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 HTALES FROM THE 
 DRAMATISTS 
 
 
 RLC 
 
 RRIS 
 
 OUR VOUi 
 VOLUME 1 
 WITH PORTRAITS 
 Y "A'A
 
 T 
 
 ALES FROM THE 
 DRAMATISTS 
 
 BY 
 
 CHARLES MORRIS 
 
 IN FOUR VOLUMES 
 
 VOLUME I 
 WITH PORTRAITS 
 
 PHILADELPHIA 
 
 J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY 
 
 1893
 
 (,35" 
 
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1S92, 
 
 BY 
 J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY. 
 
 PRINTED BY J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY. PHILADELPHIA.
 
 PEEFAOE. 
 
 THAT charming literary production of Charles 
 and Mary Lamb, " Tales from Shakespeare," has 
 had the good fortune to survive for nearly a cen- 
 tury the modern deluge of books, and still remains 
 so popular with younger readers that it may be 
 looked upon as a genuine juvenile classic. The 
 stories of the Shakespearian comedies and trage- 
 dies could not be more attractively rendered, and 
 our youthful acquaintance with these delightful 
 " Tales" forms a most agreeable introduction to our 
 mature studies of the plays themselves. 
 
 In the absence of any work dealing similarly 
 with the non-Shakespearian drama, the writer has 
 ventured to put into story form some of the best- 
 known plays of the leading English dramatists, 
 not with a remote idea of such a happy destiny 
 as has fallen to the lot of the work above named, 
 but with the more modest hope of affording some 
 share of enjoyment to the present generation of 
 readers. In doing so, it has been found necessary 
 to cull needfully from an unweeded garden, whose 
 healthful plants are associated with many of 
 noisome growth. Numerous writers of fame, such 
 as Dryden, Congreve, Wycherly, and several of 
 1* 5
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 the prominent Elizabethan dramatists, are too 
 licentious or otherwise objectionable in style to 
 yield wholesome food for the young mind, or to 
 be adapted to the modern standard of taste and 
 morals. The elder drama few of whose plays 
 still hold the stage has, therefore, been sparingly 
 dealt with, our selections being in great part con- 
 fined to the more popular plays of the leading 
 dramatists of the eighteenth and early nineteenth 
 centuries. 
 
 This work owes only its suggestion to Lamb's 
 " Tales from Shakespeare." It makes no effort to 
 imitate or approach in style that deservedly pop- 
 ular work. It has, indeed, been deemed advisable 
 to deal with the drama in a less juvenile manner, 
 and thus to appeal to an older circle of readers, 
 while still considering the tastes and demands of 
 the young. 
 
 It is hoped that the lovers of the living drama 
 may find it possible to pass an occasional pleasant 
 hour with narrative reproductions of some of the 
 plays which they have enjoyed upon the stage, 
 and that the aroma of these flowers of the dra- 
 matic art may not prove to have been entirely dis- 
 sipated by depriving them of their stage setting, 
 and putting them in form for enjoyment around 
 the evening lamp.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 EVERY MAN IN His HUMOR 9 
 
 By Ben Jonson. 
 PHILASTER, OR LOVE LIES BLEEDING 44 
 
 By Beaumont and Fletcher. 
 A NEW WAY TO PAY OLD DEBTS 68 
 
 By Philip Massinger. 
 VENICE PRESERVED 99 
 
 By Thomas Otway. 
 THE BUSYBODY 119 
 
 By Susanna Centlivre. 
 THE BEAUX STRATAGEM 151 
 
 By George Farquhar. 
 THE BELLE'S STRATAGEM 181 
 
 By Hannah Cowley.
 
 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 VOLUME I. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 BEN JOKSON Frontispiece. 
 
 JOHN FLETCHER 44 
 
 THOMAS OTWA.Y 99 
 
 SI>AXNA CENTLIVRE 119
 
 EVERY MAN IN HIS HUMOR, 
 
 BY BEN JONSON. 
 
 [Or the numerous dramatic authors of the 
 Elizabethan era, contemporaries of Shakespeare, 
 including Marlowe, Jonson, Beaumont and 
 Fletcher, Webster, Massinger, Ford, and half a 
 score of others very few have left works of suffi- 
 cient dramatic merit to survive to our time. "With 
 the exception of a single play of Massinger's, and 
 a very rare production of the best of Jonson's 
 and Beaumont and Fletcher's works, all this 
 great array of dramas has vanished from that 
 stage to which the plays of Shakespeare are 
 among the most welcome visitants. This is 
 by no means wholly due to lack of dramatic 
 strength. The powerful plays of Marlowe are too 
 primitive in style, those of Webster too revolting 
 in the cruelty of their incidents, for modern repro- 
 duction, while the licentiousness which pervades 
 some of the best works of other authors unfits 
 them for the nineteenth-century taste. We, there- 
 fore, confine our selections from the dramatists of 
 this era to those whose works have been produced 
 within the i-ecent period. 
 
 9
 
 10 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 Ben Jonson, in several respects the ablest of 
 Shakespeare's contemporary playwrights, was 
 born at Westminster, England, about 1573, was 
 educated at Westminster and Cambridge, and en- 
 joyed the honor of being one of the most learned 
 scholars of his day. His life was a varied one. 
 Leaving Cambridge in his sixteenth year, poverty 
 made him a bricklayer's apprentice, distaste for 
 which occupation soon made him a soldier. On 
 his return from the Netherlands, where he had 
 seen some service, he joined a company of actors, 
 killed one of them in a duel, and narrowly escaped 
 being hanged. At a later date he was again 
 thrown into prison, with his fellow-dramatists, 
 Chapman and Marston, on the charge of libel. 
 The three were condemned to lose their ears and 
 noses, but escaped through Jonson's influence at 
 court. He had before this become a favorite dra- 
 matist, his first play, " Every Man in his Humor," 
 produced in 1598, having given him a high repu- 
 tation. In addition to his plays, he wrote, for the 
 entertainment of the Court, numerous masques, 
 many of which display diversified knowledge, 
 sprightly fancy, and fertile invention ; and a large 
 number of poems, among which are some of the 
 most charming bits of lyric fancy in the English 
 language. He was made poet-laureate by James 
 I., and was a leading spirit in the literary society 
 of that period, being a familiar associate and ap- 
 parently a close friend of Shakespeare. He died 
 in 1637, and was buried in Westminster Abbey,
 
 EVERY MAN IN HIS HUMOR. 11 
 
 his gravestone bearing the eloquent inscription, 
 " O rare Ben Jonson !" 
 
 The plays of Jonson, while full of wit and humor 
 and replete with amusing situations, are over- 
 weighted with material, and are lacking in nat- 
 uralness and interest of plot, and in life-like 
 power of characterization. His personages are 
 types of character rather than individual men, 
 and his plots mainly threads of satirical incident 
 for the display of these types. Of his plays, only 
 four are highly esteemed, " Every Man in his 
 Humor," " The Alchemist," " Volpone, or the Fox," 
 and " Epiccene, or the Silent Woman." These are 
 rather compounds of intrigue than stories of con- 
 secutive interest. " Every Man in his Humor," 
 which we select for treatment, is feeble as a story, 
 its principal interest being in its characters, par- 
 ticularly that of Captain Bobadil, perhaps the 
 most famous example of the boasting coward in 
 the literature of the stage.] 
 
 In the sixteenth century there were exacting 
 fathers and graceless sons, as there are in the 
 nineteenth, and Mr. Knowell, a London gentle- 
 man, and his son Edward, were of them. The 
 son had been a close student, and was supposed 
 still to be so by his father ; but, in truth, the at- 
 tractions of the metropolis had led him into ir- 
 regular ways, which he diligently concealed from 
 his beguiled parent. In these loose habits he 
 was aided by his servant Brainwonn, a cunning
 
 12 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 rogue. Young Knowell's companion in his es- 
 capades was a gentleman named Wellbred, who, 
 like himself, had until recently been of good 
 repute, but had fallen into dissolute habits, spend- 
 ing his time with wild associates and in revels by 
 no means to his credit. 
 
 Visiting at Mr. Knowell's house was a nephew 
 of his named Stephen, of country birth and train- 
 ing, and such a consummate ass that he was the 
 laughing-stock of all who knew him. It was his 
 desire to pose as a gentleman, to do which he sup- 
 posed it was only necessary to have a knowledge 
 of hunting and hawking terms, to boast of his 
 wealth, and to hold himself ready to quarrel on 
 the slightest pretence. So full of misplaced valor 
 was he, indeed, that he got into a quarrel with a 
 servant who came with a letter to his uncle's 
 house, and whose respectful answers he mistook 
 for insolence. He acted with such foolish violence 
 that Mr. Knowell, ashamed of his conduct, in the 
 end ordered him to leave the room if he could not 
 behave himself with more sense and discretion. 
 
 The letter was addressed " To Master Edward 
 Knowell," and evidently intended for the son, but 
 as the old gentleman was named Edward also, and 
 was curious to see some of his son's correspond- 
 ence with Wellbred, whom the servant told him 
 had sent it, he opened and read it. 
 
 The result was an unpleasant surprise, and a 
 new revelation of the character of Mr. Wellbred, 
 whose modest and discreet demeanor his son had
 
 EVERY MAX IX HIS HOIOR. 13 
 
 praised in the highest terms. The missive, which 
 was couched in very licentious language, bade 
 Knowell to leave his vigilant father to the task 
 of numbering the green apricots on his garden 
 wall, and to come over to the old Jewry, when- 
 there was some rare sport in pickle for him. The 
 writer had come across a pair of odd fellows, the 
 one a rhymer, the other of indescribable charac- 
 ter, from whom he hoped they could extract some 
 rare fun. 
 
 Mr. Knowell read this epistle in deep astonish- 
 ment. " Why, what unhallowed ruffian would 
 have written in such a scurrilous manner to a 
 friend !" he exclaimed. " But I perceive that af- 
 fection makes a fool of any man too much the 
 father." ' Brain worm !" 
 
 Young Knowell's servant quickly answered this 
 summons. 
 
 u Is the fellow gone that brought this letter ?" 
 asked the old gentleman. 
 
 " Yes, sir, a pretty while since.", 
 
 " Your young master spake not with him ?" 
 
 " No. sir, he saw him not." 
 
 li Take you this letter and deliver it to my son ; 
 but with no notice that I have opened it, on your 
 life." 
 
 " Oh, Lord, sir, that were a jest, indeed !" an- 
 swered Brain worm, with an expression of deep 
 innocence, as he left the room with the letter. 
 
 Yet the virtuous Brainworm had his own idea 
 of the duty of a faithful servant. On handing 
 2
 
 14 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 the letter to his young master, he did not hesi 
 tate to tell him that his father had opened and 
 read it. 
 
 " How looked he ? was he angry, or pleased ?" 
 " Nay, sir, I saw him not open it." 
 " Then how know you that he did so ?" 
 ' Marry, sir, because he charged me, on my life, 
 to tell nobody that he had opened it; which, un- 
 less he had done, he would never fear to have it 
 revealed." 
 
 " That's true. I thank you, Brainworm." 
 The young man read the letter with mingled 
 doubt and laughter, doubt as to how his father 
 would take it ; laughter as to the comedy of the 
 situation. He was too fond of sport, however, to 
 lose that which his friend offered him, even at the 
 risk of his father's displeasure, and decided that 
 he would add to Wellbred's pair of odd customers 
 a third, his worthy cousin, Stephen. 
 
 The latter entered while Knowell was still 
 laughing over the epistle, vowing that he would 
 cudgel the servant who had insulted him. He 
 looked sourly at his amused cousin, fancying at 
 first that he was the object of his mirth. 
 
 " Oh, now I see what he laughs at !" he ex- 
 claimed. " It was at something in that letter. 
 
 By this good light, an he had laughed at me " 
 
 " How now, Cousin Stephen, melancholy ?" 
 asked Knowell. 
 
 " Yes, a little : I thought you had laughed at 
 me, cousin."
 
 EVERY MAN IN HIS HUMOR. 15 
 
 " Why, what an I had, coz ? what would you 
 have done ?" 
 
 " By this light, I would have told mine uncle." 
 
 " Nay, if you would have told your uncle, I did 
 laugh at you, coz." 
 
 " Did you, indeed ?" 
 
 " Yes, indeed." 
 
 " Why, then " 
 
 " What then ?" asked Knowell, with an assumed 
 fierceness. 
 
 " I am satisfied ; it is sufficient." 
 
 Knowell laughed again at this lame conclusion 
 to a warlike preface, and in the end invited Stephen 
 to accompany him on a visit to a friend in the 
 Old Jewry, an invitation which the country cousin 
 readily accepted. 
 
 Meanwhile the old gentleman had taken deep 
 thought about the new light which had been 
 thrown on his son's pursuits. Sorry as he was to 
 find him led into loose ways, he was wise enough 
 to perceive that violent measures of repression 
 might do more harm than good, and concluded 
 that it was safer to win him by love from evil 
 ways than to seek to drive him into virtue by fear. 
 He resolved to follow him to the city, with the 
 hope that something might happen to aid his pur- 
 poses. 
 
 This design became known to Brainworm, and 
 he, out of loyalty to his young master, determined 
 to throw himself in disguise in the old gentleman's 
 way, and defeat his plans if possible. The disguise
 
 16 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 he assumed was that of a maimed soldier, and thua 
 apparelled he stationed himself in the open ground 
 of Moorfields, which lay between Mr. Knowell's 
 house and the city. 
 
 The disguised servant, however, first encountered 
 his young master and Stephen, whom he would 
 have preferred to avoid, through fear of discovery. 
 But as he could not escape unseen, he came boldly 
 forward, with a long story of his services in the 
 wars, his present poverty, and an offer to sell 
 his rapier, which he vowed was a pure Toledo. 
 Stephen, whose only weapon at present was a 
 cudgel, was at once eager to buy it, the more so 
 as Knowell dissuaded him. 
 
 " Come, come, you shall not buy it," exclaimed 
 Knowell, who had not much faith in its Toledo 
 qualities. " Hold, there's a shilling, fellow ; take 
 your rapier." 
 
 " Why, but I will buy it now, because you say 
 so," persisted the obstinate fool; "and there's 
 another shilling, fellow ; I scorn to be outbidden. 
 What, shall I walk with a cudgel, like Higgin- 
 bottom, and may have a rapier for money !" 
 
 " You may buy one in the city," 
 
 "Tut! I'll buy this in the field, so I will. I 
 have a mind to it because 'tis a field rapier. Tell 
 me your lowest price." 
 
 " Come away ; you are a fool." 
 
 " Friend, I am a fool, that's granted," replied 
 Stephen; "but I'll have it, for that word's sake. 
 Follow me for your money."
 
 EVERY MAN IX HIS HUMOR. 17 
 
 " At your service, sir," answered Brainworm. 
 
 The cunning rogue, felicitating himself on hav- 
 ing deceived his master, followed them, sold 
 Stephen the worthless blade for a round sum, and 
 returned to Moorfields in time to meet the elder 
 Knowell, who had appeared during his absence. 
 Still pretending to be a poverty-stricken old sol- 
 dier, he begged of him so importunately, that Mr. 
 Knowell took him severely to task for conduct 
 unbecoming one who had served in the wars. 
 
 o 
 
 " What's your name ?" he asked in conclusion. 
 
 "Please you, Fitz-Sword, sir." 
 
 " If I should take you into my service, would 
 you be honest, just, and true ?" 
 
 " Sir, by the honor of a soldier " 
 
 "Nay, nay. I like not these affected oaths. 
 Speak plainly, man." 
 
 " I wish my fortunes were as happy as my ser- 
 vice should be honest." 
 
 ' Well, follow me ; I'll prove if your deeds are 
 in proportion to your words." 
 
 He walked on, while Brainworm remained be- 
 hind to relieve himself of laughter, with which, 
 as he said, " never was bottle or bagpipe fuller." 
 
 " Was there ever seen a fox in years to betray 
 himself thus?" he exclaimed. "Now I shall be 
 possessed of all his counsels ; and, through rne, 
 my young master. Oh, I shall abuse him intoler- 
 ably! This small piece of service will bring him 
 clean out of love with the soldier forever. Why, 
 this is better than to have stayed his journey! 
 y OI ,. T.__6 2*
 
 18 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 Well, I'll follow him. Oh, how I long to bo em- 
 ployed !" 
 
 Leaving the Knowells, father and son, to their 
 plans and purposes, and Brainworm to his devices, 
 we must now precede them to their destination, 
 and introduce to the reader some others of the 
 characters of our story. 
 
 Two of these were the pair of oddities of whom 
 Wellbred had spoken, the one being a boastful 
 soldier named Captain Bobadil, the other a foolish 
 fellow named Matthew, who had made himself a 
 worshipper of the brave-tongued captain. This 
 heroic boaster was reduced by circumstances to 
 dwell in the humble residence of Oliver Cob, a 
 water-carrier, a fact which he was by no means 
 anxious to have known. Yet, humble as his lodg- 
 ings were, he did not demean himself by paying 
 for them, but, on the contrary, had borrowed forty 
 shillings of Tib, the water-bearer's wife, paying 
 his score in such dainty oaths as, " By the foot of 
 Pharaoh !" " By the body of me !" " As I am a 
 gentleman and a soldier!" and the like, a style of 
 conversation which his worthy host heard with 
 awe and respect. 
 
 Matthew, whose acquaintance with the captain 
 was of recent date, sought him in these humble 
 quarters, and was surprised to find his soldierly 
 friend so inadequately lodged. Yet he concealed 
 his opinion, saying, 
 
 " Trust me, you have an exceeding fine lodging 
 here ; very neat and private."
 
 EVERT MAN IN HIS HUMOR. 19 
 
 " True, the cabin is convenient," answered Boba- 
 dil, with a lordly air. u Yet, as I would not be too 
 popular, and generally visited, I pray you to pos- 
 sess no gentleman of our acquaintance with notice 
 of my lodging." 
 
 " Who. I, sir ? no." 
 
 " I confess I love a cleanly and quiet privacy, 
 above all the tumult and roar of fortune. What 
 new book have you there ? What ! Go by, 
 Ilieronymo ?" 
 
 " Is it not well penned ?" 
 
 " Well penned ! I would fain see all the poets 
 of these times pen such another play as that was. 
 Out on them, they are the most shallow, pitiful, 
 barren fellows that live upon the face of the 
 earth !" 
 
 While Bobadil dressed for the street, Matthew 
 read him some passages from the play thus highly 
 lauded, ending with certain verses of his own, which 
 his host saw fit to commend. In the conversation 
 which ensued, Matthew told the captain of a 
 quarrel he had recently had with Squire Down- 
 right, Mr. Wellbred's half-brother, a choleric fel- 
 low, who had ended by threatening to cudgel 
 him. 
 
 " By the foot of Pharaoh, you shall chartel 
 him !" exclaimed Bobadil. " I'll show you a trick 
 or two ; you shall kill him at pleasure ; the first 
 etoccata, if you will, by this air !" 
 
 Bobadil thereupon bade his hostess bring them 
 a pair of bed-staves, and gave his guest a lesson
 
 20 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 in fencing, seeking to teach him a certain thrust 
 that was sure death. In the end he dropped his 
 pupil as tediously awkward. 
 
 " Come, we'll go to some tavern, and have a bit ; 
 and then I will teach you your trick. Why, I 
 will learn you by the true judgment of the eye, 
 hand, and foot, to control any enemy's point in 
 the world. Should your enemy confront you with 
 a pistol, 'twere nothing, by this hand ! you should, 
 by the same rule, control his bullet, in a line, ex- 
 cept it were hailshot, and spread. What money 
 have you about you, Master Matthew ?" 
 
 " Faith, I have not past a two shillings, or so." 
 
 " "Pis somewhat with the least ; but come ; we 
 will have a bunch of radish and salt to taste our 
 wine, and a pipe of tobacco to close the orifice 
 of the stomach ; and then we'll call to keep our 
 appointment with young Wellbred : perhaps we 
 shall meet the Corydon his brother there, and put 
 him to the question." 
 
 The destination of these worthies, in their 
 search for Mr. Wellbred, was the house of his 
 brother-in-law, Mr. Kitely, a wealthy merchant, 
 with whom the young man lodged. The association 
 between Kitely and his guest was far from an 
 agreeable one. Wellbred, from being a man of the 
 most correct deportment, had fallen into an irregu- 
 lar course of life, much to the annoyance of the 
 worthy merchant. He complained of this to Down- 
 right, the young man's half-brother, but got little 
 satisfaction from that plain-spoken individual.
 
 EVERY MAN IX HIS HUMOR. 21 
 
 " I know not what I should say to him, in the 
 whole world," exclaimed Downright. " He values 
 me at a cracked three-farthings, for aught I see. 
 It will never out of the flesh that's bred in the 
 bone. Counsel to him is as good as a shoulder of 
 mutton to a sick horse. Let him spend and dom- 
 ineer till his heart ache ; an he think to be re- 
 lieved by me, when he is got into one o' your city 
 pounds, he has got the wrong sow by the ear, i' 
 faith, and claps his dish at the wrong man's door. 
 I'll lay my hand on my half-penny, ere I part 
 with it to fetch him out." 
 
 Mr. Kitely's family, in addition to those named, 
 consisted of his newly-married wife, of whom he 
 was inordinately jealous, and her sister Bridget. 
 The latter young lady counted Matthew among 
 her lovers, his mode of courtship consisting in 
 writing her verses by the rood, little of which 
 the fair maiden ever saw. Matthew's poetry, on 
 which he plumed himself greatly, was more bor- 
 rowed than original, he laying all the poets of the 
 time under contribution to supply his stock of 
 love-verses. 
 
 It was at Mr. Kitely's house that Matthew and 
 Captain Bobadil called, after partaking of their 
 wine and tobacco, to inquire for Mr. Wellbred. 
 The young gentleman was not at home, as Kitely 
 assured them, but the boastful Bobadil managed 
 to get into a quarrel with the choleric Downright, 
 who would have cudgelled him on the spot had 
 not Kitely withheld him. Bobadil had called him
 
 22 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 a scavenger, an epithet which the hot-tempered 
 gentleman could not stomach, and treasured up 
 for repayment with interest on a future occasion. 
 
 " These are my brother's consorts, these !" he ex- 
 claimed, indignantly. " These are his comrades, 
 his walking mates ! he's a gallant, a cavaliero, too, 
 right hangman cut ! Let me not live, an I could 
 not find it in my heart to swinge the whole gang 
 of 'em, one after another, and begin with him 
 first ! He shall hear on't, and that tightly, too, 
 an I live, i' faith !" 
 
 The various personages whom we have intro- 
 duced to the reader had, as will be perceived, 
 each his peculiar humor, or turn of mind. Of 
 these none was more persistent than the jealousy 
 of the worthy merchant, Mr. Kitely. Every 
 word spoken by his wife, whether in affection or 
 otherwise, was tortured by his diseased imagina- 
 tion into new food for jealousy, which vile passion 
 possessed him like a fever. 
 
 " What ails you, sweetheart ?" she asked him, 
 surprised by his abstracted manner. "Are you 
 not well ?" 
 
 " In truth, my head aches extremely of a sud- 
 den," he replied. 
 
 "Alas! how it burns!" she said, putting her 
 hand to his forehead. " Keep you warm, dear ; 
 good truth, it is this new disease there's a num- 
 ber are troubled with. For love's sake, sweet- 
 heart, come in, out of the air." 
 
 " A new disease !" he soliloquized, after she had
 
 EVERY MAX IN HIS IIUMOR. 2^5 
 
 left him. "Iknow not, new or old; but like a 
 pestilence it does infect the houses of the bruin. 
 First it begins to work upon the phantasy ; and 
 from thence, sends like contagion to the memory ; 
 till not a thought or motion in the mind i.s free 
 from the black poison of suspicion. What misery 
 'tis to know this, or, knowing it, to be its abject 
 victim ! Well, well, I'll strive again, in spite of 
 this black cloud, to be myself, and shake the fever 
 off that thus shakes me." 
 
 Leaving him to his vain endeavor to over- 
 come his baseless jealousy, we must betake our- 
 selves to the Windmill Tavern, in the Old Jewry, 
 a favorite resort, where Matthew and Bobadil 
 found Wellbred, and where, in the midst of 
 their conversation, young Knowell and Stephen 
 entered. 
 
 "Ned Knowell! by my soul, welcome," ex- 
 claimed Wellbred. " How dost thou, sweet spirit, 
 my genius ? These be the two I writ to thee of. 
 Why, what drowsy humor holds you now ? Why 
 do you not speak ?" 
 
 " Oh, you are a fine gallant," answered Know- 
 ell, testily. " You sent me a rare letter." 
 
 " Why, was it not rare ?" 
 
 " Ay, and your messenger as well. The fellow 
 mistook my father for me, and gave him a full 
 view of your flourishing style, some hour before I 
 saw it." 
 
 "Come, come, you jest! Why, what a dull 
 slave ! Well, what said he to it ?"
 
 24 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 ' ; I know not what; but I have a shrewd guess 
 what be thought." 
 
 " What, what ?" 
 
 " Marry, that thou art some strange, dissolute 
 young fellow, and I a grain or two better, for 
 keeping you company." 
 
 " Tut ! that thought is like the moon in her last 
 quarter, 'twill change shortly. But I pray thee 
 be acquainted with my two hang-by's here ; thou 
 wilt take exceeding pleasure in them, if thou 
 nearest them once go ; my wind instruments ; I'll 
 wind them up. But what strange piece of silence 
 is this, the sign of the dumb man ?" 
 
 " Oh, sir, a kinsman of mine," answered 
 Knowell, with a laugh. " One that may make 
 your music the fuller, an he please. He has his 
 humor, sir." 
 
 " What is't, what is't?" 
 
 " Faith, I'll leave him to the mercy of your 
 search. If you can take him, so !" 
 
 It was not long before the two fun-loving 
 worthies had their wind instruments in full play, 
 Bobadil boasting, Matthew retailing his poetry, 
 and Stephen as melancholy as a raw oyster. This 
 humor his jesting cousin had advised him to take, 
 as the mark of a true gentleman, and the country 
 gull played it at full pitch. 
 
 " Truly, I am mightily given to melancholy," 
 he said, with a sigh, to Matthew. 
 
 " It's your only fine humor, sir," answered 
 Matthew. " I am melancholy myself, divers times,
 
 EVERY MAN IN HIS HUMOR. 2.") 
 
 sir ; and then I do no more but take pen and 
 paper, and overflow you half a score or a dozen 
 of sonnets, at a sitting." 
 
 " Truly, sir, I love such things out of measure." 
 
 " Why, I pray you, sir, make use of my study ; 
 it's at your service." 
 
 " I thank you, sir ; have you a stool there, to be 
 melancholy upon ?" 
 
 " That I have ; and some papers of my own 
 doing, that you'll say there's some sparks of wit 
 in." 
 
 " Cousin, is it well ?" asked Stephen, in an aside. 
 " Am I melancholy enough ?" 
 
 "Ay, excellent," answered Knowell. 
 
 "Captain Bobadil, why muse you so?" asked 
 Wellbred. 
 
 " He is melancholy, too," suggested Knowell. 
 
 " Faith, sir, I was thinking of a most honorable 
 piece of service, was performed to-morrow, being 
 St. Mark's day, shall be some ten years, now," 
 answered the captain. 
 
 This was the prelude to an extended bit of 
 boasting, in which Bodadil performed miracles of 
 valor that would have made any other man a 
 commander-in-chief. He ended by showing his 
 sword, which he said was a Toledo, and laughed 
 scornfully at the Toledo blade with which Stephen 
 sought to match it. 
 
 "A Fleming, by heaven!" he exclaimed. "I 
 could buy a thousand such for a guilder apiece." 
 
 " I told you so, cousin," said Knowell. 
 
 B 3
 
 Zb TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 " The coney-catching rascal !" cried Stephen, 
 fiercely. " I could eat the very hilts for anger. 
 Would that I had the scurvy dog here, I'd show 
 him the humor of a gentleman !" 
 
 He had his wish much sooner than he expected, 
 for Brain worm entered at that instant, still in dis- 
 guise. 
 
 "A miracle, cousin ; look here, look here !" ex- 
 claimed Knowell. 
 
 " Oh od's lid ! By your leave, do you know 
 me, sir ?" blustered Stephen. 
 
 " Ay, sir, I know you by sight." 
 
 " You sold me a rapier, did you not ?" 
 
 " Yes, marry did I, sir." 
 
 " You said it was a Toledo, ha ?" 
 
 " True, I did so." 
 
 " But it is none." 
 
 " JSTo, sir, I confess it ; it is none." 
 
 " Do you confess it ? Gentlemen, bear witness, 
 he has confessed it ! Od's will, and you had not 
 confessed it " 
 
 " Oh, cousin, forbear, forbear !" 
 
 " Nay, I have done. Yet, by his leave, he is a 
 rascal, under his favor, do you see." 
 
 " Ay, by his leave, he is, and under favor : a 
 pretty piece of civility. How like you him ?" 
 Knowell whispered to Wellbred. 
 
 " It's a most precious fool, make much of him." 
 
 They were interrupted by Brainworm, who took 
 them aside from their foolish companions, and 
 surprised them by a revelation of his disguise,
 
 EVERY MAN IN HIS HUMOR. 27 
 
 and his adventures therein, telling Knowell that 
 his father was on his track, and was at that 
 moment at Justice Clement's, in Coleman Street, 
 whence he had sent him in search of his eon. 
 This news the young friends took as an amusing 
 joke, and vowed that they would outwit the old 
 gentleman, or apprentice themselves as porters. 
 
 Leaving the tavern, the party sought Mr. 
 Kitely's house. Here they had been but a few 
 minutes when a quarrel arose between Bobadil 
 and Cob, his landlord, who had ventured to speak 
 an ill word for tobacco a substance then recently 
 introduced. 
 
 " Ods me," he said, expressing a general opinion 
 of the period, " I marvel what pleasure or felicity 
 they have in taking this roguish tobacco? It's 
 good for nothing but to choke a man and fill him 
 full of smoke and embers. There were four who 
 died out of one house last week with taking of 
 it. By the stocks, an there were no wiser men 
 than I, I'd have it present whipping, man and 
 woman, that should deal with a tobacco-pipe: 
 why, it will stifle them all in the end, as many as 
 use it ; it's little better than ratsbane." 
 
 Bobadil, who was a slave to the Indian weed, 
 flew into a violent rage at this, and fell upon the 
 water-carrier, whom he beat so roundly that the 
 others had to come to his rescue. Cob escaped 
 at last, vowing revenge, while the valorous cap- 
 tain allowed his choler to evaporate in a series of 
 strange oaths. These Master Stephen sought to
 
 28 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 imitate, deeming that they held the very essence 
 of gentility. 
 
 " Oh, he swears most admirably !" exclaimed 
 the admiring fool. " By Pharaoh's foot ! Body o' 
 Csesar! I shall never do it, sure. Upon mine 
 honor, and by St. George ! No, I have not the 
 right grace." 
 
 Cob had meanwhile made his way towards 
 Justice Clement's, whither he had been sent in 
 search of Mr. Kitely, who, in his jealous humor, 
 had left word that he was to be sent for instantly 
 if Wellbred brought any strangers to his house. 
 The angry water-bearer had another purpose, 
 which was to lodge with the justice a complaint 
 against Bobadil, for the beating he had received. 
 
 Justice Clement, whom we must next introduce 
 to the reader, was a personage with an odd humor 
 of his own ; " a good lawyer, a great scholar," Well- 
 bred had said, in speaking of him, " but the only 
 mad, merry old fellow in Europe." 
 
 " I have heard many of his jests in the Uni- 
 versity," answered Knowell. " They say he will 
 commit a man for taking the wall of his horse." 
 
 " Ay, or wearing his cloak on one shoulder, or 
 serving of God ; anything, indeed, if it come in 
 the way of his humor." 
 
 This reputation the worthy justice had well 
 earned, and seemed inclined to maintain. For 
 when Cob complained of the beating he had re- 
 ceived, and asked for a warrant to arrest his 
 assailant, the fun-loving magistrate threatened to
 
 EVERY MAN IX HIS HUMOR. 29 
 
 send him to prison himself, for daring to utter 
 libels against tobacco. 
 
 " What' a threadbare rascal, a beggar like this 
 to deprave and abuse the virtue of an herb so 
 generally received in the courts of princes, the 
 chambers of nobles, the bowers of sweet ladies, 
 the cabins of soldiers ! Eoger, away with him !" 
 
 And so earnest did his intention to send him to 
 prison appear, that Mr. Knowell, who was pres- 
 ent, came to the poor fellow's rescue. 
 
 " Give him his warrant, Eoger," answered the 
 justice, with a laugh. " He shall not go. I did 
 but scare the knave." 
 
 " The Lord maintain your worship !" prayed 
 Cob. 
 
 "Away now. How now, Master Knowell, in 
 dumps!" he said to Mr. Knowell. " Come, this 
 becomes not." 
 
 " I would, sir, I could not feel my cares." 
 
 "Your cares are nothing," answered Justice 
 Clement, heartily. " They are like my cap. soon 
 put on and as soon put off. What ! your son is old 
 enough to govern himself; let him run his course ; 
 it's the only way to make him a staid man. If 
 he were an unthrift, a ruffian, a drunkard, or a 
 licentious liver, then you had reason ; but being 
 none of these, mirth's my witness, an I had twice 
 as many cares as you have, I'd drown them all 
 in a cup of sack. Come, come, let's try it," and 
 he led in his uneasy friend to administer this 
 panacea. 
 
 a*
 
 30 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 Meanwhile Wellbred and his friends had entered 
 into conversation with Dame Kitely and her sis- 
 ter Bridget, whom Matthew set himself to court 
 by repeating to her a series of verses, which 
 Knowell vowed were all stolen. Whether or not, 
 it was evident that neither he nor his poetry were 
 much to the young lady's taste, she seeming much 
 more inclined to favor young Knowell, whom she 
 now met for the first time. Nor was her attrac- 
 tion to the young man ill placed, for he found his 
 friend's sister to be a maiden of rare beauty and 
 wit, and vowed in his heart that she was well 
 worth the gift of a man's love. 
 
 Matthew's verses proved still less to the taste of 
 another member of the household, Mr. Down- 
 right, who showed his ill humor with the whole 
 party so strongly that Wellbred took offence, and 
 no long time passed before swords were drawn 
 and challenges given. The two ladies, at this, 
 screamed for help, while Kitely, who had just 
 returned, rushed in with his servants and parted 
 the combatants. 
 
 " Why, how now, brother, who enforced this 
 brawl ?" asked Kitely, after the visitors had with- 
 drawn. 
 
 "A sort of lewd rake-hells, that care neither 
 for God nor the devil," answered Downright, still 
 fuming with rage. " And they must come here 
 to read ballads, and roguery, and trash ! I'll mar 
 the knot of them ere I sleep ; especially that brag- 
 ging Bob ; and songs and sonnets, his fellow."
 
