the indifference to every-day probability, and the moral teaching of contemporary tragedy are fully adopted; its violent emotions are toned down to a degree which will not rend the frailer fabric of comedy, and become sentimentalism; so far as possible its poetic vesture is preserved. In The Conscious Lovers much of the talk is not meant to be that of daily life; it is formal, rhetorical, rhythmical, and, toward the end especially, much of it is actually blank verse (though printed as prose). This heavy and edifying side of the play is relieved by comic elements, partly realistic (as in the talk of Tom), partly fantastic (as in the figure of Cimberton and in the various disguises). But the lighter element is made to know its place; sentimentalism in the person of Lucinda rebukes comedy in the person of Phillis as 66 a pert merry hussy (III. i). The novelty and a certain merit in the combination gave it success with the uncritical; and though it was fair game for the ridicule it was to receive from the great comic dramatists, Goldsmith and Sheridan, even

the critical will give a certain sympathy to its well-meaning optimism. This is the fundamental trait it has in common with contemporary tragedy, and is also what gave the type its long life. The improving sentiments poured out, and the upright intentions of the characters, seem to gain validity and even divine approval from the complete satisfaction in which everything ends. The picture of life afforded by the play justifies the moral optimism of the concluding couplet:

Whate'er the generous mind itself denies,
The secret care of Providence supplies.

The Conscious Lovers was played in the principal theaters of London for generations, and sentimentalism more or less modified has lived on even to the present day, in dramas of lower grade; more important yet, it built itself a more stately mansion in the novel, beginning with Richardson. Sometimes combined with romance, it flourished in the nineteenth century, and is one of the main elements in the novels of Dickens.

MRS. SEALAND, second Wife to SEALAND.
ISABELLA, Sister to SEALAND.

INDIANA, SEALAND'S Daughter, by his first
Wife.

LUCINDA, SEALAND'S Daughter, by his second Wife.

PHILLIS, Maid to LUCINDA.

SCENE.-London.

without much sickness, care, or labor. Sir J. Bev. Thou hast a brave constitution; you are a year or two older than I am, sirrah.

Humph. You have ever been of that mind, sir.

Sir J. Bev. You knave, you know it; I took thee for thy gravity and sobriety, in my wild years.

Humph. Ah, sir! our manners were

*The kind of story which is presented on the stage ought to be marked by gaiety of dialogue, diversity of character, seriousness, tenderness, hope, fear, suspicion, desire, dissimulation, pity, variety of events, changes of fortune, unexpected disaster, sudden joy, and a happy ending.

formed from our different fortunes, not our different age. Wealth gave a loose to your youth, and poverty put a restraint upon mine.

Sir J. Bev. Well, Humphry, you know I have been a kind master to you; I have used you, for the ingenuous nature I observed in you from the beginning, more like an humble friend than a servant.

Humph. I humbly beg you'll be so tender

of me as to explain your commands, sir, without any farther preparation. Sir J. Bev. I'll tell thee, then: In the first place, this wedding of my son's in all probability-shut the door-will never be at all.

Humph. How, sir! not be at all? for what reason is it carried on in appearance? Sir J. Bev. Honest Humphry, have patience; and I'll tell thee all in order. I have, myself, in some part of my life, lived (indeed) with freedom, but, I hope, without reproach. Now, I thought liberty would be as little injurious to my son; therefore, as soon as he grew towards man, I indulged him in living after his own manner. I knew not how, otherwise, to judge of his inclination; for what can be concluded from a behavior under restraint and fear? But what charms me above all expression is, that my son has never, in the least action, the most distant hint or word, valued himself upon that great estate of his mother's, which, according to our marriage settlement, he has had ever since he came to age.

Humph. No, sir; on the contrary, he seems afraid of appearing to enjoy it, before you or any belonging to you. He is as dependent and resigned to your will as if he had not a farthing but what must come from your immediate bounty. You have ever acted like a good and generous father, and he like an obedient and grateful son.

