SCENE I.

SIR SIMON ROCHDALE’S Library.

Enter SIR SIMON ROCHDALE and the EARL OF FITZ BALAAM.

Sir Simon. Believe me, my lord, the man I wish’d most to meet in my library this morning, was the Earl of Fitz Balaam.

Lord Fitz. Thank you, Sir Simon.

Sir Simon. Your arrival, a day before your promise, gives us such convenient leisure to talk over the arrangements, relative to the marriage of Lady Caroline Braymore, your lordship’s daughter, with my son.

Lord Fitz. True, Sir Simon.

Sir Simon. Then, while Lady Caroline is at her toilet, we’ll dash into business at once; for I know your lordship is a man of few words. They tell me, my lord, you have sat in the Upper House, and said nothing but aye and no, there, for these thirty years.

Lord Fitz. I spoke, for more than a minute, in the year of the influenza.

Sir Simon. Bless me! the epidemic, perhaps, raging among the members, at the moment.

Lord Fitz. Yes; they cough’d so loud, I left off in the middle.

Sir Simon. And you never attempted again.

Lord Fitz. I hate to talk much, Sir Simon; ’tis my way; though several don’t like it.

Sir Simon. I do. I consider it as a mark of your lordship’s discretion. The less you say, my lord, in my mind, the wiser you are; and I have often thought it a pity, that some noble orators hav’n’t follow’d your lordship’s example. But, here are the writings. [Sitting down with LORD FITZ BALAAM, and taking them from the Table.] We must wave ceremony now, my lord; for all this pile of parchment is built on the independent four thousand a year of your daughter, Lady Caroline, on one hand, and your lordship’s incumbrances, on the other.

Lord Fitz. I have saddles on my property, Sir Simon.

Sir. Simon. Which saddles, your lordship’s property being uncommonly small, look something like sixteen stone upon a poney. The Fitz Balaam estate, for an earl, is deplorably narrow.

Lord Fitz. Yet, it has given security for a large debt.

Sir Simon. Large, indeed! I can’t think how you have contriv’d it. ’Tis the Archbishop of Brobdignag, squeez’d into Tom Thumb’s pantaloons.

Lord Fitz. Mine is the oldest estate in England, Sir Simon.

Sir Simon. If we may judge of age by decay, my lord, it must be very ancient, indeed! But this goes to something in the shape of supplies. [Untying the Papers.] “Covenant between Augustus Julius Braymore, Earl of Fitz Balaam, of Cullender Castle, in the county of Cumberland, and Simon Rochdale, Baronet, of Hollyhock House, in the county of Cornwall.” By the by, my lord, considering what an expense attends that castle, which is at your own disposal, and that, if the auctioneer don’t soon knock it down, the weather will, I wonder what has prevented your lordship’s bringing it to the hammer.

Lord Fitz. The dignity of my ancestors. I have blood in my family, Sir Simon [Proudly.

Sir Simon. A deal of excellent blood, my lord; but from the butler down to the house-dog, curse me if ever I saw so little flesh in a family before But by this covenant

Lord Fitz. You clear off the largest mortgage.

Sir Simon. Right; for which purpose, on the day of the young folks’ marriage

Lord Fitz. You must pay me forty thousand pounds.

Sir Simon. Right, again. Your lordship says little; but ’tis terribly plump to the point, indeed, my lord. Here is the covenant; and, now, will your lordship look over the marriage articles?

Lord Fitz. My attorney will be here to-morrow, Sir Simon. I prefer reading by deputy. [Both rise.

Sir Simon. Many people of rank read in the same way, my lord. And your lordship will receive the forty thousand pounds, I am to pay you, by deputy also, I suppose.

Lord Fitz. I seldom swear, Sir Simon; but, damn me if I will.

Sir Simon. I believe you are right. Yet there are but two reasons for not trusting an attorney with your money: one is, when you don’t know him very well; and the other is, when you do. And now, since the marriage is concluded, as I may say, in the families, may I take the liberty to ask, my lord, what sort of a wife my son Frank may expect in Lady Caroline? Frank is rather of a grave, domestic turn: Lady Caroline, it seems, has passed the three last winters in London. Did her ladyship enter into all the spirit of the first circles?

Lord Fitz. She was as gay as a lark, Sir Simon.

Sir Simon. Was she like the lark in her hours, my lord?

Lord Fitz. A great deal more like the owl, Sir Simon.

Sir Simon. I thought so. Frank’s mornings in London will begin where her ladyship’s nights finish. But his case won’t be very singular. Many couples make the marriage bed a kind of cold matrimonial well; and the two family buckets dip into it alternately.

Enter LADY CAROLINE BRAYMORE.

Lady Car. Do I interrupt business?

Sir Simon. Not in the least. Pray, Lady Caroline, come in. His lordship and I have just concluded.

Lord Fitz. And I must go and walk my three miles, this morning.

Sir Simon. Must you, my lord?

Lord Fitz. My physician prescribed it, when I told him I was apt to be dull, after dinner.

