TO SILVIO.

"Soft flow'd the lay by Avon's sedgy side, While o'er its streams the drooping willow hung Beneath whose shadow Silvio fondly tried To check the opening roses as they sprung.

In vain he bade them cease to court the gale, That wanton'd balmy on the zephyr's wing; In vain, when Philomel renew'd her tale, He chid her song, and said 'It was not Spring.'

For still they bloom'd, tho' Silvio's heart was sad, Nor did sweet Philomel neglect to sing; The zephyrs scorned them not, tho' Silvio had, For love and nature told them it was Spring. [Footnote: As the poem altogether would be too long, I have here omitted five or six stanzas]

* * * * *

To other scenes doth Silvio now repair, To nobler themes his daring Muse aspires; Around him throng the gay, the young, the fair, His lively wit the listening crowd admires.

And see, where radiant Beauty smiling stands, With gentle voice and soft beseeching eyes, To gain the laurel from his willing hands, Her every art the fond enchantress tries.

What various charms the admiring youth surround, How shall he sing, or how attempt to praise? So lovely all—where shall the bard be found, Who can to one alone attune his lays?

Behold with graceful step and smile serene, Majestic Stella moves to claim the prize: [Footnote: According to the Key which has been given me, the name of Stella was meant to designate the Duchess of Rutland] "'Tis thine," he cries, "for thou art beauty's queen." Mistaken youth! and sees't thou Myra's eyes? [Footnote: The Duchess of Devonshire]

With beaming lustre see they dart at thee: Ah I dread their vengeance—yet withhold thy hand,— That deepening blush upbraids thy rash decree; Hers is the wreath—obey the just demand.

"Pardon, bright nymph,"(the wond'ring Silvio cries) "And oh, receive the wreath thy beauty's due"— His voice awards what still his hand denies, For beauteous Amoret now his eyes pursue. [Footnote: Mrs. (afterward Lady) Crewe]

With gentle step and hesitating grace, Unconscious of her pow'r the fair one came; If, while he view'd the glories of that face, Poor Silvio doubted,—who shall dare to blame?

A rosy blush his ardent gaze reprov'd, The offer'd wreath she modestly declined;— "If sprightly wit and dimpled smiles are lov'd, My brow," said Flavia, "shall that garland bind." [Footnote: Lady Craven, afterwards Margravine of Anspach.]

With wanton gaiety the prize she seized— Silvio in vain her snowy hand repell'd; The fickle youth unwillingly was pleas'd, Reluctantly the wreath he yet withheld.

But Jessie's all-seducing form appears, [Footnote: The late Countess of Jersey.] Nor more the playful Flavia could delight; Lovely in smiles, more lovely still in tears, Her every glance shone eloquently bright.

Those radiant eyes in safety none could view, Did not those fringed lids their brightness shade— Mistaken youths! their beams, too late ye knew, Are by that soft defence more fatal made.

"O God of Love!" with transport Silvio cries, "Assist me thou, this contest to decide; And since to one I cannot yield the prize, Permit thy slave the garland to divide.

"On Myra's breast the opening rose shall blow, Reflecting from her cheek a livelier bloom; For Stella shall the bright carnation glow— Beneath her eyes' bright radiance meet its doom.

"Smart pinks and daffodils shall Flavia grace, The modest eglantine and violet blue On gentle Amoret's placid brow I'll place— Of elegance and love an emblem true."

In gardens oft a beauteous flow'r there grows, By vulgar eyes unnoticed and unseen; In sweet security it humbly blows, And rears its purple head to deck the green.

This flower, as nature's poet sweetly sings, Was once milk-white, and hearts-ease was its name; Till wanton Cupid pois'd his roseate wings, A vestal's sacred bosom to inflame;

With treacherous aim the god his arrow drew, Which she with icy coldness did repel; Rebounding thence with feathery speed it flew, Till on this lonely flow'r at last it fell.

Heart's-ease no more the wandering shepherds found, No more the nymphs its snowy form possess; Its white now chang'd to purple by Love's wound, Heart's-ease no more, 'tis "Love in Idleness."

"This flow'r with sweet-brier join'd shall thee adorn, Sweet Jessie, fairest 'mid ten thousand fair! But guard thy gentle bosom from the thorn, Which, tho' conceal'd, the sweet-brier still must bear.

"And place not Love, tho' idle, in thy breast, Tho' bright its hues, it boasts no other charm— So may thy future days be ever blest, And friendship's calmer joys thy bosom warm !"

But where does Laura pass her lonely hours? Does she still haunt the grot and willow-tree? Shall Silvio from his wreath of various flowr's Neglect to cull one simple sweet for thee?

"Ah, Laura, no," the constant Silvio cries, "For thee a never-fading wreath I'll twine; Though bright the rose, its bloom too swiftly flies, No emblem meet for love so true as mine.

"For thee, my love, the myrtle, ever-green, Shall every year its blossom sweet disclose, Which, when our spring of youth no more is seen, Shall still appear more lovely than the rose."

"Forgive, dear youth," the happy Laura said, "Forgive each doubt, each fondly anxious fear, Which from my heart for ever now is fled— Thy love and truth, thus tried, are doubly dear.

"With pain I mark'd the various passions rise, When beauty so divine before thee mov'd; With trembling doubt beheld thy wandering eyes, For still I fear'd;—alas! because I lov'd.

"Each anxious doubt shall Laura now forego, No more regret those joys so lately known, Conscious, that tho' thy breast to all may glow, Thy faithful heart shall beat for her alone.

"Then, Silvio, seize again thy tuneful lyre, Nor yet sweet Beauty's power forbear to praise; Again let charms divine thy strains inspire, And Laura's voice shall aid the poet's lays."



CHAPTER V.

THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL.

Mr. Sheridan was now approaching the summit of his dramatic fame;—he had already produced the best opera in the language, and there now remained for him the glory of writing also the best comedy. As this species of composition seems, more, perhaps, than any other, to require that knowledge of human nature and the world which experience alone can give, it seems not a little extraordinary that nearly all our first-rate comedies should have been the productions of very young men. Those of Congreve were all written before he was five-and-twenty. Farquhar produced the Constant Couple in his two-and-twentieth year, and died at thirty. Vanbrugh was a young ensign when he sketched out the Relapse and the Provoked Wife, and Sheridan crowned his reputation with the School for Scandal at six-and-twenty.

It is, perhaps, still more remarkable to find, as in the instance before us, that works which, at this period of life, we might suppose to have been the rapid offspring of a careless, but vigorous fancy,— anticipating the results of experience by a sort of second-sight inspiration,—should, on the contrary, have been the slow result of many and doubtful experiments, gradually unfolding beauties unforeseen even by him who produced them, and arriving, at length, step by step, at perfection. That such was the tardy process by which the School for Scandal was produced, will appear from the first sketches of its plan and dialogue, which I am here enabled to lay before the reader, and which cannot fail to interest deeply all those who take delight in tracing the alchemy of genius, and in watching the first slow workings of the menstruum, out of which its finest transmutations arise.

"Genius," says Buffon, "is Patience;" or, (as another French writer has explained his thought)—"La Patience cherche, et le Genie trouve;" and there is little doubt that to the co-operation of these two powers all the brightest inventions of this world are owing;—that Patience must first explore the depths where the pearl lies hid, before Genius boldly dives and brings it up full into light. There are, it is true, some striking exceptions to this rule; and our own times have witnessed more than one extraordinary intellect, whose depth has not prevented their treasures from lying ever ready within reach. But the records of Immortality furnish few such instances; and all we know of the works, that she has hitherto marked with her seal, sufficiently authorize the general position,—that nothing great and durable has ever been produced with ease, and that Labor is the parent of all the lasting wonders of this world, whether in verse or stone, whether poetry or pyramids.

The first sketch of the School for Scandal that occurs was written, I am inclined to think, before the Rivals, or at least very soon after it;— and that it was his original intention to satirize some of the gossips of Bath appears from the title under which I find noted down, as follows, the very first hints, probably, that suggested themselves for the dialogue.

"THE SLANDERERS.—A Pump-Room Scene.

"Friendly caution to the newspapers.

"It is whispered—

"She is a constant attendant at church, and very frequently takes Dr. M'Brawn home with her.

"Mr. Worthy is very good to the girl;—for my part, I dare swear he has no ill intention.

"What! Major Wesley's Miss Montague?

"Lud, ma'am, the match is certainly broke—no creature knows the cause; some say a flaw in the lady's character, and others, in the gentleman's fortune.

"To be sure they do say—

"I hate to repeat what I hear.

"She was inclined to be a little too plump before she went.

"The most intrepid blush;—I've known her complexion stand fire for an hour together.

"'She had twins,'—How ill-natured! as I hope to be saved, ma'am, she had but one; and that a little starved brat not worth mentioning."

The following is the opening scene of his first sketch, from which it will be perceived that the original plot was wholly different from what it is at present,—Sir Peter and Lady Teazle being at that time not in existence.

"LADY SNEERWELL and SPATTER.

"Lady S. The paragraphs, you say, were all inserted.

"Spat. They were, madam.

"Lady S. Did you circulate the report of Lady Brittle's intrigue with Captain Boastall?

"Spat. Madam, by this Lady Brittle is the talk of half the town; and in a week will be treated as a demirep.

"Lady S. What have you done as to the innuendo of Miss Niceley's fondness for her own footman?

"Spat. 'Tis in a fair train, ma'am. I told it to my hair- dresser,—he courts a milliner's girl in Pall Mall, whose mistress has a first cousin who is waiting-woman to Lady Clackit. I think in about fourteen hours it must reach Lady Clackit, and then you know the business is done.