Sir J. Bev. Nay, his carriage is so easy to all with whom he converses, that he is never assuming, never prefers himself to others, nor ever is guilty of that rough sincerity which a man is not called to, and certainly disobliges most of his acquaintance; to be short, Humphry, his reputation was so fair in the world, that old Sealand, the great Indian merchant, has offered his only daughter, and sole heiress to that vast estate of his, as a wife for him. You may be sure I made

no difficulties, the match was agreed on, and this very day named for the wedding. Humph. What hinders the proceeding? Sir J. Bev. Don't interrupt me. You know I was last Thursday at the masquerade; my son, you may remember, soon found us out. He knew his grandfather's habit, which I then wore; and though it was the mode, in the last age, yet the masquers, you know, followed us as if we had been the most monstrous figures in that whole assembly. Humph. I remember, indeed, a young man of quality in the habit of a clown, that was particularly troublesome. Sir J. Bev. Right; he was too much what he seemed to be. You remember how impertinently he followed and teased us, and would know who we were. Humph. I know he has a mind to come into that particular.

(Aside.)

Sir J. Bev. Ay, he followed us till the gentleman who led the lady in the Indian mantle presented that gay creature to the rustic, and bid him (like Cymon in the fable) grow polite by falling in love, and let that worthy old gentleman alone, meaning me. The clown was not reformed, but rudely persisted, and of fered to force off my mask; with that, the gentleman, throwing off his own, appeared to be my son, and in his concern for me, tore off that of the nobleman: at this they seized each other; the company called the guards, and in the surprise the lady swooned away; upon which my son quitted his adversary, and had now no care but of the lady. When raising her in his arms, "Art thou gone." cried he, "for ever?-forbid it, Heaven!" She revived at his known voice, and with the most familiar, though modest, gesture, hangs in safety over his shoulder weeping, but wept as in the arms of one before whom she could give herself a loose, were she not under observation: while she hides her face in his neck, he carefully conveys her from the com

served in France. Now this unexpected and public discovery of my son's so deep concern for her

Humph. Was what, I suppose, alarmed
Mr. Sealand, in behalf of his daughter,
to break off the match?
Sir J. Bev. You are right.

He came to me yesterday and said he thought himself disengaged from the bargain; being credibly informed my son was already married, or worse, to the lady at the masquerade. I palliated matters, and insisted on our agreement; but we parted with little less than a direct breach between us.

Humph. Well, sir; and what notice have you taken of all this to my young master?

Sir J. Bev. That's what I wanted to debate with you. I have said nothing to him yet-but look you, Humphry, if there is so much in this amour of his, that he denies upon my summons to marry, I have cause enough to be offended; and then by my insisting upon his marrying to-day, I shall know how far he is engaged to this lady. in masquerade, and from thence only shall be able to take my measures. In the mean

time I would have you find out how far that rogue, his man, is let into his secret. He, I know, will play tricks as much to cross me, as to serve his master. Humph. Why do you think so of him, sir? I believe he is no worse than I was for you, at your son's age. Sir J. Bev. I see it in the rascal's looks. But I have dwelt on these things too long; I'll go to my son immediately, and while I'm gone, your part is to convince his rogue, Tom, that I am in earnest. I'll leave him to you.

(Exit Sir John Bevil.) Humph. Well, though this father and son live as well together as possible, yet their fear of giving each other pain is attended with constant mutual uneasiness. I'm sure I have enough to do to be honest, and yet keep well with them both. But they know I love 'em, and that makes the task less painful, however. Oh, here's the prince of poor coxcombs, the representative of all the better fed than taught. Ho! ho! Tom, whither so gay and so airy this morning?

(Enter Tom, singing.)

