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 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN 
 
 AND 
 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER 
 
 BY 
 
 OLIVER GOLDSMITH 
 
 EDITED WITH INTRODUCTION AND NOTES BY 
 
 THOMAS H. DICKINSON 
 
 Editor, Chief Contemporary DrairuUists 
 
 HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY 
 
 BOSTON NEW YORK CHICAGO SAN FRANCISCO
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1908, BY HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY 
 
 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 
 
 ^c iiatbcrfiilie |3rrg« 
 
 CAMBRIDGE . MASSACHUSETTS 
 PRINTED IN THE U.S.A.
 
 VBV- ' 
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 Goldsmith's Life, Oliver Goldsmith was born into 
 a home of genteel poverty at Pallasmore, in County 
 Longfonl, Ireland, November 10, 1728. His father, 
 the Reverend Charles Goldsmith, held livings succes- 
 sively at Pallasmore and at Lissoy in Westmeath, and 
 it was in the schools of the surrounding hamlets that 
 Oliver Goldsmith received his first instruction. He 
 passed from the lax tuition of his masters to Trinity 
 College, Dublin, and took his Bachelor of Arts degree 
 February 27, 1749, without having distinguished him- 
 self in any way except as an independent and rather 
 irregular student. 
 
 The Reverend Charles Goldsmith died during his 
 son's college days. In 1753 Oliver Goldsmith left 
 the home of his widowed mother for the last time, to 
 seek his fortune in the world. Thenceforward we have 
 legends of him in prison at Newcastle, studying medi- 
 cine at Louvain, playing the flute in Switzerland and 
 in Italy, and conversing with Voltaire and Diderot in 
 Paris. His talents matured slowly; at twenty -three 
 he was projecting a new life in the new world; at 
 twenty-eight he was undei--master in the school of Dr. 
 Milner at Peckham ; at twenty-nine he was at last defi- 
 nitely enlisted in the struggle for bread in the gar- 
 rets of eighteenth century Grub Street. Even here his 
 advance was slow, but against the odds of poverty, su-
 
 iv INTRODUCTION 
 
 perficial education, and unpromising personal address, 
 he forged forward by force of preeminent artistic 
 genius to a place in the circle of Johnson and Reynolds 
 and Burke. Now pinched by want, now made rich by 
 a bookseller's stipend, Goldsmith, who never married, 
 lived the fifteen years of his literary success among 
 his cronies of the town, and at the age of forty-five, 
 just when his apprenticeship was over and he could 
 look forward to greater work than he had ever done, 
 he fell a victim to a disease that had first taken hold 
 of him as a result of his early poverty. Goldsmith 
 died April 4, 1774. 
 
 Goldsmith as a Writer. He "left scarcely any 
 kind of writing untouched, and touched nothing that 
 he did not adorn," wrote Johnson for Goldsmith's 
 monument. With the single exception of tragedy, 
 Goldsmith undertook at one time or another through- 
 out his life all the forms of composition practiced by 
 his contemporaries. And he was not only efficient in 
 all of these fields ; in many of them his work shows a 
 positive advance beyond the achievement of the time. 
 In poetry and romance, the sincerity of Goldsmith's 
 workmanship showed itself in simplicity of expression 
 and purity and tenderness of appeal to tlie heart ; in 
 comedy, it showed itself in a discarding of the comic 
 types of his day for a more genuine presentment of 
 the life of the world in which he lived. The Citizen of 
 the World in essay ; The Traveller and The Deserted 
 Village in verse ; Tl/e Vicar of Wahrjield in romance; 
 The Good-Natvred Man and She Stoops to Conquer 
 in comedy have maintained a common popularity from
 
 INTRODUCTION v 
 
 Goldsmith's day to this, and promise to live as long 
 as the lanofuasre. Even Goldsmith's hack-work is not 
 all unworthy of him, and though in Tlte Present State 
 of Polite Learning (his first book, published 1759), 
 The History of Ungland (1111'), ^nd in his Animated 
 Nature (1774) there is displayed the superticiality of 
 the author's learning, these works are saved by the 
 purity of his style and. the general sanity of his judg- 
 ments. 
 
 Eighteenth Century Drama. English tragedy 
 reached its height at the end of the sixteenth century 
 in the great plays of the Elizabethan age. A hundred 
 years later, Congreve, Farquhar, and Wycherly domi- 
 nated the classic age of English comedy. The eight- 
 eenth century saw the decline of both tragedy and 
 comedy. Goldsmith and Sheridan gave comedy re- 
 newed vitality for the decade of the seventies, but 
 these had no followers who were worthy of their in- 
 heritance, and the nineteenth century brought forward 
 no figure who can stand for a moment beside them. 
 
 This does not mean that the stage took a smaller 
 part in the life of eighteenth century England than it 
 had taken before, or that theaties were ever better 
 managed. Colley Gibber and Garrick stand without 
 peers as managers, and the latter was the most versa- 
 tile actor of England, if not of modern times. Yet the 
 rise of the manager and actor saw the decline of the 
 author. Sheridan in The School for /S'cawcZaZ, his first 
 play to gain real success, was so fortunate as to act 
 as both author and manager. Garrick was arbitrary 
 master not only of his stage, but also of the form and
 
 vi INTRODUCTION 
 
 structure of aU that appeared upon it. From the time 
 of Gibber down to the present, English plays have had 
 to do with the theatre rather than with literature. 
 
 The decline of the drama after Wycherly may be 
 recounted in a series of striking phenomena. Setting 
 aside the growing indecency of these early plays, itself 
 a sign of change in literature as well as in society, 
 the first sign of dissolution appeared in the so-called 
 sentimental drama of Steele. Than Steele there has 
 been no more fascinating figure in our literature. Yet 
 his four plays. The Funeral^ The Tender Hushand, 
 The Lying Lover ^ The Conscious Lovers., took from 
 drama that element of frank vitality that is necessary 
 for its life. Advised by Colley Gibber and influenced 
 by Jeremy Gollier, Steele applied to plays the rules of 
 propriety, repose, and good manners that served him 
 so well in writing his sketches and his essays. The 
 second of these plays was " damned for its piety " 
 after a few appearances. The last succeeded in spite 
 of the fact that, as Fielding's Parson Adams says, it 
 contained some things " solemn enough for a sermon." 
 It is a long way frojn the sentimental comedy of 
 Steele to that sentimental comedy that Goldsmith 
 satirizes, yet the later form was a logical outgrowth 
 of the earlier, and of the spirit of the times. 
 
 Not upon Steele should be placed the burden of re- 
 sponsibility for the decline of the drama. There are 
 signs enough that show us that deterioration was to be 
 expected. In the first place, the stage had become less 
 of an organ of public opinion than it had been at the 
 beginning and at the end of the seventeenth century. 
 Steele, who may be called one of the last writers of
 
 INTRODUCTION yii 
 
 the comedy of manners, was also one of the first of the 
 journalists. Newspapers and periodical magazines now 
 sprang up literally by the hundreds to usurp the func- 
 tions of the play in exposition and commentary on the 
 life of the times. Before the middle of the century, 
 the novel sprang into new popularity, and in the hands 
 of Fielding, himself a dramatist, rose t«3 a power far 
 beyond that of contemporary drama. Partly as a result 
 of this, the dramatists ceased to go to nature for their 
 characters, but used over and over again the stock 
 types of the theatre. 
 
 Along with the movement for greater gentility, there 
 had also been a movement, coming from France, for 
 greater regularity in the structure of plays. The old 
 exuberant passion of Shakespeare was displaced by 
 the formalism of Voltaire. Addison's Cato (1713) 
 had been built on the regular lines of French tragedy ; 
 three decades later, Johnson essayed classical tragedy 
 in Irene (1749). The success of the first was more 
 hurtful to English drama than the failure of the latter. 
 English tragedy has never recovered from the debili- 
 tating influence of French " regularity." '■^ Barharossa 
 I have read, but I did not cry ; at a modern tragedy 
 it is sufficient not to laugh," writes Gray to Thomas 
 Wharton in 1754 concerning a tragedy by Dr. Brown, 
 a friend of Warburton. 
 
 For half a century, to use the phrase of Dr. John- 
 son, " declamation roared whilst passion slept." In 
 1757, Home, the author of Douglas^ was hailed as 
 Shakespeare redivivus, but his was but a spark of the 
 divine fire. The most lamentable sign of the dramatic 
 decadence of the times was the contempt into which
 
 vili INTRODUCTION 
 
 Shakespeare had fallen. Garriek, whose onetier it was, 
 as Mrs. Parsons has said, to fake, not emulate Shake- 
 speare, " corrected " liomeo and Juliet, made a pan- 
 tomime of The 311(1 suminer-NighV s Z^reawz, introduced 
 topical songs into A Winter s Tale, and ended with 
 Hamlet with alterations. 
 
 In lighter amusement, the eighteenth century had 
 seen the introduction of opera and of farce, both from 
 France. The success of Gay's Beggar s Opera (1728) 
 has perhaps never been duplicated. It was followed by 
 a flood of operas of all kinds. Indeed, so popular did 
 spectacular and lyrical effects become that no play, 
 serious or comic, was complete without songs. Samuel 
 Foote (1720-77) and David Garriek (1716-79) were 
 the most successful authors of that comedy of inci- 
 dent and character now known as farce. The plays of 
 the former, Tlie Minor, The Lyar, The Devil ujjon 
 Two SticJcs, are almost devoid of plot, but are aston- 
 ishingly keen studies of eccentric character. The sen- 
 timental drama introduced by Steele was continued by 
 Mrs. Centlivre, and found renewed expression in the 
 plays of Moore, Murphy, Whitehead, Hugh KeUy 
 (^False Delicacy^, and RicLard Cumberland. It was 
 to combat this last school that Goldsmith essayed a 
 combination of the farce of his contemporar}^ Samuel 
 Foote, with the comedy of Farquhar and Congreve. 
 
 Sentimental Comedy. Sentimental comedy may 
 best be understood by following the campaign against 
 it. Goldsmith has commonly been given credit for this 
 campaign. It is true that as the strongest figure in the 
 movement he deserves the his-hest honors for its suc«
 
 INTRODUCTION ix 
 
 cess, yet many voices had been raised against senti- 
 mental comedy before Goldsmith's. Both Steele and 
 Fielding had recognized the undramatic character of 
 such plays in the phrases quoted in the last section. 
 " Ours is all sentiment, blank-verse and virtue," wrote 
 Colley Gibber in the Epilogue to Eugenia (1752). 
 And Garrick had more than once jocosely referred to 
 the theatre as a church (Prologues to Barharossa and 
 False Delicacy'). Again, in A Peep Behind the Cur- 
 tain (1767) Garrick discusses the "pap and lop-loUy" 
 of our present writers, and makes Sir Macaroni V utu 
 say, " A playhouse in England is to me as dull as a 
 church and fit only to sleep in." Samuel Foote's plays 
 hail always been as far as ])ossible from the sentimental 
 order. On February 15, 1773, before the production 
 of She Stoops to Conquer, Foote had brought out at 
 the Haymarket The Handsome Housemaid, or Piety 
 in Pattens, " how a maiden of low degree, by the mere 
 effects of morality and virtue, raised herself to riches 
 and honors." This was a burlesque entertainment es- 
 pecially directed against sentimental drama, and hailed 
 later as a " keen satire on the drowsy spirit of our 
 modern comedies." 
 
 Goldsmith's Theories of Dramatic Art. In spite 
 of the fact that isolated pens had been turned against 
 the follies of the sentimental school of playwriting, it 
 was not until Goldsmith formulated the attack through 
 his criticism and followed it up in his plays that any- 
 thing was accomplished. Goldsmith's written princi- 
 ples of dramatic construction may be found in occa- 
 sional references to the drama in his The Present
 
 ^ INTRODUCTION 
 
 State of Polite Learning and The Vicar of Wake' 
 iield, in the essay on The Strolling Player in The 
 Citizen of the World, iu A Comparison between 
 Laughing and Sentimental Comedy, contributed to 
 tlie " Westminster Magazine " in 1772, in the Preface 
 to The Good-Natured Man, and in the Dedication to 
 She Stoops to Conquer. Goldsmith's bent was not 
 toward tragedy, and in comedy was all away from the 
 comic types of the times and toward the writers of 
 the age of Farquhar and Congreve. Discarding the 
 well-known theatrical types of his contemporaries, he 
 quite consistently went to nature for his models of men 
 and women. All Goldsmith added to nature was the 
 piquant sauce of his own jesting spirit. To " exagger- 
 ate the features of folly to render it more thoroughly 
 ridiculous," was his principle of comic satire. In this 
 he was more like Farquhar than like Congreve or 
 Steele, having little of Congreve's brilliancy, and no- 
 thing of the latter author's finely tempered humor. 
 
 Of course, Goldsmith's practice of his principles 
 aroused immediately accusations of vulgarity and irrev- 
 erence. Against these charges Goldsmith had long 
 before prepared his answer. " Does the poet paint 
 the absurdities of the vulgar, then he is low: does he 
 exaggerate the features of folly to render it more 
 thoroughly ridiculous, he is then very low," he writes 
 in The Present State of Polite Learning. And in 
 his dedication to Johnson he contends, " The greatest 
 wit may be found in a character, without impairing 
 the most unaffected piety." Again, he ridicules tho 
 "good, instructive, moral sermons," the modern tra- 
 gedies, and defends his position by saying, " All the
 
 INTRODUCTION xi 
 
 other comic writers of antiquity aim only at rendering 
 folly or vice ridiculous, but never exalt their charac- 
 ters into buskin 'd pomp or make what Voltaire hu- 
 morously calls a tradesman's tragedy " (yl Compari- 
 son between Laughing and Sentimental Comedy^. 
 Against the latter remark Cumberland, the last of the 
 sentimentalists, came forth with a strong rejoinder 
 prefacing his next comedy, The Choleric Man (I'^lb^. 
 
 The Good-Natured Man. This play was written in 
 the years 1766-67. First offered to Garrick, the all- 
 powerful manager of Drury Lane, it was by him held 
 until the patience of the author was exhausted. An- 
 gered by the suggestion that he should modify the 
 play in some essential respects, particularly in the 
 treatment of the character of Lofty, Goldsmith with- 
 drew the manuscript and offered it to George Colman, 
 who had lately become one of the patentees of Covent 
 Garden Theatre. The piece was accepted by Colman, 
 and the date of production was finally set at January 
 29, 1768. Whatever chances of success anew form of 
 play possessed were discounted by the lack of sympa- 
 thy of the majority of the actors, and especially by 
 the appearance in Garrick's Drury Lane Theatre, six 
 nights before Goldsmith's play, of an unmixed senti- 
 mental comedy by Hugh Kelly entitled False Deli- 
 cacy. This play was received with great applause, and 
 became one of the most popular plays of a decade. 
 When TJie Good-Natured Man finally appeared it 
 was unable to compete with its sentimental rival, and 
 its success was merely nominal. The work of Shuter 
 as Croaker, and Woodward as Lofty, was highly sat
 
 zii INTRODUCTION 
 
 isf actoiy, but the play was witlidrawn after nine nights 
 Goldsmith, however, made some <£500 out of the stage 
 production and the sale of the copyright. 
 
 She Stoops to Conquer. Like experiences accom- 
 panied the production of Goldsmith's second play. 
 Finished in 1771, this piece remained in the hands of 
 Colman until the needy author was forced to humble 
 remonstrance. Finally, by the influence of Johnson, 
 who practically compelled the acceptance of the play, 
 a day was set for its production. Meanwhile senti- 
 mental comedy liad received setbacks in the failure of 
 Kelly's second play, A Word to the Wise (1770), and 
 in tlie increasing ridicule of the writers of prologues 
 and critiques. Though Colman and his actors were 
 again despondent, She Stoops to Conquer won an un- 
 qualified success on its first production, March 15, 
 1773. It remains to this day one of the most popular 
 stock comedies on the English stage. 
 
 Contemporary Opinions of the Plays. Posterity 
 has had no discordant voice in the chorus of appro- 
 bation given to Goldsmith's two comedies. And the 
 first has been almost as highly favored as the second. 
 While She Stoops to Conquer excels in wit and farci- 
 cal incident, the earlier play, but little behind in ori- 
 ginality in characterization, is even better in eplgran: 
 and sparkle of lines. In short, the first is less " low ' 
 than the second. Nor were contemporary judgments, 
 entirely unfavorable toward these plays. Walpole, who 
 had never forgiven Goldsmith for his scarcely veiled 
 attack on his father, Sir Robert Walpole, in The
 
 INTRODUCTION xiii 
 
 Present State of Polite Learning^ is perhaps the 
 most adversely critical. Yet he must admit the merits 
 of She Stoops to Conquer. " Dr. Goldsmith has 
 written a comedy — no, it is the lowest of all farces. 
 It is not the subject I condemn, though very vulgar, 
 but the execution. The drift tends to no moral, no 
 edification of any kind. The situations, however, are 
 well imagined, and make one laugh in spite of the 
 grossness of the dialogue, the forced witticisms, and 
 total improbability of the whole plan and conduct. 
 But what disgusts me most is, that though the charac- 
 ters are very low, and aim at low humor, not one of 
 them says a sentence that is natural or marks any 
 character at all." 
 
 After reading such a criticism as this, we are glad 
 to see that Samuel Johnson, Goldsmith's fi-iend and 
 the autocrat of the age., was far more favorable. Of 
 The Good-Natured M<ui he says, " It is the best 
 comedy that has appeared since The Provoked Has- 
 band "/ and of She Stoops to Conquer, " I know of 
 no comedy for many years that has so much exhila- 
 rated an audience ; that has answered so much the 
 great aim of comedy, making an audience merry." 
 
 Strange to say, it was the scene in The Good-Na- 
 tured Man which to modern readers seems most ludi- 
 crous, that proved offensive to the finer sensibilities of 
 the eighteenth century. It is said that when it was 
 decided not to expunge the scene of the bailiffs (Act 
 III) from The Good-Natured Man, Colman gave up 
 hope for the piece. And this scene was roundly abused 
 in the coffee-houses and the critical reviews. Even 
 Johnson answered Goldsmith's question concerning a
 
 xiv INTRODUCTION 
 
 protege of his, " Are you going to make a scholar of 
 him ? " with the untender satire, " Aye, sir, scholar 
 enough to write a bailiff scene in a comedy." Acced- 
 ing to the popular demand, this scene was retrenched 
 in the second and succeeding performances of the play, 
 but at the instance of friends " who think in a partic- 
 ular way " it was printed in the published edition. 
 Five years later, so much advance had been made 
 against sentimental comedy that " by particular desire " 
 the scene of the bailiffs was returned (May 3, 1773). 
 To this day this scene is the most popular in the play. 
 
 Sources of Goldsmith's Plays. In noting the 
 sources of Goldsmith's plays and the resemblances be- 
 tween them and other plays, French and English, that 
 were accessible to the author, it should always be re- 
 membered that Goldsmith was an original genius, and 
 no wealth of sources could provide the particular works 
 left by his hands. These can be explained only by the 
 undoubted genius of the man. On the other hand, we 
 need not ignore the fact that Goldsmith was not in 
 the strict sense an innovator in any line of composi- 
 tion. No English writer has been better able to adapt 
 the work of other men to the purposes of his own art. 
 That Goldsmith was well acquainted with French and 
 English drama, there can be no doubt, and just as he 
 made himself free to take incidents from his life and 
 incorporate them in fiction, and to repeat in several 
 different works a sentence that pleased him, he took 
 his play subjects where he found them and moulded 
 them to artistic form under his own hand. 
 
 The title The Good-Natured Man is derived from
 
 INTRODUCTION xv 
 
 a character appearing in Goldsmith's own Life of 
 Richard Nash (1762). Years before, Fielding had 
 written a comedy with this very title, but the play had 
 not been performed at the time Goldsmith wrote, and 
 he was probably not acquainted with it. Comparison 
 is also made between this title and the anonymous 
 French L'Ami de tout le Monde (1673). 
 
 The character of the hero of this play can hardly 
 be said to be patterned after Goldsmith himself, yet 
 the author parallels his own distinguishing character- 
 istics in the play, and there is a note of personal phi- 
 losophy in the words, " There are some faults so nearly 
 allied to excellence, that we can scarce weed out the 
 vice without eradicating the virtue " (Act I). 
 
 Not Honey wood, but Croaker and Lofty are the two 
 most successful characters in this comedy. Goldsmith 
 has been given credit for originating these characters ; 
 this credit we cannot grant him. Goldsmith is said to 
 have admitted to Johnson that he was indebted for his 
 Croaker to Suspirius in the latter's Rambler (No. 59). 
 Just what a confession of this kind is worth when given 
 under the peculiar duress of Ursa Major is a ques- 
 tion. Striking similarity has been found to exist be- 
 tween three of the characters of this play, Croaker, 
 Leontine, and Olivia, and characters in the French 
 comedy, Le Grondeur, by Brueys and Palaprat (1692). 
 That Goldsmith knew this play at the time is ex- 
 tremely probable, but not certain, though it is known 
 that five years later, after the appearance of She 
 Stoops to Conquer he adapted a portion of Sedley's 
 version of it for Shuter under the title The Grumbler. 
 
 Lofty is by no means a new figure to the stage of
 
 XVI 
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 Goldsmith's time. The part of the affected fop was 
 in fact invented by Etheridge in his Sir Fopling Flut- 
 ter, and the part appears frequently in the simper- 
 ing " macaronies " of the eighteenth century stage 
 in Lord Foppington of Gibber's Careless Husband^ 
 in the Sir Novelty Fashion of Gibber's Lovers Last 
 Shift, in the Tom Fashion of Vanbrugh's Relapse, 
 and of Lee's Man of Quality, and in Daffodil of The 
 Male- Coquette. The name Sir Thomas Lofty was used 
 as recently as 1764 in Foote's The Patron. It may 
 even be said that the bragging fop is the eighteenth 
 century correspondent to the Latin and Elizabethan 
 braggart captain of the Miles Gloriosns type. Another 
 play by the French Brueys provides a French pro- 
 totype of Lofty. This is U Imjiortant de la Conr, 
 produced December 16, 1693, and dealing with a cox- 
 comb who pretends to extraordinary influence at court 
 and in high society. 
 
 An early critic of the play (in " The London Maga- 
 zine " for February, 1768) compares the scene with 
 the bailiffs with a scene in Racine's Les Plaideurs ; 
 the scene in which Honeywood attempts alternately 
 to espouse the opinions of Mr. and Mrs. Groaker with 
 a scene in Moliere's L^Avare; Honeywood's soliciting 
 of Miss Ricliland in favor of Lofty is compared with 
 Z/e Dissipateur by Dr. Touche. These similarities must 
 not be pushed too far ; neither must they be ignored. 
 Other similarities are no less striking. Lofty's detec- 
 tion and embarrassment should be compared with a 
 iike scene from Fielding's The Wedding Day. The 
 episode of Groaker's son Leontine and his supposed 
 sister from the Continent is closely paralleled in Ths
 
 INTRODUCTION rvii 
 
 Counterfeii Bridegroom (1677), which itself was prob- 
 ably altered by Mrs. Behn from Middleton's jVo Wit, 
 No Help^ Like a Womaiis. 
 
 In character, plot, and treatment, She Stoops to 
 Conquer is in every way more original than The 
 Good-Natured Man. The title of the play was para- 
 phrased from a line in Dryden, an author whose works 
 Goldsmith knew and loved, — 
 
 But kneels to conquer, and but stoops to rise. 
 
 This really excellent title was not chosen until the 
 last minute, the favorite suggestion up to this time 
 having been that of Reynolds, " The Belle's Strata- 
 gem," by adaptation from Farquhar's The Beaux* 
 Stratagem (1707). This title was later taken by Mrs. 
 Cowley for one of her comedies, which has, by the way^ 
 some points of similarity with Goldsmith's play. 
 
 It is probable that Goldsmith was not willing to 
 accept Reynolds's suggestion for a title on account 
 of the already striking similarities between his own 
 play and that of Farquhar. In each play, the leading 
 male parts are taken by two young men, Marlow and 
 Hastings corresponding with Aimwell and Archer, 
 who come down from London to make conquests in 
 the country. In each the action presumably takes place 
 in an inn, and in each the innkeeper has a daughter 
 to whom love is made under false pretenses ; in the 
 earlier play, by the young man's stratagem, in Gold- 
 smith's play, by the stratagem of the young woman. 
 In each a valuable casket is used for comic effect. 
 Finally, Goldsmith mentions Cherry, the innkeeper's 
 daughter, and the play itself in his own play. These
 
 sviii INTRODUCTION 
 
 points are not sufficient to show indebtedness. They 
 do reveal, however, a plausible reason why Goldsmith 
 was unwilling to call his play "The Belle's Stratagem." 
 There are words in the Epilogue first printed in Jlis- 
 cellaneous Works (1801) which seem to reveal a 
 particular appropriateness in the title finally chosen : 
 
 No high-life scenes, no sentiment; — the creature 
 Still stoops among the low to copy nature. 
 
 These words seem to give the title a double mean- 
 ing, for they indicate that not Miss Hard castle alone 
 was stooping, but that " stoops to conquer " provides 
 Goldsmith's own apology for the particular form of 
 drama which he composed. 
 
 Of all the characters in this play, the most unconven- 
 tional are those of Mrs. Hardcastle and her son Tony. 
 These were almost completely new to the English stage, 
 the only known prototypes being the Widow Black- 
 acre and her son Jerry of Wycherly's The Plain 
 Dealer ; there is a possibility that the latter widow 
 was an imitation of the Countess in Racine's comedy 
 Z/CS Plaidevrs, mentioned above. One circumstance 
 supports the theory that The Plain Dealer was in 
 Goldsmith's mind when writing his play, and that is a 
 parallel in the episode of the theft of the jewels. Such 
 a theft is also made a comedy expedient in Mollcre'.* 
 L'Avare. Fitzgerald in A New History of the English 
 Stage (vol. ii) tries to make it appear that Mr. and 
 Mrs. Hardcastle and their son Tony are patterned 
 after Mr. and Mrs. Aircastle and their son Toby in 
 Foote's The Cozeners. As a matter of fact. The Coz- 
 eners had its first appearance in the summer of 1774
 
 INTRODUCTION xix 
 
 (9th perfonxiance August 3). Foote was a famous 
 plagiary, and on him must rest the imputation of the 
 borrowing. These three characters remain Goldsmith's 
 most original contribution to the gallery of the stage. 
 More interesting than the pursuit of literary sources 
 is it to discover that two episodes of She Stoops t€ 
 Conquer are based on incidents in the author's own 
 life. These are the mistaking of a private house for 
 an inn, which is an essential factor of the plot, and is 
 based on a youthful experience of Goldsmith's while 
 still in his native Ireland ; the other is an allusion to 
 the tying of Mr. Hardcastle's wig to a chair, a trick 
 that had been played on Goldsmith while he was 
 writing the play. Both these incidents are told in 
 some detail in Forster's Life of Goldsmith. 
 
 Goldsmith as a Playwright. The merits of Gold- 
 smith as a playwright lie close to the surface, and are 
 easily discernible by a sympathetic reader. They are 
 made more manifest when one studies, as we have 
 done, the conditions under which the average drama 
 of his day was written. In the larger matters of struc- 
 ture and design, hardly an adverse criticism can be 
 made of these plays. The development of the story is 
 steady, unforced, and transparent from beginning to 
 end. One of Goldsmith's greatest gifts was clearness 
 of perception and expression. Whatever his opinion 
 may have been of language as an obscurer of thought, 
 his own practice was to make language richly expres- 
 sive. His peculiar theories of vis comica precluded 
 the treatment in his plays of those tenderer and more 
 humane characteristics that we find in his essays and
 
 XX INTRODUCTION 
 
 poems. He who limits his reading to Goldsmith's 
 plays sees only half the man. But within the limits of 
 the plays, Goldsmith was rigorously consistent with 
 his foreordained principles. His art of the stage was 
 something more than a return from stage types to 
 nature ; it depended upon an exaggeration of nature 
 for the purposes of the ludicrous. From these prin- 
 ciples grew all those characteristics for which Gold- 
 smith's plays were early condemned. They led natu- 
 rally to farce and to a straining of the verities. So the 
 scene of the bailiffs and Croaker's letter scene in TJiq 
 Good-Natured Man must be judged merely as they 
 make the audience merry ; and Tony's journey down 
 Featherbed Lane, forty miles away to his father's back 
 yard, can be considered true only in Farce, the fact 
 that such an event is said to have happened not serv- 
 ing in the least to make it veracious. 
 
 Though far ahead of the comedy of his time. Gold- 
 smith's comedy does not reach the glories of the comedy 
 of the Restoration age. Only once again, and that with 
 the diminished lustre of a Sheridan, did English comedy 
 show anything of the brilliancy, wit, epigram, and mar- 
 velous balance of the " poets of the last age." While 
 Goldsmith's second play gained in incident, and there- 
 fore, from the modern point of view, in acting quality, it 
 lost greatly in polish, repartee, and that real gentility 
 that marked the prime of English as well as of French 
 comedy. In short, had Goldsmith lived a century 
 earlier, The Good-Natured Man would have be<m 
 hailed as a better play than its successor. As it oc- 
 curred. The Good-Natured Man^ which was the more 
 decorous, was lost amid the inanity of a sentimental
 
 INTRODUCTION xxi 
 
 drama it was not vigorous enough successfully to com- 
 bat. She Stoops to Conquer^ more lusty with forces of 
 laughter, effectively demolished the old comedy, and 
 assumed an abiding place on the English stage. 
 
 To the student of drama it seems strange that there 
 did not proceed from these plays of Goldsmith a new 
 school of dramatists to do for drama what the roman- 
 ticists were to do for poetry. For here certainly were 
 the clear insight, the honest judgment, the sympathy 
 with nature, the constructive imagination, that are 
 essential to great literary movements. But Goldsmith 
 was not the father of a school. It was his lot to stand 
 as one of the last figures in an outgoing era, rather 
 than as a prophet of the new age. In his verse there 
 were keen, unmotived strains of a new romantic uplift 
 Yet he accepted without question the formulas of the 
 age of Johnson. In drama he was an isolated reformer 
 whose task was destined never to be completed. And 
 so it chances that the dramatic movement of which he 
 was a part must be considered as the last flowering 
 of a literary epoch which was even then coming to a 
 close. Not since the death of Congreve had the promise 
 for comedy been brighter than in 1773. But Gold- 
 smith died before he could write another play, and 
 Sheridan, after writing two comedies, went to pieces, 
 and he had no successor.
 
 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN 
 
 prefacp: 
 
 Whex I undertook to write a comedy, I confess I was 
 strongly prepossessed in favor of the poets of tlie last age,' 
 and strove to imitate them. The term, genteel coviedij, was 
 then unknown amongst us. and little more was desired by an 
 audience, than nature and immor, in whatever walks of life 
 they were most conspicuous. The author of the following 
 scenes never imagined that more would he expected of him, 
 and therefore to delineate character has been his principal 
 aim. Those who know anything of composition, are sensi- 
 ble that, in pursuing humor, it will sometimes lead us into 
 the recesses of the mean ; I was even tempted to look for it 
 in the master of a sponging-house ; '^ hut in deference to the 
 public taste, grown of late, perhaps, too delicate, the scene of 
 the bailiffs was retrenclied in the representation. In defer- 
 ence also to the judgment of a few friends, who think in a 
 particular way, the scene is here restored. The author sub- 
 mits it to the reader in his closet; and hopes tlnit too much 
 refinement will not banish humor and character from ours, 
 as it has already done from the French theatie. Indeed, the 
 French comedy is now become so very elevated and senti- 
 mental, that it has not only banished humor and Moliere 
 from the stage, but it has banished all s])ectators too. 
 
 Upon tlie whole, the autlior returns his thanks to the pub- 
 lic for tlie favorable rece|)tion which tlie Goocl-Natured Man 
 has met with; and to Mr. Culuian * in particular, for his 
 kindness to it. It may not also be improper to assure any, who 
 shall hereafter write for tlie theatre, that merit, or supposed 
 merit, will ever be a sufficient passport to his protection. 
 
 1 poets of the last age : In Letter xl of The Citizen of the 
 World GoliLsniith states the gTonnds of his [)refereiiee for the " poetr 
 of the last ag^e." Here " poets " iiicliuljs "' draniiitists." 
 
 - sponging-house : A. victualing' house where prisoners for debt 
 were kept penilliig- settlement. 
 
 " to Mr. Colman . . . for his kindness : Here Goldsmith cap 
 hardly he sincere, as it is well known he felt little gratitude to Colman.
 
 PROLOGUE * 
 
 WRITTEN BY DR. JOHNSON, SPOKEN BY MR. BENSLEY.2 
 
 Press'd by the load of life, the weary mind 
 
 Surveys the general toil of human kind ; 
 
 With cool submission joins the laboring train, 
 
 And social sorrow loses half its pain : 
 
 Our anxious bard, without complaint, may share 
 
 This bustling season's epidemic care, 
 
 Like Caesar's pilot,^ dignified by fate, 
 
 Toss'd in one common storm with all the great; 
 
 Distress'd alike, the statesman and the wit. 
 
 When one a borough courts, and one the pit. 
 
 The busy candidates for power and fame. 
 
 Have hopes, and fears, and wishes, just the same; 
 
 disabled both to combat, or to fly, 
 
 Must hear all taunts, and hear without reply. 
 
 Uncheok'd, on both loud rabbles vent their rage, 
 
 As mongrels bay the lion in a cage. 
 
 ' Prologue: This prologue, which reveals unusual melaiicholvj 
 was the only piece of Johnson's work given to tlie public in 17G8. 
 As first printed the fifth line read " our little hard," hut at Gold- 
 smith's request these words were changed. Writers of prologues 
 were not always complimentary. So Garrick refers to an author's 
 play as "his poetic brat." (Prologue to Eugenia.) 
 
 ' Mr. Bensley: Robert Bensley (1738-1817) was given his 
 first engagement by Garrick at Drnry Lane in 17G5. He then 
 went over to Covent Garden. His Lago and Malvolio were said 
 to be very good. 
 
 ' Caesar's pilot : The reference is to a story told by Plutarch 
 of Caesar's voyage across the Adriatic before making battle with 
 Pompey.
 
 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN 3 
 
 Th' offended burgess hoards his angry tale, 
 For that blest year when all that vote may rail ; 
 
 Their schemes of spite the poet's foes dismiss, 
 Till that glad night when all that hate may hiss. 
 " This day the powder'd curls and golden coat," 
 
 Says swelling Crispin,^ " begg'd a cobbler's vote." 
 "This night, our wit," the pert ajDprentice cries, 
 " Lies at my feet — I hiss him, -and he dies." 
 The great, 't is true, can charm th' electing tribe ; 
 The bard may supplicate, but cannot bribe. 
 Yet, judged by those whose voices ne'er were sold, 
 He feels no want of ill-persuading gold ; 
 But, confident of praise, if y^raise be due. 
 Trusts without fear, to merit, and to you. 
 
 1 Crispin ; A Christian martyr of Rome who became the 
 patron saint of shoemakers. The term is here sjTionymous with 
 " shoemaker."
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONS 
 
 MEN 
 
 M.r. Honeywood Mr. Powell. 
 
 Croaker Mr. Sluiter. 
 
 Loftif Mr. Woodward 
 
 Sir William Honeywood Mr. Clarke. 
 
 Leontine Mr. Beiisley. 
 
 Jarvis Mr. Diuistall. 
 
 Butler Mr. Ciisliiiig. 
 
 BaiUf Mr. R. Suiith. 
 
 Dubardieu Mr. Holtom. 
 
 Postboy Mr. Quick. 
 
 WOMEN 
 
 Misx Ricnland Mrs. Bulkley. 
 
 Olivia Mrs. Mattocks. 
 
 Mrs. Croaker Mrs. Pitt. 
 
 Garnet Mrs. Green. 
 
 Landlady . Mis. White^ 
 
 Scene — Loudoa
 
 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN 
 
 ACT THE FIRST 
 Scene, An apartment in young honeywood's piouse. 
 
 Enter Sir William Honeywood and Jarvis. 
 
 Sir William. Good Jarvis, make no apologies for 
 this honest bluntness. Fidelity like yours is the best 
 excuse for every freedom. 
 
 Jarvis. I can't help being blunt, and being very 
 angry, too, when I hear you talk of disinheriting so 
 good, so wortliy a young gentleman as your nephew, 
 my master. All the world loves him.^ 
 
 Sir William. Say rather, that he loves all the 
 world ; that is his fault. 
 
 Jarvis. I am sure there is no part of it more dear 
 to him than you are, though he has not seen you since 
 he was a child. 
 
 Sir William. What signifies this affection to me, 
 or how can I be proud of a place in a heart where 
 every sharper and coxcomb find an easy entrance ? 
 
 Jarviii. I grant you that he is rather too good- 
 natured ; that he 's too much every man's man ; that he 
 laughs this minute with one, and cries the next with 
 another ; but whose instructions may he thank for all 
 this? 
 
 Sir William. Not mine, sure? My letters to him 
 
 1 All the world loves him : In Mr. Biirchell's acconnt of 
 the character of Sir William Thoriihill in The Vicar of Wake' 
 Jield (chap, iii), similar sentiments are expressed.
 
 6 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN [Act I 
 
 during my employment in Italy taught him only that 
 philosophy which might prevent, not defend, his errors. 
 
 Jai'vis. Faith, begging your honor's pardon, I 'm 
 sorry they taught him any philosophy at all ; it has 
 only served to spoil him. This same philosophy is a 
 good horse in the stable, but an arrant jade on a jour- 
 ney. For my own part, whenever I hear him mention 
 the name on 't, I 'm always sure he 's going to play the 
 fool. 
 
 Sir William. Don't let us ascribe his faults to his 
 philosophy, I entreat you. No, Jarvis, his good nature 
 arises rather from his fears of offending the importu- 
 nate, than his desire of making the deserving happy. 
 
 Jarvis. What it rises from, I don't know. But, to 
 be sure, everybody has it that asks for it. 
 
 Sir William. Ay, or that does not ask it. I have 
 been now for some time a concealed spectator ^ of his 
 follies, and find them as boundless as his dissipation. 
 
 Jarvis. And yet, faith, he has some fine name or 
 other for them all. He calls his extravagance gener- 
 osity ; and his trusting everybody, universal benevo- 
 lence. It was but last week he went security for a fel- 
 low whose face he scarce knew, and that he called an 
 act of exalted mu — mu — munificence ; ay, that was 
 the name he gave it. 
 
 Sir William, And upon that I proceed, as my last 
 effort, though with very little hopes to reclaim him. 
 That very fellow has just absconded, and I have taken 
 up the security. Now, my intention is to involve him 
 in fictitious distress, before he has plunged himself 
 into real calamity ; to arrest him for that very debt ; ^ 
 
 ' concealed spectator: Note the similarity here to The 
 Vicar of Wakefield, in which also there is an uncle named Sir 
 William who secretly watches the fortunes of his family. 
 
 ' arrest him for . . . debt : Goldsmith himself bad been
 
 Act IJ THE GOOD-NATURED MAN 7 
 
 to clap an officer upon him, and then let him see which 
 of his friends will come to his relief. 
 
 Jarvis. Well, if I could but any way see him thor- 
 oughly vexed, every groan of his would be music to 
 me ; yet, faith, I believe it impossible. I have tried to 
 fret him myself every morning these three years ; but 
 instead of being angry, he sits as calmly to hear me 
 scold, as he does to his hair-dresser. 
 
 Sir William. We must try him once more, how- 
 ever, and I '11 go this instant to put my scheme into 
 execution ; and I don't despair of succeeding, as, by 
 your means, I can have frequent opportunities of being 
 about him, without being known. What a pity it is, 
 Jarvis, that any man's good-will to others should pro- 
 duce so much neglect of himself as to require correc- 
 tion ! Yet we must touch his weaknesses with a deli- 
 cate hand. There are some faults so neai'ly allied to 
 excellence, that we can scarce weed out the vice with- 
 out eradicating the virtue. [Exit. 
 
 Jarvis. Well, go thy ways, Sir William Honey- 
 wood. It is not without reason, that the world allows 
 thee to be the best of men. But here comes his hope- 
 ful nephew ; the strange, good-natured, foolish, open- 
 hearted — And yet, all his faults are such that one 
 loves him still the better for them. 
 
 Enter Honeywood. 
 
 HoHcywood. Well, Jarvis, what messages from my 
 friends this mornins: ? 
 
 Jarvis. You have no friends. 
 
 Honeywood . Well , from my acquaintance then ? 
 
 Jarvis. (^Pidlinrj out hills.^ A few of our usual 
 cards of compliment, that 's all. This bill from your 
 
 arrested for debt in 1764, and was held prisoner in bis owu bouse 
 until released by the good offices of Johnson.
 
 8 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN [Act I 
 
 tailor ; this from your mercer ; and this from the 
 little bioker in Crooked-lane.^ He says he has been 
 at a great deal of trouble to get back the money you 
 borrowed. 
 
 Honeywood. That I don't know ; but I am sure 
 we were at a great deal of trouble iu getting him to 
 lend it. 
 
 Jarvls. He has lost all patience. 
 
 Honeyioood. Then lie has lost a very good thing. 
 
 Jarvis. There 's that ten guineas you were sending 
 to the poor gentleman and his children in the Fleet. ^ 
 I believe they would stop his mouth for a while at 
 least. 
 
 Honeywood. Ay, Jarvis, but what will fill their 
 mouths in the mean time ? Must I be cruel because 
 he happens to be importunate ; and, to relieve his ava- 
 rice, leave them to insupj^ortable distress ? 
 
 Jarvis. 'Sdeath ! Sir, the question now is how to 
 relieve yourself; yourself. — Haven't I reason to be 
 out of my senses, when I see things going at sixes and 
 sevens ? 
 
 Iloneyvnood. Whatever reason you may have for 
 being out of your senses, I hope you '11 allow that I 'm 
 not quite unreasonable for continuing in mine. 
 
 Jarvis. You are tlie only man alive in your pre- 
 sent situation that could do so. Everything upon the 
 waste! There 's Miss EIchLind and her fine fortune 
 gone already, and upon the point of being given to 
 your rival. 
 
 Honeywood. I 'm no man's rival. 
 
 ' Crooked-lane : Cannon Street;, London ; a street of small 
 shops, mentioned also in She Stoops to Conquer (Act II). 
 
 ^ the Fleet : A famous Loiiflun prison dating from very early 
 times.
 
 Act I] THE GOOD-NATURED MAN 9 
 
 Jarvis. Your uncle in Italy preparing to disinherit 
 you; your own fortune iihnost spent; and notliing* but 
 pressing' creditors, false friends, and a pack of drunken 
 servants that your kindness has made unlit for any 
 other family. 
 
 Iloiicyinood. Then they have the more occasion for 
 being in mine. 
 
 Jarvis. Soh ! What will you have done with him 
 that I caught stealing your plate in the pantry? \n 
 the fact ; I caught him in the fact. 
 
 Iloiieijxaood. In the fact ? If so, I really think that 
 we should pay him his wages, and turn him off. 
 
 Jarvis. He shall be turned off at Tyburn,^ the dog; 
 we '11 hang him, if it be only to frighten the rest of 
 the family, 
 
 Honeywood. No, Jarvis; it's enough that we have 
 lost what he has stolen ; let us not atld to it the loss 
 of a fellow-creature ! 
 
 Jarvis. Very fine ! well, here was the footman just 
 now, to complain of the butler ; he says he does most 
 work, and ousrht to have most waires. 
 
 Honeyioood. That 's but just ; though perhaps here 
 comes the butler to complain of the footman. 
 
 Jarvis. Ay, it 's the way with them all, from the 
 scullion to the privy-counsellor. If they have a bad 
 master, they keep quarrelling with him ; if they have 
 a good nujster, they kee[) qiuirrelling with one another. 
 
 ]£nler Butler, drunk. 
 
 Butler. Sir, I '11 not stay in the family with Jona- 
 than ; you must part with liim, or part with me, that 's 
 the ex — ex — exposition of the matter, sir. 
 
 ' turned off at Tyburn : Tybiini was the regular place of ex- 
 ecution near London. Hanging was in these days the not unusual 
 punisliMient for petty crimes. See The Vicar of Wakefield (chap, 
 xv), " Don't you know, now, I could hang you all for this ? "
 
 10 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN [Act I 
 
 Honeywood. Full and explicit enough. But what 's 
 his fault, good Philip ? 
 
 Butler. Sir, he 's given to di-iuking, sir, and I shall 
 have my morals corrupted by keeping such company. 
 
 Honeywood. Ha ! ha ! he has such a diverting way — 
 
 Jarvis. Oh, quite amusing. 
 
