The plays of Richard Brinsley Sheridan

THE LIBRARY

OF

THE UNIVERSITY
OF CALIFORNIA

LOS ANGELES

GIFT

From the Library of

Henry Goldman, Ph.D.

1886-1972

Gamelot Series.

EDITED BY ERNEST RHYS.

SHERIDAN'S PLAYS.

THE PLAYS OF RICHARD
BRINSLEY SHERIDAN:
EDITED, WITH AN INTRODUCTION,
BY RUDOLF DIRCKS.

LONDON:

WALTER SCOTT, 24 WARWICK LANE.
NEW YORK : 3 EAST 14-TH STREET.

CONTENTS.

PAGE

INTRODUCTION vii

THE RIVALS . . . i

ST. PATRICK'S DAY ; OR, THE SCHEMING LIEUTENANT . 79

THE DUENNA 101

THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL 151

THE CRITIC ; OR, A TRAGEDY REHEARSED . ... 229
PIZARRO 273

SHERIDAN.

SHERIDAN, in one sense, was happy in his immediate progeni-
tors. He came from a family of rare capabilities, if lacking
in that wisdom which is of the world. His grandfather, Dr.
Thomas Sheridan, a schoolmaster and clergyman, was a
man of excellent parts. According to Lord Orrery, "he was
slovenly, indigent, and cheerful. He knew books better than men,
and he knew the value of money least of all." He was an intimate
friend of Swift, who, it was said, "was not to be seen in perfect good
humour unless when he made part of the company." Selling his
school at Cowan, in 1737, for ^400, Swift says that he "spent
the money, grew into disease, and died." Dr. Thomas Sheridan's
third son, Thomas, the father of the dramatist, inherited few
of his father's qualities; he was of a more practical turn, and
was without the elder man's sense of humour. An over-
weening notion of his self-importance more than once made him
the butt of his contemporary, Dr. Johnson. Nevertheless, beneatl
a veneer of folly and egotism, Thomas Sheridan possessed a kindlj
heart ; he was capable of generous and worthy actions. On the
death of his father he became an actor, and although he was
said by his partisans in Dublin to rival Garrick, his success was
not sufficient for him to rely upon the stage as a sole means of
livelihood. He was the author of a life of Swift, and compiled
a Pronouncing Dictionary of the English Language. For the
encouragement of the completion of the latter, the Government
granted him a pension of ^200 a year, much to the disgust of Dr.
Johnson, who held the work in severe contempt. " What ! " said
Dr. Johnson, "have they given him a pension? then it is time
for me to give up mine." As Sheridan had been influential in

viii SHERIDAN.

obtaining the Doctor his own pension, this remark savoured
somewhat of ingratitude, and, coming to Sheridan's ears, led not
unnaturally to a quarrel between the men. Thomas Sheridan
lectured on education also, and one of the great ideas of his life
was to start a school for the teaching of some pet theories
which he held on oratory and elocution ; one may believe Dr.
Johnson's assertion that his stage performances were marked
for "plain declamation," but that he could exhibit no character.
The wife of Thomas Sheridan came of an English stock ; she
was a woman of wonderful ability and charm. Besides other
works, she was the author of a novel, The Memoirs of Miss Sidney
Biddulph, which won considerable reputation in its day ; and two
comedies, The Discovery, and The Dupe. Garrick declared that
The Discovery was " one of the best comedies he ever read."
Be this as it may, the piece contained the part of Sir Anthony
Braxville, a character which Garrick always enjoyed impersonating.
" Mrs. Sheridan," says Boswell, "was a most agreeable companion
to an intellectual man. She was sensible, ingenious, unassuming,
yet communicative," and Boswell had sufficient insight into
character to be taken as an authority. Dr. Parr, who occasionally
met her, pronounced her to be " quite celestial" She had the
charge of her son Richard's education until he was seven ; she
died in 1766, when he was a boy of fifteen.

I.

Richard Brinsley Butler Sheridan, the second son of Thomas
Sheridan, was born in September 1751, at 12 Dorset
Square, Dublin. At the age of seven, he was recommended
by his mother to the care of a Dublin schoolmaster, named
Whyte, as an "impenetrable dunce." At the age of eleven,
his family having meanwhile crossed to England, he was
sent to Harrow, where he was distinguished more for his " frank
and genial manners " than for diligence " in the ordinary business
of the school." Dr. Parr, in a letter to Moore, relates " that he
did not incur any corporal punishment for his idleness : his
industry was just sufficient to keep him from disgrace. All the
while Sumner and I saw in him vestiges of a superior intellect.

SHERIDAN. ix

His eye, his countenance, his general manner, were striking ; his
answers to any common question were prompt and acute. . . .
All boys and all masters were pleased with him." Possibly,
Sheridan early adopted that method of working which after-
wards found expression in an unfinished essay on the Letters of
Lord Chesterfield^ — " A wise man is formed more by the action of
his own thoughts than by constantly feeding it. ' Hurry,' he
says, ' from play to study ; never be doing nothing.' I say,
' Frequently be unemployed ; sit and think.' " Leaving Harrow
in his eighteenth year, he received further instruction from a Mr.
Louis Kerr, in London ; he also took lessons in riding and
fencing, and his father taught him English grammar and elocu-
tion. Young Sheridan was a conveniently idle fellow, but it is
improbable that, subject to school discipline from his seventh
year, he escaped so innocent of learning as we are generally led
to believe. His scholastic equipment may not have been gre^at,
but it must have been fair. He was certainly inexcusably careless;
he spelled "wich" for "which," "were" for "where," and "think"
for "thing." The lessons in elocution should, at least, have saved
his ear from such slips as these, which, in view of other facts, can
hardly be imputed to sheer ignorance.

Before leaving Harrow a friendship was struck up between
Sheridan and a schoolfellow named Halhed; they had literary
sympathies in common, showed each other their experiments in
verse, and, later, when Sheridan was at Bath with his family, and
Halhed at Oxford, they opened a correspondence and formed a
literary partnership to carry out sundry ambitious projects. Their
first work in collaboration was a burlesque in three acts, called
Jupiter, which contained the germinal idea of Sheridan's later work,
The Critic. It is doubtful that this piece was ever completed ; it
certainly was never produced, although there was some prospect
of either Foote or Garrick taking it in hand. Their next scheme
was a periodical to be called Hemarts Miscellany, which did
not progress further than the first number, and was never printed.
One rather formidable venture did, however, come to a head:
a translation of Aristaenetus was .published after many delays,
owing to the loitering of Sheridan, in August 1771. The book

x SHERIDAN.

was, on the whole, received well by the critics, one astute gentle-
man fathering it on Dr. Johnson; but its sale was small, and the
extensive profit anticipated by the translators had still to remain
a pleasure of the imagination. Sheridan's aspirations about this
time took a new turn ; forswearing publishers, he took to penning
verses to his mistress.

The story of his wooing and winning Miss Linley, known to
fame as the Maid of Bath, has about it a delightful want of
reality suggestive of light fiction. Miss Linley, only a trifle
over sixteen, was a professional singer, and came from a family
distinguished for musical genius. The father, Thomas Linley, at
the time was entrepreneur of the principal concerts and oratorios
at Bath, where he held a highly honourable and dignified position.
His captivating daughter turned the heads of the gallants of the
day " to an extent almost unparalleled in the annals of beauty,"
an4 apparently irrespective of age, rank, or fortune.

One episode in which she was concerned, apart from the
interest attached to it on account of the indirect service it
proved afterwards to Sheridan, deserves relation, if only to keep
green the memory of a man worthy of the veneration of all
sentimental persons. Mr. Long, a Wiltshire gentleman, wealthy
and old, made such successful overtures to Mr. Linley for his
daughter's heart and hand, that the marriage was about to take
place, when Miss Linley, to whom the union was abhorrent,
with a woman's intuitive sense of character, secretly placed
herself at the mercy of Mr. Long, who generously consented not
only to the breaking of the engagement, but, with heroic
magnanimity, agreed to take all the unpleasantness of the
arrangement on his own elderly shoulders. Furthermore, to
appease the parental wrath which threatened to bring the matter
to a legal issue, he settled .£3000 on the ingenuous young lady.

Meanwhile Sheridan pursued his love affair secretly, diligently,
and, as was his wont, successfully. His rivals included Halhed and
his brother Charles. Of Sheridan, at this time, his sister has written:
" His cheeks had the glow of health, his eyes — the finest in the
world — the brilliancy of genius, and were soft as the tender and
affectionate heart could render them. The same playful fancy,

SHERIDAN. xi

the same sterling and innoxious wit that was shown afterwards
in his writings, cheered and delighted the family circle. ... I ad-
mired, I almost adored him." Clearly this, then, was a likely fellow
to outshine and outwit all rivals. The interviews and correspond-
ence of the lovers were of necessity clandestine, but matters came
to a crisis in the legitimate romantic manner. Among Miss
Linley's admirers there was one more importunate than the
rest. Captain Matthews was a villain of a sadly unredeemed
type. The horror which his persistent pursuit caused her
was naturally increased by the knowledge that the gentleman
already possessed a wife and family. Sheridan's remonstrances
were of no avail ; the Captain remained obdurately wicked.
At last the fears of Miss Linley became so intense that she
determined on flight. In the seclusion of a French convent she
hoped at least to be relieved from the attention of this profligate
gallant. Sheridan, always distinguished for his fertility of
resource, and no doubt responsible for the present wild scheme,
was to accompany her. He made an admirable knight-errant.
While her people were engaged at a concert he carried her off in
a sedan-chair to the London road, where a post-chaise was in
waiting. That chivalrous disinterestedness which commonly held
him from taking the full advantage of his opportunities found
admirable expression in the present case. On reaching the post-
chaise Miss Linley discovered a third person in it, who had been
hired by the young cavalier to act as duenna during her flight.
Arriving in France, however, the tender associations of the journey
proved too much for Sheridan, and he insisted upon claiming the
right of becoming her permanent protector. The pair were secretly
married at a little village on the outskirts of Calais towards the
end of the month of March 1772. The lady then retired to a con-
vent at Lisle, Sheridan still hovering within reach. By-and-by,
poor, anxious Mr. Linley arrived in search of his daughter, and
insisted upon her returning to fulfil her professional engagements.
On the understanding that after doing so she would be allowed
to return to the convent, the party started home, the marriage
the while being maintained a profound secret. In the mean-
time at Bath Sheridan's adventurous and unexpected move had

xii SHERIDAN.

caused rare commotion in the breasts of his rivals, particularly
his brother Charles and Halhed. The exasperated Matthews
posted him in the Bath Chronicle as "a liar and treacherous
scoundrel." This coming to the scoundrel's ears abroad, he vowed
that he would never sleep in England until he had thanked
the recreant Captain as he deserved. Sheridan has left a full
account of the duel which followed. His opponent, as might
have been expected, proved himself not only a bully but a
coward. It was with considerable difficulty that his courage
could be screwed up to the sticking place. The affair ter-
minated in Sheridan breaking the sword of his antagonist, who
begged his life and consented to publish an apology and a
retraction for his advertisement in the Bath Chronicle. But
here the matter did not end. Captain Matthews, on retiring to
his estate in Wales, suffered so many social mortifications
in consequence of his pusillanimity in this affair, that he
was roused into renewing the encounter. The state of mind
of the combatants made the second duel a much more
serious concern than the first. It seems to have been a very
ill-judged and wild struggle, in which the enemies, with broken
swords, lay rolling on the ground mercilessly hacking at each
other, Sheridan getting much the worst of it, still refusing to
beg his life. Finally the seconds interfered, and Sheridan, in a
severely, but, providentially, not seriously wounded condition, was
conveyed in a chaise to Bath.

The perturbations of the unsophisticated young bride during
these occurrences may be very well imagined, and when the news
of the duel was broken to her the truth burst from her lips, and she
passionately entreated to be allowed to see Sheridan, declaring it
to be her duty as his wife to " watch over him day and night." In
spite of the proof that her behaviour gave to their true relationship,
the parents on both sides had such little inclination for the match
that they still persisted in remaining obstinately blind. It was not
until the I3th of April 1773 that the following, which was the
announcement of a marriage solemnised a second time, appeared
in the columns of The Gentlemaris Magazine: — "Mr. Sheridan,
of the Temple, to the celebrated Miss Linley, of Bath."

SHERIDAN. xiii

After all the trials and terrors to which Mrs. Sheridan had been
subjected, it must have been a singularly blessed relief to retreat to
the cottage at East Burnham, where the couple spent the first year
of their life after the second marriage. Sheridan, having quarrelled
with his father, had little or no means, and he, characteristically,
refused resolutely to allow his wife to accept any further
pro:essional engagements — a resolution, by the way, in which
he was applauded by Dr. Johnson. Possibly it was not exactly
in accordance with the elderly Mr. Long's calculations that the sum
of which he was mulcted was destined to start a successful rival in
life. In the following year the pair removed to London, taking a
house in Orchard Street, Portman Square. The beauty and
musical repute of Mrs. Sheridan and the engaging manners of her
husband enabled them early to cut a considerable figure in society.
But the financial possibilities of even so large a sum as ^3000 are
limited ; and, to do Sheridan justice, he appears to have realised
the fact, for the early years of his married life were marked by
creditable industry. Writing to his father-in-law in November
1774, he says — " I have been very seriously at work on a book,
which I am just now sending to the press, and which I think will
do me some credit, if it leads to nothing else. However, the
profitable affair is of another nature. There will be a comedy of
mine in rehearsal at Covent Garden within a few days." The
nature of the book is, I believe, conjectural ; the comedy was The
Rivals. In view of after events, it is important to note that his
attention was also at this time more or less attracted by political
questions.

II.

The Rivals was produced at Covent Garden Theatre on the
1 7th January 1775, in the twenty-fourth year of its author. It is a
tribute to the excellence of the representations of the time, as it
is a reflection upon those of to-day, that the piece barely escaped
being damned on the first night owing to the wretched performance
of the actor who played the part of Sir Lucius O'Trigger. The
audiences who sat out The Rivals would not be humbugged;
they exacted artistic unity ; they were not content for one star to
shine if the satellites did not shine also. When the incompetent

xiv SHERIDAN.

actor was replaced by Mr. Clinch, the success of the comedy was
beyond all question. It should be consoling to later dramatists to
read the preface that Sheridan put to the printed edition of the
play ; the kindly way in which he accepts his manager's cutting of
the work suggests no sting of an author's wounded vanity ; — but
then Mr. Harris, I believe, was not an actor-manager. The
Rivals was written in something like six weeks. It shows a keen
observation and relish of the humorous side of life and char-
acter. It is the product of vigorous spirits and a buoyant
imagination ; if it lacks the brilliancy of The School for Scandal,
the dialogue still is admirably finished. Sheridan had drawn
freely on his late experiences. His life at Bath gave the atmo-
sphere ; his stolen interviews with Miss Linley, the duels, the
numerous suitors, the unreasonable jealousies, provided the inci-
dents and the characters. Who can doubt it? What need is
there to ferret through the works of prior dramatists to make
charges of plagiarism when we have the material here? It has
been re-touched with the author's fancy, illumined by his humour,
concentrated to dramatic exigencies, that is all. If we must
needs be convinced that he was a plagiarist, we shall find that he
stole where stealing was least offensive — from his mother, She
had used the name of Faulkland in one of her novels; and in
an uncompleted comedy, now in the British Museum, A Trip to
Bath, there is the prototype of Mrs. Malaprop in Mrs. Tryfort,
even to parallelisms in her "parts of speech," and in her "nice
derangements of epitaphs." The chief shortcomings of the play
are in its construction ; and in the introduction of the characters
of Faulkland and Lydia. These personages are such palpable
excrescences that they were no doubt introduced, as Mr. Brander
Matthews has pointed out, to conciliate the sentimentalists ; they
so successfully appealed to the audience of their day as to lessen
the importance of the other characters. Time, however, has had
its revenge; in modern productions of the comedy the sententious
speeches of this laudable pair are always extensively" cut." There
is, in fact, some internal evidence that in Faulkland's earlier
scenes the author's intention was mainly satirical, and that he was
influenced in another direction as his work progressed.

SHERIDAN. xv

The success of the comedy, and the consequent fame and emolu-
ments, naturally strengthened the position of the Sheridans among
a very distinguished set indeed; but theii footing was not quite
secure, as Moore tells us, that so important a person as the
Duchess of Devonshire, who met him at Sir Joshua Reynolds',
hesitated as to the propriety "of inviting to her house two
persons of such equivocal rank of society." Reference to Moore
will show how, later, when Sheridan attained the zenith of social
distinction, he was able to retort upon her Grace.

St. Patricks Day; or, the Scheming Lieutenant, a farce in two
acts, was produced on the 2nd of May in the same year. This
piece was written for Lang Clinch, the actor (he played the
lieutenant), as an expression of the author's indebtedness to him for
the excellence of his performance of Sir Lucius O'Trigger, which
had so opportunely contributed to the success of The Rivals. Its
purpose was to give a good chance to an actor, and to create
a laugh, and it fulfils it excellently. The nature of the work
necessarily demands broader treatment than was customary with
Sheridan, or then was, one feels, quite natural to him. Never-
theless, amidst the bustle and brisk movement of the piece, there
are some characteristic touches in his happiest vein. It has
been suggested that Sheridan was indebted to some extent to
Wycherley's Gentleman Dancing-Master for the idea of this little
piece. If this is so, Wycherley in his turn was indebted to Moliere,
and Moliere possibly to Calderon. However, the idea of a lover,
on being surprised with his mistress by the inevitably formidable
parent (of last-century dramatists), who wishes to force a distasteful
marriage upon his equally inevitably wilful daughter, assuming, for
the nonce, the profession of a dancing-master, as in Wycherley's
play, or adopting a number of disguises, as in St. Patricks Day,
is not of so startling an order that one need be afraid to allow
the credit of its invention to be with the man who uses it.

Still in the same year, on 2ist November, another work of
Sheridan's saw light. The Duenna was received with the greatest
enthusiasm, shadowing even the success of The Rivals. " The run
of this opera has, I believe, no parallel in the annals of the drama,"
says Moore. The hitherto unbeaten record of The Beggar's

xvi SHERIDAN.

Opera, which at the time was considered extraordinary, was
eclipsed by twelve nights — The Duenna be>ng performed seventy-
five nights during its first season. The success was no doubt in
a great measure due to the music partly composed by Thomas
Linley and his eldest son, and partly arranged by the elder man
from the work of other composers. The plot and its treatment
suggest the school of Moliere, and Moore boldly asserts that it is
"mainly founded upon an incident borrowed from the Country
Wife of Wycherley," in the face of Sheridan's declaration that he
had never read a line of this Restoration dramatist The dialogue,
while considerably lacking in those qualities which we look for in
Sheridan's work is, nevertheless, delightfully bright. The char-
acters are after the manner of light opera, with the exception
of Isaac, who is drawn with a stronger hand ; " though, at the
same time, the fool predominates over the knave, that I am told
that he is generally the dupe of his own art." The lyrics, without
possessing much poetical depth, are extremely pretty. "What
bard, O Time, discover," and some of the other songs, it is rather
interesting to note, as it reveals the literary frugality of Sheridan,
were of earlier date, one or two of them being in their original
form addre-sed to Mrs. Sheridan in 1773. "There is some-
thing," observes Moore, " not very sentimental in this conversion
of the poetry of affection to other and less sacred uses." Hazlitt
has described this opera as "a perfect work of art."

" The surest way not to fail is to determine to succeed? so Sheridan
aphoristically abjured Mr. Linley early in the following year,
when his negotiations for the proprietorship of Drury Lane
Theatre were in full swing. David Garrick, having reached his
full threescore, felt that his time had come for retirement from the
stage and from the management of the theatre, and the brilliant
young author, elated by his successes, and with the consequent
conceit in his own powers, was ambitious to take over the huge
undertaking. The whole property was valued at ^70,000;
Garrick's moiety was therefore .£35,000. The old actor, who
had a great admiration for the genius of his young friend, and a
firm belief in his untried capacities, willingly entered into arrange-
ments with him. The half share was subscribed for by Sheridan

SHERIDAN. xvii

taking two-fourteenths, ,£10,000; Thomas Linley paying a like
sum for another two-fourteenths ; and one Dr. Ford investing
the remaining ;£ 15,000. Two years later, the value of the whole
having prosperously mounted up to ,£90,000, and difficulties arising
with Mr. Lacy, the retainer of the remaining moiety, Sheridan
bought him out for ,£45,000. These are extraordinary
financial operations for a young man altogether inexperienced
in business calculations to carry to a successful issue, and the
question naturally arises, " How in the world did he raise the
money?" Moore gets rid of the matter by resigning it to
the region of the inexplainable. It has been left to Mr. Brander
Matthews to give a legitimate explanation, which has been
emphasised in Mr. Lloyd Sander's Life of Sheridan. Without
entering into his analysis of the transactions, Mr. Matthews' con-
clusions are that "the purchase of Lacy's half of the theatre
actually put money into Sheridan's pocket," and that " Sheridan
invested only ^1500 in 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 .£90,000." Sheridan, as he wrote to his father-
in-law, anticipated many "golden campaigns" from these invest-
ments, and, as a matter of fact, they were the backbone of his
resources for the remainder of his life.

Sheridan & Co. opened Drury Lane Theatre on September
2ist, 1776. In the February of the following year A Trip to
Scarborough was produced. This play, usually included in an
edition of Sheridan's works, I have omitted in this volume, as it is
not sufficiently clear why the credit of The Relapse of Vanbrugh
should belong to other than Vanbrugh himself. The original work,
"luminous from putrescence," has, nevertheless, in Sheridan's
hands preserved much of its luminosity, though the putrescence
has been subjected to the simple treatment of excision.
/ Sheridan's additions to the comedy are trifling; apparently he
was desirous of preserving the integrity of the work. In the
construction there are some alterations ; the last act has been
almost completely re-written ; the names of one or two characters
have been changed, and Mrs. Coupler, although bearing the same

b

xviii SHERIDAN.

surname, was in the original of the other sex. Vanbrugh was
happily saved from the bowdlerising process which Wycherley
suffered when his Country Wife became the rejuvenescent
Country Girl of Garrick.

The new management, so far, had not much cause to shake hands
on their success ; but the present dulness only helped to throw into
greater relief the extraordinary prosperity which followed. " There
is a probability of succeeding about the fellow that is mighty pro-
voking." The young diplomatist, as usual, had been holding his
hand for a trump card. With a brilliant cast the School for
Scandal was first performed on May 8th, 1777. Its success was
glorious and Instantaneous. Four days afterwards Garrick wrote
that he was mad about it ; two years afterwards the treasurer of
the theatre stated that it still damped the new pieces ; and Moore
records that four years later, on the nights of its representation,
the magnitude of the receipts always rivalled "those on which the
king went to the theatre." To-day the popularity of the piece is
but little diminished. There are few things more interesting in
Moore's Life of Sheridan than the tracing of the gradual growth
of this masterpiece in its author's mind. Some of the scenes had
probably been sketched before The Rivals was thought of; and, as
in that comedy, the materials were principally gathered from his
Bath experiences. In the beginning he jotted down disjointed
snatches of conversation absolutely heard or, more likely, sug-
gested by an odd remark which caught his fancy as capable of
being worked up into a scene. Plot and characterisation occupied
his mind at a later stage, serving as a medium through which to
relieve himself of the wit which he had industriously stored up.
As he would go into society loaded with an epigram which had
been carefully polished in his bed in the morning, and wait
patiently, sometimes for hours, until he could discharge it with
taste and effect ; so can we imagine his waiting for the opportune
moment in his plays to unburden himself of those ban mots
which go to make up The School for Scandal. A matter, after all,
more of discretion than difficulty in a play where all the characters
were wits; indeed it must have been, if there is not actual
evidence that it was, sometimes highly problematical whether Sir

SHERIDAN. xix

Peter or Trip was to be the chosen mouthpiece. The detached
construction of the comedy is sufficiently obvious; the scandal
scenes are unimportant to the main interest; and there is some-
thing ineffective in carrying on the movement after the screen-
scene, where the play could, one may think, have been brought
to a brilliant and natural termination. It is more the pity that
the curtain did not descend finally on this scene, as the last
act was dashed off in haste, and hurry was not natural to Sheridan's
manner of composition. His first idea was to satirise the gossips
of Bath. In the original design there was no Sir Peter or Lady
Teazle, and Charles in his infancy was but a dull fellow. Sir
Peter and Lady Teazle were, under other names, included in
another conception, and it was in the combination of these two
plans that The School for Scandal originated. Sheridan was as
conscientious in the selection of the names of his characters as
in the polishing of his dialogue; he was indefatigable in re-
christening — Charles Surface being subjected no less than eight
times to the ceremony. In illustration of the refining process
which all his work more or less underwent, I give here the original
draft of a speech of Sir Peter, then plain Solomon Teazle : —

"In the year '44, I married my first wife; the wedding was at
the end of the year — aye, 'twas in December; yet, before Ann.
Dom. '45, I repented. A month before, we swore we preferred
each other to the whole world — perhaps we spoke truth; but,
when we came to promise to love each other till death, there I am
sure we lied. Well, Fortune owed me a good turn ; in '48 she died.
Ah, silly Solomon, in '52 I find thee married again I Here too
is a catalogue of ills — Thomas, born February I2th; Jane, born
January 6th ; so they go on to the number of five. However,
by death I stand credited but by one. Well, Margery, rest her
soul 1 was a queer creature ; when she was gone I felt awkward at
first, and being sensible that wishes availed nothing, I often wished
for her return. For two years more I kept my senses and lived
single. Oh, blockhead, dolt Solomon! Within this twelvemonth
thou art married again — married to a woman thirty years younger
than thyself ; a fashionable woman. Yet I took her with caution;
she had been educated in the country; but now she has more

xx SHERIDAN.

extravagance than the daughter of an Earl, more levity than a
Countess. What a defect it is in our laws, that a man who has
once been branded in the forehead should be hanged for the
second offence ! "

The very brilliancy of The School for Scandal is, to echo
a stereotyped criticism, not only its artistic charm, but its
artistic blemish. It lacks the more simple, natural humour of
She Stoops to Conquer; it does not express that deeper insight
into the springs of human action which lend themselves to comic
treatment, as in the work of Molie're; there is none of Shake-
speare's sense of the poetic truth of character. Sheridan does
not deal in fundamentals; he treats manners; he is a compiler
of humorous epigrams ; he is completely a la mode. Nor, as
Hazlitt has said, will his dialogue bear comparison with Con-
greve "in the regular antithetical construction of his sentences
and the mechanical artifices of his style ... exhibiting all
the sprightliness, ease, and animation of familiar conversation
with the correctness and delicacy of the most finished composition."
Nevertheless, The School Jor Scandal remains the most brilliantly
effective comedy in our tongue : the extraordinary finish of its
style, its conscientious adherence to an artistic ideal, have given
it an undeniable position on our stage and in our literature.

" Finished at last, thank God," scribbled Sheridan on the last
page of his MS., to which the prompter of the theatre added an
appropriate "Amen."

Meanwhile Sheridan's business relations with the theatre were
of the character which it was entirely natural to expect. A young
man of twenty-six, intoxicated by literary success, with an
exhilarating capacity for social enjoyment, and with plenty of
money, would have been a monstrous prig if he had suddenly
developed methodical habits and a business system by which to
maintain in clock-work order the huge organisation attached to
Drury Lane Theatre. Besides, there was no business blood in the
stock which Sheridan came of; his faculty for accumulating wealth
was greater than that of his grandfather, but he had no greater
faculty of retaining it That the affairs of the theatre became
mismanaged was lamentable but inevitable. The laxity of the chief

SHERIDAN. xri

disorganised the staff; the actors themselves shared the general
infection. Hawkins, the prompter, tells us that on one occasion no
less than four members of the company failed to turn up at the last
moment for a performance of Much Ado about Nothing, and their
parts had to be filled by others as best they could. This happy-
go-lucky state of things must have been singularly painful to
Garrick, who had held everything at the same theatre in such
excellent trim, and no doubt it helped to sadden his last years.
When he died, January 2oth, 1779, Sheridan followed him to his
grave in Poets' Corner, Westminster Abbey, as chief mourner, and
afterwards wrote a monody to his memory. The monody was set
to music by Linley, and was partly recited and partly sung at Drury
Lane Theatre on the 2nd of March, but being hardly adapted to
the taste of a theatrical audience, it was withdrawn after the fifth
or sixth night This poem is Sheridan's longest effort in verse.
The passage in it often quoted is that which treats of the transi-
toriness of an actor's fame. Garrick himself had given expression
to the same idea in his prologue to The Clandestine Marriage —

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

Colley Gibber, too, earlier still, had lamented "that the animated
graces of the player can live no longer than the instant breath and
motion that presents them ; " while, later, Hazlitt has, as we know,
on the other hand, expatiated in one of his essays on the advantage
that it is perhaps to the stage, "that the genius of a great actor
perishes with him."

The Critic; or, A Tragedy Rehearsed, Sheridan's next and
last original contribution to dramatic literature, was produced at
Drury Lane on October 3Oth, 1779. The plan of the piece dated
in Sheridan's mind from the days of his literary partnership with
Halhed, and the conception of the burlesque of Jupiter. In his
boyish days he no doubt witnessed rehearsals in which his father,
as an actor, took part ; it is a fair supposition that the humours

xxii SHERIDAN.

on one or another of these occasions may have struck him as
affording material for satirical treatment. But to the stage
the idea was by no means fresh. In Beaumont and Fletcher's
The Knight of the Burning Pestle, the play progresses through
the running interpolations of the citizen and his wife seated
on the stage ; in Limpromptu de Versailles of Moliere we have
the form of a rehearsal used as a medium for satire ; a few
years later, and a little over a hundred years before The Critic,
the Duke of Buckingham ridiculed Dryden in The Rehearsal, and
Fielding, half a century afterwards, had not very successfully, in
a number of his pieces, adopted the same plan. It was left for
Sheridan to eclipse all his English predecessors, and although
there are some trifling parallels between Sheridan's work and The
Rehearsal oi the Duke of Buckingham and the Pasquin of Fielding
sufficient almost to prove that Sheridan was familiar with them, there
is little to call into question the originality of The Critic as a whole.
The treatment is his own ; the dialogue is as finished as ever,
and the wit now and again is so irresistible as to suggest greater
spontaneity than in his previous pieces. The attitude of the
author towards his critics is represented with delicious unction in
the Sir Fretful Plagiary incident; it is a caricature of humanity
which touches deeper than is the rule with Sheridan ; it is written
more in the spirit of the comedy of character than of manners, and
is possibly the best scene in the play. As in Moliere's Limpromptu
de Versailles, the characters in The Critic had their prototypes
in real life. Sir Fretful Plagiary was supposed to be a skit on
Cumberland, and Dangle on a person called Vaughan. Three
days before that on which the production of the play had to take
place, to the consternation of everybody concerned in the theatre,
Sheridan had not supplied the last scene. Here is an account
from Sheridaniana of the stratagem hit upon by Thomas Linley,
who was sufficiently familiar with his son-in-law's habits to rely
upon its success : —

" A night rehearsal of The Critic was ordered, and Sheridan,
having dined with Linley, was prevailed upon to go. When they
were on the stage, King whispered to Sheridan that he had some-
thing particular to communicate, and begged he would step into

SHERIDAN. xxiii

the second green-room. Accordingly Sheridan went, and found
there a table, with pens, ink, and paper, a good fire, an arm-chair
at a table, and two bottles of claret, with a dish of anchovy sand-
wiches. The moment he got into the room King stepped out and
locked the door; immediately after which Linley and Ford came
up and told the author that until he had written the scene he
would be kept where he was. Sheridan took this decided measure
in good part : he ate the anchovies, finished the claret, wrote the
scene, and laughed heartily at the ingenuity of the contrivance."

Sheridan's career as a dramatist virtually ended in his twenty-
eighth year. The papers which he left behind show that his mind
had very early been drawn in a political direction. He had become
a society-man, and, like Congreve, and, in some measure, Wycher-
ley, who both completed the work which has handed them down
to posterity, as comparatively young men, he adopted the ideas
of the class amongst which he moved. Congreve wished to be
regarded simply as a gentleman ; Sheridan aspired to be a states-
man. An introduction to Fox, which developed into an intimacy
remarkable for reciprocal admiration and respect, finally determined
Sheridan in his future career. On the dissolution of Parliament
in the autumn of 1780 he was elected as the member for Stafford.

Mrs. Oliphant, in her admirable life of Sheridan, suggests that
The Critic was the natural culmination of his dramatic efforts;
that, as his view of life was not a profound one, there was nothing
more for him to find out in it, nothing further for him to say.
This idea is hardly convincing. As he had not been profound,
we might not expect any expression of the truth and passion of
life, but there was still material enough for him, even in the
comedy of manners, for us to wish that he had gone further. The
School for Scandal - ight not have been surpassed, but it might
have been equalled. Jtiis grasp of the deeper problems of existence
was superficial, but his wit and sense of situation were inexhaust-
ible. Indeed, he left behind him notes of a comedy which it
always must be a matter of singular regret that he never com-
pleted. So far as one can judge from the sketch Moore gives,
this work, which was to treat affectations — affectations of business,
accomplishments, intrigue, sensibility, and so on — augured a

xxiv SHERIDAN.

further development of his powers, inasmuch as he would have been
restricted more to absolute characterisation. Affectation so nearly
touches one of the mainsprings of human action, that by the study
of it might not Sheridan have been initiated into a deeper observa-
tion of life ?

III.

More than a bare mention of Sheridan's political career does not
come within the scope of the present introduction. He was a
member of the House of Commons for a little over thirty years,
and for the greater part of that time he was associated with the
Whig interest under the leadership of Mr. Fox. He achieved a
high position with a party seldom in power, and held the offices of
Under Secretary of State and Secretary to the Treasury for very
brief terms. His motives were characterised by extreme dis-
interestedness ; he never made a trade of politics at a time when
bribery and corruption were not unknown forces in Parliamentary
life. It was his masterful eloquence that made him "the
worthy rival of the wondrous three " — Pitt, Fox, and Burke, — not
the introduction of legislative measures, for his name is uncon-
nected with any. " He was the last accomplished debater of the
House of Commons," said HazlitL The form of those of his
speeches which come down to us is painfully inadequate ; reporters
of the day arrogated to themselves a freedom which must be the
envy of their modern brethren. "God forbid that ever their
lordships should call on the shorthand writers to publish their
notes," exclaimed Lord Loughborough when it was moved that
those engaged in the Hastings trial should be summoned to the
bar of the House to read their minutes. Still the reports of
Sheridan's speeches, garbled as they are, bear some reflection of
that "blaze of eloquence" which had such an astonishing
effect on his hearers. His most magnificent oratorical displays
occurred on the impeachment and at the trial of Warren Hastings
— first at the House of Commons, afterwards at Westminster Hall.
The extraordinary influence that his eloquence in the House on
February yth, 1787, had on the greatest of his contemporaries
stamps the effort as one of genius. Burke declared it to be "the

SHERIDAN. xxv

most astonishing effort of eloquence, argument, and wit united, of
which there was any record or tradition.1' Fox said, "All that he
had ever heard, all that he had ever read, when compared with it,
dwindled into nothing, and vanished like vapour before the sun."
And Mr. Pitt acknowledged "that it surpassed all the eloquence of
ancient and modern times, and possessed everything that genius
or art could furnish to agitate and control the human mind." The
author of a defence of Hastings attended the House naturally
prejudiced against the accusers. At the expiration of the first
hour he said to a friend, "All this is declamatory assertion without
proof ;"— when the second was finished, "This is a most wonderful
on.tion ;" — at the close of the third, "Mr. Hastings has acted very
unjustifiably ;" — the fourth, " Mr. Hastings is a most atrocious
criminal ;" — and at last, " Of all the monsters of iniquity the most
enormous is Warren Hastings 1" In the following year, on the
3rd, 6th, and loth of June, he delivered his second speech at the
trial of Hastings at Westminster Hall. As much as fifty guineas
were offered for a ticket to hear the "English Hyperides," as
Macaulay has named him, and he refused the offer of ^icoo for
the copyright of the speech. The enthusiasm this second speech
excited even surpassed that of the first ; but it seems to have been
the general opinion of those who heard him on both occasions
that the earlier was the more spontaneous and greater effort.
Four days afterwards, Mrs. Sheridan wrote to her sister-in-
law : " Every party prejudice has been overcome by a display
of genius, eloquence, and goodness, which no one, with anything
like a heart about them, could have listened to without being the
wiser and the better for the rest of their lives."

This was the most glorious period in Sheridan's life. He
had then, as Byron put it in somewhat unqualified language
later, "written the best comedy, the best opera, the best farce (The
Critic}, the best address, and delivered the best oration ever con-
ceived or heard in this country." Sheridan had taken with precision
that flood-tide in the affairs of man so irritatingly elusive to the
majority of men. He had occasional pecuniary troubles, but these
must have hung lightly on a head so weighted with laurels
Every tide, however, has its ebb. The coming years held in stoie

xxvi SHERIDAN.

for Sheridan those bereavements which come almost to every one,
and that Nemesis which is more or less the consequence of one's
own actions. In the August following the splendid oration at the
trial of Hastings, his father died. Four years later, on the 28th of
June, his wife succumbed to consumption. Possibly Sheridan
himself, in his sorrow, deep and bitter as we know it was, hardly
realised all that this latter loss meant to him. It is difficult to speak
of Mrs. Sheridan in terms other than of unrestrained eulogy. She
possessed beauty without affectation ; literary attainments without
being a blue-stocking ; natural accomplishments without vanity ;
she could occupy a dignified position in society without becoming
artificial or neglecting her children. More than this, she had
a turn for practical affairs, which was of invaluable aid to her
husband. She looked after the accounts of the theatre, and she
held him to his political appointments. Her knowledge of music
made her of material assistance to him in the production of The
Duenna. In society her great personal attraction and beautiful
voice gave her a distinct position. In the best sense of the word
she was his helpmeet. They had occasional quarrels ; but, at
heart, the warmth of their early romantic attachment remained
undiminished to the end. Her death was quickly followed by that
of their little daughter. These bereavements were Sheridan's
introduction to the serious side of life, and he had little moral
fortitude to support them. His decadence dates from then.

After the death of his wife, Sheridan's extravagance, which had
always been excessive, became absolutely uncontrolled. At the
time that he was keeping three establishments going, and living
at an hotel himself, his actors had occasionally to go without
their salaries, and his tradesmen were dunning him. for their bills.
"Letters unanswered, promises, engagements, the most natural
expectations totally disregarded. He seemed quite lawless and out
of the pale of human sympathies and obligations." It is a tribute
to the personality of the man, that an interview with him disarmed
the most aggrieved creditor. He made few enemies ; those who
eventually suffered most from his extravagance freely forgave him.
It must not, however, be assumed that he never paid his debts.
Moore tells us that he was always paying, but quite without

SHERIDAN. xxvii

regularity and discrimination. He never examined accounts or
referred to receipts. In some cases he paid the same account two
and three times over ; in others, the tradesmen who had to wait for
their money received interest at the rate of a hundred and fifty per
cent. In the same year as that in which his wife died, Drury Lane,
which the authorities the year before had condemned as unsafe and
incapable of repair, was pulled down. A new theatre, built on the
old site, was opened in 1794, fettered with a debt of ,£70,000.

In the spring of 1795, we find," to quote Moore, " Mr. Sheridan
paying that sort of tribute to the happiness of the first marriage,
which is implied by the step of entering into a second." The lady
was young, pretty, good-natured, and foolish. Her name was Esther
Jane Ogle; and she was the daughter of the Dean of Winchester.
She had a fortune of ^5000, but the Dean's consent to the
union was conditional on Sheridan settling a further .£15,000
upon her. This Sheridan managed by sacrificing some of
his shares in Drury Lane. The immediate effect of this
second marriage is stated to have been a renewal of his
youth, but how far the spirit of his youth was wanting in his
wooing may be estimated by the fact of his letters to Miss
Ogle being copies of his love-letters to Miss Linley. A second
marriage, under any circumstances, could hardly have been a
happy one for Sheridan. A contrast with the first must inevitably
have made it disappointing. " As to my husband's talents, I will
not say anything about them, but I will say that he is the hand-
somest and honestest man in England," remarked the second
Mrs. Sheridan, and it is a fair revelation of her character.
Possibly of the two she was the more to be pitied; she had
married a man embarrassed over head and ears, and who
ultimately became addicted to wild living, while she was able to
exercise little or no control over him.

The tragedy of Pizarro was produced on the 24th May 1799. It
is an anomaly that the author of The Critic should later be held
responsible for the production of Pizarro. The satire should
have followed. But the work, as Sheridan's, need not be taken
too seriously. It was an adaptation of a translation, by an
unknown hand, from the German Spaniards in Peru, by Kotzebue ;

xxviii SHERIDAN.

its production was inspired by the success of an earlier adaptation
from the same author by Benjamin Thompson, The Stranger. In
the latter piece also Sheridan seems to have been concerned,
although it is difficult to trace where, albeit he went so far as to
declare that he had written the whole of it himself. The song,
" I have a silent sorrow here," in The Stranger, and put to
music by the Duchess of Devonshire, is confessedly Sheridan's.
Moore, who had compared the original translation of The
Spaniards of Peru with Sheridan's performance, tells us that the
anonymous translator was answerable for the spirit and style of
three-fourths of the dialogue. So Sheridan escapes much of the
responsibility, but not all; inasmuch, I believe, as there is no record
that he ever showed himself conscious of the deficiencies of the
work — rather astonishing in the man who declared that he had
been trying all his life to satisfy himself with the style of The
School Jor Scandal. Nowadays we hear that to be a good
dramatist it is essential above all things to inhale "the scent
of the footlights." Pizarro is nauseating with this. Since
the days of The Rivals and The Critic, Sheridan's long associa-
tion w'th the theatre had thoroughly acclimatised him to the
atmosphere which makes dramatists ; and we see the result. The
tragedy shows mastery of stage technique; the action is smart;
there is ample room for scenic display ; clap-trap in plenty —
everything, in fact, we might expect from one who had inhaled
that fatal perfume. Long practice in the ornate rhetoric of the
House of Commons had, too, told severely on Sheridan's style.
Indeed, some of the dialogue in the play is actually culled from
his parliamentary utterances. Pitt said that he had heard the
tragedy already — in the Begum speech.

An important factor in Sheridan's life was his connection with
the Prince of Wales. The intimacy which sprang up between
them during the lifetime of Sheridan's first wife lasted until within
a year or two of his death. He became the confidential adviser,
and was concerned in the intrigues, of this "illustrious person," and
in some measure was his spokesman in the House of Commons.
His attitude towards the Prince, so far as one can gather from the
letters in Moore's volume, was both truculent and independent. The

SHERIDAN. xxix

influence of this association on Sheridan's fortunes was wholly
to his disadvantage. He was too disinterested, too independent, to
allow himself to benefit in pocket; and material benefit was the
best that could be derived from an acquaintance with the man
who afterwards became George the Fourth.

As years went on, Sheridan's circumstances became more and
more involved, and his hitherto careless roysterings developed
with advancing age into habits of confirmed dissipation. In
Parliament he was refused a seat in the Cabinet ostensibly on
the ground that his convivial tendencies rendered him an unsafe
guardian of Cabinet secrets. He was subjected to a series of
fatalities. On the night of the 24th February 1809, he was
seated in the House, when the chamber " was suddenly illumin-
ated by a blaze of light." Drury Lane Theatre was on fire.
It was moved sympathetically that the House should adjourn,
but Sheridan protested that, "whatever might be the extent of the
private calamity, he hoped it would not interfere with the public
business of the country ; " and proceeding to Drury Lane, he
watched the progress of the conflagration with serenity that
must have been distressing in its unreality. " A man may surely
be allowed to take a glass of wine by his own fireside," he said
to a friend at the Piazzo Coffee-house, who commented on his
equanimity, while the crackling timbers of Drury Lane were yet
kindling into flame.

A third theatre was icbuilt, but Sheridan was so hemmed in by
embarrassments, that he was led perforce to sign an agreement
which gave him little or no power in the undertaking. Parliament
dissolved in September 1812, and at the re-election, Sheridan was
unseated. This was the culmination of his disasters. There is
a Hogarthian suggestiveness in these last scenes. His person,
which, as a member of Parliament, was at least secure from his
creditors, was now at their mercy. Resources from the theatre
were cut off, the shares having been swallowed up by the
demands of his creditors. His health gave way, and he had
premonitions of approaching death. His spirit, however, was still
great; his wonderful eyes had lost none of their brilliancy; his
wit, now savage and saturnine, in the society of Byron and

xxx SHERIDAN.

others scintillated as brightly as of old. He had, too, intermittent
hopes of again entering Parliament, but the .£3000 advanced
to him by the Prince Regent for this purpose was devoted to other
ends — his creditors. One evening Lord Essex induced him to go
to Drury Lane, which he had refused entering since the rebuilding.
Shortly he was missed from the box, but was quickly discovered
in the green-room, thoroughly mastered by old associations, and
surrounded by a crowd of enthusiastic and admiring players. In
the spring of 1815 he was arrested for debt and carried off to a
sponging-house, where he was detained two or three days. Who
can wonder that on his release he completely broke down, and
that he burst into a long and passionate fit of weeping at the
profanation, as he termed it, which his person had suffered?
The last days and hours of Sheridan were inexpressibly pitiable.
It would serve no useful purpose to detail here the miseries
which crowded thicker and thicker upon him. Early in 1816
he was attacked by an illness which was to be his last. An
unusually strong constitution had been undermined by long habits
of irregular living. His last possibilities were shattered. The
bailiffs took possession of his house. From his death-bed he
wrote to Rogers : " They are going to put the carpets out
of the window, and break into Mrs. S.'s room and take me:
— for God's sake let me see you." Where were all his power-
ful friends and former allies the while ? Biographers have
taken this as a text upon which to hang commonplaces about
the ingratitude of the world. But Sheridan's case is hardly
one in point; the world was unaware that an expression of its
gratitude was needed. His distresses do not seem to have been
known, or at any rate realised, outside a small circle. When
the true state of things was suggested by a writer in the Morning
Post, his door was besieged by those who, no doubt, would have
come earlier had they but known. Sheridan died on the 7th of
July 1816, in the sixty-fifth year of his age. He was buried in the
last unoccupied spot in Poets' Corner, Westminster Abbey. His
body was followed to the grave on foot by two princes, a couple of
dukes, and a long list of earls, viscounts, bishops, and other notable
people.

SHERIDAN. xxxi

A life and character such as Sheridan's is hardly approached
sympathetically from the modern standpoint of life and morals.
It is to be remembered, however, that in his day the impure breath,
dying it might be, of the Restoration was still in the air. Wit and
hard drinking were the accomplishments of a gentleman ; con-
duct was prompted by a gay desire for effect Charles Surface
was a type. Stimulate prodigal impulses with wine, and let the
devil pay the piper ; sanctify owing profusely by giving doubly. If
this was something of the unwritten code of an eighteenth-century
gallant, it had its adherent in Sheridan, dramatist and politician.
Was, after all, his character so inexplicable? Was it, indeed, more
than extremely interesting ? The blood of his mother and grand-
father was in his veins; from them he inherited his genius, humour,
waywardness, the basis of his character ; added to these was an
excessive vanity of his own, the desire to shine, to make points.
Circumstances, for the rest, formed him. To such an one fortune
was munificently indiscreet. So indiscriminate an outpouring of
her gifts might well have wrecked a less ardent temperament
than that which Sheridan possessed ; the wonder is in his
preserving his balance so well. Life to him from the beginning,
well on to middle-age, was an easy game. Kad the preliminary
struggle been harder we might have been spared the painful
associations of the sponging-house and the bailiffs. Nature,
too, had endowed him with powers which could only help to
exaggerate his deficiencies. With Pope's constitution he would
have had to moderate his indulgences ; with Goldsmith's lack
of savoir-faire he would have made enemies where his con-
ciliatory manners made friends. The contrasts in his nature were
the consequences of undisciplined impulses ; his genius had its
vagaries, but what circumstances and nature seem amply to
account for does not need further explanation. If one leaves

xxxii SHERIDAN.

Sheridan with a feeling that there was a want of wholesomeness
about his life, that there was something of tinsel in all the glitter,
one, nevertheless, is impressed by the genius, vigour, and, above
all, the wonderful humanity of the man.

RUDOLF DIRCKS. '

NEWCASTLE-ON-TYN E,
February 1891.

SHERIDAN S PLAYS.

PREFACE TO "THE RIVALS."

A PREFACE to a play seems generally to be considered as a kind
of closet-prologue, in which — if his piece has been successful — the
author solicits that indulgence from the reader which he had
before experienced from the audience; but as the scope and
immediate object of a play is to please a mixed assembly in
representation (whose judgment in the theatre at least is decisive),
its degree of reputation is usually as determined as public, before it
can be prepared for the cooler tribunal of the study. Thus any
further solicitude on the part of the writer becomes unnecessary at
least, if not an intrusion ; and if the piece has been condemned in
the performance, I fear an address to the closet, like an appeal to
posterity, is constantly regarded as the procrastination of a suiv,
from a consciousness of the weakness of the cause. From these
considerations, the following comedy would certainly have been
submitted to the reader, without any further introduction than
what it had in the representation, but that its success has probably
been founded on a circumstance which the author is informed has
not before attended a theatrical trial, and which consequently
ought not to pass unnoticed.

I need scarcely add, that the circumstance alluded to was the
withdrawing of the piece, to remove those imperfections in the
first representation which were too obvious to escape reprehension,
and too numerous to admit of a hasty correction. There are few
writers, I believe, who, even in the fullest consciousness of error,
do not wish to palliate the faults which they acknowledge ; and
however trifling the performance, to second their confession of
its deficiencies, by whatever plea seems least disgraceful to their

884

2 PREFACE TO "THE RIVALS."

ability. In the present instance, it cannot be said to amount
either to candour or modesty in me, to acknowledge an extreme
inexperience and want of judgment on matters in which, without
guidance from practice, or spur from success, a young man should
scarcely boast of being an adept. If it be said, that under such
disadvantages no one should attempt to write a play, I must beg
leave to dissent from the position, while the first point of experience
that I have gained on the subject is, a knowledge of the candour
and judgment with which an impartial public distinguishes between
the errors of inexperience and incapacity, and the indulgence
which it shows even to a disposition to remedy the defects of
either.

It were unnecessary to enter into any 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 uncom-
mon 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 dramatic line, it may happen that both
an author and a manager may wish to fill a chasm in the entertain-
ment of the public with a hastiness not altogether culpable. The
season was advanced when I first put the play into Mr. Harris's
hands ; it was at that time at least double the length of any acting
comedy. I profited by his judgment and experience in the cur-
tailing of it — till, I believe, his feeling for the vanity of a young
author got the better of his desire for correctness, and he left
many excrescences remaining, because he had assisted in pruning
so many more. Hence, though I was not uninformed that the
acts were still too long, I flattered myself that, after the first trial, I
might with safer judgment proceed to remove what should appear
to have been most dissatisfactory. Many other errors there were,
which might in part have arisen from my being by no means con-
versant 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

PREFACE TO "THE RIVALS" 3

as my first wish in attempting a play svas to avoid every appear-
ance of plagiary, I thought I should stand a better chance of
effecting this from being in a walk which I had not frequented, and
where, consequently, the progress of invention was less likely to be
interrupted by starts of recollection : for on subjects on which the
mind has been much informed, invention is slow of exerting itself.
Faded ideas float in the fancy like half-forgotten dreams; and the
imagination in its fullest enjoyments becomes suspicious of its
offspring, and doubts whether it has created or adopted.

With regard to some particular passages which on the first
night's representation seemed generally disliked, I confess, that if
I felt any emotion of surprise at the disapprobation, it was not
that they were disapproved of, but that I had not before perceived
that they deserved it. As some part of the attack on the piece
was begun too early to pass for the sentence of judgment, which
is ever tardy in condemning, it has been suggested to me, that
much of the disapprobation must have arisen from virulence of
malice, rather than severity of criticism ; but as I was more appre-
hensive of there being just grounds to excite the latter than
conscious of having deserved the former, I continue not to believe
that probable, which I am sure must have been unprovoked.
However, if it was so, and I could even mark the quarter from
whence it came, it would be ungenerous to retort : for no passion
suffers more than malice from disappointment. For my own part,
I see no reason why the author of a play should not regard a first
night's audience as a 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 anno-
tation 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 emin-
ence of being unconnected with them, as they are usually spleen-

4 PREFACE TO "THE RIVALS."

swoln from a vain idea of 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
justifying myself from the charge of intending any national
reflection in the character of Sir Lucius O'Trigger. If any gentle-
man opposed the piece from that idea, I thank them sincerely for
their opposition ; and if the condemnation of this comedy (however
misconceived the provocation) could have added one spark to the
decaying flame of national attachment to the country supposed to
be reflected on, I should have been happy in its fate ; and might
with truth have boasted, that it had done more real service in its
failure, than the successful morality of a thousand stage-novels
will ever effect.

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 audiences, the poet's after-praise comes like the feeble
acclamation of a child to close the shouts of a multitude. The
conduct, however, of the principals in a theatre cannot be so
apparent to the public. I think it therefore but justice to declare,
that from this theatre (the only one I can speak of from experience)
those writers who wish to try the dramatic line will meet with that
candour and liberal attention which are generally allowed to be
better calculated to lead genius into excellence, than either the
precepts of judgment or the guidance of experience.

THE AUTHOR.

THE RIVALS.

DRAMATIS PERSONS,

AS ORIGINALLY ACTED AT COVENT GARDEN THEATRE IN 1775.

SIR ANTHONY AB-

DAVID

. Mr. Dunttal.

• Mr. Shuter.

SOLUTE

THOMAS .

. Mr. Fearon.

CAPTAIN ABSOLUTE

Mr. Woodward.

MRS. MALAPROP

Mrs. Green.

FAULKLAND .

Mr. Lewis.

LYDIA LANGUISH

. Mist Bartanti.

ACRES ..

Mr. Quick.

JULIA

. Mrt. BuXkley.

SIR Lucius O'TRio-

r Mr. Lee.

LUCY.

. Mrt. Lessingham.

GER

FAQ

Mr. Lee Lewes.

Maid, Boy, Servants, etc.

SCENE— BATH.
Time of Action — Five Hours.

PROLOGUE TO "THE RIVALS."

BY THE AUTHOR.
SPOKEN BY MR. WOODWARD AND MR. QUICK.

Enter SERJEANT-AT-LAVT, and ATTORNEY following, and giving

a paper,

Serf. What's here ! — a vile cramp hand 1 I cannot see
Without my spectacles.

Ait. He means his fee.

Nay, Mr. Serjeant, good sir, try again. [Gives money.

Serf. The scrawl improves ! [mare] O come, 'tis pretty plain.
Hey 1 how's this ? Dibble 1 — sure it cannot be 1
A poet's brief 1 a poet and a fee !

Att. Yes, sir 1 though you without reward, I know,
Would gladly plead the Muse's cause.

Serf. So ! — so 1

Att. And if the fee offends, your wrath should fall
On me.

Serf. Dear Dibble, no offence at all.

Att. Some sons of Phcebus in the courts we meet,

Serj. And fifty sons of Phoebus in the Fleet !

Att. Nor pleads he worse, who with a decent sprig
Of bays adorns his legal waste of wig.

Serj. Full-bottom'd heroes thus, on signs, unfurl
A leaf of laurel in a grove of curl 1
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

PROLOGUE TO "THE RIVALS."

Do you, with all those blushing powers of face,

And wonted bashful hesitating grace,

Rise in the court, and flourish on the case. \Exit.

Serf. For practice then suppose — this brief will show it, —
Me, Serjeant Woodward, — counsel for the poet.
Used to the ground, I know 'tis hard to deal
With this dread court, from whence there's no appeal ;
No tricking here, to blunt the edge of law,
Or, damn'd in equity, escape by flaw :
But judgment given, your sentence must remain ;
No writ of error lies — to Drury Lane !

Yet when so kind you seem, 'tis past dispute
We gain some favour, if not costs of suit.
No spleen is here ! I see no hoarded fury ; —
I think I never faced a milder jury !
Sad else our plight ! where frowns are transportation,
A hiss the gallows, and a groan damnation !
But such the public candour, without fear
My client waves all right of challenge here.
No newsman from our session is dismiss' d,
Nor wit nor critic we scratch off the list ;
His faults can never hurt another's ease,
His crime, at worst, a bad attempt to please :
Thus, all respecting, he appeals to all,
And by the general voice will stand or fall

PROLOGUE.

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

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

Look on this form,1 — where humour, quaint and sly,
Dimples the cheek, and points the beaming eye ;
Where gay invention seems to boast its wiles
In amorous hint, and half-triumphant smiles ;
While her light mask or covers satire's strokes,
Or hides the conscious blush her wit provokes.
Look on her well — does she seem form'd to teach ?
Should you expect to hear this lady preach ?
Is grey experience suited to her youth ?
Do solemn sentiments become that mouth ?
Bid her be grave, those lips should rebel prove
To every theme that slanders mirth or love.

Yet, thus adorn'd with every graceful art

To charm the fancy and yet reach the heart

Must we displace her ? And instead advance
The goddess of the woful countenance —
The sentimental Muse ! — Her emblems view,
The Pilgrim's Progress, and a sprig of rue !
1 Pointing to the figure of Comedy.

jo THE RIVALS.

View her — too chaste to look like flesh and blood —
Primly portray'd on emblematic wood 1
There, nVd in usurpation, should she stand,
She'll snatch the dagger from her sister's hand :
And having made her votaries weep a flood,
Good heaven 1 she'll end her comedies in blood —
Bid Harry Woodward break poor Dunstal's crown 1
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 1
Such puny patronage but hurts the cause :
Fair virtue scorns our feeble aid to ask ;
And moral truth disdains the trickster's mask,
For here their favourite stands,1 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.

1 Pointing to Tragedy.

THE RIVALS.

A COMEDY.

ACT I.

SCENE I.— A STREET.

Enter THOMAS ; he crosses the Stage; F 'AG follows, looking
after him.

Fag. What 1 Thomas 1 sure 'tis he ?— What ! Thomas !
Thomas !

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

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 I

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 1

Thos. But tell us, Mr. Fag, how does young master ? Odd 1
Sir Anthony will stare to see the Captain here !

Fag. I do not serve Captain Absolute now.

Thos. Why sure !

Fag. At present I am employed by Ensign Beverley.

Thos. I doubt, Mr. Fag, you ha'n't changed for the better.

Fag. I have not changed, Thomas.

Thos. No 1 Why didn't you say you had left young master ?

Fag. No. — Well, honest Thomas, I must puzzle you no further;—

12 THE RIVALS. [ACT i.

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'll be secret, Thomas ?

Thos. As a coach -horse.

Fag. Why then, the cause of all this is — Love, — Love, Thomas,
who (as you may get read to you) has been a masquerader ever
since the days of Jupiter.

Thos. Ay, ay ; — I guessed there was a lady in the case : — but
pray, why does your master pass only for ensign ? — Now if he had
shammed general indeed

Fag. Ah ! Thomas, there lies the mystery o' the matter.
Hark'ee, Thomas, my master is in love with a lady of a very
singular taste : a lady who likes him better as a half-pay ensign
than if she knew he was son and heir to Sir Anthony Absolute, a
baronet with three thousand 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 !
Thomas, she could pay the national debt as easily as I could my
washerwoman ! She has a lapdog that eats out of gold, — she feeds
her parrot with small pearls, — and all her thread-papers are made
of bank-notes !

Thos. Bravo, faith ! — Odd ! I warrant she has a set of thousands
at least : — but does she draw kindly with the captain ?

Fag. As fond as pigeons.

Thos. May one hear her name ?

Fag. Miss Lydia Languish. — But there is an old tough aunt in
the way ; though, by-the-bye, she has never seen my master — for
we got acquainted with miss while on a visit in Gloucestershire.

Thos. Well — I wish they were once harnessed together in
matrimony. — But pray, Mr. Fag, what kind of a place is this
Bath ? — I ha' heard a deal of it — here's a mort o' merry-making,
hey ?

Fag. Pretty well, Thomas, pretty well — 'tis a good lounge ; in
the morning we go to the pump-room (though neither my master
nor I drink the waters) ; after breakfast we saunter on the parades,
or play a game at billiards ; at night we dance ; but damn the
place, I'm tired of it : their regular hours stupefy me— not a fiddle
nor a card after eleven ! — However, Mr. Faulkland's gentleman

sc. ii.] THE RIVALS. 13

and I keep it up a little in private parties ; — I'll introduce you
there, Thomas — you'll like him much.

Thos. Sure I know Mr. Du-Peigne — you know his master is to
marry Madam Julia.

frag. I had forgot — But, Thomas, you must polish a little —
indeed you must. — Here now — this wig ! — What the devil do you
do with a wig, Thomas? — None of the London whips of any degree
of ton wear wigs now.

Thos. More's the pity ! more's the pity ! I say. — Odd's life !
when I heard how the lawyers and doctors had took to their own
hair, I thought how 'twould go next: — odd rabbit it! when the
fashion had got foot on the bar, I guessed 'twould mount to the
box ! — but 'tis all out of character, believe me, Mr. Fag : and
look'ee, I'll never gi' up mine — the lawyers and doctors may do as
they will.

frag. Well, Thomas, we'll not quarrel about that.

Thos. Why, bless you, the gentlemen of the professions ben't
all of a mind — for in our village now, thoff Jack Gauge, the excise-
man, has ta'en to his carrots, there's little Dick the farrier shears
he'll never forsake his bob, though all the college should appear
with their own heads !

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

Thos. Zooks ! 'tis the captain. — Is that the lady with him ?

Fag. No, no, that is Madam Lucy, my master's mistress's
maid. They lodge at that house — but I must alter 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'll make a
little party. [Exeunt severally.

SCENE II.— A DRESSING-ROOM IN MRS. MALAPROP'S
LODGINGS.

LVDIA sitting on a sofa, with a book in her hand. LUCY, as just
returned from a message.

Lucy. Indeed, ma'am, I traversed half the town in search of it :
I don't believe there's a circulating library in Bath I hVn't been at.
Lyd. And could not you get The Reward oj Constancy?
Lucy. No, indeed, ma'am.
Lyd. Nor The Fatal Connexion f
Lucy. No, indeed, ma'am.

14 THE RIVALS. [ACT i.

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 t

Lucy. Or, The Memoirs of Lady Woodfordt 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
Peregrine Pickle. Here are The Tears of Sensibility, and
Humphrey Clinker. This is The Memoirs of a Lady of Quality ;
written by herself^ and here the second volume of The Sentimental
Journey.

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

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

Lyd. Very well — give me the sal volatile.

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

Lyd. My smelling-bottle, you simpleton 1

Lucy. Oh, the drops ! — here, ma'am.

Lyd. Hold 1 — here's some one coming — quick, see who it is. —
\Exit LUCY.] Surely I heard my cousin Julia's voice.

Re-enter LUCY.

Lucy. Lud 1 ma'am, here is Miss Melville.

Lyd. Is it possible ! — \Exit LUCY.

Enter JULIA.

Lyd. My dearest Julia, how delighted am 1 1 — \Embrace]
How unexpected was this happiness 1

Jul. True, Lydia — and our pleasure is the greater. — But what
has been the matter ? — you were denied to me at first !

Lyd. Ah, Julia, I have a thousand things to tell you ! — But first
inform me what has conjured you to Bath ? — Is Sir Anthony here?

Jul. He is — we are arrived within this hour — and I suppose
he will be here to wait on Mrs. Malaprop as soon as he is dressed.

Lyd. Then before we are interrupted, let me impart to you

sc. ii.] THE RIVALS. 15

some of my distress ! — I know your gentle nature will sympathise
with me, though your prudence may condemn me 1 My letters
have informed you of my whole connection with Beverley : but I
have lost him, Julia 1 My aunt has discovered our intercourse by
a note she intercepted, and has confined me ever since I Yet,
would you believe it? she has absolutely fallen in love with a tall
Irish baronet she met one night since we have been here, at Lady
Macshuffle's rout.

Jul. You jest, Lydia !

Lyd. No, upon my word. — She really carries on a kind of
correspondence with him, under a feigned name though, till she
chooses to be known to him ; — but it is a Delia or a Celia, I
assure you.

ful. 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 I

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

Lyd. But you have not heard the worst. Unfortunately
I had quarrelled with my poor Beverley, just before my aunt
made the discovery, and I have not seen him since, to make
it up.

Jul. What was his offence ?

Lyd. Nothing at all ! — But, I don't know how it was, as often
as we had been together, we had never had a quarrel, and,
somehow, I was afraid he would never give me an opportunity.
So, last Thursday, I wrote a letter to myself, to inform myself that
Beverley was at that time paying his addresses to another woman.
I signed it your friend unknown, showed it to Beverley, charged
him with his falsehood, put myself in a violent passion, and vowed
I'd never see him more.

Jul. And you let him depart so, and have not seen him
since?

Lyd. 'Twas the next day my aunt found the matter out. I
intended only to have teased him three days and a half, and now
I've lost him for ever.

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

Lyd. But you know I lose most of my fortune if I marry

1 6 THE RIVALS. [ACT i.

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 at Bath. Sir Anthony's resolution was so sudden, I could
not inform him of it.

Lyd. Well, Julia, you are your own mistress (though v.nder
the protection of Sir Anthony), yet have you, for this long year,
been a slave to the caprice, the whim, the jealousy of this
ungrateful Faulkland, who will ever delay assuming the right
of a husband, while you suffer him to be equally imperious as a
lover.

Jul. Nay, you are wrong entirely. We were contracted before
my father's death. That, and some consequent embarrassments,
have delayed what I know to be my Faulkland's most ardent
wish. He is too generous to trifle on such a point : — and for his
character, you wrong him there too. No, Lydia, he is too proud,
too noble to be jealous ; if he is captious, 'tis without dissembling;
if fretful, without rudeness. Unused to the fopperies of love, he is
negligent of the little duties expected 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 under-
value those qualities in him which would entitle him to it ; and
not feeling why he should be loved to the degree he wishes, he
still suspects that he is not loved enough. This temper, I must
own, has cost me many unhappy hours ; but I have learned to
th;nk myself his debtor, for those imperfections which arise from
the ardour of his attachment.

Lyd. Well, I cannot blame you for defending him. But tell
me candidly, Julia, had he never saved your life, do you think you
should have been attached to him as you are? — Believe me,
the rude blast that overset your boat was a prosperous gale of love
to him.

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

sc ii.] THE RIVALS. 17

Lyd. Obligation ! why a. water spaniel would have done as
much ! — Well, I should never think of giving my heart to a man
because he could swim.

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'll not come here. — Lucy, do you watch.

[Exit LUCY.

Jul. Yet I must go. Sir Anthony does not know I am here,
and if we meet, he'll detain me, to show me the town. I'll 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 upstairs.

Lyd. Well, I'll not detain you, coz. — Adieu, my dear Julia, I'm
sure you are in haste to send to Faulkland. — There — through my
room you'll find another staircase.

Jul. Adieu ! [Embraces LYDIA, and exit.

Lyd. Here, my dear Lucy, hide these books. Quick, quick. —
Fling Peregrine Pickle under the toilet — throw Roderick Random
into the closet — put The Innocent Adultery into The Whole Duty
of Man — thrust Lord Aimworth under the sofa — cram Ovid
behind the bolster — there — put The Man of Feeling into your
pocket — so, so — now lay Mrs. Chapone in sight, and leave For-
dyce's Sermons open on the table.

Lucy. O 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.

Enter Mrs. MA^APROP, and Sir ANTHONY ABSOLUTE.

Mrs. Mai. There, Sir Anthony, there sits the deliberate sim-
pleton 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 woman.
But the point we would request of you is, that you will promise to
forget this fellow — to illiterate him, I say, quite from your memory.

8*5

1 8 THE RIVALS. [ACT i.

Lyd. Ah, madam ! our memories are independent of our wills.
It is not so easy to forget.

Mrs. Mai. But I say it is, miss ; there is nothing on earth so
easy as to forget, if a person chooses to set about it I'm sure I
have as much forgot your poor dear uncle as if he had never
existed — and I thought it my duty so to do ; and let me tell you,
Lydia, these violent memories don't become a young woman.

Sir Anth. Why sure she won't. pretend to remember what she's
ordered not ! — ay, this comes of her reading !

Lyd. What crime, madam, have I committed, to be treated
thus ?

Mrs. Mai. Now don't attempt to extirpate yourself from the
matter; you know I have proof controvertible of it. — But tell
me, will you promise to do as you're bid? Will you take a
husband of your friends' choosing ?

Lyd. Madam, I must tell you plainly, that had I no 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 ? They don't become a young woman ; and you ought to
know, that as both always wear off, 'tis safest in matrimony to
begin with a little aversion. I am sure I hated your poor dear
uncle before marriage as if he'd been a blackamoor — and yet, miss,
you are sensible what a wife I made ! — and when it pleased
Heaven to release me from him, 'tis unknown what tears I shed !
— But suppose we were going to give you another choice, will you
promise us to give up this Beverley?

Lyd. Could 1 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-humours.

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

Mrs. Mai. There's a little intricate hussy for you 1

Sir Anth. It is not to be wondered at, ma'am, — all this is the
natural consequence of teaching girls to read. Had I a thousand
daughters, by Heaven 1 I'd as soon have them taught the black art
as their alphabet !

Mrs. Mai. Nay, nay, Sir Anthony, you are an absolute
misanthropy.

Sir Anth. In my way hither, Mrs. Malaprop, I observed your
niece's maid coming forth from a circulating library ! — She had a
book in each hand — they were half-bound volumes, with marble
covers ! — From that moment I guessed how full of duty I should
see her mistress !

Mts. Mai. Those are vile places, indeed !

sc. ii.] THE RIVALS. 19

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, iy, Sir Anthony ! you surely speak laconically.

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

Mrs. Mai. Observe me, Sir Anthony. I would by no means
wish a daughter of mine to be a progeny of learning ; I don't think
so much learning becomes a young woman ; for instance, I would
never let her meddle with Greek, or Hebrew, or algebra, or
simony, or fluxions, or paradoxes, or such inflammatory branches
of learning — neither would it be necessary for her to handle any of
your mathematical, astronomical, diabolical instruments. — But, Sir
Anthony, I would send her, at nine years old, to a boarding-school,
in order to learn a little ingenuity and artifice. Then, sir, she
should have a supercilious knowledge in accounts ; — and as she
grew up, I would have her instructed in geometry, that she might
know something of the contagious countries ; — but above all, Sir
Anthony, she should be mistress of orthodoxy, that she might not
misspell and mispronounce words so shamefully as girls usually do ;
and likewise that she might reprehend the true meaning of what she
is saying. This, Sir Anthony, is what I would have a woman
know ; — and I don't think there is a superstitious article in it.

Sir Anth. Well, well, Mrs. Malaprop, I will dispute the point
no further with you ; though I must confess that you 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. Mai. None, I assure you. I am under no positive en-
gagement with Mr. Acres, and as Lydia is so obstinate against
him, perhaps your son may have better success.

Sir Anth. Well, madam, I will write for the boy directly. He
knows not a syllable of this yet, though I have for some time had
the proposal in my head. He is at present with his regiment.

Mrs. Mai. We have never seen your son, Sir Anthony; but I
hope no objection on his side.

Sir Anth. Objection 1— let him object if he dare 1— No, no,
Mrs. Malaprop, Jack knows that the least demur puts me in a
frenzy directly. My process was always very simple — in their
younger days, 'twas " Jack, do this ;"— if he demurred, I knocked
him down— and if he grumbled at that, I always sent him out of
the room.

20 THE RIVALS. [ACT i.

Mrs. Mai. Ay, and the properest way, o' my conscience ! —
nothing is so conciliating to young people as severity. — Well,
Sir Anthony, I shall give Mr. Acres his discharge, and prepare
Lydia to receive your son's invocations ; — and I hope you will
represent her to the' captain as an object not altogether illegible.

Sir Anth. Madam, I will handle the subject prudently. — Well,
I must leave you ; and let me beg you, Mrs. Malaprop, to enforce
this matter roundly to the girl. — Take my advice — keep a tight
hand : if she rejects this proposal, clap her under lock and key ; and
if you were just to let the servants forget to bring her dinner for three
or four days, you can't conceive how she'd come about. [Exit.

Mrs. Mai. Well, at any rate I shall be glad to get her from under
my intuition. She has somehow discovered my partiality for Sir
Lucius OTrigger — sure, Lucy can't have betrayed me ! — No, the
girl is such a simpleton, I should have made her confess it. — Lucy!
— Lucy ! — [Calls.} Had she been one of your artificial ones, I
should never have trusted her.

Re-enter LUCY.

Lucy. Did you call, ma'am ?

Mrs. Mai. Yes, girl. — Did you see Sir Lucius while you was
out?

Lucy. No, indeed, ma'am, not a glimpse of him.

Mrs. Mai. You are sure, Lucy, that you never mentioned

Lucy. Oh gemini ! I'd sooner cut my tongue out.

Mrs. Mai. Well, don't let your simplicity be imposed on.

Lucy. No, ma'am.

Mrs. Mai. So, come to me presently, and I'll give you another
letter to Sir Lucius ; but mind, Lucy — if ever you betray what you
are entrusted with (unless it be other people's secrets to me), you
forfeit my malevolence for ever ; and your being a simpleton shall
be no excuse for your locality. [Exit.

Lucy. Ha ! ha ! ha ! — So, my dear Simplicity, let me give you
a little respite. — [Altering her manner."] Let girls in my station be
as fond as they please of appearing expert, and knowing in their
trusts ; commend me to a mask of silliness, and a pair of sharp
eyes for my own interest under it '.—Let me see to what account
have I turned my simplicity lately. — [Looks at a paper^ For
abetting Miss Lydia Languish in a design of running away with
an ensign! — in money, sundry times, twelve pound twelve; gowns,
five; hats, ruffles, caps, etc., etc., numberless! — From the said
ensign, within this last month, six guineas and a half. — About a
quarter's pay ! — Item, from Mrs. Malaprop, for betraying the young
people to her — when I found matters were likely to be discovered —

ACT IL] THE" RIVALS.

21

two guineas, and a black paduasoy. — Item, from Mr. Acres, for
carrying divers letters — which I never delivered — two guineas, and a
pair of buckles. — Item, from Sir Lucius O' Trigger, three crowns, two
gold pocket-pieces, and a silver snuff-box! — Well done, Simplicity!
—Yet I was forced to make my Hibernian believe that he was
corresponding, not with the aunt, but with the niece : for though
not over rich, I found he had too much pride and delicacy to
sacrifice the feelings of a gentleman to the necessities of his
fortune. [Exit.

ACT II.

SCENE I.— CAPTAIN ABSOLUTE'S LODGINGS.
CAPTAIN ABSOLUTE and FAG.

Fag. Sir, while I was there Sir Anthony came in : I told him
you had sent me to inquire after his health, and to know if he was
at leisure to see you.

Abs. And what did he say, on hearing I was at Bath ?

Fag. Sir, in my life I never saw an elderly gentleman more
astonished ! He started back two or three paces, rapped out a
dozen interjectural oaths, and asked what the devil had brought
you here.

Abs. Well, sir, and what did you say ?

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

Abs. You have said nothing to them ?

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

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

Fag. Oh, no, sir — no — no — not a syllable, upon my veracity ! —
He was, indeed, a little inquisitive ; but I was sly, sir — devilish
sly ! My master (said I), honest Thomas (you know, sir, one says
honest to one's inferiors), is come to Bath to recruit — Yes, sir, I
said to recruit — and whether for men, money, or constitution, you
know, sir, is nothing to him, nor any one else.

Abs. Well, recruit will do — let it be so.

Fag. Oh, sir, recruit will do surprisingly — indeed, to give the

22 THE RIVALS. [ACT n.

thing an air, I told Thomas, that your honour had already enlisted
five disbanded chairmen, seven minority waiters, and thirteen
billiard-markers.

Abs. You blockhead, never say more than is necessary.

Fag. I beg pardon, sir — I beg pardon — but, with submission, a
lie is nothing unless one supports it. Sir, whenever I draw on my
invention for a good current lie, I always forge indorsements as
well as the bill.

Abs. Well, take care you don't hurt your credit, by offering too
much security. — Is Mr. Faulkland returned ?

Fag. He is above, sir, changing his dress.

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

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. — \GoingI\ I beg pardon, sir, but should Sir
Anthony call, you will do me the favour to remember that we are
recruiting, if you please.

Abs. Well, well.

Fag. And, in tenderness to my character, if your honour could
bring in the chairmen and waiters, I should esteem it as an obliga-
tion ; for though I never scruple a lie to serve my master, yet it
hurts one's conscience to be found out. {.Exit.

Abs. Now for my whimsical friend — if he does not know that
his mistress is here, I'll tease him a little before I tell him. —

Enter FAULKLAND.

Faulkland, you're welcome to Bath again ; you are punctual in your
return.

Faulk. Yes ; I had nothing to detain me, when I had finished
the business I went on. Well, what news since I left you ? how
•stand matters between you and Lydia?

Abs. Faith, much as they were ; I have not seen her since our
quarrel ; however, I expect to be recalled every hour.

Faulk. Why don't you persuade her to go off" with you at once ?

Abs. What, and lose two-thirds of her fortune ? you forget that,
my friend. — No, no, I could have brought her to that long ago.

Faulk. Nay then, you trifle too long — if you are sure of her,
propose to the aunt in your own character, and write to Sir
Anthony for his consent.

Abs. Softly, softly ; for though I am convinced my little Lydia
would elope with me as Ensign Beverley, yet am I by no means

sc. i.] THE RIVALS. 23

certain that she would take me with the impediment of our friends'
consent, a regular humdrum wedding, and the reversion of a good
fortune on my side : no, no; I must prepare her gradually for the
discovery, and make myself necessary to her, before I risk it. —
Well, but Faulkland, you'il 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 I 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 !

Faulk. Ah ! Jack, your heart and soul are not, like mine, fixed
immutably on one only object. You throw for a large stake, but
losing, you could stake and throw again : — but I have set my sum
of happiness on this cast, and not to succeed, were to be stripped
of all.

Abs. But, for Heaven's sake 1 what grounds for apprehension
can your whimsical brain conjure up at present ?

Faulk. What grounds for apprehension, did you say?
Heavens ! are there not a thousand ! I fear for her 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 chilled her delicate
frame ! If the wind be keen, some rude blast may have affected
her ! The heat of noon, the dews of the evening, may endanger
the life of her, for whom only I value mine. 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, Faulkland, if you were convinced that Julia were
well and in spirits, you would be entirely content ?

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

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

Fa^llk. Nay, Jack — don't trifle with me;

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

Faulk. Can you be serious ?

24 THE RIVALS. [ACT n.

Abs. I thought you knew Sir Anthony better than to be sur-
prised at a sudden whim of this kind. — Seriously, then, it is as I
tell you — upon my honour.

Faulk. My dear friend ! — Hollo, Du Peigne ! my hat. — My dear
Jack — now nothing on earth can give me a moment's uneasi-
ness.

Re-enter FAG.

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

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

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

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

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

Abs. He is likewise a rival of mine — that is, of my other self's,
for he does not think his friend Captain Absolute ever saw the
lady in question; and it is ridiculous enough to hear him complain
to me of one Beverley, a concealed, skulking rival, who

Faulk. Hush ! — he's here.

Enter ACRES.

Acres. Ha ! my dear friend, noble captain, and honest Jack,
how do'st thou? just arrived, faith, as you see. — Sir, your humble
servant. — Warm work on the roads, Jack! — Odds whips and
wheels ! I've travelled like a comet, with a tail of dust all the way
as long as the Mail

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,

Abs. Ay, Bob, Miss Melville's Mr. Faulkland.

Acres. Odso ! she and your father can be but just arrived
before me : — I suppose you have seen them. Ah ! Mr. Faulkland,
you are indeed a happy man.

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

Acres. Never knew her better in my life, sir, — never better. Odds
blushes and blooms ! she has been as healthy as the German Spa.

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

sc. i.] THE RIVALS. 25

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

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

Abs. Now are you angry with your mistress for not having
been sick?

Faulk. No, no, you misunderstand me: yet surely a little
trifling indisposition is not an unnatural consequence of absence
from those we love. — Now confess— isn't there something unkind
in this violent, robust, unfeeling health?

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

Acres. Good apartments, Jack?

Faulk. Well, sir, but you was saying that Miss Melville has
been so exceedingly well — what then she has been merry and gay,
I suppose? — Always in spirits — hey?

Acres. Merry, odds crickets ! she has been the belle and spirit
of the company wherever she has been — so lively and entertaining !
so full of wit and humour!

Faulk. There, Jack, there. — Oh, by my soul 1 there is an innate
levity in woman, that nothing can overcome. — What ! happy, and
I away!

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

Faulk. Why, Jack, have I been the joy and spirit of the
company?

Abs. No indeed, you have not.

Faulk. Have I been lively and entertaining?

Abs. Oh, upon my word, I acquit you.

Faulk. Have I been full of wit and humour?

