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 j'-"-^^ f ;# 
 
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 _/
 
 ALES FROM THE 
 DRAMATISTS 
 
 1580 TO 1780 
 
 CHARLES 
 
 .0 VOLUMES IN ONE 
 
 WITH PORTP 
 
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 oyo
 
 A' A A' /ONSOA'
 
 T 
 
 ALES FROM THE 
 DRAMATISTS 
 
 1580 TO 1780 
 
 BY 
 
 CHARLES MORRIS 
 
 TWO VOLUMES IN ONE 
 
 WITH PORTRAITS 
 
 PHIL ADELP H I A 
 
 J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY 
 
 1898 
 
 5 ".' » 
 
 3 ■> 
 
 3 3 } > 3
 
 CoPYRKiHT, 1S92, 
 
 BY 
 
 J. B. LippiNCOTT Company. 
 
 c f • * 
 
 Printed by J. B. Lippincott Companv. Philadelphia.
 
 ?R 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 That charming literary production of Charles 
 and Mary Lamb, " Tales from Shakespeare," has 
 had the good fortune to survive for nearly a cen- 
 tury the modern deluge of books, and still remains 
 80 popular with younger readers that it may be 
 looked upon as a genuine juvenile classic. The 
 stories of the Shakesjjearian comedies and trage- 
 dies could not be more attractively rendered, and 
 our youthful acquaintance with these delightful 
 " Tales" forms a most agreeable introduction to our 
 mature studies of the plays themselves. 
 
 In the absence of any work dealing similarly 
 with the non-Shakespearian drama, the writer has 
 ventured to put into story form some of the best- 
 known plays of the leading English dramatists, — 
 not with a remote idea of such a happy destiny 
 as has fallen to the lot of the work above named, 
 but with the more modest hope of affording some 
 share of enjoyment to the present generation of 
 readers. In doing so, it has been found necessary 
 to cull heedfully from an unweeded garden, whose 
 healthful plants are associated with many of 
 noisome growth. Numerous writers of fame, such 
 as Dryden, Congreve, Wychei'ly, and several of 
 
 3 
 
 .439059
 
 4 PREFACE. 
 
 the prominent Elizabethan dramatists, are too 
 licentious or otherwise objectionable in style to 
 yield wholesome food for the young mind, or to 
 be adapted to the modern standard of taste and 
 morals. The elder drama — few of whose plays 
 still hold the stage — has, therefore, been sparingly 
 dealt with, our selections being in great part con- 
 fined to the more popular plays of the leading 
 dramatists of the eighteenth and early nineteenth 
 centuries. 
 
 This work owes only its suggestion to Lamb's 
 " Tales from Shakespcai'e." It makes no effort to 
 imitate or approach in style that deservedly pop- 
 ular work. It has, indeed, been deemed advisable 
 to deal with the drama in a less juvenile manner, 
 and thus to appeal to an older circle of readers, 
 while still considering the tastes and demands of 
 the young. 
 
 It is hoped that the lovers of the living drama 
 may find it possible to pass an occasional pleasant 
 hour with narrative reproductions of some of the 
 plays which they have enjoyed upon the stage, 
 and that the aroma of these flowers of the dra- 
 matic art may not prove to have been entirely dis- 
 sipated by depriving them of their stage setting, 
 and putting them in form for enjoyment around 
 the evening lamp.
 
 CONTENTS OF VOLUME I. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Every Man in his Humor. By Ben Johnson . . 9 
 
 Philaster, or Love Lies Bleeding. By Beau- . 
 
 moni and Fletcher 44 
 
 A New Way to Pay Old Debts. By Phiiip Mas- 
 singer 68 
 
 Venice Preserved. By Thomas Otway 99 
 
 The Busybody. By Susanna Centlivre 119 
 
 The Beaux Stratagem. By George Farquhar . . 151 
 
 The Belle's Stratagem. By Hannah Cowley . . 181 
 
 CONTENTS OF VOLUME IL 
 
 The Gamester. By Edward Moore 7 
 
 Douglas By John Home 32 
 
 She Stoops to Conquer. By Oliver Goldsm.ith . . 56 
 
 The Koad to Kuin. By Thomas Holcrqft .... 90 
 
 Wild Oats. By John O'Keefe 121 
 
 The School for Scandal. By Richard Brinsley 
 
 Butler Sheridan 156 
 
 The Rivals, liy Richard Brinsley Butler Sheridan . 185 
 
 1* 5
 
 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 VOLUME I. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Ben Johnson Frontispiece. 
 
 John Fletcher 44 
 
 Thomas Otway 99 
 
 Susanna Centlivre 119 
 
 VOLUME IL 
 
 Oliver Goldsmith Frontispiece. 
 
 John Home 32 
 
 John O'Keefe 121 
 
 Richard Brinsley Butler Sheridan 185
 
 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS 
 
 1580 TO 1780 
 
 ¥ 
 VOLUME I.
 
 EVERY MAN IN HIS HUMOR. 
 
 BY BEN JONSON. 
 
 [Op the numerous dramatic authors of the 
 Elizabethan era, contemporaries of Shakespeare, 
 — including Marlowe, Jonson, Beaumont and 
 Fletcher, Webster, Massinger, Ford, and half a 
 score of others — very few have left works of suflS- 
 cient dramatic merit to survive to our time. With 
 the exception of a single play of Massinger's, and 
 a very rare production of the best of Jonson's 
 and Beaumont and Fletcher's works, all this 
 great array of dramas has vanished from that 
 stage to which the plays of Shakespeare are 
 among the most welcome visitants. This is 
 by no means wholly due to lack of dramatic 
 strength. The powerful plays of Marlowe are too 
 primitive in style, those of Webster too revolting 
 in the cruelty of their incidents, for modern repro- 
 duction, while the licentiousness which pervades 
 some of the best works of other authors unfits 
 them for the nineteenth-century taste. We, there- 
 fore, confine our selections from the dramatists of 
 this era to those whose works have been produced 
 within the recent period. 
 
 9
 
 10 TALES PROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 Ben Jonson, in 83veral respects the ablest of 
 Shakespeare's contemporary playwrights, was 
 born at WefJtmixister, England, about 1573, was 
 educated at Westminster and Cambridge, and en- 
 joyed the honor of being one of the most learned 
 scholars of his day. His life was a varied one. 
 Leaving Cambridge in his sixteenth year, poverty 
 made him a bricklayer's apprentice, distaste for 
 which occupation soon made him a soldier. On 
 his return from the Netherlands, where he had 
 seen some service, he joined a company of actors, 
 killed one of them in a duel, and narrowly escaped 
 being banged. At a later date he was again 
 thrown into prison, with his fellow-dramatists. 
 Chapman and Marston, on the charge of libel. 
 The three were condemned to lose their ears and 
 noses, but escaped through Jonson's influence at 
 court. He had before this become a favorite dra- 
 matist, his first play, " Every Man in his Humor," 
 produced in 1598, having given him a high repu- 
 tation. In addition to his plays, he wrote, for the 
 entertainment of the Court, numerous masques, 
 many of which display diversified knowledge, 
 sprightly fancy, and fertile invention ; and a large 
 number of poems, among which are some of the 
 most charming bits of lyric fancy in the English 
 language. He was made poet-laureate by James 
 I., and was a leading spirit in the literary society 
 of that period, being a familiar associate and ap- 
 parently a close friend of Shakespeare. He died 
 in 1637, and was buried in Westminster Abbey,
 
 EVERY MAN IN HIS HUMOR. 11 
 
 his gravestone bearing the eloquent inscription, 
 " O rare Ben Jonson !" 
 
 The plays of Jonson, while full of wit and humor 
 and replete with amusing situations, are over- 
 weighted with material, and are lacking in nat- 
 uralness and interest of plot, and in life-like 
 power of characterization. His personages are 
 types of character rather than individual men, 
 and his plots mainly threads of satirical incident 
 for the display of these types. Of his plays, only 
 four are highly esteemed, " Every Man in his 
 Humor," " The Alchemist," " Volpone, or the Fox," 
 and " Bpicoene, or the Silent Woman." These are 
 rather compounds of intrigue than stories of con- 
 secutive interest. " Eveiy Man in his Humor," 
 which we select for treatment, is feeble as a story, 
 its principal interest being in its characters, par- 
 ticularly that of Captain Bobadil, perhaps the 
 most famous example of the boasting coward in 
 the literature of the stage.] 
 
 In the sixteenth century there were exacting 
 fathers and graceless sons, as there are in the 
 nineteenth, and Mr. Knowell, a London gentle- 
 man, and his son Edward, were of them. The 
 son had been a close student, and was supposed 
 still to be so by his father; but, in tfuth, the at- 
 tractions of the metropolis had led him into ir- 
 regular ways, which he diligently conceale<l from 
 his beguiled parent. In these loose habits he 
 was aided by his servant Brainworm, a cunning
 
 12 TALES PROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 rogue. Young Knowell's companion in his es- 
 capades was a gentleman named Wellbred, who, 
 like himself, had until recently been of good 
 repute, but had fallen into dissolute habits, spend- 
 ing his time with wild associates and in revels by 
 no means to his credit. 
 
 Visiting at Mr. Knowell's house was a nephew 
 of his named Stephen, of country birth and train- 
 ing, and such a consummate ass that he was the 
 laughing-stock of all who knew him. It was his 
 desire to pose as a gentleman, to do which he sup- 
 posed it was only necessary to have a knowledge 
 of hunting and hawking terms, to boast of his 
 wealth, and to bold himself ready to quarrel on 
 the slightest pretence. So full of misplaced valor 
 was he, indeed, that he got into a quarrel with a 
 servant who came with a letter to his uncle's 
 house, and wliose respectful answers be mistook 
 for insolence. He acted with such foolish violence 
 that Mr. Knowell, ashamed of his conduct, in the 
 end ordered him to leave the room if he could not 
 behave himself with more sense and discretion. 
 
 The letter was addressed " To Master Edward 
 Knowell," and evidently intended for the son, but 
 as the old gentleman was named Edward also, and 
 was curious to see some of his son's correspond- 
 ence with Wellbred, — whom the servant told him 
 had sent it, — he opened and read it. 
 
 The result was an unpleasant surprise, and a 
 new revelation of the cliaracter of Mr. Wellbred, 
 whose modest and discreet demeanor his son had
 
 EVERY MAN IN HIS HUMOR. 13 
 
 praised in the highest terms. The missive, which 
 was couched in very licentious language, bade 
 Knowell to leave his vigilant father to the task 
 of numbering the green apricots on his garden 
 wall, and to come over to the old Jewry, where 
 there was some rare sport in pickle for him. The 
 writer had come across a pair of odd fellows, the 
 one a rhymer, the other of indescribable charac- 
 tei', from whom he hoped they could extract some 
 rare fun. 
 
 Mr. KnowcU read this epistle in deep astonish- 
 ment. " Why, what unhallowed ruffian would 
 have written in such a scurrilous manner to a 
 friend !" he exclaimed. " But I perceive that af- 
 fection makes a fool of any man too much the 
 father." — " Brainworm !" 
 
 Young Knowell's servant quickly answered this 
 summons. 
 
 " Is the fellow gone that brought this letter ?" 
 asked the old gentleman. 
 
 " Yes, sir, a pretty while since." 
 
 " Your young master spake not with him ?" 
 
 " No, sir, he saw him not." 
 
 " Take you this letter and deliver it to my son ; 
 but with no notice that I have opened it, on your 
 life." 
 
 " Oh, Lord, sir, that were a jest, indeed !" an- 
 swered Brainworm, with an expression of deep 
 innocence, as he left the room with the letter. 
 
 Yet the virtuous Brainworm had his own idea 
 of the duty of a faithful servant. On handing 
 
 2
 
 14 TALES PROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 the letter to his young master, he did not hesi 
 tate to tell him thut his father had opened and 
 read it. 
 
 " How looked he ? was he angry, or pleased ?" 
 " Nay, sir, I saw him not open it." 
 " Then how know you that he did so ?" 
 " Marry, sir, because he charged me, on my life, 
 to tell nobody that he had opened it ; which, un- 
 less he had done, he would never fear to have it 
 revealed." 
 
 " That's true. I thank you, Brainworm." 
 The young man read the letter with mingled 
 doubt and laughter, — doubt as to how his father 
 would take it ; laughter as to the comedy of the 
 situation. He was too fond of sport, however, to 
 lose that which his friend offered him, even at the 
 risk of his father's displeasure, and decided that 
 he would add to Wellbred's pair of odd customers 
 a third, his worthy cousin, Stephen. 
 
 The latter entered while Knowell was still 
 laughing over the epistle, vowing that be would 
 cudgel the servant who had insulted him. He 
 looked sourly at his amused cousin, fancying at 
 first that he was the object of his mirth. 
 
 " Oh, now I see what he laughs at !" he ex- 
 claimed. " It was at something in that letter. — 
 
 By this good light, an he had laughed at me " 
 
 " How now, Cousin Stephen, melancholy ?" 
 asked Knowell. 
 
 "Yes, a little: I thought you had laughed at 
 me, cousin."
 
 EVERY MAN IN HIS HUMOR. 15 
 
 " Why, what an I had, eoz ? what would you 
 have done ?" 
 
 " By this light, I would have told mine uncle." 
 
 " Nay, if you would have told your uncle, 1 did 
 laugh at you, coz." 
 
 "Did you, indeed?" 
 
 " Yes, indeed." 
 
 " Why, then " 
 
 " What then ?" asked Knowell, with an assumed 
 fierceness. 
 
 " I am satisfied ; it is sufficient." 
 
 Knowell laughed again at this lame conclusion 
 to a warlike preface, and in the end invited Stephen 
 to accompany him on a visit to a friend in the 
 Old Jewry, an invitation which the country cousin 
 readily accepted. 
 
 Meanwhile the old gentleman had taken deep 
 thought about the new light which had been 
 thrown on his son's pursuits. Sorry as he was to 
 find him led into loose ways, he was wise enough 
 to perceive that violent measures of repression 
 might do more harm than good, and concluded 
 that it was safer to win him by love from evil 
 ways than to seek to drive him into virtue by fear. 
 He resolved to follow him to the city, with the 
 hope that something might happen to aid his pur- 
 poses. 
 
 This design became known to Brainworm, and 
 he, out of loyalty to his young master, determined 
 to throw himself in disguise in the old gentleman's 
 way, and defeat his plans if possible. The disguise
 
 16 TALES PROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 he assumed wus that of a maimed soldier, and thua 
 apparelled he stationed himself in the open ground 
 of Moorfields, which lay between Mr. Knowell's 
 house and the city. 
 
 The disguised servant, however, first encountered 
 his young master and Stephen, whom he would 
 have preferred to avoid, through fear of discovery. 
 But as he could not escape unseen, he came boldly 
 forward, with a long story of his services in the 
 wars, his. present povert}', and an offer to sell 
 his rapier, which he vowed was a pure Toledo. 
 Stephen, whose only weapon at present was a 
 cudgel, was at once eager to buy it, the more so 
 as Knowell dissuaded him. 
 
 " Come, come, you shall not buy it," exclaimed 
 Knowell, who had not much faith in its Toledo 
 qualities. " Hold, there's a shilling, fellow ; take 
 your rapier." 
 
 " Why, but I will buy it now, because you say 
 so," persisted the obstinate fool ; " and there's 
 another shilling, fellow ; I scorn to be outbidden. 
 — What, shall I walk with a cudgel, like Higgin- 
 bottom, and may have a rapier for money !" 
 
 " You may buy one in the city," 
 
 "Tut! I'll buy this in the field, so I will. 1 
 have a mind to it because 'tis a field rapier. Tell 
 me your lowest price." 
 
 " Come away ; you are a fool." 
 
 "Friend, I am a fool, that's granted," replied 
 Stephen; "but I'll iiave it, for that word's sake. 
 Follow me for your money."
 
 EVERY MAN IN HIS HUMOR. 17 
 
 "At your service, sir," answered Brainworm. 
 
 The cunning rogue, felicitating himself on hav- 
 ing deceived his master, followed them, sold 
 Stephen the worthless blade for a round sum, and 
 returned to Moorfields in time to meet the elder 
 Knovvell, who had appeared during his absence. 
 Still pretending to be a poverty-stricken old sol- 
 dier, he begged of him so importunately, that Mr. 
 Knowell took him severely to task for conduct 
 unbecoming one who had served in the wars. 
 
 " What's your name ?" he asked in conclusion. 
 
 " Please you, Fitz-Sword, sir." 
 
 " If I should take you into my service, would 
 you be honest, just, and true?" 
 
 " Sir, by the honor of a soldier " 
 
 "Nay, nay. I like not these affected oaths. 
 Speak plainly, man." 
 
 " I wish my fortunes were as happy as my ser- 
 vice should be honest." 
 
 " Well, follow me ; I'll prove if your deeds are 
 in proportion to your words." 
 
 He walked on, while Brainworm remained be- 
 hind to relieve himself of laughter, with which, 
 as he said, " never was bottle or bagpipe fuller," 
 
 " Was thei-e ever seen a fox in years to betray 
 himself thus ?" he exclaimed. " Now I shall be 
 possessed of all his counsels ; and, through me, 
 my young master. Oh, I shall abuse him intoler- 
 ably ! This small piece of service will bring him 
 clean out of love with the soldier forever. Why, 
 this is better than to have stayed his journey! 
 Vol. l.—b 2* 
 
 ^
 
 18 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 Well, I'll follow liim. Oh, how I long to be em- 
 ployed !" 
 
 Leaving the Knowells, father and son, to their 
 plans and purposes, and Brainwonn to his devices, 
 we must now precede them to their destination, 
 and introduce to the reader some others of the 
 characters of our story. 
 
 Two of these were the pair of oddities of whom 
 Wellbred had spoken, the one being a boastful 
 soldier named Captain Bobadil, the other a foolish 
 fellow named Matthew, who had made himself a 
 worshipper of the brave-tongued captain. This 
 heroic boaster was reduced by circumstances to 
 dwell in the humble residence of Oliver Cob, a 
 water-carrier, — a fact which he was by no means 
 anxious to have known. Yet, humble as his lodg- 
 ings were, he did not demean himself by paying 
 for them, but, on the contrary, had borrowed forty 
 shillings of Tib, the water-bearer's wife, paying 
 his score in such dainty oaths as, " By the foot of 
 Pharaoh !" " By the body of me !" " As I am a 
 gentleman and a soldier 1" and the like, a style of 
 conversation which his worthy host heard with 
 awe and respect. 
 
 Matthew, whose acquaintance with the captain 
 was of recent date, sought him in these humble 
 quarters, and was surprised to find his soldierly 
 friend so inadequately lodged. Yet he concealed 
 his opinion, saying, — 
 
 " Trust me, you have an exceeding fine lodging 
 here ; very neat and private."
 
 EVERY MAN IN HIS HUMOR. 19 
 
 " True, the cabin is convenient," answered Boba- 
 dil, with a lordly air. " Yet, as I would not be too 
 popular, and generally visited, I pray you to pos- 
 sess no gentleman of our acquaintance with notice 
 of my lodging." 
 
 "Who, I, sir? no." 
 
 " I confess I love a cleanly and quiet privacy, 
 above all the tumult and roar of fortune. — What 
 new book have you there ? What ! Go by, 
 Hieronymo ?" 
 
 " Is it not well penned ?" 
 
 " Well penned ! I would fain see all the poets 
 of these times pen such another play as that was. 
 Out on them, they are the most shallow, pitiful, 
 barren fellows that live upon the face of the 
 earth !" 
 
 While Bobadil dressed for the street, Matthew 
 read him some passages from the play thus highly 
 lauded, ending with certain verses of his own, which 
 his host saw fit to commend. In the conversation 
 which ensued, Matthew told the captain of a 
 quarrel he had recently had with Squire Down- 
 right, Mr. Wellbred's half-brother, a choleric fel- 
 low, who had ended by threatening to cudgel 
 him. 
 
 " By the foot of Pharaoh, you shall chartel 
 him 1" exclaimed Bobadil. " I'll show you a trick 
 or two ; you shall kill him at pleasure ; the first 
 stoccata, if you will, by this air !" 
 
 Bobadil thereupon bade his hostess bring them 
 a pair of bed-staves, and gave his guest a lesson
 
 20 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS, 
 
 in fencing, seeking to teach him a certain thrust 
 that was sure death. In the end he dropped his 
 pupil as tediously awkward. 
 
 " Come, we'll go to some tavern, and have a bit ; 
 and then I will teach you your trick. Why, I 
 will learn you by the true judgment of the eye, 
 hand, and foot, to control any enemy's point in 
 the world. Should your enemy confront you with 
 a pistol, 'twere nothing, by this hand ! you should, 
 by the same rule, control his bullet, in a line, ex- 
 cept it were hailshot, and spread. — What money 
 have you about you, Master Matthew ?" 
 
 " Faith, I have not past a two shillings, or so." 
 
 " 'Tis somewhat with the least ; but come ; we 
 will have a bunch of radish and salt to taste our 
 wine, and a pipe of tobacco to close the orifice 
 of the stomach ; and then we'll call to keep our 
 appointment with young Wellbred : perhaps we 
 shall meet the Corydon his brother there, and put 
 him to the question." 
 
 The destination of these worthies, in their 
 search for Mr. Wellbred, was the house of his 
 brother-in-law, Mr. Kitely, a wealthy merchant, 
 with whom the j'oung man lodged. The association 
 between Kitely and his guest was far from an 
 agreeable one. Wellbred, from being a man of the 
 most correct deportment, had fallen into an irregu- 
 lar course of life, much to the annoyance of the 
 worthy merchant. He complained of this to Down- 
 right, the young man's half-brother, but got little 
 satisfaction from that plain-sj)oken individual.
 
 EVERY MAN IN HIS HUMOR. 21 
 
 " I know not what I should say to him, in the 
 whole world," exclaimed Downright. " He values 
 me at a cracked three-farthings, for aught I see. 
 It will never out of the flesh that's bred in the 
 bone. Counsel to him is as good as a shoulder of 
 mutton to a sick horse. Let him spend and dom- 
 ineer till his heart ache ; an he think to be re- 
 lieved by me, when he is got into one o' your city 
 pounds, he has got the wrong sow by the ear, i' 
 faith, and claps his dish at the wrong man's door. 
 I'll lay my hand on my half-penny, ere I part 
 with it to fetch him out." 
 
 Mr. Kitely's family, in addition to those named, 
 consisted of his newly-married wife, of whom he 
 was inordinately jealous, and her sister Bridget. 
 The latter young lady counted Matthew among 
 her lovers, his mode of courtship consisting in 
 writing her verses by the rood, little of which 
 the fair maiden ever saw. Matthew's poetry, on 
 which he plumed himself greatly, was more bor- 
 rowed than original, he laying all the poets of the 
 time under contribution to supply his stock of 
 love-verses. 
 
 It was at Mr. Kitely's house that Matthew and 
 Captain Bobadil called, after partaking of their 
 wine and tobacco, to inquire for Mr. Wellbred. 
 The young gentleman was not at home, as Kitely 
 assured them, but the boastful Bobadil managed 
 to get into a quarrel with the choleric Downright, 
 who would have cudgelled him on the spot had 
 not Kitely withheld him. Bobadil had called him
 
 22 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 a scavenger, an epithet which the hot-tempered 
 gentleman could not stomach, and treasured up 
 for repayment with interest on a future occasion. 
 
 " These are my brother's consorts, these !" he ex- 
 claimed, indignantly. " These are his comrades, 
 his walking mates ! he's a gallant, a cavaliero, too, 
 right hangman cut 1 Let me not live, an I could 
 not find it in my heart to swinge the whole gang 
 of 'em, one after another, and begin with him 
 first! He shall hear on't, and that tightly, too, 
 an I live, i' faith I" 
 
 The various personages whom we have intro- 
 duced to the reader had, as will be perceived, 
 each his peculiar humor, or turn of mind. Of 
 these none was more persistent than the jealousy 
 of the worthy merchant, Mr. Kitely. Every 
 word spoken by his wife, whether in aff'ection or 
 otherwise, was tortured by his diseased imagina- 
 tion into new food for jealousy, which vile passion 
 possessed him like a fever. 
 
 " What ails jou, sweetheart ?" she asked him, 
 surprised by his abstracted manner. "Are you 
 not well ?" 
 
 " In truth, my head aches extremely of a sud- 
 den," he replied. 
 
 "Alas! how it burns!" she said, putting her 
 hand to his forehead. "Keep you warm, dear; 
 good truth, it is this new disease there's a num- 
 ber are troubled with. For love's sake, sweet- 
 heart, come in, out of the air." 
 
 "A new disease!" he soliloquized, after she had
 
 EVERY MAN IN HIS HUMOR. 23 
 
 left him. " I know not, new or old ; but like a 
 pestilence it does infect the houses of the brain. 
 Pirst it begins to work upon the phantasy ; and 
 from thence, sends like contagion to the memory ; 
 till not a thought or motion in the mind is free 
 from the black poison of suspicion. What misery 
 'tis to know this, or, knowing it, to be its abject 
 victim! Well, well, I'll strive again, in spite of 
 this black cloud, to be myself, and shake the fever 
 off that thus shakes me." 
 
 Leavins: him to his vain endeavor to over- 
 come his baseless jealousy, we must betake our- 
 selves to the Windmill Tavern, in the Old Jewry, 
 a favorite resort, where Matthew and Bobadil 
 found Wellbred, and where, in the midst of 
 their conversation, young Knowell and Stephen 
 entered. 
 
 "Ned Knowell! by my soul, welcome," ex- 
 claimed Wellbred. " How dost thou, sweet spirit, 
 mj^ genius ? These be the two I writ to thee of. 
 Why, what drowsy humor holds you now ? Why 
 do you not speak ?" 
 
 " Oh, you are a fine gallant," answered Know- 
 ell, testily. " You sent me a rare letter." 
 
 " Why, was it not rare ?" 
 
 " Ay, and your messenger as well. The fellow 
 mistook my father for me, and gave him a full 
 view of your flourishing style, some hour before I 
 saw it." 
 
 " Come, come, you jest ! — Why, what a dull 
 slave I — Well, what said he to it ?"
 
 / 
 24 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 " I know not what j but I have a shrewd guess 
 what he thought." 
 
 " What, what ?" 
 
 "Many, that thou art some strange, dissolute 
 young fellow, and I — a grain or two better, for 
 keeping you company." 
 
 " Tut ! that thought is like the moon in her last 
 quarter, 'twill change shortly. But I pray thee 
 be acquainted with my two hang-by's here; thou 
 wilt take exceeding pleasure in them, if thou 
 hearest them once go; my wind instruments; I'll 
 wind them up. — But what strange piece of silence 
 is this, the sign of the dumb man ?" 
 
 "Oh, sir, a kinsman of mine," answered 
 Knowell, with a laugh. " One that may make 
 your music the fuller, an he please. He has his 
 humor, sir." 
 
 "Whatis't, whatis't?" 
 
 " Faith, I'll leave him to the mercy of your 
 search. If you can take him, so !" 
 
 It was not long before the two fun-loving 
 worthies had their wind instruments in full play, 
 Bobadil boasting, Matthew retailing his poetry, 
 and Stephen as melancholy as a raw oyster. This 
 humor his jesting cousin had advised him to take, 
 as the mark of a true gentleman, and the country 
 gull played it at full pitch. 
 
 " Truly, I am mightily given to melancholy," 
 he said, with a sigh, to Matthew. 
 
 " It's your onlj'- fine humor, sir," answered 
 Matthew. " I am melancholy myself, divers times,
 
 EVERY MAN IN HIS HUMOR. 25 
 
 sir; and then I do no more but take pen and 
 paper, and overflow you half a score or a dozen 
 of sonnets, at a sitting." 
 
 " Truly, sir, I love such things out of measure." 
 
 " Why, I pray you, sir, make use of my study ; 
 it's at your service." 
 
 " I thank you, sir ; have you a stool there, to bo 
 melancholy upon ?" 
 
 " That I have ; and some papers of my own 
 doing, that you'll say there's some sparks of wit 
 in." 
 
 " Cousin, is it well ?" asked Stephen, in an aside. 
 " Am I melancholj^ enough ?" 
 
 "Ay, excellent," answered Knowell. 
 
 " Captain Bobadil, why muse you so ?" asked 
 Wellbred. 
 
 " He is melancholy, too," suggested Knowell. 
 
 " Faith, sir, I was thinking of a most honorable 
 piece of service, was performed to-morrow, being 
 St. Mark's day, shall be some ten years, now," 
 answered the captain. 
 
 This was the prelude to an extended bit of 
 boasting, in which Bodadil performed miracles of 
 valor that would have made any other man a 
 commander-in-chief. He ended by showing his 
 sword, which he said was a Toledo, and laughed 
 scornfully at the Toledo blade with which Stephen 
 sought to match it. 
 
 " A Fleming, by heaven !" he exclaimed. " I 
 could buy a thousand such for a guilder apiece." 
 
 " I told you so, cousin," said Knowell. 
 
 B 3
 
 26 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 "The coney-catching rascal!" cried Stephen, 
 fiercely. " I could eat the very hilts for anger. 
 Would that I had the scurvy dog here, I'd show 
 him the humor of a gentleman !" 
 
 He had his wish much sooner than he expected, 
 for Brain worm entered at that instant, still in dis- 
 guise. 
 
 "A miracle, cousin j look here, look here !" ex- 
 claimed Knowell. 
 
 " Oh — od's lid ! By your leave, do you know 
 me, sir ?" blustered Stephen. 
 
 " Ay, sir, I know you by sight." 
 
 " You sold me a rapier, did you not ?" 
 / " Yes, marry did I, sir." 
 
 " You said it was a Toledo, ha ?" 
 
 " True, I did so." 
 
 " But it is none." 
 
 " No, sir, I confess it ; it is none." 
 
 " Do you confess it ? Gentlemen, bear witness, 
 he has confessed it ! Od's will, and j^ou had not 
 confessed it " • 
 
 " Oh, cousin, forbear, forbear !" 
 
 " Nay, I have done. — Yet, by his leave, he is a 
 rascal, under his favor, do you see." 
 
 "Ay, b}'- his leave, he is, and under favor: a 
 pretty piece of civility. — How like you hira ?" 
 Knowell whispered to Wellbred. 
 
 " It's a most precious fool, make much of him." 
 
 They were interrupted by Bi'ainworm, who took 
 them aside from their foolish companions, and 
 surprised them by a revelation of his disguise,
 
 EVERY MAN IN HIS HUMOR. 27 
 
 and his adventures therein, telling Knowell that 
 his father was on his track, and was at that 
 moment at Justice Clement's, in Coleman Street, 
 whence ho had sent him in search of his son. 
 This news the young friends took as an amusing 
 joke, and vowed that they would outwit the old 
 gentleman, or apprentice themselves as porters. 
 
 Leaving the tavern, the party sought Mr. 
 Kitely's house. Here they had been but a few 
 minutes when a quai*rel arose between Bobadil 
 and Cob, his landlord, who had ventured to speak 
 an ill word for tobacco — a substance then recently 
 introduced. 
 
 "Ods me," he said, expressing a general opinion 
 of the period, " I marvel what pleasure or felicity 
 they have in taking this roguish tobacco ? It's 
 good for nothing but to choke a man and fill him 
 full of smoke and embers. Thei-e were four who 
 died out of one house last week with taking of 
 it. By the stocks, an there were no wiser men 
 thaft I, I'd have it present whipping, man and 
 woman, that should deal with a tobacco-pipe: 
 why, it will stifle them all in the end, as many as 
 use it ; it's little better than ratsbane." 
 
 Bobadil, who was a slave to the Indian weed, 
 flew into a violent rage at this, and fell upon the 
 water-carrier, whom he beat so roundly that the 
 others had to come to his rescue. Cob escaped 
 at last, vowing revenge, while the valorous cap- 
 tain allowed his choler to evaporate in a series of 
 strange oaths. These Master Stephen sought to
 
 28 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 imitate, deeming that they held the very essence 
 of gentility. 
 
 " Oh, he swears most admirably !" exclaimed 
 the admiring fool. " By Pharaoh's foot! Body o' 
 Caesar!— I shall never do it, sure.— Upon raino 
 honor, and by St. George !— No, I have not the 
 right grace." 
 
 Cob had meanwhile made his way towards 
 Justice Clement's, whither he had been sent in 
 search of Mr. Kitely, who, in his jealous humor, 
 had left word that he was to be sent for instantly 
 if Wellbred brought any strangers to his house. 
 The angry water-bearer had another purpose, 
 which was to lodge with the justice a complaint 
 against Bobadil, for the beating he had received. 
 
 Justice Clement, whom we must next inti-oduee 
 to the reader, was a personage with an odd humor 
 of his own ; " a good lawyer, a great scholar," Well- 
 bred had said, in speaking of him, "but the only 
 mad, merry old fellow in Europe." 
 
 " I have heard many of his jests in the TiJni- 
 versity," answered Knowell. " They say he will 
 commit a man for taking the wall of his horse." 
 
 " Ay, or wearing his cloak on one shoulder, or 
 serving of God ; anything, indeed, if it come in 
 the way of his humor." 
 
 This reputation the worthy justice had well 
 earned, and seemed inclined to maintain. For 
 when Cob complained of the beating he had re- 
 ceived, and asked for a warrant to arrest his 
 assailant, the fun-loving magistrate threatened to
 
 EVERT MAN IN HIS HUMOR. 29 
 
 send him to prison himself, for daring to utter 
 libels against tobacco. 
 
 " What I a threadbare rascal, a beggar like this 
 to deprave and abuse the virtue of an herb so 
 generally received in the courts of princes, the 
 chambers of nobles, the bowers of sweet ladies, 
 the cabins of soldiers ! Eoger, away with him !" 
 
 And so earnest did his intention to send him to 
 prison appear, that Mr. Knowell, who was pres- 
 ent, came to the poor fellow's rescue. 
 
 " Give him his warrant, Eoger," answered the 
 justice, with a laugh. " He shall not go. I did 
 but scare the knave." 
 
 "The Lord maintain your worship!" prayed 
 Cob. 
 
 "Away now. — How now, Master Knowell, in 
 dumps!" he said to Mr. Knowell. " Come, this 
 becomes not." 
 
 " I would, sir, I could not feel my cares." 
 
 "Your cares are nothing," answered Justice 
 Clement, heartily. " They are like my cap, soon 
 put on and as soon put oif. What ! your son is old 
 enough to govern himself; let him run his course ; 
 it's the only way to make him a staid man. If 
 he were an unthrift, a ruffian, a drunkard, or a 
 licentious liver, then you had reason ; but being 
 none of these, mirth's my witness, an I had twice 
 as many cares as you have, I'd drown them all 
 in a cup of sack. Come, come, let's try it," and 
 he led in his uneasy friend to administer this 
 panacea. 
 
 3*
 
 30 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 Meanwhile Wellbrcd and his friends had entered 
 into conversation with Dame Kitely and her sis- 
 ter Bridget, whom Matthew set himself to court 
 by repeating to her a series of verses, which 
 Ivnowell vowed were all stolen. Whether or not, 
 it was evident that neither he nor his poetry were 
 much to the young lady's taste, she seeming much 
 more inclined to favor young Knowell, whom she 
 now met for the first time. Nor was her attrac- 
 tion to the young man ill placed, for he found his 
 friend's sister to be a maiden of rare beauty and 
 wit, and vowed in his heart that she was well 
 ■worth the gift of a man's love. 
 
 Matthew's verses proved still less to the taste of 
 another member of the household, Mr. Down- 
 right, who showed his ill humor with the whole 
 party so strongly that Wellbred took offence, and 
 no long time passed before swords were drawn 
 and challenges given. The two ladies, at this, 
 screamed for help, while Kitely, who had just 
 returned, rushed in with his servants and parted 
 the combatants. 
 
 "Why, how now, brother, who enforced this 
 brawl ?" asked Kitely, after the visitors had with- 
 drawn. 
 
 " A sort of lewd rake-hells, that care neither 
 for God nor the devil," answered Downright, still 
 fuming with rage. " And they must come here 
 to read ballads, and roguery, and trash ! I'll mar 
 the knot of them ere I sleep ; especially that brag- 
 ging Bob ; and songs and sonnets, his fellow."
 
 EVERY MAN IN HIS HUMOR. 31 
 
 " Brother, you are too violent," pleaded Bridget. 
 "You know my brother Wellbred's temper will 
 not bear any reproof; at least where it might 
 wound him in opinion or respect." 
 
 " Respect ! Among such as have no spark of 
 manhood or good manners ! Respect ! I'm 
 ashamed to hear you!" and her angry brother 
 left the room in a huff. 
 
 " Respect, yes," said Bridget, firmly. " One of 
 them was a civil gentleman, who very worthily 
 demeaned himself." 
 
 " Oh, that was some love of yours, sister," said 
 Kitely. 
 
 " A love of mine ! — If it were so, brother, you'd 
 pay my portion sooner than you think for." 
 
 " Indeed, he seemed to be a gentleman of a fair 
 disposition and excellent good parts," added Mrs. 
 Kitely. 
 
 This unlucky remark stirred up again the dis- 
 eased fancy of her jealous spouse. It was his 
 ■wife's lover, then, not his sister's, he said to him- 
 self, whom they had thus highly praised. 
 
 " Are any of the gallants within, Thomas ?" he de- 
 manded of his cashier, after the ladies had retired. 
 
 " No, sir, they are all gone." 
 
 " What gentleman was it they praised so ?" 
 
 " They call him Master Knowell ; a handsome 
 young gentleman, sir." 
 
 " Ay, I thought so ; my mind gave me as much. 
 I'll die but they have hid him in the house, some- 
 where; I'll go and search. Come with me,
 
 32 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 Thomas ; be true to me, and you shall find me a 
 generous master." 
 
 While the jealous husband was thus giving 
 himself unnecessary torture, young Knowell, who 
 had been deeply smitten by Bridget's charms of 
 face and manner, was begging her brother's con- 
 sent to pay his addresses to her. He found him 
 more than willing. 
 
 " She is a maid of good ornament and much 
 modesty," he declared, "and by this hand thou 
 shalt have her ! I conceive so worthily both of 
 her and of you, that I cannot fancy a better 
 mating." 
 
 " Hold, hold, be temperate. She may not have 
 me." 
 
 " Thou shalt see. Appoint but where to meet, 
 and as I am an honest man, I'll bring her." 
 
 That the consent of Kitely, Downright, and the 
 elder Knowell could be had to this hastily-devised 
 marriage, however, seemed questionable to the 
 conspirators, and they deemed it their safest 
 course to complete the business clandestinely, — 
 the young lady consenting, — and to acquaint the 
 elders with it when it was too late to object. 
 
 Wellbred lost no time in putting his scheme 
 into execution, and, at the same time, in laying 
 the foundations of a neat jest on Kitely's jealousy. 
 To this end, he privately told Dame Kitely that 
 her husband was in the habit of visiting the wife 
 of Cob, the water-bearer, during the husband's 
 absence. This stirred up the good wife's anger.
 
 EVERY MAN IN HIS HUMOR. 33 
 
 " I'll after him presently," she exclaimed. " I 
 would to fortune 1 could take him there, i' faith I'd 
 return him his own, I warrant him." 
 
 Hardly had she set off before her husband en- 
 tered and aslied for her. He was informed that 
 she had gone out, and at once his jealousy flamed 
 up. 
 
 " How ! is my wife gone forth ?" he demanded, 
 " Whither, for God's sake ?" 
 
 " I'll tell you, brother, whither I suspect she's 
 gone," said AYellbred. 
 
 " Whither, good brother?" 
 
 " To Cob's house, I believe ; but, keep my coun- 
 sel." 
 
 " I will, I will : to Cob's house ! doth she haunt 
 Cob's?— Why? to meet her lover? If I should 
 find him there now " 
 
 Off he went in a fever of jealousy, leaving the 
 laughing Wellbred with the coast clear to prose- 
 cute his friend's suit with Bridget. Calling her 
 into his counsel, he was gratified to find that she 
 was in no sense averse to the projected marriage. 
 The favor with which she had regarded young 
 Knowell had quickly ripened into love, and with 
 little hesitation she accompanied her brother on 
 his clandestine errand. 
 
 While they were on their way to the appointed 
 rendezvous. Cob's house had become the scene of 
 a complicated misunderstanding ; for in addition to 
 Kitely and his wife, the elder Knowell had been 
 sent thither b}'' Brainworm, on the pretence that 
 Vol. 1.~~c
 
 34 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 he would find his son there, in company with a 
 woman of bad character. The complication was 
 added to by Cob, who, being not free from jeal- 
 ousy, had strictly charged his wife to keep his 
 doors shut, and to admit no one in his absence. 
 
 The result was a ludicrous one. First came 
 the old gentleman, knocking at Cob's door, and 
 demanding young Knowell. Then came Dame 
 Kitely, demanding her husband, and mistaken by 
 old Knowell for the woman his son was to meet. 
 Close on their heels came Kitely, his jealous fancy 
 spying in the old gentleman his wife's secret 
 lover. Last of all came Cob, who beat his wife 
 for admitting all these people to his house in defi- 
 ance of his orders. The complicated wrangle that 
 followed was only ended when Kitely proposed 
 that they should take their grievances to Justice 
 Clement, a proposal to which they willingly as- 
 sented, for each of them hud a separate wrong to 
 right. 
 
 Leaving them, we must return to the remainder 
 of our characters, particularly to Bobadil and 
 Matthew, and to the choleric Downright, who was 
 in hot search of this oddly-associated pair, with 
 an ardent desire for revenge. 
 
 From the Windmill Tavern, the captain and 
 his companion, in company with young Knowell 
 and Stephen, had sought the open space of Moor- 
 fields, where Bobadil outdid himself in boasting, 
 little dreaming of the load of disgrace that was 
 ready to fall upon his head. As for that clown.
 
 EVERY MAN IN HIS HUMOR. 35 
 
 Downright, he boastfully declared, he should re- 
 ceive his deserts. Matthew had been taught a 
 trick with the rapier which was certain death, if 
 managed neatly. 
 
 " Captain," asked Knowell, slyly, " Did you ever 
 prove yourself upon any of our master's of defence 
 here !"* 
 
 " Oh, good sir, yes ! I hope he has," protested 
 
 Matthew. 
 
 "By honesty, fair sir, believe me," declared the 
 captain, " I have graced them exceedingly ; and 
 yet now they hate me, and why ? because I am 
 excellent, and for no other vile reason upon the 
 earth." 
 
 "This is strange and barbarous, as ever I 
 heard," protested Knowell. 
 
 " Note, sir. They have assaulted me, some 
 three, foui-, five, six of them together, as I have 
 walked alone in divers skirts of the town ; where 
 I have driven them afore me the whole length of 
 a street, pitying to hurt them, believe me. By 
 myself, I could have slain them all, but I delight 
 not in murder." 
 
 " Believe me, sir, you should be on your guard. 
 Consider what a loss your skill would be to the 
 nation !" said Knowell. 
 
 "Indeed, that might be some loss; but who 
 respects it?" answered Bobadil. " I will tell you, 
 sir, by the way of private, and under seal : I am a 
 gentleman, and live here obscure, and to myself; 
 but were I known to her majesty and the lords,
 
 36 TALES PROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 — observe me, — I would undertake, upon this poor 
 head and life, for the public benefit of the state, 
 not only to spare the entire lives of her subjects 
 in general ; but to save the one-half, nay, three 
 parts of her yearly charge in holding war, and 
 against what enemy soever. And how would I 
 do it, think you?" 
 
 "Nay, I know not, nor can I conceive," an- 
 swered Knowell. 
 
 " Why, thus, sir. I would select nineteen more, 
 to myself, throughout the land ; gentlemen they 
 should be of good spirit, strong and able con- 
 stitution ; I would choose them by an instinct, a 
 character that I have ; and I would teach these 
 nineteen the special rules, as your punto, your 
 reverso, your stoccata, your imbroccato, your 
 passada, your montanto ; till they could all play 
 very near, or altogether as well as myself This 
 done, say the enemy were foi'ty thousand strong, 
 we twenty would come into the field the tenth of 
 March, or thereabouts ; and we would challenge 
 twenty of the enemy; they could not in their 
 honor refuse us. Well, we would kill them ; 
 challenge twenty more, kill them ; twenty more, 
 kill them ; twenty more, kill them too ; and thus 
 would we kill every man his twenty a day, that's 
 twenty score; twenty score, that's two hundred; 
 two hundred a day, five days a thousand ; forty 
 thousand ; forty times five, five times forty, two 
 hundred days kills them all up b}^ computation. 
 And this will I venture my poor gcntleman-hke
 
 EVERY MAN IN HIS HUMOR. 37 
 
 carcass to perform, provided there be no treason 
 practised upon us, by fair and discreet manhood ; 
 that is, civilly by the sword." 
 
 " Why, are you so sure of your hand, captain, 
 at all times ?" 
 
 " Tat ! never miss thrust, upon my reputation 
 ■with you." 
 
 " I would not stand in Downright's state then, 
 an you meet him, for the wealth of any one street 
 in London." 
 
 " Why, sir, you mistake me ; if he were here 
 now, by this welkin, I would not draw my weapon 
 upon him. But I will bastinado him, by the 
 bright sun, wherever I meet him." 
 
 " Ods so, look where he is ! yonder he 
 comes," and Knowell turned aside to hide his 
 laughter. 
 
 Downright appeared as he spoke, grumbling to 
 himself at his ill luck in not being able to meet 
 those bragging rascals. A change came upon his 
 face on perceiving them. 
 
 " Oh, Pharaoh's foot, have I found you?" he ex- 
 claimed. " Come, draw to your tools ; draw, 
 gypsy, or I'll thrash you." 
 
 " G-entleman of valor, I do believe in thee ; hear 
 
 me " began Bobadil, with a marked change of 
 
 countenance. 
 
 " Draw your weapon, then." 
 
 "Tall man, I never thought on it till now," 
 protested the captain. " Body of me, I had a 
 warrant of the peace served on me, even now as I 
 
 4
 
 38 TALES FROM THE DRAJIATISTS. 
 
 came along, by a water-bearer; this gentleman 
 saw it, Master Matthew." 
 
 " 'Sdeath ! you will not draw, then ?" Without 
 further waste of words, Downi'ight fell upon him, 
 wrested his weapon from him, and made his cud- 
 gel play stoccata on the captain's unresisting car- 
 cass, while Matthew, fancying that his turn would 
 come next, took hastily to his heels. 
 
 The noble captain bore his severe pummelling 
 with a marvellons patience, failing to find even a 
 word in defence until Downright had gone, weary 
 of the exercise, when he protested that he had 
 been struck by a planet, and had no power to 
 touch his weapon. 
 
 '•Ay, like enough," answered Knowell, satiri- 
 cally ; " I have heard of many that have been 
 beaten under a planet. Go, get j^ou to a surgeon. 
 'Slid ! an these be your tricks, your passados, and 
 your montantos, I'll none of them. O, manners I 
 that this age should bring forth such creatures ! 
 that nature should be at leisure to make them ! 
 Come, coz." 
 
 Stephen obeyed, after possessing himself of 
 Downright's cloak, which he had dropped and 
 forgotten in his rage. Captain Bobadil sought 
 redress in a more peaceful fashion than befitted 
 his loud protestations, obtaining a warrant of 
 arrest against Downright, to procui-e which he 
 pawned his silk stockings and Matthew his ear- 
 rings. The warrant was served by Brainworm, 
 who had now assumed the disguise of a city ser-
 
 EVERY MAN IN HIS HUMOR. 39 
 
 geant oi* bailiff, and wlio, in support of his new 
 character, arrested, first Stephen, as wearing 
 Downright's cloak, and afterwards Downright 
 himself. 
 
 The current of our story next bears us to Jus- 
 tice Clement's office, whither most of our charac- 
 ters have gone. They could not have sought a 
 better place for the settlement of their disputes, 
 for the worthy justice had a marked talent for 
 untying hard knots. His first visitors were 
 Kitely and his wife. Cob and his dame, and the 
 elder Knowell. Some shrewd questioning on the 
 p>art of the magistrate quickly untangled their 
 difficulties, and proved that they had all been 
 gulled by a trick of the fun-loving Wellbred, — a 
 revelation that made the merchant thoroughly 
 ashamed of his jealousy. 
 
 They were interrupted by a message to tho 
 justice that a soldier desired to speak with him. 
 "A soldier!" he exclaimed. "My armor, my 
 sword, quickly." He armed himself in haste. 
 " Kow let the soldier enter." 
 
 The soldier proved to bo Captain Bobadil, who 
 entered, followed by Matthew, and preferred a 
 complaint against Downright of having beaten 
 him in the street, though ho had not offered to 
 resist him. 
 
 " O God's precious ! is this the soldier ?" cried 
 the justice. " Here, take my armor off, quickly ; 
 'twill make him swoon, I fear ; he is not fit to look 
 on it, that put up a blow."
 
 40 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 "An't pleaso your worship, he was bound to 
 the peace," said Matthew. 
 
 "Why, an he were, sir, his hands were not 
 bound, were they?" 
 
 At this moment Brainworra, in his disguise of 
 a city sergeant, entered with his two prisoners. 
 The justice questioned them closely, asking under 
 whose warrant they had been arrested, as he had 
 given none. Downright replied that he had not 
 seen the warrant. 
 
 " Why, Master Downright," cried the justice, 
 " are you such a novice, to be served, and never 
 see the warrant ?" 
 
 " Marry, sir, this sergeant came to me and said 
 he must serve it, and he would use me kindly, 
 and so " 
 
 "Oh, God's pity, was it so, sir?" exclaimed the 
 justice. '■'■ He must serve it! Give me my long 
 sword there, and help me down. So come on, 
 sir varlet. I must cut off your legs, sirrah." 
 Brainworm, in a fright, fell on his knees. " Nay, 
 stand up ; Til use you kindly. I must cut off your 
 legs, I say ; there is no remedy. I must cut off 
 your ears, you rascal ; I must cut off your nose ; I 
 must cut off your head." 
 
 Brainworn was kept dancing to escape the 
 sweep of the long sword, with which the humor- 
 ous justice accented his words. 
 
 "O, good sir, I beseech you !" pleaded the culprit. 
 ** Nay, good Master Justice !" 
 
 " You knave, you slave, you rogue, do you say
 
 EVERY MAN IN HIS HUMOR. 41 
 
 you must, sirrah ? Away with him to the jail ; 
 I'll teach you a trick, for your must, sir." 
 
 " Nay, sir, if you will commit me, it shall be 
 for more than this," and the roguish servant 
 threw off his borrowed suit and appeared in his 
 proper person. 
 
 " How is this ?" cried the justice. 
 
 " My man Brainworm !" exclaimed Mr. Knowell. 
 
 Brain worm, in reply, explained his various 
 devices ; how he had deceived his master in the 
 disguise of an old soldier ; how he had made 
 Formal, the justice's clerk, drunk, and stolen 
 his dress ; and how he had finally pawned this for 
 the robe of a city sergeant. 
 
 " Body o' me, a merry knave !" cried the justice. 
 " Give me a bowl of sack. If he belong to you, 
 Master Knowell, I bespeak your pardon. — " Come, 
 sirrah, unfold now what use you had for my 
 fellow Formal's suit ?" 
 
 " I used it to get this gentleman. Master Kitely, 
 out of the way, with a message from your 
 worship, while Master Wellbred might make a 
 conveyance of Mistress Bridget to my young 
 master." 
 
 This information created a general surprise. 
 
 " How ! my sister stolen away ?" cried Kitely. 
 
 "My son is not married, I hope," exclaimed 
 Knowell. 
 
 " Faith, sir, as sure as love, a priest, and three 
 thousand pounds, which is her portion, can make 
 them. By this time they are ready to bespeak 
 
 4*
 
 42 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 their wedding supper at the Windmill, except 
 some friend hero invite them home." 
 
 " Marr}', that will I !" exclaimed the merry- 
 justice, in hearty tones. " Their friends have no 
 cause to he sorry, if I know the young couple 
 aright. Here, I drink to you for your good news. 
 Sirrah, go and fetch them hither upon my war- 
 rant," he said to a seiwant. " Now, I pray you, 
 what have you done with my man Formal ?" 
 
 This question was answered by the appearance 
 of Formal himself, who entered thoroughly 
 sobered, and dressed in a suit of ancient armor, 
 which he had found iu the room where Brain- 
 worm had left him. 
 
 While the company was still laughing at the 
 poor fellow's ludicrous and downcast aspect, the 
 newly-married couple made their appearance, 
 accompanied by Wellbred. 
 
 " Who be these ?" exclaimed the justice. " Oh, 
 the young company ! Welcome, welcome. Give 
 you joy. Nay, Mistress Bridget, blush not ; you 
 are not so fresh a bride but the news of it is come 
 hither before you. Master bridegroom, I have 
 made your peace, give me your hand. I will do as 
 much for all the rest ere you forsake my roof." 
 
 This he did, in his own cheery way, laughing 
 Kitely out of his jealousy ; emptying Matthew's 
 pockets of their load of stolen verses, which he 
 ordered to be burned ; and ordering a wedding 
 supper. As for the various culprits, he disposed 
 of them as follows :
 
 EVEKT MAN IN HIS HUMOR. 43 
 
 " To dispatch these : — you sign of the soldier 
 and picture of the poet ; while we are at supper 
 you two shall penitently fast in my court Avithout ; 
 and if you will, you may pray there that we shall 
 be so merry within as to forgive or forget you 
 when we come out." 
 
 " And what shall I do ?" asked Stephen. 
 
 " Oh ! I had lost a sheep an he had not 
 bleated! Why, sir, you shall give Mr. Down- 
 right his cloak ; and shall have a trencher and a 
 napkin in the buttery, with Cob and his wife here 
 for company. Come, I conjure the rest of you to put 
 off all discontent : you. Master Downright, your 
 anger ; you, Master Knowell, your cares ; Master 
 Xitely and his wife, their jealousy. This night 
 we'll dedicate to friendship, love, and laughter. 
 Master bridegroom, take your bride and lead; 
 every one a fellow." 
 
 And with the merry justice to head the table, 
 the wedding supper of the newly-married pair 
 passed off in the rarest round of jollity.
 
 PHILASTER; OR, LOVE LIES BLEEDING. 
 
 BY BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. 
 
 [The most famous of literary partnerships in 
 the history of mankind is that of the dramatists 
 h^^^e named, two of the most prolific playwrights 
 and ablest lyric and descriptive poets of the 
 Elizabethan age. So intimate was their friend- 
 ship that they lived in the same house and had 
 clothes and all other things in common, and so 
 closely allied were they in mind that it is im- 
 possible to discover what part each of them con- 
 tributed to their plays. 
 
 Francis Beaumont was born in 1584 and died 
 in 1616. He was educated at Oxford, and after- 
 wards became an intimate friend of Ben Jonson 
 and the other eminent frequenters of the famous 
 Mermaid Tavern. Here he probably first met 
 John Fletcher, who was five years older than 
 himself, and had been educated at Cambridge. 
 Fletcher's first play was the " Woman Hater," 
 produced in 1607. His dramatic partnership 
 with Beaumont began after that date, a large 
 number of plays being produced by the two in 
 common, while after Beaumont's death Fletcher 
 44
 
 JOHN Fl.ETVHl.K.
 
 AN\<%, 
 
 minent froqu. 
 
 Merumid T: Here he 
 
 v.iio was fiv 
 
 ^^ad been educ 
 
 iCed it 
 Beaumon 
 
 COiiiiuun, wuiiC' -XiuLeuor 
 
 44
 
 PHILASTER ; OR, LOVE LIES BLEEDING. 45 
 
 produced many plays, partly alone, and partly in 
 concert with other dramatists. It is believed that 
 Shakespeare took part in the writing of " The Two 
 Noble Kinsmen," and that Fletcher had a share 
 in Shakespeare's " Henry VIII." Fletcher died in 
 1625. 
 
 The plays of these two dramatists fail to reach 
 the higher levels of the art. Their power of 
 characterization is not deep, nor are they capable 
 of expressing sentiment and passion in their 
 deeper manifestations, though they had an excel- 
 lent knowledge of stage effect, and much poetical 
 ability. Morally they are deficient, even the 
 best of their plays, " The Maid's Tragedy," 
 being deeply infiltrated with licentiousnes. This 
 play, and " Philaster," with the powerful passages 
 in " The Two Noble Kinsmen," alone hold a high 
 rank in dramatic composition. We give the story 
 of '• Philaster," as the most attractive example of 
 their inventive genius.] 
 
 The King of Calabria had a beautiful and 
 charming daughter named Arethusa, for whom, 
 as she had reached the proper age to marry, 
 he wished to contract an alliance that would 
 strengthen his power and add glory to his reign. 
 The fame of the beauty of this princess had 
 spread far through the neighboring kingdoms, 
 and brought her many suitors, the latest of whom 
 was Pharamond, a prince of Spain, who had come 
 to Messina as a suitor for her hand. This pro-
 
 46 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 posed alliance pleased the king greatly, much 
 more, indeed, than it did his daughter or his peo- 
 ple. Arelhusa felt disdain rather than love for 
 the weak-faced, conceited, and haughty foreign 
 prince. And the thought of this foppish stranger 
 marrying the heir of the kingdom, and becoming 
 their future sovereign, was far from agreeable 
 to the people of Messina, who had views of their 
 own as to the heir to the throne. 
 
 The principal cause of their opposition was 
 this. The late king of Calabria had made war 
 upon Sicily, conquered it, and deposed its king, 
 adding the conquered kingdom to his own. The 
 deposed monarch had since died, but his son, Phi- 
 laster, still lived, and was so noble, brave, and vir- 
 tuous a prince that all the people loved him and 
 pitied his misfortune. So popular was he, indeed, 
 that the present king, though greatly fearing him, 
 dared not deprive him of his liberty. A recent 
 threat to imprison him had thrown the whole 
 city into revolt, nor had the rebels laid down 
 their arms until they saw Philaster ride through 
 the streets in full freedom. Then they threw up 
 their hats, kindled bonfires, and crowded the 
 taverns to drink the health of their favorite. 
 These adherents of Prince Philaster now feared 
 that the Spanish alliance was favored by the king 
 that he might bring in the power of a foreigrj 
 nation with which to awe his own, and that they 
 would then be oppressed and the hberty and life 
 of their favorite be in danger. A marriage
 
 philaster; or, love lies bleeding. 47 
 
 between Philaster and Arethusa would have been 
 far more to their liking, as bringing the rightful 
 heir to the throne, and cementing the union be- 
 tween Sicily and Calabria ; but no such thought as 
 this seemed to have entered the mind of the kins;. 
 Such a match would have brought joy to others 
 than the citizens, for Philaster and Arethusa were 
 secretly in love with each other. Truly, he had 
 never spoken of his love to her, nor she to him ; 
 but he adored her in seci-et, while she, though 
 seemingly yielding to her father's command to 
 accept Prince Pharamond as her betrothed, had 
 done so with a mental reservation to marry none 
 but Philaster, if he should return her love. 
 
 Philaster had no thought of submitting tamely 
 to the king's plan of giving the crown of Sicily 
 to a foreigner. Aside from his love for Arethusa, 
 he felt that this crown was rightfully his, and 
 did not pi'opose to yield it to a " prince of popin- 
 jays," as he scornfully called Pharamond. 
 
 The king had invited the high lords and ladies 
 of Messina to his court to meet the Spanish 
 prince, but so strong was the feeling against the 
 foreign alliance that few responded to this invi- 
 tation, and all that came were friends to Philaster. 
 In the midst of the audience, while Pharamond 
 was loudly declaring that his reign would be so 
 easy that every man should be prince and law 
 unto himself, and conceitedly telling the princess 
 that she would have a " man of men " for her- 
 husband, Philaster entered and boldly told the
 
 48 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 boasting stranger that the kingdom he sought 
 belonged to another, and was not to be had for 
 the askinor. 
 
 " I tell you this, Pharamond," ho haughtily 
 said, " when you are king, look that I be dead 
 and my name ashes. Before that day of shame 
 this very ground you tread on, this fat and fertile 
 earth that bears your pride, shall gape and swal- 
 low you and your nation as into a grave. By 
 Nemesis, it shall !" 
 
 The king had given Philaster leave to speak 
 freely ; but he feared the effect upon the people 
 of this bold language, and angrily drew the indig- 
 nant youth aside, bidding him to tell in private 
 what uneasy spirit jDossessed him. 
 
 " It is my father's spirit," declared Philaster. 
 " He tells me that I was a king's heir, and bids 
 me be a king. When I would sleep he dives into 
 my fancy, and brings me shapes that kneel and 
 call me ' King.' — Yet I know that he is a factious 
 spirit, noble sir, and I will suppress him. While 
 you reign I am your faithful subject." 
 
 "Philaster, I like not this," said the kin o", in 
 fear and anger. " For this once, sirrah, I pardon 
 your wild speech ; but take good heed, and tempt 
 me not too far, lest I dispossess you alike of throne 
 and life. I will tame you, sir, if you tame not 
 yourself." 
 
 With these words he turned angrily away, 
 and left the presence-chamber with Pharamond, 
 though all could see that he had grown pale and
 
 PHILASTER ; OR, LOVE LIES BLEEDING. 49 
 
 trembled with emotion. The gentlemen who re- 
 mained, crowded about Philaster, eager to learn 
 what he had said to throw the king into a sweat 
 that stood upon his brow like a cold winter dew. 
 
 " How do you, worthy sir ?" asked one, 
 
 "Well; very well," answered Philaster. "If 
 the king please, I find that I may live many 
 years." 
 
 " The king must please, while we know what 
 and who you are," answered Dion, an old lord, 
 and one of Philaster's chief adherents. " If any 
 seek to harm you we'll rouse the people in your 
 name, till your enemies shall beg for mercy at 
 your swoi'd's point." 
 
 " Friends, no more," said Philaster. " Trust 
 me not to forget your love and proffered service, 
 if peril should confront me. But the time is not 
 yet." 
 
 His conference with the lords was broken by 
 the entrance of a lady of the court, who told 
 him that the princess had sent for him, and 
 wished to see him. Philaster, full of joy at this, 
 promised gladly to attend her, at which Dion 
 bi'oke out into words of warning, saying that this 
 mission might cover some foul plot to take his 
 life. But the ardent young prince was not in the 
 mood to listen to the counsels of prudence. Love 
 with him was stronger than fear, and he resolved to 
 follow the lady, whatever might come of it. Find- 
 ing that he could not move him from his purpose, 
 Dion left the palace, with the intention of advis- 
 VoL. I. — c d 5
 
 50 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 ing his friends of the prince's peril, for he greatly 
 feared that the king designed some treachery. 
 
 His dread was ill placed. Arethusa had really 
 Bent for the prince, and with a purpose far re- 
 moved from treason. At first, indeed, she made 
 a show of blaming him bitterly for his late in- 
 temperate words, in which he had called her 
 dowry in question. She told hira that both king- 
 doms were hers, and that she must possess them ; 
 but when he pressed her in tones of satire to say 
 what else she craved, she would not answer till 
 he had turned aside his face. Then, with blushing 
 cheeks and trembling lips, she said, — 
 
 " I must have them — and thee." 
 
 "Me?" 
 
 " Thy love, Philaster j without which all these 
 lands will serve me for no use but to be buried in." 
 
 " Love you ! By all my hopes, I do above my 
 life!" he cried, in sudden ecstasy. "Yet I feared 
 I loved in vain." 
 
 " In vain !" cried the princess, reproachfully. 
 "Your soul is mine, Philaster. The gods have 
 made me love you, and surely our love is blest 
 in that their secret justice is mingled with it." 
 
 Arethusa's blushing confession filled Philaster's 
 Boul with the deepest joy. lie had not hoped for 
 such a rich response to his heart's desire, and 
 gladly sealed their souls' betrothal with an ardent 
 kiss on her sweet lips. But their vows of love 
 Boon gave way to more eai-thly thoughts. Their 
 secret must not yet be known. How should they
 
 philastek; or, love lies bleeding. 51 
 
 hide it, and yet gain opportunities for loving in- 
 tercourse ? 
 
 " I have a boy," said Philaster, " the trustiest, 
 lovingest, and gentlest lad that ever master kept. 
 Lately, when hunting, I found him by a foun- 
 tain in the forest, where he sat weeping and weav- 
 ing garlands of flowers. When I asked him 
 his story, he told me that his parents had died, 
 leaving him to the mercy of the fields, the springs, 
 and the sun. I brought this woodland waif home, 
 and cannot but love him for his gentleness. I 
 will send him to wait on you, for we can find no 
 more trusty messenger of love." 
 
 That this boy, Bellario, loved Philaster, any 
 one must have said who saw them together. And 
 when Philaster had sought his home, and told the 
 pretty lad of the service he wished him to per- 
 form, Bellario wej)t as though his heart would 
 break, and vowed that his master wished to 
 throw him off. 
 
 " Thy love doth plead so prettily to stay that, 
 trust me, I could weep to part with thee," an- 
 swered Philaster. ''I do not turn thee off, for 
 when thou art with her I love thou dwellest 
 still with me. When this trust is ended I will 
 again with joy receive thee." 
 
 Bellario obeyed with weeping eyes, and such a 
 show of love for his master that the latter beheld 
 it with surprise. Little dreamed he of the truth, 
 — that the seeming soft-faced boy was really a 
 woman, and loved him with a woman's love.
 
 52 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 Bellario's true name was Euphrasia, and she was 
 the daughter of old Dion. She had first grown 
 to love Philaster from her father's praises of his 
 honor and virtue, and afterwards from seeing him 
 and hearing him converse. Led by her love, she 
 had left home on a feigned pilgrimage, and, dis- 
 guising herself as a bo}^, had placed herself where 
 he might find her, having first made a vow never 
 to reveal her sex to mortal man. This vow was 
 the source of much future misery, as the course 
 of our story will reveal. 
 
 As for Arethusa, the seeming gentle lad so won 
 her heart that she soon loved him next to Philaster, 
 and the more so that he told tales sweet to her 
 ears of Philaater's passionate devotion. 
 
 " If it be love to sit cross-armed and sigh away 
 the day," said Bellario, softly ; " if it be love to 
 weep himself away when he but hears of any 
 lady dead, fearing such chance for you ; if, when 
 he goes to rest, to name you once after his every 
 prayer, as others drop a bead, be to be in love, 
 then, madame, I dare swear he loves you well." 
 
 " Oh, you are a cunning boy, and have been 
 taught to lie for your lord's credit," cried Are- 
 thusa, happily. "But any lie that sounds like 
 this is welcomer than truth that says he loves 
 me not." 
 
 She stroked the lad's hair and patted his soft 
 cheeks as she spoke, but kissed him not, — her 
 kisses of love were kept for Philaster. But she 
 ordered that the fair boy should be richly dressed,
 
 PHILASTER ; OR, LOVE LIES BLEEDING. 53 
 
 and kept him by her as though her heart had 
 overflown to him. 
 
 Over her ecstasy of secret love, however, there 
 hung a cloud of coming woe, — the suit of Phara- 
 mond and her father's favor of it. But, fortunately 
 for the lovers, the base-minded S})aniard was too 
 licentious in disposition to keep a show of virtue 
 even at the court of his intended father-in-law. 
 So open was he in wickedness, indeed, that the 
 king discovered him seeking to seduce a lady of 
 the court, and in his moment of anger declared 
 that no such lustful villain should ever marry a 
 dauijhter of his. 
 
 So furious he grew, indeed, that Megra, the 
 lady in question, retorted on him ; declaring that 
 the honor of Arethusa, his proud daughter, was 
 not above suspicion, that she kept a handsome 
 boy of eighteen as her leman ; and advising him, 
 before charging others with lack of virtue, to 
 look at home more closely. 
 
 This chance accusation, thrown out at random 
 by a wanton, was the source of woes unnumbered 
 to the lovers. The tale soon got abroad, and the 
 multitude, ever ready to believe evil of the great, 
 and ill disposed to the princess from their dislike 
 to the Spanish betrothal, asked no proof to credit 
 it. It came quickly to the ears of Pbilaster, 
 and roused him to fury. But when Dion, whose 
 sterling honesty was bej^ond question, assured 
 the indignant lover that the story was true, and 
 that he had personal knowledge that the princess 
 
 5*
 
 64 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 was living in lascivious intercourse with her hand- 
 some page, his anger changed to a fierce passion 
 of jealousy. 
 
 Dion had lied, deeming that only thus could 
 he draw Philaster from his infatuation. He and 
 his friends knew that the people were so strong 
 in fiivor of the prince that the time was ripe 
 for revolt. In their view, only his love for the 
 princess kept him fi'om heading his friends and 
 striking for his royal heritage, and a lie for this 
 good end seemed to the worthy Dion but a venial 
 sin. Little did the politic old lord dream that it 
 was his own daughter who thus posed as the 
 paramour of Arethusa. 
 
 Hardly had this disgraceful tale reached Phi- 
 laster's ears than Bellario came to him with a 
 message from the princess. The distressed lover 
 gazed upon the seeming boy with looks of ill- 
 repressed jealousy, and questioned him closely as 
 to how the princess used him. Bellario answered 
 with a story of kindness and affection that stirred 
 the lover to new rage, and when at length, per- 
 ceiving the direction in which his questions led, 
 she refused to answer further, he drew his sword 
 and threatened to kill her unless she would toll 
 him all. 
 
 " I am determined to see your thoughts as plain 
 as I do now your face," he declared, passionately. 
 
 " Why, so you do," answered Bellario. " The 
 princess is, for aught I know, by all the gods, as 
 chaste as ice. But were she foul as hell, and I
 
 PHILASTER ; OR, LOVE LIES BLEEDING. 55 
 
 knew it, you threats were wasted, "What I might 
 come to know, as servant to her, I would not 
 reveal to make my life last ages." 
 
 "You do not know what it ig to die." 
 
 " Do I not, my lord ? It is less than to be born ; 
 a lasting sleep, a quiet resting from all jealousy, 
 a thing we all pursue. I know, besides, it is but 
 the giving over of a game that must be lost." 
 
 In the end the distracted lover sheathed his 
 sword, but bade Bellario leave him, and never let 
 him see that hated face again. This the heart- 
 broken messenger agreed to do, saying that there 
 was nothing now to live for, and praying him, 
 should he hear that sorrow had struck his poor, 
 fond boy dead, to shed one tear for him in 
 memory. 
 
 The disgraceful story which had brought such 
 distress to Philaster was destined to brina: as 
 great to Arethusa. For first the king, her father, 
 called upon her and bade her dismiss the boy, 
 saying that foul whispers against her honor had 
 been set astir. Philaster quickly followed, and 
 found her in tears, &nd minghng her vows of love 
 for him with such sorrow at the loss of the dear 
 boy he had given her that jealousy overcame 
 him, and he burst out into angiy accusations. 
 Arethusa listened in distraction. Had the foul 
 suspicions which her father had darkly hinted so 
 soon infected her lover's heart ? Then was th^a,*e 
 naught left to live for, and death would be a Iplest 
 relief.
 
 56 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS, 
 
 " Be merciful, ye gods, and strike me dead !" 
 she cried, when he had withdrawn in a hot pas- 
 sion. " In what way have I deserved this ? Make 
 my breast transparent as pure crystal, that the 
 world, jealous of my fair fame, may see the foul- 
 est thought my heart possesses. Where shall a 
 woman turn her eyes to find man's constancy ?" 
 
 Tiie scene of our story now shifts from the 
 palace to the forest. The king, wishing to do all 
 honor to his princely visitor, had arranged a hunt- 
 ing party, and rode to the neighboring woodlands 
 with Pharamond and his lords. Arethusa, at his 
 request, joined the party, though with secret 
 thouo-hts of her own. For her heart was so 
 bleedins: with the wounds it had received that 
 she had resolved to flee from men, and seek peace 
 and shelter from human faithlessness under the 
 forest shades. 
 
