ENGLISH COMIC DRAMATISTS
: c.
r w ■»• * ;
Ex Libris
K. OGDEN :
THE LIBRARY
OF
THE UNIVERSITY
OF CALIFORNIA
LOS ANGELES
*^* THE LARGE PAPER EDITION OF THIS
VOLUME, CONSISTING OF FIFTY COPIES,
ALL OF WHICH ARE NUMBERED AND
SIGNED, WAS PRINTED IN DECEMBER,
1883.
This is No.
^/.
ENGLISH COMIC DRAMATISTS
ENGLISH
COMIC DRAiMATISTS
EDITED BY
OSWALD CRAWFURD
/^fj->»
LONDON
KEG AN PAUL, TRENCH «S- CO.
MDCCCLXXXIIJ
CONTENTS
Page
SIIAKSPERE. 1564-1616 I
King Henrv IV— Pakt First 3
liEN JONSON. 1573-1637 II
The Alchemist 13
The Fox 2S
EvEHV Man in his Humour 42
liEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. 1586-1616: 1579-
■6^5 .... 57
A King and no King . . 59
WVCHERLEY. 1640—1715 65
The Plain Dealer . 67
VANHRUGH. 166O-1726 83
A J'jUKNEV TO London . 85
cisfe
^ •• 2^.7
vi CONTENTS
Page
VANBRUGH. 1666—1726 {contiimed).
The Relapse; or Virtue in Danger 90
The Confederacy 96
COLLEY GIBBER. 1671-1757 109
She Wou'd AND She Wou'd Not 11 1
CONGREVE. 1670— 1729 129
The Way of the World 131
The Double Dealer 145
ADDISON. 1672— 1719 161
The Drummed ; or the Haunted House . . . . 163
FARQUHAR. 1678— 1707 171
The Beaux' Stratagem 173
The Inconstant ; or the Way to Win Him . . 178
The Recruiting Officer 189
JOHN GAY. 1688-1732 203
The Beggar's Opera 205
GOLDSMITH. 1728-1774 213
The Good-Natured Man 215
She Stoops to Conquer 235
CO.VTf.^'TS vii
Page
CUMBERLAND. 1732-181 1 255
The West Indian 257
SHERIDAN. 1752— 1816 261
The School for Scandal 263
INTRODUCTION
1 HE idea which underlies true and pure comedy is,
as the present writer understands it, that it should fur-
nish cause for mocking but not ungenial laughter by
a representation, in the guise of a fable — interestinc
dramatically — of the various actions, motives, huJ-
mours, follies, inconsistencies, absurdities, preten-
sions, and hypocrisies of human life.
In doing this, which, as man's literary capacity and
his faculty of imagination go, seems to be a most
difficult and rarely well-done thing, if the mirror be
truly held up to nature, the result — after allowing for
some slight conventional distortion of the image in
accordance with accepted stage traditions — is Comedy,
whether it be after the grand fashion set by Shak-
spere, or in the mode of Moliere, or in that of Con-
greve and Sheridan. If the glamour of romance be
cast over a drama, and if the characters, using a poetic
diction, address each other otherwise than as men and
women do in daily life, it is still indeed comedy in com-
X INTRODUCTION
mon parlance, because our poverty of language has no
exacter word for it: it is a high and beautiful pro-
duct of human intelligence, but it is not trae, pure
comedy.
If, on the other hand, the image cast upon the stage
be wholly distorted and falsified, and the action and
personages of the drama be made laughter-provoking
by exaggeration or caricature, the result is no longer
comedy but Farce, whether it be the farce of Aristo-
phanes, of Foote, or of Labiche. Again, if the
mockery be ungenial, the laughter savage, or mainly
cynical and contemptuous, no dramatic quality it may
possess will fit it for stage purposes — will humanize it,
as it were ; it is neither Comedy nor Farce, but Satire,
and the work may please a reader, but will not satisfy
an audience.
It is well thus to make a somewhat dogmatic defini-
tion of Comedy, that the critical reader may know
what he is to expect in the following selections from
our English Comic Dramatists . He will see at once how
far afield his selector has been able to go, and where
he has had to draw the line. Having regard only to the
providing of good and interesting reading, he might
have quoted largely from our Romantic Drama, in
which our literature is exceptionally rich, or from our
/.vr/a on uc tio.v xi
Farce Drama, to which we have something of an Italian
leaning, but to do this would have required folios, not
a single small volume.
There is one condition precedent of good comedy
tiie necessity of which cannot be made too clear : it is
the pre-existence of a good and a receptive audience.
An audience of quick perceptions, among whom a cer-
tain etlucation of manners prevails, — an audience ready
in the give and take of free social life, — one where
women hold a high standing, — an audience critical yet
laughter-loving and tolerant, — is the only ground on
which the seed of good comedy can germinate and
thrive. Such were the audiences that listened to the
humours of Ben Jonson and the more natural comedy
of Shakspere ; such was the circle, coarse and gross in
some respects to our modem apprehension, but well-
bred and highly exercised in social converse, which
favoured the growth of that * Restoration Comedy '
which for mere wit and brilliancy is the triumph of our
Comic Drama.
After that our star of Comedy was not again in the
ascendant till Sheridan's and Goldsmith's time. This
later period, too, coincided with a revival of social as
well as literary activity, and the fine gentleman man
ner personified in Lord Chesterfield was still the
xii INTRODUCTION
manner followed by the people who filled the play-
houses.
These then are our good comedy periods: Shak-
spere's period first, then Congreve's, at the head of the
Restoration Dramatists, then Sheridan's ; after him
chaos and anarchy again prevailed in the domain of
the Comic Drama.
If we look to the causes of the melancholy inter-
regna between these flourishing periods, it will be
found to be as often or oftener traceable to the absence
of the right conditions afore-mentioned as to the
blighting effect of religious bigotiy. Twice over,
indeed, in our history, as all students of it know, it
was this and nothing else which was the cause of de-
terioration or non-production, for the Puritans actually
closed the playhouses in Cromwell's time, and fifty
years later the voice of the nonjuring divine, Jeremy
Collier, raised in eloquent and not unrighteous protest
against the license of the playwrights of the day, went
some way to expel wit from the English stage for
more than half a century.
Nevertheless, I hold other causes to be even more
blighting to comedy than intolerance, and it is a sad
admission for Liberals to have to make that mere
social liberty is not a thing altogether favourable to
INTRODUCTION xiii
good comaly-writing. Unfortunately, the vox populi
is not the supreme voice in matters dramatical, and it
has been but too often raised both to damn a good play
(with faint praise or otherwise) and to praise a bad
one. This way of accounting for much work that is
second-rate in our national comedy will, I think, be
seen to hold good if we glance in the most cursory
manner at our comedy literature from Shakspere's
time.
That austere, passionate, and ardent spirit which
made the Elizabethan drama great did not last far into
James's or Charles's reigns. It presently died away,
and a social relaxation took place, politically desirable,
no doubt, for it helped to lead to a more popular civil
polity, but for literature unfortunate. Audiences got
very easy so long as stage effect and situation were
attended to. They grew careless of the rest. Beau-
mont and Fletcher took the place of Shakspere in
public estimation, and such clever stage plays as the
' Scornful Lady ' and the ' Little French Lawyer,'
poor as they are in literature, kept the stage against
the greatest of all masters of the drama.
Not till the popular party was in abeyance, and
court influence strong again under Charles IL, did the
Comic Drama revive in new and vigorous form, and
xiv INTRODUCTION
Etheredge, Wycherley, Crovviie> and their greater
successors, write and flourish. Then came the re-
action and Jeremy Collier's wrath, and players and
authors alike were shamed or terrified into silence or
decorous mediocrity. Not even the wit, learning, and
good manners of Queen Anne's reign could avail, and
though the Comic Muse ventured to show her face
again, it was now much too demure and pradish a
face, as a generation before it had been far too brazen
a one. It was a modest and moral muse enough that
now spoke, but the true mocking spirit of comedy was
wanting, the old brilliancy was gone. The best wits
of the time could make little of comedy. Steele's and
Addison's attempts in that line were not very success-
ful. The moralizing and didactic spirit of the ' Spec-
tator ' and the * Tatler, ' with all its neatness, its play-
fulness, and its delicacy, is not the true comic strain.
Addison was once called ' a parson in a tie-wig, ' and
the sermonizing tendency which the phrase implies is
fatal to comedy. His solitary performance in this pro-
vince, ' The Drummer, ' is not a strong performance,
while his friend and colleague Steele's earliest and
truest comedy, the ' Funeral, ' contains little that is
good beyond one admirable scene, often quoted, but
too short for selection in this work. His most success-
INTRODUCTIOy xv
ful piece, the 'Conscious Lovers,' is by common con-
sent of modern critics an insufTerably dull comedy.
If comedy could not be revived by the more or less
favourable literary conditions of our Augustan age of
literature, it was not to be expected that it should
flourish when both social life and literature had some-
what degenerated in the reigns of the first Hanove-
rian sovereigns, and court influence on manners and
on the worlds of society and of letters was at its very
lowest. The form that comedy took at this stage of
its career was after a bad fashion that came from
France ; and of the so-called Comedie Larmoyante
represented with us by Whitehead's * School for
Lovers ' and Kelly's ' False Delicacy ', one may
safely say that the low-water mark of comedy-writing
in England was reached. A reaction to a better style
began with Garrick himself. By him, and under his
auspices as manager of Drury Lane, some of the good
Restoration comedies were re-cast and adapted to suit
the taste and morals of a politer and more decent age.
His and the elder Colman's joint work, ' The Clan-
destine Marriage,' and Colman's 'Jealous Wife,' are
good acting plays which long held the stage. They
are, however, hardly more than rifatimaitos of the
Restoration comedies, but they lack the old wit and
X vi INTR OD UC TION
they lack the old brilliancy of style. I have not found
a quotable scene from either. Cumberland was a more
original, if a tamer and a more sententious writer.
From his ' West Indian ' a characteristic scene will be
found in the following pages.
The works of these dramatists and of such lesser
lights as E. Moore and Murphy were wholly eclipsed
by the brilliant dramatic genius of Sheridan, and by
the delightful humour of Goldsmith — dramatists wholly
dissimilar in manner and in treatment, but both alike
in this, that they mainly worked on the lines of Con-
greve and Farquhar. These two writers are the last
of the comedy authors I have quoted from. After
their time came a change over English manners. A
republican plainness of address, caught from across
the Channel, soon to degenerate into awkwardness,
not to say sheepishness, banished the old courtly
carriage and demeanour from England. Wigs and
gold-laced coats, canes and swords, went with our
good manners. Every one wore the same coat
and affected the same address. In good comedy,
gradation and contrasted apposition of manner and
of outward bearing and appearance are as much
a necessity as in a good picture gradation and
apposition of light and shade ; but now there was a
INTRODUCTION xvii
dull uniformity in life, and nothing left for comedy to
make play with. Though there came a reaction pre-
sently afterwards, and though some sort of an extra-
vagance in costume and some sort of an extravagant
attempt at exclusive manner and address prevailed
under the Regency, it was too dull and coarse and
gross, too wanting in light and shade and in refinement,
to be reproducible in good comedy. It was a society
which for stage purposes could only be exaggerated
into broad farce; consequently, this was the age of
Farce. Comedy was dead.
In making the selections from the Comic Drama-
tists which are to follow, it has been my endeavour not
merely to put together at haphazard a number of
comedy scenes that shall amuse and entertain the
reader of them, but to give him in a succinct form
something which shall thoroughly represent our
English comedy literature.
So far as the flavour of a play can be discerned in
an extract from it, it is clear that the extract must be
one where point and brilliancy of dialogue are pre-
eminent : so far the reader will be fortunate, but he
must not go away with the notion that point and bril-
' liancy are all he is to look for in these extracts : there
is a good deal more, and that he may appreciate the
xviii INTRODUCTION
full difficulty of the selector's task, and not bear too
heavily upon his shortcomings, it is well to consider
what it is that essentially goes to the making of a good
comedy, and how far its essence can be set forth in an
extract.
Though I have tried to show what conditions of cul-
tivation, taste, and manners make comedy a possi-
bility, human nature is after all not so compliant as
always to supply the comedy-writer, even when every-
thing is quite ready for him ; nor is this at all sur-
prising if we consider how much and what difficult
work he must include within the narrow limits of a
comedy. For, first, he must possess one of the rarest of
human faculties, that of moving intelligent laughter —
a faculty which some of our most famous playwrights,
in past times, have signally lacked, though they have
written so-called comedies.
