The Parent's Assistant; Or, Stories for Children

“The half-guinea, Laura!” said her godmother.  “What is all this?”

“I’ll tell you, madam, if you please,” said the little girl.

It was not in expectation of being praised for it, that Laura had been generous, and therefore everybody was really touched with the history of the weaving-pillow; and whilst they praised, felt a certain degree of respect, which is not always felt by those who pour forth eulogiums.  Respect is not an improper word, even applied to a child of Laura’s age; for let the age or situation of the person be what it may, they command respect who deserve it.

“Ah, madam!” said Rosamond to her godmother, “now you see—you see she is not a little miser.  I’m sure that’s better than wasting half a guinea upon a filigree basket; is it not, ma’am?” said she, with an eagerness which showed that she had forgotten all her own misfortunes in sympathy with her sister.  “This is being really generous, father, is it not?”

“Yes, Rosamond,” said her father, and he kissed her; “this is being really generous.  It is not only by giving away money that we can show generosity; it is by giving up to others anything that we like ourselves: and therefore,” added he, smiling, “it is really generous of you to give your sister the thing you like best of all others.”

“The thing I like the best of all others, father,” said Rosamond, half pleased, half vexed.  “What is that, I wonder?  You don’t mean praise, do you, sir?”

“Nay, you must decide that yourself, Rosamond.”

“Why, sir,” said she, ingenuously, “perhaps it was ONCE the thing I liked best; but the pleasure I have just felt makes me like something else much better.”

ETON MONTEM.

Wheel.  Not at all; we came on the same day.  Some say I came first; some say Talbot.  So the choice of which of us is to be captain is to be put to the vote amongst the lads—most votes carry it; and I have most votes, I fancy; so I shall be captain, to-morrow, and a pretty deal of salt [139] I reckon I shall pocket.  Why, the collection at the last Montem, they say, came to a plump thousand!  No bad thing for a young fellow to set out with for Oxford or Cambridge—hey?

Landlord.  And no bad thing, before he sets out for Cambridge or Oxford, ’twould be for a young gentleman to pay his debts.

Wheel.  Debts!  Oh, time enough for that.  I’ve a little account with you in horses, I know; but that’s between you and me, you know—mum.

Landlord.  Mum me no mums, Mr. Wheeler.  Between you and me, my best hunter has been ruinationed; and I can’t afford to be mum.  So you’ll take no offence if I speak; and as you’ll set off to-morrow, as soon as the Montem’s over, you’ll be pleased to settle with me some way or other to-day, as we’ve no other time.

Wheel.  No time so proper, certainly.  Where’s the little account?—I have money sent me for my Montem dress, and I can squeeze that much out of it.  I came home from Eton on purpose to settle with you.  But as to the hunter, you must call upon Talbot—do you understand? to pay for him; for though Talbot and I had him the same day, ’twas Talbot did for him, and Talbot must pay.  I spoke to him about it, and charged him to remember you; for I never forget to speak a good word for my friends.

Landlord.  So I perceive.

Wheel.  I’ll make bold just to give you my opinion of these jellies whilst you are getting my account, Mr. Newington.

(He swallows down a jelly or two—Landlord is going.)

Enter Talbot.

Talbot.  Hallo, Landlord! where are making off so fast?  Here, your jellies are all going as fast as yourself.

Wheel. (aside).  Talbot!—I wish I was a hundred miles off.

Landlord.  You are heartily welcome, Mr. Talbot.  A good morning to you, sir; I’m glad to see you—very glad to see you, Mr. Talbot.

Talb.  Then shake hands, my honest landlord.

(Talbot, in shaking hands with him, puts a purse into the landlord’s hands.)

Landlord.  What’s here?  Guineas?

Talb.  The hunter, you know; since Wheeler won’t pay, I must—that’s all.  Good morning.

Wheel. (aside).  What a fool!

(Landlord, as Talbot is going, catches hold of his coat.)

Landlord.  Hold, Mr. Talbot, this won’t do!

Talb.  Won’t it?  Well, then, my watch must go.

Landlord.  Nay, nay! but you are in such a hurry to pay—you won’t hear a man.  Half this is enough for your share o’ the mischief, in all conscience.  Mr. Wheeler, there, had the horse on the same day.

Wheel.  But Bursal’s my witness—

Talb.  Oh, say no more about witnesses; a man’s conscience is always his best witness, or his worst.  Landlord, take your money, and no more words.

Wheel.  This is very genteel of you, Talbot.  I always thought you would do the genteel thing as I knew you to be so generous and considerate.

Talb.  Don’t waste your fine speeches, Wheeler, I advise you, this election time.  Keep them for Bursal or Lord John, or some of those who like them.  They won’t go down with me.  Good morning to you.  I give you notice, I’m going back to Eton as fast as I can gallop; and who knows what plain speaking may do with the Eton lads?  I may be captain yet, Wheeler.  Have a care!  Is my horse ready there?

Landlord.  Mr. Talbot’s horse, there!  Mr. Talbot’s horse, I say.

Talbot sings.

“He carries weight—he rides a race—
’Tis for a thousand pound!”

(Exit Talbot.)

Wheel.  And, dear me! I shall be left behind.  A horse for me, pray; a horse for Mr. Wheeler!

(Exit Wheeler.)

Landlord (calls very loud).  Mr. Talbot’s horse!  Hang the hostler!  I’ll saddle him myself.

(Exit Landlord.)

SCENE II.

A Dining room in the Inn at Salt Hill.