"Lady S. But is that sufficient, do you think?

"Spat. O Lud, ma'am, I'll undertake to ruin the character of the primmest prude in London with half as much. Ha! ha! Did your ladyship never hear how poor Miss Shepherd lost her lover and her character last summer at Scarborough? this was the whole of it. One evening at Lady ——'s, the conversation happened to turn on the difficulty of breeding Nova Scotia sheep in England. 'I have known instances,' says Miss —-, 'for last spring, a friend of mine, Miss Shepherd of Ramsgate, had a Nova Scotia sheep that produced her twins.'—'What!' cries the old deaf dowager Lady Bowlwell, 'has Miss Shepherd of Ramsgate been brought to bed of twins?' This mistake, as you may suppose, set the company laughing. However, the next day, Miss Verjuice Amarilla Lonely, who had been of the party, talking of Lady Bowlwell's deafness, began to tell what had happened; but unluckily, forgetting to say a word of sheep, it was understood by the company, and, in every circle, many believed, that Miss Shepherd of Ramsgate had actually been brought to bed of a fine boy and a girl; and, in less than a fortnight, there were people who could name the father, and the farm-house where the babies were put out to nurse.

"Lady S. Ha! ha! well, for a stroke of luck, it was a very good one. I suppose you find no difficulty in spreading the report on the censorious Miss ——.

"Spat. None in the world,—she has always been so prudent and reserved, that every body was sure there was some reason for it at bottom.

"Lady S. Yes, a tale of scandal is as fatal to the credit of a prude as a fever to those of the strongest constitutions; but there is a sort of sickly reputation that outlives hundreds of the robuster character of a prude.

"Spat. True, ma'am, there are valetudinarians in reputation as in constitutions; and both are cautious from their appreciation and consciousness of their weak side, and avoid the least breath of air. [Footnote: This is one of the many instances, where the improving effect of revision may be traced. The passage at present stands thus:—"There are valetudinarians in reputation as well as constitution; who, being conscious of their weak part, avoid the least breath of air, and supply the want of stamina by care and circumspection."]

"Lady S. But, Spatter, I have something of greater confidence now to entrust you with. I think I have some claim to your gratitude.

"Spat. Have I ever shown myself one moment unconscious of what I owe you?

"Lady S. I do not charge you with it, but this is an affair of importance. You are acquainted with my situation, but not all my weaknesses. I was hurt, in the early part of my life, by the envenom'd tongue of scandal, and ever since, I own, have no joy but in sullying the fame of others. In this I have found you an apt tool: you have often been the instrument of my revenge, but you must now assist me in a softer passion. A young widow with a little beauty and easy fortune is seldom driven to sue,—yet is that my case. Of the many you have seen here, have you ever observed me, secretly, to favor one?

"Spat. Egad! I never was more posed: I'm sure you cannot mean that ridiculous old knight, Sir Christopher Crab?

"Lady S. A wretch! his assiduities are my torment.

"Spat. Perhaps his nephew, the baronet, Sir Benjamin Backbite, is the happy man?

"Lady S. No, though he has ill-nature, and a good person on his side, he is not to my taste. What think you of Clerimont? [Footnote: Afterwards called Florival.]

"Spat. How! the professed lover of your ward, Maria; between whom, too, there is a mutual affection.

"Lady S. Yes, that insensible, that doater on an idiot, is the man.

"Spat. But how can you hope to succeed?

"Lady S. By poisoning both with jealousy of the other, till the credulous fool, in a pique, shall be entangled in my snare.

"Spat. Have you taken any measure for it?

"Lady S. I have. Maria has made me the confidante of Clerimont's love for her: in return, I pretended to entrust her with my affection for Sir Benjamin, who is her warm admirer. By strong representation of my passion, I prevailed on her not to refuse to see Sir Benjamin, which she once promised Clerimont to do. I entreated her to plead my cause, and even drew her in to answer Sir Benjamin's letters with the same intent. Of this I have made Clerimont suspicious; but 'tis you must inflame him to the pitch I want.

"Spat. But will not Maria, on the least unkindness of Clerimont, instantly come to an explanation?

"Lady S. This is what we must prevent by blinding...."

The scene that follows, between Lady Sneerwell and Maria, gives some insight into the use that was to be made of this intricate ground-work, [Footnote: The following is his own arrangement of the Scenes of the Second Act. "Act II. Scene 1st. All.—2d. Lady S. and Mrs. C.—3d. Lady S. and ... Em. and Mrs. C. listening.—4th. L. S. and Flor. shows him into the room,—bids him return the other way.—L. S. and Emma.—Emma and Florival;—fits,—maid.—Emma fainting and sobbing:—'Death, don't expose me!'—enter maid,—will call out—all come on with cards and smelling bottles."] and it was, no doubt, the difficulty of managing such an involvement of his personages dramatically, that drove him, luckily for the world, to the construction of a simpler, and, at the same time, more comprehensive plan. He might also, possibly, have been influenced by the consideration, that the chief movement of this plot must depend upon the jealousy of the lover,—a spring of interest which he had already brought sufficiently into play in the Rivals.

"Lady Sneerwell. Well, my love, have you seen Clerimont to-day?

"Maria. I have not, nor does he come as often as he used. Indeed, madam, I fear what I have done to serve you has by some means come to his knowledge, and injured me in his opinion. I promised him faithfully never to see Sir Benjamin. What confidence can he ever have in me, if he once finds I have broken my word to him?

"Lady S. Nay, you are too grave. If he should suspect any thing, it will always be in my power to undeceive him.

"Mar. Well, you have involved me in deceit, and I must trust to you to extricate me.

"Lady S. Have you answered Sir Benjamin's last letter in the manner I wished?

"Mar. I have written exactly as you desired me: but I wish you would give me leave to tell the whole truth to Clerimont at once. There is a coldness in his manner of late, which I can no ways account for.

"Lady S. (aside.) I'm glad to find I have worked on him so far;—fie, Maria, have you so little regard for me? would you put me to the shame of being known to love a man who disregards me? Had you entrusted me with such a secret, not a husband's power should have forced it from me. But, do as you please. Go, forget the affection I have shown you: forget that I have been as a mother to you, whom I found an orphan. Go, break through all ties of gratitude, and expose me to the world's derision, to avoid one sullen hour from a moody lover.

"Mar. Indeed, madam, you wrong me; and you who know the apprehension of love, should make allowance for its weakness. My love for Clerimont is so great—

"Lady S. Peace; it cannot exceed mine.

"Mar. For Sir Benjamin, perhaps not, ma'am—and, I am sure, Clerimont has as sincere an affection for me.

"Lady S. Would to heaven I could say the same!

"Mar. Of Sir Benjamin:—I wish so too, ma'am. But I am sure you would be extremely hurt, if, in gaining your wishes, you were to injure me in the opinion of Clerimont.

"Lady S. Undoubtedly; I would not for the world—Simple fool! (aside.) But my wishes, my happiness depend on you—for, I doat so on the insensible, that it kills me to see him so attached to you. Give me but Clerimont, and—

"Mar. Clerimont!

"Lady S. Sir Benjamin, you know, I meant. Is he not attached to you? am I not slighted for you? Yet, do I bear any enmity to you, as my rival? I only request your friendly intercession, and you are so ungrateful, you would deny me that.

"Mar. Nay, madam, have I not done everything you wished? For you, I have departed from truth, and contaminated my mind with falsehood— what could I do more to serve you?

"Lady S. Well, forgive me, I was too warm. I know you would not betray me. I expect Sir Benjamin and his uncle this morning—why, Maria, do you always leave our little parties?

"Mar. I own, madam, I have no pleasure in their conversation. I have myself no gratification in uttering detraction, and therefore none in hearing it.

"Lady S. Oh fie, you are serious—'tis only a little harmless raillery.

"Mar. I never can think that harmless which hurts the peace of youth, draws tears from beauty, and gives many a pang to the innocent.

"Lady S. Nay, you must allow that many people of sense and wit have this foible—Sir Benjamin Backbite, for instance.

"Mar. He may, but I confess I never can perceive wit where I see malice.

"Lady S. Fie, Maria, you have the most unpolished way of thinking! It is absolutely impossible to be witty without being a little ill-natured. The malice of a good thing is the barb that makes it stick. I protest now when I say an ill-natured thing, I have not the least malice against the person; and, indeed, it may be of one whom I never saw in my life; for I hate to abuse a friend—but I take it for granted, they all speak as ill-naturedly of me.

"Mar. Then you are, very probably, conscious you deserve it—for my part, I shall only suppose myself ill-spoken of, when I am conscious I deserve it."

"Enter Servant.

"Ser. Mrs. Candor.

"Mar. Well, I'll leave you.

"Lady S. No, no, you have no reason to avoid her, she is good nature itself.

"Mar. Yes, with an artful affectation of candor, she does more injury than the worst backbiter of them all."

"Enter MRS. CANDOR.

"Mrs. Cand. So, Lady Sneerwell, how d'ye do? Maria, child, how dost? Well, who is't you are to marry at last? Sir Benjamin or Clerimont? The town talks of nothing else."

Through the remainder of this scene the only difference in the speeches of Mrs. Candor is, that they abound more than at present in ludicrous names and anecdotes, and occasionally straggle into that loose wordiness, which, knowing how much it weakens the sap of wit, the good taste of Sheridan was always sure to lop away. The same may be said of the greater part of that scene of scandal which at present occurs in the second Act, and in which all that is now spoken by Lady Teazle, was originally put into the mouths of Sir Christopher Crab and others—the caustic remarks of Sir Peter Teazle being, as well as himself, an after creation.

