The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Black Dwarf, by Sir Walter ScottThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and withalmost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away orre-use it underthe terms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.orgTitle: The Black DwarfAuthor: Sir Walter ScottRelease Date: February 15, 2006 [EBook #1460]Last Updated: August30, 2016Language: EnglishCharacter set encoding: UTF-8*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BLACK DWARF ***Produced by An Anonymous Volunteer and David WidgerTHE BLACK DWARFby SirWalter ScottCONTENTS.     I.    Tales of my Landlord     Introduction by Jedediah Cleishbotham      II.   Introduction to THE BLACK DWARF     III.  Main text of THE BLACK DWARF     Note:  Footnotes in the printedbook have been inserted in the     etext in square brackets ([]) close to the place where     they were referenced by a suffix in the original text.     Text in italics has been written in capital letters.I. TALES OF MYLANDLORDCOLLECTED AND REPORTED BY JEDEDIAH CLEISHBOTHAM, SCHOOLMASTER ANDPARISH-CLERK OF GANDERCLEUGH.INTRODUCTION.As I may, without vanity, presume that the name and officialdescriptionprefixed to this Proem will secure it, from the sedate and reflectingpart of mankind, to whom only I would be understood to address myself,such attention as is due to the sedulous instructor of youth, andthecareful performer of my Sabbath duties, I will forbear to hold upa candle to the daylight, or to point out to the judicious thoserecommendations of my labours which they must necessarily anticipatefrom the perusalof the title-page. Nevertheless, I am not unaware,that, as Envy always dogs Merit at the heels, there may be those whowill whisper, that albeit my learning and good principles cannot(lauded be the heavens) be deniedby any one, yet that my situation atGandercleugh hath been more favourable to my acquisitions in learningthan to the enlargement of my views of the ways and works of the presentgeneration. To the which objection,if, peradventure, any such shall bestarted, my answer shall be threefold:First, Gandercleugh is, as it were, the central part--the navel (SIFAS SIT DICERE) of this our native realm of Scotland; so that men, fromeverycorner thereof, when travelling on their concernments of business,either towards our metropolis of law, by which I mean Edinburgh, ortowards our metropolis and mart of gain, whereby I insinuate Glasgow,arefrequently led to make Gandercleugh their abiding stage and place ofrest for the night. And it must be acknowledged by the most sceptical,that I, who have sat in the leathern armchair, on the left-hand side ofthe fire,in the common room of the Wallace Inn, winter and summer,for every evening in my life, during forty years bypast (the ChristianSabbaths only excepted), must have seen more of the manners and customsof varioustribes and people, than if I had sought them out by myown painful travel and bodily labour. Even so doth the tollman at thewell-frequented turn-pike on the Wellbraehead, sitting at his ease inhis own dwelling, gathermore receipt of custom, than if, moving forthupon the road, he were to require a contribution from each person whomhe chanced to meet in his journey, when, according to the vulgar adage,he might possibly begreeted with more kicks than halfpence.But, secondly, supposing it again urged, that Ithacus, the most wise ofthe Greeks, acquired his renown, as the Roman poet hath assured us, byvisiting states and men, I reply tothe Zoilus who shall adhere to thisobjection, that, DE FACTO, I have seen states and men also; for I havevisited the famous cities of Edinburgh and Glasgow, the former twice,and the latter three times, in the course ofmy earthly pilgrimage. And,moreover, I had the honour to sit in the General Assembly (meaning, asan auditor, in the galleries thereof), and have heard as much goodlyspeaking on the law of patronage, as, with thefructification thereofin mine own understanding, hath made me be considered as an oracle uponthat doctrine ever since my safe and happy return to Gandercleugh.Again--and thirdly, If it be nevertheless pretended thatmy informationand knowledge of mankind, however extensive, and however painfullyacquired, by constant domestic enquiry, and by foreign travel, is,natheless, incompetent to the task of recording the pleasantnarrativesof my Landlord, I will let these critics know, to their own eternalshame and confusion as well as to the abashment and discomfiture of allwho shall rashly take up a song against me, that I am NOT thewriter,redacter, or compiler, of the Tales of my Landlord; nor am I, in onesingle iota, answerable for their contents, more or less. And now, yegeneration of critics, who raise yourselves up as if it were brazenserpents, tohiss with your tongues, and to smite with your stings, bowyourselves down to your native dust, and acknowledge that yours havebeen the thoughts of ignorance, and the words of vain foolishness. Lo!ye are caught inyour own snare, and your own pit hath yawned for you.Turn, then, aside from the task that is too heavy for you; destroynot your teeth by gnawing a file; waste not your strength by spurningagainst a castle wall; norspend your breath in contending in swiftnesswith a fleet steed; and let those weigh the Tales of my Landlord, whoshall bring with them the scales of candour cleansed from the rust ofprejudice by the hands of intelligentmodesty. For these alone they werecompiled, as will appear from a brief narrative which my zeal for truthcompelled me to make supplementary to the present Proem.It is well known that my Landlord was a pleasingand a facetious man,acceptable unto all the parish of Gandercleugh, excepting only theLaird, the Exciseman, and those for whom he refused to draw liquor upontrust. Their causes of dislike I will touch separately,adding my ownrefutation thereof.His honour, the Laird, accused our Landlord, deceased, of havingencouraged, in various times and places, the destruction of hares,rabbits, fowls black and grey, partridges, moor-pouts,roe-deer, andother birds and quadrupeds, at unlawful seasons, and contrary to thelaws of this realm, which have secured, in their wisdom, the slaughterof such animals for the great of the earth, whom I have remarkedto takean uncommon (though to me, an unintelligible) pleasure therein. Now, inhumble deference to his honour, and in justifiable defence of my frienddeceased, I reply to this charge, that howsoever the form ofsuchanimals might appear to be similar to those so protected by the law, yetit was a mere DECEPTIO VISUS; for what resembled hares were, in fact,HILL-KIDS, and those partaking of the appearance of moor-fowl,weretruly WOOD PIGEONS and consumed and eaten EO NOMINE, and not otherwise.Again, the Exciseman pretended, that my deceased Landlord did encouragethat species of manufacture called distillation, withouthaving anespecial permission from the Great, technically called a license, fordoing so. Now, I stand up to confront this falsehood; and in defianceof him, his gauging-stick, and pen and inkhorn, I tell him, that Ineversaw, or tasted, a glass of unlawful aqua vitae in the house ofmy Landlord; nay, that, on the contrary, we needed not such devices, inrespect of a pleasing and somewhat seductive liquor, which was vendedandconsumed at the Wallace Inn, under the name of MOUNTAIN DEW. Ifthere is a penalty against manufacturing such a liquor, let him show methe statute; and when he does, Ill tell him if I will obey it or no.Concerningthose who came to my Landlord for liquor, and went thirstyaway, for lack of present coin, or future credit, I cannot but say ithas grieved my bowels as if the case had been mine own. Nevertheless, myLandlordconsidered the necessities of a thirsty soul, and would permitthem, in extreme need, and when their soul was impoverished for lackof moisture, to drink to the full value of their watches and wearingapparel, exclusivelyof their inferior habiliments, which he wasuniformly inexorable in obliging them to retain, for the credit of thehouse. As to mine own part, I may well say, that he never refused methat modicum of refreshment withwhich I am wont to recruit nature afterthe fatigues of my school. It is true, I taught his five sons Englishand Latin, writing, book-keeping, with a tincture of mathematics, andthat I instructed his daughter in psalmody.Nor do I remember me ofany fee or HONORARIUM received from him on account of these my labours,except the compotations aforesaid. Nevertheless this compensation suitedmy humour well, since it is a hardsentence to bid a dry throat waittill quarter-day.But, truly, were I to speak my simple conceit and belief, I think myLandlord was chiefly moved to waive in my behalf the usual requisitionof a symbol, or reckoning, fromthe pleasure he was wont to take in myconversation, which, though solid and edifying in the main, was, likea well-built palace, decorated with facetious narratives and devices,tending much to the enhancement andornament thereof. And so pleased wasmy Landlord of the Wallace in his replies during such colloquies, thatthere was no district in Scotland, yea, and no peculiar, and, as itwere, distinctive custom therein practised, butwas discussed betwixtus; insomuch, that those who stood by were wont to say, it was wortha bottle of ale to hear us communicate with each other. And not a fewtravellers, from distant parts, as well as from theremote districts ofour kingdom, were wont to mingle in the conversation, and to tell newsthat had been gathered in foreign lands, or preserved from oblivion inthis our own.Now I chanced to have contracted for teachingthe lower classes with ayoung person called Peter, or Patrick, Pattieson, who had been educatedfor our Holy Kirk, yea, had, by the license of presbytery, his voiceopened therein as a preacher, who delighted in thecollection of oldentales and legends, and in garnishing them with the flowers of poesy,whereof he was a vain and frivolous professor. For he followed not theexample of those strong poets whom I proposed to him as apattern, butformed versification of a flimsy and modern texture, to the compoundingwhereof was necessary small pains and less thought. And hence I havechid him as being one of those who bring forward the fatalrevolutionprophesied by Mr. Robert Carey, in his Vaticination on the Death of thecelebrated Dr. John Donne:     Now thou art gone, and thy strict laws will be     Too hard for libertines in poetry;     Till verse (by theerefined) in this last age     Turn ballad rhyme.I had also disputations with him touching his indulging rather aflowing and redundant than a concise and stately diction in his proseexercitations. But notwithstanding thesesymptoms of inferior taste,and a humour of contradicting his betters upon passages of dubiousconstruction in Latin authors, I did grievously lament when PeterPattieson was removed from me by death, even as if hehad been theoffspring of my own loins. And in respect his papers had been left inmy care (to answer funeral and death-bed expenses), I conceived myselfentitled to dispose of one parcel thereof, entitled, Tales ofmyLandlord, to one cunning in the trade (as it is called) of bookselling.He was a mirthful man, of small stature, cunning in counterfeiting ofvoices, and in making facetious tales and responses, and whom I have tolaudfor the truth of his dealings towards me.Now, therefore, the world may see the injustice that charges me withincapacity to write these narratives, seeing, that though I have provedthat I could have written them if Iwould, yet, not having done so,the censure will deservedly fall, if at all due, upon the memory of Mr.Peter Pattieson; whereas I must be justly entitled to the praise,when any is due, seeing that, as the Dean of St.Patricks wittily andlogically expresseth it,     That without