Mrs. Talbot and Louisa.

Louisa (laughing).  With what an air Mrs. Landlady made her exit!

Mrs. Talbot.  When I was young, they say, I was proud; but I am humble enough now: these petty mortifications do not vex me.

Louisa.  It is well my brother was gone before Mrs. Landlady made her entree; for if he had heard her rude speech, he would at least have given her the retort courteous.

Mrs. Talb.  Now tell me honestly, my Louisa—You were, a few days ago, at Bursal House.  Since you have left it and have felt something of the difference that is made in this world between splendour and no splendour, you have never regretted that you did not stay there, and that you did not bear more patiently with Miss Bursal’s little airs?

Louisa.  Never for a moment.  At first Miss Bursal paid me a vast deal of attention; but, for what reason I know not, she suddenly changed her manner, grew first strangely cold, then condescendingly familiar, and at last downright rude.  I could not guess the cause of these variations.

Mrs. Talb. (aside) I guess the cause too well.

Louisa.  But as I perceived the lady was out of tune, I was in haste to leave her.  I should make a very bad, and, I am sure, a miserable toad eater.  I had much rather, if I were obliged to choose, earn my own bread, than live as toad eater with anybody.

Mrs. Talb.  Fine talking, dear Louisa!

Louisa.  Don’t you believe me to be in earnest, mother!  To be sure, you cannot know what I would do, unless I were put to the trial.

Mrs. Talb.  Nor you either, my dear.

(She sighs, and is silent.)

Louisa (takes her mother’s hand).  What is the matter, dear mother?  You used to say, that seeing my brother always made you feel ten years younger; yet even while he was here, you had, in spite of all your efforts to conceal them, those sudden fits of sadness.

Mrs. Talb.  The Montem—is not it to-morrow?  Ay, but my boy is not sure of being captain.

Louisa.  No; there is one Wheeler, who, as he says, is most likely to be chosen captain.  He has taken prodigious pains to flatter and win over many to his interest.  My brother does not so much care about it; he is not avaricious.

Mrs. Talb.  I love your generous spirit and his! but, alas! my dear, people may live to want, and wish for money, without being avaricious.  I would not say a word to Talbot; full of spirits as he was this morning, I would not say a word to him, till after the Montem, of what has happened.

Louisa.  And what has happened, dear mother?  Sit down,—you tremble.

Mrs. Talb. (sits down and puts a letter into Louisa’s hand.)  Read that, love.  A messenger brought me that from town a few hours ago.

Louisa (reads).  “By an express from Portsmouth, we hear the Bombay Castle East Indiaman is lost, with all your fortune on board.”  All!  I hope there is something left for you to live upon.

Mrs. Talb.  About 150 pounds a year for us all.

Louisa.  That is enough, is it not, for you?

Mrs. Talb.  For me, love?  I am an old woman, and want but little in this world, and shall be soon out of it.

Louisa (kneels down beside her).  Do not speak so, dearest mother.

Mrs. Talb.  Enough for me, love!  Yes, enough, and too much for me.  I am not thinking of myself.

Louisa.  Then, as to my brother, he has such abilities, and such industry, he will make a fortune at the bar for himself, most certainly.

Mrs. Talb.  But his education is not completed.  How shall we provide him with money at Cambridge?

Louisa.  This Montem.  The last time the captain had eight hundred, the time before a thousand, pounds.  Oh, I hope—I fear!  Now, indeed, I know that, without being avaricious, we may want, and wish for money.

(Landlady’s voice heard behind the scenes.)

Landlady.  Waiter!—Miss Bursal’s curricle, and Mr. Bursal’s vis-à-vis.  Run! see that the Dolphin’s empty.  I say run!—run!

Mrs. Talb.  I will rest for a few moments upon the sofa, in this bedchamber, before we set off.

Louisa (goes to open the door).  They have bolted or locked it.  How unlucky!

(She turns the key, and tries to unlock the door.)

Enter Waiter.

Waiter.  Ladies, I’m sorry—Miss Bursal and Mr. Bursal are come—just coming upstairs.

Mrs. Talb.  Then, will you be so good, sir, as to unlock this door?

(Waiter tries to unlock the door.)

Waiter.  It must be bolted on the inside.  Chambermaid!  Sally!  Are you within there?  Unbolt this door.

Mr. Bursal’s voice behind the scenes.  Let me have a basin of good soup directly.

Waiter.  I’ll go round and have the door unbolted immediately, ladies.

(Exit Waiter.)

Enter Miss Bursal, in a riding dress, and with a long whip.

Miss Bursal.  Those creatures, the ponies, have a’most pulled my ’and off.  Who ’ave we ’ere?  Ha!  Mrs. Talbot!  Louisa, ’ow are ye?  I’m so vastly glad to see you; but I’m so shocked to ’ear of the loss of the Bombay Castle.  Mrs. Talbot, you look but poorly; but this Montem will put everybody in spirits.  I ’ear everybody’s to be ’ere; and my brother tells me, ’twill be the finest ever seen at HEton.  Louisa, my dear, I’m sorry I’ve not a seat for you in my curricle for to-morrow; but I’ve promised Lady Betty; so, you know, ’tis impossible for me.

Louisa.  Certainly; and it would be impossible for me to leave my mother at present.

Chambermaid (opens the bedchamber door).  The room’s ready now, ladies.

Mrs. Talb.  Miss Bursal, we intrude upon you no longer.

