INTRODUCTION.

W

HATEVER be the relative merits of the two Comedies that Goldsmith has left us—

and each has its advocates for the superiority-there is no doubt that "She Stoops to Conquer" is that upon which his character as a dramatic writer most securely rests. It was produced for the first time on the 15th of March, 1773, at Covent Garden; was received with a heartiness of applause that carried everything—even the solitary hiss of an envious enemy— before it, and secured its triumph-a triumph that was nightly renewed till the end of the season. The main incident in the piece, round which all the others revolve, is the mistaking Squire Hardcastle's house for a country inn, an idea suggested by a joke played off on Goldsmith in his sixteenth year by a wag in Ardagh, who directed him to Squire Fetherstone's, as the village inn, where the joke was humoured and undiscovered till night. The play is full of broad, farcical humour, relieved with some passages of a sentimental nature; and, with one or two exceptions, there is no violation of decorum. Tony Lumpkin is a character sui generis; one that has come to have an individual reality, as well known to us as "Bob Acres" or "Scrub." Old Hardcastle, with all his old-fashioned whimsicalities, is true to nature-overdrawn just enough for stage effect; and the extravagances of his wife are highly entertaining. There is a constant vivacity in the dialogue that amuses, and a frequent recurrence of the ludicrous, which is irresistibly provocative of laughter, and makes us feel the truth of Dr. Johnson's criticism: “I know no comedy, for many years, that has so much exhilarated an audience; that has answered so much the great end of comedy, making an audience merry.”

Mrs. Hard. I vow, Mr. Hardcastle, you're very particular. Is there a creature in the whole country, but ourselves, that does not take a trip to town now and then to rub off the rust a little? There's the two Miss Hoggs, and our neighbour Mrs. Grigsby, go to take a month's polishing every winter.

Hard. Ay, and bring back vanity and affectation to last them the whole year. I wonder why London cannot keep its own fools at home. In my time, the follies of the town crept slowly among us, but now they travel faster than a stage-coach. Its fopperies come down, not only as inside passengers, but in the very basket.

Mrs. Hard. Ay, your times were fine times, indeed; you have been telling us of them for many a long year. long year. Here we live in an old rumbling mansion, that looks for all the world like an inn, but that we never see company. Our best visitors are old Mrs. Oddfish, the curate's wife, and little Cripplegate, the lame dancing-master; and all our entertainment, your old stories of Prince Eugene and the Duke of Marlborough. I hate such old-fashioned trumpery.

Hard. And I love it. I love everything that's old: old friends, old times, old manners, old books, old wine; and, I believe, Dorothy (taking her hand), you'll own I have been pretty fond of an old wife.

Mrs. Hard. Lord, Mr. Hardcastle, you're for ever at your Dorothys, and your old wives. You may be a Darby, but I'll be no Joan, I promise you. I'm not so old as you'd make me, by more than one good year. Add twenty to twenty, and make money of that.

Hard. Let me see; twenty added to twenty, makes just fifty and seven. Mrs. Hard. It's false, Mr. Hardcastle: I was but twenty when Tony, that

I had by Mr. Lumpkin, my first husband, was born; and he's not come to years. of discretion yet.

Hard. Nor ever will, I dare answer for him. Ay, you have taught him finely.

Mrs. Hard. No matter, Tony Lumpkin has a good fortune. My son is not to live by his learning. I don't think a boy wants much learning to spend fifteen hundred a year.

Hard. Learning, quotha! a mere composition of tricks and mischief.

Mrs. Hard. Humour, my dear: nothing but humour. Come, Mr. Hardcastle, you must allow the boy a little humour.

Hard. I'd sooner allow him a horse-pond. If burning the footman's shoes, frighting the maids, worrying the kittens-be humour, he has it. It was but yesterday he fastened my wig to the back of my chair, and when I went to make a bow, I popt my bald head in Mrs. Frizzle's face.

Mrs. Hard. And am I to blame? The poor boy was always too sickly to do any good. A school would be his death. When he comes to be a little stronger, who knows what a year or two's Latin may do for him?

Hard. Latin for him! A cat and fiddle.

stable are the only schools he'll ever go to.

No, no, the ale-house and the

Mrs. Hard. Well, we must not snub the poor boy now, for I believe we shan't have him long among us. Anybody that looks in his face may see he's consumptive.

Hard. Ay, if growing too fat be, one of the symptoms.

Mrs. Hard. He coughs sometimes.

Hard. Yes, when his liquor goes the wrong way.

Mrs. Hard. I'm actually afraid of his lungs.

Hard. And truly so am I; for he sometimes whoops like a speaking trumpet. -(TONY hallooing behind the scenes)—Oh, there he goes-a very consumptive figure, truly.

Enter TONY, crossing the stage.

Mrs. Hard. Tony, where are you going, my charmer? papa and me a little of your company, lovee?

Tony. I'm in haste, mother; I cannot stay.

Won't you give

Mrs. Hard. You shan't venture out this raw evening, my dear; you look most shockingly.

Tony. I can't stay, I tell you. The Three Pigeons expects me down every There's some fun going forward.

moment.

Hard. Ay; the ale-house, the old place: I thought so.

Mrs. Hard. A low, paltry set of fellows..

Tony. Not so low neither. There's Dick Muggins the exciseman, Jack Slang the horse-doctor, little Aminadab that grinds the music-box, and Tom Twist that spins the pewter platter.

Mrs. Hard. Pray, my dear, disappoint them for one night at least.

Tony. As for disappointing them, I should not so much mind; but I can't

abide to disappoint myself.

Mrs. Hard. (Detaining him.) You shan't go.

Tony. I will, I tell you.

Mrs. Hard. I say you shan't.