It is chiefly, however, in Clerimont, the embryo of Charles Surface, that we perceive how imperfect may be the first lineaments, that Time and Taste contrive to mould gradually into beauty. The following is the scene that introduces him to the audience, and no one ought to be disheartened by the failure of a first attempt after reading it. The spiritless language—the awkward introduction of the sister into the plot—the antiquated expedient [Footnote: This objection seems to have occurred to himself; for one of his memorandums is—"Not to drop the letter, but take it from the maid.] of dropping the letter—all, in short, is of the most undramatic and most unpromising description, and as little like what it afterwards turned to as the block is to the statue, or the grub to the butterfly.

"Sir C. This Clerimont is, to be sure, the drollest mortal! he is one of your moral fellows, who does unto others as he would they should do unto him.

"Lady Sneer. Yet he is sometimes entertaining.

"Sir C. Oh hang him, no—he has too much good nature to say a witty thing himself, and is too ill-natured to praise wit in others.

"Enter CLERIMONT.

"Sir B. So, Clerimont—we were just wishing for you to enliven us with your wit and agreeable vein.

"Cler. No, Sir Benjamin, I cannot join you.

"Sir B. Why, man, you look as grave as a young lover the first time he is jilted.

"Cler. I have some cause to be grave, Sir Benjamin. A word with you all. I have just received a letter from the country, in which I understand that my sister has suddenly left my uncle's house, and has not since been heard of.

"Lady S. Indeed! and on what provocation?

"Cler. It seems they were urging her a little too hastily to marry some country squire that was not to her taste.

"Sir B. Positively I love her for her spirit.

"Lady S. And so do I, and would protect her, if I knew where she was.

"Cler. Sir Benjamin, a word with you—(takes him apart.) I think, sir, we have lived for some years on what the world calls the footing of friends.

"Sir B. To my great honor, sir.—Well, my dear friend?

"Cler. You know that you once paid your addresses to my sister. My uncle disliked you; but I have reason to think you were not indifferent to her.

"Sir B. I believe you are pretty right there; but what follows?

"Cler. Then I think I have a right to expect an implicit answer from you, whether you are in any respect privy to her elopement?

"Sir B. Why, you certainly have a right to ask the question, and I will answer you as sincerely—which is, that though I make no doubt but that she would have gone with me to the world's end, I am at present entirely ignorant of the whole affair. This I declare to you upon my honor—and, what is more, I assure you my devotions are at present paid to another lady—one of your acquaintance, too.

"Cler. (Aside.) Now, who can this other be whom he alludes to?—I have sometimes thought I perceived a kind of mystery between him and Maria—but I rely on her promise, though, of late, her conduct to me has been strangely reserved.

"Lady S. Why, Clerimont, you seem quite thoughtful. Come with us; we are going to kill an hour at ombre—your mistress will join us.

"Cler. Madam, I attend you.

"Lady S. (Taking Sir B. aside.) Sir Benjamin, I see Maria is now coming to join us—do you detain her awhile, and I will contrive that Clerimont should see you, and then drop this letter.

"[Exeunt all but Sir. B.]

"Enter MARIA.

"Mar. I thought the company were here, and Clerimont—

"Sir B. One, more your slave than Clerimont, is here.

"Mar. Dear Sir Benjamin, I thought you promised me to drop this subject. If I have really any power over you, you will oblige me—

"Sir B. Power over me! What is there you could not command me in? Have you not wrought on me to proffer my love to Lady Sneerwell? Yet though you gain this from me, you will not give me the smallest token of gratitude.

"Enter CLERIMONT behind.

"Mar. How can I believe your love sincere, when you continue still to importune me?

"Sir B. I ask but for your friendship, your esteem.

"Mar. That you shall ever be entitled to—then I may depend upon your honor?

"Sir B. Eternally—dispose of my heart as you please.

"Mar. Depend upon it, I shall study nothing but its happiness. I need not repeat my caution as to Clerimont?

"Sir B. No, no, he suspects nothing as yet.

"Mar. For, within these few days, I almost believed that he suspects me.

"Sir B. Never fear, he does not love well enough to be quick sighted; for just now he taxed me with eloping with his sister.

"Mar. Well, we had now best join the company.

"[Exeunt.]

"Cler. So, now—who can ever have faith in woman! D—d deceitful wanton! why did she not fairly tell me that she was weary of my addresses? that, woman-like, her mind was changed, and another fool succeeded.

"Enter LADY SNEERWELL.

"Lady S. Clerimont, why do you leave us? Think of my losing this hand. (Cler. She has no heart)—five mate—(Cler. Deceitful wanton!) spadille.

"Cler. Oh yes, ma'am—'twas very hard.

"Lady S. But you seem disturbed; and where are Maria and Sir Benjamin? I vow I shall be jealous of Sir Benjamin.

"Cler. I dare swear they are together very happy,—but, Lady Sneerwell—you may perhaps often have perceived that I am discontented with Maria. I ask you to tell me sincerely—have you ever perceived it?

"Lady S. I wish you would excuse me.

"Cler. Nay, you have perceived it—I know you hate deceit."

* * * * *

I have said that the other sketch, in which Sir Peter and Lady Teazle are made the leading personages, was written subsequently to that of which I have just given specimens. Of this, however, I cannot produce any positive proof. There is no date on the manuscripts, nor any other certain clue, to assist in deciding the precedency of time between them. In addition to this, the two plans are entirely distinct,—Lady Sneerwell and her associates being as wholly excluded from the one, as Sir Peter and Lady Teazle are from the other; so that it is difficult to say, with certainty, which existed first, or at what time the happy thought occurred of blending all that was best in each into one.

The following are the Dramatis Personae of the second plan:—

Sir Rowland Harpur.

—— Plausible.

Capt. Harry Plausible.

Freeman.

Old Teazle. [Footnote: The first intention was, as appears from his introductory speech, to give Old Teazle the Christian name of Solomon. Sheridan was, indeed, most fastidiously changeful in his names. The present Charles Surface was at first Clerimont, then Florival, then Captain Harry Plausible, then Harry Pliant or Pliable, then Young Harrier, and then Frank—while his elder brother was successively Plausible, Pliable, Young Pliant, Tom, and, lastly, Joseph Surface. Trip was originally called Spunge; the name of Snake was in the earlier sketch Spatter, and, even after the union of the two plots into one, all the business of the opening scene with Lady Sneerwell, at present transacted by Snake, was given to a character, afterwards wholly omitted, Miss Verjuice.] (Left off trade.)

Mrs. Teazle.

Maria.

From this list of the personages we may conclude that the quarrels of Old Teazle and his wife, the attachment between Maria and one of the Plausibles, and the intrigue of Mrs. Teazle with the other, formed the sole materials of the piece, as then constructed. [Footnote: This was most probably the "two act Comedy," which he announced to Mr. Linley as preparing for representation in 1775.] There is reason too to believe, from the following memorandum, which occurs in various shapes through these manuscripts, that the device of the screen was not yet thought of, and that the discovery was to be effected in a very different manner—

"Making love to aunt and niece—meeting wrong in the dark—some one coming—locks up the aunt, thinking it to be the niece."

I shall now give a scene or two from the Second Sketch—which shows, perhaps, even more strikingly than the other, the volatilizing and condensing process which his wit must have gone through, before it attained its present proof and flavor.

"ACT I.—SCENE I

"OLD TEAZLE alone.

"In the year 44 I married my first wife; the wedding was at the end of the year—aye, 'twas in December; yet, before Ann. Dom. 45, I repented. A month before we swore we preferred each other to the whole world— perhaps we spoke truth; but, when we came to promise to love each other till death, there I am sure we lied. Well, Fortune owed me a good turn; in 48 she died. Ah, silly Solomon, in 52 I find thee married again! Here, too, is a catalogue of ills—Thomas, born February 12; Jane born Jan. 6; so they go on to the number of five. However, by death I stand credited but by one. Well, Margery, rest her soul! was a queer creature; when she was gone, I felt awkward at first, and being sensible that wishes availed nothing, I often wished for her return. For ten years more I kept my senses and lived single. Oh, blockhead, dolt Solomon! Within this twelvemonth thou art married again—married to a woman thirty years younger than thyself; a fashionable woman. Yet I took her with caution; she had been educated in the country; but now she has more extravagance than the daughter of an earl, more levity than a Countess. What a defect it is in our laws, that a man who has once been branded in the forehead should be hanged for the second offence.

"Enter JARVIS.

"Teaz. Who's there? Well, Jarvis?

"Jarv. Sir, there are a number of my mistress's tradesmen without, clamorous for their money.

"Teaz. Are those their bills in your hand?

"Jarv. Something about a twentieth part, Sir.

"Teaz. What! have you expended the hundred pounds I gave you for her use?

"Jarv. Long ago, Sir, as you may judge by some of the items:— 'Paid the coach-maker for lowering the front seat of the coach.'

"Teaz. What the deuce was the matter with the seat?

"Jarv. Oh Lord, the carriage was too low for her by a foot when she was dressed—so that it must have been so, or have had a tub at top like a hat-case on a travelling trunk. Well, Sir, (reads.) 'Paid her two footmen half a year's wages, 50l.'

"Teaz. 'Sdeath and fury! does she give her footmen a hundred a year?

"Jarv. Yes, Sir, and I think, indeed, she has rather made a good bargain, for they find their own bags and bouquets.

"Teaz. Bags and bouquets for footmen!—halters and bastinadoes! [Footnote: Transferred afterwards to Trip and Sir Oliver.]

"Jarv. 'Paid for my lady's own nosegays, 50l.'

"Teaz. Fifty pounds for flowers! enough to turn the Pantheon into a green-house, and give a Fete Champetre at Christmas.

