and perfect polish cost great labor. It
did not spring full armed from the brain of Jove. Jove was a god, and
mere mortals must cudgel their poor brains long years to bring forth
wisdom. No masterpiece was ever dashed off hurriedly. The power
of hard work, and the willingness to take pains, are among the attri-
butes of the highest genius. Balzac had them ; he spent the whole
of one long winter night on a single sentence. So had Sheridan ; he
told Ridgv/ay, to whom he had sold the copyright of this very play,
and who asked for the manuscript again and again in vain, that he
had been for nineteen years endeavoring to satisfy himself with the
style of the 'School for Scandal,' but had not yet succeeded. A
diamond of the first water, like this, is worth careful cutting — and
even the chips are of value. Those given to the world by Moore are
curious in themselves, independent of their use in disproving the
charge of literary larceny preferred by Dr. Watkins.

Since the publication of these extracts, those who seek to dis-
credit Sheridan's originality have shifted their ground, and content
themselves with drawing attention to the singular similarity of
Joseph and Charles to Tom Jones and Blifil, They also remark upon
the likeness of the scandal-scene to the satirical episode of the
* Misanthrope ' of Moliire, and on the likeness of Joseph Surface to
Tarinffe, M. Taine, who seems sometimes to speak slightingly of
Sheridan, puts this accusation into most effective shape : " Sheridan

■94 THE SCHOOL FOX SCASfDAL.

took two chanclen from Fielding, BHfit and T*m J9»es, two plays
<A Moli«re. * Le Miunthropbc ' and ' TartufFe,' and Uom bti ptussant
materials, condensed with admirable cicvxrncss, be has constructed
the moKt brilUaot fireworks imaginable."

A glance al the play itself will show this to be a most exaggerated
•tatemcnt The use of Molicre and Fielding is far slighter than
alleged, and at moit to what does it all amount } But little more
than the outline and faint colonng of two characters, and of a ven-
few tnddenta. While the jiUy cuuM not exist without them, they
are far from the most important. Lady TeasU and Sir Peter, the
screen-scene ami the auction-scene — these arc what made the suc-
cess of the 'School for Scandal,' and not what Sheridan may have
derived from Fielding and Moli^e. Nor is this borrowing at atl as
extensive as it may seem. Joseph is a hypocrite — so is Tartuffe, so
is Blifil; but there are hypocrites and hypocrites, and the resem-
blance can scarcely be stretched much farther. The rather rustic and
— if the word may be risked — vulgar Tom Jones is as unlike as may
be to that light and easy gentleman Charles. Yet it seems probable
that Sheridan found in Tom Jones the first idea of the contrasted
brothers of the ' School for Scandal.' Boaden has even seen the
embryonic suggestion of the fall of the screen in the dropping of the
rug in ^Tol!y Scagriiii's room, discovering the philosopher Square.
Now, Sheridan had a marvellous power of assimilation. He extended
a ready welcome to all floating seeds of thought, and in his fertile
brain they would speedily spring up, bringing forth the best they
could. Hut to evolve from the petty discomfiture of Square the
almost unequalled effect of the screen-scene — to see in the one the
germs of the other — were a task worthy even of Sheridan's quick
eye. The indebtedness to Moliire is even less than to Fielding.
We may put on one side Sheridan's ignorance of French — for in

^ r^

INTRODUCTION. 1 95

Colley Gibber's * Non-Juror,* or in Bickerstaff's * Hypocrite,* he could
find Moli^re's Tartiiffe; and the scandal-loving Cclitnhie of the 'Mis-
anthrope,* he might trace in Wycherley*s 'Plain-Dealer.* If Sheri-
dan borrowed from Moli^re — an indictment difficult of proof — he
^was only following in the footsteps of his father, whose sole play,
•Captain O' Blunder,' is based on 'Monsieur de Pourceaugnac' But
Sheridan*s indebtedness to Moli^re is barely visible. It is almost as
slight, indeed, as the borrowing from the * School for Scandal ' of
vrhich Madame de Girardin was guilty for her fine comedy, 'Lady
Tartuffe.* In any case, Sheridan's indebtedness is less to the ' Mis-
anthrope' than to 'Tartuffe' — and even here there is little resem-
blance beyond the generic likeness of all hypocrites. This resem-
blance, such as it is, the French adapters of the ' School for Scandal '
chose to emphasize by calling their version the 'Tartuffe des Moeurs.'
Although Sheridan was in general original in incident, he unhesi-
tatingly made use of any happy phrases or effective locutions which
struck his fancy in the course of his readings. He willingly distilled
the perfume from a predecessor's flower ; and it was with pleasure
that he cut and set the gem which an earlier writer may have
brought to light. Witty himself, he could boldly conquer and annex
the wit of others, sure to increase its value by his orderly govern-
ment. .This can perhaps be justified on the ground that the rich
can borrow with impunity ; or, deeming wit his patrimony, Sheridan
may have felt that, taking it, he was but come into his own again ; as
Molidre said, " Je prends mon bien q\x je le trouve." In the preface
to the ' Rivals,' however, Sheridan has chosen to meet the charge of
plagiarism. " Faded ideas," he said, " float in the fancy like half-for-
gotten dreams, and the imagination in its fullest enjoyments becomes
suspicious of its offspring, and doubts whether it has created or
adopted." It is a curious coincidence that this very passage is

■ifCiaa, ■ Oe

hgUhmfcH

I. the offderioe ol Oe |
e pb , is lOBfA better tlao in
A plijr in tbcse
i plot. Great laxity
of episode was aoc o^ ptmintit, faoc idaiast praised; and Uut
Sberidan, wicb a labyq wtuck loK iCMtf so readily lo digrcs^oo.
•fcooU huie KoHled hnactf as be t&d, sbmrs bis exact apprecialioa
of the lovce of 'fc *»*■>■ cficct. But it mosi be coafcsscd that the
construction of the 'School for Scandal,' when measured by our
modem standards, seems a little loose — a little diffuse, perhaps. It
ahows the welding of the two distinct plots. There can hardly be '
seen in it the ruling of a dominant idea, subordinating all the parts -^
to the effect of the whole. But, although the two original motives -^
have been united mechanically, although they have not flowed and fused -^
together in the hot spurt of homogeneous inspiration, the joining has -^3

been so carefully concealed, and the whole structure has been over- "-

laid with so much wit, that few people after seeing the play would.^E^
care to complain. The wit is ceaseless; and wit like Sheridan 's^^
would cover sins of construction far greater than those of the ' School^V
for Sc;in<ial.' It is " slccjicd in the very brine of conceit, and sparkler*
like mil in tht; fire,"

III his conccptiitn of charncter Sheridan was a wit rather than a
lninn)rist. lie created character by a distinctly intellectual process; /

lie (lid not liring it forth out of the depths, as it were, of his own '-j

INTRODUCTION. 197

being. His humor — fine and dry as it was — was the humor of the
wit. He had little or none of the rich and juicy, nay, almost oily
humor of Falstaff, for instance. His wit was the wit of common-
sense, like Jerrold*s or Sydney Smith's ; it was not wit informed with
imagination, like Shakespeare's wit. But this is only to say again that
Sheridan was not one of the few world-wide and all-embracing
geniuses. He was one of those almost equally few who in their
own line, limited though it may be, are unsurpassed. It has been
said that poets — among whom dramatists are entitled to stand —
may be divided into three classes ; those who can say one thing
in one way — these are the great majority; those who can say one
thing in many ways — even these are not so many as they would
be reckoned generally ; and those who can say many things in many
ways — these are the chosen few, the scant half-dozen who hold the
highest peak of Parnassus. In the front rank of the second class
stood Sheridan. The one thing he had was wit — and of this in all its
forms he was master. His wit in general had a metallic smartness
and a crystalline coldness ; it rarely lifts us from the real to the
ideal ; and yet the whole comedy is in one sense, at least, idealized ;
it bears, in fact, the resemblance to real life that a well-cut diamond
has to a drop of water.

Yet, the play is not wholly cold. Sheridan's wit could be genial
as well as icy — of which there could be no better proof than the
success with which he has enlisted our sympathies for the characters
of his comedy. Sir Peter Teazle is an old fool, who has married a
young wife ; but we are all glad when we see a prospect of his future
happiness. Lady Teazle is flighty and foolish ; and yet we cannot
help but like her. Charles we all wish well ; and as for Joseph^ we
feel from the first so sure of his ultimate discomfiture, that we are
ready to let him off with the light punishment of exposure. There

«t^ c»tnK.iKitamiAmt

iK Attceted an tiie ^enati
an apiscTcnt 1«^ si ttmct.
■■uace, Ac M iMw htui at j - wa^ in vWh
E lOnii thetr jrey, tbc almcwt brnul
•( iicT «inii)£;ii^ ts be a vidcnK, tfac
im fiv £iB ^ tfac taoca ; bat tbcse an
tfcink^AB^ftttmaf AexaOHK. Tfaat Sbcridm's
«ta*«Bar ioK aiA Ian b 9n«% to he i^Jtflrd . Tbat in ibe
tmrntiymnmammgi^Ulimg^ ^k phg- fee dwuld dm have seen
iOB HMb»MdraBiribariHt^Ketf tfw Unteas mU> wbkh an

He ^oa defaa rf Ac 'SoImI Iv Sandal*— the ooc tluns

r of tbc tjpc «{
- b tbc unvaniDg

»it of the characters. Ana ncn ooIt etc the cbaiacters all witn,
but thci a" talk alike, Tflcir wii is Sheridan's uit, which is ven-
^ooi «it iatJecd; bu; ii is Sheridan's own. and not Sir Pclcr Tea-
tie's, or Backbite s, or Car/Uss's, or Z.«(^ Stumrrlfs. It is one man
in i.is time plaving manv parts. It is the one voitx always ; though
the hamJs bt the hands of Esau, the voice is the voice of Jacoh
And tliis quick wii and ready repartee is not confined to the ladies —

and gentlemen ; the master is no better off than the man, and Can

If a airs the- same wit as Charles. As Sheridan said in the ' Critic, """
he was '■ not for making slavish distinctions in a free country, andK
KJvirij^ all thi; fine language to the upper sort of people." Now, ncy
iliiubl llic <:haracttTa do all talk too well ; the comedy would be far"
k-ss iiili rl;iiniri^ if tlicy did not. The stage is not life, and it is net
inc-iiiit to lie ; it ha.s certain conventions on the acceptance of which
lianas ils existence ; n. mere transcript of ordinary talk would be
iiiaiilfti able. Wc meet bores enough in the world — let the theatre,

INTRODUCTION. 199

at least, be free from them ; and therefore condensation is neces-
sary, and selection and a heightening and brightening of talk. No
doubt Sheridan pushed this license to its utmost limit, — at times
even beyond it ; but in consequence his comedy, if a little less
artistic in the reading, is far more lively in the acting. It has been
said that in Shakespeare we find not the language we would use in the
situations, but the language we should wish to use — that we should
talk so if we could. We cannot all of us be as witty as the charac-
ters of the * School for Scandal,* but who of us would not if he
could }

Wit of this kind is not to be had without labor. Because Sheri-
dan sometimes borrowed, it does not follow that he was incapable of
originating ; or, because he always prepared when possible, that he
was incapable of impromptu. But he believed in doing his best on
all occasions. If caught unawares, his natural wit was ready ; if,
however, he had time for preparation, he spared no pains. He
grudged no labor. He was willing to heat and hammer again and
again — to file, and polish, and adjust, and oil, until the delicate
machinery ran smoothly, and to the satisfaction even of his fastidi-
ous eye. Even in his early youth Sheridan had the faculty of toiling
over his work to his immediate improvement ; his friend Halhed
compliments him on this in a letter written in 1770. As Sheridan
himself said in two lines of 'Clio's Protest,' published in 1770 — a
couplet often credited to Rogers —

** You write with ease, to show your breeding,
But easy writing's curst hard reading.**

The * School for Scandal ' was not easy writing then, and it is not
hard reading now. Not content with a wealth of wit alone — for he
did not hold with the old maxim which says that jests, like salt,

200 THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL.

should be used sparingly; he salted with a lavish hand, and his plays
have perhaps been preserved to us by this Attic sail — he sought
the utmost refinement of language. An accomplished speaker him-
self, he smoothed every sentence till it ran trippingly on the tongue.
His dialogue is easy to speak as his songs are easy to sing. To add
in any way to the lustre and brilliance of the slightest sentence of
the ' School for Scandal,' to burnish a bit of dialogue, or brighten a
soliloquy, could never cost Sheridan, lazy though he was, too much
labor. "This kind of writing," as M. Taine says, "artificial and
condensed as the satires of L. Bruy^re, is like a cut vial, into which
the author has distilled, without reservation, all his reflections, his
reading, his understanding." That this is true of Sheridan is obvi-
ous. In the ' School for Scandal ' he has done the best he could ;
he put into it all he had in him; it is the complete expression of his
genius ; beyond it he could not go.

After its first great success, the ' School for Scandal ' was not -^
long in crossing to America ; and its usual luck followed it to thesci^a
shores. Mr. Ireland, in his admirable 'Records of the New York3^
Stage,' which it is always a duty and a pleasure to praise, noteas:s
what was probably its first performance in New York, on the even-.#T
ing of December i6, 1785, and on this occasion the comedy was casf^J
to the full strength of the best company which had been then seen iwx
America. Its success was instant and emphatic, and from that da;.csi
to this it has never ceased to hold a first place among acting plays "^^
It became at once the standard by which other successful plays werx ^^
to be measured. Comedies were announced as "equal to the ' SchoKii*
for Scandal,' or to any play of the century, the ' School for Scanda.^^ <
not excepted." This sort of " odorous comparison " continued to or=:=^i
tain for many years, and when some indiscreet admirer likened Me--»5
Mowatt's ' Fashion ' to Sheridan's comedy, Poe took occasion to poi_ "*}(

^ /^\

INTRODUCTION. 20I

out that the general tone of * Fashion * was adopted from the ' School
for Scandal/ to which, however, it bore, he said, just such affinity as
the shell of the locust to the locust that tenants it, "as the spectrum
of a Congreve rocket to the Congreve rocket itself." It does not,
however, need a cruel critic to show us how unfair it was to compare
Mrs. Mowatt's pretty but pretentious play with the Congreve rockets
and the Congreve wit of Sheridan's masterpiece. That the * School
for Scandal ' was the favorite play of Washington, who was fond of
the theatre, has been recorded by Mrs. Whitelock, the sister of
Sarah Siddons and of John Kemble, and for a time the leading tragic
actress of America. And in one point in particular are these last-
century performances in this country of especial interest to the
student of American dramatic literature. On April i6, 1786, was
first acted in this city the 'Contrast,' a comedy in five acts, by Royal
Tyler, afterward Chief Justice of Vermont. It was the first Ameri-
can play performed on the public stage by professional comedians.
It contained in Jonathan^ acted by Wignell, the first of stage
Yankees, and the precursor, therefore, of Asa Trenchard, Colonel
Mulberry Sellers^ and Judge Bardwcll Slote, Perhaps a short extract
from the play, which was published in 1790, will show its connection
with the 'School for Scandal,* Jonathan^ green and innocent, and
holding the theatre to be the " devil's drawing room," gets into it,
however, in the belief that he is going to see a conjuror : —

Jenny, Did you see the man with his tricks ?

Jonathan, Why, I vow, as I was looking out for him, they lifted up a
great green cloth and let us look right into the next neighbor's house. Have
you a good many houses in New York made in that 'ere way ?

Jenny, Not many. But did you see the family ?

Jonathan, Yes, swamp it, I seed the family.

Jenny, Well, and how did you like them ?

JM THE SCHOOL FOJt SCAXDAL

Jmmtimm. Wdl. 1 «t)«. ibcr were pRttT Boch Ukc other iajtuSk*-. there
■w a poor, (Dod^uttued ome of x baabaad, and ■ nd tantJpufa of « wife

Jamj. Bat did yon see ao «ber folks?

Jm^ km m . Yo; Acre wzt one jui i i g up i , the; called tuia Itr. Joseph ;
be ullced aa sober asd as paoos u a Btmster: bat. Hke some minisien thai
I kninr, be was a sly tike in his facait, for all thu ; be vas going to aslt a
jvDBg woman lo spark it «ilb bin, and — the Lord baiT mcicy on my
toul — the was aoother tnan's wife I

It was in Amenca also that two of the mo&t noteworthy incidents
in the career of the ' School for Scandal' occurred. One took place
dtu'ing 3 vi»)t to this country- of Macrcady, who, early accustomed to
esact the heavy villains of the stage, took a fanc>- to the part of
Joseph, and, not finding it as prominent as he liked, sought to rectify
this defect by boldly cutting down the other characters; and thus
with the excision of the scandal-scene, the picture-scene, and several
other scenes, the ' School for Scandal,' reduced to three acts, was
played as an afterpiece, with Macready, very imperfect in the words
of the part, as Joseph, dressed in the black coat and trousers of the
nineteenth century. It may be remembered that Macready's greater
predecessor as the chief of English tragedians, John Philip Kemble,
was also wont to act in the * School for Scandal,' but he chose to
appear as the more jovial and younger of the Surfaces, and his per-
formance of the careless hero was known as Charles's Martyrdom,

The second noteworthy incident was the performance of the
' School for Scandal," on the centenary of its first production, on May
8, 1877, at the Grand Opera House, Toronto, in the presence of the
Governor General of Canada, Lord Dufferin, the great grandson of
Richard Brinsley Sheridan.

In the same year that this memorable performance took place in a
former I-rench province, Miss Genevieve Ward, an American actress,

/^-N

INTRODUCTION. 203

appeared as Lady Teazle in Paris in a French version ; and the fore-
most of Parisian dramatic critics, M. Francisque Sarcey seized the
opportunity for a most interesting appreciation of the play. He con-
sidered it one of the best of the second class, and, as in his view
the first class would contain few plays but those of Shakespeare and
Molifere, this is high praise. He ranked the 'School for Scandal' with
the * Mariage de Figaro,' and instituted the comparison of Sheridan
with Beaumarchais, which M. Taine had already attempted. But M.
Sarcey held a more just as well as a more favorable opinion of the
'School for Scandal' than M. Taine. An earlier French critic, Ville-
main, who edited a close translation of the play for the series of for-
eign masterpieces, declared it to be one of the most amusing and
most wittily-comic plays which can anywhere be seen, and he hit
upon one of its undoubted merits when he pointed out that its " wit
is so radically comic that it can be translated, which, as all know, is
the most perilous trial for wit possible." M. Sarcey informs us that
the ' School for Scandal ' is now and has been for years, used as a
text-book in French schools, and that he himself was taught to read
English out of Sheridan's play. Such is also the opinion of M.
H^g^sippe Cler, who published a French translation of the * School
for Scanrlal ' in 1879, with a preface, in which he declared that Sheri-
dan's comedy was particularly French, nay, even Parisian, and that it
is absolutely harmless and fitted exactly for use in teaching in
schools for girls. Oddly enough this is the exact reverse of the
opinion of the French critics of a century ago. In 1788 the auction
and screen scenes had been introduced into a little piece called the
'Deux Neveux;' a year later a translation in French by M. Delille,
with the permission, apparently, of Sheridan himself, was published
in London. Certain episodes were utilized in the ' Portraits de Fam-
ille/ the * Deux Cousins ' and ' Valsain et Florville ; ' and finally, in

204 THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL.

1789, a version of the whole play by Pluteau was acted as 'L'Homme
Sentimental' — but the subject was too risky, and the scenes were
too broad for the fastidious taste of the Parisians. Even Grimm was
shocked by it — and one would think it took much to shock Grimm.
A second adaptation was produced at the Thieltre Fran^ais ; it was
called the * Tartuff e des Mceurs.' Fifty or sixty years ago, yet an-
other version, * L'Ecole du Scandale,* by two melodramatic writers,
Crosnier and Jouslin de la Salle, was acted at the Porte St. -Martin
Theatre, with the pathetic Mme Dorval as Milady TizU, Oddly
enough it was Mme DorvaFs husband. Merle, who was the cause of
the first performance in France of the * School for Scandal * in Eng-
lish by English actors. Merle was one of the managers of the Porte
St.-Martin Theatre in 1822, and he arranged for a series of perfor-
mances by the company of the Brighton Theatre, then managed
by Mr. Penley. The English comedians opened their season with
* Othello ' but it was only seven years after Waterloo, and Shakespeare
was stormily received. F'or the second performance Sheridan tool
Shakespeare's place, and the * School for Scandal ' was announced foi
Friday, August 2, 1822. But the day was unlucky, and the mcl
which took possession of the theatre would not allow the Englisl
comedy to be acted at all. It is interesting to note the change whicl
took place in France in the short space of five years. In 1827, whei
the Covent Garden company appeared at the Od^on Theatre, the;
met with a cordial welcome ; and they began their season with Sher
dan's other comedy, the * Rivals.'