 Butler. I find my wine 's a-going, sir ; and liquors 
 don't go without mouths, sir; I hate a drunkard, sir ! 
 
 Honeywood. Well, well, Philip, I '11 hear you upon 
 that another time ; so go to bed now. 
 
 Jarvis. To bed ! let him go to the devil ! 
 
 Butler. Begging your honor's pardon, and begging 
 your pardon, master Jarvis, I '11 not go to bed, nor to 
 the devil neither. I have enough to do to mind my 
 cellar. I forgot, your honor, Mr. Croaker is below. I 
 came on purpose to tell you. 
 
 Honeywood. Why did n't you show him up, block- 
 head? 
 
 Butler. Show him up, sir ? With all my heart, sir. 
 Up or down, all 's one to me. [Exit. 
 
 t/arvis. Ay, we have one or other of that family in 
 this house from morning till night. He comes on the 
 old affair, I suppose. The match between his son, that's 
 just returned from Paris, and Miss Richland, the young 
 lady he 's guardian to. 
 
 Honeywood. Perhaps so. Mr. Croaker, knowing my 
 friendship for the young lady, has got it into his head 
 that I can persuade her to what I please. 
 
 Jarvis. Ah ! if you loved yourself but half as well 
 as she loves you, we should soon see a marriage that 
 would set all things to rights again. 
 
 Honeywood. Love me! Sure, Jar vis, you dream. No, 
 no ; her intimacy with me never amounted to more than 
 friendshi^j — mere friendship. That she is the most
 
 Act I] THE GOOD-NATURED MAN 11 
 
 lovely woman that ever warmed the human heart with 
 desire, I own. But never let me harbor a thought of 
 making her unhappy, by a connection with one so un- 
 worthy her merits as I am. No, Jar vis, it shall be my 
 study to serve her, even in spite of my wishes ; and to 
 secure her happiness, though it destroys my own. 
 
 Jarvis. Was ever the like ! I want patience. 
 
 Honey wood. Besides, Jarvis, though I could obtain 
 Miss Richland's consent, do you think I could succeed 
 with her guardian, or Mrs. Croaker, his wife ; who, 
 though both very fine in their way, are yet a little 
 opposite in their dispositions, you know. 
 
 Jarvis. Opposite enough. Heaven knows! the very 
 reverse of each other; she, all laugh and no joke; he, 
 always complaining and never sorrowful ; a fretful, 
 poor soul, that has a new distress for every hour in 
 the four-and-twenty — 
 
 Honeywood. Hush, hush, he's coming up, he'll 
 hear you. 
 
 Jarvis. One whose voice is a passing bell ^ — 
 
 Honeywood. Well, well ; go, do. 
 
 Jarvis. A raven that bodes nothing but mischief ; 
 a coffin and cross-bones ; a bundle of rue ; a sprig of 
 deadly nightshade ; a — {Honeywood^ stopj)ing his 
 
 mouth at last, pushes him ojf.^ [Exit Jarvis. 
 
 Honeywood. I must own, my old monitor is not en- 
 tirely wrong. There is something in my friend Croak- 
 er's conversation that quite depresses me. His very 
 mirth is an antidote to all gaiety, and his appearance 
 has a stronger effect on my spirits than an undertaker's 
 shop. — Mr. Croaker, this is such a satisfaction — 
 
 Enter Croaker. 
 
 Croaker. A pleasant morning to Mr. Honeywood, 
 * a paBsing bell : a bell tolliug for the dying.
 
 12 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN [Act I 
 
 and many of them. How is this! You look most shock- 
 ingly to-day, my dear friend. I hope this weather does 
 not affect your spirits. To be sure, if this weather con- 
 tinues — I say nothing. But God send we be all better 
 this day three months ! 
 
 Uoneywood. I heartily concur in the wish, though, 
 I own, not in your apprehensions. 
 
 Croaker. May be not. Indeed, what signifies what 
 weather we have in a country going to ruin like ours? 
 Taxes rising and trade falling. Money flying out of 
 the kingdom, and Jesuits * swarming into it. I know 
 at this time no less than a hundred and twenty-seven 
 Jesuits between Charing Cross ^ and Temple Bar.^ 
 
 Honeywood. The Jesuits will scarce pervert you or 
 me, I should hoj^e. 
 
 Croaker. May be not. Indeed, what signifies whom 
 they pervert in a country that has scarce any religion 
 to lose? I'm only afraid for our wives and daughters. 
 
 Honeyivood. I have no apprehensions for the ladies, 
 I assure you. 
 
 * Jesuits : The Jesuits were the bogies of the eigliteenth cen- 
 tury. " Have I been all tliis time entertaining a Jesuit in parson's 
 clothes ! " says a character in The Vicar of Wakefield (chap. xix). 
 At this time the Jesuits offered no problem in politics nearer 
 than in Japan. 
 
 ' Charing Cross : A monument built in imitation of the cross 
 of stone erected, 1291-94, at what is now the junction of the 
 Strand, Whitehall, and Cocksiiur Street, to Eleanor, Queen of 
 Edward I, marking the last stage of the funeral procession to 
 Westminster Abbey. The plot of ground surrounding the cross 
 is now pretty well absorbed in Trafalgar Square. To-day it is 
 the point of the Charing Cross Eailway Station. " I think the fidl 
 tide of human existence is at Charing Cross." Johnson. (Hill's 
 Boswell, vol. ii, p. 3S6.) 
 
 ' Temple Bar: Up to 1878 a gateway separating the Strand 
 from Fleet Street, and the old city of London from the city of 
 Westminster. Not far from the rendezvous of Johnson's circle.
 
 Act I] THE GOOD-NATURED MAN 13 
 
 Croaker. May be not. Indeed, what signifies whether 
 they be perverted or no? The women in my time were 
 good for something. I have seen a lady dressed from 
 top to toe in her own maimfactures formerly. But 
 now-a-days, the devil a thing of their own manufac- 
 ture 's about them, except their faces. 
 
 Iloneywood. But, however these faults may be 
 practised abroad, yoa don't find them at home, either 
 with Mrs. Croaker, Olivia, or Miss Richland. 
 
 Croaker. The best of them will never be canonized 
 for a saint when she 's dead. By the bye, my dear 
 friend, I don't find this match between Aliss Rich- 
 land and my son much relished, either by one side or 
 t'other. 
 
 Honeywood. I thought otherwise. 
 
 Croaker. Ah, Mr. Honeywood, a little of your fine 
 serious advice to the young lady might go far : I know 
 she has a very exalted opinion of your undei'standing. 
 
 Ilonei/ivood. But would not that be usurping an 
 authority that more properly belongs to yourself ? 
 
 Croaker. My dear friend, you know but little of my 
 authority at home. People think, indeed, because they 
 see me come out in the m.orning thus, with a pleasant 
 face, and to make my friends merry, that all 's well 
 witliin. But I have cares that would break an heart 
 of stone. My wife has so encroached upon every one 
 of my ]nivileges, that I 'm now no more than a mere 
 lodger in my own house. 
 
 Iloneyioood. But a little spirit exerted on your side 
 might perhaps restore your authority. 
 
 Croaker. No, tliough I had the spirit of a lion ! I do 
 rouse sometimes. But what then? Always haggling 
 and hnggling. A man is tired of getting the better 
 before liis wife is tired of losing the victory.
 
 U THE GOOD-NATURED MAN [Act I 
 
 Honeyivood. It 's a melancholy consideration in- 
 deed, that our chief comforts often produce our great- 
 est anxieties, and that an increase of our possessions 
 is but an inlet to new disquietudes. 
 
 Croaker. Ah, my dear friend, these were the very 
 words of poor Dick Doleful to me not a week before 
 he made away with himself. Indeed, Mr. Honeywood, 
 I never see you but you put me in mind of poor 
 Dick. Ah, there was merit neglected for you ! and so 
 true a friend ! we loved each other for thirty years, 
 and yet he never asked me to lend him a single 
 farthing. 
 
 Iloneytvood. Pray what could induce him to com- 
 mit so rash an action at last ? 
 
 Croaker. I don't know : some people were malicious 
 enough to say it was keeping company with me ; be- 
 cause we used to meet now and then, and open our 
 hearts to each other. To be sure, I loved to hear him 
 talk, and he loved to hear me talk ; poor dear Dick ! 
 He used to say that Croaker rhymed to joker ; and so 
 we used to laugh — Poor Dick ! ( Going to cry.^ 
 
 Honnjwood. His fate affects me. 
 
 Croaker. Ay, he grew sick of this miserable life, 
 where we do nothing but eat and grow hungry, dress 
 and undress, get up and lie down ; while reason, that 
 should watch like a nurse by our side, falls as fast 
 asleep as we do. 
 
 Honeywood. To say a truth, if we compare that part 
 of life which is to come by that which we have past, 
 the prospect is hideous.^ 
 
 • the prospect is hideous : " If I slioiiUl judjj^e of that part 
 of life wliich lies before me, by that which 1 have already seen, 
 the prospect is hideous." The Citizen of the World, Letter 
 ixxiii.
 
 Act I] THE GOOD-NATURED MAN 15 
 
 Croaher. Life at the greatest and best is but a 
 froward child, that must be humored and coaxed 
 a little till it falls asleep, and then all the care is 
 over. 
 
 Honeywood. Very true, sir; nothing can exceed the 
 vanity of our existence but the folly of our pursuits. 
 We wept when we came into the world, and every day- 
 tells us why. 
 
 Croalcer. Ah, my dear friend, it is a perfect satis- 
 faction to be miserable with you. My son Leontine 
 shan't lose the benefit of such fine conversation. I '11 
 just step home for him. I am willing to show him so 
 much sei'iousness in one scarce older than himself. 
 And what if I bring my last letter to the Gazetteei\^ 
 on the increase and progress of earthquakes ? - It will 
 amuse us, I promise you. I there prove how the late 
 earthquake is coming round to pay us another visit, 
 from Londoia to Lisbon, from Lisbon to the Canary 
 Islands, from the Canary Islands to Palmyra, from 
 Palmyra to Constantinople, and so from Constanti- 
 nople back to London again. {Exit. 
 
 Honeyioood. Poor Croaker ! His situation deserves 
 the utmost pity. I shall scarce recover my spirits these 
 three days. Sure, to live upon such terms, is worse 
 than death itself. And yet, when I consider my 
 
 1 Gazetteer : The Gazetteer and London Dally Advertiser, 
 1754: and following. 
 
 2 earthquakes : Earthqnakes were held to come as retribu- 
 tion for sins of society. So the London earthquake of 1750 and 
 the Lisbon earthquake of 1755 caused a sensation that lasted a 
 score of years. As a result of the latter and the preaching of 
 Whitefield, mascjuerades were almost distiontinued. In 1763 
 Walpole writes, " We have never recovered masquerades sinc« 
 the earthquake at Lisbon," and in 1768 he says of a masquerade 
 at Ranelagh, " The bishops will call this giving an earthquake."
 
 16 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN [Act I 
 
 own situation, — a broken fortune, a hopeless passion, 
 friends in distress, the wish but not the power to serve 
 them — (^Pausing and sighing.^ 
 
 Enter Butler. 
 
 Butler. More company below, sir ; Mrs. Croaker 
 and Miss Richland ; shall I show them up ? But 
 they 're showing up themselves. [Exit. 
 
 Enter Mrs. Croaker and Miss Richland. 
 
 Miss Richland. You 're always in such spirits. 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. We have just come, my dear Hon- 
 ey wood, from the auction.^ There was the old deaf 
 dowager, as usual, bidding like a fury against her- 
 self. And then so curious in antiques ! herself, the 
 most genuine piece of antiquity in the whole collec- 
 tion. 
 
 Honeywood. Excuse me, ladies, if some uneasiness 
 from friendship makes me unfit to share in this good- 
 humor : I know you '11 pardon me. 
 
 3Irs. Croaker. I vow he seems as melancholy as if 
 he had taken a dose of my husband this morning. 
 "Well, if Richland here can pardon you, I must. 
 
 Miss Richland. You would seem to insinuate, 
 madam, that I have particular reasons for being dis- 
 posed to refuse it. 
 
 3lrs. Croaker. Whatever I insinuate, my dear, 
 don't be so ready to wish an explanation. 
 
 Miss Richland. I own I should be sorry Mr. 
 Honeywood's long friendship and mine should be mis- 
 understood. 
 
 Honeywood. There 's no answering for others, 
 
 1 the auction : A favorite diversion of eig^liteentli century- 
 people of quality. Note tliat Tony in She Stoops to Conquer is 
 first seen with an auctioneer's mallet iu his hand. See The 
 School fur Scandal, Act IV, Sc. 1.
 
 A-ctI] the GOOD-NATURED MAN 17 
 
 madam. But I hope you '11 never find me presuming 
 to offer more than the most delicate friendsliip may 
 readily allow. 
 
 Miss lilchland. And I shall be prouder of such a 
 tribute from you than the most passionate professions 
 from others. 
 
 Iloneywood. My own sentiments, madam : friend- 
 ship is a disinterested commerce between equals ; love, 
 an abject intercourse between tyrants and slaves. 
 
 Mls8 Richland. And, without a compliuient, I know 
 none more disinterested, or more capable of friendship, 
 than Mr. Honeywood. 
 
 3Irs. Croiiker. And, indeed, I know nobody that 
 Las more friends, at least among the ladies. Miss Fruzz, 
 Miss Oddbody, and Miss Winterbottom, praise him in 
 all companies. As for Miss Biddy Bundle, she's his 
 professed admirer. 
 
 Miss, Txicldand. Indeed! an admirer! Idid not know, 
 sir, you were such a favorite there. But is she seriously 
 so handsome? Is she the mighty thing talked of? 
 
 Honeyioood. The town, madam, seldom begins to 
 praise a lady's beauty till she 's beginning to lose it. 
 (^Smiling.') 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. But she 's resolved never to lose it, it 
 seems. For as her natural face decays, her skill improves 
 in making the artificial one. Well, nothing diverts me 
 more than one of those fine old dressy things, who thinks 
 to conceal her age by everywhere exposing her person ; 
 sticking herself up in the front of a side-box ; ^ trailing 
 
 * front of aside-box ; From Dol)son's notes to his Selections 
 from Steele we lejirii that early in the century it had been the 
 cnstoni for men to sit in the side-boxes and ladies in the front- 
 boxes. Even at this time it was considered worthy of comment 
 when women appeared in such a conspicuous place as a side-
 
 18 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN [Act I 
 
 through a minuet at Ahnack's ; ^ and then, in the pub- 
 lic gardens,^ looking, for all the world, like one of the 
 painted ruins of the place. 
 
 Honeywood. Every age has its admirers, ladies. 
 While you, perhaps, are trading among the warmer 
 climates of youth, there ought to he some to carry on 
 an useful commerce in the frozen latitudes beyond 
 fifty. 
 
 Miss HiMand. But, then, the mortifications they 
 must suffer, before they can be fitted out for traffic. I 
 have seen one of them fret a whole morning at her 
 hair-dresser, when all the fault was her face. 
 
 Honeywood. And yet, I '11 engage, has carried that 
 face at last to a very good market. This good-natured 
 town, madam, has husbands, like spectacles, to fit every 
 age, from fifteen to fourscore. 
 
 3Irs. Croaker. Well, you're a dear good-natured 
 creature. But you know you 're engaged with us this 
 morning upon a strolling party. 1 want to show Olivia 
 the town, and the things ; I believe I shall have busi' 
 ness for you for the whole day. 
 
 Iloiieytoood. I am sorry, madam, I have an appoint- 
 ment with Mr. Croaker, which it is impossible to put 
 off. 
 
 box. Five years later, Johnson and his party occupied the " front 
 row in a side-box " at tlie first perfoiniance of Goldsmith's She 
 Stoops to Conquer. (Cumberland's Memoirs.) 
 
 1 Almack's: Assembly rooms in King Street, St. James, 
 built in 1765. Entered into competition with Soho, which had long 
 been a favorite. 
 
 To charm the eyes at Almack's or Soho. 
 
 Gareick, Epilogue to False Dehcacy (17G8). 
 
 ' public gardens : Vauxhall Gardens were the most popular 
 in London. The " painted ruins " are the ruins of Palmyra that 
 formed a vista in these gardens.
 
 Act I] THE GOOD-NATURED MAN 19 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. What ! with my husband ! Then 
 I 'm resolved to take no refusal. Nay, I protest you 
 must. You know I never laugh so much as with you. 
 
 JLmeyivood. Why, if I must, I must. I'll swear 
 
 you have put me into such spirits. Well, do you find 
 
 jest, and 1 '11 find laugh, I promise you. We '11 wait 
 
 for the chariot in the next room. [Exeunt. 
 
 Enter Leontine and Olivia. 
 
 Leontlne. There they go, thoughtless and happy. 
 My dearest Olivia, what would I give to see you ca- 
 pable of sharing in their amusements, and as cheerful 
 as they are. 
 
 Olivia. How, my Leontine, how can I be cheerful, 
 when I have so }nany terrors to oppress me ? The fear 
 of being detected by this family, and the apprehensions 
 of a censuring world when I must be detected — 
 
 Leontine. The world, my love ! what can itsa}"? At 
 worst it can only say that, being com])elled by a mer- 
 cenary guardian to embrace a life you disliked, you 
 formed a resolution of flying with the man of your 
 choice ; that yon confided in his honor, and took refuge 
 in my father's house ; the only one where yours could 
 remain without censure. 
 
 Olivia. But consider, Leontine, your disobedience 
 and my indiscretion ; your being sent to France to 
 bring home a sister, and, instead of a sister, bringing 
 home — 
 
 Leontine. One dearer than a thousand sisters. One 
 that I am convinced will be equally dear to the rest of 
 the family, when she comes to be known. 
 
 Olivia. And that, I fear, will shortly be. 
 
 Leontine. Impossible, till we ourselves think proper 
 to make the discovery. My sister, you know, has been 
 with her aunt, at Lyons, since she was a child, and
 
 20 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN [Act 1 
 
 you find every creature in the family takes you for 
 her. 
 
 Olivia. But may n't she write, may n't Ler aunt 
 write? 
 
 Leontine. Fler aunt scarce ever writes, and all my 
 sister's letters are directed to me. 
 
 Olivia. But won't your refusing Miss Richland, for 
 whom you know the old gentleman intends you, create 
 a suspicion ? 
 
 Leontine. There, there 's my master-stroke. I have 
 resolved not to refuse her ; nay, an hour hence I have 
 consent(;d to go with my father to make her an offer 
 of my heart and fortune. 
 
 Olivia. Your heart and fortune! 
 
 Leontine. Don't be alarmed, my dearest. Can Olivia 
 think so meanly of my honor, or my love, as to suppose 
 I could ever hope for happiness from any but her? No, 
 my Olivia, neither the force, nor, permit me to add, the 
 delicacy of my passion, leave any room to suspect me. 
 I only offer Miss Richland an heart I am convinced 
 she will refuse ; as I am confident that, without know- 
 ing it, her affections are fixed upon Mr. Honeywood. 
 . Olivia. Mr. Honeywood ! You 'II excuse my appre- 
 hensions ; but when your merits come to be put in the 
 balance — 
 
 Leontine. You view them with too much partiality. 
 However, by making this offer, I show a seeming com- 
 pliance with my fatlter's connnands ; and perhaps, 
 upon her refusal, I may have his consent to choose for 
 myself. 
 
 Olivia. Well, I submit. And yet, my Leontine, I 
 own, I shall envy her even your pretended addresses. 
 I consider every look, every expression of j'our esteem, 
 af due only to me. This is folly, perhaps : I allow it,
 
 Act I] THE GOOD-NATURED MAN 21 
 
 but it is natural to suppose that merit which has made 
 an impression on one's own heart may be powerful over 
 that of another. 
 
 Leontlne. Don't, my life's treasure, don't let us 
 make imaginary evils, when you know we have so 
 many real ones to encounter. At worst, you know, if 
 Miss Richland should consent, or my father refuse his 
 pardon, it can but end in a trip to Scotland ; ^ and — • 
 
 Enter Croaker. 
 
 Croaher. Where have you been, boy? I have been 
 seeking you. My friend Honeywood here has been 
 saying such comfortable things. Ah, he 's an example 
 indeed! Where is he? I left him here. 
 
 Leontlne. Sir, I believe you may see him, and hear 
 him too, in the next I'oom ; he 's preparing to go out 
 with the ladies. 
 
 Croaher. Good gracious, can I believe my eyes or 
 my ears ! I 'm struck dumb with his vivacity, and 
 stunned with the loudness of his laugh. Was there 
 eversuch ati-ansformation! (^A laiighhehind the scenes; 
 Croaher mimics it.^ Ha! ha! ha! there it goes; a 
 plague take their balderdash ! Yet I could expect no- 
 thing less, when my precious wife was of the party. 
 On my conscience, I believe she could spread an horse- 
 laugh through the pews of a tabernacle. - 
 
 Leontlne. Since you find so many objections to a 
 
 * trip to Scotland: The belief that Scotland was a Gretna 
 Green for thwarted lovers often appears. " I 'd crawl to Scotland 
 on my hands and knees; nay I 'd live there all my days, so I 
 could bilk this elder brother with Miss Fairfax." The Choleric 
 Man, Act III, Scene 2. Goldsmith wrote an essay on Scotch 
 Marriages (1772). 
 
 ^ the pe'ws of a tabernacle: Whitefield's famous meetinrr. 
 house in Tottenham Court Koad. See Goldsmith's .4n £ssa2/ o?j 
 the Theatre : " as gloomy as at the Tabernacle."
 
 22 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN [Act I 
 
 wife, sir, how can you be so earnest in recommending 
 one to me ? 
 
 Croaker. I have told you, and tell you again, boy, 
 that Miss Richland's fortune must not go out of the 
 family; one may find comfort in the money, whatever 
 one does in the wife. 
 
 Leontine. But, sir, though, in obedience to your 
 desire, I am ready to marry her, it may be possible 
 she has no inclination to me. 
 
 Croaker. I '11 tell you once for all how it stands. A 
 good part of Miss Richland's large fortune consists in 
 a claim upon Government, which my good friend, Mr. 
 Lofty,* assures me the Treasury will allow. One-half 
 of this she is to forfeit, by her father's will, in case 
 she refuses to marry you. So, if she rejects you, we 
 seize half her fortune ; if she accepts you, we seize the 
 whole, and a fine girl into the bargain. 
 
 Leontine. But, sir, if you will but listen to reason — 
 
 Croaker. Come, then, produce your reasons. I tell 
 you, I 'm fixed, determined ; so now produce your rea- 
 sons. When I 'm determined, I always listen to reason 
 because it can then do no harm. 
 
 Leontine. You have alleged that a mutual choice 
 was the first requisite in mati'iinonial happiness. 
 
 Croaker. Well, and you have both of you a mu- 
 tual choice. She has her choice — to marry you, or 
 lose half her fortune ; and you have your choice — to 
 marry her, or pack out of doors without any fortune 
 at all. 
 
 Leontine. An only son, sir, might expect moi-e in- 
 dulgence. 
 
 ^ Mr. Lofty: As first written, Lofty's name was "Le Bronze." 
 Note a possible play on this name in Act II, Scene 1 (page 34), 
 when Lofty says, " Oh, there, indeed, I 'm iu bronze."
 
 Act I] THE GOOD-NATURED MAN 23 
 
 Croaher. An only father, sir, might expect more 
 obedience; besides, has not your sister here, that never 
 disobliged me in her life, as good a right as you ? lie 's 
 a sad dog, Livy, my dear, and would take all from you. 
 But he shan't, I tell you he shan't, for you shall have 
 your share. 
 
 Olivia. Dear sir, I wish you 'd be convinced that 
 1 can never be happy in any addition to my fortune 
 which is taken from his. 
 
 Croaker. Well, well, it 's a good child, so say no 
 more ; but come with me, and we shall see something 
 that will give us a great deal of pleasure, I promise 
 you : old Ruggins, the curry-comb maker, lying in 
 state. ^ I'm told he makes a very handsome corpse, 
 and becomes his coffin prodigiously. He was an 
 intimate friend of mine, and these are friendly things 
 we ought to do for each other. [Exeunt. 
 
 1 lying in state: The funeral customs of the eighteenth cen- 
 tury had often been ridiculed. Steele's Funeral, or Grief a la 
 Mode, remained popular on the stage throughout the century. 
 
 When Hopkins dies a thousand lights attend 
 The wretch, who living saved a candle's end. 
 
 Pope, Moral Essays, 3d Epistle. 
 
 See Walpole's Letters for November 1, 17C0, and March 27, 
 ITG-l, and Goldsmith's The Citizen of the World, Letters xii and 
 evi.
 
 ACT THE SECOND 
 
 Scene, Croaker's house. 
 
 Miss Richland, Garnet. 
 
 3Hss R'lcMcuid. Olivia not his sister? Olivia not 
 Leontine's sister? You amaze me ! 
 
 Garnet. No more Lis sister than I am ; I had it all 
 from his own servant ; I can get anything from that 
 quarter, 
 
 3Iiss Richland. But how? Tell me again, Garnet. 
 
 Garnet. Why, madam, as I told you before, instead 
 of going to Lyons to bring home his sister, who ha? 
 been there with her aunt these ten years, he never 
 went further than Paris ; there he saw and fell in love 
 with this young lady — by the bye, of a prodigious 
 family. 
 
 Miss Richland. And brought her home to my 
 guardian as his daughter? 
 
 Garnet. Yes, and his daughter she will be. If ho 
 don't consent to their marriage, they talk of trying 
 what a Scotch parson can do. 
 
 31iss Richland. Well, I own they have deceived 
 me — And so demurely as Olivia carried it too! — • 
 Would you believe it, Garnet, I told her all my secrets; 
 and yet the sly cheat concealed all this from me? 
 
 Garnet. And, upon my word, madam, I don't much 
 blame her ; she was loath to trust one with her secrets 
 that was so very bad at keeping her own. 
 
 Missi Richland. But, to add to their deceit, the 
 young gentleman, it seems, pretends to make me serious 
 proposals. My guardian and he are to be here presently,
 
 Act II] THE GOOD-NATURED MAN 
 
 9n 
 
 to o])en the affair in form. You know I am to lose half 
 my fortune if I I'efuse him. 
 
 Garnet. Yet, what can you do? For being, as you 
 aie, in love with Mr. Honey wood, madam — 
 
 3Iiss liichland. How! idiot, what do you mean? 
 In love with Mr. Honeywood ! Is this to provoke me? 
 
 Garnet. That is, madam, in friendship with him ; 
 I meant nothing more than friendship, as I hope to 
 be married ; nothing more. 
 
 Miss liichland. Well, no more of this. As to my 
 guardian and his son, they shall find me prepared to 
 receive them ; I 'm resolved to accept their proposal 
 with seeming pleasure, to mortify them by compliance, 
 and so throw the refusal at last upon them. 
 
 Garnet. Delicious ! and that will secure your whole 
 fortune to yourself. Well, who could iiave thought so 
 innocent a face could cover so much cuteness ! 
 
 Miss RicJdand. Wh}^ girl, I only oppose my pru- 
 dence to their cunning,^ and practise a lesson they have 
 taught me against themselves. 
 
 Garnet. Then you 're likely not long to want em- 
 ployment, for here they come, and in close conference. 
 
 Enter Croaker and Leontine. 
 
 Leontine. Excuse me, sir, if I seem to hesitate upon 
 tlie [joint uf putting to the lady so important a ques- 
 tion. 
 
 ' oppose my prudence to their cunning : Goldsmith had 
 
 evidently l)et'ii reading The Merchant of Venice when writing the 
 second act of tliis play. Compare Avith tiie above, " I do oppose 
 my j)atience to his fury " (Act IV, Sc. 1). Note also the simi- 
 larity between Miss Richland's next words and Shyloek's, "The 
 villainy yon teach me I will execute" (Act III, Sc. 1), and the 
 resemblance between the sncceeding comedy of Croaker and his 
 sou Leontine and the comic appeals of Old Gobbo and his son 
 Lauucelot before Bassanio (Act II, Sc. 2).
 
 26 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN [Act II 
 
 Croaker. Lord! good sir, moderate your fears; 
 you 're so plaguy shy, that one would think you 
 had changed sexes. I tell you we must have the half 
 or the whole. Come, let me see with what spirit you 
 begin. Well, why don't you? Eh! What? Well 
 then — I must, it seems — Miss Richland, my dear, 
 I believe you guess at our business ; an affair which 
 my son here comes to oj^en, that nearly concerns your 
 happiness. 
 
 Miss liichland. Sir, I should be ungrateful not to 
 be pleased with anything that comes recommended by 
 you. 
 
 Croaher. How, boy, could you desire a finer ojDen- 
 ing? Why don't you begin, I say? (7b LeontineS) 
 
 Leontlnc. 'Tis true, madam, my father, madam, has 
 some intentions — hem — of explaining an affair — 
 which — himself — can best explain, madam. 
 
 Croaher. Yes, my dear ; it comes entirely from my 
 son ; it's all a request of his own, madam. And I will 
 permit him to make the best of it. 
 
 Leontine. The whole affair is only this, madam ; 
 my father has a proposal to make which he insists none 
 but himself shall deliver. 
 
 Croaker. My mind misgives me, the fellow will 
 never be brought on. (Aside.) In short, madam, you 
 see before you one that loves you ; one whose whole 
 happiness is all in you. 
 
 Jfiss liichland. I never had any doubts of your 
 regard, sir-, and I hope 3'ou can have none of my 
 duty. 
 
 Croaher. That 's not the thing, my little sweeting ; 
 my love ! No, no, another-guess lover ^ than I ; there 
 
 1 another-guess lover : A lover of another sort. " Then we 
 should have things done in another-guess manner." The Vicar oj
 
 Act II] THE GOOD-NATURED MAN 21 
 
 he stands, madam ; his very looks declare the force of 
 his passion! — Call up a look, you dog — But then, 
 had you seen him, as I have, weeping, speaking solilo- 
 quies and blank verse, sometimes melancholy, and 
 sometimes absent — 
 
 Mias Itlchlarid. I fear, sir, he 's absent now ; or 
 such a declaration would have come most properly 
 from himself. 
 
 Croaker. Himself, Madam ! He would die before 
 he could make such a confession ; and if he had not a 
 cliannel for his passion through me, it would ere now 
 have drowned his understanding. 
 
 3Iiss Hichland. I must grant, sir, there are attrac- 
 tions in modest diffidence above the force of words. A 
 silent address is the genuine eloquence of sincerity. 
 
 Croaker. Madam, he has forgot to speak any other 
 language ; silence is become his mother-tongue. 
 
 3Hss Uichland. And it must be confessed, sir, it 
 speaks very powerfully in his favor. And yet I shall 
 be thought too forward in making such a confession ; 
 shan't I, Mr. Leontine? 
 
 Leontine. Confusion ! my reserve will undo me. 
 But, if modesty attracts her, impudence may disgust 
 her. I '11 try. (^Aside.^ — Don't imagine from my si- 
 lence, madam, that I want a due sense of the honor 
 and happiness intended me. My father, madam, tells 
 me your humble servant is not totally indifferent to 
 you. He admires you ; I adore you ; and when we 
 come together, upon my soul, I believe we shall be the 
 happiest couple in all St. James's.^ 
 
 Wakefield yc\v\\i. xix. See Browning's The Ring and the Book, IV", 
 1498. 
 
 ' in all St. James's : The fashionable district of London, SL 
 James's Parish, is referred to.
 
 28 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN [Act II 
 
 3Iiss Michland. If I could flatter myself you 
 thought as you speak, sir — 
 
 Leontlne. Doubt my sincerity, madam ? By your 
 dear self I swear ! Ask the brave if they desire glory 1 
 ask cowards if they covet safety — 
 
 Croaker. Well, well, no more questions about it. 
 
 Leontine. Ask tlie sick if they long for health ; ask 
 misers if they love mone^^, ask — 
 
 Croaker. Ask a fool if he can talk nonsense ! 
 What 's come over the boy ? What signifies asking, 
 when there 's not a soul to give you an answer ? If 
 you would ask to the purpose, ask this lady's consent 
 to make you happy. 
 
 3Iiss Hichland. Why, indeed, sir, his uncommon 
 ardor almost compels me, forces me to comply. And 
 yet I 'm afraid he '11 despise a conquest gained with 
 too much ease ; won't you, Mr. Leontine ? 
 
 Leontine. Confusion ! (^Aside.^ Oh, by no means, 
 madam, by no means. And yet, madam, you talked 
 of force. There is nothing I would avoid so much 
 as compulsion in a thing of this kind. No, madam, 
 I will still be generous, and leave you at liberty to 
 refuse. 
 
 Croaker. But I tell you, sir, the lady is not at lil>- 
 erty. It 's a match. You see she says notliing. Silence 
 gives consent. 
 
 Leontine. But, sir, she talked of force. Consider, 
 sir, the cruelty of constraining her inclinations. 
 
 Croaker. But I say there 's no cruelty. Don't you 
 know, blockhead, that girls have always a roundabout 
 way of saying yes before company ? So get you both 
 gone together into the next room, and hang him that 
 interrupts the tender explanation. Get you gone, J 
 say ; I '11 not hear a word.
 
 Act II] THE GOOD-NATURED MAN 29 
 
 Leontine. But, sir, I must beg leave to insist — 
 Croaker. Get off, you puj){)y, or I '11 beg leave to 
 insist upon knocking you down. Stupid whelp ! But I 
 don't wonder ; the boy takes entirely after his mother. 
 
 [Exeunt Miss Richland and Leontine. 
 Enter Mrs. Croaker. 
 
 J/rs. Croaker. Mr. Croaker, I bring you something, 
 my dear, that I believe will make you smile. 
 
 Croaker. I '11 hold you a guinea of that, my 
 dear. 
 
 Jlrs. Croaker. A letter; and, as I knew the hand, 
 I ventured to open it. 
 
 Croaker. And how can you expect your breaking 
 open my letters should give me pleasure? 
 
 3/rs. Croaker. Poo ! it 's from your sister at Lyons, 
 and contains good news ; read it. 
 
 Croaker. What a Frenchified cover is here ! That 
 sister of mine has some good qualities ; but I could 
 never teach her to fold a letter. 
 
 3frs. Croaker. Fold a fiddlestick ! Read what it 
 contains. 
 
 Croaker Qreading^. 
 
 Dear Nick, — An English gentleman., of large for- 
 tune, has for some time made private, though honor- 
 able proposals to your daug liter Olivia. They love 
 each other tenderly, and I find she has consented, 
 without letting any of the family knoio, to croion his 
 addresses. As such good offers don't cotne every day, 
 your oion good soise, his large fortune and family 
 considerations, will induce you to forgive her. 
 
 Vours ever, Kachakl Croaker. 
 
 My daughter Olivia privately contracted to a man of 
 large fortune I This is good news indeed ! My heart 
 never foretold me of this. And yet, how slyly the little
 
 30 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN [Act II 
 
 baggage has carried it since she canie home. Not a 
 word on 't to the okl ones for the world ! Yet I thonght 
 I saw something she wanted to conceaL 
 
 3Irs. Croaker. Well, if they have concealed their 
 amour, they shan't conceal their wedding; that shall 
 be public, I'm resolved. 
 
 Croaker. I tell thee, woman, the wedding is the 
 most foolish part of the ceremony. I can never get 
 this woman to think of the most serious part of the 
 nuptial engagement. 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. What would you have me think of, 
 their funeral? But come, tell me, my dear, don't you 
 owe more to me than you care to confess? Would you 
 have ever been known to Mr. Lofty, who has under- 
 taken Miss Richland's claim at the Treasury, but for 
 me? Who was it first made him an acquaintance at 
 Lady Shabbaroon's rout? Who got him to promise 
 us his interest? Is not he a back-stairs favorite, 
 one that can do what he pleases with those that do 
 what they please ? Is n't he an acquaintance that all 
 your groaning and lamentations could never have got 
 us? 
 
 Croaker. He is a man of importance, I grant you. 
 And yet, what amazes me is, that while he is giving 
 away places to all the world, he can't get one for him- 
 self. 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. That, perhaps, may be owing to his 
 nicety. Great men are not easily satisfied. 
 
 Enter French Servant. 
 
 Servant. An expresse ^ from Monsieur Lofty. He 
 vil be vait upon your honoi-s instanimant. He be only 
 giving four five instruction, read two tree memorial, 
 
 ' an expresse : A personal messenger; usually used only by 
 royalty.
 
 Act II] THE GOOD-NATURED MAN 31 
 
 call upon von anibassadeur. He vil be vid you in one 
 tree minutes. 
 
 Jlrs. Croaker. You see now, my dear. What an ex- 
 tensive department ! Well, friend, let your master know 
 tliat we are extremely honored by this honor. Was 
 there anything ever in a higher style of breeding? All 
 messages among the great are now done by express. 
 
 [iLxit French Servant. 
 
 Croaker. To be sure, no man does little things with 
 more solemnity, or claims more respect than he. But 
 he's in the right on 't. In our bad world, respect is 
 given where respect is claimed. 
 
 Jlrs. Croaker. Never mind the world, my dear ; 
 you were never in a pleasanter place in your life. Let 
 us now think of receiving him with proper respect — 
 (a loud rapping at the door^, — and there he is, by 
 the thundering rap. 
 
 Cj'oaker. Ay, verily, there he is! as close upon the 
 heels of his own express, as an endorsement upon the 
 back of a bill. Well, I '11 leave you to receive him, 
 whilst I go to chide my little Olivia for intending to 
 steal a marriage without mine or her aunt's consent. 
 I must seem to be angry, or she too may begin to de- 
 spise my authority. [Exit. 
 
 Enter Lofty, s})eaking to his Servant. 
 
 Lofty. And if the Venetian ambassador, or that 
 teasing creature, the Marquis, should call, I'm not at 
 home. Dam'me, I'll be pack-horse to none of them! 
 — My dear madam, I have jnst snatched a moment — 
 And if the expresses to his Gi'ace be ready, let them 
 be sent off; they're of importance. — Madam, I ask 
 ten thousand pardons ! 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. Sir, this honor — ■ 
 
 Lofty. And, Dnbardieu I If the person calls about
 
 32 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN [Act II 
 
 the commission, let him know that it is made out. As 
 for Lord Cumbercourt's stale request, it can keep cold : 
 you understand me. — Madam, I ask ten thousand, 
 pardons ! 
 
 3Irs. Croaker. Sir, this honor — 
 
 Lofty. And, Dabardieu! if the man comes from the 
 Cornish borough, you must do him ; you must do him, 
 I say. — Madam, I ask ten thousand pardons. — And if 
 the Russian ambassador calls; but he will scarce call 
 to-day, I believe. — And now, madam, I have just got 
 time to express my happiness in having the honor of 
 being permitted to profess myself your most obedient, 
 )iumble servant ! 
 
 Mi'8. Croaker. Sir, the happiness and honor are all 
 mine ; and yet, I 'm only robbing the public while I 
 detain you. 
 
 Lofty. Sink the public, madam, when the fair are 
 to be attended. Ah, could all my hours be so charm- 
 ingly devoted ! Sincerely, don't you pity us poor crea- 
 tures in affairs? Thus it is eternall}' ; solicited for 
 places here, teased for pensions there, and courted 
 everywhere. I know you pity me. Yes, I see you do. 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. Excuse nie, sir. " Toils of empires 
 pleasures are," as Waller sa3^s.^ 
 
 Lofty. Waller, Waller ; is he of the House ? 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. The modern poet of that name, 
 sir. 
 
 Lofty. Oh, a modern ! We men of business despise 
 the moderns ; and as for the ancients, we have no time 
 to read them. Poetry is a pretty thing enough for our 
 wives and daughters; but not for us. Why now, here 
 
 ' "Toils of empires": No such line can be found in the 
 works of Waller, an English poet (1G05-87), who dealt largely 
 ivith political topics.
 
 Act II] THE GOOD-NATURED MAN 33 
 
 I stand tljat know nothing of books, I say, madam, I 
 kaow nothing of books; and yet, I believe, upon a land- 
 carriage fishery,' a stamp act,- or a jaghire,^ I can talk 
 my two honrs without feeling the want of them. 
 
 J/rs. Croaker. The world is no stranger to ]\Ir. 
 Lofty's eminence in every capacit3\ 
 
 Lofty. I vow to gad, madam, you make me blush. 
 I'm nothing, nothing, nothing in the world: a mere 
 obscure gentleman. To be sure, indeed, one or two of 
 the present ministers are pleased to represent me as a 
 formidable man. I know they are pleased to bespatter 
 me at all their little dirty levees. Yet, upon my soul, 
 I wonder what they see in me to treat me so ! Mea- 
 sures, not men,'* have always been my mark; and I 
 vow, by all that 's honorable, my resentment has never 
 done the men, as mere men, any manner of harm — 
 that is, as mere Tuen. 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. What importance, and yet what 
 modesty ! 
 
 Lofty. Oh, if yovi talk of modesty, madam, there I 
 own, I 'm accessible to praise. Modesty is my foible ; 
 it was so the Duke of Brentford used to say of me, 
 " I love Jack Lofty," he used to say; " no man has a 
 finer knowledge of things; quite a man of information; 
 
 1 land-carriage fishery : Doljson says (Notes to Goldsmitli's 
 Plays, Belles-Lettres Series) tliat fish inacliines for carrying fish 
 to Loudon were inti-odueed in 1761. 
 
 ' stamp act : The question of American taxation had been 
 up in Tai'liament since 1764, and in the debates that followed, 
 Goldsmitli's friend Burke liad taken an active ])art. 
 
 3 jaghire: A term arising from England's traffic in India ; 
 meaning an assignment of government produce to a person as an 
 anmiity. See Burke's Impeachment of Warren Hastings, Fifth Day. 
 
 * Measures, not men: Compare this with Burke's "Of this 
 stamp is the cant of Not men but measures." Thoughts on the Cause 
 of Prespnt Dlsrnntents.
 
 34 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN [Act II 
 
 and, when he speaks upon his legs, by the Lord, he 's 
 prodigious, he scouts them ; and yet all men have their 
 faults ; too much modesty is his," says his Grace. 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. And yet, I dare say, you don't 
 want assurance when you come to solicit for your 
 friends. 
 
 Lofty. Oh, there, indeed, I 'm in bronze.* Apropos, 
 I have just been mentioning Miss Richland's case to a 
 certain personage ; we must name no names. When T 
 ask, I 'm not to be put off, madam. No, no, I take my 
 friend by the button. — "A fine girl, sir ; great justice 
 in her case. A friend of mine — borough interest — 
 business must be done, Mr. Secretary. — I say, Mr. 
 Secretary, her business must be done, sir." — That's 
 my way, madam ! 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. Bless me ! you said all this to the 
 Secretary of State, did you .? 
 
 Lofty. I did not say the Secretary, did I? Well, 
 curse it, since you have found me out, I will not deny 
 it. It was to the Secretary. 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. This was going to the fountain-head 
 at once, not applying to the understrappers, as Mr. 
 Honeywood would have had us. 
 
 Lofty. Honeywood ! he ! he ! He was, indeed, a fine 
 solicitor. I suppose you have heard what has just hap- 
 pened to him ? 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. Poor dear man, no accident, I hope ? 
 
 Lofty. Undone, madam, that 's all. His creditors 
 have taken him into custody. A prisoner in his own 
 house. ^ 
 
 ' I'm in bronze: brazen. See note on Mr. Lofty, Act 1, 
 page 22. 
 
 2 prisoner in his o-ro-n house: See note on arrest him for 
 , . . debt, Act 1, page 6.
 
 Act II] THE GOOD-NATURED MAN 35 
 
 Mrs. Croaher. A prisoner in his own house ! How I 
 At this very time! I 'lu quite unhappy for him. 
 
 Lofty. Why, so am I. The man, to be sure, was 
 immensely good-natured. But then, I could never find 
 that he had anything in him. 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. His manner, to be sure, was exces- 
 sive harmless ; some, indeed, thought it a little dull. 
 For my part, I always concealed my opinion. 
 
 Lofty. It can't be concealed, madam ; the man was 
 dull — dull as the last new comedy! ^ A poor, imprac- 
 ticable creature ! I tried once or twice to know if he 
 was fit for business ; but he had scarce talents to be 
 groom-porter to an orange-barrow. 
 
 3Irs. Croaher. How differently does Miss Richland 
 think of him! For, I believe, with all his faults, she 
 loves him. 
 