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

Acres. What's the matter with the gentleman ?

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

Faulk. Oh ! I am rejoiced to hear it — yes, yes, she has a happy
disposition 1

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

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

26 THE RIVALS. [ACT n.

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

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

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

Acres. Not I indeed.

Abs. Stay, now, they were some pretty, melancholy purling-
stream airs, I warrant ; perhaps you may recollect ; — did she sing,
When absent from my souFs delight?

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

Abs. Or, Go, gentle gales ! [Sings.

Acres. Oh, no 1 nothing like it Odds 1 now I recollect one of
them — My hearths my own, my will is free. \Sings.

Faulk. Fool ! fool that I am ! to fix all my happiness on such a
trifler ! 'Sdeath ! to make herself the pipe and ballad-monger of a
circle ! to soothe her light heart with catches and glees ! — What
can you say to this, sir ?

Abs. Why, that I should be glad to hear my mistress had been
so merry, sir.

Faulk. Nay, nay, nay — I'm not sorry that she has been happy
— no, no, I am glad of that — I would not have had her sad or sick
— yet surely a sympathetic heart would have shown itself even in
the choice of a song — she might have been temperately healthy,
and somehow, plaintively gay ; — but she has been dancing too, I
doubt not !

Acres. What does the gentleman say about dancing ?

Abs. He says the lady we speak of dances as well as she sings.

Acres. Ay, truly does she — there was at our last race
ball

Faulk. Hell and the devil 1 There ! — there — I told you so ! I
told you so ! Oh ! she thrives in my absence ! — Dancing ! but her
whole feelings have been in opposition with mine ; — I have been
anxious, silent, pensive, sedentary — my days have been hours of
care, my nights of watchfulness. — She has been all health ! spirit !
laugh ! song ! dance ! — Oh ! damned, damned levity 1

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

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

Acres. Oh, I dare insure her for that — but what I was going to
speak of was her country-dancing. Odds swimmings 1 she has such
an air with her !

Faulk. Now disappointment on her 1 — Defend this, Absolute :

sc. i.] THE RIVALS. 27

why don't you defend this ?— Country-dances ! jigs and reels ! am
I to blame now ? A minuet I could have forgiven — I should not
have minded that — I say I should not have regarded a minuet —
but country-dances ! — Zounds ! had she made one in a cotillon — I
believe I could have forgiven even that — but to be monkey-led for a
night ! — to run the gauntlet through a string of amorous palming
puppies ! — to show paces like a managed filly ! — Oh, Jack, there
never can be but one man in the world whom a truly modest and
delicate woman ought to pair with in a country-dance ; and, even
then, the rest of the couples should be her great-uncles and aunts!

Abs. Ay, to be sure ! — grandfathers and grandmothers!

Fanlk. If there be but one vicious mind in the set, 'twill spread
like a contagion — the action of their pulse beats to the lascivious
movement of the jig — their quivering, warm-breathed sighs impreg-
nate the very air — the atmosphere becomes electrical to love, and
each amorous spark darts through every link of the chain ! — I must
leave you — I own I am somewhat flurried — and that confounded
looby has perceived it \Going.

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

Faulk. Damn his news ! \Exit.

Abs. Ha ! ha ! ha ! poor Faulkland five minutes since — " nothing
on earth could give him a moment's uneasiness 1"

Acres. The gentleman wa'n't angry at my praising his mistress,
was he?

Abs. A little jealous, I believe, Bob.

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

Abs. There's nothing strange in that, Bob ; let me tell you,
that sprightly grace and insinuating manner of yours will do some
mischief among the girls here.

Acres. Ah ! you joke— ha ! ha 1 mischief— ha ! ha 1 but you
know I am not my own property, my dear Lydia has forestalled
me. She could never abide me in the country, because I used
to dress so badly — but odds frogs and tambours 1 I shan't take
matters so here, now ancient madam has no voice in it : I'll 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 thoff 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 th»s

28 THE RIVALS. [ACT n.

Ensign Beverley, odds triggers and flints ! I'll make him know
the difference o't.

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

Acres. Ha ! ha ! you've taken notice of it — 'tis genteel, isn't
it ! — I didn't invent it myself though ; but a commander in
our militia, a great scholar, I assure you, says that there is no
meaning in the common oaths, and that nothing but their
antiquity makes them respectable; — because, he says, the ancients
would never stick to an oath or two, but would say, by Jove !
or by Bacchus ! or y Mars ! or by Venus ! or by Pallas, accord-
ing to the sentiment : so that to swear with propriety, says my
little major, the oath should be an echo to the sense ; and this
we call the oath referential or sentimental swearing — ha ! ha ! 'tis
genteel, isn't it ?

Abs. Very genteel, and very new, indeed ! — and I dare say
will supplant all other figures of imprecation.

Acres. Ay, ay, the best terms will grow obsolete. — Damns have
had their day.

Re-enter FAG.

Fag. Sir, there is a gentleman below desires to see you. —
Shall I show him into the parlour?

Abs. Ay — you may.

Acres. Well, I must be gone

Abs. Stay ; who is it, Fag ?

Fag. Your father, sir.

Abs. You puppy, why didn't you show him up directly ?

{.Exit FAG.

Acres. You have business with Sir Anthony. — I expect a
message from Mrs. Malaprop at my lodgings. I have sent also
to my dear friend Sir Lucius 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. — \Eiit ACRES.] Now for
a parental lecture — I hope he has heard nothing of the business
that has brought me here — I wish the gout had held him fast in
Devonshire, with all my soul 1

Enter Sir ANTHONY ABSOLUTE.

Sir, I am delighted to see you here ; looking so well ! your
sudden arrival at Bath made me apprehensive for your health.

Sir Anth. Very apprehensive, I dare say, Jack. — What, you
are recruiting here, hey ?

Abs. Yes, sir, I am on duty.

SC. I.]

THE RIVALS. 29

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

Abs. Pardon me, sir, I never saw you look more strong and
hearty ; and I pray frequently that you may continue so.

Sir Anth. 1 hope your prayers may be heard, with all my
heart. Well then, Jack, I have been considering that I am so
strong and hearty I may continue to plague you a long time.
Now, Jack, I am sensible that the income of your commission,
and what I have hitherto allowed you, is but a small pittance for a
lad of your spirit.

Abs. Sir, you are very good.

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

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

Sir Anth. I am glad you are so sensible of my attention — and
you shall be master of a large estate in a few weeks.

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

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

Abs. My wife, sir !

Sir Anth. Ay, ay, settle that between you— settle that between
you.

Abs. A wife, sir, did you say?

Sir Anth. Ay, a wife — why, did not I mention her before ?

Abs. Not a word of her, sir.

Sir Anth. Odd so ! — I mustn't forget her though. — Yes, Jack,
the independence I was talking of is by a marriage— the fortune is
saddled with a wife — but I suppose that makes no difference.

Abs. Sir ! sir ! — you amaze me !

Sir Anth. Why, what the devil's the matter with the fool?
Just now you were all gratitude and duty.

Abs. I was, sir, — you talked to me of independence and a
fortune, but not a word of a wife.

Sir Anth. Why— what difference does that make? Odds life,
sir ! if you have the estate, you must take it with the live stock on
it, as it stands.

Abs. If my happiness is to be the price, 1 must beg leave to
decline the purchase. — Pray, sir, who is the lady ?

30 THE RIVALS. [ACT n.

Sir Anth. What's that to you, sir ? — Come, give me your
promise to love, and to marry her directly.

Abs. Sure, sir, this is not very reasonable, to summon my
affections for a lady I know nothing of!

Sir Anth. I am sure, sir, 'tis more unreasonable in you to
object to a lady you know nothing of.

Abs. Then, sir, I must tell you plainly that my inclinations are
fixed on another — my heart is engaged to an angel.

Sir Anth. Then pray let it send an excuse. It is very sorry —
but business prevents its waiting on her.

Abs. But my vows are pledged to her.

Sir Anth. Let her foreclose, Jack ; let her foreclose ; they are
not worth redeeming ; besides, you have the angel's vows in
exchange, I suppose ; so there can be no loss there.

Abs. You must excuse me, sir, if I tell you, once for all, that in
this point I cannot obey you.

Sir Anth. Hark'ee, Jack; — I have heard you for some time
with patience — I have been cool — quite cool ; but take care — you
know I am compliance itself — when I am not thwarted ; — no one
more easily led — when I have my own way ; — but don't put me in
a frenzy.

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

Sir Anth. Now damn me 1 if ever I call you Jack again while
I live.

Abs. Nay, sir, but hear me.

Sir Anth. Sir, I won't hear a word — not a word ! not one word !
so give me your promise by a nod — and I'll tell you what, Jack — I
mean, you dog — if you don't, by

Abs. What, sir, promise to link myself to some mass of
ugliness ! to

Sir Anth. Zounds ! sirrah ! the lady shall be as ugly as I
choose : she shall have a hump on each shoulder ; she shall be
as crooked as the crescent ; her one eye shall roll like the bull's
in Cox's Museum ; she shall have a skin like a mummy, and
the beard of a Jew — she shall be all this, sirrah ! — yet I will make
you ogle her all day, and sit up all night to write sonnets on her
beauty.

Abs. This is reason and moderation indeed !

Sir Anth. None of your sneering, puppy ! no grinning, jacka-
napes 1

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

Sir Anth. 'Tis false, sir, I know you are laughing in your
sleeve ; I know you'll grin when I am gone, sirrah I

sc i.J THE RIVALS, 31

Abs. Sir, I hope I know my duty better.

Sir Anth. None of your passion, sir ! none of your violence, if
you please ! — It won't do with me, I promise you.

Abs. Indeed, sir, I never was cooler in my life.

Sir Anth. 'Tis a confounded lie ! — I know you are in a passion
in your heart ; I know you are, you hypocritical young dog 1 but it
won't do.

Abs. Nay, sir, upon my word

Sir Anth. So you will fly out ! can't you be cool like me ?
What the devil good 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
everything on earth that I choose, why — confound you 1 I may in
time forgive you. — If not, zounds ! don't enter the same hemi-
sphere with me ! don't dare to breathe the same air, or use the
same light with me ; but get an atmosphere and a sun of your
own ! I'll strip you of your commission ; I'll lodge a five-and-three-
pence in the hands of trustees, and you shall live on the interest. —
I'll disown you, I'll disinherit you, I'll unget you ! and damn me !
if ever I call you Jack again ! [Exit.

Abs. Mild, gentle, considerate father — I kiss your hands ! —
What a tender method of giving his opinion in these matters Sir
Anthony has ! I dare not trust him with the truth. — I wonder
what old wealthy hag it is that he wants to bestow on me 1 — Yet
he married himself for love 1 and was in his youth a bold intriguer,
and a gay companion !

Re-enter FAG.

Fag. Assuredly, sir, your father is wrath to a degree ; he comes
downstairs 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 htm aside, and exit.

Fag. So I Sir Anthony trims my master: he is afraid to reply

32 THE RIVALS. [ACT 11.

to his father — then vents his spleen on poor Fag 1 — When one is
vexed by one person, to revenge one's self on another, who happens
to come in the way, is the vilest injustice ! Ah 1 it shows the worst
temper — the basest

Enter BOY.

Boy. Mr. Fag 1 Mr. Fag ! your master calls you.

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

Boy. Quick, quick, Mr. Fag !

Fag. Quick 1 quick ! you impudent jackanapes ! am I to be
commanded by you too ? you little impertinent, insolent, kitchen-
bred \Exit i kicking and beating him.

SCENE II.— THE NORTH PARADE.
Enter LUCY.

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

Enter Sir Lucius O'TRIGGER.

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

Lucy [speaking simply}. 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 is very comical too, how you could go out and I not see you
— for I was only taking a nap at the Parade Coffee-house, and I
chose the window on purpose that I might not miss you.

Lucy. My stars 1 Now I'd wager a sixpence I went by while
you were asleep.

Sir Luc. Sure enough it must have been so — and I never dreamt
it was so late, till I waked. Well, but my little girl, have you got
nothing for me ?

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

sc. ii.] THE RIVALS. 33

Sir Lz(c. O faith ! I guessed you weren't come empty-handed.
— Well — let me see what the dear creature says.

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

Sir Luc. [Reads.] Sir — there is often a siidden incentive
impulse in love, that has a greater induction than years of domestic
combination: such ivas the commotion 1 felt at the first superfluous
view of Sir Lucius O* Trigger. — Very pretty, upon my word. —
Female punctuation forbids me to say more, yet let me add, that it
will give me joy infallible to find Sir Lucius worthy the last
criterion of my affections. DELIA.

Upon my conscience ! Lucy, your lady is a great mistress of
language. Faith, she's quite the queen of the dictionary ! — for the
devil a word dare refuse coming at her call — though one would
think it was quite out of hearing.

Lucy. Ay, sir, a lady of her experience

Sir Luc. Experience 1 what, at seventeen ?

Lucy. O true, sir — but then she reads so— my stars! how she
will read offhand !

Sir Luc. Faith, she must be very deep read to write this way —
though she is rather an arbitrary writer too — for here are a great
many poor words pressed into the service of this note, that would
get their habeas corpus from any court in Christendom.

Lucy. Ah ! Sir Lucius, if you were to hear how she talks of you !

Sir Luc. Oh, tell her I'll make her the best husband in the
world, and Lady O'Trigger into the bargain ! — But we must get
the old gentlewoman's consent — and do 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 \Gives her money},
here's a little something to buy you a ribbon ; and meet me in the
evening, and I'll give you an answer to this. So, hussy, take a
kiss beforehand to put you in mind. [Kisses her.

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

Sir Luc. Faith she will, Lucy ! — That same — pho ! what's the
name of it ? — modesty — is a quality in a lover more praised by the
women than liked ; so, if your mistress asks you whether Sir
Lucius ever gave you a kiss, tell her fifty — my dear.

Lucy. What, would you have me tell her a lie ?

Sir Luc. Ah, then, you baggage ! I'll make it a truth
presently.

886

34 THE RIVALS. [ACT m.

Lucy. For shame now ! here is some one coming.
Sir Luc. Oh, faith, I'll quiet your conscience !

f Exift 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
simplicity, with a grain or two more sincerity, if you please. — You
play false with us, madam. — I saw you give the baronet a letter.
— My master shall know this — and if he don't call him out, I will.

Lucy. Ha ! ha ! ha ! you gentlemen's gentlemen are so hasty.
— That letter was from Mrs. Malaprop, simpleton. — She is taken
with Sir Lucius's address.

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

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

Fag. What, Captain Absolute ?

Lucy. Even so — I overheard it all

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

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

Fag. Oh, he'll be so disconsolate !

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

Fag. Never fear ! never fear !

Lucy. Be sure — bid him keep up his spirits.

Fag. We will — we will. \Exeunt severally.

ACT III.

SCENE I.— THE NORTH PARADE.

Enter CAPTAIN ABSOLUTE.

Abs. 'Tis just as Fag told me, indeed. Whimsical enough,
faith ! My father wants to force me to marry the very girl I

sc. i.] THE RIVALS. 35

am plotting1 to run away with ! He must not know of my con-
nection with her yet awhile. He has too summary a method
of proceeding in these matters. However, I'll read my recantation
instantly. My conversion is something sudden, indeed — but I
can assure him it is very sincere. So, so — here he comes. He
looks plaguy gruff. \Steps aside.

Enter Sir ANTHONY ABSOLUTE.

Sir Anth. No — I'll die sooner than forgive him. Die, did I
say? I'll live these fifty years to plague him. At our last meeting,
his impudence had almost put me out of temper. An obstinate,
passionate, self-willed boy! Who can he take after? This is my
return for getting him before all his brothers and sisters ! — for
putting him, at twelve years old, into a marching regiment, and
allowing him fifty pounds a year, besides his pay, ever since !
But I have done with him ; he's anybody's son for me. I never
will see him more, never — never — never.

Abs. \Aside, coming forward^ Now for a penitential face.

Sir Anth. Fellow, get out of my way!

Abs. Sir, you see a penitent before you.

Sir Anth. I see an impudent scoundrel before me.

Abs. A sincere penitent. I am come, sir, to acknowledge my
error, and to submit entirely to your will.

Sir Anth. What's that ?

Abs. I have been revolving, and reflecting, and considering on
your past goodness, and kindness, and condescension to me.

Sir Anth. Well, sir?

Abs. I have been likewise weighing and balancing what you
were pleased to mention concerning duty, and obedience, and
authority.

Sir Anth. Well, puppy?

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

Sir Anth. Why now you talk sense — absolute sense — I never
heard anything more sensible in my life. Confound you 1 you
shall be Jack again.

Abs. I am happy in the appellation.

Sir Anth. Why then, Jack, my dear Jack, I will now inform
you who the lady really is. Nothing but your passion and
violence, you silly fellow, prevented my telling you at first. Pre-
pare, Jack, for wonder and rapture— prepare. What think you of
Miss Lydia Languish?

Abs. Languish ! What, the Languishes of Worcestershire ?

Sir Anth. Worcestershire 1 no. Did you never meet Mrs.

36 THE RIVALS. [ACT in.

Malaprop and her niece, Miss Languish, who came into our
country just before you were last ordered to your regiment ?

Abs. Malaprop ! Languish ! I don't remember ever to have
heard the names before. Yet, stay — I think I do recollect some-
thing. Languish ! Languish ! She squints, don't she ? A little
red-haired girl?

Sir Anth. Squints ! A red-haired girl ! Zounds ! no

Abs. Then I must have forgot; it can't be the same person.

Sir Anth. Jack! Jack! what think you of blooming, love-
breathing seventeen?

Abs. As to that, sir, I am quite indifferent. If I can please you
in the matter, 'tis all I desire.

Sir Anth. Nay, but Jack, such eyes ! such eyes ! so innocently
wild ! so bashfully irresolute ! not a glance but speaks and kindles
some thought of love! Then, Jack, her cheeks ! her cheeks, Jack!
so deeply blushing at the insinuations of her tell-tale eyes! Then,
Jack, her lips ! O Jack, lips smiling at their own discretion ;
and if not smiling, more sweetly pouting; more lovely in sullen-
ness 1

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 ! 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 Oh,

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 £ limited
quantity of back : and though one eye may be very agreeable, yet
as the prejudice has always run in favour of two, I would not wish
to affect a singularity in that article.

sc. ii.] THE RIVALS. 37

Sir Anth. What a phlegmatic sot it is ! Why, sirrah, you're an
anchorite ! — a vile, insensible stock. You a soldier ! — you're a
walking block, fit only to dust the company's regimentals on !
Odds life ! I have a great mind to marry the girl myself.

Abs. I am entirely at your disposal, sir : if you should think of
addressing Miss Languish yourself, I suppose you would have me
marry the aunt ; or if you should change your mind, and take the
did lady — 'tis the same to me — I'll marry the niece.

Sir Anth. Upon my word, Jack, thou'rt either a very great
hypocrite, or — but, come, I know your indifference on such a
subject must be all a lie — I'm sure it must — come, now — damn
your demure face ! — come, confess Jack — you have been lying —
ha'n't you ? You have been playing the hypocrite, hey ! — I'll never
forgive you, if you ha'n't been lying and playing the hypocrite.

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

Sir Anth. Hang your respect and duty! But come along with
me, I'll 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'll never forgive you, if you don't come back stark mad
with rapture and impatience — if you don't, egad, I will marry the
girl myself! \Exeunt.

SCENE II.— JULIA'S DRESSING-ROOM.
FAULKLAND discovered alone.

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

Enter JULIA.

Jul. I had not hoped to see you again so soon.

38 THE RIVALS. [ACT in.

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. J was rejoiced to see you
— to see you in such health. Sure I had no cause for coldness ?

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

Faulk. Well, then — shall I own to you that my joy at hearing
of your health and arrival here, by your neighbour Acres, was
somewhat damped by his dwelling much on the high spirits you
had enjoyed in Devonshire — on your mirth — your singing — dancing,
and I know not what ! For such is my temper, Julia, that I should
regard every mirthful moment in your absence as a treason to
constancy. The mutual tear that steals down the cheek of parting
lovers is a compact, that no smile shall live there till they meet
again.

Jul. Must I never cease to tax my Faulkland with this teasing
minute caprice ? Can the idle reports of a silly boor weigh in
your breast against my tried affection ?

Faulk. They have no weight with me, Julia : No, no — I am
happy if you have been so — yet only say, that you did not sing
with mirth — say that you thought of Faulkland in the dance.

Jul. I never can be happy in your absence. If I wear a
countenance of content, it is to show that my mind holds no doubt
of my Faulkland's truth. If I seemed sad, it were to make malice
triumph ; and say, that I had fixed my heart on one, who left me to
lament his roving, and my own credulity. Believe me, Faulkland,
I mean not to upbraid you when I say, that I have often dressed
sorrow in smiles, lest my friends should guess whose unkindness
had caused my tears.

Faulk. You were ever all goodness to me. Oh, I am a brute,
when I but admit a doubt of your true constancy!

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

Faulk. Ah 1 Julia, that last word is grating to me. I would I
had no title to your gratitude ! Search your heart, Julia ; perhaps
what you have mistaken for love, is but the warm effusion of a too
thankful heart.

Jul. For what quality must I love you ?

Faulk. For no quality ! To regard me for any quality of mind
or understanding, were only to esteem me. And for person — I

sc. ii.] THE RIVALS. 39

have often wished myself deformed, to be convinced that I owed no
obligation there for any part of your affection.

Jul. Where nature has bestowed a show of nice attention in the
features of a man, he should laugh at it as misplaced. I have seen
men who in this vain article, perhaps, might rank above you ; but
my heart has never asked my eyes if it were so or not

Faulk. Now this is not well from you, Julia — I despise person
in a man — yet if you loved me as I wish, though I were an ^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 are not used to weigh
and separate the motives of their affections : the cold dictates of
prudence, gratitude, or filial duty, may sometimes be mistaken for
the pleadings of the heart. I would not boast — yet let me say,
that I have neither age, person, nor character, to found dislike on ;
my fortune such as few ladies could be charged with indiscretion
in the match. O Julia ! when love receives such countenance from
prudence, nice minds will be suspicious of its birth.

Jul. I know not whither your insinuations would tend : — but as
they seem pressing to insult me, I will spare you the regret of having
done so. — I have given you no cause for this ! {Exit in tears.

Faulk. In tears ! Stay, Julia: stay but for a moment. — The
door'is fastened ! — Julia! — my soul — but for one moment ! — I hear
her sobbing ! — 'Sdeath ! what a brute am I to use her thus ! Yet
stay. — Ay — she is coming now : — how little resolution there is in
woman ! — how a few soft words can turn them ! — No, faith ! — she
is not coming either. — Why, Julia — my love— say but that you for-
give me — come but to tell me that — now this is being too resentful.

40 THE RIVALS. [ACT in.

Stay ! she is coining too — I thought she would — no steadiness in
anything : her going away must have been a mere trick then — she
shan't see that I was hurt by it. — I'll affect indifference— [Hums
a tune: then 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'll wait till her just resentment is abated — and
when I distress her so again, may I lose her for ever ! and be
linked instead to some antique virago, whose gnawing passions,
and long-hoarded spleen, shall make me curse my folly half the
day and all the night. {.Exit.

SCENE III.— MRS. MALAPROP'S LODGINGS.

Mrs. MALAPROP, with a letter in her hand, and CAPTAIN
ABSOLUTE.

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

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

Mrs. Mai. Sir, you do me infinite honour ! I beg, captain,
you'll be seated. — [They sit.'] Ah ! few gentlemen, nowadays,
know how to value the ineffectual qualities in a woman ! few
think how a little knowledge becomes a gentlewoman ! — Men
have no sense now but for the worthless flower of beauty.

Abs. It is but too true, indeed, ma'am ; — yet I fear our ladies
should share the blame — they think our admiration of beauty so
great, that knowledge in them would be superfluous. Thus, like
garden-trees, they seldom show fruit, till time has robbed them
of the more specious blossom. — Few, like Mrs. Malaprop and the
orange-tree, are rich in both at once !

Mrs. Mai. Sir, you overpower me with good breeding. — He
is the very pine-apple of politeness ! — You are not 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.

sc. in.] THE RIVALS. 41

Mrs. Mai. You are very good and very considerate, captain.
I am sure I have done everything in my power since I exploded
the affair ; long ago I laid my positive conjunctions on her, never
to think on the fellow again ; — I have since laid Sir Anthony's
preposition before her ; but, I am sorry to say, she seems resolved
to decline every particle that I enjoin her.

Abs. It must be very distressing, indeed, ma'am.

Mrs. Mai. Oh ! it gives me the hydrostatics to such a degree.
— I thought she had persisted from corresponding with him ; but,
behold, this very day, I have interceded another letter from the
fellow ; I believe I have it in my pocket.

Abs. Oh, the devil ! my last note. [Aside.

Mrs. Mai. Ay, here it is.

Abs. Ay, my note indeed ! O the little traitress Lucy. [Aside.

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

[Gives him the letter.

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

Mrs. Mai. Nay, but read it, captain.

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

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

Abs. [Reads.] I am excessively alarmed at the intelligence
you send me, the more so as my new rival

Mrs. Mai. That's you, sir.

Abs. [Reads.] Has universally the character of being an
accomplished gentleman and a man of honour. — Well, that's hand-
some enough.

Mrs. Mai. Oh, the fellow has some design in writing so.

Abs. That he had, I'll answer for him, ma'am.

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

Abs. [Reads.] As for the old weather-beaten she-dragon who
guards you — Who can he mean by that?

Mrs. Mai. Me, sir ! — me ! — he means me ! — There — what do
you think now ? — but go on a little further.

Abs. Impudent scoundrel ! — [Reads.] // shall go hard but I
will elude her vigilance, as 1 am told that the same ridiculous
vanity which makes her dress up her coarse features, and deck her
dull chat with hard words which she dortt 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 !

42 THE RIVALS. [ACT in.

Abs. He deserves to be hanged and quartered 1 let me see —
[Reads.] same ridiculous vanity

Mrs. Mai. You need not read it again, sir.

Abs. I beg pardon, ma'am. — [Reads.] does also lay her open to
the grossest deceptions from flattery and pretended admiration — an
impudent coxcomb ! — so that I have a scheme to see you shortly
with the old harridatfs consent^ and even to make her a go-between
in our interview. — Was ever such assurance ?

Mrs. Mai. Did you ever hear anything like it ? — he'll elude my
vigilance, will he — yes, yes I ha 1 ha 1 he's very likely to enter
these doors ; — we'll try who can plot best 1

Abs. So we will, ma'am — so we will 1 Ha ! ha ! ha ! a con-
ceited puppy, ha ! ha ! ha! — Well, but Mrs. Malaprop, as the girl
seems so infatuated by this fellow, suppose you were to wink at
her corresponding with him for a little time — let her even plot an
elopement with him — then do you connive at her escape — while I,
just in the nick, will have the fellow laid by the heels, and fairly
contrive to carry her off in his stead.

Mrs. Mai. I am delighted with the scheme ; never was anything
better perpetrated 1

Abs. But, pray, could not I see the lady for a few minutes now?
— I should like to try her temper a little.

Mrs. Mai. Why, I don't know — I doubt she is not prepared for
a visit of this kind. There is a decorum in these matters.

Abs. O Lord ! she won't mind me — only tell her Beverley

Mrs. Mai. Sir !

Abs. Gently, good tongue. [Aside.

Mrs. Ma!. What did you say of Beverley ?

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

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

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

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

Abs. As you please, ma'am.

Mrs. Mai. For the present, captain, your servant. Ah ! you've

sc. in.] THE RIVALS. 43

not done laughing yet, I see— elude my vigilance ; yes, yes ; ha !
ha! ha! {Exit.

Abs. Ha ! ha I ha ! one would think now that I might throw
off all disguise at once, and seize my prize with security ; but such
is Lydia's caprice, that to undeceive were probably to lose her.
I'll 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 per-
secuted as I am, who have appealed in behalf of their favoured
lover to the generosity of his rival : suppose I were to try it —
there stands the hated rival — an officer too ! — but oh, how unlike
my Beverley 1 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 1

Lyd. I am so astonished ! and so terrified! and so overjoyed!
— for Heaven's sake ! how came you here ?

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

Lyd. O charming ! And she really takes you for young
Absolute ?

Abs. Oh, she's convinced of it.

Lyd. Ha ! ha ! ha ! I can't forbear laughing to think how her
sagacity is overreached !

Abs. But we trifle with our precious moments — such another
opportunity may not occur; then let me now conjure my kind, my
condescending angel, to fix the time when I may rescue her from
undeserving persecution, and with a licensed warmth plead for my
reward.

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

Abs. Oh, come to me— rich only thus — in loveliness ! Bring no
portion to me but thy love — 'twill be generous in you, Lydia — for
well you know, it is the only dower your poor Beverley can repay.

Lyd. How persuasive are his words ! — how charming will
poverty be with him ! \Aside.

Abs. Ah ! my soul, what a life will we then live ! Love shall

44 THE RIVALS. [ACT HI.

be our idol and support ! we will worship him with a monastic
strictness; abjuring all worldly toys, to centre every thought and
action there. Proud of calamity, we will enjoy the wreck of
wealth ; while the surrounding gloom of adversity shall make the
flame of our pure love show doubly bright. By Heavens ! I would
fling all goods of fortune from me with a prodigal hand, to enjoy
the scene where I might clasp my Lydia to my bosom, and say,
the world affords no smile to me but here. — [Embracing her.} If
she holds out now, the devil is in it ! \Aside.

Lyd. Now could I fly with him to the antipodes ! but my
persecution is not yet come to a crisis. [Aside.

Re-enter Mrs. MALAPROP, listening.

Mrs. Mai. I am impatient to know how the little hussy deports
herself. [Aside.

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

Mrs. Mai. Warmth abated ! — so 1 — she has been in a passion,
I suppose. [Aside.

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

Mrs. Mai. An ill-tempered little devil ! She'll be in a passion
all her life — will she ? [A side.

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,

Abs. Thus then let me enforce my suit. [Kneeling.

Mrs. Mai. [Aside."] Ay, poor young man! — down on his knees
entreating for pity! — I can contain no longer. — [Coming forward.]
Why, thou vixen !••— I have overheard you.

Abs. Oh, confound her vigilance ! [Aside.

Mrs. Mai. Captain Absolute, I know not how to apologise for
her shocking rudeness.

Abs. [Aside.] So all's safe, I find. — [Aloud.~\ I have hopes,
madam, that time will bring the young lady

Mrs. Mai. Oh, there's nothing to be hoped for from her! she's
as headstrong as an allegory on the banks of Nile.

Lyd. Nay, madam, what do you charge me with now?

Mrs. Mai. Why, thou unblushing rebel — didn't you tell this
gentleman to his face that you loved another better? — didn't you
say you never would be his?

Lyd. No, madam — 1 did not.

Mrs. Mai. Good heavens! what assurance! — Lydia, Lydia,

sc. iv.] THE RIVALS. 45

you ought to know that lying don't become a young woman! —
Didn't you boast that Beverley, that stroller Beverley, possessed
your heart ? — Tell me that, I say.

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

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

Abs. Nay, pray, Mrs. Malaprop, don't stop the young lady's
speech: she's very welcome to talk thus — it does not hurt me in
the least, I assure you.

Mrs. Mai. You are too good, captain — too amiably patient —
but come with me, miss. — Let us see you again soon, captain —
remember what we 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'll choke the word in your throat ! — come
along — come along.

[Exeunt severally; CAPTAIN ABSOLUTE kissing his hand to
LYDIA — Mrs. MALAPROP stopping her from speaking.

SCENE IV.— ACRES' LODGINGS.
ACRES, as just dressed, and DAVID.

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

Dav. You are quite another creature, believe me, master, by the
Mass ! an' we've any luck we shall see the Devon monkerony in all
the print-shops in Bath !

Acres. Dress does make a difference, David.

Dav. 'Tis all in all, I think. — Difference ! why, an' you were to
go now to Clod Hall, I am certain the old lady wouldn't know you :
Master Butler wouldn't believe his own eyes, and Mrs. Pickle would
cry, Lard presarve me ! our dairy-maid would come giggling to the
door, and I warrant Dolly Tester, your honour's favourite, would
blush like my waistcoat. — Oons ! I'll hold a gallon, there an't a
dog in the house but would bark, and I question whether Phillis
would wag a hair of her tail !

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

Dav. So I says of your honour's boots ; but the boy never
heeds me !

Acres. But, David, has Mr. De-la-grace been here? I must
rub up my balancing, and chasing, and boring.

Dav. I'll call again, sir.

Acres. Do — and see if there are any letters for me at the
post-office.

46 THE RIVALS. [ACT in.

Dav. I will. — By the mass, I can't help looking at your head !
— if I hadn't been by at the cooking, I wish I may die if I should
have known the dish again myself! [Exit.

Acres. {Practising a dancing-step.'] Sink, slide — coupee. — Con-
found the first inventors of cotillons ! say I — they are as bad as
algebra to us country gentlemen — I can walk a minuet easy enough
when I am forced 1 — and I have been accounted a good stick in a
country-dance. — Odds jigs and tabors ! I never valued your cross-
over to couple — figure in — right and left — and I'd foot it with e'er
a captain in the county! — but these outlandish heathen allemandes
and cotillons are quite beyond me ! — I shall never prosper at 'em,
that's sure — mine are true-born English legs — they don't under-
stand their curst French lingo ! — their pas this, and pas that, and
pas t'other ! — damn me ! my feet don't like to be called paws ! no,
'tis certain I have most Antigallican toes !

Enter SERVANT.

Serv. Here is Sir Lucius O'Trigger to wait on you, sir.

Acres. Show him in. [Exit SERVANT.

Enter Sir Lucius O'TRIGGER.

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

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

Sir Luc. Pray, my friend, what has brought you so suddenly to
Bath ?

Acres. Faith ! I have followed Cupid's Jack-a-lantern, and find
myself in a quagmire at last. — In short, I have been very ill used,
Sir Lucius. — I don't choose to mention names, but look on me as
on a very ill-used gentleman.

Sir Luc. Pray what is the case? — I ask no names.

Acres. Mark me, Sir Lucius, I fall as deep as need be in love
with a young lady — her friends take my part — I follow her to Bath
— send word of my arrival; and receive answer, that the lady is to
be otherwise disposed of. — This, Sir Lucius, I call being ill used.

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

Acres. Why, there's the matter; she has another lover, one
Beverley, who, I am told, is now in Bath. — Odds slanders and lies !
he must be at the bottom of it.

Sir Luc. A rival in the case, is there? — and you think he has
supplanted you unfairly?

Acres. Unfairly 1 to be sure he has. He never could have done
it fairly.

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

sc iv.] THE RIVALS. 47

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 provoca-
tion in the world. Can a man commit a more heinous offence
against another than to fall in love with the same woman ? Oh,
by my soul ! it is the most unpardonable breach of friendship.

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

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

Acres. Gad, that's true — I grow full of anger, Sir Lucius ! — I
fire apace ! Odds hilts and blades ! I find a man may have a
deal of valour in him, and not know it 1 But couldn't I contrive
to have a little right on my side ?

Sir Luc. What the devil signifies right, when your honour is
concerned ? Do you think Achilles, or my little Alexander the
Great, ever inquired where the right lay ? No, by my soul, they
drew their 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
believe courage must be catching 1 I certainly do feel a kind of
valour rising as it were — a kind of courage, as I may say. — Odds
flints, pans, and triggers I I'll challenge him directly.

Sir Luc. Ah, my little friend, if I had Blunderbuss Hall here, I
could show you a range of ancestry, in the O'Trigger line, that
would furnish the new room ; every one of whom had killed his
man ! — For though the mansion-house and dirty acres have slipped
through my fingers, I thank heaven our honour and the family-
pictures are as fresh as ever.

Acres. Oh, Sir Lucius ! I have had ancestors too ! — every man
of 'em colonel or captain in the militia ! — Odds balls and barrels !
say no more — I'm braced for it. The thunder of your words has
soured the milk of human kindness in my breast ; — Zounds ! as
the man in the play says, I could do such deeds !

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

Acres. I must be in a passion, Sir Lucius — I must be in a rage.
— Dear Sir Lucius, let me be in a rage, if you love me. Come,
here's pen and paper. — \Sits down to iuritel\ I would the ink were
red ! — Indite, I say indite ! — How shall I begin ? Odds bullets and
blades ! I'll write a good bold hand, however.

48 THE RIVALS. [ACT HI.

Sir Luc. Pray compose yourself.

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

Sir Luc. Pho! pho! do the thing decently, and like a Christian.
Begin now — Sir

Acres. That's too civil by half.

Sir Luc. To prevent the confusion that might arise

Acres. Well

Sir Luc. From our both addressing the same lady

Acres. Ay, there's the reason — same lady — well-

Sir Luc. I shall expect the honour of your company

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

Sir Luc. Pray be easy.

Acres. Well then, honour of your company

Sir Luc. To settle our pretensions

Acres. Well.

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

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

Sir Luc. You see now this little explanation will put a stop at
once to all confusion or misunderstanding that might arise between
you.

Acres. Ay, we fight to prevent any misunderstanding.

Sir Luc. Now, I'll leave you to fix your own time. — Take my
advice, and you'll decide it this evening if you can ; then let the
worst come of it, 'twill be off your mind to-morrow.

Acres. Very true.

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

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

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

\Exeunt severally.

ACT iv.] THE RIVALS. 49

ACT IV.

SCENE I.— ACRES' LODGINGS.
ACRES and DAVID.

Dav. Then, by the mass, sir ! I would do no such thing — ne'er
a Sir Lucius O'Trigger in the kingdom should make me fight, when
I wa'n't so minded. Oons ! what will the old lady say when she
hears o't ?

Acres. Ah ! David, if you had heard Sir Lucius 1— Odds sparks
and flames ! he would have roused your valour.

Dav. Not he, indeed. I hate such bloodthirsty cormorants.
Look'ee, master, if you'd wanted a bout at boxing, quarter-staff, or
short-staff, I should never be the man to bid you cry off; but for
your curst sharps and snaps, I never knew any good come of 'em.

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

Dav. Ay, by the mass ! and I would be very careful of it ; and
I think in return my honour couldn't do less than t» be very
careful of me.

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

Dav. I say then, it would be but civil in honour never to risk
the loss of a gentleman. — Look'ee, master, this honour seems to me
to be a marvellous false friend ; ay, truly, a very courtier-like
servant. — Put the case, I was a gentleman (which, thank God, no
one can say of me) ; well — my honour makes me quarrel with
another gentleman of my acquaintance. — So — we fight. (Pleasant
enough that!) Boh! — I kill him — (the more's my luck!) now,
pray who gets the profit of it ? — Why, my honour. But put the
case that he kills me ! — by the mass ! I go to the worms, and my
honour whips over to my enemy.

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

Dav. Now, that's just the place where I could make a shift to
do without it.

Acres. Zounds ! David, you are a coward ! — It doesn't become
my valour to listen to you. — What, shall I disgrace my ancestors ?
—Think of that, David — think what it would be to disgrace my
ancestors !

Dav. Under favour, the surest way of not disgracing them, is to
keep as long as you can out of their company. Look'ee now, master,

887

50 THE RIVALS. [ACT iv.

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 1 people often fight without any
mischief done !

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

Acres. Zounds! I won't be afraid! — Odds fire and fury! you
shan't make me afraid. — Here is the challenge, and I have sent for
my dear friend Jack Absolute to carry it for me.

Dav. Ay, i' the name of mischief, let him be the messenger. —
For my part, I wouldn't lend a hand to it for the best horse in your
stable. By the mass ! it don't look like another letter 1 It is, as I
may say, a designing and malicious-looking letter ; and I warrant
smells of gunpowder like a soldier's pouch ! — Oons ! I wouldn't
swear it mayn't go off!

Acres. Out, you poltroon ! you ha'n't the valour of a grasshopper.

Dav. Well, I say no more — 'twill be sad news, to be sure, at
Clod Hall ! but I ha' done. — How Phillis will howl when she hears
of it ! — Ay, poor bitch, she little thinks what shooting her master's
going after ! And I warrant old Crop, who has carried your honour,
field and road, these ten years, will curse the hour he was born.

[ Whimpering.

Acres. It won't do, David — I am determined to fight — so get
along, you coward, while I'm in the mind.

Enter SERVANT.

Ser. Captain Absolute, sir.

Acres. Oh ! show him up. \Exit SERVANT.

Dav. Well, Heaven send we be all alive this time to-morrow.

Acres. What's that ?— Don't provoke me, David !

Dav. Good-bye, master. [ Whimpering.

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

\Exit DAVID.
Enter CAPTAIN ABSOLUTE.

Abs. What's the matter, Bob ?

sc. i.] THE RIVALS. 51

Acres. A vile, sheep-hearted blockhead 1 If I hadn't the
valour of St. George and the dragon to boot

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

Acres. Oh ! — There [Gives him the challenge.

Abs. [Aside.'] To Ensign Beverley. — So, what's going on
now \-\Aloud.} Well, what's this ?

Acres. A challenge 1

Abs. Indeed 1 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'll fight this evening, that
so much good passion mayn't be wasted.

Abs. But what have I to do with this ?

Acres. Why, as I think you know something of this fellow, I
want you to find him out for me, and give him this mortal
der.ance.

Abs. Well, give it to me, and trust me he gets it.

Acres. Thank you, my dear friend, my dear Jack ; but it is
giving you a great deal of trouble.

Abs. Not in the least — I beg you won't mention it. — No
trouble in the world, I assure you.

Acres. You are very kind. — What it is to have a friend ! — You
couldn't be my second, could you, Jack ?

Abs. Why no, Bob — not in this affair — it would not be quite so
proper.

Acres. Well, then, I must get my friend Sir Lucius. I shall
have your good wishes, however, Jack ?

Abs. Whenever he meets you, believe me.

Re-enter SERVANT.

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

Abs. I'll come instantly.— {Exit SERVANT.] Well, my little
hero, success attend you. \Going.

Acres. — Stay — stay, Jack. — If Beverley should ask you what
kind of a man your friend Acres is, do tell him I am a devil of a
fellow — will you, Jack?

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

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

Abs. I will, I will ; I'll say you are called in the country
Fighting Bob.

Acres. Right — right — 'tis all to prevent mischief; for I don't
want to take his life if I clear my honour.

52 THE RIVALS. [ACT iv.

Abs. No ! — that's very kind of you.

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

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

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

Abs. I will, I will.

Acres. Remember, Jack — a determined dog 1

Abs. Ay, ay, Fighting Bob ! \Exeunt severally.

SCENE II. — MRS. MALAPROP'S LODGINGS.
Mrs. MALAPROP and LYDIA.

Mrs. Mai. Why, thou perverse one 1 — tell Jne what you can
object to him ? Isn't he a handsome man ? — tell me that. A
genteel man ? a pretty figure of a man ?

Lyd. [Aside.'] She little thinks whom she is praising !— {Aloud.']
S.o is Beverley, ma'am.

Mrs. Mai. No caparisons, miss, if you please. Caparisons
don't become a young woman. No ! Captain Absolute is indeed
a fine gentleman !

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

Airs. Mai. Then he's so well bred ; — so full of alacrity, and
adulation! — and has so much to say for himself: — in such good
language too ! His physiognomy so grammatical ! Then his
presence is so noble ! I protest, when I saw him, I thought of
what Hamlet says in the play : —

" Hesperian curls — the front of Job himself ! —
An eye, like March, to threaten at command ! —
A station, like Harry Mercury, new "

Something about kissing — on a hill — however, the similitude struck
me directly.

Lyd. How enraged she'll be presently, when she discovers her
mistake ! [Aside.

Enter SERVANT.

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

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

Lyd. Madam, I have told you my resolution ! — I shall not

sc. ii.] THE RIVALS. 53

only give him no encouragement, but I won't even speak to, or
look at him.

[Flings herself into a chair, with her face from the door.

Enter Sir ANTHONY ABSOLUTE and CAPTAIN ABSOLUTE.

Sir Anth. Here we are, Mrs. Malaprop ; come to mitigate the
rowns of unrelenting beauty, — and difficulty enough I had to
bring this fellow. — I don't know what's the matter ; but if I had
not held him by force, he'd have given me the slip.

Mrs. Mai. You have infinite trouble, Sir Anthony, in the affair.
I am ashamed for the cause ! — [Aside to LYDIA.] Lydia, Lydia,
rise, I beseech you ! — pay your respects !

Sir Anth. I hope, madam, that Miss Languish has reflected
on the worth of this gentleman, and the regard due to her aunt's
choice, and my alliance. — [Aside to CAPTAIN ABSOLUTE.] Now,
Jack, speak to her.

Abs. [Aside.] What the devil shall I do I— [Aside to Sir
ANTHONY.] You see, sir, she won't even look at me whilst you are
here. I knew she wouldn't. I told you so. Let me entreat you,
sir, to leave us together ! [Seems to expostulate -with his father.

Lyd. [Aside.] I wonder I ha'n't heard my aunt exclaim yet !
sure she can't have looked at him ! — perhaps their regimentals are
alike, and she is something blind.

Sir Anth. I say, sir, I won't stir a foot yet !

Mrs. Mai. I am sorry to say, Sir Anthony, that my affluence
over my niece is very small. — [Aside to LYDIA.] Turn round,
Lydia: I blush for you 1

Sir Anth. May I not flatter myself that Miss Languish will
assign what cause of dislike she can have to my son ! — [Aside to
CAPTAIN ABSOLUTE.] Why don't you begin, Jack ? — Speak, you
puppy — speak !

Mrs. Mai. It is impossible, Sir Anthony, she can have any.
She will not say she has. — {Aside to LYDIA.] Answer, hussy ! why
don't you answer ?

Sir Anth. Then, madam, I trust that a childish and hasty pre-
dilection will be no bar to Jack's happiness. — [Aside to CAPTAIN
ABSOLUTE.] Zounds ! sirrah ! why don't you speak !

Lyd. [Aside.] I think my lover seems as little inclined to con-
versation as myself. — How strangely blind my aunt must be !

Abs. Hem 1 hem ! madam — hem ! — [Attempts to speak, then
returns to Sir ANTHONY.] Faith ! sir, I am so conlounded ! —
and — so — so — confused ! — I told you I should be so, sir — I knew
it. — The — the — tremor of my passion entirely takes away my
presence of mind.

54 THE RIVALS. [ACT iv.

Sir Anth. But it don't take away your voice, fool, does it ? —
Go up, and speak to her directly 1

[CAPTAIN ABSOLUTE makes signs to Mrs. MALAPROP to
leave them together.

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

Sir Anlh. 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, hoarse 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 modesty,
quite choke me !

Sir Anth. Ah ! your modesty again ! — I'll tell you what, Jack :
if you don't speak out directly, and glibly too, I shall be in such
a rage ! — Mrs. Malaprop, I wish the lady would favour us with
something more than a side-front

[Mrs. MALAPROP seems to chide LYDIA.

Abs. [Aside] So all will out, I see!— [Goes up to LYDIA, speaks
softly.] Be not surprised, my Lydia, suppress all surprise at
present

Lyd. [Aside] Heavens 1 'tis Beverley's voice ! Sure he can't
have imposed on Sir Anthony too! — [Looks round by degrees, then
starts up] Is this possible! — my Beverley! — how can this be? —
my Beverley?

Abs. Ah 1 'tis all over. [Aside.

Sir Anth. Beverley! — the devil — Beverley! — What can the girl
mean? — This is my son, Jack Absolute.

Mrs. Mai. For shame, hussy! for shame! your head runs so
on that fellow, that you have him always in your eyes ! — beg
Captain Absolute's pardon directly.

Lyd. I see no Captain Absolute, but my loved Beverley!

Sir Anth. Zounds! the girl's mad!— her brain's turned by
reading.

Mrs. Mai. O' my conscience, I believe so! — What do you
mean by Beverley, hussy? — You saw Captain Absolute before
to-day ; there he is — your husband that shall be.

Lyd. With all my soul, ma'am — when I refuse my Bever-
ley

Sir Anth. Oh! she's as mad as Bedlam!— or has this fellow

sc. ii.] THE RIVALS. 55

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'll endeavour
to recollect

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

Mrs. Mai. Ay, sir, who are you? O mercy 1 I begin to sus-
pect !

Abs. \Aside^\ Ye powers of impudence, befriend me! — [Aloud.]
Sir Anthony, most assuredly I am your wife's son ; and that I
sincerely believe myself to be yours also, I hope my duty has
always shown. — Mrs. Malaprop, I am your most respectful
admirer, and shall be proud to add affectionate nephew.— I need
not tell my Lydia that she sees her faithful Beverley, who, knowing
the singular generosity of her temper, assumed that name and
station, which has proved a test of the most disinterested love,
which he now hopes to enjoy in a more elevated character.

Lyd. So ! — there will be no elopement after all 1 {Sullenly.

Sir Anth. Upon my soul, Jack, thou art a very impudent
fellow! to do you justice, I think I never saw a piece of more
consummate assurance!

Abs. Oh, you flatter me, sir — you compliment — 'tis my modesty,
you know, sir — my modesty that has stood in my way.

Sir Anth. Well, I am glad you are not the dull, insensible
varlet you pretended to be, however! — I'm glad you have made
a fool of your father, you dog — I am. So this was your penitence,
your duty and obedience/ — I thought it was damned sudden! —
You never heard their names before, not you ! — what, the Languishes
of Worcestershire, hey? — if you could please me in the affair it was
all you desired! — Ah ! you dissembling villain ! — What ! — \P0inting
to LYDIA] she squints, don't she f — a littte red- haired girl! — hey? —
Why, you hypocritical young rascal ! — I wonder you an't ashamed
to hold up your head !

Abs'. 'Tis with difficulty, sir. — I am confused — very much
confused, as you must perceive.

Mrs. Mai. 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
weather-beaten she-dragon — hey! — O mercy! — was it you that
reflected on my parts of speech?

Abs. Dear sir! my modesty will be overpowered at last, if you
don't assist me — I shall certainly not be able to stand it !

Sir Anth. Come, come, Mrs. Malaprop, we must forget and
forgive; — odds life! matters have taken so clever a turn all of a

56 THE RIVALS. [ACT iv.

sudden, that I could find in my heart to be so good-humouredl
and so gallant! heyl Mrs. Malaprop!

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

Sir Anth. Come, we must leave them together ; Mrs. Mala-
prop, they long to fly into each other's arms, I warrant ! — Jack —
isn't the cheek as I said, hey? — and the eye, you rogue ! — and the
lip — hey ? Come, Mrs. Malaprop, we'll not disturb their tender-
ness— theirs is the time of life for happiness ! — YoutKs the season
made for joy — \Sings\ — heyl — Odds life! I'm in such spirits, — I
don't know what I could not do 1 — Permit me, ma'am — [Gives his
hand to Mrs. MALAPROP.] Tol-de-rol — 'gad, I should like to
have a little fooling myself — Tol-de-rol ! de-rol.

[Exit, singing and handing Mrs. MALAPROP. — LYDIA sits
sullenly in her chair.

Abs. [Aside.'] So much thought bodes me no good. — [Aloud.]
So grave, Lydia 1

Lyd. Sirl

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

Lyd. Friends' consent indeed ! [Peevishly.

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

Abs. Oh, my love ! be not so unkind !— thus let me entreat

[Kneeling.

Lyd. Psha ! — what signifies kneeling, when you know I must
have you ?

Abs. [Rising.'} Nay, madam, there shall be no constraint upon
your inclinations, I promise you. — If I have lost your heart — I
resign the rest — [Aside.] 'Gad, I must try what a little spirit will do.

Lyd. [Rising] Then, sir, let me tell you, the interest you had
there was acquired by a mean, unmanly imposition, and deserves the
punishment of fraud. — What, you have been treating me like a child !
— humouring my romance ! and laughing, I suppose, at your success !

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

Lvd. So, while I fondly imagined we were deceiving my
relations, and flattered myself that I should outwit and incense

sc. ii.] THE RIVALS. 57

them all — behold my hopes are to be crushed at once, by my
aunt's consent and approbation — and I am myself the only dupe at
last ! — [Walking about in a heat.] But here, sir, here is the
picture — Beverlcy's picture ! — [taking a miniature from her bosom]
which I have worn, night and day, in spite of threats and
entreaties ! — There, sir [flings it to him] ; and be assured I throw
the original from my heart as easily.

Abs. Nay, nay, ma'am, we will not differ as to that. — Here,
{taking out a picture] here is Miss Lydia Languish. — What a
difference ! — ay, there is the heavenly assenting smile that first
gave soul and spirit to my hopes ! — those are the lips which sealed
a vow, as yet scarce dry in Cupid's calendar ! and there the half-
resentful blush, that would have checked the ardour of my thanks !
— Well, all that's past — all over indeed ! — There, madam — in
beauty, that copy is not equal to you, but in my mind its merit
over the original, in being still the same, is such — that — I cannot
find in my heart to part with it [Puts it up again.

Lyd. [Softening] 'Tis your own doing, sir — I, I, I suppose
you are perfectly satisfied.

Abs. Oh, most certainly — sure, now, this is much better than
being in love ! — ha 1 ha ! ha ! — there's some spirit in this I — What
signifies breaking some scores of solemn promises : — all that's of
no consequence, you know. — To be sure people will say, that miss
don't know her own mind — but never mind that ! Or, perhaps,
they may be ill-natured enough to hini, that the gentleman grew
tired of the lady and forsook her — but don't let that fret you.

Lyd. There is no bearing his insolence. [Bursts into tears.

Re-enter Mrs. MALAPROP and Sir ANTHONY ABSOLUTE.

Mrs. Mai. Come, we must interrupt your billing and cooing
awhile.

Lyd. This is worse than your treacheiy and deceit, you base
ingrate ! [Sobbing.

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

Abs. Ask the lady, sir.

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

Lyd. Ask the gentleman, ma'am.

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

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

58 THE RIVALS. [ACT iv.

Abs. You'll not let me speak — I say the lady can account for
this much better than I can.

Lyd. Ma'am, you once commanded me never to think of
Beverley again — there is the man — I now obey you : for, from this
moment, I renounce him for ever. {Exit.

Mrs. Mai. O mercy ! and miracles 1 what a turn here is — why
sure, captain, you haven't behaved disrespectfully to my niece.

Sir Anth. Ha ! ha ! ha ! — ha ! ha 1 ha !— now I see it. Ha !
ha ! ha ! — now I see it — you have been too lively, Jack.

Abs. Nay, sir, upon my word

Sir Anth. Come, no lying, Jack — I'm sure 'twas so.

Mrs. Mai. O Lud 1 Sir Anthony 1 — O fy, captain !

Abs. Upon my soul, ma'am

Sir Anth. Come, no excuses, Jack ; why, your father, you
rogue, was so before you : — the blood of the Absolutes was always
impatient. — Ha! ha! ha! poor little Lydial why, you've frightened
her, you dog, you have.

Abs. By all that's good, sir

Sir Anth. Zounds ! say no more, I tell you — Mrs. Malaprop
shall make your peace. — You must make his peace, Mrs. Malaprop :
— you must tell her 'tis Jack's way — tell her 'tis all our ways — it
runs in the blood of our family ! — Come away, Jack — Ha! ha! ha!
Mrs. Malaprop — a young villain 1 \Pushing him out.

Mrs. Mai. O ! Sir Anthony ! — O fy, captain !

\Exeunt severally.

SCENE III.— THE NORTH PARADE.
Enter Sir Lucius O'TRIGGER.

Sir Luc. I wonder where this Captain Absolute hides himself!
Upon my conscience ! these officers are always in one's way in
love affairs: — I remember I might have married Lady Dorothy
Carmine, if it had not been for a little rogue of a major, who ran
away with her before she could get a sight of me ! And I wonder
too what it is the ladies can see in them to be so fond of them —
unless it be a touch of the old serpent in 'em, that makes the little
creatures be caught, like vipers, with a bit of red cloth. Ha ! isn't
this the captain coming? — faith it is! — There is a probability of
succeeding about that fellow that is mighty provoking ! Who the
devil is he talking to ? {Steps aside.

Enter CAPTAIN ABSOLUTE.

Abs. \Asidc^\ To what fine purpose I have been plotting ! a
noble reward lor all my schemes, upon my soul ! — a little gipsy ! —

sc. in.] THE RIVALS. 59

I did not think her romance could have made her so damned
absurd either. 'Sdeath, I never was in a worse humour in my life!
— I could cut my own throat, or any other person's, with the
greatest pleasure in the world !

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

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

Sir Luc. That's no reason. For give me leave to tell you, a
man may think an untruth as well as speak one.

Abs. Very true, sir ; but if a man never utters his thoughts,
I should think they might stand a chance of escaping 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 quarrel
with me, I cannot conceive 1

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

Abs. Very well, sir ; I shall certainly not balk your inclina-
tions.— But I should be glad you would please to explain your
motives.

Sir Luc. Pray, sir, be easy ; the quarrel is a very pretty quarrel
as it stands ; we should only spoil it by trying to explain it. How-
ever, 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. We shall
scarcely be interrupted.

Sir Luc. Faith! that same interruption in affairs of this nature
shows very great ill-breeding. I don't know what's the reason, but in
England, if a thing of this kind gets wind, people make such a pother,
that a gentleman can never fight in peace and quietness. How-
ever, if it's the same to you, captain, I should take it as a particular
kindness if you'd let us meet in King's-Mead-Fields, as a little

60 THE RIVALS. [ACT iv.

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

Abs. 'Tis the same to me exactly. A little after six, then, we
will discuss this matter more seriously.

Sir Luc. If you please, sir; there will be very pretty small-
sword light, though it won't do for a long shot. So that matter's
settled, and my mind's at ease 1 [Exit.

Enter FAULKLAND.

Abs. Well met 1 I was going to look for you. O Faulkland I
all the demons of spite and disappointment have conspired against
me ! I'm so vexed, that if I had not the prospect of a resource in
being knocked o' the head by-and-by, I should scarce have spirits
to tell you the cause.

Faulk. What can you mean ? — Has Lydia changed her mind ?
— I should have thought her duty and inclination would now have
pointed to the same object.

Abs. Ay, just as the eyes do of a person who squints: when her
love-eye was fixed on me, t'other, her eye of duty, was finely
obliqued ; but when duty bid her point that the same way, off
t'other turned on a swivel, and secured its retreat with a frown 1

Faulk. But what's the resource you

Abs. Oh, to wind up the whole, a good-natured Irishman here
has — [Mimicking Sir Lucius] — begged leave to have the pleasure
of cutting my throat ; and I mean to indulge him — that's all.

Faulk. Prithee, be serious 1

Abs. 'Tis fact, upon my soul 1 Sir Lucius O'Trigger — you know
him by sight — for some affront, which I am sure I never intended,
has obliged me to meet him this evening at six o'clock: 'tis on
that account I wished to see you ; you must go with me.

Faulk. Nay, there must be some mistake, sure. Sir Lucius
shall explain himself, and I dare say matters may be accom-
modated. But this evening did you say? I wish it had been any
other time.

Abs. Why ? there will be light enough : there will (as Sir
Lucius says) be very pretty small-sword light, though it will not
do :or 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 1

Enter SERVANT, gives FAULKLAND a letter, and exit.
Faulk. Oh, Jack 1 this is from Julia, I dread to open it I I

sc. in.] THE RIVALS. 61

fear it may be to take a last leave ! — perhaps to bid me return her
letters, and restore Oh, how I suffer for my folly 1

Abs. Here, let me see. — [Takes the letter and opens #.] 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 Falkland's own reflections have already upbraided him for
his last unkindness to me, I will not add a word on the subject. I
wish to speak with you as soon as possible. Yours ever and truly,
JULIA. There's stubbornness and resentment for you ! — \Giveshim
the letter.] Why, man, you don't seem one whit the happier at
this !

Faulk. O 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 a but !

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 cold-
ness till wooed to kindness ; and their pardon, like their love,
should " not unsought be won."

Abs. I have not patience to listen to you ! thou'rt incorrigible !
so say no more on the subject. I must go to settle a few matters.
Let me see you before six, remember, at my lodgings. A poor
industrious devil like me, who have toiled, and drudged, and
plotted to gain my ends, and am at last disappointed by other
people's folly, may in pity be allowed to swear and grumble a
little ; but a captious sceptic in love, a slave to fretfulness and
whim, who has no difficulties but of his own creating, is a subject
more fit for ridicule than compassion. [Exit.

Faulk. I feel his reproaches ; yet I would not change this too
exquisite nicety for the gross content with which he tramples on
the thorns of love ! His engaging me in this duel has started an
idea in my head, which I will instantly pursue. I'll use it as the
touchstone of Julia's sincerity and disinterestedness. If her love
prove pure and sterling ore, my name will rest on it with honour;
and once I've stamped it there, I lay aside my doubts for ever 1
But if the dross of selfishness, the alloy of pride, predominate, 'twill
be best to leave her as a toy for some less cautious fool to sigh for !

[Exit.

6a THE RIVALS. [ACT v.

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 Faulk-
land ! — 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
misfortune : had these adverse circumstances arisen from a less
fatal cause, I should have felt strong comfort in the thought that
I could now chase from your bosom every doubt of the warm
sincerity of my love. My heart has long known no other guardian
— I now entrust my person to your honour — we will fly together.
When safe from pursuit, my father's will may be fulfilled — and I
receive a legal claim to be the partner of your sorrows, and ten-
derest comforter. Then on the bosom of your wedded Julia, you
may lull your keen regret to slumbering ; while virtuous love, with
a cherub's hand, shall smooth the brow of upbraiding thought, and
pluck the thorn from compunction.

Faulk. O Julia 1 I am bankrupt in gratitude ! but the time is so
pressing, it calls on you for so hasty a resolution. — Would you not
wish some hours to weigh the advantages you forego, and what
little compensation poor Faulkland can make you beside his soli-
tary love ?

Jul. I ask not a moment. No, Faulkland, I have loved you
for yourself; and if I now, more than ever, prize the solemn
engagement which so long has pledgt-d us to each other, it is
because it leaves no room for hard aspersions on my fame, and
puts the seal of duty to an act of love. But let us not linger.
Perhaps this delay

sc. i.] THE RIVALS. 63

Faulk. 'Twill be better I should not venture out again till dark.
Yet am I grieved to think what numberless distresses will press
heavy on your gentle disposition 1

Jul. Perhaps your fortune may be forfeited by this unhappy
act. — I know not whether 'tis so; but sure that alone can never
make us unhappy. The little I have will be sufficient to support
us ; and exile never should be splendid.

Faulk. Ay, but in such an abject state of life, my wounded
pride perhaps may increase the natural fretfulness of my temper,
till I become a rude, morose companion, beyond your patience to
endure. Perhaps the recollection of a deed my conscience cannot
justify may haunt me in such gloomy and unsocial fits, that I shall
hate the tenderness that would relieve me, break from your arms,
and quarrel with your fondness !

Jul. If your thoughts should assume so unhappy a bent, you
will the more want some mild and affectionate spirit to watch over
and console you : one who, by bearing your infirmities with gentle-
ness and resignation, may teach you so to bear the evils of your
fortune.

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

Jul. Has no such disaster happened as you related ?

Faulk. I am ashamed to own that it was pretended; yet in
pity, Julia, do not kill me with resenting a fault which never can be
repeated : but sealing, this once, my pardon, let me to-morrow, in
the face of Heaven, receive my future guide and monitress, and
expiate my past folly by years of tender adoration.

Jul. Hold, Faulkland ! — that you are free from a crime which
I before feared to name, Heaven knows how sincerely I rejoice!
These are tears of thankfulness for that! But that your cruel
doubts should have urged you to an imposition that has wrung my
heart, gives me now a pang more keen than I can express !

Faulk. By Heavens ! Julia

Jul. Yet hear me. — My father loved you, Faulkland ! and you
preserved the life that tender parent gave me; in his presence I
pledged my hand — joyfully pledged it — where before I had given
my heart. When, soon aiter, I lost that parent, it seemed to me
that Providence had, in Faulkland, shown me whither to transfer
without a pause, my 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 sincer<Y

64 THE RIVALS. [ACT v.

Faulk. I confess it all! yet hear

Jul. After such a year of trial, I might have flattered myself
that I should not have been insulted with a new probation of my
sincerity, as cruel as unnecessary 1 I now see it is not in your
nature to be content or confident in love. With this conviction —
I never will be yours. While I had hopes that my persevering
attention, and unreproaching kindness, might in time reform your
temper, I should have been happy to have gained a dearer
influence over you; but I will not furnish you with a licensed
power to keep alive an incorrigible fault, at the expense of one who
never would contend with you.

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

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

Faulk. She's gone — for ever! — There was an awful resolution
in her manner, that riveted me to my place. — O fool ! — dolt ! —
barbarian ! Cursed as I am, with more imperfections than my
fellow wretches, kind Fortune sent a heaven-gifted cherub to my
aid, and, like a ruffian, I have driven her from my side! — I must
now haste to my appointment. Well, my mind is tuned for such
a scene. I shall wish only to become a principal in it, and reverse
the tale my cursed folly put me upon forging here. — O Love! —
tormentor ! — fiend ! — whose influence, like the moon's, acting on men
of dull souls, makes idiots of them, but meeting subtler spirits,
betrays their course, and urges sensibility to madness 1 [Exit.

Enter LYDIA and MAID.

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

Lyd. Heigh-ho ! Though he has used me so, this fellow runs
strangely in my head. I believe one lecture from my grave cousin
will make me recall him. [Re-enter JULIA.] O Julia, I am come
to you with such an appetite for consolation. — Lud ! child, what's
the matter with you? You have been crying! — I'll be hanged if
that Faulkland has net been tormenting you !

Jul. You mistake the cause of my uneasiness ! — Something has

sc. i.] THE RIVALS. 65

flurried me a little. Nothing that you can guess at — {Aside.} I
would not accuse Faulkland to a sister !

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

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

Lyd. So, then, I see I have been deceived by every one ! But
I don't care — I'll 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 1 There, had I projected
one of the most sentimental elopements ! — so becoming a disguise !
— so amiable a ladder of ropes ! — Conscious moon — four horses
— Scotch parson — with such surprise to Mrs. Malaprop — and such
paragraphs in the newspapers ! — Oh, I shall die with disappoint-
ment !

Jul. I don't wonder at it !

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

Jul. Melancholy indeed !

Lyd. How mortifying, to remember the dear delicious shifts
I used to be put to, to gain half a minute's conversation with this
fellow ! How often have I stole forth, in the coldest night in
January, and found him in the garden, stuck like a dripping
statue ! There would he kneel to me in the snow, and sneeze
and cough so pathetically ! he shivering with cold and I with
apprehension ! and while the freezing blast numbed our joints,
how warmly would he press me to pity his flame, and glew with
mutual ardour ! — Ah, Julia, that was something like being in love.

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

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

888

66 THE RIVALS. [ACT v.

Enter Mrs. MALAPROP, FAG, and DAVID.

Mrs. Mai. So ! so 1 here's fine work ! — here's fine suicide,
parricide, and simulation, going on in the fields ! and Sir Anthony
not to be found to prevent the antistrophe !

Jul. For Heaven's sake, madam, what's the meaning of this ?

Mrs. Mai. That gentleman can tell you — 'twas he enveloped
the affair to me.

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

Fag. Ma'am, I should hold myself very deficient in every
requisite that forms the man of breeding, if I delayed a 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 1

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 1 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 1 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 1 What, Captain Absolute !

Mrs. Mai. Oh, to be sure, you are frightened now !

Jul. But who are with him, sir ?

Fag. As to the rest, ma'am, this gentleman can inform you
better than I.

Jul. Do speak, friend. [To DAVID.

Daw. Look'ee, my lady — by the mass 1 there's mischief going
on. Folks don't use to meet for amusement with fire-arms, fire-
locks, fire-engines, fire-screens, fire-office, and the devil knows
what other crackers beside ! — This, my lady, I say, has an angry
savour.

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

Dav. My poor master— under favour for mentioning him first.

sc. n.] THE RIVALS. 67

You know me, my lady — I am David — and my master of course is,
or was, Squire Acres. Then comes Squire Faulkland.

Jul. Do, ma'am, let us instantly endeavour to prevent mischief.

Mrs, Mai. O fy 1 — it would be very inelegant in us : — we should
only participate things.

Dav. Ah ! do, Mrs. Aunt, save a few lives — they are desperately
given, believe me. — Above all, there is that bloodthirsty Philistine,
Sir Lucius O'Trigger.

Mrs. Mai. Sir Lucius O'Trigger ? O mercy ! have they drawn
poor little dear Sir Lucius into the scrape ? — Why how you stand,
girl 1 you have no more feeling than one of the Derbyshire petri-
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 1 this gentleman will exhort us. — Come,
sir, you're our envoy — lead the way, and we'll precede.

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

Mrs. Mai. You're sure you know the spot ?

Fag. I think I can find it, ma'am ; and one good thing is, we
shall hear the report of the pistols as we draw near, so we can't
well miss them ; — never fear, ma'am, never fear.

[Exeunt, he talking.

SCENE II.— THE SOUTH PARADE.

Enter CAPTAIN ABSOLUTE, putting his sword under his great-
coat.

Ads. 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 1 here's Sir Anthony ! how shall I escape him ?

[Muffles up his face, and takes a circle to go off.

Enter Sir ANTHONY ABSOLUTE.

Sir Anth. How one may be deceived at a little distance ! Only
that I see he don't know me, I could have sworn that was Jack ! —
Hey! Gad's life! it is. — Why, Jack, what are you afraid of?
hey 1 — sure I'm right — Why Jack, Jack Absolute !

{Goes up to him.

Abs. Really, sir, you have the advantage of me :— I don't

C8 THE RIVALS. [ACT v.

remember ever to have had the honour — my name is Saunderson,
at your service.

Sir Anth. Sir, I beg your pardon — I took you — hey ? — why,
zounds ! it is — Stay — \Looks up to his face.] So, 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 ? — rather chilly somehow : — but I shall
be late — I have a particular engagement.

Sir Anth. Stay ! — Why, I thought you were looking for me ? —
Pray, Jack, where is't you are going ?

Abs. Going, sir?

Sir Anth. Ay, where are you going?

Abs. Where am I going ?

Sir Anth. You unmannerly puppy !

Abs. I was going, sir, to — to — to — to Lydia — sir, to Lydia —
to make matters up if I could ; — and I was looking for you, sir,
to— to

Sir Anth. To go with you, I suppose. — Well, come along.

Abs. Oh 1 zounds ! no, sir, not for the world ! — I wished to

meet with you, sir, — to — to — to You find it cool, I'm sure, sir

— you'd better not stay out.

Sir Anth. Cool ! — not at all. — Well, Jack — and what will you
say to Lydia ?

Abs. Oh, sir, beg her pardon, humour her — promise and vow:
but I detain you, sir — consider the cold air on your gout.

Sir Anth. Oh, not at all ! — not at all ! I'm in no hurry. — Ah 1
Jack, you youngsters, when once you are wounded here [Puffing
his hand to CAPTAIN ABSOLUTE'S breast.'] Hey! what the deuce
have you got here ?

Abs. Nothing, sir — nothing !

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

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

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

Abs. Ha ! ha 1 ha ! — I thought it would divert you, sir, though
I didn't mean to tell you till afterwards.

Sir Anth. You didn't? — Yes, this is a very diverting trinket, truly 1

Abs. Sir, I'll explain to you. — You know, sir, Lydia is romantic,
devilish romantic, and very absurd of course : now, sir, I intend,

sc. HI.] THE RIVALS. 69

if she refuses to forgive me, to unsheath this sword, and swear —
I'll fall upon its point, and expire at her feet !

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

Abs. Well, sir, you shall hear of my success — you shall hear. —
O Lydia .'—forgive me, 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!
Murder ! Fire !

Sir Anth. Fire ! Murder ! — Where ?

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

Sir Anth. Zounds ! the fellow's mad ? — Stop whom ? stop
Jack?

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

Sir Anth. Murder!

Dav. Ay, please you, Sir Anthony, there's all kinds of murder,
all sorts of slaughter to be seen in the fields : there's fighting going
on, sir — bloody sword-and-gun fighting !

Sir Anth. Who are going to fight, dunce ?

Dav. Everybody that 1 know of, Sir Anthony; — everybody is
going to fight, my poor master, Sir Lucius O'Trigger, your son, the
captain

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

Dav. Kfng's-Mead-Fields.

Sir Anth. You know the way?

Dav. Not an inch ; but I'll call the mayor — aldermen — con-
stables— churchwardens — and beadles — we can't be too many to
part them.

Sir Anth. Come along — give me your shoulder ! we'll get
assistance as we go— the lying villain ! — Well, I shall be in such a
frenzy ! — So — this was the history of his trinkets ! I'll bauble
him ! \Exeunt.

SCENE III.— KlNG'S-MEAD-FlELDS.

Enter Sir Lucius O'TRIGGER and ACRES, -with pistols.

Acres. By my valour ! then, Sir Lucius, forty yards is a good
distance. Odds levels and aims ! — I say it is a good distance.

70 THE RIVALS. [ACT v.

Sir Luc. Is it for muskets or small field-pieces ? Upon my
conscience, Mr. Acres, you must leave those things to me. — Stay
now — I'll show you. — [Measures paces along the stage.] There
now, that is a very pretty distance — a pretty gentleman's distance.

Acres. Zounds ! we might as well fight in a sentry-box 1 I tell
you, Sir Lucius, the farther he is off, the cooler I shall take my aim.

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

Acres. No, Sir Lucius; but I should think forty or eight-and-
thirty yards

Sir Luc. Pho ! pho ! nonsense 1 three or four feet between the
mouths of your pistols is as good as a mile !

Acres. Odds bullets, no 1 — by my valour 1 there is no merit in
killing him so near : do, my dear Sir Lucius, let me bring him
down at a long shot i — a long shot, Sir Lucius, if you love me !

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

Acres. I am much obliged to you, Sir Lucius — but I don't
understand

Sir Luc. Why, you may think there's no being shot at without a
little risk — and if an unlucky bullet should carry a quietus with it — I
say it will be no time then to be bothering you about family matters.

Acres. A quietus !

Sir Luc. For instance, now — if that should be the case — would
you choose to be pickled and sent home? — or would it be the same
to you to lie here in the Abbey? — I'm told there is very snug lying
in the Abbey.

Acres. Pickled ! — Snug lying in the Abbey !— Odds tremors 1
Sir Lucius, don't talk so 1

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

Acres. No, Sir Lucius, never before.

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

Acres. Odds files ! — I've practised that — there, Sir Lucius —
there.— {Puts hi it: self in an attitude.'] A side-front, hey? Odd!
I'll make myself small enough: I'll stand edgeways.

Sir Luc. Now — you're quite out — for if you stand so when I
take my aim [Levelling at him.

Acres. Zounds 1 Sir Lucius — are you sure it is not cocked?

Sir Luc. Never fear.

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

sc. in.] THE RIVALS. 71

Sir Luc. Pho 1 be easy. — Well, now if I hit you in the body,
my bullet has a double chance — for if it misses a vital part of your
right side — 'twill be very hard if it don't succeed on the left !

Acres. A vital part I

Sir Luc. But, there — fix yourself so — {Placing him"] — let him
see the broad-side of your full front — there — now a ball or two may
pass clean through your body, and never do any harm at all.

Acres. Clean through me ! — a ball or two clean through me 1

Sir Luc. Ay — may they — and it is much the genteelest attitude
into the bargain.

Acres. Look'ee ! Sir Lucius — I'd just as lieve be shot in an
awkward posture as a genteel one ; so, by my valour ! I will stand
edgeways.

Sir Luc. [Looking at his watch.~\ Sure they don't mean to dis-
appoint us — Hah ! — no, faith — I think I see them coming.

Acres. Hey ! — what ! — coming !

Sir Luc. Ay. — Who are those yonder getting over the stile?

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

Sir Luc. Run !

Acres. No — I say — we won't run, by my valour !

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

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

Sir Luc. O fy ! — consider your honour.

Acres. Ay — true — my honour. Do, Sir Lucius, edge in a word
or two every now and then about my honour.

Sir Luc. Well, here they're coming. [Looking.

Acres. Sir Lucius — if I wa'n't with you, I should almost think
I was afraid. — If my valour should leave me ! — Valour will come
and go.

Sir Luc. Then pray keep it fast, while you have it.

Acres. Sir Lucius— I doubt it is going— yes— my valour is
certainly going! — it is sneaking off! — I feel it oozing out as it
were at the palms of my hands !

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

Acres. 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,
Captain Absolute ! — So .1 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

72 THE RIVALS. [ACT v.

Acres. What, Jack ! — my dear Jack ! — my dear friend !

Abs. Hark'ee, Bob, Beverley's at hand.

Sir Luc. Well, Mr. Acres — I don't blame your saluting the
gentleman civilly. [To FAULKLAND.] So, Mr. Beverley, if you'll
choose your weapons, the captain and I will measure the ground.

Faulk. My weapons, sir !

Acres. Odds life ! Sir Lucius, I'm not going to fight Mr.
Faulkland ; these are my particular friends.

Sir Luc. What, sir, did you not come here to fight Mr. Acres?

Faulk. Not I, upon my word, sir.

Sir Luc. Well, now, that's mighty provoking ! But I hope,
Mr. Faulkland, as there are three of us come on purpose for the
game, you won't be so 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 ; — I'll bear my disappointment
like a Christian. — Look'ee, Sir Lucius, there's no occasion at all for
me to fight ; and if it is the same to you, I'd as lieve let it alone.

Sir Luc. Observe me, Mr. Acres — I must not be trifled with.
You have certainly challenged somebody — and you came here to
fight him. Now, if that gentleman is willing to represent him — I
can't see, for my soul, why it isn't just the same thing.

Acres. Why no — Sir Lucius — I tell you 'tis one Beverley I've
challenged — a fellow, you see, that dare not show his face ! — If he
were here, I'd make him give up his pretensions directly !

Abs. Hold, Bob — let me set you right — there is no such man
as Beverley in the case. — The person who assumed that name is
before you ; and as his pretensions are the same in both characters,
he is ready to support them in whatever way you please.

Sir Luc. Well, this is lucky. — Now you have an opportunity

Acres. What, quarrel with my dear friend, Jack Absolute ? —
not if he were fifty Beverleys ! Zounds ! Sir Lucius, you would not
have me so unnatural.

Sir Luc. Upon my conscience, Mr. Acres, your valour has
oozed away with a vengeance !

Acres. Not in the least ! Odds backs and abettors ! I'll be
your second with all my heart — and if you should get a quietus,
you may command me entirely. I'll get you snug 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 ! pho ! you are little better than a coward.

Acres. Mind, gentlemen, he calls me a coward ; coward was
the word, by my valour !

sc. HI.] THE RIVALS. 73

Sir Luc. Well, sir?

Acres. Look'ee, Sir Lucius, 'tisn't that I mind the word coward
— coward may be said in joke — But if you had called me a
poltroon, odds daggers and balls

Sir Luc. Well, sir?

Acres. I should have thought you a very ill-bred man.

Sir Luc. Pho ! you are beneath my notice.

Ads. 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 — \praws 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,
LYDIA, and JULIA.

Dav. Knock 'em all down, sweet Sir Anthony ; knock down my
master in particular ; and bind his hands over to their good
behaviour!

Sir Anth. Put up. Jack, put up, or I shall be in a frenzy — how
came you in a duel, sir?

Abs. Faith, sir, that gentleman can tell you better than I ; 'twas
he called on me, and you know, sir, I serve his majesty.

Sir Anth. Here's a pretty fellow ; I catch him going to cut a
man's throat, and he tells me he serves his majesty ! — Zounds !
sirrah, then how durst you draw the king's sword against one of his
subjects ?

Abs. Sir ! I tell you, that gentleman called me out, without
explaining his reasons.

Sir Anth. Gad ! sir, how came you to call my son out, without
explaining your reasons ?

Sir Luc. Your son, sir, insulted me in a manner which my
honour could not brook.

Sir Anth. Zounds ! Jack, how durst you insult the gentleman
in a manner which his honour could not brook ?

Mrs. Mai. Come, come, let's have no honour before ladies —
Captain Absolute, come here — How could you intimidate us so? —
Here's Lydia has been terrified to death for you.

Abs. For fear I should be killed, or escape, ma'am ?

74 THE RIVALS. [ACT v.

Mrs. Mai. Nay, no delusions to the past — Lydia is convinced;
speak, child.

Sir Luc. With your leave, ma'am, I must put in a word here :
I believe I could interpret the young lady's silence. Now
mark

Lyd. What is it you mean, sir ?

Sir Luc. Come, come, Delia, we must be serious now — this is
no time for trifling.

Lyd. 'Tis true, sir ; and your reproof bids me offer this gentle-
man my hand, and solicit the return of his affections.

Abs. O 1 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 honoured with her approbation, I will support
my claim against any man whatever.

Sir Anth. Well said, Jack, and I'll 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 valour ! I'll live a bachelor.

Sir Luc. Captain, give me your hand : an affront handsomely
acknowledged becomes an obligation ; and as for the lady, if she

chooses to deny her own handwriting, here

[ Takes out letters.