A wit in social life is admittedly a rarity, — a man,
that is, who can keep a company in a roar under the
immediate stimulus of present social sympathy and
immediate social triumph ; but the comedy-writer
must do as much as this quietly and sadly at his desk
with no stimulus at all, and he must do much more,
for while he plays the wit's part at one moment, in the
next he must play the dullard's and the butt's who
lyXRODUCTION xix
is to suffer defeat at his own hands, or, harder still, he
must double his own part and be the speaker whose
greater wit caps his own first effort ; and when all is
done that wit and epigram can do, no way at all
hardly is made with the comedy unless all these intel-
lectual fireworks are homogeneous to the play, pro-
mote its plot, or set forth its purpose. Yet in this first
essential of natural, telling, pungent dialogue, how
seldom is the mark hit even by our better stage
authors ! However, it will be apparent to the reader
who has agreed with me so far, that wit alone, the
mere passing scintillations of pointed shrewdness, mere
'intellectual gladiatorship,' delightful quality as it is,
is not, dramatically speaking, the form of wit which is
serviceable on the stage, nor is it that alone which
shall be found in the following illustrations of our
English Comic Drama. What actors want, and
audiences too, if they but knew their own minds, is a
wit that helps the play on, that releases the springs of
the plot, or that reveals a character as in a flash of
light ; a wit that serves the true purposes of comedy
by mocking and marking the odd humours of the cha-
racters of the play, a wit shrewd and biting like Bene-
'dick's or Falstaff's, broad as humanity itself, and
always bearing on the movement of the piece — or an
XX INTRODUCTION
illustrative, picturesque, and passionate wit, as in Con-
greve's play, where Lady Wishfort, losing her temper
and her manners, breaks out into that famous diatribe
upon her treacherous maid.
These instances, to be sure, show wit only in the
broader and older sense of that word. In our days the
thing has been narrowed till it is no longer identical
with the French esprit, and can best be defined, as a
most excellent critic has defined it, "as the sudden
discovery of a resemblance between things seemingly
unlike." Yet, even taking this definition as right,
then the scene in Vanbrugh's 'Confederacy,' where
Brass, who has throughout been the subservient friend
and confederate of Dick Amlet, a bolder rogue than
himself, and has passed for his servant, suddenly at a
critical moment asserts his equality and terrifies his
confederate into exorbitant terms. If Hazlitt's defini-
tion be correct, then this admirable passage — which
will be found in the following pages — is nothing but
the purest wit in action. Indeed, most of the great
situations in comedy — the screen scene in the ' School
for Scandal,' Portia's turning of the tables upon Shy-
lock, Prince Henry's discovery of himself to Falstaff—
are nothing but this same practical form of wit — wit in
action — its most useful form for the stage.
INTRODUCTION xxi
The skilful employment in the face of an audience
— who may be described as an assemblage of human
beings one half of whom are always wanting to yawn
and the other half to hiss — of this form of practical
wit would seem to be about the rarest feat in literature.
No one who has travelled and re-travelled through
some hundreds of plays in a brief space of time — as
the present writer has — can fail to be impressed with
this fact ; and the same person will be inclined to scep-
ticism when he heai-s talk of the ' palmy days of the
Drama' and lamentations over modern degeneracy.
Such a traveller in the realms of Dramatic Literature
knows of no palmy days, no generation — not even
excepting the Cavalier period and its outcome — in
which good actable plays were so numerous as the
present. We forget that the dozen or so of notable
comic dramatists we have in our annals have taken
nearly three hundred years to live in. There is still
another point to set to modem credit. If some of the
older writers infinitely sui-pass us in wit, in style, and
in ease of dialogue, we have left them behind us in all
else that goes to the making of a good play. A good
actable comedy with literary excellence in it is cer-
tainly about the very rarest of literary products, and it
api^ears to the present writer that it is so simply be-
xxii INTRODUCTION
cause it is a work of art with the artifice of it carried
in three separate directions, and because it is rare to
find in a single author the faculty of excursion in three
separate directions.
These three requirements would seem to be — first,
that the plot should be good, — in other words, that a
fresh and interesting story should be expressed to the
audience in an intelligible, natural, and entertaining
manner ; secondly, that this same plain and intelligible
plot should possess the almost contrary attribute of
ramifying, enlarging, and developing itself as it goes
forward and in accordance with certain accepted laws
of stage craft, into a succession of unexpected and
essentially dramatic situations, each one of them cul-
minating in interest till the final disentanglement of
the plot and play.
It is clear that, of these two requirements going to
make the ideally perfect comedy, neither can be fairly
represented in an extract ; but the third requirement
can, and the third is that afore-mentioned quality
of wit in action, and expressed in epigrammatic
dialogue.
It is this chiefly which I have endeavoured to ex-
hibit in these selections from the English Comic
Dramatists.
INTRODUCTION xxiii
The reader who has followed this introduction so
far, and who appreciates its arguments, will agree in
the omission of extracts from comedies written before
Shakspere's time and after that of Sheridan.
Each scene from a play is preceded by a sketch of
the plot sufficient to make the scene intelligible. A
short critical note upon each of the dramatists quoted
will also be found in the body of the work.
Oswald Crawfurd.
SHAKSPERE
Born 1564. Died 1616.
Shakspere's comedy is, in its way, supreme as his tragedy is
supreme, and if but a single specimen of it is given, there
is more than one reason for omission. The chief one is
that his best scenes are too well known ; another is that,
as Mr. Swinburne happily says, in Shakspere's plays
' comedy is as inextricably blended with tragedy as it is
in real life.' They cannot be separated. A further reason
is, that so much of his comedy is so exquisitely imbued
with a poetic spirit, that a mere reader— not one of an
audience — may well forget the playwright in the poet ; and
this circumstance — if the rigid definition of comedy with
which my introduction sets out is to hold good — would
remove Shakspere into a different and a higher sphere
than that occupied by the mere comic dramatist.
SHAKSPERE
KING HENRY IV.— PART FIRST
1 HE passage selected for quotation follows upon that
scene where Prince Hal's practical jest upon Falstaft'
has expanded into FalstafF's famous history of his
prowess against the 'men in buckram.' The im-
posture has been exposed. Falstaffhas admitted that
he did run away from his sham assailants — he is dis-
concerted, but not outwitted. He had his reason : he
did so upon an instinct that told him it was the king's
son who was attacking him. ' \\Tiy, thou knowest I
am as valiant as Hercules ; but beware instinct : the
lion will not touch the true prince. Instinct is a great
matter, I was a coward on instinct.' The boon
companions are now again carousing at the Boar's
Head. The scene which follows is a play within a
play. Reading it critically one cannot but wonder at
finding such breadth and fulness of humour never
de\-iating into farce, at the excellence of the wit, and at
the perfection of the stage -craft.
The Boar's Head Tavern in Eastcheap.
Prince HENRY, PoiNS, Bardowh, Gads hill,
Peto, Hostess.
Enter Falstaff.
How now, my sweet creature of bombast ! How long
is 't ago, Jack, since thou sawest thine own knee ?
4 SHAKSPERE
Falstaff. My own knee ! When I was about thy
years, Hal, I was not an eagle's talon in the waist ;
I could have crept into any alderman's thumb-ring. A
plague of sighing and grief ! it blows a man up like a
bladder. There 's villanous news abroad : here was
Sir John Bracy from your father : you must to the
court in the morning. That same mad fellow of the
north, Percy, and he of Wales, that gave Amaimon
the bastinado . . . and swore the devil his true liege-
man upon the cross of a Welsh hook — what a plague
call you him ?
Poins. O ! Glendower.
Falstaff. Owen, Owen ; the same ; and his son-
in-law Mortimer, and old Northumberland ; and that
sprightly Scot of Scots, Douglas, that runs o' horse-
back up a hill perpendicular.
Prince. He that rides at high speed and with his
pistol kills a sparrow flying.
Falstaff. You have hit it.
Prince. So did he never the sparrow.
Falstaff. Well, that rascal hath good mettle in him ;
he will not run.
Prince. Why, what a rascal art thou then, to praise
him so for running !
Falstaff. O' horseback, ye cuckoo ! but afoot he
will not budge a foot.
PHncc. Yes, Jack, upon instinct.
Falstaff. I grant ye, upon instinct. W^ell, he is
AV.VG HE.VRy /r 5
there too, and one Mordake, and a thousand blue-caps
more. Worcester is stolen away to-night ; thy father's
beard is turned white with the news : you may buy
land now as cheap as stinking mackerel. . . . But
tell me, Hal, art thou not horrible afeard ? thou being
heir apparent, could the world pick thee out three
such enemies again as that fiend Douglas, that spirit
Percy, and that devil Glendower ? Art thou not
horribly afraid ? doth not thy blood thrill at it ?
Prince. Not a whit, i' faith ; I lack some of thy
instinct.
Falstaff. Well, thou wilt be horribly chid to-morrow
when thou comest to thy father : if thou love me,
practise an answer.
Priiice. Do thou stand for my father, and examine
me upon the particulars of my life.
Falstaff. Shall I ? content : this chair shall be my
state, this dagger my sceptre, and this cushion my
crown.
Prime. Thy state is taken for a joint-stool, thy
golden sceptre for a leaden dagger, and thy precious
rich crown for a pitiful bald crown !
Falstaff. Well, an the fire of grace be not quite out
of thee, now shalt thou be moved. Give me a cup of
sack to make mine eyes look red, that it may l)e
thought I have wept ; for I must speak in passion,
and I will do it in King Cambyses' vein.
Prince. Well, here is my leg.
6 SHAKSPERE
Falstaff. And here is my speech. Stand aside,
nobihty.
Hostess. O Jesu ! this is excellent sport, i' faith.
Falstaff. Weep not, sweet queen, for trickling tears
are vain.
Hostess. O, the father ! how he holds his countenance.
Falstaff. For God's sake, lords, convey my tristful
queen,
For tears do stop the flood-gates of her eyes.
Hostess. O Jesu ! he doth it as like one of these
harlotry players as ever I see.
Falstaff. Peace, good pint-pot ! peace, good tickle-
brain ! Harry, I do not only marvel where thou
spendest thy time, but also how thou art accom-
panied : for though the camomile, the more it is
trodden on the faster it grows, yet youth, the more it
is wasted the sooner it wears. That thou art my son,
I have partly thy mother's word, partly my own
opinion ; but chiefly a villanous trick of thine eye
and a foolish hanging of thy nether lip, that doth
warrant me. If then thou be son to me, here lies
the point ; why, being son to me, art thou so
pointed at ? Shall the blessed sun of heaven prove a
micher and eat blackberries? a question not to be
asked. Shall the son of England prove a thief and
take purses ? a question to be asked. There is a thing,
Harry, which thou hast often heard of, and it is known
to many in our land by the name of pitch : this pitch.
KING HENRY IV 7
as ancient writers do report, doth defile ; so doth the
company thou keepest ; for, Harry, now I do not speak
to thee in drink but in tears, not in pleasure but in
passion, not in words only, but in woes also. And yet
there is a \'irtuous man whom I have often noted in
thy company, but I know not his name.
Prime. What manner of man, an it like your
majesty ?
Falstaff. A goodly portly man, i' faith, and a corpu-
lent ; of a cheerful look, a pleasing eye, and a most
noble carriage ; and, as I think, his age some fifty, or,
by 'r lady, inclining to threescore ; and now I remember
me, his name is Falstaff: if that man should be lewdly
given, he deceiveth me ; for, Harry, I see virtue in
his looks. If then the tree may be known by the fruit,
as the fruit by the tree, then, peremptorily I speak
it, there is virtue in that Falstaff: him keep with,
the rest banish. And tell me now, thou naughty
varlet, tell me, where hast thou been this month ?
rriiuc. Dost thou speak like a king ? Do thou
stand for me, and I '11 play my father.
Falstaff. Depose me ? If thou dost it half so
gravely, so majestically, both in word and matter,
hang me up by the heels for a rabbit -sucker or a
poulter's hare.
Prince. Well, here I am set.
Falstaff. And here I stand. Judge, my masters.
Prince. Now, Harry ! whence come you ?
8 SHAKSPERE
Falstaff. My noble lord, from Eastcheap.
Prince. The complaints I hear of thee are grievous.
Falstaff. 'Sblood, my lord, they are false : nay,
I '11 tickle ye for a young prince, i' faith.
Prince. Swearest thou, ungracious boy ? henceforth
ne'er look on me. Thou art violently carried away
from grace : there is a devil haunts thee in the like-
ness of an old fat man ; a tun of man is thy companion.
