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APPLETONS NEW HANDY-VOLUME SERIES.
ENGLISH
LITERATURE.

5 BY
Tº A R N O L D.
[FROM THE ENCYCLOPAEDIA BRITANNIOA.]
NEW YORK :
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY.,
- 549 AND 551 BROADWAY.
1879.
ENGLISH LTTERATURE.
I.
ANGLO-SAXON PERIOD, 596–1066.
THE early history of literature in England
might lend some countenance to the theory that
the development of a nation’s literature is, at
bottom, but a chapter of its religious history.
While the religion of our fathers was in the
main a rude, awe-struck worship of the forces of
Nature, literature either had no existence for
them, or was in a state not less elementary, con-
sisting of a few songs and Oracles, and nothing
more. With the advent of the religion of Christ
—the only faith which at once recognizes the ori-
ginal dignity of human nature and repairs its fall
—came an intellectual as well as a spiritual awa-
kening to the Teutonic mations (for into such the
original tribes or clans of the invaders had now
grown) that were planted in the old provinces of .
Roman Britain. Fºrtified by gospel precept for
4. ENGLISH LETERATURE.
the present life, and thrilled with the hope of the
life to come, the Saxon mind, released from dis-
quietude, felt free to range discursively through
such regions of human knowledge as its teachers
opened before it, and the Saxon heart was fain to
pour out many a rude but vigorous song. Pope
Gregory himself, who, according to the old phrase-
ology, sent baptism to the English, is said indeed
to have spoken disparagingly of human learning.
But the missionaries could not fail to bring with
them from Rome the intellectual culture of the
countries bordering on the Mediterranean, so far
as it had survived the fall of the Western Empire
and the irruption of the barbarians. The Roman
alphabet, paper or parchment, and pen and ink,
drove out the Northern runes, the beechen tablet,
and the scratching implement. The necessity of
the preservation, and at least partial translation,
of the Scriptures, the varied exigencies of the
Catholic ritual, the demand for so much knowl-
edge of astronomy as would enable the clergy to
fix beforehand the date of Easter, all favored, or
rather compelled, the promotion of learning and
education up to a certain point, and led to con-
tintial discussion and interchange of ideas. Grate-
fully and eagerly our forefathers drew in the
warm and genial breath which came to them from
the intenser life and higher enlightenment of the
south. Beda dates his history by the indictions
of the Eastern emperors ; and while in practice
ANGLO-SAXON PERIOD, 5.
he obeyed his native king descended from Wo.
den, in theory he recognized the larger and more
rational sway of the Caesar enthroned at Constan.
tinople.
On a closer examination, we find that there
were two principal centres, during the first two
centuries after the conversion, where learning was
honored and literature flourished. These centres
were Wessex and Northumbria. For although
Christianity was first preached in Kent, and the
great monastery at Canterbury was long a valu-
able school of theology and history (witness the
liberal praise awarded by Beda to Abbot Albinus
in the preface to his “Ecclesiastical History”),
yet the limited size of the kingdom, and the ill
fortune which befell it in its wars with Mercia and
Wessex, seem to have checked its intellectual
growth. When we have named the oldest form
of the Saxon Chronicle, that represented by the
Parker MS. A., and the not very interesting works
of Abbot Ælfric, there is little left in the shape
of extant writings, dating before the Conquest,
for which we have to thank the men of Kent.
But in Wessex and Northumbria alike, the size
of the territory, the presence of numerous mon-
asteries, perhaps also the proximity of Celtic peog
ples or societies endowed with many literary gif
—the Britons in the case of Wessex, the Cº.
of Iona in the case of Northumbria—cq”
to produce a long period of literary 9%





{} ENGLISH LITERATURE.
monuments of which it must now be our endeavor
briefly to review and characterize.
But before we consider the Anglo-Saxon liter-
ature which was founded on Christianity, the
question whether any Anglo-Saxon literature ex-
ists of date prior to the conversion demands an
answer. It was formerly thought that the im-
portant poem of “Beowulf’ was in the main a
pagan work, and must have been produced before
the Angles and Saxons quitted their German
homes; but closer investigation has shown that
it is permeated almost everywhere by Christian
ideas, and that it cannot be dated earlier than the
first quarter of the eighth century. But two poems
remain, presenting problems of great difficulty,
many of which have not yet been satisfactorily
solved, which so far as appears must have been
composed in Germany while our forefathers were
still in their German seats. These are “The
Traveler's Song” and “Deor’s Complaint.” In
the first, Widsith, a poet of Myrging race (the
Myrgings were a tribe dwelling near the Eider),
recounts the nations that he had visited as a trav-
eling gleeman, names the kings who ruled over
them, and singles out two or three whose open-
Sanded generosity he had experienced, and to
Qm he accordingly awards the tribute of a
raise. This poem may perhaps be dated
second half of the sixth century.
Ritten in or near Anglen, after the mi-




ANGLO-SAXON PERIOD. 7
gration of most of the Angles to Britain, the lam-
guage of the poem seems to have been accommo-
dated to the ordinary West-Saxon dialect, for in
this respect it differs in no degree from the other
poems which stand before and after it in the Exe-
ter Codex. “Deor’s Complaint” mentions We-
land, the Teutonic demigod corresponding to
Vulcan, Theodric, Eormanric, etc.; it is the la-
ment of a bard supplanted by a rival in his lord’s
favor. In date it is probably not far distant from
the “Traveler's Song.”
We may now return to the literary develop-
ment in Wessex. Christianity was introduced
into Wessex by Bishop Birinus in 634, and spread
over the whole kingdom with marvelous celerity.
The bishop's see was fixed at first at Dorchester,
near Oxford ; thence it was moved to Winches-
ter; before the end of the century it was neces-
sary to carve out another bishopric farther to the
west, and the see was fixed at Sherborne. Win-
chester, Malmesbury, and Glastonbury were great
and famous monasteries early in the eighth cen-
tury. The heroic Winfrid (better known as St.
Boniface), trained in a monastery at Exeter, could
not rest contented that Wessex should have re-
ceived the faith, but carried Christianity to the
Germans. Great spiritual fervor, ardent zeal, and
great intellectual activity, seem to have prevailed
in every part of the little kingdom. The inter-
esting letters of St. Boniface give us tantalizing
8 ENGLISH LITERATURE.
glimpses of a busy life, social and monastic, in the
west of England, no detailed picture of which it
is now possible to reconstruct. The most distin-
guished known writer was St. Aldhelm, a monk
of Malmesbury, and, for a few years before his
death in 709, bishop of Sherborne. His extant
works in Latin are chiefly in praise of virginity,
that form of self-mastery which, difficult as it was
for a people teeming with undeveloped power and
unexhausted passion, included, he might think,
and made possible every other kind of self-mas-
tery. The Saxon writings of St. Aldhelm are
lost, unless we accept a conjecture of Grimm that
he was the author of “Andreas,” one of the poems
in the Vercelli Codex. Cynewulf, the author of
“Crist,” “Elene,” and “Juliana,” though to us
unhappily no more than a name, was a poet of no
mean powers. Mr. Kemble was disposed to iden-
tify him with an abbot of Peterborough who lived
in the eleventh century; but it is far more prob-
able, whatever weight we may attach to Grimm's
hypothesis that he was a pupil of St. Aldhelm,
that Cynewulf was a West-Saxon writer, and
lived in the first half of the eighth century.
“Crist” is a poem of nearly 1,700 lines, incom-
plete at the beginning. When first edited by Mr.
Thorpe, along with the other contents of the Exe-
ter Codex, it was believed to be a string of dis-
connected poems. Dietrich was the first who
pointed out the internal connection of these, and
ANGLO-SAXON PERIOD. 9
showed that they constituted one organic whole.
Cynewulf seems to revel in the task of expressing
in his mother-tongue the new religious ideas
which had come to his race. Beginning from the
Annunciation, he expatiates on the various and
inestimable benefits which Christ by his incarna-
tion bestowed on men, concluding with a vivid
picture of the last great day of account. The
key-note of the poem seems to be found in the
15th canto, where the six “leaps,” or movements,
of Christ are enumerated : the first, when he be-
came incarnate ; the second, when he was born ;
the third, when he mounted on the cross, and so
on. The name “Cynewulf” is given in runes in
the 16th canto ; it occurs in the same way in the
other poems attributed to this writer. “Eleme”
is the legend of the discovery of the true cross at
Jerusalem by the Empress Helena, the mother of
Constantine ; “Juliana” is the story of the mar-
tyrdom of the saint so named, under Maximian.
“Guthlac,” a free version of the Latin life of St.
Guthlac (who died in 714) by Felix, a monk of
Croyland, is probably the work of a Mercian
writer, whose language was altered by a West-
Saxon transcriber into conformity with that of
the poems already mentioned. “Andreas,” a
poem of more than 1,700 lines, ascribed by
Grimm, as we have seen, to St. Aldhelm, but at
any rate a West-Saxon poem of the eighth cen-
tury, is founded on an apocryphal Greek narrative
f
*
10 ENGLISTI LITERATURE.
of the “Acts of Andrew and Matthew.” The
first-named apostle, after rescuing the second
from confinement in a barbarous land named
Mermedonia, and working numerous miracles of
an amazing character, converts the entire nation,
and departs after committing them to the charge
of a pious bishop named Plato.
All the poems hitherto named, and indeed the
great mass of Anglo-Saxon poetry, are written in
that alliterative metre which was the favorite
rhythm of the whole Teutonic north, and of
which one variety may be seen in the famous
poems of the Edda. Each line is in two sections,
balanced the one against the other, and contain-
ing usually from four to eight syllables and two
accents. The general rule of the metre is that
the two accented words in the first section, and
one of those in the second section, begin upon the
same letter, if a consonant, but, if the accented
words begin with vowels, then upon different
letters. º
The preponderance of opinion is now in favor
of ascribing to “Beowulf,” the most important
surviving monument of Anglo-Saxon poetry, a
West-Saxon origin, and a date not later than the
middle, nor earlier than the first decade, of the
eighth century. Yet the difficulty of the problem
may be estimated from the facts that Thorkelin,
the first editor, described “Beowulf’’ as a “Da-
nish poem;” that Mr. Kemble, wrongly identifying
ANGLO-SAXON PERIOD. 11
the Geatas with the Angles, believed it to have
been composed in Anglen before the migration,
and brought over to Wessex before the end of
the fifth century; and that Mr. Thorpe consid-
ered it to be merely a translation of a Swedish
poem of the eleventh century. Notwithstanding
this discrepancy, the general view taken above is
that of Grein, Müllenhoff, and other eminent
scholars, and we are convinced that the fur-
ther investigation is carried the more firmly
will its soundness be established. Founded on
a single manuscript, which, as originally writ-
ten, was full of errors, and now is much defaced,
the text of “Beowulf’’ can never, unless another
manuscript should be discovered, be placed on
a thoroughly satisfactory footing ; much, how-
ever, has been done for its improvement by the
labors of German and Danish critics. The gen-
eral drift of the poem is to celebrate the heroic
deeds of Beowulf, who, originally of Swedish
race, was adopted by the king of Gautland, or
Gotland (as the southern portion of Sweden is
still called), and brought up with his own sons.
Hearing that the Danish king Hrothgar is ha-
rassed by the attacks of a man-eating monster
called Grendel, he sails to Zealand to his aid, and
after various adventures kills both Grendel and
his mother. After this Beowulf is chosen king
of Gotland, and reigns many years in great pros-
perity, till in his old age, undertaking to fight
*
12 ENGLISH LITERATURE.
with a fiery dragon that has been making great
ravages among his subjects, he succeeds in killing
it, but receives a mortal injury in the struggle.
The burning of his body, and the erection of a huge
mound or cairn over his ashes, as a beacon “easy
to be seen far off by seafaring men,” conclude the
poem, and form a passage of remarkable beauty.
Toward the end of the eighth century the
descents of the piratical heathens known by the
general name of Danes, but probably born for the
most part in Scandinavian countries lying to the
north of Denmark, began to plague the English
coasts. These destroying savages resembled the
modern Turks in possessing fine military quali-
ties, and above all indomitable courage ; they
were also like the Turks in this respect, that,
wherever they set their foot, progress of every
kind was arrested, culture was blasted, and the
hopes of civilization died away. Fortunately they
were not, like the Turks, absolutely deaf to the
voice of the Christian missionary, though their
natural brutishness made them difficult to con-
vert and prone to relapse. With incredible pains,
and a charity that nothing could disgust or deter,
the church gradually won over these Scandinavian
Calibans to the Christian creed ; and when once
converted, their immense natural energy and ten-
acity were turned into right and beneficial chan-
nels, at least in great measure. But for 230
years—from the sack of Lindisfarne to the ac-
ANGLO-SAXON PERIOD. 13
cession of Canute—the so-called Danes were the
curse of England, destroying monasteries and
the schools maintained by them, burning churches
and private houses, making life and property
everywhere insecure, and depriving the land of
that tranquillity without which literature and art
are impossible.
After a long prevalence of this state of things,
society in Wessex having been, one would think,
almost reduced to its first elements, Alfred arose,
and, after obtaining some successes in battle over
the Danes, leading to a treaty and the conversion
of part of them to Christianity, obtained a period
of peace for his harassed and dejected country-
men. History tells us how well he wrought to
build up in every way the fallen edifice of West-
Saxon society. Among his labors not the least
meritorious was his translation of Beda’s “His-
toria Ecclesiastica,” Pope Gregory’s work “De
Cura Pastorali,” the famous treatise of Boethius
“De Consolatione,” and the “Universal History”
of Orosius. He also founded several schools, and
made a beginning in the work of restoring mon-
asteries. Yet, in spite of his generous efforts, the
evils caused by the Danes could not be repaired.
A sort of blight seemed to have passed over the
Anglo-Saxon genius; the claims of material ex-
istence suddenly seemed to engross their thoughts,
perhaps because their sufferings had taught them
that, however it may be with individuals, for na-
14 ENGLISH LITERATURE.
tions all higher developments must have a basis
of material prosperity to rest upon.
Now and then a great man appeared, endowed
with a reparative force, and with a courage which
aimed at raising the fallen spirit of the people,
and turning them back again into the old paths of
nobleness. Such a man was St. Dunstan, who fought
with a giant's strength against corruption, sloth,
and ignorance, and was ever faithful to the interests
of learning. There is in the Bodleian Library a
little volume, probably written in his own hand;
it is a sort of commonplace book ; the frontispiece
is a drawing of the saint prostrated at the feet of
the throned Christ, executed by Dunstan himself;
among the contents of the volume are a grammat-
ical treatise by Eutychius, with extremely curious
Welsh glosses, part of Ovid “De Arte Amandi”
with similar glosses, and lessons, in Latin and
Greek, taken from the Pentateuch and the proph-
ets. But his work was undone during the disas-
trous reign of Ethelred II., at the end of which
the Danish power established itself in England.
Under Edward the Confessor, French influences
began to be greatly felt. The two races of the
Teutonic north had torn each other to pieces, and
the culture which Saxon had been able to impart
to Northman was not sufficient to discipline him
into a truly civilized man. England, though at a
terrible cost, had to be knit on to the state-system
of Southern Europe ; her anarchy must give place
ANGLO-SAXON PERIOD. 15
to centralization ; her schools, and her art, and
her architecture, be remodeled by Italians and
Frenchmen; her poets turn their eyes, not toward
Iceland, but toward Normandy or Provence.
Turning now to the other literary centre, the
Northumbrian kingdom, we find that impulse and
initiation were due to more than one source. In
the main, the conversion of the Angles north of
the Tees, and the implantation among them of the
germs of culture, are traceable to Iona, and, in-
directly, to the Irish Church and St. Patrick.
From Ireland, in the persons of St. Columba and
his followers, was wafted to the long low island
surrounded by the mountains of the Hebrides a
ministry of light and civilization, which from the
sixth to the eleventh century diffused its blessings
over Northern Europe. Oswald, son of the Berni-
cian king Ethelfrid, was driven out of Northum-
bria after his father’s death by Edwin of Deira,
and took refuge among the northern Picts. He
embraced Christianity through the teaching of
the monks of Iona or some monastery dependent
on it ; and when he became king of Bernicia in
634, one of his first thoughts was to send to his
old teachers, and ask that missionaries might be
sent to instruct his people. Aidan accordingly
came from Iona and founded a bishop’s see at
Lindisfarne, or Holy Isle. Hence issued the
founders of the monasteries of Hexham, Coldin
ham, Whitby, and many other places. The



I6 ENGLISH LITERATURE.
representatives of the monks of Iona returned
after some years to their own country, because
they would not give way in the dispute concern-
ing Easter; but the civilizing effects of their
mission did not pass away. The school of piety
and learning which produced an Aidan, an Adam-
nan, and a Cuthbert, deserved well, not of Eng-
land only, but of humanity. Adamnan, abbot of
Iona about the year 690, has a peculiar interest
for us, because a long extract from his work on
the holy places is incorporated by Beda in his
“Ecclesiastical History.” He also wrote a life of
his founder, St. Columba, printed by Canisius and
in the “Florilegium Insulae Sanctorum.”
To the encouragement of Bishop Aidan we
owe it that Hilda, a lady of the royal house of
Deira, established monasteries at Hartlepool and
Streoneshalch (afterward Whitby); and it was by
the monks of Streoneshalch that the seed was
sown, which, falling upon a good heart and a
capacious brain, bore fruit in the poetry of Caed-
mon, the earliest English poet. We need not re-
peat the well-known story of the vision, in which
the destined bard, then a humble menial employed
about the stables and boat-service of the monas-
tery, believed that an injunction of more than
mortal authority was laid upon him to “sing
of the beginning of creation.” The impulse hav-
Ng been once communicated, Caedmon, as Beda
sus, continued for a long time to clothe in



ANGLO-SAXON PERIOD. 17
his native measures the principal religious facts
recorded in the Pentateuch and in the New Testa-
ment. Is the work commonly known as Caed-
mon’s “Paraphrase” identical with the work de-
scribed by Beda º Have we in this paraphrase a
genuine utterance of the seventh century 2 The
answers to these questions are still involved in
doubt, and to enter upon the discussion which
they presuppose would be foreign to our present
purpose. We will merely say that the unique
manuscript of the “Paraphrase,” which is of the
tenth century, contains no indication whatever of
authorship, and that it opens in a manner differ-
ent from the prologue made by the real Caedmon,
of which we have a Latin version in Beda and an
Anglo-Saxon version in Alfred's translation of
Beda. On the other hand, the portion of the
manuscript which is written in the first hand
agrees tolerably well in its contents with the real
work of Caedmon, as Beda describes it. The por-
tion of the manuscript which is written in the
second hand is probably of much later date ; some
critics have not hesitated to designate its author
as the “pseudo-Caedmon.” The opening cantos
of the “Paraphrase,” which treat of the rebellion
of the angels and the fall of man, are allowed by
general consent to be those most vividly ex-
pressed, and most characterized by poetical power.
It is here that bright strong phrases occur, which,
as is believed, Milton himself did not disdain to
A 2
18 ENGLISH LITERATURE.
utilize, and his known acquaintance with Francis
Junius, the then possessor of the Caedmon manu-
script, seems to lend some countenance to the
belief.
Hitherto the influences in Northumbria tend-
ing to culture have been found to be only indi-
rectly Roman; the immediate source of them was
Iona. But when we come to the Venerable Beda,
the great light of the Northumbrian church, the
glory of letters in a rude and turbulent age, nay,
even the teacher and the beacon light of all Eu-
rope for the period from the seventh to the tenth
century, we find that the fountain whence he
drew the streams of thought and knowledge came
from no derivative source, but was supplied di-
rectly from the well-head of Christian culture.
Benedict Biscop, a young Northumbrian thane,
much employed and favored in the court of Oswy,
abandoned the world for the church, and travel-
ing to Rome resided there several years, diligent-
ly studying the details of ecclesiastical life and
training, and the institutes of liturgical order.
Returning to England in 668, with Theodore, the
new primate, and the abbot Hadrian, he brought
into Northumbria a large number of books, relics,
and other ecclesiastical objects, and, being warmly
welcomed by King Egfrid, founded a monastery
in honor of St. Peter on land granted by the king
at the mouth of the Wear. That the other great
apostolic name venerated at Rome might not go
ANGLO-SAXON PERIOD. 19
without due honor, he built a second monastery
soon afterward in honor of St. Paul at Jarrow on
the Tyne, seven miles from Wearmouth. After
the founder’s time the two monasteries were usu-
ally governed by one abbot. When only seven
years old, Beda, like Orderic in a later age, was
brought by his father to Jarrow, and given up to
the abbot to be trained to monastic life. The rest
of his life, down to the year 731, was passed in
the monastery, as we know from his own state-
ment ; in 735 he died. His works, which have
several times been edited in a complete form
abroad, but never yet in his own country, may
be grouped under five heads: 1, educational ; 2,
theological; 3, historical ; 4, poetical ; 5, letters.
To the first class belong the treatises “De Ortho-
graphia " and “De Arte Metrica,” the first being
a short dictionary, giving the correct spelling and
the idiomatic use of a considerable number of
Tatin words, with (in many cases) their Greek
equivalents; the second a prosody, describing the
principal classical metres, with examples. “De
Natura Rerum ” is a cosmogony and cosmogra-
phy, with numerous diagrams and maps. A num-
ber of treatises, of which the most important are
“De Ratione Temporum ” and “De Ratione Com-
puti,” fall under the same head ; their general
object being to elucidate all questions connected
with the ecclesiastical calendar and the right cal-
culation of Easter. Under the second head, that
20 ENGLISH LITERATURE.
of theological works, fall his “Expositiones” on
St. Mark’s and St. Luke's Gospels, on the Acts,
and other books of the New Testament, his homi-
lies, forty-nine in number, and a book of Prayers,
chiefly made up of verses taken from the Psalms.
Under the head of historical works are lives of
five abbots of Wearmouth and Jarrow, a life of
St. Cuthbert, another of St. Felix, bishop of Nola,
and a “Martyrology,” which has several times
been printed. The “Ecclesiastical History” opens
with a preface, in which, in that tone of calmness
and mild dignity which go far to make a perfect
prose style, Beda explains in detail the nature and
the sources of the evidence on which he has relied
in compiling the work. A short introduction then
sketches the general history of Britain from the
landing of Julius Caesar to the coming of Augus-
time, giving special details respecting the martyr-
dom of St. Alban under Diocletian, and the mis-
sionary preaching of St. Germanus of Auxerre in
the fifth century. From the landing of Augustine
in 596 to the year 731, the progress of Christian-
ity, the successes and the reverses of the church
in the arduous work of bringing within her pale
the fiercely warring nations of the Heptarchy,
are narrated, fully but unsystematically, for each
kingdom of the Heptarchy in turn. A short
sketch of universal history, forming the latter
portion of the “De Ratione Temporum,” has
been treated by the editors of the “Monumenta
ANGLO-SAXON PERIOD. 21
Hist. Brit.” as if it were a separate work, and
printed, with the title “De Sex AEtatibus Mundi,”
in that useful but unwieldy volume. Among the
poetical works are a life of St. Cuthbert in Latin
hexameters, a number of hymns, most of which
are written in the lively iambic metre of which a
familiar instance is the hymn beginning “Vexilla
regis prodeunt,” a poem on Justin Martyr in a
trochaic metre, and another in hexameters on the
Day of Judgment. This last seems to have been
much admired; Simeon of Durham copied it en-
tire into his history. The versification of this re-
markable poem has considerable merits; in that
respect it is not more than three hundred years
behind Claudian. But when we come to the spirit
of the poem, and think of the moral atmosphere
which it implies, and aims at extending, we see
that ten thousand years would not adequately
measure the chasm which divides the monastic
poets from the last “vates” of heathen Rome.
For the key-note of Beda's poem is the sense of
sin; whatever is expressed by the words com-
punction, penance, expiation, heart-crushing sor-
row for having offended God, trust in the one
Redeemer, pervades all his lines; and we need
not say how alien is all this to the spirit of the
poets who, with little thought of individual and
personal reformation, staked their all in the future
upon the greatness and stability of Rome. “Tu
regere imperio populos, Romane, memento.” The
22 ENGLISH LITERATURE.
letters, most of which are merely the dedications
and addresses prefixed to some of his works, refer
little to contemporary events; two or three, how-
ever, are of great interest.
At the time when Beda died (735), the Angles
of Northumbria were beginning to lay aside the
use of arms, and zealously to frequent the monas-
tery schools; among their princes, as among
those of Wessex, some were found to exchange
a crown for a cowl and a throne for a cell. But
a reaction set in ; perhaps some had tried as-
ceticism who had no vocation for it ; and aſ-
ter the middle of the century Northumbrian
history is darkened by the frequent record of dis-
sension among the members of the royal house,
civil war, and assassination. On this state of
things came the ravages of the Northmen, and
made it incurable. Tindisfarne, with all its treas-
ures and collections, was destroyed by them in
793. This is but a sample of the havoc wrought
by those barbarians; yet for a long time many
monasteries escaped ; and, in particular, that of
York was a centre of learning far on into the
ninth century, probably till the disastrous battle
occurred before York, described in the Saxon
Chronicle under 867. At this monastery Alcuin
was educated, and when grown up he had charge
of its school and library. In 780 he was sent on
a mission to Rome ; on his return, at Parma, he
fell in with the emperor Charlemagne, who in-
ANGLO-SAXON PERIOD, 23
vited him to settle at Aix-la-Chapelle, at that time
the chief imperial residence, to teach his children,
and aid in the organization of education through-
out his dominions. Having obtained the permis-
sion of his superiors at York, Alcuin complied
with the request ; and from that time to his death,
in 804, he resided, with little intermission, either
at the imperial court or at Tours. Alcuin's let-
ters, though the good man was of a somewhat dry
and pedantic turn, contain much matter of in-
terest. His extant works are of considerable bulk ;
they are chiefly educational and theological trea-
tises, which for lack of vigor or originality of
treatment have fallen into complete oblivion.
What is still of value in the works of Alcuin is,
besides the letters, the lives of St. Willibrord, the
English apostle of Friesland, St. Vedast, and St.
Richer.
After the death of Alcuin, the confusion in
Northumbria became ever worse and worse, for
the Danes forced their way into the land, and
many years passed before the two nations could
agree to live on friendly terms together side by
side. But for the “Durham Gospels,” a version
in the Angle dialect of the four gospels, and a few
similar remains, the north of England presents a
dead blank to the historian of literature from
Alcuin to Simeon of Durham, a period of more
than three hundred years. In the south, as we
have seen, the resistance to the intrusion of the
24 ENGLISH LITERATURE.
barbarian element was more successful, and the
intellectual atmosphere far less dark. The works
of AElfric, who died archbishop of Canterbury in
1006, are the last subject of consideration in the
present section. They are chiefly interesting be-
cause they show the growing importance of the
native language. AElfric’s “Homilies” are in
Anglo-Saxon ; his “Colloquy” is a conversation
on common things, in Latin and Anglo-Saxon, be-
tween a master and his scholar ; his “Grammar,”
adapted from Priscian and Donatus, has for its
object to teach Latin to Anglo-Saxons; its edi-
torial and didactic part is therefore in Anglo-
Saxon.
The annals of public events, to which, as col-
lected and arranged by Archbishop Plegmund at
the end of the ninth century, we give the name
of the “Saxon Chronicle,” continued to be re-
corded at Canterbury in the native language till
about the date of the Conquest ; after that time
the task passed into the hands of the monks of
Peterborough, and was carried on by them for
nearly a hundred years. A work of collecting
and transcribing the remains of the national poetry
began, of which the priceless volume known as
the “Exeter Codex,” given by Bishop Leofric to
the library of Exeter cathedral in the reign of
Edward the Confessor, is the monument and the
fruit. The collection contained in the manuscript
discovered about fifty years ago at Vercelli was
ANGLO-SAXON PERIOD, 25
probably made about the same time. In these
two collections are contained the works of Cyne-
wulf, the “Traveler's Song,” “Guthlac,” “An-
dreas,” the poem on the “Phoenix,” etc. Being
thus made more widely known, the ancient poems
would soon have found imitators, and a fresh
development of Anglo-Saxon poetry would have
been the result. Had there been no violent
change, England would by slow degrees have got
through with the task of assimilating and taming
the Northmen ; and, in spite of physical isolation,
would have participated, though probably lagging
far behind the rest, in the general intellectual ad-
vance of the nations of Europe. The tissue of
her civilization would have been, in preponderat-
ing measure, Teutonic, like that of Germany ; but
it would have lacked the golden thread of the
“Holy Roman Empire,” which brought an element
of idealism and beauty into the plain texture of
German life. For good or for evil, the process of
national and also of intellectual development was
to be altered and quickened by the arrival of a
knightly race of conquerors from across the Chan-
nel.
26 ENGLISH LITERATURE.
II.
ANGLO-NORMAN PERIOD, 1066–1215.
THE eleventh century is remarkably barren in
great names and memories which captivate the
imagination ; it was, however, an advance upon
the tenth, which Baronius has described as the
central and worst period of intellectual darkness.
In England, for about a hundred and fifty years
after the Conquest, there was no unity of intel-
lectual life ; in political life, however, the iron .
hand of the Conqueror compelled an external uni-
formity, by the universal exaction of homage to
himself. The strength of the Norman monarchy,
the absence of religious differences, and, after a
time, the loss of Normandy, were causes working
powerfully in aid of the conciliation and interfu-
sion of the different elements of the population.
But at first it was as if three separate nations were
encamped confusedly on British soil—the Nor-
mans, the English, and the Welsh. The clergy, as
a fourth power, of all nationalities or of none, be-
came—by its use of Latin as a common tongue,
by preaching a common faith and teaching a com-
mon philosophy, and as representing the equality
and charity which are among the essential features
of Christianity—an ever-present mediating influ-
ence tending to break down the partitions between
ANGLO-NORMAN PERIOD. 27
the camps. The intellectual state and progress of
each nation, down to and a little beyond the end
of the twelfth century, must now be briefly dis-
cussed. wº 3:
1. No RMANs.-In less than two centuries after
the Northmen under Rollo had settled in Nor-
mandy, they had not only exchanged their Teu-
tonic speech for the language of France, but made,
with French as the medium of expression, remark-
able literary progress. In this progress the Nor-
mans settled in England participated to the full.
It is probable that the Turoldus who, availing
himself of earlier Frankish lays and chronicles,
composed toward the end of the eleventh century
the noble heroic poem called the “Chanson de
Roland,” was an abbot of Peterborough, son of
the clerk of the same name who was the Conquer-
or's preceptor. From the reign of Henry I., though
the names of several writers are known, little of
importance has come down to us. The treatise
on politeness called “Urbanus,” attributed to
Henry himself, is in all probability the composi-
tion of a later age. The works of the hapless sat-
irist, Luc de la Barre, are not extant, and Evrard’s
translation (1130) of Cato's “Disticha " into
French verse is not a noteworthy performance.
The reign of Stephen, though confusion and civil
war prevailed over a great part of England, wit-
nessed an extraordinary outburst of literary ac-
tivity. Of the historians who shed a lustre on
28 ENGLISH LITERATURE,
this reign we shall speak in a different connection ;
but it was also memorable for its French poets.
Guichard of Beaulieu, a cell of St. Alban’s (1150),
produced a poem in alexandrines of some merit,
on the vices of the age ; Geffroy Gaimar (1140)
wrote his lively “Estorie des Engles’ (a chronicle
of the Anglo-Saxon kings); and Benoit de Ste.
More, either in this reign or early in that of Henry
II., produced a vast poem on the “History of the
War of Troy,” which seems to have been the
Original exemplar on which the numerous “Troy-
books” of later generations were modeled. The
family of Benoit was of Norman extraction, but
settled in England. Under Henry II., whose
ceaseless and enlightened energy stimulated pro-
duction wherever it was exerted, French poetry
took an ever bolder sweep. Robert Wace, a na-
tive of Jersey and a clerk of Caen, composed
about 1155 his famous “Brut d’Angleterre,” a
history of the kings of Britain from Brutus to
Cadwallader, founded on the “Historia Britonum”
of Geoffrey of Monmouth. Again, when Henry
had commissioned Benoit to write a metrical his-
tory of the dukes of Normandy, the quick-witted
Wace anticipated his slower rival, and produced
in 1160 the first part of the “Roman de Rou,”
treating of the same subject.
Thus far we have considered the Anglo-Nor-
man poets chiefly as chroniclers; we have now to
regard them as romance writers. It is true that
ANGLO-NORMAN PERIOD. 29
in their hands history slides into romance, and
vice versa ; thus the “Brut d’Angleterre” may
be regarded as historical in so far as it treats of
the series of British kings, mythical as that series
itself may be, but as a romance in most of that
portion of it which is devoted to the adventures
of Arthur. We here enter upon a wide field;
the stores of Arthurian, Carlovingian, and general
chivalrous romance suggest themselves to the
mind; a thousand interesting inquiries present
themselves; but the limits traced for us prescribe
a treatment little more than allusive, that is,
French romance can only be described in virtue
of the stimulating and suggestive effect which it
had on English writers. This effect was produced
in a measure by great poems like the “Alexan-
dreis” (1200), by the original French romances on
Charlemagne and his peers, and by that on the
third crusade and the prowess of King Richard.
But the romances relating to Arthur, doubtless on
account of the extent to which they really sprang
from British soil, were those which most pro-
foundly stirred the English mind. It is not diffi-
cult to trace the steps by which the legend grew.
Gildas, writing in the sixth century, knows of
Arthur's victory at Mount Badon, but does not
name him. Nennius, whose date is uncertain, but
who should probably be assigned to the ninth cen-
tury, mentions the same victory as one of several
which were gained by “the magnanimous Arthur”
30 ENGLISH LITERATURE.
over the Saxon invader. Three centuries pass,
and the story comes to us again, greatly amplified,
in the “British History” of Geoffrey of Mon-
mouth (1126). This history, Geoffrey assures us,
was founded upon a book in the Breton language,
brought over from Brittany by an archdeacon of
Oxford. Ritson scouted the assertion as ficti-
tious, yet it was probably true; and the supposi-
tion of a Breton origin for his history is exactly
what would best account for the great develop-
ment which we find the Arthur legend to have
now attained, in comparison with the age of Nen-
nius. For Brittany was the fruitful parent of
numberless forms of imaginative fiction—a trait
noticed by Chaucer :
“These olde gentil Bretons in their daies,
Of divers aventures maden laies,”
and what character would the Breton bards be
more likely to embellish than that of the hero
king, who, during and before the migration of
their forefathers, had made such a gallant stand
against the Saxon 2 Yet, though Geoffrey has so
much to tell us of Arthur, he is silent about the
Round Table. That splendid feature of the legend
first appears in the “Brut” of Wace, and was
probably derived from Breton poems or traditions
to which Geoffrey had not access. Layamon re-
produces it, with additional details, in his version
of Wace. Other branches of Arthurian romance,
ANGLO-NORMAN PERIOD. 31
especially those relating to Tristan and Perceval,
became about this time widely popular ; it is to
this period also that the “Chevalier du Lion” of
Chrétien de Troyes belongs.
Suddenly there is a great change. A cycle of
romance, which till now had breathed only of
revenge, slaughter, race-hatreds, unlawful love,
magic, and witchcraft, becomes transformed in a
few years into a series of mystical legends, sym-
bolizing and teaching one of the profoundest dog-
mas of the Catholic creed. This strange effect
was produced by the infusion into the Arthur
legend of the conception of the Saint Graal, the
holy vessel used by Christ at the Last Supper,
and containing drops of his blood, which Joseph
of Arimathea was said to have brought into Brit-
aim. This transformation seems to have been ex-
ecuted by Walter Map, the remarkable Welshman
whose genius decisively colors the intellectual his-
tory of the last forty years of the twelfth century.
Map is said to have written a Latin history of the
Graal, which is not now extant ; yet from it all
the authors of the French prose romances on Ar-
thur and the Saint Graal which appeared between
1170 and 1230—Robert de Borron, his kinsman
Hélie, Luc de Gast, and Map himself—profess to
have translated their compositions. The chief of
these works are the “Saint Graal,” “Merlin,” the
“Quest of the Saint Graal,” “Lancelot,” “Tris-
tan,” and “Mort d’Artur.” In all, to “achieve
y
32 ENGLISH LITERATURE.
the Saint Graal,” that is, to find or see the holy
vessel which, on account of the sins of men, had
long since vanished from Britain, is represented
as the height of chivalrous ambition ; but among
all Arthur's knights, only Sir Galahad, the son of
Lancelot, is sufficiently pure in heart to be favored
with the sublime vision. English versions, more
or less literal, of these romances, among which may
be named the works of Tonelich and Sir Thomas
Malory, and the alliterative poem of “Joseph
of Arimathie,” attest the great and enduring popu-
larity of the Graal form of Arthurian legend.
2. WELSH PoETRY.-After a long period of
silence, the bardic poetry of Wales broke out,
just when the independence of the nation was
about to be extinguished, into passionate and
varied utterance. The princes who struggled suc-
cessfully against the attacks of Henry II. found
gifted bards—Gwalchmai, Elidir, Gwion, etc.—to
celebrate in fiercely patriotic strains their imper-
fect triumphs. A translation of one of Gwalch-
mai’s odes may be found, under the title of the
“Triumph of Owen,” among Gray’s poems. Sup-
posed “Prophecies of Merlin,” a sample of which
may be seen in the strange work of Geoffrey of
Monmouth, fed the popular belief that Arthur yet
lived, and would return one day to Wales as a
deliverer. Both the “Triads'' and the “Mabino-
gion” refer in part to Arthur, but from different
standpoints. In the “Triads” such mention as
ANGLO—NORMAN PERIOD. 33
there is of him represents him as a British king,
doing battle with the foes of his race, and full of
a sententious wit and wisdom. In the “Mabino-
gion” the indigenous Welsh view is overpowered
by that of the Norman trouvères; we have the
Arthur, not of history or tradition, but of chivalry;
the mysterious Saint Graal proves as attractive to
the Celtic as to the Teutonic imagination. Three
of the romances by Chrétien de Troyes appear in
a Welsh dress among the tales of the “Mabino-
gion.” After the loss of independence under Ed-
ward I., the importance and originality of Welsh
literature appear to have progressively declined.
3. EARLIEST ENGLISH.—The English-speaking
portion—that is, the great mass—of the popula-
tion, down to the reign of John, has left few lit-
erary traces of its existence. Whoever wished to
move among the educated and cultured classes,
and to associate with persons of rank, authority,
or influence, found it necessary, though he might
be descended from Alfred himself, to speak French
in good society, and to write in French whatever
he wished good society to read. From the Con-
quest to 1200, the industry of the most lynx-eyed
antiquary has discovered—with the exception of
the continuation of the Saxon Chronicle—no liter-
ary record in English beyond a few short frag-
ments, such as the limes preserved as a part of
Canute's song by Thomas of Ely, the prophecy of
Here, and the hymn of St. º continu-

&O.
34 ENGLISH LITERATURE.
ation beyond the Conquest of the Saxon Chronicle
was made by the monks of Peterborough. It is
not complete for the reign of Stephen, passing
over several years sub silentio , but it records the
accession of Henry II. in 1154, and then ends
abruptly. The writer or writers were perhaps
unable to stand up any longer against the then
universal fashion of employing Latin for any seri-
ous prose work. Moreover, as the Anglo-Saxon
was no longer taught in schools nor spoken in the
higher circles of society, it had lost much of its
original harmony and precision of structure ; and
“when the annalist found himself using one in-
flection for another, or dropping inflections alto-
gether, he may well have thought it high time to
exchange a tongue which seemed to be crumbling
and breaking up, for one whose forms were fixed
and its grammar rational. Little did the down-
hearted monk anticipate the future glories which,
after a crisis of transformation and fusion, would
surround his rude ancestral tongue.””
A few years after the beginning of the thir-
teenth century, we have to note the appearance
of an important and interesting work in English,
Layamon’s “Brut.” But it can scarcely be said to
belong to English literature, unless “Beowulf’”
and “Judith ” be similarly classified, for the lan-
guage is almost as purely Teutonic as in these.
In the older version of the “ Brut ’’ not more than
* Arno
anual of English Literature.”


ANGLO—NORMAN PERIOD, 35
fifty words of Latin or French origin have been
found ; and of these several were in common use
in England before the Conquest. The “Brut’ is
strictly a monument of the age of transition. We
need not, with some writers, call the language
“semi-Saxon ; ” it is certainly English, and, from
a particular point of view, purer English than we
speak now ; but it is not that form of English
which, from first to last, has been the instrument
employed to build up English literature. That
form, as we shall see in the next section, was de-
termined and conditioned by the necessity of ef-
fecting a compromise between the speech of the
governors and that of the governed, so that the
new standard English should remain, as to its gram-
matical framework, comparatively intact, while
admitting to its franchise, and enrolling among its
vocables, an indefinite number of foreign recruits.
The work of Layamon is a translation, but
with very considerable additions, of Wace’s “Brut
d’Angleterre.” The most interesting of these ad-
ditions (the sources of which have not been as yet
pointed out) constitute an expansion of the legen-
dary history of Arthur. Layamon was the parish
priest of Ernley-on-Severn (now Areley Regis), a
remote Worcestershire village, far from the capi-
tal or any large city. At such a place Norman
influence would be at a minimum ; the people
would go on from one generation to another, liv-
ing and speaking much as their fathers did before
36 ENGLISH T.ITERATURE.
them ; and we may suppose that, finding some in-
dications of literary taste and poetic feeling among
members of his flock, the good Layamon took this
way of gratifying them. But it must be carefully
observed that in the “Brut,” although the lan-
guage is English, the poetical atmosphere, the intel-
lectual horizon, and even the cast of diction, are
Norman-French. The rich poetic vocabulary of
the Anglo-Saxon poets, traceable as late as the
reign of Edgar, has vanished beyond recovery.
Not one of the innumerable poetic compounds re-
lating to battle and victory which are found in
“Beowulf,” “Andreas,” etc., occurs in the duller
pages of the “Brut.” Words expressive of juris-
diction and government, of which the Anglo-Sax-
on, while the native race was dominant, had a
great variety, are in the “Brut,” if used at all,
borrowed to a large extent from French.
The labors of the clergy and monks during all
this period were applied with unwearying dili-
gence and signal success to the building up of a
Tatin literature. In the list of chroniclers occur
the well-known names of Florence of Worcester,
William of Malmesbury, and Henry of Hunting-
don. Many histories of particular monasteries
were written, and have recently to a large extent
been made accessible, through the labors of edi-
tors employed under the superintendence of the
Master of the Rolls. St. Anselm, archbishop of
Canterbury in the reigns of William II, and
AMALGAMATION OF RACES. 37
Henry I., employed his great metaphysical and
dialectical powers in the endeavor to establish a
harmony between reason and faith. The scholas-
tic philosophy, technically speaking, began with
Peter Lombard and his “Book of Sentences”
(1151); from the university of Paris it spread all
Over Europe; and in the next period it will be
Seen that several of the most eminent schoolmen
were natives of the British Isles. The works of
our countryman, John of Salisbury, who studied
and resided much at Paris about the middle of
the century, throw a curious light on the tenets
and mutual relations of the scholastic sects.
III.
AMIAL.GAMIATION OF RACES.–COMMENCEMENTS OF
ENGLISH LITERATURE, 1215–1350.
TIIE course of events in this period, as bear-
ing upon literature, may be thus described. The
fortunate loss of Normandy in 1204 brought the
ruling classes and the commonalty of England
closer together, put an end to the transmarine
nationality and domicile of the former, and gave
a common political interest, in relation to the out-
side world, to all the dwellers on English soil.
Thus two out of the four nations, which we spoke
of in the last section as encamped side by side on
38 ENGLISTI LITERATURE.
British territory, were soon in a fair way of being
fused into one. The third—the Welsh—losing in
1292 its political independence, lost also with it
the pretension, and almost the desire, to maintain
a separate literature. Still, however, in spite of
common interests and the ever-growing multi-
plicity of the ties of blood between the two, Nor-
man and Englishman continued each to speak his
own language. Layamon, about 1205, and Or-
min, fifteen or twenty years later, write for the
English-speaking majority which understands lit-
tle or no French ; from French their language is
just as alien as the Flemish of the present day.
The first great step toward that blending of
tongues which was to crown the blending of fam-
ilies already commenced was taken when the Eng-
lish writers and translators of the thirteenth cen-
tury (the terms are almost synonymous) began to
admit freely into their writings an unlimited num-
ber of those generally intelligible French words
of which the stock was, through closer intercourse
between the governors and the governed, perpet-
ually on the increase. Of this practice Robert of
Gloucester and Robert Manning are conspicuous
examples. In spite of this approximation, we
shall find that strenuous efforts were made, by or
on behalf of the upper classes, to retain French
as the common literary language, and keep Eng-
lish in the position of a popular dialect, useful
for the common purposes of life, but not vivified
MALGAMATION OF RACES. 39
by genius or polished by contact with refined lips.
Of this effort Robert de Grosseteste, bishop of
Lincoln, may be considered the centre. It broke
down, however, against the force of circum-
stances. First, as good French books were pro-
duced, Englishmen translated them, and the
translations probably found ten readers for one
who could enjoy the originals ; secondly, the
wars between England and France which broke
out in 1338, and in which the English-speaking
archers—the backbone of the stout yeomanry,
now, alas ! no more, which then covered the land
—won the chief share of glory, must have greatly
tended to discredit among Englishmen of all
classes the tongue of their enemies. Trevisa says
that the popular rage for speaking French which
had existed before the “grete deth '' (the plague
of 1348) was since then “somdele chaunged.”
Though he naturally refers to a date still fresh in
every one's memory, the change could have had
nothing to do with the plague ; it was probably, as
conjectured above, the effect of the French war.
By the middle of the fourteenth century the in-
dustry of the translators had produced a great
body of English compositions, colored everywhere
by French thought, and studded with French
words; the preaching of the friars had for a hun-
dred years been working in the same direction,
i. e., to break down the partition not only be-
tween the races but between the tongues ; the
40 ENGLISH LITERATURE.
War Suddenly gave to English an enormous ad-
vantage over its rival in respect of popularity ;
it need not, therefore, surprise us to find, as we
shall find in the next period, a great native writer
choosing English for the instrument of his
thought, and founding English literature upon an
imperishable basis.
In the last section we saw that Latin, the lan-
guage of the clerical community, was holding its
ground vigorously and successfully against the dif-
ferent forms of vermacular speech current in Eng-
land. While these last remained in a rude and
unsettled condition, it was inevitable that Latin
should enjoy this superiority. But the French
language was ever growing in importance; its
grammatical forms were by this time tolerably
settled, and its modes of derivation fixed ; it
was a spoken tongue, and the Latin was not.
Hence, about the date of Magna Charta (1215),
Trench begins to appear in our public instruments,
Latin having been the documentary language
since the Conquest ; about 1270 it begins to su-
persede Latin as the language of private corre-
spondence. Tatin thenceforward was less and less
used as the language of poetry, the vehicle of satire,
or the voice of piety; French took its place. The
theologian, the philosopher, and the annalist alone
remained faithful to Latin, the third more out of
habit perhaps, and because he had inherited the
great works of the past, the histories of Beda,
AMALGAMATION OF RACES. 41
Florence, etc., than because his work could not
have been competently performed in French. To
this period belong the important chronicle of
Matthew Paris, who died in 1259, that of Nicho-
las Trivet, and the “Polychronicon’ (or at any
rate the earlier portion of it) of Ranulf Higden.
Great developments of the scholastic theology
were made in this period, chiefly by the new
Orders of friars founded about its commencement,
the children of St. Francis and St. Dominic. Two
of the most celebrated of the Franciscan writers,
Duns Scotus and William of Occam, were natives
of the British Isles; they were respectively the
chiefs of the realists and nominalists, the parties
representing among the schoolmen Platonic and
Aristotelian theories. Robert Holcot, a distin-
guished Dominican writer and a nominalist, was
carried off by the plague of 1348.
Philosophy now for the first time, in the per-
son of Roger Bacon, devotes herself systemati-
cally to the study of nature and its laws. This
great man, the chief part of whose long life was
spent in the Franciscan friary at Oxford, died in
1292. The main plan of his principal work, the
“Opus Majus,” was, in the words of Dr. Whewell,
“to urge the necessity of a reform in the mode
of philosophizing, to set forth the reasons why
knowledge had not made a greater progress, to
draw back attention to sources of knowledge
which had been unwisely neglected, to discover
42 ENGLISH LITERATURE.
other sources which were yet wholly unknown,
and to animate men to the undertaking by a
prospect of the vast advantages which it offered.”
ISut the subsidiary aids which physical science
requires were wanting to him, and in that rude
age could only be obtained with extreme difficulty.
Mathematical instruments were terribly expen-
sive ; tables were scarcely to be had ; books were
both rare and costly. That he discovered so
much as he did—chiefly in chemistry and optics
—is a thing to wonder at. Vague reports of
these discoveries circulating among the ignorant
populace caused Roger Bacon to be deemed a
conjurer or necromancer; the chapbooks and low
comedies of the reign of Elizabeth represent him
exclusively in this light.
In the reign of Henry III. a strong effort was
made to make French the exclusive literary lan-
guage of the English people. It was a struggle
between the tongue of the upper class and the
tongue of the middle class. Robert Grosseteste,
the admired and venerated bishop of a great see,
was surrounded by ecclesiastics of rank, and in
constant intercourse with earls and barons. All
such persons would speak French ; those that
were laymen would stand in great need of spirit-
ual and moral instruction, and this could not well
be conveyed to them in any language but their
own; it was quite natural, therefore, that the
bishop should encourage the writing of French
$
AMALGAMATION OF RACES. 43
treatises; and it is probable that he sincerely
thought the English tongue not to be worth cul-
tivating for the purposes of literature. He may
be excused for holding this opinion, if the only
specimens of it which he had seen on paper were
such as the “Ormulum,” or even as Layamon's
“Brut.” A French work, the “Manuel des
Péchés,” treating of the decalogue and the seven
deadly sins, which are illustrated with many le-
gendary stories, was formerly ascribed to Grosse-
teste, but is now known to have been the work of
William of Waddington; yet if the statement be
true, that it is a version of a little-known Latin
treatise, there remains a probability that the bish-
Op, in pursuance of a general plan of action, en-
couraged Waddington to make his version. To
the “Chastel d’Amour,” a work of devotion dwell-
ing on the mode of the miraculous incarnation of
the Redeemer, Grosseteste’s claim seems to be
better founded ; if he did not write it, he cer-
tainly caused it to be written. The same despair
of making anything of English, or the same con-
nection with a circle of readers in the upper ranks
of society, led Peter Langtoft, a canon of Brid-
lington, in spite of his unmistakably English
name, to write in French a rhyming chronicle of
English history, which he brings down to 1307.
Other cases might be mentioned ; in fact, as
Wharton says, “anonymous French pieces both
in prose and verse, and written about this time,
44 ENGLISH LITERATURE.
are innumerable in our manuscript repositories,”
There were French originals of “Guy of War-
wick,” “Bevis of Hamtoun,” and many other ro-
mances, although few of them are now extant.
But if the attack was vigorous, the defense
was sturdy and persistent, with a tenacity which
spoke of final victory. Ormin’s rhythmic gospels
(supposed to have been written about 1225),
though the Orthography proceeds upon a theory,
and is so far interesting, present, it must be ad-
mitted—owing to the strangeness of the spelling,
the want of rhyme, and the paucity of words of
Latin origin—a barbarous, almost repulsive, as-
pect to the reader. The war of the barons in
Henry III.'s reign, in which the cause of Leicester
and other French-speaking aristocrats was taken
up by the mass of the people with unmeasured
enthusiasm, certainly had the effect of introduc-
ing a number of French words into the popular
speech. This may be gathered from the remark-
able English ballad on the battle of Lewes (1264),
written by a partisan of Leicester, the phraseology
of which is marked by almost the same propor-
tion of words of French origin as prevails in mod-
ern English. Moreover, the movement of the
verse is vigorous and free, and such as befits a
language that is fast rising into importance, and
has a great destiny before it. In the reign of
Edward I. appeared the English rhyming chroni-
cle of Robert of Gloucester. The early portion
AMALGAMATION OF RACES. 45
of it is founded on Wace’s “Brut,” but the author
continues the history down to 1272, the date of
Edward’s accession. Robert is a plodding, dull
writer, but his work proves that he knew of a
considerable class of persons who knew no French,
yet were capable of deriving pleasure from litera-
ture ; it is for this class that his somewhat pon-
derous poem was intended. The pretty poem
describing a contest between an owl and a night-
ingale (date about 1270) is in the dialect of the
south of England. It is no translation, but seems
to have been suggested by passages in the “Ro-
man de la Rose.” Many English romances, e.g.,
“Havelok,” “King Horn,” “King Alexander,”
“Richard I.,” “Guy of Warwick,” etc., date from
the reign of Edward I., or, say, from the last
twenty years of the thirteenth century. Most of
these are translations from the French ; in the
case of “Havelok,” however, this remains to be
proved, no French version (other than the sketch,
much earlier in date, given in Gaimar’s “Estorie”)
being now extant. There is a French version of
“King Horn,” but it differs greatly from the
English romance, and there is good reason for
believing that the English poem is the earlier of
the two. Both “Havelok” and “King Horn are
founded on Anglo-Danish traditions current in
the east of England ; on this account, and in con-
sideration of the long intellectual blight which
the Danish inroads produced in those parts of the
46 ENGLISTI LITERATURE.
country, they are extremely interesting and valu-
able. They abound in French words, and on
reading them we feel that a language which has
become so fluent, flexible, and accommodating,
cannot but make its way and attain to predomi-
Il?...I] Cé. º
Perhaps the works of no single writer contrib-
uted so much to this result as those of Robert
Manning, or, as he is also called, Robert of Brunne.
Robert was a monk of the order founded by St.
Gilbert of Sempringham ; his monastery was in
South Lincolnshire. He belongs to the reigns of
Edward II. and Edward III. ; the date of his
death is unknown, but it was probably about
1340. He executed a new version of Wace’s
“Brut’ in octosyllabic rhyming verse, and added
to it a translation of the French rhyming chroni-
cle of Peter Langtoft, mentioned in a previous
paragraph. He also translated Waddington's
“Manuel des Péchés,” adding many characteristic
and lively passages which make his version much
more entertaining than the original work. To all
these labors the good monk was impelled, not by
the love of fame, which would have been more
easily gratified if he had written in French, but
by the benevolent desire to give his lay friends
and acquaintances something pleasant to read and
talk about—
“For to haf solace and gamen,
In felauschip when tha sit samen [together].”
*
*
EARLY ENGLISH LITERATURE. 47
We have found that by degrees men of better,
or at least equal, mark have taken to writing in
English, as compared with those who preferred
French ; for instance, Robert Manning is at least
equal as a versifier to Peter Langtoft. In the
next section will be described the rise of Chaucer,
Langland, and Gower, and the final victory of the
native speech.
IV.
EARLY ENGLISH LITERATURE, 1350–1477.
THE period at which we have arrived comprises
about one hundred and twenty years, ending at
the date of the introduction of printing into Eng-
land. During all this time the scholastic philos-
ophy reigned undisturbed at the universities.
Wickliffe, so far as his methods of argument and
reliance on logic were concerned, was as much a
schoolman as the friars who contended with him.
The time was not yet come when a churchman
would be found, like Colet, to decry the scholas-
tic methods, and rely on literature rather than on
logic. Wickliffe's first attacks upon the estab-
lished order were directed, not against doctrine,
but against the encroachments of the church
upon the state, against the holding of temporal
“lordship ’’ or authority by ecclesiastical persons,
48 ENGLISH LITERATURE.
and against the claim asserted by the pope to
receive “Peter's pence,” or an equivalent, from
the English nation. These views he was said to
have borrowed from Marsilius of Padua and
John of Gaudun ; but in truth such Ghibelline
sentiments were so common in France and Ger-
many, as well as Italy, that it is needless, in
Wickliffe's case, to attempt to trace them to par-
ticular authors. Afterward he broached some
singular opinions on several abstruse points of
metaphysics, which led to “determinations” or
treatises being published against him by John
Kyningham, a Carmelite, and John Tyssington,
a Franciscan. Lastly, he aroused a theological
storm, about 1380, by reviving something like
the condemned heresy of Berengarius on the
mode of the presence of Christ in the sacrament.
Replies were written by Wynterton, Wells, Ber-
ton, and others. A synod met in London and
condemned Wickliffe's doctrine ; he died at Lut-
terworth soon afterward. The whole complex
controversy which he had stirred up was taken in
hand, some years later, by a man of vast ability
and learning, Thomas Walden the Carmelite, one
of the English theologians who took part in the
council of Constance. Walden’s “Doctrinale
Fidei" has been more than once printed on the
Continent. ~.
All the writings hitherto described were in
Latin. But Wickliffe, on the principle “Flectere
EARLY ENGLISH LITERATURE. 49
si nequeo superos, Acheronta movebo,” resolved
to carry the conflict into a more spacious arena,
and to appeal to popular sympathy by writing in
the language of the people. He preached and
circulated many English sermons; he organized
his “pore priestes” as a body of itinerant preach-
ors; assisted by his followers he put into circula-
tion an incredible number of English tracts, di-
rected against abuses in discipline, and what he
deemed errors in doctrine. Lastly, he caused to
be made a complete English translation of the
Vulgate Bible, and himself, in all probability, took
a considerable share in the work. His efforts,
seconded by those of his principal adherents, such
as Herford, Repington, Purvey, etc., gave rise to
the sect of the Lollards, which must have grown
rapidly into importance, since it received marked
notice in the poetry (written probably between
1380 and 1390) of both Chaucer and Gower. The
famous Act “De hazretico comburendo ’’ of 1401,
and the rigid inquisitorial measures instituted by
Archbishop Arundel and carried on by Chichely,
drove Lollardism beneath the surface of society
and from the pages of avowed literature. Yet,
though repressed, the spirit of discontent survived.
Many Lollards were burnt so late as in the first
year of Henry VIII. ; and the rain of pamphlets
and ballads against the church and the clergy,
which burst forth as soon as the king was ascer-
- tained to be hostile to them, w is a sufficient in-
4
50 ENGLISH LITERATURE.
dication of the pent-up hatred which filled the
breasts of thousands.
The career of Pecock, bishop of Chichester,
may be regarded as an incident of Lollardism.
Feeling sore and uneasy under the attacks which
men, many of whom were undeniably earnest and
moral, were making on the clergy and their do-
ings, Pecock wrote in English “The Repressor of
over-much Wytinge [Blaming] of the Clergie.”
He thought that the time for appealing to author-
ity was gone by, and that the Lollards could only
be reconciled to the church by proving that her
precepts and her ritual were in themselves reason-
able. In short, he made the reason of the indi-
vidual the judge of the goodness, or otherwise,
of what the church did and commanded. On
this ground his brother bishops could not follow
him ; his books were condemned at a synod held
in 1457, and he was deposed from his bishopric.
English literature in the full and proper sense,
of which we saw the beginnings in the cumbrous
alexandrines of Robert of Gloucester, and the
more pleasing and successful writings of Man-
ning, asserts itself in this period as a growth of
time, destined to have thenceforward an inde-
pendent being and a powerful influence. It is in-
teresting to note that two distinct and rival ten-
dencies now make their appearance, which may be
described as the Teutonic affinity and the Franco-
Tatin affinity. The sturdiness and self-reliance of
TARLY ENGLISIT LITERATURE. 51
the old Saxon blood led many Englishmen to un-
dervalue the culture of the day, which came from
the South, and to look lovingly toward the old
Teutonic rock from which they were hewn, in the
faith that true light and deliverance were to be
found there. Of this tendency Langland is the
chief representative in the fourteenth century.
He employs the old rhythm of the Teutonic na-
tions—alliteration ; he rejects French models, and
studies not French poets; the homely, kindly life
of the English lower and lower-middle classes is
what he loves to depict ; the covetousness and
ambition of the foreign ecclesiastics who absorb
English prelacies he is never tired of denouncing.
The whole body of alliterating poets—and recent
investigation has shown that their number was
considerable even down to the sixteenth century,
the last known alliterative piece being by Dunbar
—represent, with Langland, this Teutonic affin-
ity. Chaucer, Gower, Lydgate, and the writers
who formed themselves upon them, represent the
Franco-Latin affinity. Endowed with a more re-
ceptive temper and finer perceptions than the men
of the opposite school, Chaucer opened his large
heart and capacious intelligence to all forms of
excellence within his reach ; and a man so minded
could not fail to see that what had been written
in French and Italian far outweighed what had
hitherto been written in English and German.
Neither could his more cultivated cear fail to pre-
52 ENGLISH LITERATURE.
fer the rhyme of the South to the alliteration of
the North. “I am a Southron man,” he says un-
der the mask of the Persone— -
“I cannot geste, Tom, ram, ruſ, by my letter; ”
that is, I cannot write alliterative poems like Lang-
land. Wherever good words were to be had,
Chaucer appropriated them, whether their origin
were Saxon or Romance; wherever he found a
good poem, he imitated it, often bettering the in-
struction. This veracity of the intellect, this
large-mindedness, were the cause that our early
literature was laid on broad foundations, and con-
tributed not a little to the many-sided and sym-
pathetic character of our language. -
The labors of Tyrwhitt and Warton, and in
our own day of Sandras and Ten Brink, have laid
bare the sources whence the genius of Chaucer
drew its materials and derived its kindling sug-
gestions. The old notion that his earliest writ-
ings show the influence of the Provençal poetry
has been abandoned on more accurate inquiry.
The “Complaynt of the Dethe of Pite,” which is
among the earliest, if not the earliest, of the ex-
tant compositions, is saturated with the French
spirit. The great work of his early youth was the
translation of the “Roman de la Rose” of Lorris
and Meung : a poem, be it remembered, not the
growth of Normandy, but of France proper; not
the work of trouvères, but of French poets. This
EARLY ENGLISH LITERATURE. 53
transformation and sublimation of the romance
of the earlier into the dream and allegory of the
later middle ages, originated by the genius of
Lorris, was eagerly adopted by Chaucer, most of
whose pieces, prior to the great work of his life,
the “Canterbury Tales,” were cast in the allegori-
cal mould. This is the case with the “Assembly
of Foules,” where the gentle “formel eagle’’ is
believed to represent Isabel, daughter of Edward
III., betrothed in 1364 to Engelram de Couci, as
the formel is in the poem to the “royal tercel.”
Again the “Boke of the Duchesse,” on the death
of Blanche, Duchess of Lancaster, in 1369, is in
form a vision seen in a dream ; it is also full of
actual borrowings from the French poets Lorris,
Meung, and Machault. The mannerism of the
French poets is also present in the “Court of
Love” and the “House of Fame,” compositions
which probably belong to Chaucer’s middle life.
Even in the “Legende of Goode Women,” a work
of his later years, many passages, particularly the
beautiful lines rehearsing his annual worship of
the daisy, are significant of the degree in which
his mind was still imbued with the graceful and
fanciful conceptions of the French poets.
But the sunny South produced in that age
other poets besides the French, poets the force
and melody of whose writings caused the glory of
Lorris and Machault to wax pale i
Chaucer must have become acqua


54 ENGLISIT LITERATURE.
caccio at an early age, for in the “Assembly of
Foules,” written when he was only twenty-four
or twenty-five, several stanzas are translated from
the description, in the “Theseide” of the Italian
poet, of the garden of Queen Nature. With Pe-
trarch he is believed on reasonable grounds to
have become acquainted during his visit to Italy
in 1373; the charming allusion to the “laureat
poete,” in the Prologue to the “Clerke’s Tale,” is
familiar to every reader. Dante, whom he calls
“the grete poete of Itaille,” supplied him with a
vision in the “House of Fame,” and with the ma-
terials of one of the tragedies in the “Monke's
Tale,” the story of Count Ugolino. But it was
to Boccaccio that his obligations were the largest ;
from his “Filostrato” he translated, though with
many additions and alterations, his “Troylus and
Cryseyde; ” the “Knighte’s Tale” is in the main
a translation of the “Theseide,” and two or three
other “Canterbury Tales” are more or less close
renderings of stories in the “Decameron.” Italian
was then in a far more advanced stage, and better
suited for literary purposes, than English ; and it
must be undoubtedly due to his Italian studies
that in Chaucer’s hands our language—which sev-
enty years before had appeared as a barbarous
dialect in the mouth of Robert of Gloucester, and,
even as used by Langland, Chaucer's contempo-
rara Yºsh and crabbed—was proved to be rich
* ºl harmony, no less than in force.


