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 THE 
 
 WHEEL OF FORTUNE, | 
 
 I 
 
 A PTiAY ; 5- 
 
 J3j) m. €umiinlmttf. i 
 
 i 
 
 BOSTON: 
 
 ! PUBLISHED BY WELLS AND LILLY,— COURT-STREET: 
 ! A. T. GO.ODRICri k CO. ]>vEW-YORK. 
 
^Inm 
 
 cdoifTAJSfCS irr this editioit, as far as tet pub* 
 
 LISHED IN ENGLAJVD. 
 
 No. 1 
 
 3 
 4 
 5 
 6 
 7 
 9 
 9 
 10 
 U 
 12 
 i3 
 14 
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 19 
 30 
 21 
 22 
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 29 
 30 
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 A New Way to Pay Old 
 
 Debts. 
 Rivals. 
 West Indian. 
 Hypocrite. 
 Jealous Wife. 
 She Stoops to Conquer. 
 Richard III. 
 Beggar's Opera. 
 Wonder. 
 Duenna. 
 
 Alexander the Great. 
 Lionel and Clarissa. 
 Hamlet. 
 
 Venice Presei-ved. 
 Is He Jealous ? * 
 Woodman's Hut. * 
 Love in a Village- 
 Way to Keep Him. 
 Castle Spectre. 
 Maid of the Mill. 
 Clandestine Marriage. 
 Soldier's Daughter. 
 Othello. 
 
 Distressed Mother. 
 Provoked Husband. 
 Deaf and Dumb. 
 Busy Body. 
 Bellc"'s Stratagem. 
 Romeo and Juliet. 
 Recruitir.s; Officer. 
 Bold Stioke for a Wife. 
 Road to Ruin. 
 Beaux' Stratagem. 
 As you Like It. 
 King John. 
 
 Country Girl. 
 
 Jane Shore. 
 
 Critic. * 
 
 Coriolanus. 
 
 Rosina. * 
 
 Suspicious Husband. 
 
 Honest Thieves. * 
 
 Mayor of Garratt. * 
 
 RTerry Wives of Windsor. 
 
 Stranger. 
 
 Three Weeks after M^a£- 
 
 riage. * 
 King Lear. 
 Inconstant. 
 Shipwreck. * 
 Rugantino. * 
 Wild Oats. 
 Rule a Wife and Have $. 
 
 Wife. 
 Magpie. * 
 Quaker. * 
 Merchant of Venice 
 Wheel of Fortune. 
 Rob Roy. 
 Citizen. * 
 Deserter. * 
 Miser. * 
 Guy Mannering. 
 Cymbeline. 
 Lying Valet. * 
 Twelfth Night. 
 The Confederacy. 
 Douglas. 
 
 Who's the Dupe ? * 
 Know Your own Mind. 
 
 [D^ Those marked thus * are Farces or Melo-drames ; ths 
 prkes of which are 20 cents ; the Inlays and Operas 25 anis. 
 
&VDtvvu'» tuition, 
 
 THE j 
 
 WHEEL OF FORTUNE, 
 
 A comedy; : 
 
 i 
 
 WITH PREFATORY REMARKS. 
 
 THE ONLY EDITION EXISTING WHICH IS FAITHFULLY 
 
 MARKED WITH THE STAGE BUSINESS, 
 
 AND STAGE DIRECTIONS, 
 
 AS IT IS PERFORMED AT THE 
 By W. OXBERRY, Comedian. 
 
 BOSTON : 
 
 I'UBLTSHED BY WELLS AND LILLY — COVRT-STREJIT : ^ 
 
 , A. T. GOODJIICH & CO. — NEW-YORK. : 
 
 18^. I 
 
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 'V 
 
 ' \ 
 x^^^ 
 
 7-^rf^/ 
 
 '2^/ 
 
Utmm^u. 
 
 WHEEL OF FORTUNE. 
 
 It has been said, and generally believed, that the Pen- 
 ruddock of this comedy is borrowed from the Stranger. 
 This belief, however, stands upon very poor foundations, 
 not to mention the great difficulty of holding the balance 
 between Cumberland and such a determined plr giarist as 
 Kotzebue. The German dramatist was very often wont 
 to plume himself in feathers picked up from the English 
 songsters, and always without saying one word of the mat- 
 ter. Most of his French loans he had the honesty to ac- 
 knowledge, but he was by no means equally honest to- 
 ward his English neighbours ; these he plundered without 
 ceremony, and truth to say, the enormous catalogue of his 
 works would dwindle into a very moderate compass, if 
 each of the plundered parties could rise to claim his own 
 from this indigesta moles. In the present instance, we 
 have no doubt it will be found that even the Stranger is of 
 English origin, though we are willing, most willing, to al- 
 low that the morality and superstructure are purely Ger- 
 man. No English Dramatist — Heaven be thanked there- 
 for — would have the impudence to come forward as the 
 avowed advocate of adultery ; we are pretty far gone in 
 
iniquify, but not quite so far as that : what we may coirte 
 to is another question, and one that we should be loth to 
 argue. 
 
 In regard to Cumberland's supposed plagiarism from the 
 Stranger, it is difficult to conceive how such a thing could 
 be ; Cumberland did not understand a syllable of German ; 
 but then, say his accusers, he read an English Review of 
 Menschenhass and Reue, Kotzcbue's Stranger. But where 
 is this Review? Who has ever seen it? Of the many 
 who have told this idle tale, not one has thought proper to 
 name the Review, a point of the first importance to the ar- 
 gument, for it was not until very lately that German lite- 
 rature has been at all considered in this countlry ; the 
 knowledge of that language, in our author's time, was as 
 rare an acquisition, as the study of Danish in the present, 
 and the few who were possessed of the treasure, were not 
 men the most likely to waste it in a Reriew. Besides, is 
 there no play in our own language, to which the Wheel of 
 Fortune, or rather its principal character, Penruddock, 
 bears a decid«d resemblance, or at least a much closer re- 
 semblance than to the Stranger. Each of these personages 
 is a misanthrope it is true ; but there the resemblance ends ; 
 their misanthropy springs from different causes, acts up- 
 on different characters, and produces different effects. Is 
 it not probable that Cumberland, who was so fond of 
 Shakspeare's Tiraon of Athens, that he laboured to adapt 
 it to the stage, borrowed his Penruddock from the Athe- 
 nian misanthropist ? Are not the points of similitude much 
 more glaring than between the Wheel of Fortune and Mi- 
 santhropy and Repentance ? For our own parts we do not 
 feel the least doubt of this, and are equally convinced that 
 Kotzebue borrowed from the same source, but, as adultery 
 happened to be the favourite theme of Germany at^that 
 
iimpf it came naturally to his aid to disguise the plagia- 
 rism. It is not a little singular that the great Schiller also 
 had been led to the same subject, though he did not live 
 to finish his design ; the fragment has been printed. 
 
