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WORKS BY DOUGLAS JERROLD. 
 
 The Collected Edition of Ms "Writings 
 
 Oompleie in Eight Volumes, small 8vo., price 32s.; or each volmme 
 separately^ price 4s., 
 
 COUFBISIHG 
 
 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMBS. 
 
 MEN OF CHARACTEE. 
 
 MBS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES; THE STOBY OP A 
 PEATHEE; and THE SICK GIANT AND THE DOCTOR 
 DWARP. 
 
 CAKES AND ALB. 
 
 PUNCH'S LETTERS TO HIS SON ; PUNCH'S COMPLETE LETTER 
 WRITER; amd SKETCHES OF THE ENGLISH. 
 
 A MAN MADE OP MONET and THE CHRONICLES OP CLOVER- 
 NOOK. 
 
 COMEDIES. 
 
 COMEDIES AND DEAMAS. 
 
 THE MAU" MADE OF MONET. Plates by John Leech. Price 7». 
 
 MRS. CAUDLE'S CDETAIN LECTURES. Prlce2..6<i. 
 
 PUNCH'S COMPLETE LETTER "WRITER. eOPlatea. 2..6i 
 
 PUNCH'S LETTERS TO HIS SON. 24 Plates. Price 5.. 
 
 THE STORY OF A FEATHER. Price fa. 
 
 "THE CHRONICLES OF CLOVERNOOK Price 4j.6i 
 
 — • — 
 
 COMEDIES BY DOUGLAS JEBKOLD. 
 TIME WORKS WONDERS. 1». | THE CATSPAW. Is. 
 BUBBLES OF THE DAY. 1«. | KETIEED PROM BUSINESS. U. 
 ST. CUPID; OB, DOROTHY'S FORTUNE, li. 
 
 BRADBURY AND EVANS, 11, BOUVEEIB STREET. 
 
THE 
 
 WRITINGS OF DOUGLAS JERROLD. 
 
 COLLECTED EDITION. 
 
 VOLUME Vm.— COMEDIES AND DRAMAS. 
 
 THE KENT DAY, 
 
 NELL GWYNNE ; OE, THE PROLOGUE, 
 
 THE HOUSEKEEPES, 
 
 THE WEDDING GOWN, 
 
 THE SCHOOLFELLOWS, 
 
 DOVES IN A CAGE, 
 
 THE PAINTER OF GHENT, 
 
 AND 
 
 BLACK-ET'D SUSAN; OK, "ALL IN THE DOWNS." 
 
COMEDIES AND DRAMAS. 
 
 DOUGLAS JERROLD. 
 
 LONDOK : 
 
 BRADBURT AND EVANS, 11, BOUVERIE STREET. 
 
 1854. 
 
LONDON : 
 
 bhauburt and EVANS, pbinters, whitefriars. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Faqe 
 
 The Kekt Day 1 
 
 Nell Gwykite ; on, the Pkologue . . . . . . 41 
 
 The Housekjieper . 79 
 
 The Weddikg Gowm 117 
 
 The Sohoolpellows 159 
 
 Dotes ur a Cage 197 
 
 The Painteb op Ghent 231 
 
 Blaok-Ei'd Scsan ; oe, "All ih the Dowks" . . . . 251 
 
THE RENT DAY. 
 
CHARACTERS REPRESENTED. 
 
 Grantley . 
 Old Crumbs 
 Martin Heywood 
 Toby Heywood 
 Bullfrog 
 Silver Jack . 
 Hyssop 
 Beanstalk 
 Stephen . 
 Farmer 
 Burly 
 Sailor . 
 
 Rachel Heywood 
 Polly Briggs 
 
 . Mr. Brinbai.. 
 
 . Mr. Yotjnge. 
 
 . Mr. WalIiAck. 
 
 . Mr. Cooper. 
 
 . Mr. Haklet. 
 
 . Mr. H. "Wallaor. 
 
 . Mr. Bedford. 
 
 . Mr. Hughes. 
 
 . Mr. Salter. 
 
 . Mr. C. Jones. 
 
 . Mr. Hatton. 
 
 . Mr. Heaton. 
 
 Miss Phillips. 
 Mrs. Hcmbt. 
 
 Tenants, Children, Villagers, SjC. %c. 
 Scene, The Country. 
 
 *»* This Drama was first represented on the 25th of January, 1832. 
 
THE EENT DAY. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 Scene I. — An Apartment in GrantUy HaU. 
 
 Crumbs, Beanstalk, rARMERS, and other Tenants, their Wives. 
 and dniLDREN, Servants, Sc, discovered. 
 
 Crumbs. By my heart ! there's nought so pleasant as a rent- 
 day. 
 
 Bean. Thee be'st right. Master Crumbs, nought ; when the 
 corn's in the bam, and the money's in the bag ; but rent-day, wi' 
 bad crops and low pockets, be an awful thing. 
 
 1st Farmer. It be, indeed. See what it ha' brought Phil 
 Jones to. That seizure. Master Crumbs, ha' broke his heart. 
 Wam't you a bit hasty like 1 
 
 Crumbs. Ha, friends ! it's a sad task to be steward. I often 
 seize with tears in my eyes. What then 1 we must keep a clear 
 book, I never turn out a family but — {To one of the 'Fabmebs.) 
 — ^you don't drink your ale. Master Stokes — with the greatest 
 reluctance. Last week, when Miles and his chUdreu went to 
 the workhouse, it — (To another.) — help your dame to some pie 
 — ^it made me really uneasy. Yet one's feelings must suffer ! one 
 must keep a clear book. 
 
 Bean. Where be Martin Heywood, I wonder ? Ha ! things 
 ha' ne'er gone right since the old man died of a sudden. I had 
 hopes to see Martin here. 
 
 Crumbs. I've had hopes some time past. But here's a toast. 
 Here's punctuality to all tenants ! 
 
 Bean. Come, I'll gi' thee another. Here be mercy and libe- 
 rality to all landlords ! 
 
THE RENT BAY. 
 
 AH. Mercy to all landlords ! 
 
 Bean. Why, Master Crumbs, be there a spider in the glass 1 
 — ^thee dost not drink. Come, " mercy," man. There be few 
 on US, I fear, would be worse for a little more on't. Take 
 another sup. 
 
 Crumbs. No more. There, Master Beanstalk, is your receipt 
 — ^there, friend Thomas, is yours. As for that matter about 
 the tithes, Master Hodge, we must talk on't. All our business 
 is now despatched, and now, another glass to our next merry 
 meeting. 
 
 Bean. Stay. I'll clap a tail to that toast ; so drink " good 
 fortune to Master Heywood ! " 
 
 AU. Ay, ay ! 
 
 Bean. Stop. And his wife, Eachel — not yet ! — ^and all his 
 darling little babes, God bless 'em ! (AU drink.) Why, Master 
 Crumbs, what makes thee look so blank 1 It be a bad sign if a 
 man make wry faces when he hears luck wished to another. 
 
 Crumbs. Wry faces ! You mistake. But you take a great 
 deal of interest in Martin Heywood ? 
 
 Bean. Naturally. I ha' known him ever since he could ha' 
 lain in my hat. My dame, here, stood for his wife, Eachel ; and 
 a blessed little blossom she was. If it hadn't been for bad times, 
 — but I won't brag. [^Retires. 
 
 2nd Farm. (Aside to Crumbs.) Now, good master steward, 
 yqu'U ^ve me time, I hope 1 
 
 Crumbs. Time isn't in my gift if I would. 
 
 2nd Farm. I have a wife and eight children. 
 Crumbs. A marvellous pity ; but I must make up my book. 
 
 2nd Farm. Give me but two months. 
 
 Crumbs. Tou shall have two weeks. Don't reckon on an hour 
 more : two weeks ; and then I sell every stick. 
 
 2nd Farm. Have you no heart ? 
 
 Crumbs. J must make up my book. Two weeks. 
 [Faemeb retires. BBiNSTALK, wJw, with others, has filled hh glass, 
 comes dofum, and forces a glass on Crumbs.] 
 
 Bean. I say. Master Crumbs, the old toast at parting. " Here's 
 mercy to all landlords ! " 
 
 Crumbs. "Mercy — ^landlords." Farewell, farewell. (Fxeunt 
 all lut Ceumbs.) They're gone : now to sort the money. 
 (Loohing over papers, iwies, &c) Heywood must pack — the farm 
 must come into my hands. Let me reckon : another twelvemonth 
 — the landlord still away — and my fortune is complete. I have 
 scraped, and scratched, and wrung — 'tis very well. Such 
 another year, and farewell England. 
 
THE RENT DAY. 
 
 Silver Jack OTid Hyssop are seen looking in at -window. 
 Jack. {Pointing out Crumbs io Hyssop.) 'Tis he ! I'll swear it. 
 Crumbs. Who's there ? (Silvee Jack and Hyssop disappear.) 
 
 {Enter Stephex.) 
 
 la it you, Stephen- — talking to yourself ? 
 
 Steph. Talking, sir ? not I. Here be letters : this, from 
 London ; it has our master's crest. 
 
 Crumbs. Master ! humph ! {Opens and reads) It is from young 
 spendthrift. The old style — more money. He shall have it. 
 
 Tohy Heywood. { Without) No, no : I'll walk in. When he 
 sees me, he'll be sure I'm here. 
 
 {Enter Toby Heywood.) 
 
 Servant, Master Crumbs. 
 
 Crumbs. Servant ; I'd hoped to see your brother Martin. {To 
 Stephen, half-aside) Stephen, go to Bullfrog. Tell him to come 
 to me to-night ; I shall have business for him. Aye, and call on 
 Burly, too, and tell him the same. [Exit Stephen. 
 
 Toby. BuUfrog and Burly ! What devil's feast is afoot, ,that 
 they must have a spoon in 1 
 
 Crumbs. All trades must be filled : Bullfrog's is an ugly one. 
 
 Toby. Aye, but the ugliest of trades have their moments of 
 pleasure. Now, if I were a grave-digger, or even a hangman, 
 there are some people I could work for with a great deal of 
 enjoyment. 
 
 Crumbs. That's Bullfrog's maxim : he's very merry. 
 
 Toby. The most jovial of brokers and appraisers. He levies 
 a. distress as though he brought a card of invitation ; giggles 
 himself into possession ; makes out the inventory with a chuckle ; 
 and carts o£f chairs and tables to " Begone, duU care," or, "How 
 merrUy we live who shepherds be ! " 
 
 Crumbs. True ; in these matters he has a coolness. 
 
 Toby. Coolness! he'd, eat oysters whilst his neighbour's house 
 was in flames, — always provided that his own was insured. 
 Coolness ! he's a piece of marble, carved into a broad giin. 
 
 Crumbs. Well, well, your busiaess with me 1 
 
 Toby. My brother, Martin, has been once more disappointed. 
 
 Crumbs. So have I. 
 
 Toby. That's lucky. Tou'U be better able to feel for .him. 
 
 Crumbs. I want money. 
 
 Toby. So does he. 
 
THE RENT DAT. 
 
 Crumhs. I'll give time, if there be any one to answer for him. 
 Can't you assist him ? have you nothing ? 
 
 Toby. Yes; fifteen pounds ar-year, as principal usher to the 
 town free-school. My goods and chattels are a volume of 
 "Eobiuaou Crusoe;" ditto, "Pilgrim's Progress;" with 
 "Plutarch's Morals," much like the morals of many other people 
 — a good deal dog's-eared. If my uncle had made me a plough- 
 man instead of a mongrel scholar, I might have had a mouldy 
 guinea or so. 
 
 Crumbs. Has your brother no one to speak for him 1 
 
 Toby. Now, I think ou't, yes. There are two. 
 
 Crwmbs. Where shall I find them % 
 
 Toby. In the churchyard. His grandfather and his father lie 
 there. Go to the graves of the old men, and these are the words 
 the dead will say to you : " We lived sixty years in HoUy Farm ; 
 in all that time we never begged an hour of the 'squire ; we paid 
 rent, tax, and tithe ; we earned our bread with our own hands, 
 and owed no man a penny when laid down here. Well, then, 
 will ye be hard on young Heywood ; will ye press upon our 
 child, our poor Martin, when murrain has come upon his cattle, 
 and blight fallen upon his corn 1" This is what the dead will 
 say. I should like to know what the living has to answer ? 
 
 Crumhs. {Giving him the ''squire's letter.) This. 
 
 Toby. {Opening it.) From the young 'squire. (Reads.) " Master 
 Crumhs, use all despatch, and send me, on receipt of this, five 
 hundred pounds. Cards have tricked me, and the devil cogged the 
 dice. Get the money at all costs, and quickly. Robert Grantley.^' 
 Aye, a right tme letter from an absent landlord. 
 
 Crumhs. 'Tis hard to be steward to a wild youth who looks not 
 after his own estate. You see, he leaves me no discretion 1 
 
 Toby. Oh, no ! If the landlord lose at gaming, his tenants 
 may suffer for't. The 'squire plays a low card : issue a distress 
 warrant. He throws deuce-ace ; turn a family into the fields. 
 'Tis only awkward to lose hundreds on a card ; but very rascally 
 to be behind-hand with one's rent. 
 
 Crumbs: As you say — vei-y true. Good morning, Master Toby. 
 Toby. Good morning. Poor brother Martin wouldn't come 
 himself, so I thought I'd step up and speak to you. But I'll tell 
 him that you'll give him all time, and that he's not to make 
 himself uneasy, and all that. I'U comfort him, depend on't. 
 And, I eay ; when you write back to the 'squii-e, you can tell 
 him, by waj' of postscript, if he must feed the gaming-table, not 
 to let it be with money wrung, like blood, from the wretched. 
 Just tell him, whilst he shuffles the cards, to remember the 
 aching hearts of his distressed tenants. And when he'd rattle 
 
THE KENT DAT. 
 
 the dice, let him stop and think of the knuckles of the bailiflf and 
 the tax-gatherer, knocking at the cottage-doors of the poor, 
 Grood morning, Mr. Steward, good morning. [Exit. 
 
 Crumbs. Now to give ray instructions to the beadle and 
 appi-aiser, and out he goes. [Exit. 
 
 Scene II. — A Woodland View. 
 Enter Silver Jack and Hyssop. 
 
 Syssop. Come, come ; why do you loiter ! 
 
 Jach. Don't you see that woman still at the stile 3 — the 
 prettiest creature I've looked on this many a-day. 
 
 Hyss. Tush! now we're on business. Go on with your story. 
 Let me see, where did that wench's black eyes interrupt us ? 
 Oh ! you were about to teU me how you knew that this steward, 
 Crumbs, as he is called, was your master, when you took to live 
 by your wits and the nimbleness of your five fingers. Now, are 
 you sure you know him 1 
 
 Jack. Do I know my own hand 1 Thirty years ago, when but 
 a boy, I ran away from my apprenticeship — 
 
 Hyss. Aye, of rope-making ; a fatal profession. Go on. 
 
 Jack. Pshaw ! I fell in with John Harris — for that's his real 
 name — in. London. He was a knight of the road of the first 
 order, kept as pretty a blood, and shuffled a card better than any 
 baronet of St. James's. Bless you ! he gave the fashion to 
 Hounslow and Finchley. Well, Newgate hath clipped many, a 
 brave fellow's wing. Captain Harris was taken, tried, and con- 
 demned for Tyburn. . \ 
 
 Hyss. Then he got a reprieve i . . 
 
 Jack. Tes, in the way of some files, sent to him in a pigeon- 
 pie, and twenty fathom of cord, baked in a few loaves. He gave 
 them the slip and started for the Indies. There, I heard, he met 
 with an Englishman ; was brought back again, and here he is. 
 Have you a mind to earn fifty pounds ? 
 
 Hyss. If 't may be done with the leisure of a gentleman. 
 
 Jaxk. 'Tis but to open your mouth.' See. [Takes owt a seal- 
 skin tobacco pouch', and from it an old hand-bill : gives it to Hys- 
 sop.] I have worn it about me for many a long day. 
 
 Hyss. {Beading BUI : — " Fifty pounds reward ! Escaped from, 
 Newgate I John Harris, a convict. He isfmefeet ten, of darkish 
 complexion ; oval face, quick black eyes, with an eager look: his 
 mouth large and restless ; his hair a deep chestnut brown, 'in dose 
 curls. His voice is f^lU and his manner of speaking' rapid.' His 
 walk short and hurried. Has a scar over the left eye; also a scar 
 
 o2 
 
THE RENT DAY. 
 
 on the back of the left hartdy) This can never be the picture of 
 that old man 1 
 
 Jack. Ha ! 'tis seven-and-twenty years since he sat for itj 
 that's some time for one ■who hasn't walked upon velvet. Why, 
 even I am changed. I can remember "when my mother used to 
 call me her " lovely little Jack." As for Harris, 'twould have 
 done you good to hear him cry " stand ! " It came sharp upon 
 you like the click of a trigger. Step aside, Hyssop, here are two 
 of the natives. \T^y retire among the trees. 
 
 Enter Polly Briogs, 'BvLUFB.oa following her. 
 
 PoUy. Now, Mr. Bullfrog, don't teaze me. 
 
 BvUfrog. I teaze ! I should like to know how a man with 
 a freehold of twenty pounds per year, a pretty business, 
 and a genteel figure, could teaze, even if he would ? It's only 
 poor people who teaze ; we monied men delight. 
 
 PMy. Well, I'm very poor, Mr. BuUfrog. 
 
 BvUf. You are ; it's your only fault. 
 
 PMy. Fault ! poverty's no crime. 
 
 BvJlf. Isn't it ? well, it's so like I don't know the difference. 
 It's a pity poor girls have pretty faces ; they lead us prudent 
 capitalists into many false reckonings. Oh, Polly ! if I should 
 love you. 
 
 PMy. La! what should you see to love in me ? 
 
 BvUf. See ! why, there's a beautiful face with its streaks of red, 
 and the blue veins running up and down the white skin, for all 
 the world like the ruled pages of a new ledger. 
 
 Polly. White skin ! Wouldn't you be better pleased if it were 
 yellow ? 
 
 BvUf. La ! why ? 
 
 Poliy. 'Twould remind you of your guineas, you know. And, 
 I'm sure, you love nothing so weU. 
 
 BvUf. Yes, one thing, almost : that pretty little red mouth. Oh, 
 Polly ! if you had but a small annuity, or expectations from 
 a sick aunt, or anything of that kind, you'd be a perfect woman. 
 But I must have a kiss. 
 
 PMy. A kiss ! I never heard of such a thing ! 
 
 BvUf. What an ignorant young woman you must be : a kiss 
 is — 
 
 Enier Toby Hetwood. 
 
 TiAy.. She knows. I taught her long ago. And harkye, Master 
 Bullfrog, — 
 Bvttf. Now, be cool. Pm always cool. 
 
THE RENT DAT. 9 
 
 Tohy. You'll stiU be meddling } Don't you remember that 
 you were once kicked % 
 
 BvRf. Yes. Andwasnt I a picture of patience J Did I fly into 
 a rage ? No : I made twenty pounds by that job, and that didn't 
 make me conceited either. 
 
 Toh/. Take care, or I may kick too. 
 
 BvUf. No. Prudence won't let you. 
 
 Tohy. Why not? 
 
 BvUf. You can't afford to pay for luxuries. 
 
 Tohy. Oh, on such an occasion, I'd not mind running in debt. 
 But, Polly, go to the farm ; run, and comfort Bachel. Leave the 
 appraiser to me. Go. {Eirii Pollt.) What ! waste yovir valuable 
 time with a girl not worth a groat ? 
 
 BvUf. That's true. And I ought to be down at Brown's, the 
 millwright's. 
 
 Tohy. Ha ! no use going there. Pm told they baiTicade doors 
 and windows. You'll never get in there. 
 
 BiiUf. Ha ! ha ! You dont know my wit. I took possession 
 this morning. 
 
 Toby. Why, how ? 
 
 BvUf. Such a scheme ! About an hour after Brown had 
 let himself out of the window, I paid a little girl to go and 
 knock at the door, and call for Mrs. Brown. I taught her 
 her lesson ; this was it : " Mrs. Brown, for heaven's sake !" 
 — I made her say " heaven,'" because it sounded more reaL 
 
 Tohy. Yes, heaven is a good word to lie under. 
 
 BiiUf. Bless you ! Pve found it so. " For heaven's sake ! come 
 to your husband, — ^he's chopped his leg clean through with an 
 axe ! " You should have heard Mrs. Brown scream. Out she ran, 
 wringing her hands, — ^her three children tumbling after her, — nvd 
 in I and the beadle walked. 
 
 Tohy. Then 'twas all a lie ? 
 
 BviUf. Lord love you only my wit. And so I told Mrs. 
 Brown ; and bade her wipe her eyes, and make herself 
 comfortable whilst I took down the goods. I shall sell on 
 Thursday. 
 
 Tohy. Sell ! You are throwing away your time knocking down 
 tea-cups and wooden dishes. You should go to the colonies and 
 sell the blacks. 
 
 BvUf. I certainly do pass off an article with a flourish. 
 
 Tohy. Flourish ! how capitally you'd dispose of a man, his wife, 
 and six children ! 
 
 BvUf. Pm not conceited ; but I think I should. Hem ! "Ladies 
 and gentlemen, the next lot consists of eight mortals." — Stop, 
 are blacks mortals ? 
 
10 THE BENT DAY. 
 
 Toby. Why, with some it's a matter of doubt, so let them have 
 the benefit of it. 
 
 BvUf. " Eight mortals. How much shall we say for the lot 1 " 
 
 Toh^/. Or you might ask, — " How much for the man — a 
 strong-bodied labourer, a virtuous husband, and an aflFectiouate 
 father 1 He weighs fourteen stone, hasn't a single vice, stands 
 five feet eleven, is very handsome and is going at only a handful 
 ofdoUars." 
 
 Bull/. Must you talk about afiiection and all that ? 
 
 Tohtf. Of course. Virtue is especially marketable in the "West 
 •Indies. There, it's worth while being a constant husband and 
 a doting parent; for one sells for a few dollars extra. Go 
 to Jamaica by all means. 
 
 BvUf. I think I should succeed. 
 
 Toby. Succeed ! After your story to Mrs. Brown, if your own 
 father were going by auction, you'd knock him down with the 
 greatest grace in life. 
 
 BvEf. Now, you flatter ? 
 
 Toby. Impossible. "With you, there's no improving upon 
 truth. 
 
 BvEJ. Well, that's really handsome. But I — 
 
 {Enter CRtrMBS.) 
 
 Good day, Master Crumbs. I was coming by your order 
 about — 
 
 Crumbs. In good time. He here ! 
 
 Toby. Don't let me interrupt business. I'm going to the farm. 
 Good by, Bullfrog ; and, I say, if in the course of auction matters 
 you've a lot of humanity to dispose of — 
 
 Bidlf. Well ? 
 
 Toby. Think of Mrs. Brown, and buy it in for yourself. [Exit. 
 
 Crumbs. A subtle, sneering rogue, that. Harkye, Bullfrog, you 
 must this day seize on Heywood's goods. (Silver Jack and 
 Hyssop come dovm) Strangers here ! 
 
 Jack. Your servant, old sir. 
 
 Crumbs. Old sir ! 
 
 Ja,ck. Aye. There's no shame in gray hairs, is there — even 
 though they once were a chestnut-brown ? What then ! hair wUl 
 change. 
 
 Syss. Tes, and quick black eyes with an eager look wiU grow 
 dim and dull. 
 
 Jack. A deep voice will lose something of its music — humph ! 
 — and five feet ten shrink into five feet seven or eight. 
 
 Syss. A large and restless mouth may last. 
 
THE KENT DAT. 11 
 
 Jack. Aye, and scars — {Seizing the hand of Crumbs, who 
 stands amazed and iremblinff.) — ^yes, scars will not rub out ! 
 
 Crumbs. Villains ! robbers ! 
 
 BviUf. Bobbers ! shall I call the constable ? 
 
 Crumis. Peace ! away ! 
 
 Jack. Nay, nay, old gentleman : we are strangers, and ask a 
 day's hospitality at the mansion. 
 
 Crumhs. Away — away ! 
 
 Jach. As you will not give us house-room, will you tell me 
 where I may find a printer 1 — I wish to distribute through the 
 village some hundred copies of this little bilL {Shows Ceumbs the 
 hand-bill, — he staggers back confounded.) 
 
 BvUf. A printer ! My cousin Hairspace is the man. Does all 
 my catalogues. Give me the biU. 
 
 Crumhs. Touch it not ; touch it not, I say ! Come, gen- 
 tlemen — 
 
 Jach. Nay, we wiU not trouble you. {To Bullfrog.) Tour 
 cousin, you say ? — 
 
 Butlf. The best printer forty miles about. In black, blue, or 
 red ink, plain or ornamental, — there is no printer,' who, — 
 
 Grurkbs. The devil seize thee, — ^peace ! Come, gentlemen ; 
 nay, you must with me to the mansion. We will have a brave 
 dinner ! Wine ! wine ! I do entreat you not to stay, my good 
 friends. 
 
 Jack. As you're so pressing ; — ^but we shall trouble you ? 
 Crwmhs. No, no ; it gladdens me that I have met you. Come. 
 
 BvUf. {Aside to Jack.) My cousin's card. 
 Crumhs. What dost mutter 1 
 ' Butlf. Mutter ! La, Mr. Crumbs ! I only presented Timothy's 
 card. Must always think of trade, you know. 
 
 Crumbs. {Madly) Think of trade ! wouldst see me hanged ? 
 
 BvUf. I never neglect business for pleasure. 
 Crumbs^ Beware — beware — and follow me. Come, gentlemen ; 
 come, my good friends. Nay, you first, I entreat. 
 
 [Exit Ceumbs, bowing o.^ Jack and Hyssop. 
 
 BuUf. Beware — beware — to a freeholder ! — I'U — ^no — I'm not 
 
 rich enough to be in a passion. When I've made my fortune, 
 
 then may I indulge in the feelings of a gentleman. [JExit. 
 
 ScEiTB III. — A Rustic Landscape. 
 Eachel discovered, seated on a stile. 
 Rachd. The sun is almost set, and yet I see not Martin. Oh, 
 
12 THE RENT DAY. 
 
 my dear husband — my poor children ! heaven be kind to us, for 
 I've almost lost all other hope. Ha, Martin ! Martin ! 
 
 Martin Hetwood appears at the stile : — crosses it. 
 
 Martin. Eachel — ^here ! Why did you leave the farm ? 
 
 Rachd. I could not stay there and you away. Our children, 
 Martin — they cried for you. I could not speak to them — I could 
 not stay. Now, Martin, your friend ? 
 
 Martin. Friend ! 
 
 Rachel. Oh, do not look so — do not ! 
 
 Martin. I have done that to-day I never did before ; I have 
 wished myself dead — aye, dead — ^that I might be quit of aU ! 
 
 Rachd. And our children, Martin '? 
 
 Martin. 'Twould be better for 'em. There's some spell upon me ! 
 Do what I will it does not thrive. "Why, 'tis certain there's some 
 curse upon me ! 
 
 Rachd. Be patient, dear Martin. 
 
 Martin. Patient ! I have been patient. Harvest afber har- 
 vest's failed ; flock after flock has died ; yet have I smiled 
 upon't, and gone whistling 'bout the fields. I have been hunted 
 by landlord — threatened by the taxman — ^yet I've put a stout 
 heart upon't, and never drooped. Eachel Heywood, you see me 
 now without a shilling — ^without a home — my children with 
 not a week's food before them — my wife near starving — and yet 
 I'm patient. 
 
 Rachd. I never saw you so tiU now. Martin, what has 
 happened 1 
 
 Martin. I may sit down and see my little ones pine day by 
 day ; I may feel their wasting limbs, and hear them scream for 
 bread ; and I may stare in their white &ces, and tell them to be 
 patient. Patient ! 
 
 Rachel Look not so fiercely at me, Martin. Are they not my 
 children — ^mine J Am I not their mother ? Can your love be 
 more than mine ? But no ; you did not mean that. Come, Martin, 
 be not so hasty. What has happened ? 
 
 Martin. No matter : let it rest with me. 
 
 Rachd. But it must not, Martin. How many a time have you 
 said that you could have no secret from Bachel 1 
 
 Martin. I don't remember that. 
 
 Rachel. Look there, Martin. How often have we met at 
 yonder stile ; how often have we waited there for hours, and 
 talked of our wedding-day and all our hopes J— then you have 
 said, — 
 
 Martin. Aye, those were gay days. Then, life seemed full of 
 
THE BENT DAY. 13 
 
 promise as a field of ripening corn. Those were happy 
 times ! 
 
 Bachd. They ■will come back, never fear it. Now, tell me, 
 Martin, have you been to your friend ? 
 
 Martin. I have been to Harry "Wilson. The same Harry 
 Wilson to whom my grandfather lent good guineas to begin 
 the world, 
 
 Roxhd. Toil asked him to lend you the money for a time. 
 
 Martin. I stammered it out somehow. 
 
 Rachd. And did he ? 
 
 Martin. Damn him ! 
 
 Rachel. Oh, Martin ! 
 
 Martin. I thought I was talking to a brother. I told him all, 
 Rachel, all — ^and he heard me with a smile on his face, and said 
 — ^he was sorry. 
 
 Rachel. Then he could not assist us ? 
 
 Martin. No. His money was laid out in ventures, — he had 
 lost by lending ; — ^but he was very sorry. 
 
 Rachel. And he offered nothing 3 
 
 Martin. When I told him we had not a guinea, — not a home 
 we could call ours, — not a certain meaJ, — the tears came into my 
 eyes, and I felt like a thief whilst I said all this ; — well, he 
 wouldn't lend me a farthing ! but, kind soul ! he bade me take a 
 glass of wine, and hope for better days ! I took the wine, and 
 pouring it upon the floor, wished that my blood might be so 
 poured out from my heart if ever again I stood beneath his roof ; 
 and so I left him ! 
 
 Rachel. And your other friend ? 
 
 Martin: No : I asked no other. One denial was enough. 
 
 Rachel. Then every hope is gone. 
 
 Martin. No ; there is one hope yet. And yet I cannot bear to 
 think of it. Baehel, our children must not starve. — What say 
 you, "shall we cross the sea 1 
 
 Rachd. What ! leave the farm ? 
 
 Martin. I ajn offered a place on an estate, far away in the 
 Indies. What say you 1 
 
 Rachel. Leave this place ? 
 
 Martin. Why not? We shall find sun and sky and green 
 fields there. 
 
 Rachel. But not our own fields, not our own sky, not the friends 
 who love us, not the neighbours who respect us. Oh ! think not of 
 it. Our children ! they would die there. Die amongst strangers ! 
 Martin, would you quit our home "i 
 
 Martin. Our home ! where is it ? — ^the workhouse ! — Ha ! ha ! 
 — Our home ! Eachel, it shall be. We'll not be pointed at as 
 
M THE KENT DAY. 
 
 beggars. We'll be no burden to the parish. We'll take our 
 children in our arms, and leave this place for ever. 
 
 Enter Toby Hbtwood. 
 
 Tobj/. Leave this place ! what for, Martin ; have you got scent 
 of a gold-mine t 
 
 Rachel. Oh, speak to him — ^persuade him ! He would go from 
 here — ^go, and die in some foreign place. 
 
 Toby. Nay, he has more wisdom than that. Thou'rt not such 
 a fool, Martin. Come, I'll give you better advice. 
 
 Martin. Spare it for those who ask it : I want none. 
 
 Tobt/. Come, don't snub your younger brother. If you did 
 enter the world ten months and a few minutes before me, you 
 can hear reason. Go to foreign parts, eh ? 
 
 Martin. Shall I stay here and starve ? 
 
 Toby. Come, Martin, we never looked sulkily a,t one another 
 when we were boys ; now, 'twould be too late to begin : we should 
 make no hand of it. Starve ! 
 
 Martin. Ay. Will not the steward seize ! 
 
 Toby. No, no. I have been and talked to him. 
 
 Martin. You didn't beg for ? — 
 
 Toby. Beg! There's little of the beggar in my face, I talked 
 reason to him. I said, a man who hadn't money, couldn't well 
 pay any. All you wanted was time ; and he didn't refuse it. 
 
 JRachel. There, Martin ; I told you not to be cast down. I knew 
 we should yet be happy. 
 
 Martin. Still, there is no certainty that— 
 
 Toby. I tell you what, brother ; you are one of those people 
 who are so very fond of iU-luck, that they run half-way.to meet 
 it. Old Crumbs will give you time — I know it. Go, Rachel ; 
 go to the farm. Wipe your eyes, kiss the. babies, take down the 
 bacon, draw a mug of nut-brown, and Martin and I will find 
 appetites. There, away with you. 
 
 Rachel. You will follow, Martin ? There, look light again. 
 That's well. We shall once more be happy — ^very happy! Fortune 
 will change, be sure of it. [Exit. 
 
 Toby. Change ! to be sure she will : fortune's a woman ! Hang 
 it, Martin ! do muster up a laugh. There, now— practise that 
 fifty times a-day, and care would as soon be hanged as dare to 
 look at you. [Exema. 
 
THE RENT DAY. IS 
 
 Scene IV. — A Room in Crrantla/ Hall. On the wall the portrait 
 of a poung female. 
 
 Enter Gsantlet, shown in by Bullfrog, who is slightly 
 intoxicated. 
 
 Bullfrog. Master Crumbs will be with you, sir, in tlie knocking- 
 dowu of a hammer. From London, sir ? 
 
 Grantley. I am. A fine old mansion this. 
 
 BuUf. Beautiful. Capital piece of oak-tree panuelling that — 
 nice bold carving, sir. Pretty cherubims' heads in the corners. 
 That's a figure of Mercy. Should like to have the selling of the 
 house and furniture. 
 
 Ch-ata. The owner is indebted to your good wishes. 
 
 Bullf. The owner ! Oh, he's a wild fellow ! He's never among 
 us. No, sir ; he's a London spark. His father left him abroad ; 
 and, though the old man's been dead, and the young gentleman's 
 been in England these two years, he has never paid us a visit. 
 
 Chrant. Fond of a town life, I suppose ? 
 
 BuUf. Very fond. And then he's so lucky in his steward. 
 
 Grant. Indeed ? 
 
 Bullf. Oh ! he's a jewel of a man — so punctual with his tenants. 
 There's no keeping a guinea from him, sir. He's a delightful 
 man for our business. 
 
 Grant. And your profession is 
 
 Bullf. Appraiser and auctioneer. Happy to serve you. I made 
 one seizure this morning, shall make another to-night. If you've 
 thoughts of staying amongst us, and want to furnish, I can assist 
 you to two or three good penn'orths. What, sir ? you are looking 
 at that picture ? I don't know the painter. It's not a 
 
 Grant. No — {Musing^ 
 
 Bullf. No. And it's not by — ^by — {Aside: — I must get an 
 Italian smatter, or I shall never be able to knock down the 
 painters.) 
 
 Grant. Is it a family portrait ? 
 
 Bullf. Why, sir, between ourselves, if I were to put it up for 
 auction, I should call it a riddle in an oak frame. 
 
 Grant. Why so 1 
 
 Bullf. Why, more than twice I've caught Mr. Crumbs standing 
 before it looking at it ; and once — you'll hardly believe it, for 
 nobody who knows him would — I caught hira with the tears 
 rolling down his cheeks. Nobody would believe it. 
 
 Grant. He is not generally given to strong emotion ? 
 
 Bullf. Bless you ! no, sir. He's too much a man of business 
 for that. Here he comes. Not a woi'd. 
 
 D 2 
 
18 THE RENT DAY 
 
 L 
 
 Enter CwjUBS from door in scene. 
 
 Crumbs. Your servant, sir. Business must excuse me that 
 I made you wait. {To Bullfrog : Go you and see that Burly is 
 at hand. I seize within this hour. Go.) 
 
 Bull/. I will. (Aside:— hut first for the other bottle with 
 Captain Jack. I must better my taste in wines, if only in the 
 way of business.) [Exit at door. 
 
 Grant. I shall tax your hospitality for some days. This letter 
 is from my friend, Grautle}'. 
 
 Crumbs. He's well, I trust ? (Aside : Curses on it !) (Beads.) 
 " The bearer is my most special friend : treat him with all respect 
 as he were mi/self He will stay to sport some weeh or two" I would, 
 sir, we had had earlier notice. I fear me, you will find us ill- 
 provided. 
 
 Grant. Never fear it. 
 
 Crumbs. In truth, sir, 'tis a duU spot. Here we see no one — 
 hear no one. 
 
 Grant. Indeed, it seems still enough. 
 
 Crumbs. You never hear a sound — not a sound ; unless it be 
 the birds in the rookery, or at night a mouse scratching in the 
 wall. (Loud laughing and knocking within. Silver Jack sings, 
 in a loud voice : 
 
 *' May corn never fail, for that makes good ale ; 
 But a blight to all hempseed, brave boys, brave boys ! 
 But a blight to all hempseed, brave boys ! " 
 
 Grant. Do the mice scratch thus early ? 
 
 Crumbs. I — ^I — (Lavyhing and noise tontinued). 
 
 Grant. The rooks are somewhat jovial. 
 
 Crumbs. It hath never happened nntU now. They are the 
 richest of the 'squire's tenants — devout, reli^ous men ; but 
 to-day being rent-day 
 
 Jack and Hyss. (At the door.) Hallo, Master Crumbs ! 
 
 Crumbs. I come — I — (To Grant.:) Men of worth and repu- 
 tation. 
 
 Jack. (At door.) Master Crumbs ! John Harris ! Fifty pounds 
 reward ! 
 
 Crumbs. Damnation ! (Suehes up and opens folding-doors. 
 Silver Jack and Hyssop are seen, with Bullfrog trying to keep 
 them back. They come down, all flushed with wine ; Jack holding 
 a bottle. Aside to them : I am busy. I will return. Go !) 
 
 Jack. Busy ! Damn business ! 
 
 Bullf. No : don't damn business. I'm very drunk, but I can't 
 damn business : it's profane. 
 
THE BENT DAT. 17 
 
 Jack. To leave your company, and — Oh !. a gentleman ! Intro- 
 duce us. You won't t no ? — I'll introduce myself — (P«& loUh 
 upon the stage, which Bullfrog takes tip, and retires to back _,• seats 
 himself in chair, and drinks.) Servant, sir. Nice house, this. 
 Capital wine ; yes, and a civil steward. Sir, I beg your friend- 
 ship. K you're for anything in this way, I — {Ttiking from his 
 pocket a pack of cards.) 
 
 Hyss. Ay, sir ; or if there be music in this — {Rattling dice in box.) 
 
 Crrant. {Aside: Devout, religious men !) 
 
 Jack. "We're not avaricious. We play for anything, from a 
 marvedi to a thousand guineas. 
 
 Crumbs. No, no ; the gentleman does not play. Go in, my good 
 friends. 
 
 Grant. {To CRDirea) With your leave, I'U look about the 
 grounds ? 
 
 Jack. Fine spot, nice house, good wine — ay, and — {Looking at 
 portrait) — pretty pictures. Well, I say — (jTo Hyssop) — isn't that 
 an angel ! 
 
 Byss. I can't tell : Tve not been used to such company. 
 
 Grant. It is, indeed, beautiful. {To Ceumbs.) Tell me whose 
 portrait is it ? Did you know the lady 1 
 
 Crumbs. She was a — a favourite of the late 'squire's. She's 
 long since dead. 
 
 JoAik. A favourite and dead ! Ha ! I suppose the 'squire was 
 fond of her, and so broke her heart. 
 
 Cruwhs. How dare you ? ■ 
 
 Jack. {Aside to him : Phoo ! phoo ! " John Hams ! fifty 
 pounds reward ! ") 
 
 Crumbs. {To Geantlbt.) Come, sir, I will show you 
 
 Grant. Do not quit your friends. With your leave, I'll go 
 alone. Gentlemen, I am the humblest of your servants. {Aside : 
 Devout, religious men !) [Exit. 
 
 Hyss. A pretty spoken fellow. 
 
 Jaxk. And a rich one. Did you see the diamonds on his 
 fingers ? I warrant me his pockets are — umph ! a prize ? {To 
 Crumbs.) What say you ? 
 
 Crumbs. I — I ! — 
 
 Jack, rd forgot. Tou only rob now as a steward. You're 
 one of the regulars. 
 
 Crumbs. Bob ! harkye ! — 
 
 Jack. Come, come, John Harris ; no big words. I've some- 
 thing here wouldn't look so well framed as that red-lipped young 
 lady. 
 
 Cmmhs. Well, well, we're friends ; but be cautious, I implore 
 you. Come, you shall have more wine, wine ! 
 
IR THE KENT DAY. 
 
 Jack. "Wine! Ay,, we will have more. And then for our 
 plans, old boy ; then for our plans. Why, how lucky it was that 
 we met one another ! You see, there were a few pressing inquiries 
 about us in London, so we thought we'd take the benefit of 
 country air, until the anxiety of our friends cooled a little. But 
 then to think of the luck of our meeting ! ArVt you delighted X 
 {Embracing him^ 
 
 Crwnhs. Yes, yes. But go in. You shall have wine. TO go 
 see to it. 
 
 Jack. Wine ! wine ! Ha ! ha ! We drink courage with wine. 
 Success to the grapes, — {Sings) 
 
 " But a blight to all hempseed, hrare boys, brave boys, 
 A blight to all hempseed, brave boys ! " 
 
 [Crumbs forces Jace and Hyssop into room in, scene. 
 
 Crumbs. The devil has forsaken me ! To be tracked out after 
 so many years ! This visitor, too ! No, my course is clear. But 
 how to dispose of that ruffian t Ha ! he has been prating of 
 some woman ; — ^by the description 'tis Heywood's wife. — I'll put 
 him in possession of the farm, and thus rid me of him, whilst^ — 
 let me see — 
 
 Bull/. (Asleep.) What shall we say for this wine, fifty years in 
 bottle ? Thank'e, sir ; it's going,— going,— (Xe^s bottle /all.) 
 
 Crumbs. Scoundrel ! Listening ? 
 
 Bvllf. Dreaming — only dreaming. I just knocked down the 
 sweetest ten dozen 
 
 Crumbs. Up, or I'll strangle you '. Is't thus you mind your 
 business 1 
 
 Bull/. Business ! — that's enough. Cry business! — and, if I don't 
 move, you may send for the undertaker. 
 
 Crumbs. Hence ! 
 
 Bull/. I'm going. Business is business. Capital wine. {Stngs) 
 " And a blight to all hempseed " — 
 
 Crumbs. Hence ! hence ! {Forces Mm off.) 
 
 Scene Y.—The Interior 0/ Hetwood's Farm-House. 
 
 Martin, Eaohel, and their Children, sealed at table, with Tobt, 
 Beanstalk, and his Dame. 
 
 Beanstalk. Come, Martin ; here be better times ! So • we 
 shall be jovial yet, man. * 
 
 Rai^el. Ay, that we shall ; and so I tell him, farmer • but he 
 will not heed me. ' 
 
THE RENT DAY. 19 
 
 Martin. We've had nought but ill-luck since the old man 
 died. 
 
 Beans. 'Twas awfully sudden, to be sure. 
 
 Martin. Here he was, one minute as strong and as lightsome 
 as ever ; when death fell upon him like a bolt, and he lay upon 
 that bed, panting like a run-down hare. 
 
 Tiiby. Odd's, Martin ! look into your ale — you'll see something 
 better than dying men. Our grandfather's in heaven. Here's 
 to the memory of him ! Let him rest. 
 
 Martin. I tell yon I can't but think of him. Abroad or at 
 home I see him. Sometimes, when I'm falling into sleep, his eyes 
 seem to stare close at my face, and I start and gasp again ; and 
 then I see him looking and pointing at that chair. You. know, 
 farmer, he'd sit in it for hours, with one of the youngsters on his 
 knee. — Still I see him with his hand stretched forth, and his 
 throat working, as though the words were there but couldn't out ; 
 ■ — and so he died. Depend on't, there was something on the old 
 man's mind. 
 
 Toln/. Brother, shall I go to the church-yard and bring you a 
 skull and cross-bones 1 — for, in your present humour, they're 
 your fittest company. 
 
 Martin. I'm a fool to think so. Come, farmer, your hand ; 
 Toby, yours ; Rachel, lass, we'll be merry yet. Here's to better 
 times ! 
 
 Toby. I warrant me, there's more comfort in that than in 
 ghosts' eyes at midnight. "Why, it's up in your cheek already, 
 man. Take another. 
 
 Martin. With all my heart. And again I'll drink, " here's 
 better times ! " 
 
 £nter Polly Brigos. 
 
 Polly. Oh, farmer Heywood ! Here comes the steward and 
 that nasty appraiser, and the beadle ; and all the folks say they're 
 coming here to seize. 
 
 Martin. Eachel, stand aside ! — that gun ! 
 
 Rachel. Oh, Martin ! husband ! for the love of heaven ! 
 
 Toby. What would you, Martin i 
 
 Martin. Shoot the first man that crosses yonder threshold 
 Let me go ! 
 
 Beans. Come, come, Martin, be not rash ; thee'st no reason to 
 be so. 
 
 Martin. No reason ! You have a wife and children, yet say 
 I have no reason ! Are not here five — five bitter reasons 1 The 
 gun! 
 
 Toh/. Martin, Martin, are you mad ? 
 
20 THE RENT DAY. 
 
 Martin. {Falling despairingly into the chair.) I am mad. God 
 help me ! — I am mad ! 
 
 Enter Crumbs. 
 
 Crumbs. This is a disagreeable business. 
 
 Toby. I should know that by youi- looking so pleased. 
 
 Crumbs. I want my due. 
 
 Toby. You'll have it some day. I wish the law allowed me to 
 give it you now. 
 
 Beans. Come, come, master Crumbs ; have compassion. 
 
 Toby. Compassion ! — Tell him to have three heads. 
 
 Rachel. Do not anger him. {To Crumbs:) Good sir, give us 
 time, — but a short time : have mercy. — ^Kneel, children, kneel. 
 
 Martin. Stand ! if you're of my blood. They are the children 
 of an honest man, and must not kneel before a villain. 
 
 Crumbs. Mighty well. You owe a twelvemonth's rent, and, 
 instead of money, you give blustering words. Rent-day passes 
 lightly with you. 
 
 Martin. Lightly ! Farmer, as I am a man, I have lived a 
 whole year in torment. Day has been all misery to me, and bed 
 no bed. Still, as rent day would come, I have lain awake whole 
 nights, and every night was more dreadful than the past. Then 
 I've tried to think no more, but dug my head into my pillow and 
 fixed my fingers tightly in my hair, and tried to stun myself to 
 sleep ; — ^but all would not do. There appeared a something 
 hanging over me — about me ; — lieavy and Stifling it seemed — 
 and my blood would run hot and cold — and so I've lain and 
 watched, and prayed the daylight in. The next night worse, for 
 it brought the time still nearer. And when at last the rent-day 
 came, and I without one groat, I've crossed yon door, not with 
 an English farmer's tread, but with a thief s pace crawling to the 
 gallows ! This is to pass rent-day lightly ! 
 
 Crumbs. Why not give up the farm? Why not leave the 
 house ? 
 
 Martin. Why not ? My father's father grew grey under this 
 roof ; and sooner should these beams fall and knock my brains 
 out than I would quit them. Here I was bom, and here I will 
 die. If you would take me through yon door, master Crumbs, 
 I tell you it must be heels foremost. Leave the house ! I almost 
 love it like a living thing. 
 
 Crumbs. All very fine. For my part, I can't see why one house 
 shouldn't be as good as another. 
 
 Martin. Likely you cannot. But I have crawled a little child 
 upon this floor — the very door-step is worn with my feet. I have 
 
THE RENT DAY. 21 
 
 seen my mother, fathers, die here ! — I — I tell you here I first saw 
 the light, and here I'll close my eyes. 
 
 Rachel. Dear Martin, be calm. 
 
 Crumbs. You'll not oppose the law ? 
 
 Martin. I know not that. I tell yon, don't provoke me. 
 Here I sit — ^in my grandfather's chair : in the chair of that old 
 man, who, for forty years, paid rent and tithe to the last guinea. 
 Here I sit ! and I warn you put not a hand upon a stick or 
 thread ! 
 
 Crumbs. Come in, friends. 
 
 Enter Bullfrog and Burly, followed by Neighbours. 
 
 Martin. I warn you back. 
 
 Burly. What sa}' you to our warrant, master Heywood 1 
 
 Martin. I tell you not to tempt me. I cannot trust myself, 
 for I am desperate ! Leave the farm ! 
 
 Crumbs. {To Btjllf. and Burly.) You know your duties. [Exit. 
 
 Bull/. Business is business. {Taking inventory!) One bed- 
 stead — 
 
 Martin. Let me come at them ! 
 
 Toby. Nay, nay, brother ! 
 
 Rachel. Husband ! 
 
 Children. Father ! 
 
 Martin. Rachel ! — my poor babes ! — take all, take all ! — {Sinls 
 into a chair.) 
 
 BuUf. One bedstead — one table— ^ — - 
 
 Beans, and Neighbours. Shame ! shame ! 
 
 Toby. Blood-suckers ! 
 
 Bullf. One toasting-fork — one bird-cage — one baby's rattle — 
 
 Martin. God help us ! God help us ! 
 
 AOT II. 
 
 Scene L — The interior o/'Heywood's Farm. Day breaking. 
 Polly Briggs discovered, seated. 
 
 Polly. Dear me ! how heavily the time goes,— and the farm, 
 — I declare it doesn't look as it used to do. I'm bo tired — ^yet 
 I must keep my eyes open for company's sake. 
 
 Enter Rachel. 
 Rachel. They sleep soundly. Poor children ! Heaven only 
 
22 THE RENT DAY. 
 
 knows where they will rest another night. I stood and watched 
 them ; and they looked so innocent — so happy — they smiled, 
 and my heart died within me. 
 
 PoUy. Don't take on so. Martin will return with good news, 
 never fear. 
 
 Rachel. I'm so wretched, I have lost even hope. My pretty 
 babes ! had we been always beggars, then you could have borne 
 cold, nipping winds, rough words, uncertain food ; — ^bnt now, 
 they'll pine, and so they'll die. Even our children wUl be taken 
 from us. 
 
 Polh/. Well, I never thought you could talk after this 
 fashion. 
 
 Rachel. Nor I. But then I had not seen my infants lying 
 on a bed no longer theirs. Is it not almost daybreak ? Had 
 Martin been successful, he would surely liave been back. 
 
 Polly. Now, why will you think the worst 1 I shouldn't wonder 
 if he returned with a big bag of money. I'll go to the end of 
 the lane, and see if either he or Toby be coming. 
 
 Rachel. No, do not leave me — the stranger up-staii-s. — ^Yet go, 
 but do not stay. (Exit Polly.) Sure the morning will never 
 come. Oh, yes ! 'twill come too soon. Then another, and another, 
 and we are houseless beggars. I walk about the place like a 
 restless ghost. To know the worst were better than to re- 
 main thus. (Sits.) I am worn and tired — even too tired to 
 sleep. (Fatigued, she falls asleep.) 
 
 Enter Silver Jack. 
 
 Jatik. All quiet. Harris must have put some devil into that 
 wine, or I had never slept so. Here am I in possession, — a 
 watch-dog over spoons and platters, whilst Hyssop, I waxTant 
 me, is rarely plucking that new-comer. Jack, Jack, so it has 
 ever run ; a pair of bright eyes has been a will-o'-the-wisp to 
 you, leading you through quagmires all your life. Ha ! she's 
 here and sleeping. How tired, pale, yet pretty she seems ! 
 She looks good, and — pshaw ! we all look good asleep. How 
 still the place is ; no one here but ourselves ; yes, the children. 
 I just passed through their room, and saw them looking as 
 
 fresh and as rosy — I felt as I hadn't felt for many a day. 
 
 'Twas a fool's moment, and is gone. (Approaching her ; she wakes^ 
 
 Radiel. Martin ! Martin ! You here ? 
 
 Jack. I couldn't well sleep, so I thought I'd come down and 
 keep you company. This is a much pleasanter room. 
 
 Rachel. It is at your service. I can go to my children's. • 
 
 (Going) 
 
THE RENT DAY. 23 
 
 Jack. They're all fast asleep. Bless their little hearts ! I 
 stood and looked at them just now till I quite loved them. 
 They are very handsome. 
 
 Rachel. And most unfortunate. 
 
 Jack. Why, this is an awkward business. But you may yet 
 find friends. 
 
 Racket. Friendship ! 
 
 Jack. We sometimes find it where we had least thoughts of 
 it. Your children are very like you. 
 
 Rachel. It has been remarked. I — (Croing.) 
 
 Jack. Yes, full purses ought to go with full hearts. 
 
 Rachel. 'Twould save much misery. I would your employer — 
 
 Jack. My employer ! Why, to be sure, old Crumbs was 
 once my master : but times are changed ; we are now bosom 
 friends. I am here only to oblige him. 
 
 Rachel. Your task cau hardly be a plea-sant one. 
 
 Jack. Nay, 'tis very pleasant. Look you, I have been "rolling 
 this many years about the world, and this (displaying a purse) 
 has still Vieen gathering. Those pretty babes of your's. — I'm 
 mightily taken with them. Where is your husband ? 
 
 Rachel. Gone, as a last hope, to try to borrow. He should 
 have been back by this. 
 
 Jack. I never found this purse so troublesome before. WiU 
 you lighten it for me ? Come, no ceremony. You want money, 
 I don't. 
 
 Rachel. Oh, this is kind, most kind. Yet, from a stranger — 
 
 JcLch. Pshaw ! ill-fortune now and then makes sudden ac- 
 quaintances. 
 
 Rachel. Indeed, sir, I— I cannot. 
 
 Jack. Yet the poor babes must sleep somewhere to-morrow. 
 Come ! 
 
 Rachel. My husband will speedily be here ; he, perhaps — 
 
 Jack. Nay, when I'm in the humour, I wouldn't be balked. 
 Now, or never — hang it, take the purse. — (Forces the purse into 
 her hand.') 
 
 Rachel. My husband wiU return it with a thousand thanks. — 
 My children are saved ! Oh, you have made us most happy ! 
 
 Jack. That's euough for me. As for returning the money, 
 that may rest with yourself. 'Twould have been hard for you 
 to see your husband in a gaol ; yourself and little ones without 
 a home. . ■ : 
 
 Rachel. Only to hear you name it, nkakes me tremble. : ■ 
 
 Jack. But there's no such hard fortune for you. > No : you 
 may stay in your farm, have your children about you, whilst all 
 fears of beggary and the workhouse — why, you seem ilL 
 
24 THE RENT DAY. 
 
 Rachel. The sudden joy — 'tis nothing, and will pass. 
 
 Jack. Come, sit down — {She sits) — There, you are lookup 
 better whilst I speak. {Hanging over the chair) As for the 
 money, if you like to have it as a gift, 'tis a bai'gain between us. 
 So, to make it binding, just one kiss. — {Throwing his arms about 
 her.) "Why do you look so at me ? 
 
 Rachel. I was deceived ! I thought I saw a friend. I was 
 deceived. 
 
 Jack. Tush ! I am your friend. Come, one kiss ! 
 
 Rachel. There {dropping the purse at his feet) is your money. 
 {&oing.) 
 
 Jack. Will you be blind to your own good 1 I tell you the 
 money shall be yours — all yours. I care not for one penny 
 of it. 
 
 Rachel. Be silent, and let me go. 
 
 Jack. Think of your children — your husband — 
 
 Rachel. I do, and scorn you ! 
 
 Jack. Are you mad ? Listen to my offer. 
 
 Rachel. Had you made it when the world went well with us, 
 ' — ^when this roof sheltered a happy family — when every day 
 brought its plenty, its content — when we had no fear of poverty 
 or persecution- — even then, the thought of that you purpose 
 should have brought the blushes to your face, and made you 
 dumb with shame ; — ^but now, — with want at our hearth — a hus- 
 band mad with sorrow— children unprotected — ^now to offer, 
 — oh, you have a heart of stone, or you could ne'er have 
 thought it ! 
 
 Jad:. Hear reason, and take the purse. I tell you I do not 
 mean — 
 
 Rachel. You mean the worst. He who would destroy a 
 happy fire-side, is vile and siiameless ; but he who insults its 
 wretchedness, is base indeed. 
 
 Jack. Base ! Look you — zounds ! to be whipped by a woman's 
 tongue ! Come, don't let us part so. This is all very well, but, 
 but — hang it ! can't we understand one another ! 
 
 Rachel. Oh, Martin ! Mai-tin ! 
 
 Jack. He may sleep in a prison to-morrow. 
 
 Rachel, Let me pass. I must, will, go to my children. 
 
 Jack. And they may want a breakfast. 
 
 Rachel. Villain ! though you insult the wife, have pity on the 
 mother. {He seizes her) Let me go ! 
 
 Jack. Not now — I have gone too far. 
 
 Rachel. Oh ! you will not ! Mercy ! Maj-tin ! He comes not. 
 
 Jack. You may rave ! You've roused me, and I'll not be 
 trifled with. 
 
THE RENT DAT. 25 
 
 Rachel. Help ! help ! My husband ! — ^he is here ! 
 
 [Jack, surprised, falls hacky — she rmkes to t7t£ door, and seizes a 
 woodcutter's iUl, lying on some wood near the wall.'] 
 
 Jack. Tricked ! 
 
 Rachel. You see, a sound will mate a coward of the Tricked ! 
 Do not come near me ; pray, do not. This, though you die, shall 
 protect me. 
 
 Jach. Well, well, I own I've been wrong — T ask pardon. — 
 Come back. Put your trust — 
 
 Rachel. In this 3 I say again, stir not ! Stay beneath this 
 roof! Stay in the poor man's house you would have outraged ! 
 Stay, — ^blush, — and beg to be forgiven. \^Eicit at door. 
 
 Jack. Gone ! — what devU is it that cows me % Ha ! She 
 flies down the lane. That copse ! — yes, though I .run to the 
 gallows, I would follow her. \Exit. 
 
 Bulf. {Putting his head from between bed-curtains!) Eun 
 to the gallows ! — ^you needn't hurry yourself ; the gallows will 
 wait for you. Well, this I call an adventiire ! Now, if this 
 cause comes to trial, I'm witness ready for either side. As I'm 
 a sworn appraiser it's almost daylight — ^why, I must have been 
 asleep these seven or eight hours, and nobody knew it. This 
 all comes of the steward's wine. Eh ? I hear a footstep, I must 
 sleep and listen. {Disappears^ 
 
 Enter Polly. 
 
 Polly. Why, Eachel ! Oh ! gone upstairs, I suppose, to cry 
 over the poor little things ! Well, I've no good news for her. — 
 I went all.down the lane, and came back over the fields, and saw 
 no signs of Martin or Toby either. If these are the troubles 
 that are to come upon the married, I'm sure a poor girl is better 
 single. There's nothing but vexation in this world ! — and, dear 
 me, I'm so sleepy ! — I haven't had a single wink all night, and 
 it's a shame, too ; for there stood the bed so inviting, as though 
 it said, do comfe and lie down ! There'll be no harm in sitting 
 upon it. {Sits on the bed.) How I should like to lie down. 
 
 Bulf. Well, there's plenty of room for two ! 
 
 Polly. Thieves ! Murder! 
 
 Enter Tobt at door. 
 Tohy. Polly !— Bullfrog ! 
 Polly. Oh ! the wretch ! 
 T<Ay. What's this ?— speak ! 
 
 Bvlf. How can I, with your fingers at my windpipe % 
 Tohy. Answer me ! what is all this % 
 
26 THE RENT DAY. 
 
 PoVj/. Yes, explain, Mr. Bullfrog. 
 
 Bulf. {Half-aside to Pollt.) Don't be a fool, and nobody will 
 be the wiser. 
 
 Polly. The wiser, sir ? — ^the wiser ? 
 
 Toby. Speak, I say! 
 
 Bulf. {Aside: Now I'll talk nettles to him.) Well, Mr. Hey- 
 wood ; the fact is, 1 — I am but a man. 
 
 Toby. Why, no ; I never took you for an angel. 
 
 Bulf. Perhaps not, Mr. Heywood ; but the fair sex — the fair 
 sex can discover modest merit. 
 
 Polly. Now, as I am alive, I was here alone, — and never know- 
 ing that that wretch — 
 
 Bulf. Fie ! wretch ? What, now J call me a wretch 1 
 
 PoUy. That monster ! — 
 
 Bulf. Come, no scaudaL If you wUl tell the truth, I can't 
 help it ; but no scandal. 
 
 Polly. That— that— 
 
 Bulf. There, don't press her : you see her feelings — 
 
 Toby. Master Bullfrog, you've had a marvellous escape. 
 
 Bulf. How ? 
 
 Toby. In not lighting on as great a fool as yourself ; else, my 
 life on't, your head had been broken. 
 
 Bulf. A fool ! And have you the audacity to call me a fool ? 
 
 Toby. And not all fool : for the rogue is so equally mixed, 
 there's no saying where either fool or rogue begins or ends. 
 
 Bulf. Fool ! rogue ! the law will tell you this is slander. 
 
 Toby. I know it : I'm speaking the truth. 
 
 Bulf. And the law shall mend my character. 
 
 Toby. The character that needs law to mend it, is hardly worth 
 the tinkering. In one word, how came you here ? 
 
 Polly. That's right. Make him teU you. 
 
 Bulf. Tell ! well, you're a courageous woman ! What then, 
 you've no suspicion ? — there's no making you unhappy 1 
 
 Toby. No. 
 
 Bulf. Mrs. Heywood will be a fortunate woman. 
 
 Toby. What put you into that bed ? 
 
 PoUy. Yes, what put you into that bed ! 
 
 Bulf. If you must know, — this. {Producing bottle from his 
 pocket.) This put me into bed ; it's done as much for many a 
 man. 
 
 Toby. What do you mean 1 
 
 Bulf. Mean ? — Didn't I attend here as sworn appraiser, and 
 didn't I make the inventory 3 Yes, here it is : " One cradle 
 one toasting fork," — all right ; move a stick, and I'll indict 
 you ! Well, there was a great noise in the family ; one running 
 
THE RENT DAY. 27 
 
 one way — one anotlier, — children crying — women faiuUng, a 
 smell of burnt feathers — and your brother swearing, enough to 
 shock any christian who knows what virtue is, and pays his 
 way. I had brought a little wine from the squire's, and, all of a 
 sudden, I found myself quite alone here, so I set down upon the 
 bed, and I drank and drank ; then I got on the bed, then between 
 the blankets ; pulled-to the curtains, looked at my inventory — 
 (some of the things will sell well) — said my prayers, — droned 
 a hymn, and went to sleep. Then, — no, I pass over the rest : 
 when you came in, — you — but I musn't go any further. 
 
 Tohy. Yes, you must. 
 
 Bwif. I tell you, I can't. 
 
 Tohy. I tell you, you must — ^you must go over that door-step 
 If you remain here two minutes longer, 'twill not be on your 
 legs, I promise you. 
 
 Bulf. I give you warning ! Semember, I'm a sworn ap- 
 praiser. 
 
 Toh/. You're the better able to judge for what you ought to 
 be knocked down. — Come, pack ! 
 
 Bulf. I'm going, but only threaten me, and I'll call down the 
 man from upstairs — him who's in possession. — (Aside z They 
 mus'n't know he's gone, or they'll block up the premises.) 
 
 Toby. I've given you fair words. 
 
 Btdf. Keep to 'em ; you can't do better. Ha ! drop your arm, 
 or I'U. call the man. If you put me in bodily fear, it's no fault 
 of mine ! — Now, !MJ-. Toby ? — here ! my good man. My good 
 man. 
 
 Tohy. Will you go 1 
 
 Bidf. I will, (aside : to give Crumbs notice.) Ha ! ITl call ! 
 — ^I tell you, I'U calL As for that young woman, if you demand 
 any satisfaction ? — oh,' you don't? well, it's very prudent of you. 
 — Don't stir a step, or down he comes. — And now— ^now (aside : 
 to put another man in.) My good man, see that they don't move 
 a stick. [Exit. 
 
 PoUy. If you'll believe me, my dear Toby, I never dreamt 
 that that wretch — that villain — that — 
 
 Toby. I'm sure you must be intimate with him by the correct- 
 ness of your description. Let the fool go. Where's Rachel ? 
 
 PoUy. With the children. Have you seen notliing of Martin ? 
 
 Toby. No. For once I feax the worst. But my mind's made 
 up. I'll go to London. 
 
 PoUy, Mei-cy save us ! To London ? , , , , , V' , ' 
 
 Tohy. To London ; though I walk every inch of the wayj and 
 live upon blackberries. I'll see the young squire himsel£ 
 
 PoUy. But why go, — why not write ? 
 
28 THE BENT DAY. 
 
 Toby. No. A letter's but a scribbled bit of paper, to be tossed 
 aside, and there an end. No ! He shall look in my face, and 
 hear me talk. And if I don't bring the blood into his cheek, 
 why, there's not a blush to be had out of all London. 
 
 PoUy. Don't be rash. Do but consider who the squire is, and 
 who you are. _ - 
 
 Toby. That's what I intend to let him know. I shall tell him, 
 if landlords are too prood or too idle to look after the comforts 
 of their tenants, and to live upon their own lands, why 'tis a 
 great pity that Providence should have entrusted them with any. 
 What ! havn't we paid truly for sixty years ! and now, that a 
 rascal should screw and grind and crush us — No ! 'tis a good 
 thought, for it's come so late. — I'll go to London. 
 
 Polly. Martin may yet bi-ing good news. 
 
 Tohy. He may ; but I'll provide against the worst. You go 
 to Eachel. I'll be hence soon. My luggage won't stop my speed 
 upon the road. Yes, and now I have it, I'll once more to the 
 mansion : and if old Crumbs be as deaf as ever, I'll see if the 
 'squire himself be not less hai'd of hearing than his servant. 
 
 [Exeunt severally. 
 
 Scene II. — A Copse. 
 
 Enter Eachel hurriedly. 
 
 Rachel. I hear his step. Yes, there again ! 'Tis he. Could 
 I but gain the main road ! I cannot stir. I am almost dead 
 with grief and fear. {She hides.) 
 
 Enter Su-ver Jack, in pursuit. 
 Jack. This was the place. I'm sure 'twas here ! 
 
 Enter Hyssop, hastUy. 
 
 Hyss. Jack, is't you ? 
 
 Jack Ay ; did you pass a woman in fast flight ? 
 
 Hyss. A woman ! — wiU you never be serious ? — Come with 
 me. 
 
 Jack. Stop tin I have found my runaway. 
 
 HysB. And lost a golden prize. I was coming for you. 
 
 Jaclc. A prize ! What do you mean ? 
 
 Eyss. That visitor at the mansion. Why, he has heaps of 
 guineas, rings, and a brilliant snuff-box that alone would make us 
 
 Jack. WeU ? 
 
 Hys^. Well ! — If you're the Silver Jack of yesterday they 
 must be ours. 
 
THE RENT DAY. 29 
 
 Jaxl. How ? 
 
 Myss. Easily. He is now in bed. I have left open all the 
 doors. — (Eachel shows herself through the trees, listening.) — ^We 
 can get into his chamber, and then — 
 
 Jach. But if he -wake and resist. 
 
 Hyss. A knife ! 
 
 Jach. The booty is large ? 
 
 Hyss. I tell you, enough to set us up. 
 
 Jach Where the devil can that woman have flown ? 
 
 Hyss. A woman ! — It's a pity women aren't thief-catchers, for 
 they'd only have to show you the darbies, and you'd run your 
 hands Luto 'em. Will you join me, or shall I do the work alone. 
 
 Jach. I'm for you. But you're too much of a philosopher: 
 you should consider one's little frailties. Man was born to love, 
 and that's my weakness. If he stir, here are two buUets for his 
 brains. The doors are open, you say ? 
 
 Hyss. Every one. (Eachel glides off before them) And now, 
 for the shiners. [Exewnt. 
 
 Enter Martin. 
 
 Martin. Poor Eachel ! I hadn't the heart to go to the farm. 
 Eor her — for my children's sake, I'U once more try to move the 
 steward. It 'almost chokes me to think of it; but it must be 
 tried. Every one refuses me: 'tis my last hope. If that fe,il 
 too, 'tis needless to whimper about it, — good bye, &rm 1 I have 
 promised to give my answer to-day, and it may be, to-night we 
 sleep upon the sea. Now, for master Crumbs : to beg and pray, 
 and — be refused. He is an early riser, and I may now see him 
 without fear of intemiptioiu If he denies me, why then for a 
 foreign home, for I have lost my own. [Exit. 
 
 Scene HL — An old Oallery in Orantley HaU. Door in scene 
 leading into apartment. : 
 
 Enter Htssop and Jack. Eachel follows, and retires at bach. 
 
 Hysa. You see aU the doors were open ? 
 
 Jach. Tes ; it's what I call housebreaking made easy. No one 
 stirring either. Where's Crumbs ? : 
 
 Myss. Vanished in a blue flame, for what I know. I hope he 
 means no mischief, but I've scarcely seen him since he went with 
 you to the farm. Should he blow on us now ? 
 
 Jaxh. He dares not, it would cost him his neck. 
 
 Hyss. Yet we'U not trust him. We'll do this piece of work 
 on our own behal£ Then — for I've; left nothing unprovided — 
 
 £ 
 
30 THE RENT DAT. 
 
 there are a couple of horses, ready saddled, in. the stable ; we'll 
 spare not the spur ; and once o£^ let the steward settle the 
 account as best he may. 
 
 Jach. Where does the spark sleep ? 
 
 Ht/ss. In yonder chamber. I have secured the key. The bird 
 is nicely caged. Come ! 
 
 [Qoes to the door ; opem it, leaomg the Tcey in. Jack pulh Hyssop lack. 
 
 Jack. Stay, Prank. I've been thinkflig of it— there must be 
 no blood in this. 
 
 Hyss That's at the option of the gentleman. I've no objection, 
 if it can be made comfortable to him. 
 
 Jack. 'Twould make a stir that might be fatal to us. You 
 must promise me. 
 
 Hyss. As far as I can keep my temper I do. Now, then ; for 
 there's no time to lose. {At this momeiii Kachel, who has secured 
 the key, glides into the roam. She is seen hy Hyssop, who staggers 
 back.) Ha ! trapped ! 
 
 Jack. What do you mean ? 
 
 Hyss. A woman entered that room ! 
 
 Jack, You di-eam ! [Mttshes to door, and looks through keyhole. 
 
 Hyss. There ! I hear her footstep. 
 
 Jaxk. Why, no ! yes — it is the farmer's wife ! 
 
 Hyss. And there ! (Rachel is heard to bolt the door.) She 
 bolts the door. We're rarely gulled ! Now, there's but one 
 plan. We'H force the way. 
 I Jack. Hold ! her husband ! 
 
 Enter Martin. 
 
 Martin. All the doors open, yet not a soul about. (Sees them.) 
 Is the steward ? — {Aside : Surely 'tis he who was put into the 
 farm?) 
 
 Jack, {Aside to B.rBSOT: Peace !— I have it.) You wanted the 
 steward ? 
 
 Martin. Yes. Did he not put you into my house? 
 
 Jack. Aye, but I've finished my errand there : 'twas not the 
 pleasantest. 
 
 Martin. I come to beg for time. Had I any one to intercede 
 forme — 
 
 Joe*. You maybe quite easy. You have a friend, depend on't. 
 
 Martin. I know not where. 
 
 Jack. There! In that room is a young London spark, the 
 
 'squire's acquaintance — ^the door bolted, and with him yes 
 
 you'll keep the farm : — ^'twas he who sent me to your house. 
 
 Martin. 'Re I For what! 
 
THE KENT DAT. 31 
 
 Jaxk. You've a pretty wife, he has plenty of money. — I delivered 
 my message, and there your wife is. 
 
 Martin. My wife ! villain ! Unsay the lie — upon your knees 
 unsay it — or, were you the father of all falsehood, I would not 
 quit you. 
 
 Jack. Leave your hold ! I say, your wife. 
 
 Martin. My Eachel ! Why, how you look at me ! 
 
 Jack. BInock at the door, perhaps she'll answer. 
 
 Martin. I am a wretched, ruined man ; but do not play with 
 me. Grief has worn me, but revenge will make me strong. If 
 this be a lie ! — 
 
 Jaxk. Knock at the door. 
 
 Martin. There seems blood before my eyes, and I am of a 
 sudden weak and old. 
 
 Jack. Knock at the door. 
 
 Martin. I'U tear his life out ! 
 
 Ht/ss. Why, that's manfuL Here's that will help you. 
 
 [Cocking a pistol and pulling it into Maetin's hmd, 
 
 Martin. Come out, I say ! 
 
 Enter Geautlet, armed with a hrace of pistols, Eackel 
 following Mm. 
 
 Chant. {SpeaKng as he enters.) Villains ! I am armed ! 
 
 Martin. Die ! 
 
 Rachel. What would you ? 
 
 Martin. What ! you cling to him, — before my eyes ! — Eachel 
 Heywood, I forgive that man ! {Dropping the pistol. Jack and 
 Hyssop steal off.) Let him but send a bullet through the heart 
 you've broken, and I will thank him with my latest breath. 
 
 Grant. This your husband, — and leagued with the robbers ! 
 
 Rachd. No, no ; he knows not what he says. Grief has 
 distracted him. 
 
 Martin. Tes, grief Falsehood where I hoped for truths 
 scorn where I had looked for love — shame, where I had built 
 my greatest pride. 
 
 Grant. Go, I pardon you — I spare you. 
 
 Martin. Pardon! Spare! I have at home four motherless 
 children ; — ^what, do you spare me them ? Will you leave the 
 poor man one miserable comfort ? 
 
 Rachel. Husband! 
 
 Martin. Can your lips yet say that word ! Heaven forgive 
 you ! — can you yet speak it J Let it be for the last time ! Never 
 let us look again upon each other's face. Away ! My heart 
 
 E 2 
 
32 THE RENT DAY. 
 
 sinks at your touch ! I leave you, and may God pardon and 
 protect you ! [Ruslies off. 
 
 Rachel. Martin ! Martin ! Oh. ! he is lost with misery ! 
 
 Grant. Fear not — ^for your sake I will not accuse him. 
 
 Raclid. Accuse ! 
 
 Grant. Nay, I perceive and value your motives. Tou would 
 not suffer your husband to become a criminal. You preserved, 
 it may be, my life. I thank you and pardon him 
 
 Raclid. And was it for this I saved you ?— for this have 
 endured the bitterest words that wife can listen to \ — for this 
 have made him mad ? Sir, T never saw you tiU this hour. I 
 never heard of you till named by villains who would have 
 destroyed you. Then I flew to give you warning — I saved you ; 
 and you give me this reward, — suspicion of my husband. 
 
 Grant. Tour eloquence, my good woman, does not deceive me. 
 The other villains shall lae pursued. For your husband, trust 
 me, he is safe. \E!cit. 
 
 Rachel. 'Tis no mattei-. — I will go home. Home ! Did he 
 not forbid me ? Oh ! he knew not what he said ! And yet he 
 found me — Oh ! that he should harbour such a thought ! 1 will 
 fly and explain all ; for now I should go mad to live one moment 
 fi'om him. \Exit. 
 
 Enter Ckumbs. 
 
 Crumbs. All is stored — all packed — all the harvest of my 
 thrift and enmity. Ye cursed walls, I leave ye to your owner — 
 to him whom I had vainly hoped to beggar — to sink into the 
 dust a wretched, undone spendthrift ! — ^May ye become the haunt 
 of gamesters, — of hungry, smooth-faced knaves, who flatter and 
 devour ! May ye be staked upon a card, and pass from him 
 who stakes ye ! For ten years have I dwelt here, nursing my 
 revenge. For ten years has vengeance been to me as a food — 
 a nourishment. I have lived and gloated on it. May others 
 finish the ruin I've begun ! Now I must leave, ere my visitor, 
 plagues light upon him ! be stii-ring. That villain. Jack, is still 
 at Heywood's farm — ^his companion yet asleep. I live within 
 the gallows' foot whilst near them. I have hid my treasure 
 in the laurel hedge. I've bought the captain of the vessel, and 
 this night I leave the shore. I walk 'mongst pitfsiUs whilst I 
 tread it. 
 
 BuLLFEOG runs in. 
 
 BuUf. Oh, Master Crumbs ! such an afiair ! 
 Crumbs. Peace, ye roaring fool ! 
 
THE EENT DAT. 33 
 
 Bullf. Fool ! Early as it is, you're tlie second man wko has 
 called me a fool this morning. I come upon business. 
 Crumbs. To-night — to-morrow. 
 
 Bidlf. Not my maxim. Shut your door upon business, and 
 business will soon forget to knock at it. Your friend. Captain 
 Jack, — 
 
 Ct-umbs. Wliat of him ? 
 
 Bullf. He might be a good hand to put in possession if one 
 were to distrain a nunnery ; but where a quick eye is to be kept 
 on chairs and tables, he's as blind as Cupid, 
 Crumbs. What jargon is this ? 
 
 Bullf. I only hope there'll not be an action ; but if there 
 should be, — 
 
 Crumbs. Speak out, or I'U throttle you. 
 
 Bullf. There certainly is a conspiracy to call me fool and 
 choke me. Don't stare at me in that manner : it isn't business- 
 like. 
 
 Crumhs. Speak, or begone. 
 
 Bullf. Well, then, it's a serious truth that the Heywoods 
 might clear out the farm ; for nobody is there to prevent them. 
 Crumbs. Is that all ? 
 
 Bullf. All ? what ! where I have once seized ? what's to 
 become of my reputation ? I employ nobody but respectable, 
 steady men. The fact is. Captain Jack was above his calling, 
 for he made love to the farmer's wife. 
 Crumbs. Well? 
 
 Bullf. Not well, Mr. Crumbs. When a man's on business he 
 should be above such trifles. 
 Crumbs. Where is he now ? 
 
 Bullf. Bun off — ^left the premises in the most scandalous 
 manner. I shouldn't wonder if he comes here. 
 Crumbs. (Aside : I must be gone.) 
 
 Bullf. Tou are not going 1 I must put another man in, you 
 know ? I say I must — ■ 
 Crmribs. Leave me. 
 
 BuUf. Business ! Who shall I put in % 
 Crumbs. Any one — no one — the devil ! [Ruslies off. 
 
 Sullf. I'll have nothing more to do with any of your acquaint- 
 ance. Why, he's quite a fury. I see it : I know he dabbles ; — 
 stocks must have fallen. Nothing else could put a man in such 
 a passion. (Stephen is hurrying across.) Stephen ! Stephen ! 
 ril ask him. 
 
 Steph. I can't stop now. The whole place is in an uproar. 
 Bullf. Well, they've kept it very quiet. What's the matter ? 
 Steph. There's been robbery, and nearly — 
 
34 THE RENT DAY. 
 
 Bullf. Eobbery % 
 
 Steph. Yes, and nearly murder. 
 
 Bullf. Murder's very bad ; but I bope there's no property lost ? 
 
 Steph. We don't know -wbat's lost yet. But for the two chaps 
 you drank with and were all such friends, the gentleman offers 
 a reward for whosoever seizes them. 
 
 Bullf. A reward ! I'U put on my ericketting pumps and run 
 directly. Are they thieves, think you ? 
 
 Steph. You've been more in their company than I have. 
 There's Toby Heywood in the garden. Go, and talk to him. 
 Business, you know — 
 
 Bullf. Business ! — right. Toby here ! I'U just run and put 
 Nokes into the farm, and then after my friends. I say, what's 
 happened to Master Crumbs ? 
 
 Steph. Why, between you and me, the steward — but while I 
 talk to you, I may miss what the gentleman offers. [Runs off, 
 
 Bullf. Something wrong with the steward ! If he should go 
 out, I might come in. I'll run and show my activity. {Runs off. 
 
 Scene IV. — The interior of Hetwood's Farm. 
 Martin discovered, seated. — His Children about him. 
 
 Martin. And this, then, is the end ! All's gone ! — I cannot 
 carry with me even a hope of better days. Now, indeed, labour 
 will be hard to me, for I shall work with a broken heart. Now, 
 fortune cannot bless me, for she with whom I should have shared 
 all good — ^but let me think no more of her. Think no more ! 
 like a ghost she haunts me. But she has shamed me, — and may 
 she — No, I cannot curse her with her children looking in my 
 face. I win not curse her. I must say farewell to the home 
 where I was bom — where I had hoped to die. Oh ! as I think 
 of the long past days,; — as I sit here staring my last at these 
 walls — those who are now in their graves come gathering about 
 me — faces, that seem a part of the place — that seem as they had 
 never been away, — ^looks that take me back, and make me a 
 child again. All from then till now is like a dream — ^the things 
 of my boyhood alone seem real : — all else is — 
 
 BMchel. ( Without) Martin ! Martin ! 
 