EARLY ENGLISH LITERATURE. 55
After all, had Chaucer done no more than has
been already indicated, though he would have de-
served credit for polishing and regularizing the
Janguage, and would have left models of style for
later ages to imitate, he would not have earned
the praise of a great and immortal poet. In this
category, however, he is definitely placed in vir-
tue of the original portions of the “Canterbury
Tales.” Not only is the Prologue the work of a
great literary artist, drawing from nature with
an incomparable force, Sureness, and freedom of
hand, but the whole series of linking passages, be-
sides many of the tales, which, though the mate-
rials are old, are transfigured by the treatment
they receive, attest the presence of a masterly in-
tellect and an unfailing imagination. He “saw
life thoroughly and saw it whole ; ” his some-
what keen and caustic temper opened his eyes to
the tricks of hypocrites and pretenders, which his
manly straightforwardness made him expose with-
out ceremony; on the other hand, the noble and
really superior cast of his character placed him in
full sympathy with those who in heroic self-denial
were following under his eyes the counsels of per-
fection. Over against the portraits of Monk,
Friar, and Pardoner in the Prologue, may be set
the legend of Sainte Cecile, the “Man of Lawe's
Tale,” and the exquisite opening stanzas of the
“Prioress's Tale.” In that peculiar combination
of great force of handling with grace and versa-
56 ENGLISH LITERATURE.
tility, on which the availability and effect of poetic
genius so largely depend, Chaucer may be placed
in a trio with Shakespeare and Pope, and no fourth
name in English literature can, from this point of
view, be raised to their level.
Coming to speak of Gower after Chaucer, we
descend, as we now clearly see, through an enor-
mous interval ; but this distance was not so ap-
parent to their contemporaries and immediate suc-
cessors. “Ancient Gower” was a favorite with
Tichard II., and was also prudent enough to pay
his court betimes to the young Duke of Lancaster,
soon to be Henry IV. His “Confessio Amantis.”
is colored by all the profanity and much of the
cynicism which belong to Jean de Meung's por-
tion of the “Roman de la Rose.” It may be ob-
served, in passing, that the “Roman’’ was the
product of a kind of minor renaissance, or revival
of ancient learning. The “Somnium Scipionis”
of Macrobius gave the dream-form, and Ovid’s
“Ars Amandi” supplied an abundant store of
amatory details. From this last, and from others
of his poems, the counsels and warnings to lovers,
with which the “Roman,” the “Confessio Aman-
tis,” and many another popular poem of that day
were stocked, were, partly by suggestion, partly
by direct translation, derived. That the “Ars
Amandi” should come to spread so wide an influ-
ence was a fact of no good omen to the morals of
Europe. Refinement, even when little more than
EARLY ENGLISH LITERATURE. 57
external, seems to exercise an invincible attraction
on the human mind. The wit and suppleness of
the Greek intellect, the polished luxury of the
Roman empire, dazzled more and more the semi-
cultivated society of Europe, and created a pagan-
izing fashion, of which the moral results were
often deplorable. Numbers even of ecclesiastics
were carried away ; bishops prided themselves on
their elegant symposia ; abbots, “purple as their
wines,” thumbed Anacreon instead of their brevi-
aries; and, in spite of Savonarola and other re-
formers from within, no effectual check appeared
for these evils till it was supplied by the rude
blasts of the Reformation.
Dan Lydgate, the monk of Bury, was a loyal
admirer and follower of Chaucer ; and if the
practice of poetry could make a perfect poet, he
should stand, in virtue of his innumerable com-
positions, among those of the highest rank. But
the language—already rich and various, but un-
settled in form and deficient in precedents—es-
caped out of his control; to bend and tame it
effectually while in such a condition required the
strength of an intellectual giant, such as Chaucer
was, but Lydgate certainly was not. We know that
Chaucer took the greatest pains with his metre—
“So praye I to God, that none miswrite thee,
Nethee mySmetre for defaut of tonge; ”
but Lydgate, though, to recommend his mediocre
58 ENGLISH LITERATURE.
thoughts, he should have taken much greater
pains, took in fact much less. Perhaps some crude
theory of poetic inspiration misled him, as it mis-
leads poets of our own day, whose roughness and
obscurity yield as unsatisfactory results as Lyd-
gate’s roughness and mediocrity. The materials
for his more important productions were chiefly
French and Latin works of his own day, or not
much earlier in date. Thus his “Falls of Princes”
is from a French metrical version of Boccaccio's
Latin prose work, “De Casibus Illustrium Viro-
rum,” and his Troy-book is founded on the “His-
toria Trojana” of Guido di Colonna, a Sicilian ju-
rist of the thirteenth century. Lydgate's admira-
tion for Chaucer was undoubtedly sincere, and he
probably attempted to imitate the best points of
Chaucer's style. If yet to a great extent he failed,
this was perhaps due, not merely to the careless-
ness to which we have before adverted, but also
to the influence of the barbarous writers of alliter-
ative verse, whose activity at this period we de-
scribed in the early part of this section. Allitera-
tive rhythm is accentual, heroic rhythm is syl-
labic. An alliterative verse may have a varying
number of syllables, but must have four accents;
and heroic verse may have a varying number of
accents, but must contain ten, or at most eleven,
syllables. Of course the variation in either case
is confined within certain limits, and the rules
themselves are not without exceptions; but into
EARLY ENGLISII LITERATURE. 59
these details we have not space to enter. Suffice
it to say that the reason why there is so much
haiting metre in Lydgate, Hawes, Barclay, Hard-
ing, Juliana Berners, and other versifiers of the
fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, would seem to
be that, unlike Chaucer, they indulged in much of
the syllabic license of the alliterators, while yet
they were not Goths enough to adopt their rhythm
altogether. Between the Teutonic and Franco-
Latin stools, so to speak, they fell to the ground.
A recent writer, to whose labors the history
of English literature is much indebted,” desiring
to mark picturesquely the appearance of an art
which he thought was destined to give the death-
blow to mediaeval superstition, has said that “in
the year of the condemnation of Reginald Pecock
for declaring that all truth would bear the test of
reason and inquiry, John Fust or Faust and Pe-
ter Schoeffer printed a magnificent edition of the
Psalter.” This shows how easily an attractive
antithesis may become a trap for the unwary.
The statement made in the protasis of the above
sentence is untrue, and that in the apodosis irrele-
vant. Pecock was not condemned for “declaring
that all truth would bear the test of reason and
inquiry” (which of course his opponents believed
us well as he), but for maintaining, along with
other novel opinions, that reason was a better
guide than authority as to the matter of revealed
* Prof. H. Morley.
60 ENGLISH LITERATURE.
religion. Doubtless many would agree with him,
but this is a very different proposition from the
other. Nor again was the appearance of Fust’s
Psalter an epoch in the history of printing, as
the coincidence of dates, to be worth noticing,
would require, for it was both preceded and fol-
lowed by the production of more important works.
Yet it would not be easy to overrate the effect
produced by the invention of printing on the de-
velopment of literature, and the diffusion of those
complex influences and arrangements which we
call civilization. Language and its devices, as
Horne Tooke showed in his “Diversions of Pur-
ley,” exist but to promote the rapid interchange
of ideas between man and man ; and the device
of printing is a further long step in the same
march, and a part of the same endeavor. By
means of it, books reached in five years coun-
tries which before they had not reached in twen-
ty, and readers were multiplied a hundredfold.
Through it the speculations of scholars and the
theories of philosophers could be quickly brought
before the whole body of learned men and phi-
losophers in Europe ; hence arose counter-specu-
lations and adverse theories, which again obtained
publicity with the same rapidity as the first, and
to this process there was no limit. Poetry, as
being one of the more spontaneous growths of
the human mind—the child of passion and imagi-
nation, not of controversy—owed comparatively
ENGLISH LITERATURE. 61
little to the new invention. The literary annals
of Spain furnish us with the names of more than
a hundred poets who adorned the long reign of
John II. of Castile, ere printing came into being ;
while for a century after the discovery the poetic
art was in a feeble and inert condition, both in
Spain and England. On the other hand, histori-
cal studies of all kinds, since they flourish in pro-
portion to the facilities given of collecting facts
and materials—and printing greatly enhanced
these facilities—received a sudden and highly
beneficial impulse.
The first book certainly known to have been
printed in England is the “Dictes and Sayings of
the Philosophers,” a translation from the French ;
this was printed by Caxton in 1477, within the
precincts of the abbey of Westminster. The
monks of St. Alban’s soon set up a printing-press
in their great monastery; and Oxford and Cam-
bridge quickly followed suit. For fifteen years
more Caxton labored diligently in his vocation,
and at his death in 1492 left the art of printing
- firmly established in England. An examination
of the list of works which he printed shows what
branches of literature were most in esteem in the
English society of his day. Prof. Craik enumer-
ates forty-five works, which comprise all Caxton's
more important typographical performances. Of
these, thirteen are religious and devotional, twelve
are works of romance and chivalry or other prose
62 ENGTISH LITERATURE.
fiction, seven are historical or legal works, five
are English versions of classical authors, five
hand-books or didactic works, and three editions
of English poets. To the first class belong the
“Golden Legend” (a translation of the collection
of lives of saints under that name compiled by
Jacobus de Voragine), a “Liber Festivalis,” or
guide to church festivals, a “Life of Saint Wyne-
frid,” and several pious books translated from the
French. Under the second head fall Malory's
English version of the great French prose ro-
mances of Arthur, the “Ryal Book,” a “Troy-
book” translated from the French of Raoul Le
Fevre, the “Book of Feats of Arms,” and the
“Historye of Reynard the Foxe,” translated from
the Flemish. To the historical section belong
Trevisa's version of Higden’s “Polychronicon,”
the “Chronicles of England” by Fabyan, and the
statutes passed in the first year of Richard III.
Among the classics offered to the English public
were versions of the “AFneid” and of Cicero
“De Senectute’” and “De Amicitia,” translated
from French versions, and Chaucer's rendering of
Boethius’s “De Consolatione Philosophiae.” The
hand-books contain the “Moral Proverbs of Chris-
time de Pisan,” a “Boke of Good Manners,” a
“Boke for Travellers,” etc. The English poets,
editions of parts of whose works were printed by
Caxton, were, as was to be expected, Chaucer,
Gower, and Lydgate. }
EARLY ENGLISH LITERATURE. 63
In the period ending with 1350, we saw that
the plant of English literature, though putting
out some vigorous offshoots in the poems of Nico-
las of Guildford and Robert Manning, was still
struggling with great linguistic difficulties, so
that it remained uncertain whether, like Flem-
ish literature in Belgium, it would not to have
content itself with appealing to the humbler
classes of the people, and leave to France the
office of ministering to the intellectual and imag-
inative wants of all cultivated persons. In 1470
this doubt remained no more ; the question had
been finally settled in favor of native genius.
England had now a literature in her own speech
of which she might be proud—authors whose
manner and phraseology supplied models to allied
but less advanced nationalities. James I. of
Scotland, who was killed in 1436, speaks in the
“King's Quhair” of the trio of English poets in
terms of reverence comparable to those which
Chaucer himself, in “Troylus and Cryseyde,”
had used of the great poets of antiquity. But
this success had only been gained by the wise ex-
ercise of that talent for compromise which we
English, even to this day, are said to possess
almost to a fault. English literature was to em-
ploy a language which in its structure and gram-
mar indeed was Teutonic, but was to admit with-
out scruple into its vocabulary thousands of
French words which the upper classes, the de-
64 ENGLISTI LITERATURE.
scendants of the Norman invaders, were in the
habit of using. It seemed as if both language
and people were destined to hold a position mid-
way between the European nations of Teutonic
and those of Latin origin, to be interpreters be-
tween the one and the other, and thus to facili-
tate, for the numerous communities which in due
time the English race was to plant over the world,
the comprehension of the thoughts and the appre-
ciation of the ideas of both.
V.
TERIOD OF TIIIE RENAISSANCE AND THE REFOR-
MATION, 1477–1579.
THE decline of the scholastic philosophy in
England in the fifteenth century, as indeed in
every other country of Europe, was noticed in the
last section. A new interest seized upon all the
more lively intelligences—that of recovering
what, having passed into oblivion, might still be
recoverable of the works of the ancients, as well
as of appropriating thoroughly what was already
known. In Latin literature the chief works had
long been known ; Virgil, Ovid, and even many
of the works of Cicero, had for ages been the de-
light of scholars and the food of poets. But even
in respect of these, the greater publicity which
THE RENAISSANCE AND THE REFORMATION. 65
the multiplication of copies by the printing-press
gave to them led to innumerable questions being
stirred, which till then had lain comparatively
dormant. The problems of textual, philological,
and literary criticism, which the careful study of
an author suggested to an acute mind, were taken
up with eagerness by a large and ever-increasing
circle of students. But it was Greek learning,
because of the comparative newness of the field,
and the inconceivable value of the treasures
which it hid, that awakened the most intense
and passionate interest. The story of the revival
of Greek studies in Italy, toward the end of the
fourteenth century, is as exciting to a sensitive
intellect as any romance. Gradually the con-
tagion of the learned frenzy which created a hun-
dred academies and literary societies in the Italian
cities spread itself across the Alps. England was
but a very little, if at all, behind France. The
steps by which a change of so much importance
to literature was effected seem to be worth trac-
ing with some minuteness.
Without lingering over the names of Gray,
Phrea, and Vitelli, by each of whom something
was done toward promoting Greek study at Ox-
ford, we will begin with Linacre's master, Wil-
liam Selling. An Oxonian, and a monk of Christ
Church, Canterbury, Selling conceived a fervent
desire to partake of the intellectual banquet pro-
vided in the schools of Florence, where the great
5
66 ENGLISH LITERATURE.
Dorenzo was then ruling the republic ; and about
the year in which Sir Thomas More was born
(1480) he traveled into Italy, and attended for
some time the lectures of that prodigy of learn-
ing and talent, Angelo Poliziano. While in Italy
he learned to read and speak Greek, and collected
a number of Greek manuscripts; but unluckily,
soon after his return with these to England, they
were destroyed by an accidental fire. Thomas
Linacre, a Derbyshire boy, had Selling for his
master at the Canterbury school; his capacity
and zeal for study were great, and when Selling
was sent on a mission into Italy by Henry VII.
in 1486 or 1487, he took Linacre with him, and
left him studying Greek under Poliziano at Bo-
logna. In these studies William Grocyn, an
older man than Linacre, is mentioned by contem-
poraries as his “sodalis.” Having been for many
years a fellow of New College, he visited Italy
between 1480 and 1490, and studied chiefly at
Florence, under Demetrius Chalcondyles and Po-
liziano. “Grocyn,” says George Lilye, “was the
first who publicly lectured on Greek literature at
Oxford, to crowded audiences of young men.”
Grocyn was a somewhat hard, dry man ; an Aris-
totelian, not a Platonist. Plato he regarded as a
man who multiplied words, but in Aristotle he
saw the founder of real science. His lectures
seem to have been delivered between 1491 and
1500. Grocyn left no works behind him ; but
TIE RENAISSANCE AND THE REFORMATION. 67
Linacre, who probably began to lecture in Greek
when Grocyn ceased to do so, was a voluminous
author and editor. To him we owe editions of
the principal works of some of the Greek medical
writers, and a Latin grammar, which was Super-
seded in a few years by the more symmetrical
“Breviarium ” of William Lilye, commonly called
“Lilly’s Grammar.” An anecdote related of Lin-
acre illustrates the enthusiasm for letters, mingled
with a dash of pedantic absurdity, which charac-
terized the age. When about to leave Italy and
return to his native country, he erected at Padua
an altar, which he dedicated to the genius of
Italy; he crowned it with flowers, and burned
incense upon it. More, born in 1480, learned
Greek under Tinacre at Oxford, in about the
years 1496 and 1497. His “Progymnasmata”
and “Epigrams” (the latter written conjointly
with William Lilye) are the work of a man deeply
imbued and inflamed with the classical spirit.
The celebrated Dean Colet, whose eminent
services to literature and education have been of
late years examined and recorded by Seebohm,
Lupton, and others, studied Greek in Italy a few
years later than Grocyn and Linacre. He lect-
ured at Oxford after 1497 on the epistles of St.
Paul (in Greek), and at St. Paul’s, London, of
which he was dean, on the “Hierarchies” of Dio-
nysius. The letters of Erasmus present in the
clearest light the “perfervidum ingenium” of
68 ENGLISH LITERATURE,
this remarkable man, who, as the founder of St.
Paul’s school, may be said still to live and work
among us. This school he opened in 1510, ap-
pointing William Lilye its first head-master.
Lilye himself was no common man. In youth
he had traveled to the Holy Land, and on his
return took up his abode at Rhodes, and made
himself master of the Greek language. Polydore
Vergil even says that Lilye was the first English-
man who ever taught publicly “perfectas literas,”
by which he appears to mean the Greek authors,
but this is certainly a mistake. For the scholars
of St. Paul’s school, Richard Pace, another Ox-
ford man, wrote, at Colet's request, a pleasant
discursive treatise called “De Fructu qui ex Doc-
trina percipitur” (1518), in which are introduced
some interesting details respecting the learned
men of that day. William Latimer, a priest and
an Oxford man, is continually mentioned in the
letters of Erasmus and his contemporaries as a
scholar of vast erudition and especially conver-
sant with Greek. But he was diffident, and per-
haps indolent, and declined the task of teaching
Fisher Greek, which Erasmus urged him to under-
take.
It is a lamentable fact that after this brilliant
opening of the study of the humanities at Ox-
ford, the dawn was overcast, and a dismal reac-
tion set in. Erasmus tells us that, about 1518, a
body of brutal obscurantists appeared in the uni-
THE RENAISSANCE AND THE REFORMATION. 69
versity, who, calling themselves Trojans, attempt-
ed by ridicule and petty persecution to discourage
the study of Greek. It was on this occasion that
More wrote his “Epistle to the University” (1519),
complaining that the party of the barbarians was
not put down. The king was induced to inter-
fere, and the nuisance was after a while sup-
pressed. At Cambridge, though the study of
Greek appears to have been introduced later than
at Oxford, it was carried on without check or dis-
couragement, and was supported by endowments
at an earlier period than at the sister university.
The excellent Fisher, bishop of Rochester, who
was chancellor of the university of Cambridge
from 1501 to 1517, and in that time founded, or
helped to found, the colleges of Christ's and St.
John's, promoted Greek learning with all his en-
ergy. He invited Erasmus down to Cambridge
in 1511, and procured for him, first, the Lady
Margaret professorship of divinity, and afterward
the chair of Greek. He was succeeded by a scholar
of some celebrity, Richard Croke, who, after be-
ing educated for twelve years at foreign universi-
ties, at the expense of Archbishop Warham, re-
turned a most accomplished Grecian, and settled
at Cambridge. The archbishop just named, the
last before the change of religion, was a prelate
of great enlightenment and unfailing generosity.
Erasmus, who received from him an annual pen-
sion and frequent gifts, is never weary of extol-
70 ENGLISH LITERATURE.
ling to his correspondents the “sanctissimi mores,”
the love of letters, integrity, and piety of the Eng-
lish primate. Toward the middle of the century,
Sir John Cheke, as Milton says, “taught Cam-
bridge and King Edward Greek; ” his friend,
Sir Thomas Smith, was also a great promoter of
learning.
From the suppression of the monasteries in
1536 to the end of his reign, the violence and bru-
tality of Henry VIII. exercised a baneful effect
on the progress of learning. Instead of confer-
ring together about the Greek particles, Oxford
men were obliged to consider what they should
think and say about the king's divorce. The fate
of More, the finest scholar at Oxford, and a writer
of European reputation, of whom Charles V. said
to the English embassador, “We would rather
have lost the best city of our dominions than such
a worthy councilor,” dispirited and alarmed all
English men of letters. In such damgerous times
wariness, quietness, unobtrusiveness, must have
seemed to be the one way of safety. When the
tyrant died, men breathed indeed more freely;
but the rapacity and indifference to letters of Pro-
tector Somerset's government must have filled all
university men with the feeling that the tenure of
their endowments was anything but secure, and
such a state of mind is not good for the pursuits
of learning. Under Mary there was some revival
of literary activity; a collection was made and
THE RENAISSANCE AND THE REFORMATION. 71
published of the English works of Sir Thomas
More ; and new editions of Gower and Lydgate
were printed. Warton truly observes that “when
we turn our eyes from [this reign's] political evils
to the objects which its literary history presents,
a fair and flourishing scene appears.” On the
other hand, the compulsory revival of the scholas-
tic philosophy at the universities, which involved,
as we are told, the depreciation of the new learn-
ing, was an unpleasant feature of the times. There
is a well-known passage in Ascham’s “Schoolmas-
ter,” where, speaking of Cambridge in Mary’s time,
he says that “the love of good learning began Sud-
denly to wax cold, the knowledge of the tongues
was manifestly contemned ; the truth being,” he
goes on to say, “that plans were laid by the uni-
versity authorities to bring back the works of Duns
Scotus, and all the rabble of barbarous question-
ists,” into the academical course, in the place of
Aristotle, Plato, Cicero, and Demosthenes. To
throw contempt on the schoolmen, though it was
not confined to the Protestants—for More, Eras-
mus, Colet, Pace, and many other Catholics had
expressed more or less of a similar aversion—yet
was characteristic of them, for their theologians
without exception rejected the “Schola.” There-
fore Gardiner and Bonner appear to have resolved
to force scholasticism on the young men of their
day, simply because they did not like it.
Yet at Oxford things cannot have been so bad,
72 ENGLISH LITERATURE,
for it was in this reign that Trinity College was
founded by Sir Thomas Pope, a zealous Catholic,
“in the constitution of which the founder princi-
pally inculcates the use and necessity of classical
literature, and recommends it as the most impor-
tant and leading object in that system of academi-
cal study which he prescribes to the youth of the
new society. For, besides a lecturer in philosophy
appointed for the ordinary purpose of teaching the
scholastic sciences, he establishes in this seminary
a teacher of humanity.” The accession of Eliza-
beth brought another change. The schoolmen
were again ejected, and with contumely, from
English seats of learning. By a singular irony of
fate, the name of the owner of one of the bright-
est and most penetrating intellects ever given to
man, Duns Scotus, came to be used, in England,
as a synonym for a blockhead. Polite literature
was now so exclusively cultivated that it destroyed
philosophy. The old systems were discredited,
but no new system was adopted in their place.
Nor has philosophical speculation ever recovered
in England that high place in the hierarchy of the
sciences which is its due. In the first twenty years
of the reign of Elizabeth, though exact scholarship
did not flourish much, there was a great and very
beneficial activity in the work of making transla-
tions from the classics. The names of Golding,
North, Phaier, Marlowe, and Stanihurst indicate
* Warton,
THE RENAISSANCE AND THE REFORMATION. 73
the authors of the chief of these. Fairfax and
Harrington translated the masterpieces of Tasso
and Ariosto. But for the ample store of fresh
materials thus supplied, the genius of Shakespeare,
who had not a university education, must have
displayed itself under comparatively restricted
forms.
Little need be said of those inferior descrip-
tions of poetry which this period produced.
Stephen Hawes, in his “Pastime of Pleasure,” en-
deavored, but with very imperfect success, to
effect that blending of allegory with romance
which was to be the brilliant achievement of
Spenser. The mind of Alexander Barclay seems
to have been swayed by that Teutonic affinity of
which we spoke in a former section ; he turned
to Sebastian Brandt rather than to Petrarch, and
preferred the grotesque humor of the “Narren-
schiff’’ to the sonnets on “Laura.” In Skelton,
almost the only poet of the first twenty years of
Henry VIII.'s reign, the coarser fibres of the Eng-
lish nature are offensively prominent. His fond-
ness for alliteration, and indifference to the sylla-
bic regularity of his verse, show that he too be-
longed to the Teutonizing party among the Eng-
lish writers, and that he may be affiliated to
Langland and the other alliterators of an earlier
age. He occasionally wrote some pretty little
lyrics—witness the musical lines “To Maistress
Margary Wentworth ; ” but buffoonery and a
*
|
74. ENGLISH LITERATURE.
coarse kind of satire were what his nature
prompted him to, and in these he excelled. His
attacks on Wolsey’s pride, luxury, and sensuality,
are well known, nor can it be said that they were
not deserved ; still, as proceeding from an incon-
tinent priest, they remind us unpleasantly of
“Satan reproving sin.” The macaronic verse in
which this poet delighted, a farrago of Latin
words, classical and barbarous, French words, cant
expressions, and English terms clipped or length-
ened at pleasure, was called by our ancestors, for
many years after his death, “Skeltonical; ” but
Walton has shown that he did not invent it, but
that it was in common use in his time both in
Italy and in France. The end of the reign of
Henry VIII. was illustrated by the poetry of Sur-
rey and Wyatt. These two writers, having re-
sided long in Italy, and learned, like Chaucer,
justly to appreciate the greatness of Italian liter-
ature, which mone of their countrymen since
Chaucer seemed able to do, “greatly polished,”
as Puttenham says, “our rude and homely man-
ner of vulgar poesie from that it had been before,
and for that cause may justly be sayd the first
reformers of our English metre and style.” To
Chaucer’s heroic verse Surrey restored the sylla-
bic regularity which it had lost in inferior hands,
and, stripping it of rhyme, he for the first time
produced English blank verse. Into this rhythm
he translated part of the “ABneid.” He shares with
TIIE RENAISSANCE AND THE REFORMATION. 75
Wyatt the credit of having naturalized the sonnet
in English literature.
In Scotland there arose in this period several
poets of considerable mark, all of whom, in re-
spect of their turn of thought and the best fea-
tures of their style, may be properly affiliated to
Chaucer. Henryson wrote in “rhyme royal”—
Chaucer’s favorite metre — the “Testament of
Faire Creseyde,” a sort of supplement to Chau-
cer’s “Troylus and Cryseyde.” In the poetical
remains of Gawain Douglas, bishop of Dunkeld,
there is much melody and sweetness. In the
poems of Dunbar the influence of Chaucer is es-
pecially noticeable. “The Thistle and the Rose”
and the “Golden Terge” are poems of the same
class as the “Assembly of Foules” and the “Court
of Love; ” the allegoric form, and the machinery
of dream and vision, are employed in both. Sir
David Lyndsay began by being a great admirer
and imitator of Chaucer, but the Teutonic affini-
ties of his mind waxed ever stronger, and he
ended by gaining great temporary fame as the
author of coarse and ribald satires, directed against
the abuses of his day, especially those which de-
formed the church. His latest work, a “Dialog
concerning the Monarché,” appeared in 1553.
The modern drama grew up under the shadow
of the church, in the form of miracle plays. As
the people grew richer and more numerous, aſid:
the arts of life were improved, and experience
76 ENGLISH LITERATURE.
suggested ways of correcting blemishes and add-
ing fresh splendor to the spectacle, these plays
were exhibited with ever-increasing pomp. Yet,
at the same time, the lay spirit getting hold of
them more and more, and the religious laxity of
the Renaissance attacking the clergy, we find
those which date from the fifteenth century not
only grotesque, but gross to the last degree. Their
composition in many parts betrays a scandalous
accommodation or condescension to the brutality
or pruriency of the hearers. Take, for instance,
the scene called “The Bridal of Mary and Jo-
seph’’ in the “Coventry Mysteries.” To interest
masses of ignorant people it may have been neces-
sary to be simple, broad, and outspoken ; but it
could not have been necessary to introduce a heap
of filthy jokes, not found in their original, gath-
ering round the mystery of the Incarnation, for
the sake of raising a horse-laugh, and covering
the cheeks of the country girls with blushes. It
must be remembered that the entire system of
language and allusions in these plays is contem-
porary. Mary’s kinsman, Abizachar, is a medi-
aeval bishop, with his court, his sumpnours, and
his apparitors; the whole thing is racy of the
soil, and redolent of the national humor; you are
no more transported into Palestine than a travesty
of “Medea' transports you into Greece. The
moral effects upon juvenile spectators of so much
loose talk, conveyed to them as it was with a same-
THE RENAISSANCE AND THE REFORMATION. 77
tion (for a religious aim was always professed,
and indeed as a rule sincerely entertained in these
exhibitions), cannot have been of an improving
nature.
Besides the great serial plays, such as “The
Chester,” “The Coventry,” and the “Townley
Mysteries,” in the successive scenes of which all
the principal truths and doctrines of religion,
beginning with the creation and ending with
“Doomsday,” were represented, a demand arose
for special plays, treating of the life, or the mira-
cles, or the martyrdom of some favorite saint.
Such were “The Conversion of St. Paul,” “St.
Mary Magdalen,” and “St. Anne,” which may be
seen in a manuscript in the Bodleian Library.
These were sometimes performed in the churches,
on the festival of the saint celebrated in them,
sometimes in the halls of royal palaces or colleges,
sometimes again within the precincts of monaste-
ries. Gradually something more refined, more in
the fashion, than any miracle play, was called for
at courts and colleges. Then arose the moral
plays, in which the allegorical treatment and meta-
physical refinements which were of the taste of
the age were applied to dramatic entertainments.
Saints and angels were discarded ; and virtues,
vices, and abstract notions of various kinds took
their place as the dramatis persona. The devil
of the miracle plays, who had more and more be-
come a grotesque and comic character, at least in
78 ENGLISH LITERATURE.
many of them, appeared as the “vice” or “iniqui-
ty” of the moral plays, and introduced into them
also a corresponding comic element ; this “vice,”
as is well known, was gradually transformed into
the clown of the modern stage. Skelton wrote
two moral plays, one called “The Nigramansir,”
which was performed before Henry VII. and his
court at Woodstock, the other “Magnyfycence.”
A more ambitious effort was the “Satyre of Thrie
Estaits,” by Lindsay; this enormous moral play
was acted before the Scottish court in 1535, and
occupied nine hours in the representation. The
dullness and tediousness of plays of this kind,
owing to the want of human interest, prevented
them from holding their ground against the more
natural form of the drama which the imitation of
the ancients soon introduced; yet Mr. Collier, in
his “History of Dramatic Poetry,” has shown
that moral plays continued to be written down to
the very end of the reign of Elizabeth.
Translations and imitations of the plays of
Plautus and Terence paved the way for the reign
of a purer taste. Sixteen years after it had wit-
nessed “The Nigramansir,” the English court was
refreshed by “a goodie comedie of Plautus,” prob-
ably through the instrumentality of Sir Thomas
More, who was then in high favor with Henry.
The interludes of John Heywood, court-jester to
the same king, were another step in advance. The
personified qualities are here dropped, and persons
THE RENAISSANCE AND THE REFORMATION. 79
take their place; these persons, however, are not
yet individuals, but representatives of classes, “a
peddler,” “a palmer,” etc. The earliest proper
comedy that has yet been discovered is the “Ralph
Roister Doister’ of Nicholas Udall, the head-mas-
ter of Eton College. In this play, written to be
performed by his scholars, Udall imitates so far
as he can the style and manner of Terence. It is
divided into acts and scenes, and is written in hob-
bling alexandrine rhyming lines, which, as con-
taining twelve syllables, i.e., six feet, he obviously
thought were the nearest English reproduction of
the iambic trimeter. He did not see that the move-
ment of our heroic blank verse, in spite of its being
shorter by two syllables, represents more faithfully
than any other English metre the movement of the
iambic trimeter ; while such rough alexandrines
as his only recall the Saturnian verse of Naevius.
The recognition of the fact that for the English
drama the proper metre is the blank verse of ten
syllables was due to the finer perceptions of Sack-
ville, who, with Norton, produced the tragedy of
“Ferrex and Porrex,” or “Gorbodue,” in 1561 ;
this, the earliest tragedy that has been discovered,
was played before Queen Elizabeth in the hall of
the Inner Temple.
For some years the drama continued to be be-
holden to the hospitality of the court, or some legal
Society, or educational institution (Gray’s Inn,
Lincoln's Inn, St. Paul’s school, etc.), for the local
80 ENGLISH LITERATURE.
habitation where it might display its illusions.
But as the popular delight in such exhibitions in-
creased at this time faster than the Puritanic aver-
sion to them (although this also was gaining
ground, as we shall see), it was inevitable that the
stage should cease to be movable and migratory,
and establish itself in a permanent home. The
first public theatre was opened at Blackfriars in
1575; the histrionic art became a recognized pro-
fession ; many other theatres sprang up before the
end of the century; Italian plays were adapted,
Latin plays translated, episodes of English history
dramatized ; and, on the whole, a kind of dramat-
ic atmosphere was generated in the English me-
polis, highly favorable to the career of a great
artist, should such a one appear.
More’s philosophical fiction of “Utopia,” imi-
tated from Plato’s “Atlantis,” appeared in Latin
in 1516; it is the picture of an ideal commonwealth.
The “Governour,” by Sir Thomas Elyot, was also
intended to be a political treatise ; but under the
despotism of Henry the subject was too danger-
ous, and the author confines himself almost entirely
to questions connected with education. The earli-
est good English prose, in Mr. Hallam's opinion,
is found in Sir Thomas More’s “History of Henry
V.,” which appeared in 1513. But the curious
treatise by Sir John Fortescue, written more than
thirty years before, the “Difference between an
Absolute and a Limited Monarchy,” is really very
THE RENAISSANCE AND THE REFORMATION. 81
good English, and contains few words that are not
now in use ; if it were divested of its barbarous
Orthography, this would be at once manifest. Our
prose style was much improved by the various
works of Roger Ascham, who taught Latin to Eliza-
beth, and held learned conversations with Lady
Jane Grey.
The religious convulsions by which the country
was shaken to its centre during this period are of
little direct interest to the historian of literature ;
for the lines of literary development which the
activity of preceding ages had marked out were
not seriously deflected, nor did the theological
controversy produce on either side works which,
like Hooker’s “Ecclesiastical Polity” or Bossuet's
“Variations,” may claim, on account of perfection
of style or power of treatment, a permanent place
in literature. The Reformers of Henry VIII.'s
reign were the heirs and continuators of “Lollar-
dy,” but joined to it, from the armory of Luther
and Calvin, new views on predestination, the fu-
tility of works, justification by faith alone, and
the final assurance of the elect, which had indeed
a practical bearing of the most important kind,
but were not set forth by our native writers in
particularly forcible terms or attractive forms.
William Tyndale, who carried on a long and ac-
rimonious controversy with Sir Thomas More, is
perhaps the most important writer on that side.
Cranmer's writings show much learning, consid-
A
6
82 ENGLISH LITERATURE.
erable grasp of intellect, and a certain breadth of
style ; they are deficient, however, in sincerity
and manliness. The homely wit and rough satiri-
cal power of Latimer are well illustrated in many
of his sermons. He, and most of the English Re-
formers, exemplify in a marked way the Teutonic
affinity of which we have more than once spoken;
the desire to be sturdily independent, coupled
with a sense of teeming latent energy, of a poten-
tiality of great achievement on this side and on
that, indicate in them at once the strength and
the blemish of the Teutonic genius. After the
accession of Elizabeth, the leading men among the
clergy, refusing to take the oath of Supremacy,
were for the most part driven into exile, and for
many years waged war, in heavy treatise or light
pamphlet, against the new settlement of religion.
The names of Sander, Harpsfield, Harding, Sta-
pleton, and many others occur in this connection.
But as they wrote for the most part in Latin, for
the sake of Continental readers, their efforts pro-
duced little effect, and are now scarcely remem-
bered. Jewel, the Protestant bishop of Salisbury,
who had been in exile at Strasburg under Mary, and
contracted a close friendship with Peter Martyr,
wrote an “Apology” (1562) in reply to these dis-
putants, from whom the work drew forth loud
charges of inaccuracy and unfairness of quotation.
The “Apology” was in Latin, but the “Defense
of the Apology,” written in answer to Harding,
THE OLD CIVILIZATION AND PURITANISM. 83
was in English. The laborious exercise of thought
on these topics, and the warfare with pen and
tongue which was the result, could not fail to in-
crease the elasticity and enlarge the adaptivity of
the language, and so far tended to improve it as
an organ of literature.
VI.
THE OLD CIVILIZATION IN CONFLICT WITH PIJIRI-.
TANISM, 1579–1660.
REGARDING the position of the Roman see in
the Christian church as a “separable accident,”
the acceptance or rejection of which made no es-
sential difference, the literary men of the latter
part of the reign of Elizabeth, while rejecting,
chiefly on political grounds, the authority of that
see, had no quarrel in other respects with the re-
ligion which had come down to them from their
forefathers, nor with the forms of civilization and
efforts toward a higher culture which that religion
had encouraged. Both in Spenser and Shakespeare
we notice a decided repugnance toward Rome, and
a disposition to deny her claim to obedience (com-
pare the description of Duessa in the “Faerie
Queene,” and the denunciation of papal power put
by Shakespeare into the mouth of King John);
84 ENGLISH LITERATURE.
but with this exception they belong to the old
school; they might have been Englishmen of fifty
years before, instead of twenty or thirty years
after, the Reformation. This has been pointed
out in detail by Mr. Thornbury and others in the
case of Shakespeare; they have shown how alien
the notions of Puritanism were to his heart and
mind, except in the One point of opposition to
Rome. Spenser’s description of the house of Coe-
lia, and his invective against the Blatant Beast,
not to refer to many other passages, show that the
same thing held good of him. But it is not our
object to dwell on this ; the point to which we
would call attention is, that the poets and drama-
tists of this period, as well as a large body of the
clergy, clave heartily to the civilization and culture
which they had inherited from the past. To this
form of civilization the Puritan or ultra-reforming
party, which began to show its strength under the
lax rule of Archbishop Grindal, was radically op-
posed. The culture which had gathered treasures
from every side, and welcomed all that was good
and beautiful in paganism, was tainted and abom-
inable in their eyes. To them it seemed that a
Christian society should be exclusively formed
and built up on models furnished by the Old and
New Testaments. To come to the particular ten-
dencies of Puritanism with which we have now to
do, it looked with sour displeasure on the English
poetry and drama of the day, and, according as it
THE OLD CIVILIZATION AND PURITANISM. 85
possessed power, suppressed them. What meant
these loose and profane sonneteers by writing
about their mistresses in language that was little
short of idolatrous, and celebrating Bacchus, Ve-
mus, and Apollo, in terms which could hardly be
acquitted of blasphemy P Why, if they must
rhyme, could they not compose comfortable hymns
of Zion, and if they must have music, sing the
Psalms of David 2 Expression was given to these
sentiments in a pamphlet breathing a spirit of
comparative moderation, the “School of Abuse”
of Stephen Gosson (1579). Sir Philip Sidney in
his able reply, the “Defense of Poesy,” vindicated
the legitimacy of the taste for literature and art
which Englishmen had inherited from their fore-
fathers. Again, innumerable allusions in the
works of the dramatists of this and the next reign,
including Shakespeare, prove the animosity which
subsisted between them and the Puritans, whom
they rightly regarded as the implacable enemies
of their art. On the outbreak of civil war the
Puritans, gaining the upper hand in London, im-
mediately shut up the theatres. It is not, there-
fore, without reason that we have characterized
the epoch which we are considering as that of the
“conflict between Puritanism and the old civiliza-
tion.”
Poetry, which does not, like the drama in,"
more developed stages, require any local,
ment in order to produce its


86 ENGLISH LITERATURE.
flight in defiance of Puritan censure. It was not,
however, unaffected by it. The disapproval of
him and his works, entertained by a large section
among the most virtuous of his countrymen, irri-
tated the poet by its exaggeration, and often made
him out of recklessness import an additional de-
gree of license into his language. Yet morality
was in the end the gainer. For, in spite of nar-
rowness, and exaggeration, and occasional hypoc-
risy, there was real earnestness and virtuous in-
tention in the great body of the Puritans; and to
these qualities society eventually did homage by
refusing to tolerate, in poetry at least, what was
openly and scandalously immoral. In spite of one
or two who leap over the line, poetry in the
eighteenth century, and still more in the nine-
teenth, has not permitted her votaries to write as
they please, but has prescribed to them measure
and seemliness. This may indeed be attributed
to the increasing refinement of European life, but
that refinement itself, so far as it is moral, is to a
large extent the work of the Puritan spirit.
Without further preface let us turn to the con-
sideration of that amazing phenomenon, the liter-
ature of the Elizabethan age. Many circumstances,
many slowly elaborated changes, had prepared the
way. The cautious peace-policy of Elizabeth, her
ºise love of economy, and her care to surround
ºwith able counselors, produced their nat-
ºate of general prosperity never


THE OLD CIVILIZATION AND PURITANISM. 87
experienced before. Every adventurous and in-
quiring mind was stimulated by the reports con-
tinually arriving of the discovery of “islands far
away,” of riches and beauty which the earth had
hitherto veiled from her children revealed to won-
dering eyes in America and the East, of inventions
which enlarged the power, and discoveries which
widened the knowledge, of man. Again, the
greatly augmented use of the language as a literary
instrument, consequent upon the religious dis-
sensions now temporarily silenced, had, as already
explained, made it a much fitter organ for thought
than it had been in the reign of Henry VIII.
Lastly, the powerful influences now pressing in
from abroad must be duly weighed. The genius
of Ariosto had clothed mediaeval romance in a
splendid garb, which, for the first time since the
thirteenth century, made the subject attractive to
cultivated minds. Tasso's epic, with its sustained
grace and sweetness, had shown how the shades
and half-shades of sentiment in which refined
spirits delight can be expressed by corresponding
nuances of language. Certain eminent writers in
France, especially Du Bellay and Ronsard, had
consecrated considerable powers and incessant ac-
tivity to the work of reforming the language and
literature of their own country through the con-
centrated study and fearless imitation of ancient
models. Considering all these various elements,
we shall be better able to understand how, given
S
S ENGLISII LITERATURE.
a gorgeous imagination like that of Spenser, and
a mind of universal range like that of Shakespeare,
these writers were able to place that enormous
difference between themselves and their predeces-
sors which separates the “Faerie Queene’’ from
the “Pastime of Pleasure,” and the comedies of
Shakespeare from those of Still and Udall.
Without stopping to criticise, and reserving
the drama for separate consideration, we must en-
deavor by a brief description to convey some no-
tion of the poetical exuberance of the Elizabethan
era. Spenser’s “Faerie Queene,” a colossal ſtag-
ment of a still more colossal design, relates osten-
sibly the romantic adventures of brave knights
and fair ladies ; but every incident has an alle-
gorical meaning, and the propagation of the sev-
eral moral virtues is the professed object of the
entire work. The well-known stanza which he in-
vented, consisting of nine lines, the last an alex-
andrine, with three rhymes, is so skillfully con-
structed and so well adapted to our language, that
it has been frequently employed since, with marked
success, by eminent poets. Burns used it for
the “Cotter's Saturday Night,” and Byron for
“Childe Harold.” The rhymes in it are better
arranged than in the standard metre of Italy, the
Ottava rāma, because the distribution is such as
to bind the whole structure better together, and
to avoid that palpable break between the first six
lines and the concluding couplet which is notice-
THE OLD CIVILIZATION AND PURITANISM. 89
able in the stanza of Tasso and Ariosto. Again,
the extra syllables in the ninth line seem exactly
to counterbalance the risk of monotony which the
additional line would otherwise entail. The son-
nets of Shakespeare, if we accept the acute inter-
pretation of Mr. Simpson, indicate the influence of
some aristocratic friend of the poet, who, having
traveled much in Italy and formed the acquaint-
ance of members of the learned “academes '' for
which Italian cities were then famous, had learned
from them those Platonizing speculations about
love and its kinds—the vulgar, the civil, the chival-
rous, and the ideal love—which are partially repro-
duced in the sonnets. Among Shakespeare's other
poems the chief were “Venus and Adonis " and
the “Rape of Lucrece,” pieces remarkable for
their luscious melody and ornate elegance. The
classical and mythological themes attest at once
the receptivity of the intellect of Shakespeare, a
country-bred youth who had studied at neither
university, and the strength of the Renaissance
movement, from which no mind, even the most
powerful, could then hold itself aloof. Of the
same class is Marlowe's beautiful poem of “Hero
and Leander,” translated from the Greek of the
pseudo-Musaeus. George Chapman produced,
about 1601, a complete translation of the “Iliad”
in long fourteen-syllable lines. It was the first
time that this feat had been accomplished in any
modern language; and the fact well typifies the
}
90 ENGLISH LITERATURE,
intensity of force with which the English intellect
was now working in every direction. Robert
Southwell, the Jesuit, put to death by the Gov-
ernment in 1696, left behind him a few religious
poems of great beauty. He is by some considered
the first of the metaphysical school of poets; but
the credit (or discredit) of that leadership rather
belongs to Donne. Marston, Hall, and Gascoigne
(the author of the “Steel Glass”) may be regard-
ed as the founders of English satire. Sir Philip
Sidney, the ornament of Elizabeth’s court, wrote
Sonnets and songs, which, though imitated from
Italian and Spanish models, were freighted by his
powerful mind with a burden of thought and pas-
sion not to be found in the originals. The at-
tempts of Daniel and Drayton in the epic style
(“Wars of the Roses,” “Barons' Wars”) were
failures; but wherever we meet with many ven-
tures, it cannot be but that some will fail. Of
such poems as Warner’s “Albion's England,” or
Drayton’s “Poly-Olbion,” or Tusser’s “Five Hun-
dred Points of Husbandry,” it is unnecessary to
speak.
The class of poets to whom Johnson attached
the name “metaphysical,” while Milton calls them
“fantastics,” includes Donne their founder, Cow-
ley, Crashaw, Cleveland, and several others. In
date they belong rather to the reigns of James I.
and Charles I. than to that of Elizabeth. They
are distinguished for their fondness for “conceits,”
W
THE OLD CIVILIZATION AND PURITANISM. 91
or intellectual tours de force, the general aim of
which was to gain credit for ingenuity, and a deep
insight into the nature of things, by tracing re-
Semblances or analogies between objects apparent-
ly remote and diverse. This poetry of conceit,
which nearly corresponded to the estilo culto of
Spain, is usually said to have been invented by the
Neapolitan poet Marini, author of the “Sospetto
di Erode,” and by him propagated in France,
whence it came to England. It was merely anoth-
er development of that tendency to the mystical
in thought and the far-fetched in language, char-
acteristic of the Gothic ages, which we have seem
more fully exemplified in the countless allegories
and moral plays of previous periods. In Donne
the style is insufferable ; “conceits” are strewed
about his pages like puns about the conversation
of a punster, and they are not half so amusing.
Cowley, on the other hand, was a true poet ; the
daring flights of his fancy, the tenderness of his
feelings, and the grace and profoundness of his
musings, still rescue much that he wrote from ob-
livion. Composing, in imitation of Pindar (though
he did not really understand the Pindaric metres),
irregular passages of song which he called “Pin-
dariques,” he gave the first example of a class of
poems which comprises performances so memora-
ble as the “Alexander's Feast" of Dryden and
the “Bard” of Gray. Crashaw, the translator of

the “ "is Erode,” is in the highest degree
92 ENGLISH LITERATURE,
a worshiper of the far-fetched. He is the author
of the celebrated line, describing the miracle of
Cana in Galilee :
“Lympha pudica Deum widit, et erubuit.”
“The conscious water saw her God, and blushed.”
Edmund Waller, though his earliest writings be-
tray an affinity to the fantastic school, mixed too
much in the world, and had too much good taste
and good sense, to go far with them. He is the
English song-writer par eaccellence ; his is the only
name which we can think of when Burns is cited
for Scotland and Béranger for France. His man-
ner was so good and his style so clear that Dry-
den calls him the “father of English numbers,”
and declares that but for him “none of us could
write.” Pope allows to Waller smoothness, but
ascribes much more to the influence of Dryden
himself :
“Waller was smooth, but Dryden taught to join
The varying verse, the full resounding line,
The long majestic march, and energy divine.”
In the last section we noticed the rise of true
comedy and tragedy, and gave the date of the
building of the first regular theatre at the Black-
friars. Returning to the subject, we propose to
examine the commencements of the Elizabethan
drama in somewhat more detail, treating (1) of
the actors, (2) of the plays which they performed,

(3) of the stages which they had ºf " disposal,
THE OLD CIVILIZATION AND PURITANISM. 93
including under this head their resources of sce-
nery and stage effect.
1. PLAYERS.–From an early period of the
reign we find frequent mention of companies of
players traveling from town to town, and per-
forming in the town-halls, under the sanction of,
and with remuneration from, the respective cor-
porations, such of the plays which they had
brought as might seem suitable to the audience ex-
pected. It is noteworthy that every such company
announced itself as the “servants” of my lord this,
or the earl of that, and indeed were really such ;
had they given themselves out for an independent
body of players, the stern laws against vagabond-
age then prevailing would have made them at
once amenable to the sharp jurisdiction of the
local magistrates. Thus we read of the servants
of the Lord Strange, those of the earls of Leices-
ter, Warwick, Derby, etc. These noblemen en-
rolled the bands of players among their retainers,
and probably maintained and gave them wages
for a part of the year, but allowed them at other
times, under the patronage of their high names
and with licenses under their hands, to make a
living by entertaining the public. It was the ser-
wants of the earl of Leicester who, in 1574, ob-
tained from the queen a writ under the privy seal,
authorizing them to perform “comedies, trage-
dies, interludes, stage plays, and such other like
as they have already used and studied, or here-
94. ENGLISH LITERATURE.
after shall use and study, as well in the city of
London as throughout the realm of England.”
But when the players prepared to avail them-
selves of their privilege, a conflict of authorities
became apparent. The mayor and corporation of
London asserted their right of control over all
dramatic performances within the limits of the
city, and issued orders providing, among other
things, that the players whom they might license
should contribute half their receipts to charitable
purposes. Probably a portion of the corporation
was, even at this early period, actuated by Puri-
tan sentiments. The poor players, who under
such regulations would have soon found their oc-
cupation gone, or at any rate unremunerative,
turned their eye to the vacant space between St.
Paul’s and the river, where stood the ruins of the
great convent and church of the Black Friars
(Dominicans). On this site, which was outside
the jurisdiction of the city, they established the
first theatre by converting to their purpose some
of the dilapidated buildings. Years passed ; the
number of the players increased ; and in 1589, as
we learn from a curious memorial which they
addressed in that year to the Privy Council, they
were sixteen in number, “all of them sharers in
the Blackfriars playhouse.” The twelfth name
subscribed to this list was that of William Shake-
speare; the ninth that of the dramatist George
Peele. These facts show that that “separation
\
THE OLD CIVILIZATION AND PURITANISM, 95
of powers,” which, in the drama as in politics, is
the fruit of an advanced experience, did not then
exist. The offices of lessee, stage-manager, actor,
and play-writer were all combined in these early
players. They owned the theatre in which they
acted, furnished their own stage, chose their own
plays, and, to a greater or less extent, wrote
them. After having received the royal license in
1574, this company ceased to bear the name of
the earl of Leicester, but described themselves as
“Her Majesty's poor players.” The trace of this
early connection with the court still remains in
the appellation “Theatre Royal,” assumed by sev-
eral of the older London theatres.
2. PLAYs.—With regard to the nature of the
dramatic performances, these included, besides
those specified in the license to the Blackfriars
Company, moral plays and histories. Under the
general description of moral play we may include
those that were written with a controversial pur-
pose, either for or against the Reformation, such
as the plays by Bishop Bale, “Lusty Juventus,”
“Every Man,” etc. Quite a number of such
pieces were put on the stage by the Catholics
after the accession of Elizabeth, with the view of
turning the new state services into ridicule; these
drew down a special prohibition from the Govern-
ment. Many dramas, called sometimes tragedies,
sometimes histories, were on classical subjects,
such as “Catiline's Conspiracies” (by Stephen
96 ENGLISH LITERATURE.
Gosson, who afterward wrote vehemently against
the stage), “Cupid and Psyche,” “Ptolemy,” and
plays on the lives of Pompey and Caesar. The
audience being limited, the companies of players
numerous, and the expense of scenery and dresses
trifling, novelty in the pieces represented became
the predominant source of attraction ; hence the
extraordinary variety of plays produced at this
early period. Scriptural subjects were popular;
thus among the earliest printed plays are Nash's
“Christ's Tears over Jerusalem,” and Peele's
“David and Bethsabe.” “Histories” dealt often
with personages and events of the ancient world.
But they also presented in dramatic forms pas-
sages from the story of England, many of which,
by tradition and continual discussion, still lived
in the memory and vividly stirred the feelings of
the people ; and it was natural that dramas of
this class, as they came to be planned with more
art and composed with greater power, should
transcend in interest the dramas with classical
plots, and appropriate the name of “histories” to
themselves. One of the earliest of these, “The
Famous Victories of Henry V.,” was acted about
1580; Shakespeare founded on it one of his his-
torical plays. The history of “Edward II.” by
Marlowe, Greene’s “James IV.,” and Peele’s “Ed-
ward I.,” all date somewhere about 1590; the
older play of “ King John ” appeared in 1591;
and the original plays which, refashioned or re-
THE OLD CIVILIZATION AND PURITANISM, 97
touched by the hand of Shakespeare, come before
us as the three parts of “Henry VI.,” seem to
have been produced between 1590 and 1595.
Before the time when Shakespeare began to
write for the stage, it may be said that several
respectable or even remarkable tragedies had ap-
peared, that some good and flowing historical
dramas had been written, and that a great varie-
ty of interludes, approaching in character to our
farces, and not deficient in wit and drollery, had
been produced. To prove the above assertion as
to tragedy, it would be enough to adduce Mar-
lowe's powerful plays, “Dr. Faustus” and “Tam-
burlaine the Great”—the first strong to move the
tragic passions, the second dazzling and astonish-
ing us by its soaring rants and gorgeous rhetoric.
The clever interludes of John Heywood would
alone sustain what we have stated as to pieces of
that description. In comedy, on the other hand,
very little had been achieved. Of those that
were in prose, like Gascoigne’s “Supposes” and
Nash’s “Pierce Penniless,” the rough, uncouth
language was unrelieved by any wit that could
pass muster in a later age. No comedies in verse
superior to those of Greene can perhaps be named;
and these are disfigured by every kind of literary
fault.
3. THE EARLY STAGE.-With regard to the
stage itself, the building of the first theatre in
London has been already described. But for
7
98 ENGLISH LITERATURE.
many years previously temporary theatres had
been made out of the court-yards, with their sur-
rounding galleries, of London inns—e. g., the
Belle Savage in Ludgate Hill, the Red Bull in
Bishopsgate Street, and the Cross Keys in Grace-
church Street. It is to the second of these that
Gosson alludes in his “School of Abuse * (1579),
when he speaks of “the Jew shown at the Bull,”
and goes on to describe it so as to make it clear
that this was an old play with a plot resembling
that of the “Merchant of Venice.” If any one
desires it, he may still help his imagination to
picture the scene, by going into the court-yard of
one of the few old city inns still left, the Four
Swans in Bishopsgate Street, for instance, and
imagining a stage erected at one end, the galler-
ies crowded with aristocratic spectators, seated or
standing, and the open space below filled with
play-goers of the common sort, admitted at the
charge of one penny, and with the canopy of
heaven above their heads. Five of these theatri-
cal inns were turned into playhouses between
1570 and 1630. The company that owned the
Blackfriars Theatre erected a new one called the
Globe in 1594, on the Bank-side, a position cor-
responding to one on the present Thames embank-
ment ; this, being for summer use, was not roofed
in. A playhouse called “The Theatre” was
built at Shoreditch, outside the city liberties,
little, if at all, after the time at which the Black-
THE OLD CIVILIZATION AND PURITANISM, 99
friars house was opened ; near it stood the “Cur-
tain.” Other theatres, the Swan, the Hope, the
Rose, etc., rapidly sprung up ; and it is estimated
that not fewer than 200 licensed playhouses ex-
isted in different parts of London at the end of
the reign of Elizabeth. All this time the players
continued to designate themselves, and to be, the
servants either of the queen or of some nobleman;
without such protection they could not have exer-
cised their function either safely or profitably.
In these primitive theatres no scenery was used;
that was first introduced by Davenant after the
Restoration. A curtain then, as now, met the
spectator’s eye on entering ; it was slowly drawn
up, and he saw a stage strewed with rushes, the
side walls hung with arras; a large board with a
name painted on it, “Westminster,” “Corinth,”
“Messina,” etc., informed him where the scene of
the play to be performed was laid; imagination
did all the rest. When a battle was to be fought,
“two armies fly in, represented with four swords
and bucklers, and then what hard heart will not
receive it for a pitched field 2* *
Amid such rude surroundings, and with such
imperfect appliances, the mighty genius of
Shakespeare was fain to live and act. It had
been observed that English comedy was less ad-
vanced at the time of his coming up to Londºn
* Sidney’s “Defence of Poesie,” quoted by Charles Knight
in his “Shakspere, a Biography.”
100 ENGLISH LITERATURE.
(about 1586) than the other dramatic forms; and
it is in comedy accordingly that his early tri-
umphs were won, and his extraordinary superior-
ity to all his predecessors was most signally de-
monstrated. “Love's Labor's Lost' and the
“Comedy of Errors” were probably his first
essays; they were followed by “Midsummer-
Night's Dream,” “Two Gentlemen of Verona,”
etc. The versification of dramatic dialogue had
been thoroughly reformed by Marlowe, whose
sense of rhythm was exquisite ; English blank
verse had been wrought into a fine and fitting
material, ready to receive whatever impression a
gifted dramatist might stamp upon it. But Mar-
lowe was no meditative observer of human life,
no accurate discerner of human motives. The
language, therefore, that he puts into the mouth
of his different personages does not greatly vary;
they are all apt to take to ranting on the
least provocation. Shakespeare added to Mar-
lowe's skill of composition a power of charac-
terization which no dramatist, ancient or mod-
ern, ever surpassed. To this power, as its fit-
ting accompaniment, was joined a gift of modu-
lation, by which the language assigned to each
character was made suitable to it and to no other,
and this with a truth and naturalness which the
:::readers and spectators of every following age
* * *S, g & e º
' ' ... have recognized. Again, turning, like Chaucer,
with eager longing to the refining influences which
* *
º
id
THE OLD CIVILIZATION AND PURITANISM. 101
came from the south, he adjusted and polished
his dialogue with the utmost care, till to the
swiftness and evenness of movement which he
might have learned from Marlowe he united
much of the easy grace of Ariosto and of the
sweetness of Tasso. He probably read an im-
mense number of Italian novels, either in the orig-
inal or in translations; many of his comedies
are founded upon such tales. Thus prepared, he
could with safety, as in “The Merry Wives of
Windsor,” deal with home scenes, and a plot of
his own invention, without running any risk of
falling into the coarseness and vulgarity of “Gam-
mer Gurton,” “George-a-Greene,” and hundreds
of other pieces, written by men in whom the Teu-
tonic affinity of the race predominated unchecked.
To these qualifications Shakespeare added a sound
dramatic judgment, which, as was natural, im-
proved with years and experience, teaching him
what to seek and what to shun, so as to secure
that popularity which is the test of dramatic ex-
cellence. As an acting play, “The Tempest,”
written near the end of his career, is far superior
to “Love's Labor's Lost.” But to the last he did
not attain to supreme excellence in this direction ;
the unity of action, necessarily sacrificed in the
histories, is not always preserved in dramas where
its retention would have been easy ; nor is that
subordination of inferior parts to the central ac-
tion, which dramatists of less power have often
102 ENGLISH LITERATURE.
successfully managed, always duly attended to
by Shakespeare.
Of neither the comedies nor the tragedies of
Shakespeare can it be said that they are in a spe-
cial sense “dramas of character.” The boasting
soldier, the lying traveler, the religious hypocrite,
the scheming matron, the ambitious tyrant, and
many other clearly-marked types, are not por-
trayed for us in the plays of Shakespeare with
that sharpness of outline which they present in
works of Plautus, Molière, and Alfieri. The
cause may perhaps be sought in the absence from
Shakespeare's mind of all exaggeration, and in
the fact that without some slight exaggeration
these striking dramatic types which take hold on
the memory and the imagination cannot be pro-
duced. Shakespeare saw men as they are, and so
described them ; and the consequence is that, al-
though neither Macbeth nor Richard III. exhib-
its the stock character of the “ambitious tyrant,”
each displays a special form of ambition, modi-
fied, as always happens in real life, by many con-
comitant qualities and aims, to trace the linea-
ments of which will reward in a high degree the
pains of the literary analyst. It is this quality of
essential truth of presentation which has gathered
round our Shakespeare's dramas the instructive
and beautiful criticism of a Gervinus, the inter-
pretations of a Goethe, and the historic faculty of
a Guizot or a Villemain.
THE OLD CIVILIZATION AND PURITANISM. 103
In the exhibition of tragic passions, and in the
range of the appeal which they make to the moral
sentiments of an audience, Shakespeare's trage-
dies have never been surpassed. Considered as
acting plays they are of varying excellence. In
“Othello' and “Romeo and Juliet,” both found-
ed on Italian novels, the incidents move on in a
Swift and well-combined sequence, which, from
this point of view, leaves nothing to be desired.
“Hamlet,” though from tradition and habit it al-
ways attracts large audiences, is better suited for
the closet than the stage; the drag of the third
and fourth acts is undeniable. In mone of the
tragedies is there any attempt to preserve the
unity of time except in “Romeo and Juliet ; ”
here the action is powerfully and successfully
concentrated. The Roman plays, based on Plu-
tarch’s “Lives,” though they abound in passages
of great power and beauty, are not so construct-
ed as to produce the highest dramatic effect.
When we turn to the other dramatists, Shake-
speare's contemporaries and successors, the one
point about them all that most strikes us is, their
amazing exuberance. The English genius, as M.
Taine in substance remarks, is naturally abundant
and full of force ; if left to itself, it attends more
to quantity than to quality ; it is daring and en-
terprising, and knows not when it is over-matched,
as English soldiers are said not to know when they
are beaten. Of this national vigor a large propor-
104 ENGLISH LITERATURE.
tion was in the Elizabethan times directed to lit-
erature, and particularly to the stage. The devel-
opment of the drama had now gone on without
any notable check for many generations. All the
artistic faculty of the country, which before the
Reformation had applied itself to other arts, such
as decorative architecture, painting, and sculp-
ture, now, when the scope for the exercise of
these was suddenly reduced to the narrowest
limits, tended to seek and find a refuge in the
Thespian art. Space does not permit of our no-
ticing these dramatists in any but the briefest
manner. Ben Jonson, proud of his learning and
his university education, invented most of his
own plots, and plumed himself on his strict ob-
servance of the unities. In the plays of Beau-
mont and Fletcher the influence of the Spanish
drama, the glory of which had been carried to a
great height by Calderon and Lope de Vega, is
noticeable. The intensity of Massinger and the
pathos of Ford, amid much that is grotesque or
repulsive, preserve their dramas from entire ob-
livion. Other names are those of Webster, Chap-
man, Heywood, Dekker, Marston, Middleton, and
Rowley. The plays of Shirley were at the height
of their popularity when, after the breaking out
of the civil war, the theatres were closed by order
of the Parliament. This order is the overt act of
Puritanism, by which, after having first com-
plained of, then protested against, then furiously
THE OLD CIVILIZATION AND PURITANISM. 105
denounced, the abuses of the stage, it proceeds,
now that it has got the handling of the civil
sword, to remove both use and abuse by force.
The violent language of Prynne in the book
(1633) to which he gave the title of “Histrio-
mastix’” (a barbarous compound signifying “the
player's scourge"), though at the time cruelly
punished by the Star Chamber, told of a great
and increasing force of public opinion behind
him, of which he was but the mouth-piece. Pu-
ritanism, by the order of suppression, at Once
avenged the insults and ridicule with which the
dramatists had assailed it, and cut down a vigor-
ous scion which had grown up out of the root of
the ancient civilization. The drama was restored
before twenty years were over ; but it was a new
creation, and never won the people's love as the
old Elizabethan drama had done. It was an
affair of courts and coteries, and was almost
shaken down by the blunt reproaches of one
honest, plain-spoken man, Jeremy Collier. Puri-
tanism possessing itself more and more of the
popular conscience, the revival of a national
drama became impossible. Our theatres are Sup-
ported by the miscellaneous urban population
which is always to be found in great cities; but
as a nation we have had no drama since the civil
W3.I’.
In the department of Fiction we have to note
a new transformation of the romance, by which
106 ENGLISH LITERATURE.
it assumes the form of pastoral novel. The tale
of chivalry, modified so as to recommend a reli-
gious ideal by Walter Map and his fellow-work-
ers, then passing into the love-story with allegor-
ical embellishments in the hands of Lorris, was
further changed by Sannazzaro, Montemayor, and
other Spanish and Italian writers, into the love-
story with pastoral and mythological embellish-
ments. Here of course we trace the influence of
the classical revival ; allegory is dropped as too
cumbrous; and a florid phraseology, culled from
the idyls of Theocritus, the miscellaneous works
of Lucian, and other classical or quasi-classical
sources, takes its place. The “Arcadia” of Sir
Philip Sidney was suggested by Sannazzaro's pas-
toral romance of the same name, but can be read
with more interest, because we see that it has
been made the vehicle by means of which a pow-
erful mind makes known its thoughts on many
intricate and important questions, in metaphysics,
political science, art, and social ethics. But the
prolixity of the work, together with its confused
arrangement, would always prevent it from attain-
ing to anything like the popularity which it en-
joyed when, and for some time after, it appeared.
The “Euphues” of Lyly, a kind of philosophical
novel, written in an affected and pedantic style,
has, since the ascription to its influence by Sir
Walter Scott of the magniloquent bombast which
he puts into the mouth of Sir Piercie Shafton in
THE OLD CIVILIZATION AND PURITANISM. 107
the “Monastery,” and considers to be character-
istic of the conversation of courtiers at that pe-
riod, given rise to the term “euphuism.” Yet it
must be allowed that Sir Piercie Shafton’s talk is
quite a caricature of the language in “Euphues ; ”
of the two, it more resembles the high-flown lan-
guage that we meet with in Sidney’s “Arcadia.”
The “Mundus Alter et Idem ’’ of Hall (afterward
bishop of Norwich) is a satirical romance, written
from the clerico-despotic point of view, in the
aim of exhibiting the debasement which the prin-
ciple of democracy, if carried out consistently and
over a long period, would, according to the au-
thor's theory, bring upon both social and indi-
vidual man. One of the last and most pernicious
delusions of the infatuated community described
in the book consists in establishing “a perpetual
parliament.” Such were the advisers, obeying
whose fatal suggestions Charles I. reigned eleven
years without a parliament, and brought things to
a pass whence civil war was the only issue.
In the “Ecclesiastical Polity’ of Richard
Hooker, published near the close of the sixteenth
century, a solid intellectual basis, illustrated by
great learning and the attractions of a grave and
majestic style, was for the first time given to the
conception of the via media, in which Anglican
churchmen believed they saw a secure shelter for
moderate minds, midway between Rome and the
extreme forms of Protestantism. The work is
108 ENGLISH LITERATURE.
naturally directed rather against the Puritans,
who were numerous both in church and state, and
might eventually, as in fact they did, gain the
upper hand, than against the Catholics, whom the
laws already silenced and disarmed. The restive-
ness of the Puritans under the existing laws and
church ordinances, which, as they thought, left re-
ligion insufficiently reformed, suggested to Hook-
er an inquiry into the nature of laws, and the
grounds of their binding force ; this is the subject
of the celebrated disquisition in the first book.
The Puritans were not convinced, and the strug-
gle between them and the Anglicans went on in-
creasing in violence, until, after the outbreak of
war, the ascendency of the Puritan element in the
Lower House, and the secession of most of the
peers to Oxford, enabled its enemies temporarily
to suppress the established church. During the
suppression, a work of great ability, entitled “A
Discourse on the Liberty of Prophesying’” (1647),
appeared from the pen of Jeremy Taylor. Fifty
years have made a great difference; the champion
of Anglicanism no longer insists on obedience, but
pleads for toleration ; if only the Church of Eng-
land could be established again in certain districts,
he would be willing to see the worship of many
different sects, provided that they all agreed to
accept the Apostles' Creed as a common standard,
carried on in other parts of the country. The
lapse of a few years restored to the church its
f
:
TIIE OLD CIVILIZATION AND PURITANISM, 109
former status without any damaging concessions,
and the question of toleration was laid by till the
Revolution.
The scholastic philosophy fell, as we have seen,
at the change of religion; and for some time noth-
ing took its place. When philosophical studies
were revived, they took a new direction, and were
pursued in a new spirit. The old philosophy,
summing up the wisdom of Greece and that of
the Christian schools, said to the student, “Know
God, know thyself; from this twofold knowledge
learn what is duty ; that done, investigate at dis-
Cretion either Nature or the world of ideas.” In
practice, however, a dry logic and metaphysic,
oncumbered with technicalities, formed the sole
intellectual pabulum provided for most students
of philosophy. The new doctrine, introduced by
Bacon, said, “Know Nature, and for that purpose
study thy own mind, and discover the criteria by
which Nature's ways may be tested ; the knowl-
edge so gained will be power, which, well used,
will enrich and adorn human life.” Mr. Hallam,
representing the general English opinion, calls
Bacon “the father of modern science ; ” but his
claim to the title is disputed both by the French
and by the Italians. However this may be, it is
certain that he very early conceived the idea of
working out a new and complete system of philos-
ophy; and to a juvenile work unfolding his pro-
ject in outline, which seems to have been written
110 ENGLISH LITERATURE.
about 1584, he gave the title “Temporis Partus
Maximus,” the greatest birth of Time. The
phrase sounds arrogant, but was not really so ;
all that Bacon meant to say was, that the new
doctrine was the inevitable outcome of a time
now ripe for its reception—the growth of the
Zeitgeist, to use a modern phrase—and that it
was impossible to overstate its importance and
potency. But his life was too much taken up
with active labors at the bar, on the bench, and
in the council-chamber, to permit of his carry-
ing his vast plans into execution. All that we
possess of his philosophy is contained in the “Ad-
vancement of Learning” (1605), the “Instauratio
Magna” (1620), and the “De Augmentis Scien-
tiarum ” (1623). The “Instauratio” is a colossal
programme of his philosophy in six divisions, of
which only the second, the “Novum Organum,”
is worked out, and that not completely. The
“Novum Organum ” was designed to be the new
logic of induction, which Bacon regarded as the
mind’s proper instrument in utilizing the fruits of
experience. “Experience and observation are the
guides through the Baconian philosophy, which
is the handmaid and interpreter of Nature.”*
Nevertheless the particular instrument which he
invented, the method of instances, is too cumbrous
for particular use, and in fact never has been em-
ployed in physical inquiries. “If we have not
* Hallam,
THE OLD CIVILIZATION AND PURITANISM. 111
tried it,” says Mr. Ellis, in one of his exceedingly
able introductions to the works of Bacon, “it is
because we feel confident that it would not an-
swer. We regard it as a curious piece of ma-
chinery, very subtle, elaborate, and ingenious, but
not worth constructing, because all the work it
could do may be done more easily another way.”
It is not in virtue of his method, which will not
work, nor on account of special contributions to
any branch of physical science, for none such
exist, that so high a place among philosophers is
assigned to Bacon by his countrymen. It is
rather on account of the lofty enthusiasm which
animates his writings, and makes him appear in
them as the hierophant of Nature, eloquently
pleading against the neglect of her worship.
The edifice of Christian philosophy lay in
ruins, as we have seen, from the time of the Re-
naissance ; Bacon offered a partial substitute,
designed to endow man with power over Nature ;
it was left for Hobbes, his assistant and disciple,
to make an attempt to occupy the whole of the
ancient field of thought. He desired to instruct
mankind as to the origin, nature, and value of
their conceptions respecting God and themselves,
to investigate the moral nature of man, and to
define the forms of guidance and of conduct best
suited for a being so constituted in mind and
heart. His principal work was published in 1651
under the title of “Leviathan.” The fundamen-
112 ENGLISH IITERATURE.
tal principle from which he starts is, that every
thought which can arise in the mind of man is a
“representation or appearance of some quality of
a body without us, which is commonly called an
object.” “There is no conception,” he proceeds,
“in a man’s mind which hath not at first, totally
or by parts, been begotten upon the organs of
sense. The rest are derived from that original.”
The doctrine of innate ideas, and every sugges-
tion that it is possible for man to obtain real
knowledge otherwise than through the reports of
the senses, are by this preliminary tenet rejected.
He proceeds, with the utmost acuteness, and a
power of close and sustained observation which is
truly admirable, to analyze the more important
conceptions concerning God, time, infinity, sub-
stance, etc., which find a harbor within the
mind. His explanations and definitions on all
these heads bear, as might be expected from his
primary tenet, a strong materialistic impress. He
is also a nominalist ; all objects, according to
him, exist singly and separately ; the only uni-
versal is the name given to a number of objects
which agree in certain given respects; the belief
in the existence of universals as ideas he rejects,
not as erroneous but as absurd ; nothing exists
for him between or besides the object and the
human faculties perceiving and naming it. Of
the belief in a God he says that “by the visible
things of this world and their admirable order a
THE OLD CIVILIZATION AND PURITANISM. 113
man may conceive there is a cause of them, which
men call God, and yet not have an idea or image
of Him in his mind.” “As God is incomprehen-
sible, it follows that we can have no conception
or image of the Deity ; and consequently all his
attributes signify our inability or defect of power
to conceive anything concerning his nature, and
not any conception of the same, excepting only
this, that there is a God.” In spite of statements
of this kind, which are obviously capable of being
taken in a good sense, it has been customary to
regard Hobbes as an atheist. The cause is found
in the complete inadequacy of his system of
morals to make good what might be wanting in
his speculative tenets. It is not the omissions
and one-sidedness of his metaphysics alone, but
it is these, coupled with the perversions in his
moral philosophy, which have affixed to his name
a reputation for atheism. The doctrine of the
existence of God, even attenuated to the form
which we have seen above, might have been suf-
ficiently integrated by a sound doctrine respect-
ing the human conscience, the best witness for
God, according to the general belief, that it is in
man's power to appeal to. But when we examine
Hobbes's teaching on moral matters, we find it full
of paradox and absurdity. Every passion and
feeling which can move the human heart is, ac-
cording to him, the more or less disguised off-
spring of self-love. He scoffs at the very notion
8
114 ENGLISH LITERATURE.
of free-will. The warnings of conscience are
merely the fear of something disagreeable hap-
pening to ourselves, if we proceed in a particular
line of conduct toward our neighbors. Justice
and virtue are chimeras; that is just which is
commanded by the laws, or which a man has
Covenanted to do ; that is virtuous which tends
to the general well-being of the community in
which we move.
Hobbes's views on civil society and govern-
ment were first given to the world in his “De
Cive” (1647); but this was afterward incorpo-
rated in the “Leviathan.” The state of nature,
he holds, is a state of war; each man has, until
he is restrained, a natural right to take every-
thing around him for his own use ; every other
man has an equal right ; war is therefore inevi-
table. But men find that in the long-run peace
conduces to their enjoyment more than war;
they are willing, therefore, that the natural right
which each possesses should be abridged, and
with this end in view they enter into a covenant
under which a government is set up over them,
charged with maintaining peace, and attending to
their welfare in other ways. After this has been
done, the subjects cannot change their govern-
ment without its consent. There are three pos-
sible forms of government—monarchy, aristoc-
racy, democracy—in each of which the sovereign
power cannot be limited or divided. He appears
THE OLD CIVILIZATION AND PURITANISM. 115
to have thought the limited monarchy of Eng-
land a vicious form, which events had shown to
be practically untenable, the division of power
between sovereign and democratic assembly hav-
ing led to civil war. Of the three forms he
much prefers monarchy ; that is, absolute mon-
archy. He thinks it even more important that
the sovereign should not be hampered by any
opposition on the part of the priesthood, than
that he should not be disturbed by the democ-
racy. Accordingly he insists that the state and
the church should be the same body under differ-
ent aspects, the sovereign of the one being also
the supreme head and ruler of the other. The
sovereign, if he be a Christian, is to determine
what religious dogmas shall be taught by the
clergy, and to be the judge in the last resort on
questions affecting those dogmas. “This,” as
Mr. Hallam observes, “is not very far removed
from the doctrine of Hooker, and still less from
the practice of Henry VIII.”
There is ample evidence that the philosophy
of Hobbes exercised a baneful influence on the
morality of a large number of educated men in
the last half of the seventeenth century. But
for his love of paradox, this influence would
doubtless have been still greater. In an eloquent
peroration, Mr. Hallam thus sums up his exami-
nation of the political and ethical writings of the
philosopher of Malmesbury : “The political sys-
116 ENGLISH LITERATURE.
tem of Hobbes, like his moral system, of which
in fact it is only a portion, sears up the heart.
It takes away the sense of wrong, that has con-
soled the wise and good in their dangers, the
proud appeal of innocence under oppression, like
that of Prometheus to the elements, uttered to
the witnessing world, to the coming ages, to the
just ear of heaven. It confounds the principles
of moral approbation, the notions of good and
ill desert, in a servile idolatry of the monstrous
leviathan it creates, and, after sacrificing all right
at the altar of power, denies to the Omnipotent
the prerogative of dictating the laws of His own
worship.” +
VII.
REACTION AND COUNTERACTION, 1660–1700.
AT the Restoration, the king and his personal
friends, who had lived abroad during the Com-
monwealth and Protectorate, brought to England
a sense of fitness in things literary, and an aver-
sion to what was grotesque and exaggerated in
style, which they had picked up in the polished
society of the French salons. In poetry, perhaps,
no reform was needed. The prevalence of good
* “Literature of Europe,” vol. iii.
REACTION AND COUNTERACTION, 117
taste and good sense, assisted by the example of
Milton, who in his juvenile poems scorned to use
the “new-fangled toys” of the fantastic poets,
had already condemned the school which delighted
in “conceits.” There is a purity of form in the
odes of Waller, in the works of Denham, and
even in much that in his later years came from
the pen of Cowley, which prevented exception
being taken to them on the score of refinement.
With regard to prose style and the drama the
case was different. When men looked back for
twenty years and more to the theatre as it was
before the troubles, and remembered the plays of
Jonson and Shirley, they felt that there was much
need of a change. The gay young roué of Jon-
son’s plays is a coarse, brutal, and insupportable
personage ; his “clenches” and sallies are not
wit, but the noisy outcome of a superficial clever-
ness, aided by a flow of animal spirits. The easy
badinage and well-managed double entendre of the
French comic stage were new phenomena, of
which that of England had never had the least
conception. Nor, in tragedy, was there any in-
clination to return to the piled-up agony—“horror
on horror's head?’—of the plots of Ford and Flet-
cher. Corneille had shown that the sentiments of
honor and love in their chivalrous intensity, when
exhibited as in conflict with the harsh demands of
circumstance and the world, are capable of pro-
ducing the finest tragic situations. Dryden’s he-
il 8 ENGLISH LITERATURE.
roic plays (“The Indian Emperor,” “The Com-
quest of Granada,” etc.) were up to a certain
point imitations of Corneille ; the extent to which
they are sensational and crowded with incident
was a feature taken from the theatre of Spain.
The verse is rhymed in imitation of his French
models; and in more than one of his prefaces or
essays Dryden ably urged the claims of “his long-
loved mistress, Rhyme,” as an indispensable dec-
oration without which the requisite weight and
dignity of the tragic style could not be attained.
But Dryden, whose power and insight grew with
advancing age, recognized, after devoting himself
to the heroic style for years, the superiority of
Shakespeare, abandoned rhyme, and produced in
1690 his finest play, “Don Sebastian.” But it
was then too late to arrest the decay of the drama.
The Dutch king who then sat on the Stuart throne,
the Dutch army which had placed him there, the
exultation of the Whigs and the dissenters, were
all so many indications that the Teutonic element
in the English mind was again in the ascendant.
And the ascendency of the Teutonic element,
then still more than in previous ages, on account
of the gulf which had been established between
the Teutonic and Latin races by the Reformation,
implied the predominance of an energy which
preferred strength to grace, the useful to the beau-
tiful, industry to art. All these impulses were of
course only confirmed by the religious and moral
REACTION AND COUNTERACTION, 119
views which are grouped under the general name
of Puritanism. The drama, therefore, being in
opposition to the prevailing spirit, fell ever lower
and lower ; and though momentarily uplifted, in
later times, by the genius of a Goldsmith or a
Sheridan, it has never regained its hold upon the
nation. A modern critic has compared our drama,
commencing with the Elizabethan age and ending
with the present day, to a huge pyramid which
stands on a broad and magnificent base, dwindles
continually, and ends in nothing. Even at this
day, there is still too much of the Puritan temper
in general society to admit of the success of any
proposal in Parliament tending to the encourage-
ment and support of the drama by the state, as a
department of national culture.
The prose style of the French writers was, at
the time of the Restoration, much superior to
ours. We had no one to oppose to Segrais, Fon-
tenelle, Balzac, Voiture, Ménage, and Bouhours,
to select only the principal names among the
French critics and beaua, esprits. Nor was this
superiority of our neighbors sensibly diminished
till the next century, when Addison, Steele, and
Swift redressed the balance. Yet it must be con-
ceded to Dryden that the prose of his numerous
essays, prefaces, and dedications, prefixed or sub-
joined to his published plays (especially the “Es-
say on Dramatic Poesy”), is incomparably more
polished and more effective than any of the rude
120 ENGLISH LITERATURE.
attempts at criticism which our writers had hith-
erto attempted. There is, however, a certain
wildness clinging to Dryden’s style, in spite of
his efforts to improve it, and in spite of his wit
and the promptitude of his vivacious intellect :
one never feels quite secure against the occurrence
of a solecism. Hobbes's style is more unexcep-
tionable ; he had resided much in France, and
consorted with French literati, and thus learned
the charm of a perfectly clear and simple way of
writing. Among the divines of this age there
was much eloquence, much richness and force, but
little good style. Nothing can be more copious
than Taylor, but it is a cloying manner; his facil-
ity of speech and coining imagination are masters
of him, not he of them. Isaac Barrow, who died
in his forty-seventh year in 1677, seems to be the
best of them ; he has more self-command than
Taylor, more earnestness than South, and more
dignity than Baxter. Against Tillotson's style no
particular objection can be urged, except that it
does not prevent his “Sermons” from being dull
and dry.
In the “Pilgrim’s Progress” of John Bunyan
(1684) the style, without being elevated or distin-
guished, is plain and manly. It is of course free
from pedantry, which cannot be where there is no
learning ; but it is also free from affectations, and
almost always from vulgarity. It is interesting
to observe in this, the most popular English work
REACTION AND COUNTERACTION. 121
of the century, the revival of the old allegorical
way of writing which was so much relished in the
age of Chaucer. Mr. Hallam remarks that there
is some inconsistency or defectiveness of plan ;
the persecution of the pilgrims in the city of
Vanity, and the adventure of the cave and the
two giants, might with equal propriety, so far as
the allegorical meaning is concerned, have been
placed at any other stage of the pilgrimage. This
is true ; but it is only saying that in these pas-
sages the tale overpowers the allegory ; considered
as incidents in the tale, they could not have been
better placed than where they are.
In the heyday of reaction against the hypoc-
risy and violence of the Puritans, it may be
imagined that neither they nor their principles
found any quarter. A long satire in doggerel
verse, the “Hudibras” of Samuel Butler, one of
the best second-rate poets of the day, was espe-
cially devoted to their discomfiture. The general
texture of this poem is loose and careless; the
versification, as a rule, too unpolished to invite to
a second reading ; still there are epigrammatic
couplets and sarcastic descriptions in it which will
be remembered while English literature endures.
Denham, best known as the author of the pretty
descriptive poem of “Cooper’s Hill,” wrote many
pieces in the spirit of the reaction, which in him,
as in Davenant and others, went to the length of
identifying Puritanism with Christianity, and re-
122 ENGLISH LITERATURE.
jecting both together. Such at least seems the
natural conclusion to be drawn from a perusal of
Denham's strange poem entitled “The Progress
of Learning.” In Dryden’s poetry the temper
and policy of reaction are exhibited with great
distinctness. At first, and for many years after
the Restoration, his attacks are chiefly upon the
political side of Puritanism ; he rings the changes
on “rebellion,” “faction,” “disobedience,” and
“anarchy.” In “Absalom and Achitophel” (1681)
he argues, with that skill of ratiocination in metre
which never forsakes him, against the tenets of
democracy and the absolute right of a majority:
“Nor is the people's judgment always true ;
The most may err as grossly as the few.”
In the “Threnodia Augustalis” he talks of “sen-
ates insolently loud; ” and in the “Hind and
Panther” (1687) cleverly presses home against
the clergy, who were grumbling at the arbitrary
acts of James II., their own declared principles of
“passive obedience” and “submission for con-
science’ sake.” In middle life Dryden began to
take a lively interest in the controversy on the
grounds of religious belief; we see him in the
“Religio Laici” (1681) perplexing himself with
the endeavor to ascertain the limits of the prov-
ince of authority and that of private judgment.
Waiving the question as to the entire sincerity,
or rather disinterestedness, of his conversion, we
REACTION AND COUNTERACTION. 123
find him after that event exemplifying the reac-
tion against Puritanism in an extreme degree ; as
he had magnified the authority of the prince in
the political sphere, so now he magnifies the au-
thority of the church in the religious sphere. The
“Hind and Panther,” as all the world knows, is a
theologico-political dialogue, disguised under a
thin, a very thin, veil of allegory, on some of the
questions debated between the churches of Rome
and England, and also on some of the political
theories then in vogue.
As for the drama, the mere fact of its revival
was a part of the reaction against Puritanism.
In the coarse play of “The Roundheads, or the
Good Old Cause,” by Mrs. Aphra Behn, which
came out shortly after the Restoration, some of
the great Commonwealth.smen are exhibited on
the stage, of course in an odious light. Dryden
kept clear in his dramas of scurrilities of this
kind, probably because he himself had been
brought up among Puritans. In the famous
play of “Sir Courtly Nice’” (1685), by Crowne,
the character of the Whig-Puritan, Mr. Testi-
mony, is a compound of hypocrisy, knavery, and
cowardice. Yet at the time when this play was
represented, the party of the counteraction, rep-
resented now by the names of Whig and dis-
senter, was already so strong that Crowne could
say of them in his dedication to the duke of Or-
mond : “There were no living, if some great
124 ENGLISH LITERATURE.
men, elevated not only in quality but understand-
ing above the rest of the world, did not protect
us [the dramatists] from those barbarians, be-
cause they know us.” After the Revolution
there was a truce ; the comedies of Congreve
and Wycherley have no political bearing. The
comic stage was hardly, if at all, employed for
party purposes till the reign of Queen Anne,
when the strong high-church temper which pre-
vailed in the country caused the revival of “Sir
Courtly Nice’ (1711). A few years later Cibber,
in his play of the “Nonjuror,” imitated from
Molière’s “Tartufe,” attacked the nonjurors and
the Catholics in the interest of the Hanoverian
succession. As altered by Bickersteth, the same
play appeared soon afterward with the title of
“The Hypocrite ; ” here dissent is attacked in
the persons of Dr. Cantwell and Mawworm.
In political philosophy the reactionary spirit
was represented by Sir Robert Filmer, who, in
his “Patriarcha” (1680), argued that legitimate
kings inherited the absolute power over their sub-
jects, which he assumed Adam and the patriarchs
to have possessed and exercised over their fam-
ilies. This doctrine was opposed by the republi-
can Algernon Sidney, and also by Locke, whose
admirable “Treatises on Government * appeared
in 1688. Though not indisposed to admit that
the monarchical constitution of existing kingdoms
was originally imitated from the patriarchal rule,
l,
REACTION AND COUNTERACTION. 125
which in the infancy of society is known to have
existed, nay, which still exists in families and
clans, Locke denied that this imitation implied
any devolution of right or power ; the origin of
civil right he sought, like Hooker, in a contract,
expressed or implied, between the governors and
the governed, which bound the one to govern on
certain prescribed terms, that is, according to
law, and the other to obey the lawful commands
of the government. It is well known that this
doctrine of an original contract found its way
into that celebrated state-paper, the “Declaration
of Rights,” in which it is asserted that James II.
had “endeavored to subvert the constitution of
this kingdom, by breaking the original contract
between king and people.”
In other departments of literature, as well as
political philosophy, the counteraction strongly
asserted itself. Milton, “on evil tongues though
fallen, and evil times,” knew that he should “fit
audience find, though few,” when at the close of
life he gave his long-promised service to the epic
muse, and sang “an elaborate song to genera-
tions.” The “Paradise Lost’’ is indisputably the
work of a great and lofty mind—of a mind armed
by nature with an astonishing moral energy, and
equipped with powers of an imagination and con-
ception suitable to the charge of a vast enter-
prise. This is the more apparent, because the
diction of the poem certainly falls below the
Jº-
126 ENGLISH LITERATURE.
standard of purity and evenness which the best
writers of the day had reached, while the peculiar
nature of his subject involved Milton in the great-
est difficulties. A number of awkward and ill-
sounding words, the use of which would fix the
note of pedantry on any one else than Milton,
were formed by him from the Latin, and freely
employed in the “Paradise Lost;” how injudi-
ciously, the mere fact that not one of them has
held its ground and come into common use is
sufficient to prove. The subject—belonging nei-
ther to history nor legend, so that details could
not be supplied by tradition, and could only be
invented at the imminent risk of profaneness—
was baffling by its very grandeur and simplicity.
It did not in itself present a sufficiency of changes
and incidents to furnish out the material of a long
epic composition; hence Milton was obliged to
have recourse to episodes, with which nearly half
the poem is taken up. It is noteworthy how
weighty and dignified a rhythm blank verse be-
comes in his hands. Never, as used by him, does
it even tend to be the dull, insignificant, tiresome
metre which it was in the hands of later writers,
e.g., Thomson, Young, and even Wordsworth, in
their negligent hours. Milton, in whose eyes the
Cavaliers of the Restoration were
“ the sons
Of Belial, flown with insolence and wine,”
REACTION AND COUNTERACTION. 127
neither wished nor expected to be read at court.
Forty years later, when counteraction had accom-
plished the Revolution, and Whiggism had se-
cured much of the ground from which its parent
Puritanism had been contemptuously thrust back,
Whig critics like Addison found no difficulty in
gaining a hearing, when they pressed upon gen-
eral society the consideration of the surpassing
claims of the “Paradise Lost' to the admiration
of Englishmen.
In the department of history, the reaction pro-
duced, in Clarendon’s “History of the Rebellion,”
a masterly and enduring work. The writers of
the counteraction were also busy in this field ;
and Burnet’s “History of the Reformation ”
(1679) was thought to lend so much support to
Protestant and liberal principles that he received
the thanks of the House of Commons for writing it.
The materialistic empiricism of Hobbes gave
place in this period to what has been called the
sensistic empiricism, or sensationalism, of Locke.
Inasmuch as this philosopher struck two impor-
tant blows at principles which the Whig-Puritans
detested—at the principle of authority, by deriv-
ing all human knowledge from experience, and at
the doctrine which ascribes reality both to the
accidents or sensible qualities of objects, and to
the substances in which they are supposed to in-
here, by (with Descartes) awarding mere subjec-
tivity to accidents, and relegating substance to
128 ENGLISH LITERATURE.
the region of the unknowable—he may properly
be regarded as the philosopher of the counter-
action.
The first book of the “Essay on the Human
Understanding” (1689) is devoted to the en-
deavor to disprove the doctrine of innate ideas.
Yet, when we proceed to examine Locke's own
view of the origin of our knowledge, it would ap-
pear at first sight that he admits one source which
is independent of the reports of sense. Our
knowledge, he says, is made up partly of ideas of
sensation, partly of ideas of reflection. These last
are supplied to the mind by its own operations;
we know that we think, believe, doubt, will, love,
etc. Now, if these operations were assumed to
have any other basis than sensible experience,
ideas of reflection might be a source of knowl-
edge independent of the senses. But as his argu-
ment proceeds, it is evident that Locke had no
such meaning. All such mental operations, in his
view, are dependent on the mind’s having pre-
viously been supplied with ideas by the senses.
“In time the mind comes to reflect on its own
operations about the ideas got by sensation, and
thereby stores itself with a new set of ideas, which
I call ideas of reflection.” This and many similar
passages are decisive as to Locke's belief that
there is but one original gate of ideas, viz., the
senses. The mind at birth is a tabula rasa, or,
to use his own illustration, a “sheet of white
}
}
#
THE AGE OF QUEEN ANNE. 129
paper ; ” whatever knowledge it afterward ac-
quires is written on it by the finger of experience.
This denial of a priori knowledge was not effectu-
ally confuted till the rise of Kant, near the close
of the eighteenth century. It followed, from
Locke's principles, that belief in revealed religion
(which in his case was perfectly sincere) was sim-
ply and entirely a question of external evidence.
If the evidence for the truth of the alleged fact
or doctrine appeared sufficient, the mind would
accept it ; if not, reject it : but no principle in-
herent in its own constitution could be appealed
to in either case to aid its judgment ; for, on
Locke's system, no such principles existed.
VIII.
THE AGE OF QUEEN ANNE, 1700–1729.
WEARY of life, Dryden had descended into
the tomb ; and his mantle had fallen on no poet.
Grateful for support manfully rendered when all
the world was against him, he had, in some mov-
ing and musical lines, designated in Congreve the
Successor to his fame :
“Let not the insulting foe my bursue,
But shade those laurels :
But that cold man of fas


