John Bull; Or, The Englishman's Fireside: A Comedy, in Five Acts

Mary. There's your husband!

Mrs. Brul. There's a hog;—for he's as drunk as one, I know, by his beastly bawling.

Enter Dennis Brulgruddery, singing.

Mrs. Brul. "Sing pip," indeed! sing sot! and that's to your old tune.

Mary. Hav'n't you got an answer?

Mrs. Brul. Hav'n't you got drunk?

Dennis. Be aisy, and you'll see what I've got in a minute.

[Pulls a Bottle from his Pocket.

Mrs. Brul. What's that?

Dennis. Good Madeira, it was, when the butler at the big house gave it me. It jolts so over the heath, if I hadn't held it to my mouth, I'd have wasted half. [Puts it on the Table.]—There, Miss, I brought it for you; and I'll get a glass from the cupboard, and a plate for this paper of sweet cakes, that the gentlefolks eat, after dinner in the desert.

Mary. But, tell me if—

Dennis. [Running to the Cupboard.] Eat and drink, my jewel; and my discourse shall serve for the seasoning. Drink now, my pretty one! [Fills a Glass.] for you have had nothing, I'll be bound.—Och, by the powers! I know the ways of ould mother Brulgruddery.

Mrs. Brul. Old mother Brulgruddery!

Dennis. Don't mind her;—take your prog;—she'd starve a saint.

Mrs. Brul. I starve a saint!

Dennis. Let him stop at the Red Cow, as plump as a porker, and you'd send him away, in a week, like a weasel.—Bite maccaroony, my darling!

[Offering the Plate to Mary.

Mary. I thank you.

Dennis. 'Faith, no merit of mine; 'twas the butler that stole it:—take some. [Lets the Plate fall.] Slips by St. Patrick!

Mrs. Brul. [Screaming.] Our best china plate broke all to shivers!

Dennis. Delf, you deceiver; delf. The cat's dining dish, rivetted.

Mary. Pray now, let me hear your news.

Dennis. That I will.—Mrs. Brulgruddery, I take the small liberty of begging you to get out, my lambkin.

Mrs. Brul. I shan't budge an inch. She needn't be asham'd of any thing that's to be told, if she's what she should be.

Mary. I know what I should be, if I were in your place.

Mrs. Brul. Marry come up! And what should you be then?

Mary. More compassionate to one of my own sex, or to any one in misfortune. Had you come to me, almost broken hearted, and not looking like one quite abandoned to wickedness, I should have thought on your misery, and forgot that it might have been brought on by your faults.

Dennis. At her, my little crature! By my soul, she'll bother the ould one!—'Faith, the Madeira has done her a deal of service!

Mrs. Brul. What's to be said, is said before me; and that's flat.

Mary. Do tell it, then, [To Dennis.] but, for others' sakes, don't mention names. I wish to hide nothing now, on my own account; though the money that was put down for me, before you would afford me shelter, I thought might have given me a little more title to hear a private message.

Mrs. Brul. I've a character, for virtue, to lose, young woman.

Dennis. When that's gone, you'll get another—that's of a damn'd impertinent landlady. Sure, she has a right to her parlour; and hav'n't I brought her cash enough to swallow up the Red Cow's rent for these two years?

Mrs. Brul. Have you!—Well, though the young lady misunderstands me, it's always my endeavour to be respectful to gentlefolks.

Dennis. Och, botheration to the respect that's bought, by knocking one shilling against another, at an inn! Let the heart keep open house, I say; and if charity is not seated inside of it, like a beautiful barmaid, it's all a humbug to stick up the sign of the christian.

Mrs. Brul. I'm sure Miss shall have any thing she likes, poor dear thing! There's one chicken—

Dennis. A chicken!—Fie on your double barbarity! Would you murder the tough dunghill cock, to choke a customer?—A certain person, that shall be nameless, will come to you in the course of this day, either by himself, or by friend, or by handwriting.

Mary. And not one word—not one, by letter, now?

Dennis. Be asey—won't he be here soon? In the mean time, here's nineteen guineas, and a seven shilling piece, as a bit of a postscript.

Mrs. Brul. Nineteen guineas and——

Dennis. Hold your gab, woman.—Count them, darling!—

[Putting them on the Table—Mary counts the Money.

Mrs. Brul. [Drawing Dennis aside.] What have you done with the rest?

Dennis. The rest!

Mrs. Brul. Why, have you given her all?

Dennis. I'll tell you what, Mrs. Brulgruddery; it's my notion, in summing up your last accounts, that, when you begin to dot, ould Nick will carry one; and that's yourself, my lambkin.

Shuff. [Without.] Holo? Red Cow!

Dennis. You are call'd, Mrs. Brulgruddery.

Mrs. Brul. I, you Irish bear!—Go, and [Looking towards the window.]—Jimminy! a traveller on horseback! and the handsomest gentleman I ever saw in my life.

[Runs out.

Mary. Oh, then it must be he!

Dennis. No, 'faith, it isn't the young squire.

Mary. [Mournfully.] No!

Dennis. There—he's got off the outside of his horse: it's that flashy spark I saw crossing the court yard, at the big house.—Here he is.

Enter Tom Shuffleton.

Shuff. [Looking at Mary.] Devilish good-looking girl, upon my soul! [Sees Dennis.] Who's that fellow?

Dennis. Welcome to Muckslush Heath, sir.

Shuff. Pray, sir, have you any business, here?

Dennis. Very little this last week, your honour.

Shuff. O, the landlord. Leave the room.

