No More Learning



## p. 246 (#268) ############################################

246 The Prosody of the Eighteenth Century [CH.
fly-boats that complete the squadron, this flag of syllabic and
accentual regularity floats-only one or two privateer or picaroon
small craft daring to disregard it.
The heroic couplet of Dryden, already sufficiently discussed,
underwent, in the earliest years after Dryden's death, changes
which, considering the natural tendencies of humanity, may be
called inevitable. By his own almost inimitable combination
of skill and strength, and by the mechanical devices of triplet
and Alexandrine, Dryden himself had kept off the monotony
which the regular stopped couplet invites. But the invitation
was sure to be accepted by others; indeed, they might plead that
they were only realising the ideal of the form. As Waller and
others before Dryden, wittingly or unwittingly, had hit upon the
other devices of sententious balance and a split in the individual
lines, and of pendulum repetition in the couplets : so, after
Dryden, first Garth and then Pope, no doubt with their eyes
open, rediscovered these ; and the extraordinary craftsmanship
of Pope carried the form to its highest possible perfection. If
--and it is difficult to see how the assertion can be denied the
doctrine expressed in various ways but best formulated by De
Quincey that ‘nothing can go wrong by conforming to its own
ideal' be true, the couplet of Pope, in and by itself, is invulnerable
and imperishable.
But it very soon appeared that a third adjective of the same
class, which indicates almost a necessary quality of the highest
poetic forms, could not be applied to it. It was not inimitable.
The admitted difficulty, if not impossibility, of deciding, on internal
evidence, as to the authorship of the books of The Odyssey trans-
lated by Pope himself, as compared with those done by Fenton
and Broome, showed the danger; and the work of the rest of the
century emphasised it. Men like Savage, Churchill and Cowper went
back to Dryden, or tried a blend of Dryden and Pope; men like
Johnson and Goldsmith new-minted the Popian couplet, in the one
case by massive strength, in the other by easy grace of thought
and phrase and form. But the dangers of monotony and of
convention remained ; and, towards the end of the period, they
were fatally illustrated in the dull insignificance of Hoole and the
glittering frigidity of Darwin.
From one point of view, it is not fanciful or illogical to regard
all other serious, and most other light, measures of this time as
escapes from, or covert rebellions against, this supremacy of a
single form of heroic ; but, as has been pointed out above, one


## p. 247 (#269) ############################################

-
XI] Popular Forms of Verse
247
metre stands in somewhat different case. The octosyllabic couplet
had been little practised by Dryden, though, when he tried it, he
showed his usual mastery; and it evidently did not much appeal
to Pope. But Butler had established it with such authority that,
till well into the nineteenth century, it was called specifically
'Hudibrastic'; and two of the greatest verse writers of the early
eighteenth, Swift and Prior, had used it very largely and very
successfully, so that it could not be regarded as in any way in-
significant, oldfashioned, or contraband. It was, in fact, as much
the recognised metre of the century for light or brief narrative
and miscellaneous purposes not strictly lyrical, as the heroic was
for
graver and larger work. But, as Dyer showed early and others
later, it served—owing to the earlier practice of Milton more
especially—as a not ineffectual door for smuggling in variations
of line-length and foot-arrangement which were contraband, but
of very great value and efficacy.
Another of these centres of free trade in verse was the
Spenserian stanza. The dislike of stanzas of all kinds which, as
we saw, grew during the seventeenth century, was, as shown below,
seriously formulated at the beginning of the eighteenth, and may
be said to have been more or less orthodox throughout its course.
But the exceptional charm of Spenser broke through this; and
no small body of imitations—bad enough, as a rule, but saved by
the excellence of at least part of The Castle of Indolence, and,
perhaps, The Schoolmistress, as well as by the influence, if not the
intrinsic merit, of The Minstrel—found its way into print.
The most formidable rival, however, of the heroic was blank
verse. The practice of this inevitably arose from, and, in most
instances, continued to be the imitation of, Milton, which, sparse
and scanty for the first generation after his death, grew more
abundant as the eighteenth century itself went on and, in
The Seasons, almost ceased to be mere imitation. Fine, however,
as Thomson's blank verse is, and sometimes almost original, it
suffered not a little, while all the blank verse of the century
before Cowper's latest suffered more, from undue generalisa-
tion in almost all cases, and in most from positive caricature,
of Milton's mannerisms. The worst of these (so far as prosody
is concerned) was the exaggeration of his occasional, and always
specially effective, use of the full stop in the interior of a verse
by chopping up line after line in this fashion to an extent
ridiculous to the eye and mind, and destructive of all harmony
to the ear. The practitioners of blank verse, also, too often agreed


## p. 248 (#270) ############################################

248 The Prosody of the Eighteenth Century [CH.
with its enemy Johnson that, if it was not ‘tumid and gorgeous,' it
was mere prose; and, though they frequently failed to make it
gorgeous, they almost invariably succeeded in making it tumid.
Even in Yardley Oak, Cowper's masterpiece of the form, these
defects exist : and the eighteenth century strain in Wordsworth
himself never completely freed itself from them.
It is, however, in lyric measures that the limitations of this
period of more or less rigid drill show themselves most. In what
has been called 'the greater ode,' the terrible irregular 'Pindarics'
of the later seventeenth century continued; but they gradually
died out, and the establishment of stricter forms (in which respect
Congreve is not to be forgotten), speedily and luckily inspired
with fuller poetic spirit by Gray and Collins, did much to appease
the insulted ghost of the great Boeotian. In smaller and lighter
work, the adoption of the anapaest by Prior was almost as fortunate
as his patronage of the octosyllable, and we have not a few grace-
ful trifles—'free' in no evil sense-not merely by Prior himself but
by Gay and by Byrom, by Chesterfield, Pulteney, Shenstone and
others.
Still, as a rule, the lyric poet of the eighteenth century was
confined, or confined himself, to very few metres. Stiff and
sing-song 'common’ or ballad measure; rather better, but too
uniform, long' measure oroctosyllabic quatrains alternately
rimed ; and (somewhat curiously) the old romance-six or rime
;
couée (8 8 6 886 a abccb) with occasional decasyllabic quatrains,
of which the great Elegy is the chief, will probably account for
three-quarters, if not even more, of the lyrical verse of the
period; and almost the whole of it displays that submission to
a cast-iron law of syllabic number and accentual distribution to
which reference has been made. The reason of this we shall
understand better when we have surveyed the preceptist or theo-
retical literature of prosody which, almost for the first time since
the Elizabethan period, makes its reappearance.
For if, during this period, practical prosody enjoyed or suffered
from a kind of stationary state, it was very much the reverse
with prosodic theory. It is, in fact, from the second year of the
eighteenth century that attempts to deal with English prosody as
a subject practically date. Gascoigne's examination was too slight,
Puttenham's too ineffectually systematised, the studies of the other
Elizabethans, directed too much to one particular, and for the
most part non-essential, point (classical versing) and all too little
historical ; while the, possibly, more pertinent treatises of Jonson
6