9
130 ENGLISH LITERATURE.
point which he had reached in the “Mourning
Bride.” A poet, however, appeared before long,
but he was a Whig poet; that is, he represented
respectability, common-sense, and the juste mi-
lieu ; the cause which fires the blood, the ideal
which kindles the imagination, were strange to
him. This was Addison, whose “Campaign"
(1704), an heroic poem on the battle of Blenheim,
is much in the style of that portion of Dryden's
“Annus Mirabilis” which describes the Duke of
York’s victory over the Dutch fleet, but is written
with more care and more concentration. To the
production of “Cato,” a tragedy which observes
the rules, and aims at exhibiting the lofty grand-
eur and the devotion to principle of the Roman
character, Addison seems to have been induced
partly by his protracted stay in Italy (where his
attention was engrossed by classical monuments,
and turned with indifference from mediaeval),
partly by the desire to win laurels in the field
where Corneille and Racine had shone with such
distinction, and to show that an English dramatist
could be as correct as they. No other poem of
note, with the single exception to which we shall
presently refer, was written in the reign of Anne.
The innumerable verses composed by Swift were
written rather to give vent to his spleen, and
exercise his thropic humor, than under the
presence of which ordinarily influences
poets. Pa ne or two didactic pieces,



THE AGE OF QUEEN ANNE. 131
and Rowe some pastoral ballads, which are not
without merit. Defoe's satirical poems, “The
True-Born Englishman’ and the “Ode to the
Pillory,” possess the interest which the indomi-
table character and caustic humor of the man im-
part to them. As a dissenter, he felt properly
grateful to the Dutch prince, one of the first acts
of whose reign was to establish a legal toleration,
and was equally indignant with the clergymen and
gentlemen of England, who, though glad to be
rid of James II., felt sore at the thought that the
Revolution was effected by foreign regiments.
This feeling led to a temporary insistance in society
on the fact that a man was an English man born ;
and it is this insistance which Defoe assails with
homely but effective ridicule in the “True-Born
Englishman.” The “Ode to the Pillory” was
written while its author lay in prison, awaiting
his public exposure in that “state machine” for
having written “The Shortest Way with the Dis-
senters.” This was an ironical pamphlet, oc-
casioned by the disgust with which Defoe was in-
spired by the conduct of the wealthy dissenters in
London, who occasionally conformed to the wor-
ship of the establishment in order to qualify them-
selves under the Test Act for holding office. Defoe
recommends the passing of an Act by which a
dissenter attending a conventicle shall be made
punishable by death or imprisonment for life.
Many of the clergy took the pamphlet seriously,
132 ENGLISH LITERATURE.
and approved of it ; when it was discovered that
the advice was ironical, the exasperation against
Defoe was so great that it resulted in his being
condemned to pay a heavy fine and to stand in
the pillory. The “Ode" has a nervous strength,
almost dignity, of style, which can seldom be
asserted of the writings of Defoe. Referring
to this incident, Pope, whose Catholic rearing
made him detest the abettor of the Revolution and
the champion of William of Orange, wrote in the
“Dunciad,”
“Earless on high stands unabash'd Defoe,”
though he knew that the sentence to the pillory
had long ceased to entail the loss of ears.
The exceptionally remarkable poem to which
reference was made in the last paragraph was
Pope’s “Essay on Criticism,” which appeared in
1711. Of all such poems the “Ars Poetica” of
Horace is the original model—a model, it may be
added, which has never been surpassed. The
classical taste, and the desire to conform to the
ancient rules, which had obtained a complete as-
cendency in the literary circles of France during
the reign of Louis XIV., were now almost equally
prevalent in England. Boileau’s “Epitre sur l'Art
Poétique,” and the critical writings of Bossu,
Bouhours, Dacier, and Sarasin, led to the appear-
ance in England of such works as Roscommon's
“Essay on Translated Verse,” Sheffield's two
THE AGE OF QUEEN ANNE. 133
“Essays,” on satire and on poetry, and the critical
attempts in prose of Rymer and Dennis. The
receptivity and power of Pope's intellect were
naturally employed at an early period of his career
on a line of thought, in literature and art, which
interested so many able minds, and was, so to
speak, in the air. He lays down in the “Essay”
rules for the guidance of critics in judging, which,
he contends, they are as much bound to observe
as poets are to follow the rules of art in writing.
The acuteness of observation, the terseness of
definition, the brilliancy of wit, and the keenness
of polished invective, which distinguish the
“Essay,” render it, though containing little that
is absolutely new, a composition of which English
literature may well be proud.
But the chief literary achievements of this
period were expressed in prose. Prose is the
medium which befits the seculum rationalisticum?
which is now opening, an age in which men do
not trouble themselves about new ideas, but reason
and debate upon those which have been already
manifested. Ideas possess themselves of the whole
man, and impel him to remodel his life in accord-
ance with them. The idea of the theocratic re-
public, growing in distinct shape in the minds of
Milton, Cromwell, and other Puritans, drove them
to march through war, regicide, and revolution to-
ward its accomplishment. The idea of hereditary
monarchy, ruling by virtue of a right of which
i
134 ENGLISH LITERATURE.
the origin is lost in the mists of a venerable anti-
quity, and is therefore assumed to be divine, ani-
mated the Jacobites of 1700, as it animates the
French legitimists of our own day. But neither
of these two ideas had, after turning England up-
side down, succeeded in establishing itself; the
country had acquiesced perforce in a compromise.
The partisans of the theocratic republic were
forced to put up with king, constitution, law, and
an Erastian church ; nevertheless they were toler-
ated, and even allowed to write and preach what
they pleased, so long as they did not openly ad-
vocate sedition. The partisans of hereditary
monarchy were forced to accept a king, and then
a queen, and then a whole dynasty, whose rights
had no older or more sacred origin than the Acts
of Settlement of 1689 and 1701; still some defer-
ence was paid to their cherished sentiments, inas-
much as the new stock of royalty was not sought
from an alien tree, but was a scion, though not the
legitimate Scion, growing from the old Stuart
trunk. With this makeshift English loyalty was
fain to be content. Thus on both sides the consist-
ent theorists, the men of an idea, were discounte-
nanced ; and the via media in politcs and religion,
since it seemed to be the only practicable path,
was more and more frequented by men of sense.
Then a host of reasoners and debaters arose, bent
upon showing, not that the compromises were
logically sound, which they could not do, but that
THE AGE OF QUEEN ANNE. 135
the extremists were dangerous fools. Moreover,
since the compromise might be held and viewed
from opposite sides, endless debate was possible,
and actually arose, as to the right way of viewing
it, whether mainly as a concession to liberty and
democracy, or mainly as the guarantee of Order
and conservatism. In contests of this kind the
pens of many able writers were engaged in the
reign of Anne ; we may mention in particular
Swift, Steele, Addison, and Arbuthnot. We will
briefly examine their chief performances, first in
general literature and then in theology and phi-
losophy.
Swift, appointed to the deanery of St. Patrick's
in 1713, was generally believed to have no faith in
revealed religion, but to adhere to what we have
called “the compromise ’’ for the sake of what he
could get by it. On the night before his installa-
tion, a copy of verses was affixed to the door of
St. Patrick’s cathedral, containing these among
other lines :
“This place he got by wit and rhyme,
And other ways most odd;
And might a bishop be in time,
Did he believe in God.”
“Look down, St. Patrick, look, we pray,
On this thy church and steeple ;
Convert thy dean on this great day,
Or else, God help the people.”
136 ENGLISH LITERATURE.
This reputation for unbelief was acquired through
the publication of “The Tale of a Tub’’ (1704),
in which Swift employed the unequaled resources
of his scornful wit in satirizing the extreme par-
ties, the consistent doctrines, which the Revolu-
tion had discomfited. In the celebrated apologue
of Peter, Martin, and Jack (by whom we may
either understand Catholicism, Lutheranism, and
Calvinism, or the Church of Rome, that of Eng-
land, and the Puritans), it is hard to say whether
the assault on Peter's knavery and mendacity, or
on Jack’s fanatical folly, be the more unsparing.
Of Martin, who represents rational religion, mod-
eration, common-sense—in a word, the compro-
mise—Swift has only expressions of approval. But
we know that what men feel to be a compromise
they cannot heartily love ; and it is therefore
only in conformity with what we should expect,
to find that for every page given to the commen-
dation of Martin, at least twenty are employed in
reviling Peter or ridiculing Jack. Hence the
general effect of the work as a whole is that of an
attack on Christianity; and on this account its
perusal was much recommended by Voltaire.
But there were other upholders of “the com-
promise” who had nothing of Swift's cynical tem-
per, nay, who were conspicuously warm-hearted,
eager, and generous. Such a man was the Irish-
man Richard Steele. He seems to have been de-
scended from one of those Cromwellian advent-
THE AGE OF QUEEN ANNE. 137
urers who were rewarded for their services to
the Puritan commonwealth by grants of land at
the expense of the Irish. It was natural, there-
fore, that his political sympathies should be
of an Orange hue, and that he should regard
William III. as the greatest of deliverers, the
most beneficent of conquerors. For, but for the
battle of the Boyne, it cannot be doubted that
the confiscations of previous reigns would have
been in great measure reversed, and the native
Irish resettled on their own soil ; in which case
families of English origin and of recent importa-
tion, like that of Steele, would have fared but
badly. Hence in his “Christian Hero” (1701),
written while he was in the army, and again in
the “Tatler,” Steele launches forth into glowing
panegyrics on his Dutch hero, which would have
satisfied Lord Macaulay himself. The founda-
tions being secure, Steele, whose education was
English (he was at the Charterhouse and at Ox-
ford along with Addison), employed his voluble
argumentative tongue and his racy Hibernian hu-
mor to improve the superstructure. Mild reason-
ing, gentle ridicule, harmless banter, might, he
thought, be used with effect to assuage the ran-
cor of old animosities, soften the asperity of party
spirit, expose the weak side of vanity, and intro-
duce a temper of “sweet reasonableness” into all
social relations. Availing himself of the advan-
tages which his position as conductor of the “Gov-
138 ENGLISH LITERATURE.
ernment Gazette” gave him for obtaining early
news, Steele started the “Tatler” in 1709, with
the view of entertaining with instructive and
amusing gossip the readers whom the promise of
news from the seat of war had already attracted.
The imaginary editor, Isaac Bickerstaff (the name
was borrowed from Swift, who had employed it
in his ironical controversy with Partridge the
almanac-maker), dates his communications from
various coffee-houses according to their subject
matter. Addison, who was at the time in Ireland,
soon discovered the authorship of the “Tatler,”
and was enlisted with joy by Steele as a contribu-
tor. It was succeeded by the “Spectator” (1711–
1713), planned by the two friends in concert, with
the same general objects as the “Tatler,” but with
better machinery. Almost at the opening, in No.
3, Addison wrote a clever vindication of the revo-
lution-compromise, which the Jacobite leanings of
some among the ministry appeared at the time to
place in jeopardy. With this exception, political
questions are scarcely mentioned by the “Specta-
tor,” who, in his character of a mild censor of
manners, “pietate gravis ac meritis,” affects to
stand aloof from the strife of party, and by ex-
postulation and advice undertakes to reform so-
ciety. “The ‘Tatler’ and ‘Spectator’ were pub-
lished,” says Dr. Johnson, “at a time when two
parties, loud, restless, and violent, each with plausi-
ble declarations, and each perhaps without any
Af
f
THE AGE OF QUEEN ANNE. 139
distinct termination of its views, were agitating
the nation ; to minds heated with political con-
test they supplied cooler and more inoffensive re-
flections; and it is said by Addison . . . . . that
they had a perceptible influence upon the conver-
sation of that time, and taught the frolic and the
gay to unite merriment with decency.”
By turning to fresh intellectual fields the minds
of the upper classes—the people in good society—
to whom the theatre was now a forbidden or de-
spised excitement, Addison and Steele did with-
out doubt allay much restlessness, still or amuse
many feverish longings. Its ideals discredited or
found impracticable, the English mind, disen-
chanted and in heavy cheer, took up with languid
interest these pleasant chatty discoursings about
things in general, and allowed itself to be amused,
and half forgot its spiritual perplexities. Nothing
was settled by these papers, nothing really probed
to the bottom ; but they taught, with much light
grace and humor, lessons of good sense and mu-
tual tolerance ; and their popularity proved that
the lesson was relished. The characterization
which we meet with in the “Spectator” has been
justly admired. Sir Roger de Coverley is an ex-
cellent type of the English country gentleman of
that day—unintelligent and full of prejudices, but
manly, open-hearted, and conscientious. The mer-
cantile classes are represented, less adequately, \ºt
in a dignified and attractiv

140 ENGLISH LITERATURE.
drew Freeport. Captain Sentry, as the represen-
tative of the army, is not so satisfactory; com-
pare him with Uncle Toby and Corporal Trim in
Sterne’s “Tristram Shandy,” and the contrast be-
tween a dull, wooden figure, and personages who
bring the life of the British army in Flanders ex-
actly and vividly before our eyes, is immediately
apparent.
The theological controversies of the period
were carried on chiefly between deists and church-
men on the One hand, and nonjurors and oath-
takers on the other. There will always be able
men to whom revealed religion will not commend
itself, because demonstration of its truth is in the
nature of things impossible, and the portal through
which conviction must be reached is too lowly for
many to enter. In this age of reasoning, the Eng-
lish writers who followed Hobbes in eliminating
the supernatural from Christianity considered it to
be their duty to exhibit their proofs in the clear-
est and most systematic manner. Thus arose the
school of English deists. Toland, the author of a
good life of Milton, led the way with “Christian-
ity not Mysterious” (1702). Tindal followed with
“Christianity as Old as the Creation,” in which
an attempt was made to identify Christ with
Crishna, and to evaporate the Christian religion
into a solar myth. Collins, in his “Discourse on
Free-Thinking,” took the line of impugning the

ºf text of Scripture. He was
THE AGE OF QUEEN ANNE. 141
answered by Dr. Richard Bentley in a tract called
“Phileleutherus Lipsiensis,” in which it is main-
tained that the text of the Greek Testament is on
the whole in a sounder state than that of any of
the Greek classical authors. Berkeley combated
free-thinking in the philosophical dialogue of “Al-
ciphron.” Bishop Butler, and afterward Warbur-
ton, contributed important works to the same con-
troversy.
In philosophy the trains of thought which
Hobbes and Leibnitz had pursued were either
further developed, or led to opposing reactions.
Hobbes's selfish theory of morals, and his disposi-
tion to leave out the idea of God from his system
of the universe, found resolute opponents not
only in Clarke and Berkeley, but also in Shaftes-
bury, the noble author of the “Characteristics.”
The treatises composing this work were published
at various times between 1708 and 1713. Shaftes-
bury maintains the disinterested theory of morals,
but rather in a rhetorical way than with much
solidity of argument ; he derives virtue, benefi-
cence, and compassion, not, as Hobbes had in each
case done, from a source tainted by self-interest,
but from the delight which the mind naturally
takes in actions and feelings conformable to its
own unperverted nature. In his general reason-
ings on the constitution of Nature and of man,
Shaftesbury is an optimist ; but his optimism ac-
quires its serenity at the cost of surrendering the
142 ENGLISH LITERATURE.
distinction between good and evil, virtue and vice.
Like Pope (who, indeed, in the “Essay on Man,”
versified and condensed freely the glowing rhetoric
of the “Characteristics”), Shaftesbury
“Accounts for moral as for natural things.”
The Deity whom he celebrates in eloquent periods
is not a being who hates moral evil while permit-
ting it, but one from whose elevated point of view
that which seems to us worthy of reprobation
must appear as necessary to the working out of
a vast scheme of paternal government. These
views bear a considerable resemblance to the hy-
pothesis more cautiously put forward by the late
Prof. Mansell, and at once combated by Mr. Hill
and Prof. Goldwin Smith, which suggested that
man's ideas of justice and injustice, right and
wrong, were perhaps entirely different in kind
from those which existed in the mind of God.
It is obvious that the Supreme Being of the
“Characteristics,” in whose eyes the excesses of
the Reign of Terror would be merely a hurricane
purifying the moral atmosphere, and who would
see “with equal eye”
“A hero perish or a sparrow fall,”
has little in common with the God, of the New
Testament, whose absolute rejection of iniquity is
the very basis on which revealed religion is built,
and in whose eyes the least of his reasonable crea-
THE AGE OF QUEEN ANNE. 143
tures is “ of more value than many sparrows.”
This dissonance between Christianity and his own
system was evident to Shaftesbury himself, and
led him to speak disrespectfully of the former in
various places of his writings. He is accordingly
classed by Leland among deistical writers. Pope,
less clear-sighted, would not admit that the phi-
losophy of the “Essay on Man” (which is precise-
ly the same as that of Shaftesbury) was in any
way repugnant to Christianity ; and Warburton
argued laboriously on the same side. Neverthe-
less, in his “Universal Prayer,” Pope implicitly
retracted the main tenet of the longer poem ; and
posterity has held that Crousaz, the assailant of
the “Essay,” understood its real bearing better
than Warburton its defender.
Disturbed at the thought of the predominance
which the spread of Locke’s sensationalist philoso-
phy might be expected to give to the material in-
terests of man, yet not choosing to revert to any
of the old systems which let in the principle of
authority, Berkeley conceived the strange idea of
denying the validity of the inferences made by
every perceiving mind concerning the objects per-
ceived. He denied the existence of matter, or
material substance, which is merely the name
given by philosophers to the “something” which
underlies and supports the sensible qualities of an
object. The objects themselves, he admitted, are
real; the ideas which the mind forms concerning
144 ENGLISH LITERATURE.
them are also real ; moreover, these ideas constitute
for man the sole road to the knowledge of the ob-
jects. Instead of holding with Locke that the ob-
jects, by the impressions which they make on the
senses, engender ideas, he held that the ideas im-
planted by the Creator in the human mind teach
it all that it can possibly know about the objects.
This ideal philosophy, having a merely subjective
base—growing neither out of tradition nor experi-
ence—might obviously be twisted to the vindica-
tion of any system of opinions whatever. Hume,
therefore, as we shall see in the next section, had
not much difficulty in reducing it ad absurdum,
by developing further the skeptical theory from
which it started.
In France and Spain, Le Sage and Lazarillo de
Tormes had already won laurels by writing hu-
morous tales of fiction in prose. Defoe, with us,
was the first of a series in which he has had so
many brilliant successors, by composing “Robin-
son Crusoe’” (1719). Many other fictitious tales,
in all which he aimed at the appearance of being
a truthful narrator of facts, followed from the
same facile pen. But in the texture of these, as
in the mind that produced them, there was some-
thing coarse and homely ; they could not supplant
for refined readers the high-flown romances of
France. That was reserved for the sentimental
novels of Richardson ; similia similibus curantºr.
THE TRIUMPII OF COMPROMISE. 145
IX.
THE TRIUMPH OF COMPROMISE, 1729–1789.
IN the early part of this period, Pope, who
died in 1744, was still the great literary force ;
for most of the remainder of it, that honor be-
longed to Samuel Johnson. Nothing can more
strongly demonstrate the vitality of the political
principles which triumphed at the Revolution
than the fact that both these great men, though
in secret they abhorred the compromise, had no
choice but to acquiesce in it. Pope, whose grounds
of dislike were both religious and political, in-
demnified himself for his acquiescence by many a
scornful gibe and bitter sarcasm leveled at the
German family which had seated itself on the
Stuart throne. Witness the mocking adulation
of the opening lines of the epistle to Augustus
(George II.), or the scathing satire with which he
pursued the memory of Queen Caroline both in
the “Dunciad” and the “Epilogue to the Satires,”
though he knew, and even admitted in a note,
that that princess in her last moments “manifested
the utmost courage and resolution.” Johnson,
whose objection to the compromise was almost
wholly political, was an arrant Jacobite in feeling
to the end of his days. One of his earliest pro-
ductions, the “Marmor Norfolciense,” is a clever
10
146 ENGLISH LITERATURE,
and cutting Jacobite squib. Allusions in his satire
of “London’” (1738) show the same political color,
and probably had much to do with the sympathiz-
ing approval which Pope expressed for the un-
known poet, who, he said, would soon be déterré.
And although, after he had accepted a pension from
George III, he could not decently, as he smilingly
admitted to Boswell, “drink King James's health
in the wine that King George gave him the money
to pay for,” yet the old feeling lurked in his mind,
and found violent expression in a recorded con-
versation as late as 1777. “He had this evening
... a violent argument with Dr. Taylor as to
the inclinations of the people of England at this
time toward the royal family of Stuart. He grew
so outrageous as to say that, “if England were
fairly polled, the present king would be sent
away to-night, and his adherents hanged to-mor-
TOW.’” -
But, in general, the compromise met with in-
ward no less than outward assent on the part of
all the leading minds of the nation, literary men
and divines equally with statesmen. For the first
part of the period, the resolute common-sense of
Walpole and the moderate churchmanship of
Warburton accurately represented the English
mind. The defect of a compromise is, as was
said in the last section, that it does not kindle
enthusiasm; under it politics and politicians are
apt to grow dull and vapid. Such a state of
THE TRIUMPH OF COMPROMISE. 147
things prevailed at the time of the rising of 1745,
when the young Pretender was not very far from
succeeding, from sheer inertness on the part of
those concerned in upholding the Revolution set-
tlement. Soon afterward there was a change.
Young men grew up, before whose eyes floated
visions of an expanding empire ; the rapid ad-
vance of the American colonies, the Success of
Englishmen in India, on both which fields France
was then our rival, stimulated the genius of the
elder Pitt, and furnished themes for the eloquence
of Burke. Then the value of those principles of
political liberty which had been consolidated at
the Revolution came to be understood. Through
these Pitt achieved in the Seven Years’ War his
memorable triumph over the absolute monarchies
of France and Spain ; and at the Peace of Paris
(1763) England stood at the greatest height of
national glory which is recorded in her history.
Yet the brilliant scene was soon overcast. A
Toryism without ideas, which was but in fact the
portion of Revolution-Whiggism which refused
to move with the times, aided by the personal in-
fluence of a narrow-minded, illiberal king, got
possession of the administration, and immediately
everything went wrong. The American war suc-
ceeded, and neither the authority of Chatham
nor the enlightenment of Burke and Wyndham
could prevent its ending in disaster. Soon after
the Peace of Versailles the younger Pitt, then a
148 ENGLISH LITERATURE.
sincere Whig, came into power. He applied him-
self with great skill and industry to the work of
binding firmly together that inheritance of em-
pire, still sufficiently ample, which the peace had
left us, when in the middle of his task he was
suddenly confronted by the portentous outbreak
of the French Revolution.
This period witnessed the foundation of the
science of political economy by Adam Smith,
whose memorable “Inquiry into the Nature and
Causes of the Wealth of Nations” appeared in
1776. It also produced several eminent historians
and philosophers, of whose works some notice will
be taken presently. In other departments of lit-
erature, after the death of Pope, it was but poorly
distinguished. Gray will be long remembered for
the beauty and melody of some of his pieces—the
“Elegy in a Country Churchyard,” the “Bard,”
and the “Progress of Poetry.” In the elegant
poems of Goldsmith occur passages of sentiment,
e.g., the famous lines “Ill fares the land,” etc.,
which read like anticipations of Rousseau. The
satires of Churchill, though vigorous and pointed,
are founded upon no intelligible principle ; they
have no universal character, like those of Pope,
nor do they represent any definite political or
religious view ; rather they are dictated by mere
national prejudice (e. g., the “Prophecy of Fam-
ine,” a tirade against the Scotch), or by vulgar
partisanship, the eternal animosity of the outs
THE TRIUMPH OF COMPROMISE. 149
against the ins. The “Rosciad” was a satire
upon a stage sunk so low as not to be worth satir-
izing. There is much sweetness and grace in the
verses of Shenstone ; they formed part of the
intellectual food which nourished the strong soul
of Burns. Collins’s “Ode to the Passions,” so
much praised by our grandfathers, is gradually
passing out of ken. The “Night Thoughts” of
Young demand our notice, as the work of a man
of large intellectual capacity, though of ignoble
character. His meditations, though they never
pass into the mystical or transcendental stage, are
just and edifying ; in applying them he displays
a rich sermonizing vein ; but a flavor of cant
hangs about his most ambitious efforts. Beattie's
“Minstrel,” a poem in the Spenserian stanza, de-
serves a passing word of commendation ; it unites
manly dignity to refinement and delicacy of feel-
ing. Cowper, ever on the brink of insanity, re-
sorted to literature in order to prevent his mind
from preying on itself. An amiable piety makes
his “Task,” a long moralizing poem in blank
verse, attractive to many minds ; from the mere
literary point of view, it must be allowed to be a
feeble production. As he gained more confidence
in himself, he developed a curious sort of mild
feline humor, which appears in the delightful bal-
lad of “John Gilpin,” and in several shorter pieces.
The strength which had been wanting all his life
came to him near its close, and inspired him to
150 - ENGLISTI LITERATURE.
write those stanzas of wondrous majesty and
beauty which have the title of “The Castaway;”
unhappily it was the strength of spiritual despair.
Beyond the Tweed, as Johnson was sinking
toward the grave, and when the voice of English
poetry had almost ceased to sound, a man of gen-
ius was coming to maturity, whose direct and im-
passioned utterances, straight from the heart of
Nature, were to reduce the frigid imitators of
Pope to their proper insignificance, to startle the
dull worshipers of the conventional, and to pre-
pare the English-speaking world for that general
break-up of formulas which the tempest of the
French Revolution was about to initiate. Robert
Burns was a native force ; no foreign literature
moulded him, no influence of Continental thought
either made or marred him. He had the educa-
tion of a Scottish peasant, and his self-culture
does not appear to have consisted in much more
than reading Pope and Shenstone, the “Specta-
tor,” Sterne's novels, and a few other popular
books. His natural powers were of the finest
and highest order. Truly writes his countryman,
the late Prof. Craik : “Burns's head was as
strong as his heart ; his natural sagacity, logical
faculty, and judgment were of the first order; no
man, of poetical or prosaic temperament, ever had
a more substantial intellectual character.” The
man being such, and such the equipment with
which education and circumstance had furnished
THE TRIUMPH OF COMPROMISE. 151
Him, we observe with interest that he came into
serious collision, on becoming complete master of
his powers, with the religious system—that of the
Presbyterian Kirk of Scotland—in which he had
been brought up. It neither awed, nor attracted,
nor convinced him. He never wrote more power-
fully, or with a more searching humor, than when
employed in exposing the hypocrisy and fanati-
cism of certain of its ministers.” If he had
friends among them, it was among the “Moder-
ates,” a party corresponding to the Broad Church
clergy of the present day, whom their colleagues
in the Presbyterian ministry regarded with undis-
guised abhorrence. Religion, therefore, estab-
lished no control over him ; and unhappily this
splendid nature found no resource in philosophy,
nor moral strength within, which could avail to
save him from the tyranny of his passions. “Wina,
Venus,” two out of the three banes spoken of by
the Roman epigrammatist, undermined too soon
that stalwart frame, and silvered that glorious
head. He died in his thirty-seventh year in 1796,
leaving behind him, besides a few longer pieces,
more than two hundred songs, among which may
be found gems of pathos, melody, and beauty,
which any nation might be proud to wear in its
intellectual coronet.
In the history of the drama during this period,
the most noteworthy feature is the return of Shake-
;
* “Holy Willie's Prayer,” “The Holy Fair,” etc.
152 ENGLISH LITERATURE,
speare to the stage, brought about, soon after the
middle of the century, by the reverent zeal of Gar-
rick. When Drury Lane theatre was opened in
1747, chiefly for the performance of Shakespeare's
plays, Johnson wrote the celebrated Prologue
which was delivered on the occasion, describing
the great dramatist as “exhausting worlds and
then imagining new,” as spurning the “bounded
reign" of real existence, and forcing time to “pant
after him in vain.” Comedy, no longer gross, had
become commonplace. From this reproach the
two admirable plays of Goldsmith, “She Stoops
to Conquer” and “The Good-Natured Man,” tem-
porarily freed it ; nor could it be justly imputed
during the period of Sheridan's connection with
the stage, from 1775 to 1780. But the wit that
blazes, the fun that sparkles, in the scenes of “The
Rivals” and “The Critic,” are of no purely Eng-
lish growth. Sheridan's Irish birth and Celtic
temperament must be largely credited with the
brightness and permanent attractiveness of his
plays.
Prose fiction, which more and more came to
supply that kind of intellectual distraction which
had before been sought in the drama, and, aided
by the printing-press, to diffuse its blessings (if
they are blessings) to strata of the population
which the drama had never reached, was employed
in this period by several writers of rare ability.
Fielding’s “Tom Jones” and “Amelia,” Richard-
THE TRIUMPH OF COMPROMISE. 153
son’s “Clarissa Harlowe” and “Sir Charles Gram-
dison,” made the same kind of stir in general so-
ciety that had been caused by Dryden’s heroic
plays some eighty years before. An ingenious
French critic (Philarête Chasles) has attempted
to trace in the works of these writers the conflict,
though much transformed, of the Puritans and
Cavaliers of an earlier age. Lovelace, he thinks,
represents the insolent temper and disregard for
morality of the aristocratic Cavaliers; Clarissa,
his victim, the daughter of a virtuous middle-class
family, exhibits the substantial rectitude of that
“good old cause,” which licentious courts could
persecute but could not subdue. Fielding, the
aristocrat, recalls and continues the jovial reckless-
ness of the men of the Restoration ; Richardson,
the plebeian, is in the line of Milton, Penn, Fox,
Bunyan, and other witnesses. Yet these resem-
blances are after all superficial. It is true that
Fielding cannot help writing like a gentleman,
and a member of an ancient house ; while Rich-
ardson, though he is fond of giving titles to his
characters, betrays perhaps by his seriousness his
breeding among the upper and most respectable
classes of the proletariate. But when we look
more closely, we find that both Fielding and Rich-
ardson adhere firmly to the revolution-compro-
mise, both in religion and politics—and the one
quite as much as the other. Fielding is as zealous
a Protestant as Bunyan or Baxter; and the doc-
154 ENGLISH LITERATURE.
trine of non-resistance was rejected by him as
warmly as by the Whig prosecutors of Sacheverell.
Richardson, again, is neither a republican nor a
nonconformist. He finds no objection, on the
score of tolerance and latitude, to the church of
Burnet, Tillotson, and Hoadly; and the heredita-
ry presidency which the Act of Settlement had
vested in the Hanoverian family was too feeble
and inoffensive to excite in the breast of the most
zealous of Whigs fears of the preponderance of
the regal power in the constitution. Both Rich-
ardson and Fielding are entirely satisfied with the
political and religious constitution of the land they
live in. Dismissing such fancies, let us consider
what were the actual occasions which led to the
production of “Pamela.” and the novels which
followed it, and in what relation they stand to
preceding literary work. They were in the main
at once the symptoms and the developing causes
of a reaction against the sentimental romances
with which ladies and gentlemen had stuffed their
heads and beguiled their time in the seventeenth
and in the early part of the eighteenth century.
A list of the chief works of this kind of literature
is to be found in Addison's amusing paper on Leo-
nora's library (“Spectator,” No. 37); it includes Sid-
ney’s “Arcadia,” the “Grand Cyrus,” “Cassandra,”
“Pharamond,” “Cleopatra,” etc., the works named
being all translations from the French romances
of Scudéry and Calprenède. The excessive popu-
TIIE TRIUMPH OF COMPROMISE 155
larity of this kind of reading is intimated by Ad-
dison when he says (No. 92), adverting to letters
which he has received in relation to his project of
forming a perfect “lady’s library,” that he has
been “advised to place ‘Pharamond’ at the head
of his catalogue, and, if he thinks proper, to give
the second place to ‘Cassandra.’” In the charac-
ter of Leonora herself, Addison mildly ridicules
the sentimentality, affectation, and unreality which
such reading, carried to excess, engenders.
Richardson, whose father was a Derbyshire
joiner, and who was brought up to the trade of a
printer, in which he persevered all his life and
prospered, had reached his fiftieth year when he
was requested by two London booksellers to write
for publication a series of “Familiar Letters,” for
the instruction of persons who did not know how
to express themselves properly in writing about
the ordinary affairs of life. He consented, but
proposed to give a moral and improving turn to
the instruction to be communicated ; to this the
booksellers at once agreed. While he was writing
model letters giving advice to young women going
out to service, the incidents of a story which had
come within his own experience occurred to his
mind. It seemed to him that this story, if told by
way of letters, “in an easy and natural manner,
suitable to the simplicity of it, might possibly in-
troduce a new species of writing that might turn
young people into a course of reading different
156 ENGLISH LITERATURE.
from the pomp and parade of romance-writing,
and, dismissing the improbable and marvelous,
with which novels generally abound, might tend
to promote the cause of religion and virtue.” The
heroine of his tale was a simple country girl, with-
out book-learning, but strong in virtue and hones-
ty of heart, to whom he gave the name “Pamela.”
(one of the two princesses in Sidney’s “Arcadia”),
as if to show that, to quote from Emerson, “the
life of man is the true romance, which, if it be
valiantly conducted, will yield the imagination a
higher charm than any fiction.” Pamela's virtue
is assailed by the young libertine in whose house
she is living as a servant ; she resists him, and her
“virtue” is “rewarded ” (this is the second title
of the book) by the honor and glory of marriage
with this reprobate, who, being a fine gentleman,
and stooping to a union with a “lass of low de-
gree,” atones for all past shortcomings by this
amazing condescension. The book was well re-
ceived; Pope, then declining toward the tomb,
praised it as “likely to do more good than twenty
volumes of sermons.”
There was, however, a strain of vulgarity in
the manner in which the catastrophe of this ro-
mance of real life was narrated ; and this defect
was noted by the Cagle eye of Fielding. As a
burlesque upon “Pamela,” he wrote (1742) the
“Adventures of Joseph Andrews.” Joseph is a
virtuous footman who resists the improper ad-
THE TRIUMPH OF COMPROMISE. 157
vances of the titled lady in whose service he is ;
this of course was mere jest and caricature ; in
the end Joseph, instead of, like Pamela, marrying
out of his condition, is wedded, as common-sense
would dictate, to a pretty modest girl of his own
rank. The bent of his own powers, and the suita-
bleness of this new field for their employment,
must have been revealed to Fielding while writ-
ing “Joseph Andrews.” Till now it had been
his ambition to shine as a dramatist, and he had
produced some plays of no inconsiderable merit ;
but soon after the appearance of his first novel he
quitted the stage and gave up the remainder of
his life, so far as it was not engrossed by the
duties of a zealous police-magistrate, partly to the
production of essays on social topics, partly to
novel-writing. “Tom Jones” (1749) is allowed
to be his masterpiece; it is one of the finest
pieces of character-painting to be found in the
whole range of literature. Yet it must be under-
stood that Fielding's characters belong to a social
medium from which the ideal and the heroic are
shut out by the conditions of its existence. The
“compromise” which England had accepted re-
pressed enthusiasm and a high strain of virtue in
every direction ; no creations, therefore, possess-
ing the immortal interest of some of those in
“Dom Quixote’’ could be expected from him who
has been sometimes called the “English Cer-

wantes.” But "A" are, the char-
§2.
158 ENGLISH IITERATURE.
acters of Tom Jones and Blifil, of Thwackum and
Square, present us with inimitable types. Tom
Jones, as the generous, manly youth, whom pas-
sion hurries into vice, but good feeling and innate
rectitude never fail to rescue, is contrasted with
the artful hypocrite Blifil, whose outward de-
meanor pays a homage to virtue which his secret
practices and desires undo. Thwackum, the peda-
gogue, shows what comes of a pedantic learning
which has nothing of the largeness of true cult-
ure ; Square, the thinker, exhibits the moral de-
cadence that results from a groveling philosophy.
In 1748 Richardson published “Clarissa Har-
lowe,” and in 1753 “Sir Charles Grandison ; ”
both these novels are in the epistolary form.
“Clarissa’soon obtained a European reputation,
the sentimental metaphysics which constitute so
large a portion of it being exactly to the taste of
a large number of readers in France and Switzer-
land. Rousseau adopted the style, while corrupt-
ing the principles, of the English author, when he
wrote his “Nouvelle Héloïse.” The casuistry of
love and seduction is interminable ; so also is the
novel of “Clarissa; ” yet perhaps no reader who had
launched fairly into it ever put the book down un-
finished. It excites a deep tragic interest which
no formal tragedy produced in England had awa-
kened for several generat ons; the noble Clarissa,
dying because she cannot brook a stain which yet
touched not her will no e near her conscience,


THE TRIUMPH OF COMPROMISE. 159
is a spectacle pathetic and touching in the ex-
treme. The chivalrous, but provokingly perfect,
Sir Charles Grandison was the character created
by Richardson as a kind of contrast to, and com-
pensation for, the aristocratic villain Lovelace.
His embarrassing situation between two lovely
women who both adore him, and both of whom
he loves, the English Harriet and the Italian
Clementina, though in the brief telling it seems
absurd, is managed in the novel with so much art
and vraisemblance as to inspire the reader during
seven volumes with a genuine perplexity and so-
licitude. His abrupt half-declaration to Harriet—
“Honor forbids me ; yet honor bids me —yet I
cannot be unjust, ungenerous, selfish ”—is a de-
licious morceau, which can never fail to captivate,
and fill with attendrissement, souls of sensibility.
After Richardson and Fielding came Smollett,
with his “Roderick Random” and “Humphrey
Clinker,” novels of coarser mould, and Sterne with
“Tristram Shandy” and the “Sentimental Jour-
ney.” As works of humor, which contain also
several admirable and minutely drawn pictures of
character, the two last-named works, or at any
rate “Tristram Shandy,” stand alone in our liter-
ature; but they are not in the proper sense of the
term novels. It is interesting to note that Sheri-
dan borrowed some'of his most popular characters
from the novelists; Charles and Joseph Surface
are evident copies of Tom Jones and Blifil; while
160 ENGLISH LITERATURE.
Tabitha Bramble and Sir Ulic Mackilligut are no
less manifestly the originals of Mrs. Malaprop and
Sir Lucius O'Trigger. These are not the only re-
semblances; in fact, “Humphrey Clinker” is the
mine out of which Sheridan dug “The Rivals.”
Nothing was more common, in the drama of the
Elizabethan age, than for the playwrights to take
their plots from novels. But in the present case
we note a difference in the mode of procedure,
which is a marked testimony to the increased rela-
tive importance of the novel. The Elizabethan
dramatists borrowed only names and incidents;
they created their characters. The Georgian
dramatists often borrowed their characters ready-
made from the pages of the novels, now glowing
with a warmer life and richer coloring than their
own. To the novels already mentioned Gold-
Smith’s “Vicar of Wakefield” (1766) must be
added—the book which first drew Goethe’s atten-
tion to English literature, and disclosed the hitherto
unsuspected idyllic side of the existence of the
good Protestant village pastor. To pass over in-
ferior writers (Frances Burney, Henry Mackenzie,
etc.), enough has been said to show that England,
after the middle of the eighteenth century, ob-
tained a school of novel-writers of her own, and
shook herself free from the trammels alike of
French classicism and Frenc.1 romanticism ; nor
have the able writers who then came into promi-
THE TRIUMPH OF COMPROMISE. 16]
nence ever wanted worthy successors down to the
present day.
The luminous intellect of Voltaire had, in the
“Essai sur les Moeurs,” cast a fresh light on his-
tory, which was soon reflected in the writings of
English students in this field. In the preface to
the “Essai,” Voltaire said that the question was
no longer to inform the world “in what year a
prince who did not deserve to be remembered suc-
ceeded another barbarian like himself, in the
midst of a rude and coarse nation.” Henceforth
it would be the business of the historian to seek
out, amid the throng of recorded events, “that
which deserves to be known by us—the spirit, the
manners, the usages of the principal nations.” Not
believing in Christianity, and looking to intel-
lectual and literary culture as the great means of
human progress, Voltaire naturally regarded the
history of the first ten centuries of our era as “no
more deserving of being known than the history
of the wolves and the bears ; ” feudalism and
the middle ages filled him with disgust ; it was
only when he came to the Renaissance, with its
revival of learning, its tolerance of theological
differences, and its love of polish, that he seemed
to find anything worth writing a history about.
Hume, composing a “History of England ”(1754)
under the influence of ideas not dissimilar to those
of Voltaire, and commencing with the Stuart
period, was not likely to write favorably of the
11
162 ENGLISH LITERATURE.
Puritans, who were neither tolerant nor polished.
His work accordingly gave much offense to the
Whig party, which had inherited the political
traditions of Puritanism. Robertson’s historical
pictures—of Scotland, of Charles V., and of the
settlement of America—did not, except incident-
ally, go back beyond the period of the Renaissance;
the actions of men who lived before that age
seemed to him scarcely on a par with the “dignity
of history.” Gibbon's great work, the “Decline
and Fall of the Roman Empire,” is designed to
trace the gradual political debilitation of the em-
pire, and the extinction of letters and arts through
the ravages of the barbarians; thence passing
with a firm and vigorous step through the long
night of barbarism, he dilates with eloquence and
delight on the story of the rekindling of the flame
of learning, and the renewed appreciation of
beauty and refinement, which characterized the
Italian Renaissance of the fourteenth and fifteenth
centuries. We see that the historians of the
eighteenth century, our own among the number,
regarded the early and middle ages of our era as
the province of the antiquary and the annalist
rather than the historian proper; who, if he dealt
with them at all, should dispatch them in brief
summaries, in which, assuming an air of great su-
periority, he should try the men of the ninth or
any other early century by the prevalent ideas of
the eighteenth. Obviously, in the age in which
THE TRIUMPH OF COMPROMISE. 163
we live, we have “changed all that ; ” the age of
the Renaissance no longer presents itself to Our
eyes with such an overpowering lustre; and re-
search into the motives and cast of thought of a
Charlemagne or a Henry II. Seems to us no longer
beneath the “dignity of history.”
In theology, one very remarkable work belongs
to this period—Butler’s “Analogy of Religion to
the Constitution and Course of Nature” (1736).
This is an apologetic work, and may perhaps be
regarded as the last word in the deistical contro-
versy. Butler, whose caution and fairness of mind
are truly admirable, and who does not pretend that
the inquiry which he institutes leads to more than
probable conclusions, argues in this work that it is
just as difficult to believe Nature to have proceed-
ed from and to be ruled by God, as to admit that
Christianity has a divine origin. This line of rea-
soning, though cogent as against the deists, most
of whom admitted a divine author of Nature, is
obviously insufficient to meet the skepticism of
the present day, which, embracing the theory of
evolution, either rejects the belief in a First Cause
altogether, or declines to examine it, as lying be-
yond the scope of the human faculties. The “Ser-
mons” of Bishop Butler, in which he established
against Hobbes the fact of the existence in the
human mind of disinterested affections and dispo-
sitions pointing to the good of others, belongs
164 ENGLISH LITERATURE.
rather to the department of philosophy than that
of theology.
The philosophical speculations of this period
may be described as a series of oscillations round
Locke’s “Essay on the Human Understanding :”
Hume taking Locke's principles, and turning them
into a theory of skepticism ; Hutcheson starting
the theory of a new “sense” never dreamed of
before, the moral sense ; Hartley and Priestley
developing Locke's sensationalism into material-
ism ; while the Scotch school (Reid, Beattie, Du-
gald Stewart), recoiling from the consequences
of Locke’s system, attempted to smuggle “innate
ideas” back into philosophy under the names of
“common-sense,” “instinctive judgments,” “irre-
sistible beliefs,” and so forth. Such brief exami-
nation of these writers as our limits allow will
make our meaning clearer.
Locke’s system, says Dugald Stewart,” in mak-
ing sensation and reflection the sources of all
our simple ideas, led him “to some dangerous
opinions concerning the nature of moral distinc-
tions, which he seems to have considered as the
offspring of education and fashion.” How Berke-
ley combated the tendencies of Locke's principles
we have already seen. Hutcheson, an Irishman
of great acuteness, who was appointed to a philo-
sophical chair at Glasgow in 1729, unwilling to
admit that our moral ideas had no other ultimate
* “Outlines of Moral Philosophy,” ed. by M'Cosh, p. 49.
THE TRIUMPH OF COMPROMISE. 165
Source than sensation, yet wishing to conform as
much as possible to Locke's terminology, referred
the “origin of our moral ideas to a particular
power of perception, to which he gave the name
of the moral sense.” ” But this was to use the
word “sense” in a different meaning from what
it had ever borne before ; inasmuch as the objects
of this so-called sense, being the qualities of moral
actions, must be of necessity incorporeal, intangi-
ble, and imperceptible, and, as such, totally unlike
the objects of the faculties commonly called senses,
viz., sights, sounds, Smells, tastes, etc. Nor was
anything gained for the independence and immu-
tability of morality; for it was argued by com-
mentators on Hutcheson that, if the moral faculty
were a “sense,” then the qualities perceived by it,
like the secondary qualities of material objects
perceived by sensation and reflection, must be
understood as subjective, not objective ; as exist-
ing in and for the perceiving mind alone, and not
inherent in the actions themselves, which would
thus become colorless and neutral, i. e., destitute
of moral character.
A return upon skepticism was a frequent inci-
dent in the history of the Greek schools of thought,
especially when the principles of opposing systems
had been put forth with unusual warmth, and their
supporters had found reconciliation and the ex-
planation of differences out of the question. An
* Dugald Stewart.
166 ENGLISH LITERATURE.
example of this in the history of English thought
is furnished by the case of Hume. Provoked by
the extravagant paradoxes of Berkeley, who had
ecclesiastical and professional reasons for trying
to convince men that material objects had no real-
ity, and mind was everything—since the mystical
and unnatural state of mind so engendered would
favor the reception of any theology the philoso-
pher might afterward desire to implant—Hume
undertook to prove that mind had no real exist-
ence any more than matter, or that, if it had, such
existence could not be proved. “When I talk of
“my mind,” he said, “how do I know that there
is anything really existent which corresponds to
the words? By the impressions and sensations
of which I am conscious? But these only prove
themselves; no one of course denies them ; I only
deny, at least I say you cannot prove, the exist-
ence of an entity in which these impressions in-
here, and to which you give the name of ‘mind.’”
If there was no flaw in such reasoning, philosophy
was brought to a stand, and no certainty of any
kind was attainable by the human faculties.
Before the Scotch school and the great Im-
manuel Kant appeared to challenge these conclu-
sions, David Hartley, in his “Observations on
Man” (1749), espoused the tenets of Locke, and
applied all his ingenuity to explaining the origin
of as much of our knowledge as he could with
-- THE TRIUMPH OF COMPROMISE. 16?
any plausibility so treat, by referring it to the
physical principle of the “association of ideas.”
In the treatise already referred to, Hume de-
clares that he does not wish to undermine or even
to combat any man's belief; his aim was only to
demolish bad logic, to expose the emptiness of
alleged proofs of the divine government which
were no proofs at all, and to make men see that
“belief is more properly an act of the sensitive
than of the cogitative part of our nature.” The
line of thought suggested by this and similar ex-
pressions appears to have been taken up and eager-
ly pursued by Reid, who, in his “Inquiry into the
Human Mind upon the Principles of Common-
Sense” (1764), maintains that a large and not the
least important part of our knowledge is acquired,
not, as Locke asserted, through sensation and re-
flection, but by means of immediate and instinc-
tive judgments, in forming which the common-
Sense of all mankind is at one. The moral fae-
ulty, according to Reid, judges of right and wrong
in this instinctive way ; it is a branch of common-
sense. Beattie, who was a better poet than he
was a philosopher, pushed Reid’s theory to an ex-
treme which bordered on the ridiculous, including
among the “irresistible” and “necessary” beliefs
of the human mind a number of notions which
are really of a historic and derivative character.
Dr. Priestley, the discoverer of oxygen, adopting
the system of Locke as a basis, wrote on “Matter
168 ENGLISH LITERATURE.
and Spirit,” criticised the philosophy of Reid, and
discussed the tenet of philosophical necessity ; a
strong materialistic bias pervades his writings.
A greater thinker than any that Europe had
witnessed since Descartes now arose in Germany.
This was Kant, whose ambition it was to put a
period to the desolating prevalence of skepticism,
and deliver philosophy from the instability and
uncertainty by which it had long been beset.
His “Critique of the Pure Reason’ appeared
about 1781. Against Locke, he showed that the
mind can form neither conceptions nor judgments
without the prečxistence in the thought of the ab-
solute and universal ideas of time, space, unity,
cause, being, etc., which ideas proceed from the
intelligence itself, without any action being ex-
orted on the organs of sensation. They are a
priori, that is, prior to sensible experience ; they
belong to the pure reason, and may be regarded as
the forms of our knowledge—forms which the
understanding applies to the material furnished
by perceptions. He does not, however, allow that
these ideas, though a priori, have any objective
character ; and for this metaphysical subjectivism
he has been strenuously assailed by the Platoniz-
ing and orthodox schools of the present day.
Against the materialists he maintains, in the
“Critique of the Practical Reason,” that the
“moral motive,” or principle, which the intelli-
gence (called in this aspect the practical reason)
THE TRIUMPH OF COMPROMISE. 169
ſurnishes us with for the direction of our will, is
immutable, absolute, necessary, given a priori by
the reason, and presenting to us the Supreme and
universal good as the final end of our existence,
our desires, and our efforts. This motive is duty,
or the moral obligation imposed on the human
will by a power above it, which, consequently, is
not man himself. To the knowledge, therefore,
derived from the practical reason, Kant ascribes
an objective character, which, as we saw, he de-
nied to the forms of the pure reason. This law
of duty supposes liberty in man as the very con-
dition of the obligation which it imposes on him.
Here of course Kant is at variance with the ne-
cessitarians and materialists. There being a neces-
sary connection between virtue, i. e., the obedi-
ence to duty, and the supreme good which it seeks,
yet this connection being only partially realizable
in this life, Kant infers the reality of a future life,
and the immortality of the soul. And, in view of
our powerlessness to bring about this harmony be-
tween happiness and virtue, he infers the existence
of a First Cause, infinitely powerful, just, and
wise, which will establish it hereafter.
The colossal system of Kant was known to
Dugald Stewart (whose first work, “Outlines of
Moral Philosophy,” appeared in 1793), but only
through the medium of an imperfect Latin trans-
lation ; from this cause, probably, he is thought
to have failed to do full justice to it. Dugald
170 ENGLISH LITERATURE.
Stewart, who was appointed to the chair of moral
philosophy at Edinburgh in 1785, was the master
of a clear and charming style, which made his
lectures the delight of a large circle of pupils.
Among these were numbered not a few, in the
spheres both of thought and action, who have left
their mark on the age and the society to which
they belonged—Brougham, Lord Palmerston,
Lord Russell, Francis Horner, Lord Lansdowne,
Jeffrey, Sir Walter Scott, Sydney Smith, James
Mill, Alison the historian, and Dr. Chalmers—a
varied and brilliant auditory for one professor to
have lectured to and influenced in his day. One
of the most interesting of Stewart's numerous
works is his “Dissertation concerning the Prog-
ress of Metaphysical, Ethical, and Political Phi-
losophy since the Revival of Letters in Europe.”
In his “Outlines” (the work above mentioned)
he argued, keeping generally to the lines of But-
ler and Hutcheson, that there is a moral faculty in
man, that it is guided by duty, not by interest,
and that these two are not in the present state of
the world identical, nor are the feelings that are
inspired by actions prompted by the One the same
as those which are suggested by actions prompted
by the other. Right and wrong, he thinks,
must be held to be intrinsic qualities of ac-
tions, and not merely modes of the mind ob-
serving those actions. Everywhere he is firm
and explicit on the immutability of moral dis-
THE FRENCII REVOLUTION. 171
tinctions. In fact, in its general outcome his
ethical philosophy resembles pretty closely that of
Kant ; but it is not thought out with the same
rigor of logic, nor founded on as searching a psy-
chological analysis, nor expressed in as exact a
terminology, as belong to the writings of the
philosopher of Königsberg.
|X.
THE FRENCEL REVOLUTION, 1789–1832.
PROBABLY there was not a single gifted mind
in any country of Europe upon which the tempest
of the French Revolution did not come with a
stimulating or disturbing influence. Young men,
hasty counselors ever, from the days of Reho-
boam, thrilled with hope and flushed with excite-
ment, announced and believed that a golden age
had opened for mankind. Wordsworth hastened
from Cambridge in 1792 to France, where he
lived more than a year, and formed some Giron-
dist acquaintances ; Coleridge invented a scheme
for an ideal community which was to form a
model settlement, to be conducted on principles
of “pantisocracy,” on the banks of the Susque-
hanna ; Southey nearly got himself into trouble
by publishing “Wat Tyler,” a dramatic sketch
of an inflammatory and seditious character. On
the othér hand, the young Walter Scott looked
172 ENGLISH LITERATURE.
with shrewd, clear eyes on the tumultuous scene,
and was not tempted to throw himself into the
vortex; for him the treasures of Europe's mighty
past were real and precious, and not to be bar-
tered for any quantity of visionary hopes and
fairy gold. Soon the proceedings of the Revolu-
tionists made it clear enough that human nature
and human motives were not changed; and the
ranks of reaction were rapidly filled. In England
an immense effect was produced by the appear-
ance of Burke’s “Reflections on the French Rev-
olution ” in 1791. The sympathizers with the
French republicans dwindled in number so fast
that, at the end of the century, as it was sportive-
ly said, the whole of the opposition to Pitt's Gov-
ernment in the House of Lords went home from
the debate in a single hack-cab. Wordsworth,
Southey, and Coleridge changed round to the
Conservative side. The appearance in France of
the “Génie du Christianisme?” (1802), by Cha-
teaubriand, marked the commencement of the
great continental reaction. The public policy of
England became essentially conservative ; she en-
deavored to prop up all the old monarchies on the
Continent, whether they deserved to live or not ;
she harbored thousands of French priests; she
supported the temporal power of the pope. A
remarkable dissonance hence arose between the
policy of the country and some of the finest notes
in its literature. While the English aristocracy
°.
*N.
^.
THE FRENCH REVOLUTION. 173
was putting forth its full strength to combat
Jacobinism by land and sea, the spirit of revolu-
tion breathed from the pages of Shelley and By-
ron. The war with Napoleon was waged with
the approval of the great majority of the nation ;
but the able critics and publicists who conducted
the Edinburgh Review (started in 1802) were
vehemently opposed to it, and would, if their in-
fluence had prevailed, have withdrawn the sword
of England from the contest at least ten years
before Waterloo.
The romantic poems of Scott (“Lay of the
Last Minstrel,” “Marmion,” “Lady of the Lake,”
etc.) were popular, because they were in sym-
pathy with the return (now strongly pronounced)
of the European mind toward chivalry, feudalism,
and the mediaeval spirit. The works of the Re-
naissance were no longer praised; its art was held
to be imitative or debased, its refinement to be
superficial, its enthusiasm factitious. Taking its
cue from Rousseau, all the world was thirsting,
or pretending to thirst, after Nature and simplici-
ty; the naïveté and spontaneity, real or imagined,
of the “ages of faith” seemed incalculably better
than the finesse and self-consciousness of modern
times. Working this vein somewhat too long,
Scott was at last outshone in it by Byron, whose
romantic tales (“Bride of Abydos,” “The Cor-
sair,” “The Gigour,” etc.) were still more remote
from the dullness and conventionality of ordinary
174: . ENGLISH LITERATURE.
life than those of Scott. In “Childe Harold,” a
poem finely but unequally versified in the Spen-
serian stanza, the noble poet described himself—
for no one ever doubted that he was himself “the
great sublime he drew’’—traveling through Spain,
Italy, and Greece, a prey to melancholy discon-
tent, brooding over the perishing relics of depart-
ed greatness, but unable to utter any formula
potent for its recreation other than vague cries
for the bursting of all fetters which repress the
spirit or the limbs of men. The increasing moral
disorder of Byron’s mind is marked by the ap-
pearance of “Don Juan,” a long rambling poem,
written after his wife had left him, and he had
gone to the Continent in 1816, never to return.
In 1823 he joined the Greek insurgents who had
taken arms to throw off the Turkish yoke. Iſe
landed at Missolonghi, spent large sums of money,
but effected nothing of importance; and in April,
1824, he was cut off by a fever.
Shelley is a striking illustration of the influ-
ence which the revolutionary literature of that
age possessed in moulding or modifying human
character. His own earliest recollections dated
to a time when all ranks of English society were
animated by feelings of horror and detestation at
the French “Terror,” and in no mood to embrace
any revolutionary sentiment, or even give a hear-
ing to any novel opinion. Yet the mind of Shel-
ley—nursed upon the skeptical suggestions of
t
THE FRENCII REVOLUTION. §
Hume, the utopian speculations of Godwin, and
the antinomian dreams of Rousseau, and pushing
to extremes, from the fervor of a nature in which
prudence and diffidence found no place, all that
he read—was in a state of high revolt, even in his
college days, against all that was held sacred by
other men. Sent away from Oxford, he fell in
with the bright, high-spirited Harriet Westbrook,
and induced her to marry him. But all bonds,
including those of matrimony, which fettered the
free inclinations of the mind, Shelley had taught
himself to regard- as a tyranny to be withstood.
He grew tired of Harriet, formed a connection of
free love with Mary Godwin, and deserted his
hapless wife, who two years afterward committed
suicide. Whether Shelley would ever have brought
his wild actions and wilder thoughts under any
discipline it is impossible to tell, for he was cut
off by a sudden and early death. His poems dis-
play the most perfect and wonderful mastery of
the resources of the English language for the pur-
poses of imaginative expression that has ever been
attained to among our poets. As Pope and Dry-
den gave us logic in metre, so Byron and Shelley
gave us rhetoric in metre. Splendid pieces of
declamation may be found in the “Childe Harold’”
and “Isles of Greece.” of the one poet, and in the
“Hellas” and “Revolt of Islam ” of the other.
The “Skylark,” and some other poems, considered

y
ENGLISH LITERATURE.
as creations of the pure imagination, have surely
never been surpassed.
An accidental circumstance, the finding of an
old, unfinished manuscript in a forgotten nook of
a cabinet, turned Sir Walter Scott into the path
of prose fiction, in which his strong memory and
inexhaustible imagination, joined with a gift for
picturesque description, and the faculty within
certain limits of creating and presenting living
types of character, eminently qualified him to
excel. Then was given to the world the long
and splendid series of novels, commencing with
“Waverley” and ending (when his mind had
partially given way) with “Castle Dangerous.”
We do not forget that a living French critic,
whose admirable style makes even his paradoxes
attractive, treats the Waverley novels with little
ceremony; they were taken, he says, for faithful
copies of the antique world in Europe at a time
when people knew no better; now we go to the
original sources of information, and find that he
distorts everything. But, in the first place, so
far as the Waverley novels consist of the skillful
evolution of plots invented by the author, and of
the contrasted play of characters created by him,
and not of historical pictures, this criticism does
not touch them at all. In “Peveril of the Peak,”
for instance, where a peculiar zest attaches itself
to the love of Julian Peveril for Alice Bridge-
north on account of the political and religious
t
t

THE FRENCEL REVOLUTION. 177
differences which divide their fathers, though
Scott might be proved to have omitted some im-
portant features in his historic sketch of the
Restoration, still the deep attraction of the story
would not lose its charm. So, again, in “Ivan-
hoe,” although the repulsion between Saxon and
Norman—the concrete picture of which, presented
in this novel, so deeply impressed the historian
Thierry—be to some extent an exaggeration of
the feelings which actually prevailed between
the two races under Richard I., yet neither does
this inaccuracy affect the substantial truthfulness
and instructiveness of the historic tableau, nor, if
it did, would the tragic passages which describe
the siege of the castle of Front-de-Boeuf exercise
an inferior fascination. But, secondly, the real
meaning of M. Taine's charge is, not that Scott
has misread history, but that he has not read it
from the special philosophical standpoint of M.
Taine. He did not read it in the conviction of
the relativity of all events, nor regard it simply
as the evolution of the TWeltgeist, nor believe that
human society, through the stages of theology
and metaphysics, advances inevitably to the bourn
of positive science. But it remains to be proved
whether these views of history will not prove
more ephemeral than the simpler conceptions
which possessed the mind of Sir Walter Scott.
Reference was made above to the commence-
ment of the “Edinburgh Review” in 1802. The
12
178 ENGLISH LITERATURE.
tendencies of thought which distinguished its
founders were of so remarkable a character, exer-
cised so marked an effect on the philosophy, the
legislation, and even the literature of their times,
and are still so influential, that Some attempt to
analyze and describe them must be made. There
were varieties of opinion among the writers for
this celebrated review from the first ; among them
were mere Whigs and mere literary critics; but
that which gave it a backbone was its being par-
tially the organ of a party, known some years
later by the name of “Philosophical Radicals.”
This school took its philosophy from Locke, Ben-
tham, and Adam Smith. It held that the old
systems which admitted the principle of authority
were forever ruined and discredited; that, as gov-
ernment was an affair of contract, so religion was
an affair of evidence ; and that, since the same
evidence was estimated differently by different
minds, the right course was to confine religion
within the domain of the individual conscience,
tolerating all forms of it not antisocial, but giving
political prominence to none. Coleridge, in an
eloquent work published in 1829,” supported the
theory of a national church, not as the channel for
teaching religious truth, but as providing a machin-
ery for diffusing culture and enlightenment, as
well as teaching morality by example, through the
length and breadth of the land. This view was
* “Constitution of Church and State.”
\
THE FRENCH REVOLUTION. 179
too Platonic for the school we are now consider-
ing ; which, however, did not attack the already
existing established church, but contented itself
with insisting that its clergy should be vigilantly
controlled by the state, lest they should teach
principles or practices inconsistent with the gen-
eral good. Churches they regarded as decrepit
and perishing institutions; it was the state which,
in their eyes, flourished in immortal youth ; and
their hopes of future good were involved in the
development of civilization under its auspices.
They believed in the gradual advance and per-
fectibility of the race through the operation of
wise institutions, furthering the free play of all
the human faculties, while guaranteeing the order
and stability of society. The happiness that
would thence arise, consisting in the realization
of “the greatest good of the greatest number,”
they regarded as the satisfaction of enthusiasm
and the goal of effort. To political economy,
that eminently lay study, and to the development
of physical science, they looked for the measures
and the means requisite for the attainment of this
happiness. Moreover, since from their point of
view there was nothing absolute in moral sanc-
tions, it was ridiculous for a nation to hamper it-
self by adherence to engagements contracted by
a former generation, on the plea of national hon-
or, if such adherence was prejudicial to the inter-
ests of the living. Views of this kind, beginning
180 ENGLISH LITERATURE,
even then to be propounded, drew from Burke
the exclamation that the “age of chivalry was
past,” and that “that of sophists, economists, and
calculators had succeeded.” The study of social
grievances, and of the means of removing them,
assumed a prominent place among their objects,
and gave rise to much laudable and beneficial
activity. On humanitarian grounds they support-
ed the agitation against slavery which Christian
philanthropists, like Clarkson and Wilberforce,
had commenced from a religious motive. Senior
occupied himself with the evils of the old poor-
law ; Francis Horner became a great authority
on finance ; Sir Samuel Romilly took up the re-
form of our criminal jurisprudence; Ricardo, J.
S. Mill, and McCulloch studied the laws of the
creation and distribution of wealth, and demon-
strated the impolicy of restrictions on trade. The
benefits of national education began to be seen
and enforced ; and Lancaster and Bell entered
upon useful labors connected with the organiza-
tion of schools and the supply of teachers. Har-
riet Martineau wrote popular tales, and Elliott
“Corn-law Rhymes,” in order to indoctrinate the
multitude with sound views on economical ques-
tions. In short, all the good was done or at-
tempted which men starting from the basis of
empirical philosophy could do or attempt ; what-
ever was outside the range of that philosophy
was neglected.
THE FRENCH REVOLUTION. 181
There is something rather saddening in the
contemplation of the careers of most of the emi-
nent literary men of this epoch. Byron and
Shelley were cut off in the flower of their days;
Southey's overtasked brain gave way some years
before his death, and the same fate befell Ire-
land's gifted singer, Thomas Moore. Scott,
ruined through too much haste to be rich, liter-
ally worked himself to death to clear off the
mountain of liability which his implication in
Ballantyne's failure had thrown upon him. Cole-
ridge, though he lived to old age, had weakened
a will originally irresolute, and shattered nerves
originally over-sensitive, by the fatal practice of
opium-eating ; in the time of gray hairs he sub-
sided into a dreamy talker about “sum-m-ject”
and “om-m-ject.”” Wordsworth alone preserved
to the last an unimpaired sanity of mind and
body, for which he might thank the simplicity
and serenity of his life in Westmoreland, where
he settled on his return from France. Rapt in
profound meditation, he communed among the
mountains with the spirit of the universe ; and
the beauty of the crag, the tarn, the flower, trans-
mitted itself, through the lips of Nature's poet-
priest, into verse of wondrous melody. When
the period of inspiration was past, he quietly con-
formed to the religion and politics of his neigh-
* Carlyle’s “Life of Sterling.”
182 ENGLISH –LITERATURE.
bors, and wrote much in support of them ; but
these later works are pitched in a lower key.
Since the death of Scott, the power of litera-
ture, combined with journalism, has been contin-
ually on the rise. The novelists, while describ-
ing, have modified our social customs; the essay-
ists have been instrumental in bringing about
political reforms; the poets have stirred—gener-
ally to thoughts and desires of change—the im-
pressible hearts of the young. The power of art
over the human mind, and its influence in deter-
mining the aspects of life, have been, in all Eng-
lish-speaking countries, declining, while that of
literature has been advancing. Whether this
particular distribution of the master-influences
that affect mankind will continue to prevail, or
whether art is destined to regain among us a por-
tion of its early power, and the sway of literature
to be correspondingly restricted, is a question
which the future must decide.
I N D E X.
Adamnan, 16.
Addison, Joseph, 130, 188, 189.
AElfric, 24.
Alcuin, 22.
Aldhelm, St., 8.
“Alexandreis, The,” 29.
Alfred, King, 13.
Alliterative metre, 10, 58.
Alliterative poets, 51.
“Andreas.” 9.
Anselm, St., 86.
Arthurian romance, 29.
Ascham, Roger, 71, 81.
Bacon, Sir Francis, 109.
Bacon, Roger, 41
Barrow, Dr. Isaac, 120.
Beaumont and Fletcher, 104.
Beda, the Wenerable, 18.
Behn, Aphra, 123.
Benoit de Ste. More, 28.
“Beowulf.” 6.
Berkeley, Bishop, 148.
Boniface, St., 7.
Bunyan, John, 120.
Burke, Edmund, 172.
Burns, Robert, 150, i51.
Butler, Bishop, 163.
Butler, Samuel, 121.
Byron, Lord, 173, 1T4.
Cadmon, 16.
Caxton, Wi" am, 61.
Chateaubriand, 172.
Chaucer, Geoffrey, 52, 55.
Churchill, Charles, 148.
Cibber, Colley, 124.
Colet, Dean, 67.
Comedy, English, rise of 78.
Congreve, William, 124, 129.
Cowley, Abraham, 91.
Cowper, William, 149.
Cranmer, Thomas, 81.
“Crist,” 8.
Cynewulf, 8.
Danes, ravages of the 12,
Defoe, Daniel, 131, 144.
Deists, English, 140.
Denham, Sir John, 121.
“Deor’s Complaint,” 6.
Dryden, John, 117, 122, 129.
Dunbar, William, 75.
T}unstan, St., 14.
Durham Gospels, 23.
“Edinburgh Review,” 173, 177.
“Elene,” 9.
Elizabethan drama, 92.
Elizabethan literature, 86.
Bºlsh language, ascendency of the
Erasmus, 67.
Euphuism, 107.
Evrard’s “Disticha,” 27.
Exeter Codex, 24.

Fiction, works of 105, 144, 152.
Fielding, Henry, 156, 157.
Fisher, Bishop, 69.
Florence of Worcester, 36.
Fortescue, Sir John, S0.
Gaimar, Geoffrey, 2S.
Geoffrey of Monmouth, 28.
Gibbon, Edward, 162.
184 #
INDEX.
Gildas, 29.
Godric, St., hymn of 33.
Goldsmith, Oliver, 152, 160.
Gower, John, 56.
Greek, revival of the study of, 65.
Grocyn, William, 66.
Grosseteste, Robert, 42.
“Guthlac, St.” 9.
Hartley, David, 166.
“Havelok,” romance of 45.
Hawes, Stephen, 73.
Heywood, John, 97.
Higden, Ranulf, 41.
Hobbes, Thomas, 111.
Hooker, Richard, 107.
Hume, David, 161, 166.
Huntingdon, Henry of 86.
Hutcheson, Francis, 164,
“IIypocrite, The,” 124.
Iona, influence of 15.
James I. of Scotland, 63.
Jewel, Bishop, 82.
John of Salisbury, 37.
Johnson, Dr. Samuel, 145.
Jonson, Ben, 104.
“Juliana,” 9.
Rant, Immanuel, 166, 168,169.
“King Horn,” romance of, 45.
“Lancelot,” romance of, 31.
Tangland, William, 51.
Langtoft, Peter, 43.
Latimer, Hugh, 82.
Lavamon, 34.
* Leviathan, The,” 111.
Lilye, William, 67
Linacre, Thomas, 67.
Lindisfarne, destruction of 22.
Locke, John, 124, 128, 164.
Lombard, Peter, 87.
Lydgate, John, 57.
Lyly, John, 106.
Lyndsay, Sir David, 75.
“Mabinogion, The,” 32.
Malmesbury, William of 36.
Malory, Sir Thomas, 32.
Manning, Robert, 88, 46.
Map, Waiter, 81.
Marlowe, Christopher, 89, 97.
Milton, John, 125, 126.
Miracle plays, 77.
Moral plays, 77.
More, Sir Thomas, 67, 80, 81.
Nennius, 29.
Northumbria, literary development
in, 15.
Ormin, 44.
Paris, Matthew, 41.
Pecock, Reginald, 50.
Philosophical radicals, 178.
Players, account of 98.
Pope, Alexander, 132,142, 143.
Priestley, Dr. Jos., 167.
Printing, invention of, 60.
Prynne, William, 105.