Dennis. [Aside.] Manners! but he's my customer. If he don't behave himself to the young cratur, I'll bounce in, and thump him blue.

[Exit.

Shuff. [Looking at Mary.] Shy, but stylish—much elegance, and no brass: the most extraordinary article that ever belonged to a brazier.—[Addressing her.] Don't be alarmed, my dear. Perhaps you didn't expect a stranger?

Mary. No, sir.

Shuff. But you expected somebody, I believe, didn't you?

Mary. Yes, sir.

Shuff. I come from him: here are my credentials. Read that, my dear little girl, and you'll see how far I am authorized.

[Gives her a Letter.

Mary. 'Tis his hand.

[Kissing the Superscription.

Shuff. [As she is opening the Letter.] Fine blue eyes, faith, and very like my Fanny's. Yes, I see how it will end;—she'll be the fifteenth Mrs. Shuffleton.

Mary. [Reading.] When the conflicts of my mind have subsided, and opportunity will permit, I will write to you fully. My friend is instructed from me to make every arrangement for your welfare. With heartfelt grief I add, family circumstances have torn me from you for ever!——

[Drops the Letter, and is falling, Shuffleton supports her.

Shuff. Ha! damn it, this looks like earnest! They do it very differently in London.

Mary. [Recovering.] I beg pardon, sir—I expected this; but I——I——

[Bursts into Tears.

Shuff. [Aside.] O, come, we are getting into the old train; after the shower, it will clear.—My dear girl, don't flurry yourself;—these are things of course, you know. To be sure, you must feel a little resentment at first, but——

Mary. Resentment! When I am never, never to see him again! Morning and night, my voice will be raised to Heaven, in anguish, for his prosperity!—And tell him,—pray, sir, tell him, I think the many, many bitter tears I shall shed, will atone for my faults; then you know, as it isn't himself, but his station, that sunders us, if news should reach him that I have died, it can't bring any trouble to his conscience.

Shuff. Mr. Rochdale, my love, you'll find will be very handsome.

Mary. I always found him so, sir.

Shuff. He has sent you a hundred pound bank note [Giving it to her.] till matters can be arranged, just to set you a-going.

Mary. I was going, sir, out of this country, for ever. Sure he couldn't think it necessary to send me this, for fear I should trouble him!

Shuff. Pshaw! my love, you mistake: the intention is to give you a settlement.

Mary. I intended to get one for myself, sir.

Shuff. Did you?

Mary. Yes, sir, in London. I shall take a place in the coach to-morrow morning; and I hope the people of the inn where it puts up, at the end of the journey, will have the charity to recommend me to an honest service.

Shuff. Service? Nonsense! You——you must think differently. I'll put you into a situation in town.

Mary. Will you be so humane, sir?

Shuff. Should you like Marybone parish, my love?

Mary. All parishes are the same to me, now I must quit my own, sir.

Shuff. I'll write a line for you, to a lady in that quarter, and—Oh, here's pen and ink. [Writes, and talks as he is writing.] I shall be in London myself, in about ten days, and then I'll visit you, to see how you go on.

Mary. O sir! you are, indeed a friend!

Shuff. I mean to be your friend, my love. There, [Giving her the Letter.] Mrs. Brown, Howland-Street; an old acquaintance of mine; a very goodnatured, discreet, elderly lady, I assure you.

Mary. You are very good, sir, but I shall be ashamed to look such a discreet person in the face, if she hears my story.

Shuff. No, you needn't;—she has a large stock of charity for the indiscretions of others, believe me.

Mary. I don't know how to thank you, sir. The unfortunate must look up to such a lady, sure, as a mother.

Shuff. She has acquired that appellation.——You'll be very comfortable;—and, when I arrive in town, I'll—

Enter Peregrine.

Who have we here?—Oh!—ha!—ha!—This must be the gentleman she mentioned to Frank in her letter.—rather an ancient ami.

[Aside.

Pereg. So! I suspected this might be the case. [Aside.] You are Mr. Rochdale, I presume sir?

Shuff. Yes, sir, you do presume;—but I am not Mr. Rochdale.

Pereg. I beg your pardon, sir, for mistaking you for so bad a person.

Shuff. Mr. Rochdale, sir, is my intimate friend. If you mean to recommend yourself in this quarter, [Pointing to Mary.] good breeding will suggest to you, that it mustn't be done by abusing him, before me.

Pereg. I have not acquired that sort of good breeding, sir, which isn't founded on good sense;—and when I call the betrayer of female innocence a bad character, the term, I think, is too true to be abusive.

Shuff. 'Tis a pity, then, you hav'n't been taught a little better, what is due to polished society.

Pereg. I am always willing to improve.

Shuff. I hope, sir, you won't urge me to become your instructor.

Pereg. You are unequal to the task: if you quarrel with me in the cause of a seducer, you are unfit to teach me the duties of a citizen.

Shuff. You may make, sir, a very good citizen; but, curse me, if you'll do for the west end of the town.

Pereg. I make no distinctions in the ends of towns, sir:—the ends of integrity are always uniform: and 'tis only where those ends are most promoted, that the inhabitants of a town, let them live east or west, most preponderate in rational estimation.

Shuff. Pray, sir, are you a methodist preacher, in want of a congregation?

Pereg. Perhaps I'm a quack doctor, in want of a Jack Pudding.—Will you engage with me?

Shuff. Damn me if this is to be borne.—Sir, the correction I must give you, will—

Pereg. [With Coolness.] Desist, young man, in time, or you may repent your petulance.