which a thing is not,     Is CAUSA SINE QUA NON.The work, therefore, is unto me as a child is to a parent; in the whichchild, if it proveth worthy, the parenthath honour and praise; but, ifotherwise, the disgrace will deservedly attach to itself alone.I have only further to intimate, that Mr. Peter Pattieson, in arrangingthese Tales for the press, hath more consulted his ownfancy than theaccuracy of the narrative; nay, that he hath sometimes blended twoor three stories together for the mere grace of his plots. Of whichinfidelity, although I disapprove and enter my testimony against it,yetI have not taken upon me to correct the same, in respect it was the willof the deceased, that his manuscript should be submitted to the presswithout diminution or alteration. A fanciful nicety it was on the partof mydeceased friend, who, if thinking wisely, ought rather to haveconjured me, by all the tender ties of our friendship and commonpursuits, to have carefully revised, altered, and augmented, at myjudgment and discretion.But the will of the dead must be scrupulouslyobeyed, even when we weep over their pertinacity and self-delusion. So,gentle reader, I bid you farewell, recommending you to such fare as themountains of your owncountry produce; and I will only farther premise,that each Tale is preceded by a short introduction, mentioning thepersons by whom, and the circumstances under which, the materialsthereof were collected.JEDEDIAHCLEISHBOTHAM.II. INTRODUCTION to THE BLACK DWARF.The ideal being who is here presented as residing in solitude, andhaunted by a consciousness of his own deformity, and a suspicion ofhis being generallysubjected to the scorn of his fellow-men, is notaltogether imaginary. An individual existed many years since, underthe authors observation, which suggested such a character. This poorunfortunate mans name wasDavid Ritchie, a native of Tweeddale. He wasthe son of a labourer in the slate-quarries of Stobo, and must havebeen born in the misshapen form which he exhibited, though he sometimesimputed it to ill-usage when ininfancy. He was bred a brush-maker atEdinburgh, and had wandered to several places, working at his trade,from all which he was chased by the disagreeable attention which hishideous singularity of form and faceattracted wherever he came. Theauthor understood him to say he had even been in Dublin.Tired at length of being the object of shouts, laughter, and derision,David Ritchie resolved, like a deer hunted from the herd, toretreat tosome wilderness, where he might have the least possible communicationwith the world which scoffed at him. He settled himself, with this view,upon a patch of wild moorland at the bottom of a bank on thefarmof Woodhouse, in the sequestered vale of the small river Manor, inPeeblesshire. The few people who had occasion to pass that way were muchsurprised, and some superstitious persons a little alarmed, to seesostrange a figure as Bowd Davie (i.e. Crooked David) employed in a task,for which he seemed so totally unfit, as that of erecting a house. Thecottage which he built was extremely small, but the walls, as wellasthose of a little garden that surrounded it, were constructed with anambitious degree of solidity, being composed of layers of large stonesand turf; and some of the corner stones were so weighty, as to puzzlethespectators how such a person as the architect could possibly haveraised them. In fact, David received from passengers, or those who cameattracted by curiosity, a good deal of assistance; and as no one knewhow muchaid had been given by others, the wonder of each individualremained undiminished.The proprietor of the ground, the late Sir James Naesmith, baronet,chanced to pass this singular dwelling, which, having been placedtherewithout right or leave asked or given, formed an exact parallel withFalstaffs simile of a fair house built on anothers ground; so thatpoor David might have lost his edifice by mistaking the property wherehehad erected it. Of course, the proprietor entertained no ideaof exacting such a forfeiture, but readily sanctioned the harmlessencroachment.The personal description of Elshender of Mucklestane-Moor has beengenerallyallowed to be a tolerably exact and unexaggerated portrait ofDavid of Manor Water. He was not quite three feet and a half high, sincehe could stand upright in the door of his mansion, which was just thatheight. Thefollowing particulars concerning his figure and temper occurin the SCOTS MAGAZINE for 1817, and are now understood to have beencommunicated by the ingenious Mr. Robert Chambers of Edinburgh, who hasrecordedwith much spirit the traditions of the Good Town, and, in otherpublications, largely and agreeably added to the stock of our popularantiquities. He is the countryman of David Ritchie, and had the bestaccess to collectanecdotes of him.His skull, says this authority, which was of an oblong and ratherunusual shape, was said to be of such strength, that he could strike itwith ease through the panel of a door, or the end of a barrel.His laughis said to have been quite horrible; and his screech-owl voice, shrill,uncouth, and dissonant, corresponded well with his other peculiarities.There was nothing very uncommon about his dress. He usually worean oldslouched hat when he went abroad; and when at home, a sort of cowlor night-cap. He never wore shoes, being unable to adapt them tohis mis-shapen finlike feet, but always had both feet and legsquiteconcealed, and wrapt up with pieces of cloth. He always walked with asort of pole or pike-staff, considerably taller than himself. His habitswere, in many respects, singular, and indicated a mind congenial toitsuncouth tabernacle. A jealous, misanthropical, and irritable temper,was his prominent characteristic. The sense of his deformity haunted himlike a phantom. And the insults and scorn to which this exposed him,hadpoisoned his heart with fierce and bitter feelings, which, from otherpoints in his character, do not appear to have been more largely infusedinto his original temperament than that of his fellow-men.He detestedchildren, on account of their propensity to insult andpersecute him. To strangers he was generally reserved, crabbed, andsurly; and though he by no means refused assistance or charity, heseldom either expressed orexhibited much gratitude. Even towardspersons who had been his greatest benefactors, and who possessed thegreatest share of his good-will, he frequently displayed much capriceand jealousy. A lady who had knownhim from his infancy, and whohas furnished us in the most obliging manner with some particularsrespecting him, says, that although Davie showed as much respect andattachment to her fathers family, as it was inhis nature to showto any, yet they were always obliged to be very cautious in theirdeportment towards him. One day, having gone to visit him with anotherlady, he took them through his garden, and was showingthem, with muchpride and good-humour, all his rich and tastefully assorted borders,when they happened to stop near a plot of cabbages which had beensomewhat injured by the caterpillars. Davie, observing one of theladiessmile, instantly assumed his savage, scowling aspect, rushed among thecabbages, and dashed them to pieces with his KENT, exclaiming, I hatethe worms, for they mock me!Another lady, likewise a friendand old acquaintance of his, veryunintentionally gave David mortal offence on a similar occasion.Throwing back his jealous glance as he was ushering her into his garden,he fancied he observed her spit, and exclaimed,with great ferocity, AmI a toad, woman! that ye spit at me--that ye spit at me? and withoutlistening to any answer or excuse, drove her out of his gardenwith imprecations and insult. When irritated by persons forwhom heentertained little respect, his misanthropy displayed itself in words,and sometimes in actions, of still greater rudeness; and he used onsuch occasions the most unusual and singularly savage imprecationsandthreats. [SCOTS MAGAZINE, vol. lxxx. p.207.]Nature maintains a certain balance of good and evil in all her works;and there is no state perhaps so utterly desolate, which does notpossess some source ofgratification peculiar to itself, This poorman, whose misanthropy was founded in a sense on his own preternaturaldeformity, had yet his own particular enjoyments. Driven into solitude,he became an admirer of thebeauties of nature. His garden, which hesedulously cultivated, and from a piece of wild moorland made a veryproductive spot, was his pride and his delight; but he was also anadmirer of more natural beauty: the softsweep of the green hill, thebubbling of a clear fountain, or the complexities of a wild thicket,were scenes on which he often gazed for hours, and, as he said, withinexpressible delight. It was perhaps for this reason thathe was fondof Shenstones pastorals, and some parts of PARADISE LOST. The authorhas heard his most unmusical voice repeat the celebrated description ofParadise, which he seemed fully to appreciate. His other


ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Recruiting Officer, by George FarquharThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and withalmost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away orre-useit under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.orgTitle: The Recruiting OfficerAuthor: George FarquharCommentator: Elizabeth InchbaldRelease Date: August 8,2011 [EBook #37012]Language: English*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE RECRUITING OFFICER ***Produced by Delphine Lettau and the Online DistributedProofreading Canada Team athttp://www.pgdpcanada.net THE RECRUITING OFFICER, A COMEDY, IN FIVE ACTS; BY GEORGE FARQUHAR, ESQ. AS PERFORMED AT THE THEATRE ROYAL, COVENT GARDEN. PRINTED UNDER THE AUTHORITY OF THEMANAGERS FROM THE PROMPT BOOK. WITH REMARKS BY MRS. INCHBALD. LONDON: PRINTED FOR LONGMAN, HURST, REES, AND ORME PATERNOSTER ROW. WILLIAM SAVAGE, PRINTER, LONDON.REMARKS.If thetwo last acts of this drama were equal to the three first, itwould rank the foremost among Farquhar's works; for these are brilliantin wit, humour, character, incident, and every other requisite necessaryto form acomplete comedy. But the decrease of merit in a play, onapproaching its conclusion, is, as in all other productions, of mostunfortunate consequence.The author was himself a recruiting officer, and possibly gatheredallthe materials for this play on the very spot where he has placed hisscene--Shrewsbury. He has dedicated the piece "to all friends round theWrekin," and has thanked the inhabitants of the town for thatcheerfulhospitality, which made, he adds, "the recruiting service, to some menthe greatest fatigue on earth, to me the greatest pleasure in theworld."He even acknowledges, that he found the country folk, whom he hashereintroduced--meaning those most excellently drawn characters of Rose, herbrother, and the two recruits,--under the shade of that beforementionedhill near Shrewsbury, the Wrekin; and it may be well supposed,that hediscovered Serjeant Kite in his own Regiment, and Captain Plume in hisown person. Certainly those characters have every appearance of beingcopied from life--and probably, many other of his Salopianacquaintancehave here had their portraits drawn to perfection.The disguise of Sylvia in boy's clothes, is an improbable, and romanticoccurrence; yet it is one of those dramatic events, which were consideredas perfectlynatural in former times; although neither history, nortradition, gives any cause to suppose, that the English ladies wereaccustomed to attire themselves in man's apparel; and reason assuresus, that they could seldom,if ever, have concealed their sex by suchstratagem.Another incident in the "Recruiting Officer" might have had its value ahundred years ago--just the time since the play was first acted; but tothe present generation, itis so dull, that it casts a heaviness uponall those scenes, whereon it has any influence. Fortune-tellers are nowa set of personages, in whom, and in whose skill or fraud, no rationalperson takes interest; and though suchpeople still exist by theirprofession, they are so vile, they are beneath satire; and their dupessuch ideots, they do not even enjoy sense enough, for their folly toproduce risibility.Perhaps, the author despised this part ofhis play, as much as theseverest critic can do; but having expended his store of entertainmentupon the foregoing scenes, he was compelled to supply the bulk of thetwo last acts, from the scanty fund of wasted spirits,and exhaustedinvention.The life of Farquhar was full of adventures.