 EVERY -MAN IN HIS HUMOR. 31 
 
 " Brother, you are too violent," pleaded Bridget. 
 "You know my brother Wellbred's temper will 
 not bear any reproof; at least where it might 
 wound him in opinion or respect." 
 
 " Respect ! Among such as have no spark of 
 manhood or good manners ! Respect ! I'm 
 ashamed to hear you!" and her angry brother 
 left the room in a huff. 
 
 " Respect, yes," said Bridget, firmly. " One of 
 them was a civil gentleman, who very worthily 
 demeaned himself." 
 
 " Oh, that was some love of yours, sister," said 
 Kitely. 
 
 " A love of mine ! If it were so, brother, you'd 
 pay my portion sooner than you think for." 
 
 " Indeed, he seemed to be a gentleman of a fair 
 disposition and excellent good parts," added Mrs. 
 Kitely. 
 
 This unlucky remark stirred up again the dis- 
 eased fancy of her jealous spouse. It was his 
 wife's lover, then, not his sister's, he said to him- 
 self, whom they had thus highly praised. 
 
 " Are any of the gallants within, Thomas ?" he de- 
 manded of his cashier, after the ladies had retired. 
 
 " No, sir, they are all gone." 
 
 " What gentleman was it they praised so?" 
 
 " They call him Master Knowell ; a handsome 
 young gentleman, sir." 
 
 " Ay, I thought so ; my mind gave me as much. 
 I'll die but they have hid him in the house, some- 
 where; I'll go and search. Come with me,
 
 32 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 Thomas ; be true to me, and you shall find me a 
 generous master." 
 
 While the jealous husband was thus giving 
 himself unnecessary torture, young Knowell, who 
 had been deeply smitten by Bridget's charms of 
 face and manner, was begging her brother's con- 
 sent to pay his addresses to her. He found him 
 more than willing. 
 
 "She is a maid of good ornament and much 
 modesty," he declared, " and by this hand thou 
 shalt have her! I conceive so worthily both of 
 her and of you, that I cannot fancy a better 
 mating." 
 
 " Hold, hold, be temperate. She may not have 
 me." 
 
 " Thou shalt see. Appoint but where to meet, 
 and as I am an honest man, I'll bring her." 
 
 That the consent of Kitely, Downright, and the 
 elder Knowell could be had to this hastily-devised 
 marriage, however, seemed questionable to the 
 conspirators, and they deemed it their safest 
 course to complete the business clandestinely, 
 the young lady consenting, and to acquaint the 
 elders with it when it was too late to object. 
 
 Wellbred lost no time in putting his scheme 
 into execution, and, at the same time, in laying 
 the foundations of a neat jest on Kitely's jealousy. 
 To this end, he privately told Dame Kitely that 
 her husband was in the habit of visiting the wife 
 of Cob, the water-bearer, during the husband's 
 absence. This stirred up the good wife's anger.
 
 EVERY MAN IN HIS HUMOR. 33 
 
 " I'll after him presently," she exclaimed. " I 
 would to fortune 1 could take him there, i' faith I'd 
 return him his own, I warrant him." 
 
 Hardly had she set off before her husband en- 
 tered and asked for her. He was informed that 
 she had gone out, and at once his jealousy flamed 
 up. 
 
 " How ! is my wife gone forth ?" he demanded. 
 Whither, for God's sake ?" 
 
 " I'll tell you, brother, whither I suspect she's 
 gone," said "Wellbred. 
 
 " Whither, good brother ?" 
 
 " To Cob's house, I believe ; but, keep my coun- 
 sel." 
 
 " I will, I will: to Cob's house! doth she haunt 
 Cob's? Why? to meet her lover? If I should 
 find him there now " 
 
 Off he went in a fever of jealousy, leaving the 
 laughing "Wellbred with the coast clear to prose- 
 cute his friend's suit with Bridget. Calling her 
 into his counsel, he was gratified to find that she 
 was in no sense averse to the projected marriage. 
 The favor with which she had regarded young 
 Knowell had quickly ripened into love, and with 
 little hesitation she accompanied her brother on 
 his clandestine errand. 
 
 While they were on their way to the appointed 
 rendezvous, Cob's house had become the scene of 
 a complicated misunderstanding ; for in addition to 
 Kitely and his wife, the elder Knowell had been 
 sent thither by Brainworm, on the pretence that 
 VOL. I.c
 
 34 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 he would find his son there, in company with a 
 woman of bad character. The complication was 
 added to by Cob, who, being not free from jeal- 
 ousy, had strictly charged his wife to keep his 
 doors shut, and to admit no one in his absence. 
 
 The result was a ludicrous one. First came 
 the old gentleman, knocking at Cob's door, and 
 demanding young Knowell. Then came Dame 
 Kitely, demanding her husband, and mistaken by 
 old Knowell for the woman his son was to meet. 
 Close on their heels came Kitely, his jealous fancy 
 spying in the old gentleman his wife's secret 
 lover. Last of all came Cob, who beat his wife 
 for admitting all these people to his house in defi- 
 ance of his orders. The complicated wrangle that 
 followed was only ended when Kitely proposed 
 that they should take their grievances to Justice 
 Clement, a proposal to which they willingly as- 
 sented, for each of them had a separate wrong to 
 right. 
 
 Leaving them, we must return to the remainder 
 of our characters, particularly to Bobadil and 
 Matthew, and to the choleric Downright, who was 
 in hot search of this oddly- associated pair, with 
 an ardent desire for revenge. 
 
 From the Windmill Tavern, the captain and 
 his companion, in company with young Knowell 
 and Stephen, had sought the open space of Moor- 
 fields, where Bobadil outdid himself in boasting, 
 little dreaming of the load of disgrace that was 
 ready to fall upon his head. As for that clown,
 
 EVERY MAN IN HIS HUMOR. 35 
 
 Downright, he boastfully declared, he should re- 
 ceive his deserts. Matthew had been taught a 
 trick with the 1'apier which was certain death, if 
 managed neatly. 
 
 " Captain," asked Knowell, slyly, " Did you ever 
 prove yourself upon any of our masters of defence 
 here I" 
 
 " Oh, good sir, yes ! I hope he has," protested 
 Matthew. 
 
 " By honesty, fair sir, believe me," declared the 
 captain, "I have graced them exceedingly; and 
 yet now they hate me, and why? because I am 
 excellent, and for no other vile reason upon the 
 earth." 
 
 "This is strange and barbarous, as ever I 
 heard," protested Knowell. 
 
 "Note, sir. They have assaulted me, some 
 three, four, five, six of them together, as I have 
 walked alone in divers skirts of the town ; where 
 I have driven them afore me the whole length of 
 a street, pitying to hurt them, believe me. By 
 myself, I could have slain them all, but I delight 
 not in murder." 
 
 " Believe me, sir, you should be on your guard. 
 Consider what a loss your skill would be to the 
 nation !" said Knowell. 
 
 " Indeed, that might be some loss ; but who 
 respects it ?" answered Bobadil. " I will tell you, 
 sir, by the way of private, and under seal : I am a 
 gentleman, and live here obscure, and to myself; 
 but were I known to her majesty and the lords,
 
 36 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 observe me, I would undertake, upon this poor 
 head and life, for the public benefit of the state, 
 not only to spare the entire lives of her subjects 
 in general; but to save the one-half, nay, three 
 parts of her yearly charge in holding war, and 
 against what enemy soever. And how would I 
 do it, think you ?" 
 
 "Nay, I know not, nor can I conceive," an- 
 swered Knowell. 
 
 " Why, thus, sir. I would select nineteen more, 
 to myself, throughout the land ; gentlemen they 
 should be of good spirit, strong and able con- 
 stitution ; I would choose them by an instinct, a 
 character that I have ; and I would teach these 
 nineteen the special rules, as your punto, your 
 reverse, your stoccata, your imbroccato, your 
 passada, your montanto ; till they could all play 
 very near, or altogether as well as myself. This 
 done, say the enemy were forty thousand strong, 
 we twenty would come into the field the tenth of 
 March, or thereabouts ; and we would challenge 
 twenty of the enemy; they could not in their 
 honor refuse us. Well, we would kill them ; 
 challenge twenty more, kill them ; twenty more, 
 kill them ; twenty more, kill them too ; and thus 
 would we kill every man his twenty a day, that's 
 twenty score; twenty score, that's two hundred; 
 two hundred a day, five days a thousand ; forty 
 thousand ; forty times five, five times forty, two 
 hundred days kills them all up by computation. 
 And this will I venture my poor gentleman-like
 
 EVERY MAN IN HIS HUMOR. 37 
 
 carcass to perform, provided there be no treason 
 practised upon us, by fair and discreet manhood ; 
 tbat is, civilly by the sword." 
 
 " Why, are you so sure of your hand, captain, 
 at all times?" 
 
 " Tut ! never miss thrust, upon my reputation 
 with you." 
 
 " I would not stand in Downright' s state then, 
 an you meet him, for the wealth of any one street 
 in London." 
 
 " Why, sir, you mistake me ; if he were here 
 now, by this welkin, I would not draw my weapon 
 upon him. But I will bastinado him, by the 
 bright sun, wherever I meet him." 
 
 " Ods so, look where he is ! yonder he 
 comes," and Knowell turned aside to hide his 
 laughter. 
 
 Downright appeared as he spoke, grumbling to 
 himself at his ill luck in not being able to meet 
 those bragging rascals. A change came upon his 
 face on perceiving them. 
 
 " Oh, Pharaoh's foot, have I found you ?" he ex- 
 claimed. " Come, draw to your tools ; draw, 
 gypsy, or I'll thrash you." 
 
 " Gentleman of valor, I do believe in thee ; hear 
 
 me " began Bobadil, with a marked change of 
 
 countenance. 
 
 " Draw your weapon, then." 
 
 "Tall man, I never thought on it till now," 
 protested the captain. " Body of me, I had a 
 warrant of the peace served on me, even now as I 
 4
 
 38 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 came along, by a water-bearer; this gentleman 
 saw it, Master Matthew." 
 
 " 'Sdeath ! you will not draw, then ?" Without 
 further waste of words, Downright fell upon him, 
 wrested his weapon from him, and made his cud- 
 gel play stoccata on the captain's unresisting car- 
 cass, while Matthew, fancying that his turn would 
 come next, took hastily to his heels. 
 
 The noble captain bore his severe pummelling 
 with a marvellons patience, failing to find even a 
 word in defence until Downright had gone, weary 
 of the exercise, when he protested that he had 
 been struck by a planet, and had no power to 
 touch his weapon. 
 
 "Ay, like enough," answered Knowell, satiri- 
 cally ; " I have heard of many that have been 
 beaten under a planet. Go, get you to a surgeon. 
 'Slid ! an these be your tricks, your passados, and 
 your montantos, I'll none of them. O, manners f 
 that this age should bring forth such creatures ! 
 that nature should be at leisure to make them ! 
 Come, coz." 
 
 Stephen obeyed, after possessing himself of 
 Downright's cloak, which he had dropped and 
 forgotten in his rage. Captain Bobadil sought 
 redress in a more peaceful fashion than befitted 
 his loud protestations, obtaining a warrant of 
 arrest against Downright, to procure which he 
 pawned his silk stockings and Matthew his ear- 
 rings. The warrant was served by Brainworm, 
 who had now assumed the disguise of a city ser-
 
 EVEEY MAN IN HIS HUMOB. 39 
 
 geant or bailiff, and who, in support of his new 
 character, arrested, first Stephen, as wearing 
 Downright's cloak, and afterwards Downright 
 himself. 
 
 The current of our story next bears us to Jus- 
 tice Clement's office, whither most of our charac- 
 ters have gone. They could not have sought a 
 better place for the settlement of their disputes, 
 for the worthy justice had a marked talent for 
 untying hard knots. His first visitors were 
 Kitely and his wife, Cob and his dame, and the 
 elder Knowell. Some shrewd questioning on the 
 part of the magistrate quickly untangled their 
 difficulties, and proved that they had all been 
 gulled by a trick of the fun-loving Wellbred, a 
 revelation that made the merchant thoroughly 
 ashamed of his jealousy. 
 
 They were interrupted by a message to the 
 justice that a soldier desired to speak with him. 
 "A soldier!" he exclaimed. "My armor, my 
 sword, quickly." He armed himself in haste. 
 " Now let the soldier enter." 
 
 The soldier proved to be Captain Bobadil, who 
 entered, followed by Matthew, and preferred a 
 complaint against Downright of having beaten 
 him in the street, though he had not offered to 
 resist him. 
 
 "O God's precious! is this the soldier?" cried 
 the justice. " Here, take my armor off, quickly ; 
 'twill make him swoon, I fear; he is not fit to look 
 on it, that put up a blow."
 
 40 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 "An't please your worship, he was bound to 
 the peace," said Matthew. 
 
 "Why, an he were, sir, his hands were not 
 bound, were they?" 
 
 At this moment Brainworm, in his disguise of 
 a city sergeant, entered with his two prisoners. 
 The justice questioned them closely, asking under 
 whose warrant they had been arrested, as he had 
 given none. Downright replied that he had not 
 seen the warrant. 
 
 " Why, Master Downright," cried the justice, 
 " are you such a novice, to be served, and never 
 see the warrant ?" 
 
 "Marry, sir, this sergeant came to me and said 
 he must serve it, and he would use me kindly, 
 and so " 
 
 " Oh, God's pity, was it so, sir ?" exclaimed the 
 justice. " He must serve it ! Give me my long 
 sword there, and help me down. So come on, 
 sir varlet. I must cut off your legs, sirrah." 
 Brainworm, in a fright, fell on his knees. " Nay, 
 stand up ; I'll use you kindly. I must cut off your 
 legs, I say ; there is no remedy. I must cut off 
 your ears, you rascal ; I must cut off your nose ; I 
 must cut off your head." 
 
 Brain worn was kept dancing to escape the 
 sweep of the long sword, with which the humor- 
 ous justice accented his words. 
 
 "O, good sir, I beseech you !" pleaded the culprit. 
 M Nay, good Master Justice !" 
 
 " You knave, you slave, you rogue, do you say
 
 EVERY MAN IN HIS HUMOR. 41 
 
 you must, sirrah? Away with him to the jail; 
 I'll teach you a trick, for your must, sir." 
 
 " Nay, sir, if you will commit me, it shall be 
 for more than this," and the roguish servant 
 threw off his borrowed suit and appeared in his 
 proper person. 
 
 " How is this ?" cried the justice. 
 
 " My man Brainworm !" exclaimed Mr. Knowell. 
 
 Brainworm, in reply, explained his various 
 devices ; how he had deceived his master in the 
 disguise of an old soldier; how he had made 
 Formal, the justice's clerk, drunk, and stolen 
 his dress ; and how he had finally pawned this for 
 the robe of a city sergeant. 
 
 " Body o' me, a merry knave !" cried the justice. 
 " Give me a bowl of sack. If he belong to you, 
 Master Knowell, I bespeak your pardon. " Come, 
 sirrah, unfold now what use you had for my 
 fellow Formal's suit ?" 
 
 " I used it to get this gentleman, Master Kitely, 
 out of the way, with a message from your 
 worship, while Master Wellbred might make a 
 conveyance of Mistress Bridget to my young 
 master." 
 
 This information created a general surprise. 
 
 " How ! my sister stolen away ?" cried Kitely. 
 
 "My son is not married, I hope," exclaimed 
 Knowell. 
 
 " Faith, sir, as sure as love, a priest, and three 
 thousand pounds, which is her portion, can make 
 them. By this time they are ready to bespeak 
 4*
 
 42 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 their wedding supper at the Windmill, except 
 some friend here invite them home." 
 
 " Marry, that will 1 1" exclaimed the merry 
 justice, in hearty tones. " Their friends have no 
 cause to be sorry, if I know the young couple 
 aright. Here, I drink to you for your good news. 
 Sirrah, go and fetch them hither upon my war- 
 rant," he said to a servant. " Now, I pray you, 
 what have you done with my man Formal ?" 
 
 This question was answered by the appearance 
 of Formal himself, who entered thoroughly 
 sobered, and dressed in a suit of ancient armor, 
 which he had found in the room where Brain- 
 worm had left him. 
 
 While the company was still laughing at the 
 poor fellow's ludicrous and downcast aspect, the 
 newly-married couple made their appearance, 
 accompanied by Wellbred. 
 
 " Who be these ?" exclaimed the justice. " Oh, 
 the young company ! Welcome, welcome. Give 
 you joy. Nay, Mistress Bridget, blush not ; you 
 are not so fresh a bride but the news of it is come 
 hither before you. Master bridegroom, I have 
 made your peace, give me your hand. I will do as 
 much for all the rest ere you forsake my roof." 
 
 This he did, in his own cheery way, laughing 
 Kitely out of his jealousy ; emptying Matthew's 
 pockets of their load of stolen verses, which he 
 ordered to be burned ; and ordering a wedding 
 supper. As for the various culprits, he disposed 
 of them as follows :
 
 EVERY MAN IN HIS HUMOR. 43 
 
 " To dispatch these : you sign of the soldier 
 aud picture of the poet ; while we are at supper 
 you two shall penitently fast in my court without ; 
 and if you will, you may pray there that we shall 
 be so merry within as to forgive or forget you 
 when we come out." 
 
 " And what shall I do ?" asked Stephen. 
 
 "Oh! I had lost a sheep an he had not 
 bleated 1 Why, sir, you shall give Mr. Down- 
 right his cloak; and shall have a trencher and a 
 napkin in the buttery, with Cob and his wife here 
 for company. Come, I conjure the rest of you to put 
 off all discontent : you, Master Downright, your 
 anger ; you, Master Knowell, your cares ; Master 
 Kitely and his wife, their jealousy. This night 
 we'll dedicate to friendship, love, and laughter. 
 Master bridegroom, take your bride and lead; 
 every one a fellow." 
 
 And with the merry justice to head the table, 
 the wedding supper of the newly-married pair 
 passed off in the rarest round of jollity.
 
 PHILASTER5 OR, LOVE LIES BLEEDING, 
 
 BY BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. 
 
 [Tns most famous of literary partnerships in 
 the history of mankind is that of the dramatists 
 here named, two of the most prolific playwrights 
 and ablest lyric and descriptive poets of the 
 Elizabethan age. So intimate was their friend- 
 ship that they lived in the same house and had 
 clothes and all other things in common, and so 
 closely allied were they in mind that it is im- 
 possible to discover what part each of them con- 
 tributed to their plays. 
 
 Francis Beaumont was born in 1584 and died 
 in 1616. He was educated at Oxford, and after- 
 wards became an intimate friend of Ben Jonson 
 and the other eminent frequenters of the famous 
 Mermaid Tavern. Here he probably first met 
 John Fletcher, who was five years older than 
 himself, and had been educated at Cambridge. 
 Fletcher's first play was the " Woman Hater," 
 produced in 1607. His dramatic partnership 
 with Beaumont began after that date, a large 
 number of plays being produced by the two in 
 common, while after Beaumont's death Fletcher 
 44
 
 
 rtnershij 
 
 ' : Sts 
 
 ! . 
 
 
 .ibly first met 
 Jo in 
 
 If, and hail b<# ,-d at Cn 
 
 uer's first pi the W. 
 
 in 1607. His drair.- 
 at began afto-
 
 PHILASTER J OR, LOVE LIES BLEEDING. 45 
 
 produced many plays, partly alone, and partly in 
 concert with other dramatists. It is believed that 
 Shakespeare took part in the writing of " The Two 
 Noble Kinsmen," and that Fletcher had a share 
 in Shakespeare's " Henry VIII." Fletcher died in 
 1625. 
 
 The plays of these two dramatists fail to reach 
 the higher levels of the art. Their power of 
 characterization is not deep, nor are they capable 
 of expressing sentiment and passion in their 
 deeper manifestations, though they had an excel- 
 lent knowledge of stage effect, and much poetical 
 ability. Morally they are deficient, even the 
 best of their plays, "The Maid's Tragedy," 
 being deeply infiltrated with licentiousnes. This 
 play, and " Philaster," with the powerful passages 
 in " The Two Noble Kinsmen," alone hold a high 
 rank in dramatic composition. We give the story 
 of " Philaster," as the most attractive example of 
 their inventive genius.] 
 
 The King of Calabria had a beautiful and 
 charming daughter named Arethusa, for whom, 
 as she had reached the proper age to marry, 
 he wished to contract an alliance that would 
 strengthen his power and add glory to his reign. 
 The fame of the beauty of this princess had 
 spread far through the neighboring kingdoms, 
 and brought her many suitors, the latest of whom 
 was Pharamond, a prince of Spain, who had come 
 to Messina as a suitor for her hand. This pro-
 
 46 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 posed alliance pleased the king greatly, much 
 more, indeed, than it did his daughter or his peo- 
 ple. Arethusa felt disdain rather than love for 
 the weak-faced, conceited, and haughty foreign 
 prince. And the thought of this foppish stranger 
 marrying the heir of the kingdom, and becoming 
 their future sovereign, was far from agreeable 
 to the people of Messina, who had views of their 
 own as to the heir to the throne. 
 
 The principal cause of their opposition was 
 this. The late king of Calabria had made war 
 upon Sicily, conquered it, and deposed its king, 
 adding the conquered kingdom to His own. The 
 deposed monarch had since died, but his son, Phi- 
 laster, still lived, and was so noble, brave, and vir- 
 tuous a prince that all the people loved him and 
 pitied his misfortune. So popular was he, indeed, 
 that the present king, though greatly fearing him, 
 dared not deprive him of his liberty. A recent 
 threat to imprison him had thrown the whole 
 city into revolt, nor had the rebels laid down 
 their arms until they saw Philaster ride through 
 the streets in full freedom. Then they threw up 
 their hats, kindled bonfires, and crowded the 
 taverns to drink the health of their favorite. 
 These adherents of Prince Philaster now feared 
 that the Spanish alliance was favored by the king 
 that he might bring in the power of a foreign 
 nation with which to awe his own, and that they 
 would then be oppressed and the liberty and life 
 of their favorite be in danger. A marriage
 
 PHILASTER ; OR, LOVE LIES BLEEDING. 47 
 
 between Philaster and Arethusa would have been 
 far more to their liking, as bringing the rightful 
 heir to the throne, and cementing the union be- 
 tween Sicily and Calabria ; but no such thought as 
 this seemed to have entered the mind of the king. 
 
 Such a match would have brought joy to others 
 than the citizens, for Philaster and Arethusa were 
 secretly in love with each other. Truly, he had 
 never spoken of his love to her, nor she to him ; 
 but he adored her in secret, while she, though 
 seemingly yielding to her father's command to 
 accept Prince Pharamond as her betrothed, had 
 done so with a mental reservation to marry none 
 but Philaster, if he should return her love. 
 
 Philaster had no thought of submitting tamely 
 to the king's plan of giving the crown of Sicily 
 to a foreigner. Aside from his love for Arethusa, 
 he felt that this crown was rightfully his, and 
 did not propose to yield it to a " prince of popin- 
 jays," as he scornfully called Pharamond. 
 
 The king had invited the high lords and ladies 
 of Messina to his court to meet the Spanish 
 prince, but so strong was the feeling against the 
 foreign alliance that few responded to this invi- 
 tation, and all that came were friends to Philaster. 
 In the midst of the audience, while Pharamond 
 was loudly declaring that his reign would be so 
 easy that every man should be prince and law 
 unto himself, and conceitedly telling the princess 
 that she would have a "man of men" for her 
 husband, Philaster entered and boldly told the
 
 48 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 boasting stranger that the kingdom he sought 
 belonged to another, and was not to be had for 
 the asking. 
 
 " I tell you this, Pharamond," he haughtily 
 said, "when you are king, look that I be dead 
 and my name ashes. Before that day of shame 
 this very ground you tread on, this fat and fertile 
 earth that bears your pride, shall gape and swal- 
 low you and your nation as into a grave. By 
 Nemesis, it shall !" 
 
 The king had given Philaster leave to speak 
 freely ; but he feared the effect upon the people 
 of this bold language, and angrily drew the indig- 
 nant youth aside, bidding him to tell in private 
 what uneasy spirit possessed him. 
 
 " It is my father's spirit," declared Philaster. 
 " He tells me that I was a king's heir, and bids 
 me be a king. When I would sleep he dives into 
 my fancy, and brings me shapes that kneel and 
 call me ' King.' Yet I know that he is a factious 
 spirit, noble sir, and I will suppress him. While 
 you reign I am your faithful subject." 
 
 " Philaster, I like not this," said the king, in 
 fear and anger. " For this once, sirrah, I pardon 
 your wild speech ; but take good heed, and tempt 
 me not too far, lest I dispossess you alike of throne 
 and life. I will tame you, sir, if you tame not 
 yourself." 
 
 With these words he turned angrily away, 
 and left the presence-chamber with Pharamond, 
 though all could see that he had grown pale and
 
 PHILASTER ; OR, LOVE LIES BLEEDING. 49 
 
 trembled with emotion. The gentlemen who re- 
 nuiined, crowded about Philaster, eager to learn 
 what he had said to throw the king into a sweat 
 that stood upon his brow like a cold winter dew. 
 
 " How do you, worthy sir ?" asked one. 
 
 " Well ; very well," answered Philaster. " If 
 the king please, I find that I may live many 
 years." 
 
 " The king must please, while we know what 
 and who you are," answered Dion, an old lord, 
 and one of Philaster's chief adherents. " If any 
 seek to harm you we'll rouse the people in your 
 name, till your enemies shall beg for mercy at 
 your sword's point." 
 
 " Friends, no more," said Philaster. " Trust 
 me not to forget your love and proffered service, 
 if peril should confront me. But the time is not 
 yet." 
 
 His conference with the lords was broken by 
 the entrance of a lady of the court, who told 
 him that the princess had sent for him, and 
 wished to see him. Philaster, full of joy at this, 
 promised gladly to attend her, at which Dion 
 broke out into words of warning, saying that this 
 mission might cover some foul plot to take his 
 life. But the ardent young prince was not in the 
 mood to listen to the counsels of prudence. Love 
 with him was stronger than fear, and he resolved to 
 follow the lady, whatever might come of it. Find- 
 ing that he could not move him from his purpose, 
 Dion left the palace, with the intention of advis- 
 VOL. I. c d 5
 
 50 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 ing his friends of the prince's peril, for he greatly 
 feared that the king designed some treachery. 
 
 His dread was ill placed. Ai-ethusa had really 
 sent for the prince, and with a purpose far re- 
 moved from treason. At first, indeed, she made 
 a show of blaming him bitterly for his late in- 
 temperate words, in which he had called her 
 dowry in question. She told him that both king- 
 doms were hers, and that she must possess them ; 
 but when he pressed her in tones of satire to say 
 what else she craved, she would not answer till 
 he had turned aside his face. Then, with blushing 
 cheeks and trembling lips, she said, 
 
 " I must have them and thee." 
 
 Me ?" 
 
 "Thy love, Philaster; without which all these 
 lands will serve me for no use but to be buried in." 
 
 " Love you ! By all my hopes, I do above my 
 life!" he cried, in sudden ecstasy. "Yet I feared 
 I loved in vain." 
 
 " In vain I" cried the princess, reproachfully. 
 "Your soul is mine, Philaster. The gods have 
 made me love you, and surely our love is blest 
 in that their secret justice is mingled with it." 
 
 Arethusa's blushing confession filled Philaster's 
 soul with the deepest joy. He had not hoped for 
 such a rich response to his heart's desire, and 
 gladly sealed their souls' betrothal with an ardent 
 kiss on her sweet lips. But their vows of love 
 soon gave way to more earthly thoughts. Their 
 secret must not yet be known. How should they
 
 PHILASTER; OR, LOVE LIES BLEEDING. 51 
 
 hide it, and yet gain opportunities for loving in- 
 tercourse ? 
 
 " I have a boy," said Philaster, " the trustiest, 
 lovingest, and gentlest lad that ever master kept. 
 Lately, when hunting, I found him by a foun- 
 tain in the forest, where he sat weeping and weav- 
 ing garlands of flowers. When I asked him 
 his story, he told me that his parents had died, 
 leaving him to the mercy of the fields, the springs, 
 and the sun. I brought this woodland waif home, 
 and cannot but love him for his gentleness. I 
 will send him to wait on you, for we can find no 
 more trusty messenger of love." 
 
 That this boy, Bellario, loved Philaster, any 
 one must have said who saw them together. And 
 when Philaster had sought his home, and told the 
 pretty lad of the service he wished him to per- 
 form, Bellario wept as though his heart would 
 break, and vowed that his master wished to 
 throw him off. 
 
 " Thy love doth plead so prettily to stay that, 
 trust me, I could weep to part with thee," an- 
 swered Philaster. " i do not turn thee off, for 
 when thou art with her I love thou dwellest 
 still with me. When this trust is ended I will 
 again with joy receive thee." 
 
 Bellario obeyed with weeping eyes, and such a 
 show of love for his master that the latter beheld 
 it with surprise. Little dreamed he of the truth, 
 that the seeming soft-faced boy was really a 
 woman, and loved him with a woman's love.
 
 52 TALES PROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 Bellario's true name was Euphrasia, and she was 
 the daughter of old Dion. She had first grown 
 to love Philaster from her father's praises of his 
 honor and virtue, and afterwards from seeing him 
 and hearing him converse. Led by her love, she 
 had left home on a feigned pilgrimage, and, dis- 
 guising herself as a boy, had placed herself where 
 he might find her, having first made a vow never 
 to reveal her sex to mortal man. This vow was 
 the source of much future misery, as the course 
 of our story will reveal. 
 
 As for Arethusa, the seeming gentle lad so won 
 her heart that she soon loved him next to Philaster, 
 and the more so that he told tales sweet to her 
 ears of Philaster's passionate devotion. 
 
 " If it be love to sit cross-armed and sigh away 
 the day," said Bellario, softly ; " if it be love to 
 weep himself away when he but hears of any 
 lady dead, fearing such chance for you ; if, when 
 he goes to rest, to name you once after his every 
 prayer, as others drop a bead, be to be in love, 
 then, madame, I dare swear he loves you well." 
 
 " Oh, you are a cunning boy, and have been 
 taught to lie for your lord's credit," cried Are- 
 thusa, happily. "But any lie that sounds like 
 this is welcomer than truth that says he loves 
 me not." 
 
 She stroked the lad's hair and patted his soft 
 cheeks as she spoke, but kissed him not, her 
 kisses of love were kept for Philaster. But she 
 ordered that the fair boy should be richly dressed,
 
 PHILASTER ; OR, LOVE LIES BLEEDING. 53 
 
 and kept him by her as though her heart had 
 overflown to him. 
 
 Over her ecstasy of secret love, however, there 
 hung a cloud of coming woe, the suit of Phara- 
 raond and her father's favor of it. But, fortunately 
 for the lovers, the base-minded Spaniard was too 
 licentious in disposition to keep a show of virtue 
 even at the court of his intended father-in-law. 
 So open was he in wickedness, indeed, that the 
 king discovered him seeking to seduce a lady of 
 the court, and in his moment of anger declared 
 that no such lustful villain should ever marry a 
 daughter of his. 
 
 So furious he grew, indeed, that Megra, the 
 lady in question, retorted on him ; declaring that 
 the honor of Arethusa, his proud daughter, was 
 not above suspicion, that she kept a handsome 
 boy of eighteen as her leman ; and advising him, 
 before charging others with lack of virtue, to 
 look at home more closely. 
 
 This chance accusation, thrown out at random 
 by a wanton, was the source of woes unnumbered 
 to the lovers. The tale soon got abroad, and the 
 multitude, ever ready to believe evil of the great, 
 and ill disposed to the princess from their dislike 
 to the Spanish betrothal, asked no proof to credit 
 it. It came quickly to the ears of Philaster, 
 and roused him to fury. But when Dion, whose 
 sterling honesty was beyond question, assured 
 the indignant lover that the story was true, and 
 that he had personal knowledge that the princess 
 5*
 
 54 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 was living in lascivious intercourse with her hand- 
 some page, his anger changed to a fierce passion 
 of jealousy. 
 
 Dion had lied, deeming that only thus could 
 he draw Philaster from his infatuation. He and 
 his friends knew that the people were so strong 
 in favor of the prince that the time was ripe 
 for revolt. In their view, only his love for the 
 princess kept him from heading his friends and 
 striking for his royal heritage, and a lie for this 
 good end seemed to the worthy Dion but a venial 
 sin. Little did the politic old lord dream that it 
 was his own daughter who thus posed as the 
 paramour of Arethusa. 
 
 Hardly had this disgraceful tale reached Phi- 
 laster's ears than Bellario came to him with a 
 message from the princess. The distressed lover 
 gazed upon the seeming boy with looks of ill- 
 repressed jealousy, and questioned him closely as 
 to how the princess used him. Bellario answered 
 with a story of kindness and affection that stirred 
 the lover to new rage, and when at length, per- 
 ceiving the direction in which his questions led, 
 she refused to answer further, he drew his sword 
 and threatened to kill her unless she would tell 
 him all. 
 
 " I am determined to see your thoughts as plain 
 as I do now your face," he declared, passionately. 
 
 " Why, so you do," answered Bellario. " The 
 princess is, for aught I know, by all the gods, as 
 chaste as ice. But were she foul as hell, and I
 
 PHILASTER; OR, LOVE LIES BLEEDING. 55 
 
 knew it, you threats were wasted. What I might 
 come to know, as servant to her, I would not 
 reveal to make my life last ages." 
 
 " You do not know what it is to die." 
 
 " Do I not, my lord ? It is less than to be born ; 
 a lasting sleep, a quiet resting from all jealousy, 
 a thing we all pursue. I know, besides, it is but 
 the giving over of a game that must be lost." 
 
 In the end the distracted lover sheathed his 
 sword, but bade Bellario leave him, and never let 
 him see that hated face again. This the heart- 
 broken messenger agreed to do, saying that there 
 was nothing now to live for, and praying him, 
 should he hear that sorrow had struck his poor, 
 fond boy dead, to shed one tear for him in 
 memory. 
 
 The disgraceful story which had brought such 
 distress to Philaster was destined to bring as 
 great to Arethusa. For first the king, her father, 
 called upon her and bade her dismiss the boy, 
 saying that foul whispers against her honor had 
 been set astir. Philaster quickly followed, and 
 found her in tears, and mingling her vows of love 
 for him with such sorrow at the loss of the dear 
 boy he had given her that jealousy overcame 
 him, and he burst out into angry accusations. 
 Arethusa listened in distraction. Had the foul 
 suspicions which her father had darkly hinted so 
 soon infected her lover's heart ? Then was there 
 naught left to live for, and death would be a blest 
 relief.
 
 56 TALES PROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 "Be merciful, ye gods, and strike me dead!" 
 she cried, when he had withdrawn in a hot pas- 
 sion. "In what way have I deserved this? Make 
 my breast transparent as pure crystal, that the 
 world, jealous of my fair fame, may see the foul- 
 est thought my heart possesses. Where shall a 
 woman turn her eyes to find man's constancy ?" 
 