 The Wheel of Fortune is far from being the best, though 
 it is the most pleasing of Cumberland's comedies ; the cha- 
 racters are dressed out in all those virtues which an au- 
 dience is^most prone to admire ; a boundless generosity is the 
 magnet which attracts the spectator to every one ; — Syden- 
 ham is generous, Emily is generous, the Governor is gene- 
 rous, nay Penruddock, the last person to be suspected of 
 such a feeling, ends by being prodigiously generous. It is 
 true, this is not very like the real world, but it is very 
 agreeable notwithstanding. It is scarcely possible not to 
 be interested in this worthy family, though for his own 
 fame, it had perhaps been better if Cumberland had been 
 a little more frugal of his virtues, for his extravagance on 
 this head always passed the bounds of reason ; even his 
 villains turn out as good as the honest characters of oth- 
 ■cv writers. In the present play for instance, Woodville, 
 with all his faults, is generous enough to take a long jour- 
 ney, for the express purpose of being shot by the friend he 
 had injured ; though, to be sure, he is not troubled with 
 this generous whim, till he has lost every thing, is asham- 
 ed to face his wife and son, and has nothing left worth 
 living for. 
 
 Too much can not be said in praise of the plot ; it is 
 simple, yet highly interesting, and that interest increases 
 with the progress of the play. The dialogue is elegant and 
 playful, and sometimes, though not frequently, it rises to 
 wit or humour ; in fact, it is the language of life, and as 
 such, deserves the praise of being natural, whatever may 
 be the value of that praise. Though less brilliant, we 
 
6 
 
 snould pieter it to the West Indian; there is more faciiit}'^ 
 about it ; i)iore reality too in the characters, and, though 
 it is no very orthodox faith, we can not help saying it is a 
 much more agreeable comedy than the West Indian. 
 
 Richard Cumberland was the son of Dr. Denison Cum- 
 "berland, late Bishop of Kilmore, in Ireland, by Joanna, 
 youngest daughter of the celebrated Dr. Bentley, (a lady 
 on whom the well-known pastoral of Phoebe, by Dr. By- 
 rom, printed in the Spectator, No. 603, was written), and 
 great-grandson of Dr. Richard Cumberland, Bishop of Pe- 
 terborough, 
 
 He was born February 19, 1732, in the master's lodge of 
 Trinity College, Cambridge, under the roof of his grandfa- 
 ther Bentley, in what is called the Judge's Chamber, 
 When turned of six years of age, he was sent to the school 
 of Bury St. Edmund's ; whence he wzts in due time trans- 
 planted to Westminster. At the age of fourteen, Mr, C. 
 was admitted of Trinity College, Cambridge ; whence, af- 
 ter a long and assiduous course of study, he launched into 
 the great world, and became a private confidential secreta- 
 ry to Lord Halifax, then at the head of the Board of Trade ; 
 which situation he held with great credit to himself, till his 
 Lordship went out of office. 
 
 Soon after this, he obtained the lay fellowship of Trinity 
 College, vacant by the death of Mr. Titley, the Danish 
 Envoy. This fellowship, however, he did not hold long ; 
 for, on obtaining, through the patronage of Lord Halifax, 
 a small (establishment as crown agent for the province of 
 Nova Scotia, he married Elizabeth, only daughter of 
 George Ridge, Esq. of Kilmiston, in Hampshire, in whose 
 family he had long been intimate. 
 
 When Lord Halifax returned to administration, and was 
 appointed, Lord Lieutenant of Ireland, Mr. C. went with 
 
him to that country as under-secretary ; his father, as one 
 of his chaplains ; and his brother-in-law, Captain William 
 Ridge, as one of his aides-du-camp. 
 
 Before Lord Halifax quitted Ireland to become Secreta- 
 ry of State Mr. Cumberland's father had been made Bishop 
 of Clonfert, and Mr. Cumberland himself, who had declin- 
 ed a baronetcy which had been offered him by his patron, 
 came to England with his Lordship, and was appointed, we 
 believe, to the situation of assistant secretary to the Board 
 of Trade. 
 
 About the end of the year 1771, the Bishop of Clonfert 
 was translated to Kilmore ; which see, however, he held 
 not long, being translated by death to a better world ; to 
 which he was followed by his lady in June, 1775. 
 
 The accession of Lord George Germaine to the seals for 
 the colonial department, promoted Mr. Cumberland from a 
 subaltern at the Board of Trade to the post of secretary. 
 
 In the year 1780 he was sent on a secret and confiden- 
 tial mission to the court of Spain ; and it is reported, that 
 his embassy would have been successful, but for the riots 
 in London, and the capture of our East and West India 
 fleets, which inspired the Spaniards with more confidence 
 than they had before possessed. In this mission Mr. Cum- 
 berland necessarily incurred great expenses ; and he was 
 cruelly neglected by ministers after the conclusion of his 
 negociation. It was, however, during his residence in that 
 country that he collected the Anecdotes of Eminent Paint- 
 ers in Spain, which he afterwards published. 
 
 By the provisions of Mr. Burke's well-known bill, the 
 board of Trade was annihilated, and Mr. Cumberland was 
 set adrift with a compe»sation of scarcely a moiety in va- 
 lue of what he had been deprived of. He now retired 
 with his family, to Tunbridge Wells, where he centinued 
 
8 
 
 to reside, universally respected. He died at the house of 
 his friend, Mr. Henry Fry, in Bedford Place, Russell 
 Square, on the 7th of >Cay, 1811, and was buried in West- 
 minster Abbey, on the 14th, in Poet's Corner, near the 
 shrine of Garrick. 
 