Mary. [Coming between them.] Oh, gentlemen! pray, pray don't—I am so frightened! Indeed, sir, you mistake. [To Peregrine.] This gentleman has been so good to me!

[Pointing to Shuffleton.

Pereg. Prove it, child, and I shall honour him.

Mary. Indeed, indeed he has.—Pray, pray don't quarrel! when two such generous people meet, it would be a sad pity. See, sir, [To Peregrine.] he has recommended me to a place in London;—here's the letter to the good lady, an elderly lady, in Marybone parish! and so kind, sir, every body, that knows her, calls her mother.

Pereg. [Looking at the superscription.] Infamous! sit down, and compose yourself, my love;—the gentleman and I shall soon come to an understanding. One word, sir: [Mary sits at the back of the Scene, the Men advance.] I have lived long in India;—but the flies, who gad thither, buzz in our ears, till we learn what they have blown upon in England. I have heard of the wretch, in whose house you meant to place that unfortunate.

Shuff. Well! and you meant to place her in snugger lodgings, I suppose?

Pereg. I mean to place her where——

Shuff. No, my dear fellow, you don't;——unless you answer it to me.

Pereg. I understand you.—In an hour, then, I shall be at the Manor-house, whence I suppose, you come. Here we are both unarmed; and there is one waiting at the door, who, perhaps, might interrupt us.

Shuff. Who is he?

Pereg. Her father;—her agonized father;——to whose entreaties I have yielded; and brought him here, prematurely.—He is a tradesman;—beneath your notice:—a vulgar brazier;—but he has some sort of feeling for his child! whom, now your friend has lured her to the precipice of despair, you would hurry down the gulf of infamy.—For your own convenience, sir, I would advise you to avoid him.

Shuff. Your advice, now, begins to be a little sensible; and if you turn out a gentleman, though I suspect you to be one of the brazier's company, I shall talk to you at Sir Simon's.

[Exit.

Mary. Is the gentleman gone, sir?

Pereg. Let him go, child; and be thankful that you have escaped from a villain.

Mary. A villain, sir!

Pereg. The basest; for nothing can be baser than manly strength, in the specious form of protection, injuring an unhappy woman. When we should be props to the lily in the storm, 'tis damnable to spring up like vigorous weeds, and twine about the drooping flower, till we destroy it.

Mary. Then, where are friends to be found, sir? He seemed honest; so do you; but, perhaps, you may be as bad.

Pereg. Do not trust me. I have brought you a friend, child, in whom, Nature tells us, we ever should confide.

Mary. What, here, sir?

Pereg. Yes;—when he hurts you, he must wound himself;—and so suspicious is the human heart become, from the treachery of society, that it wants that security. I will send him to you.

[Exit.

Mary. Who can he mean? I know nobody but Mr. Rochdale, that, I think, would come to me. For my poor dear father, when he knows all my crime, will abandon me, as I deserve.

Enter Job Thornberry, at the Door Peregrine has gone out at.

Job. Mary! [Mary shrieks and falls, her Father runs to her.] My dear Mary!—Speak to me!

Mary. [Recovering.] Don't look kindly on me, my dear father! Leave me; I left you:—but I was almost mad.

Job. I'll never leave you, till I drop down dead by your side. How could you run away from me, Mary? [She shrieks.] Come, come, kiss me, and we'll talk of that another time.

Mary. You hav'n't heard half the story, or I'm sure you'd never forgive me.

Job. Never mind the story now, Mary;—'tis a true story that you're my child, and that's enough for the present. I hear you have met with a rascal. I hav'n't been told who, yet. Some folks don't always forgive; braziers do. Kiss me again, and we'll talk on't by and by. But, why would you run away, Mary?

Mary. I could'nt stay and be deceitful; and it has often cut me to the heart, to see you show me that affection, which I knew I didn't deserve.

Job. Ah! you jade! I ought to be angry; but I can't. Look here—don't you remember this waistcoat? you worked it for me, you know.

Mary. I know I did.

[Kissing him.

Job. I had a hard struggle to put it on, this morning; but I squeezed myself into it, a few hours after you ran away.—If I could do that, you might have told me the worst, without much fear of my anger. How have they behaved to you, Mary?

Mary. The landlord is very humane, but the landlady———

Job. Cruel to you? I'll blow her up like gunpowder in a copper. We must stay here to-night;—for there's Peregrine, that king of good fellows, we must stay here till he comes back, from a little way off, he says.

Mary. He that brought you here?

Job. Ay, he. I don't know what he intends—but I trust all to him;—and when he returns, we'll have such a merry-making! Hollo! house! Oh, damn it, I'll be good to the landlord; but I'll play hell with his wife! Come with me, and let us call about us a bit. Hollo!—house! Come, Mary! odsbobs, I'm so happy to have you again! House!—Come, Mary,

[Exeunt.

ACT THE FOURTH.

SCENE I.

The Outside of the Red Cow.

Dennis Brulgruddery before the Door.

Dennis. I've stretched my neck half a yard longer, looking out after that rapscallion, Dan. Och! and is it yourself I see, at last? There he comes, in a snail's trot, with a basket behind him, like a stage coach.

Enter Dan, with a Basket at his Back.

Dan, you devil! aren't you a beast of a waiter?

Dan. What for?

Dennis. To stay out so, the first day of company.

Dan. Come, that be a good un! I ha' waited for the company a week, and I defy you to say I ever left the house till they comed.