The Germans were not behind the French in the enjoyment c
the 'School for Scandal' Shroder, the actor and author, went froi
Vienna to London — no small journey, a hundred years ago-
expressly for the purpose of seeing it acted. He understood Englis
well, and attended every performance of the piece while he was i

INTRODUCTION. 20S

England. On his return to Vienna, he produced an adaptation — for
it is such, and not a translation, though the spirit of the original is
well preserved — which has held the German stage ever since. The
texture of the * School for Scandal,' its solidity of situation, its com-
pact and easily comprehensible plot, and its ceaseless play of wit, —
" a sort of El Dorado of wit," as Moore calls it, "where the precious
metal is thrown about by all classes as carelessly as if they had not
the least idea of its value,** — these were all qualities sure to commend
it to German audiences as to French. Macready records himself as
having seen in Venice an Italian version of the play — that by
Carpani, probably — which could hardly have followed the original
as closely as was to be desired ; but the strength of the situations and
the contrast of the characters would always carry the piece through
in any language and in spite of any alterations. There are transla-
tions of the 'School for Scandal ' in many other languages. In 1877
it was acted with success in Dutch at the Hague; and in 1884 a
Gujarati version, adapted to modern Parsee life by Mr. K. N. Kabra-
jee, was produced, also with success, at the Esplanade Theatre in
Bombay.

DRAMATIS PERSONS,

AS ORIOINAIXV ACTED AT pBirBV.UNK THEATRE. MAY 1^ im.

Sir Pkter TeAn-s Mr. King.

IVE» SfRFACt .... ... Mr. YtUtt.

RRV Bumper .... ... .Vr. Gawdry

Bekjawn Backbite Mr. Do,id.

1 » SURFACB Mr. Palmer.

ARL£s Surface Mr. SmilA.

Snake Mr. Packer.

Crabtree Mr. Parsons.

RowLEy Mr. AUkin.

Moses Mr. Baddeley.

Trip Mr. Lamask.

Lady Teazle Mn. Abington.

Lady Sn'eerwell Miss Sherry.

Mrs. Candour Miss Pope.

Maria Miss P. Hopkin

Gentlemen, Maitl, 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 in Scandal's school,

Who rail by precept and detract by rule,

Lives there no character, so tried, so known.

So deck'd with grace, and so unlike your own,

That even you assist her fame to raise.

Approve by envy, and by silence praise !

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 innuendoes fail !

Whose practised memories, cruelly exact,

Omit no circumstance, except the fact ! —

207

THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL.

Attenil, all ye wlm boast, —

or old or yoiing, —

The living libel of a slanderous tongue!

So Shalt my theme as far cc

iiitrastcd be.

As saints by Bends, or hymn

IS by calumny.

Come, gentle Amorct (for "n

icath that name

In worthier verse != ! ;

i beauty's fame) ;

Come — for but

eks the muse? and while

Celestial blushes che i

:onscious smile.

With timid c an i

iting eye,

The perfect iel, v 1

aoast, supply: —

Vain Muse 1 c »

le humblest sketch create

Of her, or s tis 1 1 i

auld'st imitate —

Could thy biest strain in kindred colors 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 Granbfs cheek might bid new glories rise,
Or point a purer beam from Devotes eyes !
Hard is the task to shape that beauty's praise,
, Whose judgment scorns the homage flattery pays!
But praising Amoret we cannot err,
Xo tongue o'crvalues Heaven, or flatters her!
Vet she by fate's per\-erseness — she alone
Would doubt cur truth, nor deem such praise her own.
Adorning fashion, unadorn'd by dress,
Simple from taste, and not from carelessness ;
Discreet in gesture, in deportment mild,
Not stiff with prudence, nor uncouthly wild:

A PORTRAIT. 20g

No state has Amove t ; 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, —

T is 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 speak, and dost not hear,

Mourn not her distant accents 'scape thine ear ;

Viewing those lips, thou still may'st make pretence

To judge of what she says, and swear 't is sense :

Clothed with such grace, with such expression fraught,

They move in meaning, and they pause in thought !

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 I seest thou not an ambush'd Cupid there.

Too tim'rous of his charge, with jealous care

Veils and unveils those beams of heavenly light,

Too full, too fatal else, for mortal sight ?

THE SCHOOL FOR SCAA'DAC

Nor yet, such pleasing vengeance fond lo meet,
111 panrning dimples hope a. safe retreat.
What though her peaceful breast should ne'er allow
Subduing frowns to arm her altcr'd brow,
By Love, I swear, and by his gentle wiles,
More fatal still the mercy of her smileal
Thus lovely, thus adorn'd, poasessing all
Of bright or fair that can to woman fall.
The height of vanity might well be ihnught
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 ton keen before:—^
Read in all knowledge that her sex should reach.
Though GrevilU, 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 Millat's dialect she would not prove
Apollo's priestess, but Apollo's love,
Graced by those signs which truth delights to own,
The timid blush, and mild submitted tone:
Whate'er she says, though sense appear throughout,
Displays the tender hyc of female doubt;
Deck'd with that charm, how lovely wit appears,
How graceful science, when that robe she wears I
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 candor ruled.

^ r\

PROLOGUE, 211

A scorn of folly, which she tries to hide ; '
An awe of talent, which she owns with pride !

Peace, idle Muse ! — no more thy strain prolong,
But yield a theme, thy warmest praises wrong ;
Just to her merit, though thou canst not raise
Thy feeble verse, behold th' acknowledged praise
Has spread conviction through the envious train,
And cast a fatal gloom o'er Scandal's reign !
And lo ! each pallid hag, with blister'd tongue,
Mutters assent to all thy zeal has sung —
Owns all the colors just — the outline true,
Thee my inspirer, and my model — Crewe I

PROLOGUE.

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 vapors
Distress our fair ones — let them read the papers ;
Their powerful mixtures such disorders hit ;
Crave what you will — there 's quaiiiuw sufficit.
"Lord!" cries my I.ady Wormwood (who loves tattle,
And puts much salt and pepper in her prattle),
Just risen at noon, all x\\^X at cards when threshing
Strong tea and scandal — ** Bless me, how refreshing I

THE SCHOOL FOX SCANDAL.

Give me the papers. Lisp — how bold and free! \Sips.

Last uighl Lord L. [Sifs] was taught with Lady D.

For aching heads what charming sal volatiU ! \Sips.

If Airs. B. tvill still coHtinttt fiirlfiig.

We hope she 'U draw, or wf' II undraw the cHrtain.

Fine satire, poz — in public ail 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 tweitly miles Jrem Grosvenor Square ;

For, should he Lady IK fii:d willing.

Wormwood is bitter " " Oh ! that 's me ! tbfi villain I

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 ?

Alas ! the devil 's sooner raised than laid.

So strong, so swift, the monster there's no gagging:

Cut Scandal's head off, still the tongue is wagging.

Proud of your smiles once lavishly bestow' d.

Again our young Don Quixote takes the road ;

To show his gratitude he draws his pen.

And seeks this hydra, Scandal, in his den.

For your applause all perils he would through —

He'll fight — that 's write — a cavalliero true.

Till every drop of blood — that 's ink — is spilt for you.

THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL

A COMEDY.

ACT I.

Scene I. — Lady Sneerwell's Dressing-room,

Lady Sneerwell discovered at the dressing-table; S^kYiE. df inking

chocolate.

Lady Sneer, The paragraphs, you say, Mr. Snake, were all in-
serted ?

Snake. They were, madam ; and, as I copied them myself in a
feigned hand, there can be no suspicion whence they came.

Lady Sneer. Did you circulate the report of Lady Brittle's in-
trigue with Captain Boastall ?

Snake, That 's in as fine a train as your ladyship could wish. In
the common course of things, I think it must reach Mrs. Clackitt's
ears within four-and-twenty hours ; and then, you know, the business
is as good as done.

Lady Sneer, Why, truly, Mrs. Clackitt has a very pretty talent,
and a great deal of industry,

Snake, True, madam, and has been tolerably successful in her
day. To my knowledge, she has been the cause of six matches being
broken off, and three sons being disinherited ; of four forced elope-

ax3

214

THE satOOl. FOR SCAADAL.

mcnts, and as m.iii)' close cnnfinemeiitsi nine separate maintenances,
and two divorces. Nay, I have more than once traced her causing a
tite-i-l£te in the "Town and Country Magazine," when the parties,
perhaps, had never seen each other's face bcfuic in the course of
their lives.

Lad^y St/ffK She certainly has talents, but her manner is gross.

Snaki: 'Tis vtry true She generally designs well, has a free
tongue and a bold invention ; but her coloring is too dark, and her
outlines often extravagant. She wants that delicacy of tint, and
mellowness of sneer, which distingubh your ladyship's scandal.

Ladjt Sneer. You arc partial, Snake.

Siiai:e. Not in the least ; everybody allows that Lady Snccrwell
can do more with a word or look than many can with the niost
labored detail, even when they happen to have a little truth on their
side to support it.

Lady Sneer. Yes, my dear Snake ; and 1 am no hypocrite to deny
the satisfaction I reap from the success of my efforts. Wounded
myself, in the early part of mj' life, by the envenomed tongue of
slander, I confess I have since known no pleasure equal to the reduc-
ing others to the level of my own reputation.

Snake. Nothing can be more natural. But, Lady Siieerwell,
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 neighbor.
Sir Peter Teazle, and his family .'

Snake. I do. Here are two yoimg men, to whom Sir Peter has
acted as a kind of guardian since their father's death ; the eldest
possessing the most amiable character, and universally well spoken
of — the youngest, the most dissipated and extravagant young fellow
in the kingdom, without friends or character : the former an avowed

A COMEDY. 2IS

admirer of your ladyship, and apparently your favorite; 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 favored 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 your-
self in his success.

Lady Sneer, Heavens ! how dull you are ! Cannot you surmise
the weakness which I hitherto, through shame, have concealed
even from you.^ Must I confess that Charles — that libertine, that
extravagant, that bankrupt in fortune and reputation — that he it is
for whom I am thus anxious and malicious, and to gain whom I
would sacrifice everything }

Snake. Now, indeed, your conduct appears consistent : but how
came you and Mr. Surface so confidential ?

Lady Sneer. For our mutual interest. I have found him out a
long time since. I know him to be artful, selfish, and malicious —
in short, a sentimental knave ; while with Sir Peter, and indeed with
all his acquaintance, he passes for a youthful miracle of prudence,
good sense, and benevolence.

ai6 THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL.

Snake. Yes; yet Sir Pt-ter vowa he has not his equal in
Kngland — and, above all, he praises hiin as a man oE sen-
timent.

Laify Sneer. True ; and with the assistance of His sentiment
and hyiiocrisy he has brought Sir Peter entirely into his interest
Willi regard to Maria; while poor Charles has no friend in the
house- — though, 1 fear, he has a powerful one in Maria's heart,
against whom we must direct our schemes.

Enter Servant.
Scr. Mr. Surf;icc.

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.

EHler 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 confi-
dence is not ill placed.

Jos. Stiff. Madam, it is impo.ssible 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. Stiff I have rot seen cither since I left you ; but 1 can
inform you that they never meet. Some of your stories have taken
a good effect on Maria.

Lady Sneer. Ah, my dear Snake I the merit of this belongs to
you. But do your brother's distresses increase f

A COMEDY. 217

Jos Surf, Every hour. I am told he has had another execu-
tion in the house yesterday. In short, his dissipation and extrav-
agance exceed anything 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. O Lud ! you are going to be moral, and forget
that you are among friends.

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 accomplishments 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 Sneer-
well, 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 Sneer-
well, that fellow hasn't virtue enough to be faithful even to his
own villainy. — Ah, Maria!

220 THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL.

tongues. I own I was hurt to hear it, as I indeed was to learn, fron
the same quarter, that your guardian, Sir Peter, and Lady Tcazl*
have not agreed lately as well as could be wished.

Mar. 'T is strangely impertinent for people to busy themselves so

Mrs, Can. Very true, child : but what 's to be done ? People wil
talk — there 's no preventing it. Why, it was but yesterday I wa
told that Miss Gadabout had eloped with Sir Filigree Flirt. But
Lord ! there 's no minding what one hears ; though, to be sure,
had this from very good authority.

Mar. Such reports are highly scandalous.

Mrs. Can, So they are, child — shameful, shameful! But th
world is so censorious, no character escapes. — Lord, now wh
would have suspected your friend. Miss Prim, of an indiscretion
Yet such is the ill nature of people, that they say her uncle stoppe
her last week, just as she was stepping into the York diligence wit
her dancing-master.

Mar. I '11 answer fi)r 't there are no grounds for that report.

Mrs. Can. Ah, no foundation in the world, I dare swear: n
more, probably, than for the story circulated last month, of Mr
Festino's affair with Colonel Cassino — though, to be sure, thi
matter was never rightly cleared up.

Jos. Surf. The licence of invention some people take is monstroi
indeed.

]\Iar. *T is so ; but, in my opinion, those who report such thinj
are equally culpable.

Mrs. Can. To be sure they are ; tale-bearers are as bad as th
tale-makers — 'tis an oKl observation, and a \^xy true one: bi
what 's to be done, as I said before ? how will you prevent peop
from talking } To-day, Mrs. Clackitt assured me, Mr. and Mr
Honeymoon were at last become mere man and wife, like the re

A COMEDY. 221

of their acquaintance. She likewise hinted that a certain widow, in
the next street, had got rid of her dropsy and recovered her shape in
a most surprising manner. And at the same time Miss Tattle, who
was by, affirmed that Lord Buffalo had discovered his lady at a house
of no extraordinary fame ; and that Sir Harry Bouquet and Tom
Saunter were to measure swords on a similar provocation. — But,
Lord, do you think I would report these things.^ — No, no ! tale-
bearers, as I said before, are just as bad as the tale-makers.

Jos, Surf, Ah ! Mrs. Candour, if everybody had your forbearance
and good nature !

Mrs, Can. I confess, Mr. Surface, I cannot bear to hear people
attacked behind their backs ; and when ugly circumstances come out
against our acquaintance I own I always love to think the best. —
By the by, I hope 'tis not true that your brother is absolutely
ruined ^

Jos. Stirf, I am afraid his circumstances are very bad indeed,
ma'am.

Mrs. Can. Ah! I heard so — but you must tell him to keep up

liis spirits : everybody almost is in the same way : Lord Spindle, Sir

Thomas Splint, Captain Quinze, and Mr. Nickit — all up, I hear,

"within this week; so, if Charles is undone, he'll find half his ac-

<quaintance 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 Servant.
Lady Sneer. So, Maria, you see your lover pursues you : posi-
tively you sha'n'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 Back-

THE SCHOOL FOR SCASDAL.

I pretty wit, and is a pretly poet, too.

bite ? I^s^d, ma'am, he has n
Isn't he, I^dy SnccrwcU?

Sir Bey. Oh, fie, uncle !

Crat. Nay, egad it 's true ; I back him at a rebus or a charade
against the best rhymer in the kingdom, — Has your ladyship heard
the epigram he wrote last week on Lady Frizzle's feather catching
fire? — Do, Hcnjamin. repeat it, or the charade you made last night
cstenipurc at Mrs. Drowzie's conversazione. Come, now ; your first
is. the name of a fish, your second a great naval commander,
and

Sir Ii<Hj. Uncle, now — pr'ythee ■

Crali. I 'faith, ma'am, 't would surprise you to hear how ready he
is at all these line sort of things,

Lady Sneer. I wonder. Sir Benjamin, you never publish anything.
Sir Bcuj. 'I'o say truth, iimani, 'l is very vuJgar 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 favored with this lady's smiles, I mean to give the
public. \Pointing to Maria.

Crab. \To Maria,] 'Fore heaven, ma'am, they'll immortalize '
you ! — you will be handed down to posterity, like Petrarch's Laura, -
or Waller's Satharissa.

Sir Bcnj. \To Maijia.] Yes, madam, I think you will like -=
them, when you shall sec them on a beautiful quarto page, where^==

a neat rivulet of text shall meander through a meadow of mar "

fiin. — 'I'oic Gad they will be the most elegant things of theii
kind !

Crab. But, ladies, that 's true — have you heard the news?

Mrs. Can. What, sir, do you mean the report o£

A COMEDY. 223

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 Benj. T is very true, ma'am : everything is fixed, and the
wedding liveries bespoke.

Crab. Yes — and they do say there were pressing reasons for it.

Lady Sneer. Why, I have neard something of this before.

Mrs. Can. It can't be — and I wonder anyone should believe such

a story of so prudent a lady as Miss Nicely.

Sir Beuj. O Lud ! ma'am, that 's the very reason *t was believed
at once. She has always been so cautious and so reserved, that

everybody was sure there was some reason for it at bottom.

Mrs. Cafi. Why, to be sure, a tale of scandal is as fatal to the
credit of a prudent lady of her stamp as a fever is generally to those
of the strongest constitutions. But there is a sort of puny, sickly
reputation, that is always ailing, yet will outlive the robuster charac-
ters of a hundred prudes.

Sir Beuj. True, madam, there are valetudinarians in reputation
as well as constitution, who, being conscious of their weak part,
avoid the least breath of air, and supply their want of stamina by
care and circumspection.

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
liow Miss Piper came to lose her lover and her character last
summer at Tunbridge.^ — Sir Benjamin, you remember it .**

Sir Bcnj. Oh, to be sure! — the most whimsical circumstance.

Lady Sneer. How was it, pray 1

224

THE SCHOOL FOR SCASDAL.

Crab. VMiy, one evening, at Mrs, Ponto's assembly, the con.
versalion happened to turn on the breeding Nova Scotia sheep in
this country. Says a young lady in company, I have known in-
stances of it ; for Miss Lcticia I'ipcr, a first cousin of mine, had
a Nova Scotia sheep that produced her twins. — "What!" cries the
Lady Dowager Dundiz2y (who you know is as tlcaf as a post}i
"has Hiss Piper had twins?" — This mistake, as you may imagine,
threw the whole company into a fit of laughter. However, 't was
the next morning everywhere reported, and in a few days belit;vcd
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 Sturer. Strange, indeed !

Ci-ab. Matter of fact, I assure you. O Lud ! Mr. Surface, pray
is it true that j'our uncle, Sir Oliver, is coming home .'

Jos. Surf. Not that I know of, indeed, sir.

Crab. He has been in the East Indies a long time. You can
scarcely remember him, I believe? — -Sad comfort, whenever he re-
turns, to hear how j'our brother has gone on !

Jos. Surf. Charles has been imprudent, sir, to be sure ; but I
hope no bvisy people have already prejudiced Sir Oliver against
him. Me may reform.

Sir Bciij. 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 Inst 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
popiifar there, 'fore Gad! I hear he pays as many annuities as

A COMEDY. 22 S

the Irish tontine ; and that, whenever he is sick, they have
prayers for the recovery of his health in all the synagogues.

Sir Benj\ Yet no man lives in greater splendor. 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 ante-chamber, and an officer behind every guest's chair.

Jos, Surf, This may be entertaifimcnt to you, gentlemen, but
you pay very little regard to the feelings of a brother.

Mar, [Aside.'] Their malice is intolerable !—[/i/c?//rf'. J Lady Sneer-
well, I must wish you a good morning : I 'm not very well.

[Exit Maria.

Mrs, Can, O dear ! she changes color 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 Mrs. Candour.

Lady Sneer, *T was nothing but that she could not bear to hear
Charles reflected on, notwithstanding their difference.

Sir Benj, 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 humor. Repeat her some of
your own verses. Come, I* 11 assist you.

Sir Benj, Mr. Surface, I did not mean to hurt you ; but depend
on't your brother is utterly undone.

Crab, O Lud, ay! undone as ever man was — can't raise a
guinea ! —

Sir Benj, And everything sold, I 'm told, that was movable. —
Crab. I have seen one that was at his house. — Not a thing
left but some empty bottles that were overlooked, and the family
pictures, which I believe are framed in the wainscots —

IGmMg.

id f ^ my mmf iIh to bem aame had ttoria

SirSt^ ■■>; fc«w i,wj, as kc's yw bncbcr

Cmt, Wei teB jov d aaaiber afp uc c uait r.

[£n^tf OiMT»«g. aarf Sn Bcxj-unx

£4^ £Mvr. Ha ! fa ■ t » voy fafd far ifccB to leave a sub-
ject ticf fare a«c qaiEe ns 4a«a.

yM. 5^ Asd I bdirvc the thmt was m Bore acceptable u
jnor bdpJup tbaa liana.

£a^ Sawr. 1 doott faeraSeetiOBs an £artber engaged than we
iampac Bat the bmOf an 10 be bere Oaa evenin;, *o you may
•a vdl ^ac «fccrc jo« are^ and we ihall have an oppartimity ot
ofaaemng {artber ; ia tb« mcanlsne I H go and plot mischtef, and
you shal! study sentiment, [Ezruni.

1 in Sir Peter Teazle's House-

Enter SiK I'eter Teazle.

'clcr. When an old bachelor marries a young wife, what
cxjicct ? 'T is now six months since Lady Teazle niac!e
lKi|jjiicst of men — and I have been the most miserable
since ! We lifted a little going to church, and fairly quar-
fore the hells had done ringing, I was more than once
lii>kcil with ^'all during the honeymoon, and had lost all
in life l)eforc my friends h:id done wishing me joy.
lose with caution — a girl bred wholly in the countrj-, who
lew luxury beyond one silk gown, nor dissipation above

A COMEDY. 227

the annual gala of a race ball. Yet she now plays her part in
all the extravagant fopperies of fashion and the town, with as
ready a grace as if she never had seen a bush or a grass-plot
out of Grosvenor Square! I am sneered at by all my acquaintance,
and paragraphed in the newspapers. She dissipates my fortune,
and contradicts all my humors ; yet the worst of it is, I doubt
I love her, or I should never bear all this. However, I *11 never
be weak enough to own it.

Enter Rowley.

Row. Oh ! Sir Peter, your servant : how is it with you, sir }

Sir Peter. Very bad. Master Rowley, very bad. I meet with
nothing but crosses and vexations.