 Of his dramatic works we annex what we believe to be a 
 correct list : — i 
 
 1. The Banishment of Cicero, T. 4to. 1761.~2. The • 
 Summer's Tale, M.C 8vo. 1765.— 3. Amelia, M,E. 8vo. 
 1768.— 4. The Brothers, C. 8vo. 1769.-5. The West In- ]\ 
 dian, C. 8vo. 1771.— 6. Amelia, M.E. Altered. 8vo. 1771. \ 
 —7. Timon of Athens, T. altered. 8vo. 1771.— 8. The k 
 Fashionable Lover, C. 8vo. 1772.— 9. The Note of Hand, ; 
 F. 8vo. 1774.— 10. The Choleric Man, C. 8vo. 1775.-11. \ 
 The Battle of Hastings, T. 8vo. 1778.-12. The Princess of \ 
 Parma, T. 1778. N.P.— 13. The Election, Ent. 1778. N.P. | 
 —14. Calypso, M, 8vo. 1779.— 15. The Bondman, T.C. ■ 
 Altered. 1779. N.P.— 16. The Duke of Milan, T. Altered. \ 
 1779. N.P.— 17. The Widow of Delphi, M.C. (Songs only j 
 printed) Bvo. 1780.— 18. The Walloons, C. 1782. N.P.— ; 
 19. Mysterious Husband, P. 8vo. 1783.— 20. The Carme- , 
 lite, 71 Bvo. 1784.-21. Natural Son, C. 8vo. 1785.— 22. j 
 The Arab, T, 1785. N.P.— 23. The Country Attorney, C. ' 
 1787. N.P.— 24. The Impostor, C. 8vo. 1789.— 25. School 
 for Widows, C. 1789. N.P.— 26. Occasional Prelude, 1792. | 
 N.P.— 27. The Armourer, CO. 1793. N.P,— 28. The Box- \ 
 lobbey Challenge, C. 8vo. No date. [1794.]— 29. The Jew, / 
 C. 8vo. 1794.— 30. Wheel of Fertune, C. 8vo. 1795.— 31. \ 
 First Love, C. 8vo. 1795.— 32. The Dependant, C. 1795. j 
 N.P.— 33. Don Pedro, D. 8 vo. 1796.— 34. The Days of | 
 Yore, D. Bvo, 1796.— 35. The Last of the Family, C. 8vo. ! 
 1797.-36. False Impressions, C. 8vo. 1797.— 37. Village 
 Fete, Int. 1797. N.P. (Ascribed to him by report.)— 38. f 
 
The Clouds, C. 8vo. N.P. [1797.]— 39. The Eccentric Lo- 
 ver, C. 1798. N.P.— 40. A Word for Nature, C. 1798. N.P. 
 —41. Joanna of Montfaucon, D,R. 8vo. 1800.— 42. Lo- 
 vers' Resolutions, C. 1802. N.P. —43. Sailor's Daughter, 
 C. Bvo. 1804.— 44. Victory and Death of Lord Nelson, 
 M.D.P. 1805. N.P.— 45. Hint to Husbands, C. 8vo. 1806.— 
 46. The Jew of Mogadore, O. 8vo. 1808.-47. Robber, 
 n.P. 1809. N.P.— 48. Widow's only Son, C. 1810. N.P.— 
 49. Alcanor, P. N.P.— 50. The False Demetrius, P. N.P. 
 —51. Passive Husband, P. N. P.— 52. The Sybil; [Sibyl] 
 Or, The Elder Brutus, P. N.P.— 53. Tiberius in Caprea?, 
 F, N.P.-54. Torrendal, T. N.P. 
 
Eimt of Mtpvtntnutmx, 
 
 The time this piece takes in representation, is two hours 
 and twenty-seven minutes. The first act occupies the 
 space of twenty-eight minutes; — the second, twenty- 
 eight ; — the third, thirty-three ; — the fourth, thirty-three ; 
 and the fifth, twenty-five. The half-price commences at 
 nine o'clock. 
 
 Stage Directions. 
 
 By R.H. ----- is meant Right Hand. 
 
 L.H. - Left Hand. 
 
 s.E. — -_--...--- — - Second Entrance, 
 
 r.E. Upper Entrance. 
 
 M.D. - Middle Door. 
 
 D.F. Door in Flat. 
 
 R.H.D. - Right Hand Door, 
 
 i,.H.D. -- Left Hand Door. 
 
SPOKEN BY MR. PALMER. 
 
 A Farmer late, (so country records say,) 
 From the next market homewards took his way ; 
 When as the bleak unshelter'd heath he cross'd, 
 Fast bound by winter in obdurate frost. 
 The driving snow-storm smote him in his course, 
 High blow'd the North, and rag'd in all its force ; 
 Slow-pac'd, and full of years, th' unequal strife 
 Long time he held, and struggled hard for life ; 
 Vanquish'd at length, benumb'd in every part. 
 The very life-blood curdling at his heart, 
 Torpid he stood, in frozen fetters bound, 
 Doz'd, reel'd, and dropt expiring to the ground. 
 Haply his dog, by wond'rous instinct fraught 
 With all the reas'ning attributes of thought. 
 Saw his sad state, and to his dying breast 
 Close cow'ring, his devoted body press'd ; 
 Then howl'd amain for help, till passing near, 
 Some charitable rustic lent an ear, 
 Rais'd him from earth, recall'd his flitting breath. 
 And snatch'd him from the icy arms of death. 
 
 So, when the chilling blast of secret woe 
 Checks the soul's genjal current in its flov.'— 
 
i2 PROLOGUE. 
 
 When death-like lethargy arrests the mind, 
 
 Till man forgets all feeling for his kind, 
 
 To his cold heart the friendly Muse can give 
 
 Warmth and a pulse that forces him to live ; 
 
 By the sweet magic of her scene beguile, 
 
 And bend his rigid muscles to a smile, 
 
 Shake his stern breast with sympathetic fears, 
 
 And make his frozen eyelids melt in tears, 
 
 Pursuing still her life-restoring plan, 
 
 Till he perceives and owns himself a man. 
 
 Warm'd with these hopes, this night we make appeal 
 To British hearts— for they are hearts that fe^l. 
 
SPOKEN BY MISS FARREN. 
 
 There are — what shall I call ihem ? — two great PovveM, 
 Who turn and overturn this world of ours^ 
 Ji'ortune and Folly. — Tho*" not quite the same 
 In property, they play each other's game ; 
 Fortune makes poor men rich, then turns them o'er 
 To Folly, who soon strips them of their store. 
 
 • ^Oh ! 'twas a mighty neat and lucky hit, 
 
 When Fat O'Leary snapt a wealthy cit; 
 
 For why ? — his wants were big, his means were small. 
 
 His wisdom less, and so he spent his all : 
 
 When fortune turn'd about, and jilted Fat, 
 
 Was F0.0I or Fortune in the fault of that? 
 
 Sir Martin Madcap held the lucky dice, 
 He threw, and won live thousand in a trice. 
 Keep it ! cried Caution — JVo, he threw again, 
 Kick'd down the five, and cut with minus ten. 
 