 Jjofty. Loves him ! does she? You should cure her 
 of that by all means. Let me see; what if she were 
 sent to him this instant, in his present doleful situa- 
 tion? My life for it, that works her cure. Distress is 
 a perfect antidote to love. Suppose we join her in 
 the next room ? Miss Richland is a fine girl, has a 
 fine fortune, and must not be thrown away. Upon mj 
 honor, madam, I have a regard for Miss Richland; 
 and, rather than she should be thrown away, I sliould 
 think it no indignity to marry her myself. \^Exeunt. 
 
 Enter Olivia and Leontine. 
 
 Leontinc. And yet, trust me, Olivia, I had every 
 reason to expect Miss Richland's refusal, as I did 
 everything in my power to deserve it. Her indelicacy 
 surprises me. 
 
 ' dull as the lastne^w comedy; The genteel comedies were 
 in fact quite dull. Goldsniitli could hardly have had a particular 
 comedy in mind.
 
 36 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN [Act II 
 
 Olivia. Sui-e, Leontine, tliere is nothing so indeli- 
 cate in being sensible of your merit. If so, I fear I 
 shall be the most guilty thing alive. 
 
 Leontine. But you mistake, my clear. The same 
 attention I used to advance my merit with you, I prac- 
 tised to lessen it with her. What more could I do? 
 
 Olivia. Let us now rather consider what is to be 
 done. We have both dissembled too long. — I have 
 always been ashamed — I am now quite weary of it. 
 Sure, I could never have undergone so much for any 
 other but you. 
 
 Leontine. And you shall find my gratitude equal to 
 your kindest compliance. Though our friends should 
 totally forsake us, Olivia, we can draw upon content 
 for the deficiencies of fortune. 
 
 Olivia. Then why should we defer our scheme of 
 humble happiness, when it is now in our power ? I 
 may be the favorite of your father, it is true ; but can 
 it ever be thought that his present kindness to a sup- 
 posed child will continue to a known deceiver? 
 
 Leontine. I have many reasons to believe it will. 
 As his attachments are but few, they are lasting. His 
 own marriage was a private one, as ours may be. 
 Besides, I have sounded him already at a distance, 
 and find all his answers exactly to our wish. Nay, by 
 an expression or two that dropped from him, I am 
 induced to think he knows of this affair. 
 
 Olivia. Indeed I But that would be a happiness too 
 great to be expected. 
 
 Leontine. However it be, I 'm certain you have 
 power over him ; and am persuaded, if you informed 
 him of our situation, that he would be disposed to par- 
 don it. 
 
 Olivia. You had equal expectations, Leontine. from
 
 Act II] THE GOOD-NATURED MAN 37 
 
 your last scheme with Miss llichland, which you find 
 has succeeded most wretchedly. 
 
 Ijcontliic. And that's tlie best reason for trying 
 another. 
 
 Olivia. If it must be so, I submit. 
 
 Leontine As we could wish, he comes this way. 
 Now, my dearest Olivia, be resolute. I '11 just retire 
 within hearing, to come in at a proper time, either to 
 share your danger, or confirm 3'our victory. {Exit. 
 
 Enter Croaker. 
 
 Croaker. Yes, I must forgive her; and yet not too 
 easily, neither. It will be proper to keep up the deco- 
 rums of resentment a little, if it be only to impress her 
 with an idea of my authority. 
 
 Olivia. How I tremble to approach him! — Might 
 I presume, sir — if I interrupt you — 
 
 Croaker. No, child, where I have an affection, it 
 is not a little thing can interrupt me. Affection gets 
 over little things. 
 
 Olivia. Sir, you 're too kind. I 'm sensible how ill 
 I deserve this partiality. Yet, Heaven knows, there is 
 nothing I would not do to gain it. 
 
 Croaher. And you have but too well succeeded, you 
 little hussy, you. With those endearing ways of 3'ours, 
 on my conscience, I could be brought to forgive any- 
 thing, unless it were a very great offence indeed. 
 
 Olivia. But mine is such an offence — When you 
 know my guilt — Yes, you shall know it, though I 
 feel the greatest pain in the confession. 
 
 Croaher. Why, then, if it be so very great a pain 
 you may spare yourself the trouble ; for I know every 
 syllable of the matter before you begin. 
 
 Olivia. Indeed ! then I 'm undone ! 
 
 Croaher. Ay, miss, you wanted to steal a match,
 
 38 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN [Act II 
 
 without letting me know it, did you? But I'm not 
 v;orth being consulted, I suppose, when there 's to be 
 a marriage in my own family! No, I'm to have no 
 hand in the disposal of my own children ! No, I 'm 
 nobody ! I 'm to be a mere article of family lumber ; 
 a piece of cracked china, to be stuck up in a corner ! ^ 
 
 Olivia. Dear sir, nothing but the dread of youi 
 authority could induce us to conceal it from you. 
 
 Croaker. No, no, my consequence is no more ; I 'm 
 as little minded as a dead Kussian in winter, just 
 stuck up with a pipe in its mouth till tliere comes a 
 thaw — It goes to my heart to vex her. (^Aside.^ 
 
 Olivia. I was prepared, sir, for your anger, and 
 despaired of pardon, even while I presumed to ask it. 
 But your severity shall never abate my affection, as 
 my punishment is but justice. 
 
 Croaker. And yet you sliould not despair, neither, 
 Livy. We ought to hope all for the best. 
 
 Olivia. And do you permit me to hope, sir? Can 
 I ever expect to be forgiven ? But hope has too long 
 deceived me. 
 
 Croaker. Why then, child, it shan't deceive you 
 now, for I forgive you this very moment. I forgive 
 you all ; and now you are indeed my daughter. 
 
 Olivia. Oh transport ! this kindness overpowers 
 me ! 
 
 1 cracked china, to be stuck up in a corner: Compare 
 with this a line in Goldsmith's Description of an Author's Bed- 
 chamber : — 
 
 Anil five crack'd teacups dress'd the chimney-board, 
 
 and lines in The Deserted Village : — 
 
 While broken teacups, wisely kept for show, 
 Ranged o'er the chimney, glisten'd in a row. 
 
 Is not this, as H. W. Boynton thinks of a like passage in The 
 Vicar of Wakefield, a reminiscence of Goldsmith's early home ?
 
 Act II] THE GOOD-NATURED MAN 39 
 
 Croaker. I was always against severity to our cbil- 
 Jien. We have been young and giddy ourselves, and 
 we can't expect boys and girls to be old before their 
 time. 
 
 Olivia. AVhat generosity ! But can you forget the 
 many falsehoods, tlie dissimulation — 
 
 Croaker. You did indeed dissemble, you urchin,' 
 you; but where 's the girl that won't dissemble for an 
 husband ? My wife and I had never been married, if 
 we had not dissembled a little beforehand. 
 
 Olivia. It shall be my future care never to put 
 such generosity to a second trial. And as for the part- 
 ner of my offence and folly, from his native honor, 
 and the just sense he has of his duty, I can answer 
 for him that — 
 
 Enter Leontine. 
 
 Leontine. Permit him thus to answer for himself. 
 (^Kneeling.') Thus, sir, let me speak my gratitude for 
 this unmerited forgiveness. Yes, sir, this even exceeds 
 all your former tenderness : I now can boast the most 
 indulgent of f;itliers. The life he gave, compared to 
 this, was but a trifling blessing. 
 
 Croaker. And, good sir, who sent for you, with that 
 fine tragedy face, and flourishing manner? I don't 
 know what we have to do with your gratitude upon 
 this occasion. 
 
 Leontine. How, sir! is it possible to be silent, -when 
 so much obliged? Would yon refuse me the pleasure 
 of being grateful? Of adding my thanks to my Oliv- 
 ia's ? Of sharing in the transports that you have thus 
 occnsioned? 
 
 Croitlcer. Lord, sir, we can be happy enough without 
 
 1 you urchin: Usually applied to boys. Here used with a 
 
 playful significance.
 
 40 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN [Act II 
 
 your coming in to make up the party. I don't know 
 what 's the matter with the boy all this day ; he has got 
 into such a rhodomontade ^ manner all this morning! 
 
 Leontine. But, sir, I that have so large a part in 
 the benefit, is it not my duty to show my joy? Is tlie 
 being admitted to your favor so slight an obligation ? 
 Is the happiness of marrying my Olivia so small a 
 blessing ? 
 
 Croalcer. Marrying Olivia! marrying Olivia! mar- 
 rying his own sister ! Sure the boy is out of his 
 senses. His own sister ! 
 
 Leontine. My sister ! 
 
 Olivia. (^Aside.^ Sister ! how have I been mis- 
 taken ! 
 
 Leontine. (^Aside.'j Some cursed mistake in all 
 this I find. 
 
 Croalcer. What does the booby mean, or has he 
 any meaning? Eh, what do you mean, you blockhead, 
 you? 
 
 Leontine. Mean, sir? — why, sir — only when my 
 sister is to be married, that I have the pleasure of 
 marrying her, sir, that is, of giving her away, sir, — 
 I have made a point of it. 
 
 Croaker. Oh, is that all? " Give her away." You 
 " have made a point of it." Then you had as good 
 make a point of first giving away yourself, as I'm 
 going to prepare the writings between you and Miss 
 Richland this very minute. What a fuss is here about 
 nothing! Why, what's the matter now? I thought I 
 had made you, at least, as happy as you could wish. 
 
 Olivia. Oh, yes, sir ; very happy. 
 
 Croaker. Do you foresee anything, child? You 
 
 ' rhodomontade : bluster. Rodoinonte was a boastful Moor- 
 ish kiu!^ iu Ariosto's Orlando Innamorato and Orlando Furioso.
 
 Act III] THE GOOD-NATURED MAN 41 
 
 look ;ks if you did, I think if anytliing was to be fore- 
 seen, I have as sharp a lookout as another; and. yet 1 
 foresee notliing". [Exit. 
 
 Leontine and Olivia. 
 
 Olivia. What can it mean? 
 
 Leontine. He knows something, and yet, for my 
 life, I can't tell what. 
 
 Olivia. It can't be the connection between us, I'm 
 pretty certain. 
 
 Leontine. Whatever it be, my dearest, I 'm resolved 
 to put it out of fortune's power to repeat our mortifi- 
 cation. I'll haste and prepare for our journey to Scot- 
 land, this very evening. My friend Honeywood has 
 promised me his advice and assistance. I '11 go to him 
 and repose our distresses on his friendly bosom ; and 
 I know so much of his honest heart, that if he can't 
 relieve our uneasinesses, he will at least share them. 
 
 {Exeunt. 
 
 ACT THE THIRD 
 
 Scene, Youxg honeywood's house.* 
 
 Bailiff, Honeyicood, Follower. 
 
 Bailiff. Lookye, sir, I have arrested as good men 
 as you iu my time; no disparagement of you neither: 
 men that would go forty guineas on a game of cribbage. 
 I challenge the town to show a man in more genteeler 
 pi-actice than myself ! 
 
 Iloncijirood. Without all question, Mr. I for 
 
 get your name, sir.'' 
 
 ' Scene of bailiffs: Tliis scene was witlidrawn after the first 
 perfoiniiiDce. It was, liowever, included in the published editioUf 
 and was returned to the stage May 3, 1773.
 
 42 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN [Act III 
 
 Bailiff. How can j^ou forget what you never knew? 
 he, he, he! 
 
 Honeyicood. May I beg leave to ask your name? 
 
 Bailiff. Yes, you may. 
 
 Honeywood. Then, pray, sir, what is your name, sir? 
 
 BaiHff\ That I did n't promise to tell you. He, he, 
 he ! A joke breaks no bones, as we say among us that 
 practice the law. 
 
 Honeywood. You may have reason for keeping it 
 a secret, perhaps? 
 
 Bailiff. The law does nothing without reason. I'm 
 ashamed to tell my name to no man, sir. If you can 
 show cause, as why, upon a special capus,^ that I 
 should prove my name — But come, Timothy Twitch 
 is my name. And, now you know my name, what have 
 you to saj^ to that? 
 
 Honeywood. Nothing in the world, good Mr. Twitch, 
 but that I have a favor to ask, that 's all. 
 
 Bailiff. Ay, favors are more easily asked than 
 granted, as we say among us that practice the law. I 
 have taken an oath against granting favors. Would 
 you liave me perjure myself? 
 
 Honeyicood. But my request will come recom- 
 mended in so strong a manner, as I believe you 'U 
 have no scruple Qndling out his jmrse^. The thing is 
 only this : I believe I shall be able to discharge this 
 trifle in two or three days at farthest ; but as I would 
 not have the affair known for the world, I have 
 thoughts of keeping you, and your good friend here, 
 about me, till the debt is discharged ; for which I shall 
 be properly grateful. 
 
 Bailiff. Oh ! that 's another maxum,- and altogether 
 
 ' capus : For capias, a writ of arrest. 
 ^ masum : Maxim.
 
 A.CT III] THE GOOD-NATURED MAN 43 
 
 within my oath. For certain, if an honest man is to 
 get anything by a thing, there 's no reason why all 
 things should not be done in civility. 
 
 Iloneywood. Doubtless, all trades must live, Mr. 
 Twitch ; and yours is a necessary one. {Gives him 
 moiicy.') 
 
 Bailiff, Oh ! your honor ! I hope your honor takes 
 nothing amiss as I does, as I does nothing but my duty 
 in so doing. I'm sure no man can say I ever give a 
 gentleman, that was a gentleman, ill usage. If I saw 
 that a gentleman was a gentleman, I have taken money 
 not to see him for ten weeks together. 
 
 Honeyioood. Tenderness is a virtue, Mr. Twitch. 
 
 Bailiff. Ay, sir, it 's a perfect treasure. I love to 
 see a gentleman with a tender heart. I don't know, 
 but I think I have a tender heart myself. If all that 
 I have lost by my heart was put together, it would 
 make a — but no matter for that. 
 
 Iloneywood. Don't account it lost, Mr. Twitch. 
 The ingratitude of the world can never deprive us of 
 the conscious happiness of having acted with human- 
 ity ourselves. 
 
 Bailiff. Humanity, sir, is a jewel. It 's better than 
 gold. I love humanity. People may say that we, in 
 our way, have no humanity ; but I '11 show you my 
 humanity this moment. There's my follower here, 
 little Flanigan, with a wife and four children ; a 
 guinea or two would be more to him than twice as 
 much to another. Now, as I can't show him any hu- 
 manity myself, I must beg leave you '11 do it for me. 
 
 Iloneywood. I assure you, Mr. Twitch, yours is a 
 most powerful recommendation. {Givi7ig money to 
 the folloiiier.') 
 
 Bailiff\ Sir, you 're a gentleman. I see you know
 
 44 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN [Act III 
 
 wliut to do with yoin- money. But, to business ; we are 
 to be with you here as your friends, I suppose. But 
 set in ease ^ company conies. — Little Flanigan here, to 
 be sure, has a good face ; a very good face ; but then, 
 he is a little seedy, as we say among us that practice the 
 law. Not well in clothes. Smoke " the pocket-holes. 
 
 Uoneywood. Well, that shall be remedied without 
 delay. 
 
 Enter Servant. 
 
 Servant. Sir, Miss Kichland is below. 
 
 Honey wood. How unlucky I Detain her a moment. 
 AVe must improve, iny good friend, little JMr. Flani- 
 gan's appearance first. Here, let Mr. Flanigan have a 
 suit of my clothes — quick — the brown and silver — 
 Do you hear? 
 
 Servant. That your honor gave away to the beggiig 
 gentleman that makes verses, because it was as good 
 as new. 
 
 Iloneyioood. The white and gold then. 
 
 Servant. That, your honor, I made bold to sell, be- 
 cause it was good for nothing. 
 
 Iloneywood. AVell, the first that comes to hand then. 
 The blue and gold. I believe Mr. Fianiuan would look 
 
 best in blue. [Exit Flanigan. 
 
 BuUiff. Rabbit me,^ but little Flanigan will look 
 
 ' set in case : Originally " set a case," meaning suppose, as- 
 sume. {Standard Dictionary.) 
 
 2 Smoke : To look at, contemplate, sometimes sneeringly. 
 Compare 
 
 With Bulky eye lie smoakM the patient man. 
 
 {A line in an uncompleted poem by Goldsmith, quoted in Forster, 
 Life, Book II, cliap. v.) See also Goldsmith's The Vicar of Wake- 
 Jield, chap. vii. 
 
 •'' Rabbit me : From the French rehatlrp, equivalent to Beal 
 me ! Tony uses the exclamation often in She Stoops to Conquer.
 
 Act III] THE GOOD-NATURED MAN 45 
 
 well in anytlunj^. Ah, if your honor knew that bit of 
 flesh as well as I do, you 'd be perfectly in love with 
 him. There 's not a prettier scout in the four counties 
 after a sliycock ^ than he. Scents like a hound ; sticks 
 like a wea.sel. He was master of the ceremonies to 
 the black Queen of Morocco ^ when I took him to fol- 
 low me. (^Re-enter l^lanigan.^ Heh, ecod, I think he 
 looks so well that I don't care if I have a suit from 
 tiie same place for myself. 
 
 Iluneijivood. Well, well, I hear the lady coming. 
 Dear Mr. Twitch, I beg you '11 give your friend di- 
 rectious not to speak. As for yourself, I know you 
 will say nothiug without being directed. 
 
 Bailiff. Never you fear me; I'll show the lady 
 I have something to say for myself as well as an» 
 other. One man has one way of talking, and another 
 man has another, that 's all the difference between 
 them. 
 
 Enter Miss liicldund and Garnet. 
 
 3Iiss Jiicldand. You '11 be surprised, sii% with this 
 visit. But you know I'm yet to thank you for choos- 
 ing my little library. 
 
 Honeywood. Thanks, madam, are unnecessary, as 
 it was I that was obliged by your counnands. Chairs 
 liere. Two of my very good friends, Mr. Twitch and 
 Mr. Flanlgan. Pray, gentlemen, sit without ceremony. 
 
 J/L^s Richland. (^Aside.^ Who can these odd-look- 
 ing men be ? I fear it is as I was informed. It must 
 be so. 
 
 Bailiff. (^After a pause.) Pretty weather; very 
 pretty weather for the time of the year, madam. 
 
 • shycock : AccordiiiQ^ to Dobson, an evasive rlehtor. 
 ^ black Queen of Morocco : The reference is to a comic 
 figure in the then pupuhir puppet plays.
 
 46 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN [Act III 
 
 Follower. Very good circuit weather ^ in the coun- 
 try. 
 
 Honeywood. You officers are generally favorites 
 among the ladies. My friends, madam, have been 
 upon very disagreeable duty, I assure you. The fair 
 should, in some measure, recompense the toils of the 
 brave. 
 
 Miss Richland. Our officers do indeed deserve 
 every favor. The gentlemen are in the marine ser- 
 vice, I presume, sir? 
 
 Honeywood. Wh}^ madam, they do — occasionally 
 serve in the Fleet,^ madam. A dangerous service ! 
 
 Miss Richland. I 'm told so. And I own it has 
 often surprised me, that while we have had so many 
 instances of bravery there, we have had so few of wit 
 at home to praise it. 
 
 Honeywood. I grant, madam, that our poets have 
 not written as our sailors have fought ; but they have 
 done all they could, and Hawke ^ or Amherst * could 
 do no more. 
 
 Miss Richland. I 'm quite displeased when I see a 
 fine subject spoiled by a dull writer.^ 
 
 1 circuit •weather: Good weather for riding circuit. 
 
 "^ the Fleet : A play oii words, the equivocation being be- 
 tween the navy and the famous prison in which state offenders 
 and prisoners for debt were kept. 
 
 3 Hawke : Edward, Lord Ilawke (1705-81), an English Ad- 
 miral, defeated tlie French off Btdleisle, 1759. 
 
 ^ Amherst : John Amherst (1718(?)-78) was appointed ad- 
 miral in 17l>5. His brother Jeffrey, Lord Amherst, was a famous 
 o-eneral, at tiiis time governor of Virginia. 
 
 ' a dull writer : '• How yon may relish being called Holo- 
 fernes I do not know; but I do not like at least to phiy Good- 
 man Dull," is Goldsmith's most famous retort to Joluison. The 
 contempt for the tedious and dull was characteristic of Gold- 
 smith.
 
 Act III] THE GOOD-NATURED MAN 47 
 
 IToneyvjood. We should not be so severe .ifjfainst 
 dull writers, madam. It is ten to one but tlie dullest 
 writer exceeds the most rigid French critic ' who pre- 
 sumes to des])ise him. 
 
 l^olloiaer. Damn the French, the parle vous, and 
 all that belongs to them ! 
 
 3Iiss Riddand. Sir ! 
 
 Tlonoyniood. Ha, ha, ha, honest Mr. Flanigan ! A 
 true English officer, madam ; he 's not contented with 
 beating the French, but he will scold them too. 
 
 3Ilss lilchland. Yet, Mr. Iloneywood, this does not 
 convince me but that severity in criticism is necessary. 
 It was our first adopting the severity of French taste 
 that has brought them in turn to taste us. 
 
 Badiff. Taste us ! By the Lord, madam, they devour 
 us! Give Monseers but a taste, and I'll be damn'd 
 but they come in for a bellyful I 
 
 Miss lilchland. Very extraordinary this! 
 
 Follon^er. But very true. VV^ hat makes the bread ris- 
 ing? the parle vous that devour us. What makes the 
 mutton fivepence a pound ? the i)arle vous that eat it up. 
 What makes tlie beer threepence-halfpenny a ]iot? — 
 
 Iloneywood. (Aside.} Ah! the vulgar rogues ; all 
 will be out ! — Right, gentlemen, very right, upon my 
 word, and quite to the purpose. They draw a parallel, 
 madam, between the mental taste and that of our 
 senses. We are injured as much by the French sever- 
 ity in the one, as by French rapacity in the other. 
 That 's tlieir meaning. 
 
 Miss Richland. Though I don't see the force of the 
 
 ' rigid French critic : Much of the so-callefl dnllnoss in 
 Enu'lish litomtiu'c- }iad arisen nnt of effort to satisfy the rig'orons 
 rules of classic French criticism, as Miss llichland says some 
 lines later.
 
 48 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN [Act III 
 
 parallel, yet I '11 own that we sliould sometimes pardon 
 books, as we do our friends, that have now and tlien 
 agreeable absurdities to recommend them. 
 
 Bailiff. That's all my eye! The King only can 
 pardon, as the law says ; for, set in case — 
 
 Honiywoud. I 'm quite of your opinion, sir ! I see 
 the whole drift of your argument. Yes, certainly, our 
 presuming to })ardon any work is arrogating a power 
 that belongs to another. If all have power to condemn, 
 what writer can be free ? 
 
 BaiUff'. By his habus corpus. His habus corpus can 
 set him free at any time ; for, set in case — 
 
 Honeyioood. I 'm obliged to you, sir, for the hint. 
 If, madam, as my friend observes, our laws are so 
 careful of a gentleman's person, sure we ought to be 
 equally careful of his dearer part, his fame. 
 
 Follower. Ay, but if so be a man's nabb'd, you 
 know — 
 
 Iloneyu^ood. Mr. Flanigan, if you spoke forever, 
 you could not improve the last observation. For my 
 own part, I think it conclusive. 
 
 Bailiff. As for the matter of that, mayhap — 
 
 TIoncyiDOod. Nay, sir, give me leave in this instance 
 to be ])Ositive. For where is tlie necessity of censur- 
 ing works without genius, which must shortly sink of 
 themselves? What is it, but aiming an unneces- 
 sary blow against a victim alieady under the hands of 
 justice? 
 
 Bailiff. Justice I Oil, by the elevens,^ if j'ou talk 
 about justice, I think I am at home there ; for, in a 
 course of law — 
 
 1 elevens : The New English Dictionary s.ays this term is of 
 uncertain oT-ip^iii. P()ssil)ly it is nn ontii bnserl on tlie eleven disci- 
 ples. Luke xxiv, 3u : " And found the eleven giithered together."
 
 Act III] THE GOOD-NATURED MAN 49 
 
 Honeyicood. My dear Mr. Twitch, I discern what 
 you'd be at, perfectly ; and I believe tlie lady must be 
 sensible of the art wiih wliii-h it is inti-oduced. I sup- 
 pose you perceive tlie uicauiag, uiadam, of his course 
 of law ? 
 
 Miss Richland. I protest, sir, T do not. I perceive 
 only that you answer one gentleman before lie has 
 finished, and the other before he has well begun. 
 
 Bailiff. Madam, you are a gentlewoman, and I 
 will make the matter out. This here question is about 
 severity, and justice, and ])ardon, and the like of they. 
 No«', to explain the thing — 
 
 Honcywood. (^Asidc') Oh! curse your explanations^ 
 
 Enter Servant. 
 
 Servant. Mr. Leontine, sir, below, desires to speak 
 with you upon earnest business. 
 
 Iloneywood. That's lucky. (^Aside.^ Dear madam, 
 you '11 excuse me, and my good friends here, for a 
 few minutes. There are liooks, madam, to amuse you. 
 Come, gentlemen, you know I make no ceremony with 
 such friends. After you, sir. Excuse me. Well, if I 
 must. But I know your natural politeness. 
 
 Bailiff. Before and behind, 3'ou know. 
 
 Folloiver. Ay, ay, before and behind, before anJ 
 
 behind. [Exeunt Honeywood, Bailiff, and Follower. 
 
 Miss Richland. What can all this mean, Garnet? 
 
 Garnet. Mean, madam! why, what should it mean but 
 what Mr. Loft}'" sent you here to see ? These ])eople he 
 calls olf.cers. are officers sure enough : sheriff's officers ; 
 bailiffs, madam ! 
 
 3Iiss Richland. Ay, it is certainl}"^ so. Well, though 
 his perplexities are far from giving me pleasure, yet I 
 own there is something very ridiculous in them, and 
 a just punishment for his dissimulation.
 
 50 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN [Act III 
 
 Garnet. And so they are. Bat I wonder, madam, 
 that the lawyer you just employed to pay his debts and 
 set him free, has not done it by this time. He ought 
 at least to have been liere before now. But lawyers 
 are always more ready to get a man into troubles than 
 out of them. 
 
 Enter Sir William. 
 
 Sir William. For Miss Richland to undertake set- 
 ting him free, I own, was quite unexpected. It has 
 totally unhinged my schemes to reclaim him. Yet it 
 gives me pleasure to find that, among a number of 
 worthless friendships, he has made one acquisition 
 of real value ; for there must be some softer passion 
 on her side, that prompts this generosity. Ha ! here 
 before me! I'll endeavor to sound her affections. — 
 Madam, as I am the person that have had some de- 
 mands upon the gentleman of this house, I hope you'll 
 excuse me, if, before I enlarged him, I wanted to see 
 yourself. 
 
 JJiss Jiichhmd. The precaution was very unneces- 
 sary, sir. I suppose your wants were only such as my 
 agent had power to satisfy. 
 
 Sir William. Partly, madam. But I was also will- 
 ing you should be fully apprized of the character of 
 the gentleman you intended to serve. 
 
 Miss Ricliland. It must come, sir, with a very ill 
 grace from you. To censure it, after what you have 
 done, would look like malice ; and to speak favorably 
 of a character you have oppressed, would be impeach- 
 ing your own. And sure, his tenderness, his human, 
 ity, his universal friendship, may atone for many 
 faults. 
 
 Sir William. That friendship, madam, which is 
 exerted in too wide a sphere, becomes totally useless.
 
 Act III] THE GOOD-NATURED MAN 51 
 
 Our bounty, like a drop of water, disappears when 
 diffused too widely. They who pretend most to this 
 universal benevolence, are either deceivers, or dupes: 
 men who desire to cover their private ill-nature by a 
 pretended regard for all ; or men who, reasoning them- 
 selves into false feelings, are more earnest in pursuit 
 of splendid, than of useful virtues. 
 
 3Iiss liicMand. I am surprised, sir, to hear one 
 who has probably been a gainer by the folly of others 
 so severe in his censure of it. 
 
 Sir WlUiam. Whatever I may have gained by folly, 
 madam, you see I am willing to prevent your losing 
 by it. 
 
 Miss RicMand. Your cares for me, sir, are unne- 
 cessary. I always suspect those services which are de- 
 nied where they are wanted, and offered, perhaps, in 
 hopes of a refusal. No, sir, my directions have been 
 given, and I insist upon their being complied with. 
 
 Sir JVillinm. Thou amiable woman ! I can no 
 longer contain the expressions of my gratitude, my 
 pleasure. You see before you one who has been equally 
 careful of his interest; one who has for some time been 
 a concealed spectator of his follies, and only punished 
 in hojDcs to reclaim him, — his uncle ! 
 
 Jliss Richland. Sir William Honeywood ! You 
 amaze me. How shall I conceal my confusion? I fear, 
 sir, you '11 think I have been too forward in my ser- 
 vices. I confess I — 
 
 Sir William. Don't make any apologies, madam. 
 I only find myself unable to repay the obligation. And 
 yet, I have been trying my interest of late to serve 
 you. Having learned, madam, that you had some de- 
 mands upon Government, I have, though unasked, been 
 your solicitor there.
 
 52 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN [Act III 
 
 Miss li'ichland. Sir, I 'm infinitely ol»lig-ed to your 
 intentions. But my guaidiau has employ c J another 
 gentleman, who assures him of success. 
 
 Sir Williani. Who, the important little man that 
 visits here? Trust me, madam, he's quite eontem])ti- 
 ble among' men in power, and utterly unable to serve 
 you. Mr. Lofty's ])romises are much better known to 
 people of fashion than his person, I assure 3'ou. 
 
 31lss RicJtland. How have we been deceived ! As 
 sure as can be, here he comes. 
 
 Sir William. Does he? Remember, I'm to con- 
 tinue unknown. My return to England has not as 
 yet been made })ublic. With what impudence be 
 enters ! 
 
 Enter Lofty. 
 
 Lofty. Let the chariot — let my chariot drive off ; 
 I '11 visit to his Grace's in a chair. Miss Richland 
 here before me ! Punctual, as usual, to the calls of hu- 
 manity. I 'm very sorry, madam, things of this kind 
 should ha])i)on, especially to a man I have shown 
 everywhere, and carried amongst us as a particular 
 acquaintance. 
 
 Miss liichlaml. I find, sir, you have the art of 
 making the misfortunes of others your own. 
 
 Lofty. My dear madam, what can a private man 
 like me do? One man can't do everything; and then, 
 J do so much in this way every da}'. Let me see ; some- 
 thing considerable might be done for him by subsci-i]i- 
 tion ; it could not fail if 1 carried the list. I '11 under- 
 take to set down a brace of dukes, two dozen lords, 
 and half the lower House at my own peril. 
 
 Sir William. And, after all, it's more than ])roba- 
 ble, sir. he might lejcct the offer of such powerful 
 patronage.
 
 Act III] THE GOOD-NATURED MAN 63 
 
 Lofty. Then, madam, what can we do? You know 
 I never make ])roinises. In truth, I once or twice tried 
 to do something" with him in tlie way of business ; but, 
 as I often told his uncle, Sir William Honey wood, the 
 man was utterly impracticable. 
 
 Sir William. His uncle! then that gentleman, I 
 suppose, is a particular friend of yours. 
 
 Lofty. Meaning- me, sir?^ Yes, madam, as I often 
 said, " My dear Sir William, you are sensible I would 
 do anything, as far as my poor interest goes, to serve 
 your family ; but what can bo done ? there 's no pro- 
 curing first-rate places for ninth-rate abilities." 
 
 Miss Iticliland. I have heard of Sir William Hon- 
 ey wood ; he 's abroad in employment ; he confided in 
 your judgment, I sup])ose. 
 
 Lofty. Why, yes, madam ; I believe Sir William 
 had some reason to confide in my judgment; one little 
 reason, perhaps. 
 
 Miss RicJiland. Pray, sir, what was it? 
 
 Lofty. Why, madam, — but let it go no further, — ■ 
 it was I procured him his place. 
 
 Sir William. Did you, sir? 
 
 Lofty. Either you or I, sir. 
 
 3Iiss RicJtland. This, Mr. Lofty, was very kind, in- 
 deed. 
 
 Lofty. I did love liim, to be sure; he had some 
 amusing qualities ; no man was fitter to be toast-master 
 to a club, or had a l)etter head. 
 
 3fiss Riddand. A better head ? 
 
 Lofty. Ay, at a l)ottle. To be sure, he was as dull 
 as a choice spirit ; ^ but, hang it, he was grateful, very 
 grateful ; and gratitude hides a multitude of faults. 
 
 * Meaning me, sir? Lofty rospiits tlio intrusion. 
 
 2 dull as a choice spirit : a satirical allusion to those who
 
 o4 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN [Act III 
 
 Sir William,. He miglit have reason, perhaps. His 
 place is pretty considerable, I 'm told. 
 
 Lofty. A trifle, a mere trifle, among us men of 
 business. The truth is, he wanted dignity to fill up a 
 greater. 
 
 Sir William. Dignity of person, do you mean, sir? 
 I 'm told he 's much about my size and figure, sir. 
 
 Lofty. Ay, tall enough for a marching regiment ; 
 but then he wanted a something — a consequence of 
 form — a kind of a — I believe the lady perceives my 
 meaning. 
 
 Mis& Richland . Oh, perfectly ; you courtiers can 
 do anything, I see ! 
 
 Lofty. My dear madam, all this is but a mere ex- 
 change ; we do greater things for one another every 
 day. Why, as thus, now: let me suppose you the 
 First Lord of the Treasury ; you have an employment 
 in you that I want ; I have a place in me that you 
 want ; do me here, do you there : intei'est of both sides, 
 few words, flat, done and done, and it 's over.^ 
 
 Sir William. A thought strikes me. (^Asicle.^ — 
 Now you mention Sir William Ploneywood, madam, 
 and as he seems, sir, an acquaintance of yours, you '11 
 be glad to hear he is arrived from Italy ; I had it from 
 a friend who knows him as well as he does me, and 
 you may depend on my information. 
 
 Lofty. {Aside.) The devil he is! If I had known 
 that, we should not have been quite so well ac- 
 quainted. 
 
 Sir William. He is certainly returned ; and as this 
 
 affectpfl the character of "choice spirits" or "wits." " The first 
 cliih I entered on coming to town was that of the Choice Spirits." 
 Gohisniith, On the Clubs of London 
 
 ' and it 's over : In these phrases, Lofty is aff(!cting the easy 
 jargon of court life.
 
 Act III] THE GOOD-NATURED MAN 55 
 
 gentleman is a friend of yours, he can be of signal ser- 
 vice to us by introducing me to him ; there are some 
 papers rehitive to your affairs that require despatch, 
 and his inspection. 
 
 3fiss Richland. Tiiis gentleman, Mr. Lofty, is a 
 person eni]iloyed in my affairs : T know you '11 serve us. 
 
 Lofty. My dear madam, I live but to serve you. 
 Sir William shall even wait upon him, if you think 
 proper to command it. 
 
 Sir William. That would be quite unnecessary. 
 
 Lofty. Well, we must introduce you, then. Call 
 upon me — let me see — ay, in two days. 
 
 /Sir William. Now, or the opportunity will be lost 
 forever. 
 
 Lofty. Well, if it must be novi^, now let it be ; but 
 damn it, that 's unfortunate ; my Lord Grig's cursed 
 Pensacola business comes on this very hour, and I 'm 
 entrajied to attend — another time — 
 
 Sir William. A short letter to Sir William will do. 
 
 Lofty. You shall have it ; yet, in my opinion, a let- 
 ter is a very bad way of going to work ; face to face, 
 that 's my way. 
 
 Sir William. The letter, sir, will do quite as well. 
 
 Lofty. Zounds! sir, do you pretend to direct me? 
 direct me in the business of office ? Do you know me, 
 sir? Who am I ? 
 
 3Iisf> Richland. Dear Mr. Lofty, this request is not 
 so much his as mine; if my commands — but you 
 despise my power. 
 
 Lofty. Delicate creature ! your commands could 
 even control a debate at midnight; to a power so con- 
 stitutional, I am all obedience and tranqiiillity. He 
 shall have a letter ; whei-e is my secretary ? Dubardieu! 
 And yet, I protest I don't like this way of doing busi-
 
 56 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN [Act III 
 
 ness. I think if I spoke first to Sir William — But you 
 
 will havs it so. [Exit with Miss Richland. 
 
 Sir William. (^AloncS) Ha, ha, ha I This too is 
 one of my nephew's hopeful associates. Oh vanity, 
 thou constant deceiver, how do all thy efforts to exalt 
 serve but to sink us ! Tliy false colorings, like those 
 euiployed to heighten beauty, only seem to mend that 
 bloom which they contribute to destroy. I 'ni not dis- 
 pleased at this interview ; exposing this fellow's impu- 
 cience to the contempt it deserves may be of use to 
 my design ; at least, if he can reflect, it will be of use 
 to himself, (^Enter Jarvis.^ How now, Jarvis, where 's 
 your master, my nephew ? 
 
 Jarvis. At his wit's end, I believe; he's scarce got- 
 ten out of one sci'ape, but he 's running his head into 
 another. 
 
 Sir WiUtajn. How so ? 
 
 Jarvis. The house has but just been cleared of the 
 bailiffs, and now he 's again engaging, tooth and nail, 
 in assisting old Croaker's son to patch up a clandes- 
 tine match with the young lady tliat passes in the 
 house for his sister ! 
 
 Sir William. Ever busy to serve others. 
 
 Jarvis. Ay, anybody but himself. The young 
 couple, it seems, are just setting out for Scotland, 
 and he supjilies them with money for the journey. 
 
 Sir William. Money ! how is he able to supply 
 others, who lias scarce any for himself? 
 
 Jarvis. Why, there it is; he has no money, tliat's 
 true; but then, as he never said No to any request in 
 his life, he has given them a bill, drawn by a friend of 
 his upon a merchant in the city, w^hich I am to get 
 changed ; for you must know that I am to go with them 
 to Scotland myself.
 
 Act IV] THE GOOD-NATURED MAN 57 
 
 /Sir W'dHain. How! 
 
 Jarvis. It seems the young gentleman is obliged to 
 take a tlit'ferent roail from Iiis mistress, as he is to call 
 upon an iiiiele of his that lives out of the way, in order 
 to i)re|)are a place for their reception when they return ; 
 so they have borrowed nie from my master, as the 
 properest person to attend the young lady down. 
 
 Sir William. To the land of matrimony ! A pleas- 
 ant journey, Jarvis. 
 
 Jarvis. Ay, but I 'm only to have all the fatigues 
 on 't. 
 
 Sir William. AVell, it may be shorter, and less 
 fatiguing than you imagine. I know but too much of 
 the young lady's family and connections, whom I have 
 seen abroad. I have also discovered that Miss Rich- 
 land is not indifferent to my thoughtless nej)hew; and 
 will endeavoi", though I fear in vain, to establish that 
 connection. But come, the letter I wait for must be 
 almost finished ; I '11 let you further into my inten- 
 tions in the next room. [Exeunt 
 
 ACT THE FOURTH 
 
 Scene, Croakkr's house. 
 
 Lofty. 
 
 Lofty. Well, sure the devil 's in me of late, for run- 
 ning my head into such defiles, as nothing but a genius 
 bke my own could draw me f i-om. I was formerly con- 
 tented to husband out my places and pensions with 
 some degree of friagality ; but, curse it, of late I have 
 given away the whole Court Register in less time thun 
 they could 2)rint the title-page; yet, hang it, why
 
 58 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN [Act IV 
 
 scruple a lie or two to come at a fine girl, when I 
 every day tell a thousand for nothing? Ha ! Honey- 
 wood here before nie. Could Miss Richland have set 
 him at liberty? (^Enter Honeywood.) Mr. Honey- 
 wood, I 'm glad to see you abroad again. I find my 
 concurrence was not necessary in your unfortunate 
 affairs. I had })ut things in a train to do your business ; 
 but it is not for me to say what I intended doing. 
 
 Honeywood. It was unfortunate, indeed, sir. But 
 what adds to my uneasiness is, that while you seem to 
 be acquainted with my misfoi'tune, I myself continue 
 still a stranger to my benefactor. 
 
 Lofty' How ! not know the friend that served 
 you? 
 
 Honey wood. Can't get at the person. 
 
 Lofty. Inquire. 
 
 Hoiieywvod. I have ; but all I can learn is that he 
 chooses to remain concealed, and that all inquiry must 
 be fruitless. 
 
 Lofty. Must be fruitless? 
 
 Honeywood. Absolutely fruitless. 
 
 Lofty. Sure of that? 
 
 Honeywood. Very sure. 
 
 Lofty. Then I '11 be damn'd if you shall ever know 
 it from me. 
 
 Honeywood. How, sir ? 
 
 Lofty. I suppose now, Mr. Honeywood, you think 
 my rent-roll very considerable, and that I have vast 
 sums of money to throw away ; I know you do. The 
 world, to be sure, says such things of me. 
 
 Honeywood. The world, by what I learn, is no 
 stranger to your generosit}'. But where does this 
 tend? 
 
 Lofty. To nothing ; nothing in the world. The
 
 Act IV] THE GOOD-NATURED MAN 59 
 
 town, to be sure, when it makes such a thing as rae 
 the subject of conversation, has asserted that I never 
 yet patronized a man of merit. 
 
 Iloneywood. I have heard instances to the con- 
 trary, even from yourself. 
 
 Lofty. Yes, Honeywood, and there are instances to 
 the contrary, that you shall never hear from myself. 
 
 Iloneywood. Ha, dear sir, permit me to ask you but 
 one question. 
 
 Lofty. Sir, ask me no questions ; I say, sir, ask me 
 no questions ; I '11 be damu'd if I answer them ! 
 
 Iloneyioood. I will ask no further. My friend ! my 
 benefactor! it is, it must be here, that I am indebted 
 for freedom, for honor. Yes, thou worthiest of men, 
 from the beginning I suspected it, but was afraid 
 to return thanks ; which, if undeserved, might seem 
 reproaches. 
 
 Lofty. I protest I do not understand all this, Mr. 
 Iloneywood ! You treat me very cavalierly. I do as- 
 sure you, sir — Blood, sir, can't a man be permitted to 
 enjoy the luxury of his own feelings, without all this 
 parade? 
 
 Honeywood. Nay, do not attempt to conceal an 
 action that adds to your honor. Your looks, your air, 
 your manner, all confess it. 
 
 Lofty. Confess it, sir ! Torture itself, sir, shall 
 never bring me to confess it. Mr. Honeywood, I havQ 
 admitted you upon terms of friendship. Don't let us 
 fall out ; make me happy, and let this be buried in 
 oblivion. You know I hate ostentation ; you know 
 I do. Come, come, Honeywood, you know I always 
 loved to be a friend, and not a patron. I beg this may 
 make no kind of distance between us. Come, come, 
 you and I must be more familiar — indeed we must.
 
 60 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN [Act IV 
 
 HoneyiDOod. Heavens! Can I ever repay such 
 friendship ! Is there any way ! — Thou best of men, 
 can I ever return the obh'gation ? 
 
 Lofty. A bagatelle,^ a mere bagatelle ! But I see 
 your heart is laboring to be grateful. You shall be 
 grateful. It would be cruel to disap]ioint you. 
 
 Honey wood. How ? teach nie the manner. Is there 
 any way ? 
 
 Lofty. From this moment you 're mine. Yes^ my 
 friend, you shall know it — I 'm in love. 
 
 Honey wood. And can I assist you ? 
 
 Lofty. Nobody so well. 
 
 Honeywood. In what manner? I'm all impatience. 
 
 Lofty. You shall mahe love for me. 
 
 Honeywood. And to whom shall I speak in your 
 favor ? 
 
 Lofty. To a lady with whom you have great inter- 
 est, I assure you. Miss Richland. 
 
 Honeywood. Miss Kichland ! 
 
 Lofty. Yes, Miss Kichland. She has struck the 
 blow up to the hilt in my bosom, by Jupiter! 
 
 Honeywood. Heavens ! was ever anything more 
 unfortunate? It is too much to be endured. 
 
 Lofty. Unfortunate, indeed ! And yet I can en- 
 dure it, till you have opened the affair to her for me. 
 Between ourselves, I think she likes me. I 'm not apt 
 to boast, but I think she does. 
 
 Honeywood. Indeed ! But do you know the per- 
 son you apply to? 
 
 Lofty. Yes, I know you are her friend and mine: 
 that 's enough. To you, therefore, I commit the suc- 
 
 • bagatelle : A trifle, a tliiiij^ of do imjiortance. Dr. JoTinson 
 held that it was not uuturalized at the time Guldsmitli used the 
 word. (Johnson's Dictionary.)
 