Row. What can have happened to trouble you since yester-
day.^

Sir Peter. A good question to a married man !

Row. Nay, I'm sure. Sir Peter, your lady can't be the cause
of your uneasiness.

Sir Peter. Why, has anybody told you she was dead }

Roiv. Come, come. Sir Peter you love her, notwithstanding
your tempers don't exactly agree.

Sir Peter. But the fault is entirely hers. Master Rowley. I
am, myself, the sweetest-tempered man alive, and hate a teasing tem-
per; and so I tell her a hundred times a day.

Row. Indeed!

Sir Peter. Ay ; and what is very extraordinary, in all our dis-
putes she is always in the wrong ! But Lady Snecrwell, and the
set she meets at her house, encourage the perverseness of her dis-
position. — Then,' to complete my vexation, Maria, my ward, whom
I ought to have the power of a father over, is determined to turn
rebel too, and absolutely refuses the man whom I have long re-

»2l THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL.

solved on or her tiusbaDil; mcauing, I suppose, to bestow herself
on his profligate brotht-r,

Rmi.: You know, Sir rclci", I have always taken the libtrty
differ with you on the subject of these two young gentlemen.
1 only wish you may not be deceived in your opinion of the cider.
I'or Charles, my life on 'f ! h« ctrieve his errors yet- Their

worthy father, once ster, was, at his years, nearly

IS wild a spark ; yet, ■ i h» ;d, he did not leave a more
benevolent heart to lame

Sir Ptter. You are oi :r Rowley. On llicir fathers

ith, you know, I acted d of guai-dian to them both,

till their uncle Sir Oliver' y gave them an early indepen-

dence : of course, no person I have more opportunities of

judging of their hearts, and I was never mistaken io my life.
Joseph is indeed a moJel of 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 ol"
virtue by descent, he has dissipated it with the rest of his inheri-
tance. Ah ! my old friend. Sir Oliver, will be deeply mortified
when he finds how part of his bounty has been misapplied.

Ro%v. I am sorry to find you so violent against the young
man, because this may be the mo.st critical period of his fortune.
1 came hither with news that will surprise you.

.V/> Pcia: What ! let me hear.

Ro'.v. Sir Oliver is arrived, and at this moment in town.

Sir Piter. How! you astonish me! I thought you did not ex-
pect him this month.

Row. 1 did not ; but his passage has been remarkably quick.

Sir Peter. Kgad, I .shall rejoice to see my old friend. 'T is
fifteen years since we iiiet. — We have had many a day together:

A COMEDY. 229

— but does he still enjoin us not to inform his nephews of his
arrival ?

Ro7v, Most strictly. He means, before it is known, to make
some trial of their dispositions.

Sir Peter, Ah ! there needs no art to discover their merits

— however he shall have his way ; but, pray, does he know I am
married ?

Row, Yes, and will soon wish you joy.

Sir Peter, What, as we drink health to a friend in a consumption !
Ah ! Oliver will laugh at me. We used to rail at matrimony to-
gether, but he has been steady to his text. — Well, he must be soon
at my house, though — I '11 instantly give orders for his reception. —
But, Master Rowley, don't drop a word that Lady Teazle and I ever
disagree.

Row. By no means.

Sir Peter, For I should never be able to stand Noll's jokes ; so
I 'II have him think, Lord forgive me ! that we are a very happy
couple.

Roiv, I understand you : — but then you must be very careful not
to differ while he is in the house with you.

Sir Peter. Egad, and so we must — and th%t 's impossible. Ah I
Master Rowley, when an old bachelor marries a young wife, he
deserves — no — the crime carries its punishment along with it.

\Excunt,

THE SCHOOL FOR SCA.VJJAL.

Scene I. — A Room in Sir I'^ter Teazle's House.
Enler SiH Peter and Laiiv Teazle.

Sir Pttrr. Latly Teazle, Lady Teazle, I '11 not bear it !

Latiy Ttas. Sir Telcr, Sir I'eter, you may bear it or not, as you
please ; but I ought to have my own way in everything, and what's
more, I will too. 'What I though I was educated in the countrj, I
know very well that women ot fashion in London arc accountable to
nobody after they arc married.

Sir Peter. Very well, ma'am, very well; — so a husband is to
have no iiiHucncc, no authurity .'

Lady Tcaz. Authority ! No, to be sure: — if you want authority
over me, you should have adopted me, and not married me : I air*
sure you were old enough.

Sir Pcli-r. Old enough! — ay, there it is. Well, well, Lat^^l'
Teazle, though my life may be made unhappy by your temper, 1 ''

not be yuined by your extravagance !

Lady Ti-az. My extravagance ! I 'm sure I 'm not more cxtra\ — -^^''
gant than a woman of fashion ought to be.

Sir Peter. Xo, no, madam, you shall throw away no more suiitk ■"
on such unmeaning luxury. 'Slife ! to spend as much to furni.t * '
your dicising-room with flowers in winter as would suffice to tui: *-"
the Pantheon into a greenhouse, and give ^fite champltrc at Chri^=^ '-*'

Lady Tea:. And am I to blame. Sir Peter, because flowers az:^^*^
:ar in cold weather ) You should find fault with the climate, ai» *'

A COMEDY, 231

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 Peter. Oons ! madam — if you had been born to this, I
should n't wonder at your talking thus ; but you forget what your
situation was when I married you.

Lady Teaz, No, no, I don't ; *t was a very disagreeable one, or I
should never have married you.

Sir Peter, yes, yes, madam, you were then in somewhat a
humbler style — the daughter of a plain country squire. Recollect,
Lady Teazle, when I saw you first sitting at your tambour, in a
pretty figured linen gown, with a bunch of keys at your side, your
hair combed smooth over a roll, and your apartment hung round with
fruits in worsted, of your own working.

Lady Teaz. Oh, yes ! I remember it very well, and a curious life I
led. — My daily occupation to inspect the dairy, superintend the
poultry, make extracts from the family receipt book, and comb my
aunt Deborah's lapdog.

Sir Peter, Yes, yes, ma'am, *t was so indeed.

Lady Teaz, And then you know, my evening amusements ! To
draw patterns for ruffles, which I had not materials to make up ; to
play Pope Joan with the curate ; to read a sermon to my aunt ; or to
be stuck down to an old spinet to strum my father to sleep after a
fox-chase.

Sir Peter, 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-d-vis — and three powdered footmen before your
chair ; and, in the summer, a pair of white cats to draw you to
Kensington Gardens. No recollection, I suppose, when you were
content to ride double, behind the butler, on a docked coach-
horse.

»32 THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL.

Laay teas. No — I swear I no'cr did thai: I deny the butler
d the coach-horse.

PeUr. This, madam, was your situation ; and what have I
: for you ? I have made you a woman of fashion, of fortune, of
snk — in short, I have made you my wife.

Lady Teas. Well, then, and there is but one thing more )'ou

n make mc to add to the obligation, that is

Sir Pelcr. My widow, I siipiiosc ?
Lady Teas. Hem ! hem !

■Peter. I thank you, madam — but don't flatter yourself ; for,
;h your ill conduct may disturb my peace of mind, it shall
,.vcr break my heart, I promise you : however, I am equally
obliged to yon for ttie hint,

Lady Teas. Then why will you endeavor to make yourself so
disagreeable to mc, and thwart mc in every little elegant expense.'

Sir Peter. 'Slifc, madam, I say, had you any of these little
elegant cxjicnscs when you married mc ?

Lady Tea::. Lud, Sir I'ctcr ! would you have mc be out of the
fashion ?

Sir Peter. The fashion, indeed! what had you to do with the
fashion before you married mc ?

Lady Teas. For my part, I should think you would like to
have your wife tlKiui,'lU a woman of taste.

Sir Peter. Ay — there again — taste! Zounds! madam, you
had no taste when you married mc !

Lady Teaz. That 's very true, indeed. Sir Peter ! and after
having married you, I should never pretend to taste again, I
allow. Rut now, Sir Peter, since we have finished our daily
jangle, I presume I may go to my engagement at Lady Sneer-
well's,

A COMEDY. 233

Sir Peter. Ay, there's another precious circumstance — a charm-
ing set of acquaintance you have made there!

Lady Teas. Nay, Sir Peter, they are all people of rank and
fortune, and remarkable tenacious of reputation.

Sir Peter. Yes, egad, they are tenacious of reputation with a
vengeance ; for they don't choose anybody should have a character
but themselves ! Such a crew ! Ah ! many a wretch has rid on
a hurdle who has done less mischief than these utterers of forged
tales, coiners of scandal, and clippers of reputation.

Lady Teas. What, would you restrain the freedom of speech ?

Sir Peter. Ah ! they have made you just as bad as any one of
the society.

Lady Teaz. Why, I believe I do bear a part with a tolerable grace.

Sir Peter. Grace indeed !

Lady Teaz. But I vow I bear no malice against the people I
abuse. — When I say an ill-natured thing, 't is out of pure good
humor ; and I take it for granted they deal exactly in the same
manner with me. But, Sir Peter, you know you promised to come
to Lady Sneerwell's too.

Sir Peter. 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'll be too late. So good-by to ye. ' [iS^/V Lady Teazle.

Sir Peter. So — I have gained much by my intended expostu-
lation ! Yet with what a charming air she contradicts everything
I say, and how pleasingly she shows her contempt for my author-
ity ! 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 everything in her power
to plague me. {Exit.

234 "fffE SCHOOL FOR SCAA'D.IL.

ScEKE II, — A rffffm in Ladv Sncerwell's House.

kor Skkekwei-l, Mrs, Caxdour, Crabtrf.e, Sir Hexjauin Back-
bite, (7«(/ Joseph Surface, discovered.

Lady Sneer. Nay, positively, we will hear it.

/«. Surf. Yes, yes, the epigram, by alt means.

Sir Beitj, O plague on 't, uncle! 'tis mere nonsense.

Crab. No, no ; 'fore Gad, very clever for an extempore!

Sir BenJ, But, ladies, you should be acquainted with the cir-
imstance. You must know that one day last week, as Lady

[ty Curricle was taking the dust in Hyde Park, in a sort of
uuotlccimo phaeton, she desired me to write some verses on her
ponies ; upon which, I took out my pocket-book, and la one mo-
ment produced the following: —

Sure

never was t.ci

■n two such beaulifui ponies;

Othc

r horses arc c

lowns, but these macaronies:

Tor;

ive theni lliis

tille I "in sure ran "t be wrong,

Thoii

r logs are so s

lim und tiieir Uils are so long.

Crab. There, ladies, clone in the smack of a whip, and on
horseback too.

Jos. Surf. A very I'hcebus, mounted^ indeed, Sir Benjamin!

Sir iifiij. Oh dear, sir! trifles — trifles.

F.titcr L.Miv Teazi.k and Maria.

Mis. Cii'i. I mu-st have a cop)-.

Lady Slice: Lady Teazle, I hope wc shall see Sir Peter.'

Lady Tear:. I believe he'll wait on your ladyship presently.

L.ady 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'll do
as your ladyship pleases.

A COME D v. 235

Lady Teaz, I am surprised Mr. Surface' should sit down with
her; I thought he would have embraced this opportunity of speaking
to me before Sir Peter came. {Aside,

Mrs, Can, Now, I '11 die ; but you are so scandalous, I '11 forswear
your society.

Lady Teas, What 's the matter, Mrs. Candour }

Mrs, Can, They'll not allow our friend Miss Vermillion 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 color.

Lady Teas, Yes, when it is fresh put on.

Mrs, Can, O, fie ! I '11 swear her color is natural : I have seen it
come and go !

Lady Teas, I dare swear you have, ma'am : it goes off at night,
and comes again in the morning.

Sir Benj, 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 /j, or was^ very handsome.

Crab, Who } Mrs. Evergreen } O Lord ! 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 Benj, 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.

S|6 TKT SCHOOL FCK SCAXDAL.

SirStmf. Sij-, turn. Lady Soccrwdl. j-ou arc severe upon the
Ceo^ oaae.'^s not that sbcpainu w ill — but, when she
1 her SacQ,At }oau it on so badly to her neck, tlut
Bended statue, in which the connoisseur may sec
at oBoc dm Ac biad b nxxjcm. though the tnink *s antique.

Cmk Ha! ha! ha! WcU said, ncpbew.

Mrt, Cam. Ha ! ba ! ha ! Well, yoa make me bugb ; but I vow
I hue jfMt for iL — What do you think of Miss Simper ?

Sir Bntj. Why. dK baa veiy pretty teeth.

Ls4}' Turns, Yet; and oo that accmut, when she is neither
spcaktog nor laughmg (which very seldom happens), she never abso-
lutely ahots her aioath. but leaves it always on a-jar, as it were —
ifaas. {Shoofs her ttelk

Mrs. Om. How can }-ou be so ill-natured ?

Lady Tcaz. Nay, 1 allow even that "s better than the pains Mrs.
Prim tjkos to coiiccn! her lui-scs in front. She draws her mouth
till it positivfly resembles t!-.o aperture of a poor's-box, and all her
words appear to slide out edgewise, as it were — thus: How do
yon do, madainf Vis, madam. [Mimks.

Liidy Sneer. \'or)- well. Lad)' Teazle; I see you can be a little
severe.

Lady Tcaz. In defence of a friend it is but justice. — But here
comes Sir Peter to spoil our plcnsantry.

Enter Slit Pi£TnR Teazle.

Sir Peter. Ladies, your most obedient, — \Asidc^ Mercy on me,
here is the whole set ! a character dead at every word, I suppose.

Mrs. Can. I am rejoiced you arc come, Sir Peter. They have
been so censorious — and Lady Teazle as bad as any one.

,S"//- Peicr. That must be very distressing; to you, indeed, Mrs.
Candour.

A COMEDY. 237

Mrs, Can. Oh, they will allow good qualities to nobody ; not
even good nature to our friend, Mrs. Pursy.

Lady Teas. What, the fat dowager who was at Mrs. Quadrille's
last night }

Mrs. Can. Nay, her bulk is her misfortune ; and, when she takes
so much pains to get rid of it, you ought not to reflect on her.

Lady Sneer. That 's very true, indeed.

Lady Teas. 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 Peter. 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 censorious
— an awkward gawky, without any one good point under heaven.

Mrs. Can. Positively you shall not be so very severe. Miss Sal-
low 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 labors
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 candle-
light, 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 Benj. Ah I you are both of you too good-natured 1

' SC4.W.-IZ.

Tkia tbo-swBRiitfMf
mexfaowmt lOsidt.

Mn.CmK. Fvaw pM^lamlonotb^tobar mfinad a

ijiliii at

.ScrAttK HG^bcbenee:

SirBe^ Ob f ;•■ ae «tf a, mocat tsra. Mn. Cuulour and I caa
■it far m hea* aoi bear Ljrff SkBcco talk sentitseiit

/«i^ Tivs. Say, F «o« Lady Scncca is very wetl with the
iaaen wbaSuues; far9be'*j«st Eiu rite Frcttch fruit one cracks
for noCSoo-^Bnoe vf of punt and pcovcra.

Mn. Cam. WeD. i will menr ynn in riJicnttng a friend ; and so
I oofMCantl; tefl tBJ CDtatn Oj^e, and yoa all kncnr what pretensions
she has co be oitical on beat^.

CmS. Ob, to be sore! the bas herself tbe oddest countenance
that over was seen ; "t b a collection of features from all the different
countries of I'nc yl'jbi.'.

Sir Bciij. So she has, indeed — an Irish front

Crab. Caledonian locks

Sir Dciij. Dutch nose

Crab. Austrian lips

Sir Piciij. Comj>lexion of a Spaniard

Cinb. And teeth a la Chinoise

Sir lUiij. In short, her face resembles a table d'hote at Spa —
wlitrr no two j,'uests arc of a nation

( ////', < )r a congress at the close of a general war — wherein all
till- imciiiIhvs, even to her eyes, appear to have a different interest,
ami her rmse and ehin arc the only parties likely to join issue.

J//;v. La,,. I la! ha! ha I

Sir I'l-li-r. Mercy on my life ! — a person they dine with twice a
week I [Aside.

r-\

A COMEDY. 239

Lady Sneer. Go, go ; you are a couple of provoking toads.

Mrs. Can. Nay, but I vow you shall not carry the laugh off so —
for give me leave to say that Mrs. Ogle

Sir Peter. Madam, madam, I beg your pardon — there *s no stop-
ping 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 Peter. Ah, madam, true wit is more nearly allied to good-
nature than your ladyship is aware of.

Lady Teas. True, Sir Peter : I believe they are so near akin that
they can never be united.

Sir Benj. Or rather, madam, suppose them man and wife, because
one seldom sees them together.

Lady Teas. But Sir Peter is such an enemy to scandal, I believe
he would have it put down by parliament.

Sir Peter. 'Fore heaven, madam, if they were to consider the
sporting with reputation of as much importance as poaching on
manors, and pass an act for the preservation of fame, as well as
game, I believe many would thank them for the bill.

Lady Sneer. O Lud ! Sir Peter ; would you deprive us of our
privileges ?

Sir Peter. Ay, madam, and then no person should be permitted
to kill characters and run down reputations, but qualified old maids
and disappointed widows.

Lady Sneer. Go, you monster !

Mrs. Can. But, surely, you would not be quite so severe on those
who only report what they hear ?

240 THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL.

Sir Peter, Yes, madam, I 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 party should have a right
to come on any of the indorsers.

Crab, Well, for my part, I believe there never was a scandalous
tale without some foundation.

Sir Peter, Oh, nine out of ten of the malicious inventions are
founded on some ridiculous misrepresentation.

Lady Sneer, Come, ladies, shall we sit down to cards in the next
room }

Enter Servant, who whispers Sir Peter.

Sir Peter. I '11 be with them directly. — \Exit Servant.] I '11 get
away unperceivcd. {Aside,

Lady Sneer. Sir Peter, you are not going to leave us ?

.S7;' Peter. Your ladyship must excuse mc ; I 'm called away by
particular business. But I leave my character behind me.

[Exit Sir Peter.
Sir Benj. Well — certainly, Lady Teazle, that lord of yours is a
strange being : I could tell you some stories 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 humor. Heaven grant me a double portion
of dullness !

Jos. Surf, Yet they appear more ill-natured than they are ; they
have no malice at heart.

Mar, Then is their conduct still more contemptible; for, in my

A COMEDY. 241

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 sen-
timent of mine, that to propagate a malicious truth wantonly is more
despicable than to falsify from revenge. But can you, Maria, feel
thus for others, and be unkind to me alone ? Is hope to be denied
the tenderest 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 favored 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.

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 1

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 happi-
ness, and threatened to acquaint Sir Peter with her suspicions, and I
was just endeavoring to reason with her when you came in.

242 THE SCHOOL FOR SCAADAl.

LaJjr Teas. Indeed ! but vcmi seemed to adopt a very tender
mode of reasoning — do you usually argue on your knees?

Jas. Surf. Oh, she "s a child, and I thought a little bombast

But, Lady Teajlc, when are you to give me your judgment on my
library, as you promised ?

Lotijr Teas. No, no; 1 begin to think it would be impmdent, and
you know- I admit vmu as a lover no fanher than fashion retiuires.

Jai. Surf. Tree — a mere f^tonic cicisbeo, — what every wife
b entitled to.

Ltufy Teas. Certainly, one must not be out of the fashion. —
However, I have so many of my countiy prejudices left, that, though
Sir Peter's ill-humor may vex me ever so, it never shall provoke me
to

/cs. Sur/. The only revenge in your power. — Well, I applaud
your moderation.

Lady Teas. 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 Tea::. 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, at first, only to ingratiate myself with Lady Teazle, that
she might not be my enemy with Maria ; and I have, I don't know
how, become her serious lover. Sincerely I begin to wish I had
never made snch a point of gaining so very good a character, for
it has led me into so many cursed rogueries that I doubt I shall be
exposed at last. [Exit.

^ r\

A COMEDY. 243

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 ; *t is
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 neigh-
borhood, 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 favorite.

Sir Oliv. Ay, I know there is a set of malicious, prating, prudent
gossips, both male and female, who murder characters to kill time,
and will rob a young fellow of his good name before he has years to
know the value of it. — But I am not to be prejudiced against my
nephew by such, I promise you ! — No, no ; if Charles has done
nothing false or mean, I shall compound for his extravagance.

Row. Then, my life on *t, you will reclaim him. — Ah, sir, it gives
me new life to find that your heart is not turned against him, and
that the son of my good old master has one friend, however, left.

Sir Oliv. What ! shall I forget. Master Rowley, when I was at

344 THE SCHOOL FOR SCAXDAL.

bis years di)-s«U ? Egad, my brother and I were neither of us very
prudent youths ; and yet, I bt;licvc, you ba^'c not seen many better
mcD than your old master was ?

Rffw. Sir, 't is this reflection gives me assurance that Charles
nuy yet be a credit to his family. — But here comes Sir Peter ?

6'i> Otiv. Kgad, so he does I Mercy on me ! he 's greatly altered,
and seems to have a settled mairied look] One may read husband
in bis face at this distance !

Entfr SiK Peter Teazle,

Sir Peter. Hat Sir Oliver — my old friend! Welcome to Eng-
land a thousand times!

Sir O/it: Thank you, thank you, Sir I'eter! and i' faith I am glad
to find you well, believe mc !

Sir /'tier. Oh ! 't is a long time since we met — fifteen years, I
doubt, Sir Oliver, and many a cross accident in the time.

