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, 50_l_.'
"_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, 50_l_.'
"_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, 5_l._
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, 30_l_.'
"_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."