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Saturday, 30 December 2017

Miscellany 60




MISCELLANY No 60

Extract from Holinshed’s Chronicles(1577)

Raphael Holinshed (1529-1580) describes the villages, towns and counties around London, methodically travelling by the obvious route (for the 1570s): along the River Thames.

As I began at the Thames in my description of Ilands, so will I now doo the like with that of famous riuers; making mine entrie at the said riuer it selfe, of whose founteine some men make as much adoo, as in time past of the true head of Nilus, which, till of late (if it be yet descried) was neuer found: or the Tanais, whose originall was neuer knowne, nor shall be: for whilest one placeth it here, another there; there are none at all that deale with it exactlie. Wherefore leaning to such mens writings as haue of set purpose sought out the spring of the Thames; I affirme that this famous streame hath his head or beginning out of the side of an hill, standing in the plaines of Cotswold, about one mile from Tetburie, néere vnto the Fosse (an high waie so called of old) where it was sometime named Isis, or the Ouse, although diuerse doo ignorantlie call it the Thames euen there, rather of a foolish custome than anie skill, bicause they either neglect or vtterlie are ignorant how it was named at the first. From hence it runneth directlie toward the east (as all good riuers should) and Corinium. méeteth with the Cirne or Churne, (a brooke called in Latine Corinium) whereof Cirncester towne (by which it commeth) doth take the denomination.

From hence it hasteth vnto Créekelade, aliàs Crekanford, Lechlade, Radcotebridge, Newbridge, and Eouesham, receiuing by the waie an infinit sort of small streames, brookes, beckes, waters, and rundels: and here on this side of the towne diuideth it selfe into two courses, of which the one goeth straight to Botleie and Hinkseie, the other by Godstow, a village not farre off. This latter spreadeth it selfe also for a while into sundrie smaller branches, which run not farre yer they be reunited, and then beclipping sundrie pleasant meadowes, it passeth at length by Oxford, of some supposed rather to be called Ouseford of this riuer, Charwell. where it meeteth with the Charwell, and a litle from whence the originall branches doo ioine and go togither by Abbandune (aliàs Sensham or Abington as we call it) although no part of it at the first came so néere the towne as it doth now, till a branch thereof was led thither Some write, that the maine streame was brought thither from which ranne before betweene Andredeseie and Culenham. the maine streame, thorough the industrie of the moonks, as (beside the testimonie of old records thereof yet extant to be séene) by the decaie of Cair Dour, now Dorchester it selfe, sometime the throughfare from Wales and the west countrie to London, which insued vpon this fact, is easie to be seene. From hence it goeth to Dorchester, and so to Thame, where ioining with a riuer of the same denomination, it looseth the name of Isis or Ouse (whereof Ouseneie at Oxford is producted) and from thenceforth is called Thamesis. From Thame it goeth to Wallingford, and so to Reding, Pontium. which in time past, of the number of bridges there, was called Pontium; albeit that the English name doth rather proceed from Rhe, or Ree, the Saint Marie ouer Rhee. Saxon word for a water-course or riuer; which maie be séene in Ouerée, or Sutherée, for ouer the Ree, or south of the Rhee, as to the skilfull doth readilie appéere; yet some hold (and not altogither against probabilitie and likelihood) that the word Sutherée is so called of Sudrijc, to wit, the south kingdome, wherevnto in part the Thames is a bound. But that holdeth not in denomination, either of the said church or name of the foresaid countie. Other affirme likewise, that Reding is so called of the Greeke word (ῥεω) which is to ouerflowe. Certes, as neither of these coniectures are to be contemned, so the last [Page 80] cōmeth most neere to mine aid, who affirme, that not onelie the course of euerie water it selfe, but also his ouerflowing was in time past called Rhe, by such Saxons as inhabited in this Iland: and euen to this daie in Essex I haue oft obserued, that when the lower grounds by rage of water haue béene ouerflowen, the people beholding the same, haue said; All is on a Rhe, as if they should haue said; All is now a riuer, albeit the word Riuer be deriued from the French, and borrowed by them from the Latins, but not without corruption, as it was brought vnto them. I will not here giue notice how farre they are deceiued, which call the aforesaid church by the name of S. Marie Auderies, or S. Marie ouer Isis, or Ise: but I will procéed with the course of this noble streame, which, howsoeuer these matters stand after it hath passed by Kenet. Reding, & there receiued the Kenet, which commeth from the hilles that Thetis. lie west of Marleborough (& then the Thetis, commonlie called the Tide that commeth from Thetisford) hieth to Sudlington otherwise called Maidenhead, and so to Windleshore (or Windsore) Eaton, and then to Chertseie, where Erkenwald bishop of London sometime builded a religious house or cell, as I doo read.

From Chertseie it hasteth directlie vnto Stanes, and receiuing an other Cole. streame by the waie, called the Cole (wherevpon Colbrooke standeth) it goeth by Kingstone, Shene, Sion and Brentford or Bregentford, where it méeteth the Brane or the Brene (another brooke descending from Edgworth) whose name signifieth a frog, in the Brittish speach. Vpon this also sir John Thin had sometime a statelie house, with a maruellous prouision to inclose and reteine such fish as should come about the same. From Brene. Brentfoord it passeth by Mortlach, Putneie, Fulham, Batterseie, Chelseie, Lambeth, and so to London. Finallie going from thence vnto the sea, it taketh the Lée with it by the waie vpon the coast of Essex, and Darwent. another that commeth from Abreche not far off, and the Darnt vpon Kent side, which riseth néere to Tanrige, and commeth by Shoreham, vnto Craie. Derntford, wherevnto the Craie falleth. And last of all the Medwaie a notable riuer (in mine opinion) which watereth all the south and southwest part of Kent, and whose description shall insue.