Mrs. Mai. Oh, he will dissolve my mystery ! — Sir Lucius,
perhaps there's some mistake — perhaps I can illuminate

Sir Luc. Pray, old gentlewoman, don't interfere where you
have no business. — Miss Languish, are you my Delia, or
not?

Lyd. Indeed, Sir Lucius, I am not.

[ Walks aside with CAPTAIN ABSOLUTE.

Mrs. Mai. Sir Lucius OTrigger — ungrateful as you are — I
own the soft impeachment — pardon my blushes, I am Delia.

Sir Luc. You Delia — pho 1 pho 1 be easy.

Mrs. Mai. Why, thou barbarous Vandyke — those letters are
mine — When you are more sensible of my benignity — perhaps I
may be brought to encourage your addresses.

Sir Luc. Mrs. Malaprop, I am extremely sensible of your
condescension ; and whether you or Lucy have put this trick on
me, I am equally beholden to you. — And, to show you I am not
ungrateful, Captain Absolute, since you have taken that lady from
me, I'll give you my Delia into the bargain.

sc. in.] THE RIVALS. 75

Abs. I am much obliged to you, Sir Lucius; but here's my
friend, Fighting Bob, unprovided for.

Sir Luc. Hah ! little Valour — here, will you make your fortune?

Acres. Odds wrinkles ! No. — But give me your hand, Sir
Lucius, forget and forgive ; but if ever I give you a chance of
pickling me again, say Bob Acres is a dunce, that's all.

Sir Anth. Come, Mrs. Malaprop, don't be cast down — you are
in your bloom yet.

Mrs. Mai. O Sir Anthony — men are all barbarians.

[All retire but JULIA and FAULKLAND.

Jul. [Aside.'] He seems dejected and unhappy— not sullen;
there was some foundation, however, for the tale he told me — O
woman! how true should be your judgment, when your resolution
is so weak !

Faulk. Julia ! — how can I sue for what I so little deserve ? I
dare not presume — yet Hope is the child of Penitence.

Jul. Oh! Faulkland, you have not been more faulty in your
unkind treatment of me, than I am now in wanting inclination to
resent it As my heart honestly bids me place my weakness to
the account of love, I should be ungenerous not to admit the same
plea for yours.

Faulk. Now I shall be blest indeed !

Sir Anth. {coming forward'}. What's going on here ? — So you
have been quarrelling too, I warrant 1 Come, Julia, I never
interfered before; but let me have a hand in the matter at last. —
All the faults I have ever seen in my friend Faulkland seemed to
proceed from what he calls the delicacy and warmth of his
affection for you. — There, marry him directly, Julia; you'll find
he'll mend surprisingly! [The rest come forward.

Sir Luc. Come, now, I hope there is no dissatisfied person,
but what is content; for as I have been disappointed myself, it
will be very hard if I have not the satisfaction of seeing other
people succeed better.

Acres. You are right, Sir Lucius. — So Jack, I wish you joy —
Mr. Faulkland the same. — Ladies, — come now, to show you I'm
neither vexed nor angry, odds tabors and pipes ! I'll order the
fiddles in half an hour to the New Rooms — and I insist on your all
meeting me there.

Sir Anth. 'Gad ! sir, I like your spirit ; and at night we single
lads will drink a health to the young couples, and a husband to
Mrs. Malaprop.

Faulk. Our partners are stolen from us, Jack — I hope to be
congratulated by each other — yours for having checked in time the
errors of an ill-directed imagination, which might have betrayed

76 THE RIVALS. [ACT v.

an innocent heart; and mine, for having, by her gentleness and
candour, re.'ormed 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 I

Lyd. Was always obliged to me for it, hey! Mr. Modesty?

But, come, no more of that — our happiness is now as unalloyed as
general.

Jul. Then let us study to preserve it so: and while Hope
pictures to us a flattering scene of future bliss, let us deny its
pencil those colours which are too bright to be lasting. — When
hearts deserving happiness would unite their fortunes, Virtue
would crown them with an unfading garland of modest hurtless
flowers; but ill-judging Passion will force the gaudier rose into the
wreath, whose thorn offends them when its leaves are dropped !

\Exeunt onines.

EPILOGUE.

BY THE AUTHOR.
SPOKEN BY MRS. BULKLEY.

LADIES, for you — I heard our poet say —

He'd try to coax some moral from his play:

" One moral's plain," cried I, "without more fuss;

Man's social happiness all rests on us:

Through all the drama — whether damn'd or not —

Love gilds the scene, and women guide the plot.

From every rank obedience is our due —

D'ye doubt ? — The world's great stage shall prove it true/

The cit, well skill'd to shun domestic strife,
Will sup abroad; but first he'll ask his wife:
John Trot, his friend, for once will do the same,
But then — he'll just step home to tell 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.

The jolly toper chides each tardy blade,
Till reeling Bacchus calls on Love for aid:

THE RIVALS. 77

Then with each toast he sees fair bumpers swim,
And kisses Chloe on the sparkling brim !

Nay, I have heard that statesmen — great and wise —
Will sometimes counsel with a lady's eyes !
The servile suitors watch her various face,
She smiles preferment, or she frowns disgrace,
Curtsies a pension here — there nods a place.

Nor with less awe, in scenes of humbler life,
Is view'd the mistress, or is heard the wife.
The poorest peasant of the poorest soil,
The child of poverty, and heir to toil,
Early from radiant Love's impartial light
Steals one small spark to cheer this world of night:
Dear spark ! that oft through winter's chilling woes
Is all the warmth his little cottage knows !

The wandering tar, who not for years has press'd
The widow'd partner of his day of rest,
On the cold deck, far from her arms removed,
Still hums the ditty which his Susan loved;
And while around the cadence rude is blown,
The boatswain whistles in a softer tone.

The soldier, fairly proud of wounds and toil,
Pants for the triumph of his Nancy's smile;
But ere the battle should he list her cries,
The lover trembles — and the hero dies !
That heart, by war and honour steel'd to fear,
Droops on a sigh, and sickens at a tear !

But ye more cautious, ye nice-judging few,
Who give to beauty only beauty's due,
Though friends to love — ye view with deep regret
Our conquests marr'd, our triumphs incomplete,
Till polish'd wit more lasting charms disclose,
And judgment fix the darts which beauty throws !
In female breasts did sense and merit rule,
The lover's mind would ask no other school ;
Shamed into sense, the scholars of our eyes,
Our beaux from gallantry would soon be wise;
Would gladly light, their homage to improve,
The lamp of knowledge at the torch of love 1

ST. PATRICK'S DAY.

DRAMATIS PERSONS,

AS ORIGINALLY ACTED AT COVENT GARDEN THEATRE IN 1775.

LIEUTENANT O'CONNOR . Mr. Clinch.
DOCTOR ROSY . . Mr. Quick.

JUSTICE CREDULOUS
SERJEANT TROUNCE
CORPORAL FLINT .

. Mr. Lee Lewes.
. Mr. Booth.

LAURETTA . . . Mm. Cargill.
MRS. BRIDGET CRE- ;

} Mrs. Pitt.

Drummer, Soldiers, Countrymen, and
Servant.

SCENE— A TOWN IN ENGLAND.

ST. PATRICK'S DAY;

OR,

THE SCHEMING LIEUTENANT.
A FARCE.

ACT I.
SCENE I. — LIEUTENANT O'CONNOR'S LODGINGS.

Enter SERJEANT TROUNCE, CORPORAL FLINT, and four
SOLDIERS.

ist Sol. I say you are wrong ; we should all speak together,
each for himself, and all at once, that we may be heard the
better.

2nd Sol. Right, Jack, we'll argue in platoons.

yd Sol. Ay, ay, let him have our grievances in a volley,
and if we be to have a spokesman, there's the corporal is the
lieutenant's countryman, and knows his humour.

Flint. Let me alone for that. I served three years, within a
bit, under his honour, in the Royal Inniskillions, and I never will
see a sweeter-tempered gentleman, nor one more free with his
purse. I put a great shammock in his hat this morning, and I'll
be bound for him he'll wear it, was it as big as Steven's Green.

&tth Sol. I say again then you talk like youngsters, like militia
striplings : there's a discipline, look'ee, in all things, whereof the
serjeant must be our guide ; he's a gentleman of words ; he under-
stands your foreign lingo, your figures, and such like auxiliaries in
scoring. Confess now for a reckoning, whether in chalk or
writing, ben't he your only man ?

Flint. Why the serjeant is a scholar to be sure, and has the
gift of reading.

Trounce. Good soldiers, and fellow-gentlemen, if you make
me your spokesman, you will show the more judgment ; and let

82 ST. PATRICK'S DAY; OR, [ACT i.

me alone for the argument. I'll be as loud as a drum, and point
blank from the purpose.

AIL Agreed, agreed.

Flint. Oh, fait ! here comes the lieutenant — Now, serjeant.

Trounce. So then, to order. — Put on your mutiny looks ; every
man grumble a little to himself, and some of you hum the
Deserters March.

Enter LIEUTENANT O'CONNOR.

O'Con. Well, honest lads, what is it you have to complain of?

Sol. Ahem 1 hem !

Trounce. So please your honour, the very grievance of the
matter is this : — Ever since your honour differed with Justice
Credulous, our inn-keepers use us most scurvily. By my halbert,
their treatment is such, that if your spirit was willing to put up
with it, flesh and blood could by no means agree ; so we humbly
petition that your honour would make an end of the matter at
once, by running away with the justice's daughter, or else get us
fresh quarters, — hem ! hem !

O'Con. Indeed ! Pray which of the houses use you ill ?

ist Sol. There's the Red Lion an't half the civility of the old
Red Lion.

-2nd Sol. There's the White Horse, if he wasn't casehardened,
ought to be ashamed to show his face.

O'Con. Very well ; the Horse and the Lion shall answer for it
at the quarter sessions.

Trounce. The two Magpies are civil enough ; but the Angel
uses us like devils, and the Rising Sun refuses us light to go to
bed by.

O'Con. Then, upon my word, I'll have the Rising Sun put
down, and the Angel shall give security for his good behaviour ;
but are you sure you do nothing to quit scores with them ?

Flint. Nothing at all, your honour, unless now and then we
happen to fling a cartridge into the kitchen fire, or put a spatter-
dash or so into the soup ; and sometimes Ned drums up and down
stairs a little of a night.

O'Con. Oh, all that's fair; but hark'ee, lads, I must have no
grumbling on St. Patrick's day ; so here, take this, and divide it
amongst you. But observe me now, — show yourselves men of
spirit, and don't spend sixpence of it in drink.

Trounce. Nay, hang it, your honour, soldiers should never bear
malice ; we must drink St. Patrick's and your honour's health.

All. Oh, damn malice ! St. Patrick's and his honour's by all
means.

sc. i.] THE SCHEMING LIEUTENANT. 83

Flint. Come away, then, lads, and first we'll parade round the
Market-cross, for the honour of King George.

1st Sol. Thank your honour. — Come along ; St Patrick, his
honour, and strong beer for ever 1 \_Exeunt SOLDIERS.

O'Con. Get along, you thoughtless vagabonds ! yet, upon my
conscience, 'tis very hard these poor fellows should scarcely have
bread from the soil they would die to defend.

Enter DOCTOR ROSY.

Ah, my little Dr. Rosy, my Galen a-bridge, what's the news ?

Rosy. All things are as they were, my Alexander ; the justice is
as violent as ever : I felt his pulse on the matter again, and, think-
ing his rage began to intermit, I wanted to throw in the bark of
good advice, but it would not do. He says you and your cut-throats
have a plot upon his life, and swears he had rather see his daughter
in a scarlet fever than in the arms of a soldier.

O'Con. Upon my word the army is very much obliged to him.
Well, then, I must marry the girl first, and ask his consent
afterwards.

Rosy. So, then, the case of her fortune is desperate, hey ?

O'Con. Oh, hang fortune, — let that take its chance ; there is a
beauty in Lauretta's simplicity, so pure a bloom upon her charms.

Rosy. So there is, so there is. You are for beauty as nature
made her, hey ! No artificial graces, no cosmetic varnish, no
beauty in grain, hey !

O'Con. Upon my word, doctor, you are right ; the London
ladies were always too handsome for me ; then they are so
defended, such a circumvallation of hoop, with a breastwork of
whalebone that would turn a pistol-bullet, much less Cupid's
arrows, — then turret on turret on top, with stores of concealed
weapons, under pretence of black pins, — and above all, a standard of
feathers that would do honour to a knight of the Bath. Upon my con-
science, I could as soon embrace an Amazon, armed at all points.

Rosy. Right, right, my Alexander ! my taste to a tittle.

O'Con. Then, doctor, though I admire modesty in women, I
like to see their faces. I am for the changeable rose ; but with one
of these quality Amazons, if their midnight dissipations had left
them blood enough to raise a blush, they have not room enough in
their cheeks to show it. To be sure, bashfulness is a very pretty
thing ; but, in my mind, there is nothing on earth so impudent as
an everlasting blush.

Rosy. My taste, my taste ! — Well, Lauretta is none of these.
Ah ! I never see her but she puts me in mind of my poor dear wife.

O'Con. Ay, faith ; in my opinion she can't do a worse thing.

84 ST. PATRICK'S DAY; OR, [ACT i.

Now he is going to bother me about an old hag that has been dead
these six years I [Aside.

Rosy. Oh, poor Dolly 1 I never shall see her like again ; such
an arm for a bandage — veins that seemed to invite the lancet
Then her skin, smooth and white as a gallipot ; her mouth as large
and not larger than the mouth of a penny phial ; her lips con-
serve of roses ; and then her teeth — none of your sturdy fixtures —
ache as they would, it was but a small pull, and out they came. I
believe I have drawn half a score of her poor dear pearls — \weeps\
— But what avails her beauty? Death has no consideration — one
must die as well as another.

CfCon. [Aside.] Oh, if he begins to moralise

\Takes out his snuff-box.

Rosy. Fair and ugly, crooked or straight, rich or poor — flesh is
grass — flowers fade !

O'Con. Here, doctor, take a pinch, and keep up your spirits.

Rosy. True, true, my friend ; grief can't mend the matter — all's
for the best ; but such a woman was a great loss, lieutenant.

O'Con. To be sure, for doubtless she had mental accomplish-
ments equal to her beauty.

Rosy. Mental accomplishments ! she would have stuffed an
alligator, or pickled a lizard, with any apothecary's wife in the
kingdom. Why, she could decipher a prescription, and invent the
ingredients, almost as well as myself : then she was such a hand at
making foreign waters ! — for Seltzer, Pyrmont, Islington, or Chaly-
beate, she never had her equal ; and her Bath and Bristol springs
exceeded the originals. — Ah, poor Dolly 1 she fell a martyr to her
own discoveries.

O'Con. How so, pray ?

Rosy. Poor soul ! her illness was occasioned by her zeal in
trying an improvement on the Spa-water, by an infusion of rum
and acid.

O'Con. Ay, ay, spirits never agree with water-drinkers.

Rosy. No, no, you mistake. Rum agreed with her well enough ;
it was not the rum that killed the poor dear creature, for she died of
a dropsy. Well, she is gone, never to return, and has left no pledge
of our loves behind. No little babe, to hang like a label round
papa's neck. Well, well, we are all mortal — sooner or later — flesh
is grass — flowers fade.

O'Con. Oh, the devil 1 — again 1 [Aside.

Rosy. Life's a shadow — the world a stage — we strut an hour.

O'Con. Here, doctor. {Offers snuff.

Rosy. True, true, my friend : well, high grief can't cure it.
All's for th£ best, hey 1 my little Alexander ?

sc. IL] THE SCHEMING LIEUTENANT. 85

O'Con. Right, right ; an apothecary should never be out of
spirits. But come, faith, 'tis time honest Humphrey should wait
on the justice ; that must be our first scheme.

Rosy. True, true ; you should be ready : the clothes are at my
house, and I have given you such a character that he is impatient
to have you : he swears you shall be his body-guard. Well, I
honour the army, or I should never do so much to serve you.

O'Con. Indeed I am bound to you for ever, doctor ; and when
once I'm possessed of my dear Lauretta, I will endeavour to make
work for you as fast as possible.

Rosy. Now you put me in mind of my poor wife again.

O'Con. Ah, pray forget her a little : we shall be too late.

Rosy. Poor Dolly !

O'Con. 'Tis past twelve.

Rosy. Inhuman dropsy !

O'Con. The justice will wait.

Rosy. Cropped in her prime.

O'Con. For heaven's sake, come J

Rosy. Well, flesh is grass.

O'Con. Oh, the devil 1

Rosy. We must all die

O'Con. Doctor !

Rosy. Kings, lords, and common whores

\Exeunt, LIEUTENANT O'CONNOR_/0>-«V7£-ROSY ojf.

SCENE IL— A ROOM IN JUSTICE CREDULOUS' HOUSE.

Enter LAURETTA and Mrs. BRIDGET CREDULOUS.

Lau. I repeat it again, mamma, officers are the prettiest men
in the world, and Lieutenant O'Connor is the prettiest officer I
ever saw.

Mrs. Bri. For shame, Laura ! how can you talk so ? — or if you
must have a military man, there's Lieutenant Plow, or Captain
Haycock, or Major Dray, the brewer, are all your admirers ; and
though they are peaceable, good kind of men, they have as large
cockades, and become scarlet as well as the fighting folks.

Lau. Psha 1 you know, mamma, I hate militia officers ; a set
of dunghill cocks with spurs on — heroes scratched off a church door
— clowns in military masquerade, wearing the dress without sup-
porting the character. No, give me the bold upright youth, who
makes love to-day, and his head shot off to-morrow. Dearl to
think how the sweet fellows sleep on the ground, and fight in silk
stockings and lace ruffles.

86 ST. PATRICK'S DAY; OR, [ACT i.

Mrs Bri. Oh, barbarous ! to want a husband that may wed
you to-day, and be sent the Lord knows where before night; then
in a twelvemonth perhaps to have him come like a Colossus, with
one leg at New York and the other at Chelsea Hospital.

Lau. Then I'll be his crutch, mamma.

Mrs. Bri. No, give me a husband that knows where his limbs
are, though he want the use of them: — and if he should take you
with him, to sleep in a baggage-cart, and stroll about the camp like
a gipsy, with a knapsack and two children at your back; then, by
way of entertainment in the evening, to make a party with the
sergeant's wife to drink bohea tea, and play at all-fours on a drum-
head:— 'tis a precious life, to be sure!

Lau. Nay, mamma, you shouldn't be against my lieutenant, for
I heard him say you were the best natuied and best looking woman
in the world.

Mrs. Bri. Why, child, I never said but that Lieutenant
O'Connor was a very well-bred and discerning young man ; 'tis
your papa is so violent against him.

Lau. Why, Cousin Sophy married an officer.

Mrs. Bri. Ay, Laury, an officer in the militia.

Lau. No, indeed, mamma, a marching regiment.

Mrs. Bri. No, child, I tell you he was a major of militia.

Lau. Indeed, mamma, it wasn't

Enter JUSTICE CREDULOUS.

Just. Bridget, my love, I have had a message.
Lau. It was Cousin Sophy told me so.

Just. I have had a message, love

Mrs. Bri. No, child, she would say no such thing.
Just. A message, I say.

Lau. How could he be in the militia, when he was ordered
abroad ?

Mrs. Bri. Ay, girl, hold your tongue! — Well, my dear.
Just. I have had a message from Doctor Rosy.
Mrs. Bri. He ordered abroad 1 He went abroad for his health.

Just. Why, Bridget!

Mrs. Bri. Well, deary. — Now hold your tongue, miss.

Just. A message from Doctor Rosy, and Doctor Rosy says

Lau. I'm sure, mamma, his regimentals

Just. Damn his regimentals ! — Why don't you listen ?
Mrs. Bri. Ay, girl, how durst you interrupt your papa?
Lau. Well, papa.

Just. Doctor Rosy says he'll bring

Lau. Were blue turned up with red, mamma.

sc. ii.] THE SCHEMING LIEUTENANT. 87

Just. Laury ! — says he will bring the young man

Mrs. Bri. Red ! yellow, if you please, miss.

Just. Bridget ! — the young man that is to be hired

Mrs. Bri. Besides, miss, it is very unbecoming in you to want
to have the last word with your mamma; you should know

Just. Why, zounds ! will you hear me or no ?

Mrs. Bri. I am listening, my love — I am listening ! — But what
signifies my silence, what good is my not speaking a word, if this
girl will interrupt and let nobody speak but herself? — Ay, I don't
wonder, my life, at your impatience ; your poor dear lips quiver to
speak ; but I suppose she'll run on, and not let you put in a word.
—You may very well be angry; there is nothing, sure, so pro-
voking as a chattering, talking

Lau. Nay, I'm sure, mamma, it is you will not let papa speak now.

Mrs. Bri. Why, you little provoking minx

Just. Get out of the room directly, both of you — get out!

Mrs. Bri. Ay, go, girl.

Jiist. Go, Bridget, you are worse than she, you old hag. I wish
you were both up to the neck in the canal, to argue there till I took
you out.

Enter SERVANT.

Ser. Doctor Rosy, sir.

Just. Show him up. \Exit SERVANT.

Lau, Then you own, mamma, it was a marching regiment?

Mrs. Bri. You're an obstinate fool, I tell you; for if that had
been the case

Just. You won't go ?

Mrs. Bri. We are going, Mr. Surly. — If that had been the case,
I say, how could

Lau. Nay, mamma, one proof

Mrs. Bri. How could Major

Lau. And a full proof

[JUSTICE CREDULOUS drives them off.

Just. There they go, ding dong in for the day. Good lack ! a
fluent tongue is the only thing a mother don't like her daughter to
resemble her in.

Enter DOCTOR ROSY.

Well, doctor, where's the lad— where's Trusty?

Rosy. At hand; he'll be here in a minute, I'll answer for't.
He's such a one as you an't met with, — brave as a lion, gentle as a
saline draught.

Just. Ah, he ccmes in the place of a rogue, a dog that was

88 ST. PATRICK'S DAY; OR, [ACT i.

corrupted by the lieutenant But this is a sturdy fellow, is he,
doctor ?

Rosy. As Hercules ; and the best back-sword in the country.
Egad, he'll make the red-coats keep their distance.

Just. O the villains ! this is St. Patrick's day, and the rascals
have been parading my house all the morning. I know they have
a design upon me ; but I have taken all precautions : I have
magazines of arms, and if this fellow does but prove faithful, I shall
be more at ease.

Rosy. Doubtless he'll be a comfort to you.

Re-enter SERVANT.

Ser. There is a man below, sir, inquires for Doctor Rosy.

Rosy. Show him up.

Just. Hold ! a little caution — How does he look?

Ser. A country-looking fellow, your worship.

Just. Oh, well, well, for Doctor Rosy; these rascals try all ways
to get in here.

Ser. Yes, please your worship ; there was one here this
morning wanted to speak to you: he said his name was Corporal
Breakbones.

Just. Corporal Breakbones !

Ser. And drummer Crackskull came again.

Just. Ayl did you ever hear of such a damned confounded
crew? Well, show the lad in here I {Exit SERVANT.

Rosy. Ay, he'll be your porter ; he'll give the rogues an answer.

Enter LIEUTENANT O'CONNOR, disguised.

fust. So, a tall — Efacks I what ! has lost an eye?

Rosy. Only a bruise he got in taking seven or eight high-
waymen.

Just. He has a damned wicked leer somehow with the other.

Rosy. Oh no, he's bashful — a sheepish look

Just. Well, my lad, what's your name ?

tyCon. Humphrey Hum.

Just. Hum — I don't like Hum !

O'Con. But I be mostly called honest Humphrey

Rosy. There, I told you so, of noted honesty.

Just. Well, honest Humphrey, the doctor has told you my
terms, and you are willing to serve, hey?

O'Con. And please your worship, I shall be well content

Just. Well, then, hark'ye, honest Humphrey, — you are sure
now you will never be a rogue — never take a bribe, hey, honest
Humphrey ?

ACT ii.] THE SCHEMING LIEUTENANT. 89

O1 Con. A bribe! What's that?

Just. A very ignorant fellow indeed I

Rosy. His worship hopes you will never part with your honesty
for money.

O'Con. Noa, noa.

Just. Well said, Humphrey — my chief business with you is to
watch the motions of a rake-helly fellow here, one Lieutenant
O'Connor.

Rosy. Ay, you don't value the eoldiers, do you, Humphrey?

O'Con. Not I ; they are but zwaggerers, and you'll see they'll be
as much afraid of me as they would of their captain.

Just. And i' faith, Humphrey, you have a pretty cudgel there !

O'Con. Ay, the zwitch is better than nothing, but I should be
glad of a stouter: ha' you got such a thing in the house as an old
coach-pole, or a spare bed-post ?

Just. Oons! what a dragon it is! — Well, Humphrey, come with
me. — I'll just show him to Bridget, doctor, and we'll agree. — Come
along, honest Humphrey. \Exit.

O'Con. My dear doctor, now remember to bring the justice
presently to the walk: I have a scheme to get into his confidence
at once.

Rosy. I will, I will. \Theyshakehands.

Re-enter JUSTICE CREDULOUS.

Just. Why, honest Humphrey, hey ! what the devil are you at ?

Rosy. I was just giving him a little advice. — Well, I must go
for the present. — Good morning to your worship — you need not
fear the lieutenant while he is in your house.

Just. Well, get in, Humphrey. Good morning to you, doctor.
— \Exit DOCTOR ROSY.] Come along, Humphrey. — Now I think
I am a match for the lieutenant and all his gang. {.Exeunt.

ACT II.

SCENE I.— A STREET.
Enter SERJEANT TROUNCE, DRUMMER, and SOLDIERS.

Trounce. Come, silence your drum — there is no valour stirring
to-day. I thought St. Patrick would have given us a recruit or
two to-day.

Sol. Mark, Serjeant !

9o ST. PATRICKS DAY; OR, [ACT 11.

Enter Two COUNTRYMEN.

Trounce. Oh ! these are the lads I was looking for ; they have
the looks of gentlemen. — An't you single, my lads ?

I st Coun. Yes, an please you, I be quite single : my relations
be all dead, thank heavens, more or less. I have but one poor
mother left in the world, and she's an helpless woman.

Trounce. Indeed! a very extraordinary case — quite your own
master then — the fitter to serve his Majesty. — Can you read ?

i st Coun. Noa, I was always too lively to take to learning ; but
John here is main clever at it.

Trounce. So, what you're a scholar, friend ?

indCoun. I wasbornso,measter. Feyther kept grammar-school.

Trounce. Lucky man — in a campaign or two put yourself down
chaplain to the regiment And I warrant you have, read of
warriors and heroes ?

•2nd Coun. Yes, that I have : I have read of Jack the Giant-
killer, and the Dragon of Wantly, and the — Noa, I believe that's
all in the hero way, except once about a comet.

Trounce. Wonderful knowledge ! — Well, my heroes, I'll write
word to the king of your good intentions, and meet me half-an-
hour hence at the Two Magpies.

Coun. We will, your honour, we will.

Trounce. But stay; for fear I shouldn't see you again in the
crowd, clap these little bits of ribbon into your hats.

I st Coun. Our hats are none of the best.

Trounce. Well, meet me at the Magpies, and I'll give you
money to buy new ones.

Coun. Bless your honour, thank your honour. [Exeunt.

Trounce. \Winkingat SOLDIERS.] Jack! {Exeunt SOLDIERS.

Enter LIEUTENANT O'CONNOR.

So, here comes one would make a grenadier — Stop, friend, will you
list?

O'Con. Who shall I serve under?

Trounce. Under me, to be sure.

(yCon. Isn't Lieutenant O'Connor your officer ?

Trounce. He is, and I am commander over him.

CfCon. What! be your Serjeants greater than your captains ?

Trounce. To be sure we are ; 'tis our business to keep them in
order. For instance now, the general writes to me, dear Serjeant,
or dear Trounce, or dear Serjeant Trounce, according to his hurry,
if your lieutenant does not demean himself accordingly, let me
know. — Yours, General Deluge.

sc. i.] THE SCHEMING LIEUTENANT, 91

O'Con. And do you complain of him often ?

Trounce. No, hang him, the lad is good-natured at bottom, so
I pass over small things. But hark'ee, between ourselves, he is
most confoundedly given to wenching.

Enter CORPORAL FLINT.

Flint. Please your honour, the doctor is coming this way with
his worship — We are all ready, and have our cues. [Exit.

O'Con. Then, my dear Trounce, or my dear Serjeant, or my
dear Serjeant Trounce, take yourself away.

Trounce. Zounds ! the lieutenant — I smell of the black hole
already. [Exit.

Enter JUSTICE CREDULOUS and DOCTOR ROSY.

Just. I thought I saw some of the cut-throats.

Rosy. I fancy not ; there's no one but honest Humphrey. Ha!
Odds life, here come some of them — we'll stay by these trees, and
let them pass.

Just. Oh, the bloody-looking dogs !

[ Walks aside with DOCTOR ROSY.

Re-enter CORPORAL FLINT and Two SOLDIERS.

Flint. Halloa, friend ! do you serve Justice Credulous ?

O'Con. I do.

Flint. Are you rich ?

a Con. Noa.

Flint. Nor ever will be with that old stingy booby. Look here
— take it. [Gives him a purse.

O'Con. What must I do for this ?

Flint. Mark me, our lieutenant is in love with the old rogue's
daughter : help us to break his worship's bones, and carry off the
girl, and you are a made man.

O'Con. I'll see you hanged first, you pack of skurry villains !

[Throws away the purse.

Flint. What, sirrah, do you mutiny ? Lay hold of him.

O'Con. Nay then, I'll try your armour for you. [Beats them.

All. Oh ! oh ! — quarter ! quarter !

[Exeunt CORPORAL FLINT and SOLDIERS.

Jit st. {.coming foruiara]. Trim them, trounce them, break their
bones, honest Humphrey. — What a spirit he has !

Rosy. Aquafortis.

O'Con. Betray your master !

Rosy. What a miracle of fidelity !

Just. Ay, and it shall not go unrewarded — I'll give him sixpence
on the spot. Here, honest Humphrey, there's for yourself: as for

g2 ST. PATRICK'S DAY; OR, [ACT 11.

this bribe [takes up the purse\ such trash is best in the hands of
justice. Now then, doctor, I think I may trust him to guard the
women : while he is with them I may go out with safety.

Rosy. Doubtless you may — I'll answer for the lieutenant's
behaviour whilst honest Humphrey is with your daughter.

Just. Ay, ay, she shall go nowhere without him. Come along,
honest Humphrey. How rare it is to meet with such a servant !

\Exeunt.

SCENE II.— A GARDEN.

LAURETTA discovered. Enter JUSTICE CREDULOUS and
LIEUTENANT O'CONNOR.

Just. Why, you little truant, how durst you wander so far from
the house without my leave ? Do you want to invite that scoundrel
lieutenant to scale the walls and carry you off?

Lau. Lud, papa, you are so apprehensive for nothing.

Just. Why, hussy

Lau. Well then, I can't bear to be shut up all day so like a nun.
I am sure it is enough to make one wish to be run away with — and I
wish I was run away with — I do — and I wish the lieutenant knew it.

Just. You do, do you, hussy ? Well, I think I'll take pretty
good care of you. Here, Humphrey, I leave this lady in your care.
Now you may walk about the garden, Miss Pert ; but Humphrey
shall go with you wherever you go. So mind, honest Humphrey, I
am obliged to go abroad for a little while ; let no one but yourself
come near her ; don't be shame-faced, you booby, but keep close to
her. And now, miss, let your lieutenant or any of his crew come
near you if they can. [Exit.

Lau. How this booby stares after him 1 \Sits down and sings.

<yCon. Lauretta 1

Lau. Not so free, fellow ! \Sings.

OCon. Lauretta ! look on me.

Lau. Not so free, fellow 1

CfCon. No recollection !

Lau. Honest Humphrey, be quiet

OCon. Have you forgot your faithful soldier ?

Lau. Ah 1 Oh preserve me 1

O'Con. 'Tis, my soul ! your truest slave, passing on your father
in this disguise.

Lau. Well now, I declare this is charming — you are so dis-
guised, my dear lieutenant, and you look so delightfully ugly. I
am sure no one will find you out, ha 1 ha 1 ha ! — You know I am
under your protection ; papa charged you to keep close to me.

sc. n.] THE SCHEMING LIEUTENANT, 93

CfCon, True, my angel, and thus let me fulfil

Lou. O pray now, dear Humphrey

O'Con. Nay, 'tis but what old Mittimus commanded.

\Offers to kiss her.

Re-enter JUSTICE CREDULOUS.

Just. Laury, my — hey ! what the devil's here ?

Lau. Well now, one kiss, and be quiet

Just. Your very humble servant, honest Humphrey ! Don't let
me — pray don't let me interrupt you 1

Lau. Lud, papa 1 Now that's so good-natured — indeed there's
no harm. You did not mean any rudeness, did you, Humphrey ?

O'Con. No, indeed, miss ; his worship knows it is not in
me.

Just. I know that you are a lying, canting, hypocritical
scoundrel ; and if you don't take yourself out of my sight

Lau. Indeed, papa, now I'll tell you how it was. I was some-
time taken with a sudden giddiness, and Humphrey seeing me
beginning to totter, ran to my assistance, quite frightened, poor
fellow, and took me in his arms.

Just. Oh 1 was that all — nothing but a little giddiness, hey ?

O'Con. That's all, indeed, your worship ; for seeing miss change
colour, I ran up instantly.

Just. Oh, 'twas very kind in you !

O'Con. And luckily recovered her.

Just. And who made you a doctor, you impudent rascal, hey?
Get out of my sight, I say, this instant, or by all the statutes

Lau. Oh now, papa, you frighten me, and I am giddy again 1 —
Oh, help 1

O'Con. O dear lady, she'll fall 1 [Takes her into his arms.

Just. Zounds ! what before my face — why then, thou miracle of
impudence ! — [Lays hold of him and discovers him.] — Mercy on
me, who have we here ? — Murder ! Robbery 1 Fire 1 Rape ! Gun-
powder ! Soldiers 1 John 1 Susan 1 Bridget 1

O'Con. Good sir, don't be alarmed ; I mean you no harm.
Just. Thieves ! Robbers ! Soldiers !

O'Con. You know my love for your daughter

Just. Firel Cut-throats 1

O'Con. And that alone

Just. Treason 1 Gunpowder 1

Enter a SERVANT with a blunderbuss.
Now, scoundrel ! let her go this instant.
Lau. O papa, you'll kill me 1

94 ST. PATRICK'S DAY; OR, [ACT 11.

Just. Honest Humphrey, be advised. Ay, miss, this way, if
you please.

O'Con. Nay, sir, but hear me

Just. I'll shoot.

O'Con. And you'll be convinced

Just. I'll shoot.

O'Con. How injurious

Just. I'll shoot — and so your very humble servant, honest
Humphrey Hum. \Exeunt separately.

SCENE III.— A WALK.

Enter DOCTOR ROSY.

Rosy. Well, I think my friend is now in a fair way of succeed-
ing. Ah ! I warrant he is full of hope and fear, doubt and
anxiety ; truly he has the fever of love strong upon him : faint,
peevish, languishing all day, with burning, restless nights. Ah !
just my case when I pined for my poor dear Dolly 1 when she
used to have her daily colics, and her little doctor be sent for.
Then would I interpret the language of her pulse — declare my
own sufferings in my receipt for her — send her a pearl necklace in
a pill-box, or a cordial draught with an acrostic on the label. Well,
those days are over : no happiness lasting : all is vanity — now
sunshine, now cloudy — we are, as it were, king and beggar — then
what avails

Enter LIEUTENANT O'CONNOR.

O'Con. O doctor ! ruined and undone.

Rosy. The pride of beauty

O'Con. I am discovered, and

Rosy. The gaudy palace

O'Con. The justice is

Rosy. The pompous wig

O'Con. Is more enraged than ever.

Rosy. The gilded cane

O'Con. Why, doctor ! [Slapping him on the shoulder.

Rosy. Hey!

O'Con. Confound your morals ! I tell you I am discovered,
discomfited, disappointed.

Rosy. Indeed! Good lack, good lack, to think of the in-
stability of human affairs ! Nothing certain in this world— most
deceived when most confident— fools of fortune all.

O'Con. My dear doctor, I want at present a little practical
wisdom. I am resolved this instant to try the scheme we were

sc. iv.] THE SCHEMING LIEUTENANT. 95

going to put in execution last week. I have the letter ready, and
only want your assistance to recover my ground.

Rosy. With all my heart — I'll warrant you I'll bear a part in it :
but how the deuce were you discovered ?

O'Con. I'll tell you as we go ; there's not a moment to be lost.

Rosy. Heaven send we succeed better ! — but there's no knowing.

O'Con. Very true.

Rosy. We may, and we may not.

O'Con. Right.

Rosy. Time must show.

O'Con. Certainly.

Rosy. We are but blind guessers.

O'Con. Nothing more.

Rosy. Thick-sighted mortals.

O'Con. Remarkably.

Rosy. Wandering in error.

O'Con. Even so.

Rosy. Futurity is dark.

O'Con. As a cellar.

Rosy. Men are moles.

[Exeunt, LIEUTENANT O'CoNNOR/0ra#£- out ROSY.

SCENE IV. — A ROOM IN JUSTICE CREDULOUS' HOUSE.
Enter JUSTICE CREDULOUS and Mrs. BRIDGET CREDULOUS.

Just. Odds life, Bridget, you are enough to make one mad !
I tell you he would have deceived a chief justice : the dog seemed
as ignorant as my clerk, and talked of honesty as if he had been a
churchwarden.

Mrs. Bri. Pho ! nonsense, honesty ! — what had you to do,
pray, with honesty ? A fine business you have made of it with
your Humphrey Hum ; and miss, too, she must have been privy to
it. Lauretta ! ay, you would have her called so ; but for my part I
never knew any good come of giving girls these heathen Christian
names : if you had called her Deborah, or Tabitha, or Ruth, or
Rebecca, or Joan, nothing of this had ever happened ; but I always
knew Lauretta was a runaway name.

Just. Psha, you're a fool !

Mrs. Bri. No, Mr. Credulous, it is you who are a fool, and no
one but such a simpleton would be so imposed on.

Just. Why, zounds, madam, how durst you talk so ? If you
have no respect for your husband, I should think unus quorum
might command a little deference. •

96 ST. PATRICK'S DAY; OR, [ACT 11.

Mrs. Bri. Don't tell me !— Unus fiddlestick ! you ought 10 be
ashamed to show your face at the sessions : you'll be a laughing-
stock to the whole bench, and a byword with all the pig-tailed
lawyers and bag-wigged attorneys about town.

Just. Is this language for his Majesty's representative ? By the
statutes, it's high treason and petty treason, both at once I

Enter SERVANT.

Ser. A letter for your worship.

Just. Who brought it ?

Ser. A soldier.

Just. Take it away and burn it.

Mrs. Bri. Stay 1 — Now you're in such a hurry — it is some cant-
ing scrawl from the lieutenant, I suppose. — [Takes the letter. — Exit
SERVANT.] Let me see : — ay, 'tis signed O'Connor.

Just. Well, come read it out.

Mrs. Bri. [Reads.] Revenge is sweet.

Just. It begins so, does it ? I'm glad of that ; I'll let the dog
know I'm of his opinion.

Mrs. Bri. [Reads.] And though disappointed of my designs
upon your daughter, I have still the satisfaction of knowing I
am revenged on her unnatural father; for this morning, in your
chocolate, I had the pleasure to administer to you a dose of poison. —
Mercy on us I

Just. No tricks, Bridget ; come, you know it is not so ; you
know it is a lie.

Mrs. Bri. Read it yourself.

Just. [Reads.] Pleasure to administer a dose of poison! — Oh,
horrible 1 Cut-throat villain ! — Bridget !

Mrs. Bri. Lovee, stay, here's a postscript. — [Reads.] N.B.
'Tis not in the power of medicine to save you.

Just. Odds my life, Bridget! why don't you call for help?
I've lost my voice. — My brain is giddy — I shall burst, and no
assistance. — John 1 — Laury ! — John !

Mrs. Bri. You see, lovee, what you have brought on yourself.

Re-enter SERVANT.
Ser. Your worship 1

Just. Stay, John ; did you perceive anything in my chocolate
cup this morning ?

Ser. Nothing, your worship, unless it was a little grounds.
Just. What colour were they ?
&er. Blackish, your worship.

sc. iv.] THE SCHEMING LIEUTENANT. 97

Just. Ay, arsenic, black arsenic ! — Why don't you run for
Doctor Rosy, you rascal?

Ser. Now, sir?

Mrs. Bri. Oh lovee, you may be sure it is in vain : let him run
for the lawyer to witness your will, my life.

Just. Zounds ! go for the doctor, you scoundrel. You are all
confederate murderers.

Ser. Oh, here he is, your worship. \Exit.

Just. Now, Bridget, hold your tongue, and let me see if my
horrid situation be apparent

Enter DOCTOR ROSY.

Rosy. I have but just called to inform — hey! bless me, what's
the matter with your worship ?

Just. There, he sees it already ! — Poison in my face, in
capitals ! Yes, yes, I'm a sure job for the undertakers indeed 1

Mrs. Bri. Oh ! oh ! alas, doctor !

Just. Peace, Bridget! — Why, doctor, my dear old friend, do
you really see any change in me ?

Rosy. Change! never was man so altered: how came these
black spots on your nose?

Just. Spots on my nose !

Rosy. And that wild stare in your right eye !

Just. In my right eye !

Rosy. Ay, and alack, alack, how you are swelled 1

Just. Swelled !

Rosy. Ay, don't you think he is, madam ?

Mrs. Bri. Oh, 'tis in vain to conceal it ! — Indeed, lovee, you
are as big again as you were this morning.

Just. Yes, I feel it now — I'm poisoned ! — Doctor, help me, for
the love of justice ! Give me life to see my murderer hanged.

Rosy. What ?

Just. I'm poisoned, I say 1

Rosy. Speak out !

Just. What ! can't you hear me ?

Rosy. Your voice is so low and hollow, as it were, I can't hear
a word you say.

Just. I'm gone then ! — Hicjacet, many years one of his Majesty's
justices 1

Mrs. Bri. Read, doctor!— Ah, lovee, the will !— Consider, my
life, how soon you will be dead.

Just. No, Bridget, I shall die by inches.

Rosy. I never heard such monstrous iniquity. — Oh, you are
gone indeed, my friend ! the mortgage of your little bit of clay is

890

98 ST. PATRICK'S DAY; OR, [ACT 11.

out, and the sexton has nothing to do but to close. We must all
go, sooner or later — high and low — Death's a debt ; his mandamus
binds all alike — no bail, no demurrer.

Just. Silence, Doctor Croaker ! will you cure me or will you
not?

Rosy. Alas ! my dear friend, it is not in my power, but I'll
certainly see justice done on your murderer.

Just. I thank you, my dear friend, but I had rather see it
myself.

Rosy. Ay, but if you recover, the villain will escape.

Mrs. Bri. Will he ? then indeed it would be a pity you should
recover. I am so enraged against the villain, I can't bear the
thought of his escaping the halter.

Just. That's very kind in you, my dear ; but if it's the same
thing to you, my dear, I had as soon recover, notwithstanding. —
What, doctor, no assistance !

Rosy. Efacks, I can do nothing, but there's the German quack,
whom you wanted to send from town ; I met him at the next door,
and I know he has antidotes for all poisons.

Just. Fetch him, my dear friend, fetch him 1 I'll get him a
diploma if he cures me.

Rosy. Well, there's no time to be lost ; you continue to swell
immensely. [Exit.

Mrs. Bri. What, my dear, will you submit to be cured by a
quack nostrum-monger? For my part, as much as I love you, I
had rather follow you to your grave than see you owe your life to
any but a regular-bred physician.

Just. I'm sensible of your affection, dearest ; and be assured
nothing consoles me in my melancholy situation so much as the
thoughts of leaving you behind.

Re-enter DOCTOR ROSY, with LIEUTENANT O'CONNOR disgrtised.

Rosy. Great luck ; met him passing by the door.

CPCon. Metto dowsei pulsum.

Rosy. He desires me to feel your pulse.

Just. Can't he speak English ?

Rosy. Not a word.

CPCon. Palio vivem mortem soonem.

Rosy. He says you have not six hours to live.

Just. O mercy ! does he know my distemper?

Rosy. I believe not.

Just. Tell him 'tis black arsenic they have given me.

Rosy. Geneable illi arsnecca.

O'Con. Pisonatus.

sc. iv.] THE SCHEMING LIEUTENANT. 99

Just. What does he say ?

Rosy. He says you are poisoned.

Just. We know that ; but what will be the effect ?

Rosy. Quid effectum ?

O'Con. Diabie tutellum.

Rosy. He says you'll die presently.

Just. Oh, horrible ! What, no antidote ?

O'Con. Curum benakere bono fulluin.

Just. What, does he say I must row in a boat to Fulham ?

Rosy. He says he'll undertake to cure you for three thousand
pounds.

Airs. Bri. Three thousand pounds ! three thousand halters ! —
No, lovee, you shall never submit to such impositions ; die at
once, and be a customer to none of them.

Just. I won't die, Bridget — I don't like death.

Mrs. Bri. Psha ! there is nothing in it : a moment, and it is
over.

Just. Ay, but it leaves a numbness behind that lasts a plaguy
Ion.? time.

Mrs. Bri. O my dear, pray consider the will.

Enter LAURETTA.

Lau. O my father, what is this I hear ?

O'Con. Quiddam seomriam deos tollam rosam.

Rosy. The doctor is astonished at the sight, of your fair
daughter.
Just. How so ?

O'Con. Damsellum livivum suvum rislibani.

Rosy. He says that he has lost his heart to her, and that if you
will give him leave to pay his addresses to the young lady, and
promise your consent to the union, if he should gain her affections,
he will on those conditions cure you instantly, without fee or
reward.

Just. The devil ! did he say all that in so few words ? What a
fine language it is ! Well, I agree, if he can prevail on the girl.
— \AsideI\ And that I am sure he never will.

Rosy. Greal.

O'Con. Writhum bothum.

Rosy. He says you must give this under your hand, while he
writes you a miraculous receipt. [Both sit down to write.

Lau. Do, mamma, tell me the meaning of this.

Mrs. Bri. Don't speak to me, girl. — Unnatural parent !

Just. There, doctor ; there's what he requires.

Rosy. And here's your receipt : read it yourself.

ioo ST. PATRICK'S DAY. [ACT n.

Just. Hey 1 what's here ? plain English !

Rosy. Read it out; a wondrous nostrum, I'll answer for it.

Just. [Reads.] In reading this you are cured, by your affec-
tionate son-in-law, O'CONNOR. — Who, in the name of Beelzebub,
sirrah, who are you ?

CPCon. Your affectionate son-in-law, O'Connor, and your very
humble servant, Humphrey Hum.

Just. 'Tis false, you dog ! you are not my son-in-law ; for I'll
be poison'd again, and you shall be hanged. — I'll die, sirrah, and
leave Bridget my estate.

Mrs. Bri. Ay, pray do, my dear, leave me your estate. I'm
sure he deserves to be hanged.

Just. He does, you say ! — Hark'ee, Bridget, you showed such a
tender concern for me when you thought me poisoned, that for the
future I am resolved never to take your advice again in anything.
— [To LIEUTENANT O'CONNOR.] So, do you hear, sir, you are an
Irishman and a soldier, an't you ?

O'Con. I am, sir, and proud of both.

Just. The two things on earth I most hate ; so I'll tell you
what — renounce your country and sell your commission, and I'll
forgive you.

O'Con. Hark'ee, Mr. Justice — if you were not the father of my
Lauretta, I would pull your nose for asking the first, and break
your bones for desiring the second.

Rosy. Ay, ay, you're right

Just. Is he ? then I'm sure I must be wrong. — Here, sir, I give
my daughter to you, who are the most impudent dog I ever saw in
my life.

O'Con. Oh, sir, say what you please ; with such a gift as
Lauretta, every word is a compliment.

Mrs. Bri. Well, my lovee, I think this will be a good subject
for us to quarrel about the rest of our lives.

Just. Why, truly, my dear, I think so, though we are seldom at
a loss for that.

Rosy. This is all as it should be. — My Alexander, I give you
joy, and you, my little god-daughter ; and now my sincere wish is,
that you may make just such a wife as my poor dear Dolly.

{Exeunt omnes.

DRAMATIS PERSONS,

AS ORIGINALLY ACTED AT COVENT GARDEN THEATRE, NOV. 21, 1775.

DON FERDINAND . Mr. Mattocks.
DON JEROME . . Mr. Wilson.
DON ANTONIO . . Mr. Dubellamy.
DON CARLOS . . Mr. Leoni.
ISAAC MENDOZA . Mr. Quick.
FATHER PAUL . . Mr. Mahon.
FATHER FRANCIS . Mr. Fox.
FATHER AUGUSTINE . Mr. Baker.

LOPEZ .... Mr. Wemtzer.

DONNA LOUISA . . Mrs. Mattocks
DONNA CLARA . . Mrs. Car gill.
THE DUENNA . . Mrs. Green.

Masqueraders, Friars, Porter, Maid,
and Servants.

SCENE— SEVILLE.

THE DUENNA.

A COMIC OPERA.

ACT I.

SCENE I.— THE STREET BEFORE DON JEROME'S HOUSE.
Enter LOPEZ, with a dark lantern.

Lop. Past three o'clock 1 — So ! a notable hour for one of my
regular disposition to be strolling like a bravo through the streets
of Seville 1 Well, of all services, to serve a young lover is the
hardest. — Not that I am an enemy to love ; but my love and my
master's differ strangely. — Don Ferdinand is much too gallant to
eat, drink, or sleep : — now, my love gives me an appetite — then
I am fond of dreaming of my mistress, and I love dearly to toast
her. — This cannot be done without good sleep and good liquor:
hence my partiality to a feather-bed and a bottle. What a pity,
now, that I have not further time for reflections 1 but my master
expects thee, honest Lopez, to secure his retreat from Donna Clara's
window, as I guess. — [Music without.] Hey! sure, I heard music!
So, so ! who have we here ? Oh, Don Antonio, my master's friend,
come from the masquerade, to serenade my young mistress, Donna
Louisa, I suppose : so ! we shall have the old gentleman up
presently. — Lest he should miss his son, I had best lose no time
in getting to my post. [Exit.

Enter DON ANTONIO, with MASQUER ADERS and music.
SONG. — Don Ant.

Tell me, my lute, can thy soft strain

So gently speak thy master's pain ?
So softly sing, so humbly sigh,

That, though my sleeping love shall know

Who sings — who sighs below,
Her rosy slumbers shall not fly ?

Thus, may some vision whisper more

Than ever I dare speak before.

104 THE DUENNA. [ACT i.

i st Mas. Antonio, your mistress will never wake while you sing
so dolefully; love, like a cradled infant, is lulled by a sad melody.

Don Ant. I do not wish to disturb her rest.

i st Mas. The reason is, because you know she does not regard
you enough to appear, if you awaked her.

Don Ant. Nay, then, I'll convince you. \Sings.

The breath of morn bids hence the night,
Unveil those beauteous eyes, my fair ;
For till the dawn of love is there,

I feel no day, I own no light.

DONNA LOUISA — replies from a window.

Waking, I heard thy numbers chide,
Waking, the dawn did bless my sight ;

"Tis Phoebus sure that woos, I cried,
Who speaks in song, who moves in light.

DON JEROME— -from a -window.

What vagabonds are these, I hear,
Fiddling, fluting, rhyming, ranting,
Piping, scraping, whining, canting,

Fly, scurvy minstrels, fly 1

TRIO.

Don. Louisa . Nay, prithee, father, why so rough ?

Don Ant. . . An humble lover I.

Don Jer. . . . How durst you, daughter, lend an ear

To such deceitful stuff?

Quick, from the window fly 1
Don. Louisa . Adieu, Antonio I
Don Ant. . . Must you go ?
Don. Louisa ) We soon, perhaps, may meet again.
Don Ant. . J For though hard fortune is our foe,

The god of love will fight for us.
Don Jer. . . . Reach me the blunderbuss.

Don Louisa \ ^ie ^o<^ °^ *ove> w^° ^nows our P*"1 —
Don Jer. . . . Hence, or these slugs are through your brain.

[Exeunt severally.

SCENE II.— A PIAZZA.
Enter DON FERDINAND and LOPEZ.

Lop. Truly, sir, I think that a little sleep once in a week or

so

Don Ferd. Peace, fool ! don't mention sleep to me.

Lop. No, no, sir, I don't mention your low-bred, vulgar, sound

SG IL] THE DUENNA. 105

sleep ; but I can't help thinking that a gentle slumber, or half an
hour's dozing, if it were only for the novelty of the thing

Don Ferd. Peace, booby, I say 1 — Oh Clara, dear, cruel dis-
turber of my rest !

Lop. And of mine too. [Aside.

Don Ferd. 'Sdeath, to trifle with me at such a juncture as this 1
— now to stand on punctilios 1 — Love me I I don't believe she ever
did.

Lop. Nor I either. [Aside.

Don Ferd. Or is it, that her sex never know their desires for an
hour together?

Lop. Ah, they know them oftener than they'll own them. [Aside.

Don Ferd. Is there, in the world, so inconstant a creature as
Clara?

Lop. I could name one. [Aside.

Don Ferd. Yes ; the tame fool who submits to her caprice.

Lop. I thought he couldn't miss it. [Aside.

Don Ferd. Is she not capricious, teasing, tyrannical, obstinate,
perverse, absurd? ay, a wilderness of faults and follies; her looks
are scorn, and her very smiles — 'Sdeath ! I wish I hadn't men-
tioned her smiles; for she does smile such beaming loveliness,
such fascinating brightness — Oh, death and madness 1 I shall die
if I lose her.

Lop. Oh, those damned smiles have undone all ! [Aside.

AIR.— Don Ferd.

Could I her faults remember,

Forgetting every charm,
Soon would impartial reason

The tyrant love disarm :
But when enraged I number

Each failing of her mind,
Love still suggests each beauty,

And sees — while reason's blind.

Lop. Here comes Don Antonio, sir.

Don Ferd. Well, go you home — I shall be there presently.

Lop. Ah, those cursed smiles 1 [Exit.

Enter DON ANTONIO.

Don Ferd. Antonio, Lopez tells me he left you chanting before
our door — was my father waked ?

Don Ant. Yes, yes ; he has a singular affection for music, so I
left him roaring at his barred window, like the print of Bajazet in
the cage. And what brings you out so early ?

io6 THE DUENNA. [ACT i.

Don Ferd. I believe I told you, that to-morrow was the day
fixed by Don Pedro and Clara's unnatural stepmother, for her to
enter a convent, in order that her brat might possess her fortune:
made desperate by this, I procured a key to the door, and bribed
Clara's maid to leave it unbolted ; at two this morning, I entered,
unperceived, and stole to her chamber — I found her waking and
weeping.

Don Ant. Happy Ferdinand I

Don Ferd. 'Sdeath 1 hear the conclusion. — I was rated as the
most confident ruffian, for daring to approach her room at that
hour of night.

Don Ant. Ay, ay, this was at first.

Don Ferd. No such thing 1 she would not hear a word from
me, but threatened to raise her mother, if I did not instantly leave
her.

Don Ant. Well, but at last ?

Don Ferd. At last 1 why I was forced to leave the house as I
came in.

Don Ant. And did you do nothing to offend her?

Don Ferd. Nothing, as I hope to be saved 1 — I believe, I
might snatch a dozen or two of kisses.

Don Ant. Was that all ? well, I think, I never heard of such
assurance !

Don Ferd. Zounds 1 I tell you I behaved with the utmost
respect.

Don Ant. O Lord 1 I don't mean you, but in her. But, hark
ye, Ferdinand, did you leave your key with them ?

Don Ferd. Yes ; the maid, who saw me out, took it from the
door.

Don Ant. Then, my life for it, her mistress elopes after you.

Don Ferd. Ay, to bless my rival, perhaps. I am in a humour
to suspect everybody. — You loved her once, and thought her an
angel, as I do now.

Don Ant. Yes, I loved her, till I found she wouldn't love me,
and then I discovered that she hadn't a good feature in her face.

AIR.

I ne'er could any lustre see

In eyes that would not look on me ;

I ne'er saw nectar on a lip,

But where my own did hope to sip.

Has the maid who seeks my heart

Cheeks of rose, untouch'd by art I

I will own the colour true,

When yielding blushes aid their hue.

sc. ii.] THE DUENNA. 107

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

Besides, Ferdinand, you have full security in my love for your
sister ; help me there, and I can never disturb you with Clara.

Don Ferd. As far as I can, consistently with the honour of our
family, you know I will ; but there must be no eloping.

Don Ant. And yet, now, you would carry off Clara ?

Don Ferd. Ay, that's a different case ! — we never mean that
others should act to our sisters and wives as we do to others. —
But, to-morrow, Clara is to be forced into a convent.

Don Ant. Well, and am not I so unfortunately circumstanced?
To-morrow, your father forces Louisa to marry Isaac, the Portu-
guese— but come with me, and we'll devise something, I warrant.

Don Ferd. I must go home.

Don Ant. Well, adieu !

Don Ferd. But, Antonio, if you did not love my sister, you have
too much honour and friendship to supplant me with Clara?

AIR. — Don Ant.

Friendship is the bond of reason ;

But if beauty disapprove,
Heaven dissolves all other treason

In the heart that's true to love.
The faith which to my friend I swore,

As a civil oath I view ;
But to the charms which I adore,

'Tis religion to be true. [Exit.

Don Ferd. There is always a levity in Antonio's manner of
replying to me on this subject that is very alarming. — 'Sdeath 1 if
Clara should love him after all 1

SONQ.

Though cause for suspicion appears,

Yet proofs of her love, too, are strong ;
I'm a wretch if I'm right in my fears,
And unworthy of bliss if I'm wrong.
What heart-breaking torments from jealousy flow,
Ah I none but the jealous— the Jealous can know !

io8 THE DUENNA. [ACT L

When blest with the smiles of my fair,

I know not how much I adore :
Those smiles let another but share,

And I wonder I prized them no more !
Then whence can I hope a relief from my woe,
When the falser she seems, still the fonder I grow !

[Exit.

SCENE III.— A ROOM IN DON JEROME'S HOUSE.

Enter DONNA LOUISA and DUENNA.

Don. Louisa. But, my dear Margaret, my charming Duenna,
do you think we shall succeed ?

Duen. I tell you again, I have no doubt on't; but it must be
instantly put to the trial. Everything is prepared in your room,
and for the rest we must trust to fortune.

Don. Louisa. My father's oath was, never to see me till I had
consented to

JJuen. 'Twas thus I overheard him say to his friend, Don
Guzman, — I will demand of her to-morrow \ once for all, whether
she will consent to marry Isaac Mendoza; if she hesitates, 1 will
make a solemn oath never to see or speak to her till she returns to
her duty. — These were his words.

Don. Louisa. And on his known obstinate adherence to what

he has once said, you have formed this plan for my escape. But

have you secured my maid in our interest ?

Duen. She is a party in the whole ; but remember, if we suc-
ceed, you resign all right and title in little Isaac, the Jew, over
to me.

Don. Louisa. That I do with all my soul ; get him, if you can,
and I shall wish you joy, most heartily. He is twenty times as
rich as my poor Antonio.

AIR.

Thou canst not boast of fortune's store,
My love, while me they wealthy call :
But I was glad to find thee poor —
For with my heart I'd give thee all.
And then the grateful youth shall own
I loved him for himself alone.

But when his worth my hand shall gain,

No word or look of mine shall show
That I the smallest thought retain
Of what my bounty did bestow :
Yet still bis grateful heart shall own
I loved him for himself alone.

sc. in.] THE DUENNA. rog

Duen. I hear Don Jerome coming. — Quick, give me the last
letter I brought you from Antonio — you know that is to be the
ground of my dismission — I must slip out to seal it up, as un-
delivered. [Exit.

Enter DON JEROME and DON FERDINAND.

Don Jer. What, I suppose you have been serenading too ! Eh,
disturbing some peaceable neighbourhood with villainous catgut
and lascivious piping ! Out on't ! you set your sister, here, a vile
example ; but I come to tell you, madam, that I'll suffer no more of
these midnight incantations — these amorous orgies, that steal the
senses in the hearing; as, they say, Egyptian embalmers serve
mummies, extracting the brain through the ears. However, there's
an end of your frolics — Isaac Mendoza will be here presently, and
to-morrow you shall marry him.

Don. Louisa. Never, while I have life !

Don Ferd. Indeed, sir, I wonder how you can think of such a
man for a son-in-law.

Don Jer. Sir, you are very kind to favour me with your senti-
ments— and pray, what is your objection to him ?

Don Ferd. He is a Portuguese, in the first place.

Don Jer. No such thing, boy; he has forsworn his country.

Don. Louisa. He is a Jew.

Don Jer. Another mistake: he has been a Christian these six
weeks.

Don Ferd. Ay, he left his old religion for an estate, and has not
had time to get a new one.

Don. Louisa. But stands like a dead wall between church and
synagogue, or like the blank leaves between the Old and New
Testament.

Don Jer. Anything more ?

Don Ferd. But the most remarkable part of his character is his
pass:on for deceit and tricks of cunning.

Don. Louisa. Though at the same time the fool predominates
so much over the knave, that I am told he is generally the dupe of
his own art.

Don Ferd. True ; like an unskilful gunner, he usually misses
his aim, and is hurt by the recoil of his own piece.

Don Jer. Anything more ?

Don. Louisa. To sum up all, he has the worst fault a husband
can have — he's not my choice.

Don Jer. But you are his ; and choice on one side is sufficient
— two lovers should never meet in marriage — be you sour as you

no THE DUENNA. [ACT i.

please, he is sweet-tempered ; and for your good fruit, there's
nothing like ingrafting on a crab.

Don. Louisa. I detest him as a lover, and shall ten times more
as a husband.

Donjer. I don't know that — marriage generally makes a great
change — but, to cut the matter short, will you have him or not ?

Don. Louisa. There is nothing else I could disobey you in.

Donjer. Do you value your father's peace ?

Don. Louisa. So much, that I will not fasten on him the regret
of making an only daughter wretched.

Don Jer. Very well, ma'am, then mark me — never more will I
see or converse with you till you return to your duty — no reply —
this and your chamber shall be your apartments ; I never will stir
out without leaving you under lock and key, and when I'm at
home no creature can approach you but through my library : we'll
try who can be most obstinate. Out of my sight ! — there remain
till you know your duty. [Pushes her out.

Don Ferd. Surely, sir, my sister's inclinations should be con-
sulted in a matter of this kind, and some regard paid to Don
Antonio, being my particular friend.

Don Jer. That, doubtless, is a very great recommendation ! — I
certainly have not paid sufficient respect to it.

Don Ferd. There is not a man living I would sooner choose for
a brother-in-law.

Don Jer. Very possible ; and if you happen to have e'er a
sister, who is not at the same time a daughter of mine, I'm sure I
shall have no objection to the relationship ; but at present, if you
please, we'll drop the subject.

Don Ferd. Nay, sir, 'tis only my regard for my sister makes me
speak.

Don Jer. Then, pray, sir, in future let your regard for your
father make you hold your tongue.

Don Ferd. I have done, sir. I shall only add a wish that you
would reflect what at our age you would have felt, had you been
crossed in your affection for the mother of her you are so severe to.

Don Jer. Why, I must confess I had a great affection for your
mother's ducats, but that was all, boy. I married her for her
fortune, and she took me in obedience to her father, and a very
happy couple we were. We never expected any love from one
another, and so we were never disappointed. If we grumbled a
little now and then, it was soon over, for we were never fond
enough to quarrel ; and when the good woman died, why, why, —
I had as lieve she had lived, and I wish every widower in Seville
could say the same. I shall now go and get the key of this

sc in.] THE DUENNA. in

dressing-room — so, good son, if you have any lecture in support of
disobedience to give your sister, it must be brief; so make the best
of your time, d'ye hear ? [Exit.

Don Ferd. I fear, indeed, my friend Antonio has little to hope
for ; however, Louisa has firmness, and my father's anger will
probably only increase her affection. — In our intercourse with the
world, it is natural for us to dislike those who are innocently the
cause of our distress ; but in the heart's attachment a woman
never likes a man with ardour till she has suffered for his sake —
[Noise.'] so ! What bustle is here ! between my father and the
Duenna too — I'll e'en get out of the way. [Exit.

Re-enter DON JEROME with a letter, pulling in DUENNA.

Donjer. I'm astonished ! I'm thunder-struck 1 here's treachery
and conspiracy with a vengeance ! You, Antonio's creature, and
chief manager of this plot for my daughter's eloping ! — you, that I
placed here as a scarecrow ?

Duen. What ?

Don Jer. A scarecrow — to prove a decoy-duck ! What have
you to say for yourself?

Duen. Well, sir, since you have forced that letter from me, and
discovered my real sentiments, I scorn to renounce them. — I am
Antonio's friend, and it was my intention that your daughter should
have served you as all such old tyrannical sots should be served — I
delight in the tender passions, and would befriend all under their
influence.

Don Jer. The tender passions ! yes, they would become those
impenetrable features ! Why, thou deceitful hag ! I placed thee
as a guard to the rich blossoms of my daughter's beauty. I thought
that dragon's front of thine would cry aloof to the sons of gallantry:
steel traps and spring guns seemed writ in every wrinkle of it —
But you shall quit my house this instant. The tender passions,
indeed ! go, thou wanton sibyl, thou amorous woman of Endor, go!

Duen. You base, scurrilous, old — but I won't demean myself by
naming what you are. — Yes, savage, I'll leave your den ; but I
suppose you don't mean to detain my apparel — I may have my
things, I presume ?

Don Jer. I took you, mistress, with your wardrobe on — what
have you pilfered, eh ?

Duen. Sir, I must take leave of my mistress ; she has valuables
of mine : besides, my cardinal and veil are in her room.

Don Jer. Your veil, forsooth ! what, do you dread being gazed
at ? or are you afraid of your complexion ? Well, go take your
leave, and get your veil and cardinal ! so ! you quit the house

ii2 THE DUENNA. [ACT i.

within these five minutes. — In — in — quick ! — [Exit DUENNA.]
Here was a precious plot of mischief! — these are the comforts
daughters bring us !

AIR.

If a daughter yon have, she's the plague of your life,
No peace shall you know, though you've buried your wife !
At twenty she mocks at the duty you taught her —
Oh, what a plague is an obstinate daughter 1

Sighing and whining,

Dying and pining,
Oh, what a plague is an obstinate daughter !

When scarce in their teens, they have wit to perplex us.
With letters and lovers for ever they vex us ;
While each still rejects the fair suitor you've brought her ;
Oh, what a plague is an obstinate daughter 1

Wrangling and jangling,

Flouting and pouting,
Oh, what a plague is an obstinate daughter 1

Re-enter DONNA LOUISA, dressed as DUENNA, with cardinal
and veil, seeming to cry.

This way, mistress, this way. — What, I warrant, a tender parting ;
so ! tears of turpentine down those deal cheeks. — Ay, you may well
hide your head — yes, whine till your heart breaks ; but I'll not hear
one word of excuse — so you are right to be dumb. This way, this
way ! [Exeunt.

Re-enter DUENNA.

Duen. So, speed you well, sagacious Don Jerome! Oh, rare
effects of passion and obstinacy ! Now shall I try whether I can't
play the fine lady as well as my mistress, and if I succeed, I may
be a fine lady for the rest of my life — I'll lose no time to equip
myself. {Exit.

SCENE IV. — THE COURT BEFORE DON JEROME'S HOUSE.
Enter DON JEROME and DONNA LOUISA.

Don Jer. Come, mistress, there is your way — the world lies
before you, so troop, thou antiquated Eve, thou original sin ! Hold,
yonder is some fellow skulking ; perhaps it is Antonio — go to him,
d'ye hear, and tell him to make you amends, and as he has got you
turned away, tell him I say it is but just he should take you himself;
go.— [Exit DONNA LOUISA.] So ! I am rid of her, thank heaven !
and now I shall be able to keep my oath, and confine my daughter
with better security. [Exit.

sc. v.J THE DUENNA, 113

SCENE V.— THE PIAZZA.
Enter DONNA CLARA and MAID.

Maid. But where, madam, is it you intend to go ?

Don. Clara. Anywhere to avoid the selfish violence of my
mother-in-law, and Ferdinand's insolent importunity.

Maid. Indeed, ma'am, since we have profited by Don Ferdinand's
key, in making our escape, I think we had best find him, if it were
only to thank him.

Don. Clara. No — he has offended me exceedingly. [Retires.

Enter DONNA LOUISA.

Don. Louisa. So I have succeeded in being turned out of doors
—but how shall I find Antonio ? I dare not inquire for him, for
fear of being discovered ; I would send to my friend Clara, but that
I doubt her prudery would condemn me.

Maid. Then suppose, ma'am, you were to try if your friend
Donna Louisa would not receive you?

Don. Clara. No, her notions of filial duty are so severe, she
would certainly betray me.

Don. Louisa. Clara is of a cold temper, and would think this
step of mine highly forward.

Don. Clara. Louisa's respect for her father is so great, she
would not credit the unkindness of mine.

[DONNA LOUISA turns, and sees DONNA CLARA and MAID.

Don. Louisa. Ha ! who are those ? sure one is Clara— if it be,
I'll trust her. Clara ! [Advances.

Don. Clara. Louisa ! and in masquerade too !

Don. Louisa. You will be more surprised when I tell you that I
have run away from my father.

Don. Clara. Surprised indeed ! and I should certainly chide
you most horridly, only that I have just run away from mine.

Don. Louisa. My dear Clara ! [Embrace.

Don. Clara. Dear sister truant ! and whither are you going?

Don. Louisa. To find the man I love, to be sure ; and, I pre-
sume, you would have no aversion to meet with my brother?

Don. Clara. Indeed I should : he has behaved so ill to me, I
don't believe I shall ever forgive him.

AIR.
When sable night, each drooping plant restoring,

Wept o'er the flowers her breath did cheer,
As some sad widow o'er her babe deploring,
Wakes its beauty with a tear ;

Rot

ii4 THE DUENNA. [ACT t.

When all did sleep whose weary hearts did borrow

One hour from love and care to rest,
Lo ! as I press'd my couch in silent sorrow,
My lover caught me to his breast !
He vow'd he came to save me
From those who would enslave me 1
Then kneeling,
Kisses stealing,
Endless faith he swore;
But soon I chid him thence,
For had his fond pretence
Obtain'd one favour then,
And he had press'd again,
I fear'd my treacherous heart might grant him more.

Don. Louisa. Well, for all this, I would have sent him to plead
his pardon, but that I would not yet a while have him know of my
flight. And where do you hope to find protection ?

Don. Clara. The Lady Abbess of the convent of St. Catherine
is a relation and kind friend of mine — I shall be secure with her,
and you had best go thither with me.

Don. Louisa. No; I am determined to find Antonio first; and,
as I live, here comes the very man I will employ to seek him for
me.

Don. Clara. Who is he ? he's a strange figure.

Don. Louisa. Yes; that sweet creature is the man whom my
father has fixed on for my husband.

Don. Clara. And will you speak to him? are you mad?

Don. Louisa. He is the fittest man in the world for my pur-
pose ; for, though I was to have married him to-morrow, he is the
only man in Seville who, I am sure, never saw me in his life.

Don. Clara. And how do you know him ?

Don. Louisa. He arrived but yesterday, and he was shown to
me from the window, as he visited my father.

Don. Clara. Well, I'll begone.

Don. Louisa. Hold, my dear Clara — a thought has struck me:
will you give me leave to borrow your name, as I see occasion ?

Don. Clara. It will but disgrace you; but use it as you please;
I dare not stay. — \GoingI\ — But, Louisa, if you should see your
brother, be sure you don't inform him that I have taken refuge
with the Dame Prior of the convent of St. Catherine, on the left-
hand side of the piazza, which leads to the church of St. Anthony.

Don. Louisa. Ha! ha! ha! I'll be very particular in my
directions where he may not find you. — \_Exeunt DONNA CLARA
and MAID.] — So! my swain, yonder, has done admiring himself,
and draws nearer. [Retires.

sc v.] THE DUENNA. 115

Enter ISAAC and DON CARLOS.

Isaac. [Looking in a pocket-glass.'] I tell you, friend Carlos, I
will please myself in the habit of my chin.

Don Car. But, my dear friend, how can you think to please a
lady with such a face ?

Isaac. Why, what's the matter with the face ! I think it is a
very engaging face ; and, I am sure, a lady must have very little
taste who could dislike my beard. — [Sees DONNA LOUISA.] — See
now! I'll die if here is not a little damsel struck with it already.

Don. Louisa. Signer, are you disposed to oblige a lady who
greatly wants your assistance? [Unveils.

Isaac. Egad, a very pretty black-eyed girl ! she has certainly
taken a fancy to me, Carlos. First, ma'am, I must beg the favour
of your name.

Don. Louisa. [Aside.] So ! it's well I am provided. — [Aloud.]
My name, sir, is Donna Clara d'Almanza.

Isaac. What? Don Guzman's daughter? I' faith, I just now
heard she was missing.

Don. Louisa. But sure, si-r, you have too much gallantry and
honour to betray me, whose fault is love ?

Isaac. So ! a passion for me ! poor girl ! Why, ma'am, as for
betraying you, I don't see how I could get anything by it ; so, you
may rely on my honour ; but as for your love, I am sorry your case
is so desperate.

Don. Louisa. Why so, signor ?

Isaac. Because I am positively engaged to another — an't I,
Carlos ?

Don. Louisa. Nay, but hear me.

Isaac. No, no ; what should I hear for ? It is impossible for
me to court you in an honourable way ; and for anything else, if I
were to comply now, I suppose you have some ungrateful brother,
or cousin, who would want to cut my throat for my civility— so,
truly, you had best go home again.

Don. Louisa. [Aside.] Odious wretch ! — [Aloud.] But, good
signor, it is Antonio d'Ercilla, on whose account I have eloped.

Isaac. How! what! it is not 'with me, then, that you are in
love?

Don. Louisa. No, indeed, it is not.

Isaac. Then you are a forward, impertinent simpleton ! and
I shall certainly acquaint your father.

Don. Louisa. Is this your gallantry ?

Isaac. Yet hold — Antonio d'Ercilla, did you say ? egad, I may
make something of this — Antonio d'Ercilla?

u6 THE DUENNA. [ACT i.

Don. Louisa. Yes ; and if ever you hope to prosper in love,
you will bring me to him.

Isaac. By St. lago, and I will too !— Carlos, this Antonio is one
who rivals me (as I have heard) with Louisa— now, if I could
hamper him with this girl, I should have the field to myself ; hey,
Carlos ! A lucky thought, isn't it ?

Don Car. Yes, very good — very good 1

Isaac. Ah 1 this little brain is never at a loss— cunning Isaac I
cunning rogue I Donna Clara, will you trust yourself a while to my
friend's direction ?

Don. Louisa. May I rely on you, good signer ?

Don Car. Lady, it is impossible I should deceive you.

AIR.
Had I a heart for falsehood framed,

I ne'er could injure you ;
For though your tongue no promise claim'd,

Your charms would make me true.
To you no soul shall bear deceit,

No stranger offer wrong ;
But friends in all the aged you'll meet,

And lovers in the young.

But when they learn that you have blest

Another with your heart,
They'll bid aspiring passion rest,

And act a brother's part :
Then, lady, dread not here deceit,

Nor fear to suffer wrong ;
For friends in all the aged you'll meet,

And brothers in the young.

Isaac. Conduct the lady to my lodgings, Carlos ; I must haste
to Don Jerome. Perhaps you know Louisa, ma'am. She's divinely
handsome, isn't she?

Don. Louisa. You must excuse me not joining with you.

Isaac. Why, I have heard it on all hands.

Don. Louisa. Her father is uncommonly partial to her ; but I
believe you will find she has rather a matronly air.

Isaac. Carlos, this is all envy. — You pretty girls never speak
well of one another. — [To DON CARLOS.] Hark ye, find out
Antonio, and I'll saddle him with this scrape, I warrant. Oh,
'twas the luckiest thought ! Donna Clara, your very obedient.
Carlos to your post.

DOET.
Isaac . . My mistress expects me, and I must go to her,

Or linw pan T hnnp fnr a Rtnilp. ?

ACT II.]

THE DUENNA.

117

Don. Louisa.

Isaac . . .

Don Car.

Don. Louisa.
Isaac . . .
Don Car.

Don. Louisa.
Isaac . . .
Don Car.

Soon may you return a prosperous wooer,

But think what I suffer the while 1
Alone, and away from the man whom I love,

In strangers I'm forced to confide.
Dear lady, my friend you may trust, and he'll prove

Your servant, protector, and guide !

AIR.

Gentle maid, ah ! why suspect me ?
Let me serve thee — then reject me.
Canst thou trust, and I deceive thee ?
Art thou sad, and shall I grieve thee ?
Gentle maid, ah ! why suspect me ?
Let me serve thee — then reject me.

TRIO.

Never mayst thou happy be,

If in aught thou'rt false to me.

Never may he happy he,

If in aught he's false to thee.

Never may I happy be,

If in aught I'm false to thee.

Never mayst thou, etc.

Never may he, etc.

Never may I, etc. \Exeunt.

ACT II.

SCENE I. — A LIBRARY IN DON JEROME'S HOUSE.
. Enter DON JEROME and ISAAC.

Donjer. Ha I ha! ha! runaway from her father! has she
given him the slip ? Ha ! ha ! ha ! poor Don Guzman !

Isaac. Ay ; and I am to conduct her to Antonio ; by which
means you see I shall hamper him so that he can give me no
disturbance with your daughter — this is a trap, isn't it ? a nice stroke
of cunning, hey ?

Donjer. Excellent ! excellent ! yes, yes, carry her to him,
hamper him by all means. Ha ! ha ! ha ! poor Don Guzman ! an
old fool 1 imposed on by a girl !

Isaac. Nay, they have the cunning of serpents, that's the truth
on't.

Donjer, Psha ! they are cunning only when they have fools

n8 THE DUENNA. [ACT n.

to deal with. Why don't my girl play me such a trick — let her
cunning over-reach my caution, I say — hey, little Isaac !

Isaac. True, true ; or let me see any of the sex make a fool of
me ! — No, no, egad ! little Solomon (as my aunt used to call me)
understands tricking a little too well.

Donjer. Ay, but such a driveller as Don Guzman !

Isaac. And such a dupe as Antonio !

Donjer. True ; never were seen such a couple of credulous
simpletons ! But come, 'tis time you should see my daughter —
you must carry on the siege by yourself, friend Isaac.

Isaac. Sir, you'll introduce

Donjer. No — I have sworn a solemn oath not to see or speak
to her till she renounces her disobedience ; win her to that, and
she gains a father and a husband at once.

Isaac. Gad, I shall never be able to deal with her alone ;
nothing keeps me in such awe as perfect beauty — now there is
something consoling and encouraging in ugliness.

SONG.

Give Isaac the nymph who no beauty can boast,
But health and good humour to make her his toast ;
If straight, I don't mind whether slender or fat,
And six feet or four — we'll ne'er quarrel for that.

Whate'er her complexion, I vow I don't care ;
If brown, it is lasting — more pleasing, if fair :
And though in her face I no dimples should see,
Let her smile — and each dell is a dimple to me.

Let her locks be the reddest that ever were seen,
And her eyes may be e'en any colour but green ;
For in eyes, though so various the lustre and hue,
I swear I've no choice — only let her have two.

"Tis true I'd dispense with a throne on her back,
And white teeth, I own, are genteeler than black ;
A little round chin too's a beauty, I've heard ;
But I only desire she mayn't have a beard.

Donjer. You will change your note, my friend, when you've
seen Louisa.

Isaac. Oh, Don Jerome, the honour of your alliance

Donjer. Ay, but her beauty will affect you — she is, though
I say it, who am her father, a very prodigy. There you will
see features with an eye like mine — yes, i' faith, there is a kind
of wicked sparkling — something of a roguish brightness, that shows
her to be my own.

sc. ii.] THE DUENNA. 119

Isaac. Pretty rogue !

Don Jer. Then, when she smiles, you'll see a little dimple in one
cheek only ; a beauty it is certainly, yet you shall not say which
is prettiest, the cheek with the dimple, or the cheek without.

Isaac. Pretty rogue !

Don Jer. Then the roses on those cheeks are shaded with a
sort of velvet down, that gives a delicacy to the glow of health.

Isaac. Pretty rogue !

Don Jer. Her skin pure dimity, yet more fair, being spangled
here and there with a golden freckle.

Isaac. Charming pretty rogue ! pray how is the tone of her
voice ?

Don Jer. Remarkably pleasing — but if you could prevail on her
to sing, you would be enchanted — she is a nightingale — a Virginia
nightingale ! But come, come ; her maid shall conduct you to her
antechamber.

Isaac. Well, egad, I'll pluck up resolution, and meet her frowns
intrepidly.

Don Jer. Ay ! woo her briskly — win her, and give me a proof
of your address, my little Solomon.

Isaac. But hold — I expect my friend Carlos to call on me here.
If he comes, will you send him to me?