 Martin. No, no ; that is real — ^would it were not ! {To 
 Children : Go, bolt the door.) 
 
 Boi/. Why, it is my mother. I must not shut the door against 
 my mother. 
 
 Martin. No — I had forgot. A good child ; you must not. 
 
 [Tlie toy opens the door 
 
THE RENT DAY. 36 
 
 Rachel. {Entering.) Martin ! dear Martin ! 
 
 Martin. Eachel, if you can look in my face, and do not sink 
 ■with shame, can you look on these ? 
 
 Rachel. Shame ! — ^you are deceived. 
 
 Martin. I have been : so deceived, that had a voice from the 
 sky called you what it tears my heart to think of, I would not 
 have listened to it. But these eyes — ^these eyes ! — oh ! that I 
 had been blind ! 
 
 Rachel. You never loved me if you will not hear me. 
 
 Martin. Never loved you ! It was that love that smoothed all 
 trouble to me. It was that love, that, when all men, — fortune 
 — seemed set against me, cheered me on, and put a strength into 
 my heart, — that made me smile as I would think — well, let all 
 go, let all else fail me, there is one who'll never change — there 
 is one who is as good, as constant as the angels. Poverty came 
 upon me — the blow was sudden and unkind — still I thought, 
 though we have but a crust, we'll share that crust together — 
 though our bed be straw, that bed shall bear us both ! — ^As you 
 say, I am deceived. 
 
 Rachel. Hear me, Martin ; then judge me as you wUl. 
 
 Martin. That man — ^that devil, whom they put here — ^would 
 his blood «vere on my hearth ! — did he not tempt you ? 
 
 Rachel. He did. 
 
 Martin. "With gold — filthy gold? He came into the poor 
 man's house — ^bought that which I thought worlds could never 
 buy — ^robbed me of my wife, these children of their mother. 
 
 Rachel. Martin, may you be pardoned that thought ! It is 
 true that man showed me gold — dared to speak — ^to seize me, — . 
 but I cast his money in the dust, I tore myself from his arms, — 
 
 Martin. His arms ! Woman ! I would not kill you. 
 
 Rachel. I fled and hid myself — listened to a plan of murder 
 and ran to the mansion. 
 
 Martin. I found you there, coming from his chamber. 
 
 Rachel. I knew not the man. 'Twas to save his life. Upon 
 my soul I speak the truth. 
 
 Martin. A lie — a foul lie ! 
 
 Rachel. The truth, or may I die at your feet. Oh, Martin! 
 can you think thus of me, — after the years — the happy years 1 
 Or am I become tiresome to you, and so with this excuse 
 you'd — 
 
 Martin. Excuse ! Are these tears an excuse, — these trembling 
 limbs, these scalded eyes, this broken heart 1 
 
 [£U» imto chair. 
 
36 THE RENT DAY. 
 
 Enter Sailok. 
 
 Sailor. {SpeaHng at door) liTow, master, if you're for starting, 
 we shall sail in an hour. Here's a whole crew of neighbours, too, 
 coming to take leave of you. {Disappears from door) 
 
 Rachel. Martin! 
 
 Martin. I have accepted the place abroad, to tend to an 
 estate, and — and — overlook the slaves. I leave the farm — the 
 country, this day. 
 
 Rachel The children ?— 
 
 Martin. They go with me. 
 
 Rachel. And I, Martin— I ? 
 
 Martin. Gto where you will, — may you be happy. 
 
 Rachel. My children ! Use me as you please — but my babes ! 
 — Oh, Martin ! what madness is upon you ? Hear me ! You 
 shall hear me. If it must be so, think not of me as your wife ; 
 but have mercy on the mother of your children ! 
 
 Martin. I love them, Eachel. 
 
 Rachel. Dearly, very dearly ; but not like a mother. 
 
 Martin. Bid them farewell, for they must go. 
 
 Rachel. But not without me ! Children, pray to your father — 
 pray to him I must not call my husband ! « 
 
 Martin. Eachel, this is wild and useless. Be calm and give 
 them up. 
 
 Rachel. I tell you I shall go mad— raving mad — to lose my 
 children ! Take me with them. I do not ask you to speak to 
 me, to look at me ; — ^let me work with the slaves you speak of ; 
 — ^let me die, so as I die not from my children ! 
 
 {Faints, amd falls over the hnee of Mabtin — the Children 
 simromiding her. 
 
 Enter Beahstalk, Polly, Dame, Neighbours, and Sailor. 
 
 Beanst. "Why, Martin, and bee'st thee really going ? Why, 
 
 what's the matter with thee wife 1 
 Polly. Bless me, Eachel ! {They hear her to the hack.) 
 Martin. Farmer, farewell; neighbours, heaven bless you !— 
 
 Let the landlord take all the rest,— this chair,— my grandfather's 
 
 chair, — I'll bear with me. 
 
 Enter Btjllprog and two Efstics at door. 
 
 Bullf. Not a splinter of it, as I'm a sworn appraiser. 
 Martin. I do not wish to hurt you, man ; but do not strive to 
 prevent me. 
 
THE EEXT DAY 37 
 
 Bullf. Must'nt move a stick, Mr. Heywood. Business is 
 business. 
 
 Martin. I tell you this chair shall with me. Let him who 
 dare, lay a finger on it. 
 
 BuUf. Business is business. I seize in the king's name. 
 
 Martin. Then you must fight for it. {Strikes Bullfrog, who 
 seizes the chair icith the Eustics. The Neighbours assist ISIartin, 
 exclaiming, " Down with them ! " In the struggle, the back of the 
 chair is pulled off, when out fall loose gold, small money-hags and 
 a paper ^ 
 
 All. Gold! Money! 
 
 Bullf. I seize in the king's name ! 
 
 Beanst. {Throvnng him aside) What be this ? (Taking up 
 paper.) Tour grandfather's name. 
 
 Martin. (Takes paper, glances at ii, endeavouring to read it, and 
 then returns it to Bkavstat.tt ) Eead ! read ! 
 
 Beanst. (Reads.) "Should any sudden accident light upon me, 
 so that I be not able to tell my last inishes, kt this certify, that the 
 three hundred guineas, hidden with this paper, in my walmit chair, 
 be the rightful property of Martin and Tobias Heywood, my 
 grandsons. Signed, Thomas Heyuyaod" This is rare Martin ! I 
 give thee joy ! (Neighbours shout^ 
 
 Martin. I shall keep the farm ! — ha ! — ha ! — I shall keep the 
 farm ! 
 
 Enter Graktlet at door. 
 
 Grant. Where is Master Heywood ? 
 
 Martin. Come not here, man — come not here ! 
 
 Grant. Be calm. I have injured you — xa thought, I mean. 
 All your neighbours praise you for an honest, upright man. I 
 thought you the companion of scoundrels. But for your wife 
 whose devotedness I had wronged, I had fallen their victim. 
 She came to save me 
 
 Toby. (Withozil.) Come along, rascal. Stand out of the way ! 
 
 Enter Tobt, dragging in Crumbs. Servant following, carrying 
 a box. 
 
 Crumbs. Villain ! why am I thus used ? 
 
 Toby. (To Geamtlet.) Here is the rascal, sir. You know we ' 
 found that box among the laurel trees. LuckUy, you took my 
 advice, and let it rest. We watched, and as I expected, the 
 thief came creeping down to carry away the spoU. We pounced 
 upon him, — ^here he is, and here's his plunder. 
 
 Grant. What answer make you to this ? 
 
THE RENT DAY. 
 
 Crumbs. None to you. I shall make a clear answer to 
 Mr. Eobert Grantley. 
 
 Grant. Then speak. Eobert Grantley is before you. What ! 
 you shrink? — I had heard of your oppression. I wrote for 
 further sums of money, and then, under a feigned character, 
 came to witness the means you'd take to answer the demand. 
 Fie upon you ! My father left you to husband my estate ; it 
 was your duty to check my extravagance, not feed it. And 
 now you add to your iniquity by wholesale theft. What say 
 you to this 1 
 
 Crumhs. Eobert Grantley, — since you are he, — ^listen. At the 
 mansion you saw a certain picture. You remember you asked 
 me whose it was ? I'll tell you. It was the likeness of a young 
 and once virtuous wife. A devil, a golden devil, dazzled her 
 vain heart, and she left her husband and disgraced him. That 
 husband plunged in vice to fly fi-om thought. He gamed, 
 robbed, and was devoted to the thief's reward — the gallows. 
 He escaped, and fled abroad. Years passed away. In a foreign 
 laud he met his wife's destroyer, who, knowing not the man he 
 had wronged, fostered him — ^took him to his heart — ^made him 
 his man of trust, and brought him to England. He died, and 
 left him to manage his estate for his wild and absent son. 
 Eobert Grantley, that man was your father ; the picture is the 
 picture of his victim ; I — I was her wronged and broken- 
 hearted husband ! 
 
 Grant. Can it be ? 
 
 Crumbs. My purpose was to beggar you — to revenge me on 
 the father, in his dearest part, his darling son ! 
 
 Grant. Your injuries were great ; yet how could your malice 
 survive the author of your wrongs ? 
 
 Crumbs. That picture? I have stood and looked at it, — ^in 
 the still night I have gazed on it, imtil I have thought the devil 
 himself looked from its eyes, and smiled upon my purpose. That 
 picture, and the recollection that those cursed walls received my 
 wife when she fled from her home, and left me to seek com- 
 panions with the vile and infamous — Oh ! I am an old man ! 
 
 but there are injuries so cut within the heart, so burnt within 
 the brain, that with the heart and brain must live and die 
 together. Enough. Now, for my gaol. 
 
 Grant. No ; I pardon you : nay, more ; will provide for you. 
 
 Crumbs. Never. I scorn and spit at you. — Am I free 1 
 
 [Stbphek and others bring in Silver Jack and Hyssop, hmmd. 
 
 Stephen. Here are the thieves ! {To Grantley.) I was told 
 you were here, sir, and so here I've brought them. Bob, the 
 
THE RENT DAT. 39 
 
 carter here, saw them on the road, and, knowing our cattle, 
 gave the cry; they were soon unhorsed, and here they are, 
 ready trussed for the gihbet. "We found these few matters on 
 them. (Shojvinff dice, cards, picklocks, S^c) And here's something 
 folded up. {Gives paper to GRAirTi.ET.) 
 
 Grant. What is this 1 — {Reading hill) " Escaped from New- 
 gate — John Harris ! " — ^Who can this mean ? 
 
 Crumbs. The man your father robbed ! Read, and see what 
 time and he have made of him. I took ten guineas from a rich 
 usurer, and was condemed for Tyburn. Your father stole the 
 wife of my bosom, and lived a wealthy, charitable gentleman, — 
 had the respect of all while on the earth, and a lying tombstone 
 when under it ! May I leave now ? (Grautlet assents.) 
 
 [Ckumbs loo}^ fiercely rornid Kim, exchanges a look of contempt 
 with Jack and Hyssop, and rushes off. 
 
 Jack. Perhaps we're intruding : may we leave too ? 
 
 Grant. Away with them, and keep them for the present. 
 
 Steph. They deserve hanging if it's only for the lies they told 
 about Master Heywood's wife. "Why, they've been laughing 
 over it as a good joke, — (Jack and Hyssop laugh) — ^that they 
 tried to make Martin jealous, that he might save them the sin of 
 blowing out your brains. Oh ! you rascal ! — your hanging-day 
 will be a rare holiday thirty miles round. 
 
 [Stephen, <fcc., take Jack and Hyssop off. 
 
 Martin. Eachel ! can I be forgiven ? I dare not look at you. 
 
 [Rachel faUs into his arms. 
 
 Toh/. I don't wonder at that. He's a poor wizard whom 
 every fool can drive mad. Suspect Eachel ! why, if we weren't 
 all made so happy with our grandfather's gold, I'd turn boy 
 again, and thrash you myself. Here was BulUrog trying to 
 disturb me and my wife. 
 
 Bullf. Wife ! 
 
 Toby. Tes. I shall never know what to do with my part of 
 the money, so I must have a wife, to get her advice about it. I 
 hope you've no objection ? 
 
 Bullf. None, {Aside.) as the money's not on the other side. But 
 business is business ; you'll want furniture : I have the sweetest 
 four-post bedstead you ever looked upon. 
 
 Martin. {To Geajitlet.) I have now, sir, to ask your pardon. 
 Can you excuse the passion of an oppressed — 
 
 Grant. Nay, it is I who have to adk forgiveness of you, and 
 of all my tenants ; that I have suffered them to be the victims 
 of a mercenary agent. I will, henceforth, reside on my lands ; 
 and, by my futui-e care, endeavour to remedy the injuries com- 
 
40 THE RENT DAY. 
 
 mitted by my servant. To your wife, Heywood, I probably owe 
 my exist^ce. This farm has, I heax, been in your fomily for 
 sixty years : may ■ it remain so while the country stands ! 
 To-morrow shall give you a freeholder's right to it. 
 
 Neighbours, Sfc. Huzza ! Huzza ! 
 
 Bull/. Well, this is capital. (Aside.) I see I'm future steward 
 to that young man. But still I have to say one thing. TViendship 
 and generosity are very well ; but — {To Martin.) now, it 
 doesn't concern you, — you're a freeholder : all of us here aren't 
 so lucky : therefore, as business is business, I trust nobody here 
 will forget the eejjt day. 
 
 END OF "THE RENT DAY." 
 
NELL GWYNNE; 
 
 OK, 
 
 THE PROLOGUE. 
 
•CHAEACTERS REPRESENTED. 
 
 Kitiff Charles the Second . .'- . . . Mb. Jones. 
 
 Sir Charles Berkeley Mk. Foresteb 
 
 Charles Earl "I Managers of the King's Theatre, /Mb. Dukuset. 
 Major Mohun i Drury Lane, 1667. [Mb. Perkins. 
 
 Betterton . . ( Manager of the Duke's Theatre, 1 jj^^ Diddeab. 
 
 Joe Maynes Mr. Meadows. 
 
 Counsellor Crowsfoot Mb. Blanchaed. 
 
 Stockfish Mb. F. Matthews. 
 
 Boy . . . .... Masteb Macedonald. 
 
 Nell Gwynne Miss Tatloe, 
 
 Orange Moll . Mb. Keeley. 
 
 Mrs. Snowdrop .... , Mbs. Daly. 
 
 »* This Comedy was first represented on t?ie 9th of January, 1833. 
 
Whilst we may safely reject as unfoiinded gossip many of the 
 stories associated with the name of Nell Gwynne, we cannot 
 refose belief to the various proofs of kindheartedness, liberalityj 
 and — taking into consideration her subsequent power to do harm 
 — absolute goodness of a woman mingling — (if we may believe a 
 passage in Pepys,) — from her earliest years in the most depraved 
 scenes of a most dissolute age. The life of Nell Gwynne, from 
 the time of her connexion with Charles the Second, to that of her 
 death, proved that error had been forced upon her by circum- 
 stances, rather than indulged from choice. It was under this 
 impression that the present little Comedy was undertaken : 
 under this conviction an attempt has been made to show some 
 glimpses of the " silver lining " of a character, to whose inflaence 
 over an unprincipled voluptuary, we owe a national asylum for 
 veteran soldiers, and whose brightness shines with the most 
 amiable lustre in many actions of her life, and in the last dis- 
 posal of her worldly effects. 
 
 Nell Gwynne first attended the theatre as an orange-girl. 
 Whether she assumed the calling, in order to attract the notice 
 of Betterton — ^who, it is said, on hearing her recite and sing, 
 discouraged her hopes of theatrical eminence — or whether her 
 love of the stage grew from her original trade of playhouse fruit 
 girl, has not yet been clearly showb. Indeed, nothing certain can 
 be gathered of her parentage or place of birth : even her name 
 has, lately, been disputed. That from " the pit she mounted to 
 the stage," is, however, on the poetic testimony of Eochester, 
 indisputable : — 
 
 ' The orange basket her fair arm did suit, 
 Laden with pippins and Hesperian fruit ; 
 This first step raised, to the wond'ring pit she sold 
 The lovely fruit, smiling with streaks of gold. 
 Fate now for her did its whole force engage. 
 And from the pit she mounted to the stage ; 
 There in fuU lustre did her glories shine, 
 And, long eclips'd, spread forth their light divine ; 
 There Hart and Rowley's soul she did ensnare, 
 And made a king a rival to a player." 
 
 She spoke a new prologue to Beaumont and Fletcher's Knight 
 
44 
 
 of the Burning Pestle: she afterwards played Q,vMn Almahide 
 in Dryden's Conquer of Grenada, besides speaking the prologue 
 " in a broad-brimmed hat and waste belt." The history of this 
 hat is given by old Downes, the prompter, in his valuable 
 Roscius Anglicanus, a chance pei-usal of which first suggested the 
 idea of this drama. 
 
 AU the characters in the comedy, with but two exceptions, 
 and allowing the story that the first lover of NeU was really an 
 old lawyer, figured in the time of Charles the Second. For 
 the introduction of Orange Moll (so inimitably acted by Me. 
 Kf.kt.kt), the author pleads the authority of Pepys, who, in the 
 following passage, proves the existence and notoriety of some 
 such personage : — " It was observable how a gentleman of good 
 habit sitting just before us, eating of some fruit in the midst of 
 the play, did drop down as dead, beiag choked ; but with much 
 art Orange Mai did thrust her finger down his throat, and 
 brought him to life again." In another place Pepys speaks of 
 Sir "W. Penn and himself having a long talk with " Orange Mai." 
 A dramatic Uberty has been taken with the lady's name, Moll 
 being thought more euphonic than " Mai " or " Matilda." The 
 incident of the king supping at a tavei-n with Nell, and finding 
 himself without money to defray the bUl, is variously related in 
 the Chroniques Scandaleuses of his " merry " and selfish days. 
 
 D. J. 
 
 JMOe Chelsea, JvXy 17, 1833. 
 
NELL GWYNNE; 
 
 OK, 
 
 THE PEOLOGUE. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 Scene I. — Neu, Gwtnne's Lodgings. 
 Emter Mrs. Snowdrop, followed b?/ Joe Hatnes. 
 
 Mrs. S. Mr. Haynes, do you know what character is ? 
 
 Maynes. I do, Mrs. Snowdrop, in all its varieties ; 'tis at the 
 best an ostentatious superfuity. Character! That may be 
 called our first year of discretion in which we learn to live 
 without it. 
 
 Mrs. S. 'Tis just like you of the King's Play-house. 
 
 Haynes. Nay, I'm no longer of the King's Play-house ; they've 
 cast me out of the community. 
 
 Mrs. S. Cast out !— For what ? 
 
 Haynes. My religion. T'other day, I sent a ship-parson with 
 a bell to call manager Hart and his actors to prayers : the 
 manager swore at my piety, and straight discharged me : I'm a 
 martyr of the last new make : if one day Joe Haynes be not 
 in the calendar, then do they manufacture saints as we make 
 knights ; not from desert, but court favour. My sanctity brings 
 me to my errand. This girl — Mistress Ellen Gwynne — 
 
 Mrs. 8. Poor thing ! I do believe she has hardly a friend in 
 the world. 
 
 Hayrves. I'm a benefactor on a grand scale — I mean my Lord 
 BuckhuTst — 
 
 Mrs. S. But then she has a heart for a queen. 
 
46 NELL GWYNNE ; 
 
 Haynes. And an ankle for Venus, no doubt. When shall we 
 see her ? 
 
 Mrs. S. Pretty Nelly, she's quite a lamb. Could I biit see her 
 well married ; cpuld I but discover an honest man — 
 
 Haynes. Ay, but only think of the uncertainty. 
 
 Mrs. S. A plain-going citizen — 
 
 Haynes. Plain-going ! "Where will you find one ? unless, 
 indeed, you count among the livery the wooden men of 
 St. Dunstan's ? Since Charles hith come back, the city hath 
 grown ashamed of its plainness, and stands begging at Whitehall 
 for cast-off rufis and feathers. Now, my Lord Buckhurst — 
 
 Mrs. S. You see, Mr. Haynes, I'm a lone widow with nothing 
 left but my reputation. 
 
 Haynes. Poor destitute thing ! 
 
 Mrs. S. And though I do let lodgings, my husband, Balaam 
 Snowdrop, was once very high as a Eoundhead. 
 
 Haynes. {Aside : Thrice very high — and each time in the 
 pillory.) 
 
 Mrs. S. Nay, would you believe it, closely concerned with 
 Barebones ? 
 
 Haynes. I can easily believe it — {Aside : since he married 
 you.) But for Mistress Gwynne, something must be done to fix 
 her fortunes 1 
 
 Mrs. S. So she said last night. You see, she has run away 
 from a lady whose companion she was, because she wouldn't 
 listen to some lawyer man, old and ugly no doubt : dear Nelly, 
 she is such a kind-hearted thing ! 
 
 Haynes. But last night 1 
 
 Mrs. S. Well, last night, as I was saying, she made me— the 
 Lord knows against my will — ^but then she smiled so, and bade 
 me take a mouthful of strong waters, for I had been thinkiuo- of 
 my dear Balaam, and — 
 
 Haynes. Danm Balaam ! — No, I abhor unnecessary swearing ; 
 —pass Balaam, and come to Nelly. What was't she made vou 
 do? •' 
 
 Mrs. S. Carry a letter to the Duke's Play-house, to Mr. Manao-er 
 Eetterton. 
 
 Haynes. To what end ? 
 
 Mrs. S. To ask him to come and hear her read play-books. 
 You may well look ; nothing now wUl serve her but to go upon 
 the stage. 'Tisu't my fault : I'm sure I put the pious Mr. Mug- 
 gleton under her pillow every night. 
 
 Haynes. And Betterton ? 
 
 Mrs. S. He's with her now : they have been doing what they 
 call a scene ; but you may be sure I was present : and there 
 
OR, THE PROLOGUE. 47 
 
 Nelly played the queen of — of — ^I forget what, — ^but she talked 
 of racks, and daggers, and poisons, and cutting off people's 
 heads, — oh, if she'd been born a queen, it couldn't have come 
 more natural to her ! 
 
 Haynes. A heroine ready made for Dryden ! 
 
 Mrs. S. And then to see how beautifully she faints — and how 
 in a minute she'U drown her face with tears ! I've known 
 hundreds of women try as much, but none like Nelly. And then 
 she sings — ^sings, as if nightingales — 
 
 (Nell Gwtnne is heard to sing without^ 
 
 " My lodging it is on the cold ground, 
 
 And very hard is my fare, 
 But that which troubles me most, is 
 
 The unkindness of my dear. 
 Yet still I cry, Oh, turn, love. 
 
 And I prythee, love, turn to me ; 
 For thou art the man that I long for, 
 
 And, alack ! what remedy ? " 
 
 Haynes. Sings ! If that voice do not fill a pit — do not lead 
 the gallants by the «ars ; — ; we must see her. Eh ! here's 
 Betterton ; stand aside — {puis Mrs. Snowdrop off.) Now, for 
 the humility of a cast-off actor to a manager in fuU play. 
 
 Enter Betterton. 
 
 Mr. Betterton, your most humble servant. 
 
 Bet. What, Joe ! again on the world ? Why, man, how dost 
 live ? 
 
 Haynes. Live, sir ? — ^by hand and knife : one night I pick a 
 pocket, the next I cut a throat. I have a consuming desire to 
 end my life at the gallows ! - 
 
 Bet. May your desires be gratified! But why, Joe, at the 
 gallows ? 
 
 Haynes. I'd fain east discredit on the rest of the players. My 
 dying speeph shall be a second Cromwell to you, and turn your 
 theatres to conventicles ; and as the stage first saw the light in 
 the wagon of Thespis, so shall it close its eyes in the Tyburn 
 cart of Joseph Haynes. 
 
 Bet. Nay, cheat the hangman, and spare us. But I shall be 
 late at rehearsal [Going. 
 
 Haynes. Mr. Betterton. So, you are going to fire the town 
 with another Helen ? ■ 
 
 Bet. On my life, no. 
 
 Haynes. Come, you managers are so close. Have you no 
 wonder 1 — No speaking doll from France 1 — No new treble from 
 
 f2 
 
48 NELL GWTNNE; 
 
 Italy ? — Have you shipped no unicorn — set no bird-trap tor tne 
 phoenix? 
 
 Bet. 'Twixt ourselves, Davenant is about to cut down, and put 
 music to Othello, to make it pass for a night or two. 
 
 Haynes. Music to Othello, cut down ! I see ; he takes away 
 the golden wires of Apollo, and puts in their place his own 
 cat-gut. 
 
 Bet. Nay, Davenant has improved Shakspeare"; in feet, made 
 some of the bard's plays his own. 
 
 Haynes. Yes; as the Graud Turk makes prisoners his own-rby 
 mutilation. But have you no new actress ? Come, there's the 
 syren in this house ? 
 
 Bet. She ! phoo — raw, quite raw 1 
 
 Haynes. Hang it ! 'tis said she's very beautifuL 
 
 Bet. Humph ! 
 
 Haynes. And sings like 
 
 Bet. AH women sing — good morning. 
 
 Haynes. Tou'U repent your judgment. 
 
 Bet. 'Tis the cry of every one I refuse : repentance with me, 
 as with yourself, Joe, is late coming ; for I have had no qualms 
 as yet. Parewell, Joe ; and, hark ye, have pity on the poor 
 actors, and eschew hanging. 
 
 Haynes. But if I persist, I shall at least have at my execution, 
 what hath long been a rarity at the Duke's Play-house. 
 
 Bet. What's that? 
 
 Haynes. A full audience. 
 
 Bet. A merry one, I warrant. 
 
 Haynes. Not so : my death, like your new comedies, will raise 
 the price of pocket-handkerchiefs. 
 
 Bet. Farewell, mad- Joe. 
 
 Haynes. Parewell, reasonable Tom. (ExU Betteeton.) And 
 now, if it be possible, to get an intendew with Mistress Nelly. 
 
 \ExU, 
 
 ScEHE IL — The Showroom in the house of Madame Charkett, 
 Milliner, Covent Garden : various articles of femcde dress 
 displayed on stands. 
 
 Discovered, King Chakles sitting, looHng of into ajtoiher room,; 
 he is-plairdy habited. Sir Charles Berkeley, waiting. 
 
 Char. Well done, Madame Charrett ! That's the tenth letter 
 exehanged within half the number of minutes. Why, Berkeley, 
 this is no milliner's, but the post-office. 
 
 Berk. Madame's establishment combines the two. I told your 
 majesty, that— 
 
OR, THE PEOLOGUE. 49 
 
 Char. Softly, Berkeley ; milliners have ears. Look there ! 
 another ! Didst ever see so insidious a bit of paper ? Sealed 
 ■with a stag, I ■warrant me. Bravo ! another ! That's from a 
 courtier; long, narrow, and scented ; a very musk-rat of epistles. 
 That's from an alderman's ■wife ; with ■wax enough on't for the 
 privy seal. If the Stationers' Company do not give Madame 
 Charrett their freedom, commerce is dead to gratitude. 
 
 Berlc. Your majesty, as I live there's Ned Kynaston, the 
 actor ! 
 
 Char. And there ! yes — ^he, the rope-dancer ! Od'sfish ! his 
 name ? Jacob Hall ! Ha ! ha ! 
 
 Berk. And letters for each ! 
 
 Char. A golden Jacob, now, to know the ■writers ! 
 
 Berk. Some dry-salter's wife. 
 
 Char. Tut, man ! I'U be sworn, maids of honour at the least. 
 'Twas but last week I met a certain young countess in the MaU : 
 she had in her coach, as she said, a country maiden, a poor curate's 
 daughter, all bashfuluess and blushes. As we talked, up came my 
 lady's short-sighted lord : to him she told the self-same story ; 
 when his lordship said he had ever loved the clergy ; chuckedthe 
 fluttering damsel under the chin, and went his way to play a 
 match at bowls. No^w, who dost think the maiden really was ? 
 
 Berk. A curate's daughter. 
 
 C/iOsr. Ned Kynaston, the actor, fresh from the play-house, 
 di'est in his woman's clothes ! Ha ! ha ! Why, who comes here ? 
 
 Berk. 'Tis the old counsellor. 
 
 Char. Old, indeed ! Where has he left his scythe and hour- 
 glass? 
 
 Berk. Mada,me's house, as I told your majesty, is an office for 
 stray doves. The counsellor comes, as I hear, to learn about a 
 runaway, a pretty wench. 
 
 Char. A pretty wench ? 
 
 Berk. One Nell Gwynne. 
 
 Cha/r. NeU Gwynne ! and who is she 1 
 
 Berk. A girl, 'tis said, of wit and spirit, who took fright at the 
 counsellor's ■wrinkles ; ran from the man of law as from a Kussian 
 frost. Tour majesty may see some sport. 
 
 Cluir. If the knave do not know me ] 
 
 Berk. But condescend to remain my cousin, new from the 
 country — ^for the tale has served ■with Madame Charrett — and 
 we may outface his knowledge, even if he have any. 
 
 Enter Counsellor Crowsfoot, from hack.' 
 
 Crood morning, Counsellor. 
 Crows. {Aside : Sparks here !) 
 
50 NELL GWYNNE; 
 
 Char. Is't not a shame ? 
 
 Crows. Shame ! What's a shame ? 
 
 Char. That Nestor should have a tooth for sugar-plums. 
 Have you found her, sir ; or has poor Madame Charrett been 
 led astray by a false description ? Were her eyes meltingly 
 blue? 
 
 Berh. Or piercingly black ? 
 
 Char. Or had she one or two 1 
 
 Berk. Did her locks shame the raven's wing ? 
 
 Char. Or the robin's throat ? 
 
 Berh. Did she swim like Venus ? ' 
 
 Char. Or limp like her sjwuse % Or, after all, art certain 'tis 
 really a woman whom you seek ? 
 
 Crows. Humph ! a grave man cannot enter a house for 
 business — 
 
 Berh. Business ! Oh, a suit at law for Madame Charrett ! 
 
 Char. Some one hath libelled the milliner's last new skirt, or 
 pirated the architecture of the pocket-holes !— Business with the 
 milliner ! Come, Ehadamanthus, what business ? 
 
 Crows. Cannot give an order for a few ruffles and neck- 
 bands — 
 
 Berh. Certainly, ruffles and neck-bands ! 
 
 Char. Tes, the counsellor looks as though his errand was for 
 muslin. {Aside Io'Bmkkelet : I hear the rustling of a petticoat. 
 Can it be to old Bracton here ? let's watch.) 
 
 Berh. Counsellor, may you one day be lord chancellor ! 
 
 Char. And so, exercise a care for widows and orphans ! that 
 is — ^for ruffles and neck-bands ! 
 
 [Chables and Beekelet retire at lack. 
 
 Crows. Coxcombs ! Sugar-sops ! They're gone, though. The 
 miUiner takes my money, and gives me nought but promises. 
 Hang the girl ! To slip through my fingers when I thought she 
 would relent ; to be gulled at my age ! Madame Charrett 
 promised to come — said she had — 
 
 [NeUj Gwtnke heard without. 
 
 Nell. Very well, madam : I'll just take one peep at the silks. 
 
 Crows. Why, it is Nelly ! As I am a, lawyer, her very voice 
 takes forty years from my back ! Stay— she sha'n't see me at 
 first, lest she fly off again. This gown may serve me. Oh, 
 Nelly! NeUy! 
 
 [Ceowspoot hides himself behind one of the govms, whicli he wi-aps 
 ahouihim. 
 
 Enter Nell Gwtnne. 
 
 Ndl. Dear heart ! why what a world of silk and lace ! How 
 
OR, THE PROLOGUE. 61 
 
 beautiful I If it isn't enough to turn one's head to look at it. 
 But I mus'n't stop. No ! Mr. Betterton gave me no hopes : 
 and now nothing is left me but the play and the orange-basket. 
 Well, that with honesty and my good spirits may serve me yet ; 
 — for I have a thought that I shall yet surprise 'em — that I 
 shall yet shine upon the stage — that I shaR— {turning to gown, 
 which hides the Counsellor) — why, bless me ! what a pretty 
 gown ! — Now, if I had money, this gown, above all other gowns, 
 I'd buy. What a damask ! what a flow of skirt ! How I should 
 love this gown ! 
 
 Crows. (Discovering himself.) You shall have the gown ! 
 
 .Nell. Ha ! {Screaming and running awoj/.) 
 
 Crows. Don't I tell you, you shall have the gown. 
 
 Nell. Yes, sir, but then it must be -without the lining. 
 
 Crows. Now, Nelly, let me plead — 
 
 Nell. Nay, if you'i-e for pleading, put the gown on again. I'm 
 sure 'tis fitter for you than your own. 
 
 Crows. NeUy, Nelly, art not shocked to look at me 1 
 
 Nell. Oh, sir ! I always was. 
 
 Crows. Why didst run away from the lady 3 
 
 Nell. Because I could not honestly listen to the gentle- 
 man. 
 
 Crows. Come, thou hast known me long, and must love me. 
 
 Nell. La, sir ! I've known the giants at GuUdhall still longer, 
 yet care hot a pin about 'em. 
 
 Crows. Giants, my dear ? I am no giant. 
 
 Nell. No, sir ! 
 
 Crows. I — I confess — ^I'm not in the veriest flower of my days : 
 what then % — Still I am gay and flourishing — green and cheerful 
 like the holly at Christmas. 
 
 Nell. To be sure, sir, and the holly is very well ;-=-but — I — I 
 prefer the misletoe. 
 
 Crows. A. challenge to battle ! c 
 
 Nell. Not to you. — Your age exempts you from service. 
 
 Crows. Now, Nelly; thou wouldst not throw my years in my 
 face? 
 
 Nell. Why should I ? Are they not there already % 
 
 Crows. Hast thou no gratitude ? — and is not love the same 1 
 
 NeU. Oh dear, no ! — Gratitude's a snowball ; love's a fire ; 
 make 'em meet, and they kUl one another. 
 
 Crows. Now, Nelly ! dear Nelly, — od's life ! I do doat to look 
 in your eyes. 
 
 Nell. It says much for your courage. 
 
 Crows. How, love 1 — how % 
 
 Nell. Because you must see yourself there. 
 
52 NELL GWYNNE ; 
 
 Crows. Come, where hast been, Nelly ? — Unprotected in this 
 wicked town ? Thou shouldst not be alone. 
 
 Nell. I've thought so some time, sir. 
 
 Crows. Thou'rt a lily that needs support. — ^What think you of 
 a husband 1 
 
 Nell. Think, sir? {Aside: Now I'll tease him!) "Why, a 
 good husband above all things — 
 
 Crows. Yes ! yes ! 
 
 Nell. But good husbands are so scarce. 
 
 Crows. Tou may light on a husband, — kind — good. 
 
 Nell. I am sure of that. 
 
 Crows. What, then? — after all, 'tis a match ? — ^You have found 
 the man ? 
 
 Nell. Yes, sir ; and married him last week. 
 
 Crows. Married ! 
 
 Nell. 'Twas such a thing to be unprotected in this wicked town. 
 
 Crows. Last week ! 
 
 Nell. And being a lily needing support, I took foy a pi-op — 
 
 Crows. The furies ! 
 
 Nell. A handsome young mercer of Bishopsgate. 
 
 Crows. Come, you jest, Nelly; — let me beg — see me on my 
 knees, asking for [Charles and BEEKELEr come down. 
 
 Char. Euffles and neck-bands ! Thou piece of jaundiced parch- 
 ment ! thou antique edition of the criminal laws ! 
 
 Crows. Sirrah ! this abuse — the law ! 
 
 Char. You say well, the law ! Doctors' commons, sir ! 
 
 Berk. A man of your cloth and years ! 
 
 Char. With my own wife, too ! 
 
 ■^«^^- Iwife? 
 Crows. J 
 
 Char. I am her injured husband. Can you deny it ? 
 
 Crows. I know not as for husband; certainly, you look the 
 mercer. 
 
 Char. See I do not furnish you with a neck-band. And you 
 NeUy! Oh, Nelly ! Nelly! ' 
 
 Nell. {Aside : Hang the fellow ! — his impudence is charming.) 
 
 Char. After one week ! What will they say of us in Bishops- 
 gate Without ?— with such a leaf of black-letter, too ?— old, torn 
 and dog's-eared 1 
 
 Berk. A title page of the statutes, with nothing left but the 
 date? 
 
 Char. A collection of flaws, and each one fatal to a suit in 
 
 love 2 But come, NeUy, let's kiss and be friends we'll go 
 
 home. 
 
 Nell. Home ! {Aside : Well, let me get from my old perse- 
 
OR, THE PROLOGUE. 53 
 
 cutor, I warrant me I'll trick my new gallant.) As you will, 
 love ; I came to Madame Charrett's about the — ^the — rose- 
 coloured satin. What is to be the price, dear 1 
 
 Char. Why, when madame deals, cost price. (Crowsfoot 
 approaches?) Old gentleman, freeze in one spot ; or by the 
 honour of the Mercer's Company, I'll send you to practise in the 
 courts below ! 
 
 Crows. But, Nelly ! — can it be ? 
 
 Char. Doubt, and thou diest. Nelly ! (Introducing her.) 
 Mistress Ellen Tissue, of the — ^the — 
 Nell. Golden Lamb — 
 
 Char. Bishopsgate Without. Velvets, new from Genoa, lace 
 from France, and — 
 JVell. Ruffles and neck-bands at the lowest charge. 
 Char. {To Crowsfoot, w/io follows.) Back, old Parr ! — 
 " Gregory (to Berkeley), out with thy blade ! " If that Ice- 
 lander 
 
 Crows. Icelander ! 
 
 Char. Move a foot, — like a good citizen, cry, Domine dirige 
 nos ! — and make thy sword hilts knock agauist his short 
 ribs. [Exit with Nell. 
 
 Crows. But it's a lie — I know it's a lie ! 
 
 Berk. What I A lie to a liveryman ! {drawing^ 'Twould make 
 the dagger leap from the city arms. 
 
 Crows. I am a lawyer — and — a, — counsellor ! 
 JBerh. Be moderate ; seek not to add to their great profits the 
 trade of sheep-stealer. 
 Crows. Sheep-stealer ! 
 
 Berh. Touch not our golden lamb ! As a counsellor, thou 
 mayst in time hope to carry off the woolsack ; but lay no finger 
 on the fleecy hosiery of Bishopsgate Without. Back, back, I 
 say! [Exit Berkeley, CKoy^SEooi following. 
 
 Scene m. — Exterior of Drury Lane Theatre, in 1667. 
 
 Enter Charles. 
 Char. Od'sfish ! she didn't sink through the earth or take 
 flight over the house tops ; yet, as I'm a Christian king, know 
 I not how or where the baggage went. What an eye she has ! 
 the pair worth the crown jewels. I must put Berkeley on the 
 scent. ... ,v . 
 
 Enter Berkeley. 
 That girl — did she pass you t 
 
 Berh. What ! escaped, your majesty ? 
 
54 NELL GWYNNE ; 
 
 Cliar. No hawk could be more certain of its swoop than I, 
 "when she glided through my hands like quicksilver, and left me 
 to look at where she stood. Berkeley, you must find her. 
 
 Berk. KiQ-fr golden words, your majesty, to Madame Charrett, 
 and the game is ours. I left the old counsellor sweai-ing most 
 devoutly for revenge. It seems he would fain marry Nelly in 
 earnest. 
 
 Char. That would be revenge indeed. Be it our paternal 
 care to stay such vengeance. To the milliner's, Berkeley ! 
 You will find me in the playhouse. Is not this one of the 
 rogues ? 
 
 Berk. One of your majesty's most impudent servants, Joseph 
 Haynes. 
 
 Enier Hatiies. 
 
 Char. What, Joe ! hast a holiday to-day 1 
 
 Haj/nes. Your majesty 
 
 Char. Hush, man. Let my majesty rest with your modesty. 
 Why art not playing the fool inside ? 
 
 Haynes. Sir, I have become serious, and been turned from the 
 troop. 
 
 Char. Serious, varlet ! what, your tailor cries out for payment, 
 and the mistress of the Eoebuek points to the score ? 
 
 Haynes. Tor the taUor, sir, he is nought. Morality forbids me 
 to pay him. 
 
 Char. Ay, how so % 
 
 Haynes. Tailors were brought into the world by sin : ergo, to 
 pay a tailor, is to respect the origin of tailors. A taUor I never 
 pay. 
 
 Char. A sound, doctrinal reason. What is acted here to-day ? 
 
 Haynes. Something of Dryden's, your majesty; as full of 
 heroics, as its dedication is full of 
 
 Char. Lies. {To Berkeley.) Poor John ! he soars and flatters 
 with equal genius. Such poets are like the snake in the Indian 
 mythology ; they not only fly but creep. Learn directly why 
 this fellow has been discharged, and let me know. Berkeley, be 
 vigilant ; I shall wait for you. [Exit. 
 
 Berk. Call on me to-morrow, and I will hear your story. 
 
 Haynes. If it shall please your lordship, now. 'Tis easily 
 told. 
 
 Berk. But not heard. To-morrow, or — next day — or — next 
 week. 
 
 Haynes. His majesty said directly. 
 
 Berk. Which, translated from the vulgar, means one's easiest 
 leisure. [Exit. 
 
OR, THE PROLOGUE. 55 
 
 Hm/nes. Even so. Yet 'twill be a rare triumph over maDtao-er 
 Hart, to go back under the royal seal ; ticketted from WliiteUall. 
 Now to Lord Buckhurst ; yet with poor hopes. — Nelly was not 
 to be seen ; had left the house ; followed, it may be, turnspit 
 Betterton. \Eetires. 
 
 Enter Ceowsfoot. 
 
 Crows. A great thought ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Hai/nes. (Aside : Here's a lawyer merry — alack ! for his 
 clients.) 
 
 Crows. Let me see ; four or five sturdy fellows, with a cool 
 head to direct 'em ; a trustworthy — (Hatnes comes down.) — 
 What 1 Joe Haynes of the King's ? 
 
 Haynes. Late of that establishment. Counsellor Crowsfoot. 
 
 Crows. Late ! 
 
 Haynes. Late, sir. I am destitute. If necessity, and not 
 Joe Haynes, pick a pocket, I hope I may find a friend at the 
 sessions ? 
 
 Crows. (Aside : He's the Tery man !) Joe, in all thy pranks, 
 didst ever commit a robbery 3 
 
 Haynes. Never. Yet I have quick natural parts, and (bowing) 
 with an example before me, I might flourish. 
 
 Crows. I mean, didst thou ever steal a woman ? 
 
 Haynes. Steal ! bless you, the dear creatures never reduced me 
 to that extremity. Yet if a valued friend 
 
 Crows. Listen. A mad wench, whom I want to send back to 
 her relations — friends of mine, in the country — is at the play- 
 house here, as a fruit girl. 
 
 Haynes. It isn't Orange MoU 1 i 
 
 Grows. Orange Moll ! pshaw ! 
 
 Haynes. To carry her off would take a ti'oop of horse, with 
 extra trumpets to drown her screams. 
 
 Crows. That virago ! Will you undertake the job ? 
 
 Haynes. Alone? 
 
 Crows. No, with four or five stout hands, if you know such 1 
 
 Haynes. I do. 
 
 Crows. And trusty t 
 
 Haynes. They bear certificates. 
 
 Crows. Certificates ! 
 
 Haynes. Wounds got in the service. They've tasted steel 
 of every kind, from a duke's rapier to a 'prentice's cheese 
 knife. 
 
 Crows. Secure the girl — I promise twenty pounds. 
 
 Haynes. "lis scarce enough. I've known a beating with a 
 poor cudgel fetch five. Indeed, five is the standard price. Sir 
 
S6 NELL GAVYNNE ; 
 
 Charles Sedley gave it to the gentleman who licked Ned 
 Kyiiaston for wearing clothes of the baronet's cut. Kve's the 
 market terms. 
 
 Crows. And how, as in some cases, if the party's ears are 
 cropped, and his nose slit ? 
 
 Haynes. Nay, when gentlemen come to extras, 'tis left to their 
 own delicate sense of honour. Well, I'll take your twenty 
 pounds. Now, counsellor, you must confide. — ^What's the girl's 
 name? 
 
 Grows. Ellen ; Ellen Gwynne. 
 
 Haynes. {Aside: So, so— this is Mrs. Snowdrop's lawyer 
 man !) And you'd send her to her relations '{ Where may they 
 live? 
 
 Crows. Oh — Shropshire ! 
 
 Haynes. And the town 3 Nay, mutual confidence — Shropshire; 
 ' — but the town ? 
 
 Crows. Shrewsbury. I'U be at hand to point her out. 
 
 Haynes. Are you sure she goes as a fruit girl ? 
 
 Crows. Certain. I've just had the news from the milliner who 
 finds the dress. When you have secured the wench 
 
 Haynes. We'U bring her to the Temple — to your chambers. 
 
 Crows. Not for the world ! I've a consultation there about a 
 case in the ecclesiastical court. Take her to — to the Mitre 
 tavern ; my clerk shall be there with the money. 
 
 Haynes. The Mitre tavern ? 
 
 Crows. Yes ; the landlord's my client. Besides, the Shropshire 
 wagon passes the house, and can take the girl up. [Going. 
 
 Haynes. But you'll come to the theatre ? 
 
 Crows, m be there straight. — ^The Mitre tavern — ^I shall 
 expect yon. [Exit. 
 
 Haynes. You shall expect me. Now, to earn twenty pounds — 
 cheat a counsellor — and serve my Lord Buckhurst. [Exit. 
 
 ScEMi; IV. — Interior of Drury-Lane theatre. Tlie stage forms a 
 space at the hack of the pit. A man discovered lighting the 
 candles. 
 
 Enter Majok MoHiraf and Haet. 
 
 Moh. Upon my life, Hart, something must be done. 
 
 Hart. Well, Mohun, isn't there our new play to-morrow, 
 '' The Conquest of Grenada ? " — That must take the town — and, 
 Major, we have hit upon a thought for the prologue, enough of 
 itself to fill a pit. 
 
 Moh. I had a thought, too. What say you if we could get 
 back Goodman ? 
 
OR, THE PROLOGUE. 
 
 57 
 
 Hart. What ! after lie has turned highwayman 1 
 
 Moh. That's it : he's quite the fashion. Get him to give the 
 prologue, and advertise that he wiU appear with the identical 
 pistols with which he robbed the money-broker at Finchley. 
 Depend on't, the pistols would do more than the heroic verse. 
 
 Hart. My plan is to have a fling at the other house. Nokes 
 has lately drawn the town, and with what ? Forsooth, a huge, 
 broad-brimmed hat ! Now, we'll have a hat big as a coach- 
 wheel ; and in that hat the prologue shall be spoken. Here 
 it is. 
 
 Moh. Why not get Joe Haynes to speak it. 
 
 fiart. Haynes ! That rogue is the disgrace of our calling. 
 
 Ewter first party of Visitors to the TlieoUre. 
 
 Moh. Well, Charles, take your own way. So ! The folks are 
 dropping in. 
 
 Hart. As neither you nor I act to-day, suppose we stop here, 
 and like thi'ifty managers, puff our new play among the audience 
 for to-morrow 1 
 
 Orange MoU. {Without) Oranges, sweet ladies! Oranges, 
 dear gentlemen ! 
 
 Moh. There's Orange Molly's gentle voice. How they swarm 
 about the beldam's basket ! 
 
 Enter ORAifOE Moll, with orange-baska. Visitors foUow and 
 coiitinue at intervals to come in, with Orange Girls. 
 
 MoU. Oranges ! The true Seville, by my virtue ! Buy, buy, 
 my golden Spaniards ! Never look, but taste, sweet gentlemen ! 
 Fair maidens, buy, and many husbands to you ! Come, cavaliers, 
 have none of you a Carolus ? Major Mohun, a good house to 
 youl Lovely virgins, make your sweethearts buy, or never say 
 yes for a twelvemonth ! Charles Hart, your servant. Will 
 nobody buy my Don Spaniards ? Never look as though they 
 were crabs ! All sweet ! sweet ! sweet ! Balls of honey ! balls 
 of honey, as I'm an honest woman ! WiU nobody buy of Orange 
 Mary? 
 
 Hart. Mary — ha ! ha ! 
 
 Moh. {To Haet.) I've known her plain Moll these five-and- 
 twenty years. 
 
 MoU. If you have. Major Mohun, keep it to yourself: don't 
 disgrace me with the acquaintance before company. Buy my 
 oranges! 
 
 Hart. Why, here comes Betterton. 
 
58 NELL GWYNNE ; 
 
 Enter Bettertox. 
 
 MoU. Yes, Manager Betterton, of the Duke's — of the Duke's ! 
 He is a gentleman. 
 
 Hart. What, Betterton ! Come to spy, or to steal ? 
 
 MoU. Steal ! There's little good he could steal here ! No^ not 
 even if he was to run off -with the managers. 
 
 Hart. {To Moll.) The foul fiend's in your tongue. Will you 
 be stiU 1. 
 
 MoU. As still as Charles Hart's conscience -when he has done 
 cruel mur-der. 
 
 Better. Why, when does he murder, Moll ? 
 
 MoU. Whenever he goes upon the stage, when does he not ? 
 And doesn't Charles Hart crow about his family ? A descent 
 from Shakspeare ! — He may say, descent : from everything to 
 nothing, and a little lower ! 
 
 Moll. Molly, be silent. 
 
 MoU. As silent as little Major Mohun, when the Roundheads 
 broke into the playhouse, and MoUy smuggled him out in her 
 basket, under the oranges. To be sure that was no great 
 matter ; for who could tell his lily face from one of these ? 
 {Holding up an orange.) See ; between my finger and thumb, 
 here's the little Major ! Foul fiend ! Whoop ! I'll have 
 revenge ! 
 
 HaH. Why, what wilt do, Molly ? 
 
 MoU. Do ! — do ! — I'll {curtseying to Betterton) go to the 
 other house. 
 
 Better. Out, you slut ! 
 
 Enter Charles and Berkeley — they mix with the Visitors. 
 
 MoU. Slut ! I was never slut nor spit at Whitehall. Uo, nor 
 ever basted from the kitchen for embezzling sops in the pan. 
 Slut ! Eogues ! I'll vpz-ite your lives, and give 'em to the 
 pamphlet-sellers ! Buy my oranges ! Buy my little yellow 
 majors ! Slut ! 
 
 Char. {Aside to Berkeley : The wench is not here. Art sure 
 the milliner is true 1) 
 
 Berk. My life on't. The girl was to be here with an orange 
 basket. 
 
 MoU. {Coming down to Charles.) Buy my oranges — ^buy — 
 {Aside : His Christian majesty, for all his plain clothes !) Buy 
 my Spaniards ! Near neighbours of our blessed queen : buy, or 
 you do not love her majesty. 
 
 Char. A plague on this sybU ! {To Bereelet : Charles get 
 her off.) 
 
 [Berkeley engacfes Moll. Hart and Mohun mme dmm. 
 
OR, THE- PROLOGUE. 59 
 
 Hart. His majesty ! 
 
 Char. Not a word. It is my pleasure to remain unknown : see 
 I am not intruded on. (To Mohun.) So, my little Mohun, you 
 have something new to-morrow, is it not so % 
 
 Moll. " The Conquest of Grenada," so please your 
 
 C7iar. We shall attend : ay, and in state. Her majesty may, 
 perhaps, accompany us. 
 
 Moll. (Cominff down with Berkeley to Chakles.) I'll be 
 judged, if you're no Cavalier, but a Roundhead. I'll take this 
 sweet gentleman for my witness ! What ! grudge sixpence 
 a piece for my Spaniards ? Sixpence for the neighbours of her 
 blessed majesty ? 
 
 Nell Owynne sirigs without. " Buy oranges ! " 
 
 Berk. {To Chakles.) Madame Charrett is true — ^"tis she ! 
 
 Enter Nell Gwynne, as Orange Girl, with orange-basket. 
 She carries a mask. 
 
 Nell. (Sings.) " Buy oranges ! " Ladies and cavaliers, vouch- 
 safe to look at my basket ! Maidens, ripen my fruit with your 
 glances : buy my oranges, as bright as hope and as sweet as 
 courtship. — Though they look as hard as gold, they'll melt in the 
 mouth like a lover's promise. — Their juice is syrup, and their 
 coats as thin as a poet's. Buy, gentlemen ; or I'll vow that, 
 being jealous, you hate yellow, even in an orange. [Goes wji. 
 
 Moil. What pert minikin's this, with its lavender slip-slop ? 
 
 Better. (Aside : It is — I'd swear to her face — ^the very girl !) 
 
 Char. {Coming down with Nellt.) And have your oranges 
 really all these virtues ? 
 
 Nell. (Aside : So, my gaUant mercer.) AH, and a thousand 
 more ; — ^there's nothing good that may not be said of the 
 orange. It sets special examples to elder brothers, misers, and 
 young travellers. 
 
 (Jhar. Ay 1 What example to elder brothers t 
 
 Nell. This : though of fuU age, it dwells quietly on the same 
 branch with bud and blossom. 
 
 Char. What doth it teach misers ? 
 
 Ned. That golden coats should cover melting hearts. 
 
 Char. And, lastly, what may the young traveller learn of your 
 orange ? 
 
 Ned. This much ; that he is shipped when green, that he may 
 ripen on the voyage. 
 
 Char. Prettily lectured. 
 
 MoU. PrettUy ! well, before I'd talk such snip-enip, as though 
 my mouth was a button-hole cut in French muslin, I'd go in 
 
60 NELL GWYNNE ; 
 
 mourning for my tongue, and sew up my lips with black 
 worsted ! 
 
 Hart. {To Moll.) Silence, Sycorax ! (To Mohttn.) This is the 
 girl for our prologue. 
 
 Better. {Aside: The king seems dazzled with this wench. — 
 I must secure her for the Duke's.) 
 
 Nell. But, gentlemen : fair gentlemen ; — will no one lighten 
 my basket ? Buy my oranges ! 
 
 -NELL aWTITNE. 
 
 Buy oranges ! — No better sold — 
 
 New brought in Spanish ships ; 
 As yellow bright as minted gold, 
 
 As sweet as ladies' lips. 
 Come, maidens, buy ; nor judge my fruit 
 
 From beauty's bait — the skin ; 
 Nor think, like fops, with gaudy suit. 
 
 They're dull and crude within. 
 
 Buy oranges . 
 
 Buy, oranges ! — Buy courtiers, pray. 
 
 And as ye drain their juice, 
 Then, cast the poor outside away, 
 
 A thing that's served its use ; 
 Why, courtier, pause ; this truth translate 
 
 Imprinted in the rind; 
 However gay the courtier's state, 
 
 'Tis yet of orange kind. 
 
 Buy oranges! 
 
 Buy oranges ! — Coquetting fair, — 
 
 A sweet reproach come buy ; 
 And, as the fruit ye slice and share. 
 
 Remember with a sigh — 
 A heart divided needs must cast 
 
 The faith which is its soul ; 
 If, maidens, ye would have it last. 
 
 Give none — if not the whole. 
 
 Buy oranges ! 
 \Tke bystanders aU a'pplavd 
 
 MoU. Well, ladies, — {to Orange Girls) — if we are to be squealed 
 out of our calling by an interloper ! {Imitating Nell.) " Buy 
 oranges ! Buy oranges ! " [4K go up. 
 
 Enter Crowsfoot. 
 
 NeE. {Going towards him) Buy my — {hiding face viith mask. 
 The counsellor ! 
 
 Crows. Stay, my pretty dear ; I want to deal with you. — I want 
 to buy 
 
 Nea. Kuffles, or 
 
 Char. {Coming down.) Neck-bands 1 
 
 Crows. These jackanapes again ! — {Aside : "WTiere's Haytoa 1) 
 
OR, THE PEOLOGUE. 61 
 
 Berk. {Urging him away) Counsellor — counsellor — I've a suit 
 for you, counsellor. 
 
 Crows. I want no suit — at my chambers, I 
 
 BerJc. Nay, sir, life and death are on't. 
 
 Grows. If 'twere your hanging, I wouldn't budge. If you 
 were the king himself I wouldn't move. 
 
 Berk And if you were the lord chief justice, you shouldn't 
 stay. 
 
 Crows. An assault — I'll indict ! 
 
 BerL Indict, — ^but come. [Forces him off. 
 
 Nell. (Aside : Now, to make my escape.) 
 
 Hart. {Following Nell.) If you would but step this way 
 
 Better. (To Nell.) Permit me again to wait upon you. 
 
 Moh. Mr. Hart and myself are desirous 
 
 Belter. Nay, sirs, but I have the first claim. 
 
 Hart and, Moh. (Keeping BKTTERTOu/rom Nell.) Mr. Better- 
 ton ! Mr. Betterton ! 
 
 NeU,. Lud, gentlemen ! have you found such a jewel, that you 
 must quarrel about it ? 
 
 MoU. A jewel ! A thing for candle-light ; else 'twouldn't have 
 a shade like this ! {^notching mash from'N-EL'i^a hand. ToOrano-e 
 girls.) Here, ladies ! here's a toy for an orange girl ! Mimr i 
 Buy oranges ! 
 
 NM. (To Charles.) Oh, save me from her tongue ! 
 
 Char. Trust yourself, my little Pomona, to me : this will take 
 us behind the scenes. Mohun, lead the way. — ^Nay, come ! or 
 that she-devil will raise the house. 
 
 Ndl. Anywhere, for in truth I fear her nails. 
 
 [Exit with Chaeles and MoHuu. 
 
 Hart. (To Moll.) Art not ashamed to rate the young 
 woman? 
 
 MoU. Womau 1 A chit ! a baby face ! If she's a woman, 
 what am I ? 
 
 Enter Boy. 
 Boy. (To IIaet.) Sir, it's the time. Shall the music begin ? 
 Ha/rt. I am coming. This girl must be ours. Come, Betterton. 
 Better. (Aside : What a fool I was to miss her !) 
 
 [.BeM rirngs, and mime is heard hehind the scenes. 
 [Exit with Hakt. 
 
 MoU. A woman, forsooth ! Why, look ye, ladies ; if a mask's 
 to make the difference, let us all be as black as Sandford's 
 perriwig. [Puis mask to her face, and walks abottt imitating Nell. 
 
 a 
 
62 NELL GWYNNE ; 
 
 Enter Hatnes. 
 
 Haynes. The counsellor says, she wears a mask — eh 1 {sees 
 Moll.) Here she is. My love, I bear a message from a lord — 
 a nobleman — who 
 
 MoU. {Aside : He takes me for that doll ! A lord ! No wonder 
 they called her Pomona. I'll trick her now.) 
 
 Haynes. Put your arm through mine. Don't tremble — you 
 are with an honourable gentleman. 
 
 \M'asio heard hehimd t7ie scenes. 
 
 Moll. I— I 
 
 Haynes. Not a word. They're going to begin the play. Hark! 
 
 the music. Let us steal away quietly. Don't flutter — softly — 
 
 softly — {Aside : — and now for the Mitre and the twenty pounds.) 
 
 [Haynes leads Moll off masked, as vidtors take their seats in. the 
 
 ^U, and music is Iteard, 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 ScESE L — An Apartment in the Mitre Tavern. 
 Discovered, Nell GwrsuB, Charles, and Berkelet, at table. 
 
 Nell. No, not a minute longer. 
 
 Char. Nay, why wilt not take my word 1 
 
 Nell. I have taken it, and found it counterfeit. The cracked 
 coin doesn't pass a second time. 
 
 Char. But— I promise — thou shalt go home. 
 
 Nell. So you promised when I left the theatre ; — ^howis it that 
 you brought me here ? 
 
 Char. By accident. 
 
 Nell. Accident 1 
 
 Char. Yes ; through gazing on your eyes, I somehow lost my 
 way : I was blinded by light. — Is not the excuse a fair one ? 
 
 Ndl. No; an owl would have made as good. — ^FareweU. 
 
 Char. Stay ! we must not part so. Come, Nelly ; thou dost 
 not know me. — Now what dost think I am "i 
 
 NeU. By my troth, you are hardly worth a guess. 
 
 Gkar. Try. ; "What dost take me for ? 
 
 Nell. An apothecary's 'prentice with just label Latin enough 
 to tell camphoi' from cinnamon ? No : your features are not 
 
OR, THE PROLOGUE. 63 
 
 learned enough for that. A money-lender's clerk ? Oh no ; that 
 face would never get you such a place of trust. A ballad-writer t 
 No ; for though your cheek is blank enough for paper, you 
 hav'n't qmte a goose-quiU look. 
 
 Char. Come ; will my face fit no honest calling ! Say something. 
 
 Neil. Well then, in despair I decide. There is a shallow neat- 
 ness, a sort of brassy glitter in your air that — I know not what 
 you are, if not a pin-maker. 
 
 Char. A pin-maker ! 
 
 NeU. Nay, I've known piu-makei-s who'd see no compliment in 
 the comparison. But if none of these, what are you ? 
 
 Char. A gentleman, — upon my word, — a gentleman. 
 
 Nell. Is tha.tani Farewell. 
 
 Char. What would you have ? — a gentleman and a soldier. 
 
 Nell. A soldier 1 
 
 Char. Even so. — ^Now will you leave me ? 
 
 Nell. A soldier ! Well, I declare, this quite makes out a dream 
 I had two mornings ago. you shall hear it. 
 
 Char. No dreams now : another time. 
 
 Nell. Now; or never : listen. — I dreamt that I was riding in a 
 fine golden coach with the king. 
 
 Char. With the king! 
 
 Berk. With the king ! 
 
 Nell. You know, we do dream such strange things — ^with the 
 king. WeD, the coach stopped ; when there came up a poor old 
 soldier without any legs or arms ; and of a sudden he held out 
 his hand 
 
 Char. What ! without any arms ? 
 
 Nell. Tou know, it was only in a dream. 
 
 Char. Yes, Nelly; but you ought to dream according to 
 anatomy, , 
 
 Nell. I say, he held out his hand ; and, telling us, that he had 
 no place to lay his old gray head upon, not a morsel of bread to 
 put into his mouth, he begged for charity, while the tears came 
 peeping into the corners of his eyes. 
 
 Char. Well? 
 
 Nell. I turned round to the king, — for, bless you, I was alto- 
 gether at my ease, no more afraid of him than I am of you, — and 
 I said, "Charles!" 
 
 Char. Charles! 
 
 Seri. Charles! 
 
 Nell. " Is it not a shame to let your old soldiers carry about 
 their scars as witnesses of their king's forgetfulness 1 — is it not 
 
 cruel that those who for your sake " 
 
 iUjKOMciously laying her hand vipon, Ike arm of Chaeles. 
 
 o2 
 
64 NELL GWYNNE; 
 
 Chax: For my sake ? 
 
 Nell. You know, I am supposing you the king. 
 
 Glwr. Oh, ay, ay ! 
 
 Nell. " Who for your sake have left some of their limbs in 
 a strange couutry, should have no resting-place for the limbs they 
 have, in their own ? " 
 
 CJiar. I see the end : the king relieved the soldier, and then 
 you awoke ? 
 
 Nell. No, I didn't : for I thought the coach went on towards 
 Chelsea, and there 
 
 Char. Well, what happened at Chelsea ? 
 
 Nell. There, I thought I saw a beautiful building suddenly 
 grow up from the earth ; and going in and coming out of it, just 
 like so many bees, heaps of old soldiers, with their long red 
 coats, and three-comer hats, and some with their dear wooden 
 legs, and all with their rough faces looking so happy and con- 
 tented, — that, when I looked and thought it was all my work, 
 I felt as if I could have kissed every one of 'em round ! 
 
 Char. When it came to that, of course you awoke ! 
 
 Nell. No, I didn't ; not until I saw a place, with my picture 
 hanging out for a sign. My head for a sign ! what do you think 
 of that 1 
 
 Char. Think 1 — I can't think of the sign with the living lips 
 before me. {She avoids him.) Nay, thou'rt a wild and beautiful 
 bird. 
 
 NeU. Ay, he must be a cunning fowler who cages me. 
 
 Char. I can make the bars of gold. 
 
 Nell. If you'd hold the surer, better bend one of the gold bars 
 into a ring. No other cage, no other knot ; a little fable hath 
 taught me wisdom. You shaE hear it. 
 
 Sang. — ^nell gwtnne. 
 
 " Little bird, little bird, have a care ;'' 
 
 Thus whisper'd a lark to her child ; 
 " See the fowler is spreading his snare, 
 
 What makes ye thus noisy and wild ? " 
 '* Good mother," the silly one cried, 
 
 Conceitedly trimming its wing, — 
 " Iv'e beauty and youth on my side, — 
 
 Hang fowlers ! I'll gambol and sing. 
 Oood mother, 
 
 Hang fowlers ! I'll gambol and sing." 
 
 " Little bird, little bird, not so near ;" 
 In fain! " Now too late you'll regret;" 
 
 For the poor little bird, dead with fear, 
 A captlTe is ta'en in the net. 
 
OR, THE PROLOGUE. 65 
 
 The mother then sighed forth this truth, 
 
 Her little one fast in the string, — 
 '* In prisons, what's beauty and youth i » 
 
 Fear fowlers, nor gambol nor sing." 
 •* Oh, mother !" 
 
 *' Fear fowlers, nor gambol nor sing !" 
 
 Char. I tell thee, Nelly, I am rich, abundantly rich — what 
 dost think now ? 
 
 Nell. Think ! — that faces do not go with fortunes. 
 
 Char. Thou shalt be a queen — almost ! 
 
 Nell. Almost ! Saving the coronation and a few such cere- 
 monies. 
 
 Char. I'll pour heaps of wealth into your lap ; thou shalt be 
 studded with diamonds ; thou shalt tread on nothing baser than 
 the richest damasks ; music shall float about you ; servants shall 
 bow before you ; all things shall come with your wish ! 
 
 Nell. Let me have one now, in earnest of the future. 
 
 Char. Name it. 
 
 Nell. Home ! — Home now, and the damask and music after- 
 wards. I will not be delayed, I insist — 
 
 Enter Stockfish. 
 
 Stock What cry is this in the Mitre ! Did ye call for the 
 hUl ? [Nell retires. 
 
 Char. Bill! 
 
 Stock. Ye have feasted right lusciously, and here is the account 
 thereof. 
 
 Char. (Aside to Bbkkelet : Pay this puritanical bagpipe.) 
 
 Berk. {Aside to Charles : Tour majesty, — ^I — ) 
 
 Char. Pay. Why dost not pay the knave 1 
 
 Berk. {Aside to Chaeles : Has your majesty no money 1 I 
 have none.) 
 
 Char. 'Sdeath, not my own likeness, even in copper. {Tales 
 hiU.) Four pounds three and two-pence. 
 
 Stock. PuUets are dear, and he did command the choicest 
 claret. 
 
 Char. {Aside : How perplexing !) {To Stockfish.) You see, 
 my friend — 
 
 Stock. I do See, that thy belly hath not taken counsel of thy 
 pocket. 
 
 NeU. What is all this ? Oh, the bill ! Well, pay the good man. 
 {Taking litl from Charub.) Four pounds three and two-pence. 
 Why, 'tisn't a grain from one of the heaps of gold to be poured 
 into my lap. 
 
66 NELL GWYNNE ; 
 
 Char. You see, both myself and friend have forgotten our 
 purses. 
 
 Ned. If yoif have no money, leave as a surety one of the 
 diamonds -n-ith which I am to be studded ; a very little one wUl 
 serve the reckoning. 
 
 Char. {Aside : I'd almost give one from my crown to be well 
 out of this !) 
 
 Ndl. I'm sure the charges are most reasonable. {Beading bill.) 
 " Three pullets, five and four-pence." You never bought them 
 cheaper at market. " Eein-deer's tongue, two and a penny. A 
 venison pasty, three and two-pence." How deer's flesh can be 
 sold for the money, I know not ; unless, indeed, 'tis stolen from 
 one of the royal parks. 
 
 Char. (Aside : In which case, certainly, the pasty should come 
 to me for nothing.) 
 
 2^eU. " Sugar-sops and fish, two and sixpence ; " which, with 
 claret, sauce, tarts, ale, bread, and wax candles, amount exactly 
 to four pounds three and two-pence of his majesty's current 
 money. 
 
 Char. Certainly, of his majesty'smoney — {Aside : If his majesty 
 had it.) 
 
 NelZ. As they say in the play-book, " pay the Jew his principal 
 and let him go." 
 
 Stock. I am no Jew, but a plain-going, simple-spoken, guileless 
 Christian ; nevertheless, I will go, on the receipt of my principal. 
 
 Neli. {To Charlbs.) Now, my good diamond-merchant ! — 
 
 Cka/r. {To Stockfish.) The fact is, I must make a friend of 
 you. 
 
 Stoch. Not on credit. If ye do not pay, ye shall be locked up 
 in the roundhouse forthwith. 
 
 NeU. {To Charles.) Give the man your place of residence, and 
 let him call for the money. 
 
 Stoch. Have you a reputable place of dwelling ? 
 
 Char. I — I — {Aside to Berkeley : Answer for me.) 
 
 [Ooet up. 
 
 Berk My good fellow, never mind the dwelling. Suffer my 
 friend to depart ; I wUl remain in your custody uutU the money 
 arrives. 
 
 Stock. May I be sure 1 
 
 Char. Eeligiously sure ; besides, TU reward you with— 
 
 Ndl. Diamonds — ^richest damask — and music floating about 
 him? 
 
 Stock. If ye open yonder door, a passage will lead ye to my 
 master's private room : he will doubtless agree. 
 
 Char. Dull blockhead, why didst not say so before 1 That door 1 
 
OR, THE PROLOGUE. 67 
 
 Stoch. That door ! 
 
 [Chakles and Berkeley enter the room, in scene, when, Stockfish 
 immediately doaes, and locks the door upon tjiem. 
 
 NeU. You never mean to make prisoners ? — 
 
 Cliar. Why, drawer, that door is locked ! — 
 
 Stock. Barred and bolted ; and so is this. {Bolting the door.) 
 
 Char. Varlet ! what is't ye mean — to cheat us ? 
 
 Stock. No ; I mean that ye should not cheat me. (Going.) 
 
 JS'ell. Tou will never be so barbarous — you cannot ? 
 
 Stock. I can — I wiU ! [Exfit. 
 
 KM. (Chaeles knocks.) Patience, prisoners ; your keeper is 
 gone. 
 
 Char. The rascal ! I'll tear the house about his ears. 
 
 Ji'dl. Don't begin these two minutes — for then I shall be out 
 of it. 
 
 Char. Nelly, thou wouldst not leave me ? 
 
 KeU. Leave you ! (Cbowspoot heard without^ The counsellor 
 again ! Oil, my &te ! (To Charles.) I have it — remain quiet 
 but for a while, and Til release you. 
 
 Enter Crowspoot. 
 
 Crows. She's thei'e ! she's safe ! — she's — (Seeing her.) Nelly ! 
 
 Kell. Sir ! 
 
 Crows. (Aside : She doesn't look angry — she doesn't storm at 
 beiug carried oflf !) I own I have been violent. 
 
 Jfdl. Have you, sir ? 
 
 Crows. I was afraid I might have a little agitated you. 
 
 KeU. Oh dear, no, sir. You judge yourself too rashly. (Aside : 
 Wbat can he mean ?) 
 
 Crows. But now, now, we're alone, with not a soul to — 
 
 Char. (Knocking at door.) Nelly, Nelly ! 
 
 Crows. Your name — who's that 1 
 
 Berk. (Knocking within) Nelly ! 
 
 Crows. Another ! why, they know you ! Who are they ! How 
 came they here ? Speak ! 
 
 Nell. They — ^they came with me. 
 
 Crows. With you 1 
 
 Nell. That is, they brought me here ; certainly, against my 
 will. 
 
 Crows. (Aside : Oh, I see ; they're Joe Haynes's journeymen.) 
 No more of that, sweet Nelly ; no reproaches. 
 
 Berk. (Knocking) Nelly, have you got the money ? 
 
 Crows. Money, what money ? > 
 
 Nell. If you must know, money I was going to borrow to pay 
 the gentlemen's score ; for which they are now locked up. 
 
NELL GWYNNE; 
 
 Crows. Score ! What's the amount ? 
 
 J^eU. Four pounds, three shillings, and two-pence. Here's 
 the bilL 
 
 Grows. {Reading it) "Pullets, tongue, claret !" (Aside: Well, 
 for ruffians who live by their cudgels, they've palates for lords !) 
 And you'd pay for the feast 1 
 
 Ifdl. I would. 
 
 Crows. What, then, you bear no malice towards the rogues ? 
 
 Ji^ell. They deceived me, certainly ; but what's the use of 
 malice ? 
 
 Crows. That's well : go to your room ; — and, for fear you 
 should be seen, don't budge without your mask. You shall pay 
 the bill — here, here's my purse. (She refuses.) What ! wilt not 
 borrow of me ? Why wilt not take my purse, and with it my 
 hand and heart ? 
 
 J/'ell. Because the money I might repay, but for the hand and 
 heart, they must fain die creditors. 
 
 Crows. Not so — not so ! Take the purse. 
 
 Serk ( Within.) Nelly ! 
 
 .N'ell. (Aside : Yet there is no other way.) 
 
 Crows. Take it. 
 
 Bcrh. (Within) Hast got the money ? 
 
 Nell. (Taking the pv/rse) Yes. 
 
 Crows. And now to seal the loan — one kiss — one. 
 
 [Approacltes Nelly, who nms imder his arms, and meets Stockfish. 
 
 Stock. Did ye call? 
 
 Mell. The gentleman's bill is — 
 
 Stock. Four pounds three shillings and two-pence. 
 
 I^dl. (ImitcUing Stockfish.) Have you written in a fab-, 
 round, publican hand the receipt thereto ? 
 
 Stock. Aye ! 
 
 Nell. (Counting money into his hand.) One — ^two — three four. 
 
 There, then, is your money. There, counsellor, is your purse,— 
 what I have taken I will return. 
 
 Stock. And here is the receipt — ^here the key. 
 
 Crows. Which I will hold. Come hither. 
 
 [Takes Stockfish aside. 
 
 KeE: (Ooin^ to door in scene) The bill is paid ! (Goiiig to 
 room at side) Now, will I turn the key upon myself, watch my 
 opportunity, and then, good bye, counsellor. 
 
 \_E3dt into room o?i left hand. 
 
 Crows. (To Stockfish.) Fail not, but hasten the coach. (Exit 
 Stockfish.) Well, the feast's paid for ; the gluttonous varlets ! 
 and here's the key to let the gaol-bii'ds fly. Nelly ! (Lookii^g 
 about) Oh, gone to her room ! All the better, I'U — 
 
OR, THE PROLOGUE. 69 
 
 Enter Joe Hatnes. 
 
 Haynes. So, connsellor, Tve found you ! I've been running all 
 over the town after you : here is the wench ! — Wiere's the 
 twenty pounds ? Not a word, — come ! 
 
 Crows. There (Giving it.) you have the money. 
 
 Sai/nes. And in that room — (Pointing to door on right hand.) 
 you have the stolen goods. {Listening at door.) Why, bless me, 
 she's surely asleep. Hark ! you may hear her snore ! 
 
 Crows. Snore ! you profane villain ! Begone ! stop ! The 
 money has been easily earned ? You hav'n't had much trouble ? 
 
 Saynes. No. The business was managed very quietly and 
 soberly. 
 
 Croics. Quietly and soberly 1 What, after so much tongue and 
 claret ? 
 
 Haynes. Claret ? 
 
 Crows. Such things your assistants have consumed; such 
 things I have paid for 1 Here's the bill ; here's the receipt ; 
 {Giving them. Chaeles and Berkeley knoch violently at door?) 
 and there's your companions, knocking, to get out of limbo. 
 
 Haynes. I forswear all companions — " I am myself alone ! " 
 
 Crows. If there be a blush in you, I'll bring it to your face. 
 (Charles knocks?) Coming, gentlemen, coming ! Now, knave, 
 own thyself exposed, for I will confront you with — {Opens dooi — 
 Charles and Berkeley run out.) — the devils that haunt me ! 
 
 Char. {Aside to Hatnes : Hush !) What, counsellor, — become 
 gaoler at the Mitre ? 
 
 Crows. Mercers, forsooth ! I thought they were fellows who 
 lived by cudgels and cold steeL {To Hatnes.) Above all else, 
 what fiend made you employ these 1 
 
 Haynes. Employ ! Let the gentlemen speak for themselves ; — 
 did I ?— 
 
 Char. Of course, you employed us. 
 
 Crows. {To Haynes.) Can you deny it now ? 
 
 Saynes. {Bowing to Charles.) Now, certainly not. 
 
 Crows. A supper for these I But I won't pay ! 
 
 Haynes. You have paid. Gentlemen, acknowledge the coun- 
 sellor's liberality. Here {Giving them to Charles) is the bill — ■ 
 and here the receipt. 
 
 Char. Many thanks, most liberal sir ! 
 
 [Charles and Berkeley how ceremomously. 
 
 Crows. Begone, fellows, begone ; you have your hire ! Share 
 the twenty pounds and vanish ! ' {Aside : If they stop I shall go 
 mad. She sha'n't stir while they are here.) 
 
 [^Watcftes room door on right hand. 
 
70 NELL GWTNNE ; 
 
 Gkar. (To'Ka.yihes.) Hire ! Twenty pounds ! What does old 
 frailty mean? 
 
 Haynes. Tour majesty, a simple love bargain, for carrying off 
 a damsel — one Mistress Ellen Gwynne. I brought her from the 
 theatre, and placed her in that room. 
 
 Char. Tut, man ! you dream. I myself escorted pretty EUen 
 to this house. 
 
 Haynes. Then, your majesty, I have blundered rarely ; for, I 
 vow, I brought somebody. 
 
 0iar. Ha, ha, ha ! No matter ; — ^'twill be all the same to the 
 counsellor. But stay ; the real Nelly is somewhere here — ^he 
 may trick us after all. 
 
 HayTies. Never fear, your majesty ; you shall yet see some 
 sport — ^a scene from a Shropshire comedy. 
 
 Char. A Shropshire comedy ! 
 
 Haynes. A brief time will prepare the actors, and then — 
 
 Crows. {Comes doi/m.) "Will you never go ? 
 
 Char. We are gone, most liberal sir ! — If, at a future time, 
 there should be another lady to carry off — 
 
 Haynes. {Shaking the hag of money.) Our terms are very 
 moderate — 
 
 Berk. And secrecy inviolable. 
 
 Haynes. Cudgelling perfoi-med in every variety, and ears 
 cropped — 
 
 Char. With perfect satisfaction to the employer, and according 
 to the last new fashion. [Elceunt all but CaowsFOOT. 
 
 Crows. They're gone — yes — there's their last step upon the 
 staircase — I'll make sure of the door. (Bolts it.) Now for my 
 little prisoner. {Goes to door at right hand.) Od's she has locked 
 herself in ; — ^the dear flutterer ! Frightened, I dare say. My 
 dear — my dear — ^you may come out now. {Idstening^ Why, as 
 that rascal said, there is a sound like snoring, to be sure ; — ^but, 
 uo, — it can't be. Nelly— Nelly — (Nellt opens left hand door and 
 is coming out, but retreats on seeing Crowsfoot — she watches him 
 from door.) She comes ! I hear her timid partridge foot running 
 along the boards. 
 
 Hnter Orauge Moll, masked, from right hand room. 
 Come along, my love ! Sit down, — sit down. 
 MoU. {Aside : The old villain ! And is this the lord ?) 
 
 Crows. Masked ! Never mind before me — put it away let me 
 
 look on the light. (Moll refttses.) Well, if you won't. Why 
 don't you speak to me ? Come, sit — sit. {Places two old-fashioned 
 high-backed arniH;hairs : tliey sit.) Speak, love ! (Moll coughs 
 violently^ Dear heart ! What a cold. Ha ! those nasty thin shoes 
 
OK, THE PROLOGUE 71 
 
 But I have such presents for you, Nelly. (Moll couglis^ A glass 
 of wine, Nelly : here is a glass of claret — and it is paid for. 
 
 [Gives Moll wme. She .drinks. Nell creeps round to Moll's 
 
 ekair, wTalst Crowsfoot is engaged at table. Moll seeing Iwr, 
 
 is a^out to exclaim — 
 
 Ndl. {Aside to Moll : Hush ! you shall have all the presents.) 
 [Stands hehind Moll's chair, vMseen hy Ceowsfoot. 
 
 Crows. {Taking glass from Moll.) How do you feel, now ? 
 Ndl. {From behind chair.) Another glass ! 
 Crows. To he sure. {FiUs, wild gives to Moll — she drinks.) 
 There — ^it revives you ? 
 ^dl. I think it does. I'll take another. 
 
 [MoLii affects repugnance to Kell. 
 