Reid, Dr. Thomas, 167.
Richardson, Samuel, 155, 158,
Robert of Gloucester, 44.
Robertson, Dr. William, 162.
“Roland, Chanson de.” 27,
Romances, English, 45.
Round Table, legend of the, 80.
Sackville, Thomas, 79.
Saint Graal, legend of the, 31.
Saxon Chronicle, the, 24, 33.
Scott, Sir Walter, 173, 176.
Selling, William, 65.
Shaftesbury, Lord, 141.
Shakespeare, William, his poems, 89;
his plays, 100–103.
Shelley, Percy B., 174.
Sheridan, Richard B., 152, 159.
Sidney, Sir Philip, 85, 90, 106.
Skelton, John, 73.
Smith, Adam, 148.
Smollett, Tobias, 159.
Southwell, Robert, 90.
“Spectator, The,” 138.
Spenser, Edmund, 88.
Stage, the early, 97.
Steele, Richard, 136, 137.
Sterne, Lawrence, 159.
Stewart, Dr. Dugald, 169,
Surrey, Earl of 74.
Swift, Dean, 135.
Taylor, Jeremy, 108.
Tragedy, English, rise of 79.
Translators, under Elizabeth, 72,
“Traveller, The," 7.
“Triads, The," 82.
“Tristan,” romance of 81.
INDEX. 185
Trivet, Nicholas, 41. Waller, Edmund, 92.
Turoldus, 27. Warham, Archbishop, 69.
Tyndale, William, 81. Welsh gºtry of the twelfth cen-
tury, 32.
Udall, Nicholas, 79. Wºº, literary development in,
Vercelli Codex, the, 24. wickiife, John, 47.
Wordsworth, William, 171, 181.
Wace, Robert, 28.
Walden, Thomas, 48. Young, Edward, 149,
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() () ME DIES
FOR
A. M. A. T E U R A C T IN G. ,
EDITED, WITH A PREFATORY NOTE: OM
PRIVATE THEATRICALS,
BY
(J., BRANDER MATTHEws.
NEW YORK :
¥). A PPLE TO N AND COMPANY.,
1880.
COPYRIGHT BY
D. APPLET ON AND COMPANY.
1879.
|
Å
M. PAUL FERRIER,
TÉMOIGNAGE DE CONFRATERNITÉ.
J. B.
M.
C O N T E N T S .
PAGE
PREFATORY NOTE e º * > tº . 7,
A TRUMPED SUIT. By JulLAN MAGNUs. . tº 17
A BAD CASE. By JulLAN MAGNUs and H. C. BUNNER. 69
COURTSHIP WITH WARLATIONS. By H. C. BUNNER. 91
A TEACHER TAUGHT. By A. H. OAKEs. * . 127
HEREDITY. By ARTHUR PENN. * * e 153
FRANK WYLDE. By J. BRANDER MATTHEws. & , 205
PREFATORY NOTE.
AN aspiring amateur actor once asked a celebrated
dramatic critic, “What did you think of the perform-
ance of our club 8' And the cruel critic is said to have
answered, slowly and with a slight drawl, “I should
hardly have called it a club; it seemed to me more like
a collection of sticks.”
At another private performance, it was either Garrick
or Kean who exclaimed involuntarily, “There is an act-
or,” when the footman of the play presented a letter—
and it turned out that, none of the amateurs being will-
ing to accept so small a part, a professional “utility man’
had been engaged from the theatre. The player was
probably not the equal of his noble and gentle associ-
ates in intelligence or in education, but he knew his bus-
iness. And it was his business—for them it was only
amusement. Yet many of them were doubtless told, and
some of them perhaps believed, that they had only to
desire success on the stage to find it within their grasp.
They believed, in short, that they could be actors if
they chose; in truth, they were only amateurs. Charles
Lamb reports Coleridge as having said: “There is an
infinity of trick in all that Shakspere wrote: I could
write like Shakspere if I had a mind.” And Lamb adds
8 | PREFATORY NOTE.
quietly: “So, you see, Coleridge only lacked the mind.”
The application to amateur actors is obvious.
Macready remarks that, with one exception, the only
amateur he had seen “with any pretensions to theatrical
talent was Charles Dickens, of world-wide fame.” Now
it was not jealousy, as some vain amateurs would fain
believe, which led Macready to write thus. He was
not above the feeling, as his journal plainly shows, nor
was Garrick or Kean. But he and they, like all actors
who have won fame and fortune by hard work, had a
feeling akin to contempt for those who dabbled for mere
amusement in the art of acting, to which they had given
a lifetime of study. They knew that without long labor
nothing is likely to be achieved in the art which is, to
a certain extent at least, the union of all other arts.
Campbell condensed pages of prose discussion into a few
beautiful lines:
“For ill can Poetry express
Full many a tone of thought sublime;
And Painting, mute and motionless,
Steals but a glance of time.
But by the mighty actor brought,
Illusion's perfect triumphs come ;
Verse ceases to be airy thought,
And Sculpture to be dumb.”
“It surely,” Macready comments, “needs something
like an education for such an art, and yet that appear-
ance of mere volition and perfect ease, which costs the
accomplished artist so much time and toil to acquire, evi-
dently leads to a different conclusion with many, or ama-
teur acting would be less in vogue.” Although the the-
atre is a place of amusement for the lawyer and the doc-
tor, it is the workshop of the actor, and his work there
PREFATORY NOTE. 9
is just as hard for him as the doctor's or the lawyer's
is in his study.
Few would presume to paint elaborate historical pic-
tures without years of training—without the study of
perspective, of anatomy, of the handling of colors, of the
thousand and one other things which the task demands.
Yet we find not a few, with as little preparation as possi-
ble, bravely battling with Hamlet and Richelieu, and re-
tiring amid the plaudits of their friends, convinced that
they only need a wider field to rival Booth or the memo-
ry of Kean and Kemble. There is unfortunately nothing
in the art of acting as simple as the sketch of which the
amateur in the art of design can acquit himself without
discredit. A sketch, as its name suggests, may be the
happy record of a fleeting impression, slight and incom-
plete; but a play, even the lightest little comedy, be it
never so short, is a complete and finished whole, contain-
ing at least one situation plainly presented and pushed to
its logical conclusion. The demand it makes on the
actor is as great in quality, although not in quantity, as
the demand made by five acts.
But the desire for the drama, and for taking part in
it, is apparently innate in most of us. Possibly a passion
for mimicry is the survival of a tendency to monkey
tricks inherited from some simian ancestor who hung, sus-
pended by his prehensile tail, from the boughs of the for-
est primeval. Or, as the English poet, Mr. Edmund W.
Gosse, has neatly put it: “The taste for acting seems in-
herent in the human mind. Perhaps there is no imagi-
native nature that does not wish, at one time or another,
to step into the person of another, to precipitate his own
intelligence on the action of a different mind, to contem-
plate from the interior, instead of always observing the
{
10 PREFATORY NOTE.
exterior. To act a part is to widen the sympathy, to in-
crease the experience, and hence the diversion of pri-
vate theatricals has been held to be no small part of edu-
cation by some of the most serious of men.” Amateur
acting has, in fact, its advantages, needless to be speci-
fied here. It is well, therefore, to study how to make the
best use of these advantages, and to turn private theatri-
cals to profit, as best we may. First of all, the amateur
should never choose a play which has been recently acted
by professional actors. The amateur, however good,
can hardly hope to equal the professional, however poor.
So he must needs avoid the comparison. Discretion is
the better part of valor, and private theatricals are in
themselves a feat foolhardy enough to be the better for
an extra portion of discretion. They call for all the
help they can get, so they should never neglect the ad-
vantage of novelty in the chosen play. The interest the
spectators feel in the unfolding of the plot may thus be
reflected upon the actors.
In the second place, it is the duty of the amateur to
choose as short a play as possible. A piece in one act is
far less likely to fatigue the spectators than a piece in five
acts. And the shortness is a great boon to the amateur,
who lacks many things needed in a long play—the knowl-
edge, for instance, of how to use his voice without fatigue.
There is no limit to the variety of subject and style to
be found within the compass of one act. You can have
comedy, farce, burlesque, extravaganza, drama, opera,
and even tragedy—and all in one brief act. One of the
most effective situations in the modern drama of France—
a situation so striking that it has been stolen half a dozen
times—is to be found in a play in one act, “La Joie fait
Peur,” of Mme. de Girardin. Indeed, the French excel
PREFATORY NOTE. 11
in the writing of one-act plays, even as they excel just now
in the writing of plays of almost every kind. Many of
their lighter comedies in one act are admirably adapted
for amateur acting; the characters are well marked, the
dialogue is flowing and in general not exacting, and
the scenery and mounting can easily be compassed by a
little ingenuity and perseverance. Indeed, the scene is
in most cases laid in a parlor, with the costumes of every-
day life. Now in such costumes, and in such scenes,
and in short plays like these, the amateur is seen at his
best. When he is ambitious, and tries to do “Hamlet”
or “The Lady of Lyons,” or even “The Hunchback” or
“The Honeymoon,” he is seen at his worst. And when
the amateur is bad, it is often because he is bumptious.
All amateurs are not bumptious, and all amateurs there-
fore are not bad. And amateurs who are not bad be-
cause they are not bumptious, wisely and modestly gauge
their own strength, and refuse incontinently to do battle
with any ponderous monster in five acts.
It has been held by some wise critics that the best
programme for an amateur performance is a two-act
comedy, followed by a one-act farce or comedietta, or
even burlesque; the more serious play of course coming
first, and the lighter later—like the sweet after the roast.
Where the evening's entertainment consists of Mrs. Jar-
ley's waxworks or tableaux, together with a play, the
play should always be given first, in order that the spec-
tators shall see it before they are wearied and worn by
the multitudinous delays which always accompany a
series of tableaux, however excellently ordered or fre-
quently rehearsed. Although the experiment is a rash
One, a three-act play may sometimes be substituted by
experienced amateurs for the two plays, with a total of
12 PREFATORY NOTE.
three acts. There are many good three-act plays, light
and bright, and well suited for parlor performance. The
influence of Mr. Robertson, the author of “Caste,” and
of his host of imitators in the teacup-and-saucer school
of comedy, has given us a long list of three-act pieces just
about worthy of amateur acting. There are unfortu-
nately but few good two-act plays—“Simpson & Co.,”
the “Sweethearts” of Mr. W. S. Gilbert, and half a
dozen more. And equally unfortunate is it that, while
one-act plays must be the staple of private theatricals,
nearly all the really good comedies of that length have
been acted so often that they are thoroughly hackneyed.
As there is no professional demand for pieces in one
act—managers for some reason or other seeming to be
afraid of them—the amateur demand does not call forth
an equal supply. It is for amateurs, however, that the
half-dozen one-act plays in this little book have been
prepared.
One of the comedies which follow, “A Bad Case,” is
wholly original, having been kindly written for this vol-
ume by my friends Mr. Julian Magnus and Mr. H. C.
Bunner, working together, as was the custom in the days
of Beaumont and Fletcher. The other five little plays
are “not translations—only taken from the French,” as
Sneer smartly phrases it in “The Critic.” Some of them
follow the French originals with more or less closeness,
while others are indebted only for the suggestion or
skeleton of the plot. In a different shape, three of the
five plays have already appeared in “Appletons' Jour-
nal" and in “Puck,” but all have been carefully revised
for this volume. The title of each of the French come-
dies thus adapted and the name of the author appear
at the head of each play. The authors laid under con-
PREFATORY NOTE. 13
~.
tribution are M. Eugène Labiche, the leading comic dra-
matist of France; M. Mario Uchard, the author of many
charming fantasies; M. Paul Ferrier, one of the foremost
of the younger dramatic authors of France; the late
Henry Mürger, the tender singer of a Bohemia which
now is not; and M. de Bornier, the author of the “Fille
de Roland,” almost the only tragedy which has of late
years been successful in France.
The piece of absurdity, “Heredity,” is a simple bit of
fooling of slight pretensions, and printed here to afford
an opportunity to amateurs of gratifying the prevailing
taste for light musical plays. The words of a few songs
in common metres are given, for which fitting music can
easily be found either in the lighter operas or among
the airs of the day: they may be omitted, and other
songs inserted at any point. The play is offered merely
as a framework on which the actors may hang what
they will—a vehicle for the exhibition of any special
accomplishments, singing, dancing, or what not, in which
the amateurs who attempt it may be proficient: no
apology is therefore needed for its literary demerits.
These plays may all be acted free of charge by ama-
teurs. Professional performers who may desire to pro-
duce any of them will please communicate with the editor
through the publishers.
A TRUMPED SUIT.
O O M E D Y I N O N E A G T.
By JULIAN MAGN US,
CELARACTERS.
M. CARBONEL.
VICTOR DELILLE.
ANATOLE GARADOUX.
CÉCILE, Carbonel’s daughter.
ANNETTE, chambermaid.
[The French original of this play is “Les Deua, Timides,”
written by M. Eugène Labiche.] -
A TIR U MPED STUIT.
SCENE. Salon in a country house near Paris.
Large doors at back Supposed to open on a gar-
den. Door L. I. E. Doors L. 2 E. and R. 2
E. Mantelpiece R. Clock and vases on mantel.
Table with writing materials L. R., a small
ornamental table. Small sideboard against wall
L. Usual furniture of a handsome Salon.
At rise of curtain, Annette, with hot-water jug in
her hand, comes from back, opens door L. 3 E.,
and deposits the jug within.
ANNETTE.
Monsieur, there is the hot water. [Comes front.]
This M. Anatole Garadoux, mademoiselle’s intend-
ed, is what I call queer. He wouldn’t suit me at
all. Every morning, he takes an hour and a half
to dress himself and polish his nails—that is, half
an hour to dress, and an hour to trim his nails.
He has a case of little instruments, and cuts, and
Scrapes, and grinds, and rubs, and files, and pow-
ders, and polishes—what a housemaid he’d have
#
18 COMEDIES FOR AMATEUR ACTING.
been if Fate hadn’t spoiled him at the start | I
don’t know what M. Carbonel can have seen in him
Oh, my lºſ suppose master could no more say
“no” to him than he can to any one about any-
thing. It’s absurd that a man of his age should
have no more will than a baby. He hasn’t any
more firmness than jelly in the sunshine ! His
daughter makes up for him, though. With all her
Sweetly innocent, yielding manner, she has her
own way when she wants it. [Cécile is heard
singing in the garden.] She's coming back from
her morning walk.
CÉCILE, entering at back with a lot of cut flow-
ers in her apron.
Annette, bring the vases.
ANNETTE, taking vases to table.
Yes, mademoiselle. [They busy themselves
arranging the flowers.] He's getting up. I have
just taken in the hot water.
CăCILE.
To whom P
ANNETTE.
To M. Garadoux.
CáCILE.
What does that matter to me?
ANNETTE.
Have you noticed his nails?
\
}
*
A TRUMPED SUIT. 19
-- CăCILE, curtly.
No l
ANNETTE.
Not noticed his nails | Why they’re as long
as that. But the other day, in trying to open a
window, he broke one.
CáCILE, ironically.
Poor naill
ANNETTE.
To be sure, it will grow again—in time; but
wasn’t he cross P Since then, he has always rung
for me to open the window.
CăCILE.
I have already had to ask you not to be for ever
talking to me about M. Garadoux—it is disagree-
able ! it annoys me !
ANNETTE, astonished.
Your intended !
CáCILE.
Intended, yes; but intentions don’t always
lead to—marriage. Where is papa P
[Replaces vase on mantel.
ANNETTE.
In his study ; he’s been there more than an
hour with a gentleman who came from Paris—
20 COMEDIES FOR AMATEUR ACTING.
CÉCILE, quickly.
From Paris P A young man—a lawyer P
Blond—very quiet manner—blue eyes P
ANNETTE.
No. This one is dark, has mustaches—and a
beard like a blacking-brush.
CâCILE, disappointed.
Ah ºpp
ANNETTE.
I fancy he’s a traveler for a wine-merchant.
Your father didn’t want to see him, but he man-
aged to Squeeze through the door with his bottles.
CăCILE.
Why doesn’t papa send him away ?
ANNETTE.
M. Carbonel ? He's too timid to do that.
[Places other vase on mantel.
CáCILE.
I am afraid he is.
CARBONEL, speaking outside R. 2 E.
Monsieur, it is I who am indebted to you
—delighted [Enters with two small bot-
tles.] I didn’t want it, but I have bought four
casks. * *
A TRUMPED SUIT. 21
CâCILE.
You have bought more wine P
ANNETTE.
The cellar is full. [Goes up.
CARBONEL.
I know it; but how could I say “no " to a
man who was so nicely dressed—who had just come
twelve miles—on purpose to offer me his wine P
In fact, he put himself to great inconvenience to
come here. se
CáCILE.
But it's you he has inconvenienced.
ANNETTE, at back.
The great point is, is the wine good.
CARBONEL.
Taste it.
ANNETTE, after pouring some ºnto glass which
she takes from sideboard, drinks, and utters cry
of disgust.
CARBONEL.
That's exactly how it affected me. I even
ventured to say to him—with extreme politeness
—“Your wine seems to me a little young”; but I
was afraid he was beginning to feel vexed—so I
took four casks—only four !
22 COMEDIES FOR AMATEUR, ACTING.
ANNETTE, taking the samples.
Well, I’ll use these for salads. [Bell heard L.]
That’s M. Garadoux ringing for me to open his
window. [Ea;it L. 2 E.
CARBONEL.
What l has M. Garadoux only just got up 2
CáCILE.
Yes, he never appears before ten o’clock.
CARBONEL.
That doesn’t astonish me. Every evening he
seizes my paper, as Soon as it is left, and takes it
to his own room. I believe he reads himself to
sleep.
CáCILE.
And you don’t see it 2
CARBONEL.
Oh, yes, I do—the next day.
CáCILE.
This is too bad.
CARBONEL.
I own I miss it ; and if you could manage to
give him a hint—without its seeming to come from
Iſle-
CáCILE,
, I’ll give him a hint he can’t misunderstand.
i
A TRUMPED SUIT. 23
CARBONEL.
What you’re not afraid P
CÉCILE, firmly.
Afraid—of a man who wants to be my husband?
Should I have agreed to think about him, if I was 2
CARBONEL.
I admire your spirit—and you only eighteen.
You're braver than I. The visit of this stranger
worries and bothers me.
CECILE.
Poor papal
CARBONEL.
Thank Heaven, it will soon be over !
CáCILE.
What, P
CARBONEL.
Why, all these visitors with their eternal offers.
They make me ill. What can you expect P I
have passed my life in the Archive Office—in the
Secret Department. No one was ever admitted
there. That exactly suited me. Now I can’t bear
to talk to people I don’t know.
CăCILE.
Then you know M. Garadoux well ?
CARBONEL.
Not at all; my lawyer recommends him high-
24 COMEDIES FOR AMATEUR, ACTING.
ly, though, to be sure, he’s only lately been my
lawyer. M. Garadoux presented himself boldly—
we talked for two hours—that is, I with difficulty
managed to get in four words. He put questions,
and answered himself—and, you see, I felt quite
at my ease with him.
CăCILE.
What were the four words you did get in P
CARBONEL.
I promised him your hand—at least, he says
so. Thereupon, he installed himself here—that
was a fortnight ago; and to-day we have to go to
the mayor’s office to publish the bans.
CăCILE.
To-day ?
CARBONEL.
He fixed to-day—he settles everything.
CăCILE.
But, papa–
CARBONEL.
Well ?
CáCILE.
Do you like this M. Garadoux P
CARBONEL.
He seems a very nice young man—and he can
talk by the hour together.
A TRUMPED SUIT. " 25
CáCILE.
He’s a widower; and I don’t want a second-
hand husband.
CARBONEL.
But—
CáCILE.
Never mind your but. Listen to my but, which
is, Suppose another suitor should appear 2
CARBONEL.
What Another l l More talking; more in-
quiries—begin all over again P No | No l l No | | |
[Sits L. of table.
CăCILE.
The one I mean is not a stranger—you know
him well—M. Victor Delille, a lawyer—
CARBONEL.
A lawyer | I never could bear to talk to a
lawyer.
CăCILE.
He is godmamma's nephew.
CARBONEL, testily.
I don’t know him. I have never seen him.
CăCILE.
Oh, papal I thought godmamma had writ-
ten to you—
26 COMEDIES FOR AMATEUR ACTING.
CARBONEL.
That was three months ago—before Garadoux
came. It was only a faint suggestion; and since
this Garadoux presented himself, I don’t believe
the other has ever thought of you.
CíCILE.
Oh, yes, papa. I am sure he has.
CARBONEL.
Oh, indeed! So you are sure, are you ? Come
here. Tell me frankly what has he said to you.
CăCILE, sitting on his knee.
Nothing, papal—that is, nothing about love.
But on the day of aunt's birthday dinner—when
you wouldn’t go, you know—
CARBONEL.
I don’t like parties—that is, when there are
people there.
CăCILE.
I was sitting next M. Delille—and he kept
blushing, and doing awkward things.
CARBONEL, aside.
I can feel for him. [Aloud] What did he do?
CáCILE.
He broke a wine-glass.
A TRUMPED SUIT. 27
CARBONEL. *
That's a stupidity—not a symptom.
CáCILE.
Afterward, when I asked him for water, he
passed me the salt-cellar.
CARBONEL.
Perhaps he is deaf.
CáCILE.
Oh, no, papa, he is not deaf; he was nervous.
Well ? CARBONEL.
ell
CâCILE.
Well, when a young man—a lawyer—accus-
tomed to speak in public—gets nervous because
he is near a young lady, why [lowering her eyes]
—there must be some cause.
CARBONEL.
And this cause must have been love for you ?
CÉCILE, rising.
Oh, papa, suppose it was
CARBONEL, rising.
If it had been, he would have come here. He
has not come, so it was not love ; perhaps it was
28 COMEDIES FOR AMATEUR ACTING.
dyspepsial I am very glad he didn’t appear, for,
as matters stand with M. Garadoux—
ANNETTE, entering at back.
The postman just left this letter, monsieur.
[Ea.it.
CÉCILE, quickly.
Godmamma's writing !
CARBONEL.
Don’t get excited. Another invitation, I sup-
pose. Why can’t people leave me alone P [Reads]
“Dear M. Carbonel: Allow me to present to
you M. Victor Delille, my nephew, about whom
I spoke to you some months ago. He loves our
dear Cécile—” *
CáCILE, joyfully.
I knew he did What did I tell you, papa P
CARBONEL.
Here’s a pretty dilemma I [Reads] “His ar-
dent desire is to obtain her hand. I had hoped
to accompany him to-day, but illness prevents;
and he will therefore go to you alone.”
CáCILE.
He is coming here !
CARBONEL.
I shall go out at once.
A TRUMPED SUIT. 29
CáCILE, reproachfully.
Oh, papal
CARBONEL.
What can I do P I have given my word to M.
Garadoux. You plunge me into unheard-of dif-
ficulties,
CáCILE.
I’ll extricate you, papal
CARBONEL.
How P What am I to do, badgered and bul-
lied by two suitors ?
CăCILE.
You sha’n’t have two ; you must give M. Gar-
adoux his dismissal.
CARBONEL.
Il [Seeing Garadoua, entering from his room.]
Hush l here he is
GARADOUX.
Good morning, dear papal
CARBONEL, bowing.
Monsieur Garadoux—
GARADOUX, bowing to Cécile.
My charming fiancée, you are as fresh this
morning as a bunch of cherries.
30 COMEDIES FOR AMATEUR ACTING.
CáCILE.
A pretty compliment to my freshness—on other
mornings. [She goes to table.
CARBONEL, aside.
She’s in too great a hurry. [Aloud] My dear
M. Garadoux, have you slept well ?
GARADOUX.
Excellently. [To Cécile] I am up a little late,
perhaps.
CăCILE.
I did not reproach you.
CARBONEL.
The fact is, you don’t like the country in the
morning. [Quickly] I don’t mean to find fault.
GARADOUX.
I? Where is there such a magnificent picture
as Nature's awakening The flowers expand their
petals; the blades of grass raise their heads to Sa-
lute the rising sun. [He looks at his mails.] The
butterfly dries his wings, still moist with the kiss-
es of night. [Draws a small instrument from his
pocket and begins to file a nail.]
CÉCILE, aside.
He’s making this a dressing-room.
A TRUMPED SUIT. 31
GARADoux, continuing to use file.
The busy bee commences his visits to the rose,
while the sweet-voiced linnet—
CáCILE, aside.
Too much natural history ! [Brusquely |
What news was there in the paper ?
GARADOUX.
What paper ?
CfCILE.
Last night's—you took it—papa wasn’t able to
get a look at it.
CARBONEL, aside.
What nerve she has l
GARADOUX.
A thousand pardons, M. Carbonel. I took it
inadvertently.
CARBONEL.
It is not the slightest consequence.
GARADOUX, taking paper from his pocket, offers
ſit to Carbonel.
I haven’t even unfolded it.
CARBONEL.
Oh, if you haven’t read it, pray keep it, M.
Garadoux.
32 COMEDIES FOR AMATEUR ACTING.
GARADOUX, offering ii.
No, I beg you will—
CARBONEL, refusing it.
I entreat you to keep it.
GARADOUX.
Since you insist [Puts it back in pocket,
then goes to glass over mantel and adjusts his
cravat.]
CARBONEL, aside.
I should have liked, though, to see how stocks
were going.
ANNETTE, entering, hands card.
This gentleman wants to see you.
CÉCILE, coming quickly to Carbonel.
A gentleman I [Looking at card.] 'Tis he l
CARBONEL, low.
The devil | And the other one here ! What
is to be done P
CâCILE, low.
You can’t send him away. [Loud to Annette]
Ask him to walk up ! [Ea;it Annette.
GARADOUX.
A visitor I Don’t forget, ther-in-law, that
we have to be at the mayor's at noon.
A TRUMPED SUIT. 33
CARBONEL.
Certainly Of course I [Low to Cécile] Get
him out of here.
CăCILE.
Will you accompany me, M. Garadoux P
GARADOUX.
Delighted—where 2
CáCILE.
To water the flowers.
GARADOUX, coldly.
The sun is terribly hot.
CáCILE.
The more reason not to keep the flowers wait-
ing. Come !
GARADOUX.
Delighted 1
CfCILE, aside.
I’ll make him break another naill
[Ea.eunt Cécile and Garadoua, at back.
CARBONEL, alone.
Was there ever such a situation ? One suitor
accepted—staying here—and the other—a lawyer,
too—how he will talk—he's sure to make me say
what I don’t mean. I know what I am—he'll
3 -
34 COMEDIES FOR AMATEUR, ACTING.
force me to say “Yes”—and then the other. Oh,
if two affirmatives would only make a negative
ANNETTE, announcing at back.
M. Delille. [Eviț R.
CARBONEL, frightened.
What shall I say to him f [Looks at his
clothes.] Ah ! Can’t receive him in a dressing-
gown. I’ll go and put on a coat.
[Disappears L. I. E., as Delille enters at back.
DELILLE, coming forward very timidly, bows low.
Monsieur — madame — I have the honor—
[Looks round.] What, no one ! How glad I am I
I do hate to meet any one. I positively shudder
at the idea of Seeing this father, who knows I
want to take away his daughter. [Warmly] How
I love her Ever since that dinner when I broke
a glass, I have been coming to this place every
day to ask for her hand. I come by the mid-day
train, but I can’t Summon up courage to ring the
bell, and I go back by the next. Once I felt bold
enough to ring, but then I ran away and hid
round the corner. If this had been going to con-
tinue, I should have bought a commutation ticket.
To-day I am brave; I have crossed the threshold
—without my aunt, who was to have brought me,
and now all alone I am going— [Frºghtened] Can
A TRUMPED SUIT. 35
I do it 2 Is it possible to say to a man one doesn’t
know, “Give me your daughter to take to my
house, and—” [Shuddering.] No 1 one can’t do
such things—at least, I can’t. [Suddenly] If I
ran away ! No one has seen me ! I will—I can
return to-morrow—by the same train.
[About to ea;it back, meets Cécile entering.
DELILLE, stopping.
Too late |
CÉCILE, pretending surprise.
I’m not mistaken l M. Victor Delille.
DELILLE, nervous.
Yes, monsieur—that is, mademoiselle—
CáCILE.
To what chance do we owe the honor of this
Call P
DELILLE.
A mere chance—I was going by—I was look-
ing for a notary—I saw a bell—and I rang it—it
was a mistake. [Bowing.] Mademoiselle, I have
the honor to Say good-by.
CáCILE.
Pray wait; my father will be delighted to see
you.
DELILLE.
Don’t disturb him—some other time—
36 COMEDIES FOR AMATEUR ACTING.
CáCILE.
No, no l He would scold me. Won’t you sit
down P
DELILLE, falling into chair.
Thank you—I’m not tired. [Pulls gloves on
and off quickly.]
CÉCILE, aside.
Poor fellow ! Bow nervous he is 1
DELILLE, aside.
How pretty she is 1
CâCILE.
Will you excuse me if I fill my sugar-bowl P
[Goes to sideboard, where there is boa of sugar
and bowl.]
DELILLE, rising.
If I am in your way, allow me to—
CáCILE.
Not at all—if I might venture, I would ask
you—
DELILLE.
What, mademoiselle
CáCILE.
To hold the bowl for me.
A TRUMPED SUIT. 37
DELILLE,
Enchanted [He takes bowl.] [Aside] If
the father found us like this 1 I must say some-
thing to her. I mustn't seem like an idiot.
[Aloud] Mademoiselle Cecile !
CÉCILE, encouragingly.
Monsieur Victor P
DELILLE, hesitatingly.
Your sugar is very white l
CáCILE.
Like all sugars—
DELILLE, tenderly.
Oh, no l Not like other sugars.
CÉCILE, aside.
Why does he want to talk about sugar P
DELILLE, aside.
I have been too bold ! [Aloud] Is it cane
or beet-root P
-- CÉCILE.
I don’t know the difference.
DELILLE.
There's a great deal | One is—much more so
than the other—
38 COMEDIES FOR AMATEUR ACTING.
CÉCILE, looking at him with wonder.
Ah! thank you. [Takes bowl from him and
goes to sideboard.]
DELILLE, aside.
Why the deuce did I go out of my depth in
Sugars P
CÉCILE, seeing Carbonel entering L.
Here is papal
DELILLE.
Oh, Heavens !
CăCILE.
Papa, this is M. Victor Delille. [The two men
are at opposite corners of the stage, and do not
dare to look at one another.]
CARBONEL, aside.
Here goes | [Bowing.] Monsieur—I am
very glad—certainly—
DELILLE.
It is I–monsieur—who—am—certainly—
CARBONEL, stealing a glancé at him, aside.
He looks very determined !
DELILLE, aside.
I wish I had got away !
A TRUMPED SUIT. 39
CăCILE.
You gentlemen have doubtless something to
say to one another. I will leave you.
CARBONEL AND DELILLE.
No, no l
CăCILE.
I must attend to my household duties. [To
Delille] Sit down [To Carbonel] Sit down
[They both sit opposite each other.] [Low to De-
lille] Be bravel [Low to Carbonel] Be bravel
[Ea;it L. I. E.
CARBONEL, aside.
Here we are alone, and he seems quite at his
€3. Sè.
DELILLE, aside.
I never was so nervous. [Aloud] Mon-
sieur—
CARBONEL.
Monsieur— [Aside] I know he's going to ask
for her. &
DELILLE.
You have no doubt received a letter from my
aunt.
CARBONEL.
A charming lady How is she P
DELILLE.
Very well, indeed—that is—except her rheu-
matism, which has kept her in bed for a week.
40 COMEDIES FOR AMATEUR ACTING.
CARBONEL.
That's all right—I mean I hope it will be,
SOOThe * *
DELILLE.
I trust so, with warmer weather—
CARBONEL, quickly.
My barometer is going up.
DELILLE.
And mine, too—how strange that our barom-
eters should agree so well !
CARBONEL.
It will burn up my roses, though.
DELILLE.
You are fond of roses 2
CARBONEL.
Passionately. I cultivate them quite exten-
sively.
DELILLE.
So do I.
CARBONEL.
That’s all right. [Aside] So far we get on
well.
DELILLE, aside.
He seems jovial l Suppose I— [Aloud, ris-
A TRUMPED SUIT. 41
$ng, very nervous] In her letter—my aunt—in-
formed you that I was coming—
CARBONEL, aside, rising.
He’s going to do it ! [Aloud] Well—you see
—yes—but she did not clearly indicate the rea-
Son that—
DELILLE.
What she did not write that I–
CARBONEL.
No, not a word about that.
DELILLE, aside.
The devill Why, then—oh, this makes it ten
times worse ! [Aloud, with great effort] Mon-
sieur—I tremble while I ask—
CARBONEL, trying to turn the conversation.
What a sun Hot as fire It will kill the
rOSèS.
DELILLE.
I put shades over mine. I tremble while I
ask the favor—
CARBONEL, as before.
Will you have some wine P
DELILLE.
No, thank you ! I was about to ask the favor
of-
42 COMEDIES FOR AMATEUR ACTING.
* CARBONEL, as before.
So you, too, cultivate roses P
DELILLE.
Yes! Last year I exhibited the “Standard of
Marengo.”
CARBONEL.
And I the “Triumph of Avranches,” three
inches in diameter. Have you it P
DELILLE.
No. Monsieur, I tremble while I—
CARBONEL, offering snuff-bow.
Will you take a pinch P
DELILLE.
No, thank you. I tremble while I ask you
for-
CARBONEL, firmly.
What, P
DELILLE, disconcerted.
For one—who—a graft of the “Triumph.”
CARBONEL, quickly.
What I Certainly, my dear young friend, with
the greatest pleasure— [Going.
DELILLE,
. But, monsieur—
A TRUMPED SUIT. 43
CARBONEL.
I’ll put it in moss for you myself. [Going.
DELILLE, aside.
He won’t stay. [Aloud] Monsieur Carbo-
nel—
CARBONEL, at door.
With the greatest of pleasure—delighted—
[Aside] I got out of that well ! [Ea'it at back.
DELILLE.
He’s gone—and I haven’t said a word. Idiot 1
beast ! fool! ass!
CÉCILE, entering gayly, at back.
Well, Monsieur Victor |
DELILLE, aside, mournfully.
Now it’s her turn
CăCILE.
Have you had a talk with papa P
DELILLE.
Yes, mademoiselle—
CăCILE.
And are you satisfied with your interview P
44 COMEDIES FOR AMATEUR ACTING.
DELILLE.
Enchanted The best proof is that he has
gone to fetch what I asked for—
CáCILE, naïvely.
Then he's looking for me P
DELILLE.
No, not you ; some grafts of roses.
| CÉCILE, astonished.
GraftS
DELILLE.
Yes, mademoiselle—for a quarter of an hour
we talked about nothing but roses.
CăCILE.
But why was that ?
DELILLE.
Because—because I am the victim of a dread-
ful infirmity—I am timid.
CăCILE.
You, too P
DELILLE.
Timid to the verge of idiocy! Can you be-
lieve it 2 I could sooner kill myself than utter
aloud what I have kept saying to myself these
three months past—and that is, that I love you !
that I adore you ! that you are an angel—
A TRUMPED SUIT. 45
CáCILE.
It seems to me you say that very well.
DELILLE, astonished at his audacity.
Have Isaid anything 2 Oh, forgive me ! Don’t
think of it any more. I didn’t mean to—it slipped
out—I’ll never do it again—I Swear—
CÉcILE, quickly.
Don’t swear ! I do not require an oath ! You,
timid, a lawyer l How do you contrive to plead P
DELILLE.
I don’t. I tried once, and shall never try
again.
CăCILE.
Tell me about it.
DELILLE.
My aunt got me a client. Heaven knows, I
never sought him. He was a very passionate man,
and had once struck his wife with a stick.
CÉCILE, reproachfully.
And you defended the wretch P
DELILLE.
Wait till you hear how I defended him The
great day came. All my friends were in court.
I had prepared a brilliant speech. I knew it by
46 COMEDIES FOR AMATEUR ACTING,
heart. All at once there was an awful silence.
The President bowed to me, and said courteously,
“Will the counsel proceed P” I rose—I tried to
speak—I couldn’t utter a sound. Every eye was
on me—the President invited me with a gesture
to go on—my client called, “Speak 1 speak l’”
At last I made an almost superhuman effort—
Something rattled in my throat—then it seemed
to burst, and I stammered out, “ Messieurs, I so-
licit for the accused—the utmost severity of the
law.” Then I fell back into my seat.
CăCILE.
And your client 2 -
DELILLE.
Got what I solicited—six months in prison.
CăCILE.
He deserved them.
DELILLE.
Yes, it was too little for what he made me suf-
fer. I didn’t take my fee—it’s true he forgot to
offer it. And now that you know my infirmity,
tell me, how is it possible for me to ask your father
for your hand P
CíCILE.
I can’t ask him to give it you.
A TRUMPED SUIT. 47
DELILLE, naïvely.
No, I suppose that wouldn’t do. Well, we
must wait till aunt gets better.
CÉCILE, quickly.
Wait ! Don’t you know, papa has another
Offer P
DELILLE, overwhelmed.
Another l
CECILE.
Yes, and he's here, and he has papa's promise.
DELILLE.
Good gracious ! So I have to face a struggle,
a rival.
CáCILE.
But I don’t love him ; and if I am forced to
marry him, I shall die.
DELILLE.
Die ' You ! [Boldly] Where is your father ?
Send him to me.
CáCILE.
You will ask him P
DELILLE, heroically.
I Will
- CÉCILE.
I’ll fetch him. [Going.] Courage 1 Courage 1
[Evit at back.
48 COMEDIES FOR AMATEUR, ACTING.
DELILLE, alone.
Yes, I will ask him ; that is, not directly—I’ll
write. I write a very bold hand. [Sitting.] This
is the thing—a letter does not blush and tremble.
[Writes rapidly as he speaks.] I did not know I
was so eloquent. [Folds and addresses note] “A
Monsieur Carbonel.” [Unconsciously puts a stamp
on.] There ! Now it’s all right.
CARBONEL, Outside.
Reep them fresh. He'll take them soon.
- DELILLE, frightened.
He, already I can’t give him this. Ah, I’ll
put it in front of the clock. [Puts letter before
clock and returns C.]
CARBONEL, entering at back and coming R.
My dear friend, your grafts are ready.
DELILLE.
Thank you ! [Aside] He has not seen Cécile.
[Aloud] On the clock. [Points.]
Af CARBONEI.
What did you say ?
DELILLE.
A letter. I’ll return for the answer.
[Ea;it quickly at back.
A TRUMPED SUIT. 49
CARBONEL.
On the clock—a letter l [He takes it.]
CáCILE, entering L. I. E.
Oh, papa, I’ve been looking for you. [Aston-
dished.] But where is M. Delille P
CARBONEL.
Just gone, but it seems he has written to me—
on the clock.
What, P
CăCILE.
CARBONEL.
Yes, it is for me—see, he has put a stamp on.
[Reads] “Monsieur, I love your daughter; no,
I do not love her—”
CáCILE.
Eh P
CARBONEL, continuing.
“I adore her—” [To Cécile] Go away, you
must not hear this
CăCILE.
But I know it, papa.
CARBONEL.
Oh, I suppose that makes it all right. [Read-
ing] “I adore her.” [Speaking] How did you
know it 2
He told me.
CÉCILE.
4
50 COMEDIES FOR AMATEUR ACTING.
CARBONEL.
Very improper on his part.
CfCILE.
Go on what else does he say ?
CARBONEL, reading.
“You can offer me but two things—her hand
or the grave.” [Speaking] Since he gives me a
choice, I’ll let him have the grave.
CâCILE.
Oh, dear papa, when you say you love me so
much [Kisses him.]
CARBONEL, aside.
Lucky Delille ! [Aloud] But what can I say
to Garadoux P
CăCILE.
Yes, I See—you’re too timid—
CARBONEL.
Timid Il Nonsense ! One man’s as good
as another.
CăCILE.
Certainly—if you except Garadoux
CARBONEL.
I’m not afraid of him, and I know exactly
what to say to him. By the way, what ought I
to say ? e
' A TRUMPED SUIT. 51
CăCILE.
Don’t say anything; follow M. Delille's ex-
ample—Write. .
CARBONEL.
I will. [Sits.] Here is a very firm pen.
[Writing] “Dear monsieur —” [To Cécile]
What next 2
A CăCILE, dictating.
“Your Suit flatters—”
CARBONEL, writing.
“And honors me—” [Speaking] Let us soft-
en the blow.
* CáCILE, dictating.
“But I regret it is impossible to accord you
my daughter's hand.”
CARBONEL, writing.
“Daughter's hand.” [Speaking] That isn’t
enough. I must give a reason.
CfCILE.
I’ll give one; go on. [Dictating] “I beg you
to believe that, in writing this, I only yield with
the greatest reluctance to considerations entirely
private and personal, which in no way lessen the
esteem I shall always entertain for you.” [Speak-
ing] Now sign
CARBONEL.
You call that a reason P
52 COMEDIES FOR AMATEUR ACTING.
CíCILE.
A diplomatic one; it may mean everything or
nothing.
GARADOUX, Outside.
Take that to my room.
CARBONEL.
His Voice
CáCILE.
I leave you.
CARBONEL.
No, don’t. What am I to do with this?
[Indicating letter.]
CÉCILE.
Ring for Annette, and bid her give it to M.
Garadoux. Now, au revoir, you dear, good papa.
[Kisses him, and ea;it L.
CARBONEL.
She’s a spoilt child ! Now for Annette
[Rings.]
GARADOUX, entering at back.
Well, papa, are you not ready yet P We
ought to be at the mayor’s now.
CARBONEL.
Yes. [Aside] If that stupid Annette would
but come. [Aloud] While waiting, I have writ-
ten a very important letter. *
A TRUMPED SUIT. 53
GARADOUX, not listening.
I’ll tell you a secret, but not a word to your
daughter. They have come !
CARBONEL.
Who have come 2
GARADOUX.
My presents for her.
CARBONEL, aside.
He has bought the presents.
GARADOUX, polishing his nails.
You shall see them—they’re superb—particu-
larly a pair of bracelets. [Aside] I must have
broken that nail, watering. [Aloud] They’re
blue enamel and gold.
CARBONEL.
Blue and gold ! [With great effort] The let-
ter I have just written—
GARADOUX.
I have not forgotten you, papa. [Taking boa:
from pocket.] A souvenir—a snuff-box. Style
Louis XV., guaranteed. '
CARBONEL, touched.
Oh, monsieur, my—my dear son-in-law, you
are too good.
54 COMEDIES FOR AMATEUR ACTING.
GARADOUX.
Dear papa, you know how fond I am of you.
CARBONEL.
And I of you. [Aside] It’s impossible to give
such a letter to a man who presents one with such
a snuff-box.
GARADOUX.
Twelve o’clock. The mayor will be waiting !
CARBONEL.
In a moment. I must change my cravat.
GARADOUX. -
And Imy coat. [Aside] Devil take that naill
[Evit L. 2 E.
CARBONEL, alone.
I couldn’t do it. I must tear this up. And
the other—he's coming for my answer. [Looks
at letter.] No address l and I didn’t put any
name in the letter. [Going to table.] I’ll direct
it to Delille—Cécile can’t marry both—and Ga-
radoux has bought his presents. [Reads] “To
Monsieur Victor Delille.” Now for a stamp.
[Rises.] And now to put it on the clock.
[Places letter on the clock.]
DELILLE, entering at back.
It is only Il
A TRUMPED SUIT. tº
CARBONEL.
On the clock l [Evit L. I. E.
DELILLE, alone.
On the clock Hasn’t he read it 2 [Takes
letter.] Yes! this is the answer. I scarcely dare
open it. [Reads] “Dear monsieur: Your suit
flatters and honors me—” [Speaks] How kind
he is l [Reads] “But I regret it is impossible
to accord you my daughter's hand.” [Falling
on chair.] Refused I knew it !
CÉCILE, entering at back.
Monsieur Victor, have you seen—
DELILLE.
Your father ? I have. There is his answer.
[Gives letter.]
CáCILE.
What, my letter | This wasn’t meant for you !
DELILLE, pointing at address.
It’s directed to me.
CáCILE.
This is outrageous. I shall have to attend to
this affair myself. I’ll let you all see I am not
timid. Send for a carriage. Quickl
DELILLE.
A carriage 1 For whom P
56 COMEDIES FOR AMATEUR ACTING.
CăCILE.
You'll know by and by. Go ||
DELILLE.
I fly [Aside] What energy *
[Eacit quickly at back.
CâCILE.
Papa shall not break his word to me like this.
[Takes her shawl and bonnet from a chair at
back.]
CARBONEL, entering L. I. E.
I’ve put on my cravat. [Sees Cécile.] Where
are you going P
- CáCILE, tying her bonnet.
Away ! I leave you for ever ! I am about to
immure myself in a convent.
CARBONEL.
Eh
CáCILE.
A damp and cold one, where I shall not live
long. But you will not care, for you did not love
me enough to Save me from a man I hate.
CARBONEL.
But it’s impossible ! He's bought his presents.
Lovely ones, including a Louis XV. Snuff-box for
Iſle. *
A TRUMPED SUIT. 57
CâCILE.
So you have sacrificed me to a snuff-box.
Farewell, cruel father l
CARBONEL.
It is no sacrifice 1 He is a charming young
man; and in the end you will learn to—besides,
he’s dressing to go to the mayor’s.
CăCILE.
Tell him you can’t accompany him. Say
you’re ill. [She takes off bonnet and shawl.
CARBONEL.
Ah! that is a good idea ; but he was here
five minutes ago.
CăCILE.
People can die in less time than that. Say it's
a rush of blood l I Calling] Annette, hurry,
bring papa's dressing-gown
CARBONEL.
No, no l I don’t want it.
ANNETTE, entering with dressing-gown.
What is the matter P
CáCILE.
Nothing serious. Bring some eau sucrée.
[Helping Carbonel with gown.] Put this on 1
58 COMEDIES FOR AMATEUR, ACTING.
CARBONEL.
I don’t like playing such a part.
CECILE.
Never mind I now the other sleeve
CARBONEL.
And, look here, I won’t say a word. You’ll
have to manage it all.
CECILE.
I know that. [Making him sit in arm-chair.]
Annette—a foot-stool and a cushion.
ANNETTE, bringing them.
Here, mademoiselle.
CáCILE.
I hear him. [Takes glass and stands by her
father.]
GARADOUX, entering with hat.
Now we’re all ready. [Seeing Carbonel.] Ah!
what has happened P
CăCILE.
Papa has had a sudden—
GARADOUX.
What P
CáCILE.
Rush of blood. He is suffering greatly. It
A TRUMPED SUIT. 59
will be impossible for him to go out to-day. Will
it not, papa P
CARBONEL, aside.
I protest by my silence.
GARADOUX.
Poor M. Carbonel ! I think it would be well
to apply some leeches.
ANNETTE.
Yes, I’ll go for some.
CARBONEL.
No, no l
CÉCILE, quickly.
This is better for him. [Gives him glass.]
Drink, papa. [He drinks.]
GARADOUX.
It doesn’t do to take liberties with one’s health.
[Trimming his nails.] Health is like a fortune—
not really appreciated till it's lost.
CARBONEL, aside.
I wonder how long I’m to be smothered up
here.
CECILE, to Garadoua.
These attacks of papa's generally last several
days; and if, by chance, your affairs call you to
Paris—
60 COMEDIES FOR AMATEUR ACTING.
GARADOUX.
I couldn’t think of leaving M. Carbonel while
he is ill.
CARBONEL, aside.
An excellent young man l
GARADOUX.
Besides, this need not delay our marriage. I
can go alone to the mayor.
CăCILE.
Eh P
GARADOUX.
M. Carbonel’s presence is not absolutely nec-
essary. He can give his consent in Writing.
CăCILE.
Papa is too fatigued now.
GARADOUX.
Oh, it's only a signature. [Sitting at table.] I’ll
write the body.
CáCILE, low.
Don’t sign
GARADOUX, bringing paper and pen.
Sign here !
CARBONEL.
But—
A TRUMPED SUIT. 61
CăCILE.
What shall I do P [Takes inkstand and hides
it behind her back.]
CARBONEL.
Where is the inkstand P
GARADOUX, after looking on table.
Mademoiselle is kind enough to hold it for
you.
CARBONEL.
Thank you, my dear child. [He dips pen.]
CáCILE, aside.
All hope is gone l
DELILLE, entering running, at back.
The carriage is at the door.
GARADOUX.
What carriage 2
DELILLE, astonished.
What | Monsieur Garadoux I
GARADOUX, aside.
Devilish unfortunate l
DELILLE.
You have been well since—
62 COMEDIES FOR AMATEUR ACTING.
GARADOUX, quickly.
Perfectly
CARBONEL.
So you know one another ?
DELILLE.
Yes, I had the honor to defend monsieur—he
was my first client.
CăCILE.
Ah! [To Carbonel, low] Imprisoned for six
months l
CARBONEL, rising in consternation.
What’s this P [To Garadoua: You have been
in prison P
GARADOUX.
It was nothing—a quarrel—in a moment of
excitement—
* CăCILE.
Monsieur struck his first wife with a stick.
ANNETTE, coming L. C.
Oh, the villain l [Puts back chair and foot-
stool.]
CARBONEL.
My poor Cécile ! [To Garadouaj Go, sir!
Leave this house, you wife-beater | Take away
your presents. Here is your Snuff-box. [Offers
his old horn one.]
A TRUMPED SUIT. 63
GARADOUX. .*
Excuse me, that is not the right one.
CARBONEL, with dignity giving the other.
There itis –you may keep the Snuff I put in it.
GARADOUX.
I am glad, monsieur, that this little incident
has so quickly restored you. [Going, to Delille]
Idiot. I [Ea;it L. 2 E.
CARBONEL.
What was that he said P
CăCILE, low to Delille.
Now then, ask him at once. Put on your
gloves.
DELILLE.
But isn’t it—
CăCILE.
Don’t be afraid. He’s more timid than you.
DELILLE, bravely.
Oh, he's timid, is he P [Begins to put on gloves.]
CăCILE, low to Carbonel. g
He’s going to ask for my hand. Put on your
gloves.
But isn’t it—
CARBONEL.
CăCILE.
Don’t be afraid. He’s more timid than you.
64 COMEDIES FOR AMATEUR ACTING.
CARBONEL, bravely.
Oh, he's timid, is he [Puts on gloves.]
DELILLE, boldly.
Monsieur !
CARBONEL, same manner.
Monsieur !
DELILLE, resolutely.
For the second time, I ask for your daughter's
hand.
CARBONEL.
Monsieur, you ask in a tone—
DELILLE, Sternly.
It is the tone I choose to use, monsieur.
CARBONEL, same manner.
Then I am happy to grant your request, mon-
sieur.
DELILLE.
But you grant it in a tone—
CARBONEL, Sternly.
It is the tone I choose to use, monsieur.
DELILLE.
Monsieur !!!
CARBONEL.
Monsieur !!!
A TRUMPED SUIT. * 65
CâCILE, coming between them.
[Aside] They’ll quarrel in a minute. [Aloud]
Monsieur Victor, papa hopes you will stay to din-
ner. That was what you wished to say, wasn’t it,
papa P
CARBONEL.
I suppose so l But mind, he mustn't break
any glasses. [Aside] I'll make him try the new
wine.
CăCILE.
Oh, I’ll answer for him. He has nothing more
to be nervous about now. Have you, Victor P
DELILLE.
I am not quite sure about that, Cécile.
CfCILE.
Do you know, I have never felt nervous till
now P [To the audience] You have seen these
two timid people—well, I am just as timid as they
were, and we shall all remain in the same unhappy
state, until we receive the assurance of your ap-
proval.
5 CURTAIN.
A BAD CASE,
AN ORIGINAL COMEDY IN ONE ACT.
By JULIAN MAGNUS AND H. C. BUNNER.
O HAIR A C T E R. S.
ARTHUR CHISHOLM, M. D., aged 30.
MISS LETITIA DALRYMPLE, aged 50.
MISS SYLVIA DALRYMPLE, her niece, aged 19.
LUCY, a servant.
SOENE : Smallington Centre, N. Y.
TIME-The Present.
A. B.A. D. C. A. S.E.
SCENE : Drawing-room in Miss Dalrymple's
House. Windows to ground at back, show-
ing distant landscape. Doors R. and L.
Miss Dalrymple and Lucy discovered at rise of
curtain.
MISS DALRYMPLE, bonnet and shawl on.
Lucy, I am obliged to go out for an hour—
LUCY.
What, ma'am, with your bad elbow, and you
expecting your nephew every minute P After
sending for the new doctor, too P
MISS DALRYMPLE. º
New doctor indeed l I wish old Jenkins hadn’
died—though to be sure for the last twenty years
he never gave anything but syrup of squills, for
fear he should make a mistake, and he was so
shaky that when he counted my pulse he always
made it one hundred and fifty. It’s two hours
'70 COMEDIES FOR AMATEUR ACTING.
since I sent for this new doctor, and he hasn’t
come yet. My elbow might have died in half the
time. I mean I might have died. What is this
new doctor like P
LUCY.
I don’t know, ma'am ; he only came day before
yesterday; but I have heard he is young and good-
looking, and they say there's been quite an epi-
dermic among the single ladies this morning.
But must you go out, ma'am P
MISS DALRYMPLE.
Yes, Lucy. The creatures—I can’t call them
anything else—no sooner heard that my elbow was
troubling me than they called a meeting to elect
that Mrs. Smith Presidentess. I am not going to
let them beat me like that. No ; if I wasn’t
strong enough to walk there, I’d crawl, even if
I had to be carried on a shutter. And when the
conspirators meet they will find me among them—
the Nemesis of Smallington Centre
LUCY.
But if your nephew, Mr. Blackhurst, should
arrive while you’re a Nemesising it, ma’am P
MISS DALRYMPLE.
I don’t think he will ; there’s no fast train
now from New York till the afternoon; and if Mr.
Arthur's anything like what he was eight years ago
A BAD CASE. 71
when he went away, a slow train won’t suit him.
But call Miss Sylvia, and I’ll tell her what to do
in case he should come ; and be sure not to say
anything to her about my having had the rheuma-
tism this morning. I don’t want to frighten her.
[Lucy goes toward door as Sylvia enters R.] I
was just going to call you, miss.
[Eacit Lucy R.
SYLVIA.
Did you want me, aunt P
MISS DALRYMPLE.
Yes, my dear. I have to go out; there are
traitors in our camp. I must make a martyr of
myself, or the Dorcas Society will be wrecked—yes,
wrecked, by that awful, designing Mrs. Smith ! A
widow indeed l I should like to know where her
husband is.
SYLVIA.
Probably dead
MISS DALRYMPLE.
I don’t believe it, though to be sure she’s
enough to have killed any one. What do you
think—she actually proposed to admit gentlemen
to the Society’s Tuesday evenings
SYLVIA.
Horrible !
MISS DALRYMPLE.
Wasn’t it P. Now, dear, if by any chance my
72 COMEDIES FOR AMATEUR ACTING.
nephew should come while I am away, try to make
him comfortable. Treat him as I myself would.
I hear he has quite reformed. And you know he's
my only relation except you. And let me tell
you of a little idea I have in my head. If only
he should like you, and you should like him—
why, can you guess what might happen then P
SYLVIA.
Like would cure like, I suppose—truth of the
homoeopathic principle once more asserted.
MISS DALRYMPLE.
I don’t believe in infinitesimal doses.
SYLVIA.
No more do I. [Aside] Especially of love.
MISS DALRYMPLE.
You’ve never seen him, of course, my dear,
but I don’t know, really, whether that isn’t rather
an advantage; you’ll be all the more predisposed
to like him.
SYLVIA.
I’ll do my best, aunty dear.
MISS DALRYMPLE.
You'll have very little difficulty, my love.
You’ll be surprised in him—you’ll find him quite
a striking young person. A little flighty in his
conversation, perhaps, but—
A BAD CASE. 73
SYLVIA.
Oh, I like vivacity, aunty.
MISS DALRYMPLE.
Then I’m sure you’ll get along very well with
my nephew. Good-by, my dear. The machina-
tions of that Mrs. Smith demand my attention.
Now, don’t fail to receive your cousin kindly—
avoid any appearance of cold reserve, and don’t
be astonished if he’s a little odd and—foreign in
his conversation. Good-by.
[Ea;it Miss Dalrymple L.
SYLVIA, alone.
I’m sure I shall never know what to do with
him, if he should come. It is horribly awkward
—to be left to receive a strange cousin—all alone.
What shall I call him P I can’t say “cousin”; it
sounds too familiar. And then—if he’s a forward
young man. . . . And what am I to talk to him
about 2 I can’t awaken reminiscences of his youth,
that’s clear. And I daren’t talk about his foreign
travel. I don’t see, though, why I should bother
myself so much about him. Aunt Dalrymple’s
scapegrace nephew, indeed 1 A pretty person I
shouldn’t care to see him if there weren’t another
man in the place—and there are other men in the
place. There's the clergyman’s eldest son just get-
ting to be twenty-one and quite nice; and the new
doctor who came day before yesterday, and the
74 COMEDIES FOR AMATEUR ACTING.
girls all say he's perfectly sweet. I shan’t worry
much over Mr. Blackhurst. I do not propose to
make the slightest preparation for him. I’ll receive
him just as I am, and he may start the conversa-
tion. [Bell rings.] The bell ! There he is
And I’m sure I look horrid. [Runs to mirror
and arranges ribbons.] Oh, dear, that’ll never
do. I’ll just run up stairs for a moment.
*s [Eacit Sylvia, R.
Enter Lucy L., showing in Chisholm.
CHISHOLM.
Here I am at last ! I suppose you thought I’d
never get here !
& LUCY.
Miss Dalrymple has been expecting you a long
time, sir.
CHISHOLM.
I’m very sorry to have kept her waiting. Take
her my card. [Aside] I don’t see why a doctor
shouldn’t carry a card, as well as any one else—
especially when it’s his first visit. And I’m sure
I had a card somewhere about me. [ Feeling in
pockets] Ah ! here it is [Gives it.
LUCY, going R.
Yes, sir! [Reads] Mr. Arthur Blackhurst.
[Aside] So he's come at last. And he doesn’t
look so very scapegrace-y either. [Aloud] I’m
so glad you’ve come, sir! [Ea'it R.
A BAD CASE. 75
CHISHOLM, alone.
So glad—wonder whether she wants me, too. Of
all the townsfor sick single women, thisis the worst
—I mean the best. It’s business for me, if it is
. . . . sentiment for them. I’ve had only one male
patient to-day—but I’m bound to say he occupied
more time than even the worst old maid on my list.
Let me See, what was his name. He did give me a
card. [Feels for it] I suppose I must have left
it at the house. I’d have been here two hours
ago, to attend to this unfortunate elbow, if it .
hadn’t been for him. A very neat black eye he
had—a very artistic little mouse. Got it in a
fight with a bar-keeper, and wanted it toned down
before he could go to see his maiden aunt. I
painted it over in distemper—magnesia and honey
—and he's drying off now. Ah, now for the next
old tabby. [Sylvia enters R.] Tabby why, she's
a kitten, bless her
SYLVIA, rushing to him.
Oh, I’m so glad you’ve come ! [Taking both
his hands.
CHISHOLM.
Thank you — you’re very kind. [Aside]
Well, I’m glad I have come. [Aloud] You see
I’ve only just— *
SYLVIA.
Yes, we know you’ve only just arrived. We
had expected you a little earlier; but we won’t
76 CoMEDIES FOR AMATEUR ACTING.
reproach you now you are here. Sit down, do
[they sit, C. and L. C.J. You must make yourself
quite at home, you know.
CHISHOLM.
I’ll try to. [Aside] Nice cordial style about
the people here !
SYLVIA.
My aunt has been so anxious to see you.
CHISHOLM, aside.
Her aunt, too. Wonder what’s the matter
with the aunt. Confound the aunt
SYLVIA.
I hope you’re quite well. [Aside] He seems
to feel a little strange. I must be more cordial.
[Aloud] Quite well ?
CHISHOLM.
Quite well, thanks. [Suddenly] How's your
elbow P
SYLVIA.
My elbow ! [Aside] He is very flighty.
Perhaps that’s a foreign idiom.
CHISHOLM, embarrassed.
I mean—I mean—I mean—heavy rain yester-
day—bad weather for rheumatism.
A.BAD CASE. . . 77
SYLVIA.
And bad for the corn, too.
CHISHOLM.
The corn 1 Well, to tell you frankly, corns
are not exactly in my line.
SYLVIA, aside.
He has no inclination for an agricultural life.
I’m afraid he’s not thoroughly reformed. Per-
haps he has not sown all his wild oats. [Aloud]
Now tell me all about yourself. You don’t know
how much interest I take in you. What have
you been doing the last eight years ?
CHISHOLM, astonished and embarrassed.
Well—that is—you see—
SYLVIA, quietly.
Oh I I beg your pardon—I ought not to have
asked that, for I suppose you have been very—
very—[hesitates.
CHISHOLM.
Well, I have been rather—rather—[hesitates.
SYLVIA.
Yes, of course, but that is all over now, and
you’re going to settle down here and be quite
proper and steady, aren’t you ?
'78 COMEDIES FOR AMATEUR ACTING.
CHISHOLM.
Yes, certainly, Miss Dalrymple. [Aside] It's
nice to have a pretty girl show so much interest in
OH]6. SYLVIA.
Oh, you needn’t be so formal. I feel already
as though we were very old friends.
CHISHOLM.
Thank you ! [Aside] I wish she’d begin about
her elbow; she didn’t seem to like my referring
to it.
SYLVIA.
Now, I don’t know what to call you. I can’t
address you as Mister, it seems so distant and un-
friendly toward one of whom I am going to see so
much.
CHISHOLM.
I hope so.
SYLVIA.
Oh yes, indeed. Now we have you here, we're
not going to let you slip away in a hurry. We’ll
not allow you to fall back again into—rather—
rather—you know.
CHISHOLM.
I don’t want to. I think it’s very nice here.
[Change of tone] Your elbow's better, I suppose P
SYLVIA, aside.
What a queer phrase that is l I wonder what it
A BAD CASE. 79
means ? It won’t do to appear too innocent.
[Aloud] Oh yes, thank you.
CHISHOLM, aside.
She needn’t thank me. She’s getting well too
soon. She's very pretty. What an interesting inva-
lid she'd make 1 [Aloud] I think all you need is
toning up.
SYLVIA.
And I’ve heard that all you need is toning down.
CHISHOLM.
At least our two tones seem likely to be har-
monious.
SYLVIA.
Why should they not, Ar—Arthur P
CHISHOLM.
Arthur P [Rapidly moving his chair up to
hers] Miss Dalrymple !
SYLVIA.
You may call me Sylvia.
CHISHOLM.
You are only too good. [Seizing her hand,
speaking hurriedly] Ah l if you could but know
what an instantaneous impression your beauty,
your grace, your delicacy have made upon me, you
would not wonder, Winona—
80 COMEDIES FOR AMATEUR ACTING:
SYLVIA.
Sylvia, you mean
CHISHOLM, as before.
Sylvia, I mean—you would not wonder that
this young heart yearns toward you, in all its—its
—its adolescent efflorescence, Miranda—
SYLVIA.
But my name is not Miranda |
CHISHOLM.
Of course not. [Sinking on his knee] Ophe-
lia, I can no longer restrain the throbbings of a
heart that—
SYLVIA.
Oh hush, Arthur ! You must not speak to me
like that—at least, not until you have seen my
aunt—Our aunt.
CHISHOLM [rising, startled].
Our aunt 1 [Aside] Look here, this is get-
ting a little too rapid for me. [Resuming his pro-
fessional air] I trust your elbow is entirely well ?
SYLVIA, aside.
That elbow again l Oh, gracious me ! I do be-
lieve—upon my word—the poor fellow—he's just
a little—crazy, you know. The hot climates—or
Something—have turned his head. And [looking
A BAD CASE. , 81.
out window] there is aunt coming. [Aloud] Ar-
thur, aunty’s coming.
CHISHOLM.
The deuce she is l
SYLVLA.
Yes. Aren’t you glad to see her ?
CHISHOLM.
Well, no, not particularly.
SYLVIA.
Not glad to see aunty 2
CHISHOLM.
I wish “aunty” was in—Afghanistan.
SYLVIA.
O Arthur ! [Aside] He's really crazy. I must
humor him. [Aloud] Well, suppose we go into the
library.
CHISHOLM.
Are you coming 2
SYLVIA.
Yes. Then you’ll feel more like seeing aunty.
CHISHOLM.
Perhaps I shall. Come along, by all means.
6
82 COMEDIES FOR AMATEUR ACTING,
SYLVIA, leading him R.
You go. I’ll follow in a moment. [Chisholm
enters room. Sylvia immediately shuts and locks
door.] He's quite crazy, poor fellow. I am afraid
he’ll do aunty some mischief. However, he's safe
there for a few minutes, and I can send for the
gardener to help control him.
MISS DALRYMPLE, entering L.
Of all the disgraceful outrages ever perpe-
trated, this last outbreak of my wretched nephew’s
is the worst [Sinks into chair.
SYLVIA.
What has he done, aunt P
MISS DALRYMPLE.
Done ! What hasn’t he done P Broke into
the Dorcas rooms, just as I was about to over-
whelm that Smith woman, with a dreadful black
eye and very drunk, and, seizing me round the
waist, tried to make me dance, while she laughed
her horrible, Vulgar laugh and secured nearly all
the votes l
SYLVIA.
You must forgive him, aunt. He is not ac-
countable for his actions.
MISS DALRYMPLE.
I hear he has been in the town for hours——
A BAD CASE. 83
that he had a fight in a low saloon, where he got
that terrible eye.
SYLVIA.
I didn’t notice anything the matter with his
eye.
MISS DALRYMPLE.
Has he been here then P
SYLVIA.
Yes. I’ve locked him up in that room.
CHISHOLM, pounding on door.
Sylvia I let me out. I’m not afraid of your
aunt. She's nothing to me.
MISS DALRYMPLE.
Listen to that—the ungrateful boy, for whom
I have done so much.
SYLVIA.
I am sure I tried all in my power to keep him
quiet and happy.
MISS DALRYMPLE.
Yes, dear, I am sure you did; the mischief
was done before he saw you. [Chisholm pounds
0n door.
SYLVIA.
Shall Irisk letting him out P
84 COMEDIES FOR AMATEUR ACTING. .
MISS DALRYMPLE.
Call Lucy and the gardener first. He may be
dangerous in this state.
.* SYLVIA.
But they mustn't hurt him.
MISS DALRYMPLE.
Hurt him l I’ll have him taken at once to the
police-station. [Chisholm pounds.] Yes, sir.
My gardener and my maid shall take you to the
police-station.
CHISHOLM.
I’ll Smash your gardener and your maid and
the whole family if I get a chance at you.
MISS DALRYMPLE.
Hear the Wretch
LUCY, entering L.
O marm l O Miss Dalrymple ! What is all
this horrible noise P
MISS DALRYMPLE.
Lucy, where's the gardener *
LUCY.
He’s out, marm, for the day. You gave him
permission this morning.
>.
A BAD CASE. 85
MISS DALRYMPLE.
Then how shall we get rid of this drunken
Wretch P
SYLVIA.
O aunty, he's not drunk I
MISS DALRYMPLE.
What is he, then P
SYLVIA.
He's only crazy, aunty, dear—only the least
bit insane. [Chisholm pounds ferociously. ]. He's
only a little bit flighty and foreign in his ways.
But I’m not afraid of him. I’ll open the door.
LUCY.
Oh, law miss, don’t go near him. It may be
contiguous.
SYLVIA.
Oh, he was really quite nice and calm with me.
MISS DALRYMPLE.
Yes, open the door, Sylvia; and I myself will
lead the miscreant to the tribunal of justice.
LUCY.
She means the police-station, where the green
lamp is. O marm, don’t be so hard on him.
SYLVIA.
O aunty, spare him l [Kneeling.] He’s really
so very nice.
86 COMEDIES FOR AMATEUR ACTING,
LUCY, sobbing.
So very nice, ma'am. Oh 1 [She starts, as
Chisholm batters on door.
MISS DALRYMPLE.
Sylvia, rise, I command you, and bring forth
the culprit. [Sylvia Opens door.] Come out, sir!
[Pause.
LUCY.
Please come out, sir. [Pause.
SYLVIA.
Please come out—Arthur—dear !
CHISHOLM, entering.
What the—dickens do you mean by locking
me in there P Have I fallen into a mad-house ?
MISS DALRYMPLE.
Sylvia | What does this mean? Who is this
man you have been concealing in my house ?
LUCY.
Yes, Miss Sylvia, what is this clandestineness P
SYLVIA, to Miss Dalrymple.
Is not this your nephew P
MISS DALRYMPLE.
No 1 ||
SYLVIA, to Chisholm.
Are you not Arthur P
A BAD CASE. 87
CHISHOLM.
That is my name. [To Miss Dalrymple] Ma-
dam, Ientered your house upon a perfectly honor-
able errand, and strictly in pursuance of my pro-
fession.
- MISS DALRYMPLE.
Young man, if you’re in the Electro-plating,
Ełistory of the Bible, Sewing Machine, or Light-
ning-rod line, I don’t want any of them.
CHISHOLM.
Madam, when I came here, I sent up my
card.
LUCY.
Yes, I took it to Miss Sylvia ; it read as plain
as print, “Mr. Arthur Blackhurst.”
CHISHOLM.
The man whose eye I painted this morning !
You must excuse me ; I had his card in my pocket
and forgot to look at it. I am Dr. Arthur Chis-
holm.
SYLVIA.
Arthur Chisholm I
MISS DALRYMPLE.
Dr. Chisholm
LUCY.
The new physicianer |
88 COMEDIES FOR AMATEUR ACTING.
Chishoix.
Precisely—who has spent a most agreeable half
hour with this young lady.
SYLVIA.
I am afraid it was a great deal too agreeable.
Oh dear !
MISS DALRYMPLE.
Never mind, my love. I’m sure the doctor
will forgive you if you’ve been rude to him.
SYLVIA.
But I wasn’t rude to him—and that’s just
what’s so horrible /
MISS DALRYMPLE.
You will join us at dinner to-day, Dr. Chis-
holm, and permit us to make our apologies more
fully.
CHISHOLM.
I shall be most happy ; and then I shall be
able to diagnose more carefully the case of my
interesting patient here. [Indicating Sylvia.
MISS DALRYMPLE.
But it was I who sent for you, Doctor.
CHISHOLM.
You ! Then it was you who had the rheuma-
tism . How's your elbow P
[QUICK CURTAIN.]
COURTSHIP WITH VARIATIONS
C O M E D Y I W O W E A G 77.
BY H. C. BUNNER,
CHARACTERS.
ERNEST ARCHIBAL.D.
VIRGINIA BERKELEY, a young widow, his
cousin.
[The French original of this play is “Le Monde Renversé,”
written by M. Henri de Bornier.]
COURTSHIP WITH WARIATIONS.
SCENE: A drawing-room in a country house,
prettily furnished. Door from hall, R. 2 E.
Door to next room, L. U. E. Through large
French windows at the back is seen a flower-
garden; in the distance, a view of the Hud-
son. Large table a little to the left of C., with a
chair on each side. Jardinière, with flowers,
in the window R. Mantelpiece at L. 1 E.
ERNEST ARCHIBALD stands by the mantelpiece, looking rath-
er mournfully at a photograph in a velvet frame. He sighs in
a mild and subdued way, and his inspection appears to yield
him but a limited amount of satisfaction. After a moment,
however, he breaks the silence and opens the play by solilo-
quizing:
If I dared But I don’t dare. I didn’t dare
before the advent of the late-lamented Berkeley;
and now that he has come and gone, I don’t see
any material improvement in the position. If
she was formidable as a girl, she's only doubly
terrifying as a widow. O Cousin Virginia 1 Cou-
sin Virginia 1—hello, Cousin Virginia
92 COMEDIES FOR AMATEUR ACTING.
The tone of his sentimental apostrophe suddenly changes,
and his last repetition of the name is simply a surprised saluta-
tion, addressed to a young lady who has just entered the room
R. 2 E. The young lady has bright eyes and an air of entire
self-possession, which, in conjunction with a mischievous smile,
give a faint hint of the reason why Ernest hadn't dared. And
the general appearance of the young lady sufficiently explains
why he felt badly about it. VIRGINIA BERKELEY carries on her
arm a traveling-shawl, and in her hand an extremely small
work-basket, of which luggage her host proceeds to disembar-
rass her.
ERNEST.
Why, my dear Virginia, we didn’t expect you
So Soon | Let me take your shawl—and that
work-basket. How did you get here 2
VIRGINIA.
Ernest, where’s my aunt P
ERNEST.
She’s gone to the station to meet you.
VIRGINIA.
What did she think I was going to take that
hot, stuffy railroad to ride twenty miles P. As you
would say, not much ! I drove up from Peekskill
in the phaeton. John is putting my pony in the
stable at this moment. Pony’s tired—which re-
minds me that I am too. But you don’t offer me
a chair. You stand still and look at me, just as
you’ve done for twenty years, ever since we were
small children in pinafores. Your pinafore was
COURTSHIP WITH WARLATIONS. , - 93
dirty : mine was clean. You used to stare at me
then : you do now. I don’t see that it has ever
done you any good. It is very complimentary,
but I should prefer a chair.
ERNEST.
I don’t know why you want a chair when I
am present. You always sit down on—
VIRGINIA, severely.
Ernest | No slang, if you please ! Especially,
no impertinent slang. Ah, thank you ! You
have picked out the only uncomfortable chair in
the room, but never mind—it will do.
ERNEST.
Virginia, how long are you going to stay
here 2
VIRGINIA, promptly.
One week. But, if the prospect alarms you
already, you may go somewhere else. Well, why
are you looking at me now P
ERNEST.
I’m not looking at you.
VIRGINIA.
What are you looking at, then P
ERNEST, hesitatingly.
I’m looking at your dress.
94. COMEDIES FOR AMATEUR ACTING.
VIRGINIA, absently.
Oh, yes. I’ve left off my mourning.
ERNEST, involuntarily.
Hop-lä
VIRGINIA.
Ernest I What do you mean by that ex-
traordinary remark—to characterize it mildly P
It is the first sign of animation you have given.
I have no objection to vivacity, but the form it
takes is a little peculiar.
ERNEST.
Now look here, Virginia; you didn’t care a
copper for him, either.
VIRGINIA.
Whom do you mean—what do you mean—are
you insane, Ernest ?
ERNEST.
I mean the late-lamented. Oh, don’t look
indignant and offended. It was your mother’s
marriage; not yours, I don’t say anything dis-
respectful of the late Berkeley—no, far from it.
I’ve had a high regard for him ever since he died
and left you your freedom and his fortune and a
pony-phaeton. But, alive, he was a decided bore l
VIRGINIA.
Ernest
COURTSHIP WITH WARLATIONS, 95
ERNEST.
Yes, a bore 1 He bored me !
VIRGINIA.
Yoº, 2
ERNEST.
Yes! For—because—you know.
VIRGINIA.
Great heavens, Ernest it isn’t possible that
you’re trying to make love to me !
ERNEST, somewhat taken aback.
Isn’t it, P
VIRGINIA.
How long since you got that idea into your
head P
ERNEST.
Well, I didn’t quite expect this kind of thing
—at least, so much of it. I meant to tell you
that—that—for a long time I’ve been—
VIRGINIA.
Well, what ?
ERNEST.
Er—er—sighing—
VIRGINIA, highly amused.
Sighing P Sighing 2 Oh, ha-ha-ha-ha-hal Sigh-
ing P O Ernest, dear; do tell me next time you
sigh—I should so like to see you sighing. [Con-
tinuation of ha-ha’s.]
96 COMEDIES FOR AMATEUR AUTING.
^* ERNEST.
Oh, confound it ! Virginia I don’t laugh so.
Let me speak. -
VIRGINIA.
Certainly—oh, certainly. I’d like to see how
you do it. Take care l you’re not the first, you
know. If you don’t introduce some novel effect
into your courtship, you’ve no chance at all.
Come, let’s hear you sigh.
ERNEST, confidentially, to vacancy.
Not the first. I should think not l Perhaps
this would be a good situation to exit on.
VIRGINIA.
Proceed. Sigh
ERNEST.
Well, then—I love you !
VIRGINIA.
Doubtless. Proceed.
ERNEST.
I—I—adore you.
VIRGINIA.
Couldn’t you adore me with a little variation
of style P
ERNEST.
If you doubt that my love will last—
COURTSHIP WITH WARLATIONS. 97
VIRGINIA.
I don’t. That’s just what I’m afraid of. It's
a very stupid kind of love.
~~ ERNEST.
But I ask so little, Virginia. I don’t demand
that you should love me—
VIRGINIA.
Now, that is really kind and considerate of
you!
ERNEST.
When you left this house two years ago, Vir-
ginia, you were not so cruel to me. I was twenty
years old—it was spring—and that was the last
day of spring on which you left us. Do you not
remember that time, my cousin P Has the odor
of your ball-bouquets overpowered the perfume
of our woodland flowers ? I have not forgotten,
at least. I can see you now : running down the
long walks of the garden ; your dark hair flying
behind you ; I can hear the clear ring of your
Voice as you called my name. Ah, what a grand
air you had then ; though you were only a little
girl just from boarding-School. I was sometimes
almost afraid of you, but I always admired you—
ay ! I loved you, though I did not know it.
VIRGINIA.
You were better off then than you are now.
7
98 COMEDIES FOR AMATEUR ACTING.
ERNEST.
I was 1 for you were kinder. Those were the
days when you used to say: “Cousin Ernest,
come and make love to me !” You don’t say
that any more, now.
VIRGINIA.
I do not. But come, my poor Ernest, what
folly this is 1 If you would only stop loving me,
I should like you so much better. Affection
doesn’t improve your personal appearance, my
dear. You make most horrid faces to accompany
your compliments. Seriously, though, you are
spoiling my visit for me. I came here to have a
good time ; to see you and my aunt ; and no
Sooner have I arrived than you begin talking to
me in this disagreeable way. You must not make
love to me. We are very good friends; I love
you as a cousin. Love, Ernest ! Why, it’s like
taking a newspaper—I might discontinue my
subscription at any time. But friendship—it is a
precious book, that we read and re-read a hun-
dred times, and never grow tired of. Why should
we try to force our inclinations P The love we
seek would spoil that which we now enjoy. Come,
you will be a good boy, and obey me.
ERNEST, with promptitude and decision.
I will not.
COURTSHIP WITH WARIATIONS. 99.
VIRGINIA, surprised.
What 2
ERNEST.
I mean, I can not. I love you, and—
VIRGINIA.
Then I’ll go back to Peekskill instanter.
ERNEST.
You can’t. I saw your coachman pass the
window just this moment. He is undoubtedly
gone to the tavern, which is half a mile down the
road.
VIRGINIA.
Then, if I’ve got to stay, we’ll settle this at
once. I hate you. I detest you. I shall always
continue to hate and detest you !
ERNEST.
Virginia—cousin l
VIRGINIA, not at all mollified.
Don’t come near me.
ERNEST.
But—
VIRGINIA.
No l
She arises, walks swiftly to the mirror, and removes her
hat, which, being of the Gainsborough pattern, lends a rakish
air to the wearer. Its removal enables her to look consistently
100 COMEDIES FOR AMATEUR ACTING.
languid, and she throws herself into a large arm-chair to the
right of the table, and tries to pose for a martyr. The unfor-
tunate ERNEST pauses in a moody promenade from end to end
of the room, and turns to address her. Immediate resumption
of hostilities.
ERNEST.
Look here, Virginia.
VIRGINIA.
I will not look there, sir. I am your victim.
Don’t speak to me. You’ve put me all out of
Sorts. *
ERNEST, on the left of the table.
You must hear me ! My life is at your feet—
VIRGINIA looks down at the tiny tip of her shoe, resting
comfortably on a brioche, as if to verify the assertion. Her
lover, however, refuses to take any notice of this small outrage,
and proceeds:
I will make you the tenderest of husbands—
VIRGINIA, starting to her feet in horror.
Husbands ! The audacity of the wretch
ERNEST.
Well, Suppose—
VIRGINIA, tragically pacing the room.
Leave me, sir! I will bear this no longer.
ERNEST.
At least, pardon me if I–
COURTSHIP WITH WARLATIONS. 101
VIRGINIA.
There’s no if about it. You have. But I
will not pardon you.
ERNEST, immovable.
What a fool I’ve been 1 Oh—there, there—
I’m going. You see I’m going.
VIRGINIA, unable to see anything of the sort.
Then what are you stopping there for P
LRNEST, frankly.
To look at you. You are so deucedly pretty
that way.
Upon this he prudently retires through the left upper door-
way just as VIRGINIA returns to her arm-chair. Left alone, the
young lady laughs quietly to herself for a moment, and then
looks serious. Her cheeks flush, apparently with indignation,
and she indulges in a brief and fragmentary Soliloquy.
VIRGINIA.
The wretch [With satisfaction] I did well
to laugh at him. [With a slight touch of com-
punction] Perhaps I laughed a little too much.
[With an air of judicial abstraction] For, after
all, he couldn’t help it. [Softening] Poor Er-
nest [Quite melted] Poor dear !
The left upper door softly opens, and the head of the exile
appears. This movement seems to be inopportune on his part,
for, as soon as his cousin perceives it, her face clouds over
102 COMEDIES FOR AMATEUR ACTING.
again. The unwelcome youth enters, however, and advances
to the fray. His reception is not encouraging.
VIRGINIA.
Ernest | You back P
ERNEST, with resolute cheerfulness.
Yes. You see. Come, don’t be so tragic.
I generally go when I’m boun—I mean, when
I’m sent away. I went when you told me to. I
saw it was best. Anger sat enthroned upon your
bang. I went out on the lawn, and I hadn’t
taken two steps before up flew a little bird—yes,
a little bird He flew first right, and then left,
and then he whistled three times. If that wasn’t
an omen, I don’t know what is. It was an omen.
And in obedience to it I return.
VIRGINIA, puzzled.
* But I don’t understand—
ERNEST.
Oh, but I do. That little bird didn’t whistle
for nothing. He meant to say to me : “Look
here, you’re a nice sort of a fellow, to give it up
like this l Because your cousin frowns and tells
you to leave her when you say you love her, you
quietly put on your hat and go Bah! that’s the
kind of thing you must expect in love. Go back
and begin again. Go on worse than ever. She
expects you—”
COURTSHIP WITH WARLATIONS. 103
VIRGINIA, indignantly.
She does not º
ERNEST, undisturbed.
I’m only telling you what the bird said. Talk
to him. “Go back, old fellow,” he went on,
“and try it again.” So I'm back. Charge it to
the dickey-bird.
VIRGINIA.
And you think your bird and your impudence
will have any effect on me 2
ERNEST, placidly.
Can’t say. Hope so.
VIRGINIA, rising with a nervous start.
Ernest ! you’ll drive me crazy—no, you won’t
—you’ll make me cry ! Oh, dear! Why, Ernest
—just put yourself in my place.
ERNEST.
In your place 2
VIRGINIA.
Yes—no, that is. I don’t mean literally—
that would be funny. Courtship with variations.
ERNEST, meditatively.
In your place | t
VIRGINIA.
Well, yes! In my place. And then perhaps
you’d find out, sir, that adoration may be torture
104 COMEDIES FOR AMATEUR ACTING.
to a woman. Of what do you suppose my heart
is made, if you think I enjoy having you batter
at its portal in this fashion ? [She crosses L.]
|BRNEST.
I suppose it’s made of some pretty tough ma-
terial.
VIRGINIA.
You do? Well, come, we’ll see how you like
it yourself. I’m going to convince you—this in-
stant. It is I who will make love to you. [She
comes back to the table.]
ERNEST.
Good joke.
VIRGINIA.
You think so, do you? Well, you’ll see. I
am going to pay court to you from now to Sun-
down, without pity or remorse. You shall be the
lady fair, and I the enamored knight. And take
care of yourself, my lady |
ERNEST.
Good idea.
VIRGINIA.
Yes, but—one thing. I want to gain Some
substantial results by this operation.
ERNEST.
If you go about your business properly, you’ll
gain me. I’m a pretty substantial result.
COURTSHIP WITH WARIATIONS. 105
VIRGINIA, seating herself on the left of table.
Nonsense ! But see—the game is to close at
dinner-time—at six o'clock. And from that time
to the end of my visit here, you are not to say one
single word of love to me. Do you promise 2
ERNEST.
Yes—unless—
VIRGINIA.
TJnless P
ERNEST.
Unless you ask me to.
VIRGINIA, with sarcastic merriment.
I accept that condition. Unless I ask you to.
Well, then—oh, one word more You—
ERNEST.
Well ?
VIRGINIA.
You won’t take any unfair advantage of your
position ?
ERNEST.
Certainly not.