Sir Simon. I would attend your lordship; but since Lady Caroline favours me with

Lady Car. No, no don’t mind me. I assure you, I had much rather you would go.

Sir Simon. Had you? hum! but the petticoats have their new school of good breeding, too, they tell me. [Aside.] Well, we are gone we have been glancing over the writings, Lady Caroline, that form the basis of my son’s happiness: though his lordship isn’t much inclined to read.

Lady Car. But I am. I came here to study very deeply, before dinner.

Sir Simon. What, would your ladyship, then, wish to
[Showing the Writings.

Lady Car. To read that? My dear Sir Simon! all that Hebrew, upon parchment as thick as a board! I came to see if you had any of the last novels in your book room.

Sir Simon. The last novels! most of the female new school are ghost bitten, they tell me. [Aside.] There’s Fielding’s Works; and you’ll find Tom Jones, you know.

Lady Car. Psha! that’s such a hack!

Sir Simon. A hack, Lady Caroline, that the knowing ones have warranted sound.

Lady Car. But what do you think of those that have had such a run lately?

Sir Simon. Why, I think most of them have run too much, and want firing.
[Exeunt SIR SIMON, and LORD FITZ BALAAM.

Lady Car. I shall die of ennui, in this moping manor house! Shall I read to-day? no, I’ll walk. No, I’ll Yes, I’ll read first, and walk afterwards. [Rings the Bell, and takes a Book.] Pope. Come, as there are no novels, this may be tolerable. This is the most triste house I ever saw! [Sits down and reads.

“In these deep solitudes, and awful cells,
Where heavenly-pensive ”

Enter ROBERT.

Rob. Did you ring, my lady?

Lady Car. “Contemplation dwells ” Sir? Oh, yes; I should like to walk. Is it damp under foot, sir? “And ever musing ”

Rob. There has been a good deal of rain to-day my lady.

Lady Car. “Melancholy reigns ”

Rob. My lady

Lady Car. Pray, sir, look out, and bring me word if it is clean or dirty.

Rob. Yes, my lady. [Exit.

Lady Car. This settling a marriage is a strange business! “What means this tumult in a vestal’s veins? ”

Shuff. [Without.] Bid the groom lead the horse into the avenue, and I’ll come to him.

Lady Car. Company in the house? some Cornish squire, I suppose.
[Resumes her reading.

Enter TOM SHUFFLETON, speaking while entering, JOHN
following.

Lady Car. [Still reading, and seated with her Back to SHUFFLETON.] “Soon as thy letters, trembling, I unclose ”

John. What horse will you have saddled, sir?

Shuff. Slyboots. [Exit JOHN.

Lady Car. “That well known name awakens all my woes ”

Shuff. Lady Caroline Braymore!

Lady Car. Mr. Shuffleton! Lard! what can bring you into Cornwall?

Shuff. Sympathy: which has generally brought me near your ladyship, in London at least, for these three winters.

Lady Car. Psha! but seriously?

Shuff. I was summoned by friendship. I am consulted on all essential points, in this family; and Frank Rochdale is going to be married.

Lady Car. Then, you know to whom?

Shuff. No; not thinking that an essential point, I forgot to ask. He kneels at the pedestal of a rich shrine, and I didn’t inquire about the statue. But, dear Lady Caroline, what has brought you into Cornwall?

Lady Car. Me? I’m the statue.

Shuff. You!

Lady Car. Yes; I’ve walk’d off my pedestal, to be worshipp’d at the Land’s End.

Shuff. You to be married to Frank Rochdale! O, Lady Caroline! what then is to become of me?

Lady Car. Oh, Mr. Shuffleton! not thinking that an essential point, I forgot to ask.

Shuff. Psha! now you’re laughing at me! but upon my soul, I shall turn traitor; take advantage of the confidence reposed in me, by my friend, and endeavour to supplant him.

Lady Car. What do you think the world would call such duplicity of conduct?

Enter ROBERT.

Rob. Very dirty, indeed, my lady. [Exit.

Shuff. That infernal footman has been listening! I’ll kick him round his master’s park.

Lady Car. ’Tis lucky, then, you are booted; for, you hear, he says it is very dirty there.

Shuff. Was that the meaning of Pooh! but, you see, the the surprise the the agitation has made me ridiculous.

Lady Car. I see something has made you ridiculous; but you never told me what it was before.

Shuff. Lady Caroline; this is a crisis, that my attentions, that is, the In short, the world, you know, my dear Lady Caroline, has given me to you.

Lady Car. Why, what a shabby world it is!

Shuff. How so?

Lady Car. To make me a present of something, it sets no value on itself.

Shuff. I flattered myself I might not be altogether invaluable to your ladyship.

Lady Car. To me! Now, I can’t conceive any use I could make of you. No, positively, you are neither useful nor ornamental.