Why dost thou converse with that trunk of humours,
that bolting-hutch of beastliness, that swoln parcel of
dropsies, that hugh bombard of sack . . . that
reverend vice, that grey iniquity, that father ruffian,
that vanity in years? Wherein is he good but to
taste sack and drink it ? wherein neat and cleanly
but to carve a capon and eat it ? wherein cunning
but in craft ? wherein crafty but in villany ? wherein
villanous but in all things? wherein worthy but in
nothing ?
Falstaff. I would your grace would take me with
you : whom means your grace ?
Prince. That villanous abominable misleader of
youth, Falstaff, that old white-bearded Satan.
Falstaff. My lord, the man I know.
Prince. I know thou dost.
Falstaff. But to say I know more harm in him than
in myself were to say more than I know. That he
is old, the more the pity, his white hairs do witness
it : but that he is, saving your reverence, a whoremaster,
KING HENRV /f 9
that I utterly deny. If sack and sugar be a fault,
God help the wicked ! If to be old and merry be
a sin, then many an old host that I know is damned :
if to be fat be to be hated, then Pharaoh's lean kine
are to be loved. No, my good lord ; banish Peto,
banish Bardolph, banish Poins ; but for sweet Jack
Falstaff, kind Jack FalstafT, true Jack Falstaff, valiant
Jack Falstaff, and therefore more valiant, being, as he
is, old Jack Falstaff, banish not him thy Hany's com-
pany, banish not him thy Harry's company : banish
plump Jack, and banish all the world.
Prime. I do, I will.
BEN JONSON
Born 1573. Died 1637.
Ben Jonson stands at the head of that school of dramatists who
take for their Dramatis Personce not individuals but con-
ventional tj'pes, and who somewhat ignore the complexities
of human nature. No argument is wanted to show that
Shakspere's method of truly holding the mirror up to
nature is the higher, the greater, and the truer method, but
Jonson has ancient tradition in favour of his view of the
dramatic art. Actors, authors, and audiences have always
been in a conspiracy to accept the conventional types — the
stock stage characters — as a saving of time, trouble, and
imagination; and Moliere himiself, in his 'Misanthrope,'
in ' L'Avare,' in ' L'Ecole des Femmes,' and in ' Tar-
tuffe,' ranges himself among the typists. The French
playwright, however, by reason of his great dramatic genius,
his inexhaustible fancy and fertility of resources, is con-
tinually carried beyond the region of mere typical repre-
sentation. Not so with Ben Jonson, who seldom departs
from the strict tradition : his cowardly braggarts are most
inveterate cowards and braggarts, his knaves most arrant
knaves, his fools have no redeeming touch of good sense,
and his misers are grasping and avaricious beyond all
human precedent and possibility. Nevertheless, the mag-
nificent genius of the man — chiefly a literary genius —
takes the reader's judgment by storm ; and if the reader's,
how much more would the hearer be captivated by the
broad persistent humour of Bobadill and the mordant
cynicism of Mosca and Volpone !
BEN JONSON
THE ALCHEMIST
l-K)VE\viT, a gentleman of middle age, 'wont to affect
mirth and wit,' forsakes his London house on account
of the Plague, leaving it in charge of Jeremy Face, his
servant. Face falls in with Subtle, a charlatan and
pretended seeker after the philosopher's stone, and
Dol Common, his accomplice, who induce him to enter
into partnership with them.
They take up their abode in Lovewit's house, and
under pretence of practising alchemy and soothsaying
draw thither a great number of dupes ; among others
Sir Epicure Mammon, with his friend Pertinax Surly
(who, however, holds them to be imi)ostors), Abel
Druggcr, a tobacconist, and Lady Pliant, a rich young
widow.
The master of the house unexpectedly returning, the
alchemist and his confederates are exposed, but Love-
wit pardons Face's miscon Politick. On your knowledge ?
Peregrine. Yes, and your lion's whelping in the Tower.
Sir Politick. Another whelp !
Peregrine. Another, sir.
38 BEN JONSON
Sir Politick. Now, heaven !
What prodigies be these ? The fires at Berwick !
And the new star ! these things concurring, strange,
And full of omen ! Saw you those meteors ?
Peregrine. I did, sir.
Sir Politick. Fearful ! Pray you, sir, confirm me.
Were there three porpoises seen above the bridge.
As they give out ?
Peregrine. Six, and a sturgeon, sir.
Sir Politick. I am astonish'd.
Peregi-ine. Nay, sir, be not so ;
I '11 tell you a greater prodigy than these.
Sir Politick. What should these things portend ?
Peregrine. The very day
(Let me be sure) that I put forth from London,
There was a whale discovered in the river.
As high as Woolwich, that had waited there.
Few know how many months, for the subversion
Of the Stode fleet.
Sir Politick. Is 't possible ? believe it,
'Twas either sent from Spain, or the archdukes :
Spinola's whale, upon my life, my credit !
Will they not leave these projects ? Worthy sir,
Some other news.
Peregrine. Faith, Stone the fool is dead,
And they do lack a tavern fool extremely.
Sir Politick. Is Mass Stone dead ?
Peregrine. He 's dead, sir ; why, I hope
THE FOX 30
You thought him not immortal. Aside. O, this knight,
Were he well known, would be a pi^ecious thing
To fit our English stage : he that should write
But such a fellow, should be thought to feign
Extremely, if not maliciously.
Sir Poliiiik. Stone dead !
Peregrine. Dead. — Lord ! how deeply, sir, you ap-
prehend it ?
He was no kinsman to you ?
Sir Politick. That I know of.
Well ! that same fellow was an unknown fool.
Peregrine. And yet you knew him, it seems?
Sir Politiik, I did so. Sir,
I knew him one of the most dangerous heads
Living within the state, and so I held him.
Peregrine. Indeed, sir ?
.S"j> Politick. While he lived, in action.
He has received weekly intelligence.
Upon my knowledge, out of the Low Countries,
For all parts of the world, in cabbages ;
And those dispensed again to ambassadors,
In oranges, musk-melons, apricocks.
Lemons, pome-citrons and such-like ; sometimes
In Colchester oysters and your Selsey cockles.
Peregrine. You make me wonder.
Sir Politick. Sir, upon my knowledge.
Nay, I 'vc observed him, at your public ordinary.
Take his advertisement from a traveller.
40 BEN JONSON
A conceal'd statesman, in a trencher of meat ;
And instantly, before the meal was done,
Convey an answer in a tooth-pick.
Peregrine. Strange !
How could this be, sir ?
Sir Politick. Why, the meat was cut
So like his character, and so laid, as he
Must easily read the cipher.
Peregrine. I have heard,
He could not read, sir.
Sir Politick. So 'twas given out,
In policy, by those that did employ him ;
But he could read, and had your languages.
And to 't, as sound a noddle —
Peregrine. I have heard, sir.
That your baboons were spies, and that they were
A kind of subtle nation near to China.
Sir Politick. Ay, ay, your Mamaluchi. Faith they had
Their hand in a French plot or two ; but they
Were so extremely given to women, as
They made discovery of all : yet I
Had my advices here, on Wednesday last,
From one of their own coat, they were return'd,
Made their relations, as the fashion is,
And now stand fair for fresh employment.
Peregrine. Aside. 'Heart !
This Sir Pol will be ignorant of nothing. —
It seems, sir, you know all.
THE FOX 41
Sir Politick. Not all, sir, but
I have some general notions. I do love
To note and to observe : though I live out.
Free from the active torrent, yet I 'd mark
The currents and the passages of things,
For mine own private use ; and know the ebbs
And flows of state.
Pcrcgritw. Believe it, sir, I hold
Myself in no small tie unto my fortunes,
For casting me thus luckily upon you,
^Vhose knowledge, if your bounty equal it,
May do me great assistance, in instruction
For my beha\aour, and my bearing, which
Is yet so rude and raw.
Sir Politick. Why, came you forth
Empty of rules for travel ?
Peregrine. Faith, I had
Some common ones, from out that vulgar grammar,
Which he that cried Italian to me, taught me.
Sir Politick. Why this it is which spoils all our
brave bloods,
Trusting our hopeful gentry unto pedants.
Fellows of outside, and mere bark. You seem
To be a gentleman, of ingenuous race : —
I not profess it, but my fate hath been
To be, where I have been consulted with.
In this high kind, touching some great men's sons,
Person^ (iflilnixl and honour.
48 BEN JONSON
EVERY MAN IN HIS HUMOUR
Old Knowell is the father of Edward Knowell, a
studious youth, and uncle of Master Stephen, a stupid,
ill-conditioned country bumpkin. Stephen takes offence
at a servant who brings a letter for Edward Knowell
from Wellbred, his friend. Old Knowell opens this
letter, which contains an invitation to a meiry-making
and some ridicule of himself. Fearing that his son
has fallen into bad company, he resolves to follow him,
Edward Knowell, Wellbred, and Stephen (who is
the butt of the others), come across Captain Bobadill, a
braggart and coward, and Master Matthew, a town
fool, as Stephen is a country fool. The young men
go to the house of Kitely, a merchant, where Well-
bred, who is Kitely's wife's brother, frequently enter-
tains his friends, to the annoyance of Kitely, he being
a prey to jealousy. Meanwhile Brainworm, servant
to Old Knowell, assumes the disguise of an old soldier,
in the interests of Edward Knowell, to prevent his
father from meeting him, and afterwards in various
other disguises causes many complications and mis-
understandings, which are finally all cleared up at the
house of Justice Clement, 'an old, merry magistrate.'
A Room in Knoweli^s House.
Enter E, Knowell with a letter in his hand, followed
by Brainworm.
E. Knowell. Did he open it, say'st thou ?
Brainworm. Yes, o' my word, sir, and read the
contents.
E. Knowell. That scarce contents me. What
EVEKV MAN /.V //IS //VMOUR 43
countenance, prithee, made lie in the reading of it ?
\\'as he angr)', or pleased ?
Brainworm. Nay, sir, I saw him not read it, nor
open it, I assure your worship.
E. Ktunuell. No ! how know'st thou then that he
did either?
Braiifworm. Marry, sir, because he charged me, on
my life, to tell nobody that he opened it ; which,
unless he had done, he would never fear to have it
revealed.
E. Knoiuell. That 's true : well, I thank thee, Brain-
worm.
E7itcr Stephen.
Stephen. O, Brainworm, didst thou not see a fellow
here in what-sha-call-him doublet ? he brought mine
uncle a letter e'en now.
Brahru'orm. Yes, Master Stephen, what of him ?
Stephen. O, I have such a mind to beat him —
where is he, canst thou tell ?
Brainworm. Faith, he is not of that mind : he is
gone. Master .Stephen.
Stephen. Gone ! which way ? when went he ? how
long since ?
Brainwortn. He is rid hence ; he took horse at the
street-door.
Stephen. And I staid in the fields ! . . . Scandcr-
bag rogue ! O that I had but a horse to fetch him back
again !
44 BEN JONSON
Brainworm. Why, you may have my master's
gelding, to save your longing, sir.
Stephen. But I have no boots, that 's the spite on 't.
Brainworm. Why, a fine wisp of hay, roll'd hard,
Master Stephen.
Stephen. No, faith, it 's no boot to follow him now :
let him e'en go and hang. Prithee, help me to truss
me a little : he does so vex me —
Brainworm. You '11 be worse vexed when you are
trussed, Master Stephen. Best keep unbraced, and
walk yourself till you be cold ; your choler may
founder you else.
Stephen. By my faith, and so I will, now thou tell'st
me on 't : how dost thou like my leg, Brainworm ?
Brainworm. A very good leg. Master Stephen ;
but the woollen stocking does not commend it so
well.
Stephen. Foh ! the stockings be good enough, now
summer is coming on, for the dust : I '11 have a pair
of silk against winter, that I go to dwell in the town.
I think my leg would show in a silk hose.
Brainworm. Believe me. Master Stephen, rarely
well.
Stephen. In sadness, I think it would : I have a
reasonable good leg.
Brai7t7vorm. You have an excellent good leg. Master
Stephen ; but I cannot stay to praise it any longer now,
and I am very sorry for it. Exit,
EVERY MAN IN HIS HUMOUR 45
Stcfhen. Another time will serve, Brainworm.
Gramercy for this.
E. KnvTvdl. Ha, ha, ha !
StepJurtt. 'Slid, I hope he laughs not at me ; an
he do —
E. Knv-well. Here was a letter indeed, to be inter-
cepted by a man's father, and do him good with him !