 The scene of our story now shifts from the 
 palace to the forest. The king, wishing to do all 
 honor to his princely visitor, had arranged a hunt- 
 ing party, and rode to the neighboring woodlands 
 with Pharamond and his lords. Arethusa, at his 
 request, joined the party, though with secret 
 thoughts of her own. For her heart was so 
 bleeding with the wounds it had received that 
 she had resolved to flee from men, and seek peace 
 and shelter from human faithlessness under the 
 forest shades. 
 
 By chance, Bellario and Philaster had sought 
 the same refuge in their misery. Thus these 
 three were soon wandering desolately under the 
 green dome of leaves, and with a common sorrow, 
 for Arethusa had separated herself from the 
 hunting party, and sought a distant covert where 
 she might weep unseen. 
 
 The princess was soon missed, and, fearing some 
 dread accident, the whole train of huntsmen set 
 themselves in eager search of her, for the king 
 was so distracted at her loss that he bitterly 
 accused his courtiers of lack of vigilance in 
 guarding his daughter.
 
 PHILASTER ; OR, LOVE LIES BLEEDING. 57 
 
 Fortune, however, had prepared another end- 
 ing for this strange adventure. Philaster, wan- 
 dering wofully through the forest paths, his heart 
 still torn with the pangs of jealousy, chanced to 
 meet Bellario, who was suffering so severely from 
 cold and hunger that she was forced to beg relief 
 from her late master. 
 
 "Is it you?" he harshly cried. "Begone, in- 
 grate ! Go sell those tine clothes she has dressed 
 you in and feed yourself with them." 
 
 "Alas, my lord, I can get nothing for them," 
 pleaded Bellario. " The silly country-people think 
 it would be treason to touch such gay attire." 
 
 " Think you to cozen me/again ? Tell me which 
 way you will take, that I may shun you ? This 
 way, or that way ?" 
 
 " Any way will serve, so it but leads to my 
 grave," wept Bellario, sadly taking the first path 
 that oifered, while Philaster angrily took another. 
 
 Yet, by love's direction, it happened that their 
 paths ran parallel, both ending in that distant 
 part of the forest where Arethusa sat moaning, 
 worn out w T ith her unaccustomed wanderings. 
 
 Bellario first .espied her, as she sat pallid and 
 faint with fatigue on a green woodland bank. 
 But hardly had the seeming boy, with earnest 
 appeal, called back the exhausted lady to life and 
 memory, than Philaster entered and saw her 
 busied in pitying cares about his lost love. The 
 flames of jealous fury leaped again in his heart 
 on seeing this. How had they met ? Could this
 
 58 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 be chance, or was it an assignation ? On them 
 both the storm of his anger burst, till he became 
 so frenzied that he drew his sword and bade 
 Arethusa strike him dead. When she refused to 
 do this, he bade Bellario kill him ; and when the 
 distressed page drew back in horror, he bade him 
 begone and trouble no more those to whom he 
 had brought such woe. 
 
 " Kill me," he repeated to Arethusa, after 
 Bellario had fled in terror. " Earth cannot bear 
 us both at once. One of us must die here." 
 
 " Let it be me, then. I shall have peace in 
 death." 
 
 " Then guide my feeble hand, ye gods of honor, 
 for justice bids me strike. Are you at peace?" 
 
 " With heaven and earth." 
 
 " May they divide thy soul and body." 
 
 Fortunately, a countryman, eager to see the 
 royal party at the chase, had sought the forest, 
 and came upon the lovers just as Philaster, mad 
 with jealous rage, had raised his hand to strike. 
 He caught the arm of the frenzied prince in time 
 to save the lady from death, though she fell 
 wounded. 
 
 A fight ensued between Philaster and the 
 countryman, who attacked him with such fury as 
 to break down his guard and wound him. Phi- 
 laster, indeed, was pressed so closely that, unable 
 longer to defend himself, he was forced to fly, 
 leaving his assailant in possession of the field. 
 
 He had hardly gone when Pharamond, Dion,
 
 PHILASTERj OR, LOVE LIES BLEEDING. 59 
 
 and others of the hunting party appeared, in 
 search of the lost princess. To their surprise and 
 anger they saw her bleeding before them, and the 
 countryman with blood on his sword's point. 
 The latter, however, quickly declared that he 
 had fought to save, not to hurt her, and that- the 
 assailant had escaped. As Arethusa confirmed 
 this, Pharamond bade the woodmen present to 
 conduct the wounded princess to the king, while 
 he and the others set out in search of her assailant. 
 
 " By this hand, if I find the villain," declared 
 Pharamond, boastfully, " I'll not leave a piece of 
 him bigger than a nut, and bring him all in my 
 hat." 
 
 "Nay, if you find him, bring him to me," 
 asked Arethusa, in fear for her lover. " Leave me 
 to study a punishment great as his fault." 
 
 "I will." 
 
 " But swear." 
 
 " By all my love, I will." 
 
 Meanwhile Bellario, after leaving the lovers, 
 had wandered wearily onward, and at length, 
 overcome with fatigue and hunger, had lain down 
 and fallen asleep in a nook of the forest. By the 
 same fortune that had hitherto guided their steps, 
 Philaster, in his flight, followed the same path, 
 bleeding as he went, and at length was forced to 
 halt near where Bellario lay in deep slumber. 
 
 " I have done ill ; my conscience calls me false, 
 to strike at her who would not strike at me," 
 he declared, remorsefully. " And while I fought
 
 60 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 she surely breathed a prayer to the gods to guard 
 me. She may be abused, and I a loathed villain. 
 Ah ! who lies here ? Bellario, and sleeping ? If 
 he be guilty, justice is at fault that his sleep 
 should be so sound, and mine, whom he has 
 wronged, so broken." 
 
 He paused and listened. The distant cries of 
 the pursuing party came to his ears, ringing far 
 through the green forest aisles. 
 
 " Hark ! I am pursued. They have no mark 
 to know me but my wounds. If she be true she 
 will not breathe my name ; if false, let mischief 
 light on all the world at once. Sword, print my 
 wounds upon this sleeping boy, and let him stand 
 for me. I have none mortal, and will not hurt 
 him deeply." 
 
 Bellario sprang up as the keen sword pierced 
 his flesh ; then fell again with a cry more of hope 
 than fear. 
 
 "Death, I hope, has come !" he cried. "Again, 
 for pity's sake ! strike deeper now !" 
 
 "No, Bellario; take your revenge," cried Phi- 
 laster, full of sudden remorse. " Here is he that 
 struck you. This luckless hand wounded the 
 princess ; strike me as I did you, and tell my fol- 
 lowers you got these hurts in staying me. Say 
 what you will ; I'll second it." 
 
 Bellario would by no means obey this dread 
 command, and so earnestly bade his loved master 
 to conceal himself that he at length consented. 
 When Pharamond and the others entered, track-
 
 PHILASTER; OR, LOVE LIES BLEEDING. 61 
 
 ing the fugitive by his blood, they saw only 
 Bellario, who lay bleeding upon the earth. 
 
 The seeming boy claimed at first to have been 
 wounded by beasts, but, when they taxed him 
 closely, made a pretended confession that he had 
 wounded the princess, moved by anger at her for 
 having dismissed him from her train. As they 
 were about to lead him off, with threats of tort- 
 ure, Philaster, who had heard all this in his 
 covert, broke forth and bade them halt. The 
 self-abnegation of Bellario had at length con- 
 vinced the jealous lover that his suspicions were 
 false and his lady was true, and he now loudly 
 asserted his own guilt and the innocence of the 
 devoted boy. 
 
 A contest ensued between the two as to who 
 had really wounded the princess, in the midst of 
 which the king entered with his daughter and 
 guards. 
 
 " Is the villain taken?" he demanded. 
 
 "There are two here that confess the deed," 
 said Pharamond. 
 
 "The fellow who fought with him will point 
 out the true one," answered the king. 
 
 "Ah me! I fear he will," sighed Arethusa. 
 
 "Do you not know him, daughter?" 
 
 "No. If it was Philaster he was disguised." 
 
 " I was so, indeed in shameful jealousy and 
 foul suspicion," cried Philaster. "It was I that 
 struck the princess. Do with me what you will." 
 
 " Ambitious fool !" answered the king, angrily. 
 6
 
 62 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 " You have laid a train for your own life. Bear 
 him to prison." 
 
 " Leave him to me, dear father," pleaded Are- 
 thusa. " Leave both of them. They laid a plot 
 together to take my harmless life. Let me ap- 
 point their punishment." 
 
 " As you will, daughter ; take them, with a 
 guard. Come, princely Pharamond ; this business 
 past, we may go on to your intended marriage." 
 
 The king's concession to his daughter was but 
 in seeming, as was her proposed revenge. He 
 feared Pbilaster too much to let him live, now 
 that he had a fair excuse to put him to death, 
 and hardly were they back in the city than he 
 ordered the immediate execution of the prisoner. 
 
 Fortunately for Philaster, this purpose of the 
 king was suspected by his friends, and Dion and 
 others hastened to spread the news through 
 the city, with the design of rousing a revolt in 
 favor of the threatened prince. As for Arethusa, 
 when the command came to her from her father 
 to bring out to his death the prisoner who had 
 been committed to her hands, her heart was like 
 to break. She hastened to the prison with Bella- 
 rio, and there vowed that if her soul's lord died 
 she would not live to weep for him. Bellario 
 repeated the same vow, and the three sought the 
 presence of the king, wearing wedding robes and 
 garlands. The angry monarch looked at them in 
 surprise. 
 
 " What masque is this?" he haughtily asked.
 
 PHILASTER; OR, LOVE LIES BLEEDING. 63 
 
 "The masque of truth," answered Bellario. 
 " The god that sings his holy numbers over mar- 
 riage vows has knit these noble hearts, and here 
 they stand your children, mighty king." 
 
 " What mean you, boy ?" 
 
 " Sir, if you love plain truth, for there's no 
 masquing in it," broke in Arethusa, "this gentle- 
 man, the prisoner you gave me, has become my 
 keeper. You see him here my husband." 
 
 " Your husband I" exclaimed the king, in amaze- 
 ment and rage. " No masque, you say ? Call in 
 the captain of the citadel ; there you shall keep 
 your wedding. Blood shall put out your mar- 
 riage torches, woman no more my daughter; for 
 here I shake all title off of father." 
 
 "I repent not," answered Arethusa. "Death 
 has for me no terror, so long as Pharamond is not 
 my headsman." 
 
 " Sir, let me speak," exclaimed Philaster. " If 
 you aim at the dear life of this sweet innocent, 
 you are a tyrant and a savage monster; your 
 memory shall be as foul behind you, as you are, 
 living; all your better deeds shall be in water 
 writ, but this in marble; no chronicle but shall 
 speak shame of you, no monument be able to 
 cover this base murder. If you have a soul, 
 save her and be saved. For myself, I have so 
 long expected this glad hour, it is a joy to die." 
 
 He was interrupted by the hasty entrance of a 
 messenger, who cried, 
 
 " The king! Where is the king? The prince
 
 64 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 Pharamond has been taken prisoner by the cit- 
 izens, and is in mortal danger." 
 
 " Arm ! arm !" cried a second messenger, enter- 
 ing as hastily. " The whole city is in mutiny, 
 led by an angry gray ruffian, who swears he will 
 rescue the lord Philaster." 
 
 "Away with these prisoners to the citadel!" 
 cried the king. " See they are kept safely. Leave 
 it to me to cope with these burghers." 
 
 He did not find it so easy to cope with the 
 burghers. On hearing, through Dion and others, 
 of the danger to their beloved Philaster, the 
 citizens had risen in a body, and, meeting with 
 Pharamond, who had gone out to see the city, 
 they had seized him and haled him with them to 
 the palace gates, where they threatened to rend 
 him limb from limb if Philaster was not set free. 
 
 So hot and threatening was their rebellious 
 spirit that the king's valor quickly turned to fear. 
 They threw dirt at him, drowned his voice with 
 yells of " tyrant !" and demanded Philaster, none 
 but Philaster. 
 
 "What they will do with the poor prince I 
 know not," cried the terrified king. "Run, some 
 one, and bring the lord Philaster. Speak him 
 fair; call him prince ; treat him with all courtesy. 
 Confound them, how they swarm !" 
 
 Philaster had not yet been taken from the 
 palace, and was soon brought to the presence of 
 the frightened monarch, who was ready to fall on 
 his knees before him.
 
 PHILASTER; OR, LOVE LIES BLEEDING. 65 
 
 " Oh, worthy sir, forgive me !" he cried, trem- 
 bling. " I have wronged you. Take her you love, 
 and with her ray repentance and your father's 
 throne. Only calm this torrent of rebellion, and, 
 by the gods, I swear to do you justice 1" 
 
 "Mighty sir, you fill me with new life," an- 
 swered Philaster. " Leave me to stand the shock 
 of this mad sea-breach, which I will either turn 
 or perish with it." 
 
 Philaster well knew that he was in no danger 
 from the rebels. The very sight of his face 
 brought from them glad shouts of "Long live 
 Philaster! the brave prince Philaster!" and on 
 his assurance of his safety they delivered to him 
 the captive prince, and rolled back in retreating 
 waves to the taverns, to spend in drink the gold 
 he had lavished on them. 
 
 "Thou art the king of courtesy," cried their 
 captain. " Fall off again, my sweet youths. We 
 will have music, and the red grape shall make us 
 dance. A fig for this pewter king that dares to 
 threaten our brave prince Philaster." 
 
 Philaster returned with Pharamond to the 
 palace, where the king met him with tears of joy, 
 bidding him take his daughter for his wedded 
 wife, and with her the crown of his father's 
 kingdom. But the woes of the lovers were not 
 yet ended. Megra, the courtesan, who had caused 
 all their troubles, now repeated her foul accusa- 
 tion, with such show of knowledge that the king 
 turned in doubt to Philaster. 
 VOL. I. e o*
 
 66 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 " I must request of you one favor," he asked. 
 " And this I bid you swear to." 
 
 "By the powers above, I swear," answered 
 Philaster, " if it be no one's death." 
 
 " Then bear that boy to torture. I must have 
 the truth of this vile charge. M.y daughter's 
 fame shall not rest under this load of infamy." 
 
 " Call back your words, sir. Let me sacrifice 
 myself in proof of Arethusa's virtue." 
 
 He drew his sword and offered to kill himself, 
 but was checked by Arethusa, who caught his 
 hand in both her own. 
 
 " To the torture with that boy !" cried the king. 
 
 " Oh, kill me, gentlemen !" exclaimed Bellario. 
 
 " No, but we'll have the truth from you." 
 
 " The truth ! Oh, sirs, would you make me 
 break a vow to the gods ?" 
 
 " Yes, ten vows, but that we have the truth." 
 
 " Then may the just gods forgive me, since I 
 must speak, or have my secret known through 
 torture. Great sir, this lady lies vilely. Your 
 daughter is pure as new-fallen snow ; and to prove 
 it, know I am a woman." 
 
 " A woman !" cried all present. 
 
 "Yes, sire, by name Euphrasia, and this my 
 father." She laid her hand on old Dion's shoulder. 
 
 "Euphrasia! By all the gods, 'tis she I" cried 
 Dion, looking keenly in her face. " "What means 
 this, you baggage ? Is this your pilgrimage ?" 
 
 "Love bade me do it. Love for Philaster." 
 
 " Seize that woman !" cried the king, pointing
 
 PHILASTER, j OR, LOVE LIES BLEEDING. 67 
 
 to Megra. " It is her lying tongue has done all 
 this. To death with her." 
 
 " Not so, my royal father," answered Philaster. 
 " I would not have my happiness tarnished by 
 taking revenge, even on that base wretch. Set 
 her free, but banish her from your kingdom." 
 
 " Be it so," rejoined the king. " But let her not 
 show her face again in Calabria. You, Phara- 
 mond, shall have free passage, and a conduct home 
 worthy your high descent. As for this disguised 
 maiden, but tell me your story, Bellario. How 
 came this masquerade ?" 
 
 With blushing cheeks, the discovered maiden 
 told what the reader already knows, bow she had, 
 from love of Philaster. assumed a disguise, and 
 thrown herself in his way, that she might at least 
 be near him and serve him as a page. 
 
 "To whom shall we marry you?" asked the 
 king. " Search out your mate ; be it the highest 
 in our kingdom, I will pay your dowry." 
 
 " I shall never marry," she sadly answered. " I 
 live only to serve the princess." 
 
 " Which you freely shall," remarked Arethusa. 
 " Fear not my jealousy, though you love my lord 
 as truly as I can." 
 
 "Join your hands, my children," said the king 
 to Philaster and Aretbusa. " My blessing be 
 yours. Enjoy your love, and after me my king- 
 dom. Let princes learn by this to rule the 
 passions of their blood ; for what God wills can 
 never be withstood."
 
 A NEW WAY TO PAY OLD DEBTS, 
 
 BY PHILIP MASSINGEK. 
 
 [PHILIP MASSINGER, who was born at Salisbury 
 in 1583, and educated at Oxford, formed one of 
 the most skilful of that active circle of play- 
 wrights who were contemporary with Shake- 
 speare. We first hear of him as a dramatic au- 
 thor in 1614, and he continued to produce plays 
 actively till his death, in 1639, largely in collabo- 
 ration with other authors, and particularly with 
 John Fletcher. His most masterly comedies are 
 " A New Way to Pay Old Debts," and " The City 
 Madam," the former of which we treat, as it is 
 the sole production of Shakespeare's contempo- 
 raries which still holds the stage. This is due 
 to the fine dramatic opportunities offered by the 
 character of Sir Giles Overreach. 
 
 These plays lack warmth and geniality, but as 
 satirical studies they possess the strength without 
 the heaviness of Ben Jonson. Massinger was a 
 skilled and careful playwright, and though not 
 powerful from a literary point of view, was a 
 master of his art, few writers sui'passing him in 
 general dramatic excellence. Some of his plays, 
 as Coleridge says, are as interesting as novels.] 
 t>8
 
 A NEW WAY TO PAY OLD DEBTS. 69 
 
 The parish in which Sir Giles Overreach, a 
 grasping English baronet of the olden time, re- 
 sided was sadly the worse for his presence. The 
 thriftless and the thrifty had alike been made the 
 victims of his avarice, and many a widow and 
 orphan mourned in poverty his soulless greed and 
 injustice. By taking unfair advantage of the 
 misfortunes and follies of his neighbors, he had 
 added to his estate until it spread over miles of 
 territory, every foot of which had been watered 
 by the tears of those whom he had ruined. In- 
 dustry and economy were no safeguards against 
 his base practices. " I must have all men sellers 
 and I the only purchaser," he said, and when his 
 neighbor, Mr. Frugal, whose land lay in the midst 
 of his estate, and whose economy kept him from 
 debt, refused to sell or exchange, Sir Giles took 
 the most unjust means to rob him of his property. 
 Buying a cottage near his manor, he laid plans to 
 have men break down his fences, ride over his 
 grain, injure his cattle, and set fire to his barns, 
 hoping thus to draw him into lawsuits and to 
 beggar him by costs. Two or three years of such 
 courses would force Frugal to sell his lands, which 
 Sir Giles stood ready to buy at a sacrifice, and 
 add to his overgrown estate. 
 
 Thus by methods fair and foul the villanous 
 baronet had spread ruin far and wide, and threat- 
 ened, if he lived, to bring half the county within 
 his ill-gotten manor. Among those whom he had 
 ruined was his own nephew, Frank Wellborn, a
 
 70 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 young gentleman of good estate, whose spend- 
 thrift habits had made him an easy prey to his 
 vulture-like uncle. Young Wellborn had been a 
 close friend to a Mr. Allworth, and had aided 
 him greatly in money difficulties which were due 
 to the crafty practices of Sir Giles. In the end 
 Allworth saved himself from ruin by marrying a 
 rich heiress of the vicinity. He died a few years 
 afterwards, leaving his son by a former marriage 
 to the care of his loving widow. When tbis boy 
 was well grown Lady Allworth placed him as page 
 to Lord Lovell, a worthy nobleman of her ac- 
 quaintance. But before this time the youth had 
 fallen in love with Margaret, the only child of Sir 
 Giles Overreach, who warmly returned his affec- 
 tion. Their boy and girl love had to be kept a close 
 secret from Margaret's avaricious father, who 
 hoped to add to his importance by marrying his 
 beautiful daughter to Lord Lovell, from whom 
 he expected a visit. 
 
 As for the dissolute Wellborn, he had gone 
 steadily on his downward career till, at the time 
 our story opens, he was in a state of hopeless 
 poverty. His estate had vanished, his money was 
 spent, his clothes were little better than rags, and 
 from being a gentleman of wealth, he had become 
 almost a penniless tramp, discarded by the uncle 
 who had robbed him, looked upon with scorn and 
 disgust by his former equals, and treated with con- 
 tempt and contumely by many who had once been 
 far below him in the social scale.
 
 A NEW WAY TO PAY OLD DEBTS. 71 
 
 The ill respect with which the common people 
 treated this ruined spendthrift was in part due to 
 his uncle, who, having robbed him of his wealth, 
 now wished to relieve his eyes from the unpleasant 
 sight of his ragged person. He therefore ordered 
 his parasite, Mart-all, to use all means to drive his 
 nephew to despair. The tapster who had given 
 him shelter was bidden to turn him out of doors. 
 The tenants of Sir Giles were forbidden to give 
 him so much aid as a crust of mouldy bread, his 
 cruel uncle hoping that he might die of cold and 
 hunger. Finally, at a loss how to get rid of this 
 living witness to his ill deeds, the baronet bade 
 Marrall to counsel his starving nephew that it was 
 better to steal than beg. " Do anything to work 
 him to despair," he said, " and if I can prove that 
 he has but robbed a hen-roost, not all the world 
 shall save him from the gallows." 
 
 Sir Giles reckoned a little hastily in hoping thus 
 easily to dispose of Frank Wellborn. In truth, 
 events were now ripening which were destined to 
 lead to his own ruin, and bring to an end his long 
 career of greed and oppression. Wellborn, disso- 
 lute as he had been, and much as his mad course 
 had turned all worthy people against him, was 
 not a fool, and when he saw that his crafty uncle 
 was seeking his final ruin, he devised a shrewd 
 scheme to get the better of the greedy villain, 
 and even force him to open his own swollen 
 coffers in his behalf. 
 
 Tapwell, the tavern-keeper, and Froth, his wife,
 
 72 TALES PROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 lost no time in obeying the orders sent secretly to 
 them by their rich landlord. They refused further 
 food and drink to their late good customer, and 
 when he indignantly threatened them, they spoke 
 of sending for the constable if he should but lift 
 his hand against them. 
 
 "Dare you talk thus, you unthankful villain?" 
 demanded Wellborn of the tapster. "Are not 
 your house, and all you have, my gifts?" 
 
 " I find it not in chalk," was the insolent an- 
 swer. " Timothy Tapwell keeps no other regis- 
 ter." 
 
 " Am not I he whose visits fed and clothed you ? 
 Were you not born on my father's land, and proud 
 to be a drudge in his house ?" 
 
 "What I was matters not; what you are is 
 apparent," and Tapwell proceeded to describe the 
 course of Wellborn's profligacy and downfall, 
 until his angry benefactor could bear it no 
 longer, and used his fists and feet on the insulting 
 tapster with such effect that only the entrance of 
 young Allworth saved him from broken bones. 
 
 " Hold, Frank !" cried Allworth. "Such scum 
 as these are not worth vour ano-er." 
 
 / O 
 
 " Then let them vanish, creeping on their hands 
 and knees," cried Wellborn, furiously. " If they 
 dare refuse or grumble, I'll beat them to a jelly." 
 
 The tapster and his wife were glad enough to 
 escape, even on such humiliating terms, and crept 
 humbly away from their incensed customer, leav- 
 ing him master of the field. After they had gone,
 
 A NEW WAY TO PAY OLD DEBTS. 73 
 
 a conversation began between the two friends, the 
 subject of their colloquy being the widow All- 
 worth. 
 
 Young Allworth remarked that she was still 
 a deep mourner for her late husband, and that, 
 though she had many suitors, she had shown no 
 favor to any of them. As for himself, she had 
 treated him so kindly and generously as to win 
 his deepest love. Here Wellborn interrupted him, 
 telling him he well knew that he had not given 
 all his love to his step-mother, but had saved a 
 generous portion of it for Margaret, the daughter 
 of Cormorant Overreach. He earnestly advised 
 him to dismiss from his mind all hope of winning 
 the young lady, and to plant his affections in some 
 more hopeful soil. 
 
 " Can you imagine," he said, " that Sir Giles 
 Overreach, who to make her great in swelling 
 titles would cut his neighbor's throat, will ever 
 consent to yield her to you? Give over such 
 wild hopes, and seek some safer flame." 
 
 To this advice, however, the young lover would 
 not listen. In his turn he advised his friend 
 to consider the desperate plight he was himself 
 in, and offered him a part of his small allowance 
 to help him in this strait. 
 
 " Money from you !" cried Wellborn. " No, my 
 lad. Though I am turned out of my alehouse, 
 dressed in rags, and know not where to eat, drink, 
 or sleep, I will not accept your charity, much as 
 I thank you for the offer. Since in my madness 
 
 D - 7
 
 74 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 I have broken my estate, in my right wits I'll 
 mend it without aid from another; or at the 
 worst, will die and be forgotten." 
 
 The scheme which Wellborn had devised to 
 better his fortunes, of which we have above 
 spoken, was likely to prove a difficult one to carry 
 into effect. It depended on the co-operation of 
 Lady Allwortb, whose prudent course of life 
 would certainly make her ill disposed to enter 
 into alliance with a profligate spendthrift. In 
 fact, when her step-son returned home from his 
 conversation with Wellborn, she warned him 
 against holding any future intercourse with the 
 ruined prodigal. 
 
 " Beware ill company," she advised him. " From 
 one man in particular I warn you, that dissolute 
 Wellborn. Not because he is poor, for that rather 
 claims your pity ; but because he is debauched, 
 and fallen into vicious courses. Your father loved 
 him, it is true ; but had he lived to see him as he 
 is he would have cast him off, as you must do." 
 
 " Dear mother, trust me to obey all your com- 
 mands," answered the youth, dutifully. 
 
 Yet, in despite of this wise and prudent advice, 
 the day was not over before Lady Allworth had 
 forgiven Wellborn his profligacy, and admitted 
 him to an intimacy far greater than that against 
 which she had warned her son. The motive for 
 this sudden change of opinion we have next to 
 describe. 
 
 It was but an hour or two after Wellborn's
 
 A NEW WAY TO PAY OLD DEBTS. 75 
 
 conversation with his young friend, when he 
 entered Lady Alhvorih's house, seeking an inter- 
 view with that lady. He was destined to meet 
 with a series of insults, hard for his hot blood to 
 bear. The first person he met was his uncle, Sir 
 Giles, who was one of Lady Allworth's suitors, 
 but not a favored one. Angry at being refused 
 admittance to the lady, he turned on his nephew 
 with snarling fury, crying out: "Avaunt, beg- 
 gar ! if ever you presume to own me more, I'll have 
 you caged and whipped !" With these words he 
 stalked furiously away. 
 
 The servants of Lady Allworth followed this 
 example, greeting the visitor with insult; and 
 even young Allworth, who happened to enter the 
 hall, felt obliged to obey his mother's command, 
 and turned in confused silence away from his late 
 friend. 
 
 " This grows better and better," cried "Wellborn. 
 "He drops my acquaintance also. Come, then, 
 you surly dogs, here I am; who will put me 
 out ?" 
 
 At this moment Lady Allworth entered, and 
 looked with surprise on the scene before her. 
 
 " What means this?" she asked. 
 
 " Madam, I desire some words with you," said 
 Wellborn,with a courtesy that contrasted strangely 
 with his ill attire. " I have met with but ragged 
 entertainment from your grooms ; but hope from 
 yourself to receive usage more fitting to him who 
 was your husband's friend."
 
 76 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 " I am amazed at your rudeness in forcing your- 
 self into my bouse," answered Lady Allworth, 
 severely. li Do you think that I, who since my 
 husband's death have denied my presence to the 
 best men of this country, can fall so low as to 
 exchange words with you? Forbear my house, 
 thou son of infamy ! Force me not to take meas- 
 ures to make you keep a respectful distance from 
 me." 
 
 " Scorn me not, good lady," answered Wellborn, 
 quietly. " Hear me awhile, at least. You can 
 but grant that the blood which runs in my arm 
 is as noble as that which fills your veins. Your 
 jewels and rich attire, and the flattery of your 
 servants, are no virtues in you ; nor are these rags 
 and my poverty vices in me. Your fame is fairer 
 far than mine, it is true, and in nothing greater 
 than in the pious sorrow you have shown for your 
 late noble husband." 
 
 Lady Allworth started, and tears came into 
 her eyes at these words. 
 
 "Have you more to say?" she asked more 
 gently. 
 
 " Once, madam, your husband was almost as 
 low in his fortunes as I am. Wants, debts, and 
 quarrels lay heavy on him. Think it not a boast 
 in me when I say that I relieved him, and in his 
 quarrels seconded his sword with mine. When 
 he was sunk in men's opinions and in his own 
 hopes, it was I that took him by the hand and sot 
 him upright."
 
 A NEW WAY TO PAY OLD DEBTS. 77 
 
 " I have heard of this, and regret that I spoke 
 so harshly, Mr. Wellborn," answered the lady. 
 
 " For his sake, in that I was his friend, I pray 
 you not to contemn me." 
 
 " I beg pardon for what is past, and will redeem 
 it. Steward, give this gentleman a hundred 
 pounds." 
 
 " On no terms, madam ! Think you I am here 
 for that ? I will not beg or borrow sixpence of 
 you. Yet I have a suit to make, may we speak 
 apart ?" 
 
 Lady Allworth, touched despite herself by her 
 visitor's words and manner, led the way to a place 
 out of hearing of the servants, where an earnest 
 whispered conversation took place between her 
 and Wellborn. 
 
 " Your request is granted," she said at length. 
 " I cannot better repay your services to my hus- 
 band. Is there nothing more ?" 
 
 "Nothing, unless you please to charge your 
 servants to waste some show of respect on me." 
 
 This request she obeyed, and parted from her 
 shabby guest with much show of amity. 
 
 The agreement which Frank Wellborn had 
 made with Lady Alhvorth was one that was 
 destined to create much surprise. Since her hus- 
 band's death she had worn deep mourning and 
 kept in strict seclusion, refusing to see the various 
 gentlemen who called upon her with purpose to 
 sue for her hand and estate. Yet she had now 
 agreed, out of gratitude for Wellborn's afiection 
 7*
 
 78 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 for and aid to her deeply-mourned husband, to 
 give up her seclusion in favor of a houseless and 
 ragged profligate, to change her mourning robes 
 for gay attire, and in all seeming to accept this 
 lately despised vagabond for her lover. Only an 
 extreme feeling of gratitude could have produced 
 such a change, yet Lady Allworth, having once 
 agreed to it, was ready to carry out her promise 
 to the full, whatever the neighboring gentry might 
 think of her conduct. 
 
 The cunningly-devised scheme of the two con- 
 spirators was first played upon Marrall, Sir Giles's 
 parasite. This time-serving wretch had, as already 
 stated, been ordered by Sir Giles to counsel Well- 
 born to robbery, his crafty uncle hoping thus to 
 bring him within the grasp of the severe laws of 
 that period. Marrall, however, found his hoped- 
 for victim in no humor to be hung for theft. 
 
 "Thanks for your generous advice." he said; 
 " I am not ready to take it ; but, as you are so 
 kind, I will be kinder, and invite you to dine with 
 me." 
 
 " Under what hedge, I pray you ? Or at whose 
 cost ? What footpads are your hosts ?" was 
 Marrall's scornful demand. 
 
 " We shall dine at the house of a gallant lady, 
 my worthy sir ; and not in her kitchen, but with 
 heraelf as hostess." 
 
 "Ah ! with the Lady of the Lake, or the queen 
 of fairies ? It must be an enchanted dinner you 
 invite me to."
 
 A NEW WAY TO PAT OLD DEBTS. 79 
 
 " What think you of Lady Allworth, knave ?" 
 
 " I think your brain is cracked, beyond hope." 
 
 " Wait till you see with what respect I am 
 entertained." 
 
 " With choice of dog-whips, no doubt. What, 
 you ! in this attire !" and he looked with high dis- 
 dain on Wellborn's much-frayed clothing. " Do 
 you ever hope to pass her doorkeeper?" 
 
 " Come ; trust your own eyes, if you trust not 
 my words. It is not far, and doubtless dinner is 
 ready to serve." 
 
 A few minutes brought them to Lady Allworth's 
 door. Wellborn knocked boldly, while Marrall, 
 who knew well the contempt which the gentry 
 of the neighborhood felt for his profligate com- 
 panion, expected to see him driven from the door 
 with scorn. What then was his surprise to find 
 the servants meet him with low bows, as an 
 honored guest, while young Allworth, who was 
 present, begged pardon for his recent abruptness, 
 and offered his best services. 
 
 "I am glad you are come," said the butler. 
 " Until I know your pleasure I cannot serve up 
 my lady's dinner." 
 
 " His pleasure !" exclaimed Marrall to himself. 
 " Is this some vision, or are these men all mad ?" 
 
 " I have grouse and quail," continued the butler, 
 " or turkey if you prefer. My lady bade me ask 
 you what sauce is best to your taste." 
 
 "Good Lord deliver us!" groaned the perplexed 
 parasite. " Sauce to his taste ! Why, to my cer-
 
 80 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 tain knowledge, for a twelvemonth he has had no 
 better diet than cheese-parings on week-days and 
 brown bread on Sundays." 
 
 Wellborn, with a sly smile at the astonishment 
 of his companion, proceeded to state his preference 
 as to sauces, after which the butler withdrew with 
 an humble bow. 
 
 " What think you of the hedge we shall dine 
 under?" queried Wellborn. 
 
 "Say no more, sir, say no more, unless you 
 would drive me quite out of my wits." 
 
 Marrall was not yet at the end of his surprises. 
 Lady Allworth met her guest with the formal 
 kiss which was then the fashion among equals, 
 and gave him permission to take a second salute 
 from her lips, as due to such a friend. Wellborn 
 begged her instead to salute his companion, and, 
 on the lady's showing a willingness to comply, 
 the low-born wretch was so overcome that he fell 
 on his face to the floor and begged the honor of 
 kissing her foot. 
 
 " Nay, rise, sir," said the hostess. " Since you 
 are so humble, I'll exalt you. You shall dine with 
 me to-day." 
 
 " At your table ? I am scarce good enough to 
 sit with your steward." 
 
 " You are too modest ; I will not be denied," 
 answered the lady, graciously. 
 
 The dinner was a peculiar one. Marrall, who 
 had never before sat at a lady's table, demeaned 
 himself so awkwardly in his new dignity that he
 
 A NEW WAY TO PAY OLD DEBTS. 81 
 
 became a laughing-stock to the servants. "When 
 the lady drank to him, at Wellborn's suggestion, 
 Marrall seized a dish in response, and pledged 
 her in whitebroth. And when the steward 
 brought him wine, he rose from his chair, and 
 with an obsequious bow, humbly thanked his 
 worship. 
 
