INTRODUCTION

James Sheridan Knowles was born at Cork in 1784, and died at Torquay in December, 1862, at the age of 78. His father was a teacher of elocution, who compiled a dictionary, and who was related to the Sheridans. He moved to London when his son was eight years old, and there became acquainted with William Hazlitt and Charles Lamb. The son, after his school education, obtained a commission in the army, but gave up everything for the stage, and made his first appearance at the Crow Street Theatre, in Dublin. He did not become a great actor, and when he took to writing plays he did not prove himself a great poet, but his skill in contriving situations through which a good actor can make his powers tell upon the public, won the heart of the great actor of his day, and as Macready’s own poet he rose to fame.

Before Macready had discovered him, Sheridan Knowles lived partly by teaching elocution at Belfast and Glasgow, partly by practice of elocution as an actor. In 1815 he produced at the Belfast Theatre his first play, Caius Gracchus. His next play, Virginius was produced at Glasgow with great success. Macready, who had, at the age of seventeen, begun his career as an actor at his father’s theatre in Birmingham, had, on Monday, October 5th, 1819, at the age of twenty-six, taken the Londoners by storm in the character of Richard III Covent Garden reopened its closed treasury. It was promptly followed by a success in Coriolanus, and Macready’s place was made. He was at once offered fifty pounds a night for appearing on one evening a week at Brighton. It was just after that turn in Macready’s fortunes that a friend at Glasgow recommended to him the part of Virginius in Sheridan Knowles’s play lately produced there. He agreed unwillingly to look at it, and says that in April, 1820, the parcel containing the MS. came as he was going out. He hesitated, then sat

down to read it that he might get a wearisome job over. As he read, he says, “The freshness and simplicity of the dialogue fixed my attention; I read on and on, and was soon absorbed in the interest of the story and the passion of its scenes, till at its close I found myself in such a state of excitement that for a time I was undecided what step to take. Impulse was in the ascendant, and snatching up my pen I hurriedly wrote, as my agitated feelings prompted, a letter to the author, to me then a perfect stranger.” Bryan Procter (Barry Cornwall) read the play next day with Macready, and confirmed him in his admiration of it.

Macready at once got it accepted at the theatre, where nothing was spent on scenery, but there was a good cast, and the enthusiasm of Macready as stage manager for the occasion half affronted some of his seniors. On the 17th of May, 1820, about a month after it came into Macready’s hands, Virginius was produced at Covent Garden, where, says the actor in his “Reminiscences,” “the curtain fell amidst the most deafening applause of a highly-excited auditory.” Sheridan Knowles’s fame, therefore, was made, like that of his friend Macready, and the friendship between author and actor continued. Sheridan Knowles had a kindly simplicity of character, and the two qualities for which an actor most prizes a dramatist, skill in providing opportunities for acting that will tell, and readiness to make any changes that the actor asks for. The postscript to his first letter to Macready was, “Make any alterations you like in any part of the play, and I shall be obliged to you.” When he brought to the great actor his play of William Tell—Caius Gracchus had been

produced in November, 1823—there were passages of writing in it that stopped the course of action, and, says Macready, “Knowles had less of the tenacity of authorship than most writers,” so that there was no difficulty about alterations, Macready having in a very high degree the tenacity of actorship. And so, in 1825, Tell became another of Macready’s best successes.

Sheridan Knowles continued to write for the stage until 1845, when he was drawn wholly from the theatre by a religious enthusiasm that caused him, in 1851, to essay the breaking of a lance with Cardinal Wiseman on the subject of Transubstantiation. Sir Robert Peel gave ease to his latter days by a pension of £200 a year from the Civil List, which he had honourably earned by a career as dramatist, in which he sought to appeal only to the higher sense of literature, and to draw enjoyment from the purest source. Of his plays time two comedies [1] here given are all that have kept their place upon the stage. As one of the most earnest dramatic writers of the present century he is entitled to a little corner in our memory. Worse work of the past has lasted longer than the plays of Sheridan Knowles are likely to last through the future.

H. M.

THE HUNCHBACK.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

(AS ORIGINALLY PERFORMED AT COVENT GARDEN IN 1832.)

Julia

Miss F. Kemble.

Helen

Miss Taylor.

Master Walter

Mr. J. S. Knowles.

Sir Thomas Clifford

Mr. C. Kemble.

Lord Tinsel

Mr. Wrench.

Master Wilford

Mr. J. Mason.

Modus

Mr. Abbott.

Master Heartwell

Mr. Evans.

Gaylove

Mr. Henry.

Fathom

Mr. Meadows.

Thomas

Mr. Barnes.

Stephen

Mr. Payne.

Williams

Mr. Irwin.