^i> 0/12: 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 Peter. Thank you, thank you. Sir Oliver. — Yes, I have
entered into — the happy state ; — but we '11 not talk of that now.

Sir Oliv. True, true. Sir Peter ; old friends should not begin on
grievances at first meeting. No, no, no

Row. [Asii/e to Sir Oliver.] Take care, pray, sir, —

Sir Oliv. Well, so one of my nephews is a wild rogue, hey ?

Sir Peter. Wild ! Ah ! my old friend, I grieve for your disap-
pointment there ; he 's a lost young man, indeed. However, his
brother will make you amends ; Joseph is, indeed, what a youth
should bc^ everybody in the world speaks well of him.

Sir Oliv. I am sorry to hear it ; he has too good a character to
be an honest fellow. Everybody speaks well of him! Pshaw! then

A COMEDY. 245

he has bowed as low to knaves and fools as to the honest dignity of
genius and virtue.

Sir Peter. What, Sir Oliver ! do you blame him for not making
enemies ?

Sir Oliv. Yes, if he has merit enough to deserve them.

Sir Peter, Well, well, you *11 be convinced when you know him.
'T is edification to hear him converse ; he professes the noblest sen-
timents.

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, how-
ever, 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 ; and my friend Rowley and I have
planned something for the purpose.

Row. And Sir Peter shall own for once he has been mistaken.

Sir Peter, Oh, my life on Joseph's honor !

Sir Oliv. Well — come, give us a bottle of good wine, and we'll
drink the lads* health, and tell you our scheme.

Sir Peter, 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 cling-
ing to the green suckers of youth ; 't is like ivy round a sapling,
and spoils the growth of the tree. {Exeunt,

TUE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL.

ScEKE [. — A Rocm in Sm I'eier Teazle's House.
Enttr Sir Peter Teazle, Sik OLrvER Surface, and Rowlev.

5i> Peter. Well, ihen wc will see this fellow first, and have
our wine afterwards. — But how is this.. Master Rowley? 1 don't
see the jet of your scheme

Rm!. Why, sir, this Mr, Stanley, whom I was speaking of,
is nearly related to them by their mother. He was once a iner-
diant in Dublin, but has been ruined by a series of undeserved
misfortunes. He has applied, by letter, 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,
endeavoring to raise a sum of money, part of which, in the
midst of his own distresses, I know he intends for the service
of poor Stanley.

Sir Oliv. Ah ! he is my brother's son.

Sir Peter. Well, but how is Sir Oliver personally to

Row. Why, sir, 1 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 opportunity of judg-
ing, at least, of the benevolence of their dispositions: and believe
me, sir, you will find in the youngest brother one who, in the

_ r\

A COMEDY. 247

midst of folly and dissipation, has still as our immortal bard ex-
presses it, —

*' a heart to pity, and a hand.
Open as da/, for melting charity.**

Sir Peter, Pshaw! 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 Charleses affairs i

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 everything in his power to bring your
nephew to a proper sense of his extravagance.

Sir Peter Pray let us have him in.

Row, Desire .Mr. Moses to walk up stairs. [Apart to Servant.

Sir Peter, 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 an-
other evidence in my power, one Snake, whom I have detected
in a matter little short of forgery, and shall shortly produce to
remove some of your prejudices, Sir Peter, relative to Charles
and Lady Teazle.

Sir Peter. I have heard too much on that subject.

Row. Here comes the honest Israelite.

Enter Moses.
— This 13 Sir Oliver.

Sir Oliv. Sir, I understand you have lately had great dealings

with my nephew Charles.

248 THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL.

Mos. Yes, Sir Oliver, I have done all I could for him ; b
was ruined before he came to me for assistance.

Sir Oliv, That was unlucky, truly ; for you have had no c
tunity of showing your talents.

Mos, None at all ; I had n*t the pleasure of knowing his
tresses till he was some thousands worse than nothing.

Sir Oliv, Unfortunate, indeed ! — But I suppose you haVe
all in your power for him, honest Moses ?

Mos, Yes, he knows that. — This very evening I was to
brought him a gentleman from the city, who does not know him
will, I believe, advance him some money.

Sir Peter, What — one Charles has never had money
before }

Mos, Yes, Mr. Premium, of Crutched Friars, formerly a broi

Sir Peter. Egad, Sir Oliver, a thought strikes me! — Chi
you say, docs not know Mr. Premium ?

Mos, Not at all.

Sir Peter, Now then. Sir Oliver, you may have a better 6]
tunity of satisfying yourself than by an old romancing tale of ft
relation ! go with my friend Moses, and represent Premiunli
then, I '11 answer for it, you '11 see your nephew in all his glory.

Sir Oliv, Egad, I like this idea better than the other, and I
visit Joseph afterwards as old Stanley.

Sir Peter, True — so you may.

Row, Well, this is taking Charles rather at a disadvantage, t
sure. However, Moses, you understand Sir Peter, and wU
faithful ?

Mos, You may depend upon me. — [Looks at Ins watch.'] Th
near the time I was to have gone.

Sir Oliv. I '11 accompany you as soon as you please, Moses -

A COMEDY, 249

But hold ! I have forgot one thing — how the plague shall I 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 Peter, Not at all : *t would 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 Peter. Oh, there 's not much to learn. The great point, as I
take it, is to be exorbitant enough in your demands. Hey, Moses ?

Mas, 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.

Sir Oliv, Hey ! — what the plague — how much then }

Mos, That depends upon the circumstances. If he appears 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 Peter. A good honest trade you *re learning. Sir Oliver !

Sir Oliv. Truly, I think so — and not unprofitable.

Mos, Then, you know, you have n'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 ?

3$0 THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL.

Mos. Yes, and he himself has not the moneys by him, but is
forced to sell stock at a great loss.

Sir Ofiv. He is forced to sell stock at a great loss, is he ? Well,
that 's very kind of him.

Sir Pfter. I'failh, 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 charac-
ter, I should think.

Mot. Very much.

Row. And lament that a young man now must be at years of
discretion before he is suffered to ruin himself.

Mas. Ay. great pity.

Sir Peter. 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 Peter. You will not have much time, for your nephew lives
hard by.

Sir OliiK 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 Peter. So, now, I think Sir Oliver will be convinced : you are
partial, Rowley, and would have prepared Charles for the other plot.

Row. No, upon my word. Sir Peter.

Sir Peter. Well, go bring me this Snake, and I 'II hear what
he has to say presently. — I see Maria, and want to speak with
her. — [£'4-(V Rowi.Ev.] I should be glad to be convinced my sus-
picions of Lady Teazle and Charles were unjust, I have never

A COMEDY. 25 1

yet opened my mind on this subject to my friend Joseph — I am
determined I will do it — he will give me his opinion sincerely.

Enter Maria.
So, child, has Mr. Surface returned with 3rou ?

Mar. No, sir; he was engaged.

Sir Peter. Well, Maria, do 3rou not reflect, the more you
converse with that amiable young man, what return his partiality
for you deserves?

Mar. Indeed, Sir Peter, your frequent importunity on this sub-
ject distresses me extremely — you compel me to declare that I
know no man who has ever paid me a particular attention whom
I would not prefer to Mr. Surface.

Sir Peter. So — here 's perverseness ! — No, no, Maria, *t is Charles
only whom you would prefer. 'T is 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 vicesi my heart suggests some pity for his distresses.

Sir Ptter. 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 Peter. Go, perverse and obstinate ! But take care, madam ;
you have never yet known what the authority of a guardian is :
don't compel me to inform you of it.

Mar. I can only say you shall not have just reason. 'Tis
true, by my father's will, I am for a short period bound to regard
you as his substitute ; but must cease to think you so, when you
would compel me to be miserable. [Exit Maria.

352 THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL.

Sir PtUr. Was ever man so crossed as I am? everything con-
spiring to Jrct mel I had not been involved in matrimony a fort-
night, before her father, a hale and hearty man, died, on purpose,
1 believe, for the pleasure of plaguing me with the care of liis
daughter — \l,ady TtasU siugi without.\ Bui here comes my help-
mate ! She appears in great good humor. How happy I should
be if I could tease her into loving me, though but a Hltlel
Enter Lady Teazlil

Lady Teas. Lud I Sir Peter, I hope you haven't been quarrel-
ling with Maria ? It is not using me well to be ill-humored when
1 am not by.

Sir J^iUr, Ah, Lady Teazle, you might have the power to make
me good humored at all times.

Lady Teas. I am sure I wish I had ; for I want you to be in
a charming sweet temper at this moment. Do be goad-humored
now, and let me have two hundred pounds, will you.'

Sir Peter. Two hundred pounds; what, an't I to be in a good
humor 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
mc a bond for the repayment.

Lady Tcaz. Oh, no — there — my note of hand will do as well.
\Offering her hand.

Sir Peter. And you shall no longer reproach me with not giv-
ing you an independent settlement. I mean shortly to surprise
you: — but shall wc always live thus, hey.'

Lady Teaz. If you please. I 'm sure I don't care how soon we
leave off quarrelling, provided you'll own you were tired first.

Sir Peter. Well — then let our future contest be, who shall
be most obliging.

Lady Teaz. I assure you, Sir Peter, good nature becomes you.

^ r\

A COMEDY, 253

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 — did n't you ?

Sir Peter. 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 ridi-
cule.

Sir Peter, Indeed !

Lady Teas. Ay, and when my cousin Sophy has called you a
stiff, peevish old bachelor, and laughed at me for thinking of
marrying one who might be my father, I have always defended
you, and said, I didn't think you so ugly by any means.

Sir Peter. Thank you.

Lady Teaz. And I dared say you 'd make a very good sort
of a husband.

Sir Peter. And you prophesied right ; and we shall now be the
happiest couple

Lady Teaz. And never differ again }

Sir Peter. 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 Peter, Now see, my angel ! take care — contradicting is n't
the way to keep friends.

Lady Teaz. Then don't you begin it, my love!

Sir Peter, There, now! you — you are going on. You don't

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pecmfa

Sw- /*r/cr. Htcrc aow * «bo bi^ias first ?

Z«^ 7>Mi. Why, you. to be sure 1 utd nothing -

-but there**

BO bemrmg yoor temper.

Sir Pttrr. No^ no^ mtbio : the fault 's in your own temper.

Sir Peter. Yoor cousin Sophy b a forward, impertinent ppsy.

Lady Ten::. You are a great bear, I 'm sure, to abuse my
relations.

Sir Peter. Now may all the plagues of marriage be doubled
on me, if ever I try to be friends with you any more!

Lady Teaz. So much the better.

Sir Peter. 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 neighborhood !

Lady Teaz. And I am sure I was a fool to marry you — an
old dangling hachelur, who was single at fifty, only because he
never could meet with any one who would have him.

Sir Piter. Ay, ay, madam ; but you were pleased enough to
listen to me . you never had such an offer before.

Lady Teaz. No ! did n't I refuse Sir Tivy Terrier, who everybody
s;iicl would have been a better match ? for his estate is just as good
as youis, and he has broke his neck since we have been married.

^ r>.

A COME D v. 255

Sir Peter. I have done with you, madam ! You are an unfeel-
ing, ungrateful — but there's an end of everything. I believe
you capable of everything that is bad. Yes, madam, I now
believe the reports relative to you and Charles, madam. Yes,
madam, yon and Charles are, — not without grounds

Lady Teas, Take care, Sir Peter ! you had better not insinuate
any such thing ! I *11 not be suspected without cause, I promise
you.

Sir Peter. Very well, madam ! very well ! A separate main-
tenance as soon as you please. Yes, madam, or a divorce ! V 11
make an example of myself for the benefit of all old bachelors.
Let us separate, madam.

Lady Teas. 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 interrupt you — 30,
bye ! bye ! [Exit.

Sir Peter. Plagues and tortures ! Can't I make her angry either !
Oh, I am the most miserable fellow ! But I *11 not bear her pre-
suming to keep her temper : no ! she may break my heart, but
she sha'n't keep her temper. [Exit.

Scene II. — A Room in Chart.es Surface's Hojise.

Enter Trip, Moses, and Sir Oliver Surface.

Trifi. Here, Master Moses ! if you '11 stay a moment, I 'II try
whether — what's the gentleman's name?

Sir 0/iv. Mr. Moses, what is my name ? [Aside to Moses.

Mos. Mr. Premium.

256 THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL.

Trip, Premium — very well. {Exit Trip, 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.

Re-Enter Trip.

Trip, My master says you must wait, gentlemen : he has com-
pany, and can't speak with you yet.

Sir Oliv. If he knew who it was wanted to see him, perhaps he
would not send such a message }

Ttip, 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 d proposy 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.

A COMEDY, 257

Mos, T was 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 't was the
same as cash.

Mos, No, *t would n't do.

Trip, A small sum — but twenty pounds. Hark 'ee, Moses, do
you think you could n'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 ! {Asida.

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 is more than I would your neck. \Aside.

Mos, But is there nothing you could deposit 1

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, with a few pair of point
ruffles, as a collateral security — hey, my little fellow }

Mos. Well, well. \Bell rings.

Trip, Egad, I heard the bell ! I believe, gentlemen, I can now
introduce you. Don't forget the annuity, little Moses ! This way,
gentlemen, I *11 insure my place, you know.

Sir Oliv. [Aside,] If the man be a shadow of the master, this is
the temple of dissipation indeed ! [Exeunt.

2S8 THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL.

Scene III. — Another room in the same,

Charles Surface, Sir Harry Bumper, Careless, and Gentle-
men, discovered drinking.

Chas, Surf, Tore heaven, 'tis true! — there's the great degen-
eracy 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 in to all the substantial
luxuries of the table, and abstain from nothing but wine and wit
Oh, certainly society suffers by it intolerably ! for now, instead of
the social spirit of raillery that used to mantle over a glass of bright
Burgundy, their conversation is become just like the Spa- water they
drink, which has all the pertness and flatulency of champagne, with-
out its spirit or flavor.

1st 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 would n'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.

AIL Hey, what >,

Care, At least I never feel my losses, which is exactly the same
thing.

2d Gent, Ay, that I believe.

Chas, Surf And then, what man can pretend to be a believer in
love, who is an abjurcr of wine } 'Tis the test by which the lover
knows his own heart. Fill a dozen bumpers to a dozen beauties, and
she that floats at the top is the maid that has bewitched you.

J M

A COMEDY. 259

Care, Now then, Charles, be honest, and give us your real
favorite.

Chas. Surf. Why, I have withheld her only in compassion to you.
If I toast her, you must give a round of her peers, which is impos-
sible — on earth.

Care Oh ! then we '11 find some canonized 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 ! — 't is too formal to be
registered in Love's calendar — Maria !

All Maria !

Chas. Surf. But now. Sir Harry, beware, we must have beauty
superlative.

Care. Nay, never study. Sir Harry : we '11 stand to the toast,
though your mistress should want an eye, and you know you
have a song will excuse you.

Sir Har. Egad, so I have ! and I '11 give him the song instead
of the lady.

SONG.

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,
Ckorus, Let the toast pass, —
Drink to the lass,
I Ul warrant she Ml 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.
Ckorus. Let the toast pass, &c.

2CO THE SCHOOL FCR SCANDAL,

KrrF*( lo Ihe maid witS n bocom of biww:

Now to her that '» as browm as o henj.
Here 'i to the wife with a face roll of woe.
And now to the ilamui thai 'a roKny.
Ciorms. Let the toMt put. iu.

For let'eiti be dumtv, or let'em be slinii

Yuunjji or ancient, I care not a feather;

So Gil a pint bumper quite up to the brim.

So fill up jour gloMct. nar. till to the brim.

And let uk e'en toa»t them together.

Ciormt. Let the toatt pau, Sic.

AU, Bravo ! bravo !

Enter Trii', and -whispers Charles Surface.

Chai. Surf. Gentlemen, you must excuse rae a little, — ^ Careless,
take tlie chair, will you ?

Care. Nay, pr'ythce, Charles, what now? This is one of your
peerless beauties. I suppose, has dropped in by chance?

C/ias. Surf. No, faith! To tell you the truth, 'tis a Jew and a
broker, who are come by appointment.

Can: Oh, damn it ! let 's have the Jew in.

1st Gent. Ay. and the broker too, by alt means.

2d Gent. Yes, yes, the Jew and the broker.

Chas. Surf. Egad, with all my heart! — Trip, bid the gentlemen
walk in, — [£'.r;V Tuip.] Though there's one of them a stranger,
I can tell you.

Care. Charles, let us give them some generous Burgundy, and
perhaps they'll grow conscientious.

Chas. Surf. Oh. hang 'em, no! wine does but draw forth a
man's natural qualities; and to make them drink would only be
to whet their knavery.

A COMEDY. 261

Re-enter Trip, with Sir Oliver Surface and Moses.

Chas. Surf, So, honest Moses; walk in, pray, Mr. Premium —
that 's the gentleman's name, isn't it, Moses ?

Mos, Yes, sir.

Chas, Surf. Set chairs. Trip. — Sit down, Mr. Premium. —
Glasses, Trip. — [^Gtvcs chairs and glasses^ and exit.] Sit down,
Moses. — Come, Mr. Premium, I'll give you a sentiment; here's
Success to usury! — Moses, fill the gentleman a bumper.

ATos. 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. Premium, you have demurred
at the toast, and must drink it in a pint bumper.

1st Gent. A pint bumper, at least.

Afos. Oh, pray, sir, consider — Mr. Premium's a gentleman.

Care. And therefore loves good wine.

2d Gent. Give Moses a quart glass — this is mutiny, and a
high contempt for the chair.

Care. Here, now for't! I'll see justice done, to the last drop
of my bottle.

Sir Oliv. Nay, pray, gentlemen — I did not expect this usage.

C/ias. Surf No, hang it, you shan't; Mr. Premium 's a stranger.

Sir Oliv. Odd ! I wish I was well out of their company. [Aside,

Care. Plague on *em ! 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 gentle-
men?

Chas. Surf. I will! I will! — [Exeunt Sir Harry Bumper and
Gbntlbhbn ; Careless folloiving.] Careless 1

262 THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL.

Care, \Retnrning,'\ Well !

Oias, Surf. Perhaps I may want you.

Care. Oh, you know I am always ready : word, note, or bond,
't is all the same to me. \ExiL

Mos. Sir, this is Mr. Premium, a gentleman of the strictest
honor and secrecy ; and alw^ays performs what he undertakes. Mr.
Premium, this is

Chas. Surf. Pshaw ! 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.

C/ias. 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 mis-
taken in one thing; I have no money to lend, but I believe I
could procure some of a friend; but then he's an uilconscion-
able dog. Is n't he, Moses }

Mas. But you can't help that.

Sir Oliv. And must sell stock to accommodate you. — Mustn't
he, Moses }

Mos. Yes, indeed ! You know I always speak the truth, and
scorn to tell a lie!

Chas, Surf. Right. People that speak truth generally do. But

A COMEDY. 263

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!

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 connections.

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 favorite, and that he talks of leaving me everything.

Sir Oliv, Indeed ! this is the first I 've heard of it.

Chas, Surf Yes, yes, 't is just so, — Moses knows 't is true ;
don't you, Moses }

Mos, Oh, yes! I'll swear to't.

Sir Oliv, Egad, they '11 persuade me presently I 'm at Bengal.

\Aside,

Clms, Surf Now I propose, Mr. Premium, if it's agreeable to
you, a post-obit on Sir Oliver's life ; though at the same time
the old fellow has been so liberal to me, that I give you my
word, I should be very sorry to hear that anything had happened
to him.

I ustm; nxL Bat tbc bond
t the worst scaniC}- you could
hoodrcii zod never »ee llic prit»-

Cte. 5h/ Oh. tck yoa wmdi! Ae BMncnt Sir Oliver dies,
jvn know, loa iratU cone oo ok for the nwiiejr.

Sir Oin. Then I believe t sImbU be the nMt mnrdooine dun
ytn ever bad ia jow Gfe.

Ckax^Sarf. Vihail I siqtpoae joa're afraid that Sir Oliver Is
Coo g«x] a li£c?

StrOirv. Noi indeed I an not; tboogh I have heard he is
as hale oad hcaltby^ as any mas of his years in ChristcDdum.

Ciai, Surf. Tbctc, ^aio, now yiHi arc misinfonned. Net, no,
the dimaze has hurr him considerably, poor uncle Oliver. Yes,
yes, he !>r.'.-ik- i-.^ncc. I'm t,.:.! — an^I is so ranch altered late!y
that his nearest relations don't know him.

Sir Oliv. Xo ! Ha ! ha ! ha ! so much altered lately that his
nearest relations don't know him ! Ha! ha! ha! egad — ha!ha!ha!

Chas. Surf. Ha I ha ! — you 're glad to hear that, little Premium ?

Sir Oliv. No, no, 1 'm not.

Chas. Surf. Yes, yes, you are — ha! ha! ha! — you know that
mends your chance.

Sir Oliv. ISut I "m told Sir Oliver is coming over ; nay, some say
he is actually arrived.

Cliiir:. Surf. Pshaw ! sure I must know better than you whether
he's ciimc or not. Xo, no, rely on 't he's at this moment at
Calcutta. — Isn't he, Moses?

Mos. Oh, yes, certainly.

.S(> Oliv. Very true, as you say, j'ou must know better than I,
though I have it from pretty good authority. — Have n't I, Moses ?

A COMEDY • 265

Mos. Yes, most undoubtedly !