Miss Burs.  Nay, why do you decamp, Mrs. Talbot?  I ’ad a thousand things to say to you, Louisa; but am so tired and so annoyed—

(Seats herself.  Exeunt Mrs. Talbot, Louisa and Chambermaid.)

Enter Mr. Bursal, with a basin of soup in his hand.

Mr. Burs.  Well, thank my stars the Airly Castle is safe in the Downs.

Miss Burs.  Mr. Bursal, can you inform me why Joe, my groom, does not make his appearance?

Mr. Burs. (eating and speaking).  Yes, that I can, child; because he is with his ’orses, where he ought to be.  ’Tis fit they should be looked after well; for they cost me a pretty penny—more than their heads are worth, and yours into the bargain; but I was resolved, as we were to come to this Montem, to come in style.

Miss Burs.  In style, to be sure; for all the world’s to be here—the King, the Prince of Whales, and Duke o’ York, and all the first people; and we shall cut a dash!  Dash! dash! will be the word to-morrow!—(playing with her whip).

Mr. Burs. (aside).  Dash! dash! ay, just like her brother.  He’ll pay away finely, I warrant, by the time he’s her age.  Well, well, he can afford it; and I do love to see my children make a figure for their money.  As Jack Bursal says, what’s money for, if it e’nt to make a figure.  (Aloud).  There’s your brother Jack, now.  The extravagant dog! he’ll have such a dress as never was seen, I suppose, at this here Montem.  Why, now, Jack Bursal spends more money at Eton, and has more to spend, than my Lord John, though my Lord John’s the son of a marchioness.

Miss Burs.  Oh, that makes no difference nowadays.  I wonder whether her ladyship is to be at this Montem.  The only good I ever got out of these stupid Talbots was an introduction to their friend Lady Piercefield.  What she could find to like in the Talbots, heaven knows.  I’ve a notion she’ll drop them, when she hears of the loss of the Bombay Castle.

Enter a Waiter, with a note.

Waiter.  A note from my Lady Piercefield, sir.

Miss B.  Charming woman!  Is she here, pray, sir?

Waiter.  Just come.  Yes, ma’am.

(Exit Waiter.)

Miss B.  Well, Mr. Bursal, what is it?

Mr. B. (reads).  “Business of importance to communicate—”  Hum! what can it be?—(going).

Miss B. (aside).  Perhaps some match to propose for me!  (Aloud).  Mr. Bursal, pray before you go to her ladyship, do send my ooman to me to make me presentable.

(Exit Miss Bursal at one door.)

Mr. B. (at the opposite door).  “Business of importance!”  Hum! I’m glad I’m prepared with a good basin of soup.  There’s no doing business well upon an empty stomach.  Perhaps the business is to lend cash; and I’ve no great stomach for that.  But it will be an honour, to be sure.

(Exit.)

SCENE III.

Landlady’s Parlour.

Landlady—Mr. Finsbury, a man-milliner, with bandboxes—a fancy cap, or helmet, with feathers, in the Landlady’s hand—a satin bag, covered with gold netting, in the man-milliner’s hand—a mantle hanging over his arm.  A rough looking Farmer is sitting with his back towards them, eating bread and cheese, and reading a newspaper.

Landlady.  Well, this, to be sure, will be the best dressed Montem that ever was seen at Eton; and you Lon’on gentlemen have the most fashionablest notions; and this is the most elegantest fancy cap—

Finsbury.  Why, as you observe, ma’m, that is the most elegant fancy cap of them all.  That is Mr. Hector Hogmorton’s fancy cap, ma’m; and here, ma’m, is Mr. Saul’s rich satin bag, covered with gold net.  He is college salt bearer, I understand, and has a prodigious superb white and gold dress.  But, in my humble opinion, ma’m, the marshal’s white and purple and orange fancy dress, trimmed with silver, will bear the bell; though, indeed, I shouldn’t say that,—for the colonel’s and lieutenant’s, and ensign’s, are beautiful in the extreme.  And, to be sure, nothing could be better imagined than Mr. Marlborough’s lilac and silver, with a Roman cap.  And it must be allowed that nothing in nature can have a better effect than Mr. Drake’s flesh-colour and blue, with this Spanish hat, ma’m, you see.

(The farmer looks over his shoulder from time to time during this speech, with contempt.)

Farmer (reads the newspaper).  French fleet at sea—Hum!

Landlady.  O gemini: Mr. Drake’s Spanish hat is the sweetest, tastiest thing!  Mr. Finsbury, I protest—

Finsb.  Why, ma’m, I knew a lady of your taste couldn’t but approve of it.  My own invention entirely, ma’m.  But it’s nothing to the captain’s cap, ma’m.  Indeed, ma’m, Mr. Wheeler, the captain that is to be, has the prettiest taste in dress.  To be sure, his sandals were my suggestion; but the mantle he has the entire credit of, to do him justice; and when you see it, ma’m, you will be really surprised; for (for contrast, and elegance, and richness, and lightness, and propriety, and effect, and costume) you’ve never yet seen anything at all to be compared to Captain Wheeler’s mantle, ma’m.

Farmer (to the Landlady).  Why, now, pray, Mrs. Landlady, how long may it have been the fashion for milliners to go about in men’s clothes?

Landlady (aside to Farmer).  Lord, Mr. Hearty, hush!  This is Mr. Finsbury, the great man-milliner.

Farm.  The great man-milliner!  This is a sight I never thought to see in Old England.

Finsb. (packing up band boxes).  Well, ma’m, I’m glad I have your approbation.  It has ever been my study to please the ladies.