Hauing in this maner bréefelie touched this noble riuer, and such brookes as fall into the same; I will now adde a particular description of each of these last by themselues, whereby their courses also shall be seuerallie described to the satisfaction of the studious. But yer I take the same in hand, I will insert a word or two of the commodities of the said riuer, which I will performe with so much breuitie as is possible. Héereby also finding out his whole tract and course from the head to the fall thereof into the sea. It appeareth euidentlie that the length thereof is at the least, one hundreth and eightie miles, if it be measured by the iourneies of the land. And as it is in course, the longest of the thrée famous riuers of this Ile, so it is nothing inferiour vnto them in aboundance of all kind of fish, whereof it is hard to saie, which of the three haue either most plentie, or greatest varietie, if the circumstances be duelie weighed. What some other write of the riuers of their countries it skilleth not, neither will I (as diuerse doo) inuent strange things of this noble streame, therewith to nobilitate and make it more honorable: but this will I in plaine termes affirme, that it neither swalloweth vp bastards of the Celtish brood, or casteth vp the right begotten that are throwne in without hurt into their mothers lap, as Politian fableth of the Rhene, Epistolarum lib. 8. epi. 6. nor yéeldeth clots of gold as the Tagus dooth: but an infinit plentie of excellent, swéet and pleasant fish, wherewith such as inhabit néere vnto hir bankes are fed and fullie nourished.

Salmons. What should I speake of the fat and swéet salmons, dailie taken in this streame, and that in such plentie (after the time of the smelt be past) as no riuer in Europa is able to excéed it. What store also of barbels, trouts, cheuins, pearches, smelts, breames, roches, daces, gudgings, flounders, shrimps, &c: are commonlie to be had therein, I refer me to them that know by experience better than I, by reason of their dailie trade of fishing in the same. And albeit it seemeth from time to time, to be as it were defrauded in sundrie wise of these hir large commodities, by the insatiable auarice of the fishermen, yet this famous riuer complaineth commonlie of no want, but the more it looseth at one time, the more it yéeldeth at another. Onelie in carps it séemeth to be [Page 81] Carps a fish late brought into England and later into the Thames. scant, sith it is not long since that kind of fish was brought ouer into England, and but of late to speake of into this streame, by the violent rage of sundrie landflouds, that brake open the heads and dams of diuers gentlemens ponds, by which means it became somewhat partaker also of this said commoditie, whereof earst it had no portion that I could euer heare. Oh that this riuer might be spared but euen one yeare from nets, &c! But alas then should manie a poore man be vndoone. In the meane time it is lamentable to see, how it is and hath béene choked of late with sands and shelues, through the penning and wresting of the course of the water for commodities sake. But as this is an inconuenience easilie remedied, if good order were taken for the redresse thereof: so now, the fine or prise set vpon the ballasse sometime freelie giuen to the merchants by patent, euen vnto the lands end (Iusques au poinct) will be another cause of harme vnto this noble streame, and all through an aduantage taken at the want of an (i) in the word ponct: which grew through an error committed by an English notarie vnskilfull in the French toong, wherein that patent was granted.

Furthermore, the said riuer floweth and filleth all his chanels twise in the daie and night, that is in euerie twelue houres once; and this ebbing & flowing, holdeth on for the space of seauentie miles, within the maine land: the streame or tide being alwaies highest at London, when the moone dooth exactlie touch the northeast and south or west points of the heauens, of which one is visible, the other vnder the earth, and not subiect to our sight. These tides also differ in their times, each one comming latter than other, by so manie minuts as passe yer the reuolution and naturall course of the heauens doo reduce, and bring about the said planet vnto those hir former places: whereby the 36 The iust distāce betwéene one tide and another. common difference betwéene one tide and another, is found to consist of twentie foure minuts, which wanteth but twelue of an whole houre in foure and twentie, as experience dooth confirme. In like sort we sée by dailie triall, that each tide is not of equall heigth and greatnesse: for at the full and change of the moone we haue the greatest flouds, and such is their ordinarie course, that as they diminish from their changes and fuls, vnto the first and last quarters; so afterwards they increase againe, vntill they come to the full and change. Sometimes also they rise so high (if the wind be at the north or northeast, which bringeth in the water with more vehemencie, bicause the tide which filleth the chanell, commeth from Scotland ward) that the Thames ouerfloweth hir banks néere vnto London: which hapneth especiallie in the fuls and changes of Januarie and Februarie, wherein the lower grounds are of custome soonest drowned. This order of flowing in like sort is perpetuall, so that when the moone is vpon the southwest and north of points, then is the water by London at the highest: neither doo the tides alter, except some rough winds out of the west or southwest doo The streame oft checked in hir entrance into the land. kéepe backe and checke the streame in his entrance, as the east and northeast do hasten the comming in thereof, or else some other extraordinarie occasion, put by the ordinarie course of the northerne seas, which fill the said riuer by their naturall returne and flowing. And that both these doo happen eft among, I refer me to such as haue not sildome obserued it, as also the sensible chopping in of thrée or foure tides in one naturall daie, wherof the vnskilfull doo descant manie things.

But how so euer these small matters doo fall out, and how often soeuer this course of the streame doth happen to be disturbed; yet at two seuerall times of the age of the moone, the waters returne to their naturall course and limits of time exactlie. Polydore saith, that this riuer is seldome increased or rather neuer ouerfloweth hir banks by landflouds: but he is herein verie much deceiued, as it shalbe more apparentlie séene hereafter. For the more that this riuer is put by of hir right course, the more the water must of necessitie swell with the white waters which run downe from the land: bicause the passage cannot be so swift and readie in the winding as in the streight course. These landflouds also doo greatlie straine the finesse of the streame, in so much that after a great landfloud, you shall take haddocks with your hands beneath the bridge, as they flote aloft vpon the water, whose eies are so blinded with the thicknesse of that element, that they cannot see [Page 82] where to become, and make shift to saue themselues before death take hold of them. Otherwise the water of it selfe is verie cléere, and in comparison next vnto that of the sea, which is most subtile and pure of all other; as that of great riuers is most excellent, in comparison of smaller brookes: although Aristotle will haue the salt water to be most grosse, bicause a ship will beare a greater burden on the sea than on the fresh water; and an eg sinke in this that swimmeth on the other. But he may easilie be answered by the quantitie of roome and aboundance of waters in the sea; whereby it becommeth of more force to susteine such vessels as are committed to the same, and whervnto the greatest riuers (God wot) are nothing comparable. I would here make mention of sundrie London bridge. bridges placed ouer this noble streame, of which that of London is most chieflie to be commended, for it is in maner a cōtinuall street, well replenished with large and statelie houses on both sides, and situat vpon twentie arches, whereof ech one is made of excellent free squared stone, euerie of them being thréescore foot in height, and full twentie in distance one from another, as I haue often viewed.