 At the end of the dinner, indeed, the lady, on 
 leaving the table, found her servants so overcome 
 with laughter that she sternly reproved them, 
 bidding them remember that whoever she deemed 
 worthy to sit at her table was no subject for their 
 mirth. Then to Wellborn she said, " Good-day, 
 dear sir. Bear in mind that to me you are ever 
 welcome, as to a house that is your own." 
 
 When they were fairly out of the house the 
 pettifogging parasite was ready to fall down and 
 worship his companion. He walked with his hat 
 off, as one too humble to remain covered in the 
 presence of "Tour Worship," as he called him, 
 and in the end pressed upon him a present of 
 twenty pounds, that he might provide himself 
 with better clothes. 
 
 " Come, come, I'll not forget you, friend Mar- 
 rail." said Wellborn, laughingly. " When we are 
 married, and my lady's estate is mine, it may be 
 that you shall profit by it. And now, good-day. 
 I hope you liked my hedge-side dining-hall." 
 
 Wellborn walked away, leaving his companion 
 lost in wonder. 
 
 " To think of it !" he stammered. " I and Sir 
 VOL. I./
 
 82 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 Giles both so out in our calculations of this man's 
 fortune ! "Well, well, Master Wellborn, you are a 
 goose ready to be plucked again. Trust me to 
 help myself to a fair share of your feathers." 
 
 As he stood lost in a deep soliloquy, Sir Giles 
 appeared and questioned him as to how he had 
 succeeded in his plot to make a thief of Well- 
 born. Marrall told him the surprising story of 
 what had happened, a narrative which threw 
 Sir Giles into a furious passion. He called his 
 parasite a dolt and liar, and told him that he had 
 been cheated by a beggar's plot, worked by ser- 
 vants and chambermaids. When Marrall went 
 on to say that he had offered Wellborn twenty 
 pounds in money and his own horse to ride on, 
 the angry baronet became so incensed that he 
 knocked him down. 
 
 " Take that to drive the lying spirit out of you," 
 he exclaimed. 
 
 ' Oh, oh, sir, it is gone ! I saw no lady, on my 
 honor." 
 
 " Get up, then. Here's a crown to pay for my 
 blow." 
 
 " I must yet suffer. But my time may come," 
 muttered Marrall, in suppressed rage. 
 
 " What's that, sirrah ! Do you grumble ?" 
 
 " No, sir ! Oh, no, Sir Giles, I am your very 
 humble servant." 
 
 At the time these events were taking place, a 
 gentleman of much importance to our story was 
 approaching that locality. This was Lord Lovell,
 
 A NEW WAY TO PAT OLD DEBTS. 83 
 
 who had ridden thither to pay his promised visit 
 to Sir Giles, Lady Allworth, and others of his 
 friends. As he approached the residence of his 
 host, he conversed earnestly with Allworth, who 
 had joined him in a state of deep distress, for he 
 knew well the purpose of Sir Giles's invitation, 
 and feared that the charms of Margaret must 
 win the love of his noble master. Lord Lovell 
 sought to reassure him, declaring that he had not 
 come thither to rob him of his love, and that, 
 however great might be the temptation offered 
 by Margaret's beauty and her father's wealth, he 
 should consider his own honor first of all. He 
 bade Allworth free himself from jealous fears, 
 and trust him that all would be well in the end. 
 
 It would by no means have pleased Sir Giles to 
 hear this. Now that he had a superabundance 
 of wealth, his ambition was set upon rank, and 
 he would have given his soul to be called noble, 
 or even to be able to greet Margaret as " My 
 Honorable daughter," and to stand bareheaded 
 before her until she should say, " Father, you 
 forget yourself." 
 
 Therefore, when news of Lord Lovell's coming 
 was brought him, he gave orders to make a dis- 
 play of all the magnificence his house could afford. 
 No plate of less value than pure gold was to be 
 shown, the choicest linens were to be laid out, 
 and precious perfumes spread through the rooms. 
 As to the entertainment, he left this in the hands 
 of his creature, Justice Greedy, a fellow who, to
 
 84 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 feast daily at a full table, would have sent half 
 the parish to prison. 
 
 While the servants were busied in getting the 
 house in order for the noble guest, and Greedy 
 was giving his orders in the kitchen, Sir Giles 
 sent for Margaret, told her of his purposes, and 
 bade her use all her charms to win the love of 
 the expected visitor. In fact, so far did he go in 
 his instructions, that he even counselled her to 
 yield herself to Lovell as his mistress, declaring 
 that he would force him to heal her wounded 
 honor by marriage. 
 
 Margaret, deeply hurt by her father's words, 
 left the room in tears, just as Lord Lovell entered 
 in company with his page. The first greeting 
 had hardly been exchanged when the visitor, 
 greatly to Sir Giles's pleasure, asked to be in- 
 troduced to his fair daughter. When Margaret 
 entered, in response to her father's command, 
 Lord Lovell greeted her with such a show of 
 respect, and led her aside into so close a conver- 
 sation, that two persons were strongly affected, 
 her father with delight, and Allworth with 
 despair. 
 
 "Close at it! whispering! this is excellent!" 
 said Sir Giles to himself. "The girl has come to 
 her senses." He drew closer, seeking to over- 
 hear their conversation, but was interrupted by 
 Justice Greedy, who ran in with loud complaints 
 that the cook had refused to roast the fawn with 
 a Norfolk dumpling in its belly, and to dish up
 
 A NEW WAY TO PAY OLD DEBTS. 85 
 
 the woodcock with toast and butter ; all of which 
 Greedy held to be delinquencies next to high 
 treason. 
 
 By the time Sir Giles had quieted his greedy 
 friend, Lord Lovell and Margaret had separated. 
 They had in the interval matured a plan which 
 he himself would have deemed worse than high 
 treason, for the noble lord had been looking after 
 the interests of his page, and laying a plot by 
 which All worth might win his lady-love. 
 
 " How does your lordship find her ?" asked Sir 
 Giles, with a low reverence. 
 
 "Modest and shy, my dear sir," answered 
 Lovell. " I must feel my way to her affections 
 with a love-letter or two, which, with your good 
 will, my page shall deliver." 
 
 " With all my heart, sir. Your hand, good 
 Master Allworth ; my house is ever open to you." 
 
 "It was shut till now," muttered Allworth, 
 aside. 
 
 They were at this moment interrupted much 
 to the torment of Justice Greedy, who feared 
 that the dinner would be spoiled by the sound 
 of a coach, and the next minute the door was 
 thrown open and Lady Allworth entered, es- 
 corted by Wellborn. At this surprising appari- 
 tion Sir Giles stood like one frozen to stone, while 
 Marrall whispered in his ear: "Am I a dolt? 
 Has the spirit of lies entered me?" 
 
 Heedless of the sensation her entrance had 
 occasioned, the lady kissed Margaret, chided 
 8
 
 86 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 Lord Lovell pleasantly for not first stopping at 
 her house, greeted Sir Giles, and asked Man-all 
 with a smile why he dined no more with her. 
 
 "Wellborn had made no change in his attire, 
 being still in his ragged doublet, but Lady All- 
 worth had laid aside her mourning dress for rich 
 and costly robes, and the contrast was striking 
 between them as she now turned and presented 
 him to the company. 
 
 "This gentleman," she said, ''however coarse 
 without, is fine and fair within, and may, before 
 many days, rank himself with some that have 
 contemned him. Sir Giles Overreach, if I am 
 welcome, he must be so too." 
 
 " My dear nephew," said Sir Giles, with a con- 
 cealed grimace, " you have, in faith, been too long 
 a stranger. Let it be mended, I pray you 
 heartily." 
 
 After some further conversation, in which Sir 
 Giles failed to recover from his astonishment, 
 dinner was announced, and the guests filed out, 
 Wellborn escorting Lady Allworth at her own 
 request. 
 
 During the meal the astounded Sir Giles 
 watched her closely, and saw in her manner so 
 many signs of loving infatuation for her ragged 
 escort that he could no longer sit in silence, but 
 left the room in haste before his guests had risen 
 from the table. Marrall followed him. 
 
 " Sir," he said, " the whole board is troubled at 
 your rising."
 
 A NEW WAY TO PAY OLD DEBTS. 87 
 
 " No matter ; I'll excuse it. Marrall, watch an 
 opportunity to bid my nephew speak with me iu 
 private." 
 
 " Who, the ragged rogue the lady scorned to 
 look on?" 
 
 " Go to : you are a wag, sir." 
 
 " See, she comes," answered Marrall. " She 
 cannot be without him." 
 
 " With your favor, sir, I shall make bold to 
 take a turn or two in your rare garden," said 
 Lady Allvvorth, entering with Wellborn. 
 
 " I shall be glad to have you use it." 
 
 " Come, Mr. Wellborn," she said, turning 
 smilingly to her escort. 
 
 "Grosser and grosser," cried Sir Giles; "why, 
 the woman fairly dotes on him ! Faith, if she 
 is to be his, he must be mine." 
 
 Not long afterwards Lady Allworth's coach 
 was called. Lord Lovell offered to accompany 
 her home, as Sir Giles had requested his nephew to 
 remain for a short conference. 
 
 " Stay not long, sir," said the lady to Wellborn, 
 as she left the room, bending upon him what 
 seemed a look of affection. 
 
 " You do not know my nature, nephew," said 
 Sir Giles, turning with a crafty smile to Wellborn. 
 " We worldly men are not given to lift the falling ; 
 but now that I see you in a way to rise, you will 
 find me ready and willing to assist you. This 
 rich lady loves you heartily ; that is apparent." 
 
 " No, no, Sir Giles ; it is but compassion."
 
 88 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 "At any rate you must throw off this base 
 shape. She shall not say she married a nephew 
 of mine like a beggar, or in debt." 
 
 " He is thrusting his own head into the noose," 
 said Wellborn, gleefully, to himself. " That saves 
 me labor." 
 
 " You have a trunk of rich clothes in pawn, not 
 far from here. I'll redeem them. As for your 
 petty debts, you shall have a thousand pounds to 
 cut them off." 
 
 " Here's an uncle, indeed ! Who dare say now 
 that Sir Giles is hard-hearted ?" 
 
 " No thanks, I pray you. My coach, knaves, 
 for my nephew. To-morrow I will visit you." 
 
 Had the crafty usurer seen the laughter of 
 his intended dupe as he rode away, the thousand 
 pounds might have been long in coming. As it 
 was, his scheming brain was already busy laying 
 plans how to add to his estate the rich manor 
 of Lady All worth, which he hoped to wrest from 
 the weak hands of his nephew. 
 
 Little did he dream of the bitter draught the 
 fates were preparing for him. Now, when his 
 hopes were at their highest, and his deeply-laid 
 plans most promising of success, disgrace and 
 defeat impended, and for the first time in his life 
 he was destined to find that honesty is the best 
 policy. 
 
 On the day after the events just described, Sir 
 Giles directed Marrall to see that all the debts of 
 his nephew were paid, and to provide him with.
 
 A NEW WAY TO PAY OLD DEBTS. 89 
 
 the chest of rich clothing of which he had spoken. 
 He then gave his ring to young Allworth, as a 
 token of free admission to his daughter's pres- 
 ence, and directed him to ride to Nottingham and 
 obtain, by the use of the same token, a marriage 
 license. " I'll have it despatched, and suddenly," 
 he said, " that I may quickly say ' My Honorable,' 
 nay, ' My Eight Honorable daughter.' " 
 
 These preparations made, he held an interview 
 with Lord Lovell, in which he boasted of the 
 extent and value of his estate, and promised to 
 settle a large marriage portion on his daughter. 
 He even went so far as to point out Lady 
 Allworth's manor-house, near which they stood, 
 asking if his noble friend approved of it, and 
 telling him that it should be his before long, if he 
 desired it. 
 
 When Lord Lovell asked him, in surprise, how 
 he could promise this, Sir Giles answei-ed, that 
 when the estate once became Wellborn's, as it 
 promised soon to be, it quickly would be his ; and 
 added that if his noble friend wanted any man's 
 land in the shire, he had but to express the wish 
 and he should have it. Lord Lovell replied that 
 he would not dare to own aught that was extorted 
 by unjust and cruel means ; but Sir Giles bade 
 him not to let this trouble him, vowing that he 
 was quite able to carry all this sin and shame on 
 his own shoulders. As for widows' tears and the 
 curses of ruined families, he cared not a jot for 
 them. " In one word, sir, is it a match ?" 
 8*
 
 90 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 "I hope that is past doubt," answered Lord 
 Lovell. 
 
 " Then rest secure ; not the hate of all man- 
 kind, nor fear of future penalty, shall make me 
 study aught but your advancement. Leave my 
 religion and my deeds for me to answer, but you 
 shall be an earl, if gold can compass it." 
 
 Not till he had gone did his disgusted listener 
 give free vent to his thoughts. 
 
 " I, that have lived a soldier," he declared, u am 
 bathed in a cold sweat to hear this blasphemous 
 beast ! He has made a plain discovery of himself, 
 indeed, and I should be as bad as he if I had any 
 scruples now against working to defeat him." 
 
 Meanwhile, Marrall had lost no time in carrying 
 out Sir Giles's instructions as to his nephew, while 
 Wellborn, delighted with the opportunity to pay 
 his debts, summoned his creditors by tap of drum, 
 and had the satisfaction to find those who had of 
 late treated him as a beggarly rogue now ready 
 to fall down and worship them. Among them all 
 he cherished malice against but one pair, Tap- 
 well and his wife Froth, who had treated him so 
 shabbily. 
 
 " What, Tapwell 1" said Justice Greedy, who 
 took part in this proceeding ; " I remember your 
 wife brought me last New- Year a couple of fat 
 turkeys." 
 
 " She shall do so every Christmas, if your wor- 
 ship will but stand my friend now." 
 
 "How! with Master Wellborn? I will do
 
 A NEW WAY TO PAY OLD DEBTS. 91 
 
 anything on such terms. Do you see this honest 
 couple, my dear sir ? They are as good souls as 
 ever tapped ale. Have they not a pair of honest 
 faces ?" 
 
 " They are the most unthankful knaves of all 
 that grew rich by my riots. See here, friend 
 Greedy; call in this fellow's license, and at the 
 next fair I'll give you a yoke of oxen worth all 
 his turkeys." 
 
 " Come here ; nearer, rascal," cried Greedy to 
 the tapster. " Now I view you better, I never 
 saw such an arch knave. Why, any honest judge 
 would hang you for that face ! Ask me no favors, 
 villain ; I here revoke your license, and will before 
 I eat command my constable to pull down your 
 sign." 
 
 'Have you no mercy, sir?" 
 
 " Vanish, knave ! If I show you any may my 
 promised oxen gore me." 
 
 As for the others, Wellborn freely paid their 
 claims. 
 
 " See that all who are not here are paid," he 
 said to Marrall. " Since I have chosen this new 
 way to pay old debts, let no just claim go unsettled." 
 
 " And now, your worship," said Marrall, " I 
 have a weighty matter for your private ear. Sir 
 Giles will before long come on you for security for 
 his thousand pounds. This I counsel you to re- 
 fuse to give, and when he grows hot do you grow 
 rough, and tell him he is in your debt ten times 
 the sum, on the sale of your lands. Bid him pro-
 
 92 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 duce the deed by which you passed it over to 
 him. He'll have it with him, to deliver it, with 
 other writings, to Lord Lovell. Leave the rest to 
 me : if I play not my part well, then hang Jack 
 Marrall." 
 
 " Be it so. I rely on you," answered Wellborn. 
 
 While Wellborn and Marrall were thus laying 
 plans to circumvent Sir G-iles, Lord Lovell and 
 his page were doing the same. By the aid of 
 her father's ring, Allworth obtained an interview 
 with his lady-love, in which a well-devised plot 
 was arranged. In the midst of their conference 
 Sir Giles entered, and Margaret showed him a 
 letter she had received from Lord Lovell, calling 
 it "a piece of arrogant paper." Her father, how- 
 ever, read it with as much pleasure as it seemed 
 to give his daughter displeasure, and harshly bade 
 her yield to the writer's wishes. 
 
 What the letter proposed was an elopement and 
 a secret marriage, as his lordship did not wish the 
 delay consequent upon a pompous ceremony. It, 
 however, failed to say who the husband was to 
 be, an omission which the ambitious father did 
 not notice. Filled with joy, he pressed a purse 
 of gold on Allworth to pay the necessary ex- 
 penses, bade him use his ring to overcome any 
 objections of the chaplain, and went so far as to 
 write, the latter a note bidding him to " marry my 
 daughter to this gentleman." Allworth had ad- 
 vised him not to put in Lord Lovell's name, since 
 Jiis lordship would be in disguise.
 
 A NEW WAY TO PAY OLD DEBTS. 93 
 
 " Be gone now, good Master Allworth," said Sir 
 Giles, joyfully; "this shall be the best night's 
 work you ever made." 
 
 "I think so, indeed," answered Allworth, lead- 
 ing out Margaret. 
 
 "Now all's cock-sure," cried her father, in high 
 glee. "Methinks I already hear knights and 
 ladies say, ' Sir Giles Overreach, how is it with 
 your Honorable daughter? Has her Honor slept 
 well to-night ? Or will her Honor please to accept 
 this monkey, dog, or paroquet?' I can scarce 
 contain myself, I am so full of joy. Naught 
 could go better." 
 
 Night fell upon these events, and a new day 
 in good time dawned, one in which Sir Giles's 
 high-flown hopes were destined to be sadly over- 
 thrown. The elopement had taken place in due 
 secrecy, winked at by the consenting father, but 
 the married couple failed to return, though Sir 
 Giles waited up all night to wish them joy. With 
 the early morning he made his appearance at 
 Lady All worth's house, cursing Marrall, who ac- 
 companied him with his deed box, while his looks 
 were wild and distracted. The absence of the 
 bride and groom troubled him sorely. Lady All- 
 worth, Wellborn, and Lord Lovell were present 
 when Sir Giles was announced, but his lordship 
 stepped aside so as not to be seen by the angry 
 baronet. 
 
 " Lady Allworth, by your leave, have you seen 
 my daughter and the lord, her husband ? Tell
 
 94 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 me if they are in your house, that I may wish 
 them joy." 
 
 "Sir Giles, I neither know nor care where her 
 Honor is," answered Lady Allworth, to his arbi- 
 trary demand. 
 
 Thus repulsed, he turned in anger to his nephew, 
 but found him so independent in his answers that 
 he could explain it only on the theory of a secret 
 marriage with Lady Allworth. Led by this false 
 conception, he peremptorily demanded security 
 for the thousand pounds he had loaned him, 
 threatening to drag him to jail if he refused. 
 
 " Can you be so cruel to your nephew, now 
 that he is in the way to rise ?" asked Wellborn, 
 with an assumed show of alarm. 
 
 "Mortgage the whole estate, and force your 
 spouse to sign it. You shall have three or four 
 thousand more, to roar and swagger with, and 
 revel in taverns." 
 
 "And beg after; is that your meaning?" 
 
 "My thoughts are my own, sir. Shall I have 
 security ?" 
 
 " No ! neither bond, nor bill, nor bare acknowl- 
 edgment. Save your great looks, Sir Giles ; they 
 frighten not me." 
 
 " But my deeds shall." 
 
 " Shall they, indeed ? Hear me, my worthy 
 sir : if there be law in the land you shall pay me 
 ten times a thousand pounds, to make good what 
 you have robbed me of." 
 
 Made doubly furious by this defiance, Sir Giles,
 
 A NEW WAY TO PAY OLD DEBTS. 95 
 
 to prove his claim, opened his deed-box, and pro- 
 duced the deed to Wellborn's lands. But when 
 he had unfolded it to overwhelm his insolent 
 nephew, he stood like a statue of astonishment. 
 What he saw was a clean sheet of parchment, its 
 surface unsoiled by ink. Wax and words alike 
 were gone, and the deed had vanished. 
 
 The astounded usurer turned to Marrall, and 
 bade him swear that the deed had been properly 
 drawn, and must have been tampered with. But 
 his late tool now turned upon him and refused to 
 aid him with a word, but charged him with foul 
 plots and devilish practices. In truth, Marrall 
 himself had removed every trace of writing from 
 the parchment by a chemical process of his own. 
 
 In the midst of Sir Giles's fury at the insolent 
 defiance of the late servant, Justice Greedy and 
 Parson Welldo entered. The appearance of the 
 latter gave the usurer new hope. He turned to 
 him eagerly and demanded if his daughter were 
 married. 
 
 " She is ; I assure you," answered the parson. 
 
 " Then all is well. Here's more gold for you. 
 Now, you that have plotted against me, think on 
 it and tremble. Ha ! they come now. I hear the 
 music. Eoom there ! A lane for my lord !" 
 
 The next minute, to strains of music, Margaret 
 and Allworth entered in wedding robes, and 
 kneeled to ask his blessing. 
 
 "How! What is this?" he cried, while his 
 eyes seemed ready to start from his head.
 
 96 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 " Do a father's part, and say, Heaven give them 
 joy," answered the parson. 
 
 " Confusion and ruin ! are these two married ?" 
 cried Sir Giles, in fury. 
 
 "Why this rage, sir? Here is your letter 
 saying, 'Marry her to this gentleman.' I but 
 obeyed your order." 
 
 " What, I, Sir Giles Overreach, who never 
 made a blunder, gulled by children ! baffled and 
 fooled like this ! You wretch, I'll take back the 
 life I gave you!" 
 
 He drew his sword and would have killed 
 Margaret, had not Lovell stepped hastily forward 
 and stopped him. 
 
 " You lordly villain, it is you that have gulled 
 me," yelled the cheated usurer. " If you are a 
 man, follow me from the house, and have this out 
 in private." 
 
 " I am ready," answered Lord Lovell. 
 
 Like a fury Sir Giles flung himself from the 
 room, uttering threats and curses, and swearing 
 that, by the aid of his friends and servants, he 
 would burn the house to the ground and leave not 
 one throat uncut. 
 
 Lord Lovell would have followed him, but was 
 stopped by Wellborn, who bade him not to think 
 of fighting with a madman ; and by Lady All- 
 worth, who now made public the secret that she 
 had consented to be Lord Lovell's wife, and 
 declared that she would not listen to her lover's 
 facing a desperate and defeated villain.
 
 A NEW WAY TO PAY OLD DEBTS. 97 
 
 Wellborn proved to be right in speaking of 
 Sir (riles as a madman. The sudden overthrow 
 of all his plots, loss of his ill-gotten wealth, and 
 ruin of his deep-laid scheme to marry his daugh- 
 ter to a lord, were too much for his brain, and in 
 a few minutes he rushed back into the room, 
 quite demented. His face was ghastly, his eyes 
 wildly rolling, his hands clawing the air, while 
 his words showed that, to his insane fancy, all 
 around him were the spectral forms of those 
 whom he had driven to despair and death. 
 
 "He is mad bej^ond help," said Wellborn. 
 " Disarm and bind him, or he may do some one a 
 mischief." 
 
 " Take him to Bedlam," advised Justice Greedy. 
 
 " First see what can be done for his recovery," 
 suggested the parson. 
 
 By this time the frenzy of the unfortunate 
 man had so increased that foam stood on his lips, 
 and he cast himself to the floor and sought to 
 bite the very boards. It was with no small 
 trouble that they succeeded in binding his hands 
 and forcing him off, while he madly raved about 
 the frightful shapes that haunted him, and the 
 tears of widows and orphans that seared him like 
 hot irons. 
 
 " Here is a precedent to teach wicked men that 
 wrong cannot prosper," said Lord Lovell. " Take 
 comfort, Margaret, I will be your father's guar- 
 dian in his distraction. As for your lands, Mr. 
 Wellborn, let me be umpire between you and this 
 VOL. I. K g 9
 
 98 TALES FKOM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 lady, the undoubted heir of Sir Giles Overreach. 
 For myself, Lady Allworth shall be the anchor to 
 tie me to this district." 
 
 " I ask but justice, my lord," answered Well- 
 born. "The reputation I lost in my loose course 
 I will strive to redeem. I need action, and if 
 your lordship will please to confer on me a com- 
 pany in your command, I doubt not I shall win 
 in service to my country the good repute my 
 revelry has lost me." 
 
 " That I shall gladly do, sir. And much I hope 
 that happiness may hereafter dwell with us all. 
 As for Sir Giles Overreach, he has but paid the 
 fitting penalty for his ill deeds." 
 
 " And I have aptly found," answered "Wellborn, 
 laughing, " with Lady Allworth's aid, a new way 
 to pay old debts"
 
 VENICE PRESET! 
 
 BY THOMAS 
 
 rn at Ts iissex, in 
 
 He 
 adu- 
 principa 
 
 he was choked 
 
 L: a piece of bread i. 
 
 in mer 
 nd best 
 
 Ui drama. 'I 
 
 and 
 99
 
 VENICE PRESERVED. 
 
 BY THOMAS OTWAY. 
 
 [TnoM AS OTWAY born at Trotton, Sussex, in 
 1651, was the son of an English clergyman. He 
 entered Oxford in 1669, and left without gradu- 
 ating in 1674. His life was principally devoted to 
 dramatic composition, though he served for some 
 time as a cornet in the cavalry, and made one at- 
 tempt at acting, which proved a complete failure. 
 Otway produced a considerable number of plays, 
 several of which were successful, but extravagance 
 kept him in a state of continual want, and he be- 
 came in the end so destitute that one of his biog- 
 raphers says that he was choked to death from 
 too hastily swallowing a piece of bread after a 
 long fast. He died in 1685. 
 
 Otway's plays differ very greatly in merit, the 
 distinction between his worst and best being im- 
 mense. Only two of them have stood the test of 
 time, "The Orphan," and "Venice Preserved." 
 The power of both of these is largely due to their 
 pathos, in which Otway has hardly an equal in 
 English drama. The pathetic love-scenes between 
 Jaffier and Belvideva cannot bo excelled, and 
 
 99
 
 100 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 " Venice Preserved" is, in the opinion of Mr. Gosse, 
 " the greatest tragic drama between Shakespeare 
 and Shelley." We give the story of this power- 
 ful and affecting play.] 
 
 On one occasion during the celebrated state 
 ceremony of Venice the marriage of the Adriatic 
 by the Doge one of the vessels, that containing 
 Priuli, a member of the senate, and his daughter 
 Belvidera, was run upon a rock through the care- 
 lessness of the pilot. Belvidera, who stood upon 
 the vessel's side, was dashed overboard, and would 
 have sunk but for the readiness of a gentleman 
 named Jaffier, who sprang into the water and 
 sustained her till a boat came to her rescue. For 
 this service the proud senator contented himself 
 with thanks ; but the rescued lady felt a warmer 
 impulse, and gave her love to Jaffier, a love which 
 was ardently returned. The haughty father 
 looked with eyes of stern disapproval on this 
 affection of his daughter for one beneath her in 
 rank, and in the end the lovers, despairing of his 
 consent, agreed upon a stolen marriage. At dead 
 of night Belvidera left her home, and was wedded 
 to her lover. The stolen marriage of his daughter 
 threw Priuli into such a rage that he refused to 
 forgive or to have any further intercourse with 
 her, and for three years the wedded pair dwelt 
 under the weight of his anger. 
 
 During this period Jaffier had not been prudent. 
 He had deemed it his duty to treat Belvidera with
 
 VENICE PRESERVED. 101 
 
 the distinction and observance due to the daughter 
 of a senator of Venice, and in so doing had dissi- 
 pated his fortune and reduced himself to poverty. 
 This poverty, indeed, in the end became ruin. 
 His creditors seized his house, put officers in 
 charge, and prepared to sell its contents at public 
 sale, while he and his tenderly-reared wife were 
 turned homeless into the public streets. 
 
 In this strait Jaffier subdued his pride sufficiently 
 to make an humble appeal to Priuli for aid and 
 forgiveness, but found the old senator bitterly 
 obdurate. For the blessing he asked he received 
 curses, and in the end was dismissed with the 
 following unfeeling sentence : 
 
 " Home, and be humble ; study to retrench ; dis- 
 charge the lazy vermin of thy hall; reduce the 
 costly attire of thy wife to humble weeds: then 
 to some suburban cottage both retire ; drudge to 
 feed thy loathsome life ; get brats, and starve. 
 Home, dog ; look not to me for mercy." 
 
 "With these words the revengeful senator stalked 
 haughtily away, leaving Jaffier overcome with 
 mingled shame and anger. As he stood thus he 
 was joined by Pierre, a brave soldier of Venice 
 and his devoted friend, who told him a tale which 
 drove him to desperation. 
 
 " I passed your doors but now," he said, " and 
 found them guarded by a troop of villians. They 
 told me that, by sentence of the law, they had 
 commission to seize all your fortune. Nay, more, 
 Priuli's cruel hand had signed it. Here stood a 
 9*
 
 102 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 ruffian lording it over a pile of massive plate, 
 tumbled into a heap for public sale. There was 
 another making villanous jests at your undoing." 
 
 Pierre went on with his tale of ruin, ending by 
 stating that he had seen Belvidera led weeping 
 from the house, while before her distress even the 
 base rabble, who had gathered to revel in the 
 sight, stood mute with pity. 
 
 The soldier had a purpose in thus probing the 
 deep wounds of his friend. A conspiracy had 
 been formed for the overthrow of the government 
 of Venice, in which he, bitterly discontented by 
 the beggarly way in which his services to the 
 state had been rewarded, had taken an active part. 
 He desired to enlist his friend Jaffier in this 
 dangerous enterprise, and took this means to work 
 him into the proper mood. 
 
 "What! starve, like beggars' brats, in frosty 
 weather, under a hedge, and whine ourselves to 
 death !" he exclaimed, with bitter emphasis. 
 " Burn Venice first, and bring it to the level of 
 thy ruin ! Meet me to-night, at twelve, on the 
 Eialto. Fail not, my Jaffier; there we'll talk of 
 precious mischief." 
 
 " If it be against these senators I'm with you, 
 Pierre. Trust me." 
 
 " At twelve," repeated Pierre, as he walked away. 
 
 The departure of the tempter was quickly 
 followed by the entrance of Belvidera, in such dis- 
 tress of mind at her misfortunes, yet with such un- 
 yielding love for her husband, that his revengeful
 
 VENICE PRESERVED. 103 
 
 feeling against her father was roused to still greater 
 bitterness. 
 
 " Can there in woman he such glorious faith?" 
 exclaimed Jaffier, inspired by her devotion. " Oh, 
 woman ! lovely woman ! nature made you to 
 temper man. We had been brutes without you. 
 Angels are painted fair to look like you. There's 
 in you all that we believe of heaven ; truth, purity, 
 eternal joy, and everlasting love." And he drew 
 her to his breast with a loving embrace. 
 
 " If love be a treasure, we'll be wondrous rich," 
 she answered, her eyes beaming with affection. 
 " Be it in a desert, Jaffier, love will fill the void 
 which fortune makes." 
 
 Having found a place of temporary shelter for 
 his wife, Jaffier, grown still more desperate and 
 revengeful, kept his midnight appointment with 
 Pierre, whom he found waiting for him on the 
 Rialto. A brief conversation ensued, at the end 
 of which Pierre presented Jaffier with a purse. 
 
 " Here's something to buy pins," he said, with 
 a look of deep meaning. 
 
 "I but half wished to see the devil, and he's 
 here already," answered Jaffier. " What must 
 this purchase ? Eebellion, murder, treason ? Tell 
 me which way I must be damned for this." 
 
 " What qualms are these ? Cannot your hatred 
 stretch beyond one senator ?" 
 
 " Nay, could I kill with cursing, senators 
 should rot, like dogs, on dunghills. Oh, for a 
 curse to kill with !"
 
 104 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 " Daggers are better," said Pierre, significantly. 
 
 "Daggers ! Where are they ?" 
 
 " Come, and I will show you." 
 
 Pierre now exacted from Jaffier an oath of 
 fidelity, and then told him of the conspiracy that 
 had been formed for the destruction of Yenice. 
 Even at the moment of their talk, he said, a 
 council of the conspirators was being held in a 
 house near by. Thither, after Jaffier had sworn 
 by all he held good and sacred not to betray the 
 secret, Pierre led him, promising him liberty for 
 Yenice, to which JaflSer responded by a demand 
 for revenge. 
 
 At that moment three of the conspirators were 
 present in the council-room, Spinosa, a Venetian ; 
 Eenault, a Frenchman; and Elliot, an English- 
 man. Sharp words had passed between the last 
 two, and a quarrel was on the point of breaking 
 out when Bedamar, the leader of the conspiracy, 
 entered, with others, and bade them cease their 
 private squabbles in favor of the public service 
 which drew them together. 
 
 He had just succeeded in making the two foes 
 clasp hands, when Pierre entered, having left 
 Jafiier behind. A conference of the conspirators 
 ensued, in which Bedamar told them that all was 
 ripe for execution, ten thousand men being ready 
 to aid in the overthrow of the oppressive govern- 
 ment. He ended by bidding all to speak who 
 had friends or interests they would wish to save. 
 
 " You touch my weakness there," said Pierre.
 
 VENICE PRESERVED. 105 
 
 " I have a friend, my one and only confidant, to 
 whom my heart was never closed. Nay, I'll 
 tell you, he knows the very business of this hour. 
 But he rejoices in our cause, and is at hand to 
 join us." 
 
 "How! betrayed!" cried Renault. 
 
 "Not so. If he prove worthless, my blade 
 shall be the first to pierce his heart. Come forth, 
 thou only good I ever could boast of!" he called, 
 opening the door to the antechamber. 
 
 Jaffier entered at these words, with a drawn 
 dagger in his hand. Standing before the group 
 of conspirators, he recited his wrongs and his 
 thirst for revenge in such fierce terms that his 
 words roused distrust. Bedamar alone accepted 
 him as a true ally, but old Renault growled out 
 his suspicion. 
 
 " Tour friends survey me as if I were danger- 
 ous," said Jaffier to Bedamar. " Nor did I hope 
 to gain your trust without a pledge for my fidel- 
 ity. Sir, bid all withdraw a while but this grave 
 senior and yourself, with my friend to spare a 
 woman's blushes." 
 
 At a gesture from Bedamar all withdrew except 
 Renault and Pierre. 
 
 " What means this ceremony, Pierre ?" asked 
 Bedamar, as their new associate retired to the 
 antechamber. 
 
 He was answered by the quick reappearance 
 of Jaffier, leading his wife Belvidera, who gazed 
 around the room with eyes of doubt and terror.
 
 106 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 "Where is it you lead me?" she demanded, in 
 tones of fear. " You shake and tremble ! your 
 blood runs cold! what mean you? Who are 
 these men ?" 
 
 Jaffier, with distracted face and quavering 
 voice, bade them take this woman, whom he loved 
 above all the world, and hold her as a hostage for 
 his fidelity. 
 
 " To you, sirs, and your honor, I bequeath 
 her," he said ; " and with her this." He gave 
 Renault the dagger he held. " If I prove false or 
 faithless, then strike it to her heart." 
 
