SCENE I.

A Library in the House of SIR SIMON ROCHDALE; Books
scattered on a Writing Table.

Enter TOM SHUFFLETON.

Shuff. No body up yet? I thought so.

Enter SERVANT.

Ah, John, is it you? How d’ye do, John?

John. Thank your honour, I

Shuff. Yes, you look so. Sir Simon Rochdale in bed? Mr. Rochdale not risen? Well! no matter; I have travelled all night, though, to be with them. How are they?

John. Sir, they are both

Shuff. I’m glad to hear it. Pay the postboy for me.

John. Yes, sir. I beg pardon, sir; but when your honour last left us

Shuff. Owed you three pound five. I remember: have you down in my memorandums Honourable Tom Shuffleton debtor to What’s your name?

John. My christian name, sir, is

Shuff. Muggins I recollect. Pay the postboy, Muggins. And, harkye, take particular care of the chaise: I borrowed it of my friend, Bobby Fungus, who sprang up a peer, in the last bundle of Barons: if a single knob is knocked out of his new coronets, he’ll make me a sharper speech than ever he’ll produce in parliament. And, John!

John. Sir!

Shuff. What was I going to say?

John. Indeed, sir, I can’t tell.

Shuff. No more can I. ’Tis the fashion to be absent that’s the way I forgot your little bill. There, run along. [Exit JOHN.] I’ve the whirl of Bobby’s chaise in my head still. Cursed fatiguing, posting all night, through Cornish roads, to obey the summons of friendship! Convenient, in some respects, for all that. If all loungers, of slender revenues, like mine, could command a constant succession of invitations, from men of estates in the country, how amazingly it would tend to the thinning of Bond Street! [Throws himself into a Chair near the Writing Table.] Let me see what has Sir Simon been reading? “Burn’s Justice” true; the old man’s reckoned the ablest magistrate in the county. he hasn’t cut open the leaves, I see. “Chesterfield’s Letters” pooh! his system of education is extinct: Belcher and the Butcher have superseded it. “Clarendon’s History of .”

Enter SIR SIMON ROCHDALE.

Sir Simon. Ah, my dear Tom Shuffleton!

Shuff. Baronet! how are you?

Sir Simon. Such expedition is kind now! You got my letter at Bath, and

Shuff. Saw it was pressing: here I am. Cut all my engagements for you, and came off like a shot.

Sir Simon. Thank you: thank you, heartily!

Shuff. Left every thing at sixes and sevens.

Sir Simon. Gad, I’m sorry if

Shuff. Don’t apologize; nobody does, now. Left all my bills, in the place, unpaid.

Sir Simon. Bless me! I’ve made it monstrous inconvenient!

Shuff. Not a bit I give you my honour, I did’nt find it inconvenient at all. How is Frank Rochdale?

Sir Simon. Why, my son is’nt up yet; and before he’s stirring, do let me talk to you, my dear Tom Shuffleton! I have something near my heart, that

Shuff. Don’t talk about your heart, Baronet; feeling’s quite out of fashion.

Sir Simon. Well, then, I’m interested in

Shuff. Aye, stick to that. We make a joke of the heart, now-a-days; but when a man mentions his interest, we know he’s in earnest.

Sir Simon. Zounds! I am in earnest. Let me speak, and call my motives what you will.

Shuff. Speak but don’t be in a passion. We are always cool at the clubs: the constant habit of ruining one another, teaches us temper. Explain.

Sir Simon. Well, I will. You know, my dear Tom, how much I admire your proficiency in the New school of breeding; you are, what I call, one of the highest finished fellows of the present day.

Shuff. Psha! Baronet; you flatter.

Sir Simon. No, I don’t; only in extolling the merits of the newest fashion’d manners and morals, I am sometimes puzzled, by the plain gentlemen, who listen to me, here in the country, most consumedly.

Shuff. I don’t doubt it.

Sir Simon. Why, ’twas but t’other morning, I was haranguing old Sir Noah Starchington, in my library, and explaining to him the shining qualities of a dasher, of the year eighteen hundred and three; and what do you think he did?

Shuff. Fell asleep.

