The school for scandal: a comedy; as it is performed at the Theatres-Royal, in London and Dublin.

ACT I.

SCENE Lady SNEERWELL'S House.

Lady SNEERWELL and SNAKE discovered at a tea-table.

Lady SNEERWELL.

THE paragraphs, you say, Mr. Snake, were all inserted.

Snake.

They were, Madam; and as I copied them myself in a seigned hand, there can be no suspicion from whence they came.

L. Sneerwell.

Did you circulate the report of Lady Brittle's intrigue with Captain Boastall?

Snake.

That's in as fine a train as your Ladyship could wish; in the common course of things, I think it must reach Mrs. Clacket's ears within twenty-four hours, and then the business, you know, is as good as done.

L. Sneerwell.

Why yes, Mrs. Clacket has talents, and a great deal of industry.

Snake.

True Madam, and has been tolerably suc|cessful in her day; to my knowledge she has been the cause of six matches being broken off, and three sons disinherited; of four forced elopments, as many close confinements, nine separate maintenances, and two di|vorces; —nay, I have more than once traced her cau|sing a tete a tete in the Town and Country Magazine,

when the parties never saw one another before in the whole course of their lives.

L. Sneerwell.

Why yes, she has genius, but her manner is too gross.

Snake.

True, Madam; she has a fine tongue, and a bold invention; but then her colouring is too dark, and the outlines rather too extravagant; she wants that delicacy of hint, and mellowness of sneer, which dis|tinguishes your Ladyship's scandal.

L. Sneerwell.

You are partial, Snake.

Snake.

Not in the least; every body will allow that Lady Sneerwell can do more with a word or look than many others with the most laboured detail, even though they accidentally happen to have a little truth on their side to support it.

L. Sneerwell.

Yes, my dear Snake, and I'll not deny the pleasure I feel at the success of my schemes;

(both rise)

wounded myself, in the early part of my life, by the envenomed tongue of slander, I confess nothing can give me greater satisfaction, than reducing others to the level of my own injured reputation.

Snake.

True, Madam; but there is one affair, in which you have lately employed me, wherein, I confess, I am at a loss to guess at your motives.

L. Sneerwell.

I presume you mean with regard to my friend Sir Peter Teazle, and his family.

Snake.

I do; here are two young men, to whom Sir Peter has acted as guardian since their father's death; the eldest possessing the most amiable character, and universally well spoken of; the youngest the most dis|sipated, wild, extravagant young fellow in the world; the former an avowed admirer of your Ladyship, and apparently your favourite; the latter attached to Maria, Sir Peter's ward, and confessedly admired by her: Now,

on the face of these circumstances, it is utterly un|accountable to me, why you, the widow of a city Knight, with a large fortune, should not immediately close with the passion of a man of such character and expectation as Mr. Surface; and more so, why you are so uncommonly earnest to destroy the mutual attach|ment subsisting between his brother Charles and Maria.

L. Sneerwell.

Then at once, to unravel this mystery, I must inform you, that love has no share whatever in the intercourse between Mr. Surface and me.

Snake.

No!—

L. Sneerwell.

No! his real views are to Maria, or her fortune, while in his brother he finds a favoured rival; he is, therefore, obliged to mask his real inten|tions, and profit by my assistance.

Snake.

Yet still I am more puzzled why you should interest yourself for his success.

L. Sneerwell.

Heavens! how dull you are! can't you surmise a weakness I have hitherto through shame con|cealed even from you? Must I confess it that Charles, that profligate, that libertine, that bankrupt in fortune and reputation, that he it is for whom I am thus anxi|ous and malicious; and to gain whom I would sacrifice every thing.

Snake.

Now, indeed, your conduct appears consist|ent; but pray how came you and Mr. Surface so con|fidential?

L. Sneerwell.

For our mutual interest; he pretends to, and recommends sentiment and liberality, but I know him to be artful, close and malicious. In short, a sentimental knave, while with Sir Peter, and indeed with most of his acquaintances he passes for a youth|ful miracle of virtue, good sense, and benevolence.

Snake.

Yes, I know Sir Peter vows he has not his fellow in England, and has praised him as a man of character and sentiment.

L. Sneerwell.

Yes; and with the appearance of be|ing sentimental, he has brought Sir Peter to favour his addresses to Maria, while poor Charles has no friend in the house, though I fear he has a powerful one in Maria's heart, against whom we must direct our schemes.

Enter SERVANT.

Servant.

