General John Burgoyne's The Heiress (1786) opens with a striking contrast in narrative pace: the leisurely, self-satisfied drawl of the lawyer Alscrip, who boasts of reading legal documents “with a single sentence of six skins of parchment,” versus the rapid, rattling urgency of his daughter Miss Alscrip, who bursts in demanding immediate attention. This opposition of voices—one deliberately obstructive, the other impatient and volatile—sets the tone for a comedy that moves between stalled negotiations and emotional outbursts. Mrs. Inchbald's prefatory remarks further frame the play as the work of a soldier-author whose “elegant” style sometimes tipped into “insipid,” a judgment that readers can test against the brisk, pointed exchanges that follow.

Alscrip's Legal Obfuscation and the Rhythm of Delay

Alscrip's speech in Act II, Scene III, is a study in deliberate obstruction. He describes his former practice of reading “writings to him myself” to “set the understanding at defiance,” drawing breath “once in a quarter of an hour, always in the wrong place.” This self-congratulatory account slows the dialogue to a crawl, mirroring the legal stalling he attempts with Rightly. The stage directions reinforce the pace: Alscrip locks the door, shuffles papers “in a confused hurry,” and physically ushers Rightly into another room. The rhythm of the scene alternates between Alscrip's meandering boasts and Rightly's cool, clipped responses—a verbal tug-of-war that keeps the audience waiting for the withheld title deeds.

Miss Alscrip's Vehemence and the Shift to Emotional Tempo

In contrast to Alscrip's calculated slowness, Miss Alscrip enters “in the most violent emotion,” her speech marked by exclamation and repetition: “I won't wait another instant, whatever you are about—Let me in——” Her father's exclamation, “Sex and vehemence!” acknowledges the change in pace. The scene accelerates as her impatience collides with his evasion, creating a comic friction. Later, Miss Alton's exit with the single word “Scorn” (delivered “with pointed expression”) introduces a third tempo—deliberate, cutting, and final. These shifts in vocal energy, from Alscrip's legal drawl to Miss Alscrip's fury to Miss Alton's icy dismissal, give the play its dramatic momentum.

Rightly's Steady Counterpoint and the Play's Moral Cadence

Rightly serves as a rhythmic anchor, his speech consistently measured and principled. He refuses Alscrip's whispered overtures, declaring he has “not a principle nor a proceeding that I would not proclaim at Charing Cross.” His pace is unhurried but not sluggish; he responds to Alscrip's dodges with calm insistence: “I tell you plainly our business cannot be completed till I see these writings.” This steadiness contrasts with the surrounding volatility, suggesting a moral order beneath the surface chaos. Mrs. Inchbald's preface notes the play's “degree of refinement which pervades the whole work,” and Rightly's voice embodies that refinement—a controlled, ethical tempo that the other characters disrupt but cannot derail.

Readers attentive to pace will find that Burgoyne uses tempo as a dramatic tool: Alscrip's legal stalling, Miss Alscrip's emotional outbursts, and Rightly's steady reason create a layered soundscape. The play rewards attention to how characters control or lose control of conversational rhythm, and how those shifts signal power, deceit, or sincerity. The excerpts offer only a partial view, but the patterns of voice and pacing are already evident.