[Footnote: We observe here a change in his plan, with respect both to the titles of Old Teazle and his wife, and the presence of the latter during this scene, which was evidently not at first intended.

From the following skeleton of the scenes of this piece it would appear that (inconsistently, in some degree, with my notion of its being the two act Comedy announced in 1775) he had an idea of extending the plot through five acts.

"Act 1st, Scene 1st, Sir Peter and Steward—2d, Sir P. and Lady—then Young Pliable.

"Act 2d, Sir P. and Lady—Young Harrier—Sir P. and Sir Rowland, and Old Jeremy—Sir R. and Daughter—Y. P. and Y. H.

"Act 3d, Sir R., Sir P. and O. J.—2d, Y. P. and Company, Y. R. O. R.— 3d, Y. H. and Maria—Y. H., O. R. and Young Harrier, to borrow.

"Act 4th, Y. P. and Maria, to borrow his money; gets away what he had received from his uncle—Y. P. Old Jer. and tradesmen.—P. and Lady T." &c. &c.]

"Lady Teaz. Lord, Sir Peter, I wonder you should grudge me the most innocent articles in dress—and then for the expense—flowers cannot be cheaper in winter—you should find fault with the climate, and not with me. I am sure I wish with all my heart, that it was Spring all the year round, and that roses grew under one's feet.

"Sir P. Nay, but, madam, then you would not wear them; but try snowballs and icicles. But tell me, madam, how can you feel any satisfaction in wearing these, when you might reflect that one of the rose-buds would have furnished a poor family with a dinner?

"Lady T. Upon my word, Sir Peter, begging your pardon, that is a very absurd way of arguing. By that rule, why do you indulge in the least superfluity? I dare swear a beggar might dine tolerably on your great-coat, or sup off your laced waistcoat—nay, I dare say, he wouldn't eat your gold-headed cane in a week. Indeed, if you would reserve nothing but necessaries, you should give the first poor man you meet your wig, and walk the streets in your night-cap, which, you know, becomes you very much.

"Sir P. Well, go on to the articles.

"Jarv. (Reading.) 'Fruit for my lady's monkey, 5l. per week.'

"Sir P. Five pounds for a monkey!—why 'tis a dessert for an alderman!

"Lady T. Why, Sir Peter, would you starve the poor animal? I dare swear he lives as reasonably as other monkeys do.

"Sir P. Well, well, go on.

"Jarv. 'China for ditto'—

"Sir P. What, does he eat out of china?

"Lady T. Repairing china that he breaks—and I am sure no monkey breaks less.

"Jarv. Paid Mr. Warren for perfumes—milk of roses, 30l.'

"Lady T. Very reasonable.

"Sir P. 'Sdeath, madam, if you had been born to these expenses I should not have been so much amazed; but I took you, madam, an honest country squire's daughter—

"Lady T. Oh, filthy; don't name it. Well, heaven forgive my mother, but I do believe my father must have been a man of quality.

"Sir P. Yes, madam, when first I saw you, you were dressed in a pretty figured linen gown, with a bunch of keys by your side; your occupations, madam, to superintend the poultry; your accomplishments, a complete knowledge of the family receipt-book—then you sat in a room hung round with fruit in worsted of your own working; your amusements were to play country-dances on an old spinnet to your father while he went asleep after a fox-chase—to read Tillotson's sermons to your aunt Deborah. These, madam, were your recreations, and these the accomplishments that captivated me. Now, forsooth, you must have two footmen to your chair, and a pair of white dogs in a phaeton; you forget when you used to ride double behind the butler on a docked bay coach- horse.... Now you must have a French hair-dresser; do you think you did not look as well when you had your hair combed smooth over a roller?.... Then you could be content to sit with me, or walk by the side of the— Ha! Ha!

"Lady T. True, I did; and, when you asked me if I could love an old fellow, who would deny me nothing, I simpered and said 'Till death.'

"Sir P. Why did you say so?

"Lady T. Shall I tell you the truth?

"Sir P. If it is not too great a favor.

"Lady T. Why, then, the truth is, I was heartily tired of all these agreeable recreations you have so well remembered, and having a spirit to spend and enjoy fortune, I was determined to marry the first fool I should meet with.... you made me a wife, for which I am much obliged to you, and if you have a wish to make me more grateful still, make me a widow." [Footnote: The speeches which I have omitted consist merely of repetitions of the same thoughts, with but very little variation of the language.]

* * * * *

"Sir P. Then, you never had a desire to please me, or add to my happiness?

"Lady T. Sincerely, I never thought about you; did you imagine that age was catching? I think you have been overpaid for all you could bestow on me. Here am I surrounded by half a hundred lovers, not one of whom but would buy a single smile by a thousand such baubles as you grudge me.

"Sir P. Then you wish me dead?

"Lady T. You know I do not, for you have made no settlement on me.

* * * * *

"Sir P. I am but middle-aged.

"Lady T. There's the misfortune; put yourself on, or back, twenty years, and either way I should like you the better.

* * * * *

Yes, sir, and then your behavior too was different; you would dress, and smile, and bow; fly to fetch me anything I wanted; praise every thing I did or said; fatigue your stiff face with an eternal grin; nay, you even committed poetry, and muffled your harsh tones into a lover's whisper to sing it yourself, so that even my mother said you were the smartest old bachelor she ever saw—a billet-doux engrossed on buckram!!!!!! [Footnote: These notes of admiration are in the original, and seem meant to express the surprise of the author at the extravagance of his own joke.]

* * * * *

Let girls take my advice and never marry an old bachelor. He must be so either because he could find nothing to love in women, or because women could find nothing to love in him."

The greater part of this dialogue is evidently experimental, and the play of repartee protracted with no other view, than to take the chance of a trump of wit or humor turning up.

In comparing the two characters in this sketch with what they are at present, it is impossible not to be struck by the signal change that they have undergone. The transformation of Sir Peter into a gentleman has refined, without weakening, the ridicule of his situation; and there is an interest created by the respectability, and amiableness of his sentiments, which, contrary to the effect produced in general by elderly gentlemen so circumstanced, makes us rejoice, at the end, that he has his young wife all to himself. The improvement in the character of Lady Teazle is still more marked and successful. Instead of an ill-bred young shrew, whose readiness to do wrong leaves the mind in but little uncertainty as to her fate, we have a lively and innocent, though imprudent country girl, transplanted into the midst of all that can bewilder and endanger her, but with still enough of the purity of rural life about her heart, to keep the blight of the world from settling upon it permanently.

There is indeed in the original draught a degree of glare and coarseness, which proves the eye of the artist to have been fresh from the study of Wycherly and Vanbrugh; and this want of delicacy is particularly observable in the subsequent scene between Lady Teazle and Surface—the chastening down of which to its present tone is not the least of those triumphs of taste and skill, which every step in the elaboration of this Comedy exhibits.

"Scene [Footnote: The Third of the fourth Act in the present form of the Comedy. This scene underwent many changes afterwards, and was oftener put back into the crucible than any other part of the play] YOUNG PLIANT'S Room.

"Young P. I wonder her ladyship is not here: she promised me to call this morning. I have a hard game to play here, to pursue my designs on Maria. I have brought myself into a scrape with the mother-in-law. However, I think we have taken care to ruin my brother's character with my uncle, should he come to-morrow. Frank has not an ill quality in his nature; yet, a neglect of forms, and of the opinion of the world, has hurt him in the estimation of all his graver friends. I have profited by his errors, and contrived to gain a character, which now serves me as a mask to lie under.

"Enter LADY TEAZLE.

"Lady T. What, musing, or thinking of me?

"Young P. I was thinking unkindly of you; do you know now that you must repay me for this delay, or I must be coaxed into good humor?

"Lady T. Nay, in faith you should pity me—this old curmudgeon of late is growing so jealous, that I dare scarce go out, till I know he is secure for some time.

"Young P. I am afraid the insinuations we have had spread about Frank have operated too strongly on him—we meant only to direct his suspicions to a wrong object.

"Lady T. Oh, hang him! I have told him plainly that if he continues to be so suspicious, I'll leave him entirely, and make him allow me a separate maintenance.

"Young P. But, my charmer, if ever that should be the case, you see before you the man who will ever be attached to you. But you must not let matters come to extremities; you can never be revenged so well by leaving him, as by living with him, and let my sincere affection make amends for his brutality.

"Lady T. But how shall I be sure now that you are sincere? I have sometimes suspected that you loved my niece. [Footnote: He had not yet decided whether to make Maria the daughter-in-law or niece of Lady Teazle.]

"Young P. Oh, hang her, a puling idiot, without sense or spirit.

"Lady T. But what proofs have I of your love to me, for I have still so much of my country prejudices left, that if I were to do a foolish thing (and I think I can't promise) it shall be for a man who would risk every thing for me alone. How shall I be sure you love me?

"Young P. I have dreamed of you every night this week past.

"Lady T. That's a sign you have slept every night for this week past; for my part, I would not give a pin for a lover who could not wake for a month in absence.

"Young P. I have written verses on you out of number.

"Lady T. I never saw any.

"Young P. No—they did not please me, and so I tore them.

"Lady T. Then it seems you wrote them only to divert yourself.

"Young P. Am I doomed for ever to suspense?

"Lady T. I don't know—if I was convinced—

"Young P. Then let me on my knees—

"Lady T. Nay, nay, I will have no raptures either. This much I can tell you, that if I am to be seduced to do wrong, I am not to be taken by storm, but by deliberate capitulation, and that only where my reason or my heart is convinced.

"Young P. Then, to say it at once—the world gives itself liberties—

"Lady T. Nay, I am sure without cause; for I am as yet unconscious of any ill, though I know not what I may be forced to.

