Mar. That's not necessary towards directing us where we are to go.

Tony. No offence; but question for question is all fair, you know. Pray, gentlemen, is not this same Hardcastle a cross-grained, old-fashioned, whimsical fellow, with an ugly face, a daughter, and a pretty son? Hast. We have not seen the gentleman; but he has the family you mention.

Tony. The daughter, a tall, trapesing, trolloping, talkative may-pole; the son, a pretty, well-bred, agreeable youth, that everybody is fond of.

Mar. Our information differs in this: the daughter 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.

Hast. Unfortunate!

Tony. It's a long, dark, boggy, dangerous way. Stingo, tell the gentlemen the way to Mr Hardcastle's [winking at the Landlord]—Mr Hardcastle's of Quag

mire-marsh. You understand me?

When

Land. Master Hardcastle's? Lack-a-daisy! my masters, you're come a deadly deal wrong. you came to the bottom of the hill, you should have crossed down Squash-lane.

Mar. Cross down Squash-lane?

Land. Then you were to keep straight forward till you came to four roads.

Mar. Come to where four roads meet?

Tony. Ay; but you must be sure to take only one. Mar. O sir! you're facetious.

Tony. Then, keeping to the right, you are to go sideways till you come upon Crack-skull 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 the right, and then to the left, and then to the right about again, till you find out the old mill

Mar. Zounds! man, we could as soon find out the longitude!

Hast. What's to be done, Marlow?

Mar. This house promises but a poor reception; though perhaps the landlord can accommodate us. Land. Alack, master! we have but one spare bed in the whole house.

Tony. And to my 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 would accommodate the gentlemen by the fireside with three chairs and a bolster ?

Hast. I hate sleeping by the fireside.

Mar. And I detest your three chairs and a bolster. 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.

Hast. O ho! so we have escaped an adventure for this night, however.

Land. [Apart to Tony.] Sure you bean't sending 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 forward till you come to a large house on the roadside: you'll see a pair of large horns over the door; that's the sign. Drive up the yard, and call stoutly about you. Hast. 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! He'll be for giving you his company; and, ecod! if you mind him, he'll persuade you that his mother was an alderman, and his aunt a justice of the peace.

Land. A troublesome old blade, to be sure; but a keeps as good wines and beds as any in the whole county.

Mar. Well, if he supplies us with these, we shall want no further connection. We are to turn to the right, did you say? I'll just step myself [To the Landlord.] [Exeunt.

Tony. No, no, straight forward. and shew you a piece of the way. Mum!

[Arrival at the Supposed Inn.]

Enter MARLOW and HASTINGS.

Hast. After the disappointments of the day, welcome once more, Charles, to the comforts of a clean room and a good fire. Upon my word, a very well-looking house; antique, but creditable.

Mar. The usual fate of a large mansion. Having first ruined the master by good housekeeping, it has at last come to levy contributions as an inn.

Hast. As you say, we passengers are to be taxed to pay all these fineries. I have often seen a good sideboard, or a marble chimney-piece, though not actually put in the bill, inflame the bill confoundedly.

Mar. Travellers must pay in all places; the only difference is, that in good inns you pay dearly for luxuries; in bad inns you are fleeced and starved.

Enter HARDCASTLE.

Hardcastle. Gentlemen, once more you are heartily welcome. Which is Mr Marlow? [Mar. advances.] Sir, you're heartily welcome. It's not my way, you see, to receive my friends with my back to the fire! I like to give them a hearty reception, in the old style, at my gate; I like to see their horses and trunks taken care of.

Mar. [Aside.] He has got our names from the servants already. [To Hard.] We approve your caution and hospitality, sir. [To Hast.] I have been thinking, George, of changing our travelling-dresses in the morning; I am grown confoundedly ashamed of mine.

Hard. I beg, Mr Marlow, you'll use no ceremony in this house.

Hast. I fancy, you're right: the first blow is half the battle. We must, however, open the campaign.

Hard. Mr Marlow-Mr Hastings-gentlemen-pray be under no restraint in this house. This is Libertyhall, gentlemen; you may do just as you please here.

Mar. Yet, George, if we open the campaign too fiercely at first, we may want ammunition before it is over. We must shew our generalship by securing, if necessary, a retreat.

Hard. Your talking of a retreat, Mr Marlow, puts me in mind of the Duke of Marlborough when he went to besiege Denain. He first summoned the garrison

Mar. Ay, and we'll summon your garrison, old boy. Hard. He first summoned the garrison, which might consist of about five thousand men

Hast. Marlow, what's o'clock?