Farm. (throws a fancy mantle over his frieze coat).  And is this the way to please the ladies, Mrs. Landlady, nowadays?

Finsb. (taking off the mantle).  Sir, with your leave—I ask pardon—but the least thing detriments these tender colours; and as you have just been eating cheese with your hands—

Farm.  ’Tis my way to eat cheese with my mouth, man.

Finsb.  Man!

Farm.  I ask pardon—man-milliner, I mean.

Enter Landlord.

Landlord.  Why, wife!

Landlady.  Wife!

Landlord.  I ask pardon—Mrs. Newington, I mean.  Do you know who them ladies are that you have been and turned out of the Dolphin?

Landlady (alarmed).  Not I, indeed.  Who are they, pray?  Why, if they are quality it’s no fault of mine.  It is their own fault for coming, like scrubs, without four horses.  Why, if quality will travel the road this way, incognito, how can they expect to be known and treated as quality?  ’Tis no fault of mine.  Why didn’t you find out sooner who they were, Mr. Newington?  What else, in the ’versal world have you to do, but to go basking about in the yards and places with your tankard in your hand, from morning till night?  What have you else to ruminate, all day long, but to find out who’s who, I say?

Farm.  Clapper! clapper! clapper! like my mill in a high wind, landlord.  Clapper! clapper! clapper!—enough to stun a body.

Landlord.  That is not used to it; but use is all, they say.

Landlady.  Will you answer me, Mr. Newington?  Who are the grandees that were in the Dolphin?—and what’s become on them?

Landlord.  Grandees was your own word, wife.  They be not to call grandees; but I reckon you’d be sorry not to treat ’em civil, when I tell you their name is Talbot, mother and sister to our young Talbot, of Eton; he that paid me so handsome for the hunter this very morning.

Landlady.  Mercy! is that all?  What a combustion for nothing in life!

Finsb.  For nothing in life, as you say, ma’m; that is, nothing in high life, I’m sure, ma’m; nay, I dare a’most venture to swear.  Would you believe it, Mr. Talbot is one of the few young gentlemen of Eton that has not bespoke from me a fancy dress for this grand Montem?

Landlady.  There, Mr. Newington; there’s your Talbot for you! and there’s your grandees!  O trust me, I know your scrubs at first sight.

Landlord.  Scrubs, I don’t, nor can’t, nor won’t call them that pay their debts honestly.  Scrubs, I don’t, nor won’t, nor can’t, call them that behave as handsome as young Mr. Talbot did here to me this morning about the hunter.  A scrub he is not, wife.  Fancy-dress or no fancy-dress, Mr. Finsbury, this young gentleman is no scrub.

Finsb.  Dear me!  ’Twas not I said scrub.  Did I say scrub?

Farm.  No matter if you did.

Finsb.  No matter, certainly; and yet it is a matter; for I’m confident I wouldn’t for the world leave it in anyone’s power to say that I said—that I called—any young gentleman of Eton a scrub!  Why, you know, sir, it might breed a riot!

Farm.  And a pretty figure you’d make in a riot!

Landlady.  Pray let me hear nothing about riots in my house.

Farm.  Nor about scrubs.

Finsb.  But I beg leave to explain, gentlemen.  All I ventured to remark or suggest was, that as there was some talk of Mr. Talbot’s being captain to-morrow, I didn’t conceive how he could well appear without any dress.  That was all, upon my word and honour.  A good morning to you, gentlemen; it is time for me to be off.  Mrs. Newington, you were so obliging as to promise to accommodate me with a return chaise as far as Eton.

(Finsbury bows and exit.)

Farm.  A good day to you and your bandboxes.  There’s a fellow for you now!  Ha! ha! ha!—A man-milliner, forsooth!

Landlord.  Mrs. Talbot’s coming—stand back.

Landlady.  Lord! why does Bob show them through this way?

Enter Mrs. Talbot, leaning on Louisa; Waiter showing the way.

Landlady.  You are going on, I suppose, ma’am?

Waiter (aside to Landlord).  Not if she could help it; but there’s no beds, since Mr. Bursal and Miss Bursal’s come.

Landlord.  I say nothing, for it is vain to say more.  But isn’t it a pity she can’t stay for the Montem, poor old lady!  Her son—as good and fine a lad as ever you saw—they say, has a chance, too, of being captain.  She may never live to see another such a sight.

(As Mrs. Talbot walks slowly on, the Farmer puts himself across her way, so as to stop her short.)

Farm.  No offence, madam, I hope; but I have a good snug farm house, not far off hand; and if so be you’d be so good to take a night’s lodging, you and the young lady with you, you’d have a hearty welcome.  That’s all I can say and you’d make my wife very happy; for she’s a good woman, to say nothing of myself.

Landlord.  If I may be so bold to put in my word, madam, you’d have as good beds, and be as well lodged, with Farmer Hearty, as in e’er a house at Salt Hill.

Mrs. Talb.  I am very much obliged—

Farm.  O, say nothing o’ that, madam.  I am sure I shall be as much obliged if you do come.  Do, miss, speak for me.

Louisa.  Pray, dear mother—

Farm.  She will.  (Calls behind the scenes.)  Here, waiter! hostler! driver! what’s your name? drive the chaise up here to the door, smart, close.  Lean on my arm, madam, and we’ll have you in and home in a whiff.

(Exeunt Mrs. Talbot, Louisa, Farmer, Landlord and Waiter.)