"Young P. The fact is, my dear Lady Teazle, that your extreme innocence is the very cause of your danger; it is the integrity of your heart that makes you run into a thousand imprudences which a full consciousness of error would make you guard against. Now, in that case, you can't conceive how much more circumspect you would be.

"Lady T. Do you think so?

"Young P. Most certainly. Your character is like a person in a plethora, absolutely dying of too much health.

"Lady T. So then you would have me sin in my own defence, and part with my virtue to preserve my reputation. [Footnote: This sentence seems to have haunted him—I find it written in every direction, and without any material change in its form, over the pages of his different memorandum books.]

"_Young P. Exactly so, upon my credit, ma'am."

* * * * *

It will be observed, from all I have cited, that much of the original material is still preserved throughout; but that, like the ivory melting in the hands of Pygmalion, it has lost all its first rigidity and roughness, and, assuming at every touch some variety of aspect, seems to have gained new grace by every change.

"Mollescit ebur, positoque rigore Subsidit digitis, ceditque ut Hymettia sole Cera remollescit, tractataque pollice multas Flectitur in facies, ipsoque fit utilis usu."

Where'er his fingers move his eye can trace The once rude ivory softening into grace— Pliant as wax that, on Hymettus' hill, Melts in the sunbeam, it obeys his skill; At every touch some different aspect shows, And still, the oftener touch'd the lovelier grows.

I need not, I think, apologize for the length of the extracts I have given, as they cannot be otherwise than interesting to all lovers of literary history. To trace even the mechanism of an author's style through the erasures and alterations of his rough copy, is, in itself, no ordinary gratification of curiosity; and the brouillon of Rousseau's Heloise, in the library of the Chamber of Deputies at Paris, affords a study in which more than the mere "auceps syllabarum" might delight. But it is still more interesting to follow thus the course of a writer's thoughts—to watch the kindling of new fancies as he goes—to accompany him in his change of plans, and see the various vistas that open upon him at every step. It is, indeed, like being admitted by some magical power, to witness the mysterious processes of the natural world —to see the crystal forming by degrees round its primitive nucleus, or observe the slow ripening of

"the imperfect ore, And know it will be gold another day!"

In respect of mere style, too, the workmanship of so pure a writer of English as Sheridan is well worth the attention of all who would learn the difficult art of combining ease with polish, and being, at the same time, idiomatic and elegant. There is not a page of these manuscripts that does not bear testimony to the fastidious care with which he selected, arranged, and moulded his language, so as to form it into that transparent channel of his thoughts, which it is at present.

His chief objects in correcting were to condense and simplify—to get rid of all unnecessary phrases and epithets, and, in short, to strip away from the thyrsus of his wit every leaf that could render it less light and portable. One instance out of many will show the improving effect of these operations. [Footnote: In one or two sentences he has left a degree of stiffness in the style, not so much from inadvertence as from the sacrifice of ease to point. Thus, in the following example, he has been tempted by an antithesis into an inversion of phrase by no means idiomatic. "The plain state of the matter is this—I am an extravagant young fellow who want money to borrow; you, I take to be a prudent old fellow who have got money to lend."

In the Collection of his Works this phrase is given differently—but without authority from any of the manuscript copies.] The following is the original form of a speech of Sir Peter's:—

"People who utter a tale of scandal, knowing it to be forged, deserve the pillory more than for a forged bank-note. They can't pass the lie without putting their names on the back of it. You say no person has a right to come on you because you didn't invent it; but you should know that, if the drawer of the lie is out of the way, the injured party has a right to come on any of the indorsers."

When this is compared with the form in which the same thought is put at present, it will be perceived how much the wit has gained in lightness and effect by the change:—

"Mrs. Candor. But sure you would not be quite so severe on those who only report what they hear?

"Sir P. Yes, madam, I would have Law-merchant for them too, and in all cases of slander currency, [Footnote: There is another simile among his memorandums of the same mercantile kind:—"A sort of broker in scandal, who transfers lies without fees."] whenever the drawer of the lie was not to be found, the injured party should have a right to come on any of the indorsers."

Another great source of the felicities of his style, and to which he attended most anxiously in revision, was the choice of epithets; in which he has the happy art of making these accessary words not only minister to the clearness of his meaning, but bring out new effects in his wit by the collateral lights which they strike upon it—and even where the principal idea has but little significance, he contrives to enliven it into point by the quaintness or contrast of his epithets.

Among the many rejected scraps of dialogue that lie about, like the chippings of a Phidias, in this workshop of wit, there are some precious enough to be preserved, at least, as relics. For instance,—"She is one of those, who convey a libel in a frown, and wink a reputation down." The following touch of costume, too, in Sir Peter's description of the rustic dress of Lady Teazle before he married her:—"You forget when a little wire and gauze, with a few beads, made you a fly-cap not much bigger than a blue-bottle."

The specimen which Sir Benjamin Backbite gives of his poetical talents was taken, it will be seen, from the following verses, which I find in Mr. Sheridan's hand-writing—one of those trifles, perhaps, with which he and his friend Tickell were in the constant habit of amusing themselves, and written apparently with the intention of ridiculing some woman of fashion:—

"Then behind, all my hair is done up in a plat, And so, like a cornet's, tuck'd under my hat. Then I mount on my palfrey as gay as a lark, And, follow'd by John, take the dust in High Park. [Footnote: This phrase is made use of in the dialogue:—"As Lady Betty Curricle was taking the dust in Hyde Park."]

In the way I am met by some smart macaroni, Who rides by my side on a little bay poney— No sturdy Hibernian, with shoulders so wide, But as taper and slim as the ponies they ride; Their legs are as slim, and their shoulders no wider, Dear sweet little creatures, both poney and rider!

But sometimes, when hotter, I order my chaise, And manage, myself, my two little grays. Sure never were seen two such sweet little ponies, Other horses are clowns, and these macaronies, And to give them this title, I'm sure isn't wrong, Their legs are so slim, and their tails are so long.

In Kensington Gardens to stroll up and down, You know was the fashion before you left town,— The thing's well enough, when allowance is made For the size of the trees and the depth of the shade, But the spread of their leaves such a shelter affords To those noisy, impertinent creatures called birds, Whose ridiculous chirruping ruins the scene, Brings the country before me, and gives me the spleen.

Yet, tho' 'tis too rural—to come near the mark, We all herd in one walk, and that, nearest the Park, There with ease we may see, as we pass by the wicket, The chimneys of Knightsbridge and—footmen at cricket. I must tho', in justice, declare that the grass, Which, worn by our feet, is diminished apace, In a little time more will be brown and as flat As the sand at Vauxhall or as Ranelagh mat. Improving thus fast, perhaps, by degrees, We may see rolls and butter spread under the trees, With a small pretty band in each seat of the walk, To play little tunes and enliven our talk."

Though Mr. Sheridan appears to have made more easy progress, after he had incorporated his two first plots into one, yet, even in the details of the new plan, considerable alterations were subsequently made—whole scenes suppressed or transposed, and the dialogue of some entirely re- written. In the third Act, for instance, as it originally stood, there was a long scene, in which Rowley, by a minute examination of Snake, drew from him, in the presence of Sir Oliver and Sir Peter, a full confession of his designs against the reputation of Lady Teazle. Nothing could be more ill-placed and heavy; it was accordingly cancelled, and the confession of Snake postponed to its natural situation, the conclusion. The scene, too, where Sir Oliver, as Old Stanley, comes to ask pecuniary aid of Joseph, was at first wholly different from what it is at present; and in some parts approached much nearer to the confines of caricature than the watchful taste of Mr. Sheridan would permit. For example, Joseph is represented in it as giving the old suitor only half- a-guinea, which the latter indignantly returns, and leaves him; upon which Joseph, looking at the half-guinea, exclaims, "Well, let him starve—this will do for the opera."

It was the fate of Mr. Sheridan, through life,—and, in a great degree, perhaps, his policy,—to gain credit for excessive indolence and carelessness, while few persons, with so much natural brilliancy of talents, ever employed more art and circumspection in their display. This was the case, remarkably, in the instance before us. Notwithstanding the labor which he bestowed upon this comedy, (or we should rather, perhaps, say in consequence of that labor,) the first representation of the piece was announced before the whole of the copy was in the hands of the actors. The manuscript, indeed, of the five last scenes bears evident marks of this haste in finishing,—there being but one rough draught of them scribbled upon detached pieces of paper; while, of all the preceding acts, there are numerous transcripts, scattered promiscuously through six or seven books, with new interlineations and memorandums to each. On the last leaf of all, which exists just as we may suppose it to have been despatched by him to the copyist, there is the following curious specimen of doxology, written hastily, in the hand-writing of the respective parties, at the bottom:—

"Finished at last. Thank God!

"R. B. SHERIDAN.

"Amen!

"W. HOPKINS." [Footnote: The Prompter,]

The cast of the play, on the first night of representation (May 8, 1777), was as follows:—

Sir Peter Teazle Mr. King. Sir Oliver Surface Mr. Yates. Joseph Surface Mr. Palmer. Charles Mr. Smith. Crabtree Mr. Parsons. Sir Benjamin Backbite Mr. Dodd. Rowley Mr. Aickin. Moses Mr. Baddeley. Trip Mr. Lamash. Snake Mr. Packer. Careless Mr. Farren. Sir Harry Bumper Mr. Gawdry. Lady Teazle Mrs. Abington. Maria Miss P. Hopkins Lady Sneerwell Miss Sherry. Mrs. Candor Miss Pope.