VIRGINIA.
I mean—don’t introduce me to any type of
lady that I haven’t met before.
ERNEST, emphatically.
Iwon’t. Don’t be afraid. I’ll take you for a
model.
106 COMEDIES FOR AMATEUR ACTING,
VIRGINIA.
Ladies don’t pay compliments, sir! This
won’t do. We must have a forfeit. Every time
you forget your rôle of lady fair, you shall pay
me—let us see—what have you in your pockets P
ERNEST.
Here are ten silver dollars.
VIRGINIA.
Do you want them P
IERNEST.
No, glad to get rid of them.
VIRGINIA.
Well, then, each time that you forget your-
self, you shall pay me one of these ; proceeds to
be devoted to the Home for Indigent and Vener-
able Females at Peekskill. I’m one of the direc-
tors. There are ten “lady directors” of the Home,
and some day we expect to get an Indigent and
Venerable Female to put in it. So these are your
forfeits.
ERNEST.
All right. But what’s sauce for an Indigent
and Venerable Female is sauce for a young and
lovely one. What are you to forfeit to me if you
forget that you are a gentleman P
COURTSHIP WITH VARIATIONS. 107
VIRGINIA.
Well, what ? What do you suggest ?
ERNEST.
Hm Say—say, for instance, a kiss—
VIRGINIA, emergetically negative.
No 1 no l no l no /
ERNEST.
Why not ?
VIRGINIA.
Do you estimate a kiss from me at one dollar
only P
ERNEST.
By no means. Its value is not to be esti-
mated. I don’t even attempt it. The dollar is
merely a counter—an arbitrary representative of
value. But if you are talking on a business basis,
I know an old woman who could be induced to
go to your Home. I’ll throw her in. Does that
satisfy you ?
VIRGINIA.
No 1
ERNEST.
All right then. The fight is declared off, and
the treaty abrogated. I shall return to my la-
bors.
VIRGINIA.
Oh, dear, no l I can’t have that. And, any-
108 COMEDIES FOR AMATEUR ACTING.
way—there can’t be any danger. I can rely on
myself, on my skill, and my—
ERNEST.
Charms.
VIRGINIA.
A compliment l Pay me a forfeit.
ERNEST.
Time’s not called yet.
VIRGINIA.
Never mind. I don’t want to bankrupt you
so soon. You’ll lose your silver counters soon
enough. But now—it's all understood, is it 2
The play is cast—we know our rôles 2 Then up
goes the curtain. [She touches a bell on the ta-
ble.] Now, then, let the company remember
their cues. [Rising and bowing to an imaginary
public.] Ladies and gentlemen, “Courtship with
Variations,” comedy in one act, by a collabora-
tion.
And she reseats herself. The exponent of the opposing
rôle takes the chair on the other [R.] side of the table, and
for a silent minute or two both appear to be absorbed in re-
flection. It is the truce before the battle. After another
moment, ERNEST steals a sly glance at his antagonist, and
surprises her in the act of doing the same thing. After this,
there is more silence, and considerable fidgeting in both chairs.
At last VIRGINIA whispers to herself, by way of relief:
He’s got to speak, Some time or other.
COURTSHIP WITH WARLATIONS. 109
He, however, does not seem to think so. Struck by a sud-
den idea, he reaches for the diminutive work-basket on the ta-
ble, and placidly begins a wild travesty of crocheting. The
owner of the basket looks on the ruin of her handiwork with
Some dissatisfaction, but does not venture to interfere. She
once more takes refuge in soliloquy :
Ten counters—ten kisses—it's too much, by
nine, at least. I’ve got to do something. Come,
to work
And with a desperate effort she rises and marches around
behind the table, to the calm artist in crochet, who raises his
eyes languidly and continues to tangle her worsted. She ad-
dresses him:
VIRGINIA.
Cousin, are you very clever ?
ERNEST, languidly crocheting.
Ra-ather
VIRGINIA.
Not exceptionally so, I suppose P
ERNEST.
Not more so than—[his eye falls on his count-
ers]—most people.
VIRGINIA, leaning over the back of his chair.
Well, if you’re clever at all, tell me why it is
I am happy just at this very moment.
ERNEST, femininely bored.
Oh, dear! I’m sure I don’t know.
110 COMEDIES FOR AMATEUR ACTING.
VIRGINIA.
You don’t l Well, I’ll tell you. I’m happy
because I have an opportunity of telling you that
there are two things about you that I have always
admired—your eyes.
ERNEST, in a quiet aside.
Guying, is she P
VIRGINIA.
Let me lift your hair off your forehead—so l
Ah! you look well so. Fine forehead, well-arched
brows—how is it I never noticed them before ?
Nose—straight. Greek type.
ERNEST.
These are what you call compliments, I Sup-
pose P
VIRGINIA. -
I’m always particular in the matter of noses.
Let's see. Chin—quite correct. Cheek-bones—
not too high and not too low.
ERNEST.
Sounds like a description for the benefit of
the police.
VIRGINIA.
And your hand—quite a lady's hand. Long
and slender—and dimples, too ; upon my word,
dimples 1 [Aside] Oh, it's no use.
COURTSHIP WITH WARLATIONS. 111
For this broadside of compliments proves a dead fail-
ure. The victim lies back in his chair and plies his crochet-
needles, complacently smiling. So far, he seemingly enjoys
being wooed. VIRGINIA sits down on the extreme left and
meditates. Her eye lights on the jardinière in the window,
and it supplies her with an idea. She rises, crosses to the
right-hand upper corner, and plucks a rose.
ERNEST, suddenly and ferociously.
Yow-oo-oo!
VIRGINIA, at the jardinière.
What's the matter
ERNEST.
I’ve stuck your inf-I mean your crochet-
needle into my hand.
*
VIRGINIA, unmoved by the catastrophe.
Never mind, dear; go on crocheting.
ERNEST, aside.
Damn crocheting !
VIRGINIA, crossing back to him.
Let me put this in your buttonhole, cousin,
there !—ah, no ; that’s a little too red. We’ll
tone it down. [Crossing again to jardinière and
back.] Here’s a tuberose. Ah now you are—
ravishing ! You are a picture 1 [Standing off to
admire him.] .
112 COMEDIES FOR AMATEUR ACTING.
ERNEST.
I’m a daisy, am I?
VIRGINIA.
You are—oh what a daisy you are [Clasp-
ing her hands.]
ERNEST, aside.
Guying again l Let us resume the offensive.
[Aloud] Oh, dear ! t;
VIRGINIA.
What is it now P
ERNEST, spilling the work-basket.
I don’t know—I feel—so—oh
VIRGINIA.
So what P
ERNEST.
Oh, you’ve put me all out of sorts 1 I feel—
hystericall
VIRGINIA, to herself.
He’s making fun of me.
ERNEST, feebly.
O cousin Please—send for a doctor.
VIRGINIA, with masculine indifference.
Nonsense, my dear child; you’ll get over it—
you’ll get over it.
COURTSHIP WITH WARLATIONS. 113
ERNEST, plaintively.
Indeed, I won’t. I feel worse now.
VIRGINIA.
Let's see. [Putting her hand on his forehead.]
Poor dear ! your head is hot—absolutely feverish l
ERNEST, wºnwarily.
Yes—that’s it.
VIRGINIA, seizing her opportunity.
Yes, dear. [Soothingly] Let me keep my
hand here—it will cool your forehead.
ERNEST, equal to the situation.
No, my dear. [Removing the cooler.] It
wouldn’t be proper.
VIRGINIA, to herself, as she retires.
It won’t do. I must try something stronger.
For a débutant, he takes care of himself pretty
well. [Aloud] Ernest, do you know of what I
am thinking P
ERNEST.
Of nothing, probably.
VIRGINIA, impulsively.
The impertinent fellow ! [Aside, recollecting
herself] But no. It’s his part. That's the way
we women do. [She returns to the attack.] No,
8
114 COMEDIES FOR AMATEUR ACTING.
Ernest, I was thinking of your youth—of the
happy days when we were children. Have you
forgotten them P [Pensively] We were always
together then. We had no other friends. We
lived a life apart from other children. You were
my Paul, and I was your Virginia.
ERNEST, heartlessly.
Oh, yes, I remember. A romance in duode-
cimo—idyls—pastorals—the regular business. But
you get Over that sort of thing as you grow older,
you know. There isn’t much wear to it.
VIRGINIA, aside.
He is getting positively outrageous now.
[Aloud, with a sudden change in tonel Stay,
Ernest, it is better that we should stop here.
Perhaps—perhaps—we have gone too far already.
I have been too. . . . reckless in lending myself to
this comedy. We must not play with love like
this 1 [She seats herself, and rests her head on
her hand.]
ERNEST.
Virginia [Aside] What's all this?
VIRGINIA, nervously.
It is not impossible that—without knowing it
—that my heart should cease to be insensible—
that my laughter of this morning should change
to tears before the evening. Even now, it seems
COURTSHIP WITH WARHATIONS. 115
to me, I tremble at the thought of the strange
game we are playing. What if, in this jest, I
should betray myself? [Growing more and more
eaccited.] What if – I learned to love you ?
[Aside] We'll see, this time !
ERNEST, on his feet.
What 1 Is it true P You might—you might
—love me 2 Yes, yes, for I love you ! Cousin–
Virginia—my own l Don’t check this impulse of
your heart—it speaks the truth. Why should
you not give me your heart, as you have taught
me to give you—
VIRGINIA, with a peal of laughter.
One dollar !
ERNEST, taken aback.
One dollar !
VIRGINIA.
Yes—a counter—a forfeit. Caught this time.
ERNEST, solemnly reseating himself.
*TWasn’t fair.
VIRGINIA.
Why not ?
ERNEST.
Because I wasn’t caught.
VIRGINIA.
You weren’t . . . .
116 COMEDIES FOR AMATEUR ACTING.
ERNEST.
I wasn’t caught. No.
VIRGINIA. *
Then why did you respond in that way ?
ERNEST.
Well, my dear, the circumstances—after what
you have said, you know—politeness required—I
could do no less.
VIRGINIA.
Do you mean to say that I didn’t deceive you ?
|ERNEST.
Not in the least.
VIRGINIA, warmly.
You didn’t believe, when I spoke to you just
now, that I was beginning to feel for you a-a
tender sentiment P
* ~~~~.
ERNEST, with shameless mendacity.
I did not believe it.
VIRGINIA, growing eaccited.
Explain yourself, sir! You were not serious,
then, when you answered me 2
ERNEST.
I was jesting—as you were,
COURTSHIP WITH WARLATIONS. 117
VIRGINIA, eaſploding.
And you dared You had the audacity I
Ah, now I believe you have been jesting from the
first—this love you have always expressed—it was
a jest, too !
ERNEST, languidly.
You don’t think that.
VIRGINIA.
I do | Ah it is a good lesson to me. That
is the way we women are deceived. What fools
we are l It was just the same air, the same accent
—the same words, the same look of adoration.
'Twas no better done when you meant it—but
you never meant it. If you can imitate love so
well, you can never have felt it. I have un-
masked you. We will settle this matter. [March-
£ng from right to left, up and down the room.]
We’ll See—we'll see | What ' You don’t an-
swer me P No-you can’t 1 Be silent—it is
the best thing you can do | Oh, if I spoke my
mind—you—you—impostor 1 I can not restrain
myself l I’m going—and I’ll never—never—see
you again
And she departs, L. U. E., like a small feminine hurricane.
Yet the bang of the door seems to cover something like a sob.
The wretched impostor sits still, as a man conscious of his own
iniquity. But, as he meditates, a puzzled look begins to over-
spread his features. With less depression in his tone than
becomes the situation, he murmurs to himself:
118 COMEDIES FOR AMATEUR ACTING.
Well, I swear ! Well, I swear ! Well, I
swear ! I’ll swear she was going to cry !
The striking of a clock and the simultaneous opening of
the door disturb his profane reverie. VIRGINIA appears on the
threshold. She may have been “going to cry,” but she certainly
shows no signs of having yielded to the impulse. She is bright,
laughing, and triumphant.
VIRGINIA.
Lrnest, dinner l The game is over ! You re-
member the agreement. I exact strict adherence
to the terms therein expressed. From this time
until my departure, you are not to whisper one
word of love to me.
ERNEST.
|Unless you ask me to.
VIRGINIA, laughing.
Unless I ask you to—that was agreed.
ERNEST, calmly.
And you will also be so kind as to remember
that I still retain nine counters, and that each of
them represents a-kiss.
VIRGINIA, with icy resignation.
I suppose I must submit.
ERNEST.
No.
CouñTSHIP witH VARIATIONS. 119
VIRGINIA.
What, P
ERNEST.
No. No doubt it would be very delightful to
press my lips to your cheek, if but one look invited
me. But thus—No l your calmness speaks with-
out disguise. The charm is destroyed. You know,
yourself, the contact of lips is nothing—it is the
emotion, the soul of the kiss, that I Seek.
VIRGINIA.
Excuse me, sir. You may be doing violence
to your feelings in kissing me ; but I insist—I
have my reasons. At this price I shall be finally
freed from your importunities; you shall fulfill
your part of the bargain. Come, sir, treaties are
made for the benefit of the victor. If you are
generous—you will kiss me.
ERNEST, graver.
Very well—I will obey, since honor compels
me. [Going toward her as she stands at center.]
You are blushing.
VIRGINIA.
No, I’m not.
ERNEST.
Yes, you are, I Say.
VIRGINIA, impatiently.
No, sir! No. I’m ready.
**
120 COMEDIES FOR AMATEUR ACTING.
The victim turns her cheek to the recalcitrant conqueror,
who exacts his tribute with hesitating reluctance. VIRGINIA
shivers nervously, and ERNEST frowns darkly, like a captive
pirate on the point of execution.
ERNEST.
This is—cruel. But it must be done, and one
gets accustomed to everything. Eight more.
VIRGINIA.
No, I beg of you ! *
ERNEST.
Eight kisses, if you please.
VIRGINIA.
But just now you didn’t care about them at all.
ERNEST.
But just now you cared about them a good
deal.
VIRGINIA.
But, then—since—O Ernest—please don’t in-
sist.
ERNEST.
Why not ? Is it that—you love me 2
VIRGINIA.
No—not a bit. What is troubling me is—
are—those eight counters.
CóURTSHIP WITH WARLATIONS. i21
ERNEST.
You don’t like the gross amount of kissing
they represent P
VIRGINIA.
No.
ERNEST.
Well. There's a way to stop all that kind of
thing.
VIRGINIA.
What is it, P
ERNEST.
Marry ! Twon’t trouble you any more after
that.
VIRGINIA, looking down.
Isn’t there any other way ?
ERNEST.
Not that I know of.
VIRGINIA.
Oh, dear !
A pause.
ERNEST.
Come, Virginia, decide.
VIRGINIA.
Decide—what ?
ERNEST.
Whether you’ll marry me or not.
122 COMEDIES FOR AMATEUR ACTING.
VIRGINIA.
Who was talking about marrying P
ERNEST, with business-like precision.
I was; and you were, too.
VIRGINIA.
Well, don’t talk any more—at least not to-day
—to-morrow.
ERNEST.
And what do you wish me to do to-morrow P
VIRGINIA.
Oh, you may—you may ask any questions you
want to. And [with a smile] I may answer
them. *
ERNEST.
I haven’t any questions to ask.
VIRGINIA.
You haven’t P
ERNEST.
No. Virginia, we set out to play “Courtship
with Variations,” and play it we shall. It may
be a shade frivolous and foolish, our comedy;
but it is I who have the dangerous rôle—that of
the ingénue. You are the lower—I am the true
and tender woman. Make yºur proposal.
COURTSEIIP WITH WARIATIONS. 123
VIRGINIA, with startling suddenness.
I will ! [Gravely] Sir l Recognizing in you
the possessor of many excellent qualities; regard-
ing you as a young man of amiability, good moral
character, and— -
ERNEST.
And P
VIRGINIA.
Vast pertinacity, together with some charms
of person—regarding you thus, I say, a young
friend of mine desires that I should speak in her
name. She finds existence a sad feast, when un-
shared with any other loving heart. She feels
that, to be truly comfortable, affection must sit
opposite one at table and carve the roast beef.
Will you undertake the discharge of these func-
tions P Come, blush, for form’s sake, and say—
ERNEST, with ingenuous confusion.
Yes |
They slowly sidle toward one another, and at the point of
meeting, with the suddenness of an electric shock, they resume
their personal identities, which they appear about to fuse in a
cousinly embrace.
ERNEST, suddenly recollecting himself.
But stop—what am I doing? It was agreed
that I was not to breathe another word of love to
you.
- VIRGINIA.
Unless—I asked you to.
124 COMEDIES FOR AMATEUR ACTING,
ERNEST.
Well, do you ?
VIRGINIA, shyly.
Do you think it would be very much out of
place in
COURTSHIP WITH WARIATIONS P
ERNEST does not seem to think it would.
QUICK CURTAIN.
A TEACHER TAUGHT.
G O M E D Y I W O W. E. A. O. T.
BY A. H. OAKES.
CIH.A.R. A. CTEIR. S.
FREDERICK BELFORT, PH. D., Professor of
Inorganic Chemistry at the Metropolitan Univer-
sity, 35 years old.
RATE WINSTANLEY, his ward and pupil, 18
Ayears old.
[The French original of this play is “Le Roman d'une Pu-
pille,” written by M. Paul Ferrier.]
A TEACHER TAUGHT.
SCENE : Professor Belfort's study—a plainly fur-
nished room. Writing-table, covered with
papers, L. C. Door R. U. E. Bookcase Left
side of room [not necessarily practicable].
Scientific apparatus, etc., disposed about
room. General aspect gloomy and dull.
THE PROFESSOR, alone.
What’s that I hear P
[Going to door L. U. E. and speaking off.
Lunch P For the sake of pity!
Here’s my report not yet half written, Kitty.
Science and I are conquering Vulgar doubt,
And Luncheon comes to put us both clean out.
Postpone it, Kitty. [Kate laughs, off stage.
Ah that silvery laugh
Too much for science and for me, by half.
There, dear, I promise, next time, on my word,
To be as punctual as the early bird.
My life shall be the forfeit. Yes, I own it,
128 COMEDIES FOR AMATEUR ACTING.
I am “just horrid.” Well, you will postpone it?
A half an hour P
I knew she would, God bless her I
Too gentle to the stupid old Professor.
[He sits at table R.
Sweet little Kate I’m doing wrong, in truth,
To let her waste the blossom of her youth
In this dull house, slaving for dull old me.
And yet I can’t-
[With sudden resolution]
Hang it, I must
[Turns to his writing] Let's see
“This gas is strictly not a gas, but rather—”
Look here, Professor, you’re a precious father.
These serious duties you’ve assumed, are you
Quite sure you’ve conscientiously gone through P
The child of thirteen summers is to-day
A woman—a “young lady.” Come, we’ll say
You’ve taught her Latin, Greek, and Mathematics,
Algebra, Botany, and Hydrostatics,
History, Geography, and Physics—verily,
You’ve done this thoroughly—and unnecessarily.
O wise preceptor with pedantic goad
Urging the tender mind to bear this load.
Putting a sweet child’s youth upon the shelf
To make her like your sciolistic self.
At cost of happiness growing over-wise—
She can’t be happy thus.
She has blue eyes
And golden hair, and cheeks of rose and white,
A TEACHER TAUGHT. 129
And I have set her Latin themes to write l
She's sweet eighteen ; she’s pretty, and she’s
gay.
My Kitty’s probably inclined to play.
She’ll learn to love balls, dancing, admiration;
And then, of course, come young men, and flirta-
tion.
They’ll find her pretty. That I must expect, too.
Further, they’ll say so.
This I may object to.
Well, well, a selfish gardener, my flower,
My one, I’ve hidden in a gloomy bower—
Robbed it of freedom, as of light and airl
Enowing it dear, forgot that it was fair.
Yes, she must wed. And may the happy wife
Forget the girl’s sad solitary life.
And may she find some not impossible he,
Young, gay—the very opposite of me.
And may the lucky devil love my Kate
More wisely, and as well as I–
[Looking at clock] So late
Oh! my report l Let's see, again no use 2
Science and gas may both go to the—deuce.
Enter KATE L. U. E.
RATE.
May I come in P
THE PROFESSOR.
Of course
130 COMEDIES FOR AMATEUR, ACTING.
RATE.
--- Here is a letter
Marked “most important”—but perhaps I’d
better
Let the epistle with my luncheon wait
Till the report—
THE PROFESSOR.
Unscientific Kate
Give me the note, drop that irreverent air,
And [reads]—hm-hm-hm This, dear, is your
affair.
KATE.
Mine P Who’s the Writer P
THE PROFESSOR.
Buckingham de Brown,
My pupil, he who was to settle down
And study chemistry—which branch has missed
A very dandified young Scientist,
Whose careless laugh bids serious thought avaunt—
He’s just the very husband that you want.
KATE.
The husband
THE PROFESSOR.
- Yes, the very husband 1 Pray
Listen to me, my dear. This very day
I had recalled a duty long neglected;
That letter is no more than I’d expected.
A TEACHER TAUGHT. * 131
RATE.
But, if you please, what is all this to me?
THE PROFESSOR.
That’s true, I didn’t mention. Well, you see,
Just listen then to Buckingham : “My dear,
My most respected master”—So far, clear 2
KATE.
Quite.
THE PROFESSOR.
Well, you see, I couldn’t but remember
That you were May, if I was—ah—September.
Not with my logical train of thought to bore
you—
I felt that I must seek a husband for you.
Of course, you notice the necessity ?
KATE, crossing to L.
You’re in a hurry to get rid of me P
So, sir, to settle my hymeneal fate,
Till long past noon you’ve let my luncheon wait P
THE PROFESSOR.
Kitty
KATE, crossing R.
I thought you deep in your report—
Had I suspected anything of this sort—
THE PROFESSOR.
Indeed, I–
132 COMEDIES FOR AMATEUR ACTING.
RATE.
No excuse ! it’s rankest treason
Against my welfare, without rhyme or reason.
Why spend the time Science might better fill
In marrying me off against my will P
THE PROFESSOR.
Aha! I see. The persecuted ward—
The cruel guardian—the unwelcome lord.
What, would the fairest maiden ever seen
Braid the gray tresses of St. Katharine P
KATE.
I didn’t say that.
THE PROFESSOR.
Then the bridegroom meant
Is hateful ?
FCATE.
Not quite that—indifferent.
THE PROFESSOR.
The ground for your objection I can’t see
Quite clear.
KATE.
You wish to marry him to me P
THE PROFESSOR.
He asks it.
KATE.
Well, it shall be as you say:
You are my guardian—I can but obey.
A TEACHER TAUGHT. 133
THE PROFESSOR.
My dear, your choice shall be your own, of
COUITSé.
I don’t habitually use brute force.
But see—I am your guardian and your tutor :
From these two standpoints do I view your
suitor. -
I judge him by known quantities, and find
The youth quite tolerable—never mind
I’m thirty-five, old, crabbed, and pedantic;
You are eighteen, and possibly romantic.
You’ve formed your own ideal of a lover—
You want your romance — Buckingham goes
OWer.
So much for him.
KATE.
I think you take a pleasure
In planning to dismiss me, sir!
THE PROFESSOR.
My treasure l
Dismiss you ! That is, to dismiss the light,
The life of my poor house—to exile outright
The gracious spirit, the delightful fay,
Whose magic wiles the weary hours away.
Only at duty's bidding am I fain
To break my willing little captive’s chain.
I shall be lonely when you leave me—
184 COMEDIES FOR AMATEUR ACTING.
KATE.
Who
Has spoken of leaving you ?
THE PROFESSOR.
Not I, nor you,
But common sense and reason. Fate lays out
The path of every mortal. You forget
How long we’ve walked together, you and I.
It's more than time we separated.
FATE.
e Why?
THE PROFESSOR.
“Why?” Do you ask? My task is ended now.
My friend, your dying father, made me vow
That I would take his place—
KATE.
And well, dear friend,
You have kept your vow. Heaven took him, but
to lend
A dearer father to the lonely child,
Who wept, abandoned; learned to love, and
Smiled.
I have never known a parent, saving you,
Nor ever felt the loss, nor ever knew
Where else to bring the love and gratitude
I owe to you, so tender and so good.
In all my childish joys and sorrows—
A TEACHER TAUGHT. 135
THE PROFESSOR.
Crying !
Kitty, my dear ! Please don’t 1 I'm only trying
To make things pleasant.
RATE, still sobbing.
Oh, indeed, quite charming !
THE PROFESSOR.
I can’t see that the prospect's so alarming.
You’ll have a quiet, obedient little spouse,
And stay and share the old Professor's house,
And he sha’n’t part us.
KATE.
But I do not see
Why there is any need of marrying me.
THE PROFESSOR.
My duty. I have told you once, my dear—
Your happiness.
KATE.
My happiness is here.
THE PROFESSOR.
To that kind compliment I’m quite alive.
But ahl I know I’m old—
KATE, laughing.
Yes! Thirty—
136 COMEDIES FOR AMATEUR ACTING.
THE PROFESSOR.
Full five-and-thirty.
RATE.
Five-and-thirty you’d
Think marked the confines of decrepitude.
My eyes may play me false, but yet among
The younger men you seem to me as young.
And you yourself know, I could never say
“Papa” to you.
Five
THE PROFESSOR.
O flatterer, away !
KATE.
No flattery ! Get some gray hairs before
I can believe you old.
THE PROFESSOR.
You ask no more ?
A gray peruke without delay I’ll don—
One with a bald spot.
RATE.
Well, that’s getting on.
THE PROFESSOR.
And then we’ll speak of marrying you ?
KATE,
Oh, come !
Marriage, like charity, should begin at home.
A TEACHER TAUGHT. 137
You who on marrying all the world are bent,
Why don’t you marry P
THE PROFESSOR.
I ? That’s different.
KATE.
“Do unto others as you’d have them do
To you.” Please say, is the reverse not true P
THE PROFESSOR.
A right sound doctrine ! But, all jest aside,
I’ve never married; but—because—she died.
KATE.
Oh, pardon me !
THE PROFESSOR.
Well, from that day I vowed
My life to study; kinder fate allowed
That you should fill the heart that bled for her :
And I, by memory left a widower,
And by my love for you, a father, thought
My broken life was rounded—
KATE.
Which you ought
Not / Most decidedly. What if happiness
Once more this “broken” life of yours should
bless,
Can you think truly the beloved shade
You mourn would envy you ?
138 COMEDIES FOR AMATEUR ACTING.
THE PROFESSOR.
But what fair maid
Would smile upon me now P
KATE.
I know one or two
That I could mention.
THE PROFESSOR.
You have known me blue,
Humdrum and stupid, misanthropic, slow ;
Pedant and bookworm, rusty as a crow ;
Bent o'er my books—I’ve almost got a hunch—
And never ready at the hour of lunch.
KATE.
I have known you good, and modest, too, about it;
Wise without pedantry, though you seem to
doubt it ;
Kind, and still kinder than the world has known;
A kindness shown to, guessed by, me alone.
And she would have just reason to rejoice
On whom might fall the honor of your choice.
THE PROFESSOR.
A list of virtues which would scarcely steal
The heart of a young lady—
KATE.
I appeal
From that unrighteous verdict. Do you hold
All girls so frivolous P
A TEACHER TAUGHT. 139
THE PROFESSOR.
No, not when they’re old.
KATE.
Indeed Your mood’s sarcastic, sir, to-day.
Believe me, there are some quite different
THE PROFESSOR.
Nay !
Deceiver worst of all, can even your flattery
Call me respectable in my—my—cravattery P
[touching his necktie.]
Is this old coat with foxy welvet collar
The fashion ? Wouldn’t, say, a half a dollar
Be well laid out in treating to new soles
These shoes P My shirts would be but button-
holes
Were’t not for you. And, worst of all my faults,
Have I the faintest notion of a Waltz P
Of talent, charm, or grace, have I one jot P
Would you take such a husband 2
RATE.
Well, why not ?
THE PROFESSOR.
Dear child ! You’re very young and innocent,
And I–blind bookworm o'er my folios bent—
Have never told you life may yet disclose
Another love than child to father owes;
140 COMEDIES FOR AMATEUR ACTING.
And that some day—but I have been too fast :
I thought you a woman—you’re a child—
RATE,
At last !
I thought 'twould come. In toto I deny
The soft impeachment.—Child, indeed l Not I.
I am a woman | And my woman’s heart
Has known that love already—felt its smart.
I have had my romance—not a happy one.
The sunflower of my life has found its sun.
THE PROFESSOR.
What — no — it can’t be l Ah, I might have
known
Already—loving—secret and alone.
And I guessed nothing. Yes, I see it now—
Your late refusal. And I noticed how
You started when I spoke. What could say more
Clear that the little heart had throbbed before ?
Who is your hero, then 2–Who is it P Say!
Handsome and young P Brilliant and polished—
gay ?
And does he know that he has won possession
Of that sweet heart P Come, let’s have full con-
fession l
KATE.
Handsome 2–Perhaps ' I know that he is good.
Young P-Well, I think he could be, if he would.
Less brilliant than profound ; less gay than true.
A TEACHER TAUGHT. 141
As far as I’m concerned, he-oh, he’ll dol
I have known him at your house. I have lowed
him—well—
Always l But yet I’ve never dared to tell.
And now I’m very much afraid I sha’n’t
Unless he—helps me—when he sees—I can’t
I think he’ll have to guess—I’d rather not.
I’m going now—to keep that luncheon hot |
[Ea.it precipitately L. U. E.
THE PROFESSOR, alone. .
Kate l I—confound it—I am dreaming—no l
Yes! What's the lucky devil's name 2–don’t go !
His name ! By Jovel I must have fallen asleep,
And dreamed. It strikes me I have dreamed a-
heap.
No, I’m awake. My wits have ta'en an airing.
Asleep or crazy P Neither l I am staring,
Stark wide awake. Fates adverse and propitious !
What hear I? Things impossibly delicious.
Yet real—unpermissible and real.
That is important. I am her ideal.
Is it—any other fellow, if not me?
No 1 Can’t mistake it—it's too plain to see
She lowes me. I am sure of it—I know it.
That’s what she meant. Didn’t her features
show it 2
And I? My heart I thought dead all the while
Is beating in a rather lively style.
My blood's on fire l I feel just like a-star.
142 COMEDIES FOR AMATEUR ACTING.
Kate 1 I’m in love, dear—more so than you are.
But no. The devil | This will never do.
I’m but a father to her. 'Tisn’t true—
Poor little thing, so good, so innocent—
For love she takes a child’s fond sentiment.
'Tis madness—sweet to me, but madness still.
And I must cure it, cost me what it will.
Enter KATE, L. U. E., with the luncheon.
KATE.
The luncheon, sir.
THE PROFESSOR, huskily.
My daughter
KATE, aside.
Daughter 1 gracious !
His way of guessing things is—is vexatious !
THE PROFESSOR.
Come here, my child.
KATE.
I come.
THE PROFESSOR.
I’ve understood.
KATE, aside.
Upon my word, I rather thought he would.
A TEACHER TAUGHT. 143
THE PROFESSOR.
I know your hero.
KATE, aside.
This is perspicacity
Indeed ^,
THE PROFESSOR.
Although it took some slight audacity
To recognize the flattering portrait. Yet,
My Kate, think calmly if your heart is set
Upon a love that may be, at the most,
A warmer gratitude. I can but boast
Poor paltry claims, that your too kindly eyes
IExaggerate, to this too generous prize.
You are young, and louder than cool reason’s voice
Impulse may speak, and guide a childish choice.
When the young heart is filled with love’s soft
light,
All things it looks on catch the radiance bright.
You scarcely realize, I’m sore afraid,
The shade you take for love—and such a shade 1
But he you think you love knows all too well
Your error: knows his duty is to tell
What sacrifice, unconscious though it be,
This dream entails. A cruel guardian he
Who thus would cheat his child. My little Kate
Your debt of gratitude, with usurer's rate
Of interest, you paid me long ago.
If debt there be, ’tis what to you I owe.
144 COMEDIES FOR AMATEUR ACTING.
Pride of my home, joy of my heart—oh say,
Is it a debt that I shall ever pay ?
KATE.
Then, my Professor, none may give you love,
Whose eloquence a heart of stone would move,
Whose burning words would render, I believe,
A Romeo jealous P You can not conceive
A woman’s heart must yield itself to one
Who sings of love—as—well, as you have done P
THE PROFESSOR.
But, Kate l
KATE.
You’re better pleased the account to cast
So that the balance to my side is passed—
To search arithmetic and logic through
To prove by A plus B I don’t love you.
THE PROFESSOR.
I cry you mercy
KATE.
To your will I bow.
You were my guardian ever, and are now.
You're wisdom's self. My eighteen years are wrong:
Guide then my bark, since your own hand’s so
strong. t
Before your great experience I incline.
To prove how I mistrust this will of mine—
Write to De Brown, then, that at your command
I accept his—love—his fortune, and his hand.
A TEACHER TAUGHT. 145
THE PROFESSOR.
Do you accept P
FCATE.
His hand, his fortune—
THE PROFESSOR.
You’re
Not jesting He your husband l Are you sure ?
KATE.
Why not ? He's young, destined to cut a dash,
Handsome—and such a wee—wee—Wee mustache ]
THE PROFESSOR.
You are laughing.
RATE.
No. He is a good parti;
A well-assorted couple we shall be.
He's of good family, and, it’s only fair
To mention also, he’s a millionaire.
THE PROFESSOR.
I know you better than to think you speak
Your mind in this. Your judgment’s not so
weak
As that, my Kate. Your heart is not so cold.
You’re not a girl to love a sack of gold.
Say what you may, I don’t believe you care
For Brown, were he ten times a millionaire.
You can not like him, and, to tell the truth,
10
146 COMEDIES FOR AMATEUR ACTING.
I don’t, myself, greatly admire the youth.
A boy, as boys go, good enough, agreed—
But not the one to marry you.
KATE,
Indeed
THE PROFESSOR.
A shallow dandy—a mere mutton-head,
Who puts on mighty airs; snobbish, half-bred;
Ignorant, careless, loose, unscientific ;
Of good works barren and of debts prolific.
Laziest of men, unwilling or unable
To read a book. At home in club or stable,
But nowhere else—a man who will, of course,
Divide his love between you and—his horse.
KATE, aside.
I thought so.
THE PROFESSOR.
He’s unworthy such a treasure.
Look elsewhere for a husband.
KATE.
At your pleasure.
Just as you say. But I supposed you knew
I was but doing as you told me to.
THE PROFESSOR,
Well—but—I thought—
A TEACHER TAUGHT. 147
KATE.
You see, one may mistake
At any age. But what choice shall I make P
Young Buckingham de Brown is, we will say,
A type of all the young men of the day.
If this be so, and if we won’t have him,
The chances of the rest grow rather slim.
In Very truth, as far as I can see,
I’ll never get a husband—
THE PROFESSOR.
Rate, take me /
FCATE.
You ?
THE PROFESSOR.
Yes, my love, you wanted to, just now.
|KATE.
Oh, but, since then, you know, you’ve shown me
how
I erred in such a choice. And to the letter
I’ll follow your advice.
THE PROFESSOR.
For want of better |
* KATE.
Well, it might do, if you were not so old.
148 COMEDIES FOR AMATEUR ACTING.
THE PROFESSOR.
So Old P
KATE.
Yes, thirty-five.
THE PROFESSOR.
I never told
Any one that My birthday is next week.
I’m thirty-four at present.
KATE.
So to speak,
That’s middle-aged.
THE PROFESSOR. --
I haven’t one gray hair—
In my whole head.
KATE.
Well, they’ll soon be there.
THE PROFESSOR.
No, I’ll be bald first.
KATE.
But you never go
Into society.
THE PROFESSOR.
But I will, you know.
KATE.
Your dress adds to your years full eight or nine.
A TEACHER TAUGHT. 149
THE PROFESSOR.
Buckingham de Brown’s own tailor shall be mine.
KATE.
Algebra 'll be my rival, I foresee.
THE PROFESSOR.
Only to prove my love by A plus B.
KATE.
You’ll not be ready when the lunch-bell rings.
THE PROFESSOR.
*Twill be your task to teach me all those things.
KATE.
But then, my guardian, is it your advice
That I should make this awful sacrifice P
THE PROFESSOR.
You saucy jade
KATE.
And only as a daughter
Can a girl love the patriarch who's taught her
To say “papal’’
THE PROFESSOR.
No—that I did not—never !
O Kate l you’re laughing. Oh, you saucy, clever,
150 COMEDIES FOR AMATEUR, ACTING.
Malicious—angel! Jove enthroned above
Mars l Gods eleven, I have won her love l
Her love | Yes, I was idiotic, blind,
Not to have guessed it. Kitty, never mindl
We'll make up for lost time now—wait and
Sèë—
I love you, dear, more even than you love me.
CURTAIN.
HE RED IT Y.
A PHYSIOLOGICAL AND PSYCHOLOGICAL
ABSURDITY IN ONE A. O.T.
BY ARTHUR PENN,
C H A R A C T E R. S.
MR. SMITH, a burgomaster.
MR. SMITH, a drum major.
MR. SMITH, a swell.
MR. SMITH, a sporting gentleman.
MR. VON BRUCKENCRUCKENTHAL, a gentle-
man suffering from compatibility of temper.
MRS. von BRUCKENCRUCKENTHAL, a lady suf-
fering from the same cause.
MISS BELLA SMITH, a young lady of great
personal attractions, who falls heir finally—but
perhaps it is as well not to anticipate.
[The French original of this play, is “La Postérité d'un
BourgmeStre,” written by M. Mario Uchard.]
EI E R E D IT Y.”
SCENE: A public square in Hackendrackenstack-
enfelstein, a small German village near the
Rhine. Burgomaster's house L., with practi-
cable window over the door. Chair before the
door. The Dew Drop Inn R., with a swing-
ing sign. Chair and table before its door.
Burgomaster discovered C. between Mr. and
Mrs. von Bruckencruckenthal. Other villa-
gers R. and L.
OPENING OHORUS.
Air: “Upidee " or “The Cork Leg.”
They say it is the proper thing
That we an opening chorus sing;
And so we stand here in a ring
To raise our voice from wing to wing.
Although we do not think it nice,
A single verse will not suffice;
More are included in the price,
And so we have to bore you twice.
{ [Eveunt villagers R. and L.
* See Prefatory Note, p. 18, for remarks about the perform-
ance of this play.
154 COMEDIES FOR AMATEUR ACTING.
BURGOMASTER.
Now, Mr. and Mrs. von Bruckcruckenthal, I
give you five minutes, not a second more. Be-
fore being Burgomaster, I was Colonel in the First
Hackendrackenstackenfelstein Mounted Fire Ex-
tinguishers. To-day is the anniversary of the
capture of Holzenstolzenburg. As an old soldier,
Itake part in the ceremony. I had already donned
my Colonel’s costume when you knocked, and con-
cealed the warrior under the robe of the magis-
trate. The sun will shortly appear. I give you
five minutes. Speak |
WON B.
Well—you see—your honor.
BURGOMASTER, interrupting.
Tell me quickly, what do you desire, Mr. von
Truck P
Von B., correcting.
Von Bruckencruckenthal, your honor. I want
to be divorced.
BURGOMASTER.
And you, Mrs. von Truck P
WON B., correcting.
Von Bruckencruckenthal.
MRS. WON B.
So do I, your honor. I could not think of
opposing my husband.
HEREDITY. 155
BURGOMASTER.
What are your reasons 2 Is your wife disa-
greeable?
WON B.
On the contrary.
BURGOMASTER.
Extravagant P
MRS. WON B.
He carries the purse, your honor.
BURGOMASTER.
Does she flirt 2
WON B.
Never, your honor.
BURGOMASTER.
Does she beat you ?.
MRS. WON B.
Oh, no l I love him too much for that.
BURGOMASTER.
Well, then, if it is not impertinent, I should
like to know why you want a divorce.
WON B.
For compatibility of temper.
BURGOMASTER.
Very well, for incompatibility of temper.
156 COMEDIES FOR AMATEUR, ACTING.'
WON B.
No, your honor, I said compatibility of tem-
per. ~sº
BURGOMASTER.
I would comprehend. I do not comprehend.
WON B.
I will explain, your honor. When I want a
thing, my wife desires exactly the same thing.
When I want to go to the right, she says go to the
right. The dishes I like she adores. I say scis-
sors, she says scissors. The infernal similarity in
our tastes, our ideas, in fact, in everything, makes
my life wretchedly one-sided. Existence is in-
supportable. I need variety, excitement, and not
this disgusting monotony. That’s why I want a
divorce.
BURGOMASTER.
What say you, Mrs. von Truck P
Von B., correcting.
Von Bruckencruckenthal. ,
MRS. WON B.
Nothing, your honor. My husband must be
right, since he is my husband.
WON B.
Just hear that, your honor.
HEREDITY. 157
BURGOMASTER.
Enough 1 the five minutes have elapsed. Mrs.
von Brokencrockery, come here. [Whispers to
Mrs. van B.]
Von B., aside.
What is he saying to her ? Oh I if I don’t get
a divorce, this devastating monotony will kill me.
BURGOMASTER, to Mrs. von B.
To be taken every morning and evening, be-
fore meals. [To von B.] Mr. von Brokencrock-
ery, come and see me in a week. Good day. The
Burgomaster vanishes. [Evit L.
WON B.
What did he whisper you ?
MRS. WON B.
He told me of a remedy to correct myself.
WON B.
You don’t say so I What remedy ?
MRS. VON B., boaring his ears.
That I
What, P
WON B.
MRS. WON B.
Every morning and evening, before meals.
I58 COMEDIES FOR AMATEUR ACTING.
WON B.
We’ll see about that.
MRS. WON B.
Forward—march—look sharp !
WON B.
Here is a remedy of the patent-medicine kind.
MRS. WON B.
But it will succeed. [Ea.eu/nt R.
BURGOMASTER enters L. from house infantastic
costume of Mounted Fire Eatinguishers, without
his boots. He strikes a solemn attitude before his
door, and then sneezes.
BURGOMASTER.
Atchi ! The dream was strange. All night
I saw my son, my long-lost son. If I could only
recover him 1 Perhaps the dream was a heavenly
warning. I have long hoped that some lucky ac-
cident would bring us face to face, and that a fa-
ther's heart— [Comes down C.] It was in 1832.
. He was six years old. We bivouacked on the
banks of the Kalbsbratenthaler. Suddenly we
were attacked by guerrillas—no, gorillas—no,
guerrillas. We seize our arms—I tell my son to
await my return near a tree—I mount my steed—
we fly to victory—the enemy fly from us—and I
fly to the arms of Murphy—no, Morphy—I mean
HEREDITY. 159
Morpheus. The next day I return for my son.
I found the tree. I had blazed it with my sabre;
but my son was—gone. [Chord.] I interrogate
the police—the detectives—but, of course, they
knew nothing. Since then, no news. I have be-
come Burgomaster. Once a year I rebecome
Colonel. [Poetically] Here comes the dawn. Au-
rora, smiling child of Phoebus. Atchi! [Sneezes
—then goes up and sits before d00r, taking Out
paper from pocket.] Let's see the news. “The
Daily Comet.” I like “The Daily Comet”—it
always has such good tales. “Telegraphic News.
By Cable. Associated Press Dispatches. Holzen-
stolzenfels: The event of the day is the début at
the Royal Senegambian Circus of the riding man-
monkey, the Cynocephalus.” [Spoken] Cyno-
cephalus—pretty name—’tis a German name.
[Reads! “This prodigy of strength—this hairy
artiste—” [Spoken] Artiste. Ah he’s an Ital-
ian. [Reads] “This hairy artiste performs the
most difficult feats with a facility extremely sur-
prising. His best act is the Flying Leap of the
Bounding Antelope of the Choctaw Desert.”
[Rises] Ah the father of such a son may well
be proud. My Edward would perhaps have re-
sembled him. My Edward Oh, that dream I
If I should only recover him, I would make him
my friend, my companion, my boot-black. Ah 1
away with weakness. I am a burgomaster—that
is some consolation. Atchi ! [Sneezes.]
160 COMEDIES FOR AMATEUR ACTING.
*
SMITH, a swell, enters L., with sack on back,
cane, eyeglass, etc. Very strong lisp throughout.
Reads sign of inn.
SWELL.
By Jove I this is it. The Dew Drop Inn.
[To Burgomaster] I say, my friend, does the Fly-
ing Velocipede pass here for Holzenstolzenfels P
BURGOMASTER, majestically.
In the first place, I am not your friend. In
the second place, you will immediately show me
your passport.
- SWELL, taking off sack.
By Jove | ye know, my passport is in my sack,
my good man.
BURGOMASTER, indignantly.
I am not your good man. Your passport |
SWELL.
Give a fellow time, you know. You’ll see, my
name is Smith.
BURGOMASTER, aside, eaccitedly.
Heavens ! That eye that mouth I those
nose l If it were he l [Aloud] Your name is
Smith ?
SWELL.
Yes, Colonel.
HEREDITY. 161
BURGOMASTER.
Call me Burgomaster.
- SWELL, giving passport.
There, enraged wretch l
BURGOMASTER, taking it tenderly.
Call me friend. [Reads, aside.] Heavens !
he told the truth. [Aloud] Young man, your
hand. I am also a Smith.
SWELL.
You are no phenomenon, dilapidated indi-
vidual. I know many more Smiths, without
counting my father.
BURGOMASTER, wildly.
You have a father ?
SWELL.
By Jove | ye know. Do I look as if I grew on
a rose-tree, agèd innocent 2 [Sneezes.] Atchi !
There, I am catching cold.
BURGOMASTER, with joy, struck by an idea, aside.
He has a cold. I have a cold. Perhaps it is
hereditary. [Aloud] Young man, you resemble
a son I lost. [Embraces him.]
SWELL, struggling.
By Jovel ye know; he is mad. Wrathy curi-
osity, restrain your emotion.
11
162 CowPDIES FOR AMATEUR ACTING.
BURGOMASTER, putting hand to Swell’s heart.
You feel nothing there P.
SWELL, roughly.
Ifeel a No. 11 hand. [Repulses Burgomaster,
and sits at table R., eating bread and cherries from
sack.]
BURGOMASTER, L.
How he resembles me ! This is mysterious
—very mysterious ! I must dissemble. [Retires
wp L.]
BELLA enters R. with a small package in her hand.
Ah! Oh, dear! Isn’t it hot | [Puts package
on table; sees Swell.] Ahl a young man. Good
day, sir. [Courtesies.]
SWELL, at table R.
By Jove | ye know. What a pretty girl I
BURGOMASTER, coming down R.
Female peasantess, your passport
BELLA.
Oh, dear! a soldier. Good day, sir. [Cour-
testes. I i
BURGOMASTER, severely.
Your passport l
BELLA, giving it.,
There, sir.
HEREDITY. 163
BURGOMASTER, taking it.
Your name ! -
BELLA.
Bella Smith, sir.
BURGOMASTER, aside, eacitedly.
Smith ! [Reads.] Heavens ! 'tis true. That
eye | that mouth I those nose ! If it were he l
[To Bella] You are a girl P
BELLA, laughing.
If you please, your honor, don’t be stupid!
BURGOMASTER, dignified.
Female peasantess, your language is incen-
diary ! Remember that I represent the law, and
to Say I am stupid—
BELLA.
Oh, dear ! I beg your pardon, sir; it was a
slip of the tongue. [Innocently] I know I should
not always say what I think.
BURGOMASTER, majestically.
*Tis Well I [Slowly eacit L.
BELLA, looking at him, laughs.
Oh, dear ! ins’t he funny ? Some men are so
ugly.
SWELL.
Thank you for them.
164 COMEDIES FOR AMATEUR ACTING,
BELLA, quickly.
Oh! I don’t say that for you; you are quite
good-looking.
SWELL.
Thank you for myself.
BELLA, confused.
Oh, dear ſ that was another slip.
SWELL.
By Jovel ye know, I don’t complain. I would
say as much to you.
BELLA, sitting at table R.
Oh, bah I We don’t know each other.
SWELL,
By Jove | ye know, we must. Which way do
you go?
BELLA.
That doesn’t interest you ; you won’t come.
SWELL.
By Jowel ye know, you don’t know me. I’ve
followed girls far plainer than you.
BELLA, conceitedly.
I should say so.
SWELL.
Coquette l
HEREDITY. 165
BELLA, confusedly.
Oh, dear! that was a slip.
SWELL, offering fruit.
Have some cherries P
BELLA, taking fruit.
Yes, a few—a very few. Oh, ain’t they awful
nice
SWELL.
You love fruit, like all Eve’s daughters.
BELLA, eating.
Eve's daughters ? Don’t know them. They
don’t live in this part of the country.
SWELL.
So you won’t tell me which way you go?
BELLA, rising.
Oh, dear ! You are too inquisitive. I don’t
answer such questions [very fast], although
Mrs. Jackman does say I’m a chatterbox. It is
not that Mrs. Jackman is a bad sort of woman.
Oh, dear, no l but you see she is selling her house.
SWELL.
Ah 1 she is selling her house, is she
BELLA, chattering.
Yes, and so I should have to work in the
166 COMEDIES FOR AMATEUR ACTING.
country, if I staid with her, and that would
spoil my hands. It would be a pity to spoil my
hands, wouldn’t it 2
SWELL, taking her hand.
By Jovel I should think so.
BELLA, chattering 07).
So, you see, Mrs. Jackman said she should send
me to her sister in town.
SWELL, quickly.
Ah l you go to town.
BELLA.
Oh, dear! that was a slip, too. [Anaxiously]
Are you not going that way ?
SWELL.
Yes.
BELLA.
Oh, dear! what luck P We can go together,
because, you know, I’m afraid of people I don’t
know. I don’t associate with everybody. You
see, when one is pretty—
SWELL.
And when one knows it.
BELLA, innocently.
Yes—I mean, no. Oh, dear! you make me
talk such nonsense.
HEREDITY. 16'ſ
[Duet may be introduced here for BELLA and
SWELL.] SWELL
LL.
Have you a sweetheart 2
BELLA.
None of your business.
SWELL.
By Jovel ye know, with those eyes, ye ought
to have many.
BELLA.
I have none.
SWELL, gallantly.
By Jovel ye know, I know one.
BELLA, innocently.
Oh, dear ! do you ?
SWELL,
Yes, by Jove | Won’t you give me a lock of
your hair P
BELLA.
What for P
SWELL.
Why, isn’t a lock of your hair a key to your
feelings P
BELLA, laughing.
No, unless you pull it.
168 COMEDIES FOR AMATEUR ACTING.
SWELL.
Then let me pull it at once. [Tries to kiss
her, she escapes off R. He comes down front and
Sings:
Air: “Up in a Balloon.”
Dearest Arabella,
Meet me at the gate;
Come prepared to stay out
Kinder sorter late.
Wrap yourself in cotton,
Like a tooth that aches;
Drink up the molasses
For to-morrow's cakes.
Eat about a hundred
Pounds of honeycomb,
With a pint of syrup,
Just to send it home.
Send to meet the other things
Sixteen sugar-loaves,
And, by way of spicing,
Take two little cloves.
Cover with a pound of
Maple-sugar chips;
Put a stick of candy
'Twixt your dainty lips;
Then tell Mr. Edison
To send the bill to me,
And charge you to the nozzle
With electricitee.
Then if you will pocket
That piece of chewing-gum,
Warble like a little bird,
And I will come! [Evit.
HEREDITY. 169
DRUM MAJOR and SPORTING GENT enter L.
DRUM MAJOR heavily bearded, in a fantastic
drum-major’s dress. SPORTING GENT has spurs,
a whip, and jockey cap.
SPORTING GENT, continuing a story.
But that is not all, young man. The most
astonishing was the last Derby. A most gorgeous
start | Flatman got the lead on Freemason, go-
ing like wildfire. Pratt followed close with Pret-
ty Polly; just behind was Miss Pocahontas, then
Tomahawk. At the second jump, Miss Pocahon-
tas got ahead—you understand.
DRUM MAJOR, heroically endeavoring to under-
Stand.
Yes, that young lady got a head—well ?
SPORTING GENT.
Flatman let her pass. He knew he could beat
her with Freemason at the last ditch. At the
third fence, Tomahawk struck forward. But
Pratt took a fence splendidly.
DRUM MAJOR.
Ah l if he took offense, they had a fight.
Who got the tomahawk P
SPORTING GENT.
Oh, no l I mean he got over the fence.
170 COMEDIES FOR AMATEUR ACTING.
DRUM MAJOR.
Ah! he was the man on the fence.
SPORTING GENT,
The ditch once over, Miss Pocahontas was
coming in first, when Flatman jammed the spurs
into Freemason’s ribs. Chipney understood the
danger, and brought up Tomahawk, and then
Pratt began to saw at Miss Pocahontas’s mouth,
and on they went in fine style. Houp ! g’lang !
[Makes gestures of riding race.]
DRUM MAJOR.
I say, look here ! Is it to aggravate me that
you get off these bloodthirsty stories—though it
makes one’s blood run cold—about your friend
who saws at the young lady’s mouth P It's all
wrong. You hear ! Ah, if I had only been there !
SPORTING GENT.
But, my friend, Miss Pocahontas and Free-
IſlaSOI), al'e—
DRUM MAJOR, forcibly.
I am one—a freemason—and if any one struck
me with a tomahawk, or forced spurs into my
ribs—I—I— [Calmly] I would complain at head-
Quarters.
SPORTING GENT, half angry.
Thick-headed soldier, don’t you understand P
HEREDITY. 171
DRUM MAJOR, forcibly.
I grant you must amuse yourself, flirt with
ladies, but cut off their heads with a saw—oh, it
is atrocious ! degrading ! That's my opinion.
SPORTING GENT, thoroughly angry.
But, unfortunate wretch, did you never before
hear the noble language of the turf P
DRUM MAJOR.
The turf P Stuff I never ate any But,
if it cause you to act brutally to ladies, I don’t
want to eat any.
SPORTING GENT, laughing aside.
Oh, dear! isn’t he green—verdant—refreshing!
[Aloud] Warrior, you are a bore What do you
take me for P A Sanguinary savage, with canni-
balistic proclivities P No | I am a member of
the Jockey Club, come here for the races. Have
you never heard of sport -
- DRUM MAJOR, stupidly.
Support | Supporting whom P
SPORTING GENT, angrily.
I say sport | Sport.
DRUM MAJOR, calmly.
No, I never supported anybody.
172 COMEDIES FOR AMLATEUR, ACTING.
SPORTING GENT, angrily.
Go to the devil, if you can’t understand "
T)RUM MAJOR.
I understand now. You wished to aggravate
me. I shall complain to the Colonel. [Pointing
to Burgomaster, who enters L.]
BURGOMASTER, coming down C.
A row here in my diggins ! What the diggins
does it mean P
DRUM MAJOR.
Colonel, this individual—
BURGOMASTER.
Call me Burgomaster.
DRUM MAJOR.
Yes, Colonel. You see, this individual—
BURGOMASTER.
Your passports
DRUM MAJOR.
Here, Colonel. [They show them.] This in-
dividual—
BURGOMASTER.
Your name
DRUM MAJOR.
Smith, Drum Major of the Ninety-Ninth
Scandinavian Horse Marines.
HEREDITY. 173
BURGOMASTER, eacitedly.
Smith ! Heavens ! That eye l that mouth !
those nose ! If it were he l [To Drum Major!
To my arms
DRUM MAJOR.
Yes, Colonel. [Passively falls in Burgomas-
ter’s arms.]
BURGOMASTER.
Dear child ! It was you, was it not, I left on
the banks of the Kalbsbratenthaler P
DRUM MAJOR, puzzled.
On the banks of the Kalbsbratenthaler, Colonel.
BURGOMASTER.
Yes; collect your reminiscences. Do you re-
member Charley, to whom I lent the money the
General gave me 2
DRUM MAJOR.
Oh, the Generall [Makes military salute.]
BURGOMASTER.
Charley, the apple-pie man, who used to mak
you apple pies and tarts. *
DRUM MAJOR, utterly bewildered.
Pison tarts 2
BURGOMASTER, eacitedly.
Yes. Remember 1 Remember Ah, thou-
sand thunders he forgets.
174 COMEDIES FOR AMATEUR ACTING,
SPORTING GENT.
I say, Colonel, you crush my passport in your
affectionate anguish. Return it.
BURGOMASTER.
One moment. [To Drum Major] Stay here.
[To Sporting Gent] Your name *
SPORTING GENT.
Smith !
# BURGOMASTER.
Smith !!
DRUM MAJOR.
Smith !!!
BURGOMASTER, reading.
Heavens ! 'tis true. That eye that mouth !
those nose ! If it were he What shall I do P
Only wanted one son. I find three. I faint.
[Faints—Drum Major catches him. Bella and
Swell enter R. U. E.]
Tableau.
BELLA, to Burgomaster C.
Do you feel better ?
BURGOMASTER, waking up.
Where am I? [Looks around.] Ah, yes!
[Suddenly takes to striding up and down stage.]
How embarrassing ! Three sons—which to recog-
HEREDITY. 175
nize—which to press to my paternal bosom. One
thousand conflicting emotions rend my tortured
breast, and I have not my boots.
Won B., entering R.
Your honor, here is an official telegram.
BURGOMASTER, bewildered.
A telegram | my son—Oh, dear !
WON B.
They said it was important. [Exit R.
BURGOMASTER, 0.
Important l Well, duty after all else. [Reads]
“Burgomaster Smith, on receipt of this, will scour
the country with all available forces, and recap-
ture the riding man-monkey, the Cynocephalus.”
[Spoken] What the Cynocephalus has escaped l
How lucky if I recaptured it ! Ah there is a P.
S. [Reads] “He answers to the name of Smith.”
Thousand thunders l if he were my son. How
embarrassing ! My duty. [Takes stage R.]
SPORTING GENT, follows R. and stands R.
My passport.
BURGOMASTER.
My affection. [Takes stage L.]
SWELL, follows and stands L.
My passport.
176 COMEDIES FOR AMATEUR ACTING.
BURGOMASTER.
My head whirls. [Takes stage up R.]
BELLA, follows and stands up R.
My passport.
BURGOMASTER.
The Cynocephalus my son. [Takes stage up L.]
DRUM MAJOR, follows and stands up L.
My passport.
BURGOMASTER, C.
Leave me alone. I can’t think without my
boots.
ALL, coming C.
But, Colonel.
BURGOMASTER, heroically.
I go to put them on. [Ea;it into house.
BELLA, R. C.
He looks irritated.
SPORTING GENT, L. C., to her.
Charming creature l
SWELL comes O. between them.
BELLA, courtesying.
You are polite, sir. [To Drum Major R.]
What could have caused his emotion ?
* HEREDITY. 177
DRUM MAJOR, R.
Beauteous being, I know not.
SPORTING GENT, less gallantly.
One can easily understand that on seeing you
he lost his head.
SWELL, coming again between them.
By Jovel ye know. Just approach a little
farther off. --
BELLA, to Drum Major.
Perhaps he was ill. Do you know him, sir?
DRUM MAJOR.
Siren, I do not.
BELLA.
But you embraced him.
T)RUM MAJOR.
I received the order—I obeyed it. But
should rather have it come from you. *
BELLA.
All three of these men seem taken with me.
It is a most embarrassing position for a poor
maiden.
12
178 COMEDIES FOR AMATEUR ACTING.
SONG.
Air: Any Waltz.
What can a poor maiden do,
Who is sought by suitors two?
Or, perhaps, as you see,
By suitors three,
Who profess, and propose, and pursue.
Swell.
What can a poor maiden do,
Who is sought by suitors two?
She had best married be;
So she should marry me.
To her I will ever be true.
BELLA.
What can a poor maiden do?
She can not cut her heart in two 1
Or love all the three,
Most affectionatelee!
She can love only one of you.
SPORTING GENT, repeats stanza 8wng by Swell.
BELLA.
What can a poor maiden do?
The prospect is certainly blue.
So she had better flee
To some far countree,
Patagonia, Pekin, or Peru.
DRUM MAJOR 8ings stanga sung by SWELL. Then all
four repeat. -
HEREDITY. 179
BELLA, R.
Dear me ! it's really very embarrassing.
SWELL.
She sings like an angel.
SPORTING GENT.
She has a pace like a thoroughbred.
DRUM MAJOR.
Your song enchants me, oh, Sweetest siren l
BELLA.
Bella is my name, sir—not siren.
DRUM MAJOR.
Yes, my siren.
BELLA.
I say, what is a siren P
DRUM MAJOR, puzzled.
A siren, fair creature—a siren is—
SWELL, interrupting.
A woman with a fish's tail.
BELLA.
Oh, dear, how horrid
DRUM MAJOR.
But, fairest, I assure you.
180 COMEDIES FOR AMATEUR ACTING.
SPORTING GENT.
You’re a bore, if that is your method of mak-
ing love.
DRUM MAJOR, angrily.
You are a nice one, you are, after aggravating
me by sawing off a young lady's head, you infuri-
ated Vagabond.
SPORTING GENT.
Ruthless Wretch
DRUM MAJOR.
Thousand thunders | A citizen insults the
army. [Draws sabre..] Dr-r-r-aw and defend
yourself, wile caitiff
BELLA.
Dear me ! they will kill each other. Help !
murder | fire |
SWELL.
Ah, here is the Colonel !
BURGOMASTER, in door of louse.
Wherefore this noise P
BELLA, R. to Swell.
He has his boots.
SWELL, R. C. to Drum Major.
He has his boots.
HEREDITY. 181
DRUM MAJOR, L. C. to Sporting Gent.
He has his boots.
SPORTING GENT, L. to audience.
He has his boots.
" CHORUS, all evoept Burgomaster.
Air: “Il grandira,” from “La Périchole,” Offenbach.
He has his boots!
He has his boots |
He has his boots, and he's a man of gore!
BURGOMASTER.
In private life I am a right good fellow—
At most a very ordinary man.
I play the flute, I play the violoncello,
And on the drum I do the best I can.
These tastes may cause my fellow men to shun me;
But still they show a breast unused to war.
Yet now, behold [repeat], a change has come upon me;
I have my boots [three times], and I’m a man of gore. •
[CHORUS as before.
My brain is clear; my cra-ni-um is level;
I substitute the lion for the lamb.
In blood I bask; in devastation revel;
And that's the sort of hurricane I am.
No more will I my spirit high dissemble,
And imitate the clam on ocean's shore.
The world shall shake [repeat], the solar system trem-
ble—
I have my boots [three times], and I'm a man of gore.
[CHORUs as before.
182 COMEDIES FOR AMATEUR ACTING.
BELLA.
I should not like to stand in his shoes when
he has those boots on.
BURGOMASTER.
Wherefore this disturbance 2
DRUM MAJOR.
He insulted the army.
SPORTING GENT.
Not at all. He insulted this lady. *
DRUM MAJOR.
I want satisfaction. Ber-r-r-lud! A duel !
ALL,
A duel ?
BELLA.
Oh, dear !
BURGOMASTER, confused.
A duel. The Cynocephalus, my son.
DRUM MAJOR.
I am an officer.
SPORTING GENT.
I might have been one. I will prove it.
Colonel, lend me thy sword.
HEREDITY. 183
BURGOMASTER, waking up.
My sword. [Looking at Sporting Gent]
Heavens ! what do I see P That whip ! those
spurs l 'tis he l 'tis he l
SPORTING GENT, aside.
What does he say ?
BURGOMASTER, to Sporting Gent.
Your name is Smith ?
SPORTING GENT.
Yes.
BURGOMASTER.
I arrest you.
SPORTING GENT.
Arrest me ! What for P
BURGOMASTER, peremptorily.
Your real name is Cynocephalus. You have
escaped from the Royal Senegambian Circus. To
prison 1 [Aside] With my boots on, I am aston-
ishingly clever.
SPORTING GENT, takes R.
This is an outrage 1
SWELL [lisping].
By Jowel ye know, you thee what it is to be
too gallant.
i
184 COMEDIES FOR AMATEUR ACTING.
BURGOMASTER, hurriedly.
What do I hear? That foreign accent. 'Tis
hé ! [To Swell] Your name is Smith.
SWELL.
Yes.
BURGOMASTER.
I arrest you.
BELLA.
Oh, dear !
SWELL, angrily.
Arrest me ! Why?
BURGOMASTER.
You will be told after.
SWELL.
What right have you to—?
BURGOMASTER, grandly.
By my authority as Burgomaster, I order you
to prison, which you will leave [eacitedly] only to
do the Flying Leap of the Bounding Antelope of
the Choctaw Desert.
SWELL,
The flying leap.
SPORTING GENT.
The bounding antelope.
BELLA.
The Choctaw Desert.
HEREDITY, 185
SWELL.
Sanguinary antiquity, this is an outrage to—
BURGOMASTER, grandly.
You resist. Ah, ha! 'tis well. Drum Major,
I invoke your assistance. Seize that bloodthirsty
ruffian. [Points to Sporting Gent and takes
Swell by collar.]
SWELL, struggling feebly.
Thith ith outrageouth. By Jove | ye know,
to arrest a fellow for no offenth.
BURGOMASTER, with lisp and Swell’s accent.
By Jovel ye know, I know your offenth.
SWELL, struggling feebly.
Let me get my thack.
BURGOMASTER.
I’ll keep your thack, you thee.
SWELL, wildly.
He taketh my thack; he taketh my accent;
he taketh me by the collar ; he hath a very taking
Way.
BURGOMASTER.
It aggravates him to be taken off, poor little
fellow.
SWELL, struggling.
Don’t pull my collar.
186 COMEDIES FOR AMATEUR ACTING.
BURGOMASTER.
Don’t be choleric. [Pulls him into house
where Drum Major has put Sport, and locks door.]
DRUM MAJOR.
Ah, Colonel ! I think I was of great assis-
tance.
BURGOMASTER, calmly.
Drum Major, I am satisfied with your conduct
on this memorable and glorious, though sangui-
nary, occasion. [Suddenly regarding Drum Ma-
jor.] Ah ! what do I see ? Ah ! [Jumps wildly.]
The monkey-man is bearded. This hair. [Point-
ing to Drum Major.] He answers to the name
of Smith. [To Drum Major] Cynocephalus, I
arrest you.
DRUM MAJOR, astonished.
How, Cynocephalus ! I do not know that in-
dividual. He is not in my regiment.
BURGOMASTER, authoritatively.
I arrest you—you are a leapist.
DRUM MAJOR, astonished.
But, Colonel.
BURGOMASTER.
You resist P Ah, ha! to prison. [Crosses L.]
HEREDITY. 187
DRUM MAJOR.
But I am the Drum Major of the Ninety-ninth
Scandinavian Horse Marines.
*
BURGOMASTER.
No observations ! [Pushes him into house,
locks door, and comes down R.] At last.
BELLA.
Oh, dear ! Poor young man
BURGOMASTER, sagely to Bella.
Female peasantess, your name is Smith ?
BELLA.
Bella Smith, your honor.
BURGOMASTER, aside.
Ha, ha! This is suspicious. We must cross-
question her. [Aloud] So you pretend to be a
girl?
BELLA.
Yes, your honor.
BURGOMASTER.
Call me Colonel.
BELLA.
Yes, your honor. What have these poor
young men done, to be locked up 2
188 COMEDIES FOR AMATEUR ACTING.
BURGOMASTER, inquisitionally.
You are going to the railroad P
BELLA.
Yes, your honor.
BURGOMASTER, roughly.
Call me Colonel.
BELLA.
Yes, your honor. Why did you arrest them P
It is perfectly ridiculous.
BURGOMASTER, dignified.
Female peasantess
BELLA.
Oh, dear! it was a slip. Is it because they
would not be your sons P
BURGOMASTER, grandly.
They are my sons no longer.
BELLA.
– Who are they then P
BURGOMASTER, wildly.
Who are they [Calmly] The Cynocephalus,
• *. BELLA.
Oh, dear! Which P
HEREDITY. 189
BURGOMASTER.
All three.
BELLA.
That is utterly idiotic.
BURGOMASTER, severely.
Female peasantess l
BELLA.
It was a slip. [Coaayingly] Your honor, they
have done nothing to you. Let me have one—
the little one. He fell in love with me.
BURGOMASTER, with the air of Brutus.
His name is Smith. 4.
BELLA.
Is that a reason 2 Mine is Smith, too. Why
not arrest me P
BURGOMASTER, Sagely.
I thought of it. [Takes snuff.]
BELLA.
Just what I should have expected from you.
BURGOMASTER, dignified.
Female peasantess
- BELLA.
It was a slip. [Very coacingly] But, you
190 COMEDIES FOR AMATEUR ACTING.
dear, good, kind, nice old general, let me have the
little one, please. -
BURGOMASTER, inea.0rable.
His name is Smith.
BELLA, quickly.
So is yours.
BURGOMASTER, startled.
So it is Heavens ! I had forgotten. What
shall I do P. The orders are plain. Perhaps I
am the Cynocephalus.
BELLA, watching him, aside.
Oh, dear ! What is the matter with him now P
BURGOMASTER, down R.
An old soldier should suffer without complain-
ing. I must incarcerate myself. [Goes majesti-
cally to door L. and solemnly returns to Bella down
L. C.] [Suspiciously] You are sure you are a
girl?
BELLA, angrily.
Colonel, you are an impolite old boy 1 I am
disgusted, astonished, and astounded !
BURGOMASTER, Sagely, aside.
Such mildness. She must be a girl.
[Eacit into house. Lights down.
HEREDITY. 191
BELLA.
Oh, dear! how disagreeable. He might have
left me one—the little one. The devastating old
reprobate. And how dark it is all at once
SweLL, on balcony, Sporting Gent and Drum
Major behind him.
Psth ! Psth !
BELLA, looking up.
Ah there he is. [To Swell] The Burgomas-
ter has gone inside.
SWELL.
Hush | Speak lower. We will escape by this
window. .*
HOW P
BELLA.
SWELL.
By means of that ladder, which I see there.
[Points R.]
BELLA.
All right. [Sets it at side of house.]
SWELL.
By Jovel ye know, it is dangerous; but I shall
risk it. Hold firm l [Aside to audience] Sensa-
tion " [He descends ladder calmly—music tremolo.]
BELLA.
Heavens, this is frightfull [Drum Major and
Sporting Gent descend. Music crescendo.]
192 ComEDIES FOR AMATEUR ACTING.
BELLA.
Saved l Saved at last !
ALL.
Saved [Burlesque sensation tableau.]
SPORTING GENT.
Now to escape.
BELLA, up 0.
Yes—
DRUM MAJOR, R.
We—
SWELL, O.
Must—
SPORTING GENT, L.
Escape—
QUARTET.
BELLA.
Now this is really trying:
The time has come for flying;
But day is slowly dying,
And we shall be in the dark.
SWELL.
Let each one stick to the other,
As though he were his brother,
And never make any bother,
While we are in the dark.
[CHORUS, repeat first stanza.
HEREDITY. 193
º SPORTING GENT.
Without running, jumping, leaping,
But softly, gently creeping,
While all the world is sleeping,
We steal away in the dark.
[CHORUs as before.
DRUM MAJOR.
Ere we can sing a ditty,
We must be out of the city,
Away from this maiden pretty,
Alone here in the dark
[CHORUs as before, ending in short, mysterious dance.
SWELL, L. C.
When does the first train pass 2
SPORTING GENT.
I have my paper in my pocket [takes out pa-
per], but I can’t see. [To prompter, off stage].
Turn up the gas a little, please. [Lights up.]
Thank you.
- SWELL.
The latest from the seat of war.
ALL, anayiously.
Ah
SPORTING GENT.
No news.
SWELL, looking on paper, starting.
Ah
13
194 COMEDIES FOR AMATEUR ACTING.
ALL.
What, P
SWELL.
Here.
ALL.
Yes.
SWELL.
See [Pointing to paper.]
ALL.
Well ?
SWELL, reads.
“Information wanted of a Mr. Smith, who
was Colonel of the Hackendrackenstackenfelstein
Mounted Fire Extinguishers, who in 1832 lent
money to one Charley, the apple-pie man.”
BELLA.
The Burgomaster.
SWELL.
Listen l “The said Charley, being a widow,
died, leaving a fortune of thirty-two millions to
the said Smith.”
ALL.
Thirty-two millions. Oh !
BELLA.
You lose time; you must fly.
SWELL.
True. [Aside, going] And he took me for
his son.
HEREDITY. 195
SPORTING GENT, aside.
After all, he may be my father.
DRUM MAJOR, aside.
Since he is my superior, and he says he is my
father—
BELLA, looking in howsé L.
He comes. Hide.
ALL.
Yes. *. [Enter inn R.
Von B. enters R., goes L.
WON B.
Your honor, another telegram.
BURGOMASTER, inside.
What is it, P
WON B.
An official telegram.
BURGOMASTER, at door, taking it.
Heavens ! [von B. ea.its.] “The Cynoceph-
alus was recaptured this morning in the spire of
Trinity Church.” [Comes down C.] Then I am
free. These young persons are innocent. . .
BELLA, aside.
Oh, dear! I hope he won’t perceive their
• flight. 3
196 COMEDIES FOR AMATEUR, ACTING.
BURGOMASTER.
They must be released.
SWELL, at the door of inn, overhearing, aside.
Release us. *
BURGOMASTER, turning, sees him.
What do I See P
BELLA, aside.
How imprudent!
SWELL, coming down, followed by Sporting Gent
and Drum Major.
Yes, it is I. I had escaped. I was wrong.
I would not injure a noble Burgomaster. I re-
turn. Arrest me.
DRUM MAJOR, heroically.
Me.
SPORTING GENT, nobly.
And me.
BURGOMASTER, ea:plaining.
But—
SWELL.
I shall obey you as a father.
BURGOMASTER, rapturously.
A father | ty
DRUM MAJOR.
Colonel, you also called me your son.
HEREDITY. 197
BURGOMASTER.
How embarrassing ! What shall I do P
BELLA.
Perhaps they are all your sons.
SWELL, SPORTING GENT, and DRUM MAJOR.
Father l [Kneeling.]
Tableau.
BURGOMASTER.
Oh, my heart is distracted My sons in my
arms—all three. [He embraces them all.]
BELLA.
Oh, dear! this is affecting.
BURGOMASTER, rejecting them severely.
Now tell me why you left the tree where I
placed you ?
DRUM MAJOR, dubiously.
The tree ?
SPORTING GENT, inquiringly.
The tree ?
SWELL, wildly.
The tree ?
BELLA.
They have forgotten.
198 COMEDIES FOR AMATEUR ACTING.
BURGOMASTER.
True, it was long ago. [Suddenly] Do you
remember your great-aunt, Amethystenella Smith?
BELLA, surprised, coming down.
Amethystenella was my mother. [Chord.
ALL.
Ah
BELLA.
Yes. As a proof of it, here is her cross.
ALL.
Ah her mother’s cross.
BELLA.
And here are her papers.
BURGOMASTER.
Can she be my niece P [Trying to read pa-
pers.] I can’t read with my boots on. [To Swell]
Read |
SWELL.
Yes, [Reads...] Hal Thith ith hith aunt.
SpoRTING GENT, lisps.
Hith aunt.
DRUM MAJOR, lisps.
Hith aunt.
*. BELLA, lisps.
Hith aunt. -
HEREDITY. 199
CHORUS.
Air : “He has his boots.”
This is his aunt, [three times] he never knew before.
.*
BURGOMASTER.
Ith is my aunt.
BELLA.
Yes, your aunt. Only what I regret is, you
did not find it out before, as now you may think
I recognize you on account of your fortune.
BURGOMASTER, astonished.
My fortune.
DRUM MAJOR.
Yes. Charley has died and left you thirty-
two millions.
BURGOMASTER.
Charley dead Poor old fellow ! Ah 1 my
Sons, I adopt you all; you must never leave me.
SWELL, SPORTING GENT, and DRUM MAJoR.
We Won’t.
BURGOMASTER, confidentially.
We ought to have a wedding to end up.
SWELL, L. C., taking Bella’s hand.
We will see to that. [To Bella, L.] Won’t
we, dearest ?
200 COMEDIES FOR AMATEUR, ACTING.
BELLA.
Yes, ducky.
MR. and MRS. WON B. enter R.
MR. WON B.
Our married life begins anew.
MRS. WON B.
Yes, we’ve agreed to disagree.
BURGOMASTER.
All right, now we only need a little music to
end.
MUSICAL FINALE.
Air : “Yankee Doodle.”
BURGOMASTER, R. 0.
To sing a song is never wrong,
And so we'll have a chorus.
Your stay with us we'll not prolong,
O friends we see before us.
ALL, repeat as chorus.
To sing a song, etc.
SweLL, L. 0.
Put on your shawls l These mimic halls
Will soon be very lonely.
We ask, before the curtain falls,
Your approbation only.
HEREDITY. 201
ALL, repeat as chorus.
To sing a song, etc.
BELLA, 0.
Here we all stand, a timid band,
We can not now dissemble;
Until you give what we demand,
We shiver, shake, and tremble.
ALL, repeat as chorus.
To sing a song, etc.
CURTAIN.
FRANK WYLDE.
O O M E D Y I N O N E A G T'.
By J. BRANDER MATTHEWS.
C H A R A C T ER. S.
FRANK WYLDE.
CAPTAIN CULPEPPER COLDSPRING, of Rio
Janeiro, Brazil. &
MRS. JULIET MONTAGUE, his niece.
ROSE, her maid.
[The French original of this play is “Le Serment d'Horace,”
written by M. Henry Mürger.]
*
F R.A.N. K. W. YI, T) E.
SCENE : A handsome parlor. Doors C., R. 2 E.,
and L. 1 E. Fireplace L. 2 E. Clock and
handsome wases on mantelpiece L. 2 E. Ta-
ble R., with books, two cheap china vases, and
Mrs. Montague's photograph neatly framed.
Piano L. C., with two cheap china vases on
it. Mrs. Montague's miniature on wall R.
Sofa before fire C. Folded screens at back
L. C.
Rose discovered, lighting gas.
ROSE.
Well, I must say that I like these apartment
houses better than a horrid hotel. French flats
they call 'em. I don’t think the French are flats
at all if they invented these houses and cooking,
and the fashions besides. [Clock on mantel strikes
eight.] Eight ! She must be done dinner by this
time ! Ah Here she is
MRS. JULIET MONTAGUE, entering D. C.
Rose !
206 COMEDIES FOR AMATEUR ACTING.
ROSE.
Yes, ma'am.
MRS. MONTAGUE, languidly.
Bring me a chair by the fire | Not that one.
An arm-chair.
ROSE.
Here, ma'am. [Putting arm-chair before fire.]
MRS. MONTAGUE.
Those elevators are always so cold. [Sits and
warms her feet.] Has the Captain come in yet
ROSE.
No, ma'am.
CAPTAIN CULPEPPER COLDSPRING throws open
D. C., rushes in violently, very angry.
The devil take New York and the New-York-
ers. They’re a pack of ninnies 1 fools l [Shout-
&ng] Idiots
ROSE, hurriedly, bringing vase from piano.
Here, sir! [Captain Smashes it angrily on
floor, and rushes off, banging door Z, 1 E.]
[Frightened] Ah 1
MRS. MONTAGUE, very calmly, glancing at herself
Čn a mirror.
Well, Rose, what’s the matter P
FRANK WYLDE. 207
ROSE.
I shall never get used to the Captain, ma'am.
He's very savage.
MRS. MONTAGUE.
I suppose he has been quarreling. [Calmly]
I hope he has not killed anybody. Gather up the
fragments, Rose ; put them with the others l
[Rose picks up bits of china vase, and throws them
in basket behind fireplace L. 2 E.] And in case
his wrath is not yet assuaged, have another fire-
escape—Safety-valve—lightning-rod ready for him!
CAPTAIN, off L.
Rose ! [Entering L. 1 E.] Rose !
ROSE, going for another vase.
Sir P
CAPTAIN.
Lay to !
ROSE, surprised.
Lay to ?
CAPTAIN, sharply.
Lay to 9 ‘plºy
ROSE.
But, sir—I—
CAPTAIN.
Stop !
ROSE.
Ah! I see. Never having navigated, sir, I
didn’t know. After this I’ll lay to 1
208 COMEDIES FOR AMATEUR ACTING.
CAPTAIN.
Shut up ! I don’t like your voice Get an-
other organ or I’ll discharge you !
ROSE.
But, sir, indeed, I—
CAPTAIN.
Silence 1 Take this money and give it to that
waiter of Delmonico's outside 1 [Shouting] Why
don’t you go 2 [Rose jumps, frightened, and ea it
C.] That girl irritates my nerves | [About to
take vase from mantelpiece.]
MRS. MONTAGUE, calmly.
Excuse me, uncle, one of these. [Pointing
to cheap vases on table.] If it's the same to you ?
CAPTAIN.
I have no preference | Besides, I am calm now.
MRS. MONTAGUE, tranquilly.
What has happened P I am all anxiety.
CAPTAIN, warming his coat-tails at fire.
Nothing much l only this, in fact. I was puffing
a Partaga on Broadway, and I met Pacheco Go-
mez; you remember Gomez P Eh P. Not a bad
fellow at all, for a greaser; they hung him three
times in Paraguay during Lopez's day.
*
FRANK WYLDE. 209
MRS. MONTAGUE.
Is he well ?
* CAPTAIN.
Bad cold. “Coldspring !” said he. “Go-
mez l’” Said I. “Yes!” said he. “Come and
dine !” said I. And so we walked into Delmoni-
co's and had a good dinner, except the fish, too
old, and the sherry, too young. I call for the bill
and wait ten, fifteen, twenty minutes, by the
watch. At last the bill comes.
MRS. MoMTAGUE, calmly.
Yes P
CAPTAIN.
But it was not for me, but for a gentleman who
dined near us. I told him very politely that I had
asked for my bill before him, and I forbade his pay-
ing before me or I would break a bottle on his
head.
MRS. MonTAGUE, tranquilly.
Well ?
CAPTAIN.
Well, he pays, and I present him with a bottle
of claret, on the head, Chateau Margaux, '49.
MRS. MONTAGUE.
You killed him P
CAPTAIN.
Good claret never hurt anybody. He returned
my favor by a Duc de Montebello, extra sec. A
14
210 COMEDIES FOR AMATEUR ACTING.
battle is waged in the Champagne country. Row,
shouts, everything topsy-turvy. The waiters
rush in. Gomez and I seize two slaves and hurl
them through the window. General astonish-
ment. Row; police ; Smash—dinner, $25; other
luxuries, $80; total, $105. Things are so dear
in New York. Ah 1 Juliet, you had better come
back to Brazil.
MRS. MONTAGUE.
Never again l I love New York.
CAPTAIN, throwing himself on sofa by Mrs.
Montague.
Then acknowledge that I’m a pretty good spe-
cimen of an uncle. Your old husband exploring
the Pampas is bitten by a Snake : in twelve min-
utes you are a widow ; in twelve days you are con-
Soled.
MRS. MONTAGUE.
Oh, uncle ! Oh
CAPTAIN.
My dear, we are alone ! You curbed your
sorrow carefully, I can certify.
MRS. MONTAGUE.
I assure you—
CAPTAIN.
You wept for your husband twelve days; you
might have finished the fortnight; you didn't—
FRANK WYLDE. 211
that’s your lookout. On the thirteenth day you
cried, “I am free, dear uncle, good uncle, kind
uncle ; I want to see New York.” And here we
are l
MRS. MonTAGUE, kissing him.
You dear, good, kind old uncle !
CAPTAIN.
Exactly. For you I have abandoned my
adopted country, my dear Brazil. And to think
you could give me back all this—all that I have
given up.
MRS. MONTAGUE.
HOW P
CAPTAIN.
Remarry ! Try Cuttyback
MRS. MONTAGUE, rising.
A commonplace commission-merchant New-
er | Besides, I don’t like Mr. Cuttyback
CAPTAIN.
He is rich, and yet young—only thirty-two.
The mean of human life is thirty-three. Cutty-
back has only one year more. In another year
you are again a widow. That don’t matter; you
make a jolly little widow !
MRS. MONTAGUE.
Uncle, you are a wretch
212 COMEDIES FOR AMATEUR ACTING,
CAPTAIN.
If Cuttyback is not amenable to these statistics,
just return to Brazil; inoculate him with a taste
for botany; he wanders o'er the Pampas, and
then—pop 1 The happy Serpent that made you
a widow has probably brought up a struggling
family. *
MRS. MONTAGUE.
Uncle, you are atrocious !
CAPTAIN, toasting his feet and chuckling.
Hal ha l I must have my joke. Poor Cutty-
back l Josiah Cuttyback l Has he been courting
to-day ?
MRS. MONTAGUE.
No |
CAPTAIN.
Perhaps he forgot it, he is so absent-minded.
Perhaps he called while you were out. Rose !
Rose !
ROSE, entering C.
Sir P
CAPTAIN.
Has Mr. Cuttyback called to-day ?
ROSE.
No, sir.
CAPTAIN.
He forgot it. Absent-minded Cuttyback
[Takes his hat..]
FRANK WYLDE. 213
MRS. MONTAGUE.
Are you going out P
CAPTAIN.
For a minute only. Gomez and I are going
to have a Mocha and a fire-water together at the
Hoffmann. Ah By the by, Rose, have they
brought my coat P
ROSE.
Not yet, sir.
CAPTAIN.
If the tailor comes, tell him to wait. [An-
grily] Do you hear?
ROSE, jumping.
Yes, sir; of course.
CAPTAIN.
These servants are so stupid. In Brazil, where
they are black, you can sell them. But she is
white. You have not the right.
ROSE.
That’s a very good thing !
CAPTAIN.
This girl—this Rose, now, is insupportable.
Now, if she were only black, she’d bring a thou-
sand dollars.
ROSE, indignantly.
Althousand dollars, indeed! I should think sol
214 COMEDIES FOR AMATEUR ACTING.
CAPTAIN.
Let's see your teeth. Whew Perhaps twelve
hundred. But she’s white. You haven’t the
right. [Puts on hał and ea'it C.
ROSE.
What a tiger |
MRS. MONTAGUE, rising languidly.
My uncle goes out very often. [Sighs.] I’ll
try the piano. [Plays a few notes, then rises.]
Oh, it’s false ! It wants tuning—so do I. [Sits
on sofa.] Rose, I’m very bored. Do you know
what ennui is P
ROSE.
Yes, ma’am ; it’s a French word.
MRS. MONTAGUE.
Rose !
ROSE.
Ma’am P
MRS. MONTAGUE.
Tell me a fairy story. [Yawns and leans back.]
ROSE, laughing.
Certainly, ma'am. “Once upon a time there
was a beautiful princess, who was a widow, and
beautiful—oh, so beautiful l–as beautiful as
Cleopatrick. One day, coming from the bath,
she saw Prince Charming—oh, so handsome !
FRANK WYLDE. 215
*-
So young I only eighteen—and such a lovely mus-
tache.”
MRS. MONTAGUE.
Your tale is false, Rose. Prince Charming
was a commission-merchant in Pearl Street, and
his name was Josiah Cuttyback. [Bell rings.]
There he is now. Let him in.
ROSE, Sighing.
Yes, ma'am. [Exit C.
MRS. MONTAGUE.
He comes in the nick of time. I shall proceed
to make him miserable. All men like being
made miserable, and then it may amuse me.
[Rose enters C., with a card on a salver.] Ask
him in, Rose.
ROSE.
Yes, ma’am—but it’s not Mr. Cuttyback.
MRS. MONTAGUE.
Indeed
ROSE.
He sent in his card.
MRS. MONTAGUE, reading.
“Mr. Frank Wylde.” I don’t know him.
But perhaps he is some friend of uncle’s. Ask
him in.
RoSE goes to door C., and admits FRANK
216 COMEDIES FOR AMATEUR ACTING,
WYLDE, who has a light overcoat over his arm
and a note-book in his hand.
FRANK, bowing.
Pray excuse the intrusion, madam.
ROSE, aside.
I know it’s him l [Ea'it C.
FRANK.
I have the honor of addressing [looking in
note-book] Mrs. Juliet Montague 2
MRS. MONTAGUE.
Yes, sir.
FRANK.
Haight House, second floor, number two P
MRS. MONTAGUE.