## p. 249 (#271) ############################################

6
XI]
The Theorists. Bysshe 249
and Dryden are not extant, and the very distribution or trend of
them is only to be guessed.
In 1702, there appeared, written or compiled by an obscure
person by name Edward Bysshe, an Art of Poetry, which (after
a custom set on the continent for some considerable time past
and already followed here by Joshua Poole) consisted principally
of a riming dictionary and an anthology of passages containing
similes and so forth. The book became popular and was often
reprinted (at first with considerable additions) during the century.
The bulk of it has long been mere waste-paper; indeed, a riming
dictionary may be said to be, in itself, almost the greatest achieved,
if not the greatest possible, insult to the human understanding.
But its brief introduction, 'Rules for Making English Verses,' is
one of the two or three most important points de repère of the
whole subject; though, even at the present day, and even by
serious students of prosody, that importance is sometimes denied
and oftener belittled. It has even been said that Bysshe merely
represents the traditional view'; to which it can only be replied
that exhaustive examination of every previous treatment of the
subject has failed to discover any expressed tradition of the kind
or any sign that such tradition had 'materialised itself' to anybody
outside an extremely variable practice.
What Bysshe does is to formulate, with extraordinary fidelity,
a system of versification to which the practice of the foregoing
century had certainly been more and more tending, but which had
never been expressed in theory before. His own principle is
strictly syllabic. There are no feet in English-merely a certain
number of syllables. Moreover, he would preferentially admit
only verses of ten (with an extra one for double rimes), eight and
seven ; though he does not absolutely exclude others. These
syllables, in a heroic, must be arranged so that there is a pause at
the fourth, fifth or sixth, and a strong accent on the second, fourth
and sixth. So absolutely devoted is he to syllables and accents
that he only approaches verses of triple (dactylic or anapaestic)
t' fime (while he uses none of these terms), by the singularly round-
about way of describing them as 'verses of nine or seven syllables
with the accent on the last,' and dismisses them as “low,''burlesque'
and disagreeable, unless they occur in 'compositions for music. '
He is, of course, a severe advocate of elision: the 'e' of the article
must always be cut off before a vowel; 'violet' is, or may be, 'vi'let. '
But he disapproves of the seventeenth century practice of eliding
such vowels as the 'y' of 'by. As for stanzas of intermixed rime
6
9


## p. 250 (#272) ############################################

250 The Prosody of the Eighteenth Century [[
CH.
>
(i. e. Spenserian, rime royal, etc. ), ‘they are now wholly laid aside'
in longer poems.
Now, this gives us a miserably restricted prosody; but, in the
first place, it is the prosody of the eighteenth century, and, in the
second place, it had never been thus formulated before.
But, although hardly any poets except Chatterton and Blake
(for Gray and Collins themselves do not show any formal rebellion)
were rebels to this until Southey and Coleridge broke it down at the
end of the century, the preceptive prosodists—who, in most cases,
were not poets at all—by no means showed equal docility, although
their recalcitrance was seldom of the right kind. Pope, indeed, in
almost his only prosodic passage, the early Letter to H. Cromwell
(1710), follows Bysshe literally in some points, virtually, in almost
all. On the other hand, Pope's enemy Gildon (who, like Dennis,
has of late years been ‘taken up’in some quarters) revolted against
Bysshe's syllables and accents, and, though in a vague manner,
introduced a system of employing musical terms and notes to
prosody-a specious proceeding which has had many votaries since.
He, also, with John Brightland and one or two more, started
another hare—the question of accent v. quantity—which has been
coursed ever since, and which, also, will probably never be run
down. This latter point attracted much attention, especially as it
connected itself with a contemporary discussion, to which Foster,
Enni Gally and others contributed, on classical accentuation. Henry
Pemberton was so ferocious a champion of accentuation that he
would have rewritten Milton, altering, for instance
And towards the gate rolling her bestial train
into
And rolling towards the gate her bestial train.
Edward Mainwaring followed the musical line, and began a
practice, frequently revived to the present day, of turning the
heroic topsy-turvy and beginning with an anacrusis or single
syllable foot
And | mounts exſulting on triumphant | wings.
The catalogue of eighteenth century prosodists, thenceforward, is
a long one, and it cannot be said that a thorough student of the
subject is justified in neglecting even one of the following:
Harris (Hermes Harris), Say, Lord Kames, Lord Monboddo, Webb,
Abraham Tucker, Herries, Thomas Sheridan, Steele, Tyrwhitt,
Young, Nares and Fogg. But, with some notice of Steele and
i Nov. 25. This was the subject of one of Pope's extraordinary falsifications. He
changed it into one to Walsh dated four years still earlier.


## p. 251 (#273) ############################################

XI]
Joshua Steele
251
Young, we may pass here to half-a-dozen others (four of whom
are of general interest and one of real importance)Shenstone,
Gray, Johnson, John Mason, Mitford and Cowper.
Joshua Steele undoubtedly exercised great influence on many
prosodic students, some of whom acknowledged it and some did
not, while he has been recently hailed as 'a master' by authorities
who deserve respect. Yet, these same authorities, strangely enough,
acknowledge that Steele's actual scansion is ‘utterly wild. ' It is
not incumbent on a survey like the present to attempt the re-
conciliation, or at any length to expose the incompatibility, of two
such statements. It is, perhaps, sufficient to say, on the first head,
that Steele’s ‘mastery' seems to be shown in the fact that, for the
first time, he proclaimed verse to be essentially matter of musical
rhythm, and applied musical methods frankly and freely to the
notation of metre; that he discarded syllabic feet; and that he
gave the metrical franchise to pauses as well as to spoken syllables.
As to the second head, it should be still more sufficient to state that
he allowed from six to eight 'cadences’ in a heroic line; that he
scans a famous verse
0 | happiness | our | being's | end and I aim
and starts Paradise Lost as
Of | Man's | first disobedience and the fruit.
By what logic it can be contended that a system which leads
to such “monstrosities' (the word is that of an admirer of Steele)
as this is ‘masterly,' some readers, at any rate, will find it
difficult to imagine. Either Steele's scansions are justified by his
principles or they are not. If they are, these principles are self-
condemned ; if they are not, the perpetrator of the scansions must
have been a man of so loose a way of thinking that he cannot be
taken into serious consideration. In either case, he cannot have
.
had an ear; and a prosodist without an ear may surely be asked
to 'stand down. ' There is much of a similar kind to be said of
Young. On the other hand, Tyrwhitt, in his justly famous edition of
Chaucer, showed himself a real prosodist and, early as it was, came
to very sound conclusions by the simple process of taking the
verse first and getting it satisfactorily scanned. Of the rest, most
are chiefly remarkable for curiosities of a theory which always
neglects large parts of English poetry, and sometimes sets at
naught even the practice that it recognises. Perhaps the best is
Johnson's despised “Sherry,' whose prosody is, certainly, in many
points heretical, if Johnson's own is orthodox.
6