The success of such a play, so acted, could not be doubtful. Long after its first uninterrupted run, it continued to be played regularly two or three times a week; and a comparison of the receipts of the first twelve nights, with those of a later period, will show how little the attraction of the piece had abated by repetition:—

May 8th, 1777. L s. d. School for Scandal 225 9 0 Ditto 195 6 0 Ditto A. B. (Author's night) 73 10 0 (Expenses) Ditto 257 4 6 Ditto 243 0 0 Ditto A. B. 73 10 0 Committee 65 6 6 School for Scandal 262 19 6 Ditto 263 13 6 Ditto A. B 73 10 0 Ditto K. (the King) 272 9 6 Ditto 247 15 0 Ditto 255 14 0

The following extracts are taken at hazard from an account of the weekly receipts of the Theatre, for the year 1778, kept with exemplary neatness and care by Mrs. Sheridan herself: [Footnote: It appears from a letter of Holcroft to Mrs. Sheridan, (given in his Memoirs, vol. i. p. 275,) that she was also in the habit of reading for Sheridan the new pieces sent in by dramatic candidates:—"Mrs. Crewe (he says) has spoken to Mr. Sheridan concerning it (the Shepherdess of the Alps), as he informed me last night, desiring me at the same time to send it to you, who, he said, would not only read it yourself, but remind him of it."]

1778. L s. d. January 3d. Twelfth Night Queen Mab 139 14 6 5th. Macbeth Queen Mab 212 19 0 6th. Tempest Queen Mab 107 15 6 7th. School for Scandal Comus 292 16 0 8th. School for Fathers Queen Mab 181 10 6 9th. School for Scandal Padlock 281 6 0

March 14th. School for Scandal Deserter 263 18 6 16th. Venice Preserved Belphegor (New) 195 3 6 17th. Hamlet Belphegor 160 19 0 19th. School for Scandal Belphegor 261 10 0

Such, indeed, was the predominant attraction of this comedy during the two years subsequent to its first appearance, that, in the official account of receipts for 1779, we find the following remark subjoined by the Treasurer:—"School for Scandal damped the new pieces." I have traced it by the same unequivocal marks of success through the years 1780 and 1781, and find the nights of its representation always rivalling those on which the King went to the theatre, in the magnitude of their receipts.

The following note from Garrick [Footnote: Murphy tells us that Mr. Garrick attended the rehearsals, and "was never known on any former occasion to be more anxious for a favorite piece. He was proud of the new manager; and in a triumphant manner boasted of the genius to whom he had consigned the conduct of the theatre."—Life of Garrick.] to the author, dated May 12 (four days after the first appearance of the comedy), will be read with interest by all those for whom the great names of the drama have any charm:—

"MR. GARRICK'S best wishes and compliments to Mr. Sheridan.

"How is the Saint to-day? A gentleman who is as mad as myself about ye School remark'd, that the characters upon the stage at ye falling of the screen stand too long before they speak;—I thought so too ye first night:—he said it was the same on ye 2nd, and was remark'd by others;— tho' they should be astonish'd, and a little petrify'd, yet it may be carry'd to too great a length.—All praise at Lord Lucan's last night."

The beauties of this Comedy are so universally known and felt, that criticism may be spared the trouble of dwelling upon them very minutely. With but little interest in the plot, with no very profound or ingenious development of character, and with a group of personages, not one of whom has any legitimate claims upon either our affection or esteem, it yet, by the admirable skill with which its materials are managed,—the happy contrivance of the situations, at once both natural and striking, —the fine feeling of the ridiculous that smiles throughout, and that perpetual play of wit which never tires, but seems, like running water, to be kept fresh by its own flow,—by all this general animation and effect, combined with a finish of the details almost faultless, it unites the suffrages, at once, of the refined and the simple, and is not less successful in ministering to the natural enjoyment of the latter, than in satisfying and delighting the most fastidious tastes among the former. And this is the true triumph of genius in all the arts,—whether in painting, sculpture, music, or literature, those works which have pleased the greatest number of people of all classes, for the longest space of time, may without hesitation be pronounced the best; and, however mediocrity may enshrine itself in the admiration of the select few, the palm of excellence can only be awarded by the many.

The defects of The School for Scandal, if they can be allowed to amount to defects, are, in a great measure, traceable to that amalgamation of two distinct plots, out of which, as I have already shown, the piece was formed. From this cause,—like an accumulation of wealth from the union of two rich families,—has devolved that excessive opulence of wit, with which, as some critics think, the dialogue is overloaded; and which Mr. Sheridan himself used often to mention, as a fault of which he was conscious in his work. That he had no such scruple, however, in writing it, appears evident from the pains which he took to string upon his new plot every bright thought and fancy which he had brought together for the two others; and it is not a little curious, in turning over his manuscript, to see how the outstanding jokes are kept in recollection upon the margin, till he can find some opportunity of funding them to advantage in the text. The consequence of all this is, that the dialogue, from beginning to end, is a continued sparkling of polish and point: and the whole of the Dramatis Personae might be comprised under one common designation of Wits. Even Trip, the servant, is as pointed and shining as the rest, and has his master's wit, as he has his birth- day clothes, "with the gloss on." [Footnote: This is one of the phrases that seem to have perplexed the taste of Sheridan,—and upon so minute a point, as, whether it should be "with the gloss on," or, "with the gloss on them." After various trials of it in both ways, he decided, as might be expected from his love of idiom, for the former.] The only personage among them that shows any "temperance in jesting," is old Rowley; and he, too, in the original, had his share in the general largess of bon-mots,—one of the liveliest in the piece [Footnote: The answer to the remark, that "charity begins at home,"—"and his, I presume, is of that domestic sort which never stirs abroad at all."] being at first given to him, though afterwards transferred, with somewhat more fitness, to Sir Oliver. In short, the entire Comedy is a sort of El-Dorado of wit, where the precious metal is thrown about by all classes, as carelessly as if they had not the least idea of its value.

Another blemish that hypercriticism has noticed, and which may likewise be traced to the original conformation of the play, is the uselessness of some of the characters to the action or business of it—almost the whole of the "Scandalous College" being but, as it were, excrescences, through which none of the life-blood of the plot circulates. The cause of this is evident:—Sir Benjamin Backbite, in the first plot to which he belonged, was a principal personage; but, being transplanted from thence into one with which he has no connection, not only he, but his uncle Crabtree, and Mrs. Candor, though contributing abundantly to the animation of the dialogue, have hardly anything to do with the advancement of the story; and, like the accessories in a Greek drama, are but as a sort of Chorus of Scandal throughout. That this defect, or rather peculiarity, should have been observed at first, when criticism was freshly on the watch for food, is easily conceivable; and I have been told by a friend, who was in the pit on the first night of performance, that a person, who sat near him, said impatiently, during the famous scene at Lady Sneerwell's, in the Second Act,—"I wish these people would have done talking, and let the play begin."

It has often been remarked as singular, that the lovers, Charles and Maria, should never be brought in presence of each other till the last scene; and Mr. Sheridan used to say, that he was aware, in writing the Comedy, of the apparent want of dramatic management which such an omission would betray; but that neither of the actors, for whom he had destined those characters, was such as he could safely trust with a love scene. There might, perhaps, too, have been, in addition to this motive, a little consciousness, on his own part, of not being exactly in his element in that tender style of writing, which such a scene, to make it worthy of the rest, would have required; and of which the specimens left us in the serious parts of The Rivals are certainly not among his most felicitous efforts.

By some critics the incident of the screen has been censured, as a contrivance unworthy of the dignity of comedy. [Footnote: "In the old comedy, the catastrophe is occasioned, in general, by a change in the mind of some principal character, artfully prepared and cautiously conducted;—in the modern, the unfolding of the plot is effected by the overturning of a screen, the opening of a door, or some other equally dignified machine."—GIFFORD, Essay on the Writings of Massinger.] But in real life, of which comedy must condescend to be the copy, events of far greater importance are brought about by accidents as trivial; and in a world like ours, where the falling of an apple has led to the discovery of the laws of gravitation, it is surely too fastidious to deny to the dramatist the discovery of an intrigue by the falling of a screen. There is another objection as to the manner of employing this machine, which, though less grave, is perhaps less easily answered. Joseph, at the commencement of the scene, desires his servant to draw the screen before the window, because "his opposite neighbor is a maiden lady of so anxious a temper;" yet, afterwards, by placing Lady Teazle between the screen and the window, he enables this inquisitive lady to indulge her curiosity at leisure. It might be said, indeed, that Joseph, with the alternative of exposure to either the husband or neighbor, chooses the lesser evil;—but the oversight hardly requires a defence.

From the trifling nature of these objections to the dramatic merits of the School for Scandal, it will be seen, that, like the criticism of Momus on the creaking of Venus's shoes, they only show how perfect must be the work in which no greater faults can be found. But a more serious charge has been brought against it on the score of morality, and the gay charm thrown around the irregularities of Charles is pronounced to be dangerous to the interests of honesty and virtue. There is no doubt that in this character only the fairer side of libertinism is presented,— that the merits of being in debt are rather too fondly insisted upon, and with a grace and spirit that might seduce even creditors into admiration. It was, indeed, playfully said, that no tradesman who applauded Charles could possibly have the face to dun the author afterwards. In looking, however, to the race of rakes that had previously held possession of the stage, we cannot help considering our release from the contagion of so much coarseness and selfishness to be worth even the increased risk of seduction that may have succeeded to it; and the remark of Burke, however questionable in strict ethics, is, at least, true on the stage,—that "vice loses half its evil by losing all its grossness."