Simpson

Mr. Brady.

Waiter

Mr. Heath.

Holdwell

Mr. Bender.

Servants

Mr. J. Cooper. Mr. Lollett.

ACT I.

SCENE I.—A Tavern.

On one side Sir Thomas Clifford, at a table, with wine before him; on the other, Master Wilford, Gaylove, Holdwell, and Simpson, likewise taking wine.

Wilf. Your wine, sirs! your wine! You do not justice to mine host of the Three Tuns, nor credit to yourselves; I swear the beverage is good! It is as palatable poison as you will purchase within a mile round Ludgate! Drink, gentlemen; make free. You know I am a man of expectations; and hold my money as light as the purse in which I carry it.

Gay. We drink, Master Wilford. Not a man of us has been chased as yet.

Wilf. But you fill not fairly, sirs! Look at my measure! Wherefore a large glass, if not for a large draught? Fill, I pray you, else let us drink out of thimbles! This will never do for the friends of the nearest of kin to the wealthiest peer in Britain.

Gay. We give you joy, Master Wilford, of the prospect of advancement which has so unexpectedly opened to you.

Wilf. Unexpectedly indeed! But yesterday arrived the news that the Earl’s only son and heir had died; and to-day has the Earl himself been seized with a mortal illness. His dissolution is looked for hourly; and I, his cousin in only the third degree, known to him but to be unnoticed by him—a decayed gentleman’s son—glad of the title and revenues of a scrivener’s clerk—am the undoubted successor to his estates and coronet.

Gay. Have you been sent for?

Wilf. No; but I have certified to his agent, Master Walter, the Hunchback, my existence, and peculiar propinquity; and momentarily expect him here.

Gay. Lives there anyone that may dispute your claim—I mean vexatiously?

Wilf. Not a man, Master Gaylove. I am the sole remaining branch of the family tree.

Gay. Doubtless you look for much happiness from this change of fortune?

Wilf. A world! Three things have I an especial passion for. The finest hound, the finest horse, and the finest wife in the kingdom, Master Gaylove!

Gay. The finest wife?

Wilf. Yes, sir; I marry. Once the earldom comes into my line, I shall take measures to perpetuate its remaining there. I marry, sir! I do not say that I shall love. My heart has changed mistresses too often to settle down in one servitude now, sir. But fill, I pray you, friends. This, if I mistake not, is the day whence I shall date my new fortunes; and, for that reason, hither have I invited you, that, having been so long my boon companions, you shall be the first to congratulate me.

[Enter Waiter]

Waiter. You are wanted, Master Wilford.

Wilf. By whom?

Waiter. One Master Walter.

Wilf. His lordship’s agent! News, sirs! Show him in!

[Waiter goes out]

My heart’s a prophet, sirs—The Earl is dead.

[Enter Master Walter]

Well, Master Walter. How accost you me?

Wal. As your impatience shows me you would have me. My Lord, the Earl of Rochdale!

Gay. Give you joy!

Hold. All happiness, my lord!

Simp. Long life and health unto your lordship!

Gay. Come! We’ll drink to his lordship’s health! ’Tis two o’clock, We’ll e’en carouse till midnight! Health, my lord!

Hold. My lord, much joy to you!

Simp. All good to your lordship!

Wal. Give something to the dead!

Gay. Give what?

Wal. Respect! He has made the living! First to him that’s gone, Say “Peace!”—and then with decency to revels!

Gay. What means the knave by revels?

Wal. Knave?

Gay. Ay, knave!

Wal. Go to! Thou’rt flushed with wine!

Gay. Thou sayest false! Though didst thou need a proof thou speakest true, I’d give thee one. Thou seest but one lord here, And I see two!

Wal. Reflect’st thou on my shape? Thou art a villain!

Gay. [Starting up.] Ha!

Wal. A coward, too! Draw!

[Drawing his sword.]

Gay. Only mark him! how he struts about! How laughs his straight sword at his noble back.

Wal. Does it? It cuffs thee for a liar then!

[Strikes Gaylove with his sword.]

Gay. A blow!

Wal. Another, lest you doubt the first!

Gay. His blood on his own head! I’m for you, sir!

[Draws.]

Clif. Hold, sir! This quarrel’s mine!

[Coming forward and drawing.]

Wal. No man shall fight for me, sir!

Clif. By your leave, Your patience, pray! My lord, for so I learn Behoves me to accost you—for your own sake Draw off your friend!

Wal. Not till we have a bout, sir!

Clif. My lord, your happy fortune ill you greet! Ill greet it those who love you—greeting thus The herald of it!

Wal. Sir, what’s that to you? Let go my sleeve!