Don Jer. I will. Lauretta \— [Calls.] — Come — she'll show you
to the room. What ! do you droop ? here's a mournful face to
make love with ! \Exeunt,

SCENE II.— DONNA LOUISA'S DRESSING-ROOM.
Enter ISAAC and MAID.

Maid. Sir, my mistress will wait on you presently.

[Goes to the door.

Isaac. When she's at leisure — don't hurry her. — [Exit MAID.] —
I wish I had ever practised a love-scene — I doubt I shall make a
poor figure — I couldn't be more afraid if I was going before the
Inquisition. So, the door opens — yes, she's coming — the very
rustling of her silk has a disdainful sound.

Enter DUENNA, dressed as DONNA LOUISA.

Now dar'n't I look round for the soul of me — her beauty will
certainly strike me dumb if I do. I wish she'd speak first.

Ducn. Sir, I attend your pleasure.

Isaac. \AsideI\ So ! the ice is broke, and a pretty civil beginning
too ! — [Aloud.] Hem ! madam — miss — I'm all attention.

Duen. Nay, sir, 'tis I who should listen, and you propose.

120 THE DUENNA, [ACT u.

Isaac. [Aside.] Egad, this isn't so disdainful neither — I be-
lieve I may venture to look. No — I dar'n't — one glance of those
roguish sparklers would fix me again.

Duen. You seem thoughtful, sir. Let me persuade you to sit
down.

Isaac. [Aside.] So, so ; she mollifies apace— she's struck with
my figure ! this attitude has had its effect.

Duett. Come, sir, here's a chair.

Isaac. Madam, the greatness of your goodness overpowers me
— that a lady so lovely should deign to turn her beauteous eyes on
me so. {She takes his hand, he turns and sees her.

Duen. You seem surprised at my condescension.

Isaac. Why, yes, madam, I am a little surprised at it. — [Aside]
Zounds ! this can never be Louisa — she's as old as my mother !

Duen. But former prepossessions give way to my father's com-
mands.

Isaac. [Aside] Her father ! Yes, 'tis she then. — Lord, Lord ;
how blind some parents are !

Duen. Signor Isaac !

Isaac. [Aside] Truly, the little damsel was right — she has
rather a matronly air, indeed ! ah ! 'tis well my affections are fixed
on her fortune, and not her person.

Duen. Signor, won't you sit ? [She sits.

Isaac. Pardon me, madam, I have scarce recovered my astonish-
ment at — your condescension, madam — [Aside.] She has the
devil's own dimples, to be sure !

Duen. I do not wonder, sir, that you are surprised at my
affability — I own, signer, that I was vastly prepossessed against
you, and, being teased by my father, I did give some encourage-
ment to Antonio ; but then, sir, you were described to me as quite
a different person.

Isaac. Ay, and so you were to me, upon my soul, madam.

Duen. But when I saw you I was never more struck in my life.

Isaac. That was just my case too, madam : I was struck all ol
a heap, for my part.

Duen. Well, sir, I see our misapprehension has been mutual —
you expected to find me haughty and averse, and I was taught to
believe you a little black, snub-nosed fellow, without person,
manners, or address.

Isaac. Egad, I wish she had answered her picture as well !

[Aside.

Duen. But, sir, your air is noble — something so liberal in
your carriage, with so penetrating an eye, and so bewitching a
smile !

sc. ii.] THE DUENNA. 121

Isaac. Egad, now I look at her again, I don't think she is so
ugly ! [Aside.

Duen. So little like a Jew, and so much like a gentleman !

Isaac. Well, certainly, there is something pleasing in the tone
of her voice. [Aside.

Duen. You will pardon this breach of decorum in praising you
thus, but my joy at being so agreeably deceived has given me such
a flow of spirits !

Isaac. Oh, dear lady, may I thank those dear lips for this good-
ness ? — [Kisses her.'} Why she has a pretty sort of velvet down,
that's the truth on't. [Aside.

Duen. O sir, you have the most insinuating manner, but indeed
you should get rid of that odious beard — one might as well kiss a
hedgehog.

Isaac. [Aside.] Yes, ma'am, the razor wouldn't be amiss — for
either of us. — [Aloud.'] Could you favour me with a song ?

Duen. Willingly, sir, though I am rather hoarse — ahem !

[Begins to sing.

Isaac. [Aside.} Very like a Virginia nightingale ! — [Aloud.]
Ma'am, I perceive you're hoarse — I beg you will not distress

Duen. Oh, not in the least distressed. Now, sir.

SONG.

When a tender maid
Is first assay'd
By some admiring swain,
How her blushes rise
If she meet his eyes,
While he iinfolds his pain !
If he takes her hand, she trembles quite !
Touch her lips, and she swoons outright !
While a pit-a-pat, etc.
Her heart avows her fright.

But in time appear

Fewer signs of fear ;
The youth she boldly views :

If her hand he grasp,

Or her bosom clasp,
No mantling blush ensues !
Then to church well pleased the lovers move,
While her smiles her contentment prove ;

And a pit-a-pat, etc.

Her heart avows her love.

Isaac. Charming, ma'am ! enchanting ! and, truly, your notes
put me in mind of one that's very dear to me — a lady, indeed,
whom you greatly resemble !

122 THE DUENNA. [ACT 11.

Duen. How ! is there, then, another so dear to you ?

Isaac. Oh no, ma'am, you mistake ; it was my mother I
meant.

Duen. Come, sir, I see you are amazed and confounded at my
condescension, and know not what to say.

Isaac. It is very true, indeed, ma'am ; but it is a judgment, I
look on it as a judgment on me, for delaying to urge the time when
you'll permit me to complete my happiness, by acquainting Don
Jerome with your condescension.

Duen. Sir, I must frankly own to you, that I can never be yours
with my father's consent.

Isaac. Good lack ! how so ?

Duen. When my fatner, in his passion, swore he would never
see me again till I acquiesced in his will, I also made a vow, that
I would never take a husband from his hand ; nothing shall make
me break that oath : but if you have spirit and contrivance enough
to carry me off without his knowledge, I'm yours.

Isaac. Hum !

Duen. Nay, sir, if you hesitate

Isaac. [Aside.} I' faith, no bad whim this ! — If I take her at her
word, I shall secure her fortune, and avoid making any settlement
in return ; thus I shall not only cheat the lover, but the father too.
Oh, cunning rogue, Isaac ! ay, ay, let this little brain alone ! Egad,
I'll take her in the mind !

Duen. Well, sir, what's your determination ?

Isaac. Madam, I was dumb only from rapture — I applaud your
spirit, and joyfully close with your proposal ; for which thus let me,
on this lily hand, express my gratitude.

Duen. Well, sir, you must get my father's consent to walk with
me in the garden. But by no means inform him of my kindness
to you.

Isaac. No, to be sure, that would spoil all : but, trust me when
tricking is the word — let me alone for a piece of cunning; this very
day you shall be out of his power.

Duen. Well, I leave the management of it all to you ; I perceive
plainly, sir, that you are not one that can be easily outwitted.

Isaac. Egad, you're right, madam — you're right, i' faith.

fie- enter MAID.

Maid. Here's a gentleman at the door, who begs permission to
speak with Signer Isaac.

Isaac. A friend of mine, ma'am, and a trusty friend — let him
come in. — \Exit MAID.] He's one to be depended on, ma'am,

SC. II.]

THE DUENNA,

123

Enter DON CARLOS.

So, coz. [Talks apart with DON CARLOS.

Don Car. I have left Donna Clara at your lodgings, but can
nowhere find Antonio.

Isaac. Well, I will search him out myself. Carlos, you rogue,
I thrive, I prosper !

Don Car. Where is your mistress ?

Isaac. There, you booby, there she stands.

Don Car. Why, she's damned ugly !

Isaac. Hush ! [Stops his mouth.

Duen. What is your friend saying, signer?

Isaac. Oh, ma'am, he is expressing his raptures at such charms
as he never saw before. Eh, Carlos?

Don Car. Ay, such as I never saw before, indeed !

Duen. You are a very obliging gentleman. Well, Signer Isaac,
I believe we had better part for the present. Remember our plan.

Isaac. Oh, ma'am, it is written in my heart, fixed as the image
of those divine beauties. Adieu, idol of my soul ! — yet once more
permit me [Kisses her.

Duen. Sweet, courteous sir, adieu !

Isaac. Your slave eternally ! Come, Carlos, say something
civil at taking leave.

Don Car. V faith, Isaac, she is the hardest woman to compli-
ment I ever saw; however, I'll try something I had studied for the
occasion.

SONG.

Ah ! sure a pair was never seen

So justly form'd to meet by nature !
Tlie youth excelling so in mien,
The maid in ev'ry grace of feature.
Oh, how happy are such lovers,
When kindred beauties each discovers !
For surely she
Was made for thee,
And thou to bless this lovely creature !

So mild your looks, your children thence

Will early learn the task of duty —
The boys with all their father's sense,
The girls with all their mother's beauty !
Oh, how happy to inherit
At once such graces and such spirit !
Thus while you live
May fortune give
Each blessing equal to your merit ! [Exeunt.

I24 THE DUENNA, [ACT n.

SCENE III.— A LIBRARY IN DON JEROME'S HOUSE.
DON JEROME and DON FERDINAND discovered.

Donjer. Object to Antonio! I have said it. His poverty, can
you acquit him of that?

Don Ferd. Sir, I own he is not over rich ; but he is of as
ancient and honourable a family as any in the kingdom.

Donjer. Yes, I know the beggars are a very ancient family in
most kingdoms ; but never in great repute, boy.

Don Ferd. Antonio, sir, has many amiable qualities.

Donjer. But he is poor; can you clear him of that, I say? Is
he not a gay, dissipated rake, who has squandered his patrimony?

Don Ferd. Sir, he inherited but little; and that, his generosity,
more than his profuseness, has stripped him of; but he has never
sullied his honour, which, with his title, has outlived his means.

Donjer. Psha ! you talk like a blockhead ! nobility, without an
estate, is as ridiculous as gold lace on a frieze coat.

Don Ferd. This language, sir, would better become a Dutch or
English trader than a Spaniard.

Donjer. Yes; and those Dutch and English traders, as you
call them, are the wiser people. Why, booby, in England they
were formerly as nice, as to birth and family, as we are: but they
have long discovered what a wonderful purifier gold is ; and now,
no one there regards pedigree in anything but a horse. Oh, here
comes Isaac ! I hope he has prospered in his suit.

Don Ferd. Doubtless, that agreeable figure of his must have
helped his suit surprisingly.

Donjer. How now? [DON FERDINAND walks aside.

Enter ISAAC.

Well, my friend, have you softened her ?

Isaac. Oh, yes ; I have softened her.

Donjer. What, does she come to ?

Isaac. Why, truly, she was kinder than I expected to find her.

Donjer. And the dear little angel was civil, eh ?

Isaac. Yes, the pretty little angel was very civil.

Don Jer. I'm transported to hear it ! Well, and you were
astonished at her beauty, hey ?

Isaac. I was astonished, indeed ! Pray, how old is Miss ?

Don Jer. How old ! let me see — eight and twelve — she is
twenty.

Isaac. Twenty ?

Donjer. Ay, to a month.

s& in.] THE DUENNA. 125

Isaac. Then, upon my soul, she is the oldest-looking girl of her
age in Christendom 1

Donjer. Do you think so? But, I believe, you will not see a
prettier girl.

Isaac, Here and there one.

Donjer. Louisa has the family face.

Isaac. Yes, egad, I should have taken it for a family face, and
one that has been in the family some time too. [Aside.

Donjer. She has her father's eyes.

Isaac. Truly, I should have guessed them to have been so ! If
she had her mother's spectacles, I believe she would not see the
worse. {Aside.

Donjer. Her aunt Ursula's nose, and her grandmother's fore-
head, to a hair.

Isaac. Ay, 'faith, and her grandfather's chin, to a hair. {Aside.

Donjer. Well, if she was but as dutiful as she's handsome —
and hark ye, friend Isaac, she is none of your made-up beauties —
her charms are of the lasting kind.

Isaac. I' faith, so they should— for if she be but twenty now, she
may double her age before her years will overtake her face.

Donjer. Why, zounds, Master Isaac ! you are not sneering,
are you ?

Isaac. Why now, seriously, Don Jerome, do you think your
daughter handsome ?

Don Jer. By this light, she's as handsome a girl as any in
Seville.

Isaac. Then, by these eyes, I think her as plain a woman as
ever I beheld.

Donjer. By St. lago ! you must be blind.

Isaac. No, no ; 'tis you are partial.

Donjer. How 1 have I neither sense nor taste? If a fair skin,
fine eyes, teeth of ivory, with a lovely bloom, and a delicate shape
— if these, with a heavenly voice, and a world of grace, are not
charms, I know not what you call beautiful.

Isaac. Good lack, with what eyes a father sees ! As I have life,
she is the very reverse of all this : as for the dimity skin you told
me of, I swear 'tis a thorough nankeen as ever I saw ! for her eyes,
their utmost merit is not squinting — for her teeth, where there is
one of ivory, its neighbour is pure ebony, black and white alter-
nately, just like the keys of a harpsichord. Then, as to her singing,
and heavenly voice — by this hand, she has a shrill, cracked pipe,
that sounds for all the world like a child's trumpet.

Don Jer. Why, you little Hebrew scoundrel, do you mean to
insult me ? Out of my house, I say !

i26 THE DUENNA. [ACT n.

Don Ferd. [coming forward]. Dear sir, what's the matter?

Don Jer. Why, this Israelite here has the impudence to say
your sister's ugly.

Don Ferd. He must be either blind or insolent

Isaac. So, I find they are all in a story. Egad, I believe I have
gone too far ! [Aside.

Don Ferd. Sure, sir, there must be some mistake ; it can't be
my sister whom he has seen.

Don Jer. 'Sdeath ! you are as great a fool as he ! What mistake
can there be ? Did not I lock up Louisa, and haven't I the key in
my own pocket ? and didn't her maid show him into the dressing-
room ? and yet you talk of a mistake ! No, the Portuguese meant
to insult me — and, but that this roof protects him, old as I am, this
sword should do me justice.

Isaac. I must get off as well as I can — her fortune is not the
less handsome. [Aside.

DUET.

Isaac. . Believe me, good sir, I ne'er meant to offend ;
My mistress I love, and I value my friend :
To win her and wed her is still my request,
For better for worse — and I swear I don't jest.

Don Jer. Zounds ! you'd best not provoke me, my rage is so high !

Isaac. . Hold him fast, I beseech you, his rage is so high !
Good sir, you're too hot, and this place I must fly.

Don Jer. You're a knave and a sot, and this place you'd best fly.

Isaac. Don Jerome, come now, let us lay aside all joking, and
be serious.

Don Jer. How?

Isaac. Ha ! ha ! ha ! I'll be hanged if you haven't taken my
abuse of your daughter seriously.

Don Jer. You meant it so, did not you?

Isaac. O mercy, no ! a joke — just to try how angry it would
make you.

Don Jer. Was that all, i' faith ? I didn't know you had been
such a wag. Ha ! ha ! ha ! By St. lago ! you made me very
angry, though. Well, and you do think Louisa handsome ?

Isaac. Handsome ! Venus de Medicis was a sibyl to her.

Don Jer. Give me your hand, you little jocose rogue ! Egad
I thought we had been all off.

Don Ferd. So ! I was in hopes this would have been a quarrel :
but I find the Jew is too cunning. [Aside.

Don Jer. Ay. this gust of passion has made me dry — I am
seldom ruffled. Order some wine in the next room — let us drink

sc. iv.j THE DUENNA. 127

the poor girl's health. Poor Louisa ! ugly, eh 1 ha 1 ha ! ha !
'twas a very good joke, indeed !

Isaac. And a very true one, for all that. [Aside.

Don Jer. And, Ferdinand, I insist upon your drinking success
to my friend.

Don Ferd. Sir, I will drink success to my friend with all my
heart.

Don Jer. Come, little Solomon, if any sparks of anger had
remained, this would be the only way to quench them.

TRIO.

A bumper of good liquor
Will end a contest quicker
Than justice, judge, or vicar ;

So fill a cheerful glass,

And let good humour pass.

But if more deep the quarrel,
Why, sooner drain the barrel
Than be the hateful fellow
That's crabbed when he's mellow.

A bumper, etc. \Exeunt.

SCENE IV.— ISAAC'S LODGINGS.
Enter DONNA LOUISA.

Don. Louisa. Was ever truant daughter so whimsically cir-
cumstanced as I am ? I have sent my intended husband to look
after my lover — the man of my father's choice is gone to bring
me the man of my own : but how dispiriting is this interval of
expectation !

SONG.

What bard, 0 Time, discover,

With wings first made thee move ?
Ah ! sure it was some lover

Who ne'er had left his love ?

For who that once did prove
The pangs which absence brings,

Though but one day

He were away,

Could picture thee with wings ?
What bard, etc.

Enter DON CARLOS.

So, friend, is Antonio found ?

Don Car. I could not meet with him, lady ; but I doubt not
my friend Isaac will be here with him presently.

128 THE DUENNA. [ACT n.

Don, Louisa. Oh, shame 1 you have used no diligence. Is this
your courtesy to a lady, who has trusted herself to your protection?

Don Car. Indeed, madam, I have not been remiss.

Don. Louisa. Well, well ; but if either of you had known how
each moment of delay weighs upon the heart of her who loves, and
waits the object of her love, oh, ye would not then have trifled
thus !

Don Car. Alas, I know it well !

Don. Louisa. Were you ever in love, then ?

Don Car. I was, lady; but, while I have life, will never be
again.

Don. Louisa. Was your mistress so cruel ?

Don Car. If she had always been so, I should have been
happier.

SONQ.

Oh, had my love ne'er smiled on me,

I ne'er had known such anguish ;
But think how false, how cruel she,

To bid me cease to languish ;
To bid me hope her hand to gain,

Breathe on a flame half perish'd ;
And then, with cold and fix'd disdain,

To kill the hope she cherish'd.

Not worse his fate, who on a wreck,

That drove as winds did blow it,
Silent had left the shatter' d deck,

To find a grave below it.
Then land was cried — no more resign'd,

He glow'd with joy to hear it ;
Not worse his fate, his woe, to find

The wreck must sink ere near it !

Don. Louisa. As I live, here is your friend coming with
Antonio 1 I'll retire for a moment to surprise him. {Exit

Enter ISAAC and DON ANTONIO.

Don Ant. Indeed, my good friend, you must be mistaken.
Clara d'Almanza in love with me, and employ you to bring me to
meet her 1 It is impossible !

Isaac. That you shall see in an instant. Carlos, where is the
lady?— [DON CARLOS points to the door.] In the next room, is
she?

Don Ant. Nay, if that lady is really here, she certainly wants
me to conduct her to a dear friend of mine, who has long been her
lover.

sc. iv.] THE DUENNA. 129

Isaac. Psha 1 I tell you 'tis no such thing — you are the man she
wants, and nobody but you. Here's ado to persuade you to take
a pretty girl that's dying for you !

Don Ant. But I have no affection for this lady.

Isaac. And you have for Louisa, hey ? But take my word for
it, Antonio, you have no chance there— so you may as well secure
the good that offers itself to you.

Don Ant. And could you reconcile it to your conscience to
supplant your friend ?

Isaac. Pish ! Conscience has no more to do with gallantry
than it has with politics. Why, you are no honest fellow if love
can't make a rogue of you — so come, do go in and speak to her, at
least.

Don Ant. Well, I have no objection to that.

Isaac. \Opens the door."] There — there she is — yonder by the
window — get in, do. — [Pushes him z'n, and half shuts the door.~\
Now, Carlos, now I shall hamper him, I warrant ! Stay, I'll peep
how they go on. Egad, he looks confoundedly posed ! Now she's
coaxing him. See, Carlos, he begins to come to — ay, ay, he'll soon
forget his conscience.

Don Car. Look — now they are both laughing 1

Isaac. Ay, so they are — yes, yes, they are laughing at that dear
friend he talked of — ay, poor devil, they have outwitted him.

Don Car. Now he's kissing her hand.

Isaac. Yes, yes, 'faith, they're agreed — he's caught, he's
entangled. My dear Carlos, we have brought it about. Oh, this
little cunning head ! I'm a Machiavel — a very Machiavel !

Don Car. I hear somebody inquiring for you — I'll see who
it is. [Exit.

Re-enter DON ANTONIO and DONNA LOUISA.

Don Ant. Well, my good friend, this lady has so entirely
convinced me of the certainty of your success at Don Jerome's,
that I now resign my pretensions there.

Isaac. You never did a wiser thing, believe me; and, as for
deceiving your friend, that's nothing at all — tricking is all fair in
love, isn't it, ma'am ?

Don. Louisa. Certainly, sir ; and I am particularly glad to find
you are of that opinion.

Isaac. O Lud ! yes, ma'am— let any one outwit me that can, I
say ! But here, let me join your hands. There, you lucky rogue !
I wish you happily married, Irom the bottom of my soul !

Don. Louisa. And I am sure, if you wish it, no one else should
prevent it.

892

130 THE DUENNA. [ACT 11.

Isaac. Now, Antonio, we are rivals no more ; so let us be
friends, will you ?

Don Ant. With all my heart, Isaac.

Isaac. It is not every man, let me tell you, that would have
taken such pains, or been so generous to a rival.

Don Ant. No, 'faith, I don't believe there's another beside
yourself in all Spain.

Isaac. Well, but you resign all pretensions to the other lady?

Don Ant. That I do, most sincerely.

Isaac. I doubt you have a little hankering there still.

Don Ant. None in the least, upon my soul.

Isaac. I mean after her fortune.

Don Ant. No, believe me. You are heartily welcome to every-
thing she has.

Isaac. Well, i' faith, you have the best of the bargain, as to
beauty, twenty to one. Now I'll tell you a secret — I am to carry
off Louisa this very evening.

Don. Louisa. Indeed !

Isaac. Yes, she has sworn not to take a husband from her
father's hand — so I've persuaded him to trust her to walk with me
in the garden, and then we shall give him the slip.

Don. Louisa. And is Don Jerome to know nothing of this?

Isaac. O Lud, no ! there lies the jest. Don't you see that, by
this step, I over-reach him? I shall be entitled to the girl's
fortune, without settling a ducat on her. Ha ! ha ! ha ! I'm a
cunning dog, an't I ? a sly little villain, eh ?

Don Ant. Ha! ha! ha! you are indeed!

Isaac. Roguish, you'll say, but keen, hey ? devilish keen ?

Don Ant. So you are indeed — keen — very keen.

Isaac. And what a laugh we shall have at Don Jerome's when
the truth comes out! hey?

Don. Louisa. Yes, I'll answer for it, we shall have a good laugh
when the truth comes out. Ha ! ha 1 ha !

Re-enter DON CARLOS.

Don Car. Here are the dancers come to practise the fandango
you intended to have honoured Donna Louisa with.

Isaac. Oh, I shan't want them ; but, as I must pay them, I'll see
a caper for my money. Will you excuse me ?

Don. Louisa. Willingly.

Isaac. Here's my friend, whom you may command for any
service. Madam, your most obedient— Antonio, I wish you all
happiness. — [Aside.] Oh, the easy blockhead ! what a tool I have
made of him! — This was a masterpiece! [Exit.

ACT in.] THE DUENNA. 131

Don. Louisa. Carlos, will you be my guard again, and convey me
to the convent of St. Catherine?

Don Ant. Why, Louisa — why should you go there?

Don. Louisa. I have my reasons, and you must not be seen to go
with me ; I shall write from thence to my father ; perhaps, when
he finds what he has driven me to, he may relent.

Don Ant. I have no hope from him. O Louisa ! in these arms
should be your sanctuary.

Don. Louisa. Be patient but for a little while — my father cannot
force me from thence. But let me see you there before evening,
and I will explain myself.

Don Ant. I shall obey.

Don. Louisa. Come, friend. Antonio, Carlos has been a lover
himself.

Don Ant. Then he knows the value of his trust.

Don Car. You shall not find me unfaithful.

TRIO.

Soft pity never leaves the gentle breast

Where love has been received a welcome guest ;

As wandering saints poor huts have sacred made,

He hallows every heart he once has sway'd,

And, when his presence we no longer share,

Still leaves compassion as a relic there. [Exeunt.

ACT III.

SCENE I.— A LIBRARY IN DON JEROME'S HOUSE.
Enter DON JEROME and SERVANT.

Don Jer. Why, I never was so amazed in my life ! Louisa gone
off with Isaac Mendoza! What! steal away with the very man
whom I wanted her to marry— elope with her own husband, as it
were — it is impossible !

Ser. Her maid says, sir, they had your leave to walk in the
garden while you were abroad. The door by the shrubbery was
found open, and they have not been heard of since. {Exit.

Don Jer. Well, it is the most unaccountable affair ! 'sdeath !
there is certainly some infernal mystery in it I can't comprehend !

Enter SECOND SERVANT, with a letter.

Ser. Here is a letter, sir, from Signer Isaac. [Exit.

Don Jer. So, so, this will explain— ay, Isaac Mendoza — let me

see [Reads.

1 32 THE DUENNA, [ACT IIL

Dearest Sir,

You must, doubtless, be much surprised at my flight with your
daughter / — yes, 'faith, and well I may — / had the happiness to gain
her heart at our first interview. — The devil you had! — But, she
having unfortunately made a vow not to receive a husband from
your hands, I was obliged to comply with her whim! — So, so ! — We
shall shortly throw ourselves at your feet, and I hope you will have
a blessing ready for one who will then be your son-in-law,

ISAAC MENDOZA.

A whim, hey? Why, the devil's in the girl, I think ! This morning
she would die sooner than have him, and before evening she runs
away with him 1 Well, well, my will's accomplished — let the motive
be what it will — and the Portuguese, sure, will never deny to fulfil
the rest of the article.

Re-enter SERVANT, with another letter.

Ser. Sir, here's a man below, who says he brought this from
my young lady, Donna Louisa. [Exit.

Don Jer. How ! yes, it's my daughter's hand, indeed ! Lord,
there was no occasion for them both to write ; well, let's see what
she says {Reads.

My dearest Father,

How shall I entreat your pardon for the rash step I have taken —
how confess the motive f — Pish ! hasn't Isaac just told me the
motive ? — one would think they weren't together when they wrote. —
If I have a spirit too resentful of ill-usage, I have also a heart as
easily affected by kindness. — So, so, here the whole matter comes
out ; her resentment for Antonio's ill-usage has made her sensible of
Isaac's kindness — yes, yes, it is all plain enough. Well. — I am not
married yet, though with a man who, I am convinced, adores me. —
Yes, yes, I dare say Isaac is very fond of her. — But I shall anxiously
expect your answer, in which, should I be so fortunate as to receive
your consent, you will make completely happy your ever affectionate
daughter, LOUISA.

My consent 1 to be sure she shall have it 1 Egad, I was never
better pleased — I have fulfilled my resolution — I knew I should.
Oh, there's nothing like obstinacy 1 Lewis 1 [Calls.

Re-enter SERVANT.

Let the man who brought the last letter wait ; and get me a pen
and ink below. — [Exit SERVANT.] I am impatient to set poor
Louisa's heart at rest. Holloa ! Lewis ! Sancho ! [Calls.

sc. ii.] THE DUENNA. 133

Enter SERVANTS.

See that there be a noble supper provided in the saloon to-night ;
serve up my best wines, and let me have music, d'ye hear?

Ser. Yes, sir.

Don Jer. And order all my doors to be thrown open ; admit
all guests, with masks or without masks. — \Exeunt SERVANTS.]
I' faith, we'll have a night of it ! and I'll let them see how merry
an old man can be.

SONG.

Oh, the days when I was young,

When I laugh '(1 in fortune's spite ;
Talk'd of love the whole day long,

And with nectar crown'd the night !
Then it was, old Father Care,

Little reck'd 1 of thy frown :
Half thy malice youth could bear,

And the rest a bumper drown.

Truth, they say, lies in a well,

Why, I vow I ne'er could see ;
Let the water-drinkers tell,

There it always lay for me.
For when sparkling wine went round,

Never saw 1 falsehood's mask ;
But still honest truth I found

In the bottom of each flask.

True, at length my vigour's flown,

I have years to bring decay ;
Few the locks that now I own,

And the few I have are grey.
Yet, old Jerome, thou mayst boast,

While thy spirits do not tire ;
Still beneath thy age's frost

Glows a spark of youthful fire. • [Exit.

SCENE II.— THE NEW PIAZZA.
Enter DON FERDINAND and LOPEZ.

Don Ferd. What, could you gather no tidings of her? nor
guess where she was gone ? O Clara ! Clara !

Lop. In truth, sir, I could not. That she was run away from
her father, was in everybody's mouth ; and that Don Guzman was
in pursuit of her, was also a very common report. Where she was
gone, or what was become of her, no one could take upon them
to say.

134 THE DUENNA, [ACT in.

Don Ferd. 'Sdeath and fury, you blockhead! she can't be out
of Seville.

Lop. So I said to myself, sir. 'Sdeath and fury, you blockhead,
says I, she can't be out of Seville. Then some said, she had
hanged herself for love ; and others have it, Don Antonio had
carried her off.

Don Ferd. 'Tis false, scoundrel ! no one said that.

Lop. Then I misunderstood them, sir.

Don Ferd. Go, fool, get home ! and never let me see you again
till you bring me news of her. — [Exit LOPEZ.] Oh, how my
fondness for this ungrateful girl has hurt my disposition.

Enter, ISAAC.

Isaac. So, I have her safe, and have only to find a priest to
marry us. Antonio now may marry Clara, or not, if he pleases.

Don Ferd. What ! what was that you said of Clara ?

Isaac. Oh, Ferdinand ! my brother-in-law that shall be, who
thought of meeting you?

Don Ferd. But what of Clara?

Isaac. I' faith, you shall hear. This morning, as I was coming
down, I met a pretty damsel, who told me her name was Clara
d'Almanza, and begged my protection.

Don Ferd. How?

Isaac. She said she had eloped from her father, Don Guzman,
but that love for a young gentleman in Seville was the cause.

Don Ferd. Oh, heavens ! did she confess it ?

Isaac. Oh yes, she confessed at once. But then, says she, my
lover is not informed of my flight, nor suspects my intention.

Don Ferd. [Aside.] Dear creature ! no more I did indeed ! Oh,
I am the happiest fellow !— [Aloud.} Well, Isaac ?

Isaac. Why then she entreated me to find him out for her, and
bring him to her. •

Don Ferd. Good heavens, how lucky ! Well, come along, let's
lose no time. {Pulling him.

Isaac. Zooks ! where are we to go ?

Don Ferd. Why, did anything more pass ?

Isaac. Anything more ! yes ; the end on't was, that I was moved
with her speeches, and complied with her desires.

Don Ferd. Well, and where is she ?

Isaac. Where is she! why, don't I tell you ? I complied with
her request, and left her safe in the arms of her lover.

Don Ferd. 'Sdeath, you trifle with me ! — I have never seen her.

Isaac. You ! O Lud, no ! how the devil should you ? 'Twas
Antonio she wanted ; and with Antonio I left her.

SC. II. j

THE DUENNA. 135

Don lerd. [Aside.} Hell and madness! — [Aloud.] What,
Antonio d'Ercilla ?

Isaac. Ay, ay, the very man ; and the best part of it was, he was
shy of taking her at first. He talked a good deal about honour,
and conscience, and deceiving some dear friend ; but Lord, we soon
overruled that !

Don Ferd. You did !

Isaac. Oh yes, presently. — Such deceit ! says he. — Pish ! says
the lady, tricking is all fair in love. But then, my friend, says he. —
Psha ! damn your friend, says I. So, poor wretch, he has no
chance. — No, no ; he may hang himself as soon as he pleases.

Don Ferd. I must go, or I shall betray myself. [Aside.

Isaac. But stay, Ferdinand, you ha'n't heard the best of the joke.

Don Ferd. Curse on your joke !

Isaac. Good lack ! what's the matter now ? I thought to have
diverted you.

Don Ferd. Be racked ! tortured ! damned !

Isaac. Why, sure you are not the poor devil of a lover, are
you ? — I' faith, as sure as can be, he is ! This is a better joke than
t'other. Ha! ha ! ha!

Don Ferd. What! do you laugh? you vile, mischievous varlet ! —
[Collars him.~\ But that you're beneath my anger, I'd tear your
heart out ! [Throws him from him.

Isaac. O mercy 1 here's usage for a brother-in-law 1

Don Ferd. But, hark ye, rascal ! tell me directly where these
false friends are gone, or, by my soul [Draws.

Isaac. For heaven's sake, now, my dear brother-in-law, don't be
in a rage ! I'll recollect as well as I can.

Don Ferd. Be quick then !

Isaac. I will, I will ! — but people's memories differ ; some have
a treacherous memory : now mine is a cowardly memory — it takes
to its heels at sight of a drawn sword-, it does i' faith ; and I could
as soon fight as recollect.

Don Ferd. Zounds ! tell me the truth, and I won't hurt you.

Isaac. No, no, I know you won't, my dear brother-in-law ; but
that ill-looking thing there

Don Ferd. What, then, you won't tell me ?

Isaac. Yes, yes, I will ; I'll tell you all, upon my soul ! — but why
need you listen, sword in hand ?

Don Ferd. Why, there. — [Puts up.] Now.

Isaac. Why, then, I believe they are gone to — that is, my friend
Carlos told me, he had left Donna Clara — dear Ferdinand, keep
your hands off — at the convent of St. Catherine.

Don Ferd. St. Catherine !

136 THE DUENNA. [ACT in.

Isaac. Yes ; and that Antonio was to come to her there.

Don Ferd. Is this the truth ?

Isaac. It is indeed ; and all I know, as I hope for life !

Don Ferd. Well, coward, take your life ! 'tis that false, dis-
honourable Antonio who shall feel my vengeance.

Isaac. Ay, ay, kill him ; cut his throat, and welcome.

Don Ferd. But, for Clara ! infamy on her ! she is not worth my
resentment.

Isaac. No more she is, my dear brother-in-law. I' faith, I would
not be angry about her ; she is not worth it, indeed.

Don Ferd. Tis false 1 she is worth the enmity of princes !

Isaac. True, true, so she is ; and I pity you exceedingly for
having lost her.

Don Ferd. 'Sdeath, you rascal 1 how durst you talk of pitying
me?

Isaac. Oh, dear brother-in-law, I beg pardon 1 I don't pity you
in the least, upon my soul 1

Don Ferd. Get hence, fool, and provoke me no further ; nothing
but your insignificance saves you 1

Isaac. \Aside\ V faith, then, my insignificance is the best friend
I have. — \Aloud^\ I'm going, dear Ferdinand. — \Aside^\ What a
curst hot-headed bully it is ! {Exeunt severally.

SCENE III.— THE GARDEN OF THE CONVENT.
Enter DONNA LOUISA and DONNA CLARA.

Don. Louisa. And you really wish my brother may not find you
out?

Don. Clara. Why else have I concealed myself under this
disguise?

Don. Louisa. Why, perhaps because the dress becomes you ;
for you certainly don't intend to be a nun for life.

Don. Clara. If, indeed, Ferdinand had not offended me so last
night

Don. Louisa. Come, come, it was his fear of losing you made
him so rash.

Don. Clara. Well, you may think me cruel, but I swear, if he
were here this instant, I believe I should forgive him.

SONG.

By him we love offended,

How soon our anger flies !
One day apart, 'tis ended ;

Behold him, and it dies.

sc m.] THE DUENNA. 137

Last night, your roving brother,

Enraged, I bade depart ;
And sure his rude presumption

Deserved to lose my heart.

Yet, were he now before me,

In spite of injured pride,
I fear my eyes would pardon

Before my tongue could chide.

Don. Louisa. I protest, Clara, I shall begin to think you are
seriously resolved to enter on your probation.

Don. Clara. And, seriously, I very much doubt whether the
character of a nun would not become me best.

Don. Louisa. Why, to be sure, the character of a nun is a very
becoming one at a masquerade ; but no pretty woman, in her
senses, ever thought of taking the veil for above a night.

Don. Clara. Yonder I see your Antonio is returned — I shall
only interrupt you ; ah, Louisa, with what happy eagerness you
turn to look for him ! {Exit.

Enter DON ANTONIO.

Don Ant. Well, my Louisa, any news since I left you ?

Don. Louisa. None. The messenger is not yet returned from
my father.

Don Ant. Well, I confess, I do not perceive what we are to
expect from him.

Don. Louisa. I shall be easier, however, in having made the
trial : I do not doubt your sincerity, Antonio ; but there is a
chilling air around poverty, that often kills affection, that was not
nursed in it. If we would make love our household god, we had
best secure him a comfortable roof.

SONG. — Don Antonio.

How oft, Louisa, hast thou told

(Nor wilt thou the fond boast disown),
Thou wouldst not lose Antonio's love

To reign the partner of a throne !
And by those lips that spoke so kind,

And by that hand I've press'd to mine,
To be the lord of wealth and power,

By heavens, I would not part with thine !

Then how, my soul, can we be poor,
Who own what kingdoms could not buy ?

Of this true heart thou shalt be queen.
In serving thee, a monarch I.

138 THE DUENNA. [ACT ill.

Thus Tmcontroll'd, in mutual bliss,

I rich in love's exhaustless mine,
Do thou snatch treasures from my lips,

And I'll take kingdoms back from thine !

Enter MAID, with a letter,

Don. Louisa. My father's answer, I suppose.

Don Ant. My dearest Louisa, you may be assured that it
contains nothing but threats and reproaches.

Don. Louisa. Let us see, however. — [Reads.] Dearest daughter^
make your lover happy ; you have my full consent to marry as
your whim has chosen, but be sure come home and sup with your
affectionate father.

Don Ant. You jest, Louisa !

Don. Louisa. [Gives him the letter.'] Read ! read !

Don Ant. 'Tis so, by heavens ! Sure there must be some mistake;
but that's none of our business. — Now, Louisa, you have no excuse
for delay.

Don. Louisa. Shall we not then return and thank my father?

Don Ant. But first let the priest put it out of his power to recall
his word. — I'll fly to procure one.

Don. Louisa. Nay, if you part with me again, perhaps you may
lose me.

Don Ant. Come then — there is a friar of a neighbouring convent
is my friend ; you have already been diverted by the manners of a
nunnery ; let us see whether there is less hypocrisy among the holy
fathers.

Don. Louisa. I'm afraid not, Antonio — for in religion, as in
friendship, they who profess most are ever the least sincere.

[Exeunt.
Re-enter DONNA CLARA.

Don. Clara. So, yonder they go, as happy as a mutual and
confessed affection can make them, while I am left in solitude.
Heigho ! love may perhaps excuse the rashness of an elopement
from one's friend, but I am sure nothing but the presence of the
man we love can support it. Ha ! what do I see ! Ferdinand, as
I live ! How could he gain admission ? By potent gold, I suppose,
as Antonio did. How eager and disturbed he seems ! He shall
not know me as yet. [Lets down her veil.

Enter DON FERDINAND.

Don Ferd. Yes, those were certainly they — my information was
right [Going.

sc. iv.] THE DUENNA. 139

Don. Clara. [Stops him.'] Pray, signer, what is your business here?

Don Ferd. No matter — no matter ! Oh, they stop. — [Looks out.~\
Yes, that is the perfidious Clara indeed 1

Don. Clara. So, a jealous error — I'm glad to see him so moved.

[Aside.

Don Ferd. Her disguise can't conceal her — no, no, I know her
too well.

Don. Clara. [Aside.'] Wonderful discernment ! — [Aloud.} But,
signer

Don Ferd. Be quiet, good nun ; don't tease me ! — By heavens,
she leans upon his arm, hangs fondly on it ! O woman, woman !

Don. Clara. But, signer, who is it you want?

Don Ferd. Not you, not you, so prythee don't tease me. Yet
pray stay — gentle nun, was it not Donna Clara d'Almanza just
parted from you ?

Don. Clara. Clara d'Almanza, signor, is not yet out of the garden.

Don Ferd. Ay, ay, I knew I was right ! And pray is not that
gentleman, now at the porch with her, Antonio d'Ercilla?

Don. Clara. It is indeed, signor.

Don Ferd. So, so ; now but one question more — can you inform
me for what purpose they have gone away?

Don. Clara. They are gone to be married, I believe.

Don Ferd. Very well — enough. Now if I don't mar their
wedding ! [Exit.

Don. Clara. [Unveils.] I thought jealousy had made lovers quick-
sighted, but it has made mine blind. Louisa's story accounts to me
for this error, and I am glad to find I have power enough over him to
make him so unhappy. But why should not I be present at his
surprise when undeceived? When he's through the porch, I'll
follow him ; and, perhaps, Louisa shall not singly be a bride.

SONG.

Adieu, thou dreary pile, where never dies

The sullen echo of repentant sighs !

Ye sister mourners of each lonely cell,

Inured to hymns and sorrow, fare ye well !

For happier scenes I fly this darksome grove,

To saints a prison, but a tomb to love ! [Exit.

SCENE IV.— A COURT BEFORE THE PRIORY.
Enter ISAAC, crossing the stage, DON twrotxio following.

Don Ant. What, my friend Isaac !

Isaac. What, Antonio 1 wish me joy 1 I have Louisa safe.

Don Ant. Have you? I wish you joy with all my soul.

140 THE DUENNA. [ACT m.

Isaac. Yes, I am come here to procure a priest to marry us.

Don Ant. So, then, we are both on the same errand ; I am
come to look for Father Paul.

Isaac. Ha ! I am glad on't — but, i' faith, he must tack me first ;
my love is waiting.

Don Ant. So is mine — I left her in the porch.

Isaac. Ay, but I am in haste to go back to Don Jerome.

Don Ant. And so am I too.

Isaac. Well, perhaps he'll save time, and marry us both together
— or I'll be your father, and you shall be mine. Come along — but
you're obliged to me for all this.

Don Ant. Yes, yes. \Exeunt.

SCENE V.— A ROOM IN THE PRIORY.

FATHER PAUL, FATHER FRANCIS, FATHER AUGUSTINE, and
other FRIARS, discovered at a table drinking.

GLEE AND CHORUS.

This bottle's the sun of our table,

His beams are rosy wine :
We, planets, that are not able

Without his help to shine.

Let mirth and glee abound !

You'll soon grow bright

With borrow'd light,

And shine as he goes round.

Paul. Brother Francis, toss the bottle about, and give me your
toast.

Fran. Have we drunk the Abbess of St. Ursuline?

Paul. Yes, yes ; she was the last.

Fran. Then I'll give you the blue-eyed nun of St. Catherine's.

Paul. With all my heart— [Drinks.] Pray, brother Augustine,
were there any benefactions left in my absence ?

Aug. Don Juan Corduba has left a hundred ducats, to re-
member him in our masses.

Paul. Has he ? let them be paid to our wine-merchant, and
we'll remember him in our cups, which will do just as well. Any-
thing more?

Aug. Yes ; Baptista, the rich miser, who died last week, has
bequeathed us a thousand pistoles, and the silver lamp he used in
his own chamber, to burn before the image of St. Anthony.

Paul. 'Twas well meant, but we'll employ his money better —
Baptista's bounty shall light the living, not the dead. St. Anthony

sc. vi.] THE DUENNA. 141

is not afraid to be left in the dark, though he was. — [Knocking.'}
See who's there.

[FATHER FRANCIS goes to the door and opens it.

Enter PORTER.

Port. Here's one without, in pressing haste to speak with
Father Paul.

Fran. Brother Paul !

[FATHER PAUL comes from behind a curtain, with a glass of
wine, and in his hand apiece of cake.

Paul. Here ! how durst you, fellow, thus abruptly break in
upon our devotions ?

Port. I thought they were finished.

Paul. No, they were not — were they, brother Francis ?

Fran. Not by a bottle each.

Paul. But neither you nor your fellows mark how the hours go;
no, you mind nothing but the gratifying of your appetites ; ye eat,
and swill, and sleep, and gourmandise, and thrive, while we are
wasting in mortification.

Port. We ask no more than nature craves.

Paul. 'Tis false, ye have more appetites than hairs ! and your
flushed, sleek, and pampered appearance is the disgrace of our
order — out on't ! If you are hungry, can't you be content with the
wholesome roots of the earth ? and if you are dry, isn't there the
crystal spring ? — [Drinks.] Put this away, — [Gives the glass~\ and
show me where I'm wanted. — [PORTER drains the glass. — PAUL,
going, turns.] So, you would have drunk it, if there had been any
left ! Ah, glutton ! glutton ! [Exeunt.

SCENE VI. — THE COURT BEFORE THE PRIORY.
Enter ISAAC and DON ANTONIO.

Isaac. A plaguy while coming, this same Father Paul ! — He's
detained at vespers, I suppose, poor fellow.
Don Ant. No, here he comes.

Enter FATHER PAUL.

Good Father Paul, I crave your blessing.

Isaac. Yes, good Father Paul, we are come to beg a favour.

Paul. What is it, pray?

Isaac. To marry us, good Father Paul ; and in truth thou dost
look the very priest of Hymen.

Paul. In short, I may be called so ; for I deal in repentance and
mortification.

142 THE DUENNA. [ACT m.

Isaac. No, no, thou seemest an officer of Hymen, because thy
presence speaks content and good humour.

Paul. Alas! my appearance is deceitful. Bloated I am, indeed!
for fasting is a windy recreation, and it hath swollen me like a
bladder.

Don Ant. But thou hast a good fresh colour in thy face, father ;
rosy, i' faith !

Paul. Yes, I have blushed for mankind, till the hue of my shame
is as fixed as their vices.

Isaac. Good man !

Paul. And I have laboured too, but to what purpose? they
continue to sin under my very nose.

Isaac. Efecks, father, I should have guessed as much, for your
nose seems to be put to the blush more than any other part of
your face.

Paul. Go, you're a wag !

Don Ant. But to the purpose, father — will you officiate for us ?

Paul. To join young people thus clandestinely is not safe : and,
indeed, I have in my heart many weighty reasons against it.

Don Ant. And I have in my hand many weighty reasons for it.
Isaac, haven't you an argument or two in our favour about you?

Isaac. Yes, yes ; here is a most unanswerable purse.

Paul. For shame ! you make me angry : you forget who I am,
and when importunate people have forced their trash — ay, into this
pocket here — or into this — why, then the sin was theirs. — {They put
money into his pockets.'} Fie, now how you distress me ! I would
return it, but that I must touch it that way, and so wrong my oath.

Don Ant. Now then, come with us.

Isaac. Ay, now give us our title to joy and rapture.

Paul. Well, when your hour of repentance comes, don't blame
me.

Don Ant. [Aside.'] No bad caution to my friend Isaac. — [Aloud.]
Well, well, father, do you do your part, and I'll abide the con-
sequence.

Isaac. Ay, and so will I.

Enter DONNA LOUISA, running.

Don. Louisa. O Antonio, Ferdinand is at the porch, and inquir-
ing for us.

Isaac. Who ? Don Ferdinand ! he's not inquiring for me, I hope.

Don Ant. Fear not, my love ; I'll soon paciiy him.

Isaac. Egad, you won't. Antonio, take my advice, and run
away ; this Ferdinand is the most unmerciful dog, and has the

sc vi.] THE DUENNA. 143

cursedest long sword! — and, upon my soul, he comes on purpose
to cut your throat.

Don Ant. Never fear, never fear.

Isaac. Well, you may stay if you will ; but I'll get some one to
marry me ; for, by St. lago, he shall never meet me again-, while I
am master of a pair of heels.

{Runs out.— DONNA LOUISA lets down her veil.

Enter DON FERDINAND.

Don Ferd. So, sir, I have met with you at last.

Don Ant. Well, sir.

Don Ferd. Base, treacherous man ! whence can a false, deceitful
soul, like yours, borrow confidence to look so steadily on the man
you've injured?

Don Ant. Ferdinand, you are too warm : 'tis true you find me
on the point of wedding one I loved beyond my life ; but no argu-
ment of mine prevailed on her to elope — I scorn deceit, as much as
you. By heaven I knew not that she had left her father's till I saw
her!

Don Ferd. What a mean excuse ! You have wronged your
friend, then, for one whose wanton forwardness anticipated your
treachery — of this, indeed, your Jew pander informed me ; but let
your conduct be consistent, and since you have dared to do a
wrong, follow me, and show you have a spirit to avow it.

Don. Louisa. Antonio, I perceive his mistake — leave him to me.

Paul. Friend, you are rude, to interrupt the union of two willing
hearts.

Don Ferd. No, meddling priest ! the hand he seeks is mine.

Paul. If so, I'll proceed no further. Lady, did you ever promise
this youth your hand?

[To DONNA LOUISA, who shakes her head.

Don Ferd. Clara, I thank you for your silence — I would not
have heard your tongue avow such falsity; be't your punishment
to remember I have not reproached you.

Enter DONNA CLARA, veiled.

Don. Clara. What mockery is this ?

Don Ferd. Antonio, you are protected now, but we shall meet.
[Going, DONNA CLARA holds one arm, and DONNA LOUISA
the other.

DUET.

Don. Louisa. Turn tliee round, I pray thee,
Calm awhile thy rage.

i44 THE DUENNA. [ACT in.

Don. Clara . I must help to stay thee,

And thy wrath assuage.
Don. Louisa. Couldst thou not discover

One so dear to thee ?
Don. Clara . Canst thou be a lover,

And thus fly from me ? \Both unveil.

Don Ferd. How's this? My sister! Clara too — I'm con-
founded.

Don. Louisa. 'Tis even so, good brother.

Paul. How ! what impiety ! did the man want to marry his
own sister ?

Don. Louisa. And ar'n't you ashamed of yourself not to know
your own sister ?

Don. Clara. To drive away your own mistress

Don. Louisa. Don't you see how jealousy blinds people ?

Don. Clara. Ay, and will you ever be jealous again ?

Don Ferd. Never — never ! — You, sister, I know will forgive
me — but how, Clara, shall I presume

Don. Clara. No, no ; just now you told me not to tease you —
"Who do you want, good signor?" "Not you, not youl" — Oh,
you blind wretch 1 but swear never to be jealous again, and I'll
forgive you.

Don Ferd. By all

Don. Clara. There, that will do — you'll keep the oath just as
well. [Gives her hand.

Don. Louisa. But, brother, here is one to whom some apology
is due.

Don Ftrd. Antonio, I am ashamed to think

Don Ant. Not a word of excuse, Ferdinand — I have not been
in love myself without learning that a lover's anger should never
be resented. But come — let us retire with this good father, and
we'll explain to you the cause of this error.

GLEE AND CHORUS.

Oft does Hymen smile to hear

Wordy vows of feign'd regard ;
Well he knows when they're sincere,

Never slow to give reward :
For his glory is to prove
Kind to those who wel for love. \Exeunt.

SCENE VII. — A GRAND SALOON IN DON JEROME'S HOUSE.

Enter DON JEROME, LOPEZ, and SERVANTS.
Don Jer. Be sure, now, let everything be in the best order — let

sc. vii.] THE DUENNA. 145

all my servants have on their merriest faces : but tell them to get
as little drunk as possible, till after supper. — [Exeunt SERVANTS.]
So, Lopez, where's your master ? shan't we have him at supper ?

Lop. Indeed, I believe not, sir — he's mad, I doubt \ I'm sure
he has frighted me from him.

Donjer. Ay, ay, he's after some wench, I suppose: a young
rake ! Well, well, we'll be merry without him. [Exit LOPEZ.

Enter a SERVANT.

Ser. Sir, here is Signor Isaac. [Exit.

Enter ISAAC.

Don Jer. So, my dear son-in-law — there, take my blessing and
forgiveness. But where's my daughter ? where's Louisa ?

Isaac. She's without, impatient for a blessing, but almost afraid
to enter.

Donjer. Oh, fly and bring her in. — {Exit ISAAC.] Poor girl,
I long to see her pretty face.

Isaac. [Without.} Come, my charmer ! my trembling angel !

Re-enter ISAAC with DUENNA ; DON JEROME runs to meet them;
she kneels.

Don Jer. Come to my arms, my [Starts back.'} Why, who

the devil have we here ?

Isaac. Nay, Don Jerome, you promised her forgiveness ; see
how the dear creature droops !

Don Jer. Droops indeed ! Why, Gad take me, this is old
Margaret 1 But where's my daughter ? where's Louisa ?,

Isaac. Why, here, before your eyes — nay, don't be abashed, my
sweet wife.

Don Jer. Wife with a vengeance ! Why, zounds, you have
not married the Duenna !

Duen. [Kneeling^ Oh, dear papa ! you'll not disown me, sure 1

Don Jer. Papa ! papa ! Why, zounds, your impudence is as
great as your ugliness !

Isaac. Rise, my charmer, go throw your snowy arms about his
neck, and convince him you are

Duen. Oh, sir, forgive me ! [Embraces him.

Don Jer. Help ! murder !

Enter SERVANTS.
Ser. What's the matter, sir?

Don Jer. Why, here, this damned Jew has brought an old
harridan to strangle me.

Isaac. Lord, it is his own daughter, and he is so hard-hearted
he won't forgive her !

893

i46 THE DUENNA. [ACT HI.

Enter DON ANTONIO and DONNA LOUISA ; they kneel

Don Jer. Zounds and fury ! what's here now ? who sent for you,
sir, and who the devil are you ?

Don Ant, This lady's husband, sir.

Isaac. Ay, that he is, I'll be sworn ; for I left them with a
priest, and was to have given her away.

Don Jer, You were ?

Isaac. Ay ; that's my honest friend, Antonio ; and that's the
little girl I told you I had hampered him with.

Don Jer. Why, you are either drunk or mad — this is my
daughter.

Isaac. No, no ; 'tis you are both drunk and mad, I think —
here's your daughter.

Don Jer. Hark ye, old iniquity ! will you explain all this, or not ?

Duen. Come then, Don Jerome, I will — though our habits
might inform you all. Look on your daughter, there, and on me.

Isaac. What's this I hear ?

Duen. The truth is, that in your passion this morning you
made a small mistake ; for you turned your daughter out of doors,
and locked up your humble servant

Isaac. O Lud ! O Lud 1 here's a pretty fellow, to turn his
daughter out of doors instead of an old Duenna !

Don Jer. And, O Lud ! O Lud ! here's a pretty fellow, to
marry an old Duenna instead of my daughter ! But how came
the rest about ?

Duen. I have only to add, that I remained in your daughter's
place, and had the good fortune to engage the affections of my
sweet husband here.

Isaac. Her husband ! why, you old witch, do you think I'll be
your husband now ? This is a trick, a cheat ! and you ought all to
be ashamed of yourselves.

Don Ant. Hark ye, Isaac, do you dare to complain of tricking?
Don Jerome, I give you my word, this cunning Portuguese has
brought all this upon himself, by endeavouring to over-reach you,
by getting your daughter's fortune, without making any settlement
in return.

Don Jer. Over-reach me !

Don. Louisa. 'Tis so, indeed, sir, and we can prove it to you.

Don Jer. Why, Gad take me, it must be so, or he could never
have put up with such a face as Margaret's — so, little Solomon, I
wish you joy of your wife, with all my soul.

Don. Louisa. Isaac, tricking is all fair in love — let you alone for
the plot I

sc. vii.J THE DUENNA. 147

Don Ant. A cunning dog, ar'n't you? A siy little villain, eh?.

Don. Louisa. Roguish, perhaps ; but keen, devilish keen !

Don Jer. Yes, yes ; his aunt always called him little Solomon.

Isaac. Why, the plagues of Egypt upon you all ! — but do you
think I'll submit to such an imposition?

Don Ant. Isaac, one serious word — you'd better be content as
you are ; for, believe me, you will find that, in the opinion of the
world, there is not a fairer subject for contempt and ridicule than a
knave become the dupe of his own art.

Isaac. I don't care — I'll not endure this. Don Jerome, 'tis you
have done this — you would be so cursed positive about the beauty
of her you locked up, and all the time I told you she was as old as
my mother, and as ugly as the devil

Duen. Why, you little insignificant reptile !

Don Jer. That's right ! — attack him, Margaret

Duen. Dare such a thing as you pretend to talk of beauty? — A
walking rouleau ! — a body that seems to owe all its consequence
to the dropsy ! — a pair of eyes like two dead beetles in a wad of
brown dough ! — a beard like an artichoke, with dry shrivelled
jaws, that would disgrace the mummy of a monkey I

Don Jer. Well done, Margaret !

Duen. But you shall know that I have a brother who wears a
sword — and, if you don't do me justice

Isaac. Fire seize your brother, and you too 1 I'll fly to Jerusalem
to avoid you !

Duen. Fly where you will, I'll follow you.

Don Jer. Throw your snowy arms about him, Margaret. —
[Exeunt ISAAC and DUENNA.] But, Louisa, are you really married
to this modest gentleman ?

Don. Louisa. Sir, in obedience to your commands, I gave him
my hand within this hour.

Don Jer. My commands !

Don Ant. Yes, sir ; here is your consent, under your own hand.

Don Jer. How ! would you rob me of my child by a trick, a false
pretence ? and do you think to get her fortune by the same means?
Why, 'slife, you are as great a rogue as Isaac !

Don Ant. No, Don Jerome ; though I have profited by this
paper in gaining your daughter's hand, I scorn to obtain her fortune
by deceit. There, sir. — [Gives a letter."] Now give her your bless-
ing for a dower, and all the little I possess shall be settled on her
in return. Had you wedded her to a prince, he could do no more.

Don Jer. Why, Gad take me, but you are a very extraordinary
fellow ! But have you the impudence to suppose no one can do a
generous action but yourself? Here, Louisa, tell this proud fool of

148 THE DUENNA. [ACT in.

yours that he's the only man I know that would renounce your
fortune ; and, by my soul, he's the only man in Spain that's
worthy of it There, bless you both : I'm an obstinate old fellow
when I'm in the wrong ; but you shall now find me as steady in
the right

Enter DON FERDINAND and DONNA CLARA.

Another wonder still ! Why, sirrah ! Ferdinand, you have not stole
a nun, have you?

Don Ferd. She is a nun in nothing but her habit, sir — look
nearer, and you will perceive 'tis Clara d'Almanza, Don Guzman's
daughter ; and, with paMon for stealing a wedding, she is also my
wife.

Don Jer. Gadsbud, and a great fortune ! Ferdinand, you are a
prudent young rogue, and I forgive you : and, ifecks, you are a
pretty little damsel Give your father-in-law a kiss, you smiling
rogue I

Don. Clara. There, old gentleman ; and now mind you behave
well to us.

Don Jer. Ifecks, those lips ha'n't been chilled by kissing beads 1
Egad, I believe I shall grow the best-humoured fellow in Spain.
Lewis! Sancho ! Carlos! d'ye hear? are all my doors thrown
open ? Our children's weddings are the only holidays our age can
boast ; and then we drain, with pleasure, the little stock of spirits
time has left us. — [Music within^ But see, here come our friends
and neighbours 1

Enter MASQUERADERS.

And, i' faith, we'll make a night on't, with wine, and dance, and
catches — then old and young shall join us.

FINALE.

Don Jer. . . Come now for jest and smiling,
Both old and young beguiling,

Let us laugh and play, so blithe and gay,
Till we banish care away.

Don. Louisa . Thus crown'd with dance and song,
The hours shall glide along,
With a heart at ease, merry, merry glees
Can never fail to please.

Don Ferd. . Each bride with blushes glowing,
Our wine as rosy flowincr,

Let us laugh and play, so blithe and gay,
Till we banish care away.

sc. VIL] THE DUENNA. 149

Don Ant. . Then healths to every friend
The night's repast shall end,

With a heart at ease, merry, merry glees
Can never fail to please.
Don. Clara . Nor, while we are so joyous,
Shall anxious fear annoy us ;

Let us laugh and play, so blithe and gay,
Till we banish care away.
Don Jer, . . For generous guests like these
Accept the wish to please,

So we'll laugh and play, so blithe and gay,
Your smiles drive care away.

{Exeunt omnes.

THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL.

DRAMATIS PERSONS,

AS ORIGINALLY ACTED AT DRURY LANE THEATRE IN 1777-

SIR PETER TEAZLE . .
SIR OLIVER SURFACE . .
SIR HARRY BUMPER . .
SIR BENJAMIN BACKBITE
JOSEPH SURFACE . . .
CHARLES SURFACE . . .

CARELESS

SNAKE

CRABTREE .

Mr. King.
Mr. Tates.
Mr. Gawdry.
Mr. Dodd.
Mr. Palimr.
Mr. Smith,
Mr. Farren.
Mr. Packer.
Mr. Parsons-

ROWLEY ..... Mr. Aickin.

MOSES ...... Mr. Baddeley.

TRJP ..... Mr. Lamash.

LADY TEAZLE . . . Mrs.
LADY SNEERWELL . Miss Sherry.
MRS. CANDOUR . . Miss Pope.
MARIA ...... Miss P. Hopkins

Gentlemen, Maid, and Servants.

SCENE— LONDON.

A PORTRAIT;

ADDRESSED TO MRS. CREWE, WITH THE COMEDY OF THE SCHOOL
FOR SCANDAL.

BY R. B. SHERIDAN, ESQ.

TELL me, ye prim adepts 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 innuendos fail !

Whose practised memories, cruelly exact,

Omit no circumstance, except the fact ! —

Attend, all ye who boast, — or old or young, —

The living libel of a slanderous tongue !

So shall my theme as far contrasted be,

As saints by fiends, or hymns by calumny.

Come, gentle Amoret (for 'neath that name

In worthier verse is sung thy beauty's fame) ;

Come — for but thee who seeks the Muse? and while

Celestial blushes check thy conscious smile,

With timid grace, and hesitating eye,

The perfect model which I boast supply : —

Vain Muse ! couldst thou the humblest sketch create

Of her, or slightest charm couldst imitate —

Could thy blest strain in kindred colours trace

The faintest wonder of her form and face--

154 THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL.

Poets would study the immortal line,

And Reynolds own his art subdued by thine ;

That art, which well might added lustre give

To Nature's best, and Heaven's superlative :

On Granby's cheek might bid new glories rise,

Or point a purer beam from Devon's eyes !

Hard is the task to shape that beauty's praise,

Whose judgment scorns the homage flattery pays !

But praising Amoret we cannot err,

No tongue o'ervalues Heaven, or flatters her !

Yet she by fate's perverseness — she alone

Would doubt our truth, nor deem such praise her own —

Adorning fashion, unadorn'd by dress,

Simple from taste, and not from carelessness ;

Discreet in gesture, in deportment mild,

Not stiff with prudence, nor uncouthly wild :

No state has Amoret ; no studied mien ;

She frowns no goddess, and she moves no queen.

The softer charm that in her manner lies

Is framed to captivate, yet not surprise ;

It justly suits the expression of her face, —

'Tis less than dignity, and more than gra^e !

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 1

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 'tis 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 ! seest thou not an ambush'd Cupid there,

Too tim'rous of his charge, with jealous care

THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. 155

Veils and unveils those beams of heavenly light,

Too full, too fatal else, for mortal sight ?

Nor yet, such pleasing vengeance fond to meet,

In pard'ning dimples hope a safe retreat

What though her peaceful breast should ne'er allow

Subduing frowns to arm her altered brow,

By Love, I swear, and by his gentle wiles,

More fatal still the mercy of her smiles !

Thus lovely, thus adorn'd, possessing all

Of bright or fair that can to woman fall,

The height of vanity might well be thought

Prerogative in her, and Nature's fault.

Yet gentle Amoret, in mind supreme

As well as charms, rejects the vainer theme ;

And, half mistrustful of her beauty's store,

She barbs with wit those darts too keen before : —

Read in all knowledge that her sex should reach,

Though Greville, or the Muse, should deign to teach,

Fond to improve, nor timorous to discern

How far it is a woman's grace to learn ;

In Millar's dialect she would not prove

Apollo's priestess, but Apollo's love,

Graced by those signs which truth delights to own,

The timid blush, and mild submitted tone :

Whate'er she says, though sense appear throughout,

Displays the tender hue of female doubt ;

Deck'd with that charm, how lovely wit appears,

How graceful science, when that robe she wears !

Such too her talents, and her bent of mind,

As speak a sprightly heart by thought refined :

A taste for mirth, by contemplation school'd,

A turn for ridicule, by candour ruled,

A scorn of folly, which she tries to hide;

An awe of talent, which she owns with pride I

Peace, idle Muse 1 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 colours just — the outline true ;
Thee my inspirer, and my model — CREWE !

156 THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL.

PROLOGUE.

WRITTEN BY MR. GARRICK.

A SCHOOL for Scandal ! tell me, I beseech you,
Needs there a school this modish art to teach you ?
No need of lessons now, the knowing think ;
We might as well be taught to eat and drink
Caused by a dearth of scandal, should the vapours
Distress our fair ones — let them read the papers ;
Their powerful mixtures such disorders hit ;
Crave what you will — there's quantum sufficit.
"Lord ! " cries my Lady Wormwood (who loves tattle,
And puts much salt and pepper in her prattle),
Just risen at noon, all night at cards when threshing
Strong tea and scandal — " Bless me, how refreshing !
Give me the papers, Lisp — how bold and free ! \Sips.
Last night Lord L. \Sips\ was caught with Lady D.
For aching heads what charming sal volatile I [Sips.
If Mrs. B. will still continue flirting.
We hope she'll DRAW, or we'll UNDRAW the curtain.
Fine satire, poz — in public all abuse it,
But, by ourselves [Sips], our praise we can't refuse it.
Now, Lisp, read you — there, at that dash and star."
" Yes, ma'am — A certain lord had best beware,
Who lives not twenty miles from Grosvenor Square;
For, should he Lady W. find willing,

Wormwood is bitter" " Oh 1 that's me ! the villain 1

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 COMED Y.

ACT I.

SCENE I.— LADY SNEERWELL'S DRESSING-ROOM.

LADY SNEERWELL discovered at her toilet ; SNAKE drinking
chocolate.

Lady Sneer. The paragraphs, you say, Mr. Snake, were all
inserted ?

Snake. They were, madam ; and, as I copied them myself in a
feigned hand, there can be no suspicion whence they came.

Lady Sneer. Did you circulate the report of Lady Brittle's
intrigue with Captain Boastall ?

Snake. That's in as fine a train as your ladyship could wish.
In the common course of things, I think it must reach Mrs.
Clackitt's ears within four-and-twenty hours ; and then, you know,
the business is as good as done.

Lady Sneer. Why, truly, Mrs. Clackitt has a very pretty talent,
and a great deal of industry.

Snake. True, madam, and has been tolerably successful in her
day. To my knowledge, she has been the cause of six matches
being broken off, and three sons being disinherited ; of four forced
elopements, and as many close confinements ; nine separate main-
tenances, and two divorces. Nay, I have more than once traced
her causing a tete-a-tete in the Town and Country Magazine,
when the parties, perhaps, had never seen each other's face belore
in the course of their lives.

Lady Sneer. She certainly has talents, but her manner is
gross.

Snake. 'Tis very true. She generally designs well, has a free
tongue and a bold invention ; but her colouring is too dark, and
her outlines often extravagant. She wants that delicacy of tint,

158 THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. [ACT i.

and mellowness of sneer, which distinguish your ladyship's
scandal

Lady Sneer. You are partial. Snake.

Snake. Not in the least ; everybody allows that Lady Sneerwell
can do more with a word or look than many can with the most
laboured detail, even when they happen to have a little truth on
their side to support it

Lady Sneer. Yes, my dear Snake ; and I am no hypocrite to
deny the satisfaction I reap from the success of my efforts.
Wounded myself, in the early part of my life, by the envenomed
tongue of slander, I confess I have since known no pleasure equal
to the reducing others to the level of my own reputation.

Snake. Nothing can be more natural. But, Lady Sneerwell,
there is one affair in which you have lately employed me, wherein,
I confess, I am at a loss to guess your motives.

Lady Sneer. I conceive you mean with respect to my neigh-
bour, Sir Peter Teazle, and his family ?

Snake. I do. Here are two young men, to whom Sir Peter has
acted as a kind of guardian since their father's death ; the eldest
possessing the most amiable character, and universally well spoken
of — the youngest, the most dissipated and extravagant young
fellow in the kingdom, without friends or character : the former
an avowed admirer of your ladyship, and apparently your fav-
ourite ; the latter attached to Maria, Sir Peter's ward, and con-
fessedly 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 1

Lady Sneer. His real attachment is to Maria, or her fortune ;
but, finding in his brother a favoured rival, he has been obliged to
mask his pretensions, and profit by my assistance.

Snake. Yet still I am more puzzled why you should interest
yourself in his success.

Lady Sneer. Heavens 1 how dull you are ! Cannot you sur-
mise 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

sc. i.] THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. 159

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.

Snake. Yes; yet Sir Peter vows he has not his equal in
England; and, above all, he praises him as a man of sentiment.

Lady Sneer. True ; and with the assistance of his sentiment
and hypocrisy he has brought Sir Peter entirely into his interest
with regard to Maria; while poor Charles has no friend in the
house — though, I fear, he has a powerful one in Maria's heart,
against whom we must direct our scheme.

Enter SERVANT.

Ser. Mr. Surface.

Lady Sneer. Show him up. — \Exit SERVANT.] He generally
calls about this time. I don't wonder at people giving him to me
for a lover.

Enter JOSEPH SURFACE.

Jos. Surf. My dear Lady Sneerwell, how do you do to-day?
Mr. Snake, your most obedient.

Lady Sneer. Snake has just been rallying me on our mutual
attachment; but I have informed him of our real views. You
know how useful he has been to us ; and, believe me, the con-
fidence is not ill placed.

Jos. Surf. Madam, it is impossible for me to suspect a man of
Mr. Snake's sensibility and discernment.

Lady Sneer. Well, well, no compliments now; but tell me when
you saw your mistress, Maria — or, what is more material to me,
your brother.

Jos. Surf. I have not seen either since I left you; but I can
inform you that they never meet. Some of your stories have taken
a good effect on Maria.

Lady Sneer. Ah, my dear Snake ! the merit of this belongs to
you. But do your brother's distresses increase ?

Jos. Surf. Every hour. I am told he has had another execu-
tion in the house yesterday. In short, his dissipation and
extravagance exceed anything I have ever heard of.

Lady Sneer. Poor Charles !

160 THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. [ACT i.

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'll 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 under-
standing.

Snake. I believe, Lady Sneerwell, here's company coming ; I'll
go and copy the letter I mentioned to you. Mr. Surface, your
most obedient.

Jos. Surf. Sir, your very devoted.— {Exit SNAKE.] Lady
Sneerwell, I am very sorry you have put any further 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 fort, Lady
Sneerwell, that fellow hasn't virtue enough to be faithful even to
his own villainy. Ah, Maria !

Enter MARIA.

Lady Sneer. Maria, my dear, how do you do ? What's the
matter ?

Mar. Oh 1 there's that disagreeable lover of mine, Sir Benjamin
Backbite, has just called at my guardian's, with his odious uncle,
Crabtree ; so I slipped out, and ran hitner to avoid them.

Lady Sneer. Is that all ?

Jos. Surf. If my brother Charles had been of the party, madam,
perhaps you would not have been so much alarmed.

Lady Sneer. Nay, now you are severe ; for I dare swear the
truth of the matter is, Maria heard you were here. But, my dear,
what has Sir Benjamin done, that you should avoid him so ?

Mar. Oh, he has done nothing — but 'tis what he has said : his
conversation is a perpetual libel on all his acquaintance.

Jos. Surf. Ay, and the worst of it is, there is no advantage in
not knowing him ; lor he'll abuse a stranger just as soon as his best
friend : and his uncle's as bad.

sc. i.] THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. 161

Lady Sneer. Nay, but we should make allowance ; Sir
Benjamin is a wit and a poet.

Mar. For my part, I own, madam, wit loses its respect with
me, when I see it in company with malice. What do you think,
Mr. Surface?

Jos. Surf. Certainly, madam ; to smile at the jest which plants
a thorn in another's breast is to become a principal in the mischief.

Lady Sneer. Psha ! there's no possibility of being witty with-
out a little ill-nature : the malice of a good thing is the barb that
makes it stick. What's your opinion, Mr. Surface ?

Jos. Surf. To be sure, madam ; that conversation, where the
spirit of raillery is suppressed, will ever appear tedious and insipid.

Afar. Well, I'll not debate how far scandal may be allowable;
but in a man, I am sure, it is always contemptible. We have
pride, envy, rivalship, and a thousand motives to depreciate each
other ; but the male slanderer must have the cowardice of a woman
before he can traduce one.

Re-enter SERVANT.

Ser. Madam, Mrs. Candour is below, and, if your ladyship's at
leisure, will leave her carriage.

Lady Sneer. Beg her to walk in. — [Exit SERVANT.] Now,
Maria, here is a character to your taste ; for, though Mrs. Candour
is a little talkative, everybody allows her to be the best-natured
and best sort of woman.

Mar. Yes, with a very gross affectation of good-nature and
benevolence, she does more mischief than the direct malice of old
Crabtree.

Jos. Surf. I' faith that's true, Lady Sneerwell : whenever I
hear the current running against the characters of my friends, I
never think them in such danger as when Candour undertakes
their defence.

Lady Sneer. Hush ! — here she is !

Enter MRS. CANDOUR.

Mrs. Can. My dear Lady Sneerwell, how have you been this
century? — Mr. Surface, what news do you hear? — though indeed
it is no matter, for I think one hears nothing else but scandal.

Jos. Surf. Just so, indeed, ma'am.

Mrs. Can. Oh, Maria 1 child, — what, is the whole affair off
between you and Charles? His extravagance, I presume — the
town talks of nothing else.

Mar. I am very sorry, ma'am, the town has so little to do.

Mrs. Can. True, true, child ; but there's no stopping reople's

894

1 62 THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. [ACT i.

tongues. I own I was hurt to hear it, as I indeed was to learn,
from the same quarter, that your guardian, Sir Peter, and Lady
Teazle have not agreed lately as well as could be wished.

Mar. 'Tis strangely impertinent for people to busy them-
selves so.

Airs. Can. Very true, child ; but what's to be done ? People
will talk — there's no preventing it. Why, it was but yesterday I
was told that Miss Gadabout had eloped with Sir Filigree Flirt.
But, Lord ! there's no minding what one hears ; though, to be
sure, I had this from very good authority.

Mar. Such reports are highly scandalous.

Mrs. Can. So they are, child — shameful, shameful ! But the
world is so censorious, no character escapes. Lord, now who
would have suspected your friend, Miss Prim, of an indiscretion ?
Yet such is the ill-nature of people, that they say her uncle stopped
her last week, just as she was stepping into the York Mail with her
dancing-master.

Mar. I'll answer for1! there are no grounds for that report.

Mrs. Can. Ah, no foundation in the world, I dare swear ; no
more, probably, than for the story circulated last month, of Mrs.
Festino's affair with Colonel Cassino — though, to be sure, that
matter was never rightly cleared up.

Jos. Surf. The licence of invention some people take is
monstrous indeed.

Mar. 'Tis so ; but, in my opinion, those who report such
things are equally culpable.

Mrs. Can. To be sure they are ; tale-bearers are as bad as the
tale-makers — 'tis an old observation, and a very true one : but
what's to be done, as I said before ? how will you prevent people
from talking ? To-day, Mrs. Clackitt assured me, Mr. and Mrs.
Honeymoon were at last become mere man and wife, like the rest
of their acquaintance. She likewise hinted that a certain widow,
m 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 1 Mrs. Candour, if everybody had your for-
bearance and good-nature !

Mrs. Can. I confess, Mr. Surface, I cannot bear to hear people
attacked behind their b icks ; and when ugly circumstances come

sc. i.] THE SCHOOL fOR SCANDAL. 163

out against our acquaintance, I own I always love to think the best.
By-the-bye, I hope 'tis not true that your brother is absolutely
ruined?

Jos. Surf. I am afraid his circumstances are very bad indeed,
ma'am.

Mrs. Can. Ah ! I heard so — but you must tell him to keep up
his spirits ; 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
acquaintance ruined too, and that, you know, is a consolation.

Jos. Surf. Doubtless, ma'am — a very great one.

Re-enter SERVANT.

Set. Mr. Crabtree and Sir Benjamin Backbite. [Exit.

Lady Sneer. So, Maria, you see your lover pursues you ;
positively you shan't escape.

Enter CRABTREE and SIR BENJAMIN BACKBITE.

Crab. Lady Sneerwell, I kiss your hand. Mrs. Candour, I
don't believe you are acquainted with my nephew, Sir Benjamin
Backbite ? Egad, ma'am, he has a pretty wit, and is a pretty poet
too. Isn't he, Lady Sneerwell?

Sir Ben. Oh, fie, uncle !

Crab. Nay, egad it's true; I back him at a rebus or a charade
against the best rhymer in the kingdom. Has your ladyship heard
the epigram he wrote last week on Lady Frizzle's feather catching
fire? — Do, Benjamin, repeat it, or the charade you made last night
extempore at Mrs. Drowzie's conversazione. Come now; your
first is the name of a fish, your second a great naval commander,
and

Sir Ben. Uncle, now — prythee

Crab. V faith, ma'am, 'twould surprise you to hear how ready
he is at all these sort of things.

Lady Sneer. I wonder, Sir Benjamin, you never publish any-
thing.

Sir Ben. To say truth, ma'am, 'tis very vulgar to print ; and as
my little productions are mostly satires and lampoons on particular
people, I find they circulate more by giving copies in confidence to
the friends of the parties. However, I have some love elegies,
which, when favoured with this lady's smiles, I mean to give the
public [Pointing to MARIA.

Crab. [To MARIA.] 'Fore heaven, ma'am, they'll immortalise
you ! — you will be handed down to posterity, like Petrarch's
" Laura," or Waller's " Sacharissa."

164 THE SCHOOL fOR SCANDAL. [ACT I.

Sir Ben. [To MARIA.] Yes, madam, I think you will like them,
when you shall see them on a beautiful quarto page, where a neat
rivulet of text shall meander through a meadow of margin. 'Fore
Gad, they will be the most elegant things of their kind !

Crab. But, ladies, that's true — have you heard the news ?

Mrs. Can. What, sir, do you mean the report of

Crab. No, ma'am, that's not it. — Miss Nicely is going to be
married to her own footman.

Mrs. Can. Impossible !

Crab. Ask Sir Benjamin.

Sir Ben. 'Tis very true, ma'am : 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 heard something of this before.

Mrs. Can. It can't be — and I wonder any one should believe
such a story of so prudent a lady as Miss Nicely.

Sir Ben. O Lud ! ma'am, that's the very reason 'twas 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. Can. Why, to be sure, a tale of scandal is as fatal to the
credit of a prudent lady of her stamp as a fever is generally to
those of the strongest constitutions. But there is a sort of puny
sickly reputation, that is always ailing, yet will outlive the robuster
characters of a hundred prudes.

Sir Ben. True, madam, there are valetudinarians in reputation
as well as constitution, who, being conscious of their weak part,
avoid the least breath of air, and supply their want of stamina by
care and circumspection.

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'll be sworn, ma'am. Did you ever hear
how Miss Piper came to lose her lover and her character last
summer at Tunbridge ? — Sir Benjamin, you remember it ?

Sir Ben. Oh, to be sure ! — the most whimsical circumstance.

Lady Sneer. How was it, pray ?

Crab. Why, one evening, at Mrs. Ponto's assembly, the con-
versation happened to turn on the breeding Nova Scotia sheep in
this country. Says a young lady in company, I have known instances
of it ; for Miss Letitia Piper, a first cousin of mine, had a Nova
Scotia sheep that produced her twins. " What ! " cries the Lady
Dowager Dundizzy (who you know is as deaf as a post), "has Miss
Piper had twins ? " This mistake, as you may imagine, threw the
whole company into a fit of laughter. However, 'twas the next

sc. L] THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. 165

morning everywhere reported, and in a few days believed by the
whole town, that Miss Letitia Piper had actually been brought to
bed of a fine boy and a girl : and in less than a week there were
some people who could name the father, and the farm-house where
the babies were put to nurse.

Lady Sneer. Strange, indeed 1

Crab. Matter of fact, I assure you. O Lud ! Mr. Surface, pray
is it true that your uncle, Sir Oliver, is coming home ?

Jos. Surf. Not that I know of, indeed, sir.

Crab. He has been in the East Indies a long time. You can
scarcely remember him, I believe? Sad comfort, whenever he
returns, to hear how your brother has gone on !

Jos. Surf. Charles has been imprudent, sir, to be sure ; but I
hope no busy people have already prejudiced Sir Oliver against
him. He may reform.

Sir Ben. To be sure he may : for my part, I never believed him
to be so utterly void of principle as people say ; and, though he
has lost all his friends, I am told nobody is better spoken of by the
Jews.

Crab. That's true, egad, nephew. If the Old Jewry was a ward,
I believe Charles would be an alderman : no man more popular
there, 'fore Gad ! I hear he pays as many annuities as the Irish
tontine ; and that, whenever he is sick, they have prayers for the
recovery of his health in all the synagogues.

Sir Ben. Yet no man lives in greater splendour. They tell me,
when he entertains his friends he will sit down to dinner with a
dozen of his own securities ; have a score of tradesmen waiting in
the antechamber, and an officer behind every guest's chair.