Hard. I say, gentlemen, as I was telling you, he summoned the garrison, which might consist of about five thousand men

Mar. Five minutes to seven.

Hard. Which might consist of about five thousand men, well appointed with stores, ammunition, 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-I'll pawn my dukedom, says he, but I take that garrison without spilling a drop of blood. So-

Mar. What? My good friend, if you give us a glass of punch in the meantine, it would help us to carry on the siege with vigour.

Hard. Punch, sir!-This is the most unaccountable kind of modesty I ever met with. [Aside.

of Sheridan-who was then in his twenty-fourth year-there is more humour than wit. He had copied some of his characters from Humphry Clinker, as the testy but generous Captain Absolute, evidently borrowed from Matthew Bramble, and Mrs Malaprop, whose mistakes in words are the echoes of Mrs Winifred Jenkins's blunders. Some of these are farcical enough; but as Mr Moore observes-and no man has made more use of similes than himself the luckiness of Mrs Malaprop's simile as headstrong as an allegory on the banks of the Nile'-will be acknowledged as long as there are writers to be run away with by the wilfulness of this truly headstrong species of composition. In the same year, St Patrick's Day and The Duenna were produced; the latter had a run of seventy-five nights! It certainly is greatly superior to The Beggar's Opera, though not so general in its satire. In 1777, Sheridan had other two plays, The Trip to Scarborough and The School for Scandal. In plot, character, and incident, dialogue, humour, and wit, The School for Scandal is acknowledged to surpass any comedy of modern times. It was carefully prepared by the author, who selected, arranged, and moulded his language with consummate taste, so as to form it into a transparent channel of his thoughts. Mr Moore, in his Life of Sheridan, gives some amusing instances of the various forms which a witticism or pointed remark assumed before its final adoption. As, in his first comedy, Sheridan had taken hints from Smollett, in this, his last, he had recourse to Smollett's rival, or rather twin novelist, Fielding. The characters of Charles and Joseph Surface are evidently copies from those of Tom Jones and Blifil. Nor is the moral of the play an improvement on that of the novel. The careless extravagant rake is generous, warm-hearted, and fascinating; seriousness and gravity are rendered odious by being united to meanness and hypocrisy. The dramatic art of Sheridan is evinced in the ludicrous incidents and situations with which The School for Scandal abounds: his genius shines forth in its witty dialogues. The entire comedy,' says Moore, 'is an 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.' This fault is one not likely to be often committed! Some shorter pieces were afterwards written by Sheridan: The Camp, a musical opera, and The Critic, a witty after-piece, in the manner of The Rehearsal. The character of Sir Fretful Plagiary, intended, it is said, for Cumberland the dramatist, is one of the author's happiest efforts; and the schemes and contrivances of Puff the manager-such as making his theatrical-clock strike four in a morning scene, 'to beget an awful attention' in the audience, and to 'save a description of the rising sun, and a great deal about gilding the eastern hemisphere'-are a felicitous combination of humour and satire. The

scene in which Sneer mortifies the vanity of Sir Fretful, and Puff's description of his own mode of life by his proficiency in the art of puffing, are perhaps the best that Sheridan ever wrote.

[A Sensitive Author.]

[From The Critic.]

Enter SERVANT to DANGLE and SNEER. Servant. Sir Fretful Plagiary, sir. Dangle. Beg him to walk up. [Exit Servant.] Now, Mrs Dangle, Sir Fretful Plagiary is an author to your own taste.

Mrs Dangle. I confess he is a favourite of mine, because everybody else abuses him.

Sneer. Very much to the credit of your charity, madam, if not of your judgment.

Dan. But, egad! he allows no merit to any author but himself; that's the truth on't, though he's my friend.

Sneer. Never. He is as envious as an old maid verging on the desperation of six-and-thirty; and then the insidious humility with which he seduces you to give a free opinion on any of his works, can be exceeded only by the petulant arrogance with which he is sure to reject your observations.

Dan. Very true, egad! though he's my friend. Sneer. Then his affected contempt of all newspaper strictures; though, at the same time, he is the sorest man alive, and shrinks like scorched parchment from the fiery ordeal of true criticism: yet is he so covetous of popularity, that he had rather be abused than not

mentioned at all.

Dan. There's no denying it; though he's my friend. Sneer. You have read the tragedy he has just finished, haven't you?