 Act IV] THE GOOD-NATURED MAN 61 
 
 cess of my passion. I '11 say no moi-e, let friendship do 
 the rest. I have only to add, that if at any time my 
 little interest can be of service — bnt, hang it, I'll 
 make no promises — you know my interest is yours 
 at any time. No apologies, my friend, I '11 not be an- 
 swered ; it shall be so. [Exit. 
 Ilonojwood. Open, generous, unsuspecting man ! 
 He little thinks that I love her too; and with such an 
 ardent ])assion ! — But then it was ever but a vain 
 and hopeless one ; my torment, my persecution! What 
 shall I do? Love, friendship; a hopeless passion, a 
 deserving friend I Love, that has been my tormentor; 
 a friend, that has, perhaps, distressed himself to serve 
 me. It shall be so. Yes, I will discard the fondling 
 hope from my bosom, and exert all my influence in his 
 favor. And yet to see her in the possession of another! 
 — Insupportable! But then to betray a generous, 
 trusting friend! — Worse, worse ! Yes, I 'm resolved. 
 Let me but be the instrument of their happiness, and 
 then quit a country where I must forever despair of 
 finding my own. {Exit. 
 
 Enter Olivia and Garnet, who carries a milliner''s box. 
 
 Olivia. Dear me, I wish this journey were over. 
 No news of Jarvis yet? I believe the old peevish crea- 
 ture delays ])urely to vex me. 
 
 Garnet. Why, to be sure, madam, I did hear him 
 say a little snubbing before marriage would teach you 
 to bear it the better afterwards. 
 
 Olivia. To be gone a full hour, though he ha(l 
 only to get a bill changed in the city ! How provok- 
 ing! 
 
 Garnet. I'll lay my life, Mr. Leontine, tliat had 
 twice as much to do, is setting off by this time from 
 his inn ; and here you are left behind.
 
 62 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN [Act IV 
 
 Olhna. Well, let us be prepared for his coming, 
 however. Are you sure you have omitted nothing, 
 Garnet ? 
 
 Garnet. Not a stick, madam ; all 's here. Yet I 
 wish you could take the white and silver to be married 
 in. It's the worst luck in the world in anything but 
 white. I knew one Bett Stubbs, of our town, that was 
 married in red ; and as sure as eggs is eggs, the bride- 
 groom and she had a miff before morning. 
 
 Olivia. No matter. I 'm all imjjatience till we are 
 out of the house. 
 
 Garnet. Bless me, madam, I had almost forgot the 
 wedding ring! The sweet little thing. I don't think 
 it would go on my little finger. And what if I ])ut in 
 a gentleman's nightcap, in case of necessity, madam? 
 • — But here 's Jarvis. 
 
 Enter Jarvis. 
 
 Olivia. O Jarvis, are you come at last? We have 
 been ready this half hour. Now let 's be going. Let 
 us fly ! 
 
 Jarvis. Ay, to Jericho ! for we shall have no going 
 to Scotland this bout, I fancy. 
 
 Olivia. How! what's the matter? 
 
 Jarvis. Money, money is tlie matter, madam. We 
 have got no money. What the plague do you send me 
 of your fool's errand for? My master's bill upon the 
 city is not worth a rush. Here it is ; Mrs. Garnet may 
 pin up her hair with it. 
 
 Olivia. Undone! How could Honey wood serve us 
 so? What shall we do? C:in't we go without it? 
 
 Jarvis. Go to Scotland without money ! To Scot- 
 land without money! Lord, how some peojile under- 
 stand geography ! We might as well set sail for Pata- 
 gonia upon a cork-jacket.
 
 Act IV] THE GOOD-NATURED MAN 63 
 
 Olivia. Such a disappointment! What a base, in- 
 sincere man was your master, to serve us in this man- 
 ner. Is this his good-nature? 
 
 Jarvis. Nay, don't talk ill of my master, niadam. 
 I won't bear to hear anybody talk ill of him but my- 
 self. 
 
 Garnet. Bless us! now I think on 't, madam, you 
 need not be under any uneasiness : I saw Mr. Leon- 
 tine receive forty guineas from his father just before 
 he set out, and he can't yet have left the inn. A short 
 letter will reach him there. 
 
 Olivia. Well remembered, Garnet ; I '11 write im- 
 mediately. How's this! Bless me, my hand trembles 
 so, I can't write a word. Do you wiite. Garnet ; and, 
 Mpon second thought, it will be better from you. 
 
 Garnet. Truly, madam, I write and indite but 
 poorly. I never was cute ^ at my larning. But I '11 do 
 what I can to please you. Let me see. All out of my 
 own head, I suppose ? 
 
 Olioia. Whatever you please. 
 
 Garnet. ( Writing.^ " Muster Croaker " — Twenty 
 guineas, madam ? 
 
 Olivia. Ay, twenty will do. 
 
 Garnet. " At the bar of the Talbot till called for. — 
 Expedition — Will be blown up — All of a flame — 
 Quick, despatch — Cupid, the little god of love." — I 
 conclude it madam, with Cupid ; I love to see a love 
 letter end like poetiy. 
 
 Olivia. Well, well, what you ])lease, anything. But 
 how shall we send it ? I can trust none of the servants 
 of this family. 
 
 Garnet. Odso, madam, Mr. Honeywood's butler is 
 
 ' cute: Sharp, clever. By Juliiisoii held to be a vulgar con- 
 traction used only in North p]n<^l:ind; it was often printed " 'cute."
 
 64 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN [Act IV 
 
 in tlie next room ; he 's a dear, sweet man ; he '11 do 
 Unything for me. 
 
 Jarvis. He! the (log, he '11 certainly commit some 
 blunder. He's drunk and sober ten times a day. 
 
 Olivia. No matter. Fly, Garnet ; anybody we can 
 trust will do. (^Exit Garnet.^ Well, Jarvis, now we 
 can have nothing more to interrupt us. You may take 
 up the things, and earr}'- them on to the inn. Have 
 you no hands, Jarvis? 
 
 Jarvis. Soft and fair, young lady. You that are 
 going to be married think things can never be done 
 too fast; but we that are old, and know what we are 
 about, must elope methodically, madam. 
 
 Olivia. Well, sure, if my indiscretions were to be 
 done over again — 
 
 Jarvis. My life for it, you would do them ten times 
 over — 
 
 Olivia. Why will you talk so? If you knew how 
 unhappy they make me — 
 
 Jarvis. Vei-y unhappy, no doubt ; I was once just 
 as unhappy when I was going to be married myself. 
 I '11 tell you a story about that — 
 
 Olivia. A stox-y ! when I 'm all impatience to be 
 away. Was there ever such a dilatory creature ! — 
 
 Jarvis. Well, madam, if we must march, why we 
 will march, that 's all. Though, odds-bohs, we have 
 still forgot one thing we should never travel without — 
 a case of good razors, and a box of shaving powder. 
 But no matter, I believe we shall be prett}^ well shaved 
 by the way. [Going. 
 
 Enter Garnet. 
 
 Garnet. Undone, undone, madam ! Ah, Mr. Jarvis, 
 you said right enough. As sure as death, Mr. Honey- 
 wood's rogue of a drunken butler dropped the letter
 
 Act IV] THE GOOD-NATURED MAN 65 
 
 before he went ten yards from tlie tloor. There 's ohl 
 Croaker has just pieked it up, and is this moiueiW 
 readijij^ it to himself iu the hali I 
 
 Olivia. Unfortunate ! we shall be discovered. 
 
 Garnet. No, madam ; don't be uueasy, he cau make 
 neither head nor tail of it. To be sure, he looks as if 
 lie was broke loose from Bedlam about it, but he can't 
 find what it means for all that. Oh lud, he is coming 
 this way all in the horrors. 
 
 Olivia. Then let us leave the house this iustaut, for 
 fear he should ask farther questions. In the mean time, 
 Garnet, do you write and send off just such anothei-. 
 
 \_Exeaiit. 
 
 Enter Croaker. 
 
 Croaher. Death and destruction! Are all the hor- 
 rors of air, fire, and water to be levelled only at me? 
 Am I only to be singled out for (gunpowder plots, com- 
 bustibles, and conflagration? Here it is — an incen- 
 diary letter dropped at my door. To Muster Croaker., 
 these with npeed. Ay, ay, ])lain enough the dire(;tion ; 
 ail in the genuine incendiary S])elling, and as cramj) 
 as the devil. With speed. Oh, confound your s])eed ! 
 But let me read it once more. (^Reads. ) JShistcr 
 Croaker., as sone as yoeio see this leve twenty gunnes 
 at the bar of the Talhoot tell caled for or yoxoe and 
 yower e.vperetion will be al blown vp. Ah, but too 
 plain! Blood and gunpowder in every line of it. Blown 
 up! murderous dog! All blown up! Heavens! wiiat 
 have I and my poor family done, to be all blown up '! 
 (^Reads.) Our pockets are low, and money we must 
 have. Ay, there 's the reason ; they '11 blow us up, be- 
 cause they have got low pockets. (^Reads.} It is but 
 a short time you have to consider ; for if this takes 
 im.vd,. the hnnixp v^iJl qiiickhi be all of a flame. In-
 
 66 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN [Act IV 
 
 human monsters! blow us up, and then burn us! The 
 earthquake at Lisbon was but a bonfire to it ! (^Reads.^ 
 Make quick despatch, and so no 7nore at 2)rcsent. But 
 may Cupid, the little god of love, go with you wher- 
 ever you go. The little god of love ! Cupid, the little 
 god of love, go with me ! Go you to the devil, you and 
 your little Cupid together. I 'm so frightened, I scarce 
 know whether I sit, stand, or go. Perhaps this mo- 
 ment I 'm treading on lighted matches, blazing brim- 
 stone, and barrels of gunpowder. They are preparing 
 to blow me up into the clouds. Murder ! We shall 
 be all burnt in our beds; we shall be all burnt in our 
 beds! 
 
 Enter Miss Hichland. 
 
 Miss Richland. Lord, sir, what's the matter? 
 
 Croaker. Murder 's the matter. We shall be all 
 blown up in our beds before morniug ! 
 
 Miss Richland. I hope not, sir. 
 
 Croaker. What signifies what you hope, madam, 
 when I have a certificate of it here in my hand ? Will 
 nothing alarm my family? Sleeping and eating, sleep- 
 ing and eating, is the only work from morning till 
 night in my house. My insensible crew could sleep 
 though rocked by an earthquake, and fry beef-steaks 
 at a volcano ! 
 
 Miss Richland. But, sir, you have alarmed them so 
 often already ; we have nothing but earthquakes, fam- 
 ines, plagues, and mad dogs, from year's end to year's 
 end. You remember, sir, it is not above a month ago, 
 you assured us of a conspiracy among the bakers, to 
 poison us in our bread ; and so kept the whole family 
 a week upon potatoes. 
 
 Croaker. And potatoes were too good for them. 
 But why do I stand talking here with a girl, when 1
 
 ActIV] the GOOD-NATURED MAN 67 
 
 should he facing the enemy without? Here, John, 
 Nicodemus, search the house. Look into the celhirs, 
 to see if there be any combustibles below: and above, 
 in the apartments, that no matches be thrown in at the 
 windows. Let all the fires be put out, and let tlie engine 
 be drawn out in the yard, to phiy upon the house in 
 case of necessity. [Exit. 
 
 Miss liicJdand. (^Alone.^ What can he mean by all 
 this ? Yet why should I inquire, when he alarms us in 
 this manner almost every day. But Honey wood has 
 desired an interview with me in private. What can 
 he mean? or rather, what means this palpitation at 
 his approach ? It is the first time he ever showed any- 
 thing in his conduct that seemed particular. Sure, he 
 cannot mean to — but he's liere. 
 
 Enter Honey wood. 
 
 Honeywood. I presiuned to solicit this interview, 
 madam, before I left town, to be permitted — 
 
 Miss Hichland. Indeed! leaving town, sir? 
 
 Honeywood. Yes, madam; perhaps the kingdom. I 
 have presumed, I say, to desire the favor of this inter- 
 view, — in order to disclose something which our long 
 friendship prompts. And yet my fears — 
 
 Miss Ricldand. His fears ! What are his fears to 
 mine ! (^Aside.') We have, indeed, been long ac- 
 quainted, sir ; very long. If I remember, our first meet- 
 ing was at the French ambassador's. Do you recollect 
 how you were pleased to rally me upon my complexion 
 there ? 
 
 Iloneyv^ood. Perfectly, madam ; I presumed to re- 
 prove you for painting ; ^ but your warmer blushes soon 
 
 ' reprove you for painting : In Jenn Pierre Grosley's Tour 
 to London (1765) it is said that the English women used roug^ 
 less than the French.
 
 68 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN [A.ctIY 
 
 convinced the company that the coloring was all from 
 nature. 
 
 3Iiss Richland. And yet you only meant it, in your 
 good-natured way, to make aie pay a compliment to 
 myself. In the same manner you danced that night 
 with the most awkward woman in company, because 
 you saw nobody else would take her out. 
 
 Honeywood. Yes ; and was rewarded the next night 
 by dancing with the finest woman iu company, whom 
 everybody wished to take out. 
 
 Miss Richland. Well, sir, if you thought so then, 
 I fear your judgment has since corrected the errors of 
 a first impression. We generally show to most advan- 
 tage at first. Our sex are like poor tradesmen, that 
 put all their best goods to be seen at the windows. 
 
 Jloneytoood. The first impression, madam, did in- 
 deed deceive me. I expected to find a woman with all 
 the faults of conscious, flattered beauty. I expected to 
 find her vain and insolent. But every day has since 
 taught me that it is possible to possess sense without 
 pride, and beauty without affectation. 
 
 Miss Richland. This, sir, is a style very unusual 
 with Mr. Honeywood ; and I should be glad to know 
 why he thus attempts to increase that vanity, which his 
 own lessons have taught me to despise. 
 
 Iloneyioood. I ask pardon, madam. Yet, from our 
 long friendship, I ]U'esumed I might have some right 
 to offer, without offence, what 3'ou may I'efuse without 
 offending. 
 
 3Iiss Richland. Sir ! I beg you 'd reflect ; though I 
 fear I shall scarce have any power to refuse a request 
 of yours, yet you may be precipitate : consider, sir. 
 
 Honeywood. I own my rashness ; but as I plead 
 the cause of friendship, of one who loves — don't be
 
 Act IV] THE GOOD-NATURED MAN 69 
 
 alarmed, madam — who loves you with the most ar- 
 dent passion ; whose whole happiness is placed in 
 yon — 
 
 3Iiss lik'hJand. I fear, sir, I sliall never find whom 
 you mean, by this description of hiui. 
 
 Honey icood. Ah, madam, it but too plainly points 
 him out; though he should be too humble himself to 
 uige his i)retensious, or you too modest to undeistand 
 them. 
 
 3Iiss UlcJdand. Well, it would be affectation any 
 longer to pretend ignorance ; and, I will own, sir, I 
 liave long been prejudiced in his favor. It was but 
 natural to wish to make his heart mine, as he seemed 
 hiuiself ignoi-aiit of its value. 
 
 Iloneyivo jd. I see she always loved him. (ylsicZe.) 
 I find, madc.in, you're already sensible of his worth, 
 his passion. How happy is m}'' friend to be the favorite 
 of one with sucii sense to distinguish merit, and such 
 beauty to reward it ! 
 
 31iss Ricldand. Your friend, sir ! what friend ? 
 
 Honeyioood. My best friend — my friend Mr. Lofty, 
 madam. 
 
 3Iiss Ricldand. He, sir ! 
 
 Honeywood. Yes, he, madam. He is, indeed, what 
 your warmest wishes might have formed him. And 
 to his other qualities he adds that of the most pas- 
 sionate regard for you. 
 
 3Iiss Ricldand. Amazement! — No more of this, I 
 beg you, sir. 
 
 Honeyioood. I see your confusion, madam, and 
 know how to interpret it. And since I so plainly read 
 the language of your heart, shall I make my friend 
 hapjiy by communicating your sentiments? 
 
 3Jiss Ricldand. Bv no means.
 
 70 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN [Act IV 
 
 Honeyioood. Excuse me, I must ; I know you de- 
 sire it. 
 
 Miss Ricliland. Mi*. Honeywood, let me tell you 
 that you wrong" my sentiments and yourself. When I 
 first ajjplied to your friendship, 1 expected advice and 
 assistance ; but now, sir, 1 see that it is vain to expect 
 happiness from hiui who has been so bad an economist 
 of his own ; and that I must disclaim his friendship 
 who ceases to be a friend to himself. [Exit. 
 
 Honeyivood. How is this? she has confessed she 
 loved him, and yet she seemed to part in displeasure. 
 Can I have done anything to reproach myself with? 
 No ; I believe not ; yet, after all, these things should 
 not be done by a third person ; I should have spared 
 her confusion. My friendship carried me a little too far. 
 
 Enter Croaker, with the. letter iri his hand, and Mrs. Croaker. 
 
 3Irs. Croaker. Ha, ha, ha ! And so, my dear, it 's 
 your supreme wish that I should be quite wretched 
 upon this occasion ? Ha, ha I 
 
 Croaker. (^Mimicking. ~) Ha, ha, ha! And so, my 
 dear, it 's your supreme pleasure to give me no better 
 consolation ? 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. Positively, my dear, what is this in- 
 cendiary stuff and trumpery to me? Our house may 
 travel through the air like the house of Loretto,' for 
 aught I care, if I 'm to be miserable in it. 
 
 Croaker. Would to heaven it were converted into 
 an house of correction for your benefit. Have we not 
 everything to alarm us ? Perhaps this very moment the 
 tragedy is beginning. 
 
 ' house of Loretto : The Santa Casa, or Holj' House, of Lo- 
 reto, Italy, is reputed to be the liotise in which tlie Virgin lived 
 in Nazareth. It was said to have been nilraculously moved at the 
 time of the Crusades.
 
 A.CT IV] THE GOOD-NATURED MAN 71 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. Then let us reserve our distress till 
 the rising" of the curtain, or give them the money they 
 want, and have done with them. 
 
 Croaher. Give them my money! — And pray, what 
 right have they to my money? 
 
 3Irs. Croaker. And pray, what right then have you 
 to my good humor? 
 
 Croaker. And so your good humor advises me t) 
 part with my money? Why, then, to tell your good 
 humor a piece of my mind, I 'd sooner part with my 
 wife! Here's Mr. Honey wood; see what he'll say 
 to it. My dear Honeywood, look at this incendiary 
 letter dropped at my door. It will freeze you with 
 terror; and yet lovey here can read it — can read it, 
 and laugh ! 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. Yes, and so will Mr. Honeywood. 
 
 Croaker. If he does, I '11 suffer to be hanged the 
 next minute in the rogue's ])lace, that 's all. 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. Speak, Mr. Honeywood ; is there 
 anything more foolish than my husband's fright upon 
 this occasion ? 
 
 Honeywood. It would not become me to decide, 
 madam; but, doubtless, the greatness of his terrors 
 now will but invite them to renew their villany an- 
 other timec 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. I told you, he 'd be of my opinion. 
 
 Croaker. How, sir ! Do you maintain that I should 
 lie down under sucli an injury, and show, neither by 
 :ny tears nor complaints, that I have something of the 
 sj)irit of a man in me? 
 
 Iloiicyirood. Pardon me, sir. You ought to make 
 tlie loudest complaints, if you desire redress. The 
 surest way to have redress is to be earnest in the pur- 
 suit of it.
 
 72 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN [Act IV 
 
 Croaher. Ay, whose opinion is he of now? 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. Bat Jon't vou think that lauohinjr 
 off our fears is the best way ? 
 
 Iloneyioood. What is the best, niatlani, few can say ; 
 but I '11 maintain it to be a very wise way. 
 
 Croaher. But we 're talking- of the best. Surel}' the 
 best way is to face the enemy in the field, and net wait 
 till he plunders us in our very bed-chamber. 
 
 Uoneywood. Why, sir, as to the best, that — that's 
 a very wise way too. 
 
 Mrs. Croaher. But can anything be more absurd, 
 than to double onr distresses by our a])prehensions, 
 and put it in the power of every low fellow, that can 
 scrawl ten words of wretched spelling, to torment us ? 
 
 Uoneywood. Without doubt, nothing more absurd. 
 
 Croaher. How ! would it not be more absurd to 
 despise the rattle till we are bit by the snake ? 
 
 Uoneywood. Without doubt, perfectl}^ absurd. 
 
 Croaher. Then you are of my opinion ? 
 
 HoneyiDOod. Entirely. 
 
 Mrs. Croaher. And you reject mine? 
 
 Honeyv;ood. Heavens forbid, madam! No, sure, 
 no reasoning can be more just than yours. We ought 
 certainly to despise malice, if we cannot oppose it, and 
 not make the incendiary's pen as fatal to our repose 
 as the highwayujan's pistol. 
 
 Mrs. Croaher. Oh, then you thiidc I 'ra quite right? 
 
 Honeytaood. Perfectly right. 
 
 Croaker. A plague of plagues, we can't be both 
 right. I ought to be sorry, or I ought to be glad. My 
 hat must be <ui my head, or my hat must be off. 
 
 Mrs. Croaher. Certainly, in two opposite opinions, 
 if one be perfectly reasonable, the other can't be per- 
 fectly right.
 
 Act IV] THE GOOD-NATURED MAN 73 
 
 Iloncyv-iood. And why may not both be I'ight, 
 miidaiu? Mr. Croaker in earnestly seeking redress, 
 and yon in waiting the event with good-hnnior ? Pray, 
 let me see the letter again. I have it. This letter 
 requires twenty guineas to be left at the bar of the 
 Talbot Inn. If it be indeed an incendiary letter, wh:;t 
 it you and I, sir, go there ; and when the writer comes 
 to be paid his exjiected booty, seize him? 
 
 Croaker. My dear friend, it 's the very thing ; the 
 veiy thing. While I walk by the door, yon shall jjlant 
 yourself in ambush near the bar ; burst out upon the 
 miscreant like a masked battery ; extort a confession 
 at once, and so hang him up by surprise. 
 
 Honeytoood. Yes ; but I would not choose to ex- 
 ercise too much severity. It is my maxim, sir, that 
 crinies generally punish themselves. 
 
 Croaher. {Ironically.^ Well, but we may upbraid 
 him a little, I suppose ? 
 
 Ilojwyioood. Ay, but not punish h'uv too rigidly. 
 
 Croaker. Well, well, leave that to my own benevo- 
 lence. 
 
 Honcywood. Well, I do; but remewber that uni- 
 versal benevolence is the first law of naf;Mre. 
 
 \^Exeunt Haneywood cind Mrs. Croaks, 
 
 Croaker. Yes; and my universal beneroJence will 
 hang the dog, if he had as many necks as v hydra!
 
 ACT THE FIFTH 
 
 Scene, An inn. 
 Enter Olivia and Jarvis. 
 
 Olivia. Well, we have got safe to the inn, how- 
 ever. Now, if the post-chaise were ready — 
 
 Jarvis. The horses are just finishing their oats; 
 and, as they are not going to be married, they choose 
 to take their own time. 
 
 Olivia. You are for ever giving wrong motives to 
 my impatience. 
 
 Jarvis. Be as impatient as you will, the horses must 
 take their own time; besides, you don't consider we 
 have got no answer from our fellow-traveller yet. If 
 we hear nothing from Mr. Leontine, we have only one 
 way left us. 
 
 Olivia. What way? 
 
 Jarvis. The way home again. 
 
 Olivia. Not so, I have made a resolution to go, and 
 nothing shall induce me to break it. 
 
 Jarvis. Ay ; resolutions are well kept when they 
 jump with inclination. However, I '11 go hasten things 
 without. And I'll call, too, at the bar, to see if any- 
 thing should be left for us there. Don't be in such a 
 plaguy hurry, madam, and we shall go the faster, I 
 promise you. [Exit. 
 
 Enter Landlady. 
 
 Landlady. What! Solomon ! why don't you move? 
 Pipes and tobacco for the Lamb * there. — Will 
 
 ' Lamb . . . Dolphin . . . Angel : The rooms as well as 
 the inns were designated by names rather than numbers. See 
 She Stoops to Conquer, Act III, " Lion . . . Angel . . . Lamb."
 
 ActV] the GOOD-NATURED MAN 75 
 
 nobody answer ? To the Dolphin ; quick ! The Angel 
 has been outrageous this half hour. Did your lady- 
 ship call, madam? 
 
 Ollcia. No, madam. 
 
 Landlady. I find as you are for Scotland, madam. 
 — But that 's no business of mine \ married, or not 
 married, I ask no questions. To be sure, we had a 
 sweet little couple set off from this two days ago 
 for the same place. The gentleman, for a tailor, was, 
 to be sure, as fine a spoken tailor as ever blew froth 
 from a full pot. And the young lady so bashful, it was 
 near half an hour before we could get her to finish a 
 pint of raspberry between us. 
 
 Olivia. But this gentleman and I are not going to 
 be married, I assure you. 
 
 Landlady. May be not. That 's no business of mine ; 
 for certain, Scotch marriages seldom turn out well. 
 There was, of my own knowledge, MissMacfag, that 
 married her father's footman. — Alack-a-day, she and 
 her husband soon parted, and now keep separate cel- 
 lars in Iledge-lane.* 
 
 Olivia. (^Aside.') A very pretty picture of what 
 lies before me. 
 
 Enter Leontine. 
 
 Leontine. My dear Olivia, my anxiety, till you were 
 out of danger, was too great to be resisted. I could not 
 help coming to see you set out, though it exposes us to 
 a discovery. 
 
 Olivia. May everything you do prove as fortunate. 
 
 * keep separate cellars in Hedge-laue : Now Dorset 
 Street. Johnson's friend, Mauritius Lowe, the painter, lived at 
 No. 3, Hedge-lane, in great poverty. Compare Goldsmith's A 
 Register of Scotch Marriages : "They now keep separate garrets 
 in Rosemary-lane."
 
 76 TPIE GOOD-NATURED MAN [Act V 
 
 Incleed, Leontine, we have been most cruelly disap- 
 pointed. Mr. Honeywood's bill upon the city has, it 
 seems, been protested, and we have been utterly at a 
 loss how to proceed. 
 
 Leontine. How! an offer of his own, too! Sure, he 
 could not mean to deceive us. 
 
 Olivia. Depend upon his sincerity; he only mis- 
 took the desire for the power of serving us. But let 
 us think no more of it. I believe the post-chaise is 
 ready by this. 
 
 Landlady. Not quite yet ; and begging your lady- 
 ship's pardon, I don't think your ladyship quite ready 
 for the post-chaise. The North Road is a cold place, 
 madam. I have a drop in the house of as pretty rasp 
 berry as ever was tipt over tongue. Just a thimblefui 
 to keep the wind off your stomach. To be sure, the 
 last couple we had here, they said it was a perfect 
 nosegay. Ecod, I sent them both away as good-natured 
 — Up went the blinds, round went the wheels, and 
 Drive away, postboy ! was the word. 
 
 Enter Croaker. 
 
 Croaker. Well, while my friend Honey wood is upon 
 the post of danger at the bar, it must be my business 
 to have an eye about me here. I think I know an incen- 
 diary's look ; for wherever the devil makes a purchase, 
 he never fails to set his mark. Ha ! who have we 
 here? My son and daughter ! What can they be doing 
 here ? 
 
 Landlady. I tell you, madam, it will do you good ; 
 I think I know by this time what 's good for the 
 North Road. It 's a raw night, madam — sir — 
 
 Leontine. Not a drop more, good madam. I should 
 now take it as a greater favor, if you hasten the 
 horses, for I am afraid to be seen myself.
 
 ActV] the GOOD-NATURED MAN 77 
 
 Landlady. That shall be clone. Wha, Solomon! 
 are you all dead there ? Wha, Solomon, I say ! 
 
 [Exit, bawling. 
 
 Olivia. Well, I dread lest an expedition begun in 
 fear, should end in repentance. — Every moment we 
 stay increases our danger, and adds to my apprehen- 
 sions. 
 
 Leontine. There is no danger, trust me, my dear ; 
 there can be none. If Honeywood has acted with honor, 
 and kept my father, as he promised, in employment 
 till we are out of danger, nothing can interrupt our 
 journe3^ 
 
 Olivia. I have no doubt of Mr. Honeywood's sin- 
 cerity, and even his desires to serve us. My fears are 
 from your fatlier's suspicions. A mind so disposed to 
 be alarmed without a cause, will be but too ready when 
 there 's a reason. 
 
 Leontine. Why, let him, when we are out of his 
 power. But believe me, Olivia, you have no great 
 reason to dread his resentment. His repining temper, 
 as it does no manner of injury to himself, so will it 
 never do harm to others. He only frets to keep him- 
 self employed, and scolds for his private amusement. 
 
 Olivia. I don't know that ; but I 'm sure, on some 
 occasions, it makes him look most shockingly. 
 
 Croalrr. (^Discovering himself.') How does he look 
 now? — How does he look now? 
 
 Olivia. Ah! 
 
 Leontine. Undone ! 
 
 Croaker. How do I look now ? Sir, I am your very 
 humble servant. Madam, I am yours ! What, you are 
 going off, are you? Then, first, if you please, take a 
 word or two from me with you before you go. Tell 
 me iiist where you are going; and when you have
 
 78 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN [Act V 
 
 told me that, perhaps I shall know as little as I did 
 before. 
 
 Leontine. If that be so, our answer might but in- 
 crease your displeasure, without adding to your infor- 
 mation. 
 
 Croaker. I want no information from you, pupjiy ; 
 and you too, good madam, what answer have you got ? 
 Eh ! (^A cry without, " /Stop him! ") I think I heard a 
 noise. My friend Honey wood without — has he seized 
 the incendiary ? Ah, no, for now I hear no more on 't. 
 
 Leontine. Honey wood without ! Then, sir, it was 
 Mr. Honeywood that directed you hither? 
 
 Croaker. No, sir, it was Mr. Honeywood conducted 
 me hither. 
 
 Leontine. Is it possible? 
 
 Croaker. Possible ! Why, he 's in the house now, 
 sir ; more anxious about me than my own son, sir. 
 
 Leontine. Then, sir, he 's a villain ! 
 
 Croaker. How, sirrah ! a villain, because he takes 
 most care of your father ? I '11 not bear it. I tell you 
 I'll not bear it. Honeywood is a friend to the family, 
 and I '11 have him treated as such. 
 
 Leontine. I shall study to re})ay his friendship as it 
 deserves. 
 
 Croaker. Ah, rogue, if you knew how earnestly he 
 entered into my gi-iefs, and pointed out the means to 
 detect them, you would love him as I do. (vl cry with- 
 out., '■'' Stop Jntn ! ''^ Fire and fury! they have seized 
 the incendiary ; they have the villain, the incendiary 
 in view. Sto[) him ! stop an incendiary ! a murderer! 
 stop him I {Exit. 
 
 Olivid. Oh, my terrors! what can this new tumult 
 mean ? 
 
 Leontine. Some new mark, I suppose, of Mr. Honey.
 
 ActV] the good-natured man 79 
 
 wood's sincerity. But we shall have satisfaction : he 
 shall give me instant satisfaction. 
 
 Olivia. It must not be, my Leontine, if you value 
 Tny esteem or my happiness. Whatever be our fate, 
 let us not add guilt to our misfortunes — Consider that 
 our innocence will shortly be ail we have left us. You 
 must forgive him. 
 
 Leontine. Forgive him! Has he not in every in- 
 stance betrayed us ? Forced me to borrow money from 
 him, which appears a mere trick to delay us ; promised 
 to keep my father engaged till we were out of danger, 
 and here brought him to the very scene of our escape ? 
 
 Olivia. Don't be precipitate. We may yet be mis- 
 taken. 
 
 Enter Postboy, dragging in Jarvis ; Honeywood entering soon after. 
 
 Po8tboy. Ay, master, we have him fast enough. 
 Here is the incendiary dog. I 'm entitled to the re- 
 ward ; I '11 take my oath I saw him ask for the money 
 at the bar, and then run for it. 
 
 Honeywood. Come, bring him along. Let us see 
 him. Let him learn to blush for his crimes. (^Discov^ 
 ering hismistahe.^ Death! what 's here? Jarvis, Leon- 
 tine, Olivia ! What can all this mean ? 
 
 Jarvis. Why I '11 tell you what it means : that I was 
 an old fool, and that you are my master — that's all. 
 
 Honeyivood. Confusion! 
 
 Leontine. Yes, sir, I find you have kept your word 
 with me. After such baseness, 1 wonder how you cai 
 venture to see the man 5'ou have injured ! 
 
 Honeywood. My dear Leontine, by my life, my 
 honor — 
 
 Leontine. Peace, peace, for shame ; and do not con- 
 tinue to aggravate baseness by hypocrisy. I know you, 
 sir, I know you.
 
 80 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN [Act ^ 
 
 Iloneywood. Why, won't you hear me? By all 
 that's just, I knew not — 
 
 Leontine. Hear you, sir? to what purpose? I now 
 see through all your low arts ; your ever complying 
 with every opinion ; your n'iver refusing- any request ; 
 your friendship as common as a prostitute's favors, 
 and as fallacious ; all these, sir, have long been con- 
 temptible to the world, and are now perfectly so to 
 
 1316. 
 
 Jloneywood. (^Aside.') Ha ! " contemptible to the 
 world " ! that reaches me. 
 
 Leontine. All the seeming sincerity of your profes- 
 sions, I now find were only allurements to betray ; and 
 all your seeming regret for their consequences, only 
 calculated to cover the cowardice of your heart. Draw, 
 villain ! 
 
 Enter Croaker, out of breath. 
 
 Croaker. Where is the villain? Where is the in- 
 cendiary? (^Seizing the Posthoy^. Hold him fast, the 
 dog ; he has the gallows in his face. Come, you dog, 
 confess ; confess all, and hang yourself. 
 
 Postboy. Zounds, master ! what do you throttle me 
 for? 
 
 Croaker, {Beating him.^ Dog, do you resist; do 
 you resist? 
 
 Postboy. Zounds, master! I 'm not he ; there 's the 
 man that we thought was the rogue, and turns out to 
 be one of the company. 
 
 Croaker. How ! 
 
 Iloneywood. Mr. Croaker, we have all been under 
 a strange mistake here ; I find there is nobody guilty; 
 it was all an error ; entirely an error of our own. 
 
 Croaker. And I say, sir, that you 're in an error : 
 for there 's guilt and double guilt, a plot, a damned
 
 ActV] the GOOD-NATURED MAN 81 
 
 Jesuitical, pestilential plot, and I must have proof 
 of it. 
 
 Iloneywood. Do but hear me. 
 
 Croaker. What ! you intend to bring 'em off, I sup- 
 pose? I '11 hear nothing. 
 
 Iloneywood. Madam, you seem at least calm enough 
 to hear reason. 
 
 Olivia. Excuise me. 
 
 Honeywood. Good Jarvis, let me then explain it to 
 you. 
 
 Jarvis. What signifies explanation when the thing 
 is done ? 
 
 Honeyioood. Will nobody hear me? W^as there 
 ever such a set, so blinded by passion and prejudice ! 
 ( To the Postboy.) My good friend, I believe you '11 be 
 surprised when I assure you — 
 
 Postboy. Sure me nothing — I 'm sure of nothing 
 but a good beating. 
 
 Croaker. Come then, you, madam, if you ever hope 
 for any favor or forgiveness, tell me sincerely all you 
 know of this affair. 
 
 Olivia. Unhappily, sir, I 'm but too much the cause 
 of your suspicions : you see before you, sir, one that, 
 with false pretences, has stept into your family to be- 
 tray it ; not your daughter — 
 
 Croaker. Not my daughter ! 
 
 Olivia. Not your daughter — but a mean deceiver 
 — who — support me, I cannot — 
 
 Iloneywood. Help, she 's going ; give her air. 
 
 Croaker. Ay, ay, take the young woman to the air ; 
 I would not hurt a hair of her head, whose ever 
 daughter she may be — not so bad as that neither. 
 
 [Exeunt all but Croaker. 
 
 \ Yes, yes, all 's out ; I now see the whole affair ; my
 
 82 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN [Act V 
 
 son is either married, or going to be so, to this lady, 
 whom he imposed upon me as his sister. Ay, cer- 
 tainly so ; and yet I don't find it afflicts me so much 
 as one might think. There 's the advantage of fretting 
 away our misfortunes beforehand ; we never feel them 
 when they come. 
 
 Enter Miss Richland and Sir William. 
 
 Sir William. But how do you know, madam, that 
 my nephew intends setting off from this place ? 
 
 3IiiiS Richland. My maid assured me he was come 
 to this inn, and my own knowledge of his intending to 
 leave the kingdom suggested the rest. But what do 
 I see ? my guardian here before us ! Who, my dear sir, 
 could have expected meeting you here ? To what acci- 
 dent do we owe this pleasure? 
 
 Croaher. To a fool, I believe. 
 
 3Iiss Richland. But to what purpose did you 
 come? 
 
 Croaker. To play the fool. 
 
 3Iiss Richland. But with whom ? 
 
 Croaker. With greater fools than myself. 
 
 Miss Richland. Explain. 
 
 Croaker. Why, Mr. Honeywood brought me here, 
 to do nothing now I am here ; and my son is going to 
 be married to I don't know who, that is here : so now 
 you are as wise as I am. 
 
 Miss Richland. Married ! to whom, sir? 
 
 Croaker. To Olivia, my daughter, as I took her to 
 be ; but who the devil she is, or whose daughter she is, 
 I know no more than the man in the moon. 
 
 Sir William. Then, sir, I can inform you ; and, 
 though a stranger, yet you shall find me a friend to 
 your family. It will be enough, at present, to assure 
 you that, both in point of birth and fortune, the young
 
 ActV] the good-natured man 83 
 
 lady is at least your son's equal. Being left by her 
 father, Sir James Woodville — 
 
 Croaker. Sir James Woodville ! What, of the 
 west? 
 
 Sir William. Being left by him, I say, to the care 
 of a mercenary wretch, whose only aim was to secure 
 her fortune to himself, she was sent to France, under 
 pretence of education ; and there every art was tried 
 to fix her for life in a convent, contrary to her incli- 
 nations. Of this I was informed upon my arrival at 
 Paris ; and, as I had been once her father's friend, I 
 did all in my power to frustrate her guardian's base 
 intentions. I had even meditated to rescue her from 
 his authority, when your son stepped in with more 
 pleasing violence, gave her liberty, and you a daughter. 
 
 Croaker. But I intend to have a daughter of my 
 own choosing, sir. A young lady, sir, whose fortune, 
 by my interest with those that have interest, will be 
 double what my son has a right to expect ! Do you 
 know Mr. Lofty, sir? 
 
 Sir William. Yes, sir : and know that you are de- 
 ceived in him. But step this way, and I '11 convince 
 you. l^Croaker and Sir William seem to confer. 
 
 Enter Honeywood. 
 
 Honeyxoood. Obstinate man, still to persist in his 
 outrage ! Insulted by him, despised by all, I now be- 
 gin to grow contemptible even to myself. How have 
 I sunk by too great an assiduity to please ! How have 
 I overtaxed all my abilities, lest the approbation of 
 a single fool should escape me ! But all is now over : I 
 have survived my reputation, my fortune, my friend- 
 ships, and nothing remains henceforward for me but 
 solitude and repentance. 
 
 Miss Richland. Is it true, Mr. Honeywood, that
 
 U THE GOOD-NATURED MAN [Act V 
 
 you are setting off, without taking leave of your 
 friends ? The report is that you are quitting England. 
 Can it be ? 
 
 Honeyv^ood. Yes, madam ; and though I am so un- 
 happy as to have fallen under your displeasure, yet, 
 thank Heaven ! I leave you to happiness ; to one who 
 loves you, and deserves your love ; to one who has 
 power to procure you affluence, and generosity to 
 improve your enjoyment of it. 
 
 31iss RicJiland. And are you sure, sir, that the 
 gentleman you mean is what you describe him? 
 
 Honey wood. I have the best assurances of it — 
 his serving me. He does indeed deserve the highest 
 happiness, and that is in your power to confer. As 
 for me, weak and wavering as I have been, obliged 
 by all, and incapable of serving any, what happiness 
 can I find but in solitude ; what hope, but in being 
 forgotten? 
 
 Miss ItlcJdayid. A thousand ! to live among friends 
 that esteem you, whose happiness it will be to be per- 
 mitted to oblige you. 
 
 Honey wood. No, madam, my resolution is fixed. 
 Inferiority among strangers is easy; but among those 
 that once were equals, insupportable. Nay, to show 
 you how far my resolution can go, I can now speak 
 with calmness of my former follies, my vanity, my 
 dissipation, my weakness. I will even confess that, 
 among the number of my other presumptions, I had 
 the insolence to think of loving you. Yes, madam, 
 while I was pleading the passion of another, my heart 
 was tortured with its own. But it is over; it was 
 unworthy our friendship, and let it be forgotten. 
 
 Miss Richland. You amaze me I 
 
 Honeywood. But you '11 forgive it, I know you will;
 
 ActV] the GOOD-NATURED MAN 85 
 
 since the confession should not have come from me 
 even now, but to convince you of the sincerity of my 
 intention of — never mentioning- it more. [Going. 
 
 Miss liicldand. Stiiy, sir, one moment — Ha ! he 
 here — 
 
 Enter Lofly. 
 
 Lofty. Is the coast clear? None but friends? I 
 have followed you here with a trifling piece of intel- 
 ligence ; but it goes no farther ; things are not yet ripe 
 for a discovery. I have s])irits working at a certain 
 board ; your affair at the Treasury will be done in less 
 than — a thousand years. Mum ! 
 
 Miss Richland. Sooner, sir, I should hope. 
 
 Lofty. \Vh3% yes, I believe it may, if it falls into 
 proper hands, that know where to push and where to 
 parry ; that know how the land lies — eh, Honey- 
 wood ? 
 
 Miss Richland. It is fallen into yours. 
 
 Lofty. AYell, to keep you no longer in suspense, 
 your thing is done. It is done, I say — that 'sail. I have 
 just had assurances from Lord Neverout, that the claim 
 has been examined, and found admissible. Quietus is 
 the word, madam. 
 
 Honey wood. But how? his lordship has been at 
 Newmarket these ten days ! 
 
 Lofty. Indeed ! Then Sir Gilbert Goose must have 
 been most damnably mistaken. I had it of him. 
 
 3Hss Richland. He! why. Sir Gilbert and his 
 family have been in the country this month. 
 
 Lofty. This month ! it must certainly be so — Sir 
 Gilbert's letter did come to me from Newmarket, sg 
 that he must have met his Lordship there ; and so it 
 came about. I have his letter about me ; I '11 read it 
 to you. (^Taking out a large bundle.^ That's from
 
 86 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN [Act V 
 
 Paoli of Corsica ; * that from the Marquis of Squi- 
 lachi.^ — Have you a inind to see a letter from Count 
 Poniatowski,^ now King of Poland? — Honest Pon — 
 {Searching.^ Oh, sir, what, are you here too? I '11 tell 
 you what, honest friend, if you have not absolutely 
 delivered my letter to Sir William Honeywood, 
 you may return it. The thing will do without 
 him. 
 
 Sir William. Sir, I have delivered it, and must in- 
 form you it was received with the most mortifying 
 contempt. 
 
 Croaker. Contempt ! Mr. Lofty, what can that 
 mean? 
 
 Lofty. Let him go on, let him go on, I say. You'll 
 find it come to something presently. 
 
 Sir William. Yes, sir ; I believe you'll be amazed, 
 if, after waiting some time in the antechamber, after 
 being surveyed with insolent curiosity by the passing 
 servants, I was at last assured that Sir William Hon- 
 eywood knew no such person, and I must certainly 
 have been imposed upon. 
 
 Lofty. Good; let me die; very good. Ha! ha! ha! 
 
 Croaher. Now, for my life, I can't find out half the 
 goodness of it. 
 
 Lofty. You can't? Ha! ha! 
 
 Croaker. No, for the soul of me ! I think it was as 
 
 » Paoli of Corsica : Pascal Paoli (1726-1807) was appointed 
 General-in-Chief for the Corsicans in 1755. One year later than 
 the date of this play his army was overcome by the French. 
 Paoli then settled in England and became a friend of Johnson 
 and Goldsmith. 
 
 ' Squilachi : Member of the noble Spanish family of Esqui* 
 lache in Calabria. 
 
 ^ Poniatowski : Stanislas-Angustns Poniatowski (1732-98) 
 was known as Stanislaus II, last King of Poland.
 
 Act V] THE GOOD-NATURED MAN 87 
 
 confounded a bad answer as ever was sent from one 
 private gentleman to another. 
 
 Lofty. And so you can't find out the force of the 
 message ? Wh}- , I was in the house at that very timaa 
 Ha ! ha ! It was I that sent that very answer to my 
 own letter. Ha! ha! 
 