 Crows. Well said ; I like this ; it shows no silly squeamlshness. 
 You won't take another glass ? 
 
 iVeS. Yes, I will ; nay, you may bring the bottle. 
 
 Crows. No, Nelly ; I can only spare another half glass. There 
 — {Sits) and now, Nelly, {Draws his chair closer to Moll's) what 
 would you ask of me, what can I do for you ? Ask and have ! 
 I'm so delighted ! Is there anything in the world you want ? 
 Speak ! speak ! speak ! {Taking out waXch^ 'Tis growing late ! 
 
 NM. That's a very pretty watch of yours, counsellor ; a lady's 
 watch, is it not ? 
 
 Crows. My dear first wife's — rest her soul ! But 'tis yours, 
 Nelly. \Oives watch to Moll. 
 
 Ndl. What a beautiful ring on your finger ! 
 
 Crows. A mere nothing — a mere nothing. Now, Nelly — 
 
 NeU. I never did see so pretty a ring. 
 
 Crows. Hang it ! Say no more about it ! {Oives Moll the 
 ring.) Now, Nelly, now dove, let us talk about — 
 
 Ndl. The presents — the presents you spoke of. 
 
 Crows. Trifies : a gown — and let us talk. 
 
 iVeK. The, gown now, and then the talk. 
 
 Crows. I obey. I'll fetch them myself {Rises, and as Crows- 
 foot c/ets up, and is crossing towards door, Moll moves the chair 
 round so as to keep her face to him and the better to hide Nell 
 behind. {Aside : At the same time I can hurry the coach and 
 bear her like a conqueror off.) I'U fetch them — I'll fetch them ! 
 I shan't be long, my soul ! lExit. 
 
 Moll. {Mniracing Nell.) Kiss me, child ! Pretty darling ! 
 what wit it has ! Oh, Nelly, how may one woman be deceived 
 in another ! Now, the stars pardon me my bad words to you ! 
 
 JfeB. I forgive them ; — only tell me how you came here 1 
 
 Moll. I suffered myself to be led away in your name. — Oh, my 
 
72 NELL GWYNNE ; 
 
 dear baby ! you don't know the wickedness of this town. I do. 
 I was shown into that room, where I must have fallen asleep. 
 But how, my innocent, did you come here 1 
 
 Nell. I thought I was going home, when I was cheated to this 
 place. 
 
 MoU. Cheated ! Well, let's be friends ; though you take half 
 my orange custom at the theatre. 
 
 Nell. Never fear; I am no longer your rival. I have 
 obtained aU I ventured for ; — for to-day I speak a prologue at 
 the theatre ! 
 
 MoU. A prologue ! — ^why, — hush ! 
 
 Nell. The counsellor ! Hide, and this time leave him to me. 
 
 MoU. But, my dear angel, the gown — 
 
 Nell. Gown and all shall be yours. Quick ! 
 
 [Moll retires into room at rigM hamd. 
 
 Enter Crowsfoot with a box— fastens door. 
 
 Crows. Here it is,— Nelly ! What, taken off thy mask 1 That's 
 well! 
 
 Nell. What gown can it be ? 
 
 Orows. What gown 1 The gown you admired at Madame 
 Charrett's ! 
 
 NeU. Why, you have never bought it ? 
 
 Crows. Bought it to surprise you ; and head-gear to suit. 
 Thou shalt dress like an empress, Nelly. See {Taking gown from 
 box), here's the gown ! 
 
 [Moll comes down ietween Nell and Crowsfoot. 
 
 Crows. Here it is, be happy and take it ! 
 
 MoU. {Twitching it away^ I will ! 
 
 Crows. In the devil's name, what witch is this ? 
 
 MoU. {Taking off lier mask.) Witch ! No more a witch than 
 thou'rt conjuror. 
 
 Crows. That hag of the pit. Orange Moll ! 
 
 MoU. H^g ! Why, thou supernatural pounce-box ! Thou piece 
 of faded red tape ! Thou nothing made something by a wig ! 
 Hag ! pah ! 
 
 Crows. I shall go off in a spasm ! How got she here ] 
 
 MoU. How t And don't the blushes burn your wrinkles to 
 ask 1 Wasn't I carried off 1 
 
 Crows. I — I — Come, Nelly, 'tis near the time that — ^the time 
 
 what's o'clock 1 {Looking dovhtfvUy at Nell and Moll.) 
 
 MoU. {Taking out watch^ Seven minutes to two, by the watch 
 of your dear first wife. 
 
OK, THE PROLOGUE. 73 
 
 Crows. Watch. ! ring ! Robbery ! — Jade, I'll hang you ! I'll — 
 
 [ Violent hrwckmg at the door. 
 Stoch ( Without^ Counsellor — counsellor ! There'll be murder ! 
 Crows. Is Beelzebub making holiday ? What next ? 
 
 [Nell opene door. 
 
 Enter Stockfish. 
 
 Stock. Flee ! — ^flee, or ye are a dead man ! The Shropshire 
 ■waggon is come in. 
 
 Crows. Damn the Shropshire waggon ! What of that ? 
 
 Stock. And in it seven stout young men, who clamour and cry 
 for you. 
 
 Nell. For the counsellor — for what ? 
 
 Stock. For their sister ; whom, as they complain, he hath 
 conveyed away. 
 
 Crows. {Aside: Shropshire ! Can I by accident have stumbled 
 on the truth ?) Why, Nelly, where are you from ? 
 
 Ndl. Shropshire, sir. 
 
 Moll. I'm Shropshire, too ! 
 
 Crows. {To Nell.) And have you any brothers ? 
 
 NeU. Seven. 
 
 Moll. Just my number. 
 
 Stock. Savage and cruel they do look ; — and they vow wrathfully 
 against thy bones. 
 
 Nell. Just like 'em ; my brothers are dragons. 
 
 Moll. So are mine ! Brother Tom once killed a butcher ! 
 
 Stock. Some of them do carry knotted cudgels as thick as my 
 arm, and some — 
 
 Crows. Well? 
 
 Stock. A little thicker ! If they do find ye with their sister, 
 they will slaughter ye. 
 
 NeU. But m never leave you. 
 
 Moll. No — ^nor I — never ! 
 
 Crows. You shaJl leave me ! I don't want you ! I don't know 
 you ! \Knock%ng without. 
 
 Haynes. { Withnii.) We will go up — we'll ha' his life ! 
 
 Stock. What a shocking thing 'twill be — 
 
 Crmvs. What ? 
 
 Stock. To have a crowner's inquest in the iCtre ! — 
 
 [Knockifig coiUinued — voices -without. 
 
 Voices. We won't be stopped — we'll ha' his life ! 
 Crows. Put me anywhere ! Do anything with me ! My 
 character ! My bones ! 
 Nell. The only chance, counsellor — get into the gown ! 
 
 ITaMng gown from hox. 
 
74 NELL GWTNNE ; 
 
 Crows. What ! turn -woman ? 
 
 Nell. Or be cudgelled for a man ! 
 
 CrwBS. Give it to me. Oh, that I were in the Temple ! — 
 
 [KnocHng continued— wUht Nell and Moll hastily d/ress Cbows- 
 FOOT in gown and head-dress. 
 
 Nell. There — pull this well over your head. 
 Moll. And be sure to walk pretty and tripping like one of us. 
 Nell. Here they come ! (Stockfish whispers Nell.) A trick, 
 indeed ! 
 
 Enter Job Hatnes, and two others disguised as peasants, at door. 
 
 Hayms. Giles, Dick, and John — stay there and watch below ! 
 
 All. Where be he 1 — where be he ? 
 
 Haynes. We'U beat 'un like a sheaf o' com. 
 
 Stock. Ks I'm a man of truth, he whom ye seek is not here. 
 
 All. Where be sister ? — where be sister, then ? 
 
 Haynes. {To Nell ararfMoLL.) You ben't she — nor — ^Why, no 
 {Seising Ceowsfoot), yes, spite o' all her Lunnun rags, — I do 
 know her !— Here she be ! — ^here, brothers, be poor lost Susan ! 
 
 Crows. {Aside : Susan !) 
 
 Haynes, &^c. {Shaking cudgels at Crowsfoot.) Oh, Susey — 
 Susey ! 
 
 Nell, My good people, this lady is a friend of mine ; — she's not 
 your sister. 
 
 Moll. My own cousin ! 
 
 Haynes. {To Crowsfoot.) Deny thine own flesh and blood. 
 
 [They all seize Crowsfoot. 
 
 Groics. Murder ! 
 
 Nell. Mercy — you'll kiU the young woman ! 
 
 Enter Charles and Berkeley. 
 
 Char. Shame, friends ! What, cudgel a woman 1 — 
 
 [Hayues takes off Ceowsfoot's head-dress. 
 
 Char. The counsellor !— let me congratulate you, learned sir. 
 
 Crows. Congratulate ! 
 
 Char. On your new silk gown. Never did promotion sit so 
 gracefully. 
 
 Crows. {Tearing off gomi) To be gulled— robbed— to pay for 
 suppers ? 
 
 Char. Four pounds and odd— Gregory, return the amount. 
 
 {Sk'b.kzi.^y pats purse in Crowefoot's liand. 
 
 Crows. If I could persuade her to— Nelly— Nelly (Nell turns 
 away). Tricked— exposed— (^Z^ laugh)— T\\ wage war with all 
 
OR, THE PBOLOGUE. 75 
 
 womankind ! I'll confine my practice to suits against 'em, and 
 spend the rest of my days in persecuting the frailties of the 
 ■whole sex ! Oh, woman ! woman ! 
 
 [JZiiTW off' — ihefairty retire v/p. Holl sits <U table drirHdng, 
 
 Ndl. Ha ! ha ! poor counsellor. Now, to make ray escape — 
 
 Char. What, NeUy, art running after the lawyer ? 
 
 Nell. Indeed, you must not detain me. 
 
 Char. "Why, then, I see it ; thou'rt an antiquarian in love, 
 and art fairly taken with the last century. In truth, now, where 
 wouldst go ? 
 
 Nell. In truth, to the theatre. You'll never guess for what 1 
 I am to speak the prologue. Let me go, I pray ! 
 
 Char. You shall go, and I will be at the theatre too. 
 
 NeU. Yet, I'm so frightened ! 
 
 Char. Never fear ; you may see a friend there: be certain you 
 may ; and, with such assurance, kind-hearted, good-natured, 
 sprightly Nelly, fare ye well. — Fortune plays a blind game, or 
 she had taken better care of you. But, courage ! I tell you, I and 
 some friends will be at the house. 
 
 Nell. "What, is't a holiday with the Mercers' Company 1. 
 
 Char. Nelly, if thou shouldst see me, yet, seeing, miss the 
 mercer, then — 
 
 Nell. Must I die for the loss ?— What then ? 
 
 Char. Then own, with mighty John, that — 
 
 ** Princes may retire whene'er they please, 
 And breathe free air from out their palaces ; 
 They go sometimes unknown to shun their state. 
 And then 'tis manners not to know or wait." 
 
 NeU. "What is all this? 
 
 Char. Four lines from the new play to-night : mark them, and 
 learn the wisdom they advise. And so, again, courage, Nelly, 
 courage and success ! {Exeunt Charles and Beekelet. 
 
 Haynes. And now to return our dresses here to the wardrobe, 
 for again I am one of the theatre. 
 
 Nell. "What ! you ? 
 
 Hai/nes. By royal mandate from the king. Let's haste ; for 
 to-day their majesties in fuU state do honour to Mr. Di-yden's 
 new play. 
 
 Nell. Lud a mercy ! " The Conquest of Grenada ? " 
 
 Haynes. The same. 
 
 Moll. {Staggering forward.) "Why, bless me, child ! Thou'rt 
 white as chalk 1 
 
 Nell. Well I may be. I have to speak the prologue ; and, 
 before the king and queen ! — My gracious ! 
 
76 NELL GWTNNE ; 
 
 Hm/nes. What ! are you the new comer the managers are mad 
 about ? Tou the heroine of the great hat ? 
 
 Ndl. I ! Manager Hart ■would make me promise. But I have 
 been so teased ! I have- hardly looked at the words. What shall 
 I do? 
 
 Haines. Hope, and all will be well. It would be uncharitable 
 too severely to condemn for faults, without taking some thought 
 of the sterling goodness which mingles in and lessens them. 
 
 Nell. Say you so ? Why then, good friends, come to the 
 theatre and hear me, if there yet be time, rehearse the prologue. 
 
 [^Exit. 
 
 Moll. Joseph — ^Mr. Haynes — you brought me here — pray take 
 me back again. [Hatues leads Moll off. Exeunt. 
 
 Scene II. — A Passage or Lohbt/ of the King's Theatre. 
 Enter Hart, in full dress. 
 
 Hart, {Looking at watch.) If the girl, this Nell Gwyime, should 
 disappoint us after all ! 
 
 Enter Major Mohun. 
 
 Moh. My dear Hart — the girl is come ! Though, indeed, 
 half dead with fear for the event. 
 
 HaH. We'll have her run through the verse at once. Where's 
 Dryden ? 
 
 Moh. He's behind admiring the big hat ; and, with the pro- 
 phetic fury of a poet, vows it will extinguish Nokes for ever. In 
 sober truth, 'tis a beaver for Atlas. 
 
 Enter Joe Hatnes. 
 
 Hart. Mr. Haynes, you are welcome once again ; yet, mind, 
 no more bells, Joe. But time hastens, let us go and encourage 
 the new comer. [FUmrish of trumpets withmtt. 
 
 Moh. Their majesties. 
 
 Ra.rt. Nay, then, we must even trust to fortune ; for there is 
 no time for rehearsal. Away, gentlemen ; away, all to your 
 places! Come, Mohun, to light the king to his box. 
 
 [Flourish of trumpets— exeunt MoHUw with Hart and Hatnes. 
 Trumpets amd music contimted, when — 
 
 IRe-enter Hart and Mohun lighting Oiarles and the Queen 
 imth Guards, Lords, and Ladies in, waiting. Atteudants, 
 &c. &c. ; tliey cross the stage. 
 
OR, THE PROLOGUE. 77 
 
 Scene the Last.- — Tim Intenor of the King's Theatre. The 
 Royal Box, in which are their Majesties, Sc. Music, " Britons, 
 strike home." 
 
 The bell is rung, the curtain 02}ens in the middle, and enter Nell 
 " in a broadAirirmned hat and loaist-belt." 
 
 jSTbll. " This jest was first of the other house's making ; 
 Aud, five times tried, has never failed of taking : 
 For 'twere a shame a poet should be killed 
 Under the shelter of so broad a shield. 
 This is that hat whose very sight did win ye 
 To laugh and clap as though the devil were in ye ; 
 As then for Nokes, so now I hope you'll be 
 So dull to laugh once more for love of me. 
 
 I'll write [Recognising Charles. 
 
 What ! he — the King ! — the words are flown, 
 
 \_Coming forward. 
 For Dryden's syllables, pray take my own. 
 
 [Lets hat fall. 
 First let me ask that niceness may not halt 
 With eager eyes to scan out every fault ; 
 And miss, with venal look, those streaks of light, 
 Which fortune only would not have more bright. 
 Of good and ill all character is made ; 
 The good accept — the rest cast into shade. 
 Of some we'd show (if so our hopes might draw,) 
 The moral amber, with nor grub nor straw ; 
 Would take away th' unseemly gnats and flies. 
 And keep the prettiness that glads all eyes. 
 This our design : if granted, may I ask 
 Your hands aud wishes for th' attempted task ? 
 
 END OF NELL GWYNNE. 
 
THE HOUSEKEEPER 
 
CHARACTERS REPRESENTED. 
 
 Sidney Maynard . , Mr. Vixing. 
 
 Tom Purple .... ... Mk. Brindai.. 
 
 Simon Box Mb. Buckstone. 
 
 Father Oliver Mr. "Webster. 
 
 Daguerre Mr. Gallot. 
 
 Benjamin . Ma. Coveney. 
 
 Laval Mr. W. Johnson. 
 
 Christopher Layer .... . . Mr. Bartlett. 
 
 Bin . . . Mr. J. Cooper. 
 
 Officer ... .... . Mr. Eaton. 
 
 Gentleman . Mr. Newcombe. 
 
 Visitors, Soldiers, Sjc. 
 
 Felicia 
 
 Sophy Haioes . 
 Widow Duckling 
 
 Miss Tayloe. 
 Mrs. Huhby. 
 Mrs. Tayleure. 
 
 %* This Comedy was represented for the first time, July 17, 1833. 
 
THE HOUSEKEEPER. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 Scene I. — An old-fashioned Apartment, handsomely furnished. 
 Enter Felicia and Sopht Hawes. 
 
 Felicia. I am glad, Sophy, thou hast not fovgotten thy old 
 companion. 
 
 Sophy. Dear madam, though it's seven long years since you 
 left us for foreign parts, there's hardly been a day that I hav'n't 
 sometimes thought of you. 
 
 Fel. I have not deserved your thoughts, Sophy. I fear me, 
 travel, with its new objects, has made me slight old friends in 
 Derbyshire. 
 
 Sophy. Just what my poor mother told me, madam. She used 
 to say, — Sophy, child, where is the use in fuming and fidgeting ? 
 Thou knowest, the lady Felicia, though she was a pretty babe, 
 and thy foster-sister, now she's a woman grown, mus'n't. think of 
 folks like us. — So, put such stuff from thy head, girl. But though 
 I tried, I couldn't quite. 
 
 Fel. And thou art come to seek thy fortune in London ? I am 
 rejoiced that my return to England, — 
 
 Sophy. Oh ! we heard about your uncle's death, and that you 
 would soon come back. Your poor uncle ! 
 
 Fel. My last relative — my last friend, Sophy. I do but visit 
 England to await the settlement of his will, and may after, quit 
 it for ever. 
 
 Sophy. Madam ! 
 
 Fel. But, Sophy, what am I to think of our Derbyshire 
 bachelors ? — Was there not one with wit enough to keep you 
 at home ] 
 
82 THE HOUSEKEEPER. 
 
 Sophy. He didn't stay at home himself, madam. 
 
 Fel. Did he vria your love, and then desert you 1 
 
 Sophy. He didn't desert me, madam. 
 
 I'd. How then 1 
 
 Sophy. "We were to be married ; but folks would meddle. 
 The parson — I dare say he meant well — ^talked to us of early 
 troubles, and advised us to get money first ; and so, poor Simon 
 set off to a place here in London ; and — ^for my part, I don't see 
 what the parson had to do with it, except to marry us, and leave 
 the rest to ourselves. 
 
 Ervter Servant. 
 
 Seni. The young man, below, madam, who cajne with — 
 Sophy. That 's Simon, my lady — Simon Box : he would come ; 
 he said he shouldn't rest if he didn't speak to you. — \_E3nt Ser- 
 vant.] — ^He would come. 
 
 Enier Simon Box. 
 
 Simon. Your servant, my lady : Sophy is come up all the 
 way from Matlock, to a place. Now, though the foolish 
 people in Derbyshire said 'twas a rare chance to be housekeeper 
 in London, yet I — ^you see, my lady, you ajid I know what 
 liondon is. 
 
 Fel. I perceive. — You wish to hear something of her mistress. 
 
 Simon. No, my lady ; I wish to hear something of her master. 
 
 Fd. Master ! Do I then know the gentleman ? 
 
 Simon. Saving your presence, he hath played so many tricks in 
 his time, 'tis said few know him long. But, as he has now forsworn 
 the world ; shut himself close in an old house in St. James's Park ; 
 given himself up to study, some say to magic — but we know, my 
 lady, what folks will sometimes call magic — ^if you think he 'U 
 keep in this staid mind, — 
 
 Fd. He ! Of what strange gentleman do you speak ? 
 
 Simon. Of Mr. Sidney Maynard. 
 
 Sophy. Your ladyship's cousin. 
 
 Fei. My cousin, Sidney ! 
 
 Sophy. Dear heart ! isn't your ladyship well 1 
 
 Fd. I understand, now. Go on, friend. 
 
 Simon. No, madam ; I 've done. Come, Sophy. 
 
 Sophy. But won't you hear her ladyship ? Isn't Mr. Maynard 
 a true gentleman, madam ? 
 
 Simon. Yes, — and a young gentleman. No, Sophy, 'twill 
 never do. 
 
THE HODSEKEEPER. 83 
 
 Fd. I will engage for the honour — the integrity of my cousin. 
 Yet, tell me, Sophy ; what accident can have selected you for thiis 
 service? 
 
 Sophy. "Why, madam, a, letter came down to our curate for 
 somebody to keep your cousin's house. — The widow Duckling, 
 was coming ; when, somehow, the exciseman made up his mind 
 of a sudden, and was to take her to church the day after I came 
 away. As I knew the secret, I, — that is, Simon being in London 
 — ^no — ^that is — -I came up instead of the widow. 
 
 Simon. And a thoughtless child thou wert. The widow was a 
 discreet, sober, ugly woman of five-and-forty ; thou art nineteen 
 and what's worse, not a scarecrow. 
 
 Soph/. Well, Simon, every one must have a beginning. And, 
 I'm sure, Mr. Maynard is a gentleman : doesn't madam say as 
 much ? 
 
 Fel. (Aside : Never was wilder, bolder thought, and yet I'll 
 follow it ! Love, all but hopeless, will have me venture all !) 
 
 Simon. No, Sophy : doubts come thicker on me — ^thou sha'n't 
 go. If her ladyship, as I am out of service, could have given 
 thee or me, or both of us, a nook in her own family, — ^but to keep 
 house for a strange young man ! 
 
 Fel. I pray, for a short time, let the trial be made. Tou 
 cannot doubt Sophy— should not doubt me. If, after a time — 
 say two or three weeks — she'd quit such service, I will be&iend 
 ye both. 
 
 Simon. WHl a week do ? Well, be it as your ladyship likes. 
 I know that her mother nursed you and her ; that, for many a 
 day, you were like little sisters together ; so, you can't but have 
 a kind of love for the girl, and so — I'll trust you. Come, Sophy, 
 I'll take you to the Park. 
 
 Fel. I win see her there. Tel, for further satisfaction, 'twould 
 be well you waited on Mr. Maynard to acquaint him of Sophy's 
 coming. 
 
 Simon. To be sure. (Aside : I can then scan my gentleman. 
 I'll look him through and through ; and if I spy a flaw, she 
 sha'n't go — ^no, I'll run in debt for marriage fees, and we'U starve 
 together.) [Exit. 
 
 Sophy. I knew Mr. Maynard must be the same nice young 
 gentleman he was, when, eight years ago, he saved your ladyship 
 from drowning. 
 
 Fel. He is, as I hear. 
 
 Sophy. What ! ar'n't you friends ? 
 
 Fel. I have seen him — and at long intervals — ^but twice since 
 he saved my Ufe ; and then, as I believe, he neither saw me nor 
 "knew of my presence. A family dispute, arising from political 
 
84 THE HOUSEKEEPER. 
 
 opinions, has made us strangers. And now, child, attend to me. 
 Sophy, I am sure thou dost love me I 
 
 Sophy. As I love breath, madam. 
 
 Fel. Wouldst do any honest thing to serve me 1 
 
 Sophy. I'd almost lay down my life for you. 
 
 Fel. And, if I trust thee, thou wilt keep a secret ? 
 
 Sophy. As I'd keep the half of a love sixpence. 
 
 Fel. Then come with me, Sophy. I have a trial for thy love : 
 it may be, as accidents fall out, a bard one. Yet, be faithful, 
 Sophy ; and doubt not a full return. [Exeunt. 
 
 Scene II. — An Apartment in Matnard's House. 
 Enter Matnard and Purple. 
 
 Purple. Never think it, Sidney ; 'tisn't in mortal flesh of eight- 
 and-twenty. Thou wilt grow tired of this thy hermitage, ere 
 thou canst grace it with as much beard as an oyster. 
 
 Maynard. "Well, time tells a tale. 
 
 Pur. What end dost thou propose to this new whim ? What 
 dost thou seek ? 
 
 May. I have told thee — wisdom. 
 
 Pur. Pshaw! true wisdom's a gipsy, and pitches her tent by 
 the highways. Seek her in the com-t, the camp, the tavern — 
 ay, the gaming-house ; but stay not at home, — for, depend on't, 
 wisdom will never knock at thy gate. 
 
 May. I shall woo her to me by science, — contemplation. 
 
 Pur. Impossible : the ghosts won't let thee. Smile ; the 
 ghosts of— thy former days. I'll fancy thee here of winter 
 nights, walled in by books — philosophers and sages in their 
 sickly veUum. Well ! thou canst not study : 'tis true, thou hast 
 before thee a treatise writ in deep Chaldee ; but, canst thou 
 read ? Do not spectres of thy past life come between thee and 
 the book ? Are not silks rustling in the air — delicate feet 
 tripping over the boards — do not thy bookshelves change to 
 tapestried walls — ^nay, doth not the very death-watch in the 
 wainscot quit its dull tick-tick, — and, to thy fancy, strike into 
 a jig? 
 
 May. To thine, Tom : for thy fancy would turn a mummy to 
 a Daphne. 
 
 Pur. I thank my fancy ! Thou'lt be astrologer, too !— Wilt 
 catch cold and chilblains searching the skies ? I warrant me 
 
 Sid, thou'lt make rare discoveries in the milky-way. Thou'lt 
 
 seen a mis-shapen things ; but caps, ribands, gowns, and 
 
THE HOUSEKEEPER. So 
 
 petticoats of a distracting cut. Of all men, thou art least 
 fit for this. Why, thou'lt never rightly see the man in the 
 moon. 
 
 May. Humph ! Why not I 
 
 Pur. Because to thee he'll ever seem a woman. 'Tis plain 
 thou'rt not in earnest ; else thou'dst gone into some cave or ruin 
 and not have set up hermit -within ear-shot of the court. 
 
 May. Have I not said, 'twas father Oliver's covenant with me 
 ere we quitted Paris, that we should dwell in London ? 
 
 Pur. Ay ; he'd iain tell the fortunes of the maids of honour, 
 and east the nativities of pet spaniels. 
 
 May. Wilt never be serious ? Father Oliver is a man of 
 profound research, most curious knowledge : are not his 
 looks ? — 
 
 Pur. Most reverend. His hair is long and sleek ; his face, 
 unruffled as a dish of cream ; and, for his voice, no flute hath a 
 softer delivery. Oh ! doubtless, he is wise ! 
 
 May. There's not a science hidden from him. 
 
 Pur. It may be — (Aside : that of picking locks included.) 
 
 May. He can read the heavens. 
 
 Pur. Certainly — (Aside : after his own alphabet.) 
 
 May. Hath studied antiquities. 
 
 Pur. The most ancient — (Aside : for credulity was the first- 
 bom of Adam.) 
 
 May. In fine, he is learned in all things : from a constellation 
 to a plant. 
 
 Pur. The mountebank's true circle of knowledge ; for they 
 who huckster with the starSj often end their ' learning with 
 hempseed. 
 
 May. Well, thou wert bom for idle talk, and dost but fulfil 
 thy destiny. Talk on — I am fixed in my new purpose. I have 
 thrown away ten good years in twenty foolish courses. I have 
 tried aU, save study, and found all vain. And now, I am almost 
 thirty — ^warning thirty. 
 
 Pur. Warning thirty ! 
 
 May. 'Tis half the journey, Tom. Depend on't, after thirty, 
 'tis time to count the milestones. 
 
 Pur. I never was good at a reckoning — count for us both. 
 Here comes sleek wisdom, father Oliver. Farewell ; for here 
 I am as one of the profane. 
 
 £nter Father Oliver. 
 on. 1 crave your pardon, sir — I did conceive you were alone. 
 
THE HOUSEKEEPER. 
 
 Pur. Nay, let me spoil no conjuration — I am gone. {Returning: 
 Oh, Maynard ! is the woman yet arrived ?) 
 
 Oli. A woman ! — ^here ? 
 
 Pur. A woman — and here ; — and why not ? 
 
 Mat/. An old dame from the country. — ^Without a housekeeper 
 the place seems dull and starved. 
 
 OIL Certainly ; and yet Benjamin is apt, vigilant, and faith- 
 ful. Have we need of other help ? 
 
 Pur. Need ! Live in a palace, yet without a petticoat, 'tis but 
 a place to shiver in. Whereas, take off the house-top — break 
 every window — make the doors creak — the chimneys smoke — 
 give free entry to sun, wind, and rain, — stUl will a petticoat 
 make the hovel habitable ; nay, bring the little household gods 
 crowding about the fire-place. 
 
 Oli. {To MATifABD.) Yet here, sir, there is nothing to be done 
 which Benjamin — 
 
 Pur. Benjamin ! Tut, a sage is a fool to an old woman. Can 
 Benjamin cure coughs, dam hose, make possets ? Is he learned 
 in flannel — doth he know what water-gruel is 1 What ! dwell 
 in this huge carcase of a house, without some comfoi-table 
 woman to give it warmth and life ? No— I have followed my 
 own counsel ; written to my old college friend, in Derbyshire, 
 for a staid, plain, elderly widow ; a simple-minded soul, innocent 
 of Loudon craft. Doubtless, she'll soon arrive. — and then — 
 then, father wisdom ! — 
 
 Oli. What then, sir ? 
 
 Pur. Then we'll have a house-warming shall make the roof 
 quake. But, Sid, to return to the matter that brought me here. 
 Why wilt not make one of us to-night ? Nay, for one night 
 leave this den of melancholy and come among us. We shall have 
 rich sport. 
 
 Map. I have said, it is impossible. I am making certain cal- 
 culations, and to-night Venus will appear — 
 
 Pur. I know she wiU ; — then why not come and meet her ? 
 Not your Venus, twinkling coldly thousands of miles away ; but 
 a Venus, eye to eye — hand to hand j young, blooming — ^well, 
 I see 'tis vain, Thou'rt for celestial graces ; I'm for solid love 
 on terra firma : I'd ogle for myself, thou'dst woo through a 
 telescope ; and so I leave thee for my Venus with kindling looks, 
 to thy Venus and the rheumatism. [Exit. 
 
 Oli. Will the gentleman be fi-equent in his visits 1 
 
 May. No ; finding me fixed in my design, he'll leave me to 
 my humour. And I am fixed-. — ^I give up all the vain pur- 
 poses of life, all its follies and its feuds, for hard, unremitting 
 study. 
 
THE HOUSEKEEPER. 87 
 
 Oli. At any time a wise determination. — And to a man of 
 birth and fortune — {Aside : I'll try him now) — who has so many 
 roads to honour, — 
 
 J\fay. To what simpletons agree to call honour. 
 
 Oli. At a time like the present, in the contest about to com- 
 mence — 
 
 Mai/. Contest ! — 
 
 Oli. It may be but a rumour — yet it was whispered in 
 Paris — 
 
 May. What was whispered ? 
 
 Oli. That king James — 1 mean the chevalier, — 
 
 May. The Pretender as he is called 1 
 
 Oli. As he is called, — would make another venture for the 
 English crown. This was said. 
 
 May. But what says his majesty, king George the first? 
 Another venture ? 
 
 Enter Benjamin. 
 Well, sir ? 
 
 £en. A woman is below — a woman from Derbyshire : she says 
 to keep the house. 
 
 Mai/. Let her come up. 
 
 Oli. I will send her to you. (Aside : No, we cannot count on 
 him. Well, as he will not work with us, he shall, spite of 
 himself, work for us.) [Exit. 
 
 Sen. I kept father Oliver's house in Paris^he said I was to 
 keep your house here. 1 don't understand — 
 
 May. If you'd quit your place, the doors are open. If you'd 
 still keep it, learn better manners. Send the woman to me. 
 
 Ben. (Aside : She'll spoil all, now : and yet, if she's curious, 
 she'd better staid in Derbyshire than come near Benjamin.) 
 
 lExit. 
 
 May. ((Site.) Yes, I am sure I have done wisely. In good 
 time have I turned from the dissipation and frivolity of life, to 
 seek in true wisdom — 
 
 Re-enter Benjamin. 
 
 Ben. Here's the woman. 
 
 May. "Very well. — (Benjamin shows on Pelicia, dressed as a 
 country-girl. Benjamin goes off.) — In true wisdom, the only 
 lasting good. All else is hollow. Glory ! 'tis but a bubble 
 blown from blood. Law ! a spider's wisdom : and politics ! 
 the statesman ponders and plans, winning nothing certain but 
 ingratitude and the indigestion. Whilst for woman ! we hunt 
 
THE HOUSEKEJiPER. 
 
 a wild-fire and vow it is a star. I have done with these vanities. 
 Woman ! — I'faith I had forgotten my housekeeper. — Now, for 
 a face with a decent sprinkling of wrinkles — a skin of parch- 
 ment, wherein time hath left a memorandum of comeliness — 
 a few silver hairs — a quiet, grandmotherly eye — ^four teeth 
 at the most, and a back like a bow. Such should be the hand- 
 maid of a philosopher, and such — {Rising and seeing Felicia.) 
 — My dear, — my — why, young, pretty, and — are you from the 
 skies ? 
 
 JFel. No, sir ; Derbyshire. 
 
 Ma^. This is some mistake. Are you sure I am the person. 
 To whom were you sent ? 
 
 Fd. To a steady, respectable, studious gentleman. Perhaps, 
 I've been misdirected % 
 
 May. Oh ! you must have come to the wrong house. 
 
 Fel. Do you think so, sir ? 
 
 May. That is, possibly there may be another steady gentle- 
 man in the neighbourhood ; but I doubt whether he is — 
 
 Fel. {Showi'ixg card^ "Mr. Sidney Maynard, Birdcage Walk, 
 St. James's Park ? " 
 
 May. My name and address, certainly, but — {Aside: She's 
 very pretty !) 
 
 Fd. I thought I was right, sir. 
 
 May. Yes, child, but — {Aside : pretty ! — she's beautiful.) 
 But tell me, if — if — {Aside : I feel I'm becoming a philosopher, 
 for a blooming wench makes a fool of me.) Tell me ; how long 
 have you lost your husband 1 
 
 Fel. host ! I've not begun to lose, yet. 
 
 May. Not begun to lose ? 
 
 Fel. I never had the care of one. 
 
 May. The person named to me was in her widowhood. 
 
 Fel. Yes, sir ; but she has since grown out of it. 
 
 May. Why, child, do you talk riddles ? What has happened 
 to the woman ? 
 
 Fel. A second husband, sir. 
 
 May. If so, I must make the best of my disappointment. 
 
 Fel. I'm sure, sir, it sha'n't be my fault if anything's 
 amiss. 
 
 May. Your fault 2 You say the widow is married ; well 
 what do you wish ? 
 
 Fel. To take her place, sir. 
 
 May. What ! be my houskeeper 1 Live in this place in 
 
 such a house ? 
 
 Fd. It's a very nice house, sir; and when put a bit to 
 rights — 
 
THE HOUSEKEEPER. 89 
 
 May. But, my dear girl, your reputation — you dou't know tlie 
 dangers, the deceits of London ? 
 
 Fel. Oh, don't 1 1 — I've had a lesson I shall never forget. 
 May. Ak-eadyJ 
 
 Fel. See here, sir — {Showing a ring on her finger.) 
 May. Well, I see — a ring. 
 
 Fel. 'Twas picked up in the street only an hour ago by, as I 
 thought, a good old soul, who offered me her share in it — 
 for she said it was part mine — for half the money in my 
 pocket. 
 
 May. A good beginning. Thou hast spent half thy fortune ou 
 pieces of red and white glass. 
 
 Fel. But then I have bought wisdom will serve me in all 
 hazards. 
 
 May. What ! in the ring ? 
 
 Fel. Yes ! for when gentlemen say fine things to me — call my 
 lips rubies, and my eyes diamonds, I shaU turn from them and 
 look here at my bits of glass. 
 
 May. Very welL But some may talk of iharriage] 
 Fel. SliU I shall think of the cbeat to-day, and consider if old 
 women are the only ring-droppers. 
 
 May. Thou hast a pretty way of turning loss to profit. 
 What's thy na,me, child 1 
 Fel. Sophia Hawes. 
 May. Sophia ? 
 
 Fel. Friends and acquaintance call me Sophy. 
 May. Sophy % (Aside : This is the oddest adventure 3 — out, 
 no, 'twill never do. A student, with a Hebe for a housekeeper ! 
 — and why not ? 'Tis rashness to seek temptation — ^but coward- 
 ice to fly from it. Besides, there is so much singulai-ity in the 
 affair, and the girl is so innocent, and so — so pretty — that, 
 untU she is settled, I ought, I must, give her house-room. 
 Sophia — no, that will never do, — thou must let me call thee 
 Sophy, too 7 
 Fel. AnJ welcome, sir. 
 
 May. Tell me Sophy ; do they know in Derbyshire to what 
 place thou art come ? 
 
 Fel. Nobody, but the widow ; and she promised to keep the 
 secret till she was fairly married. I stole away directly, for I 
 did so want to see London. 
 
 May. Well, Sophy, for a season at least thou mayst remain. 
 And now, child, (faUng her hand,) attend to me. . You must be 
 very diligent. 
 
 Fel. I'll never be quiet, sir. 
 
 May. Yet, go about without any stir or noise. 
 
90 • THE HOUSEKEEPER. 
 
 Fel. If ever you chance to hear me, you won't know me from 
 a mouse. 
 
 Mat/. Never show any ill temper. 
 
 FeL La, sir ! what is iU temper ? 
 
 May. Never come near nje in my studies. 
 
 Fel. For the live-long day I won't even think of you. 
 
 May. Never talk. 
 
 Fel. I hate talking. 
 
 May. Never — no, I think that winds nip the list. These pre- 
 liminaries settled {still holds her hand), give me your hand 
 on — 
 
 Fel. Which'hanA, sir? 
 
 May. Which 1 why, both hands. And now, Sophy — 
 
 Enter Benjasiin. 
 What do you want ? 
 
 Ben. There's a man below, come about the bricks from 
 Babylon. 
 
 May. m come ; I'll — Benjamin ; henceforth, attend to this 
 person in all things. {Aside : Bricks from Babylon ! Taith, just 
 now I am more puzzled by hierographs from Derbyshire.) [Fxit. 
 
 Fel. Benjamin. 
 
 Ben. Well ? 
 
 Fel. Your keys, Benjamin. 
 
 Ben. Humph ? You are to be my mistress, I suppose 1 
 
 Fel. Yes, Benjamin ; and seeing, Benjamin, that I am eii- 
 trusted with so rare a jewel, Benjamin, I would lain keep it 
 under lock and key, Benjamin. 
 
 Ben. There they are — (giving them) — {Aside : at least, a few 
 of them. Be sure and don't lose any of us.) [^Exit. 
 
 Fel. To what has my fortune — an impulse which I have felt 
 in vain to combat — reduced me ? He is generous, kind, good ; 
 every look, every word, declares it. And yet I wish I had not 
 come — wish — alas ! I dare not speak my wish, no; not to my 
 own heart, though 'tis well nigh breaking with it. [Fxii. 
 
 ScEKE III. — St. James's Park. View of Matnabd's Howe, 
 Bird-cage Walk. 
 
 Enter. Simon Box. 
 
 Simon. {Looting at the house.) No ; I'll not take the trouble to 
 knock — I am satisfied ; it's not an honest, straight-forward- 
 looking house. There's a grimness about the walls, and the 
 
THE HOUSEKEEPER. 91 
 
 windows don't stare fairly out, but have a leering, squinting 
 look. The very chimneys only seem to stand there for a trick. 
 Sophy shan't live there : and Til hack and say so. Stay now ; 
 if, to he sure, I could see any of Mr. Maynard's tradesmen ; if 
 I could get his character from the butcher or the baker ; a good 
 word from his taUor would be better than all. 
 
 [Oliver is seen to come from Matnard's Jwuse. 
 
 Oli. It is fuU time. Layer promised to come or send. 
 
 Simon. Pray, sir, without offence, what do you think of that 
 house ? 
 
 Oli. That house ! {Aside : Is this a messenger ?) "Why, 
 friend ? 
 
 Sim. Nay, sir, I wait for you. A little curious business that 
 — what do you think of that house ? 
 
 OIL {Aside : He seems a simple fool ; I may, with little risk, 
 venture the pass-words.) I think — {Approaching Simon ; with 
 significance!) — " The white rose is a pretty flower." 
 
 Simon. No question ; though some folks have a better liking 
 for the red. 
 
 Oli. Just so. 
 
 Sim. But, sir, don't let us part on colours. {Exit Oliver.) 
 Now, is that a mad gardener or is it — Eh 1 another. 
 
 Enter Dagueeee. 
 
 Pray, sir, what do you think of that house 1 
 
 Dag. That house ? {Aside : A new recruit, perhaps.) — What, 
 that house with the white roses in the window ? 
 
 Simon. White roses ? There's nothing but the curtains, and 
 they seem — 
 
 I)ag. Very true. [Exit. 
 
 Simon. Surely they are curtains. 
 
 Enter Laval. 
 
 Kind sir, may a poor man ask your opinion 1 What do you 
 think of that house 1 
 
 Lav. That with the weathercock ? 
 
 Simon. With the weathercock. 
 
 Ziav. Of the shape and colour of a — a white rose ? 
 
 Simon. No : of the shape and colour of a red fox. 
 
 Lav. Very right — a. red fox. [^Exit, 
 
 Simon. I see ; there's some wager a^foot about white roses. 
 To the next I'U speak roses too. {Looking off.) Why, there 
 they are, talking to that silky-looking old gentleman. And 
 
92 THE HOUSEKEEPEE. 
 
 there, another joins them. Now, the two leave, and the old 
 man and the stranger — their heads close together — come this 
 way. I'll hang back a little. (Retires.) 
 
 Enter Oliver and Christopher Layer. 
 
 La^, This is the golden time. To-night we must decide. 
 
 OU. Art sure we are yet strong enough ? 
 
 Lm/. "VVe shall gain no strength by longer delay. All is ripe 
 in Scotland, — my lads on the Essex coast wait but the word 
 to rise, and now or never is the time. At what hour shall we 
 come ? 
 
 on. Ten. 
 
 La^/. The signal 1 
 
 OU. After I have lighted the lamp in the second window ; 
 I will be at the door and admit all friends. 
 
 Lay. The old pass word, " The white rose is a pretty flower ! " 
 Is not your student to be won to us ? 
 
 on. Let him alone. We must be content with cheating 
 him. 
 
 Lay. A cheat indeed ! If he knew the scholar Oliver were the 
 agent of King James — if he knew that you had made bis house 
 the rendezvous of rebels ! 
 
 OU. The jest lies only in success. Go, and see our friends 
 are punctual. 
 
 Lay. Never doubt them. The lamp at the second window — 
 the hour ten — and the pass words — 
 
 OU. {Seeing Simon come down.) Hush ! [Exit Later. 
 
 Simon. Kind sir, the house you were pointing at — the house 
 that like a white rose on its slender stalk — 
 
 OU. What of the house 1 
 
 Simon. I would fain know its reputation, for I suspect — 
 
 OU. You do 1 
 
 Simon. In fact, I am certain that in that house — 
 
 OU. Well ? 
 
 Simon. A conspiracj"^ is hatching against — 
 
 OU. Silence. 
 
 Simon. I won't ! — A conspiracy against — 
 
 OUv. (Alarmed.) Speak not so loud. Against whom 1 
 
 Simon. Against Sophy Hawes ! — ^I know it. A pretty place 
 for a young housekeeper ! 
 
 OU. Oh ! — the housekeeper 1 You know the young woman ? 
 Her friend, perhaps 1 
 
 Simon. I've gdt teyond friendship a long time ! 
 
 OU. (Aside : So !-^He may rid us of her.) To be plain with 
 
THE HOUSEKEEPER. 93 
 
 you, I have heard stories of that house that — ^but few -words 
 will suffice : take the victim away. 
 
 Simon. I thought so. 
 
 on. You cannot conceive the riots — ^the iniquities acted in 
 that house. 
 
 Simon. The villainy shows through the walls. There's a 
 conscience in brick aud mortar. 
 
 Oli. Defer not a moment — take the hapless creature away ! 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Simon. If wisdom hadn't kept the hapless creature away ! I 
 wonder what he and his friend were talking of. For once, I 
 wished for long ears — for not a word came to me. As for 
 Sophy, let me see — . . 
 
 Enter Sopht. 
 
 Sophy. This is so whimsical, I can't help creeping about, 
 looking at the house. How my lady will manage when — 
 (Seeing Simon.) — Simon 1 
 
 Simon. Sophy ! why, what dost here alone ? 
 
 Soph/. Alone ? I — {Aside .• La ! I wish I might tell him.) 
 Why, I've just stepped out for — ^for an errand for my master. 
 
 Simon. Master ! 
 
 Sophy. Yes ; we did'nt wait for your coming back ; it's all 
 over — I'm settled. 
 
 Simon. You are ? 
 
 Sophy. What does the man gape and stare at 1 I'm settled, 
 I tell you ; and there's our house. 
 
 Simon. You don't call that a house ? 
 
 Sophy. What does it look like 1 
 
 Simon. As I stand here, it looks a great monster ; all the 
 windows seem large goggling eyes ; the door yawns into a dark, 
 deep mouth, and shows a long throat with, aU the way down, 
 fifteen ridges of double teeth ! 
 
 Sophy. Simon, you've taken to drinking ! I never saw a 
 prettier house ; I don't see — 
 
 Simon. I know it — ^poor soul ! Do you see (pointing off) 
 that swan in the water 1 It doesn't seem to move a joint, — but, 
 white and without a spot, floats at its own accord ? 
 
 Sophy. Pretty creature ! and so it does. 
 
 Simon. I doubt not that house, like many more in this town, 
 is a swan house. 
 
 Sophy. A swan bouse 1 
 
 Simon. All white and fair outside, as far as you can see ; but 
 then, only think of the black legs that's working out of sight ! 
 I have heard such tales of that den ! 
 
Si TJIE HOUSEKEEPER. 
 
 Sophy. Tales, Simon ! 
 
 Simon. Sixteen young housekeepers since Chiistmas are a few. 
 
 Sophy. Sixteen ! And all had warning 1 
 
 Simon. Warning ! Five were driven to poison : three are in a 
 madhouse ; two made a rash use of their garters ; and that 
 piece of water has been di-agged for the bodies of the other six, 
 but— 
 
 Sophy. But what, Simon 1 
 
 Simon. Not one has ever come to hand. 
 
 Sophy. (Aside .- My dear young lady !) But is it all true, 
 Simon 1 
 
 Simon. I heard the whole story just now from a weeping 
 gentleman in black — in black ; one of the relations, no doubt. 
 
 Sophy. What ! here ? 
 
 Simon. Here. You may tell by the tears where he stood, 
 
 Sbphy. What shall I do, Simon ? 
 
 Simon. Drop down upon your two knees, clasp both your 
 hands, and pray that all delights and blessings may fall, thick 
 as hailstones, on my head. 
 
 Sophy. On your head ? 
 
 Simon. Your preserver's head ! But come with me to the 
 lady Felicia's. 
 
 Sophy. I— I — (Aside : Oh, that I might tell him ! Yet I 
 mus'n't seem afraid, else he'll never leave me.) Don't I tell you 
 that I'm come out on an en-and for my master 1 
 
 Simon. An errand, for what ? — apeak — for what ? 
 
 Sophy. For — for — (Aside : what shall I say ?) — for worsted. 
 
 Simon. Worsted ? 
 
 Sophy. Yes ; red worsted. 
 
 Simon. Eed worsted ! Perhaps, blood-red ! There's a hint 
 of murder in the colour. 
 
 Sophy. Simon, I don't believe any of these tales ; I — ^there's 
 nothing in the house that — 
 
 Simon. If ghosts are nothing : four female ghosts — ^two of 
 them with brown hair, sisters — ^in hoops, and playing on the 
 harpsichord, go through every room at midnight. 
 Sophy. Where do they come from 1 
 
 Simeon. From the wine-cellar: for, on digging there eight 
 months ago, last Tuesday, there were found four skeletons, drest 
 in white satin, to match. 
 
 Sophy. (Aside : My poor lady !) I — I don't believe a word of 
 it. — (They'll kiU her !) — I tell you, Simon, hold your tongue ! 
 You only talk to frighten me — (My sweet lady !) — Don't speak ; 
 don't come near me ! — (I'll die for her !) — Let me go about my 
 business. 
 
THE HOUSEKEEPER 95 
 
 Simon. Not a foot, Sophy — ^not a foot without me. 
 
 Enter Pdeple. 
 
 Pur. How now, sirrah ? Let the girl pass. Do you know 
 this person, my pretty maid 1 
 
 Sophy. Never saw his face before, sir ! 
 
 Simon. What? 
 
 Sophy. And he will plague me so ; pray sir, keep him from 
 me, sir ! Thank ye, sir. {Aside : And now, to lose Simon, and 
 then get to my dear lady !) [Rutis off. 
 
 Simon. Sophy ! Sophy ! Do you know what you've done, sir ? 
 
 JPur. Tut ! let the wench go home. 
 
 Simon. {Aside : This gay bird may know something of that 
 cave. I'lI,swaUow my anger, and — ) Pray, sir, do you know that 
 house ? 
 
 Pur. Very well. Why ! 
 
 Simon. The new^ housekeeper, who — 
 
 Pur. What ! Is the woman come ! 
 
 Simon. She is come. Did you expect her ? 
 
 Pur. We have looked for her some days. 
 
 Simon. {Aside : We ! I'm right — he's one of the gang !) 
 
 Pur. You know the woman, then ? 
 
 Simon. I thiuk I do. 
 
 Pur. And is she a nice, comfortable creature ? 
 
 Simon. She was this morning. 
 
 Pur. Ha ! ha ! an excellent thought ! If the lads waim 
 quickly over the bottle, I'll bring them aU away to Maynard's, 
 and, spite of him, make a night of it ! The housekeeper is 
 really come, eh ? Then we'U give fuU employment to her, de- 
 pend upon it ! [Exit. 
 
 Simon. I wonder the sparks don't come out of my mouth ; 
 for, from my fingers to my toes, I glow like a blacksmith's 
 forge. What's to be done 1 I've tried poison, drowning, 
 ghosts — and all with no help. I have it— r-I'll go back to the 
 lady Felicia ; make her send for Sophy, marry her, and there 
 an end. {Looking at hozise.) A pretty dwelhng for a house- 
 keeper ! I know not rightly who could take the place, unless 
 the devil had a sister out of service. [Exit. 
 
 12 
 
96 THE HOUSEKEEPER. 
 
 ScEiTE IV. — Matnard's Stud^. The room furnislied mih hook- 
 shelves, globes, maps, antiques, statues, &;c. A large telescope, 
 with other astronomical and scientific instruments. 
 
 Felicia discovered, arranging hoois and papers. 
 
 Fel. Here I am, installed in office ! Already I have raised 
 my philosopher's curiosity. If I can, by a mixture of simplicity 
 and address, thicken the mystery — if I can but continue to excite 
 his interest, until, quite bewildered, he begs the goddess to 
 walk forth from the cloud, and — and, alas ! what then ? if I 
 have failed to touch his heart, will he not misconstrue my bold- 
 ness 1 I — I almost wish I was safe at home again. Ah me ! 
 here he comes ! 
 
 Enter Matnard. 
 
 May. Sophy ! (Aside : What eyes this girl has !) This is 
 very wrong. I told you never to enter my study. No petticoat 
 must violate the sanctity of this retreat. 
 
 Fel. I was only putting the things to rights. 
 
 May. Sophy, receive this as a solemn charge ; never attempt 
 to put anything to rights in this room — I prefer confusion. 
 
 Fel. But, sir, only look at the cobwebs and spiders. 
 
 May. I'm partial to cobwebs — ^I encovu"age spiders. 
 
 Fd. But then, the mice — they gallop about like little ponies. 
 Why don't you keep a cat, sir 1 
 
 May. A. cat ! No, even in little things I hope I have the 
 spirit of a philanthropist. 
 
 Fel. Oh ! you prefer a trap ? But if learning were wisdom, 
 your mice should be too wise to be caught. 
 
 May. Too wise ! How ? 
 
 Fel. Because 'twould seem, by some of your volumes, that the 
 mice devoured as many books as their master. 
 
 [Showisig tooh, with its leaves half-destroyed. 
 
 May. {Taking book) Alack, poor Homer ! If Pythagoras' 
 creed were true, and every mouse were an annotator, they 
 couldn't have used the Iliad more unmercifiilly. Yes, Sophy, we 
 must do for Homer what Homer couldn't afford for himself — 
 keep a cat. Now, go, child ; I am very busy. 
 
 Fel. I won't say a word, sir. 
 
 May. A word 1 How can I study with you here ? I am 
 going to observe a planet that — 
 
 Fel. What planet 1 I do so love the stars ! 
 May. What can you know about the stars 1 
 
THE HOUSEKEEPER. 97 
 
 Fel. Oh ! there were a great many gypsies in ovtr parts. What 
 planet, sir ? 
 
 May. Why — why Venus, so you must leave me. 
 
 Fel. La ! sir, why can't you observe Venus with me in the 
 room ? 
 
 May. {Aside : What a whimsical creature it is I) Sophy, — I 
 — I wish thou wert old and ugly. 
 
 Fel. That's what our girls in Derbyshire used to wish ; — 
 but, bless you, it did no good. Why can't you study whilst I 
 — (TiiHng hold of one of Matnaed's ruffles^ Look at this 
 beautiful lace, all iu holes ! I tell you what — {Taking off his 
 ruffle^ whilst you look at the stars, I'll sit here and darn this 
 ruffle. [Takes husioife from pocket ; sits doion, and begins to work. 
 
 May. {Aside: Now, spite of me I can't be angi-y. What 
 delicate, soft fingers she has !) ( Tearing his other ruffle.) A few 
 stitches have dropped iu this. {Holding out his wrist, Felicia 
 takes off the ruffle^ Yes, she may stay — she'U not break on my 
 abstractions. {Looking among papers.) Aye, here are my calcu- 
 lations. {Sits.) Here is the work of many a severe hour. Coper- 
 nicus maintained — 
 
 Fd. {At work.) The most lovely lace, to be sure ! 
 
 May. Maintained this chimera, — but Tycho Brahe — 
 
 Fd. Was never bought for a guinea a-yard. 
 
 May. Now, Sophy, if you talk — 
 
 Fd. Talk ! I was only thinking aloud, sir. 
 
 May. Destroyed this hypothesis. 
 
 Fd. {Still working.) Ha ! there goes another thread. 
 
 May. Now, Sophy! {Rising.) But the night is coming on, I 
 must to my work — {Going to telescope.) — I'll just sweep the 
 heavens. Ha! there's Saturn, and to night how sharply the 
 rings are defined. 
 
 [Matnaed continues to look though the telescope. 
 
 Fd. {Working, sings in a drawling tone.) 
 
 In one of our Derbyshire springs, 
 
 Which petrify bud^ fruit, and tree, 
 An old fairy goldsmith sold rings, 
 To people who wedded would be. 
 
 Alack ! well a day, even Cupid's light wing 
 Jlay flit near the brink, but beware of the spring. 
 
 May. Sophy, this is insupportable ! I cannot sufiier this noise. 
 
 Fd. Noise, sir ! why, it's called music in Derbyshire. 
 
 May. Then, like many travellers, it has changed its name on 
 the road. If you breathe another syllable, — 
 
 Fd. I won't think one. I'm sure I thought to amuse you, 
 but if— 
 
THE HOUSEKEEPER. 
 
 May. Will you close that pretty mouth 1 Now, not a word — 
 not even a sigh — (Again looks through telescope.) — I never before 
 beheld the rings so luminous. 
 
 Fel. (Sinffs in her natural voice.) 
 
 ** We asked/' cry the married," for gold, 
 " To make flesh of flesh, bone of boae : 
 '*But, fairy, the ring thou ha*it sold, 
 " Hath made of our hearts stone of stone.*' 
 Alack ! well a day, even Cupid's light wing 
 May turn into flint if it dip in the spring. 
 
 May. Sophy ! In a word, you must leave me. I shall never 
 get to my task. 
 
 Fel. What ! havVt you done ? I thought you'd been looking 
 at Venus all this time ; Venus and her wedding-rings ? 
 {Rising.) Pray, then, let me spy at the lady : one little peep, 
 and 1 won't tease you a minute longer. How bright the star 
 is ; — but Qoohing through glass), good heart ! now it seems all 
 over spots. 
 
 May. Those spots are only to be seen through an excellent 
 glass. 
 
 Fd. Dear me ! sir, then how foolish it ■ is in you to look 
 at 'em. 
 
 May. Why, child, 'tis that folly which makes our wisdom. 
 
 Fd. 'Tis that makes the wisdom of the very wise, old, spectacled 
 bachelor, who spends all his life discovering flaws and blots, 
 whilst another woos and weds, and, looking only with his natural 
 eye, sees to the end of his days, nothing but light. 
 
 May. Sophy ! these words are — 
 
 Fd. My grandmother's ; she'd a mortal aversion to old 
 bachelors. Oh ! there's the moon ! Tell me ; is it true, that 
 love is made in the moon ? 
 
 May. The moon is said to be inhabited, but — 
 
 Fel. Well, I meant the same thing. And is it true, that the 
 people have faces like melons, bodies like grasshoppers, and 
 voices like IVench horns ? 
 
 May. I have made no such discovery. Thou'dst better judge 
 for thyself. (Leads her to telescope.) Now, what dost thou see ? 
 
 Fd. (looking through telescope.) Mountains of diamonds — 
 towns of gold — churches of crystal, and — oh ! dear, there's a 
 wedding ! I can hear the bells, and see the white favours. 
 
 May. Thy uppermost wishes may imagine them ; but, truly, 
 now, what dost thou see ? 
 
 Fd. Truly,— (Coming from telescope.)— novr I see the moon 
 bright, clear, and beautiful, a world of light ; and now (looking 
 
THE HOUSEKEEPER. 
 
 through telescope), by tlie lielp of this most excellent glass, it 
 looks like — 
 
 May. What ? 
 
 Fel. A bowl of curds and whey — a fine figure of all thy future 
 experience. For, pent up here alone, souring thyself in this 
 dungeon, thou'lt think thou'rt discovering wondrous territories, 
 unheard-of ■wealth ; when, at the last, an old, wrinkled, solitary, 
 tetchy b.aehelor, thou'lt look with the eyes of truth, and all thy 
 wisdom will appear — mere curds and whey ! 
 
 May. Nay, Sophy ; this is no housekeeper's speech — there is a 
 mystery in your words, actions, looks — {Following her). 
 
 Fd. {Avoiding him, and taking book from shelf.) What ! do 
 you read Tasso ! {Chaunts.) 
 
 Intanto Erminia fra I'ombrose piante 
 
 D/antica selva, dal cavallo e scorta, 
 Ne piu goTema il fren la man tremante, 
 
 E laezza quasi par tra Tiva e moFta. 
 
 Isn't it beautiful Welch ? 
 
 May. Welch? 
 
 Fel. Our curate — he'd been a great traTeller — taught it me 
 for Welch ! But the stars, sir — the stars ! 
 
 May. Thou hast too much perplexed me for the stars. We 
 must — 
 
 Pel. {Avoiding him, and placing chess-table hetween them.) What! 
 Do you play at chess ? 
 
 May. Sometimes — but — now — 
 
 Fd. An excellent thing to discipline the mind — I play a 
 little. {Arranging the pieces^ 
 
 May. Nay, my fair housekeeper, no evasion shall serve you. 
 I must know your mystery. 
 
 Fd. {Aside : I have gone too far. How to escape ?) 
 
 May. {Molding Felicia, who struggles to get away.) Come, con- 
 fess, who and what you really are : confess, — I must have — 
 
 Enter Father Oliver, with a lighted lamp. 
 
 Fd. {Disengaging herself) A light — very true, sir. I {Getting 
 towards the door, and securing the key) — I have placed the pieces, 
 sir — father Oliver Ls come, and — good night, sir. 
 
 [Emt : she is heard to loci the door. 
 May. Stay ! — she locks the door ! 
 
 Oli. {Bushing to door.) Locked ! (Aside: And in an instant 
 they will be here ! Destruction !) 
 
 [Olivbk and Matnard look confusedli/ at each other, arnd the 
 scene closes. 
 
100 THE HOUSEKEEPER. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 ScEKE I. — A Spacious Hall in the House of Matnakd. 
 Enier rBLiciA. 
 
 Felicia. I have locked the door, and thus secured my retreat. 
 I have been too precipitate : escape and secrecy ai-e all I can 
 now look for : so ends my hopeful comedy ! Now, a perpetual 
 bridle be upon my tongue, for its silly ambling ! I — ^uo, it is 
 in vain to ponder, — home ! home ! — {Approaching door : a 
 knock.) Can this be Benjamin t He may question — (Another 
 knock.) yet I know no other outlet. — {Opens door — SoFHYruns 
 in.) Sophy ! 
 
 Sophy. My dear lady, I can't help it ! — scold me, never speak 
 to me, never think of me, — I can't help it! — I couldn't stop 
 away, I — 
 
 Fel. At such an hour, Sophy ? 
 
 Sophy. I couldn't get rid of that Simon ; he watched me, and 
 — {Alarmed^ — Hark ! don't you hear something knocking ? 
 
 Fel. {Aside : My prisoners above.) 'Tis nothing. {Aside : Yes, 
 I may depend on her fidelity. She shall remain — 'twill help the 
 mystery.) 
 
 Sophy. {Becoming more terri/ied.) There, lady! I'm sure I heard 
 the rustling of satin — white satin ! 
 
 Fel. Sophy, be not a child ; attend to me. I purpose leaving 
 this house immediately. 
 
 Sophy. I thank goodness you do ! 
 
 Fel. Yet, to perfect my plan, 'tis necessary that you take my 
 place. 
 
 Sophy. I ! 
 
 Fel. And more ; the better to perplex Mr. Maynard, spite 
 of all he may advance, declare that you, and you only, have 
 been here all the time. I have locked him in his study ; when 
 I am safe away — why, Sophy, what makes you tremble and look 
 so pale 1 
 
 Sophy. I never could bring my mind to ghosts ; and though 
 to serve you, I — ^I — 
 
 Fel. TVhat has possessed you 1 Ghosts ! 
 
 Sophy. You don't know what a service this is. Six-and- twenty 
 housekeepers since Michaelmas ! 
 
 Fd. Sophy! 
 
THE HOUSEKKEPEE. 101 
 
 Sophy. Sixteen took ai-senic — seven went raving mad — five 
 killed themselves like the farmer's daughter in the song, — and, 
 for the remainder, they're to this day unaccounted for ! 
 
 Fd. What idle gossip have you listened to ? 
 
 Sophy. Don't say idle, ma'am ; it all came through a person 
 in black, with weepers, — one of the hrothers ! I ran here to tell 
 you, — ^for if the spirits — 
 
 Fel. Spirits! 
 
 Sophy. Eight ghosts — four of 'em twin sistei-s, with flaxen hair 
 down to their heels — all at midnight, go through the house, — 
 some playing at hoop and some the harpsichord. 
 
 [A knock — Sophy shrieh, andfaXU on her knees, holding Peucia. 
 
 Fel. Silence ! {A knock.) 
 
 Sophy. There ! 
 
 Fel. Be not so weak — so foolish. At this hour, who can it 
 be 1 {Approaching door.) 
 
 Sophy. (Endeavouring to prevent her.) Dear lady I you'll 
 never — (A third knock.) 
 
 Voice withovt. " The white rose is a pretty flower ! " 
 
 Sophy. So it is, but how droll to say so through a keyhole. 
 
 Fel. " The white rose " — " the white ! " — Sophy, you have 
 heard stories of this house ? 
 
 Sophy. It's no house — it's a large brick coflin. I'm sure, the 
 very curtains look like winding-sheets. Stories ! 
 
 Fel. " The white rose ! " That man, father Oliver, — there's 
 ci-aft in his looks — mystery in his words ; — ^from Trance , too ! 
 I'll see this visitor, and then decide. 
 
 Sophy. You'll never open the door ? We're poor women all 
 alone — ^with nothing but our screams ! 
 
 Fd. Be calm — ^be silent! Our lives, perhaps the lives of 
 others, depend on your composure. If there be danger, I will 
 protect you at my own suffering : but deal', good Sophy, by your 
 love for me, be still ! 
 
 Sophy. As a stone. We were bom at the same time .and 
 why shouldn't we die at the same time 1 They may cut me to 
 bits, I won't so much as squeak — won't say a word. Poor 
 Simon ! (A knock.) 
 
 Fd. Observe, and follow me in all things. (A knock.) 
 
 Voice without. " The white rose — " 
 
 [Felicia opens the door, when suddenly enter Lavai, Daguekre, 
 ami others of the party. 
 
 Lav. and Dag. Women ! 
 
 Fd. (Aside : So many !) If you please, good gentlemen, who 
 do you want ? 
 
 Lav. Humph ! You heard us knock often — heard us speak ? 
 
102 THE HOUSEKEEPER. 
 
 Fel. Not a word. — ^Did you knock more than once ? We ask 
 pardon, but, sitting by the fire, we fell fast — fast asleep. 
 
 [Yavming : Sophy imitates her titroughout tlie scene. 
 
 Dag. Faith ! such pretty chimney-figures, might shorten a 
 winter's night. Why, thou'rt not yet well awake ; even now, 
 there's time to win some gloves. 
 
 Fel. (Repulses him.) Hands — ^not gloves. 
 
 Lav. This must not be. — {Aside to Daguerke : Is this a time ?) 
 —{To Felicia.) Father Oliver, can he not be seen ? 
 
 Fel. He's busy — busy at, I think they call it chess, with 
 Mr. Maynard. 
 
 Dag. And Benjamin ? 
 
 Fel. He is out. 
 
 Dag. Out? 
 
 Fel. Sent somewhere on an errand by the father 
 
 Sophy. Yes — on an errand. 
 
 Fel. Shall I tell father Oliver all you gentlemen are here 1 
 
 Lav. Stay. You've pretty faces for a riband ; — here is a 
 crown each. Now (to Felicia), if unobserved by your master, 
 you could hint to the father that some friends were waiting, — 
 
 Fd. Then master mus'n't know it 1 
 
 Lav. Why, now, I warrant me, you yourselves have some- 
 times a friend at the fireside you wouldn't have your master 
 told of? 
 
 Fa. Yes— often. 
 
 Sophy. Every Sunday. 
 
 Lav. 'Tis even so with father Oliver. — You understand ? 
 
 Fd. Oh, yes — {Aside: Doubt becomes certainty. I will at 
 every hazard, stay and watch them.) Dear heart, gentlemen ! 
 if the father had but trusted me — had but told me you were 
 coming to supper, — 
 
 Lav. As for supper — 
 
 Fd. I don't believe we've a drop of wine in the house — {To 
 Sophy) — Child, run down to the cellar, and — 
 
 Sophy. {Alarmed — Aside to Felicia: The cellar! Why, that 
 cellar — ) 
 
 Fd. {Aside to Sopht : Hush ! I'll see to it myself.) 
 
 Lav. By no means, — we will not trouble you. 
 
 Sophy. And I know there's not a drop. — Now, I remember I 
 dare say, Mr. Oliver has sent out Benjamin for wine and supper 
 too. — ^I shouldn't — {A knock — Sophy screams.) Mercy on us ! 
 
 Fd. {To Sophy.) Art out of thy wits ? — More of the company, 
 I dare say. {Going to door.) 
 
 Lav. Stay ; should it be any of your master's friends, — if we 
 ai-e seen, — 
 
THE HOUSEKEEPER. 103 
 
 Fel. His friends ! He sees nobody — hasn't a friend in the 
 world. — {They aU retire, as Felicia opens the door.) 
 
 Enter Bin, carrying a hamper of wine. 
 
 Bless me — what is all this ? 
 
 Bin. {Slightly intoxicated.) Wine, red-lips ; wine ! If there's 
 a corkscrew at hand, I'U. tell you the quality. 
 
 Fd. But who sent it here ? 
 
 Bin. A gentleman. 
 
 Fel. Art sure ? 
 
 Bin. Who but a gentleman could do such things 1 
 
 Sophy. But when — and how — and who 1 — 
 
 Bin. My little love, my profession is the profession of a pack- 
 horse — not to ask, or to answer, but to carry . Bead the direction 
 — {Offering card) — A-.n I right ? 
 
 Fel. {Preventing Sopht — and returning card.) It's enough to 
 make a body blush, sir ; — but we — ^we wer'n't taught to read. 
 
 Bin. No ! I should have thought four such eyes could do 
 anything without teaching. Well, some have beauty, some have 
 learning. I won't brag of my beauty, — but — ^but — I'll read the 
 direction. {Beads.) "Mr. Ma3'nard, Bird-cage" — {looking at 
 Felicia and Sopht) — ^very pretty birds — "Walk, St. James's 
 Park." Am I right ? 
 
 Fel. Quite right : and sent here by a gentleman ? 
 
 Bin. Though I didn't see him, every bottle cries, " a gentle- 
 man ! " — You hav'n't a corkscrew ? 
 
 Fd. Not such a thing in the house. — There, good night. 
 
 Bin. Good night. — {Pauses — comes down between them.) — First, 
 I have a serious word to you. 
 
 Fel. andSoph^. To us ! 
 
 Bin. Something about your future peace of mind. 
 
 Fel. Well? — {Both Felicia and Sopht listen anximidy. 
 Daguerrb and Laval are seen listening at hack. 
 
 Bin. You are young, very pretty, and may get husbands. 
 Now — are you attending ? 
 
 Both. Yes — yes. 
 
 Bin. It's worth attention ; for it's something come to my 
 mind from the dreadful state of this house. If you would have 
 your husbands — ^for I know what men are, — if you would have 
 your husbands love, worship, honour, and respect you, — never, 
 never — 
 
 Both. Never 1 
 
 Bin. Never be without a corkscrew. 
 
 Sophi/. Is that all ? 
 
104 THE HOUSEIvEEPEU. 
 
 Bin. Don't sliun good advice. I feel I speak as a, father ; for 
 if I'd twenty marrying daughters, these should be my solemn 
 words to each — " Never be without a corkscrew ! " 
 
 [Felicia sees Bijj otu at door.— Laval, Dagczeee, &c. slww 
 
 Fel. You see, gentlemen, father Oliver has not forgotten y^ou. 
 Benjamin — 
 
 Lav. But may not this be sent to your master? May he not 
 expect friends \ 
 
 Fel. "Wine for master — wine for fishes, they'd as soon drink it. 
 And for friends, they're all upon his bookshelves. No : this is 
 all Benjamin's doing, and like him ; he's so sly and close, 
 he won't trust any body ; else I'd have had all things to rights. 
 But come, Sophy ! 
 
 Lav. How long have you been servant here ? 
 
 Fel. Housekeeper, sir. — Not long ; this {Pointvig to Sophy,) is 
 my cousin : the place is so duU she came to sit with me. But 
 we won't talk now. Sophy, here, take the wine into that room. 
 — {Giving her two of the bottles — Aside to her. — Be prudent — ^be 
 calm !) That room — the gentlemen will follow you. 
 
 Lav. In, gentlemen. 
 
 Sophy. {Eruleavouring to conceal her terror.) — This way, if 
 you please. — {Two of the party take up the hamper) — ^Thank 
 ye, gentlemen ; this — (Aside : I can't speak — I feel as if I'd 
 a wet feather drawn about my throat ; — this way, sirs ;) — {To 
 Felicia.) — you'll come directly, cousin 1 Gentlemen, — this 
 — dear Simon ! — {She goes off, curtseying, surrounded by con- 
 spirators.) 
 
 Lav. Now, my pretty maid — father Oliver, — 
 
 Fel. I'U run directly. 
 
 Lav. Caution. 
 
 Fd. Bless you, I know how to cheat master. — {Going — comes 
 back.) I say, if when he is sound asleep, we could have a little 
 dance 1 
 
 Lav. It may be — but quick. 
 
 Fd. You promise then ? — I'll go. — {Aside : I see it all • 
 conspiracy — treason ! At any venture he must be saved.) . Now 
 mind, 'tis a bargain between us ? a dance — when he's asleep, you 
 know, a little dance 1 [Exit. 
 
 Dag. Must we decide ? Is this our last meeting ? 
 
 Lav. The last : Layer has his men ready — all our friends 
 are staunch ; father Oliver has received king James's declara- 
 tion of right to the English crown ; he is to-night to read it to 
 us, and furnish copies tor secret circulation. 
 
 Dag. I could have liked some other place of rendezvous. 
 
I 
 
 THE HOUSEKEEPER. 105 
 
 Lav. In this lies our safety. In matters such, as ours the 
 boldest conduct is the surest. Whilst they look abroad for 
 treason, we securely spring the mine beneath their feet. 
 Come. [Exeunt. 
 
 Scene II. — Matxard's Study. — Matnard aiid Oliver 
 discovered, playing at chess. 
 
 Oli. ( With suppressed anxiety — listeni'iig^ There ! — surely it 
 is her foot on the staircase % 
 
 May. I was wont to have a nice ear for such music — yet I 
 distinguish nothing. Tut ! why should we listen ? The move, 
 father — the move ! Have a care ; or, pupil as I am, you'll lose. 
 Come! when it is her good pleasure to unlock the door, the 
 door will be unlocked. Why, father, I shall fain think thou 
 hast missed some delicate appointment. 
 
 Oli. Sir ! 
 
 May. Thou dost take this girlish frolic so gravely. Have we 
 not sat whole nights at the game ; and now, half an hour 
 wearies you. 
 
 Oli. I am moved that a servant should presume — 
 
 May. Poor thing ! 'tis her simplicity. — (Aside : I would she'd 
 come ! All my senses are in a whirl ! Her eye has such inborn 
 intelligence — her voice, so expressive in its sweet depth — her 
 hands — ^her step ! — ^nothing is vulgar, yet nothing artificial. 
 Who can she be 1 Well, — ^time, time !) Now, father. 
 
 Oli. You play well, sir — very well. — {Playing.) 
 
 May. Not so. {Playing.) You are too easy with me. 
 
 Oli. No, indeed ; you now send me to my studies. {Aside : 1 
 can scarce master myself ! At so nice a moment, — if they come 
 — and the girl, — ) {Catches the eye of ^Iatnard, and returns to the 
 play.) 
 
 May. Nay, you cast the game away. See ! 
 
 Oli. I told you, I must now learn of you. Ha ! 
 
 May. What ! you spy the victory ? 
 
 Oli. No, I — yes, I think I see the game. {Aside : She is 
 here.) 
 
 IhUer Felicia at door. 
 
 Pel. {To Matxard.) Did you ring, sir 1 
 
 May. Sophy ! {Aside : My breath flies away at her voice.) 
 Yes, yes, I rang. {Aside: Now, to lose the game, and get him 
 away.) 
 
 Oli. {Aside: I dare not leave them alone; I must first know, 
 
106 THE- HOUSEKEEPER. 
 
 — they whisper ! Is she really so simple ? Are they come 1 
 Can accident ? — ^Befall what may, I am armed, and gone so far, 
 will leave no point to chance !) 
 
 May. Now, father \ (Aside : Plague on his hesitation !) 
 
 Oli. You never showed such skill. 
 
 May. I see — it will be tedious : we wiU resume to-moiTow. 
 (Sisin^.) 
 
 Oli. Your pardon — I shall beat you now. (Playing.) 
 
 May. (Aside : Is there no way of losing ?) (Playiiig.) There ! 
 
 Pel. ( Who stands at the table, to Matnard, at the same thne 
 casting an enquiring glance at Oliver.) Ha ! your king's in 
 danger ! 
 
 Oli. (Starting) What % — (Felicia points, with an air of 
 simplicity, to Mays AKD^s play.) True! (Aside; Yet could she 
 speak another meaning 1) I am prepared. — (Narrowly observing 
 Matsaed, and half rising from his chair, as he plays.) That 
 was bold play ; I move thus, and — 
 
 Pel. (Rapidly moving a piece on the hoard.) — Checkmate ! 
 (Oliver, confused, sinks into his chair — 'F'ELIOIA, forcing a laugh) 
 Ha ! ha ! Sir, you have missed the game. 
 
 May. Excellent ! Why, Sophy, where did you learn chess ? 
 
 Pel. Chess ! La, I've been tired of it many a night. — ^A lady 
 down with us — an old lady from the Indies — taught me chess to 
 keep her company. 
 
 Oli. Indeed! 
 
 Fd. Poor soul ! she was rheuitiatic and bedridden, and 'twas 
 her only comfort. Chess, chess, chess ; I used to sit day after 
 day, night after night, that — I declare, even now I can't look at 
 these tiresome bits of bone without yawning. 
 
 May. For the first time they have wearied me. Father, 
 good night; I shall read for an hour or less, and then, to-bed! 
 (Seats himself at table, takes booh, and impatiently watchesTsuaiA) 
 — Good night. 
 
 Pel. (Taking candle from table, and affecting to light it for 
 Oliver. — Aside to him : They are come.) 
 
 Oli. They ! 
 
 Pel. (Aside to him : Don't be afraid, they've made a friend of 
 me ; I'm the last to tell tales of a fellow-servant ) 
 
 Oli. Tales ! 
 
 Pel. Why should masters know every thing 1 You have 
 your friends to sup one night ; I'll have mine another. 
 
 Oli. Oh ! then they owned they came to sup ? 
 
 Pel. But I vowed not to tell master ; — we're to have a dance 
 and — come along, we'll be so merry ! ' 
 
 May. Sophy, wait, I have a word to say to you. 
 
THE HOUSEKEEPER. 107 
 
 Fd. To me, sir ? {Aside to Oliver : I'll get away from liim 
 directly.) 
 
 OK. He may follow. 
 
 Fel. (Aside to Oliver : He shan't ; for if it must be, I'U once 
 more turn the lock.) . 
 
 May. Sophy! 
 
 Fd. I never did see such a candle — ^Yes, sir. — {CHuing light to 
 Oliver.) Good night, sir. {Aside to him : I'U come, directly.) 
 {Curtseying him to the door.) Sweet rest to you, sir. 
 
 Oli. {Aside : Yet, Fll make sure, and quickly send them hence.) 
 Sir, good night. [Exit at door. 
 
 May. {Embracing Felicia.) And now, confess, fair mystery, 
 or I'll put your lips to the torture. 
 
 Fd. Confess, sir ! What, have you lost anything ? 
 
 May. Yes, in faith— lost myself ! 
 
 Fel. Lud ! you frightened me ! I feared you had missed some 
 of the spoons ! 
 
 May. {Holding Aer.) Youi- history, my beautiful enigma ! 
 Disclose ! I'd fain be merciful, yet have I strange thoughts of 
 cruelty ! 
 
 Fel. I am — I am your prisoner. 
 
 May. So ! then the gaoler may take his fees. 
 
 Fel. Hath the turnkey done his office ? 
 
 May. {Locking and barring door.) As wise as fail'. 
 
 Fel. Is't fast ? Art sure that we are — 
 
 May. The Cyclops, with their hammers, could not force 
 it. And now, with such a guard, let bliss — {She avoids him.) 
 — ^Nay, this morning, I was a dull, blind student — a man of 
 marble ; but thou hast fired the statue into life, and now I am — 
 
 Fel. {Repulsing Aim, and toith energy.) A gentleman ! — still a 
 gentleman. 
 
 May. {Aside ; This is not art ; no, the mind ^ves a sterner 
 beauty to her face. Her eye is clear and cold as starlight ; 
 and her lip, so sudden white, speaks in its paleness. Tears !) 
 As you say, I hope, still a gentleman — ^nay, more ; a gentleman, 
 so frozen by your reproof, that I fear, even Cupid's bow and 
 arrows, kindled for firewood, might fail to thaw me. 
 
 Fel. {Aside: Shall I tell all ? I feel as yet, I dare not — 
 His rashness might destroy him ; first let them quit the house, 
 and then — ) 
 
 May. {Placing chairs.) Sit, Sophy — {They sit, Felicia endea- 
 sotcrs to control her anxiety^ Now, you have some history ? 
 
 Fel. Who has not ? 
 
 May. Yours should be happiness. Might I write the future, 
 trust me it should be blithe. 
 
108 THE HOUSEKEEPER: 
 
 Fel. Indeed ? 
 
 May Indeed. {Aside : Ho-w her voice winds into my heart !) 
 Your coming here, is it not some jest — some desire to laugh at 
 me ? Surely, fortune never drove you hither ? 
 
 Fel. It was my fortune. 
 
 May. Impossible. Come, own it was a frolic ? You were 
 set on .■ No ? Your friends — I mean, your parents, know they 
 not?— 
 
 Fel. At nine years old I was an orphan. 
 
 May. Poor Sophy ! so far our present fates accord. I am 
 myself a solitary thing, without a single relative. 
 
 Fel. "Without one ? 
 
 May. Without one. 
 
 Fel. Not one ? 
 
 May. Stay — I helieve I have a cousin ; but cousins, you know, 
 go for nothing. 
 