Landlady (sola).  What a noise and a rout this farmer man makes! and my husband, with his great broad face, bowing, as great a nincompoop as t’other.  The folks are all bewitched with the old woman, I verily believe.  (Aloud.)  A good morning to you, ladies.

END OF THE FIRST ACT.

ACT THE SECOND.

SCENE I.

A field near Eton College;—several boys crossing backwards and forwards in the back-ground.  In front, Talbot, Wheeler, Lord John and Bursal.

Talbot.  Fair play, Wheeler!  Have at ’em, my boy!  There they stand, fair game!  There’s Bursal there, with his dead forty-five votes at command; and Lord John with his—how many live friends?

Lord John (coolly).  Sir, I have fifty-six friends, I believe.

Talb.  Fifty-six friends, his lordship believes—Wheeler inclusive, no doubt.

Lord J.  That’s as hereafter may be.

Wheeler.  Hereafter! Oh, fie, my lud!  You know your own Wheeler has, from the first minute he ever saw you, been your fast friend.

Talb.  Your fast friend from the first minute he ever saw you, my lord! That’s well hit, Wheeler; stick to that; stick fast.  Fifty-six friends, Wheeler inclusive, hey, my lord! hey, my lud!

Lord J.  Talbot exclusive, I find, contrary to my expectations.

Talb.  Ay, contrary to your expectations, you find that Talbot is not a dog that will lick the dust: but then there’s enough of the true spaniel breed to be had for whistling for; hey, Wheeler?

Bursal (aside to Wheeler).  A pretty electioneerer.  So much the better for you, Wheeler.  Why, unless he bought a vote, he’d never win one, if he talked from this to the day of judgment.

Wheeler (aside to Bursal).  And as he has no money to buy votes—he! he! he!—we are safe enough.

Talb.  That’s well done, Wheeler; fight the by-battle there with Bursal.  Now you are sure of the main with Lord John.

Lord J.  Sure! I never made Mr. Wheeler any promise yet.

Wheel.  O; I ask no promise from his lordship; we are upon honour: I trust entirely to his lordship’s good nature and generosity, and to his regard for his own family; I having the honour, though distantly, to be related.

Lord J.  Related!  How, Wheeler?

Wheel.  Connected, I mean, which is next door, as I may say, to being related.  Related slipped out by mistake; I beg pardon, my Lord John.

Lord J.  Related!—a strange mistake, Wheeler.

Talb.  Overshot yourself, Wheeler; overshot yourself, by all that’s awkward.  And yet, till now, I always took you for “a dead-shot at a yellow-hammer.” [151]

Wheel. (taking Bursal by the arm).  Bursal, a word with you.  (Aside to Bursal.)  What a lump of family pride that Lord John is.

Talb.  Keep out of my hearing, Wheeler, lest I should spoil sport.  But never fear: you’ll please Bursal sooner than I shall.  I can’t, for the soul of me, bring myself to say that Bursal’s not purse-proud, and you can.  Give you joy.

Burs.  A choice electioneerer!—ha! ha! ha!

Wheel. (faintly).  He! he! he!—a choice electioneerer, as you say.

(Exeunt Wheeler and Bursal; manent Lord J. and Talbot.)

Lord J.  There was a time, Talbot—

Talb.  There was a time, my lord—to save trouble and a long explanation—there was a time when you liked Talbots better than spaniels; you understand me?

Lord J.  I have found it very difficult to understand you of late, Mr. Talbot.

Talb.  Yes, because you have used other people’s understandings instead of your own.  Be yourself, my lord.  See with your own eyes, and hear with your own ears, and then you’ll find me still, what I’ve been these seven years; not your understrapper, your hanger-on, your flatterer, but your friend!  If you choose to have me for a friend, here’s my hand.  I am your friend, and you’ll not find a better.

Lord J. (giving his hand).  You are a strange fellow, Talbot; I thought I never could have forgiven you for what you said last night.

Talb.  What? for I don’t keep a register of my sayings.  Oh, it was something about gaming—Wheeler was flattering your taste for it, and he put me into a passion—I forget what I said.  But, whatever it was, I’m sure it was well meant, and I believe it was well said.

Lord J.  But you laugh at me sometimes to my face.

Talb.  Would you rather I should laugh at you behind your back?

Lord J.  But of all things in the world I hate to be laughed at.  Listen to me, and don’t fumble in your pockets while I’m talking to you.

Talb.  I’m fumbling for—oh, here it is.  Now, Lord John, I once did laugh at you behind your back, and what’s droll enough, it was at your back I laughed.  Here’s a caricature I drew of you—I really am sorry I did it; but ’tis best to show it to you myself.

Lord J. (aside).  It is all I can do to forgive this.  (After a pause, he tears the paper.)  I have heard of this caricature before; but I did not expect, Talbot, that you would come and show it to me, yourself, Talbot, so handsomely, especially at such a time as this.  Wheeler might well say you are a bad electioneerer.

Talb.  Oh, hang it!  I forgot my election, and your fifty-six friends.

Enter Rory O’Ryan.

Rory (claps Talbot on the back).  Fifty-six friends, have you, Talbot?  Say seven—fifty-seven, I mean; for I’ll lay you a wager, you’ve forget me; and that’s a shame for you, too; for out of the whole posse-comitatus entirely now, you have not a stauncher friend than Poor little Rory O’Ryan.  And a good right he has to befriend you; for you stood by him when many who ought to have known better were hunting him down for a wild Irishman.  Now that same wild Irishman has as much gratitude in him as any tame Englishman of them all.  But don’t let’s be talking sintimint; for, for my share I’d not give a bogberry a bushel for sintimint, when I could get anything better.