Sir Simon. No; he pull’d down an English dictionary; when (if you’ll believe me! he found my definition of stylish living, under the word “insolvency;” a fighting crop turn’d out a “dock’d bull dog;” and modern gallantry, “adultery and seduction.”

Shuff. Noah Starchington is a damn’d old twaddler. But the fact is, Baronet, we improve. We have voted many qualities to be virtues, now, that they never thought of calling virtues formerly. The rising generation wants a new dictionary, damnably.

Sir Simon. Deplorably, indeed! You can’t think, my dear Tom, what a scurvy figure you, and the dashing fellows of your kidney, make in the old ones. But you have great influence over my son Frank; and want you to exert it. You are his intimate you come here, and pass two or three months at a time, you know.

Shuff. Yes this is a pleasant house.

Sir Simon. You ride his horses, as if they were your own.

Shuff. Yes he keeps a good stable.

Sir Simon. You drink our claret with him, till his head aches.

Shuff. Your’s is famous claret, Baronet.

Sir Simon. You worm out his secrets: you win his money; you . In short, you are

Shuff. His friend, according to the next new dictionary. That’s what you mean, Sir Simon.

Sir Simon. Exactly. But, let me explain. Frank, if he doesn’t play the fool, and spoil all, is going to be married.

Shuff. To how much?

Sir Simon. Damn it, now, how like a modern man of the world that is! Formerly they would have asked to who.

Shuff. We never do, now; fortune’s every thing. We say, “a good match,” at the west end of the town, as they say “a good man,” in the city; the phrase refers merely to money. Is she rich?

Sir Simon. Four thousand a-year.

Shuff. What a devilish desirable woman! Frank’s a happy dog!

Sir Simon. He’s a miserable puppy. He has no more notion, my dear Tom, of a modern “good match,” than Eve had of pin money.

Shuff. What are his objections to it?

Sir Simon. I have smoked him; but he doesn’t know that; a silly, sly amour, in another quarter.

Shuff. An amour! That’s a very unfashionable reason for declining matrimony.

Sir Simon. You know his romantic flights. The blockhead, I believe, is so attach’d, I shou’dn’t wonder if he flew off at a tangent, and married the girl that has bewitch’d him.

Shuff. Who is she?

Sir Simon. She hem! she lives with her father, in Penzance.

Shuff. And who is he?

Sir Simon. He upon my soul I’m asham’d to tell you.

Shuff. Don’t be asham’d; we never blush at any thing, in the New School.

Sir Simon. Damn me, my dear Tom, if he isn’t a brazier!

Shuff. The devil!

Sir Simon. A dealer in kitchen candlesticks, coal skuttles, coppers, and cauldrons.

Shuff. And is the girl pretty?

Sir Simon. So they tell me; a plump little devil, as round as a tea kettle.

Shuff. I’ll be after the brazier’s daughter, to-morrow.

Sir Simon. But you have weight with him. Talk to him, my dear Tom reason with him; try your power, Tom, do!

Shuff. I don’t much like plotting with the father against the son that’s reversing the New School, Baronet.

Sir Simon. But it will serve Frank: it will serve me, who wish to serve you. And to prove that I do wish it, I have been keeping something in embryo for you, my dear Tom Shuffleton, against your arrival.

Shuff. For me?

Sir Simon. When you were last leaving us, if you recollect, you mention’d, in a kind of a way, a a sort of an intention of a loan, of an odd five hundred pounds.

Shuff. Did I? I believe I might. When I intend to raise money, I always give my friends the preference.

Sir Simon. I told you I was out of cash then, I remember.

Shuff. Yes: that’s just what I told you, I remember.

Sir Simon. I have the sum floating by me, now, and much at your service. [Presenting it.

Shuff. Why, as it’s lying idle, Baronet, I I don’t much care if I employ it. [Taking it.

Sir Simon. Use your interest with Frank, now.

Shuff. Rely on me. Shall I give you my note?

Sir Simon. No, my dear Tom, that’s an unnecessary trouble.

Shuff. Why that’s true with one who knows me so well as you.

Sir Simon. Your verbal promise to pay, is quite as good.

Shuff. I’ll see if Frank’s stirring. [Going.

Sir Simon. And I must talk to my steward. [Going.

Shuff. Baronet!

Sir Simon. [Returning.] Eh?