 Fel. True. 
 
 May. Still, your history ? I listen, as I would hear a tale 
 of fairy land. Your parents dead, there must be, at least some 
 one, to whom you owe a debt. 
 
 Fel. Oh, yes ! a deep, dear debt. I was a careless child when 
 it was contracted, yet did the obligation make me, as with 
 a charm, a thoughtful creatwe. To this hour no day has 
 passed that I have not remembered it — loved it — ^held myself the 
 richer that I owed it, — would not have cancelled it for all the 
 power of queens ! 
 
 May. {Aside : "What eloquent sweetness ?) Your creditor 
 was paid, with a dear usury, in such thoughts. Such a debtor 
 must — 
 
 Fel. I fear he never thought of her. 
 
 May. He ! he ! {Aside : But now, I was a flame ; and that 
 
 monosyllable hath turned me into lead. "Why should it 
 
 what is it to me 1 {Looking round.) Curse the place, it never 
 looked such a dungeon. I — that little word has damnable 
 magic ! I seem to read nothing but he, — ^the very busts are 
 opening their stony mo\xths to cry he !) "WeU, Sophia. 
 
 Fel. Sophia? 
 
 May. Sophy — still Sojphy. You, it seems, have not forgotten ? 
 You love him — ^him — ^yet 1 
 
 Fel. I have not forgotten. 
 
 May. Do not forget — but do not love. 
 
 Fel. "Why not 1 
 
 May. For my sake, do not. 
 
 Fel. Your sake ? 
 
 May. I love you ! 
 
THE HOUSEKEEPER. 109 
 
 Fel. Sidney !— Sir. 
 
 May. Love you with honour. — ^Will, for I feel it \& iny fate 
 give up all for you. 
 
 Fel What ? Your books 1 
 
 May. For that rarer volume, your loving heart. 
 
 Fel. Your telescopes ? 
 
 May. Tor that diviner light, your loving eyes : in that I'll 
 hourly read, in them I'll gaze, and make the best happiness the 
 truest wisdom. 
 
 Fel. You know not all my history ? 
 
 May. No, — but know enough. 
 
 Fel. It may be a riddle. 
 
 May. m marry you, trusting to that fiir face for a clear 
 solution. 
 
 FeL Indeed, I may deceive you. 
 
 Mdij. Then truth ia but a; sound. Deceit is in the world : 
 I have found it, fouAd it so fair, it -well nigh made me sceptical 
 of all beside. Yet, at the fairest, was it no more to the spirit 
 shining through you, than is the light of fens to the pure and 
 lasting diamond. I — were I to talk whole dstys, I could say 
 no more than this,— but in it say my h^art and soiil — ^I love 
 you, Sophy — I love you ! 
 
 \Fdllliitg ofiiMs knees.— ^Violent hwching at door. 
 
 Pur. ( Without.) Good father solitary. Monsieur IJnit ! open 
 the door ! 
 
 Fel. (In great agitation^' They are here ! For your life, do 
 not — ^pray do not ! {Knocking^) 
 
 May. Tom Purple ! What ifiad inlxusion ! 
 
 Fel. (Aside : I should have prepjtred hiin^^my fears, ho, my 
 selfishness, hath ruined all !) 
 
 Pur. ( Without.) Open, Sir Eremite ! I chai'ge ye, by your 
 iron girdle, death's head, and cross boneS, lift the latch, aiid let 
 poor pilgrims in ! 
 
 May. (To Felicia.) Do not tfembls-^d' not feair^^-he is a 
 friend. 
 
 J^el. Oh no ! fbr my sake, do lidl? itust him ;^-^from. ydrider 
 window, is there no escape 3 
 
 May. Escape t Nay, Sophy, I feel the delicacy" of your 
 fears. Eetirfe iiito y~dhder room : 'lis fether Oliver's ; a few 
 minutes wiU rid me' of hiui. He' is, I saj^ a friend^-^' tiled 
 noble friend. , 
 
 J'e?; Is he knowil to fathei?'6liver't i*; ^ 
 
 May. Known; but I fear me, little" eateeihdd, .''■'' 
 
 Pur. (K^nocHing without.) What* friar Balco'h, if dtimb thyself, 
 let thy brazen head discourse ! 
 
110 THE HOUSEKEEPEK. 
 
 May. In, Sophy, in ! 
 
 \Se puts her im, roam <m upper aide, she amxiously watches d door. 
 Pur. ( WitJuntt.) Sidney Maynard ! Sidney ! 
 
 [Matnaed opens door, when enter Purple, mtoxicated, holding 
 Father Omver — ^Felicia glides into balcony. 
 Pwr. So ! your hospitable door hath well nigh ' stripped my 
 knuckles. 
 
 May. Nay, Tom, at this time ! What could have brought 
 you here ? 
 
 [Dv/rimg the following, Felicia is seen to eater the room, and at 
 intervals to a/ppea/r watching and listening at door. 
 Pur. Your house-wanning. There are a few friends — 
 May. Now, Tom, go home ; my house is in no state for 
 
 Pur. I knew your poverty and prepared for it. I sent such 
 a hamper ! — There's wine enough below to make a bath for 
 Bacchus and Ariiidne ! 
 
 May. Indeed, you perplex me ! I am not furnished with — 
 
 Pur. {Holding Oliver, wim endeavours to get away.) No ! 
 Of course you don't drink, but you shall stop and draw the 
 corks. 
 
 OIL {Aside : By this time they must be from the house. — All 
 I see is safe with him.) 
 
 May. Seriously, Purple, what could bring you here t 
 
 Pur. Your housekeeper ! I wrote to Derbyshire for a sybil ; 
 and — ha ! ha ! — up comes a Flora. 
 
 May. Surely, you have not seen ? — 
 
 Pur. Seen her and heard her ! And then her lips ! 
 
 May. Lips ? 
 
 Pur. Oh, hay-fields and a murmuring brook ! 
 
 Map. Lips ! You did not forget ? — 
 
 Pur. Certainly not : I kissed her of course. 
 
 May. Kissed ! And she % — 
 
 Pur. Acknowledged the attention. {To Oliver.) No, you 
 don't stir. Never look so grim, Sid ! There are fourteen rare 
 lads — they'll all be here. 
 
 May. Here ! 
 
 Pur. I wouldn't take you by surprise — I ran on and left 'em 
 to follow — ^they'll — {Voices are heard below.) Huzza ! Here they 
 are ! {Voices below sing and shout.) 
 
 May. Purple, this vexes me ! — ^I insist — Father, tell the gentle- 
 men, I am out — in bed-^cannot see them. 
 
 Voices. ( Without.) Mr. Maynard. Mr. Maynard ! Is he at 
 homet 
 
THE HOUSEKEEPER. Ill 
 
 Fd. {Looking over the balcony.) Yes, gentlemen ; — yes ! 
 
 Pur. {Seeing Felicli.) What ! Another woman ! and — (To 
 Matnaed.) — " I am making certain calculations, and to night 
 Teuus -will" — Oh, my dear Mogul ! 
 
 May. Pshaw ! This young person is the housekeeper — ^the 
 same you — kissed. 
 
 Pur. No — that young person's below ! 
 
 May. Below ! 
 
 Pel. Yes — she's my cousin. 
 
 May. So, Sophy, you have some relations ? 
 
 Pel. No, sir ; for you know cousins go for nothing. 
 
 May. {Aside: I am lost in doubt and — ) {Noise withoai.) 
 
 Pur. (Going to balcony.) "Wait a minute, brave lads ; good 
 fellows ; rare boys ! The door shall be opened. 
 
 May. It shall not. Mr. Purple, let me have some authority 
 in my own house. 
 
 Pur. Have the purest despotism ; I have the key. (Showinff 
 it.) Oh, I was no sooner master of the citadel than I secured 
 the gates. No soul comes in or departs without the new go- 
 vernor's permission ! 
 
 on. (Aside : .'Sdeath ! they are still here, then.) 
 
 Pel. (Aside : Happy adventure ! He is saved.) 
 
 Pur. I ran against old sanctity, here, coming to the door, and 
 brought him up, for fear of any trick. (Noise unthout.) Pm 
 coming, lads. 
 
 May. Mr. Purple, I wish to hold your friendship ; that I may 
 do so, I insist on privacy. 
 
 Pel. (To Matnakd.) La, sir, why not let the gentlemen 
 come in ? 
 
 Pur. Hearken to wisdom ! There are but tourteen. 
 
 Pel. To - be sure, had we known, we might haTe been pre- 
 pared. (Aside to Matnard: Let them enter.) StiU^ we can 
 manage very nicely. 
 
 ^Kr. Hear her, Sidney ! hear her! Every word's a jeweL — 
 (Knocking without.) I'm coming, lads ; I'm coming. Mr. Maynard, 
 I wish to keep your friendship, but I must — yes, I must — ^keep 
 the key. Ha ! ha ! Comiug, lads. (Knocking without.) [Exit, 
 
 May. This must not pass. Father, follow me. 
 
 Pel. Nay, let the gentlemen enter. 
 
 May. Would it give you so much satisfaction ? Would it be 
 I — oh, Sophy ! Come, sir. [Exit, with Oliver. 
 
 Pel. Yet he is saved! These papers, found in my hurried 
 search in that room, declare all ; — ^a treasonable correspondence 
 'with the Pretender! How to dispose of them J .If the men 
 leave the house, some after circumstance 'may - implicate 
 
 K 2 
 
112 THE HOUSEKEEPER. 
 
 Maynard : if secured by his means, and •witH them these proofs, 
 his iiinoceiice is placed beyond all question. I will declare to 
 him his danger : the visitors, so happily arrived, are numerous. 
 Stay ! could I but convey these proofs i '{LooUng from, Balcony.) 
 Ha! T. cannot mistake — ^"tia Simon f -He sees me! (Leaning 
 over balcony.) Good fellow, hasten — ^for life or death is in your 
 speed — ^to the guard-house ; present these papers (Throfuoing 
 out packet.) — not a word, — but, fly ! He is gone ! Still, there 
 may be other documents ! Tet— yet an instant. [^Exit intoroom. 
 
 Scene III. — Apartment in the house <>/'Matnakd. Door in scene 
 <md doors at the .sides. 
 
 Enter Sopht and Widow Ducbxing. 
 
 Sophy. Dear me t Mrs. Duckling, who'd have looked for such 
 treatment from your old Sweetheart, the exciseman? What 
 reason could he give. ' ' 
 
 Widow. Reason ! ■ I'll tell you. We had courted, as you 
 know, for ten years. For ten years, every evening had he 
 smoked and drunk at my fireside, his dear little piebald pony 
 tied up at the garden gate. Well ! so we went on, as you 
 know, until I was sent for to London. And then, didn't my 
 gentleman come galloping to me 1 — and didn't he, taking hold 
 of my hand, with his face the colour of starch, — didn't he beg, 
 and groan, that Td consent 1 My heart wasn't a cinder, child ; 
 I said I'd maiTy the fellow. 
 ■ Sophy. What else could you do,; you know I • 
 
 Widotv, I invited aU my gossips — hired a fiddle — ^made the 
 wedding-cake."' The morning came!! Oh, you.' should have seen 
 me drest ! Well, we waited, and waited, and no bride^»om. I 
 sat on nettles for two hours. ' At last,— .- 
 
 Sophy. The exciseman came t 
 
 Widow. No ; but he sent a little sckpegrace boy to say — ^what 
 do you thiidt 5 — ^to say he had inquired about jny property ! 
 
 Sophy. La ! what did you say ? 
 - Widow. I said nothing. I thought the waggon might move 
 him, so I took my place. Would yon believe it,. Hie villjdn let 
 me come off ? 
 
 Sophy. And never followed you J 
 
 Widow. Not a step : for all I sat .down at the tail of the 
 waggon, arid for three whole; days, eating nothing but my wpd- 
 ding-cake, I -watched and watched for the least glimpse of a 
 piebald nag. 'Oh ! if my dear first husband knew how Td been 
 served 'twould bring the dear man from his grave. 
 
THE HOUSEKEEPER. 113 
 
 Sophy. It's a good thing he doesn't know it. ; ., j , ., . 
 
 , Widow.lt is a. I blessed thing! Oh, Sophy, while yoii live 
 despise the man who inquires about your property. But tell 
 me, child, this is a nice place, isn't it ? ■ You'll give it up quietly, 
 because 'twas all a mistake ? - 
 
 iSophy. Give it up S that I will ! . 
 
 Widow. I came away, early as it was, directly 1 got down 
 at the Talbot, and — (Lcmglimg within.) Dear me ! there are 
 those rakish gentlemen, who met me in the Park, and when I 
 asked them for this house, said they were going to it, and 
 brought me here. 
 
 Sophy. (Aside: Where can my dear lady be !) ^They retire. 
 
 Enter VLkrsKKO, Purple, mid turn Gentlemen. 
 
 May. Gentlemen, I repeat, this visit is ill-^imed. 1 would 
 be alone. ■ ; 
 
 Par. My dear Maynard, you are alone. There was a fine body 
 of fourteen,, but you kept 'em- so long at the door, they dwindled 
 away, and now you have nothing but the skeleton. To think 
 the dogs should have skulked away in this fashion ! 
 
 \st Oenl. Shameful 1 All of 'em married, too. A. bachelor 
 may have his reasons for slipping off; but a married man, 
 who knows the . worst — it's pusillanimous. Wh^e's the 
 wine J , 
 
 Fur. {To SoPHT.) . Come, pretty one — ^where's the hamper ? 
 
 Sophy. Why, sir, your friends-^that is, Mr. Oliver's friends — 
 
 May. Mr. Oliver's friends ! Whom mean you 1 ' 
 
 Sophy. The gentlemen — (what shall I say ?) — in that room. 
 
 May. In that room ? ! / . 
 
 P««*. {Lofilciiigth^oiighhey-hdU of door -in scene.) A snug party 
 of some ddzen^i'faithl We^ll join 'em. ) . . 
 
 May. Stacy.1 ^ ki^o-w not what tothink ; ;I -will myself question 
 him. Purple, go with your friends into that apartment (Widow 
 Duckling cjwiseyi^^MATuaEDi.) Pshaw! Take- with you these 
 women. (Pubple, and Gentlemen tahe Sopht and Widow into 
 room) Be attentiveV-I may need you:! A hundred former 
 thoughts rush back upon me : words, looks, gestures, now conr 
 sidered, are grounds:of strong suspicion.-. ; ) • , , 
 
 r.-,-, j^sferPiticiA^Joii ., ■. /.j.L) > ■ 
 
 Sophy! . , :'•■::''■''■'[ ':.■::::..::'''-'" 
 
 Fd. Yon are betrayed!' YoUr life,' yoiii' honffiii^ in peril. 
 Where are your friends ? ■■ ■■■<:. 
 
114 THE HOUSEKEEPER. 
 
 May. In that room. 
 
 [Father Ouvbr i» coming from room in, acme — when, he pausei on 
 teang them. 
 Fd. At this moment, there are traitors beneath your roof: 
 they, if you would clear yourself, must be secured. I have 
 proofe, -written proofs of treason ! Father Oliver — 
 
 [OixvEB having iec{»>i«c! Daquebbe, Laval, omd others from Hie 
 inner room — they stamd with dramm swordt. 
 Oil. Demands them ! 
 Fel. Ha ! 
 
 [Ruehes imto opposite room ; Ouvbe cmd ail are following, iohen 
 Maynard throws himselfhefore the door. 
 May. Villains ! 
 
 on. Gentlemen, an accident — a fatality shall I call it — ^has 
 disclosed our plans. Yet, be firm, and we are safe. Mr. Maynard, 
 we must secure that woman. 
 
 May. I am unarmed ; but not, whUst I have life, shall you lay 
 hand upon her ! 
 
 Lav. Shall we have your friendship ? Cry, long live king 
 James, and join us. 
 May. Traitors! 
 
 on. We lose precious moments : force that door. 
 May. Villains ! Help ! 
 
 [The party struggle with Matnaed, and drag him from the door; 
 PuBPLE and Gentlemen are overpowered as they enter. 
 MATNAEn ii mastered iy two of the conspirators, who stand 
 over him, with ikdr swords, when Felicia enters frma room 
 and falls wpon his neck. 
 Fd. Cousin ! 
 May. Cousin! 
 
 OK. Gentlemen, we are your masters : be wise, we will not 
 abuse our power. (To Felicia :) His cousin are you ? I see it 
 all — ^you love him. Give up those papers; or, before he can 
 speak a prayer, he is a dead man. 
 
 ■ May. Felicia ! dear Felicia, never ! I can die ; live you, and 
 bear mtness to my honour. 
 
 Pur. Bascals ! my ghost shall be at Tyburn on your hanging 
 day. ■ 
 
 on. Gentlemen, your swords at his throat. Now, those 
 papers ! 
 FM. (Aside: I cannot save him ! I. have lost the means.) 
 Oli. Shall we strike J — ^the word 1 
 
 May. Fear not for me, Felicia ; save.yourself. '! 
 
 Oti. That may not be so easy. Mr^ Maynard, our stake is no 
 child's play : if she remain obstinate, she too may suffer. 
 
THE HOUSEKEEPER. 115 
 
 You cannot mean it ? Murder, in cold blood — assassinate 
 a woman ? Are ye gentlemen — are ye human creatures ? TCill 
 me — ^torture me — strike every sword here through me-^I yield 
 myself to your most malicious cruelty 1 — ^But, if ye have one 
 tender thought, one hope, one grace of manhood, — ^hurt not my 
 cousin, ^jouch not my sweet, sweet Felicia ! 
 
 Oli. "Will she g^ve the papers 1 
 
 May. No ! — (They are ahovt to strike) 
 
 Fd. Yes : I will give them. 
 
 Oli. "Where are they J 
 
 Fd. I — {Aside : "What shall I say 1) — I have them not here. 
 
 Oli. "Where are they 1 
 
 Fd. There !— 
 
 lAn Officer, (mth a pwrty of mldaers with fixed iayonets,) enters 
 from room ai side — conspirators throw down ikar swords. 
 
 Officer. (To Matnabd, Pureub, and Gentlemen :) You, gentle- 
 men, although the situation in which 1 find you is proof sufficient 
 of your innocence, may yet be called upon for further explanation. 
 For these traitors, secvire and remove them. 
 
 [OuvEK, and the rest of his party are guarded off. 
 
 May. To what blessed chance do we owe this rescue ? 
 
 EiUer Simon Box. 
 
 Simon. To the lady Pelicia and mysel£ I have watched your 
 house, nearly all night : for, to say the truth, I liked not its 
 looks. I was staring at yonder window, when my lady here saw 
 me, cast out the papers, and — but I forget — ^I have two prisoners 
 of my own in this room ; one is lawful plunder, and I'll run and 
 take possession. [Exit. 
 
 Fwr. Maynard, in my sober senses, I wish you joy. 
 
 May. (To Felicia.) And you are my cousin ? 
 
 Fd. Knew you not the little girl, whom eight years ago you 
 snatched from out the river ! 
 
 May. Happy diver, to have brought up such a pearl ! 
 
 Enter Simon Box and Sopbt. 
 
 But who is this — a cousin too ? 
 
 Fd. She is my earliest, my truest friend. It is to her I owe 
 the scheme that brought me hither. Twas she who was to keep 
 your house. 
 
 Enier "Widow DtrcKMNG. 
 
 Widow. A little mistake, sir. I am the person, and I can tell 
 yon the whole story-^ 
 
116 THE HOUSEKEEPER. 
 
 ' J^ay. Anpther ;t}me ; I caa h.ear no gtories now : I can only 
 
 : ,SJ^ iAside iO SpPHT.) Sop^y, tai,e '^Ts. your ring ; and with it 
 for -yojif truth apd pervice-rr^orpipetiencie. 
 - &)phy. Degr lady, if you ^Piald but keep that gown and cap ! 
 
 May. Keep them ! I'll have theni placed within a crystal 
 shrine for bachelors to make a pilgrimage tp hoponr. 
 
 Widow. But, sweet sir-r-here i? the letter frpm London to ovir 
 curate — you will see that I am the person to keep your house. 
 
 May. You shall not wholly lose your journey ; but there is 
 another Jady, who, as I hope, wUl have the place you were tp 
 fiU ; if she Ippk yes, why, then, be aU welcome to my house- 
 ■warming ; for here, behold my wife — the best Housekeepee ! 
 
 PND GS "THE HODSEKEEPEE." 
 
CHAKACTEES EEPRESENTED 
 
 Matthew Lvbeski Mr. Coopek. 
 
 Bcesrving Mb. rAKEEN. 
 
 Clarendon Mr. King. 
 
 Effingham ... Me. BEINDil.. 
 
 Creamly ......... Me. "Webster. 
 
 Junket Me. Meado'sts. 
 
 Valise Me. Wood. 
 
 Augusta . Miss Phillips. 
 
 Margaret . Miss Taylor. 
 
 Lady Aubrey Mrs. Fauoit. 
 
 Mrt. Fossil . Meb. C. Jones. 
 
 Servants. 
 Scene — London. Date, 1796. 
 
 This Comedy was first represented on the 2nd of Janua/ry, 1834. 
 
THE WEDDING GOWN. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 ScEKE I. — Matthew Iubeski's Lodgings in the House o/Cebamlt. 
 Enter Mrs. Fossil and Junket. 
 
 Mrs. Fossil. I knew they were both out. And now, boy, your 
 news ? 
 
 Junhet. News, mother-in-law ? 
 
 Mrs. Fi Again 1 Mother-in-law ! If your father did marry 
 me, thank providence for it, and hold your tongue. 
 
 JunJo. I do thank providence, .{Aside : It might have been 
 my fate. Poor father !) 
 
 Mrs, F. A pretty charge he left me ; and prettily I'm repaid. 
 Good-fox'-nothing ! How have I brought you up ? 
 
 Jv/nk. Idke a top ; and kept me up by the same means. 
 
 Mrs. F. Scapegrace ! How got you your reading and 
 writing? — ■ 
 
 Junk. You know how : cleaning door-plates and carrying 
 letters. 
 
 Mrs. F. Tour board — ^your clothes — ^your lodging 1 
 
 jMJii. Jor my .board, I never ate a dinner with a quiet con- 
 science. 
 
 Mrs. F. Tou felt your unworthiness. 
 
 Junk. No ; I felt I was robbing the house-dog of his lawful 
 property. For my clothes, the boys used to call me harlequin ; 
 and, for my lodging, 'twould have been excellent, if — r ■ 
 
 Mrs.F. Ill— . ! ;, 
 
 Junk. If I'd been one of the pigeons. To be sure, my sleeping- 
 place had this advantage, — ^lisometimes got an egg for breakfast. 
 ! ' Mrs.F. This is to foster other people's brats ! , And who has 
 put you in your present service % 
 
120 THE WEDDING GOWN. 
 
 Junk. I'm not ungratefuL Since you've kept house for Mr. 
 Creamly, 'tis true I'm become a judge of roast and boiled. — I 
 own, I know what a snug garret is ; wear a coat of one colour, 
 and can, on holidays, risk a siKpence at ninepins. 
 
 Mrs. F. And if you'd keep these comforts, see that you obey 
 me closely. Now, your news ? When Miss Augusta left the 
 house this morning, you followed her wherever she went ? 
 
 Junk. No I didn't. 
 
 Mrs. F. No ' I desired you to follow her. 
 
 Junk. I know it ; and I tried to do so, but — 
 
 Mrs. F. But ! — ^but you hadn't brains enough for so simple a 
 business. 
 
 Junk. Quite the other way ; I stopped, in fear of my bnuns. 
 Patience, mother-in-law; you shall hear. I followed Miss 
 Augusta from the house ; slunk and winded after her like a 
 hound ; till, by-and-by, I began to think myself not much 
 better. Then I lost sight of her — then I spied her again. In the 
 midst of this, something said to me, " Ealph Junket, this is poor 
 work for a man." Tet I went on, though I seemed to myself to 
 get smaller every step I took. 
 
 Mrs. F. Fool ! 
 
 Junk. Not a fool, mother-in-law. Tor what I then felt taught 
 me this secret : if ever I hear of a great man shrinking down to 
 a very little one, I shall kno-w he's been on some dirty errand, 
 and lost his height upon the road. 
 
 Mrs. F. Then you quitted the girl ? 
 
 Junk. Not till I discovered — 
 
 Mrs. F. Well 1— 
 
 Junk. 'Twas at the comer of a street — 
 
 Mrs.F. Aye?— . ' 
 
 Junh. When walking rather briskly, I looked up, and saw that 
 Miss Augusta — 
 
 Mrs. F. Yes ?— 
 
 Junk, Saw me. As she looked — at that instant — I felt two 
 red-hot cinders shot into my cheeks ! I twirled round on my 
 toe, and, never once trusting myself to glance back, came with a 
 scorched face at fall gallop home. 
 
 Mrs. F. And this was all your success ? 
 
 Junk. I tell you 'twas success I had to fear. If I'd prospered 
 in this first piece of dirtiness, I might have grown conceited, and 
 gone on. And now, mother-in-law, are you not ashamed ? 
 
 Mrs.F. Boy! '■ ' '' - ' '. ■> i^a > :■ . ■ 
 
 Junh. To set a boy to such a task %: Wateh Miss Augusta ! 
 Bless her ! Look in her face — ^hear her speak. I'll be bound she 
 has nothing secret but her prayers. ' 
 
THE WEDDING GOWN. 121 
 
 Urs. F. Indeed ! Tet what should call her from the house so 
 often — what, particularly when her father's out, should keep her 
 from home so long ? 
 
 Junk. It may be business ; it maybe pleasure; it may be — 
 what is't to us what it may be ? ^, 
 
 Mrs. F. Everything. HaVnl they lodged here these sixteen 
 weeks ; and what do we know of them ? " , 
 
 Junk. "We know IvnHs Augusta to be the meekest, sweetest 
 thing ; and for the old gentleman, her father, why he was a 
 nobleman in Poland, in -his own country. 
 
 Mrs. F. The more simpleton he to leave it. I should Eke to 
 know what he does here. 
 
 Jarei. I've told you. Mr. Lubeski is a — a patriot. Now don't 
 you know ? 
 
 Mrs. F. I know it cant "be very reputable ; for Tve looked all 
 through the dictionaxy and found no such business. 
 
 Junk. Business ! I tell you, mother-in-law, it isn't — 
 
 Mrs. F. No matter what it is ; it doesn't seem a ready-money 
 calling. Patriot ! I only hope all tJie linen's safe. But now 
 Pm herCj I'U have a general search- 
 
 Junk. You'll search alone, then. Ke t fie upon you ! 
 
 Mrs. F. Fie ! How do I know what's going on ? Dear Mr. 
 Creamly may be robbed, — or — 
 
 Junk. Dear Mr. Creamly '. Mrs. Fossil, you know you have 
 already had three husbands ; and yet do I suspect — 
 
 Mrs.F. Suspect! What? 
 
 Junk. You are now curling your hair for the fourth. Dear 
 Mr. Creamly ! Poor Mr. Creamly ! 
 
 Mrs. F. You vile — scandalising ! — but you sha'n't spoil' my 
 temper. , , ' ^ 
 
 •Tani. ' Nobody can ; it's so preserved in its 'own vinegar. 
 Entrap , Mr. Creamly! Such .a good soul ! No: he's my 
 master, and Pan bound, to take care of him : so, mother-in-law, 
 once for allT ieli you, I sha'n't stand by and suffer it. 
 
 , ,;' .'j [Exit at chor, 
 
 Mrs. F. Pm rightly served ; and yet when I brought him into 
 the house,. I — I did .expect — but he shall pack. PU have no 
 eavesdropping, overlooking — stay, I forget my errand. If I 
 could find anything about these lodgers — any letters — anything 
 that might serve to throw a light upon their way of life, — 
 
 Ervt^ Creamly. 
 
 Mrs. F. Ha ! dear Mr, Creamly T What a way you have oi 
 snrprifflng one ! 
 
122 THE WEDDING GOWN. 
 
 Creamly. Junket told me you were here.* But, bless me, Mrs. 
 Fossil, these are the lodgers' rooms ; let us go down stairs. 
 
 Mrs. F. Lodgers ! Ah, Mr. Creamly ! 
 
 Cream. Lackaday ! Anything the matter 1 
 
 Mrs. F. These are serious times. 
 
 Cream. Mercy me ! What's happened ? 
 
 Mrs. F. To-day again bread's gone up a penny ; and the 
 chicken I bought yesterday for your morning's broth — a little 
 thing that it was a murder to kill — cost two-and-sixpence. 
 
 Cream. Surely ! But the lodgers ? 
 
 Mrs. F. Then a calf s-foot for jelly, 'tisn't to be looked at 
 under — 
 
 Cream. The lodgers, Mrs. Fossil 1 What has bread, chicken, 
 or calf s-foot jelly to do with the lodgers 1 
 
 Mrs. F. All things, Mr. Creamly. For if you'd pay for 
 necessary sustenance, how are you to lodge outlandish folks for 
 nothing? 
 
 Cream. That's very true : I must speak to Mr. .Lubeski. 
 'Twas but last night at the club, Mr. Bull, the president, twitted 
 me for harbouring foreigners. 
 
 Mrs, F. Mr. BuU was always a very sensible gentleman. Sir, 
 you don't know your danger. Here are you, a respectable silk- 
 mercer, keeping people who may be smugglers. 
 
 Crea/m. What ! Miss Augusta ? 
 
 Mrs. F. I don't know that she hasn't a smuggling look. 
 Smugglers, or coiners, or — 
 
 Cream. Well, if they are coiners, at least they have some con- 
 science ; for I've never seen the colour of their money. 
 
 Mrs. F. 'Tisn't for me to speak ; yet, sir, I can't see you 
 devoured and be quiet. 
 
 Cream. I know the pains you take. I— you recollect the white 
 satin I showed you on Tuesday ? 
 
 Mrs. F. That beautiful satin ! 
 
 Cream. I told you it was ordered by Madame MUlechoses, the 
 milliner, for a wedding-suit. Now, there's a remnant of a few 
 yards left, and i^ as a small token, Mrs. Fossil— hark ! Isn't 
 there somebody ? 
 
 Mrs. F. Not a souL Yes, sir, a remnant ? 
 
 Cream. We'll talk down stairs. If Mr. Lubeski should find 
 anybody in his room — 
 
 Mrs. F. Sis room ! Take my word for it, sir, that Mr. 
 Lubeski — 
 
 FrUer Matthew Lubeski. • 
 
 A good day to you, sir. 
 
THE WEDDING GOWN. 123 
 
 Zt«6esii. Good. day. You were speaking of me. 
 
 Mrs. F. Yes, sir ; I was saying to Mr. Creamly, that you being 
 out, I had looked in to see if all things were as they should be. 
 
 Lvi. I am your debtor for much kindness. 
 
 Mrs. F. {Aside to Creamlt : He forgets the sixteen weeks' 
 rent. Ask him for it.) 
 
 Cream. {Aside to Mrs. Fossil : Leave us, — I think I will.) 
 
 Mrs. F. {Aside to Creamlt : Think ! Be sure you do.) Plague 
 take him for coming as he did I for there must be some meaning 
 in a gift of white satin. [Exit. 
 
 Cream. {Aside : I wish he didn't look so much of the gentle- 
 man.) Any news from abroad, sir ? 
 
 Iiub. I am sorry, Mr. Creamly, I have as yet received none. 
 
 Cream. When may any be looked for 1 
 
 Lub. Daily, as I hope. But the present condition of the 
 country — 
 
 Cream, Very bad, no doubt. Euin to business. Pray, what 
 trades may now flourish best in Poland ? 
 
 Lub. Just now, there are but three profitable callings. 
 
 Cream. What may they be 3 
 
 Lub. Spy — gaoler — aad executioner. 
 
 Cream- You mistake. I mean, what are your exports ? 
 
 Lub. Brave men — ^virtuous women — and innocent children. 
 
 Cream. That's your meaning. I ask as a tradesman. How do 
 landlords get their rents ? You used to export hemp and 
 iron, 
 
 Lub. Yes ; but now they are all consumed at home. Mr. 
 Creamly, I have expected, do yet hope, the m,eans of meeting 
 your demand. At present, I — I must blush to beg for further 
 time. . Things have gone most crossly. ;, I may seem a rogue — 
 an adventurer ; do not think so. • On the word of a gentleman, I 
 — ^Mr. Creamly, I am a soldier ; and, so it had been with honour, 
 I had felt less kneeling by my coffin facing twenty firelocks, than 
 standing here your debtor. , <, \ 
 
 Cream. {Aside : I'm a great brute. His eyes are moistening, 
 and — Pm a great brute. 'Tis plain he has no prospect of a 
 penny: 111 be cert-ain.) Doubtless, Mr. Lubeski, you have had 
 good learning ? 
 
 Lub. Why, sir, I was once a schoolboy. 
 
 Cream. JTou know arithmetic t You can calculate ? 
 
 Lui. Very weU, I have had your rooms sixteen ^weeks ; now 
 sixteen — .. , 
 
 ' Cream. Bum the rooms ! Live . in 'em sixteen, years, I won't 
 ask you for as many pence. Mr. Lubeski, 'you mus'n't think 
 because a man in fair trade loves a guinea, that his heart is all 
 
124 TH£ ■wedding gown. 
 
 figures, like a ready-reckoner. Toii're an h6ii6St gentleman} 
 and thej^ tell me-^thotigh I don't' appr6Ve of rebellion, I've lieen 
 specikl donstable myself-^imlTibky in a gbod cailse. In bne' 
 ■word, sir, pay me or not, as' you daii.-^tihsL'iii't dl«!ep tie worse in 
 my second fioor for knowing' I givff ytrti and yonr' little girl 
 shelter in the garrets. 
 
 JM. Mr. Creamiy, I hive so long had to figlit a^aiiist' ibMor- 
 tiine, I -want strength to meet a sudden kindness. 1 thsCnk you. 
 Sid I not hope to pay you, I ■woMld not by r'etnainihg' in your 
 rooms — 
 
 " Cream: lAvt in 'eiii for nothing, and you p'nt money in my 
 pocket. Ti'ue. I used to keep stock here; but, dear heart ! last 
 ■winter the rats half-mined me. But I -vfrsis about t6 ^y^^jtou 
 ■won't be offended ? — if ycta kne* arithmetic, liked to' keep 
 accounts, read the newspaper aiid books,' 'write a letter or SO, — 
 for time must lie heavy on your hands ? — " 
 
 XiiJ. It does — ^it does. Well,.sir T 
 
 Cream. I know a gentleman-^my landlord— ti4tb asked me 
 about such a person. I declare, hei'e's' his card. 
 
 Lvi. {Beading card.) " "Mi. Beeswings St James's-squSfe." 
 
 Cream. At present he lives in the hotlse of Lord Ambe^rtpn. 
 His lordship's daughter is to marry Mr. Bees'Wing'STiephew', Mr, 
 Clarendon'. 
 
 liiii: And jour Ikndlord 'wants Jt-cletk ? 
 
 GriMK. Not a clefk. i^ertelya geritlemari 'Who can cypher^ 
 read, and ■write : not a clerk. But I must leave you. A hundred 
 pa<rdons'1 ' HciW is Miss Augusta" ? I've sfcaj?cely seen her these 
 *Wo' daiys; . , . ■ . . ' ' 
 
 lAili. ' she i^ ■wdll Being myself frequently froin' home,' aHi^ 
 findk-aycrfetyitt the' fitmily'of a* fellbW-dduritfyman ainfd brdiiher 
 exJle.' ' • ' '■■■"■ ■'; ■ ■ • • ;■ •■■ ■ -■ 
 
 0«itto'. Yet a word; Tdu know iSIrS. Fossil, my hoii^^keeperT 
 If she should hint at your' rent; jttst'-tio oblige me; jut a bold fiice 
 on it — ^bluster a little, and, if need be, ofifer ti) ' show her my 
 receipt ill fiilL j 
 
 Xm6. Why should I act such felsehood? 
 
 CreaM. To save my character' j for if it weite'tnoWii I was an. 
 easy man 'twould ruin me. "Tis my plan. I never forgave an 
 account without making my debtor promise to give it out that I 
 had almost diiVen him to gaol. Whefi I Was overseer, 'twas my 
 rule not' tci igiVe a ShiUihg from my cwii' J»(Jcket till the pauper 
 had bound himself to abuse me everywhere as a stony-hearted' 
 feUow, that hai^ng-wastoo godd for." ' So'w', if Mrs'. Fossil 
 
 i«4. 1 trust, sit;- by speedy payment tb-^ 
 
 Criam. Not a syllable; Look on thesfe' giuTets as your free"- 
 
THE WEDDING GOWN. 125 
 
 hold. You've brought me luck. Since youVe lived here, I've 
 done more trade than in any season since the swallows bijilt in 
 the kitchen chimney. Only humour me, and say hard things of 
 me ; call me a severe man — a miserly man — an unfeeling man ; 
 but I shall take it as a great favour that you never call me an 
 easy man. [^Exit at door. 
 
 1Mb. My landlord's odd talk has warmed me like a draught 
 of wine. Yes, after all, it is a good world. "We are poor fool^ 
 and make sad mistakes ; but there is goodness, hived, like wild 
 honey, in strange nooks and corners. Let me think. There is' 
 now no hope of any remittance. I am a beggar in a foreign 
 land. Without a hope — ^without — stay, shall I see what this 
 may offer 1 What ! become a servant — a hired menial 1 See 
 myself 1 — myself ! — Can I see the iron fingei-s of want pinching 
 a child's cheeks 1 Pride, stay here with the bare walls ! I'll 
 cross the threshold a new and humble man. — {Reading card.) — 
 "St. James's-square — St. James's" — I recollect — ^yes — ^I think 
 I can find the way. [Exit at door:- 
 
 Scene II. — An Apartment in the House of Lord Amberton, 
 St. JaTnes's- sqiiare. 
 
 Ladt Aubrey and Margaret discovered, looking at laces, Sc. 
 AiTGTlSTA waiting: 
 
 Lady Avhrey. No, Lady Margaret ; this is the lace. I declare- 
 a spider's web is thicker. This lace, with — ^why, you're no 
 more concerned about your wedding dress, than if it were your 
 shroud. . 
 
 Margaret. . No, madam ; for in truth I canft^see the difference. 
 If Tm not to live happily, I care little what I'm buried in. . .'' 
 
 iMdg Ai.. (Aside, to Tier: 'Before this person! Consxdt your 
 self-respect. See, this lace.) ' '. 
 
 Marg^ Yes, very- pretty — I have no judgment. What do you 
 think? <i:' 
 
 Augusta. 'Tis very handsom<i; naadam ; yet this, to me, appears 
 still more delicate. '"''V 
 
 Marg. So it is : it shall be this. {Aside to Ladt; Aubret. : Yow 
 hav'n't noticed her ; she's very beautiful.) i ■ -. .' ; 't 
 
 Lady A. Yeiy. — for a milliner. .!,, ,;.. v„ 
 
 Marg. {Aside to Ladt Aubrey : Then^ her manners; — her 
 appearance.) {To Augusta.). Have you bsen long .withlMadame 
 MUleehoses ? , .ui l-'i. - 
 
 .."t4!^. No, madam. '■ ,;,;■;' i/' '" 
 
 ■ •.Ifarg. You're not my countrywoman-? ,;; .-i'> ■ 
 
 Aug. No, madam. 
 
126 THE WEDDING GOWN. 
 
 Lady A. Now, Margaret, conclude your choice. I have 
 twenty different things to despatch ; letters to write, orders to 
 give,— 
 
 Marg. Dear Madam, let me tease you no longer. This young 
 person and myself wiU arrange everything. — (TiAT>y Aubrbt sits 
 cut table writing. Maegabet comes down with Augusta.) — We wiU 
 say this, then ; and, for the rest, why suppose 'twas yourself to 
 be married, and — 
 Av.g. Madam ! 
 
 Marg. Make the gown after your own heart. I'm sure you 
 hope to be married ? I'd lay my life you crossed the sea with 
 wet eyes at leaving somebody. 
 
 Aug. I left my country — ^left my home — left — 
 Marg. Your sweetheart, I'll vow by your looks ? There ! 
 white and red, — ^and your little hand's like any stone ! 
 
 Aug. I fear, madam, I waste your time. I will see your 
 orders carefully followed. 
 
 Marg. Don't go. I do so want a friend ! Tell me, did you 
 ever read Sir Philip Sidney's Arcadia ? 
 Aug. Never. 
 
 Marg. I wish you had ; then you'd pity me. — Then you'd 
 feel what it was to live all your days in a beautiful country- 
 house, with fields and gardens, and trees, all like so many old 
 friends ; to run where you like, to sing what you please, to say 
 what you think, — and then, at a word, to be brought to London, 
 to be built up with silks, and bones, and brocades, — and to be 
 made to look, move, and speak, as though you were fixed in a 
 golden frame ; till a gentleman you don't care a pin for, comes 
 to hand you out, and make you — as they preach to me — a happy 
 woman J 
 
 Aug. And he will — ^be assured, he will. In due time your 
 heart will receive him. 
 
 Mwrg. I fear my heart is a very little one; and somebody's 
 there already. Hush ! my lady. Pray, come to me again. I 
 like you ; my old servants were left at the EalL I wish you'd 
 come and live with me ; my father wUl not refuse me. 
 
 Aug. I have a fiither, lady, who would not spare me. Yet, I 
 feel your kindness, truly feel it. 
 
 Lady A. Now, Margaret, have you at last decided ? 
 Marg. Yes. I shall be fine — very fine. 
 Lady A. {To Augusta.) To-morrow, then 1 
 Av^. To-morrow, madam. [Exit. 
 
 Marg. What a face of goodness ! She reminds me of the 
 shepherdess Urania, who, plucking the thorn from the lamb's 
 foot, looked — 
 
THE WEDDING GOWN. 127 
 
 Lady A. Nay, Margaret, you must not talk Arcadian in St. 
 
 James's : such prattle should cease with your girlhood. {Rings 
 
 hell — Enter Servant.) Let this letter be taken to Mr. Effingham. 
 
 Servant. Mr. Bee.swing bade me ask if your ladyship was, to 
 
 be seen ? 
 
 Lady A. By him, certainly. [^Exit Servant 
 
 Marg. A letter — ^to Mr. Effingham 1 
 
 Lady A . You and he met frequently when children ? 
 
 Marg. Before he went to Oxford, we were never a day apart 
 
 Lady A. I have heard as much. 
 
 Marg. He lived only six miles from the Hall ; and many a 
 night when his tutor thought him locked in, fast asleep, he and 
 I were sitting happily together in the little hermitage. Poor, 
 fellow ! to see me, he has often dropped from his window at 
 the risk of breaking his dear neck. I doubt it's more than Mr, 
 Clarendon would do. 
 
 Lady A. You know not that. 
 
 Marg. Well, this I know — ^I'm almost wicked enough to wish 
 he'd try. 
 
 Lady A. Por shame, Margaret ! The early death of your 
 mother, with the foreign employment of his lordship, left you too 
 fiee at an age requiring the most tender vigilance. You must 
 now forget that Mr. Effingham — 
 
 Marg. Forget ! Why, he gardened for me — ^fished for me — 
 borrowed books for me — ^painted for me — petted my pug-dog, 
 and taught my bullfinch to whistle. 
 
 Lady A. You are now to become Mr. Clarendon's wife. You 
 know, your father's, fortune is a ruin. 
 
 Marg. I'm very sorry ; but I'm not quite sure he has any 
 right to.'use his cMld's heart to repair it. . 
 
 Liody A. ,^y . this marriage, you relieve your father from 
 anxieties, which .else, quickening his illness, might make you,. 
 Margaret, an orphan. , 
 
 Marg. I'm very unhappy ! I love my father dearly, but — I — 
 I won't marry. . 
 
 Lady A. Margaret ? 
 
 Marg. I won't ; or, if I do, I'll have such revenge ! I'll spend 
 the pin-money you talk of in marmosets and parrots ; my house, 
 shall be open to all the world ; yet my husband feel the.qnly. 
 stranger in it. If Mr. Clarendon dare marry me, I'll turn hia 
 whole fortune into china — I'll break bis heart — ^and I'll-^Pll call 
 you old aunty to my dying day. - .;,;,;,;> ^,,,[^a;^■<. 
 
 Lady A. I feared this. Twas fit I should see JMr. lEffingham 
 — his visits here were most imprudent, till Margaret be aafely 
 married.. ; . i , ii . 
 
 ■ ' L 2 
 
128 THE "WEDDING GOWN. 
 
 Enter Beeswing. 
 
 Beeswing. Safely married, said you, my lady? Thinking of 
 the young couple ] Well, I don't like to have people sighing 
 and languishing, -when they might be happy at once. — Let the 
 day stand as -we appointed. 
 
 Lady A. If his lordship's restored health — Heavens, Mr. 
 Beeswing ! have you seen my brother ? 
 
 Beesw. Just come down stairs from him. — Worse this morning. 
 
 Lady A. Worse ! What are the symptoms ? 
 
 Beesm. Another doctor. He makes the third : my lady, few 
 constitutions can stand such attacks. 
 
 Lady A. Eeally, sir, you have an enviable stoicism for the 
 afflictions of others. 
 
 Beesw. Afflictions ! Vapours, my lady ; with, perhaps, a dash 
 of gout. Now, if my Lord Amberton, instead of a nobleman, 
 were a — a drysalter, — 
 
 Lady A. Mr. Beeswing ! 
 
 Beesw. A leather-seller, or a tallow merchant — what with the 
 markets, his clerks, and his counting-house, he'd want time to 
 waste in Ulness. • But, my lady, with you high folks, whenever 
 a sickness shows itself in a family, you treat it with so much 
 pomp and ceremony, it can't make up its mind to leave you. — 
 My wonder is that death itself doesn't oftener come among you. 
 
 Lady A. Mr. Beeswing ! 
 
 Beesto. You do so tempt him with gilt-nails and velvet, and 
 paint his visiting card so finely outside your houses. For my 
 Lord Amberton, — 
 
 Lady A. Your pardon ; I have not seen his lordship since 
 last night. Litellects, whose strength I must admire, though 
 cannot emulate, may think me weak. I avow, and retire under 
 the enormity. {Exit. 
 
 Beesw. A very tolerable sneer. I wish I was at home again. 
 A poor ox, driven through St. James's, staring at the odd sights 
 and stunned by the strzinge sounds about him, doesn't miss his 
 grass and clear water more than I — ^whilst wandering through 
 this fine palace, and seeing little but my own face in fifty mirrors 
 — long for my quiet box at Camberwell, my garden, and my 
 greenhouse. But, as 'tis to please his lordship, I visit him till 
 my nephew marries. — {EiUer Servant.) — ^Well ? 
 
 Servant. Somebody, sir, begs to see you. 
 
 Beesio. A gentleman ? 
 
 Sero.lSo, sir ; a person. — He refused to give his name. 
 
 Beesw. Show him in — stay — another genteel beggar, I warrant • 
 
THE "WEDDING GOWN. 129 
 
 •with a set face, and a set speech. I'm fairly hunted by 'em. 
 {Enter Ltjbeski, shown in hy Servant, who goes off.) I — I thought 
 so. Dumb ! He's taking measure of my countenance for one 
 of his long stories ; maMng up his mind whether his wife shall 
 have died last week, or brought him a brace of boys yesterday 
 moniing ; whether he has been ruined by a friend, or bed-ridden 
 six weeks with a fever. 
 
 Lvheshi. I trust, sir, I shall be excused the liberty — 
 
 Beesw. {Aside : I knew it.) 
 
 Lvh. Of this self-introduction. I am induced to wait upon 
 you— 
 
 Beesw. {Aside : Having heard of my great benevolence — that 
 must come now.) 
 
 Lvh. In consequence of — {Aside : 'Sdeath ! I cannot go on ; 
 there's a something in his manner that curdles my blood.) I 
 have, sir, to solicit— {jl*icfe ; He looks at fne with eyes of brass ; 
 I cannot speak to him.) 
 
 Beesw. {Aside : I see the end of this : he'll thrust a petition 
 with twenty forged names into my hand, pull out his handker- 
 chief and wait for a glimpse of my purse. I don't like the 
 fellow's face ; 'tis certain he lives by distress, he's so genteel 
 upon it.) 
 
 Lub. I — {Aside : Psha ! courage !) — Sir, permit me to ask, 
 if— 
 
 Beesw. Permit me. How's your wife ? You have a wife, of 
 course ? 
 
 Ijuh. No, sir. 
 
 Beesw. I forgot ; you buried her last week. 
 
 Lvi. Sir ! It is ten years since I endured that loss. {Aside : 
 Patience !) 
 
 Beesw. But your poor six children ? — ^is it six or seven ? 
 
 Luh. Neither, sir. 
 
 Beesw. No wife — no six children ? Then you beg on your own 
 account ? 
 
 Lub. Beg! beg! 
 
 Beesw. I can't be wrong ? Don't you come to me for relief 1 
 
 lAib. Say, she who is in heav«n was yet in this cold world, 
 that she and children, aU were famishing, if I did stoop to beg, 
 I would as soon put up my prayer to a wall of flint, as look in 
 that granite face, and speak it [Ooing. 
 
 Beesw. Granite face! {Aside: Come, he's even , with me 
 there.) Stop ! I — I — why you needn't glare at me so ! I'm 
 neither wizard nor devil.' , •,\Ws''- 
 
 iMb. Sir, you are a rich man ; providence has gathered about 
 you every lappiness. Devil ! If men do seem devils, it is when 
 
130 THE WEDDING GOWN. 
 
 made drunk and callous by the bounty of heaven, they mock and 
 mortify their fellow-men. Sir, I did not come to beg. 
 
 [LuBEBKi is dboat to retire. 
 
 Beesw. Not so fast ; I like you. — ^You are a plain-spoken man 
 — a noble man. I ask your pardon ; I tell you I ask your 
 pardon. — I wouldn't say more to a king, I wouldn't say less to 
 a shoe-black. The truth is, I thought I could read features ; I 
 find I'm a dunce. And I say, when you talked about granite, 
 perhaps, you had the same conceit ? I hope to prove you as 
 great a dunce as myself. I confess, I might seem hard and 
 sudden ; for if I pity the fellow who has no compassion, I detest 
 the scoundrel who abuses it. Charity is such a lovely creature, 
 my blood comes up when I see a set of rascals — and there's a 
 pretty knot in this town — trying to impose upon her. And now, 
 sir, if you please, we'll suppose neither you nor I have spoken, 
 and you are just come to tell me your business 1 
 
 Lub. I was informed, sir, by Mr. Creamly, that you wished to 
 engage— 
 
 Beesw. I see, sir. Again I ask your pardon. Why, yes, sir ; 
 I — but pray be seated. I did speak to Creamly about some one 
 as a sort of clerk. 
 
 IM. It is to solicit that office, sir, I have presumed to wait 
 upon you. 
 
 Beesw. There is but little to do. My wealth is no longer 
 embarked in trade. Still, there are a few rents to gather in — 
 with some plain accounts to keep : you are used to the employ- 
 ment 1 
 
 Jjuh. In my time, I have been steward many years. 
 
 Beesw. To a large estate ? 
 
 Ijuh. A-priucely one. — So the owner thought it. 
 
 Beesw. And who was he ? 
 
 I/uh. He was not of England. 
 
 Beesw. And how lost you your stewardship ? 
 
 I/uh. The owner lost his lands — his all. 
 
 Beesw. Gambling, I suppose? I never by chance hear the 
 rattling of dice, that it doesn't sound to me like the funeral bell 
 
 •of a whole family. I see ; your master played a losing cast he 
 
 wa.s a gamester ? 
 
 Ifuh. The game was terrible he ventured — the loss beyond all 
 remedy. The hearts of his family— his household— his own 
 heart — ^were staked upon the throw. 
 
 Beesw. Madman and fool! 
 
 Luh. No, sir ; for when men play the game he played, even 
 angels suffer with them when they lose. 
 
 Beesw. What is this \ What game is it you mean 1 
 
THE WEDDING GOWN. 131 
 
 Luh. The game of free man against a tyrant : the game which 
 makes man in all places and in all griefs ■vrorthy of his mind and 
 image, — or at his own hearthstone, renders him a felon and an 
 outcast. 
 
 Baesw. Go on, — I am ashamed — I, — ^pi^ay, go on. He lost all, 
 yoTi say ? 
 
 I/iu). All. His fields were ploughed by desolation — slaughter 
 and fire were in his home ; as you say, he lost the cast. 
 
 Beesw. God bless him ! The time may return, when — 
 
 Lub. Must return. The spoiler has his winnings, — ashes and 
 bleeding carcases. Yet there are bones, though now but paste, 
 shall be as steel to play the game again. — Pray, excuse me, sir ; 
 you have touched on recollections that, I fear, take me from^ 
 myself — I ask your pardon. As I said, I have served the office 
 of steward. 
 
 Beesw. (Aside : He's a fine fellow — a very fine fellow.) I 
 don't so much want a steward as a kind of companion — for I'm 
 about to lose my nephew — ^to read and write, — you know what 
 I mean 1 
 
 Ijuh. I hope, sir, on trial you may find me worthy of your 
 service. 
 
 Beesw. No doubt : I am glad you are the first to ofier. Know 
 yon any one in England, who — 
 
 Lvh. I lodge at the house of Mr. Creamly. , 
 
 Beesw. I mean, is there anybody you could refer me to — 'tis 
 only a form — for your character ? 
 
 I/vih. Sir ! {Aside : I shoxdd have expected this.) 
 
 BeesiB. You are aware, 'tis usual to ask the q^uestion t 
 
 Luh. It is usual, sir. 
 
 Beesw. T^ unlucky. Have you no papers — ^no certificate of 
 integrity from your last place ? 
 
 IaA. None. 
 
 Beesw. None ? — ^no testimony ? 
 
 Lub. Now I think again, I have that which may pass for one. 
 
 Beesw. Where is it ? 
 
 X«J. There — {Tahing an Order from his bosom.) 
 
 Beesw. Why, what is this ? 
 
 Lub. The order of the White Eagle. 
 
 Beesw. How ! — yours? 
 
 Lub. My father's — presented to him on the field of battle, by 
 John Sobieski, king of Poland. It is one of the proofe — and 
 one I did not think to show — of family fidelity to our masters. 
 
 Beesw. What a wise old fool am I ! Now I comprehend ; 
 you were your own steward ; — 'twas yourself who — give me 
 your hand ; you are welcome — ^heartily welcome. You shall go 
 
132 THE WEDDING GOAVN. 
 
 home with me — ^for you mus'n't think this my house ; no, 
 nothing so fine ; no gilding — no painting, all plain oak and 
 walnut at Camberwell. I have done you wrong, air, — I must 
 have seemed a coarse-grained, carkish old hunks ; depend on't, 
 iT somewhat rough outside, I'm not all husk. 
 
 ZaJ. I hope, sir, by my future service — 
 
 Beesw. Service ! be from this hour my companion — my ft'iend. 
 After the wedding, we'll go home, and you shall tell me all your 
 wrongs, and I'll — I'll swear an accompaniment. "Why, we'll 
 get over the time bravely ! we'll dig a little, and fish a little, 
 and read a little, and sing a little ; and, to sum it up, well be 
 •two jolly, young old boys. j!Tot a word ; I say, we wilL Now, 
 I know I'm not deceived : you are a fine fellow. And, as you 
 have been used scurvily for some time, you shall henceforth live 
 in lamb's-wool ; ay, and you shall go to your grave down easy 
 steps, comfortably carpeted. Only let Ned — eh, here he is. — 
 
 Enter Clarendon. 
 
 My nephew, sir, Ned Clarendon. Ned, this is — {Aside: — I 
 wonder what's his name !) — my friend. A lucky dog, sir ; going 
 to marry a beautiful creature ; an angel, — isn't she, Ned ? 
 
 Clar. Sir, my humility will not suffer me to deny the in- 
 equality of the match. 
 
 Beesw. No spoilt town miss, but country flesh and blood ; 
 fresh and healthy as her own hawthorns. But, come, sir, we 
 won't keep him from his devotions. — {Aside: Fll send imme- 
 diately for Creamly; — ^yes, hear what he says, and take his 
 -lodger off his hands.) This way, sir ; the youngster wants to get 
 rid of us — he's devoured with impatience till we are gone. Oh, 
 Ned ! Ned ! thou art a fortunate rascal. — {To Ltjbeski.) Sir, 
 •again and again you are welcome. 
 
 [Exeimi Beeswing, avd Ltjbeski. 
 
 Clar. Why, the girl is pretty enough. Yes ; 'twill please 
 my uncle — I'll marry her ; make her a fond husband ; become 
 an affectionate father ; and, indeed, be a most exemplary illus- 
 tration of all the tombstone virtues. And yet, why did I travel ? 
 Had I so much reason, I must go lose the best part of it abroad ? 
 Were there, not lovely women at home, that I should cross the 
 ocean to pine for a shade, — a mystery ? Nay, that's it. Who 
 could she be^-whither could she go ? Had she remained I 
 might in due season have lost the goddess in the woman. No ! 
 impossible. 
 
THE "WEDDING GOWN. 133 
 
 JEnter Effingham, followed by Servant, who goes off on the 
 opposite side. 
 
 Effingham ! Why, I never saw you so damped — so clouded ! 
 In fact, with such a marrying look. What is it 1 
 
 Effingham. {Aside : No ; he has not the lynx-eyes of her ladyship ; 
 he cannot suspect.) Nothing : indeed, nothing. Marrying 1 
 Ha ! Clarendon, you'll be a happy man. 
 
 Clar. Effingham, why did you eschew the church % You'd have 
 shone as ordinary ; you prophesy future bliss with such a 
 Tyburn air of consolation. 
 
 Eff. But with Margaret — with her disposition — ^her face ! — 
 
 Clar. I have travelled — ^have seen feces. 
 
 Eff. Xou're an infidel to name them against looks at home. 
 Is not the beauty of Englishwomen ? — 
 
 Clar. Most beautiful ; nay, 'twould be divine, if they didn't 
 think their beauty like champagne — ^better for being iced. With 
 beauty, Tm a cosmopolite : now, you are a prejudiced Green- 
 lander, passionately devoted to 3'our own snow. I allow — 
 Margaret is handsome. 
 
 Eff. And so formed by education, — her mind, trained in the 
 country, — 
 
 Clar. Country ? Nay, you might say in a kitchen garden. 
 
 Eff. Clarendon ! 
 
 Clar. All her sentiments — at least, to me — so smell of thyme 
 and sweet marjoram. How comes it, Effingham, that you your- 
 self did not select Margaret ? Tou, who were children together 
 — ^who made love, I may say, biting the same apple. 
 
 Eff. We have certainly been acquainted from an early age, 
 buf^ 
 
 Clar. Then how is it, since your intimacy commenced in the 
 nursery, it didn't tend to the same .point ? 
 
 Eff. Had it been my wish, my limited fortune had sUenced it. 
 
 C^r. When I was a schoolboy I didn't blind myself to an 
 orchard, simply because I hadn't wherewithal to buy the fruit. 
 Nor are you the man to weigh your heart against a money bag 
 — to count impulses with gvdneas. The truth is, you didn't like 
 the girl ; no, 'twas reserved for me to be the victim. 
 
 Eff. Victim ! If you seriously think so, for her sake break 
 oflFthe match. , .! i' ' 
 
 CUw. For her sake I must be sacrificed. The poor girl would 
 go distracted. You can't conceive the intensity: of her affection. 
 
 Eff. Intensity ! At least then she is an, exception to the ice 
 •you spoke of? i .-' 
 
134 THE WEDDING GOWN. 
 
 Clar. No, indeed ; she was at first cold and chilly enough ; 
 but, hang it ! even in England, it doesn't freeze all the year 
 round. And, after all, I must allow, she has sensibility and 
 beauty, — and, besides, a passion for me which is certain of at 
 least my gratitude. 
 
 Eff.' (Aside: Can this be his illusion, or can it be really 
 so?) 
 
 Clar. Thus, I persuade myself I shall at length subside into 
 the decencies of matrimony, and become a respectable husband. 
 That is, though I may feel my chains, take especial care the 
 •world shall not hear them clank. 'Tis a prudence that often 
 passes for happiness, and may serve with me. 
 
 Se-etiter Servant. 
 
 Serv. (To EFFiNfiHAM) Sir, Lady Aubrey awaits you. 
 
 Eff. I attend. (Aside : Now, for her ladyship's commands ; 
 if they be as I surmise, and Margaret be not really fickle, I have 
 a plan that shall defeat fortune at her worst.) [Exit. 
 
 Serv. (To Clarendon) Shall I teU my lady Margaret, sir, 
 you are here ? 
 
 Clar. Eh ? — ^yes. (Exit Servant.) My Cupid must be of the 
 dullest to need such a. remembrance!-. (Miisitig.) When my 
 uncle first pressed the match, I carelessly assented. I thought 
 'twould be at most a matter of indiflferenee ; but, as the time 
 draws near, my heart begins to stir a little — to feel certain 
 quiverings, — stay, do not these thoughts come too late 1 
 
 Enter Valisb. 
 
 Valise.' Sir — sir — sir ! 
 
 CUir. What wonder, now ? 
 
 Vol. I — T haven't breath to tell it. 
 
 Clar. Go, take breath, — I can wait. 
 
 Val. Two words, sir. — ^Dresden — ^the lady. 
 
 Clar. What ! Dresden ! Speak — what of her ! Speak, I say 
 — speak ! Though you are strangling, speak ! 
 
 Val. She's here. 
 
 Clar. Here ? 
 
 Vai. These eyes have seen her. 
 
 Clar. When — ^where ? 
 
 Vol. Not five minutes since, at the house of Mr. Creamlv. 
 ril tell you aU, sir. ■ 
 
 Clar. Stay ': now — go on. 
 
 Val. Your uncle, sir, sent me just now to tell Mr. Creamly 
 to wait upon him. I ran to his house, when, who should I see 
 
THE WEDDING GOWN 135 
 
 at the window, but the very young lady about whom you nearly 
 killed your humble servant. 
 
 Clar. I will yet kill you, you scoundrel ! 
 
 Vol. Sir ! 
 
 Clar. What lie — ^what imposition have you fabricated ? ' It 
 wanted but this to drive ine mad. Seen her ! — it cannot be — 
 it is impossible. 
 
 Val. I won't dispute that, sir ; but as I'm a Christian foot- 
 man, it really is. I saw her at one of the windows — [Aside : 
 I darn't tell him the garret.) 1 don't wonder, sir, you are sur- 
 prised ; for myself if a thundex-bolt had knocked me down, it 
 couldn't have more astonished me. 
 
 Clar. You persist in the story ? You — my good Valise, are 
 you certain ? 
 
 Val. Oh, sir, I watched her about too long at Dresden to for? 
 get her : and then, sir, your passion, when at last I missed her, 
 ■was so red-hot, it burnt every feature she had into my memory. 
 Besides, I have inquired, — 
 
 Clar. Yes. 
 
 Vol. Inquired of Creamly's man — a foolish, friendly fellow — 
 and he tells me she is a foreigner not long in England ; that — 
 why, sir, what's the matter ? 
 
 Clar. (Aside: I am sick — death-sick. Fever and ague seem at 
 once upon me. Now I feel as if I could dance, sing, weep ! She 
 is iere. Here ! What an age of hope, dread, bliss, misery, is in 
 the word ! Countries between us, the place unknown, it 
 seemed a beautiful vision — a sweet and moumfal dream ; but, — • 
 here !) 
 
 Vol. Sir, I didn't think the news would change you so. 
 
 Clar. IX has changed me. (Aside : It has inade me know my- 
 self — and In good time. What I thought indifference would 
 have curdled to disgust — ^what I schooled myself to think 
 visionary, would have become an actual presence. My good 
 genius has preserved me.) (To Yalise.) You can show me the 
 house ? And yet, ought I — dare I see her ? 
 
 Enter Servant. 
 
 Serv. The lady Margaret, sir, attends you. 
 
 Clar. I'm coming — say, — say I'm coming. > w 
 
 [Clabemdon goes off Mtrriedly on the opposite side : Valise and 
 Servant exchange looks, and exeimt severally. 
 
136 THE WEDDING GOWN. 
 
 ScEKE III. — The Lodgings of Lubeski. 
 AuGnsTA seated at work. 
 
 Augusta. I think I shall finish this part of my task before my 
 fiither comes. Twenty times I have been about to tell him all : 
 then, the thought of his proud nature, his love for me, has kept 
 me dumb. No ; did he know that for the last fortnight he had 
 owed his sustenance to the labour of his child, 'twould break his 
 heart. He has believed me with his' friends ; and they have 
 promised to keep my secret ; at least, so long as it can be kept. 
 (Rising, takes a wedding-dress from, box beside her.) 'Twas kind 
 of Madame to suffer me to bring home the dress. I can go on 
 until near the time of my father's coming ; and then, when he 
 has gone to bed, have the whole night to finish it. This is a 
 wedding-dress ; poor girl ! she seems kind, ingenuous, affec- 
 tionate. I would I were working for a happier bride ! Poor 
 girl! 
 
 [A knock, when Junket suddenly enters. 
 
 Aug. (Standing before the chair, to hide the dress.) Who's 
 there ? 
 
 Junket. Don't start, miss ; I have some news to tell you. Don't 
 be alarmed ; we are aU safe. Mr. Creamly is sent for by Mr. 
 Beeswing, and I've turned the key upon mother-in-law. Tou 
 see, I'm not a fooL I know knavery from fair-play. Now, 
 when a gentleman asks me a delicate question, I satisfy myself 
 that he is a gentleman before I answer, I warrant me ; else I had 
 never let the gentleman who is now in the house cross the door 
 to see you. 
 
 Aug. See me ! A gentleman ? 
 , Junk. 'Twas with tears in his eyes he prevailed upon me. 
 
 ,Aug. And you have brought him — here ? 
 
 , Junk. I didn't expose you. I told him you were still -very 
 rich, only you had a particular fancy for these apartments. 
 
 Aug. I beseech you, my good man, spare me the interview. If 
 he be a friend, my father — 
 
 Junk. He won't hear a word about your father ; 'tis you, and 
 you only. (Aside : Poor souls ! he may bring a bag of gold 
 for 'em.) I'll show him in. 
 
 Aug. Do not — ^pray, do not. I am alone, and — 
 
 Junk. Not alone, for I'm at hand ; and, trust me, miss, I know 
 too well the prize in my keeping to let any housebreaker come ia 
 and steal it. [Exit at door. 
 
 Aug. Good friend, — ^gone ! I'll make fast the door, and 
 
THE WEDDING GOWN. I37 
 
 EiUer Clarendon. 
 
 Clar. Madam ! Aizgusta ! 
 
 Aug, (Aside : He ! Oh, pride ! fortune has no further malice.) 
 
 Clar. Bar the door — shut out one, who for two years past has 
 thirsted for this blessed moment ? The pilgrim with bleeding . 
 lips at length stoops to the fountain ; it were a cruel spirit that 
 should bid the waters sink into the sand. I pray you, do not 
 deny me. You' have not forgotten me ? 
 
 Aug. No, sir ; I will not feign it. I have not forgotten you. 
 We met at Dresden. 
 
 Clar. I knew not then your worth. I was as a poor man's 
 child, who in his play-hours finds a priceless diamond ; who, 
 careless, loses it, and only learns from aftei^knowledge that the 
 loss has beggared him. Tou have not forgotten me ? 
 
 Av^. No, sir ; yet remember nothing which may give a mean- 
 ing to your present language. 
 
 Clar. Nothing ! True, no words were uttered ; but, surely, 
 love is not a spirit to be raised only by words. 
 
 Arig. Love ! 
 
 Cfar. Love, as strong, as deep, as ever lodged within the breast 
 of man. On your sudden departure from the city — 
 
 Aug. I was called away. I told you Dresden was not my 
 native place. 
 
 Clar. 'Twas all I could discover. I knew not where yon had 
 fled, but knew my heart was with you. 
 
 Aug. I pray, sir, leave me. 
 
 Clar, Since then you have been my , day-dream. Worn, 
 wearied with its hopelessness, I was become a reckless, apathetic 
 being, when the news of your discovery gave me a new existence. 
 
 Aug. ,1 .entreat, sir, leave me. If at any time I might iave 
 li3teited,-that time is past. If you wish my peace — if you value 
 my est^m — if you respect my honour — ^leave me. 
 
 dar. What have I to learn ? Your voice — your looks conjure 
 up thoughts, which if true, — ^Augusta, what has happened I 
 
 Aug. Events — fetal events. Pray, sir, spare me further 
 explanation : let it suffice, we do not meet as before we met. 
 
 Clar. Not as before ! You are lost to me — you are another's? 
 The blood rushing to your cheek blinds me with .the truth 
 Augusta, you are — a wife ? , ,.,,■ 
 
 Aiig. No. •,,,■', ,,,,,.,,„ ,,., . 
 
 Clar. No ! And yet changed^-yet, — {Seeing,dress on the chair.) 
 — ^What is that ? I am in a cloud of mysteiy and dread ; all else, 
 jso plain, and yet that dress 1 la it not the garment of a bride 1 
 
138 THE WEDDING GOWN. 
 
 Aug. It is a wedding-gown. 
 
 Clar. And yours? 
 
 Aug. No, — a friend's. (Aside : I may call her so. No, I can- 
 not love ; for surely true love must kill such foolish pride.) 
 
 Claxr. I have drunk new life from your lips. Still a word. 
 Say, your heart is still the same as when — 
 
 Aug. I came to Dresden ? 
 
 Clar. No — as when you quitted it ? 
 
 Aug. It is. 
 
 Clar. Then it is mine, and here again I challenge it ! Here I 
 hang the jewel at "my heart, praying that neither time nor sorrow 
 may dim its beauty; that what is the glory of my prime 
 inay be the gladness of my old age ; and that having proudly 
 worn it through a life, I may sleep with it near me in the gi'ave. 
 
 Aug. Edward ! 
 
 Glar. Augusta, beloved Augusta ! This joy is so sudden, so 
 exquisite, it has unmanned me. {Ralf-aside : "What a deliver- 
 ance ! What misery have I been spared !) 
 
 Aug. Deliverance ! Edward ! 
 
 Clar. (Aside : She must know all ; yet — ) 
 
 Aug. Edward, I have shown you my naked heart. "What 
 misery ? 
 
 Clar. Believing you for ever lost, and with you that deep hap- 
 piness which you alone could give me, I was become careless of 
 all beside. True, I laughed, jested, disguising by a hollow levity 
 the disappointment that devoured me. 1 — I have an uncle ; a 
 kind, good man, the only friend I ever knew. My first hope 
 blighted, I could refuse him nothing. 
 
 Av,g. "You should not. 
 
 Clar. He has a friend ; one, who though far above him in 
 worldly rank, has yet been greatly aided by his means. 'Twas 
 my uncle's wish to cancel all such debts by a union with the 
 family. He proposed to me the daughter of that friend ; I' have 
 promised to wed her— but, dearest Augusta, let love teach you 
 charity, — I thought you for ever dead to me. 
 
 Aug. Think so still, sir, and perform your promise. 
 
 Clar. Not if she brought the dowry of the world. You are 
 restored to me, — restored — 
 
 Au^. Do not think it. I tell you, sir, if the grass were grow- 
 ing over me, it were not less to be hoped. 
 
 (^r. You do not pardon me — do not forgive an error pro- 
 ceeding from my very despair ? . 
 
 Jlug. I do, from my soul, forgive it. May you be happy ! 
 ■ Clar. 'S.ea.TTne'V' '-■' .o . ■ 
 
 5 Mug. Do not hopfe'to stir'ma Did you offer me the wealth 
 
THE WEDDING GOWN. 139 
 
 and state of a whole empire, I would not take you for my hus- 
 band guilty of a woman's broken heart. 
 
 Clar. Speak not with such terrible composure. Or have the 
 two past years taught her I thought the soul of tenderness a 
 cold tranquillity, that whilst it dooms the victim, is itself 
 tmmoved } 
 
 Aug. It may be, sir ; for in that time I have studied at a 
 school where death and outrage were daily teachers. I have had 
 stem lessons, sir. 
 
 Cla/r. Forgive me. Augusta, — condemn, reproach me — ^but 
 speak not, look not, so calmly ! 
 
 Ang. Did I wish to use reproach, I might ask if it was a 
 noble, a prudent course, to break in here upon my quiet — to 
 subdue me with a flood of recollections — and, in that sacred 
 moment when woman shows her heart to man, and showing, 
 g^ves it, — was it kind to tell me you could not wear the gift ? — I 
 might ask, was it kind to seek me, only to tell me this 1 
 
 Clar. Do not think it 1 A blessed Providence has re-united 
 ns — we never jrart again ! I will explain all to my uncle, to 
 Lord Amberton — lay bare my soul before the Lady Margaret — 
 
 Aug. Margaret! Margaret! 
 
 Clar. Gain her free assent, and return, Augusta — return to 
 ask you of a fether. \Rxishes owt at, door. 
 
 Aug. Amberton ! The lady Margaret ! And this her wedding- 
 dress ! and I — I must employ the whole night to complete it. 
 {Takes the dress, making an effort to repress her feelings ; the 
 garment falls from her hand.) Was fortune ever yet so way- 
 ward 1 [Sinis in the chair. 
 
 ACTIL 
 
 Scene L — Apartment in the House of Lord Amberton. 
 Enter Beeswing one? Clarendon. 
 
 Beeswing. Sir, I've heard enough ; you're a coxcomb ; a poor, 
 vain fellow, who would play at cup-and-baU with the hearts of 
 the whole sex. . 
 
 Clarendon. Sir, you promised to judge me charitably. 
 
 Beesw. So I have: aiid that's my verdict, — you're a coxcomb. 
 Plain justice might call you a scoundrel. ' • ■ ' 
 
 Oar. Sir! - t'-'-' -' .; 
 
 ■ Beesw. Phoo ! I've no respect for injured looks, wheii they'd 
 justify mean actions. What! -sport with i the affections of a 
 
140 THE WEJDDING GOWN. 
 
 confiding girl! — stand, in the 6x:e of the world, her pledged 
 husband, and then, with no other warrant but your own fickle- 
 ness, to blow her from you like a feather ! 
 
 Glwr. Tou wrong me, sir. I have told you, that an affection 
 for one I had considered lost, — 
 
 JBeesw. Yes, at Dresden. In the course of your tra,vels did 
 you visit Kamschatka, or touch on the Gold Coast? I have 
 good reason for the questions ; for as you seem to have carried 
 about so much affection in small change, there's no knowing in 
 what place you mayn't have been liberal. Why, release you 
 from your present engagement, and in a month hence you'd beg 
 my favour for a lady in black fox-skins, or a princess with her 
 royalty tattoed in her countenance. 
 
 Clar. And I had as lief marry either, or both, as the lady 
 your goodness has provided me. Sir, you never loved — your 
 heart, — 
 
 Beesw. How do you know ? How dare you talk of my heart ? 
 Perhaps it's a snow-ball — perhaps, a cinder. Or is it, sir, 
 because I've brought you up in it, that you presume to question 
 its material ? 
 
 ■ Clar. Dear uncle, I would encounter any grief rather than 
 your displeasure. I feel — ^I am proud to feel — I owe you every 
 thing. 
 
 Beesw. Keep your word — ^many Margaret — ^and you have 
 your receipt in full, 
 
 Clar. Sir, it is impossible. 
 
 Beesw. Sir, I've lived three-and-sixty years, and in an honour- 
 able cause I don't know the meaning of the word. Tlus I know ; 
 I'm under a contract to Lord Amberton ; you are pledged to his 
 daughter ; and if you dare desert the girl, I'U — ^yes, for the credit 
 of the family — I'U marry the wench myself. 
 
 Clar. And why not, sir ! — ^As you say, you are but three-and- 
 sLxty ; your constitution is sound — 
 
 Beesw. As oak. 
 
 Clar. Your habits, healthful and temperate — 
 
 Beesw. As a Brahmin's. 
 
 Clar- You may yet have an heir, who— 
 
 Beesw. An heir? 
 
 Clar. Nay, a crowd of little cherubs— a whole grove of olive 
 branches. 
 
 Beesw. To be sure ; and see them all brought up ; and, having 
 lived to a green old age, see my darling cherubs become one by 
 one perverse, flap-eared puppies— have all my promising olive 
 branches turn to bundles of thistles. No, sir, you shall not 
 dance at mv vredding, whatever you may do at my funeral 
 
THE WEDDING GOWN. 141 
 
 {StUer liUBBSKl.) 
 
 Ha, my friend ! Thank the stars you have no fortune to cast 
 away on disobedience. Look at this fine gentleman. T had 
 picked him a wife from a thousand — he had accepted my choice, 
 and now he comes with a blank, romance-reading face, to tell me 
 he had made a previous bargain. You've been a soldier — ^used 
 to discipline : if he were your own flesh and blood, wouldn't you 
 shoot him ? 
 
 Xmb, Not without a trial. 
 
 Clar. Tis aH I ask. 
 
 Beesw. You've had it, and been found guilty. But, since you 
 question the verdict, move for a new hearing ; my friend, here, 
 shall be one of the judges ; ay, and to give you every chance, 
 your counsel to boot. 
 
 Clar. I accept him in both , offices. {Aside .• If I can bring 
 the old gentleman ba;ck to good humour, my cause is not so 
 desperate.) [Beeswing and Lxtbeski sit. 
 
 Beesw. (Rising.) I'll open the proceedings. My lord, this 
 rascal at the bar — 
 
 iMi. You mean — ^the unhappy man ? 
 
 Beesw. No, the fortunate dog — for he's my nephew — four 
 years ago, with a light head and a heavy pocket, quitted 
 England. Whilst abroad he ate a certain quantity of maccaroni 
 — pelted the women with sugar at the carnival — ^took a month's 
 lesspns on the guitar — fought two duels with a brace of German 
 students, and brokethe head of one French postiUion : so much 
 for his foreign acquirements. He returned to his foolish uncle, 
 •with his pocket weighing just as much as his head — leaving, as 
 he now says, his heart behind him, — and bringing in its stead, 
 SLxpennyworth of the coin of the Caesars — ^a necklace curiously 
 cut from the' lava of Vesuvius — and a Venus, wanting a nose, 
 from the ruins of Herculaneum. 
 
 Clar. So far I plead guilty. Yet, could I produce one, whose 
 tjeauty — 
 
 Lub. It can't be received. Beauty can give no evidence, 
 beauty itself being, time out of mind, an outlaw. 
 
 Beesw. A Eobin Hood in petticoats. Capital ! — {Aside to 
 LtTBESKi : Who taught you that point of practice ?) 
 ' 'Lub. {Aside to Beeswing : A gardener's daughter, when I was 
 eighteen.) 
 "'. Clar. If not her beauty, may not her virtue speak for me ? 
 
 Beesw. No ; because it can't. For virtue, attempting to gloss 
 ■dishonesty, if it doesn't grow ashamed, and Isreak down in the 
 oration, ceases to be virtue. 
 
142 THE WEDDING GOWN 
 
 Clar. Sir, I have recently sworn a faith, — 
 
 Lub. The oath's irregular. 
 
 Beesw. {Aside to Lubeski : I don't know ; I'm afraid he has 
 jkisaed the book.) 
 
 Clar. A faith which, to break, would break my heart. I find 
 I cannot longer argue in sport a cause so bound up with my 
 being. In a word, uncle, it .is in your power to make me a 
 jbeggar, but you cannot force me to a marriage, which must 
 henceforth doom me a wretch. [Exit. 
 
 Beesw. Make him a beggar ! He sha'n't have enough to stock 
 his two pauper hands with matches. Here have I chosen a 
 beautiful creature, "the daughter of — by the way, where's your 
 Augusta 1 you promised to bring her. She knows you are 
 here ? 
 
 Lzib. Not j'et. She had retired to bed before I reached home, 
 and early this morning, as I found on rising, she was gone to 
 pass the day with friends, my own country-people. 
 
 Beesw. I must see her. 
 
 I/ub. You shall see her. But your nephew, air, has he informed 
 you who was his first election 1 
 
 Beesw. Some imknown foreign wencn — I ask your pardon ; 
 I mean, some pretty exotic. But if she were as rich as Queen 
 Sheba, he shouldn't have her. 
 
 IaA. Poor young gentleman ! 
 
 Beesw. "Why, you are not on his side } 
 
 Lub. Yet you made me his counsel. 
 
 Beesw. True ; go on, my mind's made up, so I don't fear to 
 listen. Isn't my nephew a disobedient rascal ? 
 
 Lub. No ; since his affections were not in his own keeping, is 
 he accountable for their loss J 
 
 Beesw. Yes, — he had no business to travel with them. Then 
 talks of the tyranny of love ! Love ! Cupid, sir, should be a 
 patriot. 
 
 Lub. It's impossible ; for he never had a fixed coimtry. 
 