--As a student, he wasexpelled the college of Dublin, for adventuring profane wit upon asacred theme, given to him by his tutor for his exercise.As anactor, he forsook the stage in grief and horror, on havingunknowingly made use of a real sword, instead of a counterfeit one, bywhich he wounded a brother performer, with whom he had to fence in atragedy, nearly tothe loss of his life.In love, and marriage, his enterprises were still more unhappilyterminated.--And merely as an author, and a soldier, can any eventsof his life be accounted prosperous.As a dramatic writer, Farquharwas eminently successful; and in hismilitary capacity, he was ever honoured and beloved--whether fightingwith a great army in Flanders, or recruiting with a small party inShropshire.DRAMATIS PERSONÃ. CAPTAINPLUME          _Mr. Holman._ JUSTICE BALANCE        _Mr. Murray._ WORTHY                 _Mr. Whitfield._ SERJEANT KITE          _Mr. Knight._ BULLOCK                _Mr. Fawcett._ FIRST RECRUIT          _Mr. Munden._SECOND RECRUIT         _Mr. Emery._ WELSH COLLIER          _Mr. Farley._ CONSTABLE              _Mr. Thompson._ CAPTAIN BRAZEN         _Mr. Lewis._ MELINDA                _Miss Chapman._ ROSE                   _Mrs.Gibbs._ LUCY                   _Mrs. Litchfield._ SYLVIA                 _Mrs. Johnson._ _SCENE--Shrewsbury._THE RECRUITING OFFICER.ACT THE FIRST.SCENE I._The Market Place.__Drum beats the Grenadier'sMarch.--Enter_ SERJEANT KITE, _followed by_THOMAS APPLETREE, COSTAR PEARMAIN, _and the_ MOB.Kite. [_Making a Speech._] If any gentlemen soldiers or others, havea mind to serve his majesty, and pull downthe French king; if any'prentices have severe masters, any children have undutiful parents; ifany servants have too little wages, or any husband too much wife, letthem repair to the noble Serjeant Kite, at the sign ofthe Raven, inthis good town of Shrewsbury, and they shall receive present relief andentertainment.--[_Drum._]--Gentlemen, I don't beat my drums here toinsnare or inveigle any man; for you must know, gentlemen,that I am aman of honour: besides, I don't beat up for common soldiers; no, I listonly grenadiers; grenadiers, gentlemen.----Pray, gentlemen, observethis cap--this is the cap of honour; it dubs a man a gentleman, inthedrawing of a trigger; and he, that has the good fortune to be born sixfoot high, was born to be a great man--Sir, will you give me leave totry this cap upon your head?_Cost._ Is there no harm in't? won't the cap listme?_Kite._ No, no, no more than I can.--Come, let me see how it becomesyou._Cost._ Are you sure there is no conjuration in it? no gunpowder plotupon me?_Kite._ No, no, friend; don't fear, man._Cost._ My mindmisgives me plaguily.--Let me see it--[_Going to put iton._] It smells woundily of sweat and brimstone. Smell, Tummas._Tho._ Ay, wauns does it._Cost._ Pray, Serjeant, what writing is this upon the face of it?_Kite._The crown, or the bed of honour._Cost._ Pray now, what may be that same bed of honour?_Kite._ Oh! a mighty large bed! bigger by half than the great bed atWare--ten thousand people may lie in it together, andnever feel oneanother._Cost._ My wife and I would do well to lie in't, for we don't care forfeeling one another----But do folk sleep sound in this same bed ofhonour?_Kite._ Sound! ay, so sound that they neverwake._Cost._ Wauns! I wish again that my wife lay there._Kite._ Say you so! then I find, brother----_Cost._ Brother! hold there friend; I am no kindred to you that I knowof yet.--Lookye, serjeant, no coaxing, nowheedling, d'ye see--If I havea mind to list, why so--if not, why 'tis not so--therefore take your capand your brothership back again, for I am not disposed at this presentwriting.--No coaxing, no brothering me,'faith._Kite._ I coax! I wheedle! I'm above it, sir: I have served twentycampaigns----but, sir, you talk well, and I must own that you are a man,every inch of you; a pretty, young, sprightly fellow!--I love a fellowwith aspirit; but I scorn to coax; 'tis base; though I must say, thatnever in my life have I seen a man better built. How firm and strong hetreads! he steps like a castle! but I scorn to wheedle any man--Come,honest lad! willyou take share of a pot?_Cost._ Nay, for that matter, I'll spend my penny with the best he thatwears a head, that is, begging your pardon, sir, and in a fair way._Kite._ Give me your hand then; and now, gentlemen, Ihave no more tosay but this--here's a purse of gold, and there is a tub of humming aleat my quarters--'tis the king's money, and the king's drink--he's agenerous king, and loves his subjects--I hope, gentlemen, youwon'trefuse the king's health._All Mob._ No, no, no._Kite._ Huzza, then! huzza for the king, and the honour of Shropshire._All Mob._ Huzza!_Kite._ Beat drum.     [_Exeunt, shouting.--Drum beating the Grenadier'sMarch._     _Enter_ PLUME, _in a Riding Habit_._Plume._ By the Grenadier's march, that should be my drum, and by thatshout, it should beat with success.--Let me see--four o'clock--[_Lookingon his Watch._] At tenyesterday morning I left London--an hundred andtwenty miles in thirty hours is pretty smart riding, but nothing to thefatigue of recruiting.     _Enter_ KITE._Kite._ Welcome to Shrewsbury, noble captain! from thebanks of theDanube to the Severn side, noble captain! you're welcome._Plume._ A very elegant reception, indeed, Mr. Kite. I find you arefairly entered into your recruiting strain--Pray what success?_Kite._ I've beenhere a week, and I've recruited five._Plume._ Five! pray what are they?_Kite._ I have listed the strong man of Kent, the king of the gipsies, aScotch pedlar, a scoundrel attorney, and a Welsh parson._Plume._ Anattorney! wert thou mad? list a lawyer! discharge him,discharge him, this minute._Kite._ Why, sir?_Plume._ Because I will have nobody in my company that can write; afellow that can write, can draw petitions--I saythis minute dischargehim._Kite._ And what shall I do with the parson?_Plume._ Can he write?_Kite._ Hum? he plays rarely upon the fiddle._Plume._ Keep him, by all means--But how stands the country affected?werethe people pleased with the news of my coming to town?_Kite._ Sir, the mob are so pleased with your honour, and the justicesand better sort of people, are so delighted with me, that we shall soondo yourbusiness----But, sir, you have got a recruit here, that youlittle think of._Plume._ Who?_Kite._ One that you beat up for the last time you were in the country.You remember your old friend Molly, at the Castle?_Plume._She's not with child, I hope?_Kite._ She was brought to-bed yesterday._Plume._ Kite, you must father the child._Kite._ And so her friends will oblige me to marry the mother._Plume._ If they should, we'll take her withus; she can wash, youknow, and make a bed upon occasion._Kite._ Ay, or unmake it upon occasion. But your honour knows that I ammarried already._Plume._ To how many?_Kite._ I can't tell readily--I have set themdown here upon the back ofthe muster-roll. [_Draws it out._] Let me see--_Imprimis_, Mrs. ShelySnikereyes; she sells potatoes upon Ormond key, in Dublin--Peggy Guzzle,the brandy woman at the Horse Guards, atWhitehall--Dolly Waggon, thecarrier's daughter, at Hull--Mademoiselle Van Bottomflat, at theBuss--then Jenny Oakum, the ship-carpenter's widow, at Portsmouth; butI don't reckon upon her, for she was married at thesame time to twolieutenants of marines, and a man of war's boatswain._Plume._ A full company--you have named five--come, make them half adozen--Kite, is the child a boy, or a girl?_Kite._ A chopping boy._Plume._Then set the mother down in your list, and the boy in mine;enter him a grenadier, by the name of Francis Kite, absent uponfurlow--I'll allow you a man's pay for his subsistence; and now, gocomfort the wench in thestraw._Kite._ I shall, sir._Plume._ But hold, have you made any use of your fortune-teller's habitsince you arrived?_Kite._ Yes, yes, sir; and my fame's all about the country for the mostfaithful fortune-teller that evertold a lie--I was obliged to let mylandlord into the secret, for the convenience of keeping it so; but heis an honest fellow, and will be faithful to any roguery that is trustedto him. This device, sir, will get you men, andme, money, which, Ithink, is all we want at present--But yonder comes your friend, Mr.Worthy--Has your honour any further commands?_Plume._ None at present. [_Exit_ KITE.] 'Tis indeed, the picture ofWorthy, butthe life is departed.     _Enter_ WORTHY.What, arms across, Worthy! methinks you should hold them open when afriend's so near--The man has got the vapours in his ears, I believe. Imust expel this melancholyspirit.  _Spleen, thou worst of fiends below,_  _Fly, I conjure thee, by this magic blow._                          [_Slaps_ WORTHY _on the Shoulder_._Wor._ Plume! my dear captain! welcome. Safe and soundreturned!_Plume._ I escaped safe from Germany, and sound, I hope, from London:you see I have lost neither leg, arm, nor nose. Then for my inside,'tis neither troubled with sympathies, nor antipathies; and I haveanexcellent stomach for roast beef._Wor._ Thou art a happy fellow: once I was so._Plume._ What ails thee, man? no inundations nor earthquakes, in Wales,I hope? Has your father rose from the dead, and reassumedhis estate?_Wor._ No._Plume._ Then you are married, surely?_Wor._ No._Plume._ Then you are mad, or turning quaker?_Wor._ Come, I must out with it.----Your once gay, roving friend, isdwindled into an obsequious,thoughtful, romantic, constant coxcomb._Plume._ And pray, what is all this for?_Wor._ For a woman._Plume._ Shake hands, brother. If you go to that, behold me asobsequious, as thoughtful, and as constant acoxcomb, as your worship._Wor._ For whom?_Plume._ For a regiment--but for a woman! 'Sdeath! I have been constantto fifteen at a time, but never melancholy for one: and can the love ofone bring you into thiscondition? Pray, who is this wonderful Helen?_Wor._ A Helen, indeed! not to be won under ten years' siege; as great abeauty, and as great a jilt._Plume._ A jilt! pho! is she as great a whore?_Wor._ No, no._Plume._ 'Tisten thousand pities!--But who is she?--do I know her?_Wor._ Very well._Plume._ That's impossible----I know no woman that will hold out a tenyears' siege._Wor._ What think you of Melinda?