Mr. Surface, Madam.

L. Sneerwell.

Shew him up

(exit Servant)

he ge|nerally calls about this hour—I don't wonder at peo|ple's giving him to me for a lover.

Enter JOSEPH SURFACE.

Joseph.

Lady Sneerwell, good morning to you— Mr. Snake your most obedient.

L. Sneerwell.

Snake has just been rallying me up|on our attachment, but I have told him our real views; I need not tell you how useful he has been to us, and believe me, our confidence has not been ill placed.

Joseph.

Oh, Madam, 'tis impossible for me to sus|pect a man of Mr. Snake's merit and accomplish|ments.

L. Sneerwell.

Oh, no compliments; but tell me when you saw Maria, or what's more material to us, your brother.

Joseph.

I have not seen either since I left you, but I can tell you they never met; some of your stories have had a good effect in that quarter.

L. Sneerwell.

The merit of this, my dear Snake, be|longs to you; but do your brother's distresses increase?

Joseph.

Every hour! I am told he had another exe|cution

in his house yesterday—in short, his dissipation and extravagance exceeds any thing I ever heard.

L. Sneerwell.

Poor Charles!

Joseph.

Aye, Poor Charles indeed! notwithstand|ing his extravagance one cannot help pitying him; I wish it was in my power to be of any essential service to him; for the man who does not feel for the distresses of a brother, even though merited by his own mis|conduct, deserves to be—

L. Sneerwell.

Now you are going to be moral, and forget you are among friends.

Joseph.

Gad, so I was, ha! ha!—I'll keep that sentiment till I see Sir Peter, ha! ha! however it would certainly be a generous act in you to rescue Maria from such a libertine, who, if he is to be re|claimed at all, can only be so by a person of your su|perior accomplishments and understanding.

Snake.

I believe Lady Sneerwell, here's company coming; I'll go and copy the letter I mentioned to your Ladyship. Mr. Surface, your most obedient.

[Exit Snake.

Joseph.

Mr. Snake, your most obedient. I wonder Lady Sneerwell, you would put any confidence in that fellow.

L. Sneerwell.

Why so?

Joseph.

I have discovered he has of late had several conferences with old Rowley, who was formerly my father's steward; he has never, you know, been a friend of mine.

L. Sneerwell.

And do you think he would betray us?

Joseph.

Not unlikely; and take my word for it, Lady Sneerwell, that fellow has not virtue enough to be faithful to his own villanies.

Enter MARIA.

L. Sneerwell.

Ah, Maria, my dear, how do you do? What's the matter?

Maria.

Nothing, Madam, only this odious lover of mine, Sir Benjamin Backbite, and his uncle Crabtree, just called in at my guardian's; but I took the first op|portunity to slip out, and run away to your Ladyship.

L. Sneerwell.

Is that all?

Joseph.

Had my brother Charles been of the party you would not have been so much alarmed.

L. Sneerwell.

Nay, now you are too severe; for I dare say the truth of the matter is, Maria heard you was here, and therefore came; but pray Maria, what particular objection have you to Sir Benjamin, that you avoid him so?

Maria.

Oh, Madam, he has done nothing; but his whole conversation is a perpetual libel upon all his acquaintance.

Joseph.

Yes, and the worst of it is, there is no ad|vantage in not knowing him, for he would abuse a stranger as soon as his best friend, and his uncle is as bad.

Maria.

For my part, I own wit looses its respect with me, when I see it in company with malice;— what think you Mr. Surface?

Joseph.

To be sure, Madam,—to smile at a jest that plants a thorn in the breast of another, is to become a principal in the mischief.

L. Sneerwell.

Pash—there is no possibility of being witty without a little ill nature; the malice in a good thing is the barb that makes it stick.—What is your real opinion, Mr. Surface?

Joseph.

Why my opinion is, that where the spirit

of railery is suppressed, the conversation must be natu|rally insipid.

Maria.

Well I will not answer how far slander may be allowed, but in a man, I am sure it is despicable.— We have pride, envy, rivalship, and a thousand mo|tives to depreciate each other; but the male slanderer, must have the cowardice of a woman, before he can traduce one.

Enter SERVANT.

Servant.

Mrs. Candour, Madam, if you are at leisure, will leave her carriage.

L. Sneerwell.

Desire her to walk up.

(Exit servant.)

Now, Maria, here's a character to your taste; though Mrs. Candour is a little talkative, yet every body al|lows she is the best natured sort of woman in the world.