Dan. O yes; he sent it to me yesterday.

Sneer. Well, and you think it execrable, don't you?

Dan. Why, between ourselves, egad! I must ownthough he's my friend that it is one of the mosthe's here![Aside]-finished and most admirable perform Sir F. [Without] Mr Sneer with him, did you say?

Enter SIR FRETFUL PLAGIARY.

Dan. Ah, my dear friend! Egad! we were just speaking of your tragedy. Admirable, Sir Fretful, admirable!

Sneer. You never did anything beyond it, Sir Fretful; never in your life.

Sir F. You make me extremely happy; for, without a compliment, my dear Sneer, there isn't a man in the world whose judgment I value as I do yours; and Mr Dangle's.

Mrs D. They are only laughing at you, Sir Fretful; for it was but just now that

Dan. Mrs Dangle !-Ah! Sir Fretful, you know Mrs Dangle. My friend Sneer was rallying just now. He knows how she admires you, and

Sir F. O Lord! I am sure Mr Sneer has more taste and sincerity than to- A double-faced fellow!

[Aside. Dan. Yes, yes; Sneer will jest, but a betterhumoured.

Sir F. Oh! I know.

Dan. He has a ready turn for ridicule; his wit costs him nothing.

Sir F. No, egad! or I should wonder how he came by it. [Aside. Mrs D. Because his jest is always at the expense of his friend.

Dan. But, Sir Fretful, have you sent your play to the managers yet? or can I be of any service to you? Sir F. No, no, I thank you; I believe the piece had sufficient recommendation with it. I thank you though. sent it to the manager of Covent Garden Theatre this morning.

I

Sneer. I should have thought now, that it might have been cast (as the actors call it) better at Drury Lane.

Sir F. O lud! no-never send a play there while I live. Hark ye!

[Whispers Sneer.

Sneer. Writes himself! I know he does. Sir F. I say nothing-I take away from no man's merit-am hurt at no man's good-fortune. I say nothing; but this I will say; through all my knowledge of life, I have observed that there is not a passion so strongly rooted in the human heart as envy!

Sneer. I believe you have reason for what you say, indeed.

Sir F. Besides, I can tell you, it is not always so safe to leave a play in the hands of those who write themselves.

Sneer. What! they may steal from them? eh, my dear Plagiary?

Sir F. Steal! to be sure they may; and, egad! serve your best thoughts as gipsies do stolen children disfigure them to make 'em pass for their own.

Sneer. But your present work is a sacrifice to Melpomene; and he, you know, never

Sir F. That's no security. A dexterous plagiarist may do anything. Why, sir, for aught I know, he might take out some of the best things in my tragedy and put them into his own comedy.

Sneer. That might be done, I dare be sworn.

Sir F. And, then, if such a person gives you the least hint or assistance, he is devilish apt to take the merit of the whole.

Dan. Oh! you know he never means what he says. Sir F. Sincerely, then, you do like the piece? Sneer. Wonderfully!

Sir F. But, come, now, there must be something that you think might be mended, eh? Mr Dangle, has nothing struck you?

Dan. Why, faith, it is but an ungracious thing for the most part to

Sir F. With most authors it is just so, indeed; they are in general strangely tenacious; but, for my part, I am never so well pleased as when a judicious critic points out any defect to me; for what is the purpose of shewing a work to a friend if you don't mean to profit by his opinion?

Sneer. Very true. Why, then, though I seriously admire the piece upon the whole, yet there is one small objection which, if you 'll give me leave, I'll mention. Sir F. Sir, you can't oblige me more. Sneer. I think it wants incident.

Sir F. Good God! you surprise me! wants incident? Sneer. Yes; I own I think the incidents are too few. Sir F. Good God! Believe me, Mr Sneer, there is no person for whose judgment I have a more implicit deference; but I protest to you, Mr Sneer, I am only apprehensive that the incidents are too crowded. My dear Dangle, how does it strike you?

I

Dan. Really, I can't agree with my friend Sneer. think the plot quite sufficient; and the four first acts by many degrees the best I ever read or saw in my life. If I might venture to suggest anything, it is that the interest rather falls off in the fifth.

Sir F. Rises, I believe you mean, sir.
Dan. No; I don't, upon my word.

Sir P. Yes, yes, you do, upon my soul; it certainly don't fall off, I assure you; no, no, it don't fall off. Dan. Now, Mrs Dangle, didn't you say it struck you in the same light?