_Plume._ Melinda! why shebegan to capitulate this time twelvemonth, andoffered to surrender upon honourable terms: and I advised you to proposea settlement of five hundred pounds a year to her, before I went lastabroad._Wor._ I did, andshe hearkened to it, desiring only one week toconsider--when beyond her hopes the town was relieved, and I forced toturn the siege into a blockade._Plume._ Explain, explain._Wor._ My Lady Richly, her aunt inFlintshire, dies, and leaves her, atthis critical time, twenty thousand pounds._Plume._ Oh, the devil! what a delicate woman was there spoiled! But, bythe rules of war, now----Worthy, blockade was foolish--After suchaconvoy of provisions was entered the place, you could have no thought ofreducing it by famine; you should have redoubled your attacks, taken thetown by storm, or have died upon the breach._Wor._ I did make onegeneral assault, but was so vigorously repulsed,that, despairing of ever gaining her for a mistress, I have altered myconduct, given my addresses the obsequious, and distant turn, and courther now for a wife._Plume._So, as you grew obsequious, she grew haughty, and, because youapproached her like a goddess, she used you like a dog._Wor._ Exactly._Plume._ 'Tis the way of them all----Come, Worthy, your obsequiousand distantairs will never bring you together; you must not think tosurmount her pride by your humility. Would you bring her to betterthoughts of you, she must be reduced to a meaner opinion of herself.Let me see, the very firstthing that I would do, should be, to lie withher chambermaid, and hire three or four wenches in the neighbourhood toreport, that I had got them with child--Suppose we lampooned all thepretty women in town, and lefther out; or, what if we made a ball, andforgot to invite her, with one or two of the ugliest._Wor._ These would be mortifications I must confess; but we live in sucha precise, dull place, that we can have no balls, nolampoons, no----_Plume._ What, no bastards! and so many recruiting officers in town! Ithought 'twas a maxim among them, to leave as many recruits in thecountry as they carried out._Wor._ Nobody doubts your goodwill, noble captain, in serving yourcountry; witness our friend Molly at the Castle; there have been tearsin town about that business, captain._Plume._ I hope Sylvia has not heard of it._Wor._ Oh, sir, have you thoughtof her? I began to fancy you had forgotpoor Sylvia._Plume._ Your affairs had quite put mine out of my head. 'Tis true,Sylvia and I had once agreed to go to bed together, could we haveadjusted preliminaries; but shewould have the wedding beforeconsummation, and I was for consummation before the wedding: we couldnot agree._Wor._ But do you intend to marry upon no other conditions?_Plume._ Your pardon, sir, I'll marryupon no condition at all--If Ishould, I am resolved never to bind myself down to a woman for my wholelife, till I know whether I shall like her company for half an hour.Suppose I married a woman without a leg--such athing might be, unless Iexamined the goods before-hand.--If people would but try one another'sconstitutions before they engaged, it would prevent all theseelopements, divorces, and the devil knows what._Wor._ Nay,for that matter, the town did not stick to say that----_Plume._ I hate country towns for that reason.--If your town has adishonourable thought of Sylvia, it deserves to be burnt to theground--I love Sylvia, I admire herfrank, generous disposition--there'ssomething in that girl more than woman--In short, were I once a general,I would marry her._Wor._ 'Faith, you have reason--for were you but a corporal, she wouldmarry you--but myMelinda coquets it with every fellow she sees--I'lllay fifty pounds she makes love to you._Plume._ I'll lay you a hundred, that I return it if she does--Look ye,Worthy, I'll win her, and give her to you afterwards._Wor._ Ifyou win her, you shall wear her, 'faith; I would not value theconquest, without the credit of the victory.     _Enter_ KITE._Kite._ Captain, captain! a word in your ear._Plume._ You may speak out, here are none butfriends._Kite._ You know, sir, that you sent me to comfort the good woman in thestraw, Mrs. Molly--my wife, Mr. Worthy._Wor._ O ho! very well. I wish you joy, Mr. Kite._Kite._ Your worship very well may--for I havegot both a wife and achild in half an hour--But as I was saying--you sent me to comfort Mrs.Molly--my wife, I mean--but what d'ye think, sir? she was bettercomforted before I came._Plume._ As how?_Kite._ Why, sir,a footman in a blue livery had brought her ten guineasto buy her baby-clothes._Plume._ Who, in the name of wonder, could send them?_Kite._ Nay, sir, I must whisper that--Mrs. Sylvia._Plume._ Sylvia! generouscreature!_Wor._ Sylvia! impossible!_Kite._ Here are the guineas, sir--I took the gold as part of my wife'sportion. Nay, farther, sir, she sent word the child should be taken allimaginable care of, and that she intended tostand godmother. The samefootman, as I was coming to you with this news, called after me, andtold me, that his lady would speak to me--I went, and upon hearing thatyou were come to town, she gave me half aguinea for the news, andordered me to tell you, that Justice Balance, her father, who is justcome out of the country, would be glad to see you._Plume._ There's a girl for you, Worthy!--Is there any thing of womaninthis? no, 'tis noble, generous, manly friendship. Show me another womanthat would lose an inch of her prerogative that way, without tears,fits, and reproaches. The common jealousy of her sex, which is nothingbuttheir avarice of pleasure, she despises, and can part with thelover, though she dies for the man--Come, Worthy--where's the bestwine? for there I'll quarter._Wor._ At Horton's._Plume._ Let's away, then.--Mr. Kite, goto the lady, with my humbleservice, and tell her, I shall only refresh a little, and wait upon her._Wor._ Hold, Kite--have you seen the other recruiting captain?_Kite._ No, sir; I'd have you to know I don't keep suchcompany._Plume._ Another! who is he?_Wor._ My rival, in the first place, and the most unaccountablefellow--but I'll tell you more as we go. [_Exeunt._SCENE II._An Apartment._MELINDA _and_ SYLVIA_meeting_._Mel._ Welcome to town, cousin Sylvia. [_Salute._] I envied you yourretreat in the country; for Shrewsbury, methinks, and all your heads ofshires, are the most irregular places for living: here we havesmoke,scandal, affectation, and pretension; in short, every thing to give thespleen--and nothing to divert it--then the air is intolerable._Syl._ Oh, madam! I have heard the town commended for its air._Mel._ But youdon't consider, Sylvia, how long I have lived in it; forI can assure you that to a lady the least nice in her constitution--noair can be good above half a year. Change of air I take to be the mostagreeable of any variety inlife._Syl._ As you say, cousin Melinda, there are several sorts of airs._Mel._ Psha! I talk only of the air we breathe, or more properly of thatwe taste--Have not you, Sylvia, found a vast difference in the taste


ï»¿Project Gutenberg's The Fatal Dowry, by Philip Massinger and Nathaniel FieldThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and withalmost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it awayorre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.orgTitle: The Fatal DowryAuthor: Philip Massinger        Nathaniel FieldEditor: Charles LacyLockertRelease Date: October 23, 2013 [EBook #44015]Language: EnglishCharacter set encoding: UTF-8*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE FATAL DOWRY ***Produced by Robert Cicconetti,Jennifer Linklater and theOnline Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net(This file was produced from images generously madeavailable by The Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries)  THE FATALDOWRY  BY  PHILIP MASSINGER AND  NATHANIEL FIELD  EDITED, FROM THE ORIGINAL QUARTO,  WITH INTRODUCTION AND NOTES  A DISSERTATION  PRESENTED TO THE  FACULTY OF PRINCETON UNIVERSITY  INCANDIDACY FOR THE DEGREE  OF DOCTOR OF PHILOSOPHY  BY  CHARLES LACY LOCKERT, JR.  ASSISTANT PROFESSOR OF ENGLISH, KENYON COLLEGE  PRESS OF  THE NEW ERA PRINTING COMPANY  LANCASTER,PA.  1918  Accepted by the Department of English, June, 1916PREFACEThis critical edition of _The Fatal Dowry_ was undertaken as a Thesisin partial fulfilment of the requirements for the degree of Ph.D. atPrincetonUniversity. It was compiled under the guidance and directionof Professor T.Â M. Parrott of that institution, and every page ofit is indebted to him for suggestion, advice, and criticism. I canbut inadequately indicate thescope of his painstaking and scholarlysupervision, and can even less adequately express my appreciation ofhis ever-patient aid, which alone made this work possible.I desire also to acknowledge my debt to Professor J.Duncan Spaethof Princeton University, for his valuable suggestions in regard tothe presentation of my material, notably in the Introduction; also toProfessor T.Â W. Baldwin of Muskingum College and Mr. HenryBowman,both of them then fellow graduate students of mine at Princeton, forassistance on several occasions in matters of special inquiry; and toDr. M.Â W. Tyler of the Princeton Department of History for directingmein clearing up a lego-historical point; and finally to the libraries ofYale and Columbia Universities for their kind loan of needed books.INTRODUCTIONIn the Stationerâs Register the following entry is recordedunder thedate of â30Âº Martij 1632:â  CONSTABLE Entred for his copy vnder the hands of Sir HENRY HERBERT    and master _SMITHWICKE_ warden a Tragedy called _the ffatall    Dowry_.    Vj d.In the year1632 was published a quarto volume whose title-page wasinscribed: _The Fatall Dowry_: a Tragedy: As it hath been often Actedat the Private House in Blackfriars, by his Majesties Servants.Written by P.Â M. and N.Â F.London, Printed by John Norton, for FrancisConstable, and are to be sold at his shop at the Crane, in PaulsChurchyard. 1632.That the initials by which the authors are designated stand for PhilipMassinger and NathanielField is undoubted.LATER TEXTSThere is no other seventeenth century edition of _The Fatal Dowry_. Itwas included in various subsequent collections, as follows:I. _The Works of Philip Massinger_--edited by ThomasCoxeter,1759--re-issued in 1761, with an introduction by T. Davies.II. _The Dramatic Works of Philip Massinger_--edited by John MonckMason, 1779.III. _The Plays of Philip Massinger_--edited by William Gifford,1805.There was a revised second edition in 1813, which is still regarded asthe Standard Massinger Text, and was followed in subsequent editions ofGifford.IV. _Modern British Drama_--edited by Sir Walter Scott, 1811.The textof this reprint of _The Fatal Dowry_ is Giffordâs.V. _Dramatic Works of Massinger and Ford_--edited by Hartley Coleridge,1840 (_et seq._). This follows the text of Gifford.VI. _The Plays of Philip Massinger._From the Text of William Gifford.With the Addition of the Tragedy Believe as You List. Edited by FrancisCunningham, 1867 (_et seq._). The Fatal Dowry in this edition, as inthe preceding, is a mere reprint of the SecondEdition of Gifford.VII. _Philip Massinger._ Selected Plays. (Mermaid Series.) Edited byArthur Symons, 1887-9 (_et seq._).In addition to the above, _The Fatal Dowry_ appeared in _The Plays ofPhilip Massinger_, adaptedfor family reading and the use of youngpersons, by the omission of objectionable passages,--edited by Harness,1830-1; and another expurgated version was printed in the _Mirror ofTaste and Dramatic Censor_, 1810.Both of these are based on the textof Gifford.The edition of Coxeter is closest of all to the Quarto, following evenmany of its most palpable mistakes, and adding some blunders on itsown account. Mason acceptspractically all of Coxeterâs corrections,and supplies a great many more variants himself, not all of which arevery happy. Both these eighteenth century editors continually contractfor the sake of securing a perfectlyregular metre (e.Â g.: _Youâre_for _You are_, I, i, 139; _thâ honours_ for _the honours_, I, ii, 35;etc.), while Giffordâs tendency is to give the full form for even thecontractions of the Quarto, changing its_âemâs_ to _themâs_, etc.Gifford can scarce find words sharp enough to express his scorn for hispredecessors in their lack of observance of the text of the Quarto,yet he himself frequently repeats theirgratuitous emendations whenthe original was a perfectly sure guide, and he has almost a mania fortampering with the Quarto on his own account. Symonsâ _Mermaid_ text,while based essentially on that of Gifford,in a number of instancesdeparts from it, sometimes to make further emendations, but more oftento go back from those of Gifford to the version of the original, sothat on the whole this is the best text yetpublished.There has been a German translation by the Graf von Baudisson, underthe title of _Die Unselige Mitgift_, in his _Ben Jonson und seineSchule_, Leipsig, 1836; and a French translation, in prose, underthe titleof _La dot fatale_ by E. Lafond in _Contemporains deShakespeare_, Paris, 1864.DATEThe date of the composition or original production of _The Fatal Dowry_is not known. The Quarto speaks of it as having beenâoften acted,â sothere is nothing to prevent our supposing that it came into existencemany years before its publication. It does not seem to have beenentered in Sir Henry Herbertâs Office Book.