Yes, sir. [Aside] This is rather odd.
FRANK pockets note-book, and, drawing white
pocket-handkerchief from his pocket, spreads it
on the carpet and kneels.
FRANK.
Very well. All right so far. Madam, I have
the honor of offering you my hand and heart.
MRS. MONTAGUE, rising in surprise.
Your hand P
FRANK WYLDE. 217.
FRANK.
And heart. Both. I know you’re going to
say you don’t know me. True, I don’t know you
either. You see, if we knew each other, it would
no longer be fun.
MRS. MONTAGUE, very calmly.
A lunatic, an escaped madman, in my room |
FRANK, trying to start conversation.
You See, madam, I—
MRS. MONTAGUE, pointing to door.
Leave me instantly, sir!
FRANK.
But—
MRS. MONTAGUE touches bell on table. Rose
enters C.
Show Mr.— Show this gentleman to the door.
ROSE.
Yes, ma'am.
FRANK.
The deuce [Eacit C., bowing profusely.
MRS. MONTAGUE thinks a moment, and then
!aughs.
Ah! ah! There’s away of proposing ! “I have
the honor of offering you my hand and heart.”
218 COMEDIES FOR AMATEUR, ACTING.
Ah! ah! How comic l I ought to have let this
eccentric being remain. He might have amused me.
FRANK, entering quickly C.
He asks nothing better, madam. Let us have
the kindness to be seated.
MRS. MONTAGUE.
But, sir, to whom have Ithe honor of speaking?
FRANK.
Certainly. Mr. Frank Wylde. [Bows, draws
wp a chair, and sits.] Frank Wylde, by name
and nature. My friends say I’m frank, and my
most intimate enemies Say I’m wild. My age—a
certain age. I have arrived at years of indiscre-
tion. My weight—one hundred and thirty-three
in the shade. My fortune—twenty thousand a
year. My profession [sadly]—unfortunate 1
MRS. MONTAGUE.
You have a lucrative practice.
FRANK, confidentially.
I’m a gentleman of elegant leisure. My fa-
ther, unfortunately, left me a fortune, and I have
nothing to do except to spend money and time;
and I find it very hard work indeed. Do you
know, I think a man that has nothing to do is a
nuisance to his friends and himself—at least, I
find it so.
FRANK WYLDE. 219
MRS. MONTAGUE.
So do I.
FRANK.
I am glad you agree with me. Yes, madam,
my life is very monotonous. I get up—I break-
fast—I read the papers. Nothing new, of course.
I drive—I dine—I go to the club or the theatre;
perhaps I have supper. I go to bed—I sleep—
and the next day [tragically]—the next day I
begin again l
MRS. MONTAGUE.
I sympathize with you.
FRANK.
Thank you, madam. You See, having no-
thing to do, I naturally want to do something—
anything ! everything ! Riding as I do in the
Fifth Avenue omnibus of monotony, I need now-
elty. I thirst for novelty I die for novelty
[L00king at his watch..] Please pay attention,
madam. I can give you only four minutes more.
Listen l I was at a reception yesterday; I left
early, and took the wrong overcoat by mistake,
and in the pocket I found the novelty.
MRS. MONTAGUE.
Indeed
FRANK.
Yes, madam. I found the long-sought now-
220 COMEDIES FOR AMATEUR ACTING.
elty, boundin Russian leather. 'Tis here. [Show-
$ng note-book.]
MRS. MoMTAGUE, reading.
“Cuttyback l’”
FRANK.
Josiah Cuttyback, a commission-merchant, an
absent-minded gentleman, too, for he has written
over night all his intentions for the next day.
MRS. MONTAGUE.
Ahl Ah I see
FRANK.
Madam, you are perspicacious. My life bored
me. I said: “Suppose I try Cuttyback's life 2
I have nothing to do. Suppose I do what Cutty-
back has to do P” Here is the programme of his
day’s work—I have sworn to follow it faithfully.
[Opens note-book.]
MRS. MONTAGUE.
I confess my curiosity.
FRANK.
“First : Buy 40 bags Java coffee and 75 bar-
rels sugar.” It is done. You may well say it is
too much for a bachelor, but my morning coffee
is assured for the rest of my life. It is done. I
erase. “Second : At 7.30 P. M. offer Mrs. Juliet
FRANK WYLDE. 221
Montague, Haight House, second floor, number
two, my hand and heart.” I beg you to remem-
ber that at exactly thirty minutes past seven I
suspended myself on your door-bell. “Third :
Don’t stand any nonsense from the uncle, old
Culpepper If necessary, be disrespectful l’”
This paragraph is illustrated.
MRS. MONTAGUE.
Illustrated How P
FRANK.
A horizontal leg is directed toward a gentle-
man looking the other way. A dangerous para-
graph, not fulfilled yet. I do not erase.
MRS. MONTAGUE.
What, sir! Would you dare P
FRANK.
Madam, I have sworn a solemn oath ! Lastly
—“Fourth : At eight o’clock, take a Turkish
bath. Remember and have Mustapha rub me
down.” [Rising] Gracious heavens ! Is your
clock right P
MRS. MONTAGUE.
Yes, sir.
FRANK.
Eight o’clock | Excoriated at the idea of
leaving you, madam—but duty calls. “I go,
but I return l’”
222 COMEDIES FOR AMATEUR ACTING.
MRS. MONTAGUE.
That will be unnecessary, sir. If this is a
wager, you have won it.
FRANK.
It is not a wager, madam—it is an oath I
swore. I obey. I return. Mustapha must not
be kept waiting. The purification completed, I
return.
MRS. MONTAGUE.
No, sir. Never again l
FRANK.
I go, but I return. [Eviţ C.
MRS. MONTAGUE.
He’s a lunatic. And here my uncle leaves me
exposed to— [Laughs] Ah l ah l Decidedly,
he is eccentric. “I go, but I return.” I hope
he will not, and yet— [Rings bell.]
ROSE, entering C.
You rang, ma'am P
MRS. MONTAGUE.
open the windows here ! The room is close !
[Bell heard.] There’s Mr. Cuttyback
•+. ROSE.
Shall I ask him in P
FRANK WYLDE. 223
MRS. MONTAGUE.
N—no. Say Mrs. Montague is not very well,
and desires to be excused.
[Evit R. 2 E., bell rings furiously.
ROSE, going to door C.
Cuttyback is in a hurry. [Opens door C.]
FRANK, rushing in quickly.
I am furious ! Mustapha had gone to Kalybia
—to Ujiji—to look for Stanley, and will not be
back for a year. Too bad l [Looks around.]
Why I where is she Well, I like that I She
knew I was coming back, and yet she does not
remain l Some people really have no idea of
Savoir faire or savoir vivre.
ROSE, aside.
I’m sure it is he [Aloud] Mr. Frank I
FRANK.
My name !
ROSE.
Don’t you recognize me 2 I am Rose.
FRANK.
Rose ! What Rose P
ROSE.
I used to be lady's maid to Miss Montmorency.
l
224 COMEDIES FOR AMATEUR ACTING.
FRANK.
Ah, yes! [Changing tone] What Montmo-
rency P
ROSE.
Miss Mary Montmorency, the prima donna
who used to live in Bleecker Street !
FRANK.
Ah, yes! of course; but, Rose, you will under-
stand that I scarcely wish to discuss such a sub-
ject as Miss Montmorency of Bleecker Street, now,
at the present time, when I offer Mrs. Montague
my heart and hand. t
ROSE.
You’re going to marry her ?
FRANK.
Marry her ? [Looks in note-book.] No, I
think not—no. I only offered her my hand and
heart. That’s all.
ROSE.
Why not marry her ? She's a widow.
FRANK.
Oh, ho." It’s a second edition, then l [Looks
at miniature.] Who's that ?
ROSE.
That's her portrait.
FRANK wyLDE. . . . 225
FRANK, taking it.
Per bacco / she’s pretty—very pretty—quite •
pretty I had not noticed her l [Pockets minia-
ture.] ROSE
Mr. Frank, you mustn't take it !
FRANK.
Why not ? I’ll send back the frame.
ROSE.
Oh, no, Mr. Frank; give it back at once
FRANK, not minding her.
Rose, who's this? [Takes photograph.]
ROSE.
That’s her, too.
FRANK.
Indeed Her photo. You don’t say ! Why,
she's an angell a houri ! [Pockets photograph.]
“O woman, in our hours of ease,
Uncertain, coy, and hard to please,
Yet seen too oft, familiar with her face,
We first endure, then pity, then embrace l’”
ROSE.
Please give it back
FRANK.
I’ll return the frame !
15 *
226 COMEDIES FOR AMATEUR, ACTING.
'ROSE.
. But, Mr. Frank—
FRANK.
Don’t bother l it isn’t yours!
ROSE.
That’s true. It’s her lookout, not mine.
[Turns up L.] Why, they’ve let the fire out.
FRANK.
Are you cold P [Kisses her.]
ROSE.
Oh I
FRANK.
I’ve struck a light !
CAPTAIN, rushing in C.
The devil take New York and the New-York-
ers. They’re a pack of fools l ninnies l idiots l
[Shouting] Idiots
ROSE, bringing vase.
Here you are, sir!
CAPTAIN, Smashing it.
Bang! Ah I feel better. [Ea'it L. 1 E.
FRANK.
Who is this typhoon P
FRANK WYLDE. 227
ROSE.
It's old Culpepper—her uncle.
[Ea'it' C. with broken vase.
FRANK.
Old Culpepper—her uncle ! The illustrated
paragraph ! Per bacco 1 it won’t be so easy.
CAPTAIN, entering L.
Here, Rose, take this fifty-dollar bill ! I say!
is there nobody here P [Throws his cigar-stump
on Frank's feet.]
FRANK.
Look out, there !
CAPTAIN.
You’re a nuisance I Go away ! Can you un-
derstand a simple story P
FRANK.
I think so, if it's very simple.
CAPTAIN.
I was in the café of Delmonico's. Some fel-
lows were talking about shooting and their skill.
It annoyed me.
Why?
FRANK.
CAPTAIN.
Don’t be so inquisitive l It annoyed me, I
say ! I drew this revolver from my pocket—
228 COMEDIES FOR AMATEUR ACTING:
FRANK, wheasy.
I say, there, it isn’t loaded ?
CAPTAIN.
Oh, yes, one barrell
FRANK.
That's enough.
CAPTAIN.
When the waiter brought me a light for my
cigar—bang ! I snuff it at twenty paces.
FRANK.
Ah, ha! And you killed a mirror
CAPTAIN.
Dead! Fifty dollars. How dear things are
in New York. Rose ! Rose ! That girl will
never come ! [Puts revolver on piano and pulls
bell-cord—it breaks.] Rose !
FRANK.
Let me help you. Rose ! Rose !
CAPTAIN.
Oh, these servants
FRANK.
Horrible ! aren’t they ?
FRANK WYLDE. - 229
BOTH, going up C.
Rose l Rose ! Rose !
FRANK.
You’re lively. You are—
CAPTAIN.
No, I am calm.
FRANK.
Ah Yes |
CAPTAIN.
I only get wrathy for sanitary reasons. If I
was calm for more than a quarter of an hour, I
should fear a stroke of apoplexy. [Anaxiously]
Am I red P
FRANK.
Very 1
CAPTAIN.
That girl will be the death of me ! Rose !
[Bangs table.]
FRANK.
Rose ! [Aside] From a cursory examination
I should say his character was a cheerful com-
pound of cayenne and curry ! [Aloud] Rose !
Rose l Ahl an ideal [Fires revolver up chim-
*ey.]
ROSE, entering C.
You rang, sir?
CAPTAIN.
. Ah! Ah That's an ideal Thank you !
230 COMEDIES FOR AMATEUR ACTING.
FRANK.
Don’t mention it. [They shake hands.]
CAPTAIN.
Rose, give this money to that waiter.
ROSE.
Yes, sir. [Eviţ C.
CAPTAIN.
Ah! That's better! Now I have a quarter
of an hour to be amiable.
FRANK.
Ahl Ah 1 [Aside] He is amiable, and the
pistol is not loaded. Now is the time for Para-
graph Four. [Shakes his leg.]
CAPTAIN.
What's the matter with your leg P Eh P
FRANK.
I’m a little like you—nervous ! [Captain re-
loads pistol.] I say ! what are you doing?
- CAPTAIN.
I always keep it loaded—for contingencies 1
FRANK, aside.
It won’t be so easy, after all, I prefer not to
be a contingency.
FRANK WYLDE. 231
MRs. MonTAGUE, entering R.
Good evening, uncle. [Sees Frank bow,
laughs.] Ahl Ah ! You here still, sir?
FRANK.
Yes, madam, I—
MRS. MONTAGUE.
Indeed, this persistence is peculiar ! What
do you want P I do not know you.
FRANK, bowing.
No 1 .
CAPTAIN.
You don’t know him P I don’t, either. Ah
Ah Here I’ve been talking to him for half an
hour. º
MRS. MONTAGUE.
He is a gentleman who offers me his hand and
heart.
Indeed
CAPTAIN.
ROSE enters O.
FRANK, bowing.
Yours truly, Frank Wylde.
CAPTAIN.
But he is laughing at us. Rose, you are a
maid of all work; throw this gentleman out of
the window ! *,
232 COMEDIES FOR AMATEUR ACTING.
Rose.
Oh, sir!
FRANK.
Oh, sir!
MRS. MONTAGUE, coldly.
Rose, Mr. Wylde’s hat.
FRANK.
Certainly, madam, but under these altered cir-
cumstances I have no longer the right to keep
anything that belongs to you—here is your por-
trait.
CAPTAIN.
Your portrait !
MRS. MONTAGUE.
But, sir—
FRANK.
I had taken it.
CAPTAIN.
Why?
FRANK.
To keep it. Here's your photograph, too.
Please excuse me. I have executed every para-
graph, except one, and that was only owing to
unforeseen circumstances beyond my control. I
have done my best, at least. Here is Mr. Cutty-
back’s note-book l [Mrs. Montague takes it.]
CAPTAIN.
Cuttyback l I don’t understand
FRANK WyLDE. . . . 233
FRANK.
That's unnecessary. Good-by, madam. I
hope your future but absent-minded husband will
not forget to make you happy. **
MRS. MONTAGUE.
He will not, if he carries out Paragraph Five 1
FRANK.
Excuse me, there is no Paragraph Five l
MRS. MONTAGUE.
There is—over the page. It is indispensable !
...” FRANK, anaciously.
What is it, madam P
MRS. MONTAGUE.
You should have turned the leaf. [Pockets
note-book.]
ROSE, who has read over Mrs. Montague’s
shoulder, aside.
Ah Ah I see l
MRS. MONTAGUE.
Rose, show Mr. Wylde out !
ROSE.
Yes, ma'am. [Aside] Ah! Ah That's a
good joke l
234 COMEDIES FOR AMATEUR ACTING.
FRANK, discouraged.
What can it be P
CAPTAIN, furiously.
Are you going P
FRANK.
Ah! your quarter of an hour is up 2 Well, I
also am wrathyl enraged 1 furious !
CAPTAIN.
Egad, sir!
FRANK.
Egad, sir!
CAPTAIN.
Thousand thunders |
FRANK.
Certainly, thousand thunders Paragraph
|Five. I shall find it, Sooner or later. In an era
when telegraphs, telephones, and railroads have
been invented, I at least can discover a paltry
Paragraph Five. I must find it ! [Taking and
smashing vase.] Ah! That’s better. [To Cap-
tain] You are right ! It does relieve one’s feel-
ings.
CAPTAIN, threatening.
Will you go 2 Thousand thunders |
FRANK.
I will go | Two thousand thunders Rose,
show me out ! [Eacit C. with Rose.
FRANK WYLDE. 235
CAPTAIN, furious.
Thousand thunders 1 [Calmly] I like that
fellow. What is it all about P
MRS. MONTAGUE.
Merely this: That fellow found Mr. Cutty-
back's note-book, in which he had written his
work for the day—
Well ? CAPTAIN.
Well
MRS. MONTAGUE.
And that fellow swore to carry out Mr. Cutty-
back's programme.
CAPTAIN.
Indeed P Let us be on our guard. [Rose en-
ters C.] Perhaps he is a sneak-thief
ROSE.
Mr. Frank P. Oh, dear, no l He is rich and
generous ! *.
MRS. MONTAGUE.
Be still !
CAPTAIN.
How do you know P
ROSE.
I was once with one of his—relatives, Mrs.
Bleecker.
CAPTAIN.
He is allied to the aristocracy of Manhattan.
Bleeckerisa Knickerbocker name! [Clock strikes.]
236 COMEDIES FOR AMATEUR ACTING.
MRS. MONTAGUE.
Eleven l
CAPTAIN.
I did not think it was so late. Good night !
MRS. MONTAGUE.
I do not need you, Rose. Good night, uncle.
CAPTAIN.
Good night, my dear. What a day !
MRS. MONTAGUE.
And what a night !
CAPTAIN.
Oh, yes, the note-book 1 [Laughs.] Poor
Cuttyback
[Ea;it L. 1 E. Mrs. Montague ea'it R. 2
E. Rose easit C. Stage dark and quiet.
D00r C. opens softly.
FRANK, entering C. with casket in his hand.
It’s I. I am here. I’ve found the Paragraph
Five. It was at home in one of my drawers.
Bere it is. That Rose is an intelligent girl.
Perhaps it is a little late to present one’s self in a
respectable house. Especially when one is not
invited. [Looks at watch..] Half-past eleven l
CAPTAIN, off L.
The devil take this house ! I can’t find my
dressing-gown Thousand thunders l
f
g
, FRANK WYLDE. 237
FRANK.
The menagerie. On guard I [Crosses R.]
The dove-cot must be here. My Juliet is the sun
—here is the east. [Lighting gas calmly.] Josiah
Cuttyback, commission-merchant, is a fine fellow.
He has excellent taste. Mrs. Montague is a
charming woman. [Reflectively] Of all wild
beasts, woman is the most dangerous. But I have
had some experience in the menagerie. Ah It
looks jollier with the lights. Now for business.
[Taps at door R. 3 E., and hides up R.]
MRS. MONTAGUE, at door R. 2 E.
These lights What can it mean P
FRANK, coming forward.
It is I, madam.
MRS. MONTAGUE, angrily.
You, sir? Again P
FRANK.
Again, and always
MRS. MONTAGUE.
Leave the room, sir!
FRANK.
That is impossible, madam, until I have ful-
filled my Self-imposed mission.
238 COMEDIES FOR AMATEUR ACTING.
MRS. MONTAGUE, pointing to Captain’s door.
You will force me to call for aid.
FRANK.
If you but open that cage, madam, you will
read in the papers to-morrow : “Yesterday even-
ing a horrible and heart-rending catastrophe oc-
curred in one of our new apartment-houses. A
young man, moving in our best Society, was de-
voured by a bloodthirsty wild beast from Brazil
in the parlor of Mrs. Montague. It is supposed
that the wounds are fatal.” Let in the lions, and,
like the old gladiators, I shall die saluting thee!
MRS. MONTAGUE.
I like eccentricity and originality. Yours
might please me, but not at an hour like this—
FRANK.
I understand and appreciate your scruples.
[Takes and opens screen.] This divides the room.
You remain at home, and I remain at home. We
are neighbors, each in his own house. I ask only
for five minutes to explain the cause of my return.
MRS. MONTAGUE.
Five minutes ? Well, will you go after that ?
[Frank makes the gesture of an oath.] Well,
then, it is now five minutes to twelve—at mid-
night you withdraw. [Sits.]
FRANK WYLDE. 239,
FRANK.
In five minutes I shall have fulfilled Paragraph
Five. e - e.
MRS. MONTAGUE, Smiling.
You know it, then P
FRANK.
Yes, madam. [Taking his casket.] Here it
is 1 [Sits.]
MRS. MONTAGUE.
A box P
FRANK.
“Paragraph Five : Burn my love-letters be-
fore Mrs. Montague.” -
MRS. MoWTAGUE, taking note-book from her pocket.
How did you discover ?
FRANK.
A clairvoyant told me—on the staircase. Now
to business l [Takes letter from boa..]
MRS. MONTAGUE.
I scarcely think that I ought to—
FRANK.
It would be neighborly. [Hands the letter to
Mrs. Montague.] Read It is very instructive.
MRS. MONTAGUE, hesitatingly glancing at letter.
It begins with a burst of passion.
240 COMEDIES FOR AMATEUR ACTING.
FRANK.
Is there a postScript P
MRS. MONTAGUE.
Yes, about a dress-maker.
FRANK.
There is always a P. S., and generally a dress-
maker. [Leans over.]
MRS. MONTAGUE.
That's not fairl You are cheating ! You
said: “Bach in his own house ! ”
FRANK.
I am in my own house—on the balcony.
[Takes another letter] Number two l
MRS, MONTAGUE, taking it.
“I accept your invitation to superr”—one p.
and two rºs.
ERANK.
She has since married a scene-shifter, rejoic-
ing in the euphonious appellation of J. Stubbs
Smith. Number three l
MRS. MONTAGUE, taking letter.
Number three is older, I should think.
FRANK.
Yes, she was a widow, grass widow, in Weeds,
•
FRANK WYLDE. 241
and wanted me to go without mine. I couldn’t
do without smoking, so I did without her. Is
there a P. S. P
MRS. MoMTAGUE, turning leaf.
TWO !
FRANK.
Of course. The second is merely to keep the
first company. And it was not a good year for
postScripts either. [Strikes match and lights
packet of letters.]
MRS. Montague.
What are you doing P
FRANK.
I have lighted the auto-da-fé. Now Para-
graph Five is executed. Mr. Josiah Cuttyback's
day’s work is done. See it blaze l My love-let-
ters have gone to blazes l Good evening, madam |
CAPTAIN, off L.
Thousand thunders! Where are my slippers?
MRS. MoWTAGUE, frightened.
Heavens ! [Revolver heard off L.]
FRANK.
It is only your uncle calling for his slippers.
MRS. MONTAGUE.
Fly!
16
242 COMEDIES FOR AMATEUR ACTING.
FRANK.
Fly P Never
MRS. MONTAGUE.
He will kill you !
FRANK.
You think so P All right ! I did not know
how to end the day. Now I am fixed
MRS. MONTAGUE.
Here he comes | [Clasping her hands] For
heaven’s sake, fly, sir! For my sake, hide your-
self l
FRANK, Suddenly inspired.
Ahl an ideal [Closes the screen around him
as Captain enters L. 1 E.]
CAPTAIN.
How’s this P You are up P
MRS. MONTAGUE, confused.
Yes, I—I-couldn’t sleep, and—and—I had
troubled dreams. I—I—am not at all sleepy l
CAPTAIN.
Nor am Il Let's have a cup of tea I
MRS. MONTAGUE, aside.
Heaven help us ! [Aloud] A cup of teal At
this hour of the night !
FRANK WYLDE. 243
CAPTAIN.
Yes!—Rose !
ROSE, entering C.
Sir P
CAPTAIN.
Make us some tea
ROSE.
Tea P
CAPTAIN, shouting.
Yes, tea -
ROSE, aside.
How did he get out P [Exit C.
CAPTAIN, going to screen and knocking.
I say, sir, will you have a cup of tea P
FRANK, poking head over screen.
I’d prefer chocolate
CAPTAIN, laughing.
Ahl Ahl Ahl
FRANK, laughing.
Ah Ah! Ah 1
CAPTAIN.
Young man, I like you !
FRANK.
Indeed! Why didn’t you say so before ?
[Comes out of screen.] Ahem l Sir As the
244 COMEDIES FOR AMATEUR ACTING.
custodian of your niece, to whom I have already
offered my hand and heart, I ask your permission
to pay my ad—
CAPTAIN.
I understand, but my niece's year of mourning
won’t be over for twenty-two days yet.
FRANK.
We can mourn eleven each
CAPTAIN, laughing.
Ah! Ah I really like this boy [Bell
Tings.]
MRS. MONTAGUE.
A Visit ! at this hour !
ROSE, entering C.
It is Mr. Cuttyback.
ERANK.
Probably he has forgotten what time it was 1,
MRS. MONTAGUE.
I don’t want to see him.
CAPTAIN.
His arrival is opportune— .
FRANK.
Here, Rose, give him back his overcoat—
FRANK WyLDE. 245
MRS. Montague.
And his note-book l
FRANK.
Permit me. [Writes in note-book] “Para-
graph Six: Don’t bother Mrs. Montague again l’”
Here, Rose, take it to him [To Captain] One
paragraph there refers to you.
CAPTAIN.
What is it, P
- FRANK.
I’ll tell you some day—when we’re married.
[Takes Mrs. Montague's hand. Clock strikes
twelve.]
[CURTAIN.]
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#archment-#aper Series.



7%e Par/or Muse:
A SELECTIO/W OF
V E R S D E S O C / E TA:
A R O M M O DE R N PO E 7",S.
ÇO)
NEW YORK.
D. Appleton & Co., 1, 3, & 5 Bond Street.
1884.
CopyRIGHT, 1884,
By D. APPLETON AND COMPANY.
Co m t e m ts.
(9–Q
PAGE
The Belle of the Ball-Room . W. M. Praed. 5
Tu Quoque . e ſº . Austin Dobson. II
4& &é I4.
Dora versus Rose . e * & & {& I9
To my Mistress's Boots . Frederick Locker. 22
Incognita
Hermioné º * > te . Robert Buchanan. 25
“Beauty Clare” wº º . Hamilton Aidé. 3o
TJnder the Trees . wº . C. S. Calverley. 33
A, B, C . º º te {{ {{ 36
Flight . . . . . “ 66 38
Ferdinando and Elvira . William S. Gilbert. 42

4. Contentſ.
PAGE
Up the Aisle—Nell Latim's Wedding.
* George A. Baker, Jr. 49
To Youngsters . e . John Vance Cheney. 52
The Hat tº o e . From the French. 54
Just a Love-Letter . & . H. C. Bunner. 66
“Possum ”—I Can . Lizzie W. Champney. 71
Past and Present; or, Romance versus Reality.
David Ker. 75
e 79
In the Conservatory . tº . Earl Marble. 83
The Amateur Spelling-Match . “ “ 85
&ć {{
Free, or Caged
A Church-going Belle o ſº Anonymous. 88
I Wish he would Decide . . & 4 89
An Idyl of the Period . e . “ 9I
A Tiny Tragedy . * tº . Alf. Carnie. 94
7)/*e Aa/or A/.ZZSé.
THE BELLE OF THE BALL–ROOM.
YEARS–years ago—ere yet my dreams
Had been of being wise or witty—
Ere I had done with writing themes,
Or yawned o'er this infernal Chitty;-
Years—years ago—while all my joy
Was in my fowling-piece and filly,–
In short, while I was yet a boy,
I fell in love with Laura Lily.
I saw her at the County Ball:
There, where the sounds of flute and fiddle

6 The Parlor Mure.
Gave signal sweet, in that old hall,
Of hands across and down the middle,
Hers was the subtlest spell by far
Of all that set young hearts romancing;
She was our queen, our rose, our star;
And then she danced—O Heaven, her danc-
ing !
Dark was her hair, her hand was white;
Her voice was exquisitely tender;
Her eyes were full of liquid light;
I never saw a waist so slender'
Her every look, her every smile,
Shot right and left a score of arrows;
I thought 'twas Venus from her isle,
And wondered where she'd left her sparrows.
She talked,—of politics or prayers,
Or Southey's prose, or Wordsworth's son-
netS,-
Of danglers—or of dancing bears,
Of battles—or the last new bonnets;
The Belle of the Ball-Room. 7
By candlelight, at twelve o'clock,
To me it mattered not a tittle ;
If those bright lips had quoted Locke,
I might have thought they murmured Little.
Through sunny May, through sultry June,
I loved her with a love eternal;
I spoke her praises to the moon,
I wrote them to the “Sunday Journal.”
My mother laughed; I soon found out
That ancient ladies have no feeling;
My father frowned; but how should gout
See any happiness in kneeling 2
She was the daughter of a Dean—
Rich, fat, and rather apoplectic;
She had one brother, just thirteen,
Whose color was extremely hectic;
Her grandmother for many a year
Had fed the parish with her bounty;
Her second cousin was a peer,
And Lord-Lieutenant of the county.
The Parlor Mure.
But titles, and the three per cents,
And mortgages, and great relations,
And India bonds, and tithes, and rents—
Oh! what are they to love's sensations?
Black eyes, fair forehead, clustering locks—
Such wealth, such honors Cupid chooses;
He cares as little for the Stocks
As Baron Rothschild for the Muses.
She sketched; the vale, the wood, the beach,
Grew lovelier from her pencil's shading.
She botanized; I envied each
Young blossom in her boudoir fading:
She warbled Handel; it was grand;
She made the Catalini jealous:
She touched the organ; I could stand
For hours and hours to blow the bellows.
She kept an album, too, at home,
Well filled with all an album's glories:
Paintings of butterflies, and Rome,
Patterns for trimmings, Persian stories;
The Belle of the Ball-Room. 9
Soft songs to Julia's cockatoo,
Fierce odes to Famine and to Slaughter,
And autographs of Prince Leboo,
And recipes for elder-water.
And she was flattered, worshiped, bored;
Her steps were watched, her dress was noted;
Her poodle dog was quite adored,
Her sayings were extremely quoted.
She laughed, and every heart was glad,
As if the taxes were abolished;
She frowned, and every look was sad,
As if the Opera were demolished.
She smiled on many, just for fun—
I knew that there was nothing in it;
I was the first—the only one
Her heart had thought of for a minute.—
I knew it, for she told me so,
In phrase which was divinely molded;
She wrote a charming hand—and oh !
How sweetly all her notes were folded !
IO The Parlor Mure.
Our love was like most other loves—
A little glow, a little shiver,
A rose-bud, and a pair of gloves,
And “Fly not yet"—upon the river;
Some jealousy of some one's heir,
Some hopes of dying broken-hearted,
A miniature, a lock of hair,
The usual vows—and then we parted.
We parted; months and years rolled by:
We met again four summers after.
Our parting was all sob and sigh,
Our meeting was all mirth and laughter:
For in my heart's most secret cell
There had been many other lodgers;
And she was not the ball-room's Belle,
But only—Mrs. Something Rogers!
WINTHROP M. PRAED.
<--ó-
Tu Quoque. II
TU QUOQUE.
An Idyl in the Conservatory.
NELLIE.
IF I were you, when ladies at the play, sir,
Beckon and nod, a melodrama through,
I would not turn abstractedly away, sir,
If I were you!
FRANK.
If I were you, when persons I affected
Wait for three hours to take me down to
Kew,
I would, at least, pretend I recollected,
If I were you!
NELLIE.
If I were you, when ladies are so lavish,
Sir, as to keep me every waltz but two,
I would not dance with odious Miss M’Tavish,
If I were you! *-
I 2 The Parlor Muſe.
FRANK.
If I were you, who vow you can not suffer
Whiff of the best,--the mildest “honey-dew,”
I would not dance with smoke-consuming
Puffer,
If I were you!
NELLIE.
If I were you, I would not, sir, be bitter,
Even to write the “Cynical Review; ”—
FRANK.
No, I should doubtless find flirtation fitter,
If I were you!
NELLIE.
Really you would Why, Frank, you're
quite delightful—
Hot as Othello, and as black of hue;
Borrow my fan. I would not look so frightful,
If I were you!
Tu Quoque. I s

FRANK.
“It is the cause”—I mean your chaperon is
Bringing some well-curled juvenile. Adieu !
I shall retire. I’d spare that poor Adonis,
If I were you!
NELLIE.
Go, if you will. At once 1 and by express, sir!
Where shall it be P To China—or Peru?
Go. I should leave inquirers my address, sir,
If I were you!
FRANK.
No—I remain. To stay and fight a duel
Seems, on the whole, the proper thing to do—
Ah, you are strong—I would not then be cruel,
If I were you!
NELLIE.
One does not like one’s feelings to be doubted,—
FRANK.
One does not like one's friends to misconstrue,
14 The Parlor Mure.
NELLIE.
If I confess that I a wee-bit pouted?—
FRANK.
I should admit that I was pique, too.
\ NELLIE.
Ask me to dance. I'd say no more about it,
If I were you! (Waltz.-Exeunt.)
AUSTIN DOBSON.
INCOGNITA.
JUST for a space that I met her—
Just for a day in the train!
It began when she feared it would wet her,
That tiniest spurtle of rain:
So we tucked a great rug in the sashes,
And carefully padded the pane;
And I sorrow in sackcloth and ashes,
Longing to do it again!
Incognita. I 5
Then it grew when she begged me to reach her
A dressing-case under the seat;
She was “really so tiny a creature
That she needed a stool for her feet!”
Which was promptly arranged to her order
With a care that was even minute,
And a glimpse—of an open-work border,
And a glance—of the fairyest boot.
Then it drooped, and revived at some hovels—
“Were they houses for men or for pigs?”
Then it shifted to muscular novels,
With a little digression on prigs:
She thought “Wives and Daughters” “so
jolly!”
“Had I read it?” She knew when I had,
Like the rest, I should dote upon “Molly;”
And “poor Mrs. Gaskell—how sad l’’
“Like Browning?” “But so so.” His proof
lay
Too deep for her frivolous mood,
I6 The Parlor Mure.
That preferred your mere metrical souffé
To the stronger poetical food;
Yet at times he was good—“as a tonic; ”
Was Tennyson writing just now P
And was this new poet Byronic,
And clever, and naughty, or how P
Then we trifled with concerts and cro-
Quet,
Then she daintily dusted her face;
Then she sprinkled herself with “Ess Bou-
quet,”
Fished out from the foregoing case;
And we chattered of Gassier and Grisi,
And voted Aunt Sally a bore;
Discussed if the tight rope were easy,
Or Chopin much harder than Spohr.
And oh! the odd things that she quoted,
With the prettiest possible look,
And the price of two buns that she noted
In the prettiest possible book,
Incognita. 17
While her talk like a musical rillet
Flashed on with the hours that flew ;
And the carriage, her smile seemed to fill it
With just enough summer—for Two.
Till at last in her corner, peeping
From a nest of rugs and of furs,
With the white shut eyelids sleeping
On those dangerous looks of hers,
She seemed like a snowdrop breaking,
Not wholly alive nor dead,
But with one blind impulse making
To the sounds of the spring overhead;
And I watched in the lamplight's swerving
The shade of the down-dropped lid,
And the lip-line's delicate curving,
Where a slumbering smile lay hid,
Till I longed that, rather than sever,
The train should shriek into space,
And carry us onward—forever—
Me and that beautiful face.
2
I8 The Parlor Mure.
But she suddenly woke in a fidget,
With fears she was “nearly at home,”
And talked of a certain Aunt Bridget,
Whom I mentally wished—well, at
Rome;
Got out at the very next station,
Looking back with a merry Bon Soir,
Adding, too, to my utter vexation,
A surplus, unkind Au Revoir.
So left me to muse on her graces,
To doze and to muse, till I dreamed
That we sailed through the sunniest-places
In a glorified galley, it seemed;
But the cabin was made of a carriage,
And the ocean was Eau-de-Cologne,
And we split on a rock labeled MAR-
RIAGE,
And I woke—as cold as a stone.
And that's how I lost her—a jewel—
Incognita—one in a crowd,
Dora versus Roſe. I9
Not prudent enough to be cruel,
Not worldly enough to be proud.
It was just a shut lid and its lashes,
Just a few hours in a train,
And I sorrow in sackcloth and ashes,
Longing to see her again
AUSTIN DOBSON.
Dºo3.
DORA versus ROSE.
“The case is proceeding.”
FROM the tragic-est novels at Mudie's—
At least, on a practical plan—
To the tales of mere Hodges and Judys,
One love is enough for a man.
But no case that I ever yet met is
Like mine: I am equally fond
Of Rose, who a charming brunette is,
And Dora, a blonde.
2O The Parlor Mure.
Each rivals the other in powers—
Each waltzes, each warbles, each paints—
Miss Rose, chiefly tumble-down towers;
Miss Do., perpendicular saints.
In short, to distinguish is folly;
'Twixt the pair, I am come to the pass
Of Macheath between Lucy and Polly—
Or Buridan's ass.
If it happens that Rose I have singled
For a soft celebration in ryhme,
Then the ringlets of Dora get mingled
Somehow with the tune and the time;
Or I painfully pen me a sonnet
To an eyebrow intended for Do.'s,
And behold ! I am writing upon it
The legend, “To Rose.”
Or I try to draw Dora (my blotter
Is all overscrawled with her head);
If I fancy at last that I’ve got her,
It turns to her rival instead;
Dora versus Roſe. 2 I
Or I find myself placidly adding
To the rapturous tresses of Rose
Miss Dora's bud-mouth, and her madding,
Ineffable nose.
Was there ever so sad a dilemma P
For Rose I would perish (pro tem.);
For Dora I'd willingly stem a-
(Whatever might offer to stem);
But to make the invidious election—
To declare that on either one's side
I've a scruple—a grain more affection,
I can not decide.
And as either so hopelessly nice is,
My sole and my final resource
Is to wait some indefinite crisis—
Some feat of molecular force,
To solve me this riddle, conducive
By no means to peace or repose,
Since the issue can scarce be inclusive
Of Dora and Rose.
22 The Parlor Mure.
(After-thought.)
But, perhaps, if a third (say a Norah),
Not quite so delightful as Rose—
Not wholy so charming as Dora—
Should appear, is it wrong to suppose—
As the claims of the others are equal—
And flight—in the main—is the best—
That I might . . . But no matter—the sequel
Is easily guessed.
AUSTIN DOBSON.
D-oH3
TO MY MISTRESS’S BOOTS.
THEY nearly strike me dumb,
And I tremble when they come
Pit-a-pat:
This palpitation means
That these boots are Geraldine's,
Think of that.
To my Mittreſſ'ſ Bootr. 23.
O, where did hunter win
So delicate a skin
For her feet?
You lucky little kid,
You perished, so you did,
For my sweet!
The fairy stitching gleams
On the sides, and in the seams,
And it shows
The Pixies were the wags
Who tipped these funny tags
And these toes.
What soles to charm an elf'
Had Crusoe, sick of self,
Chanced to view
One printed near the tide,
O, how hard he would have tried
For the two l
24-
The Parlor Mure.
For Gerry's debonair,
And innocent and fair
As a rose.
She's an angel in a frock,
With a fascinating cock
To her nose.
Those simpletons who squeeze
Their extremities, to please
Mandarins,
Would positively flinch
From venturing to pinch
Geraldine's.
Cinderella's lefts and rights
To Geraldine's were frights,
And I trow
The damsel, deftly shod,
Has dutifully trod
Until now.
Hermione. 25
Come, Gerry, since it suits
Such a pretty puss-in-boots
These to don,
Set this dainty hand awhile
On my shoulder, dear, and I'll
Put them on.
FREDERICK LOCKER.
HERMIONE.
WHEREVER I wander, up and about,
This is the puzzle I can't make out—
Because I care little for books, no doubt:
I have a wife, and she is wise,
Deep in philosophy, strong in Greek;
Spectacles shadow her pretty eyes,
Coteries rustle to hear her speak;
She writes a little—for love, not fame;
26 The Parlor Mure.
Has published a book with a dreary name;
And yet (God bless her!) is mild and meek.
And how I happened to woo and wed
A wife so pretty and wise withal,
Is part of the puzzle that fills my head—
Plagues me at day-time, racks me in bed,
Haunts me, and makes me appear so small.
The only answer that I can see
Is—I could not have married Hermioné
(That is her fine wise name), but she
Stooped in her wisdom and married me.
For I am a fellow of no degree,
Given to romping and jollity;
The Latin they thrashed into me at school
The world and its fights have thrashed
away;
At figures alone I am no fool,
And in city circles I say my say.
But I am a dunce at twenty-nine,
And the kind of study that I think fine
Hermioné. 27
Is a chapter of Dickens, a sheet of the
“Times *
When I lounge, after work, in my easy-chair;
“Punch” for humor, and Praed for rhymes,
And the butterfly mots blown here and there
By the idle breath of the social air.
A little French is my only gift,
Wherewith at times I can make a shift,
Guessing at meanings, to flutter over
A filigree tale in a paper cover.
Hermioné, my Hermioné!
What could your wisdom perceive in me?
And, Hermioné, my Hermioné!
How does it happen at all that we
Love one another so utterly 2
Well, I have a bright-eyed boy of two,
A darling, who cries with lung and tongue
about:
As fine a fellow, I swear to you,
As ever poet of sentiment sung about!
28 The Par/or Mure.
And my lady-wife with the serious eyes
Brightens and lightens when he is nigh,
And looks, although she is deep and wise,
As foolish and happy as he or II
And I have the courage just then, you see,
To kiss the lips of Hermioné—
Those learned lips that the learned praise—
And to clasp her close as in sillier days;
To talk and joke in a frolic vein;
To tell her my stories of things and men;
And it never strikes me that I am profane,
For she laughs and blushes, and kisses
again!
And presto! fly goes her wisdom then
The boy claps hands, and is up on her breast,
Roaring to see her so bright with mirth;
And I know she deems me (oh the jest!)
The cleverest fellow on all the earth !
And Hermioné, my Hermioné,
Nurses her boy and defers to me;
Hermioné. 29
Does not seem to see I’m small—
Even to think me a dunce at all !
And wherever I wander, up and about,
Here is the puzzle I can't make out:
That Hermioné, my Hermioné,
In spite of her Greek and philosophy,
When sporting at night with her boy and
me,
Seems sweeter and wiser, I assever—
Sweeter and wiser, and far more clever,
And makes me feel more foolish than ever,
Through her childish, girlish, joyous grace,
And the silly pride in her learned face
That is the puzzle I can't make out—
Because I care little for books, no doubt;
But the puzzle is pleasant, I know not why,
For, whenever I think of it, night or morn,
I thank my God she is wise, and I
The happiest fool that was ever born.
ROBERT BUCHANAN.
3o
The Parlor Mure.
“ BEAUTY CLARE.”
HALF Lucrece, half Messalina,
Lovely piece of Sèvres china,
When I see you, I compare
You with common, quiet creatures,
Homely delf in ways and features—
- Beauty Clare
Surely Nature must have meant you
For a Siren when she sent you
That sweet voice and glittering hair;
Was it touch of human passion
Made you woman, in a fashion—
Beauty Clare?
I think not. The moral door-step
Cautiously you never o’erstep
When your victims you ensnare—
“Beauty Clare.” 3 I
Lead them on with hopes—deceive them—
Then turn coldly round, and leave them,
Beauty Clare.
Some new slave I note each season,
Wearing life away, his knees on
(Moths around the taper's flare 1)
Guardsman fine—or young attaché,
Black and smooth as papier-maché,
- Beauty Clare.
In your box I see them dangling,
Triumphs of successful angling,
Trophies ranged behind your chair;
How they watch the fan you flutter!
How they drink each word you utter,
Beauty Clare
When at kettle-drums presiding,
I admire your tact, dividing
Smiles to each, in equal share,
32
The Parlor Mure.
Lest one slave wax over-jealous,
Or another grow less zealous,
Beauty Clareſ
What perfection in your waltzing!
How in vain the women all sing
When you warble some sweet airl
But your sentimental ditty
Over—you are then the witty
Beauty Clare.
How you light the smoldering embers
Of decrepit Peers and Members!
While you still have smiles to spare
For a new-fledged boy from college,
Sitting at your feet for knowledge!
Beauty Clare !
At your country-seat in Salop,
What contention for a gallop
With you on your chestnut marel
Under the Treer. 33
How the country misses hate you,
Seeing o'er a five-barred gate—you,
Beauty Clare
All-accomplished little creature !
Fatally endowed by nature—
Were your inward soul laid bare,
What should we discover under
That seductive mask, I wonder,
Beauty Clare?
HAMILTON Aïdſ.
•'EE •
UNDER THE TREES.
“UNDER the trees!” who but agrees
That there is magic in words such as these?
Promptly one sees shake in the breeze
Stately lime avenues haunted of bees:
Where, looking far over buttercupped leas,
Lads and “fair shes” (that is Byron's, and
he's
3
34- The Parlor Mure.
An authority) lie very much at their ease,
Taking their teas, or their duck and green peas,
Or, if they prefer it, their plain bread and
cheese :
Not objecting at all, though its rather a squeeze,
And the glass is, I daresay, at eighty degrees.
Some get up glees, and are mad about Ries,
And Sainton, and Tambulik's thrilling high C's;
Or, if painter, hold forth upon Hunt and Maclise,
And the breadth of that landscape of Lee's;
Or, if learned, on nodes and the moon's apo-
gees;
Or, if serious, on something of A. K. H. B.'s,
Or the latest attempt to convert the Chaldees;
Or, in short, about all things, from earthquakes
to fleas.
Some sit in twos or (less frequently) threes,
With their innocent lamb's-wool or book on
their knees,
And talk and enact any nonsense you please,
As they gaze into eyes that are blue as the seas,
Under the Treer. 35
And you hear an occasional “Harry, don't
tease,”
From the sweetest of lips in the softest of
keys,
And other remarks which to me are Chinese.
And fast the time flees, till a lady-like sneeze,
Or a portly papa's more elaborate wheeze,
Makes Miss Tabitha seize on her brown muf-
fetees
And announce as a fact that it's going to
freeze,
And that young people ought to attend to their
P’s
And their Q's, and not court every form of
disease.
Then Tommy eats up the three last ratafias,
And pretty Louise wraps her robe de cerise
Round a bosom as tender as Widow Machree's,
And (in spite of the pleas of her lorn vis à vis)
Goes and wraps up her uncle—a patient of
Skey's,
36 The Parlor Mure.
Who is prone to catch chills, like all old Ben-
galese :-
But at bedtime I trust he'll remember to
grease
The bridge of his nose, and preserve his
rupees
From the premature clutch of his fond lega-
tees ;
Or at least have no fees to pay any M. D.'s
For the cold his niece caught sitting under the
trees.
C. S. CALVERLEY.
|X|X|
A, B, C.
A is an Angel of blushing eighteen;
B is the Ball where the Angel was seen;
C is her Chaperon, who cheated at cards;
D is the Deuxtemps, with Frank of the Guards;
E is her Eye, killing slowly but surely;
F is the Fan, whence it peeped so demurely;
A, B, C. 37
G is the Glove of superlative kid ;
H is the Hand which it spitefully hid:
I is the Ice, which the fair one demanded;
J is the Juvenile, that dainty who handed;
K is the Kerchief, a rare work of art;
L is the Lace which composed the chief part;
M is the old Maid who watched the chits dance;
N is the Nose she turned up at each glance;
O is the Olga (just then in its prime);
P is the Partner who wouldn't keep time;
Q is a Quadrille, put instead of the Lancers;
R the Remonstrances made by the dancers;
S is the Supper, where all went in pairs;
T is the Twaddle they talked on the stairs;
U is the Uncle who “thought he'd be goin’”;
V is the Voice which his niece replied “No” in;
W is the Waiter, who sat up till eight;
X is his Exit, not rigidly straight;
Y is a yawning fit caused by the Ball;
Z stands for Zero, or nothing at all.
C. S. CALVERLEY.
38 The Parlor Mure.
FLIGHT.
O MEMORY that which I gave thee
To guard in thy garner yestreen—
Little deeming thou e'er couldst behave
thee
Thus basely—hath gone from thee clean
Gone, fled, as ere autumn is ended
The yellow leaves flee from the oak-
I have lost it forever, my splendid
Original joke.
What was it? I know I was brushing
My hair when the notion occurred :
I know that I felt myself blushing
As I thought, “How supremely absurd I
How they'll hammer on floor and on table
. As its drollery dawns on them—how
They will quote it”—I wish I were able
To quote it just now.
Flight. 39
I had thought to lead up conversation
To the subject—it's easily done—
Then let off, as an airy creation
Of the moment, that masterly pun.
Let it off, with a flash like a rocket's;
In the midst of a dazzled conclave,
While I sat, with my hands in my pockets,
The only one grave.
I had fancied young Titterton's chuckles,
And old Bottleby's hearty guffaws
As he drove at my ribs with his knuckles,
His mode of expressing applause:
While Jean Bottleby—queenly Miss Janet—
Drew her handkerchief hastily out,
In fits at my slyness—what can it
Have all been about?
I know 'twas the happiest, quaintest
Combination of pathos and fun:
But I’ve got no idea—the faintest—
Of what was the actual pun.
4-O The Parlor Muſe.
I think it was somehow connected
With something I'd recently read—
Or heard—or perhaps recollected
On going to bed.
What had I been reading 2 The “Standard”:
“Double Bigamy”; “Speech of the mayor.”
And later—eh 2 yes! I meandered
Through some chapters of “Vanity Fair.”
How it fuses the grave with the festive
Yet e'en there, there is nothing so fine—
So playfully, subtly suggestive—
As that joke of mine.
Did it hinge upon “parting asunder”?
No, I don't part my hair with my brush.
Was the point of it “hair”? Now I wonderſ
Stop a bit—I shall think of it—hush !
There's hare, a wild animal.--Stuff!
It was something a deal more recondite:
Of that I am certain enough ;
And of nothing beyond it.
Flight. 4. I
Hair—locks / There are probably many
Good things to be said about those.
Give me time—that's the best guess Qf any—
“Lock” has several meanings, one knows.
Iron locks—iron-gray locks—a “deadlock”
That would set up an every-day wit:
Then of course there's the obvious “wedlock”;
But that wasn't it.
*
No! mine was a joke for the ages:
Full of intricate meaning and pith;
A feast for your scholars and sages—
How it would have rejoiced Sydney Smith !
'Tis such thoughts that ennoble a mortal;
And, singling him out from the herd,
Fling wide immortality's portal—
But what was the word P
Ah me ! 'tis a bootless endeavor.
As the flight of a bird of the air
Is the flight of a joke—you will never
See the same one again, you may swear.
4-2 The Parlor Mure.
'Twas my first-born, and oh! how I prized it!
My darling, my treasure, my own |
This brain and none other devised it—
And now it has flown.
C. S. CALVERLEY.
FERDINANDO AND ELVIRA.
From “Bab Ballads.”
PART I.
AT a pleasant evening party I had taken down
to supper
One whom I will call Elvira, and we talked of
love and Tupper,
Mr. Tupper and the poets, very lightly with
them dealing,
For I've always been distinguished for a strong
poetic feeling.
Ferdinando and Elvira. 43
Then we let off paper crackers, each of which
contained a motto,
And she listened while I read them, till her
mother told her not to.
Then she whispered, “To the ball-room we
had better, dear, be walking;
If we stop down here much longer, really peo-
ple will be talking.”
There were noblemen in coronets, and military
cousins,
There were captains by the hundred, there
were baronets by dozens,
Yet she heeded not their offers, but dismissed
them with a blessing ;
Then she let down all her back-hair which had
taken long in dressing ;
Then she had convulsive sobbings in her agi-
tated throttle,
Then she wiped her pretty eyes and smelt her
pretty smelling-bottle.
44 The Parlor Muſe.
So I whispered, “Dear Elvira, say—what can
the matter be with you?
Does anything you've eaten, darling Popsy,
disagree with you?”
But spite of all I said, her sobs grew more and
more distressing,
And she tore her pretty back-hair, which had
taken long in dressing.
Then she gazed upon the carpet, at the ceiling
then above me,
And she whispered, “Ferdinando, do you
really, really love me?”
“Love you?” said I, then I sighed, and then I
gazed upon her sweetly—
For I think I do this sort of thing particularly
neatly—
“Send me to the Arctic regions, or illimitable
azure,
On a scientific goose-chase, with my Coxwell
or my Glaisher!
Ferdinando and Elvira. 45
“Tell me whither I may hie me, tell me, dear
one, that I may know—
Is it up the highest Andes? down a horrible
volcano?”
But she said, “It isn't polar bears, or hot vol-
canic grottoes,
Only find out who it is that writes those lovely
cracker mottoes!”
PART II.
“Tell me, Henry Wadsworth, Alfred, Poet
Close, or Mister Tupper,
Do you write the bonbon mottoes my Elvira
pulls at Supper?”
But Henry Wadsworth smiled, and said he
had not had that honor:
And Alfred, too, disclaimed the words that
told so much upon her.
46 The Parlor Mure.
“Mister Martin Tupper, Poet Close, I beg of
you inform us”;
But my question seemed to throw them both
into a rage enormous.
Mister Close expressed a wish that he could
only get anigh to me.
And Mister Martin Tupper sent the following
reply to me:
“A fool is bent upon a twig, but wise men
dread a bandit,”
Which I know was very clever; but I didn't
understand it.
Seven weary years I wandered—Patagonia,
China, Norway,
Till at last I sank exhausted at a pastry-cook
his doorway.
There were fuchsias and geraniums, and daffo-
dils and myrtle,
So I entered, and I ordered half a basin of
mock turtle. *
Ferdinando and Elvira. 47
He was plump and he was chubby, he was
smooth and he was rosy,
And his little wife was pretty, and particularly
cozy.
And he chirped and sang, and skipped about,
and laughed with laughter hearty—
He was wonderfully active for so very stout a
party.
And I said, “O gentle pieman, why so very,
very merry P
Is it purity of conscience, or your one-and-
seven sherry P”
But he answered, “I’m so happy—no profes-
sion could be dearer—
If I am not humming “Tra! la' la l' I'm sing-
ing “Tirer, lirerſ'
“First I go and make the patties, and the pud-
dings and the jellies,
Then I make a sugar bird-cage, which upon a
table swell is;
48 The Parlor Mure.
“Then I polish all the silver, which a supper-
table lacquers;
Then I write the pretty mottoes which you
find inside the crackers—”
“Found at last!” I madly shouted. “Gentle
pieman, you astound me!”
Then I waved the turtle-soup enthusiastically
round me !
And I shouted and I danced until he’d quite a
crowd around him—
And I rushed away, exclaiming, “I have found
him | I have found him ”
And I heard the gentle pieman in the road be-
hind me trilling,
“‘Tira! lira !' stop him, stop him ‘Tra! lal
la!' the soup's a shilling !”
But until I reached Elvira's home, I never,
never waited,
And Elvira to her Ferdinand's irrevocably
mated WILLIAM S. GILBERT.
Up the Airle. 4-9
UP THE AISLE–NELL LATIM'S
WEDDING.
TAKE my cloak—and now fix my veil, Jenny;
How silly to cover one's face
I might as well be an old woman;
But then there's one comfort—it's lace.
Well, what has become of those ushers
O pal have you got my bouquet?—
I'll freeze standing here in the lobby—
Why doesn't the organist play ?—
They're started at last—what a bustle !—
Stop, pa!—they're not far enough—wait!
One minute more—now !—do keep step, pa!
There, drop my trail, Jane !—is it straight?
I hope I look timid, and shrinking;
The church must be perfectly full—
Good gracious ! now don't walk so fast, pa!—
He don't seem to think that trains pull.
The chancel at last—mind the step, pa!—
I don't feel embarrassed at all.—
4.
5O The Parlor Mure.
But, my what's the minister saying?
Oh, I know; that part 'bout Saint Paul.
I hope my position is graceful;
How awkwardly Nelly Dane stood —
“Not lawfully be joined together—
Now speak”—as if any one would !—
Oh, dear! now it's my turn to answer—
I do wish that pa would stand still.
“Serve him, love, honor, and keep him "-
How sweetly he says it!—I will.
Where's pa P-there, I knew he'd forget it,
When the time came to give me away—
“I, Helena, take thee—love—cherish—
And "-well, I can't help it—“obey.”
Here, Maud, take my bouquet—don't drop
it
I hope Charley's not lost the ring;
Just like him —no!—goodness, how heavy
It's really an elegant thing.
It's a shame to kneel down in white satin—
And the flounce, real old lace—but I
must ;
Up the Airle. 5 I
I hope they've got a clean cushion,
They're usually covered with dust.
All over—ah! thanks!—now, don't fuss, pa!—
Just throw back my veil, Charley—there—
Oh, botherſ why couldn't he kiss me
Without mussing up all my hair!—
Your arm, Charley, there goes the organ—
Who'd think there would be such a
crowd 2
Oh, I mustn't look round, I'd forgotten—
See, Charley, who was it that bowed P
Why—it's Nelly Allaire with her husband—
She's awfully jealous, I know;
'Most all of my things were imported,
And she had a home-made trousseau,
And there's Annie Wheeler — Kate Her-
mon,<
I didn't expect her at all,—
If she's not in that same old blue satin
She wore at the Charity Ball!
Is that Fanny Wade?—Edith Pearton—
And Emma, and Jo–all the girls?
52 The Parlor Muſe.
I knew they'd not miss my wedding—
I hope they'll all notice my pearls.
Is the carriage there?—give me my cloak,
Jane—
Don't get it all over my veil—
No! you take the other seat, Charley,
I need all this for my trail.
GEORGE A. BAKER, Jr.
eEXEe
TO YOUNGSTERS.
GoLDEN hair and eyes of blue,
What won't they do?—what won't they do?
Eyes of blue and locks of gold—
My boy, you'll learn before you're old.
The gaitered foot, the taper waist—
Be not in haste, be not in haste;
Before your chin sprout twenty spear,
My word for 't, youngster, they'll appear.
To Youngſterſ. 53
Raven hair and eyes of night
Undo the boys (it serves 'em right);
Eyes of night and raven hair,
They'll drive you, Hopeful, to despair.
The drooping curl, the downward glance,
They're only waiting for the chance;
At nick of time they'll sure appear,
Depend upon it, laddie dear.
Shapely hands and arms of snow,
They know their charm, my boy, they know;
Flexile wrists and fleckless hands,
The lass that has them understands.
The cheeks that blush, the lips that smile—
A little while, a little while—
Before you know it, they'll be here,
And catch you napping, laddie dear.
Hands, and hair, and lips, and eyes—
'Tis there the tyro's danger lies.
You'll meet them leagued, or one by one;
In either case the mischief's done.
54- The Parlor Mure.
A touch, a tress, a glance, a sigh,
And then, my boy, good-by-good-by!
God help you, youngster! keep good cheer;
Coax on your chin to twenty spear.
John VANCE CHENEY.
From “The Century Magazine.”
THE HAT.
Recited by M. Coquelin, of the Comédie Française.
[In Paris, monologues are the fashion. Some are in verse;
some are in prose. At every matinée, dinner-party, or soirée
the mistress of the entertainment makes it her duty to provide
some little scenic recitation, to be gone through by Saint-Ger-
main or Coquelin. One which recently enjoyed great success
entitled “The Hat,” we here offer in an English version.]
Mºse en Scène: A gentleman holding his hat.
WELL, yes! On Tuesday last the knot was
tied—
Tied hard and fast; that can not be denied.
The Hat. 55
I'm Gaught, I'm caged, from the law's point of
view,
Before two witnesses, good men and true.
I'm licensed, stamped: undo the deed who can;
Three hundred francs made me a married
II12.Il.
Who would have thought it! Married !
How P What for P
I who was ranked a strict old bachelor;
I who through halls with married people
crammed
Infused a kind of odor of the damned ;
I who declined—and gave lame reasons why—
Five, six, good comfortable matches; I
Who every morning when I came to dress
Found I had one day more, and some hairs
less;
I whom all mothers slander and despise,
Because girls find no favor in my eyes—
Married A married man Beyond—a—
doubt!
56 The Parlor Mure.
How, do you ask, came such a thing about?
What prompted me to dare connubial bliss?
What worked the wondrous metamorphosis?
What made so great a change—a change like
that?
Imagine. Guess. You give it up 2
A hat!
A hat, in short, like all the hats you see—
A plain silk stove-pipe hat. This did for me.
A plain black hat, just like the one that's here.
A hat?
Why, yes.
But how P
Well, lend an ear.
One day this winter I went out to dine.
All was first-rate—the style, the food, the wine.
A concert afterward—en rêgle—just so.
The hour arrived. I entered, bowing low,
My heels together. Then I placed my hat
On something near, and joined the general chat.
The Hat. 57
At half-past eight we dined. All went off well.
Trust me for being competent to tell!
I sat between two ladies—mute as fishes—
With nothing else to do but count the dishes.
I learned each item in each course by heart.
I hate tobacco, but as smoke might part
Me from those ladies, with a sober face
I took a strong cigar, and kept my place.
The concert was announced for half-past ten,
And at that hour I joined a crowd of men.
The ladies, arm to arm, sweet, white, we
found,
Like rows of sugared almonds, seated round.
I leaned against the door—there was no chair.
A stout, fierce gentleman, got up with care
(A cuirassier I set him down to be),
Leaned on the other door-post, hard by me,
Whilst far off in the distance some poor girl
Sang, with her love-lorn ringlets out of curl,
Some trashy stuff of love and love's distress.
I could see nothing, and could hear still less.
Still, I applauded, for politeness' sake.
58 The Parlor Muſe.
Next a dress-coat of fashionable make
Came forward and began. It clad a poet.
That's the last mode in Paris. Did you know it?
Your host or hostess, after dinner, chooses
To serve you up some effort of the Muses,
Recited with vim, gestures, and by-play
By some one borrowed from the great Fran-
gaise.
I blush to write it—poems, you must know,
All make me sleepy; and it was so now.
For as I listened to the distant drone
Of the smooth lines, I felt my lids droop down,
And a strange torpor I could not ignore
Came creeping o'er me.
“Heavens ! suppose I snorel
Let me get out,” I cried, “ or else—”
With that
I cast my eyes around to find my hat.
The console where I laid it down, alas !
Was now surrounded (not a mouse could pass)
The Hat. 59
By triple rows of ladies gayly dressed,
Who fanned and listened calmly, undistressed.
No man through that fair crowd could work
his way.
Rank behind rank rose heads in bright array.
Diamonds were there, and flowers, and, lower
still,
Such lovely shoulders | Not the smallest thrill
They raised in me. My thoughts were of my
hat.
It lay beyond where all those ladies sat,
Under a candelabrum, shiny, bright,
Smooth as when last I brushed it, full in sight,
Whilst I, far off, with yearning glances tried
Whether I could not lure it to my side.
“Why may my hand not put thee on my head,
And quit this stifling room P” I fondly said.
“Respond, dear hat, to a magnetic throb.
Come, little darling; cleave this female mob.
Fly over heads; creep under. Come, oh, come!
Escape. We'll find no poetry at home.”
6o The Parlor Mure.
And all the while did that dull poem creep
Drearily on, till, sick at last with sleep,
My eyes fixed straight before me with a stare,
I groaned within me:
“Come, my hat—fresh air!
My darling, let us both get out together.
Here all is hot and close; outside, the weather
Is simply perfect, and the pavement's dry.
Come, come, my hat—one effort! Do but try.
Sweetthoughts the silence and softmoon will stir
Beneath thy shelter.”
Here a voice cried :
“Sir,
Have you done staring at my daughter yet?
By Jovel sir.”
My astonished glance here met
The angry red face of my cuirassier.
I did not quail before his look severe,
But said, politely,
“Pardon, sir, but I
Do not so much as know her.”
“What, sir! Why,
The Hat. 61
My daughter's yonder, sir, beside that table.
Pink ribbons, sir. Don't tell me you're un-
able
To understand.”
“But, sir—”
“I don't suppose
You mean to tell me—”
“Really—”
“Who but knows
Your way of dealing with young ladies,
Sir P
I'll have no trifling, if you please, with her.”
“Trifling?”
“Yes, sir. You know you've jilted five.
Every one knows it—every man alive.”
“Allow me—”
“No, sir. Every father knows
Your reputation, damaging to those
Who-”
“Sir, indeed—”
“How dare you in this place
Stare half an hour in my daughter's face?”
62 The Parlor Mure.
“Sapristi, monsieur / I protest—I swear—
I never looked at her.”
“Indeed What were
You looking at, then?”
“Sir, I'll tell you that—
My hat, sir.”
“Morbleu / looking at your hat!”
“Yes, sir, it was my hat.”
- My color rose:
He angered me, this man who would suppose
I thought of nothing but his girl.
Meantime
The black coat maundered on in dreary rhyme.
Papa and I, getting more angry ever,
Exchanged fierce glances, speaking both to-
gether,
While no one round us knew what we were at.
“It was my daughter, sir.”
“No, sir—my hat.”
“Speak lower, gentlemen,” said some one near.
“You'll give account for this, sir. Do you
hear?”
The Hat. 63
“Of course, sir.”
“Then before the world's astir,
You'll get my card, sir.”
“I’ll be ready, sir.”
A pretty quarrell Don't you think it so?
A moment after, all exclaimed, “Bravo!”
Black coat had finished. All the audience
made
A general move toward ice and lemonade.
The coast was clear; my way was open
now ;
My hat was mine. I made my foe a bow,
And hastened, fast as lover could have moved,
Through trailing trains, toward the dear thing
I loved.
I tried to reach it.
“Here's the hat, I think,
You are in search of.”
Shapely, soft, and pink,
A lovely arm, a perfect arm, held out
My precious hat. Impelled by sudden doubt,
64. The Parlor Mure.
I raised my eyes. Pink ribbons trimmed her
dress.
“Here, monsieur, take it. 'Twas not hard to
guess
What made you look this way. You longed
to go. •
You were so sleepy, nodding—see –just so.
Ah, how I wished to help you, if I could !
I might have passed it possibly. I would
Have tried by ladies' chain, from hand to hand,
To send it to you, but, you understand,
I felt a little timid—don't you see?—
For fear they might suppose—Ah! pardon me;
I am too prone to talk. I'm keeping you.
Take it. Good-night.”
Sweet angel, pure and true !
My looks to their real cause she could refer,
And never thought one glance was meant for
her.
Oh, simple trust, pure from debasing wiles!
I took my hat from her fair hand with smiles,
The Hat. 65
And hurrying back, sought out my whilom foe,
Exclaiming:
“Hear me, sir. Before I go,
Let me explain. You, sir, were in the right.
'Twas not my hat attracted me to-night.
Forgive me, pardon me, I entreat, dear sir.
I love your daughter, and I gazed at her.”
“You, sir?”
He turned his big round eyes on me,
Then held his hand out.
“Well, well, we will see.”
Next day we talked. That's how it came
about. -
And the result you see. My secret's out.
It was last Tuesday, as I said, and even
Add, she's an angel, and my home is—heaven.
Her father, mild in spite of mien severe,
Holds a high office—is no cuirassier.
Besides—a boon few bridegrooms can com-
mand—
He is a widower—so—you understand.
5
66 The Parlor Mure.
Now all this happiness, beyond a doubt,
By this silk hat I hold was brought about,
Or by its brother. Poor old English tile !
Many have sneered at thy ungainly style;
Many, with ridicule and gibe—why not?—
Have dubbed thee “stove-pipe,” called thee
“chimney-pot.”
They, as aesthetes, are not far wrong, maybe;
But I, for all that thou hast done for me,
Raise thee, in spite of nonsense sung or said,
With deep respect, and place thee on my head.
From Harper's Magazine, by permission. Translation of
MRS. E. W. LATIMER.
- -º
JUST A LOVE_LETTER.
NEw York, 9-uly 20, 1883.
DEAR GIRL: *
The town goes on as though
It thought you still were in it;
juſt a Love-Letter. 67
The gilded cage seems scarce to know
That it has lost its linnet.
The people come, the people pass;
The clock keeps on a-ticking;
And through the basement plots of grass
Persistent weeds are pricking.
I thought 'twould never come—the Spring—
Since you had left the city;
But on the snow-drifts lingering
At last the skies took pity.
Then Summer's yellow warmed the sun,
Daily decreasing distance—T
I really don't know how 'twas done
Without your kind assistance.
Aunt Van, of course, still holds the fort:
I've paid the call of duty;
She gave me one small glass of port—
'Twas '34 and fruity.
The furniture was draped in gloom
Of linen brown and wrinkled ;
68 The Parlor Muſe.
I smelt in spots about the room
The pungent camphor sprinkled.
I sat upon the sofa where
You sat and dropped your thimble—
You know—you said you didn't care;
But I was nobly nimble.
On hands and knees I dropped, and tried
To—well, I tried to miss it:
You slipped your hand down by your side—
You knew I meant to kiss it!
Aunt Van, I fear we put to shame
Propriety and precision;
But, praised be Love, that kiss just came
Beyond your line of vision.
Dear maiden aunt! the kiss, more sweet
Because 'tis surreptitious,
You never stretched a hand to meet,
So dimpled, dear, delicious.
I sought the Park last Saturday;
I found the Drive deserted;
juſt a Love-Letter. 69
The water-trough beside the way
Sad and superfluous spurted.
I stood where Humboldt guards the gate,
Bronze, bumptious, stained, and streaky—
There sat a sparrow on his pate,
A sparrow chirp and cheeky.
Ten months ago! Ten months ago!—
It seems a happy second,
Against a lifetime lone and slow,
By Love's wild time-piece reckoned—
You smiled, by Aunt's protecting side,
Where thick the drags were massing,
On one young man who didn't ride,
But stood and watched you passing.
I haunt Purssell's—to his amaze—
Not that I care to eat there,
But for the dear clandestine days
When we two had to meet there.
Oh, blesséd is that baker's bake,
Past cavil and past question:
7o The Parlor Mure.
I ate a bun for your sweet sake,
And memory helped digestion.
The Norths are at their Newport ranch;
Van Brunt has gone to Venice;
Loomis invites me to the Branch,
And lures me with lawn tennis.
O bustling barracks by the sea!
O spiles, canals, and islands !
Your varied charms are naught to me—
My heart is in the Highlands !
My paper trembles in the breeze
That all too faintly flutters
Among the dusty city trees,
And through my half-closed shutters:
A northern captive in the town,
Its native vigor deadened,
I hope that, as it wandered down,
Your dear pale cheek it reddened.
I'll write no more | A vis-à-vis
In halcyon vacation
“Portum”—I Can. 71
Will sure afford a much more free
Mode of communication.
I'm tantalized and cribbed and checked
In making love by letter:
I know a style more brief, direct—
And generally better!
JBy permission. H. C. BUNNER.
©-Q
“POSSUM " I CAN.
HER eyes are as blue as the heart of a berg;
If tears from their channels e'er ran,
If they melted an instant, it was not in ruth
For sorrows of love or of man.
I've wondered ofttimes—she's so frostily fair—
If blood in her veins really ran;
While sipping an ice I’ve asked myself where
Ice ended and woman began.
72 The Parlor Mure.
“My heart,” she once told me, “is dead as
a Stone,
Or missing in Nature's nice plan;
Some women, perhaps, can not live without
hearts,”
Her eyes spoke a haughty “I can.”
The stingiest sultan would lay at her feet
The wealth of a whole Ispahan.
Independent in fortune as well as in soul,
She scorns every suppliant man.
Her coach, of all turn-outs this year at the
Springs,
Was drawn by the handsomest span;
Her crest on its panels, a leopard passant,
Her motto is “Possum ”—I can.
Regarding the carriage with critical air
Up-spoke our head-waiter, black Dan:
“Some folks, maybe, can't see no difference
between
Datting and a 'possum—I can.
“Poſſum”—/ Can. 73
“Why, dat ain't no 'possum; it's more like a
Cat,
Or Spot, dar, your pert black-and-tan:
I ought to know 'possums—I’se hunted 'em
till
Each 'possum in Georgia knows Dan.
“Curusest ob varmints dar is in dis world
Is 'possums and women,” said Dan;
“Dey's nebber so sleek, so indif'rent, and
Cool,
As when dey's deceibing some man.
“I’members de fust one dat ever I cotched—
It tried de same little ole plan:
I found it like dead at the foot ob a tree;
Says I, ‘No dead 'possums for Dan'—
“Was walking away when it opened one eye,
Larfed back ob its paw, and den—ran
“Can't come it,' it said, plain as eber you
heard;
Says I, ‘Missus 'Possum, I can.’”
74. The Parlor Mure.
The tale was a short one, and not too refined,
As told by our swart Caliban:
It fed, by the thought it aroused in my mind,
The fire of my hopes like a fan.
Could she play at 'possum, her heart all alive
And craving the love of a man,
Worth love and worth trust, can I credit the
thought?
My heart made me answer—“I can.”
Her soul is alive, and now tell me, my heart,
Canst rise to the fate like a man,
Receiving thy doom or thy bliss from her
lips?
Again I heard, “Possum—I can.”
“You can love?” The answer is easily
guessed
(Fit rallying-cry for a clan),
It came with a kiss, and a ring with the crest
A leopard: 'twas “Possum—I can l’’,
LIZZIE W. CHAMPNEY.
Part and Preſent. 75
PAST AND PRESENT ; OR, ROMANCE
VERSUS REALITY.
A Duet.
HE (shutting his Froissart with a slap).
“OH, for the days of olden time,
When, true to knightly duty,
The champion roved through every clime
To win the smile of Beauty
'Neath moonlit skies his midnight spent,
In place of ball-rooms choky,
And through triumphal arches went,
Instead of hoops at croquet!”
SHE (smiling maliciously).
“Ha, ha! nice figure you'd have made
"Mid Syria's heat and slaughter,
Who growl at seventy in the shade,
And long for seltzer-water!
76 The Parlor Mure.
I think I hear you mutter, then,
While through the sand-heaps wading:
“Well, let me once get home again,
And deuce take all crusading !’”
H.E.
“You heartless thing! but you have ne'er
Perused, like me, their story—
Who knew no task they would not dare,
No pain when crowned with glory;
And, glowing o'er those pages dear,
I’ve wished, with heart o'erladen,
I were a Spanish cavalier
And you my chosen maiden!”
SHE.
“O Fred, you goose! I ne'er could bide
Unseen behind a grating,
Nor bear forever at my side
A prim duenna waiting.
Part and Preſent. 77
And then this face you say you prize,
Some horrid Moor might eye it,
And whisk me off before your eyes—”
HE (fiercely).
“I’d like to see him try it!”
SIHE.
“Then, too, in that stern age, you know,
No opera, ball, nor fashion,
No lovely sleighing in the snow,
No novels filled with passion.
In convent lone, or castle strong,
It must have been diverting
To stitch at tap'stry all day long,
With ne'er a chance of flirting !”
H.E.
“Of course, that's the thing you require l
But men had then a chance, dear,
To win their spurs through gore and mire
In Palestine or France, dear:
78 The Parlor Mure.
And when the stubborn fray was done,
His lady crowned the winner,
And—”
SHE.
“Pawned the spurs his strife had won,
To buy their Sunday dinner!”
HE (angrily),
“Too bad, by Jove! of all I say
You will make fun—”
SHE.
“Poor fellow !
He sees en beau our fathers' day,
But ours in jaundiced yellow.
Your knights, good sir (whose spurs of gold
Were all the wealth they carried),
Oft found their “chosen maidens’ cold,
And lived (or died) unmarried
“But never mind, dear Fred; for, though
I sometimes like to tease you,
Free, or Caged. 79
I’d never say a word, you know,
That really could displease you;
And, though papa may fume and rage,
And vow he'll ne'er endure it,
Just wait until I come of age,
And then—”
HE (ecstatically).
! »
“The ring and curate
DAVID KER.
FREE, OR CAGED.
A Cousinly Duet.
FLORA (with significant emphasis).
SEE, birdie! here's your seed and cake,
And here's your water handy;
Come, trim your yellow plumes and make
Your little self a dandy
8o
The Parlor Mure.
You're wiser far than some I know,
Who, home and comfort scorning,
Through every sort of danger go,
And won't take friendly warning.
FRANK (defiantly).
So be it. “Home and comfort.” I
Can leave to those who need 'em ;
Mine the wide earth, the open sky,
The wanderer's life of freedom |
And—
FLORA.
Better far at home to stay
Than burn abroad or shiver;
There's nothing there can match our bay,
Or beat our Hudson River!
FRANK (wth profound irony).
Forth, then, O Frank 1 in vent’rous bark
Round Coney Island sailing,
Free, or Caged. 8 I
Exploring wilds of Central Park,
Or Brooklyn bridge-tower scaling !
Ho, bring my boots' I burn to gain
Famed Harlem's mountains broken,
And flaunt in Scribner's window-pane
My “Travels through Hoboken l’”
FLORA.
You wretch! how dare you mock me so
At every word I utter?
FRANK (proudly).
Well, I'm no cage-bred pet, you know,
To chirp for cake-and-butter;
Mine be the wild-bird's rocky lair,
The wild-bird's flight aspiring,
To soar through boundless realms of air
On pinions never tiring !
FLORA (sarcastically).
But when the cold December blast
Through leafless boughs came moaning,
6
82.
The Parlor Muſe.
Or stones by impish urchins cast
Your carols turned to groaning,
I guess you'd find your “freedom” sweet
Too cold for admiration,
And change for birdie's cage and meat
Your free, unthralled starvation.
FRANK.
Bah! give to those who fear the strife,
Retirement and a cottage;
No Esau I to barter life
And all it yields for pottage
Not all the gold of Wall Street Jews
To one dull spot should pin me,
With “earth before me where to choose,'
And life aglow within me !
9
FLORA.
Ah me! no cloud the spirit dims
Till youth and vigor fail us;
But when gray hairs and feeble limbs
And creeping years assail us,
In the Conſervatory. 83
When now no more we proudly stand
Defying grief and dangers,
'Tis then we miss the loving hand—
Lone in a world of strangers'
FRANK (smiling).
Aha! there spoke the sex, ma mie /
No song but this one only:
“Get married and thrice happy be—
Live single and be lonely . "
Well, well, don't frown, my pretty sage—
You know my tongue's a railer;
But, if I’m destined to the cage,
Will you, dear, be my jailer?
DAVID KER.
-Q-2-Q-
IN THE CONSERVATORY.
“BUT we must return What will they say?
Yes, I know it's awful nice
In the window here, from the others away,
With a taste, now and then, of the ice,
84. The Parlor Muſe.
And now and then of- Oh, you wretch!
It wasn't at all required
That you should illustrate thus with a sketch
The speech that of course you admired.
“No matter how naughty. There ! you have
spoiled
The ‘classical Grecian knot'
In which you like my hair to be coiled,
And I really don't know what
Other mischief you haven't done ! You're
just -
Real naughty 1 You squeeze like a vise !
Why can't you men take something on
trust,
And be more dainty and nice P
“There ! I'm ready, now. What! just one
7more ?
Oh! aren't you a darling tease?
And love me so 2–one, two, three, four /
There ! come now, dearest, please !
The Amateur Spelling-Match. 85
I'm almost afraid of the parlor glare :
When they look at my lips, they'll see
The kisses upon them.”—“No, not there ;
But, sweet, in your eyes maybe.”
EARL MARBLE.
—H3D--
THE AMATEUR SPELLING—MATCH.
SINCE spelling-matches everywhere
O'er all the land abound,
Why should not we, too, “do and dare P’’
I will the words propound,
And you the “favored scholar” be,
As Rogers' group suggests.
With what a wealth of poetry
The subject he invests
Spell “spoons.” “What! such a word l’”
you say?
“But fit for kitchen-school?
86 The Parlor Mure.
Or, in New Orleans, far away,
When under Butler's rule P”
Fie! fie ' should social science come,
Or scurvy politics,
To mar our peace with brutal bomb?
Away with all such tricks
There ! please go on. “S”—oh ! the sound
Through lips that sweetly smile,
Like sibilant waters unprofound,
That aimless hours beguile
On pebbly beaches “P”—more staid
The smile now on the lips,
As though love's sun that warmed the
maid
Was partly 'neath eclipse.
“Double o”—through parting lips that
breaks,
Like gurgling rill half held
'Tween walling rocks and tent-like brakes,
And wonder semi-knelled
The Amateur Spelling-Match. 87
Through circling lips. “N "—here again
The semi-smile that played
Athwart your lips so sweetly when
The “s” you first essayed.
“S”—ah ! the smile is here again
Oh, sweet thou letter “s”
You 'mind me of that moment when
A tremulous little “Yes”
From self-same lips a day in eld
My being thrilled with joy—
When clouds of doubt were quick dispelled,
And life lost all alloy.
“Quite right,” I said; “but why this waste
Of letters, since with two
It can be spelled with greater haste,
More truth, and less ado?
“Oh, fiel S, p, double o, n, s,
Spells “spoons’; you needn't try
To spell the word with any less.”
“Yes, dear; two—‘u and I.’”
EARL MARBLE.
88
The Parlor Muſe.
A CHURCH-GOING BELLE.
A DAINTY little bonnet,
The sweetest marabout,
A sea of tawny wavelets
O'er forehead white as Snow ;
A brace of sparkling sapphires,
Two cheeks of rosy dye,
A pair of lips of ruby,
And a fascinating sigh.
Think'st thou she goes to worship 2
Ah! it is difficult to tell,
But it's plain both saints and sinners
Worship that Sabbath belle.
A tightly-fitting bodice,
Costume all brocaded,
Short petticoats with flounces,
In endless colors braided ;
Enameled shoes with buckles,
Such as the Frenchmen vend,
I With he would Decide. 89
With lofty, taper heel-taps,
To give a Grecian bend.
Think'st thou it's for God's glory
She dresses out so well ?
Or does she want some saint or sinner
To love the Sabbath belle P
ANONYMOUS.
—o.3 ex-
I WISH HE WOULD DECIDE.
I WISH he would decide, mamma,
I wish he would decide;
I've been a bridesmaid twenty times—
When shall I be a bride P
My cousin Anne, my sister Fan,
The nuptial-knot have tied;
Yet come what will, I'm single still—
I wish he would decide.
90
The Parlor Mure.
He takes me to the play, mamma,
He brings me pretty books;
He woos me with his eyes, mamma,
Such speechless things he looks
Where'er I roam—abroad, at home—
He lingers by my side;
Yet come what will, I'm single still—
I wish he would decide.
I throw out many hints, mamma,
I speak of other beaux,
I talk about domestic life, -
And sing “They don't propose";
But ah! how vain each piteous strain
His wavering heart to guide
Do what I will, I'm single still—
I wish he would decide.
ANONYMOUS.
An Idyl of the Period. 91
AN IDYL OF THE PERIOD.
I.
“COME right in—how are you, Fred P
Find a chair and have a light.”
“Well, old boy, recovered yet
From the Mathers' jam last night?”
“Didn't dance; the german's old.”
“Didn't you? I had to lead—
Awful bore—but where where you?”
“Sat it out with Molly Meade;
Jolly little girl she is—
Said she didn't care to dance,
*D rather have a quiet chat;
Then she gave me such a glancel
Gave me her bouquet to hold,
Asked me to draw off her glove;
Then, of course, I squeezed her hand,
Talked about my wasted life,
Said my sole salvation must
Be a true and gentle wife.
92
The Parlor Mure.
Then, you know, I used my eyes;
She believed me, every word,
Almost said she loved me—Jove
Such a voice I never heard —
Gave me some symbolic flower,
Had a meaning, Oh, so sweet!
Don't know where it is, I’m sure,
Must have dropped it in the street.
How I spooned 1 and she-ha! hal
Well, I know it wasn't right;
But she did believe me so,
That I–kissed her. Pass a light.”
II.
“Mollie Meade—well, I declare
Who'd have thought of seeing you,
After what occurred last night,
Out here on the avenue P
Oh, you awful, awful girl |
There, don't blush—I saw it all.”
“Saw all what?” “Ahem : last night—
At the Mathers' in the hall.”
An Idyl of the Period. 93
“Oh, you horrid where were you?
Wasn't he an awful goose 2
Most men must be caught; but he
Ran his neck right in the noose.
I was almost dead to dance;
I'd have done it if I could ;
But old Gray said I must stop,
And I promised ma I would;
So I looked up sweet and said
I had rather talk with him—
Hope he didn't see my face;
Luckily the lights were dim.
Then, Oh, how he squeezed my hand
And he looked up in my face
With his great, big, lovely eyes—
Really it's a dreadful case !
He was all in earnest, too;
But I really thought I'd have to laugh—
When he kissed a flower I gave,
Looking, Oh, like such a calf
I suppose he has it now
In a wine-glass on his shelves;
94. The Parlor Muſe.
It's a mystery to me
Why men will deceive themselves.
‘Saw him kiss me!’ Oh, you wretch