Maria.

Yes—with the very gross affectation of good nature, she does more mischief than the direct malice of old Crabtree.

Joseph.

Faith it's very true; and whenever I hear the current of abuse running hard against the characters of my best friends I never think them in such danger, as when Candour undertakes their defence.

L. Sneerwell.

Hush! Hush! here she is.

Enter Mrs. CANDOUR.

Mrs. Candour.

Oh! my dear Lady Sneerwell; well, how do you do? Mr. Surface your most obedient.—Is there any news abroad? No! nothing good I suppose —No! nothing but scandal!—nothing but scandal!

Joseph,

Just so indeed, Madam.

Mrs. Candour.

Nothing but scandal!—Ah, Maria how do you do child; what is every thing at an end between you and Charles? What, he is too extrava|gant. —Aye! the town talks of nothing else.

Maria.

I am sorry, Madam, the town is so ill em|ployed.

Mrs. Candour,

Aye, so am I child—but what can one do? we can't stop people's tongues:—They hint too, that your guardian and his Lady don't live so agreeably together as they did.

Maria.

I am sure such reports are without foun|dation.

Mrs. Candour.

Aye, so these things generally are: —It's like Mr. Fashion's affair with Colonel Goterie; though, indeed, that affair was never rightly cleared up; and it was but yesterday Miss Prim assured me, that Mr. and Mrs. Honeymoon were now become mere man and wife, like the rest of their acquaintance. She likewise hinted, that a certain widow in the next street, had got rid of her dropsy, and recovered her shape in a most surprizing manner.

Joseph.

The licence of invention, some people give themselves, is astonishing.

Mrs. Candour.

'Tis so—but how will you stop people's tongues? 'Twas but yesterday Mrs. Clacket informed me, that our old friend, Miss Prudely, was going to elope, and that her guardian caught her just stepping into the York Diligence, with her dancing|master. I was informed too, that Lord Flimsey caught his wife at a house of no extraordinary fame, and that Tom Saunter and Sir Harry Idle, were to measure swords on a similar occasion.—But I dare say there is no truth in the story, and I would not circulate such a report for the world.

Joseph.

You report!—No, no, no.

Mrs. Candour.

No, no,—tale-bearers are just as bad as the tale-makers.

Enter SERVANT.

Servant.

Sir Benjamin Backbite, and Mr. Crabtree.

[Exit servant.

Enter Sir BENJAMIN and CRABTREE.

Crabtree.

Lady Sneerwell, your most obedient humble servant. Mrs. Candour, I believe you don't know my nephew, Sir Benjamin Backbite; he has a very pretty taste for poetry, and shall make a rebus or a cherard with any one.

Sir Benjamin.

Oh fie! uncle.

Crabtree.

In faith he will: did you ever hear the lines he made at Lady Ponto's route, on Miss Frizzle's feathers catching fire; and the rebuses—his first is the name of a fish; the next, a great naval comman|der, and—

Sir Benjamin.

Uncle, now prythee.

L. Sneerwell.

I wonder, Sir Benjamin you never publish any thing.

Sir Benjamin.

Why, to say the truth, 'tis very vulgar to print—and as my little productions are chiefly satyrs, and lampoons on particular persons, I find they circulate better by giving copies in confidence to the friends of the parties;—however, I have some love elegies, which, when favoured by this Lady's smiles

(to Maria)

I mean to give to the public.

Crabtree.

'Foregad, Madam, they'll immortalize you

(to Maria)

you will be handed down to posterity, like Petrarch's Laura, or Waller's Sacharissa.

Sir Benjamin.

Yes, Madam, I think you'll like them

(to Maria)

when you shall see them on a beau|tiful quarto type, where a neat rivulet of text shall murmur through a meadow of margin;—'foregad they'll be the most elegant things of their kind.

Crabtree.

But, odso, Ladies, did you hear the news?

Mrs. Candour.

What—do you mean the report of—

Crabtree.

No, Madam, that's not it—Miss Nicely going to be married to her footman.

Mrs. Candour.

Impossible!

Sir Benjamin.

'Tis very true, indeed Madam, every thing is fixed, and the wedding liveries bespoke.

Crabtree.

Yes, and they do say there were very pressing reasons for it.

Mrs. Candour.

I heard something of this before.

L. Sneerwell.

Oh! it cannot be; and I wonder they'd report such a thing of so prudent a Lady.

Sir Benjamin.