In like maner I could intreat of the infinit number of swans dailie to be séene 2000 boates vpon the Thames and 3000 poore mē mainteined by the same whose gaines come in most plentifullie in the tearme time. vpon this riuer, the two thousand wherries and small boats, wherby three thousand poore watermen are mainteined, through the cariage and recariage of such persons as passe or repasse, from time to time vpon the same: beside those huge tideboats, tiltbotes, and barges, which either carrie passengers, or bring necessarie prouision from all quarters of Oxfordshire, Barkeshire, Buckinghamshire, Bedfordshire, Herfordshire, Midlesex, Essex, Surrie, and Kent, vnto the citie of London. But for somuch as these things are to be repeated againe in the particular description of London, annexed to his card; I surceasse at this time to speake anie more of them here, as not lingering but hasting to performe my promise made euen now, not yet forgotten, and in performance whereof I thinke it best to resume the description of this noble riuer againe into my hands, and in adding whatsoeuer is before omitted, to deliuer a full and perfect demonstration of his course. How and where the said streame ariseth, is alreadie & with sufficiencie set downe, noting the place to be within a mile of Tetburie, whereof some doo vtterlie mislike, bicause that rill in summer drouths is oft so drie, that there is little or no water at all séene running aboue ground in the same. Isis. For this cause therefore manie affirme the verie head of Isis to come from the poole aboue Kemble. Other confound it with the head of the Cirne or Chirne, called in Latine Corinium that riseth aboue Coberleie. For my part I follow Leland, as he dooth the moonke of Malmesburie, which wrote the historie intituled Eulogium historiarum, who searched the same of set purpose, and pronounced with Leland, although at this present that course be verie small, and choked vp (as I heare) with grauell and sand. Procéeding therefore from the head, it first of all Couus. receiueth the Kemble water called the Coue, which riseth aboue Kemble towne, goeth by Kemble it selfe vnto Poole and Somerford, and then (accompanieth the Thames) vnto Canes, Ashton, Canes, and Howston, holding on in one chanell vntill they méet with the Chirne, the next of all to be described.

Corinium. The Chirne is a faire water arising out of the ground aboue Coberleie, from whence it runneth to Cowleie, Cowlesburne, Randcome, and so into the Isis on the left side aboue Crekelade. These thrée waters being thus vnited and brought into one chanell, within a little space of the head of Isis, it runneth on by Crekelade, beneath which towne it receiueth Rhe. the Rhe, descending from Elcombe, Escot, Redburne, Widhill, & at the fall into Isis, or not far off ioineth with another that runneth west of Purton by Braden forrest, &c. Next of all our Isis méeteth with the Amneie. Amneie on the left hand, which comming from aboue Holie roode Amneie, runneth by Downe Amneie, and finallie into the Isis a little aboue Iseie. In like sort I read of another that méeteth withall on the right hand aboue Iseie also, which so far as I can call to remembrance, commeth from about Drifield and falleth so into our Isis, that they run as one vntill they come at the Colne, although not so nakedlie and without helpe, but that in this voiage, the maine streame dooth crosse one water that descendeth from Swindon, and going also by Stratton [Page 83] toward Seuingham, is it selfe increased with two rils by the waie, whereof one commeth from Liddenton by Wambreie, as I haue béene informed.

Colneius, Colineus, or Colunus. The Colne is a faire riuer rising by north neere to Witchington, & from thence goeth to Shiptons, Compton Abdale, Wittenton, Parneworth, Colne Deanes, and Colne Rogers, Winston, Biberie, Colne Alens, Quenington, Faireford, and west of Lachelade into the riuer Isis, which hereabout on the southside also taketh in another, whereof I find this remembrance. The Isis being once past Seuingham, crosseth a brooke from southest that mounteth about Ashbirie, and receiuing a rill from bywest (that commeth from Hinton) beneath Shrineham, it afterward so diuideth it selfe, that the armes therof include Inglesham, and by reason that it falleth into the Isis at two seuerall places, there is a plesant Iland producted, whereof let this suffice.

Being past Lechelade a mile,Lecusor Leche. it runneth to saint Johns bridge, & thereabout méeteth with the Leche on the left hand. This brooke, whereof Lechlade taketh the name (a towne wherevnto one péece of an old vniuersitie is ascribed, which it did neuer possesse, more than Crekelade did the other) riseth east of Hampnet, frō whence it goeth to north Lech, Estenton, Anlesworth, east Lech, south Thorpe, Farendon, & so into the Isis. From hence this famous water goeth by Kenskot toward Radcote bridge (taking in the rill that riseth in an od péece of Barkeshire, and runneth by Langford) and being past the said bridge (now notable through a conspiracie made there sometimes by sundrie barons against the estate) it is not long yer it crosse two other waters, both of them descending from another od parcell of the said countie, whereof I haue this note giuen me for my further information. There are two fals of water into Isis beneath Radcote bridge, wherof the one commeth from Shilton in Barkeshire by Arescote, blacke Burton and Clarrefield. The other also riseth in the same péece, and runneth by Brisenorton vnto Bampton, and there receiuing an armelet from the first that breake off at blacke Burton, it is not long yer they fall into Isis, and leaue a pretie Iland. After these confluences, the maine course of Winrush. the streame hasteth by Shifford to Newbridge, where it ioineth with the Winrush. The Winrush riseth aboue Shieburne in Glocestershire, from whence it goeth to Winrush, & cōming by Barrington, Burford, Widbrooke, Swinbecke castell, Witneie, Duckington, Cockthorpe, Stanlake, it méeteth with the Isis west by south of Northmore. From hence it goeth beneath Stanton, Hartingcourt and Ensham, betwéene which and Cassinton, Briwerus. it receiueth (as Leland calleth it) the Bruerne water.