Dennis. Well, and that's true. Pacify me with a good reason, and you'll find me a dutiful master. Arrah, Dan, what's that hump grown out at your back, on the road?

Dan. Plenty o' meat and drink. I ha'n't had such a hump o' late, at my stomach.

[Puts the Basket on the Ground.

Dennis. And who harnessed you, Dan, with all that kitchen stuff?

Dan. He as ware rack'd, and took I wi' un to Penzance, for a companion. He order'd I, as I said things were a little famish'd like, here, to buy this for the young woman, and the old man he ha' brought back wi' un.

Dennis. Then you have been gabbling your ill looking stories about my larder, you stone eater!

Dan. Larder! I told un you had three live pigs as ware dying.

Dennis. Oh fie! Think you, won't any master discharge a man sarvant that shames him? Thank your luck, I can't blush. But is the old fellow, our customer has brought, his intimate friend, he never saw but once, thirty years ago?

Dan. Ees; that be old Job Thornberry, the brazier; and, as sure as you stand there, when we got to his shop, they were going to make him a banker.

Dennis. A banker! I never saw one made. How do they do it?

Dan. Why, the bum baileys do come into his house, and claw away all his goods and furniture.

Dennis. By the powers, but that's one way of setting a man going in business!

Dan. When we got into the shop, there they were, as grum as thunder.—You ha' seen a bum bailey?

Dennis. I'm not curious that way. I might have seen one, once or twice; but I was walking mighty fast, and had no time to look behind me.

Dan. My companion—our customer—he went up stairs, and I bided below;—and then they began a knocking about the goods and chapels.—That ware no business o' mine.

Dennis. Sure it was not.

Dan. Na, for sartin; so I ax'd 'em what they were a doing;—and they told I, wi' a broad grin, taking an invention of the misfortunate man's defects.

Dennis. Choke their grinning! The law of the land's a good doctor; but, bad luck to those that gorge upon such a fine physician's poor patients! Sure, we know, now and then, it's mighty wholesome to bleed; but nobody falls in love with the leech.

Dan. They comed down stairs—our customer and the brazier; and the head baily he began a bullocking at the old man, in my mind, just as one christian shou'dn't do to another. I had nothing to do wi' that.

Dennis. Damn the bit.

Dan. No, nothing at all; and so my blood began to rise. He made the poor old man almost fit to cry.

Dennis. That wasn't your concern, you know.

Dan. Bless you, mun! 'twould ha' look'd busy like, in me, to say a word; so I took up a warming pan, and I bang'd bum bailey, wi' the broad end on't, 'till he fell o' the floor as fat as twopence.

Dennis. Oh, hubaboo! lodge in my heart, and I'll never ax you for rent—you're a friend in need. Remember, I've a warmingpan—you know where it hangs, and that's enough.

Dan. They had like to ha' warm'd I, finely, I do know. I ware nigh being haul'd to prison; 'cause, as well as I could make out their cant, it do seem I had rescued myself, and broke a statue.

Dennis. Och, the Philistines!

Dan. But our traveller—I do think he be the devil—he settled all in a jiffy; for he paid the old man's debts, and the bailey's broken head ware chuck'd into the bargain.

Dennis. And what did he pay?

Dan. Guess now.

Dennis. A hundred pounds?

Dan. Six thousand, by gum!

Dennis. What! on the nail?

Dan. Na; on the counter.

Dennis. Whew!—six thousand pou——! Oh, by the powers, this man must be the philosopher's stone! Dan——

Dan. Hush! here he be.

Enter Peregrine, from the House.

Per. [To Dan.] So, friend, you have brought provision, I perceive.

Dan. Ees, sir;—three boil'd fowls, three roast, two chicken pies, and a capon.

Per. You have considered abundance, more than variety. And the wine?

Dan. A dozen o' capital red port, sir: I ax'd for the newest they had i' the cellar.

Dennis. [To himself.] Six thousand pounds upon a counter!

Per. [To Dan.] Carry the hamper in doors; then return to me instantly. You must accompany me in another excursion.

Dan. What, now?

Per. Yes; to Sir Simon Rochdale's. You are not tired, my honest fellow?

Dan. Na, not a walking wi' you;—but, dang me, when you die, if all the shoemakers shouldn't go into mourning.

[Dan takes the Hamper into the House.

Dennis. [Ruminating.] Six thousand pounds! by St. Patrick, it's a sum!

Per. How many miles from here to the Manor house?

Dennis. Six thousand!

Per. Six thousand!—yards you mean, I suppose, friend.

Dennis. Sir!—Eh? Yes, sir, I—I mean yards—all upon a counter!

Per. Six thousand yards upon a counter! Mine host, here, seems a little bewildered;—but he has been anxious, I find, for poor Mary, and 'tis national in him to blend eccentricity with kindness. John Bull exhibits a plain, undecorated dish of solid benevolence; but Pat has a gay garnish of whim around his good nature; and if, now and then, 'tis sprinkled in a little confusion, they must have vitiated stomachs, who are not pleased with the embellishment.

Enter Dan, booted.

Dan. Now, sir, you and I'll stump it.

Per. Is the way we are to go now, so much worse, that you have cased yourself in those boots?

Dan. Quite clean—that's why I put 'em on: I should ha' dirted 'em in t' other job.

Per. Set forward, then.

Dan. Na, sir, axing your pardon; I be but the guide, and 'tisn't for I to go first.

Per. Ha! ha! Then we must march abreast, boy, like lusty soldiers, and I shall be side by side with honesty: 'tis the best way of travelling through life's journey, and why not over a heath? Come, my lad.