 " Oh, thou unkind one !" cried Belvidera, pas- 
 sionately, " have I deserved this from you ? Look 
 on me ! Why yield you me to these men's hands ? 
 If I am false, accuse me ; but if true, then pity 
 the sad heart that clings to you." 
 
 Jaffier turned his head aside, weeping, while 
 Bedamar and Eenault led Belvidera from the 
 room, she calling to him in pitiful tones : " Hear 
 me ! Bid them release me ! Jaffier ! O Jaffier !" 
 
 The distracted husband remained silent, while 
 the lovely hostage, ignorant of his purpose, and 
 filled with terror, was drawn in burning tears 
 away. 
 
 As the event proved, Jaffier, by his impulse of 
 devotion to his new confederates, had introduced 
 a fatal element into their midst. It was not in 
 woman's lack of faith, however, but in man's 
 lack of honor, that the peril to the conspiracy 
 lay. Belvidera could not betray that of which
 
 VENICE PRESERVED. 107 
 
 she was ignorant, but the base old wretch Renault 
 proved false to the sacred trust which was com- 
 mitted to him. When Belvidera the next morn- 
 ing met her husband, she repelled him with deep 
 indignation and bitterly demanded, " Why was I 
 last night delivered to a villain?" 
 
 " A villain ?" he exclaimed. 
 
 " Yes. And what meant that secret assembly 
 of wretches ? what the dagger with which I was 
 to be slain if you proved false ? Have I been 
 made the hostage of a hellish trust? By all the 
 loyalty I owe you I'll free you from the bondage 
 of these slaves! I'll go to the senate, and tell all 
 I know, and all I fear and suspect." 
 
 Her suspicions led her so near the truth, indeed, 
 that Jaffier found it impossible to conceal it from 
 her, and in the end breathed into her shrinking 
 ear the story that he had bound himself to aid 
 these men to kill her father, with all the senators 
 of Venice. Belvidera heard this dread story with 
 trembling horror. To kill her father! kill him 
 who gave her birth ! first must he strike his sword 
 into her breast ! 
 
 " Can your great heart descend so vilely low," 
 she indignantly demanded, "as to mix with 
 bravoes and ruffians, pledged to cut the throats 
 of wretches as they sleep ?" 
 
 " You wrong me, Belvidora," he protested. " I've 
 engaged with honorable and earnest men. There's 
 not a heart among them but is stout and honest." 
 
 " Is it so ?" she sternly replied. " What is ho,
 
 108 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 then, to whose cursed hands you gave me last 
 
 night? Oh, I could tell a story " She ceased 
 
 with a shudder, and clasped her hands distract- 
 edly. 
 
 " What mean you ?" he demanded. " Speak on, 
 I charge you !" 
 
 " That old, base villian Oh, Jaffier, that 
 
 wretch sought me last night where I lay on my sad 
 bed, and with the dagger you had given him sought 
 by threats to rob me of my virtue. But with my 
 cries I scared his coward heart and forced him 
 to withdraw. Are these your honorable friends ? 
 these the stout and honest hearts to whom you 
 have sold your soul ?" 
 
 This recital filled Jaffier with a deeper anger and 
 sense of indignity than that which had moved him 
 against her father. Soothing, as well as he could, 
 Belvidera's deep distress, he left her, promising that 
 she should not be again exposed to such a peril. 
 The furious husband now sought Pierre, whom he 
 told of what had happened ; so stirring by his tale 
 of treachery the honest heart of the soldier that 
 he found it no easy matter to restrain him from 
 taking instant revenge on Eenault. In the end they 
 mutually agreed that it would be best to forget 
 their private injuries till the purposes of the con- 
 spiracy were achieved. Then the French villian 
 might be dealt with. 
 
 Counsels so cold as these under such hot prov- 
 ocation were more easily formed than kept. 
 Jaffier shortly afterwards met Eenault, and ques-
 
 VENICE PRESERVED. 109 
 
 tioned him with such bitter satire that the villain 
 trembled in fear, seeing that his baseness was 
 discovered. 
 
 " No more," said Jaffier, as the other conspirators 
 entered. " It is a base world, and must reform, 
 that's all." 
 
 " What's this ?" said Pierre, aside to him. " He 
 shakes like a leaf. You should have stroked him, 
 not galled him." 
 
 " Curse him, let him chew on it !" snarled Jaffier. 
 " Heaven, whore am I ? beset with cursed fiends 
 that wait to damn me ! What a devil is man, 
 when he forgets his reason !" 
 
 Renault, concealing his nervous agitation, now 
 proceeded to give their several charges to the 
 conspirators, in preparation for the outbreak, 
 which was fixed for the coming night. He bade 
 them to fire the city, and, above all, to shed blood 
 enough, to spare neither sex nor age. 
 
 "Let each man think that on his single virtue 
 depends tbe good and fame of all the rest. You 
 droop, sir," he continued, turning to Jaffier. 
 
 " No, with most profound attention I've heard 
 it all, and wonder at your virtue." 
 
 "Let us consider that we destroy oppression, 
 avarice ; a people nursed with vices and loathsome 
 lusts, which nature most abhors," continued 
 Kenault. 
 
 This was too much for Jaffier's self-control, and 
 he hastily left the room, to avoid giving vent to 
 his feelings. In this he but played into the hand 
 10
 
 110 TALES PROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 of his wily foe, for no sooner had he departed than 
 Renault began to hint at possible treachery, and 
 in the end boldly declared that he doubted Jaffier's 
 faith. His skilfully worded suspicions had the 
 intended effect. Some of the conspirators sprang 
 from their seats, and proposed to search the house 
 and kill the traitor. 
 
 " Who talks of killing ?" exclaimed Pierre, 
 fiercely, looking from face to face. " Who's he 
 will shed the blood that's dear to me ? Is it you 
 or you, sir? What, not one speak? Not a 
 word, .Renault? Then, sir, I'll tell you a secret : 
 suspicion at best is but a coward's virtue !" 
 
 " A coward !" cried Renault, drawing his sword. 
 
 " Put up your sword, old man ; your hand 
 shakes at it." 
 
 "We'll not be sold by a traitor," cried one of 
 the others, a sentiment which his fellows echoed, 
 in spite of Pierre's threatening looks. 
 
 " One such word more," he exclaimed, in fury, 
 "and by heaven, I'll to the senate, and hang you 
 all like dogs, in clusters ! Why peep your coward 
 swords half out their sheaths ? Why do you not 
 all brandish them like mine? You fear to die, 
 and yet dare talk of killing ! Away, disperse all 
 to your several charges, and meet to-morrow 
 where your honor calls you. I'll bring that man 
 whose blood you thirst for, and you shall see him 
 venture with you all." 
 
 " Forgive us, Pierre, we have been too hasty," said 
 Elliot, a sentiment to which the others responded.
 
 VENICE PRESERVED. Ill 
 
 "Nay, you have found the way to melt and 
 cast me as you will," answered the generous- 
 hearted soldier. " I'll bring this friend and yield 
 him to your mercy. And in him I give you my 
 heart's best jewel." 
 
 "Keep him, Pierre," they answered. "You 
 dare as much as we ; and he whom you trust we 
 should not doubt." 
 
 The fate of conspiracies turns always on fine 
 threads. When on the very verge of success a 
 , false-blown breath may topple the deepest-laid 
 plot into ruin. In the present case the events we 
 have described were so many links in a chain of 
 circumstances that was destined to drag down 
 Jaffier's new associates into irremediable ruin. 
 
 The story he had told Belvidera had filled her 
 soul with shuddering horror. Her husband a 
 traitor ! her father slain by the dagger of him she 
 loved! herself a prey to the lust of that vile 
 wretch ! this must not be, let who would suffer. 
 By the force of love and the arguments of expe- 
 diency she won her horror-stricken husband over 
 to a sense of the vileness of his associates. Horror 
 and indignation had made the woman stronger 
 than the man, and sorely against his will she led 
 him through the streets towards the senate- 
 chamber. 
 
 " Where dost thou lead me?" he demanded, dis- 
 tractedly. "Every step I move, methinks I 
 tread upon some mangled limb of a racked friend." 
 
 " I lead thee to a deed," she answered, " that
 
 112 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 shall place thy name high among those few that 
 have saved sinking nations." 
 
 "And of those who, in fond compassion to a 
 woman's tears, have forgotten their manhood, 
 virtue, truth, and honor." 
 
 " Return, then, if you will," she cried, in moving 
 accents, " but let your dagger begin on me its 
 bloody work. Or let me live, if you think it 
 nobler, till I fall a victim to the hateful will of 
 that infernal devil." 
 
 " Nay, name it not again !" cried Jaffier, in an 
 impulse of rage. " Destruction fall upon my 
 coward head if I forgive him 1" 
 
 "Then with me to the senate. Your friends, 
 you say ! have you a friend dearer than Belvidera ?" 
 
 Step by step, with arguments like these, she 
 drew her yielding husband through the midnight 
 streets towards the senate-chamber. 
 
 Meanwhile the Doge's council was in session, 
 called together by old Priuli, to whom had come 
 from some unknown source a vague hint of the 
 conspiracy, fixed, as he had been warned, to break 
 out that very night, perhaps that very hour. 
 Guards were stationed in the streets surrounding 
 the senate-chamber, with orders to arrest all per- 
 sons found abroad, and bring them before the 
 council. Into the hands of these guards fell 
 Jaffier, reluctantly following his wife. This event 
 fixed his irresolute will. He bade the captain of 
 the guard to bring him before the council, saying 
 that he had an important revelation to make.
 
 VENICE PRESERVED. 113 
 
 " We are prepared to hear you," said the Doge, 
 when Jaffier was brought before the council. " It 
 is rumored that a plot has been contrived against 
 the state. If you know aught of this, speak. 
 You shall be dealt with mercifully." 
 
 " I came not here to save my life," answered 
 Jaffier, boldly. " You see before you a sworn foe 
 of Venice. But treat me justly, and I may prove 
 a friend." 
 
 "The slave capitulates; give him the torture," 
 cried the Doge. 
 
 "That you dare not do. Say such a thing 
 again, by Heaven, I'll shut these lips forever I" 
 
 " Name your conditions, then." 
 
 " Full pardon for myself, and the lives of two 
 and twenty friends whose names I will give you. 
 Whatever their crimes, I will not speak till I 
 have the oath and sacred promise of this reverend 
 assembly for their pardon and liberty." 
 
 The oath he proposed was taken by the Doge 
 and assembled senators, who saw by his steadfast 
 demeanor that nothing less would make him 
 speak. This done, Jaffier, believing that he had 
 retrieved his honor, handed to the council a 
 paper containing the names of his late asso- 
 ciates, and stating whore they might bo found. 
 
 Officers were sent at once to the place, where 
 the leaders of the conspiracy were caught in the 
 very act of consultation, armed and ready for 
 mischief. They were brought in chains before 
 the council, some drooping with terror, some bold 
 VOL. I. A 10*
 
 114 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 and defiant. Pierre, above all, stood before them 
 with bold demeanor, and bade them produce the 
 wretch who dared call him a traitor. 
 
 At this demand Jaffier was brought in, like 
 them, in chains. At first sight Pierre believed 
 that he, too, was a prisoner; but when he, with 
 downcast face, acknowledged himself as the 
 informer, the brave soldier was overcome. 
 
 " So, then, all's over," he mournfully said. 
 " Venice has lost her freedom, I my life. No more." 
 
 " Will you make confession of your vile deeds, 
 and trust the senate's mercy ?" asked the Doge. 
 " Speak ; pardon or death ?" 
 
 "Death! honorable death !" 
 
 " Death let it be," said Renault. 
 
 " Break up the council," commanded the Doge. 
 " Captain, guard your prisoners. Jaffier, you're 
 free, but these must wait for judgment." 
 
 A scene of heart-breaking emotion followed 
 between Jaffier and Pierre, who remained to- 
 gether after the others had been removed. The 
 betrayed soldier broke out in fiery indignation 
 against his false friend, bade Jaffier leave him, as 
 a whining monk whom he knew not, and struck 
 him when he abjectly begged to be heard. In 
 vain Jaffier continued to implore. Pierre de- 
 nounced him as a spiritless coward and traitor; 
 and when he begged his injured friend to accept 
 the life which the council had sworn to grant, 
 the fiery soldier refused to bear a life given by 
 such hands.
 
 VKNICE PRESERVED. 115 
 
 " My eyes won't lose the sight of thee," cried 
 Jaffier, in despair. 
 
 "Nay, then, thus I throw thee from me," 
 thundered Pierre, hurling him fiercely aside. 
 " May curses, great as thy falsehood, catch thee !" 
 
 He strode from the room with these words, 
 leaving Jaffier plunged in the depths of remorse 
 and despair. 
 
 As he stood in this mood, his fingers nervously 
 clutching his dagger, which he was half inclined 
 to thrust into his own bosom, Belvidera entered, 
 the prey of a remorse as deep as his own. The 
 tale she had to tell completed his load of woe. 
 The faithless senators had proved false to their 
 oaths, and, on the quibble that the prisoners had 
 refused to beg for mercy, had condemned them 
 all to torture and to public execution. 
 
 This dreadful news almost robbed Jaffier of his 
 reason. He saw, in fancy, his betrayed friend 
 stretched on the rack, groaning and bleeding; 
 and in a paroxysm of rage against her who had 
 betrayed him, drew the dagger and sought to 
 thrust it into her heart. 
 
 " Ah I do not kill me, Jaffier !" she cried, shrink- 
 ing from him. 
 
 " When we parted last, I gave this dagger to 
 be your portion if I should prove false. You've 
 made me false, and must pay the penalty." 
 
 " Mercy 1" she exclaimed, as he raised the 
 weapon again, while his eyes seemed to weep 
 blood.
 
 116 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 "Nay, no struggling," he cried, seizing her 
 fiercely. 
 
 "Then kill me, while thus I cling about thy 
 cruel neck, and kiss thy revengeful lips. Thus 
 shall I die in joy." 
 
 She sprang towards him, flung her arms around 
 his neck, and pressed a loving kiss upon his lips. 
 
 u But one blow does it, yet by immortal love I 
 dare not strike it," exclaimed Jaffier, as he flung 
 away the dagger and fondly embraced her. " Bel- 
 videra, you have enslaved me body and soul. But 
 one hope remains. Fly to thy cruel father, bid 
 him save my friend, or all our peace and happi- 
 ness are ended." 
 
 The unhappy woman obeyed, and by her tears 
 and entreaties succeeded in winning her obdurate 
 father to use his influence to save at least the life 
 of Pierre. Unfortunately, he was too late. The 
 senate had, in his absence, decreed the death of 
 all the prisoners, and would not withdraw their 
 sentence. 
 
 The news of this fatal action completed Jaffier' s 
 despair, and roused him to a final resolve. He 
 had an interview with Belvidera, in which his 
 heart was full of love, but his soul throned in 
 deadly resolution. He bade her to live for their 
 child ; for himself, he was pledged to death. 
 
 "Hark!" he exclaimed, "the dismal bell tolls 
 out for death! I must attend its call, for my 
 poor friend, my dying Pierre, expects me. He 
 sent a message to require I would see him before
 
 VENICE PRESERVED. 117 
 
 he died, and take his last forgiveness. Farewell 
 for ever." 
 
 Belvidera clung to him so firmly that he was 
 forced to tear himself from her arms, leaving 
 her with one last kiss of love. This dreadful 
 parting proved to much for the agonized woman. 
 Her reason gave way in the strain of agony, and 
 she rushed from the spot in raving madness. 
 
 Meanwhile, little less mad, Jaffler had flown to 
 the locality of the execution, in St. Mark's Place, 
 where stood the scaffold and wheel prepared for 
 Pierre's death. 
 
 " Forgive that blow I dealt you, Jaffier," said 
 Pierre, in gentle accents. " I love you still, though 
 you have slain me. Heaven knows I need a friend 
 at this sad moment." 
 
 " Trust me, Pierre. I'll not prove false again." 
 
 " Is it fit that a soldier, who has lived with 
 honor, should die that death of infamy?" point- 
 ing to the wheel. " Come hither, Jaffier. Will 
 you do me this last justice?" He whispered in 
 his friend's ear. 
 
 "That only?" 
 
 " That, and no more.' 
 
 "I'll do it." 
 
 " Come, captain," continued Pierre. " Keep off 
 the rabble, that I may die with decency. I'd 
 have none but my friend beside me in the last 
 moment." 
 
 Pierre now ascended the scaffold, attended by 
 Jaffier, and was bound by the executioner.
 
 118 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 "Now, Jaffier!" he cried. "Now I'm going! 
 
 " Have at thee, honest heart !" cried Jaffier, 
 stabbing him. " And this is well too I" He thrust 
 the bloody weapon into his own breast. 
 
 "Now thou hast indeed been faithful," cried 
 Pierre, with a laugh of exultation. " That was 
 done nobly! We have deceived the senate." 
 
 He fell with these words and died ; while 
 Jaffier, after leaving his curse for the perjured 
 rulers and his last dying blessing for Belvidera, 
 dropped across the body of his friend, and 
 breathed his last. 
 
 While this dreadful scene was taking place. 
 Belvidera, in her father's home, was raving in the 
 wildest madness. Her agony reached its climax 
 when the captain of the guard entered, and un- 
 thinkingly told Priuli before her of the bloody 
 end of the two friends. She paused a moment to 
 listen, and then broke into a maniac outburst of 
 horror. At length, worn out by the violence of 
 her emotions, she cried, in weakened accents : 
 
 "My love! my dear! my blessing! help me! 
 help me! They have hold of me and drag me 
 to the bottom ! Nay, now they pull so hard, 
 farewell." She had knelt during these words, and 
 now fell heavily to the floor, with death's pallor 
 upon her face. She had gone to join her husband 
 in heaven.

 
 THE BUSYBODY, 
 
 BY SUSANNAH CENTLIVRE. 
 
 [THE authoress of the amusing comedy whose 
 story we give below, was the daughter of a Lin- 
 colnshire gentleman named Freeman. She was 
 born about 1667, probably in Ireland, whither 
 her father had gone on the accession of Charles 
 II. Being left a penniless orphan at eleven years 
 of age, she came to London, where her wit and 
 beauty proved so attractive that she won the 
 heart of Sir Stephen Fox, whom she married at 
 the age of sixteen. He died within a year, and 
 she soon afterwards married an officer named 
 Carroll, who was killed in a duel. Left destitute 
 by his death, she began writing for the stage, her 
 first work being a tragedy, " The Perjured Hus- 
 band," which was produced in 1700. She after- 
 wards became an actress herself, and in 1706 mar- 
 ried Joseph Centlivre, chief cook to Queen Anne. 
 She died in 1723. 
 
 She wrote in all nineteen plays, of which " The 
 Busybody," "A Bold Stroke for a Husband," and 
 others, are still occasionally played. They are 
 marked by lively plots and humorous incident. 
 
 119
 
 120 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 Of these plays, "The Busybody," whose story 
 we give, has won the highest reputation.] 
 
 Sir George Airy, a young gentleman of Lon- 
 don, found himself in the awkward dilemma of 
 being in love with two ladies at once, though the 
 two but fairly made up one, since he loved the 
 face of the one and the mind of the other. As 
 he himself expressed it : " One is a lady whose 
 face I never saw, but who is witty to a miracle ; 
 the other is beautiful as Yenus, but dumb as an 
 oracle. I am charmed by the wit of the one, and 
 die for the beauty of the other." 
 
 One of these ladies, in fact, he had never seen 
 but under a mask, and only knew of her that she 
 had a sweet voice and a witty tongue. The other, 
 whose beauty he admired, but whose voice he 
 had never heard, was a rich young lady named 
 Miranda, the ward of Sir Francis Gripe, who him- 
 self had designs upon her fortune, and took the 
 greatest pains to prevent suitors from approach- 
 ing her. 
 
 Sir Francis had a son named Charles, whom ho 
 treated in a miserly manner, giving him no money 
 of his own, and little of that left him by his 
 uncle, which had been placed in the father's care 
 till the son should come to years of discretion; a 
 period which was not likely soon to arrive, in 
 the old gentleman's opinion. He had also a 
 second ward, a foolish fellow named Marplot, who 
 would certainly never come to years of discretion,
 
 THE BUSYBODY. 121 
 
 and was such a meddling busybody that, with 
 the best of wishes to help his friends, he was con- 
 stantly hindering them. He had an insatiable 
 thirst for secrets, and in his prying desire to know 
 all that was going on, and to lend every enterprise 
 a helping hand, he managed to spoil many a well- 
 devised scheme, and to sow the seeds of a plentiful 
 crop of mischief for his friends to reap. 
 
 Sir George Airy and Charles Gripe were close 
 friends, and felt a community of sentiment to the 
 extent of being both deep in love. Charles had 
 placed his warm affections upon Isabinda, the 
 lovely daughter of Sir Jealous Traffic, a London 
 merchant of Spanish birth, who, having arranged 
 a Spanish match for his daughter, did his utmost 
 to keep her attractive face from the eyes of the 
 London gallants. 
 
 In this he had not very well succeeded. The 
 young lady had met Charles clandestinely, and 
 fully returned his love, while she felt a deep aver- 
 sion for the Spanish match. Moreover, Mrs. 
 Patch, whom Sir Jealous had placed in espionage 
 over his daughter, proved a faithless duenna, and 
 joined with the young lady in every device to 
 deceive her unreasonable parent. 
 
 These two love-affairs that of Sir George with 
 his witty unknown and his beautiful unheard, 
 and that of Charles \vith the closely-guarded Span- 
 ish beauty were likely to give Marplot a chance 
 to exercise his peculiar talents. In fact, Sir 
 George and Charles had managed to rouse the 
 F 11
 
 122 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 curiosity of Marplot to the highest degree, by 
 acknowledging in his presence that they bad 
 secrets to conceal. Sir George did so by the 
 remark that he had made an appointment to 
 meet Sir Francis on the oddest bargain he ever 
 heard of, but would not yet say what it was. 
 On the other hand, Charles's servant came in and 
 whispered to him that Isabinda's father had, by 
 staying at home, spoiled her plot to meet him in 
 the park, but that Mrs. Patch was on the watch, 
 and would send him word the minute the old 
 gentleman went out. 
 
 " What's all this whispering about?" said Mar- 
 plot to himself. " I shall go stark mad if I'm not 
 let into the secret. "Why the devil do they hide 
 these things from friends who only wish to help 
 them ?" 
 
 " Good-day. I think I see Sir Francis yonder," 
 said Sir George, who had been closely on the 
 watch. He hastened away. 
 
 " Marplot, you must excuse me ; I am engaged," 
 said Charles, taking another direction. 
 
 " Engaged ! Egad, I'll engage my life to find 
 out what both your engagements are," exclaimed 
 the disappointed Marplot. 
 
 As regards Sir George, we may as well reveal 
 to the reader a fact which was a closed secret to 
 him, namely, that the two ladies he loved were 
 one and the same. The masked and disguised 
 lady, whose wit he so admired, was really Miranda, 
 who took this means to escape the watchfulness
 
 THE BUSYBODY. 123 
 
 of her guardian, and hold stolen interviews with 
 her lover, whose affection she fully returned. 
 She had, thus disguised, witnessed the interview 
 just described, and, seeing Sir George move hastily 
 forward, she followed him at a distance, hoping 
 for an opportunity to mystify him still further. To 
 her surprise, however, she saw him meet her guar- 
 dian, and enter into earnest conversation with him. 
 
 " What can this mean ?" she asked herself, 
 seeking a place of concealment whence she might 
 observe them closely. 
 
 In ignorance that a lady was concealed within 
 hearing, the two men continued their conversa- 
 tion, to which Miranda listened with a face that 
 was a study of expression. What she heard was 
 that Sir George offered Sir Francis a purse of 
 fifty guineas, for some purpose connected with 
 herself. This bribe he increased, at the sugges- 
 tion of Sir Francis, to one hundred guineas, for 
 which sum the bargain was concluded. This, 
 as written down by Sir Francis, ran as follows : 
 ' ; Imprimis, you are to be admitted into my house, 
 in order to move your suit to Miranda, for the 
 space of ten minutes, without let or molestation, 
 provided I remain in the same room." 
 
 " But out of earshot," supplied Sir George. 
 
 " Well, well, I don't desire to hear what you 
 say. It is a bargain, Sir George. Take the last 
 sound of your guineas. Ha! hal ha! Miranda 
 and I shall have the jolliest laugh at you, my 
 poor, young dupe ;" and he withdrew, clinking
 
 124 TALES PROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 the guineas as he wont. There was no better 
 music for his ears. 
 
 " Does she really love this old cuff?" soliloquized 
 Sir George. " Pshaw ! that's morally impos- 
 sible. But then, what hopes have I ? I have 
 never spoken to her, and she has never answered 
 me, except so far as eyes can talk. Well, well, I 
 may be lucky, if not, it's but a hundred guineas 
 thrown away." 
 
 " Upon what, Sir George !" 
 
 The speaker was Miranda, who had come from 
 her hiding-place, her face hidden by a close mask. 
 
 " Ha ! my incognita ! upon a woman, madam." 
 
 " The worst thing you could deal in ; and likely 
 to damage the soonest," answered Miranda, with 
 a laugh. " You have heard the farewell chink of 
 your guineas, I fear." 
 
 A lively conversation ensued between them, at 
 the end of which Sir George begged so eagerly to 
 see her face, and grew so determined not to let 
 her escape unmasked, that the frolicsome lady 
 was in something of a quandary. In the end 
 she promised, if he would excuse her face and 
 turn his back, to confess why she had so often 
 spoken with him, who she was, and where she 
 lived. 
 
 To this the ardent lover willingly agreed, and 
 Miranda proceeded to tell him that she had first 
 seen him in Paris, at a birthday ball, where she 
 bad been charmed into love for him. As she 
 thus spoke, with a show of deep feeling, she drew
 
 THE BUSYBODY. 125 
 
 back, step by step, and in the end slipped silently 
 away, while Sir George stood eagerly listening. 
 
 "Don't weep, but go on," he said, finding her 
 silent. "My heart melts in your behalf. Poor 
 lady, she expects I should comfort her, and in 
 truth she has said enough to encourage me." He 
 turned around at this, and started in angry sur- 
 prise. "Ha! gone! the devil! jilted! And 
 this is all an invented tale ? Egad, I'd give ten 
 guineas to know who the gypsy is. A curse of 
 my folly, I deserve to lose her. What woman can 
 forgive a man who turns his back ?" 
 
 The romantic lover was destined to fare as 
 poorly in his interview with Miranda unmasked 
 as he had with Miranda masked. It was not that 
 the girl was averse to him, but that she had a 
 purpose of her own to gain with her guardian. 
 In fact, her estate was tied up in such a way that 
 she was obliged to seem to encourage the old fel- 
 low's love-making, for the purpose of getting her 
 property out of his hands. On hearing, then, 
 from Sir Francis, the story of her lover's odd 
 bargain, she affected to be greatly amused. 
 
 "I shall die with laughing!" she exclaimed. 
 " A hundred pieces to talk ten minutes with me I 
 Ha ! ha ! ha ! what does the young fop mean ?" 
 
 " And I to be by, too, there's the jest. If it 
 had been in private, now " 
 
 "Mercy, gardy, you might trust me! Such a 
 neat, handsome, loving, good-natured old lad as 
 you !" 
 
 11*
 
 126 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 " Cunning rogue, and wise, too, i' faith !" cried 
 the foolish old dupe. "To show you that you 
 have not chosen amiss, I'll this moment disinherit 
 my son, and settle my whole estate on you." 
 
 " No, no, gardy ; the world will say I sold my- 
 self. But I'll tell you what you may do. You 
 know my father's will runs that I am not to 
 possess my estate, without your consent, till I am 
 five-and-twenty. You shall favor me by abating 
 the odd seven years, and making me mistress of 
 my estate to-day ; and we'll see if I do not make 
 you happy to-morrow." 
 
 " Humph ! that may not be safe," muttered Sir 
 Francis. "No, no, my dear, I'll settle it on you 
 for pin-money. That will be every bit as well, 
 you know." 
 
 " Unconscionable old wretch !" cried Miranda 
 to herself. " He would bribe me with my own 
 money ! How shall I get it out of his hands ?" 
 
 " Come, my girl ; what way do you propose to 
 act to banter Sir George ?" 
 
 " I must not banter, Sir George knows my voice 
 too well," she said to herself. " I tell you, gardy," 
 she continued aloud, " I'll not answer him a word, 
 but be dumb to all he says." 
 
 " Dumb ? Good ! excellent ! Ha ! ha ! ha ! she's 
 the wittiest rogue ! How mad the fellow will be 
 to find he has paid his money for a dumb-show.'' 
 
 They were interrupted at this point in the con- 
 versation by the entrance of Charles, who met 
 with but a surly reception from his father, in
 
 THE BUSYBODY. 127 
 
 the first place, for breaking in upon an agreeable 
 interview; and in the second, for hinting that 
 some money would be received with thanks. 
 Miranda took the opportunity to escape, leaving 
 the penniless son to the tender mercies of his 
 miserly father. The interview was so little agree- 
 able that Chai'les was not displeased when it was 
 interrupted by the entrance of Marplot, on the 
 same errand, as it proved, for he, too, wanted 
 money. 
 
 " So ! here's another extravagant coxcomb that 
 will spend his fortune before he comes to it!" 
 said Sir Francis to himself. " But let the fool go 
 on ; he shall pay swinging interest. Well, sir, 
 does necessity bring you, too?" 
 
 " You have hit it. I want a hundred pounds." 
 
 " And I suppose I've got all I'm likely to re- 
 ceive," said Charles. 
 
 " Ay, sir, and you may march as soon as you 
 please." 
 
 "The devil!" exclaimed Marplot to himself. 
 "Is he going? If he gets out before me I shall 
 lose him again." 
 
 He took the cheque which Sir Francis grudg- 
 ingly gave him, and ran hastily out, eager alike 
 to get the money and to follow Charles and his 
 secret. However, the chance of the spendthrift 
 son was not quite gone. His father offered him 
 an opportunity to provide himself abundantly 
 with funds. This was by marrying old Lady 
 Winkle, who had forty thousand pounds, and was
 
 128 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 in the market for a young husband. Yet to this 
 offer the young man decidedly demurred. The 
 old lady had one blind eye and a hunchback, as an 
 offset to her wealth. 
 
 " A young and beautiful woman, with a tenth 
 of the money, would be more to my taste," he 
 answered. "I thank you, sir; but you choose 
 better for yourself, I find." 
 
 " Out of my doors, you dog ! Do you pretend 
 to meddle with my marriage, sirrah ? Refuse 
 forty thousand pounds ! Begone, sir, and never 
 dare ask me for money again !" 
 
 Charles hastened out to keep his temper in. 
 Hardly had he disappeared before Marplot hastily 
 returned, asking for him eagerly. On learning 
 that he had gone, he was distracted. 
 
 " Where the devil shall I find him now ?" he 
 exclaimed, as he ran out again. " I shall certainly 
 lose this secret." 
 
 The visits of Charles and Marplot were followed 
 by a more agreeable one, that of Sir George, who 
 was received by Sir Francis with a great show 
 of good humor. After bantering the lover by 
 shaking the bag of guineas under his nose, he 
 brought in the lady, telling him that he might now 
 have the opportunity to win her love. Sir George 
 began by saluting her rosy lips. 
 
 "Hold, sir!" cried Sir Francis. "Kissing was 
 not in our agreement." 
 
 " Oh ! that's by way of prologue. To your 
 post, old Mammon, and do not meddle."
 
 THE BUSYBODY. 129 
 
 "Be it so, young Timon," and Sir Francis 
 stepped aside, watch in hand. "Ten minutes 
 only, remember; not a minute more." 
 
 An amusing scene ensued. Sir George warmly 
 told Miranda the story of his love, and kneeled 
 at her feet, until she gave him her hand to raise 
 him. At this Sir Francis ran hastily up, exclaim- 
 ing that palming was not in the contract. Ho drew 
 back still more hastily, however, when the angry 
 lover touched his sword and vowed to run him 
 through if he did not keep his distance. As the 
 conference proceeded and the lady continued 
 dumb, her quick-witted lover surmised that she 
 had been forbidden to speak, and proposed that she 
 should answer in the language of signs, by nodding, 
 shaking her head, and sighing. This she did not 
 hesitate to do, much to her guardian's uneasiness. 
 
 'What, a vengeance? Are they talking by 
 signs ?" he ejaculated. " I may be fooled yet. 
 What do you 7nean, Sir George?" 
 
 " To cut your throat if you dare mutter another 
 syllable," answered Sir (George, with a look of 
 fury. 
 
 " The bloody-minded wretch ! I'd give him his 
 money back if he were fairly out of the house," 
 groaned Sir Francis. 
 
 Sir George, finding the sign-language none too 
 satisfactory, now adopted another method. He 
 begun a double conversation, speaking for himself 
 and answering for her; and in the end offered a 
 letter as if from her to himself. She struck it from 
 VOL. I. :
 
 130 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 his hand, but he picked it up and kissed it with 
 simulated rapture. 
 
 " Now for a quick fancy, and a long extempore," 
 he said, opening it. 
 
 " The time is up," cried Sir Francis, running 
 forward. "Here are the hundred pounds you 
 have won, my girl. Go ; I'll be with you presently ; 
 ha! ha! ha!" 
 
 " Mercy, Miranda, you won't leave me just in 
 the nick, will you ?" exclaimed Sir George, as she 
 hurried away. 
 
 " She has nicked you finely, I think," said Sir 
 Francis, in high glee, and he continued his jeering 
 laughter till Sir George, seeing that Miranda had 
 really gone, left the house in a rage. 
 
 He was not many steps distant from the house, 
 when the triumphant old miser sought his ward, 
 with whom he laughed heartily at the discomfiture 
 of the would-be lover. 
 
 " Now, when shall be the happy day, my dear ? 
 When shall we marry ?" he tenderly asked. 
 
 "There's nothing wanting but your consent, 
 Sir Francis." 
 
 " My consent !" he repeated. 
 
 " It is only a whim, but I wish to have every- 
 thing done formally. Therefore, when you sign 
 a .paper, drawn by an able lawyer, that I have 
 your full consent to marry, then, gardy " 
 
 " Oh, come, child, when I marry you that will 
 be consent enough. And then, if " 
 
 "No ifs, gardy. Have I refused two British
 
 THE BUSYBODY. 131 
 
 lords, and half a score of knights, to have you put 
 in your ifs ?" 
 
 "So you have indeed, and I'll trust to your 
 management." 
 
 They were interrupted at this critical moment 
 by the hasty entrance of Marplot, whom the old 
 knight sourly asked how he dared to plunge in 
 without being announced. Marplot replied that 
 his business was not with him, but with the lady, 
 and that fame had brought to his ears the report 
 of a villanous plot to chouse an honorable gentle- 
 man out of a hundred pounds. To this Miranda 
 replied, that she would treat any fop who laid 
 such a plot against her the way she had treated 
 this one, and that she preferred Sir Francis for a 
 husband to all the fops in the universe. He might 
 tell all this to Sir George Airy, if he pleased, and 
 also warn him to keep away from the left-hand 
 garden gate, for if he should dare to saunter there, 
 about the hour of eight, he should be saluted with 
 a pistol or a blunderbuss. 
 