Shuff. Yet, you were never at an opera, without me at your elbow; never in Kensington Gardens, that my horse the crop, by the bye, given me by Lord Collarbone, wasn’t constantly in leading at the gate: hav’n’t you danc’d with me at every ball? And hav’nt I, unkind, forgetful, Lady Caroline, even cut the Newmarket meetings, when you were in London?

Lady Car. Bless me! these charges are brought in like a bill. “To attending your ladyship at such a time; to dancing down twenty couple with your ladyship, at another,” and, pray, to what do they all amount?

Shuff. The fullest declaration.

Lady Car. Lard, Mr. Shuffleton! why, it has, to be sure, looked a a a little foolish but you you never spoke any thing to that is to justify such a

Shuff. That’s as much as to say, speak now. [Aside.] To be plain, Lady Caroline, my friend does not know your value. He has an excellent heart but that heart is [Coughs.] damn the word, it’s so out of fashion, it chokes me! [Aside.] is irrevocably given to another. But mine by this sweet hand, I swear
[Kneeling and kissing her Hand.

Enter JOHN.

Well, sir? [Rising hastily.

John. Slyboots, sir, has been down on his knees; and the groom says he can’t go out.

Shuff. Let him saddle another.

John. What horse, sir, will you

Shuff. Psha! any. What do you call Mr. Rochdale’s favourite, now.

John. Traitor, sir.

Shuff. When Traitor’s in the avenue, I shall be there.
[Exit JOHN.

Lady Car. Answer me one question, candidly, and, perhaps, I may entrust you with a secret. Is Mr. Rochdale seriously attached?

Shuff. Very seriously.

Lady Car. Then I won’t marry him.

Shuff. That’s spirited. Now, your secret.

Lady Car. Why perhaps you may have heard, that my father, Lord Fitz Balaam, is, somehow, so so much in debt, that but, no matter.

Shuff. Oh, not at all; the case is fashionable, with both lords and commoners.

Lady Car. But an old maiden aunt, whom, rest her soul! I never saw, for family pride’s sake, bequeathed me an independence. To obviate his lordship’s difficulties, I mean to to marry into this humdrum Cornish family.

Shuff. I see a sacrifice! filial piety, and all that to disembarrass his lordship. But hadn’t your ladyship better

Lady Car. Marry to disembarrass you?

Shuff. By my honour, I’m disinterested.

Lady Car. By my honour, I’m monstrously piqued and so vex’d, that I can’t read this morning, nor talk, nor I’ll walk.

Shuff. Shall I attend you?

Lady Car. No; don’t fidget at my elbow, as you do at the opera. But you shall tell me more of this by and by.

Shuff. When? Where? [Taking her Hand.

Lady Car. Don’t torment me. This evening, or to-morrow, perhaps; in the park, or psha! we shall meet at dinner. Do, let me go now, for I shall be very bad company.

Shuff. [Kissing her Hand.] Adieu, Lady Caroline!

Lady Car. Adieu! [Exit.

Shuff. My friend Frank, here, I think, is very much obliged to me! I am putting matters pretty well en train to disencumber him of a wife; and now I’ll canter over the heath, and see what I can do for him with the brazier’s daughter. [Exit.

SCENE II.

A mean Parlour at the Red Cow.

A Table Pen, Ink, and Paper on it. Chairs.

MARY and MRS. BRULGRUDDERY discovered.

Mrs. Brul. Aye, he might have been there, and back, over and over again; but my husband’s slow enough in his motions, as I tell him, till I’m tir’d on’t.

Mary. I hope he’ll be here soon.

Mrs. Brul. Ods, my little heart! Miss, why so impatient? Hav’n’t you as genteel a parlour as any lady in the land could wish to sit down in? The bed’s turn’d up in a chest of drawers that’s stain’d to look like mahogany: there’s two poets, and a poll parrot, the best images the jew had on his head, over the mantlepiece; and was I to leave you all alone by yourself, isn’t there an eight day clock in the corner, that when one’s waiting, lonesome like, for any body, keeps going tick-tack, and is quite company?

Mary. Indeed, I did not mean to complain.

Mrs. Brul. Complain? No, I think not, indeed! When, besides having a handsome house over your head, the strange gentleman has left two guineas though one seems light, and t’other looks a little brummish to be laid out for you, as I see occasion. I don’t say it for the lucre of any thing I’m to make out of the money, but, I’m sure you can’t want to eat yet.

Mary. Not if it gives any trouble; but I was up before sunrise, and have tasted nothing to-day.

Mrs. Brul. Eh! why, bless me, young woman! ar’n’t you well?

Mary. I feel very faint.

Mrs. Brul. Aye, this is a faintish time o’year; but I must give you a little something, I suppose: I’ll open the window, and give you a little air. [DENNIS BRULGRUDDERY, singing, without.

They handed the whiskey about,
’Till it smoked thro’ the jaws of the piper;
The bride got a fine copper snout,
And the clergyman’s pimples grew riper.
Whack doodlety bob,
Sing pip.

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.

Whack doodlety bob,
Sing pip.

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.