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 cor-
poration-bowls ! [Aloud.] Then it was also supposed that his library
was one of the most valuable and compact —

CAas. Surf. Yes, yes, so it was — vastly too much so for a private
gentleman. For my part, I was always of a communicative disposi-
tion, 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 — [Alo7/d.] 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 above ; and
if you have a taste for old paintings, egad, you shall have 'cm a
bargain !

Sir Oliv. Hey ! what the devil ! sure, you would n't sell your
forefathers, would you }

Chas. Surf. Every man of them, to the best bidder.

Sir Oliv. What, your grcat-unclcs and aunts ?

Chas. Surf Ay, and my great-grandfathers and grandmothers too.

a66

THE SCHOOL FOX SCANDAL

Sir Otiv. \Asidt.'\ Now I give him up I — \Aloud.\ What ihe
plaguCi have jrou Du bowels for your own kiudrcd ? Odd 's life I do
you tike me fur Sh)'lock in the play, that you would raise money o£
mc on your own flesh and blood ?

Otas. Surf. Nay, my littk broker, don't be angry : what need you
care, if you have your money's worth?

Sir Oliv. Well. I '11 be the purchaser : I think 1 can dispose of
the family canva*. — {Asidt^.] Oh, I' 11 never forgive him this ! never !
[Kc-EMitr Careless.]

Cart. Come, Charles, what keeps you ?

Ckas. Surf. I can't come yet. 1" faith, we arc going to have a
sale above-stairs ; here 's little Premium will huy all my ancestors !

Care. Oh, burn your ancestors !

Chas. Surf. No, he may do that afterwards, if he pleases. Stay,
Cart;lc.ss, wo want you ; cj^ud, you bhall be auctioneer — so come
along with us.

Carf. Oil, 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 ! [Aiide.

Ckas. 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! — \Asidt\
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 ?

Sir Oliv. I '11 never forgive hiin ; never ! never ! {Exeunt.

^ r\

A COMEDY. 267

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 volontiire grace or expression. Not like the works
of your modern Raphaels, who give you the strongest resem-
blance, 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, Care-
less, you shall have no common bit of mahogany, here's the

— ^H

■ it

The Familv Fictdres.

_ /^

A COMEDY. 269

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.

C/ias, Surf, Well, take that couple for the same.

Mos. 'T is a good bargain.

C/ias. Surf Careless ! — This, now, is a grandfather of my
mother's, a learned judge, well known on the western circuit. —
What do you rate him at, Moses }

Mos. Four guineas.

C/ias. 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 !

C/ias, 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 honor of parliament.

Care. Well said, little Premium! — I'll knock them down at
forty.

C/ias. Surf Here's a jolly fellow — I don't know what relation,
but he was mayor of Manchester : take him at eight pounds.

Sir Oliv. No, no ; six will do for the mayor.

Cftas. Surf. Come, make it guineas, and I '11 throw you the two
aldermen there into the bargain.

270 THE SCHOOL fOR SCANDAL.

Sir Ohv. They 're mine,

CAas. Surf. Careless, knock down the mayor and aldermen. —
Bat, plague on 't ! we shall be all day retailing in this manner :
do let U8 deal wholesale ; what say you, little Premium ? Give
tne three hundred pounds for the rest of the family in the lump.

Cars. Ay. ay. thai will be the best way.

Sir Otiv. Well, well, anything to accommodate you ; they arc
mine But there is one portrait which you have always passed
over.

Cart. What, that ill-louking little fellow over the settee?

Sir Oliv. Yes, sir, I mean that ; thouj^h I don't think him so ill-
looking a little fellow, by any means.

Ckas. 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 disinheriting counte-
nance ! 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.'

Clias. Surf. No, hang it ! I 'U not part with poor Noll. The
old fellow has been very good to me, and, egad, I 'U keep his
picture while I've a room to put it in.

Sir Oliv. \_Asi<ie.'\ The rogue's my nephew after all! — [Aloud.]
But, sir I have somehow taken a fancy to that picture.

Clias. Stirf. 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 everything ! — {Aloud.'\ But,

A COMEDY. 271

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.

C/ias, 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. [Aside,] How like his father the dog is ? — [A/oud]
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 draft for your sum.

C/ias, Surf. Why, 't is for eight hundred pounds !

Sir Oliv. You will not let Sir Oliver go }

C/ias. 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 arc
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 gentlemen.

Sir Oliv, Yes, yes, I '11 send for them in a day or two.

C/ias, Surf But hold ; do now send a genteel conveyance for
them, for, I assure you, they were most of them used to ride in
their own carriages.

Sir Oliv. I will, I will, — for all but Oliver.

Chas, Surf. Ay, all but the little nabob.

Sir Oliv. You 're fixed on that }

Chas, Surf. Peremptorily.

Sir Oliv [Aside.] A dear extravagant rogue ! — [Aloud.] Good
day ! — Come, Moses. — [Aside.] Let me hear now who dares call
him profligate ! [Exit ivith Moses.

Care. Why, this is the oddest genius of the sort I ever met
with!

^^2

THE SCHOOL FOR SCAADAL.

Ckas. Surf, Egad, he 's the prince of brokers, I think. I won-
der how the devil Moses got acquainted with so honest a fellow.
— Ha! here's Rowley. — Do, Careless, say I'll join the company
in a few moments.

Can, I will — hut 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, arc the most exorbitant fellows.

Chas. Surf. Very true, and paying them is only encouraging them.

Cart. Nothing else.

Cfias. Surf, Ay, ay, never fear. — \Exit Carf.lf-SS.] So ! this was
an odd old fellow, indeed. — Let me see, two-thirds of this is
mine by right, five hundred and thirty odd pounds. 'I'ore
Heaven ! I find one's ancestors are more valuable relations than I
took ihcm for! — Ladies and gentlemen, your most obedient and
very grateful servant, — [Bo'iVS ceremoniously to the picliircs.

Enter Rowley.

Ha ! old Rowley ! egad, you arc jiiit come in time to take leave
of your old acciuaintance.

Ro-.v. Vcs, 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 1 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, 't '\% very affecting, but j'ou see they never move a
muscle, so why should I .'

Roii.'. There's no making you serious a moment.

Chas. Surf. Yes, faith, I am so now. Here, my honest Rowley,
here, get me this changed directly, and take a hundred pounds of it
immediately to old Stanley.

A COMEDY, 273

Row, A hundred pounds. Consider only

Chas, Surf, Gad*s life, don't talk about it ! poor Stanley's wants
are pressing, and, if you don't make haste, we shall have some one
call that has a better right to the money.

Row, Ah ! there *s the point ! I never will cease dunning you
with the old proverb

Chas, Surf, Be Just before you We generous, — Why, so I would if

I could ; but Justice is an old, hobbling beldame, and I can't get her

to keep pace with Generosity, for the soul of me.

Row, Yet, Charles, believe me, one hour's reflection

Chas, Surf, Ay, ay, it 's very true ; but, hark'ee, Rowley, while I

have, by Heaven I '11 give : so, damn your economy ! and now for

hazard. [Exeunt,

Scene II. — Another room in the same.

Enter Sir Oliver Surface and Moses.

Mos, Well, sir, I think, as Sir Peter said, you have seen Mr.
Charles in high glory ; 't is great pity he 's so extravagant.
Sir Oliv, True, but he would not sell my picture.
Mos, And loves wine and women so much.
Sir Oliv, But he would not sell my picture.
Mos, And games so deep.
Sir Oliv. But he would not sell my picture. Oh, here *s Rowley.

Enter Rowley.

Row, So, Sir Oliver, I find you have made a purchase

Sir Oliv. Yes, yes, our young rake has parted with his ancestors
like old tapestry.

Row, And here has he commissioned me to re-dejiver you part of

374 THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL.

the parchase-mooey — I mean, though, in your necessitous character
of oU Stanley.

M»i. Ah ! there t> the pity of all ! he is so damned charitable.

R»a>, 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 introduce me to the
elder brother as old Stanley.

Rvw- Not yet awhile; Sir Peter, I know, means to call there
about this time.

Enter Trip.

Trip. Oh, gentlemen, I beg pardon for not showing you out : this
way — Moses, a word, \Exil with Moses.

Sir Olii\ There's a fellow for you ! Would you believe it, that
puppy intercepted the Jew on our coming, and wanted to raise
money before he got to his master !

Row. Indeed !

Str Oliv, Yes, they arc now planning an annuity business. Ah,
Master Rowlej', in my days servants were content with the follies of
their masters, when they were worn a little threadbare ; but now
they have their vices, like their birthday clothes, with the gloss on.

[^Exemt-

Scene 111. — /i Library iti Joseph Surface's House,

Enter Joseph Surface and Servant.

Jos. Surf. No letter from Lady Teazle ?
Scrv. No, sir.
Jos. Surf. \Aside.\ I am surprised she has not sent, if she

A COMEDY. 275

is prevented from coming. Sir Peter certainly does not suspect
me. Yet I wish I may not lose the heiress though the scrape I
have drawn myself into with the wife : however, Charles's impru-
dence and bad character are great points in my favor.

{Knocking heard 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 neighbor 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 } O Lud ! don't pretend to look grave. I vow I
could n't come before.

Jos, Surf, O 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 has grown so ill-natured to me of late, and so jealous of
Charles too — that *s the best of the story, is n't it >

Jos. Surf. I am glad my scandalous friends keep that up. {Aside,

Lady Teaz. I am sure I wish he would let Maria marry him, and
then perhaps he would be convinced ; don't you, Mr. Surface ?

Jos. Surf. {Aside.] Indeed I do not. — {Aloud.] Oh, certainly I

376 THE SCHOOL FOR SCAADAL.

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 Ttas. 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 '» my friend Lady Snccrwcll has circulated I don't know how
many scandalous talcs of mc, and all without any foundation too ; —
that 's what vexes mc.

Jas. Surf. Ay, madanij to be sure, that is iho provoking circum-
stance — without foundation; yes, yes, there's the mortification,
indeed ; for, when a scandalous story is believed against one, there
certainly is no comfort like the consciousness of having descr\-cd it.

Lady Teat. No, to be sure, then 1 'd forgive their malice ; but to
attack mc, who am really so innocent, and who never say an ill-
natured thing of anybody — that is, of any friend; and then Sir
Peter, too, to have him so peevish, and so suspicious, when I know
the integrity of my own heart — indeed 'C is monstrous !

Jos. Surf. Hut, my dear Lady Teazle, 't is your own fault if you
suffer it. When a husband entertains a groundless suspicion of his
wife, and withdraws his confidence from her, the original compact is
broken, and she owes it to the honor of her sex to endeavor to out-
wit him.

Liiiiy Ti-aa. Indeed ! — So that, if he suspects me without causo,
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 com-
pliment to liis discernment.

LnJy Tcaz. To be sure, what you say is very reasonable, and
when the con.sciousness of my innocence

A COMEDY, 277

Jos. Surf, Ah, my dear madam, there is. the great mistake ! 't is
this very conscious innocence that is of the greatest prejudice to
you. What is it makes you negligent of forms, and careless of the
world's opinion? why, the consciousness of your own innocence.
What makes you thoughtless in your conduct and apt to run into a
thousand little imprudences } why, the consciousness of your own
innocence. What makes you impatient of Sir Peter's temper, and
outrageous at his suspicions } why, the consciousness of your inno-
cence.

Lady Teas, 'T is very true !

Jos, Surf. Now, my dear Lady Teazle, if you would but once
make a trifUng faux fias, you can't conceive how cautious you would
grow, and how ready to humor and agree with your husband.

Lady Tcaz, 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.

Lady Tcaz, So, so ; then I perceive your prescription is, that
I must sin in my own defence, and part with my virtue to pre-
serve my reputation }

Jos, Surf Exactly so, upon my credit, ma'am.

Lady Teas. Well, certainly this is the oddest doctrine, and the
newest receipt for avoiding calumny!

Jos, Surf, An infallible one, believe me. Prudence, like expe-
rience, must be paid for.

Lady Teaz, Why, if my understanding were once convinced —

Jos. Surf Oh, certainly, madam, your understanamg should be
convinced. Yes, yes, — Heaven forbid I should persuade you to
do anything you thought wrong. No, no, I have too much honor
to desire it.

278 THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL.

Lady Teas. Don't you think we m^y as well leave honor out
of the argument ? \Ris€s.

Jes. Surf. Ah, the ill effects of your country education, I sec.
BtiU remain with you.

Lady Teas. I doubt ihcy do indeed ; and I will fairly own to
yoii, that if I could be persuaded to do wrong, it would be by
Sir Peter's ill usage sooner than your honorable logic, after all.
Jos. Surf. Then, by this hand, which he is unworthy of

[ Taking her liand.
Re-enter Servant,
'S death, 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 Tea:. Sir Peter ! O Lud ! I 'm ruined ! I 'm ruined \
Ser. Sir, 'twas n't I let him in.

Lady Tea::. Oh! I'm quite undone ! What will become of me.'
Now, Mr. Logic — Oh! mercy, sir, he's on the stairs — I'll get

behind here — and if ever I'm so imprudent again

[Goes behind the screen.
Jos. Surf. Give mc that book.

[Si/x dmvn. Serv ,\tiT /retends toadjust his chair.

Enter SiH Peter Te.azle.
Sir Peter. Ay, ever imjiroving himself — Mr. Surface, Mr.

Surface \Pats Joseph on the shontdcr.

Jos. Surf Oh, my dear Sir Peter, I beg your jjardon — [Gaping,
throws aivay llic book^ I have been dozing over a stupid book.
Well, I am much obliged to you for this call. You haven't been
here, I believe, since I fitted up this room. Books, you know,
are the only things in which I am a (

A COMEDY. 279

Sir Peter, 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 Peter. I dare say you must, certainly, when you want to
find anything in a hurry.

Jos. Surf. Ay, or to hide anything in a hurry either. [Aside.

Sir Peter. 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 Peter. 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 Peter. 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 Peter. Yes ! and, between ourselves, I think 1 've discovered
the person.

Jos. Surf How ! you alarm me exceedingly.
Sir Peter. Ay, my dear friend, I knew you would sympathize
with me I

Jos. Surf. Yes, believe mc, Sir Peter, such a discovery would
hurt me just as much as it would you.

Sir Peter. I am convinced of it. — Ah ! it is a happiness to have
a friend whom we can trust even with one's family secrets. But
have you no guess who I mean?

iSo

THE SCHOOL FOR SCAA'DAt..

/as. Sur/. I Iiavcn'l the most distant idea. It can't be Sir
Benjamin Uackbitc!

Sir Pfti-r. Ob, no! What say you to Charles?

Jtfs. Surf. My brother! impossible!

Sir Pthr. Oh, my dear friend, the goodness of your own heart
misleads you. You judge of others by yourself.

Jos. Sur/. Certainly. Sir I'elcr, the heart that is conscious ot
its own intfgrity is ever slow to credit another's treachery.

Sir Pttrr. True; but your brother has no sentiment — you never
hear him talk so.

/es. Stir/. Vet I can't but think I-ady Teazle herself has too
much principle.

Sir Peter. Ay ; but what is principle against the flattery tf a
handsome, lively young fellow.'
/os. Sur/. That 's very true.

Sir Peter. And then, you know, the difference of our ages
makes it very improbable that she should have any great affection
for me; and if she were to be frail, and I were to make it
public, why the town would only laugh at me, the foolish old
bachelor, who had married a girl.

/os. Sur/. That's true, to be sure — they would laugh.

Sir Peter. Laugh I ay, and make ballads, and paragraphs, and
the devil knows what of mo.

/os. Surf. No, — you must never make it public.

Sir Pein: 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. Sur/ Ay, there 's the point. When ingratitude barbs the
dart of injury, the wound has double danger in it.

Sir Peter. Ay — I, thai was, in a manner, left his guardian:

^ r>K

A COAfEDK 281

in whose house he had been so often entertained ; who never in
my life denied him — my advice !

yos. Surf, Oh, *t is 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 Peter, What a difference there is between you ! What
noble sentiments !

Jos, Surf, Yet I cannot suspect Lady Teazle's honor.

Sir Peter, I am sure I wish to think well of her, and to re-
move all ground of quarrel between us. She has lately reproached
me more than once with having made no settlement 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 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, arc the drafts of two
deeds, which I wish to have your opinion on. — By one, she will
enjoy eight hundred a year independent while I live ; and by
the other, the bulk of my fortune at my death.

Jos, Surf, This conduct, Sir Peter, is indeed truly generous. —
[Aside.] I wish it may not corrupt my pupil.

Sir Peter, 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.

28}

7HE SCHOOL roJt SCA/fVAL.

Sir PtUr. Aoii now. mv dear friend, if yon jJcase, wc will talk
i.ovcr th« uttutioD of your hopes with Maria.

Joa. Surf. \Si>/d/.\ Oh, no, Sir I'ctcr; another lime, if you
please.

Sir Pi If r. I am sensibly chagrined at the little progress you
seem to make in her aficctions.

/«. Surf. [5.jrV/r J I beg you will not mention it. What arc
. my disappf'intments when yuur happiness is in debate ! — [Aside]
I 'Stleath, I shall be ruined every way.'

Sir PiUr. And (hough you are »' averse to my acquainting Lady
Teailc with your passion lor Maria, I "m sure she 's not your
enemy in the affair.

/nj. Surf. Pray. Sir Peter, w^w 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 entrusted with
his friend's distresses can never

gentleman

Re Enter Servant.

Well, sir >

Scr. Your brother, sir, is speaking to
street, and says he kmiws you arc within.

Jos. Surf. 'Sdc.ith. blockhead, 1 'ni not within — I 'm out for
the day.

Sir Peter. Scny — hnld — a thought has struck me : — you shall
be at humc.

fos.Siaf Wl-11, well, let him up. — {Exit Servant.] He'll
intcriu])t Sir Peter, however. [Aside.

Sir Peter. \u\v, my good friend, oblige me, I entreat you. —
Before Cliailcs comes, let me conceal myself somewhere, — then da
you ta.-i liim on tlic point we liavc been talking, and his answer
may satisfy me at once.

^^ r\

A COMEDY. 283

Jos. Surf, Oh, fie, Sir Peter ! would you have me join in so
mean a trick? — to trepan my brother too?

Sir Peter. Nay, you tell me you are sure he is innocent ; if
so, you do him the greatest service by giving him an opportunity
to clear himself, and you will set my heart at rest. Come, you
shall not refuse me : [Going ///,] here behind the screen will be
— Hey ! what the devil ! there seems to be one listener here
already — I '11 swear I saw a petticoat !

Jos. Surf. Ha ! ha ! ha ! Well, this is ridiculous enough. I '11
tell you, Sir Peter, though I hold a man of intrigue to be a most
despicable character, yet, you know, it does not follow that one is
to be an absolute Joseph either! Hark'ec, 'tis a little French
milliner, — a silly rogue that plagues me; — and having some char-
acter to lose, on your coming, sir, she ran behind the screen.

Sir Peter. 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 Peter. No ! then, faith, let her hear it out. — Here 's a
closet will do as well.

Jos. Surf. Well, go in there.

Sir Peter. 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. [Peepifig.] Could n't I steal off ?

Jos. Surf. Keep close, my angel !

Sir Peter. [Pee/>i7/g.] Joseph, tax him home.

Jos. Surf. Back, my dear friend !

Lady Teaz. [Peeping.'] Could n't you lock Sir Peter in ?

THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL.

i«4

y«r. Sttrf, Be still, my life
SirP€Ur. {Peffft] Yoa 're snre ihc Gitle milliner won't bbb?
Jta. Sitr/, In, in, my dear Sir Pcler ! — "Fore Gad, I wbh I
bad a key tu the door.

Ejttter CusitlXS SuKfACE.
Ouu. Surf. Holla! brother, what has bcca the matter? Your
fellow would oot let me up at first. What ! have you had a Jew
or a weocb with ycu?

Jot. Surf. Neither, brother, I assure yuu.
Oias. Surf. But what has made Sir Peter steal off ? I tlioit°ht
be had been with yoa

JiU. Surf. He wvu, brother; but. hearing you were coming, he
did not choose to stay.

Oias. Stir/. What \ was the old gentleman afraid I wanted to
borrow money of him ?

Jos. Surf. No, sir : but I am sorrj' to find, Charles, you have
lately given that worthy man grounds for great uneasiness,

Otas. 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
endeavoring to gain La<ly Teazle's affections from him.

C/ias. Surf Who, I? O Lnd ! not I, upon my word. — Ha!
ha! ha! ha! so the old fullow 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 subjeet to jest on, brother. He who can

hugh

C/ius. Surf. True, true, as you were going to say — then, seri-
ously, I never had the least idea of what you charge me with,
upon my honor.

A COAfEDV. 285

/os. Surf, Well, it will give Sir Peter great satisfaction to hear
this. [Raisi//^ /it's voice.

C/ias. Surf, To be sure, I once thought the lady seemed to
have taken a fancy to me ; but, upon my soul, I never gave her the
least encouragement. — Besides, you know my attachment to Maria.

yos. Surf. But sure, brother, even if Lady Teazle had betrayed
the fondest partiality for you

C/ias. Surf. Why, look *ee, Joseph, I hope I shall never delibe-
rately do a dishonorable action ; but if a pretty woman was pur-
posely to throw herself in my way — and that pretty woman
married to a man old enough to be her father

/os. Surf. Well !

CAas. Surf. Why, I believe I should be obliged to

Jos. Surf. What ?