He cannot but think most virtuously of me, and the
sender, sure, that make the careful costermonger of
him in our familiar epistles. Well, if he read this
\vith patience, I '11 troll ballads for Master John
Trundle yonder, the rest of my mortality. It is tme,
and likely, my father may have as much patience as
another man, for he takes much physic ; and oft taking
physic makes a man very patient. But would your
packet, Master Wellbred, had arrived at him in such
a minute of his patience ! then had we known the end
of it, which is now doubtful, and threatens. Sees Master
Stbphex. What, my wise cousin ! nay, then I '11 furnish
our feast with one gull more towards the mess. He
writes to me of a brace, and here 's one, that 's three ;
oh, for a fourth, Fortune, if ever thou 'It use thine
eyes, I entreat thee —
Stephen. Oh, now I see who he laughed at : he
laughed at somebody in that letter. By this good
light, an he had laughed at me —
E. Knowell. How now, cousin Stephen, melan-
choly ?
46 BEN J ON SON
Stephen. Yes, a little : I thought you had laughed
at me, cousin.
E. Knowell. Why, what an I had, coz ? what
would you have done ?
Stephen. By this light, I would have told mine uncle.
E. Knozvell. Nay, if you would have told your uncle,
I did laugh at you, coz.
Stephen. Did you indeed ?
E. Knowell. Yes, indeed.
Stephen. Why then^-
E. Knowell. What then ?
Stephen. I am satisfied ; it is sufficient.
E. Knowell. Why, be it so, gentle coz.
The Oldjeivry. A Room in the Windmill Tavern.
Master Matthew, Wellbred, attd Bobadill;
E. Knowell and Master Stephen.
Wellbred. Well, Captain Bobadill, master Matthew,
pray you know this gentleman here ; he is a friend of
mine, and one that will deserve your affection. I know
not your name, sir, To Stephen, but I shall be glad
of any occasion to render me more familiar to you.
Stephen. My name is master Stephen, sir ; I am this
gentleman's own cousin, his father is mine uncle, sir :
I am somewhat melancholy, but you shall command
me, sir, in whatsoever is incident to a gentleman.
El-ERV MAy IN HIS HUMOUR 47
Bohadill. Sir, I must tell you this, I am no general
man ; but for master Wellbred's sake (you may embrace
it at what height of favour you please,) I do com-
municate with you, and conceive you to be a gentleman
of some parts ; I love few words.
E. A'tirwelL And I fewer, sir ; I have scarce enough
to thank you.
Matthew. But are you, indeed, sir, so given to it ?
Stephen. Ay, tnily, sir, I am mightily given to
melancholy.
Matthcii). Oh, it 's your only fine humour, sir ; your
true melancholy breeds your perfect fine wit, sir. I
am melancholy myself, divers times, sir, and then do
I no more but take pen and paper, presently, and
overflow you half a score, or a dozen of sonnets at a
sitting.
E. KiurwcU. Aside. Sure he utters them then by
the gross,
Stephen. Truly, sir, and I love such things out of
measure.
E. Knowcll. r faith, better than in measure, I'll
undertake.
Matthrw. Why, I pray you, sir, make use of my
study, it 's at your service.
Stephen. I thank you, sir, I shall be bold I warrant
you ; have you a stool there to be melancholy upon ?
Matt/uTM. That I have, sir, and some pajjcrs there
of mine own doing, at idle hours, that you'll say
48 BEN JONSON
there 's some sparks of wit in 'em when you see
them.
Wellbred. Aside. Would the sparks would kindle
once, and become a fire amongst them ! I might see
self-love burnt for her heresy.
Stephen. Cousin, is itwell? am I melancholy enough ?
E. Knowell. Oh ay, excellent.
lVellb7-ed. Captain Bobadill, why muse you so ?
E. Knowell. He is melancholy too.
Bobadill. Faith, sir, I was thinking of a most
honourable piece of service, was performed to-morrow,
being St. Mark's day, shall be some ten years now.
E. Knoavell. In what place, captain ?
Bobadill. Why, at the beleaguering of Strigonium,
where, in less than two hours, seven hundred resolute
gentlemen, as any were in Europe, lost their lives
upon the breach. I '11 tell you, gentlemen, it was the
first, but the best leaguer that ever I beheld with these
eyes, except the taking in of — what do you call it ? last
year, by the Genoways ; but that, of all other, was the
most fatal and dangerous exploit that ever I was ranged
in, since I first bore arms before the face of the enemy,
as I am a gentleman and a soldier !
Stephen. So ! I had as lief as an angel I could swear
as well as that gentleman.
E. Knowell. Then, you were a servitor at both, it
seems ; at Strigonium, and what do you call 't?
Bobadill. O lord, sir ! By St. George, I was the
EP'ERV ^/A^• /.V ///S HUMOUR 49
first man that entered the breach ; and had I not
effected it with resolution, I had been slain if I had
had a million of lives.
E. KncnveU. 'Twas pity you had not ten ; a cat's
and your own, i' faith. But, was it possible ?
MatthriV, Pray you mark this discourse, sir.
Stephen. So I do.
Bobadill. I assure you, upon my reputation, 'tis true,
and yourself shall confess.
E. /Ciicrwell. Aside. You must bring me to the rack,
first.
Bobadill. Observe me judicially, sweet sir ; they
had planted me three demi-culverins just in the mouth
of the breach ; now, sir, as we were to give on, their
master-gunner (a man of no mean skill and mark, you
must think), confronts me with his linstock, ready to
give fire ; I, spying his intendment, discharged my
petronel in his bosom, and with these single arms, my
poor rapier, ran violently upon the Moors that guarded
the ordnance, and put 'em pell-mell to the sword.
IVellbred. To tlie sword ! to the rapier, captain.
E. Ktunvdl. Oh, it was a good figiire observed, sir :
butdid you all this, captain, without hurting yourblade?
Bobadill. Without any impeach o' the earth : you
shall perceive, sir. Shows his rapier. It is the most
fortunate weapon that ever rid on poor gentleman's
thigh. Shall I tell you, sir? You talk of Murglay,
Excalibur, Durindana, or so ; tut ! I lend no credit to
E
50 BEN JONSON
that is fabled of 'em : I know the virtue of mine own :
and therefore I dare the boldlier maintain it.
Stephen. I marvel whether it be a Toledo or no.
Bobadill. A most perfect Toledo, I assure you, sir.
Stephen. I have a countr}'man of his here.
Matthew. Pray you, let's see, sir; yes, faith, it is.
Bobadill. This a Toledo ! Pish !
Stephen. Why do you pish, captain ?
Bobadill. A Fleming, by heaven ! I '11 buy them for
a guilder apiece an I would have a thousand of them.
Moor-fields.
Enter Matthew, E. Knowell, Bobadill, and
Stephen.
Matthew. Sir, did your eyes ever taste the like
clown of him where we were to-day, Mr. Wellbred's
half-brother ? I think the whole earth cannot shew his
parallel, by this daylight.
E. Knowell. We were now speaking of him :
Captain Bobadill tells me he is fallen foul of you too.
Matthezv. O, ay, sir, he threatened me with the
bastinado.
Bobadill. Ay, but I think, I taught you prevention
this morning, for that : you shall kill him beyond
question ; if you be so generously minded.
Matthew. Indeed, it is a most excellent trick.
Ferices.
ElERV .VAX IN HIS HUMOUR 51
Bobadill. O, you do not give spirit enough to your
motion, you arc too tardy, too heavy ! O, it must be
done like lis^hlning, hay !
Praitiscs at a post luith his cttdgel.
Matthnv. Rare, captain !
Bobadill. Tut ! 'tis nothing, an 't be not done in
a — punto.
E. KtuTJ-'cU. Ca]5tain, did you ever prove yourself
upon any of our masters of defence here ?
Matthcii.'. O good sir ! yes, I hope he has.
Bobadill. I will tell you, sir. Upon my first coming
to the city, after my long travel for knowledge, in that
mystery only, there came three or four of them to nie,
at a gentleman's house, where it was my chance to be
resident at that time, to intreat my presence at their
schools : and withal so much importuned me, that I
protest to you, as I am a gentleman, I was ashamed
of their rude demeanour out of all measure : Well, 1
told them that to come to a public school, they should
pardon me, it was opposite, in diameter, to my humour ;
but if so be they would give their attendance at my
loense of another, Mr. Tinsel, a coxcomb and fortune-
hunter. The mysterious drummer is Fantome, who
with the connivance of Abigail, Lady Truman's
elderly and shrewish waiting-woman, conceals himself
in a hidden closet dresseti as Sir George, with the
object of suddenly appearing before his rival Tinsel,
and frightening him from the house. Meanwhile Sir
George, who has not been killed, but kept a close pri-
soner, on his release writes privately to Vellum, his
steward, a formal, precise old man, and, anxious to test
hLs wife's conduct, comes to the house as a conjuror, to
lay the supposed ghost. Tinsel having been scared
away by Fantome, as the drummer, Fantome himself
fjuits the house on the appearance of .Sir George with-
out his disguise, and the play ends with the happy re-
union of Sir George and Lady Truman and the mar-
riage of Vellum with Abigail.
1 64 ADDISON
A great Hall.
Enter the Butler, Coach7nan, and Gardener.
Btitler. There came another coach to town last
night, that brought a gentleman to enquire about this
strange noise we hear in the house. This spirit will
bring a power of custom to the George — If so be he
continues his pranks, I design to sell a pot of ale, and
set up the sign of the drum.
Coachman. I '11 give madam warning, that 's flat —
I 've always lived in sober families — I '11 not disparage
myself to be a servant in a house that 's haunted.
Gardener. I'll e'en marry Nell, and rent a bit of
ground of my own, if both of you leave madam ; not
but that madam 's a very good woman — if Mrs. Abigail
did not spoil her — Come, here 's her health.
Butler. 'Tis a very hard thing to be a butler in a
house that is disturbed. He made such a racket in
the cellar, last night, that I'm afraid he'll sour all
the beer in my barrels.
Coachman. Why then, John, we ought to take it
off as fast as we can — Here's to you — He rattled so
loud under the tiles, last night, that I verily thought
the house would have fallen over our heads. I durst
not go up into the cock-loft this morning, if I had not
got one of the maids to go along with me.
Gardener. I thought I heard him in one of my bed-
THE DRUMMER 165
posts. I marvel, John, how he gets into the house,
when all the gates are shut.
Butler. Why, look ye, Peter, your spirit will creep
you into an augre-hole — he '11 whisk ye through a key-
hole, without so much as just ling against one of the
wards.
Coachman. Poor Madam is mainly frightened, that 's
certain, and verily believes it is my master, that was
killed in the last campaign.
Butler. Out of all manner of question, Robin, 'tis
Sir George. Mrs. Abigail is of opinion, it can be none
but his honour. He always loved the wars ; and, you
know, was mightily pleased, from a child, with the
music of a drum.
Gardener. I wonder his body was never found after
the battle.
Butler. Found ! why, ye fool, is not his body here
about the house ? Dost thou think he can beat his
drum without hands and arms ?
Coachman. 'Tis master, as sure as I stand here alive ;
and I verily believe I saw him last night in the town-close.
Gardener. Ay ! How did he appear ?
Coachman. Like a white horse.
Butler. Phoo, Robin ! I tell ye, he has never
appeared yet, but in the shape of the sound of a drum.
Coachman. This makes one almost afraid of one's
own shallow. As I was walking from the stable,
l' other night, without my lanlhorn, I fell across a
i66 ADDISON
beam, that lay in my way ; and faith, my heart was in
my mouth. I thought I had stumbled over a spirit.
Btitler. Thou might'st as well have stumbled over
a straw. Why, a spirit is such a little thing, that I have
heard a man, who was a great scholar, say, that he '11
dance ye a Lancashire hornpipe upon the point of a
needle. . . . My lady must have him laid, that 's
certain, whatever it cost her.
Gardener. Faith, I could tell you one way to drive
him off.
Coachman. How 's that ?
Gardener. I'll tell you immediately. — Drinks. — I
fancy Mrs. Abigail might scold him out of the house.
Coachman. Ay, she has a tongue that would drown
his drum, if anything would.
Butler. Pugh, this is all froth ; you understand
nothing of the matter. The next time it makes a noise,
I tell you what ought to be done — I would have the
steward speak Latin to it.
Coachman. Ay, that would do, if the steward had
but courage.
Gardener. There you have it. He 's a fearful man.
If I had as much learning as he, and I met the ghost,
I 'd tell him his own. But, alack ! what can one of us
poor men do with a spirit, that can neither write nor
read?
Butler. Thou art always cracking and boasting,
Peter ; thou dost not know what mischief it might do
THE DRUMMER 167
thee, if such a silly dog as thee should ofler to speak to
it. For aught I know, he might Ilea thee alive, and
make parchment of thy skin, to cover his drum
with.