Jos. Surf. This may be entertainment to you, gentlemen, but
you pay very little regard to the feelings of a brother.

Mar. \AsideI\ Their malice is intolerable ! — {Aloud.'} Lady
Sneerwell, I must wish you a good morning : I'm not very well.

{Exit.

Mrs. Can. O dear ! she changes colour very much.

Lady Sneer. Do, Mrs. Candour, follow her ; she may want your
assistance.

Mrs. Can. That I will, with all my soul, ma'am.— Poor dear girl,
who knows what her situation may be 1 {Exit.

Lady Sneer. 'Twas nothing but that she could not bear to hear
Charles reflected on, notwithstanding their difference.

Sir Ben. The young \a.dfs penchant is obvious.

Crab. But, Benjamin, you must not give up the pursuit for that:
follow her, and put her into good humour. Repeat her some of
your own verses. Come, I'll assist you.

1 66 THE SCHOOL fOR SCANDAL. [ACT i.

Sit Ben. 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 Ben. 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.

Sir Ben. And I'm very sorry also to hear some bad stories
against him. [Going.

Crab. Oh, he has done many mean things, that's certain.

Sir Ben. But, however, as he's your brother [Going.

Crab. We'll tell you all another opportunity.

[Exeunt CRABTREE and SIR BENJAMIN.

Lady Sneer. Ha ! ha ! 'tis very hard for them to leave a subject
they have not quite run down.

Jos. Surf. And I believe the abuse was no more acceptable to
your ladyship than to Maria.

Lady Sneer. I doubt her affections are further engaged than we
imagine. But the family are to be here this evening, so you may
as well dine where you are, and we shall have an opportunity of
observing further ; in the meantime, I'll go and plot mischief, and
you shall study sentiment [Exeunt.

SCENE II.— A ROOM IN SIR PETER TEAZLE'S HOUSE.

Enter SIR PETER TEAZLE.

Sir Pet. When an old bachelor marries a young wife, what is
he to expect? 'Tis now six months since Lady Teazle made me
the happiest of men — and I have been the most miserable dog ever
since ! We tift a little going to church, and fairly quarrelled before
the bells had done ringing. I was more than once nearly choked
with gall during the honeymoon, and had lost all comfort in life
before my friends had done wishing me joy. Yet I chose with
caution — a girl bred wholly in the country, who never knew luxury
beyond one silk gown, nor dissipation above the annual gala of a
race ball. Yet she now plays her part in all the extravagant fop-
peries of fashion and the town, with as ready a grace as if she never
had seen a bush or a grass-plot out of Grosvenor Square 1 I am
sneered at by all my acquaintance, and paragraphed in the news-
p pers. She dissipates my fortune, and contradicts all my
humours ; yet the worst of it is, I doubt I love her, or I should
never be'ar all this. However, I'll never be weak enough to
own it.

sc. ii.] THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. 167

Enter ROWLEY.

Row. Oh ! Sir Peter, your servant : how is it with yon,
sir?

Sir Pet. Very bad, Master Rowley, very bad. I meet with
nothing but crosses and vexations.

Row. What can have happened since yesterday?

Sir Pet. A good question to a married man !

Row. Nay, I'm sure, Sir Peter, your lady can't be the cause of
your uneasiness.

Sir Pet. Why, has anybody told you she was dead?

Row. Come, come, Sir Peter, you love her, notwithstanding your
tempers don't exactly agree.

Sir Pet. But the fault is entirely hers, Master Rowley. I am,
myself, the sweetest-tempered man alive, and hate a teasing temper;
and so I tell her a hundred times a day.

Row. Indeed !

Sir Pet. Ay ; and what is very extraordinary, in all our dis-
putes she is always in the wrong 1 But Lady Sneerwell, and the
set she meets at her house, encourage the perverseness of her
disposition. Then, to complete my vexation, Maria, my ward,
whom I ought to have the power of a father over, is determined to
turn rebel too, and absolutely refuses the man whom I have long
resolved on for her husband ; meaning, I suppose, to bestow herself
on his profligate brother.

Row. You know, Sir Peter, I have always taken the liberty to
differ with you on the subject of these two young gentlemen. I
only wish you may not be deceived in your opinion of the elder.
For Charles, my life on't 1 he will retrieve his errors yet. Their
worthy father, once my honoured master, was, at his years, nearly
as wild a spark ; yet, when he died, he did not leave a more
benevolent heart to lament his loss.

Sir Pet. You are wrong, Master Rowley. On their father's
death, you know, I acted as a kind of guardian to them both, till
their uncle Sir Oliver's liberality gave them an early independence:
of course, no person could have more opportunities of judging of
their hearts, and I was never mistaken in my life. Joseph is
indeed a model for the young men of the age. He is a man of
sentiment, and acts up to the sentiments he professes ; but, for the
other, take my word for't, if he had any grain of virtue by descent,
he has dissirated it with the rest of his inheritance. Ah 1 my old
friend, Sir Oliver, will be deeply mortified when he finds how part
of his bounty has been misapplied.

Row. I am sorry to find you so violent against the young man,

1 63 THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. [ACT 11.

because this may be the most critical period of his fortune. I
came hither with news that will surprise you.

Sir Pet. What ! let me hear.

Row. Sir Oliver is arrived, and at this moment in town.

Sir Pet. How ! you astonish me 1 I thought you did not expect
him this month.

ROTV. I did not ; but his passage has been remarkably quick.

Sir Pet. Egad, I shall rejoice to see my old friend. 'Tis
sixteen years since we met. We have had many a day together : —
but does he still enjoin us not to inform his nephews of his arrival ?

Row. Most strictly. He means, before it is known, to make
some trial of their dispositions.

Sir Pet. Ah ! there needs no art to discover their merits — how-
ever, he shall have his way ; but, pray, does he know I am married r

Row. Yes, and will soon wish you joy.

Sir Pet. What, as we drink health to a friend in a consump-
tion 1 Ah! Oliver will laugh at me. We used to rail at matrimony
together, but he has been steady to his text Well, he must be
soon at my house, though — I'll instantly give orders for his
reception. But, Master Rowley, don't drop a word that Lady
Teazle and I ever disagree.

Row. By no means.

Sir Pet. For I should never be able to stand Noll's jokes ; so I'll
have him think, Lord forgive me! that we are a very happy couple.

Row. I understand you : — but then you must be very careful not
to differ while he is in the house with you.

Sir Pet. Egad, and so we must — and that's impossible. Ah 1
Master Rowley, when an old bachelor marries a young wife, he
deserves — no — the crime carries its punishment along with it.

\Exeunt.

ACT II.

SCENE I. — A ROOM IN SIR PETER TEAZLE'S HOUSE.
Enter SIR PETER and LADY TEAZLE.

Sir Pet. Lady Teazle, Lady Teazle, I'll not bear it!

Lady Teaz. Sir Peter, Sir Peter, you may bear it or not, as you
please ; but I ought to have my own way in everything, and what's
more, I will too. What though I was educated in the country, I
know very well that women of fashion in London are accountable
to nobody after they are married.

sc i.] '1HE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. 169

Sir Pet. Very well, ma'am, very well ; so a husband is to have
no influence, no authority?

Lady leaz. Authority ! No, to be sure : — if you wanted authority
over me, you should have adopted me, and not married me : I am
sure you were old enough.

Sir Pet. Old enough ! — ay, there it is. Well, well, Lady Teazle,
though my life may be made unhappy by your temper, I'll not be
ruined by your extravagance !

Lady Teaz. My extravagance 1 I'm sure I'm not more extrava-
gant than a woman of fashion ought to be.

Sir Pet. No, no, madam, you shall throw away no more sums
on such unmeaning luxury. 'Slife ! to spend as much to furnish
your dressing-room with flowers in winter as would suffice to turn
the Pantheon into a greenhouse, and give a ftte champetre at
Christmas.

Lady Teaz. And am I to blame, Sir Peter, because flowers are
dear in cold weather? You should find fault with the climate, and
not with me. For my part, I'm sure I wish it was spring all the
year round, and that roses grew under our feet !

Sir Pet. Oons ! madam — if you had been born to this, I
shouldn't wonder at your talking thus ; but you forget what your
situation was when I married you.

Lady Teaz. No, no, I don't ; 'twas a very disagreeable one, or
I should never have married you.

Sir Pet. Yes, yes, madam, you were then in somewhat a
humbler style — the daughter of a plain country squire. Recollect,
Lady Teazle, when I saw you first sitting at your tambour, in a
preity figured linen gown, with a bunch of keys at your side, your
hair combed smooth over a roll, and your apartment hung round
with fruits in worsted, of your own working.

Lady Teaz. Oh, yes ! I remember it very well, and a curious
life I led. My daily occupation to inspect the dairy, superintend
the poultry, make extracts from the family receipt-book, and comb
my aunt Deborah's lapdog.

Sir Pet. Yes, yes, ma'am, 'twas so indeed.

Lady Teaz. And then, you know, my evening amusements! To
draw patterns for ruffles, which I had not materials to make up ;
to play Pope Joan with the curate ; to read a sermon to my aunt ;
or to be stuck down to an old spinet to strum my father to sleep
after a fox-chase.

Sir Pet. I am glad you have so good a memory. Yes, madam,
these were the recreations I took you from ; but now you must
have your coach — vzs-d-vis—and three powdered footmen before
your chair ; and, in the summer, a pair of white cats to draw you to

170 THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. [ACT n.

Kensington Gardens. No recollection, I suppose, when you were
content to ride double, behind the butler, on a docked coach-horse?

Lady Teaz. No — I swear I never did that : I deny the butler
and the coach-horse.

Sir Pet. This, madam, was your situation ; and what have I
done for you? I have made you a woman of fashion, of fortune, of
rank — in short, I have made you my wife.

Lady Teaz. Well, then, and there is but one thing more you
can make me to add to the obligation, that is

Sir Pet. My widow, I suppose ?

Lady Teaz. Hem ! hem !

Sir Pet. I thank you, madam — but don't flatter yourself ; for,
though your ill conduct may disturb my peace of mind, it shall
never break my heart, I promise you : however, I am equally
obliged to you for the hint.

Lady Teaz. Then why will you endeavour to make yourself so
disagreeable to me, and thwart me in every little elegant expense ?

Sir Pet. 'Slife, madam, I say, had you any of these little elegant
expenses when you married me ?

Lady Teaz. Lud, Sir Peter 1 would you have me be out of
the fashion ?

Sir Pet. The fashion, indeed 1 what had you to do with the
fashion before you married me ?

Lady Teaz. For my part, I should think you would like to have
your wife thought a woman of taste.

Sir Pet. Ay — there a?ain — taste ! Zounds ! madam, you had
no taste when you married me !

Lady Teaz. That's very true, indeed, Sir Peter 1 and, after
having married you, I should never pretend to taste again, I allow.
But now, Sir Peter, since we have finished our daily jangle, I pre-
sume I may go to my engagement at Lady Sneerwell's?

Sir Pet. Ay, there's another precious circumstance — a charming
set of acquaintance you have made there 1

Lady Teaz. Nay, Sir Peter, they are all people of rank and
fortune, and remarkably tenacious of reputation.

Sir Pet. Yes, egad, they are tenacious of reputation with a
vengeance; for they don't choose anybody should have a character
but themselves 1 Such a crew ! Ah ! many a wretch has rid on a
hurdle who has done less mischief than these utterers of forged
tales, coiners of scandal, and clippers of reputation.

Lady Teaz. What, would you restrain the freedom of speech ?

Sir Pet. Ah! they have made you just as bad as any one of
the society.

Lady Teaz. Why, I believe I do bear a part with a tolerable grace.

sc. ii.] THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. 171

Sir Pet. Grace indeed !

Lady Teaz. But I vow I bear no malice against the people I
abuse : when I say an ill-natured thing, 'tis out of pure good
humour; and I take it for granted they deal exactly in the same
manner with me. But, Sir Peter, you know you promised to come
to Lady SneerwelPs too.

Sir Pet. Well, well, I'll 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-bye to ye. [Exit.

Sir Pet. So — I have gained much by my intended expostula-
tion ! Yet with what a charming air she contradicts everything I
say, and how pleasantly she shows her contempt for my authority !
Well, though I can't make her love me, there is great satisfaction
in quarrelling with her ; and I think she never appears to such
advantage as when she is doing everything in her power to
plague me. [Exit.

SCENE II.— A ROOM IN LADY SNEERWELL'S HOUSE.

LADY SNEERWELL, MRS. CANDOUR, CRABTREE, SIR BENJAMIN
BACKBITE, and JOSEPH SURFACE discovered.

Lady Sneer. Nay, positively, we will hear it.

Jos. Surf. Yes, yes, the epigram, by all means.

Sir Ben. O plague on't, uncle ! 'tis mere nonsense.

Crab. No, no ; 'fore Gad, very clever for an extempore !

Sir Ben. But, ladies, you should be acquainted with the cir-
cumstance. You must know that one day last week, as Lady
Ueity Curricle was taking the dust in Hyde Park, in a sort of
duodecimo phaeton, she desired me to write some verses on her
ponies ; upon which, I took out my pocket-book, and in one
moment produced the following : —

Sure never were seen two such beautiful ponies ;
Other horses are clovn.s, but these macaronies :
To give them this title I'm sure can't be wrong,
Their legs are so slim, and their tails are so long.

Crab. There, ladies, done in the smack of a whip, and on horse-
back too.

Jos. Surf. A very Phcebus, mounted— indeed, Sir Benjamin !
Sir Ben. Oh dear, sir ! trifles — trifles.

Enter LADY TEAZLE and MARIA.
Mrs. Can. I must have a copy.

172 THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. [ACT n.

Lady Sneer. Lady Teazle, I hope we shall see Sir Peter?

Lady Teaz. I believe he'll wait on your ladyship presently.

Lady Sneer. Maria, my love, you look grave. Come, you shall
sit down to piquet with Mr. Surface.

Mar. I take very little pleasure in cards — however, I'll do as
your ladyship pleases.

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'll die ; but you are so scandalous, I'll for-
swear your society.

Lady Teaz. What's the matter, Mrs. Candour?

Mrs. Can. They'll not allow our friend Miss Vermilion to be
handsome.

Lady Sneer. Oh, surely she is a pretty woman.

Crab. I am very glad you think so, ma'am.

Mrs. Can. She has a charming fresh colour.

Lady Teaz. Yes, when it is fresh put on.

Mrs. Can. Oh, fie ! I'll swear her colour is natural : I have
seen it come and go.

Lady Teaz. I dare swear you have, ma'am : it goes off at night,
and comes again in the morning.

Sir Ben. True, ma'am, it not only comes and goes; but, what's
more, egad, her maid can fetch and carry it !

Mrs. Can.. Ha! ha! ha! how I hate to hear you talk so!
But surely, now, her sister is, or was, very handsome.

Crab. Who ? Mrs. Evergreen ? 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 Ben. Ah I there's no judging by her looks, unless one could
see her face.

Lady Sneer. Well, well, if Mrs. Evergreen does take some
pains to repair the ravages of time, you must allow she effects it
with great ingenuity ; and surely that's better than the careless
manner in which the widow Ochre caulks her wrinkles.

Sir Ben. Nay, now, Lady Sneerwell, you are severe upon the
widow. Come, come, 'tis not that she paints so ill — but, when she
has finished her face, she joins it on so badly to her neck, that she
looks like a mended statue, in which the connoisseur may see at
once that the head is modern, though the trunk's antique.

Crab. Ha! ha I ha! Well said, nephew !

Mrs. Can. Ha ! ha ! ha 1 Well, you make me laugh ; but I vow
I hate you for it. Wh.it do you think of Miss Simper ?

sc. ii.] THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. 173

Sir Ben. Why, she has very pretty teeth.

Lady Teaz. Yes ; and on that account, when she is neither
speaking nor laughing (which very seldom happens), she never
absolutely shuts her mouth, but leaves it always on ajar, as it
were— thus. {Shows her teeth,

Mrs. Can. How can you be so ill-natured ?

Lady Teaz. Nay, I allow even that's better than the pains Mrs.
Prim takes to conceal her losses in front. She draws her mouth
till it positively resembles the aperture of a poor's-box, and all her
words appear to slide out edgewise, as it were — thus : How do you
do, madam ? Yes, madam. [Mimics.

Lady Sneer. Very well, Lady Teazle ; I see you can be a little
severe.

Lady Teaz. In defence of a friend it is but justice. But here
comes Sir Peter to spoil our pleasantry.

Enter SIR PETER TEAZLE.

Sir Pet. Ladies, your most obedient. — \AsideI\ Mercy on me,
here is the whole set ! a character dead at every word, I suppose.

Mrs. Can. I am rejoiced you are come, Sir Peter. They have
been so censorious — and Lady Teazle as bad as any one.

Sir Pet. That must be very distressing to you, indeed, Mrs.
Candour.

Mrs. Can. Oh, they will allow good qualities to nobody ; not
even good nature to our friend Mrs. Pursy.

Lady Teaz. What, the fat dowager who was at Mrs. Quadrille's
last night ?

Mrs. Can. Nay, her bulk is her misfortune ; and when she
takes so much pains to get rid of it, you ought not to reflect on her.

Lady Sneer. That's very true, indeed.

Lady Teaz. Yes, I know she almost lives on acids and small
whey ; laces herself by pulleys ; and often, in the hottest noon in
summer, you may see her on a little squat pony, with her hair
plaited up behind like a drummers and puffing round the Ring on
a full trot.

Mrs. Can. I thank you, Lady Teazle, for defending her.

Sir Pet. Yes, a good defence, truly.

Mrs. Can. Truly, Lady Teazle is as censorious as Miss Sallow.

Crab. Yes, and she is a curious being to pretend to be cen-
sorious— an awkward gawky, without any one good point under
heaven.

Mrs. Can. Positively you shall not be so very severe. Miss
Sallow is a near relation of mine by marriage, and, as for her
geiion, ^reat allowance is to be made ; for, let me tell you, a

174 THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. [ACT n.

woman labours under many disadvantages who tries to pass for a
girl of six-and-thirty.

Lady Sneer. Though, surely, she is handsome still — and for
the weakness in her eyes, considering how much she reads by
candlelight, it is not to be wondered at.

Mrs. Can. True ; and then as to her manner, upon my word
I think it is particularly graceful, considering she never had the
least education ; for you know her mother was a Welsh milliner,
and her father a sugar-baker at Bristol.

Sir Ben. Ah ! you are both of you too good-natured 1

Sir Pet. Yes, damned good-natured 1 This their own relation !
mercy on me ! [Aside.

Mrs. Can. For my part, I own I cannot bear to hear a friend ill
spoken of.

Sir Pet. No, to be sure 1

Sir Ben. Oh ! you are of a moral turn. Mrs. Candour and I
can sit for an hour and hear Lady Stucco talk sentiment.

Lady Teaz. Nay, I vow Lady Stucco is very well with the
dessert after dinner ; for she's just like the French fruit one cracks
for mottoes — made up of paint and proverb.

Mrs. Can. Well, I will never join in ridiculing a friend ; and so
I constantly tell my cousin Ogle, and you all know what preten-
sions she has to be critical on beauty.

Crab. Oh, to be sure ! she has herself the oddest countenance
that ever was seen ; 'tis a collection of features from all the
different countries of the globe.

Sir Ben. So she has, indeed — an Irish front

Crab. Caledonian locks

Sir Ben. Dutch nose

Crab. Austrian lips

Sir Ben. Complexion of a Spaniard

Crab. And teeth a la Chinoise

Sir Ben. In short, her face resembles a table d'hote at Spa —
where no two guests are of a nation

Crab. Or a congress at the close of a general war — wherein all
the members, even to her eyes, appear to have a different interest,
and her nose and chin are the only parties likely to join issue.

Mrs. Can. Ha ! ha 1 ha !

Sir Pet. Mercy on my life ! — a person they dine with twice a
week ! [Aside.

Mrs. Can. Nay, but I vow you shall not carry the laugh off so
— for give me leave to say, that Mrs. Ogle

Sir Pet. Madam, madam, I beg your pardon — there's no
stopping these good gentlemen's tongues. But when I tell you,

sc. IL] THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. 175

Mrs. Candour, that the lady they are abusing is a particular friend
of mine, I hope you'll not take her part.

Lady Sneer. Ha ! ha ! ha ! well said, Sir Peter ! but you are
a cruel creature — too phlegmatic yourself for a jest, and too peevish
to allow wit in others.

Sir Pet. Ah, madam, true wit is more nearly allied to good
nature than your ladyship is aware of.

Lady Teaz. True, Sir Peter : I believe they are so near akin
that they can never be united.

Sir Ben. Or rather, suppose them man and wife, because one
seldom sees them together.

Lady Teaz. But Sir Peter is such an enemy to scandal, I
believe he would have it put down by parliament.

Sir Pet. 'Fore heaven, madam, if they were to consider the
sporting with reputation of as much importance as 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 Pet. Ay, madam ; and then no person should be permitted
to kill characters and run down reputations, but qualified old
maids and disappointed widows.

Lady Sneer. Go, you monster !

Mrs. Can. But, surely, you would not be quite so severe on
those who only report what they hear?

Sir Pet. Yes, madam, 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 parties should have a
right to come on any of the endorsers.

Crab. Well, for my part, I believe there never was a scan-
dalous tale without some loundation.

Lady Sneer. Come, ladies, shall we sit down to cards in the
next room ?

Enter SERVANT, who whiskers SIR PETER.

Sir Pet. I'll be with them directly.— [Exit SERVANT.] I'll get
away unperceived. \_Aside.

Lady Sneer. Sir Peter, you are not going to leave us ?

Sir Pet. Your ladyship must excuse me ; I'm called away by
particular business. But I leave my character behind me, \Exit.

Sir Ben. Well — certainlv, 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.

176 THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. [ACT n.

Lady Teaz. Oh, pray don't mind that ; come, do lef s hear them.
[Exeunt all but JOSEPH SURFACE and MARIA.

Jos. Surf. Maria, I see you have no satisfaction in this society.

Mar. How is it possible I should? If to raise malicious smiles
at the infirmities or misfortunes of those who have never injured us
be the province of wit or humour, Heaven grant me a double
portion of dulness !

Jos. Surf. Yet they appear more ill-natured than they are ; they
have no malice at heart.

Mar. Then is their conduct still more contemptible ; for, in my
opinion, nothing could excuse the intemperance of their tongues
but a natural and uncontrollable bitterness of mind.

Jos. Surf. Undoubtedly, madam ; and it has always been a
sentiment of mine, that to propagate a malicious truth wantonly is
more despicable than to falsify from revenge. But can you, Maria,
feel thus for others, and be unkind to me alone? Is hope to be
denied the tenderest passion ?

Mar. Why will you distress me by renewing this subject ?

Jos. Surf. Ah, Maria 1 you would not treat me thus, and oppose
your guardian, Sir Peter's will, but that I see that profligate Charles
is still a favoured rival

Mar. Ungenerously urged ! But, whatever my sentiments are
for that unfortunate young man, be assured I shall not feel more
bound to give him up, because his distresses have lost him the
regard even of a brother.

Jos. Surf. Nay, but, Maria, do not leave me with a frown : by
all that's honest, I swear [Kneels.

Re-enter LADY TEAZLE behind.

[Aside.'] Gad's life, here's Lady Teazle.— [Aloud to MARIA.] You
must not — no, you shall not — for, though I have the greatest regard
for Lady Teazle

Mar. Lady Teazle !

Jos. Surf. Yet were Sir Peter to suspect

Lady Teaz. [coming forward.} What is this, pray? Does he
take her for me ? — Child, you are wanted in the next room. — [Exit
MARIA.] What is all this, pray?

Jos. Surf. Oh, the most unlucky circumstance in nature !
Maria has somehow suspected the tender concern I have for
your happiness, and threatened to acquaint Sir Peter with her
suspicions, and I was just endeavouring to reason with her when
you came in.

Lady Teaz. Indeed 1 but you seemed to adopt a very tender
mode of reasoning — do you usually argue on your knees ?

sc. in.] THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. 177

Jos. Surf. Oh, she's a child, and I thought a little bombast •

But, Lady Teazle, when are you to give me your judgment on my
library, as you promised?

Lady Teaz. No, no ; I begin to think it would be imprudent,
and you know I admit you as a lover no further than fashion
requires.

Jos. Surf. True— a mere Platonic cicisbeo, what every wife is
entitled to.

Lady Teaz. Certainly, one must not be out of the fashion.
However, I have so many of my country prejudices left, that,
though Sir Peter's ill-humour may vex me ever so, it never shall
provoke me to

Jos. Surf. The only revenge in your power. Well, I applaud
your moderation.

Lady Teaz. Go — you are an insinuating wretch ! But we shall
be missed — let us join the company.

Jos. Surf. But we had best not return together.

Lady Teaz. Well, don't stay; for Maria shan't come to hear
any more of your reasoning, I promise you. \Exit.

Jos. Surf. A curious dilemma, truly, my politics have run me
into ! I wanted, at first, only to ingratiate myself with Lady
Teazle, that she might not be my enemy with Maria; and I have,
I don't know how, become her serious lover. Sincerely I begin to
wish I had never made such a point of gaining so very good a
character, for it has led me into so many cursed rogueries that I
doubt I shall be exposed at last. [Exit.

SCENE III.— A ROOM IN SIR PETER TEAZLE'S HOUSE.
Enter SIR OLIVER SURFACE and ROWLEY.

Sir Oli-v. Ha ! ha ! ha ! so my old friend is married, hey ? — a
young wife out of the country. Ha ! ha ! ha 1 that he should have
stood bluff to old bachelor so long, and sink into a husband at last !

Row. But you must not rally him on the subject, Sir Oliver ;
'tis a tender point, I assure you, though he has been married only
seven months.

Sir Oliv. Then he has been just half a year on the stool of
repentance ! — Poor Peter ! But you say he has entirely given up
Charles — never sees him, hey ?

Row. His prejudice against him is astonishing, and I am sure
greatly increased by a jealousy of him with Lady Teazle, which he
has industriously been led into by a scandalous society in the
neighbourhood, who have contributed not a little to Charles's ill

895

178 THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. [ACT n.

name. Whereas the truth is, I believe, if the lady is partial to
either of them, his brother is the favourite.

Sir Oliv. Ay, I know there are a set of malicious, prating,
prudent gossips, both male and female, who murder characters to
kill time, and will rob a young fellow of his good name before he has
years to know the value of it. But I am not to be prejudiced against
my nephew by such, I promise you ! No, no ; if Charles has done
nothing false or mean, I shall compound for his extravagance.

Row. Then, my life on't, you will reclaim him. Ah, sir, it
gives me new life to find that your heart is not turned against
him, and that the son of my good old master has one friend, how-
ever, left.

Sir Oliv. What ! shall I forget, Master Rowley, when I was at
his years myself? Egad, my brother and I were neither of us very
prudent youths ; and yet, I believe, you have not seen many better
men than your old master was ?

Row. Sir, 'tis this reflection gives me assurance that Charles
may yet be a credit to his family. But here comes Sir Peter.

Sir Oliv. Egad, so he does ! Mercy on me 1 he's greatly
altered, and seems to have a settled married look 1 One may read
husband in his face at this distance !

Enter SIR PETER TEAZLE.

Sir Pet. Ha! Sir Oliver — my old friend! Welcome to England
a thousand times !

Sir Oliv. Thank you, thank you, Sir Peter ! and i' faith I am
glad to find you well, believe me 1

Sir Pet. Oh ! 'tis a long time since we met — fifteen years, I
doubt, Sir Oliver, and many a cross accident in the time.

Sir Oliv. Ay, I have had my share. But, what ! I find you are
married, hey, my old boy ? Well, well, it can't be helped ; and so
— I wish you joy with all my heart ?

Sir Pet. Thank you, thank you, Sir Oliver. — Yes, I have entered
into — the happy state ; but we'll not talk of that now.

Sir Oliv. True, true, Sir Peter ; old friends should not begin on
grievances at first meeting. No, no, no.

Row. [Aside to SIR OLIVER.] Take care, pray, sir.

Sir Oliv. Well, so one of my nephews is a wild rogue, hey?

Sir Pet. Wild ! Ah ! my old friend, I grieve for your dis-
appointment there ; he's a lost young man, indeed. However, his
brother will make you amends ; Joseph is, indeed, what a youth
should be — 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 ! Psha ! then

ACT in.] THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. 179

he has bowed as low to knaves and fools as to the honest dignity of
genius and virtue.

Sir Pet. What, Sir Oliver 1 do you blame him for not making
enemies ?

Sir Oliv. Yes, if he has merit enough to deserve them.

Sir Pet. Well, well — you'll be convinced when you know him.
'Tis edification to hear him converse ; he professes the noblest
sentiments.

Sir Oliv. Oh, plague of his sentiments ! If he salutes me with
a scrap of morality in his mouth, I shall be sick directly. But,
however, don't mistake me, Sir Peter ; I don't mean to defend
Charles's errors ; but, before I form my judgment of either of them,
I intend to make a trial of their hearts ; and my friend Rowley and
I have planned something for the purpose.

Row. And Sir Peter shall own for once he has been mistaken.

Sir Pet. Oh, my life on Joseph's honour !

Sir Oliv. Well — come, give us a bottle of good wine, and we'll
drink the lads' health, and tell you our scheme.

Sir Pet. A lions, then !

Sir Oliv. And don't, Sir Peter, be so severe against your old
friend's son. Odds my life ! I am not sorry that he has run out of
the course a little : for my part, I hate to see prudence clinging to
the green suckers of youth ; 'tis like ivy round a sapling, and spoils
the growth of the tree. [Exeunt.

ACT III.

SCENE I.— A ROOM IN SIR PETER TEAZLE'S HOUSE.
Enter SIR PETER TEAZLE, SIR OLIVER SURFACE, and ROWLEY.

Sir Pet. Well, then, we will see this fellow first, and have our
wine afterwards. But how is this, Master Rowley ? I don't see
the jest of your scheme.

Row. Why, sir, this Mr. Stanley, whom I was speaking of, is
nearly related to them by their mother. He was once a merchant
in Dublin, but has been ruined by a series of undeserved misfor-
tunes. He has applied, by letter, since his confinement, both to
Mr. Surface and Charles : from the former he has received nothing
but evasive promises of future service, while Charles has done all
that his extravagance has left him power to do ; and he is, at this
time, endeavouring to raise a sum of money, part of which, in the

i8o THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. [ACT in.

midst of his own distresses, I know he intends for the service of
poor Stanley.

Sir Oliv. Ah ! he is my brother's son.

Sir Pet. Well, but how is Sir Oliver personally to

Row. Why, sir, I will inform Charles and his brother that
Stanley has obtained permission to apply personally to his
friends ; and as they have neither of them ever seen him, let Sir
Oliver assume his character, and he will have a fair opportunity of
judging, at least, of the benevolence of their dispositions : and
believe me, sir, you will find in the youngest brother one who, in
the midst of folly and dissipation, has still, as our immortal bard
expresses it —

" a heart to pity, and a hand
Open as day, for melting charity."

Sir Pet. Psha ! What signifies his having an open hand or
purse either, when he has nothing left to give ? Well, well, make
the trial, if you please. But where is. the fellow whom you brought
for Sir Oliver to examine, relative to Charles's affairs ?

Row. Below, waiting his commands, and no one can give him
better intelligence. — This, Sir Oliver, is a friendly Jew, who, to do
him justice, has done everything in his power to bring your nephew
to a proper sense of his extravagance.

Sir Pet. Pray let us have him in.

Row. Desire Mr. Moses to walk upstairs. [Calls to SERVANT.

Sir Pet. But, pray, why should you suppose he will speak the
truth ?

Row. Oh, I have convinced him that he has no chance of
recovering certain sums advanced to Charles but through the
bounty of Sir Oliver, who he knows is arrived ; so that you may-
depend on his fidelity to his own interests. I have also another
evidence in my power, one Snake, whom I have detected in a
matter little short of forgery, and shall shortly produce to
remove some of your prejudices, Sir Peter, relative to Charles
and Lady Teazle.

Sir Pet. I have heard too much on that subject

Row. Here comes the honest Israelite.

Enter MOSES.
—This is Sir Oliver.

Sir Oliv. Sir, I understand you have lately had great dealings
with my nephew Charles.

Mas. Yes, Sir Oliver, I have done all I could for him ; but he
was ruined before he came to me for assistance.

sc. i.] THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. 181

Sir Oliv. That was unlucky, truly ; for you have had no oppor-
tunity of showing your talents.

Mas. None at all ; I hadn't the pleasure of knowing his dis-
tresses till he was some thousands worse than nothing.

Sir Oliv. Unfortunate, indeed ! But I suppose you have done
all in your power for him, honest Moses ?

Mos. Yes, he knows that. This very evening I was to have
brought him a gentleman from the city, who does not know him,
and will, I believe, advance him some money.

Sir Pet. What, one Charles has never had money from before ?

Mos. Yes, Mr. Premium, of Crutched Friars, formerly a
broker.

Sir Pet. Egad, Sir Oliver, a thought strikes me ! — Charles, you
say, does not know Mr. Premium ?

Mos. Not at all.

Sir Pet. Now then, Sir Oliver, you may have a better oppor-
tunity of satisfying yourself than by an old romancing tale of
a poor relation : go with my friend Moses and represent
Premium, and then, I'll answer for it, you'll see your nephew in
all his glory.

Sir Oliv. Egad, I like this idea better than the other, and I
may visit Joseph afterwards as old Stanley.

Sir Pet. True — so you may.

Row. Well, this is taking Charles rather at a disadvantage,
to be sure. However, Moses, you understand Sir Peter, and will
be faithful ?

Mos. You may depend upon me. — \Looks at his watch^ This
is near the time I was to have gone.

Sir Oliv. I'll accompany you as soon as you please, Moses

But hold ! I have forgot one thing — how the plague shall I be
able to pass for a Jew ?

Mos. There's no need — the principal is Christian.

Sir Oliv. Is he? I'm very sorry to hear it. But, then
again, an't I rather too smartly dressed to look like a money-
lender?

Sir Pet. Not at all ; 'twould not be out of character, if you
went in your own carriage — would it, Moses ?

Mos. Not in the least.

Sir Oliv. Well, but how must I talk ? there's certainly some
cant of usury and mode of treating that I ought to know.

Sir Pet. Oh, there's not much to learn. The great point,
as I take it, is to be exorbitant enough in your demands. Hey,
Moses?

Mos. Yes, that's a very great point

182 THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. [ACT IIL

Sir Oliv. I'll answer for't I'll not be wanting in that. I'll ask
him eight or ten per cent, on the loan, at least.

Mos. If you ask him no more than that, you'll 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 Pet. A good honest trade you're learning, Sir Oliver !

Sir Oliv. Truly, I think so — and not unprofitable.

Mos. Then, you know, you haven't the moneys yourself, but are
forced to borrow them for him of a friend.

Sir Oliv. Oh ! I borrow it of a friend, do I ?

Mos. And your friend is an unconscionable dog : but you can't
help that.

Sir Oliv. My friend an unconscionable dog, is he ?

Mos. Yes, and he himself has not the moneys by him, but is
forced to sell stock at a great loss.

Sir Oliv. He is forced to sell stock at a great loss, is he ?
Well, that's very kind of him.

Sir Pet. I' faith, Sir Oliver — Mr. Premium, I mean — you'll
soon be master of the trade. But, Moses 1 would not you have
him run out a little against the annuity bill? That would be
in character, I should think.

Mos. Very much.

Row. And lament that a young man now must be at years of
discretion before he is suffered to ruin himself?

Mos. Ay, great pity 1

Sir Pet. And abuse the public for allowing merit to an act
whose only object is to snatch misfortune and imprudence
from the rapacious gripe of usury, and give the minor a chance
of inheriting his estate without being undone by coming into
possession.

Sir Oliv. So, so — Moses shall give me further instructions as
we go together.

Sir Pet. You will not have much time, for your nephew lives
hard by.

Sir Oliv. Oh, never fear 1 my tutor appears so able, that
though Charles lived in the next street, it must be my own fault
if I am not a complete rogue before I turn the corner.

[Exit with MOSES.

Sir Pet. So, now, I think Sir Oliver will be convinced : you are
partial, Rowley, and would have prepared Charles for the other plot.

sc. i.] THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. 183

Row. No, upon my word, Sir Peter.

Sir Pet. Well, go bring me this Snake, and I'll hear what he has
to say presently. I see Maria, and want to speak with her. — [Exit
ROWLEY.] I should be glad to be convinced my suspicions of
Lady Teazle and Charles were unjust. I have never yet opened
my mind on this subject to my friend Joseph — I am determined I
will do it — he will give me his opinion sincerely.

Enter MARIA.

So, child, has Mr. Surface returned with you?

Mar. No, sir ; he was engaged.

Sir Pet. Well, Maria, do you not reflect, the more you converse
with that amiable young man, what return his partiality for you
deserves ?

Mar. Indeed, Sir Peter, your frequent importunity on this 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 Pet. So — here's perverseness ! No, no, Maria, 'tis Charles
only whom you would prefer. 'Tis evident his vices and follies
have won your heart.

Mar. This is unkind, sir. You know I have obeyed you in
neither seeing nor corresponding with him : I have heard enough
to convince me that he is unworthy my regard. Yet I cannot think
it culpable, if, while my understanding severely condemns his vices,
my heart suggests some pity for his distresses.

Sir Pet. Well, well, pity him as much as you please ; but give
your heart and hand to a worthier object.

Mar. Never to his brother !

Sir Pet. Go, perverse and obstinate ! But take care, madam ;
you have never yet known what the authority of a guardian is :
don't compel me to inform you of it

Mar. I can only say, you shall not have just reason. 'Tis true,
by my father's will, I am for a short period bound to regard you as
his substitute ; but must cease to think you so, when you would
compel me to be miserable. [Exit.

Sir Pet. Was ever man so crossed as I am, everything con-
spiring to fret me ! I had not been involved in matrimony a
fortnight, before her father, a hale and hearty man, died, on purpose,
I believe, for the pleasure of plaguing me with the care of his daughter.
— [LADY TEAZLE sings without.} But here comes my helpmate !
She appears in great good humour. How happy I should be if I
could tease her into loving me, though but a little !

184 THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. [ACT HI.

Enter LADY TEAZLE.

Lady Teaz. Lud ! Sir Peter, I hope you haven't been quarrel-
ling with Maria ? It is not using me well to be ill-humoured when
I am not by.

Sir Fet. Ah, Lady Teazle, you might have the power to make
me good-humoured at all times.

Lady Teaz. I am sure I wish I had ; for I want you to be in a
charming sweet temper at this moment. Do be good-humoured
now, and let me have two hundred pounds, will you?

Sir Pet. Two hundred pounds ; what an't I to be in a good
humour without paying for it ! But speak to me thus, and i' faith
there's nothing I could refuse you. You shall have it ; but seal me
a bond for the repayment.

Lady Teaz. Oh, no — there — my note of hand will do as well

\0ffering her hand,

Sir Pet. And you shall no longer reproach me with not giving
you an independent settlement. I mean shortly to surprise you :
but shall we always live thus, hey ?

Lady Teaz. If you please. I'm sure I don't care how soon we
leave off quarrelling, provided you'll own you were tired first.

Sir Pet. Well — then let our future contest be, who shall be most
obliging.

Lady Teaz. I assure you, Sir Peter, good nature becomes you.
You look now as you did before we were married, when you used
to walk with me under the elms, and tell me stories of what a
gallant you were in your youth, and chuck me under the chin, you
would ; and ask me if I thought I could love an old fellow, who
would deny me nothing — didn't 'you ?

Sir Pet. Yes, yes, and you were as kind and attentive

Lady Teaz. Ay, so I was, and would always take your part,
when my acquaintance used to abuse you, and turn you into
ridicule.

Sir Pet. Indeed 1

Lady Teaz. Ay, and when my cousin Sophy has called you
a stiff, peevish old bachelor, and laughed at me for thinking of
marrying one who might be my father, I have always defended
you, and said, I didn't think you so ugly by any means.

Sir Pet. Thank you.

Lady Teaz. And I dared say you'd make a very good sort of a
husband.

Sir Pet. And you prophesied right ; and we shall now be the
happiest couple

Lady Teaz. And never differ again ?

sc i.] THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL 185

Sir Pet. No, never ! — though at the same time, indeed, my dear
Lady Teazle, you must watch your temper very seriously ; for in
all our little quarrels, my dear, if you recollect, my love, you always
began first.

Lady Teaz. I beg your pardon, my dear Sir Peter : indeed, you
always gave the provocation.

Sir Pet. Now see, my angel ! take care — contradicting isn't the
way to keep friends.

Lady Teaz. Then don't you begin it, my love !

Sir Pet. There, now ! you — you are going on. You don't per-
ceive, my life, that you are just doing the very thing which you
know always makes me angry.

Lady Teaz. Nay, you know if you will be angry without any
reason, my dear

Sir Pet. There ! now you want to quarrel again.

Lady Teaz. No, I'm sure I don't : but, if you will be so
peevish

Sir Pet. There now ! who begins first ?

Lady Teaz. Why, you, to be sure. I said nothing — but there's
no bearing your temper.

Sir Pet. No, no, madam : the fault's in your own temper.

Lady Teaz. Ay, you are just what my cousin Sophy said you
would be.

Sir Pet. Your cousin Sophy is a forward, impertinent gipsy.

Lady Teaz. You are a great bear, I'm sure, to abuse my relations.

Sir Pet. Now may all the plagues of marriage be doubled on
me, if ever I try to be friends with you any more !

Lady Teaz. So much the better.

Sir Pet. No, no, madam : 'tis evident you never cared a pin for
me, and I was a madman to marry you — a pert, rural coquette,
that had refused half the honest squires in the neighbourhood !

Lady Teaz. And I am sure I was a fool to marry you — an old
dangling bachelor, who was single at fifty, only because he never
could meet with any one who would have him.

Sir Pet. Ay, ay, madam ; but you were pleased enough to listen
to me : you never had such an offer before.

Lady Teaz. No ! didn't I refuse Sir Tivy Terrier, who everybody
said would have been a better match ? for his estate is just as good
as yours, and he has broke his neck since we have been married.

Sir Pet. I have done with you, madam ! You are an unfeeling,
ungrateful — but there's an end of 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, you and Charles
are, not without grounds

186 THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. [ACT in.

Lady Teaz. Take care, Sir Peter ! you had batter not insinuate
any such thing ! I'll not be suspected without cause, I promise
you.

Sir Pet. Very well, madam ! very well ! A separate mainten-
ance as soon as you please. Yes, madam, or a divorce ! I'll make
an example of myself for the benefit of all old bachelors. Let us
separate, madam.

Lady Teaz. Agreed ! agreed ! And now, my dear Sir Peter,
we are of a mind once more, we may be the happiest couple, and
never differ again, you know : ha ! ha ! ha ! Well, you are going
to be in a passion, I see, and I shall only interrupt you — so, bye !
bye ! [Exit.

Sir Pet. Plagues and tortures ! can't I make her angry either !
Oh, I am the most miserable fellow ! But I'll not bear her pre-
suming to keep her temper : no ! she may break my heart, but she
shan't keep her temper. \Exit.

SCENE II.— A ROOM IN CHARLES SURFACE'S HOUSE.
Enter TRIP, MOSES, and SIR OLIVER SURFACE.

Trip. Here, Master Moses ! if you'll stay a moment, I'll try
whether — what's the gentleman's name ?

Sir Oliv. Mr. Moses, what is my name ? [Aside to MOSES.

Mas. Mr. Premium.

Trip. Premium — very well. \Exit, taking snuff.

.Sir Oliv. To judge by the servants, one wouldn't believe the

master was ruined. But what ! — sure, this was my brother's house ?

Mos. Yes, sir ; Mr. Charles bought it of Mr. Joseph, with the
furniture, pictures, etc., 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 ?

Trip. Yes, yes, sir ; he knows you are here — I did not forget
little Premium : no, no, no.

Sir Oliv. Very well ; and I pray, sir, what may be your name ?

Trip. Trip, sir ; my name is Trip, at your service.

Sir Oliv. Well, then, Mr. Trip, you have a pleasant sort of
place here, I guess ?

sc. in.] THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. 187

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 Apropos, 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.

Mas. 'Twas not to be done, indeed, Mr. Trip.

Trip. Good lack, you surprise me ! My friend Brush has
indorsed it, and I thought when he put his name at the back of a
bill, 'twas the same as cash.

Mos. No, 'twouldn't do.

Trip. A small sum — but twenty pounds. Harl^ee, Moses, do
you think you couldn't get it me by way of annuity?

Sir Oliv. An annuity ! ha ! ha ! a footman raise money by way
of annuity ! Well done, luxury, egad ! [Aside.

Mos. Well, but you must insure your place.

Trip. Oh, with all my heart 1 I'll insure my place, and my life
too, it you please.

Sir Oliv. It's more than I would your neck. [Aside.

Mos. But is there nothing you could deposit?

Trip. Why, nothing capital of my master's wardrobe has
dropped lately; but I could give you a mortgage on some of his
winter clothes, with equity of redemption before November — or
you shall have the reversion of the French velvet, or a post-obit on
the blue and silver ; — these, I should think, Moses, 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 1 I believe, gentlemen, I can now
introduce you. Don't forget the annuity, little Moses 1 This way,
gentlemen, I'll insure my place, you know.

Sir Oliv. [Aside] If the man be a shadow of the master, this is
the temple of dissipation indeed I [Exeunt.

SCENE III.— ANOTHER ROOM IN THE SAME.

CHARLES SURFACE, SIR HARRY BUMPER, CARELESS, and
GENTLEMEN, discovered drinking.

Chas. Surf. 'Fore heaven, 'tis true ! — there's the great de-
generacy of the age. Many of our acquaintance have taste, spirit,
and politeness ; but, plague on't, they won't drink.

1 88 THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. [ACT in.

Care. It is so, indeed, Charles ! they give into all the sub-
stantial luxuries of the table, and abstain from nothing but wine
and wit. Oh, certainly society suffers by it intolerably! for now,
instead of the social spirit of raillery that used to mantle over a
glass of bright Burgundy, their conversation is become just like the
Spa-water they drink, which has all the pertness and flatulency of
champagne, without its spirit or flavour.

\st 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'll have the worst of it. What ! you
wouldn't train a horse for the course by keeping him from corn ?
For my part, egad, I am never so successful as when I am a little
merry: let me throw on a bottle of champagne, and I never lose.

All. Hey, what?

Care. At least I never feel my losses, which is exactly the same
thing.

•2nd Gent. Ay, that I believe.

Chas. Surf. And then, what man can pretend to be a believer
in love, who is an abjurer of wine ? 'Tis the test by which the
lover knows his own heart. Fill a dozen bumpers to a dozen
beauties, and she that floats at the top is the maid that has
bewitched you.

Care. Now then, Charles, be honest, and give us your real
favourite.

Chas. Surf. Why, I have withheld her only in compassion to
you. If I toast her, you must give a round of her peers, which is
impossible — on earth.

Care. Oh, then we'll find some canonised vestals or heathen
goddesses that will do, I warrant !

Chas. Surf. Here then, bumpers, you rogues ! bumpers !
Maria ! Maria !

Sir Har. Maria who ?

Chas. Surf. Oh, damn the surname ! — 'tis too formal to be
registered in Love's calendar — Maria !

All. Maria !

Chas. Sttrf. But now, Sir Harry, beware ; we must have beauty
superlative.

Care. Nay, never study, Sir Harry: we'll 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'll give him the song instead
of the lady. {Sings.

sc. in.] THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. 189

Here's to the maiden of bashful fifteen;

Here's to the widow of fifty ;
Here's to the flaunting extravagant quean,

And here's to the housewife that's thrifty.

Chorus. Let the toast pass, —

Drink to the lass,
I'll warrant she'll prove an excuse for the glass.

Here's to the charmer whose dimples we prize ;

Now to the maid who has none, sir ;
Here's to the girl with a pair of blue eyes,

And here's to the nymph with but one, sir.
Chorus. Let the toast pass, etc.

Here's to the maid with a bosom of snow ;

Now to her that's as brown as a berry ;

Here's to the wife with a face full of woe,

And now to the damsel that's merry.
Chorus. Let the toast pass, etc.

For let 'em be clumsy, or let 'em be slim,

Young or ancient, I care not a feather ;
So fill a pint bumper quite up to the brim,
So fill up your glasses, nay, fill to the brim,

And let us e'en toast them together.
Chorus. Let the toast pass, etc.

All. Bravo ! bravo !

Enter TRIP, and whispers CHARLES SURFACE.

Chas. Surf. Gentlemen, you must excuse me a little. — Careless,
take the chair, will you ?

Care. Nay, prythee, Charles, what now ? This is one of your
peerless beauties, I suppose, has dropped in by chance ?

Chas. Surf. No, faith ! To tell you the truth, 'tis a Jew and a.
broker, who are come by appointment.

Care. Oh, damn it ! let's have the Jew in.

1st Gent. Ay, and the broker too, by all means.

2.nd Gent. Yes, yes, the Jew and the broker.

Chas. Surf. Egad, with all my heart ! — Trip, bid the gentlemen
walk in. — [Exit TRIP.] Though there's one of them a stranger, I
can tell you.

Care. Charles, let us give them some generous Burgundy, and
perhaps they'll grow conscientious.

Chas. Surf. Oh, hang 'em, no ! wine does but draw forth a
man's natural qualities ; and to make them drink would only be to
whet their knavery.

igo THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. [ACT in.

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. — [TRIP gives chairs and glasses, and e.ritJ\ Sit
down, Moses. — Come, Mr. Premium, I'll give you a sentiment :
here's Success to usury. f — Moses, fill the gentleman a bumper.

Mos. Success to usury ! [Drinks.

Care. Right, Moses — usury is prudence and industry, and
deserves to succeed.

Sir Oliv. Then here's — All the success it deserves ! [Drinks.

Care. No, no, that won't do 1 Mr. Premium, you have demurred
at the toast, and must drink it in a pint bumper.

1st Cent. A pint bumper, at least.

Mos. Oh, pray, sir, consider — Mr. Premium's a gentleman.

Care. And therefore loves good wine.

2nd Gent. Give Moses a quart glass — this is mutiny, and a high
contempt for the chair.

Care. Here, now fort 1 I'll see justice done, to the last drop
of my bottle.

Sir Oliv. Nay, pray, gentlemen — I did not expect this usage.

Chas. Surf. No, hang it, you shan't ; Mr. Premium's a
stranger.

Sir Oliv. Odd 1 I wish I was well out of their company.

[Aside.

Care. Plague on 'em then ! if they won't drink, we'll not sit
down with them. Come, Harry, the dice are in the next room. —
Charles, you'll join us when you have finished your business with
the gentlemen?

Chas. Surf. I will 1 I will !— [Exeunt SIR HARRY BUMPER and
GENTLEMEN; CARELESS following.} Careless 1

Care. {.Returning.} Well!

Chas. Surf. Perhaps I may want you.

Care. Oh, you know I am always ready: word, note, or bond,
'tis all the same to me. {Exit.

Mos. Sir, this is Mr. Premium, a gentleman of the strictest
honour and secrecy ; and always performs what he undertakes.
Mr. Premium, this is

Chas. Surf. Psha 1 have done. Sir, my friend Moses is a very
honest fellow, but a little slow at expression : he'll be an hour
giving us our titles. Mr. Premium, the plain state of the matter is
this: I am an extravagant young fellow who wants to borrow

sc. in ] THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. 191

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 further ceremony.

Sir Oliv. Exceeding frank, upon my word. I see, sir, you are
not a man of many compliments.

Chas. Surf. Oh no, sir ! plain dealing in business I always
think best.

Sir Oliv. Sir, I like you the better for it However, you are
mistaken in one thing : I have no money to lend, but I believe I
could procure some of a friend; but then he's an unconscionable
dog. Isn't he, Moses? And must sell stock to accommodate you.
Mustn't he, Moses ?

Mas. Yes, indeed 1 You know I always speak the truth, and
scorn to tell a lie !

Chas. Surf. Right. People that speak truth generally do. But
these are trifles, Mr. Premium. What I I know money isn't to be
bought without paying for't 1

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 favourite, and that he talks of leaving'me everything.
Sir Oliv. Indeed ! this is the first I've heard of it
Chas. Surf. Yes, yes, 'tis just so. Moses knows 'tis true ; don't
you, Moses?

Mos. Oh, yes ! I'll swear to't.

Sir Oliv. Egad, they'll persuade me presently I'm at Bengal.

[Aside.

Chas. Surf. Now I propose, Mr. Premium, if it's agreeable to
you, a post-obit on Sir Oliver's life: though at the same time the

IQ2 THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. [ACT HI.

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.

Sir Oliv. Not more than I should, I assure you. But the bond
you mention happens to be just the worst security you could offer
me — for I might live to a hundred and never see the principal.

Chas. Surf. Oh yes, you would ! the moment Sir Oliver dies,
you know, you would come on me for the money.

Sir Oliv. Then I believe I should be the most unwelcome dun
you ever had in your life.

Chas. Surf. What ! I suppose you're afraid that Sir Oliver is
too good a life ?

Sir Oliv. No, indeed I am not ; though I have heard he is as
hale and healthy as any man of his years in Christendom.

Chas. Surf. There again, now, you are misinformed. No, no,
the climate has hurt him considerably, poor uncle Oliver. Yes,
yes, he breaks apace, I'm told — and is so much altered lately that
his nearest relations would not know him.

Sir Oliv. No ! Ha ! ha ! ha ! so much altered lately that his
nearest relations would not know him! Hal ha! ha! egad — ha!
ha! ha!

Chas. Surf. Ha! ha! — you're glad to hear that, little Premium?

Sir Oliv. No, no, I'm not.

Chas. Surf. Yes, yes, you are — ha ! ha ! ha ! — you know that
mends your chance.

Sir Oliv. But I'm told Sir Oliver is coming over; nay, some say
he is actually arrived.

Chas. Surf. Psha ! sure I must know better than you whether
he's come or not. No, no, rely on't he's at this moment at
Calcutta. Isn't he, Moses?

Mas. Oh yes, certainly.

Sir Oliv. Very true, as you say, you must know better than I,
though I have it from pretty good authority. Haven't I, Moses?

Mos. Yes, most undoubted!

Sir Oliv. But, sir, as I understand you want a few hundreds
immediately, is there nothing you could dispose of?

Chas. Surf. How do you mean ?

Sir Oliv. For instance, now, I have heard that your father left
behind him a great quantity of massy old plate.

Chas. Surf. O Lud ! that's gone long ago. Moses can tell you
how better than I can.

Sir Oliv. [Aside."] Good lack ! all the family race-cups and
corporation-bowls ! — [Aloud.'] Then it was also supposed that his
library was one of the most valuable and compact.

Chas. Surf. Yes, yes, so it was — vastly too much so for a private

sc. in.] THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. 193

gentleman. For my part, I was always of a communicative dis-
position, so I thought it a shame to keep so much knowledge to
myself.

Sir Oliv. [AsideJ] Mercy upon me ! learning that had run in
the family like an heirloom ! — [Aloud.'] Pray, what has become of
the books ?

Chas. Surf. You must inquire of the auctioneer, Master
Premium, for I don't believe even Moses can direct you.

Mas. 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 'em a
banrain !

Sir Oliv. Hey! what the devil! sure, you wouldn't sell your
forefathers, would you ?

Chas. Surf. Every man of them, to the best bidder.

Sir Oliv. What! your great-uncles and aunts?

Chas. Surf. Ay, and my great-grandfathers and grandmothers
too.

Sir Oliv. [Aside.] Now I give him up ! — [Aloud."] What the
plague, have you no bowels for your own kindred ? Odd's life ! do
you take me for Shylock in the play, that you would raise money of
me on your own flesh and blood?

Chas. Surf. Nay, my little broker, don't be angry : what need
you care, if you have your money's worth ?

Sir Oliv. Well, I'll be the purchaser : I think I can dispose
of the family canvas. — [Aside.] Oh, I'll never forgive him this !
never !

Re-enter CARELESS.

Care. Come, Charles, what keeps you ?

Chas. Surf. I can't come yet. I' faith, we are going to have a
sale above stairs ; here's little Premium will buy all my ancestors !

Care. Oh, burn your ancestors !

Chas. Surf. No, he may do that afterwards, if he pleases. Stay,
Careless, we want you : egad, you shall be auctioneer — so come
along with us.

Care. Oh, have with you, if that's the case. I can handle a
hammer as well as a dice-box ! Going ! going !

Sir Oliv. Oh, the profligates ! {Aside.

Chas. Surf. Come, Moses, you shall be appraiser, if we want
one. Gad's life, little Premium, you don't seem to like the
business ?

896

194 THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. [ACT iv.

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 I— {Aside.]
Oh, the prodigal !

Chas. Surf. To be sure ! when a man wants money, where the
plague should he get assistance, if he can't make free with his own
relations ? {.Exeunt.

Sir Oliv. I'll never forgive him ; never ! never !

ACT IV.

SCENE L— A PICTURE ROOM IN CHARLES SURFACE'S
HOUSE.

Enter CHARLES SURFACE, SIR OLIVER SURFACE, MOSES, and
CARELESS.

Chas. Surf. Walk in, gentlemen, pray walk in ;— here they are,
the family of the Surfaces, up to the Conquest.

Sir Oliv. And, in my opinion, a goodly collection.

Chas. Surf. Ay, ay, these are done in the true spirit of
portrait-painting ; no volontiere grace or expression. Not like
the works of your modern Raphaels, who give you the strongest
resemblance, yet contrive to make your portrait independent of
you ; so that you may sink the original and not hurt the picture.
No, no ; the merit of these is the inveterate likeness — all stiff and
awkward as the originals, and like nothing in human nature
besides.

Sir Oliv. Ah ! we shall never see such figures of men again.

Chas. Surf. I hope not. Well, you see, Master Premium, what
a domestic character I am ; here I sit of an evening surrounded
by my family. But come, get to your pulpit, Mr. Auctioneer ;
here's an old gouty chair of my grandfather's will answer the
purpose.

Care. Ay, ay, this will do. But, Charles, I haven't a hammer ;
and what's an auctioneer without his hammer?

Chas. Surf. Eg'ad, that's true. What parchment have we here?
Oh, our genealogy in full. \Taking pedigree downl\ Here,
Careless, you shall have no common bit of mahogany, here's the
family tree for you, you rogue ! This shall be your hammer, and
now you may knock down my ancestors with their own pedigree.

Sir Oliv. What an unnatural rogue ! — an ex post facto par-
ricide ! {Aside.

Care. Yes, yes, here's a list of your generation indeed ; — faith,

sc. i.] THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. 195

Charles, this is the most convenient thing you could have found
for the business, for 'twill not only serve as a hammer, but a
catalogue into the bargain. Come, begin — A-going, a-going,
a-going !

Chas. Surf. Bravo, Careless ! Well, here's my great-uncle, Sir
Richard Raveline, a marvellous good general in his day, I assure
you. He served in all the Duke of Marlborough's wars, and got
that cut over his eye at the battle of Malplaquet. What say you,
Mr. Premium ? look at him — there's a hero ! not cut out of his
feathers, as your modern clipped captains are, but enveloped in
wig and regimentals, as a general should be. What do you bid ?

Sir Oliv. [Aside to MOSES.] Bid him speak

Mos. Mr. Premium would have you speak.

Chas. Surf. Why, then, he shall have him for ten pounds, and
I'm sure that's not dear for a staff-officer.

Sir Oliv. [Aside.'] Heaven deliver me ! his famous uncle
Richard for ten pounds ! — [Aloud.] Very well, sir, I take him at
that.

Chas. Surf. Careless, knock down my uncle Richard. — Here,
now, is a maiden sister of his, my great-aunt Deborah, done by
Kneller, in his best manner, and esteemed a very formidable like-
ness. There she is, you see, a shepherdess feeding her flock.
You shall have her for five pounds ten — the sheep are worth the
money.

Sir Oliv. [Aside.] Ah ! poor Deborah 1 a woman who set
such a value on herself! — [Aloud.'] Five pounds ten — she's mine.

Chas. Surf. Knock down my aunt Deborah ! Here, now, are
two that were a sort of cousins of theirs. — You see, Moses, these
pictures were done some time ago, when beaux wore wigs, and the
ladies their own hair.

Sir Oliv. Yes, truly, head-dresses appear to have been a little
lower in those days.

Chas. Surf. Well, take that couple for the same.

Mos. 'Tis a good bargain.

Chas. Surf. Careless ! — This, now, is a grandfather of my
mother's, a learned judge, well known on the western circuit. —
What do you rate him at, Moses ?

Mos. Four guineas.

Chas. Surf. Four guineas ! Gad's life, you don't bid me the
price of his wig. — Mr. Premium, you have more respect for the
woolsack ; do let us knock his lordship down at fifteen.

Sir Oliv. By all means.

Care. Gone 1

Chas. Surf. And there are two brothers of his, William and

196 THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. [ACT iv.

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'll take them
at your own price, for the honour of parliament.

Care. Well said, little Premium ! I'll knock them down at
forty.

Chas. Surf. Here's a jolly fellow — I don't know what relation,
but he was mayor of Norwich : take him at eight pounds.

Sir Oliv. No, no ; six will do for the mayor.

Chas. Surf. Come, make it guineas, and I'll throw you the two
aldermen there into the bargain.

Sir Oliv. They're mine.

Chas. Surf. Careless, knock down the mayor and aldermen.
But, plague on't ! we shall be all day retailing in this manner ; do
let us deal wholesale: what say you, little Premium? Give me
three hundred pounds for the rest of the family in the lump.

Care. Ay, ay, that will be the best way.

Sir Oliv. Well, well, anything to accommodate you ; they are
mine. But there is one portrait which you have always passed
over.

Care. What, that ill-looking little fellow over the settee ?

Sir Oliv. Yes, sir, I mean that ; though I don't think him so
ill-looking a little fellow, by any means.

Chas. Surf. What, that ? Oh, that's my uncle Oliver 1 'twas
done before he went to India.

Care. Your uncle Oliver ! Gad, then you'll never be friends,
Charles. That, now, to me, is as stern a looking rogue as ever I
saw ; an unforgiving eye, and a damned disinheriting countenance!
an inveterate knave, depend on't Don't you think so, little
Premium?

Sir Oliv. Upon my soul, sir, I do not ; I think it is as honest
a looking face as any in the room, dead or alive. But I suppose
uncle Oliver goes with the rest of the lumber?

Chas. Surf. No, hang it ! I'll not part with poor Noll. The
old fellow has been very good to me, and, egad, I'll keep his
picture while I've a room to put it in.

Sir Oliv. [Aside.'] The rogue's my nephew after all ! — [Aloud.}
But, sir, I have somehow taken a fancy to that picture.

Chas. Surf. I'm sorry fort, for you certainly will not have it
Oons, haven't you got enough of them ?

Sir Oliv. [Aside.] I forgive him everything ! — [Aloud] But,
sir, when I take a whim in my head, I don't value money. I'll give
you as much for that as for all the rest.

sc i.] THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. 197

Chas. Surf. Don't tease me, master broker ; I tell you I'll not
part with it, and there's an end of it.

Sir Oliv. [Aside."] How like his father the dog is !— [Aloud.]
Well, well, I have done. — [Aside.] I did not perceive it before,
but I think I never saw such a striking resemblance. — [Aloud]
Here is a draft for your sum.

Chas. Surf. Why, 'tis for eight hundred pounds !

Sir Oliv. You will not let Sir Oliver go ?

Chas. Surf. Zounds-! no ! I tell you, once more.

Sir Oliv. Then never mind the difference, we'll balance that
another time. But give me your hand on the bargain ; you are an
honest fellow, Charles — I beg pardon, sir, for being so free. — Come,
Moses.

Chas. Surf. Egad, this is a whimsical old fellow ! — But, hark'ee,
Premium, you'll prepare lodgings for these gentlemen.

Sir Oliv. Yes, yes, I'll send for them in a day or two.

Chas. Surf. But hold ; do now send a genteel conveyance for
them, for, I assure you, they were most of them used to ride in
their own carriages.

Sir Oliv. I will, I will — for all but Oliver.

Chas. Surf. Ay, all but the little nabob.

Sir Oliv. You're fixed on that ?

Chas. Surf. Peremptorily.

Sir Oliv. [Aside] A dear extravagant rogue 1 — [Aloud]
Good day ! — Come, Moses. — [Aside] Let me hear now who dares
call him profligate 1 [Exit with MOSES.

Care. Why, this is the oddest genius of the sort I ever met
with 1

Chas. Surf. Egad, he's the prince of brokers, I think. I
wonder how the devil Moses got acquainted with so honest a
fellow. — Ha 1 here's Rowley. — Do, Careless, say I'll join the
company in a few moments.

Care. I will — but don't let that old blockhead persuade you to
squander any of that money on old musty debts, or any such
nonsense ; for tradesmen, Charles, are the most exorbitant fellows.

Chas. Surf. Very true, and paying them is only encouraging
them.

Care. Nothing else.

Chas. Surf. Ay, ay, never fear. — [Exit CARELESS.] So 1 this
was an odd old fellow, indeed. Let me see, two-thirds of these
five hundred and thirty odd pounds are mine by right. 'Fore
Heaven ! I find one's ancestors are more valuable relations than I
took them for 1 — Ladies and gentlemen, your most obedient and
very grateful servant. [Bows ceremoniously to the pictures.

1 98 THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. [ACT iv.

Enter ROWLEY.

Ha ! old Rowley ! egad, you are just come in time to take leave of
your old acquaintance.

Row. Yes, I heard they were a-going. But I wonder you can
have such spirits under so many distresses.

Chas. Surf. Why, there's the point ! my distresses are so many,
that I can't afford to part with my spirits ; but I shall be rich and
splenetic, all in good time. However, I suppose you are surprised
that I am not more sorrowful at parting with so many near
relations ; to be sure, 'tis very affecting, but you see they never
move a muscle, so why should I ?

Row. There's no making you serious a moment.

Chas. Surf. Yes, faith, I am so now. Here, my honest Rowley,
here, get me this changed directly, and take a hundred pounds
of it immediately to old Stanley.

Row. A hundred pounds ! Consider 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 1 I never will cease dunning you
with the old proverb

Chas. Surf. Be just before you're generous. — Why, so I would if
I could ; but Justice is an old, hobbling beldame, and I can't get
her to keep pace with Generosity, for the soul of me.

Row. Yet, Charles, believe me, one hour's reflection

Chas. Surf. Ay, ay, it's very true ; but, hark'ee, Rowley, while
I have, by Heaven I'll give ; so, damn your economy ! and now for
hazard. \Exetmt.

SCENE II.— ANOTHER ROOM IN THE SAME.
Enter SIR OLIVER SURFACE and MOSES.

Mas. Well, sir, I think, as Sir Peter said, you have seen Mr.
Charles in high glory ; 'tis great pity he's so extravagant.
Sir Oliv. True, but he would not sell my picture.
Mas. 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 ~

sc. in.] THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. 199

Sir Oliv. Yes, yes, our young rake has parted with his ancestors
like old tapestry.

Row. And here has he commissioned me to re-deliver you part
of the purchase money — I mean, though, in your necessitous
character of old Stanley.

Mos. Ah ! there is the pity of all ; he is so damned charitable.

Row. And I left a hosier and two tailors in the hall, who, I'm
sure, won't be paid, and this hundred would satisfy them.

Sir Oliv. Well, well, I'll pay his debts, and his benevolence too.
But now I am no more a broker, and you shall introduce me to the
elder brother as old Stanley.

Row. Not yet awhile ; Sir Peter, I know, means to call there
about this time.

Enter TRIP.

Trip. Oh, gentlemen, I beg pardon for not showing you out ;
this way — Moses, a word. [Exit with MOSES.

Sir Oliv. There's a fellow for you 1 Would you believe it, that
puppy intercepted the Jew on our coming, and wanted to raise
money before he got to his master !

Row. Indeed!

Sir Oliv. Yes, they are now planning an annuity business. Ah,
Master Rowley, in my days servants were content with the follies
of their masters, when they were worn a little threadbare ; but now
they have their vices, like their birthday clothes, with the gloss on.

[Exeunt.

SCENE III. — A LIBRARY IN JOSEPH SURFACE'S HOUSE.
Enter JOSEPH SURFACE and SERVANT.

Jos. Surf. No letter from Lady Teazle ?

Ser. No, sir.

Jos. Surf. [Aside.'} I am surprised she has not sent, if she is
prevented from coming. Sir Peter certainly does not suspect me.
Yet I wish I may not lose the heiress, through the scrape I have
drawn myself into with the wife ; however, Charles's imprudence
and bad character are great points in my favour.

{Knocking without.

Ser. Sir, I believe that must be Lady Teazle.

Jos. Surf. Hold ! See whether it is or not, before you go to the
door : I have a particular message for you if it should be my
brother.

Ser. 'Tis her ladyship, sir ; she always leaves her chair at the
milliner's in the next street.

200 THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. [ACT iv.

Jos. Surf. Stay, stay ; draw that screen before the window —
that will do ; — my opposite neighbour is a maiden lady of so curious
a temper. — [SERVANT draws the screen, and exit.} I have a difficult
hand to play in this affair. Lady Teazle has lately suspected my
views on Maria ; but she must by no means be let into that secret,
— at least, till I have her more in my power.

Enter LADY TEAZLE.

Lady Teaz. What, sentiment in soliloquy now? Have you been
very impatient ? O Lud ! don't pretend to look grave. I vow I
couldn'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 is grown so ill-natured to me of late, and so
jealous of Charles too — that's the best of the story, isn't it ?

Jos. Surf. I am glad my scandalous friends keep that up.

[Aside.

Lady Teaz. I am sure I wish he would let Maria marry him,
and then perhaps he would be convinced ; don't you, Mr. Surface Y

Jos. Surf. [Aside.} Indeed I do not. — [Aloud.} Oh, certainly I
do ! for then my dear Lady Teazle would also be convinced how
wrong her suspicions were of my having any design on the silly
girl.

Lady Teaz. Well, well, I'm inclined to believe you. But isn't it
provoking, to have the most ill-natured things said of one ? And
there's my friend Lady Sneerwell has circulated I don't know how
many scandalous tales of me, and all without any foundation too ;
that's what vexes me.

Jos. Surf. Ay, madam, to be sure, that is the provoking cir-
cumstance— without foundation ; yes, yes, there's the mortification,
indeed ; for, when a scandalous story is believed against one, there
certainly is no comfort like the consciousness of having deserved it.

Lady Teaz. No, to be sure, then I'd forgive their malice ; but
to attack me, who am really so innocent, and who never say an
ill-natured thing of 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 'tis monstrous !

Jos. Surf. But, my dear Lady Teazle, 'tis your own fault if
you suffer it. When a husband entertains a groundless suspicion
of his wife, and withdraws his confidence from her, the original
compact is broken, and she owes it to the honour of her sex to
endeavour to outwit him.

sc. in.] THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. 201

Lady Teaz. Indeed ! So that, if he suspects me without cause,
it follows that the best way of curing his jealousy is to give him
reason for't ?

Jos. Surf. Undoubtedly — for your husband should never be
deceived in you ; and in that case it becomes you to be frail in
compliment to his discernment.

Lady Teaz. To be sure, what you say is very reasonable, and
when the consciousness of my innocence

Jos Stirf. Ah, my dear madam, there is the great mistake ! 'tis
this very conscious innocence that is of the greatest prejudice to
you. What is it makes you negligent of forms, and careless of the
world's opinion ? why, the consciousness of your own innocence.
What makes you thoughtless in your conduct, and apt to run into
a thousand little imprudences? why, the consciousness of your
own innocence. What makes you impatient of Sir Peter's temper,
and outrageous at his suspicions ? why, the consciousness of your
innocence.

Lady Teaz. 'Tis very true !

Jos. Surf. Now, my dear Lady Teazle, if you would but once
make a trifling faux pas, you can't conceive how cautious you
would grow, and how ready to humour and agree with your
husband.

Lady Teaz. Do you think so?

Jos. Surf. Oh, I am sure on't ; and then you would find all
scandal would cease at once, for — in short, your character at
present is like a person in a plethora, absolutely dying from too
much health.

Lady Teaz. So, so; then I perceive your prescription is, that
I must sin in my own defence, and part with my virtue to preserve
my reputation ?

Jos. Surf. Exactly so, upon my credit, ma'am.

Lady Teaz. Well, certainly this is the oddest doctrine, and the
newest receipt for avoiding calumny I

Jos. Surf. An infallible one, believe me. Prudence, like experi-
ence, must be paid for.

Lady Teaz. Why, if my understanding were once convinced

Jos. Surf. Oh, certainly, madam, your understanding should be
convinced. Yes, yes — Heaven forbid I should persuade you to
do anything you thought wrong. No, no, I have too much honour
to desire it.

Lady Teaz. Don't you think we may as well leave honour out
of the argument ? [Rises.

Jos. Surf. Ah, the ill effects of your country education, I see,
Still remain with you.

202 THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. [ACT iv.

Lady Teaz. I doubt they do, indeed ; and I will fairly own
to you, that if I could be persuaded to do wrong, it would be
by Sir Peter's ill usage sooner than your honourable logic, after all

Jos. Surf. Then, by this hand, which he is unworthy of

[Taking her hand.
Re-enter SERVANT.

'Sdeath, you blockhead — what do you want ?

Ser. I beg your pardon, sir, but I thought you would not
choose Sir Peter to come up without announcing him.

Jos. Surf. Sir Peter ! — Oons — the devil !

Lady Teaz. Sir Peter ! — O Lud ! I'm ruined ! I'm ruined !

Ser. Sir, 'twasn't I let him in.

Lady Teass. 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 me that book.

\Sits down, SERVANT/r£/£#*£ to adjust his chair.

Enter SIR PETER TEAZLE.

Sir Pet. Ay, ever improving himself — Mr. Surface, Mr.
Surface [Pats JOSEPH on the shoulder.

Jos. Surj. Oh, my dear Sir Peter, I beg your pardon — {Gap-
ing, throws away the book.] I have been dozing over a stupid
book. Well, I am much obliged to you for this call. You haven't
been here, I believe, since I fitted up this room. Books, you
know, are the only things I am a coxcomb in.

Sir Pet. 'Tis very neat indeed. Well, well, thaf s proper ; and
you can make even your screen a source of knowledge — hung, I
perceive, with maps,

Jos. Surf. Oh yes, I find great use in that screen.

Sir Pet. I dare say you must, certainly, when you want to find
anything in a hurry.

Jos. Surf. Ay, or to hide anything in a hurry either.

[Aside.

Sir Pet. Well, I have a little private business

Jos. Surf. You need not stay. [ To SERVANT.

Ser. No, sir. [Exit.

Jos. Surf. Here's a chair, Sir Peter — I beg

Sir Pet. Well, now we are alone, there is a subject, my dear
friend, on which I wish to unburden my mind to you — a point
of the greatest moment to my peace ; in short, my good friend,
Lady Teazle's conduct of late has made me very unhappy.

sc. in.] THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. 203

Jos. Surf. Indeed ! I am very sorry to hear it.

Sir Pet. Yes, 'tis but too plain she has not the least regard for
me ; but, what's worse, I have pretty good authority to suppose
she has formed an attachment to another.

Jos. Surf. Indeed ! you astonish me !

Sir Pet. Yes ! and, between ourselves, I think I've discovered
the person.

Jos. Surf. How ! you alarm me exceedingly.

Sir Pet. Ay, my dear friend, I knew you would sympathise
with me !

Jos. Surf. Yes, believe me, Sir Peter, such a discovery would
hurt me just as much as it would you.

Sir Pet. I am convinced of it. Ah ! it is a happiness to have a
friend whom we can trust even with one's family secrets. But have
you no guess who I mean ?

Jos. Surf. I haven't the most distant idea. It can't be Sir
Benjamin Backbite !

Sir Pet. Oh, no ! What say you to Charles?

Jos. Surf. My brother 1 impossible !

Sir Pet. Oh, my dear friend, the goodness of your own heart
misleads you. You judge of others by yourself.

Jos. Surf. Certainly, Sir Peter, the heart that is conscious of its
own integrity is ever slow to credit another's treachery.

Sir Pet. True ; but your brother has no sentiment — you never
hear him talk so.

Jos. Surf. Yet I can't but think Lady Teazle herself has too
much principle.

Sir Pet. Ay ; but what is principle against the flattery of a
handsome, lively young fellow ?

Jos. Surf. That's very true.

Sir Pet. And then, you know, the difference of our ages makes
it very improbable that she should have any great affection for me ;
and if she were to be frail, and I were to make it public, why the
town would only laugh at me, the foolish old bachelor who had
married a girl.

Jos. Surf. That's true, to be sure — they would laugh.

Sir Pet. Laugh ! ay, and make ballads, and paragraphs, and
the devil knows what of me.

Jos. Surf. No, you must never make it public.

Sir Pet. But then again — that the nephew of my old friend, Sir
Oliver, should be the person to attempt such a wrong, hurts me
more nearly.

Jos. Surf. Ay, there's the point. When ingratitude barbs the
dart of injury, the wound has double danger in it.

204 THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. [ACT nr.

Sir Pet, Ay — I, that was, in a manner, left his guardian ; in
whose house he had been so often entertained ; who never in my
life denied him — my advice !

Jos. Surf. Oh, 'tis not to be credited ! There may be a man
capable of such baseness, to be sure ; but, for my part, till you can
give me positive proofs, I cannot but doubt it. However, if it
should be proved on him, he is no longer a brother of mine — I dis-
claim kindred with him ; for the man who can break the laws of
hospitality, and tempt the wife of his friend, deserves to be branded
as the pest of society.

Sir Pet. What a difference there is between you 1 What noble
sentiments !

Jos. Surf. Yet I cannot suspect Lady Teazle's honour.

Sir Pet. I am sure I wish to think well of her, and to remove
all ground of quarrel between us. She has lately reproached me
more than once with having made no settlement 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, are the drafts of two deeds, which I wish to have
your opinion on. By one, she will enjoy eight hundred a year
independent while I live ; and, by the other, the bulk of my fortune
at my death.

Jos. Surf. This conduct, Sir Peter, is indeed truly generous. —
[Aside.] I wish it may not corrupt my pupil.

Sir Pet. Yes, I am determined she shall have no cause to com-
plain, though I would not have her acquainted with the latter
instance of my affection yet awhile.

Jos. Surf. Nor I, if I could help it. [Aside.

Sir Pet. And now, my dear friend, if you please, we will talk
over the situation of your hopes with Maria.

Jos. Surf. [Softly.'} Oh no, Sir Peter ; another time, if you
please.

Sir Pet. I am sensibly chagrined at the little progress you seem
to make in her affections.

Jos. Surf. [Softly.] I beg you will not mention it. What are
my disappointments when your happiness is in debate I — [Aside.]
'Sdeath, I shall be ruined every way !

Sir Pet. And though you are averse to my acquainting Lady
Teazle with your passion, I'm sure she's not your enemy in the
affair.
Jos. Surf. Pray, Sir Peter, now oblige me. I am really too

sc. in.] THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL, 205

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

Re-enter SERVANT.
Well, sir?

Ser. Your brother, sir, is speaking to a gentleman in the street,
and says he knows you are within.

Jos. Surf. 'Sdeath, blockhead, I'm not within — I'm out for the
day.

Sir Pet. Stay — hold — a thought has struck me : — you shall be
at home.

Jos. Surf. Well, well, let him up.— {Exit SERVANT.] He'll
interrupt Sir Peter, however. [Aside.

Sir Pet. Now, my good friend, oblige me, I entreat you.
Before Charles comes, let me conceal myself somewhere, then do
you tax him on the point we have been talking, and his answer
may satisfy me at once.

Jos. Surf. Oh, fie, Sir Peter ! would you have me join in so
mean a trick? — to trepan my brother too ?

Sir Pet. Nay, you tell me you are sure he is innocent ; if so,
you do him the greatest service by giving him an opportunity to
clear himself, and you will set my heart at rest Come, you shall
not refuse me: [Going up\ here, behind the screen will be — Hey !
what the devil ! there seems to be one listener here already — I'll
swear I saw a petticoat 1

Jos. Surf. Ha ! ha ! ha ! Well, this is ridiculous enough. I'll
tell you, Sir Peter, though I hold a man of intrigue to be a most
despicable character, yet, you know, it does not follow that one
is to be an absolute Joseph either ! Hark'ee, 'tis a little French
milliner, a silly rogue that plagues me; and having some character
to lose, on your coming, sir, she ran behind the screen.

Sir Pet. Ah, Joseph 1 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 further, you may depend
upon it !

Sir Pet. No I then, faith, let her hear it out. — Here's a closet
will do as well.

Jos. Surf. Well, go in there.

Sir Pet. Sly rogue ! sly rogue 1 [Goes into the closet.

Jos. Surf. A narrow escape, indeed ! and a curious situation
I'm in, to part man and wife in this manner.

Lady Teaz. [Peeping Couldn't I steal off?