 " Oh, monstrous !" exclaimed Sir Francis. 
 "Does this fellow dare to come to the garden 
 gate ?" 
 
 " The gardener has told me of just such a man, 
 who tried to bribe him for an entrance. Tell him 
 he shall have a warm reception if he comes this 
 night," she repeated to Marplot. 
 
 " Pistols and blunderbusses 1 A warm reception 
 indeed!" cried Marplot. " I'll advise him to keep 
 away."
 
 132 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 "And I hope he'll have more wit than to take 
 your advice," said Miranda to herself. 
 
 The ardent busybody, in mortal fear for the 
 safety of his friend, hastened to Sir George, whom 
 he told what had passed, and continued : 
 
 " Miranda vows, if you dare approach the gar- 
 den gate, as you used to do, at eight o'clock to- 
 night, you shall be saluted with a blunderbuss. 
 She bade me tell you in those very words." 
 
 " The garden gate at eight as I used to do ! 
 What does the woman mean ? Is there such a 
 gate, Charles?" 
 
 "Yes; it opens into the park." 
 
 " Good. Ha ! ha ! I see it now ! My dear 
 Marplot, let me embrace you 1 You are my bet- 
 ter angel." 
 
 "You have reason to be transported, Sir 
 George ; I have saved your life." 
 
 " My life ! you have saved my soul, man ! Here, 
 drink a bumper to the garden gate, you dear 
 meddlesome rogue, you." 
 
 Sir George and Charles, in fact, became so jubi- 
 lent and mysterious in their allusions to the 
 garden gate that the dull-witted messenger began 
 to suspect that there was a new secret afloat. 
 
 " Egad, there's more in this garden gate affair 
 than I comprehend," he said to himself. " Faith, 
 I'll away again to gardy's and find out what it 
 means." 
 
 We must, however, leave Sir George and his 
 love-affair, and return to that of Charles and
 
 THE BUSYBODY. 133 
 
 Isabinda, which, it must be confessed, proceeded 
 no more favorably. The lady's father, Sir Jealous 
 Traffic, was determined that his daughter should 
 not fall in the way of any of the English gallants 
 before the arrival of her expected Spanish lover, 
 and therefore had bidden Mrs. Patch to keep the 
 strictest watch upon her. He had more confidence 
 in this English duenna than she deserved, yet not 
 so much as to trust her fully. On the occasion of 
 which we have already spoken, Mrs. Patch waited 
 demurely till he had left the house, and then 
 quickly opened the door, and beckoned to Whisper, 
 Charles's servant, who was lurking outside. She 
 bade him to fly in all haste, and tell his master 
 that his lady love was now alone. 
 
 It unluckily happened that this newa was 
 brought to Charles while Marplot was with him, 
 and threw him into such a joyous excitement as to 
 convince the curious busybody that a new secret 
 was afoot. He became the more convinced when 
 Charles absolutely forbade him to go with him. 
 
 " Mum, you know I can be silent upon occa- 
 sion," he said. 
 
 " I wish you could be civil, too," answered 
 Charles. "Farewell." 
 
 " Why, then," said the disappointed Marplot to 
 himself, " if I can't attend you, there's nothing 
 left but to follow you." 
 
 It would have been wiser in Charles to take 
 him along, for Marplot, with the best intentions 
 in the world, had a wonderful capacity for doing 
 12
 
 134 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 the right thing the wrong way. He followed 
 Charles to the house, saw him admitted by Mrs. 
 Patch, and stood before the door in a quandary. 
 
 " Who the deuce lives there ?" he ejaculated. 
 " The risky fellow may be running into danger, 
 for aught I know. I don't like the way he was 
 let in. Foolish boy, in spite of your endeavor to 
 keep me out of the secret, I may save your life 
 yet. I'll plant myself at that corner, and watch 
 all that come and go." 
 
 Not many minutes elapsed before he saw a 
 person approaching, who was muttering sourly 
 to himself. It was Sir Jealous, who had caught 
 sight of Whisper lurking near his door, and had 
 been so troubled thereby that he felt obliged to 
 return. 
 
 " There was something secret in the fellow's 
 face," he muttered. " By St. lago, if I should 
 find a man in the house I'd make mince-meat of 
 him I" 
 
 " Mince-meat 1" exclaimed Marplot, who over- 
 heard this. " Ah, poor Charles ! Egad, he's old. 
 I might bully him a little." 
 
 " My own key shall let me in," continued Sir 
 Jealous. " I'll give them no warning," 
 
 " What's that you say, sir ?" asked Marplot, 
 stepping boldly up. 
 
 " What's that to you, sir ?" exclaimed Sir 
 Jealous, turning quickly upon him. 
 
 " Why, it is this to me, sir, that the gentleman 
 you threaten is an honest man and my friend. If
 
 THE BUSYBODY. 135 
 
 he come not as safe out of your house as he went 
 in, I have a dozen myrmidons near by who shall 
 beat your house about your ears." 
 
 " Went in ? What, is he in, then ? I'll myr- 
 midon you, you dog! Thieves! thieves!" The 
 choleric old gentleman fell upon Marplot as he 
 cried "thieves!" and beat him so roundly with 
 his cane that the victim of his own curiosity 
 yelled " murder " in return. 
 
 While this scene was taking place outside, 
 there was no little commotion within. Mrs. Patch, 
 who had been on guard, had seen her master in 
 good time, and warned the lovers. It was too 
 late to escape by the door, and not safe to take 
 refuge in closet or cupboard, for Sir Jealous, if 
 he had any suspicion, would search every hole in 
 the house. 
 
 " I have it," said Mrs. Patch. <: Eun to your 
 chamber, miss. I'll take him to the balcony, 
 whence he may easily descend to the street." 
 
 " Good ! lead on !" cried Charles. 
 
 Meanwhile the aspect of affairs outside had 
 changed. The irate father, after working off 
 some of his wrath upon the busybody, had 
 stamped furiously into the house, and slammed 
 the door violently behind him; while Marplot, 
 honestly anxious to rescue his friend from an old 
 man with such unexpected vigor of arm, was 
 shouting " murder " at the top of his voice. His 
 cries were brought to a sudden end by Charles, 
 who dropped upon him from the balcony.
 
 136 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 " How the devil came you here ?" cried the 
 angry lover. 
 
 " Here ! Why, I've done you a neat bit of ser 
 vice, man. I told the old thunderbolt that the 
 gentleman who was gone in was " 
 
 " You told him !" exclaimed Charles, in a sud- 
 den rage, shaking him violently. " Fool ! I 
 could crush you to atoms !" 
 
 "So! he beats me for my valor, and you choke 
 me for my kindness ! I'm ready to vow never to 
 do anything to help my friends again." 
 
 Sir Jealous, meanwhile, was turning the house 
 almost upside-down in his angry search for the 
 hidden lover, having first locked his daughter in 
 her room, where he bade Patch to keep close 
 guard over her. His efforts proved useless, how- 
 ever ; the bird had safely flown ; and the old fellow 
 subsided into muttered threats to consign her as 
 quickly as possible to the arms of Don Diego 
 Babinetto, the expected suitor from Spain. 
 
 The adventures of the lovers for that day were 
 not yet over. In their brief interview they had 
 devised a plan by which Charles might enter the 
 house with less danger of discovery. This was 
 by aid of a closet window and a rope ladder, the 
 opening of the window to be a signal that the 
 coast was clear. They had also a plan by which 
 he could write to her without danger of having 
 his letters read, he having contrived a secret 
 alphabet for this purpose. 
 
 Proceeding to an inn, he wrote a letter to Isa-
 
 THE BUSYBODY. 137 
 
 binda in this character, and gave it to Whisper, 
 instructing him to deliver it secretly to Mrs. 
 Patch. Whisper accomplished this safely, and 
 the faithful Patch dropped the letter, as she sup- 
 posed, into her pocket, though it really missed 
 the opening and slipped to the floor. She told 
 Whisper that there was likely to be an oppor- 
 tunity for the lovers to meet again that evening. 
 Sir Jealous had invited some friends to sup with 
 him, and while they were at table, the lover 
 might use the rope ladder and the closet win- 
 dow, for an interview with his sweetheart. This 
 information given, Mrs. Patch hastened into the 
 house, in ignorance of the fate of her letter. 
 
 Not many minutes afterwards, Sir Jealous 
 appeared with an open letter in his hand. 
 
 " Sir Diego has safely arrived. He shall marry 
 my daughter the minute he comes," he said. 
 "What's here? A letter? On my steps?" He 
 picked up the letter which Patch had dropped, 
 and opened it without hesitation. "Humph! 
 is this Hebrew ? There's some trick in it, on my 
 life. It was certainly designed for my daughter, 
 and this may be one of love's hieroglyphics." 
 
 At almost the same moment Patch discovered 
 her loss, much to the alarm of herself and her 
 mistress. 
 
 " I must have dropped it on the stairs," she 
 said. " Thank heaven, no one but you can read 
 it." 
 
 "If my father finds it ho will be sure to scent 
 12*
 
 138 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 mischief. What do you want, Thomas ?" as a ser- 
 vant entered the room. 
 
 " My master ordered me to lay the cloth in this 
 room for supper." 
 
 " In this room ! Then all is over. He has 
 found the letter. We are ruined. Fly and fasten 
 the closet window, Patch ; that will warn 
 Charles." 
 
 Before this order could be obeyed Sir Jealous 
 entered. 
 
 " Hold there, Patch ; where are you going ?" he 
 demanded. "I'll have nobody stir out of this 
 room till after supper. Hark ye, daughter, do 
 you know this hand ?" He showed Isabinda the 
 letter. 
 
 "Hand, sir?" she asked, innocently. "What 
 odd writing. Do you understand it ?" 
 
 " I wish I did." 
 
 " Then I know no more of it than you." 
 
 " Ah, sir, where did you get that ?" cried Patch. 
 " That paper is mine." She snatched it abruptly 
 from his hand. 
 
 " Yours, mistress?" he queried. 
 
 "Yes, sir; it is a charm for the toothache, I 
 have worn it these seven years. How could I 
 have dropped it ? I was charged never to open 
 it, and I do not know what will happen from your 
 opening it." 
 
 "The deuce take your charm! Is that all? 
 Burn it, woman, and pull out your next aching 
 tooth."
 
 THE BUSYBODY. 139 
 
 The easy settlement of this difficulty, however, 
 far from relieving the two women from their 
 anxiety. Charles would surely come, and how 
 were they to warn him ? Sir Jealous, who seemed 
 suddenly in a musical humor, demanded that they 
 should sing, but Isabinda became immediately 
 afflicted with a severe cold, while Patch pretended 
 to be so frightened about the opening of the charm 
 that she vowed she could not remember one song. 
 He insisted, however, that Isabinda should play 
 and Patch should sing, and accordingly had his 
 ears regaled with so frightful a discord that he 
 threatened to break the piano about their ears. 
 
 In the midst of the music what the frightened 
 women had feared took place : Charles ascended 
 to the closet, and opened the door on hearing the 
 music, but started hastily back on seeing Sir 
 Jealous. 
 
 "Hell and fury!" cried the suspicious father. 
 " A man in the closet I" 
 
 " A ghost ! a ghost !" screamed Patch ; while 
 Isabinda, with a shriek of assumed fright, threw 
 herself on the floor before the closet door, as if in 
 a swoon. 
 
 " The devil ! I'll make a ghost of him, I war- 
 rant you !" cried Sir Jealous, trying to get past 
 his daughter. 
 
 " Have a care, sir," exclaimed Patch, " you'll 
 tread on my lady. Oh, this comes of opening the 
 charm! Oh! oh!" 
 
 " I'll charm you, housewife ! Take her from the
 
 140 TALES PROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 door, or I'll throw you both down stairs. Come 
 out, you rascal!" 
 
 He broke into the closet, in a murderous rage, 
 while the women laughed quietly behind his back 
 at his discomfiture. 
 
 " He is too late. The bird has flown," said Patch. 
 
 " I was almost dead in earnest with the fright," 
 answered Isabinda. 
 
 In a minute more Sir Jealous stamped back, 
 livid with anger. 
 
 " The dog has escaped out of the window, for 
 the sash is up," he exclaimed. " But though he 
 is out of my reach, you are not. Come, Mrs. 
 Pander, with your charms for the toothache, get 
 out of my house. Go ! troop ! I'll see you out 
 myself; but I'll secure this ghost-seeing young 
 lady before I go." 
 
 He pushed Isabinda into a room, locked the 
 door, and put the key in his pocket; and then 
 hustled Patch to the house-door, driving her into 
 the street in spite of her remonstrances. 
 
 As it turned out, however, the angry father had 
 worked to his own discomfiture, for the discarded 
 duenna was no sooner in the street than she saw 
 Charles, who was hovering about the house. In 
 a few words she told him what had happened, and 
 went on to mention the arrival of the young 
 Spaniard, and Sir Jealous's determination to marry 
 off his daughter at once. The cunning woman 
 now proposed a shrewd scheme. Sir Jealous had 
 never seen Don Diego. Charles spoke Spanish,
 
 THE BUSYBODY. 141 
 
 and could personate him. She had in her pocket 
 a letter from his father, which Sir Jealous had 
 dropped. From this he could counterfeit a letter 
 introducing himself as Don Diego, and by prompt 
 action might make Isabinda his wife before the 
 Spanish suitor appeared. This scheme promised 
 so well that Charles instantly resolved to adopt it, 
 and led his ready-witted confederate to his lodg- 
 ings, that they might take the necessary prelimi- 
 nary steps. 
 
 While Charles was thus getting into and out of 
 difficulties, a similar fortune attended his friend 
 Sir George. He took care to present himself in 
 good time at the garden-gate rendezvous, and was 
 there met by Miranda's servant, who led him by 
 secret ways into the house. Here he found him- 
 self most agreeably surprised, for on meeting 
 Miranda, he found not only that she was no longer 
 dumb, but at her first words he recognized the 
 voice of the masked incognita, with whose wit 
 he was already in love. This discovery filled his 
 heart with joy. The two women of his affection 
 had become one. And he was the more rejoiced 
 when he learned that Miranda had wheedled her 
 guardian into making her mistress of her own 
 property, and had got him out of the way by send- 
 ing him on a false journey to Epsom, on pretence 
 that a brother miser there wished to make him 
 his executor. 
 
 All was in the best train for the marriage of the 
 lovers and the cheating of the miser. But this
 
 142 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 smiling condition of affairs was destined to be 
 quickly clouded over through Marplot's pernicious 
 activity. He, inspired by fear that Miranda might 
 really shoot his friend Sir George at the garden 
 gate, met Sir Francis, and induced him to return 
 home. They entered so suddenly, indeed, that 
 there was no chance for the lover to escape, and 
 the only resource was to hide him behind the 
 chimney-board of her room. 
 
 As it turned out, this was a dangerous hiding- 
 place. Sir Francis was eating an orange, and de- 
 sired to throw the peel into the hearth. Miranda, at 
 a loss how to hinder him from disturbing the board 
 that concealed her lover, finally protested that 
 she had a monkey shut up there, which had just 
 been sent her, and was too wild to be let loose. 
 
 This invention gave rise to a new trouble. Sir 
 Francis was satisfied, but Marplot was not. He 
 professed to have a passion for monkeys, and 
 insisted so strongly on seeing the animal that the 
 distressed girl had to call her guardian to her 
 aid. At length, to her great relief, Sir Francis's 
 coach was announced, and she got him from the 
 room, leaving Marplot there alone. 
 
 The curiosity of the busybody could no longer 
 be restrained. He hastened to get a peep at the 
 monkey, when out broke Sir George in a tearing 
 passion, while the meddler, not recognizing him 
 in his fright, started back, with cries of " O 
 Lord! thieves! thieves! murder!" 
 
 " Damn you, you unlucky dog !" cried Sir
 
 THE BUSYBODY. 143 
 
 George. " Show me a way out instantly, or I'll 
 cut your throat !" 
 
 "Take that door," cried Marplot, who now 
 knew him. "But hold; first break that china, 
 and I'll bring you off." 
 
 Sir George did as suggested, flinging some 
 pieces of china to the floor, and running from the 
 room just as Sir Francis and Miranda returned. 
 
 "What is the matter?" cried Sir Francis. 
 
 " I beg you to forgive me," exclaimed Marplot. 
 " I only raised the board a little to peep at the 
 monkey, when out the creature flew, scratched 
 my face, broke that china, and whisked out of 
 the window." 
 
 " You meddling rogue !" cried Sir Francis. " Out 
 of my house at once ! Call the servants to get 
 the monkey again ; I must be away." 
 
 " Don't stay, gardy," said Miranda. " Trust mo 
 to bring back my monkey." 
 
 After she had got her guardian fairly off, she 
 turned on Marplot with a sharpness that was lit- 
 tle to his liking. 
 
 " Who could think you meant a rendezvous 
 when you talked of a blunderbuss ?" he exclaimed ; 
 ' : or that you meant a lover when you prated of 
 a monkey ? Nobody can be more useful than I 
 when I'm let into a secret, nor more unlucky 
 when I'm kept out." 
 
 We may pass more rapidly over the succeeding 
 circumstances. Before they were ready to leave 
 the room Mrs. Patch appeared, and Marplot's
 
 144 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 curiosity was again excited by a whispered con- 
 versation, in which the duenna told Sir George 
 of the plot to marry Charles and Isabinda, and 
 asked for his aid in the project. He answered 
 that he would be glad to assist, but had a little 
 matter of marriage on his own hands, which he 
 must get rid of first. 
 
 This was soon accomplished. A half-hour suf- 
 ficed to make Sir George and Miranda one in law, 
 as they were already one in love. They were 
 none too expeditious, as it proved, for the parson 
 had but faii'ly disappeared when Sir Francis 
 entered, declaring that he had been cheated by 
 some rogue ; for he had met his dying friend on 
 the road, alive and well. It was necessary to get 
 him out of the house again, so that Miranda 
 could complete the work of obtaining the papers 
 relating to her estate. To do this she pretended 
 that Mrs. Patch had been sent to invite him to 
 her lady's wedding, and slily hinted that possibly 
 the sight of the happy couple might tempt her to 
 make some one else happy. This was enough for 
 the uxorious old rogue. He set off in haste, under 
 Patch's guidance, leaving Miranda to complete 
 her task. 
 
 Meanwhile affairs were proceeding favorably 
 at the house of Sir Jealous. Sir George bad made 
 all haste from his own marriage to aid in that of 
 his friend, and accompanied the seeming Spaniard 
 to the merchant's house, where Charles, speaking 
 good Castilian, offered a letter of introduction,
 
 THE BUSYBODY. 145 
 
 which Sir Jealous read with great satisfaction. 
 Sir George, who had assumed the name of Mean- 
 well, stated that his correspondent wished the 
 marriage to be performed at once, as he did not 
 care to expose his susceptible son to the attractions 
 of the English beauties. 
 
 This project fitted very well with the humor of 
 the suspicious parent. But one thing remained to 
 be done, he said. Where were the five thousand 
 crowns which had been promised as a marriage 
 dowry on Don Pedro's part ? Here was an un- 
 looked-for dilemma which sadly puzzled the con- 
 spirators. Sir George hesitated and stammered, 
 " that money was dangerous to send by sea, and 
 and " 
 
 " Zounds, say we have brought it in commodi- 
 ties," whispered Charles. 
 
 "And so," continued Sir George, taking the 
 cue, " he has sent it in merchandise j tobacco, 
 sugar, spices, lemons, and so forth, which can be 
 readily turned into money. In the mean time, 
 if you will accept my bond " 
 
 " Say no more," exclaimed Sir Jealous. " I 
 like Signor Diego's face and your name, and will 
 take your word. My daughter shall be brought this 
 moment, and the chaplain be sent for immediately." 
 
 The bringing of Isabinda, however, was not an 
 easy task. Her lover had had no opportunity to 
 acquaint her with his plot, and, thinking that she 
 was really to be married to the Spanish suitor, 
 she resisted and begged for mercy, till in the end 
 YOL. I. a k 13
 
 146 TALES PROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 Sir George told the father that he was too harsh, 
 and asked that he might try and persuade her. 
 
 The effect of his persuasions was miraculous. A 
 minute's whispered conversation so changed the 
 young lady's humor that he had to caution her not 
 to be too hasty or she would spoil all. What he had 
 whispered was, that if she would look upon the 
 Spaniard she would see one whom she loved dearly. 
 
 " She begins to hear reason," said Sir George. 
 " The fear of being turned out of doors has done it. 
 Speak to her gently, sir, and I'm sure she'll yield." 
 
 Sir Jealous now tried this plan, and found his 
 daughter surprisingly tractable. He gave her 
 hand to Charles just as the servant announced 
 that the parson had arrived. All, so far, was 
 going well, and they proceeded in high good 
 humor to the parlor, where the ceremony was to 
 be performed. But at this critical juncture the 
 unhappy genius of Marplot again threatened to 
 spoil all. 
 
 That busybody had got on the track of this 
 new secret, and by active inquiry had learned 
 that Charles had hired a Spanish dress. Seeing 
 Whisper near the house of Sir Jealous, he fancied 
 that his secretive friend had returned to this 
 dangerous locality. To resolve this doubt he 
 questioned Thomas, one of the servants of the 
 house, asking if a gentleman dressed in a Spanish 
 habit was within. 
 
 " There's a Spanish gentleman just going to 
 marry our young lady, sir."
 
 THE BUSYBODY. 147 
 
 " Are you sure he is Spanish ?" 
 
 " Yes, sir ; he speaks no English." 
 
 " Then it is not him I want. It is an English 
 gentleman, in a Spanish dress, whom I am seek- 
 ing." 
 
 " Ah !" said Thomas to himself. " Can this be 
 an impostor ? I'll inform my master. Come in, 
 sir, and see if it is the person you seek." 
 
 Lead on, I'll follow you." 
 
 There was soon an abundance of mischief 
 afloat. Sir Jealous was called by Thomas from 
 the parlor and informed of Marplot's errand, and 
 it took that meddlesome individual no long time 
 to convince the suspicious merchant that there 
 was something wrong. 
 
 " Is there a trick here ?" he exclaimed. " Is 
 this truly Don Diego? My heart misgives me 
 sorely. Within there stop the marriage run, 
 Thomas, and call all my servants ! On my life, 
 I'll be satisfied that this is Don Pedro's son, 
 before he has my daughter." 
 
 This outcry brought Sir George into the room, 
 sword in hand. 
 
 "What's the matter here?" he asked. "Ha! 
 Marplot here, that unlucky dog !" 
 
 " Upon my soul, Sir George " began Mar- 
 plot. 
 
 " Sir George ! Then I am betrayed !" yelled the 
 merchant. " Thieves I traitors ! stop the mar- 
 riage, I say " 
 
 "And I say, go on, Mr. Tackum," cried Sir
 
 148 TALES PROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 George, as he interposed, with drawn sword. " I 
 guard this passage, old gentleman. Stand back, 
 dogs, or I'll prick your jackets for you!" he ex- 
 claimed, as the servants entered. 
 
 " On him, sirrahs ! I'll settle for this one," and 
 the old man fell upon Marplot with his cane. 
 
 At this moment Charles and Isabinda entered, 
 hand in hand. 
 
 " Seize her !" cried the enraged father. 
 
 " Touch her if you dare !" exclaimed Charles, 
 fiercely. " She's my wife, and I'll make dog's 
 meat of the man that lays hands on her." 
 
 " Ah ! downright English !" groaned Sir Jealous. 
 
 As he spoke, the outer door opened, and Sir 
 Francis, Miranda, and Mrs. Patch entered the 
 room, Sir Francis with words of congratulation. 
 
 To his utter surprise, he found himself assailed 
 bitterly by Sir Jealous, who accused him of hav- 
 ing laid a plot to trick him out of his daughter. 
 This was followed by a demand to know what he 
 would give his son to maintain his new wife on. 
 
 " Trick you !" cried Sir Francis. " Egad, I 
 think you designed to trick me ! Look you, gen- 
 tlemen, I fancy I shall trick you both. Not a 
 penny of my money shall this beggar handle. All 
 my estate shall descend to the children of the 
 lady you see here." 
 
 " I shall be extremely obliged to you for that," 
 said Sir George. 
 
 "Hold, sir, you have nothing to say to this 
 lady," exclaimed Sir Francis, testily.
 
 THE BUSYBODY. 149 
 
 "And you nothing to my wife," answered Sir 
 George, as he clasped Miranda's hand. 
 
 "Your wife? What means this, mistress? 
 Have you choused me out of my consent ?" 
 
 " Even so, guardian. But it's my first offence, 
 and I hope you'll forgive it." 
 
 " Ha 1 ha ! ha !" laughed Sir Jealous, with a 
 sudden change of humor. " It is some comfort 
 to find that you are overreached as well as my- 
 self. "Will you settle your estate upon your son 
 now?" 
 
 " He shall starve first." 
 
 " Not so, gardy," answered Miranda. " Here, 
 Charles, are the writings of your uncle's estate, 
 which have been your due these three years." 
 
 ""What, have you robbed me, too, mistress? 
 I'll make you restore them, hussy." 
 
 " Take care I don't make you pay the ar- 
 rears," said Sir Jealous. " It is well it's no worse, 
 since it's no better. Come, young man, since you 
 have outwitted me, take her, and bless you 
 both." 
 
 " I hope, sir, you'll bestow your blessing too," 
 said. Charles, kneeling to his father. 
 
 "Do, gardy, and make us happy," pleaded 
 Miranda. 
 
 " Confound you all !" cried Sir Francis, rushing 
 from the room in a rage. 
 
 " Never mind, Charles. He will come all right 
 in the end. "We shall all be happy, since this 
 gentleman forgives you." 
 13*
 
 150 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 " It is my custom to avoid dangers," said Sir 
 Jealous ; " but when a thing is past, I have the 
 philosophy to accept it." 
 
 " And so everybody is happy but poor Pilgar- 
 lick," said Marplot. "What satisfaction shall I 
 have for being cuffed, kicked, and beaten in your 
 services ?" 
 
 " You have been too busy, friend Marplot ; but 
 I'll repay you by making Sir Francis yield you 
 your estate." 
 
 " That will make me as happy as any of you." 
 
 And so, at the request of Sir Jealous, who bad 
 become fully reconciled to the situation, they 
 buried the past in a cheerful glass, and all went 
 merry as a marriage-bell.
 
 THE BEAUX STRATAGEM, 
 
 BY GEOEGE FAKQUHAK. 
 
 [The so-called " dramatists of the Eestoration" 
 form a body of playwrights whose works hold a 
 high position as dramatic literature, but the best 
 of which have lost their hold upon the stage 
 through their immorality. These writers include 
 Dryden, Wycherley, Vanbrugh, Congreve, Far- 
 quhar, Gibber, and Mrs. Centlivre, whose " Busy- 
 body" we have just given. As a dramatist, 
 Dryden was not successful, and none of his many 
 plays have gained a favorable verdict from the 
 critics. The spirited comedies of Wycherley and 
 Congreve, the ablest of these authors, are too 
 deeply immoral for reproduction, while they are 
 lacking in the story element, their strength lying 
 more in witty repartee than in interest of plot. 
 Of all the plays of the period, only those of Mrs. 
 Centlivre and Mr. Farquhar hold, a place on the 
 modern stage. We, therefore, confine our selec- 
 tions to these two dramatists. 
 
 George Farquhar was born in Londonderry, 
 Ireland, in 1678, educated at Trinity College, 
 Dublin, and became an actor on the Dublin stage. 
 
 J61
 
 152 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 He proved an indifferent performer, and left the 
 stage through remorse at having injured a fellow- 
 actor. Seeking London, he obtained a commission 
 in a regiment stationed in Ireland, and in 1698 
 produced his first comedy, " Love and a Bottle." 
 This proved successful, and he continued to write, 
 producing a number of plays, of which two, " The 
 Eecruiting Officer" and "The Beaux Stratagem," 
 were far superior to the others, and are still occa- 
 sionally played. 
 
 Farquhar's life was an unfortunate one. He 
 married a penniless adventuress, supposing her to 
 be rich, fell into pecuniary difficulties, sold his 
 commission, and died poor in 1706 ; his best play, 
 "The Beaux Stratagem," being written during 
 his last illness. It proved highly successful, but 
 while its wit and invention were filling London 
 with laughter, its author lay dying in poverty. 
 
 Farquhar ranks with the best of our comic 
 dramatists, his plays possess much variety of 
 humorous incident, and, while not the equal of 
 some of his contemporaries in wit, he surpasses 
 them in feeling and sentiment. "VYe append tbe 
 dtory of " The Beaux Stratagem."] 
 
 Mr. Aim well and Mr. Archer, two London 
 gentlemen of reduced fortune and slender ex- 
 pectations, had deemed it advisable to leave the 
 capital, with the hope of winning wealth in the 
 provinces. In this enterprise, not having money 
 enough to support them both as gentlemen, or to
 
 THE BEAUX STRATAGEM. 153 
 
 provide servants, they decided to pursue their 
 journey in the capacity of master and servant, 
 under the following arrangement. Aim well was 
 to act as master at their first stopping-place, 
 Archer at the second, and so on alternately ; it 
 being understood that they should equally divide 
 the profits of their enterprise, whether these 
 profits came from the winning of a rich wife or 
 from some other source. 
 
 In due time they reached the town of Lich- 
 field, where it fell to the lot of Aimwell to act as 
 master and of Archer as servant. Here they 
 stopped at an inn kept by one Bonniface, which 
 Aimwell entered in rich attire and with an impor- 
 tant manner, while Archer followed in the dress 
 of a valet, and carrying a portmanteau. 
 
 " There, set down the things," ordered Aim- 
 well. " Go to the stable and see that my horses 
 are well cared for." 
 
 " I shall, sir," answered Archer, respectfully, 
 leaving the room. 
 
 After he had gone, Aimwell entered into a con- 
 versation with Bonniface, in which he led him 
 cunningly from praise of his ale to information con- 
 cerning the rich families of the vicinity. In this 
 way he learned that the most important of the 
 neighboring people of estate was a rich old widow 
 named Lady Bountiful, who spent half her 
 income in charity, and was so expert in medicine 
 that she cured more people within ten years than 
 the doctors killed in twenty.
 
 154 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 This charitable widow had two children ; a son 
 by her first husband, Squire Sullen ; and a daugh- 
 ter by her second husband, Sir Charles Bountiful. 
 Young Sullen, who had recently married a Lon- 
 don lady of birth and beauty, was a brutal dunce, 
 given to drink and tobacco, and shamefully neg- 
 lecting and ill-treating his youthful wife. The 
 daughter, Dorinda, was still unmarried ; " the 
 finest woman and the greatest fortune in the 
 county," said the inn-keeper. 
 
 This, and much other information, was given 
 by Bonniface to his guest, though he took good 
 care not to tell him all that he might have said, 
 namely, that his inn was a haunt of highway- 
 men, of whom he and his daughter Cherry were 
 accomplices. 
 
 After getting rid of the landlord, Aimwell and 
 Archer had a private conversation, in which they 
 considered their means and plans. They had 
 remaining of their stock in trade two hundred 
 pounds in money, together with a good outfit in 
 horses, clothes, rings, etc. With this supply they 
 hoped to gain ten times as much. They decided 
 that, if they should fail at Litchfield, their next 
 stop would be at Nottingham, where Archer 
 should play master and Aimwell servant. They 
 would reverse again at Lincoln, and again at 
 Norwich. ' If by that time Venus or Plutus still 
 failed them, they decided to embark for Holland, 
 and try their fortune with Mars, by joining the 
 army there.
 
 THE BEAUX STRATAGEM. 155 
 
 Their conference ended, Aimwell gave in charge 
 to the landlord the strong box containing their 
 money, saying: "Your house is so full of 
 strangers that I believe this will be safer in your 
 custody than in mine ; for when this fellow of 
 mine gets drunk he minds nothing. The box 
 contains a little over two hundred pounds ; if you 
 doubt this, I'll count it to you after supper. Be 
 sure you lay it where I may have it at a minute's 
 warning, for my affairs are a little dubious at 
 present, and I may have to be gone in half an 
 hour. Order your hostler to keep my horses 
 ready saddled ; and, above all, keep this fellow 
 from drink, for he is the most insufferable sot. 
 Here, sirrah, light me to my chamber." 
 
 After the two had gone, Bonniface called his 
 daughter Cherry and gave the strong box into 
 her charge, telling her of his guest's orders to 
 keep his horses ready saddled, since he might 
 have to set out at a minute's warning. 
 
 " Ten to one, then, he is a highwayman !" ex- 
 claimed the daughter. 
 
 " A highwayman ? On my life, girl, you have 
 hit it ! This box holds his last booty. If we can 
 find him out, the money is ours." 
 
 " He don't belong to our gang," said Cherry. 
 
 " What horses have they ?" 
 
 " The master rides a black." 
 
 " A black ? As I live, it is the ' man upon the 
 black mare !' Since he don't belong to our fra- 
 ternity, we may betray him with a safe conscience.
 
 156 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 I don't think it lawful to harbor any rogues but 
 my own. But we must have proofs, Cherry. 
 The servant loves drink, and may love women. 
 I'll ply him the one way, and you may the other." 
 
 The latter part of the bargain was one to which 
 Miss Cherry affected to be by no means inclined. 
 Not many minutes elapsed before the counterfeit 
 footman met her, and, attracted by her bright 
 eyes and pretty face, proceeded to make love to 
 her with all the assurance of a London gallant. 
 He found the pretty barmaid, however, far from 
 ready to listen to his advances; she scornfully 
 giving him to understand that she looked higher 
 than to a footman, and disdainfully bidding him 
 to keep to his own sphere, and cease to annoy 
 her with his professions. 
 
 Yet the pretty Cherry was far from being so 
 disdainful at heart as she was in words. She 
 suspected Archer of being more than he seemed, 
 and her susceptible heart was touched more 
 deeply by the ardor of his love-making than she 
 cared to admit. 
 
 Night had fallen while these events were in 
 progress. In the early darkness a new guest rode 
 up to the inn, but by the rear instead of the front, 
 and, having himself stabled his horse, cautiously 
 entered. He was a dark-skinned, black-whiskered 
 man, his face half hidden by a high collar and a 
 slouched hat. 
 
 "Landlord," he called, looking around him 
 heedfully, "is the coast clear?"
 
 THE BEAUX STRATAGEM. 157 
 
 "Is it you, Mr. Gibbet?" asked Bonniface. 
 What's the news ?" 
 
 "Ask no questions. Here, my dear Cherry." 
 He gave her a bag. "Two hundred sterling 
 pounds. Lay them with the rest. And here are 
 some other trifles ; a diamond necklace ; a gold 
 watch ; two silver-hilted swords : I took them 
 from fellows who never show any part of their 
 sword but the hilt." 
 