CAas. Surf. To borrow a little of your morality, that 's all. But,
brother, do you know now that you surprise me exceedingly, by
naming vie with Lady Teazle ; for, i' faith, I always understood you
were her favorite.

Jos. Surf. Oh, for shame, Charles ! This retort is foolish.

Chas. Surf Nay, I swear I have seen you exchange such signifi-
cant 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, pr'ythee, 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.

386

THE SCHOOL FOK SCANDAL.

Clmt. Surf, hiformcd, \ ny. ihat

/m. Surf. 1 lutli ) f beg your portion, but Sir Tctcr bas a
■tl We have been Kiyini;. I kn«w you would dcai jonndC I
HhuuM not have consented.

Chttf. Surf. Muw. Sir I'clcr! Where u he?

Jtn. SHrf. S*'ftly. Ihcrcl [Pamts t^ u

Cktt Surf Oil, 'fiifc Heaven, I 'U bate hint oat. Sir Peter,
coine fuitlil

y«. Snrf, No. no ^—

CfMi. hhrf. I My, Sir Peter, come into conrt — [Pulls in Sb
I'kthhI What! my old guardian t ■- What ! tnm bujuisitar. and
talto cvUkncc incog. / Oh, fie t Oh. fie !

S(r Prtfr. tJlvc n\e your hand. Charles— I belieii-e I have so*-
(wctcil you WKinRtiilly: but you mustn't be angry with Joseph —
■iw... my i.l.ml

(//,*., S.nf rii<li-L-i).

.S(^ /'(A/, Hut I a(i]iiit you I promise you I don't think near
hit ill i>( yini iks I dill: what I have heard has given me great sat-

(/f,(i Sill/. \'.y,-M\. then, 'twas lucky you didn't hear anymore

W.l;. Il'l ll, |iiM|.ll? [Aside lO ]OSE£VL

^1/ I'.ui All ! Jim wdiild have retorted on him.

( /.M-. Sii,/ Ah, ay, thai was a joke.

Sii l\t,i. \'i?i,)L's, I kiHiw his honor too well,

Cliits. Sill/ lliii juu nii-lit as well have suspected liim as w^in
lliis lu.iiict, (<ii .t;; iliai Mi-Ill ii't he. Joseph? [Asiiie /<? Joseph.

Sir r.l.i. Will, well, I Iielicve you.
Ji's. Surf. U'oiilil Uioy wore iiolh out of Ihc room ! [Asidt.

Sir Ptfif. Ami in fiiUuc, pcih.ips vvc may not be such
slranticrs.

^\ ^

A COATED y. 287

Re-Enter Servant, and whispers Joseph Scrface,

Ser, Lady Sneerwell is below, and says she will come up.

Jos. Surf. Lady Sneerwell ! Gad *s life ! she must not come
here. {Exit Servant.] Gentlemen, I beg pardon — I must wait on
you down stairs : here is a person come on particular business.

Chas, Surf. Well, you can see him in another room. Sir Peter
and I have not met a long time, and I have something to say to him.

Jos. Surf. [Aside.] They must not be left together. — [Aloud.]
I '11 send this man away, and return directly. — [Aside to Sir Peter.]
Sir Peter, not a word of the French milliner.

Sir Peter. [Aside to Joseph Surface.] I ! not for the world !

— [Exit Joseph Surface.] Ah, Charles, if you associated more
with your brother, one might indeed hope for your reformation. He
is a man of sentiment. — Well, there is nothing in the world so noble
as a man of sentiment.

Chas. Surf Pshaw! he is too moral by half; and so apprehensive
of his good name, as he calls it, that I suppose be would as soon let
a priest into his house as a girl.

Sir Peter. No, no, — come, come, — you wrong him. No, no I
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. Suff. Oh, hang him ! he 's a very anchorite, a young
hermit.

Sir Peter, 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 Peter. No — but — this vf^y, — [Aside.] Egad, I'll tell him.

— [Aloud.] Hark 'ee — have you a mind to have a good laugh
at Joseph ?

286

IHE SCHOOL roii SCANDAL.

Chss. Strf. I should like it of all tilings.

Sir Ptter. Then, j' faith, we will ! — { '11 be quit with him for >iis-
covering me. — He had a girl with him when I called. {Whispers.

Chas. Surf. What! Joseph? you jest.

Sir Peler. Hush I— a little French miiliner — and the best of the
jc»t is — she is in the room now, ^^

Chas. Skrf. The devil she i« ! ^|

SirPehr. Hush ! I tell you. {Feints to tkr tcnen.

Otas. Surf. Itebind the screen ! "S life, let 's unveil her I

Sir PeSfr. No, no, — he's coming : — you sha'n'l indeed I

C/ias. Surf. Oh, egad, we '11 have a peep at the little milliner 1

Sir Peter. Not for the world ! — Joseph will n eyer foigive jot.- 1

Cftas. Surf. I 'U stand by you —

Sir Peter. Odds, bcrc he is !

Rc-Eiiter Joseph Surface yW^ as Charles Surface throws
doiuit the screen.

C/ias. Surf. La<l)' Teazle, by all that 's wonderful.

Sir Peter. Lady Teazle, by all that 's damnable !

Chas. Surf. Sir Peter, this is one of the smartest French milliners
1 ever saw. Egad, you seem all to have been diverting yourselves
here at hide and seek, and I don't see who is out of the secret
Shall I beg your ladyship to inform me ? Not a word ! — Brother,
will you be pleased to explain this matter ? What ! is Morality dumb
too ?■ — Sir Peter, though I found you in the dark, perhaps you are not
so now! All mute! — Well — though I can make nothing of the
affair, I suppose you perfectly understand one another ; so I will
leave you to yourselves. — \Goiiig^ 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 !
[ They stand for some time looking at each oiher.\ \Exit Charles.

A COMEDY. 289

Jos. Surf, Sir Peter — notwithstanding — I confess — that ap-
peaiances are against me — if you will afford me your patience — I
make no doubt — but I shall explain everything to your satisfaction.

Sir Peter. If you please, sir.

Jos, Surf. The fact is, sir, that Lady Teazle, knowing my preten-
sions to your ward Maria — I say, sir. Lady Teazle, being apprehen-
sive 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 apprehen-
sive — as I said — of your jealousy — she withdrew — and this,
you may depend on it, is the whole truth of the matter.

Sir Peter, 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 Peter. How ! don't you think it worth while to agree in the
lie?

Lady Teaz. There is not one syllable of truth in what that
gentleman has told you.

Sir Peter. 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 Peter. Ay, let her alone, sir; you'll find she'll make out
a better story than you, without prompting.

Lady Teaz. Hear me, Sir Peter! — I came here on no matter
relating to your ward, and even ignorant of this gentleman's pre-
tensions to her. But I came, seduced by his insidious arguments, at
least to listen to his pretended passion, if not to sacrifice your
honor to his baseness.

>90

TUB SCHOOL FOK SCANDAL

Sir Ptttr. Now. I bdkve, Ibc truth is comipg, indeed !

Jos. Surf. The woman 's mad.

Lady Teax. No, sir ; she has recovered her senses, and your own
Brt£ have furnished her with the means. — Sir Teter, I do not cxpea
ywi to credit n»e — but Ihc tenderness you expressed for me. when i
im sure you cuald not thick I was a witness to it, has so penetrated
\\* my heart, that had I left the place without the shame of thii
discovery, my future life should have spoken the sincerity of my
gratilttilc As for that smooth-tongued hypocrite, who would have
seduced the wife of his too credulous friend, while he affected
honorable addresses to his ward — I behold him now in a light so
tndy despicable, that I shall never again respect myself for having
listened to him. [Exit Lady Teazix

Ji>s. Surf. Notwithstanding all this, Sir Peter, Heaven knows

Sir Peter. That you arc a villain ! and so I leave you to your
conscience.

Jos. Surf. You arc too rash, Sir Peter ; you shall hear me. The
man who shuts out conviction by refusing to

Sir Pcler Oh, damn your sentiments !

[Exeunt SiR Peter and Joseph Surface, talking.

A COMEDY. 2X)\

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.

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 i

Ser. I will, sir. — Why, sir, it was not my fault that Sir Peter
discovered my lady

Jos. Suff Go, fool ! — [^Exit Servant.] Sure Fortune never
played a man of my policy such a trick before ! My character
with Sir Peter, my hopes with Maria, destroyed in a moment !
I 'm in a rare humor to listen to other people's distresses ! I
sha'n't be able to bestow even a benevolent sentiment on Stanley. —
So ! here he comes, and Rowley with him. I must try to recover
myself, and put a little charity into my face, however. [Exit

Enter Sir Oliver Surface and Rowley.

Sir Oliv. What ! does he avoid us ? That was he, was it not ?

Row. It was, sir. But I doubt you are come a little too abruptly.
His nerves are so weak, that the sight of a poor relation may be too
much for him. I should have gone first to break it to him.

Sir Oliv. Oh, plague of his nerves ! Yet this is he whom Sir
Peter extols as a man of the most benevolent way of thinking 1

- -'T Tr^j; , en:! ar.cr»-ardi- tioi; T in«a mc al Sir Peter's.
t/.".-7 I d.'L ': like ibe CLnriiiaisanrc of liis fcaturci.

5..r''. S:-. I brf vc-j Tt-n iboiisuic paixkos for ke^nng

moreen; w^::n-. — Mr. SianjfA", I presainic

C/r-.: A: vv-r service.

.V//r/! .S:.-, I be^ vju wi;] do me the honor to sit down —

>■ O/iv. JJcar iir — there's i

) occasion. [Aside.] Too civi] by

K-I.,l.-,1

Siir-/. 1 have not the pleasure of knowing you, Mr. Stanley:
r;( L-Atrcmtly happy to sec you look so well You were nearly
i» my idothc-r, I think, .Mr. Stanley ?
O/iv. I was, sir ; so nearly that my present poverty, I fear,

_ r-\

A COMEDY. 293

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 recom-
mend 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 confi-
dence, 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, avadavats, and
Indian crackers — little more, believe me.

Sir Oliv, Here 's gratitude for twelve thousand pounds ! — Avada-
vats and Indian crackers ! [Aside,
Jos, Sutf Then, my dear sir, you have heard, I doubt not, of
the extravagance of my brother : there are very few would credit
what I have done for that unfortunate young man.

Sir Oliv. Not I, for one I \Aside,

>kJ«^ TkK w l^k^ftis:—

a^wffad sd

^dmic^i

■e; IB fjgj milboat Ibe
to aik aad be denied

yML £»/ sue Bve tt
f tf to tdfew; ■ <a ■f
SirO/hr. Ktadar.ywr
VW. SIm// Yo« lean ne deeply affected. Mr. Sunier- — ^

Uaeo, bt iturLy to cj*:: the com-. [C>//r to Sebvakt.

.Sjr Oiiv. Or., dear t:.-, r^c ceremotiy.

Jot. Surf. Vo-r vcr.' obecienL

Sir Olti: Sir, vour mfist obseqoii'js.

_/« /, .S«r/ \'ou rridV depend upon bearing [rom me, wbeoevcr I
can U: 'A senicc.

Sir Otiv. Sweet sir, you are too good !
/(//. Surf. In the mean time I wish you health and spirits.

Sir Oliv. Your ever j^ratcful and perpetual humble servant.
/-'/, Surf. Sir, yours as sincerely.

Sir OUv. \Asid(.\ Charles, you arc my heir ! \_Exil.

Jvs. Surf. Thi.s i.s one bad effect of a good character; it invites
apjijiciition from the unfortunate, and there needs no small degree of
address to ^a\\\ Ihc reputation of benevolence without incurring the
expense. 'I'hc silver oie of pure charity is an expensive article in
tho ciituloguc of a man's good qualities; whereas the sentimental

A COMEDY. 295

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 inter-
rupting you, though my business demands immediate attention, as
this note will inform you.

Jos. Surf. Always happy to see Mr. Rowley, — a rascal. — [Aside,
Reads the letter.^ Sir Oliver Surface ! — My uncle arrived !

Row. He is, indeed: we have just parted — quite well, after a
speedy voyage, and impatient to embrace his worthy nephew.

Jos. Surf. I am astonished ! — William ! stop Mr. Stanley, if he 's
not gone. [Caiis to Sf.kvant.

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, liut 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 anything so damned
unlucky !

Row. You will be delighted to see how well he looks.

Jos. Surf Ah! I'm rejoiced to hear it. — [Aside.] Just at this
time!

Row. I '11 tell him how impatiently you expect him.

Jos. Surf Do, do ; pray give my best duty and affection. Indeed,
I cannot express the sensations I feel at the thought of seeing him.
[Exit Rowley.] Certainly his coming just at this time is the
cruellest piece of ill -fortune. [Exit,

396

THE SCHOOL FOR SCASDAL.

ScEKK II. — A Room in Sir Pbier Teazle's House.
EalerlARs. Canoour aW Maip.

AfaiJ. Indeed, ma'am, my lady will sec nobody at present

fifn. 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 gbd to see her. if it be only
for a moment, for I'm sure -she must be in great distress, — [Exit
Maid.] Dear heart, bow provoking ! I 'm not mistress of half the
circumstances! We sliall have the whole affair in the newspapers,
with the names of the parties at length, before I have dropped the
Story at a dozen houses.

Enter SiH. Benjamin Backiute.

Oh, dear Sir Benjamin ! you have heard, I suppose

S/rJh-'/J. Of Ljl!> '1\aAl- .ma Mr. ^i,n:icc —

^frs. Can. And Sir Peter's discovery

Sir Bcnj. Oh, the strangest piece of business, to be sure !

Mrs. Can. Well, I never was so surprised in my life. I am so
sorry for all parties, indeed.

Sir Beiij. Now, I don't pity Sir Peter at all : he was so extrava-
gantly partial to Mr. Surface.

Mrs. Can. Mr. Surface ! Why 't was with Charles Lady Teazle
was detected.

Sir Bcnj. No, no, I tell you : Mr. Surface is the gallant.

Mrs. Can. No such thing! Charles is the man. 'Twas Mr. Sur-
face brought Sir Peter on purpose to discover them,

ilir Bcnj. I tell you I had it from one

Mrs. Can. And I have it from one

Sir Berij. Who had it from one, who had it

»'*1

A COMEDY. 297

•

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, in-
deed, 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 Benj. 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 Benj. Well, I *11 not dispute with you, Mrs. Candour ; but,
be it which it may, I hope that Sir Peter's wound will not

Mrs. Can. Sir Peter's wound ! Oh, mercy ! I did n't hear a word
of their fighting.

Lady Sneer. Nor I, a syllable.

Sir Benj. No ! what, no mention of the duel ?

Mrs. Can. Not a word.

Sir Benj. Oh, yes : they fought before they left the room.

Lady Sneer. Pray let us hear.

Mrs. Can. Ay, do oblige us with the duel.

Sir Benj. Sir^ says Sir Peter, immediately after the discovery,
you are a most ungrateful fellow.

isz stsoat fv xAnnti.

loid^^l

Mn. Cm. Kj. to Oario

SirAmf. X0.110 — t»Mr.Ssr£kce— « mmf m^wvtfid ftthm;

Mrx. Ctm, Aj, that mmi hne been lo Cbacks; iac 'th
■BfiltdyMr. SmfaexsiMUtgtenkkiwii boMc

SirSof. GacTs Sfe, mam. oat at aH— /rruy m^ immrdiatt
tmtirfmttimL— Ob this, ma'am. Lady Teazle, seeing Sir Peter in sucfa
(fanger, nn oot t4 tbc room in stRAg hysterics, aad Charln aiier
bcr, caJtiag oot (or turtshom aad water ; ibcn. madam, tbey begaa

to fight with swords

Emt/r Cluimucc.

Cmfi. With pistols, n^ihcw — pistols ! I have il Erora uodi
Mtbority.

Mfx. Cam. Ob, Mr. Cnbtree. then h is atl tme I

CraA. Too true, indeed, madam, and Sir Peter is dangerously
wounded

Street//. By a thrust in second quite through his left side

CraA. By a bullet lodged in the thorax.

Mrs. Can. Mercy on me ! Poor Sir Peter !

Crafi. Yes, madam ; though Charles would have avoided the mat-
ter, if he could.

Jtfrs. Can. I told you who it was ; I knew Charles was the person.

.V/> /.V/y. My unclf, I sec, knows nothing of the matter.

Cnib. liiit Sir I'ctcr taxed him with the basest ingratitude ■

.SV> /'iiij. That I told you, you know

Cruk Do, nephew, let me speak ! — and insisted on imme-

•S'/V /'•II/. Just as I s.iid

Cnif'. Oiliis life, nephew, allow others to know something too! A
pair <if pisluls lay on tlic bureau (for Mr Surface, it seems had come

A COMEDY, 299

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 Bertj, I heard nothing of this.

Crab, Sir Peter forced Charles to take one, and they fired, it
seems, pretty nearly together. Charles's shot took effect, as I tell
you, and Sir Peter's missed ; but, what is very extraordinary, the
ball struck against a little bronze Shakespeare that stood over the
fireplace, 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 Benj, My uncle's account is more circumstantial, I confess ;
but I believe mine is the true one, for all that.

Lady Sneer. [Aside.] I am more interested in this affair than
they imagine, and must have better information.

[Exit Lady Sneerwell.

Sir Benj, Ah ! Lady SneerweH's alarm is very easily accounted
for.

Crab. Yes, yes, they certainly do say — but that's neither here
nor there.

Mrs. Can. But, pray, where is Sir Peter at present }

Crab. Oh, they brought him home, and he is now in the house,
though the servants are ordered to deny him.

Mrs. Can. I believe so, and Lady Teazle, I suppose, attending
him.

Crab. Yes, yes ; and I saw one of the faculty enter just before mc.
Sir Benj, 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.

«oo

THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL.

Entrr Sir Omveh Surface.

Ow*. WeD, doclor. what hope* ?

Mrs. Om. Ay, doclor, how '» your patient ?

Sir Bfnj. Now, tlwitor, i» n't it a wound with a smail-sword ?

Cra^. A bullet lodged in the thonut, for a hundred!

Sir Oiiv. Doctor! a wound with a emall-sword ! and a bullet in
I' the thorax! — Ooos I arc you mad, good people?

Sir BfMJ. Perhaps, sir, you arc 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 heani of his accident ?

Sir Oliv. Not a word I

Crab. Not of his being dangerously wounded ?

Sir Oliv. The devil he is !

Sir Benj. Run through the body

Crab. Shot in the breast

Sir Benj. 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 Benj. 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 situation,
he is thi: most imprudent man alive ; for here he comes, walking
;iB 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!

ti'U

A COMEDY. 301

Sir Ben j, [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 Peter, A small-sword and a bullet !

Sir Oliv, Ay ; these gentlemen would have killed you without
law or physic, and wanted to dub me a doctor, to make me an
accomplice.

Sir Peter, Why, what is all this ?

Sir Bcnj, We rejoice, Sir Peter, that the story of the duel is
not tnie, and are sincerely sorry for your other misfortune.

Sir Peter, So, so ; all over the town already ! {Aside,

Crab. Though, Sir Peter, you were certainly vastly to blame to
marry at your years.

Sir Peter. 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 Peter. Plague on your pity, ma'am ! I desire none of it.

Sir Benj. However, Sir Peter, you must not mind the laughing
and jests you will meet with on the occasion.

Sir Peter. Sir, sir ! I desire to be master in my own house.

Crab. 'Tis no uncommon case, that's one comfort.

Sir Peter, 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, wc *11 make
the best report of it we can. \Exit,

Sir Peter, Leave my house !

Crab. And tell how hardly you \-e been treated. \Exit,

Sir Peter, Leave my house.

Sir Benj. And how patiently you bear it. \ExiL

jca nnr saKsg. /or scaxpae^

S^Ptt^. FvW*! «^nr Cviol Obi t&t iWir «
•twLd chofcc ihoi r

.Scf <?S9. Thn are •cry prnMUog^ adeed. Sr Feier.

SUPtttr. niiv < vtat f^cwic* uki^ * Do I ever
■IrtiHfj irnliiiMi'

J^ra-- Wefi, I 'b not tnfiKRlnc-

Sir Olrs. WcO, Sir Peter, I b»e seen both oijr oepbewfl in Uie
MJMiKT we pcofxnetf.

Sir Ptur, A p iegwc coopic tbor ire !

^#v. Vo, aod Sir Oliver is v mt iB ctA tlul your Judgment wai
^ r%b[. Sir Peter ■

Sir Ottv. Ve«, [ Eod Joaepb is indeed the ma, after alL S

AV:.- A>, --^ >:r F\-;iT ■--■ ', 'r-.-. '-• :-. r-nr. -"t senlimenL

Sir Oliv. And acts up to the sentiments he professes.

Rou.: It certainiy 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 tion't join us in your friend Joseph's
praise, as I expected.

Sir Ptter. Sir Oliver, we live in a damned wicked world, and the
fewer vvc praise the better.

Rir.u. What 1 do you say sn, Sir Peter, who were never mistaken

,S» Pclfr. Pshaw I plague on ynu both ! I see by your sneering
yfiu have hc.ini the whule aff.Lir. I shall go mad among you !

AVjc. Then, to fict yiii no longer, Sir Peter, we are indeed ac-
quainted with it ali. I met l.ady Teazle coming from Mr. Surface's
HO himibk', tliat i>he deigned lo request mc to be her advocate with
yon.

^ r\

A COMEDY, 303

Sir Peter. And does Sir Oliver know all this ?