Gardener. A fiddlestick ! tell not me — Ifearnothing,
not I ; I ne%'er did harm in my life ; I never committed
murder.
Butler. I verily believe thee. Keep thy temper,
Peter ; after supper we '11 drink each of us a double
mug, and then let come what will.
Gardener. Why, that 's well said, John — An honest
man, that is not quite sober, has nothing to fear —
Here's to ye — \Vhy, now if he should come this
minute, here would I stand — Ha ! what noise is that?
Butler and Coachman. Ha ! Where ?
Gardener. The devil ! the devil ! Oh, no ; 'tis Mrs.
Abigail.
Butler. Ay, faith ! 'tis she ; 'tis Mrs. Abigail ! A
good mistake ; 'tis Mrs. Abigail.
Enter ABIGAIL.
Abigail. Here are your drunken sots for you ! Is
this a time to be guzzling, when gentry are come to
the house ! Why don't you lay your cloth ? How come
you out of the stables ? Wliy are you not at work in
your garden?
Gardetur. Why, yonder 's the fine Londoner and
madam fetching a walk together ; and, methought, they
i68 ADDISON
looked as if they should say they had rather have my
room than my company.
Btitler. And so, forsooth, being all three met to-
gether, we are doing our endeavours to drink this
same drummer out of our heads.
Gardener. For you must know, Mrs. Abigail, we
are all of opinion that one can't be a match for him,
unless one be as drunk as a drum.
Coachman. I am resolved to give madam warning
to hire herself another coachman ; for I came to serve
my master, d' ye see, while he was alive : but do
suppose that he has no further occasion for a coach,
now he walks.
Butler. Truly, Mrs. Abigail, I must needs say, that
this same spirit is a very odd sort of a body, after all,
to fright madam, and his old servants, at this rate.
Gardener. And truly, Mrs. Abigail, I must needs
say, I served my master contentedly, while he was
living ; but I will serve no man living (that is, no man
that is not living) without double wages.
Abigail. Ay, 'tis such cowards as you that go about
with idle stories, to disgrace the house, and bring so
many strangers about it : you first frighten yourselves,
and then your neighbours.
Gardener. Frightened ! I scorn your words :
frightened quoth-a !
Abigail. What, you sot, are you grown pot-valiant ?
Gardener, Frightened with a drum ! that 's a good
THE DRUMMER if^
one I It will do us no harm, I '11 answer for it : it will
bring no bloodshed along with it, take my word. It
sounds as like a train-band drum as ever I heard in my
life.
Btiiler. Pr'ythee, Peter, don't be so presumptuous.
Abigail. Aside. Well, these drunken rogues take
it as I could wish.
Gardener. I scorn to be frightened, now I 'm in
for 't ; if old dub-a-dub should come into the room,
I would take him —
Butler. Pr'ythee, hold thy tongue.
Gardener. I would take him —
The drum beats : the Gardener endeavours
to get off, and falls.
Butler and Coachman. Speak to it, Mrs. Abigail.
Gardener. Spare my life, and take all I have.
Coaehman. Make off, make off, good butler ; and
let us go hide ourselves in the cellar.
They all run off.
Abigail. Alone. So, now the coast is clear, I may
venture to call out my drummer. — But first let me
shut the door lest we be surprised. Mr. P'antome, Mr.
Fantome ! He beats. Nay, nay, pray come out : the
enemy's fled— I must speak with you immediately —
Don't stay to beat a parley.
The bcuk scene opens, and discovers FaxtOME
with a drum.
FAROUHAR
Born 1678. Died 1707.
Farquhar is perhaps inferior, but not by much, in the qualities
of good dialogue to Congreve, Wycherley, and Farquhar.
There is not, to my thinking, quite the same high
quality of comedy in his utterance. He is less high-bred,
but he is as sprightly as, and more good-natured than any
of them. He had travelled, served in the army, and seen
more than the narrow world of coffee-houses and theatres.
He extended the list of the comic dramatic personages of
the day, and his Captain Plume, the fine gentleman officer,
Boniface, the innkeeper. Cherry, his lively daughter, Scrub,
the country servant who guesses they are talking of hitn,
'for they laughed consumedly,' and above all the inimitable
recruiting officer. Sergeant Pike — are all invaluable additions
to our stock of comedy characters. His plots are simpler
and better than those of his brother playwrights, they have
more life and movement, and the episodes succeed each
other in an unforced way which must have made his pieces
very pleasant to audiences. The excellent scene quoted
from the ' Recruiting Officer ' is very characteristic of this
author's heartiness and rollicking humour. It seems drawn
from the life, and tradition says that Captain Plume was
none other than Captain Farquhar himself.
The scene from the ' Inconstant ' — also here quoted — affords an
excellent example of the true comic treatment of a very
strong ' situation,' as opposed to its melodramatic treatment.
There may be a little sacrifice of truth to nature in Mirabell's
light-heartedness while he is in the hands of the bravoes,
and in his humorous turning of the tables upon them after-
wards when the rescue comes, but there is more than a com-
pensating gain in genuine comedy, and, over and above
the comedy, there is a touch of genuine human feeling which
never comes amiss.
FARQUHAR
THE BEAUX' STRATAGEM
AiMWELL and his friend Archer are two young gentle-
men whom lack of funds has caused to leave London
under pretence of going to Brussels. They arrive at
Lichfield, Archer passing for Aimwell's footman, and
put up at an inn kept by Boniface and his daughter
Cherry, intending by a judicious expenditure of their
last two hundred pounds to attract the notice of some
country heiress.
Ainiwell is soon remarked by Dorinda, daughter of
Lady Bountiful, and sister-in-law of Mrs. Sullen. She
sends Scrub, their servant, to discover who he is, but
he can obtain no information about him. After many
adventures Aimwell succeeds in marrying Dorinda,
and Archer weds Mrs. Sullen, who gets divorced from
her drunken and brutal husband. Squire Sullen.
A Room in Boniface's Inn.
Enter Boniface, running,
Boniface. Chamberlain ! maid ! Cherry ! daughter
Cherry ! all asleep ? all dead ?
Enter Cherry, running.
Cherry. Here, here! why d'ye bawl so, father?
d' ye think we have no ears ?
174 FARQUHAR
Boniface. You desei-ve to have none, you young
minx ! The company of the Warrington coach has
stood in the hall this hour, and nobody to show them
to their chambers.
Cherry. And let 'em wait, father ; there 's neither
red-coat in the coach nor footman behind it.
Boniface. But they threaten to go to another inn
to-night.
Cherry. That they dare not, for fear the coachman
should overturn them to-morrow. — Coming ! coming !
— Here 's the London coach arrived.
Enter Coach-passettgers, with trimks, bandboxes, and
other luggage, and cross the stage.
Boniface. Welcome, ladies !
Cherry. Ntrj welcome, gentlemen ! Chamberlain,
show the Lion and the Rose.
Exit with the company.
Enter AlMWELL and ARCHER, the latter caj-rying a
portmanteau.
Boniface. This way, this way, gentlemen.
Aimwcll. To Archer. Set down the things ; go
to the stable, and see my horses well rubbed.
Archer. I shall, sir. Exit.
Aimwell. You 're my landlord, I suppose ?
Boniface. Yes, sir, I 'm old Will Boniface, pretty
well known upon this road, as the saying is.
THE BEAUX' STRATAGEM 175
Aimwell. O Mr. Boniface, your servant !
Boniface. O sir ! — What will your honour please to
drink, as the saying is ?
Ainnvdl. I have heard your town of Lichfield much
famed for ale ; I think I '11 taste that.
Boniface. Sir, I have now in my cellar ten tun of
the best ale in Staffordshire ; 'tis smooth as oil, sweet
as milk, clear as amber, and strong as brandy; and
will be just fourteen year old the fifth day of next
March, old style.
Aim-jjell. You 're very exact, I find, in the age of
your ale.
Boniface. As punctual, sir, as I am in the age of
my children. I '11 show you such ale ! — Here, tapster,
broach number 1706, as the saying is. — Sir, you shall
taste my Anno Domini. — I have lived in Lichfield,
man and boy, above eight-and-fifty years, and, I
believe, have not consumed eight-and-fifty ounces of
meat.
Aimwell. At a meal, you mean, if one may guess
your sense by your bulk.
Boniface. Not in my life, sir, I have fed purely upon
ale ; I have eat my ale, drank my ale, and I always
sleep upon ale.
Enter Tapster with a bottle and glass, and exit.
Now, sir, you shall see ! Pours out a glass.
Your worship's health. — Ila ! delicious, delicious !
176 FARQUHAR
fancy it burgundy, only fancy it, and 'tis worth ten
shillings a quart.
Aimwell. Drinks. 'Tis confounded strong !
Boniface. Strong ! it must be so, or how should we
be strong that drink it ?
Aimwell. And have you lived so long upon this ale,
landlord ?
Boniface. Eight-and-fifty years, upon my credit, sir
— but it killed my wife, poor woman, as the saying is.
Aimwell. How came that to pass ?
Boniface. I don't know how, sir ; she would not
let the ale take its natural course, sir ; she was for
qualifying it every now and then with a dram, as the
saying is ; and an honest gentleman that came this
way from Ireland, made her a present of a dozen
bottles of usquebaugh — but the poor woman was never
well after : but howe'er, I was obliged to the gentle-
man, you know.
Aimwell. Why, was it the usquebaugh that killed
her?
Boniface. My Lady Bountiful said so. She, good
lady, did what could be done"; she cured her of three
tympanies, but the fourth carried her off. But she 's
happy and I 'm contented, as the saying is.
Aimwell. Who 's that Lady Bountiful you men-
tioned ?
Boniface. Ods my life, sir, we '11 drink her health.
— Drinks. My Lady Bountiful is one of the best of
THE BEAUX- STRATAGEM 177
women. Her last husband, Sir Charles Bountiful,
left her worth a thousand pound a year ; and, I believe,
she lays out one-half on 't in charitable uses for the good
of her neighbours : .... in short she has cured
more people in and about Lichfield in ten years than
the doctors have killed in twenty j and that 's a bold
word.
The Gallery in Lady Bountiful' s House.
Mrs. Sullen and Dorixda. Enter SCRCB.
Dorinda. Well, Scrub, what news of the gentleman ?
Scrub, Madam, I have brought you a packet of
news.
Dorinda. Open it quickly, come.
Scrub. In the first place I enquired who the gentle-
man was ; they told me he was a stranger. Secondly,
I asked what the gentleman was ; they answered and
said, that they never saw him before. Thirdly, I
enquired what countr)'man he was ; they replied 'twas
more than they knew. Fourthly, I demanded whence
he came ; their answer was, they could not tell. And,
fifthly, I asked whither he went ; and they replied
they knew nothing of the matter, — and this is all I
could learn.
Mrs. Sullen. But what do the people say? Can't
they guess ?
N
178 FARQUHAR
Scrub, Why, some think he 's a spy, some guess
he 's a mountebank, some say one thing, some another ;
but for my own part, I believe he 's a Jesuit.
Dorinda. A Jesuit ! why a Jesuit ?
Scrub. Because he always keeps his horses ready
saddled, and his footman talks French.
Mrs. Sullen. His footman !
Scrub. Ay, he and the count's footman were gabber-
ing French like two ducks in a mill-pond ; and I
believe they talked of me, for they laughed con-
sumedly.
Dorinda. What sort of livery has the footman ?
Scrub. Livery ! Lord, madam, I took him for a
captain, he 's so bedizzened with lace ! And then he
has tops to his shoes, up to his mid leg, a silver-headed
cane dangling at his knuckles ; he carries his hands in
his pockets just so — Walks about foppishly.
and has a fine long periwig tied up in a bag. — Lord,
madam, he 's clear another sort of man than T.
Mrs. Sullen. That may easily be.
THE INCONSTANT ; OR, THE WA V TO
WIN HIM
JVLiRABEL is of a wild, roving disposition. He has
just returned from travelling abroad, and refuses to
marry Oriana, his father's ward, to whom he is be-
trothed, and plans going abroad again. Oriana dis-
THE INCONSTANT 179
guises herself and enters his service as a page, un-
recognized by him. Mirabel makes the acquaintance
of Mrs. Lamorce, an adventuress, and calling at her
house attended only by his supposed page, finds him-
self in the hands of four bravoes — whom, however, he
affects to believe to be gentlemen. As a last hope of
escape, he sends the page on a pretended errand for
wine, who, seeing Mirabel's danger, fetches his friend
Captain Duretete and a guard of soldiers. The bravoes
are aiTestcd, and Mirabel, full of gratitude to the page,
desires him to ask what reward he will. Oriana dis-
covers herself and claims the fulfilment of his contract
to her, which Mirabel gladly promises.