 Giles Jumble and his dame, a loving pair. 
 No brains had either, and of course no care ; 
 'Till (woe the day !) when Fortune in her spite, 
 Made Giles High Sheriff, and they dubb'd him Knight. 
 Up they both go ; my Lady leads the dance, 
 Sir Giles cuts capers on the wheel of Chance ; 
 Heads down, heels over, whirl'd and whisk'd about, 
 No wonder if their shallow wits ran out ; 
 2 * 
 
H EPILOGUfi. 
 
 Gigg'd by their neighbours, guU'd of all their cash, 
 Down comes Sir Giles and Co, with thund'ring crash. 
 
 Who says that Fortune's blind ? she has quicker sight 
 Than most of those on whom her favours light ; 
 iFor why does she enrich the weak, and vain. 
 But that her ventures may come home again ? 
 Pass'd thro' like quicksilver, they lose no weight 
 Nor value in their loco-motive state ; 
 No stop, no stay ; so fast her clients follow, 
 Ere one mouth shuts, another gapes to swallow ; 
 Whilst, like a conjuror's ball — presto I be gone ! 
 The pill that serv'd Sir Giles, now serves Sir John, 
 
 " Sir Eustace had a fair and lovely wife, 
 Form'd to adorn and bless the nuptial life, 
 Fortune's best gift in her best giving mood, 
 Sir Eustace made that bad which Heav'n made good; 
 Basely allur'd her into Folly's course) 
 Then curs'd his fate, and sued out a divorce, 
 pnjust, at Fortune's cruelty to rail. 
 When we make all the miseries we bewail." 
 
 Ah ! generous patrons, on whose breath depends) 
 The fortune of the Muse, and us, her friends, 
 If, in your grace, this night you shall bestow 
 One sprig of laurel for your poet's brow. 
 Impart to me your flattering commands. 
 And sign them with the plaudit of your hands. 
 
Costume, 
 
 SIR DAVID DAW. 
 Green jacket, white waistcoat, and buff breeches. 
 
 TEMPEST, 
 filue regimental coat, white waistcoat and breeches. 
 
 PENRUDDOCK. 
 Mixed grey coat, scarlet waistcoat, and cord breeches. 
 
 WOODVILLE. 
 Blue coat, white waistcoat, and buff breeches. 
 
 SYDENHAM. 
 Green coat, white waistcoat, and buff* pantaloons. 
 
 HENRY WOODVILLE. 
 Blue regimental coat, white waistcoat, pantaloons, and boots> 
 
 WEAZEL. 
 Suit of black cloth. 
 
 JENKINS. 
 Ibid. 
 
 SERVANTS. 
 Different coloured liveries. 
 
 MRS. WOODVILLE. 
 X<ead.coloured satin dress. 
 
 EMILY TEMPEST. 
 Pink satin body, leno petticoat, trimmed with lace and ribbon. 
 
 DAME DUNCKLEY. 
 Brown stuff gown, blue petticoat, white handkerchief and apron, black 
 bonnet and cloak. 
 
 MAID. 
 Blue and wbitecotton gown, red stuff petticoat, and muslin apron. 
 
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WHEEL OF FORTUNE. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 SCENE l.^The Cottage of Penruddock, l.h.s.e, 
 seated in a groupe of trees^ with a Forest Scene 
 of wood and heath. 
 
 Enter Weazel, r.h.s.e. in a travelling dress. 
 
 Wea. Was ever gentle traveller, since the 
 days of Robinson Crusoe, so put to his shifts, as 
 1 Tinaothy Weazel, attorney at law? I have lost 
 my guide, njy guide has lost himself, and my 
 horse has absconded, with bridle, saddle, and all 
 his shoes, save one he left behind him in a 
 slough. I saw a fellow setting springs for wood- 
 cocks, and show'd him signals of distress ; but 
 the carle ran off at the sight of me, and vanishM 
 like a Jack o'iantern. If I understood the lan- 
 guage of birds, there is not one within call to 
 answer to a question ; the creatures have got 
 wings, and are too wise to stay in such a place. 
 — Hold, hold ! 1 see a hut, or a hovel or a Lap- 
 lander's lodge : and here comes one hobbling 
 upon two shanks and a crutch, a proper sample 
 
i§ WHEEL OF FORTUNE. 
 
 of the soil she withers in — Holloa! Dame, do 
 you hear ? Give me a word with you, if your 
 senses can afford it. 
 
 Enter Dame Dunckley, r.H. 
 
 Dame. What would you have with me ? What 
 is your business here ? 
 
 Wea. You're right, it must be business ; no- 
 body would come here for pleasure. 
 
 Dame. No, nor is this a house of call for tra- 
 vellers. 
 
 Wea. That I can believe, if you are the re- 
 presentative of it ; that is, I may say, luce cla- 
 rius. 
 
 Dame. There's no such person here, so you 
 ^^y ?o your ways, before my master sends you 
 packing-. 
 
 Wea. You have a master, have you ? Call him 
 out then, and let him direct me in my road to 
 Roderick Penruddock, Esquire, and I'll reward 
 him for his pains. 
 
 Dame. You'll reward my master ! Saucy com^ 
 panion ! If Roderick Penruddock is the gentle- 
 man you want, you need not go any further — 
 there he lives. 
 
 Wea. What do you say ? Penruddock in that 
 cottage ! 
 
 Dame. Why not ? Will you face me out, who 
 have liv'd with him these twenty years? And 
 what if it be but a cottage ? Content is every 
 thing ; my good master is not proud. 
 
WHEEL OF FORTUNE. 19 
 
 Wea. Melancholy, I should think, if a con- 
 stant memorandum of morality can make him so. 
 — He was cross'd in love in his younger days. 
 
 Dame. That I know nothing of. 
 
 Wea. I don't say you was in the fault of it. 
 
 Dame. He is a man of few words, to be sure ; 
 but then he has a world of learning in his head ; 
 everlastingly at his books. 
 
 Wea. Is he at 'em now ? 
 
 Dame. Deep, not to be approach'd. 
 
 Wea. And alone ? 
 
 Dame. To be sure : I never disturb him in 
 his hours of study ; at every other time he's 
 kind and gentle as the dew of heaven. 
 
 Wea. What am 1 to do then, who have come 
 some hundred miles upon his business? 
 
 Dame. Even what you please, sir. I'm sure 
 it is no business of mine, and I'll have nothing to 
 do with it. [Steps aside., r.h.) 
 