 Croaker. Indeed ! How ? why ? 
 
 Lofty. In one word, things between Sir William 
 and me must be behind the curtain. A party has many 
 eyes. He sides with Lord Buzzard, I side with Sir 
 Gilbert Goose. So that unriddles the mystery. 
 
 Croaker. And so it does, indeed, and all my sus- 
 picions are over. 
 
 Lofty. Your suspicions ! What then, you have been 
 suspecting, you have been suspecting, have you ? Mr. 
 Croaker, you and I were friends — we are friends no 
 longer. Never talk to me. It's over; I say, it's over. 
 
 Croaker. As I hope for your favor, I did not mean 
 to offend. It escaped me. Don't be discomjjosed. 
 
 Lofty. Zounds ! sir, but I am discomposed, and will 
 be discomposed. To be treated thus! Who am I? 
 Was it for this I have been dreaded both by ins and 
 outs? Have I been libelled in the Gazetteer., and 
 praised in the St. Jainess ; ^ have I been chaired at 
 Wildman's,- and a speaker at Merchant Tailors' Hall ; ^ 
 
 1 St. James's : St. James's Chronicle ; first issued 1763. 
 * "Wildmau's : A coffee-house in Bedford Street, Strand. 
 
 Each dish at Wildman's of sedition smacks; 
 Blasphemy may be Gospel at AIniack's. 
 
 Churchill, The Candidate. 
 3 Merchant Tailors' Hall : A f.imous bauqueting-hall foJ 
 several centuries. 
 
 Now I remember 
 We met at Merchant Taylors' Hall at dinner, 
 In Threadueedle Street. 
 
 Ben Jonson, The Magnetic Lady.
 
 88 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN [Act V 
 
 have I bad my hand to addresses, and my head in the 
 print-shops, and talk to me of suspects? 
 
 Croaker. My dear sir, be pacified. What can you 
 have but asking- ^mrdon ? 
 
 Lofty. Sir, I will not be pacified — Suspects ! Who 
 am I? To be used thus ! Have I paid court to men in 
 favor to serve my friends ; the Lords of the Treasury, 
 Sir William Honeywood, and the rest of the gang, 
 and talk to me of suspects! Who am I, I say, who 
 am I ? 
 
 Sir WiUlain. Since, sir, you are so pressing for an 
 answer, I'll tell you who you are: — A gentleman as 
 well acquainted with politics as with men in power ; 
 as well acquainted with persons of fashion as with 
 modesty ; with Lords of the Treasury as with truth ; 
 and with all, as you are with Sir William Honeywood. 
 I am Sir William Honeywood ! (^Dlscovermg his en- 
 signs of the Bath.^ 
 
 Croaker. Sir William Honeywood! 
 
 Honeywood. (^Aside.} Astonishment! my uncle! 
 
 Lofty. So then, my confounded genius has been all 
 this time only leading me up to the garret, in order to 
 fling me out of the window. 
 
 Croaker. What, Mr. Importance, and are these your 
 works? Suspect you! You, who have been dreaded 
 by the ins and outs ; you, who have had your hand to 
 addresses, and head stuck up in print-shops ! If you 
 were served right, j'ou should have your head stuck 
 up in the pillory. 
 
 Lofty. Ay, stick it where you will; for, by the 
 Lord, it cuts but a very poor figure where it sticks al 
 present. 
 
 Sir William. Well, Mr. Croaker, I hope you now 
 see how incapable this gentleman is of serving you,
 
 Act VI THE GOOD-NATURED MAN 89 
 
 and how little Miss Richland has to expect from liis 
 influence. 
 
 Croaker. Ay, sir, too well I see it, and I can't but 
 say I have l)ad some boding' of it these ten days. So 
 I 'in resolved, since my son has placed his affections 
 on a lady of moderate fortune, to be satisfied with his 
 choice, and not run the hazard of another Mr. Lofty, 
 in helpiiii^ him to a better. 
 
 Sir WiUiam. I approve your resolution ; and here 
 they come, to receive a confirmation of your pardon 
 and consent. 
 
 Enter Mrs. Croaker, Jarvis, Leontine, and Olivia. 
 
 Jfrs. Croaker. Where's my husband? Come, come, 
 lovey, you must forgive them. Jarvis here has been to 
 tell me the whole affair ; and I say you must forgive 
 them. Our own was a stolen match, you know, my 
 dear; and we never had any reason to x-epent of it. 
 
 Croaker. I wish we could both say so. However, 
 this gentleman. Sir William Honeywood, has been 
 beforehand with you in obtaining their pardon. So, 
 if the two poor fools have a mind to marry, I think 
 we can tack them together without crossing the Tweed 
 
 for it. [Joining their hands. 
 
 Leontine. Plow blest and unexpected ! What, what 
 can we say to such goodness ? But our future obedi- 
 ence shall be the best reply. And as for this gentle- 
 man, to whom we owe — 
 
 Sir William. Excuse me, sir, if I interrupt your 
 thanks, as I have here an interest that calls me. 
 ( Turning to Honeyioood.) Yes, sir, you are surprised 
 to see me ; and I own that a desire of correcting your 
 follies led me hither. I saw with indignation the errors 
 of a mind that onl)^ sought a])])lause from others ; that 
 easiness of disposition which, though inclined to the
 
 90 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN [Act V 
 
 ri^lit, had not courage to condemn the wrong. I saw 
 with regret those splendid errors, that still took name 
 from some neighboring duty; your charity, that was 
 but injustice ; your benevolence, that was but weak- 
 ness ; and your friendship, but credulity. I saw with 
 regret great talents and extensive learning only em- 
 ployed to add sprightliness to error, and increase your 
 perplexities. I saw your mind with a thousand natural 
 charms ; but the greatness of its beauty served only 
 to heighten my pity for its prostitution. 
 
 Honeytoood. Cease to upbraid me, sir ; I have for 
 some time but too strongly felt the justice of your 
 reproaches. But there is one way still left me. Yes, 
 sir, I have determined this very hour to quit forever 
 a place where I have made myself the voluntary slave 
 of all ; and to seek among sti-angers that fortitude 
 which may give strength to the mind, and marshal all 
 its dissipated virtues. Yet, ere I depart, permit me to 
 solicit favor for this gentleman ; who, notwithstanding 
 what has happened, has laid me under the most signal 
 obligations. Mr. Lofty — 
 
 Lofty, Mr. Honeywood, I 'm resolved upon a refor- 
 mation as well as j'ou. I now begin to find that the 
 man who first invented the art of speaking truth was 
 a much cunninger fellow than I thought him. And* 
 to prove that I design to speak truth for the future, I 
 must now assure you that you owe j^our late enlarge- 
 ment to another, as, upon my soul, I had no hand in 
 the matter. So now., if any of the company has a mind 
 for preferment, he may take my place. I 'm deter- 
 mined to resign. \Exiu 
 
 Honeywood, How have I been deceived ! 
 
 Sir William. No, sir, you have been obliged to a 
 kinder, fairer friend, for that favor — To Miss Rich-:
 
 ActV] the GOOD-NATURED MAN 91 
 
 land. Would she complete our joy, and make the man 
 }he has honored by her friendship happy in her love, 
 I should then forget all, and be as blest as the welfare 
 of my dearest kinsman can make me. 
 
 Jliss lilchland. After what is past, it would be but 
 affectation to pretend to indifference. Yes, I will own 
 an attachment, which, I find, was more than friend- 
 ship. And if my entreaties cannot alter his resolution 
 to quit the country, I will even try if my hand has not 
 
 power to detain him. [Giving her hand. 
 
 Honeyioood. Heavens ! how can I have deserved 
 all this ? How express my happiness, my gratitude ? 
 A moment like this overpays an age of apprehension. 
 
 Croaker. Well, now I see content in every face ; but 
 Heaven send we be all better this day three months ! 
 
 Sir William. Henceforth, nephew, learn to respect 
 yourself. He who seeks only for applause from with- 
 out, has all his happiness in another's keeping. 
 
 Honeywood. Yes, sir, I now too plainly perceive 
 my errors ; my vanity, in attempting to please all by 
 fearing to offend any ; my meanness, in approving 
 folly lest fools should disapprove. Henceforth, there- 
 fore, it shall be my study to reserve my pity for real 
 distress ; my friendship for real merit ; and my love 
 for her, who first taught me what it is to be happy.
 
 EPILOGUE > 
 
 SPOKEN BY MRS. BULKLEY.' 
 
 As puffing quacks some caitiff wretch procure 
 To swear the pill, or drop, has wrought a cure ; 
 Thus, on the stage, our play-wrights still depend 
 For Epilogues and Prologues on some friend, 
 Who knows each art of coaxing up the town, 
 And makes full many a bitter pill go down. 
 Conscious of this, our bard has gone about, 
 And teased each rhyming friend to help him out. 
 An Epilogue ! things can't go on without it ! 
 It could not fail, would you but set about it. 
 " Young man," cries one (a bard laid up in clover), 
 " Alas, young man, my writing days ai-e over ; 
 Let boys play tricks, and kick the straw,^ not I; 
 Your brother Doctor ^ there, perhaps, may try." 
 
 • Epilogue : The author, in expectation of an Epilogue from 
 a friend at Oxford, deferred writing one himself till the very last 
 hour. What is here offered, owes all its success to the graceful 
 manner of the actress who spoke it. — Goldsmith. 
 
 - Mrs. Bulkley : Originally Miss Wilford, was on the Lon- 
 don stage from 1764 to 1789. She created the part of Miss Hard- 
 castle in She Stoops to Conquer, and of Julia in The Rivals, 
 
 3 and kick the stra"w: Referring to the feats of a performer 
 named Mattocks, who could kick a straw and balance it on his 
 nose. See The Citizen of (he World, Letter xxi, on the English 
 Theatre. 
 
 * Doctor: The title of Doctor seems to have been somewnat 
 more freely used in Goldsmith's time than at present. Johnsoi, 
 was called Doctor upon the LL. D. granted by Dublin University 
 in 1765; however, he always preferred the plain Mister. Gold- 
 smith was known as Doctor by common consent, though his only 
 degree was M. B., and he did not use this on a title-page until 
 March, 1763.
 
 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN 93 
 
 "What I, dear sir?" the Doctor interposes, 
 
 " What, plant my thistle, sir, among his roses ! 
 
 No, no, I've other contests to maintain ; 
 
 To-night I head our troops at Warwick-lane.* 
 
 Go, ask your manager." — " Who, me? Your pardou; 
 
 Those things are not our forte at Covent Garden." 
 
 Diir author's friends, thus placed at happy distance. 
 
 Give him good words indeed, but no assistance. 
 
 As some unhappy wight, at some new ])lay, 
 
 At the pit-door stands elbowing a way. 
 
 While oft, with many a smile, and many a shrug, 
 
 He eyes the centre, where his friends sit snug, 
 
 His simpering friends with pleasure in their eyes, 
 
 Sink as he sinks, and as he rises rise : 
 
 He nods, they nod ; he cringes, they grimace ; 
 
 But not a soul will budge to give him place. 
 
 Since, then, unhelp'd, our bard must now conform 
 
 To ''bide the pelting of this pitiless storm," ^ 
 
 Blame where you must, be candid where you can, 
 
 And be each critic the Good-Natured Man. 
 
 1 War'wick-lane: Newgate Street to Paternoster Row. John 
 Roberts, an early publisher for Johnson, lived at the Oxford 
 Arms in Warwick-lane. The College of Physicians was located 
 in the Lane. 
 
 ^ To "bide the pelting": King Lear, Act III, Sc. 4.
 
 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER 
 
 OR, 
 
 THE MISTAKES OF A NIGHT 
 
 DEDICATION 
 to samuel johnson, ll. d, 
 
 Dkar Sir, 
 
 By inscribing this slight performance to you, I do not mean so 
 much to compliment you as myself. It may do me some honor 
 to inform the public, that I have lived many years in intimacy 
 with you. It may serve the interests of mankind also to inform 
 them, that the greatest wit may be found in a character, without 
 impairing the most unaffected piety. 
 
 I have, particularly, reason to thank you for your partiality 
 to this performance. The undertaking a comedy, not merely 
 sentimental, was very dangerous ; and Mr. Colman, who saw 
 this piece in its various stages, always thought it so. However, 
 I ventured to trust it to the public ; and, though it was neces- 
 sarily delayed till late in the season, I have every reason to bo 
 grateful. 
 
 I am, dear sir, 
 
 Your most sincere friend 
 
 And admirer, 
 
 Oliver Goldsmith.
 
 PROLOGUE 
 
 BY DAVID GAKRICK, ESQ.' 
 
 Enter Mr. Woodward,'^ dressed in black, and holding u nandkei'chiefU 
 his eyes. 
 
 Excuse me, sirs, I pray — I can't yet speak — 
 
 I 'm crying now — and have been all the week ! 
 *' 'T is not alone * this mourning suit," good masters ; 
 *' I 've that within " — for which there are no plasters! 
 
 Pray would you know the reason why I 'm crying ? 
 
 The Comic Muse, long sick, is now a-dying ! 
 
 And if she goes, my tears will never stop ; 
 
 For, as a player, I can't squeeze out one drop ; 
 
 I am undone, that 's all — shall lose my bread — 
 
 I 'd rather, but that 's nothing — lose my head. 
 
 When the sweet maid is laid upon the bier, 
 
 Shuter* and I shall be chief mourners here. 
 
 1 Prologue by David G-arrick : Garrick (1716-79), the 
 greatest producer of plays England has known, was famous for 
 his prologues, of which he wrote a great many. Concerning She 
 Stoops to Conquer Horace Walpole writes, March 27, 1773, "Gar- 
 rick would not act it, but bought himself off with a poor pro* 
 logue." 
 
 » Enter Mr. Woodward : Henry Woodward (1717-77), 
 one of the best comedians of the eighteentli century, was nnri- 
 valed as Bobadil, Petruchio, and Touchstone. He liad taken the 
 part of Lofty in The Good-Natured Man, but spoke only the 
 prologue in this play. 
 
 s 'Tis not alone: Compare Hamlet, Act I, Sc. 2: " 'T is not 
 alone my inky cloak, good mother." 
 
 * Shuter: Edward Shuter (1728-7G) was considered by Gar- 
 rick the greatest comic genius he bad ever seen. His best char- 
 acters were Scrub, Trapolin, Launcelot, and Falstafif. His Croaker 
 was the success of Goldsmith's first play.
 
 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER 
 
 To her a mawkish drab of spurious bi-eed, 
 
 Who deals in sentimentals, will succeed. 
 
 Poor Ned and I are dead to all intents ; 
 
 We can as soon speak Greek as sentiments ! 
 
 Both nervous grown, to keep our spirits up, 
 
 We now and then take down a hearty cup. 
 
 What shall we do ? It" Comedy forsake us, 
 
 They '11 turn us out, and no one else will take us- 
 
 But why can't I be moral ? — Let me try : 
 
 My heart thus ])ressing — fix'd my face and eye— • 
 
 With a sententious look, that nothing means, 
 
 (Faces are blocks in sentimental scenes,) 
 
 Thus I begin — "All is not gold that glitters,* 
 
 Pleasure seems sweet, but proves a glass of bittera, 
 
 When Ignorance enters, Folly is at hand ; 
 
 Learning is better far than house and land. 
 
 Let not your virtue trip ; who trips may stumble, 
 
 And virtue is not virtue, if she tumble." 
 
 I give it up — morals won't do for me ; 
 To make you laugh, I tnust play tragedy. ^'"'"^ 
 One hope remains, — hearing tiie maid was ill, 
 A Doctor comes this night to show his skill. 
 To cheer her heart, and give your muscles mouon. 
 He, in Five Draughts pre])ared, presents a potion i 
 A kind of magic charm ; for, be assured. 
 If you will swallow it, the maid is cured : 
 But desperate the Doctor, and her case is. 
 If you reject the dose, and make wry faces. 
 This truth he boasts, will boast it while he lives, 
 No poisonous drugs are mixed in what he gives. 
 Should he succeed, you '11 give him his degree ; 
 If not, within he will receive no fee ! 
 The college you, must his pretensions back, 
 Pronounce him Regular, or dub him Quack. 
 
 *' All is not gold " : From Drydeu's Hind and Panther,
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONiE 
 
 MEN 
 
 Sir Charles Marlow Mr. Gardner^ 
 
 Young Marlow {his son) Mr. Lewes. 
 
 hardcastle . , . . o Mr. Shuter. 
 
 Hastings Mr. Dubellamyc 
 
 Tony Lumpkin Mr. Quick. 
 
 Diggory Mr. Saunders. 
 
 WOMEN 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle Mrs. Green. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle Mrs. Bulkley. 
 
 Miss Neville • • • . Mrs. KnivetoUo 
 
 Maid ,.•.. Miss Williams 
 
 LandUyrd, Servants^ iSic. Ac
 
 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER 
 
 OR, 
 
 THE MISTAKES OF A NIGHT 
 
 ACT THE FIRST 
 Scene I, A chamber in an old-fashioned house. 
 
 Enter Mrs. Hardcastle and Mr. Uardcastle. 
 
 3frs. Hardcastle. I vow, Mr. Hardcastle, you 're 
 very particular. Is there a creature in the whole 
 country but ourselves that does not take a trip to 
 town now and then, to rub off the rust a little? 
 There 's the two Miss Hoggs, and our neighbor Mrs. 
 Grigsby, go to take a month's polishing every winter. 
 
 Hardcastle. Ay, and bring back vanity and affecta- 
 tion to last them the whole year. I wonder why Lon- 
 don cannot keep its own fools at home. In my time, 
 the follies of the town crept slowly among us, but now 
 they travel faster than a stage-coach.* Its foppai-ies 
 con>e down not only as inside passengers, but in the 
 very basket. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. Ay, your times were fine times 
 indeed; you have been telling us of them for many a 
 long year. Here we live in an old rumbling ^ mansion, 
 that looks for all the world like an inn, but that we 
 
 * faster than a stage-coach : In April, 17G5, Jean Pierre 
 Grosley, in his Tour of London, says that the public carriages to 
 Dover are now called " flying machines." 
 
 ^ rumbling : rambling.
 
 6 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER [Act I 
 
 never see company. Our best visitors are old Mrs. 
 Oddfisli, the curate's wife, and little Cripplegate, the 
 lame dancing-master ; and all our entertainment your 
 old stories of Prince Eugene ^ and the Duke of Marl- 
 borough. I hate such old-fashioned trumpery. 
 
 Hardcastle. And I love it. I love everything that 's 
 old : old friends, old times, old manners, old books, 
 old wine ; ^ and, I believe, Dorothy, (taking her hand,^ 
 you '11 own I have been pretty fond of an old wife. 
 
 J£rs. Hardcastle. Lord, Mr. Hardcastle, you're for- 
 ever at your Dorothys and your old wifes. You may 
 be a Darby, but 1 '11 be no Joan,^ I promise you. I 'm 
 not so old as you 'd make me by more than one good 
 year. Add twenty to twenty and make money of that. 
 
 ^ old stories of Prince Eugene: On Friday, April 10, 1772, 
 Goldsmith dined with a company at General Oglethorpe's, and 
 the General, then seventy-four years old, told tales of his ser- 
 vice with Prince Eugene in the Turkish campaigns of 1716-17 
 (Hill's Boswell, vol. ii, p. 207). There can be no doubt that, with 
 Hardcastle, Goldsmith loved "such old-fashioned trumpery." 
 After the fashion of Oglethorpe, Hardcastle tries to tell his old 
 stories in Act II. Prince Eugene visited England in 1712, and 
 Steele wrote an essay on him ; he also wrote a pamphlet on the 
 Duke of Marlborough the same year. 
 
 ' old friends, old times, old manners : A conscious or un- 
 conscious paraphrase of Bacon's Apothegms, 97 : " Old wood to 
 burn ! Old wine to drink ! Old friends to trust ! Old authors to 
 read ! " 
 
 * Darby . . . Joan : Literary types of husband and wife 
 who remain lovers throughout life. Joan is a typical name for 
 a farm wench. " While greasy Joan doth keel the pot," Love's 
 Labor's Zosi (Act V, Sc. 2). The first known use of these names 
 in conjunction occurs in The Gentleman's Magazine, 1735 : — 
 
 Old Darby with Joan by his side. 
 You 've often regarded with wonder.
 
 Scene I] SHE STOOPS TO CONQUEP. 7 
 
 Hardcastle. Let me see ; twenty added to twenty 
 — makes just fifty and seven ! 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. It 's false, Mr. Hardcastle 5 I was 
 but twenty when I was brought to bed of Tony, that 
 I had by Mr. Lumpkin, my first husband ; and he ""s 
 not come to years of discretion yet. 
 
 Hardcastle. Nor ever will, I dare answer for him. 
 Ay, you have taught him finely ! 
 
 J/rs. Hardcastle. No matter. Tony Lumpkin has 
 a good fortune. My son is not to live by his learningc 
 I don't think a boy wants much learning to spend fif- 
 teen hundred a year. 
 
 Hardcastle. Learning, quotha ! a mere composition 
 of tricks and mischief ! 
 
 3frs. Hardcastle. Humor, my dear ; nothing but 
 humor. Come, Mr. Hardcastle, you must allow the 
 boy a little humor. 
 
 Hardcastle. I 'd sooner allow him a horse-pond ! 
 If burning the footmen's shoes, frighting the maids, 
 and worrying the kittens, be humor, he has it. It was 
 but yesterday he fastened my wig^ to the back of my 
 chair, and when I went to make a bow, I popped my 
 bald head in Mrs. Frizzle's fa(!e. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. And I am to blame ? The poor boy 
 was always too sickly to do any good. A school would 
 be his death. When he comes to be a littL stronger 
 who knows what a year or two's Latin may do for him ? 
 
 Hardcastle. Latin for him ! A cat and fiddle ! No, 
 no ; the alehouse and the stable are the only schools 
 he '11 ever go to. 
 
 ' fastened my vrig : This trick was played on Goldsmith 
 himself. See Forster, Life, Book IV, chap. xv.
 
 8 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER [Act I 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. Well, we must not snub the poor 
 boy now, for I believe we shan't have him long among 
 us. Anybody that looks in his face may see he 's con- 
 sumptive. 
 
 Hardcastle. Ay, if growing too fat be one of the 
 symptoms. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. He coughs sometimes. 
 
 Hardcastle. Yes, when his liquor goes the vrrong 
 way. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. I 'ra actually afraid of hil 
 lungs. 
 
 Hardcastle. And truly, so am I ; for he sometimes 
 whoops like a speaking-trumpet — ( Tony hallooing 
 behind the scenes.^ — Oh, there he goes — a very con- 
 sumptive figure, truly ! 
 
 Enter Tony, crossing the stage. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. Tony, where are you going, my 
 charmer? Won't you give papa and I^ a little of 
 your company, lovey? 
 
 Tony. I 'm in haste, mother ; I cannot stay. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. You shan't venture out this raw 
 evening, my dear ; you look most shockingly. 
 
 Tony. I can't stay, I tell you. The Three Pigeons 
 expects me down every moment. There 's some fun 
 going forward. 
 
 Hardcastle. Ay, the alehouse, the old place ; I 
 thought so. 
 
 3£rs. Hardcastle. A low, paltry set of fellows. 
 
 Tony. Not so low, neither. There 's Dick Muggins, 
 the exciseman ; Jack Slang, the horse-doctor ; little 
 
 * papa and I : Like Mrs. Malaprop, Mrs. Hardcastle does 
 flot use her mother tongue with accuracy.
 
 Scene I] SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER 9 
 
 Amiuadab, that grinds the music-box; and Tom Twist, 
 
 that spins the pewter platter. 
 
 3Irs. Ilardcastle. Pray, my dear, disappoint them 
 for one night at least. 
 
 Tony. As for disappointing them, I should not so 
 much mind ; but I can't abide to disappoint myself. 
 
 3Irs. Ilardcastle. (^Detaining him.^ You shan't go. 
 
 Tony. I will, I tell you. 
 
 Mrs. Ilardcastle. I say you shan't. 
 
 Tony. We '11 see which is the strongest, you or I. 
 
 l^Exit, hauling her out. 
 
 Ilardcastle. (^Alone.^ Ay, there goes a pair that 
 only spoil each other. But is not the whole age in a 
 combination to drive sense and discretion out of doors ? 
 There 's my pretty darling, Kate ; the fashions of the 
 times have almost infected her too. By living a year 
 or two in town, she is as fond of gauze and French 
 frippery as the best of them. 
 
 Enter Miss Hardcaxtle, 
 
 Blessings on my pretty innocence! Dressed out as 
 usual, my Kate. Goodness ! what a quantity of super- 
 fluous silk hast thou got about thee, girl ! I could 
 never teach the fools of this age that the indigent 
 world * could be clothed out of the trimmings of the 
 vain. 
 
 Jliss Ilardcastle. You know our agreement, sir. 
 You allow me the morning to receive and pay visits, 
 
 1 the indigent "wrorld : Compare this with the vicar's speech 
 in The Vicar of Wakp field (chap, iv) : " I do not know whether 
 such flouncing and shredding is becoming even in the rich, if we 
 consider, upon a moderate calculation, that the nakedness of the 
 iiiciigeut wui'ld might be clothed from the trimmings of the
 
 10 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER [Act I 
 
 and to dress in my own manner ; and in the evening I 
 put on my housewife's dress to please you. 
 
 Hardcastle, Well, remember, I insist on the terms 
 of our agreement ; and, by the bye, I believe I shall 
 have occasion to try your obedience this very evening. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle, I protest, sir, I don't comprehend 
 your meaning. 
 
 Hardcastle. Then, to be plain with you, Kate, I 
 expect the young gentleman I have chosen to be your 
 husband from town this very da}*. I have his father's 
 letter, in which he informs me his son is set out, and 
 that he intends to follow himself shortly after. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. Indeed ! I wish I had known 
 something of this before. Bless m.e, how shall I behave? 
 It 's a thousand to one I shan't like him ; our meeting 
 will be so formal, and so like a thing of business, that 
 I shall find no room for friendship or esteem. 
 
 Hardcastle. Depend upon it, child, I '11 never con- 
 trol your choice ; but Mr. Mar low, whom I have pitched 
 upon, is the son of my old friend, Sir Charles Marlow, 
 of whom you have heard me talk so often. The young 
 gentleman has been bred a scholar, and is designed for 
 an employment in the service of his country. I am 
 told he 's a man of an excellent understanding. 
 
 3Iiss Hardcastle. Is he ? 
 
 Hardcastle. Very generous. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. I believe I shall like him. 
 
 Hardcastle. Young and brave. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. I 'm sure I shall like him. 
 
 Hardcastle. And very handsome. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. My dear papa, say no more, (Jciss* 
 ing his hand,^ he 's mine, I 'U have him!
 
 Scene I] SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER 11 
 
 Hardcnstle. And, to crown all, Kate, he 's one of 
 the most bashful and reserved young fellows in all the 
 world. 
 
 3Iiss IFardcastle. Eh ! you have frozen me to death 
 as^ain. That word reserved has undone all the rest 
 cf his accomplishments. A reserved lover, it is said, 
 always makes a suspicious husband. 
 
 Hardcastle. On the contrary, modesty seldom re- 
 sides in a breast that is not enriched with nobler vir- 
 tues. It was the very feature in his character that first 
 struck me. 
 
 3Uss Hardcastle. He must have more striking fea- 
 tures to catch me, I promise you. However, if he be so 
 young, so handsome, and so everything as you mention, 
 I believe he '11 do still ; I think I '11 have him. 
 
 Hardcastle. Ay, Kate, but there is still an obstacle. 
 It 's more than an even wager he may not have you. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. My dear papa, why will you mor- 
 tify one so? Well, if he refuses, instead' of breaking 
 my heart at his indifference, I '11 only break my glass 
 for its flattery, set my cap to some newer fashion, and 
 look out for some less difficult admirer. 
 
 Hardcastle. Bravely resolved! In the mean time, 
 I '11 go prepare the servants for his reception ; as we 
 seldom see company, they want as much training as a 
 company of recruits the first day's muster. [Exit. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. (^Alone.') Lud, this news of papa's 
 puts me all in a flutter. Yoiing, handsome ; these he 
 put last, but I put them foremost. fScnsible, qood-na' 
 tured ; I like all that. But then, reserved and sheep" 
 ish ; that 's much against him. Yet, can't he be cured 
 of his timidity by being taught to be proud of his wife ?
 
 12 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER [Act I 
 
 Yes ; and can't I — but I vow I 'm disposing of the 
 husband, before I have secured the lover. 
 
 Enter Miss Neville. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. I 'm glad you 're come, Neville, 
 my dear. Tell me, Constance, how do I look this even- 
 ing? Is there anything whimsical about me? Is it 
 one of my well-looking days, child ? Am I in face to- 
 day? 
 
 3Iiss Neville, Perfectly, my dear. Yet, now I look 
 again — bless me ! — surely no accident has happened 
 among the canary birds or the gold-fishes ? Has your 
 brother or the cat been meddling ? Or has the last 
 novel been too moving ? 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. No; nothing of all this. I have 
 been threatened — I can scarce get it out — I have 
 been threatened with a lover. 
 
 Miss Neville. And his name — 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. Is Marlow. 
 
 3Iiss Neville. Indeed ! 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. The son of Sir Charles Marlow. 
 
 Miss Neville. As I live, the most intimate friend 
 of Mr. Hastings, my admirer. They are never asun- 
 der. I believe you must have seen him when we lived 
 in town. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. Never. 
 
 3Iiss Neville. He 's a very singular character, I 
 assure you. Among women of reputation and virtue, 
 he is the modestest man alive ; but his acquaintance 
 give him a very different character among creatures 
 ot another stamp : you understand me. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. An odd character, indeed! I 
 shall never be able to manage him. What shall I do?
 
 Scene I] SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER 13 
 
 Pshaw, think uo more of hirii, but trust to occurrences 
 for success. But how goes on your own affair, my 
 dear? Has my mother been courting you for my 
 brother Tony, as usual? 
 
 Miss Neville. I have just come from one- of our 
 agreeable tete-a-tetes. She has been saying a hundred 
 tender tilings, and setting off her pretty monster as 
 the very pink of perfection. 
 
 3fiss Hardcastle. And her partiality is such that 
 she actually thinks him so. A fortune like yours is no 
 small temptation. Besides, as she has the sole man- 
 agement of it, I 'm not surprised to see her unwilling 
 to let it go out of the family. 
 
 Miss Neville. A fortune like mine, which chiefly 
 consists in jewels, is no such mighty temptation. But 
 at any rate, if my dear Hastings be but constant, I 
 make no doubt to be too hard for her at last. How- 
 ever, I let her supj^ose that I am in love with her son ; 
 and she never once dreams that my affections are fixed 
 upon another. 
 
 J//,s's Hardcastle. My good brother holds out 
 stoutly. I could almost love him for hating you so. 
 
 Miss Neville. It is a good-natured creature at bot- 
 tom, and I 'm sure would wish to see me married to 
 anybody but himself. But my aunt's bell rings for 
 our afternoon's walk round the improvements. Allans. 
 Courage is necessary, as our affairs are critical. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. Wauld it were bed-time, and all 
 
 were well. [Exeunt,
 
 14 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER [Act I 
 
 Scene II, An alehouse room. 
 
 Several ahabby follows with punch and tobacco ; Tuny at the head of the 
 table, a little higher than the rest ; a mallet in his hand. 
 
 Omnes. Hurrea, hurrea, hurrea, bravo ! 
 
 First Fellow. Now, gentlemen, silence for a song. 
 The Squire is going to knock himself down for a 
 song. * 
 
 Omnes. Ay, a song, a song ! 
 
 Tony. Then I '11 sing you, gentlemen, a song I 
 made upon this alehouse. The TJiree Pigeons.^ 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Let schoolmasters puzzle their brain, 
 
 With grammar, and nonsense, and learning ; 
 Good liquor, I stoutly maintain, 
 
 Gives genus a better discerning. 
 Let them brag of their heathenish gods. 
 
 Their Lelhes, their Styxes, and Stygians, 
 Their quis, and their quces, and their quods, 
 
 I'hey 're all but a parcel of pigeons. 
 
 Toroddle, toroddle, toroll t 
 
 When Methodist preachers ' come down, 
 
 A-preaching that drinking is sinful, 
 I 'II wager the rascals a crown. 
 
 They always preach best with a skinful. 
 
 ' knock himself do-wrn for a song : It will be noticed that 
 Tony has a mallet in his hand and has presumably been playing 
 auctioneer. 
 
 ' The Three Pigeons : To pigeon meant to fleece at faro. 
 Goldsmith often sang tliis song himpelf. 
 
 ' Methodist preachers : Goldsmith never missed a chance 
 to ridicule the followers of Wesley. See The Citizen of thi 
 World, Letter cxi, and references to " the tabernacle " in 
 »>&vs.
 
 Scene II] SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER 15 
 
 But when you come down ivith your pence, 
 
 For a slice of their scurvy reVujion, 
 I 'U leave it to all men of sense, 
 
 That you, my good friend, are the pigeon. 
 
 Toroddle, turoddle, toroU I 
 
 Then come, put the jorum ' about, 
 A nd let us be merry and clever. 
 Our hearts and our liquors are stout, 
 
 Here 's the Three Jolly Pigeons for ever. 
 Let some cry up woodcock or hare, 
 
 Your bustards, your ducks, and your ividgeons ; 
 But of all the birds in the air, 
 
 Here 's a health to the Three Jolly Pigeons. 
 
 Toroddle, toroddle, toroll I 
 Omnes. Bravo, bravo ! 
 
 First Fellow. The Squire has got some spunk in 
 him. 
 
 Second Felloic. I loves to hear him sing, bekeays 
 
 he never gives us nothing tl <at 's loWaf ^ 
 
 Third Fellow. Oh, damn anything that 's low» I 
 cannot bear it ! 
 
 Fourth Fellow. The genteel thing is the genteel 
 thing an}'' time ; i£ so be that a gentleman bees in a 
 concatenation '' accordingly. 
 
 Third FelJmo. I like the maxum of it, Master Mug- 
 gins. What tliough I am obligated to dance a bear, a 
 man may be a gentleman for all that. May this be my 
 poison, if my bear ever dances but to the very genteel- 
 
 ' jorum : A drinking bowl. " The usurer is <a swallow, sir, 
 tliat can swallow gold by the jorum." Fielding, The .Author's 
 Farce, 1730. 
 
 ' he never gives us nothing that's low: This and the next 
 three speeches refer to the criticism of Goldsmith's first play as 
 ungenteel. 
 
 ' concatenation accordingly: Fourth Fellow is talking non« 
 sense.
 
 16 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER 1;Act I 
 
 est. of tunes: Water Parted,'^ or The minuet in ArU 
 adne? 
 
 Second Fellow. What a pity it is the Squire is not 
 come to his own. It would be well for all the publicans 
 within ten miles round of him. 
 
 Tony. Ecod, and so it would, Master Slang. I 'd 
 then show what it was to keep choice of company. 
 
 Second Fellow. Oh, he takes after his own father 
 for that. To be sure, old Squire Lumpkin was the 
 finest gentleman I ever set my eyes on. For winding 
 the sti'aight horn,^ or beating a thicket for a hare, or 
 a wench, he never had his fellow. It was a saying in 
 the place, that he kept the best horses, dogs, and girls, 
 in the whole county. 
 
 Tony. Ecod, and when I 'm of age I '11 be no bastard, 
 I promise you. I have been thinking of Bet Bouncer * 
 and the miller's gray mare to begin with. But come, 
 my boys, drink about and be merry, for you pay no 
 reckoning. Well, Stingo, what's the matter? 
 
 > "Water Parted: The first words of a song sung by Arbaces 
 in Act III of Arne's opera of Artaxerxes, first performed Feb- 
 ruary, 1762: — 
 
 Water parted from the sea, 
 
 May increase the river's tide; 
 To the bubbline fount may flee, 
 
 Or thro' fertile rallies glide : 
 Yet in search of lost repose, 
 
 Dooni'd like nie forlorn to roam, 
 Still it nuirniur.s as it Hows, 
 
 Till it reach its native home. 
 
 2 minuet in Ariadne: Handel's opera Ariadne opens with 
 a minuet. 
 
 ' the straight horn: The coaching horn. 
 
 * Bet Bouncer: Mentioned often tlironghout the p^a^^ To be 
 compared 'vvitii Foote's Bet BK>ssom. Fitzgerald tried to show 
 that (roldsmithhad heen influenced by Footc. However, as Gold- 
 smith's play was written first, Foote must be the borrower.
 
 ScekeII] she stoops TO CONQUER 17 
 
 Enter Landlord. 
 
 Landlord. There be two gentlemen in a post-chaise 
 at the door. They have lost their way upo' the for. 
 est; and they are talking- something about Mr. Hard- 
 castle. 
 
 Tony. As sure as can be, one of them must be the 
 gentleman that 's coming down to court my sister. Do 
 they seem to be Londoners ? 
 
 Landlord. I believe they may. They look woundily ^ 
 like Frenchmen. 
 
 Tony. Then desire them to step this way, and I '11 
 set them right in a twinkling. (^Exit Landlord.^ Gen- 
 tlemen, as they may n't be good enough company for 
 you, step down for a moment, and I '11 be with you 
 in the squeezing of a lemon. [Exeunt mob. 
 
 Tony. QAlone,^ Father-in-law has been calling me 
 whelp and hound this half year. Now, if I pleased, 
 1 could be so revenged upon the ohl grumbletonian.^ 
 But then I 'm afraid, — afraid of what ? 1 shall soon 
 be worth fifteen hundred a year, and let him frighten 
 nie out of that if he can. 
 
 Enter Landlord, conducting Marlow and Hastings. 
 
 Marloio. What a tedious, uncomfortable day have 
 we had of it! We were told it was but forty miles 
 across the country, and we have come above threescore ! 
 
 Hastings. And all, Marlow, from that unaccounta- 
 ble reserve of yours, that would not let us incpire more 
 frequently on the way. 
 
 ' Avoundily: Exceedii>gly. 
 
 2 grumbletonian : In the seventeenth centnry a nickname for 
 a member of the Country Party as distinguished from the Court 
 Party.
 
 18 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER [Act I 
 
 Marlow. I own, Hastings, I am unwilling to lay 
 myself under an obligation to every one I meet, and 
 often stand the chance of an unmannerly answer. 
 
 Hastings. At present, however, we are not likely t» 
 receive any answer. 
 
 Tony. No offence, gentlemen. But I 'm told you 
 have been inquii'ing for one Mr. Hardeastle, in these 
 parts. Do you know what part of the country you 
 are in? 
 
 Hastings. Not in the least, sir, but should thank 
 you for information. 
 
 Tony. Nor the way you came ? 
 
 Hastings. No, sir ; but if you can inform us — 
 
 Tony. Why, gentlemen, if you know neither the 
 road you are going, nor where you are, nor the road 
 you came, the first thing I have to inform you is, that 
 . — you have lost your way. 
 
 Marlow. We wanted no ghost to tell us that.^ 
 
 Tony. Pray, gentlemen, may I be so bold as to ask 
 the place from whence you came ? 
 
 3Iarlow. That 's not necessary towards directing us 
 where we are to go. 
 
 f Tony. No offence ; but question for question is all 
 fair, you know. — Pray, gentlemen, is not this same 
 Hardeastle a cross-grained, old-fashioned, whimsical 
 fellow, with an ugly face, a daughter, and a pretty 
 son? 
 
 Hastings. We have not seen the gentleman, but he 
 has the family you mention. 
 
 1 We wanted no ghost: Compare Hamlet, Act I, Sc. 6: — 
 
 " There needs no ghost, my lord, come from the grave, 
 To tell ua thia."
 
 Scene II] SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER 19 
 
 /" Tony. The daughter, a tall, trapesing, trolloping, 
 talkative niayi)ole ; the son, a pretty, well-bred, agree- 
 able youth, that everybody is fond of ? 
 
 Maiio'W. Our information differs in this. The daugh- 
 ter is said to be well-bred, and beautiful ; the son an 
 awkward booby, reared up and spoiled at his mother's 
 apron-string. 
 
 Tony. He-he-hem! — Then, gentlemen, all I have 
 to tell you is, that you won't reach Mr. Hardcastle's 
 house this night, I believe. 
 
 Hastings. Unfortunate ! 
 
 Tony. It 's a damned long, dark, boggy, dirty, 
 dangerous way. Stingo, tell the gentlemen the way 
 to Mr. Hardcastle's ; (winhing upon the Landlord,') 
 Mr. Hardcastle's of Quagmire Marsh, you understand 
 me. 
 
 Landlord. Master Hardcastle's ! Laek-a-daisy, my 
 masters, you 're come a deadly deal wrong ! When 
 you came to the bottom of the hill, you should have 
 crossed down Squash-lane. 
 
 Marlow. Cross down Squash-lane? 
 
 Landlord. Then you were to keep straight forward, 
 till you came to four roads. 
 
 Marlow. Come to where four roads meet? 
 
 Tony. Ay ; but you must be sure to take only one 
 of them. 
 
 Marloxo. Oh sir, you're facetious. 
 
 Tony. Then, keeping to the right, you are to go 
 sideways till you come upon Crack-skuU Common : 
 there you must look sharp for the track of the wheel, 
 and go forward till you come to farmer Murrain's 
 barn. Coming to the farmer's barn, you are to turn to
 
 20 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER [Act I 
 
 the right/ and then to the left, and then to the right 
 about again, till you find out the old mill — 
 
 Marlow. Zounds, man ! we could as soon find out 
 the longitude ! ^ 
 
 Hastings. What 's to be done, Marlow ? 
 
 Marlow. This house promises but a poor reception ■, 
 though perhaps the landlord can accommodate us. 
 
 Landlord. Alack, master, we have but one spare 
 bed in the whole house. 
 
 Tony. And to ray knowledge, that 's taken up by 
 three lodgers already. (^After a pause in which the rest 
 seem disconcerted.^ I have hit it. Don't you think, 
 Stingo, our landlady could accommodate the gentlemen 
 by the fireside, with — three chairs and a bolster? 
 
 Hastings. I hate sleeping by the fireside. 
 
 Marlow. And I detest your three chairs and a bol- 
 ster. 
 
 Tony. You do, do you? — then, let me see — what 
 if you go on a mile further, to the Buck's Head ; ^ the 
 old Buck's Head on the hill, one of the best inns in 
 the whole county? 
 
 Hastings. O ho ! so we have escaped an adventure 
 for this night, however. 
 
 * turn to the right : Compare Launcelot Gobbo in The Mer- 
 chant of Venice, Act II, Sc. 2. See note to The Good-Natured 
 Man, p. 25. 
 
 ' find out the longitude : The determination of the longi- 
 tude was not easily accomplished. The award of £20,000 offered 
 by Queen Anne in 1714 was granted to John Harrison of York- 
 shire in 1765 upon his explanation of a principle by which the 
 longitude was determined within 18 miles. 
 
 ^ Buck's Head : Among the famous taverns of London at 
 which Goldsmith was well known were the Boar's Head and the 
 Turk's Head.
 
 Scene II] SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER 21 
 
 Landlord. (Apart to Tony.^ Sure, you be n't send- 
 ing them to your father's as an inn, be you ? 
 
 Tony. Mum, you fool you. Let them find that out. 
 (To them.~) You have only to keep on straight for- 
 ward, till you come to a large old house by the road 
 side. You '11 see a pair of large horns over the door. 
 That 's the sign. Drive up the yard, and call stoutly 
 about you. 
 
 Hastings. Sir, we are obliged to you. The servants 
 can't miss the way ? 
 
 Tony. No, no ; but I tell you, though, the landlord 
 is rich, and going to leave off business ; so he wants 
 to be thought a gentleman, saving your presence, 
 he ! he ! he I Pie '11 be for giving you his company ; 
 and, ecod, if you mind him, he '11 persuade you that 
 his mother was an alderman and his aunt a justice of 
 peace. 
 
 Landlord. A troublesome old blade, to be sure ; but 
 a keeps as good wines and beds as any in the whole 
 country. 
 
 Marlow. Well, if he supplies us with these, we 
 shall want no further connection. We are to turn to 
 the right, did you say ? 
 
 Tony. No, no ; straight forward. I '11 just step my- 
 self, and show you a piece of the way. (To the Land- 
 lord.^ Mum! 
 
 Landlord. Ah, bless your heart, for a sweet, pleas- 
 ant — damn'd mischievous son. \Exmni
 
 ACT THE SECOND 
 
 Scene, An old-fashioned house. 
 
 Enter Hardcastle, followed by three or four awkiiard Servants. 
 