 By chance, Bellario and Philaster had sought 
 the same refuge in their misery. Thus these 
 three were soon wandering desolately under the 
 green dome of leaves, and with a common sorrow, 
 — for Arethusa had separated herself from the 
 hunting party, and sought a distant covert where 
 she might weep unseen. 
 
 The princess was soon missed, and, fearing some 
 dread accident, the whole train of huntsmen set 
 themselves in eager search of her, for the king 
 was so distracted at her loss that be bitterly 
 accused his courtiers of lack of vigilance in 
 guarding his daughter.
 
 PHILASTER ; OR, LOVE LIES BLEEDING. 57 
 
 Fortune, however, had prepared another end- 
 ing for this strange adventure. Philaster, wan- 
 dering wofully through the forest paths, his heart 
 still torn with the pangs of jealousy, chanced to 
 meet Bellario, who was suffering so severely from 
 cold and hunger that she was forced to beg relief 
 from her late master. 
 
 "Is it you?" he harshly cried. "Begone, in- 
 grate ! Go sell those fine clothes she has dressed 
 you in and feed yourself with them." 
 
 " Alas, my lord, I can get nothing for them," 
 pleaded Bellario. " The sill}^ country-people think 
 it would be treason to touch such gay attire." 
 
 " Think you to cozen me again ? Tell me which 
 way you will take, that I may shun you ? This 
 way, or that way ?" 
 
 "Any way will serve, so it but leads to my 
 grave," wept Bellario, sadly taking the first path 
 that offered, while Philaster angrily took another. 
 
 Yet, by love's direction, it happened that their 
 paths ran parallel, both ending in that distant 
 part of the forest where Arethusa sat moaning, 
 worn out with her unaccustomed wanderings. 
 
 Bellario first espied her, as she sat pallid and 
 faint with fatigue on a green woodland bank. 
 But hardly had the seeming boy, with earnest 
 appeal, called back the exhausted lady to life and 
 memory, than Philaster entered and saw her 
 busied in pitying cares about his lost love. The 
 flames of jealous fury leaped again in his heart 
 on seeing this. How had they met ? Could this
 
 58 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 be chance, or was it an assignation ? On them 
 both the storm of his anger burst, till he became 
 so frenzied that he drew his sword and bade 
 Arethusa strike him dead. When she refused to 
 do this, he bade Bellario kill him ; and when the 
 distressed page drew back in horror, he bade him 
 begone and trouble no more those to whom he 
 had brought such woe. 
 
 " Kill me," he repeated to Arethusa, after 
 Bellario had fled in terror. " Earth cannot bear 
 us both at once. One of us must die here." 
 
 " Let it be me, then. I shall have peace in 
 death." 
 
 " Then guide my feeble hand, ye gods of honor, 
 for justice bids me strike. Are you at jieace?" 
 
 " With heaven and earth." 
 
 " May they divide thy soul and body." 
 
 Fortunately, a countryman, eager to see the 
 royal party at the chase, had sought the forest, 
 and came upon the lovers just as Philaster, mad 
 with jealous rage, had raised his hand to strike. 
 He caught the arm of the frenzied prince in time 
 to save the lady from death, though she fell 
 wounded. 
 
 A fight ensued between Philaster and the 
 countryman, who attacked him with such fury as 
 to break down his guard and wound him. Phi- 
 laster, indeed, was pressed so closely that, unable 
 longer to defend himself, ho was forced to fly, 
 leaving his assailant in possession of the field. 
 
 He had hardly gone when Pharamond, Dion,
 
 PHILASTER ; OR, LOVE LIES BLEEDINa. 59 
 
 and others of the hunting party appeared, in 
 search of the lost princess. To their sui-prise and 
 anger they saw her bleeding before them, and the 
 countryman with blood on his sword's point. 
 The latter, however, quickly declared that he 
 had fought to save, not to hurt her, and that the 
 assailant had escaped. As Arethusa confirmed 
 this, Pharamond bade the woodmen present to 
 conduct the wounded princess to the king, while 
 he and the others set out in search of her assailant. 
 
 " By this hand, if I find the villain," declared 
 Pharamond, boastfully, " I'll not leave a piece of 
 him bigger than a nut, and bring him all in my 
 hat." 
 
 "Nay, if you find him, bring him to me," 
 asked Arethusa, in fear for her lover. " Leave me 
 to study a punishment great as his fault." 
 
 "I will." 
 
 " But swear." 
 
 " By all my love, I will." 
 
 Meanwhile Bellario, after leaving the lovers, 
 had wandered wearily onward, and at length, 
 overcome with fatigue and hunger, had lain down 
 and fallen asleep in a nook of the forest. By the 
 same fortune that had hitherto guided their steps, 
 Philaster, in his flight, followed the same path, 
 bleeding as he went, and at length was forced to 
 halt near where Bellario lay in deep slumber. 
 
 " I have done ill ; my conscience calls me false, 
 to strike at her who would not strike at me," 
 he declared, remorsefully. " And while I fought
 
 60 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 she surely breathed a prayer to the gods to guard 
 me. She may be abused, and I a loathed villain. 
 Ah! who lies here? Bellaino, and sleeping? If 
 ho be guilty, justice is at fault that his sleep 
 should be so sound, and mine, whom he has 
 wronged, so broken." 
 
 He paused and listened. The distant cries of 
 the pursuing party came to his ears, ringing far 
 through the green forest aisles. 
 
 " Hark ! I am pursued. They have no mark 
 to know me but my wounds. If she be true she 
 will not breathe my name ; if false, let mischief 
 light on all the world at once. Swoi'd, print my 
 wounds upon this sleeping boy, and let him stand 
 for me. I have none mortal, and will not hurt 
 him deeply." 
 
 Bellario sprang up as the keen sword pierced 
 his flesh ; then fell again with a cry more of hope 
 than fear. 
 
 " Death, I hope, has come !" he cried. "Again, 
 for pity's sake ! strike deeper now !" 
 
 "No, Bellario; take your revenge," cried Phi- 
 laster, full of sudden remorse. " Here is he that 
 struck you. This luckless hand wounded the 
 princess ; strike me as I did you, and tell my fol- 
 lowers you got these hurts in staying me. Say 
 what you will ; I'll second it." 
 
 Bellario would by no means obey this dread 
 command, and so earnestly bade his loved master 
 to conceal himself that he at length consented. 
 When Pharamond and the others entered, track-
 
 philaster; or, love lies bleeding. 61 
 
 ing the fugitive by his blood, they saw only 
 Bellario, who lay bleeding upon the earth. 
 
 The seeming boy claimed at first to have been 
 wounded by beasts, but, when they taxed him 
 closely, made a pretended confession that he had 
 wounded the princess, moved by anger at her for 
 having dismissed him from her train. As they 
 were about to lead him off, with threats of tort- 
 ure, Philastei', who had heard all this in his 
 covert, broke forth and bade them halt. The 
 self-abnegation of Bellario had at length con- 
 vinced the jealous lover that his suspicions were 
 false and his lady was true, and he now loudly 
 asserted his own guilt and the innocence of the 
 devoted boy. 
 
 A contest ensued between the two as to who 
 had really wounded the princess, in the midst of 
 which the king entered with his daughter and 
 guards. 
 
 " Is the villain taken ?" he demanded. 
 
 "There are two here that confess the deed," 
 said Phararaond. 
 
 " The fellow who fought with him will point 
 out the true one," answered the king. 
 
 "Ah me! I fear he will," sighed Arethusa. 
 
 "Do you not know him, daughter?" 
 
 " No. If it was Philaster he was disguised." 
 
 " I was so, indeed — in shameful jealousy and 
 foul suspicion," cried Philaster. " It was I that 
 struck the princess. Do with me what you will." 
 
 " Ambitious fool !" answered the king, angrily. 
 
 6
 
 62 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 " You have laid a train for your own life. Bear 
 him to prison." 
 
 " Leave him to me, dear father," pleaded Are- 
 thusa. " Leave both of them. They laid a plot 
 together to take my harmless life. Let me ap- 
 point their punishment." 
 
 " As you will, daughter ; take them, with a 
 guard. Come, princely Pharamond ; this business 
 past, we may go on to your intended marriage." 
 
 The king's concession to his daughter was but 
 in seeming, as was her proposed revenge. He 
 feared Philaster too much to let him live, now 
 that he had a fair excuse to put him to death, 
 and hardly were they back in the city than he 
 ordered the immediate execution of the prisoner. 
 
 Fortunately for Philaster, this purpose of the 
 king was suspected by his friends, and Dion and 
 others hastened to spread the news through 
 the city, with the design of rousing a revolt in 
 favor of the threatened prince. As for Arethusa, 
 when the command came to her from her father 
 to bring out to his death the prisoner who had 
 been committed to her hands, her heart was like 
 to break. She hastened to the prison with BelJa- 
 rio, and there vowed that if her soul's lord died 
 she would not live to weep for him. Bellario 
 repeated the same vow, and the three sought the 
 presence of the king, wearing wedding robes and 
 garlands. The angry monarch looked at them in 
 surprise. 
 
 "What masque is this?" he haughtily asked.
 
 PHILASTER ; OR, LOVE LIES BLEEDING. 63 
 
 "The masque of truth," answered Bellario. 
 " The god that sings his holy numbers over mar- 
 riage vows has knit these noble hearts, and here 
 they stand your children, mighty king." 
 
 " What mean you, boy ?" 
 
 " Sir, if you love plain truth, for there's no 
 masquing in it," broke in Arethusa, " this gentle- 
 man, the prisoner you gave me, has become my 
 keeper. You see him here my husband." 
 
 " Your husband !" exclaimed the kins;, in amaze- 
 ment and rage. " No masque, you say ? Call in 
 the captain of the citadel ; there you shall keep 
 your wedding. Blood shall put out your mar- 
 riage torches, woman — no more my daughter ; for 
 here I shake all title off of father." 
 
 "I repent not," answered Arethusa. "Death 
 has for me no ^ierror, so long as Pharamond is not 
 my headsman." 
 
 "Sir, let me speak," exclaimed Philaster. "If 
 you aim at the dear life of this sweet innocent, 
 you are a tyrant and a savage monster ; your 
 memory shall be as foul behind you, as you are, 
 living; all your better deeds shall be in water 
 writ, but this in marble; no chronicle but shall 
 speak shame of you, no monument be able to 
 cover this base murder. If you have a soul, 
 save her and be saved. For myself, I have so 
 long expected this glad hour, it is a joy to die." 
 
 He was interrupted by the hasty entrance of a 
 messenger, who cried, — 
 
 " The king ! "Where is the king ? The prince
 
 64^ TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 Pharamond has been taken prisoner by the cit- 
 izens, and is in mortal dangei-." 
 
 "Arm! arm!" cried a second messenger, enter- 
 ing as hastily. " The whole city is in mutiny, 
 led by an angry gray ruffian, who swears he will 
 rescue the lord Philaster." 
 
 "Away with these prisoners to the citadel!" 
 cried the king. " See they are kept safely. Leave 
 it to me to cope with these burghers." 
 
 He did not find it so easy to cope with the 
 burghers. On hearing, through Dion and others, 
 of the danger to their beloved Philaster, the 
 citizens had risen in a body, and, meeting with 
 Pharamond, who had gone out to see the city, 
 they had seized him and haled him with them to 
 the palace gates, where they threatened to rend 
 him limb from limb if Philaster was not set free. 
 
 So hot and threatening was their rebellious 
 spirit that the king's valor quickly turned to fear. 
 They threw dirt at him, drowned his voice with 
 yells of " tyrant !" and demanded Philaster, none 
 but Philaster. 
 
 "What they will do with the poor prince I 
 know not," cx-ied the terrified king. "Eun, some 
 one, and bring the lord Philaster. Speak him 
 fair; call him prince; treat him with all courtesy. 
 Confound them, how they swarm !" 
 
 Philaster had not yet been taken from the 
 palace, and was soon brought to the presence of 
 the frightened monarch, who was ready to fall on 
 his knees before him.
 
 philaster; or, love lies bleeding. 65 
 
 " Oh, worthy sir, forgive me !" he cried, trem- 
 bling. " I have wronged you. Take her you love, 
 and with her my repentance and your father's 
 throne. Only calm this torrent of rebellion, and, 
 by the gods, I swear to do you justice !" 
 
 "Mighty sir, you fill me with new life," an- 
 swered Philaster. " Leave me to stand the shock 
 of this mad sea-breach, which I will either turn 
 or perish with it." 
 
 Philaster well knew that he was in no danger 
 from the rebels. The very sight of his face 
 brought from them glad shouts of " Long live 
 Philaster! the brave prince Philaster!" and on 
 his assurance of his safety they delivered to him 
 the captive prince, and rolled back in retreating 
 waves to the taverns, to spend in drink the gold 
 he had lavished on them. 
 
 "Thou art the king of courtesy," cried their 
 captain. "Fall oif again, my sweet youths. We 
 will have music, and the red grape shall make us 
 dance. A fig for this pewter king that dares to 
 threaten our brave prince Philaster." 
 
 Philaster returned with Pharamond to the 
 palace, where the king met him with tears of joy, 
 bidding him take his daughter for his wedded 
 wife, and with her the crown of his father's 
 kingdom. But the woes of the lovers were not 
 yet ended. Megra, the courtesan, who had caused 
 all their troubles, now repeated her foul accusa- 
 tion, with such show of knowledge that the king 
 turned in doubt to Philaster. 
 Vol. l.—e 6*
 
 66 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 " I must request of you one favor," he asked. 
 " And this I bid you swear to." 
 
 " By the powers above, I swear," answered 
 Philaster, " if it be no one's death." 
 
 " Then bear that boy to torture. I must have 
 the truth of this vile charge. My daughter's 
 fame shall not rest under this load of infamy." 
 
 " Call back your words, sir. Let me sacrifice 
 myself in proof of Arethusa's virtue." 
 
 He drew his sword and offered to kill himself, 
 but was checked by Arethusa, who caught his 
 hand in both her own. 
 
 " To the torture with that boy !" cried the king. 
 
 "Oh, kill me, gentlemen!" exclaimed Bellario. 
 
 " No, but we'll have the truth from you." 
 
 "The truth! Oh, sirs, would you make me 
 break a vow to the gods ?" 
 
 " Yes, ten vows, but that we have the truth." 
 
 "Then may the just gods forgive me, since I 
 must speak, or have my secret known through 
 torture. Great sir, this lady lies vilely. Your 
 daughter is pure as new-fallen snow ; and to prove 
 it, know — I am a woman." 
 
 " A woman !" cried all present. 
 
 " Yes, sire, by name Euphrasia, and this my 
 father." She laid her hand on old Dion's shoulder. 
 
 "Euphrasia! By all the gods, 'tis she!" cried 
 Dion, looking keenly in her face. " What means 
 this, you baggage? Is this your pilgrimage ?" 
 
 "Love bade me do it. Love for Philaster." 
 
 "Seize that woman!" cried the king, pointing
 
 PHILASTER ; OR, LOVE LIES BLEEDING. 67 
 
 to Megra. " It is her lying tongue has done all 
 this. To death with her." 
 
 '* Not so, my royal father," answered Philaster. 
 " I would not have my happiness tarnished by 
 taking revenge, even on that base wretch. Set 
 her free, but banish her from your kingdom." 
 
 " Be it so," rejoined the king. " But let her not 
 show her face again in Calabria. You, Phara- 
 mond, shall have free passage, and a conduct home 
 worthy your high descent. As for this disguised 
 maiden, — but tell me your story, Bellario. How 
 came this masquerade ?" 
 
 With blushing cheeks, the discovered maiden 
 told what the reader already knows, how she had, 
 from love of Philaster, assumed a disguise, and 
 thrown herself in his way, that she might at least 
 be near him and serve him as a page. 
 
 "To whom shall we marry you?" asked the 
 king. " Search out your mate ; be it the highest 
 in our kingdom, I will pay your dowry." 
 
 " I shall never marry," she sadly answered. " I 
 live only to serve the princess." 
 
 " Which you freely shall," remarked Arethusa. 
 " Fear not my jealousy, though you love my lord 
 as truly as I can." 
 
 "Join your hands, my children," said the king 
 to Philaster and Arethusa. "My blessing be 
 yours. Enjoy your love, and after me my king- 
 dom. Let princes learn by this to rule the 
 passions of their blood ; for what God wills can 
 never be withstood."
 
 A NEW WAY TO PAY OLD DEBTS. 
 
 BY PHILIP MASSINGER. 
 
 [Philip Massinger, who was born at Salisbury 
 in 1583, and educated at Oxford, formed one of 
 the most skilful of that active circle of play- 
 wrights who were contemporary with Shake- 
 speare. We first hear of him as a dramatic au- 
 thor in 1614, and he continued to produce plays 
 actively till his death, in 1639, largely in collabo- 
 ration with other authors, and particularly with 
 John Fletcher. His most masterly comedies are 
 " A New Way to Pay Old Debts," and " The City 
 Madam," the former of which we treat, as it is 
 the sole production of Shakespeare's contempo- 
 raries which still holds the stage. This is due 
 to the fine dramatic opportunities offered by the 
 character of Sir Giles Overreach. 
 
 These plays lack warmth and geniality, but as 
 satirical studies they possess the strength without 
 the heaviness of Ben Jonson. Massinger was a 
 skilled and careful playwright, and though not 
 powerful from a literary point of view, was a 
 master of his art, few writers surpassing him in 
 general dramatic excellence. Some of his plays, 
 as Coleridge says, are as interesting as novels.] 
 68
 
 A NEW WAY TO PAY OLD DEBTS. 69 
 
 The parish ia which Sir Giles Overreach, a 
 grasping English baronet of the olden time, re- 
 sided was sadly the worse for his presence. The 
 thriftless and the thrifty had alike been made the 
 victims of his avarice, and many a widow and 
 orphan mourned in poverty his soulless greed and 
 injustice. By taking unfair advantage of the 
 misfortunes and follies of his neighbors, he had 
 added to his estate until it spread over miles of 
 territory, every foot of which had been watered 
 by the tears of those whom he had ruined. In- 
 dustry and economy were no safeguards against 
 his base practices. " I must have all men sellers 
 and I the only purchaser," he said, and when his 
 neighbor, Mr. Frugal, whose land lay in the midst 
 of his estate, and whose economy kept him from 
 debt, refused to sell or exchange. Sir Giles took 
 the most unjust means to rob him of his property. 
 Buying a cottage near his manor, he laid plans to 
 have men break down his fences, ride over his 
 grain, injure his cattle, and set fire to his barns, 
 hoping thus to draw him into lawsuits and to 
 beggar him by costs. Two or three years of such 
 courses would force Frugal to sell his lands, which 
 Sir Giles stood ready to buy at a sacrifice, and 
 add to his overgrown estate. 
 
 Thus by methods fair and foul the villanous 
 baronet had spread ruin far and wide, and threat- 
 ened, if he lived, to bring half the county within 
 his ill-gotten manor. Among those whom he had 
 ruined was his own nephew, Frank Wellborn, a
 
 70 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 young gentleman of good estate, whose spend- 
 thrift habits had made him an easy prey to his 
 vulture-like uncle. Young Wellborn had been a 
 close friend to a Mr. Allworth, and had aided 
 him greatly in money difficulties which were due 
 to the crafty practices of Sir Giles. In the end 
 Allworth saved himself from ruin by marrying a 
 rich heiress of the vicinity. He died a few years 
 afterwards, leaving his son by a former marriage 
 to the care of his loving Avidow. When this boy 
 was well grown Lady Allworth placed him as page 
 to Lord Lovell, a worthy nobleman of her ac- 
 quaintance. But before this time the youth had 
 fallen in love with Margaret, the only child of Sir 
 Giles Overreach, who warmly returned his affec- 
 tion. Their boy and girl love had to be kept a close 
 secret from Margaret's avaricious father, who 
 hoped to add to his importance by marrying his 
 beautiful daughter to Lord Lovell, from whom 
 he expected a visit. 
 
 As for the dissolute Wellborn, he had gone 
 steadily on his downward career till, at the time 
 our story opens, he was in a state of hopeless 
 poverty. His estate had vanished, his money was 
 spent, his clothes were little better than rags, and 
 from being a gentleman of wealth, he had become 
 almost a penniless tramp, discarded bj^ the uncle 
 who had robbed him, looked upon with scorn and 
 disgust by his former equals, and treated with con- 
 tempt and contumely by many who had once been 
 far below him in the social scale.
 
 A NEW WAY TO PAT OLD DEBTS. 71 
 
 The ill respect with which the common people 
 treated this ruined spendthrift was in part due to 
 his uncle, who, having robbed him of his wealth, 
 now wished to relieve his eyes from the unpleasant 
 sight of his ragged person. He therefore ordered 
 his parasite, Marrall, to use all means to drive his 
 nephew to despair. The tapster who had given 
 him shelter was bidden to turn him out of doors. 
 The tenants of Sir Griles were forbidden to give 
 him so much aid as a crust of mouldy bread, his 
 cruel uncle hoping that he might die of cold and 
 hunger. Finally, at a loss how to get rid of this 
 living witness to his ill deeds, the baronet bade 
 Marrall to counsel his starving nephew that it was 
 better to steal than beg. " Do anything to work 
 him to despair," he said, *' and if I can prove that 
 he has but robbed a hen-roost, not all the world 
 shall save him from the gallows." 
 
 Sir Giles reckoned a little hastily in hoping thus 
 easily to dispose of Frank Wellborn. In truth, 
 events were now ripening which were destined to 
 lead to his own ruin, and bring to an end his long 
 career of greed and oppression. Wellborn, disso- 
 lute as he had been, and much as his mad course 
 had turned all worthy people against him, was 
 not a fool, and when he saw that his crafty uncle 
 was seeking his final ruin, he devised a shrewd 
 scheme to get the better of the greedy villain, 
 and even force him to open his own swollen 
 coifers in his behalf. 
 
 Tapwell, the tavern-keeper, and Froth, his wife,
 
 72 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 lost no time in obeying the orders sent secretly to 
 them by their rich landlord. They refused further 
 food and drink to their late good customer, and 
 when he indignantly threatened them, they spoke 
 of sending for the constable if he should but lift 
 his hand against them. 
 
 "Dare you talk thus, you unthankful villain?" 
 demanded Wellborn of the tapster. "Are not 
 your house, and all you have, my gifts?" 
 
 "I find it not in chalk," was the insolent an- 
 swer. " Timothy Tapwell keeps no other regis- 
 ter." 
 
 " Am not I he whose visits fed and clothed you ? 
 Were j^ou not born on my father's land, and proud 
 to be a drudge in his house ?" 
 
 "What I was matters not; what you are is 
 apparent," and Tapwell proceeded to describe the 
 course of Wellborn's profligacy and downfall, 
 until his angry benefactor could bear it no 
 longer, and used his fists and feet on the insulting 
 tapster with such effect that only the entrance of 
 young Allworth saved him from broken bones. 
 
 " Hold, Frank !" cried Allworth. " Such scum 
 as these are not worth your anger." 
 
 " Then let them vanish, creeping on their hands 
 and knees," cried Wellborn, furiously. " If they 
 dare refuse or grumble, I'll beat them to a jelly." 
 
 The tapster and his wife were glad enough to 
 escape, even on such humiliating terms, and crept 
 humbly away from their incensed customer, leav- 
 ing him master of the field. After they had gone,
 
 A NEW WAY TO PAY OLD DEBTS. 73 
 
 a conversation began between the two friends, the 
 subject of their colloquy being the widow All- 
 worth. 
 
 Young Allworth remarked that she was still 
 a deep mourner for her late husband, and that, 
 though she had many suitors, she had shown no 
 favor to any of them. As for himself, she had 
 treated him so kindly and generously as to win 
 his deepest love. Here Wellborn interrupted him, 
 telling him he well knew that he had not given 
 all his love to his step-mother, but had saved a 
 generous portion of it for Margaret, the daughter 
 of Cormorant Overreach. He earnestly advised 
 him to dismiss from his mind all hope of winning 
 the young lady, and to plant his affections in some 
 more hopeful soil. 
 
 *' Can you imagine," he said, " that Sir Giles 
 Overreach, who to make her great in swelling 
 titles would cut his neighbor's throat, will ever 
 consent to yield her to you? Give over such 
 wild hopes, and seek some safer flame." 
 
 To this advice, however, the young lover would 
 not listen. In his turn he advised his friend 
 to consider the desperate plight he was himself 
 in, and offered him a part of his small allowance 
 to help him in this strait. 
 
 " Money from you !" cried Wellborn. " No, my 
 lad. Though I am turned out of my alehouse, 
 dressed in rags, and know not where to eat, drink, 
 or sleep, I will not accept your charity, much as 
 I thank you for the offer. Since in my madness 
 D 7
 
 74 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 I have broken my estate, in my right wits I'll 
 mend it without aid from another; or at the 
 worst, will die and be forgotten." 
 
 The scheme which Wellborn had devised to 
 better his fortunes, of which we have above 
 spoken, was likely to prove a difficult one to carry 
 into effect. It depended on the co-operation of 
 Lady Allworth, whose prudent course of life 
 would certainly make her ill disposed to enter 
 into alliance with a profligate spendthrift. In 
 fact, when her step-son returned home from his 
 conversation with Wellborn, she warned him 
 against holding any future intercourse with the 
 ruined prodigal. 
 
 " Beware ill company," she advised him. " From 
 one man in particular I warn you, that dissolute 
 Wellborn. Not because he is poor, for that rather 
 claims your pity ; but because he is debauched, 
 and fallen into vicious courses. Your father loved 
 him, it is true ; but had he lived to see him as he 
 is he would have cast him off, as you must do." 
 
 *' Dear mother, trust me to obey all your com- 
 mands," answered the youth, dutifully. 
 
 Yet, in despite of this wise and prudent advice, 
 the day was not over before Lady Allworth had 
 forgiven Wellborn his profligacy, and admitted 
 him to an intimacy far greater than that against 
 which she had warned her son. The motive for 
 this sudden change of opinion we have next to 
 describe. 
 
 It was but an hour or two after Wellborn's
 
 A NEW WAY TO PAY OLD DEBTS. 75 
 
 conversation with his young friend, when he 
 entered Lady All worth's house, seeking an inter- 
 view with that lady. He was destined to meet 
 with a series of insults, hard for his hot blood to 
 bear. The first person he met was his uncle, Sir 
 Giles, who was one of Lady Allworth's suitors, 
 but not a favored one. Angry at being refused 
 admittance to the lady, he turned on his nephew 
 with snarling fury, crying out: "Avaunt, beg- 
 gar ! if ever you presume to own me more, I'll have 
 you caged and whipped!" With these words he 
 stalked furiously away. 
 
 The servants of Lady A 11 worth followed this 
 example, greeting the visitor with insult; and 
 even j'oung Allworth, who happened to enter the 
 hall, felt obliged to obey his mother's command, 
 and turned in confused silence away from his late 
 friend. 
 
 " This grows better and better," cried Wellborn, 
 "jffe drops my acquaintance also. Come, then, 
 you surly dogs, here I am ; who will put me 
 out?" 
 
 At this moment Lady Allworth entered, and 
 looked with surprise on the scene before her. 
 
 " What means this ?" she asked. \ 
 
 " Madam, I desire some words with you," said 
 Wellborn,with a courtesy that contrasted sti'angely 
 with his ill attire. " I have met with but ragged 
 entertainment from your grooms ; but hope from 
 yourself to receive usage more fitting to him who 
 was your husband's friend."
 
 76 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 " I am amazed at your rudeness in forcing your- 
 self into my house," answered Lady Allworth, 
 severely. " Do you think that I, who since my 
 husband's death have denied my presence to the 
 best men of this country, can fall so low as to 
 exchange words with you ? Forbear my house, 
 thou son of infamy I Force me not to take meas- 
 ures to make you keep a respectful distance from 
 me." 
 
 " Scorn me not, good lady," answered Wellborn, 
 quietly. " Hear me awhile, at least. You can 
 but grant that the blood which runs in my arm 
 is as noble as that which fills your veins. Your 
 jewels and rich attire, and the flattery of your 
 servants, are no virtues in you ; nor are these rags 
 and my poverty vices in me. Your fame is fairer 
 far than mine, it is true, and in nothing greater 
 than in the pious sorrow you have shown for your 
 late noble husband." 
 
 Lady Allworth started, and tears came into 
 her eyes at these words. 
 
 "Have you more to say?" she asked more 
 gently. 
 
 " Once, madam, your husband was almost as 
 low in his fortunes as I am. Wants, debts, and 
 quarrels lay heavy on him. Think it not a boast 
 in me when I say that I relieved him, and in his 
 quarrels seconded his sword with mine. When 
 he was sunk in men's opinions and in his own 
 hopes, it was I that took him by the hand and sot 
 him upright."
 
 A NEW WAY TO PAY OLD DEBTS. 77 
 
 " I have heard of this, and regret that I spoke 
 so harshly, Mr. Wellborn," answered the lady. 
 
 " For his sake, in that I was his friend, I pray 
 you not to contemn me." 
 
 " I beg pardon for what is past, and will redeem 
 it, — Steward, give this gentleman a hundred 
 pounds." 
 
 " On no terms, madam ! Think you I am here 
 for that ? I will not beg or borrow sixpence of 
 you. Yet I have a suit to make, — may we speak 
 apart ?" 
 
 Lady Allworth, touched despite herself by her 
 vi8itoi''s words and manner, led the way to a place 
 out of hearing of the servants, where an earnest 
 whispered conversation took place between her 
 and Wellborn. 
 
 " Your request is granted," she said at length. 
 " I cannot better repay your services to my hus- 
 band. Is there nothing more ?" 
 
 "Nothing, unless you please to charge your 
 servants to waste some show of respect on me," 
 
 This request she obeyed, and parted from her 
 shabby guest with much show of amity. 
 
 The ascreement which Frank Wellborn had 
 made with Lady Allworth was one that was 
 destined to create much surprise. Since her hus- 
 band's death she had worn deep mourning and 
 kept in strict seclusion, refusing to see the various 
 gentlemen who called upon her with purpose to 
 sue for her hand and estate. Yet she had now 
 agreed, out of gratitude for Wellborn's aifection 
 
 7*
 
 78 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 for and aid to her deeply-mourned husband, to 
 give up her seclusion in favor of a houseless and 
 ragged profligate, to change her mourning I'obes 
 for gay attire, and in all seeming to accept this 
 lately despised vagabond for her lover. Only an 
 extreme feeling of gratitude could have produced 
 such a change, yet Lady Allworth, having once 
 agreed to it, was ready to carry out her promise 
 to the full, whatever the neighboring gentry might 
 think of her conduct. 
 
 The cunningl^'-devised scheme of the two con- 
 spirators was first played upon Marrall, Sir Giles's 
 parasite. This time-serving wretch had, as already 
 stated, been ordered by Sir Giles to counsel Well- 
 born to robbery, his crafty uncle hoping thus to 
 bring him within the grasp of the severe laws of 
 that period. Marrall, however, found his hoped- 
 for victim in no humor to be hung for theft. 
 
 "Thanks for your generous advice." he said; 
 " I am not ready to take it ; but, as you are so 
 kind, I will be kinder, and invite you to dine with 
 me." 
 
 " Under what hedge, I pray j'ou ? Or at whose 
 cost ? What footpads are your hosts ?" was 
 Marrall's scornful demand. 
 
 " We shall dine at the house of a gallant lady, 
 my worthy sir ; and not in her kitchen, but with 
 herself as hostess." 
 
 "Ah! with the Lady of the Lake, or the queen 
 of fairies ? It must be an enchanted dinner you 
 invite me to,"
 
 A NEW WAY TO PAY OLD DEBTS. 79 
 
 "What think you of Lady Allworth, knave?" 
 
 " I think your brain is cracked, beyond hope." 
 
 " Wait till you see with what respect I am 
 entertained." 
 
 " With choice of dog-whips, no doubt. What, 
 youl in this attire !" and he looked with high dis- 
 dain on Wellborn's much-frayed clothing. " Do 
 you ever hope to pass her doorkeeper?" 
 
 " Come ; trust your own eyes, if you trust not 
 my words. It is not far, and doubtless dinner is 
 ready to serve." 
 
 A few minutes brought them to Lady Allworth's 
 door. Wellborn knocked boldly, while Marrall, 
 who knew well the contempt which the gentry 
 of the neighborhood felt for his profligate com- 
 panion, expected to see him driven from the door 
 with scorn. What then was his surprise to find 
 the servants meet him with low bows, as an 
 honored guest, while young Allworth, who was 
 present, begged pardon for his recent abruptness, 
 and offered his best services. 
 
 "I am glad you are come," said the butler. 
 " Until I know your pleasure I cannot serve up 
 my lady's dinner." 
 
 " His pleasure !" exclaimed Marrall to himself. 
 " Is this some vision, or are these men all mad ?" 
 
 " I have grouse and quail," continued the butler, 
 " or turkey if you prefer. My lady bade me ask 
 you what sauce is best to your taste." 
 
 " Good Lord deliver us !" groaned the perplexed 
 parasite. " Sauce to his taste ! Why, to my cer-
 
 80 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 tain knowledge, for a twelvemonth he has had no 
 better diet than cheese-parings on week-days and 
 brown bread on Sundays." 
 
 "Wellborn, with a sly smile at the astonishment 
 of his companion, proceeded to state his preference 
 as to sauces, after which the butler withdrew with 
 an humble bow. 
 
 " What think you of the hedge we shall dine 
 under?" queried Wellborn. 
 
 "Say no more, sir, say no more, unless you 
 would drive me quite out of my wits." 
 
 Marrall was not yet at the end of his surprises. 
 Lady Allworth met her guest with the formal 
 kiss which was then the fashion among equals, 
 and gave him permission to take a second salute 
 from her lips, as due to such a friend. Wellborn 
 begged her instead to salute his companion, and, 
 on the lady's showing a willingness to comply, 
 the low-born wretch was so overcome that he fell 
 on his face to the floor and begged the honor of 
 kissing her foot. 
 
 "Nay, rise, sir," said the hostess. "Since you 
 are so humble, I'll exalt you. You shall dine with 
 me to-day." 
 
 " At your table ? I am scarce good enough to 
 sit with your steward." 
 
 " You are too modest ; I will not be denied," 
 answei'ed the lady, graciously. 
 
 The dinner was a peculiar one. Marrall, who 
 had never before sat at a lady's table, demeaned 
 himself so awkwardly in his new dignity that he
 
 A NEW WAY TO PAY OLD DEBTS. 81 
 
 became a laughing-stock to the servants. When 
 the lady drank to him, at Wellborn's suggestion, 
 Marrall seized a dish in response, and pledged 
 her in whitebroth. And when the steward 
 brought him wine, he rose from his chaii', and 
 with an obsequious bow, humbly thanked his 
 worship. 
 
 At the end of the dinner, indeed, the lady, on 
 leaving the table, found her servants so overcome 
 with laughter that she sternly reproved them, 
 bidding them remember that whoever she deemed 
 worthy to sit at her table was no subject for their 
 mirth. Then to Wellborn she said, " Good-day, 
 dear sir. Bear in mind that to mo you are ever 
 welcome, as to a house that is your own." 
 
 When they were fairly out of the house the 
 pettifogging parasite was ready to fall down and 
 worship his companion. He walked with his hat 
 off, as one too humble to remain covered in the 
 presence of "Your Worship," as he called him, 
 and in the end pressed upon him a present of 
 twenty pounds, that he might provide himself 
 with better clothes. 
 
 " Come, come, I'll not forget you, friend Mar- 
 rall," said Wellborn, laughingly. " When we are 
 married, and my ladj^'s estate is mine, it may be 
 that you shall profit by it. And now, good-day. 
 I hope you liked my hedge-side dining-hall." 
 
 Wellborn walked away, leaving his companion 
 lost in wonder. 
 
 " To think of it I" he stammered. " I and Sir 
 Vol. I.-/
 
 82 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 Giles both so out in our calculations of this man's 
 fortune I Well, well, Master Wellborn, you are a 
 goose ready to be plucked again. Trust me to 
 help myself to a fair share of your feathers." 
 
 As he stood lost in a deep soliloquy, Sir Giles 
 appeared and questioned him as to how he had 
 succeeded in his plot to make a thief of Well- 
 born. Marrall told him the surprising story of 
 what had happened, a narrative which threw 
 Sir Giles into a furious passion. He called his 
 parasite a dolt and liar, and told him that he had 
 been cheated by a beggar's plot, worked by ser- 
 vants and chambermaids. When Marrall went 
 on to say that he had offered Wellborn twenty 
 pounds in money and his own horse to ride on, 
 the angry baronet became so incensed that he 
 knocked him down. 
 
 " Take that to drive the lying spirit out of you," 
 he exclaimed. 
 
 '• Oh, oh, sir, it is gone ! — I saw no lady, on my 
 honor." 
 
 " Get up, then. Here's a crown to pay for my 
 
 blow." 
 
 " I must yet suffer. But my time may come," 
 muttered Marrall, in suppressed rage. 
 
 " What's that, sirrah ! Do you grumble ?" 
 
 " No, sir ! Oh, no. Sir Giles, I am your very 
 humble servant." 
 
 At the time these events were taking place, a 
 gentleman of much importance to our story was 
 approaching that locality. This was Lord Lovell,
 
 A NEW WAT TO PAY OLD DEBTS. 83 
 
 who had ridden thither to pay his promised visit 
 to Sir Giles, Lady Allworth, and others of his 
 friends. As he approached the residence of his 
 host, he conversed earnestly with Allworth, who 
 had joined him in a state of deep distress, for he 
 knew well the purpose of Sir Giles's invitation, 
 and feared that the charms of Margaret must 
 win the love of his noble master. Lord Lovell 
 sought to reassure him, declaring that he had not 
 come thither to rob him of his love, and that, 
 however great might be the temptation offered 
 by Margaret's beauty and her father's wealth, he 
 should consider his own honor first of all. He 
 bade Allworth free himself from jealous fears, 
 and trust him that all would be well in the end. 
 
 It would by no means have pleased Sir Giles to 
 hear this. Now that he had a superabundance 
 of wealth, his ambition was set upon rank, and 
 he would have given his soul to be called noble, 
 or even to be able to greet Margaret as " My 
 Honorable daughter," and to stand bareheaded 
 before her until she should say, " Father, you 
 forget yourself." 
 
 Therefore, when news of Lord Lovell's coming 
 was brought him, he gave orders to make a dis- 
 play of all the magnificence his house could afford. 
 No plate of less value than pure gold was to be 
 shown, the choicest linens were to be laid out, 
 and precious perfumes spread through the rooms. 
 As to the entertainment, he left this in the hands 
 of his creature, Justice Greedy, a fellow who, to
 
 84 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 feast daily at a full table, would have sent half 
 the parish to prison. 
 
 While the servants were busied in getting the 
 house in order for the noble guest, and Greedy 
 was giving his orders in the kitchen, Sir Giles 
 sent for Margaret, told her of his purposes, and 
 bade her use all her charms to win the love of 
 the expected visitor. In fact, so far did he go in 
 his instructions, that he even counselled her to 
 yield herself to Lovell as his mistress, declaring 
 that he would force him to heal her wounded 
 honor by marriage. 
 
 Margaret, deeply hurt by her father's words, 
 left the room in tears, just as Lord Lovell entered 
 in company with his page. The first greeting 
 had hardly been exchanged when the visitor, 
 greatly to Sir Giles's pleasure, asked to be in- 
 troduced to his fair daughter. When Margaret 
 entered, in response to her father's command. 
 Lord Lovell greeted her with such a show of 
 respect, and led her aside into so close a conver- 
 sation, that two persons were strongly affected, 
 — her father with delight, and Allworth with 
 despair. 
 
 "Close at it! whispering! this is excellent!" 
 said Sir Giles to himself. " The girl has come to 
 her senses." He drew closer, seeking to over- 
 hear their conversation, but was interrupted by 
 Justice Greedy, who ran in with loud complaints 
 that the cook had refused to roast the fawn with 
 a Norfolk dumpling in its belly, and to dish up
 
 A NEW WAY TO PAT OLD DEBTS. 85 
 
 the woodcock with toast and butter ; all of which 
 Greedy held to be delinquencies next to high 
 treason. 
 
 By the time Sir Giles had quieted his greedy 
 friend, Lord Lovell and Margaret had separated. 
 They had in the interval matured a plan which 
 he himself would have deemed worse than high 
 treason, for the noble lord had been looking after 
 the interests of his page, and laying a plot by 
 which All worth might win his lady-love. 
 
 " How does your lordship find her ?" asked Sir 
 Giles, with a low reverence. 
 
 "Modest and shy, my dear sir," answered 
 Lovell. " I must feel my way to her affections 
 with a love-letter or two, which, with your good 
 will, my page shall deliver." 
 
 " With all my heart, sir. Your hand, good 
 Master All worth ; my house is ever open to you." 
 
 "It was shut till now," muttered Allworth, 
 aside. 
 
 They were at this moment interrupted — much 
 to the torment of Justice Greedy, who feared 
 that the dinner would be spoiled — by the sound 
 of a coach, and the next minute the door was 
 thrown open and Lady Allworth entered, es- 
 corted by Wellborn. At this surprising appari- 
 tion Sir Giles stood like one frozen to stone, while 
 Marrall whispered in his ear : " Am I a dolt ? 
 Has the spirit of lies entered me ?" 
 
 Heedless of the sensation her entrance had 
 occasioned, the lady kissed Margaret, chided 
 
 8
 
 86 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 Lord Lovell pleasantly for not first stopping at 
 her house, greeted Sir Giles, and asked Marrall 
 with a smile why he dined no more with her. 
 
 Wellborn had made no change in his attire, 
 being still in his ragged doublet, but Lady All- 
 worth had laid aside her mourning dress for rich 
 and costly robes, and the contrast was striking 
 between them as she now turned and presented 
 him to the company. 
 
 "This gentleman," she said, "however coarse 
 without, is fine and fair within, and may, before 
 many days, rank himself with some that have 
 contemned him. Sir Giles Overreach, if I am 
 welcome, he must be so too." 
 
 " My dear nephew," said Sir Giles, with a con- 
 cealed grimace, "you have, in faith, been too long 
 a stranger. Let it be mended, I pray you 
 heartily." 
 
 After some further conversation, in which Sir 
 Giles failed to recover from his astonishment, 
 dinner was announced, and the guests filed out. 
 Wellborn escorting Lady AUworth at her own 
 request. 
 
 During the meal the astounded Sir Giles 
 watched her closely, and saw in her manner so 
 many signs of loving infatuation for her ragged 
 escort that he could no longer sit in silence, but 
 left the room in haste before his guests had lisen 
 from the table. Marrall followed him. 
 
 " Sir," he said, " the whole board is troubled at 
 your rising."
 
 A NEW WAY TO PAY OLD DEBTS. 87 
 
 " No matter ; I'll excuse it. Marrall, watch an 
 opportunity to bid my nephew speak with me in 
 private." 
 
 " Who, the ragged rogue the lady scorned to 
 look on ?" 
 
 " Go to : you are a wag, sir." 
 
 " See, she comes," answered Marrall. " She 
 cannot be without him." 
 
 " "With your favor, sir, I shall . make bold to 
 take a turn or two in your rare garden," said 
 Lady Allworth, entering with Wellborn. 
 
 " I shall be glad to have you use it." 
 
 " Come, Mr. Wellborn," she said, turning 
 smilingly to her escort. 
 
 "Grosser and grosser," cried Sir Giles; "why, 
 the woman fairly dotes on himl Faith, if she 
 is to be his, he must be mine." 
 
 Not long afterwards Lady Allworth's coach 
 was called. Lord Lovell offered to accompany 
 her home, as Sir Giles had requested his nephew to 
 remain for a short conference. 
 
 " Stay not long, sir," said the lady to Wellborn, 
 as she left the room, bending upon hin^ what 
 seemed a look of affection. 
 
 "You do not know my nature, hephew," said 
 Sir Giles, turning with a crafty smile to Wellborn. 
 " We worldly men are not given to lift the falling ; 
 but now that I see you in a way to rise, you will 
 find me ready and willing to assist you. This 
 rich lady loves you heartily ; that is apparent." 
 
 " No, no, Sir Giles ; it is but compassion."
 
 88 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 "At any rate you must throw off this base 
 shape. She shall not say she married a nephew 
 of mine like a beggar, or in debt." 
 
 " He is thrusting his own head into the noose," 
 said Wellborn, gleefully, to himself. " That saves 
 me labor." 
 
 *' You have a trunk of rich clothes in pawn, not 
 far from here. I'll redeem them. As for your 
 petty debts, you shall have a thousand pounds to 
 cut them off." 
 
 " Here's an uncle, indeed ! Who dare say now 
 that Sir Giles is hard-hearted ?" 
 
 " No thanks, I pray you. My coach, knaves, 
 for my nephew. To-morrow I will visit you." 
 
 Had the crafty usurer seen the laughter of 
 his intended dupe as he rode away, the thousand 
 pounds might have been long in coming. As it 
 was, his scheming brain was already busy laying 
 plans how to add to his estate the rich manor 
 of Lady Allworth, which he hoped to wrest from 
 the weak hands of his nephew. 
 
 Little did he dream of the bitter draught the 
 fates were preparing for him. Now, when hia 
 hopes were at their highest, and his deeply-laid 
 plans most ptomising of success, disgrace and 
 defeat impended, and for the first time in his life 
 he was destined to find that honesty is the best 
 policy. 
 
 On the day after the events just described, Sir 
 Giles directed Marrall to see that all the debts of 
 his nephew were paid, and to provide him with
 
 A NEW WAT TO PAT OLD DEBTS. 89 
 
 the chest of rich clothing of which he had spoken. 
 He then gave his ring to young Allworth, as a 
 token of free admission to his daughter's pres- 
 ence, and directed him to ride to Nottingham and 
 obtain, by the use of the same token, a marriage 
 license. " I'll have it despatched, and suddenly," 
 he said, " that I may quickly say ' My Honorable,' 
 nay, ' My Eight Honorable daughter.' " 
 
 These preparations made, he held an interview 
 with Lord Lovell, in which he boasted of the 
 extent and value of his estate, and promised to 
 settle a large marriage portion on his daughter. 
 He even went so far as to point out Lady 
 Allworth's manor-house, near which they stood, 
 asking if his noble friend approved of it, and 
 telling him that it should be his before long, if he 
 desired it. 
 
 When Lord Lovell asked him, in surprise, how 
 he could promise this. Sir Giles answered, that 
 when the estate once became Wellborn's, as it 
 promised soon to be, it quickly would be his ; and 
 added that if his noble friend wanted any man's 
 land in the shire, he had but to express the wish 
 and he should have it. Lord Lovell replied that 
 he would not dare to own aught that was extorted 
 by unjust and cruel means; but Sir Giles bade 
 him not to let this trouble him, vowing that he 
 was quite able to carry all this sin and shame on 
 his own shoulders. As for widows' tears and the 
 curses of ruined families, he cared not a jot for 
 them. " In one word, sir, is it a match ?" 
 
 8*
 
 90 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 "I hope that is past doubt," answered Lord 
 Lovell. 
 
 " Then rest secure ; not the hate of all man- 
 kind, nor fear of future penalty, shall make me 
 study aught but your advancement. Leave my 
 religion and my deeds for me to answer, but you 
 shall be an earl, if gold can compass it." 
 
 Not till he had gone did his disgusted listener 
 give free vent to his thoughts. 
 
 " I, that have lived a soldier," he declared, " am 
 bathed in a cold sweat to hear this blasphemous 
 beast ! He has made a plain discovery of himself, 
 indeed, and I should be as bad as he if I had any 
 scruples now against working to defeat him." 
 
 Meanwhile, Marrall had lost no time in carrying 
 out Sir Giles's instructions as to his nephew, while 
 "Wellborn, delighted with the opportunity to pay 
 his debts, summoned his creditors by tap of drum, 
 and had the satisfaction to find those who had of 
 late treated him as a beggarly rogue now ready 
 to fall down and worship them. Among them all 
 he cherished malice against but one pair, — Tap- 
 well and his wife Froth, who had treated him so 
 shabbily. 
 
 "What, Tap well 1" said Justice Greedy, who 
 took part in this proceeding ; " I remember your 
 wife brought me last New- Year a couple of fat 
 turkeys." 
 
 " She shall do so every Christmas, if your wor- 
 ship will but stand my friend now." 
 
 "How! — with Master Wellborn? — I will do
 
 A NEW .WAY TO PAY OLD DEBTS. 91 
 
 anything on such terms. Do you see this honest 
 couple, my dear sir ? They are as good souls as 
 ever tapped ale. Have they not a pair of honest 
 faces ?" 
 
 " They are the most unthankful knaves of all 
 that grew rich by my riots. See here, friend 
 Greedy; call in this fellow's license, and at the 
 next fair I'll give you a yoke of oxen worth all 
 his turkeys." 
 
 " Come here ; — nearer, rascal," cried Greedy to 
 the tapster. " Now I view you better, I never 
 saw such an arch knave. Why, any honest judge 
 would hang you for that face ! Ask me no favors, 
 villain ; I here revoke your license, and will before 
 I eat command my constable to pull down your 
 sign." 
 
 '•Have you no mercy, sir?" 
 
 " Vanish, knave ! If I show you any may my 
 promised oxen gore me." 
 
 As for the others, Wellborn freely paid their 
 claims. 
 
 " See that all who are not here are paid," he 
 said to Marrall. " Since I have chosen this new 
 way to pay old debts, let no just claim go unsettled." 
 
 "And now, your worship," said Marrall, "I 
 have a weighty matter for your pi*ivate ear. Sir 
 Giles will before long come on you for security for 
 his thousand pounds. This I counsel you to re- 
 fuse to give, and when he grows hot do you grow 
 rough, and tell him he is in your debt ten times 
 the sum, on the sale of your lands. Bid him pro-
 
 92 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 duce the deed by which you passed it over to 
 him. He'll have it with him, to deliver it, with 
 other writings, to Lord Lovell. Leave the rest to 
 me : if I play not my part well, then hang Jack 
 Marrall." 
 
 "Be it so. I rely on you," answered Wellborn. 
 
 While Wellborn and Marrall were thus laying 
 plans to circumvent Sir Giles, Lord Lovell and 
 his page were doing the same. By the aid of 
 her father's ring, Allworth obtained an interview 
 with his lady-love, in which a well-devised plot 
 was arranged. In the midst of their conference 
 Sir Giles entered, and Margaret showed him a 
 letter she had received from Lord Lovell, calling 
 it " a piece of arrogant paper." Her father, how- 
 ever, read it with as much pleasure as it seemed 
 to give his daughter displeasure, and harshly bade 
 her yield to the writer's wishes. 
 
 What the letter proposed was au elopement and 
 a secret marriage, as his lordship did not wish the 
 delay consequent upon a pompous ceremony. It, 
 however, failed to say who the husband was to 
 be, an omission which the ambitious father did 
 not notice. Filled with joy, he pressed a purse 
 of gold on Allworth to pay the neccssaiy ex- 
 penses, bade him use his ring to overcome an}' 
 objections of the chaplain, and went so far as to 
 write the latter a note bidding him to " mai'ry my 
 daujjchter to this gentleman." Allworth had ad- 
 vised him not to put in Lord Lovell's name, since 
 his lordship would be in disguise.
 
 A NEW WAY TO PAY OLD DEBTS. 93 
 
 " Be gone now, good Master Allworth," said Sir 
 Giles, joyfully; "this shall be the best night's 
 work you ever made." 
 
 " I think so, indeed," answei'ed Allworth, lead- 
 ing out Margaret. 
 
 " Now all's cock-sure," cried her father, in high 
 glee. "Methinks I already hear knights and 
 ladies say, ' Sir G-iles Overreach, how is it with 
 your Honorable daughter ? Has her Honor slept 
 well to-night ? Or will her Honor please to accept 
 this monkey, dog, or paroquet?' — I can scarce 
 contain myself, I am so full of joy. Naught 
 could go better." 
 
 Night fell upon these events, and a new day 
 in good time dawned, one in which Sir Giles's 
 high-flown hopes were destined to be sadly over- 
 thrown. The elopement had taken place in due 
 secrecy, winked at by the consenting father, but 
 the married couple failed to return, though Sir 
 Giles waited up all night to wish them joy. With 
 the early morning he made his appearance at 
 Lady AUworth's house, cursing Marrall, who ac- 
 companied him with his deed- box, while his looks 
 were wild and distracted. The absence of the 
 bride and groom ti-oubled him sorely. Lady All- 
 worth, Wellborn, and Lord Lovell were present 
 when Sir Giles was announced, but his lordship 
 stepped aside so as not to be seen by the angry 
 baronet. 
 
 " Lady Allworth, by your leave, have you seen 
 my daughter and the lord, her husband ? Tell
 
 94 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 me if they are in your house, that I may wish 
 them joy." 
 
 "Sir Giles, I neither know nor care where her 
 Honor is," answered Lady AUworth, to his arbi- 
 trary demand. 
 
 Thus repulsed, he turned in anger to his nephew, 
 but found him so independent in his answers that 
 he could explain it only on the theory of a secret 
 marriage with Lady Allworth. Led by this false 
 conception, he peremptorily demanded security 
 for the thousand pounds he had loaned him, 
 threatening to drag him to jail if he refused. 
 
 "Can you be so cruel to your nephew, now 
 that he is in the way to rise ?" asked Wellborn, 
 with an assumed show of alarm. 
 
 "Mortgage the whole estate, and force your 
 spouse to sign it. You shall have three or four 
 thousand more, to roar and swagger with, and 
 revel in taverns." 
 
 " And beg after ; — is that your meaning ?" 
 
 " My thoughts are my own, sir. Shall I have 
 security ?" 
 
 "No ! neither bond, nor bill, nor bare acknowl- 
 edgment. Save your great looks, Sir Giles ; they 
 frighten not me." 
 
 " But my deeds shall." 
 
 " Shall they, indeed ? Hear me, my worthy 
 sir : if there be law in the land you shall pay me 
 ten times a thousand pounds, to make good what 
 you have robbed me of" 
 
 Made doubly furious by this defiance. Sir Giles,
 
 A NEW WAY TO PAY OLD DEBTS. 95 
 
 to prove his claim, opened his deed-box, and pro- 
 duced the deed to Wellborn's lands. But when 
 he had unfolded it to overwhelm his insolent 
 nephew, he stood like a statue of astonishment. 
 What he saw was a clean sheet of parchment, its 
 surface unsoiled by ink. "Wax and words alike 
 were gone, and the deed had vanished. 
 
 The astounded usurer turned to Marrall, and 
 bade him swear that the deed had been properly 
 drawn, and must have been tampered with. But 
 his late tool now turned upon him and refused to 
 aid him with a word, but charged him with foul 
 plots and devilish practices. In truth, Marrall 
 himself had removed every trace of writing from 
 the parchment by a chemical process of his own. 
 
 In the midst of Sir Giles's fury at the insolent 
 defiance of the late servant. Justice Greedy and 
 Parson Welldo entered. The appearance of the 
 latter gave the usurer new hope. He turned to 
 him eagerly and demanded if his daughter were 
 married. 
 
 " She is ; 1 assure you," answered the parson. 
 
 " Then all is well. Here's more gold for you. 
 Now, you that have plotted against me, think on 
 it and tremble. — Ha ! they come now. I hear the 
 music. Eoom there ! A lane for mj- lord !" 
 
 The next minute, to strains of music, Margaret 
 and Allworth entered in wedding robes, and 
 kneeled to ask his blessing. 
 
 "Howl What is this?" he cried, while hia 
 eyes seemed ready to start from his head.
 
 96 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 " Do a father's part, and say, Heaven give them 
 joy," answered the parson. 
 
 " Confusion and ruin ! are these two married ?" 
 cried Sir Giles, in fury. 
 
 " Why this rage, sir ? Here is your letter 
 saying, 'Marry her to this gentleman.' I but 
 obeyed your order." 
 
 " What, I, Sir Giles Overreach, who never 
 made a blunder, gulled by children I baffled and 
 fooled like this ! You wretch, I'll take back the 
 life I gave you !" 
 
 He drew his sword and would have killed 
 Margaret, had not Lovell stepped hastily forward 
 and^stopped him. 
 
 " You lordly villain, it is you that have gulled 
 me," yelled the cheated usurer. " If you nre a 
 man, follow me from the house, and have this out 
 in private." 
 
 " I am ready," answered Lord Lovell. 
 
 Like a fury Sir Giles flung himself from the 
 room, uttering threats and curses, and swearing 
 that, by the aid of his friends and servants, he 
 "would burn the house to the ground and leave not 
 one throat uncut. 
 
 Lord Lovell would have followed him, but was 
 stopped by Wellborn, who bade him not to think 
 of fighting with a madman ; and by Lady All- 
 worth, who now made public the secret that she 
 had consented to bo Lord Lovell's wife, and 
 declared that she would not listen to her lover's 
 facing a desperate and defeated villain.
 
 A NEW WAT TO PAY OLD DEBTS. 97 
 
 "Wellborn proved to be right in speaking of 
 Sir Giles as a madman. The sudden overthrow 
 of all his plots, loss of his ill-gotten wealth, and 
 ruin of his deep-laid scheme to marry his daugh- 
 ter to a lord, were too much for his brain, and in 
 a few minutes he rushed back into the room, 
 quite demented. His face was ghastly, his eyes 
 wildly rolling, his hands clawing the air, while 
 his words showed that, to his insane fancy, all 
 around him were the spectral forms of those 
 whom he had driven to despair and death. 
 
 "He is mad bej^ond help," said Wellborn. 
 " Disarm and bind him, or he may do some one a 
 mischief." 
 
 " Take him to Bedlam," advised Justice Greedy. 
 
 " First see what can be done for his recovery," 
 suggested the parson. 
 
 By this time the frenzy of the unfortunate 
 man had so increased that foam stood on his lips, 
 and he cast himself to the floor and sousrht to 
 bite the very boards. It was with no small 
 trouble that they succeeded in binding his hands 
 and forcing him off, while he madly raved about 
 the frightful shapes that haunted him, and the 
 tears of widows and orphans that seared him like 
 hot irons. 
 
 " Here is a precedent to teach wicked men that 
 wrong cannot prosper," said Lord Lovell. " Take 
 comfort, Margaret, I will be your father's guar- 
 dian in his distraction. As for your lands, ]\Ir. 
 "Wellborn, let me be umpire between you and this 
 Vol. I. — E g 9
 
 98 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 lady, the undoubted heir of Sir Giles Overreach. 
 For myself, Lady All worth shall be the anchor to 
 tie me to this district." 
 
 "I ask but justice, my lord," answered "Well- 
 born. " The reputation I lost in my loose course 
 I will strive to redeem. I need action, and if 
 your lordship will please to confer on me a com 
 pany in your command, I doubt not I shall win 
 in service to my country the good repute my 
 revelry has lost me." 
 
 " That I shall gladly do, sir. And much I hope 
 that happiness may hereafter dwell with us all. 
 As for Sir Giles Overreach, he has but paid the 
 fitting penalty for his ill deeds." 
 
 " And I have aptly found," answered Wellborn, 
 laughing, " with Lady Allworth's aid, a new way 
 to pay old debts''
 
 VENTCR ■' ..D. 
 
 [Thomas OTWAr born in 
 
 16fil, was th 
 
 tempt at 
 
 Otway produced a>( i^'^^.^j^ber of plays, 
 
 se which wei d, but extravagance 
 
 too hastily swallov^ ;■ a 
 
 long fast. He died m 
 
 Otway's plays diifer \\i- iy in merit, tue 
 distinction between his wor-t uud best being im- 
 mense. Only two of them have stood the test of 
 time, — " The Orphan," and " Venice Preserved." 
 The power of both of these is largely due to their 
 , in which Otway has hardly an equal in 
 !\ drama. — '   ^ 
 
 , -1- and Belv 
 
 ■■-4 V- » ^*J
 
 rilOMAH O TIVA \
 
 VENICE PRESERVED. 
 
 BY THOMAS OTWAT. 
 
 [Thomas Otway born at Trotton, Sussex, in 
 1651, was the son of an English clergyman. He 
 entered Oxford in 1669, and left without gradu- 
 ating in 1674. His life was principally devoted to 
 dramatic composition, though he served for some 
 time as a cornet in the cavalry, and made one at- 
 tempt at acting, which proved a complete failure. 
 Otway produced a considerable number of plays, 
 several of which were successful, but extravagance 
 kept him in a state of continual want, and he be- 
 came in the end so destitute that one of his biog- 
 raphers says that he was choked to death from 
 too hastily swallowing a piece of bread after a 
 long fast. He died in 1685. 
 
 Otway's plays differ very greatly in merit, the 
 distinction between his worst and best being im- 
 mense. Only two of them have stood the test of 
 time, — "The Orphan," and "Venice Preserved." 
 The power of both of these is largely due to their 
 pathos, in which Otway has hardly an equal in 
 English drama. The pathetic love-scenes between 
 Jaffier and Belvideva cannot be excelled, and 
 
 99
 
 100 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 " Venice Preserved" is, in the opinion of Mr. Gosse, 
 " the greatest tragic drama between Shakespeare 
 and Shelley." We give the story of this power- 
 ful and affecting play.] 
 
 On one occasion during the celebrated state 
 ceremony of Venice — the marriage of the Adriatic 
 by the Doge — one of the vessels, that containing 
 Priuli, a member of the senate, and his daughter 
 Belvidera, was run upon a rock through the care- 
 lessness of the pilot. Belvidera, who stood upon 
 the vessel's side, was dashed overboard, and would 
 have sunk but for the readiness of a gentleman 
 named Jaffier, who sprang into the water and 
 sustained her till a boat came to her rescue. For 
 this service the proud senator contented himself 
 with thanks ; but the rescued lady felt a warmer 
 Impulse, and gave her love to Jaffier, a love which 
 was ardently returned. The haughty father 
 looked with eyes of stern disapproval on this 
 affection of his daughter for one beneath her in 
 rank, and in the end the lovers, despairing of his 
 consent, agreed upon a stolen marriage. At dead 
 of night Belvidera left her home, and Avas wedded 
 to her lover. The stolen marriage of his daughter 
 threw Priuli into such a rage that he refused to 
 forgive or to have any further intercourse with 
 her, and for three years the wedded pair dwelt 
 under the weight of his anger. 
 
 During this period Jaffier had not been prudent. 
 He had deemed it his duty to treat Belvidera with
 
 VENICE PKESERVED, 101 
 
 the distinction and observance due to the daughter 
 of a senator of Yenice, and in so doing had dissi- 
 pated his fortune and deduced himself to- poverty. 
 This poverty, indeed, in the end became ruin. 
 His creditors seized Bis holiSe, put* c^eei';t? in 
 charge, and prepared to sell its contents at public 
 sale, while he and his tenderly-reared wife were 
 turned homeless into the public streets. 
 
 In this strait Jaffier subdued his pride suflSciently 
 to make an humble appeal to Priuli for aid and 
 forgiveness, but found the old senator bitterly 
 obdurate. For the blessing he asked he received 
 curses, and in the end was dismissed with the 
 following unfeeling sentence : 
 
 " Home, and be humble ; study to retrench ; dis- 
 charge the lazy vermin of thy hall ; reduce the 
 costly attire of thy wife to humble weeds : then 
 to some suburban cottage both retire ; drudge to 
 feed thy loathsome life ; get brats, and starve. 
 Home, dog ; look not to me for mercy." 
 
 With these words the revengeful senator stalked 
 haughtily away, leaving Jaf3Ser overcome with 
 mingled shame and anger. As he stood thus he 
 was joined by Pierre, a brave soldier of Venice 
 and his devoted friend, who told him a t^le which 
 drove him to desperation. 
 
 " I passed your doors but now," he said, " and 
 found them guarded by a troop of villians. They 
 told me that, by sentence of the law, they had 
 commission to seize all your fortune. Nay, more, 
 Priuli's cruel hand had signed it. Here stood a 
 
 9*
 
 102 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 ruffian lording it over a pile of massive plate, 
 tumbled into a heap for public sale. There was 
 another jnaking viHiinoits jests at your undoing." 
 Pierre went on with his talp of ruin, ending by 
 stating thiit he had seen Belvidera led weeping 
 from the house, while before her distress even the 
 base rabble, who had gathered to revel in the 
 sight, stood mute with pity. 
 
 The soldier had a purpose in thus probing the 
 deep wounds of his friend. A conspiracy had 
 been formed for the overthrow of the government 
 of Venice, in which he, bitterly discontented by 
 the beggarly way in which his services to the 
 state had been rewarded, had taken an active part. 
 He desired to enlist his friend Jaffier in this 
 dangerous enterprise, and took this means to work 
 him into the proper mood. 
 
 " What ! starve, like beggars' brats, in frosty 
 weather, under a hedge, and whine ourselves to 
 death !" he exclaimed, with bitter emphasis. 
 " Burn Venice first, and bring it to the level of 
 thy ruin ! Meet me to-night, at twelve, on the 
 Eialto. Fail not, my Jaffier ; there we'll talk of 
 precious — mischief." 
 
 " If it be against these senators I'm with you, 
 Pierre. Trust me." 
 
 " At twelve," repeated Pierre, as he walked away. 
 
 The departure of the tempter was quickly 
 followed by the entrance of Belvidera, in such dis- 
 tress of mind at her misfortunes, yet with such un- 
 yielding love for her husband, that his revengeful
 
 VENICE PRESERVED. 103 
 
 feeling against her father was roused to still greater 
 bitterness. 
 
 " Can there in woman be such glorious faith ?" 
 exclaimed Jaffier, inspired by her devotion. " Oh, 
 woman ! lovely woman ! nature made you to 
 temper man. We had been brutes without you. 
 Angels are painted fair to look like you. There's 
 in you all that we believe of heaven ; truth, purity, 
 eternal joy, and everlasting love." And he drew 
 her to his breast with a loving embrace. 
 
 " If love be a treasure, we'll be wondrous rich," 
 she answered, her eyes beaming with affection. 
 " Be it in a desert, Jaffier, love will fill the void 
 which fortune makes." 
 
 Having found a place of temporary shelter for 
 his wife, Jaffier, grown still more desperate and 
 revengeful, kept his midnight appointment with 
 Pierre, whom he found waiting for him on the 
 Eialto. A brief conversation ensued, at the end 
 of which Pierre presented Jaffier with a purse. 
 
 " Here's something to buy pins," he said, with 
 a look of deep meaning. 
 
 " I but half wished to see the devil, and he's 
 here already," answered Jaffier. " What must 
 this purchase ? Eebellion, murder, treason ? Tell 
 me which way I must be damned for this." 
 
 " What qualms are these ? Cannot your hatred 
 stretch beyond one senator ?" 
 
 " Nay, could I kill with cursing, senators 
 should rot, like dogs, on dunghills. Oh, for a 
 curse to kill with !"
 
 104 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 " Daggers are better," said Pierre, significantly. 
 
 "Daggers! Where are they?" 
 
 " Come, and I will show you." 
 
 Pierre now exacted from Jaffier an oath of 
 fidelity, and then told him of the conspiracy that 
 had been formed for the destruction of Venice. 
 Even at the moment of their talk, he said, a 
 council of the conspirators was being held in a 
 house near by. Thither, after Jaffier had swoi*n 
 by all he held good and sacred not to betray the 
 secret, Pierre led him, promising him liberty for 
 Venice, to which JaflSer responded by a demand 
 for revenge. 
 
 At that moment thi-ee of the conspirators were 
 present in the council-room, Spinosa, a Venetian ; 
 Renault, a Frenchman ; and Elliot, an English- 
 man. Sharp words had passed between the last 
 two, and a quarrel was on the point of breaking 
 out when Bedamar, the leader of the conspiracy, 
 entered, with others, and bade them cease their 
 private squabbles in favor of the public service 
 which drew them together. 
 
 He had just succeeded in making the two foes 
 clasp hands, when Pierre entered, having left 
 Jafiier behind. A conference of the conspirators 
 ensued, in which Bedamar told them that all was 
 ripe for execution, ten thousand men being ready 
 to aid in the overthrow of the oppressive govern- 
 ment. He ended by bidding all to speak who 
 had friends or interests they would wish to save. 
 
 " You touch my weakness there," said Pierre.
 
 VENICE PRESERVED. 105 
 
 " I have a friend, my one and only confidant, to 
 whom my heai't was never closed. Nay, I'll 
 tell you, he knows the very business of this hour. 
 But he rejoices in our cause, and is at hand to 
 join us." 
 
 " How ! betrayed !" cried Eenault. 
 
 "Not so. If he prove worthless, my blade 
 shall be the first to pierce his heart. Come forth, 
 thou only good I ever could boast of!" he called, 
 opening the door to the antechamber. 
 
 Jafiier entered at these words, with a drawn 
 dagger in his hand. Standing before the group 
 of conspirators, he recited his wrongs and his 
 thirst for revenge in such fierce terms that his 
 words roused distrust. Bedamar alone accepted 
 him as a true ally, but old Eenault growled out 
 his suspicion, 
 
 " Your friends survey me as if I were danger- 
 ous," said Jaffier to Bedamar. «' Nor did I hope 
 to gain your trust without a pledge for my fidel- 
 ity. Sir, bid all withdraw a while but this grave 
 senior and yourself, with my friend — to spare a 
 woman's blushes." 
 
 At a gesture from Bedamar all withdrew except 
 Eenault and Pierre. 
 
 "What means this ceremony, Pierre?" asked 
 Bedamar, as their new associate retired to the 
 antechamber. 
 
 He was answered by the quick reappearance 
 of Jafiier, leading his wife Belvidera, who gazed 
 around the room with eyes of doubt and terror.
 
 106 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 "Where is it you lead me?" she demanded, in 
 tones of fear. " You shake and tremble ! — your 
 blood runs cold! — what mean you? Who are 
 these men ?" 
 
 JafRer, with distracted face and quavering 
 voice, bade them take this woman, whom he loved 
 above all the world, and hold her as a hostage for 
 his fidelity. 
 
 " To you, sirs, and your honor, I bequeath 
 her," he said ; " and with her this." He gave 
 Eenault the dagger he held. " If I prove false or 
 faithless, then strike it to her heart." 
 
 " Oh, thou unkind one !" cried Belvidera, pas- 
 sionately, " have I deserved this from you ? Look 
 on me ! Why yield you me to these men's hands ? 
 If I am false, accuse me ; but if true, then pity 
 the sad heart that clings to you." 
 
 JaflSer turned his head aside, weeping, while 
 Bedamar and Eenault led Belvidera from the 
 room, she calling to him in pitiful tones : " Hear 
 me! Bid them release me! JafRer! O Jaffier!" 
 
 The distracted husband remained silent, while 
 the lovely hostage, ignorant of his purpose, and 
 filled with terror, was drawn in burning tears 
 away. 
 
 As the event proved, Jaffier, by his impulse of 
 devotion to his new confederates, had introduced 
 a fatal element into their midst. It was not in 
 woman's hick of faith, however, but in man's 
 lack of honor, that the peril to the conspiracy 
 lay. Belvidera could not betray that of which
 
 VENICE PRESERVED. 107 
 
 she "was ignorant, but the base old wretch Eenault 
 proved false to the sacred trust which was com- 
 mitted to him. When Belvidera the next morn- 
 ing met her husband, she repelled him with deep 
 indignation and bitterly demanded, " Why was I 
 last niffht delivered to a villain ?" 
 
 " A villain ?" he exclaimed. 
 
 " Yes. And what meant that secret assembly 
 of wretches ? what the dagger with which I was 
 to be slain if you proved false ? Have I been 
 made the hostage of a hellish trust? By all the 
 loyalty I owe you I'll free you from the bondage 
 of these slaves I I'll go to the senate, and tell ail 
 I know, and all I fear and suspect." 
 
 Her suspicions led her so near the truth, indeed, 
 that Jaffier found it impossible to conceal it from 
 her, and in the end breathed into her shrinking 
 ear the story that he had bound himself to aid 
 these men to kill her father, with all the senators 
 of Venice. Belvidera heard this dread story with 
 trembling horror. To kill her father! kill him 
 who gave her birth ! — first must he strike his sword 
 into her breast ! 
 