 Wea. Well, if he will not welcome the good 
 news I bring him, he must be a philosopher in- 
 deed. I'll begin my approaches cautiously, how- 
 ever — the door is fast — I'll touch it tenderlj'. 
 (^Knocks at Penruddock^s cottage with his whip.) 
 Within there ! Who's at home ? — Silence and 
 famine, I should guess, for nothing stirs. 
 
 Dame. (From aside.) Go on, go on. By the 
 living, my fine spark, I would not be in your 
 place for a little. [^Exit, r.h.s.e. 
 
 Wea. Not yet? This will never do. Good 
 fortune may be warranted to rap a little louder. 
 — What, hoa ! Within, I say I — Will nobody hear 
 me 1 {Penruddock opens the casement.) 
 
20 WHEEL OF FORTUNE. j 
 
 Pen. I hear you. What is it you want ? 
 
 Wea. With your leave, I want a few words ] 
 
 with you. 'l 
 
 Pen. Send 'em in at the window then, and the '\ 
 
 fewer the better. ! 
 
 Wea. I bring you news out of Cornwall ; news ) 
 
 of great consequence. j 
 
 Pen. Who are you, and what are you? 
 
 Wea. Timothy Weazel, of Lestwithiel, at- j 
 
 torney at law, and agent to Sir George Penrud- ' 
 dock : let me into your house. 
 
 Pen. An attorney ! Keep on the outside of it, ] 
 
 if you please; I'll deal with you in the open. \ 
 
 air. {Shuts the casement.) \ 
 
 Wea. here's a surly humour ; here's a pretty \ 
 
 freak of Fortune, to pile bags of money on the i 
 
 back of an ass, who only kicks against the bur- I 
 
 then ; I warrant, if the sky rain'd gold, this churl - ! 
 
 would not hold out his dish to catch it ; but we j 
 
 shall soon see what stuff his philosophy is made • 
 
 of; good chance if I don't shake his metaphy- , 
 
 sics out of him ere long. (Penruddock appears j 
 
 at the cottage door.) Q ho ! I've bolted him, | 
 
 however. — Zooks ! what a heathen philosopher j 
 
 it is. j 
 
 Pen. Now, Mr. Attorney, what have you to i 
 
 say, for thus disturbing my whole family ? What ] 
 
 havel done, or the poor cat, my peaceaWe com- I 
 
 panion, that thus the boisterous knuckles of the ' 
 
 law should mar our meditations ? I 
 
 Wea. Truly, sir, I was compelled to makft j 
 
 some Uttle noise ; your castle is but small — ; 
 
 Pen. It's big enough for my ambition. 
 
WHEEL OF FORTUNE. 21 
 
 IVea. And passing solitary. 
 
 Pett. I wish you had suifer'd it to be silent 
 too. 
 
 Wea. In faith, sir, if 1 knew how to be heard 
 without a sound, I would gratify your wish : but 
 if your silence suffers by my news, 1 hope your 
 happiness will not. 
 
 Pen. Happiness ! What's that ? I am content, 
 I enjoy tranquillity ; Heaven be thank'd, 1 have 
 nothing to do with happiness. 
 
 Wea. There you are beyond me, sir. If an 
 humble fortune and this poor cottage give you 
 content, perhaps great riches and a splendid 
 house vvou'd not add to it. 
 
 Pen. Explain your meaning, friend: I don't 
 understand you. 
 
 Wea. In plain terms, then, you are to know, 
 that your rich relation, Sir George Penruddock, 
 is deceas'd. 
 
 Pen. Dead ! 
 
 Wea. Defunct ; gone to his ancestors ; whipp'd 
 away by the sudden stroke of an apoplexy ; 
 this moment here Heaven knows whej^e the 
 next: Death will do it when he likes, and how 
 he likes ; I need not remind you, sir, who are 
 so learned a philosopher, how frail is the tenure 
 of mortality. 
 
 Pen. You need not, indeed : if Sir George 
 thought as seriously of death before it happened, 
 it may have been well for him ; but his ;thoughts, 
 1 fear, were otherwise employed. 
 
 Wea. I much doubt if he ever thought at all ; 
 he was a fine gentleman, and lived freely. 
 3 
 
22 WHEEL OF FORTUNE. 
 
 Pen. No wonder then he died suddenly — but 
 how does this apply to me ? 
 
 Wea. No otherwise than as you are the heir 
 of every thing he possess'd : I have the will in 
 safe keeping about me ! 
 
 Pen. Have patience ; this is somewhat sud- 
 den ; I am unprepared for such an event ; 'twas 
 never in my contemplation: I was in no habits 
 with Sir George, never courted him, never cor- 
 responded with him ; the small annuity, 'tis 
 true, on which I have subsisted, was charg'd on 
 his estate, and regularly paid, but here he ne- 
 ver came ; man cou'd not be more opposite to 
 man ; he worshipped Fortune, I despised her ; 
 I studied closely, he gam'd incessantly. 
 
 Wea. And won abundantly — if money be your 
 passion, you'll find plenty of it. 
 
 Pen. What should 1 do with money ? 
 
 Wea. Money indeed ! — why, money is — in 
 short, what is it not. 
 
 Pen. Not health, methinks, not life — for he 
 that had it died. 
 
 Wea. But you that have it live — and is there 
 nothing that can tempt you ? Recollect — books 
 — money will buy books ; nay more, it will buy 
 those who write them. 
 
 Pen. It will so. 
 
 Wea. 'Twill purchase panegyrics, odes, and 
 dedications — 
 
 Pen. I can't gainsay it. 
 
 Wea. House, table, equipage, attendants-— 
 
 Pen. I have all those : what else ? 
 
WHEEL OF FORTUNE. 23 
 
 tVea. Ah, sir, you surely can't forget there 
 are such things in this world as beauty, love, ir«- 
 resistible woman — [Dame Dunckley crosses the 
 stage, from r.h.s.e. and goes into the cottage.) 
 
 Pen. I keep a woman ; she visits me every 
 day, makes my bed, sweeps my house, cooks 
 my dinner, and is seventy years of age — yet I re- 
 sist her. 
 
 fVea. I could say something to that, but I am 
 afraid it will oifend you. 
 
 Pen. Say on boldly ; never fear me. 
 
 Wea. Why truly, sir, i find you of a very dif- 
 ferent temper from what I expected : 1 should 
 doubt if your philosophy has made you insensi- 
 ble ; 1 am sure it has not made you proud. 
 