Tom. Sir, we servants of single gentlemen are another kind of people than you domestic ordinary drudges that do business; we are raised above you. The pleasures of board wages, tavern dinners, and many a clear gain; vails,1 alas! you never heard or dreamt of. Humph. Thou hast follies and vices enough for a man of ten thousand a year, though 't is but as t'other day that I sent for you to town to put you into Mr. Sealand's family, that you might learn a little before I put you to my young master, who is too gentle for training such a rude thing as you were into proper obedience. You then pulled off your hat to every one you met in the street, like a bashful great awkward cub as you were. But your great oaken cudgel, when you were a booby, became you much better than that dangling stick at your button, now you are a fop. That's fit for nothing, except it hangs there to be ready for your master's hand when you are impertinent. Tom. Uncle Humphry, you know my master scorns to strike his servants. You talk as if the world was now just as it was when my old master and you were in your youth; when you went to dinner because it was so much o'clock, when the great blow was given in the hall at the pantry door, and all the family came out of their holes in such strange dresses and formal faces as you see in the pictures in our long gallery in the country.

Humph. Why, you wild rogue! Tom. You could not fall to your dinner till a formal fellow in a black gown said something over the meat, as if the cook had not made it ready enough. Humph. Sirrah, who do you prate after? Despising men of sacred characters! I hope you never heard my good young master talk so like a profligate. Tom. Sir, I say you put upon me, when I first came to town, about being orderly, and the doctrine of wearing shams to make linen last clean a fortnight, keeping my clothes fresh, and wearing a frock within doors. Humph. Sirrah, I gave you those lessons because I supposed at that time your master and you might have dined at home every day, and cost you nothing; then you might have made a good family servant. But the gang you have fre

quented since at chocolate houses and taverns, in a continual round of noise and extravaganceTom. I don't know what you heavy inmates call noise and extravagance; but we gentlemen, who are well fed, and cut a figure, sir, think it a fine life, and that we must be very pretty fellows who are kept only to be looked at. Humph. Very well, sir, I hope the fashion of being lewd and extravagant, despising of decency and order, is almost at an end, since it is arrived at persons of your quality.

Tom. Master Humphry, ha! ha! you were an unhappy lad to be sent up to town in such queer days as you were. Why, now, sir, the lackeys are the men of pleasure of the age, the top gamesters; and many a laced coat about town have had their education in our party-colored regiment. We are false lovers; have a taste of music, poetry, billet-doux, dress, politics; ruin damsels; and when we are tired of this lewd town, and have a mind to take up,2 whip into our masters' wigs and linen, and marry fortunes. Humph. Hey-day!

3

Tom. Nay, sir, our order is carried up to the highest dignities and distinctions; step but into the Painted Chamber,3 and by our titles you'd take us all for men of quality. Then, again, come down to the Court of Requests, and you see us all laying our broken heads together for the good of the nation; and though we never carry a question nemine contradicente, yet this I can say, with a safe conscience (and I wish every gentleman of our cloth could lay his hand upon his heart and say the same), that I never took so much as a single mug of beer for my vote in all my life.

Humph. Sirrah, there is no enduring your extravagance; I'll hear you prate no longer. I wanted to see you to enquire how things go with your master, as far as you understand them; I suppose he knows he is to be married to-day. Tom. Ay, sir, he knows it, and is dressed

as gay as the sun; but, between you and I, my dear, he has a very heavy heart under all that gaiety. As soon as he was dressed I retired, but overheard him sigh in the most heavy manner.

2 reform.

3 Apparently tav.

erns or rooms in

He

walked thoughtfully to and fro in the room, then went into his closet; when he came out he gave me this for his mistress, whose maid, you know— Humph. Is passionately fond of your fine

person.

Tom. The poor fool is so tender, and loves to hear me talk of the world, and the plays, operas, and ridottos 5 for the winter, the parks and Belsize for our summer diversions; and "Lard!" says she, "you are so wild, but you have a world of humor." Humph. Coxcomb! Well, but why don't you run with your master's letter to Mrs. Lucinda, as he ordered you?

Tom. Because Mrs. Lucinda is not so easily come at as you think for. Humph. Not easily come at? Why, sirrah, are not her father and my old master agreed that she and Mr. Bevil are to be one flesh before to-morrow morning?

Tom. It's no matter for that; her mother, it seems, Mrs. Sealand, has not agreed to it; and you must know, Mr. Humphry, that in that family the grey mare is the better horse.

