fidence to deny me? Was not this blood Mrs. Sul. 'Tis ungenerous in you, sir, to upbraid me with your services! Arch. 'Tis ungenerous in you, madam, not to reward 'em. dare affirm I know myself in anything except my love. Aim. [Aside.] Such goodness who could injure! I find myself unequal to the task of villain; she has gained my soul, and made it honest like her own.-I cannot, cannot hurt her. [Aloud.] Doctor, retire.-[Exit FOIGARD.] Madam, behold your lover and your proselyte, and judge of my passion by my conversion!-I'm all a lie, nor dare I give a fiction to your arms; I'm all counter Mrs. Sul. How! at the expense of my feit, except my passion. honor? Arch. Honor! can honor consist with ingratitude? If you would deal like a woman of honor, do like a man of honor. D'ye think I would deny you in such a case? Enter a Servant. Serv. Madam, my lady ordered me to tell you, that your brother is below at the gate. [Exit. Mrs. Sul. My brother! Heavens be praised!-Sir, he shall thank you for your services; he has it in his power. Arch. Who is your brother, madam? Mrs. Sul. Sir Charles Freeman.-You'll excuse me, sir; I must go and receive him. [Exit. Arch. Sir Charles Freeman! 'sdeath and hell! my old acquaintance. Now unless Aimwell has made good use of his time, all our fair machine goes souse into the sea like the Eddystone. [Exit. SCENE IV The Gallery in the Same House. Enter AIMWELL and DORINDA. Dor. Well, well, my lord, you have conquered; your late generous action will, I hope, plead for my easy yielding; though I must own, your lordship had a friend in the fort before. Aim. The sweets of Hybla dwell upon her tongue!-Here, doctor Enter FOIGARD, with a book. Foi. Are you prepared boat? Dor. I'm ready. But first, my lord, one word. I have a frightful example of a hasty marriage in my own family; when I reflect upon't it shocks me. Pray, my lord, consider a little Aim. Consider! do you doubt my honor or my love? Dor. Neither: I do believe you equally just as brave: and were your whole sex drawn out for me to choose, I should not cast a look upon the multitude if you were absent. But, my lord, I'm a woman; colors, concealments may hide a thousand faults in me, therefore know me better first. I hardly Dor. Forbid it, Heaven! a counterfeit! Aim. I am no lord, but a poor needy man, come with a mean, a scandalous design to prey upon your fortune; but the beauties of your mind and person have so won me from myself that, like a trusty servant, I prefer the interest of my mistress to my own. Dor. Sure I have had the dream of some poor mariner, a sleepy image of a welcome port, and wake involved in storms!-Pray, sir, who are you? Aim. Brother to the man whose title I usurped, but stranger to his honor or his fortune. Dor. Matchless honesty!-Once I was proud, sir, of your wealth and title, but now am prouder that you want it: now I can show my love was justly levelled, and had no aim but love.-Doctor, come in. Enter FOIGARD at one door, GIPSY at another, who whispers DORINDA. [TO FOIGARD.] Your pardon, sir, we shannot want you now.-[To AIMWELL.] Sir, you must excuse me I'll wait on you presently. [Exit with GIPSY. Foi. Upon my shoul, now, dis is foolish. [Exit. Aim. Gone! and bid the priest depart!— It has an ominous look. 1 Aim. Stay, my dear Archer, but a minute. Arch. Stay! what, to be despised, exposed, and laughed at! No, I would sooner change conditions with the worst of the rogues we just now bound, than bear one scornful smile from the proud knight that once I treated as my equal. Aim. What knight? Arch. Sir Charles Freeman, brother to the lady that I had almost-but no matter for that, 'tis a cursed night's work, and so I leave you to make the best on't. [Going. Aim. Freeman!-One word, Archer. Still I have hopes; methought she received my confession with pleasure. Arch. 'Sdeath, who doubts it? Aim. She consented after to the match; and still I dare believe she will be just. Arch. To herself, I warrant her, as you should have been. Your brother died the day before I left London; and all your friends have writ after you to Brussels;-among the rest I did myself the honor. Arch. Hark 'ye, sir knight, don't you banter now? Sir Chas. 'Tis truth, upon my honor. Aim. Thanks to the pregnant stars that formed this accident! Arch. Thanks to the womb of time that brought it forth!-away with it! Aim. Thanks to my guardian angel that led me to the prize! [Taking DORINDA's hand. Arch. And double thanks to the noble Sir Charles Freeman. My lord, I wish you joy. My lady, I wish you joy.-Egad, Sir Freeman, you're the honestest fellow living! -'Sdeath, I'm grown strange airy upon this matter!-My lord, how d'ye ?