 Beesw. Then you'd have me consent to this vagabond match ! 
 
 Liib. If the girl be found worthy, — ^yes. 
 
 Beesw. Shall I break my word ? 
 
 Liib. Will you break your nephew's heart ? 
 
 Beesw. A vulgar notion. — I grant, his neck or his leg may be 
 broken ; but, poets lie, the heart has no joint. There never was 
 a broken heart. 
 
 Lyb. Granting this, the lady Margaret would suffer little by 
 her loss. , i . - 
 
 Beesw. I speak of young, riotous men ; a woman's heart is a 
 different thing. Like a singing bird in a cage, if neglected, it 
 
THE WEDDING GOWN. 143 
 
 Starves and dies ; but, for our hearts, why they're free birds of 
 prey, vultures and hawks, or thievish magpies at the best. 
 Tut ! once joined, they'll be happy enough. Shouldn't I know 
 at my years something of marriage, though I never ventured on 
 its sea ? , : . , ; 
 
 I/uh. Yes ; just as much as a man knows of the sea itself who 
 has only walked along the shore. He knows not how rashness 
 or indifference may go down in sound timbers, nor can he con- 
 ceive how watchfulness and harmony may keep alive the veriest 
 wreck. If my daughter were destined for the voyage of matrimony, 
 I wouldn't trust her to expedience, no, not if shipped in gilded 
 oak : I'd give her to the good captain, affection ; for he — ^and I 
 have tried him — has the seamanship of a witch, and wiU keep 
 above water, ay, though trusted to a sieve. 
 
 Beesw. Affection ! And why, in good time, mayn't affection 
 grow from indifference ? 
 
 Lub. Because it is a dead stocks Tou may as well plant 
 your walking-stick in your garden, and look to see it bud, as 
 hope to gather from indifference the fruit that makes marriage 
 palatable. 
 
 Beesw. {Aside : I must listen no longer.) I tell you, it can't 
 be. The girl expects Ned for her husband : he has promised to 
 marry her — he should have known his mind — of his firee will 
 promised, and he shall ha,ve her. And that I mayn't be made a 
 party to injustice, I've arranged it all with his lordship — ^they 
 are to be matched to day. I'U come back to you in the study 
 — I have yet a word to say to my lady, and — ^no ! if anybody, 
 must be unhappy, it shan't be the poor girl : he is in the; 
 wrong; besides, he is the stronger of the two, and if there must 
 be misery, 'tis right he should , bear the whole of it. Don't: 
 speak.' ' Let the marriage ibe; once over, and we'U discuss it 
 afterwards." i » <- . ' ! i j ■ ■ [Bxie.\ 
 
 huh. This fchange in my fortunes is so. sudden, that for a^ 
 time at least, Augusta shall not know it. For should it not 
 last — yet why fear it ? — why donbt him, whose heart seems in- 
 every word he speaks 1 — who, in a few hours, has made me feel 
 as an old friend ? Dear Augusta ! But I musl arrange the few. 
 papers in my charge. I must hope for heavier duties, if I would 
 have a lighter feeling of dependence. ■ [Exit. 
 
 1 ■ ' J .; :'■..:',; : ' ■;;' >.i!i ' 
 
 Enter Margaret, cwittiimsh/, in hat and doat, as from the street. 
 
 'She takes them off,- piAsthemin room in scene, comes forward, 
 
 and sinks in a chair. 
 
 " • • ;■.!-■ ■ :>h-}:: .' 
 
 Marg.'l am safe — and yet I treiable so: and every thing 
 
 ii2 
 
144 THE WEDDING GOWN. 
 
 about the honse looks so altered, and, — ^I ought to be happy, 
 and yet I wish I could cry. Did I ever thinlc I should have 
 the resolution to steal a marriage 1 But it's all over. I have 
 been a wife these full twenty minutes. Dear Effingham ! Now, 
 they can't part us. Lud ! here comes her ladyship. {Sings.) 
 
 " Tou may esteem him 
 
 ** A child for his might — 
 ** Or yoTi may deem him 
 
 " A coward for his flight "— 
 
 (Enter Lady Aubrey.) 
 Good morning to your ladyship. {SUngs.) 
 
 " But if she whom love doth honour, 
 
 " Be concealed &om the day, 
 " Set a thousand guards upon her 
 
 ** LoTe will find out the way." 
 
 Isn't that the prettiest of ballads ? 
 
 Ijody A. And it has a pretty sound, sung by a damsel on her 
 wedding day. 
 
 Marg. Wedding-day ! 
 
 Lady A. Mr. Clarendon, by his vmde, has pressed for and 
 obtained your fether's consent. — The saloon is almost prepared, 
 the chaplain is summoned, and you have now left you but an 
 hour of freedom. 
 
 Marg. Madam! I might as well .be married in a prison. So. 
 sudden and so private ! — a milkmaid would have more ceremony 
 at her wedding; 
 
 Lady A. Tou know the state of your father's health admits 
 not of the preparation which, else, might have been desired. 
 Come, child, never fret at such an accident. Tou go to take a 
 husband, and not to see a show. The happiest marriages are. 
 generally those at which simplicity and not pomp presided. 
 
 Marg. Do you think so ? No doubt. Now, you and my uncle 
 were very happy ? 
 
 Ladi/ A. We were, indeed. There are few such illustrations 
 of conjugal love. 
 
 Marg. And yet, you made no display : for you were married 
 at eight in the morning at a.little white-washed church in a vil- 
 lage in Cheshire ; and, instead of having a crowd of fine friends 
 about you, the pew-opener of foiirscore was your bridesmaid, 
 and the gtavedigger was called from his work to give you 
 away. 
 
 Lady A. What foolish tale is this? 
 
 Marg. Oh, no ! Old Susan declared 'twas all a truth. And, 
 
THE WEDDING GOWN; 145 
 
 ■whereas a bride usually leaves ihe house by the door, you, 
 shrinking from ceremony, jumped out at the window. And then, 
 for your wedding-dress — 
 
 Lady A. Well remembered; I have kept your .mUliner 
 waiting. I will send her, and soon return myself. . (Aside : — 
 This comes, "where there are young people, of keeping old 
 servants.) ' [^Exit. 
 
 .Jfafy. Married ! In an hour! No doubt, they have arranged 
 the "business very ainicably. I am to be led out or not, as it 
 shall please Mr. Clarendon to choose or leave me. But I'U repay 
 him for the slight of yesterday. To ask to see a lady, and then 
 to quit the house ! Stay, had he remained, Effingham might not 
 have seen me, might not have won me to prepare for the worst, 
 by marrying him this morning. I have but an hour before all 
 is known : it shall be an hour of rare sport. I am not the child 
 they think me — ^I am a woman now, as they shall find. 
 
 {Enter AtratrsTA, carrying a box.) 
 
 Ha ! good day. So, you have brought my gown ? 'TLs very 
 fine, I hope ? 
 
 Attg. It is, madam, as you wished it. ^Aside : An impulse 
 — a feeling I could not control has brought me here. I felt I 
 could not rest until again I learned if indeed she loved him.) 
 
 Marg. It is very handsome. I did not think I should be half 
 so well pleased with it. After aU, there's something about a 
 "Wedding gown, prettier than in any other gown in the world. 
 
 Aug. You feel happy ? 
 
 Marg. Oh yes ; I feel T shall be a very, very happy wife, > 
 
 Aug'. Andyet, yesterday you expressed a fearthat — - . 
 
 Marg. I own it — ^but 'that fear -is all over. I confess, when 
 I first saw this satin ^at Madame Mallchoses, my heart quaked 
 to hear it rustle. But now, you see, I can look at my wedding 
 dress, and smile at it. 
 
 Aug, It is «i fortunate change. ■ Then your husband, — 
 
 Marg. My husband ! Dear fellow ! he'll be the test of 
 creatures ! , , . 
 
 Aug. Ton think you shall love him ? , j, . - 
 
 Marg. Think J shall love him ! I — only I don't know if. 'tis 
 right to let him know it, but, between us lyomen, — ^I doat on 
 him. 
 
 Aug. So suddenly ? 
 
 Marg. The truth is, I loved him all along ; only I was shy, 
 and wouldn't own it. {Aside: My tongue buims to tell her the 
 ■whole sixjry ; but, no ; now I must only trust my husband.) 
 
146 THE WEDDING GOWN. 
 
 Aug. May yoiir affection meet with a retura ! 
 
 Marg, I have no fear of that. Oh, yon should hear him, you 
 should see his eyes, when he vows he loves me ! 
 
 Aug. {Aside : Can it be so I Can such hypocrisy ? — ^Poor 
 girl ! It is her own devotion that deceives her.) [Going. 
 
 Marg. You are not going ? Stay : you are not well ? 
 
 Aug. I sat up late last night — 'tis nothing more — ^I am very 
 well. Again, I wish you all happiness. May your innocent 
 nature never endure a moment's sorrow ! May you both be 
 happy ! Grod bless you, lady ! 
 
 Marg. (Detaining Aer.) Now, you shall not leave me. Sit, 
 pray, sit. I'm sure something is at your heart ? Your words, 
 your manners, though I have seen nothing" of the world, con- 
 vince me you have known a better fortune. I am young, and 
 they say, very thoughtless ; but you may trust me as a sister. 
 What has happened ? I am sure you love somebody ; and I am 
 half persuaded that this dress has made you think, perhaps 
 more than you ought, of him you love. Is it not so ? No ! 
 Why, this accuses you. 
 
 Atig. Accuses ! 
 
 Marg. Look ; you have been weeping as you worked. — 
 Stained my wedding gown with tears ! What an omen for a 
 bride J 
 
 Aztg. (Aside : I was wrong to venture here. Alas ! all my 
 strength, my self-control is gone.) 
 
 ■ Marg. When all is settled — and yon will be so surprised — 
 will you come and Uve with, us ? You shall be my fiiend, no 
 less. 
 
 ./Izi^. Impossible : iiay, it is impossible. 
 
 Marg. Yet, do not leave me. — (Aside : How I should like to 
 tell her the secret !) ' They say Tm to be married in an hour. 
 
 Aug. So soon ? (Aside : It is better that it should be so.) ' 
 
 Marg. Married in an hour. Why, here comes my husband. 
 
 Aiig. Let me begone — I beseech you let me go ! 
 
 Marg. No, no. I mean — la ! it's very foolish to mistake every 
 body for one's husband on one's wedding-day. It's only Mr. 
 Effingham, a fanuly friend. Why, how you tremble ! and you 
 look as white,— go into my room.— Nay, you must not leave 
 me; I shall want you to help me to dress. There— only a 
 minute ; I'Jl be with you directly. (Puts her into room in scene.) 
 
 Enter Effingham. 
 
 Charles ! What can bring you here ? 
 Eff. The determination to assert my right, and protect you. 
 
THE WEDDING GOWN. 147 
 
 I had scarcely reached my lodgings from the church — that 
 church, Margaret, where we became for ever one — when my 
 servant learnt from some of your father's household, that you 
 . were this daj' to be forced to a marriage with Mr. Clarendon. 
 Where then should I be, if not where I may guard my wife from 
 violence or insult ? 
 
 Marg. Dear Charles, pray be Calm — All may yet end well ; 
 but, for my sake, don't look so terrible. Hark ! isn't that Mr. 
 Clarendon's voice ? 
 
 Eff. I hope so. 
 
 Marg. He is coming here ! 
 
 Eff. I am glad of it. 'Tia full time that all should be explained. 
 And though I have no fear that his heart may suffer, — 
 
 Marg. Indeed, sir ! 
 
 Eff. His pride may, possibly, demand some answer. — He shall 
 find me ready. 
 
 Marg. "What ! you cruel, wicked creature, is this aU your 
 love, to marry me to make me a young widow ? You shall not 
 see him ! I insist on your hiding yourself. 
 
 Eff. Margaret ! 
 
 Marg. I beg you will. You'U not refuse your wife her first 
 request ? Go, and wait in — ^in my room. 
 
 J^. "lis idle. Why "defer what must be known ? 
 
 Marg. But not yet. Come, there's a dear — pray, come. 
 You'll find nothing except my milliner; — a charming, good girl. 
 
 Eff. Be it as you will. \Ooing, 
 
 Marg. Charles, you needn't quite shut the door. I mean, 
 that is, of -course, you'll like to hear what the man has to say 
 to your wife ? (Effingham goes into roo»s.) He wouldn't hide 
 himself atfirst. And she, too, shook and turned pale, when — 
 Charles ! , . , , 
 
 Enter Clarendon. 
 
 Mr. Clarendon ! 
 
 Clar. Madam, I come to petition your clemency. I have 
 wronged you. 
 
 Marg. I know your crime — it is forgiven. 
 
 Clar. Forgiven ! My imcle, then, has explained all. Charm- 
 ing, generous girl, let me bow and bless you for this mercy. 
 You forgive me ? , . 
 
 Marg. I forgive you. {Aside : I'll make my husband listen, 
 however.) I am sure you had no studied intention to offend 
 me.?, . ' „, ;,,,' ,;.-,, 
 
 CZar. As I live. ^ „ 
 
 Marg. Tm sure you hadn't. But events mav so fall out to 
 
148 THE WEDDING GOWJi 
 
 give the appearance of design to accidents wholly independent 
 of ourselves. 
 
 Clar. {Aside : How Iiave I mistaken this girl ! Her sense is 
 excellent.) 
 
 Marg. And when assured of this, to punish is not justice, but 
 hard tyranny. 
 
 Cla/r. Admirable Margaret! Tou cannot think how this 
 forbearance adorns you. Never in my eyes did you look so 
 beautiful ! 
 
 Marg. (Aside : Poor fellow ! when he knows I'm married, I 
 fear 'twill kill him.) Forbearance is a great virtue : let us both 
 study always to possess it. 
 
 Clar. Henceforth, it shall be the aim of my life. 
 Marg. I hope you will judge mercifully of my conduct ? 
 Clar. After such proofe of its "disinterestedness, I will cham- 
 pion it against the world. 
 
 Marg. This it is to act with candoui: — ^to at once avow an 
 error, trusting for pardon to the sympathy of — of friendship. 
 
 Clar. Excellent. Then you believe, Margaret, that though 
 love cannot dwell in a heart, friendship may ? 
 
 Marg. To be sure. Friendship, you know, takes less room — 
 it has no wings. 
 
 Clar. And therefore may be more constant. Well, Margaret, 
 such friendship may, must be ours. 
 
 Marg. "What ! Are' we to be only friends when we're 
 married 3 
 
 Clar. Married ! 
 
 Marg. Then our Iriendship, if her ladyship speaks the truth, 
 may begin in an hour. 
 
 Clar. Can you have mistaken the purpose of my visit ? 
 Marg. Certainly not. I confess, I complained to your uncle, 
 who ventured some excuse for you. ; I then promised my 
 forgiveness, and, of course, you came a penitent criminal to 
 receive it. 
 
 Clar. And my fault ? — 
 
 Marg. Fault ! Treason, sir, against love and good manners. 
 To ask to wait upon a lady, and when the favour is granted, to 
 leave the house — to run from her as though she was a ghost ! 
 Fault ! 
 
 Clar. I own, a gross one. Yet am I guilty of another crime, 
 that — 
 
 Marg. Another ! "What a naughty man you must be ! 
 Clar. In truth, when you shall know it, I must rather hope 
 for than expect your mercy. 
 
 Marg. Dear heart ! "Why you look as serious as Mr. Vyse in 
 
THE WEDDING GOWN. 149 
 
 the spelling-book. A crime ! Tou haven't killed my monkey ? 
 My parrot's safe ? And my beautiful china vase from Dresden, 
 — ^that's it — I see it by your colour — you have broken it to 
 atoms f 
 
 Clar. {Aside : A silly, insensible creature !) Madam, your 
 monkey is, I trust, in vigorous health ; your parrot, for all I 
 have heard, yet secure : and, for the vase from Dresden, I have 
 some old associations about the place, which would just now 
 invest the meanest thing from that city with a new interest, 
 even though unowned by the Lady Margaret. 
 
 Marg. Why, then, I can pardon anything. Now, culprit, 
 what is your offence ? 
 
 Clar. Madam — (Aside : Why hesitate with such frivolity ?) — 
 Madam, I can never marry you. 
 
 Marg. Sir ! 
 
 Clar. Distressing as the avowal is, it is necessary to prevent 
 the misery of an union, which to one of us at least, would prove 
 a bondage. 
 
 Marg. You will not marry me — you vow you wUl not ? 
 
 Clar. I cannot. 
 
 Marg. (Aside : Oh, joy !) Very well, sir ; you thought I 
 should cry at this 1 — doubtless had the vanity to believe I 
 should faint. Now, sir, look at my eyes ; and, for fainting, in all 
 my life I never had such a disposition to dance. Alack-a-day ! 
 you doom me to the willow ! You shall see I wear it as if it 
 were a May garland ! 
 
 Clar. I am rejoiced at this — delighted to perceive I am so 
 indifferent to you. 
 
 Marg. {Aside : As yet he must not think so.) Indifferent ! if 
 there be another word, sir, to express the composure, the tran- 
 quillity of this moment — I beg, sir, you wiU — wUl — {Affecting to 
 weep) — ^I'U go and tell my father J 
 
 Clar. Margaret ! — 
 
 Marg. I'll tell your uncle — I'll tell the whole world. To be 
 played with, laughed at, slighted ! I wish I was a man ! 
 
 Clar. {Aside : I wish you were !) Margaret, ere I saw you, I 
 had lost my heart. 
 
 Marg. Sir, 'twas the more hollow in you to address a lady 
 without it. * - , 
 
 Clarl I come to avow my guUt, and beg of your generous 
 nature compassion and forgiveness. Nay, Margaret, it is impos- 
 sible that you can love me so veiy, very devotedly I ' ' ■ ' 
 
 Marg. You doii't know your own merits. ; I thought I didn't 
 — ^but — but you're a wicked man. Here I believed I was to be 
 married in an hour — and here is my milliner — ^ahd here she has 
 
160 THE WEDBING GOWN. 
 
 brought my wedding-gown, made so beautifully in the fashion ; 
 and pray, sir, what is to 'become of it ? 
 
 Clem: Marry somebody else before the fashion changes. Lady 
 Margaret, you have heard my resolution ; it is unalterable. I 
 will not lengthen a scene which, painful to you, is indeed humi- 
 liating to myself. I wish you all happiness ; but, that you may 
 be happy, we must not wed. (Aside : Thank heaven ! that task 
 is over. But a last trial with my uncle, and my destiny, for good 
 pr evil, is determined.) [Exit. 
 
 Marg. Now has Cupid been playing with Fortune, and won 
 all her good gifts ! (Effingham comes from room in scene.) Oh, 
 Charles ! Mr. Clarendon has rejected me 1 Won't you fight 
 him ? Did you hear how he cast me off 1 
 
 Eff. Never was eavesdropper so vigilant. And, indeed, your 
 pretty milliner — [Augusta comes from the room. 
 
 Marg. {Aside to Effingham : Hush ! and back to your hiding- 
 place. I — I command you.) (Effingham returns into room.) 
 Ah, me ! So, after aU, I shall not want my gown ! Do you 
 know I am forsaken ? 
 
 Aug. I was an unwilling listener, madam. {Aside : There is 
 a levity in her words and looks that, I own, startles my first 
 opinion. No, she never loved him !) 
 
 Marg. Do not go. Now I recollect, I have a few words to 
 say to Mr. Effingham — I told you, a very dear friend of the 
 family — and will in a moment be with you. {Aside : No ; now 
 he need not, shall not stay.) [Exit into room in scene. 
 
 Aug. Now to quit the house. I tremble, lest I should en- 
 counter him. [Ooing. 
 
 Enter Beeswing. 
 
 Beesw. Heyday, damsel ! {Aside : So, a beautifiil lass !) 
 Why, I never saw you before 1 You are not of his lordship's 
 household 1 
 ■ Aug. No, sir. 
 
 Beesw. And what — ^nay, there's no hurry — what brought you 
 here? 
 
 Aug. I was sent for to — 
 
 Beesw. Sent for ? What's your name 1 
 
 Aug. Augusta. 
 
 Beesw. To be isure — I thought so — ^I guessed it. Augusta 
 Lubeski ? Give me a. kiss. Tut ! there's no harm, no shame to 
 kiss an old man who admired you before he saw you. 'Twas I 
 who sent for you ■; though I expected Creamly would come with 
 you. ,1 
 
 Aug. Tou, sir, sent for me 1 
 
THE WEDDING GOWN. 151 
 
 Beesw. I ! And if it hadn't been for my neptew, Ned 
 Clarendon — • 
 
 Avg. {Aside : His nephew !) 
 
 Beesw. I had found you out myself. You are a good girl — a 
 virtuous, dutiftd girL I have heard all your story. ' 
 
 Aug. My story! 
 
 Beesw. AH your sufferings, and all your goodness ; heard it 
 from somebody who loves you dearly ; aye, and from somebody 
 you dearly love — a somebody who is now in this house ; though 
 he little thinks I have sent for you here to surprise him. 
 
 Aug. Forgive me, sir, I am so bewildered — so lost in wonder 
 that I cannot think why you should wish to see me ; and yet so 
 strange an accident — 
 
 Beesw. Why ? I tell you, to delight you. I know you cau't 
 guess — for I sent strict orders to Creamly — who it is you are to 
 meet. Neither does the person whom I shall send to you dream 
 ■who he is to find. Tis my whim. Enough : as I am deter- 
 mined to make you both happy, indulge me, and let me take my 
 own way about it. Eemain a minute — only stay a minute. I'll 
 send one here who shall explain everything. {Aside : li, as I 
 think, her heart be in her face, she's altogether a rare piece of 
 heaven's work.) [Exit. 
 
 Aug. He will send some one — ^he has heard my story — ^he will 
 make both happy ! Can it be so ? If the hope — wild and 
 visionary as it is — be realised ! It is ! he comes ! — it is 
 Edward ! — 
 
 Ihiier Clarendon. , 
 
 Clar. 'Sa shiins me — ^will not speak to me. Augusta ! 
 
 Ati^. 'Clarendon r . : ; 
 
 • Cfer. What 'miracle is this — ^what unhoped-for good, in this 
 place to meet you. Now, let those who would condemn me, look 
 here and read my best defencis. Augusta, let me hope you came 
 to seek me ? ■ . 
 
 Aug. Tour uncle' wished me here ; though, in truth, I did not 
 come at his bidding. 
 
 Clar. You have seen him ? 
 
 Av^. Yes ; did he not send you here ? 
 
 Clar. Even now I met him — ^wished to speak. He would not 
 listen; but, with a motion of the hand, abruptly left me. But 
 he has seen you^ — ^has 'spoken to you 1 \.'i-':' ! : ; ' 
 
 Atig. He told m!e'lie had heard my story — said; he would sur- 
 prise me — would send some one to me who loved me. 
 • Clcur.. He saw me coming hither — ^knew we must meet. Did 
 
152 THE "WEDDING GO\TOr. 
 
 Le say nothing more ? Tell me, — every syllable. Did he give no 
 promise ? 
 
 -A-ug. He said he would make both happy — said, 'twas for such 
 ptirpose he had wished to see me. 
 
 Clar. A thousand blessings on him, the good, whimsical old 
 man ! He has but denied me to make this present joy more 
 exquisite. Augusta, there is now no bar to our felicity : I have 
 told all to the lady Margaret ; and she, as I suspected, bears her 
 loss with more than Amazonian strength. Nay, of this you shall 
 be as-sured. Then again, dear Augusta \Kneding^ I tender you 
 a faith — 
 
 Erder Lubbski. 
 
 Aug. My father ! 
 
 Clar. He ! Your father ? 
 
 Liii. Augusta, I should see my daughter. 
 
 Aug. And do, believe her — in all things — still your daughter. 
 You shall know aU, sir. 
 
 Lub. Let him speak. Now, sir. Or shall I begin the parley ? 
 You are a villain. — {To AuausTA.) Be you silent. Psha ! I have 
 seen brave, good men mown down like grass — ^have stood the 
 din and hell of battle, and this in a mighty cause ; since when, 
 it is true, I am something older, though not so old that I should . 
 shake at the bold looks of a libertine, or so weak that I should 
 need strength to chastise them. 
 
 Clar. A libertine 1 
 
 lAib. Young man, you owe a debt to the roof above yon. — ^This 
 time, my passion has respected it. 
 
 Clar. Hear me, sir ! 
 
 Luh. You see here all that a merciless despotism has left me 
 of wealth, power, and comfort : it is the only treasure saved from 
 death and wrong. — You cannot possess it; do not make it 
 worthless. 
 
 Clar. By such doubts you wrong your daughter's honour. 
 
 I/ub. I did not speak of her honour. Thirty years ago I loved 
 the self-same mind she owns — a form, but that is little, such as 
 before you. Hence, I know, you might as soon hope to sully a 
 star in heaven, as think to dim her honour. I spoke of her 
 happiness — and I warn you, faU not to respect it. 
 
 Clar. My every feeling makes such warning a religion, for 
 Hove her. 
 
 Luh. Again 1 Take counsel, sir — do not tempt me, — ^pray, do 
 not. 'Sdeath! What think you of my daughter — of me J You 
 are here a pledged man : your troth is given to another ; at the 
 altar, within this hour, you are to plight that troth, and yet dare 
 
THE WEDDING GOWN. 153 
 
 you, with the same breath, talk of love for her 1 You have 
 spoken your last word in safety — ^taken your last look-. Use ■wis- 
 dom ; and, henceforth, to her be dumb, be blind- — ^Augusta, I will 
 see you home. [^Ooinff. 
 
 Clar. Then, sir, I speak to you. Passion, a noble though 
 mistaken passion, absorbs your judgment — does me injury. 
 When first I saw your daughter, she was happy in the gifts of 
 wealth and station, I loved her — ^pray, sir, your patience — I loved 
 lier. But what was good and beautiful, ill fortune has in my 
 thoughts made almost sacred ! and now, love is mixed with 
 veneration. 
 
 Lub. Where — ^when — did you first meet 1 I spoke to her* 
 
 Aug. At Dresden, when you were — 
 
 1Mb. Well, sir ? * 
 
 Clar. I had thought "her lost, irrecoverably lost, when yesterday 
 we met ; I have acknowledged all to the lady Margaret, and she 
 releases me from every bond. My uncle — 
 
 Lvh. Eefases. I heard him. 
 
 Clar. Me he refused ; but, as it now appears, only to consent 
 to your daughter. To her he has given his promise. Speak, 
 Augusta ; let her speak. 
 
 Lvi. Did he consent to your marriage with this gentleman % 
 What were his words ? 
 
 Av^. They -were, — that he had wished for me to make both 
 happy. 
 
 Lvi. And was there no one eke to ask? When did your 
 father die, Augusta ? 
 
 Aug. Oh, sir, spare me now! All is such mystery; now, 
 I cannot speak. 
 
 Clar. Here comes my nncle. ' 
 
 Lyh. 'Leave 'me with himj—[ Augusta and Clarendon r^ire. 
 He has Shown me much kindness ; still, I have some share in my 
 daughter. Stay, let me not be sudden. Even now, he may come 
 to break the matter to me. i. , 
 
 ; , ; / >, Enter Beeswing. 
 
 Beesw. Well, master Matthew, hav'n't I surprised you ? 
 
 Lub. In truth, I am somewhat surprised. 
 
 Beesw. When I'm! 'determined to do a service, I never stop to 
 take breath half-Vray.' Hal you are a happy father ! Be robbed 
 of every penny — ^be .stript of every thread, yet "with such a 
 daughter, you're rioter than a king. ' ,.' ■ ■ 
 
 ' Lub. I have ever ' tioujglit So. Thus, my fiiend,' you must 
 not think me waywaid'or forgetful, if I pause before I consent 
 to lose her. '' '" ' 
 
154 THE WEDDING GOWN. 
 
 Beesw. Why should you lose her ? 
 
 Lvi. When she marries, — 
 
 Beesw. Why, the marriage of a loved child may, I own, seem 
 to a parent a kind of death. Yet therein a father pays but a 
 just debt. Wedlock gave him the good gift: to wedlock then 
 he owes it. Now, your Augusta, I am sure, deserves a noble 
 husband. 
 
 Lvh. When she was yet in the blossom of life, in the prodi- 
 gality of a lather's hopes, I promised from her womanhood a 
 store of goodness. With honour can I say it, hope has been 
 outdone by the fulness of reality. 
 
 Beesw. See, now, the difiference of our lots. — ^You are a rich 
 father, and I am a poor childless bachelor. You in your autumn, 
 have golden fmit, — I, little but dry chaff. 'Tis this determines 
 me to fit Ned with a wife. For I have studied the matter, and 
 am sure of it ; they who live single all their life, when they have, 
 sown their wild oats, begin to sow nettles ; whilst the married, 
 from the first, plant orchards. 1 know you are too wise to stand 
 between your child and the wishes of her heart ? 
 
 Lab. I will not hesitate. I consent to her marriage. 
 
 Beesw. What then, she has told you she has aJready.ehosen a 
 husband. 
 
 I/vib. Such communication has been made to me ; though I 
 own somewhat abruptly. I will confess, I think there might 
 have been a little more ceremony. 
 
 Beesw. But so it is ; when young -.folks are for going to 
 church, they never heed whether in a slow miarch or a gallop. 
 Then, you'll let the, girl marry ? 
 
 Lub. Be you a witness. Augusta. (Augusta comes down — 
 Clarekdon fdUowing her.) I should have known of this ; bjit 
 I will not chide you. No, Augusta ; I will ra.ther think it" was 
 your love to hide from me a passion, which could not seem but 
 hopeless. Your devotion, your filial goodness is rewarded 
 With a deep and earnest prayer for your .felicity, I give you to 
 the man of your choice — I give you to your husband. 
 
 Beesw. WTiat ! husband .' my nephew % What play are you 
 playing now ? Marry my nephew ! What juggle is this 1 
 
 CCar. Dear sir, you surely have not trifled ? No — it is im- 
 possible.. Did you not expressly send for this lady, to — 
 
 ^eesw. To be sure, — I own it. I sent for her to meet her 
 father,;not to marry you.^ , 
 
 Ltib. Augusta,' I am humiliated, and by your imprudence. 
 That my child — speak ; did you not interpret the words of this 
 gentleman as a consent to your union with his nephew ? \ , 
 
 Aug. I could not think to see you here^I could not think 
 
THE WEDDING GOWN. 155 
 
 lie spoke of my father. I have heen rash — unhappy, — a. victim 
 to the strangest events. Let us begone, sir ; father, pray come : 
 I will disclose all, but let us quit this house. 
 
 JBeesw. {To Clarendon.) This, then, is the young lady you 
 met abroad ? — ^To be sure ; I see the plan. I was to be tricked 
 into the match : the father, too, was to play a part in the farce. 
 
 Lub. Augusta, you hear to what you have reduced me 1 
 
 Beesw. 'Twas no wonder you urged so well as counsel, when 
 your son-in-law elect was your client ! 
 
 iMb. Mr. Beeswing — No, in the belief that time will clear 
 me — I will not now attempt defence. But, sir, I beseech you 
 think not so meanly of me. I am the greatest villain if I knew 
 one tittle of what accident has so strangely shown to-day. 
 
 Beesw. Accident ? No, sir ; I was to be the guU, the old 
 dupe ; 'twas a deep scheme to come into my service as clerk — 
 
 Aiu/. Clerk ! father 1— 
 
 Beesw. To wheedle my confidence — to profit by my weakness ; 
 but you have lost your pains. {Rings bell. Enter Servant.) 
 Tell Lady Aubrey to hasten the bride ; we are ready for the 
 ceremony. FU have no delay, though the scullion be brides- 
 maid. (LtJBESKi and Augusta are going.) 
 
 Clar. Stay, Augusta. {To Beeswinq.) Sir, might I pay the 
 deep debt I owe you with my life, I'd lay it down with glad- 
 ness. But you cannot ask the sacrifice of a life's peace. My 
 love was first pledged to this lady. 
 
 Beesw. Then, take her ; and with her, take — Fsha ! I'll not 
 waste my anger on such a butterfly. Take your wife, and leave 
 my sight : leave the Lady Margaret, and leave my fortune. Now 
 strike a. beggar's match ; now, father-in-law, join them. 
 
 Liib. Augusta, shall I do so ? i My. hand is ready. 
 
 Aug. I had rather your hand should close my eyes than now 
 it should join our hands. 
 
 Gla/r. Augusta ! . 
 
 LiA. {Aside : My own daughter !) , 
 
 Beesw. You refuse h^m — you will not have him — you mean this ? 
 
 Aug. Truly, solemnly. {To Beeswing.) I vow to you, sir, 
 never to receive the hand of this gentleman, unless — my father 
 too, consenting — at your hand. This I vow, and as I keep my 
 oath — 
 
 Clar. Augustal ,-; , , , 
 
 Aug. May I be judged. {To Beeswing.) i You ^riU find, sir, 
 you have wronged your clerk. Now, father, let ,us not stay. 
 
 CZar. Augusta, yet a word — .''-;'' 
 
 Lvb. Not a syllable : you have heard her.-^Before, J gave you 
 warning ; now, you have heard my daughter. 
 
156 THE WEDDING GOWN. 
 
 Enter Ladt AtrBRET. 
 
 Beesw. Quick, my lady ; we have no time. {To Lubesei.) 
 For the present, sir, fare-weU. If I find I have misunderstood 
 you, I shall be rejoiced to own it. And I allow your daughter 
 here, — 
 
 Lady A. His daughter ! The milliner his daughter ? 
 
 Beesw. -i 
 
 Lub. I Milliner '. 
 
 Clar. J 
 
 Lady A. What wonder is this ! I say, milliner. She brought 
 home the wedding-gown, I vow, there it is ! Itlargaret not yet 
 drest ! 
 
 Lvh. Milliner ! you blush. Augusta, what have I to learn ? 
 Again you redden ; speak ! 
 
 Aug. I wiU tell you all ; but, spare me, not here. 
 
 Lab. Here ! Sir — {To Beeswing.) — did you not bid her come 
 to this house ? 
 
 Beesw. I sent to Creamly to bring her here. I thought she 
 came on the invitation. But aU is such a, maze, I'll answer for 
 nothing. 
 
 Lub. Augusta, answer you. Explain every circumstance. 
 Milliner ! 
 
 Aug. It is true, sir, but for^ve me. You knew it not ; but 
 for many days, I had parted with the last shilling of our means. 
 Then, I sought employment; found it with a kind person I 
 watched from Mr. Creainly's. I was employed where this lady 
 and the Lady Margaret saw me. They bade me wait here for 
 their commands — ^I came ; and let that, the wedding-gown of the 
 bride to-day, the work of these hands, attest the truth, the plain- 
 ness of my purpose. 
 
 Clar. {Aside : It is the very rjument. Divine Augusta !) 
 
 Lui. My dear, dear child ! {To Bbeswdtg : Sir, are you 
 satisfied ?) 
 
 Beesw. No ; I am ashamed — ashamed of my mean suspicions. 
 Your child is the queen of women ; — {Aside to him : — ^but take 
 her away, lest her virtue should persuade me to injustice.) 
 
 Clar. For the last time I tell you, sir, I wiU not endure the 
 thraldom you prepare me. Though to this I were promised by 
 a thousand oaths, I want the strength to observe them. 
 
 Lui. "With the leave of these your friends, my daughter may 
 instruct you. — {Saving whispered to Beeswing.) Augusta, the 
 Lady Margaret has not yet a bridesmaid. Will you perform the 
 office 1 
 
THE WEDDINGGOWN. 157 
 
 Aug. Father, — ^I — ^wilL 
 
 Beesw. Now, sir, you are shown your duty by an angel: will 
 you meanly shrink from it ? ■ i^!;. . 
 
 [Makqaeei is brought from room hy Ladt Aubbsy. 
 
 Lady Aubrey. Margaret, we wait for you : his lordship is 
 wheeled into the saloon ; the chaplain is ready, and yet you are 
 not drest. Is this your care on your wedding-day 1 Come, then, 
 I wiU assist you. {Takes her haiid.) Come ; why, what is this — 
 your wedding-ring ! 
 
 Marg. Ha ! I forgot to take it off! 
 
 Lady A. Never mind ; be calm — ^take it off now. In a few 
 minutes, your husband will return it to its place. Why, what is 
 the matter — why will you not take it off ? 
 
 EnUr Effingham from room. 
 
 Effingham. Because her husband has already placed it on her 
 hand, and now — 
 
 AU. Husband! 
 
 Clar. Again — again ! her husband ? 
 
 Eff. Her husband, since this morning. 
 
 Beesw. More wonders ! {To Mabgaret.) It seems, then, you 
 didn't love my nepliew 1 
 
 Marg. Yes, sir, I did ; loved him so well, I always wished he 
 was my brother. 
 
 Lady A. Girl, your disobedience will kill your father. 
 
 Beesw. For once, I rejoice at disobedience. 
 
 Lady A. Indeed, sir ! Then let me rejoice that my niece has 
 at least married a gentleman ; a man of andent family. 
 
 Beesw. Well, I'm certainly of an ancient family. 
 
 Lady A. Truly ? 
 
 Beesw. Humph ! allowing the lion in your coat of arms was 
 painted from the lion in Noah's ark, what of it 1 — ^wasn't the 
 founder of my family one of the passengers 1 I respect his lord- 
 ship for what he was bom ; only let him respect me, for what I 
 have made myselfi The act of his daughter shall peril no part 
 of his estates: our bargain shall yet hold. Here {Taking deeds 
 from his pocket) are the bonds and mortgages ; — his lordship was 
 to receive them after the ceremony. Oblige me, and give them 
 to him with my compliments. 
 
 Enter Servant. 
 
 Servant. His lordship commands me to say, that everything is 
 prepared. 
 
158 THE WEDDING GOWN. 
 
 Beeswing. {To Ldbeski.) First, my fiieud, your hand and 
 forgiveness. And now, a word ; 'tis pity that the favours should 
 remain on hand. The chaplain, too, mus'n't lose his fee. What 
 say you ? All bars now put aside, shall the young folks marry } 
 You consent ? (Lubbski bows : to Augusta.) You hear, your 
 father consents. Be happy, and be sure that I, that all must 
 rejoice, that after so many crosses, so many trials, it was for 
 herself Augusta made — The Wedding Gown. 
 
 END or " THE WEDDING GOWN." 
 
CHARACTERS REPRESENTED. 
 
 Cedar . 
 
 
 . . . Mtt. TlLBUEY. 
 
 Jasper 
 
 . 
 
 . Me. Elton. 
 
 Horace Meredith 
 
 • 
 
 . . Mr. Creswick. 
 
 Nicholas ShiUi-ng 
 
 . 
 
 . Me.. Paeey. 
 
 Tom Drops . 
 
 . 
 
 . . Me. Baekett. 
 
 Jack Marigold . 
 
 . 
 
 . Mk. Smith. 
 
 Pronoun 
 
 • • • • 
 
 . . Me. Santek. 
 
 Sir Luke Meredith . 
 
 • . . 
 
 . Me. Forbes. 
 
 Hushworth . 
 
 . 
 
 . . Me. Sefton. 
 
 Howell 
 
 i 
 
 . Mr. Huckle. 
 
 Esther . 
 
 
 . . Mrs. Nisbett. 
 
 
 
 
 Phillia 
 
 
 . . Miss J. Moedackt 
 
 Scene — Hampstead. 
 
 Date—nSS. 
 
 *»* 77i«s Comedy 
 
 was represented for 
 
 the first time, at the Queen's 
 
 
 Theatre,' February 16, 1835. 
 
THE SCHOOLFELLOWS. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 — ♦ — 
 Scene L — Public Room in Belsixe House, Hampstead, 
 
 EusHwoRTH and Howell discovered. 
 
 Rush. A change, indeed ! 
 
 How. I scorn to brag, sir, but Tve done miracles. When I took 
 this tavern, the people here at Hampstead saw nothing of 
 London, but its smoke ; and now, you shaVt go down a lane 
 that you don't find lace ruffles and brocade. But then, I know 
 mankind. I've music and dancing— cards — ^an innocent cast of 
 dice — a wilderness for lovers to lose themselves in — ^horse-racing 
 and foot-runuing ; and then, to keep the peace, I've twelve tail 
 fellows, each in his day been shown for a giant. 
 
 Rush. In truth, Hampstead is your debtor. 
 
 How. And yet, sir, the envy of man ! You'll hardly believe 
 folks give all this to the Kit Cat club — a set of wits — at the 
 Upper Flask. "Wits ! Td as soon have wolves settle in a place as 
 wits ; they're always sure to spoil credit. I know mankind, sir ; 
 nothing like substantial dulness. Do you make a long stay at 
 Hampstead ? ' 
 
 Rush. No. I told you — 
 
 How. I remember. {Aside: I've lost good words, here. I 
 doubt not his purse is as hungry as his looks.) ''•[Goity. 
 
 Rush. Stay. What is the price of your best wine ? ' 
 
 How. I have port at seven shillings that will' lift you into 
 perfect bliss. - .'m' 'v 
 
 Rush, I am no drinker ; yet that I may neither h^e your 
 house-room nor a tfavour gratis — send me alDottle. (Throws a 
 
162 THE SCHOOLFELLOWS. 
 
 piece of mono/ on tcAk.) I have with patience heard all your 
 improvements of the village ; now, satisfy my question. 
 
 Sow. About old Cedar, the schoolmaster 1 He's alive of 
 course ; scholars don't die like people who enjoy life. 
 
 Hush. Yet tell me — 
 
 How. If of Master Cedar, I know no more. 'Tisn't for the land- 
 lord of Belsize-house to' meddle with a seratcher of pot-hooks 
 and a barker of Latin. There never was but one scrap of Latin 
 worth thinking of, and that's the scrap — {Taking money from 
 table) — ^they put upon the guineas. You shall have your wine, 
 sir ; ay, and if he be about, and tolerably sober, Drops shall 
 bring it to you. 
 
 Hush. Who is he 1 
 
 How. One of old Cedar's scholars ; once, well enough : but 
 now, a ragged dog. I let him — ^for I know what mankind is — 
 pick up a stray meal. (Aside: Doesn't drink wine !) A sneak 
 up that grows vrise on water ! He shall have a choice bottle, yes, 
 the black seal. [i!)4t. 
 
 Rush. I cannot think of the old man, and not feel myself a 
 worm. I thought I had courage for the trial ; but with every 
 step from Loudon, a sense of cowardice grew on me. Not a path 
 — ^not a well-remembered tree — ^but my heart sunk, humbled and 
 reproached. Guilt has fearful superstition ! As eighteen years 
 ago, aU things look outwardly the same ; but a new spirit seems 
 to dwell in them. A girl passed near me — she wore a face of 
 May — and yet, I had rather met the wicked glances of a witch. 
 That girl ! Oh, Eushworth ! how like a drunken gamester have 
 you lost your life. 
 
 {Enter Drops, toith wine.) 
 
 So — the wine. 
 
 • JProps. You may say wine, sir, yet call no names. The veritable 
 blood of the grape : for though we dwell in a sloe and black- 
 berry district, we scorn to take advantage of our fruitfulness. 
 True, as my name's Drops. 
 
 Bush. I want judgment. {Filling and giving a glass to Drops.) 
 Doubtless, you have it 1 
 
 i>rops. Tou want judgment! {Having drunk) Master Howell 
 thpugbt so. This is infamous ! Sir, I'll not deceive you— this is 
 the black seal ; 
 
 Mush. The bhtck seal 1 
 
 Drops. Beware of it— I know it. Whenever I see the black 
 seal on Master Howell's bottles, I know 'tis the mourning for the 
 departed spirit. This port wine ! why, it's— but no ; I'm too 
 
THE SCHOOLFELLOWS. 163 
 
 much of a patnot to aljuse the produce of my xrwn ccftintry. I'll 
 change it. ,■ u [Qoincf. 
 
 Rush. No; I need not wine. I want some words '-with you. 
 "Were you not scholar to Master Cedar 1 
 
 Drops. For his sake, I doubt whether I should own so much. 
 And yet, I won a silver pen, and a " Telemachus " in extra calf. 
 Of my Latin, I can't brag. I got as far as bibo, and there I've 
 stopped all my life. 
 
 liush. Were you at the school some eighteen years ago ? 
 Drops. Let me consider, — my memory — oh, yes ; on the fourth 
 form, the end next the door. I recollect how I used to creep in 
 the last, and ran out the first — ^in a scarlet jacket with round 
 buttons — ^my poor mother ! — just behind Jack Marigold and 
 Nick ShilUng. 
 
 Rush. Your memory holds, I see. 
 
 Drops. I know 'twas behind them, because Nick had lank, 
 wiry hair, and I once got disgraced for pulling it at catechism. 
 Those were the days, sir ! How I was loved at that school ! 
 But then I was full of wit, sir — full of wit. I'd shoot plum- 
 stones at our usher's red nose, and hit it six times out of eight. 
 Then, for climbing an apple-tree, or stringing birds' eggs on 
 grass, who like Tom Drops ? 
 
 R^lsh. Tou remember many of your schoolfellows t 
 Drops. Give me a clear head — ^for trouble has clouded it — and 
 rd have all the fifty before me. There's that Nick Shilling ■, 
 I see him now — a poor, money-raking whelp — ^with a face like a 
 fox. Before the other boys were up, he'd be out, hunting for 
 mushrooms to sell 'em to the market-women. He's now got his 
 father's wealth — is rich — keeps his house, here at Hampstead; 
 and yet to this day, he owes me fivepence for a fishing-rod ; we 
 never -meet but t ask him for't. ' Jack Marigold was to have 
 married Nick's sister ; but his father failed ; so poor Jack, who 
 was to have been a physician, and carried a gold cane, is now 
 little better than an apothecary, and sells penn'orths of rhubarb 
 in Barbican. For myself, I was to have gone to a wholesale 
 distiller — 
 Rush. Indeed? 
 
 Drops. Only my mother died, and so I set up on my own account. 
 I was heir to a dozen houses hereabouts, and — but all's one now, 
 
 ^I distilled them. It doesn't do to think of— and so, your 
 
 health, sir. - Si jt-i; ;, 
 
 Rush. You recollect other of your schoolfellows 1 
 Drops. To be sure. There was Horace Meredith ; he that was 
 80 fond of poor Jasper. T"'- ■' 
 
 Rush. Fond of him^fond of Jasper, you say? 
 
164 THE SCHOOLFELLOWS. 
 
 Drops. Closer ihan brothers. Poor Jasper ! he was nobody's 
 child ;■ — always left at school at the holidays — ^though once, he 
 went with Horace to his father's. 
 
 Mush. To young Meredith's &ther 1 
 
 Drops. Along with Horace. Every other time he wfis left at 
 school, — nobody came to see him — ^nobody knew who owned him 
 My mother used to call him the stray lamb. This made us all 
 Jove him: all but that Nick Shilling — and once I remember, 
 when he called him a foundling and a bastard, — 
 
 Rush. WeU ? 
 
 Drops. Jasper clenched his fist, and looked all colours with 
 rage ; when his hand fell — ^the tears poured down his cheeks — 
 and he sobbed as though his little heart stuck in his windpipe. 
 But Master Nick didn't scape ; for Horace thwacked him 
 soundly. I know it : for I held yoxing Meredith's jacket, and 
 washed his face afterwards. Poor Jasper ! He was never a lively 
 boy, but from that time he grew duller and duller — and at last— 
 
 Rush. He died? 
 
 Drops. No — ran away. 
 
 Rush. The schoolmaster, — ^took he no means to discover him ? 
 
 Drops. I suppose he did ; but Master Cedar was himself in 
 deep trouble ; for not long before, his daughter — a pure, innocent 
 thing — was cajoled from him ; and soon after she died ; people 
 say of a broken heart. Best way to keep hearts from breaking, 
 is to keep 'em wet. [Drinks. 
 
 Rush. She was lured away ? 
 
 Drops. Stolen by some rascal, and then deserted. I'm no 
 saint ; but I wouldn't wear that fellow's nightcap, though 'twas 
 made of damask. What's the matter ? 
 
 Rush. Nothing. Tell me, — 
 
 Drops. Not another word. I hate such talk — ^it takes me 
 back to other times ; brings thoughts that scorch my face, and 
 — {sniUeidy) — Why should you catechise me ? 
 
 Rmh. Enough. Will you carry a letter to Master Cedar ? 
 No : my mind is changed — I will not write. 
 
 Drops. I'm glad of it ; for I had rather meet a ghost than my 
 old master. 
 
 Rusk. Why so 1 He was ever kind, merry, and good. 
 
 Drops. And is stai — ^bless his old white head ! — ^and that's it. 
 I am ashamed to meet him. Last week, I saw him close upon 
 me, and I jumped into a dry ditch, and hid among the nettles 
 till he passed. : I^— you've nothing more to say 1 
 
 Rush. Stay : this — {Gives him money) — for yovir time. Should 
 I again need you — 
 
 Drops. Look in the tap or tkittle-ground ; — {Aside ; glancing 
 
THE SCHOOLFELXOWS. 165 
 
 at money) — for to-day this makes me gentlemail. (Is going off- 
 
 vauses — looks at wine on table — comes down.) I can't help thinking 
 of that wine. For the honour of the house, I pray, sb-, let me 
 better it. 
 
 Rush. As you will, for 'tis yours. (Aside : And now to seek 
 the old man ) [JExit. 
 
 Drops. (Looking at bottle.) A full half! Come, 'tis hard if 
 twon't change for a gill of brandy — ^yes, certainly a gill — at 
 least, a gill. [JExit. 
 
 Scene II. — The Garden, adjoining the Souse of Cedccr. View 
 of Distant Country. 
 
 Horace Meredith and Marion discovered, seated in 
 the Porch. 
 
 Hot. SmUe, Marion, smile : for a cloud on thy face is a shadow 
 to my heart. I charge thee, on thy duty as a wife — and we are 
 ten days old in wedlock — laugh me a loud laugh. 
 
 Mar. 'Twould be a hollow one. 
 
 Hor. Why, then, there's witchcraft in a ■wedding-ring, and 
 I have placed a spell about thy finger that consumes thee. 
 
 Mar. You know it is not so. Our rashness — 
 
 Sor. Yes ; rashness. We have dared to love for ourselves • 
 dared to use our own eyes^-our own affections ; have audaciously 
 taken each other at first hand, not waiting for the yea of a 
 third party. 
 
 Mar. Every one will blame us — 'twas very wrong. 
 
 Sor. Oh, ominously wrong. There are good, dull folks who'd 
 doubt of lasting love in paradise, seeing that the first match 
 wanted the consent of aunts and grand&thers. Smile, I say. 
 There ; 'tis the very look that first surprised my heart, and made 
 it thine for ever and for ever. {Embracing her. 
 
 Enter Cedar /ro»i Garden Door. Ee steps back on seeing - 
 them, and seats himself in the Porch. 
 
 Ced. (Aside: Hem! Procu,l,0 procul, este prafani f) 
 Sor. Doubt dies at thy lip — 'twould kiU despair itself. Its 
 touch is as — ((Seeing' Cedar.) My old master ! ., 
 
 Ced. Horace Meredith ! Horace Meredith ! -, ,, 
 
 Rtdet hoc^ tnquoTn, Yenus ipsa : rident'^ ' 
 Simplices npmpluB. ■ ,\.'<>i'>'^' 
 
 ' . . [Coming dovm, 
 Weli, what's to be done with ye ? How are ye to live 1 Turtles 
 
166 THE SCHOOLFELLOWS 
 
 as je are, ye can't dine off tares ; and I think 'twould puzzle ye 
 to roost in a myrtle. What will ye do 1 
 
 Hor. Anything. If my father remain inflexible, I'll give up 
 the levities of the town ; i'faith, turn Corydon, and tend sheep. 
 
 Ged. The Georgics are very pretty reading. In the meantime 
 — ^while your flocks are coming — ^how will you get a shoulder of 
 mutton ? Love has a very innocent look ; but, depend upon it, 
 Cupid is carnivorous. 
 
 Mar. Dear sir, pray advise us. . 
 
 Hor. We flew to you for instruction. 
 
 Ced. I wish your wings had borne ye to the next academy. 
 Instruction ! Is mine a school for married runaways 1 If so, I 
 sentence each to separate comers and the fool's cap. Horace, 
 was it for this I taught you reading, writing, and arithmetic — 
 Greek, Latin, French, geography, and the use of the globes ? 
 Have I deserved this ? 
 
 Hor. Yes — ^yes. You should not have won the afiection of the 
 
 boy, if you would have shunned the confiding friendship of the 
 
 man. Counsel, advise me ; I will be docile aa when I sat in 
 
 yonder room, and your every syllable was law. Come, sir ; let 
 
 - me be once again your scholar. 
 
 Mar. Take us both for scholars. 
 
 Ced. Why not apply before your education was past mending? 
 Now you are married ; and, therefore, incorrigible. 
 
 Hor. Nay, sir, give us some hope. 
 
 Ced. Well, then, I — I propose that — ^no, that won't do. I 
 — ^the truth is, you're both such forward pupils, you've quite 
 dumbfounded your master. Silly boy and girl ! how covld you 
 marry? 
 
 Hor. Why, sir, the match was made by. the old confederates 
 — love and opportunity. Our hearts fell victims to the cherry 
 season. 
 
 Ced. The cherry season ? 
 
 Hor. Sir, the proof. Many an evening had we mingled oaths 
 and sighs : Marion from her chamber-window — I from the 
 garden-walL And -thus, sir, guileless and loving, we should 
 have gone on, ay, until the day of wrinkles. 'Twas enough for 
 us, to see — ^to hear each other. 
 
 Mar. Indeed, I had no other thought. 
 
 Hor. But, sir, in a disastrous hour, the gardener left his 
 ladder at a certain cherry-tree. Well, sir, to tell you how it 
 happened, passes my wit Suffice it-^I found the ladder at 
 Marion's window, and Marion's hand,' like a i-ipe peach fast 
 
 in mine. She never looked so destroyingly lovely ^her' eyes 
 
 were never so bright — 
 
THE SCHOOLFELLOWS. 167 
 
 Mar. Horace ! 
 
 Sot. Her lips never so red — 
 
 Ced. But then, 'twas the cherry season. 
 
 Mot. Still, to run away was not to be thought of. I vow, sir, 
 as I ascended the ladder, Plato went with me every round. 
 
 Ced. And having taken you to the top, it seems he wouldn't 
 spoil company, so left you there. Plato was ever a good master 
 of the ceremonies ; just introducing people, and then politely 
 making his bow. Well, the lady came down ? 
 
 Sor. My heart beating count — and each thump louder than 
 the last — at every step. Talk of Venus rising from the sea! 
 Were I to paint a Venus, she shovdd be escaping from a cottage 
 window ; with a face, now white, now red, as the roses nodding 
 about it : an eye, like her own star ; lips, sweetening the jasmine, 
 as it clings to hold them ; a face and form in which harmonious 
 thoughts seem as vital breath !' Nothing but should speak : 
 her little hand should tell a love-tale ; nay, her very foot, 
 planted on the ladder, should utter eloquence, enough to 
 stop a hermit at his beads, and make him watchman whilst the 
 lady fled. 
 
 Ced. Horace Meredith, if you propose to publish a new mytho- 
 logy, I must say — schoobuastpr as Tam — ^your Venus is a pi-etty 
 sample of the work. Well ? 
 
 Hor. I was in a tumult of happiness — in a blissful dream^ — 
 until I was somewhat wakened by glass rattling in my ears, and 
 a piece of scarlet jumping before my eyes. 
 
 Ced. In other words — by the postchai.se windows, and the 
 postboy's jacket. You married ; and having, like two giddy 
 butterflies, capered from place to place — at ten o'clock this 
 morning, with even less money than wit, came here. Sir Luke, 
 your father — 
 
 Bor. Gives me up. 
 
 Ced. And your grandmother, your oidy relative — 
 
 Hor. Has done with me, for ever. 
 
 Ced. Humph ! you begin life with but little family incumbrance. 
 Tut ! what a problem have you set me ! That I — a teacher of 
 youth — a man of maxims — ^who would rule his conduct as a copy 
 
 book — ^who Horace, if as I always counselled, you had kept 
 
 to the mathematics, this had never happened. I ever said, you 
 wanted ballast. 
 
 Bor. At length, I myself became convinced of the deficiency, 
 and so — 
 
 Ced. You took a wife ? {Pausing) Attend to me ; you must 
 {^remain &% your tavern : though you might choose more prudently 
 than Belsize house. 
 
168 THE SCHOOLFELLOWS. 
 
 Hor. We last aight fixed on it for surer secresy. The landlord, 
 settling but lately here, was less likely to discover me. 
 
 Ced. Tour ■wife — poor little soul — shall stay here mth Esther- 
 Tour father I must take into my hands. 
 
 Sor. Stay with Esther ! — and I to remain at the inn ? — 
 
 Ced. Till called for. Silence ! I am again your master, and 
 you know my discipline. 
 
 MUer Shilung, through Porch. 
 
 Shilling. Discipline ! Hem ! A mighty fine word. Master 
 Cedar. 
 
 Cedar. Nicholas ! 
 
 Shil. Mr. Nicholas Shilling, no longer schoolboy, but a house- 
 owner — a man of bricks and laud — a man of property, sir. My 
 father lefl-^ 
 
 Ced. I can, any day, see his last testament for twelvepence, 
 but am not curious in such reading. Tour father was a rich 
 tradesman ; a tailor, whose goose brought him golden eggs ; and 
 the produce of the goose has come to you by natural descent. 
 Briefly; your father was a. plain, quiet man. Bespect his 
 memory, by imitating him. 
 
 Shil. Eespect ! I think I've shown that in his monument ; the 
 most expensive marble ; enough to have worked up — ^for only 
 last Sunday I made the calculation — ^into six chimney-pieces. 
 Eespect, sir ! when I've the stonemason's receipt for the money ; 
 no trifle, for cutting and carving, though I made him throw in 
 the comer honeysuckles for nothing. All this I should despise 
 myself to hint at. The afiair that brings me here isn't mine 
 only ; but the affair of every man, that is, every man of property, 
 in the neighbourhood. 
 
 Ced. What afiair ? 
 
 Shil. The peace of families, sir. If houses are to be no more 
 than birds' nests — girls no better than young linnets ! To be 
 sure, teachers who'd keep up their schools, may think it part oi 
 their trade to bring about marriages. 
 
 Ced. {Begtraining himsdf, and taking Marion to Porch) In 
 my child ; go you in to Esther. {Exit Mabion. To Horace.) 
 Hold your tongue. {Ooing up to Shilling.) Mr. Shilling, did 
 I ever cane you 1 
 
 Shil. Me^-who was the genius of the school ; who won nine 
 medals for arithmetic ? {Aside : for they brought me a guinea 
 as old silver.) Cane me f No, sir. 
 
 Ced. 'Twas a sad omission ; for it might perchance have spared 
 me the future trouble. 
 
THE SCHOOLFELLOWS. igg 
 
 Shu. Mr. Cedar, these are words — words sir, which any man, 
 but especially a man of property — 
 
 Ced. I was wrong. I still thought you one of my schoolboys, 
 I ask pardon ; first of your property — next of yourself. And 
 now, Mr. Shilling, your business 1 
 
 Shil. As I said, not mine alone. For when a school is made 
 a house of call for foolish couples— 
 
 Hor. (Aside: The impudent meddler !) 
 
 iShil. When a schoolmaster turns go-between — 
 
 Hor. (Aside to Cedar : Do, sir, let me throw him into the 
 road.) 
 
 Shil. When, instead of setting virtuous copies, he fosters 
 rebellion to femUy authority — then, I say — but no, T hope I've 
 said enough. 
 
 Ced. Too much, or not enough. 
 
 Sfiil. No, sir, I've done. I wish to treat you with respect. 
 
 Ced. 'Tis my wish towards you ; but pray don't make the task 
 so difficult. 
 
 Shil. It's sufficient to say, I know the whole aSa.ii. I watched 
 both here, 
 
 Ced. Indeed ! 
 
 Shil. Both my lady and the gentleman. 
 
 Hor. Yoa were well employed, sir. 
 
 Shil. No matter, sir, 'twas my pleasure. 
 
 Ced. Nicholas, I fear he who turns spy for pleasure, wouldn't 
 tickle to be hangman for business. 
 
 S/iil. Spy ! hangman ! Let me observe, schoolmaster — 
 
 Hor. (Advancing to Shillinq.) Let me observe, schoolfellow. 
 If I catch you on the scent — or know you to drop a syllable of 
 vulgar gossip — ^I'll beat you past sil former beatings. 
 
 SlUl. Beat a man for watching his own sister ! 
 
 (Jed. Tour sister ? 
 
 ShU. Sister Phillis ! I know she comes here — ^is here now ; to 
 learn botany, forsooth, of old Pronoun. 
 
 Ced. (Aside to Horace : Come, we are safe — leave us, while 
 we are so.) Go. (Exit Horace into the house.) And why 
 shouldn't Phillis study botany ? 
 
 Shil. Botany ! She doesn't know chickweed from asparagus. 
 'Tis to meet Jack Marigold, the Barbican apothecary. , . 
 
 Ced. Your old schoolfellow ; and, as you know, an honest lad. 
 
 Shil. I know — a beggar ; and for his honesty, that may only 
 serve to keep him one. A pretty prospect for^the sister of a man 
 of property. No : Phillis may marry for love, but it shall be love 
 with a cash account. Self-preservation, master ! I don't like 
 young cannibals. ': •: n 
 
170 THE SCHOOLFELLOWS. 
 
 Ced. Cannibals ! 
 
 ShU. Yes. I am not to keep single, and save money, to be 
 at last eaten alive by nephews and nieces. A rich, bachelor 
 uncle, may be a standing family dish ; but I shall not provide 
 it. Honesty ! 'tis well enough in a fable : but hav'n't I studied 
 mankind ? 
 
 Ced. Aye, Nicholas ; but I fear only as thieves study a house 
 — to take advantage of the weakest parts of it. 
 
 Shil. Why, that's the true scholarship — for see how rich it 
 makes the best professors. In brief, sir, I respect you — for you 
 taught me arithmetic, — but for sister Phillia, her thousand 
 pounds sha'n't buy physic — 'tis a bad investment. When she 
 marries, she shall have a man of land and houses — a man of 
 bricks. Talking of bricks, I have to view Juniper cottages — ^a 
 capital bargain. 
 
 Ged. Again for sale 1 
 
 Shil. Yes; Tom Drops — the sot — ^mortgaged 'em for his bottle. 
 The present owner cannot longer hold 'em ; and I hope to-mor- 
 row, they'll be part and parcel of the Shilling estate. 
 
 Ced. Poor Tom! 
 
 Shil. A barbarous hound ! T'other night, at Belsize tavern 
 — ^"twas pitdi dark — he held my horse fqr an hour. I staid, 
 on purpose to spite him. Well, when I mounted, and laugh- 
 ing at him, let him know whose lacquey he had been — the 
 savage so struck the dear creature — the bay mare that cost 
 me forty pounds — that if my riding- wasn't always wonderful, 
 I had broken my neck. That's humanity, and from a school- 
 fellow. 
 
 Ced. 'Twas a great mistake to strike the — ^horse. 
 
 Shil. There's one comfort ; I shall have his houses *- 
 every brick — while he's in straw. {Looking at his watch,) 
 I'faith !. I've overstaid my time, and I mustn't lose the lot 
 farewell, sir— farewell. (Aside: But I'U return and watch 
 my lady.) |-^^-j_ 
 
 Ced. 'Twould admit of question which was the worst ; the in- 
 temperance of the one, or the sobriety of the other. But this 
 imprudent couple ! 'Tis well it is the hoUdays, and the boys 
 away; If I can get Sir Luke here — can possess him with a liking 
 for his daughter, and after, tell all — 
 
 {Enter Esther.) 
 
 Ea, Esther ! Why, child; what has disturbed thee t 
 JEit. Disturbed, sir ? 
 
 Ced. There— while'I speak— thy colour comes and goes. What 
 is the matter, Esther 1 
 
THE SCHOOLFELLOWS. 171 
 
 JSst Nothing, sir. !_ . 
 
 Ced. Tlien hang nothing, if it makes a young' maid blush and 
 stammer. Didst come to seek me 1 ' , 
 
 Est. Someone — a gentleman — would see you. 
 
 Ced. A stranger % 
 
 Est. I never saw him till to-day. I — I was at my window, as 
 he came towards the house. Suddenly, he stopt, looking earnestly 
 at all about him. As he gazed, he smUed, and then looked sad 
 again. His^ manner fixed me where I stood. He approached 
 the gate; when, with his finger on the latch, again he 
 paused. I think, he sighed ; but at that moment, our eyes 
 met; ashamed to be so caught, I was hastening away, when 
 he quickly asked, if you were in the house — then begged to see 
 you. 
 
 Ced. A stranger ! What kind of — 
 
 Est. He is here. 
 
 [Jaspee appears at the Porch — comes doum ; Esther cwlseys to 
 _ himif and exit through Porch. 
 
 Ced, (Aside: So — young, and of likely looks.) Your pleasure, 
 sir ; or shall we talk within ? 
 
 Jits. "With your leave, here, sir. (Aside: He is but little 
 changed. How beautiful can time with goodness, make an old man 
 look !) My business, sir — (Aside : It seems but yesterday, that 
 we were face to fece !) (Th^ sit.) I would enquire of one, who 
 was once your scholar. Though years since of man's estate, 'tis 
 possible you may remember him 1 
 
 - Ced. I have been schoolmaster forty years ; did not lightly 
 take the trade, nor ever looked upon my boys as so much stock 
 to turn the penny with. No : I have ever loved them ; for child- 
 ren, sir, are sacred things. itemember! I think you can 
 scarcely speak a scholar's name, that, old as I am, he shall not — 
 I may almost say it.— stand before me. 
 
 Jas. You recollect an orphan boy — ^a friendless chUd — oh, yes 
 — ^you would remember him better than any other t 
 
 Ced. His name ? 
 
 Jos. I have a powerful wish to learn his fate — 
 
 Ced. Hisname ? 
 
 Jos. He was an oi-phan and a friendless child. ) , . 
 
 Ced. I wish I need not ask it, but — his name ? > . , •: 
 
 Jos. Jasper. I see you know the name i '• ■ ' 
 
 Ced. Poor Jasper ! StiU he should not have run from me. 
 
 Jiis. Did he so ? Surely he had no cause J: 1 i '■; 
 ■ Ced. I cannot say that — 'twould many a time.' have' eased me 
 if I could. I was harsh to the poor boy— andi he liad a spirit, 
 gentle as a girl's. I was harsh ; but he did not know my suf- 
 
172 THE SCHOOLFELLOWS. 
 
 ferings. He left me, and I heard no "word of him. 'Tis seven- 
 teen years, last falL I remember the very night. I had planted 
 that vine, then the merest twig — 
 
 Jos. And now, a glorious tree. It'is become a thing of beauty 
 to the wall that first sustained it, teaching a lesson, sir, I would 
 we all did follow. How hung with fruit ! Seventeen years ! 
 Yet there's scarce a bunch but doth, I fear reproach me with my 
 barrenness. 
 
 Cei. You! 
 
 Jas. {Kneeling to him.) Master, forgive your truant school- 
 boy ! 
 
 Ced. What ! No — do not speak. {Having gazed intently at 
 him.) He is alive ! I thank God ! he is alive ! [Sinks in chair. 
 
 Jas. Can you forgive me ? 
 
 Ced. My poor Jasper! Forgive! I — ^but I, cannot speak 
 yet. Thou wert the meekest boy — and I was severe and way- 
 ward — I say, I was. I knew .it when you left me. I sought 
 you — tried every means to find you — all was vain. I was 
 punished ; you do not know the horrid thoughts that beset 
 my pillow, when I pictured you, a helpless infant in the world — 
 a strayed lamb, wandering near the wolves. No parent — ^no 
 friend — 
 
 Jas. Oh, say, who were my parents 1 That has been — is 
 the question of my life. It perplexed my childhood — sent 
 me, at eight years' old, a baby pilgrim from your roof The 
 voice that spoke to me in yonder school-room has never yet 
 been hushed ; it cried loudly within me when I fled from you ; 
 still, went with me : on the dreary sea, in storms and darlmess, 
 I have heard it ; in crowded cities it hath made me lonely — 
 in the fulness of fortune it hath kept me poor. I left your 
 door, a friendless beggar boy — ^I have endured afflictions, but 
 have known kindness — gathered competence. Still, poorer 
 than I left, I now return — ^that mystery unexplained — ^that 
 wearying riddle of my life — ^that torturing enigma — ^who were 
 my parents 1 
 
 Ced. Jasper ! 
 
 Jas. That mystery clouded my childhood — darkened the 
 days of infancy with the shadows of too early thought. Doubts, 
 and fears, and haggard wonderings, that waylay manhood, met 
 me when a boy. I have seen my happy schoolfellows leave for 
 their happy homes. I have watched them, one by one, de- 
 part, some fast in a parent's hand, but all to meet a parent's 
 touch. I have watched the last away — then gone into the 
 school-room ; its solitude has &llen like death on my young 
 heart Then I have felt myself a lonely, unclaimed thing — 
 
THE SCHOOLFELLOWS. 173 
 
 have asked aud asked with, tears of bitterness, " who were my 
 parents ? " 
 
 Ced. Thou wert ever a kindly, feeling lad. 
 
 Jos. Still I wait the answer. After seventeen years x)f 
 changeful life, am come to seek it. What the poor boy wept 
 to learn, the prosperous man now bleeds to know. I have 
 found fortune a generous foster-mother ; yet all her wealth I'd 
 give, and think it dust, to know of her who bore me. 
 
 Ced. Esther! 
 
 Jos. Nay, sh", you must — you will tell me. My father 
 too — 
 
 Ced. Esther! 
 
 Enter Esther. 
 
 Esther. Dear sir I Was't you, indeed who called ? 
 
 Ced. {Aside : I shall betray myself to stay.) Esther, entertain 
 this gentleman, my old scholar, until — {Aside to Jasper : All 
 I know, you shall know.) Bless you, Esther ! [Going. 
 
 Jos. And your truant, sir — is he forgiven ? 
 
 Ced. Yes ; bless you, Jasper. There ! {Puts EsTfiER's hand 
 inthehcmdofjASTSn.) Esther wiE bring you in. {Aside : Merdiful 
 heaven !) [Exit into house. 
 
 J^as. {Aside : How few the minutes since our eyes first met. 
 yet are my senses spell-bound by her presence. Her looks 
 seem to carry peace into my heart ; it is to feel new life to 
 Jx)uch her.) 
 
 Est. Sir,— 
 
 Jos. {Aside : May it be ? Have I, like the prodigal, been 
 lavish in strange lands, only to find the dearest joy at home 1 
 Home ! the word makes me again an alien, Not so ; for the 
 first time, I feel that I may find, or make a home.) 
 
 Est. Sir— 
 
 Jos. Lady — madam — nay, let me seize the privilege of friend, 
 and call you Esther. 
 
 Est. Are we not looked for, sir, within ? 
 
 Jos. I have been a wanderer ; unused to my country's manners 
 — ^to her speech. If — ^as 'tis probable — ^my bearing need amend- 
 ment, I fein would leam such truth of you. From your lips, the 
 gentlest words must fall like oracles. 
 
 Est. We are forgetting jnaster Cedar, and, indeed, he seemed 
 perplexed, unwell. I never heard him call my name as to-day 
 he called it ! and I too owe him so large a debt. , 
 
 Jds. All who know, must love him. 
 
 Est. All J but I think, my love should be deeper than even 
 
174 THE SCHOOLFELLOWS. 
 
 the love of child to father ; for I ain the child of his compassion, 
 not of his blood. I never knew my parents ; mine is the 
 orphan's love. 
 Jas. .kn. orphan ! 
 
 Est. A love, which gratitude mast make religion. 
 Jas. Dear Esther — yes, dear Esther— for the word thrills 
 from my heart, and must be said. A sympathy, subtle as death, 
 is working in my being, altering you. Even as I gaze, you seem 
 changing to something I have seen in dreams, but not the dreams, 
 of sleep. Do not think this idle. I swear 'tia true ; swear it on 
 what must render falsehood the vilest perjury — on what should 
 fix with awe the boldest libertine — on the pure hand of an 
 orphan maiden. [Phillis runs in, through Porch. 
 
 Phil. Esther ! (Seeing Jasper.) Lud-a-mercy ! I wouldn't 
 spoil company, 
 Est. Phillis ! 
 
 Phil. You haven't seen my ■wicked brother t I vow I'd 
 rather been kin to a Turk, than that Nicholas Shilling. 
 
 Jas. Nicholas ! my old schoolfellow ! lives he atUl in the 
 neighbourhood ? 
 
 Phil. Yes, sir ; and though I shouldn't wish him much harm, 
 yet I do wish he -was made king of the Indies. (To Esther.) 
 Vou can't think how he uses me. I have neither eyes, tongue, 
 nor feet ; at least, I might as well have none, since I'm denied 
 free use of them. 
 
 Est. It is his love for you, Phillis. 
 
 Phil. That's his cry — brotherly affection : when he teazes me 
 so, that I might as well have a husband at once. Then he's so 
 suspicious. He'd search a 'pincushion for treason, and see daggbrs 
 in a needle-case. 
 
 Jas. And is he thrifty as when a boy ? 
 
 Phil. Thrifty ! Sir, he grudges my canary his sugar ; and, as 
 I told him yesterday, counts out graius of barley to "his horse by 
 tens. It's enough to break a sister's heart, to say these things 
 of a brother. And then, Esther, to hear how he slanders dear 
 Mr. Marigold ! 
 
 Jas. What! John? I remember, he was the" frankest, best- 
 tempered l3oy. 
 
 Phil. And you can't think how time has improved him. And 
 when there were hopes of his being physician, and keeping a 
 coach, brother said he was so clever: but now, Nicholas sneers 
 at him, and' only because he deals in physic on foot. I once 
 thought I was to be married to John himself; now it seems 
 'twas only to his carriage and horses. 
 
 Est. (To Jasper.) Does not Master Cedar wait for us 
 
THE SCHOOLTELLO-WS. 175 
 
 Phil. I'd forgot. What has happened to the dear old 
 man? 
 
 Est. Happened ! 
 
 Phil. 1 had run upstairs to seek yon — {Aside to Esther.) in 
 truth, to get you to watch, for John's here — when I met our dear 
 master. I could almost vow he had been shedding tears ; and 
 then, he never noticed me, but, without a word, went into his 
 room, then locked the door. 
 
 Est. Nay, he is well — ^very well. {Coming down wUh Jasper.) 
 Tell me, sir — ^pray teU me, what this visit threatens ? 
 
 Jas. Threatens ! 
 
 Est. I am sure, some evil ; it cannot be otherwise. 
 
 Jos. Cannot ! Am I then so luckless, so marked by fate, that 
 after weary exUe I must bring back sorrow-to my early home 3 
 If so, would my bones were deep in savage earth ; nay, would 1 
 had sunk in sight of land — in sight of that dear England, which 
 with a son's affection I have hungered for ! Believe it, I know 
 the true worth of existence ; and do not weigh a young man's 
 life against an old and good man's quiet. 
 
 Est. He is ever so happy — so tranquil ; with cheerfulness 
 enough to make youth welcome age. And to-day so changed ! 
 Is it not some mystery — some dreadful secret — I do not seek to 
 know it — ^that has brought you hither ? 
 
 Jos. There is a secret 
 
 Est. I knew it — ^my heart foreboded it. 
 
 Jos. But forebodes not evil % Say not so, sweet Esther, for 
 his, for my sake, say not so. Come, let us find him. {They are 
 ^oing off, when Jasper pauses^ Yet a moment .; • is not that old 
 man? — yes, it is the old usher — ^in all things still the same. I 
 seem a boy again, 
 
 [Exeunt Jabebe and Estheb, at the Porch. 
 
 Enter PEONOtra and Marigold. 
 
 Mar. Sir, sir, will you miss such weather 1 I declare, toOj 
 here's Phillis. Nay, then, we can all go. 
 
 Phil. Gro— where, Mr. Marigold } 
 
 Mar. To herborise— to take a lesson of Master -Pronoun. 
 Indeed, sir, you 'must confirm my opinion : 'tis but a few 
 minutes' walk to the place ; and you will see I have discovered 
 the muscus trichoides foliis capiUaceis capitulis minoribus. 
 
 Pro. It can hardly be. " 
 
 Mar. True, sir ; on the reputation of — of an apothecary. 
 
 Pro. Ugh ! If it wasn't for my rheumatism — 
 
 o 2 
 
176 THE SCHOOLFELLOWS. 
 
 PhU. Well, LIr. Marigold and I can go find it, whilst you sit 
 and wait for us. 
 
 Pro. Humph ! If now this musais should turn out another vinca 
 minor .' Do you forget last Saturday three weeks ? You had 
 discovered in Belsize-lane the vinca minor, or lesser perriwinkle ; 
 I doubted : you left me to gather it. After two hours I fol- 
 lowed. I found you seated, chatting under a weeping willow — a 
 salix babulonica — and when I asked where was the perriwinkle 
 — ^you, fhillis Shilling, like a silly chUd, showed me a paris 
 qiiadrifolia ; or what the vulgar call true-love. After my 
 lessons, not to know a perriwinkle from a true-love ! 
 
 Mar. Call me for ever dunce, if this time I am wrong. 
 
 Pro. But a few minutes, you say 1 Well, give me your arm — 
 yours, PhUlis — and though I doubt if it be — [ Tliet/ are going off. 
 
 Enter Nichoi-as, at the Porch. 
 
 Shil. So, madam PhUlis ! Tou'U scarce deny it now ? 
 
 Phil. Deny? 
 
 Shil. You'll not deny that this is Jack Marigold ? 
 
 Phil. La, Nick, 'twould break my heart to deny it. 
 
 Shil. And you've stolen here to meet a beggar, that — 
 
 Mar. Nicholas, for your sister's sake — in respect, too, of our 
 old acquaintance — fair words. I would not beat an old school- 
 fellow. 
 
 Shil. Beat ! Do you question the effect of my courage ? 
 
 Mar. On the contrary. I think no man makes so little go so 
 far. 
 
 Shil. More, sir. For if my courage fails, I can always help it 
 out with contempt, sir — with contempt. Spendthrifts and 
 beggars may cut throats, but the world can't spare men of 
 property. {To Phillis.) And now, madam, I'U see you home. 
 . Phil. I tell you, I'm going with Mr. Pronoun, to take a lesson 
 — to — ^to herborise and botanise, and — 
 
 Pro. It is true, Nicholas — it is true. 
 
 Shil. {To Pkonoun.) And is it this way you seduce youth 
 
 taking people into gardens and fields, and christening thino^ 
 with outlandish titles ? And what for ? Can sister make better 
 sauce for knowing onions in the latin ? No ; then, that for your 
 botany ! So, come home. 
 
 PhU. I tell you, Nick, I won't— I— [Avoiding him. 
 
 Enter Drops, intoxicated, from Porch. Comes between Phillis 
 and Nicholas. 
 
 ShU. Tom Drops 1 What brings you here, sot ? 
 
THE SCHOOLFELLOWS. 177 
 
 Drops. Business brings me here. Sot! Pay me tlie fivepence 
 you owe me. (To Marigold.) Ha, schoolfellow ! (Bowing to 
 PRONOtTN.) Master Pronoun, Pm your servant. 
 
 Pro. Fie, Tom !— fie ! 
 
 Drops. Well, I have taken a bottle to-day — I own it. (To 
 Nicholas.) What do you stare at 1 You havVt spirit to do as 
 much. And yet, I lie. I recollect you once treated the neigh- 
 bourhood to bottles all round. 
 
 ShU. 1 ! I defy you. How — when ? 
 
 Drops. How and when ? Why, you cracked the bottles first, 
 and stuck 'em on your garden wall afterwards. ^ Where's 
 master ? I have a letter for him. 
 
 Pro. Do not see him now, Thomas ; he will scold you, be sure 
 of it. 
 
 Drops. Bless him ! his advice does me such good. "Thomas 
 Drops " — ^he says to me — " Thomas Drops ; many have been 
 killed by the steel, but more by the glass." I never forgot that 
 — never ! (Feeling his pockets.) Where is the letter ! Pll see 
 him myself — I have the letter. Such an odd man ! First he 
 would write — then he wouldn't — then he would — and, yes, the 
 letter — ^is — ^the letter is — 
 
 Shil. Lost ? 
 
 Drops. A jug of ale it's in the skittle-ground! (Aside, and 
 going.) They've picked my pocket to make me treat 'em — I'll 
 be of^ and — 
 
 [It going off at Porch, when he is met by Cedar, who is followed by 
 Esther and Jasper. 
 