Humph. What dost thou mean? Tom. In one word, Mrs. Sealand pretends to have a will of her own, and has provided a relation of hers, a stiff, starched philosopher, and a wise fool, for her daughter; for which reason, for these ten days past, she has suffered no message nor letter from my master to come near her.

Humph. And where had you this intelligence?

Tom. From a foolish fond soul that can keep nothing from me; one that will deliver this letter too, if she is rightly managed.

Humph. What! her pretty handmaid, Mrs. Phillis?

Tom. Even she, sir; this is the very

hour, you know, she usually comes hither, under a pretence of a visit to your housekeeper, forsooth, but in reality to have a glance at

Humph. Your sweet face, I warrant you. Tom. Nothing else in nature; you must know, I love to fret and play with the little wanton.

Humph. Play with the little wanton! What will this world come to!

a tavern, named 4 unanimously.

year of this play (Oxf. Dict.).

fashionable pleasure resort in

the northwest of London.

Tom. I met her this morning in a new manteau and petticoat, not a bit the worse for her lady's wearing; and she has always new thoughts and new airs with new clothes-then she never fails to steal some glance or gesture from every visitant at their house; and is, indeed, the whole town of coquets at second-hand. But here she comes; in one motion she speaks and describes herself better than all the words in the world can.

Humph. Then I hope, dear sir, when your own affair is over, you will be so good as to mind your master's with her. Tom. Dear Humphry, you know my master is my friend, and those are people I never forget.

Ilumph. Sauciness itself! but I'll leave you to do your best for him.

Tom. What! a sad thing to walk? Why, Madam Phillis, do you wish yourself lame?

Phil. No, Mr. Tom, but I wish I were generally carried in a coach or chair, and of a fortune neither to stand nor go, but to totter, or slide, to be shortsighted, or stare, to fleer in the face, to look distant, to observe, to overlook, yet all become me; and, if I was rich, I could twire and loll as well as the best of them. Oh, Tom! Tom! is it not a pity that you should be so great a coxcomb, and I so great a coquet, and yet be such poor devils as we are?

Tom. Mrs. Phillis, I am your humble servant for that

Phil. Yes, Mr. Thomas, I know how much you are my humble servant, and know what you said to Mrs. Judy, upon seeing her in one of her lady's cast manteaus: That any one would have thought her the lady, and that she had ordered the other to wear it till it sat easy; for now only it was becoming.

7 "Make eyes," ogle.

To my lady it was only a covering, to Mrs. Judy it was a habit. This you said, after somebody or other. Oh, Tom! Tom! thou art as false and as base as the best gentleman of them all; but, you wretch, talk to me no more on the old odious subject-don't, I say. Tom. I know not how to resist your commands, madam.

(In a submissive tone, retiring.) Phil. Commands about parting are grown mighty easy to you of late.

Tom. Oh, I have her; I have nettled and put her into the right temper to be wrought upon and set a-prating. (Aside.)-Why, truly, to be plain with you, Mrs. Phillis, I can take little comfort of late in frequenting your house. Phil. Pray, Mr. Thomas, what is it all of a sudden offends your nicety at our house?

Tom. I don't care to speak particulars, but I dislike the whole.

Phil. I thank you, sir, I am a part of that whole.

Tom. Mistake me not, good Phillis. Phil. Good Phillis! Saucy enough. But however

Tom. I say, it is that thou art a part, which gives me pain for the disposition of the whole. You must know, madam, to be serious, I am a man, at the bottom, of prodigious nice honor. You are too much exposed to company at your house. To be plain, I don't like so many, that would be your mistress's lovers, whispering to you.

Phil. Don't think to put that upon me. You say this, because I wrung you to the heart when I touched your guilty conscience about Judy.

Tom. Ah, Phillis! Phillis! if you but knew my heart!

Phil. I know too much on 't.
Tom. Nay, then, poor Crispo's fate and

mine are one. Therefore give me leave to say, or sing at least, as he does upon the same occasion