Sir Oliv. Every circumstance.

Sir Peter. 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 !

Sir Peter *T was very pleasant.

Sir Oliv. I never laughed more in my life, I assure you ; ah ! ah !
ah!

Sir Peter. Oh, vastly diverting ! ha ! ha ! ha !

Row. To be sure, Joseph with his sentiments ! ha ! ha ! ha !

Sir Peter. Yes, yes, his sentiments ! ha ! ha ! ha ! Hypocritical
villain !

Sir Oliv. Ay, and that rogue Charles to pull Sir Peter out of the
closet ! ha ! ha ! ha !

Sir Peter. Ha ! ha ! 't was devilish entertaining, to be sure !

Sir Oliv. Ha ! ha ! ha ! Egad, Sir Peter, I should like to have
seen your face when the screen was thrown down ! ha ! ha !

Sir Peter. Yes, yes, my face when the screen was thrown down :
ha ! ha ! ha! Oh, I must never show my head again !

Sir Oliv. But come, come, it is n't fair to laugh at you neither,
my old friend ; though, upon my soul, I can't help it.

Sir Peter. Oh, pray don't restrain your mirth on my account : it
does not hurt me at all ! I laugh at the whole affair myself. Yes.
yes, I think being a standing jest for all one's acquaintance a very
happy situation. Oh, yes, and then of a morning to read the para-
graphs 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.

304 THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL,

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 Peter. Ah, I '11 be present at your discovering yourself there
with all my heart ; though *t is a vile unlucky place for discoveries.

Roiv. We '11 follow. {Exit Sir Oliver Surface.

Sir Peter. She is not coming here, you see, Rowley.

Row. No, but she has left the door of that room open, you per-
ceive. See, she is in tears.

Sir Peter. Certainly, a little mortification appears very becoming
in a wife. Don't you think it will do her good to let her pine a
little }

Row. Oh, this is ungenerous in you !

Sir Peter. Well, I know not what to think. You remember the
letter I found of hers evidently intended for Charles }

Rozv. A mere forgery, Sir Peter ! laid in your way on purpose.
This is one of the points which I intend Snake shall give you con-
viction of.

Sir Peter I wish I were once satisfied of that. She looks this
way. What a remarkably elegant turn of the head she has. Rowley,
I '11 go to her.

Row. Certainly.

Sir Peter. Though, when it is known that we are reconciled,
people will laugh at me ten times more.

Rozv. Let them laugh, and retort their malice only by showing
them you are happy in spite of it.

Sir Peter. V faith, so I will ! and, if I 'm not mistaken, we may
yet be the happiest couple in the country.

Row. Nay, Sir Peter, he who once lays aside suspicion

A COMEDY. 30s

Sir Peter, Hold, Master Rowley ! if you have any regard for me,
never let me hear you utter anything like a sentiment : I have had
enough of them to serve me the rest of my life. {Exeunt,

Scene III. — The Library in Joseph Surface's House.

Enter Joseph Surface and Lady Sneerwell.

Lady Sneer. Impossible! Will not Sir Peter immediately be
reconciled to Charles, and of course no longer oppose his union with
Maria } The thought is distraction to me.

Jos. Surf. Can passion furnish a remedy }

Lady Sneer. No, nor cunning either. Oh, I was a fool, an idiot,
to league with such a blunderer!

Jos. Surf. Sure, Lady Sneerwell, I am the greatest sufferer ; yet
you see I bear the accident with calmness.

Lady Sneer. Because the disappointment doesn't reach your
heart ; your interest only attached you to Maria. Had you felt for
her what I have for that ungrateful libertine, neither your temper
nor hypocrisy could prevent your showing the sharpness of your
vexation.

Jos. Surf But why should your reproaches fall on me for this
disappointment }

Lady Sneer. Are you not the cause of it 1 Had you not a
sufficient field for your roguery in imposing upon Sir Peter, and
supplanting your brother, but you must endeavor to seduce his wife 1
I hate such an avarice of crimes ; 't is an unfair monopoly, and
never prospers.

Jos. Surf Well, I admit I have been to blame. I confess I de-

306 THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL.

viated from the direct road of wrong, but I don't think we 're so
totally defeated neither.

Lady Sneer. No !

Jos. Surf. You tell me you have made a trial of Snake since we
met, and that you still believe him faithful to us ?

Lady Sneer. I do believe so.

Jos. Surf. And that he has undertaken, should it be necessary,
to swear and prove that Charles is at this time contracted by vows
and honor 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 /le 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 con-
stant to one roguery at a time.

Jos. Surf I will, I will! — [Exit Lady Sneerwell.] So! 'tis
confounded hard, after such bad fortune, to be baited by one's con-
federate 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

Lnter 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.

A COMEDY, 307

Sir Oliv, Sir, I hear your uncle Oliver is expected here, and
though he has been so penurious to you, I *11 try what he '11 do for me.

Jos, Surf, Sir, 't is 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.

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 gentle-
man 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, O Gad, that *s true ! Noll must n*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, 't is the same thing, as

308 THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL.

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, 't is 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 Peter, My old friend, Sir Oliver — hey! What in the name
of wonder — here are dutiful nephews — assault their uncle at a first
visit !

Lady Teas, Indeed, Sir Oliver, 't was well we came in to rescue
you.

Row, Truly it was ; for I perceive, Sir Oliver, the character of
old Stanley was no protection to you.

Sir Oliv, Nor of Premium either : the necessities of the former
could not extort a shilling from that benevolent gentleman ; 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 !

C/ias, Surf, Joseph !

Jos, Surf 'T is now complete !

Chas, Surf Very.

Sir Oliv, Sir Peter, my friend, and Rowley too — look on that
elder nephew of mine. You know what he has already received

A COMEDY. 309

from my bounty; and you also know how gladly I would have
regarded half my fortune as held in trust for him : judge then
my disappointment in discovering him to be destitute of truth,
charity, and gratitude !

Sir Peter. Sir Oliver, I should be more surprised at this declara-
tion, if I had not myself found him to be mean, treacherous, and
hypocritical.

Lady Teas. And if the gentleman pleads not guilty to these,
pray let him call lue to his character.

Sir Peter, Then, I believe, we need add no more : if he knows
himself, he will consider it as the most perfect punishment that
he is known to the world.

C/ias Surf. If they talk this way to Honesty, what will they say
to me, by and by t . [Aside.

[Sir Peter, Lady Teazle a;ui 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 honor 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 v;ould undertake to justify yourself en-
tirely.^ [To Joseph Surface.

Jos. Surf I trust I could.

Sir Oliv. [To Charles Surface.] Well, sir! — and you could
justify yourself too, I suppose ?

C/ias. Surf Not that I know of. Sir Oliver.

Sir Oliv. What ! — Little Premium has been let too much into
the secret, I suppose ?

IB nrz svooL n» scakdai.

<*" S^ Ttoei St; h* Atj wcKfmOr Kcnu, and slu

Ktm. Cm« St QlifB, I kao» nu cuoM sjieik of Charles's

Otfs bent, aa man I can ; nor with gravity eilhcr.
— So FliSer,4o v««fcB»« i^ ncae tai^aincd wiih me for all his
aBceijt<an; mU ne j«4scs and ecoenls b;- the loot, and maiden
XQBtS S> CStCip 31 bfOCStt ctMn.

C3m: -Sw/! To be sore. Sit Olit-cr, I did nuke a little free with
Ac baOr cums, that '% ibe tniU) ob 'l My ancestors may rise
ta jndginait agxiaat tnc, there *s no dont-ing it ; but believe me
uncerc vrbca I ti^ yoa — and upon my soul I would not say so
if I vas not — Ikxt if I do not appcMX mortified at the exposure
cf my fotlicss it is tiocauw I feel ai this moment the warmest sat-
iaiaciii'n in socirii; y.>ii, r-;y liboral benefactor.

S:r O.'ii: Ch.irlcji. I bilicvc you. Give me your hand again:
the ill-k>okin^ little leuow over the settee has made your peace.

C/:,is. Surf. Then, sir, my sralitude to the original is still in-
creased.

L,i,/j- T,-n=. {AJ:;v:n>!g.] Vet, I believe. Sir Oliver, here is one
who:!! Charles is still more an.\ious to be reconciled to.

{Pointing to Maria.

Sir OH-.: Oh, I have liear.i nf his attachment there; and, with
the young lady's pardon, if I construe right— that blush

Sir Ptiti: WlII, child, speak your sentiments !

Mar. Sir, I have little to say, but that I shall rejoice to hear
that ho is happy; for nic, ^wha ever claim I had to his affection,
I willingly resign to one who has a better title.

Chas. Surf. How, Maria !

Sir Peter. Heyday! what's ihc mystery now.' — While he ap-

_ r^

A COMEDY. 311

peared an incorrigible rake, you would give your hand to no one
else; and ilow 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 pdint, but my regard to justice compels me, and

Lady Sneerwell's injuries can no longer be concealed.

[Opens the door.
Enter Lady Sneerwell.

Sir Peter. So ! another French milliner ! Egad, he has one in
every room in the house, I suppose !

Lady Sneer. Ungrateful Charles ! Well may you be surprised,
and feel for the indelicate situation your perfidy has forced me
into.

Chas. Surf Pray, uncle, is this another plot of yours t 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 Peter. And that person, I imagine, is Mr. Snake. — Rowley,
you were perfectly right to bring him with us, and pray let him
appear.

Row. Walk in, Mr. Snake.

Enter 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

^^H 31* THE SCHOOL FOR SCAXSAL. ^^|

ne aDcmdj Ubenll/ for the tie in qiMstioa ; but I tufoTlniiBtdy
fasre been offered doable to speak the inith.

Sir PtUr. noc aad oouaicr-plol, egadl I wish ymtr ladyship
yri at yimr negotutkiiL

LsJf Smacr. Tbe tOfmcots oC shame md diuppotntmeot on

ZW^ Ttiaz. Hold, Ladj Soecrwel] — befon; you go, let mc thank
joa for the triable yoa and that gentleman have taken, in writing
letlcn from mc la Charles, and answering them yourself ; and let
me also teiiacst yo3 to malkC iny respect* to the scandalous college
uf which you ore president, and inform them that Lady Teu^c,
licentiate, begs leave to return the diploma they gmnted her, as
L 4ihc leaves uff practice, and kills characters no longer.
^ Laify Snerr. Vou too, madam ! — provoking — insolent ! Mav

your husband live these fifty years! [£r»/.

Sir Piter. Oons ! what a fury!

Lady Tcaz. A malicious creature, indeed 1

Sir Piicr. Hey ! not for her last wish ?

Lady Tea::. Oh, no!

Sir Ohi: Wl-H, sir, and what have you to say now?

Jos. Surf. Sir, I am so confounded, to find that Lady Sneerwell
could be guilty of suborning Mr. Snake in this manner, to impose
on us all, that I know not what to say : however, lest her revengeful
spirit should prompt her to injure my brother, I had certainly better
follow her directly. For the man who attempts to [Exit.

Sir Pclcr. Moral to the last drop !

Sir Oliv. Ay, and marry her, Joseph, if you can. Oil and Vinegar!
— egad, you'll do very well together.

Row. I believe wc have no more occasion for Mr. Snake at
present ?

A COAfEDV. 313

Snaie. 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 Peter. 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 Peter. Hey ! — what the plague ! — arc you ashamed of hav-
ing done a right thing once in your life ?

Sfiake. Ah, sir, consider — I live by the badness of my character ;
I have nothing but my infamy to depend on ! and, if it were once
known that I had been betrayed into an honest action, I should lose
every friend I have in the world.

Sir Oliv, Well, well — we '11 not traduce you by saying anything
in your praise, never fear. {Exit Snake.

Sir Peter. There *s a precious rogue !

Lady Teas, Sec, Sir Oliver, there needs no persuasion now to
reconcile your nephew and Maria.

Sir Oliv, Ay, ay, that 's as it should be, antl, egad, we* II have
the wedding to-morrow morning.

C/ias. Surf. Thank you, dear uncle.

Sir Peter. What, you rogue ! don't you ask the girVs consent first ?

C/ias. Surf. Oh. I have done that a loner time — a minute aero —
and she has looked yes.

Mar. For shame, Charles ! — I protest, Sir Peter, there has not
been a word

Sir Oliv. Well, then, the fewer the better ; may your love for
each other never know abatement.

Sir Peter. And may you live as happily together as Lady Teazle
and I intend to do!

314 TUB SCHOOL FOX SCAKDAL.

Chas. Surf. Rowley, roy old friend, I am sure you congralulate
me; and I suspect that I owe you much.

Sir Otiv. You do, indeed, Charles

^<rii*. If my efforts to scr%-e you bad not succeeded, you would
have been in my debt fur the attempt ; but dcscr\*c to be happy
and you oveqiay me.

Sir Piter. Ay, honest Rowley always said you would reform.

Ckas. Surf. Why, as to reforming. Sir Peter, I '11 make no pro-
mises, and that I take to be a proof that I intend to set about
it. But here shall be my monitor — my gentle guide. — Ah 1 can
\ leave the virtuous path those eyes illumine ?

Tbongh thou, dear imU, »ttouU*t waive tbr beauty'* (waj,
Thou ktlll mtitt ral«i becauw I will obcj' :
An bumble fugitive fram Follj view.

No iiiKtuarv ni-nr but Love nnd vou : ( To lit anttifutf.

Youci

IS fear r<

^ r^

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 vyives.
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 honor.
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 condemned 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 ;

315

3l6 EPILOGUE.

]n a lone rustic hall for cvvr pounded,
With dogs, cits, rats, and squalling brats surrounded?
With humble curate can I now retire,
(While pood Sir Peter boozes with the squire,)
And at luck^mmon mortify my soul,
Tbal jiants for loo, or flutters at a vole?
Sc%'cn '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 I
Farewell the [>lumid head, the cushion'd I4tc.
That takes the cushion from its pmpcr seat 1
That spirit-stirring drum I — card drums I mean,
Sp.idi!lc — odd trick — pam — basto — king and queen !
Aii.i you, yc knockers, that, with brazen throat,
riu' welcome visitors' approach denote;
I'.uowoU :dl qimlity of high renown,
IVido, pomp, and circumstance of glorious town!
l\uvwcll ! your revels I partake no more,
And L.iily Teazle's occupation 's o'er!
All tills I tiild our baid ; he smiled, and said 'twas clear,
I i'U;Jii In [il.iv deep tragedy next year.
M.-.im\liiU- ho dicw wise morals from his play,
Aiiil ill ilu'-o Milcmn periods stalk'd away ; —
■' |t^■^^M «,■!>■ ilic t",iir like you ; her faults who stopp'd
\\\'\ .1>>-,\I ihi- Killios when the curtain dropp'd !
\i' iii.iu- ill \ivc or error to engage,
Oi pl.iv ttu- loi'l at large on life's great stage."

^ '^ -^

NOTES.

N OT E S.

FRONTISPIECE.

Portrait of Richard Brinsley Sheridan, by John Russell, R. A.

This portrait, drawn in crayons in 1788, — the year of the great speech
against Warren Hastings, — is in the National Portrait Gallery at South
Kensington, and is here reproduced by the kind permission of George
Scharf, Esq., F. S. A., the keeper of that collection. So far as known,
it has not been engraved hitherto. The familiar portrait by Sir Joshua
Reynolds was painted in 1789, and is now in the possession of Lord
Kennaird, of Rossie Priory. Mr. Richard Brinsley Sheridan of Frampton
Court, Dorchester, has a finely finished portrait of his grandfather, done
in pencil by Wright of Derby.

THE RIVALS.
Preface.

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.

This passage was quoted by Burgoyne, in the preface of the * Heiress.*
The same thought is to be found also in the 'Autocrat of the Breakfast
Table,* where Dr. Holmes says, "I never wrote a line of verse that
seemed to me comparatively good, but it appeared old at once, and
often as if it had been borrowed." A little earlier in the same chapter,
the Autocrat had declared the law which governs in such cases : " When
a person of fair character for literary honesty uses an image such as
another has employed before him, the presumption is that he has struck
upon it independently, or unconsciously recalled it, supposing it his
own."

319

THE lUVALS.

9 14 Sir L^ami iTTrigjrr-

Id bis 'Retrospections of the St^c' John Bernard, «bo was present
at ibe unfaitunale fir%l petfofoiancc of the ' Kit'al^' has decUred tlut
Ibe audience was indii!creni to &V tttdrnt, as acted br Lee. When
the play wm revised. Clinch look the part UTiy any one should ob-
ject to Sir iMdut. it b now difficalt to discorct. .Sji>- Limts U, one oc
the best of stagc-lrisfamen, and he b cniphaitcally an Irish genilcniui.

ACT I,
ScenTE I.

TlMn. — Bst pnr, Ur. Pag, what kind of a iiIm> t) flU* Datfar

It b not easy no-*/ to undersiand fully the extraOTdin:in- biillianc}- of
Bath after Beau Nash had organized society there. The manners and
cnstoms <if Bath, as they were a very few j-ears before the dale of tile
'Rivals.' may be seen in Ansley's *Xcw Bath Cuide.' (irst piiblished in
1766; and Ansity's lively verses prove that the town offered unusual

advantaj;c)

; tc

) the social saiiri

St aud

the cc

mic dramatist.

in -H

um-

phrey C'lii

nke

r; Smp!Icil has :

left us

an eU

iborale de

scriptio

■n of

the

place and

the

people to be me

I iliere.

Foot

e's corned'

i-. the

'Maid

Bath,' was

dramatic selling

of the

romar

itic story

of Mii

is Lin

ley.

Sheridan's

[e.

Scene

11.

ould not

t The Km

I «/ f-n

Miss Lydia Languish seems to have had a Catholic taste in fiction.
Mosl of the books she sought were novelties: the 'Mistakes of the
Heart' and the 'Tears of Sensibility' ivere translations from the French,
published in 1773. The "Delicate Distress' and the 'Gordian Knot'
had been published together in four volumes in the same year. The
'Nfemoirs of a Lady of Quality' (i.e.. Lady Vane) were included in
Smollett's 'Peregrine Pickle,' published first in 1751. His 'Humphrey
Clinker' did not appear till 1771. The 'Sentimental Journey' had
been originally published in 1768, in two volumes.

L^iiia Here, my deai Lucy, hide these txioka.

Miss Languish was evidently fond of Smollett. After 'Peregrine
Pickle,' with its ' Memoirs of a Lady of Quality," and after ' Hum-

NOTES. 321

phrey Clinker,' conies Roderick Random/ published in 1748. The
'Innocent Adultery' was the second title of Southerners tragedy, the
'Fatal Marriage,' revived as * Isabella; or, the FaUl Marriage,' for
Mrs. Siddons, after Sheridan became the manager of Drury Lane
theatre. A century ago English plays were read as French plays are
still. Henry Mackenzie's 'Man of Feeling' had first appeared in
1771. Mrs. Chapone's 'Letters on the Improvement of the Mind,'
addressed to her niece, had been published in 1773 in two volumes;
and Lord Chesterfield's 'Letters,' written in 1768, had not been given
to the world until 1774. From notes found by Moore, we know that
Sheridan had begun to draft a criticism of Lord Chesterfield's pre-
cepts just before he sat down resolutely to the writing of this play.

Mrs, MaL — 'Tis safest in matrimony to b^in with a little aversion.

With a readiness recalling Sheridan's own promptness in repartee,
George Canning quoted this assertion of Mrs, Maiaprop's^ in a speech
delivered in the House of Commons in 1825.

Sir Anthony. — Well, I must leave you.

The traditional business of Sir Anthonfs departure requires him to
bow and gain the door, and then to return to say the next clause as
though it has just occurred to him. This leave-taking, protracted by
Mrs, Malapropos elaborate courtseys, is repeated two or three times
before Sir Anthony finally takes himself off.

Lucy. — And a black paduasoy.

Paduasoy was a particular kind of silk stuff, deriving its name
from the Italian town Padua, and the French word soie^ silk.

ACT II.

Scene L

Pag, — I beg pardon, sir — I beg pardon — but, with submission, a he 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.

This use of mercantile technicalities was not uncommon with
Sheridan ; and Fa^s idioms may be compared with Sir Peter Teazle's
declaration ('School for Scandal,' Act II., Scene II.) that he "would
have law merchant," for those who report what they hear, so that,

THE RIVALS.

■ dt the tie

"in all cases of slander currency, whene'er the drawer

wft5 not to be found, the injured parties should have a right to

come on any of thu indorsers."

KntM Fai/ilanJ.

Faulkland is the name of two prominent characters, a father and
a son, in the 'Memoirs of Miss Sidney Biddulph,' tlie noviO written
by Mrs. Frances Slieiidan; but neither of tlicni in any way resembles
this Fauikiand of her son's.

M'rei. — Uj h«lr tun been In training <otne Umt
Here Atra reinot-cs his cap. and shows his siilc-curls in papers.
After his next speech, he turns his back to the audience to show
his back-hair claboraicly dressed. ^H

Airt] — Dimns luve hiul Ihdi day. ^^H

In his 'Hislor>' of tlie KngJish Stage'(v. 461,) the Rev. Mr. Geneste
quotes an epigram of Sir John Harrington's, quite pertinent here: —

I.a9t hiving sworn away all failii and Iroiti.
Only Gbd damn them is Itipir commim oatl..
Thus custom kept decorum by Rradilion,
Thai losing miss, cioss, faith, they find damnation.