It riseth aboue Limington, and going to Norton in the Marsh, and through a patch of Worcestershire vnto Euenlode, betweene it and the foure Comus. shirestones, it taketh in a rill called Come, comming by the long and the little Comptons. After this also it goeth by Bradwell, Odington, and Rolrich. so to Bleddenton, aboue which towne it taketh in the Rolrich water that issueth at two heads, in the hils that lie by west of little Rolrich, and ioine aboue Kenkeham, and Church hill. From thence also it goeth vnto Bruerne, Shipton vnderwood, Ascot, Short hamton, Chorleburie, Corneburie parke, Stonfield, Longcombe, and southeast of Woodstocke Enis. parke, taketh in the Enis, that riseth aboue Emstone, and goeth to Ciddington, Glimton, Wotton (where it is increased with a rill that runneth thither from stéeple Barton, by the Béechin trée) Woodstocke, Blaidon, so that after this confluence, the said Enis runneth to Cassinton, and so into the Isis, which goeth from hence to Oxford, and there receiueth the Charwell, now presentlie to be described.

Charwell. The head of Charwell is in Northamptonshire, where it riseth out of a little poole, by Charleton village, seuen miles aboue Banberie northeast, and there it issueth so fast at the verie surge, that it groweth into a pretie streame, in maner out of hand. Soone after also Bure. it taketh in a rillet called the Bure, which falleth into it, about Otmere side: but forasmuch as it riseth by Bincester, the whole course therof is not aboue foure miles, and therefore cannot be great. A friend of mine prosecuting the rest of this description reporteth thereof as followeth. Before the Charwell commeth into Oxfordshire, it receiueth the Culen. Culen, which falleth into the same, a little aboue Edgcote, and so [Page 84] descending toward Wardington, it méeteth with another comming from by north west, betweene Wardington and Cropreadie. At Banberie also it Come. méeteth with the Come (which falleth from fennie Conton by Farneboro, and afterwards going by kings Sutton, not far from Aine, it receiueth the discharge of diuerse rillets, in one bottome before it come at Clifton. The said water therfore ingendred of so manie brookelets, Ocus. consisteth chiefelie of two, whereof the most southerlie called Oke, commeth from Oke Norton, by Witchington or Wiggington, and the Berfords; and carieng a few blind rils withall, dooth méet with the other that falleth from by northwest into the same, within a mile of Charwell.

That other (as I coniecture) is increased of thrée waters, wherof each Tudo. one hath his seuerall name. The first of them therefore hight Tudo, which comming betwéene Epwell and the Lée by Toddington, ioineth about Ornus. Broughton with the second that runneth from Horneton, named Ornus, as I gesse. The last falleth into the Tude or Tudelake, beneath Broughton; and for that it riseth not far from Sotteswell in Warwikeshire, some are Sotbrooke. of the opinion, that it is to be called Sotbrooke. The next water that méeteth without Charwell beneath Clifton commeth from about Croughton, Souarus.
Sowar. and after this is the Sowar or Swere, that riseth north of Michaell Tew, Burus. and runneth by nether Wotton. The last of all is the Reie aliàs Bure, whose head is not far aboue Burcester, aliàs Bincester, and Burncester: and from whence it goeth by Burecester to Merton, Charleton, Fencote, Addington, Noke, Islip, and so into Charwell, that holdeth on his course after this augmentation of the waters, betwéene Wood and Water Eton, to Marston, and the east bridge of Oxford by Magdalene college, and so beneath the south bridge into our aforesaid Isis.

Middest of England whereabouts. In describing this riuer, this one thing (right honorable) is come vnto my mind, touching the center and nauill as it were of England. Certes there is an hillie plot of ground in Helledon parish, not far from Banberie, where a man maie stand and behold the heads of thrée notable riuers, whose waters, and those of such as fall into them, doo abundantlie serue the greatest part of England on this side of the Humber. The first of these waters is the Charwell, alreadie described. The second is the Leme that goeth westward into the fourth Auon. And the third is the head of the Nene or fift Auon it selfe, of whose courses there is no card but doth make sufficient mention; and therefore your honour maie behold in the same how they doo coast the countrie, and also measure by compasses how this plot lieth in respect of all the rest, contrarie to common iudgement, which maketh Northampton to be the middest and center of our countrie.

To be concluded next week




Saturday, 23 December 2017

Miscellany 59

MISCELLANY 59

THE IMPORTANCE OF BEING EARNEST
ACT 3


THIRD ACT

 

SCENE

 

Morning-room at the Manor House.

[Gwendolen and Cecily are at the window, looking out into the garden.]

Gwendolen.  The fact that they did not follow us at once into the house, as any one else would have done, seems to me to show that they have some sense of shame left.

Cecily.  They have been eating muffins.  That looks like repentance.

Gwendolen.  [After a pause.]  They don’t seem to notice us at all.  Couldn’t you cough?

Cecily.  But I haven’t got a cough.

Gwendolen.  They’re looking at us.  What effrontery!

Cecily.  They’re approaching.  That’s very forward of them.

Gwendolen.  Let us preserve a dignified silence.

Cecily.  Certainly.  It’s the only thing to do now.  [Enter Jack followed by Algernon.  They whistle some dreadful popular air from a British Opera.]

Gwendolen.  This dignified silence seems to produce an unpleasant effect.

Cecily.  A most distasteful one.

Gwendolen.  But we will not be the first to speak.

Cecily.  Certainly not.

Gwendolen.  Mr. Worthing, I have something very particular to ask you.  Much depends on your reply.

Cecily.  Gwendolen, your common sense is invaluable.  Mr. Moncrieff, kindly answer me the following question.  Why did you pretend to be my guardian’s brother?

Algernon.  In order that I might have an opportunity of meeting you.

Cecily.  [To Gwendolen.]  That certainly seems a satisfactory explanation, does it not?

Gwendolen.  Yes, dear, if you can believe him.

Cecily.  I don’t.  But that does not affect the wonderful beauty of his answer.

Gwendolen.  True.  In matters of grave importance, style, not sincerity is the vital thing.  Mr. Worthing, what explanation can you offer to me for pretending to have a brother?  Was it in order that you might have an opportunity of coming up to town to see me as often as possible?