 Hardcastle. Well, I hope you are perfect in the 
 table exercise I have been teaching you these three 
 days. You all know your posts and your places, and 
 can show that you have been used to good company, 
 without ever stirring from home. 
 
 Omnes. Ay, ay. 
 
 Hardcastle. When company comes, you are not to 
 pop out and stare, and then run in again, like frighted 
 rabbits in a warren. 
 
 Omnes. No, no. 
 
 Hardcastle. You, Diggory, whom I have taken from 
 the barn, are to make a show at the side-table ; and 
 you, Roger, whom I have advanced from the plough, 
 are to place yourself behind my chair. But you 're not 
 to stand so, with your hands in your pockets. Take 
 your hands from your pockets, Roger ; and from your 
 head, you blockhead, you. See how Diggory cariies 
 his Imnds. They 're a little too stiff, indeed, but that 's 
 no great matter. 
 
 Diggory. Ay, mind how I hold them. I learned to 
 hold my hands this way, when I was upon drill for 
 the militia. And so being upon drill — 
 
 Hardcastle. You must not be so talkative, Diggory. 
 You must be all attention to the guests. You must 
 iiear us talk, and not think of talking ; you must see
 
 Act II] SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER 23 
 
 us drink, and not think of drinking ; you must see us 
 eat, and not think of eating. 
 
 DUjgory. By the laws, your worship, that 's par- 
 fectly unpossible. Whenever Diggory sees yeating go- 
 ing forward, ecod, he 's always wishing for a mouthful 
 himself, 
 
 Hardcastle. Blockhead ! Is not a bellyful in the 
 kitchen as good as a bellyful in the parlor? Stay your 
 stomach with that reflection. 
 
 Diggory. Ecod, I thank your worship, I '11 make a 
 sliift to stay my stomach with a slice of cold beef in 
 the pantry. 
 
 Hardcastle. Diggoi-y, you are too talkative. — Then, 
 if I happen to say a good thing, or tell a good story at 
 table, you must not all burst out a-laughing, as if you 
 made part of the company. 
 
 Diggory. Then, ecod, your worship must not tell 
 the story of the Ould Grouse in the gun-room ; ^ I 
 can't help laughing at tl*at — he ! he ! he ! — for the 
 soul of me. We have laughed at that these twenty 
 years — ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Hardcastle. Ha ! ha ! ha ! The story is a good one. 
 Well, honest Diggory, you may laugh at that ; but still 
 remember to be attentive, Sup])ose one of the company 
 should call for a glass of wine, how will you behave ? 
 A glass of wine, sir, if you please ( To Diggory^ — 
 Eh, why don't you move ? 
 
 Diggory. Ecod, your worship, I never have courage 
 
 1 Ould Grouse in the gun-room: This story has never been 
 traced, and it is possible that no such story ever existed. Dobson 
 suggests {Selections from Steele, p, 472) that Goldsmith here had 
 in mind Steele's sly satire on story-telling in his essays On Story 
 Telling and The Trumpet Club.
 
 24 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER [Act II 
 
 till I see the eatables and drinkables brought upo' the 
 table, and then I 'm as bauld as a lion. 
 
 Hardcastle. What, will nobody move ? 
 
 First Servant. I 'm not to leave this pleace. 
 
 Second Servant. I 'm sure it 's no pleace of mine. 
 
 Third Servant. Nor mine, for sartain. 
 
 Diggory. Wauns, ' and I 'm sure it canna be mine. 
 
 Hardcastle. You numskulls ! and so while, like your 
 betters, you are quarrelling for places, the guests must 
 be starved. Oh you dunces ! I find I must begin all 
 over again — But don't I hear a coach drive into the 
 yard ? To your posts, you blockheads ! I '11 go in the 
 meantime, and give my old friend's son a hearty recep- 
 tion at the gate. [Exit Hardcastle. 
 
 Diggory. By the elevens, my pleace is quite gone 
 out my head ! 
 
 Roger. I know that ray pleace is to be everywhere ! 
 
 First Servant. Where the devil is mine ? 
 
 Second Servant. My pleace is to be nowhere at 
 all ; and so I 'ze go about ray business ! 
 
 [Exeunt Servants, running about as if frighted, different ways. 
 Enter Servant with candles, showing in Marlow and Hastings. 
 
 Servant. Welcome, gentlemen, very welcome ! This 
 way. 
 
 Hastings. After the disappointments of the day, 
 welcome once more, Charles, to the comforts of a clean 
 room and a good fire. Upon ray word, a very well- 
 looking house ; antique but creditable. 
 
 Marlow. The usual fate of a large mansion. Having 
 first ruined the master by good house-keeping, it at last 
 comes to levy contributions as an inn. 
 
 > Wauns; Equivalent to "zounds" or "God's wounds."
 
 Act II] SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER 25 
 
 Hastings. As you say, we passengers are to be taxed 
 to pay all these fineries. I have often seen a good side- 
 board, or a marble chimney-piece, though not actually 
 put in the bill, inflame a reckoning confoundedly. 
 
 Marlow. Travellers, George, must pay in all places. 
 The only difference is that in good inns you pa}' dearly 
 for luxuries ; in bad inns yon are fleeced and starvedo 
 
 Hdfitlngs. You have lived pretty much among them. 
 In truth, I have been often surprised, that you who 
 have seen so much of the world, with your natural 
 good sense, and your many op2)ortunities, could never 
 yet acquire a requisite share of assurance. 
 
 Marloic. The Englishman's malady. But tell me, 
 George, where could I have learned that assurance you 
 talk of ? My life has been chiefly spent in a college or 
 an inn, in seclusion from that lovely part of the crea- 
 tion that chiefly teach men confidence. I don't know 
 that I was ever familiarly acquainted with a single 
 modest woman, except my mother. But among females 
 of another class, you know — 
 
 Ilastmgs. Ay, among them you are impudent 
 enough, of all conscience. 
 
 Marlow. They are of ws, you know. 
 
 Hastings. But in the company of women of repu- 
 tation I never saw such an idiot, such a trembler ; you 
 look for all the world as if you wanted an o2ii3ortunity 
 of stealing out of the room. 
 
 3Iarlovi. Why, man, that 's because I do want to 
 steal out of the room. Faith, I have often formed a 
 resolution to break the ice, and rattle away at any rate. 
 But I don't know how, a single glance from a pair of 
 fine eyes has totally overset my resolution. An impu-
 
 26 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER [Act II 
 
 dent fellow may counterfeit modesty, but I '11 be hanged 
 if a modest man can ever counterfeit impudence. 
 
 Hastings. If you could but say half the fine things 
 to them, that I have heard you lavish upon the bar- 
 maid of an inn, or even a college bed-maker — 
 
 Marlow. Why, George, I can't say fine things to 
 them. They freeze, they petrify me. They may talk of 
 a comet, or a burning mountain, or some such baga- , 
 telle ; but to me a modest woman, di-essed out in all I 
 her finery, is the most tremendous object of the whole 
 creation. 
 
 Hastings. Ha ! ha ! ha I At this rate, man, how can 
 you ever expect to marry ? 
 
 3farloiv. Never ; unless, as among kings and princes, 
 my bride were to be courted by proxy. If, indeed, like 
 an Eastern bridegroom, one were to be introduced to 
 a wife he never saw before, it might be endured. But 
 to go through all the terrors of a formal courtship, to- 
 gether with the episode of aunts- grandmothers, and l 
 cousins, and at last to blurt out the broad staring 
 question of " Madam, will you marry me ? " No, no, 
 that 's a strain much above me, I assure you. 
 
 Hastings. I pity you. But how do you intend be- 
 having to the lady you are come down to visit at tlie 
 request of your father? 
 
 Madow. As I behave to all other ladies. Bow very 
 low ; answer yes or no to all her demands. But for 
 the rest, I don't think I shall venture to look in her 
 face till I see my father's again. 
 
 Hastings. I 'm surprised that one who is so warm 
 a friend can be so cool a lover. 
 
 Marlow. To be explicit, my dear Plattings, my
 
 Act II] SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER 27 
 
 chief indueement clown was to be instiuniental in for- 
 warding your happiness, not my own. Miss Neville 
 loves you, the family don't know you ; as my friend, 
 you are sure of a reception, and let honor do the rest. 
 
 Hastlnfjs. My dear Marlow ! But I '11 suppress the 
 emotion. Were I a wi-etch, meanly seeking- to carry 
 off a fortune, you should be the last man in the world 
 I would apply to for assistance. But Miss Neville's 
 person is all I ask, and that is mine, both from her 
 deceased father's consent, and her own inclination. 
 
 Marloio. Happy man I you have talents and art to 
 captivate any woman. I 'm doomed to adore the sex, 
 and yet to converse with the only part of it I despise. 
 This stammer in my address, and this awkward unpre- 
 possessing visage of mine, can never permit me to soar 
 above the reach of a milliner's 'prentice, or one of the 
 Duchesses of Drury Lane. ^ Pshaw ! this fellow here 
 to interrujit us. 
 
 Enter Ilardcastle."^ 
 
 Ilardcastle. Gentlemen, once more you are heartily 
 welcome. Which is Mr. Marlow? Sir, you are heartily 
 welcome. It's not my way, you see, to receive my 
 
 • Duchesses of Drury Lane : Compare "drabs . . . of Drnry 
 Lniie" ill Goldsmith's Description of an Ant /i or' s Bedchamber. 
 Women of the town. At this time the theatres were well appor- 
 tioned off for the different classes of society. In some personal 
 reminiscences of Macklin (Kirknian's Life) ihat actor says : 
 " None hnt people of independent fortune, and avowed rank, 
 ever presumed to f^o into the boxes. . . . The women of the town, 
 who frequented the theatre, were tlien few in number, except ir 
 the galleries, and these few occupied two or three upper boxes on 
 €ach side of the house." 
 
 ' Enter Hardcastle : Goldsmith himself had once niistakeii 
 a country mansion for an inn. (Forster's Life, Book I, chap, i.)
 
 28 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER [Act II 
 
 friends with my back to the fire. I like to give them 
 a hearty reception, in the okl style, at my gate. I like 
 to see their horses and trunks taken care of. 
 
 Marloto. QAside.') He has got our names from the 
 servants already. (7b him.} We approve your caution 
 and hospitality, sir, ( To Hastings.^ I have been think- 
 ing, George, of changing our travelling dresses in 
 the morning. I am grown confoundedly ashamed of 
 mine. 
 
 Hardcastle. I beg, Mr. Marlow, you '11 use no cere- 
 mony in this house. 
 
 Hastings. I fancy, Charles, you 're right ; the first 
 blow is half the battle. I intend opening the campaign 
 with the white and gold. 
 
 Hardcastle. Mr. Marlow — Mr. Hastings — gentle- 
 men, pray be under no restraint in this house. This 
 is Liberty -hall, gentlemen. You may do just as you 
 please here. 
 
 Marlow. Yet, George, if we open the campaign too 
 fiercely at first, we may want ammunition before it is 
 over. I think to reserve the embroidery to secure a 
 retreat. 
 
 Hardcastle. Your talking of a retreat, Mr. Marlow, 
 puts me in mind of the Duke of Marlborough, when 
 we went to besiege Denain.^ He first summoned the 
 garrison — 
 
 Marlow. Don't you think the ventre d'or waist- 
 coat will do with the plain brown ? 
 
 ' Denain : Reference is here to the battle between Marshal 
 Villars and the allied armies under Prince Eugene (1712). (See 
 note for p. 6.) Goldsmith's friend Oglethorpe had not been 
 there, but he must have heard accounts of it from Marlbor- 
 ough.
 
 Act II] SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER 29 
 
 Hardcastle. He first summoned the garrison, which 
 might consist of about five thousand men — 
 
 Hastings. I think not : brown and yellow mix but 
 very poorly. 
 
 Hardcastle. I say, gentlemen, as I was telling you, 
 he summoned the garrison, which might consist of 
 about five thousand men — 
 
 Marlow. The girls like finery. 
 
 Hardcastle. Whicii might consist of about five 
 thousand men, well appointed with stores, ammuni- 
 tion, and other implements of war. " Now," says the 
 Duke of Marlborough to George Brooks, that stood 
 next to him — you must have heard of George Brooks 
 — " 1 '11 pawn my dukedom," says he, " but 1 take that 
 garrison without spilling a drop of blood." So — ■ 
 
 Marlow. What, my good friend, if you gave us a 
 glass of punch in the meantime : it would help us to 
 carry on the siege with vigor. 
 
 Hardcastle. Punch, sir! (^Aside.') This is the 
 most unaccountable kind of modesty I ever met with! 
 
 Marlov). Yes, sir, punch ! A glass of warm punch, 
 after our journey, will be comfortable. This is Lib- 
 erty-hall, you know. 
 
 Hardcastle. Here 's cup, sir. 
 
 Marlow. QAside.^ So this fellow, in his Liberty- 
 hall, will only let us have just what he pleases. 
 
 Hardcastle. ( Taking the cup.') I hope you '11 find 
 it to your mind. I have prepared it with my own 
 hands, and I believe you '11 own the ingredients are 
 tolerable. Will you be so good as to pledge me, sir? 
 Here, Mr. Marlow, here is to our better acquaintance. 
 {^Drinks.)
 
 30 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER [Act II 
 
 Marlow. (Aside.^ A very impudent fellow thisl 
 But he 's a character, and 1 '11 humor him a little. 
 Sir, my service to you. (^Drinks. ^ 
 
 Hastings. (^Aslde.^ I see this fellow wants to give 
 us his company, and forgets that he 's an innkeeper 
 before he has learned to be a gentleman. 
 
 Marlow. From the excellence of your cup, my old 
 friend, 1 suppose you have a good deal of business in 
 this part of the country. Warm work, now and then, 
 at elections, I suppose. 
 
 Hardcastle. No, sir, I have long given that work 
 over. Since our betters have hit upon the expedient 
 of electing each other, there is no business " for us 
 that sell ale." 
 
 Hastings. So, then, you have no turn for politics, 
 I find. 
 
 Hardcastle. Not in the least. There was a time, 
 indeed, I fretted myself about the mistakes of govern- 
 ment, like other people ; biat, finding myself every day 
 gi-ow more angry, and the government growing no 
 better, I left it to mend itself. Since that, I no more 
 trouble my head about Hyder Ally, or Ally Cawn,i 
 than about AUy Croaker.^ Sir, my service to you. 
 
 ' Hyder Ally, or Ally Cawn : Hjder Ali Khan (1728- 
 82) was Maharajah of Mysore in India. He defeated the Eng- 
 lish in 1767. Hardcastle in speaking of Hyder Ali and Ali Khan 
 is undoubtedly facetiously speaking of the same man, though 
 the latter term would apply to any native Indian ruler of the 
 same rank. See Burke's Speech on the Nabob of ArcoCs Debts. 
 
 ^ Ally Croaker : A popular Irish song. See chap, v of Be- 
 Unda, by Miss Edgeworth : — 
 
 Tliere was a young man in BallinacT.a8y, 
 Who wanted a wife to make Lini unusy, 
 Aud thus iu gentle terms be spoke her, 
 Amh, rlU you uiarry lue, my dear Ally Cioker.
 
 Act II] SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER 31 
 
 Hastings. So that with eating above stairs, and 
 drinking below, with receiving your friends within, 
 and amusing tliem without, you lead a good, pleasant, 
 bustling life of it. 
 
 Ilardcastle. I do stir about a great deal, that 's cer- 
 tain. Plalf the differences of the parish are adjusted 
 in this very parlor. 
 
 3Iarloio. (^After drbiJcinr/.^ And you have an ar- 
 gument in your cup, old gentleman, better than any 
 in Westminster-hall ' 
 
 Ilardcastle. Ay, young gentleman, that, and a little 
 philosophy. 
 
 Marlow. (^Aside.^ Well, this is the first time I 
 ever heard of an innkeeper's philosophy. 
 
 Hastings. So, then, like an experienced general, 
 you attack them on every quarter. If you find their 
 reason manageable, you attack it with your philosophy; 
 if you find they have no reason, you attack them with 
 this. Here 's your health, my philosopher. (^Drinks.') 
 
 Hardcastle. Good, very good, thank you; ha! ha! 
 ha! Your generalship puts me in mind of Prince 
 Eugene, when he fought the Turks at the battle of 
 Belgrade.^ You shall hear — 
 
 • "Westminster Hall : Originally the palace of the kings. 
 Used by Houses of Parliament and for centuries as the seat 
 of the law courts. Here Ann Boleyn, Charles I, and Warren 
 Hastings were tried. 
 
 2 battle of Belgrade : Belgrade was taken by Prince Eugene 
 in 1717. At the dinner above mentioned, April 10, 1772 (p. 6), 
 "Dr. Johnson said, ' Pray, General, give us an account of the 
 liege of Belgrade.' Upon which the General, pouring a little 
 wine upon the table, described everything with a wet finger: 
 'Here we were, here were the Turks,' &c. &c. Johnson listened 
 with the closest attention." (Hill's Boswell, vol. ii, p. 207.)
 
 32 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER [Act II 
 
 Marlow. Instead of the battle of Belgrade, I be- 
 lieve it 's almost time to talk about supj)er. What has 
 your philosophy got in the house for supper? 
 
 Hardcastle. For supper, sir ! (^Aside.^ Was ever 
 such a request to a man in his own house ! 
 
 Marlow. Yes, sir, supper, sir; I begin to feel an 
 appetite. I shall make devilish work to-night in the 
 larder, I promise you. 
 
 Hardcastle. (^Aside.') Such a brazen dog sure 
 never my eyes beheld. (7b him.^ Why, really, sir, 
 as for supper, I can't well tell. My Dorothy and the 
 cook-maid settle these things between them. I leave 
 these kind of things entirely to them. 
 
 Marloiv. You do, do you? 
 
 Hardcastle. Entirely. By the bye, I believe they 
 are in actual consultation upon what 's for supper this 
 moment in the kitchen. 
 
 Marlov% Then I beg they '11 admit me as one of 
 their privy-council. It 's a way I have got. W^hen I 
 travel I always choose to regulate my own supper. Let 
 the cook be called. No offence, I hope, sir. 
 
 Hardcastle. Oh, no, sir, none in the least ; yet I 
 don't know how ; our Bridget, the cook-maid, is not 
 very communicative upon these occasions. Should 
 we send for her, she might scold us all out of the 
 house. 
 
 Hastings. Let 's see your list of the larder, then. I 
 ask it as a favor. I always match my appetite to my 
 bill of fare. 
 
 Marlow. (^To Hardcastle^ who loohs at them with 
 surprise.^ Sir, he 's very right, and it 's my way, 
 too. 
 
 i
 
 Act II] SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER 33 
 
 Hardcastle. Sir, you have a right to command here. 
 Here, Roger, bring us the bill of fare for to-night's 
 supper ; I believe it 's drawn out. Your manner, Mr. 
 Hastings, puts me in mind of my uncle, Colonel Wal- 
 lop. It was a saying of his, that no man was sure of 
 his supper till he had eaten it. 
 
 Hastings. QAside.') All upon the high ropes ! Hil 
 uncle a colonel ! We shall soon hear of his mother 
 being a justice of peace. ' But let 's hear the bill of 
 fare. 
 
 Marloto. (^P em sing. ^ What 's here ? For the first 
 course ; for the second course ; for the dessert. The 
 devil, sir, do you think we have brought down the 
 whole Joiners' Company, or the Corporation of Bed- 
 foid,- to eat np such a supper? Two or three little 
 things, clean and comfortable, will do. 
 
 Hastings. But let 's hear it. 
 
 Marloto. (^Reading .^ " For the first course, at the 
 top, a pig, and prune sauce." 
 
 Hastings. Damn your pig, I say ! 
 
 Marloto. And damn your prune sauce, say I ! 
 
 Hardcastle. And yet, gentlemen, to men that are 
 hungry, pig with prune sauce is very good eating. 
 
 Marloti). "At the bottom, a calf's tongue and 
 brains." 
 
 Hastings. Let your brains be knocked out, my 
 good sir ; I don't like them. 
 
 ' his mother being a justice of peace : Hastings here re- 
 peats Tonj-'s warning at the end of Act I, " his aunt a justice of 
 peace." 
 
 2 Joiners' Company, or the Corporation at Bedford : 
 Goldsmith makes another sling at the appetites of city burgesses 
 :n his epilogue, " E'en common-councilmeu forget to eat."
 
 34 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER [Act II 
 
 Marlow. Or you may clap them on a plate by them- 
 selves. I do. 
 
 Ilardcastle. (^Aside.^ Their impudence confounds 
 pae. (7b them.') Gentlemen, you are my guests ; make 
 what alterations you please. Is there anything else 
 you wish to retrench, or alter, gentlemen ? 
 
 Marlow. " Item : a pork pie, a boiled rabbit and 
 sausages, a Florentine, a shaking pudding, and a dish 
 of tiff — taff — taffety cream I " 
 
 Hastings. Confound your made dishes ! I shall be 
 as much at a loss in this house as at a green and 
 yellow dinner at the French Ambassador's table. I 'm 
 for plain eating. 
 
 Hardcastle. I 'm sorry, gentlemen, that I have 
 nothing you like ; but if there be anything you have 
 a particular fancy to — 
 
 Marlotv. Why, really, sir, your bill of fare is so 
 exquisite, that any one part of it is full 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. 
 
 Hardcastle. I entreat you '11 leave all that to me. 
 You shall not stir a step. 
 
 Marlow. Leave that to you ! I protest, sir, you 
 must excuse me ; I always look to these things 
 myself. 
 
 Hardcastle, I must insist, sir, you '11 make yourself 
 easy on that head. 
 
 Marlow. You see I am resolved on it. (-4sic?e.) A 
 very troublesome fellow this, as ever I met with. 
 
 Hardcastle. Well, sir, I 'm resolved at least to at- 
 tend you. (^Aside.) This may be modern modesty,
 
 I 
 
 Act II] SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER 36 
 
 but I never saw anything look so like old-fashioned 
 
 impudence. [Exeunt Marlow and Hardcasde. 
 
 Hastings. QAlone.') So I find this fellow's civili- 
 ties begiu to grow troublesome. But who can be an- 
 gry at those assiduities which are meant to please 
 him ? Ha! what do I see? Miss Neville, by all that 's 
 happy ! 
 
 Enter Miss Neville. 
 
 3Ilss Neville. My dear Hastings ! To what unex- 
 pected good fortune, to what accident, am I to as- 
 cribe this happy meeting? 
 
 Hastings. Rather let me ask the same question, as 
 I could never have hoped to meet my dearest Con- 
 stance at an inn. 
 
 Miss Neville, An inn ! sure you mistake ! My 
 aunt, my guardian, lives here. What could induce 
 you to think this house an inn ? 
 
 Hastings. My friend, Mr. Marlow, with whona I 
 came down, and I, have been sent here as to an inn, 
 I assure you. A young fellow, whom we accidentally 
 met at a house hard by, directed us hither. 
 
 Miss Neville. Certainly it must be one of my hope- 
 ful cousin's tricks, of whom you have heard me talk 
 so often ; ha! ha! ha! 
 
 Hastings. He whom your aunt intends for you? he 
 of whom I have such just apprehensions ? 
 
 3Ilss Neville. You have nothing to fear from him, 
 I assure you. You 'd adore him if you knew how 
 heartily he despises me. My aunt knows it too, and 
 has undertaken to court me for him, and actually be- 
 gins to think she has made a conquest. 
 
 Hastings. Thou dear dissembler I You must know,
 
 36 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER [Act II 
 
 my Constance, I have just seized this happy opportu- 
 nity of my friend's visit here to get admittance into 
 the family. The horses that carried us down are now 
 fatigued with their journey, but they '11 soon be re- 
 freshed ; and then, if my dearest girl will trust in her 
 faithful Hastings, we shall soon be landed in France, 
 where even among slaves the laws of marriage are 
 respected.* 
 
 3I0SS Neville. I have often told you that, though 
 ready to obey you, I yet should leave my little fortune 
 behind with reluctance. The greatest part of it was 
 left me by my uncle, the India director, and chiefly 
 consists in jewels. I have been for some time persuad- 
 ing my aunt to let me wear them. I fancy I 'm very near 
 succeeding. The instant they are put into my posses- 
 sion, you shall find me ready to make them and myself 
 yours. 
 
 Hastings. Perish the baubles ! Your person is all 
 I desire. In the meantime, my friend Marlow must 
 not be let into his mistake. I know the strange re- 
 serve of his temper is such that, if abruptly informed 
 of it, he would instantly quit the house before our plan 
 was ripe for execution. 
 
 > the laws of marriage are respected : Rightly or wrongly 
 these words were believed to have reference to the King's issu- 
 ance of the Royal Marriage Act after tlie marriage of the Duke 
 of Gloucester with Lady Waldegrave. The Duke of Glouccstei 
 sat in a box on the first night of the plaj', and when the words 
 were spoken received an ovation from the audience. Goldsmith 
 never admitted that he had intended any reference to current 
 events. Boswell tells a pretty story apropos of these words con- 
 cerning that " Paoli of Corsica " who was mentioned in The 
 Good-Natured Man. (Hill's Boswell, vol. ii, p. 287.)
 
 ActIIJ she stoops to conquer 37 
 
 Miss Neville. But how shall we keep him in the 
 deception? Miss Hardeastle is just returned from 
 walking ; what if we still continue to deceive him? 
 — This, this way — (^They confer.^ 
 
 Enter Marlow. 
 
 Marlow. The assiduities of these good people teasf 
 me beyond bearing. My host seems to think it ih 
 manners to leave me alone, and so he claps not onlj 
 himself but his old-fashioned wife on my back. They 
 talk of coming to sup with us too ; and then, I !?uj> 
 pose, we are to run the gauntlet through all the rest 
 of the family. — What have we got here ? 
 
 Hastings. My dear Charles ! Let me congratulate 
 you ! The most fortunate accident ! Who do you think 
 is just alighted ? 
 
 Marlow. Cannot guess. 
 
 Hastings. Our mistresses, boy. Miss Hardeastle 
 and Miss Neville. Give me leave to introduce Miss 
 Constance Neville to your acquaintance. Happening 
 to dine in the neighborhood, they called on their re- 
 turn to take fresh horses here. Miss Hardeastle has 
 just stepped into the next room, and will be back in 
 an instant. Was n't it lucky ? eh I 
 
 Marloio. (^Aside.} I have just been mortified 
 enough of all conscience, and here comes something to 
 eomplete iny embarrassment. 
 
 Hastif^gs. Well, but was n't it the most fortunate 
 thing in the world? 
 
 3farlow. Oh, yes. Very fortunate — a most joyfii] 
 encounter — But our dresses, George, you know, are 
 in disorder — What if we should postpone the liappi- 
 ness till to-uiorrow ? — to-morrow at her own house --
 
 38 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER [Act II 
 
 It will be every bit as convenient — and rather more 
 respectful — To-morrow let it be. [Offering to go. 
 
 Hastings. By no means, sir. Your ceremony will 
 displease her. The disorder of your dress will show 
 the ardor of your impatience. Besides, she knows you 
 are in the house, and will permit you to see iier. 
 
 Marloio. Oh, the devil ! how shall I support it ? 
 Hem ! hem ! Hastings, you must not go. You are to 
 assist me, you know. I shall be confoundedly ridicu- 
 lous. Yet, hang it, I '11 take courage ! Hem ! 
 
 Hastings. Pshaw, man ! it 's but the first plunge, 
 and all 's over ! She 's but a woman, you know. 
 
 Marlow. And of all women, she that I dread most 
 to encounter ! 
 
 Enter Miss Hurdcastle, as returned from walking, a bonnet, ^c 
 
 Hastings. (^Introducing them.) Miss Hardcastle, 
 Mr. Marlow ; I m proud of bringing two persons of 
 such merit together, that only want to know, to esteem 
 each other. 
 
 Miss Hurdcastle. (^Aside.') Now for meeting my 
 modest gentleman with a demure face, and quite in his 
 own manner. (^After a pause, in which he appears 
 very uneasg and disconcerted.) I 'm glad of your safe 
 arrival, sir. I 'm told you had some accidents by the 
 way. 
 
 Marlow. Only a few, madam. Yes, we had some. 
 Yes, madam, a good many accidents, but shoidd be 
 sorry — madam — or rather glad of any accidents — 
 that are so agreeably concluded. Hem ! 
 
 Hastings. (^To hijn.) You never spoke better in 
 your whole life. Keep it up, and I '11 insure you the 
 ^ctory.
 
 AcTlIj SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER 39 
 
 3fiss Hardcastle. 1 'm afriiid you flatter, sir» You 
 that liave seen so much of the finest company, can 
 find little entertainment in an obscure corner of the 
 country. 
 
 Marlow. (^Gathering courage.^ I have lived, indeed, 
 in the world, madam ; but I have kept very little com- 
 pany. I have been but an observer upon life, madam, 
 while others were enjoying it. 
 
 3Iiss Neville. But that, I am told, is the way to 
 enjoy it at last. 
 
 Hastings. (To him.') Cicero never spoke better. 
 Once more, and you are confirmed in assurance for 
 ever. 
 
 Harlow. (To him.') Hem! stand by me then, and 
 when I 'm down, throw in a word or two to set me up 
 again. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. An observer, like you, upon life, 
 were, I fear, disagreeably employed, since you must 
 have had much more to censure than to approve. 
 
 Marloio. Pardon me, madam. I was always willing 
 to be amused. The folly of most people is rather an 
 object of mirth than uneasiness. 
 
 Hastings. (To him.) Bravo, bravo. Never spoke 
 so well in yonv whole life. Well, Miss Hardcastle, I 
 see that you and Mr. Marlow are going to be verj 
 good company. I believe our being here will but 
 embarrass the interview. 
 
 Marlow. Not in the least, Mr. Hastings. AVe like 
 your company of all things. (7b him.) Zounds, 
 George, sure you won't go ? How can you leave us ? 
 
 Hastings. Our presence will but spoil conversation, 
 BO we '11 retire to the next room. ( To him.) You don't
 
 40 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER [Act II 
 
 consider, man, that we are to manage a little tete-a-tete 
 
 of our own. [Exeunt Hastings with Miss Neville. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. (^After a pause. ^ But you Lave 
 not been wholly an observer, I presume, sir. The ladies, 
 1 should hope, have employed some part of your 
 addresses. 
 
 Marloic. (^Relapsing into timidity.^ Pardon nie, 
 madam, I — I — 1 — as yet have studied — only — 
 to — deserve them. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. And that, some say, is the very 
 worst way to obtain them. 
 
 Marlow. Perhaps so, madam. But I love to converse 
 only with the more grave and sensible part of the sex. 
 — But I 'm afraid I grow tiresome. 
 
 3Iiss Hardcastle. Not at all, sir ; there is nothing 
 I like so much as grave conversation myself ; I could 
 hear it for ever. Indeed I have often been surprised 
 how a man of sentiment * could ever admire those light, 
 airy pleasures, where nothing reaches the heart. 
 
 Marlow. It 's — a disease — of the mind, madam. 
 In the variety of tastes there must be some who, 
 wanting a relish — for — um — a — um — 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. I understand you, sir. There must 
 be some who, wanting a relish for refined pleasures, 
 pretend to despise what they are incapable of tasting. 
 
 Marlow. My meaning, madam, but infinitely better 
 expressed. And 1 can't help observing — a — 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. (^Aside.') Who could ever suppose 
 this fellow impudent upon some occasions ! (^To him.') 
 You were going to observe, sir, — 
 
 * a man of sentiment : A sly reference to tlie popular com- 
 edy. See also Miss Uardcastle's Hue, " a sober, sentimental in- 
 terview," page 42.
 
 Act II] SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER 41 
 
 Marlow. I was observing, madam — I protest, 
 madam, I forget what I was going to observe. 
 
 JIlss Ilcn'dcastle. (^Aside.^ I vow and so do I. (7b 
 h'un.') You were observing, sir, that in this age of 
 hypocrisy, — something about hypocrisy, sir. 
 
 Marlow. Yes, madam. In this age of hypocrisy there 
 are few who, upon strict inquiry, do not — a — a — 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. I understand you perfectly, sir. 
 
 Marloio. (^Aside.^ Egad ! and that 's more than I 
 do myself ! 
 
 JIlss Hardcastle. You mean that in this hypocriti- 
 cal age there are few who do not condemn in public 
 what they practice in private ; and think they pay 
 every debt to virtue when they praise it. 
 
 Marlow. True, madam ; those who have most virtue 
 in their mouths have least of it in their bosoms. But 
 I 'm sure I tire you, madam. 
 
 3riss Hardcastle. Not in the least, sir ; there 's some- 
 thing so agreeable and spirited in your manner, such 
 life and force, — pi'ay, sir, go on. 
 
 Marlow. Yes, madam, I was saying — that there 
 are some occasions — when a total want of courage, 
 madam, destroys all the — and puts us — upon — a 
 
 — a — a — 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. I agree with you entirely ; a want 
 of courage upon some occasions, assumes the appear- 
 ance of ignorance, and betrays us when we most want 
 to excel. I beg you '11 proceed. 
 
 Marlow. Yes, madam. Morally speaking, madam 
 
 — But I see Miss Neville expecting us in the next 
 room. I would not intrude for the world. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. I protest, sir, I never was
 
 42 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER [Act II 
 
 more agreeably entertained in all my life. Pray 
 go on. 
 
 Marlow. Yes, madam, I was — But she beckons 
 us to join her. Madam, shall I do myseK the honor to 
 attend you ? 
 
 3Iiss Hardcastle. Well, then, I '11 follow. 
 
 Marloiv. (^Aslde.') This pretty smooth dialogue 
 has done for me. [Exit. 
 
 Hiss Hardcastle. (^Alone.^ Ha! ha! ha I Was there 
 ever such a sober, sentimental interview ? I 'm cer- 
 tain he scarce looked in my face the whole time. Yet 
 the fellow, but for his unaccountable bashfulness, is 
 pretty well, too. He has good sense, but then so buried 
 in his fears, that it fatigues one more than ignorance. 
 If I could teach him a little confidence, it would be 
 doing somebody that I know of a piece of service. 
 But who is that somebody ? That, faith, is a question 
 I can scarce answer. [Exit. 
 
 Enter Tony and Miss Neville, followed by Mrs. Hardcastle and 
 Hastings. 
 
 Tony. What do you follow me for, cousin Con ? I 
 wonder you 're not ashamed to be so ver}^ engaging. 
 
 Miss Neville. 1 hope, cousin, one may speak to 
 one's own relations, and not be to blame. 
 
 Tony. Ay, but I know what sort of a relation you 
 want to make me, though ; but it won't do. I tell you, 
 cousin Con, it won't do ; so I beg you '11 keep your 
 distance. I want no nearer relationship. 
 
 [She follou-s, coquetting him to the hack scene. 
 
 3Irs. Hardcastle. Well, I vow, Mr. Hastings, you 
 are very entertaining. There's nothing in the world I 
 love to talk of so much as London, and the fashions, 
 though 1 was never there myself.
 
 ActTI] she stoops to conquer 43 
 
 Hastings. Never there! You amazG me! From 
 your air and manner, I concluded you had been bred 
 all your life either at Kanelagh, St. James's, or Tower 
 Wharf. 1 
 
 Mrs. Hurdcastle. Oh, sir, you 're only pleased to 
 say so. We country persons can have no manner at 
 all. 1 'm in love with the town, and that serves to 
 raise me above some of our neighboring rustics; but 
 who can have a manner, that has never seen the Pan- 
 theon,^ the Grotto Gardens,'* the Borough,'' and such 
 places, where the nobility chiefly resort ? All I can do 
 
 ' Ranelagh, St. James's, or Tow^er Wharf: Ranelagh was 
 built ill 1742 at Clielsea, and was long a fashionable resort. 
 Johnson considered it "the finest thing lie had ever seen." St. 
 James's may refer to the park, the square, or the parish, all of 
 which were resorts of aristocracy. Tower Wharf was near the 
 Tower in the lower part of town. It was an ungenteel trick that 
 Hastings was playing on Mrs. Hardcastle thus to mingle the 
 high-toned with the vulgar. She, however, unconsciously goe3 
 his wit one better in her next speech. 
 
 ^ Pantheon: This building at 359 Oxford Street was opened 
 JaniiaiT, 1772. Its chief feature was a rotunda promenade room. 
 Johnson thought it inferior to Ranelagh, but Walpole wrote 
 July 29, 1773, "The Pantheon is still the most beautiful edifice 
 in England." 
 
 ' Grotto Gardens: These gardens were also known as Jenny's 
 Whim; it is said that they were so named by Johnson (W^heat- 
 ley and Cunningham, London Past and Present, vol. ii, p. 305). 
 " The lower sort of people have their Ranelaghs and their Vaux- 
 halls as well as the quality. Pierrot's inimitable Grotto may be 
 seen for only calling for a pot of beer." The Connoisseur, May 15, 
 1775. 
 
 ^ Borough: The borough of South wark, one of the earliest 
 borouglis in London. Southwark was the thoroughfare between 
 London and the south, and there were many inns, though the 
 borough was not of the highest class of population The comedy 
 here lies in the mingling of the resorts of high and low life.
 
 44 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER [Act II 
 
 is to enjoy London at second-hand. I take care to 
 know every tete-a-tete from the Scandalous Magazine,^ 
 and have all the fashions, as they come out, in a letter 
 from the two Miss Rickets of Crooked-lane. Pray, how 
 do you like tliis head, Mr. Hastings ? 
 
 Hastings. Extremely elegant and degagee, upon my 
 word, madam. Your f riseur is a Frenchman, I suppose ? 
 
 3frs. Hardcastle. I protest, I dressed, it myself from 
 a print in the Ladies' Memorandum-hooh ^ for the last 
 year. 
 
 Hastings. Indeed ! Such a head in a side-box,^ at 
 the play-house, would draw as many gazers as my 
 Lady Mayoress at a city ball. 
 
 3frs. Hardcastle. I vow, since inoculation began,* 
 there is no such thing to be seen as a plain woman ; 
 so one must dress a little particular, or one may es- 
 C2i\)Q in the crowd. 
 
 Hastings. But that can never be your case, madam, 
 in any dress. (^Bowing.^ 
 
 • Scandalous Magazine: The journalistic practice of the 
 age was very free in dealing with the reputations of men and 
 women. The tete-a-tetea of The Town and Country Magazine were 
 especially daring. See School for Scandal, Act. 1, Sc. 1. In these 
 words Goldsmith was possibly playing on Scan. Mag., the ab- 
 breviation of the Latin scandalum magnatum. See Sheridan's 
 Critic, Act I. 
 
 2 Ladies' Memorandum-book : The best-known annual 
 diary was The Ladies' Diary : or the Women's Almanack; first 
 published in 1704, and continuing throughout the nineteenth 
 century. 
 
 ° side-box: See note on page 17, The Good-Natured Man. 
 
 * since inoculation began : Inoculation was introduced by 
 Lady Mary Wortley Montagu in 1721. In 1763 Walpole wrote 
 to Sir Horace Manu that the great preservative bad been 
 stoutly opposed.
 
 Act II] SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER 45 
 
 3Irs. Ilardcastle. Yet what signifies my dressing, 
 when I have such a piece of antiquity by my side as 
 Mr. Hardcastle ? All I can say will never argue down 
 a single button from his clothes.' I have often wanted 
 him to throw olf his great flaxen wig, and where he was 
 bald to plaster it over, like my Lord Pately, with powder. 
 
 Hastings. You are right, madam ; for, as among 
 the ladies there are none ugly, so among the men 
 there are none old. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. But what do you think his answer 
 was ? Why, with his usual Gothic vivacit}^, he said I 
 only wanted him to throw off his wig to convert it 
 into a tete for my own wearing.^ 
 
 Hastings. Intolerable ! At your age you may wear 
 what you please, and it must becomxC you. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. Pray, Mr. Hastings, what do you 
 take to be the most fashionable age about town ? 
 
 Hastings. Some time ago forty was all the mode ; 
 but I 'm told the ladies intend to bring up fifty for 
 the ensuing winter. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. Seriously ? Then I shall be too 
 young for the fashion. 
 
 Hastings. No lady begins now to put on jewels till 
 she 's past forty. For instance, Miss there, in a polite 
 circle, would be considered as a child, as a mere 
 maker of samplers. 
 
 ' argue down a single button from his clothes : The 
 coats, under tlie iufliience of the macaronies, were so short ia 
 front as not to reach to the bottom of the waistcoat by three 
 inches. See Georgiana Hill, A History of English Dress, vol. ii. 
 
 ' tete for my ow^n wearing : In 1772 the print called 
 A Maccaroni Courtship shows that women's wigs displayed the 
 same toupee and curls as the men's.
 
 46 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER [Act II 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. And yet, Mistress Niece thinks 
 herself as much a woman, and is as fond of jewels, 
 as the oldest of us all. 
 
 Hastings. Your niece, is she ? And that young 
 gentleman, — a brother of yours, I should presume ? 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. My son, sir. They are contracted 
 to each other. Observe their little sports. They fall in 
 and out ten times a day, as if they were man and wife 
 already. (To them.') Well, Tony, child, what soft 
 things are you saying to your cousin Constance this 
 evening ? 
 
 Tony. I have been saying no soft things ; but that 
 it 's very hard to be followed about so. Ecod ! I've 
 not a place in the house now that 's left to myself, but 
 the stable. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. Never mind him, Con, my dear. 
 He 's in another story behind your back. 
 
 Miss Neville. There 's something generous in my 
 cousin's manner. He falls out before faces, to be for- 
 given in private. 
 
 Tony. That 's a damned confounded — crack. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. Ah, he 's a sly one ! Don't you 
 think they 're like each other about the mouth, Mr. 
 Hastings? The Blenkinsop mouth to a T. They 're of 
 a size, too. Back to back, my pretties, that Mr. Has- 
 tings may see you. Come, Tony. 
 
 Tony. You had as good not make me, I tell you. 
 (^Measuring .^ 
 
 Miss Neville. Oh, lud ! he has almost cracked my 
 head. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. Oh, the monster ! For shame, 
 Tony. You a man, and behave so!
 
 Act II] SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER 47 
 
 Tony. If I 'm a man, let me have my fortin. Ecod, 
 I '11 not be made a fool of no longer. 
 
 3Trs. Hardcastle. Is this, ungi-ateful boy, all that 
 I 'i7i to get for the pains I have taken in yonr educa- 
 tion? I that have rocked you in your cradle, and fed 
 that pretty mouth with a spoon! Did not I work that 
 waistcoat to make you genteel? Did not I prescribe 
 for you every day, and weep while the receipt was 
 operating? 
 
 Tony. Ecod ! you had reason to weep, for you have 
 been dosing me ever since I was born. I have gone 
 through every receipt in the Complete Huswife ' ten 
 times over ; and you hnve thoughts of coursing me 
 through Quincy ^ next spring. But, Ecod ! I tell you, 
 I '11 not be made a fool of no longer. 
 
 Mi's. Hardcastle. Was n't it all for your good, 
 viper? Was n't it all for your good? 
 
 Tony. I wish you 'd let me and my good alone, 
 then. Snubbing this way when I 'm in spirits ! If I 'ra 
 to have any good, let it come of itself ; not to keep 
 dino'in"; it, din"ini>' it into one so. 
 
 3Irs. Hardcastle. That 's false ; 1 never see you 
 when you 're iu spirits. No, Tony, you then go to the 
 alehouse or kennel. I 'm never to be delighted with 
 your agreeable wild notes, unfeeling monster ! 
 
 Tony. Ecod ! mamma, your own notes are the wild- 
 est of the two. 
 
 J//-S. Hardcastle. Was ever the like? But I see he 
 wants to break my heart ; I see he does. 
 
 1 the Complete Huswife: The Compleat Housewife: or 
 Accomplished Geiitlejroma7i's Companion ; first issued 1729. 
 
 2 Quincy: Jolin Qiiiiicy was aiitlior of The Dispensatory of 
 ihfi Rnual Colleae of Phusiciaiis, first edition 1721.
 
 48 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER [Act II 
 
 Hastings. Dear madam, permit me to lecture the 
 young gentleman a little. I 'm certain I can persuade 
 him to his duty. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. Well, I must retire. Come, Con- 
 stance, my love. You see, Mr. Hastings, the wretchecf 
 ness of my situation. Was ever poor woman so plagued 
 with a dear, sweet, pretty, provoking, undutiful boy ? 
 
 [Exeunt Mrs. Hardcastle and Miss Neville, 
 
 Tony. (^Singiiig.^ There was a young man riding 
 hy, and fain would have his will. Jiang do didlo 
 dee. — Don't mind her. Let her cry. It 's the com- 
 fort of her heart. I have seen her and sister cry 
 over a book for an hour together; and they said 
 they liked the book the better the more it made them 
 cry. » 
 
 Hastings. Then you 're no friend to the ladies, I 
 find, my pretty young gentleman ? 
 