Sir /lal'iaay. — Wli^Cs Ihal to you, sir?

The alleged likeness of St'r Aiil/umy to Smolletl's Malthao Bramble
is very slight indeed. Sheridan's treatment of Sir Anfhonv in this scene
and in the contrasting scene in llie next act is exquisite comedy. In
these two scenes is 10 be fontid the finest writing in the play. 'I'he present
scene niav be cnnipared with one somewhat similar between Mrs. Li'ind
and Misi Linnet in tht^ first act of Footc's ■ Maid of E.ith.'

-I.it

(lie

porary
ye;

after the ' Riv

I popnlar and fashionable exhibition of natural
fs. Tiiere are many allnsions to it in contem-
r.veliiia,' for instance, ]iLiliIished in 1778, three
' Mils written, Mibs Hurney takes her heroine

^ r^K

NOTES, 323

to Cox*s Museum and describes some of the many marvels it must have

contained.

Scene II.

Pag. — We will — we will. [Exeuiit sevsrally.]

The traditional business here is for Fag to parody the exit of Sir
Lucius just before, calling Lucy^ kissing her, saying, " I 41 quiet your
conscience," and then making his exit, humming the tune he has just
caught from Sir Lucius.

ACT III.
Scene III.

Mrs. Mai. — Oh, it gives me the hydrostatics to such a degree ! I thought she had per-
sisted from corresponding with him ; but, bshold ! this very day, I have interceded another letter
from the fellow. I believe I have it in my pocket.

Tradition authorizes Mrs, Malaprop first to take from her pocket

the letter of Sir Lucius^ and then discovering her mistake to produce

with much difficulty and in great confusion the letter which Capt, Abso-
lute recognizes at once.

Lydia. — O Heavens f Beverley I

Lydia Languish has been called a second edition of Colman*s Polly
Honeycombc; but the charge has only the slightest foundation. It would
have been more difficult to evolve Lydia from Polly than to have made
her out of nothing. If a prototype must be found for Lydia, it had
better be sought in the Niece in Steele's 'Tender Husband.* In
Steele's play, the relations of the Aunt and the Niece are not unlike
those of Mrs. Malaprop and Lydia; and we are told that the Niece
"has spent all her solitude in reading romances, her head is full of
shepherds, knights, flowery meads, groves, and streams (Act I., Scene
I.). And she anticipates Lydia in thinking that "it looks so ordinary,
to go out at a door to be married. Indeed I ought to be taken out
of a window, and run away with " (Act IV., Scene I.). It may l>e noted,
also, that the lover of Steele's airy heroine visits her in disguise and
makes love to her before the face of the Aunt.

Scene IV.

Acres {practising a dancing stef>.) — These outlandish heathen allemandes and cotillons are
quite beyond me. I shall never prosper at 'cm. that 's sure. Mine are true-born English
They don't understand their cuist French linjq;o.

In his * History of the English Stage/ Geneste recalls a parallel passage
in the ' Wasps, ' of Aristophanes, where the old man, on being desired

3*4

THE KiVALS-

to put on a pair of Liccdeinontai

by u)ing tlut ooc of hU toes

boots, entlcavon to excuse hiitodf"*
is a sworn enemy to the Lacedcmc-

Aatt. ~ TiaX *> his Chj] I9 ball.

In the wriliftg oJ the challenge most actors of Acres indulge in
"gag*" beyond ibc bounds of all decency, ai>d untU comedy sinks inio
downing. Mr Joseph Jeffenon refuses to make the judicious grieve
by saying, "to pnrvcni ibe confusion that might arise from otir boiii
undrtuiitg the santc lady," and other vulgarities of that sort, retaining,
however, tlie iubtler ycfX of Aerts't pause and hesiiation when lie
comes to the »-onl "company." of his significant whisper in \\^t ear of
Sir Luaut, and ol Sir iMcittt'i prompt soimion of tlie orthographical
inoblcDi, — " With a c, of course I "

ACT IV.
Scene II.

Mrs. .l/fl/fl/™/. — Cumpiriion* don'l become 1 jouiie woman.

Here Afis. Malaprop comes very near to Dogki-ry's "comparisons
are odorous" ('Much Ado About Koihing.' Act III., Scene V.). Per-
haps the earliest use of the phrase^ is in 'The Posies of George
Cascoigne' (1575)1 *here we find, "Since all comparisons are odious."

Faum<ind. — ]>i\i3.

have

oved you to the quick t

Moore considers that this scene was suggested by Prior's ballad of
ihe 'Nut-brown Maid,' and so indeed it may have been, although
Prior's situation is very different from Sheridan's, In the ' Nut-broHti
Maid,' Ihe high-born lover conceals his rank, approaches his mistress
in various disguises, and at last tests her love by a tale of murder,
like Fatilklands. She stands the the test like Julia. Then the lover
cnnfesses (he trick and reveals his rank, whereat the maid is joyful.
The point of Sheridan's more dramatic sittiatinn is in the recoil of Fanlk-
land's distrustful ingenuity on his own head, and the rejection of his
suit by Julia, so soon as he declares his fraud.

NOTES, 325

Lydia. — How often have I stole forth, in the coldest night in January, and found him in the
garden, stuck like a dripping statue.

In his notes to his own translation of Horace, Sir Theodore Martin
draws attention to the likeness of this speech of Lydia^s to the lines in
the Tenth Ode of the Third Book, in which Horace adjures a certain
Lycfe to take pity on him.

You would pity, sweet Lycfe, the poor soul that shivers
Out here at your door in the merciless blast.

Only hark how the doorway goes straining and creaking,

And the piercing wind pipes through the trees that surround
The court of your villa, while black frost b streaking

With ice the crisp snow that lies thick on the ground I
« • « •

Yet be not as cruel — forgive my upbraiding —

As snakes, nor as hard as the toughest of oak ;
Think, to stand out here, drenched to the skin, serenading

All night may in time prove too much of a joke.

Scene II.

Absolute. — Really, sir, you have the advantage of me.

Captain Absolute is the son of a long line of light and lively heroes
of comedy, and the father of a line almost as long. Foremost among
his ancestors is the inventive protagonist of Foote's * Liar,* and foremost
among his progeny is the even more slippery young man in Mr. Bouci-
cault*s * London Assurance,* who ventures to deny his father in much
the same fashion as Capt. Absolute,

Scene III.

Acres. — By my valour !

By a hundred devious ways. Bob Acres traces his descent from that
other humorous coward, Sir Andrew Aguecheek ; and the duels into
which both gentlemen enter valiantly are not without a certain highly
comic resemblance.

Sir Lucius. — I'm told there is very snug lying in the Abbey.

This reference is, of course, to the Abbey church, at Bath, in which
Sarah Fielding, the sister of the novelist, is buried.

326 THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL.

THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL.

ACT L
Scene L

Lady Sneer. — The paragraphs, you say, Mr. Snake, were all inserted.

In the original draft of this scene, now in the possession of Mr.
Richard Brinsley Sheridan of Frampton Court, Dorchester, where he
kindly permitted me to examine it, the person with whom Lady Sneer-
well is conversing is a Miss Verjuice^ and it is only later in the scene,
after the entrance of Joseph Surface^ that we find a reference to " Snake,
the Scribbler." In revising the scene, Sheridan found that one charac-
ter might suffice for the minor dirty work of the plot ; and to this
character he gave the dialogue of Miss Verjuice and the name of
Snake, The name Sneerwcll is to be found in Fielding's * Pasquin.'

Servant. — Mr. Surface.

In *A Journey to Bath,* an unacted and unprinted comedy by Mrs.
Frances Sheridan, three acts of which are preserved in the British
Museum (MS. 25, 975), there is a Mrs, Surface^, "one who keeps a
lodging-house at Bath.'* She is no relation to either of the Surfaces
in the * School for Scandal ; * yet it may be worth noting that she is a
scandal-monger who hates scandal.

Scene II.

Rotvley. — Oh, Sir Peter, your servant!

Rowley is one of the many faithful stewards, frequent in comedy.
Perhaps the first of them was Trusty in Steele's 'Funeral.'

ACT n.
Scene I.

Sir Peter. — And three powdered footmen before your chair.

In 1777, when Sheridan wrote, only people of the highest position
and fashion made their footmen powder their hair; so Sir Peter is here
reproaching Lady Teazle with her exalted ambitions.

NOTES. 327

Sir Peter, — You wer^ content to ride double, beliiud the butler on a docked coach-horse.

Professor Ward in his * History of English Dramatic Literature/ draws
attention to a parallel passage in Fletcher's * Noble Gentleman' (Act II.,
Scene I.), in which Marine threatens to take his fashionable wife home
again : -^

Make you ready straight,
And in that gown which you first came to town in,
Your safe-cloak, and your hood suitable,
Thus on a double gelding shall you amble.
And my man Jaques shall be set before you.

Sir Peter, — Hy — there again — taste! Zounds! madam, you had no taste when you married me!

It seems as though Mr. John G. Saxe may have remembered this
speech of Sir Peters when he wrote his epigraip, *Too Candid by
Half:* —

As Tom and his wife were discoursing one day
Of their several faults, in a bantering way,

Said she: * Though my wit you disparage,
I *m sure, my dear husband, our friends will attest
This much, at the least, that my judgment is best.'

Quoth Tom : * So they said at our marriage 1 '

Scene II.

Sir Benjamin Backbite : —

"Sure never were seen two such beautiful ponies!
Other horses are clowns, but these niacaruni(^.
To give them this title I'm sure can't ba wrong,
Their legs are so slim, and their tails are so long.

The reading of this epigram by Sir Benjamin Backbite is perhaps
another of Sheridan's reminiscences of Molifere ; at least there is a situa-
tion not unlike it in the ' Pr^cieuses Ridicules,' in the * Femmes
Savantes,* and in the * Misanthrope.* In the final quarter of the
eighteenth century, there arose a species of dandy called the macaroni,
much as in the final quarter of the nineteenth century there has arisen
a variety called the dude.

"The Italians are extremely fond of a dish they call macaroni, com-
posed of a kind of paste ; and, as they consider this the summum
bonum of all good eating, so they figuratively call everything they think
elegant and uncommon macaroni. Our young travellers, who generally
catch the follies of the countries they visit, judged that the title of
macaroni was applicable to a clever fc!lo7v ; and, accordingly, to distin-
guish themselves as such, they instituted a club under this denomination,

328 THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL.

the members of which were supposed to be the standards of taste^
They make a most ridiculous figure, with hats of an inch in the brim,
that do not cover, but lie upon, the head ; with about two pounds of
fictitious hair, formed into what is called a club^ hanging down their
shoulders, as white as a baker's sack" (* Pocket-book,* 1773, quoted
in Mr. T. L. O. Davies's * Supplementary Glossar}'*). The name of
the macaroni is also preserved in the first stanza of our * Yankee Doodle,*
which is almost contemporaneous with Sheridan's play.

Sir Peter. — A character dead at every word, I suppose?

Moore noted the resemblance of this aside to Pope's line, in the
'Rape of the Lock*: —

At every word, a reputation dies.

This scandal scene of Sheridan's had predecessors in the comedies
of Congreve and of Wycherley, not to go back as far as tlie 'Misan-
thrope* of Moli^re. Hard and cruel as Sheridan's scene now seems to
us, it is gentle indeed when contrasted with the cudgel-play of
Congreve and Wycherley. It is possible that Sheridan owed some of
his comparative suavity to the example of Addison, who contributed to
No. 17 of the Spectator.^ a *Fine Lady's Journal,* in which there is a
passage of tittle-tattle more like Sheridan than Wycherley or Congreve.

Sir Peter. — Yes, madam, I would have law merchant for them too.

Geneste, in his * History of the English Stage,* draws attention to a
parallel passage in the * Trinummus * of Plautus, and suggests that it
would furnish a very pat motto for this play: —

Cuod si excutratur usque ab stirpe auctoritas,
Unde qulcquid auditum dicar\t, nisi id appaieat
Famigeratori res sit cum damno et malo:
Hoc ita si fiat, publico fiat bono.
Patid sint faxim, qui sciant quod nesciunt;
Occhisioremque habeant stultiloquentiam.

ACT in.

Scene L

Sir Peter. — But, Moses 1 would not you have him r;in out a little against the Annuity Bill ?

In 1777 a committee of the House of Commons was appointed to
inquire into the laws concerning usur}' and annuities; and on its report
in May, the month in which this play was first acted, a bill was brought

jXotes. • 329

in and passed, providing that all contracts with minors for annuities
shall be void, and that those procuring them and solicitors charging
more than ten shillings per cent shall be subject to fine or imprison-
ment.

Sir Peter. — No, never 1

The traditional business of the scene is for Sir Peter and Lady
Teazle here to take each other by the hand and to repeat, in unison,
** Never ! never ! never ! "

Scene II.

Tri^. — And find our own bags and bouquets.

In the original draft of the several scenes which Sheridan finally
combined into the * School for Scandal,' this phrase, * bags and bou-
quets,' was said to Sir Peter as he was complaining of Lady Teazle's
extravagances. This utilization at last of a phrase at first rejected
elsewhere is highly characteristic of Sheridan.

Trip. — Or you shall have the reversion of the French velvet.

Sheridan has been accused, justly enough, of making his servants
talk as their masters ; but this is an old failing of writers of comedy,
although few of them would have risked this accurate use of the legal
phraseology which Sheridan at all times affected. But there is in Ben
Jonson's * Every Man in his Humor' (Act III., Scene II.) a speech of
KnowclVs servant Brainworm in which we find the very same technical
term as we have in the text : "This smoky varnish being washed off,
and three or four patches removed, I appear your worship's [servant]
in reversion, after the decease of your good father, Brainwomi,^^ Sheri-
dan's Trip and Fag recall the amusing personages of * High Life below
Stairs,' generally attributed to a certain Reverend James Townley, but
more probably the work of David Garrick : it was suggested by a paper
of Steele's, * On Servants,* in the Spectator, No. 88.

Scene III.

Sir Harry Bumper — Sings,

It has been asserted (in Notes and Queries 5th S., ii., 245, and
elsewhere) that Sheridan derived this song from a ballad in Suckling's
play, the * Goblins ;' but a careful comparison of the two songs shows
that there is really no foundation for the charge. The music to Sheri-
dan's song was composed by his father-in-law, Thomas Linley, who had
been his partner in the 'Duenna.'

330

THE SCHOOL FOR SCAXDAL.

J#««H. — Ob, pny, ill. contiileil Mr. Prcmiutn 'i a gmtlni
In Footc's 'Minor,' thore b a s|>endtlmft son, whose father visits

J lim in disguiw to test him; and in Foote's 'Author,' a father re-
turns in disguise, and, to his great delight, hears his son disclose the
most admirable scniiments; but there is no real lilcencss between
either of Footc's scenes and this of Sheridan's, the real original of
Vrhich is pcihaps to be found in his mother's 'Sidney Biddulph,' in
trhlch an East Indian uncle returns to test a nephcn and a niece. Vet

I there is possibly a slight resemblance between "little Premium the
broker," and "little Trans/er, ihc broker," in the "Minor."

.Vm«, — Oh, yes; I'll itrear to 'il

An erring tradilioti :iulhorij:cs Moses to interpolate freely and (rc-
qucnily thrortgliout the rest of the scene a more or less meaningless,
"I'll take my oath of that." As the part &f AUses is generally taken
by the low comedian who also appears as Tony Lumpkin, this "gag"
may be a reminiscence of the comic scene in ' She Sloops to Conquer.'
in which Tony offers to swear to liis motlier's assertion that Miss Hani-
castle's jewels have been stolen.

ACT IV.

Scene I.

Ciflr/«. — But come, get to your piilpit, Mr. Auctioneer^

The absurdity of an auction with only one bidder has been com-
mented u[>on often, but surely Sheridan never intended the auction to
be taken seriously. The pretence of an auction is surely a freak of
Charlis's humor and high spirits.

Chnrh

my grc:

The 'School for Scandal' was one of the plays pertonned by the
English actors on their famous visit to Paris in 1827, — a visit which
revealed ihi; might and range of the English drama to the French, and
thereby served to make posj;ihle the Romanticist revolt of 1S30. Victor
Hugo was an assiduous follower of the English performances; and it
may be tliat this scene of the ' School for Scandal ' suggested to him
the scene willi the portraits in ' Hernaiii.'

Scene II.

Ouirhs. — lie jiiit before you 're generous.

In a note to an anonymous pamphlet biographical sketch of Sheri-

^ r\

NOTES. 331

dan, published in 1799, there is quoted a remark of a lady which is
not without point and pertinency : " Mr. Sheridan is a fool if he pays
a bill (of which, by the by, he is not accused) of one of the trades-
men who received his comedy with such thunders of applause. He
ought to tell them in the words of Charles, that he could never make
Justice keep pace with Generosity, and they could have no right to
complain."

Scene III.

Josef h. — Stay, stay ; draw that screen before the windows I

It has been often objected that the hiding of Lady Teazle behind
the screen put her in full view of the opposite neighbor, the maiden
lady of so curious a temper; but it must be remembered that it is
Joseph who makes this remark and has the screen set, and it is Lady
Teazle who unwittingly rushes to hide behind it.

Joseph. — Ah, my dear madam, there is the great mistake. *T is this very conscious innocence
that is of the greatest prejudice to you.

The late Abraham Hayward, in his * Selected Essays ' (i, 400),
calls this " the recast of a fine reflection in * Zadig,' " and quotes, in
a foot-note, Voltaire's words : " Astart^ est femme, elle laisse parler
ses regards avec d* raitant plus d* impnidence qu' elle ne se croit pas
encore coupable. Malheureusement rassur6e sur son innocence, elle
neglige les dehors necessaires. Je tremblerai pour elle tant qu'elle
n'aura rien \ se reprocher."

Charles Surface throws dmt'n the screen,

Boaden, the biographer of Kemble, has the hyper-ingenuity to dis-
cover in the fall of the rig in Molly Seagrim's bedroom, disclosing the
philosopher Square, in *Tom Jones,' the first germ of the fall of the
screen in the * School for Scandal.*

Sir Peter. ^Lsidy Teazle, by all that's damnaUcI

Nowadays most Str Peters take this situation to heart as though
the * School for Scandal ' were a tragedy, but the play is a comedy,
and this scene is, and is meant to be, comic, and not tragic, or even
purely pathetic. It is the vanity rather than the honor of Sir Peter
in which he feels the wound. If he is as deeply moved as Othello,
the following speech of Charles is unspeakably heartless and brutal —
and so, indeed, it is, as it is delivered by most comedians.

332 THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL.

ACT V.
Scene I.

Sir Oliver. — WliatI has he never transmitted to you bullion — rupees — pagodas?

The rupee and the pagoda were coins current in Hindustan. The
rupee is of silver and is equivalent to about two shillings sterling.
The pagoda was either gold or silver, and its value varied from eight
to nine shillings sterling. The avadavats mentioned in an earlier speech
are birds of brilliant plumage.

Scene II.

Sir Benjamin. — By a thrut;t in segoon quite through his left side.

" Segoon " is a corruption of segunde, the Spanish form of the
French fencing term seconde, Mr. Walter. Herries Pollock kindly gave
me this information, sought elsewhere in vain. A thrust in segoon, he
writes, is " a thrust delivered low, under the adversary's blade, with
the hand in the tierce position, that is, with the knuckles upwards, and
the wrist turned downwards. The parry is now more frequently used
than is the thrust of seconde, and is especially valuable in disarming; but
the thrust is very useful in certain cases, and particularly for one form
of the coup d' arret, A lunge in seconde which goes through the lung is
nowadays an odd thing to hear of ; but such a result might come from
the blade of the man using the thrust in seconde being thrown upwards
by a slip on the adversary's blade, arm, or shirt."

Crabtree. — From Salthill, where he had been to see the Montem.

The Montem was a triennial ceremonv of the bovs at Eton, abolished
only in 1847. It consisted of a procession to a mound {ad montem)
near the Bath Road, where they exacted money from those present and
from all passers-by. The sum collected, sometimes nearly ;^iooo, went
to the captain or senior scholar, and served to pay his expenses at
the university. There is an interesting account of the Montem in
* Coningsby.'

Crabtree. — Who was just coming to the door with a double letter from Northamptonshire.

Tradition formerly authorized Mrs. Candour to interpolate here a
query as to whether the postage had been paid or not ; but this seems
to be carr}'ing the joke a little too far.

NOTES.

333

Scene III.

Snake. — Ah, sir, consider I live by the badness of my cliaracter.

In the first draft of the play this speech of Snake's was in one of
the earliest scenes. The anonymous writer of a pamphlet, * LfCtter to
Thomas Moore, Esq., on the subject of Sheridan's " School for Scan-
dal" ' (Bath, 1826), declares that " this is but boyish composition, and
quite too broad even for farce. It might have been said to Snake by
another, but is out of even stage-nature or stage-necessity, as coming
from himself " (p. 16).

Epilogue.

So wills our virtuous bard the motley Bayes.

Bayes was the hero of the Duke of Buckingham's 'Rehearsal,' and
was a caricature of John Dryden. At the time this epilogue was written
the * Rehearsal ' had not yet been driven from the stage by the
* Critic' *

Spadille — odd trick — para — basto — king and queen.

In the game of ombre, at its height when Pope wrote the * Rape of
the Lock,' and still sur\'iving when Colman wrote this epilogue, " Spa-
dille " was the ace of spades, " pam " was the knave of clubs, and
"basto" was the ace of clubs.

•J

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