 "Hark ye, where's Hounslow and Bagshot?" 
 asked Bonniface. 
 
 They'll be here to-night." 
 
 " Do you know of any other gentlemen of the 
 pad on this road ?" 
 
 No." 
 
 "I fancy that I have two that lodge in the 
 house just now." 
 
 " Aha ! what marks have they of the trade ?" 
 
 " The one talks of going to church." 
 
 " That's suspicious, I confess." 
 
 "The other pretends to be a servant. We'll 
 call him out and pump him." 
 
 "With all my heart," answered Gibbet. 
 
 Archer, or Martin, as he had called himself, 
 proved rather a dry well to the pumping of these 
 worthies. He came forward singing, as he combed 
 a periwig; and he answered all inconvenient 
 questions with a stave of song. 
 
 " Whose servant are you, friend ?" asked Gibbet. 
 
 " My master's." 
 
 " But pray, sir, what is your master's name ?" 
 14
 
 158 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 "Name, sir? Tall-le-dall ! This is the most 
 
 obstinate curl." 
 
 " Yes, his name." 
 
 " Tall-lal-lal ! I never asked him his name in 
 my life." 
 
 " Pray, then, which way does he travel ?" 
 
 " On horseback." 
 
 " Upwards or downwards, I mean ?" 
 
 " Downwards, I fear. Tall-lal-le-dal," and Mas- 
 ter Martin combed on with provoking ease. 
 
 "What think you now?" asked Bonniface, 
 privately, of Gibbet. 
 
 " Old offenders. He could not be more cautious 
 before a judge." 
 
 After his questioners had left him, Archer stood 
 laughing to himself over their discomfiture, but 
 greatly puzzled to know their purpose. Bonni- 
 face had addressed Gibbet with the title of cap- 
 tain, but the shrewd Londoner was not so easily 
 deceived. 
 
 As he stood lazily combing the periwig and 
 deeply cogitating, Cherry returned, quite ready 
 in her heart to tell him the secret of the inn if 
 in return she could gain his love. A few questions 
 satisfied her that he did not suspect the profession 
 of the mock captain, and that she might have 
 the merit of the discovery for her own. A lively 
 chat followed, at the end of which Cherry laugh- 
 ingly told her would-be lover that he might as 
 well give up his play of footman, since his lan- 
 guage and dress were in the plainest contradiction.
 
 THE BEAUX STKATAQEM. 159 
 
 Thus cornered, the cunning fellow confessed, in 
 part, the truth ; admitting that he had been born 
 a gentleman, but was reduced by necessity to the 
 position of servant. 
 
 " Take my hand, then," said Cherry. " Promise 
 to marry me before you sleep, and I'll make you 
 master of two thousand pounds." 
 
 " How, two thousand pounds ! But an inn- 
 keeper's daughter ! In faith I " 
 
 " Then you won't marry me ?" 
 
 I would, but " 
 
 " Oh, sweet sir, you're fairly caught," laughed 
 Cherry. " Don't tell me that any gentleman who 
 would bear the scandal of wearing a livery would 
 refuse two thousand pounds, even under harder 
 conditions than I offer. No, no, sir. I see that 
 your play of servant is but a farce." 
 
 " Fairly bit, by Jupiter ! But have you actu- 
 ally two thousand pounds ?" 
 
 " I have my secrets as well as you. When you 
 are more open I shall be more free. Don't fear 
 that I will do anything to hurt you, but beware 
 of my father." With this mysterious warning she 
 left the room. 
 
 " So," said Archer, " we are likely to have as 
 many adventures in our inn as Don Quixote 
 had in his. Let me see, two thousand pounds. 
 If she would only promise to die when the money 
 was spent. But an inn-keeper's daughter ! Ay, 
 there's the rub ; my pride won't stomach that." 
 
 Leaving him to decide this difficult question, we
 
 160 TALES FKOM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 must betake ourselve to another locality, the house 
 of Lady Bountiful. Here we find Mrs. Sullen 
 pouring into the ears of her sister-in-law Dorinda 
 bitter complaints against her stupid and brutish 
 husband. She would apply for a divorce, she de- 
 clared, but had no cause of complaint that would 
 hold good in a court of law. She went on to say 
 that if she had him in London she might provoke 
 him to love by rousing his jealousy ; but in the 
 country, even this resource was wanting. 
 
 "I fear," replied Doriuda, "that there is a 
 natural aversion on his side ; and, if the truth 
 were known, you don't come far behind him." 
 
 " I own it ; we are united contradictions, fire and 
 water. But if I could bring the man even to dis- 
 semble a little kindness, I should be more content." 
 
 " Take care, sister. In seeking to rouse him to 
 counterfeit kindness, you might awake him to a 
 real fury." 
 
 " What then ? Anything would be better than 
 to have him a stupid log, as he is now. I want 
 your aid, sister. The French count, Bellair, is to 
 dine here to-day. I have devised a little farce, 
 which I hope may not end in a tragedy. I shall 
 lead the count on to make love to me. You must 
 post my husband where he can hear it all. If the 
 man has a grain of natural feeling in him this 
 must stir him up to something." 
 
 "To bloodletting, maybe," answered Dorinda. 
 " I don't like your plot, nor your count either, 
 for that matter."
 
 THE BEAUX STRATAGEM. 161 
 
 " You like nothing, girl, in the form of a man. 
 Your time has not come yet. Love and death 
 are alike : their time to strike home is sure to 
 arrive. You'll pay for all this one day. But 
 come, sister, it is almost time for church." 
 
 Little did Dorinda imagine that the time for 
 love, of which Mrs. Sullen had spoken, would 
 come that very day, and that her fate awaited 
 her in the church to which she was now pre- 
 paring to go. 
 
 For Aimwell, in his purpose of marrying an 
 heiress, had conceived the idea that a country 
 church was just the place to begin his campaign. 
 
 " The appearance of a stranger in a country 
 church draws as many gazers as a blazing star," 
 he said. " A train of whispers runs buzzing 
 round the congregation: 'Who is he? Whence 
 comes he ? Do you know him ?' Then I tip the 
 verger half a crown. He leads me to the best 
 pew in the church. I pull out my snuff-box, 
 turn myself around, bow to the bishop or the 
 dean, single out a beauty, rivet both eyes on her, 
 and show the whole church my concern by my 
 endeavor to hide it. After the sermon, the whole 
 town gives me to her for a lover, and by per- 
 suading the lady that I am dying for her, the 
 tables are turned, and she in good earnest falls in 
 love with me." 
 
 " Instead of riveting your eyes on a beauty, 
 try to fix them on a fortune. That's our busi- 
 ness at present," warned Archer. 
 VOL. I. l 14*
 
 162 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 " Pshaw, no woman can be a beauty without a 
 fortune. Let me alone to aim at the right target." 
 
 Aimwell proved correct in his opinion of his 
 own judgment, for he selected an heiress in the 
 beauty to whom he devoted his attention during 
 that day's church service. Dorinda Bountiful 
 was the goal of his earnest and languishing looks ; 
 and as for her, she did not wait for the town's 
 opinion to form her own, but left the church with 
 a palpitating heart, and a fancy warmly set upon 
 the handsome stranger who had gazed upon her 
 so devotedly. 
 
 Her fate, indeed, had come to her at last, as 
 she admitted to Mrs. Sullen, after the latter had 
 shrewdly questioned her. The hitherto cold- 
 hearted lady had fallen deeply and desperately 
 in love, and was but fairly home from church 
 when she sent Scrub, .Mr. Sullen's servant, to 
 try and learn who the gentleman was. Scrub 
 returned in due time, with a reply that was not 
 very satisfactory. Nobody knew who the stranger 
 was or where he came from, and about all he had 
 been able to learn was, that the footman dressed 
 almost like a gentleman, and talked French glibly 
 with Count Bellair's servants. 
 
 " "VVe have a great mind to know who this 
 gentleman is, only for our satisfaction," said 
 Dorinda. "You must go, Scrub, and invite his 
 footman hither to drink a bottle of your ale. We 
 will drop in by accident and ask the fellow some 
 questions."
 
 THE BEAUX STRATAGEM. 163 
 
 "Well devised," said Mrs. Sullen. "Here in 
 the country any stranger is company, and if we 
 cannot learn what we would directly, we must 
 indirectly. Go, Scrub, do as you are told." 
 
 Cupid, in the present instance, had done his 
 work better than to waste his only arrow upon 
 the lady. He had reserved one for the gentle- 
 man ; and though Aimwell was too old a lover to 
 be wounded at first sight so deeply as Dorinda, 
 his heart had not escaped, and his looks at 
 church had in them something warmer than cold- 
 blooded interest. As he and Archer were talk- 
 ing over the matter, a message came from Scrub 
 to the latter, desiring that his honor would go 
 home with him and taste his ale. 
 
 "Aha! my turn comes now!" cried Archer, 
 gayly. " You say there's another very handsome 
 lady in that house ?" 
 
 " Yes, faith." 
 
 " Then I'm in love with her already." 
 
 " But what becomes of Cherry?" 
 
 " Cherry must wait until she grows riper." 
 
 Archer was not long in finding his way to the 
 pantiy of Scrub the butler, where they sampled 
 the Bountiful ale together till both of them had 
 rather more than was good for them. The shrewd 
 Archer, however, was not so tipsy as he pretended 
 to be. It was his purpose to extract from Scrub 
 all the secrets of the family, which he fairly suc- 
 ceeded in doing, so far as the loose-tongued butler 
 was acquainted with them. In return, he gave
 
 164 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 Scrub a piece of news of his own invention, viz. : 
 that his master was really the Lord Viscount Aim- 
 well, who had recently fought a duel in London 
 and dangerously wounded his opponent ; and that 
 he was here now in hiding till he should learn 
 whether the man had died or not. 
 
 This interesting piece of invented information 
 was not long in reaching the ladies. G-ipsey, their 
 maid, had listened to the conversation between 
 the butler and his visitor ; and on hearing this 
 imaginary news, she made all haste to retail it to 
 her mistresses, much to their satisfaction. 
 
 "I have heard of Lord Aim well," said Mrs. 
 Sullen; "but they say his brother is the finer 
 gentleman." 
 
 " That is impossible, sister," answered Dorinda. 
 
 " At any rate, they say he is very rich and very 
 close." 
 
 " No matter for that, if I can creep into his 
 heart I'll open his pocket, I warrant him. I wish 
 we could talk with this fellow." 
 
 "So do I. Let us try it; I see no harm in 
 it." 
 
 There was more harm in it for Mrs. Sullen than 
 she dreamed of, for in the conversation with the 
 two servants that followed, there was something 
 in Archer's manner and style of talk that seemed 
 to her above his station, and much in his form 
 and face that touched her susceptible heart. This 
 favorable impression was added to by a song 
 which he gave them at Scrub's suggestion ; and
 
 THE BEAUX STRATAGEM. 165 
 
 it reached its climax' in his refusal to take some 
 money which she offered him. 
 
 " Did you ever see so pretty a well-bred fellow ?" 
 asked Dorinda, after Archer had left them. " I 
 doubt if he is a servant. He may be some 
 gentleman, my lord's friend, perhaps his second, 
 who has chosen to keep him company in this dress 
 to complete the disguise." 
 
 "It is, it must be, and it shall be so !" exclaimed 
 Mrs. Sullen ; " for I like him." 
 
 " What ! better than the count ?" 
 
 " The count will do very well to serve me in 
 my design on my husband. But I should like 
 this fellow better in a design on myself." 
 
 " But now, sister," said Doriuda, " for an inter- 
 view with this lord and this gentleman : how shall 
 we bring it about ?" 
 
 "Leave that to them. If Lord Aim well loves 
 or deserves you, he'll find a way to see you. My 
 business comes first in order. Have you prepared 
 your brother for my assault upon his jealousy ?" 
 
 " Yes ; and the count is at hand. Look you do 
 it neatly." 
 
 The project referred to was the one we have 
 already mentioned, by which Mrs. Sullen hoped 
 to rouse the jealous anger of her husband. In 
 pursuance of this plot, Dorinda had advised her 
 brother to pretend that he would be out late, and 
 then to slip round and hide himself in the closet, 
 where he would hear something to surprise 
 him. This he did, and was but fairly in the
 
 166 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 closet when Count Bellair appeared in the room 
 in company with Mrs. Sullen, to whom he pro- 
 ceeded to make love with all the ardor of his 
 French descent. 
 
 They were interrupted by the husband, who 
 broke from his closet pretending to be in a violent 
 rage. Yet his manner showed such lack of real 
 warmth and passion that it was evident the design 
 had failed. The man was too dull to be roused 
 either to rage or jealousy ; or had so little love 
 for his wife that he cared not who might replace 
 him in her affections. 
 
 The poor woman was so vexed by the failure 
 of her deep-laid scheme that she vented some of 
 her displeasure on her unconscious accomplice, 
 telling the count that she had only been amusing 
 herself with him, and that she herself had ar- 
 ranged that her husband should be in the closet. 
 
 "And so, madam," exclaimed the enraged 
 Frenchman, "while I was telling you twenty 
 stories to part you from your husband, begar, 
 I was bringing you together all the while." 
 
 " I ask your pardon, count ; but I hope this will 
 give you a taste of the virtue of the English ladies." 
 
 " Begar, madam, their virtue may be vera great ; 
 but, garzoon, their honesty be vera little," and 
 the count took himself away in a rage. 
 
 While this plot of the ladies was in process of 
 execution, a stratagem was being devised by the 
 gentlemen that was likely to prove more success- 
 ful. Mrs. Sullen had advised Dorinda to leave
 
 THE BEAUX STRATAGEM. 167 
 
 Lord Aimwell alone ; if he loved her he would 
 find a way to see her. She was right, though as 
 yet the movements of the adventurers were gov- 
 erned more by interest than love. At a late hour 
 of that day, while Lady Bountiful was prescribing 
 for the ailments of a sick countryman, and Mrs. 
 Sullen laughing at her rustic cure-all remedies, 
 Dorinda rushed up to them in a state of high ex- 
 citement, closely followed by Archer, who eagerly 
 asked for Lady Bountiful. He proceeded to beg 
 for the goodness and skill of the old lady in favor 
 of his poor master, who he feared was on the point 
 of death. 
 
 " Your master ! where is he ?" 
 
 " At your gate, madam. Drawn by the appear- 
 ance of your handsome house, he walked up the 
 avenue to view it nearer, when he was suddenly 
 taken ill with I know not what. Down on the 
 cold ground he fell, and there he lies." 
 
 He could have said nothing more likely to rouse 
 Lady Bountiful' s sympathy. The servants were 
 hastily called, and the whole house was soon fly- 
 ing to Aimwell's assistance, with the exception of 
 Dorinda, who was kept motionless by agitation, 
 and of Mrs. Sullen, who was held still by suspicion. 
 
 " Oh, sister !" exclaimed Dorinda, " my heart 
 flutters so strangely ! I can hardly forbear run- 
 ning to his assistance." 
 
 " I'll lay my life he desires your assistance more 
 than he deserves it," answered Mrs. Sullen. " Did 
 not I tell you that my lord would find a way to
 
 168 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 come to you ? Love is his distemper, and you 
 must be the physician." 
 
 Mrs. Sullen had guessed correctly ; the illness 
 was a stratagem to obtain admittance to the 
 house ; yet Aimwell played his part of sick man 
 very neatly. He seemed quite insensible as they 
 carried him in a chair to the house, his eyes being 
 closed and his hands clinched. But when Do- 
 rinda, at Archer's suggestion, took his hand and 
 sought to open it, he caught her hand in his grasp 
 and squeezed it unmercifully ; much to the sur- 
 prise of Lady Bountiful, who opened the other 
 hand with ease. 
 
 To the anxious inquiries of the benevolent old 
 lady, Archer replied that his master had been first 
 taken ill that morning at church, where something 
 affected him through the eyes, with such strange 
 severity that he had not yet recovered from it. 
 Whether it was pain or pleasure he could not say. 
 
 While the shrewd fellow was describing this 
 affection in a way that made Dorinda's heart beat 
 strangely, Aimwell seemed to recover. Opening 
 his eyes, he gazed about him in amazement, affect- 
 ing to believe that he had died and was now in 
 Elysium. He kneeled to Dorinda and kissed her 
 hand, addressing her as Proserpine. 
 
 " Delirious, poor gentleman !" exclaimed Lady 
 Bountiful. 
 
 " Yery delirious, madam," said Archer. 
 
 "Martin's voice? here?" exclaimed Aimwell, 
 looking round with a show of surprise.
 
 THE BEAUX STRATAGEM. 169 
 
 "Here on earth, my lord. How does your 
 lordship ?" 
 
 "Lord? Do you hear that, girls?" said Lady 
 Bountiful, in an aside to her daughters. 
 
 " Where am I ?" asked Aimwell. 
 
 "In very good hands, sir. You were taken 
 with one of your old fits, near this benevolent 
 lady's house, and she has miraculously brought 
 you back to your old self, sir." 
 
 Aimwell professed to be greatly ashamed to 
 have given them such trouble, gave Archer two 
 guineas for the servants, and declared that he 
 must instantly leave, a purpose to which Lady 
 Bountiful would not listen. The cold air, she 
 said, would surely cause a relapse. She insisted 
 on his drinking a glass of her favorite healing 
 cordial, and then advised him to walk about and 
 see the house, which the young ladies would take 
 pleasure in showing. He would see some tolerably 
 good pictures. 
 
 "Ladies, shall I beg leave for my servant to 
 wait on you ?" asked Aimwell. " He understands 
 pictures very well." 
 
 " We understand originals as well as he does 
 pictures," answered Mrs. Sullen ; " so he may come 
 along." 
 
 This walk through the house, which the con- 
 federates had so cunningly led up to, completed 
 the conquest. Leaving Mrs. Sullen to the care 
 of Archer, Aimwell wandered off alone with 
 Dorinda, and made love to her with a warmth 
 H 15
 
 170 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 that was far from counterfeit, and which quite 
 placed her heart in his keeping. 
 
 Meanwhile Archer was assailing the heart of 
 Mrs. Sullen with little less ardor, and quite as 
 much success. The poor woman bewailed to 
 herself her sad lot, in being tied to a brute when 
 she might have won the love of a man like this, 
 and burst into tears afterwards when Dorinda 
 warmly confessed her happiness in Aimwell's 
 love. 
 
 " Your angel has been watchful for your happi- 
 ness," sobbed the poor wife, " while mine has slept 
 regardless of his charge. Long smiling years of 
 joy for you, but not one hour for me." 
 
 " Come, my dear, let us talk of something else." 
 
 " I can think of nothing else," said Mrs. Sullen, 
 her eyes still wet. "To be tied for life to a dull 
 brute like that ! But I expect my brother here 
 to-night or to-morrow. He was abroad when my 
 father married me to this log. Perhaps he may 
 find a way to rid me of my burden." 
 
 " I hope to heaven he may," answered Dorinda. 
 
 This hope was nearer realization than the 
 speaker had any idea of. Eventful as that day 
 had been, the night was destined to be as fruitful 
 of events. In the first place, Bonniface, the 
 scoundrelly inn-keeper, had arranged with Gibbet 
 and his companions to rob Lady Bountiful's 
 house, and they awaited the midnight hour to 
 put their scheme in execution. In the second 
 place, Count Bellair, still angry at Mrs. Sullen for
 
 THE BEAUX STRATAGEM. 171 
 
 the trick she had played on him, determined to 
 have an opportunity at love-making in the 
 absence of her husband, and bribed her maid 
 Gipsey to aid him in playing the part which 
 Sullen had played, that of being concealed in a 
 closet. This scheme, however, came to the knowl- 
 edge of Archer, and he contrived to get intro- 
 duced into the house in place of the count, with 
 the double purpose of discomfiting the French- 
 man, and gaining another opportunity to make 
 love to the lady, who had made almost as deep 
 an impression upon his heart as Dorinda had upon 
 that of his companion. 
 
 Nor was this the whole of the complication. 
 Sir Charles Freeman, the brother whom Mrs. 
 Sullen expected, made his appearance at a late 
 hour of the evening, in a coach and six, at Bonni- 
 face's inn. Here he asked questions about Mr. 
 Sullen's family, and found that the young squire 
 himself was then at the inn, engaged in deep 
 potations with a constable, a barber, and various 
 other of the same sort of boon companions. 
 
 "I find my sister's letters gave me the true 
 picture of her spouse," said Sir Charles, in dis- 
 gust, after having requested an interview with 
 the squire. 
 
 As he stood there Sullen entered, and a conver- 
 sation ensued, in which the sot declared without 
 hesitation his dislike for his wife. 
 
 " Why don't you part with her, then ?" asked 
 Sir Charles.
 
 172 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 " Will you take her off my hands ?" 
 
 "With all my heart." 
 
 "Then you shall have her to-morrow, and a 
 venison pasty into the bargain," declared Sullen. 
 
 " You'll let me have her fortune, too ?" 
 
 " Fortune ! Why, sir, I have no quarrel with 
 her fortune. I only hate the woman, and none 
 but the woman shall go." 
 
 While this conference was being held in the 
 tap-room, one of a different character was taking 
 place in another part of the house. Cherry 
 knocked at Aimwell's door, and when he appeared, 
 told him, in an agitated manner, of the projected 
 burglary, saying that the gang of rogues had set 
 out to rob Lady Bountiful's house. 
 
 She had sought his servant Martin to tell him, 
 but could not find him anywhere about the inn. 
 
 " No matter about him, child. Will you guide 
 me to this lady's house ?" 
 
 " With all my heart, sir. My Lady Bountiful 
 is my godmother, and 1 love Miss Dorinda so 
 well " 
 
 "Dorinda! The name inspires me, the glory 
 and danger shall all be my own. Come, let me 
 but get my sword ; then lead on." 
 
 The alarm was given none too soon. The burg- 
 lars were in the house before Aimwell got there. 
 Bonniface had assured them that they would find 
 none but women in the place, with the exception 
 of Scrub, who was an arrant coward, and that 
 the plate and money to be found would make
 
 THE BEAUX STRATAGEM. 173 
 
 them all rich. In this he calculated in ignorance 
 of the fact. Archer, unknown to the villanous 
 landlord, was concealed in the house, in the closet 
 which the Frenchman had intended to occupy, 
 and was brought in haste from his place of con- 
 cealment by Scrub, who rushed into the room 
 with a frightened ejaculation of "Thieves! 
 murder! robbery!" 
 
 " What ails you, fool ?" exclaimed Archer, 
 shaking him violently. 
 
 " Oh, pray, sir, spare all I have, and take my 
 life !" cried Scrub, kneeling. 
 
 " What has happened ? What does the fellow 
 mean ?" asked Mrs. Sullen, who was in the room 
 on Scrub's entrance. 
 
 "Thieves have broken into the house!" ex- 
 claimed the scared butler. " This is one of them ! 
 We shall be all robbed and murdered !" 
 
 " Hold your tongue, idiot !" cried Archer, sternly. 
 " Don't you know me ? Ha ! I see a dark lantern 
 in the gallery ! Can you face the fellow, madam ? 
 Scrub and I will hide, and leap upon him un- 
 awares." 
 
 " Yes. Hide quickly." 
 
 Hardly had the two men disappeared when 
 Gibbet, the highwayman, entered the room, pistol 
 and dark lantern in hand, and threatened to shoot 
 the lady through the head if she should make a 
 noise. Laying his lantern and pistol on the table, 
 he proceeded to despoil her of her rings and neck- 
 lace, and then demanded her keys. 
 15*
 
 174 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 While he was thus employed, Archer slipped 
 forward, seized the pistol, and then, catching the 
 villain by the collar, tripped up his heels and laid 
 him flat on his back. He held the pistol to his 
 breast. 
 
 " Don't kill me, sir," prayed Gibbet, frightened 
 by Archer's stern looks. 
 
 " How many are there of them, Scrub ?" 
 
 " Five and forty, sir." 
 
 " Then I must kill this one, to have him out of 
 the way." 
 
 " Hold, sir ; on my honor there are but three of 
 us," protested Gibbet. 
 
 " Come, rogue, if you have a short prayer, say 
 it." 
 
 " Pray, sir, don't kill him !" pleaded Mrs. Sullen. 
 " You scare me as much as him." 
 
 Scrub, who had run hastily out, at this moment 
 returned with Foigard, an Irish priest, who was 
 connected with Count Bellair, and who happened 
 to be in the house. 
 
 " Here, then ; I suppose Scrub and Dr. Foigard 
 can manage this one. Take him into the cellar 
 and bind him. Here is the pistol ; if he offers to 
 resist shoot him through the head, and come back 
 to me as soon as you can." 
 
 They did as ordered, and Archer was about to 
 speak to Mrs. Sullen, when loud shrieks came 
 from the other part of the house. 
 
 "Ha!" he cried, "the rogues are at work with 
 the other ladies. I'm vexed I parted with the
 
 THE BEAUX STRATAGEM. 175 
 
 pistol. But I must fly to their aid. Will you 
 stay here, madam ?" 
 
 " Oh, no, dear sir," she cried, seizing his arm 
 nervously. " I will not let you leave me." 
 
 On reaching the other part of the house, they 
 beheld the remaining two rogues, with drawn 
 swords, dragging Lady Bountiful and Dorindafrom 
 their rooms, and loudly demanding their keys and 
 jewels. Before Archer could reach the spot, 
 however, Aimwell made his appearance, sword in 
 hand, and fiercely engaged the scoundels, who re- 
 leased the ladies and turned upon him. 
 
 " Oh, had I but a sword to help this brave man t" 
 exclaimed Dorinda. 
 
 " I have one, madam," said Archer. " Hold, my 
 lord; every man his bird." And he rushed to 
 Aimwell's aid. 
 
 The two friends fought with such skill and 
 resolution that in a very few minutes the rogues 
 were disarmed and hurled to the floor. 
 
 " Shall we kill them ?" asked Archer. 
 
 " No ; we'll bind them," said Aimwell. 
 
 This was soon done, with a rope which the vil- 
 lains had themselves brought. By the time they 
 were secured, Scrub reappeared, with a great show 
 of resolution. 
 
 " Well, Scrub, have you secured your Tartar ?" 
 asked Archer. 
 
 " Yes, sir, and I left the priest and him disput- 
 ing about religion." 
 
 "Then carry off these gentlemen to reap the
 
 176 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 benefit of the controversy," said Aimwell, deliv- 
 ering his prisoners to the butler. 
 
 " Now is your time," said Archer to Aimwell. 
 while the ladies were talking aside. " Press her 
 this minute to marry you, while she continues to 
 worship you as a hero, and the tide of her admira- 
 tion is at high flood. The priest is in the cellar, 
 and will not refuse." 
 
 "How shall I get her away without being 
 observed? Ha! you bleed, Archer! You are 
 hurt !" 
 
 "A scratch. I am glad of it; it will do the 
 business. Can you find me a bandage, Lady 
 Bountiful ? I am wounded." 
 
 A chorus of pitying exclamations followed this 
 statement, and while the old lady ran for lint and 
 ointments, Mrs. Sullen hovered anxiously about 
 him whom her heart admitted as a lover. Aim- 
 well took ready advantage of the opportunity to 
 lead Dorinda away, making ardent love to her as 
 he went. It needed, indeed, few words, while her 
 heart pleaded so strongly in his favor, to induce 
 Dorinda to consent to an immediate marriage 
 with her heroic preserver, as she deemed him. 
 But before yielding a full consent she bade him 
 consider: he knew her not; she scarcely knew 
 herself; there might be much concealed in her 
 which he should learn. 
 
 This honest avowal had an effect different from 
 that which the lady expected. It touched Aim- 
 well's heart, and roused his conscience. In a
 
 THE BEATTX STRATAGEM. 177 
 
 moment of remorse he acknowledged that he, not 
 she, was the counterfeit, that he had deceived her, 
 and was but the penniless brother of the noble- 
 man whose title he had claimed. Yet, if he ex- 
 pected that this avowal would destroy his hopes, 
 he knew not love. Dorinda broke out in a pane- 
 gyric on his honesty, and continued : 
 
 " I was proud, I admit, of your wealth and title, 
 but now am prouder that you lack them, since 
 they leave you such nobility of soul. Now I can 
 show that my love was not based on pride, but is 
 the sterling coinage of the heart." 
 
 Before more words could be said, Gipsey en- 
 tered, and drawing the lady aside, wispered earn- 
 estly with her for a few minutes. 
 
 " Ah ! is it so ?" she said. <: Pray excuse me, 
 Mr. Aimwell. I shall return in a short time." 
 And she walked from the room, without a glance 
 at the lover whom she left in such cruel perplexity. 
 
 As she went out at one door, Archer entered at 
 the other, eager to learn if the marriage ceremony 
 had been performed. On learning that his plan 
 had failed through the inconvenient honesty of 
 his confederate, he grew angry, and declared that 
 their compact was at an end. 
 
 " It was your scheme, Mr. Aimwell ; and you 
 have ruined it. Henceforth I'll seek my fortune 
 by myself. I'd sooner change places with one of 
 the rogues we have bound than stay here to bear 
 the scornful smiles of the proud knight whom I 
 once held as my equal." 
 VOL. I. m
 
 178 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 " Knight ! "What knight ?" 
 
 " Sir Charles Freeman, brother to Mrs. Sullen. 
 He has just arrived. It is a cursed night's work, 
 and I leave you to make the best of it." 
 
 Archer's angry withdrawal was prevented by 
 the hasty entrance of Dorinda, who came forward 
 with a face covered with smiles. 
 
 " Come, my dear lord," she cried. " I fly with 
 impatience to your arms. Bring the priest you 
 spoke of. I am yours." 
 
 " My lord ! No, no, Dorinda, call me not that. 
 I'll marry you gladly, but not as a counterfeit." 
 
 " You shall not, indeed, but as the true Lord 
 Aimwell ; and not in this clandestine manner, but 
 in the face of the whole world." 
 
 " What do you mean ?" demanded Aimwell, in 
 great perplexity. 
 
 " Here is my witness that I speak but the truth." 
 
 As she spoke Sir Charles Freeman and Mrs. 
 Sullen entered. 
 
 " My dear Lord Aimwell, I wish you joy," was 
 Sir Charles's greeting. 
 
 "Of what?" 
 
 " Of your honor and estate. Your brother died 
 the day before I left London. All your friends 
 have written to you to Brussels ; but I am happy 
 to be the first to bring you the news." 
 
 " By Jupiter !" cried Archer, " here is a strange 
 turn in the wheel of fortune. My lord, by our 
 bargain, you owe me five thousand pounds, which 
 is half this lady's fortune."
 
 THE BEAUX STRATAGEM. 179 
 
 " "We'll divide stakes," answered Aimwell. 
 " You may take the whole fortune, or the lady, as 
 you will." 
 
 " How, my lord !" exclaimed Dorinda, startled. 
 " Do I hear aright ?" 
 
 " Trust him, madam," answered Archer ; " he 
 knows very well that I'll take the money. Give 
 you up ! He'd sooner yield his new-born title." 
 
 This happy turn in the tide of events nearly 
 brings our story to a close. Yet there remain 
 some circumstances of importance to our other 
 characters to relate. As they stood conversing, 
 a countryman entered with a box and a letter, in- 
 quiring for " one Martin." The box proved to be 
 that which the two friends had left in the land- 
 lord's hands, and the letter was one from Cherry 
 to Archer, stating that her father had fled, from 
 fear of being informed on by the captive thieves. 
 She had remained behind, and was ready to 
 deliver herself into the hands of her dear Martin, 
 with a much larger sum than was in his strong 
 box. 
 
 " There's a billet-doux for you !" exclaimed 
 Archer. " Come, Aimwell, you must persuade 
 your bride to take Cherry into her service." 
 
 " I shall be glad to do so," said Dorinda. 
 
 "And now, friends all," said Sir Charles, "I 
 have a design in view in which I beg your assist- 
 ance ; no less a one than that of separating my 
 unfortunate sister from her worthless husband." 
 
 " Assist you !" exclaimed Archer. " Shall I
 
 180 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 run the fellow through ? Or can you suggest any 
 more peaceable means ?" 
 
 " The law's blunt end may work better than 
 the sword's sharp point," smiled Sir Charles. " A 
 divorce will serve as well as a duel. I have had 
 a talk with Sullen, and he is quite ready to give 
 her up." 
 
 The event proved as he had stated. Sullen had 
 a native contempt for a respectable woman, which 
 had grown into a dull hatred of his wife, and 
 consented freely to a divorce, while, as for the 
 lady's fortune, Sir Charles succeeded in making 
 him disgorge that also. 
 
 Thus ended that eventful night. What followed 
 might be left to the reader's imagination, but a 
 few words will tell it. The new Lord Aimwell 
 had grown to love Dorinda as deeply as she loved 
 him, and their marriage took place before many 
 days, with great state and ceremony. And not 
 long afterwards, the separation of Mrs. Sullen 
 from her husband being completed by due course 
 of law, Archer led that happy lady to the altar, 
 and the stratagem of the pair of adventurous 
 beaux ended in joy for all concerned.
 
 THE BELLE'S STRATAGEM, 
 
 BY HANNAH COWLEY. 
 
 [" THE Beaux Stratagem" may be fitly followed 
 by " The Belle's Stratagem" of Mrs. Cowley, a 
 work which, while of a lower literary standard, 
 has much dramatic merit, and proved highly suc- 
 cessful as a play. The authoress, whose maiden 
 name was Parkhouse, was born at Tiverton, Eng- 
 land, in 1743, was married to Captain Cowley, an 
 officer of the East India Company, and died in 
 1809. She wrote a considerable number of plays, 
 but is known to-day principally by the lively 
 comedy above named.] 
 
 Mr. Doricourt, senior, had left a large estate 
 to be disposed of in a singular manner. It had 
 been arranged, between him and his friend Mr. 
 Hardy, that a marriage should take place between 
 the son of the former and the daughter of the 
 latter when they came of age. So earnest were 
 the two fathers in this matter that, lest the young 
 people should have other views about matrimony 
 when they grew up, the will declared that if the 
 gentleman declined the marriage, the estate (of 
 16 181
 
 182 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 more than eighty thousand pounds) should go to 
 the lady, while if she should decline, it would be 
 inherited by the gentleman. 
 
 From their infancy, young Master Doricourt 
 and young Miss Hardy had been considered as 
 made for each other, and their infantile intimacy 
 early ripened into a boy and a girl affection. But 
 at an early age the youthful lover was sent to the 
 continent, where he remained for years. In his 
 occasional visits to England he failed to see his 
 betrothed, Mr. Hardy having the fancy that it 
 would be best to keep them asunder, and leave it 
 to his daughter's charms to win the heart of her 
 predestined lover when they became of marriage- 
 able age. 
 
 This plan had its defects. The young man, in 
 his long life abroad, grew so infatuated with the 
 easy manner and witty liveliness of the ladies of 
 France and Italy as to unfit him for the modest 
 reticence of the young ladies of his native land ; 
 while his long absence from Miss Hardy weaned 
 all his early affection for her from his heart. She, 
 on the contrary, having lived a retired life, had 
 cherished the memory of her boy lover, and 
 looked forward to his return with warm expecta- 
 tion, mingled with nervous dread that was likely 
 to unfit her for making a favorable first im- 
 pression on the sophisticated young gentleman 
 from abroad. 
 