## p. 252 (#274) ############################################

252 The Prosody of the Eighteenth Century [CH.
Wrong as they generally went, fruitless as were, too often, their
attempts, flitting shadows in an arid desert as some may think
them, history cannot entirely omit these enquirers; but she cer-
tainly turns to a few others with some satisfaction. Shenstone,
Gray, Johnson and Cowper were poets? who turned their attention
definitely to prosody. Mason (John, not William) and Mitford
were prosodists who, in the first case, at least, appreciated the
beauty of poetry, and, in the second, made large excursions into
the more than contemporary history of it. Shenstone's actual
poetical value may not be very high ; but the merest glance at the
variety of his poetical forms should prove something of a tell-tale
about him, and his prose works, if only in a few scattered observa-
tions, emphasise the warning. He seems to have been the very
first person in the century who definitely perceived the wanton
asceticism of unvarying elision and sighed for the dactyl,' as he
called it; he is the first, also, who laid express stress on the value
of 'full' rimes and the colouring force of particular phrases.
Gray, a much greater poet and not himself much of a practitioner
of trisyllabics, was, on the other hand, the first to recognise the
presence and the continuity of the trisyllabic foot in generally
disyllabic metres from middle English downward; and he exhibits
in his (unfortunately fragmentary) Metrum many other signs of
historic knowledge and metrical vision. Johnson, in his prosodic
remarks on Milton, Spenser and a few others, is, professedly, at
least, of the straitest sect of believers in fixed syllabism, regular
iambic arrangement and middle caesura. Yet, as is constantly the
case with him in other departments of criticism, he shows, in an
almost Drydenian manner, his consciousness of the other side ;
and, indeed, gives that side practically all it can ask by admitting
that perfect 'purity,' though, as enforced above, the most complete
harmony of which a single verse is capable,' is, if preserved con-
tinuously, not only ‘very difficult' but 'tiresome and disgusting';
and that variation of the accents, though ‘it always injures the
harmony of the line,' compensates the loss by relieving us of this
tyranny. He did not extend the same indulgence to what he calls
elision,' that is to say, the presence of extra syllables or trisyllabic
feet; or to pauses far from the centre. But the concession as to
'pure' and 'mixed' measures was itself a Trojan horse. If, the
nearer you approach to purity and perfection, in one part of the
6
1 Goldsmith devoted one of his essays to the subject, and some have thought it
valuable. In form, it is as agreeable as everything its author wrote: to the present
writer, its matter seems smatter, insufficiently veiled by motherwit.


## p. 253 (#275) ############################################

xi]
John Mason
253
system, the more likely your result is to be tiresome and disgusting,
it will go near to be thought shortly that the system itself is
rotten somewhere.
Although it would be rather dangerous to say what book of his
own time Johnson had not read, there is not, to the knowledge of
the present writer, any sign in his Works or in his Life, of his having
come across the speculations on prose, verse and elocution of John
Mason, which were published in three little tracts shortly before
The Rambler appeared. The author was a nonconformist minister
(which would not have pleased Johnson), and a careful and in-
telligent student of the classics (which, to some extent, might have
reconciled him). He certainly, however, would have been inclined
to regard Mason as a most pestilent nonconformist in prosody.
Mason is somewhat inclined to musical views, but very slightly ;
and he adopts what some think the illegitimate, others the sensible,
plan of evading the accent v. quantity logomachy by laying it
down that 'that which principally determines English quantity is
the accent and emphasis. ' But his great claim to notice, and, in
the opinion of at least the present writer, to approval, is that he
absolutely refuses the strict decasyllabic limitation and regular
accentual distribution, with their consequences or corollaries of
elision, forced caesura towards the centre, and so forth. He calls
attention to the positively superior ‘sweetness' of lines of even
twelve or fourteen syllables; and, to accommodate this excess, he
not only admits feet, but feet of more than two syllables, as well
as a freely movable caesura and other easements.
In the case of Mitford, also, musical considerations and musical
methods1 stand rather where they should not, assisted by some
superfluous considerations of abstract phonetics; but here, also,
they do little harm. And, here (at least in the second edition of
his work), there is what is not in Mason, what is not in any other
prosodist of the eighteenth century except Gray, and only frag-
mentarily in him, a regular survey of actual English poetry from the
time that its elements came together. Even now, more than a
century after the second edition and nearly a century and a half
1 Little room as there is here for quotations, two sentences of his book, 2nd edn,
p. 111, should be given, inasmuch as they put briefly and in Mitford's clear and
intelligible language the source of myriad confusions at that time and since :
'Five bars are perhaps never found forming an integral portion of an air or tune.
The divisions of modern musical air run mostly in two or rather four bars, and multi-
plications of four. '
Nothing more should be necessary for showing to anyone acquainted with actual
English poetry, that its laws, though they may, in part, coincide with, are essentially
independent of, those of modern music.
>