Jos. Surf. Keep close, my angel 1

206 THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. [ACT iv.

Sir Pet. \PeepingI\ Joseph, tax him home.

Jos. Surf. Back, my dear friend !

Lady Teaz. {Peeping^ Couldn't you lock Sir Peter in ?

Jos. Surf. Be still, my life !

Sir Pet. [Peeping.} You're sure the little milliner won't
blab ?

Jos. Surf. In, in, my dear Sir Peter ! — 'Fore Gad, I wish I had
a key to the door.

Enter CHARLES SURFACE.

Chas. Surf. Holla! brother, what has been the matter? Your
fellow would not let me up at first. What ! have you had a Jew or
a wench with you ?

Jos. Surf. Neither, brother, I assure you.

Chas. Surf. But what has made Sir Peter steal off? I thought
he had been with you ?

Jos. Surf. He was, brother ; but, hearing you were coming, he
did not choose to stay.

Chas. Surf. What ! was the old gentleman afraid I wanted to
borrow money of him?

Jos. Surf. No, sir; but I am sorry to find, Charles, you have
lately given that worthy man grounds for great uneasiness.

Chas. Surf. Yes, they tell me I do that to a great many worthy
men. But how so, pray ?

Jos. Surf. To be plain with you, brother, he thinks you are
endeavouring to gain Lady Teazle's affections from him.

Chas. Surf. Who, I ? O Lud ! not I, upon my word. — Ha !
ha 1 ha ! ha ! so the old fellow has found out that he has got a
young wife, has he ? — or, what is worse, Lady Teazle has found out
she has an old husband?

Jos. Surf. This is no subject to jest on, brother. He who can
laugh

Chas. Surf. True, true, as you were going to say — then,
seriously, I never had the least idea of what you charge me with,
upon my honour.

Jos. Surf. Well, it will give Sir Peter great satisfaction to hear
this. \RaisinghisTJoice.

Chas. Surf. To be sure, I once thought the lady seemed to
have taken a fancy to me ; but, upon my soul, I never gave her the
least encouragement. Besides, you know my attachment to Maria.

Jos. Surf. But sure, brother, even if Lady Teazle had betrayed
the fondest partiality for you

Chas. Surf. Why, look'ee, Joseph, I hope I shall never deliber-
ately do a dishonourable action ; but if a pretty woman was

sc. in.] THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. 207

purposely to throw herself in my way — and that pretty woman
married to a man old enough to be her father

Jos. Surf. Well ?
Chas. Surf. Why, I believe I should be obliged to

Jos. Surf. What ?

Chas. Surf. To borrow a little of your morality, that's all But,
brother, do you know now that you surprise me exceedingly, by
naming me with Lady Teazle ; for, i' faith, I always understood you
were her favourite.

Jos. Surf. Oh, for shame, Charles ! This retort is foolish.

Chas. Surf. Nay, I swear I have seen you exchange such
significant glances

Jos. Surf. Nay, nay, sir, this is no jest.

Chas. Surf. Egad, I'm serious ! Don't you remember one day,
when I called here

Jos. Surf. Nay, prythee, 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 I — [Aside.'] Gad,
I must stop him.

Chas. Surf. Informed, I say, that

Jos. Surf. Hush ! I beg your pardon, but Sir Peter has over-
heard all we have been saying. I knew you would clear yourself,
or I should not have consented.

Chas. Surf. How, Sir Peter ! Where is he ?

Jos. Surf. Softly, there ! [Points to the closet.

Chas. Surf. Oh, 'fore Heaven, I'll have him out Sir Peter,
come forth !

Jos. Surf. No, no

Chas. Surf. I say, Sir Peter, come into court — [Pulls in SIR
PETER.] What ! my old guardian ! — What ! turn inquisitor, and
take evidence incog. ? Oh, fie ! oh, fie !

Sir Pet. Give me your hand, Charles — I believe I have
suspected you wrongfully ; but you mustn't be angry with Joseph
— 'twas my plan !

Chas. Surf. Indeed !

Sir Pet. But I acquit you. I promise you I don't think near so
ill of you as I did : what I have heard has given me great satis-
faction.

Chas. Surf. Egad, then, 'twas lucky you didn't hear any more.
Wasn't it, Joseph ?

Sir Pet. Ah ! you would have retorted on him,

Chas. Surf. Ah, ay, that was a joke.

2o8 THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. [ACT iv.

Sir Pet. Yes, yes, I know his honour too well.
Chas. Surf. But you might as well have suspected him as me in
this matter, for all that. Mightn't he, Joseph?
Sir Pet. Well, well, I believe you.

Jos. Surf. Would they were both out of the room ! [Aside.

Sir Pet. And in future, perhaps, we may not be such strangers.

Re-enter SERVANT, and whispers JOSEPH SURFACE.

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 downstairs ; 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.]
Til send Lady Sneerwell away, and return directly. — [Aside to SIR
PETER.] Sir Peter, not a word of the French milliner.

Sir Pet. [Aside to JOSEPH SURFACE.] I 1 not for the world ! —
[Exit JOSEPH SURFACE.] Ah, Charles, if you associated more with
your brother, one might indeed hope for your reformation. He is
a man of sentiment. Well, there is nothing in the world so noble
as a man of sentiment.

Chas. Surf. Psha ! he is too moral by half; and so apprehensive
of his good name, as he calls it, that I suppose he would as soon let
a priest into his house as a wench.

Sir Pet. No, no, — come, come, — you wrong him. No, no !
Joseph is no rake, but he is no such saint either, in that respect. —
[Aside.] I have a great mind to tell him — we should have such a
laugh at Joseph.

Chas. Surf. Oh, hang him ! he's a very anchorite, a young
hermit !

Sir Pet. Hark'ee — you must not abuse him : he may chance to
hear of it again, I promise you.

Chas. Surf. Why, you won't tell him?

Sir Pet. No— but— this way.— [Aside.} Egad, I'll tell him. —
[Aloud.] Hark'ee, have you a mind to have a good laugh at
Joseph ?

Chas. Surf. I should like it of all things.

Sir Pet. Then, i' faith, we will ! I'll be quits with him for
discovering me. He had a girl with him when I called.

[ Whispers.

Chas. Surf. What ! Joseph ? you jest.

Sir Pet. Hush ! — a little French milliner — and the best of the
jest is — she's in the room now.

sc. in.] THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. 209

Chas. Surf. The devil she is !

Sir Pet. Hush ! I tell you. {Points to the screen.

Chas. Surf. Behind the screen ! 'Slife, let's unveil her !

Sir Pet. No, no, he's coming : — you shan't, indeed !

Chas. Surf. Oh, egad, we'll have a peep at the little milliner !

Sir Pet. Not for the world !— Joseph will never forgive me.

Chas. Surf. I'll stand by you

Sir Pet. Odds, here he is !

[CHARLES SURFACE throws down the screen.

Re-enter JOSEPH SURFACE.

Chas. Surf. Lady Teazle, by all that's wonderful !

Sir Pet. Lady Teazle, by all that's damnable !

Chas. Surf. Sir Peter, this is one of the smartest French
milliners I ever saw. Egad, you seem all to have been diverting
yourselves here at hide-and-seek, and I don't see who is out of. the
secret. Shall I beg your ladyship to inform me? Not a word ! —
Brother, will you be pleased to explain this matter? What! is
Morality dumb too? — Sir Peter, though I found you in the dark,
perhaps you are not so now ! All mute ! — Well — though I can
make nothing of the affair, I suppose you perfectly understand one
another; so I'll leave you to yourselves. — \_GoingI\ Brother, I'm
sorry to find you have given that worthy man grounds for so much
uneasiness. — Sir Peter ! there's nothing in the world so noble as a
man of sentiment ! [Exit.

Jos. Surf. Sir Peter — notwithstanding — I confess — that appear-
ances are against me — if you will afford me your patience — I make
no doubt — but I shall explain everything to your satisfaction.

Sir Pet. If you please, sir.

Jos. Surf. The fact is, sir, that Lady Teazle, knowing my pre-
tensions to your ward Maria — I say, sir, Lady Teazle, being
apprehensive of the jealousy of your temper — and knowing my
friendship to the family — she, sir, I say — called here — in order
that — I might explain these pretensions — but on your coming —
being apprehensive — as I said — of your jealousy — she withdrew —
and this, you may depend on it, is the whole truth of the matter.

Sir Pet. A very clear account, upon my word ; and I dare swear
the lady will vouch for every article of it.

Lady Teas. For not one word of it, Sir Peter !

Sir Pet. 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 Pet. I believe you, upon my soul, ma'am !

897

210 THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. [ACT v.

Jos. Surf. [Aside to LADY TEAZLE.] 'Sdeath, madam, will you
betray me ?

Lady Teaz. Good Mr. Hypocrite, by your leave, I'll speak for
myself.

Sir Pet. Ay, let her alone, sir; you'll find she'll make out a
better story than you, without prompting.

Lady Teaz. Hear me, Sir Peter ! — I came here on no matter
relating to your ward, and even ignorant of this gentleman's
pretensions to her. But I came, seduced by his insidious argu-
ments, at least to listen to his pretended passion, if not to sacrifice
your honour to his baseness.

Sir Pet. Now, I believe the truth is coming, indeed !

Jos. Surf. The woman's mad 1

Lady Teaz. No, sir; she has recovered her senses, and your
own arts have furnished her with the means. — Sir Peter, I do not
expect you to credit me — but the tenderness you expressed for me,
when I am sure you could not think I was a witness to it, has so
penetrated to my heart, that had I left the place without the shame
of this discovery, my future life should have spoken the sincerity of
my gratitude. As for that smooth-tongued hypocrite, who would
have seduced the wife of his too credulous friend, while he affected
honourable addresses to his ward — I behold him now in a light so
truly despicable, that I shall never again respect myself for having
listened to him. [Exit.

Jos. Surf. Notwithstanding all this, Sir Peter, Heaven
knows

Sir Pet. That you are a villain ! and so I leave you to your
conscience.

Jos. Surf. You are too rash, Sir Peter; you shall hear me. The
man who shuts out conviction by refusing to

Sir Pet. Oh, damn your sentiments !

{Exeunt SIR PETER and JOSEPH SURFACE, talking.

ACT V.

SCENE I. — THE LIBRARY IN JOSEPH SURFACE'S HOUSE.
Enter JOSEPH SURFACE and SERVANT.

Jos. Surf. Mr. Stanley ! and why should you think I would 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.

sc. i.] THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. 211

Jos. Surf. Psha ! blockhead ! to suppose that I should now be
in a temper to receive visits from poor relations ! — Well, why don't
you show the fellow up ?

Ser. I will, sir. — Why, sir, it was not my fault that Sir Peter
discovered my lady

Jos. Surf. Go, fool !— {Exit SERVANT.] Sure Fortune never
played a man of my policy such a trick before ! My character
with Sir Peter, my hopes with Maria, destroyed in a moment !
I'm in a rare humour to listen to other people's distresses ! I
shan't be able to bestow even a benevolent sentiment on Stanley.
— So ! here he comes, and Rowley with him. I must try to recover
myself, and put a little charity into my face, however. {Exit.

Enter SIR OLIVER SURFACE and ROWLEY.

Sir Oliv. What 1 does he avoid us ? That was he, was it not ?

Row. It was, sir. But I doubt you are come a little too abruptly.
His nerves are so weak, that the sight of a poor relation may be
too much for him. I should have gone first to break it to him.

Sir Oliv. Oh, plague of his nerves ! Yet this is he whom Sir
Peter extols as a man of the most benevolent way of thinking !

Row. As to his way of thinking, I cannot pretend to decide ;
for, to do him justice, he appears to have as much speculative
benevolence as any private gentleman in the kingdom, though he
is seldom so sensual as to indulge himself in the exercise of it.

Sir Oliv. Yet he has a string of charitable sentiments at his
fingers' ends.

Row. Or, rather, at his tongue's end, Sir Oliver ; for I believe
there is no sentiment he has such faith in as that Charity begins at
home.

Sir Oliv. And his, I presume, is of that domestic sort which
never stirs abroad at all

Row. I doubt you'll find it so ; — but he's coming. I mustn't
seem to interrupt you ; and you know, immediately as you leave
him, I come in to announce your arrival in your real character.

Sir Oliv. True ; and afterwards you'll meet me at Sir Peter's.

Row. Without losing a moment. \Exit.

Sir Oliv. I don't like the complaisance of his features.

Re-enter JOSEPH SURFACE.

Jos. Surf. Sir, I beg you ten thousand pardons for keeping you
a moment waiting. — Mr. Stanley, I presume.

Sir Oliv. At your service.

Jos. Surf. Sir, I beg you will do me the honour to sit down — I
entreat you, sir.

212 THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. [ACT v.

Sir Oliv. Dear sir — there's no occasion. — [Aside.] Too civil
by half !

Jos. Surf. I have not the pleasure of knowing you, Mr. Stanley ;
but I am extremely happy to see you look so well. You were
nearly related to my mother, I think, Mr. Stanley ?

Sir Oliv. I was, sir ; so nearly that my present poverty, I fear,
may do discredit to her wealthy children, else I should not have
presumed to trouble you.

Jos. Surf. Dear sir, there needs no apology ; — he that is in
distress, though a stranger, has a right to claim kindred with the
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 con-
fidence, 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 1 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 ! —
Avadavats and Indian crackers ! {Aside.

Jos. Surf. Then, my dear sir, you have heard, I doubt not, of
the extravagance of my brother : there are very few would credit
what I have done for that unfortunate young man.

Sir Oliv. Not I, for one 1 [Aside.

Jos. Surf. The sums I have lent him ! Indeed I have been
exceedingly to blame ; it was an amiable weakness ; however, I
don't pretend to defend it — and now I feel it doubly culpable, since
it has deprived me of the pleasure of serving you, Mr. Stanley, as
my heart dictates.

Sir Oliv. [Aside.] Dissembler ! — [Aloud] Then, sir, you can't
assist me ?

Jos. Surf. At present, it grieves me to say, I cannot ; but,

sc. i.] THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. 213

whenever I have the ability, you may depend upon hearing from
me.

Sir Oliv. I am extremely sorry

Jos. Surf. Not more than I, believe me ; to pity, without
the power to relieve, is still more painful than to ask and be
denied.

Sir Oltv. Kind sir, your most obedient humble servant.

Jos. Surf. You leave me deeply affected, Mr. Stanley. — William,
be ready to open the door. [Calls to SERVANT.

Sir Oliv. Oh, dear sir, no ceremony.

Jos. Surf. Your very obedient.

Sir Oliv. Your most obsequious.

Jos. Surf. You may depend upon hearing from me, whenever I
can be of service.

Sir Oliv. Sweet sir, you are too good 1

Jos. Surf. In the meantime I wish you health and spirits.

Sir Oliv. Your ever grateful and perpetual humble servant.

Jos. Surf. Sir, yours as sincerely.

Sir Oliv. [Aside.] Now I am satisfied. \Exit.

Jos. Surf. This is one bad effect of a good character ; it invites
application from the unfortunate, and there needs no small degree
of address to gain the reputation of benevolence without incurring
the expense. The silver ore of pure charity is an expensive article in
the catalogue of a man's good qualities ; whereas the sentimental
French plate I use instead of it makes just as good a show, and
pays no tax.

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. [Calls to SERVANT.

Row. Oh ! he's out of reach, 1 believe.

Jos. Surf. Why did you not let me know this when you came
in together?

Row. I thought you had particular business. But I must be
gone to inform your brother, and appoint him here to meet your
uncle. He will be with you in a quarter of an hour.
Jos. Surf. So he says. Well, I am strangely overjoyed at his

214 THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. [ACT v.

coming. — \Aside^\ Never, to be sure, was anything so damned
unlucky I

Row. You will be delighted to see how well he looks.

Jos. Surf. Oh 1 I'm overjoyed to hear it. — \AsideI\ Just at this
time 1

Row. I'll tell him how impatiently you expect him.

Jos. Surf. Do, do ; pray give my best duty and affection.
Indeed, I cannot express the sensations I feel at the thought of
seeing him. — {Exit ROWLEY.] Certainly his coming just at this
time is the cruellest piece of ill fortune. \Exit.

SCENE II.— A ROOM IN SIR PETER TEAZLE'S HOUSE.
Enter MRS. CANDOUR and MAID.

Maid. Indeed, ma'am, my lady will see nobody at present.

Mrs. Can. Did you tell her it was her friend Mrs. Candour ?

Maid. Yes, ma'am ; but she begs you will excuse her.

Mrs. Can. Do go again ; I shall be glad to see her, if it be only
for a moment, for I am sure she must be in great distress. — \E.vit
MAID.] Dear heart, how provoking 1 I'm not mistress of half the
circumstances ! We shall have the whole affair in the newspapers,
with the names of the parties at length, before I have dropped the
story at a dozen houses.

Enter SIR BENJAMIN BACKBITE.

Oh, dear Sir Benjamin 1 you have heard, I suppose

Sir Ben. Of Lady Teazle and Mr. Surface

Mrs. Can. And Sir Peter's discovery

Sir Ben. Oh, the strangest piece of business, to be sure !

Mrs. Can. Well, I never was so surprised in my life. I am so
sorry for all parties, indeed.

Sir Ben. Now, I don't pity Sir Peter at all : he was so ex-
travagantly partial to Mr. Surface.

Mrs. Can. Mr. Surface ! Why, 'twas with Charles Lady Teazle
was detected.

Sir Ben. No, no, I tell you : Mr. Surface is the gallant.

Mrs. Can. No such thing 1 Charles is the man. 'Twas Mr.
Surface brought Sir Peter on purpose to discover them.

Sir Ben. I tell you I had it from one

Mrs. Can. And I have it from one —

Sir Ben. Who had it from one, who had it

Mrs. Can. From one immediately. But here comes Lady
Sneerwell ; perhaps she knows the whole affair.

sc. ii.] THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL 215

Enter LADY SNEERWELL.

Lady Sneer. So, my dear Mrs. Candour, here's a sad affair of
our friend Lady Teazle !

Airs. Can. Ay, my dear friend, who would have thought

Lady Sneer. Well, there is no trusting appearances ; though,
indeed, she was always too lively for me.

Mrs. Can. To be sure, her manners were a little too free ; but
then she was so young !

Lady Sneer. And had, indeed, some good qualities.

Mrs. Can. So she had, indeed. But have you heard the par-
ticulars ?

Lady Sneer. No ; but everybody says that Mr. Surface

Sir Ben. Ay, there ; I told you Mr. Surface was the man.

Mrs. Can. No, no ; indeed the assignation was with Charles.

Lady Sneer. With Charles ! You alarm me, Mrs. Candour !

Mrs. Can. Yes, yes ; he was the lover. Mr. Surface, to do him
justice, was only the informer.

Sir Ben. Well, I'll 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 didn't hear a
word of their fighting.

Lady Sneer. Nor I, a syllable.

Sir Ben. No ! what, no mention of the duel?

Mrs. Can. Not a word.

Sir Ben. Oh, yes ; they fought before they left the room.

Lady Sneer. Pray let us hear.

Mrs. Can. Ay, do oblige us with the duel.

Sir Ben. Sir, says Sir Peter, immediately after the discovery,
you are a most ungrateful fellow.

Mrs. Can. Ay, to Charles

Sir Ben. No, no— to Mr. Surface— a most ungrate ftil fellow;
and old as I am, sir, says he, / insist on immediate salts/action.

Mrs. Can. Ay, that must have been to Charles ; for 'tis very
unlikely Mr. Surface should fight in his own house.

Sir Ben. Gad's life, ma'am, not at all— giving me immediate
satisfaction. — On this, ma'am, Lady Teazle, seeing Sir Peter in
such danger, ran out of the room in strong hysterics, and Charles
after her, calling out for hartshorn and water; then, madam, they
began to fight with swords —

Enter CRABTREE.

Crab. With pistols, nephew— pistols ! I have it from un-
doubted authority.

2i6 THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. [ACT v.

Mrs. Can. Oh, Mr. Crabtree, then it is all true !

Crab. Too true, indeed, madam, and Sir Peter is dangerously
wounded

Sir Ben. By a thrust in segoon quite through his left side

Crab. By a bullet lodged in the thorax.

Mrs. Can. Mercy on me ! Poor Sir Peter !

Crab. Yes, madam ; though Charles would have avoided the
matter, if he could.

Mrs. Can. I told you who it was ; I knew Charles was the
person.

Sir Ben. My uncle, I see, knows nothing of the matter.

Crab. But Sir Peter taxed him with the basest ingratitude

Sir Ben. That I told you, you know

Crab. Do, nephew, let me speak ! — and insisted on imme-
diate

Sir Ben. Just as I said

Crab. Odds life, nephew, allow others to know something too !
A pair of pistols lay on the bureau (for Mr. Surface, it seems, had
come home the night before late from Salthill, where he had been
to see the Montem with a friend, who has a son at Eton), so,
unluckily, the pistols were left charged.

Sir Ben. I heard nothing of this.

Crab. Sir Peter forced Charles to take one, and they fired,
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, glanced out of the window at a right angle, and wounded
the postman, who was just coming to the door with a double letter
from Northamptonshire.

Sir Ben. My uncle's account is more circumstantial, I confess ;
but I believe mine is the true one, for all that.

Lady Sneer. [Aside.] I am more interested in this affair than
they imagine, and must have better information. \Exit.

Sir Ben. Ah! Lady Sneerwell's alarm is very easily accounted
for.

Crab. Yes, yes, they certainly do say — but that's neither here
nor there.

Mrs. Can. But, pray, where is Sir Peter at present ?

Crab. Oh ! they brought him home, and he is now in the
house, though the servants are ordered to deny him.

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
me.

sc. ii.] THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. 217

Sir Ben. Hey ! who comes here ?
Crab. Oh, this is he : the physician, depend on't.
Mrs. Can. Oh, certainly ! it must be the physician ; and now
we shall know.

Enter SIR OLIVER SURFACE.

Crab. Well, doctor, what hopes ?

Mrs. Can. Ay, doctor, how's your patient ?

Sir Ben. Now, doctor, isn't it a wound with a small-sword?

Crab. A bullet lodged in the thorax, for a hundred !

Sir Oliv. Doctor ! a wound with a small-sword ! and a bullet
in the thorax ! — Oons ! are you mad, good people ?

Sir Ben. Perhaps, sir, you are not a doctor ?

Sir Oliv. Truly, I am to thank you for my degree, if I am.

Crab. Only a friend of Sir Peter's, then, I presume. But, sir,
you must have heard of his accident ?

Sir Oliv. Not a word !

Crab. Not of his being dangerously wounded?

Sir Oliv. The devil he is !

Sir Ben. Run through the body

Crab. Shot in the breast

Sir Ben. By one Mr. Surface

Crab. Ay, the younger.

Sir Oliv. Hey ! what the plague ! you seem to differ strangely
in your accounts : however, you agree that Sir Peter is dangerously
wounded.

Sir Ben. Oh yes, we agree in that.

Crab. Yes, yes, I believe there can be no doubt of that.

Sir Oliv. Then, upon my word, for a person in that situation,
he is the most imprudent man alive ; for here he comes, walking as
if nothing at all was the matter.

Enter SIR PETER TEAZLE.

Odds heart, Sir Peter ! you are come in good time, I promise you ;
for we had just given you over !

Sir Ben. \Aside to CRABTREE.] Egad, uncle, this is the most
sudden recovery !

Sir Oliv. Why, man ! what do you out of bed with a small-
sword through your body, and a bullet lodged in your thorax ?

Sir Pet. A small-sword and a bullet !

Sir Oliv. Ay ; these gentlemen would have killed you without
law or physic, and wanted to dub me a doctor, to make me an
accomplice.

Sir Pet. Why, what is all this ?

2i8 THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. [ACT v.

Sir Ben. We rejoice, Sir Peter, that the story of the duel is not
true, and are sincerely sorry for your other misfortune.

Sir Pet. So, so ; all over the town already ! \A side.

Crab. Though, Sir Peter, you were certainly vastly to blame to
marry at your years.

Sir Pet. Sir, what business is that of yours ?

Mrs. Can. Though, indeed, as Sir Peter made so good a
husband, he's very much to be pitied.

Sir Pet. Plague on your pity, ma'am ! I desire none of it.

Sir Ben. However, Sir Peter, you must not mind the laughing
and jests you will meet with on the occasion.

Sir Pet. Sir, sir ! I desire to be master in my own house.

Crab. 'Tis no uncommon case, that's one comfort.

Sir Pet. I insist on being left to myself: without ceremony, I
insist on your leaving my house directly !

Mrs. Can. Well, well, we are going ; and depend on't, we'll
make the best report of it we can. \Exit.

Sir Pet. Leave my house 1

Crab. And tell how hardly you've been treated. \_Exit.

Sir Pet. Leave my house !

Sir Ben. And how patiently you bear it. \Exit.

Sir Pet. Fiends 1 vipers ! furies ! Oh ! that their own venom
would choke them !

Sir Oliv. They are very provoking indeed, Sir-Peter.

Enter ROWLEY.

Row. I heard high words: what has ruffled you, sir?

Sir Pet. Psha ! what signifies asking? Do I ever pass a day
without my vexations?

Row. Well, Irm not inquisitive.

Sir Oliv. Well, Sir Peter, I have seen both my nephews in the
manner we proposed.

Sir Pet. A precious couple they are !

Row. Yes, and Sir Oliver is convinced that your judgment was
right, Sir Peter.

Sir Oliv. Yes, I find Joseph is indeed the man, after all.

Row. Ay, as Sir Peter says, he is a man of sentiment.

Sir Oliv. And acts up to the sentiments he professes.

Row. It certainly is edification to hear him talk.

Sir Oliv. Oh, he's a model for the young men of the age ! —
But how's this, Sir Peter? you don't join us in your friend Joseph's
praise, as I expected.

Sir Pet. Sir Oliver, we live in a damned wicked world, and the
fewer we praise the better.

sc. ii.] THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL, 219

Row. What ! do you say so, Sir Peter, who were never mistaken
in your life?

Sir Pet. Psha ! plague on you both ! I see by your sneering
you have heard the whole affair. I shall go mad among you !

Row. Then, to fret you no longer, Sir Peter, we are indeed
acquainted with it all. I met Lady Teazle coming from Mr.
Surface's so humbled, that she deigned to request me to be her
advocate with you.

Sir Pet. And does Sir Oliver know all this ?

Sir Oliv. Every circumstance.

Sir Pet. What, of the closet and the screen, hey?

Sir Oliv. Yes, yes, and the little French milliner. Oh, I have
been vastly diverted with the story ! ha I ha 1 ha !

Sir Pet. 'Twas very pleasant

Sir Oliv. I never laughed more in my life, I assure you : ha !
ha! hal

Sir Pet. Oh, vastly diverting 1 ha 1 ha ! ha !

Row. To be sure, Joseph with his sentiments 1 ha 1 ha ! ha 1

Sir Pet. Yes, yes, his sentiments 1 ha 1 hal ha ! Hypocritical
villain !

Sir Oliv. Ay, and that rogue Charles to pull Sir Peter out of
the closet: ha! ha! hal

Sir Pet. Ha ! ha ! 'twas devilish entertaining, to be sure !

Sir Oliv. Ha ! ha ! ha 1 Egad, Sir Peter, I should like to have
seen your face when the screen was thrown down : ha I ha !

Sir Pet. Yes, yes, my face when the screen was thrown down :
ha ! ha ! ha ! Oh, I must never show my head again !

Sir Oliv. But come, come, it isn't fair to laugh at you neither,
my old friend ; though, upon my soul, I can't help it.

Sir Pet. Oh, pray don't restrain your mirth on my account : it
does not hurt me at all ! I laugh at the whole affair myself. Yes,
yes, I think being a standing jest for all one's acquaintance a very
happy situation. Oh, yes, and then of a morning to read the

paragraphs about Mr. S , Lady T , and Sir P , will be

so entertaining !

Row. Without affectation, Sir Peter, you may despise the
ridicule of fools. But I see Lady Teazle going towards the next
room ; I am sure you must desire a reconciliation as earnestly as
she does.

Sir Oliv. Perhaps my being here prevents her coming to you.
Well, I'll 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.

220 THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. [ACT v.

Sir Pet. Ah, I'll be present at your discovering yourself there
with all my heart; though 'tis a vile unlucky place for discoveries.

Row. We'll follow. [Exit SIR OLIVER SURFACE.

Sir Pet. She is not coming here, you see, Rowley.

Row. No, but she has left the door of that room open, you
perceive. See, she is in tears.

Sir Pet. Certainly a little mortification appears very 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 Pet. Well, I know not what to think. You remember the
letter I found of hers evidently intended for Charles ?

Row. A mere forgery, Sir Peter ! laid in your way on purpose.
This is one of the points which I intend Snake shall give you con-
viction of.

Sir Pet. I wish I were once satisfied of that. She looks this
way. What a remarkably elegant turn of the head she has !
Rowley, I'll go to her.

Row. Certainly.

Sir Pet. Though, when it is known that we are reconciled,
people will laugh at me ten times more.

Row. Let them laugh, and retort their malice only by showing
them you are happy in spite t>f it.

Sir Pet. I' 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

Sir Pet. 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

sc. in.] THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. 221

temper nor hypocrisy could prevent your showing the sharpness of
your vexation.

Jos. Surf. But why should your reproaches fall on me for this
disappointment ?

Lady Sneer. Are you not the cause of it ? Had you not a
sufficient field for your roguery in imposing upon Sir Peter and
supplanting your brother, but you must endeavour to seduce his
wife ? I hate such an avarice of crimes ; 'tis an unfair monopoly,
and never prospers.

Jos. Surf. Well, I admit I have been to blame. I confess I
deviated from the direct road of wrong, but I don't think we're so
totally defeated either.

Lady Sneer. No !

Jos. Surf. You tell me you have made a trial of Snake since
we met, and that you still believe him faithful to us ?

Lady Sneer. I do believe so.

Jos. Surf. And that he has undertaken, should it be necessary,
to swear and prove that Charles is at this time contracted by vows
and honour to your ladyship, which some of his former letters to
you will serve to support ?

Lady Sneer. This, indeed, might have assisted.

Jos. Surf. Come, come; it is not too late yet. — [Knocking at
the doorl\ But hark ! this is probably my uncle, Sir Oliver : retire
to that room ; we'll consult further when he is gone.

Lady Sneer. Well, but if he should find you out too ?

Jos. Surf. Oh, I have no fear of that. Sir Peter will hold his
tongue for his own credit's sake — and you may depend on it I
shall soon discover Sir Oliver's weak side !

Lady Sneer. I have no diffidence of your abilities : only be
constant to one roguery at a time.

Jos. Sifrf. I will, I will ! — [Exit LADY SNEERWELL.] So ! 'tis
confounded hard, after such bad fortune, to be baited by one's
confederate in evil. Well, at all events, my character is so much
better than Charles's, that I certainly — hey ! — what — this is not
Sir Oliver, but old Stanley again. Plague on't that he should
return to tease me just now ! I shall have Sir Oliver come and
find him here — and

Enter SIR OLIVER SURFACE.

Gad's life, Mr. Stanley, why have you come back to plague me at
this time ? You must not stay now, upon my word.

Sir Oliv. Sir, I hear your uncle Oliver is expected here,
and though he has been so penurious to you, I'll try what he'll do
for me.

222 THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. [ACT v.

Jos. Surf. Sir, 'tis impossible for you to stay now, so I must

beg Come any other time, and I promise you, you shall be

assisted.

Sir Oliv. No : Sir Oliver and I must be acquainted.

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 1 But, brother, you know we expect
Sir Oliver here every

Chas. Surf. O Gad, that's true! Noll mustn't find the little
broker here, to be sure.

Jos. Surf. Yet Mr. Stanley insists

Chas. Surf. Stanley ! why his name's Premium.

Jos. Surf. No, sir, Stanley.

Chas. Surf. No, no, Premium.

Jos. Surf. Well, no matter which — but

Chas. Surf. Ay, ay, Stanley or Premium, 'tis the same thing, as
you say ; for I suppose he goes by half a hundred names, besides
A. B. at the coffee-house. [Knocking.

Jos. Surf. 'Sdeath ! here's Sir Oliver at the door. — Now I beg,
Mr. Stanley

Chas. Surf. Ay, ay, and I beg, Mr. Premium

Sir Oliv. Gentlemen

Jos. Surf. Sir, by Heaven you shall go !

Chas. Surf- Ay, out with him, certainly !

Sir Oliv. This violence

Jos. Surf. Sir, 'tis your own fault.

Chas. Surf. Out with him, to be sure.

[Both forcing SIR OLIVER out.

Enter SIR PETER and LADY TEAZLE, MARIA, and ROWLEY.
Sir Pet. My old friend, Sir Oliver — hey ! What in the name

sc.-m.] THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. 223

of wonder — here are dutiful nephews — assault their uncle at his
first visit !

Lady Teas. Indeed, Sir Oliver,'twas well we came in to rescue you.

Row. Truly it was ; for I perceive, Sir Oliver, the character of
old Stanley was no protection to you.

Sir Oliv. Nor of Premium either : the necessities of the former
could not extort a shilling from that benevolent 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 !

Chas. Surf. Joseph 1

Jo s. Surf. 'Tis now complete 1

Chas. Surf. Very.

Sir Oliv. Sir Peter, my friend, and Rowley too — look on that
elder nephew of mine. You know what he has already received
from my bounty ; and you also know how gladly I would have
regarded half my fortune as held in trust for him : judge then my
disappointment in discovering him to be destitute of truth, charity,
and gratitude !

Sir Pet. Sir Oliver, I should be more surprised at this declara-
tion, if I had not myself found him to be mean, treacherous, and
hypocritical

Lady Teaz. And if the gentleman pleads not guilty to these,
pray let him call me to his character.

Sir Pet. Then, I believe, we need add no more : if he knows
himself, he will consider it as the most perfect punishment, that he
is known to the world.

Chas. Surf. If they talk this way to Honesty, what will they say

to me by-and-by? [Aside.

[SIR PETER, LADY TEAZLE, and MARIA retire.

Sir Oliv. As for that prodigal, his brother, there

Chas. Surf. Ay, now comes my turn : the damned family
pictures will ruin me ! [Aside.

Jos. Surf. Sir Oliver — uncle, will you honour me with a hearing?

Chas. Surf. Now, if Joseph would make one of his long
speeches, I might recollect myself a little. \Aside.

Sir Oliv. I suppose you would undertake to justify yourself?

[To JOSEPH SURFACE.

Jos. Surf. I trust I could.

Sir Oliv. [To CHARLES SURFACE.] Well, sir !— and you could
justify yourself too, I suppose ?

Chas. Surf. Not that I know of, Sir Oliver.

Sir Oliv. What ! — Little Premium has been let too much into
the secret, I suppose ?

224 THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. [ACT-V.

Chas. Surf. True, sir ; but they were family secrets, and
should not be mentioned again, you know.

Row. Come, Sir Oliver, I know you cannot speak of Charles's
follies with anger.

Sir Oliv. Odd's heart, no more I can ; nor with gravity either.
Sir Peter, do you know the rogue bargained with me for all his
ancestors ; sold me judges and generals by the foot, and maiden
aunts as cheap as broken china.

Chas. Surf. To be sure, Sir Oliver, I did make a little free
with the family canvas, that's the truth on't. My ancestors may
rise in judgment against me, there's no denying it ; but believe
me sincere when I tell you — and upon my soul I would not say so
if I was not — that if I do not appear mortified at the exposure
of my follies, it is because I feel at this moment the warmest
satisfaction in seeing you, my liberal benefactor.

Sir Oliv. Charles, I believe you. Give me your hand again :
the ill-looking little fellow over the settee has made your peace.

Chas. Surf. Then, sir, my gratitude to the original is still
increased.

Lady Teaz. [Advancing.] Yet, I believe, Sir Oliver, here is one
whom Charles is still more anxious to be reconciled to.

[Pointing to MARIA.

Sir Oliv. Oh, I have heard of his attachment there ; and, with
the young lady's pardon, if I construe right — that blush

Sir Pet. Well, child, speak your sentiments !

„ Mar. Sir, I have little to say, but that I shall rejoice to hear
that he is happy ; for me, whatever claim I had to his attention, I
willingly resign to one who has a better title.

Chas. Surf. How, Maria !

Sir Pet. Heyday ! what's the mystery now ? While he appeared
an incorrigible rake, you would give your hand to no one else ; and
now that he is likely to reform I'll warrant you won't have him !

Mar. His own heart and Lady Sneerwell know the cause.

Chas. Surf. Lady Sneerwell !

Jos. Surf. Brother, it is with great concern I am obliged to
speak on this point, but my regard to justice compels me, and
Lady Sneerwell's injuries can no longer be concealed.

[Opens the door.

Enter LADY SNEERWELL.

Sir Pet. So ! another French milliner ! Egad, he has one in
every room in the house, I suppose !

Lady Sneer. Ungrateful Charles ! Well may you be surprised,
and feel for the indelicate situation your perfidy has forced me into.

sc. in.] THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. 225

Chas. Surf. Pray, uncle, is this another plot of yours ? For, as
I have life, I don't understand it

Jos. Surf. I believe, sir, there is but the evidence of one person
more necessary to make it extremely clear.

Sir Pet. And that person, I imagine, is Mr. Snake. — Rowley,
you were perfectlyright 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 me
extremely liberally for the lie in question; but I unfortunately have
been offered double to speak the truth.

Sir Pet. Plot and counter-plot, egad ! I wish your ladyship
joy of your negotiation.

Lady Sneer. The torments of shame and disappointment on
you all ! [Going.

Lady Teaz. Hold, Lady Sneerwell — before you go, let me thank
you for the trouble you and that gentleman have taken, in writing
letters from me to Charles, and answering them yourself; and let
me also request you to make my respects to the scandalous college
of which you are president, and inform them that Lady Teazle,
licentiate, begs leave to return the diploma they granted her, as
she leaves off practice, and kills characters no longer.

Lady Sneer. You too, madam ! — provoking — insolent ! May
your husband live these fifty years ! [Exit.

Sir Pet. Oons ! what a fury !

Lady Teaz. A malicious creature, indeed !

Sir Pet. What ! not for her last wish ?

Lady Teaz. Oh, no !

Sir Oliv. Well, 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 revenge-
ful spirit should prompt her to injure my brother, I had certainly

better follow her directly. For the man who attempts to

[Exit.

Sir Pet. Moral to the last !

Sir Oliv. Ay, and marry her, Joseph, if you can. Oil and
vinegar !— egad, you'll do very well together.

226 TJIE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. [ACT v.

Row. I believe we have no more occasion for Mr. Snake at
present ?

Snake. Before I go, I beg pardon once for all, for whatever
uneasiness I have been the humble instrument of causing to the
parties present.

Sir Pet. Well, well, you have made atonement by a good deed
at last.

Snake. But 1 must request of the company, that it shall never
be known.

Sir Pet. Hey ! what the plague ! are you ashamed of having
done a right thing once in your life ?

Snake. Ah, sir, consider — I live by the badness of my character;
and if it were once known that I had been betrayed into an honest
action, I should lose every friend I have in the world.

Sir Oli-v. Well, well — we'll not traduce you by saying anything
in your praise, never fear. [Exz't SNAKE.

Sir Pet. There's a precious rogue !

Lady Teaz. See, Sir Oliver, there needs no persuasion now to
reconcile your nephew and Maria.

Sir Oliv. Ay, ay, that's as it should be, and, egad, we'll have
the wedding to-morrow morning.

Chas. Surf. Thank you, dear uncle.

Sir Pet. What, you rogue ! don't you ask the girl's consent first ?

Chas. Surf. Oh, I have done that a long time — a minute ago —
and she has looked yes.

Mar. For shame, Charles 1 — I protest, Sir Peter, there has not
been a word

Sir Oliv. Well, then, the fewer the better ; may your love for
each other never know abatement.

Sir Pet. And may you live as happily together as Lady Teazle
and I intend to do !

Chas. Surf. Rowley, my old friend, I am sure you congratulate
me ; and I suspect that I owe you much.

Sir Oliv. You do, indeed, Charles.

Sir Pet. Ay, honest Rowley always said you would reform.

Chas. Surf. Why, as to reforming, Sir Peter, I'll 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 ! can I leave
the virtuous path those eyes illumine?

Though thou, dear maid, shouldst waive thy beauty's sway,
Thou still must rule, because I will obey :
An humble fugitive from Folly view,

No sanctuary near but Love and you : [ To the audience

You can, indeed, each anxious fear remove,
'For even Scandal dies, if you approve. \Exeunt oinnes.

THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. 227

EPILOGUE.

BY MR. COLMAN.
SPOKEN BY LADY TEAZLE.

I, WHO was late so volatile and gay,
Like a trade-wind must now blow all one way,
Bend all my cares, my studies, and my vows,
To one dull rusty weathercock — my spouse !
So wills our virtuous bard — the motley Bayes
Of crying epilogues and laughing plays !
Old bachelors, who marry smart young wives,
Learn from our play to regulate your lives :
Each bring his dear to town, all faults upon her —
London will prove the very source of honour.
Plunged fairly in, like a cold bath it serves,
When principles relax, to brace the nerves :
Such is my case ; and yet I must deplore
That the gay dream of dissipation's o'er.
And say, ye fair ! was ever lively wife,
Born with a genius for the highest life,
Like me untimely blasted in her bloom,
Like me condemn'd to such a dismal doom ?
Save money — when I just knew how to waste it!
Leave London — just as I began to taste it 1

Must I then watch the early crowing cock,
The melancholy ticking of a clock ;
In a lone rustic hall for ever pounded,
With dogs, cats, rats, and squalling brats surrounded?
With humble curate can I now retire
(While good Sir Peter boozes with the squire),
And at backgammon mortify my soul,
That pants for loo, or flutters at a vole ?
Seven's the main ! Dear sound that must expire,
Lost at hot cockles round a Christmas fire ;
The transient hour of fashion too soon spent,
Farewell the tranquil mind, farewell content !
Farewell the plumed head, the cushion'd te"te,
That takes the cushion from its proper seat !
That spirit-stirring drum ! — card drums I mean,
Spadille — odd trick — pam — basto — king and queen!
And you, ye knockers, that, with brazen throat,

228 THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL.

The welcome visitors' approach denote ;

Farewell all quality of high renown,

Pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious town !

Farewell ! your revels I partake no more,

And Lady Teazle's occupation's o'er !

All this I told our bard ; he smiled, and said 'twas clear,

I ought to play deep tragedy next year.

Meanwhile he drew wise morals from his play,

And in these solemn periods stalk'd away : —

" Bless'd were the fair like you ; her faults who stopp'd,

And closed her follies when the curtain dropp'd 1

No more in vice or error to engage,

Or play the fool at large on life's great stage."

THE CRITIC;

OR,

A TRAGEDY REHEARSED.

A DRAMATIC PIECE IN THREE ACTS.

TO MRS. GREVILLE.

MADAM, — In requesting your permission to address the following pages to
you, which, as they aim themselves to be critical, require every protection
and allowance that approving taste or friendly prejudice can give them, I
yet ventured to mention no other motive than the gratification of private
friendship and esteem. Had I suggested a hope that your implied approba-
tion would give a sanction to their defects, your particular reserve, and
dislike to the reputation of critical taste, as well as of poetical talent, would
have made you refuse the protection of your name to such a purpose.
However, I am not so ungrateful as now to attempt to combat this dis-
position in you. I shall not here presume to argue that the present state
of poetry claims and expects every assistance that taste and example can
afford it; nor endeavour to prove that a fastidious concealment of the most
elegant productions of judgment and fancy is an ill return for the possession
of those endowments. Continue to deceive yourself in the idea that you
are known only to be eminently admired and regarded for the valuable
qualities that attach private friendships, and the graceful tafents that adorn
conversation. Enough of what you have written has stolen into full public
notice to answer my purpose ; and you will, perhaps, be the only person
conversant in elegant literature who shall read this address and 'not
perceive that by publishing your particular approbation of the following
drama, I have a more interested object than to boast the true respect and
regard with which I have the honour to be, Madam, your very sincere and
obedient humble servant,

R. B. SHERIDAN.

DRAMATIS PERSONS,

AS ORIGINALLY ACTED AT DRURY LANE THEATRE IN 1779.

UNDER PROMPTER Mr. Phillimore.
MR. HOPKINS . . Mr. Hopkins.
MRS. DANGLE . . Mrs. Hopkins.
SIGNORE PASTICCIO") M iss Field and the
EITORNELLO . / Miss Abrams.

Scenemen, Musicians, and Servants.

SIR FRETFUL PLA-"

GIARY .

•Mr. Parsons.

PUFF

Mr. King.

DANGLE .

Mr. Dodd.

SNEER .

Mr. Palmer.

SIGNOR PASTICCIO

RITORNELLO

TWTFIJ ¥>TJ VTP1!}

tfr R/*/M/>7^>i/

CHARACTERS OF THE TRAGEDY.

LORD BURLEIGU . Mr. Moody.
GOVERNOR OF TIL-")
BURY FORT. ,} Mr. Wrights.

EAUL OF LEICESTER Mr. Farren.
SIR WALTER RA- ">
LEIGH . . J Mr. Burton.

SIR CHRISTOPHER"!
HATTON . .} Mr. Waldron.

MASTER OF THE 1

HORSE . . }*'• Kmn'J-
Do* FEROLO Wins- 1

KERANDOS . _]Mr.Bannister,Jun.

BEEFEATER . . Mr. Wright.

JUSTICE .
SON .
CONSTABLE
THAMES .
TILBURINA
CONFIDANT
JUSTICE'S LADY
FIRST NIECE .
SECOND NIECE

Mr. Packer.
Mr. Lamagh.
Mr. Fawcett.
Mr. Gawdry.
Mi as Pope.
Mrs. Bradshaw.
Mrs. Johnston.
Miss Collett.
Miss Kirbij.

Knights, Guards, Constables, Sentinels,
Servants, Chorus, Rivers, Attendants,
etc., etc.

SCENE — LONDON : in BANGLE'S House during the First Act, and
throughout the rest of the Play in DRURY LANE THEATRE.

PROLOGUE.

BY THE HONOURABLE RICHARD FITZPATRICK.

THE sister muses, whom these realms obey,

Who o'er the drama hold divided sway,

Sometimes by evil counsellors, 'tis said,

Like earth-born potentates have been misled.

In those gay days of wickedness and wit,

When Villiers criticised what Dryden writ,

The tragic queen, to please a tasteless crowd,

Had learn'd to bellow, rant, and roar so loud,

That frighten'd Nature, her best friend before,

The blustering beldam's company forswore;

Her comic sister, who had wit 'tis true,

With all her merits, had her failings too;

And would sometimes in mirthful moments use

A style too flippant for a well-bred muse ;

Then female modesty abash'd began

To seek the friendly refuge of the fan,

Awhile behind that slight intrenchment stood,

Till driven from thence, she left the stage for good.

In our more pious, and far chaster times,

These sure no longer are the Muse's crimes !

But some complain that, former faults to shun,

The reformation to extremes has run.

The frantic hero's wild delirium past,

Now insipidity succeeds bombast;

So slow Melpomene's cold numbers creep,

Here dulness seems her drowsy court to keep,

And we are scarce awake, whilst you are fast asleep.

Thalia, once so ill-behaved and rude,

Reform'd, is now become an arrant prude;

Retailing nightly to the yawning pit

The purest morals, undefiled by wit 1

Our author offers, in these motley scenes,

A slight remonstrance to the drama's queens :

Nor let the goddesses be over nice ;

232 THE CRITIC.

Free-spoken subjects give the best advice.

Although not quite a novice in his trade,

His cause to-night requires no common aid.

To this, a friendly, just, and powerful court,

I come ambassador to beg support.

Can he undaunted brave the critic's rage?

In civil broils with brother bards engage ?

Hold forth their errors to the public eye,

Nay more, e'en newspapers themselves defy ?

Say, must his single arm encounter all ?

By numbers vanquish'd, e'en the brave may fall ;

And though no leader should success distrust,

Whose troops are willing, and whose cause is just ;

To bid such hosts of angry foes defiance,

His chief dependence must be, your alliance.

THE CRITIC;

OR,

A TRAGEDY REHEARSED.
A DRAMA.

ACT I.
SCENE I.— A ROOM IN DANGLE'S HOUSE.

MR. ana1 MRS. DANGLE discovered at breakfast, and rending
newspapers.

Dang. [Reading.] Brutus to Lord North. — Letter the second
on the State of the Army — Psha ! To the first L dash D of the A
dash Y. — Genuine extract of a Letter from St. Kitfs. — Coxheath
Intelligence. — // is now confidently asserted that Sir Charles
Hardy — Psha ! nothing but about the fleet and the nation ! — and I
hate all politics but theatrical politics- — Where's the Morning
Chronicle ?

Mrs. Dang. Yes, that's your Gazette.

Dang. So, here we have it. — [Reads.] Theatrical intelligence
extraordinary. — We hear there is a new tragedy in rehearsal at
Dntry Lane Theatre, called the "Spanish Armada" said to be
written by Mr. Puff, a gentleman well known in the theatrical
world. If we may allow ourselves to give credit to the report of
the performers, who, truth to say, are in general but indifferent
judges, this piece abounds with the most striking and received
beauties of modern composition. — So ! I am very glad my friend
Puff's tragedy is in such forwardness. — Mrs. Dangle, my dear, you
will be very glad to hear that Puff's tragedy

Mrs. Dang. Lord, Mr. Dangle, why will you plague me about
such nonsense ? — Now the plays are begun I shall have no peace.

234 THE CRITIC; OR, [ACT I.

— Isn't it sufficient to make yourself ridiculous by your passion for
the theatre, without continually teasing me to join you ? Why
can't you ride your hobby-horse without desiring to place me on a
pillion behind you, Mr. Dangle ?

Dang. Nay, my dear, I was only going to read

Mrs. Dang. No, no ; you will never read anything that's worth
listening to. You hate to hear about your country ; there are
letters every day with Roman signatures, demonstrating the
certainty of an invasion, and proving that the nation is utterly
undone. But you never will read anything to entertain one.

Dang. What has a woman to do with politics, Mrs. Dangle ?

Mrs. Dang. And what have you to do with the theatre, Mr.
Dangle? Why should you affect the character of a critic? I have no
patience with you ! — haven't you made yourself the jest of all your
acquaintance by your interference in matters where you have no
business ? Are you not called a theatrical Quidnunc, and a mock
Maecenas to second-hand authors ?

Dang. True ; my power with the managers is pretty notorious.
But is it no credit to have applications from all quarters for my
interest — from lords to recommend fiddlers, from ladies to get
boxes, from authors to get answers, and from actors to get engage-
ments?

Mrs. Dang. Yes, truly ; you have contrived to get a share in
all the plague and trouble of theatrical property, without the profit,
or even the credit of the abuse that attends it.

Dang. I am sure, Mrs. Dangle, you are no loser by it, however ;
you have all the advantages of it. Mightn't you, last winter, have
had the reading of the new pantomime a fortnight previous to its
performance ? And doesn't Mr. Fosbrook let you take places for a
play before it is advertised, and set you down for a box for every new
piece through the season ? And didn't my friend, Mr. Smatter,
dedicate his last farce to you at my particular request, Mrs. Dangle?

Mrs. Dang. Yes; but wasn't the farce damned, Mr. Dangle?
And to be sure it is extremely pleasant to have one's house made
the motley rendezvous of all the lackeys of literature ; the very high
'Change of trading authors and jobbing critics ? — Yes, my drawing-
room is an absolute register office for candidate actors, and poets
without character. — Then to be continually alarmed with misses
and ma'ams piping hysteric changes on Juliets and Dorindas,
Pollys and Ophelias ; and the very furniture trembling at the
probationary starts and unprovoked rants of would-be Richards and
Hamlets ! — And what is worse than all, now that the manager has
monopolised the Opera House, haven't we the signers and signoras
calling here, sliding their smooth semibreves, and gargling glib

SC. i.] A TRAGEDY REHEARSED. 235

divisions in their outlandish throats — with foreign emissaries and
French spies, for aught I know, disguised like fiddlers and figure-
dancers ?

Dang. Mercy ! Mrs. Dangle 1

Mrs. Dang. And to employ yourself so idly at such an alarming
crisis as this too — when, if you had the least spirit, you would have
been at the head of one of the Westminster associations — or trail-
ing a volunteer pike in the Artillery Ground 1 But you — o' my
conscience, I believe, if the French were landed to-morrow, your
first inquiry would be, whether they had brought a theatrical troop
with them.

Dang. Mrs. Dangle, it does not signify — I say the stage is the
Mirror of Nature, and the actors are the Abstract and brief
Chronicles of the Time: and pray what can a man of sense study
better? — Besides, you will not easily persuade me that there is no
credit or importance in being at the head of a band of critics, who
take upon them to decide for the whole town, whose opinion and
patronage all writers solicit, and whose recommendation no
manager dares refuse.

Mrs. Dang. Ridiculous ! — Both managers and authors of the
least merit laugh at your pretensions. — The public is their critic —
without whose fair approbation they know no play can rest on the
stage, and with whose applause they welcome such attacks as yours,
and laugh at the malice of them, where they can't at the wit

Dang. Very well, madam — very well !

Enter SERVANT.

Ser. Mr. Sneer, sir, to wait on you.

Dang. Oh, show Mr. Sneer up.— {Exit SERVANT.] Plague on't,
now we must appear loving and affectionate, or Sneer will hitch
us into a story.

Mrs. Dang. With all my heart ; you can't be more ridiculous
than you are.

Dang. You are enough to provoke

Enter SNEER.

Ha ! my dear Sneer, I am vastly glad to see you. — My dear, here's
Mr. Sneer.

Mrs. Dang. Good morning to you, sir.

Dang. Mrs. Dangle -and I have been diverting ourselves with
the papers. Pray, Sneer, won't you go to Drury Lane Theatre the
first night of Puffs tragedy?

Sneer. Yes ; but I suppose one shan't be able to get in, for on

236 THE CRITIC; OR, [ACT I.

the first night of a new piece they always fill the house with orders
to support it. But here, Dangle, I have brought you two pieces,
one of which you must exert yourself to make the managers
accept, I can tell you that ; for 'tis written by a person of con-
sequence.

iDttng, So ! now my plagues are beginning.

Sneer. Ay, I am glad of it, for now you'll be happy. Why, my
dear Dangle, it is a pleasure to see how you enjoy your volunteer
fatigue, and your solicited solicitations.

Dang. It's a great trouble — yet, egad, it's pleasant too. — Why,
sometimes of a morning I have a dozen people call on me at
breakfast-time, whose faces I never saw before, nor ever desire to
see again.

Sneer. That must be very pleasant indeed !

Dang. And not a week but I receive fifty letters, and not a line
in them about any business of my own.

Sneer. An amusing correspondence !

Dang. [Reading.] Bursts into fears, and exit. — What, is this a
tragedy ?

Sneer. No, that's a genteel comedy, not a translation — only
taken from the French : it is written in a style which they have
lately tried to run down ; the true sentimental, and nothing
ridiculous in it from the beginning to the end.

Mrs. Dang. Well, if they had kept to that, I should not have
been such an enemy to the stage ; there was some edification to
be got from those pieces, Mr. Sneer !

Sneer. I am quite of your opinion, Mrs. Dangle : the theatre,
in proper hands, might certainly be made the school of morality ;
but now, I am sorry to say it, people seem to go there principally
for their entertainment !

Mrs. Dang. It would have been more to the credit of the
managers to have kept it in the other line.

Sneer. Undoubtedly, madam ; and hereafter perhaps to have
had it recorded, that in the midst of a luxurious and dissipated
age, they preserved two houses in the capital, where the conversa-
tion was always moral at least, if not entertaining !

Dang. Now, egad, I think the worst alteration is in the nicety
of the audience ! — No double-entendre, no smart innuendo ad-
mitted ; even Vanbrugh and Congreve obliged to undergo a
bungling reformation !

Sneer. Yes, and our prudery in this respect is just on a par
with the artificial bashfulness of a courtesan, who increases the
blush upon her cheek in an exact proportion to the diminution of
her modesty.

SCL] A TRAGEDY REHEARSED. 237

Dang. Sneer can't even give the public a good word I But
what have we here ? — This seems a very odd

Sneer. Oh, that's a comedy, on a very new plan ; replete with
wit and mirth, yet of a most serious moral ! You see it is called
The Reformed House-breaker; where, by the mere force of
humour, house-breaking is put in so ridiculous a light, that if the
piece has its proper run, I have no doubt but that bolts and bars
will be entirely useless by the end of the season.

Dang. Egad, this is new indeed.

Sneer. Yes ; it is written by a particular friend of mine, who
has discovered that the follies and foibles of society are subjects
unworthy the notice of the comic muse, who should be taught to
stoop only to the greater vices and blacker crimes of humanity —
gibbeting capital offences in five acts, and pillorying petty lar-
cenies in two. — In short, his idea is to dramatise the penal laws,
and make the stage a court of ease to the Old Bailey.

Dang. It is truly moral.

Re-enter SERVANT.

Ser. Sir Fretful Plagiary, sir.

Dang. Beg him to walk up. — {Exit SERVANT.] Now, Mrs.
Dangle, Sir P'retful Plagiary is an author to your own taste.

Mrs. Dang. I confess he is a favourite of mine, because every-
body else abuses him.

Sneer. Very much to the credit of your charity, madam, if not
of your judgment.

Dang. But, egad, he allows no merit to any author but himself,
that's the truth on't — though he's my friend.

Sneer. Never. — He is as envious as an old maid verging on the
desperation of six-and-thirty ; and then the insidious humility with
which he seduces you to give a free opinion on any of his works,
can be exceeded only by the petulant arrogance with which he is
sure to reject your observations.

Dang. Very true, egad — though he's my friend.

Sneer. Then his affected contempt of all newspaper strictures ;
though, at the same time, he is the sorest man alive, and shrinks
like scorched parchment from the fiery ordeal of true criticism : yet
is he so covetous of popularity, that he had rather be abused than
not mentioned at all.

Dang. There's no denying it — though he is my friend.

Sneer. You have read the tragedy he has just finished, haven't
you?

Dang. Oh yes ; he sent it to me yesterday.

Sneer. Well, and you think it execrable, don't you ?

238 THE CRITIC; OR, [ACT i

Dang. Why, between ourselves, egad, I must own — though he

is my friend — that it is one of the most He's here — [Aside}—

finished and most admirable perform

Sir Fret. [Without.'] Mr. Sneer with him, did you say?

Enter SIR FRETFUL PLAGIARY.

Dang. Ah, my dear friend ! — Egad, we were just speaking of
your tragedy. — Admirable, Sir Fretful, admirable !

Sneer. You never did anything beyond it, Sir Fretful — never in
your life.

Sir Fret. You make me extremely happy ; for without a com-
pliment, my dear Sneer, there isn't a man in the world whose
judgment I value as I do yours and Mr. Bangle's.

Mrs. Dang. They are only laughing at you, Sir Fretful ; for it
was but just now that

Dang. Mrs. Dangle ! — Ah, Sir Fretful, you know Mrs. Dangle.
— My friend Sneer was rallying just now: — he knows how she
admires you, and

Sir Fret. O Lord, I am sure Mr. Sneer has more taste and
sincerity than to [Aside.] A damned double-faced fellow !

Dang. Yes, yes — Sneer will jest — but a better humoured

Sir Fret. Oh, I know

Dang. He has a ready turn for ridicule — his wit costs him
nothing.

Sir Fret. No, egad — or I should wonder how he came by it.

[Aside.

Mrs. Dang. Because his jest is always at the expense of his
friend [Aside.

Dang. But, Sir Fretful, have you sent your play to the managers
yet ? — or can I be of any service to you ?

Sir Fret. No, no, I thank you : I believe the piece had sufficient
recommendation with it. — I thank you though. — I sent it to the
manager of Covent Garden Theatre this morning.

Sneer. I should have thought now, that it might have been cast
(as the actors call it) better at Drury Lane.

Sir Fret. O Lud ! no — never send a play there while I live —
hark'ee ! [ Whispers SNEER.

Sneer. Writes himself 1 — I know he does.

Sir Fret. I say nothing — I take away from no man's merit — am
hurt at no man's good fortune — I say nothing. — But this I
will say — through all my knowledge of life, I have observed —
that there is not a passion so strongly rooted in the human heart
as envy.

Sneer. I believe you have reason for what you say, indeed.

SC.L] A TRAGEDY REHEARSED. 239

Sir Fret. Besides — I can tell you it is not always so safe to
leave a play in the hands of those who write themselves.

Sneer. What, they may steal from them, hey, my dear Plagiary?

Sir Fret. Steal ! to be sure they may ; and, egad, serve your
best thoughts as gipsies do stolen children, disfigure them to make
'em pass for their own.

Sneer. But your present work is a sacrifice to Melpomene, and
he, you know, never

Sir Fret. That's no security : a dexterous plagiarist may do
anything. Why, sir, for aught I know, he might take out some of
the best things in my tragedy, and put them into his own comedy.

Sneer. That might be done, I dare be sworn.

Sir Fret. And then, if such a person gives you the least hint or
assistance, he is devilish apt to take the merit of the whole

Dang. If it succeeds.

Sir Fret. Ay, but with regard to this piece, I think I can hit
that gentleman, for I can safely swear he never read it

Sneer. I'll tell you how you may hurt him more.

Sir Fret. How ?

Sneer. Swear he wrote it

Sir Fret. Plague on't now, Sneer, I shall take it ill 1 — I believe
you want to take away my character as an author.

Sneer. Then I am sure you ought to be very much obliged to
me.

Sir Fret. Hey ! — sir !

Dang. Oh, you know, he never means what he says.

Sir Fret. Sincerely then — do you like the piece ?

Sneer. Wonderfully !

Sir Fret. But come now, there must be something that you
think might be mended, hey? — Mr. Dangle, has nothing struck
you?

Dang. Why, faith, it is but an ungracious thing, for the most
part, to

Sir Fret. With most authors it is just so, indeed ; they are in
general strangely tenacious 1 But, for my part, I am never so well
pleased as when a judicious critic points out any defect to me ; for
what is the purpose of showing a work to a friend, if you don't
mean to profit by his opinion ?

Sneer. Very true. — Why then, though I seriously admire the
piece upon the whole, yet there is one small objection ; which, if
you'll give me leave, I'll mention.

Sir Fret. Sir, you can't oblige me more.

Sneer. I think it wants incident.

Sir Fret. Good God ! you surprise me ! — wants incident !

240 THE CRITIC; OR, [ACT i.

Sneer. Yes ; I own I think the incidents are too few.

Sir Fret. Good God ! Believe me, Mr. Sneer, there is no
person for whose judgment I have a more implicit deference.
But I protest to you, Mr. Sneer, I am only apprehensive that the
incidents are too crowded. — My dear Dangle, how does it strike
you?

Dang. Really, I can't agree with my friend Sneer. I think
the plot quite sufficient ; and the first four acts by many degrees
the best I ever read or saw in my life. If I might venture to
suggest anything, it is that the interest rather falls off in the fifth.

Sir Fret. Rises, I believe you mean, sir.

Dang. No, I don't, upon my word.

Sir Fret. Yes, yes, you do, upon my soul ! — it certainly don't
fall off, I assure you. — No, no ; it don't fall off.

Dang. Now, Mrs. Dangle, didn't you say it struck you in the
same light ?

Mrs. Dang. No, indeed, I did not. — I did not see a fault in any
part of the play, from the beginning to the end.

Sir Fret. Upon my soul, the women are the best judges after
all!

Mrs. Dang. Or, if I made any objection, I am sure it was to
nothing in the piece ; but that I was afraid it was, on the whole, a
little too long.

Sir Fret. Pray, madam, do you speak as to duration of time ;
or do you mean that the story is tediously spun out ?

Mrs. Dang. O Lud 1 no. — I speak only with reference to the
usual length of acting plays.

Sir Fret. Then I am very happy — very happy indeed — because
the play is a short play, a remarkably short play. I should not
venture to differ with a lady on a point of taste ; but, on these
occasions, the watch, you know, is the critic

Mrs. Dang. Then, I suppose, it must have been Mr. Dangle's
drawling manner of reading it to me.

Sir Fret. Oh, if Mr. Dangle read it, that's quite another affair !
— But I assure you, Mrs. Dangle, the first evening you can spare
me three hours and a half, I'll undertake to read you the whole
from beginning to end, with the prologue and epilogue, and allow
time for the music between the acts.

Mrs. Dang. I hope to see it on the stage next.

Dang. Well, Sir Fretful, I wish you may be able to get rid as
easily of the newspaper criticisms as you do of ours.

Sir Fret. The newspapers ! Sir, they are the most villainous—
licentious — abominable — infernal — Not that I ever read them —
no — I make it a rule never to look into a newspaper.

SC.L] A TRAGEDY REHEARSED. 241

Dang. You are quite right ; for it certainly must hurt an author
of delicate feelings to see the liberties they take.

Sir Fret. No, quite the contrary ! their abuse is, in fact, the
best panegyric — I like it of all things. An author's reputation is
only in danger from their support.

Sneer. Why, that's true — and that attack, now, on you the other
day

Sir Fret. What? where?

Dang. Ay, you mean in a paper of Thursday : it was com-
pletely ill-natured, to be sure.

Sir Fret. Oh, so much the better. — Ha 1 ha ! ha 1 I wouldn't
have it otherwise.

Dang. Certainly it is only to be laughed at ; for

Sir Fret. You don't happen to recollect what the fellow said, do
you?

Sneer. Pray, Dangle — Sir Fretful seems a little anxious

Sir Fret. O Lud, no ! — anxious ! — not I, — not the least. — I — but
one may as well hear, you know.

Dang. Sneer, do you recollect ? — [Aside to SNEER.] Make out
something.

Sneer. [Aside to DANGLE.] I will. — [Aloud.] Yes, yes, I
remember perfectly.

Sir Fret. Well, and pray now — not that it signifies — what might
the gentleman say ?

Sneer. Why, he roundly asserts that you have not the slightest
invention or original genius whatever ; though you are the greatest
traducer of all other authors living.

Sir Fret. Ha 1 ha ! ha ! — very good !

Sneer. That as to comedy, you have not one idea of your own,
he believes, even in your commonplace-book — where stray jokes
and pilfered witticisms are kept with as much method as the ledger
of the lost and stolen office.

Sir Fret. Ha ! ha ! ha ! — very pleasant 1

Sneer. Nay, that you are so unlucky as not to have the skill
even to steal with taste : — but that you glean from the refuse of
obscure volumes, where more judicious plagiarists have been before
you ; so that the body of your work is a composition of dregs and
sediments — like a bad tavern's worst wine.

Sir Fret. Ha! ha 1

Sneer. In your more serious efforts, he says, your bombast would
be less intolerable, if the thoughts were ever suited to the expres-
sion ; but the homeliness of the sentiment stares through the
fantastic encumbrance of its fine language, like a clown in one of
the new uniforms !

899

242 THE CRITIC; OR, [ACT i.

Sir Fret. Ha! ha!

Sneer. That your occasional tropes and flowers suit the general
coarseness of your style, as tambour sprigs would a ground of
linsey-woolsey ; while your imitations of Shakespeare resemble the
mimicry of Falstaff s page, and are about as near the standard of
the original.

Sir Fret. Ha !

Sneer. In short, that even the finest passages you steal are of no
service to you; for the poverty of your own language prevents their
assimilating ; so that they lie on the surface like lumps of marl on a
barren moor, encumbering what it is not in their power to fertilise 1

Sir Fret. [After great agitation^ Now, another person would
be vexed at this !

Sneer. Oh ! but I wouldn't have told you — only to divert you.

Sir Fret. I know it — I am diverted. — Ha ! ha 1 ha ! — not the
least invention ! — Ha ! ha ! ha ! — very good ! — very good !

Sneer. Yes — no genius ! ha ! ha ! ha !

Dang. A severe rogue ! ha ! ha ! ha I But you are quite right,
Sir Fretful, never to read such nonsense.

Sir Fret. To be sure — for if there is anything to one's praise, it is
a foolish vanity to be gratified at it ; and, if it is abuse, — why one
is always sure to hear of it from one damned good-natured friend
or another 1

Enter SERVANT.

Ser. Sir, there is an Italian gentleman, with a French inter-
preter, and three young ladies, and a dozen musicians, who say they
are sent by Lady Rondeau and Mrs. Fugue.

Dang. Gadso ! they come by appointment ! — Dear Mrs. Dangle,
do let them know I'll see them directly.

Mrs. Dang. You know, Mr. Dangle, I shan't understand a word
they say.

Dang. But you hear there's an interpreter.

Mrs. Dang. Well, I'll try to endure their complaisance till you
come. [Exit.

Ser. And Mr. Puff, sir, has sent word that the last rehearsal is
to be this morning, and that he'll call on you presently.

Dang. That's true — I shall certainly be at home. — \Exit
SERVANT.] Now, Sir Fretful, if you have a mind to have justice
done you in the way of answer, egad, Mr. Puff's your man.

Sir Fret. Psha 1 sir, why should I wish to have it answered,
when I tell you I am pleased at it ?

Dang. True, I had forgot that. But I hope you are not fretted
at what Mr. Sneer

SC.IL] A TRAGEDY REHEARSED. 243

Sir Fret. Zounds 1 no, Mr. Dangle ; don't I tell you these
things never fret me in the least ?

Dang. Nay, I only thought

Sir Fret. And let me tell you, Mr. Dangle, 'tis damned affront-
ing in you to suppose that I am hurt when I tell you I am not.

Sneer. But why so warm, Sir Fretful ?

Sir Fret. Gad's life ! Mr. Sneer, you are as absurd as Dangle:
how often must I repeat it to you, that nothing can vex me but
your supposing it possible for me to mind the damned nonsense
you have been repeating to me! — and, let me tell you, if you con-
tinue to believe this, you must mean to insult me, gentlemen — and,
then, your disrespect will affect me no more than the newspaper
criticisms — and I shall treat it with exactly the same calm indiffer-
ence and philpsophic contempt — and so your servant [Exit.

Sneer. Ha! ha! ha 1 poor Sir Fretful! Now will he go and
vent his philosophy in anonymous abuse of all modern critics and
authors. — But, Dangle, you must get your friend Puff to take me
to the rehearsal of his tragedy.

Dang. I'll answer fort, he'll thank you for desiring it But
come and help me to judge of this musical family: they are
recommended by people of consequence, I assure you.

Sneer. I am at your disposal the whole morning ; — but I thought
you had been a decided critic in music as well as in literature.

Dang. So I am — but I have a bad ear. I' faith, Sneer, though,
I am afraid we were a little too severe on Sir Fretful — though he is
my friend.

Sneer. Why, 'tis certain, that unnecessarily to mortify the
vanity of any writer is a cruelty which mere dulness never can
deserve ; but where a base and personal malignity usurps the place of
literary emulation, the aggressor deserves neither quarter nor pity.

Dang. That's true, egad ! — though he's my friend !

SCENE II.— A DRAWING-ROOM IN DANGLE'S HOUSE.

MRS. DANGLE, SIGNOR PASTICCIO RITORNELLO, SIGNORE
PASTICCIO RITORNELLO, INTERPRETER, and MUSICIANS,
discovered.

Interp. Je dis, madame, j'ai 1'honneur to introduce et de vous
demander votre protection pour le Signer Pasticcio Ritornello et
pour sa charmante famille.

Signer Past. Ah I vosignoria, noi vi preghiamo di favoritevi
colla vostra protezione.

ist Signora Past. Vosignoria fatevi questi grazie.

•2nd Signora Past. Si, signora.

244" THE CRITIC; OR, [ACT i.

Interp. Madame— me interpret. — C'est a dire — in English —
qu'ils vous prient de leur faire 1'honneur

Mrs. Dang. I say again, gentlemen, I don't understand a word
you say.

Signor Past. Questo signore spieghero

Interp. Oui — me interpret. — Nous avons les lettres de recom-
mendation pour Monsieur Dangle de

Mrs. Dang. Upon my word, sir, I don't understand you.

Signor Past. La Contessa Rondeau e nostra padrona.

yd Signora Past. Si, padre, et Miladi Fugue.

Interp. O 1 — me interpret. — Madame, ils disent — in English —
Qu'ils ont 1'honneur d'etre protege's de ces dames. — You under-
stand?

Mrs. Dang. No, sir, — no understand !

Enter DANGLE and SNEER.

Interp. Ah, voici, Monsieur Dangle I

All Italians. Ah ! Signor Dangle 1

Mrs. Dang. Mr. Dangle, here are two very civil gentlemen
trying to make themselves understood, and I don't know which is
the interpreter.

Dang. Eh, bien 1

{The INTERPRETER and SIGNOR PASTICCIO here speak at the
same time.

Interp. Monsieur Dangle, le grand bruit de vos talens pour la
critique, et de votre inte'ret avec messieurs les directeurs a tous les
thdatres

Signor Past. Vosignoria siete si famoso par la vostra conos-
cenza, e vostra interessa colla le direttore da

Dang. Egad, I think the interpreter is the hardest to be
understood of the two !

Sneer. Why, I thought, Dangle, you had been an admirable
linguist 1

Dang. So I am, if they would not talk so damned fast.

Sneer. Well, I'll explain that — the less time we lose in hearing
them the better — for that, I 'suppose, is what they are brought
here for.

{Speaks to SIGNOR PASTICCIO — they sing trios, etc., DANGLE
beating out of time.

Enter SERVANT and whispers DANGLE.

Dang. Show him up.— {Exit SERVANT.] Bravo! admirable!
bravissimo ! admirablissimo ! — Ah ! Sneer ! where will you find
voices such as these in England ?

sc. ii.] A TRAGEDY REHEARSED. 245

Sneer. Not easily.

Dang. But Puff is coming. — Signor and little signoras obligatis-
simo ! — Sposa Signora Danglena — Mrs. Dangle, shall I beg you to
offer them some refreshments, and take their address in the next
room.

\Exit MRS. DANGLE with SIGNOR PASTICCIO, SIGNORE PAS-
TICCIO, MUSICIANS, ^^/INTERPRETER, ceremoniously.

Re-enter SERVANT.

Ser. Mr. Puff, sir. [Exit.

Enter PUFF.

Dan°. My dear Puff !

Puff. My dear Dangle, how is it with you?

Dang. Mr. Sneer, give me leave to introduce Mr. Puff to you.

Puff. Mr. Sneer is this ? — Sir, he is a gentleman whom I have
long panted for the honour of knowing — a gentleman whose critical
talents and transcendent judgment

Sneer. Dear sir

Dang. Nay, don't be modest, Sneerl my friend Puff only talks
to you in the style of his profession.

Sneer. His profession 1

Puff. Yes, sir; I make no secret of the trade I follow: among
friends and brother authors, Dangle knows I love to be frank on
the subject, and to advertise myself viva voce. — I am, sir, a prac-
titioner in panegyric, or, to speak more plainly, a professor of the
art of puffing, at your service — or anybody else's.

Sneer. Sir, you are very obliging ! — I believe, Mr. Puff, I have
often admired your talents in the daily prints.

Puff. Yes, sir, I flatter myself I do as much business in that
way as any six of the fraternity in town. — Devilish hard work
all the summer, friend Dangle, — never worked harder ! But,
hark'ee, — the winter managers were a little sore, I believe.

Dang. No ; I believe they took it all in good part.

Piiff. Ay ! then that must have been affectation in them ; for, egad,
there were some of the attacks which there, was no laughing at !

Sneer. Ay, the humorous ones. — But I should think, Mr. Puff,
that authors would in general be able to do this sort of work for
themselves.

Puff. Why, yes — but in a clumsy way. Besides, we look on
that as an encroachment, and so take the opposite side. I dare
say, now, you conceive half the very civil paragraphs and advertise-
ments you see to be written by the parties concerned, or their
friends ? No such thing: nine out of ten manufactured by me in
the way of business.

246 THE CRITIC; OR, [ACT i.

Sneer. Indeed 1

Puff. Even the auctioneers now — the auctioneers, I say —
though the rogues have lately got some credit for their language —
not an article of the merit theirs: take them out of their pulpits,
and they are as dull as catalogues ! — No, sir; 'twas I first enriched
their style — 'twas I first taught them to crowd their advertisements
with panegyrical superlatives, each epithet rising above the other,
like the bidders in their own auction-rooms ! From me they
learned to inlay their phraseology with variegated chips of exotic
metaphor: by me too their inventive faculties were called forth: —
yes, sir, by me they were instructed to clothe ideal walls with
gratuitous fruits — to insinuate obsequious rivulets into visionary
groves — to teach courteous shrubs to nod their approbation of the
grateful soil; or on emergencies to raise upstart oaks, where there
never had been an acorn ; to create a delightful vicinage without the
assistance of a neighbour; or fix the temple of Hygeia in the fens
of Lincolnshire !

Dang. I am sure you have done them infinite service ; for now,
when a gentleman is ruined, he parts with his house with some credit.

Sneer. Service 1 if they had any gratitude, they would erect a
statue to him; they would figure him as a presiding Mercury, the
god of traffic and fiction, with a hammer in his hand instead of a
caduceus. — But pray, Mr. Puff, what first put you on exercising
your talents in this way?

Puff. Egad, sir, sheer necessity ! — the proper parent of an art
so nearly allied to invention. You must know, Mr. Sneer, that
from the first time I tried my hand at an advertisement, my
success was such, that for some time after I led a most extra-
ordinary life indeed !

Sneer. How, pray?

Puff. Sir, I supported myself two years entirely by my mis-
fortunes.

Sneer. By your misfortunes !

Puff. Yes, sir, assisted by long sickness, and other occasional
disorders ; and a very comfortable living I had of it.

Sneer. From sickness and misfortunes ! You practised as a
doctor and an attorney at once?

Puff. No, egad ; both maladies and miseries were my own.

Sneer. Hey ! what the plague 1

Dang. 'Tis true, i' faith.

Puff. Hark'ee ! — By advertisements — To the charitable and
humane! and To those whom Providence hath blessed with
affluence !

Sneer. Oh, I understand you.

sc. ii.] A TRAGEDY REHEARSED. 247

Puff. And, in truth, I deserved what I got; for I suppose never
man went through such a series of calamities in the same space
of time. Sir, I was five times made a bankrupt, and reduced from
a state of affluence, by a train of unavoidable misfortunes: then,
sir, though a very industrious tradesman, I was twice burned out,
and lost my little all both times : I lived upon those fires a month.
I soon after was confined by a most excruciating disorder, and lost
the use of my limbs : that told very well ; for I had the case strongly
attested, and went about to collect the subscriptions myself.

Dang. Egad, I believe that was when you first called on me.

Puff. In November last ? — Oh no ; I was at that time a close
prisoner in the Marshalsea, for a debt benevolently contracted
to serve a friend. I was afterwards twice tapped for a dropsy,
which declined into a very profitable consumption. I was then
reduced to — Oh no — then, I became a widow with six helpless
children, after having had eleven husbands pressed, and being left
every time eight months gone with child, and without money to
get me into an hospital !

Sneer. And you bore all with patience, I make no doubt ?

Puff. Why, yes ; though I made some occasional attempts
at felo de se; but as I did not find those rash actions answer,
I left off killing myself very soon. Well, sir, at last, what with
bankruptcies, fires, gouts, dropsies, imprisonments, and other
valuable calamities, having got together a pretty handsome sum, I
determined to quit a business which had always gone rather
against my conscience, and in a more liberal way still to indulge
my talents for fiction and embellishments through my favourite
channels of diurnal communication — and so, sir, you have my history.

Sneer. Most obligingly communicative indeed ! and your con-
fession, if published, might certainly serve the cause of true charity,
by rescuing the most useful channels of appeal to benevolence from
the cant of imposition. But surely, Mr. Puff, there is no great
mystery in your present profession ?

Puff. Mystery, sir 1 I will take upon me to say the matter was
never scientifically treated nor reduced to rule before.

Sneer. Reduced to rule !

Puff. O Lud, sir, you are very ignorant, I am afraid ! — Yes, sir,
puffing is of various sorts ; the principal are, the puff direct, the
puff preliminary, the puff collateral, the puff collusive, and the puff
oblique, or puff by implication. These all assume, as circumstances
require, the various forms of Letter to the Editor, Occasional
Anecdote, Impartk.. Critique, Observation from Correspondent, or
Advertisement from the Party.

Sneer. The puff direct, I can conceive

248 THE CRITIC; OR, [ACT i.

Puff. Oh yes, that's simple enough ! For instance, — a new
comedy or farce is to be produced at one of the theatres (though,
by-the-bye, they don't bring out half what they ought to do) — the
author, suppose Mr. Smatter, or Mr. Dapper, or any particular
friend of mine — very well ; the day before it is to be performed, I
write an account of the manner in which it was received ; I have
the plot from the author, and only add — "characters strongly
drawn — highly-coloured — hand of a master — fund of genuine
humour — mine of invention — neat dialogue — Attic salt" Then
for the performance — "Mr. Dodd was astonishingly great in the
character of Sir Harry. That universal and judicious actor, Mr.
Palmer, perhaps never appeared to more advantage than in the
Colonel ; — but it is not in the power of language to do justice to Mr.
King : indeed he more than merited those repeated bursts of
applause which he drew from a most brilliant and judicious
audience. As to the scenery — the miraculous powers of Mr. de
Loutherbourg's pencil are universally acknowledged. In short, we
are at a loss which to admire most, the unrivalled genius of the
author, the great attention and liberality of the managers, the
wonderful abilities of the painter, or the incredible exertions of all
the performers."