 " Can your great heart descend so vilely low," 
 she indignantly demanded, "as to mix with 
 bravoes and ruffians, pledged to cut the throats 
 of wretches as they sleep ?" 
 
 " You wrong me, Belvidera," he protested. " I've 
 engaged with honorable and earnest men. There's 
 not a heart among them but is stout and honest." 
 
 " Is it so ?" she sternly replied. " What is he,
 
 108 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 then, to whose cursed hands you gave me last 
 
 night? Oh, I could tell a story " She ceased 
 
 "with a shudder, and clasped her hands distract- 
 edly. 
 
 " What mean you ?" he demanded. " Speak on, 
 I charge you !" 
 
 " That old, base villian Oh, Jaffier, that 
 
 wretch sought me last night where I lay on my sad 
 bed, and with the dagger you had given him sought 
 by threats to rob me of my virtue. But with my 
 cries I scared his coward heart and forced him 
 to withdraw. Are these your honorable friends ? 
 these the stout and honest hearts to whom you 
 have sold your soul ?" 
 
 This recital filled Jaffier with a deeper anger and 
 sense of indignity than that which had moved him 
 against her father. Soothing, as well as he could, 
 Belvidera's deep distress, he left her, promising that 
 she should not be again exposed to such a peril. 
 The furious husband now sought Pierre, whom he 
 told of what had happened ; so stirring by his tale 
 of treachery the honest heart of the soldier that 
 he found it no easy matter to restrain him from 
 taking instant revenge on Renault. In the end they 
 mutually agreed that it would be best to forget 
 their private injuries till the purposes of the con- 
 spiracy were achieved. Then the French villian 
 might be dealt with. 
 
 Counsels so cold as these under such hot prov- 
 ocation were more easily formed than kept. 
 Jaffier shortly afterwards met Renault, and ques-
 
 VENICE PRESERVED. 109 
 
 tioned him with such bitter satire that the villain 
 trembled in fear, seeing that his baseness was 
 discovered. 
 
 " No more," said Jaffier, as the other conspirators 
 entered. " It is a base world, and must reform, 
 that's all." 
 
 '• What's this ?" said Pierre, aside to him. " He 
 shakes like a leaf You should have stroked him, 
 not galled him." 
 
 " Curse him, let him chew on it !" snarled Jaffier. 
 " Heaven, where am I ? beset with cursed fiends 
 that wait to damn me ! What a devil is man, 
 when he forgets his reason !" 
 
 Renault, concealing his nervous agitation, now 
 proceeded to give their several charges to the 
 conspirators, in preparation for the outbreak, 
 which was fixed for the coming night. He bade 
 them to fire the city, and, above all, to shed blood 
 enough, to spare neither sex nor age. 
 
 "Let each man think that on his single virtue 
 depends the good and fame of all the rest. You 
 droop, sir," he continued, turning to Jaffier. 
 
 " No, with most profound attention I've heard 
 it all, and wonder at your virtue." 
 
 "Let us consider that we destroy oppression, 
 avarice ; a people nursed with vices and loathsome 
 lusts, which nature most abhors," continued 
 Renault. 
 
 This was too much for Jaffier's self-control, and 
 he hastily left the room, to avoid giving vent to 
 his feelings. In this he but plaj'-ed into the hand 
 
 10
 
 110 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 of his wily foe, for no sooner had he departed than 
 Renault began to hint at possible treachery, and 
 in the end boldly declared that be doubted Jaffier's 
 faith. Ilis skilfully worded suspicions had the 
 intended effect. Some of the conspirators sprang 
 from their seats, and proposed to search the house 
 and kill the traitor. 
 
 " Who talks of killing ?" exclaimed Pierre, 
 fiercely, looking from face to face. " Who's he 
 will shed the blood that's dear to me ? Is it you 
 — or you, sir ? What, not one speak ? Not a 
 word, Renault? Then, sir, I'll tell you a secret : 
 suspicion at best is but a coward's virtue !" 
 
 " A coward !" cried Renault, drawing his sword. 
 
 " Put up your sword, old man ; your hand 
 shakes at it." 
 
 •'We'll not be sold by a traitor," cried one of 
 the others, a sentiment which his fellows echoed, 
 in spite of Pierre's threatening looks. 
 
 " One such word more," he exclaimed, in fury, 
 "and by heaven, I'll to the senate, and hang you 
 all like dogs, in clusters ! Why peep your coward 
 swords half out their sheaths ? Why do you not 
 all brandish them like mine ? You fear to die, 
 and yet dare talk of killing! Away, disperse all 
 to your several charges, and meet to-morrow 
 where your honor calls you. I'll bring that man 
 whose blood you thirst for, and you shall see him 
 venture with you all." 
 
 " Forgive us, Pierre, we have been too hasty," said 
 Elliot, a sentiment to which the others responded.
 
 VENICE PRESERVED. Ill 
 
 "Nay, you have found the way to melt and 
 cast me as you will," answered the generous- 
 hearted soldier. " I'll bring this friend and yield 
 him to your mercy. And in him I give you my 
 heart's best jewel." 
 
 " Keep him, Pierre," they answered. " You 
 dare as much as we ; and he whom you trust we 
 should not doubt." 
 
 The fate of conspiracies turns always on fine 
 threads. When on the very verge of success a 
 false-blown breath may topple the deepest-laid 
 plot into ruin. In the present case the events wo 
 have described were so many links in a chain of 
 circumstances that was destined to dras: down 
 Jaffier's new associates into irremediable ruin. 
 
 The story he had told Belvidera had filled her 
 soul with shuddering horror. Her husband a 
 traitor ! her father slain by the dagger of him she 
 loved! herself a prey to the lust of that vile 
 wretch ! — this must not be, let who would suffer. 
 By the force of love and the arguments of expe- 
 diency she won her horror-stricken husband over 
 to a sense of the vileness of his associates. Horror 
 and indignation had made the woman stronger 
 than the man, and sorely against his will she led 
 him through the streets towards the senate- 
 chamber. 
 
 " Where dost thou lead me?" he demanded, dis- 
 tractedly. "Every step I move, methinks I 
 tread upon some mangled limb of a racked friend." 
 
 " I lead thee to a deed," she answered, " that
 
 112 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 shall place thy name high among those few that 
 have saved sinkini; nations." 
 
 "And of those who, in fond compassion to a 
 woman's tears, have forgotten their manhood, 
 virtue, truth, and honor." 
 
 " Return, then, if you will," she cried, in moving 
 accents, " but let your dagger begin on me its 
 bloody work. Or let me live, if you think it 
 nobler, till I fall a victim to the hateful will of 
 that infernal devil." 
 
 "Nay, name it not again!" cried Jaffier, in an 
 impulse of rage. " Destruction fall upon my 
 coward head if I forgive him !" 
 
 "Then with me to the senate. Your friends, 
 you say ! have you a friend dearer than Belvidera ?" 
 
 Step by step, with arguments like these, she 
 drew her yielding husband through the midnight 
 streets towards the senate-chamber. 
 
 Meanwhile the Doge's council was in session, 
 called together by old Pritili, to whom had como 
 from some unknown source a vague hint of the 
 conspiracy, fixed, as he had been warned, to break 
 out that very night, perhaps that very hour. 
 Guards were stationed in the streets surrounding 
 the senate-chamber, with orders to arrest all per- 
 sons found abroad, and bring them before the 
 council. Into the hands of these guards fell 
 Jaffier, reluctantly following his wife. This event 
 fixed his irresolute will. He bade the captain of 
 the guard to bring him before the council, saying 
 that he had an important revelation to make.
 
 VENICE PRESERVED. IH 
 
 " We are prepared to hear you," said the Doge, 
 when Jaffier was brought before the council. " It 
 is rumored that a jilot has been contrived against 
 the state. If you know aught of this, speak. 
 You shall be dealt with mercifully." 
 
 " I came not here to save my life," answered 
 Jaffier, boldly. " You see before you a sworn foe 
 of Venice. But treat me justly, and I may prove 
 a friend." 
 
 " The slave capitulates j give him the torture," 
 cried the Doge. 
 
 "That you dare not do. Say such a thing 
 again, by Heaven, I'll shut these lips forever!" 
 
 "Name your conditions, then." 
 
 " Full pardon- for myself, and the lives of two 
 and twenty friends whose names I will give you. 
 Whatever their crimes, I will not speak till I 
 have the oath and sacred promise of this reverend 
 assembly for their pardon and liberty." 
 
 The oath he proposed was taken by the Doge 
 and assembled senators, who saw by his steadfast 
 demeanor that nothing less would make him 
 speak. This done, Jaffier, believing that he had 
 retrieved his honor, handed to the council a 
 paper containing the names of his late asso- 
 ciates, and stating where they might be found. 
 
 Officers were sent at once to the place, where 
 the leaders of the conspiracy were caught in the 
 very act of consultation, armed and ready for 
 mischief They were brought in chains before 
 the council, some drooping with terror, some bold 
 Vol. I.—h 10*
 
 114 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 and defiant. Pierre, above all, stood before them 
 with bold demeanor, and bade them produce the 
 wretch who dared call him a traitor. 
 
 At this demand Jaffier was bi'ought in, like 
 them, in chains. At first sight Pierre believed 
 that he, too, was a prisoner ; but when he, with 
 downcast face, acknowledged himself as the 
 informer, the brave soldier was overcome. 
 
 " So, then, all's over," he mournfully said. 
 " Yenice has lost her freedom, I my life. No more." 
 
 " Will you make confession of your vile deeds, 
 and trust the senate's mercy ?" asked the Doge. 
 " Speak ; pardon or death ?" 
 
 "Death ! honorable death I" 
 
 " Death let it be," said Eenault. 
 
 " Break up the council," commanded the Doge. 
 " Captain, guard your prisoners. Jaffier, you're 
 free, but these must wait for judgment." 
 
 A scene of heart-breaking emotion followed 
 between Jaffier and Pierre, who remained to- 
 gether after the others had been removed. The 
 betrayed soldier broke out in fiery indignation 
 against his false friend, bade Jaffier leave him, as 
 a whining monk whom he knew not, and struck 
 him when he abjectly begged to be heard. In 
 vain Jaffier continued to implore. Pierre de- 
 nounced him as a spiritless coward and traitor; 
 and when he begged his injui-ed friend to accept 
 the life which the council had sworn to grant, 
 the fiery soldier refused to bear a life given by 
 such hands.
 
 VENICE PRESERVED. 115 
 
 " My eyes won't lose the sight of thee," cried 
 Jaffier, in despair. 
 
 "Nay, then, thus I throw thee from me," 
 thundered Pierre, hurling him fiercely aside. 
 " May curses, great as thy falsehood, catch thee !" 
 
 He strode from the room with these words, 
 leaving Jaffier plunged in the depths of remorse 
 and despair. 
 
 As he stood in this mood, his fingers nervously 
 clutching his dagger, which he was half inclined 
 to thrust into his own bosom, Belvidera entered, 
 the prey of a remorse as deep as his own. The 
 tale she had to tell completed his load of woe. 
 The faithless senators had proved false to their 
 oaths, and, on the quibble that the prisoners had 
 refused to beg for mercy, had condemned them 
 all to torture and to public execution. 
 
 This dreadful news almost robbed Jaffier of his 
 reason. He saw, in fancy, his betrayed friend 
 stretched on the rack, groaning and bleeding ; 
 and in a paroxysm of rage against her who had 
 betrayed him, drew the dagger and sought to 
 thrust it into her heart. 
 
 " Ah ! do not kill me, Jaffier !" she cried, shrink- 
 ing from him. 
 
 " When we parted last, I gave this dagger to 
 be your portion if I should prove false. You've 
 made me false, and must pay the penalty." 
 
 "Mercy!" she exclaimed, as he raised the 
 weapon again, while his eyes seemed to weep 
 blood.
 
 116 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 "Nay, no struggling," he cried, seizing her 
 fiercely. 
 
 "Then kill me, while thus I cling about thy 
 cruel neck, and kiss thy revengeful lips. Thus 
 shall I die in joy." 
 
 She sprang towards him, flung her arms around 
 his neck, and pressed a loving kiss upon his lips. 
 
 " But one blow does it, yet by immortal love I 
 dare not strike it," exclaimed Jaffier, as he flung 
 away the dagger and fondly embraced her. " Bel- 
 videra, you have enslaved me body and soul. But 
 one hope remains. Fly to thy cruel father, bid 
 him save my friend, or all our peace and happi- 
 ness are ended." 
 
 The unhappy woman obeyed, and by her tears 
 and entreaties succeeded in winning her obdurate 
 father to use his influence to save at least the life 
 of Pierre. Unfortunately, he was too late. The 
 senate had, in his absence, decreed the death of 
 all the prisoners, and would not withdraw their 
 sentence. 
 
 The news of this fatal action completed Jaffier's 
 despair, and roused him to a final resolve. He 
 had an interview with Belvidera, in which his 
 heart was full of love, but his soul throned in 
 deadly resolution. He bade her to live for their 
 child ; for himself, he was pledged to death. 
 
 " Hark !" he exclaimed, " the dismal bell tolls 
 out for death ! I must attend its call, for my 
 poor friend, my dying Pierre, expects me. He 
 sent a message to require I would see him before
 
 VENICE PRESERVED. 117 
 
 he died, and take his last forgiveness. Farewell 
 for ever." 
 
 Belvidera clung to him so firmly that he was 
 forced to tear himself from her arms, leaving 
 her with one last kiss of love. This dreadful 
 parting proved to much for the agonized woman. 
 Her reason gave way in the strain of agony, and 
 she rushed from the spot in raving madness. 
 
 Meanwhile, little less mad, Jaffier had flown to 
 the locality of the execution, in St. Mark's Place, 
 where stood the scaffold and wheel prej^ared for 
 Pierre's death. 
 
 " Forgive that blow I dealt you, Jaffier," said 
 Pierre, in gentle accents. " I love you still, though 
 you have slain me. Heaven knows I need a friend 
 at this sad moment." 
 
 " Trust me, Pierre. PU not prove false again." 
 
 " Is it fit that a soldier, who has lived with 
 honor, should die that death of infamy?" point- 
 ing to the wheel. " Come hither, Jaffier. Will 
 you do me this last justice?" He whispered in 
 his friend's ear. 
 
 "That only?" 
 
 " That, and no more.' 
 
 "Plldoit." 
 
 " Come, captain," continued Pierre. " Keep off 
 the rabble, that I may die with decency. I'd 
 have none but my friend beside me in the last 
 moment." 
 
 Pierre now ascended the scaffold, attended by 
 Jaffier, and was bound by the executioner.
 
 118 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 "Now, Jaffier!" he cried. "Now I'm going! 
 Now " 
 
 " Have at thee, honest heart !" cried Jaffier, 
 stabbing him. " And this is well too !" He thrust 
 the bloody weapon into his own breast. 
 
 "Now thou hast indeed been faithful," cried 
 Pierre, with a laugh of exultation. " That was 
 done nobly! We have deceived the senate." 
 
 He fell with these words and died ; while 
 Jaffier, after leaving his curse for the perjured 
 rulers and his last dying blessing for Belvidera, 
 dropped across the body of his friend, and 
 breathed his last. 
 
 While this dreadful scene was taking place, 
 Belvidera, in her father's home, was raving in the 
 wildest madness. Her agony reached its climax 
 when the captain of the guard entered, and un- 
 thinkingly told Priuli before her of the bloody 
 end of the two friends. She paused a moment to 
 listen, and then broke into a maniac outburst of 
 horror. At length, worn out by the violence of 
 her emotions, she cried, in weakened accents : 
 
 " My love ! my dear ! ray blessing ! help me ! 
 help me! They have hold of me and drag me 
 to the bottom ! Nay, — now they pull so hard, — 
 farewell." She had knelt during these words, and 
 now fell heavily to the floor, with death's pallor 
 upon her face. She had gone to join her husband 
 in heaven.
 
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 by lively plots • 
 
 lie*
 
 SirSANNA CF.M7./1 /-//,
 
 THE BUSYBODY. 
 
 BY SUSANNAH CENTLIVRE. 
 
 [The authoress of the amusing comedy whose 
 story we give below, was the daughter of a Lin- 
 colnshire gentleman named Freeman. She was 
 born about 1667, probably in Ireland, whither 
 her father had gone on the accession of Charles 
 II. Being left a penniless orphan at eleven years 
 of age, she came to London, where her wit and 
 beauty proved so attractive that she won the 
 heart of Sir Stephen Fox, whom she married at 
 the age of sixteen. He died within a year, and 
 she soon afterwards married an officer named 
 Cai'roU, who was killed in a duel. Left destitute 
 by his death, she began writing for the stage, her 
 first work being a tragedy, " The Perjured Hus- 
 band," which was produced in 1700. She after- 
 wards became an actress herself, and in 1706 mar- 
 ried Joseph Centlivre, chief cook to Queen Anne. 
 She died in 1723. 
 
 She wrote in all nineteen plays, of which " The 
 Busybody," "A Bold Stroke for a Husband," and 
 others, are still occasionally played. They are 
 marked by lively plots and humorous incident. 
 
 119
 
 120 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 Of these plays, " The Busybodj^," whose story 
 we give, has won the highest reputation.] 
 
 Sir George Airy, a young gentleman of Lon- 
 don, found himself in the awkward dilemma of 
 being in love with two ladies at once, though the 
 two but fairly made up one, since he loved the 
 face of the one and the mind of the other. As 
 he himself expressed it : " One is a lady whoso 
 face I never saw, but who is witty to a miracle ; 
 the other is beautiful as Venus, but dumb as an 
 oracle. I am charmed by the wit of the one, and 
 die for the beauty of the other." 
 
 One of these ladies, in fact, he had never seen 
 but under a mask, and only knew of her that she 
 had a sweet voice and a witty tongue. The other, 
 whose beauty he admired, but whose voice he 
 had never heard, was a rich young lady named 
 Miranda, the ward of Sir Francis Gripe, who him- 
 self had designs upon her fortune, and took the 
 greatest pains to prevent suitoi-s from approach- 
 ing her. *~^ 
 
 Sir Francis had a son named Charles, whom he 
 treated in a miserly manner, giving him no money 
 of his own, and little of that left him by his 
 uncle, which had been placed in the father's care 
 till the son should come to years of discretion ; a 
 period which was not likely soon to arrive, in 
 the old gentleman's opinion. He had also a 
 second ward, a foolish fellow named Marplot, who 
 would certainly never come to years of discretion,
 
 THE BUSYBODY. 121 
 
 and was such a meddling busybody that, with 
 the best of wishes to help bis friends, he was con- 
 stantly hindering them. He had an insatiable 
 thirst for secrets, and in his prying desire to know 
 all that was going on, and to lend every enterprise 
 a heljiing hand, he managed to spoil many a well- 
 devised scheme, and to sow the seeds of a plentiful 
 crop of mischief for his friends to reap. 
 
 Sir George Airy and Charles Gripe were close 
 friends, and felt a community of sentiment to the 
 extent of being both deep in love. Charles had 
 placed his warm aifections upon Isabinda, the 
 lovely daughter of Sir Jealous Traffic, a London 
 merchant of Spanish birth, who, having arranged 
 a Spanish match for his daughter, did his utmost 
 to keep her attractive face from the eyes of the 
 London gallants. 
 
 In this he had not very well succeeded. The 
 young lady had met Charles clandestinely, and 
 fully returned his love, while she felt a deep aver- 
 sion for the Spanish match. Moreover, Mrs. 
 Patch, whom Sir Jealous had placed in espionage 
 over his daughter, proved a faithless duenna, and 
 joined with the young lady in every device to 
 deceive her unreasonable parent. 
 
 These two love-affairs — that of Sir George with 
 his witty unknown and his beautiful unheard, 
 and that of Charles with the closely-guarded Span- 
 ish beauty — were likely to give Marplot a chance 
 to exercise his peculiar talents. In fact, Sir 
 George and Charles had managed to rouse the 
 
 F 11
 
 122 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 curiosity of Marplot to the highest degree, by 
 acknowledging in his presence that they had 
 secrets to conceal. Sir George did so by the 
 remark that he had made an appointment to 
 meet Sir Francis on the oddest bargain he ever 
 heard of, — but would not yet say what it was. 
 On the other hand, Charles's servant came in and 
 whispered to him that Isabinda's father had, by 
 staying at home, spoiled her plot to meet him in 
 the park, but that Mrs. Patch was on the watch, 
 and would send him word the minute the old 
 gentleman went out. 
 
 " What's all this whispering about?" said Mar- 
 plot to himself. *' I shall go stark mad if I'm not 
 let into the secret. Why the devil do they hide 
 these things from friends who only wish to help 
 them ?" 
 
 " Good-day. I think I see Sir Francis yondei"," 
 said Sir George, who had been closely on the 
 watch. He hastened away. 
 
 " Marplot, you must excuse me ; I am engaged," 
 said Charles, taking another direction. 
 
 "Engaged! Egad, I'll engage my life to find 
 out what both your engagements are," exclaimed 
 the disappointed Marplot. 
 
 As regards Sir George, we may as well reveal 
 to the reader a fact which was a closed secret to 
 him, — namely, that the two ladies he loved were 
 one and the same. The masked and disguised 
 lady, whose wit ho so admired, was really Miranda, 
 who took this means to escape the watchfulness
 
 THE BUSYBODY. 123 
 
 of her guardian, and hold stolen interviews with 
 her lover, — whose affection she fully returned. 
 She had, thus disguised, witnessed the interview 
 just described, and, seeing Sir George move hastily 
 forward, she followed him at a distance, hoping 
 for an opportunity to mystify him still further. To 
 her surprise, however, she saw him meet her guar- 
 dian, and enter into earnest conversation with him. 
 
 " What can this mean ?" she asked herself, 
 seeking a place of concealment whence she might 
 observe them closely. 
 
 In ignorance that a lady was concealed within 
 hearing, the two men continued their conversa- 
 tion, to which Miranda listened with a face that 
 was a study of expression. What she heard was 
 that Sir George offered Sir Francis a purse of 
 fifty guineas, for some purpose connected with 
 herself. This bribe he increased, at the sugges- 
 tion of Sir Francis, to one hundred guineas, for 
 which sum the bargain was concluded. This, 
 as written down by Sir Francis, ran as follows : 
 " Imprimis, you are to be admitted into my house, 
 in order to move your suit to Miranda, for the 
 space of ten minutes, without let or molestation, 
 provided I remain in the same room." 
 
 " But out of earshot," supplied Sir George. 
 
 " Well, well, I don't desire to hear what you 
 say. It is a bargain, Sir George. Take the last 
 sound of your guineas. Hal ha! ha! Miranda 
 and I shall have the jolliest laugh at you, my 
 poor, young dupe ;" and he withdrew, clinking
 
 124 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 the guineas as he went. There was no better 
 music for his ears. 
 
 " Does she really love this old cuff?" soliloquized 
 Sir George. " Pshaw ! that's morally impos- 
 sible. But then, what hopes have I ? I have 
 never spoken to her, and she has never answered 
 me, except so far as eyes can talk. Well, well, I 
 may be lucky, — if not, it's but a hundred guineas 
 thrown away." 
 
 " Upon what. Sir George !" 
 
 The speaker was Miranda, who had come from 
 her hiding-place, her face hidden by a close mask. 
 
 " Ha ! my incognita ! — upon a woman, madam." 
 
 " The worst thing you could deal in ; and likely 
 to damage the soonest," answered Miranda, with 
 a laugh. " You have heard the farewell chink of 
 your guineas, I fear," 
 
 A lively conversation ensued between them, at 
 the end of which Sir George begged so eagerly to 
 see her face, and grew so determined not to let 
 her escape unmasked, that the frolicsome lady 
 was in something of a quandary. In the end 
 she promised, if he would excuse her face and 
 turn his back, to confess why she had so often 
 spoken with him, who she was, and where she 
 lived. 
 
 To this the ardent lover willingly agreed, and 
 Miranda proceeded to tell him that she had first 
 seen him in Paris, at a birthday ball, where she 
 had been charmed into love for him. As she 
 thus spoke, with a show of deep feeling, she drew
 
 THE BUSYBODY. 125 
 
 back, step by step, and in the end slipped silently 
 away, while Sir George stood eagerly listening. 
 
 " Don't weep, but go on," he said, finding her 
 silent. " My heart melts in your behalf. — Poor 
 lady, she expects I should comfort her, and in 
 truth she has said enough to encourage me." He 
 turned around at this, and started in angry sur- 
 prise. " Ha I gone ! — the devil ! — ^jilted ! And 
 this is all an invented tale ? Egad, I'd give ten 
 guineas to know who the gypsy is. A curse of 
 my folly, I deserve to lose her. What woman can 
 forgive a man who turns his back ?" 
 
 The romantic lover was destined to fare as 
 poorly in his interview with Miranda unmasked 
 as he had with Miranda masked. It was not that 
 the girl was averse to him, but that she had a 
 purpose of her own to gain with her guardian. 
 In fact, her estate was tied up in such a way that 
 she was obliged to seem to encourage the old fel- 
 low's love-making, for the purpose of getting her 
 property out of his hands. On hearing, then, 
 from Sir Francis, the story of her lover's odd 
 bargain, she affected to be greatly amused. 
 
 "I shall die with laughing!" she exclaimed. 
 " A hundred pieces to talk ten minutes with me ! 
 Ha ! ha ! ha ! what does the young fop mean ?" 
 
 "And I to be by, too, there's the jest. If it 
 had been in private, now " 
 
 " Mercy, gardy, 3JOU might trust me I Such a 
 neat, handsome, loving, good-natured old lad as 
 you !" 
 
 11*
 
 126 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 " Cunning rogue, and wise, too, i' faith !" cried 
 the foolish old dupe. "To show you that you 
 have not chosen amiss, I'll this moment disinherit 
 my son, and settle my whole estate on you." 
 
 "No, no, gardy; the world will say 1 sold my 
 self. But I'll tell you what you may do. You 
 know my father's will runs that I am not to 
 possess my estate, without your consent, till I am 
 five-and-twenty. You shall favor me by abating 
 the odd seven years, and making me mistress of 
 my estate to-day ; and we'll see if I do not make 
 you happy to-morrow." 
 
 " Humph ! that may not be safe," muttered Sir 
 Francis. "No, no, my dear, I'll settle it on you 
 for pin-money. That will be every bit as well, 
 you know." 
 
 " Unconscionable old wretch !" cried Miranda 
 to herself " He would bribe me with my own 
 money ! How shall I get it out of his hands?" 
 
 " Come, my girl ; what way do you propose to 
 act to banter Sir George ?" 
 
 " I must not banter. Sir George knows my voice 
 too well," she said to herself. " I tell you, gardy," 
 she continued aloud, " I'll not answer him a word, 
 but be dumb to all he says." 
 
 " Dumb ? Good ! excellent ! Ha ! ha ! ha ! she's 
 the wittiest rogue ! How mad the fellow will be 
 to find he has paid his money for a dumb-show.'" 
 
 They were interrupted at this point in the con- 
 versation by the entrance of Charles, who met 
 with but a surly reception from his father, — in
 
 THE BUSYBODY. 127 
 
 the first place, for breaking in upon an agreeable 
 interview ; and in the second, for hinting that 
 some money would be received with thanks. 
 Miranda took the opportunity to escape, leaving 
 the penniless son to the tender mercies of his 
 miserly father. The interview was so little agree- 
 able that Chai'les was not displeased when it was 
 interrupted by the entrance of Marplot, on the 
 same errand, as it proved, for he, too, wanted 
 money. 
 
 " So ! here's another extravagant coxcomb that 
 will spend his fortune before he comes to it!" 
 said Sii- Francis to himself. " But let the fool go 
 on ; he shall pay swinging interest. — Well, sir, 
 does necessit}^ bring you, too?" 
 
 " You have hit it. I want a hundred pounds." 
 
 " And I suppose I've got all I'm likely to re- 
 ceive," said Charles. 
 
 " Ay, sir, and you may march as soon as you 
 please." 
 
 " The devil !" exclaimed Marplot to himself. 
 " Is he going ? If he gets out before me I shall 
 lose him again." 
 
 He took the cheque which Sir Francis grudg- 
 ^"gly g^v6 him, and ran hastily out, eager alike 
 to get the money and to follow Charles and his 
 secret. However, the chance of the spendthrift 
 son was not quite gone. His father offered him 
 an opportunity to provide himself abundantly 
 with funds. This was by marrying old Lady 
 Winkle, who had forty thousand pounds, and was.
 
 128 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS.   
 
 in the market for a young husband. Yet to this 
 offer the young man decidedly demurred. The 
 old lady had one blind eye and a hunchback, as an 
 offset to her wealth. 
 
 " A young and beautiful woman, with a tenth 
 of the money, would be more to my taste," he 
 answered. "I thank you, sir; but you choose 
 better for yourself, I find." 
 
 " Out of my doors, you dog ! Do you pretend 
 to meddle with my marriage, sirrah ? Eefuse 
 forty thousand pounds ! Begone, sir, and never 
 dare ask me for money again !" 
 
 Charles hastened out to keep his temper in. 
 Hardly had he disappeared before Marplot hastily 
 returned, asking for him eagerly. On learning 
 that he had gone, he was disti-acted. 
 
 " Where the devil shall I find him now ?" he 
 exclaimed, as he ran out again. " I shall certainly 
 lose this secret." 
 
 The visits of Charles and Marplot were followed 
 by a more agreeable one, that of Sir George, who 
 was received by Sir Francis with a great show 
 of good humor. After bantering the lover by 
 shaking the bag of guineas under his nose, he 
 brouglit in the lady, telling him that he might now 
 have the opportunity to win her love. Sir George 
 began by saluting her rosy lips. 
 
 " Hold, sir !" cried Sir Francis. " Kissing was 
 not in our agreement." 
 
 " Oh ! that's by way of prologue. To your* 
 post, old Mammon, and do not meddle."
 
 THE BUSYBODY. 129 
 
 "Be it so, young Timon," and Sir Francis 
 stepped aside, watch in hand. " Ten minutes 
 only, remember; not a minute more." 
 
 An amusing scene ensued. Sir George warmly 
 told Miranda the story of his love, and kneeled 
 at her feet, until she gave him her hand to raise 
 him. At this Sir Francis ran hastily up, exclaim- 
 ing that palming was not in the contract. He drew 
 back still more hastily, however, when the angry 
 lover touched his sword and vowed to run him 
 through if he did not keep his distance. As the 
 conference proceeded and the lady continued 
 dumb, her quick-witted lover surmised that she 
 had been forbidden to speak, and proposed that she 
 shouldanswerin the language of signs, by noddino-, 
 shaking her head, and sighing. This she did not 
 hesitate to do, much to her guardian's uneasiness. 
 
 "What, a vengeance? Are they talking by 
 signs?" he ejaculated. "I may be fooled yet. 
 What do you mean. Sir George ?" 
 
 " To cut your throat if you dare mutter another 
 syllable," answered Sir George, with a look of 
 fury. 
 
 " The bloody-minded wretch ! I'd give him his 
 money back if he were fairly out of the house," 
 groaned Sir Francis. 
 
 Sir George, finding the sign-language none too 
 satisfactorj^, now adopted another method. He 
 began a double conversation, speaking for himself 
 and answering for her; and in the end offered a 
 letter as if from her to himself. She struck it from 
 Vol. l.—i
 
 130 TALES PROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 his hand, but he picked it up and kissed it with 
 simulated rapture. 
 
 " Now for a quick fancy, and a long extempore," 
 he said, opening it. 
 
 " The time is up," cried Sir Francis, running 
 forward. " Here are the hundred pounds you 
 have won, my girl. Go ; I'll be with you presently j 
 ha! ha! ha!" 
 
 " Mercj^, Miranda, you won't leave me just in 
 the nick, will you ?" exclaimed Sir George, as she 
 hurried away. 
 
 " She has nicked you finely, I think," said Sir 
 Francis, in high glee, and he continued his jeering 
 laughter till Sir George, seeing that Miranda had 
 really gone, left the house in a rage. 
 
 He was not many steps distant from the house, 
 when the triumphant old miser sought his ward, 
 with whom he laughed heartily at the discomfiture 
 of the would-be lover. 
 
 " Now, when shall be the happy day, my dear? 
 When shall we marry ?" he tenderly asked. 
 
 " There's nothing wanting but your consent, 
 Sir Francis." 
 
 " My consent !" he repeated. 
 
 " It is only a whim, but I wish to have every- 
 thing done formally. Therefore, when you sign 
 a paper, drawn by an able lawyer, that I have 
 your full consent to marry, then, gardy " 
 
 " Oh, come, child, when I marry you that will 
 be consent enough. And then, if " 
 
 "No ifs, gardy. Have I refused two British
 
 THE BUSYBODY. 131 
 
 lords, and half a score of knights, to have you put 
 in your ifs ?" 
 
 "So you have indeed, and I'll trust to your 
 management." 
 
 They were interrupted at this critical moment 
 by the hasty entrance of Marplot, whom the old 
 knight sourly asked how he dared to plunge in 
 without being announced. Marplot replied that 
 his business was not with him, but with the lady, 
 and that fame had brought to his ears the report 
 of a villanous plot to chouse an honorable gentle- 
 man out of a hundred pounds. To this Miranda 
 replied, that she would treat any fop who laid 
 such a plot against her the way she had treated 
 this one, and that she preferred Sir Francis for a 
 husband to all the fops in the universe. He might 
 tell all this to Sir George Airj^, if he pleased, and 
 also warn him to keep away from the left-hand 
 garden gate, for if he should dare to saunter there, 
 about the hour of eight, he should be saluted with 
 a pistol or a blunderbuss. 
 
 "Oh, monstrous!" exclaimed Sir Francis. 
 "Does this fellow dare to come to the garden 
 gate ?" 
 
 " The gardener has told me of just such a man, 
 who tried to bribe him for an entrance. Tell him 
 he shall have a warm reception if he comes this 
 night," she repeated to Marplot. 
 
 " Pistols and blunderbusses ! A warm reception 
 indeed !" cried Marplot. " I'll advise him to keep 
 away."
 
 132 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 -" And I hope he'll have more wit than to take 
 your advice," said Miranda to herself. 
 
 The ardent busybody, in mortal fear for tho 
 safety of his friend, hastened to Sir George, whom 
 he told what had passed, and continued : 
 
 " Miranda vows, if you dare approach the gar- 
 den gate, as you used to do, at eight o'clock to- 
 night, you shall be saluted with a blunderbuss. 
 She bade me tell you in those very words." 
 
 " The garden gate — at eight — as I used to do ! 
 What does the woman mean ? Is there such a 
 gate, Charles?" 
 
 " Yes ; it opens into the park." 
 
 "Good. Hal ha! I see it now! My dear 
 Marplot, let me embrace you ! You are my bet- 
 ter angel." 
 
 "You have reason to be transported, Sir 
 George ; I have saved your life." 
 
 '' My life ! ^''ou have saved my soul, man ! Here, 
 drink a bumper to the garden gate, you dear 
 meddlesome rogue, you." 
 
 Sir George and Charles, in fact, became so jubi- 
 lent and mysterious in their allusions to the 
 garden gate that the dull-witted messenger began 
 to suspect that there was a new secret afloat. 
 
 " Egad, there's more in this garden gate affair 
 than I comprehend," he said to himself. " Faith, 
 I'll away again to gardy's and find out what it 
 means." 
 
 We must, however, leave Sir George and his 
 love-affair, and return to that of Charles and
 
 THE BUSYBODY. 133 
 
 Isabinda, which, it must be confessed, proceeded 
 no more favorably. The lady's father, Sir Jealous 
 Traffic, was determined that his daughter should 
 not fall in the way of any of the English gallants 
 before the arrival of her expected Spanish lover, 
 and therefore had bidden Mrs. Patch to keep the 
 strictest watch upon her. He had more confidence 
 in this English duenna than she deserved, yet not 
 so much as to trust her fully. On the occasion of 
 which we have already spoken, Mrs. Patch waited 
 demurely till he had left the house, and then 
 quickly opened the door, and beckoned to Whisper, 
 Charles's servant, who was lurking outside. She 
 bade him to fly in all haste, and tell his master 
 that his lady love was now alone. 
 
 It unluckily happened that this news was 
 brought to Charles while Marplot was with him, 
 and threw him into such a joyous excitement as to 
 convince the curious busybody that a new secret 
 was afoot. He became the more convinced when 
 Charles absolutely forbade him to go with him. 
 
 " Mum, — you know I can be silent upon occa- 
 sion," he said. 
 
 " I wish you could be civil, too," answered 
 Charles. "Farewell." 
 
 " Why, then," said the disappointed Marplot to 
 himself, " if I can't attend you, there's nothing 
 left but to follow you." 
 
 It would have been wiser in Charles to take 
 him along, for Marplot, with the best intentions 
 in the world, had a wonderful capacity for doing 
 
 12
 
 134 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 the right thing the wrong way. He followed 
 Charles to the house, saw him admitted by Mrs. 
 Patch, and stood before the door in a quandary. 
 
 "Who the deuce lives there?" he ejaculated. 
 " The risky fellow may be running into danger, 
 for aught I know. I don't like the way he was 
 let in. Foolish boy, in spite of your endeavor to 
 keep me out of the secret, I may save your life 
 yet. I'll plant myself at that corner, and watch 
 all that come and go." 
 
 Not many minutes elapsed before he saw a 
 person approaching, who was muttering sourly 
 to himself It was Sir Jealous, who had caught 
 sight of Whisper lurking near his door, and had 
 been so troubled thereby that he felt obliged to 
 return. 
 
 " There was something secret in the fellow's 
 face," he muttered. " By St. lago, if I should 
 find a man in the house i'd make mince-meat of 
 him !" 
 
 " Mince-meat !" exclaimed Marplot, who over- 
 heard this. " Ah, poor Charles ! Egad, he's old. 
 I might bully him a little." 
 
 " My own key shall let me in," continued Sir 
 Jealous. " I'll give them no warning," 
 
 " What's that you say, sir ?" asked Marplot, 
 stepping boldly up. 
 
 "What'> that to you, sir?" exclaimed Sir 
 Jealous, turning quickly upon him. 
 
 " Why, it is this to me, sir, that the gentleman 
 you threaten is an honest man and my friend. If
 
 THE BUSYBODY. 135 
 
 he come not as safe out of your house as he ■went 
 in, I have a dozen myrmidons near by who shall 
 beat your house about your ears." 
 
 «' Went iii ? What, is he in, then ? I'll myr- 
 midon you, you dog 1 Thieves ! thieves !" The 
 choleric old gentleman fell upon Marplot as he 
 cried "thieves!" and beat him so roundly with 
 his cane that the victim of his own curiosity 
 yelled "murder" in return. 
 
 While this scene was taking place outside, 
 there was no little commotion within. Mrs. Patch, 
 who had been on guard, had seen her master in 
 good time, and warned the lovers. It was too 
 late to escape by the door, and not safe to take 
 refuge in closet or cupboard, for Sir Jealous, if 
 he had any suspicion, would search every hole in 
 the house. 
 
 " I have it," said Mrs. Patch. " Eun to your 
 chamber, miss. I'll take him to the balcony, 
 whence he may easily descend to the street." 
 
 " Good ! lead on !" cried Charles. 
 
 Meanwhile the aspect of affairs outside had 
 changed. The irate father, after working off 
 some of his wrath upon the busybody, had 
 stamped furiously into the house, and slammed 
 the door violently behind him ; while Marplot, 
 honestly anxious to rescue his friend from an old 
 man with such unexpected vigor of arm, was 
 shouting " murder " at the top of his voice. His 
 cries were brought to a sudden end by Charles, 
 who dropped upon him from the balcony.
 
 136 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 " How the devil came you here ?" cried the 
 angry lover. 
 
 " Here ! Why, I've done you a neat bit of ser 
 vice, man. I told the old thunderbolt that the 
 gentleman who was gone in was " 
 
 " You told him 1" exclaimed Charles, in a sud- 
 den rage, shaking him violently. " Fool ! I 
 could crush you to atoms!" 
 
 " So ! he beats me for my valor, and you choke 
 me for my kindness 1 I'm ready to vow never to 
 do anything to help my friends again." 
 
 Sir Jealous, meanwhile, was turning the house 
 almost upside-down in his angiy search for the 
 hidden lover, having first locked his daughter in 
 her room, where he bade Patch to keep close 
 guard over her. His efforts proved useless, how- 
 ever ; the bird had safely flown ; and the old fellow 
 subsided into muttered threats to consign her as 
 quickly as possible to the arms of Don Diego 
 Babinetto, the expected suitor from Spain. 
 
 The adventures of the lovers for that day were 
 not yet over. In their brief interview they had 
 devised a plan by which Charles might enter the 
 house with less danger of discovery. This was 
 by aid of a closet window and a rope ladder, the 
 opening of the window to be a signal that the 
 coast was clear. They had also a plan by which 
 he could wi'ite to her without danger of having 
 his letters read, he having contrived a secret 
 alphabet for this purpose. 
 
 Proceeding to an inn he wrote a letter to Isa-
 
 THE BUSYBODY. 137 
 
 binda in this character, and gave it to Whisper, 
 instructing him to deliver it secretly to Mrs. 
 Patch. Whisper accomplished this safely, and 
 the faithful Patch dropped the letter, as she sup- 
 posed, into her pocket, though it really missed 
 the opening and slipped to the floor. She told 
 Whisper that there was likely to be an oppor- 
 tunity for the lovers to meet again that evening. 
 Sir Jealous had invited some friends to sup with 
 him, and while they were at table, the lover 
 might use the rope ladder and the closet win- 
 dow, for an interview with his sweetheart. This 
 information given, Mrs. Patch hastened into the 
 house, in ignorance of the fate of her letter. 
 
 Not many minutes afterwards. Sir Jealous 
 appeared with an open letter in his hand. 
 
 " Sir Diego has safely arrived. He shall marry 
 my daughter the minute he comes," he said. 
 "What's here? A letter? On my steps?" He 
 picked up the letter which Patch had dropped, 
 and opened it without hesitation. " Humph ! 
 is this Hebrew ? There's some trick in it, on my 
 life. It was certainly designed for my daughter, 
 and this may be one of love's hieroglyphics." 
 
 At almost the same moment Patch discovered 
 her loss, much to the alarm of herself and her 
 mistress. 
 
 "I must have dropped it on the stairs," she 
 said. " Thank heaven, no one but you can read 
 it." 
 
 " If my father finds it he will be sure to scent 
 
 12*
 
 138 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 mischief. What do you want, Thomas ?" as a ser- 
 vant entered the room. 
 
 " My master ordered me to lay the cloth in this 
 room for supper." 
 
 " In this room ! Then all is over. Ho has 
 found the letter. We are ruined. Fly and fasten 
 the closet window, Patch ; that will warn 
 Charles." 
 
 Before this order could be obeyed Sir Jealous 
 entered. 
 
 " Hold there, Patch ; where are you going ?" he 
 demanded. " I'll have nobody stir out of this 
 room till after supper. Hark ye, daughter, do 
 you know this hand ?" He showed Isabinda the 
 letter. 
 
 "Hand, sir?" she asked, innocently. "What 
 odd writing. Do you understand it ?" 
 
 "I wish I did." 
 
 " Then I know no more of it than you." 
 
 " Ah, sir, where did you get that ?" cried Patch. 
 " That paper is mine." She snatched it abruptly 
 from his hand. 
 
 "Yours, mistress?" he queried. 
 
 "Yes, sir; it is a charm for the toothache, — 1 
 have worn it these seven years. How could I 
 have dropped it ? I was charged never to open 
 it, and I do not know what will happen from your 
 opening it." 
 
 " The deuce take your charm ! Is that all ? 
 Burn it, woman, and pull out your next aching 
 tooth."
 
 THE BUSYBODY. 139 
 
 The easy settlement of this difficulty, however, 
 was far from relieving the two women from their 
 anxiety. Charles would surely come, and how 
 were they to warn him ? Sir Jealous, who seemed 
 suddenly in a musical humor, demanded that they 
 should sing, but Isabinda became immediately 
 afflicted with a severe cold, while Patch pretended 
 to be so frightened about the opening of the charm 
 that she vowed she could not remember one sonsr. 
 He insisted, however, that Isabinda should play 
 and Patch should sing, and accordingly had his 
 ears regaled with so frightful a discord that he 
 threatened to break the piano about their ears. 
 
 In the midst of the music what the frightened 
 women had feared took place : Charles ascended 
 to the closet, and opened the door on hearing the 
 music, but started hastily back on seeing Sir 
 Jealous. 
 
 " Hell and fury !" cried the suspicious father. 
 "A man in the closet!" 
 
 "A ghost! a ghost!" screamed Patch; while 
 Isabinda, with a shriek of assumed fright, threw 
 herself on the floor before the closet door, as if in 
 a swoon. 
 
 " The devil ! I'll make a ghost of him, I war- 
 rant you!" cried Sir Jealous, trying to get past 
 his daughter. 
 
 " Have a care, sir," exclaimed Patch, " you'll 
 tread on my lady. Oh, this comes of opening the 
 charm! Oh! oh!" 
 
 " I'll charm you, housewife ! Take her from the
 
 140 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 door, or I'll throw you both down stairs. Come 
 out, you rascal!" 
 
 He broke into the closet, in a murderous rage, 
 while the women laughed quietly behind his back 
 at his discomfiture. 
 
 " He is too late. The bird has flown," said Patch. 
 
 " I was almost dead in earnest with the fright," 
 answered Isabinda. 
 
 In a minute more Sir Jealous stamped back, 
 livid with anger. 
 
 " The dog has escaped out of the window, for 
 the sash is up," he exclaimed. " But though he 
 is out of my reach, you are not. Come, Mrs. 
 Pander, with your charms for the toothache, get 
 out of my house. Go ! — troop ! I'll see you out 
 myself; but I'll secure this ghost-seeing young 
 lady before I go." 
 
 He pushed Isabinda into a room, locked the 
 door, and put the key in his pocket; and then 
 hustled Patch to the house-door, driving her into 
 the street in spite of her remonstrances. 
 
 As it turned out, however, the angry father had 
 worked to his own discomfiture, for the discarded 
 duenna was no sooner in the street than she saw 
 Charles, who was hovering about the house. In 
 a few words she told him what had happened, and 
 went on to mention the arrival of the young 
 Spaniard, and Sir Jcalous's determination to marry 
 oft" his daughter at once. The cunning woman 
 now proposed a shrewd scheme. Sir Jealous had 
 never seen Don Diego. Charles spoke Spanish,
 
 THE BUSYBODY. 141 
 
 and could personate him. She had in her pocket 
 a letter from his father, which Sir Jealous had 
 dropped. From this he could counterfeit a letter 
 introducing himself as Don Diego, and by prompt 
 action might make Isabinda his wife before the 
 Spanish suitor appeared. This scheme promised 
 80 well that Charles instantly resolved to adopt it, 
 and led his ready-witted confederate to his lodg- 
 ings, that they might take the necessary prelimi- 
 nary steps. 
 
 While Charles was thus getting into and out of 
 difficulties, a similar fortune attended his friend 
 Sir George. He took care to present himself in 
 good time at the garden-gate rendezvous, and was 
 there met by Miranda's servant, who led him by 
 secret ways into the house. Here he found him- 
 self most agreeably surprised, for on meeting 
 Miranda, he found not only that she was no longer 
 dumb, but at her first words he recognized the 
 voice of the masked incognita, with whose wit 
 he was already in love. This discovery filled his 
 heart with joy. The two women of his affection 
 had become one. And he was the more rejoiced 
 when he learned that Miranda had wheedled her 
 guardian into making her mistress of her own 
 property, and had got him out of the way by send- 
 ing him on a false journey to Epsom, on pretence 
 that a brother miser there wished to make him 
 his executor. 
 
 All was in the best train for the marriage of the 
 lovers and the cheating of the miser. But this
 
 142 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 smiling condition of affairs was destined to be 
 quickly clouded over through Marplot's pernicious 
 activity. He, inspired by fear that Miranda might 
 really shoot his friend Sir George at the garden 
 gate, met Sir Francis, and induced him to return 
 home. They entered so suddenly, indeed, that 
 there was no chance for the lover to escape, and 
 the only resource was to hide him behind the 
 chimney-board of her room. 
 
 As it turned out, this was a dangerous hiding- 
 place. Sir Francis was eating an orange, and de- 
 sired to throw the peel into tiie hearth. Miranda, at 
 a loss how to hinder him from disturbing the board 
 that concealed her lover, finally protested that 
 she had a monkey shut up there, which had just 
 been sent her, and was too wild to be let loose. 
 
 This invention gave rise to a new trouble. Sir 
 Francis was satisfied, but Marplot was not. He 
 professed to have a passion for monkeys, and 
 insisted so strongly on seeing the animal that the 
 distressed girl had to call her guardian to her 
 aid. At length, to her great relief. Sir Francis's 
 coach was announced, and she got him from the 
 room, leaving Marplot there alone. 
 
 The curiosity of the busybody could no longer 
 be restrained. He hastened to get a peep at the 
 monkey, when out broke Sir George in a tearing 
 passion, while the meddler, not recognizing him 
 in his fright, started back, with cries of "O 
 Lord! thieves! thieves! murder!" 
 
 " Damn you, you unlucky dog !" cried Sir
 
 THE BUSYBODY. 143 
 
 George. " Show me a way out instantly, or I'll 
 cut your throat I" 
 
 " Take that door," cried Marplot, who now 
 knew him. " But hold ; first break that china, 
 and — I'll bring you off." 
 
 Sir George did as suggested, flinging some 
 pieces of china to the floor, and running from the 
 room just as Sir Francis and Miranda returned. 
 
 " What is the matter?" cried Sir Francis. 
 
 " I beg you to forgive me," exclaimed Marplot. 
 " I only raised the board a little to peep at the 
 monkey, when out the creature flew, scratched 
 my face, broke that china, and whisked out of 
 the window." 
 
 " You meddling rogue !" cried Sir Francis. " Out 
 of my house at once ! Call the servants to get 
 the monkey again ; I must be away." 
 
 " Don't stay, gardy," said Miranda. " Trust mo 
 to bring back my monkey." 
 
 After she had got her guardian fairly off", she 
 turned on Marplot with a sharpness that was lit- 
 tle to his liking. 
 
 " Who could think you meant a rendezvous 
 when you talked of a blunderbuss ?" he exclaimed ; 
 "or that you meant a lover when you prated of 
 a monkey ? Nobody can be more useful than I 
 w^hen I'm let into a secret, nor more unlucky 
 when I'm kept out." 
 
 We may pass more rapidly over the succeeding 
 circumstances. Before they were ready to leave 
 the room Mrs. Patch appeared, and Marplot's
 
 144 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 curiosity was again excited by a whispered con- 
 versation, in which the duenna told Sir George 
 of the plot to marry Charles and Tsabinda, and 
 asked for his aid in the project. He answered 
 that he would be glad to assist, but had a little 
 matter of marriage on his own hands, which he 
 must get rid of first. 
 
 This was soon accomplished. A half-hour suf- 
 ficed to make Sir George and Miranda one in law, 
 as they were already one in love. They were 
 none too expeditious, as it proved, for the parson 
 had but fairly disappeared when Sir Francis 
 entered, declaring that he had been cheated by 
 some rogue ; for he had met his dying friend on 
 the road, alive and well. It was necessary to get 
 him out of the house again, so that Miranda 
 could complete the work of obtaining the papers 
 relating to her estate. To do this she pretended 
 that Mrs. Patch had been sent to invite him to 
 her lady's wedding, and slily hinted that possibly 
 the sight of the happy couple might tempt her to 
 make some one else happy. This was enough for 
 the uxorious old rogue. He set off in haste, under 
 Patch's guidance, leaving Miranda to complete 
 her task. 
 
 Meanwhile affairs were proceeding favorably 
 at the house of Sir Jealous. Sir George had made 
 all haste from his own marriage to aid in that of 
 his friend, and accompanied the seeming Spaniard 
 to the merchant's house, where Charles, speaking 
 good Castilian, offered a letter of introduction,
 
 THE BUSYBODY. 145 
 
 which Sir Jealous read with great satisfaction. 
 Sir Geoi'ge, who had assumed the name of Mean- 
 well, stated that his correspondent wished the 
 marriage to be performed at once, as he did not 
 cai*e to expose his susceptible son to the attractions 
 of the English beauties. 
 
 This project fitted very well with the humor of 
 the suspicious parent. But one thing remained to 
 be done, he said. Where were the five thousand 
 crowns which had been promised as a marriage 
 dowry on Don Pedro's part ? Here was an un- 
 looked-for dilemma which sadly puzzled the con- 
 spirators. Sir George hesitated and stammered, 
 " that money was dangerous to send by sea, and — 
 and " 
 
 " Zounds, say we have brought it in commodi- 
 ties," whispered Charles. 
 
 "And so," continued Sir George, taking the 
 cue, " he has sent it in merchandise ; tobacco, 
 sugar, spices, lemons, and so forth, which can be 
 readily turned into money. In the mean time, 
 if you will accept my bond " 
 
 " Say no more," exclaimed Sir Jealous. " I 
 like Signer Diego's face and your name, and will 
 take your word. My daughter shall be brought this 
 moment, and the chaplain be sent for immediately." 
 
 The bringing of Isabinda, however, was not an 
 easy task. Her lover had had no opportunity to 
 acquaint her with his plot, and, thinking that she 
 was really to be married to the Spanish suitor, 
 she resisted and begged for mercy, till in the end 
 Vol. I.— g k 13
 
 146 TALES raOM THE DRAMATISTS- 
 
 Sir George told the father that he was too harsh, 
 and asked that he might try and persuade her. 
 
 The effect of his persuasions was miraculous. A 
 minute's whispered conversation so changed the 
 young lady's humor that he had to caution her not 
 to be too hasty or she would spoil all. What he had 
 whispered was, that if she would look upon the 
 Spaniard she would see one whom she loved dearl3% 
 
 " She begins to hear reason," said Sir George. 
 " The fear of being turned out of doors has done it. 
 Speak to her gently, sir, and I'm sure she'll yield." 
 
 Sir Jealous now tried this plan, and found his 
 daughter surprisingly tractable. He gave her 
 hand to Charles just as the servant announced 
 that the parson had arrived. All, so far, was 
 going well, and they proceeded in high good 
 humor to the parlor, where the ceremony was to 
 be performed. But at this critical juncture the 
 unhappy genius of Marplot again threatened to 
 spoil all. 
 
 That busybody had got on the track of this 
 new secret, and by active inquiry had learned 
 that Charles had hired a Spanish dress. Seeing 
 Whisper near the house of Sir Jealous, he fancied 
 that his secretive friend had returned to this 
 dangerous locality. To resolve this doubt he 
 questioned Thomas, one of the servants of the 
 house, asking if a gentleman dressed in a Spanish 
 habit was within. 
 
 " There's a Spanish gentleman just going to 
 marry our j'oung lady, sir."
 
 THE BUSYBODY. 14T 
 
 " Are you sure he is Spanish ?" 
 
 " Yes, sir ; he speaks no English." 
 
 " Then it is not him I want. It is an English 
 gentleman, in a Spanish dress, whom I am seek- 
 ing." 
 
 " Ah !" said Thomas to himself. « Can this be 
 an impostor ? I'll inform my master. — Come in, 
 sir, and see if it is the j)erson you seek." 
 
 " Lead on, I'll follow you." 
 
 There was soon an abundance of mischief 
 afloat. Sir Jealous was called by Thomas from 
 the parlor and informed of Marplot's errand, and 
 it took that meddlesome individual no long time 
 to convince the suspicious merchant that there 
 was something wrong. 
 
 " Is there a trick here ?" he exclaimed. " Is 
 this truly Don Diego? My heart misgives me 
 sorely. Within there — stop the marriage — run, 
 Thomas, and call all my servants ! On my life, 
 I'll be satisfied that this is Don Pedro's son, 
 before he has my daughter." 
 
 This outcry brought Sir George into the room, 
 sword in hand. 
 
 "What's the matter here?" he asked. "Ha! 
 Marplot here, that unlucky dog !" 
 
 " Upon my soul, Sir George " began Mar- 
 plot. 
 
 " Sir George ! Then I am betrayed !" yelled the 
 merchant. " Thieves ! traitors ! stop the mar- 
 riage, I say " 
 
 "And I say, go on, Mr. Tackum," cried Sir
 
 148 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 George, as he interposed, with drawn sword. " I 
 guard this passage, old gentleman. Stand back, 
 dogs, or I'll prick your jackets for you!" he ex- 
 claimed, as the servants entered. 
 
 " On him, sirrahs ! I'll settle for this one," and 
 the old man fell upon Marplot with his cane. 
 
 At this moment Charles and Isabinda entered, 
 hand in hand. 
 
 "Seize her!" cried the enraged father. 
 
 " Touch her if you dare 1" exclaimed Charles, 
 fiercely. " She's my wife, and I'll make dog's 
 meat of the man that lays hands on her." 
 
 " Ah 1 downright English I" groaned Sir Jealous. 
 
 As he spoke, the outer door opened, and Sir 
 Francis, Miranda, and Mrs. Patch entered the 
 room. Sir Francis with words of congratulation. 
 
 To his utter surprise, he found himself assailed 
 bitterly by Sir Jealous, who accused him of hav- 
 ing laid a plot to trick him out of his daughter. 
 This was followed by a demand to know what ho 
 would give his son to maint mu his new wife on. 
 
 "Trick you!" cried Sir Francis. "Egad, I 
 think you designed to trick me ! Look you, gen- 
 tlemen, I fancy I shall trick you both. Not a 
 penny of my money shall this beggar handle. All 
 my estate shall descend to the children of the 
 lady you see here." 
 
 " I shall be extremely obliged to you for that," 
 said Sir George. 
 
 "Hold, sir, you have nothing to say to this 
 lady," exclaimed Sir Francis, testily.
 
 THE BUSYBODY. 149 
 
 " And you nothing to my wife," answered Sir 
 George, as he clasped Miranda's hand. 
 
 "Your wife? What means this, mistress? 
 Have you choused me out of my consent ?" 
 
 " Even 80, guardian. But it's my first offence, 
 and I hope you'll forgive it." 
 
 "Ha! ha! ha!" laughed Sir Jealous, with a 
 sudden change of humor. " It is some comfort 
 to find that you are overreached as well as my- 
 self. Will you settle your estate upon your son 
 now?" 
 
 •' He shall starve first." 
 
 " Not so, gardy," answered Miranda. " Here, 
 Charles, are the writings of your uncle's estate, 
 which have been your due these three years." 
 
 "What, have you robbed me, too, mistress? 
 I'll make you restore them, hussy." 
 
 " Take care I don't make you pay the ar- 
 rears," said Sir Jealous. " It is well it's no worse, 
 since it's no better. Come, young man, since you 
 have outwitted me, take her, — and bless you 
 both." 
 
 " I hope, sir, you'll bestow your blessing too," 
 said Charles, kneeling to his father. 
 
 "Do, gardy, and make us happy," pleaded 
 Miranda. 
 
 " Confound you all !" cried Sir Francis, rushing 
 from the room in a rage. 
 
 " Never mind, Charles. He will come all right 
 in the end. We shall all be happy, since this 
 gentleman forgives you." 
 
 13*
 
 150 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 " It is my custom to avoid dangers," said Sir 
 Jealous ; " but when a thing is past, I have the 
 philosophy to accept it." 
 
 "And so everybody is happy but poor Pilgar- 
 lick," said Marplot. " What satisfaction shall I 
 have for being cuffed, kicked, and beaten in your 
 services ?" 
 
 " You have been too busy, friend Marplot ; but 
 I'll repay you by making Sir Francis yield you 
 your estate." 
 
 "That will make me as happy as any of you." 
 
 And so, at the request of Sir Jealous, who had 
 become fully reconciled to the situation, they 
 buried the past in a cheerful glass, and all went 
 merry as a marriage-bell.
 
 THE BEAUX STRATAGEM. 
 
 BY GEORGE PAEQUHAR. 
 
 [The 80-called " dramatists of the Eeatoration" 
 form a body of playwrights whose works hold a 
 high position as dramatic literature, but the best 
 of which have lost their hold upon the stage 
 through their immorality. These writers include 
 Dryden, Wycherley, Vanbrugh, Congreve, Far- 
 quhar, Gibber, and Mrs. Centlivre, whose " Busy- 
 body" we have just given. As a dramatist, 
 Dryden was not successful, and none of his many 
 plays have gained a favorable verdict from the 
 critics. The spirited comedies of Wycherley and 
 Congreve, the ablest of these authors, are too 
 deeply immoral for reproduction, while they are 
 lacking in the story element, their strength lying 
 more in witty repartee than in interest of plot. 
 Of all the plays of the period, only those of Mrs, 
 Centlivre and Mr. Farquhar hold a place on the 
 modern stage. We, therefore, confine our selec- 
 tions to these two dramatists. 
 
 George Farquhar was born in Londonderry, 
 Ireland, in 1678, educated at Trinity College, 
 Dublin, and became an actor on the Dublin stage. 
 
 161
 
 152 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 He proved an indifferent performer, and left the 
 stage through remorse at having injured a fellow- 
 actor. Seeking London, he obtained a commission 
 in a regiment stationed in Ireland, and in 1698 
 produced his first comedy, "Love and a Bottle." 
 This proved successful, and be continued to write, 
 producing a number of plays, of which two, " The 
 Eeeruiting Officer" and "The Beaux Stratagem," 
 were far superior to the others, and are still occa- 
 sionally played. 
 
 Farquhar's life was an unfortunate one. He 
 married a penniless adventuress, supposing her to 
 be rich, fell into pecuniary difficulties, sold his 
 commission, and died poor in 1706 ; his best play, 
 "The Beaux Stratagem," being written during 
 his last illness. It proved highly successful, but 
 while its wit and invention were fiUinjr London 
 with laughter, its author lay dj'ing in poverty. 
 
 Farquhar ranks with the best of our comic 
 dramatists, his plays possess much variety of 
 humorous incident, and, while not the equal of 
 some of his contemporaries in wit, he surpasses 
 them in feeling and sentiment. We append the 
 story of " The Beaux Stratagem."] 
 
 Mr. Aimwell and Mr. Archer, two London 
 gentlemen of reduced fortune and slender ex- 
 pectations, had deemed it advisable to leave the 
 capital, with the hope of winning wealth in the 
 provinces. In this enterprise, not having money 
 enough to support them both as gentlemen, or to
 
 THE BEAUX STRATAGEM. 153 
 
 provide servants, they decided to pursue their 
 journey in the capacity of master and servant, 
 under the following arrangement. Aimwell was 
 to act as master at their first stopping-place, 
 Archer at the second, and so on alternately ; it 
 being understood that they should equally divide 
 the profits of their enterprise, whether these 
 profits came from the winning of a rich wife or 
 from some other source. 
 
 In due time they reached the town of Lich- 
 field, where it fell to the lot of Aimwell to act as 
 master and of Archer as servant. Here they 
 stopped at an inn kept by one Bonniface, which 
 Aimwell entered in rich attire and with an impor- 
 tant manner, while Archer followed in the dress 
 of a valet, and carrying a portmanteau. 
 
 "There, set down the things," ordered Aim- 
 well. " Go to the stable and see that my horses 
 are well cared for." 
 
 " I shall, sir," answered Archer, respectfully, 
 leaving the room. 
 
 After he had gone, Aimwell entered into a con- 
 versation with Bonniface, in which he led him 
 cunningly from praise of his ale to information con- 
 cerning the rich families of the vicinity. In this 
 way be learned that the most important of the 
 neighboring people of estate was a rich old widow 
 named Lady Bountiful, who spent half her 
 income in charity, and was so expert in medicine 
 that she cured more people within ten years than 
 the doctors killed in twenty.
 
 154 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 This cbaritablc widow had two children ; a son 
 by her first husband, Squire Sullen ; and a daugh- 
 ter by her second husband, Sir Charles Bountiful. 
 Young Sullen, who had recently married a Lon- 
 don lady of birth and beauty, was a brutal dunce, 
 given to drink and tobacco, and shamefully neg- 
 lecting and ill-treating his youthful wife. The 
 daughter, Dorinda, was still unmarried ; " the 
 finest woman and the greatest fortune in the 
 county," said the inn-keeper. 
 
 This, and much other information, was given 
 by Bonniface to his guest, though he took good 
 care not to tell him all that he mii^ht have said, 
 namely, that his inn was a haunt of highway- 
 men, of whom he and his daughter Cherry were 
 accomplices. 
 
 After getting rid of the landlord, Aimwell and 
 Archer had a private conversation, in which they 
 considered their means and plans. They had 
 remaining of their stock in trade two hundred 
 pounds in money, together with a good outfit in 
 horses, clothes, rings, etc. With this supply they 
 hoped to gain ten times as much. They decided 
 that, if they should fail at Litchfield, their next 
 stop would be at Nottingham, where Archer 
 should play master and Aimwell servant. They 
 would reverse again at Lincoln, and again at 
 Norwich. If by that time Venus or Plutus still 
 failed them, they decided to embark for Holland, 
 and try their fortune with Mars, by joining the 
 army there.
 
 THE BEAUX STRATAGEM. 155 
 
 Their conference ended, Airawell gave in charge 
 to the landlord the strong box containing their 
 money, saying : " Your house is so full of 
 strangers that I believe this will be safer in your 
 custody than in mine ; for when this fellow of 
 mine gets drunk he minds nothing. The box 
 contains a little over two hundred pounds; if you 
 doubt this, I'll count it to you after supper. Be 
 sure you lay it where I may have it at a minute's 
 warning, for my affairs ai*e a little dubious at 
 present, and I may have to be gone in half an 
 hour. Order your hostler to keep my horses 
 ready saddled ; and, above all, keep this fellow 
 from drink, for he is the most insufferable sot. 
 Here, sirrah, light me to my chamber." 
 
 After the two had gone, Bonniface called his 
 daughter Cherry and gave the strong box into 
 her charge, telling her of his guest's orders to 
 keep his horses ready saddled, since he might 
 have to set out at a minute's warning. 
 
 " Ten to one, then, he is a highwayman !" ex- 
 claimed the daughter. 
 
 " A highwayman ? On my life, girl, you have 
 hit it ! This box holds his last booty. If we can 
 find him out, the money is ours." 
 
 " He don't belong to our gang," said Cherry. 
 
 " What horses have they ?" 
 
 *' The master rides a black." 
 
 " A black ? As I live, it is the ' man upon the 
 black mare !' Since he don't belong to our fra- 
 ternity, we may betray him with a safe conscience.
 
 156 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 I don't think it lawful to harbor any rogues but 
 my own. But we must have proofs, Cherry. 
 The servant loves drink, and may love women. 
 I'll ply him the one way, and you may the other." 
 
 The latter part of the bargain was one to which 
 Miss Cheny affected to be by no means inclined. 
 Not many minutes elapsed before the counterfeit 
 footman met her, and, attracted by her bright 
 eyes and pretty face, proceeded to make love to 
 her with all the assurance of a London gallant. 
 He found the pretty barmaid, however, far from 
 ready to listen to his advances; she scornfully 
 giving him to understand that she looked higher 
 than to a footman, and disdainfully bidding him 
 to keep to his own sphere, and cease to annoy 
 her with his professions. 
 
 Yet the pretty Cherry was far from being so 
 disdainful at heart as' she was in words. She 
 suspected Archer of being more than he seemed, 
 and her susceptible heart was touched more 
 deeply by the ardor of his love-making than she 
 cared to admit. 
 
 Night had fallen while these events were in 
 progress. In the early darkness a new guest rode 
 up to the inn, but by the rear instead of the front, 
 and, having himself stabled his horse, cautiously 
 entered. He was a dark-skinned, black-whiskered 
 man, his face half hidden by a high collar and a 
 slouched hat. 
 
 "Landlord," hts called, looking around him 
 heedfully, "is the coast clear?"
 
 THE BEAUX STRATAGEM. 157 
 
 "Is it you, Mr. Gibbet?" asked Bonniface. 
 "What's the news?" 
 
 "Ask no questions. Here, my dear Cherry." 
 He gave her a bag. "Two hundred sterling 
 pounds. Lay them with the rest. And here are 
 some other trifles ; a diamond necklace ; a gold 
 watch ; two silver-hilted swords : I took them 
 from fellows who never show any part of their 
 sword but the hilt." 
 
 "Hark ye, where's Hounslow and Bagshot?" 
 asked Bonniface. 
 
 " They'll be here to-night." 
 
 " Do you know of any other gentlemen of the 
 pad on this road ?" 
 
 " No." 
 
 "I fancy that I have two that lodge in the 
 house just now." 
 
 " Aha ! what marks have they of the trade ?" 
 
 " The one talks of going to church." 
 
 " That's suspicious, I confess." 
 
 "The other pretends to be a servant. "We'll 
 call him out and pump him." 
 
 " With all my heart," answered Gibbet. 
 
 Archer, or Martin, as he had called himself, 
 proved rather a dry well to the pumping of these 
 worthies. He came forward singing, as he combed 
 a periwig; and he answered all inconvenient 
 questions with a stave of song. 
 
 " Whose servant are you, friend ?" asked Gibbet. 
 
 " My master's." 
 
 " But pray, sir, what is your mastei^'s name ?" 
 
 14
 
 158 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 "Name, sir? Tall-le-dall I This is the most 
 
 obstinate curl." 
 
 "Yes, his name." 
 
 " Tall-lal-lal ! — I never asked him his name in 
 my life." 
 
 " Pray, then, which way does he travel ?" 
 
 " On horseback." 
 
 " Upwards or downwards, I mean ?" 
 
 "Downwards, I fear. Tall-lal-le-dal," and Mas- 
 ter Martin combed on with provoking ease. 
 
 " What think you now ?" asked Bonniface, 
 privately, of Gibbet. 
 
 " Old offenders. He could not be more cautious 
 before a judge." 
 
 After his questioners had left him, Archer stood 
 laughing to himself over their discomfiture, but 
 greatly puzzled to know their purpose. Bonni- 
 face had addressed Gibbet with the title of cap- 
 tain, but the shrewd Londoner was not so easily 
 deceived. 
 
 As he stood lazily combing the periwig and 
 deeply cogitating, Cherry returned, quite ready 
 in her heart to tell him the secret of the inn if 
 in return she could gain his love. A few questions 
 satisfied her that he did not suspect the profession 
 of the mock captain, and that she might have 
 the merit of the discovery for her own. A lively 
 chat followed, at the end of which Cherry laugh- 
 ingly told her would-be lover that he might as 
 well give up his play of footman, since his lan- 
 guage and dress were in the plainest contradiction.
 
 THE BEAUX STRATAGEM. 159 
 
 Thus cornered, the cunning fellow confessed, in 
 part, the truth ; admitting that he had been born 
 a gentleman, but was reduced by necessity to the 
 position of servant. 
 
 " Take my hand, then," said Cherry. " Promise 
 to marry me before you sleep, and I'll make you 
 master of two thousand pounds." 
 
 " How, — two thousand pounds ! But an inn- 
 keeper's daughter ! In faith — I " 
 
 " Then you won't marry me ?" 
 
 « I would, but " 
 
 " Oh, sweet sir, you're fairly caught," laughed 
 Cheriy. " Don't tell me that any gentleman who 
 would bear the scandal of wearing a livery would 
 refuse two thousand pounds, even under harder 
 conditions than I offer. No, no, sir. I see that 
 your play of servant is but a farce." 
 
 " Fairly bit, by Jupiter ! But have you actu- 
 ally two thousand pounds ?" 
 
 " I have my secrets as well as you. When you 
 are more open I shall be more free. Don't fear 
 that I will do anything to hurt you, — but beware 
 of my father." With this mysterious warning she 
 left the room. 
 