 Ged. (To Drops.) How is this ? Again, Thomas ? Leave my 
 sight — go. [Drops stands, confused. 
 
 Shil. (To Cedar.) And now, sir, you see Pve proof! Here 
 they are — ^here is Phillis — ^here your usher — ^here — 
 
 Ced. (To Drops.) Thomas, go and hide yourselt (Drops 
 dinks off at Porch.) Nicholas, here, take your sister. (Gives 
 Phillis to Nicholas ; fhey go off at Porch.) Mr. Pronoun, 
 do you take charge of John. (Pronoun and Marigold go off at 
 Porch.) Esther, chUd. (Takes her hand.) Jasper, your arm 
 for your old schoolmaster. 
 
 l^xit Cedar, leaning on ilie arm o/ Jasper, through Porch. 
 
178 THE SCHOOLFELLOWa 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 — t — 
 
 Scene. — The Schoolroom. 
 
 Jaspee discovered. 
 
 Jasper. There is a spirit in the places of our youth ! It 
 works, and we lose years ; it steals upon us, and again we think 
 the thoughts, and seem to breathe the breath of childhood. How 
 have I elbowed through the world ! — what strange things seen, 
 — what changes known ! Yet could I gaze on these old walls; 
 until I almost doubced I had ever quitted them^ Why, I can see 
 myself a youngster, at. that desk j I can fill the forms witi 
 schoolfellows but now remembered by the places where they 
 sat. 
 
 Enter Hoeacb Meeedith. 
 
 Hor. Jasper ! what — ^in gloom ? Surely, the usher hath set 
 thee a task, while ail Ijesides are out at play. 
 
 Jos. Fate has- set me a task, Horace — fete. Let me master 
 tJiat, and you shali see- me^ play with the merriest. 
 
 Hor. How opposite our situations ! You, hoping all things 
 should • you know your father ; I, hoping nothing, because I do 
 know mine. 
 
 Jds. You are unjust to him : he will forgive yon. 
 
 Hor. You know not Sir Luke. His one antipathy is a ruu' 
 away match.. With him 'tis as great an oflfenee to steal a 
 'woman's heart, as to rob the mail. No ; there's nothing left me 
 but a musket or a. spade. 
 
 Jas. ISTay, I have heard of Hounslow. Wliat think you, 
 Horace, of a blood mare, black crape, and pistob ? 
 . Hor. Not yet ; I am newly-married, and bound to keep good 
 hours. In. due time, the highway may come as a resource. 
 What a villain am I for that poor jest! No — I am rich, rich 
 in my -wife; and, for my last piece of gold, when that is 
 gone — 
 
 Jas. Matrimony should teach prudence'; before 'tis gone, 
 secure a fresh supply. [Offers purse. 
 
 Hor. Jasper ! 
 
 Jas. Eefase an old and new-found schoolfellow 1 Horace, 
 there is a miscalled pride, in my mind so near akin to selfish- 
 ness, I caimot choose between. If the man I love, refuse my aid, 
 
THE SCHOOLFELLOWS. 179 
 
 I need must think 'tis that when my turn shall come, I may 
 expect no aid from him. This passes for pride ; I call it calcu- 
 lation. Will you take it ? 
 
 Hot. Tou misunderstood — I — 
 
 Jos. {TcJcing him, to side, and pointing to the wainscot^ Horace, 
 do you see those marks— deep as though engraven yesterday 1 
 They are Our initials. We were children when, with our knives 
 we cut them, each scoring the letters of the other's name, and 
 thus registering a boyish fondness, we did never, 'till the hour 
 of parting, talk of. The oak has faithfully preserved the simple 
 pledge ; but not more faithfully than iny heairt^ the love that did 
 dictate it 
 
 Hor. I know it — I am sure of it. 
 
 Jas. You were my first confidant : shrinking from all others, 
 my friendship took the firmer grasp of you. I felt myself a 
 trodden way-side weed, and you — ^though two years my junior — 
 with the fine instinct of a generous nature, pressed your kindness 
 on me ; humoured me ; went wandering with me ; nay, weU I 
 remember,- fought for me. 
 
 Hor. Tou have a curious memory. 
 
 Jas. That I have never forgotten : a boy called me — but the 
 words strengthened my timid resolution — he called me, found- 
 ling — ^bastard ! 
 
 Hor. Why, Jasper ? 
 
 Jas. Again and again those words, in the self-same tone have 
 thrilled me ; like poisonous snakes they stung me ; nor years, 
 nor changing scenes, have drawn the venom out. 
 
 Hor. Jasper, — 
 
 Ja^. There have been times, I did not hope to see my boy- 
 champion— my first friend, again. Times, ■ too, when in my 
 fancy — ^the scene struck into my mind by the bell of the desert 
 camel — we have taken oiir old stroll towards Kilbum, down by 
 the sheep walk. Biit to meet you, Hoi-ace — ^and in this place to 
 grasp your hand — filla up my heart to overflowing. 
 
 Hor. At a happy Juncture have we met. I will take your 
 gold, Jasper, when— I need it. 
 
 Jas. Take a hundred times the'amount, I should-not miss 
 it. At our hurried meeting, I briefly told you, fortune had 
 been prodigal. ' ■'. 
 
 {Enter Swixi.i;ng ; steps ha<;k.on s^ngth^,) 
 
 I have wealth. As. stout a ship as ever floated, with a rich 
 cargo, safe in an English dock, owns me third part master. 
 SkU. {Aside : As I live, he's become a man' of property.) 
 Jas. Let me find those whose right it is to share it, — 
 
180 THE SCHOOLFELLOWS. 
 
 Hor. Or &ilmg, why not give a right ? After so long wander- 
 ing, seek for peace at home ; east your fortune in the lap of 
 some fiiir English wife — a, wife who'll make your house a temple, 
 and the world a garden. You smile, as though my picture 
 pleased you J 
 
 Shil. {Aside : What a chance for Phillis !) 
 
 Jos. To a worn rover the picture has its temptations. Shall 
 I confess, Horace, I have already — {Seeing Shilling.) — Sir ! 
 
 iShil. I — ^I came to look for PhUlia '; you know sister Phillis 1 
 
 Jets. No, sir. 
 
 Shil. You must know her. Why, she was short-coated the 
 very week you ran away. Beautiful, isn't she, Horace ? More- 
 over, she has a thousand pounds. 
 
 Ja^. Well, sir ? 
 
 Shil. Don't say sir ; 'tis like pelting an old friend with 
 snow-balls. A thousand pounds, and every penny out at 
 nurse. {They turn from, him,.) I wonder what he's made of? 
 That cargo ! Humph ! According to the present markets, if 
 he's pitch and tar, he's a husband for a queen ; if .raw hides, . 
 any woman should jump at him: but suppose he's tallow and 
 hemp ? — ^weU, as times go, tallow and hemp don't make a bad 
 match. 
 
 Sor. {Aside to Jasper : Play with him ; it may serve Jack 
 Marigold.) 
 
 Jas. A thousand pounds — eh, schoolfellow ? 
 
 Shil. Every doit ; and guineas should go with guineas ; 'tis 
 nature ; and, depend on't, nature is sometimes to be trusted. As 
 I tell PhUlis, goldfinches ar'n't such fools to pair off to live in 
 mud with martins. Talking of pairing — {To Horace) — that 
 Marion—- on a visit here to Esther — she's rather pretty 1 
 
 Hot. You like her ? 
 
 Skil. Why, I — has she any property ? 
 
 J(is. Pve heard she has. She's an heiress. 
 
 ShU. Beautiful creature ! 
 
 Jax. Her father is the greatest sheep breeder in the island. 
 
 ShU. And wool's going up. She's lovely ! 
 
 Hot. In her county, she's called the golden fleece. 
 
 J<m. Then her father's forest trees — such oak ! 
 
 ShU. And we must look to our navy. {To Horace.) Intro- 
 duce me. 
 
 Jas. The estate was doubled two years since, by the discovery 
 of a rich tin mine, 
 
 ShU. A tin mine ! — she's an angel ! The truth is, school- 
 fellow, I begin to tire of bachelor life ; and as I know some- 
 thing of wool and wood — in fact, have some timber myself, I 
 
THE SCHOOLFELLOWS. 181 
 
 sold a bit yesterday, — if marriage could be made worth my 
 while ; not that I'd wed a woman for her tin alone. I'm not 
 selfish. 
 
 Hot. Certainly not. For the balance must be in any lady's 
 "favour, who married you for only your wood. Hush ! here 
 comes the heiress. 
 
 Enter Phillis and Mabion. 
 
 Jasper. Madam {Introducing Shilling to Marion), suffer me 
 to make known Mr. Nicholas Shilling ; a gentleman who unites 
 to the highest morals the profoundest arithmetic. He is a 
 tender relative — a prudent friend — and an inimitable worker of 
 compound interest. 
 
 StiU. {Aside to Jasper: That's handsome.) {Introducing 
 Phit.t.ts to Jasper.) Schoolfellow, my sister Phillis. A girl in 
 aU respects worthy of her brother. I may say, she has a 
 thousand good qualities, and all disposed of to the best 
 advantage. 
 
 Hor. {Aside to Marion : Listen to him — aid us for a time to 
 laugh at him.) 
 
 ShU. {Aside to Phillis : He's rich — from the Indies. He this 
 moment showed me fifty pearls as big as eggs. " Ogle him, you 
 may get a necklace.) 
 
 PhU. I ! Ogle ? 
 
 Shil. Pshaw ! I've seen you do it thousands of V.mes. Ha, 
 Jasper ! how you must rejoice, once more to meet your old 
 schoolfellows ! But I always said so ; I always prophesied that 
 you'd come back, the owner of a rich ship — a ship laden with 
 — ^with — 
 
 Hor. Cotton and sugar 3 
 
 Shil, There, ' PhiUis ; I was right. I foretold, cotton and 
 sugar. 
 
 Jas. Then, friend Nicholas, you were a false prophet : niy 
 ship bears no such freight. Her cargo is — 
 
 Shil. Logwood 1 — spice \ — ^tallow J No ! — then, what is it i 
 
 Jas. {Aside ; with affected mystery : A secret.) 
 
 {Enter Esther.) 
 Esther ! 
 , Shil. {Aside to Phillis : Gold-dust and ivory. Would you 
 refuse a rich husband with elephants' teeth?) But, schoolfellow, 
 'though you may get gold and ivory abroad, England is the place 
 for your wife. 
 
 Jas. I feel so. u 
 
182 
 
 THE SCHOOLFELLOWS. 
 
 Shil. {Aside to Phillis : You hear 1 And as for a long court- 
 ship — ^why, a fire will oftener bum more briskly in a second, than 
 if you took an hour to kindle it.) (To Marion : What say you, 
 madam 1) 
 
 Mar. Indeed, sir, there are hearts on which an instant spark 
 may faU, and — 
 
 Phil. Yes, Nick, and there are hearts that 'tis no matter what 
 spark falls, for like green faggots, they only put it out. 
 
 Shil. Phillis ! (To Marion : Eight, madam ; right.) (Aside : 
 ■This will be a double marriage ; yes, I may say, I am lightiug 
 the torch of Hymen at both ends.) 
 
 Hor. What say you, Esther, to this sudden love 1 
 
 Jos. (Aside : She reddens — ^her heart is in her face. Can such 
 joy be promised me ?) Aye, what says Esther ? 
 
 Est. I pray you, ask of wiser, older hearts. 
 
 Jas. You have not conned the question t Must we wait some 
 half-score years, then ask again ? You do not deem all sudden 
 love Ulusion ? 
 
 Est. Not all. 
 
 Jas. No : you could not so betray your woman's judgment 1 
 
 Est. Yet accident ,may so deceive ! AVTiat we deem assured 
 love, may prove the phantom of mere circumstance. I have 
 read a story of a child, who, in a summer's night, snatched at 
 a glow-worm, thinking it a gem. In the morning, he looked to 
 find a jewel, and then discovered he had shut up but a worm. 
 May not sudden love be sometimes such 1 
 
 Shil. Eie, Esther ! discourage my old ftiend Jasper ? XAside 
 to her : You wouldn't stand in the way of a good match ! Yon 
 wouldn't ruin a young man's peace !) 
 
 Est. Sir ! 
 
 Shil. (Aside to her: I tell you, he's inad in love ; and PhiUis is 
 little better. You may look ; but I would you'd^just now heard 
 him sigh, and seen him squeeze her fingers.) But, ladies, you are 
 for a walk. Jasper, look to Phillis : friend Horace, take care of 
 Esther ; I reserve myself to show Hampstead to Marion. (To 
 her: If you are a judge of sheep — and I know what a flefece is 
 — or if you admire trees, or — ) 
 
 Enter Deops, carrying an axe. 
 
 Drops. Trees ! Nict Shilling, don't talk of trees. You deserve 
 yourself to be turned into an aspen ; for your heart's as white aa 
 its leaves. 
 
 Shil. Sirrah! 
 
THE SCHOOLFELLOWS. 183 
 
 Drops. Pooh ! you may blow your cheeks into a football ; and 
 then I care for 'em just as much. 
 
 Jos. {Aside to Horace : Poor Thomas ! . Is it he, indeed ?) 
 {To Deops : Do you not remember an old friend V) 
 
 Drops. No ; for I wish to be even with old friends ; and old 
 friends have forgotten me. 
 
 Shil. You have forgotten yourself in your drink. , 
 
 Drops. If drink will do as much for you, take to the bottle, 
 to-morrow. Nicholas Shilling, you have a fine house — ^fine 
 clothes — and plenty of money. I hav'n't so much as a lath- 
 not a second suit of rags — ^not a single tester ; and yet is vaga- 
 bond Tom richer than gentleman Nick. 
 
 PhU. Why, Thomas, what can have happened ? 
 
 Drops. Bless your kind eyes ! I was going to your house — 
 
 Shil What for ? 
 
 Drops. What's that to you ? PhiUis, — who planted the walnut- 
 tree by the garden gate ? 
 
 Phil. Grandfather ; didn't he, Nicholas, years before father 
 was bom ? 
 
 Drops. To be surej and many a time have all of us here — no, 
 I don't know for that gentleman — ^hung swings to it in the 
 holidays. Well, just now, I got into the garden, and there was 
 Bill Logs — he didn't see me — with this in his fist, looking at the 
 tree. I thought he was mad, for he lifted up the axe, and was 
 going to work, when I caught him by the arm, and twisted this 
 ugly bit of iron out of his hand. 
 
 Phil. Wha.t ! cut down grandfather's tree ? 
 
 Shil. Why not % I have sold it. 
 
 Pha. Nicholas I sold it ! 
 
 Shil. I should like to know what trees grow for, but to be 
 sold 1 . ■ ■ 
 
 Jos. Nay, but such a tree ? 
 
 Drops. 'BiW said, you'd sold it; but as I found you'd come 
 here, I thought I'd hear it from yourself. Why, Nick, how 
 many autumns have your grandfather and father,, vith all us 
 children, sat and played under that tree — and run and sci^imbled 
 for the nuts, and— no, damn it, Nick, you hav'n't sold that tree ' 
 
 Shil. Why not that ? Isn't a tree a tree all the world over? 
 
 Drops. No it isn't. I tell you, Nick, go and look at the old 
 walnut again, and my life for't, you'll see youf fatjier's face 
 frowning upon you from among the branches. ' 
 . Shil. Pahaw ! Walnut's at. a premium ; soldiers must have 
 'arms. I've sold the tree to a guninaker — sold it for musket- 
 stocks. 
 
 Phil.. Then you're a hard-hearted, avaricious — 
 
184 THE SCHOOLFELLOWS. 
 
 Shil. Jnst like all -womeii : they don't understand true 
 patriotism. 
 
 Hor. Patriotism ! 
 
 SkU. YeSj sir, patriotism. I have made two hundred pounds 
 by that tree. And for you — {To Deops.) — if again you enter 
 my garden, I'll fix you for trespass. Gto, and take the axe to — 
 
 Drops. Not I. Since j'ou've passed sentence, carry the axe 
 yourself. There — {Forcing the axe into his hand.) — now you look 
 an executioner complete, now — 
 
 {Enter Cedar.) 
 Master ! 
 
 Ced. Why, Nicholas — what's this ? Art turned woodman ? 
 
 Drops. No, master ; not woodman, but butcher. He's going 
 to chop up the old tree into gun-stocks. {Aside and giving a 
 letter to Phillis : Prom Jack Marigold.) That tree, master, at 
 the garden-gate. But I've cleared my conscience. All I wish 
 is, that when the musk^s were finished, it was lawful to give 
 Nick the first crack of his own walnut. \Exit. 
 
 Ced. Walnut I ( Taking axe from Shilling.) And is this to 
 cut down your green old grandfather ? 
 
 Shil. My grandfather ? Not I. 
 
 Ced. It is, to fell that tree — for it should serve thee as his 
 image. Its shadow and its fruit should i-emind thee of his care, 
 and of the plenty he bequeathed thea There's not a leaf but 
 to thy mind should live with kindly thoughts. A tree, planted 
 by a parent gone, doth seem to have its roots within his grave : 
 to strike the one, doth almost seem to violate the other. 
 
 Shil. Sir, I trust I am above vulgar superstition. But since, — 
 
 Ced. Ay, ay, thou'lt think no more of it. I see, thou'lt cut 
 no twig of it ; but preserve it for thine own old age — ^for thy 
 children. 
 
 ShU. I had forgotten the children. Well, Marion, as a favour 
 to you, — 
 
 Hot. {Aside to Jasper : Ha, ha ! the coxcomb.) 
 
 ShU. The tree shall flourish for the children. {Aside : That's 
 a hint.) Come, and see me dismiss the wood-cutter. 
 
 Ced, Esther cannot spare her. Phillis will witness your bgtter 
 resolution. {Aside to her : See, and help him to it.) 
 
 Phil. That 1 wUL {Aside : How my fingers bum to break 
 John's letter.) 
 
 ShU. Come, Phillis. {Aside : For now, I'll make her vow to 
 give up Jack.) Marion, Jasper, we'll soon return. {Aside : A 
 cargo— and a tin mine !) ---__^ [£'xi< y^th Phillis. 
 
 Ced. Well, Jasper, how think you looks the old school-room 1 
 
THE SCHOOLFELLOWS. 185 
 
 Jos. To me, sir, its walls are writ with mysteries. I need must 
 wait your hoped interpretation. 
 
 Ced. I said, you should know all I know. WelL I am myself 
 prepared. 
 
 Hor. Marion, we'll to the garden. 
 
 Jos. Go not you, Esther. 
 
 Ced. Yes ; let her go. 
 
 Jos. For a dear reason, sir — a reason you shall leam — suffer 
 her to stay. 
 
 Est. {To Jasper : He does not will it ; do not urge him.) Come, 
 Marion. [Exit with Horace and Marion. 
 
 Ced. Jasper, again your hand. So : I feel you have forgiven 
 me. ' 
 
 Jas. Forgiven ! Dear Sir — 
 
 Ced. I did you wrong ; but providence hath repaid my harsh- 
 ness. Whilst my heart dropt blood, I tried to look at peace — ' 
 triedj and could not. 
 
 Jas. And yet with you, I deemed philosophy, — 
 
 -Ced. Young man, philosophy's a mountebank : bestowing for 
 every anodyne that cures, a hundred masks that hide. I found 
 I could not even wear a visard ; and thus I scared you from my 
 roof. 
 
 Jas. This place recalls your looks. Oftimes, seated there at 
 my task, I have raised my eyes towards you, and saw your e3'es 
 like live coals fixed upon me. Then, I have hid my face within 
 my book, and sat and trembled, and wondered what I had done 
 to make my master — a master kind to all beside — ^look such 
 looks at me. 
 
 ^Jed. Speak not of it — ^the recollection humbles me. And you 
 were so good a lad — so bookish, tractable ; with a heart for all 
 things. I wronged you. 
 
 Jas. Wherefore ? Why did you — a. good and cheerful man 
 — so frown npon 'an unoffending chUd ? Wherefore, unless 
 that child was the artless actor in some deep mystei-y — the 
 guiltless creature of another's guilt ? Again, I ask — where- 
 fore ? 
 
 EtUer Pronoun. 
 
 Ced. What ! I am busy. 
 
 Ppbnoun. And so I thought — and so I told sir Luke ; but he 
 said he came to your letter. 
 
 Cid. Sir Luke Meredith ! You were once his favourite, and 
 may serve Horace. Let our talk pass till the evening. 
 
 Jas. It may serve my friend ? Well, sir, I will strive for 
 patience. 
 
186 THE SCHOOLFELLOWS. 
 
 Enter Sir Luke Mekedith. 
 
 Sir Luke. Good master Cedar ! Time, I see, yet keeps your 
 friend. 
 
 Ced. I thank Mm, Sir Luke, he hath had mercy on an old 
 acquaintance. Here — (^Introducing Jasper.) — is a younger debtor 
 for his good gifts. 
 
 Jas. Sir Luke hath forgotten the runaway Jasper ? 
 Sir L. Jasper ! My young favourite — ^my son's companion ! 
 Ced. The orphan you used to talk with. Fortune is not so 
 blind as we complain, for the friendless boy is now a thriving 
 man. 
 
 Sir L. It glads my heart to hear it — glads me again to 
 see him. {To Jasper.) I would your schoolfellow was worthy 
 of his early friend. But we must meet, and talk of your 
 travels, and of old days. And now — {To Cbdak.) — for my time 
 is short, — 
 
 Ced. {Aside to Jasper.) Go to Horace : be ready with him at 
 my caU. Pronoun, will you with your old scholar ? 
 
 Pro. {Taking Jasper's arm.) The best boy that ever said a 
 task. Why, I have kept thy copy-book ; aye, and thy book of 
 sums. Thou shalt see them. 
 Jas. Aye, in good time. 
 
 Pro. Nay, thou wert the best penman of the class : * and we 
 were such friends ! We never quarrelled, but when thou wouldst 
 not write the copy " Honour thy parents." No ; thou never 
 wouldst write that copj' ; never — never. 
 
 \Eoeil, leaning <m the arm ofJisvzB. 
 Ced. When, Sir Luke, I wrote to beg an interview, I did not 
 hope the honour of this sudden visit. 
 
 Sir L. In truthy your letter brought with it some remorse ; 
 remembering me 'twas three years since I had seen my old 
 friend — my boy's master. So, I thought I'd even spare you a 
 Journey, and repair my neglect. Ha ! Master Cedar, that boy 
 Horace, — 
 
 Oed. Makes me proud of my mastership. A free-spirited, noble 
 youth. 
 
 Sir L. Free-spirited ! I would you had taught him pru- 
 dence. * 
 
 Ged. Why, Sir Luke, let us not be of those wise husbandmen, 
 who look to have wheat full and golden in the ear, while the 
 stalk is yet green. 
 
 Sir L. Tut ! I have consented to many of his foUies — ^but when 
 he talked of marriage, — 
 
THE SCHOOLFELLOWS. 187 
 
 Ced. 'Twas a good sign his follies were drawing to a close. 
 
 Sir L. He marry ! I tell you, he knows nothing of the 
 world. 
 
 Ced. He has the less to forget ; and with his wife, will learn 
 — what's worth learning — in the best of company. 
 
 Sir L. Master Cedar, you know not my horror of these early 
 marriages ; of these rash bargains, struck by passion, to be con- 
 demned by after judgment. But he has heard me, and knows the 
 penalty of his waywardness. 
 
 Ced. And I hope will respect it. But i^ Sir Luke — I say if 
 in the ardour of youth, Horace should marry, — 
 
 Sir L. I cast him from my doors ; he is no son of mine. You 
 doubt me? 
 
 Ced. I must. I can't, for the life of me, fancy you snugly 
 dozing in your easy chair, after arriving at the philosophical con- 
 clusion that Horace Meredith was no son of yours. 
 
 Sir L. Yet your learning might cite examples of the stem 
 virtue of au offended fether. 
 
 Ced. Yes ; a virtue commemorated in bronze and stone. Let's 
 leave it to such materials ; for, to my mind, 'tis a virtue far too 
 stern for poor flesh and blood. 
 
 Sir L. I hope to be spared the trial. You have seen 
 Horace 1 
 
 Ced. Poor lad ! Ah, Sir Luke, 'twould thaw even your Roman 
 resolution to see him. 
 
 [Horace, Maeioi.', Jaspek, aiid ^shwer appear at the door. 
 
 Sir L. He has not ventured near me these twelve days. 'Tis 
 true, I bade him avoid me. 
 
 Ced. And he has been a dutiful child ? 
 
 Sir L. Aye ; for such duty, I doubt not, squares with his incli- 
 nation. 
 
 Ced. Not so : he is in affliction till you forgive him. Come let 
 me be peace-maker ; let me, as in old times, give up my scholar 
 to his father. And you, as in the days of his boyhood, will 
 take him home ; and, for shutting the door against him, make 
 him the treaslire of your house ; the pride of your autumn, 
 and the staflT of your old age. Horace Meredith — (Horace 
 comes down wiik Jasper.) — school's up ; go home and make 
 holiday with your father. (Horace crosses to Sib Luke.) 
 {Aside : So — there's one pupil disposed of— now, to send home 
 the girL) (Esther brings Marion to Cedar.) 
 
 Hot. {To Sir Luke.) Am I forgiven, sir ? 
 
 Sir L. Yes, Horace; but do not mistake me.' Kemember,the 
 fiTuit of your disobedience is; — 
 
 Ced. Cherries : Horace has declared it. 
 
188 THE SCHOOLFELLO%yS. 
 
 Sir L. Master Cedar ! 
 
 Ced. Sir Luke, we have been boya ; and should know, if people 
 will leave ladders in gardens, young folks can't much be blamed 
 if they make use of 'em. 
 
 Sir L. Go on, sir. 
 
 Ced. Fancy yourself young — a ladder at your foot — the fnait 
 above you — wouldn't you venture for it ? Nay, I must have an 
 answer ! Time and place serving, the cherries glowing in your 
 eye, wouldn't you pluck them ? Come, Sir Luke, aye or no, 
 wouldn't you pluck them ? 
 
 Sir L. Psha ! I— I would. 
 
 Ced. Your boy has done more than his father ; and here — 
 {Passing over Marion, who kneels to Sir Luke.) — the cherries are. 
 
 Sir L. {To Horace.) One word, sir ! She is your wife ? 
 
 Hor. Aye, sir. 
 
 Ced. {Stayiiig Sir Luke, wlw is going.) And therefore lift her 
 to your arms. Sir Luke, and cherish her. 
 
 Sir L. {To Horace.) You have spurned my counsel— re- 
 jected my friendship — broken your duty. Let us never meet 
 again. {Going^ 
 
 Ced: Sir Luke— 
 
 Sir L. For you, sir, it little suits your calling or your age to 
 encourage disobedience. 
 
 Ced. Sir Luke Meredith, I would have walked a mile for 
 every year I bear to stay this ill-starred marriage. By my gray 
 hairs, I knew not of it tiU this morning. But since 'tis irrevo- 
 cable — since no strife can snap the cord — no passion cancel the 
 rite — 'tis not, I think, the worst office for an old man, to beg 
 "forgiveness when aught else is vain. Though a schoolma5ter, 
 it has been my prejudice to prefer one slip of olive to a whole 
 grove of birch. 
 
 Sir L. He has made his choice — he is a beggar. The world, 
 with aU its battles, is before him. 
 
 Ged. It is : so do not let his father be the first to smite him. 
 Come, I may join your hands ? 
 
 Sir L. Never ! this hand has i-eared, fostered, would have 
 guided him. ' He has rejected it, and it is closed. 
 
 Jos. Then mine is open. Be sure, sir, your son aims at your 
 pardon, not at your wealth ; for he is rich. 
 
 Sir L. Aye, by what magic ? 
 
 Jas. By that of friendship. If you cut off a son, you make me 
 adopt a brother. Half of my means to the last penny, is my first 
 friend's, my schoolfellow's. There, Sir Luke — {Pointing to 
 wainscot) — is our visible contract : 'twas drawn in boyhood, 
 and the man will not dishonour it. 
 
THE SCHOOLFELLOWS. 189 
 
 Oed. (Aside : Brave lad !) 
 
 Sir L. Think not I am insensible to such virtue : ho^ it toacliiea 
 me; I can only tope it may riot tfeabiiised; In good tiine lias 
 he met so fast a friend'; for to me He is'ari alien. Bear wiliiesa 
 all, I swear — 
 
 Ced. I will not bide the oath. Sir' Luke, hear an old man. 
 You know not what yori purpose. 
 
 Sir L. Yes ; to ciit off an ungrateful cbild. 
 
 Ced. (Half-aside to him: You cannot — ^be sure ydii cannot. 
 You. smile, as though 'twas easy .-no, sirj no : what nature hath 
 hung about our hearts, passes our siirgeiy with skill to cut away. 
 In our stoicism, we think it done';' but the woimd keeps open, 
 and the blood still runs.) 
 
 Sir L. It may be ; but as he has scorned- me in tKe deairest. 
 precept of my life, so let my oath — 
 
 Ced. Peace ! An oath that binds a man to evil, is as' an arrow 
 shot into the sky, that, turning, falls and pierces the archer. 
 Under this roof, at least, spare my ears that vow. 
 
 Sir L. Farewell, sir : since, it seems, your letter' was but to 
 teU me I had lost a son. Jasper, ■ if but for the sake of old 
 acquaintance, let us rdeet agaiii. 
 
 Ced. Sir Luke, — 
 
 Sir L. Do not stay me : again I tell you, he is no son of 
 mine. [Exit. 
 
 Ced. And though you told me so a thousand times, I wouldn't 
 quit you, 'till you owied 'twas falsel [Exit. 
 
 Hor. Look np, my Marion : for lov^ \mchanging love, -is love' 
 even to beggars. 
 
 Mar. I have destroyed yoii. 
 
 Jos. Yet there is hope. I will myself visit Sir Luke — ^will 
 myself plead— 
 
 Hor. You will plead to a statue! I have lost evei^ tliingl 
 
 Jaa. Not your friend ; or do you think me, Horace, but a vain 
 talker 1 
 
 Hor. No, Jasper ; I know your heart is in your words, and my 
 Heart has leapt to hear them. Come, Marion ; let us e'eri go 
 study the map of the world, for it lies wide before us. 
 
 [Exeunt Hora.ce and Miiiioir. 
 
 Jos. Esther, ere I know my history, I beseech you, know your 
 lieart. Again I ask, promise — 
 , Est. 'What should I promiste 1 
 
 Jos. Your sympathy — your love. I know my suit is sudden 
 — ^know how few the hours, as hourS,,since first we met. But 
 passion makes no part of time, and in a single day, may crowd 
 the feelings of a life. I am about to leaiiii the secret of'my birth. 
 
190 THE SCHOOLFELLOWS. 
 
 If the knowledge brings no sense of shame, may I, in fair season, 
 claun you mine 1 
 
 Est. Say, that you learn wjiat to your mind seems disgrace ? 
 
 Jas. Then I — I yield you to some happier man. 
 
 Est. You think so meanly of me 1 think I must wait till 
 fortune tells me all, before I choose } 
 
 Jas. I have so long pondered on my birth — ^have so schooled 
 myself to hear some frightful tale — some horrid history, that 
 with a word should strike me out, an alien from my kind, that 
 — no — I will not tie you to a pledge, the mystery yet untold. 
 
 Est. But if such fears are proved a dream — ^the brief dis- 
 temper, of an anxious mind ; and fortune, with her best of gifts, 
 awaits you — 
 
 Job. Then I may ask you with assured hope ? Oh, tell me, 
 may I not ? 
 
 Est. I give no promise on such questioned terms. 
 
 Jas. You reject me ? 
 
 Est. No. 
 
 Jas. Esther! 
 
 Est. I will suppose aU known — will think it possible that you 
 were marked by fate, a hapless creature, — ^that you were born iu 
 shame — cradled in guUt — ^thrown, a nameless outcast, on the 
 world. Why, what's iu this, that is with you 1 
 
 Jas. You're a kind advocate, Esther. 
 
 Est. And yet, it might be urged, not an impartial one. / You 
 forget ; I, too, am an orphan ; I, too, am unconscious of my 
 parents' state. Still, my mind is not diseased with doubt. 
 
 Jas. No ; it were impossible that anything so fair, so good, 
 should spring from ill. Iiet me but learn my history — let me 
 but dare to ask your hand. 
 
 Est. Take it, before you learn it. Eor good or evil — ^my kind 
 guardian not denying — ^the hand is yours. 
 
 Jas. I take it, and with it, feel conviction that my fears are 
 vain. 
 
 Eat. Master Cedar ! Let me hence. 
 
 Jas. He shall disclose all — all ; for now, I cannot rest another 
 hour unsatisfied. Go not : whate'er he has to tell, you must 
 listen. 
 
 Est. Before, he bade me go. Do not ask him. 
 
 Jas. Esther, stay here, {Placing her at lack) unseen, and hear 
 my history. Nay, from this hour, should there be one secret 
 thought between us 1 [Esther retires. 
 
 Enter Cedab. 
 Ced. He is gone, a rsish, inconsiderate, foolish man ! 
 
THE SCHOOLFELLOWS. 191 
 
 Jas. And still inexorable ? 
 
 Ced. Hard as rock. Poor Horace ! 
 
 Jas. His fortune, then, be my care. And now, my history ? 
 
 Ced. To-night — to-morrow ! 
 
 Jas. Be what it may, I cannot rest in ignorance. Now, sir ; now. 
 
 Ced. You would know your parents 1 
 
 Jas. Tell me again — do they live ? 
 
 Ced. I have, in vain, sought to discover them. Twenty years 
 ago, your father brought you, then the merest child, to this roof. 
 
 Jas. And where dwelt my father ? 
 
 Ced. I know not : for, as afterwards I found, he had deceived 
 me. 
 
 Jas. He deserted me ? And my mother ? 
 
 Ced. 1 never knew her. 
 
 Jas. An d is this all I am to learn? After my hopes— ^my 
 prayers — is this all ? 
 
 Ced. AIL Have you no recollection of your friends — ^your 
 home — before you came here 1 
 
 Jas. Nothing, clearly. I have sometimes felt as though I 
 caught a glimpse, a ray ; then all has been dark again. Stay, 
 sir ; yet a word. Tie mystery of my birth, I must with patience, 
 leave to time. I will not now give vent to bitterness of thought, 
 but strive to master it. There is another — a most dear theme, 
 on which I now must speak. Esther. — 
 
 Ced. Go on. 
 
 Jas. I love her. I am rich^ — would make her my wife. 
 Master Cedar — 
 
 Ced. I paused for resolution ; but you compel me to the task. 
 IB^ther, your wife ! 
 
 Jas. Do you refuse me ? [Esther is seen at haclc. 
 
 Ced. Listen to her stoiy : as yet she knows'it not herself: for 
 months past, I have tried for strength to tell -her : listen you. I 
 had a daughter — ^an only child. Oh, it was to feel the treasure 
 of eye-sight to behold her ! She — there are old wounds here 
 that open as I speak — she left her home ; left her father's arms, 
 to fly with a villain, who destroyed her. I cannot tell you what 
 I was, when this was known — a demon, not a man. I stood on 
 yon threshold, and breathed a curse, that seemed to fall back upon 
 and wither me. Who think you was it. robbed my innocent 
 .child of her innocent self — who think you, robbed my nights of 
 sleep, my days of quiet — who made my happy> hearth a place of 
 wailing? Who, — but your father^ 
 
 -Jas, Mercy — mercy! 
 
 Ced. In his visits here he had ensnared the poor child. She 
 left me — he cast her off— she died, 
 
 p 2 
 
192 THE SCHOOLFELLOWS. 
 
 Jas. Indeed, you had deep cause to hate me. 
 Ced. She died ; but dying, left a creature that did turn my 
 heart to flesh again. That child is — ^Esther ! 
 
 [Esther ehriels, rwns, tmdfdUs info Cedab's arms. 
 Ced. My beloved child ! Jasper — (Placing her in his arms) — 
 look to your sister ! [Hurries off. 
 
 Jas. Sister ! Ay, sister ! 
 Est. {Recovering.) 'Tis true, then — all is true — my brother ! 
 
 [Pedis on his neck, and is svjiported off by Jasper. 
 
 Enter Phillis. 
 
 PhiUis. That siUy fellow \ that ever John should have trusted 
 him ! I ran from Nicholas, and ■when I thought to open my 
 letter, found it directed to Master Cedar : no doubt, this is the 
 letter Thomas lost this morning. If I could see the schoolmaster ! 
 Lud, here's Nick. [Hides in desk. 
 
 Enter Shilling. 
 
 ShiUing. Signed and sealed — Juniper Cottages are mine ! This 
 comes of prudence — this comes of looking to property ! A rare 
 bargain. Now, where is Miss Marion ? By my life, here's Tom 
 Drops, the first owner of the houses. 
 
 Enter Drops. 
 
 Drops. {With letter^ I have found it — I knew I had it — never 
 lost it — ^here's — what, Nick "i 
 
 ShU. {Aside : I've bought his property, and will give him 
 good advice.) For shame, Thomas ! Wilt never reform ? never 
 leave the tricks of your boyhood 3 Don't you recollect how 
 when you stole your schoolmaster's currant wine — ' 
 
 Drops. And don't you recollect, how, when you had shared it 
 you went and. peached ? "What's happened to make you give 
 sermons ? Go, and count your money, and hold your tongue. 
 I have found the letter, that — 
 
 {Enter Cedak.) 
 
 Master, a letter — very particular. 
 
 Ced. {Opens, and reads.) " I am waiting by the fir-trees on 
 the heatJi " — (EBillis is seen listeiiingfrom the desk) — " I have 
 prepared all things for our escape : Hasten, my dearest PhiUis, 
 and join your own John Marigold." {Looking at superscription.) 
 Why, Thomas? 
 
 Drops. A mistake. That was for hia^ter ! 
 
THE SCHOOLFELLOWS. I 193 
 
 ShU. It was ? but my letter-carrier, I have rare revenge. 
 Xook here — (Showing papers) — the deeds of a certain little 
 estate ! 
 
 [Phillib comes from desk, and wipercdved, lets fdU Utter 'between 
 Drops amd Cedae, cmd (hfn goes off iy door at hack. 
 
 Ved. Peace ! Have you no heart 1 Then, yon had a letter 
 for me ? 
 
 Drops. I had ; but my head plays me such tricks — a letter 
 from a strange man : he "was just now walking about the house 
 — a letter that — ^why, what's this 1 — {Picks up letter:) — ^Now, I 
 see — " Master Cedar : " to be sure — it's aU plain — I had a hole 
 in my pocket. (;Oives letter to Cedae.) And now (^o Shilling), 
 what are you hugging there 1 
 
 ShU. Title-deeds, that's all : Juniper Cottages were sold again 
 to-day. '{Aside : Now, for the fir-trees.) 
 
 Drops. Well ? You hav'n't bought 'em J 
 
 ShU. Signed and sealed — mine, schoolfellow. [Rant off. • 
 
 Drops. His ! All his ! No — no — no ! Not if I set a brand 
 to the thatch ! " \lluns off. 
 
 Ced. From a stranger — about the house ? (Reads.) " A. sinful 
 but penitent man, who has worn out years in exile and captivity, 
 begs your -compassion — your forgiveness. Eushworth." Grant 
 me patience ! What is prepared for me ? 
 
 {Enter Eushwoeth.) 
 
 Tour name f 
 Rushworth. My knee will "best declare it 1 
 Ced. Villain !— 
 
 .Srafer EsT^BK. 
 
 Either. {Tnterpoiinff~to Cedae.) Father 1 Do not look so wild 
 — 'SO terrible. 
 
 Ced. No — ^if yoa liave not -lost all 'heart let her features kill 
 you with reproach. 
 
 Rush. My child! * 
 
 Est. His child 1 
 
 Ced. Th.e child of her you slew — dishonoured. 
 
 RusL No. I deserted — ^killed her — but she died«iy wife. 
 
 [Embmemg Estseb. 
 
 Ced. Tonr wife ? And thai boy — .Jasper— was he not your 
 son? • ' ■' 
 
 Bush. Nol ' ■ 
 
 Est. Not your son ! Not — ' 
 
 Bush. I have but now learnt from a schoolfellow of his strange 
 
194 THE SCHOOLFELXOWS.- 
 
 arrivals-have just quitted him ; have given him papers, docu- 
 ments, that testify his parentage. He bears them to his father ! 
 
 Ced. How came yon Jasper's guardian ? 
 
 Rush. His mother was my. sister ; broken-hearted, betrayed, 
 she died, when he was yet an infant. I brought him, neglected, 
 unknown by his father, to your roof, that he might have no 
 worse a master than his happier brother. 
 
 Ced. His brother ! 
 
 Rv^h.. Yoymg Meredith. . 'Twas then I saw and loved your 
 daughter — made- her my wife ; purposed to tell you all — ^but 
 I was mingling with rash adventurers, and fell their victim. I 
 was hurried on. ship-board — ^was taken prisoner — and am but 
 now returned to — 
 
 {Enter Sir Luke Meredith, Jasper, Horace, and Marion.) 
 
 Sir Luke ? 
 
 ■ Sir Luke. Let my son speak for me. I have not courage -even 
 to thank you. 
 
 Ced. Nay, Esther shall thank her father. 
 
 Jas. Her father ! 
 
 Ced. Ay, Jasper, it is even so. Thank him, and ask him, if 
 you win, to bless herself and husbknd; Horace and Marion are, 
 I see, forgiven. 
 
 £hiter Shilling.. 
 Shilling. Is this all true ? Esther found a father — Sir Luke 
 fdund a son — Marion, the heiress, already married, and-^ 
 
 Enter Marigold, Phillis, and Pronoun; 
 
 Marie/old. Myself and Phillis ready for the church. 'TLs vain 
 to-deny us. Say yes with a good grace, Nicholas. 
 
 Phil. Do, Nick, do ; and save us the trouble of running away 
 
 Shil. No ; though perhapSj he has saved my life, still a little 
 more property — or a friend, who — 
 
 Jas. Come, Phillis must not die single. Covmt me his friend. 
 Surely, I miss another schoolfellow. 
 
 Pro. Poor Thomas ! 
 
 Jas: : I- must not forget him. Where is he ? 
 
 ShU; I.hope, on his road to the stocks. Because I laughed at 
 him, and called him a fool for drinking away his freehold, and 
 told him the cottages were miae — ^he flew at me, and had it not 
 been for my dear brother-in-law here — {To Marigold : Jasper's 
 j-our friend — you shall have Phillis ; but no thousand pounds 'tiU 
 she's one-and-twenty.) {Aside: I save three years' interest.) — 
 
THE SCHOOLFELLOWS. 195 
 
 If it hadn't been for the doctor here, he'd have torn me to 
 pieces. Then he fell into a fit, and then I left him to go for 
 the constables. 
 
 Mar. You iuight have spared your pains. Passion has 
 finished the work of intemperance. He was carried, pulseless, 
 to the poor-house. 
 
 Ced. Poor Thomas ! 
 
 Shil. Well, I don't bear malice. Poor Thomas ! But is it all 
 true about Jasper, and \ — 
 
 Ced. All true. And may the virtuous happiness that has 
 awaited some to-day, be still increased at each new meeting 
 of— The Schooltellows. 
 
 END OF "THB iSCHOOLPELLOWS." 
 
DOVES IN A CAGE. 
 
CHARACTERS REPRESENTED. 
 
 Prosper 
 
 Cherub 
 
 Bezant . 
 
 Sables 
 
 Carbuncle 
 
 Janus 
 
 Claws . 
 
 Giles 
 
 Stephen 
 
 Abraham 
 
 MaheUah 
 Prudence 
 Dolly . 
 Mrs. Comfits 
 
 Mb.. F. Vinino. 
 Ma. Wilkinson. 
 Mr. Younge. 
 Mr. Williams. 
 Mr. Webster. 
 Mr. Sanders. 
 Mb. Seable. 
 Mr. Kino. 
 Mr. Atwood. 
 Mb. Green. 
 
 Mrs. Niseett. 
 Miss Atbes. 
 Miss Boden. 
 Miss Babnett. 
 
 Scene — London. Date — 1662. 
 
 This Comedy was represented for the first time at the Addphi Theatre, 
 December 21, 1836. 
 
The cordiality with whicli this little play has been received by 
 an audience (and an Adelphi audience ! ) may afford a promise of 
 better days to the despairing English dramatist, at present all 
 but excluded from his native stage by foreign music and trans- 
 lated spectacle. It is manifest, that even an attempt, however 
 feebly executed, to trust to the simplicity of comedy — depending 
 neither upon the glories of the scene-painter, nor the cunning of 
 the machinist — will be encouragingly accepted by the theatrical 
 public, continually libelled as caring for gothing save processions 
 and panoramas — steeds of neighing flesh and steeds of " bronze ; " 
 to be delighted only when the mask of comedy is exchanged for 
 a masquerade, and the bowl of tragedy enlarged into a brazen 
 cauldron. 
 
 Paris, December 27, 1835. 
 
DOVES IN A CAGE. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 Scene I. — Exterior of the Fleet Prison. On opposite side tlie house 
 of Carbottclb ; over the door a board on which are painted two 
 hands clasped, and underneath " Marriages performed within." 
 
 Enter Bezajs't and Sables. 
 
 Bezant. Again, Master Sables, again I say, be warned ; thou'lt 
 leap into a fire. 
 
 Sables. And if I do ? we're not of one flesH, Master Bezant ; 
 I stall roast alone. Fire ! pboo ! Cupid's a Salamander and 
 lives in it. 
 
 B^. Cupid! I had as soon thougbt to bear thee claim acquaint- 
 ance-witb iPrester John. Come, confess ; art thou not old — and 
 cold — and,— 
 
 Sah. And if I be 1 the older I am the less time I've to lose — • 
 the colder Lam, the greater my want of natural heat. 
 
 Bez. I have done. {Aside : 'Tis a sad thing for a wise man to 
 becomean ass, he gives such excellent reasons for his stupidity) 
 I say I have done ; count upon my help ; thou shalt — if thou 
 can'st — marry MabeUah. Enough : how go the markets ? 
 
 Sab. I — I know not. But thy niece Mabellah, and — 
 
 Bez. All sweets I hear are on the rise. 
 
 Sab. I prophesied it. When — when we are married, — 
 
 Bez. Leather^ — leather must certainly faU. — 
 
 Sab. 'Tis likely. I say, after we are married,— 
 
 Bez. There'll be a loud demand for hemp,— 
 
 Sab. Pah ! Master Bezant, a raven sings in better time. Hear 
 me — when we are married, — why, what now ? ^ 
 
 Bez. A fear, should any cross arise. Thou knowest not my . 
 niece : she is wild as fire — hard as steel. 
 
202 DOVES IN A CAGE. 
 
 Hdb. Thou dost not start from thy promise ! 
 
 Bez. No, in truth. In half an hour, so have I planned it with 
 an honest creditor, Mabellah will be in yonder cage ; ay, even 
 in King Charles's goodly gaol the Fleet. How the soaring bird 
 will beat its wings ! 
 
 Sab. Ha ! ha ! but then come I in, clear thy niece of all claims, 
 and in the fulness of her rage towards the world, her despair at 
 thy desertion, and melting with gratitude for her deliverer, I 
 take her from a dungeon to lock her for ever in these arms. Eh ? 
 ha! ha! 
 
 Be,z. Provided, she doth not demur to a change of prison ? 
 
 Sab. Demur ! tut, I'll be upon the spot ; watch from yonder 
 house with my man, — I now go to eng.age him. 
 
 Bez. Ha ! ha ! thou'lt never be married by him 1 
 
 Sab. Why not ? He makes two one, in the shortest time, at 
 the lowest price, and no questions asked. 
 
 [Knocks at Cakbuncle's door which is opened. Exit into the houxe. 
 
 Bez. Humph ! Poor Mabellah ! 
 
 \CwEB,varu,na across from the prism.. 
 So boy ! 
 
 Cherub. 1 hope your excellent worship's in flowering health J 
 
 Bez. Whither bound, — for bail, or — , 
 
 Che. No, master ; nothing in the regular way : only an errand 
 for Captain Cheek, — a dozen anchovies. The wicked truth is, 
 the captain loves brandy ; and last night, — 
 
 Bez. Brandy ! I thought strong drink was forbidden to the 
 prisoners 1 
 
 Che. And so it is; and that's why they get so much of it. I 
 mean some of 'em ; for 'tis made too precious for poor throats. 
 
 Bez. No doubt. 
 
 Che. It's true, master ; in our gaol a man must be a perfect 
 gentleman to know what real drunkenness is. It's too bad ; . 
 nature never meant it. ^Goinff.] 
 
 Bez. Stay. How are you stowed within ? 
 
 Che. Full as a hive, and of the sweetest company. Oh, the 
 Fleet is much indebted to you merchants ! 
 
 Bez. It is — it is. 
 
 Che. You lock up such gallants ; and they make the gaol so 
 lively — as one may say, so sparkling — so respectable. 
 
 [Sables re-enters from house. 
 Now, there's one Master Prosper, — ^he has given quite a fashion 
 to us. 
 
 Sab. Prosper ! What, a profligate — 
 
 Che. No, indeed, a thorough gentleman ; he owes a heap of 
 
DOVES IN A CAGE. 203 
 
 money. What" of tliat ? I'm sure he might if he would, be out 
 to-morrow. 
 
 JSez. Ay t then what keeps him in a prison ? 
 
 Che. I suppose a love of liberty — for to get out he must marry 
 a rich old wife. (To Sab.) To see a young spouse handed over 
 to the custody of wrinkles ! A pretty goal delivery, eh, your 
 honour 1 
 
 Sah. (Aside to Bez. : Come, why listen to a fool 1) 
 
 Bez. {Half-aside to Sab. : What says Carbuncle 1 Hast seen 
 the joiner 1) 
 
 Sah. He's yet in bed ; I told his man to rouse him. 
 
 Che. {Aside : Carbuncle ! I smell murder.) Yes, when an old 
 fellow runs after the parson, it's pretty sure somebody will suifer. 
 Did your worship speak of Carbuncle ? 
 
 Bez. He lies late to-day 1 
 
 Che. He'd a hard job yesterday : he tied up a score at least. It 
 must be sweating work to make so many people happy, and some 
 too, against their will. 
 
 Sab. Against their will ? 
 
 Che. Nay, a whole score can't be of one mind. There's old 
 Dame Pegs — he married her to her 'prentice ; a, poor boy that 
 never knew a razor. Well, he makes her tenth, or — ■ 
 
 Sal. Tenth ! 
 
 die. Oh, I don't know how many ! I know the neighbours 
 swore she had wedding-rings enough to hang her wedding cur- 
 tains on. 
 
 Bez. So, it aeems the Doctor is much sought for ? 
 
 Che. Sought for ! there's no getting out of his way. Doctor ! 
 he's no more doctor thaji I am. What of that ? he rivets close 
 as any tishop. Then he has a tongue — a tongue of oU and 
 sugar. 
 
 Bez, So persuasive 1 
 
 Che. Bless you, he'll talk of marriage 'tiU you almost think 
 there's little harm in it. Of all the Fleet parsons — and there's a 
 pretty knot of 'em — he's the most 'ticing. Why, the Bull and 
 Garter hasn't a single syllable to Carbuncle's whole chapter — the 
 Horseshoe and Magpie's dumls as London Stone — ^the Shepherd 
 and Goat not a word between ''«m — and for the Fighting Cocks, 
 they want a leg to stand on.* Then he's so quick — so sudden — 
 
 ,SaJ. Ha! 
 
 Che. It's hard to pass bim and walk on a hachelor. Now, 
 what a terrible thing for an innocent man to open his eyes in 
 the morning, and unawares to find himself a. loving husband, ay, 
 
 * The reader will find much curious matter reepecting these places in 
 Mr. Burn's valuable work on *' Fleet Registers " and Fleet Parsons. 
 
204 DOVES IN A CAGE. 
 
 perhaps an affectionate father ! It's too tad ; natvire never 
 meant it. 
 
 [Caebuncle {in night-cap cmdgovm) appears atmndaw. 
 
 Garhincle. A. happy wedding momiiig to ye, gentlemen ! 
 
 Ohe. {To Bez. and Sab.) That's the doctor. Are ye both come 
 to suffer ? 
 
 Car. Why tarry ye without ? Come in, dear friends, come in ! 
 
 Oie. (Aside : Ha ! ha ! Come in ! Cheese in a rat-trap cries 
 -^come in.) 
 
 Car. Here is Hymen's blazing torch ! What ! shall it bum to 
 waste ! Here, the deep damask rose of love ! — shall it riot be 
 plucked ? If ye are bachelors, blush, pay the fees — ^they are but 
 moderate — and amend your lives ! If widowers, as ye have 
 done well at least once in your days, marry again, and so do 
 better a second time ! 
 
 Sab. We will speak to you within. 
 
 Car. (CaUing within.) Abraham, conduct the lusty bride- 
 grooms ! 
 
 Bez. You count too many — I am not paired with a mate. 
 
 Car. No ! Despair not : fortune hath many wives on hand. 
 But where is the one bride — where the devoted maid ? 
 
 Che. {Aside : Devoted maid ! Od's ! I'd forgotten the captain's 
 anchovies.) [Biins of. 
 
 Car. I see not the prime work of the earth ! Where is man's 
 staff— his hope — ^his ornament? His unbought pearl — ^his sove- 
 reign anodyne ? His guide by day — ^his comforter by night 1 
 That joy to his joys — ^that balm to his griefs — ^that light to his 
 
 blindness 1 That gem without a' flaw — that gold with no alloy 
 
 that rose with never a thoni? In a word, gentlemen, and to 
 save fiirther time, where is the woman ? 
 
 £es. Look ! hither she comes. 
 
 Sab. No, — is't she, indeed ? Her gait, her stature seeriis so 
 different. 
 
 £e2. Passion, man!, mere passion — 'twill greatly change 
 them. 
 
 Gar. Eight, sir, right. I've known my laundress in a passion 
 mount to a Patagonian queen. So, a brave lady ; and though 
 her face be covered, I predict by the disdain of her foot, a topping 
 beauty. Eun, run, and bring the bx'ide. 
 
 Bez. Softly — she is attended. 
 
 Car. Eh ! an oMcer ? 
 
 Bez. Peace ! 
 
 [Bezant and Sablbs retire. Cabbunolb ohstrvei from vniidow. 
 
DOVES IN A CAGE. 205 
 
 Whiter Majbkllah (mashed) foUowed hy Officer. She is much 
 agitated at sight of the prison, and pauses, struggli-ng for 
 sdf-^ossession. The Officer knocks at prison gate, which is 
 opened He then 'approaches Mabf.t.t.ah, and is about to take 
 her hand, when, with sudden dignity, she recedes from him, and 
 advances to the gate. 
 
 Officer. Your mask, madam : here, the keepers must know all 
 faces. 
 
 [Mabellah, V3iih subdued emotion, removes her viask and gives it to 
 Officer. After a moment's pause, she enters the prison — the 
 Officer following. CHEunB, wAo has re-entered, has wateJied 
 from, opposite tide. Bezant a/nd Sables come down. 
 Car. What ? cage such a turtle ! 
 
 Sai. Only for a few seconds — I'll return — (To Bez.) — I have 
 only to step to the Pheasant in Ludgate, and then — ^then I'll 
 return and — beautiful angel ! — 
 (Jher. Ugly thief! 
 
 [Bezant and Sables exeimt. Chekob runs into prison, and 
 CAEBUNCliE disappears. 
 
 Scene IL — An open Court in the Fleet Prison. 
 Enter Mabellah, f allowed at hack by Cherub. 
 
 MaheUah. I am not waking % It is a dream — a wicked spell — 
 and I could tear my flesh to break it ! A prison — a loathsome 
 dungeon ! And /, Mabellah ! What can my uncle purpose ? 
 What — I am so stricken, stunned, I want the wit to make a 
 reason for his desertion. The Meet Gaol ! And I — I fell not 
 dead when I crossed the threshold ! 
 
 Cheriib. (Coming down.) Madam — 
 
 Mob. Sirrah! 
 
 Che. Don't look so scorchingly — mayhap I can serve you. 
 
 Mob. You! 
 
 C%e. Perhaps — for all I am but the smallest of the prison 
 vermin. Once, you know, there was a lion in a net, when there 
 came by a little mouse. — Can't I rim for bail ? 
 
 Mab. (Avoiding him, and pacing the stage) I thank you, I fear 
 you cannot aid me. 
 
 Che. (Following her.) If there's anybody in the world you 
 think your friend, this is a beautiful time and place to try 'em. 
 
 McA. No : it is in vain I I cannot guess a motive for his 
 sudden cruelty. 
 
 Che. Sound your acquaintance — sound 'em. Depend on't, 
 
 <3 
 
206 DOVES IN A CAGE. 
 
 there's nothing like a prison pavement to ring our old friends 
 upon. 
 
 Mah. To be shut up, like a felon ! 
 
 Che. And I dare say, only for a few scor^ pounds. Ha ! though 
 I was bom in the Tleet, I've often thought, nature meant it. 
 But such a sweet lady must have friends ? Is there no young 
 gentleman to whom I can carry a slip of paper % 'Tis early yet ; 
 not eleven o'clock, and — 
 
 Mah. {Half -aside : And at eleven ? — ) 
 
 Che. You may be out. Is there no young gentleman ? {Aside : 
 I see there is.) 
 
 Mob. Did he know this ignominy ! 
 
 Che. He shall know nothing. You can teU him you want the 
 money for a suit of silks — or a set of china — or for a choice 
 litter of spaniels : say at once, the king's own puppies ; I've 
 known puppies go a great way. Don't stare ; I take some such 
 letter every day, and twice out of thrice it draws the money. 
 Write — ^write. 
 
 Mab. Leave me. 
 
 Che. If not a young gentleman, is there any old one ? 
 
 Mab. Ha ! Sables ! 
 
 Che. {Aside : I see there is an old one, too. And if he's very 
 old, there can be no harm in telling him the truth. As for your 
 very young men, where women are the matter, they shouldn't 
 have their eyes too much opened. Nature never meant it.) 
 
 Mab. I will send to him. 
 
 Che. {Cfiving her pencil and paper^ "Write, and trust to my 
 heels ; and if he has so much money in his chest, though I force 
 the look, I'll bring it you. (Mabbixah returns him, paper — he 
 reads address^ " Isaac Sables, Crutched Friars." 
 
 Mab. Do your errand quickly and — {Looking off.) Oh ! what 
 accident is this ? Tell me — ^yOiider gentleman — 
 
 Che. Which 1 — the one holding the racket ? 
 
 Mab. He is not prisoner here ? 
 
 Che. His name is Prosper — a fine spark. 
 
 Mab. But not a prisoner 1 — 
 
 Che. A young man of capital morals. 
 
 Mai. But not a prisoner ? — 
 
 Che. Eh ? {Aside : This is one of the days he dresses to "o 
 out.) No — ^not a prisoner : only a visitor. Sometimes the 
 finest folks come here to the debtors. {Aside : But that's a 
 truth.) 
 
 Mab. Indeed? 
 
 Che. Oh, yes ! Parties from the West-end, out on pleasure, 
 take us in theii- way to Newgate. 
 
DOVES IN A CAGE. 207 
 
 Enter Prosper, gaily dressed, hooted and spurred. Mabellah 
 and CsERUB tali apart. 
 
 Prosper. 'Tis but a step'to the Temple Gardena, and— thanks 
 again to the warden — I shall keep my hour. But how keep it t 
 With a lynx-eyed seigeant close at my heels. In truth, I have 
 wooed with cferembn^ ; for almost every oath I have made to the 
 lady has been sworn before an officer. (Cherub comes down.) 
 Cherub ! TeU me ; how do I look ? 
 
 Che. Taith, sir, you look the truth; you look out for the 
 day. 
 
 Pros. There's little of the Fleet about this suit ? Tut, I mean 
 I — I for I feel a gaol infectious — I look not a poor devil debtor 
 out oil rule ? 
 
 Che. I should know you at a glance — and by two things. 
 
 Pros. What are theyl 
 
 Che. Your riding-whip and spurs. 
 
 Pros. Ha ! ha ! with these, I'll swear Tve ridden hard from 
 Oxford, to keep my meeting with the lady. 
 
 Che. A lady ! I hope she's rich ? 
 
 Pros. Eich ! Have I not an eye for an heiress 1 can I hot see 
 wealth in a brow — a bearing — ^nay, in the very walk of a woman 1 
 There are a thousand sparks upon town, who've raise'd such 
 knowledge to a pure science — and mj/ fair daine ! Oh, I'll be 
 sworn for her ! Why, like the girl in the story, she speaks pearls 
 and diamonds. 
 
 CKc. I wish yoii joy, sir ; that's a wife you'll never blame for 
 talking. 
 
 Prds. Ha! ha! FU wed the weiich and — ((Jee* Mabellah, 
 whose IdcKis'iurii^io theni^ Who's that 1 
 
 Che. That's an heiress. 
 
 Pros. Art isui*? • 
 
 Che. Certain. Fve looked at her eye and her forehead, and ' 
 seen her walk. 
 
 Pros. What does she here ? 
 
 iJhe. She — ^she— she comes for charity. 
 
 Pros. Charity ! 
 
 Che. Yes. She's one of the six soft-hearted ladies, who on 
 Wednesday distributed to every prisoner-^ 
 
 Pros. I remember, ^blankets and — and-^ 
 
 Che. Night-caps. Have you had yours ? 
 
 Pros. Mine ! Though possibly the gift.might toiiie froni a less 
 welcome hand. (Cherub retires and talks to Majbellah.) By my 
 heart ! a shape that wakes in a man a laudable desire to see the 
 
 «2 
 
208 * DOVES IN A CAGE. 
 
 face. An heiress and charitable — a giver of night-caps ! If now 
 a man were in a lawful, holy way to solicit one. No — doubt- 
 less she's frozen as Penelope. Yet I'll assail her ; though like 
 an Iceland star she twinkle on me, and almost ere I speak, stop 
 my mouth with printed homilies 'gainst tennis, foot-ball, bowls 
 and rackets. 
 
 Che. {Aside to Mabellah.) I'll fly to Crutched-friars. Oh, 
 never be afraid of him ! I tell you, I said you were a visitor. 
 What! a beautiful lady,- afi-aid of a handsome, charitable 
 gallant ? 
 Mab. Charitable ! 
 
 Che. He has this morning ridden fifty miles to relieve a friend 
 — a prisoner here. 
 Mab. Is it possible ? 
 
 Che. Possible ! Look at his spurs. {Exit. 
 
 Mab. He is about to speak ! Good spirits, stand by me. 
 Pros. Fair, virtuous lady, may a humble worshipper of zeal like 
 thine presume to — ^Mabellah ! 
 Mab. Good Master Prosper ! 
 
 Pros. {Aside : Site one of the six ! She a prison bene- 
 volence !) 
 
 Mab. AVhat ! You — ha ! ha I ha ! —you are surprised to 
 meet me in this place ? 
 Pros. Not a whit. 
 Mab. Not surprised ? 
 
 Pros. Never blush — ^I know the whole story. 
 Mab. You do? 
 
 Pros. Oh, madam ! all the hosiers are bound to bless yon. 
 Mab. Sir ! hosiers ! 
 
 Pros. Tis easy enough to preach fine, philanthropic things ; 
 but, madam, there's no mistaking the charity that -walks abroad 
 in a real blanket and night-cap. 
 
 Mab. {Aside : 'Tis plain he knows my condition, and mocks 
 at it.) 
 Pros. All my fellow-prisoners — 
 Mah. Prisoners ! 
 
 Pros. Being your captive, I feel a fellow-prisoner with 
 every debtor in the Fleet. Ah, Madam ! when will you hold 
 me by another <;hain, wearing the golden link about your 
 finger ? {Aside : Caution, good tongue.) I see you marvel 
 how I knew your secret. Plainly, then, the boy wjio left us 
 blabbed it. 
 Mab. He did ! 
 
 Pros. There — said he, -with- visible emotion — is one <)f the six. 
 bountiful ladies, one of the half-dozen tender hearts, who last 
 
DOVES IN A CAGE. 209 
 
 ■week gave us caps and covering. I have done. You will be paid 
 in the pi-ayers of the captive. 
 
 Mai. (Aside: Can it be really thus 3 Is my humiliation still 
 unknown ?) 
 
 Pros. Now I — ^ha ! ha ! ha ! — ^I doubt you were startled to see 
 me here ? 
 
 Mah. No, indeed. 
 
 Pros. No ! 
 
 Mab. I heard your full history. 
 
 Pros. Heard it? 
 
 Mab. Tou were compelled to come. 
 
 Pros. {Aside ; I was, indeed.) 
 
 Mah. Ah, sir ! people may talk of the friendship that is ready 
 to pass through fire and water ; but there's no doubting a friend- 
 ship, when we see it booted and spurred. 
 
 Pros. {Aside : Exposed — confoundedr— ruined ! Now do I look 
 a pretty rascal in her eyes — a villainous gaol-bird, caught in 
 his false feathers.) 
 
 3fab. TeU me ; how is your best friend 1 
 
 Pros. Madam, the — ^the most intimate friend I have is at this 
 moment in a scurvy condition. 
 
 Mab. Trust me, I grieve to hear it. Has he been long a 
 prisoner t 
 
 Pros. {Aside : No, there's no escape ; there's nothing left me 
 but to confess, call for a boot-jack, and settle in the Fleet for life.) 
 Madam, to avow the truth — and 'tis with red-hot blushes that I 
 say it — ^the friend we speak of is unworthy of your thoughts ; a 
 poor, vain fellow buried in himself; a broken spendthrift — ^a tar- 
 nished coxcomb. 
 
 Mab. How much his character exalts your own ! 
 
 Pros. Exalts my own ? — 
 
 Mab. That though so worthless, you do not despise him ; that 
 though so selfish, you do not forget ; that though so humble, you 
 cast him not away. That true to your faith, you pardon the 
 weakness— ^sympathise with the misery of an old companion — 
 nay, ride fifty miles to solace and relieve him. 
 
 Pros. {Aside : Has she no mercy ? That I could change this 
 for the pillory !) 
 
 Mab. I see you wonder. Well, I had the slory from the man 
 who quitted us. Yes, 'twas he who told me of your devotion. 
 
 Pro*. Eh ! what ! the— the boy — I mean the man — 
 
 Mab. Informed me of your this day's journey to your impri- 
 soned fnend. 
 
 Pros. {Aside: Am I really not found out? Now wiU the 
 devil not let a man be honest, be he ever so much inclined.) 
 
210 BOTES IN A CAGE. 
 
 Mah. You must be mueh fatigued 1 
 
 Pros. A little heated, nothing more. Though to confess, if my 
 horse die, he falls a victim not to friendship, but to love. 
 
 Mai. Love ! 
 
 Pros. Love ! Is not this the day-r-within a minute of the 
 hour — we were to meet? Friendship ! no ; 'twas Cupid's arrow 
 spurred, my steed. 
 
 Mob. A cruel jockey that same Cupid. Is the poor beast 
 sorely hurt 1 
 
 Pros. Hm-t! The groom burst into tears as he took the 
 bridle. {Aside : Now could I slip away, and give the word to 
 Janus.) Come, madam, — let us la.ssteiii-r-{Aside : Where is he.) 
 
 Mah. Yes, sir,-^hasteu^-- 
 
 Pros. {Aside : How, impatient she is ! all will be blown) — ^Fly 
 —fly to— 
 
 Mah. {Aside ; I am lost.) Yes, sir ; fly — ^fly — 
 
 Pros. To &-^{Aside : Wliere is Janus ? ) To a purer air, a — 
 
 Mob. A more grateful spot, — 
 
 Pros. A place in better consonance with those emotions — 
 emotions; — 
 
 Mah. Emotions . 
 
 Pros. Leave at once this foul receptacle {Puis her arm within 
 his, affectedly hurrying off Mabellah in great agitation^ — this 
 dismal cave, and^and; — {Stops short at the side, and comes down to 
 fro'M of the stage.) And yet, what would love be, could it not 
 hallow even a den like this ! 
 
 Mob. "What, indeed? 
 
 Pros. Love ! Has not the magic of the ps^sipn hung prison 
 walls with garlands, and like the sun of old, drawn hidden 
 harmonies frpm out the very flint ? 
 
 Mah. {Aside : What a respite ! ) Oh, yes ! Even in a dun- 
 geon, if love be there, we gather amaranth, and h^ar sustaining 
 music. 
 
 Pros. {Aside: I'm reprieved— though the cax-t was all but 
 from my feet.) Love ! is he not this moment working his 
 miracles ? The Temple Gardens ! Do we not here tread on 
 soft, delicious moss 1 
 
 Mah. Is not the sky of Arcady above us ? 
 
 Pros. Sweet airs, around ? 
 
 Mob. Lambs playing at our feet ? 
 
 Pros. Birds singing from th^ boughs^! And that grim janitor 
 he is not a turnkey— ^he is-:- 
 
 Mah. A gentle villager. 
 
 Pros. And those two attorneys with their saffron cheeks— 
 they are not attorneys^ they ar,e— r 
 
DOVES IN A CAGE. 211 
 
 Mab. Shepherds come to tend theu- flocks. 
 
 Pros. True — most true ! — shepherds, come to skin— rto tend 
 their flocks. Oh ! thrice happy accident that brought us here ! 
 A twelvemonth might have passed, and no such intercourse of 
 sentiment ; but our hearts respond — our feelings make har- 
 monious music — we look with the same eyes — ^liear with the 
 same ears — 'tis plain, fate has willed it — we are one. Still think 
 this the glowing scene that love has painted — think 'tis this I 
 have to offer, and kneeling here — 
 
 Enter Jantjs. 
 
 Janus. {To Prosper, toitching his shoulder.) Now, sir, if you 
 are ready, — 
 
 Pros. Janus ! 
 
 Jan. I'll walk with you. 
 
 Pros. (Aside to him.) Hush ! another word, and I'll slay you. 
 {To Mabellah) My servant ; the son of one of my tenants — ^a 
 familiar knave, but I believe — indeed, I am certain — very much 
 attached to me. A word feUow. [Retires with Janus. 
 
 Mai. At once to tell my story, what is it but to stand a peti- 
 tioner for his relief 1 and that were — ha ! the man ! 
 
 {Enter. Cherub.) 
 
 Mr. Sables, — 
 
 Che. Not at home — ^no where to be found. 
 
 Mab. Then exposure is inevitable — ^I am lost ! Can you not 
 hide me.? Any where ? That gentleman is about to leave the 
 prison — for worlds I would not have him know this accident ! 
 He but speaks to his servant, and then waits to conduct me 
 hence. "What's to be done ? 
 
 Che. Go with him. 
 
 Mab. TVith him ? 
 
 Cite. Bless yon, I've managed it— I was bom here. I've interest 
 with all the keys. Take no notice — trust to me — walk boldly 
 out, and fear nobody. {Aside : His sei-vant !) She too shall have 
 a servant, and one of the same livery. 
 
 Mah. Mslj I believe you ? 
 
 Che. Yes, yes ; and whilst you're away, I'll find your friend, 
 make him pay the money, and bring you free quittance. {Aside : 
 His servant ! What a shame to cheat a simple woman ! Nature 
 never — eh ? I don't know — ^perhaps nature did mean it.) {To 
 Mabellah) I say, trust to me. [Exit. 
 
 Jan: {Aside to Prospbe.) Now I consider, she looks an heiress. 
 How many thousand acres 1 
 
212 DOVES IN A CAGE. 
 
 Pros. I told you, ten — ten thousand. 
 
 Jan. In Buckinghamshire ? 
 
 Pros. No, Bedfordshire. Now, Janus, remember ; you pro- 
 mise not to hang at my heels ? 
 
 Jan. Yes. 
 
 Pros. To give me a good distance ? 
 
 Jan. Yes. 
 
 Pros. And do try to disguise your face — do give it a look of 
 simple honesty. 
 
 Jan. Oh, sir ! I can't promise too much. Only take the 
 advice of a friend ; carry the heiress to Doctor Manacle at the 
 Pen-in-Hand, marry her, and give me five pounds — ^you can't 
 do better. 
 
 Enter Cherub at hack with Claws. Chertjb points ota 
 MA-R FT. T.ATt to him and retires, leatching at side. 
 
 Pros. Silence. (Sxsvs retires and joins Claws.) Now, dear 
 madam — 
 
 Mab. I — 1 — {Delaying.) Is that your groom ? 
 
 Pros. Eh ? — yes — ^yes — my groom. But we lose time — 
 
 MaJ). The — the horse ? how is the poor thing ? 
 
 Pros. Better — much better. Let us not delay — let us— 
 {Seeing Claws, beckons dovm Janus.) Janus, who's that ? 
 
 Jan. Kit Claws ; a brother officer. 
 
 Pros. What does Ije here ? , 
 
 Jan. (Aside : He sha'n't know that he's to watch the heiress. 
 Ha ! ha ! the heiress !) He's to help me to take care of yon. 
 
 Pros. Scoundrels ! Is not one enough ? 
 
 Jan. The warden thinks not. All your fault : look at yon. 
 How do we know you hav'n't a horse' waiting for you in Lnd- 
 gate 1 Never mind ; we'll give you a long line, and you must 
 make the five guineas ten. (Aside : Heiress ! ) 
 
 Pros. Man-eating villains ! (To Mabbllah) Now, fair lady 
 
 (She looks ai Claws.) — another servant of mine. Your hand 
 
 Mab, (Aside: Shall I venture 1) 
 
 Pros. You are ill — your colour changes — ^your hand is 
 
 Mab^ The prison — the — ^the — ^trust me, I shall be better, much 
 Oetter, when I have passed the gate. 
 
 [Be leads her off to side in, great agitation, and then eamimt ; Jands 
 and Cla-WS, arm-in-arm, following with mock respect. Cherub 
 watches from opposite side, making signs of secresy to ihaa. 
 
 Che. Heiress ! 
 . Jan.. Heiress ! 
 
 Claws. Heiress ! [Exeant. 
 
DOVES IN A CAGE. 213 
 
 Scene III. — View of the Fleet and Carbuncle's Hmise. 
 
 Enter Carbuncle from his house, Giles and Dolly following. 
 Abraham in attendance. 
 
 Carbuncle. May all yovir years be happiness — all your children 
 beautiful ! 
 
 Giles. Thank'ee, sir ; there be little fear, I think, o' the 
 contrary. 
 
 Oar. May all your boys be lord mayors, and all your girls lady 
 mayoresses ! May you through life sleep upon down, and walk 
 upon white cambric ! 
 
 DoUy. Thank'ee, sir : thank'ee heartily. 
 
 Car. And lastly, may you outlive all your friends and acquaiut- 
 ance, — ^and to the witness here of your marriage it is the custom 
 to give not less than a shilling. 
 
 Giles. A shilling ! "Woiinds, Dolly ! this marrying be dear 
 work ! 
 
 DoUy. La ! never mind for once. Let's hope 'twUl never 
 happen to you again. 
 
 Giles. There, master. I say — ha ! ha ! I ha' tricked father. 
 He sent I up to sell at market, and I ha' come and got a wife ! 
 Ha ! ha ! I be only slipped away. Bless'ee ! in Smithfield I ha' 
 left a flock o' geese. 
 
 Car. A flock of geese ! then being safely married, you can't do 
 better than run and join them. 
 
 Giles. What a good soul ! Come, Dolly ! 
 
 [Exetmt Giles amd Dolly. 
 [Mrs. Comfits (an old woman) and Stephen (o youth) come from 
 house, and are solicited iy Abraham. 
 
 Car. I walk here, lest after all the old gentleman may go to the 
 Pen-in-Hand. Three couple yoked this morning, and yet he 
 breathes a bachelor! 
 
 [Mrs. Comfits and Stephen come down. 
 
 Mrs. C. Not a peimy more ! Have you no conscience ? Didn't 
 I give you a crown and odd the two last times ? 
 
 Car. Abraham, how is this? Ke ! in such a moment do not 
 press the happy pair for dirty silver. {Aside to him.) What has 
 she given you ? 
 
 Abraham. Sixpence. 
 
 Car. Humph ! sixpence ! Well, well, the woman's a customer. 
 Farewell, goody. Comfort your husband— pray, fast, and be 
 happy. 
 
 Stephen. La ! am I really a husband ? Oh, mistress — wife I 
 
214 DOVES IN A CAGE. 
 
 mean — if master that's been dead almost five weeks, only knew 
 — well, how he used to beat me to be sure ! Am I indeed a 
 husband ? 
 
 Mrs, Q. To be sure you are. 
 
 Stef. I can't think it ; it was so soon done. {To Carbuncle.) 
 Please you, sir, and truly now — ^my wedding knot, is it fast 
 tied!- 
 
 Car. Fast ! So fast, the king in his robes, with the crown on 
 his head, and his sword of justice in his hand, could not cut it. 
 
 Step. Not with the sword of justice ? 
 
 Car. Not even with the sword of mercy. 
 
 Mrs. O. Now, be satisfied. 
 
 Car. Ay, be so, and depart. Fail not in the tenderness of a 
 husband ; and, above all, forget not that to this woman you are 
 married — ^married past the help of justice or of mercy. [Exeunt 
 Mrs. Compits and Stephen.] I would the old man were here, for 
 the time — 
 
 Ahra. See where the old fellow comes with his bride on his 
 arm. [Cheeub comes on through the prison gate— pauses at baci 
 on seeing them.'] Dispatch them quickly, master : for- you don't 
 forget the business I spoke of last night. " 
 
 Car. Last night ! Thou knowest mj' infirmity : have I not 
 forbidden thee to talk of business after three in the day ? What 
 business ? 
 
 Ahra. The Mary Anne of Shields — she lies at BlackwaU. — 
 
 Car. I remember. I married her captain on Thursday last, 
 and — 
 
 Ahra. You did ; and all the men are so taken with the cap- 
 tain's happiness, that the whole crew have looked for wives and 
 are coming here to be married to day. 
 
 Car. Are they i'faith ? Hush ! they are here — ^the door, 
 Abraham — ^the door ! 
 
 Enter Sables, hurriedly conducting Mabellah. Abraham 
 stands at the door. 
 
 Sables. Here — ^here is the house of the friend I spoke of — in in ! 
 
 MaheUah. (Aside : Anywhere ! Oh, fortune to have escaped 
 him!) [Enters Ca^^vscles house.1 
 
 Sab. She's mine ! she's mine ! 
 
 Car. She shall be ! Come — the ceremony ! 
 
 Sab. A.J, the ceremony : yet stay a,minute. First let me have 
 some talk with her. Then, being at my call, — 
 
 Car. I enter and make you blest. 
 
 [Caebukole aw? Sables exeunt into house, ABTHAUAufoUomng. 
 
DOVES IN A CAGE. 
 
 5l5 
 
 Che. [Coming down.} Make him blest ! that ugly withered — • 
 no, nature never meant it. 
 
 Snter Prosper. 
 
 Prosper. Has she flown or vanished ? — or ?-^eh, boy, is't you ? 
 Tell me, the lady — ^the — 
 
 Che. The heiress ? 
 
 Pros. Hast seen her ? 
 
 Che. First tell me how you've lost her 1 
 
 Pros. Just as we turned into Ludgate, I — making love, as 
 never love was made — spied old Sables, a loud-tongued creditor 
 of mine, as I thought, bearing down upon us. Fearing his abuse, 
 and so exposure, I feigned to speak with my servant, — 
 
 Che. That is. Bob Janus the officer 1 
 
 Pros. The officer. I was but a minutCj and when I turned, 
 the bird was flown. 
 
 Clie. Ha ! I saw it on the wing, and there [pointing to house} 
 it perched. In five minutes, your golden canaiy will be paired 
 with a rusty old jackdaw. 
 
 Pros. Paired ! Why— ^yes— ^that house is — 
 
 Che. One of the twenty traps where harmless folks ai'e caught 
 alive. 
 
 Pros. Traps ! I'll tear thci door from the hinges. [Knocking 
 and calling.} Ho ! house ! house ! 
 
 [Carbuncle appears at window. 
 
 Car. Wbat profane tumult is this ? Who are you 1 
 
 Che. (Aside to Prosper : You'll spoil all.) A poor bachelor 
 that needs your help. 
 
 Car. A poor bachelor ! A noisy one ! 
 
 CTie. He. is : marry hitn and make him quiet. {Aside to 
 Prosper.: Get in the house at any rate.) 
 
 Pros. Geintle sir, I would be married. 
 
 Car. And where is the bride ? 
 
 Pros. She is — 
 
 Che. {Aside to Prosper : Hush ! if you tell the truth he'U 
 double-bolt the door.) The bride — {to Prosper) — seize the first 
 woman that comes to hand. The bride is hard by. ' 
 
 Car. Hard by ! Bah \—\Closes window and disappears^ 
 
 Che. Sir — sir ! — ^the bride is — ^what rare luck !-r-here she, is ! 
 
