ON the evening of the 22d of September, 1879, Mr. William Farren stepped upon the boards of the Imperial Theatre, as Archer in The Beaux’ Stratagem, which, since his assumption of the same part in 1856, had not been seen in London. That perennial youth which is the secret of the English light comedian had not forsaken him, and he cocked his laced hat with all the easy effrontery of Wilks or Garrick. A brand-new prologue, obviously written by a member of the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Vice, had been prepared for the occasion, and the play itself was brought out with all the conscientious realism of the contemporary stage. In the very first scene an authentic stage-coach was driven into the inn court-yard, and the horses were rubbed down by unmistakable grooms. Captivated from the beginning by these managerial subtleties, the audience dispersed as well pleased with Farquhar’s masterpiece as the old play-house mob which beheld its first performance at the Theatre Royal, nearly two centuries ago.
This comparatively recent revival of The Beaux’ Stratagem, after a deathlike trance of twenty-three years, calls for some remark upon the life and work of its author, whom periodical literature has never honored with an article all to himself. Excluded for want of space from Macaulay’s famous essay on The Comic Dramatists, and denied mention in Thackeray’s Lectures on the Humorists, he becomes fairly the prey of humbler pens. This neglect of Farquhar by the writers best fitted to deal with his period is by no means due to the inferiority of his place in dramatic literature. Dr. Johnson, whose critical faculties, however they may be regarded, were fearlessly exercised, thought his writings had considerable merit. In Goldsmith’s opinion he was more lively, and perhaps more entertaining, than either Wycherley, Congreve, or Vanbrugh. That he improved in each play we have the testimony of Oldisworth, whose obscurity lends an air of mystery to his approval. Macaulay pronounced him a man not to be hastily dismissed. All his critics have not been equally kind. Lockier, Dean of Peterborough, esteemed him a mean poet, placed by some in a higher rank than he deserved. Pope called him a farce writer, and somewhere exclaims, " What pert, low dialogue has Farquhar writ! ” Hazlitt and Leigh Hunt date the decline of English comedy from the death of Farquhar. Fielding’s birth in the same year would have been a better date. Nothing was more fatal to English comedy than the rise of English fiction. Moreover, comedy did not die until Goldsmith and Sheridan had written their last. They were both greater men than our author, though each was in some sort an imitator, — the former of Farquhar, the latter of Congreve and Vanbrugh. Wycherley had no follower. It has been found quite as easy to copy directly from Molière. Such is the varying testimony concerning our author, whose talents certainly were sufficiently commanding to make some slight acquaintance with him a necessary part of one’s impolite education.
George Farquhar was born at Londonderry in 1678, and is said—upon information imparted by an unknown person to an untrustworthy biographer — to have been the son of a dean of Armagh. So trivial, however, is the evidence on two of these points that one might almost venture to call him a foundling, and, on the strength of his phonetization of the Milesian accent in The Twin Rivals, to deny that he was an Irishman. There is, indeed, about all the recorded incidents of his early life, an air of unreality. That he passed a year at Trinity College, Dublin, is probable ; but the two irreconcilable accounts of his career there cast doubt even upon this fact. It is incredible that he should have gained a reputation for scholarship, and at the same time have been “ reckoned one of the dullest young men at the university; ” that he should have been at once “ volatile and giddy,” and “as a companion heavy and disagreeable;” or that his parents, desiring for him “a genteel education,” should have consented to his performance of the menial duties of a sizar.
Not until the beginning of Farquhar’s friendship with Wilks, which doubtless originated in a natural propensity for the stage, are we on firm ground. The first result of this intimacy was his début as Othello at the Dublin Theatre. It was not a triumph. Good looks and a graceful bearing could not compensate for a thin voice and an unconquerable tendency to stage-fright. To the latter infirmity, it may be assumed, was due the serious accident attending his last public appearance, on which occasion he played Guyomar, in Dryden’s Indian Emperor, and was awkward enough to pass his sword through the luckless performer of Vasquez, inflicting a wound little short of mortal. This put an end to his acting forever. He renounced his profession, and presently left Dublin in company with Wilks, now summoned to Drury Lane Theatre.