 " So," said Archer, " we are likely to have as 
 many adventures in our inn as Don Quixote 
 had in his. Let me see, — two thousand pounds. 
 If she would only promise to die when the money 
 was spent. But an inn-keeper's daughter ! Ay, 
 there's the rub ; my pride won't stomach that." 
 
 Leaving him to decide this difficult question, we
 
 160 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 must betake ourselve to another locality, the house 
 of Lady Bountiful. Here we find Mrs. Sullen 
 pouring into the ears of her sister-in-law Dorinda 
 bitter compldints against her stupid and brutish 
 husband. She would apply for a divorce, she de- 
 clared, but had no cause of complaint that would 
 hold good in a court of law. She went on to say 
 that if she had him in London she might j^rovoke 
 him to love by rousing his jealousy ; but in the 
 country, even this resource was wanting. 
 
 "I fear," replied Dorinda, "that there is a 
 natural aversion on his side ; and, if the truth 
 were known, you don't come far behind him." 
 
 " I own it ; we are united contradictions, fire and 
 water. Eut if I could bring the man even to dis- 
 semble a little kindness, I should be more content." 
 
 " Take care, sister. In seeking to rouse him to 
 counterfeit kindness, you might awake him to a 
 real fury." 
 
 " What then ? Anything would be better than 
 to have him a stupid log, as he is now. I want 
 your aid, sister. The French count, Bellair, is to 
 dine here to-day. I have devised a little farce, 
 which I hope may not end in a tragedy. I shall 
 lead the count on to make love to me. You must 
 post my husband where he can hear it all. If the 
 man has a grain of natural feeling in him this 
 must stir him up to something." 
 
 "To bloodletting, maybe," answered Dorinda. 
 " I don't like your plot, — nor your count either, 
 for that matter."
 
 THE BEAUX STRATAGEM. 161 
 
 " You like nothing, girl, in the form of a man. 
 Tour time has not come yet. Love and death 
 are alike: their time to strike home is sure to 
 arrive. You'll pay for all this one day. But 
 come, sister, it is almost time for church." 
 
 Little did Dorinda imagine that the time for 
 love, of which Mrs. Sullen had spoken, would 
 come that very day, and that her fate awaited 
 her in the church to which she was now pre- 
 paring to go. 
 
 For Aimwell, in his purpose of marrying an 
 heiress, had conceived the idea that a country 
 church was just the place to begin his campaign. 
 
 "The appearance of a stranger in a country 
 church draws as many gazers as a blazing star," 
 he said. " A train of whispers runs buzzing 
 round the congregation: 'Who is he? Whence 
 comes he ? Do you know him ?' Then I tip the 
 verger half a crown. He leads me to the best 
 pew in the church. I pull out my snuff-box, 
 turn myself around, bow to the bishop or the 
 dean, single out a beauty, rivet both eyes on her, 
 and show the whole church my concern by my 
 endeavor to hide it. After the sermon, the whole 
 town gives me to her for a lover, and by pei'- 
 suading the lady that I am dying for her, the 
 tables are turned, and she in good earnest falls in 
 love with me." 
 
 " Instead of riveting your eyes on a beauty, 
 try to fix them on a fortune. That's our busi- 
 ness at pi-esent," warned Archer. 
 Vol. I.— I U*
 
 162 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 " Pshaw, no woman can be a beauty without a 
 fortune. Let me alone to aim at the right target." 
 
 Aimwell proved correct in his opinion of his 
 own judgment, for he selected an heiress in the 
 beauty to whom he devoted his attention during 
 that day's church service. Dorinda Bountiful 
 was the goal of his earnest and languishing looks ; 
 and as for her, she did not wait for the town's 
 opinion to form her own, but left the church with 
 a palpitating heart, and a fancy warmly set upon 
 the handsome stranger who had gazed upon her 
 so devotedly. 
 
 Her fate, indeed, had come to her at last, as 
 she admitted to Mrs. Sullen, after the latter had 
 shrewdly questioned her. The hitherto cold- 
 hearted lady had fallen deepl}'- and desperately 
 in love, and was but fairly home from church 
 when she sent Scrub, Mr. Sullen's servant, to 
 try and learn who the gentleman was. Scrub 
 returned in due time, with a reply that was not 
 very satisfactory. Nobody knew who the stranger 
 was or where he came from, and about all he had 
 been able to learn was, that the footman dressed 
 almost like a gentleman, and talked French glibly 
 with Count Bellair's servants. 
 
 " We have a great mind to know who this 
 gentleman is, — only for our satisfaction," said 
 Dorinda. " You must go. Scrub, and invite his 
 footman hither to drink a bottle of your ale. We 
 will drop in by accident and ask the fellow some 
 questions."
 
 THE BEAUX STRATAGEM. 163 
 
 "Well devised," said Mrs. Sullen. "Here ia 
 the country any stranger is company, and if we 
 cannot learn what we would directly, we must 
 indirectly. Go, Scrub, do as you are told." 
 
 Cupid, in the present instance, had done hia 
 work better than to waste his only arrow upon 
 the lady. He had reserved one for the gentle- 
 man ; and though Aimwell was too old a lover to 
 be wounded at first sight so deeply as Dorinda, 
 his heart had not escaped, and his looks at 
 church had in them something warmer than cold- 
 blooded interest. As he and Archer wei-e talk- 
 ing over the matter, a message came from Scrub 
 to the latter, desiring that his honor would go 
 home with him and taste his ale. 
 
 "Aha! ray turn comes now!" cried Archer, 
 gayly. " You say there's another very handsome 
 lady in that house ?" 
 
 " Yes, faith." 
 
 " Then I'm in love with her ah-eady." 
 
 " But what becomes of Cherry ?" 
 
 " Cherry must wait until she grows riper." 
 
 Archer was not long in finding his way to the 
 pantry of Scrub the butler, where they sampled 
 the Bountiful ale together till both of them had 
 rather more than was good for them. The shrewd 
 Archer, however, was not so tipsy as he pretended 
 to be. It was his purj)ose to extract from Scrub 
 all the secrets of the family, which he fairly suc- 
 ceeded in doing, so far as the loose-tongued butler 
 ■was acquainted with them. In return, he gave
 
 164 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 Scrub a piece of news of his own invention, viz. : 
 that his master was really the Lord Viscount Aim- 
 well, who had recently fought a duel in London 
 and dangerously wounded his opponent ; and that 
 he was hero now in hiding till he should learn 
 whether the man had died or not. 
 
 This interesting piece of invented information 
 was not long in reaching the ladies. Gipsey, their 
 maid, had listened to the conversation betweea 
 the butler and his visitor; and on hearing this 
 imaginary news, she made all haste to retail it to 
 her mistresses, much to their satisfaction. 
 
 "I have heard of Lord Aim well," said Mrs. 
 Sullen; "but they say his brother is the finer 
 gentleman." 
 
 " That is impossible, sister," answered Dorinda. 
 
 " At any rate, they say he is very rich and very 
 close." 
 
 " No matter for that, if I can creep into his 
 heart I'll open his pocket, I warrant him. I wish 
 we could talk with this fellow," 
 
 "So do I. Let us try it; I see no harm in 
 it." 
 
 There was more harm in it for Mrs. Sullen than 
 she dreamed of, for in the conversation with the 
 two servants that followed, there was something 
 in Archer's manner and style of talk that seemed 
 to her above his station, and much in his form 
 and face that touched her susceptible heart. This 
 favorable impression was added to by a song 
 which he gave them at Scrub's suggestion ; and
 
 THE BEAUX STRATAGEM, 165 
 
 it reached its climax in his refusal to take some 
 money which she offered him. 
 
 " Did you ever see so pretty a well-bred fellow ?" 
 asked Dorinda, after Archer had left them. " I 
 doubt if he is a servant. He may be some 
 gentleman, my lord's friend, perhaps his second, 
 who has chosen to keep him company in this dress 
 to complete the disguise." 
 
 "It is, it must be, and it shall be so !" exclaimed 
 Mrs. Sullen ; " for I like him." 
 
 " What! better than the count?" 
 
 " The count will do very well to serve me in 
 my design on my husband. But I should like 
 this fellow better in a design on myself." 
 
 " But now, sister," said Dorinda, " for an inter- 
 view with this lord and this gentleman : how shall 
 we bring it about ?" 
 
 "Leave that to them. If Lord Aim well loves 
 or deserves you, he'll find a way to see you. My 
 business comes first in order. Have j^ou prepared 
 your brother for my assault upon his jealousy ?" 
 
 " Yes ; and the count is at hand. Look you do 
 it neatly." 
 
 The project referred to was the one we have 
 already mentioned, by which Mrs. Sullen hoped 
 to rouse the jealous anger of her husband. In 
 pursuance of this plot, Dorinda had advised her 
 brother to pretend that he would be out late, and 
 then to slip round and hide himself in the closet, 
 where he would hear something to surprise 
 him. This he did, and was but fairly in the
 
 166 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 closet when Count Bellair appeared in the room 
 in company with Mrs. Sullen, to whom he pro- 
 ceeded to make love with all the ardor of his 
 French descent. 
 
 They were interrupted by the husband, who 
 broke from his closet pretending to be in a violent 
 rage. Yet his manner showed such lack of real 
 warmth and passion that it was evident the design 
 had failed. The man was too dull to be roused 
 either to rage or jealousy; or had so little love 
 for his wife that he cared not who might replace 
 him in her affections. 
 
 The poor woman was so vexed by the failure 
 of her deep-laid scheme that she vented some of 
 her displeasure on her unconscious accomplice, 
 telling the count that she had only been amusing 
 herself with him, and that she herself had ar- 
 ranged that her husband should be in the closet. 
 
 "And so, madam," exclaimed the enra<i'ed 
 Frenchman, " while I was telling you twenty 
 stories to part you from your husband, begar, 
 I was bringing you together all the while." 
 
 " I ask your pardon, count ; but I hope this will 
 give you a taste of the virtue of the English ladies." 
 
 " Begar, madam, their virtue may be vera great ; 
 but, garzoon, their honesty be vera little," and 
 the count took himself away in a rage. 
 
 "While this plot of the ladies was in process of 
 execution, a stratagem was being devised by the 
 gentlemen that was likely to prove more success- 
 ful. Mrs. Sullen had advised Dorinda to leave
 
 THE BEAUX STRATAGEM. 167 
 
 Lord Aimwell alone ; if he loved her he would 
 find a way to see her. She was right, though as 
 \'et the movements of the adventurers were gov- 
 erned more by interest than love. At a late hour 
 of that day, while Lady Bountiful was prescribing 
 for the ailments of a sick countryman, and Mrs. 
 Sullen laughing at her rustic cure-all remedies, 
 Dorinda rushed up to them in a state of high ex- 
 citement, closely followed by Archer, who eagerly 
 asked for Lady Bountiful. He proceeded to beg 
 for the goodness and skill of the old lady in favor 
 of his poor master, who he feared was on the point 
 of death. 
 
 " Your master ! where is he ?" 
 
 " At your gate, madam. Drawn by the appear- 
 ance of your handsome house, he walked up the 
 avenue to view it nearer, when he was suddenly 
 taken ill with I know not what. Down on the 
 cold ground he fell, and there he lies." 
 
 He could have said nothing more likely to rouse 
 Lady Bountiful's sympathy. The servants were 
 hastily called, and the whole house was soon fly- 
 ing to Aim well's assistance, with the exception of 
 Dorinda, who was kept motionless by agitation, 
 and of Mrs. Sullen, who was held still by suspicion. 
 
 " Oh, sister 1" exclaimed Dorinda, " my heart 
 flutters so strangely ! I can hardly forbear run- 
 ning to his assistance." 
 
 " I'll lay ray hfe he desires your assistance more 
 than he deserves it," answered Mrs. Sullen. " Did 
 not I tell you that my lord would find a way to
 
 168 TALES FROM THE DKAMATISTS. 
 
 como to you ? Love is his distemper, and you 
 must be the physician." 
 
 Mrs. Sullen had guessed correctly ; the illness 
 was a stratagem to obtain admittance to the 
 house; yet Aimwell played his part of sick man 
 very neatly. He seemed quite insensible as they 
 carried him in a chair to the house, his eyes being 
 closed and his hands clinched. But when Do- 
 rinda, at Archer's suggestion, took his hand and 
 sought to open it, he caught her hand in his grasp 
 and squeezed it unmercifully ; much to the sur- 
 prise of Lady Bountiful, who opened the other 
 hand with ease. 
 
 To the anxious inquiries of the benevolent old 
 lady, Archer replied that his master had been first 
 taken ill that morning at church, where something 
 aifocted him through the eyes,, with such strange 
 severity that he had not yet recovered from it. 
 "Whether it was pain or pleasure he could not say. 
 
 While the shrewd fellow was describing this 
 affection in a way that made Dorinda's heart beat 
 strangely, Aimwell seemed to recover. Opening 
 his eyes, he gazed about him in amazement, affect- 
 ing to believe that he had died and was now in 
 Elysium. He kneeled to Dorinda and kissed her 
 hand, addressing her as Proserpine. 
 
 "Delirious, poor gentleman I" exclaimed Lady 
 Bountiful. 
 
 " Very delirious, madam," said Archer. 
 
 "Martin's voice? here?" exclaimed Aimwell, 
 looking round with a show of surprise.
 
 THE BEAUX STRATAGEM. 169 
 
 "Here on earth, my lord. How does your 
 lordship ?" 
 
 " Lord ? Do you hear that, girls ?" said Lady 
 Bountiful, in an aside to her daughters. 
 
 " Where am I ?" asked Aimwell. 
 
 "In very good hands, sir. You were taken 
 with one of your old fits, near this benevolent 
 lady's house, and she has miraculously brought 
 you back to your old self, sir." 
 
 Aimwell professed to be greatly ashamed to 
 have given them such trouble, gave Archer two 
 guineas for the servants, and declared that he 
 must instantly leave, a purpose to which Lady 
 Bountiful would not listen. The cold air, she 
 said, would surely cause a relapse. She insisted 
 on his drinking a glass of her favorite healing 
 cordial, and then advised him to walk about and 
 see the house, which the young ladies would take 
 pleasure in showing. He would see some tolerably 
 good pictures. 
 
 "Ladies, shall I beg leave for my servant to 
 wait on you ?" asked Aimwell. " He understands 
 pictures very well." 
 
 " We understand originals as well as he does 
 pictures," answered Mrs. Sullen ; " so he may come 
 along." 
 
 This walk through the house, which the con 
 federates had so cunningly led up to, completed 
 the conquest. Leaving Mrs. Sullen to the care 
 of Archer, Aimwell wandered off alone with 
 Dorinda, and made love to her with a warmth 
 H 15
 
 170 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 that was far from counterfeit, and which quite 
 placed hor bcart in his keeping. 
 
 Meanwhile Archer was assailing the heart of 
 Mrs. Sullen with little less ardor, and quite as 
 much success. The poor woman bewailed to 
 herself her sad lot, in being tied to a brute when 
 she might have won the love of a man like this, 
 and burst into tears afterwards when Dorinda 
 warmly confessed her happiness in Aimwell's 
 love. 
 
 " Your angel has been watchful for your happi- 
 ness," sobbed the poor wife, " while mine has slept 
 regardless of his charge. Long smiling years of 
 joy for you, but not one hour for me." 
 
 " Come, my dear, let us talk of something else." 
 
 " I can think of nothing else," said Mrs. Sullen, 
 her eyes still wet. " To be tied for life to a dull 
 brute like that ! But I expect my brother here 
 to-night or to-morrow. He was abroad when my 
 father married me to this log. Perhaps he may 
 find a way to rid me of my burden." 
 
 " I hope to heaven he may," answered Dorinda. 
 
 This hope was nearer realization than the 
 speaker had any idea of. Eventful as that day 
 had been, the night was destined to be as fruitful 
 of events. In the first place, Bonnifiice. the 
 scoundrelly inn-keeper, had arranged with Gibbet 
 and his companions to rob Lady Bountiful's 
 house, and they awaited the midnight hour to 
 put their scheme in execution. In the second 
 place, Count Bellair, still angry at Mrs. Sullen for
 
 THE BEAUX STRATAGEM. 171 
 
 the trick she had played on him, determined to 
 have an opportunity at love-making in the 
 absence of her husband, and bribed her maid 
 Gipsey to aid him in playing the part which 
 Sullen had played, — that of being concealed in a 
 closet. This scheme, however, came to the knowl- 
 edge of Archer, and he contrived to get inti'O 
 duced into the house in place of the count, with 
 the double purpose of discomfiting the French- 
 man, and gaining another opportunity to make 
 love to the lady, who had made almost as deep 
 an impression upon his heart as Dorinda had upon 
 that of his companion. 
 
 Nor was this the whole of the complication. 
 Sir Charles Freeman, the brother whom Mrs. 
 Sullen expected, made his appearance at a late 
 hour of the evening, in a coach and six, at Bonni- 
 face's inn. Here he asked questions about Mr. 
 Sullen's family, and found that the young squire 
 himself was then at the inn, engaged in deep 
 potations with a constable, a barber, and various 
 other of the same sort of boon companions. 
 
 "I find my sister's letters gave me the true 
 picture of her spouse," said Sir Charles, in dis- 
 gust, after having requested an intei'view with 
 the squire. 
 
 As he stood there Sullen entered, and a conver- 
 sation ensued, in which the sot declared without 
 hesitation his dislike for his wife. 
 
 " "Why don't you part with her, then ?" asked 
 Sir Charles.
 
 172 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 " Will you take her off my bands ?" 
 
 " With all my heart." 
 
 "Then you shall have her to-morrow, and a 
 venison pasty into the bargain," declared Sullen. 
 
 " You'll let me have her fortune, too?" 
 
 " Fortune ! Why, sir, I have no quarrel with 
 her fortune. I only hate the woman, and none 
 but the woman shall go." 
 
 While this conference was being held in the 
 tap-room, one of a different character was taking 
 place in another part of the house. Cherry 
 knocked at Aim well's door, and when ho appeared, 
 told him, in an agitated manner, of the projected 
 burglary, saying that the gang of rogues hud set 
 out to rob Lady Bountiful's house. 
 
 She had sought his servant Martin to tell him, 
 but could not find him anj^where about the inn. 
 
 " No matter about him, child. Will you guide 
 me to this lady's house ?" 
 
 "With all my heart, sir. My Lady Bountiful 
 is my godmother, and 1 love Miss Dorinda so 
 well " 
 
 "Dorinda! The name inspires me, the glory 
 and danger shall all be my own. Come, let me 
 but get my sword ; then lead on." 
 
 The alarm was given none too soon. The burg- 
 lars were in the house before Aimwell got there. 
 Bonniface had assured them that they would find 
 none but women in the place, with the exception 
 of Scrub, who was an arrant coward, and that 
 the plate and money to be found would make
 
 THE BEAUX STRATAGEM. 173 
 
 them all rich. In this he calculated in ignorance 
 of the fact. Archer, unknown to the villanous 
 landlord, was concealed in the house, in the closet 
 which the Frenchman had intended to occupy, 
 and was brought in haste from his place of con- 
 cealment by Scrub, who rushed into the room 
 with a frightened ejaculation of "Thieves! 
 murder ! robbery !" 
 
 "What ails you, fool?" exclaimed Archer, 
 shaking him violently. 
 
 " Oh, pray, sir, spare all I have, and take my 
 life !" cried Scrub, kneeling. 
 
 " What has happened ? What does the fellow 
 mean ?" asked Mrs. Sullen, who was in the room 
 on Scrub's entrance. 
 
 " Thieves have broken into the house !" ex- 
 claimed the scared butler. " This is one of them ! 
 We shall be all robbed and murdered !" 
 
 " Hold your tongue, idiot !" cried Archer, sternly. 
 " Don't you know me ? Ha ! I see a dark lantern 
 in the gallery ! Can you face the fellow, madam ? 
 Scrub and I will hide, and leap upon him un- 
 
 awares." 
 
 " Yes. Hide quickly." 
 
 Hardly had the two men disappeared when 
 Gibbet, the highwayman, entered the room, pistol 
 and dark lantern in hand, and threatened to shoot 
 the lady through the head if she should make a 
 noise. Laying his lantern and pistol on the table, 
 he proceeded to despoil her of her rings and neck- 
 lace, and then demanded her keys. 
 
 15*
 
 174 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 While he was thus employed, Archer slipped 
 forward, seized the pistol, and then, catching the 
 villain by the collar, tripped up his heels and laid 
 him flat on his back. He held the pistol to his 
 breast. 
 
 "Don't kill me, sir," prayed Gibbet, frightened 
 by Archer's stern looks. 
 
 *' How many are there of them, Scrub ?" 
 
 " Five and forty, sir." 
 
 " Then I must kill this one, to have him out of 
 the way." 
 
 " Hold, sir; on my honor there are but three of 
 us," protested Gibbet. 
 
 " Come, rogue, if you have a short praj^er, say 
 it." 
 
 " Pray, sir, don't kill him !" pleaded Mrs. Sullen. 
 " You scare me as much as him." 
 
 Scrub, who had run hastily out, at this moment 
 returned with Foigai'd, an Irish priest, who was 
 connected with Count Bellair, and who happened 
 to be in the house. 
 
 " Here, then ; I suppose Scrub and Dr. Foigard 
 can manage this one. Take him into the cellar 
 and bind him. Here is the pistol ', if he offers to 
 resist shoot him through the head, and come back 
 to me as soon as you can." 
 
 They did as ordered, and Archer was about to 
 speak to Mrs. Sullen, when loud shrieks came 
 from the other part of the house. 
 
 " Ha !" he cried, " the rogues are at work with 
 the other ladies. I'm vexed I parted with the
 
 THE BEAUX STRATAGEM. 175 
 
 pistol. But I must fly to their aid. "Will you 
 stay here, madam ?" 
 
 " Oh, no, dear sir," she cried, seizing his arm 
 nervously. " I will not let you leave me." 
 
 On reaching the other part of the house, they 
 beheld the remaining two rogues, with drawn 
 swords, dragging Lady Bountiful and Dorindafrom 
 their rooms, and loudly demanding their keys and 
 jewels. Before Archer could reach the spot, 
 however, Aimwell made his appearance, sword in 
 hand, and fiercely engaged the scoundels, who re- 
 leased the ladies and tui-ned upon him. 
 
 " Oh, had I but a sword to help this brave man !" 
 exclaimed Dorinda. 
 
 " I have one, madam," said Archer. " Hold, my 
 lord; every man his bird." And he rushed to 
 Aimwell's aid. 
 
 The two friends fought with such skill and 
 resolution that in a very few minutes the rogues 
 were disarmed and hurled to the floor. 
 
 " Shall we kill them ?" asked Archer. 
 
 *' 1^0 ; we'll bind them," said Aimwell. 
 
 This was soon done, with a rope which the vil- 
 lains had themselves brought. By the time they 
 were secured, Scrub reappeared, with a great show 
 of resolution. 
 
 " Well, Scrub, have you secured your Tartar ?" 
 asked Archer. 
 
 " Yes, sir, and I left the priest and him disput- 
 ing about religion." 
 
 "Then carry off these gentlemen to reap the
 
 176 TALES FROM THE DRAJVIATISTS. 
 
 benefit of the controversy," said Aimwell, deliv- 
 ering his prisoners to the butler. 
 
 "Now is your time," said Archer to Aimwell. 
 while the ladies were talking aside. " Press her 
 this minute to marry you, while she continues to 
 worship 3'ou as a hero, and the tide of her admira- 
 tion is at high flood. The priest is in the cellai', 
 and will not refuse." 
 
 "How shall I get her away without being 
 observed? Hal you bleed, Archer! You are 
 hurt !" 
 
 "A scratch. I am glad of it; it will do the 
 business. Can you find me a bandage, Lady 
 Bountiful ? I am wounded." 
 
 A chorus of pitying exclamations followed this 
 statement, and while the old lady ran for lint and 
 ointments, Mrs. Sullen hovered anxiously about 
 him whom her heart admitted as a lover. Aim- 
 well took ready advantage of the opportunity to 
 lead Dorinda away, making ardent love to her as 
 he went. It needed, indeed, few words, while her 
 heart pleaded so strongly in his favor, to induce 
 Dorinda to consent to an immediate marriage 
 with her heroic preserver, as she deemed him. 
 But before yielding a full consent she bade him 
 consider: he knew her not; she scarcely knew 
 herself; there might be much concealed in her 
 which he should learn. 
 
 This honest avowal had an effect different from 
 that which the lady expected. It touched Aim- 
 well's heart, and roused his conscience. In a
 
 THE BEAUX STRATAGEM. 177 
 
 moment of remorse he acknowledged that he, not 
 she, was the counterfeit, that he had deceived her, 
 and was but the penniless brother of the noble- 
 man whose title he had claimed. Yet, if he ex- 
 pected that this avowal would destroy his hopes, 
 he knew not love. Dorinda broke out in a pane- 
 gyric on his honesty, and continued : 
 
 " I was proud, I admit, of your wealth and title, 
 but now am prouder that you lack them, since 
 they leave you such nobility of soul. Now I can 
 show that my love was not based on pride, but is 
 the sterling coinage of the heart." 
 
 Before more words could be said, Gipsey en- 
 tered, and drawing the lady aside, wispered earn- 
 estly with her for a few minutes. 
 
 " Ah ! is it so ?" she said. '• Pray excuse me, 
 Mr. Aimwell. I shall return in a short time." 
 And she walked from the room, without a glance 
 at the lover whom she left in such cruel perplexity. 
 
 As she went out at one door, Archer entered at 
 the other, eager to learn if the marriage ceremony 
 had been performed. On learning that his plan 
 had failed through the inconvenient honesty of 
 his confederate, he grew angry, and declared that 
 their compact was at an end. 
 
 "It was your scheme, Mr. Aimwell; and you 
 have ruined it. Henceforth I'll seek my fortune 
 by myself I'd sooner change places with one of 
 the ros:ues we have bound than stay here to bear 
 the scornful smiles of the pi'oud knight whom I 
 once held as my equal." 
 Vol. I. — m
 
 178 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 "Knight I What knight?" 
 
 "Sir Charles Freeman, brother to Mrs. Sullen. 
 He has just arrived. It is a cursed night's work, 
 and I leave you to make the best of it." 
 
 Archer's angry withdrawal was prevented by 
 the hasty entrance of Dorinda, who came forward 
 with a face covered with smiles. 
 
 " Come, my dear lord," she cried. " I fly with 
 impatience to your arms. Bring the priest you 
 spoke of. I am yours." 
 
 " My lord ! No, no, Dorinda, call me not that. 
 I'll marry you gladly, but not as a counterfeit." 
 
 " You shall not, indeed, but as the true Lord 
 Aimwell ; and not in this clandestine manner, but 
 in the face of the whole world." 
 
 "What do you mean?" demanded Aimwell, in 
 ^ great perplexity. 
 
 " Here is my witness that I speak but the truth." 
 
 As she spoke Sir Charles Freeman and Mrs. 
 Sullen entered. 
 
 " My dear Lord Aimwell, I wish you joy," was 
 Sir Charles's greeting. 
 
 "Of what?" 
 
 " Of your honor and estate. Your brother died 
 the day before I left London. All your friends 
 have written to you to Brussels ; but I am happy 
 to be the first to bring you the news." 
 
 " By Jupiter I" cried Archer, " hero is a strange 
 turn in the wheel of fortune. My lord, by our 
 bargain, you owe me five thousand pounds, which 
 is half this ladj^'s fortune."
 
 THE BEAUX STRATAGEM. 179 
 
 " We'll divide stakes," answered Aimwell. 
 " You may take the whole fortune, or the lady, as 
 you will." 
 
 " How, my lord !" exclaimed Dorinda, startled. 
 " Do I hear aright ?" 
 
 " Trust him, madam," answered Archer ; *' he 
 knows very well that I'll take the money. Give 
 you up ! He'd sooner yield his new-born title." 
 
 This happy turn in the tide of events nearly 
 brings our story to a close. Yet there remain 
 some circumstances of importance to our other 
 characters to relate. As they stood conversing, 
 a countryman entered with a box and a letter, in- 
 quiring for "one Martin." The box proved to be 
 that which the two friends had left in the land- 
 lord's hands, and the letter was one from Cherry 
 to Archer, stating that her father had fled, from 
 fear of being informed on by the captive thieves. 
 She had remained behind, and was ready to 
 deliver herself into the hands of her dear Martin, 
 with a much larger sum than was in his strong 
 box. 
 
 " There's a billet-doux for you !" exclaimed 
 Archer. " Come, Aimwell, you must persuade 
 your bride to take Cherry into her service." 
 
 " I shall be glad to do so," said Dorinda. 
 
 " And now, friends all," said Sir Charles, " I 
 have a design in view in which I beg your assist- 
 ance ; no less a one than that of sepai-ating my 
 unfortunate sister from her worthless husband." 
 
 " Assist you !" exclaimed Archer. " Shall I
 
 180 TALES FEOM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 run the fellow through ? Or can you suggest any- 
 more peaceable means ?" 
 
 "The law's blunt end may work better than 
 the sword's sharp point," smiled Sir Charles. " A 
 divorce will serve as well as a duel. I have had 
 a talk with Sullen, and ho is quite ready to give 
 her up." 
 
 The event proved as he had stated. Sullen had 
 a native contempt for a respectable woman, which 
 had grown into a dull hatred of his wife, and 
 consented freely to a divorce, while, as for the 
 lady's fortune, Sir Charles succeeded in making 
 him disgorge that also. 
 
 Thus ended that eventful night. What followed 
 might be left to the reader's imagination, but a 
 few words will tell it. The new Lord Aimwell 
 had grown to love Dorinda as deeply as she loved 
 him, and their marriage took place before many 
 days, with great state and ceremony. And not 
 long afterwards, the separation of Mrs. Sullen 
 from her husband being completed by due course 
 of law. Archer led that happy lad}- to the altar, 
 and the stratagem of the pair of adventurous 
 beaux ended in joy for all concerned.
 
 THE BELLE'S STRATAGEM. 
 
 BY HANNAH COWLEY. 
 
 [" The Beaux Stratagem" may be fitly followed 
 by " The Belle's Stratagem" of Mrs. Cowley, a 
 work which, while of a lower literary standard, 
 has much dramatic merit, and proved highly suc- 
 cessful as a play. The authoress, whose maiden 
 name was Park house, was born at Tiverton, Eng- 
 land, in 1743, was married to Captain Cowley, an 
 officer of the East India Company, and died in 
 1809. She wrote a considerable number of plays, 
 but is known to-day principally by the lively 
 comedy above named.] 
 
 Mr. Doricourt, senior, had left a large estate 
 to be disposed of in a singular manner. It had 
 been arranged, between him and his friend Mr. 
 Hardy, that a marriage should take place between 
 the son of the former and the daughter of the 
 latter when they came of age. So earnest were 
 the two fathers in this matter that, lest the young 
 people should have other views about matrimony 
 when they grew up, the will declared that if ihe 
 gentleman declined the marriage, the estate (of 
 
 16 181
 
 182 TALES FROM THE DRA>LA.TISTS. 
 
 more than eighty thousand pounds) should go to 
 the lady, while if she should decline, it would be 
 inherited by the gentleman. 
 
 From their infancy, young Master Doricourt 
 and young Miss Hardy had been considered as 
 made for each other, and their infantile intimacy 
 early ripened into a boy and a girl affection. But 
 at an early age the youthful lover was sent to the 
 continent, where he remained for years. In his 
 occasional visits to England he failed to see his 
 betrothed, Mr. Hardy having the fancy that it 
 would be best to keep them asunder, and leave it 
 to his daughter's charms to win the heart of her 
 predestined lover when they became of marriage- 
 able age. 
 
 This plan had its defects. The j'oung man, in 
 his long life abroad, grew so infatuated with the 
 easy manner and witty liveliness of the ladies of 
 France and Italy as to unfit him for the modest 
 reticence of the young ladies of his native land ; 
 while his long absence from Miss Hardy weaned 
 all his early affection for her from his heart. She, 
 on the contrary, having lived a retired life, had 
 cherished the memory of her boy lover, and 
 looked forward to his return with warm expecta- 
 tion, mingled with nervous dread that was likely 
 to unfit her for making a favorable first im- 
 pression on the sophisticated young gentleman 
 from abroad. 
 
 When young Doricourt made his appearance, 
 indeed, fresh from Rome, the elegance of his
 
 THE belle's stratagem. 183 
 
 manner and appointments produced a sensation 
 in London. As his friend Courtall said: "His 
 carriage, his liveries, his dress, himself, are the 
 rage of the day ; and his valet is besieged by- 
 levees of tailors, habit-makers, and other minis- 
 ters of fashion, to gratify the impatience of their 
 customers for becoming a-la-mode de Doricourt." 
 
 This fine gentleman had not forgotten the im- 
 portant business that brought him to England. 
 If the charms of Miss Hardy had left no im- 
 pression upon his soul, those of the eighty thou- 
 sand pounds had grown very alluring to his mind. 
 His heart was still free from the chains of love, 
 and it was with mingled hope and fear that he 
 awaited an interview with his betrothed : hope 
 that he would find something in her to touch his 
 exacting heai't; fear that he would not. The 
 results of this interview may be given in a brief 
 conversation with his friend Saville : 
 
 " When do you expect Miss Hardy ?" asked 
 Saville. 
 
 " The hour of expectation is past," Doricourt 
 replied. " I had the honor of an interview this 
 morning at Pleadwell's ; where we met at Mr. 
 Hardy's request, to sign and seal the necessary 
 papers." 
 
 ""Well, did your heart leap, or sink, when you 
 beheld your betrothed ?" 
 
 " Faith, neither the one nor the other. She's a 
 fine girl, so far as flesh and blood goes ; but- " 
 
 "But what?"
 
 184 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 ** Why, she's only a fine girl ; complexion, shape, 
 and features; nothing more," 
 
 " Is not that enough ?" 
 
 " No ; she should have spirit, fire, that some- 
 thing or nothing which everybody feels, and 
 nobody can describe, in the resistless charmers of 
 Italy and France. Why, man, I w^as in the room 
 half an hour before I could catch the color of 
 her eyes ; and every attempt to draw her into 
 conversation occasioned so cruel an embarrass- 
 ment that I was reduced to the retailing of 
 foreign news to her father," 
 
 "So, then. Miss Hardy, with only beauty, 
 modesty, and merit, is doomed to the arms of a 
 husband who will despise her." 
 
 "Not so, Saville. She has not inspired me 
 with a violent passion, I must say ; but I have 
 honor, if I have not love." 
 
 " Honor without love is a poor capital to marry 
 upon, Doricourt." 
 
 The unfavorable impression which Letitia 
 Hardy had made upon her destined husband was 
 not paralleled in her case. His charms of person 
 and manner had produced a very different effect 
 upon her ardent fancy. The girl love with which 
 she had parted with him, years before, grow into 
 a woman's love when she saw in him all and more 
 than her dreams had painted ; his fiace the same, 
 yet its every grace finished and its every beauty 
 heightened. It was this sentiment, suddenly 
 chilled by the cold indifference of his expression, 
 
 N
 
 THE belle's stratagem. ^ 185 
 
 "which had caused the retiring bashfulness and 
 painful embarrassment to which he owed his dis- 
 enchantment. 
 
 All this she told to her friend, Mrs. Eackett, on 
 her return home, blaming herself bitterly for her 
 ill looks and awkward bearing, and him for his 
 lack of feeling and sentiment. 
 
 " How mortifying !" she exclaimed, " to find 
 myself at the same moment his slave and an 
 object of perfect indifference to him." 
 
 " Are you certain of that ? Did 3''0U expect him 
 to kneel down before the lawyer, his clerks, and 
 your father, to make oath of his admiration of 
 your beauty ?" asked Mrs. Eackett. 
 
 "No, but he should have looked as if a sud- 
 den ray had pierced him ; he should have been 
 breathless, speechless, — for oh, Caroline, all this 
 was I !" 
 
 "The more fool you. Do you expect a man 
 who has been courted by half the fine women in 
 Europe to feel like a girl from a boarding-school ? 
 He is your one pretty-faced gentleman ; but he 
 has run the gantlet of a million of pretty women, 
 child, before he saw you. Such a prize is not to 
 be won at sight." 
 
 " I will touch his heart or never be his wife !" 
 exclaimed Letitia, warmly. 
 
 They were interrupted at this point by the 
 entrance of Mr. Hardj", who was in high good 
 humor. He felt sure that Doricourt had fallen 
 desperately in love with his daughter, and could 
 
 16*
 
 186 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 not understand her depression, unless she had 
 taken a dishke to her betrothed. 
 
 " Tliere's a man for you !" cried Mrs. Eackett, 
 impatiently. " Can't you see that she's over head 
 and ears in love with him? And " 
 
 " And he cares no more for me than for this glove 
 on my hand," exclaimed Letitia. "But ho shall! 
 if there is spirit and invention in woman, he 
 shall." 
 
 " Hey day ! what's in the wind now ?" 
 
 " A plan has struck me," she replied, " which, 
 if you will not oppose it, flatters me with hopes of 
 brilliant success." 
 
 " Oppose it ? Not I, indeed ! What is it ?" 
 
 " Since he does not like me enough, he shall like 
 me less. At our next interview I shall manage to 
 turn his indiff'erence into positive dislike." 
 
 "Heaven and earth, Letitia, are you serious?" 
 exclaimed Mrs. Eackett. " Why seek to make 
 him dislike you?" 
 
 " Because it is much easier to convert a senti- 
 ment into its opposite than to transform indiffer- 
 ence into tender passion." 
 
 " That may be good philosophy ; but I am 
 afraid you will find it dangerous practice." 
 
 " I have the strongest confidence in it," said 
 Letitia. " Where looks have lost their power, 
 we will see what artifice will dw I am in high 
 spirits at the thought, and will stake my hopes of 
 happiness upon my stratagem." 
 
 With these words she went dancing and singing
 
 THE belle's stratagem. 187 
 
 from the room, leaving her father and friend 
 ignorant of the plot which she had devised, but 
 infected with hope by her confidence. 
 
 Before proceeding to describe Miss Hardy's 
 plan and how it worked, we must give some atten- 
 tion to a number of other persons who will take 
 part in our stor}-, and particularly to a newly- 
 married couple, Sir George Touchwood and his 
 wife, Lady Frances, who had just come up to 
 town. Sir George in his bachelor daj^s had led 
 a somewhat wild life, in London and Paris, but 
 since marrying a country beauty had grown so 
 absurdly jealous that he was ridiculed by all his 
 old friends. He had kept her in the country as 
 long as he could, and, in bringing her up to Lon- 
 don, did 80 with many fears of the influence which 
 the fashion and folly of the metropolis might 
 have on her susceptible and unsophisticated fancy. 
 
 His dread was not without reason. His wife's 
 heart had been kept like virgin wax, and was 
 ready to be impressed by good or bad influences. 
 Among his earliest visitors on reaching town was 
 Doricourt, who had heard of his extreme jealousy, 
 and took a wicked delight in tormenting him. 
 He begged to be introduced to his wife, whose 
 beauty and goodness Sir George praised beyond 
 measure. 
 
 " Introduce ! — yes, to be sure ! Lady Frances 
 is engaged just now, — but another time," stam- 
 mered the jealous husband. " How handsome the 
 dog looks to-day !" he said, nervously, to himself.
 
 188 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 "Another time! I have no other time. This 
 is the only hour I can command this fortnight." 
 
 " I am glad to hear that, with all my soul," said 
 Sir George, to himself. " So, then, you can't dine 
 with us to-day ! that's very unlucky," he continued. 
 
 " Oh, yes, — as to dinner, — I can stretch my time 
 that far." 
 
 "Pshaw! I didn't think what I was saying; 
 I meant supper. You can't sup with us ?" 
 
 " Whj', that will be more convenient than din- 
 ner I How fortunate ! if you had asked me any 
 other night I could not have come." 
 
 " To-night ! Gad, now I recollect, we are par- 
 ticularly engaged to-night. But to-morrow 
 night " 
 
 " Why, look ye. Sir Geoi'ge," exclaimed Dori- 
 court, "it is very plain you have no inclination to 
 let me see your wife at all. So here I sit." He 
 stretched himself at full length on the sofa. 
 " There's my hat, and here are my legs. Now I 
 shan't stir till I have seen her, and I have no en- 
 gagements ; I'll breakfast, dine, and sup with you 
 every da}' this Aveek." 
 
 While Sir George stood in dismay, endeavoring, 
 by making an open confession of his matrimonial 
 relations, to induce Doricourt not to make himself 
 too agreeable to the susceptible Lady Frances, a 
 servant appeared. 
 
 "Sir, my lady desires " he began. 
 
 "I am particularlj' engaged," answered Sir 
 George, shortly.
 
 THE belle's stratagem. 189 
 
 " That shall be no excuse in the world," cried 
 Doricourt, springing from the sofa. "Lead the 
 way, John. I'll attend your lady." 
 
 He followed the servant from the room, leaving 
 Sir G-eorge in the dilemma of the iish that has 
 been suddenly landed from the frying-pan into the 
 fire. 
 
 The poor knight's troubles for that day were 
 by no means ended. As he stood in nervous in- 
 decision, Mrs. Eackett and her friend Miss Ogle 
 were announced, and asked to see Lady Frances. 
 Here was a chance to get her away from Dori- 
 court. She was sent for, and on her entrance 
 was warmly greeted by her visitors, who soon 
 engaged her in a lively conversation, in which 
 they laughed at her homespun ways, and invited 
 her to go with them to an exhibition and an 
 auction. Afterwards they would take a turn in 
 the Park, drive to Kensington, and in the evening 
 attend Lady Brilliant's masquerade. 
 
 This promised series of pleasures set the young 
 wife's heart in a flutter, and she gladly agreed 
 to accompany them if Sir George had no engage- 
 ments. At this remark the visitors laughed more 
 heartily than ever, ridiculing her for her lack 
 of independence, and on Sir George's entrance 
 told him that they were, going to rob him of his 
 wife for a few hours. 
 
 " Oh, yes !" said Lady Frances, enthusiastically, 
 " I am going to an exhibition, and an auction, 
 and the Park, and Kensington, and a thousand
 
 190 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 places. It is quite ridiculous, I find, for mar- 
 ried people to be always together. We shall be 
 laughed at." 
 
 " I ara astonished !" exclaimed Sir George. " Mrs. 
 Eackett, what does the dear creature mean ?" 
 
 The dear creature's meaning was plain enough 
 when Mrs. Rackett had got through ; and so was 
 Sir George's when he had plainly expressed his 
 opinion of fashionable society. There arose a strug- 
 gle in Ladj'- Frances's heart between obedience to 
 her husband and desire for pleasure, which was 
 ended by the appearance of Mi*. Flutter, a light- 
 headed scandal-monger, who had a genius for 
 making mischief He was not a minute in the 
 room before he had let out a secret which all the 
 town had laughed at, but which Sir George had 
 sedulously concealed from his wife. This was 
 that Lady Frances's favorite bullfinch, which she 
 supposed had escaped by accident, had been set 
 free by her husband, whose insane jealousy ex- 
 tended even to her loving attentions to her bird. 
 
 " Is it possible ?" cried Lady Frances, with tears 
 of vexation in her eyes. " Oh, Sir George, how 
 could you be so cruel as to deprive mo of a 
 creature I was so fond of?" 
 
 This information turned the tide of her im- 
 pulses. She resolved to go, telling her husband 
 pettishly that she was not content to be treated 
 like a child, denied what she wished, and then 
 pacified with sweet words. 
 
 " Go, madam," he exclaimed, at length ; " give
 
 THE belle's stratagem. 191 
 
 yourself to the public ; abandon your heart to 
 dissipation ; and see if, in the scenes of gayety and 
 foll}^ that await you, j^ou can find a recompense 
 for the lost afiection of a doating husband." And 
 he left the room in strong indignation. 
 
 " I could find it in my heart " began Lady 
 
 Frances. " And yet I won't give up, either. If 
 I should in this instance, he'll expect it forever." 
 
 " Now you act like a woman of spirit," said 
 Miss Ogle, approvingly. 
 
 " A fair tug between duty and pleasure," 
 laughed Flutter. " Pleasure beats, and off we go." 
 
 Lady Frances lost no time in putting her reso- 
 lution into effect. In a few minutes she was ready 
 to drive off with her visitors, and made with 
 them the round of the exhibition and auction, 
 where her lack of experience got her into trouble. 
 For she found herself followed and rudely stared 
 at by Courtall, a man of libertine reputation. 
 Troubled by his attentions, she turned on him 
 severely, and told him that she was a married 
 woman, a piece of information which only made 
 him the more persistent. 
 
 "My dear Mrs. Eackett, I am so frightened!" 
 exclaimed Lady Frances. " Here is a man making 
 love to me, though he knows I am married." 
 
 As she spoke Courtall stepped up, and spoke 
 familiarly to her companions, asking Mrs. Eackett 
 if she would be at the masquerade. 
 
 " Yes, I go with Lady Frances here," she an- 
 swered.
 
 192 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 " Bless me !" cried Lady Frances, " I did not 
 know this gentleman was acquainted with Mrs. 
 Eackett. I behaved so rudely to him." And in 
 the warmth of her contrition, she fairly invited 
 him to accompany them to Kensington. 
 
 To this, however, Mrs. Eackett would not listen, 
 and the ladies drove off, leaving Courtall to in- 
 dulge in the fancy that he had made a very easy 
 conquest. Not long afterwards he met Saville, 
 who had been a lover of Lady Frances before her 
 marriage, and in his exultation offered to wager 
 that he would make love to that lady at the 
 masquerade, and fairly carry her off irom her 
 husband. This wager Saville accepted, in his 
 full reliance on the virtue and modesty of Lady 
 Frances. 
 
 Meanwhile Letitia Hardy was preparing to 
 carry out her plot against the cold heart of Dori- 
 court. It was her purpose to assume the charac- 
 ter of an ignorant and untrained hoiden, with an 
 assurance of manner the very reverse of her late 
 bashfulness. Mrs. Eackett had agreed to aid 
 her in this plot, of which her father was kept in 
 ignorance, for fear that he might reveal it. 
 
 Doricourt had promised to call, and on his 
 arrival he was met by the artful widovv, who took 
 steps to prepare him for Letitia's defects of edu- 
 cation, charging her with conceit, pertness, and 
 ignorance. This story Doricourt was not inclined 
 to believe, saying that he had been assured that 
 Miss Hardy was elegant and accomplished. " But
 
 THE belle's stratagem. 193 
 
 one must allow for a lady's painting," he con- 
 cluded. 
 
 " " Here she comes," said Mrs. Eackett. " Her 
 elegance and accomplishments will announce 
 themselves." 
 
 As she spoke Letitia ran in, exclaiming, — 
 
 " La, cousin, do you know that our John 
 
 Oh, dear heart! I didn't see you, sir." She 
 hung her head, and affected to hide behind Mrs. 
 Eackett. 
 
 " Fie, Letitia, you are not afraid of Mr. Dori- 
 court ?" 
 
 " But he's my sweetheart, and it is impudent to 
 look one's sweetheart in the face, you know." 
 
 " You will allow in future for a lady's painting, 
 sir," laughed Mrs. Eackett. 
 
 "I am astonished," answered Doricourt, look- 
 ing askance at Letitia. 
 
 "Well, hang it, I'll take heart," said Letitia, 
 from behind Mrs. Eackett, but in a tone intended 
 to reach his ears. " He is but a man, after all, 
 cousin, and I'll let him see I wasn't born in a 
 wood to be scared by an owl." She advanced to 
 Doricourt, making an awkward courtesy. " I 
 hear you have been a great traveller, sir. I wish 
 you'd tell us all about the fine sights you saw 
 when you went over sea." 
 
 " Don't ask him foolish questions," said Mrs. 
 Eackett. 
 
 " Hold your tongue ! Sure, I may say what I 
 please before I am married, if I can't afterwards. 
 Vol. I.— I n 17
 
 194 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 D'ye think a body does not know how to talk to 
 a sweetheart ? He is not the first I have had." 
 
 " Indeed !" said Doricourt. 
 
 " Ob, lud ! he speaks. Why, if you must know, 
 
 there was the curate, at home " And she 
 
 rattled on with a lot of silly statements about 
 her love-affairs that quite disgusted her elegant 
 suitor. 
 
 To his relief the conversation was soon inter- 
 rupted by the entrance of Mr. Hardy, who stood 
 aghast on hearing the flow of nonsense that came 
 from his daughter's lijjs. 
 
 " Mr. Doricourt," he exclaimed, " maybe you 
 take my daughter ^o be a fool, but you are mis- 
 taken. She's as sensible a girl as any in Eng- 
 land." 
 
 " I am convinced she has a very uncommon 
 understanding, sir," answered Doricourt in bitter 
 satire. " I did not think he was such an ass," he 
 continued to himself. 
 
 This effort of her father to destroy the effect 
 of her plot only set Letitia off in a greater out- 
 flow of foolish prattle than before, till the poor 
 man fairly capitulated to her eloquent absurdity. 
 
 " "What think you of my painting now ?" asked 
 Mrs. Eackett, after Letitia and her father had 
 gone out. 
 
 " Mere water-colors, madam. The original far 
 sui-passes your effort. As for marr^nng this idiot, 
 I shall first fly to the end of the world, or seek 
 the other world at the end of a pistol."
 
 THE belle's stratagem. 195 
 
 "Not to-night, at any rate, Mr. Doricourt. You 
 must atteud Mrs. Brilliant's masquerade, where 
 all the world are going. If you are resolved to 
 visit the other world, you may as well first take 
 one night's pleasure in this." 
 
 " Faith, that's true ! You are a philosopher, 
 Mrs. Eackett. Expect me at the masquerade." 
 
 He left the house with a feeling of disenchant- 
 ment concerning his affianced bride, saying to 
 himself that he would do as he had threatened 
 rather than marry such a woman. After he had 
 gone Mr. Hardy returned, and was appealed to by 
 Mrs. Eackett not to interfere in his daughter's 
 plot. 
 
 " Hang me if I don't, though !" he replied. "I 
 foresee what will be the end of it, if I leave you to 
 yourselves. If you two choose to play the fool, I 
 won't help you, and I shall follow Doricourt to 
 the masquerade and tell him all about it." And 
 the irate father left the house to jDrocure himself 
 a suitable costume. 
 
 We must now step a few hours in advance, to 
 the scene of the masquerade, a brilliant affair, in 
 whose motley company were embraced all the 
 characters of our story, including even Sir George 
 Touchwood, who had been induced by his wife to 
 attend. He wore a pink domino, trimmed with 
 blue, around which costume a complicated intrigue 
 had gathered. Courtall, eager to win his wager 
 from Saville, and convinced that Lady Frances 
 was not to be won by the usual resources of the
 
 196 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 libertine, had formed a plot to deceive her. Learn- 
 ing, through Sir George's servants, the dress he 
 was to wear, Courtall had obtained one like it, 
 designing to carry her off disguised as her hus- 
 band. Unluckily for his plot, Saville had discov- 
 ered it and arranged a counterplot. lie brought 
 to the masquerade a woman named Kitty Willis, 
 who had no reputation to lose, and who wore the 
 same disguise as Lady Frances, whom she had 
 agreed to personate. 
 
 This intrigue may be first disposed of. It will 
 suflSce to say that Lady Frances, who, inexperi- 
 enced in such scenes, was at first chai*med by the 
 liveliness and brilliancy of the spectacle, became 
 at length alarmed by the warnings of one dressed 
 as an enchanter, who predicted danger in a solemn 
 tone that frightened her. As she turned in haste 
 to seek her husband, Courtall entered, dressed like 
 Sir George, and suggested that they should leave 
 at once, as he was warm and tired. Gaining her 
 assent, he left the room to order the carriage. 
 
 The instant he had departed the conjurer re- 
 turned, leading a mask in the same dress as Lady 
 Frances. Leaving her at the side he advanced 
 quickly to the real Lady Frances, and, removing 
 his mask, showed the features of Saville. 
 
 "Mr. Saville!" she exclaimed. "I did not 
 dream it was you. I am waiting for Sir George, 
 who has gone for the carriage. We are going 
 home immediately." 
 
 " You are deceived, madam. I warned you of
 
 THE belle's stratagem. 197 
 
 danger. Sir George may be found in this direc- 
 tion." 
 
 " What do you mean, Mr. Saville ?" 
 
 " Be not alarmed ; you have escaped a snare, 
 and shall be in safety in a minute." 
 
 She accompanied him, clinging in affright to his 
 arm. They had scarcely left the room when 
 Courtall returned, and, seeing the counterfeit 
 Lady Frances, seized her hand and bade her come 
 at once. She obeyed without hesitation, though 
 the seemingly successful libertine would have felt 
 much less triumphant had he seen the laughing 
 face behind the mask. 
 
 Meanwhile Doricourt had found a still more 
 cogent reason than her seeming ignorance and folly 
 for detesting his betrothal to Miss Hardy. In 
 short, he had met a masked lady of such seeming 
 grace and beauty, and whose conversation dis- 
 played such wit and spirit, that his fancy was 
 strangely taken prisoner. She danced a minuet 
 with him, and by her grace of movement threw 
 still stronger chains about his heart. 
 
 " She dances divinely !" he said to himself. 
 " Who can she be ? Somebody must know her, 
 and I am bound to learn." 
 
 Shortly afterwards he met Saville, and described 
 the lady, but his friend could give him no infor- 
 mation. 
 
 " But why are you seeking strange charmers ?" 
 he asked. " Where is Miss Hardy ?" 
 
 "Not here, Mrs. Eackett says. Thank Heaven 
 
 17*
 
 198 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 for that ! Do you know, Saville, I have been 
 frightfully disenchanted ? The creature is almost 
 an idiot." 
 
 " What ?" 
 
 "You should hear her! What the deuce shall 
 I do ? Faith, I think I shall feign myself mad,— 
 and then Hardy may be ready to break off the 
 engagement." 
 
 "I don't know what you mean," answered 
 Saville, in perplexity. " You are mad now, I fear. 
 But I must leave you to dream of your mysterious 
 stranger." 
 
 Doricourt stood musing after Saville had left, 
 revolving in his mind his new idea of feigning 
 madness, and so lost in his thoughts that he failed 
 to heed what went on about him. 
 
 " You have chosen an odd situation for study," 
 said a voice at his elbow. " Fashion and taste 
 preside at this spot. They seek to throw their 
 delightful spells around you. Yet here you stand 
 like a stoic, wrapped in sober reflection." 
 
 He turned, to behold the unknown mask who 
 had so strangely attracted him. 
 
 "And you, the most charming being in the 
 world, bring me back to reason and admiration. 
 From what star have you come?" 
 
 A lively chat succeeded, in which the witty un- 
 known held her own with a spirit that surpassed 
 his. In the end he grew bold, begged for a kiss, 
 and attempted to remove her mask. She fled at 
 this, he in close pursuit.
 
 THE belle's stratagem. 199 
 
 " By heaven, I never was charmed till now !" he 
 exclaimed. " English beauty — French vivacity — 
 wit — elegance ! Tell me your name, my angel, if 
 you will not let me see your face." 
 
 "To-morrow you shall be satisfied," she an- 
 swered. 
 
 " To-morrow ! "Where ? At what hour ?" 
 
 " You shall see me when and where you, least 
 expect. Adieu, now. Stir not a step. Ijf I am 
 followed you will never see me more.^ 
 
 And the mysterious charmer flitted away, leav- 
 ing Doricourt more nearly in Ipye than, he had; 
 ever been in his life before. 
 
 As she passed from thp room, Flutter and Mr. 
 Hardy entered by the sana^e door. Doricourt ran 
 hastily to the light-brained know-all. 
 
 "Oh, Flutter!" he cried, "tell me, you who 
 know everybody, who is that charming creature ?" 
 
 " What charmiaig creature ? I have met a 
 thousand." 
 
 " She w,ent out at that door, as you entered." 
 
 " Oh, shg^ — ^I know her well. A beauty of very 
 easy virtue. She is kept by Lord George Jennett." 
 
 " Kept ! Good heaven !" 
 
 " Flutter is mistaken," said Mr. Hardy, pressing 
 forward. " I know who you are in love with. 
 The lady you admire is " 
 
 " Your daughter, I suppose," answere,d: Dori- 
 court, haughtily. " You know the state of my 
 affections better than I do myself, sir. But it is 
 too soon to assume the father-in-law, and rebuke
 
 200 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 me as a wanderer in heart." And he angrily 
 strode from the room. 
 
 "Very well, my wise youth," exclaimed Mr. 
 Hardy, in hot pique. "You won't let me tell 
 you, then ! Hang me if I don't plot with Letty 
 now, and not against her ! You need to be taught 
 a lesson, my hasty young gentleman." 
 
 The masquerade ended without Doricourt being 
 able to gain a further glimpse of the charming 
 unknown. Indeed, Flutter's assurance had so 
 cooled his flame, and thrown him into such per- 
 plexity, that he was for the time not sure whether 
 it would be better to go mad, marry the rustic 
 Letitia, or shoot himself 
 
 The masquerade had developed a brace of in- 
 trigues, of which we must first dispose of the 
 lesser. Courtall, full of anticipated triumph over 
 Saville, and addition to his fame as a man of 
 gallantry, had borne off the counterfeit Lady 
 Frances to his lodgings. But hardly had he un- 
 masked, and attempted to soothe the seemingly 
 frightened beauty, when Saville, Flutter, and a 
 number of others broke in upon him. 
 
 He hastily concealed his prize, laughed at 
 Saville for losing his bet, and was in the midst of 
 his declarations of triumph, when Flutter. opened 
 the closet in which the woman had been hidden, 
 drew her out, and tore off her mask. 
 
 Courtall stood looking at the revealed face in 
 stupefied amazement, while the others burst into 
 shouts of laughter.
 
 THE belle's stratagem. 201 
 
 "Kitty Willis! Ha! ha! ha!" they shouted. 
 "A lady of quality! An earl's daughter! ha! 
 ha ! ha I Oh, Courtall, you will kill us !" 
 
 " Ten thousand furies seize you !" yelled the 
 discomfited libertine. " Leave ray rooms !" 
 
 "As you wish, Courtall. We won't speak of 
 this, of course. But the next time you carry off 
 a lady from a ballroom, do look under her mask." 
 
 " The foul fiend take you all !" cried Courtall. 
 " I'll set off for Paris directly, before I am laughed 
 out of London." 
 
 He was correct in supposing that the story 
 would soon get abroad. It was the laugh of 
 fashionable London the next day, and quickly 
 reached the ears of Sir George and his wife. It 
 affected them differently. Sir George sought 
 Courtall, with the intention of punishing him, 
 but he had already set out for France. As for 
 Lady Frances, she was thoroughly cured of her 
 predilection for a fashionable life. 
 
 "One lesson of this kind is enough," she de- 
 clared. " Henceforward, my dear Sir George, you 
 shall be my constant companion and protector. 
 And when the world laughs at us as unfashion- 
 able monsters, our mutual happiness will take all 
 the sting from the satire." 
 
 " My angel ! You almost reconcile me to 
 Courtall," declared the happy Sir George. 
 
 Meanwhile, in the affair of Doricourt and his 
 betrothed, a double stratagem was impending. 
 The encounter of the night before had quite com- 
 
 \
 
 202 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 pleted the work wliich Miss Hardy's affected 
 rusticity had begun. Doricourt, while not mad 
 enough to think of marrying the mistress of a 
 man of fashion, had conceived a feeling so closely 
 approaching love at first sight for the masked 
 beauty, that the projected match with Miss Hardy 
 had grown doubly distasteful. But to throw 
 overboard a fortune of eighty thousand pounds 
 was another matter, and, in default of a better 
 scheme, he determined to carry out his idea of 
 pretended madness, with the hope of inducing 
 Mr. Hardy to break off the match. 
 
 This scheme was approved by Saville, to whom 
 he spoke of it the next morning. Shortly after- 
 wards Flutter called, and Doricourt tried his 
 plan of madness on him with such effect that the 
 poor fellow was scared half out of his wits. He 
 escaped from the room with all haste, leaving the 
 conspirators satisfied that, within an hour, their 
 news-distributor would spread the story far and 
 wide. 
 
 While Doricourt was preparing this plot, the 
 Hardys had put another in train. The wedding 
 was not to have taken place for a week or more, 
 but, through fear that Letty could not keep up 
 her character of a fool so long, it was deemed 
 advisable to hasten the happy occasion. The 
 conspirators decided, after consultation, that Mr. 
 Hardy should feign illness, surround himself with 
 medicines, paint his face of a cadaverous hue. 
 and send word to Doricourt that he had suddenly
 
 THE belle's stratagem. 203 
 
 been prostrated with a dangerous sickness, was 
 on the point of death, and could not go out of the 
 world in peace till he had seen his daughter safely 
 married. 
 
 The situation had now become a very compli- 
 cated one. On the one hand Doricourt professing 
 madness to escape marriage with a fool ; on the 
 other Miss Hardy playing the fool to pique him 
 out of his indifference ; and, to sum all, her father 
 playing the dying man to burry up the wedding. 
 
 The tidings of Doricourt's madness and Hardy's 
 illness soon reached the ears it was intended for. 
 
 " So ill as that !" exclaimed Doricourt to Saville. 
 " I'm very sorry to hear that. He is a worthy 
 fellow, even if a little annoying." 
 
 '• Well, you must go and take leave." 
 
 "What! Act the lunatic in a dying man's 
 chamber ?" 
 
 "Just the thing: his last commands will be 
 that you are not to marry his daughter." 
 
 " True I Yet, hang it, I don't like to impose 
 upon a man at so serious a moment. And then I 
 will have to encounter Eackett. She's an arch 
 little creature, and will discover the cheat." 
 
 " Here's a fellow ! Cheated ninety-nine women, 
 and now afraid of the hundredth!" 
 
 "And with reason, — for the hundredth is a 
 widow." 
 
 Doricoui-t proved to be correct in his fear of 
 Mrs. Eackett's penetration. When he reached 
 Mr. Hardy's house, and tried his madness upon
 
 204 TALES FROM THE DBAMATISTS. 
 
 the widow, he found himself heartily laughed at 
 for his pains. 
 
 " I could do it ten times better than you," de- 
 clared Mrs. Kackett. — " There 1 There she is I 
 JSTow I have her ! — Ha I ha ! ha !" 
 
 " I'll leave the house," exclaimed Doricourt, in 
 confusion. 
 
 " Not till you have seen the dying Mr. Hardy. 
 You must grant his desire for a minute's conver- 
 sation, even though you should persist in your 
 cruel wish to send him miserable to his grave." 
 
 Doricourt, with a mind very far from being at 
 ease, consented. It proved a dangerous consent 
 for him. The surroundings of the sick-room, the 
 skilful acting of Mr. Hardy, the memory of his 
 own father's ardent wish, the pathetic appeal of 
 the apparently dying invalid, so worked on his 
 susceptible fancy that tears came to his eyes, and 
 he impulsively agreed that the marriage should 
 take place. 
 
 " Make haste," he exclaimed. " If I have time 
 to reflect, poor Hardy will die unhappy." 
 
 The clergyman was present, and performed the 
 ceremony so expeditiously that the deceived bride- 
 groom had not a moment's time for thought. 
 Before he fairly knew it himself he was a mar- 
 ried man, tied for life to one whom he believed to 
 be little better than an idiot. 
 
 Eeflection came afterwards, — and with it re- 
 morse. When Doricourt reached the room where 
 the remainder of his friends were assembled, he
 
 THE belle's stratagem. 205 
 
 was perhaps the most melancholy bridegroom who 
 had ever breathed London air. 
 
 Yet he had not reached his lowest depth of 
 despair. As he stood there conversing, with a 
 gloomy effort at resignation, a masked lady en- 
 tered the room, at the sight of whom he started 
 as if he had really gone mad. It was the mys- 
 terious charmer of the masquerade. 
 
 " I told you that you should see me when and 
 where you least expected," she said. " I am here 
 to keep my promise." 
 
 " Madam," said Saville, "you have arrived at a 
 happy moment. Mr. Doricourt is just married." 
 
 " Married ! after swearing eternal love to me, 
 and winning my guileless heart !" 
 
 " I knew you not then," declared Doricourt, in 
 torture of soul. " I learned too much afterwards. 
 The companion of Lord George Jennett " 
 
 " What do you mean, sir?" she indignantly re- 
 plied. "Do you desire to add insult to injury? 
 To excuse your broken vows " 
 
 " Eascal !" interrupted Doricourt, speaking to 
 Flutter. " You told me. Is she not " 
 
 " Who, she ? Why, it was quite a different per- 
 son I meant. I never saw this lady before," pro- 
 tested Flutter. 
 
 This was too much for poor Doricourt. He 
 seized Flutter and shook him so violently that the 
 others had to tear him off, lest he should do the 
 miserable tale-bearer an injury. 
 
 The distressed Benedict was not yet at the end 
 
 18
 
 206 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 of his surprises. In the midst of his assault on 
 Flutter, Mr. Hardy entered, in nightcap and 
 gown, and exclaimed, — 
 
 " This is too much. You are now the husband 
 of my daughter! How dare you show all this 
 passion about another woman ?" 
 
 "You here! Alive I" cried Doricourt. 
 
 " And merry as a cricket," laughed Hardy. 
 " Here, wipe the flour from my face. Why, my 
 illness was but a trick, man, to make you marry 
 Letty." 
 
 " Base and ungenerous man ! "Well, you have 
 gained your wish, — and may keep your daughter. 
 I shall leave England this night, never to return. 
 But, dear lady, grant me the favor which you 
 refused last night. Let me see your face, that in 
 my exile I shall have that much consolation in my 
 lonely hours." 
 
 " This is the most awful moment of my life," 
 answered the lady. " Oh, Doricourt, the taking 
 off of my mask will make me the most blessed or 
 most miserable of women." 
 
 " What can you mean ? Eeveal your face, I 
 pray you." 
 
 " Behold it, then." 
 
 She removed the mask as she spoke, and re- 
 vealed to the agitated man the well-known features 
 of — Letitia Hardy. 
 
 " You ?— Letitia ? Oh, what rapture! You? 
 Can it be possible ?" 
 
 " You would not love me as I was, Doricourt ;
 
 THE belle's stratagem. 207 
 
 and you fairly hated me as I assumed to be. 
 You finally fell in love with me as somebody else ; 
 — shall I keep that love, as nobody but your plain, 
 but devoted, English wife ?" 
 
 " You shall be nothing but yourself You could 
 not be half so captivating in any other character. 
 There is henceforth but one woman in the world 
 for me, — and that is my own dear wife." 
 
 " Come into the next room," exclaimed Mr. 
 Hardy. " I have ordered out every drop of my 
 forty-eight ; and I'll invite the whole parish of 
 St. George's but we'll drink it out to the happy 
 success of— the Belle's Stratagem." 
 
 END OF VOL. I.
 
 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS 
 
 1580 TO 1780 
 VOLUME 11.
 
 jii.uur.il*. 
 
   'Vvfc mTi^,r\y t,T !?><'. ■!-\, t 
 
 o*: ' 
 
 
 ced, was 
 ig minister of 
 
 the career of 
 
 d 
 Moore also 
 
 
 's 
 
 fableti ! nixe very j 
 
 
 ^ , . " ' .^"'"vies ago, there 
 
 lived a ^ . . who was pos- 
 
 sessed with such a passion for gaming that he had, 
 through his devotion to cards and dice, wasted 
 an ample fortune, and brought himself to the 
 
 -- ^ ' ^f ruin. This unfortunate state of affairs 
 
 rgely due to his unbounded trust in a 
 
 oeming friend named Stukely, who, while pre- 
 
 •mmiseration fcxr the family ;i 
 
 'aim the g ' ' o 
 
 .u liuu ijx uiti estate b\
 
 
 OHVEK GOLDSMITH.
 
 THE GAMESTER. 
 
 BY EDWAKD MOOEE. 
 
 [The author of the thrilling domestic tragedy 
 of "The Gamestei'," one of the strongest lessons 
 against the evils of gambling ever presented, was 
 born in 1712, the son of a dissenting minister of 
 Abingdon. The play is lacking in literary merit, 
 but is constructed with much dramatic skill, and 
 the career of Beverly, the gambler, affords excel- 
 lent opportunities for stage effect. Moore also 
 wrote two comedies, and an imitation of Gay's 
 fables that became very popular. He died in 1757.] 
 
 In London, about two centuries ago, there 
 lived a gentleman named Beverly, who was pos- 
 sessed with such a passion for gaming that he had, 
 through his devotion to cards and dice, wasted 
 an ample fortune, and brought himself to the 
 verge of ruin. This unfortunate state of affairs 
 was largely due to his unbounded trust in a 
 seeming friend named Stukely, who, while pre- 
 tending commiseration for the family; and a 
 desire to reclaim the gambler, had contrived to 
 rob him of his estate by surrounding him with a.
 
 8' TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 Bot of sharpers, his tools and confederates. The 
 wealth which Beverly had lost had gone mainly 
 into the pockets of this supposed friend, through 
 the aid of false dice and fraudulent play. Stukely 
 had other ends in view than the ruin of his 
 blinded dupe. Mi-s. Beverly's beauty had at- 
 tracted his licentious eyes, and the overthrow 
 of her virtue was one of the main objects in his 
 nefarious schemes. 
 
 As for this lady, her husband's ruinous passion 
 for gambling had reduced her to the utmost dis- 
 tress. She had beheld his own fortune, and the 
 one which she had brought him, vanish before 
 her eyes, until now her house and furniture had 
 been sold to pay the accumulating debts, and she, 
 with Charlotte, Mr. Beverly's sister, had retired 
 to humble lodgings, whither they were pursued 
 by creditors. Of her once abundant means Mrs. 
 Beverly had only her jewels left. Charlotte's fort- 
 une was also in her brother's hands ; and there was 
 reason to fear that now, having dissipated his own 
 and his wife's estates, he might squander hers on 
 the wretches who had robbed him of his own. 
 
 There is still another person of whom we must 
 speak, Mr. Lewson, a devoted lover of Charlotte, 
 and a generous friend, who had secretly bought 
 in the Beverly house and furniture, which he held 
 for the use of the unhappy wife. His courtship 
 of Charlotte had so far proved unsuccessful, her 
 sympathy for her suffering sister-in-law being so 
 great that she would not listen to anything that
 
 THE GAMESTER. » 
 
 might part them. As foi' her fortune, which 
 Beverly falsely assured her was still untouched, 
 she determined to remove it from his hands, if 
 possible, and use it for the support of the game- 
 ster's reduced family. 
 
 On the occasion when we first meet these un- 
 fortunate women, Beverly had been absent all 
 night, and his poor wife was in a state of the 
 deepest sorrow and apprehension, for he had 
 never before left her alone for a night. While 
 Charlotte was seeking to comfort her, they were 
 visited by an old servant of the family named 
 Jarvis, a faithful old man, who greeted them with 
 so much feeling as to bring tears to Mrs. Beverly's 
 eyes. He begged to be permitted to attend Mr. 
 Beverly at his own expense, and seek to with- 
 draw him from his evil ways. 
 
 Mr. Stukely called immediately afterwards, 
 with words and tones of the deepest sympathy. 
 He expressed surprise and alarm that Beverly 
 had not returned, declared that he had lavished 
 good advice on him without effect, and had sup- 
 plied him with money to the injury of his own for- 
 tune. Where he was now he could not tell. He had 
 left him, he said, the evening before at a place 
 called Wilson's, in company he did not like. If 
 Mr. Jarvis wished to find him, he might seek him 
 there. 
 
 Jarvis left for this purpose, and a knocking at 
 the door calling Charlotte from the room, Stukely 
 was left alone with Mrs. Beverly. He took
 
 10 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 instant advantage of the opportunity to further 
 the base scheme tliat nestled in his brain, insidi- 
 ously hinting to the unhappy wife doubts of the 
 cause of her husband's absence, and striving to 
 arouse jealous feelings in her mind. 
 