Lamorce^ s Lodgings.
Mirabel. Enter Lamorce and Four Bravoes.
Mirabel. Starts back. Hum ! hum ! Aside. Mur-
dered, murdered to be sure! — Nobody near me! — These
cut-throats make always sure work. — What shall I do?
I have but one way. — Aloud. Are these gentlemen
your relations, madam ?
Lamorce. Ves, sir.
Mirabel. Gentlemen, your most humble servant ! —
Sir, yourmost faithful ! — Yours, sir, with all my heart !
— Your most obedient ! — Salutes all round.
No ceremony — next the lady — pray, sir. They all sit.
Ijimorce. Well, sir, and how d' ye like my friends?
Mirabel. O madam, the most finished gentlemen !
I was never more happy in good company in my life.
— I suppose, sir, you have travelled ?
First Bravo. Yes, sir.
i8o FARQUHAR
Mirabel. Which way, may I presume ?
First Bravo. In a western barge, sir.
Mirabel. Ha ! ha ! ha ! very pretty ; facetious
pretty gentleman !
Lamorce. Ha ! ha ! ha ! Sir, you have got the
prettiest ring upon your finger there —
Mirabel. Ah, laiadam ! 'tis at your service with all
my heart. Offering the ring.
Lamorce. By no means, sir, a family-ring !
Takes it.
Mirabel. No matter, madam. — Aside. Seven hun-
dred pound, by this light !
Second Bravo. Pray, sir, what 's o'clock ?
Mirabel. Hum ! Sir, I forgot my watch at home.
Second Bravo. I thought I saw the string of it just
now.
Mirabel. Ods my life, sir, I beg your pardon ! Here
it is — but it don't go. Putting it up.
Lamorce. O dear sir, an English watch ! Tompion's,
I presume?
Mirabel. D' ye like it, madam ? No ceremony. —
Lamorce takes the ivatch.
'Tis at your service with all my heart and soul. — Aside.
Tompion's ! hang ye.
First Bravo. But, sir, above all things, I admire
the fashion and make of your sword-hilt.
Mirabel. I 'm mighty glad you like it, sir.
First Bravo. Will you part with it, sir ?
THE ISCONSTAST i8i
Mirabel. Sir, I won't sell it.
First Bravo. Not sell it, sir !
Mirabel. No, gentlemen— but I "II bestow it with
all my heart. Offering it.
First Bravo. O sir, we shall rob you !
Mirabel. Aside. That you do, I '11 be sworn !—
Aloud. I have another at home, pray, sir. —
Gives his sword.
Gentlemen, you 're too modest ; have I anything else
that you fancy? To First Brarco. Sir, \\nll you do me
a favour ? I am extremely in love with that wig which
you wear, will you do me the favour to change with me?
First Bravo. Look'ee, sir, this is a family-wig, and
I will not part with it, but if you like it —
Mirabel. Sir, your most humble servant.
They change wigs.
First Bravo. Madam, your most humble slave.
Goes up foppishly to Lamorce and salutes her.
Second Bravo. Aside. The fellow 's very liberal,
shall we murder him ?
First Bravo. Aside. What ! let him 'scape to hang
us all, and I to lose my wig ! no, no. I want but a
handsome pretence to quarrel with him, for you know
we must act like gentlemen. Aloud. Here, some
wine !
Enter Servant, with wine.
Sir, your good health. Pulls Mirabel by the nose.
i82 FARQUHAR
Mirabel. O sir, your most humble servant ! A plea-
sant frolic enough, to drink a man's health, and pull
him by the nose ; ha ! ha ! ha ! the pleasantest pretty
humoured gentleman !
Lamorce. Help the gentleman to a glass.
Mirabel drinks.
First Bravo. How d' ye like the wine, sir ?
Mirabel. Veiy good o' the kind, sir ; but I '11 tell
ye what, I find we 're all inclined to be frolicsome,
and egad, for my own part, I was never more disposed
to be merry ; let 's make a night on 't, ha ! — This
wine is pretty, but I have such burgundy at home ! —
Look'ee, gentlemen, let me send for a dozen flasks of
my burgundy, I defy France to match it. — 'Twill make
us all life, all air ; pray, gentlemen.
Second Bravo, Eh ! shall us have his burgundy ?
First Bravo. Yes, faith, we '11 have all we can.
Here, call up the gentleman's servant. Exit Servant.
What think you, Lamorce ?
Lamorce. Yes, yes. — Your servant is a foolish country
boy, sir, he understands nothing but innocence ?
Mirabel. Ay, ay, madam. Here, page. —
Enter Oriana.
Take this key, and go to my butler ; order him to
send half-a-dozen flasks of the red burgundy, marked
a thousand, and be sure you make haste, I long to
entertain my friends here, my very good friends.
THE INCONSTANT 183
All. Ah, dear sir !
First Bravo. Here, child, take a glass of wine.
Your master arid I have changed wigs, honey, in a
frolic. A\Tiere had you this pretty boy, honest
Mustapha ?
Oriana. Aside. Mustapha !
Mirabel. Out of Picardy. — This is the first errand
he has made for me, and if he does it right, I 'II
encourage him.
Oriana. The red burgimdy, sir ?
Mirabel. The red, marked a thousand, and be sure
you make haste.
Oriana. I shall, sir. Exit.
First Bravo. Sir, you were pleased to like my wig,
have you any fancy for my coat ? Look'ee, sir, it h.is
ser\'ed a great many honest gentlemen very faithfully.
Mirabel. Not so faithfully, for I 'm afraid it has got
a scurvy trick of leaving all its masters in necessity.
Aside. The insolence of these dogs is beyond their
cruelty.
Latnorce. You 're melancholy, sir !
Mirabel. Only concerned, madam, that I should
have no servant here but this little boy. — He '11 make
some confounded blunder, I '11 lay my life on 't ; I
would not be disappointed of my wine for the
universe.
Lamoree. He'll do well enough, sir ; but supper's
ready, will you please to eat a bit, sir?
i84 FARQUHAR
Mirabel. O madam, I never had a better stomach
in my life.
Lamorce, Come then ; we have nothing but a plate
of soup. Exit Mirabel, handing Lamorce.
Second Bravo. That wig won't fall to your share.
First Bravo. No, no, we '11 settle that after supper ;
in the meantime the gentleman shall wear it.
Second Bravo. Shall we despatch him ?
Third Bravo. To be sure : I think he knows me.
First Bravo. Ay, ay, dead men tell no tales. I
wonder at the impudence of the English rogues, that
will hazard the meeting a man at the bar that they
have encountered upon the road. I han't the confi-
dence to look a man in the face after I have done him
an injury ; therefore we '11 murder him. Exeunt.
Mirabel. Bloody hell-hounds, I overheard you !
Was I not two hours ago the happy, gay, rejoicing
Mirabel ? How did I plume my hopes in a fair coming
prospect of a long scene of years ! Life courted me
with all the charms of vigour, youth, and fortune ;
and to be torn away from all my promised joys, is
more than death ; the maimer too — by villains. — O
my Oriana, this very moment might have blessed me
in thy arms ! and my poor boy, the innocent boy ! —
Confusion ! — But hush, they come ; I must dissemble.
Enter Bravoes.
Still no news of my wine, gentlemen ?
THE INCONSTANT 185
First Bravo. No, sir, I believe your country booby
has lost himself, and we can wait no longer for 't. —
True, sir, you 're a pleasant gentleman, but I suppose
you understand our business.
Mirabel. Sir, I may go near to guess at your em-
ployments ; you, sir, are a lawyer, I presume ; you, a
physician ; you, a scrivener ; you, a stockjobber. —
Aside. All cut-throats, egad !
Fourth Bravo. Sir, I am a broken officer. I was
cashiered at the head of the army for a coward : so I
took up the trade of murder to retrieve the reputation
of my courage.
Third Bravo. I am a soldier too, and would serve
my king, but I don't like the quaiTcl, and I have more
honour than to fight in a bad cause.
Secottd Bravo. I was bred a gentleman, and have
no estate, but I must have my .... and my bottle,
through the prejudice of education.
First Braz'o. I am a niffian too, by tlie {prejudice
of education; I was bred a butcher. In short, sir, if
your wine had come, we might have trifled a little
longer. — Come, sir, which sword will you fall by ?
mine, sir ? Dra~u's.
Second Bravo. Or mine ? Dra-vs.
Third Bravo. Or mine? Draws.
Fourth Bravo, Or mine ? Draws.
Mirabel. Aside. I scorn to beg my life ; but to be
butchered thus — A'nockiti^\
i86 FARQUHAR
Oh, there 's the wine ! — This moment for my life or
death.
Enter Oriana.
Lost, for ever lost \— Faintly. Where 's the wine,
child?
Oriana. Coming up, sir. Stamps,
Enter Captain Duretete with his sword dra^vn, and
six soldiers with their pieces presented ; the Bravoes
drop their szvords. Exit Oriana.
Mirabel. The wine ! the wine ! the wine ! Youth,
pleasure, fortune, days, and years, are now my own
again. — Ah, my dear friends, did not I tell you this
wine would make me merry? — Dear captain, these
gentlemen are the best-natured, facetious, witty crea-
tures, that ever you knew.
Enter Lamorce.
Lamorce. Is the wine come, sir ?
Mirabel. O yes, madam, the wine is come — see
there ! — Pointing to the Soldiers.
Your ladyship has got a veiy fine ring upon your finger.
La??iorce. Sir, 'tis at your service.
Mirabel. O ho ! is it so ? Puts it on his finger.
Thou dear seven hundred pound, thou 'rt welcome
home again, with all my heart ! — Ad's my life, madam,
you have got the finest built watch there ! Tompion's,
I presume ?
Lamorce. Sir, you may wear it.
THE INCONSTANT 187
Mirabel. O madam, by no means, 'tis too much ! —
Rob you of all ! — Taking it from her.
Good dear time, thou 'rt a precious thing : I 'm glad I
have retrieved thee. — Putting it rip.
What, my friends neglected all this while ! Gentlemen,
you '11 pardon my complaisance to the lady. — How
now, is it so civil to be out of humour at my enter-
tainment, and I so pleased with yours ? — To DURETETE.
Captain, you 're sui-prised at all this ! but we 're in
our frolics you must know. — Some wine here !
Riitcr Servant with "ujine.
Come, captain, this worthy gentleman's health.—
Tweaks First Bravo by the nose ; he roars.
But now, where, where 's my dear deliverer, my boy,
my charming boy ?
First Bravo. I hope some of our crew below stairs
have despatched him.
Mirabel. Villain, what sayest thou? despatched !
I '11 have ye all tortured, racked, torn to pieces alive,
if you have touched my boy. — Here, page ! page !
page ! Kuns out.
Diiretete. Here, gentlemen, be sure you secure those
fellows.
First Bravo. Yes, sir, we know you and your guard
will be very civil to us.
Durelete. Take 'em to justice.
Exeunt Soldiers with (he Bravoes,
i88 FARQUHAR
Enter Old Mirabel and Others.
Old Mirabel. Robin ! Robin ! where 's Bob, where 's
my boy ? . . .
Re-enter Mirabel.
Ah, my dear Bob, art thou safe, man ?
Mirabel. No, no, sir, I 'm ruined, the saver of my
life is lost.
Old Mirabel. No, no, he came and brought us the
news.
Mirabel. But where is he ?
Re-enter Oriana.
Ha ! Runs and embraces her.
My dear preserver, what shall I do to recompense
your trust? Father, friend, gentlemen, behold the
youth that has relieved me from the most ignominious
death, from the scandalous poniards of these bloody
ruffians, where to have fallen, would have defamed
my memory with vile reproach. — My life, estate, my
all, is due to such a favour. Command me, child :
before you all, before my late, so kind indulgent stars,
I swear, to grant whate'er you ask.
Oriana. To the same stars indulgent now to me, I
will appeal as to the justice of my claim ; I shall de-
mand but what was mine before — the just performance
of your contract to Oriana. Discovering herself.
All. Oriana !
THE RECRUITING OFFICER 189
Oriana. In this disguise I resolved to follow you
abroad, counterfeited that letter that got me into your
service ; and so, by this strange turn of fate, I became
the instrument of your preservation. Few common
ser%'ants would have had such cmming : my love in-
spired me with the meaning of your message, 'cause my
concern for your safety made me suspect your company.