It should be recollected, too, that, in other respects, the author applies the lash of moral satire very successfully. That group of slanderers who, like the Chorus of the Eumenides, go searching about for their prey with "eyes that drop poison," represent a class of persons in society who richly deserve such ridicule, and who—like their prototypes in Aeschylus trembling before the shafts of Apollo—are here made to feel the full force of the archery of wit. It is indeed a proof of the effect and use of such satire, that the name of "Mrs. Candor" has become one of those formidable bye-words, which have more power in putting folly and ill-nature out of countenance, than whole volumes of the wisest remonstrance and reasoning.

The poetical justice exercised upon the Tartuffe of sentiment, Joseph, is another service to the cause of morals, which should more than atone for any dangerous embellishment of wrong that the portraiture of the younger brother may exhibit. Indeed, though both these characters are such as the moralist must visit with his censure, there can be little doubt to which we should, in real life, give the preference;—the levities and errors of the one, arising from warmth of heart and of youth, may be merely like those mists that exhale from summer streams, obscuring them awhile to the eye, without affecting the native purity of their waters; while the hypocrisy of the other is like the mirage of the desert, shining with promise on the surface, but all false and barren beneath.

In a late work, professing to be the Memoirs of Mr. Sheridan, there are some wise doubts expressed as to his being really the author of the School for Scandal, to which, except for the purpose of exposing absurdity, I should not have thought it worth while to allude. It is an old trick of Detraction,—and one, of which it never tires,—to father the works of eminent writers upon others; or, at least, while it kindly leaves an author the credit of his worst performances, to find some one in the background to ease him of the fame of his best. When this sort of charge is brought against a cotemporary, the motive is intelligible; but, such an abstract pleasure have some persons in merely unsettling the crowns of Fame, that a worthy German has written an elaborate book to prove, that the Iliad was written, not by that particular Homer the world supposes, but by some other Homer! Indeed, if mankind were to be influenced by those Qui tam critics, who have, from time to time, in the course of the history of literature, exhibited informations of plagiarism against great authors, the property of fame would pass from its present holders into the hands of persons with whom the world is but little acquainted. Aristotle must refund to one Ocellus Lucanus —Virgil must make a cessio bonorum in favor of Pisander—the Metamorphoses of Ovid must be credited to the account of Parthenius of Nicaea, and (to come to a modern instance) Mr. Sheridan must, according to his biographer, Dr. Watkins, surrender the glory of having written the School for Scandal to a certain anonymous young lady, who died of a consumption in Thames Street!

To pass, however, to less hardy assailants of the originality of this comedy,—it is said that the characters of Joseph and Charles were suggested by those of Blifil and Tom Jones; that the incident of the arrival of Sir Oliver from India is copied from that of the return of Warner in Sidney Biddulph; and that the hint of the famous scandal scene at Lady Sneerwell's is borrowed from a comedy of Moliere.

Mr. Sheridan, it is true, like all men of genius, had, in addition to the resources of his own wit, a quick apprehension of what suited his purpose in the wit of others, and a power of enriching whatever he adopted from them with such new grace, as gave him a sort of claim of paternity over it, and made it all his own. "C'est mon bien," said Moliere, when accused of borrowing, "et je le reprens partout ou je le trouve;" and next, indeed, to creation, the re-production, in a new and more perfect form, of materials already existing, or the full development of thoughts that had but half blown in the hands of others, are the noblest miracles for which we look to the hand of genius. It is not my intention therefore to defend Mr. Sheridan from this kind of plagiarism, of which he was guilty in common with the rest of his fellow-descendants from Prometheus, who all steal the spark wherever they can find it. But the instances, just alleged, of his obligations to others, are too questionable and trivial to be taken into any serious account. Contrasts of character, such as Charles and Joseph exhibit, are as common as the lights and shadows of a landscape, and belong neither to Fielding nor Sheridan, but to nature. It is in the manner of transferring them to the canvas that the whole difference between the master and the copyist lies; and Charles and Joseph would, no doubt, have been what they are, if Tom Jones had never existed. With respect to the hint supposed to be taken from the novel of his mother, he at least had a right to consider any aid from that quarter as "son bien"—talent being the only patrimony to which he had succeeded. But the use made of the return of a relation in the play is wholly different from that to which the same incident is applied in the novel. Besides, in those golden times of Indian delinquency, the arrival of a wealthy relative from the East was no very unobvious ingredient in a story.

The imitation of Moliere (if, as I take for granted, the Misanthrope be the play, in which the origin of the famous scandal scene is said to be found) is equally faint and remote, and, except in the common point of scandal, untraceable. Nothing, indeed, can be more unlike than the manner in which the two scenes are managed. Celimene, in Moliere, bears the whole frais of the conversation; and this female La Bruyere's tedious and solitary dissections of character would be as little borne on the English stage, as the quick and dazzling movement of so many lancets of wit as operate in the School for Scandal would be tolerated on that of the French.

It is frequently said that Mr. Sheridan was a good deal indebted to Wycherley; and he himself gave, in some degree, a color to the charge, by the suspicious impatience which he betrayed whenever any allusion was made to it. He went so far, indeed, it is said, as to deny having ever read a line of Wycherley (though of Vanbrugh's dialogue he always spoke with the warmest admiration);—and this assertion, as well as some others equally remarkable, such as, that he never saw Garrick on the stage, that he never had seen a play throughout in his life, however strange and startling they may appear, are, at least, too curious and characteristic not to be put upon record. His acquaintance with Wycherley was possibly but at second-hand, and confined, perhaps, to Garrick's alteration of the Country Wife, in which the incident, already mentioned as having been borrowed for the Duenna, is preserved. There is, however, a scene in the Plain Dealer (Act II.), where Nevil and Olivia attack the characters of the persons with whom Nevil had dined, of which it is difficult to believe that Mr. Sheridan was ignorant: as it seems to contain much of that Hyle, or First Matter, out of which his own more perfect creations were formed.

In Congreve's Double Dealer, too, (Act III. Scene 10) there is much which may, at least, have mixed itself with the recollections of Sheridan, and influenced the course of his fancy—it being often found that the images with which the memory is furnished, like those pictures hung up before the eyes of pregnant women at Sparta, produce insensibly a likeness to themselves in the offspring which the imagination brings forth. The admirable drollery in Congreve about Lady Froth's verses on her coachman—

"For as the sun shines every day, So of our coachman I may say"—

is by no means unlikely to have suggested the doggerel of Sir Benjamin Backbite; and the scandalous conversation in this scene, though far inferior in delicacy and ingenuity to that of Sheridan, has somewhat, as the reader will see, of a parental resemblance to it:—

"Lord Froth. Hee, hee, my dear; have you done? Won't you join with us? We were laughing at my lady Whifler and Mr. Sneer.

"Lady F. Ay, my dear, were you? Oh, filthy Mr. Sneer! he is a nauseous figure, a most fulsamick fop. He spent two days together in going about Covent Garden to suit the lining of his coach with his complexion.

"Ld. F. Oh, silly! yet his aunt is as fond of him, as if she had brought the ape into the world herself.

"Brisk. Who? my Lady Toothless? Oh, she is a mortifying spectacle; she's always chewing the cud like an old ewe,

"Ld. F. Then she's always ready to laugh, when Sneer offers to speak; and sits in expectation of his no jest, with her gums bare, and her mouth open—

"Brisk. Like an oyster at low ebb, egad—ha, ha, ha!

"Cynthia. (Aside.) Well, I find there are no fools so inconsiderable themselves, but they can render other people contemptible by exposing their infirmities.

"Lady F. Then that t'other great strapping Lady—I can't hit off her name: the old fat fool, that paints so exorbitantly.

"Brisk. I know whom you mean—but, deuce take her, I can't hit off her name either—paints, d'ye say? Why she lays it on with a trowel. Then she has a great beard that bristles through it, and makes her look as if she was plastered with lime and hair, let me perish."

It would be a task not uninteresting, to enter into a detailed comparison of the characteristics and merits of Mr. Sheridan, as a dramatic writer, with those of the other great masters of the art; and to consider how far they differed or agreed with each other, in the structure of their plots and management of their dialogue—in the mode of laying the train of their repartee, or pointing the artillery of their wit. But I have already devoted to this part of my subject a much ampler space, than to some of my readers will appear either necessary or agreeable;—though by others, more interested in such topics, my diffuseness will, I trust, be readily pardoned. In tracking Mr. Sheridan through his too distinct careers of literature and of politics, it is on the highest point of his elevation in each that the eye naturally rests; and the School for Scandal in one, and the Begum speeches in the other, are the two grand heights—the "summa biverticis umbra Parnassi" —from which he will stand out to after times, and round which, therefore, his biographer may be excused for lingering with most fondness and delay.

It appears singular that, during the life of Mr. Sheridan, no authorized or correct edition of this play should have been published in England. He had, at one time, disposed of the copy right to Mr. Ridgway of Piccadilly, but, after repeated applications from the latter for the manuscript, he was told by Mr. Sheridan, as an excuse for keeping it back, that he had been nineteen years endeavoring to satisfy himself with the style of the School for Scandal, but had not yet succeeded. Mr. Ridgway, upon this, ceased to give him any further trouble on the subject.

The edition printed in Dublin is, with the exception of a few unimportant omissions and verbal differences, perfectly correct. It appears that, after the success of the comedy in London, he presented a copy of it to his eldest sister, Mrs. Lefanu, to be disposed of, for her own advantage, to the manager of the Dublin Theatre. The sum of a hundred guineas, and free admissions for her family, were the terms upon which Ryder, the manager at that period, purchased from this lady the right of acting the play; and it was from the copy thus procured that the edition afterwards published in Dublin was printed. I have collated this edition with the copy given by Mr. Sheridan to Lady Crewe (the last, I believe, ever revised by himself), [Footnote: Among the corrections in this copy (which are in his own hand-writing, and but few in number), there is one which shows not only the retentiveness of his memory, but the minute attention which he paid to the structure of his sentences. Lady Teazle, in her scene with Sir Peter in the Second Act, says: "That's very true, indeed, Sir Peter: and, after having married you, I should never pretend to taste again, I allow." It was thus that the passage stood at first in Lady Crewe's copy,—as it does still, too, in the Dublin edition, and in that given in the Collection of his Works,—but in his final revision of this copy, the original reading of the sentence, such as I find it in all his earlier manuscripts of the play, is restored.—"That's very true, indeed, Sir Peter; and, after having married you, I am sure I should never pretend to taste again."] and find it, with the few exceptions already mentioned, correct throughout.

