_Pol._ Wherefore should you do this?

_Rey._ I my Lord, I would know that.

_Pol._ Marry, sir, heer's my drift, And I believe it is a fetch of wit, You laying these slight sallies on my sonne As t'were a thing a little soyld with working, Marke you, your partie in converse, him you would sound Having ever seene in the prenominat crimes The youth you breath of guiltie, be a.s.sur'd Now happely hee closeth with He closes with you in this you in the consequence, consequence, As you may bridle it not Good sir, (or so,) or friend, or disparage him a iote. gentleman, According to the phrase, or the addition Of man and country.

_Rey._ Very good my Lord.

_Pol._ And then sir, doos a this, What was I about to say, a doos, what was I about to say?

By the ma.s.se I was about to say something, Where did I leave?

_Mon._ He closeth with you _Rey._ At closes in the in the consequence. consequence.[3]

Even the dialogue, which with broad characterization states necessary facts clearly, is by no means so effective as dialogue so absorbing by its characterization that we a.s.similate the facts unconsciously.

Contrast the opening of _The Good Natur'd Man_ with that of _Hindle Wakes_. The first is so busy in characterizing an absent but important figure that it presents the two speakers only in the broadest way. That is, exposition exists here as its only excuse for being. In _Hindle Wakes_, the rapid development of an interesting situation through two characters who as individuals become more distinct and interesting with every line, probably conceals from most auditors or readers the fact that seven important bits of information are given before f.a.n.n.y enters.

ACT I

SCENE--_An apartment in Young Honeywood's house

Enter Sir William Honeywood, Jarvis_

_Sir William._ Good Jarvis, make no apologies for this honest bluntness. Fidelity like yours is the best excuse for every freedom.

_Jarvis._ I can't help being blunt, and being very angry, too, when I hear you talk of disinheriting so good, so worthy a young gentleman as your nephew, my master. All the world loves him.

_Sir Will._ Say, rather, that he loves all the world; that is his fault.

_Jarv._ I'm sure there is no part of it more dear to him than you are, tho' he has not seen you since he was a child.

_Sir Will._ What signifies his affection to me, or how can I be proud of a place in a heart where every sharper and c.o.xcomb find an easy entrance?

_Jarv._ I grant you that he's rather too good natur'd; that he's too much every man's man; that he laughs this minute with one, and cries the next with another; but whose instructions may he thank for all this?

_Sir Will._ Not mine, sure? My letters to him during my employment in Italy taught him only that philosophy which might prevent, not defend his errors.

_Jarv._ Faith, begging your honour's pardon, I'm sorry they taught him any philosophy at all; it has only served to spoil him. This same philosophy is a good horse in the stable, but an arrant jade on a journey. For my own part, whenever I hear him mention the name on't, I'm always sure he's going to play the fool.

_Sir Will._ Don't let us ascribe his faults to his philosophy, I entreat you. No, Jarvis, his good nature rises rather from his fears of offending the importunate, than his desire of making the deserving happy.

_Jarv._ What it arises from, I don't know. But to be sure, everybody has it that asks it.

_Sir Will._ Ay, or that does not ask it. I have been now for some time a concealed spectator of his follies, and find them as boundless as his dissipation.

_Jarv._ And yet, faith, he has some fine name or other for them all.

He calls his extravagance generosity; and his trusting everybody, universal benevolence. It was but last week he went security for a fellow whose face he scarce knew, and that he call'd an act of exalted mu-mu-munificence; ay, that was the name he gave it.

_Sir Will._ And upon that I proceed, as my last effort, tho' with very little hopes to reclaim him. That very fellow has just absconded, and I have taken up the security. Now, my intention is to involve him in fict.i.tious distress, before he has plunged himself into real calamity.

To arrest him for that very debt, to clap an officer upon him, and then let him see which of his friends will come to his relief.[4]

ACT I. SCENE 1

_The scene is triangular, representing a corner of the living-room of No. 137, Burnley Road, Hindle, a house rented for about 7s. 6d. a week. In the left-hand wall, low down, there is a door leading to the scullery. In the same wall, but further away from the spectator, is a window looking on to the backyard. A dresser stands in front of the window. About half-way up the right-hand wall is the door leading to the hall or pa.s.sage. Nearer, against the same wall, a high cupboard for china and crockery. The fire-place is not visible, being in one of the walls not represented. However, down in the L. corner of the stage is an arm-chair, which stands by the hearth. In the middle of the room is a square table, with chairs on each side. The room is cheerful and comfortable. It is nine o'clock on a warm August evening. Through the window can be seen the darkening sky, as the blind is not drawn.

Against the sky an outline of roof tops and mill chimneys. The only light is the dim twilight from the open window. Thunder is in the air.

When the curtain rises, Christopher Hawthorn, a decent, white-bearded man of nearly fifty, is sitting in the arm-chair, smoking a pipe. Mrs.

Hawthorn, a keen, sharp-faced woman of fifty-five, is standing, gazing out of the window. There is a flash of lightning and a rumble of thunder far away._

_Mrs. Hawthorn._ It's pa.s.sing over. There'll be no rain.

_Christopher._ Ay! We could do with some rain.

(_There is a flash of lightning._)

_Chris._ Pull down the blind and light the gas.

_Mrs. H._ What for?

_Chris._ It's more cozy-like with the gas.

_Mrs. H._ You're not afraid of the lightning?

_Chris._ I want to look at that railway guide.

_Mrs. H._ What's the good. We've looked at it twice already. There's no train from Blackpool till half-past ten, and it's only just on nine now.

_Chris._ Happen we've made a mistake.

_Mrs. H._ Happen we've not. Besides, what's the good of a railway guide? You know trains run as they like on Bank Holiday.

_Chris._ Ay! Perhaps you're right. You don't think she'll come round by Manchester!

_Mrs. H._ What would she be doing coming round by Manchester?

_Chris._ You can get that road from Blackpool.

_Mrs. H._ Yes. If she's coming from Blackpool.

_Chris._ Have you thought she may not come at all?

_Mrs. H._ (_Grimly_.) What do you take me for?

_Chris._ You never hinted.

_Mrs. H._ No use putting them sort of ideas into your head.

(_Another flash and a peal of thunder._)

_Chris._ Well, well, those are lucky who haven't to travel at all on Bank Holiday.

_Mrs. H._ Unless they've got a motor car, like Nat Jeffcote's lad.