Dan. Cheek by jowl, by gum!

[Exeunt Peregrine and Dan.

Dennis. That walking philosopher—perhaps he'll give me a big bag of money. Then, to be sure, I won't lay out some of it to make me easy for life: for I'll settle a separate maintenance upon ould mother Brulgruddery.

Job Thornberry peeps out of the Door of the Public House.

Job. Landlord!

Dennis. Coming, your honour.

Job. [Coming forward.] Hush! don't bawl;—Mary has fallen asleep. You have behaved like an emperor to her, she says. Give me your hand, landlord.

Dennis. Behaved!—Arrah, now, get away with your blarney.

[Refusing his Hand.

Job. Well, let it alone. I'm an old fool, perhaps; but, as you comforted my poor girl in her trouble, I thought a squeeze from her father's hand—as much as to say, "Thank you, for my child."—might not have come amiss to you.

Dennis. And is it yourself who are that creature's father?

Job. Her mother said so, and I always believed her. You have heard some'at of what has happen'd, I suppose. It's all over our town, I take it, by this time. Scandal is an ugly, trumpeting devil. Let 'em talk;—a man loses little by parting with a herd of neighbours, who are busiest in publishing his family misfortunes; for they are just the sort of cattle who would never stir over the threshold to prevent 'em.

Dennis. Troth, and that's true;—and some will only sarve you, because you're convenient to 'em, for the time present; just as my customers come to the Red Cow.

Job. I'll come to the Red Cow, hail, rain, or shine, to help the house, as long as you are Landlord. Though I must say that your wife——

Dennis. [Putting his Hand before Job's Mouth.] Decency! Remember your own honour, and my feelings. I mustn't hear any thing bad, you know, of Mrs. Brulgruddery; and you'll say nothing good of her, without telling damn'd lies; so be asy.

Job. Well, I've done;—but we mustn't be speaking ill of all the world, neither: there are always some sound hearts to be found among the hollow ones. Now he that is just gone over the heath——

Dennis. What, the walking philosopher?

Job. I don't know any thing of his philosophy; but, if I live these thousand years, I shall never forget his goodness. Then, there's another;—I was thinking, just now, if I had tried him, I might have found a friend in my need, this morning.

Dennis. Who is he?

Job. A monstrous good young man; and as modest and affable, as if he had been bred up a 'prentice, instead of a gentleman.

Dennis. And what's his name?

Job. Oh, every body knows him, in this neighbourhood; he lives hard by—Mr. Francis Rochdale, the young 'squire, at the Manor-house.

Dennis. Mr. Francis Rochdale!

Job. Yes!—he's as condescending! and took quite a friendship for me, and mine. He told me, t'other day, he'd recommend me in trade to all the great families twenty miles round;—and said he'd do, I don't know what all, for my Mary.

Dennis. He did!—Well, 'faith, you may'nt know what; but, by my soul, he has kept his word!

Job. Kept his word!—What do you mean?

Dennis. Harkye—If Scandal is blowing about your little fireside accident, 'twas Mr. Francis Rochdale recommended him to your shop, to buy his brass trumpet.

Job. Eh! What? no!—yes—I see it at once!—young Rochdale's a rascal!—Mary!

[Bawling.

Dennis. Hush—you'll wake her, you know.

Job. I intend it. I'll—a glossy, oily, smooth rascal!—warming me in his favour, like an unwholesome February sun! shining upon my poor cottage, and drawing forth my child,—my tender blossom,—to suffer blight, and mildew!—Mary! I'll go directly to the Manor-house—his father's in the commission.—I may'nt find justice, but I shall find a justice of peace.

Dennis. Fie, now! and can't you listen to reason?

Job. Reason!——tell me a reason why a father shouldn't be almost mad, when his patron has ruin'd his child.—Damn his protection!—tell me a reason why a man of birth's seducing my daughter doesn't almost double the rascality? yes, double it: for my fine gentleman, at the very time he is laying his plans to make her infamous, would think himself disgraced in making her the honest reparation she might find from one of her equals.

Dennis. Arrah, be asy, now, Mr. Thornberry.

Job. And, this spark, forsooth, is now canvassing the county!—but, if I don't give him his own at the hustings!—How dare a man set himself up for a guardian of his neighbour's rights, who has robbed his neighbour of his dearest comforts? How dare a seducer come into freeholders' houses, and have the impudence to say, send me up to London as your representative? Mary!

[Calling.

Dennis. That's all very true.—But if the voters are under petticoat government, he has a mighty good chance of his election.

Enter Mary.

Mary. Did you call, my dear father?

Job. Yes, I did call.

[Passionately.

Dennis. Don't you frighten that poor young crature!

Mary. Oh, dear! what has happened?—You are angry; very angry. I hope it isn't with me!—if it is, I have no reason to complain.

Job. [Softened, and folding her in his Arms.] My poor, dear child! I forgive you twenty times more, now, than I did before.

Mary. Do you, my dear father?

Job. Yes; for there's twenty times more excuse for you, when rank and education have helped a scoundrel to dazzle you. Come!

[Taking her Hand.

Mary. Come! where?

Job. [Impatiently.] To the Manor-house with me, directly.

Mary. To the Manor-house! Oh, my dear father, think of what you are doing! think of me!

Job. Of you!—I think of nothing else. I'll see you righted. Don't be terrified, child—damn it, you know I doat on you: but we are all equals in the eye of the law; and rot me, if I won't make a baronet's son shake in his shoes, for betraying a brazier's daughter. Come, love, come!