How Farquhar came to know the Earl of Orrery does not appear, but soon after his arrival in London he was made a lieutenant in that nobleman’s regiment, with which he saw service in Ireland and in Holland. In both of these countries he is reported to have given proofs of “ courage and conduct,” under what would seem considerable disadvantages, as there was no war in Ireland, and, while he was there, no fighting in Holland. A passage from Love and a Bottle, however, throws a side-light upon this apparent contradiction. “ Surely your sword and skill did the king great service abroad?” says Squire Mockmode to his fencing-master. “Yes, sir,” replies Nimblewrist. “I killed above fifteen of our own officers by private duels in the camp, sir.”
Never in active campaign, Farquhar must have found a soldier’s life, with its dull round of duties, enlivened only by cards, pipes, and bottles, monotonous enough. A man of sprightly genius, what more natural than that, urged by Wilks, he should turn to play-writing as an employment for his abundant leisure ? From a literary point of view, the chief value of his military experience was the use he made of it in his comedies, to every one of which it imparts a martial coloring. Fortunately, too, for Farquhar, the time had come for the soldier to show his face upon the stage, from which he had been excluded, as Professor Ward points out, by “ the uneasy remembrance of the military era of the Civil War and the Commonwealth.” Indeed, the plays of Thomas Killigrew and of Davenant plainly show a dislike of soldiers. The Dutch wars of Charles II., appealing for support only to the base sentiment of commercial rivalry, did not remove this prejudice. Not until the victories of Marlborough had aroused an enthusiasm in which the whole nation could share did dramatic sympathy with the military life begin to revive. And it first shows itself in the comedies of Farquhar.
The opening scene of our author’s first comedy, Love and a Bottle, introduces Roebuck, who is out of money and resolved to turn soldier. In this state of mind he meets a crippled veteran, who asks for a farthing. “ Ha ! ” he exclaims, “ A glimpse of damnation just as a man is entering into sin is no great policy of the devil.” The old soldier has borne arms for five years, and crutches have borne him for fifteen. “Very pretty!” continues Roebuck. “ Five years a soldier and fifteen a beggar ! This is hell, right! an age of damnation for a momentary offense! Thy condition, fellow, is preferable to mine. The merciful bullet, more kind than thy ungrateful country, has given thee a debenture in thy broken leg, from which thou canst draw a more plentiful maintenance than I from all my limbs in perfection.” That the begging capital of wounds should be the sole reward of patriotism is an admirable stroke of satire.
Of Love and a Bottle, which was played at Drury Lane in 1698, little further need he said. Its coarseness exceeds that of any other of Farquhar’s comedies, and this alone would make an extended account undesirable. It is, however, worth reading, if only for the pretty song of Leanthe. Roebuck, its hero, can best be described in her words: “ How charming would virtue look in him whose behavior can add a grace to the unseemliness of vice!” The most laughter-provoking scene in the play is that between the poet, Lyric, and Pamphlet, the bookseller. “ Poetry is a mere drug, sir,” says Pamphlet; “ one must write himself into a consumption before he can gain a reputation.” “That’s the way to lie abed when his name ’s up,” replies Lyric. “ Now I lie abed before I gain a reputation.” The poor fellow has no clothes. He offers three thousand lines for two guineas, for nothing, hoping something from the dedication, but in vain. Presently a boy whispers him that two bailiffs are below stairs. Handing the bookseller a play to look over, Lyric borrows his hat and wig, claps his own “ right poetical cap — baize the outside and the lining fustian”— on Pamphlet’s head, and makes his escape. “ And furious lightnings brandished in her eye,” reads the bookseller, as the catchpolls lay hands upon him for Lyric. “ These wits are damnable cunning ! I always have double fees for arresting one of you wits,” remarks the first bailiff. “ Ay, sir, we know what you are by your fool’s-cap there,” says the second. “Yes, one of you wits would have passed upon us for a corn-cutter yesterday, and was so like one we had almost believed him,” adds the first. It is of course impossible, without reproducing the scene entire, to give any idea of the liveliness of the dialogue, which is free from the pinchbeck wit of verbal antithesis so frequently resorted to by Farquhar, such, for example, as “ You have wit enough to talk like a fool, and are fool enough to talk like a wit.” If this be an epigram, its disguise is complete.