Jack.  Can you doubt it, Miss Fairfax?

Gwendolen.  I have the gravest doubts upon the subject.  But I intend to crush them.  This is not the moment for German scepticism.  [Moving to Cecily.]  Their explanations appear to be quite satisfactory, especially Mr. Worthing’s.  That seems to me to have the stamp of truth upon it.

Cecily.  I am more than content with what Mr. Moncrieff said.  His voice alone inspires one with absolute credulity.

Gwendolen.  Then you think we should forgive them?

Cecily.  Yes.  I mean no.

Gwendolen.  True!  I had forgotten.  There are principles at stake that one cannot surrender.  Which of us should tell them?  The task is not a pleasant one.

Cecily.  Could we not both speak at the same time?

Gwendolen.  An excellent idea!  I nearly always speak at the same time as other people.  Will you take the time from me?

Cecily.  Certainly.  [Gwendolen beats time with uplifted finger.]

Gwendolen and Cecily [Speaking together.]  Your Christian names are still an insuperable barrier.  That is all!

Jack and Algernon [Speaking together.]  Our Christian names!  Is that all?  But we are going to be christened this afternoon.

Gwendolen.  [To Jack.]  For my sake you are prepared to do this terrible thing?

Jack.  I am.

Cecily.  [To Algernon.]  To please me you are ready to face this fearful ordeal?

Algernon.  I am!

Gwendolen.  How absurd to talk of the equality of the sexes!  Where questions of self-sacrifice are concerned, men are infinitely beyond us.

Jack.  We are.  [Clasps hands with Algernon.]

Cecily.  They have moments of physical courage of which we women know absolutely nothing.

Gwendolen.  [To Jack.]  Darling!

Algernon.  [To Cecily.]  Darling!  [They fall into each other’s arms.]

[Enter Merriman.  When he enters he coughs loudly, seeing the situation.]

Merriman.  Ahem!  Ahem!  Lady Bracknell!

Jack.  Good heavens!

[Enter Lady Bracknell.  The couples separate in alarm.  Exit Merriman.]

Lady Bracknell.  Gwendolen!  What does this mean?

Gwendolen.  Merely that I am engaged to be married to Mr. Worthing, mamma.

Lady Bracknell.  Come here.  Sit down.  Sit down immediately.  Hesitation of any kind is a sign of mental decay in the young, of physical weakness in the old.  [Turns to Jack.]  Apprised, sir, of my daughter’s sudden flight by her trusty maid, whose confidence I purchased by means of a small coin, I followed her at once by a luggage train.  Her unhappy father is, I am glad to say, under the impression that she is attending a more than usually lengthy lecture by the University Extension Scheme on the Influence of a permanent income on Thought.  I do not propose to undeceive him.  Indeed I have never undeceived him on any question.  I would consider it wrong.  But of course, you will clearly understand that all communication between yourself and my daughter must cease immediately from this moment.  On this point, as indeed on all points, I am firm.

Jack.  I am engaged to be married to Gwendolen, Lady Bracknell!

Lady Bracknell.  You are nothing of the kind, sir.  And now, as regards Algernon! . . . Algernon!

Algernon.  Yes, Aunt Augusta.

Lady Bracknell.  May I ask if it is in this house that your invalid friend Mr. Bunbury resides?

Algernon.  [Stammering.]  Oh!  No!  Bunbury doesn’t live here.  Bunbury is somewhere else at present.  In fact, Bunbury is dead.

Lady Bracknell.  Dead!  When did Mr. Bunbury die?  His death must have been extremely sudden.

Algernon.  [Airily.]  Oh!  I killed Bunbury this afternoon.  I mean poor Bunbury died this afternoon.

Lady Bracknell.  What did he die of?

Algernon.  Bunbury?  Oh, he was quite exploded.

Lady Bracknell.  Exploded!  Was he the victim of a revolutionary outrage?  I was not aware that Mr. Bunbury was interested in social legislation.  If so, he is well punished for his morbidity.

Algernon.  My dear Aunt Augusta, I mean he was found out!  The doctors found out that Bunbury could not live, that is what I mean—so Bunbury died.

Lady Bracknell.  He seems to have had great confidence in the opinion of his physicians.  I am glad, however, that he made up his mind at the last to some definite course of action, and acted under proper medical advice.  And now that we have finally got rid of this Mr. Bunbury, may I ask, Mr. Worthing, who is that young person whose hand my nephew Algernon is now holding in what seems to me a peculiarly unnecessary manner?

Jack.  That lady is Miss Cecily Cardew, my ward.  [Lady Bracknell bows coldly to Cecily.]

Algernon.  I am engaged to be married to Cecily, Aunt Augusta.

Lady Bracknell.  I beg your pardon?

Cecily.  Mr. Moncrieff and I are engaged to be married, Lady Bracknell.

Lady Bracknell.  [With a shiver, crossing to the sofa and sitting down.]  I do not know whether there is anything peculiarly exciting in the air of this particular part of Hertfordshire, but the number of engagements that go on seems to me considerably above the proper average that statistics have laid down for our guidance.  I think some preliminary inquiry on my part would not be out of place.  Mr. Worthing, is Miss Cardew at all connected with any of the larger railway stations in London?  I merely desire information.  Until yesterday I had no idea that there were any families or persons whose origin was a Terminus.  [Jack looks perfectly furious, but restrains himself.]

Jack.  [In a clear, cold voice.]  Miss Cardew is the grand-daughter of the late Mr. Thomas Cardew of 149 Belgrave Square, S.W.; Gervase Park, Dorking, Surrey; and the Sporran, Fifeshire, N.B.

Lady Bracknell.  That sounds not unsatisfactory.  Three addresses always inspire confidence, even in tradesmen.  But what proof have I of their authenticity?

Jack.  I have carefully preserved the Court Guides of the period.  They are open to your inspection, Lady Bracknell.

Lady Bracknell.  [Grimly.]  I have known strange errors in that publication.

Jack.  Miss Cardew’s family solicitors are Messrs. Markby, Markby, and Markby.

Lady Bracknell.  Markby, Markby, and Markby?  A firm of the very highest position in their profession.  Indeed I am told that one of the Mr. Markby’s is occasionally to be seen at dinner parties.  So far I am satisfied.