Exeunt Job and Mary.

Dennis. There'll be a big boderation at the Manor-house! My customers are all gone, that I was to entertain:—nobody's left but my lambkin, who don't entertain me: Sir Simon's butler gives good Madeira:—so, I'm off, after the rest; and the Red Cow and mother Brulgruddery may take care of one another.

[Exit.

SCENE II.

Enter Frank Rochdale.

Frank. Shuffleton's intelligence astonishes me!—So soon to throw herself into the arms of another!——and what could effect, even if time for perseverance had favoured him, such a person's success with her!

Enter Sir Simon Rochdale.

Sir Simon. Why, Frank! I thought you were walking with Lady Caroline.

Frank. No, sir.

Sir Simon. Ha! I wish you would learn some of the gallantries of the present day from your friend, Tom Shuffleton:—but from being careless of coming up to the fashion, damn it, you go beyond it? for you neglect a woman three days before marriage, as much as half the Tom Shuffletons three months after it.

Frank. As by entering into this marriage, sir, I shall perform the duties of a son, I hope you will do me the justice to suppose I shall not be basely negligent as a husband,

Sir Simon. Frank, you're a fool; and——

Enter a Servant.

Well, sir?

Serv. A person, Sir Simon, says he wishes to see you on very urgent business.

Sir Simon. And I have very urgent business, just now, with my steward. Who is the person? How did he come?

Serv. On foot, Sir Simon.

Sir Simon. Oh, let him wait.

[Exit Servant.

At all events, I can't see this person for these two hours.—I wish you would see him for me.

Frank. Certainly, sir,—any thing is refuge to me, now, from the subject of matrimony.

[Aside, and going.

Sir Simon. But a word before you go. Damn it, my dear lad, why can't you perceive I am labouring this marriage for your good? We shall ennoble the Rochdales:—for, though my father,—your grandfather,—did some service in elections (that made him a baronet), amassed property, and bought lands, and so on, yet, your great grandfather—Come here——your great grandfather was a miller.

[Half whispering.

Frank. [Smiling.] I shall not respect his memory less, sir, for knowing his occupation.

Sir Simon. But the world will, you blockhead: and, for your sake, for the sake of our posterity, I would cross the cart breed, as much as possible, by blood.

Frank. Is that of consequence, sir?

Sir Simon. Isn't it the common policy? and the necessities of your boasters of pedigree produce a thousand intermarriages with people of no pedigree at all;—till, at last, we so jumble a genealogy, that, if the devil himself would pluck knowledge from the family tree, he could hardly find out the original fruit.

[Exeunt severally.

Enter Tom Shuffleton, from the Park, following Lady Caroline Braymore.

Shuff. "The time is come for Iphigene to find,
"The miracle she wrought upon my mind;"

Lady Car. Don't talk to me.

Shuff. "For, now, by love, by force she shall be mine,
"Or death, if force should fail, shall finish my design."

Lady Car. I wish you would finish your nonsense.

Shuff. Nonsense:—'tis poetry; somebody told me 'twas written by Dryden.

Lady Car. Perhaps so;——but all poetry is nonsense.

Shuff. Hear me, then, in prose.

Lady Car. Psha!—that's worse.

Shuff. Then I must express my meaning in pantomime. Shall I ogle you?

Lady Car. You are a teasing wretch;—I have subjected myself, I find, to very ill treatment, in this petty family;—and begin to perceive I am a very weak woman.

Shuff. [Aside.] Pretty well for that matter.

Lady Car. To find myself absolutely avoided by the gentleman I meant to honour with my hand,—so pointedly neglected!——

Shuff. I must confess it looks a little like a complete cut.

Lady Car. And what you told me of the low attachment that——

Shuff. Nay, my dear Lady Caroline, don't say that I told you more than——

Lady Car. I won't have it denied:—and I'm sure 'tis all true. See here—here's an odious parchment Lord Fitz Balaam put into my hand in the park.—A marriage license, I think he calls it—but if I don't scatter it in a thousand pieces——

Shuff. [Preventing her.] Softly, my dear Lady Caroline; that's a license of marriage, you know. The names are inserted of course.—Some of them may be rubbed a little in the carriage; but they may be filled up at pleasure, you know.——Frank's my friend,——and if he has been negligent, I say nothing; but the parson of the parish is as blind as a beetle.

Lady Car. Now, don't you think, Mr. Shuffleton, I am a very ill used person?

Shuff. I feel inwardly for you, Lady Caroline; but my friend makes the subject delicate. Let us change it. Did you observe the steeple upon the hill, at the end of the park pales?

Lady Car. Psha?—No.

Shuff. It belongs to one of the prettiest little village churches you ever saw in your life. Let me show you the inside of the church, Lady Caroline.

Lady Car. I am almost afraid: for, if I should make a rash vow there, what is to become of my Lord Fitz Balaam?

Shuff. Oh, that's true; I had forgot his lordship:—but as the exigencies of the times demand it, let us hurry the question through the Commons, and when it has passed, with such strong independent interest on our sides, it will hardly be thrown out by the Peerage.

[Exeunt.

SCENE III.

Another Apartment in Sir Simon Rochdale's House.

Enter Peregrine.

Pereg. Sir Simon does not hurry himself; but 'tis a custom with the great, to make the little, and the unknown, dance attendance. When I left Cornwall, as a boy, this house, I remember, was tenanted by strangers, and the Rochdales inhabited another on the estate, seven miles off.—I have lived to see some changes in the family, and may live, perhaps, to see more.