 "Yet the world is full of slander," he said. 
 " If you are wise, you will turn a deaf ear to such 
 reports. 'Tis ruin to believe them." 
 
 " "Why name them, then ?" 
 
 " To guard you against the voice of rumor. These 
 tales may reach your ears from other tongues." 
 
 " What tales ? By whom ? Who doubts my 
 husband's faith ? You are his friend, — and mine 
 too, I trust. Only for that I had been uncon- 
 cerned." 
 
 " For Heaven's sake, madam, bo so ! I meant 
 to guard you against suspicion, not to arouse it." 
 
 " Nor have you, sir. I have a heart suspicion 
 cannot reach." 
 
 " Then I am happy. I pray you, let this go no 
 further. I would say more, but am prevented." 
 
 His insidious hints were brought to an end by 
 the return of Charlotte, who said that a creditor 
 had called, but had been dismissed by Jarvis. 
 Immediately afterwards Mrs. Beverly left the 
 room, in a dispirited mood, saying that she was 
 faint with watching and must take some rest, 
 
 Stukely watched her with cunning eyes, well 
 knowing that it was the poison he had breathed 
 into her ear that affected her spirits. He had 
 played the first card in his evil game. While he
 
 THE GAMESTER. 11 
 
 stood conversing with Charlotte, Mr. Lewson 
 entered, and asked for Mr. Beverly. On learning 
 of his continued absence, he turned to Stukely 
 with a hostile expression of countenance. 
 
 « I inquired for you at your lodgings, sir," he 
 remarked. 
 
 " For what purpose, pray ?" asked Stukely. 
 
 " Only to congratulate you on your late successes 
 at play. Poor Beverly ! But he should take some 
 comfort in having such successful friends." 
 
 " What am I to understand by this?" demanded 
 Stukely, angrily. 
 
 "That Beverly is a poor man, with a rich 
 friend. That's all." 
 
 " Sir, this needs an explanation. Another time 
 I shall demand one." 
 
 " Why not now ? I am no dealer in long sen- 
 tences. A minute or two will do for me." 
 
 Stukely, however, whose courage ran far short 
 of his villany, was just then not anxious for an 
 explanation; and sheltering himself behind the 
 excuse of a lady's presence, he took his leave, 
 declaring that he was ready to hear from the 
 gentleman at any future time. 
 
 "What mean you by this ?" demanded Char- 
 lotte, in a tone of surprise. 
 
 " To hint to him that I know him." 
 
 " Know him ? This is mere doubt and supposi- 
 tion." 
 
 " I shall have proof soon." 
 
 " And would you risk your life "
 
 12 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 " My life ? With Stukely ? Have no concern, 
 Charlotte. I know the fellow well. It would be 
 as easy to make him honest as brave. But I hear 
 Mrs. Beverly coming. Let this be a secret between 
 us. She has already too much to trouble her." 
 
 Stukely, meanwhile, betook himself to his 
 lodgings, where he soliloquized over his projects. 
 He had loved Mrs. Beverly before her marriage, 
 and now thirsted for revenge on the man who had 
 robbed him of her, and whom he sought to repay 
 by robbing him of his wealth. There still re- 
 mained to Beverly his wife's jewels and the rever- 
 sion of his uncle's estate. These Stukely declared 
 to himself he must have, to complete the game- 
 ster's ruin. Beverly must demand his wife's 
 jewels. Once in the tempter's hands, he could 
 use them to add fuel to her jealousy. 
 
 His soliloquy was interrupted by the entrance 
 of one of his chief agents, a fellow named Bates. 
 
 " Our forces are in readiness," he said, " and 
 only wait for orders. Where is Beverly ?" 
 
 " At last night's rendezvous. Is Dawson with 
 you?" 
 
 " Yes. Dressed like a nobleman ; with money 
 in his pocket, and a set of dice that would deceive 
 the devil." 
 
 " That fellow has a head to undo a nation. But 
 for the rest, they are such low-mannered, ill- 
 looking dogs, I wonder Beverly has not suspected 
 them." 
 
 " That matters nothing, if they have money.
 
 THE GAMESTER. 13 
 
 The passion of gambling casts such a mist before 
 the eyes, that the nobleman may be surrounded 
 with sharpers, and yet imagine himself in the best 
 company." 
 
 And 80 they went on, laying their plans, not 
 the least of which was a resolution to take care of 
 the suspicious Lewson, whom Stukely declared 
 would ruin them if they did not checkmate his 
 designs. 
 
 While these events, caused by and revolving 
 round Beverly's insane infatuation, were taking 
 place, that person was seated in the gaming house 
 which had been the scene of his chief losses. 
 His soul was filled with remorse, which was added 
 to by the entrance of Jarvis, who deeply impressed 
 upon him the sad state in which he had found his 
 wife. But the beneficial effect which these admo- 
 nitions might have had was prevented by the en- 
 trance of his evil genius, Stukely, who laughed at 
 the misgivings of his dupe and bade him cheer up, 
 telling him that fortune must soon turn in his 
 favor. As for himself, he declared that he was 
 ruined also, and even in danger of prison for his 
 debts, but that he was not the man to give up 
 hoj)e. " Have you nothing," he asked ; " no 
 movables, no trinkets, that can be converted into 
 money ? Your wife's jewels ?" 
 
 " And shall this thriftless hand seize them, too ?" 
 exclaimed Beverly, in deep distress. " My poor, 
 poor wife I Must she lose all ? I could not wound 
 her so." 
 
 2
 
 14 TALES FROM THE DKAMATIST8. 
 
 " No matter. Let it pass. "What if a prison 
 be the reward of friendship? It is what one 
 must look for." 
 
 "Leave you to a prison 1 No; fallen as you 
 Bee me, I am not such a wretch as that I My 
 wife's jewels? — But in friendship's cause? — I'll 
 doit!" 
 
 Beverly left the house in a passion of feeling 
 for his friend, and returned home, resolved to 
 make any sacrifice to save him from prison. His 
 wife met him with a love that ignored her wrongs. 
 So kind was her greeting, indeed, that the re- 
 morseful gamester had not the courage to hint at 
 the purpose which had brought him. But this 
 possibility Stukely had foreseen and provided for. 
 He sent a letter after his dupe, which reached 
 him while in conversation with his wife. In this 
 he declared that he had determined to trespass no 
 further on his friend's bounty, but would leave 
 England and thus escape the danger that threat- 
 ened him, rather than resort to the means they 
 had talked of. 
 
 The blinded dupe read the letter to his wife, 
 who earnestly insisted on knowing what means 
 these were, and on learning that the writer al- 
 luded to her jewels, she begged her husband to 
 take them. 
 
 " What are these trifles, if weighed against a 
 husband's peace ?" she declared. " Let them pur. 
 chase that, and the world's wealth is valueless 
 beside it."
 
 THE GAMESTER. 15 
 
 The ruined gamester, however, did not fare so 
 well with the other inmates of his house. Lewson 
 spoke so plainly of his doubts of Stukely that a 
 quarrel nearly arose between them ; while Char- 
 lotte pressed him so closely in regard to her for- 
 tune that he was put to straits to hide the fact 
 that it had sunk into the same gulf which had 
 swallowed his own, and only escaped her ques- 
 tions by promising to satisfy her in the morn- 
 ing. 
 
 The result of this last venture with the god- 
 dess Fortune was but what might have been ex- 
 pected. The jewels were converted into money, 
 the money pressed upon Stukely, and at the 
 gaming table it quickly went where so much had 
 gone before it, into the hands of the gang of soul- 
 less sharpers. 
 
 The reverse, fi"om a venture which Stukely had 
 made to appear so promising, almost overturned 
 Beverly's reason. He turned fiercely on his 
 false friend, accusing him of being the demon 
 who had first induced him to gamble, and led 
 him on from loss to loss by his insidious counsels ; 
 and was only prevented from assailing him by 
 his earnest protest that he too had been ruined. 
 
 Beverly's passion, thus diverted, next turned 
 against the sharpers who had ruined him, and 
 whom he now declared must have done so by 
 fraud, 
 
 " Yet the world speaks fairly of them," said 
 Stukely. "We have watched them closely, too.
 
 16 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 But it is a right usurped by losers to think the win- 
 ners knaves. Let us have more manhood, Beverly." 
 
 " I know not what to think," cried Beverly, in 
 despair. "This night has stung me to the quick ; 
 blasted my reputation, too. I have bound my 
 honor to these vipers; played meanly on credit, 
 and have no means to pay." 
 
 Stukely insidiously hinted, in reply, that one 
 means of redress remained, which would enable 
 him to pay his debts and would yield him a sum 
 to retrieve his losses. This was, to sell the rever- 
 sion to his uncle's estate. Bates was wealthy and 
 would purchase it. 
 
 " Be it so," exclaimed the desperate gamester. 
 " Succeed what will, to-night I'll dare the worst. 
 'Tis loss of fear to be completely cursed." 
 
 Stukely, congratulating himself on having led 
 his dupe so far on the road to ruin, now pro- 
 ceeded to put into effect the scheme directed 
 against the honor of his wife. Leaving Beverly 
 to visit Bates, and add his prospects of future 
 fortune to the sum of his previous losses, the 
 villain sought the humble abode which now 
 formed the unfortunate lady's home. 
 
 On meeting her, he declared that he had parted 
 from Beverly that morning in anger, and on her 
 speaking of the letter which had induced her to 
 yield up her jewels, he stated, with a pretence of 
 indignation, that it was a false one, a mean con- 
 trivance to rob her of the little that remained to 
 her. He vowed that it had not been written bv
 
 THE GAMESTER. 17 
 
 him, but by Beverly himself, and that the jewels 
 yielded him by his wife had been lavished on a 
 wanton. 
 
 This well-devised plot, which he unfolded with 
 the greatest show of feeling, declaring that he 
 spoke from personal knowledge, convinced the 
 trusting wife that she had been cruelly deceived ; 
 and in the fire of her resentment, she declared 
 that she would be revenged on him who had so 
 deeply injured her. 
 
 " Redress is in your power." he said. 
 
 " What redress ?" 
 
 " The marriage vow, once violated, is in the 
 sight of Heaven dissolved. Start not, but hear 
 me. You owe no loyalty to him who has injured 
 you so deeply. Fly from the crudest of men for 
 shelter with the kindest ; from him who wrongs 
 you to him who dares tell you that he loves you." 
 
 During these words Mrs. Beverly had gazed 
 upon the speaker with startled eyes, amazement 
 graduall}' turning to indignatiou as he went on. 
 When, in the end, he fully revealed his base du- 
 plicity, she broke out with a fury that could no 
 longer be restrained. 
 
 " Would that these eyes had heaven's own 
 lightning, that with a look I might blast you!" 
 she exclaimed. " Am I, then, fallen so low ? Has 
 poverty so humbled me that I could listen to a 
 hellish offer, and sell my soul for bread? O 
 villain ! villain ! But I know you now, and thank 
 you for the knowledge." 
 Vol. II.— 6 2*
 
 18 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 Stukely listened with startled ears to this un- 
 looked-for reception of his base proposal. He 
 had played and failed. Nothing remained but to 
 seek to hide his baseness, and he endeavored to do 
 this by threats. 
 
 " I scorn you and your threats !" she indig- 
 nantly replied. " Beverly shall know of your base 
 proposal, and revenge me on his false friend." 
 
 " Be it so. Send him for defiance, if you will. 
 I'll make a widow of you, and then can court you 
 honorably." 
 
 " O coward ! coward ! your soul will shrink 
 before him ! And yet " She hesitated. " Be- 
 gone; keep your own secret. Leave me, despi- 
 cable wretch !" 
 
 The exhausted woman sank feebly into a chair, 
 as the discomfited villain left the room with 
 renewed threats. "What to do she knew not. 
 Should she speak, and perhaps doom her husband 
 to death ? Should she be silent, and leave him still 
 exposed to this villain's temptations ? Her soul 
 was torn with doubt and agony. That Lewson 
 was right in his suspicion of this man she now 
 plainly perceived. He, and he only, was the ser- 
 pent who had lured her weak husband to ruin. 
 
 We have dwelt so long with the guilty and the 
 miserable personages of our story that it will be 
 a relief to turn to two on whom happiness had 
 fallen. In the midst of these distressing events, 
 Lewson had taken the opportunity to press his 
 suit again upon Charlotte, and this time with
 
 THE GAMESTER. 19 
 
 success, she having yielded to the warm demand 
 which she had long repelled, and promised to be 
 his wife, whatever might occur. Armed with this 
 assurance, he now told her what he had hitherto 
 concealed. He had learned from Bates, Stukely's 
 chief agent, that her fortune was lost. It had 
 followed Beverly's own estate into the yawning 
 gulf of ruin. 
 
 " Bates is grateful to me for a service I have 
 done him," he continued. " He told me this in 
 friendship, thinking to warn me against you, and 
 little deeming that his news would give me new 
 courage to seek to win you." 
 
 " It was honest in him, and I thank him for it." 
 
 *' I hope to learn more from him," added Lew- 
 son. " He is deep in Stukely's confidence." 
 
 The joy of the newly-betrothed pair received 
 a shock when they met Mrs. Beverly, for the 
 unhappy woinan, still burning with indignation, 
 had resolved to disdain Stukely's threats, and 
 told them of the insult she had received from the 
 soulless villain. 
 
 '' The smooth-tongued hypocrite !" exclaimed 
 Charlotte, in fiery indignation. 
 
 " We have found him out, — that is something 
 gained," declared Lewson. " For his insults I 
 promise you retribution." 
 
 " No violence !" broke in Mrs. Beverly. " I only 
 spoke on your promise." 
 
 " Trust me to be cool and quiet. Yet I'll charge 
 him strongly, and draw my conclusions from his
 
 20 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS, 
 
 looks and answers. Next I'll seek Bates and sift 
 him to the bottom. If I fail there, some of the 
 gang can be bribed to betray the others. Good- 
 night ; I'll save your husband yet. But no time 
 is to be lost." 
 
 Leaving the house, Lewson proceeded with- 
 out delay to Stukcly's residence. A hot and 
 violent conference ensued, in which the visitor 
 accused his villanous host of guilt and treach- 
 ery in a tone that threw him into trembling 
 confusion. 
 
 "You sheltered yourself, when we last met, 
 behind a lady's presence," cried Lewson, in a hot 
 passion. "Now we are alone. Why, what a 
 wretch !" he continued, as Stukely cowered before 
 him. " The vilest insect will turn when trampled 
 on ; and this thing calls itself a man !" He flung 
 his craven antagonist fiercely from him. " Villain, 
 if you would save yourself, fall to confession. If 
 not, I'll crush you like a worm." 
 
 This Stukely, roused by the very extremity of 
 his danger, refused to do, though Lewson drew 
 his sword and threatened him with death unless 
 he made a full revelation of his villany. 
 
 " He is within my grip," exclaimed the wretch, 
 stung at length to bold defiance. " Do not push 
 me too far, or the hand that has supported him 
 shall fall and crush him." 
 
 " Why, now there's spirit in you ! Do your 
 worst, villain, I'll reach you yet. Beverly shall 
 be saved, you cur, and you punished ; take my
 
 THE GAMESTER. 21 
 
 word for that. You shall hear from me again," 
 and Lewson left the room in a high passion. 
 
 "Curse on my coward heart!" exclaimed 
 Stukely. " I'm shaking like a leaf at that fellow's 
 vaporing. But he must be dealt with ; the officious 
 fool will make mischief else." 
 
 His method of dealing with him was one in 
 consonance with his cowardly and ruthless nature. 
 On the entrance of Bates, shortly afterwards, 
 Stukely told him of Lewson's visit and threats, 
 and coolly proposed that he should be despatched 
 by the assassin's blade, as the safest method of 
 ridding themselves of a dangerous foe. 
 
 Bates started at this proposition, and at first 
 refused to have anything to do with it. But on 
 Stukely's declaring that they must crush Lewson 
 or he would crush them, that shame and beggary 
 would be their lot were their villany once ex- 
 posed, and that he would share his gains with 
 him who struck the blow, his confederate with- 
 drew his refusal. 
 
 " How shall it be done ?" he asked. 
 
 " He's gone to Beverly's. Wait for him in the 
 street. The night is dark and fit for mischief." 
 
 " Consider it done, then," said Bates, as he left 
 the room. " Farewell till it is accomplished." 
 
 *' Why, farewell Lewson, then, and my feara 
 with him," soliloquized Stukely. "This night 
 secures me. I'll wait the event within." 
 
 Meanwhile the ruin of Beverly had been com- 
 pleted. He had sold the reversion of his uncle's
 
 22 TALES PROM THE DRAMATISTS. • 
 
 estate to Bates, staked the money at the gaming 
 table, and again lost. The result was crushing. 
 In the words of the leader of the gang : " When 
 all was lost, he fixed his eyes upon the ground, 
 and stood some time, with folded arms, stupid and 
 motionless. Then, snatching his sword, which 
 hung against the wainscot, he sat down, and, 
 with a look of fixed attention, drew figures on 
 the floor. At last he started up, looked wild 
 and trembled ; and, like a woman, laughed out 
 aloud, while tears trickled down his face. Thus 
 he left the room." 
 
 The frenzy of the ruined gamester, indeed, 
 ■was almost madness. He roamed the deserted 
 streets like a lost spirit, now mourning with 
 remorse, now breaking into rage at his folly, now 
 weeping like a child. In this mood he met Lew- 
 son, and turned on him with anger, declaring that 
 he had traduced him, and spread a vile report 
 that he had wronged his sister. 
 
 Drawing his sword, Beverly advanced in a 
 hostile manner, calling sternly on his late friend 
 to draw and defend himself. This Lewson refused 
 to do, and declared that this accusation was a 
 falsehood, of which Stukely was the inventor. 
 
 " As you please ; it was Stukely that accused 
 you," said Beverly. 
 
 "The lying dog! He fears discovery, and 
 would have you kill me to screen himself." 
 
 " Can you prove this ?" 
 
 " Yes ; give me till to-morrow, and I will."
 
 THE GAMESTER. 23 
 
 What further took place in that scene of mid- 
 night gloom and human passions a few words will 
 tell. Bates, who was abroad on his murderous 
 mission, had overheard the quarrel between Bev- 
 erly and Lewson. As he stood viewing them from 
 a distance Jarvis appeared. 
 
 " Yonder's your master," he said to Jarvis. " Go 
 to him, and lead him home. I prefer not tobe 
 seen by him." 
 
 He withdrew in the direction Lewson had 
 taken, leaving to the heart-broken old servant the 
 sad task of quieting his frenzied master, and per- 
 suadino; him to return home. 
 
 The subsequent events may be fitly told in the 
 words of Dawson, the leader of the gang Of 
 sharpers, who had been in company with Bates 
 when the quarrel between Beverly and Lewson 
 took place, and hastened with news of it to their 
 employer. 
 
 "Why, this is excellent!" exclaimed Stukely. 
 *' That quarrel fits neatly into my plans. Bates 
 will do it, think you ?" 
 
 "He shrunk from it at first; but when we 
 parted, it was decided between us that Lewson 
 should die." 
 
 " Good ! Beverly killed him ; remember that. 
 A jury shall so decree it, after hearing your 
 testimony about the quarrel. Here, take this 
 writ; I have had it by me for some days, 
 awaiting a convenient time for its execution. 
 It is for money that I have loaned Beverly.
 
 2-i TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 Find an oflScer and have him arrested in- 
 stantly." 
 
 " Arrest a beggar? He cannot pay you." 
 
 " Dull fellow, can you not understand ? Beverly 
 was seen quarrelling with Lewson ; I, who know 
 his interitions, had him arrested as a friend, to 
 save him from murder. I was too late, as it will 
 appear, but my act was well meant, and men will 
 thank me for it. Now do you understand ?" 
 
 " Perfectly." 
 
 " Then to work, wait about his door, and have 
 him seized when he comes home. A jail must bo 
 his lodging this night." 
 
 All was, or seemed to be, carried out in accord- 
 ance with Stukely's orders. An hour afterwards 
 Dawson returned, and told a moving story of the 
 arrest of Beverly at his own door, and the anguish 
 it had caused his wife and sister. Even his hard 
 heart had been moved thereby, and had the officers 
 been as compassionate as he the arrest would not 
 have been made. 
 
 " He is safe in prison, then ?" 
 
 " Yes ; with only Jarvis to comfort him." 
 
 " There let him lie till we have further business 
 with him. And for you, let me hear no more 
 of compassion. A fellow nursed in villany has 
 naught to do with such womanly weakness." 
 
 "Say you so, sir! You should have named 
 the villain that tempted me." 
 
 " 'Tis false. I found you a villain, and so em- 
 ployed you. But no more of this. Ah I here
 
 THE GAMESTER. 25 
 
 comes Bates. Now, Dawson, for medicine to 
 strengthen your weak heart." 
 
 The story that Bates had to tell, indeed, was a 
 horrible one, Lewson was dead, — stabbed to the 
 heart. Their pathway was clear so far as this 
 enemy was concerned. Stukely listened to the 
 details of the murder without a shudder, and 
 eagerly set to work to complete his plans to lay 
 the crime on Beverly. 
 
 " Jarvis saw the quarrel too, you say?" 
 
 " Yes ; or heard it at a distance." 
 
 "Good; unwilling evidence carries weight; he 
 shall be forced to speak." 
 
 Had the soulless wretch heard the words that 
 passed between his villanous tools after they left 
 him, his self-congratulation would have been 
 greatly reduced. 
 
 "Your story, then, is all imaginary?" asked 
 Dawson. 
 
 " Every word of it. I draw the line at murder. 
 But Lewson will keep out of sight till the proper 
 time. A cursed wretch that Stukely." 
 
 " Why, hang it, he has gone too far ! To seek 
 to hunt his dupe to the death! I'm with you, 
 Bates. But are you safe ?" 
 
 " Yes. Lewson is with us." 
 
 Beverly, as Dawson reported, had been con- 
 ducted to a debtor's prison, where he passed a 
 wretched night, despite all Jarvis's efforts at con- 
 solation. Tears, sighs, remorseful self-accusings, 
 wild outbreaks of despair, made the old man as 
 
 B 3
 
 26 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 miserable as his unhappy master, and morning 
 dawned before the faithful attendant succeeded 
 in bringing the ruined gamester into a cahner 
 mood. In the end he apj)earcd to become com- 
 posed and easy, and strongly insisted that Jarvis 
 should return to his home, and do what he could 
 to comfort his wretched wife. 
 
 The miserable and desperate man had a secret 
 purpose in this of which his old attendant did not 
 dream. In the despair of the past few days he 
 had provided himself with poison, and no sooner 
 had Jarvis left the cell than he took the fatal vial 
 from his pocket, and sat long with his eyes fixed 
 gloomily upon it, while dark thoughts passed 
 throuirh his mind. 
 
 " Why, there's an end, then," he said, at length, 
 in hollow tones. " I have judged myself fully, 
 and the verdict is death. The load of life op- 
 presses me too much, and my soul's horrors 
 are more than I can bear. Conscience, thy 
 clamors are too loud. Here's that shall silence 
 them." He gazed fixedly at the vial. " Come, 
 then, thou cordial for sick minds. Let this be my 
 last throw in life. Will it be a losing one, like all 
 that have gone before? Who shall say?" Ho 
 drank from the vial, and threw it from him. 
 " Now, death is in my veins. But let it come. I 
 have lived too long." 
 
 Too long, indeed, for he had lived long enough 
 to lose at the gaming table a second fortune, 
 gi-eater than his own. Unknown to him, tho
 
 THE GAMESTER. 27 
 
 uncle, the reversion of whose estate he had sold, 
 was now dead, and had willed him his entire 
 property. This important news Jarvis learned 
 while on his way to Mrs. Beverly's lodgings, and 
 he broke in upon the afflicted women with a tale 
 of joy that lifted them from despair to ardent 
 hope. The uncle had died on the previous day, 
 and Beverly was rich again. They must fly to 
 his prison-cell, and bear him the good news. He 
 was now quiet and calm : the tidings would lift 
 him from despair to joy. 
 
 Having hastily told this story, Jarvis hurried 
 out for a coach, and in very few minutes the two 
 women were flying to the prison, eager to release 
 the unhappy captive. Little did they dream of 
 the fatal act which he was even then performing. 
 
 To their surprise, the news was received by 
 Beverly in a manner the reverse of joyful. He 
 heard his wife and sister to the end, questioned 
 them in a strange manner, that excited their ap- 
 prehensions, and then broke out with fierce self- 
 ujDbraidings. 
 
 " Wretch that I am !" he cried. " All this large 
 fortune, which might have made us happy, has 
 gone before it came. In a cursed hour, I sold all 
 my claim to it last night." 
 
 "Sold it?" 
 
 " Yes. That devil Stukely tempted me to the 
 deed. I sold the reversion to pay false debts of 
 honor, and — lost the money among villains." 
 
 " Then, farewell all !" cried Charlotte.
 
 28 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 " Liberty and life I" groaned the miserable 
 gamester. " Curse me, for I deserve it." 
 
 He was answered by his faithful wife in a man- 
 ner he had no reason to expect. Kneeling at 
 his feet, she prayed to Heaven to save him from 
 despair, and vowed that she would toil for his 
 support while she had hands to work with. 
 
 " It is too late !" he cried. " I have done a deed 
 that cannot be retrieved ; a deed that seals your 
 misery here and mine hereafter." 
 
 " A deed ? What deed ? Surely he raves, Char- 
 lotte. Yet his looks terrify me." 
 
 "I fear the worst," said Charlotte, with appre- 
 hensive countenance. " What is it, brother?" 
 
 " A deed of horror, — Ha ! villain, what brings 
 you here ?" His eyes were fixed fiercely on 
 Stukely, who entered at that instant. 
 
 " I came to bring you safety. The arrest last 
 night was well meant, but came too late. H^re, 
 madam, is his discharge." He handed Mrs. Bev- 
 erly a paper. " Let him fly instantly." 
 
 " Fly !— from what ?" cried Charlotte. 
 
 " I would have kept his hands from blood, but 
 was too late." 
 
 " From blood ! whose blood ? Is this the deed 
 he spoke of? Whose blood, villian ?" 
 
 " From Lewson's blood." 
 
 " Lewson !" cried Charlotte, rushing, white 
 with terror, towards him. " We have not seen 
 him to-day. What of him ? Quick I" 
 
 " He is dead. Murdered, men say."
 
 THE GAMESTER. 29 
 
 " Murdered ! Lewson ! Oh, horrible ! "Who 
 has killed him? — Brother, he charges you " 
 
 " Silence all," exclaimed Beverly, " Proceed, 
 sir. What have you more to say ?" 
 
 "Nothing," answered Stukely. "Here comes 
 the evidence of my words." Bates had entered 
 while he spoke. 
 
 "Take comfort, madam," said Bates to Char- 
 lotte. "There's one without asking for you. 
 Go to him at once." 
 
 " Oh, miserable me ! Lewson slain ! My 
 brother !" faltered Charlotte, with a face of deathly 
 pallor, as with ti-embling steps she complied with 
 Bates's request. 
 
 " Follow her, Jarvis," exclaimed Mrs. Beverly. 
 " Her grief may kill her." 
 
 "Jarvis must stay here," replied Bates. "He 
 is needed, madam." 
 
 "Eatherlet him fly," said Stukely. " His evi- 
 dence may crush his master." 
 
 " Why, what means all this ?" asked Beverly. 
 
 " What new villany Oh, I am sick ! Bring 
 
 me a chair !" 
 
 As Mrs. Beverly hastened to help him to one, 
 Dawson entered. 
 
 " What brings you here ?" asked Stukely. 
 
 " I bade him come," answered Bates. " You 
 need all your witnesses. Here are two of us. 
 There is still another." 
 
 " Another ?" 
 
 " Yes. Yonder he comes. Look at him." 
 
 3*
 
 30 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 As he spoke Lowson entered the room, Char- 
 lotto clinging to his arm. 
 
 " Lewson !" exclaimed Stukely, with wildly- 
 staring eyes and quivering lips. " Oh, you cursed 
 villains !" 
 
 "Lewson, and alive again," exclaimed that in- 
 dividual. " You hardly looked for me, friend 
 Stukely, after having laid so neat a plan for my 
 taking off. Sharpers and false dice were not 
 enough, it seems, but you must dabble in murder, 
 and so turn your tools into your foes. Take the 
 miserable wretch away," he continued, to Bates and 
 Dawson. " For your lives, see that you guard 
 him closely! He has much to answer for, and 
 I shall hold you responsible if you let him 
 escape." 
 
 Stukely was led from the room, with trembling 
 limbs and fallen jaw, by his late associates in 
 crime, such an abject and miserable wreck that 
 even his intended victims could scarcely look upon 
 him otherwise than with pity. 
 
 They had a more frightful spectacle soon to 
 behold. The poison which Beverly had rashly 
 swallowed was now flowing like fire through his 
 veins, while his face and limbs grew convulsed, 
 and inch by inch he seemed dying before their 
 faces, consumed by inward pains. 
 
 " Ah ! that pang !" he cried, in agony. " Where 
 IS my wife? Can you forgive me, love?" 
 
 "Alas! for what?" 
 
 " For meanly dying. Shame, despair, remorse
 
 THE aAMESTER. 31 
 
 have been too much for me. I am a dying man ; 
 dying — by poison." 
 
 *' By poison ! Oh, fatal deed ! Save him ! Oh, 
 save him !" cried the distracted wife. 
 
 "Alas! that prayer is fruitless. I have lived 
 long enough to ruin you all, and now fly like a 
 coward when there is nothing left for my fatal 
 hand to lose. Charlotte, my sister, can you for- 
 give me ?" 
 
 " Forgive you ! Oh, my poor brother !" 
 
 " Lend me your hand, love — so — help me. Oh, 
 for a few short moments, to tell you how my 
 heart bleeds for you ! Dying as I am, my deepest 
 pang is for your miseries. Support me, Heaven I 
 Ah ! I go, — I die. Oh, mercy ! mercy !" With a 
 few more inarticulate words his eyes and lips be- 
 came fixed, his body fell limply down, death had 
 come, — the career of the gamester was at an end.
 
 DOUGLAS. 
 
 BY JOHN HOME. 
 
 [John Home, the leading dramatist of Scottish 
 birth, was born at Leith in 1722. After gradu- 
 ating at the Edinburgh University, he took part 
 in the campaign against the Pretender, and was 
 taken prisoner. He became a minister of the 
 Scottish church in 1747, and shortly afterwards 
 wrote a tragedy named "Agis," which failed at 
 that time to be produced. Subsequently, on a 
 suggestion from the ancient ballad of " Gil 
 Morice," he produced his tragedy of " Douglas," 
 "the work on which his fame rests. This play, 
 which was first acted in 1756, gave such offence 
 to the Presbytery that the author resigned his 
 ministry, and went to England, where he became 
 private secretary to the Earl of Bute. He wrote 
 several other plays, all much inferior to " Doug- 
 las," and a " History of the Eebellion of 1745." 
 He died in 1808. 
 
 Of Home's works, "Douglas" alone for any 
 
 time held the stage. In this play, which is still 
 
 classed among the acting drama, the licentiousness 
 
 of the drama of the Eestoration, and the frigid 
 
 32
 
 -■#F^JJ^5^'^T,- 
 
 JOHN HOME.
 
 Tinrni^s. 
 
 Cy JOHN HOME. 
 
 [John TJ 
 birth, was 
 ating at M 
 in the   
 taken prisone; 
 
 r-r   i 
 
 was 
 8 a minister of the 
 
 I at 
 . ■, .n a 
 
 t^L... ... ' nnniont . .. Gil 
 
 Moiice," he produceu agedy of " Douglas," 
 
 the work on which hie fame rests. This play, 
 which was first acted in 1756, gave such offence 
 
 ' ni9 
 
 I to '* Doug- 
 r 1745." 
 
 actiPET 
 of the drama of the 
 
 ■.y2 
 
 A 
 'iusness 
 
 n, and the frigid
 
 ^
 
 DOUGLAS. 33 
 
 lifelessness of that of the Addisonian period, are 
 replaced by a purity of sentiment and an emo- 
 tional ~vvarmth and pathos which sufficiently ex- 
 plain the enthusiasm with which it was received. 
 Few plays which have been produced on the Eng- 
 lish stage have met with a more brilliant success. 
 Home's style is marked by ardor and pathetic 
 feeling, his language is lucid and poetical, and his 
 plots attractive, to which qualities the enduring 
 popularity of his leading dramatic work is due.] 
 
 Lady Eandolph, the wife of Lord Eandolph, a 
 Scottish nobleman of high descent, was the victim 
 of a grief so deep and unceasing that her life 
 seemed but a tale of bitter woe. The true cause 
 of this sorrow none, not even her husband, knew. 
 All supposed that she mourned a favorite brother, 
 who had been slain in battle yeai's before, but this 
 seeming origin of her grief concealed a deeper 
 source of anguish, the more severe that it had to 
 be borne in secret. Lord Eandolph loved her 
 with a devoted and jealous affection, and grieved 
 in his turn that his love won no response. His 
 life, in consequence, was so unhappy that he felt 
 tempted to throw himself on the swords of the 
 Danish invaders, who then threatened Scotland, 
 and thus end his suffering existence. 
 
 To one person only did the sorrowing lady re- 
 veal the secret origin of her woe. This was to a 
 young lady named Anna, her friend and confidante, 
 to whom she told the following touching tale of 
 Vol. II.— c
 
 34 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 ancient feud and love's devotion, the source of her 
 life's sorrow. 
 
 Her father, Sir Malcolm, of Balarmo, she said, 
 was a stern warrior, fierce in feud and war, and 
 cherishing bitter hatred against Lord Douglas, his 
 hereditary foe. This hatred was not shared by 
 his children, who were of milder and more for- 
 giving disposition. By a strange turn of fortune, 
 Sir Malcolm's son saved in battle the life of young 
 Douglas, the son of his father's foe, and the youth- 
 ful warriors became such ardent friends that they 
 vowed eternal amit}'. Young Malcolm, in the 
 warm trust of friendship, so highly praised the 
 beauty of his sister Matilda to the youthful 
 Douglas, that the latter came in disguise to 
 Balarmo, eager to see this charming maiden. She 
 proved as beautiful to his eyes as her brother had 
 painted her, and his heart went out to her with a 
 warm affection which she as fully returned. This 
 love had to be kept secret. None dared reveal 
 the truth to Sir Malcolm. But his son favored the 
 attachment of the youthful lovers, and lent his 
 aid to the ardent desire of Douglas to wed the fair 
 maiden of his heart's choice. 
 
 A clandestine marriage took place, and for three 
 weeks the happy couple dwelt in Pai'adise. But 
 war, with its stern demands, brought their dream 
 of happiness to an end. Douglas was called to 
 fight his father's battles, and Malcolm went with 
 him in spite of his sister's tears. 
 
 Hardly had they gone when part of the truth
 
 DOUGLAS. 35 
 
 became known. The stern baron was told that 
 his late visitor was the son of his mortal foe, 
 Lord Douglas. Filled with rage, he sought his 
 daughter, accused her of deceiving him, and of 
 loving one whom it was her hereditary duty to 
 hate, and swore instant death to young Douglas 
 should he ever again dare to set foot within his 
 castle. Not content with this, he drew his sword, 
 and at its point bade his kneeling and weeping 
 daughter to svvear that she would never wed with 
 one of that hated name. She took the oath, 
 secure in the fact that the forbidden wedding had 
 already taken place, and trusting that her future 
 happiness would be safe from her father's rage. 
 
 The unhappy bride was wofully mistaken. A 
 few days only had passed when a tragic tale was 
 brought to the castle. In a hard-fought battle 
 Malcolm and Douglas had both been slain, her 
 brother and her husband alike being wrested from 
 her at one fell blow. Her grief at this fatal de- 
 cree of destiny was heai't-rending, but it was seem- 
 ingly for her brother only, and her stern father 
 did not dream that her most bitter tears were 
 shed for one in whose death he openly rejoiced. 
 
 But the end of the young wife's troubles had 
 not yet come. A child was born to her, a son, 
 whose face recalled his father's image. Poor 
 waif! his fortune was destined to be a stormy one. 
 The distracted mother did not dare to let her 
 harsh father know the truth. Not while he lived 
 could she safely acknowledge her son. The un-
 
 36 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 fortunate infant was born in a secure retreat, and 
 at once delivered to the nurse, Matilda's only con- 
 fidante, with instructions to take it to her sister's 
 house, where it was to be reared in secrecy. 
 
 A fatal result followed. It was a dark Decem- 
 ber day. Wind and rain had beaten all night 
 long. The track of the nurse lay across the 
 Carron, which was swollen with the rains. The 
 rushing flood swept the unfortunate woman from 
 her feet, and she and her precious charge were 
 borne away to a watery death. The nurse's body 
 was found the next day, cast up by the subsiding 
 flood, but that of the child had vanished, it doubt- 
 less finding a grave in the river's muddy bed. 
 
 The story of Matilda's subsequent life Anna 
 did not need to be told. The beautiful young 
 maiden, as all deemed her to be, rendered more 
 interesting to many by her grief, had no lack of 
 suitors for her hand, chief among whom were 
 Lord Eandolph and his near kinsman Glenalvon. 
 These two men differed greatly in character. 
 Eandolph was all honor, Glenalvon all villany. 
 The widowed bride had no love for either of her 
 suitors, but Glenalvon she despised, and he, de- 
 spairing of winning her by honorable suit, sought 
 to gain her by abduction. The infamous scheme 
 was frustrated by Eandolph, who met the villains 
 and tore their victim from their grasp. In grati- 
 tude for his service Matilda consented, at her 
 father's wish, to become his wife, though telling 
 him that she had no love to give.
 
 DOUGLAS. 37 
 
 Tears had passed since then. Sir Malcolm had 
 died, and Balarino had become the home of Lord 
 Eandolph and his childless wife. Her grief, re- 
 duced by time, still weighed upon her, being 
 added to by the failure of a hope in which sho 
 had long indulged, that her son might really have 
 been rescued from the devouring flood, and that 
 she might j^et see this darling pledge of her only 
 love. 
 
 Glenalvon's designs had not ended with the 
 marriage of Matilda. He had escaped unknown 
 from Lord Randolph's sword, and none knew him 
 for the kidnapper. Should Randolph die he 
 would be heir to his estate, and he hoped, by 
 marrying his widow, to add to this the domain 
 of Balarmo. Cupidity and love thus wrought 
 together in his evil heart. Randolph dead, his 
 widowed wife would have no brother and no near 
 kindred to protect her from her powerful suitor, 
 and the wily villain felt that only the life of his 
 trusting kinsman stood between him and the 
 accomplishment of all his desires. 
 
 Such was the condition of affairs at the time 
 our story opens. Glenalvon, deeming that the 
 time for the accomplishment of his dark purpose 
 had now come, placed four murderers in ambush 
 near the castle, concealing them in the bushy 
 borders of a dale through whose winding path 
 the lord of the castle was used to walk. A for- 
 tunate chance alone saved Lord Randolph from 
 their swords. They attacked him suddenly, and 
 
 4
 
 38 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 with such fury that he would have fallen had 
 not a brave young stranger, whom fortune had 
 brought thitlier at that instant, come to his rescue. 
 
 Seeing the old man's imminent danger, the active 
 youth drew his sword, sprang furiously upon the 
 assailants, and used his weapon with such strength 
 and skill that a few thrusts laid the fiercest two 
 of them dead upon the ground. Tlie others 
 fled, and left him master of the blood-stained 
 field. 
 
 The stranger had not come alone. A servant 
 had accompanied him. But the coward forsook 
 his master in the fight, leaving him unaided. He 
 returned after victory had declared itself on his 
 master's side, but the indignant j-outh scornfully 
 dismissed him, and attended Randolph to the 
 castle. Here Lady Eandolph, who had learned 
 his service to her loi-d, gave him the warmest 
 welcome. 
 
 " Tell me, dear sir, your name," asked the 
 rescued nobleman. " You answered not when I 
 asked you before." 
 
 " I am but a low-born man," the stranger 
 modestly replied. " I can boast nothing but a 
 desire to be a soldier, and to win a name in arms." 
 
 "You have modesty as well as valor, young 
 sir. Surely one of your high spirit and proud 
 courage need not blush to declare his birth." 
 
 " My name is Norval," answered the handsome 
 youth ; " on the Grampian hills my father feeds 
 his flocks ; a frugal swain, whose only cares were
 
 DOUGLAS. 39 
 
 to increase his store, and keep his only son, my- 
 self, at home. For I had heard of battles, and I 
 longed to follow to the field some warlike lord. 
 Heaven soon granted what my sire denied. Not 
 many nights ago, a band of robbers from the hills 
 poured on our peaceful vales and swept away our 
 flocks. The shepherds fled in terror, but I, in- 
 spired by indignation, followed the foe, marked 
 the road they took, and then pursued them with 
 fifty chosen men. The end is short ; we con- 
 quered : these are the chieftain's arms I wear 
 to-day. That battle changed my life. I left my 
 father's house, bent on a nobler work than tend- 
 ing sheep, and happy fortune turned my foot- 
 steps hither, to save your honored life." 
 
 " My brave deliverer ! your soul, at least, comes 
 from no lowly strain," exclaimed Lord Randolph. 
 " You shall to the camp with me, and there find 
 nobler foes than wolves and robbers. I will pre- 
 sent you to our king, who is ever ready to reward 
 the brave. Next to myself, and equal to Glen- 
 alvon, brave youth, shall be your place in honor 
 and command." 
 
 " I know not how to thank you," replied Nor- 
 val, gratefully. " I am rude in speech and man- 
 Tiera, and never before stood in so noble a pres- 
 ence. And yet, my lord, I trust not to shame 
 your favor." 
 
 " I know you will not," exclaimed Lady Ean- 
 dolph, who had listened with a marked show of 
 emotion. " You shall be my knight j and guard
 
 40 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 for me, as you have done to-day, Lord Randolph's 
 life." 
 
 " Well spoken," answered Eandolph. " I go to the 
 camp to-day. Come with me, Norval. There you 
 shall see the chosen warriors of your native land." 
 
 " Let us be gone, my lord." 
 
 The departure of her husband and his young 
 protege filled Lady Eandolph's heart with con- 
 suming pain. Some words dropped by her lord 
 vividly recalled to her mind that other occasion, 
 now long years ago, when Douglas and her brother 
 had thus left her, to find their death in the ranks. 
 
 " How blest the mother of yon gallant youth !" 
 she plaintively exclaimed. " She had the happy 
 fortune to nurse and rear her darling boy ; I gave 
 mine to the roaring waves, to be swept to death." 
 
 " Weep not, dear lady," pleaded Anna. " I 
 fancied that valiant stranger had Avon you from 
 your woe. You gazed on him intently, and with 
 more delight than often brightens your eyes." 
 
 "And 3'et I found in him fuel for sorrow," 
 answered the weeping lady. "I 'thought that 
 had the son of Douglas lived he might have been, 
 in shape and feature, like this fair youth. I 
 looked on him with something of a mother's 
 fondness, deeming him in years and all endow- 
 ments what my son might have become. Poor 
 "wanderer, I will protect him." 
 
 " He will need your aid, dear lady. Your favor 
 and your lord's will rouse up enemies against the 
 youth."
 
 DOUGLAS. 41 
 
 " Glenalvon, yes ; he brooks no rival in his 
 kinsman's favor. Yet, bold as he is, and 
 crafty " 
 
 Her words were not finished, for Glenalvon 
 himself entered at that moment, and inquired for 
 Lord Randolph. He declared that he had heard 
 of the base attempt on his kinsman's life, and 
 had surrounded the wood with a band of soldiers ; 
 saying that if the villains were taken they should 
 be forced by torture to reveal what foe of Ran- 
 dolph's had hired their swords. 
 
 These specious protestations were brought to 
 an end by Lady Randolph, who, first dismissing 
 Anna, told him plainly that she knew him better 
 than he imagined, and bade him cease his base 
 pursuit of herself. If not, she would acquaint 
 Randolph with his dishonorable advances, and 
 have him driven from the castle as an outcast 
 beggar. She further warned him to attempt no 
 treachery against young Norval, the preserver of 
 her husband, for if she heard whisper of it he 
 should find that she was both powerful to protect 
 and to defend. 
 
 With these words she left the detected villain, 
 who had heard her with downcast countenance. 
 Not until she had gone did the color return to 
 his pallid cheeks. 
 
 " By heaven, I feared at first that she knew 
 all !" he exclaimed. *' I am safe yet. As for this 
 new favorite, I dare not strike openly. Ha! I 
 have it I I'll seek the coward slave whom Norval 
 
 4*
 
 42 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 spurned from him. Such fellows' rankled bosoms 
 breed venom. Doubtless he can be made to servo 
 me as a useful tool." 
 
 While these events were taking place in the 
 castle, the servants of Lord Eandolph had been 
 searching the wood which had given shelter to 
 the two escaping villains. They found there an 
 old man, who fled like a guilty person on their 
 approach, but whom they quickly captured. The 
 prisoner earnestly denied any knowledge of the 
 crime, but on searching him they found a number 
 of valuable jewels concealed in secret places in 
 his clothing. They brought him, therefore, before 
 Lady Randolph, and asked her permission to put 
 him to the torture, and thus force him to reveal 
 the truth. 
 
 Lady Randolph, on hearing their story, asked 
 to see the jewels. But if they had been the eyes of 
 a basilisk she could not have gazed on them with 
 more horrified intentness. On them was engraved 
 a heart, — the crest of the Douglas. One glance was 
 sufficient to tell her a startling story; the jewels 
 had belonged to her husband, and her own hands 
 had placed them on the person of her lost child. 
 
 Trembling with hope and fear, the deeply agi- 
 tated lady dismissed the servants ; saying that 
 she would examine the prisoner in pi-ivate. 
 
 "The truth, old man!" she exclaimed. "Tell 
 it, or the rack shall wrest it from you. How came 
 you by these jewels ?" 
 
 " Spare me, gentle lady. These weak old hands
 
 DOUGLAS. 43 
 
 never assailed your lord. Nor are those jewels 
 evidence of crime. Spare me, I pray you." 
 
 '.' The truth, — or death awaits you ! Delay not 
 to speak." 
 
 The quaking prisoner at this stern command re- 
 lated the story of his life, to which she listened with 
 the most earnest attention. Eighteen years before 
 he had been a tenant of Sir Malcolm, her father. 
 But having fallen into poverty, the servants of 
 that lord had seized his farm, and turned him and 
 his wife and children adrift. The homeless fugi- 
 tives had found shelter in a hovel by the river's 
 side, where he supported his family by fishing. 
 One stormy night, when the river rushed in tor- 
 rents past his hut,, a cry for help met his ears. 
 He nished to the water-side, but the person who 
 had uttered the cry was no longer visible. All 
 he saw was a basket, which a whirling eddy had 
 brought into a pool near the bank. This prize 
 he drew ashore, and to his surprise saw nestled 
 there a living infant. 
 
 "Living!" exclaimed Lady Eandolph, in the 
 deepest emotion. " You did not kill him whom 
 the waves had spared ?" 
 
 " Kill him, lady ? Not for the wealth of king- 
 doms would I have harmed him !" 
 " Ha ! Then perhaps he still lives." 
 " Not many days ago he was alive." 
 " Ah, my heart ! Then he has lately died ?" 
 " I have not said so, madam. I hope and pray 
 he lives."
 
 44 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 "Where is he, then?" 
 
 " Alas ! I know not where." 
 
 " Eiddler, you torture me I Speak out more 
 clearly." 
 
 " Let me complete my story, noble lady. That 
 best will answer you." 
 
 The old man then proceeded to state that the 
 cradle which held the child held also a store of 
 gold and jewels. This wealth tempted him, in 
 his extreme poverty, to conceal the event, and 
 he resolved to bring the infant up as his own. 
 Leaving the river-side hut, he travelled north 
 with his family, bought flocks and herds, and lived 
 in affluence on the secret hoard obtained from the 
 cradle. 
 
 The boy grew in years and beauty, and, as all 
 his own children died, he loved the water-borne 
 waif with a father's fondness, and trained him in 
 all the lessons of honor and virtue. The youth, 
 however, had shown a temper much unlike that 
 of his associate shepherd lads. He was mild 
 with the mild, but fierce with the froward, and 
 thought far more of arms and war than of his 
 pastoral duties. At length a desperate band of 
 robbers descended upon their fields from the 
 mountains, and 
 
 Here Lady Eandolph could keep silent no 
 longer, but burst out with, — 
 
 " Eternal Providence ! What is your name ?" 
 
 "My name is Norval." 
 
 "'Tis he! 'tis himself! It is my son!" cried
 
 DOUGLAS. 45 
 
 the lady, in a transport of joy. " Oh, sovereign 
 mercy, it was my child I sawl No wonder, 
 Anna, tbat my bosom burned." 
 
 " Thou art the daughter of my ancient master," 
 said old Norval. " But you were a maiden, — the 
 child " 
 
 " Is mine. I was seei'etly married. My father 
 knew it not; nor must my husband. Can you 
 keep my secret, Norval ?" 
 
 " With my life. I loved your father, madam, 
 and ever found him kind. He was away, dis- 
 tracted by his son's death, when his servants 
 thrust me from my land. I love his race, and 
 will be faithful to his daughter's wishes." 
 
 " If you should meet the youth, still let him 
 call you father." 
 
 " Trust me for that, dear lady. I have traced 
 him hither to tell him his true story, and bring him 
 these jewels as aids to find his father. Command 
 me ; I am your house's servant." 
 
 Lady Eandolph now dismissed the old man, 
 first appointing a place where he might abide till 
 sent for, and bidding the servants to set him free. 
 
 Then she turned to Anna with a heart that 
 swelled with gladness, and gave vent to her rap- 
 turous joy in this discovery. Some instinct had 
 from the first drawn her to the gallant youth who 
 saved her lord from death, but his story of his 
 birth had hindered any suspicion of the happy 
 truth. Now she ardently longed to see him 
 again, to trace in his features the lineaments of
 
 46 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 Douglas and herself, and most of all to tell him 
 bis true story and clasp him in her arms as hia 
 mother. 
 
 Anna, while sharing in her joy, warned her not 
 to be hasty. Lord Randolph was of jealous dis- 
 position. Should her tenderness show itself in 
 public, before curious observers, deep mischief 
 might come from it. 
 
 " The more does it behoove me to declare my 
 soil's birth without delay," answered Lady Ran- 
 dolph. " Silence, in cases like this, breeds mis- 
 chief. I propose to meet him to-night secretly 
 and there tell him his parentage and consult with 
 him. I deem him wise, as was his father, and 
 shall trust to his judgment." 
 
 Little did the fond mother dream of the tragic 
 end to her joy which adverse fate was preparing. 
 Glenalvon, in pursuance of his base plot, had 
 sought Norval's dismissed servant, and bribed 
 him to act as his spy and ally. Thus prepared, 
 he sent the fellow to Lady Randolph, bidding him 
 to introduce himself to her as Norval's faithful 
 follower. The scheme proved successful. Lady 
 Randolph intrusted to him the letter she had 
 written to her son, appointing an interview at 
 a secret place in the neighboring foi-est. This 
 perilous missive the treacherous wretch first bore 
 to Glenalvon, who opened it, read its contents 
 with malignant satisfaction, and showed it to 
 Lord Randolph, whose heart throbbed with jealous 
 rage on finding that his wife had made a secret
 
 DOUGLAS. 47 
 
 assignation with the youthful stranger. This 
 mischief done, Glenalvon resealed the letter, and 
 bade the messenger to seek young Norval in the 
 neighboring camp and deliver it to him. 
 
 Norval, however, was then at the castle, not 
 the camp, and here met Lady Randolph alone, 
 her heart still enraptured with the joyful tidings 
 she had heard. Her loving eyes, filled with new 
 light, now traced in his ingenuous features the 
 plain likeness of her loved and lost Douglas, and 
 hardly could she desist from clasping him in her 
 arms and claiming him as her son. 
 
 " Norval," she said, with difficulty restraining 
 her ardor, "now that lucky chance has left us 
 here alone, I will amaze you with a wondrous tale." 
 
 " If there be danger, lady, with the secret, yet 
 tell it ; my sword, my life, are yours." 
 
 " Know you these gems ?" she asked, revealing 
 the jewels taken from the old man. 
 
 " Dare I believe my eyes ? My father's jewels ! 
 How came they here?" 
 
 " They were your father's, truly. But not Nor- 
 val' s. This is the tale I promised : you are not 
 Norval's son." 
 
 " Not Norval's son !" exclaimed the youth, his 
 eyes distended with surprise. 
 
 "No, boy. The blood of shepherds flows not 
 in your veins. You are of noble birth." 
 
 "Can I believe this? Norval not my father? 
 Oh, tell me further, lady! Who was my father?" 
 
 " Douglas."
 
 48 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 " Lord Douglas, whom to-day I saw ?" 
 
 " No, no, not he, his younger brother. He— 
 ah, unhappy youth ! — he fell in battle before you 
 were born." 
 
 " Strange tale, indeed ! Norval no kin to me — 
 my father dead before I saw the light — Lord 
 Douglas his brother ! My mother — does she live ?" 
 
 " She lives ; but wastes her life in constant woe, 
 weeping her husband slain, her iufant lost." 
 
 " You know my story — my parents — oh, tell 
 me all ! Your face confesses that she still is 
 wretched. What can I do to aid her? My heart 
 —my sword " 
 
 " No, no, she now is happy. Your virtue ends 
 her woe. My son ! my son !" 
 
 " My mother ? You ?" 
 
 " I am your mother, and the wife of Douglas." 
 With tears of joy the happy mother clasped him 
 to her breast, and lavished kisses on his lips. 
 
 " Oh, heaven and earth, my mother ! Let me 
 kneel " 
 
 " Arise, my son. Ah, how it joys my heart to 
 see in your dear face your father's features! 
 Hear me now. You are the rightful heir of this 
 proud castle and its wide domains. Eandolph 
 must yield them to you. If he refuses, Lord 
 Douglas shall protect you." 
 
 "Heed it not, mother. To be thQ son of 
 Douglas is to me inheritance enough. Declare 
 my birth, that men may know me ; but let me in 
 the field seek fame and fortune."
 
 DOUGLAS. 49 
 
 " My Bon, you know not what grave perils sur- 
 round you. Yonder comes Lord Eandolph and 
 Glenalvon. Beware that villain. He craves my 
 husband's lands and title. Your life would stand 
 for little in the way of his ambition." 
 
 " Is it so, indeed ? Then let him beware of 
 me." 
 
 " We must talk further. I have sent you a 
 letter to the camp by your servant's hand appoint- 
 ing a time and place of meeting. Leave me now. 
 Be Norval still, till time is ripe for you to bear 
 the noble name of Douglas." 
 
 Little knew the mother and son what venom 
 the serpent had alreadj^ distilled for their desti'uc- 
 tion. The letter which Glenalvon had shown to 
 rouse Lord Eandolpb's jealousy was now followed 
 up by new wiles of the soulless villain. He 
 pointed out to Lord Eandolph Norval, who was 
 seemingly stealing from his lady's p^resence. Her 
 flushed face, nervous preoccupation, and quick 
 withdrawal into the castle, served to add new fuel 
 to her husband's jealousy, which the insidious 
 demon by his side did his utmost to add to. 
 
 " You shall see, my lord. We know their place 
 and time of meeting. There we may lurk con- 
 cealed and witness it." 
 
 " She never loved me." 
 
 " She betrays you now. Wait, let me accost 
 
 young Norval with ironical dei'ision. If he be 
 
 humble still, he'll shrink before me. But if he 
 
 be the favorite of the first of Caledonia's dames, 
 
 Vol. II. — c d 5
 
 60 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 he'll turn upon me as the lion turns upon the 
 hunter's spear." 
 
 Glenalvon well knew the spirit of the young 
 man, and with half-bidden insults soon stirred 
 him up to such anger that, in the end, Nerval 
 hotly drew his sword and bade him defend himself. 
 
 At this moment Lord Eandolpb, who bad re- 
 mained in concealment during the angry colloquy, 
 stepped forth and sternly bade them to desist, 
 demanding the cause of their quarrel. Norval 
 declared that he had been bitterly insulted, and 
 much as be esteemed Lord Eandolpb, could not 
 forgive Glenalvon, 
 
 " You may find better work for your swords at 
 present," replied Eandolpb, sternly. " Keep them 
 for your country's foe. Eepel the invader, then 
 decide your private quarrel." 
 
 " Be it so," they both answered. 
 
 Glenalvon had no intention to fight with the 
 high-spirited youth. His aim was but to add fuel 
 to Lord Eandolpb's jealousy. At the time ap- 
 pointed for the meeting of Lady Eandolpb with 
 her son, he led her husband from the castle to the 
 leafy covert in which they designed to conceal 
 themselves. 
 
 By chance, on their way thither, old Nerval, 
 who was lurking near by, heard part of their 
 conversation, and listened in affright to their 
 words. He heard them but imperfectly, but 
 found that they were speaking in threatening 
 tones of his reputed son and Lady Eandolpb.
 
 DOUGLAS. 51 
 
 They claimed to have made a wonderful discovery, 
 and vowed revenge. 
 
 Shortly afterwards, the old man, hastening 
 from that spot, met young Norval — or Douglas, 
 rather — and told him what he had learned. 
 " Eevenge ! — for what ?" asked the startled youth. 
 " For being Sir Malcolm's heir," replied the old 
 man, as he hastened to confirm what Lady Ean- 
 dolph had already revealed. Douglas listened in 
 mingled joy and sorrow to this confirmation of 
 his mother's story, and declared that he would not 
 forsake him whom he had always known as a 
 fatber, whatever migbt betide. As for his noble 
 mother, he continued, he awaited her at that 
 moment, and was eager to hear and be governed 
 by her counsel. He, therefore, requested old 
 Nerval to leave him, as his intei'view with his 
 mother must be private. 
 
 The departure of the old man was quickly fol- 
 lowed by the entrance of Lady Randolph, who 
 tenderly embraced her son, and asked him why 
 his face wore so grave an aspect. He replied by 
 repeating the tale which he had just heard, that 
 Randolph and Glenalvon had spoken of a strange 
 discovery and vowed revenge. 
 
 She heard him in trembling fear. Like him, 
 she could conceive but one origin for their threats, 
 that they had learned the secret of his birth, and 
 were determined to remove from their path this 
 rightful claimant to the estate of Balarmo. She 
 bade her son fly to the camp, show Lord Douglas
 
 52 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 the jewels, tell him the story he had learned, and 
 request his aid and protection. Before parting, 
 she begged him to abate his thirst for war, for she 
 feared that she might lose him as she had hia 
 father. These words were wasted on the young 
 man's ardent spirit. He vowed that only on the 
 invaders' heads could he prove his high descent, 
 and embracing her with a warmth born of filial 
 love, he hastened from her presence. 
 
 At the same moment Eandolph and Glenalvon 
 burst from their ambush, and rushed out before 
 the frightened woman, who fled in dismay. 
 
 " Where is he ? Gone ?" cried Randolph, in jeal- 
 ous fury. " Stay, Glenalvon, I go alone. It 
 never shall be said that I took odds in combat. 
 Leave me to my revenge." 
 
 lie rushed away in pursuit of Douglas, and in 
 a minute more loud voices and the clashing of 
 swords could be heard. Glenalvon listened with 
 a face of wily treachery. 
 
 " Now is my time," he cried. " A double 
 slaughter clears my path. I'll take them 
 unawares." 
 
 Drawing his sword, he hurried towards the 
 sounds of combat. In a minute more Lady Ran- 
 dolph returned. The clash of swords had caught 
 her cars, and she came flying back, faint and 
 breathless. 
 
 " Lord Randolph, hear me !" she cried. " Take 
 all my wealth, but spare, oh, spare my son 1" 
 
 The sounds of battle ceased as suddenly as they
 
 DOUGLAS. 53 
 
 had begun. As the mother's eyes looked dis- 
 tractedly towards the locality of the duel, Douglas 
 returned, weak and bleeding, but with a sword in 
 each hand. 
 
 " My mother's voice !" he cried. " I can protect 
 you still." 
 
 " He lives ! he lives !" she exclaimed, in joyful 
 accents. " Surely I saw you fall." 
 
 " It was Grlenalvon. I mastered Eandolph: this 
 is his sword. But as I did so the villain came 
 behind me, — and I slew him." 
 
 " Behind you ! You are wounded ? Ah, me, 
 how pale you grow !" 
 
 " I feel a little faintness ; it soon will pass," said 
 Douglas, leaning on his sword. 
 
 " Your pallid lips ! — your flowing blood ! Oh, 
 Douglas, Douglas, the hand of death is on you !" 
 
 " Dear mother. Ah ! I fear that we must part. 
 Oh, had I fallen as my brave fathers fell, I could 
 have welcomed deaih ! But thus to perish, by a 
 villain's hand " 
 
 He reeled with these words and fell prostrate, 
 while his despairing mother sank with streaming 
 eyes on her knees beside him. 
 
 " My eyes that gaze on you grow dim apace : 
 
 my mother — oh, my mother " A gasp stopped 
 
 his utterance, and his eyes closed in death, while 
 with a cry of agony the tortured woman threw her- 
 self upon his body, clasping it wildly in her arms. 
 
 At the same moment Lord Eandolph and Anaa 
 entered, in earnest conversation. 
 
 6*
 
 54 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 " Her son ! Your words have pierced my 
 heart I" he said. " Oh, if he but survives the 
 traitor's sword " 
 
 " Look there, my lord !" 
 
 *' The mother and her son I Both dead ? How 
 cursed I am !" 
 
 " No, no, my lady lives !" 
 
 Their words seemed to pierce the numbed senses 
 of the distracted mother. She struggled to her 
 feet and tossed her arms wildly in the air, exclaim- 
 ing— 
 
 *' My son ! my son ! my beautiful and brave I 
 How proud I was of you and of your valor! 
 Now all my hopes, with you, are dead. A little 
 while I was a wife ! a mother not so long ! What 
 am I now ? What shall I be ? My son, my hus- 
 band, call me ! Yes, I hear, I come !" 
 
 Springing to her feet, she ran distractedly from 
 the spot. Anna followed her, at Lord Eandolph's 
 request. While the nobleman stood there, torn 
 with sad emotions, old Norval entered, and seeing 
 what had happened, burst into a storm of grief, 
 flinging himself madly on the ground beside the 
 dead body of him whom he had cherished as a son. 
 
 " My lord ! my lord !" cried Anna, who now re- 
 turned, her eyes distended with mortal fright. 
 
 "Speak: what new horror! Matilda!" 
 
 "Is no more. She flew like lightning up yon 
 rocky hill, and from its precipice leaped headlong 
 dpwn, to dreadful death I" 
 
 "Wretch that I am, 'twas I that drove her
 
 DOUGLAS. 55 
 
 to it!" exclaimed the half-maddened nobleman. 
 " Would that I had died too ! Mother and son, 
 both slain by that base villain ! — by me rather ; 
 for 'twas my jealousy that wrought their death I 
 What is there left for me, but in the battle's van 
 to seek release from life's sad bonds ? I go ; the 
 foe that checks me there must threaten worse than 
 death !" 
 
 And with slow steps and bent head the sad old 
 nobleman withdrew from that scene of death, 
 feeling that life for him had ceased, and that he 
 who should first plunge a sword into his breast 
 would be his dearest friend.
 
 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 
 
 BY OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 
 
 [Of the literary skill of Oliver Goldsmith we 
 have no occasion to speak. Whatever he touched 
 he adorned ; and his writings, alike in poetry, the 
 drama, fiction, essay, and other fields of literature, 
 are among the choicest legacies of thoup-ht from 
 the eighteenth century to the nineteenth. 
 
 This distinguished author was born at Pallas, 
 in Longford, Ireland, in 1728, obtained his edu- 
 cation at Trinity College, Dublin, and passed an 
 adventurous life, in which he showed a much 
 better faculty in getting rid of money than in 
 getting it. After trying his hand at almost every 
 varity of literary production, and always with 
 success from a literary point of view, he ventured 
 into the field of the drama; his first play, " The 
 Good-Natured Man," being produced in 1768, with 
 some success. In 1773, a year only before his 
 death, appeared his great di'amatic triumph, '• She 
 Stoops to Conquer," which still remains one of 
 the most popular of English comedies. As a 
 man, Goldsmith was thoughtless and improvident, 
 and spent the most of his life in pecuniary diflS- 
 56
 
 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER, 57 
 
 culties ; but he was warm-hearted and generous, 
 and full of love and charity for his fellow-beings. 
 As a writer, humor and pathos are deftlj- mingled 
 in his style, which has a native charm which few 
 writers have equalled, and which will make him 
 a favorite while English literature survives.] 
 
 In a roomy hill-side mansion of Southern Eng- 
 land, at a considerable distance from the metrojDO- 
 lis, dwelt a genial but old-fashioned country squire 
 named Hardcastle, with a family consisting of his 
 wife, a woman largely made up of whims and 
 follies ; his daughter Kate, a handsome and sensi- 
 ble young lady ; his wife's ward Miss Neville, 
 Kate's bosom friend ; and his step-son, Tony Lump- 
 kin, his mother's darling, but an unmanageable 
 cub, who spent his days in low company at road- 
 side inns. As for the young ladies, Mr. Hard- 
 castle and his wife had laid plans for their future 
 happiness, or misery, as it might prove. The 
 fortune of Miss Neville consisted principally of 
 jewels, which had been left in trust to Mrs. 
 Hardcastle, who had firmly made up her mind to 
 keep them in the family. With this intent she 
 had arranged in her own fancy a match between 
 her lady ward and her son Tony. The courting, 
 however, was principally done by the mother, her 
 undutiful son having little fancy for being tied 
 for life to a fine lady. Miss Neville, for pur^^oses 
 of her own, affected to favor the suit. She was 
 really in love with a young gentleman of very
 
 68 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 diflferent calibre from Tony, but felt it necessary 
 to cajole the old lady, until she could get her 
 jewels into her own possession. 
 
 While Mrs. Hardcastle was thus arranging a 
 marriage for the ward, Mr. Hardcastle was doing 
 the same thing for the daughter. He had selected 
 a suitor much more likely to prove agreeable to 
 the young lady, — Charles Marlow, the son of his 
 old friend, Sir Charles Marlow, — a handsome and 
 cultivated young gentleman, but noted for his 
 exceeding bashfulness with ladies of reputation, 
 though he was credited with assurance enough 
 with women of a lower grade in society. He was 
 now on his way to Mr. Hardcastle's house, in 
 company with his intimate friend, Mr. Hastings, 
 Miss Neville's lover, who had joined him with the 
 warm desire to see his lady love. 
 
 Kate Hardcastle had made the following com- 
 pact with her father. A year or two's residence 
 in London had filled her head with fashionable 
 ideas, and she was much fonder of "gauze and 
 French frippery" than her old-fashioned parent 
 approved of She had therefore agreed that, if 
 he would let her dress to please herself in the 
 morning, she would wear a housewife's dress to 
 please him in the evening, and change her fashion- 
 able gayety at the same time for the plainest 
 country manners, if he desired. This compact 
 was destined to give rise to the strangest series 
 of misunderstandings, and produce results of 
 which the contracting parties never dreamed.
 
 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 59 
 
 Mr. Hardcastle, for reasons of his own, had 
 kept secret from his daughter the expected 
 arrival of young Marlow, and the purpose of his 
 corning. Not until the afternoon of the day in 
 which the lover was looked fordid he advise Kate 
 of the plan he had laid for her future. She had 
 every reason, though, he told her, to be satis- 
 fied. Mr. Marlow was young, brave, generous, 
 and handsome, a scholar and gentleman ; his only 
 drawback being that he was one of the most 
 bashful persons in the world. This impediment 
 to the freedom of courtship was not much to the 
 taste of the young lady ; she had no fancy for a 
 timid and sheepish lover, — but a polished London 
 gentleman in that country district! — that was a 
 prize worth having, and timidity was a fault that 
 might be cured. On the whole, she rather ap- 
 proved of the situation. 
 
 Kate lost no time in telling her friend Constance 
 of the interesting event to take place that even- 
 ing, and threw her into as great a flutter as her- 
 self, for Miss Neville knew that Marlow was the 
 intimate friend of her lover, Mr. Hastings, and 
 her heart thi'obbed with joy at the hope that they 
 might come together. His advent might create 
 awkward complications, it was true ; Mrs. Hard- 
 castle was lynx-eyed in her matrimonial plans 
 for her dear Tony ; but something might arise to 
 overcome her vigilance and set her ward at 
 liberty, and the hopeful young lady was quite 
 willing to trust to the chapter of chances.
 
 60 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 While Kate and Constance were in such a state 
 of mind over the news they had received, an 
 event of the utmost importance to our stor}' was 
 taking place a few miles away. In an ale house 
 called the Three Pigeons sat Tony Lumpkin, at 
 a table around which were ranged several shabby 
 companions, of the sort which he preferred as 
 associates, while on the board before them was 
 a plentiful supply of punch and tobacco. Tony 
 occupied the head of the table, as the master 
 spirit of the company, and had just finished a 
 rollicking drinking song when the landlord 
 entered and informed him that there were two 
 gentlemen in a post-chaise at the door, who had 
 lost their way, and were making inquiries about 
 Mr. Hardcastle. 
 
 " Do they look like Londoners ?" asked Tony. 
 
 " I'd take 'em for Frenchmen," said the land- 
 lord. 
 
 "As sure as maybe, one of them is the gentle- 
 man that's coming down to court my sister. 
 Show them in, Stingo. Gentlemen, just you step 
 out awhile ; I'll be with you in the squeezing of a 
 lemon." 
 
 In a moment Tony was left alone. He stood in 
 an expectant attitude, muttering sourly to himself 
 
 "Father-in-law has been calling me whelp and 
 hound this half 3'ear. Now, if I pleased, I could 
 be revenged on the old grumbletonian. Ecod, 
 I've half a mind to try ; he can't out me out of 
 my fortune for a joke."
 
 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 61 
 
 He was interrupted in his soliloquy by the 
 entrance of Marlow and Hastings, two young 
 gentlemen of good figure and handsome feature, 
 who were attired in the most fashionable cut of 
 travelling costume. They stood talking over the 
 situation, Tony gathering from their words that 
 they were completely at a loss to tell where they 
 were. 
 
 " You are asking for a Mr. Hardcastle, I hear," 
 he remarked. '-Pray, is not this same Hard- 
 castle a cross-grained, old-fashioned, whimsical 
 fellow, with an ugly face ; a daughter, who is a 
 tall, trolloping, talkative May-pole ; and a son, a 
 pretty, well-bred, agreeable youth, that everybody 
 is fond of?" 
 
 " Why, as for the old gentleman, we can't say," 
 answered Marlow. " But we have been told that 
 the daughter is well-bred and beautiful ; the son 
 an awkward booby, reared at his mother's apron- 
 string, and spoiled by her folly." 
 
 "He-he-hem!" stammered Tonj^ not quite 
 relishing this picture. " Well, gentlemen, all I 
 have to say is that you won't reach Mr. Hard- 
 castle's house this night ; unless you want to make 
 a road over Quagmire Marsh. Stingo, tell the gen- 
 tlemen the way to Mr. Hardcastle's." 
 
 The landlord, admonished by a wink from. 
 Tony, laid out such an impassable route that it 
 seemed madness to attempt it, and the travellers 
 in despair began to talk of seeking quarters at 
 the Three Pigeons for the night. But Tony 
 
 6
 
 \ 
 
 62 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 quickly advised them that there was no hope in 
 that quarter, the only spare bed in the house 
 having three lodgers already. 
 
 " Let me see, gentlemen," he continued. " What 
 if you go on a mile farther, to the Buck's Head ; 
 the old Buck's Head on the hill, one of the best 
 inns in the whole county ?" 
 
 " You ben' t sending 'em to 3^our father's as an inn, 
 be you ?" said the landlord, in an aside to Tony. 
 