Clif. My lord, if blood be shed On the fair dawn of your prosperity, Look not to see the brightness of its day. ’Twill be o’ercast throughout!

Gay. My lord, I’m struck!

Clif. You gave the first blow, and the hardest one! Look, sir; if swords you needs must measure, I’m Your mate, not he!

Wal. I’m mate for any man!

Clif. Draw off your friend, my lord, for your own sake!

Wilf. Come, Gaylove! let’s have another room.

Gay. With all my heart, since ’tis your lordship’s will.

Wilf. That’s right! Put up! Come, friends!

[Wilford and Friends go out.]

Wal. I’ll follow him! Why do you hold me? ’Tis not courteous of you! Think’st thou I fear them? Fear! I rate them but As dust! dross! offals! Let me at them!—Nay, Call you this kind? then kindness know I not; Nor do I thank you for’t! Let go, I say!

Clif. Nay, Master Walter, they’re not worth your wrath.

Wal. How know you me for Master Walter? By My hunchback, eh!—my stilts of legs and arms, The fashion more of ape’s than man’s? Aha! So you have heard them, too—their savage gibes As I pass on,—“There goes my lord!” aha! God made me, sir, as well as them and you. ’Sdeath! I demand of you, unhand me, sir!

Clif. There, sir, you’re free to follow them! Go forth, And I’ll go too: so on your wilfulness Shall fall whate’er of evil may ensue. Is’t fit you waste your choler on a burr? The nothings of the town; whose sport it is To break their villain jests on worthy men, The graver still the fitter! Fie for shame! Regard what such would say? So would not I, No more than heed a cur.

Wal. You’re right, sir; right, For twenty crowns! So there’s my rapier up! You’ve done me a good turn against my will; Which, like a wayward child, whose pet is off, That made him restive under wholesome check, I now right humbly own, and thank you for.

Clif. No thanks, good Master Walter, owe you me! I’m glad to know you, sir.

Wal. I pray you, now, How did you learn my name? Guessed I not right? Was’t not my comely hunch that taught it you?

Clif. I own it.

Wal. Right, I know it; you tell truth. I like you for’t.

Clif. But when I heard it said That Master Walter was a worthy man, Whose word would pass on ’change soon as his bond; A liberal man—for schemes of public good That sets down tens, where others units write; A charitable man—the good he does, That’s told of, not the half; I never more Could see the hunch on Master Walter’s back!

Wal. You would not flatter a poor citizen?

Clif. Indeed, I flatter not!

Wal. I like your face— A frank and honest one! Your frame’s well knit, Proportioned, shaped!

Clif. Good sir!

Wal. Your name is Clifford— Sir Thomas Clifford. Humph! You’re not the heir Direct to the fair baronetcy? He That was, was drowned abroad. Am I not right? Your cousin, was’t not?—so succeeded you To rank and wealth, your birth ne’er promised you.

Clif. I see you know my history.

Wal. I do. You’re lucky who conjoin the benefits Of penury and abundance; for I know Your father was a man of slender means. You do not blush, I see. That’s right! Why should you? What merit to be dropped on fortune’s hill? The honour is to mount it. You’d have done it; For you were trained to knowledge, industry, Frugality, and honesty,—the sinews That surest help the climber to the top, And keep him there. I have a clerk, Sir Thomas, Once served your father; there’s the riddle for you. Humph! I may thank you for my life to-day.

Clif. I pray you say not so.

Wal. But I will say so! Because I think so, know so, feel so, sir! Your fortune, I have heard, I think, is ample! And doubtless you live up to’t?

Clif. ’Twas my rule, And is so still, to keep my outlay, sir, A span within my means.

Wal. A prudent rule! The turf is a seductive pastime!

Clif. Yes.

Wal. You keep a racing stud? You bet?

Clif. No, neither. ’Twas still my father’s precept—“Better owe A yard of land to labour, than to chance Be debtor for a rood!”

Wal. ’Twas a wise precept. You’ve a fair house—you’ll get a mistress for it?

Clif. In time!

Wal. In time! ’Tis time thy choice were made. Is’t not so yet? Or is thy lady love The newest still thou seest?

Clif. Nay, not so. I’d marry, Master Walter, but old use— For since the age of thirteen I have lived In the world—has made me jealous of the thing That flattered me with hope of profit. Bargains Another would snap up, might be for me: Till I had turned and turned them! Speculations, That promised, twenty, thirty, forty, fifty, Ay, cent-per-cent. returns, I would not launch in, When others were afloat, and out at sea; Whereby I made small gains, but missed great losses. As ever, then, I looked before I leaped, So do I now.