Enter Frank Rochdale.

Frank. You expected, I believe, Sir Simon Rochdale, sir;—but he will be occupied with particular business, for some time. Can I receive your commands, sir?

Pereg. Are you Sir Simon Rochdale's son, sir?

Frank. I am.

Pereg. It was my wish, sir, to have seen your father. I come unintroduced, and scurvily enough accoutred; but, as I have urgent matters to communicate, and have suffered shipwreck, upon your coast, this morning, business will excuse my obtrusion, and the sea must apologize for my wardrobe.

Frank. Shipwreck! That calamity is a sufficient introduction to every roof, I trust, in a civilized country. What can we do immediately to serve you?

Pereg. Nothing, sir—I am here to perform service, not to require it. I come from a wretched hut on the heath, within the ken of this affluent mansion, where I have witnessed calamity in the extreme.

Frank. I do not understand you.

Pereg. Mary!—

Frank. Ha.!—Now you have made me understand you. I perceive, now, on what object you have presented yourself here, to harangue. 'Tis a subject on which my own remorse would have taught me to bend to a just man's castigation; but the reproof retorts on the reprover, when he is known to be a hypocrite. My friend, sir, has taught me to know you.

Pereg. He, whom I encountered at the house on the heath?

Frank. The same.

Pereg. And what may he have taught you?

Frank. To discover, that your aim is to torture me, for relinquishing a beloved object, whom you are, at this moment, attaching to yourself;—to know, that a diabolical disposition, for which I cannot account, prompts you to come here, without the probability of benefiting any party, to injure me, and throw a whole family into confusion, on the eve of a marriage. But, in tearing myself from the poor, wronged, Mary, I almost tear my very heart by its fibres from the seat;——but 'tis a sacrifice to a father's repose; and—

Pereg. Hold, sir! When you betrayed the poor, wronged, Mary, how came you to forget, that every father's repose may be broken for ever by his child's conduct?

Frank. By my honour! by my soul! it was my intention to have placed her far, far above the reach of want; but you, my hollow monitor, are frustrating that intention. You, who come here to preach virtue, are tempting her to be a confirmed votary of vice, whom I in penitence would rescue, as the victim of unguarded sensibility.

Pereg. Are you, then, jealous of me?

Frank. Jealous!

Pereg. Aye: if so, I can give you ease. Return with me, to the injured innocent on the heath: marry her, and I will give her away.

Frank. Marry her! I am bound in honour to another.

Pereg. Modern honour is a coercive argument; but when you have seduced virtue, whose injuries you will not solidly repair, you must be slightly bound in old-fashion'd honesty.

Frank. I———I know not what to say to you. Your manner almost awes me; and there is a mystery in——

Pereg. I am mysterious, sir. I may have other business, perhaps, with your father; and, I will tell you, the very fate of your family may hang on my conference with him. Come, come, Mr. Rochdale, bring me to Sir Simon.

Frank. My father cannot be seen yet. Will you, for a short time, remain in my apartment?

Pereg. Willingly;—and depend on this, sir—I have seen enough of the world's weakness, to forgive the casual faults of youthful indiscretion;—but I have a detestation for systematic vice; and though, as a general censor, my lash may be feeble, circumstances have put a scourge in my hand, which may fall heavily on this family, should any of its branches force me to wield it.—I attend you.

[Exeunt.

ACT THE FIFTH.

SCENE I.

A Hall in the Manor-house.

Voices wrangling without.

Job. I will see Sir Simon.

Simon. You can't see Sir Simon, &c. &c. &c.

Enter Job Thornberry, Mary, and Simon.

Job. Don't tell me;—I come upon justice business.

Simon. Sir Simon be a gentleman justice.

Job. If the justice allows all his servants to be as saucy as you, I can't say much for the gentleman.

Simon. But these ben't his hours.

Job. Hours for justice! I thought one of the blessings of an Englishman, was to find justice at any time.

Mary. Pray don't be so——

Job. Hold your tongue, child. What are his hours?

Simon. Why, from twelve to two.

Job. Two hours out of four and twenty! I hope all that belong to law, are a little quicker than his worship; if not, when a case wants immediate remedy, it's just eleven to one against us. Don't you know me?

Simon. Na.

Job. I'm sure I have seen you in Penzance.

Simon. My wife has got a chandler's shop there.

Job. Haven't you heard we've a fire engine in the church?

Simon. What o' that?

Job. Suppose your wife's shop was in flames, and all her bacon and farthing candles frying?

Simon. And what then?

Job. Why then, while the house was burning, you'd run to the church for the engine. Shou'dn't you think it plaguy hard if the sexton said, "Call for it to-morrow, between twelve and two?"

Simon. That be neither here nor there.

Job. Isn't it! Then, do you see this stick?

[Menacing.

Simon. Pshaw! you be a foolish old fellow.

Job. Why, that's true. Every now and then a jack-in-office, like you, provokes a man to forget his years. The cudgel is a stout one, and som'at like your master's justice;—'tis a good weapon in weak hands; and that's the way many a rogue escapes a dressing.—What! you are laughing at it?

Simon. Ees.

Job. Ees! you Cornish baboon, in a laced livery!—Here's something to make you grin more—here's half a crown.

[Holding it up between his Finger and Thumb.

Simon. Hee! hee!