Mrs D. No, indeed, I did not. I did not see a fault in any part of the play from the beginning to the end. Sir F. Upon my soul, the women are the best judges

after all!

Mrs D. Or if I made any objection, I am sure it was to nothing in the piece; but that I was afraid it was, on the whole, a little too long.

Sir F. Pray, madam, do you speak as to duration of

time; or do you mean that the story is tediously spun out?

Mrs D. O lud! no. I speak only with reference to the usual length of acting plays.

Sir F. Then I am very happy-very happy indeed; because the play is a short play, a remarkably short play. I should not venture to differ with a lady on a point of taste; but on these occasions the watch, you know, is the critic.

Mrs D. Then, I suppose, it must have been Mr Dangle's drawling manner of reading it to me.

Sir F. O! if Mr Dangle read it, that 's quite another affair; but I assure you, Mrs Dangle, the first evening you can spare me three hours and a half, I'll undertake to read you the whole from beginning to end, with the prologue and epilogue, and allow time for the music between the acts.

Mrs D. I hope to see it on the stage next. [Exit. Dan. Well, Sir Fretful, I wish you may be able to get rid as easily of the newspaper criticisms as you do of ours.

Sir F. The newspapers! sir, they are the most villainous, licentious, abominable, infernal-not that I ever read them; no, I make it a rule never to look into a newspaper.

Dan. You are quite right; for it certainly must hurt an author of delicate feelings to see the liberties they

take.

Sir F. No; quite the contrary; their abuse is, in fact, the best panegyric; I like it of all things. An author's reputation is only in danger from their support. Sneer. Why, that's true; and that attack, now, on you the other day———

Sir F. What? where?

Dan. Ay! you mean in a paper of Thursday; it was completely ill-natured to be sure.

Sir F. Oh! so much the better; ha, ha, ha! I wouldn't have it otherwise.

Dan. Certainly, it is only to be laughed at, forSir F. You don't happen to recollect what the fellow said, do you?

Sneer. Pray, Dangle; Sir Fretful seems a little anxious

Sir F. O lud, no! anxious, not I, not the least-Ibut one may as well hear, you know.

Dan. Sneer, do you recollect? Make out something. [Aside. Sneer. I will. [To Dangle.] Yes, yes, I remember perfectly.

Sir F. Well, and pray now-not that it signifies what might the gentleman say?

Sneer. Why, he roundly asserts that you have not the slightest invention or original genius whatever, though you are the greatest traducer of all other authors living. Sir F. Ha, ha, ha! very good!

Sneer. That as to comedy, you have not one idea of your own, he believes, even in your commonplace-book, where stray jokes and pilfered witticisms are kept with as much method as the ledger of the lost and stolen office.

Sir F. Ha, ha, ha! very pleasant.

Sneer. Nay, that you are so unlucky as not to have the skill even to steal with taste; but that you glean from the refuse of obscure volumes, where more judicious plagiarists have been before you; so that the body of your work is a composition of dregs and sediments, like a bad tavern's worst wine.

Sir F. Ha, ha!

the general coarseness of your style, as tambour sprigs would a ground of linsey-woolsey; while your imitations of Shakspeare resemble the mimicry of Falstaff's page, and are about as near the standard of the original.

Sir F. Ha!

Sneer. In short, that even the finest passages you steal are of no service to you; for the poverty of your own language prevents their assimilating, so that they lie on the surface like lumps of marl on a barren moor, encumbering what it is not in their power to fertilise. Sir F. [After great agitation.] Now, another person would be vexed at this.

Sneer. Oh! but I wouldn't have told you, only to divert you.

Sir F. I know it. I am diverted-ha, ha, ha! not the least invention! ha, ha, ha!-very good, very good!

Sneer. Yes; no genius! ha, ha, ha!

Dan. A severe rogue, ha, ha, ha!--but you are quite right, Sir Fretful, never to read such nonsense.

Sir F. To be sure; for if there is anything to one's praise, it is a foolish vanity to be gratified at it; and if it is abuse, why, one is always sure to hear of it from some good-natured friend or other!

[The Anatomy of Character performed by Uncharitableness.]

[From The School for Scandal.]

MARIA enters to LADY SNEERWELL and JOSEPH SURFACE.

Lady Sneerwell. Maria, my dear, how do you do? What's the matter?

Maria. Oh there is that disagreeable lover of mine, Sir Benjamin Backbite, has just called at my guardian's with his odious uncle, Crabtree; so I slipt out, and ran hither to avoid them.