-A word, my lord; don't you remember something of a previous agreement, that entitles me to the Aim. By all my hopes she comes, and moiety of this lady's fortune, which I think smiling comes! will amount to five thousand pounds? Aim. Not a penny, Archer; you would ha' cut my throat just now, because I would not deceive this lady. Re-enter DORINDA, mighty gay. Dor. Come, my dear lord-I fly with impatience to your arms-the minutes of my absence were a tedious year. Where's this priest? Foi. Upon my shoul, and sho is myshelf. Arch. What's the matter now, madam? Dor. Look ye, sir, one generous action deserves another.-This gentleman's honor obliged him to hide nothing from me; my justice engages me to conceal nothing from him. In short, sir, you are the person that you thought you counterfeited; you are the true Lord Viscount Aimwell, and I wish your lordship joy. Now, priest, you may be gone; if my lord is pleased now with the match, let his lordship marry me in the face of the world. Aim., Arch. What does she mean? Dor. Here's a witness for my truth. Enter SIR CHARLES FREEMAN and MRS. SULLEN. Sir Chas. My dear Lord Aimwell, I wish you joy. Aim. Of what? Sir Chas. Of your honor and estate. Arch. Ay, and I'll cut your throat again, if you should deceive her now. Aim. That's what I expected; and to end the dispute, the lady's fortune is ten thousand pounds, we'll divide stakes: take the ten thousand pounds or the lady. Dor. How! is your lordship SO indif ferent? Arch. No, no, no, madam! his lordship knows very well that I'll take the money; I leave you to his lordship, and so we're both provided for. Enter COUNT BELLAIR. Count Bel. Mesdames et Messieurs, I am your servant trice humble! I hear you be rob here. Aim. The ladies have been in some danger, sir. Count Bel. And, begar, our inn be rob too! Aim. Our inn! by whom? Count Bel. By the landlord, begar!Garzoon, he has rob himself, and run away! Arch. Robbed himself! Count Bel. Ay, begar, and me too of a hundre pound. Arch. A hundred pounds? Count Bel. Yes, that I owed him. Aim. Our money's gone, Frank. Arch. Rot the money! my wench is gone. -[To COUNT BELLAIR.] Savez-vous quelquechose de Mademoiselle Cherry? Enter a Fellow with a strong-box and a letter. Fell. Is there one Martin here? My father being afraid of an impeachment by the rogues that are taken to-night, is gone off; but if you can procure him a pardon, he'll make great discoveries that may be useful to the country. Could I have met you instead of your master to-night, I would have delivered myself into your hands, with a sum that much exceeds that in your strong-box, which I have sent you, with an assurance to my dear Martin that I shall ever be his most faithful friend till death. Cherry Boniface. There's a billet-doux for you! As for the father, I think he ought to be encouraged; and for the daughter-pray, my lord, persuade your bride to take her into her service instead of Gipsy. Aim. I can assure you, madam, your deliverance was owing to her discovery. Dor. Your command, my lord, will do without the obligation. I'll take care of her. Sir Chas. This good company meets opportunely in favor of a design I have in behalf of my unfortunate sister. I intend to part her from her husband-gentlemen, will you assist me? Arch. Assist you! 'sdeath, who would not? Count Bel. Assist! garzoon, we all assist! Enter SULLEN. Squire Sul. What's all this? They tell me, spouse, that you had like to have been robbed. Mrs. Sul. Truly, spouse, I was pretty near it, had not these two gentlemen interposed. Squire Sul. How came these gentlemen here? Mrs. Sul. That's his way of returning thanks, you must know. Count Bel. Ay, garzoon, de man no understan common justice. Mrs. Sul. Hold, gentlemen! All things here must move by consent, compulsion would spoil us. Let my dear and I talk the matter over, and you shall judge it between us. Squire Sul. Let me know first who are to be our judges. Pray, sir, who are you? Sir Chas. I am Sir Charles Freeman, come to take away your wife. Squire Sul. And you, good sir? Aim. Charles, Viscount Aimwell, come to take away your sister. Squire Sul. And you, pray, sir? Arch. Francis Archer, esquire, comeSquire Sul. To take away my mother, I hope. Gentlemen, you're heartily welcome; I never met with three more obliging people since I was born!-And now, my dear, if you please, you shall have the first word. Arch. And the last, for five pound! Mrs. Sul. Spouse! Squire Sul. Rib! Count Bel. Garzoon, the question be her. apropos for all dat. Sir Chas. You promised last night, sir, that you would deliver your lady to me this morning. Mrs. Sul. I can't hunt with you. Squire Sul. Nor can I dance with you. Mrs. Sul. I hate cocking and racing. Squire Sul. And I abhor ombre and piquet. Mrs. Sul. Your silence is intolerable. Squire Sul. Your prating is worse. Mrs. Sul. Have we not been a perpetual offence to each other? a gnawing vulture at the heart? Squire Sul. A frightful goblin to the sight? Mrs. Sul. A porcupine to the feeling? Squire Sul. Perpetual wormwood to the and celebrate my sister's wedding and my taste? Squire Sul. These hands joined us, these shall part us.