Sneer. That's pretty well indeed, sir.

Puff. Oh, cool ! — quite cool ! — to what I sometimes do.

Sneer. And do you think there are any who are influenced by
this ?

Puff. O Lud, yes, sir ! the number of those who undergo the
fatigue of judging for themselves is very small indeed.

Sneer. Well, sir, the puff preliminary ?

Puff. Oh that, sir, does well in the form of a caution. In a
matter of gallantry now — Sir Flimsy Gossamer wishes to be well
with Lady Fanny Fete— he applies to me — I open trenches for him
with a paragraph in the Morning Post. — " It is recommended to
the beautiful and accomplished Lady F four stars F dash E to be
on her guard against that dangerous character, Sir F dash G;
who, however pleasing and insinuating his manners may be, is
certainly not remarkable for the constancy of his attachments!" —
in italics. Here, you see, Sir Flimsy Gossamer is introduced to
the particular notice of Lady Fanny, who perhaps never thought
of him before — she finds herself publicly cautioned to avoid him,
which naturally makes her desirous of seeing him ; the observa-
tion of their acquaintance causes a pretty kind of mutual
embarrassment ; this produces a sort of sympathy of interest,
which if Sir Flimsy is unable to improve effectually, he at least
gains the credit of having their names mentioned together, by a

sc. ii.] A TRAGEDY REHEARSED. 249

particular set, and in a particular way — which nine times out of ten
is the full accomplishment of modern gallantry.

Dang. Egad, Sneer, you will be quite an adept in the business !

Puff. Now, sir, the puff collateral is much used as an appendage
to advertisements, and may take the form of anecdote. — " Yester-
day, as the celebrated George Bonmot was sauntering down St.
James's Street, he met the lively Lady Mary Myrtle coming out
of the park : — ' Good God, Lady Mary, I am surprised to meet you
in a white jacket, — for I expected never to have seen you but in
a full-trimmed uniform and a light horseman's cap 1' — 'Heavens,
George, where could you have learned that?' — 'Why,' replied the
wit, ' I just saw a print of you, in a new publication called the
Camp Magazine; which, by-the-bye, is a devilish clever thing, and
is sold at No. 3, on the right hand of the way, two doors from the
printing-office, the corner of Ivy Lane, Paternoster Row, price only
one shilling.'"

Sneer. Very ingenious indeed!

Puff. But the puff collusive is the newest of any ; for it acts in
the disguise of determined hostility. It is much used by bold
booksellers and enterprising poets. — " An indignant correspondent
observes, that the new poem called Beelzebub's Cotillon, or Proser-
pine's Fete Champ^tre^ is one of the most unjustifiable performances
he ever read. The severity with which certain characters are
handled is quite shocking : and as there are many descriptions in
it too warmly coloured for female delicacy, the shameful avidity
with which this piece is bought by all people of fashion is a
reproach on the taste of the times, and a disgrace to the delicacy
of the age." Here you see the two strongest inducements are held
forth ; first, that nobody ought to read it ; and secondly, that
everybody buys it : on the strength of which the publisher boldly
prints the tenth edition, before he had sold ten of the first ; and
then establishes it by threatening himself with the pillory, or
absolutely indicting himself for scan. mag.

Dang. Ha ! ha ! ha ! — 'gad, I know it is so.

Puff. As to the puff oblique, or puff by implication, it is too
various and extensive to be illustrated by an instance : it attracts
in titles and presumes in patents ; it lurks in the limitation of a
subscription, and invites in the assurance of crowd and incom-
modation at public places; it delights to draw forth concealed
merit, with a most disinterested assiduity ; and sometimes wears
a countenance of smiling censure and tender reproach. It has a
wonderful memory for parliamentary debates, and will often give
the whole speech of a favoured member with the most flatter-
ing accuracy. But, above all, it is a great dealer in reports and

250 THE CRITIC ; OR, [ACT i.

suppositions. It has the earliest intelligence of intended preferments
that will reflect honour on the patrons ; and embryo promotions
of modest gentlemen, who know nothing of the matter themselves.
It can hint a ribbon for implied services in the air of a common
report ; and with the carelessness of a casual paragraph suggest
officers into commands, to which they have no pretension but their
wishes. This, sir, is the last principal class of the art of puffing —
an art which I hope you will now agree with me is of the highest
dignity, yielding a tablature of benevolence and public spirit;
befriending equally trade, gallantry, criticism, and politics ; the
applause of genius — the register of charity — the triumph of heroism
— the self-defence of contractors — the fame of orators — and the
gazette of ministers.

Sneer. Sir, I am completely a convert both to the importance and
ingenuity of your profession ; and now, sir, there is but one thing
which can possibly increase my respect for you, and that is, your
permitting me to be present this morning at the rehearsal of your
new trage

Puff. . Hush, for heaven's sake ! — My tragedy ! — Egad, Dangle,
I take this very ill : you know how apprehensive I am of being
known to be the author.

Dang. P faith I would not have told — but it's in the papers, and
your name at length in the Morning Chronicle.

Puff. Ah ! those damned editors never can keep a secret. —
Well, Mr. Sneer, no doubt you will do me great honour — I shall be
infinitely happy — highly flattered

Dang. I believe it must be near the time — shall we go together?

Puff. No ; it will not be yet this hour, for they are always late
at that theatre ; besides, I must meet you there, for I have some
little matters here to send to the papers, and a few paragraphs to
scribble before I go. — {Looking at memorandums^ Here is A con-
scientious Baker, on the subject of the Army Bread; and A Del ester
of visible Brick-work, in favour of the new-invented Stucco ; both in
the style of Junius, and promised for to-morrow. The Thames,
navigation too is at a stand. Misomud or Anti-shoal must go to
work again directly. — Here too are some political memorandums
— I see ; ay — To take Paul Jones, and get the Indiamen out of the
Shannon — reinforce Byron — compel the Dutch to — so ! — I must do
that in the evening papers, or reserve it for the Morning Herald; for
I know that I have undertaken to-morrow, besides, to establish the
unanimity of the fleet in the Public Advertiser, and to shoot Charles
Fox in the Morning Post. — So, egad, I ha'n't a moment to lose !

Dang. Well, we'll meet in the Green Room.

[Exeunt severally.

ACT ii.] A TRAGEDY REHEARSED. 251

ACT II.

SCENE I. — THE THEATRE, BEFORE THE CURTAIN.
Enter DANGLE, PUFF, and SNEER.

Puff. No, no, sir ; what Shakespeare says of actors may be
better applied to the purpose of plays ; they ought to be the
abstract and brief chronicles of the time. Therefore when history,
and particularly the history of our own country, furnishes anything
like a case in point, to the time in which an author writes, if he
knows his own interest, he will take advantage of it ; so, sir, I
call my tragedy The Spanish Armada; and have laid the scene
before Tilbury Fort.

Sneer. A most happy thought, certainly 1

Dang. Egad, it was — I told you so. But pray now, I don't
understand how you have contrived to introduce any love into it.

Puff. Love 1 oh, nothing so easy 1 for it is a received point
among poets, that where history gives you a good heroic outline
for a play, you may fill up with a little love at your own discretion:
in doing which, nine times out of ten, you only make up a deficiency
in the private history of the times. Now I rather think I have done
this with some success.

Sneer. No scandal about Queen Elizabeth, I hope ?

Puff. O Lud ! no, no ; — I only suppose the governor of Tilbury
Fort's daughter to be in love with the son of the Spanish admiral.

Sneer. Oh, is that all !

Dang. Excellent, i' faith ! I see at once. But won't this
appear rather improbable?

Puff. To be sure it will — but what the plague ! a play is not to
show occurrences that happen everyday, but things just so strange,
that though they never did, they might happen.

Sneer. Certainly nothing is unnatural that is not physically
.impossible.

Puff. Very true — and for that matter Don Ferolo Whiskerandos,
for that's the lover's name, might have been over here in the train
of the Spanish Ambassador ; or Tilburina, for that is the lady's
name, might have been in love with him, from having heard his
character, or seen his picture ; or from knowing that he was the last
man in the world she ought to be in love with — or for any other
good female reason. — However, sir, the fact is, that though she is
but a knight's daughter, egad ! she is in love like any princess !

Dang. Poor young lady ! I ieel for her already ; for I can con-
ceive how great the conflict must be between her passion and her

aS2 THE CRITIC; OR, [ACT u.

duty; her love for her country, and her love for Don Ferolo
Whiskerandos !

Puff. Oh, amazing ! — her poor susceptible heart is swayed to
and fro by contending passions like

Enter UNDER PROMPTER.

Und. Promp. Sir, the scene is set, and everything is ready to
begin, if you please.

Puff. Egad, then we'll lose no time.

Und. Promp. Though, I believe, sir, you will find it very short,
for all the performers have profited by the kind permission you
granted them.

Puff. Hey! what?

Und. Promp. You know, sir, you gave them leave to cut out or
omit whatever they found heavy or unnecessary to the plot, and I
must own they have taken very liberal advantage of your indul-
gence.

Puff. Well, well. — They are in general very good judges, and I
know I am luxuriant. — Now, Mr. Hopkins, as soon as you please.

Und. Promp. \Tothe Orchestra.] Gentlemen, will you play a few
bars of something, just to

Puff. Ay, that's right ; for as we have the scenes and dresses,
egad, we'll go to't, as if it was the first night's performance ; — but
you need not mind stopping between the acts — {Exit UNDER
PROMPTER. — Orchestra play — then the bell rin°£\ So I stand
clear, gentlemen. Now you know there will be a cry of Down 1
down ! — Hats off !— Silence 1 — Then up curtain, and let us see what
our painters have done for us. [Curtain rises.

SCENE II.— TILBURY FORT.
" Two SENTINEM discovered asleep"

Dang. Tilbury Fort ! — very fine indeed !

Puff. Now, what do you think I open with ?

Sneer. Faith, I can't guess

Puff. A clock. — Hark! — {Clock strikes.'] I open with a clock
striking, to beget an awful attention in the audience : it also marks
the time, which is four o'clock in the morning, and saves a descrip-
tion of the rising sun, and a great deal about gilding the eastern
hemisphere.

Dang. But pray, are the sentinels to be asleep ?

Puff. Fast as watchmen.

Sneer. Isn't that odd though at such an alarming crisis ?

Puff. To be sure it is, — but smaller things must give way to a

sc. ii.] A TRAGEDY REHEARSED. 253

striking scene at the opening ; thafs a rule. And the case is, that
two great men are coming to this very spot to begin the piece ;
now, it is not to be supposed they would open their lips if these
fellows were watching them ; so, egad, I must either have sent
them off their posts, or set them asleep.

Sneer. Oh, that accounts for it. — But tell us, who are these
coming?

Puff. These are they — Sir Walter Raleigh, and Sir Christopher
Hatton. You'll know Sir Christopher by his turning out his toes — •
famous, you know, for his dancing. I like to preserve all the little
traits of character. — Now attend.

"Enter SIR WALTER EALEIGH and SIR CHBISTOPHEB HATTON.
Sir Christ. True, gallant Raleigh 1 " —

Dang. What, they had been talking before ?

Puff. Oh yes ; all the way as they came along. — [ To the Actors.]
I beg pardon, gentlemen, but these are particular friends of mine,
whose remarks may be of great service to us. — \To SNEER and
DANGLE.] Don't mind interrupting them whenever anything
strikes you.

" Svr Christ. True, gallant Raleigh I

But oh, thou champion of thy country's fame,

There is a question which I yet must ask :

A question which I never ask'd before —

What mean these mighty armaments ?

This general muster '! and this throng of chiefs ? "

Sneer. Pray, Mr. Puff, how came Sir Christopher Hatton never
to ask that question before ?

Puff. What, before the play began ?— how the plague could he ?
Dang. That's true, i' faith !
Puff. But you will hear what he thinks of the matter.

" Sir Christ. Alas ! my noble friend, when I behold
Yon tented plains in martial symmetry
Array'd ; when I count o'er yon glittering lines
Of crested warriors, where the proud steeds neigh,
And valour-breathing trumpet's shrill appeal,
Responsive vibrate on my listening ear ;
When virgin majesty herself I view,
Like her protecting Pallas, veil'd in steel,
With graceful confidence exhort to arms 1
When, briefly, all I hear or see bears stamp
Of martial vigilance and stern defence,
I cannot but surmise — forgive, my friend,
If the conjecture's rash— I cannot but
Surmise the state some danger apprehends !

254

THE CRITIC; OR,

[ACT ii.

Sneer. A very cautious conjecture that.

Puff. Yes, that's his character; not to give an opinion but on
secure grounds. — Now then.

"Sir Walt. . 0 most accomplish'd Christopher ! "

Puff. He calls him by his Christian name, to show that they are
on the most familiar terms.

" Sir Walt. . 0 most accomplish'd Christopher ! I find

Thy staunch sagacity still tracks the future,
In the fresh print of the o'ertaken past."

Puff. Figurative !

" Sir iPalt. . Thy fears are just.

Sir Christ. . But where ? whence ? when ? and what

The danger is, — methinks I fain would learn.
Sir Walt. . You know, my friend, scarce two revolving suns,

And three revolving moons, have closed their course,

Since haughty Philip, in despite of peace,

With hostile hand hath struck at England's trade.
Sir Christ. . I know it well.

Sir Walt. . Philip, you know, is proud Iberia's king !
Sir Christ. . He is.
Sir Walt. His subjects in base bigotry

And Catholic oppression held ; — while we,

You know, the Protestant persuasion hold.
Sir Christ. . We do.
Sir Walt. . You know, beside, his boasted armament,

The famed Armada, by the Pope baptised,

With purpose to invade these realms

Sir Christ. Is sailed,

Our last advices so report.
Sir Walt. . While the Iberian admiral's chief hope,

His darling son

Sir Christ. Ferolo Whiskerandos hight

Sir Walt. . The same — by chance a prisoner hath been ta'en,

And in this fort of Tilbury

Sir Christ. Is now

Confined — 'tis true, and oft from yon tall turret's top

I've mark'd the youthful Spaniard's haughty mien —

Unconquer'd, though in chains.
Sir Walt. You also know"

Dang. Mr. Puff, as he knows all this, why does Sir Walter go
on telling him?

Puff. But the audience are not supposed to know anything of
the matter, are they ?

Sneer. True ; but I think you manage ill : for there certainly
appears no reason why Sir Walter should be so communicative.

sc. ii.] A TRAGEDY REHEARSED. 255

Puff. 'Fore Gad, now, that is one of the most ungrateful obser-
vations I ever heard ! — for the less inducement he has to tell all
this, the more, I think, you ought to be obliged to him ; for I am
sure you'd know nothing of the matter without it.

Dang. That's very true, upon my word.

Puff. But you will find he was not going on.

" Sir Christ. Enough, enough — 'tis plain— and I no more
Am in amazement lost 1 "

Puff. Here, now you see, Sir Christopher did not in fact ask
any one question for his own information.

Sneer. No, indeed ; his has been a most disinterested curiosity !

Dang. Really, I find, we are very much obliged to them both.

Puff. To be sure you are. Now then for the commander-in-
chief, the Earl of Leicester, who, you know, was no favourite but
of the queen's. — We left off — in amazement lost !

" Sir Christ. Am in amazement lost.

But, see where noble Leicester comes ! supreme

In honours and command.
Sir Walt. , And yet, methinks,

At such a time, so perilous, so fear'd,

That staff might well become an abler grasp.
Sir Christ. . And so, by Heaven ! think I ; but soft, he's here ! "

Puff. Ay, they envy him !

Sneer. But who are these with him ?

Puff. Oh ! very valiant knights : one is the governor of the
fort, the other the master of the horse. And now, I think, you
shall hear some better language : I was obliged to be plain and
intelligible in the first scene, because there was so much matter of
fact in it ; but now, i' faith, you have trope, figure, and metaphor,
as plenty as noun-substantives.

" Enter EARL OF LEICESTER, GOVERNOR, MASTEB OP THE HORSK,

KNIGHTS, etc.

T.eut. . . . How's this, my friends ! is't thus your new-fledged zeal «
And plumed valour moulds in roosted sloth ?
Why dimly glimmers that heroic flame,
Whose reddening blaze, by patriot spirit fed,
Should be the beacon of a kindling realm ?
Can the quick current of a patriot heart
Thus stagnate in a cold and weedy converse,
Or freeze in tideless inactivity ?
No ! rather let the fountain of your valour
Spring through each stream of enterprise,
Each petty channel of conducive daring,
Till the lull torrent of your foaming wrath
O'erwhelm the flats of sunk hostility."

256

THE CRITIC; OR,

[ACT IL

Puff. There it is— followed up 1

" Sir Walt. . No more !— the freshening breath of thy rebuke
Hath fill'd the swelling canvas of our souls 1
And thus, though fate should cut the cable of

[All take hands.

Our topmost hopes, in friendship's closing line
We'll grapple with despair, and if we fall,
We'll fall in glory's wake 1

Leic. . . . There spoke old England's genius !
Then, are we all resolved ?

Att. We are — all resolved.

Leic. To conquer — or be free ?

Att. To conquer, or be free.

Leic. All ?

All. All."

Dang. Nem. con. egad !

Puff Oh yes ! — where they do agree on the stage, their unan-
imity is wonderful !
"Leic. . . Then let's embrace — and now [Kneels."

Sneer. What the plague, is he going to pray ?

Puff. Yes ; hush ! — in great emergencies, there is nothing like
a prayer.
"Leic. . . 0 mighty Mars !"

Dang. But why should he pray to Mars ?
Puff. Hush!

" Leic. . . If in thy homage bred,

Each point of discipline I've still observed ;

Nor but by due promotion, and the right

Of service, to the rank of major-general

Have risen ; assist thy votary now 1
Gov. . . Yet do not rise — hear me 1
Mast. . . And me !
Knight. . And me 1
Sir Walt. And me!
Sir Christ. And me !

'Kneels.
'Kneels.
'Kneels.
^Kneels.
'Kneels."

Puff. Now pray altogether.

" All. . . Behold thy votaries submissive beg,

That thou wilt deign to grant them all they ask •
Assist them to accomplish all their ends,
And sanctify whatever means they use
To gain them ! "

Sneer. A very orthodox quintette 1

Puff. Vastly well, gentlemen! — Is that well managed or not?
Have you such a prayer as that on the stage ?
Sneer. Not exactly.

sc ii.] A TRAGEDY REHEARSED. 257

Leic. [To PUFF.] But, sir, you haven't settled how we are to
get off here.

Puff, You could not go off kneeling, could you ?

Sir Walt. [To PUFF.] Oh no, sir ; impossible 1

Puff. It would have a good effect, i' faith, if you could exeunt
praying !— Yes, and would vary the established mode of springing
off with a glance at the pit

Sneer. Oh, never mind, so as you get them off! — I'll answer for
it, the audience won't care how.

Puff. Well, then, repeat the last line standing, and go off the
old way.

" All. . . . And sanctify whatever means we use

To gain them. [Exeunt."

Dang. Bravo ! a fine exit

Sneer. Well, really, Mr. Puff

Puff. Stay a moment !

" The SENTINELS get up.

1st Sent. . All this shall to Lord Burleigh's ear.
2nd Sent. . 'Tis meet it should. [JSxeunt."

Dang. Hey ! — why, I thought those fellows had been asleep ?

Puff. Only a pretence ; there's the art of it : they were spies of
Lord Burleigh's.

Sneer. But isn't it odd they never were taken notice of, not
even by the commander-in-chief ?

Puff. O Lud, sir 1 if people, who want to listen or overhear,
were not always connived at in a tragedy, there would be no carry-
ing on any plot in the world.

Dang. That's certain !

Puff. But take care, my dear Dangle! the morning-gun is
going to fire. [Cannon fires.

Dang. Well, that will have a fine effect !

Puff. I think so, and helps to realise the scene. — [Cannon twice.]
What the plague ! three morning guns ! there never is but one ! —
Ay, this is always the way at the theatre : give these fellows a good
thing, and they never know when to have done with it. — You have
no more cannon to fire ?

Und. Promp. [ Within] No, sir.

Puff. Now, then, for soft music.

Sneer. Pray what's that for ?

Puff. It shows that Tilburina is coming ; — nothing introduces
you a heroine like soft music. Here she comes !

Dang. And her confidant, I suppose ?

900

258 THE CRITIC; OR, [ACT ir.

Puff. To be sure ! Here they are— inconsolable to the minuet
in Ariadne! \Sofimusic.

" Enter TTLBURINA and CONFTDAMT.
TiXb. . . Now has the whispering breath of gentle mom

Bid Nature's voice and Nature's beauty rise ;

\\hile orient Phoebus, with unborrow'd hues,

Clothes the waked loveliness which all night slept

In heavenly drapery ! Darkness is fled.

Now flowers unfold their beauties to the sun,

And, blushing, kiss the beam he sends to wake them —

The striped carnation, and the guarded rose,

The vulgar wallflower, and smart gillyflower,

The polyanthus mean — the dapper daisy,

Sweet-william, and sweet marjoram — and all

The tribe of single and of double pinks 1

Now, too, the feather'd warblers tune their notes

Around, and charm the listening grove. The lark 1

The linnet ! chaffinch ! bullfinch ! goldfinch ! greenfinch !

But 0, to me no joy can they afford !

Nor rose, nor wallflower, nor smart gillyflower,

Nor polyanthus mean, nor dapper daisy,

Nor William sweet, nor marjoram — nor lark,

Linnet, nor all the finches of the grove 1 "

Puff. Your white handkerchief, madam I

Titb. I thought, sir, I wasn't to use that till heart-rending woe.
Puff. Oh yes, madam, at the finches of the grove, if you please.

" 2m . . Nor lark,

Linnet, nor all the finches of the grove 1 [ Weejas."

Puff. Vastly well, madam !
Dang. Vastly well, indeed !

" Ttfb. . . For, O, too sure, heart-rending woe is now
The lot of wretched Tilburina 1 "

Dang. Oh ! — 'tis too much 1
Sneer. Oh ! — it is indeed !

" Con. . . Be comforted, sweet lady ; for who knows,

But Heaven has yet some milk-white day in store ?

Tilb. . . Alas ! my gentle Nora,

Thy tender youth as yet hath never mourn'd
Love's fatal dart. Else wouldst thou know, that when
The soul is sunk in comfortless despair,
It cannot taste of merriment."

Dang. That's certain !

" Con. . . But see where your stern father comes :

It is not meet that he should find you thus."

Puff. Hey, what the plague ! -what a cut is here 1 Why, what

sen.] A TRAGEDY REHEARSED. 259

is become of the description of her first meeting with Don
Whiskerandos — his gallant behaviour in the sea-fight — and the
simile of the canary-bird?

Tilb. Indeed, sir, you'll find they will not be missed.

Puff. Very well, very well !

Tilb. [To CONFIDANT.] The cue, ma'am, if you please.

" Con. . . It is not meet that he should find you thus.
Tilb. . . Thou counsel'st right ; but 'tis no easy task
For barefaced grief to wear a mask of joy.

Enter GOVERNOR.

Gov. . . How's this ! — in tears ? — 0 Tilburina, shame !

Is this a time for maudling tenderness,

And Cupid's baby woes ? — Hast thou not heard

That haughty Spam's pope-consecrated fleet

Advances to our shores, while England's fate,

Like a clipp'd guinea, trembles in the scale ?
Tilb. . . Then is the crisis of my fate at hand !

I see the fleets approach — I see "

Puff. Now, pray, gentlemen, mind. This is one of the most
useful figures we tragedy- writers have, by which a hero or heroine,
in consideration of their being often obliged to overlook things
that are on the stage, is allowed to hear and see a number of things
that are not.

Sneer. Yes ; a kind of poetical second-sight 1

Puff. Yes. — Now then, madam.

"Tilb. . . I see their decks

Are clear'd !— I see the signal made J

The line is form'd !— a cable's length asunder ! —

I see the frigates station'd in the rear ;

And now, I hear the thunder of the guns !

I hear the victor's shouts 1 — I also hear

The vanquish'd groan ! — and now 'tis smoke— and now

I see the loose sails shiver in the wind 1

I see — I see — what soon you'll see

OOP. . . Hold, daughter ! peace ! this love hath turn'd thy brain !

The Spanish fleet thou canst not see — because

— It is not yet in sight 1 "

Dang. Egad, though, the governor seems to make no allowance
for this poetical figure you talk of.

Puff. No, a plain matter-of-fact man ; — that's his character.

" Tilb. But will you then refuse his offer ?

Gov. . I must— I will — I can— I ought— I do.

Tilb. . Think what a noble price.

Gov. . No more — you urge in vain.

Tilb. . His liberty is all he asks."

THE CRITIC ; OR,

[ACT ii.

Sneer. All who asks, Mr. Puff? Who is

Puff. Egad, sir, I can't tell ! Here has been such cutting and
slashing, I don't know where they have got to myself.
Tilb. Indeed, sir, you will find it will connect very well

" — And your reward secure."

Puff. Oh, if they hadn't been so devilish free with their cutting
here, you would have found that Don Whiskerandos has been
tampering for his liberty, and has persuaded Tilburina to make
this proposal to her father. And now, pray observe the concise-
ness with which the argument is conducted. Egad, the pro and
con goes as smart as hits in a fencing-match. It is indeed a sort
of small-sword logic, which we have borrowed from the French.

"Tilb

Gov.

Tilb.

Gov.

Tilb.

Gov.

Tilb.

Gov.

Tilb.

Gov.

Tilb.

Gov.

Tilb.

Gov.

A retreat in Spain 1

Outlawry here I

Your daughter's prayer !

Your father's oath I

My lover 1

My country !

Tilburina 1

England 1

A title 1

Honour !

A pension 1

Conscience !

A thousand pounds 1

Ha 1 thou hast touch'd me nearly I "

Puff. There, you see — she threw in Tilburina. Quick, parry
quarte with England! — Ha 1 thrust in tierce a title ! — parried by
honour. Ha ! a pension over the arm ! — put by by conscience.
Then flankonade with a thousand pounds — and a palpable hit,
egadl

" TOb. . Canst thou—

Reject the suppliant, and the daughter too ?
Gov. . No more ; I would not hear thee plead in vain :

The father softens — but the governor

IB fix'd i [Exit."

Dang.
figure.

"Tilb. .

Whisk. .
Tilb.

Ay, that antithesis of persons is a most established

"Tis well, — hence then, fond hopes, — fond passion, hence;

Duty, behold I am all over thine

[IFriAowi.] Where ia my love — my

Enter Dos FEKOLO WHISKBRASDOS.

Whitk. . My beauteous enemy 1 "

sc. ii.] A TRAGEDY REHEARSED. 261

Puff. O dear, ma'am, you must start a great deal more than
that ! Consider, you had just determined in favour of duty — when,
in a moment, the souad of his voice revives your passion — over-
throws your resolution — destroys your obedience. If you don't
express all that in your start, you do nothing at all

Tilb. Well, we'll try again 1

Dang. Speaking from within has always a fine effect

Sneer. Very.

" Whisk. . My conquering Tilburina ! How ! is't thus

We meet ? why are thy looks averse ? what means

That falling tear — that frown of boding woe ?

Ha ! now indeed I am a prisoner I

Yes, now I feel the galling weight of these

Disgraceful chains — which, cruel Tilburina I

Thy doating captive gloried in before. —

But thou art false, and Whiskerandos is undone 1
Tilb. . 0 no ! how little dost thou know thy Tilburina I
Whisk. . Art thou then true ? — Begone cares, doubts, and fears,

I make you all a present to the winds ;

And if the winds reject you — try the waves."

Puff. The wind, you know, is the established receiver of all
stolen sighs, and cast-off griefs and apprehensions.

" Tilb. . Yet must we part 1 — stern duty seals our doom :

Though here I call yon conscious clouds to witness,

Could I pursue the bias of my soul,

All friends, all right of parents, I'd disclaim,

And thou, my Whiskerandos, shouldst be father

And mother, brother, cousin, uncle, aunt,

And friend to me 1
Whisk. . Oh, matchless excellence 1 and must we part ?

Well, if — we must — we must — and in that case

The less is said the better."

Puff. Heyday 1 here's a cut 1— What, are all the mutual pro-
testations out?

Tilb. Now, pray, sir, don't interrupt us just here : you ruin our
feelings.

Puff. Your feelings ! — but zounds, my feelings, ma'am !

Sneer. No; pray don't interrupt them.

" Whisk. . One last embrace.

Tilb. . Now, — farewell, for ever !

Whisk. . For ever I

Tilb. . Ay, forever! [Going."

Puff. 'Sdeath and fury !— Gad's life ! — sir 1 madam 1 if you go
out without the parting look, you might as well dance out Here,
here !

262 THE CRITIC ; OR, [ACT ir.

Con. But pray, sir, how am I to get off here ?

Puff. You! psha ! what the devil signifies how you get off I
edge away at the top, or where you will — [Pushes the CONFIDANT
off!] Now, ma'am, you see

Tilb. We understand you, sir.

" Ay, for ever.
Both. . . Oh 1 [Turning back, and exeunt. — Scene closes."

Dang. Oh, charming !

Puff. Hey !— 'tis pretty well, I believe : you see I don't attempt
to strike out anything new — but I take it I improve on the
established modes.

Sneer. You do, indeed ! But pray is not Queen Elizabeth to
appear ?

Puff. No, not once — but she is to be talked of for ever; so that,
egad, you'll think a hundred times that she is on the point of
coming in.

Sneer. Hang it, I think it's a pity to keep her in the green-room
all the night.

Puff. Oh no, that always has a fine effect— it keeps up expecta-
tion.

Dang. But are we not to have a battle ?

Puff. Yes, yes, you will have a battle at last ; but, egad, it's not
to be by land, but by sea — and that is the only quite new thing in
the piece.

Dang. What, Drake at the Armada, hey ?

Puff. Yes, i' faith — fire-ships and all ; then we shall end with
the procession. Hey, that will do, I think?

Sneer. No doubt on't.

Puff. Come, we must not lose time ; so now for the under-plot.

Sneer. What the plague, have you another plot?

Puff. O Lord, yes ; ever while you live have two plots to your
tragedy. The grand point in managing them is only to let your
under-plot have as little connection with your main-plot as pos-
sible.— I flatter myself nothing can be more distinct than mine;
for as in my chief plot the characters are all great people, I have
laid my under-plot in low life; and as the former is to end in deep
distress, I make the other end as happy as a farce. — Now, Mr.
Hopkins, as soon as you please.

Enter UNDER PROMPTER.

Und. Promp. Sir, the carpenter says it is impossible you can
go to the park scene yet.

ACT in.] A TRAGEDY REHEARSED. 263

Puff. The park scene ! no ! I mean the description scene here,
in the wood.

Und. Promp. Sir, the performers have cut it out.

Puff. Cut it out !

Und. Promp. Yes, sir.

Puff. What ! the whole account of Queen Elizabeth ?

Und. Promp. Yes, sir.

Puff. And the description of her horse and side-saddle?

Und. Promp. Yes, sir.

Puff. So, so; this is very fine indeed ! — Mr. Hopkins, how the
plague could you suffer this ?

Mr. Hop. [ Within.'} Sir, indeed the pruning-knife

Puff. The pruning-knife — zounds ! — the axe 1 Why, here has
been such lopping and topping, I shan't have the bare trunk of my
play left presently ! — Very well, sir — the performers must do as
they please ; but, upon my soul, I'll print it every word.

Sneer. That I would, indeed.

Puff. Very well, sir; then we must go on. — Zounds! I would
not have parted with the description of the horse 1 — Well, sir,
go on. — Sir, it was one of the finest and most laboured things. —
Very well, sir; let them go on. — There you had him and his
accoutrements, from the bit to the crupper. — Very well, sir; we
must go to the park scene.

Und. Promp. Sir, there is the point : the carpenters say, that
unless there is some business put in here before the drop, they
shan't have time to clear away the fort, or sink Gravesend and the
river.

Puff. So 1 this is a pretty dilemma, truly ! — Gentlemen, you
must excuse me — these fellows will never be ready, unless I go and
look after them myself.

Sneer. O dear, sir, these little things will happen.

Puff. To cut out this scene 1 — but I'll print it— egad, I'll print it
every word ! \Exeunt.

ACT III.

SCENE I.— THE THEATRE, BEFORE THE CURTAIN.
Enter PUFF, SNEER, and DANGLE.

Puff. Well, we are ready ; now then for the justices.

{Curtain rises.

264 THE CRITIC; OR, [ACT in.

"JUSTICES, CONSTABLES, ETC., discovered.1'

Sneer. This, I suppose, is a sort of senate scene.

Puff. To be sure ; there has not been one yet.

Dan°. It is the under-plot, isn't it?

Puff. Yes. — What, gentlemen, do you mean to go at once to the
discovery scene?

Just. If you please, sir.

Puff. Oh, very well !— Hark'ee, I don't choose to say anything
more ; but, i' faith, they have mangled my play in a most shocking
manner.

Dang. It's a great pity!

Puff. Now, then, Mr. Justice, if you please.

"Just. . . Are all the volunteers without ?

Const. . . They are.

Some ten in fetters, and some twenty drunk.
Just. . . . Attends the youth, whose most opprobrious fame _

And clear convicted crimes have stamp'd him soldier?
Const. . . He waits your pleasure ; eager to repay

The blest reprieve that sends him to the fields

Of glory, there to raise his branded hand

In honour's cause.
Just. . . . 'Tis well — 'tis justice arms him !

Oh I may he now defend his country's laws

With half the spirit he has broke them all I

If 'tis your worship's pleasure, bid him enter.
Const, . . I fly, the herald of your will. [Exit."

Puff. Quick, sir.

Sneer. But, Mr. Puff, I think not only the Justice, but the clown
seems to talk in as high a style as the first hero among them.

Puff. Heaven forbid they should not in a free country 1 — Sir, I
am not for making slavish distinctions, and giving all the fine
language to the upper sort of people.

Dang. That's very noble in you, indeed.

"Enter JUSTICE'S LADY.'
Puff. Now, pray mark this scene.

" Lady . . Forgive this interruption, good my love ;

But as I just now pass'd a prisoner youth,

Whom rude hands hither lead, strange bodings seized

My fluttering heart, and to myself I said,

An' if our Tom had lived, he'd surely been

This stripling's height I
Jltft. ... Ha ! sure some powerful sympathy directs

Us both

Re-enter CONSTABLE with SON.
What is thy name ?

sc. i.] A TRAGEDY REHEARSED. 265

Son, . . . My name is Tom Jenkins— alias have I none —

Though orphan'd, and without a friend I
Just. . . . Thy parents ?

Son . . . My father dwelt in Rochester — and was,

As I have heard — a fishmonger — no more."

Puff. What, sir, do you leave out the account of your birth,
parentage, and education ?
Son. They have settled it so, sir, here.
Puff. Oh! ohl

" Lady . . How loudly nature whispers to my heart 1

Had he no other name ?
Son . . . I've seen a bill

Of his sign'd Tomkins, creditor.
Just. . . . This does indeed confirm each circumstance

The gipsy told I — Prepare !
Son ... I do.

Just. ... No orphan, nor without a friend art thou —

I am thy father ; here's thy mother ; there

Thy uncle — this thy first cousin, and those

Are all your near relations 1
Lady ... 0 ecstasy of bliss I
Son ... 0 most unlook'd for happiness 1
Just. ... 0 wonderful event !

[They faint alternately in each others arms.3'

Puff. There, you see, relationship, like murder, will out.

i

"Just. . . Now let's revive — else were this joy too much 1
But come — and we'll unfold the rest within ;
And thou, my boy, must needs want rest and food.
Hence may each orphan hope, as chance directs,
To find a father— where he least expects 1 [Exeunt"

Puff. What do you think of that ?

Dang. One of the finest discovery-scenes I ever saw 1 — Why,
this under-plot would have made a tragedy itself.
Sneer. Ay, or a comedy either.
Puff. And keeps quite clear, you see, of the other.

"XMer SCBNEMEN, taking away the seats."

Puff. The scene remains, does it ?

Sceneman. Yes, sir.

Puff. You are to leave one chair, you know. — But it is always
awkward in a tragedy, to have you fellows coming in in your play-
house liveries to remove things. I wish that could be managed
better. — So now for my mysterious yeoman.

266 THE CRITIC; OR, [ACT IIL

" Enter BEEFEATER.
Beef. . . . Perdition catch my soul, but I do love thee."

Sneer. Haven't I heard that line before ?

Puff. No, I fancy not. — Where, pray ?

Dang. Yes, I think there is something like it in "Othello."

Puff. Gad ! now you put me in mind on't, I believe there is —
but that's of no consequence ; all that can be said is, that two
people happened to hit on the same thought — and Shakespeare
made use of it first, that's all.

Sneer. Very true.

Puff. Now, sir, your soliloquy — but speak more to the pit, if
you please — the soliloquy always to the pit, that's a rule.

" Beef. . . Though hopeless love finds comfort in despair,
It never can endure a rival's bliss !
But soft— 1 am observed. [Exit."

Dang. That's a very short soliloquy.

Puff. Yes — but it would have been a great deal longer if he had
not been observed.

Sneer. A most sentimental Beefeater that, Mr. Puff 1

Puff. Hark'ee — I would not have you be too sure that he is a
Beefeater.

Sneer. What, a hero in disguise ?

Puff. No matter — I only give you a hint. But now for my
principal character. Here he comes — Lord Burleigh in person 1
Pray, gentlemen, step this way — softly — I only hope the Lord
High Treasurer is perfect — if he is but perfect !

"Enter LORD BURLEIGH, goes slowly to a chair, and sits."

Sneer. Mr. Puff 1

Puff. Hush 1 — Vastly well, sir 1 vastly well I a most interesting
gravity !

Dang. What, isn't he to speak at all ?

Puff. Egad, I thought you'd ask me that 1 — Yes, it is a very
likely thing — that a minister in his situation, with the whole affairs
of the nation on his head, should have time to talk ! — But hush !
or you'll put him out.

Sneer. Put him out ! how the plague can that be, if he's not
going to say anything?

Puff. There's the reason 1 why, his part is to think ; and how
the plague do you imagine he can think if you keep talking?

Dang. That's very true, upon my word !

"LORD BURLEIGH comes forward, shakes his head, and exit."

SC.L] A TRAGEDY REHEARSED. 267

Sneer. He is very perfect indeed ! Now, pray what did he
mean by that?

Puff. You don't take it ?

Sneer. No, I don't, upon my soul.

Puff. Why, by that shake of the head, he gave you to under-
stand that even though they had more justice in their cause, and
wisdom in their measures — yet, if there was not a greater spirit
shown on the part of the people, the country would at last fall
a sacrifice to the hostile ambition of the Spanish monarchy.

Sneer. The devil ! did he mean all that by shaking his head?

Puff. Every word of it — if he shook his head as I taught him.

Dang. Ah ! there certainly is a vast deal to be done on the stage
by dumb show and expression of face ; and a judicious author
knows how much he may trust to it.

Sneer. Oh, here are some of our old acquaintance.

" Enter SIR CHRISTOPHER HATTON and Sm WALTER RALEIGH.

Sir Christ. . ily niece and your niece too 1

By Heaven ! there's witchcraft in't. — He could not else
Have gain'd their hearts. — But see where they approach :
Some horrid purpose lowering on their brows !

Sir Walt. . Let us withdraw and mark them. [They withdraw."

Sneer. What is all this ?

Puff. Ah 1 here has been more pruning 1 — but the fact is, these
two young ladies are also in love with Don Whiskerandos. — Now,
gentlemen, this scene goes entirely for what we call situation and
stage effect, by which the greatest applause may be obtained,
without the assistance of language, sentiment, or character : pray
mark !

" Enter the two NIECES.

1st Niece . EUena here !

She is his scorn as much as I — that is
Some comfort still ! "

Puff. O dear, madam, you are not to say that to her face ! -
aside, ma'am, aside. — The whole scene is to be aside.

" 1st Niece . She is his scorn as much as I — that is

Some comfort still. [Aside.

2)id Niece . I know he prizes not Pollina's love ;

But Tilburina lords it o'er his heart. . [Aside.

1st Niece . But see the proud destroyer of my peace.

Eevenge is all the good I've left. [Aside.

2nd Niece . He comes, the false disturber of my quiet.

Now, vengeance, do thy worst. [Aside.

268 THE CRITIC; OR, [ACT IIL

Enter DON FBROLO WHISKBBANDOS.

Whisk. . . 0 hateful liberty — if thus in vain

I seek my Tilburina !
Both Nieces. And ever shalt !

Sir Christ, and Sir Walt. Hold 1 we will avenge you.

Whisk. . Hold you — or see your nieces bleed !

[The two NIECES draw their two daggers to strike WHISKERANDOS :
the two UNCLES at the instant, with their two swords drawn,
catch their two NIECES' arms, and turn the points of their
swords to WHISKERANDOS, who immediately draws two daggers,
and holds them to the two NIECES' bosoms."

Puff. There's situation for you ! there's an heroic group ! — You
see the ladies can't stab Whiskerandos — he durst not strike them,
for fear of their uncles — the uncles durst not kill him, because of
their nieces. — I have them all at a dead-lock 1 — for every one of
them is afraid to let go first.

Sneer. Why, then they must stand there for ever 1

Puff. So they would, if I hadn't a very fine contrivance fort. —

Now mind

" Enter BEEFEATER, with his halberd.

Beef. . . In the queen's name I charge you all to drop
Your swords and daggers 1

[They drop their swords and daggers."

Sneer. That is a contrivance indeed 1
Puff. Ay — in the queen's name.

"SirChrist. Come, niece I

Sir Walt. Come, niece ! [Exeunt with the two NIECES.

Whitk. . What's he, who bids us thus renounce our guard I

Beef. . . Thou must do more — renounce thy love 1

Whisk. . Thou liest— base Beefeater 1

Beef. . . Ha ! hell ! the lie |

By heaven thou'st roused the lion in my heart 1

Off, yeoman's habit !— base disguise I off ! off 1
[Discovers himself, by throwing off his upper dress, and appear-
ing in a very fine waistcoat.

Am I a Beefeater now ?

Or beams my crest as terrible as when

In Biscay's Bay I took thy captive sloop?"

Puff. There, egad ! he comes out to be the very captain of the
privateer who had taken Whiskerandos prisoner — and was himself
an old lover of Tilburina's.

Dang. Admirably managed, indeed !

Puff. Now, stand out of their \vay.

sc. i.] A TRAGEDY REHEARSED. 269

" Whisk. . I thank thee, Fortune, thou hast thus bestowed

A weapon to chastise this insolent. \\Takes up one of the swords.

Beef. . . I take thy challenge, Spaniard, and I thank thee,

Fortune, too I [Takes up the other sword."

Dang. That's excellently contrived ! — It seems as if the two
uncles had left their swords on purpose for them.
Puff. No, egad, they could not help leaving them.

" Whisk. . Vengeance and Tilburina !

Beef. . . Exactly so

[They fight — and after the usual number of wounds given.

WHISKERANDOS /a/k.

Whisk. . 0 cursed parry | — that last thrust in tierce

Was fatal. — Captain, thou hast fenced well !

And Whiskerandos quits this bustling scene

For all eter

Beef. . . nity — he would have added, but stern death

Cut short his being, and the noun at once 1 "

Puff. Oh, my dear sir, you are too slow : now mind me. — Sir,
shall I trouble you to die again ?

" Whisk. . And Whiskerandos quits this bustling scene

For all eter

Beef. . . nity — he would have added,"

Puff. No, sir — that's not it — once more, if you please.

Whisk. I wish, sir, you would practise this without me — I can't
stay dying here all night.

Puff. Very well ; we'll go over it by-and-by. — \Exit WHISKER-
ANDOS.] I must humour these gentlemen 1

"Beef, . Farewell, brave Spaniard 1 and when next"

Puff. Dear sir, you needn't speak that speech, as the body has
walked off.

Beef. That's true, sir — then I'll join the fleet.

Puff. If you please. — [Exit BEEFEATER.] Now, who comes
on?

"Enter GOVERNOR, with his hair properly disordered.

Oov. . . A hemisphere of evil planets reign 1

And every planet sheds contagious frenzy !

My Spanish prisoner is slain 1 my daughter,

Meeting the dead corse borne along, has gone

Distract I [-4 loud flourish of trumpets.

But hark ! I am summon'd to the fort :
Perhaps the fleets have met ! amazing crisis I
0 Tilburina 1 from thy aged father's beard
Thou'st pluck'd the few brown hairs which time had left !

[Exit.-

270 THE CRITIC ; OR, [ACT HI.

Sneer. Poor gentleman 1

Puff'. Yes — and no one to blame but his daughter !

Dan^. And the planets

Puff. True. — Now enter Tilburina !

Sneer. Egad, the business conies on quick here.

Puff. Yes, sir — now she comes in stark mad in white satin.

Sneer. Why in white satin ?

Puff. O Lord, sir — when a heroine goes mad, she always goes
into white satin. — Don't she, Dangle?

Dan<r, Always — it's a rule.

Puff. Yes— here it is — {Looking at the book.} " Enter Tilburina
stark mad in white satin, and her confidant stark mad in white
linen."

"Enter TILBURINA and CONFIDANT, mad, according to custom."

Sneer. But, what the deuce, is the confidant to be mad too ?

Puff. To be sure she is: the confidant is always to do whatever
her mistress does; weep when she weeps, smile when she smiles,
go mad when she goes mad. — Now, madam confidant — but keep
your madness in the background, if you please.

" Tilb. . . The wind whistles — the moon rises — see,
They have kill'd my squirrel in his cage :
Is this a grasshopper ? — Ha ! no ; it is my
Whiskerandos — you shall not keep him —
I know you have him in your pocket —
An oyster may be cross'd in love ! — Who says
A whale's a bird ?— Ha ! did you call, my love ? —
He's here ! he's there ! — He's everywhere 1
Ah me ! he's nowhere ! [Exit."

Puff. There, do you ever desire to see anybody madder than
that?

Sneer. Never, while I live !

Puff. You observed how she mangled the metre ?

Dang. Yes — egad, it was the first thing made me suspect she
was out of her senses !

Sneer. And pray what becomes of her ?

Puff. She is gone to throw herself into the sea, to be sure — and
that brings us at once to the scene of action, and so to my cata-
strophe— my sea-fight, I mean.

Sneer. What, you bring that in at last ?

Puff. Yes, yes — you know my play is called The Spanish
Armada; otherwise, egad, I have no occasion for the battle at
all. — Now then for my magnificence ! — my battle 1 — my noise ! —
and my procession ! — You are all ready?

sc. i.] A TRAGEDY REHEARSED. 271

Und. Promp. [Within] Yes, sir.
Puff. Is the Thames dressed ?

" Enter THAMES with two ATTENDANTS."

Thames. Here I am, sir.

Puff. Very well, indeed ! — See, gentlemen, there's a river for
you ! — This is blending a little of the masque with my tragedy — a
new fancy, you know — and very useful in my case; for as there
must be a procession, I suppose Thames, and all his tributary
rivers, to compliment Britannia with a fete in honour of the
victory.

Sneer. But pray, who are these gentlemen in green with him?
Puff. Those ? — those are his banks.
Sneer. His banks ?

Puff. Yes, one crowned with alders, and the other with a villa !
— you take the allusions ? — But hey ! what the plague ! you have
got both your banks on one side. — Here, sir, come round. — Ever
while you live, Thames, go between your banks. — \Bell ringsl\
There, so ! now fort ! — Stand aside, my dear friends ! — Away,
Thames ! \Exit THAMES between his banks.

\Flourish of drums, trumpets, cannon, etc., etc. Scene changes
to the sea — the fleets engage — the music plays " Btitons,
strike home" — Spanish fleet destroyed by fire-ships, etc. —
English fleet advances — music plays " Rule B> itanma." —
The procession of all the English rivers, and their tribu-
taries, with their emblems, etc., begins with Handel's wafer
music, ends with a chorus to the march in "Judas Mac-
cabceus." — During this scene, PUFF directs and applauds
everything — then

Puff. Well, pretty well — but not quite perfect. — So, ladies and
gentlemen, if you please, we'll rehearse this piece again to-morrow.

\Curtain drops.

P I Z A R R O.

A TRAGEDY.

ADVERTISEMENT.

As the two translations which have been published of Kotzebue's
Spaniards in Peru have, I understand, been very generally read, the
public are in possession of all the materials necessary to form a judgment
on the merits and defects of the Play performed at Drury Lane Theatre.

DEDICATION.

To her, whose approbation of this Drama, and whose peculiar delight in
the applause it has received from the public, have been to me the highest
gratification derived from its success — I dedicate this Play.

RICHARD BRJNSLEY SHERIDAN.

901

DRAMATIS PERSONS,

AS ORIGINALLY ACTED AT DRURY LANE THEATRE IN 1799.

ATALIBA

. Sir. Powell. OLD BLIND MAN . Mr. Cory.

HOLLA .

. Mr.Kemble.

BOY .... Master Chatterley.

OROZEMBO .

. Mr. Dmoton.

SENTINEL . . Mr. Holland.

ORANO .

. Mr. Archer.

ATTENDANT . . Mr. Haddocks.

ALONZO

. Mr. C. Kemble.

CORA . . . Mrs. Jordan.

PIZARRO

. Mr. Barrymore.

ELVIRA . . . Mrt. Siddons.

ALMAGRO

. Mr. Caulfield.

ZULUGA .

GONZAI.O

. Mr. Wentworth

DAVILLA

. Mr. Trueman.

Peruvian Warriors, Women, and Child-

GOMEZ .

. Mr. Surmount.

ren, High-Priest, Priests, and Virgins

VALVERDE .

. Mr. R. Palmer.

of the Sun, Spanish Officers, Soldiers

LAS-CASAS .

. Mr. Aiclrin,

Guards, etc., etc.

SCENE— PERU.

PROLOGUE.

*

WRITTEN BY RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN.
SPOKEN BY MR. KING.

CHILL'D by rude gales, while yet reluctant May

Withholds the beauties of the vernal day;

As some fond maid, whom matron frowns reprove,

Suspends the smile her heart devotes to love;

The season's pleasures too delay their hour,

And Winter revels with protracted power:

Then blame not, critics, if, thus late, we bring

A Winter Drama — but reproach — the Spring.

What prudent cit dares yet the season trust,

Bask in his whisky, and enjoy the dust?

Horsed in Cheapside, scarce yet the gayer spark

Achieves the Sunday triumph of the Park;

Scarce yet you see him, dreading to be late,

Scour the New Road, and dash through Grosvenor Gate :

Anxious — yet timorous too — his steed to show,

The hack Bucephalus of Rotten Row.

Careless he seems, yet vigilantly sly,

Woos the gay glance of ladies passing by,

While his off heel, insidiously aside,

Provokes the caper which he seems to chide.

Scarce rural Kensington due honour gains ;

The vulgar verdure of her walk remains !

Where night-robed misses ambie two by two,

Nodding to booted beaux — "How do, how do?"

With generous questions that no answer wait,

" How vastly full ! An't you come vastly late ?

Isn't it quite charming ? When do you leave town ?

An't you quite tired? Pray, can't we sit down?"

These suburb pleasures of a London May,

Imperfect yet, we hail the cold delay;

Should our Play please — and you're indulgent ever—

Be your decree — " 'Tis better late than never."

PIZARRO.

» •

A TRAGEDY.

ACT I.
SCENE I.— A PAVILION NEAR PIZARRO'S TENT.

ELVIRA discovered sleeping under a canopy. VALVERDE enters,
gazes on ELVIRA, kneels, and attempts to kiss her handj
ELVIRA, awakened, rises and looks at him -with indignation.

Elv. Audacious ! Whence is thy privilege to interrupt the few
moments of repose my harassed mind can snatch amid the tumults
of this noisy camp ? Shall I inform thy master, Pizarro, of this
presumptuous treachery ?

Val. I am his servant, it is true — trusted by him — and I know
him well; and therefore 'tis I ask, by what magic could Pizarro
gain your heart ? by what fatality still holds he your affection ?

Elv. Hold 1 thou trusty secretary !

Val. Ignobly born 1 in mind and manners rude, ferocious and
unpolished, though cool and crafty if occasion need — in youth
audacious — ill his first manhood — a licensed pirate — treating men
as brutes, the world as booty ; yet now the Spanish hero is he
styled — the first of Spanish conquerors 1 and, for a warrior so
accomplished, 'tis fit Elvira should leave her noble family, her
fame, her home, to share the dangers, humours, and the crimes
of such a lover as Pizarro !

Elv. What ! Valverde moralising 1 But grant I am in error,
what is my incentive? Passion, infatuation, call it as you will;
but what attaches thee to this despised, unworthy leader? Base
lucre is thy object, mean fraud thy means. Could you gain me,
you only hope to win a higher interest in Pizarro. I know you.

Val. On my soul, you wrong me ! What else my faults, I have
none towards you. But indulge the scorn and levity of your
nature ; do it while yet the time permits ; the gloomy hour, I fear,
too soon approaches.

ACT i.] PIZARRO. 277

Elv. Valverde a prophet too !

Val. Hear me, Elvira. Shams from his late defeat, and burning
wishes for revenge, again have brought Pizarro to Peru ; but trust
me, he overrates his strength, nor measures well the foe. En-
camped in a strange country, where terror cannot force, nor
corruption buy a single friend, what have we to hope ? The army
murmuring at increasing hardships, while Pizarro decorates with
gaudy spoil the gay pavilion of his luxury, each day diminishes our
force.

Elv. But are you not the heirs of those that fall ?

Val. Are gain and plunder, then, our only purpose ? Is this
Elvira's heroism ?

Elv. No, so save me, Heaven ! I abhor the motive, means, and
end of your pursuits ; but I will trust none of you. In your whole
army there is not one of you that has a heart, or speaks ingenu-
ously— aged Las-Casas, and he alone, excepted.

Val. He 1 an enthusiast in the opposite and worst extreme !

Elv. Oh ! had I earlier known that virtuous man, how different
might my lot have been !

Val. I will grant Pizarro could not then so easily have duped
you : forgive me, but at that event I still must wonder.

Elv. Hear me, Valverde. When first my virgin fancy waked
to love, Pizarro was my country's idol. Self-taught, self-raised,
and self-supported, he became a hero ; and I was formed to be won
by glory and renown. 'Tis known that, when he left Panama in a
slight vessel, his force was not a hundred men. Arrived at the
island of Gallo, with his sword he drew a line upon the sands, and
said, " Pass those who fear to die or conquer with their leader."
Thirteen alone remained, and at the head of these the warrior
stood his ground. Even at the moment when my ears first
caught this tale, my heart exclaimed, " Pizarro is its lord ! " What
since I have perceived, or thought, or felt, you must have more
worth to win the knowledge of.

Val. I press no further, still assured that, while Alonzo de
Molina, our general's former friend and pupil, leads the enemy,
Pizarro never more will be a conqueror. [Trumpets without.

Elv, Silence ! I hear him coming ; look not perplexed. How
mystery and fraud confound the countenance 1 Quick, put on an
honest face, if thou canst

Piz. {Without^ Chain and secure him; I will examine him
myself.

Enter PIZARRO. VALVERDE bows— ELVIRA laughs.
Piz. Why dost thou smile, Elvira ?

278 P2ZARRO. [ACT i.

Elv. To laugh or weep without a reason is one of the few
privileges poor women have.

Piz. Elvira, I will know the cause, I am resolved I

Elv. I am glad of that, because I love resolution, and am
resolved not to tell you. Now my resolution, I take it, is the
better of the two, because it depends upon myself, and yours does
not.

Piz. Psha ! trifler !

Val. Elvira was laughing at my apprehensions that ,

Piz. Apprehensions !

Val. Yes — that Alonzo's skill and genius should so have discip-
lined and informed the enemy, as to

Piz. Alonzo ! the traitor ! How I once loved that man ! His
noble mother entrusted him, a boy, to my protection. — [ELVIRA
walks about pensively in the background] At my table did he
feast — in my tent did he repose. I had marked his early genius,
and the valorous spirit that grew with it Often had I talked to
him of our first adventures — what storms we struggled with —
what perils we surmounted! When landed with a slender host
upon an unknown land — then, when I told how famine and fatigue,
discord and toil, day by day, did thin our ranks amid close-pressing
enemies — how still undaunted I endured and dared — maintained
my purpose and my power in despite of growling mutiny or bold
revolt, till with my faithful few remaining I became at last vic-
torious ! — when, I say, of these things I spoke, the youth Alonzo,
with tears of wonder and delight, would throw him on my neck,
and swear his soul's ambition owned no other leader.

Val. What could subdue attachment so begun ?

Piz. Las-Casas. — He it was, with fascinating craft and canting
precepts of humanity, raised in Alonzo's mind a new enthusiasm,
which forced him, as the stripling termed it, to forego his country's
claims for those of human nature.

Val. Yes, the traitor left you, joined the Peruvians, and became
thy enemy, and Spain's.

Piz. But first with weariless remonstrance he sued to win me
from my purpose, and untwine the sword from my determined
grasp. Much he spoke of right, of justice, and humanity, calling
the Peruvians our innocent and unoffending brethren.

Val. They ! Obdurate heathens ! They our brethren !

Piz. But when he found that the soft folly of the pleading
tears he dropped upon my bosom fell on marble, he flew and
joined the foe : then, profiting by the lessons he had gained in
wronged Pizarro's school, the youth so disciplined and led his
new allies, that soon he forced me — ha ! I burn with shame and

sc. L] PIZARRO. 279

fury while I own it ! — in base retreat and foul discomfiture to quit
the shore.

Val. But the hour of revenge is come.

Piz. It is ; I am returned : my force is strengthened, and the
audacious boy shall soon know that Pizarro lives, and has — a
grateful recollection of the thanks he owes him.
Val. 'Tis doubted whether still Alonzo lives.

Piz. 'Tis certain that he does ; one of his armour-bearers is
just made prisoner : twelve thousand is their force, as he reports,
led by Alonzo and Peruvian Rolla. This day they make a solemn
sacrifice on their ungodly altars. We must profit by their security,
and attack them unprepared — the sacrificers shall become the
victims.

Elv. Wretched innocents 1 And their own blood shall bedew
their altars !

Piz. Right ! — {Trumpets without.'] Elvira, retire !

Elv. Why should I retire ?

Piz. Because men are to meet here, and on manly business.

Elv. O men 1 men ! ungrateful and perverse ! O woman ! still
affectionate though wronged ! — [VALVERDE retires back.'] The
beings to whose eyes you turn for animation, hope, and rapture,
through the days of mirth and revelry ; and on whose bosoms, in
the hour of sore calamity, you seek for rest and consolation ; them,
when the pompous follies of your mean ambition are the question,
you treat as playthings or as slaves ! — I shall not retire.

Piz. Remain then ; and, if thou canst, be silent.

Elv. They only babble who practise not reflection. I shall
think — and thought is silence.

Piz. [Aside."] Ha ! there's somewhat in her manner lately

[Looks sternly and suspiciously at ELVIRA, who meets his
glance with a commanding and unaltered eye.

Enter LAS-CASAS, ALMAGRO, GONZALO, DAVILLA, OFFICERS and
SOLDIERS. — Trumpets without.

Las-Cas. Pizarro, we attend thy summons.

Piz. Welcome, venerable father ! — My friends, most welcome !
—Friends and fellow-soldiers, at length the hour is arrived,
which to Pizarro's hopes presents the full reward of our undaunted
enterprise and long-enduring toils. Confident in security, this day
the foe devotes to solemn sacrifice : if with bold surprise we strike
on their solemnity — trust to your leader's word — we shall not fail.

Aim. Too long inactive have we been mouldering on the coast ;
our stores exhausted, and our soldiers murmuring. Battle I
battle !— then death to the armed, and chains for the defenceless.

280 P1ZARRO. [ACT i.

Dav. Death to the whole Peruvian race !

Las-Cos, Merciful Heaven !

Aim. Yes, general, the attack, and instantly ! Then shall
Alonzo, basking at his ease, soon cease to scoff our sufferings and
scorn our force.

Las-Cos. Alonzo ! — scorn and presumption are not in his nature.

Aim. 'Tis fit Las-Casas should defend his pupil.

Piz. Speak not of the traitor 1 or hear his name but as the
bloody summons to assault and vengeance. It appears we are
agreed ?

Aim., Dav. We are,

Gon. AIL— Battle! battle!

Los-Cos. Is, then, the dreadful measure of your cruelty not yet
complete ? Battle ! gracious Heaven ! against whom ? Against a
king, in whose mild bosom your atrocious injuries even yet have
not excited hate ! but who, insulted or victorious, still sues for
peace. Against a people who never wronged the living being
their Creator formed : a people who, children of innocence 1
received you as cherished guests with eager hospitality and con-
fiding kindness. Generously and freely did they share with you
their comforts, their treasures, and their homes : you repaid them
by fraud, oppression, and dishonour. These eyes have witnessed
all I speak — as gods you were received ; as fiends have you acted.

Piz. Las-Casas !

Las-Cos. Pizarro, hear me ! — Hear me, chieftains ! — And thou,
All-powerful ! whose thunders can shiver into sand the adamantine
rock — whose lightnings can pierce to the core of the rived and
quaking earth — oh ! let thy power give effect to thy servant's words,
as thy spirit gives courage to his will ! — Do not, I implore you,
chieftains — countrymen — do not, I implore you, renew the foul
barbarities which your insatiate avarice has inflicted on this wretched,
unoffending race 1 — But hush, my sighs ! — fall not, drops of use-
less sorrow ! — heart-breaking anguish, choke not my utterance 1
— All I entreat is, send me once more to those you call your
enemies. — Oh ! let me be the messenger of penitence from you ;
I shall return with blessings and with peace from them. — \Turning
to ELVIRA.] Elvira, you weep ! — Alas ! and does this dreadful
crisis move no heart but thine ?

Aim. Because there are no women here but she and thou.

Piz. Close this idle war of words : time flies, and our oppor-
tunity will be lost Chieftains, are ye for instant battle ?

Aim. We are.

Las-Cos. Oh, men of blood ! — [Kneels.] God ! thou hast anointed
me thy servant — not to curse, but to bless my countrymen : yet

sc. i.] PIZARRO. 281

now my blessing on their force were blasphemy against thy good-
ness.— \RisesI\ No ! I curse your purpose, homicides ! I curse the
bond of blood by which you are united. May fell division, infamy,
and rout, defeat your projects and rebuke your hopes ! On you,
and on your children, be the peril of the innocent blood which shall
be shed this day ! I leave you, and for ever ! No longer shall
these aged eyes be seared by the horrors they have witnessed. In
caves, in forests, will I hide myself; with tigers and with savage
beasts will I commune ; and when at length we meet before the
blessed tribunal of that Deity whose mild doctrines and whose
mercies ye have this day renounced, then shall you feel the
agony and grief of soul which tear the bosom of your accuser now 1

\Going.

Elv. [Rises and takes the hand of LAS-CASAS.] Las-Casas !
Oh, take me with thee, Las-Casas !

Las-Cas. Stay ! lost, abused lady 1 I alone am useless here.
Perhaps thy loveliness may persuade to pity, where reason and
religion plead in vain. Oh ! save thy innocent fellow-creatures if
thou canst : then shall thy frailty be redeemed, and thou wilt share
the mercy thou bestowest [Exit.

Piz. How, Elvira ! wouldst thou leave me ?

Elv. I am bewildered, grown terrified ! Your inhumanity —
and that good Las-Casas — oh ! he appeared to me just now some-
thing more than heavenly : and you ! ye all looked worse than
earthly.

Piz. Compassion sometimes becomes a beauty.

Elv. Humanity always becomes a conqueror.

Aim. Well ! Heaven be praised, we are rid of the old moralist.

Con. I hope he'll join his preaching pupil, Alonzo.

Piz. [Turning to ALMAGRO.] Now to prepare our muster and
our march. At midday is the hour of the sacrifice. [ELVIRA sits.}
Consulting with our guides, the route of your divisions shall be
given to each commander. If we surprise, we conquer; and, if we
conquer, the gates of Quito will be open to us.

Aim. And Pizarro then be monarch of Peru.

Piz. Not so fast — ambition for a time must take counsel from
discretion. Ataliba still must hold the shadow of a sceptre in his
hand — Pizarro still appear dependent upon Spain : while the
pledge of future peace, his daughter's hand [ELVIRA rises much
agitated], secures the proud succession to the crown I seek.

Aim. This is best. In Pizarro's plans observe the statesman's
wisdom guides the warrior's valour.

Val. {Aside to ELVIRA.] You mark, Elvira ?

Elv. Oh, yes — this is best — this is excellent !

282 P1ZARRO. [ACT I.

Pig. You seem offended. Elvira still retains my heart. Think
— a sceptre waves me on.

Elv. Offended ? — no ! Thou knowest thy glory is my idol ;
and this will be most glorious, most just and honourable.

Piz. What mean you?

Elv. Oh, nothing ! — mere woman's prattle — a jealous whim,
perhaps : but let it not impede the royal hero's course. — [Trumpets
without.} The call of arms invites you. — Away ! away 1 you, his
brave, his worthy fellow-warriors.

Piz. And go you not with me ?

Elv. Undoubtedly ! I needs must be first to hail the future
monarch of Peru.

Enter GOMEZ.

Aim. How, Gomez ! what bringest thou ?

Com. On yonder hill, among the palm-trees, we have surprised
an old cacique : escape by flight he could not, and we seized him
and his attendant unresisting ; yet his lips breathe naught but
bitterness and scorn.

Piz. Drag him before us. — [ELVIRA sits pensively. GOMEZ
goes out and returns with OROZEMBO and Attendant, in chains,
guarded^ What art thou, stranger?

Oro. First tell me which among you is the captain of this band
of robbers.

Piz. Ha !

Aim. Madman 1 — Tear out his tongue, or else —

Oro. Thou'lt hear some truth.

Dav. \Showing his poniard.} Shall I not plunge this into his
heart ?

Oro. [To PIZARRO.] Does your army boast many such heroes
as this?

Piz. Audacious ! this insolence has sealed thy doom. Die thou
shalt, grey-headed ruffian. But first confess what thou knowest.

Oro. I know that which thou hast just assured me of — that I
shall die.

Piz. Less audacity perhaps might have preserved thy life.

Oro. My life is as a withered tree ; it is not worth preserving.

Piz.^ Hear me, old man. Even now we march against the
Peruvian army. We know there is a secret path that leads to
your stronghold among the rocks ; guide us to that, and name thy
reward. If wealth be thy wish

Oro. Ha! ha! ha! ha 1

Piz. Dost thou despise my offer ?

Oro. Thee and thy offer ! Wealth 1— I have the wealth of two

sc. i.] PIZARRO. 283

dear gallant sons — I have stored in heaven the riches which repay
good actions here — and still my chiefest treasure do I bear about
me.

Piz. What is that ? inform me.

Oro. I will ; for it never can be thine — the treasure of a pure,
unsullied conscience.

[ELVIRA sits, still paying marked attention to OROZEMBO.
Piz. I believe there is no other Peruvian who dares speak as
thou dost.

Oro. Would I could believe there is no other Spaniard who
dares act as thou dost !

Gon. Obdurate Pagan 1 How numerous is your army?
Oro. Count the leaves of yonder forest.
Aim. Which is the weakest part of your camp ?
Oro. It has no weak part ; on every side 'tis fortified by justice.
Piz. Where have you concealed your wives and your children ?
Oro. In the hearts of their husbands and their fathers.
Piz. Knowest thou Alonzo ?

Oro. Know him ! Alonzo ! Know him ! Our nation's bene-
factor ! the guardian angel of Peru 1

Piz. By what has he merited that title ?
Oro. By not resembling thee.

Aim. Who is this Rolla, joined with Alonzo in command ?
Oro. I will answer that ; for I love to hear and to repeat the
hero's name. Rolla, the kinsman of the king, is the idol of our
army ; in war a tiger, chafed by the hunter's spear ; in peace more
gentle than the unweaned lamb. Cora was once betrothed to him ;
but, finding she preferred Alonzo, he resigned his claim, and, I fear,
his peace, to friendship and to Cora's happiness ; yet still he loves
her with a pure and holy fire.

Piz. Romantic savage ! — I shall meet this Rolla soon.
Oro. Thou hadst better not 1 the terrors of his noble eye would
strike thee dead.
Dav. Silence, or tremble !

Oro. Beardless robber! I never yet have trembled before
God ; why should I tremble before man ? Why before thee, thou
less than man ?

Dav. Another word, audacious heathen, and I strike !
Oro. Strike, Christian ! Then boast among thy fellows — I too
have murdered a Peruvian !

Dav. Hell and vengeance seize thee 1 [Stabs him.

Piz. Hold 1

Dav. Couldst thou longer have endured his insults ?
Piz. And therefore should he die untortured ?

284 PIZARRO. [ACT i.

Oro. True! Observe, young man— \To DAVILLA.] Thy un-
thinking rashness has saved me from the rack ; and thou thyself
hast lost the opportunity of a useful lesson : thou mightst thyself
have seen with what cruelty vengeance would have inflicted
torments — and with what patience virtue would have borne them.

Elv. [Supporting OROZEMBO'S* head upon her bosowJ] Oh, ye
are monsters all ! Look up, thou martyred innocent — look up once
more, and bless me ere thou diest. God ! how I pity thee !

Oro. Pity me 1 — me 1 so near my happiness 1 Bless thee,
lady ! — Spaniards — Heaven turn your hearts, and pardon you, as
I do.

Piz. Away! — [OROZEMBO is borne off dyingl\ Away! Davilla !
if thus rash a second time

Dav. Forgive the hasty indignation which

Piz. No more ! Unbind that trembling wretch— let him
depart : 'tis well he should report the mercy which we show to
insolent defiance. — Hark ! our troops are moving.

Attend. [On passing ELVIRA.] If through your gentle means
my master's poor remains might be preserved from insult

Elv. I understand thee.

Attend. His sons may yet thank your charity, if not avenge
their father's fate. [Exit.

Piz. What says the slave?

Elv. A parting word to thank you for your mercy.

Piz. Our guards and guides approach. — [SOLDIERS march
through the tents.] Follow me, friends — each shall have his post
assigned, and ere Peruvia's god shall sink beneath the main, the
Spanish banner, bathed in blood, shall float above the walls of
vanquished Quito. [Exeunt all but ELVIRA and VALVERDE.

Val. Is it now presumption that my hopes gain strength with
the increasing horrors which I see appal Elvira's soul ?

Elv. I am mad with terror and remorse ! Would I could fly
these dreadful scenes !

Val. Might not Valverde's true attachment be thy refuge ?

Elv. What wouldst thou do to save or to avenge me ?

Val. I dare do all thy injuries may demand — a word — and he
lies bleeding at your feet.

Elv. Perhaps we will speak again of this. Now leave me. —
[Exit VALVERDE.] No I not this revenge — no ! not this instru-
ment. Fie, Elvira ! even for a moment to counsel with this
unworthy traitor ! Can a wretch, false to a confiding master, be
true to any pledge of love or honour ? — Pizarro will abandon me —
yes ; me — who, for his sake, have sacrificed — oh, God ! what have
I not sacrificed for him I Yet, curbing the avenging pride that

ACT ii.] PIZARRO. 285

swells this bosom, I still will further try him. Oh, men 1 ye who,
wearied by the fond fidelity of virtuous love, seek in the wanton's
flattery a new delight, oh, ye may insult and leave the hearts to
which your faith was pledged, and, stifling self-reproach, may fear
no other peril ; because such hearts, howe'er you injure and desert
them, have yet the proud retreat of an unspotted fame — of unre-
proaching conscience. But beware the desperate libertine who
forsakes the creature whom his arts have first deprived of all
natural protection — of all self-consolation ! What has he left her ?
Despair and vengeance 1 [Exit.

ACT IL

SCENE I. — A BANK SURROUNDED BY A WILD WOOD,

AND ROCKS.

CORA is discovered playing with her CHILD ; ALONZO hanging over
them with delight.

Cora. Now confess, does he resemble thee, or not ?

Alon. Indeed he is liker thee — thy rosy softness, thy smiling
gentleness.

Cora. But his auburn hair, the colour of his eyes, Alonzo. — Oh,
my lord's image, and my heart's adored 1

[Presses the CHILD to her bosom.

Alon. The little darling urchin robs me, I doubt, of some
portion of thy love, my Cora. At least he shares caresses, which
till his birth were only mine.

Cora. Oh no, Alonzo ! a mother's love for her sweet babe is not
a stealth from the dear father's store ; it is a new delight that turns
with quickened gratitude to Him, the author of her augmented bliss.

Alon. Could Cora think me serious?

Cora. I am sure he will speak soon : then will be the last of the
three holidays allowed by Nature's sanction to the fond, anxious
mother's heart.

Alon. What are those three ?

Cora. The ecstasy of his birth I pass ; that in part is selfish ;
but when the first white blossoms of his teeth appear, breaking the
crimson buds that did encase them, that is a day of joy ; next, when
from his father's aims he runs without support, and clings, laughing
and delighted, to his mother's knees, that is the mother's heart's
next holiday ; and sweeter still the third, whene'er his little stam-
mering tongue shall utter the grateful sound of father ! mother ! —
Oh, that is the dearest joy of all !

286 PIZARRO. [ACT n.

Alon. Beloved Cora 1

Cora. Oh, my Alonzo ! daily, hourly, do I pour thanks to
Heaven for the dear blessing I possess in him and thee.

Alon. To Heaven and Rolla !

Cora. Yes, to Heaven and Rolla : and art thou not grateful to
them too, Alonzo? art thou not happy?

Alon. Can Cora ask that question ?

Cora. Why then of late so restless on thy couch ? Why to my
waking, watching ear so often does the stillness of the night betray
thy struggling sighs ?

Alon. Must not I fight against my country, against my brethren?

Cora. Do they not seek our destruction ? and are not all men
brethren ?

Alon. Should they prove victorious ?

Cora. I will fly, and meet thee in the mountains.

Alon. Fly, with thy infant, Cora ?

Cora. What ! think you a mother, when she flies from danger,
can feel the weight of her child ?

Alon. Cora, my beloved, do you wish to set my heart at
rest?

Cora. Oh yes ! yes ! yes 1

Alon. Hasten then to the concealment in the mountains ; where
all our matrons and virgins, and our warriors' offspring, are allotted
to await the issue of the war. Cora will not alone resist her
husband's, her sisters', and her monarch's wish.

Cora. Alonzo, I cannot leave you. Oh ! how in every moment's
absence would my fancy paint you, wounded, alone, abandoned !
No, no, I cannot leave you.

Alon. Rolla will be with me.

Cora. Yes, while the battle rages, and where it rages most,
brave Rolla will be found. He may revenge, but cannot save thee.
To follow danger, he will leave even thee. But I have sworn
never to forsake thee but with life. Dear, dear Alonzo 1 canst thou
wish that I should break my vow ?

Alon. Then be it so. Oh ! excellence in all that's great and
lovely, in courage, gentleness, and truth ; my pride, my content,
my all ! Can there on this earth be fools who seek for happiness,
and pass by love in the pursuit?

Cora. Alonzo, I cannot thank thee : silence is the gratitude of
true affection ; who seeks to follow it by sound will miss the track.
— [Shouts without.] Does the king approach ?

Alon. No, 'tis the general placing the guard that will surround
the temple during the sacrifice. 'Tis Rolla comes, the first and best
of heroes. {Trumpets sound.

sc. i.] PIZARRO. 287

Rol. [Without.} Then place them on the hill fronting the
Spanish camp.

Enter ROLLA.

Cora. Rolla ! my friend, my brother !

A Ion. Rolla ! my friend, my benefactor 1 how can our lives
repay the obligations which we owe thee ?

Rol. Pass them in peace and bliss. Let Rolla witness it, he is
overpaid.

Cora. Look on this child. He is the life-blood of my heart ;
but if ever he loves or reveres thee less than his own father, his
mother's hate fall on him !

Rol. Oh, no more ! What sacrifice have I made to merit
gratitude ? The object of my love was Cora's happiness. I see
her happy. Is not my object gained, and am I not rewarded?
Now, Cora, listen to a friend's advice. Thou must away ; thou must
seek the sacred caverns, the unprofaned recess, whither, after this
day's sacrifice, our matrons, and e'en the virgins of the sun, retire.

Cora. Not secure with Alonzo and with thee, Rolla ?

Rol. We have heard Pizarro's plan is to surprise us. Thy
presence, Cora, cannot aid, but may impede our efforts.

Cora. Impede !

Rol. Yes, yes. Thou knowest how tenderly we love thee ; we,
thy husband and thy friend. Art thou near us ? our thoughts, our
valour — vengeance will not be our own. No advantage will be
pursued that leads us from the spot where thou art placed ; no
succour will be given but for thy protection. The faithful lover
dares not be all himself amid the war, until he knows that the
beloved of his soul is absent from the peril of the fight.

Alon. Thanks to my friend ! 'tis this I would have urged.

Cora. This timid excess of love, producing fear instead of valour,
flatters, but does not convince me : the wife is incredulous.

Rol. And is the mother unbelieving too?

Cora. [Kisses child.] No more ! do with me as you please. My
friend, my husband ! place me where you will.

Alon. My adored ! we thank you both. — [March •without.'}
Hark 1 the king approaches to the sacrifice. You, Rolla, spoke of
rumours of surprise. A servant of mine, I hear, is missing ;
whether surprised or treacherous, I know not.

Rol. It matters not. We are everywhere prepared. Come,
Cora, upon the altar 'mid the rocks thou'lt implore a blessing on
our cause. The pious supplication of the trembling wife, and
mother's heart, rises to the throne of mercy, the most resistless
prayer of human homage. \Exeunt.

288 PIZARRO. [ACT IL

SCENE II.— THE TEMPLE OF THE SUN.

The HIGH-PRIEST, PRIESTS, and VIRGINS OF THE SUN, discovered.
A solemn march. ATALIBA. and the PERUVIAN WARRIORS
enter on one side; on the other, ROLLA, ALONZO, and CORA
with the CHILD.

Ata. Welcome, Alonzo ! — [To ROLLA.] Kinsman, thy hand. —
[To CORA.] Blessed be the object of the happy mother's love.

Cora. May the sun bless the father of his people 1

Ata. In the welfare of his children lives the happiness of their
king. — Friends, what is the temper of our soldiers ?

Rol. Such as becomes the cause which they support ; their cry
is, Victory or death 1 our king ! our country ! and our God 1

Ata. Thou, Rolla, in the hour of peril, hast been wont to animate
the spirit of their leaders, ere we proceed to consecrate the banners
which thy valour knows so well how to guard.

Rol. Yet never was the hour of peril near, when to inspire them
words were so little needed. My brave associates — partners of my
toil, my feelings, and my fame ! — can Rolla's words add vigour to
the virtuous energies which inspire your hearts ? No ! You have
judged, as I have, the foulness of the crafty plea by which these bold
invaders would delude you. Your generous spirit has compared,
as mine has, the motives which, in a war like this, can animate
their minds and ours. They, by a strange frenzy driven, fight for
power, for plunder, and extended rule : we, for our country, our
altars, and our homes. They follow an adventurer whom they fear,
and obey a power which they hate : we serve a monarch whom we
love — a God whom we adore. Whene'er they move in anger,
desolation tracks their progress I Whene'er they pause in amity,
affliction mourns their friendship. They boast they come but to
improve our state, enlarge our thoughts, and free us from the yoke
of error 1 Yes : they will give enlightened freedom to our minds,
who are themselves the slaves of passion, avarice, and pride. They
offer us their protection : yes, such protection as vultures give to
lambs— covering and devouring them 1 They call on us to barter
all of good we have inherited and proved, for the desperate chance
of something better which they promise. Be our plain answer this:
— The throne we honour is the people's choice ; the laws we
reverence are our brave father's legacy ; the faith we follow teaches
us to live in bonds of charity with all mankind, and die with hope
of bliss beyond the grave. Tell your invaders this, and tell them
too we seek no change ; and, least of all, such change as they
would bring us. {Loud shouts of the PERUVIAN WARRIORS.

sc. in.] PIZARRO. 289

Ata. [Embracing RpLLA.] Now, holy friends, ever mindful of
these sacred truths, begin the sacrifice. — [A solemn procession com-
mences. The PRIESTS and VIRGINS arrange themselves on either
side of the altar, which, the HlGH-PRiEST approaches, and the
solemnity begins. The invocation of the HlGH-PRiEST is followed
by the choruses of the PRIESTS and VIRGINS. Fire from above
lights upon the altar. The whole assembly rise, and join in the
thanksgiving.} Our offering is accepted. Now to arms, my
friends ; prepare for battle.

Enter ORANO.

Or a. The enemy!

Ata. How near ?

Ora. From the hill's brow, e'en now as I o'erlooked their force,
suddenly I perceived the whole in motion : with eager haste they
march towards our deserted camp, as if apprised of this most
solemn sacrifice.