Lady S. Is that all?

Joseph Surface. If my brother Charles had been of the party, madam, perhaps you would not have been so much alarmed.

Lady S. Nay, now you are severe; for I dare swear the truth of the matter is, Maria heard you were here. But, my dear, what has Sir Benjamin done that you should avoid him so?

Maria. Oh, he has done nothing-but 'tis for what he has said: his conversation is a perpetual libel on all his acquaintance.

Joseph S. Ay, and the worst of it is, there is no advantage in not knowing him-for he'll abuse a stranger just as soon as his best friend; and his uncle Crabtree 's as bad.

Lady S. Nay, but we should make allowance. Benjamin is a wit and a poet.

Sir

its

Maria. For my part, I own, madam, wit loses respect with me when I see it in company with malice. What do you think, Mr Surface?

Joseph S. Certainly, madam; to smile at the jest which plants a thorn in another's breast is to become a principal in the mischief.

Lady S. Pshaw!-there's no possibility of being witty without a little ill-nature: the malice of a good thing is the barb that makes it stick. What's your opinion, Mr Surface?

Joseph S. To be sure, madam; that conversation where the spirit of raillery is suppressed, will ever appear tedious and insipid.

Maria. Well, I'll not debate how far scandal may be allowable; but in a man, I am sure, it is always contemptible. We have pride, envy, rivalship, and a thousand little motives to depreciate each other; but the male slanderer must have the cowardice of a woman before he can traduce one.

Enter SERVANT.

Servant. Madam, Mrs Candour is below, and if your ladyship's at leisure, will leave her carriage.

Lady S. Beg her to walk in. [Exit Servant.] Now, Maria, however, here is a character to your taste; for though Mrs Candour is a little talkative, everybody allows her to be the best natured and best sort of woman.

Maria. Yes-with a very gross affectation of goodnature and benevolence, she does more mischief than the direct malice of old Crabtree.

Joseph S. I'faith, that's true, Lady Sneerwell; whenever I hear the current running against the characters of my friends, I never think them in such danger as when Candour undertakes their defence. Lady S. Hush!-here she is!

Enter Mrs CANDOUR.

Mrs Candour. My dear Lady Sneerwell, how have you been this century? Mr Surface, what news do you hear?-though indeed it is no matter, for I think one hears nothing else but scandal.

Joseph S. Just so, indeed, ma'am.

Mrs C. Oh, Maria! child-what is the whole affair off between you and Charles? His extravagance, I presume-the town talks of nothing else.

Maria. I am very sorry, ma'am, the town has so little to do.

Mrs C. True, true, child: but there's no stopping people's tongues. I own I was hurt to hear it, as I indeed was to learn, from the same quarter, that your guardian, Sir Peter and Lady Teazle, have not agreed lately as well as could be wished.

Maria. 'Tis strangely impertinent for people to busy themselves so.

Mrs C. Very true, child: but what's to be done? People will talk-there's no preventing it. Why, it was but yesterday I was told that Miss Gadabout had eloped with Sir Filligree Flirt. But there's no minding what one hears; though, to be sure, I had this from very good authority.

Maria. Such reports are highly scandalous.

Mrs C. So they are, child-shameful, shameful! But the world is so censorious, no character escapes. Well, now, who would have suspected your friend, Miss Prim, of an indiscretion? Yet such is the ill-nature of people that they say her uncle stopt her last week, just as she was stepping into the York mail with her dancing-master.

Maria. I'll answer for 't there are no grounds for that report.

Mrs C. Ah, no foundation in the world, I dare swear; no more, probably, than for the story circulated last month of Mrs Festino's affair with Colonel Cassino; though, to be sure, that matter was never rightly cleared up.

Joseph S. The license of invention some people take is monstrous indeed.

Maria. 'Tis so-but, in my opinion, those who report such things are equally culpable.

Mrs C. To be sure they are; tale-bearers are as bad as the tale-makers-'tis an old observation, and a very true one: but what 's to be done, as I said before? how will you prevent people from talking? To-day, Mrs Clackitt assured me Mr and Mrs Honeymoon were at last become mere man and wife, like the rest of their acquaintance. No, no! tale-bearers, as I said before, are just as bad as the tale-makers. Joseph S. Ah! Mrs Candour, if everybody had your forbearance and good-nature!

*

Mrs C. I confess, Mr Surface, I cannot bear to hear people attacked behind their backs; and when ugly circumstances come out against our acquaintance, I own