THE RECRUITING OFFICER
1 HE plot of this good broad comedy needs for the
understanding of our extract from it no further setting
forth than the statement that Captain Plume, an easy-
going fine gentleman officer, and Sergeant Kite, a
knavish soldier, are engaged on a recruiting expedition
to hJhrewsbur)', and that Coslar and Appletrce, their
dupes, are two countrjmen.
The Market-Placc. Drum beats the Grenadier's
March.
Enter Sergeant KiTE, foUcnced by Thomas Apple-
TREE, Costa R Rearm aix, and the Mob.
Kite. Making a speech. If any gentlemen soldiers,
or others, have a mind to serve Her Majesty, and pull
down the French king : if any prentices have severe
masters, any children have undutiful parents : if any
servants have too little wages, or any husband too much
wife : let them repair to the noble sergeant Kite, at the
sign of the Raven, in this good town of Shrewsbury,
and they shall receive present relief and entertainment.
igo FARQUHAR
— Gentlemen, I don't beat my drums here to ensnare or
inveigle any man ; for you must know, gentlemen, that
I am a man of honour ; besides, I don't beat up for
common soldiers ; no, I list only grenadiers, gre-
nadiers, gentlemen. Pray, gentlemen, observe this
cap. This is the cap of honour, it dubs a man a gentle-
man in the drawing of a trigger ; and he that has the
good fortune to be born six foot high, was born to be
a great man. To Costar Pearmain. Sir, will you
give me leave to try this cap upon your head ?
Cos. Is there no harm in 't ? Won't the cap list me ?
Kite. No, no, no more than I can. — Come, let me
see how it becomes you.
Cos. Are you sure there be no conjuration in it ? no
gunpowder plot upon me ?
Kite. No, no, friend ; don't fear, man.
Cos. My mind misgives me plaguily. Let me see it.
Going to put it on.
It smells woundily of brimstone. Smell, Tummas.
Tho. Ay, wauns does it.
Cos. Pray, sergeant, what writing is this upon the
face of it ?
Kite. The crown, or the bed of honour.
Cos. Pray, now, what may be that same bed of
honour.
Kite. Oh, a mighty large bed ! bigger by half than
the gi-eat bed at Ware— ten thousand people may lie
in it together, and never feel one another.
THE RECRUITING OFFICER 191
Cos. My wife and I would do well to lie in 't. Rut
do folk sleep sound in this same bed of honour?
Kite. Sound ! — Ay, so sound that they never wake.
Cos. Wauns ! I wish again that my wife lay there.
A'itc. Say you so ? Then I find, brother —
Cos. Brother ! — Hold there, friend ; I am no kin-
dred to you that I know of yet. Look'e, sergeant, no
coaxing — no wheedUng, d' ye see : if I have a mind
to list, why so ; if not, why 'tis not so : therefore,
take your cap and your brothership back again, for I
an't disposed at this present writing. — No coaxing,
no brothering me, faith !
K'ilc. I coax ! I wheedle ! I 'm above it ! Sir, I
have ser\ed twenty campaigns. But, sir, you talk
well, and I must own that you are a man, every inch
of you, a pretty young sprightly fellow. I love a
fellow with a spirit, but I scorn to coax — 'tis base ;
though I must say, that never in my life have I seen a
better built man. How firm and strong he treads ! —
he steps like a castle ! Come, honest lad, will you
take share of a pot !
Cos. Nay, for that matter, I 'II spend my penny with
the best he that wears a head ; that is, begging your
pardon, sir, and in a fair way.
KUe. Give me your hand, then ; and now, gentlemen,
I have no more to say but this — here 's a purse of gold,
and there is a tub of humming ale at my quarters : 'tis
the queen's money, and the queen's drink.— She 's a
192 FARQUHAR
generous queen, and loves her subjects. — I hope,
gentlemen, you won't refuse the queen's health ?
Mob. No, no, no !
Kite. Huzza, then ! huzza for the queen, and the
honour of Shropshire !
Mob. Huzza ! Exeunt, shouting, drum beating
the ' Grenadier^ s March.''
Re-enter Kite, and Plume.
Kite. Welcometo Shrewsbury, noblecaptain ! From
the banks of the Danube to the Severn side, noble cap-
tain, you 're welcome !
Phime. A very elegant reception, indeed, Mr. Kite !
I find you are fairly entered into your recruiting strain :
pray, what success?
Kite. I ' ve been here but a week, and I have recruited
five.
Plume, Five ! Pray what are they ?
Kite. I have listed the strong man of Kent, the king
of the gipsies, a Scotch pedlar, a scoundrel attorney,
and a Welsh parson.
Plujue. An attorney! Wert thou mad? List a lawyer !
Discharge him, discharge him this minute.
Kite. Why, sir?
Plume. Because I will have nobody in my company
that can write ; a fellow that can write can draw
petitions. I say, this minute discharge him.
THE RECRUITING OFFICER 193
Kite. And what shall I do with the parson ?
Plume. Can he write ?
Kite. Hum ! He plays rarely upon llie fiddle.
Plume. Keep him, by all means. — But how stands
the country affected ? Were the people pleased with
the news of my coming to town ?
Kite. Sir, the mob are so pleased with your honour,
and the justices and better sort of people, are so de-
lighted with me, that we shall soon do our business.
The Street.
Enter Sergeant KiTE, leading COSTAR Pearmmn in
one hand, and Thomas Apfletree in the other,
both drunk.
Kite. Sings. Our ^prentiee, Tom, may no:i' refuse
To 'o. Toby. But what are they to do who love play
better than wine ?
Care. True : there 's Sir Harry diets himself for
gaming, and is now under a hazard regimen.
Charks. Then he '11 have the worst of it. What !
you wouldn't train a horse for the course by keeping
him from corn ? For my part, egad ! I am never so
successful as when I am a little merry. Let me throw
on a bottle of Champagne, and I never lose — at least,
I never feel my losses, which is exactly the same
thing.
Sir Toby. Ay, that I believe.
Charles. And then, what man can pretend to be a
believer in love, who is an adjurer of wine? 'Tis the
test by which the lover knows his own heart. Fill a
dozen bumpers to a dozen beauties, and she that floats
atop is the maid that has bewitched you.
Care. Now then, Charles, be honest, and give us
your real favourite.
Charles. Why, I have withheld her only in com-
passion to you. If I toast her, you must give a round
of her peers, which is impossible — on earth.
Care. Oh, then we '11 find some canonized vestals or
heathen goddesses that will do, I warrant !
ClmrL's. Here, then, bumpers, you rogues ! bumpers !
Maria ! Maria !
Sir Harry. Maria who ?
Charles. Oh, hang the surname — 'tis too formal to
268 SHERIDAN
be registered in Love's calendar. Maria ! But now,
Sir Harry, beware, we must have beauty superlative.
Care. Nay, never study, Sir Harry ; we '11 stand to
the toast, though your mistress should want an eye ;
and you know you have a song will excuse you.
Sir Harry. Egad, so I have ! and I '11 give him the
song instead of the lady.
Song.
Here 'j to the maiden of bashful fifteen ;
Here 's to the widow of fifty ;
Here 'j to theflauntijig extravagant quean
And here 's to the housewife that ^s thrifty.
Chorus. Let the toast pass.
Drink to the lass,
I warrant she 'II prove an excuse for the glass.
Here 'j to the charmer whose dimples we prize.
Now to the maid who has no fie, sir :
Here 's to the girl with a pair of blue eyes.
And here 's to the nymph with but one, sir.
Chorus. Let the toast pass, etc.
Here 's to the maid with a bosom of snow ;
Noiv to her that 's as brviun as a berry :
Here ^s to the wife with a face full of woe.
And now to the girl that is merry.
Chorus. Let the toast pass, etc.
THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL 269
For let \rn be clumsy, or let \rn be slim.
Young or ancient, I care not a feather ;
So Jill a pint bumper quite up to the brim
And let us e'en toast them together.
Chorus. Let the toast pass, etc.
All. Bravo ! bravo !
Enter TRIP, and whispers CHARLES Si'RFACE.
Charles. Gentlemen, you must excuse me a little.
Careless, take the chair, will you ?
Care. Nay, prithee, Charles, n\ hat now ? This is one
of your peerless beauties, I suppose, has dropt in by
chance ?
Charles. No, faith ! To tell you the tnith, 'tis a Jewr
and a broker, who are come by appointment.
Care. O ! let 's have the Jew in.
Sir Harry. Ay, and the broker too, by all means.
Care. Yes, yes, the Jew and the broker.
Charles. Egad, with all my heart ! Trip, bid the
gentlemen walk in — though there 's one of them a
stranger, I can tell you.
Care. Charles, let us give them some generous
Burgundy, and perhaps they '11 grow conscientious.
Charles. O, hang 'em, no I wine does but draw forth
a man's natural ciualities ; and to make tliem drink
would only be to whet their knavciy.
270 SHERIDAN
Sir Oliver Surface and Moses.
Charles. So, honest Moses, walk in : walk in, pray,
Mr. Premium — that 's the gentleman's name, isn't it,
Moses ?
Moses. Yes, sir.
Charles. Set chairs, Trip — sit down, Mr. Premium —
glasses, Trip — sit down, Moses. Come, Mr. Premium,
I '11 give you a sentiment ; here 's ' success to usury I '
— Moses, fill the gentleman a bumper.
Moses. Success to tisury !
Care. Right, Moses — usury is prudence and industry,
and deserves to succeed.
Sir 01. Then — here 'j all the success it deserves !
Care. No, no, that won't do ! Mr. Premium, you
have demurred at the toast, and must drink it in a pint
bumper.
Sir Harry. A pint bumper, at least.
Moses. O pray, sir, consider— Mr. Premium's a
gentleman.
Care. And therefore loves good wine.
Sir Toby. Give Moses a quart glass — this is mutiny,
and a high contempt for the chair.
Care. Here, now for 't ! I '11 see justice done, to the
last drop of my bottle.
Sir 01. Nay, pray, gentlemen — I did not expect
this usage.
THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL 271
Charles. No, hang it, you shan't ! Mr, Premium 's
a stranger.
Sir 01. Odd ! I wish I was well out of their com-
pany.
Care. Plague on 'em then !— if they don't drink,
we '11 not sit down with them. Come, Harry, the dice
are in the next room— Charles, you '11 join us when you
have finished your business with the gentlemen ?
Charles. I will ! I will !— Exeunt.
Careless !
Care. Returning. Well?
Charles. Perhaps I may want you.
Care. O, you know I am always ready : word, note,
or bond, 'tis all the same to me. Exit.
Moses. Sir, this is Mr. Premium, a gentleman of the
strictest honour and secrecy : and always performs
•what he undertakes. Mr. Premium, this is —
Charles. Pshaw ! have done. Sir, my friend Moses
is a very honest fellow, but a little slow at expression :
he '11 be an hour giving us our titles. Mr. Premium,
the plain state of the matter is this : I am an extrava-
gant young fellow who wants to borrow money— you
I take to be a prudent old fellow, who have got money
to lend. — I am blockhead enough to give fifty per cent,
sooner than not have it ; and you, I presume, are rogue
enough to take a hundred if you can get it. Now, sir,
you see we are acquainted at once, and may proceed
to business without further ceremony.
272 SHERIDAN
Sir 01. Exceeding frank, upon my word. — I see,
sir, you are not a man of many compliments.
Charles. Oh no, sir ! plain dealing in business I
always think best.
Sir 01. Sir, I like you the better for it— however,
you are mistaken in one thing ; I have no money to
lend, but I believe I could procure some of a friend ;
but then he's an unconscionable dog, isn't he, Moses?
Moses. But you can't help that.
Sir 01. And must sell stock to accommodate you —
mustn't he, Moses ?
Moses. Yes, indeed ! You know I always speak the
truth, and scorn to tell a lie !
Charles. Right. People that speak truth generally
do : but these are trifles, Mr. Premium. What ! I know
money isn't to be bought without paying for 't.
Sir 01. Well— but what security could you give ?
You have no land, I suppose ?
Charles. Not a mole-hill, nor a twig, but what 's in
the bough-pots out of the window !
Sir 01. Nor any stock, I presume ?
Charles. Nothing but live stock— and that 's only a
few pointers and ponies. But pray, Mr. Premium, are
you acquainted at all with any of my connexions?
Sir 01. Why, to say truth, I am.
Charles. Then you must know that I have a dev'lish
rich uncle in the East Indies, Sir Oliver Surface, from
whom I have the gi-eatest expectations ?
THE SCHOOL FOR SCAXDAL 273
Sir 01. That you have a wealthy uncle I have heard ;
but how your expectations will turn out is more, 1
believe, than you can tell.
Charles. O no ! — there can he no doubt. They tell
ine I 'm a prodigious favourite, and tliat he talks of
leaving me every thing.