Shuff. Pray, do you employ the phrase, “verbal promise to pay,” according to the reading of old dictionaries, or as it’s the fashion to use it at present.

Sir Simon. Oh, damn it, chuse your own reading, and I’m content.
[Exeunt severally.

SCENE II.

A Dressing Room.

FRANK ROCHDALE writing; WILLIAMS attending.

Frank. [Throwing down the Pen.] It don’t signify I cannot write. I blot, and tear; and tear, and blot; and . Come here, Williams. Do let me hear you, once more. Why the devil don’t you come here?

Williams. I am here, sir.

Frank. Well, well; my good fellow, tell me. You found means to deliver her the letter yesterday?

Williams. Yes, sir.

Frank. And, she read it and did you say, she she was very much affected, when she read it?

Williams. I told you last night, sir; she look’d quite death struck, as I may say.

Frank. [Much affected.] Did did she weep, Williams?

Williams. No, sir; but I did afterwards I don’t know what ail’d me; but, when I got out of the house, into the street, I’ll be hang’d if I did’nt cry like a child.

Frank. You are an honest fellow, Williams. [A Knock at the Door of the Room.] See who is at the door. [WILLIAMS opens the Door.

Enter JOHN.

Williams. Well, what’s the matter?

John. There’s a man in the porter’s lodge, says he won’t go away without speaking to Mr. Francis.

Frank. See who it is, Williams. Send him to me, if necessary; but don’t let me be teased, without occasion.

Williams. I’ll take care, sir. [Exeunt WILLIAMS and JOHN.

Frank. Must I marry this woman, whom my father has chosen for me; whom I expect here to-morrow? And must I, then, be told ’tis criminal to love my poor, deserted Mary, because our hearts are illicitly attach’d? Illicit for the heart? fine phraseology! Nature disowns the restriction; I cannot smother her dictates with the polity of governments, and fall in, or out of love, as the law directs.

Enter DENNIS BRULGRUDDERY.

Well, friend, who do you come from?

Dennis. I come from the Red Cow, sir.

Frank. The Red Cow?

Dennis. Yes, sir! upon Muckslush Heath hard by your honour’s father’s house, here. I’d be proud of your custom, sir, and all the good looking family’s.

Frank. [Impatiently.] Well, well, your business?

Dennis. That’s what the porter ax’d me, “Tell me your business, honest man,” says he “I’ll see you damn’d first, sir,” says I: “I’ll tell it your betters; and that’s Mr. Francis Rochdale, Esquire.”

Frank. Zounds! then, why don’t you tell it? I am Mr. Francis Rochdale. Who the devil sent you here?

Dennis. Troth, sir, it was good nature whisper’d me to come to your honour: but I believe I’ve disremembered her directions, for damn the bit do you seem acquainted with her.

Frank. Well, my good friend, I don’t mean to be violent; only be so good as to explain your business.

Dennis. Oh, with all the pleasure in life. Give me good words, and I’m as aisy as an ould glove: but bite my nose off with mustard, and have at you with pepper, that’s my way. There’s a little crature at my house; she’s crying her eyes out; and she won’t get such another pair at the Red Cow; for I’ve left nobody with her but Mrs. Brulgruddery.

Frank. With her? with who? Who are you talking off?

Dennis. I’d like to know her name myself, sir; but I have heard but half of it; and that’s Mary.

Frank. Mary! Can it be she? Wandering on a heath! seeking refuge in a wretched hovel!

Dennis. A hovel! O fie for shame of yourself, to misbecall a genteel tavern! I’d have you to know my parlour is clean sanded once a week.

Frank. Tell me, directly what brought her to your house?

Dennis. By my soul, it was Adam’s own carriage: a ten-toed machine the haymakers keep in Ireland.

Frank. Damn it, fellow, don’t trifle, but tell your story; and, if you can, intelligibly.

Dennis. Don’t be bothering my brains, then, or you’ll get it as clear as mud. Sure the young crature can’t fly away from the Red Cow, while I’m explaining to you the rights on’t Didn’t she promise the gentleman to stay till he came back?

Frank. Promised a gentleman! Who? who is the gentleman?