To his military fascinations Farquhar had now added the charm of literary success. Tavern doors flew open at his approach. Wits lent him their ears, and bar-maids basked in his smile. To him were first revealed the brilliant gifts of Anne Oldfield, and his approval gave them to the stage. She was but sixteen when our author, dining one day at the Mitre, in St. James’s Market, chanced to hear her reading Beaumont and Fletcher’s Scornful Lady behind the bar. That he was delighted, who that has read Cibber’s idolatrous account of her can doubt? The original performer of Lady Betty Modish, of Lady Townley, of Mrs. Sullen, and of Marcia in Addison’s Cato, her theatrical career was one unbroken triumph. She had her faults. As Cibber said of Mrs. Rogers, she could never be reduced to marry. But she was the benefactress of Savage, and it was her boast that she had wronged no wife. There are earls who may not claim descent from her, but who cannot escape it. Of her Pope wrote : —
And, Betty, give this cheek a little red!”
Noblemen bore her pall, and she lay in state in the Jerusalem Chamber. Farquhar’s kind impulse had sent her from the bar of the Mitre tavern to Westminster Abbey.
Little less coarse in language than his first comedy, The Constant Couple, or a Trip to the Jubilee, which was produced in 1700, has a plot quite as objectionable. Sir Harry Wildair’s mistaken advances to the innocent Angelica, whom a rejected suitor has represented as a light woman, and the deceptions practiced upon her various gallants by Lady Lurewell, in revenge for an early misfortune, are materials susceptible of no great refinement. Lady Lurewell and the lover of her girlhood, Colonel Standard, are the constant couple, who, after years of separation, are unhappily united. Sir Harry, too, makes matrimonial amends. The characters in this play and its sequel of the next year, Sir Harry Wildair, are fairly drawn, but not with the art shown in Farquhar’s later comedies. Lady Lurewell, elegantly immoral, fastidious even in her vices, with just enough virtue to reward the fidelity of Standard, and too little to prevent a relapse into her former habits of intrigue, is an interesting study of a rich, empty-minded, luxurious woman, with whom sin has lost its savor, and who can find relief from devouring ennui only in dangerous amours or purposeless mischief. Even the sparks of her wit are struck out of the flint of her selfishness. Annoyed by her clumsy English servants, she wishes “ the persecution would rage a little harder, that we might have more of these French refugees among us.” Standard, without the graces to long commend him to her fickle ladyship, is still a true soldier, and his graphic description of his disbandment is almost pathetic : “ This very morning, in Hyde Park, my brave regiment, a thousand men that looked like lions yesterday, were scattered, and looked as poor and simple as the herd of deer that grazed beside ’em.” Captain Fireball, of the navy, is also noticeable for his line scorn of domestic life. He takes his brother Standard to dine at Locket’s, expressing as he goes his detestation of family dinners : “ Where a man’s obliged to, ‘O Lard, madam ! ’ ‘ No apology, dear sir! ’ Where between the rubbed floor under foot, the china in one corner, and the glasses in another, a man can’t make two strides without hazard of his life. Commend me to a boy and a bell: ‘Coming, coming, sir ! ’ Much noise, no attendance, and a dirty room, where I may eat like a horse, drink like a fish, and swear like a devil. Hang your family dinners ! ”
Sir Harry Wildair, the joy of the playhouse and the life of the park, newly come from Paris, is a differentiation of Roebuck. He has the same high spirits, the same careless humor, but not the same poverty. Nothing can ruffle his temper : “ A man of eight thousand pounds per annum to be vexed ! ” He is, in short, what Farquhar thought he could best draw, and Wilks best perform, a gay, splendid, generous, easy, fine young gentleman. Our author’s heroes are all of this type. They are simply the fops of Etheredge and Cibber transformed by courage. That is to say, they are just as fond of fine clothes and genteel debauchery, but they do not drawl, and will fight. Charles Surface is a lineal descendant of the incorrigible Sir Harry Wildair, whose picture he doubtless put up at auction to Mr. Premium. The only difference between them is that Sir Harry’s sale would have been without reserve. Charles saves the portrait of his uncle, while presumably selling that of his mother. This is always a sure card with the unthinking audience, who never reflect that even so reckless a spendthrift, reduced to such necessity, might well consider the return of a relative from whom he had expectations.