 Tony. That 's as I find 'um. 
 
 Hastings. Not to her of your mother's choosing, I 
 iare answer? And she appears to me a prett}^, well- 
 empered girl. 
 
 Tony. That 's because you don't know her as well 
 as I. Ecod ! I know every inch about her ; and there 's 
 not a more bitter, cantanckerous toad in all Christen- 
 dom. 
 
 Hastings. (^Aside.') Pretty encouragement, this, 
 for a lover. 
 
 Tony. I have seen her since the height of that. 
 She has as many tricks as a hare in a thicket, or a colt 
 the first day's breaking. 
 
 ' the more it made them cry : Compare Act I, Sc. 1, " has 
 the last novel been too moving ? " and see note ou p. 99.
 
 Act II] SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER 49 
 
 Hastings. To me she appears sensible and silent. 
 
 Tony. Ay, before company. But when she 's with 
 her playmates, she 's as loud as a hog in a gate. 
 
 Hastings. But there is a meek modesty about her 
 that charms me. 
 
 Tony. Yes, but curb her never so little, she kicks 
 up, and you 're flung in a ditch. 
 
 Hastings. Well, but you must allow her a little 
 beauty. — Yes, you must allow her some beauty. 
 
 Tony. Bandbox ! She 's all a made-up thing, mun. 
 Ah ! could you but see Bet Bouncer of these parts, you 
 might thon talk of beauty. Ecod ! she has two eyes as 
 black as sloes, and cheeks as broad and red as a pulpit 
 cushion. She 'd make two of she. 
 
 Hastings. Well, what say you to a friend that would 
 take this bitter bargain off your hands ? 
 
 Tony. Anan ! 
 
 Hastings. Would you thank him that would take 
 Miss Neville, and leave you to happiness and your 
 dear Betsy? 
 
 Tony. Ay; but where is there such a friend, for 
 who would take her ? 
 
 Hastings. I am he. If you but assist me, I '11 en- 
 gage to whip her off to France, and you shall never 
 hear more of her. 
 
 Tony. Assist you ! Ecod I will, to the last drop of 
 my blood. I '11 clap a pair of horses to your chaise 
 that shall trundle you off in a twinkling, and maybe 
 get you a part of her fortin besides, in jewels, that 
 you little dream of. 
 
 Hastings. My dear Squire, this looks like a lad oi 
 spirit.
 
 50 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER [Act Til 
 
 Tony. Come along then, and you shall see more of 
 
 my spirit before you have done with me. (^Singing.') 
 
 We are the hoys 
 
 That fears no noise 
 
 Where the thundei'ing cannons roar. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 ACT THE THIRD 
 
 Scene, The house. 
 Enter Hardcastle. 
 
 Hardcastle. What could my old friend Sir Charles 
 mean by recommending his son as the modestest young 
 man in town ? To me he appears the most impudent 
 piece of brass that ever spoke with a tongue. He has 
 taken possession of the easy chair by the fire-side al- 
 ready. He took off his boots in the parlor, and desired 
 me to see them taken care of. I 'm desirous to know 
 how his impudence affects my daughter. She will cer- 
 tainly be shocked at it. 
 
 Enter Miss Hardcastle, plainly dressed. 
 
 Hardcastle. Well, my Kate, I see you have changed 
 your dress, as I bid you ; and yet, I believe, there was 
 no great occasion. 
 
 3Ilss Hardcastle. I find such a pleasure, sir, in 
 obeying your commands, that I take care to observe 
 them without ever debating their propriety. 
 
 Hardcastle. And yet, Kate, I sometimes give you 
 some cause, particularly when I recommended my 
 modest gentleman to you as a lover to-day. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. You taught me to expect some-
 
 Act 111] SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER 61 
 
 thing extraordinary, and I find the original exceeds 
 the description. 
 
 Hardcastle. I was never so surprised in my life I 
 He has quite confounded all my faculties. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. I never saw anything like it ; and 
 a man of the world, too ! 
 
 Hardcastle. Ay, he learned it all abroad ; what a 
 fool was I, to think a young man could learn modesty 
 by travelling. He might as soon learn wit at a mas' 
 querade. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. It seems all natural to him. 
 
 Hardcastle. A good deal assisted by bad company 
 And a French dancing-master. 
 
 3Hss Hardcastle. Sure, you mistake, papa. A 
 French dancing-master could never have taught him 
 that timid look — that awkward address — that bash' 
 ful manner. 
 
 Hardcastle. Whose look, whose manner, child? 
 
 3Iiss Hardcastle. Mr. Marlow's : his maiivaise 
 hoiite,^ his timidity, struck me at the first sight. 
 
 Hardcastle. Tlien your first sight deceived you ; for 
 I think him one of the most brazen first sights that 
 ever astonished my senses. 
 
 3Iiss Hardcastle. Sure, sir, you rally I I never saw 
 any one so modest. 
 
 Hardcastle. And can you be serious ! I never saw 
 such a bouncing, swaggering puppy since I was born. 
 Btdly Dawson^ was but a fool to him. 
 
 ' mauvaise honte : baahfnlness. 
 
 2 Bully Dawson : A Wliitefriars swashbuckler of the seven- 
 teenth century; appears often in literature, in the essays of Addi- 
 son and Steele, as the original of Captain Hackum in Shadwell's 
 Squire of Alsatia, and in Tom Brown's Letters from the Dead to 
 the Living.
 
 52 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER [Act 111 
 
 Hiss Hardcastle. Surprising ! He met me with a 
 respectful bow, a stammering voice, and a look fixed 
 on the ground. 
 
 Hardcastle. He met me with a loud voice, a lordl^l 
 air, and a familiarity that made my blood freeze again. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. He treated me with diffidence 
 and respect ; censured the manners of the age ; ad- 
 mired the prudence of girls that never lauglied ; tired 
 me with apologies for being tiresome; then left the 
 room with a bow, and " Madam, I would not for iche 
 world detain you." 
 
 Hardcastle. He spoke to me as if he knew me all his 
 life before; asked twenty questions, and never waited 
 for an answer ; interrupted my best remarks with some 
 silly pun ; and when I was in my best story of the Duke 
 of Marlborough and Prince Eugene, he asked if I 
 had not a good hand at making punch. Yes, Kate, he 
 asked your father if he was a maker of punch! 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. One of us must certainly be 
 mistaken. 
 
 Hardcastle. If he be what he has shown himself, 
 I 'm determined he shall never have my consent. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. And if he be the sullen thing I 
 take him, he shall never have mine. 
 
 Hardcastle. In one thing then we are agreed — to 
 reject him. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. Yes — but upon conditions. For 
 if you should find him less impudent, and I more pre- 
 suming ; if you find him more respectful, and I more 
 Importunate — I don't know — the fellow is well 
 enough for a man — Certainly we don't meet many 
 such at a horse-race in the country.
 
 ActIIIJ she stoops to conquer 53 
 
 Hardcastle. If we should find him so — But that's 
 imj^ossible. The first appearance has done my busi- 
 ness. I 'm seldom deceived in that. 
 
 3fiss Hardcastle. And yet there may be many 
 good qualities under that first appearance. 
 
 Hardcastle. Ay, when a girl finds a fellow's out- 
 side to her taste, she then sets about guessing the rest 
 of his furniture. With her a smooth face stands for 
 good sense, and a genteel figure for every virtue. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. I hope, sir, a conversation begun 
 with a compliment to my good sense, won't end with 
 a sneer at my understanding ! 
 
 Hardcastle. Pardon me, Kate. But if young Mr. 
 Brazen can find the art of reconciling contradictions, 
 he may please us both, perhaps. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. And as one of us must be mis- 
 taken, what if we go to make farther discoveries? 
 
 Hardcastle. Agreed. But depend on 't, I 'm in the 
 right. 
 
 3fiss Hardcastle. And, depend on 't, I 'm not much 
 
 in the wrong. [Exeunt. 
 
 Enter Tony, running in with a casket. 
 
 Tony. Ecod ! I have got them. Here they are. 
 My cousin Con's necklaces, bobs and all. My mother 
 shan't cheat the poor souls out of their fortin neither. 
 Oh ! my genus, is that you ? 
 
 Enter Hastings. 
 Hastings. My dear friend, how have you managed 
 with your mother ? I hope you have amused her with 
 pretending love for your cousin, and that you are will- 
 ing to be reconciled at last ? Our horses will be refreshed 
 in a short time, and we shall soon be ready to set off.
 
 54 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER [Act III 
 
 Tony. And here 's something to bear your charges 
 by the way (^g'lvmg the casket^ ; — your sweetheart's 
 jewels. Keep them ; and hang those, I say, that would 
 rob you of one of them ! 
 
 Hastings. But how have you procured them from 
 your mother ? 
 
 Tony. Ask me no questions, and I '11 tell you no 
 fibs. I procured them by the rule of thumb. If I had 
 not a key to every drawer in my mother's bureau, 
 how could I go to the alehouse so often as I do ? An 
 honest man may rob himself of his own at any time. 
 
 Hastings. Thousands do it every day. But, to be 
 plain with you, Miss Neville is endeavoring to procure 
 them fi'oni her aunt this very instant. If she succeeds, 
 it will be the most delicate way, at least, of obtaining 
 them. 
 
 Tony. Well, keep them, till you know how it will 
 be. But I know how it will be well enough ; she 'd as 
 soon part with the only sound tooth in her head. 
 
 Hastings. But I dread the effects of her resent- 
 ment when she finds she has lost them. 
 
 Tony. Never you mind her resentment; leave me 
 to manage that. I don't value her resentment the 
 bounce of a cracker. Zounds ! here they are ! Mor- 
 
 rice ! Prance ! [Exit Hastings. 
 
 Tony, Mrs. Hardcastle, and Miss Neville. 
 
 3Irs. Hardcastle. Indeed, Constance, you amaze 
 me. Such a girl as you want jewels? It wiU be time 
 enough for jewels, my dear, twenty years hence, when 
 your beauty begins to want repairs, 
 
 3Iiss Neville. But what will repair beauty at forty, 
 will certainly improve it at twenty, madam.
 
 Act III] SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER 65 
 
 Mrs. Hardcasth.. Yours, my dear, can admit of none, 
 riiat natural blusli is beyoml a thousand ornaments. 
 Besides, child, jewels are quite out at present. Don't 
 you see half the ladies of our acquaintance, my Lady 
 Kill-day-light, and Mrs. Crump, and the rest of them, 
 carry their jewels to town, and bring nothing but pastt 
 and marcasites ^ back ? 
 
 Miss Neville. But who knows, madam, but some- 
 body that shall be nameless woidd like me best with 
 all my little finery about me ? 
 
 31rs. Hardcastlc. Consult your glass, my dear, and 
 then see if, with such a pair of eyes, you want any 
 better sparklers. Wliat do you think, Tony, my dear? 
 Does your cousin Con want any jewels, in your eyes, 
 to set off her beauty? 
 
 Tony. That 's as hereafter may be. 
 
 Miss Neville. My dear aunt, if you knew how it 
 would oblige me. 
 
 3frs. Hardcastle. A parcel of old-fashioned rose and 
 table-cut things. They wovdd make you look like the 
 court of King Solomon at a puppet-show.^ Besides, 
 I believe I can't readily come at them. They may be 
 missing, for aught I know to the contrary. 
 
 Tony. (^Apart to Mrs. Hardcastle.^ Then why 
 don't you tell her so at once, as she 's so longing for 
 them ? Tell her they 're lost. It 's the only way to 
 quiet her. Say they 're lost, and call me to bear wit- 
 ness. 
 
 ' marcasites: A base nietfil used for cheap jewelry. 
 
 ' King Solomon at a puppet-shovr: "Tims the whole 
 employment of my younger years was that of interpreter to 
 Punch and King Solomon in all his glory." Goldsmith's Adven^ 
 iures of a Strolling Player.
 
 56 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER [Act III 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. QAjoart to Tony.') You know, my 
 dear, I 'm only keeping- them for you. So if I say 
 they're gone, you'll bear me witness, will you? He! 
 he! he! 
 
 Tony. Never fear me. Eco J .' I '11 say I saw them 
 taken out with my own eyes. 
 
 3Iiss JSfeville. I desire them but for a day, madam , 
 just to be permitted to show them as relics, and then 
 they may be locked up again. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. To be plain with you, my dear 
 Constance, if I could find them you should have them. 
 They 're missing, I assure you. Lost, for aught I 
 know ; but we must have patience, wherever they are. 
 
 3fiss Neville. I '11 not believe it ; this is but a shal- 
 low pretence to deny me. I know they are too valuable 
 to be so slightly kept, and as you are to answer for the 
 loss 
 
 3Irs. Hardcastle. Don't be alarmed, Constance. If 
 they be lost, I must restore an equivalent. But my 
 son knows they are missing, and not to be found. 
 
 Tony. That I can bear witness to. They are miss- 
 ing, and not to be found ; I '11 take my oath on 't. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. You must learn resignation, my 
 dear ; for though we lose our fortune, yet we should 
 not lose our patience. See me, how calm I am. 
 
 3fiss Neville. Ay, people are generally calm at the 
 misfortunes of others. 
 
 3Irs. Hardcastle. Now, I wonder a girl of your good 
 sense should waste a thought upon such trumpery. We 
 shall soon find them ; and in the mean time you shall 
 make use of my garnets till j^our jewels be found. 
 
 3Iiss Neville. I detest garnets !
 
 Act III] SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER 57 
 
 3/rs. Ilardcastle. The most becoming things in the 
 world to set off a clear complexion. You have often 
 seen how well they look upon me. You shall have 
 them. [Exit. 
 
 Miss Neville. I dislike them of all things. — You 
 shan't stir. Was ever anything so provoking, — to 
 mislay my own jewels, and force me to wear her 
 trumpery ? 
 
 Tony. Don't be a fool. If she gives you the gar- 
 nets take what you can get. The jewels are your own 
 already. I have stolen them out of her bureau, and 
 she does not know it. Fly to your spark ; he '11 tell 
 you more of the matter. Leave me to manage her. 
 
 Miss Neville. My dear cousin ! 
 
 Tony. Vanish. She's here, and has missed them 
 already. (^Exit Miss Neville.') Zounds ! how she fidg- 
 ets and spits about like a Catherine wheel. ^ 
 
 Enter Mrs. Hardcastle. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. Confusion ! thieves ! robbers ! we 
 are cheated, plundered, broke open, undone ! 
 
 Tony. What 's the matter, what 's the matter, 
 mamma ? I hope nothing has happened to any of the 
 good family? 
 
 Mrs. Ilardcastle. We are robbed. My bureau has 
 been broke open, the jewels taken out, and I 'm undone ! 
 
 Tony. Oh ! is that all ! Ha ! 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! 
 
 Mrs. Ilardcastle. Why, boy, I am ruined in ear^ 
 nest. My bureau has been broke open, and all taken 
 away. 
 
 ' Catherine wheel: A pin wheel in fireworks.
 
 58 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER [Act III 
 
 Tony. Stick to that ; ha, ha, ha ! stick to that. I '11 
 bear witness, you know ! call me to bear witness. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. I tell you, Tony, by all that 's 
 precious, the jewels are gone, and I shall be ruined 
 forever. 
 
 Tony. Sure I know they are gone, and I am to say so. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. My dearest Tony, but hear me. 
 They 're gone, I say. 
 
 Tony. By the laws, mamma, you make me for to 
 laugh, ha ! ha ! I know who took them well enough, 
 ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. "Was there ever such a blockhead, 
 that can't tell the difference between jest and earnest? 
 1 can tell you 1 'm not in jest, booby. 
 
 Tony. That 's right, that 's right ! You must be in 
 a bitter passion, and then nobody will suspect either 
 of us. I '11 bear witness that they are gone. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. Was there ever such a cross- 
 grained brute, that won't hear me ? Can you bear wit- 
 ness that you 're no better than a fool ? Was ever poor 
 woman so beset with fools on one hand, and thieves 
 on the other? 
 
 Tony. I can bear witriess to that. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. Bear witness again, you block- 
 head, you, and I '11 turn you out of the room directly. 
 My poor niece, what will become of her? Do you laugh, 
 you unfeeling brute, as if you enjoyed my distress ? 
 
 Tony. I can bear witness to that. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. Do you insult me, monster, I '11 
 teach you to vex your mother, I will ! 
 
 Tony. I can bear witness to that. (ZTe ru7is off ; she 
 follows him.^
 
 Act III] SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER 59 
 
 Enter Miss Hardcastle and Maid. 
 
 3flss Hardcastle. What an unaccountable creature 
 is that brother of mine, to send them to the house as 
 an inn ; ha I ha ! I don't wonder at his impudence. 
 
 Maid. But what is more, madam, the young gen- 
 tleman, as you passed by in your present dress, asked 
 me if you were the bar-maid. He mistook you for the 
 bar-maid, madam ! 
 
 3flss Hardcastle. Did he ? Then, as I live, I 'm 
 resolved to keep up the delusion. Tell me. Pimple, 
 how do you like my present dress ? Don't you think I 
 look something like Cherry in the Beaux^ Stratagem? 
 
 Maid. It 's the dress, madam, that every lady wears 
 in the country, but when she visits or receives company. 
 
 3flss Hardcastle. And are you sure he does not 
 remember my face or person ? 
 
 3fald. Certain of it. 
 
 3Hss Hardcastle. I vow I thought so ; for though 
 we spoke for some time together, yet his fears were 
 such that he never once looked up during the inter- 
 view. Indeed, if he had, my bonnet would have kept 
 him from seeing me.^ 
 
 * Cherry in the Beaux' Stratagem." Cherry was the daugh- 
 ter of the tavern keeper in Farqii liar's play. Some marks of 
 this play's influence are seen in She Stoops to Conquer. 
 
 ^ my bonnet \Arould have kept him from seeing me: In 
 a skit of August, 177G, quoted in Alexanna Speight's The Lock 
 of Hair (1872), are the following lines: — 
 
 Sing lier daubed with white and red, 
 Sing lier large terrific head ; 
 
 Hats that only show the chin, 
 And the mouth's bewitching grin. 
 As intended for a sliield 
 To the caput thus concealed.
 
 60 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER [Act III 
 
 Maid. But what do you hope from keeping him in 
 his mistake? 
 
 Miss llardcastle. In the first place, I shall be 
 see;?., and that is no small advantage to a girl who 
 brings her face to market. Then I shall perhaps make 
 an acquaintance, and that 's no small victory gained 
 over one who never addresses any but the wildest of 
 her sex. But my chief aim is to take my gentleman 
 off his guard, and, like an invisible champion of ro- 
 mance, examine the giant's force before I offer to 
 combat. 
 
 Maid. But are you sure you can act your part, and 
 disguise your voice so that he may mistake that, as he 
 has alread}' mistaken your person? 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. Never fear me. I think I have 
 got 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 ! 
 
 Maid. It will do, madam. But he 's here. 
 
 {Exit Maid. 
 Enter Marlow. 
 
 Marlow. What a bawling in every part of the 
 house ; I have scarce a moment's repose. If I go to 
 the best room, there I find my host and his story ; if 
 I fly to the gallery, there we have my hostess with 
 her curtsey down to the ground. I have at last got a 
 moment to myself, and now for recollection. QValks 
 and muses.^ 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. Did you call sir? Did your 
 honor call ? 
 
 3Iarlorv. (^Musing.} As for Miss Hardcastle, she 's 
 too grave and sentimental for me.
 
 Act III] SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER 61 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. Did your honor call ? (^She still 
 places herself before hi?)!, he tin^ninrj away.') 
 
 Marloio. No, child. (^Musing.') Besides, from the 
 glimpse I had of her, I think she squints. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. I 'm sure, sir, I heard the bell 
 ring. 
 
 Marlow. No, no. (^Musing.) I have pleased my 
 father, however, by coining down, and I '11 to-morrow 
 please myself by returning. (^Taking out his tablets 
 and perusing.) 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. Perliaps the other gentleman 
 called, sir? 
 
 Marlow. I tell you no. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. I should be glad to know, sir. 
 We have such a parcel of servants. 
 
 Marlow. No, no, I tell you. {Loolcs full in her 
 face.) Yes, child, I think I did call. I wanted — I 
 wanted — I vow, child, you are vastly handsome. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. Oh, la, sir, you '11 make one 
 ashamed. 
 
 Marlow. Never saw a more sprightly, malicious 
 eye. Yes, yes, my dear, I did call. Have you got any 
 of your — a — what d' ye call it, in the house ? 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. No, sir, we have been out of that 
 these ten days. 
 
 Marlow. One may call in this house, I find, to very 
 little purpose. Suppose I should call for a taste, just 
 by way of trial, of the nectar of your lips ; perhaps I 
 might be disappointed in that too. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. Nectar ? nectar ? That 's a liquor 
 there 's no call for in these parts. French, I suppose. 
 We keep no French wines here, sir.
 
 62 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER [Act III 
 
 Marlow. Of true English growth, I assure you. 
 
 Miss ITardcastle. Then it 's odd I should not know 
 it. We brew all sorts of wines in this house, and I 
 have lived here these eighteen years. 
 
 Jfarloio. Eighteen years! Why, one would think, 
 child, you kept the bar before you were born. How 
 old are you? 
 
 Miss Ilardcasfle. Oh, sir, I must not tell my age. 
 They say women and music should never be dated. 
 
 Marlow. To guess at this distance, you can't be 
 much above forty. (^Apj)roacJiing .'y Yet nearer, I don't 
 think so much. (^Ajjproacking .^ By coming close to 
 some women, they look younger still ; but when we 
 come very close indeed — (^Attempting to kiss her.^ 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. Pray, sir, keep your distance. 
 One would think you wanted to know one's age as they 
 do horses, by mark of mouth. 
 
 Marlow. I protest, child, you use me extremely ill. 
 If you keep me at this distance, how is it possible 
 you and I can be ever acquainted? 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. And who wants to be acquainted 
 with you? I want no such acquaintance, not I. I 'm 
 sure you did not treat Miss Hardcastle, that was here 
 a while ago, in this obstropalous * manner. I '11 war- 
 rant me, before her you looked dashed, and kept bow- 
 ing to the ground, and talked, for all the world, as if 
 you was before a justice of peace. 
 
 Marlo^v. {Aside.) Egad, she has hit it, sure 
 enough! {To her. ^ In awe of lier, child ? Ha! ha! ha! 
 A mere awkward, squinting thing ! No, no. I find you 
 
 ' obstropalous : Obstreperous. By Halliwell held to be genu- 
 ine London dialect.
 
 Act HI] SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER 63 
 
 don't know me. I lauf^hed and rallied her a little ; but 
 I was unwilling to be too severe. No, 1 could not be 
 too severe, curse me ! 
 
 Miss Ilardcastle. Oh, then, sir, you are a favorite, 
 I find, among the ladies ! 
 
 Marlov;. Yes, my dear, a great favorite. And yet, 
 iiang me, I don't see what they find in me to follow. 
 At the Ladies' Club in town I 'm called their agreeable 
 Rattle. Rattle, child, is not my real name, but one 1 'm 
 known by. My name is Solomons ; Mr. Solomons, my 
 dear, at your service. (^Offcr'inrj to salute her.') 
 
 3Iiss Ilardcastle. Hold, sir, you are introducing me 
 to your club, not to yourself. And. you 're so great a 
 favorite there, you say? 
 
 JIarloiv. Yes, my dear. There 's Mrs. Mantrap, 
 Lady Betty Blackleg, the Countess of Sligo, Mrs. 
 Langhorns, old Miss Biddy Buckskin,' and your hum- 
 ble servant, keep up the spirit of the place. 
 
 Miss Ilardcastle. Then it 's a very merry place, I 
 suppose ? 
 
 Marlow. Yes, as merry as cards, suppers, wine, and 
 old women can make us. 
 
 Miss Ilardcastle. And their agreeable Rattle, ha ! 
 ha! ha! 
 
 Marlow. (^Aside.') Egad! I don't quite like this 
 chit. She looks knowing, methinks. You laugh, child ? 
 
 3Iiss Ilardcastle. I can't but laugh to think what 
 
 ' Biddy Buckskin: It would appear through a letter by 
 Horace Walpole, March 27, 1773, that at the first performance 
 this name was Rachel Buckskin. Walpole says that the allusion 
 is to Miss Rachel Lloyd, the housekeeper at Kensin<Tton Palace, 
 and founder of the " Albemarle Street," mentioned a few lines 
 above as the " Ladies' Club."
 
 64 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER [Act III 
 
 time they all have for minding their work, or their 
 family. 
 
 Marlow. (^Aside.') All 's well ; she don't laugh at 
 jae. (^To her.') Do 2/ow ever work, child? 
 
 Miss Hard castle. Ay, sure. There 's not a screen 
 or a quilt in the whole house but what can bear witness 
 to that. 
 
 Marlow. Odso I then you must show me your em- 
 broidery. I embroider and draw patterns myself a 
 little. If you want a judge of your work, you must 
 apply to me. (^Seizing her hand.') 
 
 Enter Hardcastle, who stands in surprise. 
 
 3Iiss Hardcastle. Ay, but the colors don't look 
 well by candle-light. You shall see it aU in the morn- 
 ing. ( Struggling.) 
 
 3Iarloio. And why not now, my angel? Such beauty 
 fires beyond the power of resistance. Pshaw! the 
 father here ! My old luck ; I never nicked seven * that 
 I did not throw ames ace ^ three times following. 
 
 [Exit Marlow. 
 
 Hardcastle. So, madam ! So I find this is your 
 modest lover. This is your humble admirer, that kept 
 his eyes fixed on the ground, and only adored at hum- 
 ble distance. Kate, Kate, art thou not ashamed to 
 deceive your father so ? 
 
 3Iiss Hardcastle. Never trust me, dear papa, but 
 he 's still the modest man I first took him for ; you 'II 
 be convinced of it as well as I. 
 
 * nicked seven : To throw seven with the dice was a very 
 lucky throw. 
 
 ^ ames ace : Sometimes written ambs-ace ; double ace, the 
 lowest throw at dice. Used as a figure for bad luck.
 
 Act III] SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER 65 
 
 Hardcastle. By the hand of my body, I believe his 
 impudeuce is infectious ! Did n't I see him seize your 
 hand ? Did n't I see him haul you about like a milk- 
 maid ? And now you talk of his respect and his mod- 
 esty, forsooth ! 
 
 3Ils.s irardcasile. But if I shortly convince you ol 
 his modesty, that he has only the faults that will pass 
 off with time, and the virtues that will improve with 
 age, I hope you '11 forgive him. 
 
 Hardcastle. The girl would actually make one run 
 mad ! I tell you I '11 not be convinced. I am convinced. 
 He has scarcely been three hours in the house, and he 
 has already encroached on all my prerogatives. You 
 may like his impudence, and call it modesty ; but my 
 son-in-law, madam, must have very different qualifica- 
 tions. 
 
 3Iiss Hardcastle. Sir, I ask but this night to con- 
 vince you. 
 
 Hardcastle. You shall not have half the time, for 
 I have thoughts of turning him out this very hour. 
 
 3Iiss Hardcastle. Give me that hour, then, and I 
 hope to satisfy you. 
 
 Hardcastle. Well, an hour let it be then. But I 'U 
 have no trifling with your father. AU fair and open ; 
 do you mind me ? 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. I hope, sir, you have ever found 
 that I considered your commands as my pride ; for 
 j^our kindness is such that my duty as yet has been 
 inclination. [Exeunt.
 
 ACT THE FOURTH 
 
 Scene, The house. 
 
 Enter Hastings and Miss Neville. 
 
 Hastings. You surprise me ! Sir Charles Marlow 
 expected here this night ? Where have you had your 
 information ? 
 
 Miss Neville. You may depend upon it. I just saw 
 his letter to Mr. Hardcastle, in which he tells him he 
 intends setting out a few hours after his son. 
 
 Hastings. Then, my Constance, all must be com- 
 pleted before he arrives. He knows me ; and should 
 he find me here, would discover my name, and perhaps 
 my designs, to the rest of the family. 
 
 Miss Neville. The jewels, I hope, are safe ? 
 
 Hastings. Yes, yes. I have sent them to Marlow, 
 who keeps the keys of our baggage. In the mean time, 
 I '11 go to prepare matters for our elopement. I have 
 had the Squire's promise of a fresh pair of horses ; and, 
 if I should not see him again, will write him further 
 directions. [Exit. 
 
 Miss Neville. Well, success attend you ! In the 
 mean time, I '11 go amuse my aunt with the old pre- 
 tence of a violent passion for my cousin. [Exit. 
 
 Enter Marlow, followed by a Servant. 
 
 Marlow. I wonder what Hastings could mean by 
 sending me so valuable a thing as a casket to keep for 
 him, when he knows the only place I have is the seat 
 of a post-coach at an inn-door. Have you deposited the 
 casket with the landlady, as I ordered you ? Have you 
 put it into her own hands?
 
 Act IV] SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER 67 
 
 Servant. Yes, your honor. 
 
 Marlon^. She said she'd keep it safe, did she? 
 
 Servant. Yes ; she said she 'd keep it safe enough. 
 She asked me how I came by it ; and she said she had 
 a great mind to make me give an account of myself. 
 
 l^Exit Servant. 
 
 Marlo'W. Ha ! ha ! ha ! They 're safe, however. 
 What an unaccountable set of beings have we got 
 amongst ! This little bar-maid, though, runs in my head 
 most strangely, and drives out the absurdities of all 
 the rest of the family. She 's mine, she must be mine, 
 or I 'm greatly mistaken ! 
 
 Enter Hastings. 
 
 Hastiyigs. Bless me ! I quite forgot to tell her that 
 I intended to prepare at the bottom of the garden. 
 Marlow here, and in spirits too ! 
 
 Marlow. Give me joy, George ! Crown me, shadow 
 me with laurels ! Well, George, after all, we modest 
 fellows don't want for success among the women. 
 
 Hastings. Some women, you mean. But what suc- 
 cess has your honor's modesty been crowned with now, 
 that it grows so insolent upon us ? 
 
 Marloiv. Did n't you see the tempting, brisk, lovely 
 little thing, that runs about the house with a buucb 
 of keys to its girdle ? 
 
 Hastings. Well, and what then? 
 
 Marloio. She 's mine, you rogue, you. Such fire, 
 such motion, such eyes, such lips — but, egad ! she 
 would not let me kiss them thouoh. 
 
 Hastings. But are you sure, so very sure of her ? 
 
 Marlow. Why, man, she talked of showing me her 
 work above stairs, and I am to improve the pattern.
 
 68 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER [Act IV 
 
 Hastings. But how can you, Charles, go about to 
 roh a woman of her honor ? 
 
 Marl 010. Pshaw ! pshaw ! We all know the honor 
 of the bar-maid of an inn. I don't intend to roh her, 
 take my word for it ; there 's nothing in this house I 
 shan't honestly pay for. 
 
 Hastings. I believe the girl has virtue. 
 
 Marlow. And if she has, I should be the last man 
 in the world that would attempt to corrupt it. 
 
 Hastings. You have taken care, I hope, of the 
 casket I sent you to lock up ? It 's in safety ? 
 
 Marlow. Yes, yes ; it 's safe enough. I have taken 
 care of it. But how could you think the seat of a 
 post-coach at an inn-door a place of safety ? Ah ! 
 numscull ! I have taken better precautions for you 
 than you did for yourself — I have — 
 
 Hastings. What? 
 
 Marlow. 1 have sent it to the landlady to keejD for 
 you. 
 
 Hastings. To the landlady ! 
 
 Marlow. The landlady. 
 
 Hastings. You did? 
 
 Marlow. I did. She 's to be answerable for its 
 forthcoming, you know. 
 
 Hastings. Yes, she '11 bring it forth with a witness. 
 
 Marlow. Was n't I right ? I believe j'ou '11 allow 
 that I acted prudently upon this occasion. 
 
 Hastings. (^Aside.^ He must not see my uneasi- 
 ness. 
 
 Marlow. You seem a little disconcerted, thougli, 
 methinks. Sure nothing has happened? 
 
 Hastings. No, nothing. Never was in better spirits
 
 Act IV] SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER 69 
 
 in all my life. And so you left it with the landlady, 
 who, no doubt, very readily undertook the charge. 
 
 Marlow. Rather too readily ; for she not only kept 
 the casket, but, through her great precaution, was go- 
 ing to keep the messenger too. Ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Hastings. He ! he ! he ! They 're safe, however. 
 
 Marlow. As a guinea in a miser's purse. 
 
 Hastings. (^Asidc.^ So now all hopes of fortune 
 are at an end, and we must set off without it. (To 
 him.^ Well, Charles, I '11 leave you to 3^our medita- 
 tions on the pretty bar-maid, and he! he! he! may you 
 be as successful for yourself as you have been for me! 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Marlov). Thank ye, George ; I ask no more. — 
 Ha! ha! ha! 
 
 Enter Hardcastle. 
 
 Hardcastle. I no longer know my own house. It 's 
 turned all topsy-turvy. His servants have got drunk 
 already. I '11 bear it no longer ; and yet, from my 
 respect for his father, I '11 be calm. (2b him.') Mr. 
 Marlow, your servant. I 'm your very humble servant. 
 (JBoimng low.) 
 
 Marlow. Sir, your humble servant. (^siJe.) What's 
 to be the wonder now ? 
 
 Hardcastle. 1 believe, sir, you must be sensible, 
 sir, that no man alive ought to be more welcome than 
 your father's son, sir. I hope you think so? 
 
 Marlov). I do from my soul, sir. 1 don't want 
 much entreaty. I generally make my father's son 
 welcome wherever he goes. 
 
 Hardcastle. I believe you do, from my soul, sir. 
 But though I say nothing to your own conduct, that
 
 70 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER [Act IV 
 
 of your servants is insufferable. Their manner of 
 drinking is setting a very bad example in this house, 
 1 assure you. 
 
 Marlow. I protest, my very good sir, that is no fault 
 of mine. If they don't drink as they ought, they are 
 to blame. I ordered them not to spare the cellar; I 
 did, 1 assure you. (2b the side-scene.^ Here, let one 
 of my servants come up. ( To him.^ My positive 
 directions were, that as I did not drink myself, they 
 should make up for my deficiencies below. 
 
 Hardcastle. Then they had your orders for what 
 they do ? I 'm satisfied I 
 
 Marlow. They had, I assure you. You shall hear 
 from one of themselves. 
 
 Enter Servant, drunk. 
 
 Marloio. You, Jeremy ! Come forward, sirrah ! 
 What were my orders ? Were you not told to drink 
 freely, and call for what you thought fit, for the good 
 of the house ? 
 
 Hardcastle. (^Aside.^ I begin to lose my patience. 
 
 t/eremy. Please your honor, liberty and Fleet-street 
 forever I Though I 'm but a servant, I 'm as good as 
 another man. I '11 drink for no man before supper, 
 sir, damme ! Good liquor will sit upon a good supper, 
 but a good supper will not sit upon — hiccup — upon 
 my conscience, sir. [Exit. 
 
 Marlow. You see, my old friend, the fellow is as 
 drunk as he can possibly be. I don't know what you'd 
 }iave more, unless you'd have the poor devil soused in 
 a beer barrel. 
 
 Hardcastle. Zounds ! he '11 drive me distracted, if 
 I Contain myself any longer. Mr. Marlow, sir ! I have
 
 Act IV] SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER 71 
 
 submitted to your insolence for more than four hours, 
 and I see no likelihood of its coming to an end. I 'm 
 now resolved to be master here, sir, and I desire that 
 you and your drunken pack may leave my house 
 dii-ectly. 
 
 Marloio. Leave your house ! — Sure, you jest, my 
 good friend ? What ? when I am doing what I can to 
 please you ! 
 
 Ilardcastle. I tell you, sir, you don't please me ; so 
 I desire you '11 leave my house. 
 
 Marloio. Sure you cannot be serious ? at this time of 
 night, and such a night ? You only mean to banter me. 
 
 Ilardcastle. I tell you, sir, I 'm serious I and now 
 that my passions are roused, I say this house is mine, 
 sir ; this house is mine, and I command you to leave it 
 directly. 
 
 Marlow. Ha ! ha ! ha ! A puddle in a storm. I 
 shan't stir a step, I assure you. (/?i a serious tone.^ 
 This your house, fellow ! It 's my house. This is my 
 house. Mine, while I choose to stay. What right have 
 you to bid me leave this house, sir? I never met with 
 such impudence, curse me ; never in my whole life 
 before. 
 
 Hardcastle. Nor I, confound me if ever I did ! To 
 come to my house, to call for what he likes, to turn 
 me out of my own chair, to insult the family, to order 
 his servants to get drunk, and then to tell me, " This 
 house is mine, sir ! " By all that 's impudent, it makes 
 me laugh. Ha ! ha ! ha ! Pray, sir, (bantering^ as 
 you take the house, what think you of taking the rest 
 of the furniture? There's a pair of silver candle- 
 sticks, and there 's a fire-screen, and here 's a pair of
 
 72 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER [Act IV 
 
 brazen-nosed bellows ; perhaps you may take a fancy 
 to them ? 
 
 Marlow. Bring me your bill, sir ; bring me your 
 bill, and let 's make no more words about it. 
 
 Hardcastle. There are a set of prints, too. What 
 think you of the Hakes Progress ^ for your own 
 apartment ? 
 
 Marlovo. Bring me your bill, I say, and I '11 leave 
 you and your infernal house directly. 
 
 Hardcastle. Then there 's a mahogany table that 
 you may see your face in. 
 
 Marlow. My bill, I say. 
 
 Hardcastle. I had forgot the great chair for your 
 own particular slumbers, after a hearty meal. 
 
 Marlow. Zounds ! bring me my bill, I say, and 
 let 's hear no more on 't. 
 
 Hardcastle. Young man, young man, from your 
 father's letter to me, I was taught to expect a well- 
 bred, modest man as a visitor here, but now I find 
 him no better than a coxcomb and a bully ; but he 
 will be down here presently, and shall hear more of it. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Marlow. How 's this ! Sure I have not mistaken 
 the house ? Everything looks like an inn ; the servants 
 cry " coming " ; the attendance is awkward ; the bar- 
 maid, too, to attend us. But she 's here, and will further 
 inform me. Whither so fast, child ? A word with you. 
 Enter Miss Hardcastle. 
 Miss Hardcastle. Let it be short, then. I 'm in 
 a hurry. (^Aslde.^ I believe he begins to find out 
 
 ' the Rake's Progress: A famous series of paintings by 
 Goldsmith's old friend Hogarth.
 
 Act IV] SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER 73 
 
 his mistake, But it 's too soon quite to undeceive 
 liim. 
 
 Marloio. Pray, child, answer me one question. 
 What are you, and what may your business in this 
 house be ? 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. A relation of the family, sir. 
 
 Marloio. What ! a poor relation ? 
 
 3Uss Hardcastle. Yes, sir, a poor relation, appointed 
 to keep the keys, and to see that the guests want 
 nothing in my power to give them. 
 
 Marloiv. That is, you act as the bar-maid of this Inn. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. Inn ! O law — what brought that 
 into your head ? One of the best families in the county 
 keep an inn ! — Pla ! ha ! ha ! old Mr. Hardcastle's 
 house an inn ! 
 
 Marlovj. Mr. Hardcastle's house ! Is this house 
 Mr. Hardcastle's house, child? 
 
 3Hss Hardcastle, Ay, sure. Whose else should it 
 be? 
 
 Marloiv). So, then, all 's out, and I have been dam- 
 nably imposed on. Oh, confound my stupid head, I 
 shall be laughed at over the whole town ! I shall be 
 stuck up in caricatura' in all the i)rint-shops. The 
 Dullissimo-Macaroni.- To mistake this house of all 
 
 ' caricatura : Satirical prints were even then appearing in the 
 iShop windows in the Strand ridicnling the dandies of the time. 
 Compare Lofty in The Good-Natured Man, Act V, " have I had 
 my liand to achlresses, and my head in the print-shops?" 
 
 2 Macaroni: This term was applied to the fops and dandies 
 of tlie end of tlie eifjliteentli century. The Neiv English Dictionary 
 gives the first use for tl)e year 1761, and conjectures its origin 
 as arising from tiie well-known Macaroni Club. It seeuis more 
 probable that the term arose from the popularity of Garrick's
 
 74 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER [Act IV 
 
 others for an inn, and my father's old friend for an 
 innkeeper ! What a swaggering puppy must he take 
 me for ! What a silly puppy do I find myself ! There, 
 again, may I be hanged, my dear, but I mistook you 
 for the bar-maid. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. Dear me ! dear me ! I 'm sure 
 there 's nothing in my hehavour to put me upon a level 
 with one of that stamp. 
 
 Marloio. Nothing, my dear, nothing. But I was in 
 for a list of blunders, and could not help making you 
 a subscriber. My stupidity saw everything the wrong 
 way. I mistook your assiduity for assurance, and your 
 simplicity for allurement. But it 's over — this house 
 
 I no more show my face in. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. I hope, sir, I have done nothing 
 to disoblige you. I 'm sure I should be sorry to affront 
 any gentleman who has been so polite, and said so 
 many civil things to me. I 'm sure I sliould be sorry 
 (pretendijiff to cry) if he left the family upon my 
 account. I 'm sure I should be sorry people said any- 
 thing amiss, since I have no fortune but my character. 
 
 Marlorv. (^Aside.) By Heaven ! she weeps ! This is 
 the first mark of tenderness I ever had from a modest 
 woman, and it touches me. (7b her.') Excuse me, my 
 lovely girl ; you are the only part of the family I leave 
 with reluctance. But, to be plain with you, the dif- 
 ference of our birth, fortune, and education, make an 
 
 The Male-Coquette, plaj^ed at Drury Lane in 1757, in which 
 a vonng woman (Miss Macklin) took the part of a sham Italian, 
 
 II Marchese di Macaroni, in ridiculing the ex(juisite {graces of 
 Daffodil (played by Woodward). The term " macaroni " had the 
 •eroadest use for several decades. Compare the fourth line of 
 Yankee Doodle.
 
 Act IV] SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER 75 
 
 honorable connection impossible ; and I can never har- 
 bor a thought of seducing simplicity that trusted in 
 my honor, or bringing ruin upon one whose only fault 
 was being too lovely. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. (^Asldr.') Generous man I I no\f 
 begin to admire him. (To hini.^ But I am sure m^ 
 family is as good as Miss Hardcastle's ; and though 
 I 'm poor, that 's no great misfortune to a contented 
 mind ; and, until this moment, I never thought that it 
 was bad to want fortune. 
 
 Marlow. And why now, my pretty simplicity? 
 
 Miss Hnrdcastle. Because it puts me at a distance 
 from one, that, if I had a thousand pound I would give 
 it all to. 
 
 Marlow. (^Aside.') This simplicity bewitches me 
 so, that if I stay I 'm undone. I must make one bold 
 effort and leave her. ( To her.') Your partiality in my 
 favor, my dear, touches me most sensibly ; and were 
 I to live for myself alone, I could easily fix my choice. 
 But I owe too much to the opinion of the world, too 
 much to the authority of a father ; so that — I can 
 scarcely speak it — it affects me ! Farewell. [Exit. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. I never knew half his merit till 
 now. He shall not go if I have power or art to detain 
 him. I '11 still preserve the character in which I stooped 
 to conquer, but will undeceive my papa, who, perhaps, 
 may laugh him out of his resolution. [Exit. 
 
 Enter Tony and Miss Neville. 
 
 Tony. Ay, you may steal for yourselves the next 
 time. I have done my duty. She has got the jewels 
 again, that 's a sure thing ; but she believes it was all 
 a mistake of the servants.
 
 76 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER [Act IV 
 
 Jflss Neville. Bat, my dear cousin, sure you won't 
 forsake us in this distress ? If she in the least suspects 
 that I am going off, I shall certainly be locked up, or 
 3ent to my aunt Pedigree's, which is ten times worse. 
 
 Tony. To be sure, aunts of all kinds are damned 
 bad things. But what can I do ? I have got you a 
 pair of horses that will fly like Whistle Jacket ; ^ and 
 I 'm sure you can't say but I have courted you nicely 
 before her face. Here she comes ; we must court a bit 
 or two more, for fear she should suspect us. 
 