Dennis. Arrah, now, where did you larn manners? Would you ax a customer his birth, parentage, and education? “Heaven bless you, sir, you’ll come back again?” says she “That’s what I will, before you can say, parsnips, my darling,” says he.

Frank. Damnation! what does this mean? explain your errand, clearly, you scoundrel, or

Dennis. Scoundrel! Don’t be after affronting a housekeeper. Havn’t I a sign at my door, three pigs, a wife, and a man sarvant?

Frank. Well, go on.

Dennis. Damn the word more will I tell you.

Frank. Why, you infernal

Dennis. Oh, be asy! see what you get, now, by affronting Mr. Dennis Brulgruddery. [Searching his Pockets.] I’d have talk’d for an hour, if you had kept a civil tongue in your head! but now, you may read the letter. [Giving it.

Frank. A letter! stupid booby! why didn’t you give it to me at first? Yes, it is her hand. [Opens the Letter.

Dennis. Stupid! If you’re so fond of letters, you might larn to behave yourself to the postman.

Frank. [Reading and agitated.] Not going to upbraid you Couldn’t rest at my father’s Trifling assistance Oh, Heaven! does she then want assistance? The gentleman who has befriended me damnation! the gentleman! Your unhappy Mary. Scoundrel that I am! what is she suffering! but who, who is this gentleman? no matter she is distress’d, heart breaking! and I, who have been the cause; I, who here [Running to a Writing Table, and opening a Drawer] Run fly despatch!

Dennis. He’s mad!

Frank. Say, I will be at your house, myself remember, positively come, or send, in the course of the day. In the mean time, take this, and give it to the person who sent you.

Giving a Purse, which he has taken from the Drawer.

Dennis. A purse! ’faith, and I’ll take it. Do you know how much is in the inside?

Frank. Psha! no. No matter.

Dennis. Troth, now, if I’d trusted a great big purse to a stranger, they’d have call’d it a bit of a bull: but let you and I count it out between us, [Pouring the Money on the Table.] for, damn him, say I, who would cheat a poor girl in distress, of the value of a rap. One, two, three, &c. [Counting.

Frank. Worthy, honest fellow!

Dennis. Eleven, twelve, thirteen

Frank. I’ll be the making of your house, my good fellow.

Dennis. Damn the Red Cow, sir, you put me out. Seventeen, eighteen, nineteen. Nineteen fat yellow boys, and a seven shilling piece. Tell them yourself, sir; then chalk them up over the chimney-piece, else you’ll forget, you know.

Frank. O, friend, when honesty, so palpably natural as yours, keeps the account, I care not for my arithmetic. Fly now, bid the servants give you any refreshment you chuse; then hasten to execute your commission.

Dennis. Thank your honour! good luck to you! I’ll taste the beer; but, by my soul, if the butler comes the Red Cow over me, I’ll tell him, I know sweet from sour. Exit DENNIS.

Frank. Let me read her letter once more. [Reads.

I am not going to upbraid you; but after I got your letter, I could not rest at my father’s, where I once knew happiness and innocence. I wish’d to have taken a last leave of you, and to beg a trifling assistance; but the gentleman who has befriended me in my wanderings, would not suffer me to do so; yet I could not help writing, to tell you, I am quitting this neighbourhood for ever! That you may never know a moment’s sorrow, will always be the prayer of
Your unhappy
MARY.

My mind is hell to me! love, sorrow, remorse, and yes and jealousy, all distract me: and no counsellor to advise with; no friend to whom I may

Enter TOM SHUFFLETON.

Frank. Tom Shuffleton! you never arrived more apropos in your life.

Shuff. That’s what the women always say to me. I’ve rumbled on the road, all night, Frank. My bones ache, my head’s muzzy and we’ll drink two bottles of claret a-piece, after dinner, to enliven us.

Frank. You seem in spirits, Tom, I think, now.

Shuff. Yes; I have had a windfall Five hundred pounds.

Frank. A legacy?

Shuff. No. The patient survives who was sick of his money. ’Tis a loan from a friend.

Frank. ’Twould be a pity, then, Tom, if the patient experienced improper treatment.

Shuff. Why, that’s true: but his case is so rare, that it isn’t well understood, I believe. Curse me, my dear Frank, if the disease of lending is epidemic.

Frank. But the disease of trying to borrow, my dear Tom, I am afraid, is.