Besides being that of the production of The Constant Couple, the year 1700 is memorable for the death of Dryden, of whose funeral Farquhar has left us an amusing account. “ We had,” he says, “ an ode in Horace sung instead of David’s Psalms, whence you may find that we don’t think a poet worth Christian burial. The pomp of the ceremony was a kind of rhapsody, and fitter for Hudibras than him, because the cavalcade was mostly burlesque.” After praising Dr. Garth’s oration, he concludes : “ And so much for Mr. Dryden, whose burial was the same with his life: variety and not of a piece; the quality and mob, farce and heroics ; the sublime and ridicule mixt in a piece; great Cleopatra in a hackney-coach.”
Farquhar’s fourth comedy, The Inconstant, or the Way to Win Him, a depoetized adaptation of Fletcher’s Wild Goose Chase, made its appearance in 1703. It is notable only for the character of young Mirabel, perhaps the most incorrigible of Farquhar’s rakes, and the excellence of its fifth act, for which our author was not indebted to Fletcher. The turn of the plot in the last act, he tells us, is an adventure of the Chevalier de Chastillon in Paris, and matter of fact. Young Mirabel, in the play, offers his coach, at the door of the theatre, to a handsome lady, whose own has not arrived. His offer accepted, he accompanies her to her home, sends away his coach to avert scandal, and remains attended only by a page. Deprived of his servants, he is gradually robbed, by the unfair hostess and four bravoes, of his diamond ring, his Tompion watch, his sword, his wig even, — all in the politest manner. They admire, and he, taking the hint, gives. Presently, to make a pretext for killing him, a bravo drinks his health, at the same time pulling his nose. His hostess offers him a glass of wine. Mirabel praises the quality, but pronounces in favor of some burgundy in his own cellar. He begs permission to send for a dozen flasks. The bravoes consult, and conclude to accept his proffer. The page, unconscious of what is passing, is called in, ordered to bring half a dozen flasks of the red burgundy marked a thousand, and departs. The page is of course the heroine of the play, enamored of Mirabel. Everything depends on her intelligence. Love quickens her apprehension. There are a thousand men in a regiment, and their coats are red. She returns with Captain Duretete and a half dozen soldiers. Mirabel is saved. Repeating the same courteous phrases used by Lamorce and her bravoes, he reclaims the articles of which he has been robbed, and avenges the indignity to his nose. The bravoes are led away. Oriana discloses herself, and Mirabel is at last won. For melodramatic effect, few situations more striking than this are to be found in the whole range of the drama.
The year of The Inconstant was also the year of Farquhar’s marriage. He thought he had married a fortune. A lady, madly in love with him, and knowing his narrow means, had baited the matrimonial hook with a purely imaginary estate. Farquhar was caught; he made the best of what was after all a desperate sort of compliment; and never, even in the bitter poverty to which he was subsequently reduced, offered a word of reproach to its author.
With the exception of a farce called The Stage Coach, the year 1704 saw nothing from Farquhar’s pen. The following year is memorable for the production of The Twin Rivals, a play in which our author attempted the double task of writing a regular comedy and enforcing a moral. Critics say he succeeded in the first half; whether making his villain a hunchback accomplished the second is doubtful. Be this as it may, the failure of the play demonstrated the justness of Farquhar’s remark, in his only considerable essay, that “ the rules of English comedy don’t lie in the compass of Aristotle, or his followers, but in the pit, box, and galleries.”