[1] Thiswould indicate itsappearance to have been prior to Herbertâs assumption of the duties ofhis office in August, 1623. In seeking a more precise date we can dealonly in probabilities.[2]The play having been producedby the Kingâs Men, a company in whichField acted, it was most probably written during his associationtherewith. This was formed in 1616; the precise date of his retirementfrom the stage is not known. His nameappears in the patent of March27, 1619, just after the death of Burbage, and again and for the lasttime in a livery list for his Majestyâs Servants, dated May 19, 1619.It is absent from the next grant for livery(1621) and from the actorsâlists for various plays which are assigned to 1619 or 1620. We maytherefore assume safely that his connection with the stage ended beforethe close of 1619. On the basis of probability,then, the field isnarrowed to 1616-19.[3]More or less presumptive evidence may be adduced for a yet morespecific dating. During these years that Field acted with the KingâsMen, two plays appeared which bearstrong internal evidence of beingproducts of his collaboration with Massinger and Fletcher: _The Knightof Malta_ and _The Queen of Corinth_. While several parallels ofphraseology are afforded for _The Fatal Dowry_ bythese (as, indeed, byevery one of the works of Massinger) they are not nearly so numerousor so striking as similarities discoverable between it and certainother dramas of the Massinger _corpus_. With none does theconnectionseem so intimate as with _The Unnatural Combat_. Both plays open witha scene in which a young suppliant for a fatherâs cause is counseled,in passages irresistibly reminiscent of each other, to lay asideprideand modesty for the parentâs sake, because not otherwise can justicebe gained, and it is the custom of the age to sue for it shamelessly.Moreover, the offer by Beaufort and his associates to Malefort ofanyboon he may desire as a recompense for his service, and his acceptanceof it, correspond strikingly in both conduct and language with theconferring of a like favor upon Rochfort by the Court (I, ii, 258ff.); while therequest which Malefort prefers, that his daughter bemarried to Beaufort Junior, and the language with which that young manacknowledges this meets his own dearest wish, bear a no less patentresemblance to thebestowal of Beaumelle upon Charalois (II, ii,284-297). Now this last parallel is significant, because _The UnnaturalCombat_ is an unaided production of Massinger, while the analogue in_The Fatal Dowry_ occurs in ascene that is by the hand of Field. Thesimilarity may, of course, be only an accident, but presumably it isnot. Then did Field borrow from Massinger, or did Massinger from Field?The most plausible theory is that _TheUnnatural Combat_ was writtenimmediately after _The Fatal Dowry_, when Massingerâs mind was sosaturated with the contents of the tragedy just laid aside that he wasliable to echo in the new drama theexpressions and import of lines inthe old, whether by himself or his collaborator. That at any rate thechronological relationship of the two plays is one of juxtaposition isfurther attested by the fact that in minorparallelisms,[4] too, to_The Fatal Dowry_, _The Unnatural Combat_ is richer than any other workof Massinger.Unfortunately _The Unnatural Combat_ is itself another play of whosedate no more can be said withassurance than that it preceeds the entryof Sir Henry Herbert into office in 1623, though its crude horrors,its ghost, etc., suggest moreover that it is its authorâs initialindependent venture in the field of tragedy, his_Titus Andronicus_, anill-advised attempt to produce something after the âgrand mannerâ ofhalf a generation back. Next in closeness to _The Fatal Dowry_ amongthe works of Massinger as regards the numberof its reminiscences ofphraseology stands his share of _The Virgin Martyr_; next in closenessas regards the _strikingness_ of these parallels stands his share of_The Little French Lawyer_. These two plays can be dated_circa_ 1620.       *       *       *       *       *To sum up:_The Fatal Dowry_ appears to antedate the installation of Sir HenryHerbert in 1623.It was probably written while Field was with the Kingâs Men; with whomhebecame associated in 1616, and whom he probably quitted in 1619.The indications point to its composition during the latter part of thisthree-year period (1616-19), for it yields more and closer parallelsto _The VirginMartyr_ and _The Little French Lawyer_, dated about1620, than to _The Knight of Malta_ and _The Queen of Corinth_, dated1617-8,--closer, indeed, than to any work of Massinger save one, _TheUnnatural Combat_,itself an undated but evidently early play, withwhich its relationship is clearly of the most intimate variety.       *       *       *       *       *The following (at best hazardously conjectural) scheme of sequence maybeadvanced:Fletcher and Massinger and Field together wrote _The Knight of Malta_and _The Queen of Corinth_--according to received theory, in 1617 or1618. Thereafter, the last two collaborators (desirous, perhaps,oftrying what they could do unaided and unshackled by the dominatingassociation of the chief dramatist of the day) joined hands in theproduction of the tragedy which is the subject of our study. Then, uponFieldâsretirement, Massinger struck off, with _The Unnatural Combat_,into unassisted composition; but we next find him, whether because herecognized the short-comings of this turgid play or for other reasons,again indouble harness, at work upon _The Virgin Martyr_ and _TheLittle French Lawyer_. On this hypothesis, _The Fatal Dowry_ would bedated 1618-9.SOURCESNo source is known for the main plot of _The Fatal Dowry_. ASpanishoriginal has been suspected, but it has never come to light. The stresslaid throughout the action on that peculiarly Spanish conception ofâthe point of honorâ (see under CRITICAL ESTIMATE, inconsiderationof the character of Charalois) is unquestionably suggestive of theland south of the Pyrenees, and we have an echo of _Don Quixote_in the exclamation of Charalois (III, i, 441): âAway, thoucuriousimpertinent.â The identification, however, of the situation at Aymerâshouse in IV, ii with a scene in Cervantesâ _El viejo celoso_ (ObrasCompletas De Cervantes, Tomo XII, p.Â 277) is extremelyfanciful. Theonly similarity consists in the circumstance that in both, while thehusband is on the stage, the wife, who, unknown to him, entertainsa lover in the next room, is heard speaking within. But this isaspontaneous outcry on the part of Beaumelle, who does not suspect theproximity of her husband, and her discovery follows, and from thisthe denouement of the play; whereas in Cervantesâ _entremes_ thewifedeliberately calls in bravado to her niece, who is also on-stage, andboasts of her lover,--and the husband thinks this is in jest, andnothing comes of it but comedy.The theme of the sonâs redemption of hisfatherâs corpse by his owncaptivity is from the classical story of Cimon and Miltiades, asnarrated by Valerius Maximus, De dictis factisque memorabilibus, etc.Lib. V, cap. III. De ingratis externorum: _Bene egissentAtheniensescum Miltiade, si eum post trecenta millia Persarum Marathone devicta,in exilium protinus misissent, ac non in carcere et vinculis moricoegissent; sed, ut puto, hactenus saevire adversus optimemeritumabunde duxerunt: immo ne corpus quidem eius, sic expirare coactisepulturae primus mandari passi sunt, quam filius eius Cimon eisdemvinculis se constrigendum traderet. Hanc hereditatem paternammaximiducis filius, et futurus ipse aetatis suae dux maximus, solam secrevisse, catenas et carcerem, gloriari potuit._In the version of Cornelius Nepos (Vitae, Cimon I) Cimon isincarcerated against his will.The action ofthe play is given the historical setting of the laterfifteenth century wars of Louis XI of France and Charles the Bold ofBurgundy, although this background is extremely hazy. The heroâs nameis the title which Charlesbore while heir-apparent to the Duchy ofBurgundy; mention is made of Charles himself (âThe warlike Charloyes,âI, ii, 171), to Louis (âthe subtill Fox of France, The politiqueLewis,â I, ii, 123-4), and toâthe more desperate Swisseâ (I, ii,124), against whom Charles lost his life and the power of Burgundywas broken; while the three great defeats he suffered at their hands,Granson, Morat, Nancy, are named inI, ii, 170. Shortly after thesedisasters the events which the play sets forth must be supposed tooccur; the parliament by which in our drama Dijon is governed wasestablished by Louis XI when he annexed Burgundy in1477 and therebyabolished her ducal independence.COLLABORATIONIt is doubtful if Massinger ever collaborated with any author whosemanner harmonized as well with his own as did Fieldâs. In hispartnership withDecker in _The Virgin Martyr_, the alternate handsof the two dramatists afford a weird contrast.[5] His union withFletcher was less incongruous, but Fletcher was too much inclined totake the bit between his teeth to bea comfortable companion in doubleharness,[6] and at all times his volatile, prodigal genius paired illwith the earnest, painstaking, not over-poetic moralist. But in FieldMassinger found an associate whose connectionwith himself was not onlycongenial, but even beneficial, to the end that together they couldachieve certain results of which either was individually incapable;just as it has been established was the case in theMiddleton-Rowleycollaboration. To a formal element of verse different, indeed, fromMassingerâs, but not obtrusively so, a certain moral fibre of hisown (perhaps derived from his clerical antecedents), and alikefamiliarity with stage technique, Field added qualities which Massingernotably lacked, and thereby complemented him: a light and vigorous(if sometimes coarse) comic touch as opposed to Massingerâscumbroushumor; a freshness and first-hand acquaintance with life as opposed toMassingerâs bookishness; a capacity to visualize and individualizecharacter as opposed to Massingerâs weakness for drawingtypes ratherthan people. The fruit of their joint endeavors testifies to aharmonious, conscientious, and mutually respecting partnership.In consideration of the above, it is surprising how substantially inaccord are mostof the opinions that have been expressed concerning theshare of the play written by each author.âA critical reader,â says Monck Mason, âwill perceive that Rochfortand Charalois speak a different languagein the Second and Third Acts,from that which they speak in the first and last, which are undoubtedlyMassingerâs; as is also Part of the Fourth Act, but not the whole ofit.âDr. Ireland, in a postscript to the text of_The Fatal Dowry_ inGiffordâs edition, agrees with Mason in assigning the Second Actto Field and also the First Scene of the Fourth Act; the ThirdAct, however, he claims for Massinger, as well as that share oftheplay with which Mason credits him. Fleay and Boyle, the chiefmodern commentators who have taken up the question of the divisionof authorship with the aid of metrical tests and other criteria,agree fairly well with thespeculations of their less scientificpredecessors, and adopt an intermediate, reconciling position on thedisputed Third Act, dividing it between the two dramatists.