## p. 254 (#276) ############################################

254 The Prosody of the Eighteenth Century [CH.
after the first, this indispensable basis for prosodic enquiry has
been provided in scarcely more than two other books on the
subject. His is, of course, partial and not always sufficiently in-
formed; though it is most usefully supplemented by enquiries
into metre as it exists outside English in both ancient and modern
languages. He dwelt too much on accent; he confused vowel
and syllabic quantity; and he allowed extra-metrical syllables-a
constant indication of something wrong in the system, which, in
his case, was probably brought about partly by his musical
ideas, and partly by the syllabic mania of the time still existing
in him. But he constantly comes right in result, even when the
right-coming is not quite easy to reconcile with some of his
principles; and there is no doubt that this is mainly due to his
study of English poetry at various times and of English poetry
in comparison with ancient and modern examples in other tongues.
Last of all--for the remarks to be referred to belong, like most
of his practice, and, for the same unhappy reason, in the main,
to a very late period in his life—we must mention Cowper. His
letters, like those of Southey afterwards, show that he might have
written consecutively on prosody in a very interesting fashion; but
it
may be doubted whether he had cleared his mind quite enough
on the subject. All know his attack on Pope; or, at least, on the
zanies of Pope, with their 'mechanic art' and rote-learnt tunes. His
prose allusions to the subject are of the same gist, but show the
uncleared confusion. The statement that Milton’s ‘elisions lengthen
the line beyond its due limits' may seem to a modern reader sheer
nonsense-equivalent to saying that if, in correcting a proof, you
cut out a line here and a line there you lengthen the page. But,
of course, by 'elisions,' he meant the syllables which the arbitrary
theory of his time supposed to be elided. Yet he laid down the
salutary rule that without attention to quantity good verse cannot
possibly be written’; he declared his faith in ‘shifting pause and
cadence perpetually,' and he knew that, by following this practice
(which, it should be remembered, Johnson had denounced as the
methods of the declaimer'), you could make blank verse ‘susceptible
of a much greater diversification of manner than verse in rime'
a point which, with others in reference to 'blanks,' occupies
most of his letters to Thurlow. He never completed a system
to match his practice ; but, like this, his theory, such as it was,
evidently looked backward to Milton, and forward to the great
poets who were boys or not yet born when Cowper seriously began
to write.
>
>
6
6
>


## p. 255 (#277) ############################################

xi]
Summary
255
To some extent, of course, the impoverished state of actual
prosody at the time may be taken as an excuse for the prosodic
theorists, though it would be very unfair to blame the poets them-
selves for the sins of these others. Prosodists saw around them
practically nothing but one limited side of the possibilities of
English verse ; and the extent to which this had to do with their
errors can hardly be exaggerated. But it was perfectly open to
them to look back if they chose, and a few of them did choose ;
while, of those who did, still fewer showed themselves able to read
the open lessons which authors no more recondite than Shake-
speare and Milton had for them. Moreover-and, strange as it
may seem, the phenomenon has repeated itself by no means
seldom since, and is fully in view at the present day-the
majority of them had evidently no taste whatever for poetry
as poetry. It was a machine to be taken to pieces, not a
body of beauty to be appreciated.
And so, though, in any case, the calling back into fresh existence
of the older and more varied poetry, and the calling into new exist-
ence of a poetry more varied still, would have antiquated their
enquiries, they failed even to give due value or due explanation to
what they had. For, as has been set forth already, they had
something, and no small thing, in their own poets—the positive
and practically indestructible establishment of definite rhythm.
As Chaucer and, in regard to line-grouping, if not to line-making,
Spenser, as Shakespeare and Milton, in both, once more stand
irremovably as witnesses for liberty and variety in metre, so
Dryden and Pope and Johnson, nay, even Collins and Gray, stand
for order and regularity. We wanted both sets of influences, and
we had now got them.
It will thus be seen that, from the strictly historical point of
view, this period is of no small importance in regard to the par-
ticular matter treated in this chapter. It is the first in which any
considerable number of persons busied themselves with the attempt
to analyse and systematise the principles of English versification.
It is true that, with hardly more exceptions than Gray and John
Mason to whom Shenstone and Tyrwhitt, perhaps, also, Sheridan,
may, to some extent, be joined, they came for the most part, to
wrong conclusions ; but the reason why they so came is clear.
In no case, except in those of Gray partially, and Mitford more
fully, did students of prosody, at this time, study English poetry
as it had actually existed and base their conclusions on the
results of that examination. Generally, they took the restricted
>


## p. 256 (#278) ############################################

256 The Prosody of the Eighteenth Century [CH. XI
prosody of their own time as the perfection of all that was
possible in the subject. In some particular cases, of which
Steele’s is the most remarkable, they attacked the matter alto-
gether a priori, and in the worst sense of that much abused
term. They, then, endeavoured to construct an abstract science of
prosody starting from assumed axioms and postulates, with de-
ductions from which actual verse had to be accommodated as it
best (or worst) might. No two writers may, at first sight, seem to
stand farther apart than Bysshe and Steele; yet, when they are
impartially examined, the faults which have been pointed out in
them will be found to be equally present though differently dis-
tributed, and to be equally due to the same fundamental error of
beginning with the rule, instead of with that from which the rule
must be extracted. They can be convicted out of the mouth of him
who, to most of them, was the greatest of poets and prophets-of
Pope himself. They would not discover,' they would not do
anything but "devise. '


## p. 257 (#279) ############################################

CHAPTER XII
THE GEORGIAN DRAMA
Though the last forty years of the eighteenth century produced
few English plays of primary importance, the period is among the
most interesting in the history of the national theatre. Its study
shows how complex and perishable are the conditions of dramatic
excellence, and explains why one of the chief glories of the English
muse sank, for at least a century, beneath the level of literature.
Paradoxical as it may sound, the decay of the drama was partly
due to the advance of the actor. In the days of Betterton' and
Barton Booth”, the best player was, in a sense, an intermediary, and
the attention of spectators could be held only if characters and
situations appealed directly to their understanding. With the
coming of Havard, Macklin, Garrick, Mrs Clive, Spranger Barry,
Foote, Yates, Mrs Abington and King, success no longer depended
on the excellence of a play. The stage began to offer a new and
non-literary attraction. It was enough for the dramatist to give
a 'cue for passion’; he need only serve as a collaborator, as one
whose work was half finished till presented by a trained performer.
O'Keeffe's success depended so largely on Edwin's interpretations
that when the actor died the playwright was expected to fail.
Colman the younger's Eustace de St Pierre was a mere outline till
6
e Bensky gave it life, and Cumberland's O'Flaherty, in The West
Indian, was hardly more than a hint out of which Moody, following
a
the example of Macklin's Sir Callaghan in Love à-la-mode, de-
veloped the stage Irishman. When older and greater plays were
being performed, the public was still chiefly attracted by the novelty
of the acting. Abel Drugger was enjoyed because of Weston's by-
play, and Vanbrugh's character of Lord Foppington was almost
forgotten in Woodward's impersonation of it. True inspiration
was still, of course, the best material on which the player could
work, as Garrick found in performing Richard III or Macklin in his
new interpretation of Shylock. But, even in the revival of old plays,
1 1635—1710.
3 In The Siege of Paris.
17
d. 1733.
E L. II.
CH. XII.