 \.They stand apart. 
 
 Enter Prudence. : , ■ 
 
 Prudence. That they should have taken poor dear Tom, and 
 have locked bim up in an ugly gaol ! I — I wonder which is the 
 fleet? 
 
216 DOVES IN A CAGE. 
 
 Che. (To Prosper.) The very woman to my eye for a -wife. 
 Talk to her, sir. 
 
 Pru. {To Prosper.) Pray, sir, if you please, sir — ^whieh is the 
 Fleet, sir ? 
 
 Pros, By that sweet ignorance and sweeter face, a country 
 maiden } 
 
 Pru. Yes, sir ; only three months from "Wiltshire, sir ; which 
 is the Fleet, sir ? 
 
 Pros. That is the Fleet. {Pointing to CARBTracLE's house.) 
 
 Pru. That, with the two hands — that a prison 1 
 
 Pros. The— the lodge — it leads to a prison. I was going there. 
 — I'll see you past the gate. Boy, knock for the keeper. 
 
 Che. What! ho! 
 
 [Kiwching at house. Carbuncle appears at window. 
 
 Pru. Is that gentleman the keeper of all the prisoners ? 
 
 Pros. Yes, the — the keeper ; {Aside : and the maker of a gi-eat 
 number.) 
 
 Che. {Poirdinff significarOLy to PRrDENCE.) Now, sir, wUl you 
 be pleased to let us in ? 
 
 Car. Ay, ay ; wait but ten minutes, for I have much on 
 hand. 
 
 Che. "Wait ! do you know who it is you tell to wait ? Keep 
 us a second, and count if you can your loss. For know, that 
 this gentleman is no other than the whole owner of the Mary 
 Anne of Shields ? 
 
 Pru. {Aside : The Mary Anne of Shields ! La ! who'd have 
 thought it of him ?) 
 
 Car. Abraham, open the door ! — ^the Mary Anne of Shields ! 
 [The door is opened and Carbuncle d^appears. 
 
 Che. {To Prosper.) Quick, sir, quick, for Claws and Janus 
 have found scent, and are running down like hounds. (Abraham 
 appears at door.) Enter, sir ; enter worthy owner of.— 
 
 Pros. The Mary Anne of Shields ! 
 
 Pru. The Mary Anne — 
 
 Pros, and Che. The Mary Anne of Shields ! 
 
 [Prosper coTKfecte Pbudenoe i««o house — CsERvafoUows, and the 
 door is closed, chained and bolted as Jaktis and Claws run on- 
 At the same moment Cherub appears at upper window. 
 
 Jan. Ho ! Cherub ! open the door ! our prisoner has escaped ! 
 
 Che. Silence — ^no interruption 'till the marriage is over ! 
 
 Jan. Marriage ! But a'n't we answerable for him to 
 
 Che. Peace ! After the gentleman is properly pinioned he will 
 of course be given over to the sheriff. 
 
 [Cherub disappears. Janus seats himself on the door step ; and 
 Cla^"3 leans against an opposite house. 
 
DOVES IN A CAGE. 217 
 
 ACT 11. 
 
 Scene I. — A Room in Carbuncle's house. The waUs partly 
 hung with old tapestry, behind which doors open into the scene, 
 pictures of churchmen on the walls ; the, place meanly yet 
 fantastically appointed. {The action of the drama continued 
 from the First Ad.) 
 
 Sables and Mabellah discovered. 
 
 MabeUah. He hath had some loss — some sudden ill hath sure 
 disturbed his wits ? Some rich freight wrecked, or — 
 
 SaUes. No — no— no. Thy uncle, Thomas Bezant, is still a sober, 
 prosperous, lucky merchant. 
 
 Mai. It cannot be. Until this day he hath loved me with 
 such tenderness ; and now, so instantly to cast me off, and with 
 such circumstance of shame ! I must have deeply angered 
 him. Oh ! I have shown myself unworthy of his trust, ungi-ate- 
 ful to his care. I have been proud, heedless, capricious ; deaf 
 to his counsel, stubborn to his gentleness. He hath given 
 me to myself to show me what I am — a wayward, self-willed 
 beggar. 
 
 Sai. Tut ! what need of tears ? a rich husband makes all 
 sun again. . 
 
 Mob. Husband ! 
 
 Sai. A man of wealth, a man of acres and ships, .and what is 
 more, a ipan that loves thee as his idol. 
 
 Mab. You know this '! 
 
 Sab. Nothing so surely. Mabellah, you can love such a 
 husband ? Come, speak out to me. Am I a man to deceive 
 you? 
 
 Mab. You ? When I sent to you this morning, did I not — 
 
 Sab. Ay, ay ; I feel and own the sweet flattery of the choice. 
 That I should be the first friend thou didst think of ! But for 
 thy future husband — 'tis time thou shouldst reward him. 
 
 Mab. (Aside : His looks declare it — he knows my secret.) 
 
 Sab. I-^I — {Aside : I have known her lince she was no higher 
 than my calf, and yet she makes me stammer like a schoolboy.) 
 Mabellah, what thinkest thou of five himdred pounds per year 
 for pins, and a thousand for thy jointure ? 
 
 Mai?. This is no hour — I think, no place to — 
 
218 DOVES IN A CAGE. 
 
 Sab. Yes, a, canonical hour ; and for the place, dost know- 
 where thou art ? 
 
 Mab. In your friend's house — ^you said so as we entered. But 
 now, you smile as though you looked upon a dupe. I do entreat, 
 desire, that instantly you lead me hence. 
 
 Sah. Softly — you know not what you'd leave. Look round 
 and let your heart leap when I teU you, — ^this, this is Hymen's 
 temple ! 
 
 Mab. And wherefore was I brought here 1 
 
 Sab. Wherefore? {Aside: Her eyes scorch me to tinder.) 
 To — to find a husband, a spouse that will love and cherish thee. 
 Forgive me if I have tried a little plot to make thee happy. 
 (Aside : She softens— now for Carbuncle to join us !) Forgive 
 me, tarry a moment, and then prepare to take a husband who 
 adores thee. [Exit. 
 
 Mab. A plot! It is so— yes, as the old man approached, 
 Prosper abruptly left me. To give directions to his groom ! 
 So, he trusts to the years, the gravity of my uncle's friend to win 
 me to this hasty match. And I am to be tricked into consent — 
 imprisoned — caged up to wait the coming of-^ 
 
 (Enter Peospbr, at hack) 
 
 (Aside : I thought so — he is here.) 
 
 ISeats herself, affecting not to Tiave seen him. 
 
 Prosper. (Aside : This is a house of cupboards, but at last Tve 
 found her. How she'll Wonder to see me ! Gently, lest in her 
 alarm she scream, and so arouse the doctor.) Madam ! — 
 
 Mai. Sir. 
 
 Pros. Sir ! You are not surprised at this strange meeting ? 
 
 Mah. Surprised ? I expected you. 
 
 Pros. What ! here ? 
 
 Mab. Here. The truth is, your feUoW-corispirator hath con- 
 fessed the plot. 
 
 Pros. (Aside : Cherub ! No — he fastened on Carbuncle, and 
 I've locked them iu-^-and — plot !) 
 
 Mah. 'Twas somewhat bold, sir ; an achievement worthy 
 of a ballad. For what is insolence in a needy swain, the world 
 may call spirit in a man with so many acres, such a fleet of 
 ships. 
 
 Pros. (Aside: Ships ! The Mary Ann of Shields !. Now did 
 she talk Chinese, I were no less edified.) 
 
 Mab. For what wound so deep, that piii-money cannot heal -^ 
 what wrongs so great, a jointure cannot right ? 
 
 Pros. Pin-money, and — a jointui'e 1 
 
DOVES IN A CAGE. 219 
 
 Mah. I hope I understood your friend aright % Tell me ; am 
 I not to have five hundred pounds per annum while you live, 
 and a thousand when I shall lose the most cherishing of husbands 
 and the best of men ? 
 
 Pros. Truly, madam — {Aside : — nay, I'll meet this banter.) I 
 object not to the pin-money, but I were a boor indeed, to think a 
 moment of a jointure. 
 
 Mob. Not a jointure ! 
 
 Pros. No, by my heart. For once married, could I have 
 the ill manners to die and leave the most cherishing of wives, 
 the best of women ? And now, fair lady, who on my part hath 
 promised thousands ? I ask it in all the sobriety of arithmetic. 
 Who? 
 
 Mab. Who but your graybeard friend, your venerable acces- 
 sory. 
 
 Pros. Art sure the graybeard spoke not for itself ? Pin-money 
 and a jointure ! Why, they're the special things an old man 
 wooes with — ^the strong eloquence of infirm age — ^the burning 
 passion of three-score-ten ! 
 
 Mdb. 'Tis so extravagant, I cannot think it. 
 
 Pros. Ponder a little ; conjure up his visage when he made 
 the offer. Confess now ; was it the radiant face of love, beseech- 
 ing a heart, or was it grim Plutus, cheapening superfluous 
 sweetmeats ? 
 
 Mah. You know not the man who brought me here ? — have 
 no plot with hi^ ? 
 
 Pros. Upon my honour — ^no. I ti-acked you by the rarest 
 accident. Speak ; am I in time to save you ? Art certain, thou 
 art not iparried to him ? 
 
 Mab. Married — ^to him ! 
 
 Pros. Nay, thou hast been five minutes in this house, and the 
 ceremony by the doctor's best chronometer takes but three. If 
 only for a trial of his skUl, I'll call the gentleman. 
 
 Mab. Not for the world ! 
 
 Pros. Not ! Oh, madam ! be warned by examples. I had an 
 aunt, — 
 
 Mah. Most fortunate nephew ! 
 
 Pros. Once, and once only, love and fortune planned to make 
 her happy, as they now conspire for you. In the waywardness 
 of beauty she dallied with their offer, and the Vretched woman 
 died a conscience-stricken spinster ! This is profitless delay ; 
 Til call our friend, and we'U be one — ^ay, ere Venus can yoke 
 her doves. 
 
 Mab. Hold, sir — ^hold ! 
 
 Pros. What sudden gravity is this 1 
 
220 DOVES IN A CAGE. 
 
 Mab. You'd wed me ! Your 'patience. Fii-st, 'tis fit you 
 know the dowry your wife brings with her. I must he heard. 
 
 Proi. (Aside : Now for a list of parks and mansions ! Coal 
 mines in the north and ships at sea ; in London six whole 
 . streets ; with jewels, plate, and hills of ready gold. Humph ! to 
 a broken spendthrift, 'tis sweet temptation, and yet — ) 
 
 Mab. You think me rich ? — believe you woo a bride of equal 
 fortune to your own 1 
 
 Pros. Fortune, madam ! I — (Aside: 'Sdeath ! after all I — 
 yes I feel I love the girl too well to cozen her.) 
 
 Mab. You'd wed me — this instant, wed me 1 What, if I 
 abased your faith, and with no more words, consented ? 
 
 Pros. Abused my faith ? 
 
 Mab. Say, that to become your wife I yielded to your self- 
 delusion — say, that I were false enough to promise lasting love 
 and truth, only that I might fix you for that most wretched 
 thing, a married dupe ? 
 
 Pros. MabeUah ! 
 
 Mab. The cheat discovered, what future trust could be 
 between us ? None ; at once you'd cast me from you for a 
 hypocrite — ^a snaring mischief! 
 
 Pros. True. (Aside : I feel, indeed, a worthless knave.) 
 
 Mai. Search your heart, and answer. "Were I to act such 
 falsehood, would you not spurn, despise me 1 
 
 Pros. Tou, MabeUah ! Tou could not. 
 
 Mab. I will not, Prosper — I will not. Hear me. This morn- 
 ing I thought myself the heiress of thousands : I have lost — I 
 fear, for ever forfeited — ^the love of him who— enough, I am a 
 beggar. v 
 
 Pros. MabeUah ! 
 
 Mab. Penniless — ^friendless. , -, 
 
 Pros. Alas ! poor girl ! 
 
 Mab. (Aside: Pitied!) 
 
 Pros. What's to be done ? 
 
 Mab. Prosper ! — Sir ! 
 
 Pros. That frozen word — ^that look of bitteriless ! I know 
 their meaning, lady ; you deem me — 
 
 Mab. What in truth you are — ^my best monitor. Yes, sir, for 
 
 you have shown me my real worth — taught me my only value ■ 
 
 I am but the dross of hoped-for wealth. 'Tis a hard lesson for a 
 proud heart ; yet, sir, I thank yon for the teaching. 
 
 [Owrtseying, and about to retire. 
 
 Pros. By my soul, lady, I am not so sunk, so sordid ! Now 
 might I show my love — 
 
 Mab. Peace, air ; and leave me. I teU you, the mercenary tie 
 
DOVES IN A CAGE. 221 
 
 that bound us. Fortune — I thank her ! — hath broken ; the only 
 fee you pleaded for, she now refuses. Again I tell you I'm a 
 • beggar. I see you hear the word, and still you linger. 
 
 Pros. And must, to win your patience. (Sables, Jaitos, and 
 Claws enter from behind the tapestry^ 'Tis trne, the rumour of 
 your gold first urged me to follow you ; but, seeking gold, I have 
 found in you a wealth which makes aU other riches dust. Oh, 
 that this instant I might prove the truth of my affection ! "Tis 
 impossible — for your sake, I must not, dare not. Lady, forgive 
 the worthless cheat ; you see — 
 
 Sab. A prisoner, 'scaped from gaol ! 
 
 Mah. Prisoner ! 
 
 Sab. A fortune-hunting debtor, run from the sheriff. {To 
 Officers.) Tis well I saw ye from the window. Hold your 
 man. 
 
 Jan. Like nippers. For a gentleman to run from men like 
 us ! It makes one downright melancholy — there is no honour 
 left. 
 
 Pros. Mabellah ! 
 
 Sah. Eogues, let hiTn not speaks— away with him. 
 
 Pros. Standoff! My blood boils at their touch. I am your 
 prisoner ; but I warn ye, stand off. Mabellah ! — 
 
 <Sla!6. {Taking her hand.) Heed him — ^hear him not ! 
 
 Pros. Not one word ? Not one parting word ? 
 
 Sab. {To Mabellah.) The doctor — {Aside : Plague on him ! 
 where can he be ?) — The doctor is ready-r-come, sweet — 
 
 Pros. Not for myself I speak ; but for your happiness — ^your 
 future peace. 
 
 Sai. {To Mabellah.) I teU you he's a profligate — a spend- 
 thrift. 
 
 Pros. One word, ere we become as we had never met. 
 
 Sab. A bird of prey — a very hawk-^a thriftless runagate. 
 
 Mai. {To Sables.) Tou hurt my hand, sir ; pray you, let it 
 go. My future peace ? 
 
 Pros. Oh ! trust it not to an old man's keeping. In your deep 
 scorn of me— ^and well I know the wretched worm I seem 
 — wed not with that winter frost, that canker, that gray money- 
 bag. 
 
 Sab. {To Officers.) The warden's my good friend— I'll give 
 ye wan-ant for't, bind and gag him ! 
 
 Pros. I pray, as I would pray for life, think better of thy 
 fortune. Thou and I, Mabellah, may never meet again. I do 
 not dare to hope it : yet, let me implore thee, do not, in sudden 
 rashness, cast away thy wealth of life. 
 
 Mob. Prosper ! 
 
222 DOVES IN A CAGE. 
 
 Pros. That -word, that look, assures me ! Mahellah, farewell ! 
 at least, the prisoner may pray for ye. 
 
 [Exit, followed ly Officers. Mabellah dnJcs in a chairr 
 JSab. Had he staid, I had been tried for murder ! 
 
 (Enter Bezakt.) 
 
 Master Bezant, thou hast scaped a scene that — 
 
 Beearvt. No matter ; leave us a little. 
 
 Sab. Leave ! She hath looked consent, and thou'lt spoil all. 
 
 Bee. Not so, trust me. Go — I'll call you presently. {Exit. 
 Sabi.es.) Mabellah, — (She rises.) — ^your eye reproaches me. 
 
 Mob. No, sir ; no. It were unworthy of the light to look 
 reproach on you. 
 
 Bez. Mabellah ! — ^my child ! 
 
 Mob. (Falling into his arms.) Uncle ! 
 
 Bez. Ay, your heart yet labours with the lesson — I hope the 
 wholesome lesson, — ^I have set it. 
 
 Mai. Lesson ! 
 
 Bez. TeU me ; what think you of this passionate swain — this 
 generous youth enamoured of pounds sterling ? Are you now 
 convinced ? See you not he has sought you as so much senseless 
 gold — wooed you as the vulgar instrument of his poor vanities ? 
 
 Mob. Tou knew his suit ? 
 
 -Bes. Mabellah, there came an orphan — a belpless yeanling to 
 my roof; that babe is now a woman ; but the eye that watched 
 her infitncy, as it had gathered strength from what it tended, 
 is waking, watchful stUl. From the fii'st I knew the villain's 
 purpose. 
 
 Mob. Uncle ! 
 
 Bez. I say — ^villain. Would he not have snared ye ? Day 
 after day (I knew the place, the very point of time,) hath he not 
 -met you with a lie upon his lip, — ^your fancied wealth the thing 
 he smiled for — ^yourself the worthless vessel to be cast to winds 
 and waves as soon as plundered ? 
 
 Mob. No — no ! 
 
 Bez. Then have I lost my pains ; you love him still — love with 
 a hopeless love 1 
 
 Mab. Hopeless ! 
 
 Bez. In his eyes are you not poor, unfriended — and, forsaken 
 by the world, the passionate lover leaves you to its mercies t 
 
 Mab. What aid— what help could he bestow? Himself a 
 ■ prisoner. — . ^ ^ 
 
 Bez. Ay, I thank the chance that's caged him. 
 
 Mab. Uncle ! 
 
DOVES IN A CAGE. 223 
 
 Bez. He is fixed — ^past hope of freedom. Nay, I know his 
 state, his certain destitution. If some wealthy matron open not 
 his prison door, 'tis shut upon him for his life. So may it be ! 
 
 Mab. Say not so, dear uncle — say not so ! 
 
 Bez. He would have doomed you to the worst captivity of 
 human days — a miserable marriage. So may he linger out his 
 years, a pent-up, selfish spendthrift '. So may his eyes fade before 
 prison walls — his head grow gray beneath a prison roof! For 
 you, Mabellah, there's fortune, happiness : wedding a wealthy, 
 honourable man — 
 
 Mai. And Prosper still a prisoner ? Never ! or, on my bridal- 
 day, may peace for ever leave me ! Oh, sir ! indeed you do him 
 wrong ; he is not the heartless thing you name him. No — ^he is 
 kind, generous, noble. 
 
 Bez. MabeUah! 
 
 Mob. Nay, sir, despite that incredulous look — ^that cold, pitying 
 smile — ^I will, I must plead for him. Grant him wild, wavering, 
 -extravagant ; with every foUy, every fault of youth ; stUl, he 
 hath a heai-t of untouched goodness. 
 
 Bez. Infatuation. 
 
 Mah. My life upon the proof, could proof be made ! 
 
 Bez, It shall be made. I will release him from his present 
 bonds. Stay, on this condition — your solemn promise never 
 more to see him ? Well, I'll not exact so much ; but should he 
 as the price of freedom willingly forego your love — 
 
 Mai. He will not ! 
 
 Bez. Should he consent to quit England, I'll find the means, 
 for some far distant country, — 
 
 Mah. He will not leave me ! 
 
 Bez. Why, then, you pledge to cast him from your thoughts, as 
 he renounces you ? I see, you fear to promise ? 
 
 Mah. In the deep assurance of his faith, I promise ! 
 
 Bez. Faith ! your self-'delusion — what other token 1 
 
 Mai. His last look — ^his parting words. Oh ! his heart beamed 
 in his eyes, and I heard his secret soul. 
 
 Bez. "Well ; to the proof His freedom offered, he will desert 
 you. 
 
 Mdb. Never — never ! [^Exeunt. 
 
 Scene -II. — Tlie room {miserably furnished) of Prosper, 
 in the Fleet Prison. • ' 
 
 Prosper discovered — Cherub waiting. 
 
 Cherub. There never was such an escape !. 
 J'rosper, You've told me so. 
 
 R 2 
 
224 DOVES IN A CAGE. 
 
 Che. I got off marriage oaly because I hadn't the fees. With 
 money in my pocket, I had been a lost man. As for the old 
 gentleman, by this iime 'tis all over with him. Oh ! I heard 
 him, as I ran down stairs, tell the doctor to prepare. Well, 
 since the woman proves no heiress, you have had a lucky miss. 
 
 Pros. Peace. I am tired — perplexed — and — 
 
 Che. Hungry, no doubt ; and not a penny for your stomach ? 
 
 Pros. 'Even so, feUow, I am a hopeless beggar. {Aside: And 
 she will marry him — «he will wed the dotgird ; for so much gold 
 become his lawful victim ! Oh, money ! money! thou mischief 
 in the hands of fools, thou best of servants to the wise ! In what 
 vain riots, what mad mirth, have I destroyed the means of truest 
 peace ! She will marry him !) 
 
 Che. Not a penny ? and 'tis clear the keepers know it. 
 
 Pros. Every source exhausted — my creditors, and justly let 
 me own, inexor'able, what are my hopes ? My future days 
 doomed to a prison — -to sink, step by step, till I become the out- 
 cast of a gaol ! To — {To Cherub)— why do you linger ? Go — 
 at least I am left the privacy of this miserable nook. 
 
 Che. Be not angry with me ; I — I only wait to say the sayings 
 of the keepers. The prison's crowded — rooms, no bigger than 
 bird-cages, are crammed with eight and ten ; now, you alone 
 occupy this superb and spadous apartment. 
 
 Pros. 'Twas my covenant with the warden. 
 
 Che. True ; but, so says his deputy, the covenant ran that you 
 should pay rent for it. I am told to tell you, what doubtless 
 you know; there are three weeks due, and money's ever welcome. 
 
 Pros. I — ^I'U look to it — begone. 
 
 Che. It must be paid, they swear, this veiy day : and more, as 
 out of special grace you have till now been charged only one 
 pound a week, if you would keep it to yourself, the room must 
 henceforth be forty shillings. 
 
 Pros. Double ! 
 
 Che. Double. The prison's filling and rents are on the rise : 
 then there's some of the moveables about the room hired from 
 Lynx, the second key : he has given me here the list and prices, 
 and begs for payment. 
 
 Pros. Harpies ! 
 
 Che. {B/eading paper^ " Hired, and to be paid for weekly. To 
 bed, blanket, and bolster," — 
 
 Pros. A couch scarce fit for a houod. 
 
 Che. " Five-and-twenty-shillings. To a table, one chair, and a 
 three-legged stool, eighteen and sixpence." 
 
 Pros. What ! 
 
 Che. The prison's choked with customers — even three-legged 
 
DOVES IN A CAGE. 225 
 
 stools are going up. " To a cork-screw, nutmeg-grater, boot-jack, 
 and pair of bellows, five and a penny. To a " — 
 
 Pros. Pshaw ! hang the items ! astound me with the sum 
 in fulL 
 
 Che. Ha, sir ! pardon me if I say it, but that's the fault that 
 brings so many people here. They cry, " hang the items," and 
 then wonder when they're knocked down by the sum in fuIL 
 The whole weekly amount, sir, three pounds, one and twopence. 
 
 Pros. Knocked down, indeed ! 
 
 Che. And, sir. Lynx vows he can't give a miaute'a further 
 credit, his profits being so very small. 
 
 Pros. Small ! the horseleech ! 
 
 Che. All your hasty inexperience. For who, that knows any- 
 thing of the Fleet, would pay for such things by the week ? No, 
 sir ; any friend who wished you well, would have advised you to 
 hire 'em by the twelvemonth. 
 
 Pros. (Aside : Or, in my case, to have bought a life-possession.) 
 
 Enter Bezabt. 
 
 Bezant. Your name is Prosper ? 
 
 Pros. I think so ; as I think this my apartment ; though, by 
 the way you enter, I may reasonably question it. 
 
 Bez. Oh, sir ! he who brings good news may waive aU 
 ceremony. 
 
 Che. Good news ! 
 
 Bez. May we talk together ? 
 
 Che. Fm gone, sir. {Aside to Prosper : I know they'll set 
 upon me open-mouthed for money, but, for a time, FU try and 
 cram their throats with only good news.) [Exit. 
 
 Pros. Now, sir ? 
 
 Bez. Master Prosper, you are here fast bound by heavy debts. 
 
 Pros. Sir, I listen for your news. 
 
 Bez. Your patrimony squandered — no kindred, friends, to 
 help you. 
 
 Pros. Your news, sir ? 
 
 Bez. The keepers showed me a prisoner in the court below : 
 for thirty years, they told me, he had withered in this gaoL 
 I marked him ; he looked the grisly spectre of a man : yet 
 was he, said they, once of as high and gallant bearing, ay, as 
 yoursel£ 
 
 Pros. I, too, have seen this ghost. Well, sir ? 
 
 Bez. Tell me ; what is to stand between you and snch an end ? 
 What reasonable hope that Prosper shall not to the next 
 generation of fools and spendthrifts who may waste here, show 
 
226 DOVES IN A CAGE. 
 
 the like miserable apparition, the same wan shadow of his 
 present self t 
 
 JPros. There is no hope — ^none. 
 
 Bez. Yes, your debts shall be discharged. 
 
 Tros. What ! 
 
 Bez. Your prison door be opened,— more, the means of future 
 competence secured you. 
 
 Pros. And who will work this miracle ? 
 
 Bez. It shall be done. 
 , JPros. But how am I to earn this shower of fortune 1 
 
 Bez. The motion of a finger makes it yours. Quickly, sign 
 this paper. 
 
 Pros. So. {About to take it, pauses^ What may be its obli- 
 gation ? 
 
 Bez. You have some time followed a lady named MabeUah — 
 
 Pros. Weill— 
 . Bez. By signing this deed you gain all that urged you to the 
 suit, with this further profit— you take no wife. 
 
 Pros. Oh ! sir, I am instructed. The wife is sought for by 
 another, is she not ? 
 
 Bez. She is. 
 
 Pros. A serious, venerable man of — ^I know not how many 
 score ? Say, is it he or the lady's uncle who'd pay the price of 
 my deliverance ? 
 
 Bez. Her uncle ! Alas, he hath no longer the means. 
 
 Pros. Not ? 
 
 Bez. No. 'Tis the gentleman who'd wed her, who offers free- 
 dom, but with this condition: that you sail from England, if 
 possible, this very night. Come, sir, your signature. 
 . Pros. Doth the lady ask it ? 
 
 Bez. In the Indies, wealth and pleasure may be found. Pause 
 not^sign. 
 
 Pros. Doth Mabellah ask it ? 
 . Bez. Means of speedy fortune — ample means are offered. Sign, 
 sir, sign. 
 
 Pros. Your answer — as a gentleman — your answer. Doth 
 Mabellah. require my hand to this ? 
 
 Bez. I wUl not say it ; no, not Mabellah. 
 
 Pros. Then, sir, take back the paper : for I would sooner 
 thrust my hand within a fire, than fix it to that deed. 
 
 Bez. Tut ! for what did you pursue the lady ? 
 
 Pros. For wealth — ^mere wealth ; I own the poverty of mind 
 that urged me. I cared not for her love — I sought her gold, but 
 in her pure soul I've seen my worthlessness reflected, and I no 
 longer ask her fortune but her heart. 
 
DOVES IN A CAGE. 227 
 
 £ez. Mere rhapsody. {Pointing from window^ Look below 
 there, and be wise. Do you see that ghastly monitor ? 
 
 Pros. The miserable man you spoke of? How the poor 
 wretch drags his shaking limbs into the sun ! 
 
 Bez. Ay, you will sign the deed ? 
 
 Pros. No ! and let that word suffice. You hear my answer 2 
 
 Bez. Tou will amend it— I am sure you wilL In the court, 
 I'll walk and wait your better reason. 
 
 Pros. Youi- time's your own, sir ; use it as you list. (Exit 
 Bezant.) What ! yield her — make a selfish bargain of her 
 happiness — sign her, for so much gold, the victim — 
 
 (Enter Cheettb.) 
 
 What now ? 
 
 Che. Oh, sir ! was ever man so lucky as yourself ! You'll own 
 your fortune when you hear my story : 'tis just come to the 
 gate. The uncle of your heiress — the city rings with the tale — 
 the prince of merchants, as they called him, — 
 
 Pros. Well? 
 
 Che. Lost, broken, utterly gone ! Three ships sunk in one 
 tempest — two taken by the enemy — a warehouse at Barbadoes 
 burnt — and, oh, sir ! thank your friendly stars, he hasn't a 
 shilling. 
 
 Pros. Is't possible ? poor gentleman ! 
 
 Che. But, sir, you should rejoice. 
 
 Pros. Begone, fellow ! were he my sworn enemy, in such an 
 hoiir I'd pluck my heart out could it beat with gladness. Leave 
 me. Poor gentleman ! 
 
 Che. Poor gentleman ! say I : but, see you, had you taken his 
 niece for wife, you had been prisoner all your mortal days. The 
 Great Mogul could not have helped you. When you know what's 
 happened to his niece ! 
 
 Pros. To Mabellah ? Speak. 
 
 CAe. She had a venture, I think they call it, with her uncle ; 
 and, somehow — as I never had anything, I know not how such 
 thin<JS are done — somehow, they have made Madam Mabellah 
 partner with Master Bezant, and so with him, she owes I cannot 
 count how many thousands. 
 
 Pros. Mabellah ! 
 
 Che. And what's worse, 'tis said old Sables, the man who 
 wants' to marry her, is the hardest creditor. ■ For Master Bezant, 
 he hath either drowned himself or run away : he is not to be 
 found. 
 
 Pros. Go, good fellow. Why do you wait ? 
 
228 DOVES IN A CAGE. 
 
 Che. The deputy warden has no ears except in his pocket. 
 I told him you were promised good news, I can see by your face 
 you have had none, but still he asked for his money. Good sir, 
 be advised ; give up the room quietly. 
 
 Pros. What ! 
 
 Che. They bid me say 'tis wapnted ; and further, that you may 
 lodge in forty-two, which has but five at present. Tou'U not 
 dispute the order ? '■ ■ 
 
 Pros. And why not ? 
 
 Che. Because — because, there is the strong-room for the 
 riotous, — and the deputy — 
 
 Pros. Tell him, I will not stir. Go, bear my message ; I warn 
 you, do not tempt me in my present mind. 
 
 Che. Think again, sir. 
 
 Pros. I have thought — the door is open — ^you know the stairs. 
 "Wait here one minute, and — 
 
 Che, Take counsel, sir : fling me down stairs, and you'll hurt 
 the prisoner coming up. Hark ! hear you the footsteps ! 
 
 Pros. Why, then, I'll see — ■ 
 
 \Is about to thrust Cherub from room, when Mabbllah is shown 
 on hy Janus. 
 
 Che. The prisoner ! 
 
 Pros. Mabellah ! 
 
 Janus. Now, sir, you have heard — ^your room is wanted. This 
 lady is — 
 
 Pros. Peace. I know my service. (Janus and Cherub retire^ 
 Oh, Mabellah ! is fortune so malignant ? 
 
 Mah. Fortune ! till now she has given me hourly gifts of 
 goodness : should I repine if one day she forget me 1 
 
 Pros. So calm — ^and in this wretched place ? 
 
 Mah. 'Tis not so wretched, but a trusting heart, a spirit clear 
 of wrong, may leafn to dwell in it. 
 
 Pros. Dwell here ! shut in by these blank walls 1 
 
 Mah. Blank ! nay, prison walls are Writ with golden lessons, 
 
 Prosper ; themes we never dream of in the open world deep 
 
 truths, rare knowledge. I trust, to prove a hard, yet cheerful 
 studeiit. 
 
 Pros. {Aside: This cannot be: no, her pride is strugcrling 
 with her heart, and the unseen tear bums in her eye.) (To 
 Cherub, a^ide. That man — ^has he left the prison ?) 
 
 Che. No ; even ii6w he was talking to — 
 
 Pros. Enough. {Aside : I'll sign the deed — she shall be free !) 
 Mabellah, thou art deceived— this is no school for gentleness 
 like thine. [&it, followed hy Janus. 
 
 Mah. Whither is he gone ! 
 
DOVES IN A CAGE. 229 
 
 Cite. To find Master Bezant, he walks in the court there. 
 {Th^ look from window.) As I left the doctor's he gave me a 
 guinea to say as he should bid me, not to discover him, nor, — 
 see ! — 
 
 Mob. Prosper joins him. 
 
 Che. He takes him hy the hand, and now your uncle presents 
 a paper and — provident old gentleman ! — he has brought an ink- 
 horn with him. 
 
 3fab, He'll sign the deed ! 
 
 Che. He has signed it, and now, Janus -writes his name as 
 witness. 
 
 Mob. Lost ! lost ! {Sinks in a cliair. Exit Cherub. 
 
 Enter Prosper. 
 
 Pros. Ton are free— you are saved ! 
 
 Mob. Lost ! lost ! 
 
 Pros. No, I have signed the bond, bound myself to exile, to 
 leave you, ay, this very hour. But you are restored ; yes, the 
 penalty is paid, and you are free. 
 
 Mob. Pree ! I teU you that act has bound me in the worst of 
 bondage — 'tis thy hand hath riveted a life-long chain. 
 
 Pros. No ; my absence is alone required ; that alone is made 
 the price of your release, a quittance of all claims : you are free 
 — untrammelled. 
 
 Mab, Bound, I say — bound past hope,' to wed the man you 
 bade me hate ! 
 
 EfOer Bezant and Cherub {v.'nseen) — they stand at lack. 
 
 Pros. "By what contract ? 
 
 Mab. A promise solemnly made. I knew you would be 
 tempted by that dee<l— tempted with freedom — and I pledged 
 myself to wed that man, should you accept the offered bond. 
 
 Pros. What nrged you to so wild a fault ? 
 
 Mob. Ignorance ; I thought I knew your heart. Prosper ; as 
 you say, it was a fault, I knew it not. 
 
 Pros. Spare that reproach ; for by my soul 'tis not deserved. 
 May every common joy of being leave me, if for thy sake alone I 
 have not done this ; if for thy present comfort, future peace, 1 
 have not doomed myself an outcast from my country, a hopeless 
 wanderer. Cotdd I behold you pining here, shut from a happy 
 world 3 
 
 Mab. Nay, I could have found happiness — ^yes, here, a fairer 
 world than that to which you've doomed me. 
 
230 DOVES IN A CAGE. 
 
 I'ros. What hope remained ? With claims so crushing, who 
 — who could have restored you — who ? 
 
 Mab. True, sir, true ; you have done wisely, prudently ; at 
 least, I'll strive to thiuk it. Who, indeed ? Farewell ! 
 
 Pros. Stay — I did not dare to make — ^to think the offer. I 
 hoped to give you to the world, that you might win a worthier, 
 richer choice. Mabellah, let me break the bond. 
 
 Mab. Prosper ! 
 
 JPros. Incur the forfeit, make thy obligations mine, and give 
 thee freedom. 
 
 Mai. Shall I buy liberty at such a cost 1 » 
 
 Pros. This to me will be no prison, Mabellah, if sometimes 
 thou wilt visit it. If I go hence, I go into a life's captivity — 
 here, and calling thee mine, 'tis freedom — blessed liberty. 
 What 1 I have hands, strength, health ; will learn some honest 
 craft, think no drudgery vile, so thou wilt sometimes breathe 
 the music of a loving heart, wilt look the recompense of loving 
 eyes! 
 
 Mab. Prosper ! No — ^the bond — ^my word — 
 
 Bez. (Coming down.) The bond is yours. 
 
 Mab. Uncle! 
 
 Pros. He — Bezant ! 
 
 £ez. And for my word, I do not claim it. Choose where thou 
 wilt, thou'rt free to do so. 
 
 3iab. Prosper? 
 
 Sez. Ay,, for I have proved him. I had no other end in all 
 my this day's plans. The spendthrift is reclaimed, the fortune- 
 hunter sues not for so much metal, but a heart. I know 'tis 
 yours, sir ; take her and, in due time, my wealth ; for I thank 
 fortune, my ships still sail the seas. 
 
 Che. {Looking from window.) Eh ! there's Master Sables, fol- 
 lowed by the doctor, crossing the yard. 
 
 Bez. Ha ! I've used him in my plot to teach him the gravity 
 due to his days ; though I doubt not, the lesson will something 
 chafe him. Come, let us meet the storm and brave it. 
 
 Pros. Oh, Mabellah ! how have the changes of this brief day 
 taught me thy worth — thy goodness ! 
 
 Bez. Even so ; it was my wish to teach you the true know- 
 ledge of each, other — 'twas for that you here encountered : for 
 well I knew that they who in the hours of gaiety and freedom, 
 seem mere birds of idle song, touched by adversity, become 
 
 Doves in a Cage. 
 
PAINTER OF GHENT. 
 

 CHARACTEES. 
 
 UODSKIOK. 
 lOHABOD. 
 
 Fathek Feahois. 
 Aksom. 
 
 SCESE- 
 
 Sebvakt. 
 
 EtfPHEMIA 
 
 Child. 
 -Ghent. 
 
THE 
 
 PAINTER OF GHENT. 
 
 Scene — An apartment massively furnished, in the Gothic style. On 
 the loaUs the portrait of a female, with three portraits of children. 
 On one side a richly-carved and orna/menied cabinet. 
 
 Discovered, Eoderick seated, intently gazing on the picture of a 
 chUd hefore him. Ichabod and Auson waiting apart. 
 
 Ichahod. {To Anson.) I may not tarry longer. — 
 
 Anson. A little — ^yet a little. 
 
 Ichah. I say, I have affairs that call me {Approaching Kodeeick.) 
 Good sir — 
 
 Ans. Hush ! thou dost not know the peril. {Aside — woUching 
 Eoderick.) Oh, I fear him ! Would he had never seen it ! 
 
 Ichah. {To Roderick.) Grood, noble gentleman — 
 
 ^/M. Peace ! See you not his lace 1 
 
 Ichah. In brightest day, sir, I could hardly see the grave my 
 staff might touch. His face ! 
 
 Ans. {Aside — observing 'Rot>erick.) So it looked when — oh, that 
 smile ! Alas, I fear him ! 
 
 Ichah. But I can count the hours — half hours — ^minutes ; at 
 seventy-five 'tis time to count them — and, again, sir, I may no 
 longer stay. 
 
 Ans. Wait. {Approaching Eoderick.) Old Ichabod, the Jew — 
 the picture trader, — 
 
 Roderick. Eight — ^very right. 
 
 Ans. He would sell the picture, and be gone. 
 
 Boder. {Turning to him.) Ichabod — fie, Anson ! a chair. 
 
 [Anson places a chair, amd IcnA.B0D sits near Bodebick, Ahson 
 stands apart. 
 
 Ichah. It is the picture, sir — is't not ? 
 
 Boder. It is. 
 
 Ichah. A noble thing, sir — a wondrous thing ! I have not 
 
234 THE PA.INTER OF GHENT. 
 
 eyes to see it now — ^but it is here, sir, here — a piece of very 
 Ught. 
 
 JRoder. You knew the painter 1 
 
 Ichab. I was his first patron. He would have perished — 
 starved with his wife and children, but that I spared him some- 
 thing, something for — 
 
 Roder. The noble things — the wondrous things he wrought ! 
 
 Ichab. He had made an unthrifty match with a poor, pretty 
 face, and his rich father — so I gathered — ^thrust him penniless 
 abroad. 
 
 Roder. And then, it seems, he turned accomplishment to bread 
 — to daily food for wife and babes ? You were a patron-^he 
 became a drudge. 
 
 Ichab. By Aaron's beard, I swear I was his first ftiend ; took 
 all he did, sir, good and bad — aye, risked my sure gold upon a 
 nameless hand. 
 
 Roder. And found he no other help ? Were you alone in this 
 good work 1 
 
 Ichab. In time, other dealers flocked about him — ^would have 
 bought him fiom me ; but then, sir, I raised and raised my price, 
 and he was faithful to an early friend. That picture — 'twas I 
 think the last he sold me, — it was the last — the price I paid 
 confirms it ; aye, fifty golden pieces. 
 
 Roder. Thy memory is worn — think again — ^not fifty ? 
 
 Ichab. Sure I am 'twas fifty — ^sure, as if now I chinked the 
 pieces in my hand. 
 
 Roder. How old art thou, Ichabod t 
 
 Ichab. Seventy-five, a month, and odd three days. 
 
 Roder. And every day narrows the little, little space between 
 thee and the grave — and every night thou layest thy dry bones 
 in thy bed, thou well mayest fear that ere the next sun set, a 
 churchyard clay shall hold them ! Thy beard is white — ^thy limbs 
 unstrung — thy blood jelUed — and thine eyebaUs quenched. Old 
 man, death is aiming at thee. 
 
 Ichab. Amen ! I await the stroke. 
 
 Roder. What ! with a lie upon thy lip 1 — 
 
 Ichah. Master! — 
 
 Roder. A trading lie, when worms are waiting thee ? Ichabod, 
 believe it — an old man's face, though seamed and stained with 
 years, should beam with coming glory ! 
 
 Ichab. What now, sir ?— what need of talk like this ? Abraham 
 receive me ! — I — we spake of the picture, and — 
 
 Roder. And I said thy memory wandered. Five ^not fifty 
 
 pieces— was the price you paid. Nay, I knew the painter. 
 
 Ichah. Knew Eoderick ? — 
 
THE PAINTER OF GHENT. t236 
 
 JRoder. Ejiow his history — know his every work. 
 
 Ickah. Is he alive ? 
 
 Roder. Aye. 
 
 Ichab. I cau make him rich. You know his pictures ? — there 
 "was one — a baby Hercules, grasping a wol^ — 
 
 Roder. He painted it within the shadow of a gaol. 
 
 Ichab. 'Twas but last week its new inheritor — a wealthy friend 
 of art — came to my house to seek the painter out. He would 
 employ him on — 
 
 Roder. What! 
 
 Ans. {Aside to Ichasod. Peace ! For God's great love, be 
 silent ! ) 
 
 Roder. {Solemnly) The time is past — ^he cannot work for 
 man ! 
 
 A ns. {Aside : Out on the Jew ! the fit returns.) 
 
 Ichah. Noble sir, you said he was alive. I speak of — 
 
 Ans. {Interposing.) The picture you would sell his honour. ( To 
 EoDERiCK.) Ichabod would fix the bargain, and depart. Now, 
 Jew — now. 
 
 Ichah. Well, sir, well — perhaps my memory was false ; I could 
 have sworn 'twas fifty, but if you know the painter — 
 
 Roder. Hear, then judge. 'Tis eighteen years since Eoderick 
 for the first time lingered at your door. Pictures of excelling 
 power — ^wonders of the art were there, tempting the rudest pas- 
 senger to pause, and feed upon their' beauty. AndEoderick stood 
 and gazed, but not on them. A child, whose eye, and cheek, and 
 waving hair, and fawn-like grace, and happy, glorious looks made 
 dim the painted life about it — a child — 
 
 Ichab. 'Twas Heuben ! — ^I could not speak before — 'twas my 
 ■own bright boy — the ehUd of my gi'ey hairs — the dove, sent, as 
 I thought, to murmur peace to my old age ! 
 
 Roder. The infant, loudly laughing, ran towards Eoderiek ; he 
 had taken it in his arms, — 
 
 Ichah. When I appeared. 'Tis all before me now. He praised 
 my boy ; (who did not, who had the eyes and ears of man ? ) he 
 praised him — talked of the art — and next day showed me a pic- 
 ture of his own- I bought it — ^bade him bring me more ; that 
 before you — the figure is his own child — was the last. Oh, 
 Eenben ! Eeuben ! I recollect — 'twas five pieces. 
 
 Roder. With drowning eyes, and burning hand — ^for death 
 
 again was at my hearth — ^I laboured at my half-completed work. 
 
 Ichah. Thou! • :,: . ; 
 
 Roder. I tell you, for one whole day I wrestled with my heart ; 
 
 and that picture — the semblance of my last living babe — ^I sold 
 
 • to .buy a coffin for the dead. 
 
236 THE PAINTER OF GHENT. 
 
 Ichah. And thou didat not tell me this ? 
 
 JRoder. Thou didat know my wretchednesa. 
 
 Ichah. But hadst thou told — 
 
 Roder. Told ! When swelling affluence doth blink its horny 
 eyes, think you the pride of poverty can find a tongue ? I laid 
 my little one in yonder earth, and turned my back upon your 
 city. 
 
 Ichah. And I was then a father ! And stiU I. chaffered — still, 
 with the hardness of old Egypt, tasked you for scanty bread. 
 Well, I have been — am scourged for it. Reuben ! — my mur- 
 dered Beuben ! 
 
 Boder. Murdered ! 
 
 Ichah. Oh, sir ! he grew like a young palm, and my heart 
 waxed great within me, and I felt not age when I did look upon 
 him. He was a healing jewel to mine eye — a staff of cedar in my 
 hand — a fountain at my foot. 
 
 Boder. And slain 1 
 
 Ichah. In the street. Thrice a day I kneel upon the place, and 
 what I pray there may not be told to man ! 
 
 Bxider. KUled ! 
 
 Ichah. It was a day of state — the streets were thronged. A 
 neighbour's chUd, one of our people — a gentle, timid girl — went 
 with my son. He pressed to place her near the sight, when a 
 young noble smote him to the earth. My boy leapt up — I thank 
 God ! — returned the blow. The ruffian drew upon my chUd — 
 cried "dog of a Jew ! " — and pierced his guileless heart. 
 
 Roder. Old man — old man ! 
 
 Ichah. The sword is here wliUe I do speak of it. 
 
 Roder. The murderer ? 
 
 Icliah. The murderer? He was noble. He paid some fine, 
 they say — ^had leave to travel Reuben was a Jew. 
 
 Roder. Almighty heaven ! 
 
 Idiah. Had one of our tribe trod on a noble's hound — ^plucked 
 a feather from a noble's hawk, he had been striped, and prisoned, 
 mutilated, marred. The meek, professing Ghi-istian, breaks 
 God's own phial, and joumies forth in peace. 
 
 Roder. Not in peace — ^not in peace. 
 
 ' ichih. They brought my boy to my dark house. I saw the 
 wound — I have seen nothing clearly since. 
 
 Roder. Sweet boy ! 
 
 Ichah. Ha ! thou dost remember him 1 
 
 Roder. Did I not paint — 
 
 Ichah. That picture ! In an evil hour, won by his prayers, I 
 gave it to his grandfather. When Reuben was lost to me,' I 
 travelled far to repossess it. I found it— the house and all' it 
 
THE PAINTER OF GHENT. 237 
 
 teld had passed to alien hands — I found it, flung -witli lumber in 
 a reeking vaulfe. Vermin — pitiless as men — ^had preyed upon 
 it : the face — ^that lovely face — was half destroyed ; even his 
 sweet image was denied me ! But thou art sent to aid — wilt 
 hear me ? 
 
 Roder. Speak. 
 
 Ichab. Think it the prayer of an old, weak, blind, childish man 
 — think it, but do not refuse it. His face ! thou'lt say, I cannot 
 see it. True, but I shall know 'tis there — can lay my hand upon 
 it. Reuben's face — thou knowest it — oh, it is still within thy 
 brain, before thine eye — thou couldst not, if thou wouldst, forget 
 it ! Wilt thou — wilt thou restore it ? 
 
 Roder. No ! 
 
 Ans. {Aside to Ichabod : Peace ! thou'lt bring back madness.) 
 
 Roder. {Solemnly) Ask it no more — ^this hand is not mine own. 
 It is a thing, rescued from earthly purposes — a thing, by holy 
 use, made sacred unto heaven ! Hearken — I wUl tell thee. 
 
 Ans. Him ! an unbeliever ? 
 
 Roder. When the earth shone in its new brightness — ^when 
 this still beautiful earth—one wide altar, bore its odorous first- 
 fruits to the sky — ^when yellow time had mild angelic looks — and 
 human hearts were soft, and man smiled greetingly to man — 
 came there not from the far world mighty things, whose might 
 was beauty J 
 
 Ichah. A.je, sir— aye. 
 
 Roder. For then were men as younger brothers of the 
 angels, and won their high communion. Jew, thou dost believe 
 thisi 
 
 Ichah. A.ye — upon my souL 
 
 Roder.- The world changed with its dwellers. Time grew hag- 
 gard — ^man lived earthwards. Yet came there highest spirits — 
 iu mercy did they come — to strengthen and to warn. It is thy 
 faith? 
 
 Ichab. My faith. 
 
 Roder. The world we dwell in — what have man's low passions 
 made it 1 What hath his pride, lust, folly, crime, buUt up ? — a 
 gaoi, with walls aa high as Babel ! And here we pine, the 
 oppressing and the oppressed ; and here, some trace a shadowy 
 pageant on the floor — some scratch a name within the flint- 
 some, witless, laugh a hollow life away — some, silent, die — and 
 some go raving mad ! 
 
 Ans. {Aside : Alas !) 
 
 Roder. Speak ! Is't not so ? 
 
 Ans. {Aside to Ichabod : Thou hast stirred up this — do not 
 cross him.) 
 
THE PAINTER OF GHENT. 
 
 Ichab. It is. 
 
 Roder. And yet, in this cold, clouded time, self-captives as we 
 are — still toiling to make fast our prison — ^we cannot bar good 
 out. I say, where not a mote can enter, angels come to man ! 
 
 Ichab. Good sir — 
 
 Roder. If moved by mortal agony — if touched by hnman tears. 
 They come — looking felicity — speaking manna ! 
 
 Ichab. Aye — aye. 
 
 Roder. Then hearken — ^for thy faith hath won my story. 
 Hearken ; and while I speak, forget the earth ; think all things 
 worldly passing from thee — ^thyself on the eternal waters laving 
 the bright future. Hearken ! 
 
 Ans. Master ! the father — ^heaven be thanked ! — the father 
 Francis ! He comes — ^j-ou will remember — as you bade him. 
 (Aside, hurrying Ichabod : (Come, Jew — ^follow me. 
 
 Roder. I had forgotten — it is the day. I had forgotten. \Exii. 
 
 Ans. Thy hand, Ichabod, — 
 
 Enter Father Francis. 
 
 Francis. Peace be with ye ! Where is thy master ? 
 
 Ans. Within. Oh, father! thou art come in happy time to 
 soothe him. 
 
 Francis. So ill ! 
 
 Ans. The Jew hath torn the wound afresh ; again he raves. 
 
 Frauds. Seek him — urge that I attend. A word with the 
 Jew. {^EocU Anson.) What hast thou uttered to this soul-sick 
 man — ^what thy business here ? 
 
 Ichab. Lawful traffic — honest dealing, 
 
 Francis. Thou wouldst profit by calamity, old man ; with thy 
 grave open at thy foot, wouldst overreach a wild, disordered 
 mind? 
 
 Ichab. Ha ! Thou hast the old charity, meek monk. 
 
 Francis. Hence ! know we not thy race ? — thy sordid subtlety 
 towards Christian men 1 
 
 Ichab. If we are subtle, we are that which ye have made us. 
 Our race ! ye treat us as we were a knot of loathsome worms, 
 and then marvel if we sometimes crawl. 
 
 Francis. Oh ! I know the Hebrew heart ; our sorrows are its 
 food — our joys its poison. 
 
 Ichab. Father Francis, — two days ago thou didst beg of 
 me — 
 
 Fra7icis. Beg ! Jew ! ' , 
 
 Ichab. Well— well. There ai-e,'thou saidst, prisoners— Chris- 
 tian prisoners, in the city fort. Young bones crooked with the 
 
THE PAINTER OF GHENT. 239 
 
 weight of chains, rivetted by Christian hands. The state 
 demands a crushing ransom : thou and thy brethren — I praise 
 the zeal — would gather monies .for their freedom. Thou didst ask 
 my money. 
 
 Francis. And when I told thee of the withering husband, the 
 miserable father — spake of the worn and heart-sick wife — ^thou 
 didst hear my tale — ^thou, an old man, didst hear with ears of 
 stone. More : ■when I told thee of the child — the captive's child 
 — the poor Innocent, bar red from its father's neck, — dost thou 
 remember 1 — 
 
 Ichab. Yes. 
 
 Francis. Thy face beamed with a horrid light — ^thine eyes 
 trembled beneath their lids — ^thy pale lips grinned apart, and thy 
 shaking hand did grasp thy breast, as though a snake were 
 moving there. 
 
 Ichab. I do remember. 
 
 Francis. Thou didst strike thy staff upon the earth, and, crow- 
 ing devilish laughter, turn away. 
 
 Ichab. I do repent it. — ^I do repent it. Thejrisoners ? Well, 
 they shall have my mite. 
 
 Francis. Sayest thou ? 
 
 Ichab. The prisoner's child ? Say it were the child, the only 
 darling child of a mere Jew 1 At how much money should its life 
 be rated ? — 
 
 Francis. Its life ? — > 
 
 Ichab. I'll tell thee — twenty golden crowns. Nay, it is — ^it was 
 — the price. Thou art new to our city, but, trust me, it was the 
 price. Believe me, it hath been paid — I know, it hath beeji 
 paid. 
 
 Francis. Tears ! old man ! 
 
 Ichah. Hush ! Thou shalthave forty golden crowns. 
 
 Francis. Forty ? 
 
 Ichab. Peace : I feel a strange happiness that I can say it. 
 
 Enough.— I came not here to over-reach, I came to sell mine own, 
 
 Seest thou a picture — ^"tis there, I think — ^the portrait of a child 1 
 
 [Pointing with his staff to picture on tlie floor. 
 
 Francis. Aye. 
 
 Ichah. It is the child of Eoderick. 
 
 Francis. Of Eoderick? 
 
 Ichab. Years ago I bought it of him; .now .he would re- 
 purchase it 
 
 Francis. Aye ? 
 
 Ichah. 'Tis a girl — is't not — a child, some five years old, sitting 
 on a bank ? In her right hand, she has an opening rose ; three 
 buds, plucked from its stalk, lie on the earth. To the left, is a 
 
 ■ s 2 ' ■ 
 
240 THE PAINTER OF GHENT. 
 
 dish of fruit ; grapes, pines, oranges, pomegranates. And look, 
 thou'It see amongst it, tlie scales of a coiled adder ; it lies in 
 shadow, but near the black cluster, its eyes are burning, and its 
 fang is out. 
 
 Francis. The painter had some meaning itt those fallen buds — 
 that mortal reptile ? 
 
 Ichah. I thought so — asked him if he had not. He shivered 
 from the crown to the sole, but made no answer. On a turned 
 vine-leaf, there is a drop of water worth a diamond. 
 
 Francis. Thou hast weU painted the picture. Images dwell in 
 thy mind in their first beauty. 
 
 Ichah. I am thankful — aye ; and therefore is the blind man not 
 all dark, but with the eyes of his soul can see bright things. 
 Farewell. I'll send the crowns by the boy who leads me. He stays 
 below. What, Isaac ! — 
 
 Enter Ajtson. 
 
 Francis. Hast thou told thy master ? 
 
 Ans. Alas ! I know his mood — ^he may not now be spoken 
 with. Pale as marble — ^his motionless eye dreaming on the 
 empty air, he sits as in a trance. (Fraitcis is about to go^ Yet, 
 go not, father ; he may recover soon, and much he needs thy 
 help. 
 
 Francis. I'll tarry, and yet I know not — 
 
 {Enter Isaac — he is about to lead o^Ichabod.) 
 
 Stay. (Seats himsdf at table, and writes.) Ichabod, in thy way 
 home, thou dost pass the convent of the Carmelites — ^nay,'tis not 
 fifty paces from this house, — ^let thy boy leave this letter for the 
 abbess. 
 
 Icliab. Have the holy sisterhood pincers at the gate to take it 
 from his hand ? — spices and vinegar to make sweet the missive 
 touched by a jew ? 
 
 Francis. They'll give thee thanks, and pray thy heart be 
 turned. 
 
 Ans. {Looking at Isaac.) A face, frank — open — honest — 
 and, — 
 
 Icliab. And yet — a Jew, (Francis puis letter in Ichabod's 
 hand.) He shall take the letter, father. [Exit, led off by Isaac. 
 
 Francis. Hast thou long dwelt with this estranged man ? 
 
 Ans. Six years — ^no more ; and then his malady was new upon 
 him. 
 
 Francis. And 'tis not now so raging % 
 
 Ans. But, I fear me, deeper fixed. Then, indeed, I have known 
 
THE PAINTER OF GHENT, 241 
 
 him stand before yon cabinet for three whole days, three weaiy 
 nights — now muttering with clenched hands and streaming lids, 
 and now, breathless and gaziug with unmoved eyes ; food, and 
 sleep, and all familiar things forgot. 
 
 Francis. Yet on all other subjects he is calm, nay wise ? 
 
 Ans- Thou shalt hear him talk a lecture — speak opinions full 
 of rarest knowledge — dissect men's motives with a teacher's 
 skUl. Then breathe a doubt of his wild tale, — say, his daughter 
 is not dead, — and he will start away as though he looked upon a 
 leper. 
 
 Francis. I bless the choice that led me to a cloister. C!hildren 
 are earthly idols, that hold us from the stars. 
 
 Ans. That is her picture. 
 
 Francis. And in that gentle face what promise of kind thoughts 
 — of sweet companionship for middle age — of softest ministerings 
 for dear grey hairs ! Yet, 'tis that smiling, radiant thing, hath 
 stung a father into madness. Again, I bless the heavens for my 
 hood ! 
 
 Ans. The sight of it but feeds — ^hark ! — did he not call ? 
 
 Francis. I heard nothing ; but go — observe him. A lone 
 woman with her child hath travelled to our city, to beg her 
 husband's freedom. The holy Carmelites have lodged, and com- 
 forted her. I have bid the Abbess send her hither. 
 
 Ans. For what purpose ? 
 
 Francis. She shall beg the helping purse of Eoderick. Nay, I 
 am earnest in the thought. [^Exit Anson. 
 
 Enter Servant. 
 
 Servant. A poor woman from the Carmelites. 
 Francis. Admit her. {Exit Servant.) And this new poison, 
 though warily, must be denied him. 
 
 {Throws a cloak over the picture, entirely concealing it. 
 
 Enter Euphemia, veiled, and meanly drest. 
 
 Euphemia. Save ye, holy father ! 
 
 Francis. Cheer thee, my child — take comfort. Our prayers 
 have touched men's hearts — even the hearts of unbelievers. 
 The ransom — a ransom won by Christian charity from softened 
 foes, will soon be paid ; tliy husband will be free. I tell thee 
 this, — and stiU thou wearest a haggard face — a look of sharper 
 misery. Where hast thou been 1 
 
 Euphem. Where an old giief hath risen with armed strength — 
 where old faces, with frowns they never had before, have looked 
 
242 THE PAINTER OF GHENT. 
 
 upon me — ^where old voices, old, but changed, have spoken 
 to me. 
 
 Franeis. What fearful place is this ? 
 
 Euphem. A sister's grave. 
 
 Francis. I thought thee a stranger to our city V 
 
 Euphem. T. was a child — ^would they had laid me with the 
 dead ! — when I was taken hence. 
 
 Francis. And thou hast sought thy sister's monument ? 
 
 Euphem. There is no thing to mark the spot — ^no tablet, stone, 
 or wooden cross — and yet I knew it. 
 
 Francis. Indeed? 
 
 Euphem. Oh, father ! the children of the poor have curious 
 memories. Death comes not to their home a stately summoner, 
 veiling its hideousness with robes and plumes ; but stands, and 
 strikes upon the poor man's hearth, a naked, foul, and cruel 
 thing. 
 
 Francis. But ever brings a blessing to the house prepared. 
 
 Euphem. My father begged some earth to hide the jewel of 
 his home. I was a child, — an infant ; but this morning, stand- 
 ing there, I saw it all again. Saw my sweet sister, my dear 
 playmate, laid in the deep clay — ^heard the white-haired priest 
 murmur a prayer — beheld my father, swelling with mute 
 agony,— 
 
 Francis. Daughter! 
 
 Euphem. Saw him quiver like a reed, when the earth fell. 
 He caught me to his breast, and his teai-s gushed upon mv 
 face, and so he stood, untU the earth rose to his foot. Then, 
 mastering his tears, he turned away — but, oh ! that leaden look 
 of desolation. 
 
 Francis. Be calm ! Thou wilt te heard — 
 
 Euphem. I had forgotten. I come in duty to thy bidding. 
 
 Francis. I have a patient here — a sick, disordered mind. I 
 want thy healing help. 
 
 Euphem. Mine 1 
 
 Francis. Press thy suit upon him — beg his bounty for the pri- 
 soners, — tell him all thy miseries. Tor if I can sometimes wean 
 his soul to fix itself on stranger woes, I shall not yet despair of 
 perfect health. Thou wilt assist me ? 
 
 Euphem. With my weak skill ? Oh, yes ! 
 
 Francis. And thy child, too — nay, I have not seen it. 
 
 Eaphem. 'Tis with the sisters — a mother's blessing on them ! 
 
 Framcis. Its innocence might haply soften him. 
 
 Euphem. From what proceeds his malady ? 
 
 Francis. A daughter lost. 
 
 Euphem. Dead ? Happy daughter ! 
 
THE PAINTER OF GHENT; 2i3 
 
 . Francis. Not dead — but hence the fantasy that preya upon his 
 brain, and on that theme alone, shuts out all reason. Hia child 
 deserted him ; and his mind, shaken by former griefs, hath sunk 
 beneath a daughter's cruelty. 
 
 Eupliem. Made mad by his own child ? 
 
 Francis. Alas ! . 
 
 Euphem. And thou wouldst have me comfort him ? 
 
 Francis, Aye. 
 
 Euphem. Thou vrouldst not place a serpent at a sick man's 
 pillow 1 Thou wouldst not have me speak to him 3 
 
 Francis. Daughter ! 
 
 Euphem. Were he warped and withered — harsh to the ear — 
 loathsome to the eye — my guUt would give to him the form, the 
 face, the gracious looks and tender voice of my own father. 
 Comfort him ! I should fall a felon at his foot. 
 
 Francis. Woman ! 
 
 Euphem. Oh, curse me not, although thy curse is but a word ! 
 The curse within me is a living thing. 
 
 Francis. Is it so 3 Thou too hast left a parent ? Say, was he 
 tyrannous or — 
 
 Euphem. No — ^no — ^no ! The kindest father — ^the noblest man 
 — ^the truest gentleman that ever breathed. 
 
 Francis. And thou couldst leave him 3 I guess the madness, 
 ^love ? 
 
 Euphem. We feign him a child — a smiling, blissful child. Oh, 
 it was some fiend tha.t tore my heai't out, and made vile my 
 nature ! But no — I did not think to quit him. I wrote and 
 wrote, and begged forgiveness — he replied not. I flew to 
 find him — he had wandered, none knew whither. The war 
 began — I had not means to seek him. My husband was made 
 prisoner by my countrymen, and I became a begging alien in 
 my native land. 
 
 Francis. Thy sin was great — thy penance must be answer- 
 able. Hear me ! I charge thee, address thyself to my poor 
 patient, tend — 
 
 Euphem. It is impossible — I cannot. 
 
 Francis. See — he comes. Stay \ 
 
 Euphem. Father, set me any task of suflfering — scourge my 
 spirit as thou wilt — and 1 will do, endure, it. This, I cannot do. 
 
 Francis. {Detaining her.) Look; his head is turned upon us, 
 though he sees us not. Mark his white face — his glazing look 
 of vacancy — mark — 
 
 Euphem. Merciful God ! it is my father ! [FaUing at his feet. , 
 
 Francis. (Raising her.) Thy father ! 
 
 Euphem. Oh, thou knewest this ! 
 
244 THE PAINTER OF GHENT 
 
 Francis. By my bright saint, no ! Oh, happy providence ! 
 Stay! 
 
 Euphem. Not couldst thou turn this house to gold, and give it 
 me, to stay. My father ! 
 
 Francis. I command thee — stay ! 
 
 Euphem. Inflict what pain thou wilt, I will be tractable. 
 There is no penance — ^none that can shake me. The iron girdle 
 and the knotted rope — fasting and barefoot pilgrimage — ashes on 
 my head — fire in my path — my black crime writ and hung about 
 my neck, — doom me to aught of these or all, — I will not 
 murmur. Nay, bid me give my hand — the wedded hand that 
 slew a father's mind, — to some wild beast, and I will do it. But 
 here, I amnot — will not — dare not, stay ! 
 
 Francis. And yet thou hast hoped — hast sought to meet him ? 
 
 Euphem. Not mad — ^not mad ! Oh, worst of parricides, to kill a 
 father's mind ! 
 
 Francis. Woman — hold, and hear me ! Thou hast struck 
 thy father to the earth, — and wilt not help to raise him ? Thou 
 hast run a dagger in his flesh, wilt let the wound bleed on ? 
 Thou hast driven a thorn in his poor brain, — wilt thou not pluck 
 it out ? 
 
 Euphem. Mercy ! mercy ! 
 
 Francis. By thy mother's grave, thy father's misery — by thy 
 captive husband, fettered in a dungeon, — ^by his child that hath 
 lain in thy bosom, — by the last throb of thy heart, when this 
 world shall swim away, and light or darkness be thy lot, — 
 
 Euphem. Mercy ! 
 
 Francis. I do command thee,— child of sin and sorrow — stay ! 
 
 Euphem. {Falling on her knees.) I am thine — do with me what 
 thou wUt. 
 
 Francis. He comes ! 
 
 Euphem. Not yet — ^not yet. 
 
 Francis. Your pity, kindest saints ! — your balm for these sad 
 wounds ! 
 
 Euphem. (filinging to him.) His foot ! It treads upon my 
 heart ! 
 
 Francis. See ! his face hath changed ; and now, serenely 
 smiling, he gives direction to his servant. Look ! 
 
 Euphem. I can look at death ; but not at that, next heaven 
 most terrible, an injured father's face. 
 
 Francis. Be calm — be hopeful. Stand apart — I will prepare 
 him. 
 
 Euphem.. Father, I cannot — ^I feel, I cannot. Oh, say, what 
 hope — what aid can come of this 1 (Despairingly.) What can 
 Idol 
 
THE PAINTEK OF GHENT. 245 
 
 Francis. Pi-ay ! 
 
 \He comnjindingly motions Tier to retire. She obeys, and is seen at 
 inten:<ils fromheJiind the cahiiiet. 
 
 Enter Rodbeick. 
 
 Roderich. Save ye, father ! 
 
 Francis. Sare ye, my son ! I have expected you. 
 
 Boder. Father, I have been sitting with the dead ; and though 
 men are wont to pay them little courtesy, it is not my custom. 
 Poor things ! we heap upon our own flesh heavy, dismal earth, — 
 and pass a year, a month, a week, and we think of it no more, 
 than if some mole had heaved the hillock up. I ask you, — is this 
 kind, is this gentle, to the dead ? 
 
 Francis. And yet we best may think of death by thinking of 
 our lives. Thou hast promised me thy history ? 
 
 Roder. A. poor, torn leaf — blotted with tears. 
 
 Francis. I have read many such. May I claim thy promise 1 
 
 Roder. My life ! It is written in the epitaphs of all I loved. 
 Well, I will approach the grave, and read it thee. [They sit. 
 
 Francis. {Aside : And so to lead him to his daughter.) 
 
 Roder. Fortune gave to me a happy youth. The sordidness of 
 life, its miserable wants, degrading by their clinging littleness, I 
 never knew them until I was a husband and a father. Thou art 
 a monk, and though thou hast seen much mortal misery, thou 
 dost not know that pang. Thou canst not feel — ^thou canst not 
 comprehend the agony of that dread hour, when wife and 
 cliildren, things that were given us to garland life, are turned by 
 want into a crown of thorns. 
 
 Francis. Aye — ^thou hadst children 1 
 
 Roder. Four. Dead ! 
 
 Francis. All 1 
 
 Roder. All. 
 
 Euphem. ( Unable to repress hersdf.) Father ! 
 
 \She shrinks behind the cabinet, 
 
 Francis. Didst thou hear nothing 1 
 
 Roder, Tes — ^but be not thou afraid. It is one of them. 
 
 Francis. Thou dost remember it ? 
 
 Roder. It is one of the sweet voices that do sometimes talk 
 ■to me. 
 
 Francis. Alas ! 
 
 Roder. In the free air they come like singing-birds about me. 
 And sometimes at night I hear them near my face. Last night, 
 they all were with me. And there was one arm, one soft, round, 
 
246 THE PAINTER OF GHENT. 
 
 little arm— it was Eupliemia's— close about my neck, close about 
 my neck. 
 
 Euphem. {Aside : Parricide !) 
 
 Francis. And died they young ? 
 
 Roder. Aye — ^look there. (Pointing to pictures on the wall.) My 
 fether's enmity ceased -with his life — he left me fortune. For the 
 last five years I have travelled to possess them — at any cost have 
 made them mine. 
 
 Francis. The pictures of thy children ? 
 
 Roder. Of my lost babes. In my poverty, their painted 
 beauties bought them bread. 
 
 Francis. And they are gone before — and wait to welcome thee. 
 Happy father ! 
 
 Roder. Happy ! But thou art a monk. 
 
 Francis. They were deemed too fair, too fragile for a long 
 pilgrimage, and heaven called them home again. 
 
 Roder. Mark that : my first-born, a child, nursing a lamb. Oh, 
 her eye was as a star for thought to dwell upon ! her voice, — 
 'twould almost touch the hearer into tears. She died ! 
 
 Francis. The second ] — 
 
 Roder. Dear Adolph ! His mother's fece — his mother's spirit. 
 A frank, noble, tender, loving thing. He died ! 
 
 Francis. The next ? — 
 
 Roder. Oh, father ! is that a face for worms ? And oh ! the 
 light of happiness that shone upon it ! The squirrel at her foot 
 was not more blithe — ^had not more graceful life in its quick 
 limbs. She died. 
 
 Francis. The fourth ? — 
 
 Roder. "Why, Anson ! — 
 
 {Enter Anson.) 
 
 Who dared do that ? Speak ! Who dared to hang that pall 
 between his father and his child ? 
 
 Francis. {Taking chaJe from, picture) I mil remove it. 
 
 Roder. Eupliemia — oh, Euphemia ! 
 
 Francis. {Having whispered to Anson.) Haste ; delav not. 
 {ExitAs&o^.) The' fourth?— 
 
 Roder. She died ! 
 
 Euphem. {Aside : Oh, the happiness of death !) 
 
 Roder. {Pointing to picture on the wall.) Look there a Hebe 
 
 pouring nectar. 'Twas her mother. 
 
 Euphem. Mother ! [Kneeling to it. 
 
 Roder. {Hearing Iter.) Hush ! 'tis gone. It was painted ere 
 he was my wife — ^in after years was taken from me by the law. 
 
THE PAINTERtOF GHENT. 247 
 
 I have journeyed many a league — ^but 'tis mine again : both mine 
 — ^the mother, and the child the mother died for. 
 
 Francis. Thou hast had thy sorrows — still, have hope. 
 
 Roder. I have — the shadow is before me ; and now it smiles 
 and points into a grave. "Where should hope lead me, if not to 
 join all these ? I fear it is a sin — pray tell me— I cannot help 
 it — do not chide ; but I fear I love that child sometliing more 
 than I love the others. 
 
 Ewphem. (Aside: Have mercy, heaven !) 
 
 Francis. Art very sure she's dead ? 
 
 Roder. Would she have left her father else t Oh, it would be 
 horrible to doubt — ^though long I doubted. 
 
 Francis. Thou didst ? 
 
 Roder. Then — then I was mad ; none knew it, but I was mad. 
 And then I prayed, and I was comforted. 
 
 Francis. Yea — ^always ! 
 
 Roder. The things I saw — ^the sounds I heard ! Creatures 
 with bloody beaks and cold blue eyes, and yet men, tearing each 
 other ! And ghastly shows — and holidays of death — and masks 
 where men vizored their faces fi'om living beasts, snarled and 
 rent like foxes, wolves, and then would smile again and speak 
 like men. But children — children ! 
 
 Francis. Good son ! 
 
 Roder. Oh, they were always beautiful ! I met a troop of the 
 sweet innocents. I looked for mine, and found Euphemia. I 
 hugged her to my breast ; she had some wild flowers in. her 
 hand, and, smiling, laid them at my heart, when they became — 
 
 Fhiphem. Father ! 
 
 [She rashes down, and falls in the arms of Francis, v>7u> hides her 
 from EoDEEiCK. 
 
 Roder. Father ! 
 
 Francis. No, she called on me. {Aside to her : Not yet — 'tis 
 not the time.) She is a poor petitioner for mercy ; her husband 
 lies a captive in the fort. I bade her come to thee in aid of 
 ransom, though not thus suddenly. 
 
 Roder. Where is thy father ? 
 
 Francis. Speak not of him — it is her malady to t hink him 
 dead, though stiU he lives. 
 
 Roder. Strange fantasy ! Heaven help poor human vrits ! 
 
 Francis. She hath been a wayward, disobedient child — ^but 
 she repents in bitterness. 
 
 Roder. But doth she pray ? Hearken ! I will discover to you 
 what prayer hath done for me. Who's there 1 
 
 Francis. I hear no one. 
 
 Roder. Thou dost look for some one. Nay — I see thou dost. 
 
248 THE PAINTER OF GHENT. 
 
 Francis. A child — they say, the lovely child of — 
 
 Boder. Peace ! The beauty of children is a terror — a fearful 
 loveliness. No children ! 
 
 Francis. 'Tis only an infant,T— a— 
 
 Boder. Only ? Dost thou not know their 'subtlety ? Hast 
 thou not read, or known the jugglers of the world exposed by 
 babes ? — by children, who silent sit at the fireside, and after 
 many years tell how the trick was done — show what poor 
 mountebanks the world has gaped at ? No children. 
 
 Francis. Thou hadst a stoiT- ? 
 
 Roder. Mark the worth of prayer. "When Euphemia lay on 
 her death-bed — 
 
 Euphem. {Aside : Hopeless agony !) 
 
 Boder. I prayed she might be spared me. It might not be. 
 Day after day death's shadow grew upon her. And then I 
 prayed for grace — ^that I might take some note, some record of 
 the sweet features fading — fading from me. I prayed and 
 prayed. At length, a spirit stood before me ! Look not with 
 the cold eye of doubt — I say, a winged messenger from God ! 
 My prayer was heard — the time allowed. For two days I toiled 
 at my task — thou shalt see the picture : it is there. My nature 
 was sublimed, ennobled for the work, — for two days I felt no 
 human want. My task was done — Euphemia went to heaven ! 
 [Edphemia's Child rwm on—rfoUowed by Anson. 
 
 Child. Mother !— 
 
 Boder. And see ! they bring her back to me ! — (Seizinff the 
 child in his arms) — again a chUd — again a happy, lovely, spotless 
 child! 
 
 Francis. {Aside to Euphemia : The very image as 'tis painted 
 there !) 
 
 Boder. I see what 'tis we find in heaven. "We lose the soU, the 
 taint, the guilt of later days, and are made for ever joyous little 
 children. "Why dost thou scowl upon me ? Is it not my ehUd 
 — mine ■! Nay, thou shalt see the holy work — compare — 
 
 lAdvances towards cabinet, when, Euphemia, throwing off her 
 veilj strnids before him. 
 
 Euphem. Father ! 
 
 Boder. Mighty God ! Can the grave do that ? 
 
 Euphem. Father, dost thou not know me ? 
 
 Boder. Yes. Thou art Euphemia — thou art that we faid in 
 the grave — and that — {Pointing to Child) — that is thy bright 
 soul ! 
 
 [FaUs in the arms of Feanois, and is supported to the cotKh. 
 
 Euphem. Father ! Thou wilt not cast me off 1 
 
 Boder. Poor spectre— no ! There— {Emiracing her)— closer— 
 
THE PAINTER OF GHENT. 249 
 
 lay thy head nearer. Thou shalt not leave me ; no — thou shalt 
 not leave me — we will go together. 
 
 Euphem. He dies ! 
 
 Francis. No. 
 
 Roder. My brain seemed but now to leave me. 
 
 Francis. Ha ! his eye brightens with a new-bom health. 
 
 Roder. Euphemia — 
 
 Euphem. He knows me still. 
 
 Roder. I have been sick. — Oh, pray for me ! 
 
 Francis. Hush ! 
 
 Roder. Euphemia ! — [Falls into a sleep. 
 
 Euphem. He sleeps ! 
 
 Francis. Prayer must do the rest. 
 
 [They hned about the couch of Roderick, 
 
 END OF "THE PAINTER OF QHBNTL' 
 
BLACK-EY'D SUSAN; 
 
 OK, 
 
 "ALL IN THE DOWNS." 
 
CHASACTERS REPRESENTED. 
 
 Admiral Mb. Gocqh. 
 
 Captain Crosstree Mb. Fobesteh. 
 
 Lieutenant Pike Mb. HlOKS. 
 
 Lieutenant Mb. Almab. 
 
 William . Mb. T. P. CooKE. 
 
 Doggrass Mb. Dibdin Pitt 
 
 Saker Mb. Wabwick. 
 
 Hatchet Mb. Yabdlt. 
 
 Gnatirain Mb. BncKSTONE 
 
 Jacob Twig . . Mb. Rogebs. 
 
 Quid Mb. Lee. 
 
 Blue Peter ' Me. 'Williamson. 
 
 Seaweed Ma. Ashbuby. 
 
 Tarn Mb. Dowsing. 
 
 Ploughsliare Mb. Webb. 
 
 Black-ey'd Susan Miss Scott. 
 
 Officers, Midshipmeti. Sailors, Sjc. §c 
 
 1 
 
BLACK-EY'D SUSAN; 
 
 OK, 
 
 "ALL IN- THE DOWNS." 
 
 ACTL 
 
 Scene L — A View of the Country in the vicinity of Deal. 
 Enter Doggeass gaid Gnatbraik. 
 
 Bog. Tut ! if you're inclined to preach, here is a mile-stone — 
 I'll leave yon in its company. 
 
 Gnat. Ay, it's all very weU — very well ;— but you have broken 
 poor Susan's heart, — ^and as for Willia,m — 
 
 Bog. What of him ? 
 
 Gnat. The sharks of him, for what you care. Did'nt you 
 make him torn sailor, and leave his young wife, the little, 
 delicate, black-eyed Susan, that pretty piece of soft-speaking 
 womanhood, your niece ? — ^Now, say, haVn't you qualms ? On a 
 winter's night, now, when the snow is drifting at your door, what 
 do you do 1 
 
 Bog. Shut it. 
 
 Gnat. What, when in your bed, you turn upon one side at the 
 thunder ? 
 
 Bog. Turn round on the other. WiU you go on with your 
 catechism % 
 
 Gnat. No, Td rather go and talk to the echoes. A fair day to 
 you, master Doggrass ! — If your conscience— — 
 
 Bog. Conscience ! — phoo ! my conscience sleeps well enough. 
 
 Chnat. Sleeps ! don't wake it — it might alarm you. 
 
 Bog. One word with you ; no more of your advice. — I go about 
 
254 BLACK-EY'D SUSAN; 
 
 like a surly bnll, and you a gadfly buzzing around me. From 
 this momenC, throw off the part of counsellor. 
 
 Onat. But, don't you see % — 
 
 Bog. Don't you see these trees growing about us % 
 
 Gnat. Very well. 
 
 Dog. If a cudgel were cut from them for every knave who 
 busies himself in the business of others — don't you think it would 
 mightily open the prospect ? 
 
 (hmt. Perhaps it might. And don't you think, that if every 
 hard-hearted, selfish rascal that destroys the happiness of others, 
 were strung up to the boughs before they were cut for cudgels, it 
 would, instead of opening the prospect, mightily darken it ? 
 
 Dog. I have given you warning — take heed ! take heed ! and 
 with this counsel, I give you a good-day. \ExU. 
 
 Onat. Ay, it's the only thing good you can give ; and that, 
 only good, because it's not your own. The rascal has no more 
 heart than a bagpipe ; one could sooner make Dover cliffs dance 
 a reel to a penny whistle, than move him with words of pity or 
 distress. — No matter : let the old dog bark, his teeth will not 
 last for ever — and I yet hope to see the day, when poor black- 
 eyed Susan, and the jovial sailor, William, may defy the surly 
 cur that has divided them. [Exit. 
 
 Scene II. — 7%« Town of Deal. 
 Enter Raker and Hatchet. .■ 
 
 Maher. A plague on him ! — ^if I thought he meant us foul 
 
 play— 
 
 Sat. Not he — 'twas a mistake. 
 
 Baker. Ay, a mistake that nearly threw us into the hands of 
 the Philistines. But I know why you have ever a good word for 
 this same Doggrass. 
 