[7]Boyle (_Englische Studien_, V, 94) assigns toMassinger Act I; Act IIIas far as line 316; Act IV, Scenes ii, iii, and iv; and the whole ofAct V, with the exception of Scene ii, lines 80-120, which he considersan interpolation of Field, whom he also believes to haverevised thelatter part of I, ii (from _Exeunt Officers with Romont_ to end).Fleay (_Chron. Eng. Dra._, I, 208) exactly agrees with this divisionsave that the latter part of I, ii, which Boyle believes emended byField, heassigns to that author outright; and that he places thedivision in Act III twenty-seven lines later (Field after _Manent Char.Rom._).In my own investigation I have used for each Scene the following teststo distinguishthe hands of the two authors:(_a_) Broad aesthetic considerations: the comparison of style andmethod of treatment with the known work of either dramatist.(_b_) The test of parallel phrases. Massingerâs habit ofrepeatinghimself is notorious. I have gone through the entire body of hiswork, both that which appears under his name, and that which has beenassigned to him by modern research in the Beaumont & Fletcherplays,and noted all expressions I found analogous to any which occur in_The Fatal Dowry_. I have done the same for Fieldâs work, examininghis two comedies, _Woman is a Weathercock_ and _Amends forLadies_,and Acts I and V of _The Knight of Malta_ and III and IV of _TheQueen of Corinth_, which the consensus of critical opinion recognizes(in my judgment, correctly) as his. He is generally believed tohavecollaborated also in _The Honest Manâs Fortune_, but the exact extentof his work therein is so uncertain that I have not deemed it a properfield from which to adduce evidence. His hand has been asserted byoneauthority or another to appear in various other plays of the period,he having served, as it were, the role of a literary scapegoat on whomit was convenient to father any Scene not identified as belonging toBeaumont,Fletcher, or Massinger; but there is no convincing evidencefor his participation in the composition of any extant dramas save theabove named.(_c_) Metrical tests. I have computed the figures for _The Fatal Dowry_inregard to double or feminine endings and run-on lines. Massingerâsverse displays high percentages (normally 30 per cent, to 45 per cent.)in the case of either. Fieldâs verse varies considerably in the matterofrun-on lines at various periods of his life, but the proportion ofthem is always smaller than Massingerâs. His double endings averageabout 18 per cent. I have also counted in each Scene the numberof speeches thatend within the line, and that end with the line,respectively. (Speeches ending with fragmentary lines are considered tohave mid-line endings.) This is declared by Oliphant (_Eng. Studien_,XIV, 72) the surest test for thework of Massinger. âHis percentage ofspeeches,â he says, âthat end where the verses end is ordinarily as lowas 15.â This is a tremendous exaggeration, but it is true that theratio of mid-line endings is


ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Sorrows of Satan, by Marie CorelliThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and withalmost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away orre-use itunder the terms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.orgTitle: The Sorrows of Satan       or, The Strange Experience of One Geoffrey Tempest,       Millionaire, ARomanceAuthor: Marie CorelliRelease Date: March 14, 2013 [EBook #42332]Language: English*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SORROWS OF SATAN ***Produced by Julie Barkley, David Wilsonand the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.netTHE SORROWS OF SATANORTHE STRANGE EXPERIENCE OF ONEGEOFFREY TEMPEST, MILLIONAIREA ROMANCEBY MARIE CORELLIMETHUEN & CO.LTD., LONDON_36 Essex Street W.C._ _First Published                                    November 1895  Second, Third, Fourth, Fifth, Sixth, Seventh,      Eighth, Ninth, Tenth Editions                           1895  Eleventh, Twelfth,Thirteenth, Fourteenth, Fifteenth,      Sixteenth, Seventeenth, Eighteenth, Nineteenth,      Twentieth, Twenty-first, Twenty-second, Twenty-third,      Twenty-fourth, Twenty-fifth, Twenty-sixth,      Twenty-seventh,Twenty-eighth, Twenty-ninth,      Thirtieth, Thirty-first, Thirty-second Editions         1896  Thirty-third, Thirty-fourth, Thirty-fifth, Thirty-sixth      Editions                                                1897  Thirty-seventh,Thirty-eighth, Thirty-ninth      Editions                                                1898  Fortieth and Forty-first Editions                           1899  Forty-second Edition                                        1900  Forty-third and Forty-fourthEditions                       1901  Forty-fifth and Forty-sixth Editions                        1902  Forty-seventh Edition                                       1903  Forty-eighth Edition                                        1904  Forty-ninth andFiftieth Editions                           1905  Fifty-first Edition                                         1906  Fifty-second and Fifty-third Editions                       1907  Fifty-fourth Edition                                        1908  Fifty-fifthEdition                                         1909  Fifty-sixth Edition                                         1910  Fifty-seventh Edition                                       1911  Fifty-eighth Edition                                        1913  Fifty-ninthEdition                                         1914  Sixtieth Edition                                            1916  Sixty-first Edition                                         1917  Sixty-second and Sixty-third Editions                       1918  Sixty-fourthEdition                                        1920  Sixty-fifth Edition (Cheap Edition)                         1920  Sixty-sixth Edition    "      "                             1922  Sixty-seventhEdition  "      "                             1931  Sixty-eighth Edition   "      "                             1936                            Reprinted, 1952_68.2CATALOGUE NO. 2075/VPRINTED IN GREAT BRITAINTHE SORROWS OF SATANIDoyou know what it is to be poor? Not poor with the arrogant povertycomplained of by certain people who have five or six thousand a year tolive upon, and who yet swear they can hardly manage to make both endsmeet,but really poor,--downright, cruelly, hideously poor, with apoverty that is graceless, sordid and miserable? Poverty that compelsyou to dress in your one suit of clothes till it is wornthreadbare,--that denies you cleanlinen on account of the ruinouscharges of washerwomen,--that robs you of your own self-respect, andcauses you to slink along the streets vaguely abashed, instead ofwalking erect among your fellow-men inindependent ease,--this is thesort of poverty I mean. This is the grinding curse that keeps down nobleaspiration under a load of ignoble care; this is the moral cancer thateats into the heart of an otherwisewell-intentioned human creature andmakes him envious and malignant, and inclined to the use of dynamite.When he sees the fat idle woman of society passing by in her luxuriouscarriage, lolling back lazily, her facemottled with the purple and redsigns of superfluous eating,--when he observes the brainless and sensualman of fashion smoking and dawdling away the hours in the Park, as ifall the world and its millions of honest hardworkers were createdsolely for the casual diversion of the so-called 'upper' classes,--thenthe good blood in him turns to gall, and his suffering spirit rises infierce rebellion, crying out--"Why in God's name, should thisinjusticebe? Why should a worthless lounger have his pockets full of gold by merechance and heritage, while I, toiling wearily from morn till midnight,can scarce afford myself a satisfying meal?"Why indeed! Why shouldthe wicked flourish like a green bay-tree? I haveoften thought about it. Now however I believe I could help to solve theproblem out of my own personal experience. But ... such an experience!Who will credit it? Who willbelieve that anything so strange andterrific ever chanced to the lot of a mortal man? No one. Yet it istrue;--truer than much so-called truth. Moreover I know that many menare living through many such incidents ashave occurred to me, underprecisely the same influence, conscious perhaps at times, that they arein the tangles of sin, but too weak of will to break the net in whichthey have become voluntarily imprisoned. Will theybe taught, I wonder,the lesson I have learned? In the same bitter school, under the sameformidable taskmaster? Will they realize as I have been forced todo,--aye, to the very fibres of my intellectual perception,--thevast,individual, active Mind, which behind all matter, works unceasingly,though silently, a very eternal and positive God? If so, then darkproblems will become clear to them, and what seems injustice in theworld willprove pure equity! But I do not write with any hope of eitherpersuading or enlightening my fellow-men. I know their obstinacy toowell;--I can gauge it by my own. My proud belief in myself was, at onetime, not to beoutdone by any human unit on the face of the globe. AndI am aware that others are in similar case. I merely intend to relatethe various incidents of my career in due order exactly as theyhappened,--leaving to moreconfident heads the business of propoundingand answering the riddles of human existence as best they may.During a certain bitter winter, long remembered for its arctic severity,when a great wave of intense coldspread freezing influences not aloneover the happy isles of Britain, but throughout all Europe, I, GeoffreyTempest, was alone in London and well-nigh starving. Now a starving manseldom gets the sympathy hemerits,--so few can be persuaded to believein him. Worthy folks who have just fed to repletion are the mostincredulous, some of them being even moved to smile when told ofexisting hungry people, much as if thesewere occasional jests inventedfor after-dinner amusement. Or, with that irritating vagueness ofattention which characterizes fashionable folk to such an extent thatwhen asking a question they neither wait for theanswer nor understandit when given, the well-dined groups, hearing of some one starved todeath, will idly murmur 'How dreadful!' and at once turn to thediscussion of the latest 'fad' for killing time, ere it takes tokillingthem with sheer _ennui_. The pronounced fact of being hungry soundscoarse and common, and is not a topic for polite society, which alwayseats more than sufficient for its needs. At the period I am speakingofhowever, I, who have since been one of the most envied of men, knew thecruel meaning of the word hunger, too well,--the gnawing pain, the sickfaintness, the deadly stupor, the insatiable animal craving formerefood, all of which sensations are frightful enough to those who are,unhappily, daily inured to them, but which when they afflict one who hasbeen tenderly reared and brought up to consider himselfa'gentleman,'--God save the mark! are perhaps still more painful to bear.And I felt that I had not deserved to suffer the wretchedness in which Ifound myself. I had worked hard. From the time my father died,leavingme to discover that every penny of the fortune I imagined he possessedwas due to swarming creditors, and that nothing of all our house andestate was left to me except a jewelled miniature of my mother whohadlost her own life in giving me birth,--from that time I say, I had putmy shoulder to the wheel and toiled late and early. I had turned myUniversity education to the only use for which it or I seemedfitted,--literature. Ihad sought for employment on almost every journalin London,--refused by many, taken on trial by some, but getting steadypay from none. Whoever seeks to live by brain and pen alone is, at thebeginning of