Lord J.  And pray, sir, what may a bogberry be?

Rory.  Phoo! don’t be playing the innocent, now.  Where have you lived all your life (I ask pardon, my lard) not to know a bogberry when you see or hear of it?  (Turns to Talbot.)  But what are ye standing idling here for?  Sure, there’s Wheeler, and Bursal along with him, canvassing out yonder at a terrible fine rate.  And haven’t I been huzzaing for you there till I’m hoarse?  So I am, and just stepped away to suck an orange for my voice—(sucks an orange.)  I am a thorough going friend, at anyrate.

Talb.  Now, Rory, you are the best fellow in the world, and a thorough going friend; but have a care, or you’ll get yourself and me into some scrape, before you have done with this violent thorough going work.

Rory.  Never fear! never fear, man!—a warm frind and a bitter enemy, that’s my maxim.

Talb.  Yes, but too warm a friend is as bad as a bitter enemy.

Rory.  Oh, never fear me!  I’m as cool as a cucumber all the time; and whilst they tink I’m tinking of nothing in life but making a noise, I make my own snug little remarks in prose and verse, as—now my voice is after coming back to me, you shall hear, if you plase.

Talb.  I do please.

Rory.  I call it Rory’s song.  Now, mind, I have a verse for everybody—o’ the leading lads, I mean; and I shall put ’em in or lave ’em out, according to their inclinations and deserts, wise-a-wee to you, my little frind.  So you comprehend it will be Rory’s song, with variations.

Talbot and Lord John.  Let’s have it; let’s have it without further preface.

Rory sings.

“I’m true game to the last, and no Wheeler for me.”

Rory.  There’s a stroke, in the first place, for Wheeler,—you take it?

Talb.  O yes, yes, we take it; go on.

Rory sings.

“I’m true game to the last, and no Wheeler for me.
Of all birds, beasts, or fishes, that swim in the sea,
Webb’d or finn’d, black or white, man or child, Whig or Tory,
None but Talbot, O, Talbot’s the dog for Rory.”

Talb.  “Talbot the dog” is much obliged to you.

Lord J.  But if I have any ear, one of your lines is a foot too long, Mr. O’Ryan.

Rory.  Phoo, put the best foot foremost for a frind.  Slur it in the singing, and don’t be quarrelling, anyhow, for a foot more or less.  The more feet the better it will stand, you know.  Only let me go on, and you’ll come to something that will plase you.

Rory sings.

“Then there’s he with the purse that’s as long as my arm.”

Rory.  That’s Bursal, mind now, whom I mean to allude to in this verse.

Lord J.  If the allusion’s good, we shall probably find out your meaning.

Talb.  On with you, Rory, and don’t read us notes on a song.

Lord J.  Go on, and let us hear what you say of Bursal.

Rory sings.

“Then there’s he with the purse that’s as long as my arm;
His father’s a tanner,—but then where’s the harm?
Heir to houses, and hunters, and horseponds in fee,
Won’t his skins sure soon buy him a pedigree?”

Lord J.  Encore! encore!  Why, Rory, I did not think you could make so good a song.

Rory.  Sure ’twas none of I made it—’twas Talbot here.

Talb.  I!

Rory (aside).  Not a word: I’ll make you a present of it: sure, then, it’s your own.

Talb.  I never wrote a word of it.

Rory (to Lord J.).  Phoo, Phoo! he’s only denying it out of false modesty.

Lord. J.  Well, no matter who wrote it,—sing it again.

Rory.  Be easy; so I will, and as many more verses as you will to the back of it.  (Winking at Talbot aside.)  You shall have the credit of all.  (Aloud.)  Put me in when I’m out, Talbot, and you (to Lord John) join—join.

Rory sings, and Lord John sings with him.

“Then there’s he with the purse that’s as long as my arm;
His father’s a tanner,—but then where’s the harm?
Heir to houses, and hunters, and horseponds in fee,
Won’t his skins sure soon buy him a pedigree?
There’s my lord with the back that never was bent—”

(Lord John stops singing; Talbot makes signs to Rory to stop; but Rory does not see him, and sings on.)

“There’s my lord with the back that never was bent;
Let him live with his ancestors, I am content.”

(Rory pushes Lord J. and Talbot with his elbows.)

Rory.  Join, join, both of ye—why don’t you join?  (Sings.)

“Who’ll buy my Lord John? the arch fishwoman cried,
A nice oyster shut up in a choice shell of pride.”

Rory.  But join or ye spoil all.

Talb.  You have spoiled all, indeed.

Lord J. (making a formal low bow).  Mr. Talbot, Lord John thanks you.

Rory.  Lord John! blood and thunder!  I forgot you were by—quite and clean.

Lord J. (puts him aside and continues speaking to Talbot).  Lord John thanks you, Mr. Talbot: this is the second part of the caricature.  Lord John thanks you for these proofs of friendship—Lord John has reason to thank you, Mr. Talbot.

Rory.  No reason in life now.  Don’t be thanking so much for nothing in life; or if you must be thanking of somebody, it’s me you ought to thank.

Lord J.  I ought and do, sir, for unmasking one who—

Talb. (warmly).  Unmasking, my lord—

Rory (holding them asunder).  Phoo! phoo! phoo! be easy, can’t ye?—there’s no unmasking at all in the case.  My Lord John, Talbot’s writing the song was all a mistake.