Oh! but Madam, that is the very reason that it was believed at once, for she has always been so very cautious and reserved, that every body was sure there was some reason for it at bottom.

Mrs. Candour.

It is true, there is a sort of puny, sickly reputation, that would outlive the robuster cha|racter of an hundred prudes.

Sir Benjamin.

True, Madam, there are Valetudi|narians in reputation, as well as constitution, who being conscious of their weak part, avoid the least breath of air, and supply their want of stamina by care and circumspection.

Mr. Candour.

I believe this may be some mis|take; you know, Sir Benjamin, very trifling circum|stances have often given rise to the most ingenious tales.

Crabtree.

Very true;—but odso, Ladies did you hear of Miss Letitia Piper's losing her lover and her character at Scarborough.—Sir Benjamin you remem|ber it.

Sir Benjamin.

Oh, to be sure, the most whimsical circumstance.

L. Sneerwell.

Pray let us hear it.

Crabtree.

Why, one evening, at Lady Spadille's assembly, the conversation happened to turn upon the difficulty of breeding Nova-Scotia sheep in this coun|try; no, says a lady present, I have seen an instance of it, for a cousin of mine, Miss Letitia Piper had one that produced twins. What, what, says old Lady Dundizzy (whom we all know is as deaf as a post) has Miss Letitia Piper had twins.—This, you may easily imagine, set the company in a loud laugh; and the next morning it was every where reported, and be|lieved that Miss Letitia Piper had actually been brought to bed of a fine boy and girl.

Omnes.

Ha, ha, ha, ha.

Crabtree.

'Tis true upon my honour.—Oh, Mr. Surface, how do you do; I hear your uncle, Sir Oliver is expected in town; sad news upon his arrival, to hear how your brother has gone on.

Joseph.

I hope no busy people have already preju|diced his uncle against him—he may reform.

Sir Benjamin.

True, he may; for my part, I never thought him so utterly void of principle as people say—and though he has lost all his friends, I am told nobody is better spoken of amongst the Jews.

Crabtree.

'Foregad, if the Old Jewry was a ward, Charles would be an Alderman, for he pays as many annuities as the ••ish Tontine; and when he is sick, they have prayers for his recovery in all their Syna|gogues.

Sir Benjamin.

Yet no man lives in greater splendor. They tell me, when he entertains his friends, he can sit down to dinner with a dozen of his own securities, have a score of tradesmen waiting in the antichamber, and an officer behind every guest's chair.

Joseph.

This may be entertaining to you, gentle|men;

—but you pay very little regard to the feelings of a brother.

Maria.

Their malice is intolerable.

(Aside.)

Lady Sneerwell, I must wish you a good morning; I'm not very well.

[Exit Maria.

Mrs. Candour.

She changes colour.

L. Sneerwell.

Do, Mrs. Candour, follow her.

Mrs. Candour.

To be sure I will;—poor dear girl, who knows what her situation may he?

[Mrs. Candour follows her.

L. Sneerwell.

'Twas nothing, but that she could not bear to hear Charles reflected on, notwithstanding their difference.

Sir Benjamin.

The young lady's penchant is obvious.

Crabtree.

Come, don't let this dishearten you— follow her, and repeat some of your odes to her, and I'll assist you.

Sir Benjamin.

Mr. Surface, I did not come to hurt you, but depend on't your brother is utterly undone.

Crabtree.

Oh! undone as ever man was—can't raise a guinea.

Sir Benjamin.

Every thing is sold, I am told, that was moveable.

Crabtree.

Not a moveable left except some old bottles, and some pictures, and they seem to be framed in the wainscot, egad.

Sir Benjamin.

I am sorry to hear also some bad sto|ries of him.

Crabtree.

Oh! He has done many mean things, that's certain.

Sir Benjamin.

But, however, he's your brother.

Crabtree.

Aye! as he's your brother—we'll tell you more another opportunity.

Sir Benjamin.

Yes! as he's your brother—well tell you more another opportunity.

[Exeunt Crabtree and sir Benjamin.

L. Sneerwell.

'Tis very hard for them, indeed, to leave a subject they have not quite run down.

Joseph.

And I fancy their abuse was no more ac|ceptable to your ladyship, than to Maria.

L. Sneerwell.

I doubt her affections are further en|gaged than we imagine;—but the family are to be here this afternoon, so you may as well dine where you are, we shall have an opportunity of observing her further;—in the mean time I'll go and and plot mis|chief, and you shall study.

[Exeunt.