Well, he begged so hard for one,
And I thought there'd no one know.—
So I let him, just for fun
I know it wasn't really right
To trifle with his feelings, dear;
But men are such conceited things,
They need a lesson once a year.”
ANONYMOUS.
Bººm-º.
A TINY TRAGEDY.
PERIOD–Indefinite. SCENE–Anywhere.
ACT I.
A SHADY nook—
A rippling brook—
Moonlight;
A garden chair—
A youthful pair—
Delight!
A Tiny Tragedy. 95.
ACT II.
Troth plighted oft
In accents soft.
Oh, bliss |
Vow endless love—
(Cease, laughing Jove')
And kiss.
ACT III.
A jealous thought—
The mischief's wrought.
Untrue?
A haughty pout—
A cutting flout.
Adieu !
ACT IV.
A vessel starts:
In distant parts
He'll roam.
The Parlor Mure.
A hapless maid
By anguish swayed—
At home.
ACT V.
Years onward fleet:
Old lovers meet
And show,
As often found,
Doubts without ground.
Tableau !
ALF. CARNIE.

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—º Or, A 3PST IN SOBER EARNEST. Compiled
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3 ance Oſ, ver Be }|

DOnt:
A Manual of Mirtakeſ and
Improprietier more or leſſ
prevalent in Conduct
and Speech.
“I’ll view the manners of the town.”
Comedy of Errors.
By CENSOR.
<><>
NEW YORK :
D. Appleton & Co., 1, 3, & 5 Bond Street.
COPYRIGHT BY
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY.,
1883.
3. Preface.
T so happens that most of the rules
of society are prohibitory in char-
acter. This fact suggested the negative
form adopted in this little book, and per-
meztted the various injunctions to be ex-
pressed in a sententious and emphatic
manner.
Many of the rules here given are ne-

6 Preface.
cessarily drawn from established authori-
ties, &zet a considerable number of them
are the result of the compiler's personal
observation and earperience. **.
There are some persons, no doubt, who
will condemn many things here said as un-
necessary, because generally &nown. It was
necessary to 2nclude familiar rules in or-
der to give completeness to the West, but
any one who carefully observes well find
that nearly every rule given is frequently
violated by persons of at least good social
standing.
Other critics may condemn some of the
Preface. 7
injunctions as over-nice. All that can be
said to these persons is, that every one has
the lawful right to determine for himself
at what point below the highest point he
is content to let has social culture stop.
There are among us many young men
of good instancés and good intentions,
whose education in some particulars has
Öeen neglected. These young men are come-
monly of quick intelligence, and they will
appreciate at once the value of the hints
and directions succinctly given here. It is
for this class that “Don't" is mainly in-
tended.
8 Preface.
The plan of the book does not include
questions of etiquette, eaccept incidentally.
There are various volumes that set forth
all the details of receiving visitors and
making visits, of parties, of dinners, of
card sending and receiving, etc., to which
those interested are referred.

Contents.
<><>
At the Table
In Dress and Personal Habits
In the Drawing-Room
In Public
Page
I I
23
In Speech º
In General . º tº
Notes and Addenda
45
53
72
8o


I.
At Table.
DON'T, as an invited guest, be late to dinner.
This is a wrong to your host, to other
guests, and to the dinner.
Don't be late at the domestic table, as this is a
wrong to your family, and is not calculated
to promote harmony and good feeling.
Don't seat yourself until the ladies are seated,
or, at a dinner-party, until your host or
hostess gives the signal.
Don't sit a foot off from the table, nor sit
jammed up against it.

I 2. At Table.
Don't tuck your napkin under your chin, nor
spread it upon your breast. Bibs and tuck-
ers are for the nursery. Don't spread your
napkin over your lap; let it fall over your
knee.
Don't eat soup from the end of the spoon, but
from the side. Don't gurgle, nor draw in
your breath, nor make other noises when
eating soup. Don't ask for a second service
of Soup.
Don't bend over your plate, nor drop your
head to get each mouthful. Keep an upright
attitude as nearly as you can without being
stiff.
Don't bite your bread. Break it off. Don't
break your bread into your soup.
Don't eat with your knife. Never put your
knife into your mouth. (Is this advice un-
At Table. I3
necessary? Go into any restaurant and ob-
serve.) Cut with your knife; take up food
with your fork. Don't load up the fork
with food with your knife, and then cart it,
as it were, to your mouth. Take up on
the fork what it can easily carry, and no
In Ore.
Don't use a steel knife with fish. A silver
knife is now placed by the side of each plate
for the fish course.
Don't handle fork or knife awkwardly. How
to handle knife and fork well can be acquired
only by observation and practice. Don't
stab with the fork, or carry it as if it were a
dagger. Always carry food to the mouth
with an inward curve of the fork or spoon.
Don't eat fast, or gorge. Take always plenty
of time. Haste is vulgar.
I4 At Table.
Don't fill your mouth with too much food, nor
masticate audibly. Eat gently and quietly
and easily.
Don't spread out your elbows when you are
cutting your meat. Keep your elbows close
to your side.
Don't, when you drink, elevate your glass as
if you were going to stand it inverted on
your nose, as some do. Bring the glass per-
pendicularly to the lips, and then lift it to a
slight angle. Do this easily.
Don't eat vegetables with a spoon. Eat them
with a fork. The rule is not to eat any-
thing with a spoon that can be eaten with a
fork.
Don't devour the last mouthful of soup, the
last fragment of bread, the last morsel of
food. It is not expected that your plate
At Table. I5
should be sent away cleansed by your gas-
tronomic exertions.
Don't leave your knife and fork on your
plate when you send it for a second sup-
ply.
Don't reject bits of bone, or other substances,
by spitting them back into the plate. Qui-
etly eject them upon your fork, holding
it to your lips, and then place them on the
plate. Fruit-stones may be removed by the
fingers.
Don't apply to your neighbor to pass articles
when the servant is at hand.
Don't finger articles; don't play with your
napkin, or your goblet, or your fork, or with
anything.
Don't mop your face or beard with your nap-
kin. Draw it across your lips neatly.
I6 At Table.
Don't turn your back to one person for the
purpose of talking to another; don't talk
across the one seated next to you.
Don't forget that the lady sitting at your side
has the first claim upon your attention.
Don't talk when your mouth is fully—never, in
fact, have your mouth full. It is more health-
ful and in better taste to eat by small morsels.
Don't be embarrassed. Endeavor to be self-
possessed and at ease; to accomplish which,
don't be self-conscious. Remember that self-
respect is as much a virtue as respect for
others.
Don't drop your knife or fork; but, if you do,
don't be disconcerted. Quietly ask the ser-
vant for another, and give the incident no
further heed. Don't be disquieted at acci-
dents or blunders of any kind, but let all
At Table. 17
mishaps pass off without comment and with
philosophical indifference.
Don't throw yourself loungingly back in your
chair. The Romans lounged at table, but
modern civilization does not permit it.
Don't rest your elbows on the table; don't lean
on the table.
Don't use a toothpick at table, unless it is ne-
cessary; in that case, cover your mouth
with one hand while you remove the ob-
struction that troubles you.
Don't eat onions or garlic, unless you are din-
ing alone, and intend to remain alone some
hours thereafter.
Don't press food upon a guest. This once was
thought necessary, and it was also consid-
ered polite for a guest to continue accept-
ing, or to signify by a particular sign that
2
I8 te At Table.
he had enough. McMaster tells us that the
Prince of Broglie, “who traveled in our
country in 1782, relates, in one of his letters,
that he was invited to dine with the lady of
Robert Morris; that he went; that he was
repeatedly asked to have his cup refilled;
that he consented; and that, when he had
swallowed the twelfth cup of tea, his neigh-
bor whispered in his ear and told him when
he had had enough of the water diet he
should place his spoon across his cup, else
the hostess would go on urging him to drink
tea till the crack of doom.” To worry a
guest with ceaseless importunities is in the
worst possible taste.
Don't, as guest, fold your napkin when you
have finished. Throw the napkin loosely on
the table.
At Table. I9
sº-
Don't fail, at dinner, to rise when the ladies
leave the table. Remain standing until they
have left the room, and then reseat your-
Self.
Don't make a pronounced attempt at correct-
ness of manner; don't be vulgar, but don't,
on the other hand, show that you are trying
hard not to be vulgar. It is better to make
mistakes than to be continually struggling
not to make them.
Don't drink too much wine.
Don't thank host or hostess for your dinner.
Express pleasure in the entertainment, when
you depart—that is all.
Don't come to breakfast in deshabille. A lady's
morning toilet should be simple, but fresh
and tasteful, and her hair not in curl-papers.
A gentleman should wear his morning suit,
2O At Table.
and never his dressing gown. There are men
who sit at table in their shirt-sleeves. This
is an abomination.
Don't, as hostess, follow the English fashion
and omit napkins at breakfast The hardi-
hood with which an Englishman attacks
coffee and eggs without a napkin may excite
our wonder, but how can the practice be
defended ? Is it anything less than disgust-
ing?
Don't drink from your saucer. While you
must avoid this vulgarity, don't take notice
of it, or of any mistake of the kind, when
committed by others. It is related that
at the table of an English prince a rustic
guest poured his tea into his saucer, much
to the visible amusement of the court
ladies and gentlemen present. Whereupon
At Table. 2 I
the prince quietly poured his own tea into
his saucer, thereby rebuking his ill-man-
nered court, and putting his guest in coun-
tenance.
Don't carry your spoon in your tea or coffee
cup ; this habit is the cause frequently of
one upsetting the cup. Let the spoon lie in
the saucer.
Don't smear a slice of bread with butter;
break it into small pieces, and then butter.
Don't break an egg into a cup or glass, say
English authorities, but eat it always from
the shell.
Don't read newspaper or book at table, if oth-
ers are seated with you.
Don't decorate your shirt-front with egg or
coffee drippings, and don't ornament your
coat-lapels with grease-spots. A little care
22 At Table.
will prevent these accidents. Few things
are more distasteful than to see a gentleman
bearing upon his apparel ocular evidence of
his breakfast or his dinner.

II.
In Dress and Personal Habits.
DON'T neglect the morning bath; don't fail to
be cleanly in all details.
Don't wear soiled linen. Be scrupulously par-
ticular on this point.
Don't be untidy in anything. Neatness is one
of the most important of the minor morals.
Don't wear apparel with decided colors or
with pronounced patterns. Don't—we ad-
dress here the male reader, for whom this
brochure is mainly designed—wear anything
that is pretty. What have men to do with
pretty things? Select quiet colors and un-

24 In Dress and Personal Habits.
obtrusive patterns, and adopt no style of
cutting that belittles the figure. It is right
enough that men's apparel should be becom-
ing, that it should be graceful, and that it
should lend dignity to the figure; but it
should never be ornamental, fanciful, gro-
tesque, Odd, Capricious, nor pretty.
Don't wear fancy-colored shirts, or embroid-
ered shirt-fronts. White, plain linen is al-
ways in the best taste.
Don't wear evening dress in the morning, or
on any occasion before six o'clock dinner.
Don't wear black broadcloth in the morning;
or, at least, don't wear black broadcloth
trousers except for evening dress.
Don't wear your hat cocked over your eye, nor
thrust back upon your head. One method
is rowdyish, the other rustic.
In Dress and Personal Habits. 25
*—
Don't go with your boots unpolished; but
don't have the polishing done in the public
highways. A gentleman perched on a high
curb-stone chair, within view of all passers-
by, while he is having executed this finishing
touch to his toilet, presents a picture more
unique than dignified.
Don't wear trinkets, shirt-pins, finger-rings, or
anything that is solely ornamental. One
may wear shirt-studs, a scarf-pin, a watch-
chain and a seal, because these articles are
useful; but the plainer they are the better.
Don't wear dressing-gown and slippers any-
where out of your bedroom. To appear at
table or in any company in this garb is the
very soul of vulgarity. It is equally vulgar
to sit at table or appear in company in one's
shirt-sleeves.
26 In Dress and Personal Habits.
Don't walk with a slouching, slovenly gait.
Walk erectly and firmly, not stiffly; walk
with ease, but still with dignity. Don't bend
out the knees, nor walk in-toed, nor drag
your feet along; walk in a large, easy, sim-
ple manner, without affectation but not neg-
ligently.
Don't carry your hands in your pockets.
Don't thrust your thumbs into the arm-holes
of your waistcoat.
Don't cleanse your ears, or your nose, or trim
and clean your finger-nails, in public. Clean-
liness and neatness in all things pertaining
to the person are indispensable, but toilet
offices are proper in the privacy of one's
apartment only.
Don't chew or nurse your toothpick in public
—or anywhere else. Don't use a toothpick,
In Dress and Personal Habits. 27
except for a moment, to remove some ob-
stacle; and don't have the habit of sucking
your teeth.
Don't chew tobacco. It is a bad and ungentle-
manly habit. The neatest tobacco-chewer
can not wholly prevent the odor of tobacco
from affecting his breath and clinging to his
apparel, and the “places that know him "
are always redolent of the weed. If one
must chew, let him be particular where he
expectorates. He should not discharge to-
bacco-juice in public vehicles, on the side-
walk, or in any place where it will be offen-
sive.
Don't expectorate. Men in good health do
not need to expectorate; with them contin-
ual expectoration is simply the result of
habit. Men with bronchial or lung diseases
28 In Dress and Personal Habits.
are compelled to expectorate, but no one
should discharge matter of the kind in pub-
lic places except into vessels provided to re-
ceive it. Spitting upon the floor anywhere
is inexcusable. One should not even spit
upon the sidewalk, but go to the gutter for
the purpose. One must not spit into the
fire-place nor upon the carpet, and hence the
English rule is for him to spit in his hand-
kerchief—but this is not a pleasant alter-
native. On some occasions no other may
offer.
Don't whistle in the street, in public vehicles,
at public assemblies, or anywhere where it
may annoy. Mem.: don't whistle at all.
Don't laugh boisterously. Laugh heartily
when the occasion calls for it, but the loud
guffaw is not necessary to heartiness.
In Dress and Perſonal Habits. 29
gy-
Don't have the habit of smiling or “grinning”
at nothing. Smile or laugh when there is
occasion to do either, but at other times
keep your mouth shut and your manner
composed. People who laugh at everything
are commonly capable of nothing.
Don't blow your nose in the presence of oth-
ers if you can possibly avoid it. Above
all things, don’t blow your nose with your
fingers. Dr. Oliver Wendell Holmes de-
clares that, in all the discussions and dif-
ferences of opinion as to what constitutes
a gentleman, all disputants unite in ex-
cluding the man who blows his nose with
his fingers.
Don't gape, or hiccough, or sneeze in com-
pany. When there is an inclination to hic-
cough or sneeze, hold your breath for a
3O In Dress and Personal Habits.
moment and resist the desire, and you will
find that it will pass off.
Don't have the habit of letting your lip drop
and your mouth remain open. “Shut your
mouth,” is the advice of a savant, who has
written a book on the subject. Breathe
through your nostrils and not through your
mouth; sleep with your mouth closed; keep
it closed except when you open it for a pur-
pose. An open mouth indicates feebleness
of character, while the habit affects the teeth
and the general health.
Don't keep carrying your hands to your face,
pulling your whiskers, adjusting your hair,
or otherwise fingering yourself. Keep your
hands quiet and under control.
Don't be over-familiar. Don't strike your
friends on the back, nudge them in the side,
In Dress and Personal Habits. 3 I
or give other physical manifestation of your
pleasure. Don't indulge in these familiari-
ties, nor submit to them from others.
Don't bolt, without notice, into any one's pri-
vate apartment. Respect always the priv-
acy of your friends, however intimate you
may be with them.
Don't wear your hat in a strictly private office.
This is no more justifiable than wearing a
hat in a drawing-room.
Don't carry a lighted cigar into a private
office or into a salesroom. (See Smoking,
under “In Public.”)
Don't be servile toward superiors, nor arro-
gant toward inferiors. Maintain your dig-
nity and self-respect in one case, and exhibit
a regard for the feelings of people, whatever
their station may be, in the other.
32 In Dress and Personal Habits.
Don't drink wine or spirits in the morning, or
often at other times than at dinner. Don't
frequent bar-rooms. Tippling is not only
vulgar and disreputable, but injurious to
health.

III.
In the Drawing–Room.
DON'T, however brief your call, wear overcoat
or overshoes into the drawing-room. If
you are making a short call, carry your hat
and cane in your hand, but never an um-
brella.
Don't attempt to shake hands with every-
body present. . If hostess or host offers a
hand, take it ; a bow is sufficient for the
rest.
Don't, in any case, offer to shake hands with
a lady. The initiative must always come
from her. By the same principle don't offer

3
34 In the Drawing-Room.
your hand to a person older than yourself,
or to any one whose rank may be supposed
to be higher than your own, until he has ex-
tended his.
Don't, as hostess, insist upon taking a caller's
hat or cane. Pay no attention to these arti-
cles. It is right that he should carry them;
it is not right that you should notice them.
Don't be in a precipitate hurry to get into a
chair. It is just as graceful, as easy, and as
proper, to stand; and it is easier to converse
when in that attitude.
Don't be cold and distant; don't, on the other
hand, be gushing and effusive. A cordial
yet quiet manner is the best.
Don't stare at the furniture, at pictures, or at
other objects, and, of course, don't stare at
people present.
In the Drawing-Room. 35
Don't fail to rise, if you are seated, whenever
a lady enters the room.
Don't stretch yourself on the sofa, or in the
easy-chair. Don't lounge anywhere except
in your own apartment.
Don't sit cross-legged. Pretty nearly every-
body of the male sex does—but, neverthe-
less, don't.
Don't sit with your chair resting on its hind
legs. Keep quiet and at ease in your chair.
Don't keep shifting your feet about. Don't
twirl your thumbs, or play with tassels or
knobs, or other articles at hand. Cultivate
repose.
Don't be self-conscious. “True politeness,”
says a writer, “is always so busy in thinking
of others that it has no time to think of it-
self.”
36 In the Drawing-Room.
Don't, in introducing, present ladies to gentle-
men; gentlemen, whatever their rank, should
be presented to ladies. Young men should
be presented to elderly men, and not the re-
verse; young women to elderly women.
Don't, if you are asked to play or sing, refuse
unless you really intend not to perform. To
refuse, simply in order to lead your hostess
on to repeated importunities, is an intoler.
able exhibition of vanity and caprice. To
every hostess, therefore, we say:
Don't ask any one more than once after a
first refusal to sing or play. A first refusal
may arise from modesty or hesitation, but a
second should be considered final.
Don't touch people when you have occasion
to address them. Catching people by the
arms or the shoulders, or nudging them to
In the Drawing-Room. 37
attract their attention, is a violation of good
breeding.
Don't talk over-loud, or try to monopolize the
conversation.
Don't talk to one person across another.
Don't whisper in company. If what you wish
to say can not be spoken aloud, reserve it
for a suitable occasion.
Don't talk about yourself or your affairs. If
you wish to be popular, talk to people about
what interests them, not about what inter-
ests you.
Don't talk in a social circle to one person of
the company about matters that solely con-
cern him and yourself, or which you and he
alone understand.
Don't talk about your maladies, or about
your afflictions of any kind. Complaining
38 In the Drawing-Room.
people are pronounced on all hands great
bores.
Don't talk about people that are unknown to
those present.
Don't be witty at another's expense; don't
ridicule any one; don't infringe in any way
the harmony of the company.
Don't repeat the scandals and malicious ru-
mors of the hour.
Don't discuss equivocal people, nor broach
topics of questionable propriety.
Don't dwell on the beauty of women not pres-
ent; on the splendor of other people's houses;
on the success of other people's entertain-
ments; on the superiority of anybody. Ex-
cessive praise of people or things elsewhere
implies discontent with people or things
present.
In the Drawing-Room. 39
Don't fail to exercise tact. If you have not
tact, you at least can think first about others
and next about yourself, and this will go a
good way toward it.
Don't introduce religious or political topics.
Discussions on these subjects are very apt
to cause irritation, and hence it is best to
avoid them.
Don't give a false coloring to your statements.
Truthfulness is largely a matter of habit.
Where very few people would deceive or
lie maliciously, many become wholly un-
trustworthy on account of their habit of ex-
aggeration and false coloring.
Don't interrupt. To cut one short in the mid-
dle of his story is unpardonable.
Don't contradict. Difference of opinion is no
cause of offense, but downright contradic-
40 In the Drawing-Room.
tion is a violation of one of the canons of
good society.
Don't be disputatious. An argument which
goes rapidly from one to another may be
tolerated; but when two people in company
fall into a heated dispute, to the exclusion of
all other topics, the hostess should arbitra-
rily interfere and banish the theme.
Don't be long-winded. When you have a
story to tell, do not go into every detail and
branch off at every word—be direct, com-
pact, clear, and get to the point as soon as
you can.
Don't cling to one subject; don't talk about
matters that people generally are not inter-
ested in ; don't, in short, be a bore.
Don't repeat old jokes nor tell time-worn sto-
ries. Don't make obvious puns. An occa-
In the Drawing-Room. 4 I
sional pun, if a good One, is a good thing;
but a ceaseless flow of puns is simply mad-
dening.
Don't repeat anecdotes, good or bad. A very
good thing becomes foolishness to the ears
of the listener after hearing it several times.
Don't respond to remarks made to you with
mere monosyllables. This is chilling, if not
fairly insulting. Have something to say,
and say it.
Don't appear listless and indifferent, or exhibit
impatience when others are talking. Listen-
ing politely to every one is a cardinal neces-
sity of good breeding.
Don't be conceited. Don't dilate on your own
acquirements or achievements; don't expa-
tiate on what you have done or are going to
do, or on your superior talents in anything.
42 In the Drawing-Room.
Don't always make yourself the hero of
your own stories.
Don't show a disposition to find fault or de-
preciate. Indiscriminate praise is nauseat-
ing ; but, on the other hand, indiscriminate
condemnation is irritating. A man of the
world should have good appreciation and
good depreciation—that is, a keen sense of
the merits of a thing, and an equally keen
sense of its faults.
Don't be sulky because you imagine yourself
neglected. Think only of pleasing; and try
to please. You will end by being pleased.
Don't show repugnance even to a bore. A
supreme test of politeness is submission to
various social inflictions without a wince.
Don't, when at the card-table, moisten your
thumb and fingers at your lips in order to
In the Drawing-Room. 43
facilitate the dealing of the cards. This
common habit is very vulgar. The aristo-
cratic circles of a European court were
much horrified a few years ago by the prac-
tice of this trick by the American embassador.
Don't show ill-temper, if the game goes against
you.
Don't fail in proper attention to elderly peo-
ple. Young persons are often scandalously
neglectful of the aged, especially if they are
deaf or otherwise afflicted. Nothing shows
a better heart, or a nicer sense of true polite-
ness, than kindly attention to those advanced
in years.
Don't in company open a book and begin read-
ing to yourself. If you are tired of the com-
pany, withdraw ; if not, honor it with your
attention.
44 In the Drawing-Room.
Don't, in entering or leaving a room with
ladies, go before them. They should have
precedence always.
Don't keep looking at your watch, as if you
were impatient for the time to pass.
Don't wear out your welcome by too long a
stay; on the other hand, don't break up the
company by a premature departure. A little
observation and good sense will enable you
to detect the right time to say “Good-
night.”

IV.
In Public.
DON'T neglect to keep to the right of the
promenade, otherwise there may be collis-
ions and much confusion.
Don't brush against people, nor elbow people,
nor in any way show disregard for others.
Don't fail to apologize if you tread upon or
stumble against any one, or if you incon-
venience one in any way. Be considerate
and polite always.
Don't stare at people, nor laugh at any pecul-
iarity of manner or dress. Don't point at

46 Im Public.
persons or objects. Don't forget to be a
gentleman.
Don't carry cane or umbrella in a crowd hori-
zontally. This is a common English trick,
and a very annoying one to the victims of it.
Don't smoke in the street, unless in unfre-
quented avenues. Don't smoke in public
vehicles. Don't smoke in any place where
it is likely to be offensive. Wherever you
do indulge in a cigar, don't puff smoke into
the face of any one, man or woman.
Don't expectorate on the sidewalk. Go to
the curb-stone and discharge the saliva into
the gutter. Men who eject great streams
of tobacco-juice on the sidewalk, or on the
floors of public vehicles, ought to be driven
out of civilized society.
Don't eat fruit or anything else in the public
In Public. 47
—x z-
streets. A gentleman on the promenade,
engaged in munching an apple or a pear,
presents a more amusing than edifying pic-
ture.
Don't obstruct the entrance to churches, the-
atres, or assemblies. Don't stand before ho-
tels or other places and stare at passers-by.
This is a most idle and insolent habit.
Don't stand on car-platforms, thereby prevent-
ing the easy ingress and egress of passengers.
Remember the rights and the comfort of
others.
Don't forget to raise your hat to every lady
acquaintance you meet, and to every gentle-
man you salute, when he is accompanied by
a lady, whether you know her or not.
Don't stop your lady acquaintances in the
street if you wish to speak to them ; turn
48 In Public.
and walk by their side, and leave them with
raised hat when you have done.
Don't neglect to raise your hat to a strange
lady if you have occasion to address her.
If she drops her handkerchief, and you pick
it up for her, raise your hat. If in an omni-
bus you pass her fare to the conductor, raise
your hat. Every little service of the kind
should be accompanied by a distant, respect-
ful salutation.
Don't be in haste to introduce. Be sure that
it is mutually desired before presenting one
person to another.
Don't, in a walk, introduce your compan-
ion to every person you may chance to
meet. Off-hand street introductions are
rarely called for, and commonly serve no
end.
In Public. 49
Don't ask questions of strangers indiscriminate-
ly. Young women run risks in approach-
ing unknown people with questions, and
they should scrupulously avoid doing so.
In traveling, inquire of the conductor or
of some official; in the street, wait until a
policeman can be found.
Don't be over-civil. Do not let your civility fall
short, but over-civility is a mistake. Don't
rush to pick up a man's hat; don't pick up
any article that a stranger or companion may
drop, unless there are special reasons for do-
ing so. Be prompt to pick up anything that
a lady lets fall, and extend this politeness to
elderly or infirm men. But haste to wait
on equals is over-civility; it has a touch of
servility, and is not sanctioned by the best
usage.
4.
50 In Public.
Don't rush for a seat in a car or at a public
entertainment, in utter disregard of every
One else, pushing rudely by women and chil-
dren, hustling men who are older or less
active, and disregarding every law of polite-
ness. If one should, on an occasion of this
kind, lose his seat in consequence of a little
polite consideration, he would have the con-
solation of standing much higher in his own
esteem—which is something.
Don't occupy more space in an omnibus or car
than you require. In this particular women
are greater sinners than men. One who has
traveled a good deal in local vehicles declares
that he has ascertained the exact arithmetical
ratio of the sexes, which is as six to five—for,
in an omnibus, a seat that will hold six men
never accommodates more than five women.
In Public. 5 I
Don't enter a crowded omnibus -or street-car.
There doubtless are occasions when one can
not well help doing so, but many times the
vehicle that follows will afford plenty of
room. A person who enters a crowded
public vehicle is an intruder, and has no
rights that anybody is bound to respect.
Don't bustle into a theatre or concert after the
performance has begun, to the annoyance of
others. Arrive early and be seated in time.
The manager who will resolutely refuse per-
mission for any one to enter an auditorium
after the curtain has risen, will win for him-
self a golden meed of praise.
Don't talk at the theatre or at a concert when
the performance is going on. To disturb
others who wish to listen is gross ill breed-
ing; but, unfortunately, it is common with
52 In Public.
the very class who pretend to an exclusive
share of good breeding.
Don't at any public performance make a move
to leave the auditorium before the perform-
ance is over. Men who recklessly and self-
ishly disturb public assemblies in this way
have the instincts of Savages, not of gentle-
IIl CIl.

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^alsº
In Speech.
DON'T speak ungrammatically. Study books
of grammar, and the writings of the best
authors.
Don't pronounce incorrectly. Listen carefully
to the conversation of cultivated people, and
consult the dictionaries.
Don't mangle your words, nor smother them,
nor swallow them. Speak with a distinct
enunciation.
Don't talk in a high, shrill voice, and avoid
nasal tones. Cultivate a chest-voice; learn

54 In Speech.
to moderate your tones. Talk always in a
low register, but not too low.
Don't use slang. There is some slang that,
according to Thackeray, is gentlemanly
slang, and other slang that is vulgar. If
one does not know the difference, let him
avoid slang altogether, and then he will be
safe.
Don't use profane language. Don't multiply
epithets and adjectives; don't be too fond
of superlatives. Moderate your transports.
Don't use meaningless exclamations, such as
“Oh, my l’’ “Oh, crackey !” etc.
Don't interject sir or madam freely into your
conversation. Never say ma'am at all. Young
people should be taught to say “Yes, papa,”
“No, mamma" (with accent on the second
syllable of mamma and papa), “Yes, uncle,”
In Speech. 55
“No, aunt,” and so on, instead of always
“Yes, sir,” “No, ma'am,” etc. Sir is right
toward superiors, but it must even in this
case be sparingly used.
Don't address a young lady as miss. Don't
say “Miss Mary,” “Miss Susan.” This strict-
ly is permissible with servants only. Ad-
dress young ladies by their surname, with
prefix of miss, except when in a family of
sisters a distinction must be made, and then
give the name in full.
Don't clip final consonants. Don't say comin',
goin', singin', for coming, going, singing. Don't
say an' for and,
Don't mispronounce vowel-sounds in unaccent-
ed syllables. Don't say persition for posi-
tion, pertater for potato, sentunce for sentence.
On the other hand, don't lay too much stress
56 In Speech.
on these sounds—touch them lightly but cor-
rectly.
Don't say ketch for catch, nor ken for can.
Don't say feller for fellow, nor winder for
window, nor meller for mellow, nor to-morrer
for to-morrow. Don't imagine that igno-
ramuses only make these mistakes. They
are often through carelessness made by peo-
ple of some education. Don't, therefore, be
careless in these little points.
Don't say secatary for secretary, nor sal'ry for
salary. Don't say hist'ry for history.
Don't say doo for dew or due. Don't say
dooty for duty. Remember to give the diph-
thongal sound of eu wherever it belongs.
The perversity of pronunciation in this
particular is singular. “A heavy doo fell
last night,” one rustic will say. “Du
In Speech. 57
tell !” will come as a response from an-
other.
Don't drop the sound of r where it belongs, as
ahm for arm, waſhm for warm, hoss for horse,
govahment for government. The omission of r
in these and similar words—usually when it
falls after a vowel—is very common.
Don't pronounce route as if it were written
zozvt; it should be like root. Don’t, also,
pronounce tour as if you were speaking of
a tower. Let it be pronounced as if it were
foor.
Don't pronounce calm and palm as if they
rhymed with ham. Give the a the broad
Sound, as in father.
Don't say gents for gentlemen, nor pants for pan-
taloons. These are inexcusable vulgarisms.
Don't say vest for waistcoat.
58 In Speech.
Don't say party for person. This is abomina-
ble, and yet very common.
Don't say lady when you mean wife.
Don't say “right away,” if you wish to
avoid Americanisms. Say immediately or
directly.
Don't say rubbers or gums. Say overshoes. Why
should the material of an article of clothing
be mentioned P
Don't say female for woman. A sow is a fe-
male; a mare is a female. The female sex
of the human kind is entitled to some dis-
tinctive term.
Don't say sick except when nausea is meant.
Say ill, unwell, indisposed.
Don't say posted for well informed. Don't say
balance for remainder. Don't use trade terms
except for trade purposes.
In Speech. 59
Don't say, “Have the cars come in P” Say,
“Has the train come in P” It is better
to travel by rail than by cars. These
are simply preferences—matters of taste
merely.
Don't call your servants girls. Call the cook
cook, and the nurse nurse, and the house-
maids maids.
Don't use wrong adjectives. There is perhaps
no adjective so misused as elegant. Don't
say “an elegant morning,” or an “elegant
piece of beef,” or “an elegant scene,” or
“an elegant picture.” This word has been
so vulgarized by misuse that it is better not
to use it at all.
Don't use extravagant adjectives. Don't say
magnificent when a thing is merely pretty,
or splendid when excellent or some other
6O In Speech.
word will do. Extravagance of this kind is
never in good taste.
Don't use the words hate and despise to ex-
press mere dislikes. The young lady who
declares that she “hates yellow ribbons”
and “despises turnips,” may have sound
principles, but she evinces a great want of
discrimination in the selection of epithets.
Don't say hung when hanged is meant. Men,
unfortunately, are sometimes hanged; pic-
tures are hung.
Don't say that anybody or anything is genteel.
Don't use the word at all. Say a person
is “well bred,” or a thing is “tasteful.”
Don't say transpire when you mean occur.
Transpire means to become known, and
hence is erroneously used in the sense of
taking place.
In Speech. 6I
Don't say yeh for yes; and don't imitate the
English ya-as. Don't respond to a remark
with a prolonged exclamatory and interrog-
ative ye-es. This is a rank Yankeeism.
Don't say don't for does not. Don't is a con-
traction of do not, not of does not. Hence,
“he don't.” is not permissible. Say “He
doesn't.”
Don't say ain't for isn't, and, above all, don't
say 'tain't. Say aren't for are not, isn't for is
not; and, although ain't may by a stretch
be considered an abbreviation of “am not,”
it is in better taste to speak the words in
full.
Don't say “I done it,” “he done it,” “they done
it.” This is a very gross error, yet it is
often made by people who ought to know
better. “I did it,” “he did it,” “they did
62 In Speech.
it,” is, it ought to be unnecessary to say, the
correct form.
Don't say “I seen,” say “I saw.” This error
is commonly made by the same people who
say “I done it.” A similar error is, “If he
had went,” instead of “If he had gone.”
Don't say “It is him,” say “It is he.” So, also,
“It is I,” not “It is me”; “It is they,” not
“It is them.”
Don't say “He is older than me,” say “He is
older than I.” “I am taller than he,” not “I
am taller than him.”
Don't say “Charles and me are going to
church.” The proper form is, “Charles and
I are going,” etc.
Don't say “Between you and I.” By an ingen-
ious perversity, the same people who insist,
in the instances we have cited, upon using
In Speech. 63
the objective case where the nominative is
called for, in this phrase reverse the pro-
ceeding. They should say, “Between you
and me.”
Don't, in referring to a person, say he or she
or him, but always mention the name. “Mrs.
Smith thinks it will rain,” not “she thinks it
will rain.” There are men who continually
refer to their wives as she, and wives who
have commonly no other name than he for
their husbands. This is abominable.
Don't say lay for lie. It is true, Byron com-
mitted this blunder—“There let him lay”—
but poets are not always safe guides. Lay
expresses transitive action; lie expresses rest.
“I will lie down”; “I will lay it down.”
Don't use them for those. “Them boots,” “them
bonnets,” etc., is so gross an error that we
64 In Speech.
commonly hear it only from the unedu
cated.
Don't say, “I am through,” when you are an-
nouncing that you have finished dinner or
breakfast. “Are you through P” asked an
American of an Englishman when seated at
table. “Throughl” exclaimed the English-
man, looking in an alarmed way down to
the floor and up to the ceiling—“through
what?”
Don't misuse the words lady and gentleman.
Don't say “A nice lady.” If you must use
the word mice, say “A nice woman.” Don't
say “A pleasant gentleman,” say “An agree-
able person.” Say “What kind of man is
he P” not “What kind of gentleman is he?”
Say “She is a good woman,” not “a good
lady.” The indiscriminate use of lady and
In Speech. 65
gentleman indicates want of culture. These
terms should never be used when sex pure
and simple is meant.
Don't say “I guess” for “I think,” or “I ex-
pect" for “I suppose.”
Don't use plenty as an adjective, but say plenti-
ful. So say the purists, although old writers
frequently violated this rule. “If reasons
were as plenty as blackberries,” says Fal-
staff. If we obey the rule, we must say
“money is plentiful,” not “money is plenty.”
Don't use the word please too much. Say,
“Will you kindly oblige me,” or something
equivalent.
Don't fall into the habit of repeating worn-out
proverbs and over-used quotations. It be-
comes not a little irritating to have to listen
to one who ceaselessly applies or misap-
5
66 In Speech.
plies a threadbare stock of “wise saws” and
stupid sayings.
Don't use fix in the sense of putting in order,
setting to rights, etc. This is a condemned
Americanism. Fix means to make fast, to
permanently set in place, and hence the com-
mon American usage is peculiarly wrong.
Don't adopt the common habit of calling
everything funny that chances to be a little
odd or strange. Funny can only be rightly
used when the comical is meant.
Don't use mad for angry. This has been de-
nounced as peculiarly an Americanism, and
it is an Americanism so far as current usage
goes; but the word is employed in this sense
in the New Testament, it is occasionally
found in old English authors, and, according
to articles recently published in the London
In Speech. 67
“Athenaeum,” it is not uncommon in certain
out-of-the-way places in England.
Don't use a plural pronoun when a singular is
called for. “Every passenger must show their
ticket,” illustrates a prevalenterror. “Every-
body put on their hats” is another instance.
It should be, “Everybody put on his hat.”
Don't say “blame it on him,” but simply,
“blame him.” The first form is common
among the uneducated.
Don't use got where it is unnecessary. “I
have got an umbrella” is a common form of
speech, but got here is needless, and it is far
from being a pleasing word. “I have a
book,” not “I have got a book,” and so in all
similar cases.
Don't use less for fewer in referring to things
of numbers. Less should be applied to
68 In Speech.
bulk only; “less than a bushel, fewer than
a hundred,” indicates the proper distinc-
tion to be made in the use of the two
words.
Don't use quantity for number. “A quantity
of wheat” is right enough, but what are
we to think of the phrase, “a quantity of
people”?
Don't use adjectives when adverbs are re-
quired. Don't say, for instance, “This pear
is uncommon good,” but “This pear is uncom-
monly good.” For rules on the use of ad-
verbs consult books on grammar.
Don't say “awfully nice,” “awfully pretty,”
etc.; and don't accumulate bad grammar
upon bad taste by saying “awful nice.” Use
the word awful with a sense of its correct
meaning.
In Speech. 69
Don't say “loads of time” or “oceans of time.”
There is no meaning to these phrases. Say
“ample time” or “time enough.”
Don't say “lots of things,” meaning an “abun-
dance of things.” A lot of anything means
a separate portion, a part allotted. Lot for
quantity is an Americanism.
Don't say that “the health of the President
was drank,” or that “the race was ran.”
For drank say drunk; for ran say run.
Don't use smart to express cleverness, bright-
ness, or capability. This use of the word is
very common, but it is not sanctioned by
people of the best taste.
Don't habitually use the word folks—“his
folks,” “our folks,” “their folks,” etc. Strict-
ly, the word should be folk, the plural form
being a corruption; but, while usage sanc-
7o In Speech.
tions folks for folk, it is in better taste not
to use the word at all.
Don't speak of this or that kind of food being
healthy or unhealthy; say always wholesome
or unwholesome.
Don't say learn for teach. It is not right to
say “will learn them what to do,” but “will
teach them what to do.” The teacher can
Only teach; the pupil must learn.
Don't say donate when you mean give. The
use of this pretentious word for every in-
stance of giving has become so common as
to be fairly nauseating. Good, plain, vigor-
ous Saxon is never nauseating. If one can
not give his church or town library a little
money without calling it donating, let him,
in the name of good English, keep his gift
until he has learned better.
In Speech. 71.
Don't notice in others a slip of grammar or a
mispronunciation in a way to cause a blush
or offend. If you refer to anything of the
kind, do it courteously, and not in the hear.
ing of other persons.

VI.
In General.
DON'T conduct correspondence on postal-
cards. A brief business message on a post-
al-card is not out of the way, but a private
communication on an open card is almost
insulting to your correspondent. It is
questionable whether a note on a postal-
card is entitled to .the courtesy of a re-
sponse. *
Don't write notes on ruled or inferior paper.
Don't use sheets with business headings for
private letters. Tasteful stationery is con-
sidered an indication of refined breeding,

In General. 73
and tasteful stationery means note-paper
and envelopes of choice quality, but entirely
plain. One may have his initials or his mon-
ogram and his address neatly printed on
his note-paper, but there should be no orna-
ment of any kind.
Don't—we wish we could say—fasten an en-
velope by moistening the mucilage with
your lips; but this custom is too univer-
sally established for a protest against it to
be of any avail. No one, however, can de-
fend the practice as altogether nice. It
was once incumbent on a gentleman to
seal his letters with wax, and many fas-
tidious persons adhered to the practice
long after wafers came in. A Frenchman,
it is said, once challenged an Englishman
for sending him a letter fastened by a wa-
74 In General.
fer. “What right,” exclaimed the punc-
tilious Gaul, “has any gentleman to send
me his saliva P.”
Don't cultivate an ornamental style of writing.
Don't imitate the flourishes of a writing-
master; keep as far away from a writing-
master's style as possible. A lady's or gen-
tleman's handwriting should be perfectly
plain, and wholly free from affectations of
all kinds.
Don't, when you inclose a letter to a corre-
spondent to be forwarded, omit to place a
stamp on the letter.
Don't fail to acknowledge by note all invita-
tions, whether accepted or not. Never
leave a letter unanswered. Don't fail to
acknowledge all courtesies, all attentions, all
kindnesses.
In General. 75
g-
Don't, in writing to a young lady, address her
as “Dear Miss.” The use of Miss without
the name is always a vulgarism, if not an
impertinence. It is awkward, no doubt,
to address a young woman as “Dear Ma-
dam,” but there is no help for it, unless
one makes a rule for himself, and writes,
“Dear Lady.”
Don't, in writing to a married lady, address
her by her maiden Christian name. Don't,
for instance, write “Mrs. Lucy Smith,” but
“Mrs. Charles Smith.”
Don't omit from your visiting-cards your
title, Mr., Mrs., or Miss, whatever it may
be. It is very common in the United
States for gentlemen to omit Mr. from
their visiting-cards; and sometimes young
ladies print their names without a title, but
76 In General.
the custom has not the sanction of the best
usage.*
Don't scold your children or your servants be-
fore others. Respect their amour propre.
Don't bring children into company. Don't set
them at table where there are guests. Don't
force them on people's attention.
Don't, as master or mistress, give your orders
in an authoritative manner. The feelings of
those under you should be considered. You
will obtain more willing obedience if your
directions have as little as possible of the
tone of command.
Don't trouble people with your domestic
mishaps, with accounts of your rebell-
* In England a young lady does not commonly have a
separate visiting-card; her name is printed on the card of
her mother, with whom her visits are always made.
In General. 77
ious servants, or with complaints of any
kind.
Don't repeat scandals, nor malicious gossip.
Don't sneer at people, nor continually crack
jokes at their expense; cultivate the ameni-
ties and not the asperities of life.
Don't be that intolerable torment—a tease.
The disposition to worry children, cats, and
dogs simply displays the restlessness of an
empty mind. Don't chaff.
Don't underrate everything that others do,
and overstate your own doings.
Don't scoff or speak ill of a rival in your pro-
fession or trade. This is in the worst pos-
sible taste, and shows a paltry spirit. Have
the pride and self-respect to overstate the
merits of a rival rather than understate
them.
78 In General.
Don't borrow books, unless you return them
promptly. If you do borrow books, don't
mar them in any way: don't bend or break .
the backs, don't fold down the leaves, don't
write on the margins, don't stain them with
grease-spots. Read them, but treat them as
friends that must not be abused.
Don't pick up letters, accounts, or anything of
a private character that is lying on another's
desk. Don't look over a person's shoulder
when he is reading or writing.
Don't twirl a chair or other object while talk-
ing or listening to any one. This trick is
very annoying and very Common.
Don't beat a tattoo with your foot in company
or anywhere, to the annoyance of others.
Don't drum with your fingers on chair,
table, or window-pane. Don't hum a tune.
In General. 79
The instinct for making noises is a survival
of Savagery.
Don't play the accordion, the violin, the piano,
or any musical instrument, to excess. Your
neighbors have nerves, and need at times a
little relief from inflictions of the kind. If
you could manage not to play on instru-
ments at all, unless you are an accomplished
performer, so much the better.
Don't open a book when another person in
the circle begins to read aloud. Don't stand
before the fire, to the exclusion of the heat
from others. Don't forget good manners
wherever you are.
Don't be selfish; don't be exacting ; don't
storm, if things go wrong; don't be grum
and sullen; don't fret—one fretful person in
a house is ruin to its peace; don't make
8O In General.
yourself in any particular a nuisance to
your neighbors or your family.
Don't fail to heed all the “don’ts” in this little
book. Perhaps you think the injunctions
are not needed in your case. This is true
of many of them, no doubt; but the best of
us are not perfect in manners any more than
in anything else.

Notes and Addenda.
<><>
At Table.
UNDER the eighth rule of this chapter is the injunction
not to “break bread into soup.” Soup at dinner is de-
signed to warm and prepare the stomach for more sub-
stantial food, and hence, to add anything to it which gives
it bulk, defeats the purpose of the dish. Moreover, it is
something of a reflection on your host's cook to add sub-
stances to his carefully prepared and flavored compound.
“Don’t leave your knife and fork on your plate when you
send it for a second supply.” It is embarrassing to a carv-
er, or the one who serves, to have to place food on a plate
already occupied by knife and fork; but then it is no doubt
awkward to the sender to retain his knife and fork, for he
doesn't know what to do with them. We suggest, there-
fore, a compromise: let the fork remain on the plate, as

6
82 Notes and Addenda.
that alone would be a very slight obstruction, while the
sender could without awkwardness retain the knife, one
article being easier to manage than two.
We add a few axioms for this chapter, that were over-
looked: Don't stretch across your neighbor's plate in order
to reach anything. Don't put your knife in the butter, or
in any other dish. Don't—but it ought to be unnecessary
to say this—suck your fingers, if a remnant of food chances
to attach to them. Don't introduce when at table. Don't
rise from the table until the meal is finished. There are
probably others which our indulgent readers will recall for
themselves.
The rules of the table seem to some persons very arbi-
trary, no doubt, but they are the result of the mature ex-
perience of society, and, however trivial they may appear
to be, there is always some good reason for them. The
object of a code is to exclude or prevent everything that is
disagreeable, and to establish the best method of doing
that which is to be done. It is not necessary to point out
that a dinner served and eaten in disregard of all rules
would be a Savage carousal; this being true, it ought to
be seen that, if rules in any degree elevate the act of eat-
ing, then a code of rules generally observed lifts eating to
a still higher plane, and makes it a fine art.
Notes and Addenda. 83
In Dress, etc.
IN this chapter no mention is made of hair-dyeing. The
application of dye to the scalp is known to be highly in-
jurious, and hence, for health reasons alone, it should not
be done. It is, moreover, far from being a nice practice,
and is scarcely compatible with perfect cleanliness. We
therefore say, “Don’t dye your hair or beard.” The color
is never like nature, and deceives no one. Hair and beard
dyed black produce a singular effect. They seem to
coarsen and vulgarize the lines of the face. Any one who
has ever seen an elderly gentleman suddenly abandon
his dye, and appear with his gray locks in all their natural
beauty, will realize what we mean—for he has seen what
appeared to him a rather coarse, sodden, and sensuous face,
all at once changed into one of refinement and character.
We may add here that no one should use any of the
hair-oils or pomades. This habit was once quite general,
but it is now considered essentially vulgar. One should
not neglect the small hairs that project from the nostrils
and grow about the ear-passages. Hairs projecting from
the nostrils are peculiarly unpleasant to see, but this detail
of the toilet is very commonly overlooked.
84 Notes and Addenda.
Let us take occasion to urge upon ladies moderation in
trimmings on their gowns. The excess in trimmings now
so common is a taste purely barbaric, and evinces little
knowledge of the true principles of beauty, which always
involve simplicity as a cardinal virtue. Don't, we say,
therefore, with emphasis, crowd trimmings on your gowns;
leave excesses of this kind to the vulgar.
<><>
In the Drawing-Room.
THERE is an injunction in this chapter against the in-
troduction of politics or religion into social circles. These
themes are very apt to lead to heated disputes, and for this
reason they are interdicted. But there is such a thing as
carrying the principle too far, and excluding every topic that
men feel any real interest in, thus forcing conversation into
mere frivolities. It is related that Madame Geoffrin, whose
salons were famous in Paris in the last century, was mor-
tally afraid of any sort of quarrel, and forbade so many
topics, that Grimm laughed at her in this way: “Mother
Geoffrin informs her friends that, as in preceding years, it
will be permitted to speak in her house neither of internal
Moſes and Addenda. 85
nor of external affairs; neither of the court nor of the
town; neither of the affairs of the North nor of the South;
neither of the East nor of the West; neither of politics
nor of finance; neither of peace nor of war; neither of
religion nor of government; neither of theology nor of
metaphysics; neither of grammar nor of music.”
<><>
In Public.
THE manners of the people in public vehicles seem daily
to be growing worse, and, if they continue to decline, it
will become almost impossible for ladies, if not gentlemen,
to enter them. The proprietors of these vehicles are in
part responsible for the annoyance experienced in them.
The first thing one encounters when he attempts to take a
car, is a cad lazily lounging against the platform-rail, with
his legs stretched out, so that, unless you are alert, you
stumble over him, while, perhaps, a puff of smoke is blown
in your face. Such a fellow should be promptly lodged in
the street; but he seems to be under the protection of the
conductor, an official whose apparent business it is to give
moral support to all the loafers that take pleasure in incon-
86 Notes and Addenda.
veniencing travelers. One is scarcely within the car ere he
is tripped up by another man's extended legs; and, if the
occupants are few enough, or compliant enough, to enable
him to get a seat, he may find himself by the side of a
fellow who is industriously making a pool of tobacco-juice
on the floor before him. It is amazing that such a thing
should be tolerated; but ladies make no open protest, gen-
tlemen are heedless, the conductor is complacent, and the
brute remains undisturbed, although he has no more right
to empty this matter in a public vehicle than any other kind
of filth. Ere one has left the car the conductor has prob-
ably rudely seized him by the shoulders in demanding his
fare; he has been compelled to listen to idiotic whistlers
and other noise-makers; and his emergence from the vehi-
cle has been accomplished only after a struggle with the
fine-bred fellows that congregate on the platform.
But everywhere in public, contact with our fellow-men
is rendered vexatious by the current under-breeding. We
have innumerable public schools in New York, and the
marvel is that they do so little in the way of training in
this direction. The manners of our public-school boys, in-
stead of being good, are commonly bad. It is quite likely
that these schools improve the conduct of the lower classes
that enter them, but, either the low associations there, or
Notes and Addenda. 87
other circumstances, cause the manners of boys of the better
class to deteriorate. The average public-school boy that
enters the shops and offices of business in New York is an
undisciplined savage. He will enter your office whistling;
he will drum on the table while you are writing; he will
stretch himself over your desk; he will ask and answer
questions in an intolerably insolent tone. He has no re-
spect for anything under heaven, and apparently for noth-
ing above it. Out of this material street-manners are to
come in the future.
Among the current nuisances, whistling is peculiarly
obnoxious to some people. An anecdote is in circulation
to the effect that a distinguished journalist and his son
were in an omnibus, into which entered a man whistling
loudly. Presently the journalist turned to his son and ex-
claimed in a loud voice, “Who is that lady whistling P”
“It is not a lady, papa, it is a gentleman,” answered the
boy. “Oh, no, my son,” was the reply, still in a loud voice,
“that is impossible; no gentleman ever whistles in an
omnibus.” The whistler was silenced—it is to be hoped
forever.
<><>
88 Moſes and Addenda.
In Speech.
EVERY person with good and refined instincts can but
desire that his speech should be free from vulgarisms and
solecisms, but there is danger that self-consciousness will
lead one to a stiff, pedantic manner. Every one ought to
be correct, but his accuracy of speech should seem a mat-
ter of course, and not attract attention by formalities or
rigidity of utterance. The latter can be avoided by always
touching little words and unaccented syllables lightly—
slurring them, in fact. No one says, Go–to–the–tree, but
“Go to th’ tree.” By keeping this point of slur in mind
one can acquire a perfectly easy and at the same time a
perfectly correct pronunciation.
The chapter on speech does not contain all the errors
that are common in the mouths of our citizens, but merely
the more prevalent ones. A knowledge of grammar and
the dictionary is indispensable to correct speaking.

English as She is Spoke;
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Compiled from the celebrated “NEw GUIDE of CoN-
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The Orthoëpist:
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New York: D. APPLETON & CO., 1, 3, & 5 Bond Street.
S ocial Etiquette
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CONTENTS:
The Value of Etiquette; Introductions; Solicitations;
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tlemen; Morning Receptions and Kettle-Drums; Giving
and attending Parties, Balls, and Germans; Dinner-giving
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Errors in the Use of English.
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MEDIAEVAL MYTHS.
THE WANDERING JEW.
WHO, that has looked on Gustave Doré's marvellous
illustrations to this wild legend, can forget the impres-
sion they made upon his imagination ?
I do not refer to the first illustration as striking,
where the Jewish shoemaker is refusing to suffer the
cross-laden Savior to rest a moment on his door-step,
and is receiving with scornful lip the judgment to
wander restless till the Second Coming of that same
Redeemer. But I refer rather to the second, which
represents the Jew, after the lapse of ages, bowed be-
neath the burden of the curse, worn with unrelieved
toil, wearied with ceaseless travelling, trudging on-
ward at the last lights of evening, when a rayless
night of unabating rain is creeping on, along a sloppy
path between dripping bushes; and suddenly he comes
over against a wayside crucifix, on which the white
glare of departing daylight falls, to throw it into ghastly
relief against the pitch-black rain-clouds. For a mo-
ment we see the working of the miserable shoemaker's
mind. We feel that he is recalling the tragedy of the
first Good Friday, and his head hangs heavier on his
breast, as he recalls the part he had taken in that aw–
ful catastrophe.
Or, is that other illustration more remarkable, where
the wanderer is amongst the Alps, at the brink of a
hideous chasm ; and seeing in the contorted pine-
branches the ever-haunting scene of the Via Dolorosa,
he is lured to cast himself into that black gulf in quest
of rest,--when an angel flashes out of the gloom with
\
§
ô AMEDIAE VAL MVTHS.
the sword of flame turning every way, keeping him
back from what would be to him a Paradise indeed,
the repose of Death P
Or, that last Scene, when the trumpet sounds and
earth is shivering to its foundations, the fire is bubbling
forth through the rents in its surface, and the dead
are coming together flesh to flesh, and bone to bone,
and muscle to muscle—then the weary man sits down
and casts off his shoes | Strange sights are around
him, he sees them not; Strange sounds assail his ears,
he hears but one—the trumpet-note which gives the
signal for him to stay his wanderings and rest his
weary feet.
I can linger over those noble woodcuts, and learn
from them something new each time that I study
them ; they are picture-poems full of latent depths of
thought. And now let us to the history of this most
thrilling of all mediaeval myths, if a myth.
If a myth, I say, for who can say for certain that it
is not true P “Verily I say unto you, There be some
standing here, which shall not taste of death till they
see the Son of Man coming in His kingdom,” + are our
Lord's words, which I can hardly think apply to the
destruction of Jerusalem, as commentators explain it
to escape the difficulty. That some should live to see
Jerusalem destroyed was not very surprising, and
hardly needed the emphatic Verily which Christ only
used when speaking something of peculiarly solemn or
mysterious import.
Besides, St. Luke's account manifestly refers the
coming in the kingdom to the Judgment, for the saying
stands as follows: “Whosoever shall be ashamed of
Me, and of My words, of him shall the Son of Man be
ashamed, when He shall come in His own glory, and in
His Father's, and of the holy angels. But I tell you of
a truth, there be some standing here, which shall not
taste of death till they see the kingdom of God.”f
There can, I think, be no doubt in the mind of an
* Matt. xvi. 28. Mark ix. I.
", Luke ix.
THA, WAAVZ)A. RZAWG 7A. W. 7
unprejudiced person that the words of our Lord do
imply that some one or more of those then living
should not die till He came again. I do not mean to
insist on the literal signification, but I plead that there
is no improbability in our Lord's words being fulfilled
to the letter. That the circumstance is unrecorded in
the Gospels is no evidence that it did not take place,
for we are expressly told, “Many other signs truly
did Jesus in the presence of His disciples, which
not written in this book; ” + and again, “Ther
also many other things which Jesus did, the whic
they should be written every one, I suppose that ev
the world itself could not contain the books that should
be written.” +
We may remember also the mysterious witnesses
who are to appear in the last eventful days of the
world's history and bear testimony to the Gospel truth
before the antichristian world. One of these has
been often conjectured to be St. John the Evangelist,
of whom Christ said to Peter, “If I will that he tarry
till I come, what is that to thee P”
The historical evidence on which the tale rests is,
however, too slender for us to admit for it more than
the barest claim to be more than myth. The names
and the circumstances connected with the Jew and
his doom vary in every account, and the only point
upon which all coincide is, that such an individual ex-
ists in an undying condition, wandering over the face
of the earth, seeking rest and finding none.
The earliest extant mention of the Wandering Jew
is to be found in the book of the chronicles of the
Abbey of St. Albans, which was copied and continued
by Matthew Paris. He records that in the year 1228,
“a certain Archbishop of Armenia the Greater came
on a pilgrimage to England to see the relics of the
saints, and visit the sacred places in the kingdom, as
he had done in others; he also produced letters of
recommendation from his Holiness the Pope, to the
religious and the prelates of the churches, in which
* John xx. 30. t John xxi. 25.





8 MAE DAE VAL MYZ H.S.
they were enjoined to receive and entertain him with
due reverence and honor. On his arrival, he came to
St. Albans, where he was received with all respect by
the abbot and the monks; and at this place, being
fatigued with his journey, he remained some days to
rest himself and his followers, and a conversation
took place between him and the inhabitants of the
^onvent, by means of their interpreters, during which
shade many inquiries relating to the religion and
ious observances of this country, and told many
nge things concerning the countries of the East.
the course of conversation he was asked whether
e had ever seen or heard anything of Joseph, a man
of whom there was much talk in the world, who, when
our Lord suffered, was present and spoke to Him, and
who is still alive, in evidence of the Christian faith; in
reply to which, a knight in his retinue, who was his
interpreter, replied, speaking in French, “My lord well
knows that man, and a little before he took his way to
the western countries, the said Joseph ate at the table
of my lord the Archbishop of Armenia, and he has
often seen and conversed with him.’
“He was then asked about what had passed be-
tween Christ and the said Joseph ; to which he replied,
“At the time of the passion of Jesus Christ, He was
seized by the Jews, and led into the hall of judgment
before Pilate, the govenor, that He might be judged
by him on the accusation of the Jews; and Pilate,
finding no fault for which he might sentence Him to
death, said unto them, “Take Him and judge Him
according to your law ; ” the shouts of the Jews, how-
ever, increasing, he, at their request, released unto
them Barabbas, and delivered Jesus to them to be
crucified. When, therefore, the Jews were dragging
Jesus forth, and had reached the door, Cartaphilus, a
porter of the hall in Pilate's service, as Jesus was going
out of the door, impiously struck Him on the back
with his hand, and said in mockery, “Go quicker,
Jesus, go quicker : why do you loiter P” and Jesus,
looking back on him with a severe countenance, said





THE WAAWDAERING 5 F. W. 9
to him, “I am going, and you shall wait till I return.”
And according as Our Lord said, this Cartaphilus is
still awaiting His return. At the time of our Lord's
suffering he was thirty years old, and when he attains
the age of a hundred years, he always returns to the
same age as he was when our Lord suffered. After
Christ's death, when the Catholic faith gained ground,
this Cartaphilus was baptized by Ananias (who also
baptized the Apostle Paul), and was called Joseph.
He dwells in one or other divisions of Armenia, and
in divers Eastern countries, passing his time amongst
the bishops and other prelates of the Church; he is a
man of holy conversation, and religious ; a man of
few words, and very circumspect in his behavior; for
he does not speak at all unless when questioned by
the bishops and religious; and then he relates the
events of olden times, and speaks of things which oc-
curred at the suffering and resurrection of our Lord,
and of the witnesses of the resurrection, namely, of
those who rose with Christ, and went into the holy
city, and appeared unto men. He also tells of the
creed of the Apostles, and of their separation and
preaching. And all this he relates without smiling, or
levity of conversation, as one who is well practised in
sorrow and the fear of God, always looking forward
with dread to the coming of Jesus Christ, lest at the
Last Judgment he should find him in anger whom,
when on his way to death, he had provoked to just
vengeance. Numbers came to him from different parts
of the world, enjoying his society and conversation;
and to them, if they are men of authority, he explains
all doubts on the matters on which he is questioned.
He refuses all gifts that are offered him, being con-
tent with slight food and clothing.’”
Much about the same date, Philip Mouskes, after-
wards Bishop of Tournay, wrote his rhymed chron-
icle (1242), which contains a similar account of
the Jew, derived from the same Armenian pre-
late —
IO A/A2/D/242 PA /, //YZ}/S.
“Adonques vint un arceveskes
De gamer, plains de bonnes téques
Parsamblant, et fut d'Armenie,”
and this man, having visited the shrine of “St. Tumas
de Kantorbire,” and then having paid his devotions at
“Monsigour St. Jake,” he went on to Cologne to see
the heads of the three kings. The version told in the
Netherlands much resembled that related at St. Albans,
only that the Jew, seeing the people dragging Christ
to his death, exclaims,
“Atendes moi! g’i vois,
*
S’iert misle faus proféte en croſs.”
Then
“Le vrais Dieux se regarda,
Et li a dit qu'e n’i tarda,
Icist ne t'atenderont pas,
Mais saces, tu m’atenderas.”
We hear no more of the wandering Jew till the six-
teenth century, when we hear first of him in a casual
manner, as assisting a weaver, Kokot, at the royal
palace in Bohemia (1505), to find a treasure which had
been secreted by the great-grandfather of Kokot, sixty
years before, at which time the Jew was present. He
then had the appearance of being a man of seventy
years.”
Curiously enough, we next hear of him in the East,
where he is confounded with the prophet Elijah. Early
in the century he appeared to Fadhilah, under peculiar
circumstances.
After the Arabs had captured the city of Elvan, Fad-
hilah, at the head of three hundred horsemen, pitched
his tents, late in the evening, between two mountains.
Fadhilah, having begun his evening prayer with a loud
voice, heard the words “Allah akbar” (God is great)
repeated distinctly, and each word of his prayer was
followed in a similar manner. Fadhilah, not believing
this to be the result of an echo, was much astonished,
and cried out, “O thou! whether thou art of the angel
* Gubitz, Gesellsch. 1845, No. 18,
7'HAE WAAVDAER/AWG 32 W. Í1
ranks, or whether thou art of some other order of
spirits, it is well; the power of God be with thee; but
if thou art a man, then let mine eyes light upon thee,
that I may rejoice in thy presence and society.”
Scarcely had he spoken these words, before an aged
man, with bald head, stood before him, holding a staff
in his hand, and much resembling a dervish in appear-
ance. After having courteously saluted him, Fadhi-
lah asked the old man who he was. Thereupon the
Stranger answered, “Bassi Hadhret Issa, I am here by
command of the Lord Jesus, who has left me in this
world, that I may live therein until he comes a second
time to earth. I wait for this Lord, who is the Foun-
tain of Happiness, and in obedience to his command
I dwell behind yon mountain.” When Fadhilah heard
these words, he asked when the Lord Jesus would ap-
pear; and the old man replied that his appearing would
be at the end of the world, at the Last Judgment. But
this only increased Fadhilah's curiosity, so that he in-
quired the signs of the approach of the end of all things,
whereupon Zerib Bar Elia gave him an account of gen-
eral, social, and moral dissolution, which would be the
climax of this world's history.*
In 1547 he was seen in Europe, if we are to believe
the following narration —
“Paul von Eitzen, doctor of the Holy Scriptures,
and Bishop of Schleswig, related as true for some
years past, that when he was young, having studied at
Wittemberg, he returned home to his parents in Ham-
burg in the winter of the year I 547, and that on the
following Sunday, in church, he observed a tall man,
with his hair hanging over his shoulders, standing bare-
foot, during the sermon, over against the pulpit, listen-
ing with deepest attention to the discourse, and, when-
ever the name of Jesus was mentioned, bowing him-
self profoundly and humbly, with sighs and beating of
the breast. He had no other clothing, in the bitter
* Herbelot, Bibl. Orient. iii. p. 607.
t Paul v. Eitzen was born January 25, 1522, at Hamburg; in 1562
he was appointed chief preacher for Schleswig, and died February
25, 1598. (Greve, Memor. P. ab, Eitzen. Hamb. 1844.)
I 2 MEDIAE VAZ MYTHS.
cold of the winter, except a pair of hose which were in
tatters about his feet, and a coat with a girdle which
reached to his feet; and his general appearance was
that of a man of fifty years. And many people, some
of high degree and title, have seen this same man in
England, France, Italy, Hungary, Persia, Spain, Po-
land, Moscow, Lapland, Sweden, Denmark, Scotland,
and other places.
“Every one wondered over the man. Now, after the
sermon, the said Doctor inquired diligently where the
stranger was to be found; and when he had sought
him out, he inquired of him privately whence he came,
and how long that winter he had been in the place.
Thereupon he replied, modestly, that he was a Jew by
birth, a native of Jerusalem, by name Ahasverus, by
trade a shoemaker; he had been present at the cruci-
fixion of Christ, and had lived ever since, travelling
through various lands and cities, the which he substan-
tiated by accounts he gave ; he related also the cir-
cumstances of Christ's transference from Pilate to
Herod, and the final crucifixion, together with other
details not recorded in the Evangelists and historians;
he gave accounts of the changes of government in
many countries, especially of the East, through several
centuries; and moreover he detailed the labors and
deaths of the holy Apostles of Christ most circum-
stantially.
“Now when Doctor Paul v. Eitzen heard this with
profound astonishment, on account of its incredible
novelty, he inquired further, in order that he might
obtain more accurate information. Then the man
answered, that he had lived in Jerusalem at the time
of the crucifixion of Christ, whom he had regarded as
a deceiver of the people, and a heretic; he had seen
Him with his own eyes, and had done his best, along with
others, to bring this deceiver, as he regarded Him,
to justice, and to have Him put out of the way. When
the sentence had been pronounced by Pilate, Christ
was about to be dragged past his house; then he ran
home, and called together his household to have a
THE WAAVDAER/WG 5A. W. I3
look at Christ, and see what sort of a person. He
W3.S.
“This having been done, he had his little child on
his arm, and was standing in his doorway, to have a
sight of the Lord Jesus Christ.
“As, then, Christ was led by, bowed under the
weight of the heavy cross, He tried to rest a little, and
stood still a moment; but the shoemaker, in zeal and
rage, and for the sake of obtaining credit among the
other Jews. drove the Lord Christ forward, and told
Him to hasten on His way. Jesus, obeying, looked at
him, and said, ‘I shall stand and rest, but thou shalt
go till the last day.’ At these words the man set
down the child; and unable to remain where he was,
he followed Christ, and saw how cruelly He was cru-
cified, how He suffered, how He died. As soon as
this had taken place, it came upon him suddenly that
he could no more return to Jerusalem, nor see again
his wife and child, but must go forth into foreign lands,
one after another, like a mournful pilgrim. Now,
when, years after, he returned to Jerusalem, he found
it ruined and utterly razed, so that not one stone was
left standing on another; and he could not recognize
former localities.
“He believes that it is God's purpose, in thus driv-
ing him about in miserable life, and preserving him
undying, to present him before the Jews at the end, as
a living token, so that the godless and unbelieving may
remember the death of Christ, and be turned to re-
pentance. For his part he would well rejoice were
God in heaven to release him from this vale of tears.
After this conversation, Doctor Paul v. Eitzen, along
with the rector of the school of Hamburg, who was
well read in history, and a traveller, questioned him
about events which had taken place in the East since
the death of Christ, and he was able to give them
much information on many ancient matters; so that
it was impossible not to be convinced of the truth of
his story, and to see what seems impossible with men
is, after all, possible with God,
I4 MAE/D/A2 VAZ //YZTAES,
“Since the Jew has had his life extended, he has
become silent and reserved, and only answers direct
questions. When invited to become any one's guest,
he eats little, and drinks in great moderation; then
hurries on, never remaining long in one place. When
at Hamburg, Dantzig, and elsewhere, money has been
offered him, he never took more than two skillings
(fourpence, one farthing), and at once distributed it to
the poor, as token that he needed no money, for God
would provide for him, as he rued the sins he had
committed in ignorance.
“During the period of his stay in Hamburg and
Dantzig he was never seen to laugh. In whatever
land he travelled he spoke its language, and when he
spoke Saxon, it was like a native Saxon. Many peo-
ple came from different places to Hamburg and Dant-
zig in order to see and hear this man, and were con-
vinced that the providence of God was exercised in
this individual in a very remarkable manner. He
gladly listened to God's word, or heard it spoken of
always with great gravity and compunction, and he
ever reverenced with sighs the pronunciation of the
name of God, or of Jesus Christ, and could not endure
to hear curses; but whenever he heard any one swear
by God's death or pains, he waxed indignant, and ex-
claimed, with vehemence and with sighs, “Wretched
man and miserable creature, thus to misuse the name
of thy Lord and God, and His bittter sufferings and
passion. Hadst thou seen, as I have, how heavy and
bitter were the pangs and wounds of thy Lord, endured