 " Mum, you fool ! Let them find that out," 
 whispered Tony. "You have only to keep 
 straight on, gentlemen, till you come to a largo 
 old house by the road-side, with a pair of buck's 
 horns over the door. That's the sign. Drive up 
 the yard, and call stoutly about you." 
 
 '' Sir, we are obliged," said Hastings. " Our ser- 
 vants can't miss the way." 
 
 " I warn you, though, that the landlord is rich 
 and going to retire from business," continued 
 Tony; "so he wants to be thought a gentleman, 
 he ! he ! he ! He'll be for giving you his company ; 
 and ecod, if you mind him, he'll persuade you 
 that his mother was an alderman, and his aunt a 
 justice of the peace." 
 
 " A troublesome old blade, to be sure," added 
 the landlord ; " but keeps as good wines and beds 
 as any in the county." 
 
 " Why, if he supplies us with these, we shall 
 ask no more. Turn to the right did you say?" 
 
 " No, no ; straight forward. I'll step out my. 
 self, and show you a piece of the way." 
 
 • i
 
 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 63 
 
 While the mischievous young rascal was thus 
 planting the seeds of future misconception, his 
 worthy father-in-law was engaged in training in 
 table exercises a corps of servants taken from 
 the plow and the barn-yard. His efforts in this 
 direction were far from successful ; he found the 
 rustics incorrigible dunces ; and in the midst of 
 his lessons a post-chaise drove into the yard, and 
 the expected guests were shown into the house. 
 
 The two young gentlemen, full of the idea that 
 they were in an inn, were ushered into the room 
 which Mr. Hardcastle and the seiwants had just 
 vacated. They gazed approvingly at its hand- 
 some and comfortable appointments, though with 
 the fear that they would be made to pay for all 
 this elegance in their bill. From admiring the 
 room, they fell to talking of more personal sub- 
 jects, the question of Marlow's diffidence being 
 broached. 
 
 " 1 don't know how, but a single glance fi-om a 
 pair of fine eyes robs me of all my courage," he 
 remarked. "An impudent fellow may counter- 
 feit modesty ; but I'll be hanged if a modest man 
 can ever counterfeit impudence." 
 
 " I don't understand you, man. I have heard 
 you lavish hosts of fine things on the bar- maid of 
 an inn." 
 
 " Your fine ladies petrify me, George. To me, 
 a modest woman, dressed out in all her finery, is 
 the most tremendous object of the whole cre- 
 ation. This stammer in my address, and this
 
 64 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 awkward Pshaw ! this fellow here to inter- 
 rupt us !" 
 
 The fellow alluded to was Mr. Hardcastle him- 
 self, who entered the room in a very gracious 
 manner, bidding his guests heartily welcome to 
 his fireside. The young travellers, thinking him 
 but a garrulous landlord, paid little attention to 
 what he said, and went on to talk of their pur- 
 pose in visiting his house as freely as if he were 
 not in the room. 
 
 "Pray be under no restraint in this house," 
 said the surprised old gentleman. " This is 
 Liberty Hall. You may do just as you please 
 here." 
 
 The visitors took him at his word, for when he 
 began to tell one of the long-winded military 
 anecdotes of which he had an abundant store at 
 his command, they chatted on without listening 
 to a word he said. Marlow at length interrupted 
 him with, — 
 
 " What, my good friend, if you gave us a glass 
 of punch in the mean time ? It would help us to 
 carry on the siege with vigor." 
 
 "Punch, sir! This is the most unaccountable 
 kind of modesty I ever met with," said Hard- 
 castle to himself. 
 
 " Yes, sir, punch. This is Liberty Hall, you 
 know." 
 
 This was but the beginning of Mr. Hardcastle's 
 bewilderment. From punch they turned to the 
 question of provender, demanding to know what
 
 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 65 
 
 he had in the house for supper; and when he, 
 after some persuasion, sent for the bill of fare, 
 one did not like this, and the other could not bear 
 that, till their host stood overwhelmed by their 
 impudence. 
 
 "I'm sorry, gentlemen," he broke out at last, 
 " that I have nothing you like ; but if there be 
 anything you have a particular fancy to " 
 
 "Why, sir," interrupted Marlow, "your bill of 
 fare is so. exquisite that any one part of it is 
 fully as good as another. Send us what you 
 please. So much for supper: and now to see 
 that our beds are aired and properly taken care 
 of." 
 
 " I entreat you, leave all that to me. You shall 
 not stir a step." 
 
 " Leave it to you ? No, indeed ; I always look 
 to these things myself." 
 
 " 1 must insist, sir, that you make yourself easy 
 on that head." 
 
 " You see I'm resolved on it," said Marlow ; 
 adding in an aside, "A very troublesome old 
 fellow, this !" 
 
 " Well, sir, I'm resolved at least to attend you," 
 answered Hardcastle; continuing to himself, 
 " This may be modern modesty ; but I never saw 
 anything look so like old-fashioned impudence." 
 
 They left the room together, Hastings remaining 
 behind. 
 
 " This fellow's civilities begin to grow trouble- 
 some," he said. " Yet they are meant to please 
 
 Vol. II.— e 6*
 
 66 TALES FROJI THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 Ha ! what do I see ? Miss Neville, by all that's 
 happy 1" 
 
 "My dear George!" exclaimed Miss Neville, 
 who entered the room at that moment. " This is 
 a happy meeting, indeed." 
 
 " And a surprising one. I never dreamed of 
 meeting my dear Constance at an inn." 
 
 " An inn !" she echoed, in surprise. " Mr. Hard- 
 castle's house an inn I What gave you such a 
 strange idea ?" 
 
 " Mr. Marlow and I were sent here as to an inn. 
 A young fellow, a mile below here, told us " 
 
 "Ha! ha! ha! that is one of my hopeful 
 cousin's tricks." 
 
 " What ! the lout whom your aunt intends for 
 you, and of whom I have had such apprehen- 
 sions ?" 
 
 " You need not, George. You'd adore the fel- 
 low if you knew how heartily he despises me." 
 
 "An inn! Ha! ha! ha! But Marlow must be 
 kept in ignorance. If he knew the truth his 
 modesty would drive him out of the house within 
 the hour. We must keep up the deception." 
 
 " But how ? Miss Hardcastle has been out 
 walking, but will be here in a few minutes. Is 
 this Mr. Marlow, now ?" 
 
 Marlow entered as she spoke, complaining of 
 the annoying attentions of the landlord, whom he 
 found to be a troublesome old bore. He was 
 somewhat taken aback on being introduced to 
 Miss Neville, and told that Miss Hardcastle had
 
 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 67 
 
 stopped at the inn with her, and that he would 
 see her in a moment. Every spark of his assur- 
 ance died out at the thought of meeting her thus 
 suddenly, and he was only kept from taking to 
 flight by Hastings' promise to support him. 
 
 In the midst of their conference Miss Hardcastle 
 entered, in a walking dress. Miss Neville at once 
 introduced her to the gentlemen, and a conversa- 
 tion ensued, during which Marlow never once 
 hfted his eyes to the young lady's face, and hardly 
 spoke a word except as prompted by his more 
 collected friend. 
 
 " Miss Hardcastle, I see that you and Mr. Mar- 
 low are going to be very good company," said 
 Hastings, at length. " We are only in your way." 
 
 " Not in the least !" exclaimed Marlow, hastily. 
 " We like your company of all things. — Zounds, 
 George," he whispered to him, "you won't go?" 
 
 " Consider, man, Miss Neville and I must have 
 a little tete-d-tete of our own," and Hastings 
 wickedly walked out with his inamorata, leaving 
 Marlow in a fit of the most embarrassing ner- 
 vousness. 
 
 An amusing conversation followed, in which 
 Miss Hardcastle led, and Marlow stumblingly en- 
 deavored to reply. 
 
 " You were observing, sir," she went on, after 
 some ridiculous remark on the part of the gentle- 
 man, " that in this age of hypocrisy — something 
 about hypocrisy." 
 
 •' Yes, madam ; iii this age of hypocrisy, there
 
 68 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 are few "who, upon strict inquiiy, do not — 
 
 " I understand you perfectly, sir." 
 
 " That is more than I do myself," said Marlow, 
 
 in an aside. " Yes, madam, as I was saying 
 
 But I am sure I tire you." 
 
 "Not in the least, sir; there's something so 
 agreeable and spirited in your manner; such life 
 and force ; pray, sir, go on." 
 
 " I was saying," continued Marlow, his nervous- 
 ness increasing, "that there are some occasions, — 
 when a want of courage destroys all the — and 
 puts us — upon a-a-a " 
 
 " I agree with you entirely." 
 
 "Yes, madam, morally speaking. But I see 
 Miss Neville expecting us in the next room. We 
 must not detain her. Shall I have the honor to 
 attend j^ou, madam ?" 
 
 "I'll follow, sir." 
 
 " This pretty, smooth dialogue has done for me," 
 groaned Marlow to himself, as he escaped from 
 the room. 
 
 " Ha ! ha ! ha !" laughed Miss Hardcastle, when 
 he had vanished, " did any one ever talk such 
 sober, sentimental nonsense ? And he never 
 looked in my face the whole time ! Yet he would 
 do pretty well, only for his ridiculous bashfulness. 
 If I could only teach him a little confidence, 
 
 now !" 
 
 Marlow had fibbed slightly ; Miss Neville was 
 not in the next room. She and Hastings had
 
 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 69 
 
 passed on to another apartment, in which they 
 found Mrs. Hardcastle and Tony. Miss Neville 
 introduced her lover to the old lady, and left them 
 engaged in conversation, while she devoted her- 
 self to Tony, who was anything but pleased with 
 her attentions. 
 
 " It's very hard to be followed about so," he 
 broke out at length, in a pet. " Ecod, I've not a 
 place left me in the house now, but the stable." 
 
 " Cousin Tony is generous," said the teasing 
 young lady. " He falls out before faces that he 
 may be forgiven in private." 
 
 "That's a confounded — crack!" said Tony, 
 testily. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle, who had been uneasily watch- 
 ing them, now came to the rescue, declaring that 
 there never was a pair better matched by nature. 
 Her dear Tonj^ was the picture of his cousin even 
 in height. To prove this, she set them back to 
 back ; when the mischievous young scamp, whose 
 temper was much ruffled, gave the young lady 
 such a crack with the back of his head that the 
 air before her danced with stars. This perverse 
 behavior was too much for the doting mother. 
 She left the room in tears, followed by Miss 
 Neville, while Hastings proceeded to lecture her 
 graceless son severely on his bad behavior. 
 
 The lecture proved not very successful. Tony 
 gave Hastings very freely his opinion of his 
 cousin, whom he spoke of as a bitter, cantankerous 
 toad, full of tricks, and her beauty all made up.
 
 70 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 " What would you say to a friend who would 
 take this bitter bargain off your hands?" asked 
 Ilastinirs. 
 
 " Where is there such a friend ? Who would 
 take her?" demanded Tony. 
 
 " He stands before you. If you but assist me, 
 I'll engage to whip her off to France, and you 
 shall never hear more of her." 
 
 " Assist you ? Ecod, I wiir, to the last drop of 
 my blood ! I'll clap a pair of horses to your 
 chaise that shall trundle you off in a twinkling; 
 and maybe get you a part of her fortune besides, 
 in jewels, that you little dream of" 
 
 " My dear squire, this looks like a lad of spirit." 
 
 "Come along, then, and you shall see more of 
 my spirit before you have done with me," and 
 Tony led the way from the room, singing an ale- 
 house ditty as he went. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle's undutiful son was as good as 
 his word. The young scamp had keys to all his 
 mother's drawers, which he had often used for 
 the purpose of helping himself to funds for his 
 ale-house frolics. By their aid he now quickly 
 made himself master of the casket containino^ 
 Miss Neville's jewels, which he delivered into 
 Hastings' hands. 
 
 While the worthy pair were thus helping them- 
 selves by what Tony called " the rule of thumb," 
 Miss Neville, who had laid her plans with her 
 lover, was seeking to obtain her jewels by the 
 more honorable method of persuasion. She found
 
 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 71 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle, however, hard to convince. " It 
 vrill be time enough for jewels twenty years 
 hence. Jewels are not worn at present. Yours 
 are only a parcel of old-fashioned rose and table- 
 cut things." These and other reasons she gave for 
 not delivering them, ending by saying, " they may 
 be missing, for aught I know to the contrary." 
 
 " Tell her so at once," whispered the mischievous 
 Tony, who had come into the room during this 
 conversation. " Tell her they're lost, and call me 
 to bear witness. It's the only way to quiet her." 
 
 This suggestion was accepted by the astute 
 guardian. She declared that the jewels were 
 missing ; an assertion which Tony professed he 
 was ready to take oath to. The old lady ac- 
 knowledged, however, that she was responsible 
 for their value, and said that if Constance was 
 80 anxious for jewels, she would lend her her own 
 garnets. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle left the room to procure these, 
 and her tricky son took advantage of the oppor- 
 tunity to bid Miss Neville hasten to her lover, 
 who would tell her something to her satisfaction 
 about the jewels. " Vanish !" he cried. " He has 
 them. She's here, and has missed them already." 
 
 Miss Neville hastened from the room, at the 
 same moment that Mrs. Hardcastle entered in a 
 panic of excitement. "Thieves! robbers! We are 
 cheated, robbed, plundered !" she cried. 
 
 "What's the matter, mamma?" asked Tony, 
 innocently.
 
 72 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 " My bureau has been broken open and the 
 jewels taken ! We are robbed, undone !" 
 
 " Oh I is that all ! lla ! ha ! ha ! by the laws, 
 I never saw it better acted in my life ! Ecod, I 
 thought you was ruined in earnest ; ha ! ha ! ha !" 
 
 " Why, boy, I am ruined in earnest. The jewels 
 are stolen, I say." 
 
 " Stick to that ; ha ! ha ! ha ! stick to that ; I'll 
 bear witness, you know; call me to bear witness." 
 
 " M}^ dearest Tony, hear me. By all that's 
 precious, the jewels are really gone." 
 
 " Ha ! ha ! ha ! mamma. I know who took 
 them well enough ; ha ! ha ! ha !" 
 
 And the mischievous rogue kept up his pro- 
 voking show of belief in her skill as an actress, till 
 the badgered woman finally drove him from the 
 room, calling him fool and unfeeling brute, to all 
 of which he returned the same provoking answer, 
 *' I can bear witness to that." 
 
 While the affairs of Hastings and Miss Neville 
 were making this favorable progress, those of 
 Mario w and Miss Hardcastle had reached an in- 
 teresting phase. In compliance with her compact 
 with her father, Kate had laid aside her fashion- 
 able attire, and put on a plain housewife's dress, 
 in which garb she presented herself for his ap- 
 proval. He thanked her for her obedience to his 
 wishes, and entered into a conversation with her 
 about her lover, in which it soon appeared that 
 there was a decided difference of opinion. Kate 
 described him as the most bashful man it had
 
 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 73 
 
 ever been her fortune to meet ; her father, as " the 
 most imi)udent piece of brass that ever spoke with 
 a tongue." 
 
 "He met me with a respectful bow, a stammer- 
 ing voice, and a look fixed on the gi'ound," she 
 affirmed. 
 
 " He met me with a loud voice, a lordly air, and a 
 familiarity that made my blood freeze," he replied ; 
 " and interrupted my best stories by asking me if 
 1 was not a good hand at making punch." 
 
 " One of us must certainly be mistaken," an- 
 swered Kate. 
 
 " If he be the impudent fellow he seems, I am 
 determined he shall never have my consent." 
 
 "And if he prove the sullen thing I found 
 him, he shall never have mine. But as one of us 
 must be mistaken, what if we go on to make fur- 
 ther discoveries ?" 
 
 " Depend on't, I'm in the right," declared Mr. 
 Hardcastle, positively. 
 
 "And depend on't, I'm not in the wrong," an- 
 swered his daughter, as positively. 
 
 Kate Hardcastle was destined soon to behold 
 her lover in a new light. Still full of the idea that 
 Mr. Hardcastle's house was an inn, he chanced to 
 see the young lady in her plain attire, and, misled 
 by his mistaken fancy, asked her maid if this were 
 not the bar-maid. His error was quickly reported 
 by the maid to her mistress, who resolved to take 
 advantage of it, remembering Marlow's reputation 
 for gallantry with women in that rank of life. 
 D 7
 
 74 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 " Can you act your part, and disguise j^our voice, 
 BO that he may not discover you ?" asked the maid. 
 
 " Never fear me. I thinic I know the true bar 
 cant. 'Did your honor call? Attend the Lion 
 there. Pipes and tobacco for the Angel. The 
 Lamb has been outrageous this half hour.' " 
 
 " That will do, madam. And here he comes." 
 
 The maid hastened away, leaving her mistress 
 to practise her new lesson on Marlow, who just 
 then entered the room, grumbling to himself at 
 the annoyance which he received from the assid- 
 uous attentions of the host and hostess. 
 
 He walked about in a musing humor. "As for 
 Miss Hardcastle, she's too grave and sentimental 
 for me." 
 
 "Did you call, sir? Did your honor call?" 
 asked the seeming bar-maid. 
 
 " No, child Besides," he resumed, " from 
 
 the glimpse I had of her I think she squints." 
 
 " I am sure, sir, the bell rang." 
 
 " No, no Well, I've pleased my father by 
 
 coming. To-morrow, I'll please myself by re- 
 turning." 
 
 " Perhaps the other gentleman called, sir." 
 
 " No, no, I tell you." He now for the first time 
 lifted his eyes to her face, and was struck by her 
 modest beauty. " Yes, I think I did call. I 
 
 wanted — I wanted I vow, child, you are 
 
 vastly handsome." 
 
 "Oh-f la, sir, you'll make one ashamed." 
 
 The conversation thus auspiciously begun went
 
 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 75 
 
 on at a rattling pace. All Marlow's diffidence 
 vanished, and in a very few minutes he Avas mak- 
 ing an earnest show of love to the supposed bai-- 
 maid, whose beauty, in her neat housewife's dress, 
 was certainly very attractive. 
 
 "I'm sure you didn't talk this way to Miss 
 Hardcastle," she protested. " I'll warrant me you 
 looked as dashed before her as if she was a justice 
 of the peace." 
 
 " In awe of her, child ! A mere awkward, 
 squinting thing ! No, no ; I find you don't know 
 me. I merely rallied her a little." 
 
 " Oh, then, sir, you are a favorite among the 
 ladies ?" 
 
 "A great favorite, my dear. At the ladies' 
 club in town, I'm called their agreeable Rattle. 
 Rattle, child, is not my real name, but one I'm 
 
 known by. My name is " He attempted to 
 
 kiss hei', but found herself modestly repulsed. 
 
 Marlow, however, as the conversation continued, 
 found his fancy so enslaved by the beauty and 
 vivacity of the seeming bar-maid that he went 
 beyond the boundaries of discretion, seizing her 
 hand, and attempting to take by force the kiss 
 she had refused. At this moment, to his confusion, 
 he was interrupted by the sudden entrance of Mr. 
 Hardcastle. He dropped the young lady's hand, 
 and left the room in haste. 
 
 " So, miss, is this your modest lover ?" exclaimed 
 the astounded old gentleman. "Kate, Kate, are 
 you not ashamed to deceive your father so ?"
 
 76 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 "Believe me, papa, he is still the modest man I 
 took him for: you shall be convinced of it." 
 
 " Convinced ! Would you drive mo mad ? You 
 may like this impudence, and call it modesty ; but 
 
 Why I saw him seize your hand and haul 
 
 you about like a milkmaid ! The brazen rascal 
 shall never bo son-in-law of mine !" 
 
 " Give me but an hour to convince you." 
 
 "An hour be it, then. But all must be fair and 
 open. No trifling with your father, Kate." 
 
 " Your wishes shall be my commands, dear 
 papa." 
 
 The hour's probation thus agreed upon proved 
 to be one that was crowded with events. The 
 first was in the form of a letter from Sir Charles 
 Marlow to Mr. Hardcastle, saying that he would 
 be there that evening, as he intended to take the 
 road shortly after his son. The second was an 
 awkward mistake in regard to Miss Neville's 
 jewels. Hastings, having his hands full of prep- 
 arations for the elopement, sent the casket to 
 Marlow to keep for him, as their baggage was 
 in his care. Marlow, who deemed the seat of a 
 post-chaise at an inn-door not a very safe recep- 
 tacle for valuables, sent the casket by a servant 
 to the hostess for safe keeping. Thus, by this 
 odd misunderstanding, the jewels fell again into 
 Mrs. Hardcastle's hands, who took them into 
 custody with an eagerness which almost included 
 the servant who brought them. 
 
 Meanwhile matters were rapidly advancing to
 
 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 77 
 
 a climax between Mr. Hardcastle and his deceived 
 and easy-going guest. While Marlow was cosily 
 seated in his host's favorite easy-chair, his mind 
 full of the beauty, grace, and vivacity of the 
 charming little bar-maid, Mr. Hardcastle entered 
 in a testy humor, exclaiming that he no longer 
 knew his own house, it had been so overturned 
 by the aggressive impertinence of his guests. 
 
 An exciting conversation took place between 
 him and Marlow, in which they were sadly at 
 cross-purposes. Marlow indignantly demanded 
 what more his host required of him. If he did 
 not drink himself, he had given orders to his 
 servants not to spare the cellar, and he sent for 
 one of them in proof that the fellows were 
 already comfortably drunk. 
 
 This added fire to the fuel of Mr. Ilardcastle's 
 wrath, and he ordered the guest to leave the 
 house at once. Marlow replied that he would do 
 nothing of the sort ; the house was his own while 
 he chose to pay his way in it. 
 
 "It is yours, sir!" exclaimed the host; "then 
 perhaps 3^ou claim the furniture as well? Here 
 is a pair of silver candlesticks ; there a fire-screen ; 
 here a mahogany table, — you may take a fancy to 
 them, perhaps." 
 
 " Say no more, sir," cried Marlow, now in a 
 passion ; " bring me your bill j let's make no more 
 words about it." 
 
 " My bill, young man ! Mercy on me, from his 
 father's letter I was taught to expect a well-bred,
 
 78 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 modest man as a visitor, instead of a coxcomb 
 and a bully. I3ut Sir Charles will be here pres- 
 ently, and shall hear ray opinion of it all." And 
 the old gentleman stamped from the room in a 
 rage, leaving his guest in a very uneasy state of 
 mind. 
 
 Mr. Hardcastle's last words were certainly not 
 those of an innkeeper. But if his house were 
 not an inn, what was it doing with a bar-maid? 
 Marlow felt that he must know the truth at once, 
 and fortunately for him Miss Hardcastle entered 
 at the height of his dilemma. His first question 
 convinced her that he suspected his error, and 
 she made a virtue of necessity by undeceiving 
 him, laughing at him heartily for mistaking one 
 of the best manor houses in the county for an 
 inn. As for herself, she declared that she was a 
 poor relation of the family, who kept the keys 
 and looked after the comfort of the guests. 
 
 This information threw Marlow into a sad 
 stew. To mistake Mr. Hardcastle's house for an 
 inn, and order his father's old friend about as an 
 innkeeper! The story would surely get afloat, 
 and he would be the laugh of all London. 
 
 " What a set of blunders have I made !" he 
 exclaimed. "My stupidity saw everything the 
 wrong way. I even mistook your manner for 
 the allurincc arts of a bar-maid. It is over. This 
 house I no more show viy face in." 
 
 "I'm sure I should be sorry if you left the 
 family on m}- account," whimpered Kate, artfully,
 
 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 79 
 
 pretending to cry. " I'm sure I should be sorry 
 if people said anything amiss, since I have no 
 fortune but my character." 
 
 " She weeps I By Heaven, this mark of tender- 
 ness touches me !" said Marlow to himself. " Ex- 
 cuse me, my lovely girl, you are the only part of 
 the family I leave with reluctance. Dream not 
 that I could ever harbor a thought to your harm." 
 
 Their conversation went on, Marlow being more 
 and more attracted by her affected simplicity and 
 grief, till he was obliged to leave the room lest 
 his feelings should carry him too far. As for Miss 
 Hardcastle, his artless show of affection filled her 
 heart with pleasure, and she determined that he 
 should not go if she had the power to detain him. 
 
 Hastings's affairs were rapidly getting into 
 as great a complication as those of his friend. 
 Through one blunder the stolen jewels had been 
 returned to Mrs. Hardcastle's hands. A still 
 more awkward blunder was to follow. While 
 Miss Neville and Tony were playing at love- 
 making, to deceive the old lady, a servant entered 
 and delivered the young squire a letter*, which 
 Miss Neville recognized at once to be in the hand- 
 writing of her lover. Here was new danger. 
 Tony's education in the reading of manuscript 
 was decidedly lacking, and he was in the habit 
 of having his mother read all his correspondence. 
 The alarmed young lady di*ew Mrs. Hardcastle 
 aside on pretence of something very amusing to 
 tell her, to give Tony an opportunity to read his
 
 80 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 missive, but ho became so puzzled over the 
 crabbed writing that his mother anxiously otfered 
 her assistance. 
 
 "Let me read it," exclaimed Miss Neville, 
 hastil}', snatching it from his hand. " Nobody 
 reads a cramped hand better than I. Do you 
 know who it is from ?" 
 
 " Can't tell, except from Dick Ginger, the 
 feeder." 
 
 " Ay, so it is." She pretended to read. " ' Dear 
 Squire, — Hoping that you're in health, as I am 
 at present. The gentlemen of the Shake-bag 
 Club has cut the gentlemen of the Goose-green 
 quite out of feather. The odds — um — odd bat- 
 tle — um — long fighting — um ' Here, it's all 
 
 about cocks and fighting. Put it up ; it's of no 
 consequence." 
 
 " Of no consequence ! Why, I would not lose 
 the rest of it for a guinea!" exclaimed Tony. 
 *' Here, mother, do you make it out." 
 
 The mischief was done. Miss Neville recoiled 
 in dismaj'^ as her aunt read a letter fx'om Hastings 
 to Tonj^, to the eifect that he was waiting for 
 Miss Neville with a post-chaise at the bottom of 
 the garden, but that he needed the fresh horses, 
 as promised. Despatch was necessary, for suspi- 
 cion might at any moment be aroused. 
 
 To use a homely phrase, " the fat was all in the 
 fire." Mrs. Hardcastle broke out furiously upon 
 her lady ward, and her son as well. So they 
 were plotting together to deceive her! She
 
 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 81 
 
 vowed that she would not be longer pestered by 
 such uncertain baggage, but would at once con- 
 vey the tricky young lady to her Aunt Pedigree, 
 whom she could depend on to keep her from all 
 runaway lovers. With these words she ran from 
 the room in a rage, declaring that the coach 
 should be got ready instantly, and ordering her 
 deceitful son to prepare himself to accompany 
 them as a mounted guard. 
 
 Here was a fine end to a promising scheme! 
 Miss Neville turned waspishly on Tony, and 
 charged him with ruining her; but he retorted 
 that she had only her own extra cleverness, with 
 her Shake-bags and Goose-greens, to thank for her 
 trouble. Hastings and Mario w entered a moment 
 afterwards, and both set so violently upon him as 
 the cause of all their difficulties that for once the 
 mischievous young rogue found himself at a loss 
 for an answer. 
 
 As for Mrs. Hardcastle, she was in serious 
 earnest. Late in the evening as it was, she had 
 the horses harnessed to the coach, and sent a 
 sei'vant to her ward, ordering her to prepai'e for 
 a journey instantly, as she was determined they 
 should set out at once. 
 
 " I shall be three years a prisoner !" exclaimed 
 Miss Neville, with tears of vexation in her eyes. 
 " My dear George, I can but trust to your esteem 
 and constancy to wait for me during that dreary 
 interval till the law sets me free." 
 
 " How can I bear this ?" he answered. " Happi- 
 VOL. 11.—/
 
 82 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS, 
 
 ness robbed from me when in my very hands ! 
 You see, young sir, what a strait your folly and 
 love of amusement have got us all in." 
 
 " Ecod, I have it I" cried Tony, with a sudden 
 inspiration. "I'll bring you all out right yet. 
 My boots there, ho ! Meet me two hours hence 
 at the bottom of the garden ; and if you don't 
 find Tony Lumpkin a more good-natured fellow 
 than you thought for, I'll give you leave to take 
 my best horse, and Bet Bouncer, the girl of my 
 heart, into the bargain. My boots, ho!" And he 
 hurried from the room, leaving them all in a state 
 of new hope. 
 
 That Tony was as good as his word need 
 scarcely be said. Two hours afterwards Hastings 
 found him at the place appointed, — the bottom 
 of the garden, — bespattered like one who had just 
 ended a long and muddy journey. 
 
 " Pive and twenty miles in two hours and a half 
 is no such bad driving," he said. " The poor 
 beasts have smoked for it. Eabbit me, but I'd 
 rather ride forty miles after a fox !" 
 
 " Where are your fellow-travellers ? Are they 
 fairly housed ?" 
 
 " I should think so. They have been led wildly 
 astray, and there's not a pond or slough within 
 five miles but they can tell the taste of." 
 
 " Ila ! I understand, — you led them in a round, 
 and have brought them home again ?" 
 
 " Just so : they are at this minute fairly lodged 
 in the horse-pond at the bottom of the garden."
 
 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 83 
 
 " But no accident, I hope ?" 
 
 " No, no ; only mother is confoundedly fright- 
 ened. She thinks herself forty miles off. Now, 
 if your own horses are ready, you may whip off 
 with cousin ; and there's not a horse on the place 
 fit to follow you." 
 
 Hastings, after warmly expressing his thanks, 
 hastened away, just as Mrs. Hardcastle entered, 
 much bedraggled and sadly frightened. Her 
 fright was redoubled when her graceless son told 
 her that they were upon CrackskuU Common, a 
 noted place for highwaymen. The young rascal 
 took a malicious pleasure in adding to her alarm, 
 affecting to mistake a tree for a horse, and a mov- 
 ing cow for a highwayman Avith a black hat. 
 
 As it happened, however, the trickster quickly 
 found himself in a quandary, for Mr. Hardcastle 
 at that moment approached, taking his evening 
 tour of inspection through his garden. Tony, 
 seeing him at a distance, hastily induced his 
 mother to hide in the bushes, engaging himself to 
 face the highwayman, — " an ill-looking fellow, 
 with pistols as long as my arm." 
 
 By the time she was fairly hidden, Mr. Hard- 
 castle came up, and questioned Tony how he had 
 got back so soon, and whom he had been talking to. 
 He protested that there was no one but himself; 
 but the suspicious old gentleman insisted on an in- 
 vestigation. Their prolonged talk had by this time 
 so thoroughly alarmed Mrs. Hardcastle for her dar- 
 ling son that she now ran forward, exclaiming, —
 
 84 TALES FROM THE DRAJLA.TISTS. 
 
 " Take my money — my life — good gentleman ! 
 Whet your rage on me ; but spare my darling son, 
 if you have any mercy I" 
 
 " My wife ! as I am a Christian !" exclaimed 
 Mr. Hardcastle. 
 
 " Take compassion on us, good Mr. Highway- 
 man !" she implored, kneeling. " Take all our 
 money, but spare our lives I We will never bring 
 you to justice, indeed we won't !" 
 
 " Why, Dorothy, woman, are you out of your 
 senses ?" 
 
 " Mr. Hardcastle, as I'm alive !" cried the good 
 lady. "My fears blinded me. But what has 
 brought you to follow us to this frightful place, so 
 far from home ?" 
 
 " So far from home ! Why, Dorothy, you are 
 not forty yards from your own door. This is one 
 of your old tricks, you graceless rogue !" he said, 
 sharply to Tony. " Don't you remember the 
 horse-pond, my dear ?" 
 
 " I shall remember it as long as I live," she an- 
 swered, with a sudden grasp of the situation. "And 
 it is to you, you graceless varlet, I owe all this ?" 
 
 " Ecod, mother, all the parish says you have 
 spoiled me, and so you may take the fruits on't." 
 
 " I'll spoil you, I will," she screamed, flying at 
 him in such a rage that he ran hastily from the 
 spot. 
 
 "There's morality, however, in his reply," said 
 Mr. Hardcastle, as he followed at a more sober 
 pace.
 
 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 85 
 
 Meanwhile Hastings had rescued Miss Neville 
 from her diflScult situation, and was earnestly- 
 seeking to persuade her to consent to the elope- 
 ment. He found an unexpected obstacle. She 
 was too much shaken by her adventure to be 
 equal, just then, for any new one, and somewhat 
 remorseful besides. She, therefore, expressed her- 
 self as determined to give up the scheme and 
 trust to Mr. Hardcastle's aid for redress. 
 
 "He cannot relieve you though he wished to," 
 pleaded her lover. " He has no power in your 
 case." 
 
 " But he has influence, and on that I am re- 
 solved to rely." 
 
 "I have no hopes," answered Hastings. "But 
 since you persist, I must reluctantly obey you." 
 
 While the fortunes of Hastings and his lady- 
 love were advancing to this critical stage, other 
 interesting events were occurring in the Hard- 
 castle mansion. Kate had duly told her father 
 of young Marlow's belief that the house was an 
 inn, greatly to the old gentleman's amusement, 
 who saw at once the explanation of his guest's 
 seeming impertinence. While he was still laugh- 
 ing heartily at this discovery, Sir Charles Mario w 
 arrived, and on heai'inc: from Mr. Hardcastle the 
 story of the ridiculous mistake, joined with him 
 to the full in his mirth. 
 
 The day's mistakes, however, were not yet at 
 an end. Marlow had not discovered that Miss 
 Hardcastle and the supposed bar-maid were one 
 
 b
 
 86 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 and the same, and he still stood in awe and terror 
 of the fine lady with whom he had held such 
 a distracting interview. Mr. Hardcastle, on the 
 contrary, with good reason believed that intimate 
 relations existed between the young man and his 
 daughter, having seen him seize her hand and 
 attempt to steal a kiss from her lips. 
 
 " Nothing has passed between us but the most 
 profound respect on my side, and the most distant 
 reserve on hers," Marlow protested. " We had 
 but one interview, and that was formal, modest, 
 and uninteresting." 
 
 " Well, well, I like modesty in its place well 
 enough," said Mr. Hardcastle to himself, "but 
 this fellow's formal, modest impudence is beyond 
 bearing." 
 
 " What am I to think of these two stories ?" 
 asked Sir Charles, after his son had left the room. 
 " I dare pledge my honor on his truth." 
 
 "And I my happiness on Kate's veracity." 
 
 Kate entered the room during their conversa- 
 tion, and was eagerly questioned on the subject 
 in debate. She astounded Sii' Charles by protest- 
 ing that she had had several interviews with his 
 son, and that he had made love to her in any- 
 thing but a formal fashion. Sir Charles found 
 this difficult to credit. That his backward son 
 could have so utterly changed his character, — it 
 was beyond belief. 
 
 " I will convince you to your face of my sin- 
 cerity," said Miss Hardcastle. " If you and papa
 
 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 87 
 
 will place yourselves behind that screen, you shall 
 hear him declare his passion to me as ardently as 
 you could wish." 
 
 This was an easy method of settling the diffi- 
 culty. The two fathers hid themselves behind 
 the screen just as Marlow returned to the room. 
 On seeing Miss Hardcastle alone he renewed his 
 ardent demonstrations, declaring that he must 
 leave the house, but that it almost broke his 
 heart to part with her. In the end his ardor 
 grew so great that he fell on his knees, and, grasp- 
 ing her hand, vowed himself ready to give up 
 everything in return for her affection, for she had 
 won a heart that hitherto had been closed to love. 
 
 This was more than his father could bear. He 
 broke from his ambush, crying out loudly, " I 
 can stand this no longer ! Charles, Charles, how 
 have you deceived me? Is this your formal and 
 uninteresting eonvei'sation ?"' 
 
 "Your cold reserve?" added Mr. Hardcastle. 
 " What have you to say now, young man ?" 
 
 "That I am all amazement. What can it 
 mean ?" 
 
 " That you can address a lady in private and 
 deny it in public. That you have one story for 
 us, and another for my daughter." 
 
 " Daughter ! — this lady your daughter ?" 
 
 " Yes, sir, my only daughter ; my Kate." 
 
 " Oh !" cried Marlow, desperately. 
 
 " Yes, sir," laughed Kate, " that identical tall, 
 squinting la,dy you were pleased to take me for.
 
 88 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 She that you addressed as the mild, modest, senti- 
 mental man of gravity, and the bold, forward, 
 agreeable Eattle of the ladies' club; ha! ha! ha!" 
 
 This completed Marlow's defeat. He turned to 
 fly, but was prevented by Mr. Hardcastle. 
 
 " By my hanfT, you shall not. I see how it is, 
 — all a mistake, and my sly Kate at the bottom 
 of it. Take courage, man, we all forgive you. 
 Won't you forgive him, Kate ?" 
 
 Kate had little time to answer, for Mrs. Hard- 
 castle now came into the room in a hot fluster, — 
 followed by her son Ton3\ " They are gone," 
 she cried ; " but let them go, I care not. Her 
 fortune is in my hands, and shall remain there." 
 
 " Who are gone ?" asked her husband. 
 
 "My dutiful niece and her gentleman, Mr. 
 Hastings." 
 
 " My honest George Hastings ?" exclaimed Sir 
 Charles. '' The girl could not have made a better 
 choice ; there is no worthier fellow living." 
 
 " As for her fortune," said Mr. Hardcastle, " you 
 know it is hers, if your son, when of age, refuses 
 to marry her." 
 
 " But he is not of age, and she has not waited 
 for his refusal." 
 
 She turned as she spoke, and was astonished to 
 see the supposed runaways before her. They had 
 just entered the room. 
 
 " We have thought better of it," said Hastings ; 
 *' and have come back to beg pardon for our rash 
 intention."
 
 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 89 
 
 " I'm glad to see you back. This may be settled 
 in an easier way," said Mr. Hardcastle. " Come 
 hither, Tony. Do you refuse this lady's hand ?" 
 
 " I can't refuse her till I'm of age, father." 
 
 " Which you are. Your mother and I have 
 kept your age secret, to see if you would mend 
 your ways. But since she puts it to a wrong use, 
 I must declare that you have been of age these 
 three months." 
 
 " Hurrah ! Then this is the first use I shall make 
 of my liberty." He took Miss Neville's hand. 
 " Witness all men by these presents that I, An- 
 thony Lumpkin, Esquire, of Blank Place, refuse 
 you, Constantia Neville, spinster, of no place at 
 all, for my true and lawful wife. So you can 
 marry whom you please, and Tony Lumpkin is 
 his own man again !" 
 
 " My undutiful ofi'spring !" groaned Mrs. Hard- 
 castle. 
 
 "Joy, my dear George," exclaimed Marlow, 
 " Now, if I can prevail upon my tyrant here to for- 
 give me for loving her as a bax'-maid, and accept 
 me as a lady, I shall be the happiest man alive." 
 
 " Why, if so little will make you happy " 
 
 began Kate. 
 
 " If she makes you as good a wife as she has 
 me a daughter, you will never repent of your 
 bargain," broke in Mr. Hardcastle. " Take her, 
 and with her my blessing ; and as you have been 
 so happily mistaken in the mistress, my wish is, 
 that you may never be mistaken in the wife."
 
 THE ROAD TO RUIN. 
 
 BY THOMAS HOLCROFT. 
 
 [The author of the above-named play was born 
 at London in 1745. His father was by turns 
 horse-dealer, shoemaker, and peddler; and tho 
 son, after three years' apprenticeship as a stable- 
 boy, became successively shoemaker, school-master, 
 and private secretary, and began his dramatic 
 life in 1770 as a strolling player. In this profes- 
 sion he had not much success, and gradually 
 devoted himself to authorship, " Alwyn," the first 
 of his four novels, being published in 1780 ; and 
 " Duplicity," the first of more than thirty plays, 
 in 1781. He also made good translations of nu- 
 merous French and German works. 
 
 The most successful of his plays was the *' Eoad 
 to Euin," which brought him large financial 
 returns, and is still classed among acting comedies. 
 In his later life Holcroft met with various troubles. 
 Being an ardent democrat, he was indicted, in 
 1794, for high treason, with Home Tooke and 
 others. These proceedings fell through, but party 
 animosity injured the success of his plays, and 
 he became much reduced in means. He died in 
 1809.] 
 90
 
 THE ROAD TO RUIN. 91 
 
 Harry Dornton, junior member of the firm of 
 Dornton & Co., bankers, of London, had long 
 pursued a course of life that threatened to bring 
 ruin on himself and bankruptcy on the wealthy 
 banking-house to which he was allied. Led into 
 extravagance by the foolish indulgence of his 
 doting father, he had of late years .grown notori- 
 ous for the boldness of his gambling operations 
 and the amount of his losses ; there was not a 
 sporting match in the city free from his reckless 
 bets, not a race without his wager on some doubt- 
 ful horse, while his ordinary associates were a 
 crew of knaves, blacklegs, and debauchees, — 
 human pitch which no one could touch without 
 being defiled. 
 
 These excesses had at length driven his father 
 to desperation. He loved his son as warmly as 
 ever, but was goaded almost to madness by his 
 vices, and in the end ordered that his name should 
 be stricken from the firm, and no more drafts of 
 his be honored. He went even further than this. 
 Furious at his son's not having returned home at 
 two o'clock in the morning, until which hour ho 
 had awaited him, he gave orders to the servants 
 to lock up the house and go to bed, threatening 
 to discharge any one who should admit the profli- 
 gate. 
 
 " It's all ended," he declared to his cashier. 
 "Observe, not a guinea to the spendthrift. If 
 you lend him any yourself, I'll not pay you. I'll' 
 no longer be a fond, doting father. Take warn-
 
 92 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 ing, I say. Though you should hereafter see him 
 begging, starving in the streets, not so much as 
 the loan or the gift of a single guinea." 
 
 " I shall be careful to obey your orders, sir." 
 
 " What! would you see him starve and not lend 
 him a guinea ?" exclaimed the father, with a sud- 
 den change of feeling. " Could you, sir?" 
 
 " Certainly not ; except in obedience to your 
 orders." 
 
 " Could any orders justify your seeing an un- 
 fortunate youth, rejected by his father, abandoned 
 by his friends, stai-ving to death ?" 
 
 Thus the fond old man went on, vacillating be- 
 tween anger at his son's vices and affection for 
 his person, till the distracted servants knew not 
 what to do. This conversation ended with the 
 appearance of his partner, Mi\ Sulky, who 
 showed the angry banker a newspaper paragraph 
 that added new fuel to his indignation. The dis- 
 heartening story it told was that the profligate 
 youth had lost the large sum of ten thousand 
 pounds at the Newmarket races. 
 
 "What proof have you of this?" exclaimed 
 Mr. Dornton, trembling with emotion. "It must 
 be a lie!" 
 
 " Bills at three days' sight, for the full amount, 
 have already been presented." 
 
 "And accepted?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " But — why — were you mad, Mr. Sulky ? Were 
 you mad, sir ?"
 
 THE ROAD TO RUIN. 93 
 
 " I soon shall be." 
 
 <= The credit of my house is beginning to totter. 
 "What will, what must be the effect of such a 
 paragraph ?" 
 
 " I can tell you, sir. A run against the house, 
 stoppage, disgrace, bankruptcy." 
 
 These words, and the fatal picture they pre- 
 sented to Mr. Dornton's imagination, stirred his 
 anger to frenzy. He bade Mr. Smith, the cashier, 
 to call the servants together, and forbid them 
 under penalty of instant dismissal, to let their 
 young master set foot in the house. As for him- 
 self, he ordered them to fetch his blunderbuss, and 
 loaded it to the muzzle, wildly vowing to riddle 
 the youngiscoundrel with bullets if he should have 
 the effrontery to appear. 
 
 While this exciting scene was going on within 
 the house, Harry Dornton, with his sporting asso- 
 ciate. Jack Milford, was approaching the outside 
 at the speed of a pair of smoking horses. Spring- 
 ing fi'om the post-chaise, and dismissing the postil- 
 ions, the young profligate advanced to the door, 
 and knocked loudly for admittance. 
 
 The only effect of his summons was the furious 
 throwing up of a window over his head, and the 
 appearance of his father with a blunderbuss, 
 threatening to fill him with bullets if he dared to 
 knock again. 
 
 "So! dad is in his tantrums again!" was the 
 remark of the young hopeful. 
 
 " You have given him some cause," answered
 
 94 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 Milford. "We shall not get in." While these 
 words were being spoken, Mr. Sulk}- had appeared 
 at the window and drawn Mr. Dorntou away, 
 shutting down the sash. 
 
 "Not get in!" answered Harr}-. "Little you 
 know my father. The door will open in less than 
 fifteen seconds." 
 
 " Done, for a hundred !" 
 
 " Done, done !" They took out their watches, 
 but at this instant the door opened. " I have you. 
 Jack ; double or quits we find the cloth laid, and 
 supper on the table." 
 
 " No, no, that won't do." 
 
 Despite their bravado, however, it was not a 
 very agreeable situation in which the two game- 
 sters found themselves. Mr. Dornton, filled with 
 rage at the disobedience to his orders, instantly 
 discharged the servant who had let Harry in ; a 
 sentence wiiich Harry negatived, as soon as he 
 heard of it, by telling the fellow to return to his 
 duties. 
 
 While the young men stood debating the situa- 
 tion, Mr. Sulky entered, and in his short, curt 
 manner took Hariy severely to task, telling him 
 that, not content with ruining himself, he had at 
 last succeeded in ruining his father, whose great 
 wealth had been so reduced by the past five years 
 of profligacy that bankruptcy now stared him in 
 the face. 
 
 Having thus delivered himself to Harry, he 
 turned to Milford, and sternly charged him with
 
 THE ROAD TO RUIN. 95 
 
 having ruined, by bis evil counsels, the son of the 
 generous man who had loaned him five thousand 
 pounds. 
 
 " Kuined me !" cried Harry. " Don't believe a 
 word of that, my good grumbler ; I ruined my- 
 self; I needed no guide on the road to ruin." 
 
 " As for me," said Milford, " my father died im- 
 mensely rich. Though I may be what the law 
 calls illegitimate, yet I ought not to starve. You, 
 who are my father's executor, should be the last 
 to blame me, and should prevail on the Widow 
 Warren to do me justice." 
 
 It is necessary, at this point, to tell something 
 further concerning the history of young Milford, 
 that the reader may the better comprehend what 
 is to follow. He, as he had himself said, was the 
 illegitimate son of a wealthy alderman named 
 Warren, who a few years before had married a 
 middle-aged widow, with a daughter, Sophia, by 
 her first husband. 
 
 Six months before the opening of our story 
 the alderman had died, leaving Mr. Sulky the 
 executor of his will. But his death took place in 
 the south of France, and the will had completely 
 disappeared. He had either hid it too carefully, 
 or had given it into the care of some unuiithful 
 custodian. The Widow Warren had, in conse- 
 quence, come into full possession of the property, 
 and refused to help with a penny the son whom 
 there was good reason to believe had been made 
 his father's heir.
 
 96 TALES FEOM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 What Mr. Sulky now proceeded to say was of 
 the greatest interest to the unlucky son. He 
 stated that he had just received a letter informing 
 him that the will had been found, locked in a 
 private drawer, and that a month before it had 
 been intrusted to a gentleman of Montpellier, who 
 was coming to England. 
 
 So far all seemed promising, but Mr. Sulky con- 
 cluded by saying that no such gentleman had 
 called upon him, and that he strongly suspected 
 that the will had somehow fallen into the widow's 
 hands. 
 
 "You are a couple of pretty gentlemen," he 
 finished. " But bewai-e ; misfortune is at your 
 heels. Mr. Dornton vows vengeance on you both, 
 and justly. He is not gone to bed, and if you 
 have confidence to look him in the face, stay where 
 you are." 
 
 " I neither wish to insult nor be insulted," said 
 Milford," and will not wait Mr. Dornton's appear- 
 ance." He turned on his heel with these words, 
 and left the house. 
 
 He had but fairly gone when Mr. Dornton en- 
 tered, white with anger, and holding in his hand 
 the paper which contained the statement of his 
 son's latest disgraceful performance. Harry 
 found himself assailed with a volley of abuse, in 
 which " scoundrel" was one of the mildest terms. 
 His father told him that he had erased his name 
 from the list of members of the firm, and ended 
 by passionately exclaiming, —
 
 THE ROAD TO RUIN. 97 
 
 "If I should happily outlive the storm you 
 have raised, it shall not be to support a prodigal, 
 or to reward a gambler. You are disinherited. 
 I'll no longer act the doting father, fascinated by 
 your arts." 
 
 " I never had any art, sir, except the one you 
 taught me," answered Harry, mildly. 
 
 " I taught you ! What, scoundrel ? What ?" 
 
 " That of loving you, sir." 
 
 "Loving me)" 
 
 " Most sincerely. ' 
 
 " Why, can you say, Harry, — rascal, I mean, — 
 that you love me?" 
 
 "I should be a rascal, indeed, if I did not, 
 sir." 
 
 " Harry, Harry !" cried the old gentleman, in 
 great agitation. " No, confound me if I do ! Sir, 
 you are a vile " 
 
 " I know I am." 
 
 " And I'll never speak to you again." 
 
 " Dear father, reproach me with my follies, 
 dismiss me from the firm, disinherit me. I de- 
 serve it all, and more. But say, 'good-night, 
 Harry.' " 
 
 "I won't! I won't!" exclaimed Mr. Dornton, 
 as he ran furiously from the room. 
 
 "Say you so. Why, then, my noble-hearted 
 dad, I am indeed a scoundrel !" 
 
 " Good-night," cried Mr. Dornton, at this mo- 
 ment, showing his agitated face at the door. 
 
 " Good-night," answered Harry, his face light- 
 VoL. II.— E g 9
 
 98 TALES FROM TUE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 ing up with a warm expression, while his heart 
 sw^ellcd with an eai-nest resolution of reform. 
 
 It is now our duty to introduce to the reader 
 another important personage of our story, the 
 Widow Warren. This relict of two husbands 
 was a silly old fool, who dressed like a girl, put 
 on the vainest aii'S, and set herself ardently to the 
 catching of a third husband, — one of the chief 
 lures to which was the money of the late alder- 
 man, which she held with the greed of miser. 
 
 This coquette of forty summers fancied in her 
 silly soul that Harry Dornton was in love with 
 her youthful charms. lie came, indeed, often to 
 her house, but the real attraction was her daugh- 
 ter Sophia, a hoidenish girl of eighteen, who had 
 been brought up in the country with the notions and 
 feelings of a child, but was as generous at heart 
 as her mother was miserly. 
 
 Mr. Sulky, who in spite of his brusque manners 
 and show of surliness, was full of the milk of 
 human kindness, called on the widow on the day 
 after the scene just described, with the hope of 
 inducing her to do justice to the son of her late 
 husband. He found his mission in vain. The 
 woman hid her coldness of heart behind her fri- 
 volity, and the graff messenger at length gave up 
 his mission in disgust, finding that he could get 
 her to talk of nothing but her lovers. 
 
 '• Whom will you make love to next, woman ?" 
 he snarled. " Even I am not secure in your 
 company."
 
 THE ROAD TO RUIN. 99 
 
 " Love to you ? Ha ! ha ! ha ! You carica- 
 ture of tenderness! But if you should happen 
 to see Mr. Dornton, do a good-natured thing for 
 once, and tell him I'm at home all day." 
 
 With these words she mincingly left the room, 
 with an affected air of youthfulness, leaving her 
 visitor to make his way out as he pleased. He 
 had barely gone when Harry Dornton himself 
 appeared. A servant, with a handful of bills, fol- 
 lowed him into the house. 
 
 " What are all these ?" asked the young profli- 
 gate. 
 
 " Tradesmen's bills, sir. They came this morn- 
 ing, and Mr. Smith sent me after you with them." 
 
 " The deuce ! Ill news travels fast, it seems. 
 Take them all back, and bid my creditors come 
 themselves to-day. Has Mr. Williams, the hosier, 
 sent in his bill?" 
 
 "No, sir." 
 
 " I thought as much ; he is the only honest fish 
 in a shoal of sharks. Tell him to come with the 
 rest, and, on his life, not to fail." 
 
 " Very well, sir." 
 
 The departure of the servant was followed by 
 the entrance of Sophia, who had been apprised 
 of her lover's visit. She was dressed like a girl 
 of fifteen, and had the overflowing spirits of a 
 hoidenish country girl; informing Harry that 
 she could not think of loving him, however he 
 might plead, for her grandma had told her it 
 would be a sin to love till she was one-and-twenty ;
 
 100 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 that Valentine's day was five weeks gone, and 
 nobody had sent her a valentine ; that if she were 
 to find such a thing under her pillow, or baked 
 
 in a plum-cake, she and so on in a flood of 
 
 childish tattle. 
 
 This interesting love-scene was interrupted by 
 the entrance of Goldfinch, a wild young reprobate, 
 who was one of Harry's sporting companions, 
 and of Mrs. Warren's coterie of lovers; and of 
 Jack Milford, who was on his way to the tennis 
 court, where a great match was to be played, 
 
 Harry refused to accompany him. He was 
 done with all that, he said, and would never bet 
 another guinea. Yet five minutes of Milford's 
 laughing solicitations were enough to overcome 
 his good resolutions, and the three gamesters 
 were quickly off to the scene of sport. Jack, 
 however, had achieved an unlucky success for 
 himself Mr. Dornton, who blamed him as the 
 leading agent in his son's excesses, had sued out a 
 writ against him for one thousand pounds, and 
 stationed a sheriff^s ofiicer at the door of the ten- 
 nis court, with orders to arrest him if he should 
 bring his son thither. 
 
 The arrest was duly made. Milford sent word 
 to Harry, who had passed on into the court, that 
 he was in trouble ; but the young gambler, in 
 whom the passion for betting was now fully 
 aroused, sent word back that he would not leave 
 the court for a thousand pounds ; so the spend- 
 thrift was borne off to prison, though he piti-
 
 THE ROAD TO RUIN. 101 
 
 fully begged for but five minutes to see the 
 game. 
 
 While the young gamester was thus paying the 
 penalty of his reckless course, events were hap- 
 pening of far more moment to him than an arrest 
 for debt. In short, the large estate left by his 
 father was on the point of slipping from his 
 hands to the unyielding grip of the Widow 
 Warren. An unlucky complication of events 
 had arisen, through the fact that there was a 
 note-broker in London of the name of Silky, — a 
 smooth rogue, as soft as silk without and as hard 
 as stone within. The Spanish gentleman who 
 brought Mr. Warren's will to London made a 
 mistake of names, and carried it to Mr. Silky in- 
 stead of to Mr. Sulky, the true executor. Before 
 the mistake could be corrected this gentleman 
 was taken very ill at his hotel, and died there 
 after a short sickness. 
 
 News of his death was not long in reaching Mr. 
 Silky, in whose greedy soul a plot to cheat the 
 real heir and benefit himself was quickly devised. 
 Jack Milford's heirship under the will depended 
 upon a certain contingency. If the widow should 
 marry, the property ceased to be hers, and it was 
 the rascal's design, by threatening to make pub- 
 lic the will, to induce her to marry some gentle- 
 man of easy conscience, who would be willing to 
 pay roundly for the prize of a rich bride. 
 
 For this purpose he settled on Goldfinch, who 
 had already run through his patrimony, and was 
 
 9*
 
 102 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 OHO of the widow's most ardent suitors. The 
 plotting villain sunt for this wild spendthrift, and 
 told him that the late alderman had left not less 
 than one hundred and fifty thousand pounds, that 
 he had a' hold on the widow, and could make her 
 marry whom he pleased, and that his price for 
 the sale of her hand was fifty thousand pounds, — 
 not a penny less. Goldfinch, who would have 
 sold his soul for money to bet on horses, readily 
 agreed, and Silky told him that he must get Mrs. 
 Warren's written promise to the marriage, with 
 a good round penalty in case of forfeiture, — not 
 less than twenty thousand pounds. In that case 
 the confederates were to divide. To this part of 
 the plot Goldfinch agreed as readily as to the 
 other, and all seemed promising for the success 
 of Mr. Silky's scheme. 
 
 The conspirators were not long in putting their 
 precious scheme in execution, but they found an 
 obstacle in an unexpected quarter, — the widow 
 herself. Mr. Silky called on her without delay, 
 and showed her the will, from which he read the 
 following significant clause : 
 
 " But as I have sometimes painfully suspected 
 the excessive affection which my said wife, Wini- 
 fred Warren, professed for me during my decline, 
 and that the solemn protestations which she 
 made never to marry again, should she survive 
 me, were done with sinister views, it is my will 
 that, should she marry or give a legal promise of 
 marriage, written or verbal, she shall be cut off
 
 THE ROAD TO RUIN. 103 
 
 with an annuity of six hundred a year; the 
 residue of my eftects in that case to be equally 
 divided between my natural son, John Milford, 
 and my wife's daughter, Sophia Freelove." 
 
 " Six hundred a year ! The old dotard ! brute ! 
 monster!" broke out the widow in a rage. "I 
 hate him now as heartily as when he was alive ! 
 But pray, sir, how came you by this will ?" 
 
 This the cunning Mr. Silky made no hesitation 
 in telling her, and also in informing her that he 
 was ready to help her to a husband in spite of the 
 will, no less a person than the handsome and well- 
 born Mr. Goldfinch, whom she could have for the 
 small gratuity of fifty thousand pounds. 
 
 " You are a shocking old miser, Mr. Silky," an- 
 swered the widow. " But I have made a conquest 
 that places me beyond your power. I mean to 
 marrv Mr. Dornton." 
 
 " What ! old Mr. Dornton, madam ?" 
 
 " JSTo, sir ; the gay and gallant young Mr. Dorn- 
 ton, the lawful monarch of my bleeding heart." 
 
 " Young Mr. Dornton !" echoed the broker, with 
 a laugh of high amusement. 
 
 " Yes, sir ; so you may take your will and light 
 your fires with it. Mr. Sulky, the executor, is 
 Mr. Dornton's partner, and when I marry Mr. 
 Dornton, he will never inflict the absurd penalty." 
 
 " Very true, madam ; he certainly never will, — 
 when you marry Mr. Dornton." 
 
 Mr. Silky returned home, bursting into little 
 peals of satirical laughter as he went along the
 
 104 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 street. The idea of the elegant Ilarrj^ Dornton 
 marrying this ill-preserved old widow seemed to 
 him so supremely ridiculous that he felt not the 
 shadow of a doubt as to the success of his neatly- 
 laid matrimonial scheme. 
 
 Unluckily for him, however, circumstances 
 were arising which were likely to prove disas- 
 trous to his plots, and his own greed and ingrati- 
 tude were destined to play a vital part in this 
 chain of events. They began in the disaster 
 which Mr. Sulky had anticipated, but which 
 Harry Dornton had laughed to scorn, a run on 
 the banking house of Dornton & Co. The news 
 published the day before, of the young spend- 
 thrift's heavy losses at the Newcastle races, had 
 so alarmed the creditors of the bank that at the 
 hour of opening they came in throngs to present 
 their bills ; and in spite of eveiy device to pro- 
 tract payment, money was drawn fi-om the Dorn- 
 ton cotfers with perilous rapiditj^. 
 
 Among these creditors were the tradesmen 
 whom Harry had bidden to present their bills 
 for payment ; a set of sharks who, through his 
 heedlessness as to his purchases, had charged him 
 threefold for everything he bought. The only 
 honest one among them was the hosier, on whose 
 presence Harry had insisted, and who begged to 
 let his bill stand, telling Mr. Dornton that Harry 
 had saved him and his family from ruin. 
 
 " You are an honest fellow," cried Mr. Dornton, 
 warmly shaking his hand. "And so Harry has
 
 THE ROAD TO RUIN. 105 
 
 been your friend ? Come, I'll pay this bill my- 
 self." 
 
 While the worthy banker was telling the others 
 that he would have nothing to do with their bills, 
 Harry entered, and on him the old gentleman 
 emptied the vials of his accumulating wrath. 
 
 " I know my faults, and am ready to pay their 
 penalty," said Harry, earnestly. " But, sir, you 
 have paid my debts of honor, do not let my 
 tradesmen go unpaid. The whole is but five 
 thousand pounds." 
 
 " But five thousand ! Why, sirrah, you have 
 loaded our counters with ruin I" 
 
 "No, no, — I have been a sad scapegrace, I 
 know ; but not even my extravagance can shake 
 this house." 
 
 The confident fellow was destined to become 
 quickly better informed. As they stood talking, 
 Mr. Smith, the cashier, rushed in, and exclaimed, 
 in consternation, that at the rate bills were being 
 presented the bank could not long meet its 
 demands. Harry gazed at him with a consterna- 
 tion equal to his own. 
 
 " Are you serious ?" ho asked. 
 
 "Sir?" 
 
 "Are you serious, I say? Is not this some 
 trick to impose on me ?" 
 
 " Look into the shop, sir, and convince your- 
 self," answered the cashier. " If we do not have 
 a supply within an hour, we must stop payment." 
 
 " M.J father disgraced and ruined ! Is it pos-
 
 106 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS, 
 
 sible?" exclaimed Harry, wildly. "And by me? 
 Are these things so ?" 
 
 " Harry, how you look ! You frighten me !" 
 cried the anxious fiither. 
 
 "Ruined by me? It shall be done! Don't 
 despair, my dear, good, wronged father! I'll find 
 relief" 
 
 " Harry ! Harry ! Where would you go ? 
 What would you do ? Oh, stay !" 
 
 " I'll not be long. I brought this ruin on you. 
 I'll retrieve it, if I sacrifice myself tenfold." 
 
 He rushed into the street with these words, in 
 a state of desperation that left his fiither so over- 
 whelmed with anxiety and fear as nearly to forget 
 the impending disaster to his fortune. 
 
 The excited youth had two plans in his dis- 
 tracted mind, — one, an appeal to the gratitude of 
 a miser ; one, to the love of a woman. The 
 broker, Mr. Silky, rich as he now was, had been, 
 not five years before, on the brink of ruin, from 
 which he had been rescued by the generous aid 
 of Harry Dornton. Hany now called on him 
 and demanded a return of this favor, begging 
 that he would come at once to the aid of the 
 house of Dornton & Co., to the extent of fifty 
 thousand pounds. 
 
 The news of the impending failure had not yet 
 reached the ears of Mr. Silky, and at first he 
 freely acknowledged his obligations to his visitor, 
 and the wealth which Harr3''8 timely aid had 
 brought him. But on learning the danger which
 
 THE ROAD TO RUIN. 107 
 
 overhung the house of Dornton & Co., his tune 
 changed, and he suddenly grew poor and embar- 
 rassed. He would do anything under heaven to 
 show his gratitude, but, — as to putting his hand in 
 his pocket, — with the daily demands on him 
 
 In the end the indignant young man, choking 
 with fury, hurled the miserable creature across 
 his room, and with a cry of " scoundrel !" rushed 
 from the house, to keep himself from the tempta- 
 tion to murder the ungrateful wretch. 
 
 From the office of Mr. Silky he made his way 
 in all haste to the residence of the Widow War- 
 ren, now so stung by remorse that he was ready 
 to make the most degrading sacrifices to save his 
 father from ruin. On his way thither he stopped 
 and drank deeply, so that he burst in upon the 
 old coquette with an aspect of wild gayety that 
 was due partly to wine, partly to affected passion. 
 
 His wooing was begun in an excited manner 
 that sadly frightened the enamored widow, but 
 when he called upon her frantically to accept 
 his hand, she was only too ready to yield to his 
 wild appeal. 
 
 " But," he continued, with a realizing sense of 
 the situation, "I have ruined my father! To 
 save him have I fallen in love ! I must have 
 money — money ! We'll be married to-night, 
 widow. But early in the morn, ere counters echo 
 with the ring of gold, fifty thousand pounds must 
 be raised." 
 
 " It shall, dear Mr. Dornton."
 
 108 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 " Remember. The first thing in the morning." 
 
 " Why not a part this evening? I have a tri- 
 fling sum, — six thousand, — which I meant to dis- 
 pose of, — but " 
 
 "I'll dispose of it, dear widow!" He kissed 
 her. " Doubt not my gratitude. Let this — and 
 this " Kissing her again. 
 
 " Fie ! you sad man. I'll bring a draft. But 
 remember, this trifle is for your own use." 
 
 " No, — for my father. Save but my father, and 
 I'll kiss the ground you tread on, my empress of 
 the golden isles I" 
 
 Harry's aff'ected love for his over-bloomed be- 
 trothed was to experience an unpleasant inter- 
 ruption. For just as the happy widow returned 
 with the draft, and her tipsy lover kneeled at her 
 feet in gratitude, and caught her hand to kiss 
 it, Sophia entered, and stood aghast at the dis- 
 tracting spectacle. 
 
 Then the poor girl burst into tears, vowed she 
 would go down to Gloucestershire, to her dear, dear 
 grandma, and taking from her bosom the valen- 
 tine, — which Harry had sent her that morning 
 baked in a plum cake, — tore it to pieces and flung 
 the fragments at his feet. 
 
 ''Widow, I'm a vile fellow; don't have me I" 
 cried Harry. " You are right to despise me, Sophy. 
 I've sold myself, and six thousand pounds is the 
 money paid down. But I love you, Sophy." 
 
 " You are a base, faithless man !" cried the girl. 
 " And you are a pitiless woman, if you are my
 
 THE ROAD TO RUIN. 109 
 
 mother, to let my brother JVIilford lie in a dark 
 dungeon !" 
 
 " What ! Milford in prison ?" 
 
 "Yes, sir; arrested by your cruel, old, ugly 
 father!" 
 
 " Is this true, widow ?" asked Harry. 
 
 " Sir " she stammered. 
 
 "Arrested by my father ? And you, squander- 
 ing your money on a ruined reprobate, yet refuse 
 to release your husband's son ?" 
 
 " Nay, but, dear Mr. Dornton " 
 
 " That will do, widow. You'll see me again 
 soon," and Harrj' rushed from the house, nearly 
 sobered by indignation. 
 
 The half- maddened youth hurried to the resi- 
 dence of the sheriff's officer, in which he had 
 learned that his friend was detained, and ordered 
 the officer to write an acquittal instantly for the 
 thousand pounds, for which he was held. 
 
 " A thousand, sir ! it is almost five thousand 
 now," answered the officer, " retainers have been 
 lodged for that amount." 
 
 "Five thousand?" 
 
 "Must I write an acquittal for that sum?" 
 
 "No, — yes, write it; have it ready. It shall 
 be paid to-morrow morning." 
 
 "In the mean time, there may be more re- 
 tainers." 
 
 "The devil! What shall I do? Let me see 
 him. Send him here ; but not a word, mind you. 
 Send a bottle of champagne and two rummers." 
 
 10
 
 110 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 It had been better if Harry bad not seen his 
 friend, for he found him coldly indignant, refusing 
 to drink, and in the end angrily declaring that be 
 bad been betrayed by him and imprisoned by bis 
 father, and all to get him out of the way, that 
 he might prosecute his designs on Mrs. Warren 
 without interruption. 
 
 This assault took Harry sadly aback ; but 
 his surprise became indignation when Milford 
 accused his father of meanness and malice. 
 
 " Think what you will of me," he exclaimed ; 
 *' but not a word against my father!" 
 
 " He is pitifully malignant," persisted Milford. 
 " Not content with the little vengeance he could 
 take himself, he has sent word round to all my 
 creditors." 
 
 " It is a vile falsehood !" cried Harry, in a pas- 
 sion. "Mr. Milford, you shall hear from me im- 
 mediately," and be left the room full of indigna- 
 tion. 
 
 In a few minutes afterwards the sheriff's officer 
 entered, and gave Milford a note, which he said 
 came from the young gentleman who had just 
 left him. 
 
 " I understand you are at liberty," the note 
 ran. "I shall walk up to Hyde Park, where we 
 can settle this little dispute. You will find me at 
 the ring at six. Exactly at six." 
 
 "At liberty! What does he mean?" Milford 
 looked at the officer. 
 
 " Your debts arc all discharged, sir."
 
 THE ROAD TO EUIN. Ill 
 
 " Discharged ? By whom ?" 
 
 " Why, sir— that is " 
 
 " Tell me the truth at once." 
 
 " I perceive, sir, there has been some warmth 
 between you and the young gentleman ; and 
 though he made me promise silence and se- 
 crecy " 
 
 " What ! then it was Mr. Dornton ?" The officer 
 bowed. "Madman, what have I done?" and Mil- 
 foi"d rushed from the room in a passion of 
 remorse. 
 
 The tidings of Harry Dornton's wooing of 
 the Widow Warren, a rumor of which had so 
 quickly reached the ears of his friend Milford, 
 was not much longer in reaching the banking- 
 house of his father. Harry had gone there after 
 his quarrel with Milford, and, finding that the 
 run still continued, his agony of conscience grew 
 so great that he confessed to Mr. Smith what he 
 intended to do for his father's relief, and hurried 
 out in a fever of disti"ess. 
 
 Mr. Smith hastened to repeat the story to Mr. 
 Dornton, telling him that Harry had already re- 
 ceived six thousand pounds from his intended 
 bride. The distraction of the old man reached 
 its climax at this unwelcome news. His son 
 marry that woman ? He would die himself first ! 
 The money must be repaid. 
 
 " What bank have we to begin with to-mor- 
 row ?" he asked of Mr. Sulky, when the latter 
 entered, from his strenuous efforts to raise funds.
 
 112 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 "I can't tell ; I fear not thirty thousand." 
 
 " Six thousand, then, is a great sum. But do 
 you think I ought not to venture ?" 
 
 " \^enture what ?" 
 
 " To — to take it from our bank." 
   "For what?" 
 
 " For — for the — the relief of Harry Dorn- 
 ton I" 
 
 " Take all !" exclaimed Mr. Sulky, in a rage. 
 *' What is it to me ? I can stare bankruptcy in 
 the face as steadfastly^ as you can." 
 
 " I see. The world is all alike. I am an old 
 fool, and so shall live and die." 
 
 " Why do you ask my advice ? Take the 
 money ! Empty the coffers ! Pour it all into his 
 hat ! Give him guineas to play at chuck-farthing, 
 and bank bills to curl his hair I" 
 
 " So, Mr. Sulky, you would see him married to 
 this widow, to whom you have often given the 
 worst of characters, rather than incur a little 
 more risk for your friend ?" 
 
 " Many ? Marry whom ?" 
 
 " The Widow Warren, I tell you." 
 
 " Harry Dornton ?" 
 
 " Yes, Harry Dornton." 
 
 " When ? Where ?" 
 
 " Immediately. With unexampled affection, 
 he is about to sacrifice his youth and hopes of 
 happiness in order to save me from ruin with this 
 woman's money." 
 
 " Marry her ? — Take the money ! Away I I
 
 THE EOAD TO RUIN. 113 
 
 would starve inchmeal rather than he should 
 marry that cormorant !" 
 
 " Mr. Sulky, you are a worthy man, a true 
 friend." 
 
 •' Curse compliments, make haste !" 
 
 Make haste he did, for not half an hour had 
 elapsed from his son's departure before he ap- 
 peared at the widow's house, prepared to repay 
 the money which she had advanced. 
 
 He found affairs there in a somewhat distracted 
 state. Sophia was half wild between her sense 
 of the treachery of her lover, the folly of her 
 mother, and her belief that her heart's affection 
 was to be sacrificed. The widow, on the other 
 hand, was so filled with vanity and conceit that 
 she put on the airs of a peacock, and dressed her- 
 self with girlish ribands and ringlets dangling 
 down her back. When Mr. Dornton appeared, 
 Mrs. Warren, who hand never before seen him, 
 fancied him to be the parson whom his son had 
 promised to send. 
 