## p. 258 (#280) ############################################

258
[ch.
The Georgian Drama
the masterpieces of the Elizabethan drama were altered to suit
the powers of the actor. When Hamlet was reedited by Cibber,
and Lear by Nahum Tate, playwrights must have perceived that
literary talent was no longer a necessity. It became even rarer
as the theatre rose in public estimation. Thanks to actors, plays
had longer runs, and people paid more to see them. Those who
contributed towards the production of these fashionable enter-
tainments began to prosper, and the more dramatists enjoyed the
luxuries of conventional society, the less they retained touch with
the tragedy and comedy of real life. Quin' was the last of the old
school, and Macklin was the first to bring his own personality into
his interpretations? . But the conflict between classical literature
and dramatic taste was undecided, till Garrick's genius showed that
gesture, pose and facial expression were so effective that even the
dumb-show of ballet-pantomimes could please an audience more
tban old-time rhetorics. An apparently trivial change in the
arrangement of the theatre drew the drama further from literature.
To give actors more space and to obviate interruptions, spectators
were removed from the stage in 17624, and, as the loss of these
seats would have fallen heavily on the recipient of a benefit, the
auditorium was lengthened. Thus, although the 'apron' still pro-
jected a few feet into the auditorium, the business of the play
had no longer the advantage of taking place among onlookers.
Before 1765, Drury lane was chiefly illuminated by chandeliers,
though candle-footlights had already been introduced. Garrick,
on returning from his continental tour, engaged the services of
Barthélémon, whose violin won success for many worthless pieces,
and ordered Parisian scenery and lamp-footlights from Jean
Monnet The concentration of light threw into relief the
9
6
1 1693—1756.
2 •I spoke so familiar Sir, and so little in the hoity-toity tone of the tragedy of
that day, that the manager told me that I had better go to grass for another year or
two. ' Macklin, alluding to Rich, who had dismissed him from Lincoln's Inn fields.
See Kirkman, J. , Memoirs of the Life of Charles Macklin (1799).
8 Noverre, in Lettres sur les Arts, testifies to Garrick's skill in pantomime. Walpole,
in describing Glover's Boadicea, gives conclusive evidence of the importance of acting
when he says . Then there is a scene between Lord Sussex and Lord Cathcart, two
captives, which is most incredibly absurd : but yet the parts are so well acted, the
dresses so fine, and two or three scenes pleasing enough, that it is worth seeing.
' To
George Montagu, 6 December 1753.
4 See Knight, Joseph, David Garrick (1894), pp. 183 f.
5 19 September 1763–27 April 1765.
6 Connected, at different times, with the Opéra-Comique and the Théâtre de la
Foire. Garrick also ordered costumes from M. Boquet, dessinateur d'habits à l'opéra.
See Jullien, A. , L'Histoire du Costume au Théâtre (1880).


## p. 259 (#281) ############################################

XII] Eighteenth Century England 259
performer's face and enabled his looks and movements to express
what had formerly needed monologues and asides. When the
proscenium, which had been introduced at the restoration, and
footlights had completely separated the player from his audience,
the performance became spectacular. Actors were now like figures
in a picture, and the dramatist learnt that one of his first tasks
was to manoeuvre them into poses and situations. Experience
eventually taught authors how to preserve dramatic fitness amid
these altered requirements ; but, for several generations, the conse-
quence was a misuse of asides, parentheses, sudden entrances,
mistaken identities and other stage effects of like nature.
Despite these temptations, authors and actors might have
succeeded, as at Hamburg and Weimar, in producing art without
sacrificing literature, if it had not been for the public. Georgian
audiences were no longer representative of the nation. The puritan
prejudice against the theatre, revived in the Bible society aboli-
tionists and the low church evangelical party, and many thoughtful
men, such as the Wesleys, John Newton, Cowper, Wilberforce
and Zachary Macaulay, abstained on principle from an institution
which preached a fictitious code of honour and was considered
the favourite resort of the irreligious. Many more stayed away
because the habits of eighteenth century England were essentially
domestic. It was an age of household furniture, tea-drinking and
sensibility. Men and women spent evenings at home discussing
ethics, writing long, intimate letters or testing each other's gift
of sentimental conversation. When the inevitable reaction came,
it led people from the playhouse towards nature and the open
air.
If the drama had few charms for more thoughtful and sober-
minded citizens, it irresistibly attracted the beau monde. Lovers
of social display, who were gratified by the ‘jubilee-masquerade'
at Ranelagh and by the Richmond fireworks, had begun to look for
the same kind of excitement in the theatre. As performances
were generally restricted to two or three houses, theatregoers
enjoyed that sense of exclusiveness and monopoly which is dear
to leaders of society. Soon, it became a social distinction to meet
and be seen at these assemblies, till Hannah More admits that
one of the chief pleasures was 'the show of the Spectators:. '
1 Walpole, letters to H. Mann, 3 and 17 May 1749.
. With the exception of a few unauthorised attempts (quickly suppressed) to open
theatres, dramatists and actors were confined, during this period, to Drury lane and
Covent garden in the season and to the Hay in the summer months.
3 Preface to Tragedies.
17-2


## p. 260 (#282) ############################################

260 The Georgian Drama [ch.
People went early to get seats when it was known that the
Gunnings would be among the audience, and, in the sixties, the
popularity of the royal family could be gauged by the warmth
of their reception at the theatre. Besides, the enterprise of the
great actor-managers made these entertainments one of the
principal town topics which people of fashion could not afford to
ignore. Not to have judged Garrick, Macklin, Foote, Lewis,
Mrs Siddons or Kemble in their latest róle, not to have sat as
arbiter over the contending merits of Drury lane and Covent
garden”, was a mark of provincialism. While the leisured classes
bestowed their patronage, they also imposed their prejudices and
traditions. The desire to cultivate selfrespect and courtesy, which
is noticeable so far back as the revolution, had gradually grown,
during the eighteenth century, into a meticulous observance of
outward forms. Every man of breeding was expected to be a
drawingroom diplomatist, who could win his way by his personality
and conversation. Together with the cult of social conformity,
there had gradually developed such a horror of vulgarity that any
display of natural feelings was considered ungentlemanly. Lord
Chesterfield reminds his son that to laugh aloud was bad manners,
and that to quote an oldfashioned proverb was to betray familiarity
with coachmen. The nineteenth century horror of indelicacy
or coarseness now begins to appear. Johnson reproved Hannah
More for reading Tom Jones, some of the bluestockings rejected
Tristram Shandy, Bowdler expurgated Shakespeare and Gibbon.
A class dominated by such ideals might excel in many provinces
of literature, from oratory to letter-writing; but, when the glamour
of social distinction drew them to the theatre, their taste proved
too artificial for the appreciation of real tragedy and comedy. Good
acting always won their favour; but, even Shakespeare had partially
to be rewritten for them by Thompson, Garrick and Kemble.
The older school still preferred comedies full of the humorous
vagaries and witty conversations of their own rather trivial lives,
or tragedies which flattered their sense of literary propriety by
observing the unities, amidst arid rhetoric and blank verse. By
the second half of the century, a more serious and emotional
atmosphere began to predominate in high society. This newer
phase is something more than a continuation of the ideals reflected
1 Walpole to H. Mann, 23 March 1752.
? E. g. , in 1750, Barry and Mrs Cibber played in Romeo and Juliet at Covent garden
and Garrick and Miss Bellamy at Drury lane. In 1760, Miss Brent played Polly in
The Beggars' Opera at Covent garden and Mrs Vincent played in the same piece at
Drury lane. Goldsmith, in The British Magazine, discussed their rival merits.