The School for Scandal has been translated into most of the languages of Europe, and, among the French particularly, has undergone a variety of metamorphoses. A translation, undertaken, it appears, with the permission of Sheridan himself, was published in London, in the year 1789, by a Monsieur Bunell Delille, who, in a dedication to "Milord Macdonald," gives the following account of the origin of his task: "Vous savez, Milord, de quelle maniere mysterieuse cette piece, qui n'a jamais ete imprime que furtivement, se trouva l'ete dernier sur ma table, en manuscrit, in-folio; et, si vous daignez vous le rappeler, apres vous avoir fait part de l'aventure, je courus chez Monsieur Sheridan pour lui demander la permission," &c. &c.

The scenes of the Auction and the Screen were introduced, for the first time, I believe, on the French stage, in a little piece called, "Les Deux Neveux," acted in the year 1788, by the young comedians of the Comte de Beaujolais. Since then, the story has been reproduced under various shapes and names:—"Les Portraits de Famille," "Valsain et Florville," and, at the Theatre Francais, under the title of the "Tartuffe de Moeurs." Lately, too, the taste for the subject has revived. The Vaudeville has founded upon it a successful piece, called "Les Deux Cousins;" and there is even a melodrame at the Porte St. Martin, entitled "L'Ecole du Scandale."



CHAPTER VI.

FURTHER PURCHASE OF THEATRICAL PROPERTY.—MONODY TO THE MEMORY OF GARRICK.—ESSAY ON METRE.-THE CRITIC.—ESSAY ON ABSENTEES.—POLITICAL CONNECTIONS.—THE "ENGLISHMAN."—ELECTED FOR STAFFORD.

The document in Mr. Sheridan's handwriting, already mentioned, from which I have stated the sums paid in 1776 by him, Dr. Ford, and Mr. Linley, for Garrick's moiety of the Drury Lane Theatre, thus mentions the new purchase, by which he extended his interest in this property in the year 1778:—"Mr. Sheridan afterwards was obliged to buy Mr. Lacy's moiety at a price exceeding 45,000l.: this was in the year 1778." He then adds—what it may be as well to cite, while I have the paper before me, though relating to subsequent changes in the property:—"In order to enable Mr. S. to complete this purpose, he afterwards consented to divide his original share between Dr. Ford and Mr. Linley, so as to make up each of theirs a quarter. But the price at which they purchased from Mr. Sheridan was not at the rate which he bought from Lacy, though at an advance on the price paid to Garrick. Mr. S. has since purchased Dr. Ford's quarter for the sum of 17,000l., subject to the increased incumbrance of the additional renters."

By what spell all these thousands were conjured up, it would be difficult accurately to ascertain. That happy art—in which the people of this country are such adepts—of putting the future in pawn for the supply of the present, must have been the chief resource of Mr. Sheridan in all these later purchases.

Among the visible signs of his increased influence in the affairs of the theatre, was the appointment, this year, of his father to be manager;—a reconciliation having taken place between them, which was facilitated, no doubt, by the brightening prospects of the son, and by the generous confidence which his prosperity gave him in making the first advances towards such a reunion.

One of the novelties of the year was a musical entertainment called The Camp, which was falsely attributed to Mr. Sheridan at the time, and has since been inconsiderately admitted into the Collection of his Works. This unworthy trifle (as appears from a rough copy of it in my possession) was the production of Tickell, and the patience with which his friend submitted to the imputation of having written it was a sort of "martyrdom of fame" which few but himself could afford.

At the beginning of the year 1779 Garrick died, and Sheridan, as chief mourner, followed him to the grave. He also wrote a Monody to his memory, which was delivered by Mrs. Yates, after the play of the West Indian, in the month of March following. During the interment of Garrick in Poet's Corner, Mr. Burke had remarked that the statue of Shakspeare seemed to point to the grave where the great actor of his works was laid. This hint did not fall idly on the ear of Sheridan, as the following fixation of the thought, in the verses which he afterwards wrote, proved:—

"The throng that mourn'd, as their dead favorite pass'd, The grac'd respect that claim'd him to the last; While Shakspeare's image, from its hallow'd base, Seem'd to prescribe the grave and point the place."

This Monody, which was the longest flight ever sustained by its author in verse, is more remarkable, perhaps, for refinement and elegance, than for either novelty of thought or depth of sentiment. There is, however, a fine burst of poetical eloquence in the lines beginning "Superior hopes the poet's bosom fire;" and this passage, accordingly, as being the best in the poem, was, by the gossiping critics of the day, attributed to Tickell,—from the same laudable motives that had induced them to attribute Tickell's bad farce to Sheridan. There is no end to the variety of these small missiles of malice, with which the Gullivers of the world of literature are assailed by the Lilliputians around them.

The chief thought which pervades this poem,—namely, the fleeting nature of the actor's art and fame,—had already been more simply expressed by Garrick himself in his Prologue to The Clandestine Marriage:—

"The painter's dead, yet still he charms the eye; While England lives, his fame can never die; But he who struts his hour upon the stage, Can scarce protract his fame through half an age; Nor pen nor pencil can the actor save; The art and artist have one common grave."

Colley Cibber, too, in his portrait (if I remember right) of Betterton, breaks off into the same reflection, in the following graceful passage, which is one of those instances, where prose could not be exchanged for poetry without loss:—"Pity it is that the momentary beauties, flowing from an harmonious elocution, cannot, like those of poetry, be their own record; that the animated graces of the player can live no longer than the instant breath and motion that presents them, or, at best, can but faintly glimmer through the memory of a few surviving spectators."

With respect to the style and versification of the Monody, the heroic couplet in which it is written has long been a sort of Ulysses' bow, at which Poetry tries her suitors, and at which they almost all fail. Redundancy of epithet and monotony of cadence are the inseparable companions of this metre in ordinary hands; nor could all the taste and skill of Sheridan keep it wholly free from these defects in his own. To the subject of metre, he had, nevertheless, paid great attention. There are among his papers some fragments of an Essay [Footnote: Or rather memorandums collected, as was his custom, with a view to the composition of such an Essay. He had been reading the writings of Dr. Foster, Webb, &c. on this subject, with the intention, apparently, of publishing an answer to them. The following (which is one of the few consecutive passages I can find in these notes) will show how little reverence he entertained for that ancient prosody, upon which, in the system of English education, so large and precious a portion of human life is wasted:—"I never desire a stronger proof that an author is on a wrong scent on these subjects, than to see Quintilian, Aristotle, &c., quoted on a point where they have not the least business. All poetry is made by the ear, which must be the sole judge—it is a sort of musical rhythmus. If then we want to reduce our practical harmony to rules, every man, with a knowledge of his own language and a good ear, is at once competent to the undertaking. Let him trace it to music—if he has no knowledge, let him inquire.

"We have lost all notion of the ancient accent;—we have lost their pronunciation;—all puzzling about it is ridiculous, and trying to find out the melody of our own verse by theirs is still worse. We should have had all our own metres, if we never had heard a word of their language, —this I affirm. Every nation finds out for itself a national melody; and we may say of it, as of religion, no place has been discovered without music. A people, likewise, as their language improves, will introduce a music into their poetry, which is simply (that is to say, the numerical part of poetry, which must be distinguished from the imaginary) the transferring the time of melody into speaking. What then have the Greeks or Romans to do with our music? It is plain that our admiration of their verse is mere pedantry, because we could not adopt it. Sir Philip Sidney failed. If it had been melody, we should have had it; our language is just as well calculated for it.

"It is astonishing that the excessive ridiculousness of a Gradus or Prosodial Dictionary has never struck our scholars. The idea of looking into a book to see whether the sound of a syllable be short or long is absolutely as much a bull of Boeotian pedantry as ever disgraced Ireland." He then adds, with reference to some mistakes which Dr. Foster had appeared to him to have committed in his accentuation of English words:—"What strange effects has this system brought about! It has so corrupted the ear, that absolutely our scholars cannot tell an English long syllable from a short one. If a boy were to make the a in 'cano' or 'amo' long, Dr. F. would no doubt feel his ear hurt, and yet...."

Of the style in which some of his observations are committed to paper, the following is a curious specimen:—"Dr. Foster says that short syllables, when inflated with that emphasis which the sense demands, swell in height, length, and breadth beyond their natural size.—The devil they do! Here is a most omnipotent power in emphasis. Quantity and accent may in vain toil to produce a little effect, but emphasis comes at once and monopolizes the power of them both."]

which he had commenced on the nature of poetical accent and emphasis; and the adaptation of his verses to the airs in the Duenna—even allowing for the aid which he received from Mrs. Sheridan—shows a degree of musical feeling, from which a much greater variety of cadence might be expected, than we find throughout the versification of this poem. The taste of the time, however, was not prepared for any great variations in the music of the couplet. The regular foot-fall, established so long, had yet been but little disturbed; and the only license of this kind hazarded through the poem—"All perishable"—was objected to by some of the author's critical friends, who suggested, that it would be better thus: "All doom'd to perish."