The Recruiting Officer, second in merit only to our author’s last comedy, was first played on the 8th of April, 1706. Apparently, it is almost an actual transcript of his own experience while on recruiting duty in Shropshire. “ Farquhar’s plays talk the language of a marching regiment in country quarters,” says Horace Walpole, probably having in mind this comedy ; and though it is said in scorn, he unwittingly pays a high tribute to our author’s realism, — a literary quality not as much prized then as now. From the moment we hear Sergeant Kite inviting to serve her majesty all ’prentices with severe masters, all children with undutiful parents, all servants with too little wages, and all husbands with too much wife, down to the roll of the drums in the epilogue itself, we breathe a military atmosphere. It is somewhat thick for modern lungs, to be sure ; but it did not clog the respiration of our grandfathers, who knew not moral ventilation, and could be happy in almost any dramatic Black Hole. The story of this play is not remarkable, but its characters are many of them well studied. Officers of the army, who have been afflicted with intelligent sergeants, will appreciate Captain Plume’s horror when he learns that Kite has enlisted an attorney. “ I will have nobody in my company that can write ; a fellow that can write can draw petitions.” Not wholly absent from places of safety during our own late war was Justice Balance, who wants blood and wounds for his taxes, and complains that for a long time we have had “ nothing for our millions but newspapers not worth a reading.” Soldiers are well enough to be killed, he thinks, but he objects to Captain Plume for a son-inlaw. “ A captain of foot worth twelve hundred pounds a year ! ’T is a prodigy in nature. Besides this, I have five or six thousand pounds in woods upon my estate ! Oh, that would make him stark mad! For you must know that all captains have a mighty aversion to timber; they can’t endure to see trees standing.” Tipsy old Quin, in this part, once said to Peg Woffington, who performed Sylvia, “ How old were you when your mother was married ? ” “ What, sir ? ” asked the laughing actress. “ Pshaw! I mean when your mother was born!" “I cannot answer you precisely on either of these questions,” answered the undismayed Peg, “ but I can tell you how old I was when my mother died.” It is worth while to give a sample of the conversation held with a raw recruit by Sergeant Kite, who has seen hussars eat ravelins for breakfast, and afterwards pick their teeth with palisadoes. “ Ay, you soldiers see strange things,” says Bullock ; “ but pray, sir, what is a ravelin ? ” “ Why, ’t is like a modern minced pie, but the crust is confounded hard, and the plums are somewhat hard of digestion.” Deceitful scoundrel as he is, Sergeant Kite is not without a touch of poetry in his blackguard composition. “ Pray, now, what may be that same bed of honor?” inquires one of his simple victims. “ Oh, a mighty large bed, bigger by half than the great bed at Ware : ten thousand people may lie in it together, and never feel one another.” A good character, also, is the ignorant and vainglorious Captain Brazen, who might have married no end of German princesses and daughters of pachas, and who has had twenty-two horses killed under him, “all torn to pieces by cannon-shot, except six I staked to death upon the enemies’ chevaux-de-frise.”
While Farquhar was a bachelor the profits of his annual play added to his military stipend made an income sufficient for his wants. With a wife and two infant daughters, he soon began to feel the gripe of poverty. Duns knocked at his door, and tipstaffs haunted his dreams. In his distress he applied to the Duke of Ormond, who advised him to sell his commission, promising at the same time to give him a captaincy in his own regiment. The commission being sold, the duke proved faithless, and Farquhar was in despair. Wilks told him that he must now look to his pen alone for support. “ Is it possible,” cried Farquhar, “ that a man can write common sense, who is heart-broken, and without a shilling? ” The generous answer was twenty guineas from Wilks’s pocket. Encouraged by this gleam of golden sunshine, our author set about writing The Beaux’ Stratagem, for which Lintot paid him thirty pounds in advance. In this comedy two gentlemen, one acting as servant to the other, start out to mend their broken fortunes by marriage. At Lichfield, with her pretty daughter and her no less lovely daughter-in-law, lives Lady Bountiful, famed for charitable healing. A guest in the servants’ hall, Archer, the brilliant footman, makes the acquaintance of
Mrs. Sullen, while, by skillfully fainting in Lady Bountiful’s grounds, his master, Aimwell, compasses that of Dorinda. A burglarious attack upon Lady Bountiful’s house, of which Aimwell has been warned by the daughter of Boniface, his landlord, who is in league with highwaymen, brings about the dénoûment. Rescued by their respective admirers, Dorinda and Mrs. Sullen pay their debt of gratitude in the usual legal tender of comedy. This is hardly true, however, of Mrs. Sullen, whom her sottish husband turns over to Archer, fortune and all, without any ceremony whatever. Leigh Hunt finds in this circumstance a powerful argument for divorce reform, but it was considered a defect by Mrs. Oldfield, who said at rehearsal that in some manner the honor of Mrs. Sullen should have been secured. To this objection, repeated to him by Wilks, the easy author replied, “ Oh, I will, if she pleases, salve that immediately, by getting a real divorce, marrying her myself, and giving her my bond that she shall be a widow in less than a fortnight.” On the stage the most pleasing of Farquhar’s comedies, The Beaux’ Stratagem, after reading, leaves an impression almost as slight as that produced upon Dr. Johnson by his perusal of High Life Below Stairs: “ Here is a farce which is really very diverting when you see it acted; and yet one may read it, and not know that one has been reading anything at all.” This is probably due to the even excellence of the whole performance. Unforced humor is always less striking than laborious wit. It is the difference between Argand lamp and Congreve rocket. That The Beaux’ Stratagem is the best of our author’s comedies, there can be no question. Decenter in language, its plot is comparatively inoffensive, and it has given to literature types of character of which universal acceptance proves the truth. The gracious figure of Lady Bountiful has flitted across many a page, whose reader knew not whence she came ; and Boniface has baptized half the inn-keepers of Christendom with his dishonest name. Scrub’s “ I believe they talked of me, for they laughed consumedly,” and Gibbet’s “ ’T was for the good of my country that I should be abroad,” are familiar quotations. The latter is perhaps best known in the form lent it later by George Barrington, in his prologue written for the opening of the playhouse at New South Wales, a well-known convict settlement: —
We left our country for our country’s good.”