## p. 261 (#283) ############################################

a swoon.
XI] Characteristics of the Audiences 261
in Steele's sentimental comedies. People did not abate one jot
of their respect for gentility; but they were anxious to take
themselves and the theatre more seriously. They rigidly observed
their father's and grandfather's cult of selfpossession ; but they
also affected strong and sensitive passions. Their ideal was to
repress powerful emotions beneath a refined, or even mincing,
manner, till the breaking point was reached in floods of tears or in
As contact with the hard and varied realities of life was
still considered to such a degree illbred that even the bailiff's scene
in The Good-Natur'd Man was censured, people had to look to
domestic incidents for pathos and passion. A look, a gesture, or a
silence was, for them, charged with sentiment. They waxed tearful
or melancholy over the spectacle of a woman preserving her
inbred elegance under persecution and insult. They loved to
contemplate the tenderness of paternal or filial instinct, and
dramatists were wont to introduce sudden recognitions between a
parent and a long-lost child, in order to give an emotional turn to
their plays. Their dramatic ideas centred in the morality of the
drawingroom or the domestic circle. Even wickedness (except
when the exigencies of the plot required a melodramatic villain)
was a temporary lodger in a conscience-stricken breast; even
humour was appreciated only when a rugged but domesticated
character, such as a Scottish servant, almost travestied virtue by
an uncouth exterior.
Such was the class which gave the theatre its tone. But the
spectators who packed Drury lane and Covent garden were not
entirely composed of sentimentalists. The Mohawks, whom
Swift feared and Steele censured, had their descendants under
George III. Bullies in the pit, like footmen in the gallery, seemed
to have followed occupants of the boxes in matters of dramatic
taste; but they still regarded actors as lawful victims of their arro-
gance and insolence. On one occasion, they demanded that Moody
should beg their pardon on his knees for some imagined disrespect,
and such was their tyranny that, when Sheridan put Macbeth on
the stage, he feared a riot because Mrs Siddons omitted the candle
which their favourite Mrs Pritchard always carried in the sleep-
walking scene. The wouldbe playwright had other discouragements
to face besides dependence on an oversensitive, narrowminded and
intolerant public. Before the end of the century, plays sometimes
enjoyed a run of from twenty to sixty nights, and, as there were
not more than two theatres open at the same time, the un-
known author had often to suffer humiliations and to descend


## p. 262 (#284) ############################################

262 The Georgian Drama [CH.
to intrigues before his work could be accepted! Yet, neither
the generation of Walpole nor that of Burke lacked students of
human nature possessed of creative genius, who, like Goldsmith
and Sheridan, might possibly have surmounted all these difficulties
if a more direct path to the heart of the nation had not already
been found.
The drama's decline was the novel's opportunity. Ever since
the days of Lyly and Greene, prose fiction had become a possible
rival of the theatre; but the Elizabethan public was too gregarious,
and had inherited too deep a love of spectacle, to care to see life
through the unsociable medium of a book. After the revolution,
the influence of the theatre waned; but the middle class was
making its first acquaintance with culture, and, like all beginners,
required its lessons in a dogmatic, unequivocal form, such as
essays, satires and treatises. It was not till the middle of the
century that people seemed to have mastered the principles of
social ethics and began to enquire how those ideas applied to the
complex tangle of character and destiny. No doubt, the drama,
under favourable conditions, could have satisfied this curiosity.
Figaro is as effective as Roderick Random, and Minna von
Barnhelm shows what the stage could have made of The History
of Amelia. But the novel was better adapted to the speculations
of the time. The drama deals with crises in the lives of its chief
characters and, thus, is suited to an age of action or of transition,
when people are interested in the clash between old traditions and
new ideas. In the novel, life is treated like a piece of complex
machinery, to be pulled to pieces, carefully examined and then
patiently put together again. Thus, the novel is best adapted to
a generation which has already made up its mind about the frame-
work of society, and is now puzzling over the accidents of birth
and temperament which prevent many individuals from fitting
into the scheme. But, though tragedy and comedy decayed, the
theatre did not. During the last forty years of the eighteenth
century, a long succession of talented actors, from Macklin and
Foote to Kemble and Quick, revealed fresh sources of emotion
and raised their calling to an honourable profession. And, if few
Georgian plays can rank as literature, they yet provide an illu-
minating commentary on public sentiment and theatrical art.
In the sixties, amid musical entertainments such as Bicker-
staff's Padlock, which ran for fifty-three nights, adaptations from
1 See bibliography, under Theatrical Pamphlets.