 [They retire and seem to fondle. 
 Enter Mrs. Hardcastle. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. AVell, I was gi-eatly fluttered, to 
 be sure. But my son tells me it was all a mistake of 
 the servants. I shan't be easy, however, till they are 
 fairly married, and then let her keep her own fortune. 
 But what do I see ? Fondling together, as I 'm alive. 
 I never saw Tony so sprightly before. Ah ! have I 
 caught you, my pretty doves ? What, billing, exchang- 
 inir stolen fflances, and broken murmurs ? Ah ! 
 
 Tony. As for murmurs, mother, we grumble a little 
 now and then, to be sure. But there 's no love lost 
 between us. 
 
 Idrs. Hardcastle. A mere sprinkling, Tony, upon 
 the flame, only to make it burn brighter. 
 
 3Iiss Neville. Cousin Tony pi'omises to give us 
 more of his company at home. Indeed, he shan't leave 
 us any more. It won't leave us. Cousin Tony, will it ? 
 
 Tony. Oh, it 's a pretty creature ! No, I 'd sooner 
 leave my horse in a pound, than leave you when you 
 
 ' "Whistle Jacket : A famous race-horse. His picture was 
 painted by George Stubbs, A. R. A.
 
 Act IV] SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER 77 
 
 smile upon one so. Your laugh makes you so becom- 
 ing. 
 
 3Iiss Seville. Agreeable cousin ! Who can help ad- 
 miring that natural humor, that pleasant, broad, red, 
 thoughtless (patting his cheek'), — ah! it's a bold face! 
 
 3frs. Hardcastle. Pretty innocence. 
 
 Tony. I 'm sure I always loved cousin Con's hazel 
 eyes, and her pretty long fingers, that she twists this 
 way and that over the haspichoUs,^ like a parcel of 
 bobbins. 
 
 3frs. Hardcastle. Ah! he would charm the bird 
 from the tree. I was never so happy before. My boy 
 takes after his father, poor Mr. Lumpkin, exactly. 
 The jewels, m}^ dear Con, shall be yours incontinently. 
 You shall have them. Is n't he a sweet boy, my dear. 
 You shall be married to-morrow, and we '11 put off the 
 rest of his education, like Dr. Drowsy 's sermons, to a 
 fitter opportunity. 
 
 Enter Diggory. 
 
 Diggory. Where 's the Squire ? I have got a letter 
 for your worshij). 
 
 Tony. Give it to my mamma. She reads all my 
 letters first. 
 
 Diggory. I had orders to deliver it into your own 
 hands. 
 
 Tony. Who does it come from? 
 
 Diggory. Your worship mun ask that o' the letter 
 itself. [Exit Diggory. 
 
 Tony. I could wish to know, though. (^Turning the 
 letter., and gazing on it.) 
 
 Miss Neville. (^Aside.) Undone, undone ! A letter 
 * haspicholls : A corrupt form of harpsichord.
 
 78 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER [Act IV 
 
 to him from Hastings. I know the hand. If my aunt 
 sees it, we are ruined forever. I '11 keep her employed 
 a little if I can. (To Mrs. Hardcastle.^ But I have 
 not told yon, madam, of my cousin's smart answer just 
 now to Mr. Marlow. We so laughed — you must know, 
 madam — this way a little, for he must not hear us. 
 {They confer.^ 
 
 Tony. (^Still gazing.^ A damned cramp piece of 
 penman shiji as ever I saw in my life. I can read your 
 print-hand very well ; but here there are such handles, 
 and shanks, and dashes, that one can scarce tell the 
 head from the tail. To Anthony Lumpkin, Esquire. 
 It 's very odd, I can read the outside of my letters, 
 where my own name is, well enough. But when I come 
 to open it, it 's all — buzz. That's hard, very hard; 
 for the inside of the letter is always the cream of the 
 correspondence. 
 
 3Irs. Ilardcastle. Ha ! ha ! ha ! Very well, very well. 
 And so my son was too hard for the philosopher. 
 
 Miss Neville. Yes, madam ; but you must hear the 
 rest, madam. A little more this way, or he may hear 
 us. You '11 hear how he puzzled him again. 
 
 Mrs. Ilardcastle. He seems strangely puzzled now 
 himself, methinks. 
 
 Tony. (^ Still gazing.') A damned up-and-down hand, 
 as if it was disguised in liquor. (^Reading.) Dear 
 Sir, — Ay, that 's that. Then there 's an Ji, and a T, 
 and an S, but whether the next be an izzard ^ or an 
 R, confound me, I cannot tell ! 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. What 's that, my dear ; can I give 
 you any assistance? 
 
 ' izzard : An old name for the letter Z.
 
 Act IV] SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER 79 
 
 Miss Neville. Pray, aunt, let me read it. Nobody 
 reads a cramp hand better than I. (TiDitchijig the let- 
 ter from her.') Do you know who it is from? 
 
 Tony. Can't tell, except from Dick Ginger, the 
 feeder. 
 
 3Iiss Neville. Ay, so it is. {Pretending to read.) 
 Dear Squire, Hoping that you 're in health, as 1 am 
 at this present. The gentlemen of the Shake-bag club' 
 has cut the gentlemen of the Goose-green quite out of 
 feather. The odds — um — odd battle — um — lonjj 
 fighting — um — here, here, it 's all about cocks, and 
 fighting ; it 's of no consequence ; here, put it up, put 
 it up. ( Thrusting the C7'umpled letter upon him.) 
 
 Tony. But I tell you, miss, it 's of all the conse- 
 quence in the world ! I would not lose the rest of it 
 for a guinea. Here, mother, do you make it out. Of 
 no consequence ! {Giving Mrs. Ilardcastle the letter.) 
 
 Mrs. Ilardcastle. How 's this ? {Heads.) Dear 
 Squii'e, I'm noio waiting for Miss Neville toith a 
 postchaise and pair, at the bottom, of the garden^ hut 
 I fi)id my horses yet unahle to perform the journey. 
 I expect you ^U assist tis with a pair of fresh horses^ 
 as yon promised. Despatch is necessary, as the hag 
 — ay, the hag — your mother,, will otherwise suspect 
 us. Flours, Hastings. Grant me patience. I shall rui^ 
 distracted ! My rage chokes me ! 
 
 Jliss Neville. I hope, madam, you '11 suspend your 
 resentment for a few moments, and not impute to me 
 any impertinence, or sinister design, that belongs to 
 another. 
 
 * Shake-bag club : A shake-bag is a large fighting cock. 
 (Standard Dictionary.)
 
 80 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER [Act IV 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. QCiLvtseying very low.^ Fine 
 spoken, madam ; you are most miraculously polite 
 and engaging, and quite the very pink of courtesy and 
 circumspection, madam. (^Changing her tone.) And 
 you, you great ill-fashioned oaf, with scarce sens 
 enough to keep your mouth shut, — were you tot 
 joined against me ? But I '11 defeat all your plots in 
 a moment. As for you, madam, since you have got a 
 pair of fresh horses ready, it would be cruel to dis- 
 appoint them. So, if you please, instead of running 
 away with your spark, prepare, this very moment, to 
 run off with me. Your old Aunt Pedigree will keep 
 you secure, I '11 warrant me. You, too, sir, may mount 
 your horse, and guard us upon the way. Here, Thomas, 
 Roger, Diggory ! I "11 show you that I wish you bet- 
 ter than you do yourselves. {Exit. 
 
 Miss Neville. So, now I 'm completely ruined. 
 
 Tony. Ay, that 's a sure thing. 
 
 3Iiss Neville. What better could be expected from 
 being connected with such a stupid fool, — and after 
 all the nods and signs I made him ! 
 
 Tony. By the laws, miss, it was your own clever* 
 ness, and not my stupidity, that did your business. 
 You were so nice and so busy with your Shake-bags 
 and Goose-greens that I thought you could never be 
 making believe. 
 
 Enter Hastings. 
 
 Hastings. So, sir, I find by my servant that you 
 have shown my letter, and betrayed us. Was this well 
 done, young gentleman ? 
 
 Tony. Here 's another. Ask miss, there, who be- 
 trayed you. Ecod ! it was her doing, not mine.
 
 Act IV] SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER 81 
 
 Enter Marlow. 
 
 Marloio. So, I have been finely used here among 
 you. Rendered contemptible, driven into ill-manners, 
 despised, insulted, laughed at. 
 
 Tony. Here 's another. We shall have old Bedlam 
 broke loose presently. 
 
 Miss Neville. And there, sir, is the gentleman to 
 whom we all owe every obligation. 
 
 Marlow. What can I say to him ? A mere boy, an 
 idiot, whose ig-norance and age are a protection. 
 
 Hastings. A poor, contemptible booby, that would 
 but disgrace correction. 
 
 Miss Neville. Yet with cunning and malice enough 
 to make himself merry with all our embarrassments. 
 
 Hastings. An insensible cub. 
 
 3Iarlow. Replete with tricks and mischief. 
 
 Tony. Baw ! damme, but I '11 fight you both, one 
 after the other, — with baskets. 
 
 Marlow. As for him, he 's below resentment. But 
 your conduct, Mr. Hastings, requires an explanation. 
 You knew of my mistakes, yet would not undeceive 
 me. 
 
 Hastings. Tortured as I am with my own disap- 
 pointments, is this a time for explanations ? It is not 
 friendly, Mr. Marlow. 
 
 Marlotv. But, sir — 
 
 Miss Neville. Mr. Marlow, we never kept on your 
 mistake, till it was too late to undeceive you. B<i 
 pacified. 
 
 Enter Servant. 
 
 Servant. My mistress desires you '11 get ready im« 
 mediately, madam. The horses are putting to. YouJ
 
 82 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER [Act IV 
 
 hat and things are in the next room. We are to go 
 thirty miles before morning. [Exit Servant. 
 
 Miss Seville. Well, well, I '11 come presently. 
 
 Jfarlow. {To Hastings.^ Was it well done, sir, 
 to assist in rendering me ridiculous ? To hang me out 
 for the scorn of all my acquaintance ? Depend upon 
 it, sir, I shall expect an explanation. 
 
 Hastings. Was it well done, sir, if you 're upon 
 that subject, to deliver what I entrusted to yourself to 
 the care of another, sir ? 
 
 Jiiss Neville. Mr. Hastings ! Mr. Marlow ! Why 
 will you increase my distress by this groundless dis- 
 pute ? I implore, I entreat you — 
 
 Enter Servant. 
 
 Servant. Your cloak, madam. My mistress is im- 
 patient. 
 
 Miss Neville. I come. {Exit Servant.^ Pray, be 
 pacified. If I leave you thus, I shall die with appre- 
 hension ! 
 
 Enter Servant. 
 
 Servant. Your fan, muff, and gloves, madam. The 
 horses are waiting. [Exit Servant. 
 
 Miss Neville. Oh, Mr. Marlow ! if you knew what 
 a scene of constraint and ill-nature lies before me, I 
 am sure it would convert your resentment into pity. 
 
 3farlow. I 'm so distracted with a variety of passions 
 that I don't know what I do. Forgive me, madam. 
 George, forgive me. You know my hasty temper, and 
 should not exasperate it. 
 
 Hastings. The torture of my situation is my only 
 excuse. 
 
 Miss Neville. Well, my dear Hastings, if you have
 
 ActVj she stoops to conquer 83 
 
 that esteem for me that I think, that I am sure you 
 have, your constancy for three years will but increase, 
 the happiness of our future connection. If — 
 
 Jim. Ilardcantle. (^Within.) Miss Neville! Con- 
 stance ! why, Constance, I say ! 
 
 Miss Neville. I 'm coming ! Well, constancy. Re- 
 member, constancy is the word. [Exit. 
 
 Hastings. My heart ! how can I support this ! To 
 be so near happiness, and such happiness ! 
 
 Marlow. (^To Tony.') You see now, young gentle- 
 man, the effects of your folly. What might be amuse- 
 ment to you is here disappointment, and even distress. 
 
 Tony. (^From a reverie.) Ecod, I have hit it. It 's 
 here ! Your hands. Yours, and yours, my poor Sulky. 
 — My boots there, ho I — 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 '11 give you leave to take my best horse, and Bet 
 Bouncer into the bargain ! Come along. My boots, ho .' 
 
 lExemt. 
 
 ACT THE FIFTH 
 
 Scene I, The house. 
 
 Enter Hastinys and Servant. 
 
 Hastings. You saw the old lady and Miss Neville 
 ^Irive off, you say? 
 
 Servant. Yes, j^our honor. They went off in a post- 
 coach, and the young Squire went on horseback, 
 They re thirty miles off by this time. 
 
 Hastings. Then all my hopes are over.
 
 84 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER [Act V 
 
 Servant. Yes, sir. Old Sir Charles is arrived. He 
 and the old gentleman of the house have been laugh- 
 ing at Mr. Marlow's mistake this half hour. They are 
 coming this way. [Exif 
 
 Hastings. Then I must not be seen. So now to mv 
 fruitless appointment at the bottom of the garden. 
 This is about the time. {Exit. 
 
 Enter Sir Charles Marlow and Hardcastle. 
 
 Hardcastle. Ha ! ha ! ha ! The peremptory tone in 
 which he sent forth his sublime commands ! 
 
 Sir Charles. And the reserve with which I suppose 
 he treated all your advances. 
 
 Hardcastle. And yet he might have seen something 
 in me above a common innkeeper, too. 
 
 Sir Charles. Yes, Dick, but he mistook you for an 
 uncommon innkeeper ; ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Hardcastle. Well, I 'm in too good spirits to think 
 of anything but joy. Yes, my dear friend, this union of 
 our families will make our personal friendships heredi- 
 tary ; and though my daughter's fortune is but small — 
 
 Sir Charles. Why, Dick, will you talk of fortune 
 to me ? My son is possessed of more than a competence 
 already, and can want nothing but a good and virtuous 
 girl to share his happiness and increase it. If they like 
 each other, as you say they do — 
 
 Hardcastle. If, man ! I tell you they do like each 
 other. My daughter as good as told me so. 
 
 Sir Charles. But girls are apt to flatter themselves, 
 you know. 
 
 Hardcastle. I saw him grasp her hand in the warm.- 
 est manner, myself ; and here he comes to put you out 
 of your ifs, I warrant him.
 
 Scene I] SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER 85 
 
 Enter Marlow. 
 
 Marloio. I come, sir, once more, to ask pardon for 
 my strange conduct. I can scarce reflect on my inso- 
 lence without confusion. 
 
 Hardcastle. Tut, boy, a trifle. You take it too 
 gravely. An hour or two's laughing with my daughter 
 will set all to rights again. She '11 never like you the 
 worse for it. 
 
 Marlow. Sir, I shall be always proud of her appro- 
 bation. 
 
 Hardcastle. Approbation is but a cold word, Mr 
 Marlow ; if I am not deceived, you have something 
 more than approbation thereabouts. You take me ? 
 
 Marlow. Really, sir, I have not that happiness. 
 
 Hardcastle. Come, boy, I 'm an old fellow, and 
 know what 's what as well as you that are younger. I 
 know what has passed between you ; but mum. 
 
 Marlow. Sure, sir, nothing has passed between us 
 but the most profound respect on my side, and the 
 most distant reserve on hers. You don't think, sir, 
 that my impudence has been passed upon all the rest 
 of the family ? 
 
 Hardcastle. Impudence ! No, I don't say that — 
 not quite impudence — though girls like to be played 
 with, and rumpled a little, too, sometimes. But she 
 has told no tales, I assure you. 
 
 Marloio. I never gave her the slightest cause. 
 
 Hardcastle. Well, well, I like modesty in its place 
 well enough ; but this is over-acting, young gentle- 
 man. You may be open. Your father and I will like 
 you the better for it. 
 
 Marlow. May I die, sir, if I ever —
 
 86 SHE STOOrS TO CONQUER [Act V 
 
 Hardcastle. I tell you she don't dislike you ; and 
 as I am sure you like her — 
 
 Marlow. Dear sir, — I protest, sir — 
 
 Hardcastle. I see no reason why you should not ly 
 joined as fast as the parson can tie you. 
 
 Marlow. But hear me, sir — 
 
 Hardcastle. Your father approves the match ; I 
 admire it ; every moment's delay will be doiiig mis? 
 chief; so — 
 
 Marlow. But why won't you hear me ? By all tha;t 's 
 just and true, I never gave Miss Hardcastle the slight- 
 est mark of my attachment, or even the most distant 
 hint to suspect me of affection. We had but one inter- 
 view, and that was formal, modest, and uninteresting. 
 
 Hardcastle. (^Aside.') This fellow's formal, modest 
 impudence is beyond bearing. 
 
 Sir Charles. And yovi never grasped her hand, or 
 made any protestations ? 
 
 Marlow. As heaven is my witness, I came down in 
 obedience to your commands. I saw the lady without 
 emotion, and parted without reluctance. I hope you '11 
 exact no further proofs of my duty, nor prevent me 
 from leaving a house in which I suffer so many morti- 
 fications. {Exit. 
 
 Sir Charles. I 'm astonished at the air of sincerity 
 with which he parted. 
 
 Ha?'dcastle. And I 'm astonished at the deliberate 
 intrepidity of his assurance. 
 
 Sir Charles. I dare pledge my life and honor upon 
 his truth. 
 
 Hardcastle. Here comes my daughter, and I would 
 stake my happiness upon her veracity.
 
 Scene I] SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER 8? 
 
 Enter Miss Hardcastle. 
 
 Hardcastle. Kate, come hither, child. Answer us 
 sincerely, and without reserve ; has Mr. Marlow made 
 you any professions of love and affection ? 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. The question is very abrupt, sir. 
 But since you require unreserved sincerity, 1 think 
 he has. 
 
 Hardcastle. (^To Sir Charles.') You see. 
 
 Sir Charles. And pray, madam, have you and my 
 son had more than one interview ? 
 
 3Iiss Hardcastle. Yes, sir, several. 
 
 Hardcastle. (7b Sir Charles.) You see. 
 
 Sir Charles. But did he profess any attachment? 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. A lasting one. 
 
 Sir Charles, Did he talk of love ? 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. Much, sir. 
 
 Sir Charles. Amazing ! And ail this formally ? 
 
 3Hss Hardcastle. Formally. 
 
 Hardcastle. Now, my friend, I hope you are sat* 
 isfied. 
 
 Sir Charles. And how did he behave, madam ? 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. As most professed admirers do ; 
 said some civil things of my face ; talked much of his 
 want of merit, and the greatness of mine ; mentioned 
 his heart, gave a short tragedy speech, and ended with 
 pretended rapture. 
 
 Sir Charles. Now I 'm perfectly convinced, indeed. 
 I know his conversation among women to be modest 
 and submissive. This forward, canting, ranting man- 
 ner by no means describes him, and, I am confident, 
 he never sate for the picture. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. Then what, sir, if I should ecu
 
 88 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER [Act V 
 
 vince you to your face of my sincerity? If you and 
 my papa, in about half an hour, will place yourselves 
 behind that screen, you shall hear him declare his pajB- 
 sion to me in person. 
 
 /Sir Charles. Agreed. And if I find him what you 
 describe, all my happiness in him must have an end. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. And if you don't find him what 
 I describe — I fear my happiness must never have a 
 beginning:. 
 
 ■'o' 
 
 Scene II, The back of the garden. 
 
 Enter Hastings. 
 
 Hastings. What an idiot am I to wait here for a 
 fellow who probably takes a delight in mortifying me. 
 He never intended to be punctual, and I '11 wait no 
 longer. What do I see? It is he, and perhaps with 
 news of my Constance. 
 
 Enter Tony, hooted and spattered.^ 
 
 Hastings. My honest Squire ! I now find you a man 
 of your word. This looks like friendship. 
 
 Tony. Ay, I 'm your friend, and the best friend you 
 have in the world, if you knew but all. This riding by 
 night, by the bye, is cursedly tiresome. It has shook 
 me worse than the basket of a stage-coach. 
 
 Hastings. But how? where did you leave your 
 fellow-travellers? Are they in safety? Are they 
 housed ? 
 
 Tony. Five and twenty miles in two hours and a 
 
 ' spattered: An unusual verbal form from " spat," an abbre- 
 viation of " spatterdash," meaning a cloth gaiter, originally used 
 for riding.
 
 Scene II] SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER 89 
 
 half is no such bad driving. The poor beasts havo 
 Binoked for it : rabbit me ! but I 'd rather ride forty 
 miles after a fox, than ten with such varment. 
 
 Hastings. Well, but where have you left the ladies? 
 I die with impatience. 
 
 Tony. Left them ! Why, where should I leave them 
 but where I found them? 
 
 Hastings. This is a riddle. 
 
 Tony. Riddle me this, then. What's that goes 
 round the house, and round the house, and never 
 touches the house? 
 
 Hastings. I 'm still astray. 
 
 Tony. Why, that 's it, mon. I have led them astray. 
 By jingo, there 's not a pond nor slough within five 
 miles of the place but they can tell the taste of. 
 
 Hastings. Ha ! ha ! ha ! I understand ; you took 
 them in a round, while they supposed themselves going 
 forward. And so you have at last brought them home 
 again. 
 
 Tony. You shall hear. I first took them down 
 Feather-bed lane, where we stuck fast in the mud. I 
 then rattled them crack over the stones of Up-and- 
 down Hill. I then introduced them to the gibbet on 
 Heavy-tree Heath ; and from that, with a circumbendi- 
 bus,^ I fairly lodged them in the horse-pond at the bot- 
 tom of the garden. 
 
 Hastings. But no accident, I hope? 
 
 Tony. No, no ; only mother is confoundedly fright- 
 ened. She thinks herself forty miles off. She 's sick 
 of the journey ; and the cattle can scarce crawl. So, 
 if your own horses be ready, you may whip off with 
 * circumbendibus: A roundabout course or method.
 
 90 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER [Act V 
 
 Cousin, and I '11 be bound that no soul here can budge 
 a foot to follow you. 
 
 Hastings. My dear friend, how can I be grateful? 
 
 Tony. Ay, now it 's " dear friend," " noble Squire." 
 Just now, it was all " idiot," " cub," and run me 
 through the guts. Damn your way of fighting, I say. 
 After we take a knock in this part of the country, 
 we kiss and be friends. But if you had run me through 
 the guts, then I should be dead, and you might go kiss 
 the hangman. 
 
 Hastings. The rebuke is just. But I must hasten to 
 relieve Miss Neville ; if you keep the old lady employed, 
 1 promise to take care of the young one. 
 
 Tony. Never fear me. Here she comes. Vanish! 
 (^Exit Hastings.') She 's got from the pond, and drag- 
 gled up to the waist like a mermaid. 
 Enter Mrs. Hardcastle. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. Oh, Tony, I 'm killed ! Shook * 
 Battered to death ! I shall never survive it. That last 
 jolt, that laid us against the quickset hedge, has done 
 my business. 
 
 Tony. Alack, mamma, it was all your own fault. 
 You would be for running away by night, without 
 knowing one inch of tlie way. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. I wish we were at home again. I 
 never met so many accidents in so short a journey. 
 Drenched in the mud, overturned in a ditch, stuck fast 
 in a slough, jolted to a jelly, and at last to lose our 
 way! Whereabouts do you think we are, Tony? 
 
 Tony. By my guess, we should be upon Crack-skulli 
 Common, about forty miles from home. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. O lud ! O lud ! The most noto-
 
 Scene II] SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER 91 
 
 rioiis spot in all the country. We only want a robbery 
 to make a complete night on 't. 
 
 Tony. Don't be afraid, mamma; don't be afraid. 
 Two of the five that kept here are hanged, and the 
 other three may not find us. Don't be afraid. Is that 
 a man that 's galloping behind us ? No, it 's only a 
 tree. Don't be afraid. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. The fright will certainly kill me. 
 
 Tony. Do you see anything like a black hat moving 
 behind the thicket? 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. Oh, death ! 
 
 Tony. No, it 's only a cow. Don't be afraid, 
 mamma, don't be afraid. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. As I 'm alive, Tony, I see a man 
 coming towards us. Ah, I am sure on 't ! If he per- 
 ceives us, we are undone. 
 
 Tony. (^ Aside. ^ Father-in-law, by all that 's un- 
 lucky, come to take one of his night walks. (7b her.^ 
 Ah, it 's a highwayman, with pistols as long as my 
 arm. A damned ill-looking fellow ! 
 
 3Irs. Hardcastle. Good Heaven defend us ! He 
 approaches. 
 
 Tony. Do you hide yourself in that thicket, and 
 leave me to manage him. If there be any danger, I '11 
 cough and cry hem. When I cough, be sure to keep 
 close. (^Mrs. Hardcastle hides behind a tree in the 
 uack scene.') 
 
 Enter Hardcastle. 
 
 Hardcastle. I 'm mistaken, or I heard voices of 
 people in want of help. Oh, Tony, is that you ? I did 
 not expect you so soon back. Are your mother and her 
 charge in safety ?
 
 92 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER [Act V 
 
 Tony. Very safe, sir, at my Aunt Pedigree's. Hem. 
 
 Mrs. Ilardcastle. QFrom behind.^ All, death ! I 
 find there 's danger. 
 
 Hardcastle. Forty miles in three hours ; sure that 's 
 too much, my youngster. 
 
 Tony. Stout horses and willing minds make short 
 journeys, as they say. Hem. 
 
 3frs. Hardcastle. (^From behind.^ Sure, he '11 do 
 the dear boy no harm. 
 
 Ilardcastle. But I heard a voice here ; I should be 
 glad to know from whence it came. 
 
 Tony. It was I, sir, talking to myself, sir. I was 
 saying that forty miles in four hours was very good 
 going. Hem. As to be sure it was. Hem. I have got 
 a sort of cold by being out in the air. We '11 go in, 
 if you please. Hem. 
 
 Hardcastle. But if you talked to yourself, you did 
 not answer yourself. I 'm certain I heard two voices, 
 and resolved (raising his voice') to find the other out. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. (From behind.) Oh ! he 's com- 
 ing to find me out. Oh ! 
 
 Tony. What need you go, sir, if I tell you? Hem. 
 I '11 lay down my life for the truth — hem — I '11 tell 
 you all, sir. (Detaining him.) 
 
 Hardcastle. I tell you I will not be detained. I 
 insist on seeing. It 's in vain to expect I '11 believe 
 ■fou. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. (Running forward from behind.) 
 hid ! he '11 murder my poor boy, my darling ! Here, 
 good gentleman, whet your rage upon me. Take my 
 money, my life, but spare that young gentleman ; spare 
 my child, if you have any mercy.
 
 Scene II] SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER 93 
 
 Hardcastle. My wife, as I 'm a Christian ! From 
 whence can she come, or what does she mean ? 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. (^Kneeling.') Take compassion on 
 us, good Mr. Highwayman. Take our money, our 
 watches, all we have, but spare our lives. We will 
 never bring you to justice ; indeed we won't, good Mr. 
 Highwayman. 
 
 Hardcastle. I believe the woman 's out of her senses. 
 What, Dorothy, don't you know me ? 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. Mr. Hardcastle, as I 'm alive ! 
 My fears blinded me. But who, my dear, could have 
 expected to meet you here, in this frightful place, so 
 far from home ? What has brought you to follow us ? 
 
 Hardcastle. Sure, Dorothy, you have not lost your 
 wits ? So far from home, when you are within forty 
 yards of your own door! (Jb him.} This is one of 
 your old tricks, you graceless rogue, you! (7b her.} 
 Don't you know the gate, and the mulberry tree ; and 
 don't you remember the horse-pond, my dear ? 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. Yes, I shall remember the horse- 
 pond as long as I live ; I have caught my death in it. 
 ( To Tony.} And is it to you, you graceless varlet, I 
 owe all this ? I '11 teach you to abuse your mother, 
 I will. 
 
 Tony. Ecod, mother, all the parish says you have 
 spoiled me, so you may take the fruits on 't. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. I '11 spoil you, I will. 
 
 [Follows him off the stage. ExiU 
 
 Hardcastle. There 's morality, however, in his reply 
 
 iExUs 
 
 Enter Hastings and Miss Neville. 
 
 Hastings. My dear Constance, why will you delibt
 
 M SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER [ActV 
 
 erate thus ? If we delay a inoment, all is lost forever. 
 Phick up a little resolution, and we shall soon be out 
 of the reach of her malignity. 
 
 Miss Neville. I find it impossible. My spirits are 
 so sunk with the agitations I have sufPered, that I am 
 unable to face any new danger. Two or three years' 
 patience will at last crown us with happiness. 
 
 Hastings. Such a tedious delay is worse than incon- 
 stancy. Let us fly, my charmer ! Let us date our hap- 
 piness from this very moment. Perish fortune. Love 
 and content will increase what we possess beyond a 
 monarch's revenue. Let me prevail ! 
 
 Miss Neville. No, Mr. Hastings, no. Prudence once 
 more comes to ray relief, and I will obey its dictates. 
 In the moment of passion, fortune may be despised, 
 but it ever produces a lasting repentance. I 'm resolved 
 to apply to Mr. Hardcastle's compassion and justice 
 for redress. 
 
 Hastings. But though he had the will he has not 
 the power to relieve you. 
 
 Miss Neville. But he has influence, and upon that 
 I am resolved to rely. 
 
 Hastings. I have no hopes. But, since you persist, 
 I must reluctantly obey you. {Ezemt. 
 
 Scene III, The house. 
 
 Enter Sir Charles Marlow and Miss Hardcasfle. 
 
 Sir Charles. What a situation am 1 in! If what 
 you say appears, I shall then find a guilty son. If 
 4ehat he says be true, I shall then lose one that, of all 
 others, I most wished for a daughter.
 
 Scene III] SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER 93 
 
 3Ilss Ilardcastle. I am proud of your approbation ; 
 and to show I merit it, if you place yourselves as I 
 directed, you shall hear his explicit declaration. But 
 he comes. 
 
 Sir Charles. I '11 to your father, and keep him to 
 the appointment. [Exit Sir Charles. 
 
 Enter Marlow. 
 
 Marlow. Though prepared for setting out, I come 
 once more to take leave ; nor did I, till this moment, 
 know the pain I feel in the separation. 
 
 3Iiss Hardcastle. (^In her onm natural maimer.") 
 I believe these sufferings cannot be very gi-eat, sir, 
 which you can so easily remove. A day or two longer, 
 perhaps, might lessen your uneasiness, by showing 
 the little value of what you now think proper to 
 regret. 
 
 Marlow. (^Aside.') This girl every moment improves 
 upon me. (Jb Aer.) It must not be, madam ; I have 
 already trifled too long with my heart. My very pride 
 begins to submit to my passion. The disparity of edu- 
 cation and fortune, the anger of a parent, and the 
 contempt of my equals begin to lose their weight ; and 
 nothing can restore me to myself but this painful effort 
 of resolution. 
 
 3Iiss Hardcastle. Then go, sir ; I '11 urge nothing 
 more to detain you. Though my family be as good as 
 hers you came down to visit, and my education, I hope, 
 not inferior, what are these advantages without equal 
 affluence? I must remain contented with the slight 
 approbation of imputed merit ; I must have only the 
 mockery of your addresses, while all your serious aims 
 are fixed on fortune.
 
 96 SHE STOOPS TO uONQUER [Act V 
 
 Enter Hardcastle and Sir Charles Marlow,from behind. 
 
 Sir Charles. Here, behind this screen. 
 
 Hardcastle. Ay, ay ; make no noise, I '11 engage 
 my Kate covers him with confusion at last. 
 
 Marlow. By heavens, madam, fortune was ever my 
 smallest consideration. Your beauty at first caught 
 my eys ; for who could see that without emotion ? But 
 every moment that I converse with you, steals in some 
 new grace, heightens the picture, and gives it stronger 
 expression. What at first seemed rustic plainness, now 
 appears refined simplicity. What seemed forward as- 
 surance, now strikes me as the result of courageous 
 innocence and conscious virtue. 
 
 Sir Charles. What can it mean ? He amazes me ! 
 
 Hardcastle. I told you how it would be. Hush ! 
 
 Marlow. I am now determined to stay, madam, and 
 I have too good an opinion of my father's discernment, 
 when he sees you, to doubt his approbation. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. No, Mr. Marlow, I will not, can- 
 not detain you. Do you think I could suffer a connec- 
 tion in which there is the smallest room for repent- 
 ance ? Do you think I would take the mean advantage 
 of a transient passion to load you with confusion ? Do 
 you think I could ever relish that happiness which was 
 acquired by lessening yours ? 
 
 Marlow. By all that 's good, I can have no hap- 
 piness but what 's in your power to grant me ! Nor 
 shall I ever feel repentance but in not having seen 
 your merits before. I will stay, even contrary to your 
 wishes ; and though you should persist to shun me, I 
 will make my respectful assiduities atone for the levity 
 of my past conduct.
 
 Scene III] SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER 97 
 
 Jfiss Hardcastle. Sir, I must entreat you'll desist. 
 As our acquaintance began, so let it end, in indiffer- 
 ence. I might have given an hour or two to levity ; 
 but seriously, Mr. Marlow, do you think I could ever 
 submit to a connection where I must appear mer- 
 cenary, and you imjDrudent? Do you think I could 
 ever catch at the confident addresses of a secure ad- 
 mirer ? 
 
 Marloio. {Kneeling?) Does this look like security? 
 Does this look like confidence? No, madam, every 
 moment that shows me your merit, only serves to in- 
 crease my diffidence and confusion. Here let me con- 
 tinue — 
 
 Sir Charles. I can hold it no longer. Charles, 
 Charles, how hast thou deceived me ! Is this your in- 
 difference, your uninteresting conversation ? 
 
 Hardea&tle. Your cold contempt ! your formal inter- 
 view ! What have you to say now ? 
 
 Marlow. That I 'm all amazement ! What can it 
 mean? 
 
 Hardcastle, It means that you can say and unsay 
 things at pleasure ; 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. 
 
 Marlow. Daughter ! — this lady your daughter ? 
 
 Hardcastle. Yes, sir, my only daughter — my Kate ; 
 whose else should she be ? 
 
 Marlow. Oh, the devil ! 
 
 3£iss Hardcastle. Yes, sir, that very identical tall, 
 squinting lady you were pleased to take me for (curt- 
 seying^ ; she that you addressed as the mild, mod- 
 est, sentimental man of gravity, and the bold, for*
 
 98 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER [Act V 
 
 ward, agreeable Rattle of the Ladies' Club. Hal 
 ha! ha! 
 
 Marlow. Zounds, there's no bearing this ; it 's worse 
 than death ! 
 
 Miss Hardcasile. In which of your characters, sir, 
 wiU you give us leave to address you ? As the falter- 
 ing gentleman, with looks on the ground, that si>eaks 
 just to be heard, and hates hypocrisy ; or the loud, 
 confident creature, that keeps it up with Mrs. Mantrap, 
 and old Miss Biddy Buckskin, till three in the morn- 
 ing? Ha! ha! ha! 
 
 Marlow. Oh, curse on my noisy head ! I never 
 attempted to be impudent yet that I was not taken 
 down. I must be gone. 
 
 Hardcasile. By the hand of my body, but you shall 
 not. I see it was all a mistake, and I am rejoiced to 
 find it. You shall not, sir, I tell you. I know she '11 
 forgive you. Won't you forgive him, Kate? We'll 
 all forgive you. Take courage, man. 
 
 [They retire, she tormenting hiin, to the back scene- 
 Enter Mrs. Hardcasile and Tony. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcasile. So, so, they're gone off.' Let 
 them go, I care not. 
 
 Hardcasile. Who gone ? 
 
 Mrs. Hardcasile. My dutiful niece and her gentle- 
 man, Mr. Hastings, from town. He who came down 
 with our modest visitor here. 
 
 Sir Charles. Who, my honest George Hastings! 
 As worthy a fellow as lives, and the girl could not 
 have made a more prudent choice. 
 
 Hardcasile. Then, by the hand of my body, I 'm 
 proud of the connection.
 
 Scene III] SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER 99 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. Well, if he has taken away the 
 lady, he has not taken her fortune ; that remains in 
 this family to console us for her loss. 
 
 Hardcastle. Sure, Dorothy, you would not be so 
 mercenary ? 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. Ay, that 's my affair, not yours. 
 
 Hardcastle. But you know if your son, when of 
 age, refuses to marry his cousin, her whole fortune is 
 then at her own disposal. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. Ay, but he 's not of age, and she 
 has not thought proper to wait for his refusal. 
 
 Enter Hastings and Miss Neville. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. (^Aside.^ What, returned so soon? 
 I begin not to like it. 
 
 Hastings. {To Hardcastle.^ For ray Jate attempt 
 to fly off with your niece, let my present confusion be 
 my punishment. We are now come back, to appeal 
 from your justice to your humanity. By her father's 
 consent I first paid her my addresses, and our passions 
 were first founded in duty. 
 
 Miss Neville. Since his death, I have l^een obliged 
 to stoop to dissimulation to avoid oppression. In an 
 hour of levity, I was ready even to give up my fortune 
 to secure my choice. But I am now recovered from 
 the delusion, and hope from your tenderness what is 
 denied me from a nearer connection. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. Pshaw ! pshaw ; this is all but 
 the whining end of a modern novel. ^ 
 
 * 'whining end of a modern novel : Goldsmith had in The 
 Critical Review for 1760 written a satire on this style of milk- 
 and-water novel under the romantic title of Jemima and Louisa, 
 See note to p. 48.
 
 100 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER [Act V 
 
 Hardcastle. Be it what it will, I 'm glad they 're 
 come back to reclaim their due. Come hither, Tony^ 
 boy. Do you refuse this lady's hand, whom I now offer 
 you? 
 
 Tony. What signifies my refusing? You know I 
 can't refuse her till I 'm of age, father. 
 
 Hardcastle. While I thought concealing your age. 
 boy, was likely to conduce to your improvement, I con- 
 curred with your mother's desire to keep it secret. But 
 since I find she turns it to a wrong use, I must now 
 declare you have been of age this three months. 
 
 Tony. Of age ! Am I of age, father ? 
 
 Hardcastle. Above three months. 
 
 Tony. Then you '11 see the first use I '11 make of 
 my liberty. (^Taking Miss Neville^ s hand.^ Witness 
 all men, by these presents, that I, Anthony Lumpkin, 
 Esquire, of blank place, refuse you, Constantia Ne- 
 ville, spinster, of no place at all, for my true and law- 
 ful wife. So Constance Neville may marry whom she 
 pleases, and Tony Lumpkin is his own man again ! 
 
 Sir Charles. Oh, brave Squire ! 
 
 Hastings. My worthy friend ! 
 
 3frs. Hardcastle. My undutiful offspring . 
 
 Marlow. Joy, my dear George, I give you joy sin- 
 cerely ! And could I prevail upon my little tyrant 
 here to be less arbitrary, I should be the happiest maD 
 alive, if you would return me the favor. 
 
 Hastings. {To Miss Hardcastle.') Come, madam^ 
 you are now driven to the very last scene of all your 
 contrivances. I know you like him, I 'm sure he loves 
 you, and you must and shall have him. 
 
 Hardcastle. (^Joining their hands.) And I say so,
 
 Scene III] SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER 101 
 
 too. And, Mr. Marlow, if she makes as good a wife 
 as she has a daughter, I don't believe you '11 ever re^ 
 pent your bargain. So now to supper. To-morrow we 
 shall gather all the poor of the parish about us, and 
 the Mistakes of the Night shall be crowned with a 
 merry morning. So, boy, take her ; and as you have 
 been mistaken in the mistress, my wish is, that you 
 may never be mistaken in the wife. [Exeunt Omnet
 
 EPILOGUE 
 Br DR. GOLDSMITH. 
 
 SPOKEN BY MRS. BULKLEY IN THE CHARACTER OF MISI 
 HARDCASTLE. 
 
 Well, having stooped to conquer with success. 
 
 And gained a husband without aid from dress, 
 
 Still, as a bar-maid, I could wish it too, 
 
 As I have conquered him to conquer you : 
 
 And let me say, for all your resolution, 
 
 That pretty bar-maids have done execution. 
 
 Our life is all a play, composed to please; 
 
 " We have our exits * and our entrances." 
 
 The first act shows ^ the simple country maid, 
 
 Harmless and young, of everything afraid ; 
 
 Blushes when hired, and with unmeaning action, 
 
 *'I hopes as how to give you satisfaction." 
 
 Her second act displays a livelier scene, — 
 
 Th' unblushing bar-maid of a country inn. 
 
 Who whisks about the house, at market caters, 
 
 Talks loud, coquets the guests, and scolds the waiters 
 
 Next the scene shifts to town, and there she soars, 
 
 The chop-house toast of ogling connoisseurs.' 
 
 On Squires and Cits she there displays her arts, 
 
 » " We have our exits " ; As You Like It, Act II, Sc. 7. 
 
 ^ The first act shovrs: Goldsmith here liad in mind Jaques' 
 seven ages of man, As You Like It (Act II, Sc. 7), as is also 
 shown in the above note. 
 
 ^ connoisseurs: Dandies and critics of the arts. Compare 
 The Connoiseur, a periodical started in 1754 by Thornton and 
 Colman.
 
 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER 103 
 
 And on the gridiron broils her lovers' hearts ; 
 
 And, as she smiles, her triumphs to complete, 
 
 E'en common-councilmen forget to eat. 
 
 The fourth act shows her wedded to the Squire, 
 
 And Madam now begins to hold it higher ; 
 
 Pretends to taste, at Operas cries caro ! 
 
 And quits her Nancy Dawson ^ for Che Faro : ^ 
 
 Doats upon dancing, and in all her pride, 
 
 Swims round the room, the Heinel of Cheapside ; ' 
 
 Ogles and leers, with artificial skill, 
 
 Till, having lost in age the power to kill, 
 
 She sits all night at cai-ds, and ogles at spadille. 
 
 Such, through our lives, th' eventful history! 
 
 The fifth and last act still remains for me : 
 
 The bar-maid now for your protection prays, 
 
 Turns female barrister, and pleads for Bayes.* 
 
 • Nancy Da'wson : According to Dobson this is a song named 
 for a famous horn-pipe dancer who died at Hampstead, 1767. 
 
 ' Che Faro : The first words of a line in Gluck's opera of 
 Orfeo, 1764. 
 
 3 Heinel of Cheapside : The Flemish danseuse Mademoiselle 
 Heinel, or Ingle, first came to London in December, 1771. She 
 immediately made a sensation. Walpole often mentions her in 
 Lis letters. 
 
 * Bayes : Here refers to the poet, with an indirect allusion 
 to a character in Buckingham's Rehearsal. Sometimes refers to 
 the poet's garland. " Nor from his neighbor's garden crops his 
 Bays," Prologue to The Brothers (,1770).
 
 104 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER 
 
 EPILOGUE ' 
 
 TO BE SPOKEN IN THE CHARACTER OF TONY LUMPKIN. 
 
 BY J. CRADOCK, ESQ.'' 
 
 Well, now all 's ended, and my comrades gone^ 
 Pray what becomes of mother's nonly son f 
 A hopeful blade ! — in town I '11 fix my station, 
 And try to make a bluster in the nation. 
 As for my cousin Neville, I renounce her. 
 Off, in a crack, I '11 carry big Bet Bouncer. 
 
 Why should not I in the great world appear? 
 I soon shall have a thousand pounds a year ; 
 No matter what a man may here inherit, 
 In London — gad, they 've some regard to spirit. 
 I see the horses prancing up the streets. 
 And big Bet Bouncer bobs to all she meets ; 
 Then hoiks ^ to jigs and pastimes every night — 
 Not to the plays — they say it ain't polite : 
 To Sadler's Wells,* perhaps, or operas go, 
 And once, by chance, to the roratorio.^ 
 
 1 Epilogue : This came too late to be spoken. — Goldsmith 
 
 2 J. Cradock: Joseph Cradock (1742-1826), a wealthy man 
 of letters of Leicestershire. Author of Zoheide (1771), founded 
 on Voltaire's Les Scythes, and The Czar (1824). 
 
 2 hoiks : A call used in hunting. 
 
 Sadler's Wells ; The new Music House of Sadler's Well 
 was built of stone m 1765 on tlie site of the old garden wliicli 
 aad been establislied in 1684. In the time of Goldsmith the hall 
 was in very good repute. 
 
 roratorio : Another instance of reduplication occti." 3 J21 the 
 second line of the Epilogue, "mother's nonly son." Compare 
 Kalph Simnell's " uinniversity " in Greene's Friar Bacon and Friar 
 bungay-
 
 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER 105 
 
 Thus, here and there, forever up and down, 
 We '11 set the fashions, too, to half the town ; 
 And then at auctions — money ne'er regard — 
 Buy pictures, like the great, ten pounds a yard : 
 Zounds ! we shall make these London gentry say, 
 AVe know what 's damned genteel ^ as well as they! 
 
 * We know what 's damned genteel : Another sneer al: 
 popular comedy.
 
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