Job. Hee, hee!—Damn your Land'send chops! 'tis to get me to your master:—but, before you have it, though he keeps a gentleman-justice-shop, I shall make free to ring it on his counter. [Throws it on the Floor.] There! pick it up. [Simon picks up the money.] I am afraid you are not the first underling that has stoop'd to pocket a bribe, before he'd do his duty.—Now, tell the gentleman-justice, I want to see him.

Simon. I'll try what I can do for you.

[Exit.

Job. What makes you tremble so, Mary?

Mary. I can't help it:—I wish I could persuade you to go back again.

Job. I'll stay till the roof falls, but I'll see some of 'em.

Mary. Indeed, you don't know how you terrify me. But, if you go to Sir Simon, you'll leave me here in the hall;—you won't make me go with you, father?

Job. Not take you with me.—I'll go with my wrongs in my hand, and make him blush for his son.

Mary. I hope you'll think better of it.

Job. Why?

Mary. Because, when you came to talk, I should sink with shame, if he said any thing to you that might——that——

Job. Might what?

Mary. [Sighing, and hanging down her Head.] Make you blush for your daughter.

Job. I won't have you waiting, like a petitioner, in this hall, when you come to be righted. No, no!

Mary. You wouldn't have refused me any thing once;—but I know I have lost your esteem, now.

Job. Lost!—forgive is forgive, all the world over. You know, Mary, I have forgiven you: and, making it up by halves, is making myself a brass teakettle—warm one minute, cold the next; smooth without, and hollow within.

Mary. Then, pray, don't deny me!—I'm sure you wouldn't, if you knew half I am suffering.

Job. Do as you like, Mary; only never tell me again you have lost my esteem. It looks like suspicion o' both sides.—Never say that, and I can deny you nothing in reason,—or, perhaps, a little beyond it.—

Enter Simon.

Well, will the justice do a man the favour to do his duty? Will he see me?

Simon. Come into the room next his libery. A stranger, who's with young master, ha' been waiting for un, longer nor you; but I'll get you in first.

Job. I don't know, that that's quite fair to the other.

Simon. Ees, it be; for t'other didn't give I half a crown.

Job. Then, stay till I come back, Mary.—I see, my man, when you take a bribe, you are scrupulous enough to do your work for it; for which, I hope, somebody may duck you with one hand, and rub you dry with the other. Kindness and honesty, for kindness and honesty's sake, is the true coin; but many a one, like you, is content to be a passable Birmingham halfpenny.

[Exeunt Job Thornberry and Simon.

Mary. I wished to come to this house in the morning, and now I would give the world to be out of it. Hark! here's somebody! Oh, mercy on me, 'tis he himself! What will become of me!

[Retires towards the Back of the Scene.

Enter Frank Rochdale.

Frank. My father, then, shall see this visitor, whatever be the event. I will prepare him for the interview, and—— [Sees Mary.] Good Heaven! why—why are you here?

Mary. [Advancing to him eagerly.] I don't come willingly to trouble you; I don't, indeed!

Frank. What motive, Mary, has brought you to this house? and who is the stranger under whose protection you have placed yourself, at the house on the heath? Surely you cannot love him!

Mary. I hope I do.

Frank. You hope you do!

Mary. Yes; for I think he saved my life this morning, when I was struggling with the robber, who threatened to kill me.

Frank. And had you taken no guide with you, Mary?—no protector?

Mary. I was thinking too much of one, who promised to be my protector always, to think of any other.

Frank. Mary——I——I——'twas I, then, it seems who brought your life into such hazard.

Mary. I hope I haven't said any thing to make you unhappy.

Frank. Nothing, my dearest Mary, nothing. I know it is not in your nature even to whisper a reproof. Yet, I sent a friend, with full power from me, to give you the amplest protection.

Mary. I know you did:—and he gave me a letter, that I might be protected, when I got to London.

Frank. Why, then, commit yourself to the care of a stranger?

Mary. Because the stranger read the direction of the letter—here it is, [Taking it from her Pocket.] and said your friend was treacherous.

Frank. [Looking at the Letter.] Villain!

Mary. Did he intend to lead me into a snare then?

Frank. Let me keep this letter.—I may have been deceived in the person I sent to you, but—damn his rascality! [Aside.] But, could you think me base enough to leave you, unsheltered? I had torn you from your home,—with anguish I confess it—but I would have provided you another home, which want should not have assailed. Would this stranger bring you better comfort?

Mary. Oh, yes; he has; he has brought me my father.

Frank. Your father!—from whom I made you fly!

Mary. Yes; he has brought a father to his child,—that she might kiss off the tears her disobedience had forced down his aged cheeks, and restored me to the only home, which could give me any comfort, now.—And my father is here.

Frank. Here!

Mary. Indeed, I cou'dn't help his coming; and he made me come with him.

Frank. I—I am almost glad, Mary, that it has happened.

Mary. Are you?

Frank. Yes—when a weight of concealment is on the mind, remorse is relieved by the very discovery which it has dreaded. But you must not be waiting here, Mary. There is one in the house, to whose care I will entrust you.

Mary. I hope it isn't the person you sent to me to-day.

Frank. He! I would sooner cradle infancy with serpents.—Yet this is my friend! I will, now, confide in a stranger:—the stranger, Mary, who saved your life.

Mary. Is he here!

Frank. He is:—Oh, Mary, how painful, if, performing the duty of a son, I must abandon, at last, the expiation of a penitent! but so dependent on each other are the delicate combinations of probity, that one broken link perplexes the whole chain, and an abstracted virtue becomes a relative iniquity.

[Exeunt.