## p. 263 (#285) ############################################

XII]
False Delicacy
Cumberland
263
Metastasio and from Voltaire and some fustian tragedies full of
duels and suicides, a taste for sentimental, or, as it was then called,
genteel, comedy prevailed. Even Goldsmith's The Good-Natur'd
Man (1767) did not bring back the public taste to 'nature and
humour in whatever walks of life they were most conspicuous. '
At Drury lane, Kelly, a few days previously, had produced False
Delicacy, which condensed into a clear-cut situation the doubts
and heart searchings of the fashionable world. Lady Betty
Lambton refuses the hand of her beloved Lord Winworth out of a
false sense of delicacy and then finds herself pledged to further
his courtship with Miss Marchmont Miss Marchmont is secretly
in love with Sidney, but feels bound to encourage Winworth’s
advances, because she is under many obligations to his seconder
Lady Betty. Of course, there is an underplot, with two comic
characters (Cecil and Mrs Harley); but the true spirit of the
comedy is found in the scene where Lady Lambton and Miss
Marchmont are at last induced to strip off the veneer of gentility
and disclose their real sentiments. Other plays followed the
same tone, such as Mrs Griffiths's School for Rakes (1769), in
which Lord Eustace, after abandoning the compromised Harriet
Mountfort for a marriage of convenience, is brought back by
Frampton's influence to a sense of duty; or Kelly's School for
Wives (1773), in which the farcical spectacle of a man who loves
his handsome wife, and yet pays court to all other women 'of
his circle, is tempered by scenes of domestic emotion. But the
dramatist who most conspicuously made his mark in this decade
is Richard Cumberland.
Cumberland was the pioneer of the later sentimental comedy.
He differed from his contemporaries in untying domestic tangles
by drastic and, sometimes, almost tragic action; and, thus,
he pointed the way to melodrama. Other dramatists of the
sixties and seventies had failed to strike this vein because they
confined the interest of the play to the correct and decorous
society in which the chief characters moved. Cumberland saw
that the leaven must come from without, and exposed the deca-
dence of artificial civilisation by confronting it with the vigorous
and earnest lives which men were leading away from London and
county society. In The Brothers (1769), the scene opens on a
bleak coast lashed by a furious storm ; a privateer is wrecked,
1 Hoole's Cyrus (1768), and Timanthes (1770).
* Madame Celisia’s Almida (1771).
3 See ante, vol. x, chap. IX.
q


## p. 264 (#286) ############################################

264 The Georgian Drama [CH.
whose crew of sturdy, if theatrical, pirates includes young
Belfield, who has been driven from his estate and sweetheart, and
Violetta, who has been forsaken by her husband. Both are
wronged by Belfield the elder who, now possessed of the neigh-
bouring manorhouse, is grinding the tenants and courting Sophia,
his brother's betrothed. The sudden arrival of the dispossessed
heir and of the abandoned wife, the frustration of the villain's
designs, the reunion of the lovers after mutual misunderstandings,
the contrast between the sea-rover, with his hardy companions,
and the decadent gentry who have gathered round the manor
hall', supply the humour and sentiment which were then in
fashion. It is undeniable that the characters do not really live,
while the idea of a cadet turned Bohemian through a kinsman's
criminal selfishness must have been familiar to readers of Fielding
and Smollett. Yet, The Brothers is noteworthy. Belfield the
elder is a villain in his actions more than in his nature, and
the good side of his character is gradually evolved as the play
proceeds; his final humiliation has none of the bitterness of
revenge ; and, all through the play, one feels something of the
health and freedom of the sea. The Brothers was produced in
December 1769 at Covent garden. In January 1771, Garrick
brought out at Drury lane The West Indian, in which the imagined
freedom and sincerity of the plantations come into contact with
city life. Stockwell, a prosperous business man and a member of
parliament, has summoned his illegitimate son from the West Indies
to London ; but, before declaring his relationship, decides to
watch his character in the disguise of a friend. The son, under
the name Belcour, arrives among an outworn and artificial
circle, composed of the penurious captain Dudley, lodging with his
son and daughter at the house of the Fulmers (the husband a
decayed literary man, the wife a procuress), and of Lady Rusport,
his sister, an avaricious puritan, who refuses money to her brother
and tries to thwart young Charles Dudley's courtship of her step-
daughter Charlotte. The intercourse between Stockwell and the son
whom he may not own gives free play to the sentimentality which
the age enjoyed? ; but the chief interest of the play centres in Louisa,
captain Dudley's daughter. The West Indian sees her in the street,
follows her home to the house of the Fulmers with tropical ardour
and begins an irregular courtship which brings out the emotional
elements of the play—the villainy of the Fulmers, who tell Belcour
1 E. g. , Sir Benjamin and Lady Dove, act 11, sc. 4; act in, sc. 3.
2 Act 111, sc. 1.
2


## p. 265 (#287) ############################################

X11]
Cumberland
265
that Miss Dudley is only a mistress and fleece him ; the sacredness
of women's honour; young Dudley's jealousy for his sister's good
name, leading to a challenge; and the gradual development of
Belcour's character, impulsive and licentious on the surface, but
showing itself full of courage and chivalry as the plot thickens.
Cumberland was now rapidly making a name and a fortune. Late
in the same year, he adapted Timon of Athens for the modern
stage, by shortening the first four acts and rewriting the fifth, and,
early in the next year? , Garrick produced The Fashionable Lover,
a purely domestic drama, reminiscent of Clarissa, of which the
principal figure is the elegant and rather mournful Augusta Aubrey.
Left to the care of a dishonest speculator, she is compromised by a
nobleman, courted by an ardent and honourable lover and, finally,
restored to happiness and affluence by the unexpected arrival of
her father from abroad.
Early in the seventies, public taste changed and became old-
fashioned. Cradock's Zobeide (1771) was copied from an un-
finished play by Voltaire; the anonymous A Hour before Marriage
(1772) was modelled on Molière's Mariage Forcé. O'Brien,
indeed, kept to sentimental comedy by producing The Duel (1772),
founded on Sedaine's Le Philosophe sans le Savoir; but, in the
same year, Mason composed Elfrida, with a Greek chorus.
Kenrick's Duellist (1773) was founded on the character of colonel
Bath in Amelia ; Colman the elder borrowed from Plautus and
Terence to produce Man of Business, and Cumberland drew
inspiration from Adelphi to write Choleric Man, both in 1774.
General Burgoyne, who, in age and associations, belonged to the
old school, now felt himself drawn to the theatre and produced
The Maid of the Oaks (1774), in which the irate parent of classical
comedy storms because his son marries without his consent, and
the witty and fashionable Lady Bab fools Dupely by disguising
herself in a fête champêtre. But the two authors who most
profited by, and influenced, this reversion to humour and episode
were Goldsmith and Sheridan.
She Stoops to Conquer (1773)2 is not original in plot, but the
characters are drawn from life, and, touched, as it is, by Gold-
smith's indescribable charm, the play became a revelation. It
reminded London how much instruction as well as amusement
1 20 January 1772.
See ante, vol. x, chap. IX.