 Pen. I am as proud in my nature as any man 
 ought to be, but surely as humble as any man 
 can be. 
 
 Wea. Suffer me then to ask you if there is 
 not a certain lady living, Arabella Woodville by 
 name, whom you once thought irresistible. 
 
 Pen. Who told you this ? how came you thus 
 to strike upon a name, that twenty years of so- 
 litude have not effac'd ? 
 
 Wea. Because I would prepare you for a task, 
 that with the fortune you inherit must devolve 
 upon you. The interests of this lady, perhaps 
 even her existence, are now in your hands. 
 When I shall deliver the deeds bequeath'd to 
 you by your cousin, I shall arm you with the 
 means of extinguishing the wretched Woodville 
 at a blow. 
 
24 WHEEL OF FORTUNE. 
 
 Pen. What is it you tell me ? Have a care 
 how you reverse my nature with a word. Wood- 
 viile in my power ! Woodville at my mercy ! If 
 there's a man on earth, that can inspire me 
 with revenge, it is that treacherous, base, de- 
 ceitful rival. I was in his power, for I lov'd 
 him — he betray'd me ; — ! was at his mercy, for 
 I trusted him — he destroyed me. 
 
 Wea. Now then you'll own that money can 
 give something, for it gives revenge. 
 
 Pen. Come on, my mind is made up to this 
 fortune ; to the exlremest atom I'll exact it all : 
 the miser's passion seizes on my heart, and mo- 
 ney, which I held as dirt is now my deity. 
 
 \Exeunt into the Cottage. 
 
 SCENE II. — Another part of the Forest. 
 
 Enter Woodville, l.h. followed by his Servant. 
 
 Wood. Go, go, begone ! — Why do you follow 
 me? 
 
 Serv. I pray you. Sir, don't dismiss the chaise 
 in this wild place ; let it convey you to the next 
 town, and then pursue your journey as you 
 please. 
 
 Wood. Don't talk to me, don't trouble me ; 
 my journey's at an end. 
 
 Serv. You have been up all night : your mind 
 and body both require some rest. 
 
 Wood. What if they do ! can you administer 
 to agonies like mine ? How dare you thus in- 
 trude ? by what authority have you, my servant, 
 made yourself a spy upon my actions? 
 
WHEEL OF FORTUNE. 26 
 
 Serv. By no authority, bjut that of my affection 
 and good-wilh you have been kind to me in 
 your prosperity, ougTit 1 to desert you in adver- 
 sity ? Indeed, indeed, sir, I can't leave you here 
 alone. 
 
 fVood. Foolish, officious fellow, I perceive 
 you think I have lost my senses : no, 1 possess 
 them clearly: 1 know both where I am and what 
 J have to do — had 1 designs against myself, yoU 
 could not hinder them ; but I have none ; 'tis 
 not my own life but your'sthat is in danger, un- 
 less you instantly depart. Look ! here is your 
 dismission — 1 am resolute to be obey'd. 
 
 (Draws a pistol.) 
 Serv. Take my life ; fire when you please ; I 
 am not afraid of dying. 
 
 Enter Sydenham, l.h. 
 
 SyJ. Woodville, what ails you? are you mad? 
 do you fight duels with your own servant? 
 
 (Crosses to Woodville.) 
 
 Wood. Duels! — 
 
 Syd. You're right : I see he is not armed. 
 What the devil and all his doings possesses you 
 to point your pistol at a naked man ? If you 
 consider him as your equal, give him the fellow 
 to it ; if you would punish him as your servant, 
 turn him away. 
 
 Wood. But he will not be turn'd away. 
 
 Serv. Not whilst it was my duty to stay by 
 you ; now Mr. Sydenham is come, I will intrude 
 no longer. [Exit^ l.h- 
 
 3 * 
 
26 WHEt;L OF FORTUNE. 
 
 Syd. Harry Woodville, are you in your senses 
 to act in this manner ? 
 
 Wood. Are you not out of your's, to come thus 
 far to ask me such a question ? 
 
 Syd. Perhaps f am, but there's no reasoning 
 about friendship ; when I see a fellow, whom I 
 love, throw away his happiness, game away his 
 fortune, and then run from the ruin he has 
 made, I have a foolish nature about me, that in 
 spite of all his phrenzy will run after him ; and 
 tho' he may break loose from all the world be- 
 side, damn me if he shall shake off me, tho' he 
 had twenty pistols in his reach, and 1 not one in 
 mine. 
 
 Wood. Your friendship, Mr. Sydenham, is not 
 wanted at this moment, and give me leave to 
 say it is unwelcome. 
 
 Syd. Very likely ; I care little about the wel- 
 come that you give me, as I am not quite sure 
 you are the man I was in search of: my friend 
 was a gentleman, tho' an unwise one ; he would 
 hear reason, though he was unapt to follow it ; 
 above all things he was not that frantic desper- 
 ado, as to turn his pistol either against his ser- 
 vant or himself. 
 
 Wood. Well, Sir, my pistol is put up — now 
 what have you to say to me ? 
 
 Syd. I don't know if I shall say any thing to 
 you; certainly nothing to sooth you. It is not 
 because a man has pistols in his pocket, that he 
 is formidable, or that I should flatter him : every 
 fellow, that has not spirit to face misfortune, 
 may be his own assassin ; every wretch, who 
 
WHEEL OF FORTUNE. 27 
 
 has lost all feelings of humanity, may commit a 
 murder on his fellow creature. 
 
 Wood. You are very bitter : what would you 
 have me do ? 
 
 Syd. Return to your afflicted wife. 
 
 Wood. That I can never do ; my home is hor- 
 rible, nor am I in possession of a home ; Pen- 
 ruddock's myrmidons are in m}' house ; besides, 
 there's worse than that, my son is come to En- 
 gland, Henry will be upon me, and to meet his 
 gallant injur'd presence would be worse than 
 death. 
 
 Syd. I wish you had reflected on that horror, 
 whilst there was time to have prevented it. — If 
 fathers, whilst their son's are bleeding in their 
 country's battles, will hurl the fatal dice and 
 stake their fortunes on the cast, alas for their 
 posterity ! 
 
 Wood. Why urge that dreadful truth ? You 
 have no son, you are no gamester. 
 
 Syd. No matter, tho' 1 never gam'd myself, 
 my friends did, and I have lost them : who has 
 more cause to curse his luck than I have ? 
 
 Wcod. Have you now vented all your spleen, 
 and will you leave me ? 
 
 Syd. I am not sure : tell me what plan you 
 are upon : why are you rambling on this heath? 
 