such acareer, treated as a sort of social pariah. Nobodywants him,--everybody despises him. His efforts are derided, hismanuscripts are flung back to him unread, and he is less cared for thanthe condemned murderer in gaol.The murderer is at least fed andclothed,--a worthy clergyman visits him, and his gaoler willoccasionally condescend to play cards with him. But a man gifted withoriginal thoughts and the power of expressing them,appears to beregarded by everyone in authority as much worse than the worst criminal,and all the 'jacks-in-office' unite to kick him to death if they can. Itook both kicks and blows in sullen silence and lived on,--not forthelove of life, but simply because I scorned the cowardice ofself-destruction. I was young enough not to part with hope tooeasily;--the vague idea I had that my turn would come,--that theever-circling wheel of Fortunewould perchance lift me up some day as itnow crushed me down, kept me just wearily capable of continuingexistence,--though it was merely a continuance and no more. For aboutsix months I got some reviewing workon a well-known literary journal.Thirty novels a week were sent to me to 'criticise,'--I made a habit ofglancing hastily at about eight or ten of them, and writing one columnof rattling abuse concerning these thuscasually selected,--theremainder were never noticed at all. I found that this mode of actionwas considered 'smart,' and I managed for a time to please my editor whopaid me the munificent sum of fifteen shillings for myweekly labour.But on one fatal occasion I happened to change my tactics and warmlypraised a work which my own conscience told me was both original andexcellent. The author of it happened to be an old enemy oftheproprietor of the journal on which I was employed;--my eulogistic reviewof the hated individual, unfortunately for me, appeared, with the resultthat private spite outweighed public justice, and I wasimmediatelydismissed.After this I dragged on in a sufficiently miserable way, doing 'hackwork' for the dailies, and living on promises that never becamerealities, till, as I have said, in the early January of the bitterwinteralluded to, I found myself literally penniless and face to facewith starvation, owing a month's rent besides for the poor lodging Ioccupied in a back street not far from the British Museum. I had beenout all day trudgingfrom one newspaper office to another, seeking forwork and finding none. Every available post was filled. I had alsotried, unsuccessfully, to dispose of a manuscript of my own,--a work offiction which I knew had somemerit, but which all the 'readers' in thepublishing offices appeared to find exceptionally worthless. These'readers' I learned, were most of them novelists themselves, who readother people's productions in their sparemoments and passed judgment onthem. I have always failed to see the justice of this arrangement; to meit seems merely the way to foster mediocrities and suppress originality.Common sense points out the fact thatthe novelist 'reader' who has aplace to maintain for himself in literature would naturally ratherencourage work that is likely to prove ephemeral, than that which mightpossibly take a higher footing than his own. Be thisas it may, andhowever good or bad the system, it was entirely prejudicial to me and myliterary offspring. The last publisher I tried was a kindly man wholooked at my shabby clothes and gaunt face with somecommiseration."I'm sorry," said he, "very sorry, but my readers are quite unanimous.From what I can learn, it seems to me you have been too earnest. Andalso, rather sarcastic in certain strictures against society. Mydearfellow, that won't do. Never blame society,--it buys books! Now if youcould write a smart love-story, slightly _risquÃ©_,--even a little morethan _risquÃ©_ for that matter; that is the sort of thing that suitsthepresent age.""Pardon me," I interposed somewhat wearily--"but are you sure you judgethe public taste correctly?"He smiled a bland smile of indulgent amusement at what he no doubtconsidered my ignorance inputting such a query."Of course I am sure,"--he replied--"It is my business to know thepublic taste as thoroughly as I know my own pocket. Understand me,--Idon't suggest that you should write a book on anypositively indecentsubject,--that can be safely left to the 'New' woman,"--and helaughed,--"but I assure you high-class fiction doesn't sell. The criticsdon't like it, to begin with. What goes down with them and withthepublic is a bit of sensational realism told in terse newspaper English.Literary English,--Addisonian English,--is a mistake.""And I am also a mistake I think," I said with a forced smile--"At anyrate if what you say betrue, I must lay down the pen and try anothertrade. I am old-fashioned enough to consider Literature as the highestof all professions, and I would rather not join in with those whovoluntarily degrade it."He gave me aquick side-glance of mingled incredulity and depreciation."Well, well!" he finally observed--"you are a little quixotic. That willwear off. Will you come on to my club and dine with me?"I refused this invitation promptly. Iknew the man saw and recognised mywretched plight,--and pride--false pride if you will--rose up to myrescue. I bade him a hurried good-day, and started back to my lodging,carrying my rejected manuscript with me.Arrived there, my landlady metme as I was about to ascend the stairs, and asked me whether I would'kindly settle accounts' the next day. She spoke civilly enough, poorsoul, and not without a certain compassionatehesitation in her manner.Her evident pity for me galled my spirit as much as the publisher'soffer of a dinner had wounded my pride,--and with a perfectly audaciousair of certainty I at once promised her the money atthe time sheherself appointed, though I had not the least idea where or how I shouldget the required sum. Once past her, and shut in my own room, I flung myuseless manuscript on the floor and myself into a chair,and--swore. Itrefreshed me to swear, and it seemed natural,--for though temporarilyweakened by lack of food, I was not yet so weak as to shed tears,--and afierce formidable oath was to me the same sort of physicalrelief whichI imagine a fit of weeping may be to an excitable woman. Just as I couldnot shed tears, so was I incapable of apostrophizing God in my despair.To speak frankly, I did not believe in any God--_then_. I was tomyselfan all-sufficing mortal, scorning the time-worn superstitions ofso-called religion. Of course I had been brought up in the Christianfaith; but that creed had become worse than useless to me since I hadintellectuallyrealized the utter inefficiency of Christian ministers todeal with difficult life-problems. Spiritually I was adrift inchaos,--mentally I was hindered both in thought and achievement,--bodily,I was reduced to want. My casewas desperate,--I myself was desperate.It was a moment when if ever good and evil angels play a game of chancefor a man's soul, they were surely throwing the dice on the last wagerfor mine. And yet, with it all, I feltI had done my best. I was driveninto a corner by my fellow-men who grudged me space to live in, but Ihad fought against it. I had worked honestly and patiently;--all to nopurpose. I knew of rogues who gained plentyof money; and of knaves whowere amassing large fortunes. Their prosperity appeared to prove thathonesty after all was _not_ the best policy. What should I do then? Howshould I begin the jesuitical business ofcommitting evil that good,personal good, might come of it? So I thought, dully, if such strayhalf-stupefied fancies as I was capable of, deserved the name of thought.The night was bitter cold. My hands were numbed,and I tried to warmthem at the oil-lamp my landlady was good enough to still allow me theuse of, in spite of delayed cash-payments. As I did so, I noticed threeletters on the table,--one in a long blue envelopesuggestive of eithera summons or a returned manuscript,--one bearing the Melbourne postmark,and the third a thick square missive coroneted in red and gold at theback. I turned over all three indifferently, andselecting the one fromAustralia, balanced it in my hand a moment before opening it. I knewfrom whom it came, and idly wondered what news it brought me. Somemonths previously I had written a detailed account ofmy increasingdebts and difficulties to an old college chum, who finding England toonarrow for his ambition had gone out to the wider New world on aspeculative quest of gold mining. He was getting on well, soIunderstood, and had secured a fairly substantial position; and I hadtherefore ventured to ask him point-blank for the loan of fifty pounds.Here, no doubt, was his reply, and I hesitated before breaking the seal."Ofcourse it will be a refusal," I said half-aloud,--"However kindly afriend may otherwise be, he soon turns crusty if asked to lend money. Hewill express many regrets, accuse trade and the general bad times andhope I willsoon 'tide over.' I know the sort of thing. Well,--afterall, why should I expect him to be different to other men? I've no claimon him beyond the memory of a few sentimental arm-in-arm days atOxford."A sigh escapedme in spite of myself, and a mist blurred my sight forthe moment. Again I saw the grey towers of peaceful Magdalen, and thefair green trees shading the walks in and around the dear old Universitytown where we,--Iand the man whose letter I now held in myhand,--strolled about together as happy youths, fancying that we wereyoung geniuses born to regenerate the world. We were both fond ofclassics,--we were brimful of Homerand the thoughts and maxims of allthe immortal Greeks and Latins,--and I verily believe, in thoseimaginative days, we thought we had in us such stuff as heroes are madeof. But our entrance into the social arena soonrobbed us of our sublimeconceit,--we were common working units, no more,--the grind and prose ofdaily life put Homer into the background, and we soon discovered thatsociety was more interested in the latestunsavoury scandal than in thetragedies of Sophocles or the wisdom of Plato. Well! it was no doubtextremely foolish of us to dream that we might help to regenerate aworld in which both Plato and Christ appear to havefailed,--yet themost hardened cynic will scarcely deny that it is pleasant to look backto the days of his youth if he can think that at least then, if onlyonce in his life, he had noble impulses.The lamp burned badly, and Ihad to re-trim it before I could settledown to read my friend's letter. Next door some-one was playing a violin,and playing it well. Tenderly and yet with a certain amount of _brio_the notes came dancing from the bow,and I listened, vaguely pleased.Being faint with hunger I was somewhat in a listless state bordering onstupor,--and the penetrating sweetness of the music appealing to thesensuous and Ã¦sthetic part of me, drownedfor the moment mere animalcraving."There you go!" I murmured, apostrophizing the unseenmusician,--"practising away on that friendly fiddle of yours,--no doubtfor a mere pittance which barely keeps you alive.Possibly you are somepoor wretch in a cheap orchestra,--or you might even be a street-playerand be able to live in this neighbourhood of the _Ã©lite_ starving,--youcan have no hope whatever of being the 'fashion'and making your bowbefore Royalty,--or if you have that hope, it is wildly misplaced. Playon, my friend, play on!--the sounds you make are very agreeable, andseem to imply that you are happy. I wonder if youare?--or if, like me,you are going rapidly to the devil!"The music grew softer and more plaintive, and was now accompanied by therattle of hailstones against the window-panes. A gusty wind whistledunder the door androared down the chimney,--a wind cold as the grasp ofdeath and searching as a probing knife. I shivered,--and bending closeover the smoky lamp, prepared to read my Australian news. As I openedthe envelope, a billfor fifty pounds, payable to me at a well-knownLondon banker's, fell out upon the table. My heart gave a quick bound ofmingled relief and gratitude."Why Jack, old fellow, I wronged you!" I exclaimed,--"Your heart isinthe right place after all."And profoundly touched by my friend's ready generosity, I eagerlyperused his letter. It was not very long, and had evidently been writtenoff in haste.    Dear Geoff,    I'm sorry to hear you are