Wal. Thou’rt all the better for it! Let’s see! Hand free—heart whole—well-favoured—so! Rich, titled! Let that pass!—kind, valiant, prudent— Sir Thomas, I can help thee to a wife, Hast thou the luck to win her!

Clif. Master Walter! You jest!

Wal. I do not jest. I like you! mark— I like you, and I like not everyone! I say a wife, sir, can I help you to, The pearly texture of whose dainty skin Alone were worth thy baronetcy! Form And feature has she, wherein move and glow The charms, that in the marble, cold and still, Culled by the sculptor’s jealous skill and joinèd there, Inspire us! Sir, a maid, before whose feet, A duke—a duke might lay his coronet, To lift her to his state, and partner her! A fresh heart too!—a young fresh heart, sir; one That Cupid has not toyed with, and a warm one— Fresh, young, and warm! mark that! a mind to boot; Wit, sir; sense, taste;—a garden strictly tended— Where nought but what is costly flourishes! A consort for a king, sir! Thou shalt see her!

Clif. I thank you, Master Walter! As you speak, Methinks I see me at the altar-foot! Her hand fast locked in mine!—the ring put on! My wedding-bell rings merry in my ear; And round me throng glad tongues that give me joy To be the bridegroom of so fair a bride!

Wal. What! sparks so thick? We’ll have a blaze anon!

Servant. [Entering.] The chariot’s at the door.

Wal. It waits in time! Sir Thomas, it shall bear thee to the bower Where dwells this fair—for she’s no city belle, But e’en a sylvan goddess!

Clif. Have with you!

Wal. You’ll bless the day you served the Hunchback, sir!

[They go out.]

SCENE II.—A Garden before a Country House.

[Enter Julia and Helen.]

Helen. I like not, Julia, this your country life. I’m weary on’t!

Julia. Indeed? So am not I! I know no other; would no other know!

Helen. You would no other know! Would you not know Another relative?—another friend— Another house—another anything, Because the ones you have already please you? That’s poor content! Would you not be more rich, More wise, more fair? The song that last you learned You fancy well; and therefore shall you learn No other song? Your virginal, ’tis true, Hath a sweet tone; but does it follow thence, You shall not have another virginal? You may, love, and a sweeter one; and so A sweeter life may find than this you lead!

Julia. I seek it not. Helen, I’m constancy!

Helen. So is a cat, a dog, a silly hen, An owl, a bat,—where they are wont to lodge That still sojourn, nor care to shift their quarters. Thou’rt constancy? I am glad I know thy name! The spider comes of the same family, That in his meshy fortress spends his life, Unless you pull it down and scare him from it. And so thou’rt constancy? Ar’t proud of that? I’ll warrant thee I’ll match thee with a snail From year to year that never leaves his house! Such constancy forsooth!—a constant grub That houses ever in the self-same nut Where he was born, till hunger drives him out, Or plunder breaketh through his castle wall! And so, in very deed, thou’rt constancy!

Julia. Helen, you know the adage of the tree;— I’ve ta’en the bend. This rural life of mine, Enjoined me by an unknown father’s will, I’ve led from infancy. Debarred from hope Of change, I ne’er have sighed for change. The town To me was like the moon, for any thought I e’er should visit it—nor was I schooled To think it half so fair!

Helen. Not half so fair! The town’s the sun, and thou hast dwelt in night E’er since thy birth, not to have seen the town! Their women there are queens, and kings their men; Their houses palaces!

Julia. And what of that? Have your town-palaces a hall like this? Couches so fragrant? walls so high-adorned? Casements with such festoons, such prospects, Helen, As these fair vistas have? Your kings and queens! See me a May-day queen, and talk of them!

Helen. Extremes are ever neighbours. ’Tis a step From one to the other! Were thy constancy A reasonable thing—a little less Of constancy—a woman’s constancy— I should not wonder wert thou ten years hence The maid I know thee now; but, as it is, The odds are ten to one, that this day year Will see our May-day queen a city one!

Julia. Never! I’m wedded to a country life: O, did you hear what Master Walter says! Nine times in ten the town’s a hollow thing, Where what things are is nought to what they show; Where merit’s name laughs merit’s self to scorn! Where friendship and esteem that ought to be The tenants of men’s hearts, lodge in their looks And tongues alone. Where little virtue, with A costly keeper, passes for a heap; A heap for none that has a homely one! Where fashion makes the law—your umpire which You bow to, whether it has brains or not! Where Folly taketh off his cap and bells, To clap on Wisdom, which must bear the jest! Where to pass current you must seem the thing, The passive thing, that others think; and not Your simple, honest, independent self!

Helen. Ay: so says Master Walter. See I not What can you find in Master Walter, Julia, To be so fond of him!