Jack.  [Very irritably.]  How extremely kind of you, Lady Bracknell!  I have also in my possession, you will be pleased to hear, certificates of Miss Cardew’s birth, baptism, whooping cough, registration, vaccination, confirmation, and the measles; both the German and the English variety.

Lady Bracknell.  Ah! A life crowded with incident, I see; though perhaps somewhat too exciting for a young girl.  I am not myself in favour of premature experiences.  [Rises, looks at her watch.]  Gwendolen! the time approaches for our departure.  We have not a moment to lose.  As a matter of form, Mr. Worthing, I had better ask you if Miss Cardew has any little fortune?

Jack.  Oh! about a hundred and thirty thousand pounds in the Funds.  That is all.  Goodbye, Lady Bracknell.  So pleased to have seen you.

Lady Bracknell.  [Sitting down again.]  A moment, Mr. Worthing.  A hundred and thirty thousand pounds!  And in the Funds!  Miss Cardew seems to me a most attractive young lady, now that I look at her.  Few girls of the present day have any really solid qualities, any of the qualities that last, and improve with time.  We live, I regret to say, in an age of surfaces.  [To Cecily.]  Come over here, dear.  [Cecily goes across.]  Pretty child! your dress is sadly simple, and your hair seems almost as Nature might have left it.  But we can soon alter all that.  A thoroughly experienced French maid produces a really marvellous result in a very brief space of time.  I remember recommending one to young Lady Lancing, and after three months her own husband did not know her.

Jack.  And after six months nobody knew her.

Lady Bracknell.  [Glares at Jack for a few moments.  Then bends, with a practised smile, to Cecily.]  Kindly turn round, sweet child.  [Cecily turns completely round.]  No, the side view is what I want.  [Cecily presents her profile.]  Yes, quite as I expected.  There are distinct social possibilities in your profile.  The two weak points in our age are its want of principle and its want of profile.  The chin a little higher, dear.  Style largely depends on the way the chin is worn.  They are worn very high, just at present.  Algernon!

Algernon.  Yes, Aunt Augusta!

Lady Bracknell.  There are distinct social possibilities in Miss Cardew’s profile.

Algernon.  Cecily is the sweetest, dearest, prettiest girl in the whole world.  And I don’t care twopence about social possibilities.

Lady Bracknell.  Never speak disrespectfully of Society, Algernon.  Only people who can’t get into it do that.  [To Cecily.]  Dear child, of course you know that Algernon has nothing but his debts to depend upon.  But I do not approve of mercenary marriages.  When I married Lord Bracknell I had no fortune of any kind.  But I never dreamed for a moment of allowing that to stand in my way.  Well, I suppose I must give my consent.

Algernon.  Thank you, Aunt Augusta.

Lady Bracknell.  Cecily, you may kiss me!

Cecily.  [Kisses her.]  Thank you, Lady Bracknell.

Lady Bracknell.  You may also address me as Aunt Augusta for the future.

Cecily.  Thank you, Aunt Augusta.

Lady Bracknell.  The marriage, I think, had better take place quite soon.

Algernon.  Thank you, Aunt Augusta.

Cecily.  Thank you, Aunt Augusta.

Lady Bracknell.  To speak frankly, I am not in favour of long engagements.  They give people the opportunity of finding out each other’s character before marriage, which I think is never advisable.

Jack.  I beg your pardon for interrupting you, Lady Bracknell, but this engagement is quite out of the question.  I am Miss Cardew’s guardian, and she cannot marry without my consent until she comes of age.  That consent I absolutely decline to give.

Lady Bracknell.  Upon what grounds may I ask?  Algernon is an extremely, I may almost say an ostentatiously, eligible young man.  He has nothing, but he looks everything.  What more can one desire?

Jack.  It pains me very much to have to speak frankly to you, Lady Bracknell, about your nephew, but the fact is that I do not approve at all of his moral character.  I suspect him of being untruthful.  [Algernon and Cecily look at him in indignant amazement.]

Lady Bracknell.  Untruthful!  My nephew Algernon?  Impossible!  He is an Oxonian.

Jack.  I fear there can be no possible doubt about the matter.  This afternoon during my temporary absence in London on an important question of romance, he obtained admission to my house by means of the false pretence of being my brother.  Under an assumed name he drank, I’ve just been informed by my butler, an entire pint bottle of my Perrier-Jouet, Brut, ’89; wine I was specially reserving for myself.  Continuing his disgraceful deception, he succeeded in the course of the afternoon in alienating the affections of my only ward.  He subsequently stayed to tea, and devoured every single muffin.  And what makes his conduct all the more heartless is, that he was perfectly well aware from the first that I have no brother, that I never had a brother, and that I don’t intend to have a brother, not even of any kind.  I distinctly told him so myself yesterday afternoon.

Lady Bracknell.  Ahem!  Mr. Worthing, after careful consideration I have decided entirely to overlook my nephew’s conduct to you.

Jack.  That is very generous of you, Lady Bracknell.  My own decision, however, is unalterable.  I decline to give my consent.

Lady Bracknell.  [To Cecily.]  Come here, sweet child.  [Cecily goes over.]  How old are you, dear?

Cecily.  Well, I am really only eighteen, but I always admit to twenty when I go to evening parties.

Lady Bracknell.  You are perfectly right in making some slight alteration.  Indeed, no woman should ever be quite accurate about her age.  It looks so calculating . . . [In a meditative manner.]  Eighteen, but admitting to twenty at evening parties.  Well, it will not be very long before you are of age and free from the restraints of tutelage.  So I don’t think your guardian’s consent is, after all, a matter of any importance.

Jack.  Pray excuse me, Lady Bracknell, for interrupting you again, but it is only fair to tell you that according to the terms of her grandfather’s will Miss Cardew does not come legally of age till she is thirty-five.

Lady Bracknell.  That does not seem to me to be a grave objection.  Thirty-five is a very attractive age.  London society is full of women of the very highest birth who have, of their own free choice, remained thirty-five for years.  Lady Dumbleton is an instance in point.  To my own knowledge she has been thirty-five ever since she arrived at the age of forty, which was many years ago now.  I see no reason why our dear Cecily should not be even still more attractive at the age you mention than she is at present.  There will be a large accumulation of property.