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                             THE ADJUSTMENT BUREAU                                  Written by                                 GeorgeNolfi                           Based on a short story by                                 Philip K Dick           BLACK SCREEN          The sounds of a large crowd, but muffled, as if we're inside,          and hearing the crowdthrough a window or door. FADE IN ON:          INT. SOME SORT OF LOBBY -- DAY          DAVID NORRIS, 33, is having a private moment, looking down,          thinking. He wears a suit and tie. He seemsrelaxed and          confident. Content. Completely in his element.          In one of his hands he's absentmindedly twirling a couple of          individually-wrapped Ricola throat lozenges. We hear the          muffled voice ofsomeone on a PA system outside:          VOICE ON PA SYSTEM          Thank you so much for coming today--          A man in a BLUE BLAZER walks up to David.                         BLUEBLAZER          Congressman Norris-?          Now REVEAL that we're Â±fl: the entry hall of the Admin Building          at St. Johns University. A thousand people crowd the quad          out front. "Norris for Senate"placards everywhere.                         BLUE-BLAZER          Fred O'Malley with the DNC. I've          never seen a crowd this big turn          out so early in the cycle.          CHARLIE TRAYNOR, 36,arrives--.                         CHARLIE          Just wait 'till you see how they          respond to him..          David pops a cherry lozenge into his mouth and straightens          his lapel pin, which is shaped like NewYork State.                         DAVID          Don't build me up like that,          Charlie. He'll be disappointed.          EXT. ST. JOHNS UNIVERSITY -- MAIN QUAD -- DAY          The crowd, many of themin their twenties, roars with          approval as David walks out to the lectern on the steps of          the Admin Building.                         DAVID          Hi there. I'm David Norris. And          I'm running for theUS Senate.                                                                                2/12/09 2.          The crowd goes wild.          MONTAGE -- SENATE CAMPAIGN          --David finishes a speechat the FDNY Academy's graduation.          The cadets jump to their feet and give him a standing          ovation.          --David shakes the hands of workers entering a .Con Edison          plant in Buffalo. He's a natural atthis. Unlike most          politicians he actually seems to enjoy campaigning.          --Flashbulbs go off as he plays a game of pick-up basketball          with a group of Bronx teenagers. Charlie is nearby.          --Davidtakes a ceremonial shovel full of dirt to begin          redevelopment of an old military base upstate.          --He gives a speech at a Harlem church. Audiences watch          David the way they watched JFK, the way theywatch Obama          today. He inspires, makes them believe, makes them want to          follow him. Especially young people.          --David walks through a suburban mall happily shaking hands          as cameras followhim and citizens snap pictures with their          camera-phones. People crush around him. He:doesn't seem to          mind at all. He welcomes it. He feeds off it.          --He pops a cherry lozenge in his mouth and climbsup onto a          tractor to speak to a gathering of upstate farmers, speaking          into a bullhorn to compensate for his hoarse voice. Charlie          stands nearby watching him speak:.          INT. SHERATONHOTEL ROOM --UPSTATE SOMEWHERE -- DUSK          David enters his hotel room. The silence contrasts starkly          with the noisy energy of the campaign trail.          He turns on the TV. Scrolls through thechannels. After a          moment shuts it off. Total silence again. It bothers him.          He opens up his briefcase. Pulls out a thick file -- his          itinerary for the next three days. Dozens of speechesand          meetings across the state.          He glances at the summary page on the top. Glances down the          page with his finger, stopping, almost at random, on a speech          he's giving two days from now atthe Westchester County Open          Space Initiative.                         DAVID                         (TESTING HIMSELF)          Karen Woods, founder.Husband:          Bob.                                                                                2/12/09 3.                         DAVID (CONT'D)          Kids: Samantha, painting, and          Ricky,Little League. John Pascal.          Wife: Anna. St. John's grad. Two          year old: Loyita...          He stops. Knows this cold. His finger runs down to a          Realtor's Association breakfast in Nassau County fourdays          out.                         DAVID                         (MORE TESTING)          Abagail "Abby" Best, Stuart          Broxterman, Chapel Davis, Milan          Sabovic, Jim Vargas...          His ability toretain this sort of information is stunning.          He doesn't need to review. It's already all there.          He closes his itinerary file. Goes to the window and looks          out at the trees.          The silence back...it'sdeafening.          INT. SHERATON LOBBY -- UPSTATE SOMEWHERE -- NIGHT          Charlie enters the lobby. Stops suddenly: spots David,          holding court at`the hotel bar. Fifteen strangers aroundhim          as he regales them with a story, despite the fact that he's          clearly losing his voice. Charlie walks over, pulls him          aside.                         CHARLIE          What the hell? What happenedto          "I'm going to have softie tea, rest          my voice, and go to bed early?"          You have Diane Sawyer tomorrow and          you have to be up at four AM for us          to make it in time.          David is holding,a beer, in his left hand. With his free hand          he picks up a cup and saucer.                         DAVID          I had some tea.          (sees Charlie's not in the                         MOOD)          Comeon, man. We're eight points          up in the polls. I've gotta cut          loose every once in a while and          have a life.          This provokes a quizzical look from Charlie. Fifteen          strangers in a crappy upstateSheraton doesn't seem like          having a life to him...                                                                                2/12/094.                         CHARLIE          Ten.                         DAVID          What?                         CHARLIE          Latest poll has you ten points up.          A slow smile spreads acrossDavid's face.                         CUT TO:                         BLACK SCREEN          The sound of a busy room. Then one voice, much louder:          CAMPAIGN AIDE.           County reporting:8901 for          Lynfield, 7233 for Norris.          INT. WALDORF ASTORIA HOTEL SUITE -- NIGHT          Charlie Traynor walks over to the aide who just shouted that.          She's writing vote totals onto a mapof New York by county.                         CHARLIE                         (NATURAL OPTIMIST)          Better than I thought, I thought          we'd get killed in Seneca.          He turns to look at a large suitefull of more than a dozen          Norris supporters talking on phones and typing into laptops.                         CHARLIE          Eddie, call Boyd! Where the hell          are the. Suffolk numbers? We'vegot          to get the Suffolk numbers!          EXT. ROOFTOP NEAR WALDORF -- NIGHT          A light snow falls. Four MEN IN CONSERVATIVE SUITS,          overcoats, and fedoras walk across the roof of aforty-story          building. Their clothing is more timeless than old-          fashioned. And somehow so is their demeanor.          The men get to the edge and look down over the city, almost-          as if it's theirdomain.                                                                                2/12/09 5.          INT. WALDORF HOTEL ROOM -- NIGHT          David watches the election coverage on TV.Pundits are          discussing the New York Senate race, which CNN has already          called for David's opponent.                         PUNDIT #1          Congressman Norris has a reputation          for being verydirect, even blunt,          in his campaign speeches, which is          great until you say too many things          you wish you hadn't. Then you          start to look like an amateur.                         PUNDIT#2          That's bad for any candidate but          it's fatal if you're running for          Senate at the age of 33, your          opponent keeps calling you an          "impulsive kid," and you almost          killed yourentire political career          five months ago with an act of          immaturity that ended up on the          front page of`.the New York Post.          David winces slightly. This is excruciating. Just then          Charlieenters.. The nerve center.suite is visible through          the open door behind him.                         -CHARLIE          Why are you still watching CNN?          They called this way too early.          David doesn'tshare his friend's optimism.          INT. WALDORF HOTEL SUITE'-- NERVE CENTER -- NIGHT          A' campaign aide with a phone to her ear shouts to the room:                         AIDE          SuffolkCounty Numbers!          Charlie and David emerge from the private room to listen.           AIDE (O.S.)          Lynfield: 415,120. Norris:          370,233.          Charlie's energy and optimism disappearinstantly.                         CHARLIE          (after long beat)          I really thought we'd win Suffolk.                                                                                2/12/09 6.          Asenior aide walks over.                         SENIOR AIDE          Kings County just came in too.                         A BRUTAL          He shows a piece of paper to Charlie andDavid.          beat...                         DAVID          Well, it's over. And it's going to          be a blowout...          David puts on a brave face. . .but this is the first moment          that he realizes not only is hegoing to lose, but he's going          to lose big. It's going to be a grand,. public humiliation.                         SENIOR AIDE          NBC has us up next.          Charlie takes a clicker and turns the closest TV toNBC.                         BRIAN WILLIAMS          Turning now to the New York Senate          race, NBC is now calling the          election for Roger'Lynfield. After          a shockingly poor showing inboth          Suffolk county and in his home          county, Kings, it now appears that          David Norris will lose this          election badly, perhaps by as much          as 10 points.          EXT. ROOFTOP --NIGHT          The four men in dark suits.. The boss's name is RICHARDSON,          early 40s. His top aide is.AHARRY, 50s.                         RICHARDSON          This is a.bignight,gentleman.                         (TOHARRY)          Is ever ything set?          Harry nods. Richardson notices his eyes:                         RICHARDSON          You look tired. You should take