 When young Doricourt made his appearance, 
 indeed, fresh from Eome, the elegance of his
 
 THE BELLE'S STRATAGEM. 183 
 
 manner and appointments produced a sensation 
 in London. As his friend Courtall said : " His 
 carriage, his liveries, his dress, himself, are the 
 rage of the day ; and his valet is besieged by 
 levees of tailors, habit-makers, and other minis- 
 ters of fashion, to gratify the impatience of their 
 customers for becoming a-la-mode de Doricourt." 
 
 This fine gentleman had not forgotten the im- 
 portant business that brought him to England. 
 If the charms of Miss Hardy had left no im- 
 pression upon his soul, those of the eighty thou- 
 sand pounds had grown very alluring to his mind. 
 His heart was still free from the chains of love, 
 and it was with mingled hope and fear that he 
 awaited an interview with his betrothed : hope 
 that he would find something in her to touch his 
 exacting heart; fear that he would not. The 
 results of this interview may be given in a brief 
 conversation with his friend Saville : 
 
 " When do you expect Miss Hardy ?" asked 
 Saville. 
 
 " The hour of expectation is past," Doricourt 
 replied. " I had the honor of an interview this 
 morning at Plead well's ; where we met at Mr. 
 Hardy's request, to sign and seal the necessary 
 papers." 
 
 " Well, did your heart leap, or sink, when you 
 beheld your betrothed ?" 
 
 " Faith, neither the one nor the other. She's a 
 fine girl, so far as flesh and blood goes ; but " 
 
 " But what ?"
 
 184 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 " Why, she's only a fine girl ; complexion, shape, 
 and features ; nothing more." 
 
 " Is not that enough ?" 
 
 " No ; she should have spirit, fire, that some- 
 thing or nothing which everybody feels, and 
 nobody can describe, in the resistless charmers of 
 Italy and France. Why, man, I was in the room 
 half an hour before I could catch the color of 
 her eyes; and every attempt to draw her into 
 conversation occasioned so cruel an embarrass- 
 ment that I was reduced to the retailing of 
 foreign news to her father." 
 
 "So, then, Miss Hardy, with only beauty, 
 modesty, and merit, is doomed to the arms of a 
 husband who will despise her." 
 
 "Not so, Saville. She has not inspired me 
 with a violent passion, I must say ; but I have 
 honor, if I have not love." 
 
 " Honor without love is a poor capital to marry 
 upon, Doricourt." 
 
 The unfavorable impression which Letitia 
 Hardy had made upon her destined husband was 
 not paralleled in her case. His charms of person 
 and manner had produced a very different effect 
 upon her ardent fancy. The gh*l love with which 
 she had parted with him, years before, grew into 
 a woman's love when she saw in him all and more 
 than her dreams had painted ; his face the same, 
 yet its every grace finished and its every beauty 
 heightened. It was this sentiment, suddenly 
 chilled by the cold indifference of his expression,
 
 THE BELLE'S STRATAGEM. 185 
 
 which had caused the retiring bashfulness and 
 painful embarrassment to which he owed his dis- 
 enchantment. 
 
 All this she told to her friend, Mrs. Eackett, on 
 her return home, blaming herself bitterly for her 
 ill looks and awkward bearing, and him for his 
 lack of feeling and sentiment. 
 
 " How mortifying !" she exclaimed, " to find 
 myself at the same moment his slave and an 
 object of perfect indifference to him." 
 
 " Are you certain of that ? Did you expect him 
 to kneel down before the lawyer, his clerks, and 
 your father, to make oath of his admiration of 
 your beauty ?" asked Mrs. Eackett. 
 
 "No, but he should have looked as if a sud- 
 den ray had pierced him ; he should have been 
 breathless, speechless, for oh, Caroline, all this 
 was I !" 
 
 ''The more fool you. Do you expect a man 
 who has been courted by half the fine women in 
 Europe to feel like a girl from a boarding-school ? 
 He is your one pretty-faced gentleman ; but he 
 has run the gantlet of a million of pretty women, 
 child, before he saw you. Such a prize is not to 
 be won at sight." 
 
 " I will touch his heart or never be his wife !" 
 exclaimed Letitia, warmly. 
 
 They were interrupted at this point by the 
 
 entrance of Mr. Hardy, who was in high good 
 
 humor. He felt sure that Doricourt had fallen 
 
 desperately in love with his daughter, and could 
 
 16*
 
 186 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 not understand her depression, unless she had 
 , taken a dislike to her betrothed. 
 
 "There's a man for youl" cried Mrs. Eackett, 
 impatiently. " Can't you see that she's over head 
 and ears in love with him ? And " 
 
 " And he cares no more for me than for this glove 
 on my hand," exclaimed Letitia. " But he shall ! 
 if there is spirit and invention in woman, he 
 shall." 
 
 "Hey day! what's in the wind now?" 
 
 "A plan has struck me," she replied, "which, 
 if you will not oppose it, flatters me with hopes of 
 brilliant success." 
 
 " Oppose it ? Not I, indeed ! What is it ?" 
 
 " Since he does not like me enough, he shall like 
 me less. At our next interview I shall manage to 
 turn his indifference into positive dislike." 
 
 "Heaven and earth, Letitia, are you serious?" 
 exclaimed Mrs. Eackett. " Why seek to make 
 him dislike you ?" 
 
 " Because it is much easier to convert a senti- 
 ment into its opposite than to transform indiffer- 
 ence into tender passion." 
 
 "That may be good philosophy; but I am 
 afraid you will find it dangerous practice." 
 
 " I have the strongest confidence in it," said 
 Letitia. "Where looks have lost their power, 
 we will see what artifice will do. I am in high 
 spirits at the thought, and will stake my hopes of 
 happiness upon my stratagem." 
 
 With these words she went dancing and singing
 
 THE BELLE'S STRATAGEM. 187 
 
 from the room, leaving her father and friend 
 ignorant of the plot which she had devised, but 
 infected with hope by her confidence. 
 
 Before proceeding to describe Miss Hardy's 
 plan and how it worked, we must give some atten- 
 tion to a number of other persons who will take 
 part in our story, and particularly to a newly- 
 married couple, Sir George Touchwood and his 
 wife, Lady Frances, who had just come up to 
 town. Sir George in his bachelor days had led 
 a somewhat wild life, in London and Paris, but 
 since marrying a country beauty had grown so 
 absurdly jealous that he was ridiculed by all his 
 old friends. He had kept her in the country as 
 long as he could, and, in bringing her up to Lon- 
 don, did so with many fears of the influence which 
 the fashion and folly of the metropolis might 
 have on her susceptible and unsophisticated fancy. 
 
 His dread was not without reason. His wife's 
 heart had been kept like virgin wax, and was 
 ready to be impressed by good or bad influences. 
 Among his earliest visitors on reaching town was 
 Doricourt, who had heard of his extreme jealousy, 
 and took a wicked delight in tormenting him. 
 He begged to be introduced to his wife, whose 
 beauty and goodness Sir George praised beyond 
 measure. 
 
 <l Introduce ! yes, to be sure ! Lady Frances 
 is engaged just now, but another time," stam- 
 mered the jealous husband. " How handsome the 
 dog looks to-day !" he said, nervously, to himself.
 
 188 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 " Another time ! I have no other time. This 
 is the only hour I can command this fortnight." 
 
 " I am glad to hear that, with all my soul," said 
 Sir George, to himself. " So, then, you can't dine 
 with us to-day ! that's very unlucky," he continued. 
 
 " Oh, yes, as to dinner, I can stretch my time 
 that far." 
 
 "Pshaw! I didn't think what I was saying; 
 I meant supper. You can't sup with us ?" 
 
 " Why, that will be more convenient than din- 
 ner ! How fortunate ! if you had asked me any 
 other night I could not have come." 
 
 " To-night ! Gad, now I recollect, we are par- 
 ticularly engaged to-night. But to-morrow 
 night " 
 
 "Why, look ye, Sir George," exclaimed Dori- 
 court, "it is very plain you have no inclination to 
 let me see your wife at all. So here I sit." He 
 stretched himself at full length on the sofa. 
 " There's my hat, and here are my legs. Now I 
 shan't stir till I have seen her, and I have no en- 
 gagements ; I'll breakfast, dine, and sup with you 
 every day this week." 
 
 While Sir George stood in dismay, endeavoring, 
 by making an open confession of his matrimonial 
 relations, to induce Doricourt not to make himself 
 too agreeable to the susceptible Lady Frances, a 
 servant appeared. 
 
 " Sir, my lady desires " he began. 
 
 "I am particularly engaged," answered Sir 
 George, shortly.
 
 THE BELLE'S STRATAGEM. 189 
 
 " That shall be no excuse in the world," cried 
 Doricourt, springing from the sofa. " Lead the 
 way, John. I'll attend your lady." 
 
 He followed the servant from the room, leaving 
 Sir George in the dilemma of the fish that has 
 been suddenly landed from the frying-pan into the 
 fire. 
 
 The poor knight's troubles for that day were 
 by no means ended. As he stood in nervous in- 
 decision, Mrs. Eackett and her friend Miss Ogle 
 were announced, and asked to see Lady Frances. 
 Ilere was a chance to get her away from Dori- 
 court. She was sent for, and on her entrance 
 was warmly greeted by her visitors, who soon 
 engaged her in a lively conversation, in which 
 they laughed at her homespun ways, and invited 
 her to go with them to an exhibition and an 
 auction. Afterwards they would take a turn in 
 the Park, drive to Kensington, and in the evening 
 attend Lady Brilliant's masquerade. 
 
 This promised series of pleasures set the young 
 wife's heart in a flutter, and she gladly agreed 
 to accompany them if Sir George had no engage- 
 ments. At this remark the visitors laughed more 
 heartily than ever, ridiculing her for her lack 
 of independence, and on Sir George's entrance 
 told him that they were going to rob him of his 
 wife for a few hours. 
 
 " Oh, yes !" said Lady Frances, enthusiastically, 
 "I am going to an exhibition, and an auction, 
 and the Park, and Kensington, and a thousand
 
 190 TALES PROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 places. It is quite ridiculous, I find, for mar- 
 ried people to be always together. We shall be 
 laughed at." 
 
 "I am astonished!" exclaimed Sir George. "Mrs. 
 Eackett, what does the dear creature mean ?" 
 
 The dear creature's meaning was plain enough 
 when Mrs. Eackett had got through ; and so was 
 Sir George's when he had plainly expressed his 
 opinion of fashionable society. There arose a strug- 
 gle in Lady Frances's heart between obedience to 
 her husband and desire for pleasure, which was 
 ended by the appearance of Mr. Flutter, a light- 
 headed scandal-monger, who had a genius for 
 making mischief. He was not a minute in the 
 room before he had let out a secret which all the 
 town had laughed at, but which Sir George had 
 sedulously concealed from his wife. This was 
 that Lady Frances's favorite bullfinch, which she 
 supposed had escaped by accident, had been set 
 free by her husband, whose insane jealousy ex- 
 tended even to her loving attentions to her bird. 
 
 " Is it possible ?" cried Lady Frances, with tears 
 of vexation in her eyes. " Oh, Sir George, how 
 could you be so cruel as to deprive me of a 
 creature I was so fond of?" 
 
 This information turned the tide of her im- 
 pulses. She resolved to go, telling her husband 
 pettishly that she was not content to be treated 
 like a child, denied what she wished, and then 
 pacified with sweet words. 
 
 " Go, madam," he exclaimed, at length ; " give
 
 THE BELLE'S STRATAGEM. 191 
 
 yourself to the public ; abandon your heart to 
 dissipation ; and see if, in the scenes of gayety and 
 folly that await you, you can find a recompense 
 for the lost affection of a doating husband." And 
 he left the room in strong indignation. 
 
 " I could find it in my heart " began Lady 
 
 Frances. " And yet I won't give up, either. If 
 I should in this instance, he'll expect it forever." 
 
 "Now you act like a woman of spirit," said 
 Miss Ogle, approvingly. 
 
 "A fair tug between duty and pleasure," 
 laughed Flutter. " Pleasure beats, and off we go." 
 
 Lady Frances lost no time in putting her reso- 
 lution into effect. In a few minutes she was ready 
 to drive off with her visitors, and made with 
 them the round of the exhibition and auction, 
 where her lack of experience got her into trouble. 
 For she found herself followed and rudely stared 
 at by Courtall, a man of libertine reputation. 
 Troubled by his attentions, she turned on him 
 severely, and told him that she was a married 
 woman, a piece of information which only made 
 him the more persistent. 
 
 " My dear Mrs. Eackett, I am so frightened !" 
 exclaimed Lady Frances. " Here is a man making 
 love to me, though he knows I am married." 
 
 As she spoke Courtall stepped up, and spoke 
 familiarly to her companions, asking Mrs. Eackett 
 if she would be at the masquerade. 
 
 " Yes, I go with Lady Frances here," she an- 
 swered.
 
 192 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 " Bless me !" cried Lady Frances, " I did not 
 know this gentleman was acquainted with Mrs. 
 Eackett. I behaved so rudely to him." And in 
 the warmth of her contrition, she fairly invited 
 him to accompany them to Kensington. 
 
 To this, however, Mrs. Eackett would not listen, 
 and the ladies drove off, leaving Courtall to in- 
 dulge in the fancy that he had made a very easy 
 conquest. Not long afterwards he met Saville, 
 who had been a lover of Lady Frances before her 
 marriage, and in his exultation offered to wager 
 that he would make love to that lady at the 
 masquerade, and fairly carry her off from her 
 husband. This wager Saville accepted, in his 
 full reliance on the virtue and modesty of Lady 
 Frances. 
 
 Meanwhile Letitia Hardy was preparing to 
 carry out her plot against the cold heart of Dori- 
 court. It was her purpose to assume the charac- 
 ter of an ignorant and untrained hoiden, with an 
 assurance of manner the very reverse of her late 
 bashfulness. Mrs. Eackett had agreed to aid 
 her in this plot, of which her father was kept in 
 ignorance, for fear that he might reveal it. 
 
 Doricourt had promised to call, and on his 
 arrival he was met by the artful widow, who took 
 steps to prepare him for Letitia's defects of edu- 
 cation, charging her with conceit, pertness, and 
 ignorance. This story Doricourt was not inclined 
 to believe, saying that he had been assured that 
 Miss Hardy was elegant and accomplished. " But
 
 THE BELLE'S STRATAGEM. 193 
 
 one must allow for a lady's painting," he con- 
 cluded. 
 
 "Here she comes," said Mrs. Eackett. "Her 
 elegance and accomplishments will announce 
 themselves." 
 
 As she spoke Letitia ran in, exclaiming, 
 
 " La, cousin, do you know that our John 
 
 Oh, dear heart! I didn't see you, sir." She 
 hung her head, and affected to hide behind Mrs. 
 Eackett. 
 
 " Fie, Letitia, you are not afraid of M:.\ Dori- 
 court ?" 
 
 " But he's my sweetheart, and it is impudent to 
 look one's sweetheart in the face, you know." 
 
 " You will allow in future for a lady's painting, 
 sir," laughed Mrs. Eackett. 
 
 "I am astonished," answered Doricourt, look- 
 ing askance at Letitia. 
 
 "Well, hang it, I'll take heart," said Letitia, 
 from behind Mrs. Eackett, but in a tone intended 
 to reach his ears. " He is but a man, after all, 
 cousin, and I'll let him see I wasn't born in a 
 wood to be scared by an owl." She advanced to 
 Doricourt, making an awkward courtesy. " 1 
 hear you have been a great traveller, sir. I wish 
 you'd tell us all about the fine sights you saw 
 when you went over sea." 
 
 " Don't ask him foolish questions," said Mrs. 
 Eackett. 
 
 " Hold your tongue ! Sure, I may say what I 
 please before I am married, if I can't afterwards. 
 VOL. I. i n 17
 
 194 TALES PROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 D'ye think a body does not know how to talk to 
 a sweetheart ? He is not the first I have had." 
 
 " Indeed !" said Doricourt. 
 
 " Oh, lud ! he speaks. Why, if you must know, 
 
 there was the curate, at home " And she 
 
 rattled on with a lot of silly statements about 
 her love-affairs that quite disgusted her elegant 
 suitor. 
 
 To his relief the conversation was soon inter- 
 rupted by the entrance of Mr. Hardy, who stood 
 aghast on hearing the flow of nonsense that came 
 from his daughter's lips. 
 
 " Mr. Doricourt," he exclaimed, " maybe you 
 take my daughter to be a fool, but you are mis- 
 taken. She's as sensible a girl as any in Eng- 
 land." 
 
 "I am convinced she has a very uncommon 
 understanding, sir," answered Doricourt in bitter 
 satire. " I did not think he was such an ass," he 
 continued to himself. 
 
 This effort of her father to destroy the effect 
 of her plot only set Letitia off in a greater out- 
 flow of foolish prattle than before, till the poor 
 man fairly capitulated to her eloquent absurdity. 
 
 " "What think you of my painting now ?" asked 
 Mrs. Eackett, after Letitia and her father had 
 gone out. 
 
 " Mere water-colors, madam. The original far 
 surpasses your effort. As for marrying this idiot, 
 I shall first fly to the end of the world, or seek 
 the other world at the end of a pistol."
 
 THE BELLE'S STKATAQEM. 195 
 
 " Not to-night, at any rate, Mr. Doricourt. You 
 must atteud Mrs. Brilliant's masquerade, where 
 all the world are going. If you are resolved to 
 visit the other world, you may as well first take 
 one night's pleasure in this." 
 
 " Faith, that's true ! You are a philosopher, 
 Mrs. Eackett. Expect me at the masquerade." 
 
 He left the house with a feeling of disenchant- 
 ment concerning his affianced bride, saying to 
 himself that he would do as he had threatened 
 rather than marry such a woman. After he had 
 gone Mr. Hardy returned, and was appealed to by 
 Mrs. Eackett not to interfere in his daughter's 
 plot. 
 
 "Hang me if I don't, though !" he replied. "I 
 foresee what will he the end of it, if I leave you to 
 yourselves. If you two choose to play the fool, I 
 won't help you, and I shall follow Doricourt to 
 the masquerade and tell him all about it." And 
 the irate father left the house to procure himself 
 a suitable costume. 
 
 We must now step a few hours in advance, to 
 the scene of the masquerade, a brilliant affair, in 
 whose motley company were embraced all the 
 characters of our story, including even Sir George 
 Touchwood, who had been induced by his wife to 
 attend. He wore a pink domino, trimmed with 
 blue, around which costume a complicated intrigue 
 had gathered. Courtall, eager to win his wager 
 from Saville, and convinced that Lady Frances 
 was not to be won by the usual resources of the
 
 196 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 libertine, had formed a plot to deceive her. Learn- 
 ing, through Sir George's servants, the dress he 
 was to wear, Courtall had obtained one like it, 
 designing to carry her off disguised as her hus- 
 band. Unluckily for his plot, Saville had discov- 
 ered it and arranged a counterplot. He brought 
 to the masquerade a woman named Kitty Willis, 
 who had no reputation to lose, and who wore the 
 same disguise as Lady Frances, whom she had 
 agreed to personate. 
 
 This intrigue may be first disposed of. It will 
 suffice to say that Lady Frances, who, inexperi- 
 enced in such scenes, was at first charmed by the 
 liveliness and brilliancy of the spectacle, became 
 at length alarmed by the warnings of one dressed 
 as an enchanter, who predicted danger in a solemn 
 tone that frightened her. As she turned in haste 
 to seek her husband, Courtall entered, dressed like 
 Sir George, and suggested that they should leave 
 at once, as he was warm and tired. Gaining her 
 assent, he left the room to order the carriage. 
 
 The instant he had departed the conjurer re- 
 turned, leading a mask in the same dress as Lady 
 Frances. Leaving her at the side he advanced 
 quickly to the real Lady Frances, and, removing 
 his mask, showed the features of Saville. 
 
 " Mr. Saville !" she exclaimed. " I did not 
 dream it was you. I am waiting for Sir George, 
 who has gone for the carriage. We are going 
 home immediately." 
 
 " You are deceived, madam. I warned you of
 
 THE BELLE'S STRATAGEM. 197 
 
 danger. Sir George may be found in this direc- 
 tion." 
 
 " "What do you mean, Mr. Saville ?" 
 
 "Be not alarmed; you have escaped a snare, 
 and shall be in safety in a minute." 
 
 She accompanied him, clinging in affright to his 
 arm. They had scarcely left the room when 
 Courtall returned, and, seeing the counterfeit 
 Lady Frances, seized her hand and bade her come 
 at once. She obeyed without hesitation, though 
 the seemingly successful libertine would have felt 
 much less triumphant had he seen the laughing 
 face behind the mask. 
 
 Meanwhile Doricourt had found a still more 
 cogent reason than her seeming ignorance and folly 
 for detesting his betrothal to Miss Hardy. In 
 short, he had met a masked lady of such seeming 
 grace and beauty, and whose conversation dis- 
 played such wit and spirit, that his fancy was 
 strangely taken prisoner. She danced a minuet 
 with him, and by her grace of movement threw 
 still stronger chains about his heart. 
 
 " She dances divinely !" he said to himself. 
 " Who can she be ? Somebody must know her, 
 and I am bound to learn." 
 
 Shortly afterwards he met Saville, and described 
 the lady, but his friend could give him no infor- 
 mation. 
 
 " But why are you seeking strange charmers ?" 
 he asked. " Where is Miss Hardy ?" 
 
 " Not here, Mrs. Eackett says. Thank Heaven 
 17*
 
 198 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 for that ! Do you know, Saville, I have been 
 frightfully disenchanted ? The creature is almost 
 an idiot." 
 
 " What ?" 
 
 " You should hear her ! What the deuce shall 
 I do ? Faith, I think I shall feign myself mad, 
 and then Hardy may be ready to break off the 
 engagement." 
 
 "I don't know what you mean," answered 
 Saville, in perplexity. " You are mad now, I fear. 
 But I must leave you to dream of your mysterious 
 stranger." 
 
 Doricourt stood musing after Saville had left, 
 revolving in his mind his new idea of feigning 
 madness, and so lost in his thoughts that he failed 
 to heed what went on about him. 
 
 " You have chosen an odd situation for study," 
 said a voice at his elbow. " Fashion and taste 
 preside at this spot. They seek to throw their 
 delightful spells around you. Yet here you stand 
 like a stoic, wrapped in sober reflection." 
 
 He turned, to behold the unknown mask who 
 had so strangely attracted him. 
 
 "And you, the most charming being in the 
 world, bring me back to reason and admiration. 
 From what star have you come ?" 
 
 A lively chat succeeded, in which the witty un- 
 known held her own with a spirit that surpassed 
 his. In the end he grew bold, begged for a kiss, 
 and attempted to remove her mask. She fled at 
 this, he in close pursuit.
 
 THE BELLE'S STRATAGEM. 199 
 
 u By heaven, I never was charmed till now !" he 
 exclaimed. " English beauty French vivacity 
 wit elegance ! Tell me your name, my angel, if 
 you will not let me see your face." 
 
 "To-morrow you shall be satisfied," she an- 
 swered. 
 
 "To-morrow! Where? At what hour?" 
 
 " You shall see me when and where you least 
 expect. Adieu, now. Stir not a step. If I am 
 followed you will never see me more." 
 
 And the mysterious charmer flitted away, leav- 
 ing Doricourt more nearly in love than he had 
 ever been in his life before. 
 
 As she passed from the room, Flutter and Mr. 
 Hardy entered by the same door. Doricourt ran 
 hastily to the light-brained know-all. 
 
 "Oh, Flutter!" he cried, "tell me, you who 
 know everybody, who is that charming creature ?" 
 
 " What charming creature ? I have met a 
 thousand." 
 
 " She went out at that door, as you entered." 
 
 " Oh, she, I know her well. A beauty of very 
 easy virtue. She is kept by Lord George Jennett." 
 
 " Kept ! Good heaven !" 
 
 " Flutter is mistaken," said Mr. Hardy, pressing 
 forward. " I know who you are in love with. 
 The lady you admire is " 
 
 " Your daughter, I suppose," answered Dori- 
 court, haughtily. " You know the state of my 
 affections better than I do myself, sir. But it is 
 too soon to assume the father-in-law, and rebuke
 
 200 . TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 me as a wanderer in heart." And he angrily 
 strode from the room. 
 
 "Very well, my wise youth," exclaimed Mr. 
 Hardy, in hot pique. " You won't let me tell 
 you, then ! Hang me if I don't plot with Letty 
 now, and not against her ! You need to be taught 
 a lesson, my hasty young gentleman." 
 
 The masquerade ended without Doricourt heing 
 able to gain a further glimpse of the charming 
 unknown. Indeed, Flutter's assurance had so 
 cooled his flame, and thrown him into such per- 
 plexity, that he was for the time not sure whether 
 it would be better to go mad, marry the rustic 
 Letitia, or shoot himself. 
 
 The masquerade had developed a brace of in- 
 trigues, of which we must first dispose of the 
 lesser. Courtall, full of anticipated triumph over 
 Saville, and addition to his fame as a man of 
 gallantry, had borne off the counterfeit Lady 
 Frances to his lodgings. But hardly had he un- 
 masked, and attempted to soothe the seemingly 
 frightened beauty, when Saville, Flutter, and a 
 number of others broke in upon him. 
 
 He hastily concealed his prize, laughed at 
 Saville for losing his bet, and was in the midst of 
 his declarations of triumph, when Flutter. opened 
 the closet in which the woman had been hidden, 
 drew her out, and tore off her mask. 
 
 Courtall stood looking at the revealed face in 
 stupefied amazement, while the others burst into 
 shouts of laughter.
 
 THE BELLE'S STRATAGEM. 201 
 
 "Kitty Willis! Ha! ha! ha!" they shouted. 
 "A lady of quality! An earl's daughter! ha! 
 ha ! ha ! Oh, Courtall, you will kill us !" 
 
 "Ten thousand furies seize you!" yelled the 
 discomfited libertine. " Leave my rooms !" 
 
 "As you wish, Courtall. We won't speak of 
 this, of course. But the next time you carry off 
 a lady from a ballroom, do look under her mask." 
 
 " The foul fiend take you all !" cried Courtall. 
 " I'll set off for Paris directly, before I am laughed 
 out of London." 
 
 He was correct in supposing that the story 
 would soon get abroad. It was the laugh of 
 fashionable London the next day, and quickly 
 reached the ears of Sir George and his wife. It 
 affected them differently. Sir George sought 
 Courtall, with the intention of punishing him, 
 but he had already set out for France. As for 
 Lady Frances, she was thoroughly cured of her 
 predilection for a fashionable life. 
 
 " One lesson of this kind is enough," she de- 
 clared. " Henceforward, my dear Sir George, you 
 shall be my constant companion and protector. 
 And when the world laughs at us as unfashion- 
 able monsters, our mutual happiness will take all 
 the sting from the satire." 
 
 " My angel ! You almost reconcile me to 
 Courtall," declared the happy Sir George. 
 
 Meanwhile, in the affair of Doricourt and his 
 betrothed, a double stratagem was impending. 
 The encounter of the night before had quite com-
 
 202 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 pleted the work which Miss Hardy's affected 
 rusticity had begun. Doricourt, while not mad 
 enough to think of marrying the mistress of a 
 man of fashion, had conceived a feeling so closely 
 approaching love at first sight for the masked 
 beauty, that the projected match with Miss Hardy 
 had grown doubly distasteful. But to throw 
 overboard a fortune of eighty thousand pounds 
 was another matter, and, in default of a better 
 scheme, he determined to carry out his idea of 
 pretended madness, with the hope of inducing 
 Mr. Hardy to break off the match. 
 
 This scheme was approved by Saville, to whom 
 he spoke of it the next morning. Shortly after- 
 wards Flutter called, and Doricourt tried his 
 plan of madness on him with such effect that the 
 poor fellow was scared half out of his wits. He 
 escaped from the room with all haste, leaving the 
 conspirators satisfied that, within an hour, their 
 news-distributor would spread the story far and 
 wide. 
 
 While Doricourt was preparing this plot, the 
 Hardys had put another in train. The wedding 
 was not to have taken place for a week or more, 
 but, through fear that Letty could not keep up 
 her character of a fool so long, it was deemed 
 advisable to hasten the happy occasion. The 
 conspirators decided, after consultation, that Mr. 
 Hardy should feign illness, surround himself with 
 medicines, paint his face of a cadaverous hue, 
 and send word to Doricourt that he had suddenly
 
 THE BELLE'S STRATAGEM. 203 
 
 been prostrated with a dangerous sickness, was 
 on the point of death, and could not go out of the 
 world in peace till he had seen his daughter safely 
 married. 
 
 The situation had now become a very compli- 
 cated one. On the one hand Doricourt professing 
 madness to escape marriage with a fool ; on the 
 other Miss Hardy playing the fool to pique him 
 out of his indifference ; and, to sum all, her father 
 playing the dying man to hurry up the wedding. 
 
 The tidings of Doricourt's madness and Hardy's 
 illness soon reached the ears it was intended for. 
 
 " So ill as that !" exclaimed Doricourt to Saville. 
 " I'm very sorry to hear that. He is a worthy 
 fellow, even if a little annoying." 
 
 ' "Well, you must go and take leave." 
 
 ""What! Act the lunatic in a dying man's 
 chamber?" 
 
 " Just the thing : his last commands will be 
 that you are not to marry his daughter." 
 
 " True ! Yet, hang it, I don't like to impose 
 upon a man at so serious a moment. And then I 
 will have to encounter Eackett. She's an arch 
 little creature, and will discover the cheat." 
 
 " Here's a fellow ! Cheated ninety-nine women, 
 and now afraid of the hundredth !" 
 
 "And with reason, for the hundredth is a 
 widow." 
 
 Doricourt proved to be correct in his fear of 
 Mrs. Eackett's penetration. When he reached 
 Mr. Hardy's bouse, and tried his madness upon
 
 204 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 the widow, he found himself heartily laughed at 
 for his pains. 
 
 " I could do it ten times better than you," de- 
 clared Mrs. Eackett. " There ! There she is 1 
 Now I have her ! Ha ! ha ! ha !" 
 
 " I'll leave the house," exclaimed Doricourt, in 
 confusion. 
 
 " Noi till you have seen the dying Mr. Hardy. 
 You must grant his desire for a minute's conver- 
 sation, even though you should persist in your 
 cruel wish to send him miserable to his grave." 
 
 Doricourt, with a mind very far from being at 
 ease, consented. It proved a dangerous consent 
 for him. The surroundings of the sick-room, the 
 skilful acting of Mr. Hardy, the memory of his 
 own father's ardent wish, the pathetic appeal of 
 the apparently dying invalid, so worked on his 
 susceptible fancy that tears came to his eyes, and 
 he impulsively agreed that the marriage should 
 take place. 
 
 " Make haste," he exclaimed. " If I have time 
 to reflect, poor Hardy will die unhappy." 
 
 The clergyman was present, and performed the 
 ceremony so expeditiously that the deceived bride- 
 groom had not a moment's time for thought. 
 Before he fairly knew it himself he was a mar- 
 ried man, tied for life to one whom he believed to 
 be little better than an idiot. 
 
 Reflection came afterwards, and with it re- 
 morse. When Doi-icourt reached the room where 
 the remainder of his friends were assembled, he
 
 THE BELLE'S STRATAGEM. 205 
 
 was perhaps the most melancholy bridegroom who 
 had ever breathed London air. . 
 
 Yet he had not reached his lowest depth of 
 despair. As he stood there conversing, with a 
 gloomy effort at resignation, a masked lady en- 
 tered the room, at the sight of whom he started 
 as if he had really gone mad. It was the mys- 
 terious charmer of the masquerade. 
 
 " I told you that you should see me when and 
 where you least expected," she said. " I am here 
 to keep my promise." 
 
 " Madam," said Saville, " you have arrived at a 
 happy moment. Mr. Doricourt is just married." 
 
 " Married ! after swearing eternal love to me, 
 and winning my guileless heart !" 
 
 " I knew you not then," declared Doricourt, in 
 torture of soul. " I learned too much afterwards. 
 The companion of Lord George Jennett " 
 
 " "What do you mean, sir ?" she indignantly re- 
 plied. "Do you desire to add insult to injury ? 
 To excuse your broken vows " 
 
 " Rascal !" interrupted Doricourt, speaking to 
 Flutter. " You told me. Is she not " 
 
 " Who, she ? Why, it was quite a different per- 
 son I meant. I never saw this lady before," pro- 
 tested Flutter. 
 
 This was too much for poor Doricourt. He 
 seized Flutter and shook him so violently that the 
 others had to tear him off, lest he should do the 
 miserable tale-bearer an injury. 
 
 The distressed Benedict was not yet at the end 
 18
 
 206 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 of his surprises. In the midst of his assault on 
 Flutter, Mr. Hardy entered, in nightcap and 
 gown, and exclaimed, 
 
 " This is too much. You are now the husband 
 of my daughter ! How dare you show all this 
 passion about another woman ?" 
 
 " You here ! Alive !" cried Doricourt. 
 
 " And merry as a cricket," laughed Hardy. 
 " Here, wipe the flour from my face. Why, my 
 illness was but a trick, man, to make you marry 
 Letty." 
 
 " Base and ungenerous man ! Well, you have 
 gained your wish, and may keep your daughter. 
 I shall leave England this night, never to return. 
 But, dear lady, grant me the favor which you 
 refused last night. Let me see your face, that in 
 my exile I shall have that much consolation in my 
 lonely hours." 
 
 " This is the most awful moment of my life," 
 answered the lady. " Oh, Doricourt, the taking 
 off of my mask will make me the most blessed or 
 most miserable of women." 
 
 "What can you mean? Reveal your face, I 
 pray you." 
 
 Behold it, then." 
 
 She removed the mask as she spoke, and re- 
 vealed to the agitated man the well-known features 
 of Letitia Hardy. 
 
 " You ? Letitia ? Oh, what rapture! You? 
 Can it be possible ?" 
 
 " You would not love me as I was, Doricourt ;
 
 THE BELLE'S STRATAGEM. 207 
 
 and you fairly hated me as I assumed to be. 
 You finally fell in love with me as somebody else ; 
 shall I keep that love, as nobody but your plain, 
 but devoted, English wife ?" 
 
 " You shall be nothing but yourself. You could 
 not be half so captivating in any other character. 
 There is henceforth but one woman in the world 
 for me, and that is my own dear wife." 
 
 " Come into the next room," exclaimed Mr. 
 Hardy. " I have ordered out every drop of my 
 forty-eight ; and I'll invite the whole parish of 
 St. George's but we'll drink it out to the happy 
 success of the Belle's Stratagem." 
 
 END OF VOL. I.
 
 DATE DUE 
 
 CAYLORD 
 
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 UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL AJBRAF 
 
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