Cecily.  Algy, could you wait for me till I was thirty-five?

Algernon.  Of course I could, Cecily.  You know I could.

Cecily.  Yes, I felt it instinctively, but I couldn’t wait all that time.  I hate waiting even five minutes for anybody.  It always makes me rather cross.  I am not punctual myself, I know, but I do like punctuality in others, and waiting, even to be married, is quite out of the question.

Algernon.  Then what is to be done, Cecily?

Cecily.  I don’t know, Mr. Moncrieff.

Lady Bracknell.  My dear Mr. Worthing, as Miss Cardew states positively that she cannot wait till she is thirty-five—a remark which I am bound to say seems to me to show a somewhat impatient nature—I would beg of you to reconsider your decision.

Jack.  But my dear Lady Bracknell, the matter is entirely in your own hands.  The moment you consent to my marriage with Gwendolen, I will most gladly allow your nephew to form an alliance with my ward.

Lady Bracknell.  [Rising and drawing herself up.]  You must be quite aware that what you propose is out of the question.

Jack.  Then a passionate celibacy is all that any of us can look forward to.

Lady Bracknell.  That is not the destiny I propose for Gwendolen.  Algernon, of course, can choose for himself.  [Pulls out her watch.]  Come, dear, [Gwendolen rises] we have already missed five, if not six, trains.  To miss any more might expose us to comment on the platform.

[Enter Dr. Chasuble.]

Chasuble.  Everything is quite ready for the christenings.

Lady Bracknell.  The christenings, sir!  Is not that somewhat premature?

Chasuble.  [Looking rather puzzled, and pointing to Jack and Algernon.]  Both these gentlemen have expressed a desire for immediate baptism.

Lady Bracknell.  At their age?  The idea is grotesque and irreligious!  Algernon, I forbid you to be baptized.  I will not hear of such excesses.  Lord Bracknell would be highly displeased if he learned that that was the way in which you wasted your time and money.

Chasuble.  Am I to understand then that there are to be no christenings at all this afternoon?

Jack.  I don’t think that, as things are now, it would be of much practical value to either of us, Dr. Chasuble.

Chasuble.  I am grieved to hear such sentiments from you, Mr. Worthing.  They savour of the heretical views of the Anabaptists, views that I have completely refuted in four of my unpublished sermons.  However, as your present mood seems to be one peculiarly secular, I will return to the church at once.  Indeed, I have just been informed by the pew-opener that for the last hour and a half Miss Prism has been waiting for me in the vestry.

Lady Bracknell.  [Starting.]  Miss Prism!  Did I hear you mention a Miss Prism?

Chasuble.  Yes, Lady Bracknell.  I am on my way to join her.

Lady Bracknell.  Pray allow me to detain you for a moment.  This matter may prove to be one of vital importance to Lord Bracknell and myself.  Is this Miss Prism a female of repellent aspect, remotely connected with education?

Chasuble.  [Somewhat indignantly.]  She is the most cultivated of ladies, and the very picture of respectability.

Lady Bracknell.  It is obviously the same person.  May I ask what position she holds in your household?

Chasuble.  [Severely.]  I am a celibate, madam.

Jack.  [Interposing.]  Miss Prism, Lady Bracknell, has been for the last three years Miss Cardew’s esteemed governess and valued companion.

Lady Bracknell.  In spite of what I hear of her, I must see her at once.  Let her be sent for.

Chasuble.  [Looking off.]  She approaches; she is nigh.

[Enter Miss Prism hurriedly.]

Miss Prism.  I was told you expected me in the vestry, dear Canon.  I have been waiting for you there for an hour and three-quarters.  [Catches sight of Lady Bracknell, who has fixed her with a stony glare.  Miss Prism grows pale and quails.  She looks anxiously round as if desirous to escape.]

Lady Bracknell.  [In a severe, judicial voice.]  Prism!  [Miss Prism bows her head in shame.]  Come here, Prism!  [Miss Prism approaches in a humble manner.]  Prism!  Where is that baby?  [General consternation.  The Canon starts back in horror.  Algernon and Jack pretend to be anxious to shield Cecily and Gwendolen from hearing the details of a terrible public scandal.]  Twenty-eight years ago, Prism, you left Lord Bracknell’s house, Number 104, Upper Grosvenor Street, in charge of a perambulator that contained a baby of the male sex.  You never returned.  A few weeks later, through the elaborate investigations of the Metropolitan police, the perambulator was discovered at midnight, standing by itself in a remote corner of Bayswater.  It contained the manuscript of a three-volume novel of more than usually revolting sentimentality.  [Miss Prism starts in involuntary indignation.]  But the baby was not there!  [Every one looks at Miss Prism.]  Prism!  Where is that baby?  [A pause.]

Miss Prism.  Lady Bracknell, I admit with shame that I do not know.  I only wish I did.  The plain facts of the case are these.  On the morning of the day you mention, a day that is for ever branded on my memory, I prepared as usual to take the baby out in its perambulator.  I had also with me a somewhat old, but capacious hand-bag in which I had intended to place the manuscript of a work of fiction that I had written during my few unoccupied hours.  In a moment of mental abstraction, for which I never can forgive myself, I deposited the manuscript in the basinette, and placed the baby in the hand-bag.

Jack.  [Who has been listening attentively.]  But where did you deposit the hand-bag?

Miss Prism.  Do not ask me, Mr. Worthing.

Jack.  Miss Prism, this is a matter of no small importance to me.  I insist on knowing where you deposited the hand-bag that contained that infant.

Miss Prism.  I left it in the cloak-room of one of the larger railway stations in London.

Jack.  What railway station?

Miss Prism.  [Quite crushed.]  Victoria.  The Brighton line.  [Sinks into a chair.]

Jack.  I must retire to my room for a moment.  Gwendolen, wait here for me.

Gwendolen.  If you are not too long, I will wait here for you all my life.  [Exit Jack in great excitement.]

Chasuble.  What do you think this means, Lady Bracknell?