 A conversation ensued that was marked by 
 ridiculous cross-conceptions, the two falling into 
 a snarl of misunderstandings which only by the 
 appearance of Harry and his addressing the sup- 
 posed clergyman as his father were able to over- 
 come. The widow had expressed an unflattering 
 opinion of Mr. Dornton, senior, to the supposed 
 clergyman, and was covered with confusion on 
 learning with whom she had been speaking. 
 
 "Never retract, madam," remarked Mr. Dorn- 
 VOL. 11.— h 10*
 
 114 TALES PROSI THE DRA]MATISTS. 
 
 ton. "Let us continue the like plain, honest 
 dealing. As for you, Harry, this absurd match is 
 at an end. I am come to say that our danger is 
 over." 
 
 " Over ? Are you serious, sir ?" 
 
 " Yes. Our books have been examined, and 
 show a far better condition than we hoped ; and 
 Mr. Sulky's rich uncle has died and left him 
 sole heir. As for you, madam, here is your 
 money." 
 
 "Nay, but — Mr. Dornton — sir " And the 
 
 widow burst into tears, " I don't want the filthy 
 money. And as to what I said, though you have 
 arrested Mr. Milford " 
 
 " Ila I" exclaimed Harry, suddenly changing 
 from his aspect of joy to one of anxiety. He 
 looked at his watch. There was bai'ely time to 
 keep his appointment with Jack Milford. He 
 hastened to the door. 
 
 " Where are you going, Harry ?" cried his 
 father. "Come back, sir! Stay, I say!" 
 
 " I cannot stay. My honor is at stake." And 
 he hastily fled from the room. 
 
 " His honor ! Here, madam, take your money. 
 His honor at stake !" Flinging the draft on the 
 table, Mr. Dornton hurried away in pursuit of 
 his impulsive son. 
 
 " Cruel usage ! Faithless, blind, stupid men !" 
 exclaimed the weeping widow. " I'll forsake and 
 forswear the whole sex." 
 
 Mrs. Warren was not quite in earnest in this.
 
 THE ROAD TO RUIN. 115 
 
 In the midst of her teai'S Mr. Goldfinch made his 
 appearance, and pressed his suit with such vigor 
 that the disappointed woman, deeming that she 
 had better catch a gudgeon than no fish at all, 
 permitted him to " tyrannize over her palpitating 
 heart," as she expressed it, and agreed to write 
 and sign a promise to that efi'ect. 
 
 Unfortunately for her plans, she had chosen a 
 fool for a husband, a youth who was quite willing 
 to sell himself for money, but had not the wit'to 
 hold his tongue. In fact, he revealed her secret 
 to the very person of all from whom it was her 
 best interest to conceal it, — to Jack Milford, who 
 entered the room after she had retired to draw up 
 the promise of marriage. 
 
 In his wild flow of spirits Goldfinch told his 
 friend that he had captured the widow, and was 
 off post-haste for old Mr. Silky. 
 
 " Silky, did you say ?" 
 
 "Yes. I'm to pay the miserly rascal fifty 
 thousand down. Mum ; it's a secret ; but he has 
 her ; she can't marry without his consent." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 " Don't know. He has got some deed, — some 
 writing. The close old rogue won't tell. Good-by, 
 Jack. I'll make the horses fly faster than ever. 
 Wait till I finger the widow's ducats. Good-by." 
 And off he fled, after having done his utmost to 
 ruin his hopes and the widow's plans. 
 
 " Fifty thousand to Silky for his consent ! Be- 
 cause of some writing ! Can it be the will ? It
 
 116 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 must! By heaven, it must!" And Milford left 
 the room in as gi-eat haste as Goldfinch had done. 
 
 While Milford had been speeding to Mrs. War- 
 ren's house, in hopes to see and thank Harry for 
 his timely aid, the latter was making all haste to 
 Hyde Park, to keep his duelling appointment; 
 while his father was following him with equal 
 haste. Father and son reached the appointed 
 place almost together. 
 
 '• What do you here, Harry?" asked Mr. Dom- 
 ton, severely, 
 
 " Sir, I— I want air." 
 
 " And I want information. What brought you 
 hither? Where's the money you had of the 
 widow ?" 
 
 " Gone, sir. Most of it."- 
 
 " Gone ! And your creditors not paid !" 
 
 " No, sir." 
 
 " I suspected — I foreboded this," exclaimed the 
 distracted father, wringing his hands. " He has 
 been at some gaming house, lost all, quarrelled, 
 and come here to put a miserable end to a miser- 
 able existence. Oh, who would be a father !" 
 
 The saddened old gentleman was interrupted 
 by a messenger, who came in and handed him a 
 note. " From Mr. Milford, sir." 
 
 " It is for me, then," said Harry. 
 
 " That is to be seen," rejoined his father, shortly. 
 " This is no time for ceremony." He tore it open 
 and read it. " ' Dear Harry, forgive the provoca- 
 tion I have given you j forgive the wrongs I have
 
 THE ROAD TO RUIN. 117 
 
 done your father. I will submit to any disgrace 
 rather than lift my hand against your life. I 
 would have come and apologized even on my 
 knees, but am prevented. J. Milford.' " 
 
 "Harry, what means this?" exclaimed the old 
 man, with a change of expression. " Tell me, is 
 it in paying Milford's debts that you have ex- 
 pended that money?" 
 "It is, sir." 
 
 " But why did you come here to fight him ?" 
 " Sir, he — he spoke disrespectfully of you." 
 " Harry !" cried Mr. Dornton, looking on him 
 with strong emotion, and then suddenly seizing 
 his hand. " Harry ! Do with me what you will I 
 Oh, who would not be a father!" 
 
 "Dear sir, let us fly to console poor Mil- 
 ford." 
 
 Poor Milford was just then doing his best to 
 console himself He had hastened from Mrs. 
 Warren's mansion to the Doruton banking-house, 
 got possession of Mr. Sulky, and brought him 
 back in all haste, telling him by the way of the 
 valuable secret he had discovered. 
 
 " They mean to destroy the will," he said, on 
 entering the room at the widow's which he had 
 recently left. "Goldfinch is just returned with 
 Silk3\ No doubt they will be here immediately 
 to settle the business in private. Here are two 
 closets, — do you hide in one, and I will in the 
 other. We can hear what they are about, and 
 burst out on them at the proper moment."
 
 118 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 " 1 hate hiding. It's deceit, and deceit is the 
 resource of a rascal." 
 
 "There is no help for it. It is too late to get 
 legal assistance. I hear them coming. Make 
 haste !" 
 
 " Well, if it must be so." 
 
 They had hardly disappeared in the closets 
 when Silky, Goldfinch, and Mrs. Warren entered 
 the room in company. Deeming themselves safe 
 from interruption, they talked with freedom of 
 their purposes, Mr. Silky telling his companions 
 that he did not wish to delay their raati"imonial 
 purposes, but first needed their signatures to a 
 legal instrument, which he had prepared for his 
 own security. 
 
 To make all safe, however, the cautious villain 
 first locked the two doors of the room, and then, 
 for double assurance, locked the closet doors also. 
 This done, they prepared to go through with the 
 business of signing. But they were interrupted 
 in the midst of their operations by a distracting 
 incident, — a knock from within one of the closets. 
 They started back from the table in alarm ; which 
 was redoubled the minute afterwards by as loud 
 a knock from the other closet. 
 
 " The candles burn blue !" exclaimed Silky. 
 
 " Nonsense, it's only cats in the closets," an- 
 swered Goldfinch, recovering from his fright. 
 "Come, I'll sign." 
 
 He signed the bond, an action in which he was 
 followed by the widow.
 
 THE ROAD TO RUIN. 119 
 
 " Well done," said Silky. " Here, now, is the 
 will. That all may be safe we'll commit it im- 
 mediately to the flames." 
 
 He was about to hold it to the light of the 
 candle when from each closet came two thunder- 
 ing knocks, which so scared him that he di'opped 
 one candle and overturned the other. 
 
 "Lord have mercy on us!" he ci'ied. 
 
 " My hair stands on end !" exclaimed Goldfinch. 
 
 " Save me, Mr. Goldfinch I" screamed the widow, 
 as the knocks began again not only in the closets, 
 but at both chamber-doors. " Protect me ! Ah !" 
 
 She shrieked with terror as both closet-doors 
 were burst open, and two persons sprang into the 
 darkened room, who rushed forward and seized 
 the bond and promise of marriage on the table. 
 They then unlocked the chamber-doors, admitting 
 at one a servant with lights, and at the other 
 Harry and his father, with Sophia. 
 
 «' "Where is the will ?" exclaimed Sulky. " Give 
 it to me, you old scoundrel ! Give it up this 
 instant, or I'll throttle you !" He grappled the 
 hoary villain, and wrested it from him. 
 
 "What has happened, gentlemen?" asked 
 Harry. "How came you thus all locked up 
 together?" 
 
 Not many words were needed to explain the 
 highly interesting situation. 
 
 "And now, madam " said Mr. Sulky. 
 
 "Keep off, monster!" exclaimed the widow. 
 " You smell of malice, cruelty, and persecution." ^
 
 120 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 " No, madam ; I smell of honesty, a drug you 
 nauseate, but which you must take. I have 
 looked over the will, and find that I have the 
 power. You have signed a promise of marriage, 
 and the money has slipped from your grasp." 
 
 " Let me go, I hate the sight of you ! Your 
 breast is flint, flint, unfeeling gorgon, and I abomi- 
 nate you !" She left the room in a high rage. 
 
 " Nay, you are a kind, good, cross old soul," 
 cried Sophia, " and I am sure you'll forgive my 
 poor ma. We ought all to forget and forgive. 
 Ought we not, Mr. Dornton?" 
 
 " Do you hear her- sir ?" said Harry, to his 
 father. 
 
 " Yes, she has a pure and innocent heart. Take 
 her, Harry, you have my blessing and hopes for 
 your happiness." 
 
 " La, Mr. Dornton, how could you " ex- 
 claimed Sophia, as Harry sealed the compact with 
 a kiss. 
 
 And so our story ends. Goldfinch was advised 
 by Mr. Dornton to leave off his wild courses and 
 turn to trade, but he scouted all such dull modes 
 of life. As for the detected rogue, Mr. Silky, 
 he skulked from the room, bearing with him 
 the sting of Mr. Sulky's very plainly-expressed 
 opinions. Everybody else, however, was over- 
 flowing with joy, for the loss of the banker's for- 
 tune had been averted, and the two profligate 
 friends were safely checked in their downward 
 course on " The Road to Iluin."
 
 [The a 
 he car; 
 certain; ) 
 
 in 0."'' '   
 of V 
 
 are rather exte;: 
 
 and while several;>vj4,.s;3Sravi^.'/A\^ft\i.l classed among 
 
 to 
 
   .ic composition, uu lu. \iii^ ^ 
 
 tW'} I'iays by the end of the century. In his 
 
 liitieth year he became blind, yet continued his 
 
 work of authorship, and pathetic stories are told 
 
 f the blind old playwright's waiting behind the 
 
 "' for the pul)lie ^ -'
 
 JOHN O'A'EI-: !'■/■:
 
 WILD OATS. 
 
 BY JOHN O'KEEPE. 
 
 [The author of the play above named, while 
 he cannot be ranked among the great dramatists, 
 certainly belongs among the most prolific, since 
 in all he produced more than sixty plays, many 
 of which became highly popular. These plays 
 are rather extended farces than true comedies, 
 and while several of them are still classed among 
 the acting drama, only one strongly appeals to 
 the public taste. " "Wild Oats," however, is so 
 sprightly, and its leading character such a favorite 
 of the theatre-going public, that it is likely long 
 to retain its place in the living drama. 
 
 John O'Keefe was of Irish birth, being born at 
 Dublin in 1747. His life was actively devoted to 
 dramatic composition, he having produced nearly 
 fifty plays by the end of the century. In his 
 fiftieth year he became blind, yet continued his 
 work of authorship, and pathetic stories are told 
 of the blind old playwright's waiting behind the 
 scenes for the public verdict on his plays, and 
 eagerly questioning his little son as to the temper 
 of the audience. He was partly supported in his 
 V 11 121
 
 122 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 later years by a pension from the crown. He 
 died in 1833.] 
 
 Sir George Thunder, a captain in the British 
 navy, had sown his wild oats in his youthful 
 days, and had ever since been reaping the harvest 
 in remoi'se. Under the false name of Captain 
 Seymour ho had, as he supposed, with the con- 
 nivance of a seaman named John Dory, deceived 
 an innocent young lady, named Amelia, by a false 
 marriage. He had afterwards deserted her and 
 her infant son in the East Indies, and subsequently 
 married again, — a base action which had after- 
 wards given his conscience many a bitter pang. 
 In one respect he was mistaken, — his marriage 
 with Amelia had been a real one. Honest John 
 Dory had deceived his scapegrace of a master, 
 the ceremony having been performed by Amelia's 
 brother, who was then in holy orders. vSir George 
 had since risen in rank in the navy, and had kept 
 John Dory with him as his boatswain, and, in a 
 measure, as his guardian. On one occasion, when 
 the bed-curtains of his cabin had caught fire, John 
 had snatched him from his berth and flung him 
 into the sea, — half drowning him to keep him 
 from being burned. On another, when he found 
 him drinking too deeply in company, he had caught 
 him up in his stalwart arms and carried him 
 home, despite his kicks and curses. Other similar 
 evidences of John's idea of duty might be cited ; 
 but withal, the small-sized but stout-hearted baro-
 
 WILD OATS. 123 
 
 net loved him like a brother, and would rather 
 have lost his right arm than his faithful boat- 
 swain. 
 
 Shortly before the date of the opening of our 
 story, Sir George— or Captain Thunder, to give 
 his official title— had reached England. He had 
 hoped to pay an early visit to his son, Harry, who 
 had just completed his studies in the Naval 
 Academy at Portsmouth, but was prevented from 
 doing so by the necessity of pursuing some de- 
 serters, who had fled after taking his earnest 
 money. He thereupon sent John Dory to Ports- 
 mouth to bring his son, and set out in hot chase 
 after the deserters. 
 
 Sir George had another purpose in view. In 
 Hampshire, whither his steps were directed, dwelt 
 his niece. Lady Mary Amaranth Thunder, — or 
 Mary Thunder, as she preferred to call herself, 
 for she had been brought up in the plain tenets 
 of the Quakers. The young lady was rich, hand- 
 some, and generous, much of her wealth having 
 been left her by a cousin, the executor of whose 
 will, Ephraim Smooth, a canting hypocrite, dwelt 
 with her, as an unwelcome addition to her house- 
 hold. In Sir George's fancy, this fair Quakeress, 
 despite her plain ways, would make a fitting 
 match for his son, and it was with the design of 
 bringing the cousins together that he had sent 
 John Dory to conduct the young man to Hamp- 
 shire. 
 
 The worthy boatswain failed in his mission.
 
 124 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 Harry Thunder had left Portsmouth before he 
 got there. The young truant, in fact, was emu- 
 lating his father in sowing his wild oats. Seek- 
 ing London, he had joined a company of strolling 
 actors, taking the stage-name of Dick Buskin. 
 Here he became an intimate friend of a hiirh- 
 minded but light-hearted young actor named 
 Jack Eover. The two friends, after playing to- 
 gether for some time, had left the company 
 through some disagreement, and at the time of 
 Sir George's visit to Hampshire were in the same 
 part of England, on their way to Winchester, 
 where they were booked to play. 
 
 Sir George, failing to find the deserters, had 
 visited his niece, where, despite her warm wel- 
 come, the freedom of speech of the servants 
 roused the ire of the old sea-dog, accustomed to 
 the respect of manners on shipboard. He roared 
 out his opinion of Ephraim Smooth and the others 
 so plainl}^, indeed, that Lad}^ Amaranth had much 
 trouble to quiet him. 
 
 "Kinsman, be patient," she said, soberly. 
 "These are our waj's. But I am glad to greet 
 thee, and will be pleased to welcome my cousin 
 Henry, whom I have not beheld these twelve 
 years." 
 
 Harry Thunder was just then nearer than 
 either of them suspected. He was, in fjict, on a 
 road in the vicinity of Lady Amaranth's mansion, 
 in company with his servant Midge. Their com- 
 panion, Jack Eover, had not yet left the inn where
 
 WILD OATS. 125 
 
 they had spent the night. Harry took the op- 
 portunity for a private conversation with Midge, 
 whom he told that he had decided to bring hia 
 fi-olic8 to an end, and seek his father, whom he 
 knew to be somewhere in that locality. 
 
 " My three months' runaway has brought me 
 some good," he said to himself. "I have seen 
 something of life, had a precious deal of fun, and 
 made acquaintance with the noblest and pleas- 
 antest fellow I ever met. If he would only get 
 over his abominable habit of quotation I Here he 
 comes. It hurts me to have to bid him farewell. 
 I hope he will not find the purse I have hid in his 
 coat-pocket before we part." 
 
 As he spoke, Eover came up at a rattling pace, 
 singing a rollicking ditty as he approached. 
 
 " ' I am the bold Thunder,' " he quoted, as he 
 reached his friend. 
 
 " I am, if you only knew it," said Harry to him- 
 self. " You've kept me waiting, Jack," he remarked. 
 
 " Couldn't help it; I went back for my gloves, 
 and fell afoul of a rosy-cheeked chambermaid, 
 
 who Hello ! stop a moment, we'll have the 
 
 whole county after us I" 
 
 " What now ?" 
 
 " That saucy woman put me in such a temper, 
 that, by Heaven, I walked off and forgot to pay 
 our bill I" 
 
 " Never mind, it's paid." 
 
 " Who by ? Neither you nor Midge had money 
 enough." 
 
 11*
 
 126 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 " It's paid, I tell you." 
 
 " You're a jewel, Dick. Come, then, let's push 
 on. It's ten miles to Winchester; we shall be 
 there b}^ eleven. You're booked for high tragedy, 
 my boy, in this Winchester company." 
 
 " And you for comedy. I hope you'll do your 
 part well, Eover; I have decided to play in 
 another character." 
 
 " What the deuce do you mean ? The bills are 
 already up, with our names and parts, to play to- 
 night at Winchester." 
 
 The good fellow was sadly taken aback when 
 Harry told him that, for certain serious reasons 
 of his own, he had decided to break the Win- 
 chester engagement, and that they must part 
 there and then ; nor would he listen to Eover's 
 proposal to break his engagement also, and still 
 keep him company. 
 
 "Have I done anything to deserve this from 
 Dick Buskin?'' asked Eover, with tears in his 
 eyes. 
 
 " Nothing, Jack. I am your friend for life. I 
 hate this parting as much as yourself, — but it 
 must be. Good-by." 
 
 " I can't even bid him I won't, either !" 
 
 cried Eover, deeply hurt. " If any cause 
 could " 
 
 "No cause in which you are concerned, my 
 poor fellow ; yet deep cause, for all that," said 
 Harry, with wet eyes. "It hurts me to leave 
 you, Jack. But — adieu I"
 
 WILD OATS. 127 
 
 " Farewell, Dick ; if farewell it must be." 
 
 It was with a heavy heart that Jack Eover 
 took one road, while his late companion took 
 another. Yet his heart was one of such native 
 lightness that nothing could long keep it down. 
 Chance directed his footsteps towards a locality 
 in which were to occur events that would change 
 the course of his whole future life. This was the 
 vicinity of a farm-house, close by which stood an 
 humble cottage. 
 
 The farmer was a hard-hearted and miserly 
 fellow, named Gammon, whose chief burdens in 
 life were that his son Sim had an honest and 
 charitable heart, and that his daughter Jane was 
 fond of finery and full of foolish notions. He 
 had, indeed, a third burden, which just then was 
 weighing upon him heavily. In the neighboring 
 cottage dwelt a poor parson named Banks, with 
 bis sister Amelia. The farmer, whose wife had 
 been long dead, had decided in his own mind that 
 this lady would acceptably fill the place of the 
 late Mrs. Gammon ; but, much to his chagrin and 
 anger, his suit had been declined. Full of re- 
 vengeful inclinations, he had bought up a debt 
 against Banks, sworn out a warrant of ar- 
 rest, and placed it in the hands of a bailiff to 
 execute. 
 
 Such was the state of affairs at the time the 
 wandering actor. Jack Eover, aj)proached that 
 locality. Gammon had just ended a stormy in- 
 terview with Banks, and stood fuming with rage,
 
 128 TALES PROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 when liis son Sim burst in, his eyes dilated with 
 eagerness. 
 
 "O feyther!" he cried, "here's one Mr. Lamp, 
 a ringleader of showfolks, come from Andover to 
 act in our village. He wants a barn to play in, 
 if you'll hire him yours." 
 
 " Surely, boy, I never refuse money. Hurry 
 and see him before he hires some other place. 
 Take a short cut through that garden." 
 
 " 'No, sir," said Mr. Banks. " You are welcome 
 to walk in it, with my permission, but not to make 
 it a common thoroughfare." 
 
 " Here, Sim, kick open that garden gate." 
 
 " Dang it, feyther, I can't do that !" answered 
 Sim, rubbing his head. " I'll do anything for you 
 that's right, feyther, but " 
 
 " Stand aside, you idiot ! I'll do it myself." 
 
 " Hold, neighbor," said Mr. Banks. " Small as 
 this spot is, it is mine. The man who sets a 
 foot in it against my will, must first take my 
 life." 
 
 As they stood debating, a sudden shower of rain 
 fell, in the midst of which Eover came running 
 hastily towards them. 
 
 " Zounds ! hero's a pelting shower, and no 
 shelter," he exclaimed. "'Poor Tom's a-cold ;' 
 I'm wet through. Oh! here's promise." He 
 hastened towards Gammon's farm-house. 
 
 " Hold, my lad," exclaimed the farmer. " No 
 room there for strangers. You'll find a public- 
 house not above a mile on."
 
 WILD OATS. 129 
 
 "Step in here, young man," said Mr. Banks. 
 *' My fire is small, but it burns with a welcome." 
 
 " The poor cottager ! And the substantial 
 farmer!" said Rover, looking from one to the 
 other. He then kneeled dramatically, and 
 quoted, " ' Hear, Nature, dear goddess, hear! If 
 ever you designed to make his corn-fields fruit- 
 ful, change thy purpose ; and when to town he 
 drives his hogs, so like himself, oh, let him feel 
 the soaking rain ; then may he curse his crime 
 too late, and know how sharper than a serpent's 
 
 tooth 'tis ' Devil take me, but I'm sjjouting 
 
 in the rain all this time!" The lively fellow 
 sprang up and ran into the cottage, leaving Gam- 
 mon, who was now in a towering rage, to solace 
 himself with deep threats of revenge on his poor 
 but proud neighbor. 
 
 During Eover's stay in the cottage several 
 events of importance to our story happened. 
 Lady Amaranth had engaged Jane, Farmer 
 Gammon's daughter, as a waiting maid, and dur- 
 ing the scene just desci"ibed was conversing with 
 her in the farm-house. At the same time Twitch, 
 the bailiff employed by Gammon, appeared, and 
 calling Mr. Banks from his cottage, served on him 
 a warrant of arrest, on a note for thirty pounds, 
 which the revengeful farmer had purchased. 
 
 " It is true," said Mr. Banks, " that I did borrow 
 that sum of monej^, and lent it to our poor cot- 
 tagers to help them pay their rents. I'll go round 
 and see what I can collect from them." 
 Vol. II.— i
 
 130 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 " No, sir," answered the bailiff; " you must como 
 with me." 
 
 " Old gentleman, come quick, or I'll draw an- 
 other bottle of your currant wine," cried Rover, 
 at this moment, from within the cottage. " Eain 
 over, eh!" he continued, appearing at the door. 
 
 *' I'll take a sniff of the open air, too Eh, 
 
 what's the matter?" 
 
 " Nothing, except that this gentleman will go 
 to jail, unless his debt is paid," answered Twitch. 
 
 " What, my kind, hospitable, good old man to 
 jaill" exclaimed Rover. "What's the amount, 
 you scoundrel ?" 
 
 " Better words, or I'll " 
 
 " You'll get every bone in your body broken, 
 rogue, if you don't tell me ! Do you know, vil- 
 lain, that I am at this moment the greatest man 
 living?" 
 
 '' Who, pray ?" 
 
 " ' I am the bold Thunder !' Sirrah, know that 
 I carry my purse of gold in my coat-pocket. 
 Though hang me if I know how it came there !" 
 he said, aside. " Here's twenty pictures in gold 
 of his majesty. Take them and be off." 
 
 " Ten pieces short, master." 
 
 '■ Ten more ! What's to be done ? Ah I here's 
 old hospitality," as Farmer Gammon entered. 
 "Look ye, old chap, some griping rascal has had 
 this worthy gentleman arrested. Twenty pieces 
 of the debt is paid ; you pass your word for the 
 other ten ; then, over a bottle of his currant wine,
 
 WILD OATS. 131 
 
 we'll drink ' liberty to the honest debtor, and eon- 
 fusion to the hard-hearted creditor.' " 
 
 "I shan't!" answered Gammon, curtly. 
 
 « Shan't ! What's your name ?" 
 
 " Gammon." 
 
 " Gammon ! You're the Hampshire hog, then. 
 I wish I had another purse in my waistcoat 
 pocket." 
 
 The farmer withdrew in some haste, in fear lest 
 this impetuous fellow might learn that he was the 
 "griping rascal" referred to. At the same mo- 
 ment Lady Amaranth appeared from the farm- 
 house, and asked what was the matter. 
 
 Eover tried to tell, but found it no easy task. 
 It was not only that the fact of his own gener- 
 osity confused him, but also that the face of the 
 beautiful Quakeress made such an impression on 
 his mind that he had no thought for anything 
 else. He so muddled the story that, in the end. 
 Banks and Twitch had to come to his assistance. 
 
 "Madam, he's the honestest fellow!" cried 
 Eover. "I've known him above forty years. 
 He has the best hand at stirring a fire. If you 
 were only to taste his currant wine " 
 
 " I beg pardon, madam," broke in Mr. Banks. 
 " I have never before needed help ; but obliga- 
 tions from a strangex' " 
 
 "A stranger! Then, sir, thou hast assumed a 
 right that here belongs only to me." She took a 
 note from her purse, and attempted to repay 
 Rover, but this he positively refused to take,
 
 132 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 and ran hastily away, with one of his favorite 
 bits of dramatic quotation. 
 
 " Where dwelletL he?" asked the lady. 
 
 " I fancy where he can, madam. He seems, 
 from his discourse, to be a strolling actor." 
 
 "A profane stage-player, with such a gentle, 
 generous heart !" exclaimed Lady Amaranth. " I 
 should not have deemed it possible." 
 
 The good lady thereupon paid the remainder 
 of the debt, dismissed the bailitf, and returned 
 home with new thoughts in her modestly-attired 
 head. 
 
 The handsome face and impulsive generosity of 
 Eover had made an impression upon her maidenly 
 heart, but no deeper a one than hers had made 
 upon him. The whimsical fellow could not get 
 rid of thoughts of this sweet-faced Quakeress. He 
 sought the inn in an uncertain frame of mind, 
 now determining to go on to Winchester, now to 
 try his luck in a Loudon theatre, and again to 
 stay where he was, and feast his eyes once more 
 on the face of the fair lady of bounty. 
 
 While in this state of uncertaint}', the landlord 
 entered with the coaching-book in hand. 
 
 " Sir, you go on in the stage ; what name?" 
 ^ " ' I am the bold Thunder,' " answered Eover, 
 using his favorite theatrical quotation. 
 
 "Mr. Thunder," the landlord said, writing the 
 name down as he walked out. 
 
 He was met outside by John Dory, who stopped 
 him and told him to book him for two places in
 
 WILD OATS. 133 
 
 the coach. " Whom have you now ?" he asked, 
 looking over the list. " Maccolah, Gosling, 
 Thunder. — Hillo ! is there one of that name 
 going?" 
 
 "Booked him this minute." 
 
 « What sort of a craft ?" 
 
 "A rum one. I suspect he's one of the 
 . players." 
 
 " They said it was players coaxed him from 
 school," answered John, musingly. " If this is the 
 young squire, our journey ends before we begin 
 it. Show me where he's moored, old purser." 
 
 Rover was just then moored in the room of 
 Mr. Lamp, the manager of the theatrical company 
 which had hired Farmer Gammon's barn for a 
 week's performance. The shrewd manager well 
 knew Rover's ability, and wanted him badly, 
 but the stroller had fixed his mind on a London 
 engagement, and was difiicult to persuade. 
 
 " As long as I have a certain friend here, in my 
 coat-pocket," he began, thrusting his hand in 
 search of the purse. " Eh I where is it? Oh, 
 the deuce ! it's gone to the devil, or the bailiflf, 
 — all the same. Sir, I'll engage with you. Call 
 a rehearsal when and where you please." 
 
 Fate, however, was preparing a change in the 
 programme on which Rover and his new manager 
 had not counted. As Lamp went out, John Dory 
 came in. The worthy fellow had not seen Harry 
 Thunder since childhood ; but he had seen the 
 name in the stage-book, and there was something 
 
 12
 
 134 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 in Eover's face that seemed to confirm it, so he 
 did not hesitate to greet him with, — 
 
 " What cheer, ho, master squire ?" 
 
 " Cheer, ho ! my hearty," answered Rover, imi- 
 tating his gruff voice. 
 
 " The very fiice of his father I Come, ain't you 
 ashamed of yourself?" 
 
 "What for?" asked Rover, somewhat taken 
 aback, 
 
 "You runaway rogue! I've dispatched a 
 shallop to tell Lady Amaranth you're here. I 
 expect her carriage every minute. You'll go on 
 board, I'll go on board, and we'll drop anchor 
 genteelly at her house; then I'll have obeyed 
 orders, and your father will be satisfied." 
 
 "My father! Who the deuce is he? Come, 
 good fellow, you're taking me for somebody else. 
 Good-by." 
 
 " Avast, there ! That tack won't work. They've 
 got your name down in the stage-coach book, Mr. 
 Thunder." 
 
 " Mr. Thunder ! Ha ! ha ! ha ! there's some odd 
 blunder afloat." 
 
 " Take care, my lad ; Sir George, your father, 
 will change your tune." 
 
 "Sir George! Oho! my father is a knight, 
 then ! That sounds well, though he might have 
 been an earl, and be done with it." 
 
 Rover, thinking that the joke had gone far 
 enough, now tried to convince John Dory that he 
 had made a mistake; but the honest fellow was
 
 WILD OATS. 135 
 
 beyond conviction, and insisted vigorously on his 
 entering the carriage, when, shortly afterwards, it 
 drove up to the inn-door. By this time Rover, 
 in his reckless humor, was half inclined to yield 
 to destiny. 
 
 " Does a pretty girl sound well to your ears ?" 
 asked John, slyly. 
 
 " Ah ! this Lady Somebody is pretty, then ?" 
 
 " Beautiful as a mermaid, and stately as a ship 
 under sail." 
 
 "And, hark ye, is this father of mine at the 
 lady's ?" 
 
 " Afraid to face him, you runaway, are you ? 
 No ; he's in chase of a crew of deserters." 
 
 "Has the lady ever seen me?" 
 
 " None of your jokes, youngster. You know she 
 hasn't since you were the bigness of a canakin." 
 
 " The choice is made," said Eover, to himself. 
 " I have my Ranger's dress in my trunk. ' Cousin 
 of Buckingham, thou sage, grave man !' " he 
 broke out, in his theatrical humor. "To the 
 chariot, shipmate. ' Bear me, Bucephalus, among 
 the billows, — hey, for the Tigris !' " 
 
 Rover and Lady Amaranth were destined to an 
 agreeable surprise. On reaching his destination, 
 Rover was shown to a room, where he took from 
 his baggage his Ranger costume, the theatrical 
 attire of a fashionable young man. Meanwhile, 
 John Dory had acquainted the lady with his suc- 
 cess. As they were still talking, Rover entered, 
 very handsomely dressed.
 
 136 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 ""Tis I, Hamlet, the Dane,'" he quoted. 
 "'Thus far into the bowels of the land have we 
 
 marched on ' What! the Lady Amaranth! 
 
 By Heaven, my angelic Quakeress !" 
 
 " Thou !" exclaimed the lady, turning with a 
 warm blush on her eloquent face. " Generous 
 youth, Ibou my Cousin Harry? Why, when in 
 the village I saw thee free the lamb from the 
 wolf, didst thou not tell me thou wert the son of 
 my uncle. Sir George ?" 
 
 " Because, my lady, then I didn't know it 
 
 myself," he concluded, mentally. 
 
 " Why didst thou vex thy father, and quit thy 
 school ?" 
 
 " 'A truant disposition, good my lady, brought 
 me from Wittenberg.' " 
 
 " Thou art tall, my cousin, and grown of comely 
 stature. Our families have long been separated." 
 
 "Since Adam, I believe," said Rover to himself, 
 continuing with a fragrant of stage lore : " ' Then, 
 lady, let that sweet bud of love now ripen to a 
 beauteous flower.' " 
 
 "Love!" she exclaimed, astonished, though not 
 altogether displeased, by the ardor of his quota- 
 tion, 
 
 " ' Excellent wench I perdition catch my soul, 
 but I do love thee ; and when I love thee not, 
 chaos is come again.' " 
 
 The wild fellow rattled on in this reckless 
 fashion, his talk more than half quotations from 
 plays, while the pretty young Quakeress thought
 
 WILD OATS. 137 
 
 that, in spite of his strange humor, she had nevei' 
 met so pleasant a gentleman in her life as her new- 
 found cousin. His rattle about love fell in mellow 
 accents upon her ear, the more so that there was 
 a dejith bej'ond mere acting in Eover's tones. 
 The handsome pair, indeed, bade fair, unless they 
 were soon interrupted, to drift from sham cousin- 
 ship into real love. 
 
 The interruption came in the form of Farmer 
 Gammon and Lamp, the manager, their purpose 
 being to ask the lady's permission to act a few 
 plays in the town. The worthy pair found them- 
 selves considerably astonished. Gammon, on 
 being told to request permission from young 
 Squire Thunder to lease his barn for the play, 
 looked in Eover's face, and sneaked off. He could 
 hope for no favor from the man whom he had 
 recently accosted as a vagrant. 
 
 Lamp found himself in almost as great a quan- 
 dary. Was this the Rover with whose name he 
 had billed the country ? 
 
 " Would you have a gentleman born take the 
 part of a poor strolling dog, and help you to 
 murder Shakespeare?" asked Rover, with an air 
 of great severity. 
 
 " But, gentle sir, you gave your word, and I 
 have billed your name, and trumpeted your fame 
 for ten miles around." 
 
 " If thou hast promised, cousin," said Lady 
 Amaranth, "thou shouldst keep thy word. I 
 
 favor not play-acting, but " 
 
 12*
 
 138 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 " Never in Gammon's barn, if I die for it ! If 
 play I must, it shall never be in that inhuman 
 rogue's precincts." 
 
 " Barn ! no," answered the lady. " The gallery 
 of my house shall be thy theatre. I have invited 
 the gentry round to my house-warming, and thou 
 and these actors shall play before us, in spite of 
 the grave doctrines of Ephraim Smooth." 
 
 " Thanks, ray kind lady ! You hear, bully 
 Lamp? Bring your carpenters, your scene- 
 shifters, all 3'our lively crew ; we'll show these 
 Hampshire folks what we can do." 
 
 The sham Harry Thunder, thus masquerading 
 in his assumed name, little dreamed of the state 
 of affairs which had meanwhile arisen at the inn. 
 The real Harry Thunder had reached there, hav- 
 ing first taken a considerable round to rid him- 
 self effectually of his roving friend. As he talked 
 with Midge in one room. Sir George entered 
 another, out of wind and temper from his fruit- 
 less search for the deserters, and full of anger at 
 the runaway frolic of his truant son. 
 
 As he stood fuming, and cursing the landlord, 
 the fates, and the world in general, John Dory 
 entered. 
 
 "John, you sea-dog!" he roared, "how now? 
 have you taken the places in the London coach ? 
 You grin, you rascal! Have you heard anything 
 of my son ?" 
 
 "What's o'clock?" asked John, with a cunning 
 leer.
 
 WILD OATS. 139 
 
 " "What the blazes does it matter ?" 
 
 " Only, if it's two, Master Harry is at this min- 
 ute walking with Lady Amaranth in her garden ; 
 if half after, they've cast anchor to rest among 
 the posies ; if three, they're up again ; if four " 
 
 " Ahoy, you rogue ! what's in your noddle, 
 now?" 
 
 " The boy is at Lady Amaranth's, I tell you. 
 Such a merry, crazy, crack-brained fellow, — the 
 very picture of your honor ! Bless you, if he 
 wasn't on his knees to her in half an hour; and 
 in an hour had his arms around her, and was 
 giving her a bouncing smack." 
 
 "Huzza! victory!" cried Sir George, gayly. 
 " John, you shall have a bowl for a jolly-boat, 
 and a lake of punch to navigate in. Away 
 with you, and order a bumper now." 
 
 Out went John, happy as an admiral, and, a 
 minute after, in came Harry, to find his father 
 dancing with gayety. 
 
 " I must have left my cane in this room," said 
 Harry, looking round him. " Zounds ! my father 
 here !" 
 
 " Harry, you jackanapes ! How could you 
 shear off from the fair Quaker, and the afternoon 
 not half spent ?" 
 
 We will not repeat the conversation that ensued 
 between father and son. It will suffice to say that 
 it was full of cross purposes, and that by the 
 time John Dory returned they had got themselves 
 into a deep snarl of misunderstandings. John's
 
 140 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 presence added to the difficulty. Ignorant that 
 this was the true IIarrj% ho roundly declared that 
 ho had taken Sir George's son to Lady Ama- 
 ranth's. Harry declared that this was false ; and 
 in the end John stamped from the room in a rage, 
 while Sir George remained behind with his hot 
 temper almost at boiljng-point. 
 
 " You are deceiving me, you disobedient, un- 
 grateful dog!" he roared out. " I'll not part with 
 you till I bring you face to face with Lady Ama- 
 ranth, and if I find then you've been playing on 
 me, I'll launch you into the wide ocean of life 
 like a dismasted pirate, without rudder, compass, 
 grog, or tobacco." 
 
 Complicated as the situation had by this time 
 becoine, it was destined to grow still more so. 
 At Lady Amaranth's house Rover had made such 
 happy use of his time that nearly all the house- 
 hold was pressed into the service of the actors, 
 and servants and maids were diligently conning 
 their parts. Even Lady Amaranth had consented 
 to study the part of Rosalind, in "As You Like 
 It," while Ephraim Smooth was nearly alone in his 
 horrified distaste to the pla3\ 
 
 " Why dost thou suffer him," he said to Lady 
 Amaranth, " to put into the hands of thy servants 
 books of tragedies and books of comedies, pre- 
 lude, interlude, yea, all lewd? My spirit doth 
 wax wrotli. Verily, a play-book is the primer of 
 Beelzebub." 
 
 "Listen, while I read from one," answered
 
 WILD OATS. 141 
 
 Lady Amaranth. "'Not the king's crown, nor 
 the deputed sword, the marshal's truncheon, nor 
 the judge's robe, become them with one-half so 
 good a grace as mercy does.' Doth Beelzebub 
 speak such words as these?" 
 
 Before Ephraim could reply, the sound of a 
 violin was heard without. The horrified zealot 
 closed both ears with his hands, while a look of 
 dismal distress overspread his long-drawn face. 
 
 " I must shut my ears," he groaned. " The 
 man of sin rubbeth the hair of the horse to the 
 bowels of the cat." 
 
 " Now, if agreeable to your ladyship, we'll go 
 over your song," said Lamp, who at that moment 
 entered, violin in hand. Eover came close behind 
 him. 
 
 " I will go over it !" cried Ephraim, in a rage, 
 as he snatched the book from Lady Amaranth's 
 hand, flung it to the floor, and trampled upon it. 
 
 " Trample on Shakespeare !" exclaimed Eover, 
 thrusting him violently back. " ' You sacrilegious 
 thief, that from a shelf the precious diadem stole, 
 and put it in your pocket !' " He picked up the 
 book. " Go on, my lady. Silence, ' thou owl of 
 Crete.' " 
 
 Ephraim, however, was not to be silenced, and 
 became so violent in his language that Eover 
 ended by hustling him from the room. The 
 rehearsal then proceeded peacefully. At its con- 
 clusion. Lamp and his fair pupil withdrew, leaving 
 Eover alone.
 
 142 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 " An angel in drab !" he said to himself. " In 
 all my roving I never saw her like. If Sir 
 George don't soon arrive, to denounce me as an 
 impostor, I'll be tempted to marry my lovely 
 Rosalind. Shall I, though ? No, no, I can't play 
 the scoundrel, — not with her. Poor Dick Buskin 
 wants money more than I, yet he'd hang himself 
 rather than do such a scurvy deed, and I'll do 
 nothing to make him ashamed of me." 
 
 Even as he spoke, the person he had just 
 named entered the room, and started with sur- 
 prise on recognizing his friend Eover. 
 
 "Heigho! I don't know what to do," sighed 
 Bover. 
 
 "Nor what to say," said Harry, in the same 
 dismal tone. 
 
 " Dick Buskin, by the gods !" cried Rover, turn- 
 ing suddenl3^ " My dear fellow ! Ha ! ha I ha ! 
 
 talk of the devil, and I was just thinking 
 
 of you. 'Pon my soul, Dick, I'm so happy to 
 see you !" 
 
 " But, Jack, how came you to find me out ?" 
 
 " Find you ? It's you that has found me out. 
 Has the news of my intended play brought you ?" 
 
 " He doesn't know me, then," said Harry to 
 himself " Egad ! I'll carry on the joke." 
 
 If Rover did not know Harry's secret, Harry 
 soon knew Rover's, for the latter quickly told him 
 the story of his masquerade, and his belief that, 
 as Harry Thunder, ho had won the heart of a 
 charming lady. He went on to say that she
 
 WILD OATS. 143 
 
 thought him a gentleman, and that, as he was a 
 man of honor, she should never despise him as a 
 rascal; declaring that he would finish with the 
 play, and then bid her forever adieu in his true 
 character of Jack Eover. 
 
 " The same generous, honest fellow as ever. 
 He shan't lose by it, if I can help him to win the 
 woman," said Harry to himself; and, moved by a 
 sudden impulse, he told Kover a story that did 
 mere honor to his invention than his truthfulness. 
 
 This story was that Eover had anticipated him, 
 since he had come there for the same purpose, of 
 passing himself on the lady as Harry Thunder. 
 He had gone even beyond this, he said, and 
 brought with him a sham father to personate the 
 simon-pure Sir George, — an " old-man" comedian, 
 who could play the irascible father to perfection. 
 
 " The impudent old scoundrel !" cried Eover. 
 
 " I'll step down-stairs and have the honor of 
 
 I'll kick him." 
 
 " No, no, Eover. I brought him into it, and 
 won't have him hurt." 
 
 " What's his name ?" 
 
 " His name is — is — Abrawang." 
 
 " Abrawang ! Never heard of the man. Ha I 
 ha ! two Squire Thunders in the field, and both 
 rogues !" 
 
 " Hark ye. Jack. I'm ashamed of myself, and 
 want you to punish me and my confederate. 
 Suppose you keep up the character of young 
 Squire Thunder. You can easily do it, and "
 
 144 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 " But, by Heaven, I'll ' Quoit him down, 
 
 Bardolph.' " 
 
 " You love her, Jack ; she loves you ; her for- 
 tune is a snug one. If you can marry her " 
 
 " She's lovely, Dick ; but hang her fortune ! 
 * My love, more noble than the world, prizes not 
 quantity of dirty lands.' " 
 
 Harry was in solid earnest, and took immediate 
 steps to carry out the plot he had so hastily 
 formed, with the ardent and generous desire to 
 advance the fortunes of his friend, if even at his 
 own possible loss. 
 
 He met Lady Amaranth a few minutes after 
 parting with Rover, and told her a somewhat dif- 
 ferent story from that which he had invented for 
 the latter. To her. Sir George must continue Sir 
 George, but as for himself, he was simply Dick 
 Buskin, a strolling player, and a confederate of 
 the old knight in a scheme of rascality. Sir 
 George, said the graceless youth, had grown so 
 angry with his son for his irregular conduct that 
 to punish him he had determined to treat him as 
 an impostor, in the hope that she might drive him 
 from her presence. He, Dick Buskin, had agreed 
 to represent the real son, but his conscience had 
 so smitten him that he felt obliged to acquaint 
 the lady with the imposture. He had already 
 told Harry of it, and advised him to punish Sir 
 George by treating him himself as an impoHtor. 
 
 "Ha! ha! ha!" laughed Lady Amaranth, in 
 mirthful enjoyment of this fiction. " That will
 
 WILD OATS. 145 
 
 be a just retaliation on my uncle for his cruel 
 intentions, both to his son and me." 
 
 They were interrupted at this juncture by Sir 
 George, who entered as they were talli:ing, and 
 bade his reluctant son to salute his lady cousin. 
 
 " Here, my lady," he said, as they both held back, 
 "take from a father's hand, Harry Thunder." 
 
 " That I may not," answered Lady Amaranth, 
 turning to Eover, who had just then entered. 
 Taking his hand, she said, " Here, sir, take from 
 my hand, Harry Thunder." 
 
 " Eh !" exclaimed Sir George, staring at Eover, 
 who stared at him in return. 
 
 " Oh ! this is your sham Sir George ?" said 
 Eover, aside to Harry. 
 
 "Yes; I've told the lady, and she'll seem to 
 humor him." 
 
 " I shan't, though," rejoined Eover. He turned 
 to Sir George, and said in a tone of satire, " How 
 do you do, Abrawang?" 
 
 "Abrawang!" exclaimed Sir George, with a 
 start of surprise. 
 
 " Ay, that's very well done. Never lose sight 
 of your character. Sir George, you know, is a 
 noisy, turbulent, wicked old seaman. Angry? 
 bravo ! — pout your under lip, purse your brows, — 
 very well done !" By this time Sir George was 
 stamping about the room in a passion. " Very 
 good! that's right! strut about on your little 
 pegs !" and Eover clapped his hands approvingly. 
 
 " I'm in such a fury !" cried the old man. 
 Vol. II.— q k 13
 
 146 TALES FROM TUB DRAMATISTS. 
 
 " We know that. I never saw a happier low- 
 comedy figure. Why, only show yourself like 
 that, and you'll Bct an audience in a roar." 
 
 " 'Sblood and fire !" 
 
 " Who is this?" asked Lady Amaranth, point- 
 ing to Eover. 
 
 " Some puppy unknown." 
 
 " And thou dost not know this gentleman ?" she 
 pointed to Sir George. 
 
 " ' Excellent well ; he's a fish-monger.' " 
 
 ''And this youth?" pointing to Harry. 
 
 "'My friend Iloratio! I wear thee in my 
 heart's core; yea, in my heart of hearts', — as 
 I do thee," and the impulsive fellow embraced 
 Lady Amaranth. 
 
 This freedom with his niece increased Sir 
 George's rage almost to a frenzy. Rover con- 
 tinued to twit him, till in the end the furious old 
 irentleman raised his cane and used it freely, 
 some of the actors who had entered, his son, and 
 Eover, coming in for a share of his favors. In 
 the end, he stamped in a hot rage from the room. 
 
 Here was an indignity to which the light- 
 hearted stroller had not been accustomed. His 
 honor was to him his most valued possession, and 
 in a moment his mood changed from merriment 
 to an ardent desire for revenge. 
 
 "A rascally old impostor stigmatize me with 
 a blowl" he cried. "Zounds! I'll follow him I 
 * and may the name of villain light on me' if I 
 don't bang — Mr. Abrawang I"
 
 WILD OATS. 147 
 
 Leaving time to clear up this complicated in- 
 trigue, we must now follow the current of events 
 to the locality of the farm-house and the cottage, 
 where the miserly farmer had devised a new 
 scheme of revenge against his poor neighbor. 
 Though the debt of Mr. Banks had been paid, he 
 was still behindhand in his rent, and Gammon 
 took advantai^e of this fact to turn him out-of- 
 doors and seize his furniture, which he placed in 
 charore of a sheriff's officer. 
 
 The distressed cottager, not knowing what 
 to do, took his sister to Lady Amaranth, re- 
 questing that generous lady to give her shelter 
 until he could find her another home. This re- 
 quest was promptly granted, and Lady Amaranth, 
 in addition, promised to protect them against the 
 greed of their miserly landlord. 
 
 Sim, the farmer's son, had been ordered, much 
 against his will, to make an inventory of Mr, 
 Banks's goods and chattels. This he dutifully per- 
 formed, but, in his goodness of heart, secretly of- 
 fered the poor man his own and his sister's savings 
 to pay his debt, — a generous offer which the grate- 
 ful cottager could not accept. About the same 
 time, in the immediate neighborhood of the cot- 
 tage. Sir George Thunder was experiencing a 
 series of exciting adventures. Wandering thither- 
 ward to cool his rage, he had come in sight of 
 three villanous-looking fellows, dressed as sailors, 
 whom he believed to be the deserters of whom 
 he was in search. On perceiving him, they took
 
 148 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 refuge in a piece of woodland. "Without thought 
 of consequences, he was about to follow them, 
 when he was stopped by Eover, who had traced 
 him to this point. The angry actor charged him 
 with having wounded his honor, and hotly de- 
 manded redress. 
 
 " The English of all this is that we're to fight," 
 answered Sir George. " Well, I've only one ob- 
 jection to fighting you." 
 
 "What's that, sir?" 
 
 " That you seem too brave a lad to be killed." 
 
 " Sir, at present I wear the stigma of a coward." 
 
 " Zounds ! I like a bit of fighting. I don't know 
 when I've smelt gunpowder, — except to bring 
 down a woodcock. I would not wish to destroy 
 what was built for good service ; but, hang me, if 
 I don't wing you, to teach you better manners !" 
 
 Eover was thoroughly in earnest. He produced 
 a pair of pistols, gave one to Sir George, and 
 walked to a convenient distance with the other. 
 In a moment more those mistaken hot-heads would 
 have been firing at one another, but for an unex- 
 pected interruption. As Sir George stood loading 
 bis weapon, the ruffians who had taken refuge in 
 the wood, and who had not seen Rover, rushed 
 out and assailed the old baronet, one of them 
 snatching the pistol from his hand. 
 
 '< You are the old pirate that has chased us 
 all over the country," cried the man, spitefully. 
 "You wanted our lives, did you? We'll have 
 yours, you bandy-legged old rascal I"
 
 WILD OATS. 149 
 
 He aimed the pistol at Sir George, but before 
 he could fire Eover ran up, dashed the weapon 
 from his hand, and covered the villains with his 
 own weapon. 
 
 " Hold up there, rascals !" he cried. 
 
 The villains, on seeing the tables thus turned, 
 made a hasty dash for the wood, followed closely 
 by Eover. Sir George seized the other pistol and 
 was about to follow, when John Dory appeared 
 and threw his arms around him. 
 
 "You shan't go a step," cried the old salt. 
 
 "Let me go! Hear that?" A pistol-shot came 
 from the wood. " The brave lad saved my life. 
 Let me go." 
 
 " I'll save your life !" exclaimed John, whipping 
 his diminutive master up in his arms. " I'm your 
 guardian, you old sea-dog, and can't let you throw 
 yourself away on such piratical craft as these." 
 
 The old tar's untimely interference left Eover 
 in serious danger. After he had ineffectively dis- 
 charged his weapon, the deserters set upon him, 
 and handled him so roughly that only the superior 
 agility of his legs saved his head from being 
 beaten into a jelly. Escaping from them with 
 difficulty, his flying footsteps brought him to Mr. 
 Banks's cottage, which he entered faint with ex- 
 haustion. He leaned against the wall for support, 
 while Amelia, the cottager's sister, who had re- 
 turned thither, came to his aid, asking earnestly 
 if he was hurt. 
 
 Eover told her, in a few words, what had hap- 
 
 13*
 
 150 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 pened, and begged her for a glass of her currant 
 wine, of whose enlivening properties he knew 
 from former experience. The good lady looked 
 at him with emotion. Something in his face 
 touched her heart, and the sound of his voice 
 seemed to rouse long-buried recollections in her 
 soul. 
 
 Rover was yet, however, far from through with 
 his adventures. Ac ne sat talking with the lady, 
 the sheriff's officer who had been placed in charge 
 of the house entered the room, where he behaved 
 so rudely that the high-tempered young actor 
 snatched up a cane and drove him from the house. 
 Eover followed in a high passion, — but only to 
 find himself in a new difficulty. The three ruf- 
 fians had pursued him to the cottage, with cries 
 of " stop thief I" On their way thither they were 
 joined by a number of countrymen, to whom 
 they declared that they had been robbed. As 
 Eover dashed from the cottage in pui'suit of the 
 insulting officer, he found himself in the midst of 
 this throng, and was at once seized, bound, and 
 dragged away to Lady Amaranth's, the villains 
 swearing roundly that he was a highwayman, 
 and must be placed in the hands of justice at 
 once. 
 
 Sir George had reached the house of the lady 
 of the manor in much the same manner, being 
 borne thither in the arms of John Dory, aa 
 Ephraim Smooth said, " like a shrimp in the claws 
 of a blue lobster."
 
 WILD OATS. 151 
 
 Mr. Banks and his sister Amelia, learninsr of 
 Eover's capture, quicklj'^ sought the same locality, 
 and entered the room occupied by Sir George and 
 John Dory while the ruffled knight was still roar- 
 ing out his opinion of the old sailor. 
 
 '• Eascal ! to whip me up like a pound of tea, 
 dance me about like a j^oung bear, and make me 
 desert the preserver of my life ! What will puppy 
 unknown think of me ?" 
 
 " No matter what ; out to-night you shall not 
 budge," said John, resolutely. 
 
 As he spoke he wheeled half round, and his 
 eyes fell on Amelia. They half started from his 
 head on perceiving her, while his legs shook like 
 saplings in a gale. 
 
 " Oh ! marcy of Heaven !" exclaimed the thun- 
 derstruck old tar. "Isn't it? Oh, master! 
 Look! look!" 
 
 Amelia faced them at this exclamation, and 
 seeing Sir George, gave vent to a cry of deep 
 emotion, and fell half fainting into the arms of 
 Lady Amaranth, who had just entered. 
 
 " Great Heaven ! It is Amelia !" cried Sir 
 George, as full of consternation as his old boat- 
 swain had been. 
 
 He seized her hand, and with strong emotion 
 begged her forgiveness for the wrong he had 
 done her, vowing that he had been a deep villain, 
 and would marry her now as the only reparation 
 in his power. Mr. Banks now stepped forward 
 with dignity and told him that in this respect he
 
 152 TALES FBOM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 was deceived, that the marriage ceremony had 
 been performed by himself, and was a legal one, 
 and that the lady was his true wife. 
 
 Sir George stood dazed at this confirmation of 
 what John Dory had already told him, but which 
 he had not believed, and in a faint voice asked 
 Amelia concerning her son, his infant heir. 
 
 " Ah, husband, he — alas !" 
 
 " Gone ? What a miserable scoundrel I've been I 
 My true heir dead, and Harry an undutiful cub. 
 By Jove, I'll adopt tbat brave lad, who wouldn't 
 let anybody kill me but himself. MaiTy him, 
 my Lady Amaranth. He is a fine fellow, and 
 shall have my estate." 
 
 They were interrupted in this happy reconcilia- 
 tion by news that a footpad had been captured, 
 and that the men he had robbed stood ready to 
 give evidence against him. 
 
 " Leave them to me," cried Sir George, bustling 
 into the room Avhere they were. " Oh, ho I Clap 
 down the hatches ! Secure these sharks !" he 
 roared, as he cast his eyes on the ruffians. " So 
 the rogues have run their heads into the lion's 
 mouth 1 Release that young man. Keep these 
 fellows in limbo. They are deserters from the 
 King's navy." 
 
 The villains, thus opportunely discovered, were 
 carried off prisoners, while John Dory cut the 
 ropes from Rover's hands, roaring out, "My 
 young master ! What in Davy Jones's name have 
 you been at now ?"
 
 WILD OATS. 153 
 
 "My cousin Harry!" exclaimed Lady Ama- 
 ranth, 
 
 " Not quite, madam," answered Eover, as the 
 true Harry entered, and gazed with surprise on 
 the scene. " As I told this worthy tar, when he 
 first forced me to your house, I am not the son of 
 Sir George Thunder." 
 
 " You refuse the lady !" said Harry. " Then, to 
 punish you, I've half a mind to take her mj^self " 
 
 "Stop, Dick, that won't work. Madam, don't 
 listen to this fellow. He is as much of an impostor 
 as myself. Isn't he, Abrawang ?" 
 
 "Not 80, my dear Rover," answered Harry, 
 with a laugh. "I have been fooling you and 
 teasing my father long enough. When I joined 
 your company I was a runaway school-boy, and 
 my true name is Harry Thunder." 
 
 " Must I believe all this ?" said Eover. " Who, 
 then, is Abrawang ? Madam, is your uncle, Sir 
 George Thunder, in this room ?" 
 
 " He is," said Lady Amaranth, pointing to Sir 
 George. 
 
 " Then what a ridiculous part you've made me 
 play between you!" cried Rover, angrily. •' This 
 old shark swore I was Hai'ry Thunder; and 
 forced me to deceive this noble lady. I sincerely 
 beg her forgiveness. And this young runaway 
 vowed he was a fraud, and his father a low 
 comedian. Sir George, I beg your pardon ; and 
 hope you'll apologize to me." 
 
 " That I will, my noble splinter. Now tell me
 
 154 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 from what dock you were launched, my heart of 
 oak." 
 
 Eover answered that he was but a waif, born, 
 he believed, in England, but left astray, from his 
 earliest recollection, in the East Indies. The lady 
 in whose charge he was as a child had perished 
 during the troubles in that region, leaving him in 
 the care of a sergeant's wife. As he grew up he 
 had learned to act in the Calcutta theatre, and 
 from there had come to England, assuming the 
 name of Eover, and hoping to find his parents in 
 his native land. 
 
 " Can you remember the name of the town 
 where " began Amelia, in deep agitation. 
 
 " It was the town of Negapatam, madam." 
 
 "And of the lady in whose care you were 
 left ?" 
 
 " She was the wife of a Major Linstock. But 
 I have heard that my mother's name was Sey- 
 mour." 
 
 " Merciful Heaven ! it is my son !" cried the 
 deeply-moved lady. " My Charles ! my long-lost 
 son I" She embraced him warmly. " You have 
 found your parents, my boy, for there stands 
 your father," pointing to Sir George. 
 
 " He ! can it be ? He, against whose life I 
 raised my hand !" 
 
 " My brave boy ; it does my heart good to find 
 I have a son with the spirit to fight me as a 
 stranger, yet defend me as a father," cried Sir 
 George.
 
 WILD OATS. 155 
 
 "And that I have found a brother in the man 
 "who won my heart as a comrade stroller," said 
 Harry, warmly pressing Rover's hand. 
 
 "And I a lover in the warm-hearted actor," 
 said Lady Amaranth, taking his other hand. 
 " Sir George, you shall not disinherit Harry ; I 
 have fortune enough to make your son Charles 
 rich." 
 
 " And love enough, I know, to make him the 
 happiest benedict in England," cried Eover, 
 gayly. "Now for the play. Call Lamp, our 
 lusty manager. My ' Wild Oats' are all sown, and 
 the rest of my life shall be," he continued, turn- 
 ing to Lady Amaranth, " ' As You Like it.' "
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. 
 
 BY KICHAED BRINSLEY BUTLER SHERIDAN. 
 
 [We do not feel called upon to say much about 
 the author of this celebrated comedy. The story 
 of the life of Eichard Brinsley Sheridan is too 
 well known to demand extended comment. It 
 will suffice to say that he was born at Dublin in 
 1751, acquired at school the reputation of being 
 an "impenetrable dunce," married Miss Linley, 
 a noted songstress, in 1772, — a marriage made 
 notable by an elopement and a duel, — and first 
 appeared as a playwright in 1775, with the amus- 
 ing comedy of " The Rivals." His greatest play, 
 " The School for Scandal," appeared in 1777. He 
 also wrote a musical drama, "The Duenna," 
 which was highly successful, a farce called " The 
 Critic," and some smaller dramatic works, besides 
 translating Kotzebue's plays, " The Stranger" and 
 " Pizarro." Sheridan attained no less fame as an 
 orator than as a dramatist. During much of his 
 life he was a member of Parliament, or otherwise 
 connected with the government, while his cele- 
 brated speech on the impeachment trial of "War- 
 ren Hastings is still regarded as one of the most 
 156
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. 157 
 
 splendid examples of oratory ever given. His 
 private life was one of such extravagance that he 
 was rarely free from debt, and in his later years 
 he became greatly embarrassed. He died in 1816. 
 Of English wits Sheridan stands almost at the 
 head, and to its overflowing fund of witty dia- 
 logue the " School for Scandal" owes much of 
 its enduring popularity; though this is largely 
 due, also, to the interest of the plot and the 
 high dramatic merit of many of the situations. 
 In its incessant corruscation of sparkling repartee | 
 this play is only rivalled by the dramas of Con- 
 greve, whose merit resides chiefly in the brilliancy 
 of their dialogue. As we have given no example 
 of Congreve's genius, for reasons already ex- 
 plained, we repair the omission by presenting the 
 stories of two of Sheridan's plays, " The School 
 for Scandal" and « The Eivals," both of which 
 retain their popularity to a remarkable extent, 
 and continue among the most frequently acted 
 examples of the older English drama.] 
 
 Charles and Joseph Surface, the nephews of Sir 
 Oliver Surface, a rich merchant of India, displayed 
 that difference in character which is so often 
 manifested between brothers. Joseph was dis- 
 creet, cautious, and economical, and his conversa- / 
 tion full of moral sentiments and professions of 1 
 benevolence. Yet his morality and charity were \ 
 only in words, and his secret feelings were those 
 of the heartless and selfish libertine. Charles, on 
 
 14
 
 158 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 the contrary, sadly lacked discretion and economy. 
 His days and nights were passed in the pursuits 
 of the spendthrift, in which the estate his father 
 had left him, and the money his uncle had sent 
 him, had been recklessly squandered. Of his once 
 abundant means he had nothing left but his house 
 and furniture, while he was deeply in debt. Yet 
 his feelings were as warm as those of his brother 
 were cold, he was lavishly generous, and was 
 ready at any appeal to give in charity the money 
 that should have been used to pay his debts. 
 
 These young men had their separate love affairs, 
 which may be briefly described. Charles was 
 warmly in love with a beautiful young lady named 
 Maria, who in her heart returned his affection, but 
 repelled his suit through her dislike to his dissolute 
 habits. Joseph professed to love the same young 
 lady, but his affection was really placed upon her 
 money, for she was the heiress to a considerable 
 estate, her guardian being an old knight named 
 Sir Peter Teazle, who had also acted as guardian 
 to the two brothers. 
 
 Charles had also won the affection of a Lady 
 Sneerwell, though of this he was quite unaware. 
 This lady was a prominent member of a group of 
 busy scandal-mongers, which included also Mrs. 
 Candour, Sir Benjamin Backbite, Mr. Crabtree, 
 his father, Mr. Snake, and others. The principal 
 aim in life of these personages seemed to be the 
 retailing of scandalous stories, of which their 
 nearest friends wore often the victims, none being
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. 159 
 
 SO pure in life but that they could pick holes in 
 their characters, no story so innocent but that they 
 could throw on it some shadow of double mean- 
 ing. As for Lady Sneerwell, her leading design 
 was to break off the love aifair between Charles 
 and Maria, by whispering into the young ladj^'s 
 ear rumors of her lover's libertine career. Her 
 secret hope was that, thi-ough success in this in- 
 sidious eifort, she might catch his heart in the 
 rebound. 
 
 Sir Peter Teazle, of whom we have above 
 spoken, has so much to do with our story that 
 we must say more concerning him. He was a 
 wealthy gentleman of advanced years, who had re- 
 cently mai'ried a beautiful young wife, a girl of coun- 
 try birth and education, but whose head had been 
 turned by the glamour of London life. Brought 
 up in comparative poverty, her extravagance as 
 a fashionable lady kept her in constant hot water 
 with her husband, their life being a series of 
 quarrels and reconciliations. In addition to her 
 extravagance. Lady Teazle became an active 
 member of the school for scandal, in which Lady 
 Sneerwell and Mrs. Candour were the leading ; 
 pi'ofessors, and soon grew to be as apt as any of 
 them in their peculiar art. In her heedless gayety 
 she even exposed herself to the slanderous tongues 
 of her associates, for Joseph Surface had made an 
 insidious assault upon her virtue, and she was too 
 thoughtless to perceive into what unpleasant com- 
 plications her penchant for him might lead her.
 
 160 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 At heart, however, Lady Teazle had the sturdy- 
 virtue of her country training, and was not likely 
 to be led astray by the wiles of her libertine 
 lover. 
 
 At the time our story opens. Sir Oliver Surface, 
 the uncle of the two young men, had just arrived 
 in London, though this was not known to his 
 nephews. It was a secret known only to Eowley, 
 an old servant of the family, and to Sir Peter 
 Teazle, to whom Eowley revealed it. In fact, Sir 
 Oliver had come to London for a special purpose. 
 He had already liberally supplied his nephews 
 with money, and was ready to help them further, 
 for they were his only near relations, but before 
 doing so he wished to gain a personal knowledge of 
 their characters, and discover which of the two was 
 most worthy to be made his heir. As for Sir Peter, 
 he was likely to prove a biassed advocate, for he 
 believed firmly in Joseph, whose moral sentiments 
 seemed to him the true coin of sterling honesty ; 
 while the extravagance of the other nephew had 
 made an enemy of tbe old knight. Rowley, on 
 the other hand, had a deeper insight into the true 
 characters of the two young men, and earnestly 
 upheld the merit of Charles. But Sir Oliver 
 was not the man to take anything at second-hand ; 
 he resolved to test his nephews ibr himself, with 
 Rowley's aid, and decide which was best suited to 
 be the recipient of his bounty. 
 
 Sir Oliver had reached London at a fortunate 
 time for Charles Surface, if he was to be saved
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. 161 
 
 from utter ruin. He had sold everything in his 
 house to raise money, except the family pictures, 
 and was so deeply in debt to Jews and tradesmen ( 
 that, as Sir Benjamin Backbite told the members 
 of the scandalous college, " when he entertained 
 his friends he would sit down to dinner with a 
 dozen of his own securities, have a score of trades- 
 men waiting in the antechamber, and an officer \ 
 behind every guest's chair." 
 
 Our first acquaintance with the characters 
 whom we have introduced to the reader must be 
 made in the house of Sir Peter Teazle, who, on 
 our entrance, has just completed his daily quarrel i 
 with his wife. He had attempted to take her to 
 task for her extravagance and her association 
 with the scandal-mongers, but had failed, as 
 usual, to bring her to a sense of wrong-doing. 
 
 " So, I have gained much by my intended ex- 
 postulation," he said to himself, after she had left 
 the room. " Yet with what a charming air she 
 contradicts everything I say, and how pleasantly 
 she shows her contempt for my authority ! Well, 
 though I can't make her love me, there is great 
 satisfaction in quarrelling with her ; and I think 
 she never appears to such advantage as when 
 she is doing everything in her power to plague 
 me." 
 
 Lady Teazle showed her appreciation of her 
 
 husband's good advice by going directly to Lady 
 
 Sneerwell's house, where she found the whole 
 
 tribe of slanderers assembled, and busily engaged 
 
 Vol. 11— I 14*
 
 162 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 in dissecting the characters of their friends. 
 Maria, who was present, attempted some gentle 
 expostuhition, but her words were wasted, the 
 tide of scandal continuing to flow until it was 
 quite exhausted. 
 
 After these earnest laborers in a bad cause had 
 left the room, Joseph Surface and Maria remained, 
 an opportunity of which he at once took advan- 
 tage to press his suit with the young lady. Un- 
 luckily for his plans, Lady Teazle returned while 
 he was on his knees before her, and found him in 
 that embarrassing position. 
 
 Here was a serious dilemma for the double- 
 dealing Joseph ! How should he remove Lady 
 Teazle's suspicions and retain her favor? He 
 managed to get Maria from the room, and then 
 sought, by the first lie that came into his head, to 
 explain his tender attitude. His effort w^as not so 
 successful as he had hoped. Lady Teazle affected 
 to close her eyes, but was by no means blinded, 
 and after her departure her plotting lover ex- 
 claimed, — 
 
 "A curious dilemma, truly, my politics have 
 run me into ! I begin to wish I had never made 
 such a point of gaining so very good a character, 
 for it has led me into so many cursed rogueries 
 that I doubt I shall be exposed at last." 
 
 Meanwhile Rowley had brought Sir Oliver to 
 the house of Sir Peter Teazle, for an interview 
 concerning his graceless nephews, having first 
 warned him that he would find his old friend
 
 THE SCUOOL FOR SCANDAL. 163 
 
 greatly prejudiced against his nephew Charles. 
 But he assured him that this was largely due to 
 jealousy, and that Lady Sneerwell, for her own 
 purposes, had done her best to set afloat a story 
 of illicit relations between Charles Surface and 
 Lady Teazle. In this choice bit of scandal 
 she had been fully aided by her associates,— 
 though Rowley's opinion was that if the lady 
 eared for either of the brothers it was for Joseph. 
 
 " I am not to be prejudiced against my nephew 
 by such a set of malicious, prating gossips, who 
 murder characters to kill time," declared Sir 
 Oliver. "No, no; if Charles has done nothing 
 false or mean, I shall compound for his extrava- 
 gance." 
 
 Sir Peter's opinion fully justified Eowley's 
 warning. He assured Sir Oliver that Charles 
 was a lost young man, and that Joseph was a 
 model of prudence and morality. 
 
 " You will be convinced of this when you meet 
 this discreet young man," declared Sir Peter. " It 
 is edification to hear him converse ; he professes 
 the noblest sentiments." 
 
 " Oh, plague of his sentiments !" exclaimed Sir 
 Oliver. " If he salutes me with a scrap of morality 
 in his mouth I shall be sick directly. I don't 
 mean to defend Charles's errors, Sir Peter; but 
 before I form my judgment of either of them I 
 intend to make a trial of their hearts. My friend 
 Rowley and I have planned something for that 
 purpose."
 
 164 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 This plan, which he proceeded to unfold to Sir 
 Peter, was the following : A Dublin merchant, 
 named Stanley, who was nearly related to the 
 mother of the two j'oung men, had been unfortu- 
 nate in business and was imprisoned for debt. lie 
 had written to the brothers for assistance, but 
 had received nothing in return, though Charles 
 was trying to raise a sum of money for his relief. 
 Ilowley's plan was to inform the two brothers 
 that Mr. Stanley had gained permission to apply 
 in person to his friends. This done, Sir Oliver 
 would call upon them in the character of Stanley, 
 and by an appeal to their benevolence seek to 
 gain some insight into their dispositions. 
 
 Further consideration, however, induced Sir 
 Oliver to change this plan, so far as Charles was 
 concerned, and call upon him under another char- 
 acter. A money-lending Jew, named Moses, who 
 was well acquainted with the affairs of the young 
 profligate, had been requested to call at Sir Peter's 
 house, and give the uncle some exact information 
 a^ to the true state of his nephew's financial 
 situation. 
 
 The story Moses told was to the effect that 
 Charles's fortune was just then some thousands 
 of pounds on the wrong side of nothing. But 
 this, he said, was not known to all the money- 
 lenders of the city, and he had engaged to bring 
 that very evening a gentleman named Premium, 
 who would advance the young man some money. 
 On hearing this, Sir Peter at once suggested that
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. 165 
 
 it would be an excellent plan for Sir Oliver to 
 represent Mr. Premium, since he might thus see 
 his nephew in all his glory. 
 
 "Egad, I like this plan better than the other?" 
 declared Sir Oliver. "And I may visit Joseph 
 afterwards as old Stanley." 
 
 " This is taking Charles rather at a disadvan- 
 tage," protested Eowley. "But be it so; I have 
 no fear for him." 
 