Shuff. Very prevalent, indeed, at the west end of the town.

Frank. And as dangerous, Tom, as the small-pox. They should inoculate for it.

Shuff. That wouldn’t be a bad scheme; but I took it naturally. Psha! damn it, don’t shake your head. Mine’s but a mere façon de parler: just as we talk to one another about our coats: we never say, “Who’s your tailor?” We always ask, “Who suffers?” Your father tells me you are going to be married; I give you joy.

Frank. Joy! I have known nothing but torment, and misery, since this cursed marriage has been in agitation.

Shuff. Umph! Marriage was a weighty affair, formerly; so was a family coach; but domestic duties, now, are like town chariots; they must be made light, to be fashionable.

Frank. Oh, do not trifle. By acceding to this match, in obedience to my father, I leave to all the pangs of remorse, and disappointed love, a helpless, humble girl, and rend the fibres of a generous, but too credulous heart, by cancelling like a villain, the oaths with which I won it.

Shuff. I understand: A snug thing in the country. Your wife, they tell me, will have four thousand a year.

Frank. What has that to do with sentiment?

Shuff. I don’t know what you may think; but, if a man said to me, plump, “Sir, I am very fond of four thousand a year;” I should say, “Sir, I applaud your sentiment very highly.”

Frank. But how does he act, who offers his hand to one woman, at the very moment his heart is engaged to another?

Shuff. He offers a great sacrifice.

Frank. And where is the reparation to the unfortunate he has deserted?

Shuff. An annuity. A great many unfortunates sport a stylish carriage, up and down St. James’s street, upon such a provision.

Frank. An annuity, flowing from the fortune, I suppose, of the woman I marry! is that delicate?

Shuff. ’Tis convenient. We liquidate debts of play, and usury, from the same resources.

Frank. And call a crowd of jews and gentlemen gamesters together, to be settled with, during the debtor’s honeymoon!

Shuff. No, damn it, it wouldn’t be fair to jumble the jews into the same room with our gaming acquaintance.

Frank. Why so?

Shuff. Because, twenty to one, the first half of the creditors would begin dunning the other.

Frank. Nay, far once in your life be serious. Read this, which has wrung my heart, and repose it, as a secret, in your own.
[Giving the Letter.

Shuff. [Glancing over it.] A pretty, little, crowquill kind of a hand. "Happiness, innocence, trifling assistance gentleman befriended me unhappy Mary." Yes, I see [Returning it.] She wants money, but has got a new friend. The style’s neat, but the subject isn’t original.

Frank. Will you serve me at this crisis?

Shuff. Certainly.

Frank. I wish you to see my poor Mary in the course of the day. Will you talk to her?

Shuff. O yes I’ll talk to her. Where is she to be seen?

Frank. She writes, you see, that she has abruptly left her father and I learn, by the messenger, that she is now in a miserable, retired house, on the neighbouring heath. That mustn’t deter you from going.

Shuff. Me? Oh, dear no I’m used to it. I don’t care how retired the house is.

Frank. Come down to my father to breakfast. I will tell you afterwards all I wish you to execute. Oh, Tom! this business has unhinged me for society. Rigid morality, after all, is the best coat of mail for the conscience.

Shuff. Our ancestors, who wore mail, admired it amazingly; but to mix in the gay world, with their rigid morality, would be as singular as stalking into a drawing-room in their armour: for dissipation is now the fashionable habit, with which, like a brown coat, a man goes into company, to avoid being stared at. [Exeunt.

SCENE III.

An Apartment in JOB THORNBERRY’S House.

Enter JOB THORNBERRY, in a Night Gown, and BUR.

Bur. Don’t take on so don’t you, now! pray, listen to reason.

Job. I won’t.

Bur. Pray do!

Job. I won’t. Reason bid me love my child, and help my friend: what’s the consequence? my friend has run one way, and broke up my trade; my daughter has run another, and broke my No, she shall never have it to say she broke my heart. If I hang myself for grief, she shan’t know she made me.

Bur. Well, but, master

Job. And reason told me to take you into my shop, when the fat church wardens starved you at the workhouse, damn their want of feeling for it! and you were thump’d about, a poor, unoffending, ragged-rump’d boy, as you were I wonder you hav’n’t run away from me too.