for thee and for me, thou wouldst rather undergo
great pain thyself than thus take His sacred name in
vain ' '
“Such is the account given to me by Doctor Paul
von Eitzen, with many circumstantial proofs, and cor-
roborated by certain of my own old acquaintances who
saw this same individual with their own eyes in Ham-
burg.
“In the year 1575 the Secretary Christopher Krause,
and Master Jacob von Holstein, legates to the Court
THE WANDAERIMG 92 W. 15
of Spain, and afterwards sent into the Netherlands to
pay the soldiers serving his Majesty in that country,
related on their return home to Schleswig, and con-
firmed with solemn oaths, that they had come across
the same mysterious individual at Madrid in Spain, in
appearance, manner of life, habits, clothing, just the
same as he had appeared in Hamburg. They said
that they had spoken with him, and that many people
of all classes had conversed with him, and found him
to speak good Spanish. In the year 1599, in Decem-
ber, a reliable person wrote from Brunswick to Stras-
burg that the same mentioned strange person had been
seen alive at Vienna in Austria, and that he had
started for Poland and Dantzig; and that he purposed
going on to Moscow. This Ahasverus was at Lubeck
in 16OI, also about the same date in Revel in Livonia,
and in Cracow in Poland. In Moscow he was seen of
many and spoken to by many.
“What thoughtful, God-fearing persons are to think
of the said person, is at their option. God's works
are wondrous and past finding out, and are manifested
day by day, only to be revealed in full at the last great
day of account.
“Dated, Revel, August 1st, 1613.
“D. W.
& 4 D.
“Chrysostomus Duduloeus,
“Westphalus.”
The statement that the Wandering Jew appeared
in Lubeck in 1601, does not tally with the more precise
chronicle of Henricus Bangert, which gives: “Die 14
Januarii Anno MDCIII., adnotatum reliquit Lubecae
fuisse Judaeum illum immortalem, qui se Christi cruci-
fixioni interfuisse affirmavit,” “
In 1604 he seems to have appeared in Paris. Ru-
dolph Botoreus says, under this date, “I fear lest I be
accused of giving ear to old wives' fables, if I insert
* Henr. Bangert, Comment. de Ortu, Vita, et Excessu Coleri, I.
Cti, Lubec,
I6 MEA)/AF VA/L // YTH/S.
in these pages what is reported all over Europe of the
Jew, coeval with the Savior Christ; however, nothing
is more common, and our popular histories have not
scrupled to assert it. Following the lead of those who
wrote our annals, I may say that he who appeared not
in one century only, in Spain, Italy, and Germany,
was also in this year seen and recognized as the same
individual who had appeared in Hamburg, anno
MDLXVI. The common people, bold in spreading
reports, relate many things of him ; and this I allude
to, lest anything should be left unsaid.” +
J. C. Bulenger puts the date of the Hamburg visit
earlier. “It was reported at this time that a Jew of
the time of Christ was wandering without food and
drink, having for a thousand and Odd years been a
vagabond and outcast, condemned by God to rove,
because he, of that generation of vipers, was the first
to cry out for the crucifixion of Christ and the release
of Barabbas ; and also because Soon after, when Christ,
panting under the burden of the rood, sought to rest
before his workshop (he was a cobbler), the fellow
ordered Him off with acerbity. Thereupon Christ re-
plied, ‘Because thou grudgest Me such a moment of
rest, I shall enter into My rest, but thou shalt wander
restless.’ At once, frantic and agitated, he fled through
the whole earth, and on the same account to this day
he journeys through the world. It was this person
who was seen in Hamburg in MDLXIV. Credat Ju-
daeus Apella " I did not see him, or hear anything au-
thentic concerning him, at that time when I was in
Paris.” +
A curious little book, written against the quackery
of Paracelsus, by Leonard Doldius, a Nürnberg phy-
sician, and translated into Latin and augmented, by
Andreas Libavius, doctor and physician of Roten-
burg, alludes to the same story, and gives the Jew a
new name nowhere else met with. After having re-
* R. Botoreus, Comm. Histor. lii. p. 305.
t J. C. Bulenger, Historia Sui Temporis, {} 357.
† Praxis Alchymiae, Fansard, MDCIV. 8vo,
7AA WAAWDAERZA/G 5/2 W. 17
ferred to a report that Paracelsus was not dead, but
was seated alive, asleep or napping, in his sepulchre
at Strasburg, preserved from death by some of his
specifics, Labavius declares that he would sooner be-
lieve in the old man, the Jew, Ahasverus, wandering
over the world, called by some Buttadatus, and other-
wise, again, by others. -
He is said to have appeared in Naumburg, but the
date is not given; he was noticed in church, listening
to the sermon. After the service he was questioned,
and he related his story. On this occasion he re-
ceived presents from the burgers.” In 1633 he was
again in Hamburg. In the year 1640, two citizens,
living in the Gerberstrasse, in Brussels, were walking
in the Sonian wood, when they encountered an aged
man, whose clothes were in tatters and of an antiquat-
ed appearance. They invited him to go with them
to a house of refreshment, and he went with them,
but would not seat himself, remaining on foot to
drink. When he came before the doors with the two
burgers, he told them a great deal; but they were
mostly stories of events which had happened many
hundred years before. Hence the burgers gathered
that their companion was Isaac Laquedem, the Jew
who had refused to permit our Blessed Lord to rest
for a moment at his door-step, and they left him full
of terror. In 1642 he is reported to have visited Leip-
zig. On the 22d July, 1721, he appeared at the gates
of the city of Munich. About the end of the seven-
teenth century or the beginning of the eighteenth, an
impostor, calling himself the Wandering Jew, at-
tracted attention in England, and was listened to by
the ignorant, and despised by the educated. He,
however, managed to thrust himself into the notice
of the nobility, who, half in jest, half in curiosity,
questioned him, and paid him as they might a juggler.
He declared that he had been an officer of the Sanhe-
* Mitternacht, Diss. in Johann. xxi. 19.
t Mitternacht, ut supra.
# Hormayr, Taschenbuch, 1834, p. 216.
2
‘I3 MAEA)/A2 VAZ MV7A/S.
‘drim, and that he had struck Christ as he left the
judgment hall of Pilate. He remembered all the
Apostles, and described their personal appearance,
their clothes, and their peculiarities. He spoke many
{languages, claimed the power of healing the sick, and
:asserted that he had travelled nearly all over the
world. Those who heard him were perplexed by his
familianity with foreign tongues and places. Oxford
and (Cambridge sent professors to question him, and
to discover the imposition, if any. An English noble-
man conversed with him in Arabic. The mysterious
stranger told his questioner in that language that his-
torical works were not to be relied upon. And on
being asked his opinion of Mahomet, he replied that
he had been acquainted with the father of the prophet,
and that he dwelt at Ormuz. As for Mahomet, he
believed him to have been a man of intelligence; once
when he heard the prophet deny that Christ was cru-
cified, he answered abruptly by telling him he was a
witness to the truth of that event. He related also
that he was in Rome when Nero set it on fire ; he had
known Saladin, Tamerlane, Bajazeth, Eterlane, and
could give minute details of the history of the Cru-
sades.*
Whether this wandering Jew was found out in
London or not, we cannot tell, but he shortly after
appeared in Denmark, thence travelled into Sweden,
and vanished.
Such are the principal notices of the Wandering
Jew which have appeared. It will be seen at once
how wanting they are in all substantial evidence
which could make us regard the story in any other
light than myth.
But no myth is wholly without foundation, and
there must be some substantial verity upon which
this vast superstructure of legend has been 1gised.
What that is I am unable to discover.
It has been suggested by some that the Jew Ahas-
verus is an impersonation of that race which wanders,
* Calmet, Dictionn. de la Bible, t. ii. p. 472,
ZAE WAAVZ)ZA/AWG 5A. W. I9
Cain-like, over the earth with the brand of a brother's
blood upon it, and one which is not to pass away till
all be fulfilled, not to be reconciled to its angered God
till the times of the Gentiles are accomplished. And
yet, probable as this supposition may seem at first
sight, it is not to be harmonized with some of the lead-
ing features of the story. The shoemaker becomes a
penitent, and earnest Christian, whilst the Jewish na-
tion has still the veil upon its heart; the wretched
wanderer eschews money, and the avarice of the Isra-
elite is proverbial.
According to local legend, he is identified with the
Gypsies, or rather that Strange people are supposed
to be living under a curse somewhat similar to that
inflicted on Ahasverus, because they refused shelter
to the Virgin and Child on their flight into Egypt.*
Another tradition connects the Jew with the wild
huntsman, and there is a forest at Bretten, in Swabia,
which he is said to haunt. Popular superstition at-
tributes to him there a purse containing a groschen,
which, as often as it is expended, returns to the
spender.f
In the Harz one form of the Wild Huntsman myth
is to this effect: that he was a Jew who had refused
to suffer our Blessed Lord to drink out of a river, or
out of a horse-trough, but had contemptuously pointed
out to Him the hoof-print of a horse, in which a little
water had collected, and had bid Him quench His
thirst thence.
As the Wild Huntsman is the personification of
the storm, it is curious to find in parts of France that
the sudden roar of a gale at night is attributed by the
vulgar to the passing of the Everlasting Jew.
A Swiss story is, that he was seen one day stand-
ing upon the Matterberg, which is below the Matter-
horn, contemplating the scene with mingled sorrow
and wonder. Once before he stood on that spot, and
* Aventinus, Bayr. Chronik, viii,
# Meier, Schwäbischen Sagen, i. 116,
t Kuhn u, Schwarz Nordd, Sagen, p. 499,
2O - MEDAA. VAZ. MYTA/S.
then it was the site of a flourishing city; now it is
covered with gentian and wild pinks. Once again
will he revisit the hill, and that will be on the eve of
Judgment.
Perhaps, of all the myths which originated in the
middle ages, none is more striking than that we have
been considering ; indeed, there is something so cal-
culated to arrest the attention and to excite the
imagination in the outline of the story, that it is re-
markable that we should find an interval of three cent-
uries elapse between its first introduction into Europe
by Matthew Paris and Philip Mouskes, and its gen-
eral acceptance in the sixteenth century. As a myth,
its roots lie in that great mystery of human life which
is an enigma never solved, and ever originating specu-
lation.
What was life? Was it of necessity limited to
fourscore years, or could it be extended indefinitely P
were questions curious minds never wearied of ask-
ing. And so the mythology of the past teemed with
legends of favored or accursed mortals, who had
reached beyond the term of days set to most men.
Some had discovered the water of life, the fountain of
perpetual youth, and were ever renewing their strength.
Others had dared the power of God, and were there-
fore sentenced to feel the weight of His displeasure,
without tasting the repose of death.
John the Divine slept at Ephesus, untouched by
corruption, with the ground heaving over his breast
as he breathed, waiting the summons to come forth
and witness against Antichrist. The seven sleepers
reposed in a cave, and centuries glided by like a
watch in the night. The monk of Hildesheim doubt-
ing how with God a thousand years could be as yes-
terday, listened to the melody of a bird in the green
wood during three minutes, and found that in three
minutes three hundred years had flown. Joseph of
Arimathaea, in the blessed city of Sarras, draws per-
petual life from the Saint Graal; Merlin sleeps and
sighs in an old tree, spell-bound of Vivien, Charle-
THE WAAVDAEA/AWG 5A. W. 2 I
magne and Barbarossa wait, crowned and armaed, in
the heart of the mountain, till the time comes for the
release of Fatherland from despotism. And, on the
other hand, the curse of a deathless life has passed on
the Wild Huntsman, because he desired to chase the
red-deer for evermore; on the Captain of the Phan-
tom Ship, because he vowed he would double the
Cape whether God willed it or not ; on the Man in the
Moon, because he gathered sticks during the Sabbath
rest; on the dancers of Kolbeck, because they de-
sired to spend eternity in their mad gambols.
I began this article intending to conclude it with a
bibliographical account of the tracts, letters, essays,
and books, written upon the Wandering Jew; but I
relinquish my intention at the sight of the multitude
of works which have issued from the press upon the
subject; and this I do with less compunction as the
bibliographer may at little trouble and expense satisfy
himself, by perusing the lists given by Gråsse in his
essay on the myth, and those to be found in “Notice
historique et bibliographique sur les Juifs-errants:
par O. B.” (Gustave Brunet), Paris, Téchener, 1845;
also in the article by M. Mangin, in “Causeries et
Méditations historiques et littéraires,” Paris, Duprat,
1843; and, lastly, in the essay by Jacob le Bibliophile
(M. Lacroix) in his “Curiosités de l’Histoire des Croy-
ances populaires,” Paris, Delahays, 1859.
Of the romances of Eugène Sue and Dr. Croly,
founded upon the legend, the less said the better.
The original legend is so noble in its severe simplicity,
that none but a master mind could develop it with
any chance of success. Nor have the poetical attempts
upon the story fared better. It was reserved for the
pencil of Gustave Doré to treat it with the originality
it merited, and in a series of woodcuts to produce at
once a poem, a romance, and a chef-d'oeuvre of art,
Victorious Revolution
**.
THE LITERARY REVOLUTION now is-
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prices, than ever before, and rejoices in a more
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The extreme satisfaction, even delight, with both the literary
character and the mechanical qualities of my recent publications,
which is evinced in the tens of thousands of letters which are being
received from customers, is most gratifying. The battle for good
books at low prices will continue not less vigorously than hereto-
fore. Complete catalogue sent free on request.
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THE COMING SLAVERY.
THE kinship of pity to love is shown among
other ways in this, that it idealizes its object.
Sympathy with one in suffering suppresses,
for the time being, remembrance of his trans-
gressions. The feeling which vents itself in
“poor fellow !” on seeing one in agony, ex-
cludes the thought of “bad fellow,” which
might at another time arise. Naturally, then,
if the wretched are unknown or but vaguely
known, all the demerits they may have are
ignored; and thus it happens that when, as
just now, the miseries of the poor are depicted,
they are thought of as the miseries of the de-
serving poor, instead of being thought of, as
in large measure they should be, as the mis-
eries of the undeserving poor. Those whose
hardships are set forth in pamphlets and pro-
claimed in sermons and speeches which echo
throughout society are assumed to be all
worthy souls, grievously wronged, and none
of them are thought of as bearing the penal-
ties of their one misdeeds.
On hailing a cab in a London street, it is
surprising how generally the door is officiously
Opened by one who expects to get Something
for his trouble. The surprise lessens after
6 THE COMING SLA VERY.
counting the many loungers about tavern-
doors, or after observing the quickness with
which a street-performance, or procession,
draws from neighboring slums and stable-
yards a group of idlers. Seeing how numer-
Ous they are in every small area, it becomes
manifest that tens of thousands of such
Swarm through London. “They have no
work,” you say. Say rather that they either
refuse work or quickly turn themselves out
of it. They are simply good-for-nothings,
who in one way or other live on the good-for-
SOmethings—vagrants and Sots, criminals and
those on the way to crime, youths who are
burdens on hard-worked parents, men who
appropriate the wages of their wives, fellows
who share the gains of prostitutes; and then,
less visible and less numerous, there is a cor-
responding class of women.
Is it natural that happiness should be the
lot of such? or is it natural that they should
bring unhappiness on themselves and those
connected with them? Is it not manifest that
there must exist in Our midst an immense
amount of misery which is a normal result of
misconduct and ought not to be dissociated
from it? There is a notion, always more or less
prevalent and just now vociferously expressed,
that all social suffering is removable, and that
it is the duty of somebody or other to remove
it.
Both these beliefs are false. To separate
pain from ill-doing is to fight against the con-
stitution of things, and will be followed by
THE COMING SLA VERY 7
far more pain. Saving men from the natural
penalties of reckless living eventually neces-
sitates the infliction of artificial penalties in
Solitary cells, on tread-wheels, and by the lash.
ISuppose a dictum on which the current creed
and the Creed of science are at one may be
Considered to have as high an authority as
can be found. Well, the command “if any
would not work neither should he eat” is
Simply a Christian enunciation of that univer-
Sal law of Nature under which life has reach-
ed its present height—the law that a creature
not energetic enough to maintain itself must
die; the sole difference being that the law
which in the one case is to be artificially en-
forced is, in the other case, a natural necessity.
And yet this particular tenet of their religion
which Science so manifestly justifies is the one
which Christians seem least inclined to ac-
cept. The current assumption is that there
should be no suffering, and that society is to
blame for that which exists.
“But surely we are not without responsi-
bilities, even when the suffering is that of the
unworthy?”
If the meaning of the word “we” be so ex-
panded as to include with ourselves our ances-
tors, and especially our ancestral legislators,
I agree. I admit that those who made, and
modified, and administered, the old poor-law,
were responsible for producing an appalling
amount of demoralization, which it will take
more than one generation to remove. I ad-
mit, too. the partial responsibility of recent
8 T]: E COMING SLA I. FIR Y.
and present law-makers, for regulations which
have brought into being a permanent body
of tramps, who ramble from union to union;
and also their responsibility for maintaining
a constant Supply of felons by sending back
convicts into Society under such conditions
that they are almost compelled again to com-
mit crimes. Moreover, I admit that the phil-
anthropic are not without their share of re-
sponsibility; since, while anxiously aiding the
offspring of the unworthy, they do nothing
for the offspring of the worthy save burdening
their parents by increased local rates. Nay,
I even admit that these swarms of good-for-
nothings, fostered and multiplied by public
and private agencies, have, by sundry mis-
chievous meddlings, been made to suffer more
than they they would otherwise have suffered.
Are these the responsibilities meant? I sus-
pect not.
But now, leaving the question of responsi-
bilities, however conceived, and considering
only the evil itself, what shall we say of its
treatment? Let me begin with a fact.
A late uncle of mine, the Rev. Thomas
Spencer, for some twenty years incumbent of
Hinton Charterhouse, near Bath, no sooner
entered on his parish duties than he proved
himself anxious for the welfare of the poor,
by establishing a school, a library, a clothing
club, and land-allotments, besides building
some model cottages. Moreover, up to 1833
he was a pauper's friend—always for the
T'LIE COMILW G SLA ITER Y. - 9
pauper against the overseer. There presently
came, however, the debates on the poor-law,
which impressed him with the evils of the
system then in force. Though an ardent
philanthropist, he was not a timid sentimen-
talist. The result, was that, immediately the
new poor-law was passed, he proceeded to
carry Out its provisions in his parish. Almost
universal opposition was encountered by him;
not the poor only being his opponents, but
even the farmers on whom came the burden
of heavy poor-rates. For, strange to say,
their interests had become apparently identi-
fied with maintenance of this system which
taxed them so largely. The explanation is,
that there had grown up the practice of pay-
ing out of the rates a part of the Wages of
each farm-servant—“make-wages,” as the
sum was called. And though the farmers
contributed most of the fund out of which
“make-wages” were paid, yet, since all other
rate-payers contributed, the farmers seemed
to gain by the arrangement. My uncle, how-
ever, not easily deterred, faced all this op-
position and enforced the law. The result
was that in two years the rates were reduced
from £700 a year to £200 a year, while the
condition of the parish was greatly improved.
“Those who had hitherto loitered at the cor-
ners of the streets, or at the doors of the beer-
shops, had something else to do, and one after
another they obtained employment " : so that,
out of a population of eight hundred, only fif-
teen had to be sent as incapable paupers to
10 THE COMING SLA I’ERY.
the Bath Union Workhouse, in place of the
One hundred who received out-door relief a
short time before. If it be said that the £20
telescope which, a few years after, his parish-
ioners presented to my uncle, marked only
the gratitude of the rate-payers, then my re-
ply is the fact that, when, Some years later
still, having killed himself by overwork, in
ursuit of popular welfare, he was taken to
Hinton to be buried, the procession which
followed him to the grave included not the
well-to-do only but the poor.
Several motives have prompted this brief
narrative. One is the wish to prove that
sympathy with the people and self-sacrificing
efforts on their behalf do not necessarily im-
ply approval of gratuitous aids. Another is
the desire to show that benefit may result,
not from multiplication of artificial applian-
ces to mitigate distress, but, contrariwise,
from diminution of them. And a further
purpose I have in view is that of preparing
the way for an analogy.
Under another form and in a different
sphere, we are now yearly extending a sys-
tem which is identical in nature with the sys-
tem of “make-wages” under the old poor-
law. Little as politicians recognize the fact,
it is nevertheless demonstrable that these
various public appliances for working-class
comfort, which they are supplying at the
cost of rate-payers, are intrinsically of the
same nature as those which, in past times,
º the farmer's man as half-laborer and’

TILE COMING SLA. VEIR Y. 11
half-pauper. In either case the worker re-
ceives, in return for what he does, money
where with to buy certain of the things he
wants; while, to procure the rest of them for
him, Imoney is furnished Out of a common
fund raised by taxes. What matters, it
whether the things supplied by rate-payers
for nothing, instead of by the employer in
payment, are of this kind or that kind? the
principle is the same. For sums received let
us substitute the commodities and benefits pur-
chased; and then see how the matter stands.
In old poor-law times, the farmer gave for
work done the equivalent, Say of house-rent,
bread, clothes, and fire; while the rate-pay-
ers practically supplied the man and his
family with their shoes, tea, Sugar, candles,
a little bacon, etc. The divison is, of course,
arbitrary; but unquestionably the farmer
and the rate-payers furnished these things
between them. At the present time the air-
tisan receives from his employer in Wages the
equivalent of the consumable commodities he
wants; while from the public comes satisfac-
tion for others of his needs and desires. At
the cost of rate-payers he has in Some cases,
and will presently have in more, a house at
less than its commercial value; for of course
when, as in Liverpool, a municipality Spends
nearly £200,000 in pulling down and recon-
structing low-class dwellings, and is about to
spend as much again, the implication is that
in some way the rate-payers supply the poor
With more accountinodation than the rents
12 , THE COMING SLAVERY.
they pay would otherwise have brought.
The artisan further receives from them, in
schooling for his children, much more than
he pays for; and there is every probability
that he will presently receive it from them
gratis. The rate-payers also satisfy what
desire he may have for books and news-
papers, and comfortable places to read them
in. In some cases too, as in Manchester,
gymnasia for his children of both sexes, as
well as recreation-grounds, are provided.
That is to say, he obtains, from a fund raised
by local taxes, certain benefits beyond those
which the sum received for his labor enables
him to purchase. The sole difference, then,
between this system and the old system of
“make-wages” is between the kinds of satis-
factions obtained. This difference does not in
the least affect the nature of the arrangement.
Moreover, the two are pervaded by sub-
stantially the same illusion. In the one case,
as in the other, what looks like a gratis bene-
fit is not a gratis benefit. The amount
which, under the old poor-law, the half-
pauperized laborer received from the parish
to eke out his weekly income was not really,
as it appeared, a bonus, for it was accompa-
nied by a substantially equivalent decrease of
his wages, as was quickly proved when the
System was abolished and the wages rose.
Just so is it with these seeming boons receiv-
ed by working-people in towns. I do not re-
fer only to the fact that they unawares pay
in part through the raised rents of their dwell-
THE COMING SLAVERY. i}
ings (when they are not actual rate-payers);
but I refer to the fact that the wages receiv-
ed by them are, like the wages of the farm-
laborer, diminished by these puplic burdens
falling on employers. Read the accounts
coming of late from Lancashire concerning
the cotton-strike, containing proofs, given by
artisans themselves, that the margin of profit
is so narrow that the less skilful manufac-
turers, as well as those with deficient capital,
fail, and that the companies of co-operators
who compete with them can rarely hold
their own; and then consider what is the im-
plication respecting wages. Among the costs
of production have to be reckoned taxes,
general and local. If, as in our large towns,
the local rates now amount to one third of
the rental or more—if the employer has to
pay this, not on his private dwelling only,
but on his business-premises, factories, ware-
houses, or the like, it results that the interest
on his capital must be diminished by that
amount, or the amount must be taken from
the wages-fund, or partly one and partly the
Other. And if competition among capitalist
in the same business and in other business
has the effect of so keeping down intere
that, while Some gain, others lose, and n
few are ruined—if capital, not getting
quate interest, flows elsewhere and lea
bor unemployed—then it is manifest th
choice for the artisan under such co
lies between diminished amount of
diminished rate of payment for i









14 THE COMING SLAVERY.
over, for kindred reasons these local burdens
raise the costs of the things he consumes.
The charges made by distributors, too, are,
on the average, determined by the current
rates of interest. On capital used in distribut-
ing businesses; and the extra costs of carrying
on such businesses have to be paid for by ex-
tra prices. So that as in the past the rural
worker lost in One way what he gained in an-
other, so in the present does the urban work-
er; there being, too, in both cases, the loss en-
tailed on him by the cost of administration
and the waste accompanying it.
“But what has all this to do with ‘the
coming slavery, '2'' will perhaps be asked.
Nothing directly, but a good deal indirectly,
as we shall see after yet another preliminary
section.
It is said that, when railways were first
opened in Spain, peasants standing on the
tracks were not unfrequently run over, and
that the blame fell on the engine-drivers for
not stopping, rural experiences having yield-
d no conception of the momentum of a large
ass moving at a high velocity.
The incident is recalled to me on contem-
ting the ideas of the so-called “practical”
tician, into whose mind there enters
Ought of Such a thing as political mo-
m, still less of a political momentum
instead of diminishing or remaining
t, iricreases. The theory on which he
Oceeds is that the change caused by
ure will stop where he i •'














THE COMING SLAVERY. 15
stop. He contemplates intently the things
his act will achieve, but thinks little of the
remoter issues of the movement his act sets
up, and still less its collateral issues. When,
in war-time, “food for powder ’’ was to be
provided by encouraging population—when
Mr. Pitt said, “Let us make relief in cases
where there are a number of children a mat-
ter of right and honor, instead of a ground
for opprobrium and contempt **—it was not
expected that the poor-rates would be quad-
rupled in fifty years, that women with many
bastards would be preferred as wives to mod-
4.
est women because of their incomes from the -
parish, and that hosts of rate-payers would
be pulled down into the ranks of pauperism. .
Legislators who in 1833 voted £20,000 a year
to aid in building school houses never sup-
posed that the step they then took would
lead to forced contributions, local and gen--
eral, now amounting to £6.000,000; they did
not intend to establish the principle that A.
should be made responsible for educating B's,
offspring; they did not dream of a compul-
sion which should deprive poor widows of the
help of their elder children; and still less did
they dream that their successors, by requir-
ing impoverished parents to apply to boards
of guardians to pay the fees which school-
boards would not remit, would initiate a
habit of applying to boards of guardians and
so cause pauperization.f Neither did those
* Hansard’s “Parliamentary History,” xxxii. p. 710.
t Fortnightly Review, January, 1834, p. 17.
**.
16 THE COMING SLA IVERY.
who in 1834 passed an act regulating the la-
bor of women and children in certain facto-
ries imagine that the system they were begin-
ning would end in the restriction and inspec-
tion of labor in all kinds of producing estab-
lishments where more than fifty people are
employed; nor did they conceive that the in-
spection provided would grow to the extent
of requiring that, before a “ young person’’
is employed in a factory, authority must be
given by a certifying surgeon, who, by per-
Sonal examination (to which no limit is
placed), has Satisfied himself that there is no
incapacitating disease or bodily infirmity,
his verdict determining whether the “ young
person' shall earn Wages or not.” Even
less, as I say, does the politician who plumes
himself on the practicalness of his aims con-
ceive the indirect results that will follow
the direct results of his measures. Thus,
to take a case connected with One named
above, it was not intended through the sys-
tem of “payment by results” to do any-
thing more than give teachers an efficient
stimulus; it was not Supposed that in mu-
merous cases their health would give way un-
der the stimulus; it was not expected that
they would be led to adopt a cramming sys-
tem and to put undue pressure on dull and
weak children, often to their great injury; it
was not foreseen that in many cases a bodily
enfeeblement would be caused which no
“* Factories and Workshops Act,” 4ſ and 42 Victoria, cap.
6.
TIIE COMIN ( SL.f. EIf Y. 17
amount of grammar and geography can com-
pensate for. Nor did it occur to the practical
politicians who provided a compulsory load-
line for merchant-vessels, that the pressure of
ship-owners' interests would habitually cause
the putting of the load-line at the very high-
est limit, and that from precedent to prece-
dent, tending ever in the same direction, the
load-line would gradually rise—as from good
authority I learn that it has already done.
Legislators who, some forty years ago, by act
of Parliament compelled railway companies
to Supply cheap locomotion, would have ridi-
culed the belief, had it been expressed, that
eventually their act would punish the com-
panies which improved the supply; and yet
this was the result to companies which began
to carry third-class passengers by fast trains,
since a penalty to the amount of the passen-
ger-duty was inflicted on them for every
third-class passenger so carried. To which
instance concerning railways, add a far more
striking one disclosed by comparing the rail-
way policies of England and France. The
law-makers who provided for the ultimate
lapsing of French railways to the state never
conceived the possibility that inferior travel-
ling facilities would result—did not foresee
that reluctance to depreciate the value of
property eventually coming to the state
would negative the authorization of compet-
ing lines, and that in the absence of compet-
ing lines locomotion would be relatively cost-
lv slow. and infrequent; for, as Sir Thomas
18 THE COMING SLA WERY.
Farrar has shown, the traveller in England
has great advantages over the French travel-
ler in the economy, swiftness, and frequency
with which his journeys can be made.
But the “practical" politician, who, in
Spite of such experiences repeated generation
after generation, goes on thinking only of prox-
imate results, naturally never thinks of re-
Sults still more remote, still more general, and
Still more important than those just exempli-
fied. To repeat the metaphor used above—
he never asks whether the political momen-
tum set up by his measure, in some cases de-
creasing but in other cases greatly increasing,
will or will not have the same general direc-
tion with other such momenta; and whether
it may not join them in presently producing
an aggregate energy working changes never
thought of. Dwelling only on the effects of
his particular stream of legislation, and not
observing how other such streams already
existing, and still other streams which will
follow his initiative, pursue the same average
course, it never occurs to him that they may
presently unite into a voluminous flood ut-
terly changing the face of things. Or to
leave figures for a more literal statement, he
is unconscious of the truth that he is helping
to form a certain type of Social organization,
and that kindred measures, effecting kindred
changes of organization, tend with ever-in-
creasing force to make that type general,
until, passing a certain point, the proclivity
toward it becomes irresistible. Just as each
THE COMING SLA VERY. 19
society aims when possible to produce in
other societies a structure akin to its own—
just as among the Greeks, the Spartans and
the Athenians Severally struggled to spread
their respective political institutions, or as, at
the time of the French Revolution, the Euro-
pean monarchies aimed to re-establish mon-
archy in France, so, within every society.
each species of structure tends to propagate
itself. Just as the system of voluntary co-
Operation by companies, associations, unions,
to achieve business ends and other ends,
spreads throughout a community, so does the
antagonistic system of compulsory co-opera-
tion under state-agencies spread, and the
larger becomes its extension the more power
of Spreading it gets. The question of ques-
tions for the politician should ever be, “What
type of Social structure am I tending to pro-
duce?” But this is a question he scarcely
ever entertains.
Here we will entertain it for him. Let us
now observe the general course of recent
changes, with the accompanying current of
ideas, and see whither they are carrying us.
The blank form of a question daily asked
is, “We have already done this; why should
we not do that?” And the regard for prece-
dent suggested by it is ever pushing on regu-
lative legislation. Having had brought with-
in their sphere of Opration more and more
numerous businesses, the acts restricting
hours of employment and dictating the treat-
20 THE COMING SLA PERY.
ment of workers are now to be made appli-
cable to shops. From inspecting lodging-
houses to limit the numbers of Occupants and
enforce Sanitary conditions, We have passed
to inspecting ail houses below a certain rent
in which there are members of more than one
family, and are now passing to a kindred in-
spection of ałi Srđall houses.” The buying
and working of telegraphs by the state is
made a reason for urging that the state should
buy and work the railways. Supplying
children with food for their minds by public
agency is being followed in some cases by
supplying food for their bodies; and, after
the practice has been made gradually more
general, we may anticipate that the Supply
now proposed to be made gratis in the one
case will eventually be proposed to be made
gratis in the other, the argument that good
bodies as well as good minds are needful to
make good citizens being logically urged as a
reason for the extension. And then, avow-
edly proceeding on the precedents furnished
by the church, the school, and the reading-
room, all publicly provided, it is contended
that “pleasure, in the sense it is now generally
admitted, needs legislating for and organiz-
ing at least as much as work.” +
Not precedent only prompts this spread,
but also the necessity which arises for sup-
plementing ineffective measures, and for deal-
* See letter of Local Government Board, Times, January 2,
1884.
† Fortnightly Review, January, 1884, p. 21.
TIE COL}/IWG SL, i ſ EI? Y. 21
ing with the artificial evils continually caused.
|Failure does not destroy faith in the agencies
employed, but merely suggests more stringent
use of such agencies or wider ramifications of
them. Laws to check intemperance, begin-
ning in early times and coming down to our
Own times, when further restraints on the
sale of intoxicating liquors Occupy nights
every session, not having done what was ex-
pected, there come demands for more thor-
ough-going laws, locally preventing the sale
altogether; and here, as in America, these
will doubtless be followed by demands that
prevention shall be made universal. All the
many appliances for “stamping out " epi-
demic diseases not having succeeded in pre-
venting outbreaks of small-pox, fevers, and
the like, a further remedy is applied for in
the shape of police-power to search houses for
diseased persons, and authority for medical
officers to examine any One they think fit, to
see whether he or she is suffering from an in-
fectious or contagious malady. Habits of im-
providence having for generations been culti-
vated by the poor-law, and the improvident
enabled to multiply, the evils produced by
compulsory charity are now proposed to be
met by compulsory insurance.
The extension of this policy, causing exten-
sion of corresponding ideas, fosters every-
where the tacit assumption that Government,
should step in whenever anything is not going
right. “Surely you would not have this mis-
ery continue !” exclaims some one, if you hint
22 THE COMING SLA VERY.
a demurrer to much that is now being said
and done. Observe what is implied by this
exclamation. It takes for granted, first, that
all suffering ought to be prevented, which is
not true; much suffering is curative, and pre-
vention of it is prevention of a remedy. In
the Second place, it takes for granted that
every evil can be removed: the truth being
that, with the existing defects of human na-
ture, many evils can only be thrust out of one
place or form into another place or form—
Often being increased by the change. The ex-
clamation also implies the unhesitating belief,
here especially concerning us, that evils of all
kinds should be dealt with by the state. There
does not occur the inquiry whether there are
at work other agencies capable of dealing
with evils, and whether the evils in question
nmay not be among those which are best dealt
with by these other agencies. And Obviously,
the more numerous governmental interven-
tions become, the more confirmed does this
habit of thought grow, and the more loud and
perpetual the demands for intervention.
Every extension of the regulative policy in-
volves an addition to the regulative agents—
a further growth of officialism and an increas-
ing power of the organization formed of offi-
cials. Take a pair of scales with many shot
in the one and a few in the other. Lift shot
after shot out of the loaded Scale and put it
into the unloaded scale. Presently you will
produce a balance, and, if you go on, the po-
sition of the scales will be reversed. Suppose
TILE COMING SLA I’ERY. 23
the beam to be unequally divided, and let the
lightly loaded scale be at the end of a very
long arm; then the transfer of each shot, pro-
ducing a much greater effect, will far sooner
bring about a change of position. I use the
figure to illustrate what results from trans-
ferring one individual after another from the
regulated mass of the community to the regu-
lating structures. The transfer weakens the
one and strengthens the other in a far greater
degree than is implied by the relative change
of numbers. A comparatively small body of
officials, coherent, having common interests,
and acting under central authority, has an
immense advantage Over an incoherent pub-
lic which has no settled policy, and can be
brought to act unitedly Only under strong
provocation. Helice an organization of offi-
cials, once passing a certain stage of growth,
becomes less and less resistible; as we see in
the bureaucracies of the Continent.
Not only does the power of resistance of the
regulated part decrease in a geometrical ratio
as the regulating part increases, but the pri-
vate interests of many in the regulated part
itself make the change of ratio still more
rapid. In every circle conversations show
that now, when the passing of competitive
examinations renders them eligible for the
public service, youths are being educated in
such ways that they may pass them and get
employment under Government. One conse-
quence is, that men who might otherwise rep-
robate some further growth of officialism are
24 THE COMING SLAVERY.
led to look on it with tolerance, if not favora-
bly, as offering possible careers for those de-
pendent on them and those related to them.
Any one who remembers the numbers of up-
per-class and middle-class families anxious to
place their children will see that no small
encouragement to the spread of legislative
control is now coming from those who, but for
the personal interests thus arising, would be
hostile to it.
This pressing desire for careers is enforced
by the preference for careers which are
thought respectable. “Even if his salary is
small, his occupation will be that of a gentle-
man,” thinks the father, who wants to get a
Government-clerkship for his son. And this
relative dignity of state-servants, as compared
with those occupied in business, increases as
the administrative organization becomes a
larger and more powerful element in Society,
and tends more and more to fix the standard
of honor. The prevalent ambition with a
young Frenchman is to get some Small official
post in his locality, to rise thence to a place in
the local centre of government, and finally to
reach some head office in Paris. And in Rus-
sia, where that universality of state-regulation
which characterizes the militant type of so-
ciety has been carried farthest, we see this
ambition pushed to its extreme. Says Mr.
Wallace, quoting a passage from a play, “All
men, even shopkeepers and cobblers, aim at
becoming officers, and the man who has passed
TRIE CO.VIING SLA TER Y. 25
his whole life without official rank seems to be
not a human being.” ”
These various influences, working from
above downward, meet with an increasing
response of expectations and Solicitations pro-
ceeding from below upward. The hard-
worked and overburdened who form the
great majority, and still more the incapables
perpetually helped, who are ever led to look
for more help, are ready supporters of
Schemes which promise them this or the
Other benefit by state agency, and ready be-
lievers of those who tell them that such bene-
fits can be given and ought to be given. They
listen with eager faith to all builders of po-
litical air-castles, from Oxford graduates
down to Irish irreconcilables, and every addi-
tional tax-supported appliance for their wel-
fare raises hopes of further ones. Indeed,
the more numerous public instrumentalities
become, the more is there generated in citi-
Zens the notion that everything is to be done
for them, and nothing by them. Each gen-
eration is made less familiar with the attain-
ment of desired ends by individual actions or
private combinations, and more familiar with
the attainment of them by governmental agen-
cies; until, eventually, governmental agencies
come to be thought of as the only available
agencies. This result was well shown in the
recent Trades-Unions Congress at Paris. The
English delegates, reporting to their constitu-
* “Russia,” i. 422.
26 THE COMING SLA VERY.
ents, said that, between themselves and their
foreign colleagues, “the point of difference
was the extent to which the state should be
asked to protect labor”: reference being thus
made to the fact, conspicuous in the reports
of the proceedings, that the French delegates
always invoked governmental power as the
only means of satisfying their wishes.
The diffusion of education has worked, and
will work still more, in the same direction.
“We must educate our masters,” is the well-
known saying of a Liberal who opposed the
last extension of the franchise. Yes, if the
education were worthy to be so called, and
were relevant to the political enlightenment
needed, much might be hoped from it. But
knowing rules of syntax, being able to add
up correctly, having geographical informa-
tion, and a memory stocked with the dates of
kings' accessions and generals' victories, no
more imply fitness to form political conclu-
sions than acquirement of skill in drawing im-
plies expertness in telegraphing, or than abil-
ity to play cricket implies proficiency on the
violin. “Surely,” rejoins some one, “facility
in reading opens the way to political knowl-
edge.” Doubtless; but will the way be fol-
lowed? Table-talk proves that nine out of
ten people read what amuses them or inter-
ests them rather than what instructs them,
and that the last thing they read is some-
thing which tells them disagreeable truths or
dispels groundless hopes. That popular edu-
cation results in an extensive reading of pub-
TIIE COMING SLA PER Y. 27
lications which foster pleasant illusions, rath-
er than of those which insist on hard reaſi-
ties, is beyond question. Says “A Mechan-
ic,” writing in the Pall Mall Gazette of De-
cember 3, 1883:
Improved education instils the desire for culture—culture
instils the desire for many things as yet quite beyond work-
ing men's reach; . . . in the furious competition to which
the present age is given up they are utterly impossible to the
poorer classes; hence they are discontented with things as
they are, and the more educated the more discontented.
Hence, too, Mr. Ruskin and Mr. Morris are regarded as true
prophets by many of us.
And, that the connection of cause and effect
here alleged is a real one, we may see clearly
enough in the present state of Germany.
Being possessed of electoral power, as are
now the mass of those who are thus led to
nurture sanguine anticipations of benefits to
be obtained by social reorganization, it resufts
that whoever seeks their votes must at least
refrain from exposing their mistaken beliefs,
even if he does not yield to the tenuptation to
express agreement with them. Every candi-
date for Parliament is prompted to propose
or support some new piece of ad captandum,
legislation. Nay, even the chiefs of parties,
these anxious to retain office and those to
wrest it from them, severally aim to get ad-
herents by outbidding one another. Each
endeavors to score a trick by trumping his
antagonist's good card, as we have lately
seen. And then, as divisions in Parliament
show us, the traditional Royalty to leaders
28 THE COMING SLA JTER Y.
overrides questions concerning the intrinsic
propriety of proposed measures. Representa-
tives are unconscientious enough to vote for
bills which they regard as essentially wrong
in principle, because party-needs and regard
for the next election demand it. And thus a
vicious policy is strengthened even by those
who see its viciousness.
Meanwhile there goes on Out-of-doors an
active propaganda to which all these influ-
ences are ancillary. Communistic theories,
partially indorsed by one act of Parliament
after another, and tacitly if not avowedly
favored by numerous public men seeking sup-
porters, are being advocated more and more
vociferously under one or other form by pop-
ular leaders, and urged on by Organized soci-
eties. There is the movement for land-na-
tionalization which, aiming at a system of
land-tenure equitable in the abstract, is, as
all the world knows, pressed by Mr. George
and his friends with avowed disregard for the
just claims of existing Owners, and as the
basis of a scheme going more than half-way
to state-communism. And then there is the
thorough-going Democratic Federation of Mr.
Hyndman and his adherents. We are told
by them that “the handful of marauders who
now hold possession [of the land] have and
can have no right save brute force against the
tens of millions whom they wrong.” They
exclaim against “the shareholders who have
been allowed to lay hands upon (!) Our great
railway communications.” They condemn
THE COMING SLA VERY. 29
“above all, the active capitalist class, the .
loan-mongers, the farmers, the mine-exploit-
ers, the contractors, the middlemen, the fac-
tory-lords—these, the modern slave-drivers ”
who exact “more and yet more surplus value
Out of the wage-slaves whom they employ.”
And they think it “high time” that trade
should be “removed from the control of indi-
vidual greed and individual profit.” “I -
It remains to point out that the tendencies
thus variously displayed are being strength-
ened by press-advocacy, daily more pro-
nounced. Journalists, always chary of Say-
ing that which is distasteful to their readers,
are some of them going with the stream and
adding to its force. Legislative meddlings
which they would once have condemned they
now pass in silence, if they do not advocate
them; and they speak of laisser-faire as an
exploded doctrine. “People are no longer
frightened at the thought of socialism,” is the
statement which meets us one day. On an-
other day, a town which does not adopt the
Free Libraries Act is sneered at as being
alarmed by a measure SO moderately commun-
istic. And then, along with editorial asser-
tions that this economic evolution is coming
and must be accepted, there is prominence
given to the coutributions of its advocates,
Meanwhile those who regard the recent course
of legislation as disastrous, and see that its
future course is likely to be still more disas-
trous, are being reduced to silence by the be-
* “Socialism made Plain,” Reeves, 185 Fleet Street.
30 TII E COL}{ING SL, 1 VEIR Y.
lief that it is useless to reason with people in
a state of political intoxication.
See, then, the many concurrent causes
which threaten continually to accelerate the
transformation now going on. There is that
Spread of regulation caused by following prec-
edents, which become the more authoritative
the further the policy is carried. There is
that increasing need for administrative com-
pulsions and restraints which results from the
unforeseen evils and short-comings of preced-
ing compulsions and restraints. Moreover,
every additional state-interference strength-
ens the tacit assumption that it is the duty of
the state to deal with all evils and secure all
benefits. Increasing power of a growing ad-
ministrative organization is accompanied by
decreasing power of the rest of the society to
resist its further growth and control. The
Imultiplication of careers opened by a develop-
ing bureaucracy tempts members of the
classes regulated by it to favor its extension,
as adding to the chances of safe and respecta-
ble places for their relatives. The people at
large, led to look on benefits received through
public agencies as gratis benefits, have their
hopes continually excited by the prospects of
imore. A spreading education, furthering the
diffusion of pleasing errors rather than of
stern truths, renders such hopes both stronger
and more general. Worse still, such hopes
are ministered to by candidates for public
choice to augment their chances of success;
and leading statesmen, in pursuit of party
THE COMING SLA ["ERY. 31
ends, bid for popular favor by countenancing
them. Getting repeated justifications from
new laws harmonizing with their doctrines,
political enthusiasts and unwise philanthro-
pists push their agitations with growing con-
fidence and success. Journalism, ever re-
Sponsive to popular opinion, daily strength-
ens it by giving it voice; while counter-opin-
ion, more and more discouraged, finds little
utterance.
Thus influences of various kinds conspire to
increase Corporate action and decrease indi-
vidual action. And the change is being on all
sides aided by schemers, each of whom thinks
Only of his pet project, and not at all of the
general reorganization which his, joined with
Others such, are working out. It is said that
the French Revolution devoured its own chil-
dren. Here an analogous catastrophe seems
not unlikely. The numerous socialistic chang-
es made by act of Parliament, joined with the
numerous others presently to be made, will
by and by be all merged in state-socialism—
swallowed in the vast wave which they have
little by little raised.
“But why is this change described as ‘the
coming slavery ‘’” is a question which many
will still ask. The reply is simple. All so-
cialism involves slavery.
What is essential to the idea of a slave?
We primarily think of him as one who is
owned by another. To be more than nominal,
however, the ownership must be shown by
32 TIIF COMING SLA IVERY.
control of the slave's actions—a control which
is habitually for the benefit of the controller.
That which fundamentally distinguishes the
slave is that he labors under coercion to sat-
isfy another's desires. The relation admits of
sundry gradations. Remembering that or-
iginally the slave is a prisoner whose life is at
the mercy of his captor, it suffices here to
note that there is a harsh form of slavery in
which, treated as an animal, he has to ex-
pend his entire effort for his owner's advan-
tage. Under a system less harsh, though oc-
cupied chiefly in working for his owner, he is
allowed a short time in which to work for
himself, and some ground on which to grow
extra food. A further amelioration gives
him power to sell the produce of his plot and
keep the proceeds. Then we come to the still
more moderated form which commonly arises
where, having been a free man working on
his own land, conquest turns him into what
we distinguish as a serf; and he has to give
to his owner each year afixed amount of labor
or produce, or both, retaining the rest him-
self. Finally, in Some cases, as in Russia un-
til recently, he is allowed to leave his owner's
estate and work Or trade for himself else-
where, under the condition that he shall pay
an annual sum. What is it which, in these
cases, leads us to qualify our conception of
the slavery as more or less severe? Evidently
the greater or smaller extent to which effort
is compulsorily expended for the benefit of
another instead of for self-benefit. If all the
THE COMIN (4 SLA WER } . £3
slave's labor is for his owner the slavery is
heavy, and if but little it is light. Take now
a further step. Suppose an owner dies, and
his estate with its slaves comes into the hands
of trustees, or suppose the estate and every-
thing on it to be bought by a company; is the
condition of the slave any the better if the
amount of his compulsory labor remains the
same? Suppose that for a company we sub-
stitute the community; does it make any dif-
ference to the slave if the time he has to
work for others is as great, and the time left
for himself is as small, as before? The essen-
tial question is, How much is he compelled to
labor for other benefit than his own, and how
Imuch he can labor for his Own benefit 2 The
degree of his slavery varies according to the
ratio between that which he is forced to yield
up and that which he is allowed to retain;
and it matters not whether his master is a
single person or a Society. If, without option,
he has to labor or the society, and receives
from the general stock such portion as the
society awards him, he becomes a slave to the
society. Socialistic arrangements necessitate
an enslavement of this kind; and toward such
an enslavement many recent measures, and
still more the measures advocated, are carry-
ing us. Let us observe, first, their proximate
effects, and then their ultimate effects.
The policy initiated by the Industrial Dwell-
ings Acts admits of development, and will
develop. Where municipal bodies turn house-
builders, they inevitably lower the values of
º
º
34 THE COMING SL4 VERY”.
*.
houses otherwise built, and check the supply
of more. Every dictation respecting modes
of building and conveniences to be provided
diminishes the builder's profit, and prompts
him to use his capital where the profit is not
thus diminished. So, too, the owner, already
finding that small houses entail much labor
and many losses—already subject to troubles
of inspection and interference and to conse-
quent costs, and having his property daily
rendered a more undesirable investment—is
prompted to sell; and, as buyers are for like
reasons deterred, he has to Sell at a loss. And
now these still multiplying regulations, end-
ing, it may be, as Lord Grey proposes, in one
requiring the owner to maintain the Salubrity
of his houses by evicting dirty tenants, and
thus adding to his other responsibilities tath
of inspector of nuisances, must further prompt
sales and further deter purchasers—So neces-
sitating greater depreciation. What must
happen? The multiplication of houses, and
especially small houses, being increasingly
checked, there must come an increasing de-
mand upon the local authority to make up for
the deficient Supply. More and more, the
municipal or kindred body will have to build
houses, or to purchase houses rendered unsal-
able to private persons in the way shown;
houses which, greatly depreciated in value as
they must become, it will, in many cases, pay
to buy rather than to build new ones. And
then, when in towns this process has gone so
far as to make the local authority the chief
THE COJHING SL.A. VERY”. 35
owner of houses, there will be a good prece-
dent for publicly providing houses for the
rural population, as proposed in the Radical
programme,” and as urged by the Democratic
Federation, which insists on “the compulsory
construction of healthy artisans and agricult-
ural laborers' dwellings in proportion to the
population.” Manifestly, the tendency of
that which has been done, is being done, and
is presently to be done, is to approach the so-
cialistic ideal in which the community is sole
house-proprietor.
Such, too, must be the effect of the daily
growing policy on the tenure and utilization
of the land. More numerous public benefits,
to be achieved by more numerous public
agencies, at the cost of augmented public bur-
dens, must increasingly deduct from the re-
turns on land; until, as the depreciation in
value becomes greater and greater, the resist-
ance to change of tenure becomes less and
less. Already, as every one knows, there is
in many places difficulty in obtaining tenants,
even at greatly reduced rents; and land of in-
ferior fertility in some cases lies idle, or when
farmed by the owner is often farmed at a loss.
Clearly the margin of profit on capital in-
vested in land is not such that taxes, local and
general, can be greatly raised to support ex-
tended public administrations, without an
absorption of it which will prompt owners to
sell, and make the best of what reduced price
* Fortnightly Review, November, 1853, pp. 619, 620.
36 THE COMING SLA VEIR Y.
they can get by emigrating and buying land
not subject to heavy burdens, as, indeed,
Some are now doing. This process, carried
far, must have the result of throwing inferior
land out of cultivation; after which there will
be raised more generally the demand made
by Mr. Arch, who, addressing the Radical
Association of Brighton lately, and contend-
ing that existing landlords do not make their
land adequately productive for the public
benefit, said “he should like the present Gov-
ernment to pass a Compulsory Cultivation
Bill” : an applauded proposal which he justi-
fied by instancing compulsory vaccination
(thus illustrating the influence of precedent).
And this demand will be pressed, not only by
the need for making the land productive, but
also by the need for employing the rural pop-
ulation. After the Government has extended
the practice of hiring the unemployed to work
On deserted lands, or lands acquired at nomi-
mal prices, there will be reached a stage
whence there is but a small further step to
that arrangement which, in the programme
of the Democratic Federation, is to follow na-
tionalization of the land—the “organization
of agricultural and industrial armies under
State control on co-operative principles.”
If any one doubts that such a revolution
may be so reached, facts may be cited to show
its likelihood. In Gaul, during the decline of
he Roman Empire, “so numerous were the
receivers in comparison with the payers, and
to enormous the weight of taxation, that the



THE COMIING SLA VERY. 37
laborer broke down, the plains became des-
erts, and woods grew where the plough had
been.”.” In like manner, when the French
Revolution was approaching, the public bur-
dens had become such that many farms re-
mained uncultivated, and many were de-
Serted: One quarter of the soil was absolutely
lying waste; and in some provinces one half
was in heath. Nor have we been without
incidents of a kindred nature at home. Be-
sides the facts that under the old poor-law the
rates had in some parishes risen to half the
rental, and that in various places farms were
lying uncultivated, there is the fact that in
One case the rates had absorbed the whole
proceeds of the soil.
At Cholesbury, in Buckinghamshire, in 1832, the poor-rate
“Suddenly ceased in consequence of the impossibility to con-
tinue its collection, the landlords having given up their rents.
the farmers their tenancies and the clergyman his glebe and
his tithes. The clergyman, Mr. Jeston, states that in Octo-
ber, 1832, the parish officers threw up their books, and the
poor assembled in a body before his door while he was in bed,
asking for advice and food. Partly from his own small
means, partly from the charity of neighbors, and partly by
rates in aid, imposed on the neighboring parishes, they
were for some time supported.” +
The commissioners add that “the benevo-
lent rector recommends that the whole of the
land should be divided among the able-bodied
paupers”: hoping that, after help afforded
* Lactant., “De M. Persecut...” cc, 7, 23.
+ Taine, “La Révolution,” pp. 337, 338.
† “Report of Commissioners for Inquiry into the Adminis-
tration and Practical Operation of the Poor-Laws,” p. 87,
February 20, 1834.
38 THE COlli IV. G. S.L.A. J.T.E.R Y.
for two years, they might be able to mainiain
themselves. These facts, giving color to the
prophecy made in Parliament that continu-
ance of the old poor-law for another thirty
years would throw the land out of cultivation,
clearly prove that increase of public burdens
may end in forced cultivation under public
control.
Then, again, comes state-ownership of rail-
ways. Already this exists to a large extent
On the Continent. Already we have had here
a few years ago loud advocacy of it. And
now the cry which was raised by Sundry poli-
ticians and publicistS is taken up afresh by
the Democratic Federation, which proposes
“state-appropriation of railways, with or
without compensation.” Evidently, pressure
from above joined by pressure from below
is likely to effect this change, dictated by the
policy everywhere spreading; and with it
must come many attendant changes. For
railway-proprietors, at first owners and work-
ers of railways only, have been allowed to
become masters of numerous businesses di-
rectly or indirectly connected with railways;
and these will have to be purchased by Gov-
ernment when the railways are purchased.
Already exclusive carrier of letters, exclu-
sive transmitters of telegrams, and on the
way to become exclusive carrier of parcels,
the state will not only be exclusive car-
rier of passengers, goods, and minerals, but
will add to its present various trades many
other trades. Even now, besides erecting its
THE COMING SLA VERY. 39
naval and military establishments, and build-
ing harbors, docks, breakwaters, etc., it does
the work of ship-builder, cannon-founder,
small-arms maker, manufacturer of ammuni-
tion, etc., etc.; and, when the railways have
been appropriated “with or without compen-
sation,” as the Democratic Federationists say,
it will have to become locomotive-engine
builder, carriage-maker, tarpaulin and grease
manufacturer, passenger-vessel Owner, coal-
miner, stone-quarrier, Omnibus-proprietor,
etc. Meanwhile its local lieutenants, the mu-
nicipal governments, already in many places
suppliers of water, gas-makers, owners and
workers of tramways, proprietors of baths,
will doubtless have undertaken various other
businesses. And when the state, directly or
by proxy, has thus come into possession of, or
has established, numerous concerns for whole-
sale production and for wholesale distribution,
there will be good precedents for extending
its function to retail distribution: following
such an example, say, as is offered by the
French Government, which has long been a
retail tobacconist.
Evidently, then, the changes made, the
changes in progress, and the changes urged,
and carrying us not only toward state-owner-
ship of land and dwellings and means of com-
munication, all to be administered and work-
ed by state-agents, but toward state-usurpa-
tion of all industries; the private forms of
which, disadvantaged more and more in com-
petition with the state, which can arrange
40 THE COMING SLA TERY.
everything for its own convenience, will more
and more die away just as many voluntary
Schools have, in presence of board-schools.
And so will be brought about the desired
ideal of the socialist.
And now when there has been reached this
desired ideal, which “practical" politicians
are helping Socialists to reach, and which is
so tempting on that bright side which social-
ists contemplate, what must be the accom-
panying shady side which they do not contem-
plate? It is a matter of common remark,
often made when a marriage is impending,
that those possessed by strong hopes habitu-
ally dwell on the promised pleasures and think
nothing of the accompanying pains. A fur-
ther exemplification of this truth is supplied
by these political enthusiasts and fanatical
revolutionists, Impressed with the miseries
existing under Our present Social arrange-
ments, and not regarding these miseries as
caused by the ill-working of a human nature
but partially adapted to the Social state, they
imagine them to be forthwith curable by this
or that rearrangement. Yet, even did their
plans succeed, it could only be by Substitut-
ing one kind of evil for another. A little de-
liberate thought would show that under their
proposed arrangements their liberties must
be surrendered in proportion as their mate-
rial Welfares were cared for.
For no form of co-operation, Small or great,
can be carried on without regulation and an
THIE COMING SLA VERY. 41
implied submission to the regulating agencies.
Even one of their own organizations for effect-
ing Social changes yields them proof. It is
compelled to have its councils, its local and
general officers, its authoritative leaders, who
must be obeyed under penalty of confusion
and failure, And the experience of those
who are loudest in their advocacy of a new
Social order under the paternal control of a
government shows that, even in private vol-
untarily-formed societies, the power of the
regulative organization becomes great, if not
irresistible; often, indeed, causing grumbling
and restiveness among those controlled.
Trades-unions which carry on a kind of indus-
trial war in defence of workers' interests ver-
sus employers' interests find that subordina-
tion almost military in its strictness is need-
ful to secure efficient action; for divided
councils prove fatal to success. And even in
bodies of co-operators, formed for carrying
on manufacturing or distributing businesses,
and not needing that obedience to leaders
which is required where the aims are offen-
sive or defensive, it is still found that the ad-
ministrative agency acquires so great a power
that there arise complaints about “the tyran-
my of Organization.” Judge, then, what must
happen when, instead of combinations, small,
local, and voluntary, to which men may be-
long or not as they please, we have a national
combination in which each citizen finds him-
self incorporated, and from which he cannot
separate himself without leaving the country!
42 THE COMING SLA VERY.
Judge what must under such conditions be-
Come the power of a graduated and central-
ized Officialism, holding in its hands the re-
Sources of the community, and having behind
it whatever amount of force it finds requisite
to Carry out its decrees and maintain what it
calls order! Well may a Prince Bismarck
display leanings toward state-socialism.
And then, after recognizing, as they must if
they think out their scheme, the power pos-
sessed by the regulative agency in the new so-
cial System so temptingly pictured, let its
advocates ask themselves to what end this
power must be used. Not dwelling exclu-
sively, as they habitually do, on the material
well-being and the mental gratifications to be
provided for them by a beneficent administra-
tion, let them dwell a little on the price to be
paid. The officials can not create the needful
Supplies; they can but distribute among indi-
viduals that which the individuals have joined
to produce. If the public agency is required
to provide for them, it must reciprocally re-
quire them to furnish the means. There can-
not be, as under our existing System, agree-
ment between employer and employed—this
the scheme excludes. There must in place
of it be command by local authorities over
workers, and acceptance by the workers of
that which the authorities assign to them.
And this, indeed, is the arrangement distinct-
ly, but as it would seem inadvertently, pointed
to by the members of the Democratic Federa-
tion. For they propose that production should
THE COMING SLA VERY. 43
be carried on by “agricultural and industrial
armies under state control ’’; apparently not
remembering that armies presuppose grades
of officers, by whom obedience would have to
be insisted upon, since otherwise neither Order
nor efficient work could be insured. So that
each would stand toward the governing agen-
Cy in the relation of slave to master.
“But the governing agency would be a
master which he and others made and kept
constantly in check, and one which therefore
would not control him or others more than
was needful for the benefit of each and all.”
To which reply the first rejoinder is that,
even if so, each member of the community as
an individual would be a slave to the commu-
nity as a whole. Such a relation has habitu-
ally existed in militant communities, even un-
der quasi-popular forms of government. In
ancient Greece the accepted principle was
that the citizen belonged neither to himself
nor to his family, but belonged to his city—
the city being with the Greek equivalent to
the community. And this doctrine, proper to
a state of constant warfare, is a doctrine which
Socialism unawares reintroduces into a state
intended to be purely industrial. The services
of each will belong to the aggregate of all:
and for these services such returns will be
given as the authorities think proper. So
that even if the administration is of the benef-
icent kind intended to be secured, slavery,
however mild, must be the outcome of the
arrangement,
44 THE COMING SLA I ERY.
A second rejoinder is that the administra-
tion will presently become not of the intended
kind, and that the slavery will not be mild.
The socialist speculation is vitiated by an as-
sumption like that which vitiates the specula-
tions of the “practical” politician. It is as-
sumed that officialism will work as it is in-
tended to work, which it never does. The
machinery of communism, like existing social
machinery, has to be framed Out of existing
human nature; and the defects of existing
human nature will generate in the one the
same evils as in the other. The love of power,
the selfishness, the injustice, the untruthful-
ness, which often in comparatively short times
bring private organizations to disaster, will
inevitably, where their effects accumulated
from generation to generation, work evils far
greater and less remediable; since vast and
complex and possessed of all the resources,
the administrative Organization once devel-
oped and consolidated must become irresisti-
ble. And, if there needs proof that the peri-
odic exercise of electoral power would fail to
prevent this, it suffices to instance the French
Government, which, purely popular in Origin,
and subject from time to time to popular
judgment, nevertheless tramples on the free-
dona of citizens to an extent which the English
delegates to the late Trades-Union Congress
say “is a disgrace to, and an anomaly in, a
republican nation.”
The final result would be a revival of des-
potism. A disciplined army of civil officials,
THE COMING SLAVERY. 45
like an army of military officials, gives su-
preme power to its head—a power which has
often led to usurpation, as in mediaeval Europe
and still more in Japan—nay, has thus so led
among our neighbors within our own times.
The recent confessions of M. de Maupas have
shown how readily a constitutional head,
elected and trusted by the whole people, may,
with the aid of a few unscrupulous confeder-
ates, paralyze the representative body and
make himself autocrat. That those who rose
to power in a socialistic organization would
not scruple to carry out their aims at all costs,
we have good reason for concluding. When
we find that shareholders, who, sometimes
gaining, but often losing, have made that rail-
way-system by which national prosperity has
been so greatly increased, are spoken of by
the council of the Democratic Federation as
having “laid hands” on the means of commu-
nication, we may infer that those who di-
rected a socialistic administration might inter-
pret with extreme perversity the claims of in-
dividuals and classes under their control. And
when, further, we find members of this same
council urging that the state should take pos-
session of the railways, “with or without
compensation,” we may suspect that the
heads of the ideal Society desired, would be
but little deterred by considerations of equity
from pursuing whatever policy they thought
needful—a policy which would always be one
identified with their own supremacy. It
would need but a war with an adjacent society
46 THE COMING SLA VERY.
or some internal discontent demanding forci-
ble suppression, to at once transform a Socialis-
tic administration into a grinding tyranny like
that of ancient Peru; under which the mass
of the people, controlled by grades of Officials,
and leading lives that were inspected out-of-
doors and in-doors, labored for the Support of
the organization which regulated them, and
were left with but a bare subsistence for
themselves. And then would be completely
revived, under a different form, that régime
of status—that system of compulsory Co-Oper-
ation, the decaying tradition of which is rep-
resented by the old Toryism, and toward
which the new Toryism is carrying us back.
“But we shall be on Our guard against all
that—we shall take precautions to ward off
such disasters,” will doubtless say the enthu-
siasts. Be they “practical" politicians with
their new regulative measures, or communists
with their schemes for reorganizing labor, the
answer is ever the same: “It is true that
plans of kindred mature have, from unforeseen
causes and adverse accidents, or the misdeeds
of those concerned, been brought to failure;
but this time we shall profit by past experi-
ences and Succeed.” There seems no getting
people to accept the truth, which nevertheless
is conspicuous enough, that the Welfare of a
society and the justice of its arrangements are
at bottom dependent on the characters of its
members; and that improvement in neither
can take place without that improvement in
character which results from carrying on
THE COMING SLA VEH Y. 47
peaceful industry under the restraints im-
posed by an orderly social life. The belief,
not only of the socialists but also of those SO-
called Liberals who are diligently preparing
the way for them, is that by due skill an ill-
working humanity may be framed into well-
Working institutions. It is a delusion. The
defective natures of citizens will show them-
Selves in the bad acting of whatever social
structure they are arranged into. There is no
political alchemy by which you can get golden
conduct out of leaden instincts.-HERBERT
SPENCER, in The Contemporary Review.
Tºxº
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