-Away! Mrs. Sul. North. Squire Sul. South. Mrs. Sul. East. divorce, you may command my house-but my head aches consumedly.-Scrub, bring me a dram. Arch. [To MRS. SULLEN.] Madam, there's a country dance to the trifle that I sung today; your hand, and we'll lead it up. Here a Dance. 'Twould be hard to guess which of these parties is the better pleased, the couple joined, or the couple parted; the one rejoicthe other in their deliverance from an ex Squire Sul. West-far as the poles ing in hopes of an untasted happiness, and asunder. Count Bel. Begar, the ceremony be vera perienced misery. pretty! Sir Chas. Now, Mr. Sullen, there wants only my sister's fortune to make us easy. Squire Sul. Sir Charles, you love your sister, and I love her fortune; every one to his fancy. Arch. Then you won't refund; Arch. Then I find, madam, you must e'en go to your prison again. Count Bel. What is the portion? Arch. Ha! ha ha! French all over.-Do you know, sir, what ten thousand pounds English is? Count Bel. No, begar, not justement. Arch. Why, sir, 'tis a hundred thousand livres. Count Bel. A hundre tousand livres! Ah! garzoon, me canno' do't, your beauties and their fortunes are both too much for me. Arch. Then I will.-This night's adventure has proved strangely lucky to us allfor Captain Gibbet in his walk had made bold, Mr. Sullen, with your study and escritoir, and had taken out all the writings of your estate, all the articles of marriage with this lady, bills, bonds, leases, receipts to an infinite value: I took 'em from him, and I deliver 'em to Sir Charles. Both happy in their several states we find, Consent, if mutual, saves the lawyer's fee, EPILOGUE Designed to be spoken in "The Beaux' If to our play your judgment can't be kind, At Leuctra so the conquering Theban died, Pleased in the pangs of death he greatly thought Conquest with loss of life but cheaply bought. The difference this, the Greek was one would As brave, though not so gay, as Serjeant Ye sons of Will's, what's that to those who [Gives SIR CHARLES FREEMAN a parcel of papers and parchments. Squire Sul. How, my writings!-my head aches consumedly.-Well, gentlemen, you shall have her fortune, but I can't talk. If you have a mind, Sir Charles, to be merry, Since yours is greater than Athenian praise. To Thebes alone the Grecian owed his bays, JOSEPH ADDISON CATO Ar first sight it seems no very fruitful study to contemplate a versatile man of letters only in what is admittedly one of the less potent phases of his manifold activity. When Dr. Johnson advises him who wishes to attain an English style, "to give his days and nights to the volumes of Addison," he is thinking of his prose, not of his dramatic verse, of The Spectator, not of Cato. And yet the single tragedy of the great essayist has a far larger significance than similar solitary compositions of Thomson, Smollett, and Johnson himself. This significance lies not so much in any intrinsic merit of Addison's classical drama as in its immediate effect. The enthusiastic reception of Cato by the audiences of Queen Anne's time is unquestionably the most convincing revelation granted us of the standard of dramatic appreciation in that era. Hence the necessary inclusion of the play in any collection of eighteenth-century dramas. The tragedy of Cato is connected with widely different periods of Addison's comparatively short life (1672-1719). His school days at the Charterhouse and his long sojourn in the cloisters and walks of Magdalen College (Oxford) were behind him, but he was not far past the time of youth, when during his wander-years on the Continent (1699-1702) he composed four acts of a play on the death of the famous old Roman. When Captain Richard Steele read these with loud approval to the genial Colley Cibber across the table of a London tavern in 1703, his cherished friend, "Joe," was not yet the great Mr. Addison." The Latin poems of college-days, his versified Letter from Italy and the prose record of his Travels comprised the literary output of this scholar, now turned of thirty. In these Addison's days of the lean kine, Steele's prediction of the incomplete tragedy seemed well founded: "Whatever spirit Mr. Addison had shown in his writing it, he doubted he would never have courage enough to let his Cato stand the censure of an English audience; that it had only been the amusement of his leisure hours in Italy and was never intended for the stage." For ten years -as long a period as Walter Scott just a century later kept by him the unfinished manuscript of Waverley-he shrank from completing and publishing his drama. During these ten years he had risen to the primacy in the English world of letters. The wide notoriety of The Campaign, with which |