 Moses hereupon instructed Sir Oliver how he 
 must play his part as a money-lender. The prin- 
 cipal necessity was that he should be exorbitant 
 enough in his demands. If his client ajjpeared 
 not very anxious, he might lend him money at 
 forty or fifty per cent., but if he appeared in 
 great distress he might ask double. Then, he 
 must not have the moneys himself, but must have 
 to borrow them from a friend. This friend must 
 be an unconscionable dog, who had not the 
 moneys by him, but was forced to sell stock at a 
 great loss to obtain them. These and other in- 
 structions fairly prepared Sir Oliver for the part 
 he was to play, and he left the house with Moses, 
 quite ready to carr}^ out this well-devised plot. 
 
 Hardly had they gone when Maria entered. 
 Her guai'dian, who was well aware of her rela- 
 tions to the two brothers, took advantage of the 
 opportunity to contrast to her their characters, 
 and strongly advised her to give up all thoughts 
 of the dissolute Charles, and yield to the addresses 
 of the moral and amiable Joseph. His advice
 
 106 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 was wasted. Maria was not to be moved. In 
 the end he lost his temper at her obstinacy, and 
 sternly ordered her from the room, sourly declar- 
 ing to himself that her father had died only to 
 plague him with the care of his perverse daughter. 
 
 Sir Peter was not yet through with his morn- 
 ing's frets. His interview with Maria was fol- 
 lowed by one with his wife, which ended no 
 more happil3^ Lady Teazle, indeed, made her 
 appearance in an excellent humor, and they 
 began in the most lover-like mood, resolving to 
 quarrel no more, and to live thereafter like tui'tle- 
 doves. 
 
 " But, my dear Lady Teazle, you must watch 
 your temper very seriously," warned Sir Peter, 
 " for in all our little quarrels, my dear, if you 
 recollect, my love, you alwaj's began tirst." 
 
 " I beg your pardon, my dear Sir Peter: indeed, 
 you always gave the provocation." 
 
 " Now, see, mj- angel, take care, — contradicting 
 isn't the way to keep friends." 
 
 " Then don't you begin it, my love." 
 
 " There, now, you — you are going on. You 
 don't perceive, my life, that you are just doing 
 the very thing which you know always makes me 
 angry." 
 
 " Nay, you know if you will be angry without 
 any reason, my dear " 
 
 " There, now ! who begins first ?" 
 
 " Why, you, to be sure. I said nothing, — but 
 there is no bearing your temper."
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. 167 
 
 " No, no, madam ; the fault's in your own 
 temper." 
 
 And on it went until the pair, who had heen 
 ardent lovers ten minutes before, were in such a 
 furious quarrel that Sir Peter vowed that nothing 
 would content him but a divorce. 
 
 " Agreed, agreed," cried Lady Teazle, merrily. 
 "And now, m}^ dear Sir Peter, we are of a mind 
 once more, and may be the happiest couple and 
 never diflfer again, you know ; ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 Well, you are going to be in a passion, I see, and 
 I shall only interrupt you, — so, by ! by !" 
 
 " Plagues and tortures ! can't I make her angry 
 either ?" he cried, as she ran laughing from the 
 room. " I'll not bear her presuming to keep her 
 temper ! No, she may break my heart, but she 
 shan't keep her temper !" and he stamped angrily 
 out after her. 
 
 Meanwhile Sir Oliver was on his way, under 
 the guidance of Moses, to the residence of Charles 
 Surface. 
 
 That gentleman was not occupied as a ruined 
 person might be supposed to be. On the contrary, 
 he was in the highest of spirits, enjoying himself 
 with a group of his boon companions, drinking 
 and singing, and seemingly miles away from the 
 shadow of disaster. 
 
 Yet this shadow was not far removed. "When the 
 young spendthrift was called from the room by 
 the visit of the Jew and the assumed money- 
 broker, and asked what security he had to offer
 
 168 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 for the money he wished to borrow, he could 
 think of notliing but his expectations from the 
 estate of his rich uncle. 
 
 " They tell me I urn a prodigious favorite, and 
 that he talka of leaving me everything," he 
 declared. 
 
 " Indeed I that is the first I've heard of it," 
 answered Sir Oliver. 
 
 " It's so, indeed. At the same time he has 
 been so liberal to me that I should be very 
 sorry to hear that anything had happened to him." 
 
 "No more than I should," exclaimed Sir Oliver. 
 '' I assure j'ou of that. But I am told that he is 
 very hale and hearty." 
 
 " Not at all," declared Charles. " He breaks 
 apace, I am told, — and is so much altered lately 
 that his nearest relations would not know him." 
 
 This remark threw Sir Oliver into such a fit of 
 laughter that Charles looked at him in surprise. 
 He could not imagine what Mr. Premium, as he 
 supposed him to be, could see so amusing in his 
 words. At the end, however. Sir Oliver, in his 
 character of broker, asked him if there was no 
 other security he could offer? What had become 
 of the rich old plate his father had left, and the 
 valuable library? Charles answered lightlj- that 
 the plate had gone to the Jews and the books to 
 the auctioneer long ago, and that nothing remained 
 of the family propertj'- but a room full of ancestors. 
 These he would sell him at a bargain, if he had a 
 taste for old pictures.
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. 169 
 
 " What ! you wouldn't sell your forefathers, 
 would you ?" exclaimed Sir Oliver. 
 
 " Every man of them, to the best bidder." 
 
 " What! your great-uncles and aunts?" 
 
 " Yes, and my great-grandfathers and grand- 
 mothers, too." 
 
 A groan came from Sir Oliver at this. " The 
 heartless profligate!" he said to himself "I'll 
 never forgive him this ! never!" 
 
 Charles, however, insisted on the sale, enlisting 
 Careless, one of his boon companions, to act as 
 auctioneer, and the party adjourned to the picture 
 gallery with the purpose of disposing of the 
 family portraits. 
 
 " When a man wants money, where the plague 
 should he get assistance if he can't make free 
 with his own relations ?" asked Charles, gayly. 
 " But, Gad's life, little Premium, you don't seem 
 to like the business." 
 
 "Oh, 3'es, 1 do, vastly. Ha! ha! ha! yes, yes, 
 I think it a rare joke to sell one's family by 
 auction — ha ! ha !" Then in an uTTdertone ho 
 groaned out, " Oh, the prodigal ! I'll never for- 
 give him ; never !" 
 
 Entering the gallery, whose walls were adorned 
 with a goodly show of portraits, many of them 
 of value as paintings. Careless mounted a gouty 
 old chair as auctioneer's stand, rolled up a gen- 
 ealogical tree of the family as auctioneer's ham- 
 mer, and proceeded to knock off the portraits as 
 
 H 15
 
 170 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 Charles called them out and Sir Oliver made hia 
 bids. 
 
 The sale proceeded till a goodly number of the 
 pictures had been disposed of at fair prices. By 
 this time, however, Charles had grown tired of 
 the sport, and he proposed to sell all the remain- 
 der of the family in the lump, for three hundred 
 pounds. 
 
 " Well, well, anything to accommodate you," 
 said Sir Oliver ; " they are mine. But there is one 
 portrait which you have always passed over." 
 
 " What, that ill-looking little fellow over the 
 settee ?" asked Careless. 
 
 " Yes, sir, I mean that ; though I don't think 
 him so ill-looking a little fellow, by any means." 
 
 "What, that?" said Charles. " Oh, that's my 
 iincle Oliver. It was done before he went to 
 India." 
 
 " Ah ! and I suppose uncle Oliver goes with the 
 rest of the lumber." 
 
 "No, hang it! I'll not part with poor Noll. 
 The old fellow has been very good to me, and, 
 egad, I'll keep his picture while I've a room to 
 put it in." 
 
 " The rogue's my nephew after all !" said Sir 
 
 Oliver to himself. " I must forgive him But 
 
 I have somehow taken a fancy to that picture," 
 he declared aloud. 
 
 "I'm sorry for that, for you can't have it. 
 Haven't you got enough of them ?" 
 
 "But, sir, I don't value money when I take a
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. 171 
 
 ■whim. I'll give you as much for that as for all 
 the rest." 
 
 " Don't tease me, master broker," cried Charles. 
 " I tell you I'll not part with it, and there's an end 
 of it." 
 
 Importunity' proved unavailing, and the coun- 
 terfeit broker took his leave, after giving his 
 cheek for the purchase-money. At heart he was 
 delighted to find that his profligate nephew 
 thought 80 highly of him as to refuse ten times 
 its value for his picture. 
 
 " The dear extravagant rogue !" he said to him- 
 self. " Let me hear now who dares call him prof- 
 ligate !" 
 
 As for Charles, he quickly performed an act 
 that was likely to bring him still more into his 
 uncle's favor. For, meeting Eowley, he insisted 
 on giving him a hundred pounds of the money 
 he had just received, to be sent to Mr. Stanley. 
 Eowley objected to this, advising him to be just 
 before he was generous, but the impulsive young 
 man would listen to no remonstrance, and fairly 
 forced him to accept the money. This act of 
 charity Eowley soon told to Sir Oliver, who was 
 so greatly pleased on hearing it that he vowed 
 he would pay the young rogue's debts and his 
 charities as well. 
 
 It remained for the uncle to call on his other 
 nephew, in his assumed character of Mr. Stanley. 
 But before he could do this, the standing of Jo- 
 seph as a moralist was greatly injured by certain
 
 172 TALES FRO:\I THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 unlucky circumstances, prepared for him, as it 
 seemed, by the adverse fates. These circum- 
 stances we have next to describe. 
 
 Lady Teazle, in her desire to conform to all the 
 follies of fashion, was in the habit of visiting 
 Joseph Surface clandestinely, and on the day in 
 question had agreed to call upon him. A knock 
 coming upon the door of the library, in which 
 room be awaited her, he bade the servant to draw 
 a screcu before the window as a guard against the 
 possible curiosity of his neighbor, and then told 
 him to admit the visitor. 
 
 It proved to be Lady Teazle, as he had sus- 
 pected. She had left her chair at the milliner's 
 in the next street, and come on foot to his house, 
 more thi*ough foolish perversity than from any 
 wrong intention. But Joseph's purpose was much 
 less innocent than hers. He wished to get her 
 into his power, that he might use her in the 
 furtherance of his other schemes. Unluckily for 
 him, a most awkward circumstance came to pass. 
 ' In the midst of his moral arguments to prove 
 that wrong is right, the servant hastily entered 
 and announced that Sir Peter was on the stairs 
 and coming to the room. 
 
 This news created an instant consternation. It 
 was too late for Lady Teazle to escape by the door, 
 and no place of shelter appeared but behind the 
 screen. Here she hastily hid herself, in the hope 
 that the unwelcome visitor would soon depart, 
 and vowing never to be caught in such a scrapo
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. 173 
 
 again. As for Joseph, he seized a book, and when 
 Sir Peter entered appeai*ed to be so absorbed in 
 reading that the visitor had to tap him on the 
 shoulder to bring him to himself. 
 
 This evident desire for knowledge on the part I 
 of his moral protege so pleased the old gentleman 
 that he highly commended his studious habits. 
 He concluded by telling him that the purpose 
 of his visit was to confide to him an important 
 family secret. 
 
 Joseph just then would have given no small 
 sum of money to have bad Lady Teazle out of 
 the way, for he feared the character of Sir Peter's 
 communication. But there was no help for it. 
 The lady was there, and her husband could not 
 be hushed. The fox was fairly caught in his own 
 trap, and was obliged to sit and listen to a reve- 
 lation that threatened to be ruinous to his base 
 purposes. 
 
 Sir Peter began by saying that Lady Teazle's 
 conduct of late had made him very unhappy. He 
 suspected her of having formed an attachment to 
 another, and that other no less than the libertine 
 Charles Surface. This statement Joseph heard 
 with an assurance of the deepest regret. He 
 could scarcely credit, he declared, that his brother 
 could be capable of such baseness. And it was 
 not possible for him, he concluded, to suspect 
 Lady Teazle's honor. 
 
 Sir Peter thanked him for his noble sentiments, 
 and proceeded to say that he wished to think 
 
 15*
 
 174 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 well of his wife, and intended to remove one of 
 the chief causes of their frequent disputes. They 
 differed in their ideas of expense, but he had re- 
 solved to provide her with an income of her own. 
 It was his purpose to settle on her eight hundred 
 pounds a year during his life. More than this, 
 he had drawn up another paper which would 
 settle the bulk of his fortune on her at his death, 
 — but this fact he desired Joseph to keep a strict 
 secret. 
 
 Unfortunately for Joseph's purposes the secret 
 was already out. Lady Teazle had heard every 
 word of her husband's generous intentions. Sir 
 Peter now proceeded to talk on as awkward a 
 theme, for he strongly advocated a matrimonial 
 alliance between Joseph and his ward Maria. This 
 untimely outflow of confidences was at length 
 interrupted by the entrance of the servant, who 
 announced that Charles Surface was below. 
 
 " A thought has struck me," exclaimed Sir Peter. 
 "Before Charles enters, conceal me somewhere, 
 and then do you tax him on the point we were 
 talking of. His answer may satisfy me at once. 
 Here, this screen will do." Before Joseph could 
 stop him he had advanced to the screen and 
 caught a glimpse behind it. " Hey ! what the 
 devil!" he cried. "There seems to be one listener 
 here already I'll swear I saw a petticoat! " 
 
 "Ha! ha! ha!" laughed Joseph, as he drew him 
 back. " Hark'eo, Sir Peter, it is only a little 
 French milliner, a silly rogue that plagues me.
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. 175 
 
 \ 
 
 She has some character to lose, and on your 
 coming she ran behind the screen." 
 
 " Ah, Joseph ! Joseph ! did I ever think that 
 you But here's a closet that will do as well." 
 
 " Yes ; go in there." 
 
 An amusing but very awkward scene followed. 
 Now Lady Teazle peeped from behind the screen, 
 and suggested that she might escape; and now 
 Sir Peter thrust his head from the closet, and 
 hoped that the little milliner would not blab. 
 Joseph had his hands full to keep them from 
 seeing each other, and was glad when Charles 
 entered and relieved him of this difficulty. 
 
 It was not long, however, before the moral 
 rogue found himself in a still deeper difficulty. 
 For when, in accordance with his compact with 
 Sir Peter, he taxed Charles with seeking to gain 
 the affections of Lady Teazle, his brother an- 
 swered that he bad never dreamed of such a 
 thing, and that he was surprised to hear this from 
 him, whom he had always understood to be Lady 
 Teazle's favorite. 
 
 Joseph sought to silence him, but Charles de- ' 
 clared that he had seen them exchange significant 
 
 glances, had found them together, and had 
 
 Here Joseph, in despair of silencing his indiscreet 
 brother in any other manner, was obliged to 
 whisper to him that Sir Peter was in the closet 
 and would hear all he said. 
 
 "In there!" cried Charles, gayly. "I'll have 
 him out, then. Sir Peter, come forth." He threw
 
 176 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 open the closet door and dragged out the confused 
 old sp5'. " What, my old guardian, turn inquisitor 
 and take evidence incog? Oh, fie!" 
 
 " Give me your hand, Charles. I believe I have 
 suspected you wrongfully. What I have heard 
 has given me great satisfaction." 
 
 " Egad, then, it was lucky you didn't hear any 
 more. AYasn't it, Joseph ?" 
 
 " Ah ! you would have retorted on him." 
 
 " Ay, a}", that was a joke." 
 
 "Yes, yes, I know his honor too well." 
 
 Joseph's troubles seemed fated to accumulate, 
 for at this critical juncture the servant entered, 
 and whispered to him that Lady Sneerwell was 
 below and insisted on seeing him. She would not 
 take no for an answer. He tried to get his visitors 
 from the room, but they were bent on waiting there 
 for his return, and he was obliged to leave them 
 alone while he dismissed his lady caller on the 
 plea of urgent business. Before leaving the room, 
 however, he whispered to Sir Peter : " Not a word 
 of the French milliner." " Not for the world," 
 answered Sir Peter, and Joseph left the room with 
 his uneasiness somewhat reduced. 
 
 He had not calculated sufficiently on the chap- 
 ter of accidents. Hardly had he gone before Sir 
 Peter began to praise his noble sentiments, and to 
 express his belief that it would be greatly to the 
 moral benefit of his dissolute brother if he would 
 make him more of a companion. Charles an- 
 swered that Joseph was too moral by half, and
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. 177 
 
 would, he supposed, as soon let a priest into his 
 house as a woman. 
 
 " He is not such a saint either, in that respect," 
 declared Sir Peter. " I have a great mind to tell 
 him," he said to himself. 
 
 " Oh, hang him ! he's a very anchorite ! ayoung 
 hermit." 
 
 "No, no," cried Sir Peter, with a laugh. " Egad, 
 I'll tell him ! Have you a mind to have a good 
 laugh at Joseph ?" 
 
 " I should like it of all things." 
 
 "Then, i' faith, I'll be even with him for 
 discovering me ! He had a girl with him 
 when I called." Sir Peter's voice sank into a 
 whisper. 
 
 « What ! Joseph ? You jest.' ' 
 
 " Hush ! a little French milliner. And the best 
 of the jest is, she's in the room now." 
 
 " The devil she is !" 
 
 " Hush ! I tell you," and Sir Peter pointed slily 
 at the screen. 
 
 " Behind the screen ? Let's unveil her !" 
 
 "No, no; he's coming; you sha'n't, indeed!" 
 
 " Yes, yes, we must have a peep at the littlo 
 milliner." 
 
 " Not for the world ! Joseph will never for- 
 give me." 
 
 " I'll stand by you " 
 
 Charles was not to be restrained in his mis- 
 chievous humor, and just as Joseph opened the 
 door to enter he threw down the screen, revealing 
 Vol. II. — tn
 
 178 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS, 
 
 the lady behind it. The situation was truly a 
 startlins^ one. 
 
 " Lady Teazle, by all that's wonderful !" cried 
 Chdrles. 
 
 " Lady Teazle, by all that's damnable !" groaned 
 Sir Peter. 
 
 As for Joseph, he stood in dumb silence, dis- 
 mayed beyond the power of speech. 
 
 " Sir Peter, this is one of the smartest French 
 milliners I ever saw," declared Charles. " Egad, 
 you all seem to have been diverting yourselves 
 at hide and seek. Your ladyship — Sir Peter — 
 morality — who will explain this secret? What! 
 all mute? Then I'll leave you to yourselves. 
 Brother, I'm sorry to find you have given that 
 worthy man grounds for so much uneasiness. Sir 
 Peter, there's nothing in the world so noble as a 
 man of sentiment," and with a gay laugh Charles 
 left the room. 
 
 What followed may be briefly told. Eelieved of 
 his brother's presence, Joseph sought to clear 
 himself by a lying explanation of Lady Teazle's 
 presence. But unluckily for him that lady's senti- 
 ments and opinions had greatly changed since she 
 hud been behind the screen, and she was by no 
 means disposed to second him. She declared that 
 all he had said was false, and that he had brought 
 her there for the purpose of seducing her. She 
 further said that the tender feeling for her which 
 her husband had expi*essed had so moved her 
 heart that she would devote her future life to
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. 179 
 
 gratitude and affection. With these words she 
 left the room. 
 
 "Notwithstanding all this, Sir Peter," began 
 the discovered rogue, " heaven knows " 
 
 " That you are a villain ; and so I leave you to 
 your conscience." 
 
 " You are too rash, Sir Peter ; you shall hear 
 me. The man who shuts out conviction by re- 
 fusing to " 
 
 " Oh ! damn your sentiments !" cried Sir Peter, 
 leaving the room in a rage. He had had enough i 
 of sentiment for the remainder of his life. 
 
 Joseph Surface's career of wordy morality and 
 secret villany. Indeed, was near its end, for events 
 were ripening to expose him fully in his true 
 character. It was not long after the scene we 
 have described that Sir Oliver called upon him in 
 his assumed character of Stanley, and begged for 
 some aid in his distress. He found his nephew 
 profuse in polite words, and full of seeming sor- 
 row that his poverty would not let him aid the 
 poor gentleman. Stanley professed surprise at 
 this, saying that it was the common report that 
 Sir Oliver had enriched his nephew; but Joseph 
 declared that this was a mistake, and that the 
 worthy but avaincious Indian merchant had only 
 sent him a few trifling presents. Besides, he had 
 lent such sums to his extravagant brother as 
 quite to impoverish himself. In the end he 
 politely bowed the visitor from the door, with 
 obsequious expressions of esteem and good
 
 180 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 wishes, though he only succeeded in convincing Sir 
 Oliver that he was a specious and selfish hypocrite. 
 
 Hardly had the pretended bankrupt left the 
 house when word came to Joseph that his uncle, 
 Sir Oliver, had arrived in London, and would soon 
 call on him. In consternation, he sent in haste to 
 recall Mr. Stanley, but it was too late. He had 
 done himself irreparable mischief in that quarter. 
 Should Mr. Stanley repeat to Sir Oliver what he 
 had said, all his hopes of wealth from his rich 
 uncle were at an end. And his plan to marry Sir 
 Peter's wealthy ward Maria seemed equally hope- 
 less after the late exposure. In fact, Charles 
 Surface had made no secret of the amusing scene 
 in his brother's librar}^, and it was already in the 
 hands of the scandal-mongers, who had magnified 
 it into a serious duel, in which Sir Peter had been 
 dangerously wounded. 
 
 The end was now near at hand. For while 
 Joseph Surface was waiting in nervous anxiety 
 for the promised visit of his uncle, a gentleman 
 called whom he recognized as Mr. Stanley. He 
 had desired to recall this person not long before, 
 but now, when Sir Oliver was momentarily ex- 
 pected, his visit was most ill-timed, and the luck- 
 less schemer forgot bis usual show of politeness 
 in his haste to get rid of his unwelcome visitor. 
 
 As he was rudely pushing him out of the room, 
 Charles Surface entered, and demanded to know 
 what he was doing with his broker, little Premium. 
 A scene of misunderstanding ensued, one brother
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. 181 
 
 insisting that the visitor was Mr. Stanley, who 
 had come to borrow, and the other that it was 
 Mr. Premium, who had come to lend. But both 
 were satisfied that it would never do to have him 
 seen by Sii' Oliver, and Charles joined with Joseph 
 in endeavoring to force him from the room, while 
 he strenuously resisted. 
 
 In the midst of this scene the door was thrown 
 open, and Sir Peter and Lady Teazle — who had 
 become reconciled — entered, followed by Maria 
 and Eowley. They looked in surprise on the 
 scene before them. 
 
 "What, my old friend, Sir Oliver!" exclaimed 
 Sir Peter. "Here are dutiful nephews, truly! 
 assaulting their uncle at his first visit !" 
 
 "Indeed, Sir Oliver, it was well we came in to 
 rescue you," said Lady Teazle. 
 
 " Truly it was," said Eowley, " for I perceive, 
 Sir Oliver, the character of old Stanley was no 
 protection to you." 
 
 " Nor of Premium, either," answered Sir Oliver. 
 "The necessities of the former could not extort 
 a shilling from that benevolent gentleman ; and 
 with the other I stood a chance of faring worse 
 than my ancestors, and being knocked down with- 
 out being bid for." 
 
 That the two brothers were in a state of the 
 utmost consternation need not be said. The dis- 
 covery had come upon them like a thunderbolt, 
 and all hopes of inheriting a penny of their rich 
 uncle's fortune seemed blown to the winds. 
 
 IG
 
 182 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 That this was the case in regard to Joseph 
 •was soon evident, for Sir Oliver lost no time in 
 expressing his opinion of his meanness, to which 
 Sir Peter and Lady Teazle added as strong 
 sentiments conceniing his treachery and hypoc- 
 risy. 
 
 " If they talk this way to Honesty, what will 
 they say to me, by and by?" groaned Charles. 
 
 " Well, sir, in what way are you prepared to 
 justify your prodigal behavior?" asked Sir Oliver, 
 turning to him, after ending his remarks to his 
 brother. 
 
 " In no way that I know of," answered Charles. 
 
 " What ! Little Premium has been let too 
 much into the secret ?" 
 
 " Come, Sir Oliver," said Rowley. " I know you 
 cannot speak of Charles's follies with anger." 
 
 " Nor with gravity either," answered Sir Oliver, 
 with a laugh. "Do you know, Sir Peter, the 
 rogue bargained with me for all his ancestors ; 
 sold me judges and generals by the foot, and 
 maiden aunts as cheap as broken china." 
 
 " Why I did make a little free with the family 
 canvas, Sir Oliver," acknowledged Charles. "Yet 
 believe me sincere in saying that nothing could 
 give me warmer satisfaction than to see you here 
 before me, whatever opinion you may have formed 
 of my follies." 
 
 " I believe you, Charles. Give me your hand ; 
 the ill-looking little fellow over the settee has 
 made your peace."
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL, 183 
 
 " Then, sir, my gratitude to the original is still 
 increased," answered Charles, gratefully. 
 
 But one more matter remained to be cleared 
 up, the prodigal's relations to Maria. Though 
 they loved each other truly, the young lady's ears 
 had been so poisoned by calumnies concerning 
 her lover, the invention of Joseph Surface, Lady 
 Sneerwell, and Snake, that she declared she could 
 have nothing to do with one who had played the 
 traitor to another woman. 
 
 But, unluckily for the plot of the pair of con- 
 spirators, Eowley had got hold of Snake, and 
 induced him to tell the truth. His evidence 
 convicted the two arch rogues of villany, and 
 overcame the objections of Maria, who now saw 
 that the charges against her lover wei'e all false, 
 and gladly promised him her hand, on his sincei'e 
 promise to reform. 
 
 And so ends the story of the two brothers, the 
 hypocrite and the profligate. The former was 
 cast off by his rich uncle, who advised him to 
 marry his confederate. Lady Sneerwell. The 
 latter was fully forgiven, his faults being those of / 
 youth and folly, not of meanness and treachery.' 
 He made no promise to reform, saying that he 
 could not trust himself, but sincerly hoped that 
 Maria would lead him into a better path. As for 
 Sir Peter and Lady Teazle, their quarrels were at 
 an end. She repented so bitterly her folly that , 
 she resolved thenqeforth to return his love, and 
 become a model of discretion.
 
 THE RIVALS. 
 
 BY KICHAKD BEINSLEY BUTLEK SHERIDAN". 
 
 At the city of Bath, the famous English water- 
 ing-place of the last century, had come together a 
 number of persons of very peculiar character and 
 habits. Two of the oddest among these were a 
 young lady named Lydia Languish and her aunt 
 Mrs. Malaprop. Miss Languish was notable for 
 her highly romantic ideas. The books she read 
 bore such titles as "The Delicate Distress," "The 
 Tears of Sensibility," " The Sentimental Journey," 
 and the like; a class of reading which could not 
 but fill her with false ideas of life. Her wealth 
 brought her many lovers, but of them all there 
 was only one whom she thought worth a moment's 
 consideration, and this from the fact that with him 
 her course of true love ran far from smoothly. This 
 favored lover was a young man named Beverley, 
 an ensign in the British ai'my, whose courtship 
 Mrs. Malaprop so disapproved that she confined 
 her niece to prevent her seeing him. But this 
 was just the method to add fuel to Miss Lydia's 
 fancy, since to her love's ideal lay in stolen inter- 
 views, an elopement, a clandestine marriage, and 
 184
 
 IT') 
 
 J I 
 
 -larj, and 
 found ' a dripping 
 
 statue 
 and 811 
 
 Bad l,u^. J ,„....,;._.: 
 
 Ba<i!y damped. ■'^ 
 
 deceivinef her. Instead of being an h n- 
 
 mv, ft son of 
 
 rou.^.:.... ,, , 
 
 any sensible courtship, he had assumed the name 
 of Beverley, and wooed her under the guise of 
 nn , the lowest grade i • Jk. Miss 
 
 L: was heiress to a fovf i ui luirty thou- 
 
 sa ds, the greater part of \TVi-li she would 
 
 !o^ .e married before «li with- 
 
 i)ut Iter jiuntV (':-'..;i-.; 
 
 V bno deciareu ::
 
 Rir.ifiRn I'.Kixsi /■Y lurii-.K siii:riiX 
 
 ^
 
 THE RIVALS. 185 
 
 all the other folly she had learned from sentimental 
 novels. 
 
 " The dear delicious shifts I have been put to," 
 she said to her confidante, " to gain half a minute's 
 conversation with Beverley ! How often have I 
 stolen forth, in the coldest night in January, and 
 found him in the garden, stuck like a dripping 
 statue ! There would he kneel to me in the snow, 
 and sneeze and cough so pathetically ; he shivei*- 
 ing with cold and I with apprehension; and 
 while the cold blast numbed our joints, how 
 warmly would he press me to pity his flame, and 
 glow with mutual ardor! Ah, that was some- 
 thing like being in love." 
 
 Had the romantic Lydia known the truth, her 
 affection for her dear Beverley would have been 
 sadly damped. The fact was that her lover was 
 deceiving her. Instead of being an humble en- 
 sign, he was really a captain in the army, a son of 
 Sir Anthony Absolute, and therefore a perfectly 
 suitable connection. But knowing Miss Lydia's 
 romantic fancy, and that she would not listen to 
 any sensible courtship, he had assumed the name 
 of Beverley, and wooed her under the guise of 
 an ensign, the lowest grade in army rank. Miss 
 Languish was heiress to a fortune of thirty thou- 
 sand pounds, the greater part of which she would 
 lose if she married before she came of age with- 
 out her aunt's consent. But to commit this wild 
 folly seemed to her the very flower of love's 
 romance, and she declared that she could never 
 
 16*
 
 186 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 love the man who would iisk for a day's delay 
 from base desire for her raonej". 
 
 At the time our story opens Lydia was in deep 
 trouble. She had never experienced the delight- 
 ful sensation of a quarrel with htfr lover, nor 
 would he give her the opportunity for one. This 
 was to her so out of the ordinary course of true 
 love, and so against all precedent in novels, that 
 she determined to invent a quarrel, since her lover 
 was so deliriousl^y good-natured as not to yield 
 her a real one. With this laudable purpose, she 
 wrote a letter to herself, signing it " Your Friend 
 Unknown," in which she informed herself that 
 Beverley was paying his addresses to another 
 woman. This she showed to Beverley, and, pre- 
 tending to be in a violent passion, chai-ged him 
 with falsehood, and vowed she would never see 
 him again. Unfortunately for the success of this 
 little romance, her aunt just then discovered her 
 clandestine interviews and brought her to Bath, 
 where she confined her so closely to the house that 
 no opportunity was given for a reconciliation with 
 Beverley, and the poor silly maiden was in the 
 depths of despair, fearing that she had lost her 
 lover forever. 
 
 The aunt, Mrs. Malaprop, was as singular a char- 
 acter as the niece. She had a ridiculous habit of 
 using long words, which meant something very 
 different from what she intended, and gave a very 
 ludicrous turn to her conversation. As an example, 
 we may quote her views on female education.
 
 THE RIVALS. 187 
 
 " I would by no means "wish a daughter of mine 
 to be a progeny of learning," she said. " For in- 
 stance, I would never let her meddle with Greek, 
 or Hebrew, or algebra, or simony, or fluxions, or 
 paradoxes, or such inflammatory branches of 
 learning. But I would send her, at nine years 
 old, to a boarding-school, to learn a little ingenuity 
 and artifice. Then she should have a supercilious 
 knowledge in accounts ; and as she grew up I 
 would have her instructed in geometry, that she 
 might know something of the contagious countries ; 
 but, above all, she should be mistress of orthodoxy, 
 that she might not misspell and mispronounce 
 words so shamefully as girls usually do, and 
 might reprehend the true meaning of what she 
 is saying. This is what I would have a woman 
 know; and I don't think there is a superstitious 
 article in it." 
 
 Mrs. Malaprop, in her turn, was in love, the 
 object of her ancient fancy being a fire-eating 
 Irish baronet named Sir Lucius O'Trigger, whom 
 she had met at a ball, and with whom she kept 
 up a secret correspondence under the assumed 
 name of Delia. Sir Lucius, under the belief that 
 these romantic letters came from Miss Lydia Lan- 
 guish, with whom he fancied himself in love, was 
 happy to reply in the same vein, and the air bore 
 many a weight of love between these sentimental 
 correspondents. The go-between of all these 
 lovers was Lydia's maid, a shrewd minx, named 
 Lucy, who pretended to be very simple, but was
 
 188 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 at once in the pay of Beverley, Sir Lucius, Lydia, 
 Mrs. Malaprop, and Bob Acres, another of Miss 
 Languish's lovers, a silly fellow whom she despised 
 as much as she loved Beverley. 
 
 The above named are but a portion of the party 
 who, as we have said, had assembled at Bath. 
 One of the others was Captain AbHolute, who had 
 come hither under his own name, but with the 
 hope of meeting Miss Lydia in his assumed 
 character of Beverley. Another was his father, 
 Sir Anthony, a high-tempered old gentleman, who 
 knew nothing of his son's presence or of his 
 secret love affair, and was likely to make trouble 
 when he should find out what was going on. 
 Two others were Julia, Lydia's confidential friend, 
 and her lover, Mr. Faulkland, a young gentleman 
 of such jealous aff'eciion that he made himself 
 miserable through the constant fear that his love 
 was not fully returned. 
 
 Sir Anthony Absolute had a special purpose 
 in coming to Bath. He strongly desired to have 
 his son marry Miss Languish, and wished to treat 
 with Mrs. Malaprop to that end. This proposal he 
 found quite agreeable to that lady, for she was 
 afraid of some ill-i'esult from her niece's romantic 
 fancy, being especially troubled by the discovery 
 of Lydia's penchant for Beverley. 
 
 " I will write for the boy directly," said Sir 
 Anthony. " He knows not a syllable of this yet, 
 though I have for some time had the proposal in 
 my head."
 
 THE RIVALS. 189 
 
 Little did the good knight imagine that his 
 graceless son was already secretly paying his 
 addresses to the romantic young lady. 
 
 " We have never seen j^our son, Sir Anthony," 
 said Mrs. Malaprop ; " but I hope there will be no 
 objection on his side." 
 
 " Objection ! let him object if he dare !" cried 
 Sir Anthony, angry at the very thought. " No, 
 no, Mrs. Malaprop, Jack knows that the least 
 demur puts me in a frenzy directly. My process 
 was always very simple, in his younger days. It 
 was 'Jack, do this'; if he demurred, I knocked 
 him down, and if he grumbled at that, I sent him 
 out of the room." 
 
 " Ay, the properest way, on my conscience," 
 said Mrs. Malaprop. " ISTothing is so conciliating 
 to young people as severity. Well, Sir Anthony, 
 I shall give Mr. Acres his discharge, and pre- 
 pare Lydia to receive your son's invocations; 
 and I hope you will represent her to the captain 
 as an object not altogether illegible." 
 
 " Take my advice ; keep a tight hand : if she 
 rejects this proposal, clap her under lock and key; 
 and if you were just to let the servants forget to 
 bring her dinner for three or four days, you can't 
 conceive how she'd come about." 
 
 " Well, at any rate, I shall be glad to get her 
 from under my intuition." 
 
 Sir Anthony was not long in learning that his 
 hopeful son had not waited to be summoned to 
 Bath. He accidentally met J'ag, the captain's ser-
 
 190 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 vant, and on asking him what brought him there, 
 was told that his master had come there to re- 
 cruit, though he did not say whether for men, 
 money, or health. 
 
 Fag hastened to warn his master of what had 
 happened, that he might know what story to tell 
 if he should meet his father. The young man's 
 purpose in coming to Bath had been to put an 
 end to the deception he had practised, and tell 
 Lydia his real name and rank, but he felt that 
 this must be done very cautiously ; for he was 
 convinced that though she would be glad to elope 
 with him as Ensign Beverley, it was doubtful if 
 she would accept him with her aunt's consent, a 
 humdrum wedding, and the prospect of a for- 
 tune on his side. Marriage never took place in 
 that way in her favorite novels, and she was 
 likely to object decidedly to an unromantic 
 matrimony. 
 
 Captain Beverley confided this critical state of 
 his affairs to his friend Faulkland, whom he found 
 in a fever of apprehension from a less reasonable 
 cause. He was sorely troubled lest anxiety about 
 his absence, or the inclemency of the weather, 
 might have overcome his Julia's health. 
 
 " So, then, if you were convinced that Julia 
 were well and in spirits, you would be entirely 
 content?" asked Captain Absolute. 
 
 " I should be happy beyond measure," replied 
 Faulkland. 
 
 " Then, to euro you^ anxiety at once, I may tell
 
 THE RIVALS. 191 
 
 you that Miss Melville is in perfect health, and is 
 at this moment in Bath." 
 
 " Nay, Jack, don't trifle with me." 
 
 " She has ai^rived here with ray father within 
 this hour." 
 
 " My dear Jack ! now, nothing on this earth 
 can give me a moment's uneasiness." 
 
 The confident lover did not know himself, as 
 was soon to be shown. For Bob Acres called at 
 this point in their conversation, and, as this whim- 
 sical fellow lived near Miss Melville, Faulkland 
 grew at once eager to learn from him how his 
 lady love had borne his absence. After some in- 
 troductory conversation, he remarked, — 
 
 "I have not seen Miss Melville yet; I hope she 
 enjoyed full health and spirits in Devonshire." 
 
 "Never knew her better in my life, sir," an- 
 swered Acres ;" never better. Odds blushes and 
 blooms! She has been as healthy as the German 
 Spa." 
 
 " Indeed ! I did hear she had been a little in- 
 disposed," 
 
 " False, false, sir ; only said to vex you : quite 
 the reverse, I assure you." 
 
 " There, Jack," said Faulkland, discontentedly, 
 " and I had almost fretted myself ill. Isn't there 
 something unkind in this violent, robust, unfeel- 
 ing health ?" 
 
 " Oh, to be sure, it was very unkind of her to 
 be well in your absence," answered Jack. 
 
 "But, Mr. Acres," resumed the lover, "she
 
 192 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 has been merry and gay, I suppose ? Always in 
 spirits, hey?" 
 
 " Meny, odds crickets ! She has been the belle 
 and spirit of the company wherever she has been. 
 Then she is so accomplished, — so sweet a voice I 
 Odds minions and crotchets, how she did chirrup 
 at Mrs. Piano's concert!" 
 
 "Oh, the innate levity of woman !" groaned 
 Faulkland. "Do you remember what songs Miss 
 Melville sung?" 
 
 " Not I, indeed." 
 
 " Some pretty, melancholy, purling-stream airs 
 I wari'ant," said Captain Absolute. " Did she 
 sing, When absent from my souVs delight, or Go, 
 gentle gales f 
 
 "Oh no! nothing like that. Odds! now I 
 recollect one of them, — 3Iy heart's my own, my will 
 is free. And then her dancing " 
 
 " Ah, yes ! you were about to praise Miss Mel- 
 ville's manner of dancing a minuet, eh?" queried 
 Faulkland. 
 
 "1^0, what I was going to speak of was her 
 country-dancing. Odds swimming! she has such 
 an air with her." 
 
 "There, there, I told 3'ou so!" cried Faulkland, 
 in a fever of jealous uneasiness. "She thrives in 
 my absence. Her whole feelings have been in 
 opposition with mine. I have been anxious, silent, 
 pensive, sedentary. She has been all health, spirit, 
 laugh, song, dance. Fool, fool, that I am, to fix 
 all my happiness on such a trifler! Tell me,
 
 THE RIVALS. 193 
 
 Jack, have I been the joy and spirit of the com- 
 pany ?" 
 
 " No, indeed, you have not." 
 
 " Have I been full of wit and humor ?" 
 
 " No, faith, to do you justice, you have been 
 confoundedly stupid." 
 
 " Excuse me, Jack, I must leave. I own, I am 
 somewhat flurried." 
 
 " Ha ! ha ! ha ! poor fellow ! Five minutes ago 
 nothing on earth could give you a moment's un- 
 easiness. But stay, Faulkland, and thank Mr. 
 Acres for his good news." 
 
 "Confound his news!" exclaimed the angry 
 lover, and he rushed from the room in a rage. 
 
 While Captain Absolute was thus amusing him- 
 self with the peevish love-folly of his friend, 
 events were preparing which were destined to 
 throw him into as deep a real trouble as the 
 imaginary one into which Bob Acres's story had 
 plunged Faulkland. 
 
 For hardly had his visitors left him than his 
 father entered, full of his mati'imonial scheme. 
 He began in an indirect fashion, by telling his 
 dear Jack that he considered the income allowed 
 him as too small for a lad of his spirit, and that 
 he had resolved to make him master of a large 
 estate in a few weeks. 
 
 This auspicious opening filled the young man 
 with joy; but this was turned to consternation 
 when, in the midst of his thanks, his father in- 
 formed him that a wife accompanied the gift. 
 Vol. II.— I n 17
 
 194 TALES FEOM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 "Why, what difference does that make?" de- 
 manded Sir Anthony, on his son's hasty exclama- 
 tion of dissent. " Odds life, sir ! if you have the 
 estate you must take it with the live stock on 
 it." 
 
 " If my happiness is to be the price," answered 
 Jack, " I must beg leave to decline the purchase. 
 Pray, sir, who is the lady ?" 
 
 " What's that to j^ou, sir ?" cried his father, 
 angrily. " Come, give me your promise to love 
 and to marry her directly." 
 
 " You must excuse me, sir," was Jack's resolute 
 reply, " if I tell you, once for all, that in this point 
 I cannot obey you." 
 
 " Hark'ee, Jack," cried his father, with a flushed 
 face, "I have heard you with patience; I have 
 been cool, — quite cool ; but take care, — you know 
 I am compliance itself, — when I am not thwarted ; 
 no one more easily led, — when I have my own 
 way, — but don't put me in a passion." 
 
 " Nay, sir, but hear me." 
 
 " I won't hear a word, — not a word ! So give 
 me your promise by a nod, you undutiful dog." 
 
 " What, sir, promise to link myself to some 
 mass of ugliness !" 
 
 " Zounds, sirrah !" cried Sir Anthony, breaking 
 into a violent rage, " the lady shall be as ugly as 
 I choose ; she shall have a hump on each shoulder; 
 she shall be as crooked as the crescent; she shall 
 have the skin of a mummj'-, and the beard of a 
 Jew, — she shall be all this, sirrah! — yet I will
 
 THE RIVALS. 195 
 
 make you ogle her all day, and sit up all night to 
 write sonnets on her beauty," 
 
 Sir Anthony, in short, fretted himself into such 
 a fury that he would not listen to a word that his 
 son could say. and when Jack sought, in very nild 
 language, to defend himself, broke out with. - 
 
 " So, you will fly out ! Can't you be cool, like 
 me ? What the devil good can passion do ? You 
 rely on the mildness of my temper, — you do, you 
 dog ! You play upon the meekness of my dispo- 
 sition ! But take care, — the patience of a saint 
 ma}' be overcome at last. Mark me, sirrah, 1 
 give you six hours and a half to consider of this ; 
 then, if you don't agree, without condition to do 
 everything on earth that I choose, don't dare to 
 breathe the same air or use the same light with 
 me, but get an atmosphere and a sun of your own. 
 I'll strip you of your commission ! I'll disown 
 you ! I'll disinherit you ! and, damn me, if I ever 
 call 3' ou Jack again !" 
 
 And in a towering rage the old gentleman 
 stamped from the room and down the stairs, 
 fiercely thumping the balusters all the way, while 
 at the bottom he gave Pag a blow on the head 
 with his cane and kicked the cook's dog into the 
 area, as some relief to his overcharged feelings. 
 
 That Captain Absolute found himself in an 
 awkward dilemma need not be said. Fortunately, 
 he was soon to be relieved from it, through the 
 aid of his servant Fag, and Lucy, the bribe-taking 
 maid. Lucy was abroad on an errand, from Mrs.
 
 196 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 Malaprop, bearing to Sir Lucius a note which 
 ran as follows, and which the worthy Irishman 
 read with some perplexity : 
 
 "Sir, — There is often a sudden incentive im- 
 pulse in love that has a greater induction than 
 years of domestic combination ; such was the 
 commotion I felt at the first superfluous view of 
 Sir Lucius O'Trigger. Female punctuation for- 
 bids me to say more ; yet let me add, that it will 
 give mc joy infallible to find Sir Lucius worthy 
 the last criterion of my aff'ections. Delia." 
 
 " Upon my conscience, Lucy, your lady is a 
 great mistress of language," exclaimed Sir Lucius. 
 " Faith, she's the queen of the dictionary, for the 
 devil a word dare refuse coming at her call, though 
 one would think it was quite out of bearing." 
 
 After the Irish lover had departed, Lucy met 
 Fag, whom she knew only as Beverley's servant, 
 and told him, as a most valuable piece of news, 
 that there was a worse rival than Bob Acres in 
 the field, for Sir Anthony Absolute had proposed 
 his son. Captain Absolute, as a suitor for Miss 
 Languish's hand. These tidings, as may be im- 
 agined, failed to throw Fag into the consternation 
 which Lucy had expected ; and when, soon after- 
 wards, he repeated the news to the downcast cap- 
 tain, it revived him as if all his veins had been 
 filled with champagne. So his father wanted him 
 to marry the very girl he was plotting to run 
 away with ! Here was information, indeed ! The 
 glad lover resolved to withdraw all his objections
 
 THE RIVALS. 197 
 
 instantly, and to overcome his father's rage by a 
 full consent to the projected marriage. 
 
 The opportunity to put his decision into effect 
 soon came, for shortly after hearing Fag's wel- 
 come story he encountered his father. The old 
 gentleman, who was still in a state of fury, vowed 
 he would have nothing more to do with the 
 rebel, and could hardly be brought to listen to his 
 profession of penitence. But when the captain 
 promised to yield to him in everything, the 
 wind of his temper sank as suddenly as it had 
 risen. 
 
 " Why, now you talk sense," he declared. *' I 
 never heard anything more reasonable in my life. 
 Confound me! you shall be Jack again, and I 
 will inform you who the lady really is. Nothing 
 but your passion and violence prevented my tell- 
 ing you at first. What think you of Miss Lydia 
 Languish ?" 
 
 " Languish ! What, the Languishes of Worces- 
 tershire?" 
 
 " Worcestershire ! no, sir. Lid you never meet 
 Mrs. Malaprop and her niece, Miss Languish ?" 
 
 " Malaprop ! Languish ! Stay, I think I do 
 recollect something. Languish ! Languish ! She 
 squints, don't she? A little red-haired girl?" 
 
 " Squints ! A red-haired girl I Zounds ! no." 
 
 "Then I must have forgot, — it can't be the 
 same person." 
 
 " Jack, Jack, what think you of blooming, love- 
 breathing seventeen ?" 
 
 17*
 
 198 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 "As to that, sir, I am quite indifferent. If I 
 can please you in the matter it is all I desire." 
 
 " iiay, but. Jack, such eyes ! such blushing 
 cheeks! such lovely smiling lips! such " 
 
 " And which is to be mine, sir, the niece or the 
 aunt?" 
 
 This exasperating question almost threw Sir 
 Anthony into a rage again. 
 
 " Why, you unfeeling, insensible puppy !" he 
 broke out, " I despise you ! The aunt, indeed I 
 Odds life ! when I ran away with your mother I 
 would not have touched anything old or ugly to 
 gain an empire." 
 
 " Not to please your father, sir ?" 
 
 " To please my father ! zounds ! not to please 
 
 Oh, my father — odds so ! — yes, yes ; if 
 
 my father indeed had desired, — that's quite 
 another matter. But he wasn't the indulgent 
 father that I am, Jack." 
 
 " I dare say, not, sir." 
 
 Jack cari'ied his penitential professions some- 
 what too far, as it proved, for his father began 
 to suspect him of hypocrisy, and at length broke 
 out with, — 
 
 " Come along with me ; you shall visit the lady 
 directly ; and I'll never forgive you if you don't 
 come back stark mad with rapture and impa- 
 tience. If you don't, egad, I'll marry the girl 
 myself!" 
 
 " In that case, sir, I suppose you would have 
 me marry the aunt. Or if you should change
 
 THE RIVALS. 199 
 
 your mind, and take the old lady, — it is all the 
 same to me, — I'll marry the niece." 
 
 This was more than Sir Anthony could stand. 
 He flung himself angrily from the room, leaving 
 Jack with a sly smile on the leeward side of his 
 face. But in a few minutes the old gentleman 
 returned in a more peaceable temper, and with a 
 note of introduction to Mrs. Malaprop, which he 
 commanded his son to deliver immediately. This 
 Jack dutifully obeyed, though not without many 
 misgivings, for he feared the effect on Lydia's 
 romantic fancy when she should discover that 
 Beverley and Captain Absolute were one and the 
 same. 
 
 Jack's interview with Mrs. Malaprop was not 
 without its elements of awkwardness, for she in- 
 formed him that the girl had fixed her affections 
 on a beggarly ensign, and that, in spite of her 
 positive "conjunctions," the fellow "persisted 
 from" correspondence with her. She had just 
 "interceded" another letter from him, she de- 
 clared, which had given her the " hydrostatics" 
 to such a desrree. 
 
 Jack was not surprised at her " hydrostatics" 
 on reading the letter, for it spoke of Mrs. Mala- 
 prop as an " old weather-beaten she-dragon," with 
 other equally uncomplimentary epithets. Should 
 the old lady discover that he had written this 
 letter himself his hopes might be seriously inter- 
 fered with, and he felt it necessary to play his 
 cards with all the skill at his command.
 
 200 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 It would bo a happy idea, he told her, since the 
 girl was so infatuated with Beverley, to let them 
 plan an elopement ; he would come in just at the 
 nick of time, lay the fellow by the heels, and 
 fairly contrive to carry her off in his stead. This 
 scheme seemed to the good lady an excellent one, 
 and she agreed to it on the spot. Then, laughing 
 heartily at the idea of the lovers eluding her 
 vigilance, she went out to send Lydia to her 
 suitor. 
 
 Lydia's coming was a very unwilling one. She 
 wanted nothing to do with this new suitor, and 
 did not see why she should be pestered with hate- 
 ful addresses. What, therefore, was her joyful 
 surprise, when she at length entered the room, to 
 recognize in the unwelcome visitor her dear Bev- 
 erley ! The lover, however, had his presence to 
 explain, and did so by telling her that he had 
 passed himself off upon Mrs. Malaprop as Captain 
 Absolute, a piece of invented information which 
 filled the girl with delight. 
 
 Unluckily, in the midst of their transports of 
 affection, Mrs. Malaprop made her appearance at 
 the door, where she overheard a part of their 
 conversation. All would have been now in danger, 
 but that she misunderstood the meaning of their 
 words, and revealed her presence before they 
 were too deeply committed. 
 
 " Let her choice be Captain Absolute," said 
 Lydia, " but Beverley is mine." 
 
 " Oh, you vixen ! I have overheard you," cried
 
 THE RIVALS. 201 
 
 Mrs. Malaprop, coming forward. " My dear cap- 
 tain, I know not how to apologize for her shock- 
 ing rudeness." 
 
 The lover, who had started violently on hear- 
 ing the good lady's voice, perceived by her words 
 that his secret was still safe, and quietly re- 
 marked, — 
 
 " 1 have hopes, madam, that time will bring the 
 young lady " 
 
 " Oh, there's nothing to be hoped for from her," 
 interrupted Mrs. Malaprop, pettishly. " She's as 
 headstrong as an allegory on the banks of the 
 Nile." 
 
 "Kay, pray, Mrs. Malaprop, don't stop the 
 young lady's speech. She is very welcome to 
 profess love for Beverley, — it does not hurt me in 
 the least, I assure you." 
 
 " You are too amiably patient, captain. Come 
 with me, miss ; but take a graceful leave of the 
 gentleman." 
 
 " May every blessing wait on ray Beverley," 
 began Lydia, " my loved Bev " 
 
 "Hussy! come along — come along," exclaimed 
 the angry aunt, hurrying her out, the captain 
 lovingly kissing his hand to her as she disap- 
 peared. 
 
 Meanwhile new complications were arising for 
 the gallant captain, as a consequence of his double 
 character. Before long, indeed, he had two duels 
 on his hand, one as Beverley and the other as 
 Captain Absolute.
 
 202 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 Bob Acres, who had followed Lydia to Bath to 
 continue his suit, had been summarily dismissed, 
 and fancied that he was thrown aside in favor of 
 Beverley, who he had heard was in Bath. He 
 complained of this affront to Sir Lucius O'Trigger, 
 who assured him that he had been very shabbily 
 treated, and that his wounded honor could only 
 be healed by shedding the blood of his rival. 
 
 " But he has given me no provocation," de- 
 clared Bob. " Faith, I never saw the man in my 
 life." 
 
 "That's no argument at all," answered Sir 
 Lucius. " He has the less right, then, to take the 
 liberty to fall in love with the same woman as 
 yourself." 
 
 " Gad, that's true !" exclaimed Bob, filled with 
 sudden valor. " I grow full of anger. Sir Lucius. 
 I fire apace. Odds hilts and blades, I find a man 
 may have a deal of valor in him, and not know 
 It ! But couldn't I contrive to have a little right 
 on my side?" 
 
 " What the devil signifies right, when your honor 
 is concerned ? Do you think Achilles, or my little 
 Alexander the Great, ever inquired where the 
 right lay ?" 
 
 " Odds flints, paws, and triggers ! I'll challenge 
 him directly." 
 
 " Ah, my little friend, if I had Blunderbuss 
 Hall here, I could show you a glorious range of 
 ancestry in the O'Trigger line, — every one of 
 whom had killed his manl"
 
 THE RIVALS. '] 203 
 
 " i have had ancestors, too !" cried Bob, " every 
 man of 'em colonel or captain in the militia. 
 Odds balls and barrels! Say no more, — I'm 
 braced for it. The thunder of your words has 
 soured the milk of human kindness in my breast. 
 ' Zounds !' as the man in the play says, ' I could 
 do such deeds ' " 
 
 " Come, come, there must be no passion in the 
 case. These things should always be done civilly." 
 
 " I must be in a passion. Sir Lucius, — I must be 
 in a rage. Dear Sir Lucius, let me be in a rage, 
 if 3^ou love me. Come, here's pen and paper. I 
 ■would the ink were red. How shall I begin ?" 
 
 "Decently, and like a Christian. Begin 
 ' Sir ' " 
 
 " That's too civil by half" 
 
 " ' To prevent the confusion that might arise 
 from our both addressing the same lady, I shall 
 expect the honor of your company ' " 
 
 " Zounds !" exclaimed Bob ; " I'm not asking him 
 to dinner." 
 
 " ' To settle our pretensions ' " 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 " Let me see, — ' in King's Mead-fields.' " 
 
 " So that's done." 
 
 "Now, I'll leave you to fix your own time," 
 said Sir Lucius. " Take ray advice and decide it 
 this evening if you can ; then let the worst come 
 of it, 'twill be off your mind to-morrow." 
 
 " Very true." 
 
 " I would do myself the honor to carry your
 
 204 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 message ; but, to tell you a secret, I believe I shall 
 have just such another affair on my own hands. 
 There is a gay captain here who put a jest on me 
 lately, at the expense of my country, and I only 
 want to fall in with the gentleman to call him 
 out." 
 
 " By my valor, I should like to see you fight 
 first! Odds life! I should like to see you kill 
 him, if it was only to get a little lesson." 
 
 " I shall be very proud of instructing you. 
 But for the present am obliged to bid you good 
 day," and the gallant Sir Lucius took himself off, 
 leaving Bob to the difficult task of keeping 
 alive his courage, and to the necessary duty of 
 getting some friend to deliver his challenge. For 
 this warlike task he settled on Captain Absolute, 
 
 " You know something of this fellow," declared 
 Bob, on meeting the captain. " I want you to 
 find him out for me, and give him this mortal 
 defiance." 
 
 " Trust me to see that he gets it," replied Jack, 
 manafrinir to conceal his laughter at this idea of 
 conveying a challenge to himself 
 
 " You couldn't be my second, could you, Jack ?" 
 
 " Why no, Bob ; there are reasons " 
 
 " Well, well, I must ask Sir Lucius. But, Jack, 
 if Beverley should ask you what kind of a man 
 your friend Acres is, do tell him I am a devil of a 
 fellow. Will you, Jack ?" 
 
 " To be sure I shall. I'll say you are a deter- 
 mined dog, hey, Bob I"
 
 THE RIVALS. 205 
 
 " Ay, do. Tell him I generally kill a man a 
 week, will you. Jack ?" 
 
 " I will. I'll say you are called in the country, 
 Fighting Bob." 
 
 " True, true ; and, Jack, you may add that you 
 never saw me in such a rage before, — a devouring 
 rage." 
 
 " I will, I will." 
 
 " Egad, I hope that may frighten him so that 
 he won't come. It is all to prevent mischief, Jack. 
 I don't want to take his life, if I can clear my 
 honor." 
 
 This challenge was soon followed by the threat- 
 ened one from Sir Lucius O'Triffo-er, who was not 
 the man to let an insult to his native island pass 
 unrevenged. Luckily for the Irishman's purpose, 
 he met with Jack when he was in a very ill- 
 humor from something which had just happened, 
 and was more ready to fight than to eat. He 
 accepted the challenge of Sir Lucius, therefore, 
 with few words, and made the hour and the place 
 the same that had been appointed for Bob Acres's 
 fight with Beverley. 
 
 It is necessary now to go back and relate the 
 cause of Jack's ill-humor. He had abundant 
 reason to be ruflled in temper, for his love affair 
 had got into a very awkward snarl. In fact. Sir 
 Anthony had insisted on accompanying him on a 
 visit to Mrs. Malaprop and Lydia, and there, in 
 spite of all that the cunning lover could do to 
 prevent an exjjosure, the truth of his deception 
 
 18
 
 206 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 came out. Lydia, in short, had refused so strongly 
 to accept him as Captain Absolute, and so earn- 
 estly insisted that he was her Beverley, that he 
 was left no escape but to confess the truth, and 
 throw himself on her mercy. 
 
 His confession was differently received by the 
 three parties present. Lydia fell into a tearful 
 pet at the idea that there would be no elopement 
 after all. Mrs. Malaprop recalled, with angry 
 countenance, Beverley's epithet of " a weather- 
 beaten she-dragon." As for Sir Anthony, he 
 broke out heartily with, — 
 
 " Ui^on my soul, Jack, you are a very impudent 
 fellow! You have made a fool of your father, 
 you dog! So this was your 'penitence,' your 
 'duty and obedience'! What, 'the Languishes 
 of Worcestershire,' hey? What, 'she squints, 
 don't she ? — a little red-haired girl' ! hej^ ? Why, 
 you hypocritical young rascal ! I wonder you 
 ain't ashamed to hold up your head ! Well, well, 
 I am glad, at any rate, you are not the dull, in- 
 sensible varlet you pretended to be." 
 
 But Jack did not find Miss Lydia so forgiving 
 as his father and her aunt proved to be. Left 
 alone with the deceived young lady, he found her 
 sullen and freezing. The idea that she was ex- 
 pected to marry Avith the full consent of her 
 friends, a license, settlements, all the everj'-day 
 commonplaces of matrimony, so overturned her 
 ideals that she repulsed him in peevish discon- 
 tent, and in the end broke into a passion and
 
 THE RIVALS. 207 
 
 flung his picture at him, vowing that she never 
 wished to see his treacherous face again. The 
 interview ended in a hot quarrel, in which 
 Lydia declared that she renounced the counter- 
 feit Beverley forever, and which left her lover 
 in the humor to cut the throats of ten fighting 
 Irishmen. 
 
 But we must for the moment return to Faulk- 
 land, whose love affair we left in a very unsatis- 
 factory condition. He was not long in making 
 it still more unsatisfactory; in an interview 
 with Julia, he blamed her bitterly for her high 
 spirits in Devonshire, and was generally so un- 
 reasonable as to drive her from the room in tears. 
 In a second interview he tried a plan he had 
 devised to test her love ; professing to have com- 
 mitted an act that would oblige him to fly in 
 haste from England, and calling on her for sym- 
 pathy and love. Julia, filled with grief and alarm, 
 at once consented to fly with him ; upon which 
 Faulkland, filled with joy at this proof of her love, 
 acknowledged that he had deceived her, and 
 begged her pardon for thus testing her love. His 
 confession had a different effect than he antici- 
 pated. The poor woman felt that her feelings 
 had been outraged, and told him that his test 
 of love was an insult, that she could never be 
 happy with such an exacting lover, and that she 
 would never be his, — he had broken the last link 
 of her affection. With these words she reso- 
 lutely retired, leaving Faulkland in as awkward
 
 208 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 a situation and as depressed a mood as was 
 Captain Absolute, though from a very different 
 cause. 
 
 Julia, on leaving her lover, sought her friend 
 and confidante Lydia, her heart full of pain, her 
 eyes still wet with tears. She found her romantic 
 friend plunged into as great a trouble as herself. 
 To think that her dear Beverley should turn out 
 to be this prosily eligible Captain Absolute, and 
 that dull common sense was to preside over her 
 matrimonial affair ! 
 
 " Is it not provoking," she exclaimed, " when I 
 thought we were coming to the prettiest distress 
 imaginable, to find myself made a mere Smithfield 
 bargain of at last ? I had projected one of the 
 most sentimental elopements ! so becoming a dis- 
 guise ! so amiable a ladder of ropes ! Conscious 
 moon — four horses — Scotch parson — with such 
 surprise to Mrs. Malaprop — and such paragraphs 
 in the newspaper! Oh, I shall die with disap- 
 pointment!" 
 
 " I don't wonder at it," answered Julia. 
 
 " Now, — sad reverse ! — what have I to expect, 
 but, after a deal of flimsy preparation with a 
 bishop's license, and my aunt's blessing, to go 
 simpering up to the altar; or perhaps be cried 
 three times in a country church, and have an 
 unmannerly fat clerk ask the consent of every 
 butcher in the parish to join John Absolute and 
 I-iydia Languish, spinster? Oh, that I should 
 live to hear myself called spinster!"
 
 THE RIVALS. 209 
 
 " Melancholy, indeed !" sympathized Julia, while 
 Lydia walked the floor in a pet of temper. 
 
 Luckily for her. her love affair was not to be 
 too dismally commonplace. Her lover was about 
 to fight a duel for the privilege of her hand, and 
 tidings of this alarming event were even now on 
 their way to her. 
 
 Bob Acres had told the story of his challenge 
 to his servant David, who was, if possible, a more 
 arrant coward than himself; and David, who 
 could not be made to see how his master would be 
 the better off to have his honor alive and himself 
 dead, lost no time in giving the alarm. 
 
 Failing to find Sir Anthony, he ran in haste to 
 Mrs. Malaprop's, and told his tale of battles and 
 bloodshed to that lady and to Tag, the captain's 
 servant, whom he found there. Mrs. Malaprop, 
 alarmed at the news, burst, in her turn, into the 
 room where Julia and Lydia were exchanging 
 confidences, and cried out, —   
 
 " So ! so ! here's fine work ! here's fine suicide, 
 paracide, and simulation going on in the fields ! 
 and Sir Anthony not to be found to prevent the 
 antistrophe !" 
 
 " For heaven's sake, madam, what is the mean- 
 ing of this ?" asked Julia. 
 
 "Dear aunt, do tell us what is the matter?" 
 demanded Lydia. 
 
 "Why, murder's the matter! slaughter's the 
 matter ! killing's the matter ! But this gentleman 
 can tell you the perpendiculars." 
 
 Vol. II.— o 18*
 
 210 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 " Who, sir, — who are engaged in this ?" asked 
 Lydia. 
 
 " Faith, ma'am," answered Tag, " one is a young 
 gentleman whom I should be sorry anything was 
 to happen to, — a very pretty behaved gentleman." 
 
 "But who — who — who?" cried Lydia, impa- 
 tiently. 
 
 " My master, ma'am." 
 
 " Heavens ! What, Captain Absolute ?" 
 
 " Who is there beside Captain Absolute ?" de- 
 manded Julia. 
 
 " My poor master," said David. " My master, 
 Mr. Acres. Then comes Squire Faulkland." 
 
 " Oh, madam," exclaimed Julia, " let us instantly 
 endeavor to prevent mischief!" 
 
 " No, no," said Mrs. Malaprop. " That would 
 be very inelegant in us ; we should onl}^ partici- 
 pate things." 
 
 " Ah, do save a few lives !" pleaded David. 
 " They are desperately given, believe me. Above 
 all, there is that blood-thirsty Philistine, Sir Lu- 
 cius O'Trigger." 
 
 "Sir Lucius O'Trigger!" exclaimed Mrs. Mala- 
 prop. "Oh, mercy! have they drawn poor, little, 
 dear Sir Lucius into the scrape ? Why, how you 
 stand, girl ! You have no more feeling than one 
 of the Derbyshire petrifactions." 
 
 " What are we to do?" asked Lydia. 
 
 " Why, fly with the utmost felicity, to prevent 
 mischief. Here, friend, can you show us the 
 place ?"
 
 THE RIVALS. 211 
 
 " If you please, ma'am, I will conduct you," 
 said Tag. " David, do you look for Sir An- 
 thony." 
 
 " Come, girls, this gentleman will exhort us," 
 said Mrs. Malaprop. " Come, sir, you're our 
 envoy, — lead the way, and we'll precede." 
 
 Tag hastened to obey orders, and in a few min- 
 utes the frightened ladies were on their way to 
 the field of battle. 
 
 About the same time Sir Anthony met his son 
 in the streets on his way to the place of combat. 
 Jack was armed for the duel, and endeavored to 
 conceal his sword under his cloak, but his father 
 discovered it, and demanded to know what he 
 was up to now. 
 
 " Sir, I'll explain," answered Jack. " You know, 
 sir, Lydia is romantic, devilish romantic, and 
 very absurd. ISTow I intend, if she refuses to 
 forgive me, to unsheathe this sword and swear 
 to fall upon its point and die at her feet." 
 
 " Fall upon a fiddlestick's end !" growled Sir 
 Anthony. " Why, it is the very thing that would 
 please her. Get along, you fool !" 
 
 This Jack was very ready to do. But hardly 
 had be disappeared before David appeared, white 
 with terror, and revealed the true secret of the 
 sword. Swearing like a trooper at the trick 
 of his worthy son. Sir Anthony bade David lead 
 him to the field, — whither the three ladies were 
 just then hurrying at all speed. 
 
 Of the various combatants, Sir Lucius and Bob
 
 212 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 Acres were the first to reach the field of battle. 
 They were provided with pistols. 
 
 " Tell mc, Mr. Acres," said Sir Lucius, " in case 
 of an accident, is there any little commission I 
 could execute for you?" 
 
 " I — I don't understand," declared Bob, trem- 
 bling like a leaf. 
 
 " Why, there's no being shot at without a little 
 risk. Suppose now an unlucky bullet should 
 carry a quietus with it, would you choose to be 
 pickled and sent home ? Or would it be the same 
 to you to lie here in the Abbey? I'm told there 
 is very snug lying in the Abbey." 
 
 " Pickled ! Snug lying in the Abbey ! Don't 
 talk so, Sir Lucius." 
 
 " But there's nothing like being prepared. Pray, 
 now, how will you receive the gentleman's fire ?" 
 
 " Odd ! ril make myself small enough ; I'll 
 stand edgeways." 
 
 " You're quite out there, Mr. Acres. If the 
 bullet misses a vital part of your right side, it 
 will be very hard if it don't succeed on the left. 
 But if you present your full front, a ball or two 
 may pass clean through your body and never do 
 any harm at all." 
 
 "A ball or two clean through me!" cried Bob, 
 shaking with terror. 
 
 " And then it's the genteelist attitude." 
 
 " Look you, Sir Lucius ; I'd as lieve be shot in 
 an awkward posture as a genteel one ; so, by my 
 valor, I will stand edgeways."
 
 THE RIVALS. 213 
 
 " Sure, they don't mean to disappoint us ?" said 
 Sir Lucius, looking at his watch. "No, faith, I 
 think I see them coming. Who are those yonder 
 getting over the stile ?" 
 
 " Well, — let them come, — hey. Sir Lucius ! we- 
 we-we-we — won't run." 
 
 " Eun ?" 
 
 " No — I say — we won't run." 
 
 "What the devil's the matter with you?" ex- 
 claimed the bold second, looking angrily at his 
 trembling principal. 
 
 " Nothing — nothing, ray dear friend, — but I — 
 I — I don't feel quite so bold, somehow, as I did." 
 
 " Well, here they're coming." 
 
 " Sir Lucius, if I wasn't with you, I should al- 
 most think I was afraid. If my valor should 
 leave me, — valor will come and go." 
 
 " Then, pray, keep it fast while you have it." 
 
 " Sir Lucius, I doubt it is going, — yes, my valor 
 is certainly going, — it is sneaking off, — I feel it 
 oozing out, as it were, at the palms of my hands." 
 
 " Tour honor, sir, — your honor. Here they are." 
 
 Fortunately for Bob's valor, no Beverley ap- 
 peared. But after some conversation Captain 
 Absolute acknowledged that he was Beverley, and 
 as such was quite willing to give Mi*. Acres satis- 
 faction. But the courageous Bob quite declined 
 to quari'el with his dear friend Jack Absolute. 
 
 *' Upon my conscience, Mr. Acres," declared 
 Sir Lucius, "your valor has oozed away with a 
 vengeance."
 
 214 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 '•Not in the least," retorted Bob. " I'll be your 
 second with all my heart, and if you should get 
 a quietus, I'll get you snug lying in the Abbey 
 here ; or pickle you and send you over to Blun- 
 derbuss Hall, or anything of the kind, with the 
 greatest pleasure." 
 
 " Sir Lucius, you can't have a better second 
 than my friend Acres," said Captain Absolute. 
 " He is a most determined dog, — called in the coun- 
 try, Fighting Bob. He generally kills a man a 
 week. Don't you, Bob ?" 
 
 " Ay, — at home," answered Bob. 
 
 One duel still remained, — that between Sir 
 Lucius and Captain Absolute ; but before it could 
 be fought the duellists were interrupted by Sir 
 Anthony and the three ladies, one of them in a 
 rage, the others overcome with terror. 
 
 " Put up, Jack, put up, or I shall be in a frenzy I" 
 exclaimed Sir Anthony. " How came you in a 
 duel, sir?" 
 
 " Faith, sir, that gentleman can tell you better 
 than I," answered his son. " He called me out, 
 without explaining his reasons." 
 
 " Gad, sir, how came you to call my son out 
 without explaining your reasons ?" 
 
 "Your son, sir, insulted me in a manner which 
 my honor could not brook," replied Sir Lucius. 
 
 " Zounds, Jack, how durst you insult the gen- 
 tleman in a manner which his honor could not 
 brook ?" 
 
 " Come, come, let's have no honor before ladies,"
 
 THE RIVALS. 215 
 
 exclaimed Mrs. Malaprop. " Captain Absolute, 
 how could you intimidate us so ? Here's Lydia 
 has been terrified to death for you." 
 
 " For fear I should be killed, or escape, ma'am ?" 
 
 " Nay, no delusions to the past. Lydia is con- 
 vinced. Speak, child." 
 
 There followed a series of explanations, which 
 proved quite to the satisfaction of all parties con- 
 cerned except Sir Lucius ; who, on discovering 
 that his Delia was not the fair Julia, but her aunt, 
 Mrs. Malaprop, felt himself quickly cured of his 
 romantic passion. 
 
 As for Lydia, her fright at the danger of her 
 lover, and satisfaction that he was ready to fight 
 a duel on her account, made her ready to forgive 
 the counterfeit Beverley, and accept him without 
 an elopement, while Julia proved as kind to her 
 exacting lover. All the diflScuIties which had 
 surrounded the two pairs of lovers were, there- 
 fore, happily removed, Bob Acres and Sir Lucius 
 gallantly promising to dance at their weddings, 
 while happiness, in the form of Hymen, spread 
 its wings over the reconciled Eivals. 
 
 END OP VOL. II.
 
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