SCENE Sir PETER TEAZLE'S House.

Sir PETER.

WHEN an old batchelor marries a young wise, what is he to expect?—'Tis now about six months since my Lady Teazle made me the happiest of men—and I have been the most miserable dog ever since.—We tifted a little going to church, and fairly quarrelled before the bells were done ringing. I was more than once nearly choaked with gall during the honey moon, and had lost every satisfaction in life, be|fore my friends had done wishing me joy.—And yet, I chose with caution a girl bred wholly in the country, who had never known luxury, beyond one silk gown, or dissipation beyond the annual gala of a race ball.— Yet, now she plays her part in all the extravagant fop|peries of the town, with as good a grace is if she had never seen a bush, or a grass plot out of Grosvenor-Square. —I am sneered at by all my acquaintance—

paragraphed in the news-papers—she dissipates my for|tune, and contradicts all my humours.—And yet, the worst of it is, I doubt I love her, or I should never bear all this—but I am determined never to be weak enough to let her know it—No! no! no!

Enter ROWLEY.

Rowley.

Sir Peter, your servant, how do you find yourself to-day?

Sir Peter.

Very bad, Master Rowley, very bad in|deed.

Rowley.

I'm sorry to hear that—what has hap|pened to make you uneasy since yesterday?

Sir Peter.

A pretty question truly to a married man.

Rowley.

Sure my Lady is not the cause!

Sir Peter.

Why has any one told you she was dead?

Rowley.

Come, come, Sir Peter, notwithstanding you sometimes dispute and disagree, I am sure you love her.

Sir Peter.

Aye, Master Rowley; but the worst of it is, that in all our disputes and quarrels, she is ever in the wrong, and continues to thwart and vex me;— I am myself the sweetest tempered man in the world, and so I tell her an hundred times a day.

Rowley.

Indeed, Sir Peter!

Sir Peter.

Yes—and then there's Lady Sneerwell, and the set she meets at her house, encourage her to disobedience; and Maria, my ward, she too presumes to have a will of her own, and refuses the man I pro|pose for her; designing, I suppose to bestow herself and fortune upon that profligate his brother.

Rowley.

You know, Sir Peter, I have often taken the liberty to differ in opinion with you, in regard to these two young men, for Charles, my life on't will

retrieve all one day or other.—Their worthy father, my once honoured master, at his years, was full as wild and extravagant as Charles now is; but at his death he did not leave a more benevolent heart to lament his loss.

Sir Peter.

You are wrong, Mr. Rowley, you are very wrong;—by their father's will, you know, I be|came guardian to these young men, which gave me an opportunity of knowing their different dispositions; but their uncle's Eastern liberality soon took them out of my power, by giving them an early independence. —But for Charles, whatever good qualities he might have inherited, they are long since squandered away with the rest of his fortune;—Joseph, indeed, is a pattern for the young men of the age—a youth of the noblest sentiments, and acts up to the sentiments he professes.

Rowley.

Well, well; Sir Peter, I shan't oppose your opinion at present, though I am sorry you are prejudiced against Charles, as this may probably be the most critical period of his life, for his uncle, Sir Oliver, is arrived, and now in town.

Sir Peter.

What! my old friend, Sir Oliver, is he arrived? I thought you had not expected him this month.

Rowley.

No more we did, Sir, but his passage has been remarkably quick.

Sir Peter.

I shall be heartily glad to see him—'tis sixteen years since old Noll and I met—But does he still enjoin us to keep his arrival a secret from his nephews?

Rowley.

He does, Sir, and is determined, under a feigned character, to make trial of their different dispositions.

Sir Peter.

Ah! there is no need of it, for Joseph, I am sure is the man.—But hark'ye, Rowley, does Sir Oliver know that I am married?

Rowley.

He does, Sir, and intends shortly to wish you joy.

Sir Peter.

What, as we wish health to a friend in a consumption.—But I must have him at my house— do you conduct him, Rowley, I'll go and give orders for his reception

(going)

We used to rail at matrimony together—he has stood firm to his text.—But Rowley, don't give him the least hint that my wife and I dis|agree, for I would have him think (Heaven forgive me) that we are a happy couple.

Rowley.

Then you must be careful not to quarrel whilst he is here.

Sir Peter.

And so we must—but that will be im|possible! —Zounds, Rowley, when an old batchelor marries a young wife, he deserves—aye, he deserves —no—the crime carries the punishment along with it.

End of the FIRST ACT.