Rol. They must be met before they reach it.

Ata. And you, my daughters, with your dear children, away to
the appointed place of safety.

Cora. Oh, Alonzo ! {Embracing him.

Alon. We shall meet again.

Cora. Bless us once more ere you leave us.

Alon. Heaven protect and bless thee, my beloved ; and thee,
my innocent !

Ata. Haste, haste ! each moment is precious !

Cora. Farewell, Alonzo ! Remember thy life is mine.

Rol. [As she is passing him} Not one farewell to Rolla ?

Cora. [Giving- him her hand} Farewell ! The god of war be
with you : but bring me back Alonzo. [Exit with the CHILD.

Ata. [Draws his sword} Now, my brethren, my sons, my friends,
I know your valour. Should ill success assail us, be despair the
last feeling of your hearts. If successful, let mercy be the first. —
Alonzo, to you I give to defend the narrow passage of the
mountains. On the right of the wood be Rolla's station. For me
straight forwards will I march to meet them, and fight until I see
my people saved, or they behold their monarch fall. Be the word
of battle — God, and our native land ! [A march. Exeunt.

SCENE III. — A WOOD BETWEEN THE TEMPLE AND THE

CAMP.

Enter ROLLA and ALONZO.

Rol. Here, my friend, we separate— soon, I trust, to meet again
in triumph.

902

2 go PIZARRO, [ACT n.

Alon. Or perhaps we part to meet no more. — Rolla, a moment's
pause ; we are yet before our army's strength ; one earnest word
at parting.

Rol. There is in language now no word but battle.

Alon. Yes, one word — one — Cora !

Rol. Cora ! — speak !

Alon. The next hour brings us

Rol. Death or victory !

Alon. It may be victory to one — death to the other.

Rol. Or both may fall.

Alon. If so, my wife and child I bequeath to the protection of
Heaven and my king. But should I only fall, Rolla, be thou my
heir.

Rol. How ?

Alon. Be Cora thy wife — be thou a father to my child.

Rol. Rouse thee, Alonzo ! banish these timid fancies.

Alon. Rolla ! I have tried in vain, and cannot fly from the fore-
boding which oppresses me : thou knowest it will not shake me in
the fight : but give me the promise I exact

Rol. If it be Cora's will — yes — I promise. [Gives his hand.

Alon. Tell her it was my last wish ; and bear to her and to my
son my last blessing !

Rol. I will. — Now then to our posts, and let our swords speak
for us. [They draw their swords.

Alon. For the king and Cora !

Rol. For Cora and the king !

[Exeunt severally. Alarms without.

SCENE IV.— THE PERUVIAN CAMP.

Enter an OLD BLIND MAN and a BOY.

Old Man. Have none returned to the camp ?

Boy. One messenger alone. From the temple they all marched
to meet the foe.

Old Man. Hark ! I hear the din of battle. Oh, had I still
retained my sight, I might now have grasped a sword, and died a
soldier's death ! — Are we quite alone ?

Boy. Yes ! — I hope my father will be safe !

Old Man. He will do his duty. I am more anxious for thee,
my child.

Boy. I can stay with you, dear grandfather.

Old Man. But, should the enemy come, they will drag thee
from me, my boy.

sc. iv.] PIZARRO. 291

Boy. Impossible, grandfather! for they will see at once that
you are old and blind, and cannot do without me.

Old Man. Poor child ! thou little knowest the hearts of these
inhuman men. — {Discharge of cannon heard.'} Hark ! the noise is
near. I hear the dreadful roaring of the fiery engines of these
cruel strangers.— [Shouts at a distance.} At every shout, with
involuntary haste I clench my hand, and fancy still it grasps a
sword ! Alas ! I can only serve my country by my prayers.
Heaven preserve the Inca and his gallant soldiers 1

Boy. O father ! there are soldiers running

Old Man. Spaniards, boy ?

Boy. No, Peruvians !

Old Man. How ! and flying from the field ! — It cannot be.

Enter two PERUVIAN SOLDIERS.

Oh, speak to them, boy ! — whence come you ? how goes the
battle ?

Sold. We may not stop ; we are sent for the reserve behind the
hill. The day's against us. [Exeunt SOLDIERS.

Old Man. Quick, then, quick I

Boy. I see the points of lances glittering in the light.

Old Man. Those are Peruvians. Do they bend this way?

Enter a PERUVIAN SOLDIER.

Boy. Soldier, speak to my blind father.

Sold. I'm sent to tell the helpless father to retreat among the
rocks : all will be lost, I fear. The king is wounded.

Old Man. Quick, boy ! Lead me to the hill, where thou may'st
view the plain. [Alarms.

Enter ATALIBA, wounded, with ORANO, OFFICERS, and
SOLDIERS.

Ata. My wound is bound ; believe me, the hurt is nothing : I
may return to the fight.

Ora. Pardon your servant ; but the allotted priest who attends
the sacred banner has pronounced that, the Inca's blood once shed,
no blessing can await the day until he leave the field.

A la. Hard restraint ! Oh, my poor brave soldiers ! Hard
that I may no longer be a witness of their valour. — But haste you ;
return to your comrades ; I will not keep one soldier from his
post. Go, and avenge your fallen brethren. — \Exeunt ORANO,
OFFICERS, and SOLDIERS.] I will not repine ; my own fate is
the last anxiety of my heart. It is for you, my people, that I feel
and fear.

292 P1ZARRO. [ACT 11.

Old Man. [Coming forward.'] Did I not hear the voice of an
unfortunate ? — Who is it complains thus ?

Ata. One almost by hope forsaken.

Old Man. Is the king alive ?

Ata. The king still lives.

Old Man. Then thou art not forsaken ! Ataliba protects the
meanest of his subjects.

Ata. And who shall protect Ataliba ?

Old Man. The immortal powers, that protect the just The
virtues of our monarch alike secure to him the affection of his
people and the benign regard of Heaven.

Ata. How impious, had I murmured ! How wondrous, thou
supreme Disposer, are thy acts ! Even in this moment, which I
had thought the bitterest trial of mortal suffering, thou hast infused
the sweetest sensation of my life — it is the assurance of my people's
love. {Aside.

Boy. [Turning forward.] O father 1 — Stranger! see those
hideous men that rush upon us yonder !

Ala. Ha ! Spaniards ! and I, Ataliba — ill-fated fugitive, without
a sword even to try the ransom of a monarch's life.

Enter DAVILLA, ALMAGRO, and SPANISH SOLDIERS.

Dav. 'Tis he — our hopes are answered — I know him well — it is
the king !

Aim. Away ! Follow with your prize. Avoid those Peruvians,
though in flight. This way we may regain our Une.

\Exeunt DAVILLA, ALMAGRO, and SOLDIERS, with ATALIBA
prisoner.

Old Man. The king ! wretched old man, that could not see his
gracious form ! — Boy, would thou hadst led me to the reach of those
ruffians' swords !

Boy. Father ! all our countrymen are flying here for refuge.

Old Man. No — to the rescue of their king — they never will
desert him. \Alarms without.

Enter PERUVIAN OFFICERS and SOLDIERS, flying across the stage;

ORANO following.

Ora. Hold, I charge you ! Rolla calls you.
Officer. We cannot combat with their dreadful engines.

Enter ROLLA.

Rol. Hold ! recreants ! cowards ! What, fear ye death, and
fear not shame ? By my soul's fury, I cleave to the earth the first
of you that stirs ; or plunge your dastard swords into your leader's

sc. iv.] PIZARRO. 293

heart, that he no more may witness your disgrace. Where is the
king ?

Ora. From this old man and boy I learn that the detachment of
the enemy which you observed so suddenly to quit the field, have
succeeded in surprising him ; they are yet in sight

Rol. And bear the Inca off a prisoner? — Hear this, ye base,
disloyal rout ! Look there ! The dust you see hangs on the bloody
Spaniard's track, dragging with ruffian taunts your king, your father
— Ataliba in bondage ! Now fly, and seek your own vile safety if
you can.

Old Man. Bless the voice of Rolla — and bless the stroke I once
lamented, but which now spares these extinguished eyes the shame
of seeing the pale, trembling wretches who dare not follow Rolla,
though to save their king I

Rol. Shrink ye from the thunder of the foe — and fall ye not at
this rebuke ? Oh ! had ye each but one drop of the loyal blood
which gushes to waste through the brave heart of this sightless
veteran ! Eternal shame pursue you, if you desert me now 1 — But
do — alone I go — alone — to die with glory by my monarch's side !

Soldiers. Rolla 1 we'll follow thee.

\Trumpets sound; ROLLA rushes out, followed by ORANO,
OFFICERS, and SOLDIERS.

Old Man. O godlike Rolla ! — And thou sun, send from thy
clouds avenging lightning to his aid ! Haste, my boy ; ascend
some height, and tell to my impatient terror what thou seest.

Boy. I can climb this rock, and the tree above. — [Ascends a
rock, and from thence into the tree.] Oh — now I see them — now —
yes — and the Spaniards turning by the steep.

Old Man. Rolla follows them?

Boy. He does — he does — he moves like an arrow? Now he
waves his arm to our soldiers.— \Report of cannon heard.] Now
there is fire and smoke.

Old Man. Yes, fire is the weapon of those fiends.

Boy. The wind blows off the smoke : they are all mixed
together.

Old Man. Seest thou the king.

Boy. Yes— Rolla is near him! His sword sheds fire as he
strikes.

Old Man. Bless thee, Rolla ! Spare not the monsters.

Boy. Father ! father ! the Spaniards fly 1 — Oh — now I see the
king embracing Rolla.

[Waves his cap for joy. Shouts of victory, flourish of
trumpets, etc.

Old Man. [Falls on his knees.} Fountain of life ! how can my

294 PIZARRO. [ACT in,

exhausted breath bear to thee thanks for this one moment of my
life ! — My boy, come down, and let me kiss thee — my strength is
gone.

Boy. \Running to the Old Man.] Let me help you, father — you
tremble so

Old Man. 'Tis with transport, boy !

[BOY leads the OLD MAN off. Shouts, flourish, etc.

Re-enter ATALIBA, ROLLA, and PERUVIAN OFFICERS and

SOLDIERS.

Ata. In the name of my people, the saviour of whose sovereign
thou hast this day been, accept this emblem of his gratitude. —
[Giving ROLLA his sun of diamonds.'] The tear that falls upon it
may for a moment dim its lustre, yet does it not impair the value of
the gift
Rol. It was the hand of Heaven, not mine, that saved my king.

Enter PERUVIAN OFFICER and SOLDIERS.

Rol. Now, soldier, from Alonzo ?

Off. Alonzo's genius soon repaired the panic which early broke
our ranks ; but I fear we have to mourn Alonzo's loss : his eager
spirit urged him too far in the pursuit 1

Ata, How 1 Alonzo slain ?

\st Sold. I saw him fall

2nd Sold. Trust me, I beheld him up again and righting — he
was then surrounded and disarmed.

Ata. O victory, dearly purchased 1

Rol. O Cora 1 who shall tell thee this ? .

Ata. Rolla, our friend is lost — our native country saved ! Our
private sorrows must yield to the public claim for triumph. Now
go we to fulfil the first, the most sacred duty which belongs to
victory — to dry the widowed and the orphaned tear of those whose
brave protectors have perished in their country's cause.

[Triumphant march, and exeunt.

ACT III.
SCENE I. — A WILD RETREAT AMONG STUPENDOUS ROCKS.

CORA and her CHILD, with other WIVES and CHILDREN of the
PERUVIAN WARRIORS, discovered. They sing alternately
stanzas expressive of their situation, -with a Chorus, in which
all join.
1st Worn. Zuluga, seest thou nothing yet ?

sc. i.] PIZARRO. 295

Zul. Yes, two Peruvian soldiers— one on the hill, the other
entering the thicket in the vale.

•2nd Worn. One more has passed.— He comes— but pale and
terrified.

Cora. My heart will start from my bosom.

Enter a PERUVIAN SOLDI tt, panting for breath.

Worn. Well ! joy or death ?

Sold. The battle is against us. The king is wounded, and a
prisoner.

Worn. Despair and misery !

Cora. [In a faint -voice.} And Alonzo ?

Sold. I have not seen him.

ist Worn. Oh ! whither must we fly?

2nd Worn. Deeper into the forest.

Cora. I shall not move.

2nd Sold. [ Without.} Victory ! victory I

Enter another PERUVIAN SOLDIER.

2nd Sold. Rejoice ! rejoice ! we are victorious !
Worn. [Springing up.} Welcome ! welcome, thou messenger of
joy : — but the king ?

•2nd Sold. He leads the brave warriors who approach.

[The triumphant march of the army is heard at a distance.
The WOMEN and CHILDREN join in a strain expressive
of anxiety and exultation.

Enter the PERUVIAN WARRIORS, singing the Song of Victory.
ATALIBA and ROLLA follow, and are greeted with rapturous
shouts. CORA, with her CHILD in her arms, runs through the
ranks searching for ALONZO.

Ata. Thanks, thanks, my children ! I am well, believe it ; the
blood once stopped, my wound was nothing.

Cora. [To ROLLA.] Where is Alonzo ? — [ROLLA turns away in
silence^\ Give me my husband ; give this child his father.

[Falls at ATALIBA'S^/.

Ata. I grieve that Alonzo is not here.

Cora. Hoped you to find him ?

Ata. Most anxiously.

Cora. Ataliba ! is he not dead ?

Ata. No ! the gods will have heard our prayers.

Cora. Is he not dead, Ataliba?

Ata. He lives — in my heart.

296 PIZARRO. [ACT in.

Cora. O king ! torture me not thus ! Speak out, is this child
fatherless ?

Ata. Dearest Cora ! do not thus dash aside the little hope that
still remains.

Cora. The little hope! yet still there is hope! — [Turns to
ROLLA.] Speak to me, Rolla : you are the friend of truth.

Rol. Alonzo has not been found.

Cora. Not found ! what mean you ? will not you, Rolla, tell me
truth? Oh ! let me not hear the thunder rolling at a distance ; let
the bolt fall and crush my brain at once. Say not that he is not
found : say at once that he is dead.

Rol. Then should I say false.

Cora. False ! Blessings on thee for that word ! But snatch
me from this terrible suspense. — [CORA and CHILD kneel to
ROLLA.] Lift up thy little hands, my child ; perhaps thy ignor-
ance may plead better than thy mother's agony.

Rol. Alonzo is taken prisoner.

Cora. Prisoner! and by the Spaniards? — Pizarro's prisoner?
Then is he dead.

Ata. Hope better — the richest ransom which our realm can
yield, a herald shall this instant bear.

Peruv. Worn. Oh ! for Alonzo's ransom — our gold, our gems !
— all ! all ! Here, dear Cora — here ! here !

[The PERUVIAN WOMEN eagerly tear off all their ornaments,
and offer them to CORA.

Ata. Yes, for Alonzo's ransom they would give all ! — I thank
thee, Father, who has given me such hearts to rule over !

Cora. Now one boon more, beloved monarch. Let me go with
the herald.

Ata. Remember, Cora, thou art not a wife only, but a mother
too : hazard not your own honour, and the safety of your infant.
Among these barbarians the sight of thy youth, thy loveliness, and
innocence, would but rivet faster your Alonzo's chains, and rack
his heart with added fears for thee. Wait, Cora, the return of the
herald.

Cora. Teach me how to live till then.

Ata. Now we go to offer to the gods thanks for our victory
and prayers for our Alonzo's safety.

[March and procession. Exeunt.

SCENE II.— THE WOOD.

Enter CORA and CHILD.
Cora. Mild innocence, what will become of thee ?

sc. ii.] PIZARRO. 297

Enter ROLLA.

Rol. Cora, I attend thy surrmons at the appointed spot

Cora. O my child, my boy ! hast thou still a father ?

Rol. Cora, can thy child be fatherless, while Rolla lives ?

Cora. Will he not soon want a mother too ? For canst thou
think I will survive Alonzo's loss ?

Rol. Yes ! for his child's sake. Yes, as thou didst love Alonzo,
Cora, listen to Alonzo's friend.

Cora. You bid me listen to the world. — Who was not Alonzo's
friend ?

Rol. His parting words !

Cora. His parting words I — [ Wildly.] Oh, speak I

Rol. Consigned to me two precious trusts— his blessing to his
son, and a last request to thee.

Cora. His last request ! his last 1 — Oh, name it 1

Rol. If I fall, said he (and sad forebodings shook him while he
spoke), promise to take my Cora for thy wife ; be thou a father to
my child. — I pledged my word to him, and we parted. Observe
me, Cora, I repeat this only, as my faith to do so was given to
Alonzo : for myself, I neither cherish claim nor hope.

Cora. Ha 1 does my reason fail me, or what is this horrid light
that presses on my brain ? O Alonzo 1 it may be thou hast fallen
a victim to thy own guileless heart : hadst thou been silent, hadst
thou not made a fatal legacy of these wretched charms

Rol. Cora! what hateful suspicion has possessed thy mind?

Cora. Yes, yes, 'tis clear ! — his spirit was ensnared ; he was led
to the fatal spot, where mortal valour could not front a host of
murderers. He fell — in vain did he exclaim for help to Rolla. At
a distance you looked on and smiled: you could have saved him —
could — but did not.

Rol. Oh, glorious sun ! can I have deserved this? — Cora, rather
bid me strike this sword into my heart.

Cora. No! — live! live for love! — for that love thou seekest;
whose blossoms are to shoot from the bleeding grave of thy
betrayed and slaughtered friend ! But thou hast borne to me the
last words of my Alonzo ! now hear mine : sooner shall this boy
draw poison from this tortured breast — sooner would I link me to
the pallid corse of the meanest wretch that perished with Alonzo,
than he call Rolla father — than I call Rolla husband !

Rol. Yet call me what I am — thy friend, thy protector !

Cora. {Distractedly. ,] Away ! I have no protector but my God !
With this child in my arms will I hasten to the field of slaughter:
there with these hands will I turn up to the light every mangled

298 PIZARRO. [ACT in.

body, seeking, howe'er by death disfigured, the sweet smile of my
Alonzo: with fearful cries I will shriek out his name till my veins
snap ! If the smallest spark of life remain, he will know the voice
of his Cora, open for a moment his unshrouded eyes, and bless me
with a last look. But if we find him not — oh ! then, my boy, we
will to the Spanish camp — that look of thine will win my passage
through a thousand swords — they too are men. Is there a heart
that could drive back the wife that seeks her bleeding husband ; or
the innocent babe that cries for his imprisoned father? No, no,
my child, everywhere we shall be safe. A wretched mother, bear-
ing a poor orphan in her arms, has nature's passport through the
world. Yes, yes, my son, we'll go and seek thy father.

[Exit with the CHILD.

Rol. [After a pause of agitation.'} Could I have merited one
breath of thy reproaches, Cora, I should be the wretch I think I
was not formed to be. Her safety must be my present purpose —
then to convince her she has wronged me ! [Exit.

SCENE III.— PIZARRO'S TENT.

PlZARRO discovered, traversing the scene in gloomy and furious

agitation.

Piz. Well, capricious idol, Fortune, be my ruin thy work and
boast. To myself I will still be true. Yet, ere I fall, grant me thy
smile to prosper in one act of vengeance, and be that smile
Alonzo's death.

Enter ELVIRA.

Who's there? who dares intrude? Why does my guard neglect
their duty ?

Elv. Your guard did what they could — but they knew their duty
better than to enforce authority, when I refused obedience.

Piz. And what is it you desire ?

Elv. To see how a hero bears misfortune. Thou, Pizarro, art
not now collected — nor thyself.

Piz. Wouldst thou I should rejoice that the spears of the
enemy, led by accursed Alonzo, have pierced the bravest hearts of
my followers ?

Elv. No ! I would have thee cold and dark as the night that
follows the departed storm ; still and sullen as the awful pause that
precedes nature's convulsion: yet I would have thee feel assured
that a new morning shall arise, when the warrior's spirit shall stalk
forth — nor fear the future, nor lament the past.

sc. in.] PIZARRO. 299

Piz. Woman ! Elvira 1— why had not all my men hearts like
th;ne?

Elv. Then would thy brows have this day worn the crown of
Quito.

Piz, Oh ! hope fails me while that scourge of my life and fame,
Alonzo, leads the enemy.

Elv. Pizarro, I am come to probe the hero further : not now his
courage, but his magnanimity — Alonzo is your prisoner.

Piz. How?

Elv. 'Tis certain; Valverde saw him even now dragged in
chains within your camp. I chose to bring you the intelligence
myself.

Piz. Bless thee, Elvira, for the news 1 — Alonzo in my power 1 —
then I am the conqueror — the victory is mine !

Elv. Pizarro, this is savage and unmanly triumph. Believe me,
you raise impatience in my mind to see the man whose valour
and whose genius awe Pizarro ; whose misfortunes are Pizarro's
triumph; whose bondage is Pizarro's safety.

Pis. Guard !

Enter GUARD.

Drag here the Spanish prisoner, Alonzo ! Quick, bring the traitor
here ! [Exit GUARD.

Elv. What shall be his fate ?

Piz. Death ! death 1 in lingering torments 1 protracted to the
last stretch that burning vengeance can devise, and fainting life
sustain.

Elv. Shame on thee ! Wilt thou have it said that the Peruvians
found Pizarro could not conquer till Alonzo felt that he could
murder ?

Piz. Be it said — I care not. His fate is sealed.

Elv. Follow then thy will : but mark me, if basely thou dost
shed the blood of this brave youth, Elvira's lost to thee for ever.

Piz. Why this interest for a stranger ? What is Alonzo's fate
to thee ?

Elv. His fate, nothing! thy glory, everything ! Thinkest thou
I could love thee, stripped of fame, of honour, and a just renown ?
Know me better.

Piz. Thou shouldst have known me better. Thou shouldst
have known that, once provoked to hate, I am for ever fixed in
vengeance.

Re-enter GUARD with ALONZO in chains.
Welcome, welcome, Don Alonzo de Molina! 'tis long since we

300 PIZARRO. [ACT HI.

have met : thy mended looks should speak a life of rural indolence.
How is it that, amid the toils and cares of war, thou dost preserve
the healthful bloom of careless ease? Tell me thy secret.

Alon. Thou wilt not profit by it. Whate'er the toils or cares of
war, peace still is here. [Putting his hand to his heart.

Piz. Sarcastic boy !

Elv. Thou art answered rightly. Why sport with the un-
fortunate ?

Piz. And thou art wedded too, I hear; ay, and the father of a
lovely boy — the heir, no doubt of all his father's loyalty, of all his
mother's faith ?

Alon. The heir, I trust, of all his father's scorn of fraud,
oppression, and hypocrisy — the heir, I hope, of all his mother's
virtue, gentleness, and truth — the heir, I am sure, to all Pizarro's
hate.

Piz, Really! Now do I feel for this poor orphan; for father-
less to-morrow's sun shall see that child. Alonzo, thy hours are
numbered.

Elv. Pizarro — no 1

Piz. Hence— or dread my anger.

Elv. I will not hence ; nor do I dread thy anger.

Alon. Generous loveliness ; spare thy unavailing pity. Seek
not to thwart the tiger with the prey beneath his fangs.

Piz. Audacious rebel ! thou a renegado from thy monarch and
thy God !

Alon. 'Tis false !

Piz. Art thou not, tell me, a deserter from thy country's legions
— and, with vile heathens leagued, hast thou not warred against
thy native land ?

Alon. No 1 deserter I am none ! I was not born among
robbers ! pirates ! murderers ! When those legions, lured by the
abhorred lust of gold, and by thy foul ambition urged, forgot the
honour of Castilians, and forsook the duties of humanity, they
deserted me. I have not warred against my native land, but
against those who have usurped its power. The banners of my
country, when first I followed arms beneath them, were justice,
faith, and mercy. If these are beaten down and trampled under
foot, I have no country, nor exists the power entitled to reproach
me with revolt.

Piz. The power to judge and punish thee at least exists.

Alon. Where are my judges ?

Piz. Thou wouldst appeal to the war council ?

Alon. If the good Las-Casas have yet a seat there, yes ; if not,
I appeal to Heaven !

sc. in.] P1ZARRO. 301

Piz. And, to impose upon the folly of Las-Casas, what would
be the excuses of thy treason ?

Elv. The folly of Las-Casas 1 Such, doubtless, his mild
precepts seem to thy hard-hearted wisdom ! Oh, would I might
have lived, as I will die, a sharer in the follies of Las-Casas!

Alon. To him I should not need to urge the foul barbarities
which drove me from your side ; but I would gently lead him by
the hand through all the lovely fields of Quito ; there, in many a
spot where late was barrenness and waste, I would show him how
now the opening blossom, blade, or perfumed bud, sweet bashful
pledges of delicious harvest, wafting their incense to the ripening
sun, give cheerful promise to the hope of industry. This, I would
say, is my work 1 Next, I should tell how hurtful customs and
superstitions, strange and sullen, would often scatter and dismay
the credulous minds of these deluded innocents ; and then would
I point out to him where now, in clustered villages, they live like
brethren, social and confiding, while through the burning day
Content sits basking on the cheek of Toil, till laughing Pastime
leads them to the hour of rest — this too is mine I And prouder yet,
at that still pause between exertion and repose, belonging not to
pastime, labour, or to rest, but unto Him who sanctions and
ordains them all, I would show him many an eye, and many a
hand, by gentleness from error won, raised in pure devotion to the
true and only God !— this too I could tell him is Alonzo's work 1
Then would Las-Casas clasp me in his aged arms ; from his
uplifted eyes a tear of gracious thankfulness would fall upon my
head, and that one blessed drop would be to me at once this
world's best proof that I had acted rightly here, and surest hope
of my Creator's mercy and reward hereafter.

Elv. Happy, virtuous Alonzol And thou, Pizarro, wouldst
appal with fear of death a man who thinks and acts as he does !

Piz. Daring, obstinate enthusiast ! But know, the pious bless-
ing of thy preceptor's tears does not await thee here : he has fled
like thee — like thee, no doubt, to join the foes of Spain. The
perilous trial of the next reward you hope is nearer than perhaps
you've thought ; for, by my country's wrongs, and by mine own,
to-morrow's sun shall see thy death !

Elv. Hold ! Pizarro, hear me ; if not always justly, at least act
always greatly. Name not thy country's wrongs ; 'tis plain they
have no share in thy resentment Thy fury 'gainst this youth is
private hate, and deadly personal revenge ; if this be so, and even
now thy detected conscience in that look avows it, profane not
the name of justice or thy country's cause, but let him arm, and
bid him to the field on equal terms.

302 P2ZARRO. [ACT in.

Piss. Officious advocate for treason — peace ! Bear him hence ;
he knows his sentence. [Retires back.

Alon. Thy revenge is eager, and I'm thankful for it — to me thy
haste is mercy. — [To ELVIRA.] For thee, sweet pleader in mis-
fortune's cause, accept my parting thanks. This camp is not thy
proper sphere. Wert thou among yon savages, as they are called,
thou'dst find companions more congenial to thy heart.

Piz. Yes ; she shall bear the tidings of thy death to Cora.

Alon. Inhuman man ! that pang, at least, might have been
spared me ; but thy malice shall not shake my constancy. I go to
death — many shall bless, and none will curse my .memory. Thou
wilt still live, and still wilt be — Pizarro. [Exit, guarded.

Elv. Now, by the indignant scorn that burns upon my cheek, my
soul is shamed and sickened at the meanness of thy vengeance !

Piz. What has thy romantic folly aimed at? He is mine
enemy, and in my power.

Elv. He is in your power, and therefore is no more an enemy.
Pizarro, I demand not of thee virtue, I ask not from thee nobleness
of mind, I require only just dealing to the fame thou hast acquired :
be not the assassin of thine own renown. How often have you
sworn, that the sacrifice which thy wondrous valour's high report
had won you from subdued Elvira, was the proudest triumph of
your fame 1 Thou knowest I bear a mind not cast in the common
mould, not formed for tame sequestered love, content mid house-
hold cares to prattle to an idle offspring, and wait the dull delight
of an obscure lover's kindness : no ! my heart was framed to look
up with awe and homage to the object it adored ; my ears to own
no music but the thrilling records of his praise ; my lips to scorn
all babbling but the tales of his achievements ; my brain to
turn giddy with delight, reading the applauding tributes of his
monarch's and his country's gratitude ; my every faculty to throb
with transport, while I heard the shouts of acclamation which
announced the coming of my hero ; my whole soul to love him
with devotion ! with enthusiasm ! to see no other object — to own
no other tie — but to make him my world ! Thus to love is at least
no common weakness. Pizarro ! was not such my love for thee?

Piz. It was, Elvira !

Elv. Then do not make me hateful to myself, by tearing off the
mask at once, baring the hideous imposture that has undone me !
Do not an act which, howe'er thy present power may gloss it to
the world, will make thee hateful to all future ages — accursed and
scorned by posterity.

Piz. And, should posterity applaud my deeds, thinkest thou my
mouldering bones would rattle then with transport in my tomb?

sc. in.] PIZARRO. 303

This is renown for visionary boys to dream of; I understand it
not. The fame I value shall uplift my living estimation, o'erbear
with popular support the envy of my foes, advance my purposes,
and aid my power.

Elv. Each word thou speakest, each moment that I hear thee,
dispels the fatal mist through which I've judged thee. Thou man
of mighty name but little soul, I see thou wert not born to feel
what genuine fame and glory are. Go ! prefer the flattery of thy
own fleeting day to the bright circle of a deathless name — go !
prefer to stare upon the grain of sand on which you trample, to
musing on the starred canopy above thee. Fame, the sovereign
deity of proud ambition, is not to be worshipped so : who seeks
alone for living homage stands a mean canvasser in her temple's
porch, wooing promiscuously, from the fickle breath of every wretch
that passes, the brittle tribute of his praise. He dares not approach
the sacred altar — no noble sacrifice of his is placed there, nor ever
shall his worshipped image, fixed above, claim for his memory a
glorious immortality.

Piz. Elvira, leave me !

Elv. Pizarro, you no longer love me.

Piz. It is not so, Elvira. But what might I not suspect — this
wondrous interest for a stranger ! Take back thy reproach.

Elv. No, Pizarro, as yet I am not lost to you ; one string still
remains, and binds me to your fate. Do not, I conjure you — do
not, for mine own sake, tear it asunder — shed not Alonzo's blood !

Piz. My resolution's fixed.

Elv. Even though that moment lost you Elvira for ever ?

Piz. Even so.

Elv. Pizarro, if not to honour, if not to humanity, yet listen to
affection ; bear some memory of the sacrifices I have made for thy
sake. Have I not for thee quitted my parents, my friends, my
fame, my native land? When escaping, did I not risk, in rushing
to thy arms, to bury myself in the bosom of the deep ? Have I not
shared all thy perils — heavy storms at sea, and frightful 'scapes on
shore ? Even on this dreadful day, amid the rout of battle, who
remained firm and constant at Pizarro's side ? Who presented her
bosom as his shield to the assailing foe ?

Piz. 'Tis truly spoken all. In love thou art thy sex's miracle,
in war the soldier's pattern ; and therefore my whole heart and
half my acquisitions are thy right.

Elv. Convince me I possess the first ; I exchange all title to
the latter for — mercy to Alonzo.

Piz. No more ! Had I intended to prolong his doom, each
\vord thou utterest now would hasten on his fate.

304 PIZARRO. [ACT iv.

Elv. Alonzo then at morn will die ?

Piz. Thinkest thou yon sun will set ? As surely at his rising
shall Alonzo die.

Elv. Then be it done — the string is cracked — sundered for
ever. But mark me — thou hast heretofore had cause, 'tis true, to
doubt my resolution, howe'er offended ; but mark me now — the
lips which, cold and jeering, barbing revenge with rancorous
mockery, can insult a fallen enemy, shall never more receive the
pledge of love : the arm which, unshaken by its bloody purpose,
shall assign to needless torture the victim who avows his heart,
never more shall press the hand of faith ! Pizarro, scorn not my
words ; beware you slight them not 1 I feel how noble are the
motives which now animate my thoughts. Who could not feel as I do,
I condemn : who, feeling so, yet would not act as I shall, I despise !

Piz. I have heard thee, Elvira, and know well the noble motives
which inspire thee — fit advocate in virtue's cause ! Believe me, I
pity thy tender feelings for the youth Alonzo ! He dies at sunrise !

[Exit.

Elv. 'Tis well 1 'tis just I should be humbled — I had forgot
myself, and in the cause of innocence assumed the tone of virtue.
'Twas fit I should be rebuked — and by Pizarro. Fall, fall, ye few
reluctant drops of weakness — the last these eyes shall ever shed.
How a woman can love, Pizarro, thou hast known too well — how
she can hate, thou hast yet to learn. Yes, thou undaunted ! — thou,
whom yet no mortal hazard has appalled — thou, who on Panama's
brow didst make alliance with the raging elements that tore the
silence of that horrid night, when thou didst follow, as thy pioneer,
the crashing thunder's drift ; and, stalking o'er the trembling earth,
didst plant thy banner by the red volcano's mouth ! thou, who when
battling on the sea, and thy brave ship was blown to splinters, wast
seen, as thou didst bestride a fragment of the smoking wreck, to
wave thy glittering sword above thy head, as thou wouldst defy the
world in that extremity ! — come, fearless man ! now meet the last
and fellest peril of thy life ; meet and survive — an injured woman's
fury, if thou canst. {Exit.

ACT IV.

SCENE I.— A DUNGEON.

ALONZO is discovered in chains. A SENTINEL walking near.

Alon. For the last time I have beheld the shadowed ocean
close upon the light. For the last time, through my cleft dungeon's

sc. i.] PIZARRO. 305

roof, I now behold the quivering lustre of the stars. For the last
time, O sun ! (and soon the hour) I shall behold thy rising, and
thy level beams melting the pale mists of morn to glittering dew-
drops. Then comes my death, and in the morning of my day I
fall, which — no, Alonzo, date not the life which thou hast run by
the mean reckoning of the hours and days which thou hast
breathed : a life spent worthily should be measured by a nobler
line — by deeds, not years. Then wouldst thou murmur not, but
bless the Providence which in so short a span made thee the
instrument of wide and spreading blessings to the helpless and
oppressed. Though sinking in decrepit age, he prematurely falls
whose memory records no benefit conferred by him on man. They
only have lived long, who have lived virtuously.

Enter a SOLDIER, shows the SENTINEL a passport, who withdraws.

Alon. What bear you there ?

Sold. These refreshments I was ordered to leave in your
dungeon.

A Ion. By whom ordered ?

Sold. By the lady Elvira : she will be here herself before the
dawn.

Alon. Bear back to her my humblest thanks ; and take thou
the refreshments, friend — I need them not.

Sold. I have served under you, Don Alonzo. Pardon my
saying that my heart pities you. \Exit.

Alon. In Pizarro's camp, to pity the unfortunate no doubt
requires forgiveness — [Looking outJ\ Surely, even now, thin
streaks of glimmering light steal on the darkness of the east. If
so, my life is but one hour more. I will not watch the coming
dawn ; but in the darkness of my cell, my last prayer to thee,
Power Supreme ! shall be for my wife and child 1 Grant them to
dwell in innocence and peace ; grant health and purity of mind —
all else is worthless. [Retires into the dungeon.

Sent. Who's there ? answer quickly ! who's there ?

Rol. [ Without.] A friar come to visit your prisoner,

Enter ROLLA, disguised as a MONK.

Rol. Inform me, friend— is not Alonzo, the Spanish prisoner,
confined in this dungeon ?
Sent. He is.

Rol. I must speak with him.

Sent. You must not. [Stopping him with his spear.

Rol. He is my friend.
Sent. Not if he were your brother.

9°3

306 PIZARRO. [ACT iv.

Rol. What is to be his fate ?

Sent. He dies at sunrise.

Rol. Ha ! then I am come in time.

Sent. Just — to witness his death.

Rol. Soldier, I must speak with him.

Sent. Back, back ! It is impossible !

Rol. I do entreat thee but for one moment !

Sent. You entreat in vain ; my orders are most strict

Rol. Even now, I saw a messenger go hence.

Sent. He brought a pass, which we are all accustomed to obey.

Rol. Look on this wedge of massive gold — look on these
precious gems. In thy own land they will be wealth for thee and
thine beyond thy hope or wish. Take them — they are thine. Let
me but pass one minute with Alonzo.

Sent. Away! wouldst thou corrupt me? — me! an old Castilian !
I know my duty better.

Rol. Soldier ! hast thou a wife ?

Sent. I have.

Rol. Hast thou children ?

Sent. Four — honest, lovely boys.

Rol. Where didst thou leave them ?

Sent. In my native village — even in the cot where myself was
born.

Rol. Dost thou love thy children and thy wife?

Sent. Do I love them ! God knows my heart — I do.

Rol. Soldier ! — imagine thou wert doomed to die a cruel death
in this strange land ; what would be thy last request ?

Sent. That some of my comrades should carry my dying
blessing to my wife and children.

Rol. Oh, but if that comrade was at thy prison gate — and
should there be told, thy fellow-soldier dies at sunrise — yet thou
shalt not for a moment see him — nor shalt thou bear his dying
blessing to his poor children or his wretched wife — what wouldst
thou think of him who thus could drive thy comrade from the
door?

Sent. How !

Rol. Alonzo has a wife and child — I am come but to receive
for her and for her babe the last blessing of my friend.

Sent. Go in. [Re/ires.

Rol. Oh, holy Nature ! thou dost never plead in vain. There
is not, of our earth, a creature bearing form, and life, human or
savage, native of the forest wild or giddy air, around whose parent
bosom thou hast not a cord entwined of power to tie them to their
offspring's claims, and at thy will to draw them back to thee. On

sc. i.] P1ZARRO. 307

iron pinions borne, the blood-stained vulture cleaves the storm, yet
is the plumage closest to her breast soft as the cygnet's down, and
o'er her unshelled brood the murmuring ringdove sits not more
gently ! Yes, now he is beyond the porch, barring the outer gate !
— Alonzo ! Alonzo! my friend! Ha! in gentle sleep! — Alonzo !
rise !

Re-enter ALONZO.

A/on. {Within^ How ! is my hour elapsed? Well — {Returning
from the recess] I am ready.

Rol, Alonzo, know me !

Alon. What voice is that ?

Rol. 'Tis Holla's. [Takes off his disguise.

Alon. Rolla ! — my friend ! — [Embraces himl\ Heavens ! how
couldst thou pass the guard ? Did this habit

Rol. There is not a moment to be lost in words. This disguise
I tore from the dead body of a friar, as I passed our field of battle ;
it has gained me entrance to thy dungeon — now take it thou,
and fly.

Alon. And Rolla

Rol. Will remain here in thy place.

Alon. And die for me ! No ! rather eternal tortures rack me.

Rol. I shall not die, Alonzo. It is thy life Pizarro seeks, not
Rolla's ; and from my prison soon will thy arm deliver me. Or,
should it be otherwise, I am as a blighted plantain, standing alone
amid the sandy desert ; nothing seeks or lives beneath my shelter.
Thou art a husband, and a father; the being of a lovely wife and
helpless infant hangs upon thy life. Go ! go ! Alonzo ! go ! to
save not thyself, but Cora, and thy child !

Alon. Urge me not thus, my friend 1 I had prepared to die in
peace.

Rol. To die in peace ! devoting her thou'st sworn to live for, to
madness, misery, and death ! For, be assured, the state I left her
in forbids all hope but from thy quick return.

Alon. Oh, God !

Rol. If thou art yet irresolute, Alonzo, now heed me well. I
think thou hast not known that Rolla ever pledged his word, and
shrank Irom its fulfilment. And by the heart of truth I swear, if
thou art proudly obstinate to deny thy friend the transport of
preserving Cora's life, in thee, no power that sways the will of man
shall stir me hence ; and thou'lt but have the desperate triumph of
seeing Rolla perish by thy side, with the assured conviction that
Cora and thy child are lost for ever.

Alon. Oh, Rolla 1 you distract me 1

308 PIZARRO. [ACT iv.

Rol. Begone 1 A moment's further pause, and all is lost. The
dawn approaches. Fear not for me — I will treat with Pizarro as
for surrender and submission. I shall gain time, doubt not, while
thou, with a chosen band, passing the secret way, mayst at night
return, release thy friend, and bear him back in triumph. Yes,
hasten, dear Alonzo ! Even now I hear the frantic Cora call thee !
Haste ! haste ! haste !

Alon. Rolla, I fear thy friendship drives me from honour, and
from right.

Rol. Did Rolla ever counsel dishonour to his friend?

Alon. Oh ! my preserver ! {Embraces him.

Rol. I feel thy warm tears dropping on my cheek. Go ! I am
rewarded.— {Throws the FRIAR'S garment over ALONZO.] ' There !
conceal thy face ; and, that they may not clank, hold fast thy
chains. Now — God be with thee !

Alon. At night we meet again. Then, so aid me, Heaven ! I
return to save — or — perish with thee 1 [Exit.

Rol. {Looking after htm.} He has passed the outer porch. He
is safe ! He will soon embrace his wife and child ! — Now, Cora,
didst thou not wrong me ? This is the first time throughout my
life I ever deceived man. Forgive me, God of truth ! if I am
wrong. Alonzo flatters himself that we shall meet again. Yes —
there ! — {Lifting his hands to heaven.~\ Assuredly, we shall meet
again : there possess in peace the joys of everlasting love and
friendship — on earth, imperfect and embittered. I will retire, lest
the guard return before Alonzo may have passed their lines.

{Retires into the dungeon.

Enter ELVIRA.

Elv. No, not Pizarro's brutal taunts, not the glowing admira-
tion which I feel for this noble youth, shall raise an interest in my
harassed bosom which honour would not sanction. If he reject
the vengeance my heart has sworn against the tyrant, whose death
alone can save this land, yet shall the delight be mine to restore
him to his Cora's arms, to his dear child, and to the unoffending
people whom his virtues guide, and valour guards. — Alonzo, come
forth 1

Re-enter ROLLA.

Ha ! who art thou ? where is Alonzo ?

Rol. Alonzo's fled.

Elv. Fled !

Rol. Yes — and he must not be pursued. Pardon this roughness,
— {Seizing her hand] but a moment's precious to Alonzo's flight.

Elv. What if I call the guard ?

sc. i.] P1ZARRO.

3°9

Rol. Do so — Alonzo still gains time.

Elv. What if thus I free myself? [Shows a dagger.

Rol. Strike it to my heart — still, with the convulsive grasp of
death, I'll hold thee fast.

Elv. Release me— I give my faith, I neither will alarm the
guard, nor cause pursuit

Rol. At once I trust thy word : a feeling boldness in those eyes
assures me that thy soul is noble.

Elv. What is thy name ? Speak freely : by my order the guard
is removed beyond the outer porch.

Rol. My name is Rolla.

Elv. The Peruvian leader?

Rol. I was so yesterday : to-day, the Spaniards' captive.

Elv. And friendship for Alonzo moved thee to this act ?

Rol. Alonzo is my friend ; I am prepared to die for him. Yet
is the cause a motive stronger far than friendship.

Elv. One only passion else could urge such generous rashness.

Rol. And that is

Elv. Love !

Rol. True !

Elv. Gallant, ingenuous Rolla ! Know that my purpose here
was thine ; and were I to save thy friend

Rol. How 1 a woman blessed with gentleness and courage, and
yet not Cora !

Elv. Does Rolla think so meanly of all female hearts ?

Rol. Not so — you are worse and better than we are 1

Elv. Were I to save thee, Rolla, from the tyrant's vengeance,
restore thee to thy native land, and thy native land to peace,
wouldst thou not rank Elvira with the good ?

Rol. To judge the action, I muft know the means.

Elv. Take this dagger.

Rol. How to be used ?

Elv. I will conduct thee to the tent where fell Pizarro sleeps —
the scourge of innocence, the terror of thy race, the fiend that
desolates thy afflicted country.

Rol. Have you not been injured by Pizarro?

Elv. Deeply as scorn and insult can infuse their deadly venom.

Rol. And you ask that I shall murder him in his sleep !

Elv. Would he not have murdered Alonzo in his chains ? He
that sleeps, and he that's bound, are equally defenceless. Hear
me, Rolla — so may I prosper in this perilous act, as, searching my
full heart, I have put by all rancorous motive of private vengeance
there, and feel that I advance to my dread purpose in the cause of
human nature and at the call of sacred justice.

3io PIZARRO. [ACT iv.

Rol. The God of justice sanctifies no evil as a step towards
good. Great actions cannot be achieved by wicked means.

El-u. Then, Peruvian ! since thou dost feel so coldly for thy
country's wrongs, this hand, though it revolt my soul, shall strike
the blow.

Rol. Then is thy destruction certain, and for Peru thou
perishest ! Give me the dagger !

Eiv. Now follow me. But first — and dreadful is the hard
necessity — thou must strike down the guard.

Rol. The soldier who was on duty here ?

Elv. Yes, him — else, seeing thee, the alarm will be instant.

Rol. And I must stab that soldier as I pass ? Take back thy
dagger.

Elv. Rolla !

Rol. That soldier, mark me, is a man. All are not men that
bare the human form. He refused my prayers, refused my gold,
denying to admit me, till his own feelings bribed him. For my
nation's safety, I would not harm that man !

Elv. Then he must with us — I will answer for his safety.

Rol. Be that plainly understood between us ; for, whate'er
betide our enterprise, I will not risk a hair of that man's head, to
save my heart-strings from consuming fire. \Exeunt.

SCENE II.— PIZARRO'S TENT.

PJZARRO is discovered on a couch, in disturbed sleep.

Piz. \In his sleep."] No mercy, traitor ! — Now at his heart ! —
Stand off there, you 1— Let me see him bleed ! — Ha ! ha ! ha ! — Let
me hear that groan again !

Enter ROLLA and ELVIRA.

Elv. There 1 Now, lose not a moment.

Rol. You must leave me now. This scene of blood fits not a
woman's presence.

Elv. But a moment's pause may

Rol. Go, retire to your own tent, and return not here — I will
come to you. Be thou not known in this business, I implore you !

Elv. I will withdraw the guard that waits. \JExit.

Rol. Now have I in my power the accursed destroyer of my
country's peace : yet tranquilly he rests. God ! can this man
sleep ?

Piz. [In his sleep.] Away! away 1 hideous fiends 1 Tear not
my bosom thus 1

sc. ii. J PIZARRO. 311

Rol, No ; I was in error — the balm of sweet repose he never
more can know. Look here, ambition's fools ! ye, by whose
inhuman pride the bleeding sacrifice of nations is held as nothing,
behold the rest of the guilty ! — He is at my mercy — and one blow !

No ! my heart and hand refuse the act : Rolla cannot be an

assassin 1 Yet Elvira must be saved 1 — [Approaches the couch.]
Pizarro ! awake !

Piz. [Starts up.] Who?— Guard!

Rol. Speak not — another word is thy death. Call not for aid 1
this arm will be swifter than thy guard.

Piz. Who art thou ? and what is thy will ?

Rol. I am thine enemy ! Peruvian Rolla ! Thy death is not my
will, or I could have slain thee sleeping.

Piz. Speak, what else ?

Rol. Now thou art at my mercy, answer me ! Did a Peruvian
ever yet wrong or injure thee, or any of thy nation? Didst thou,
or any of thy nation, ever yet show mercy to a Peruvian in thy
power? Now shalt thou feel, and if thou hast a heart thou'lt feel
it keenly, a Peruvian's vengeance 1 — [Drops the dagger at his feet]
There 1

Piz. Is it possible ? [ Walks aside confounded.

Rol. Can Pizarro be surprised at this ? I thought forgiveness
of injuries had been the Christian's precept. Thou seest, at least,
it is the Peruvian's practice.

Piz. Rolla, thou hast indeed surprised — subdued me.

[ Walks aside again as in irresolute thought.

Re-enter ELVIRA, not seeing PIZARRO.

Elv. Is it done? Is he dead?— [Sees PiZARRO.] Howl still
living 1 Then I am lost ! And for you, wretched Peruvians 1
mercy is no more ! O Rolla : treacherous, or cowardly ?

Piz. How ! can it be that

Rol. Away ! — Elvira speaks she knows not what ! — [To ELVIRA.]
Leave me, I conjure you, with Pizarro.

Elv. How! Rolla, dost thou think I shall retract? or that I
meanly will deny that in thy hand I placed a poniard to be plunged
into that tyrant's heart ? No : my sole regret is, that I trusted to
thy weakness, and did not strike the blow myself. Too soon
thou'lt learn that mercy to that man is direct cruelty to all thy race!

Piz. Guard ! quick ! a guard, to seize this frantic woman !

Elv. Yes, a guard ! I call them too 1 And soon I know they'll
lead me to my death. But think not, Pizarro, the fury of thy
flashing eyes shall awe me for a moment ! Nor think that woman's
anger, or the feelings of an injured heart, prompted me to this

3i2 PIZARRO. IACT iv.

design. No ! had I been only influenced so — thus failing, shame
and remorse would weigh me down. But, though defeated and
destroyed, as now I am, such is the greatness of the cause that
urged me, I shall perish, glorying in the attempt, and my last
breath of life shall speak the proud avowal of my purpose — to have
rescued millions of innocents from the bloodthirsty tyranny of one
— by ridding the insulted world of thee.

RoL Had the act been noble as the motive, Rolla would not
have shrunk from its performance.

Enter GUARDS.

Piz. Seize this discovered fiend, who sought to kill your leader.

Elv. Touch me not, at the peril of your souls ; I am your
prisoner, and will follow you. But thou, their triumphant leader,
first shall hear me. Yet, first — for thee, Rolla, accept my
forgiveness ; even had I been the victim of thy nobleness of heart,
I should have admired thee for it. But 'twas myself provoked my
doom — thou wouldst have shielded me. Let not thy contempt
follow me to the grave. Didst thou but know the fiend-like arts by
which this hypocrite first undermined the virtue of a guileless
heart 1 how, even in the pious sanctuary wherein I dwelt, by
corruption and by fraud he practised upon those in whom I most
confided — till my distempered fancy led me, step by step, into the
abyss of guilt

Piz. Why am I not obeyed ? Tear her hence !

Elv. 3Tis past — but didst thou know my story, Rolla, thou
wouldst pity me.

RoL From my soul I do pity thee !

Piz. Villains I drag her to the dungeon ! — prepare the torture
instantly.

Elv. Soldiers, but a moment more — 'tis to applaud your general.
It is to tell the astonished world that, for once, Pizarro's sentence is
an act of justice : yes, rack me with the sharpest tortures that ever
agonised the human frame, it will be justice. Yes, bid the minions
of thy fury wrench forth the sinews of those arms that have caressed
— and even have defended thee ! Bid them pour burning metal
into the bleeding cases of these eyes, that so oft — oh, God ! — have
hung with love and homage on thy looks — then approach me bound
on the abhorred wheel — there glut thy savage eyes with the
convulsive spasms of that dishonoured bosom which was once thy
pillow ! — yet will I bear it all ; for it will be justice, all ! and when
thou shall bid them tear me to my death, hoping that thy
unshrinking ears may at last be feasted with the music of my cries,
I will not utter one shriek or groan ; but to the last gasp my

sc. IL] P1ZARRO, 313

body's patience shall deride thy vengeance, as my soul defies thy
power.

Piz. Hearest thou the wretch whose hands were even now
prepared for murder?

Rol. Yes ! and, if her accusation's false, thou wilt not shrink
from hearing her ; if true, thy barbarity cannot make her suffer the
pangs thy conscience will inflict on thee.

Elv. And now, farewell, world ! — Rolla, farewell ! — farewell,
thou condemned of Heaven ! [To PIZARRO] for repentance and
remorse, I know, will never touch thy heart — We shall meet
again. — Ha ! be it thy horror here to know that we shall meet
hereafter ! And when thy parting hour approaches — hark to the
knell, whose dreadful beat will strike to thy despairing soul. Then
will vibrate on thy ear the curses of the cloistered saint from whom
thou stolest me. Then the last shrieks which burst from my
mother's breaking heart, as she died, appealing to her God against
the seducer of her child ! Then the blood-stifled groan of my
murdered brother — murdered by thee, fell monster! — seeking
atonement for his sister's ruined honour. I hear them now 1 To
me the recollection's madness ! At such an hour — what will it be
to thee?

Piz. A moment's more delay, and at the peril of your lives

Elv. I have spoken — and the last mortal frailty of my heart is
passed. And now, with an undaunted spirit and unshaken firm-
ness, I go to meet my destiny. That I could not live nobly has
been Pizarro's act ; that I will die nobly shall be my own.

[Exit guarded.

Piz. Rolla, I would not thou, a warrior, valiant and renowned,
shouldst credit the vile tales of this frantic woman. The cause of
all this fury — oh 1 a wanton passion for the rebel youth Alonzo,
now my prisoner.

Rol. Alonzo is not now thy prisoner.

Piz. How !

Rol. I came to rescue him — to deceive his guard. I have
succeeded ; I remain thy prisoner.

Piz. Alonzo fled ! Is then the vengeance dearest to my heart
never to be gratified ?

Rol. Dismiss such passions from thy heart, then thou'lt consult
its peace.

Piz. I can face all enemies that dare confront me — I cannot
war against my nature.

Rol. Then, Pizarro, ask not to be deemed a hero : to triumph
o'er ourselves is the only conquest where fortune makes no claim.
In battle, chance may snatch the laurel from thee, or chance may

314 PIZARRO. [ACT v.

place it on thy brow ; but, in a contest with thyself, be resolute,
and the virtuous impulse must be the victor.

Piz. Peruvian ! thou shall not find me to thee ungrateful or
ungenerous. Return to your countrymen — you are at liberty.

Rol. Thou dost act in this as honour and as duty bid thee.

Piz. I cannot but admire thee, Rolla : I would we might be
friends.

Rol. Farewell ! pity Elvira ! become the friend of virtue — and
thou wilt be mine. {Exit.

Piz. Ambition ! tell me what is the phantom I have followed?
where is the one delight which it has made my own ? My fame is
the mark of envy, my love the dupe of treachery, my glory eclipsed
by the boy I taught, my revenge defeated and rebuked by the rude
honour of a savage foe, before whose native dignity of soul I have
sunk confounded and subdued ! I would I could retrace my
steps ! — I cannot. Would I could evade my own reflections !
No ! thought and memory are my hell ! [Exit.

ACT V.

SCENE I.— A FOREST. IN THE BACKGROUND A HUT.

CORA is discovered leaning over her CHILD, who is laid on a bed of
leaves and moss. — A Storm, with thunder and lightning.

Cora. O Nature I thou hast not the strength of love. My
anxious spirit is untired in its march ; my wearied shivering frame
sinks under it. And for thee, my boy, when faint beneath thy
lovely burden, could I refuse to give thy slumbers that poor bed of
rest ! O my child ! were I assured thy father breathes no more,
how quickly would I lay me down by thy dear side ! — but down —
down for ever ! — [Thunder and lightning.} I ask thee not,
unpitying storm ! to abate thy rage in mercy to poor Cora's
misery ; nor while thy thunders spare his slumbers will I disturb
my sleeping cherub ; though Heaven knows I wish to hear the
voice of life, and feel that life is near me. But I will endure all
while what I have of reason holds. [Sings.

Yes, yes, be merciless, thou tempest dire !

Unaw'd, unshelter'd, I thy fury brave :
I'll bare my bosom to thy forked fire,

Let it but guide me to Alouzo's grave 1

O'er his pale corse then, while thy lightnings glare,
I'll press his clay-cold lips, and perish there.

sc. i.] PJZARRO. 315

But thou wilt wake again, my boy,
Again thou'lt rise to life and joy—

Thy father never ! —
Thy laughing eyes will meet the light,
Unconscious that eternal night

Veils his for ever.

On yon green bed of moss there lies my child,
Oh ! safer lies from these chill'd arms apart ;

He sleeps, sweet lamb ! nor heeds the tempest wild,
Oh ! sweeter sleeps than near this breaking heart.

Alas I my babe, if thou wouldst peaceful rest,
Thy cradle must not be thy mother's breast.

Yet thou wilt wake again, my boy,
Again thou'lt rise to life and joy —

Thy father never ! —
Thy laughing eyes will meet the light,
Unconscious that eternal night

Veils his for ever. [ Thunder and lightning.

Still, still implacable I unfeeling elements ! yet still dost thou
sleep, my smiling innocent ! O Death ! when wilt thou grant to
this babe's mother such repose? Sure I may shield thee better

from the storm ; my veil may

[While she is wrapping her mantle and her veil over him,
ALONZO'S voice is heard in the distance.

Alon. Cora 1

Cora. Ha ! {Rises.

Alon. Cora !

Cora. Oh, my heart 1 Sweet Heaven, deceive me not ! Is it
not Alonzo's voice ?

Alon. [Nearer.] Cora 1

Cora. It is — it is Alonzo !

Alon. [Nearer still.] Cora ! my beloved 1

Cora. Alonzo !— Here ! here !— Alonzo ! [Runs out.

Enter tlVO SPANISH SOLDIERS.

\st Sold. I tell you we are near our outposts, and the word we
heard just now was the countersign.

•2nd Sold. Well, in our escape from the enemy, to have dis-
covered their secret passage through the rocks will prove a lucky
chance to us. Pizarro will reward us.

ist Sold. This way : the sun, though clouded, is on our left. —
[Perceives the CHILD.] What have we here?— A child, as I'm a
soldier !

316 P1ZARRO. [ACT v.

•2nd Sold. 'Tis a sweet little babe ! Now would it be a great
charity to take this infant from its pagan mother's power.

1st Sold. It would so : I have one at home shall play with it —
Come along. [Exeunt with CHILD.

Cora. [Without.] This way, dear Alonzo !

Re-enter CORA, with ALONZO.

Now I am right — there — there — under that tree. Was it possible
the instinct of a mother's heart could mistake the spot ? Now wilt
thou look at him as he sleeps, or shall I bring him waking, with his
full, blue, laughing eyes, to welcome you at once ? Yes, yes !
Stand thou there ; I'll snatch him from his rosy slumber, blushing
like the perfumed morn.

[She runs up to the spot, and finding only the mantle and -veil,
which she tears from the ground, and the CHILD gone,
shrieks.

Alon. [Running to her.] Cora ! my heart's beloved !

Cora. He is gone 1

Alon. Eternal God I

Cora. He is gone ! — my child ! my child !

Alon. Where didst thou leave him ?

Cora. [Dashing herself on the spot.] Here !

Alon. Be calm, beloved Cora ; he has waked and crept to a
little distance ; we shall find him. Are you assured this was the
spot you left him in ?

Cora. Did not these hands make that bed and shelter for him ?
and is not this the veil that covered him?

Alon. Here is a hut yet unobserved.

Cora. Ha ! yes, yes 1 there lives the savage that has robbed me
of my child. — [Beats at the door.] Give me back my child ! restore
to me my boy !

Enter LAS- CAS AS from the hut.

Las-Cos. Who calls me from my wretched solitude ?
Cora. Give me back my child ! — [Goes into the hut and calls.]
Fernando !

Alon. Almighty powers ! do my eyes deceive me ? Las-Casas 1
Las-Cas. Alonzo, my beloved young friend !
Alon. My revered instructor ! [Embracing.

Re-enter CORA.

Cora. Will you embrace this man before he restores my boy?
Alon. Alas, my friend ! in what a moment of misery do we
meet !

sc. ii.] PIZARRO, 317

Cora. Yet his look is goodness and humanity. Good old man,
have compassion on a wretched mother, and I will be your servant
while I live. But do not — for pity's sake, do not say you have him
not ; do not say you have not seen him. \Runs into the wood.

Las-Cas. What can this mean ?

Alon. She is my wife. Just rescued from the Spaniards' prison,
I learned she had fled to this wild forest. Hearing my voice, she
left the child, and flew to meet me : he was left sleeping under
yonder tree.

Re-enter CORA.

Las-Cas. How ! did you leave him?

Cora. Oh, you are right ! right ! unnatural mother that I was !
I left my child, I forsook my innocent ! But I will fly to the earth's
brink, but I will find him. [Runs out.

Alon. Forgive me, Las-Casas, I must follow her ; for at night I
attempt brave Rolla's rescue.

Las-Cas. I will not leave thee, Alonzo. You must try to lead
her to the right : that way lies your camp. Wait not my infirm
steps : I follow thee, my friend. {Exeunt.

SCENE II. — THE OUTPOST OF THE SPANISH CAMP. IN THE
BACKGROUND A TORRENT, OVER WHICH A BRIDGE is FORMED

BY A FELLED TREE. TRUMPETS SOUND WITHOUT.

Enter &IM&GR.O, followed by SOLDIERS, leading ROLLA in chains.

Aim. Bear him along ; his story must be false.

Rol. False I Rolla utter falsehood ! I would I had thee in a
desert with thy troop around thee, and I but with my sword in this
unshackled hand ! \Tnimpets without.

Aim. Is it to be credited that Rolla, the renowned Peruvian
hero, should be detected, like a spy, skulking through our camp !

Rol. Skulking !

Aim. But answer to the general ; he is here.

Enter PlZARRO.

Piz. What do I see ? Rolla !

Rol. Oh, to thy surprise, no doubt !

Piz. And bound too !

Rol. So fast, thou needest not fear approaching me.

Aim. The guards surprised him passing our outposts.

Piz. Release him instantly ! Believe me, I regret this insult.

Rol. You feel then as you ought.

3i8 PIZARRO. [ACTV.

Piz. Nor can I brook to see a warrior of Rolla's fame disarmed

Accept this, though it has been thy enemy's. — [Gives a sword.}
The Spaniards know the courtesy that's due to valour.

Rol. And the Peruvians how to forget offence.

Piz. May not Rolla and Pizarro cease to be foes ?

Rol. When the sea divides us ; yes ! May I now depart?

Piz. Freely.

Rol. And shall I not again be intercepted ?

Piz. No ! Let the word be given that Rolla passes freely.

Enter DAVILLA and SOLDIERS, with ALONZO'S CHILD.

Dav. Here are two soldiers, captured yesterday, who have
escaped from the Peruvian hold — and by the secret way we have
so long endeavoured to discover.

Piz. Silence, imprudent 1 Seest thou not

{Pointing to ROLLA.

Dav. In their way, they found a Peruvian child, who seems

Piz. What is the imp to me? Bid them toss it into the sea.

Rol. Gracious heavens ! it is Alonzo's child ! Give it to me.

Pia. Ha ! Alonzo's child \— {Takes the CHILD.] Welcome, thou
pretty hostage. Now Alonzo is again my prisoner !

Rol. Thou wilt not keep the infant from its mother?

Piz. Will I not ! What, when I shall meet Alonzo in the heat
of the victorious fight, thinkest thou I shall not have a check upon
the valour of his heart, when he is reminded that a word of mine is
this child's death ?

Rol. I do not understand thee.

Piz. My vengeance has a long arrear of hate to settle with
Alonzo! and this pledge may help to settle the account [Gives
the CHILD to a SOLDIER.]

Rol. Man ! man ! Art thou a man ? Couldst thou hurt that
innocent? — By Heaven ! it's smiling in thy face.

Piz. Tell me, does it resemble Cora?

Rol. Pizarro ! thou hast set my heart on fire. If thou dost harm
that child, think not his blood will sink into the barren sand. No 1
faithful to the eager hope that now trembles in this indignant heart,
'twill rise to the common God of nature and humanity, and cry
aloud for vengeance on his accursed destroyer's head.

Piz. Be that peril mine.

Rol. [Throwing himself at his feet.] Behold me at thy feet — me,
Rolla ! — me, the preserver of thy life ! — me, that have never yet
bent or bowed before created man ! In humble agony I sue to
thee — prostrate I implore thee— but spare that child, and I will be
thy slave.

sc. ii.] P2ZARRO. 319

Piz. Rolla ! still art thou free to go — this boy remains with me.

Rol. Then was this sword Heaven's gift, not thine ! — \Seizestke
CHILD.] Who moves one step to follow me, dies upon the spot.

\_Exit with the CHILD.

Piz. Pursue him instantly — but spare his life. — {Exeunt DAVILLA
and ALMAGRO, -with SOLDIERS.] With what fury he defends
himself! Ha ! he fells them to the ground — and now

Re-enter ALMAGRO.

Aim. Three of your brave soldiers are already victims to your
command to spare this madman's life ; and if he once gain the
thicket

Piz. Spare him no longer. — {Exit ALMAGRO.] Their guns
must reach him — he'll yet escape — holloa to those horse — the
Peruvian sees them — and now he turns among the rocks — then is
his retreat cut off. — [ROLLA crosses the wooden bridge over the
cataract, pursued by the SOLDIERS — they fire at him — a shot strikes
him.~\ Now ! — quick ! quick ! seize the child !

[ROLLA tears from the rock the tree which supports the bridge,
and retreats by the background, bearing off the CHILD.

Re-enter ALMAGRO and DAVILLA.

Aim. By hell! he has escaped ! — and with the child unhurt

Dav. No — he bears his death with him. Believe me, I saw
him struck upon the side.

Piz. But the child is saved — Alonzo's child ! Oh ! the furies of
disappointed vengeance !

Aim. Away with the revenge of words — let us to deeds !
Forget not we have acquired the knowledge of the secret pass,
which through the rocky cavern's gloom brings you at once
to the stronghold, where are lodged their women and their
treasures.

Piz. Right, Almagro ! Swift as thy thought, draw forth a
daring and a chosen band — I will not wait for numbers. Stay,
Almagro ! Valverde is informed Elvira dies to-day?

Aim. He is — and one request alone she

Piz. I'll hear of none.

Aim. The boon is small — 'tis but for the novitiate habit which
you fitst beheld her in— she wishes not to suffer in the gaudy
trappings which remind her of her shame.

Piz. Well, do as thou wilt — but tell Valverde, at our return, as
his life shall answer it, to let me hear that she is dead.

{Exeunt severally.

320 PIZARRO. [ACT v.

SCENE III.— ATALIBA'S TENT.

Enter ATALIBA, followed by CORA and ALONZO.

Cora. Oh ! avoid me not, Ataliba ! To whom, but to her king,
is the wretched mother to address her griefs ? The gods refuse to
hear my prayers! Did not my Alonzo fight for thee? and will not
my sweet boy, if thou'lt but restore him to me, one day fight thy
battles too ?

A Ion. Oh I my suffering love — my poor heart-broken Cora !
— thou but wound'st our sovereign's feeling soul, and not reliev'st
thy own.

Cora. Is he our sovereign, and has he not the power to give me
back my child?

Ata. When I reward desert, or can relieve my people, I feel
what is the real glory of a king, — when I hear them suffer, and
cannot aid them, I mourn the impotence of all mortal power.

Soldiers. [Without.] Rolla! Rolla! Rolla!

Enter ROLLA, bleeding, with the CHILD, followed by PERUVIAN

SOLDIERS.
Rol. Thy child 1

[Gives the CHILD into CORA'S arms, and falls.
Cora. Oh, God ! there's blood upon him !
Rol. 'Tis my blood, Cora !
Alon. Rolla, thou diest !
Rol. For thee, and Cora. {Dies.

Enter ORANO.

Ora. Treachery has revealed our asylum in the rocks. Even
now the foe assails the peaceful band retired for protection there.

Alon. Lose not a moment ! Soldiers, be quick ! Your wives
and children cry to you. Bear our loved hero's body in the van :
'twill raise the fury of our men to madness. Now, fell Pizarro ! the
death of one of us is near ! Away 1 Be the word of assault,
Revenge and Rolla ! \Excunt. Charge.

SCENE IV. — A RECESS AMONG THE ROCKS.
Enter PIZARRO, ALMAGRO, VALVERDE, and SPANISH SOLDIERS.

Piz. Well ! if surrounded, we must perish in the centre of them.
Where do Rolla and Alonzo hide their heads ?

sc. iv.] PIZARRO.

321

Enter ALONZO, ORANO, and PERUVIAN WARRIORS.

Alon. Alonzo answers thee, and Alonzo's sword shall speak for
Rolla.

Piz. Thou knowest the advantage of thy numbers. Thou
darest not singly face Pizarro.

Alon. Peruvians, stir not a man ! Be this contest only ours.
Piz. Spaniards ! observe ye the same. — {Charge. They fight.
ALONZO'S shield is broken, and he is beat down.'] Now, traitor, to
thy heart !

[At this moment ELVIRA enters, habited as when PIZARRO first
beheld her. PIZARRO, appalled, staggers back. ALONZO
renews the fight, and slays him. Loud shouts from the
PERUVIANS.

Enter ATALIBA.

Ata. My brave Alonzo ! [Embraces ALONZO.

Aim. Alonzo, we submit. Spare us ! we will embark, and leave
the coast.

Val. Elvira will confess I saved her life ; she has saved thine.

Alon. Fear not. You are safe.

[SPANIARDS lay down their arms.

Elv. Valverde speaks the truth ; nor could he think to meet
me here. An awful impulse, which my soul could not resist,
impelled me hither.

Alon. Noble Elvira ! my preserver ! How can I speak what I,
Ataliba, and his rescued country, owe to thee ! If amid this
grateful nation thou wouldst remain

Elv. Alonzo, no ! the destination of my future life is fixed.
Humbled in penitence, I will endeavour to atone the guilty
errors which, however masked by shallow cheerfulness, have long
consumed my secret heart. When, by my sufferings purified and
penitence sincere, my soul shall dare address the Throne of Mercy
in behalf of others, for thee, Alonzo, for thy Cora, and thy child, for
thee, thou virtuous monarch, and the innocent race thou reignest
over, shall Elvira's prayers address the God of Nature. — Valverde,
you have preserved my life. Cherish humanity, avoid the foul
examples thou hast viewed. — Spaniards, returning to your native
home, assure your rulers they mistake the road to glory or to
power. Tell them that the pursuits of avarice, conquest, and
ambition never yet made a people happy, or a nation great.

[Casts a look of agony on the dead body of PIZARRO as she
passes, and exit. Flourish of trumpets. VALVERDE,
ALMAGRO, and SPANISH SOLDIERS, exeunt, bearing off
PIZARRO'S body.

904

322 P1ZARRO. [ACT v.

Alon. Ataliba ! think not I wish to check the voice of triumph,
when I entreat we first may pay the tribute due to our loved Rolla's
memory.

[A solemn march. Procession <?/" PERUVIAN SOLDIERS, bear-
ing ROLLA'S body on a bier, surrounded by military trophies.
The PRIESTS and PRIESTESSES attending chant a dirge over
the bier. ALONZO and CORA kneel on either side of it, and
kiss ROLLA'S hands in silent agony. The curtain slowly
descends.

EPILOGUE.

WRITTEN BY THE HON. WILLIAM LAMB.
SPOKEN BY MRS. JORDAN.

ERE yet suspense has still'd its throbbing fear

Or melancholy wiped the grateful tear,

While e'en the miseries of a sinking state,

A monarch's danger, and a nation's fate,

Command not now your eyes with grief to flow

Lost in a trembling mother's nearer woe ;

What moral lay shall poetry rehearse,

Or how shall elocution pour the verse

So sweetly, that its music shall repay

The loved illusion which it drives away?

Mine is the task, to rigid custom due,

To me ungrateful as 'tis harsh to you,

To mar the work the tragic scene has wrought,

To rouse the mind that broods in pensive thought,

To scare reflection, which, in absent dreams,

Still lingers musing on the recent themes ;

Attention, ere with contemplation tired,

To turn from all that pleased, from all that fired ;

To weaken lessons strongly now impress'd,

And chill the interest glowing in the breast —

Mine is the task; and be it mine to spare

The souls that pant, the griefs they see, to share ;

Let me with no unhallow'd jest deride

The sigh that sweet compassion owns with pride —

The sigh of comfort, to affliction dear,

That kindness heaves, and virtue loves to hear.

PIZARRO. 323

E'en gay Thalia will not now refuse
This gentle homage to her sister-muse.

O ye, who listen to the plaintive strain,
With strange enjoyment, and with rapturous pain,
Who erst have felt the Stranger's lone despair,
And Mailer's settled, sad, remorseful care,
Does Rolla's pure affection less excite
The inexpressive anguish of delight ?
Do Cora's fears, which beat without control,
With less solicitude engross the soul ?
Ah, no ! your minds with kindred zeal approve
Maternal feeling, and heroic love.
You must approve : where man exists below,
In temperate climes, or midst drear wastes of snow,
Or where the solar fires incessant flame,
Thy laws, all-powerful Nature, are the same :
Vainly the sophist boasts he can explain
The causes of thy universal reign —
More vainly would his cold presumptuous art
Disprove thy general empire o'er the heart:
A voice proclaims thee, that we must believe —
A voice, that surely speaks not to deceive :
That voice poor Cora heard, and closely press'd
Her darling infant to her fearful breast ;
Distracted dared the bloody field to tread,
And sought Alonzo through the heaps of dead,
Eager to catch the music of his breath,
Though faltering in the agonies of death,
To touch his lips, though pale and cold, once more,
And clasp his bosom, though it stream'd with gore :
That voice too Rolla heard, and, greatly brave,
His Cora's dearest treasure died to save;
Gave to the hopeless parent's arms her child,
Beheld her transports, and, expiring, smiled.
That voice we hear — oh ! be its will obey'd !
'Tis valour's impulse, and 'tis virtue's aid —
It prompts to all benevolence admires,
To all that heavenly piety inspires,
To all that praise repeats through lengthen'd years,
That honour sanctifies, and time reveres.

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LIFE OF ADAM SMITH. By R. B. Haldane, M.P.

" Written with a perspicuity seldom exemplified when dealing with
economic science." — Scotrman.

LIFE OF KEATS. By W. M. Rossetti.

"Valuable for the ample information which it contains."— Cambridge
Independent.

LIFE OF SHELLEY. By William Sharp.

" The criticisms . . . entitle this capital monograph to be ranked with
the best biographies of Shelley." — \y«ttininsttr Review.

LIFE OF SMOLLETT. By David Hannay.

" A capable record of a writer who still remains one of the great masters
of the English novel."— Saturday Review.

LIFE OF GOLDSMITH. By Austin Dobson.

" The story of his literary and social life in London, with all its humorous
and pathetic vicissitudes, is here retold, as none could tell it better."—
Daily Iftwi.

LIFE OP SCOTT. By Professor Yonge.

" This is a most enjoyable book."— Aberdeen Free Press.

LIFE OF BURNS. By Professor Blackie.

" The editor certainly made a hit when he persuaded Blackie to write
about Burns."— Pall Hall Gazette.

LL7E OF VICTOR HUGO. By Frank T. Marzials.

" Mr. Marzials's volume presents to us, in a more handy form than any
English or even French handbook gives, the summary of what is known
about the life of the great poet."— Saturday Review.

LIFE OF EMERSON. By Richard Garnett, LL.D.

"No record of Emerson's life could be more desirable. "—Saturday Review.

LIFE OF GOETHE. By James Sime.

"Mr. James Sime's competence as a biographer of Goethe is beyond
question." — Manchester Guardian.

LIFE OF CONGREVE. By Edmund Gosse.

" Mr. Gosse has written an admirable biography."— Academy.

LIFE OF BUNYAN. By Canon Venables.

"A most intelligent, appreciative, and valuable memoir." — Scotsman.
LIFE OF CRABBE. By T. E. Kebbel.

"No English poet since Shakespeare has observed certain aspects of
nature and of human life more closely." — Athenaeum.

LIFE OF HEINE. By William Sharp.

"An admirable monograph . . . more fully written up to the level of
recent knowledge and criticism than any other English work."— Scotsman.

LIFE OF MILL. By W. L. Courtney.

" A most sympathetic and discriminating memoir." — Glasgow Herald.
LIFE OF SCHILLER By Henry W. Nevinson.

" Presents the poet's life in a neatly rounded picture." — Scotsman.

LIFE OF CAPTAIN MARRYAT. By David Hannay.

" We have nothing but praise for the manner in which Mr. Hannay has
done justice to him. — Saturday Review.
LIFE OF LESSING. By T. W. Rolleston.

" One of the best books of the series."— Manchester Guardian.
LIFE OF MILTON. By Richard Garnett, LL.D.

" Has never been more charmingly or adequately told." — Scottish Leader
LIFE OF BALZAC. By Frederick Wedmore.
LIFE OF GEORGE ELIOT. By Oscar Browning.
LIFE OF JANE AUSTEN. By Goldwin Smith.
LIFE OF BROWNING. By William Sharp.
LIFE OF BYRON. By Hon. Roden Noel.
LIFE OF HAWTHORNE. By Moncure Conway.
LIFE OF SCHOPENHAUER. By Professor Wallace.
LIFE OF SHERIDAN. By Lloyd Sanders.
LIFE OF THACKERAY. By Herman Merivale and Frank
T. Marzials.

Library Edition of" Great Writers," Demy Svo, 2s. 6d.

London: WALTER SCOTT, 24 Warwick Lane, Paternoster Row.

EDITED BY WILLIAM SHARP.
Cloth, Red Edges • Is.
Cloth, Uncut Edges - Is.

IN I/- MONTHLY VOLUMES.
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KEBLE'S CHRISTIAN YEAR.
COLERIDGE. Ed. by J. Skipsey.
LONGFELLOW. Ed. by E. Hope.
CAMPBELL. Ed. by J. Hogbsn.
SHELLEY. Edited by J. Skipsey.
WORDSWORTH.

Edited by A. J. Symington.
BLAKE. Ed. by Joseph Skipsey.
WHITTLE R. Ed. by Eva Hope.
FOE. Edited by Joseph Skipaey.
CHATTERTON. By J. Richmond.
BURNS. Poems I Edited by
BURNS. Songs /Joseph Skipsey.
MARLOWE. Ed.byP.E.Pinkerton.
KEATS. Edited by John Hogben.
HERBERT. Edited by E. Rhys.
HUGO. Trans, by Dean Carrington.
COWPER. Edited by Eva Hope.
SHAKESPEARE'S Poems, etc.
Edited by William Sharp.
EMERSON. Edited by W. Lewin.
SONNETS of this CENTURY.

Edited by William Sharp.

WHITMAN. Edited by E. Rhys.
SCOTT. Marmion, etc.
SCOTT. Lady of the Lake, etc.
Edited by William Sharp.
PRAED. Edited by Fred. Cooper.
HOGG. By his Daughter, Mrs. Garden.
GOLDSMITH. Ed. by W. Tirebuck.
MACKAY'S LOVE LETTERS.
SPENSER. Edited by Hon. R. Noel.
CHILDREN OF THE POETS.

Edited by Eric S. Robertson.
JONSON. Edited by J. A. Symonds.
BYRON (2 Vols.) Ed.byM.Blind.
THE SONNETS OF EUROPE.
Edited by S. Waddington.
RAMSAY. Ed. by J. L. Robertson.
DOBELL. Edited by Mrs. Dobell.
DAYS OF THE YEAR.

With Introduction by Wm. Sharp.
POPE. Edited by John Hogben.
HEINE. Edited by Mrs. Kroeker.
BEAUMONT & FLETCHER.

Edited by J. S. Fletcher.
BOWLES, LAMB, &c.

Edited by William Tirebuck.

EARLY ENGLISH POETRY.

Edited by H. Macaulay Fitzgibbon.

SEA MUSIC. Edited by Mrs Sharp.

HERRICK. Edited by ErnestRhys.

BALLADES AND RONDEAUS

Edited by J. Gleeson White.
IRISH MINSTRELSY.

Edited by H. Halliday Sparling.
MILTON'S PARADISE LOST.
Edited by J. Bradshaw, M. A., LL.D.
JACOBITE BALLADS.

Edited by G. S. Macquoid.
AUSTRALIAN BALLADS.

Edited by D. B. W. Sladen, B.A.
MOORE. Edited by John Dorrian.
BORDER BALLADS.

Edited by Graham R. Tomson.
SONG-TIDE. By P. B. Marston.
ODES OF HORACE.

Translations by Sir S. de Vere, Bt.
OSSIAN. Edited by G. E. Todd.
ELFIN MUSIC. Ed. by A. Waits.
SOUTHEY. Ed. by S. R. Thompson.
CHAUCER. Edited by F. N. Paton.
POEMS OF WILD LIFE.
Edited by Chas. G. D. Roberts, M.A.
PARADISE REGAINED.
Edited by J. Bradshaw, M.A:, LL.D.
CRABBE. Edited by E. Lamplough.
DORA GREENWELL.

Edited by William Dorling.
FAUST. Edited by E. Craigmyle.
AMERICAN SONNETS.

Edited by William Sharp.
LANDOR'S POEMS.

Selected and Edited by E. Radford.
GREEK ANTHOLOGY.

Edited by Graham R. Tomson.

HUNT AND HOOD.

Edited by J. Harwood Panting.

HUMOROUS POEMS.

Edited by Ralph H. Caine.

LYTTON'S PLAYS.

Edited by R. F. Sharp.

GREAT ODES.

Edited by William Sharp.

MEREDITH'S POEMS

Edited by M. Betham- Ed wards.
PAINTER-POETS.

Edited by Kineton Parkes.
WOMEN POETS.

Edited by Mrs. Sharp.

LOVE LYRICS.

Edited by Percy Hulburd.

London : WALTER SCOTT, 24 Warwick Lane, Paternoster Row.

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