 Hat. Know ! you know as much as the weathercock that 
 answers every wind, yet cannot tell the joint from which it 
 blows. And what do you know % 
 
 Baker. I know that iMrs. S!^an,.J)pggrass's niece, has two 
 black eyes. ■'^' *^ 
 
 Hat. Hm ! your knowledge proves that, though a fool, you are 
 not yet blind. 
 
 Baker. Civil words, master Hatchet. 
 
 Hat. What ! be you as dumb as the figure-head of the Starling; 
 as soft and as yielding as teazed oakum— let my little finger be 
 your helm, and see you answer it. Who am T ? 
 
 Baker. Tom Hatchet, the smuggler of Deal, captain of the 
 Redbreast, and trading partner with old Doggrass. 
 
OR, " ALL IN THE DOWNS." 255 
 
 Eat. Thank'ee. Now I'll tell you who you are — Bill Baker, 
 first mate of the Eedbrcast, as great a rogue as evef died at the 
 fore-yard, and conaequentiy 
 
 Haker. The best person to go on your errands. 
 
 Sat. Just so ; see you do them well. Now, bear up, whilst 
 I pour a broadside of intelligence into you. I'm going to be 
 married. 
 
 Raker. You generally are at every port you put into. 
 
 Sai. Belay your jokes. To whom do you think ? — ^you ean't 
 guess ? 
 
 Baker. No. It isn't to the last port-admiral's widow ? Perhaps 
 to big Betsy, the bumboat woman 1 
 
 Hai. No, you albatross ; to Susan — black-eyed Susan. 
 
 Raker. Steady there — steady ! — I'm no younker. The lass is 
 married already. 
 
 Hai. {Significantly.) Ay, she had a husband. 
 
 Raker. IVhat ! — why no ? 
 
 Hat. How blows the wind now — what do you stare at ? He's 
 dead. 
 
 Raker. WUliam dead 1 Then there's not so fine, so noble, so 
 taut-rigged a fellow in his majesty's navy. — Poor lad ! poor lad ! 
 
 Hai. Turning whimperer ? 
 
 Raker. Why not ? — such news would make a mermaid ciy in 
 the middle of her singing. 
 
 Hat. Avast with your salt water ! — ^William is not dead. What 
 think you now ? 
 
 Raker. That there is one more brave fellow in the world, and 
 one more liar. 
 
 Hai. Ha !— 
 
 Raker. Slack your fore-sheet, Captain Hatchet ! If you must 
 spin such galley yams, let it be to the marines, or the landlady 
 of the Ship ; but see that you don't again "bring water into an 
 old sailor's eyes, and laugh at him for hoisting an answering 
 pendant to signals of distress. You marry Susan ! — ^now belay, 
 belay the joke. 
 
 Hai. Listen to my story ; — it shall be short, short as a mairlin- 
 spike. I must marry Susan ; — she knows not you — ^you must 
 swear that you were her husband's shipmate — ^that you saw him 
 drowned. Susan now lives with old Dame Hatley ^ she has no 
 other home : and if she refuse, Doggrass will seize on the old 
 woman's goods, for long arrears of rent, and turn Susan adrift ; 
 then the girl has no chance left but to marry. Is it hot a good 
 scheme ? 
 
 Baker, Had the devil been purser, 'he could not have made a 
 
 better. 
 
 T 2 
 
256 BLACK-EY'D SUSAN; 
 
 Bat. I'm now going to Doggrass, to see further about it ; 
 meantime, do you think of the part you are to act, and I'll 
 think how I can best reward you. [Exit. 
 
 Raker. I must certainly look a sooundreL There must be an 
 invitation in my fece to all sorts of wickedness ; else Captain 
 Hatchet could never have offered such dirty work to an old 
 sailor. I must look a villain, and that's the truth. WeU, 
 there is no help for an ugly countenance ; but if my face 
 be ill-favoured, I'll take Ckre to keep my heart of the 
 right colour — like the Dolphin Tap, if I hang out a badly 
 painted sign-post, I'U see and keep good cheer within. [Exit. 
 
 ScEKE III. — Dame Hatley^s Cottage. — Susan is heard without, 
 singing a verse of Black-ey'd Susan. 
 
 Enter Susan. 
 
 Susan. Twelve long and tedious months are passed,' and no 
 tidings of William. Shame upon the unkind hearts that parted 
 us — that sent my dear husband to dare the perils of the 
 ocean, and made me a pining, miserable creature. Oh ! the 
 pangs, the dreadful pangs that tear the sailor's wife, as, wakeful 
 on her tear-wet pillow, she lists and trembles at the roaring 
 sea. 
 
 Enter Gkatbrain. 
 
 Cfnat. There she is like a caged nightingale, singing her heart 
 out at her prison bars — for this cottage is little better than a gaol 
 to her. Susan ! 
 
 Susan. Gnatbrain 1 
 
 Cfnat. In faith, Soaan, if sorrow makes such sweet music, may 
 I never turn skylark, but always remain a goose. 
 
 Susan. Have you seen my uncle ? 
 
 Cfnat. Oh, yes! 
 
 Susan. Will he show any kindness ? 
 
 Cfnat. I cannot tell ; you may have flowers from an aloe-tree 
 if you wait a hundred years. 
 
 SusoTt. He has threatened to distress the good dame. 
 
 Cfnat. Ay, for the rent. Oh, Susan, I would I were your land- 
 lord. I should think myself well paid if you would allow me every 
 quarter-day to put iny ear to the key-hole, and listen to one of 
 your prettiest ditties. Why, for such payment, were I your land- 
 lord, I'd find you in board, washing, and lodging, and the use of a 
 gig' on Sundays. I wish I— but la ! what's the use of my wishing 1 
 I'm nobody but a half-gardener, half-waterman— a kind of alii- 
 
OR, " ALL IN THE DOWNS." 257 
 
 gator, that gets Hs breakfast from the shore, and his dinner from 
 the sea — a — 
 
 Susan. Ohj begone ! I see Mr. Doggrass ; — if he find you 
 here — 
 
 Gnat. He must not ; here's a cupboard — I'm afraid there's 
 plenty of room in it. 
 
 Susan. No, no, I would not for the world — there is no occasion 
 — meet him. 
 
 Gnat. Not 1, for quiet's sake. We never meet, but like fire and 
 gunpowder there is an explosion. This wiU do. [Goes into closet. 
 
 Enter Doograss. 
 
 £>off. Now Snsjm ; you know my business — I say, you know 
 my business ? I come for money. 
 
 Susan. I have none, sir. 
 
 Doff. A pretty answer, truly. Are people to let their houses to 
 beggars ? 
 
 Siisan. Beggars. Sir, I am your brother's orphan child. 
 
 Dog. I am sorry for it. I wish he was alive to pay for you. And 
 where is your husband ! 
 
 Susan. Do j/ou ask where he is ? I am poor, sir — ^poor and un- 
 protected — do not, as you have children of your own — do not 
 insult me. [ Weeps. 
 
 Dog. A.J, this it is to let houses to women. — If the 
 tax-gatherer could be paid with crying, why nobody would 
 roar more lustily than myself : let a man ask for his -Tent, 
 and ^ou pull out your pocket-handkerchiefl Where's Dame 
 Hatley 1 
 
 Susan. In the next room — ^ill, very ill. 
 
 Dog. An excuse to avoid me ; she shall not. [Goinff. 
 
 Susan. You will, not enter 1 
 
 Dog. Who shall stop me 1 
 
 Susan. If heaven give me power — ^I ! Uncle, the old woman 
 is sick— I fear, dangerously. Her spirit, weakened by late 
 misfortune, flickers, like a dying light— your sudden appearance 
 might make aU dark. Uncle — landlord J ^--wovld you have 
 murder on your soul 1 
 
 Dog. Murder ? 
 
 Susan. Yes ; though such may not be tlie common word : 
 hearts are daily crushed, spirits broken-r^whilst he who slays 
 destroys in safety. 
 
 Dog. Can Dame Hatley pay me the money ? 
 
 Susan. No. 
 
 Dog. Then she shall to prison. 
 
258 BLACK-EY'D SUSAN; 
 
 Susan. She •will die there. 
 
 J)og. WeU! 
 
 Susan. WoTild you make the old woman close her eyes in 
 a gaol 1 
 
 Dog. I have no time to hear sentiment. Mrs. Hatley has no 
 money — ^you have none ! WeU, though she doesn't merit lenity 
 of me, rU not be harsh with her. 
 
 Susan. I thought you could not. 
 
 Dog. rU take whatever may be in the house, and will put up 
 with the rest of the loss. 
 
 Enter Dollt Mattloweb. 
 
 Dollt/. So, Mr. Doggrass ! — ^this is how you behave to unfor- 
 nate folks — coming and selling them up, and turning them out. 
 Is this your feeling for the poor ? 
 
 Dog. Feeling ! I pay the rates. What business have you here ? 
 Go to your spinning. 
 
 Dolly. Spinning ! if it were to spin a certain wicked old man a 
 halter, I'd never work faster. Ugh ! I always thought you very 
 ugly, but now you look hideous. 
 
 Susan. Peace, good DoUy. 
 
 Dolly. Peace ! oh, you are too quiet — too gentle. Take 
 example by me ; I only wish he'd come to sell me up, that's all 
 (Doggrass goes to door). Oh, I know who you are looking for — 
 your man, Jacob Twig ; he hops after you on your dirty work, 
 like a tomtit after a jackdaw — ^I saw him leering in at the door. 
 I wish my dear Gnatbrain was here. Oh, Susan, I wish he was 
 here ; he's one of the best, most constant of lovers — ^he'd befriend 
 you for my sake. 
 
 Dog. (goes to door.) Jacob ! 
 
 (Enter Jacob Twig.) 
 You know your business. 
 
 Jacob. What here, master ?— what at old Dame Hatley's ? 
 
 DoUy. To be sure, good Jacob ;— If your master had a tree, 
 and but one squiiTel lived in it, he'd 'take its nuts, sooner than 
 aUow it lodging gratis. 
 
 Susan. TJncle, have compassioh^wait but another week 
 
 a day! 
 
 Dog. Not an hour— a minute. Jacob do your duty.— Now 
 begin ; put down every thing you see in the cottage. 
 
 Jacob. Master, hadn't you better wait a little ? Perhaps the 
 Dame can find friends. (Doggrass is imperatm.) WeU, here goes • 
 I'll first begin with the cupboard. 
 
OR, " ALL IN THE DOWNS." 259 
 
 jSWan. {anxiously.) No, let me entreat you, do Bot. — Come this 
 way — if you are determmed, 
 
 Doff. Eh ! why that way ? — ^why not with the cupboard ! I 
 suspect. — 
 
 Jacob. And now, so do I. 
 
 Dolly. You suspect ! I dare say — suspicion is all your brain 
 can manage ! What should you suspect — a thing that never had 
 a thought deeper than a mug of ale ? You suspect Susan ! why, 
 we shall have the crows suspecting the lilies ! 
 
 Jamb. You say so, do you % Now I'll show you my conse- 
 quence. I'll put everything down, master, and begin with the 
 cupboard. Ah! it's fast ; I'll have it open — and I'll put the first 
 thing down. — 
 
 \Pvlh open ilie door of the cupboard, when Gnatbeain tcnocJes 
 Jacob prostrate with a rolling pin. 
 
 Cfnat. No, I'll put the first thing down ! 
 
 DMy. Gnatbrain! Oh, Susan, Susan ! 
 
 Dog. Oh, oh ! we shall have the . crows suspecting the lilies ! 
 Pretty flower ! how it hangs its head ! Go on with your duty, 
 Jacob ; put down everything in the house. 
 
 Gnat. Do, Jacob ; and begin with " one broken head " — then, 
 write one stony-hearted landlord — one young woman innocent — 
 ditto, jealous; — one man tolerably honest — and one somewhat 
 
 Jacob. I'll have you up before justices — ^you have broken my 
 crown. 
 
 Gnat. Broken your crown ! Jacob, Jacob ! it was cracked 
 before. 
 
 Jacob. How do you know that ? 
 
 Gnat. By the ring of it, Jacob, by the ring ; I never heard 
 such a bit of Brummagem in my life. 
 
 Dog. "Well, Susan, it is sometimes convenient for a husband to 
 be at sea 1 
 
 Susan. Sir, scorn has no words, contempt no voice to speak my 
 loathing of your insinuations. Take, sir, all that is here ; satisfy 
 your avarice — ^but dare not indulge your malice at the cost of 
 one, who has now nothing left her in her misery but the sweet 
 consciousness of virtue. [Exit. 
 
 Dog. The way with aU women when they are found out — is it 
 not, Mrs. Dolly ? 
 
 DMy. I can't tell, sir ! — I never was found out. 
 
 Dog. Ay, you are lucky. 
 
 DoUy. Yes— we don't meet often. But as for you, Mr. Gnat- 
 brain 
 
 Gnat. Now no insinuations — I wish I could remember what 
 
2C0 BLACK-EY'D SUSAN; 
 
 Snsan said about virtue : it would apply to my case admirably. 
 Nothing like a sentiment to stop a charge — one may apply it to 
 a bleeding reputation as barbers do cobwebs to a wound. 
 
 Dog. Jacob, do you stay here — see that nothing of the least 
 value leaves the house. 
 
 Gnat. In that case, Jacob, you may let your master go out. 
 
 Dog. Some day, my friend, I shall be a match for you. \ExU. 
 
 Gnat. Perhaps so, but one of us must change greatly to make 
 us pairs. Jacob, I never look upon your little carcase, but it 
 reminds me of a pocket edition of the Newgate Calendar — a neat 
 Old Bailey duodecimo ! You are a most villainous looking rascal 
 — an epitome of noted highwaymen. 
 
 Jacob. What ! 
 
 Gnat. True as the light. You have a most Tyburn-like physi- 
 ognomy ! — There's Turpin in the curl of your upper lip — Jack 
 Shepherd in the under one — your nose is Jerry Abershaw him- 
 self — Duval and Barrington are in your eyes — and as for your 
 chin, why Sixteen-string Jack lives again in it. {Affecting to see 
 what is passing outside) Eh ! well done — excellent ! there's ail 
 the neighbours getting the furniture out of the garden-window. 
 Jacob. Is there? it's against the law! I'm his majesty's 
 officer, and I'll be among them in a whistle. 
 
 [Sum out at door — Ghatbrain instantly bolts it. 
 
 Gnat. A bailiflF, like a snow-storm, is always best on the out- 
 side. Now Dolly, sweet Dolly Mayflower. 
 
 DoUy. Don't talk to me. The cupboard, sir — the cupboard. 
 
 Gnat. Hear my defence. I had not the least idea that you 
 would have looked there, or the cupboard is the very last place 
 I should have gone into. 
 
 DoUy. It's no matter ! There's Mr. James Battlin, boatswain's 
 mate of the Bellerophon 
 
 Gnat. "What ! you wouldn't marry a sailor ? 
 
 Dolly. And why not ? 
 
 Gnat. Your natural timidity wouldn't allow you. 
 
 Doily. My timidity? 
 
 ■ Gnat. Yes ; you wouldn't like to be left alone o' nights. Your 
 husband would be at sea six months out of the twelve ; there 
 would be a wintry prospect for you. 
 
 Dolly. But he would be at home the other six — and there's 
 summer, sir. 
 
 Gnat. True, but when you can have summer aU the year round 
 don't you think it more to your advantage ? ' 
 
 DoUy. No — for if it always shone, we should never really 
 enjoy fine weather. 
 
 Gnat. Oh, my dear, when we are married, we'll get up a 
 
OR, "ALL IN THE DOWNS." 261 
 
 thunder-storm or two, depend upon it. But come, Dolly ; your 
 heart is too good — ^your head too clear, to nourish idle suspicion 
 — let us go and see poor Susan ; there is real calamity enough 
 in our every-day paths, we need not add to it by our own 
 caprice. [Exeunt. 
 
 Scene IV. — A View of the Country about Deal. 
 Enter Hatchet. 
 
 Ratchet. Doggrass has made the seizure by this time. Now 
 rU step in, pay the money, and thus buy the gratitude of Susan, 
 before I t§U her the story of her husband's death. 
 
 {Enter Jacob, running.) 
 
 Bring up, there, my young skiff ! Whither bound ? 
 . Jacob. Vtd. in a hurry. 
 
 Hat. Bring up, I say, or I'll spoil your bowsprit. 
 
 [lAfling his muigel. 
 
 Jacob. Do you know who I am ? 
 
 Sat. No ; who are you, my young flying-flsh ? 
 
 Jacob. Tm a baUifif— ar'n't you frightened 1 I serve Mr. 
 Doggrass. 
 
 Hat. The very craft I was sailing after. You have been to 
 Susan's — Black-ey'd Susan's, as she's called? 
 
 Jacob. How do you know thai; 1 
 
 Hat. You have made a seizure there ? 
 
 Jacob. Kght. 
 
 Hai. Have secured every thing ? 
 
 Jacob. "Wrong. I had made as pretty a piece of business of it 
 as any of my craft — a yery pretty stroke of handiwork, — but 
 sttaiehow of the other — ^^ 
 
 Hat. You frighten me ! N&body paid the money, I hope ? 
 
 Jacob. Oh, don't be alarmed at that, — no : but somehow or the 
 other, quite by a mistake, -when I thought I was in possession, 
 I found myself on the ^ong side of the house. Ah, here comes 
 Susan. 
 
 {Enter ^ Susan.) 
 
 Ar'n't you ashamed of yoursejf, Mrs. Susan, to make one to 
 "cozen so innocent a little baUilf as myself— iaxVt you ashamed 
 of yourself % 
 
 Hot. {to Jacob.) Stand o' 6ne side! What! in trouble, my 
 pretty Shsan 1 Have the land sharks got aboard the cottage ? 
 <3ome, cheeT up. 
 
262 BLACK-EY'D SUSAN; 
 
 Susan. Do you indeed pity me ? This is kind — aud from a 
 stranger, unexpected. 
 
 ffat. Not such a stranger as you may think. 
 
 Susan. Not? 
 
 Sat. No, I knew yoiir husband — sailed with him. 
 
 Susan. You did ! — oh, tell me every thing. 
 
 Hat. All in good time — {To Jacob.) What do you want here — • 
 sticking like a barnacle to,a ship's copper 1 
 
 Jacob. What ! Here comes my master, he'll tell you what 
 I waut. rU leave you with him, he'll answer all ques- 
 tions. [Sxit. 
 
 Enter Doggeass. 
 
 Dog. So, ma'am — ^you must show contempt of a king's officer 
 — put a servant of the law out of doors ! 
 
 Sat. Steady, there ! None of your overhauling — what do you 
 want with the young woman ? 
 
 Doff. What's that to you 1 
 
 Susan. Oh, pray don't quarrel on my account — do not, I 
 entreat you. 
 
 Sat. (Aside .• I U swagger a little.) Quarrel, my dear, Td fight 
 yard-arm to yard-arm for you — go on a boarding party, cut out, 
 row under a battery, or fight in a rocket-boat. AnythiDg for the 
 pretty black-ey'd Susan. 
 
 Doff. Well, as you'll do all this, perhaps you'll pay the money 
 she owes ? 
 
 Hat. That will I, though it were the last shot in my locker. 
 
 Sifscm. No, no, there is no occasion ! — I would not have it for 
 the world. 
 
 Dog. You wouldn't ? I would. Don't be afraid ; he'll talk, but 
 he'll be long ere he pays twelve pounds seventeen and sixpence, 
 for you, black ey'd and pretty as you are. 
 
 Hat. See how little you know of a sailor. There's thirteen 
 pounds. {Gives monep.) I'm not much of an accountant ; but it 
 strikes me that that will pay your little bill, and just leave a 
 dirty two-and-sixpence for young Jib-boom, the bailiffi 
 
 Susan. Oh, my good, kind friend — this generosity — my thanks, 
 my prayers ! — 
 
 Hat. Not a word, not a word — good-day. 
 
 Susan. Yet, do not leave me ! You said you knew my hus- 
 band — ^had a tale to tell of him. 
 
 Hat. Not now ; to-morrow. If I have done anything to oblige 
 you, let me ask the delay. . Besides, then I wUl bring one with, 
 me who can tell you more of William than I can myself- 
 
OR, "ALL IN THE DOWNS." 263 
 
 meantime, farewell. (Aside : She's softened ; a woman is like 
 tar, only melt her, and she will take what form you 
 please. I've bought her heart with the chink, and to-morrow 
 will secure it.) [^Exit. 
 
 Sxisan. Wait till to-morrow ! Alas ! there is no remedy but 
 patience ; and, spite of myself, I feel forebodings which I know 
 'tis weakness to indulge. 
 
 Dog. I suppose, Mrs. Susan, as the case at present stands, 
 neither you nor the old dame wiU now think of leaving the 
 cottage 1 
 
 Susan. Indeed, landlord, we shall. 
 
 Dog. Landlord ! why not uncle ? It is a much better word. 
 
 Susan. It might have been, but your unkindness has taught 
 me to forget it. 
 
 Dog. oSTow, hear reason ! (JShe turns from him) 'Well, to be 
 sure, a plain-spoken man can't expect it from one of your sex, 
 so I'LL leave you. You'll think again about the cottage 1 It 
 has a pretty situation, and as for the rent, why, as one may 
 say, it's a nothing. {Aside : Now to my jolly boys the smug- 
 glers ; they carouse to-night at their haunt, and will be expect- 
 in g m e .) [^Es^it. 
 
 Susan. Cruel man ! Oh, William ! when, when will you 
 return to your almost heart-broken Susan ? Winds blow pros- 
 perously ; be tranquil, seas, and bring my husband to my long- 
 ing eyes. l&it. 
 
 c Scene "V. — The Cave of the Smugglers. It is supposed to lead to a 
 subterraneous passage, opening on the sea-shore. — CasM on each 
 side of the stage — tables,.cans, Sjc. 
 
 Enter Lieutenant Pike, disguised as a French Officer. 
 
 Pihe. The smugglers are caught — we'll roast them in their 
 own trap. The fools ! I have gulled them with a story as long 
 as a maintop-bowline. They think me a French officer, escaped 
 from a prison-ship, and have stowed me away here until an oppor- 
 tunity shall serve to take me over to France. Eh ? who have we 
 l^ere 1 [Retires. 
 
 Enter Baker. 
 
 Baker. Captain Hatchet promises well; it is but a lie — ay, 
 but such a one ! No, I'm determined not to join such a plot, yet 
 I'll seem to do so, too. Mounseer ! 
 
 Pike. Who dat 1 
 
 Baker. A friend. 
 
264 BLACK-EY'D SUSAN; 
 
 Pihe. Ma foi ! dis place is de veritable enfer — 'tis de diable. 
 
 Raher. Yes, you are' not used to it ; it isn't so pleasant as 
 Paris, I dare say. Well, you have paid us decently for the job, 
 still I don't think it altogether right, that having been taken 
 fighting against us, we should aid in your escape — the captain 
 says so, however. 
 
 Enter Hatchet — Smugglers come in from different parts, seat 
 themseloes at table and prepare for drinking. 
 
 Hat. "What's that about the captain ? 
 
 Uaher. Only talking a bit with the Mounseer. 
 
 Hat. "Well, Frenchman, about midnight the craft gets under 
 weigh, and to-morrow you may sup in France. 
 
 Pihe. Avec beaucoup de plaisir ; ceserabien agreeahle. {Aside: 
 Are all the gang here, I wonder.) 
 
 Raker. Hallo ! whalt's that ? why the Mounseer is speaking 
 English ! 
 
 Hat. English ! poor fellow ! not he — he hasn't sense enough, 
 like you or me. 
 
 Enter Smugglers /row bach of Cave. 
 
 Smug. A prize ! a prize ! 
 
 All. Where 1 
 
 Smug. At the mouth of the creek. It is an excise-cutter's boat 
 — her crew are somewhere about. Let us first scuttle the craft 
 and then — 
 
 Pike. "Villains ! 
 
 Hat. Ha ! treachery ! {To Pike.) You are no Frenchman ? 
 
 All. Down with him ! down with him ! 
 
 Pike. Fifty on one !— nay, then, let's make a bout of it— Sky- 
 lark's crew ahoy 1 
 
 [A A»zza is given, Sailors rise np from tekind various parts of the 
 scene from the buUs, and present their pistols at i!ie Smugglei^s, 
 who, after a brief struggle, yield. 
 
OR, " ALL IN THE DOWKS." 265 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 — ♦ — 
 
 Scene I. — A View of the Downs ; the Fleet at anchor. 
 
 Enter Doqgkass omd Jacob Twig. 
 
 Jacob. "Well, master, I think they have made a lucky escape. 
 
 Doggrass. They have, for this time ; but they had to fight for it. 
 Had it not been for a sudden reinforcement, Hatchet, Eaker, and 
 all the jolly boys, would have been taken ; it would have spoilt 
 the roaring trade of Deal. 
 
 Jacob. Yes, and your trade as innkeeper, and chief encourager 
 of the smugglers. 
 
 Dog. No such ill-luck in the stars, I trust : and loot what a fleet 
 has dropped anchor during the night ! I must run to Hatchet, 
 and see how he fares with Susan — ^if she stands out, she's less of 
 the woman than I take her to be. [Exit. 
 
 Jacob. After all, I don't much like this trade of bailifi^ I've a 
 great mind to give it up, go back to my native Dover again, and 
 turn ploughman. Eh ! the boats are putting off from the ships. 
 Deal will be crowded again ; there will be no getting a sweet- 
 heart for these six months. 
 
 Evier William, Seaweed, Blue Peter, and Sailors. 
 
 William. Huzza ! huzza ! my noble fellows, my heart jumps 
 like a dolphin — my head turns round like a capstan — I feel as 
 1 were driving before the gale of pleasure for the haven of joy. 
 
 Seaweed. But I say, William, there's nobody here to meet us. 
 
 Wil. Why, no ! that is, you see, because we dropped anchor 
 afore the poor things had turned out of their hammocks. Ah ! 
 if my Susan knew who was here, she'd soon lash and carry, 
 roused up by the whistle of that young boatswain's-mate, Cupid, 
 piping in her heart. Hallo ! what craft is this % Cutter, ahoy ! 
 — what ship 1 
 
 Jacob. (Taking off his hat) My name is Jacob Twig. 
 TVU. You needn't bring-to under bare poles — cover your 
 truck and up with your answering pendant. Come ! clear your 
 signal halyards, and hoist away. — What service ? 
 
 Jacob. I'm in the law. 
 
 Wil. Umph ! belongs to the rocket-boats. May my pockets 
 be scuttled, if I didn't think so! His Beelzebub's ship, the 
 Law ! She's neither privateer, bombship, nor letter-of-ma? k ; 
 
266 BLACK-ET'D SUSAN; 
 
 she's built of green timber, manned with loploUy-boys and 
 marines ; provisioned with mouldy biscuit and bilge water, and 
 fires nothing but red hot shot; there's no grappling with, or 
 boarding her : she always sails best in a storm, and founders in 
 fair weather. I'd sooner be sent adrift in the North Sea, in a 
 butter-cask, with a 'bacco-box for my store room, than sail in 
 that devil's craft, the Law. My young grampus, I should like to 
 have the mast-heading of you in a stiff north-wester ! 
 
 Sea. Avast there, messmate ! Don't rake the cock-boat fore 
 and aft. 
 
 WiL Why, yes, I know it's throwing away powder and shot to 
 sink cpckle-shells with thirty-two pounders. But wasn't it the 
 lawyers that turned me and Susan out of our stowage 1 "Why 
 I'd as soon have met one of Mother Carey's chickens as — eh 1 
 {looking out) there's a fleet bearing down ! 
 
 Peter. A fleet ! — ay, and as smart as a seventy-four on the 
 king's birth-day. 
 
 Wil. A little more to port, messmate. There's my Susan ! 
 Now pipe all hands for a royal salute ! There she is, schooner- 
 rigged. I'd swear to her canvas from a whole fleet. Now she 
 makes more sail ! — outs with her studding-sail booms — ^mounts 
 her royals, moon-rakers, and sky-scrapers ; now she lies to it ! — 
 now ! now ! — eh ! may I be put on six-water grog for a 
 lubber 
 
 Peter. What's the matter ? 
 
 Wil. 'Tisn't she— 'tisn't my craft. 
 
 Enier Eusties, men and women, and PLOtjOHSEAEE, who welcome 
 all the Sailors. Evert/ one, except Wiluam, is met hy a female. 
 He looks anxiously at every one. — Mmic. — AU go off except 
 Ploughshare and William. 
 
 Wil. Wliat ! and am I left alone on the doctor's list, whilst all 
 the crew are engaging \ I know I look as lubberly as a Chinese 
 junk imder a jury-mast. I'm afraid to throw out a signal — ^my 
 heart knocks against my timbers like a jolly-boat, in a breeze, 
 alongside a seventy-four. I feel as if half of me was wintering 
 in the Baltic, and the other half stationed at Jamaica. It's no 
 use ; I must ask for despatches. Damn it, there can be no black 
 seal to them ! {To Ploughshare.) Messmate ! 
 
 Ploughshare. Now, friend ? [Comes down. 
 
 Wil. Give us j'our grappling-iron ! Mayhap you don't know 
 me? 
 
 Plough. No. 
 
 Wil. Well, that's hard to a sailor come to his native place. 
 
OR, " ALL IN THE DOWNS." 267 
 
 We have ploughed many an acre together on farmer Sparrow's 
 ground. 
 
 Plough. What — William ! — William that married Susan ! 
 
 Wil. Avast there ! Hang it — that name spoken by another, 
 has brought the salt water up : I can feel one tear standing in 
 either eye, like a marine at each gangway. But come, let's send 
 them below. ((PFijoes his e^es.) Ifow, don't pay away your line 
 till I pipe. I have been three years at sea ; all that time, I have 
 heard but once from Susan : she has been to me a main-stay in 
 all weathers. I have been piped up, roused from my hammock, 
 dreaming of her, for the cold, black middle watch — I have walked 
 the deck, the surf beating in my face, but' Susan was at my side, 
 and I did not feel it. I have been reefing on the yard, in cold 
 and darkness, when I could hardly see the hand of my next 
 messmate — ^but Susan's eyes were on me, and there was light : 
 I have heard the boatswain pipe to quarters ; a voice in my 
 heart, whispered Susan, and I strode like a lion. — The first 
 broadside was given, — shipmates, whose words wei-e hardly off 
 their lips, lay torn and mangled about me — ^their groans were in 
 my ears, and their blood hot on my face^I whispered, " Susan !" 
 It was a word that seemed to turn the balls aside, and keep me 
 safe. When land was cried fi:om the mast-head, I seized the 
 glass — my shipmates saw the cliffs of England — I, I could see but 
 Susan! I leap upon the beach; my shipmates find hands to 
 grasp and lips to press — 1 find not Susan's ! 
 
 Plough. Believe me — — 
 
 Wil. Avast there! if, you must hoist the black flag, — ^gently. 
 Is she yet in commission 1 — does she live 1 
 
 Plough. She does. 
 
 Wil. Thank heaven ! — ^I'U go to church next Sunday, and you 
 shall have such a can of grog — eh ! but your figure-head changes 
 like a dying dolphin ! She lives, but perhaps hove down in the 
 port of sickness : — No ! what then, eh — avast ! avast ! not dead 
 — ^not sick, — ^yet — ^why there's a galley-fire lighted up in my 
 heart — there's not an E put to her name ? 
 
 Plough. What do you mean % ' 
 
 Wil. Mean ! grape and cannister ! She's not run — not shown 
 false colours ? 
 
 Plough. No, no. 
 
 Wil. I deserve a round dozen for the question. Damn it, none 
 of your small arms, but open all your ports and give fire. 
 
 Plough,. Susan is well — is constant ; but has been made to feel 
 that poverty is too often punished for crime. 
 
 Wil. What, short of ammunition to keep- off the land-sharks ? 
 But her uncle ? 
 
268 BLACK-EY'D SUSAN; 
 
 Plough. He has treated her most unkindly. 
 
 Wil. I see it ! I'll overhaul him — I'U bring him on his beam- 
 ends. Heave a head, shipmate ! — ^Now for my dear Susan, and 
 no quarter for her uncle. 
 
 [Exeimt William and Ploughshare. 
 
 Enter Captain Crosstreb. 
 
 Crosstree. In faith, that's the prettiest little vessel I ever saw 
 in a long station. I threw out signals to her, but she wouldn't 
 answer. Here comes the fellow that passed me whilst I was 
 talking to her. 
 
 Enter Gnatbrain. 
 
 Crosstree. Shipmate, there is a dollar for you. 
 
 Onatbrain. Truly, sir, I would we had been messmates, you 
 might then have made it ten ahiUings. 
 
 Cross. Ton passed me a few minutes since, when I was in 
 company with a petticoat. 
 
 Onat. Ay ; it's no use, captain. — She's a tight little craft, and 
 as faithful to all that is good, as your ship to her helm. 
 
 Cross. What is her name ! — who is she 1 
 
 Gnat. We simply call her Susan — blaek-ey'd Susan ; she is the 
 wife of a sailor. 
 
 Cross. Ah ! what, fond of the blue jackets ? 
 
 Gnat. Yes, so fond of the jacket, that she'll never look at your 
 long coat— good day, captain. [Exit. 
 
 Cross. The wife of a sailor ! wife of a common seaman ! why 
 she's fit for an admiral. I know it is wrong, but I will again see 
 her — and come what may, I must and wUl have her. [Exit. 
 
 Scene II. — Interior of Susan's Cottage. 
 
 Enter William, at door. 
 
 William,. Well, here I am at last ! I've come fifteen knots an 
 hour, yet I felt as if I were driving astern all the time. So, this 
 is poor Susan's berth — not aboard — out on liberty, and not come 
 to the beach 1 — Eh ! that's she ; ha ! and with two strange- 
 rigged craft in convoy — I'll tack a bit, and — damn it, if there's 
 foul play — chain-shot and bar-shot ! I'll rake 'em fore and 
 aft. [retires. 
 
 Enter Hatchet, Susan, and Eaker, at door. 
 
 William. (Aside: What! hanging out signals of distress 1) 
 Susan. Oh, these are heavy tidings, indeed. 
 
OR, "ALL IN THE DOWNS." 269 
 
 Hatchet. Don't take on so, pretty Susan ! If William is dead, 
 there are husbands enough for so pretty a face as yours. 
 
 WU. Dead ! may I never splice the niainbrace, if that swab 
 don't want to get into my hammock. (Hatchet approaches 
 nearer to SuSAif.) Now, he's rowing alongside her with muffled 
 oars, to cut her cable ! — ^I'll tomahawk his rigging for him ! 
 
 Susan. But is there no hope 1 
 
 Hat. Hope ! none. I tell you, Susan, this honest fellow was 
 William's messmate ; he saw him go down, you didn't rightly 
 hear him when he first told the story — tell it again, Tom. 
 (Eakee svMenly indicates his unwillingness.) Poor fellow, he was 
 WUliam'a friend, and the story hurts him. — I'll tell it you. — You 
 see the ship had got upon the rocks, and it came on to blow 
 great gans ; her timbers opened, then she broke her back — all 
 her masts were over board, and orders were given to take to the 
 boats. — ^William was in the jolly-boat : — well, she hadn't got the 
 length of a boarding-pike from the wreck, when she shipped 
 a sea, and down she went. — William and twelve other brave 
 fellows were in the water ; — this shipmate here, threw out a rope ; 
 it was too late, William sunk and was never seen more. His 
 
 shipmate tuijied round and saw {Duriri^ this speech. Baker 
 
 has moved into the corner of the stage, his bach to Hatchet, as if 
 unwilling to hear the story. — Wn.T.TAM, by the conclusion of the speech 
 has placeA himself between Hatchet and Susajt.) Damnation ! 
 
 Susan. {Shrieking and throwing herself into William's arrrus^ 
 William! 
 
 Wil. Damn it, I'm running over at the scuppers, or you lubbers 
 I'd been aboard of you before this. What ! hang out false 
 signals to the petticoat — ^may you both have the yellow flag over 
 you, and go up in the smoke of the forecastle-chaser ! Bring to 
 a minute, and I'll be yard-arm and yard-arm with you. What, 
 Susan, Susan ! see, you swabs, how you've brought the white 
 into her pretty figure-head (pMfe Susan aside — draws his cutlass.) 
 Now, then, I'll make junk of one of you. 
 
 Svsan. William ! WiUiam ! for heaven's sake ! 
 
 Wil. Just one little bout, Susan, to see how I'U make small 
 biscuit of 'em. You won't fight ? Then take th^it to the pay- 
 master and ask him for the change, 
 
 {Strikes Hatohet with the flat part of his cutlass. 
 
 Eat. Struck ! then, here's one of us for old Davy ! 
 
 [Bwns at William, who is struck down on one knee, Ms cutlass 
 havimg fallen from, his hand ; at this moment the two windows 
 and door aire throrn^ :opem, and Lieuteitaht Pike with 
 Marines and SaUors, are seen with pointed muskets. Pike m 
 centre. 
 
270 BLACK-EY'D SUSAN; 
 
 Pike. Smugglers, suri-ender ! or you have not a moment's 
 life. 
 
 [Hatchet and, Rakek, startled by the appearance of ViKs'sparty, 
 recoil — the Marines march o», and talce them into custody. 
 
 Wil. Smugglers ! I thought they were not men-of-war's men — 
 true blue never piloted a woman on a quicksand. 
 
 Pike. We dogged you here, though you gave us the slip last 
 night. Come, my lads ; as you have cheated the king long 
 enough, you shall now serve him — ^the fleet wants hands, and you 
 shall aboard. 
 
 WU. If they are di-afted aboard of us, all I wish is, that I was 
 boatswain's mate for their sake. {Exeunt aU bi/U William and 
 Sdsaji at door.) Now, Susan (emiraces her), may I be lashed here 
 until death gives the last whistle. 
 
 Susan. Oh, William ! I thought we should never meet 
 again. 
 
 WU. Not meet ! why we shall never part again. The captain 
 has promised to write to the Admiralty for my discharge ; I saved 
 his life in the Basque Eoads. But I say. Sue, why wer'n't you 
 on the beach 1 
 
 Susan. I knew not of your arrivaL 
 
 WU. Why a sailor's wife, Susan, ought to know her husband's 
 craft from a whole fleet, if he sailed in a washing-tub. But how 
 is this. Sue ? how is it ? Poverty aboard ! and then your 
 uncle ' 
 
 {Enter Doqgeass.) 
 
 The very griffin I was talking of Now, what are you staring 
 at? What are you opening your mouth for like the main- 
 hold of a seventy-four 1 I should like to send you to sea in a 
 leaky gun-boat, and keep you at the pumps for a six months' 
 cruize. 
 . Doggrass. What ! William ! 
 
 WU. Avast, there ! Don't think to come under my lee in that 
 fashion. Ar'n't you a neat gorgon of an uncle now, to cut the 
 painter of a pretty pinnace like this, and send her drifting down 
 the tide of poverty, without ballast, provisions, or compass? 
 May you live a life of banyan days, and be put six upon four 
 for't. 
 
 Dog. But you mistake, WiUiam. 
 
 WU. No palaver ; tell it to the marines. What tacking and 
 
 double tacking ? come to what you want to say at once ; if you 
 
 want to get into the top go up the futtock-shrouds like a man 
 — don't creep through lubber's hole. — What have you got to say ? 
 
 Dog. Don't ! you have put my heart into my mouth. 
 
OK, " ALL IN THE DOWNS." 271. 
 
 WU. Have I ? I couldn't put a blacker morsel there. — Just 
 come alongside here. (Doqgrass goes up to him.) I am not 
 much of a scholar, and don't understand fine words : your heart 
 is as hard as a ring-bolt — ^to coil it up at once, you are a damned 
 rascal. If you come here after your friends, you'll find 'em in 
 the cock-pit of one of the fleet : you have missed the rattlins 
 this time, but brought yourself up by the shrouds. Now, take 
 my advice, strike your false colours, or I wouldn't give a dead 
 marine for the chance of your neck. 
 
 ■Doff. Well, we shall meet again. (Aside : As Hatchet's taken, 
 I must look to myself.) [Sxit. 
 
 WiL That fellow would sit still at his grog, at the cry of 
 " a man overboard ! '' Oh, Susan, when I look at your eyes, you 
 put me in mind of a frigate, with marines firing from the tops. 
 Come along. Sue. First to fire a salute to old Dame Hatley, then 
 away to my shipmates. To-day we'U* pitch care overboard, 
 without putting a buoy over him — call for the fiddles — start the 
 nan cask — ^tipple the grog — and pipe all hands to mischief. 
 
 lExeunt. 
 
 ScEiTE nL — A View near Deal — Pvhlic-house. 
 
 Petee, Seaweed, Gnatbrain, Dolly, Sailors, Eustics, men and 
 women, discovered drinking. 
 
 SeatBeed. Belay tbat gaUey-yarn, Peter ; belay ! Though you 
 have got among the landsmen, don't pay out so much cable. 
 
 ChnocCbrain. Oh, let tim go on — he lies like a, purser on a 
 reckoning day. 
 
 Sea~ No, no, we'U have no more of it. Where's William, 
 I wonder 1 He promised to meet us. I suppose he's with his 
 Susan now. 
 
 Peter. And where can he be. better, do you think ? But sup- 
 pose, just to pass the time away, I give you the song that was 
 made by Tom Splinter, upon William's parting with Susan in 
 the Downs. 
 
 AU. Ay, the song — song ! 
 
 Sea. Come, pipe np, my boy. Poor Tom Splinter ! He was 
 cut in half by a bar-shot from the Frenchman ; well, every shot's 
 commissioned. The song, the song ! 
 
 Peter. Here goes ; but I know I can't sing it now;. 
 
 Sea. Can't sing ! Bless you {to Bustles.) whenever we want to 
 catch a mermaid, we only make him chaunt a stave, and we've 
 twenty round the ship in the letting go of an anchor. 
 
 u 2 
 
272 BLACK-EY'D SUSAN; 
 
 Song* — BLUE PETEK. 
 
 * All in the Downs the fleet was moor'd, 
 
 The streamers waving in the wind, 
 When black-ey'd Susan came aboard, 
 
 Oh ! where shall I my true love find ? 
 Tell me, ye jovial sailors, tell me true, 
 If my sweet "William sails among your crew. 
 
 "William, who high Tipon the yard, 
 
 Rock'd with the billow to and fro, 
 Soon as her well-known voice he heard 
 
 He sigh'd and cast his eyes below ; 
 The cord slides swiftly through his glowing hands, 
 And (quick as lightening) on the deck he stands. 
 
 So the sweet lark, high-pois*d in air, 
 Shuts close his pinions to his breast, 
 
 (If, chance, his mate's shrill call he hear,) 
 And drops ^ once into her nest. 
 
 The noblest captain in the British fleet, 
 
 Might envy William's lip those kisses sweet. 
 
 • O Susan, Susan, lovely dear. 
 
 My vows shall ever true remain ; 
 Let me kiss off that falling tear, 
 
 We only part to meet again. 
 Change, as ye list, ye winds ; my mind shall be 
 The faithful compass that still points to thee. 
 
 Believe not what the landmen say, 
 Who tempt with doubts thy constant mind : 
 
 They tell thee, sailors, when away, 
 In every port a mistress find. 
 
 Yes, yes, believe them when they tell thee so, 
 
 For thou art present wheresoe'er I go. 
 
 If to fair India's coast we sail. 
 Thy eyes are seen in di'monda bright ; 
 
 Thy breath is Afric's spicy gale, 
 Thy skin is ivory so white. 
 
 Thus ev'ry beauteous object that I view. 
 
 Wakes in my soul some charm of lovely Sue. 
 
 Though battle call me from thy arms. 
 
 Let not my pretty Susan mourn 1 
 Though cannons roar, yet free from harms, 
 
 William shall to his dear return. 
 Love turns aside the balls that round me fly, 
 Lest precious tears should drop from Susan's eye.' 
 
 The boatswain gave the dreadful word, 
 The sails their swelling bosom spread, 
 
 No longer must she stay aboard : 
 
 They kiss'd, she sigh'd, he hung his head. 
 
 Her less!ning boat unwilling rows to land: 
 
 * Adieu ! * she cries ; and wav*d her lily hand.** 
 
 * Only the first two verses of" Sweet WilHam's Faretoetl to Bhick-ey^d 
 Susan" are sung in representation. 
 
OR, "ALL IN THE DOWNS." 273 
 
 Peter. Eh ! ■who have we here ? Man the yards, my boys — 
 here comes the captain. 
 
 £nter CAPTAtN Crosstree. 
 
 Crosstree. I am sorry, my fine fellows, to interrupt your festivi- 
 ties, but you must on board to-night. 
 
 All. To-night, your honour ? 
 
 Cross. Yes ; it is yet uncertain, that we may not be ordered to 
 set sail to-morrow. 
 
 Peter. Set sail to-morrow ! Why the Lords of the Admiralty 
 will break the women's hearts, your honour. 
 
 Cross. Where is William ? ' 
 
 Peter. He's with Susan, your honour ; pretty black-ey'd Susan, 
 as she is called. 
 
 Cross. With black-ey'd. Susan ! how is that ? 
 
 Peter. How, your honour ? Why they are spliced together for 
 life. 
 
 Cross. Married ! why I never knew of this ? 
 
 Peter. No ! Why, your honour I thought it was as well known 
 as the union-jack. They were spKced before we went upon the 
 last station. Not know it, yovir honour ? — Many a time has the 
 middle-watch siing the parting of William and Susan. 
 
 Cross. (Aside ; Married ! I had rather forfeited all chance of 
 being an admiral.) Well, my lads, you hear my advice, so make 
 the best of your time ; for to-morrow you may be sailing for blue 
 water again. ~ [Exit into inn. 
 
 Peter. Them lords of the Admiralty know mo more about the 
 pleasures of liberty, plenty of grog, and dancing with the lasses, 
 than I knows about 'stronomy. 
 
 Enter William and Susak. 
 
 William. Here are my shipinates, Susan ! Look at her, my 
 hearties — I wouldn't give up the command of this craft, no, not 
 to be made Lord High Admiral. What, honest Gnatbrain, Susan 
 has told me about you ; give us a grapple ! (takes out boa:.) Here, 
 take a bit from St. Domingo BUly. j ,. . 
 
 Crnat. From what 1 [Sailors gaiher round William. 
 
 Wil From St. Domingo Billy. I see ; you are taken aback — 
 steering in a fog ; well, I'll just put out my toplights to direct 
 your course. .:-■■■'.:'■ ' 
 
 Gnat. Now I'm a bit of a sailor, but none of your hard 
 words. 
 
274 ' BLACK-EY'D SUSAN; 
 
 WU. Hard •words ; No, I always speak good English : — ^you 
 don't think I'm like Lieutenant Lavender, of the Swallow 
 schooner. 
 
 Onat. But about St. Domingo Billy ? 
 
 Wil. It's lucky for you, that you've been good to Susan, or I 
 shouldn't spin you these yarns. You see it -was when the fleet 
 •was lying off St. Domingo in the "West Indies — ^the crew liked 
 new rum and dancing with the niggers. Well, the admiral (a 
 good old fellow, and one as didn't like flogging), wouldn't 
 give the men liberty : some of 'em, however, would swim 
 ashore at night, and come aboard in the morning. Now, you 
 see, to hinder this, the admiral and the captains put St. Domingo 
 Billy on the ship's books, and served him out his mess every 
 morning. 
 
 Gnat. Ay, ay : but who was St. Domingo Billy 1 
 
 Wil. Why, a shark, as long as the captain's gig. This shark, 
 or Billy, for that's what the sailors called him, used.to swim 
 round the fleet, and go from ship to ship, for his biscuit and raw 
 junk, just like a Christian. 
 
 Onat. Well, but your 'baeco-box, what about that 1 
 
 Wil. Steady ! — ^I'm coming to it. Well, one morning, about 
 eight bells, there was a black bum-boat woman aboard, -with a 
 little piccaninny, not much longer than my hand. Well, she sat 
 just in the gangway, — and there was Billy along-side, with his 
 three decks of grinders, ready for what might come. — ^Well, afore 
 you could say " about ship," the little black baby jumped out of 
 its mother's grappling, and fell into Billy's ja-ws ; — ^the black 
 woman gave a shriek that would have split the boatswain's 
 whistle ! Tom Gunnell saw how the wind was ; he was as fine a 
 seaman as ever stept — (stood six feet two, and could sit upon his 
 pigtail) ; well, he snatches up a knife, overboard he jumps, dives 
 under BUly, and in a minute the sea was as red as a marine. All 
 the crew hung like bees upon the shrouds, and when Tom came 
 up aU over blood, with the corpse of the baby, and the shark 
 turned upon its side — my eyes ! such a cheer — ^you might have 
 heard it at Green'wich ! We had 'em aboard, cut up Billy, and 
 what do you think we found in him 1 — AU. the watches and 
 'bacco-boxes as had been lost for the last ten years — an 
 admiral's cocked hat, and three pilot's telescopes. This is 
 one of 'em ! [showing box. 
 
 Gnat. What ! of the telescopes 1 
 
 Wil. No, of the boxes, you lubber. 
 
 Gnat. Well, friend William, that's a tolerable yam. 
 
 Wil. True, true as the Nore Light. But come, my hearties, we 
 are not by the galley-fire — let's have a dance. 
 
OK, " ALL IN THE DOWNS." 275 
 
 Peter. A danee ! what should you say now if you were to see 
 blue-peter flying at the fore ? 
 
 WU. Blue peter ' Belay, there — we shan't touch cable these 
 six weeks. 
 
 Peter. The captain blows from another point : eh ! and here's 
 Quid, the boatswain, with the crew of an admiral's barge after 
 him. 
 
 Enter Quid, Lieutenant Pike, with Baker and Hatchet, 
 guarded hy Marines. 
 
 Quid. We'll see 'em in the bilboes, your honour. 
 
 Pike. That's right, for there's a whole nest of them up along 
 the coast, and I know a rescue is meditated. 
 
 Quid. Rescue ! They'd as soon get a twelvemonth's pay out 
 of our purser. Now, lads, all hands on board. 
 
 WU. On board. Master Quid ! Why you are not in earnest 1 
 
 Quid. Indeed, but I am. There's the lieutenant waiting on 
 the beach for all the liberty-men. 
 
 WU. The Ueutenant % 
 
 Susan. Oh, WilUam, must you leave me so early ? 
 
 Wil. Why, duty, you know, Susan, must be obeyed. (Aside : 
 Cruize about here a little while — I'll down to the lieutenant and 
 ask leave 'till to-morrow.) Well, come along, shipmates ; if so 
 be that blue-peter must fly at the fore, why it's no use putting a 
 black face on the matter. 
 
 [Sailors go off with Girls, Raker, Qtim, and Hatchet, follow ; 
 WiLUAM, turning round and looking contemptiumsly at the 
 two latter. 
 
 Gnat. This it is, you see, pretty Susan, to be. married to a 
 sailor. Now, don't you think it would be much better if William 
 had a little cot, with six; feet square for the cultivation of pota- 
 toes, than the forecastle for the rearing of laurels ? — to be obliged 
 to leave you now ! 
 
 Susan. Yes, but I trust he will be enabled to return. Nay, 
 there are hopes that he will gain his discharge, and then with 
 his prize-money — 
 
 Gnat. Ay, I see ; go into the mercantile line — ^take a shop for 
 marine-stores. But come along, Susan ; the evening is closing 
 in — I'll see you to your cottage. 
 
 Susan. I thank you, good Gnatbrain ; but I would, for a time, 
 be alone. 
 
 Gnat. Ah, I see ; melancholy and fond of moonlight. Well, 
 
276 BLACK-ET'D SUSAN ; 
 
 poor tHng, it's not to be wondered at ; I was melancholy once, 
 but now, I contrive to keep a light heart, though it is stuck 
 through by an arrow. [Exit. 
 
 Susan. I hope he will return — surely, his officer will not be so 
 unkind as to refuse him. 
 
 Enter Captain Crossteeb, intoxicated, from inn. 
 
 Crosstree. {Singing) " Cease rude Boreas." — Confound that 
 fellow's wine — or mischief on that little rogue's black eyes, for 
 one or the other has made sad havoc here. 
 
 Susan. (Aside : The stranger officer that accosted me.) 
 
 Cross. Well, now for the boat. (Sees Susan.) May I never 
 see salt water again, if this be not the very wench. My dear, — 
 my love ! Come here ! 
 
 Susan. Intoxicated, too ! I will avoid him. [Going. 
 
 Cross. (Stai/ing her) Stop ! Why, what are you fluttering 
 about ? Don't you know, I've found out a secret ? — ^ha, ha ! I'm 
 your husband's captain. 
 
 Susan. I am glad of it, sir. 
 
 Cross. Are you so ? Come, that sounds welL 
 
 Susan. For I think you will give my husband leave of 
 absence, or if that is impossible, allow me to go on board his 
 ship. 
 
 Cross. Go on board, — that you shall ! You shall go in the 
 captain's gig — ^you shall live in the captain's cabin. 
 
 Susan. Sir! 
 
 Cross. Woulditnot be a shame for such a beautiful, black- 
 ey'd tender little angel as yourself to visitbetween decks ? Come, 
 think of it — as for William he's a fine fellow, certainly, but you 
 can forget him.. 
 
 Susan. Sir,-^let me.go ! 
 
 Cross. Forget him and live for me — ^by heavens I love you and 
 must have you ! 
 
 Susan. If you are a gentleman — ^if you are a saQor — ^you will 
 not insult a defenceless woman. 
 
 Cross. My dear,- I have visited too many sea-ports not to 
 understand aH this. I know I may be wrong, but passion hurries 
 me — the wine fires me — ^your eyes dart lightning into me, and 
 you shall be — 
 
 Susan. Let me go ! — ^William, William ! 
 
 Cross.. Yo\a cries are useless ! 
 
 Susan. Monster ! — ^William, WiUiam ! 
 
 [William naliing in with, a drawn cutlass. 
 
OR, "ALL IN THE DOWNS." 277 
 
 Wil. Susan ! and attacked by the buccaneers ! — die. 
 
 [William strikes at the Captain, wlwse hack is turned towards 
 Mm ; — he falls. 
 Cross. I deserve my fate. 
 
 [William and the rest of the Sailors, Gnatbrain, &c. who home re- 
 entered — " The Captain ! '" — William tnrns away horroi-- 
 strucJc. — Susan falls on her hnees, the Sailors hend over the 
 Captain. 
 
 ACT III, 
 
 Scene I. — A Street in Deal. 
 
 Enter Gnaibrain. 
 
 Gnatbrain. The court-martial is ordered; — the captains, with the 
 admiral at their head, are assembling on board the ship. (Gun 
 heard without.) And there goes the signal-gun for the commence- 
 ment of the proceedings. Poor William ! 
 
 Miter DoGGRAss. 
 
 Doggrass. Poor "William ! Ay if pity would save him, his neck 
 would be insured. Didn't he attempt to kill his captain ? 
 
 Gnat. True ; he deserves hanging for that. You. would have 
 doubtless gone a different way to work. WUliam cut down 
 his officer in defence of his wife — now, you, like a good 
 prudent man, — ^would have thrust your hands into your pockets, 
 and looked on. 
 
 >^og. None of your nettles, sirrah. WUliam ! — ^hanging is too 
 good for him. 
 
 GnaZ. You know best who hanging is good for ; — ^but I know 
 this,^-rif all the rascals who, under the semblance of a smug 
 respectability, sow the world with dissensions and deceit, were 
 fitted with a halter, rope would double its price, and the execu- 
 tioner set up his -carriage. 
 
 Dog. Have you any meaning in this ? 
 
 Gnat. No — none : you can couple my meaning with your 
 honesty. 
 
 Dog. When will your tongue change its pertness ? 
 
 Gnat' When your heart changes its colour. 
 
 Dog. My heart ! I've nothing to reproach myself with. I feel 
 strong in — 
 
278 BLACK-EY'D SUSAN; 
 
 Onat. Yes, you must be strong ; there's . no doubtiug 
 that ; — else, you'd never be able to carry that lump of mar- 
 ble in your bosom. — That's a load would try the strength of 
 a porter. 
 
 Dop. I tell you what, my friend, I had some thoughts — 
 
 Cfnat. I'll tell you what I had, only just now. — A dream. 
 
 Doff. A dream ? 
 
 Gnat. Ay; I dreamt that a young lamb was set upon by 
 a wolf; when, strange to say, a lion leapt upon it, and tore 
 it piecemeal : — at this moment a band of men came up, and 
 secured the noble brute. — They were about to kill the lion ; 
 their guns were pointed, their swords drawn,- — when a thing, 
 at first no bigger than my hand, appeared in the sky — it came 
 closer, and I saw it was a huge vulture ; it came wheeling 
 round and round the lion, and appeared to anticipate the 
 feast of blood — and with a red and glaring eye, and grasping 
 talons, seemed to demand the carcase,, ere the animal was 
 dead. 
 
 JDog. And what, since you will talk, said you to the vulture ? 
 
 Gnat. Nothing ; but I looked at it — ^and with a loathing, 
 left it. [Exit, looking significantly at Doggrass. 
 
 Bog. I shall never sleep quietly until I lay that rascal by the 
 heels. Confusion take him ! I am ashamed to say I am almost 
 afraid of him. 
 
 i^EInter Jacob Twig.) 
 
 Now, Jacob, bow fares Captain Crosstree ? 
 
 Jacob. Better: it is.thought he will recover. 
 
 Dog. Another disappointment! Yet, by the rules of the 
 service, William must die. Here, Jacob, I've something for 
 you to 
 
 Jacob. I've something for you, sir. [Gives him money. 
 
 Dog. Why, what's this ? 
 
 Jacob. Three guineas, two shillings, and sixpence-halfpenny. 
 That's just what I've received of you since I've been in your 
 employ. 
 
 Dog. Well, and what of that ? 
 
 Jacob. I don't feel comfortable with it, sir — I'd thank you to 
 take it. 
 
 Dog. Take it ! Are you mad ? 
 
 Jacob. No, sir — I have been ; I have been wicked and I now 
 think — and I wish you would think so too^that all wickedness 
 is madness. 
 
 Dog. How is all this brought about ? 
 
 Jacob. A short tale, sir ; — it's all with the captain. 
 
OR, " ALL IN THE DOWNS." 279 
 
 Dog. The captain ! 
 
 Jacob. Tes. I was in tlie public-house •when the captain was 
 brought in with that gash in his shoulder ; — I stood beside his 
 bed — it was steeped in blood ; — ^the doctor shook his head — ^the 
 parson came and prayed ; — and when I looked on the captain's 
 blue lips aud pale face, I thought, what poor creatures we are — 
 and then something whispered in my heart, " Jacob, thou hast 
 been a mischief-making, wicked lad — and suppose, Jacob, thou 
 wert, at a moment's notice, to take the captain's place ! " I 
 heard this — ^heard it as plain as my own voice — and my hair 
 moved, and I felt as I'd been dipped in a river, and I fell, like 
 a stone, on my knees. — ^When I got up again, I was quite 
 another lad. 
 
 Dog. Ha, ha ! 
 
 Jauxb. That's not a laugh ; don't deceive yourself ; it soimds 
 to my ears like the croak of a frog, or the hoot of an owl. 
 
 Dog. Fool ! 
 
 Jacob. I ran as hard as I could run to farmer Arable ; told 
 him what a rascal I was, and begged he'd hire me. — ^He did, and 
 gave me half-a-year's wages in advance, that I might return the 
 money you had paid me — there it is. 
 
 Dog. Idiot I Take the money. 
 
 Jacob. Every coin of it is a cockatrice's egg — it can bring forth 
 nought but mischief. 
 
 Dog. Take it — or I'll throw it into the sea. 
 
 Jacob. Don't; for coming from your hand, it wUl poison all 
 the fishes. 
 
 Dog. You will be a fool, then ? 
 
 Joicob. Yes; one of your fools, Master Doggrass— I wUl be 
 honest. {Exit. 
 
 Dog. AU falling from me; — ^no matter. I'll wait to see 
 William disposed of—then, since the people here seem leagued 
 against me, sell off my stock, and traveL — ^The postman brought 
 this packet (producing onj) to my house, directed to Captain 
 Crosstree. "What can it contain % No matter — ^it is a virtue on 
 the right side to be over cautious ; so, go you into my pocket, 
 until WUliam is settled for. {Chin heatd without) The court has 
 opened — ^now to watch its progress. [Exit. 
 
280 BLACK-ET'D SUSAN; 
 
 Scene II. — Tlie State Cabin of William's ship. — The Goui-t 
 Martial — three guns on each side of tlie Cabin. — Tlte Admiral 
 sits at the head of the table — an Union Jack flying over his 
 chair ; six Captains sii on each side of the table. "William is 
 brought in hy the Master-at-Arms and a Marine OflBcer ; a 
 Marine at each side, and one behind. — A Midshipman is in 
 attendance. — Music. 
 
 Admiral. Prisoner, as your ship is ordered for instant service, 
 and it has been thought expedient that your shipmates should 
 be witnesses of whatever punishment the court may award you, 
 if found guilty of the crime wherewith you are charged, — ^it will 
 be sufficient to receive the depositions of the witnesses, without 
 calling for the attendance of Captaiu Croastree, whom it is yet 
 impossible to remove from shore. One of the witnesses, I am 
 sorry to say, is your wife ; out of mercy to your peculiar situation, 
 we have not summoned her to attend. 
 
 William. Bless you, your honours, bless you ! My wife, Susan, 
 standing here before me, speaking words that might send me to 
 the fore-yard ! — it had been too much for an old sailor ! I thanlc 
 your honours. If I must work for the dead-reckoning, I wouldn't 
 have it in sight of my wife. 
 
 Adm. Prisoner, you are charged with an attempt to slay 
 Eobert Crosstree, captain of his Majesty's navy, and your 
 Superior officer. Answer, — are you guilty or not guilty 1 
 
 WU. I want, your honour, to steer well between the questions. 
 If it be asked, whether I wished to kill the captain 1 — I could, if 
 I'd a mind to brag, show that I Joved him — Gloved him next to 
 my own Susan ; all's one for that. I am not guilty of an attempt 
 to kill the captain ; but if it be guUt to strike in defence of a 
 sailor's own sheet-anchor, his wife, why, I say guilty, your 
 honour, — I say it, and think I've no cause to hang out the red at 
 my fore. 
 
 Adm. You plead guilty 1 — ^Let me, as one of your judges, 
 advise you to re-consider the plea. At least, take the chances 
 which a hearing of your case may allow. 
 
 Wil. I leave that chance to your own hearts, your honours : 
 if they have not a word for poor Will, why it is below the 
 honesty of a sailor, to go upon the half-tack of a lawyer. 
 
 Adm. Tou will not retract the plea 1 
 
 Wil. I'm fixed; — anchored to it, fore and aft, with chain- 
 cable. 
 
 Adm. (Tfc Marine Officer, <fic.) Remove the prisoner. (William 
 is removed as brought in.) Gentlemen, nothing more remains for 
 
OK, "ALL IN THE DOWNS." 281 
 
 us than to consider the justice of our verdict. Although the 
 case of the unfortunate man admits of many palliatives, still, for 
 the upholding of a necessary discipline, any commiseration would 
 afiEbrd a dangerous precedent, and, I fear, cannot be indulged. — 
 Gentlemen, are you all determined in your verdict 1 — Guilty, or 
 not guilty ? — Guilty 1 (After a pause, the Captains how assent.) 
 It remains for me to pass the sentence of the law ? (Captains 
 bow.) Bring back the prisoner ! 
 
 (Enter William, guarded as before^ 
 
 Does no one of your shipmates attend to speak to your character 1 
 Have you no one ? 
 
 WH. No one, your honour ? I didn't think to ask them — but 
 let the word be passed, and may I never go aloft, if, from the 
 boatswain to the black cook, there's one that could spin a yam 
 to condemn me. 
 
 Adm. Pass the word forward for witnesses. 
 
 \Music. — Midshipman goe» to cabin-door, and returns loith Quid. 
 What are you ? • 
 
 Quid. Boatswain, your honour ? 
 
 Adm. What know you of the prisoner ? 
 
 Quid. Know, your honour ! The trimmest sailor as ever 
 handled rope ; — the first on his watch, the last to leave the deck ; 
 — one as never belonged to the after-guard ; he has the cleanest 
 top, and the whitest hammock ; from reefing a maintop-sail to 
 stowing a netting, give me taut Bill afore any able seaman in his 
 Majesty's fleet. 
 
 Adm. But what know you of his moral character t 
 ' Quid. His moral character, your honour ? "Why, he plays upon 
 the fiddle like an angeL 
 
 Adm. Are there any other witnesses ? [Exit Quid. 
 
 Enter Seaweed. 
 
 "What do you know of the prisoner ? 
 
 Sea. Nothing but good, your honour. 
 
 Adm. He was never known to disobey command ? 
 
 Sea. Never but once, your honour :-^and that was when I was 
 upon the black list, he gave me half his grog. 
 
 Adm. What else do you know ? , ■ < 
 
 Sea. Why, this I know, your honour,^ — if William goes aloft, 
 there's sartin promotion for him. '; , ' 
 
 Adm. Have you nothing else to show ! — did he never do any 
 great, benevolent action 1 
 
282 BLACK-EY'D SUSAN; 
 
 Sea. Yes, he twice saved the captain's life, and once ducked a 
 Jew slopseller. 
 
 [Admiral motions Witness to retire. 
 
 Adm. Are there any more witnesses % 
 
 WU. Your honoura, — I feel as if I was in irons or seized to 
 the grating, to stand here and listen, like the landlord's daughter 
 of the Nelson, to nothing but yams about sarvice and character. 
 — My actions, your honours, are kept in the log-book aloft — ^i^ 
 when that's overhauled, I'm not found a trim seaman, why it's 
 only throwing salt to the fishes to patter here. 
 
 Adm. {To Officers.) Gentlemen, are your opinions still un- 
 changed ? (Captains hov) assent^ Prisoner, what have you to say 
 in arrest of judgment % Now is your time to speak. 
 
 Wil. In a moment, your honours. I had been three years at 
 sea, and had never looked upon or heard from my wife — as sweet 
 a little craft as was ever launched. — I had come ashore and was 
 as lively as -a. petrel in a storm. I found Susan, — ^that's my 
 wife, your honours — and when we were as merry as a ship's crew 
 on a pay-day, there comes an order to go on board — I left Susan, 
 and went with the rest of the Eberty-men to ask leave of the 
 second lieutenant. I had not been gone the turning of an hour- 
 glass, when I heard Susan giving signals of distress — I out with 
 my cutlass, made all sail, and came up to my craft — I found her 
 battling with a pirate — I never looked at his figure-head, never 
 stopped — ^would any of your honours ? long live you and your 
 wives, say I ! — ^would any of your honours have rowed along- 
 side as if you had been going aboard a royal yacht ? — ^No, you 
 wouldn't ; for the gQt epaulets on your shoulders can't alter the 
 heart that swells beneath ! you would have done as I did ; and 
 what did I ? Why I cut him down like old junk — had he been 
 the first lord of the Admiralty, I had done it. 
 
 [Overcome hy emotion,. 
 
 Adm. Prisoner, we keenly feel for your situation ; yet you, as 
 a good sailor, must know that the course of justice cannot be 
 evaded. 
 
 Wil. Your honours, let me be no bar to it. I do not talk for 
 my life. Death ! why if I 'scaped it here — the next cap-full of 
 wind might blow me from the yard-arm. All I would strive for 
 is, to show that I had no malice ; all I wish, whilst you pass sen- 
 tence, is your pity. That your honours, whilst it is your duty to 
 condemn the sailor, may, as having wives you honour and children 
 you love, respect the husband. 
 
 Adm. Have you anything further to advance ? 
 
 Wil. All my cable is run out — I'm brought to. 
 
 Adm. (having glanced at Captains, who, after a pause, signify 
 
OR, "ALL IN THE DOWNS." 283 
 
 that their verdict rernains unchanged^ Prisoner ! — your case falls 
 under the t-wenty-second article of war. (Reads.) "If any man in 
 or belonging to his Majesty's fleet shall draw, or offer to draw, 
 or lift up his hand against his superior officer, he shall suffer 
 death ! " {Putting on his hat.) The sentence of the court is, that 
 you be hanged at the fore yard-arm of this his Majesty's ship, at 
 the hour of ten o'clock : Heaven pardon your sins, and have 
 mercy on your soul ! This court is now dissolved. 
 
 [MiLsic. — ^Admiral and Captains come forward — Admiral shaJces 
 hands with William, who, after a momentary struggle, collects 
 himsdf, and is escorted from the cabin in tJie same way as he 
 entered it. 
 
 Sc3ENE IIL — A Street in Deal. 
 Enter Gnatbraih' and Jacob Twig. 
 
 Jacob. But, is it true, Gnatbrain 1 — Is Master Doggi'ass really 
 drowned ? 
 
 Gnat. True ! I tell you I saw the old piece of wickedness go 
 down. 
 
 Jacob. Tell me all — tell me. 
 
 Chiat. Why, the old villain was hovering, whUst the court- 
 martial was going on, like a raven about the vessel. The whole 
 sea was covered with boats — ^there was scarcely room enough to 
 put out an oar. Well, the word was given that the sentence was 
 about to be passed, when old Doggrass, as he would have snuffed 
 up the words of death, as a kite snuffi carrion, sprang hastUy up 
 in the boat — she gave a lurch, threw him backward, he went 
 down— not a hand was out to catch him ; he went down with 
 the horror of the good, and the laughter of the wicked, weighing 
 on his drowning head. 
 
 Jacob. Then he is really lost ? 
 
 Gnat. Ay, no matter for that : — ^poor William is lost too. 
 
 Jacob. Is there no hope of mercy ? — will not his judges have 
 compassion 1 
 
 ' Cfnat. Yes : but not that compassion which will save him. 
 Why, I'm told that every captain there, the good old admiral 
 himself, — men who had looked upon shipwreck, wounds, and 
 death, with dry eyes, cried when the business was over, like soft- 
 hearted girls. He is to be ^he's to die to-morrow. 
 
 Jacob. To-morrow ! 
 
 Gnat. Yes, and the day is now closing in. I must away to 
 poor Susan. That Captain Crosstree, I wouldn't wear his epau- 
 lets for all his prize-money. 
 
 Jacob. The captain ! Why they teU me he's gone raving mad 
 
284 BLACK-EY'D SUSAN: 
 
 ever since he heard of the court-martial : — that he curses him- 
 self calla William his brother, and prays for him. I wish our 
 squire could but look upon the captain as he lies, shrieking and 
 foaming, it would cure him of pride for the rest of his life. 
 
 Onat. Farewell, Jacob, I must on my melancholy errand. 
 
 Jacob. Honest Gnatbrain, I was near being a little bit of a 
 rogue — ^thank heaven that's over ; still, I am afraid I angered 
 Susan's husband when he first came on shore. I don't know how 
 it is, yet if he would let me press his five fingers before to-morrow, 
 I — I don't know, but I feel that it would make me more comfort- 
 able. He won't refuse it, think ye ? 
 
 Onat. Eefuse it ! no — all William's life has been goodness, and 
 think you he would forget it at the end ? — Come, boy, brace up 
 your heart, for you are about to see a sight enough to banish 
 smiles for ever from your iiace, and turn the young hair 
 grey. [Exeuia. 
 
 Scene IV. — The Oun-room of the Ship — Sentry M the door — tiEer 
 working over head — screen canvas bertlis ai the side — tomahawks 
 crossed, and fireAmckets in a row — William is seated, double- 
 ironed, on a spare tiller — Lieutenant, Officer of Marines, and 
 Master-at-Arms in attendance. — William's chest is opened before 
 him — tlie Lieutenant motions to Master-at-Arms to release the 
 prisoner. — QtriD, Seaweed, and others discovered. 
 
 Lieu. Now, William. 
 
 Wil. {with emotion.) Bless you, your honour. 
 
 Jjieu. Come, summon all your firmness. 
 
 Wil. I wiU, your honovir ; but just then I couldn't help think- 
 ing that when I used to keep the middle-watch with you, I never 
 thought it would come to this. 
 
 Lieu. But you axe a brave fellow, William, and fear not death ? 
 
 Wil. Death ! No — since I first trod the king's oak, he has 
 been about me — I have slept near him, watched near him — ^he 
 has looked upon my &ce, and saw I shrunk not — in the storm I 
 have heeded him not, in the fury of the battle I've thought not 
 of him — ^Had I been mowed down by ball or cutlass, my ship- 
 mates, as they had thrown me to the sharks, would have given 
 me a parting look of friendship, and over their grog have said I 
 did my duty. — This, your honour, would not have been death, 
 but laying-up in ordinary ; — but to be swayed up like a wet jib, 
 to dry — the whole fleet — nay, the folks of Deal, people that knew 
 me, used to pat me on the head when a boy, — all these lookim^ at 
 me — Oh ! thank heaven, my mother's dead. 
 
OR, " ALL IN THE DOWNS." 285 
 
 Lieu. Come, William ; think no more after that fashion. Here 
 is your chest — perhaps there are some of your shipmates on whom 
 you would bestow something ? 
 
 Wil. Thank ye, your honour. Lieutenant, I know you won't des- 
 pise the gift because it comes from one who walked the fore- 
 castle — there's my box ; keep it for poor Will's sake. — ^You and 
 I, your honour, have laid yard-arm and yard-ai-m with many a 
 foe — ^let us hope we shall come gunwale to gunwale in another 
 climate. (Gives him box.) Your honour's hand. {To Marine 
 Officer) Blue-peter's flying — ^the vessel of life has her anchor 
 a-trip, and must soon get uuder-weigh for the ocean of eternity : 
 your honour will have to march me to the launehing-plaqe, — 
 you won't give a ship a bad name because she went awkwardly 
 oflT the stocks 1 — ^Take this, your honour. {Opens watch.) This 
 papei- was cut by Susan's fingers before we left the Downs ; — 
 take it, your honour, I can't look at it. Master Quid, take this 
 for my sake. {Gfires chain and seals, among which is a bullet.) You 
 see that bullet ; preserve it more than the gold : that ball was 
 received by Harry Trunnion in my defence. — ^I was disarmed, 
 and the rrenchman was about to fire, when Harry threw him- 
 self before me, and received that bullet in his breast. — I took it, 
 flattened from his dead body : — ^have worn it about me : — it has 
 served to remind me that Harry suffered for my sake, and that it 
 was my duty, when chance might serve, to do the like for another. 
 [Music. — "William is overcome hy his feeliTigSj and hurriedly dis- 
 tributes the contents of his chest among the rest of his Shipmates. 
 
 Lieu. And now, William, have you any request to make t 
 
 Wil. None, your honour. Susan and soiae friends will 
 shortly be on board : — all I want is, that I may have strength 
 to see my wife, my poor young heart-broken wife, for the last 
 time ! and then, die like a seaman and a man. — {Music — Exeunt 
 all but William.) I am soon to see poor Susan ! I should like 
 first to beat all-my feelings to quarters, that they might stand 
 well to their guns, in this their last engagement. — I'll try and 
 sinor that song, which I have many a time sung in the middle 
 watch : — that song which has often placed my heart, though 
 a thousand miles at sea, at my once happy home. 
 WILLIAM siiigs. 
 
 All ia the Downs the fleet was moor'd. 
 
 The streamers waving in the wind, 
 When Black-ey'd Su 
 
 {Overcome^ My heart is splitting — 
 
 [Sdsan shrieks without — rushes in,, amd throws herself into 
 William's arms. 
 WU. Susan ! 
 
 X 
 
BLACK-EY'D SUSAN- 
 
 Susan. Oh, "William ! and liave I watched, prayed for your 
 return — smiled in the face of poverty, stopped my ears to the 
 reproaches of the selfish, the worse pity of the thoughtless — and 
 all, all for this ? 
 
 Wil. A.J, Sue, it's hax-d ; but that's all over — to grieve is 
 useless. Susan, I might have died disgraced — ^have left you the 
 widow of a bad, black-hearted man : I know 'twill not be so — 
 and in this, whilst you remain behind me, there is some 
 comfort. I died in a good cause ; I died in defence of the 
 virtue of a wife ; her tears will fall like spring rain on the grass 
 that covers me. 
 
 Susan. Talk not so — ^your grave ! I feel it is a place where my 
 heart must throw down its heavy load of life. 
 
 Wil. Come, Susan ; shake off your tears. There, now, smile a 
 bit — ^we'U not talk again of graves. Think, Susan, that I am 
 going on a long foreign station — think so. Now, what would you 
 ask — have you nothing, nothing to say ? 
 
 Siesan. Nothing ! Oh, when at home, hoping, trembling for 
 this meeting, — thoughts crowded on me, and I felt as I could 
 have talked to you for days, — stopping for want of power, not 
 words. Now the terrible time is come, now I am almost tongue- 
 tied — my heart swells to my throat — I can but look and weep. — 
 (&un is fired.) That gun ! oh "William ! husband ! is it so near ? 
 — Tou speak not — ^tremble ! 
 
 WU. Susan, be calm. If you love your husband, do not send 
 him on the deck a white-faced coward. Be still, my poor girl ; 
 I have something to say — ^until you are calm, I will not utter it ; 
 now, Susan. ' 
 
 Susan. I am cold, and motionless as ice. 
 
 Wil. Susan, — you know the old aspen that grows near to the 
 church porch ; — you and I, when children, almost before we 
 could speak plainly, have sat and watched, and wondered at its 
 shaking leaves. — I grew up, and that tree seemed to me a friend 
 that loved me. Beneath its boughs our little arms were locked 
 together — ^beneath its boughs, I took the last kiss of your white 
 lip when hard fortune made me turn sailor. I cut from the tree 
 this little branch {produces it) ; many a summer's day aboard, I've 
 lain in the top and looked at these few leaves, until I sav green 
 meadows in the salt sea, and heard the bleating of the sheep. 
 
 "When I am dead, Susan, let me be laid under that tree — let me 
 
 \Chjm is fired — Susan falls — ai this moment, a voice vritlumt cries 
 "A body- overboard!" Peter and Sailors come in, with 
 Master-at-arms and Marine Officer. — Mvsic. — William gives 
 Susan into charge of Sailors, and she is home off. 
 
 Wil., "What cry was that 1 — a shipmate overboard 1 
 
OR, "ALL IN THE DOWNS." 287 
 
 Peter. No, William — ^but as the gun was fired, a body rose up 
 just at the port-hole ; they have taken it aboard ; it is the body 
 of Susan's uncle — a packet, directed to the captain, was taken 
 from it. 
 
 WU. "What, Susan's uncle ! villain, may the greatest — (6eH 
 tolls) — ^no, no — I shall soon be like him ; why should the dying 
 triumph over the dead 1 [Music. — Exeunt. 
 
 ScEirE "V. — The Forecastle of tJie Ship. — Procession cdong the 
 starboard gangway ; minute hell tolls. — Master-at-Arms with a 
 drawn sword under his arm, point next to tlie prisoner ; "William 
 follows without his neckcloth and jacket, a Marine on each side ; 
 Officer of Marines next'; Admiral, Captain, Lieutenant, and 
 Midshipmen following. William kneels; and all aboard 
 appear to join in prayer with him. The Procession then marches 
 on, and halts at the gangway ; Marine Officer delivers up 
 prisoner to the Master-at-Arms and Boatswain ; a Sailor 
 standing at one of the forecastle guns, with the loch-string in his 
 
 , hand. — A platform extends from the cat-head to the fore-rigging. 
 Yellow f/ig flying at the fore. -Colours half-mast down. — Music 
 — William embraces the Union Jack — shakes the Admiral's 
 liand. 
 
 Wil. Bless you ! bless you all — {mounts the platform.) 
 Captaim Crosstree rushes in. . 
 
 Cross. Hold! hold! 
 
 Adm. Captain Crosstree ! — retire, sir, retire. 
 
 Cross. Never ! If the prisoner be executed, he is a murdered 
 man. I alone am the culprit — 'twas I who would have dis- 
 honoured him. 
 
 Adm. This cannot plead here — he struck a superior officer. 
 
 Cross. No ! 
 
 AU. No 1 
 
 Cross. He saved my life ; I had written for his discharge — 
 villainy suppressed the document — ^'tis here, dated back : when 
 William struck me he was not the king's sailor — I was not his 
 officer. 
 
 Adm. {Hailing taken the paper.) He is free ! 
 
 [The Seamen give three dieers, William leaps from, the platform. 
 SusiN is handed on by Crosstree, followed by Qhaibbatn, 
 Twio, &o. - 
 
 END OF "BLACK-EY'D SUSAN.'" 
 
LONDON : 
 BRADBTIRT AND EVANS, PRINIERS, WHITEFEIAES,