 Wood. I'll tell you that at once — Sir George 
 Penruddock, my chief creditor, is dead ; he has 
 bequeath'd his fortune to his cousin Roderick of 
 that name. This man mhabits a small tenement 
 here close at band ; a strange sequester'd crea- 
 ture, burying himself amongst his books, disgust- 
 
n WHEEL OF FORTUNE. 
 
 ed with he world, and probably a perfect mi- 
 santhrope. — 
 
 Syd. I've heard of him ; go on. 
 
 Wood. This Roderick and I were school-fel- 
 lows, studied together at the university, travelled 
 together thro' most parts of Europe : and were 
 inseparable friends, till by evil chance, we be- 
 come rivals in love: I obtained Mrs. Woodville's 
 hand and married her ; he was excluded and re- 
 nounced society : this man, the bitterest enemy 
 i have, is now the master of my fate. 
 
 Syd. Then ! conclude those pistols are for 
 him. 
 
 Wood. I do not qtiite say that ; he shall have 
 a fair alternative. 
 
 Syd. I much doubt if any thing can be fair, 
 when one party has just gained a fortune, and 
 the other lost one : however, if you mean it 
 should be fair, take me with you ; whether you 
 shake hands or exchange shots, I will see justice 
 done on both sides ; for I will be bold to aver, 
 there never yet was an affair, in which I had 
 the honor to be either principal or second, 
 where equity was not as strictly administered, 
 as if my Lord Chancellor had decreed it from 
 the bench. 
 
 Wood. Be it so then, if so it must be : Come 
 with me to this newly-enriched cottager, and if 
 1 fail in this last effort, 1 exact from you an hon- 
 orable secrecy and an immediate secession. 
 
 \^Exeunt^ r.h. 
 
WHEEL OF FORTUNE. 29 
 
 SCENE \U.— Outside of Fenruddock's Cottage. 
 Enter Penruddock and Weazel from the Cottage. 
 
 Pen. Pray leave rae, sir. Return to your 
 papers if you please. I would be alone a mo- 
 ment. 
 
 Wca. Very well, sir, — it's very well — I only 
 wanted just to explain. [Exit into the Cottage, 
 
 Pen. This property's immense. Woodville's 
 proud house is mine ; now that false friend is 
 punish'd ; all those scenes of gay prosperity, 
 with which he caught the vain weak heart of 
 Arabella, are suddenly reversed, and just reta- 
 liation, not less terrilDle because so tardy, sur- 
 prizes him at last. Farewell, my cottage ! scene 
 of my past content, 1 thank thee : possessmg 
 nought but thee, I have not envied palaces : pos- 
 sessed of them, 1 have forsaken thee ; such is 
 man's tickle nature, in solitude a philosopher, 
 wise in adversity, and only patient under injuries, 
 till opportunity occurs to him of revenging them. 
 
 Enter Woodville and Sydenham, r.w. 
 
 Wood. That's'he ; the very man. — Sir, let me 
 hope I have happily encountered you ; I believe I 
 am addressing myself to Mr. Penruddock. 
 
 Pen. I am Penruddock. 
 
 Wood. Perhaps you have lost the recollection 
 of my person. 
 
 Pen. 1 wish 1 had— You have left some traces 
 
so WHEEL OF rORTUNE. 
 
 of it in my memory, !Vlr. Woodville ; and nothing' 
 is more opposite to my desires than to revive 
 them. 
 
 Wood. That this would be my greeting 1 ex- 
 pected ; Tor, tho^ 1 ever knew you to be just, yet 
 in our earliest years, I thought 1 could discover 
 davvnings of a relentless nature. If twenty years 
 of calm reflection have passed away without as- 
 suaging your determin'd animosity, an oppor- 
 tunity is now before you of hatching that revenge 
 which you have brooded on so long. 
 
 Pen. Pursue your own reflections, sir, and in- 
 terrupt not mine. (Going.) 
 Sijd. [Crosses to Pen.) Stop, if you please — I 
 am no party in this conference, but as a common 
 friend to every thing that wears the face of 
 man : I can perceive you have been wronged, 
 in times long past, by this gentleman ; so have 
 I, recently and deeply wronged, inasmuch as he 
 has abus'd my friendship, by ruining himself in 
 detiance of my better counsel — What then? he 
 is sorry for it, and I forgive him ; he is in misery, 
 and I pity him. 
 
 Pen. Well, sir, at your remonstrance I will 
 stay; only be pleas'd to let me know for whose 
 sake I submit myself to Mr. Woodville's con- 
 versation ? 
 
 Syd. I am a very idle fellow, sir; Sydenham 
 my name : one that has thrown away much good 
 will upon his friends, without once practising 
 your happy art of being unmov'd by their mis- 
 fortunes. 
 
 Pen. Humph !~Mr. Woodville will proceed. 
 
WHEEL OF FORTUNE. 31 
 
 Wood. {Crosses to Pen.) If you, Mr. Penrud- 
 ^ock, can find no motive to torgivft the wrongs 
 I did you in the matter of my marriage, 1 shall 
 suggest none, neither will I offer one word in 
 mitigation of those wrongs ; they were as great 
 as you believe them ; greater, perhaps, than you 
 are perfectly apprized of. In the first glow of 
 your resentment you demanded satisfaction : in 
 justice, I must own that your appeal was war- 
 ranted, but 1 was then a happy man, with beauty 
 in my arms, and fortune at my feet, and I evaded 
 it. Now if your heat is not cool'd, and you still 
 thirst for revenge, lo ! I am ready; I have arms 
 for both, fit to decide our quarrel, and an hon^ 
 curable friend competent to adjust it, 
 
 [Produces pistols.) 
 
 Syd. Fairly proposed — if such is your pleasure, 
 gentlemen both, I am perfectly at your disposal. 
 
 Pen. Give me the pistol : place your man 
 where you like ; this is my ground. 
 
 Syd. [Crosses to Pen.) Stop, sir, the forms of 
 honour are not yet complete— Mr. Woodville, 
 if I rightly understood you, you have an alterna- 
 tive to propose : if that be so, state it. 
 
 Pen. 1 have little disposition to bear any tri- 
 fling. 
 
 Wood. Nor I to trifle ; therefore no more ot 
 it ! A woman's mediation can be of no avail : 
 however, Mr. Sydenham, if I fall, give this to 
 the survivor. [Presents a packet.) 
 