Bur. That’s the first real unkind word you ever said to me. I’ve sprinkled your shop two-and-twenty years, and never miss’d a morning.

Job. The bailiffs are below, clearing the goods: you won’t have the trouble any longer.

Bur. Trouble! Lookye, old Job Thornberry

Job. Well! What, you are going to be saucy to me, now I’m ruin’d?

Bur. Don’t say one cutting thing after another. You have been as noted, all round our town, for being a kind man, as being a blunt one.

Job. Blunt or sharp, I’ve been honest. Let them look at my ledger they’ll find it right. I began upon a little; I made that little great, by industry; I never cringed to a customer, to get him into my books, that I might hamper him with an overcharged bill, for long credit; I earn’d my fair profits; I paid my fair way; I break by the treachery of a friend, and my first dividend will be seventeen shillings in the pound. I wish every tradesman in England may clap his hand on his heart, and say as much, when he asks a creditor to sign his certificate.

Bur. ’Twas I kept your ledger, all the time.

Job. I know you did.

Bur. From the time you took me out of the workhouse.

Job. Psha! rot the workhouse!

Bur. You never mention’d it to me yourself till to-day.

Job. I said it in a hurry.

Bur. And I’ve always remember’d it at leisure. I don’t want to brag, but I hope I’ve been found faithful. It’s rather hard to tell poor John Bur, the workhouse boy, after clothing, feeding, and making him your man of trust, for two and twenty years, that you wonder he don’t run away from you, now you’re in trouble.

Job. [Affected.] John I beg your pardon.
[Stretching out his Hand.

Bur. [Taking his Hand.] Don’t say a word more about it.

Job. I

Bur. Pray, now, master, don’t say any more! Come, be a man! get on your things; and face the bailiffs that are rummaging the goods.

Job. I can’t, John; I can’t. My heart’s heavier than all the iron and brass in my shop.

Bur. Nay, consider what confusion! pluck up a courage; do, now!

Job. Well, I’ll try.

Bur. Aye, that’s right: here’s your clothes. [Taking them from the Back of a Chair.] They’ll play the devil with all the pots and pans, if you aren’t by. Why, I warrant you’ll do! Bless you, what should ail you?

Job. Ail me? do you go and get a daughter, John Bur; then let her run away from you, and you’ll know what ails me.

Bur. Come, here’s your coat and waistcoat. [Going to help him on with his Clothes] This is the waistcoat young mistress work’d with her own hands, for your birth-day, five years ago. Come, get into it, as quick as you can.

Job. [Throwing it on the Floor violently.] I’d as lieve get into my coffin. She’ll have me there soon. Psha! rot it! I’m going to snivel. Bur, go, and get me another.

Bur. Are you sure you won’t put it on?

Job. No, I won’t. [BUR pauses.] No, I tell you. [Exit BUR.

How proud I was of that waistcoat five years ago! I little thought what would happen now, when I sat in it, at the top of my table, with all my neighbours to celebrate the day; there was Collop on one side of me, and his wife on the other; and my daughter Mary sat at the farther end; smiling so sweetly; like an artful, good for nothing I shou’dn’t like to throw away a waistcoat neither. I may as well put it on. Yes it would be poor spite not to put it on. [Putting his Arms into it.] She’s breaking my heart; but, I’ll wear it, I’ll wear it. [Buttoning it as he speaks, and crying involuntarily.] It’s my child’s She’s undutiful, ungrateful, barbarous, but she’s my child, and she’ll never work me another.

Enter BUR.

Bur. Here’s another waistcoat, but it has laid by so long, I think it’s damp.

Job. I was thinking so myself, Bur; and so

Bur. Eh what, you’ve got on the old one? Well, now, I declare, I’m glad of that. Here’s your coat. [Putting it on him.] ’Sbobs! this waistcoat feels a little damp, about the top of the bosom.

Job. [Confused.] Never mind, Bur, never mind. A little water has dropt on it; but it won’t give me cold, I believe.
[A noise without.

Bur. Heigh! they are playing up old Harry below! I’ll run, and see what’s the matter. Make haste after me, do, now! [Exit BUR.