Lord J.  As much a mistake as your singing it, sir, I presume—

Rory.  Just as much.  ’Twas all a mistake.  So now don’t you go and make a mistake into a misunderstanding.  It was I made every word of the song out o’ the face [155]—that about the back that never was bent, and the ancestors of the oyster, and all.  He did not waste a word of it; upon my conscience, I wrote it all—though I’ll engage you didn’t think I could write a good thing.  (Lord John turns away.)  I’m telling you the truth, and not a word of a lie, and yet you won’t believe me.

Lord J.  You will excuse me, sir, if I cannot believe two contradictory assertions within two minutes.  Mr. Talbot, I thank you (going).

(Rory tries to stop Lord John from going, but cannot.—Exit Lord John.)

Rory.  Well, if he will go, let him go then, and much good may it do him.  Nay, but don’t you go too.

Talb.  O Rory, what have you done?—(Talbot runs after Lord J.)  Hear me, my lord.

(Exit Talbot.)

Rory.  Hear him! hear him! hear him!—Well, I’m point blank mad with myself for making this blunder; but how could I help it?  As sure as ever I am meaning to do the best thing on earth, it turns out the worst.

Enter a party of lads, huzzaing.

Rory (joins.)  Huzza! huzza!—Who, pray, are ye huzzaing for?

1st Boy.  Wheeler! Wheeler for ever! huzza!

Rory.  Talbot! Talbot for ever! huzza!  Captain Talbot for ever! huzza!

2nd Boy.  Captain he’ll never be,—at least not to-morrow; for Lord John has just declared for Wheeler.

1st Boy.  And that turns the scale.

Rory.  Oh, the scale may turn back again.

3rd Boy.  Impossible!  Lord John has just given his promise to Wheeler.  I heard him with my own ears.

(Several speak at once.)  And I heard him; and I! and I! and I!—Huzza!  Wheeler for ever!

Rory.  Oh, murder! murder! murder!  (Aside.)  This goes to my heart! it’s all my doing.  O, my poor Talbot!—murder! murder! murder!  But I won’t let them see me cast down, and it is good to be huzzaing at all events.  Huzza for Talbot!  Talbot for ever! huzza!

(Exit.)

Enter Wheeler and Bursal.

Wheel.  Who was that huzzaing for Talbot?

(Rory behind the scenes, “Huzza for Talbot! Talbot for ever! huzza!”)

Burs.  Pooh, it is only Rory O’Ryan, or the roaring lion as I call him.  Ha! ha! ha!  Rory O’Ryan, alias O’Ryan, the roaring lion; that’s a good one; put it about—Rory O’Ryan, the roaring lion, ha! ha! ha! but you don’t take it—you don’t laugh, Wheeler.

Wheeler.  Ha! ha! ha!  O, upon my honour I do laugh; ha! ha! ha!  (Aside).  It is the hardest work to laugh at his wit.  (Aloud.)  Rory O’Ryan, the roaring lion—ha! ha! ha!  You know I always laugh, Bursal, at your jokes—he! he! he!—ready to kill myself.

Burs. (sullenly).  You are easily killed, then, if that much laughing will do the business.

Wheel. (coughing).  Just then—something stuck in my throat; I beg your pardon.

Burs. (still sullen).  Oh, you need not beg my pardon about the matter.  I don’t care whether you laugh or no—not I.  Now you have got Lord John to declare for you, you are above laughing at my jokes, I suppose.

Wheel.  No, upon my word and honour, I did laugh.

Burs. (aside).  A fig for your word and honour.  (Aloud.)  I know I’m of no consequence now; but you’ll remember, that if his lordship has the honour of making you captain, he must have the honour to pay for your captain’s accoutrements; for I sha’n’t pay the piper, I promise you, since I’m of no consequence.

Wheel.  Of no consequence!  But, my dear Bursal, what could put that into your head? that’s the strangest, oddest fancy.  Of no consequence! Bursal, of no consequence!  Why, everybody that knows anything—everybody that has seen Bursal House—knows that you are of the greatest consequence, my dear Bursal.

Burs. (taking out his watch, and opening it, looks at it).  No, I’m of no consequence.  I wonder that rascal Finsbury is not come yet with the dresses (still looking at his watch).

Wheel. (aside).  If Bursal takes it into his head not to lend me the money to pay for my captain’s dress, what will become of me? for I have not a shilling—and Lord John won’t pay for me—and Finsbury has orders not to leave the house till he is paid by everybody.  What will become of me?—(bites his nails).

Burs. (aside).  How I love to make him bite his nails!  (Aloud.)  I know I’m of no consequence.  (Strikes his repeater.)

Wheel.  What a fine repeater that is of yours, Bursal!  It is the best I ever heard.

Burs.  So it well may be; for it cost a mint of money.

Wheel.  No matter to you what anything costs.  Happy dog as you are!  You roll in money; and yet you talk of being of no consequence.

Burs.  But I am not of half so much consequence as Lord John—am I?

Wheel.  Are you?  Why, aren’t you twice as rich as he!

Burs.  Very true, but I’m not purse-proud.

Wheel.  You purse-proud!  I should never have thought of such a thing.

Burs.  Nor I, if Talbot had not used the word.

Wheel.  But Talbot thinks everybody purse-proud that has a purse.

Burs. (aside).  Well, this Wheeler does put one into a good humour with one’s self in spite of one’s teeth.  (Aloud.)  Talbot says blunt things; but I don’t think he’s what you can call clever—hey, Wheeler?