Sir 01. Indeed ! this is the first I 've lieard of it.
Charles. Yes, yes, 'tis just so — Moses knows 'lis
true — don't you, Moses?
Moses. O yes ! I "11 swear to 't.
Sir 01. Asidi. Egad, they '11 persuade me presently
I 'm at Bengal.
Charles. Now I propose, Mr. Premium, if it 's
agreeable to you, a post-obit on ."^ir Oliver's life ;
though at the same time the old fellow has been so
liberal to me, that I give you my word, I should be
very sorry to hear that anything had happened to him.
Sir O!. Not more than I should, I assure you. But
the bond you mention happens to be just the worst
security you could offer me — for I might live to a
hundred, and never see the principal.
Charles. O yes, you would — the moment Sir Oliver
dies, you know, you would come on me for the money.
Sir 01. Then I believe I should be the most unwel-
come dun you ever had in your life.
Charles. What I I suppo.se you 're afraid that Sir
Oliver is too good a life ?
Sir 01. No, indeefl, I am not ; though I have heard
T
274 SHERIDAN
he is as hale and healthy as any man of his years in
Christendom,
Charles. There again now you are misinformed. No,
no, the climate has hurt him considerably, poor uncle
Oliver ! Yes, yes, he breaks apace, I 'm told — and is
so much altered lately, that his nearest relations don't
know him.
Sir 01. No ! ha ! ha ! ha ! so much altered lately,
that his nearest relations don't know him ! ha ! ha !
ha ! egad — ha ! ha ! ha !
Charles. Ha ! ha ! — you 're glad to hear that, little
Premium ?
Sir 01. No, no, I 'm not.
Charles. Yes, yes, you are — ha ! ha ! ha ! — You
know that mends your chance.
Sir 01. But I 'm told Sir Oliver is coming over ? —
nay, some say he is actually arrived ?
Charles. Pshaw ! Sure I must know better than you
whether he 's come or not. No, no, rely on 't he's at
this moment at Calcutta — isn't he, Moses.
Moses. O yes, certainly.
Sir 01. Very true, as you say, you must know better
than I, though I have it from pretty good authority —
haven't I, Moses !
Moses. Yes, most undoubted !
Sir 01. But, sir, as I understand you want a few
hundreds immediately — is there nothing you could
dispose of?
THE SCHOOL FOR SCAXDAL 275
CJuirles. How do you mean ?
Sir 01. For instance, now, I have heard that your
father left behindhim a great quantity of massy old plate?
Charles. O Lud I — that 's gone long ago. — Moses can
tell you how, better than I can.
Sir 01. Aside. Good lack ! all the family race cups
and corporation bowls I — Aloud. Then it was also
supposed that his library was one of the most valuable
and compact —
Charles. Yes, yes, so it was — vastly too much so for
a private gentleman. For my part, I was always of a
communicative disposition, so I thought it a shame to
keep so much knowledge to myself.
Sir 01. Mercy upon me ! Learning that had run in
the family like an heirloom ! Pray, what are become of
the books.
Charles. You must inquire of the auctioneer.
Master Premium, for I don't believe even Moses can
direct you.
Moses. I know nothing of books.
Sir 01. So, so, nothing of the family property left, I
suppose !
Charles. Not much, indeed ; unless you have a
mind to the family pictures. I have got a room full of
ancestors above, and if you have a taste for paintings,
egad, you shall have 'em a bargain.
Sir 01. Hey ! what the devil ! sure, you wDuldn'l
sell your forefathers, would you ?
276 SHERIDAN
Charles. Every man of them to the best bidder.
Sir 01. What ! your great uncles and aunts ?
Charles. Ay, and my great grandfathers and grand-
mothers too.
Sir 01. Aside. Now I give him up. What the
plague, have you no bowels for your own kindred ?
Odd's life, do you take me for Shylock in the play, that
you would raise money of me on your own flesh and
blood ?
Charles. Nay, my little broker, don't be angry :
what need you care if you have your money's worth ?
Sir 01. Well, I 'II be the purchaser : I think I can
dispose of the family canvas. Aside. Oh, I '11 never
forgive him this ! never !
Enter CARELESS.
Care. Come, Charles, what keeps you ?
Charles. I can't come yet : i' faith we are going to
have a sale above stairs ; here 's little Premium will
buy all my ancestors.
Care. O, burn your ancestors !
Charles, No, he may do that afterwards, if he
pleases. Stay, Careless, we want you : egad, you
shall be auctioneer ; so come along with us.
Care. O, have with you, if that 's the case. Handle
a hammer as well as a dice-box !
Sir 01. Aside. Oh, the profligates !
Charles. Come, Moses, you shall be appraiser, if we
THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL 277
want one. Gad's life, little Premium, you don't seem
to like the business ?
Sir 01. O yes, I do, vastly. Ha, ha, ha ! yes, yes,
I think it a rare joke to sell one's family by auction —
ha, ha, ha ! Aside. O, the prodigal !
Charles. To be sure ! when a man wants money,
where the plague should he get assistance if he can't
make free with his own relations ? Exeunt.
Picture Room at Charles's.
Enter Charles Surface, Sir Oliver Surface,
Moses, and Careless.
Charles. Walk in, gentlemen, pray walk in ;— here
they are, the family of the Surfaces, up to the
Conquest.
Sir 01. Anil, in my opinion, a goodly collection.
Charles. Ay, ay, these are done in the true spirit
of portrait painting ; — no volonticr grace and expres-
sion. Not like the works of your modem Raphaels,
who give you the strongest resemblance, yet contrive
to make your portrait independent of you ; so that
you may sink the original and not hurt the picture. —
No, no ; the merit of these is the inveterate likeness —
all stiff and awkward as the originals, and like nothing
in human nature besides.
Sir 01. Ah ! we shall never see such figures of men
again.
278 SHERIDAN
Charles. I hope not.— Well, you see, Master Pre-
mium, what a domestic character I am ; here I sit of
an evening surrounded by my family. — But, come, get
to your pulpit, Mr. Auctioneer ; here 's an old gouty
chair of my grandfather's will answer the purpose.
Care. Ay, ay, this will do. — But, Charles, I haven't
a hammer ; and what 's an auctioneer without his
hammer ?
Charles. Egad, that's true ; — what parchment have
we here? O, our genealogy in full. Here, Careless, —
you shall have no common bit of mahogany, here 's
the family tree for you, you rogue — this shall be your
hammer, and now you may knock down my ancestors
with their own pedigi-ee.
Sir 01. Aside. What an unnatural rogue ! — an ex
post facto parricide !
Care. Yes, yes, here 's a bit of your generation in-
deed ; — faith, Charles, this is the most convenient
thing you could have found for the business, for 'twill
serve not only as a hammer, but a catalogue into the
bargain. — Come begin— A-going, a-going, a-going !
Charles. Bravo, Careless ! Well, here 's my great
vmcle. Sir Richard Raveline, a marvellous good general
in his day, I assure you. He served in all the Duke
of Marlborough's wars, and got that cut over his eye
at the battle of Malplaquet. — What say you, Mr.
Premium ? — look at him — there 's a hero, not cut out
of his feathers, as your modern dipt captains are, but
THE SCHOOL FOR SCAXDAL 279
enveloped in wig and regimentals, as a general should
be. — What do you bid?
Moses. Mr. Premium would have yoti speak.
Charles. \\Tiy, then, he shall have him for ten
pounds, and I 'm sure that 's not dear for a staff-officer.
Sir 01. Aside. Heaven deliver me ! his famous
uncle Richard for ten pounds ! — Well, sir, I take him
at that.
Charles. Careless, knock down my uncle Ricliard. —
Here, now, is a maiden sister of his, my great aunt
Deborah, done by Kneller, thought to be in his best
manner, and a very formidable likeness. — There she
is, you see — shepherdess feeding her flock. — You shall
have her for five pounds ten — the sheep are worth the
money.
Sir 01. Aside. Ah ! poor Deborah ! a woman who
set such a value on herself ! Five pounds ten — she 's
mine.
Charles. Knock down my aunt Deborah ! — Here,
now, are two that were a sort of cousins of theirs.
You see, Moses, these pictures were done some time
ago, when beaux wore wigs, and the ladies their own
hair.
Sir 01. Yes, truly, head-dresses appear to have
been a little lower in those days.
C/iarles. Well, take that couple for the same.
Moses. 'TLs good bargain.
Charles. Careless ! — This, now, is a grandfather of
28o SHERIDAN
my mother's, alearned judge, well known on the western
circuit. What do you rate him at, Moses ?
Moses. Four guineas.
Charles. Four guineas ! Gad's life, you don't bid
me the price of his wig. Mr. Premium, you have
more respect for the woolsack ; do let us knock his
lordship down at fifteen.
Sir 01. By all means.
Cai-e. Gone !
Charles. And there are two brothers of his, William
and Walter Blunt, Esquires, both members of Parlia-
ment, and noted speakers ; and what 's very extra-
ordinary, I believe this is the first time they were ever
bought or sold.
Sir 01. That is very extraordinary, indeed ! I '11
take them at your own price, for the honour of
Parliament.
Care. Well said, little Premium ! I '11 knock them
down at forty.
Charles. Here 's a jolly fellow — I don't know what
relation, but he was Mayor of Manchester. Take him
at eight pounds.
Sir 01. No, no ; six will do for the mayor.
Charles. Come, make it guineas, and I '11 throw you
the two aldermen there into the bargain.
Sir 01. They 're mine.
Charles. Careless, knock down the mayor and
aldermen. — But plague on 't, we shall be all day retail-
THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL 281
ing in this manner ;— do let us deal wholesale : what
say you, little Premium ? Give me three hundred
pounds for the rest of the family in the lump.
Care. Ay, ay, that will be the best way.
Sir 01. Well, well, anything to accommodate you ; —
they are mine. But there is one portrait which you
have always passed over.
Care. What, that ill-looking little fellow over the
settee ?
Sir 01. Ves, sir, I mean that, though I don't
think him so ill-looking a little fellow, by any
means.
Charles. What, that ? — Oh ! that 's my uncle
Oliver ; 'twas done before he went to India.
Care. Your uncle Oliver ! — Gad, then you 'U never
be friends, Charles. That, now, to me, is as stern a
looking rogue as ever I saw ; an unforgiving eye, and
a damned disinheriting countenance ! An inveterate
knave, depend on "t. Don't you think so, little
Premium?
Sir 01. Upon my soul, sir, I do not : I think it is as
honest a looking face as any in the room, dead or
alive ; — but I suppose uncle Oliver goes with the rest
of the lumber ?
Charles. No, hang it ; I '11 not part with poor Noll.
The old fellow has been very good to me, and egad !
I 'II keep his picture while I 've a room to put it in.
Sir 01. Aside. The rogue 's my nephew after all ! —
282 SHERIDAN
But, sir, I have somehow taken a fancy to that
picture.
Charles. I 'm sorry for 't, for you certainly will not
have it. — Oons, haven't you got enough of them?
Sir 01. Aside. I forgive him eveiy thing ! — But, sir,
when I take a whim in my head I don't value money.
I '11 give you as much for that as for all the rest.
Charles. Don't tease me, master broker ; I tell you
I '11 not part with it, and there 's an end of it.
Sir 01. Aside. How like his father the dog is ! —
Well, well, I have done. Aside. — -I did not perceive it
before, but I think I never saw such a striking resem-
blance. — Here is a draught for your sum.
Charles. Why, 'tis for eight hundred pounds.
Sir 01. You will not let Sir Oliver go ?
Charles. Zounds ! no ! — I tell you once more.
Sir 01. Then never mind the difference — we '11
balance that another time — but give me your hand on
the bargain ; you are an honest fellow, Charles — I
beg pardon, sir, for being so free. — Come, Moses.
Charles. Egad, this is a whimsical old fellow ! But
hark'ee, Premium— you '11 prepare lodgings for these
gentlemen ?
Sir 01. Yes, yes ; I '11 send for them in a day or
two.
Charles. But hold ; do now send a genteel convey-
ance for them, for I assure you they were most of them
used to ride in their own carriages.
THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL 283
Sir 01. I will, I will— for all but Oliver?
Cluirhs. Ay, all but the little nabob.
Sir 01. You 're fixed on that ?
Charles. Peremptorily.
Sir 01. Aside. A dear extravagant rogue ! — Good
day I — Come, Moses. — Let me hear now who calls him
profligate !
CHISWICK press:— C. WHITTINGHAM AND CO., TOOKS
COURT, CHANCERY LANE.
!)^
UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY
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