Lady Bracknell.  I dare not even suspect, Dr. Chasuble.  I need hardly tell you that in families of high position strange coincidences are not supposed to occur.  They are hardly considered the thing.

[Noises heard overhead as if some one was throwing trunks about.  Every one looks up.]

Cecily.  Uncle Jack seems strangely agitated.

Chasuble.  Your guardian has a very emotional nature.

Lady Bracknell.  This noise is extremely unpleasant.  It sounds as if he was having an argument.  I dislike arguments of any kind.  They are always vulgar, and often convincing.

Chasuble.  [Looking up.]  It has stopped now.  [The noise is redoubled.]

Lady Bracknell.  I wish he would arrive at some conclusion.

Gwendolen.  This suspense is terrible.  I hope it will last.  [Enter Jack with a hand-bag of black leather in his hand.]

Jack.  [Rushing over to Miss Prism.]  Is this the hand-bag, Miss Prism?  Examine it carefully before you speak.  The happiness of more than one life depends on your answer.

Miss Prism.  [Calmly.]  It seems to be mine.  Yes, here is the injury it received through the upsetting of a Gower Street omnibus in younger and happier days.  Here is the stain on the lining caused by the explosion of a temperance beverage, an incident that occurred at Leamington.  And here, on the lock, are my initials.  I had forgotten that in an extravagant mood I had had them placed there.  The bag is undoubtedly mine.  I am delighted to have it so unexpectedly restored to me.  It has been a great inconvenience being without it all these years.

Jack.  [In a pathetic voice.]  Miss Prism, more is restored to you than this hand-bag.  I was the baby you placed in it.

Miss Prism.  [Amazed.]  You?

Jack.  [Embracing her.]  Yes . . . mother!

Miss Prism.  [Recoiling in indignant astonishment.]  Mr. Worthing!  I am unmarried!

Jack.  Unmarried!  I do not deny that is a serious blow.  But after all, who has the right to cast a stone against one who has suffered?  Cannot repentance wipe out an act of folly?  Why should there be one law for men, and another for women?  Mother, I forgive you.  [Tries to embrace her again.]

Miss Prism.  [Still more indignant.]  Mr. Worthing, there is some error.  [Pointing to Lady Bracknell.]  There is the lady who can tell you who you really are.

Jack.  [After a pause.]  Lady Bracknell, I hate to seem inquisitive, but would you kindly inform me who I am?

Lady Bracknell.  I am afraid that the news I have to give you will not altogether please you.  You are the son of my poor sister, Mrs. Moncrieff, and consequently Algernon’s elder brother.

Jack.  Algy’s elder brother!  Then I have a brother after all.  I knew I had a brother!  I always said I had a brother!  Cecily,—how could you have ever doubted that I had a brother?  [Seizes hold of Algernon.]  Dr. Chasuble, my unfortunate brother.  Miss Prism, my unfortunate brother.  Gwendolen, my unfortunate brother.  Algy, you young scoundrel, you will have to treat me with more respect in the future.  You have never behaved to me like a brother in all your life.

Algernon.  Well, not till to-day, old boy, I admit.  I did my best, however, though I was out of practice.

[Shakes hands.]

Gwendolen.  [To Jack.]  My own!  But what own are you?  What is your Christian name, now that you have become some one else?

Jack.  Good heavens! . . . I had quite forgotten that point.  Your decision on the subject of my name is irrevocable, I suppose?

Gwendolen.  I never change, except in my affections.

Cecily.  What a noble nature you have, Gwendolen!

Jack.  Then the question had better be cleared up at once.  Aunt Augusta, a moment.  At the time when Miss Prism left me in the hand-bag, had I been christened already?

Lady Bracknell.  Every luxury that money could buy, including christening, had been lavished on you by your fond and doting parents.

Jack.  Then I was christened!  That is settled.  Now, what name was I given?  Let me know the worst.

Lady Bracknell.  Being the eldest son you were naturally christened after your father.

Jack.  [Irritably.]  Yes, but what was my father’s Christian name?

Lady Bracknell.  [Meditatively.]  I cannot at the present moment recall what the General’s Christian name was.  But I have no doubt he had one.  He was eccentric, I admit.  But only in later years.  And that was the result of the Indian climate, and marriage, and indigestion, and other things of that kind.

Jack.  Algy!  Can’t you recollect what our father’s Christian name was?

Algernon.  My dear boy, we were never even on speaking terms.  He died before I was a year old.

Jack.  His name would appear in the Army Lists of the period, I suppose, Aunt Augusta?

Lady Bracknell.  The General was essentially a man of peace, except in his domestic life.  But I have no doubt his name would appear in any military directory.

Jack.  The Army Lists of the last forty years are here.  These delightful records should have been my constant study.  [Rushes to bookcase and tears the books out.]  M. Generals . . . Mallam, Maxbohm, Magley, what ghastly names they have—Markby, Migsby, Mobbs, Moncrieff!  Lieutenant 1840, Captain, Lieutenant-Colonel, Colonel, General 1869, Christian names, Ernest John.  [Puts book very quietly down and speaks quite calmly.]  I always told you, Gwendolen, my name was Ernest, didn’t I?  Well, it is Ernest after all.  I mean it naturally is Ernest.

Lady Bracknell.  Yes, I remember now that the General was called Ernest, I knew I had some particular reason for disliking the name.

Gwendolen.  Ernest!  My own Ernest!  I felt from the first that you could have no other name!

Jack.  Gwendolen, it is a terrible thing for a man to find out suddenly that all his life he has been speaking nothing but the truth.  Can you forgive me?

Gwendolen.  I can.  For I feel that you are sure to change.

Jack.  My own one!

Chasuble.  [To Miss Prism.]  Lætitia!  [Embraces her]

Miss Prism.  [Enthusiastically.]  Frederick!  At last!

Algernon.  Cecily!  [Embraces her.]  At last!

Jack.  Gwendolen!  [Embraces her.]  At last!

Lady Bracknell.  My nephew, you seem to be displaying signs of triviality.

Jack.  On the contrary, Aunt Augusta, I’ve now realised for the first time in my life the vital Importance of Being Earnest.

TABLEAU

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