Wheel.  Clever?  Oh, not he.

Burs.  I think I could walk round him.

Wheel.  To be sure you could.  Why, do you know, I’ve quizzed him famously myself within this quarter of an hour!

Burs.  Indeed! I wish I had been by.

Wheel.  So do I, ’faith!  It was the best thing.  I wanted, you see, to get him out of my way, that I might have the field clear for electioneering to-day.  So I bowls up to him with a long face—such a face as this.  Mr. Talbot, do you know—I’m sorry to tell you, here’s Jack Smith has just brought the news from Salt Hill.  Your mother, in getting into the carriage, slipped, and has broke her leg, and there she’s lying at a farmhouse, two miles off.  Is not it true, Jack? said I.  I saw the farmer helping her in with my own eyes, cries Jack.  Off goes Talbot like an arrow.  Quizzed him, quizzed him! said I.

Burs.  Ha! ha! ha! quizzed him indeed, with all his cleverness; that was famously done.

Wheel.  Ha! ha! ha!  With all his cleverness he will be all the evening hunting for the farmhouse and the mother that has broke her leg; so he is out of our way.

Burs.  But what need have you to want him out of your way, now Lord John has come over to your side?  You have the thing at a dead beat.

Wheel.  Not so dead either; for there’s a great independent party, you know; and if you don’t help me, Bursal, to canvass them, I shall be no captain.  It is you I depend upon after all.  Will you come and canvass them with me?  Dear Bursal, pray—all depends upon you.

(Pulls him by the arm—Bursal follows.)

Burs.  Well, if all depends upon me, I’ll see what I can do for you.  (Aside.)  Then I am of some consequence!  Money makes a man of some consequence, I see; at least with some folks.

SCENE II.

In the back scene a flock of sheep are seen penned.  In front, a party of country lads and lasses, gaily dressed, as in sheep-shearing time, with ribands and garlands of flowers, etc., are dancing and singing.

* * * * *

Enter Patty, dressed as the Queen of the Festival, with a lamb in her arms.  The dancers break off when she comes in, and direct their attention towards her.

1st Peasant.  Oh, here comes Patty!  Here comes the Queen o’ the day.  What has kept you from us so long, Patty?

2nd Peasant.  “Please your Majesty,” you should say.

Patty.  This poor little lamb of mine was what kept me so long.  It strayed away from the rest; and I should have lost him, so I should, for ever, if it had not been for a good young gentleman.  Yonder he is, talking to Farmer Hearty.  That’s the young gentleman who pulled my lamb out of the ditch for me, into which he had fallen—pretty creature!

1st Peasant.  Pretty creature—or, your Majesty, whichever you choose to be called—come and dance with them, and I’ll carry your lamb.

(Exeunt, singing and dancing.)

Enter Farmer Hearty and Talbot.

Farmer.  Why, young gentleman, I’m glad I happened to light upon you here, and so to hinder you from going farther astray, and set your heart at ease like.

Talb.  Thanks, good farmer, you have set my heart at ease, indeed.  But the truth is, they did frighten me confoundedly—more fool I.

Farm.  No fool at all, to my notion.  I should, at your age, ay, or at my age, just the self-same way have been frightened myself, if so be that mention had been made to me, that way, of my own mother’s having broke her leg or so.  And greater, by a great deal, the shame for them that frighted you, than for you to be frighted.  How young gentlemen, now, can bring themselves for to tell such lies, is to me, now, a matter of amazement, like, that I can’t noways get over.

Talb.  Oh, farmer, such lies are very witty, though you and I don’t just now like the wit of them.  This is fun, this is quizzing; but you don’t know what we young gentlemen mean by quizzing.

Farm.  Ay, but I do though, to my cost, ever since last year.  Look you, now, at yon fine field of wheat.  Well, it was just as fine, and finer, last year, till a young Eton jackanapes—

Talb.  Take care what you say, farmer; for I am a young Eton jackanapes.

Farm.  No; but you be not the young Eton jackanapes that I’m a-thinking on.  I tell you it was this time last year, man; he was a-horseback, I tell ye, mounted upon a fine bay hunter, out a-hunting, like.

Talb.  I tell you it was this time last year, man, that I was mounted upon a fine bay hunter, out a-hunting.

Farm.  Zooks! would you argufy a man out of his wits?  You won’t go for to tell me that you are that impertinent little jackanapes!

Talb.  No! no!  I’ll not tell you that I am an impertinent little jackanapes!

Farm. (wiping his forehead).  Well, don’t then, for I can’t believe it; and you put me out.  Where was I?

Talb.  Mounted upon a fine bay hunter.

Farm.  Ay, so he was.  “Here, you,” says he, meaning me—“open this gate for me.”  Now, if he had but a-spoke me fair, I would not have gainsaid him: but he falls to swearing, so I bid him open the gate for himself.  “There’s a bull behind you, farmer,” says he.  I turns.  “Quizzed him!” cries my jackanapes, and off he gallops him, through the very thick of my corn; but he got a fall, leaping the ditch out yonder, which pacified me, like, at the minute.  So I goes up to see whether he was killed; but he was not a whit the worse for his tumble.  So I should ha’ fell into a passion with him then, to be sure, about my corn; but his horse had got such a terrible sprain, I couldn’t say anything to him; for I was a-pitying the poor animal.  As fine a hunter as ever you saw!  I am sartain sure he could never come to good after.