The Beaux’ Stratagem was our author’s last comedy. When he had finished it he wrote this note to Wilks : —
DEAR BOB, — I have not anything to leave thee, to perpetuate my memory, but two helpless girls. Look upon them sometimes, and think of him that was, to the last moment of his life, thine,
Leigh Hunt has wasted a great deal of perverse ingenuity in an attempt to show that Wilks was insensible to his dying friend’s request. He was, perhaps, not quixotically generous; but a performance was given at his theatre for the benefit of Mrs. Farquhar, and twelve years later he was trustee for the daughters of an annual pension of twenty pounds, granted them by the king, most probably through Wilks’s mediation. With Hunt, however, all this weighs as nothing against the facts that the daughters were apprenticed to mantua-makers; that one married a low tradesman ; that the other, in 1764, was an ignorant maid-servant, with no filial pride ; and that mother and daughters died in indigence. But this, it must be remembered, is the judgment of a man who himself leaned rather heavily on his friends.
With the moral aspects of the later Stuart drama it is not here proposed to deal. The work has been done once and forever by Macaulay. In his hands those fascinating sophistries in which Charles Lamb enwrapped the artificial comedy of the last century have turned to rags. But it should not be forgotten that it was he who wrote, “We cannot wish that any work or class of works which has exercised a great influence on the human mind, and which illustrates the character of an important epoch in letters, politics, and morals, should disappear from the world.”
Even on the score of morality it may be said for Farquhar that he is a vast improvement on the three authors whose names are invariably linked with his. Far less coarse and with a lighter and airier touch than either Vanbrugh or Wycherley, he has none of the devil’s wit of Congreve. With the latter writer, however, he had Something in common. He was not an imitator. In an age when the great Dryden, who, in his All for Love, sought to rival Shakespeare on his own ground, condescended to borrow from Calprenède and the Scudérys, it was Farquhar’s proud distinction to be strictly original. The only charge of plagiarism ever brought against him was exploded forty years ago by Leigh Hunt’s discovery that he wrote The Adventures of Covent Garden, from which some of the incidents in The Constant Couple are taken. Farquhar was not a sublime genius ; he was at best a surface realist, a painter of swiftly perishing manners, who found his inspiration in the garish dissipations of the town and the rude jollities of camps; but he was himself. Less picturesque in effect, it is better, after all, that one’s Pegasus should be a real donkey than a wooden horse.
It has generally been assumed that in several of his characters Farquhar painted his own portrait, though from his report that melancholy was the “every-day apparel ” of his mind, and that his own sex took him for “ an easy natured man,” and women for “an illnatured clown,” it would seem that his sparkish gallants, far from being repetitions of himself, were the product of intellectual sympathy with traits which he did not possess. Showy vice had for him an undeniable attraction, but he had neither the constitution to practice it, nor the assurance to set it off. Besides, he had a conscience. Let us not deal harshly with this man, who fell so bravely, fighting the wolf at his door, shielding to the last with his worn body the wife and children behind him. He was but twenty-nine when they carried him to the churchyard of St. Martin’s-in-theFields, and his final comedy was in the height of its success at the Haymarket. It was Farquhar who called Necessity the mother of Invention. He wrote The Beaux’ Stratagem in six weeks. Death’s heavy hand was upon him, but his own was as light as ever. Into the gay troop who people his last comedy passed the life that was leaving him. Farquhar died in 1707. Archer and Aimwell, Dorinda and Mrs. Sullen, were in London only two years ago.
H. A. Huntington.