Job. I don’t care for the bankruptcy now. I can face my creditors, like an honest man; and I can crawl to my grave, afterwards, as poor as a church-mouse. What does it signify? Job Thornberry has no reason now to wish himself worth a groat: the old ironmonger and brazier has nobody to board his money for now! I was only saving for my daughter; and she has run away from her doating, foolish father, and struck down my heart flat flat.

Enter PEREGRINE.

Well, who are you?

Pereg. A friend.

Job. Then, I’m sorry to see you. I have just been ruin’d by a friend; and never wish to have another friend again, as long as I live. No, nor any ungrateful, undutiful Poh! I don’t recollect your face.

Pereg. Climate, and years, have been at work on it. While Europeans are scorching under an Indian sun, Time is doubly busy in fanning their features with his wings. But, do you remember no trace of me?

Job. No, I tell you. If you have any thing to say, say it. I have something to settle below with my daughter I mean, with the people in the shop; they are impatient; and the morning has half run away, before she knew I should be up I mean, before I have had time to get on my coat and waistcoat, she gave me I mean I mean, if you have any business, tell it, at once.

Pereg. I will tell it at once. You seem agitated. The harpies, whom I pass’d in your shop, inform’d me of your sudden misfortune, but do not despair yet.

Job. Aye, I’m going to be a bankrupt but that don’t signify. Go on: it isn’t that; they’ll find all fair; but, go on.

Pereg. I will. ’Tis just thirty years ago, since I left England.

Job. That’s a little after the time I set up in the hardware business.

Pereg. About that time, a lad of fifteen years entered your shop: he had the appearance of a gentleman’s son; and told you he had heard, by accident, as he was wandering through the streets of Penzance, some of your neighbours speak of Job Thornberry’s goodness to persons in distress.

Job. I believe he told a lie there.

Pereg. Not in that instance, though he did in another.

Job. I remember him. He was a fine, bluff, boy!

Pereg. He had lost his parents, he said; and, destitute of friends, money, and food, was making his way to the next port, to offer himself to any vessel that would take him on board, that he might work his way abroad, and seek a livelihood.

Job. Yes, yes; he did. I remember it.

Pereg. You may remember, too, when the boy had finished his tale of distress, you put ten guineas in his hand. They were the first earnings of your trade, you told him, and could not be laid out to better advantage than in relieving a helpless orphan; and, giving him a letter of recommendation to a sea captain at Falmouth, you wished him good spirits, and prosperity. He left you with a promise, that, if fortune ever smil’d upon him, you should, one day, hear news of Peregrine.

Job. Ah, poor fellow! poor Peregrine! he was a pretty boy. I should like to hear news of him, I own.

Pereg. I am that Peregrine.

Job. Eh? what you are ? No: let me look at you again. Are you
the pretty boy, that--bless us, how you are alter’d!

Pereg. I have endur’d many hardships since I saw you; many turns of fortune; but I deceived you (it was the cunning of a truant lad) when I told you I had lost my parents. From a romantic folly, the growth of boyish brains, I had fix’d my fancy on being a sailor, and had run away from my father.

Job. [With great Emotion.] Run away from your father! If I had known that, I’d have horse-whipp’d you, within an inch of your life!

Pereg. Had you known it, you had done right, perhaps.

Job. Right? Ah! you don’t know what it is for a child to run away from a father! Rot me, if I wou’dn’t have sent you back to him, tied, neck and heels, in the basket of the stage coach.

Pereg. I have had my compunctions; have express’d them by letter to my father: but I fear my penitence had no effect.

Job. Served you right.

Pereg. Having no answers from him, he died, I fear, without forgiving me. [Sighing.

Job. [Starting.] What! died! without forgiving his child! Come, that’s too much. I cou’dn’t have done that, neither. But, go on: I hope you’ve been prosperous. But you shou’dn’t you shou’dn’t have quitted your father.

Pereg. I acknowledge it; yet, I have seen prosperity; though I traversed many countries, on my outset, in pain and poverty. Chance, at length, raised me a friend in India; by whose interest, and my own industry, I amass’d considerable wealth, in the Factory at Calcutta.

Job. And have just landed it, I suppose, in England.