## p. 266 (#288) ############################################

266 The Georgian Drama [ch.
might still be found in oldfashioned situations despite their
dramatic licence, provided only the morals and manners of the
characters would conform to the new standard. Sheridan, mean-
while, had achieved his romantic marriage and, being faced by
the problem of supporting a wife, decided to devote his literary
gifts to the now profitable business of playwriting. Like Gold-
smith, he reverted to classical comedy and chose, as the basis
of his plot, the marriage conflict between parent and child
which had come down from Terence through Italian and French
theatres? . A father and an aunt arrange a suitable marriage for
their respective son and niece, while the young people have
already chosen for themselves. Out of this hackneyed situation
he extracted the equally hackneyed humours of mistaken identity
and of domestic discord, but with a dramatic sense which borders on
genius. Miss Lydia Languish and captain Absolute are the young
pair destined for each other. Unknown to their elders, they are
already mutually in love; but, as Lydia has fallen a victim to the
craze for sentimentality, the wealthy captain pretends to be the
penniless ensign Beverley, so that their union may be to her,
unquestionably, a marriage of love. This attempt at a double
impersonation brings about some brilliant complications. Familiar
figures in domestic and social life are thrown off their guard and
betrayed, with admirable felicity, into weaknesses and absurdities
generally hidden from the public eye, and the enjoyment of the
spectators is all the more complete because the characters are
working for the same end and frustrate their several efforts
through misunderstandings.
The Rivals (1775) is a comedy of incident, the excellence of
which is partly to be found in the action. Its characterisation
is, in essence, conventional and shows less knowledge of human
nature than does Goldsmith's work. Captain Absolute the generous,
impulsive youth, Sir Anthony the testy, headstrong father, Fag and
Lucy the menials who minister to their employers' intrigues, are as
old as Latin comedy; Bob Acres, the blustering coward, is akin to
Sir Andrew Aguecheek and had trod the stage in Jonson's learned
sock; Sir Lucius O'Trigger is related to Cumberland's O'Flaherty;
Mrs Malaprop has a long pedigree, including Dogberry, Lady Froth,
Mrs Slipslop and Tabitha Bramble. Yet, apart from the actual
business on the stage, these characters are irresistibly effective.
As in the case of Goldsmith, Sheridan's importance is found in
1 For the sources and text of The Rivals, see works by Rae, W. F. , and Adams,
J. Q. , quoted in bibliography.


## p. 267 (#289) ############################################

XII]
The Rivals
267
the new wine which he poured into old bottles. The Georgian
public expected in their plays a certain piquancy which should
remind them of their social or domestic life. But, whereas authors
of the sentimental school flavoured their work with emotions
pertaining to woman's affairs, Sheridan perceived that there was
another element of good breeding, quite different but equally
modern. The expansion of the British empire had called into
existence a virile and energetic governing class of soldiers and
politicians. This aristocracy felt, as deeply as any ‘jessamy' or
‘macaroni,' the humanising influence of polite learning and domestic
refinement, yet with a difference. As society set a value on delicate
attentions, sympathetic and discerning compliments, subtle turns
of phrase and gracefulness of manner, these arts were cultivated
as an accomplishment in order to maintain social supremacy. The
class in question, did not, like sentimentalists, affect strong passions
beneath a veneer of politeness, but, rather, a superb serenity which
rose superior to all emotion. Drawingroom diplomacy had often
appeared in letters and memoirs ; but Sheridan was the first writer
to make it the essence of a play. Despite the conventionality of the
character-drawing and of some of the situations, The Rivals has
an atmosphere which satisfies this ideal. As each figure moves
and speaks on the stage, the reader is conscious of a coterie whose
shibboleth was distinction—a coterie whose conversation regarded
the most commonplace topics as worthy of its wit, which abhorred
eccentricity and smiled at all those who, like Fag, Sir Anthony,
Faulkland, Mrs Malaprop and Bob Acres, fell short of the rule of
easy selfpossession.
After some initial difficulties, The Rivals proved a complete
success and Sheridan was launched on his career as a dramatist.
The opportunities of quick returns which the theatre now offered
had their full influence even on an author of his literary taste and
dramatic sense. His next production, St Patrick's Day, is a
trifle composed with no other object than to make money by
amusing the public. The Duenna (1775) is an adaptation of old
material to suit the fashion for operas. We meet again the stage
old man ; his name is Don Jerome, instead of Sir Antony, but his
he is just as obstinate, irascible and wellbred. Then, we have
the victim of ignorance and selfcomplacency, this time a Jew and
not a garrulous and affected old woman, but his end is dramatic-
ally the same as Mrs Malaprop's. Comic situations, as in The
Rivals, arise out of mistaken identities, which are admissible
only in the makebelieve of a musical farce. The plot was taken
a


## p. 268 (#290) ############################################

268 The Georgian Drama [CH.
from Wycherley's The Country Wife, and, though the dialogue
has much of Sheridan's brilliant phrase-making and whimsical
humour, the chief literary merit of the play must be sought in
the lyrics, with their vigorous directness and touch of classical
culture.
While Sheridan was making money, he was also perfecting his
art. He showed how much of stagecraft he had learnt when,
in 1777, he adapted Vanbrugh's The Relapse to the taste of the
Georgian public and brought it out as A Trip to Scarborough.
No more striking illustration of Sheridan's manner could be found,
and its failure on the boards is merely another of those mysteries
familiar to all who study the annals of the stage. Vanbrugh's
play has a double plot. On the one hand, there is a sort of
picaresque adventure, in which a needy gallant, by impersonating
his elder brother in a love-suit, accomplishes his revenge on an
inimitable coxcomb and wins a wife and a fortune to boot. On
the other hand, there is a complicated intrigue. Loveless, the re-
formed libertine and now the virtuous husband of Amanda, finds
that his wife has, unwittingly, invited to the house one of his
former paramours, now a blithe widow, named Berinthia. Of
course, Loveless relapses, and Berinthia encourages another of her
admirers, named Worthy, to make love to Amanda, in order that
the wife may not be inclined to spy on her husband. In the end,
Loveless accomplishes his desire with Berinthia ; but her seducer is
rejected with horror by Amanda. Sheridan showed his mastery
of
construction by unifying the action. He made the first act a more
artistic exposition of the plot and economised both characters and
scenes by arranging that everything accessory should be narrated
instead of acted. Above all, he altered the motives and
actions of the characters to suit the more refined perceptions of
his own time. Berinthia is no longer a common adventuress,
nor does she urge Townley (the Worthy of The Relapse) to court
Amanda. She tempts Loveless in order to punish Townley for
transferring his attentions from herself to her friend. The guilty
couple are not exposed, but are shamed out of their design in a
situation of considerable tact and dramatic skill, which Sheridan
used again in The School for Scandal.