Pereg. I landed one hundred pounds, last night, in my purse, as I swam from the Indiaman, which was splitting on a rock, half a league from the neighbouring shore. As for the rest of my property bills, bonds, cash, jewels the whole amount of my toil and application, are, by this time, I doubt not, gone to the bottom; and Peregrine is returned, after thirty years, to pay his debt to you, almost as poor as he left you.

Job. I won’t touch a penny of your hundred pounds not a penny.

Pereg. I do not desire you: I only desire you to take your own.

Job. My own?

Pereg. Yes; I plunged with this box, last night, into the waves. You see, it has your name on it.

Job. “Job Thornberry,” sure enough. And what’s in it?

Pereg. The harvest of a kind man’s charity! the produce of your bounty to one, whom you thought an orphan. I have traded, these twenty years, on ten guineas (which, from the first, I had set apart as yours), till they have become ten thousand: take it; it could not, I find, come more opportunely. Your honest heart gratified itself in administering to my need; and I experience that burst of pleasure, a grateful man enjoys, in relieving my reliever.
[Giving him the Box.

Job. [Squeezes PEREGRINE’S Hand, returns the Box, and seems almost unable to utter.] Take it again.

Pereg. Why do you reject it?

Job. I’ll tell you, as soon as I’m able. T’other day, I lent a friend Pshaw, rot it! I’m an old fool! [Wiping his Eyes.] I lent a friend, t’other day, the whole profits of my trade, to save him from sinking. He walk’d off with them, and made me a bankrupt. Don’t you think he is a rascal?

Pereg. Decidedly so.

Job. And what should I be, if I took all you have saved in the world, and left you to shift for yourself?

Pereg. But the case is different. This money is, in fact, your own. I am inur’d to hardships; better able to bear them, and am younger than you. Perhaps, too, I still have prospects of

Job. I won’t take it. I’m as thankful to you, as if I left you to starve: but I won’t take it.

Pereg. Remember, too, you have claims upon you, which I have not. My guide, as I came hither, said, you had married in my absence: ’tis true, he told me you were now a widower; but, it seems, you have a daughter to provide for.

Job. I have no daughter to provide for now!

Pereg. Then he misinform’d me.

Job. No, he didn’t. I had one last night; but she’s gone.

Pereg. Gone!

Job. Yes; gone to sea, for what I know, as you did. Run away from a good father, as you did. This is a morning to remember; my daughter has run out, and the bailiffs have run in; I shan’t soon forget the day of the month.

Pereg. This morning, did you say?

Job. Aye, before day-break; a hard-hearted, base

Pereg. And could she leave you, during the derangement of your affairs?

Job. She did’nt know what was going to happen, poor soul! I wish she had now. I don’t think my Mary would have left her old father in the midst of his misfortunes.

Pereg. [Aside.] Mary! it must be she! What is the amount of the demands upon you?

Job. Six thousand. But I don’t mind that: the goods can nearly cover it let ’em take ’em damn the gridirons and warming-pans! I could begin again but, now, my Mary’s gone, I hav’n’t the heart; but I shall hit upon something.

Pereg. Let me make a proposal to you, my old friend. Permit me to settle with the officers, and to clear all demands upon you. Make it a debt, if you please. I will have a hold, if it must be so, on your future profits in trade; but do this, and I promise to restore your daughter to you.

Job. What? bring back my child! Do you know where she is? Is she safe? Is she far off? Is

Pereg. Will you receive the money?

Job. Yes, yes; on those terms on those conditions. But where is Mary?

Pereg. Patience. I must not tell you yet; but, in four-and-twenty hours, I pledge myself to bring her back to you.

Job. What, here? to her father’s house? and safe? Oh, ’sbud! when I see her safe, what a thundering passion I’ll be in with her! But you are not deceiving me? You know, the first time you came into my shop, what a bouncer you told me, when you were a boy.

Pereg. Believe me, I would not trifle with you now. Come, come down to your shop, that we may rid it of its present visitants.

Job. I believe you dropt from the clouds, all on a sudden, to comfort an old, broken-hearted brazier.

Pereg. I rejoice, my honest friend, that I arrived at so critical a juncture; and, if the hand of Providence be in it, ’tis because Heaven ordains, that benevolent actions, like yours, sooner or later, must ever meet their recompense. [Exeunt.