 Syd. Hah ! Mrs. Woodville's hand ! — this must 
 not be rejected: an angel's mediaiion clainjs 
 respect, and he must read it, or make his pas^ 
 
32 WHEEL OF FORTUNE. 
 
 sage thro' my body, ere he shall approach you 
 -— VVoodville, disarm yourself. [Takes his pistol.) 
 —Mr. Penruddock, this packet is address'd to 
 you ; take it • but tirst, if you please, give me 
 your weapon, as he has done. — Now 1 maintain 
 an armed neutrality. 
 
 [Takes both pistols. — Crosses to r.h.) 
 
 [Penruddock zmthdraws aside, opens the pack- 
 et, peruses it aztihile, and then retires into 
 his cottage ; whilst this is passing, Sydc7i- 
 ham speaks as follows.) 
 
 Syd. It Staggers him — he pauses ; yet I per- 
 ceive no change—he flies however, and we keep 
 the field. — Do you know the purport of that 
 paper ? 
 
 Wood. I know nothing of its purport but by 
 conjecture ; 'twas written by Arabella since she 
 heard of his accession to the fortune of Sir 
 George, and probably contains a strong appeal 
 to his feelings, founded upon past connections ; 
 I have reason to believe it chiefly points at my 
 son, who has so long been a prisoner in France, 
 and now at last has got his liberty upon ex- 
 change ; but I dare say this churl is steel'd 
 against humanity. 
 
 Syd. 1 know not what to think of him ; that 
 man's soul has no flow ; impenetrable frost locks 
 up its current: therefore be prepar'd. — And 
 now, Harry, if you have any thing upon your 
 mind to encharge me with, avail yourself of the 
 moment, and impart it to me : the issue of these 
 rencontres is uncertain. 
 
WHEEL OF FORTUNE. 33 
 
 Wood. Alas I I have been so improvident a 
 husband, that I dare hardly send my last fare- 
 well to my much injur'd wife ; so unjust a fath' 
 er, that I have scarce presumption to be- 
 queath a blessing to my son. In temporal affairs 
 I am so totally undone, and life is now so per* 
 fectly a blank, that he who takes it from me, 
 takes what I am tired of; and I solemnly con 
 jure my family never to stir the question of my 
 death, nor prosecute the author of it. 
 
 (^Weazel speaks from the Cottage window.^ 
 
 Wea. Gentlemen, 1 am commanded by Mr- 
 Penruddock to say that he is very particularly 
 occupied, and declines any further explanatioo 
 on the business of your visit : You will hear 
 from him again. 
 
 Wood. At his own choice and leisure ; so in- 
 form him. 
 
 Wea. Very well gentlemen ! perhaps you 
 don't know me. — My name is Timothy VVeazel 
 — I wish you a good day. 
 
 (^Shuts the window and retires.^ 
 
 Syd. Come, Woodville, we have thrown that 
 cynic cur a bone, so let him gnaw it. 
 
 [Exeunt^ r.H. 
 
 END OF ACT I. 
 
34 WHEEL OF FORTUNE. 
 
 ACT II. 
 SCENE I.— A Chamher in Tempest's House. 
 
 Enter Tempest and Emily, l.h. 
 
 Tern. Go your ways, vanish out of my sight, 
 for n graceless young hussey. — You know I love 
 you. Emily, you know I do, dear as the eyes in 
 my head, better than the heart m my body, and 
 therefore you baffle and bamboozle and make a 
 bumpkin of me; that's what you do: you see I 
 am a domn'd fond forgiving old fool, and you 
 impose upon my good nature. 
 
 Emily. No verv hard task, I should hope. 
 Only call upon you now and then for a few grains 
 of charitable patience. 
 
 Tern Grains of charitable nonsense, grains of 
 hypocritical impertinence : what business have 
 you to make any calls' upon me that you know 
 r C'-in-t answer ? 1 have no such thing as pa- 
 tiencp dbor.t me, no such dull mechanical pro- 
 per' / beiong"ing to me; never had, never will 
 have, aever wish to have. 
 
 Emily. VI ell, sir, let it pass then ; but you 
 musl ow^D it's a little unreasonable to expect that 
 I should abound in that article, of which you my 
 father do not possess a single atom ? 
 
 Tern. Not at all unreasonable, for your moth- 
 er was a rai»^acle of patience ; I am sure I put 
 it very sufficiently to the trial : why I took her 
 with no other view but as we take a diet-drink 
 
WHEEL OF FORTUNE. 35 
 
 in the spring-, to sweeten the juices. Tempest, 
 the son ot" Lord Hiirricane, was never born to be 
 calm ; 'sblood and fire ! I have never been in 
 smooth water since first I was launch'd upon 
 the surface of the globe. I was a younger son, 
 and kicked into the world without a sixpence ; 
 my falher gave me no education, taught me 
 nothing, kept me in ignorance, and buffetted me 
 every day for being a dunce. 
 
 Emily. That was hard indeed, to give so little 
 and demand so much — but some fathers are quite 
 out of the way of reason. 
 
 Tern. That's a wipe at me, 1 suppose, but no 
 matter — First I was lurn'd into the army, there 
 I got broken bones and empty pockets; then I 
 was banished to the coast of Africa to govern 
 the savages of Senegambia; there I made a few 
 blunders in colour, by taking whites for blacks 
 and blacks for whites . but before my enemies 
 could get hold of me> Death laid hands upon 
 them, and 1 triumphed over their maiice by the 
 mortality of the chmate. 
 
 Emily Upon my word, sir, you have been 
 tossM and tumbled about in this rough world 
 pretty handsomely. 
 
 Tern. Yes, so handsomely that I will take care 
 you shan't be toss'd and tumbled about, till you 
 have a good pilot on board, and a safe harbour 
 under your lee, to lay up in for life. 
 
 E?nily. That's as much as to say I shall em- 
 bark with Sir David Daw, and lay up m his 
 fusty old castle on the banks of the Wye, in xMon- 
 mouthshire, to wit. A precious pilot I shall 
 
56 WHEEL OF FORTUNE. 
 
 have, and a famous voyage we shall make of it I 
 Helm a-weather ! cries he, and bear awaj for 
 the coast of Wales — Helm a-lee ! say I, and set 
 all sails for the port of London. He is for 
 steering West, I am for steering East ; so be- 
 tween us we run wild out of the track, and make 
 a wreck of ship and cargo in the scuffle for 
 command. 
 
 Tern. You talk nonsense, Emily, you gabble 
 without wit or wisdom. Sir David Daw is a 
 very respectable gentleman in his own country. 
 
 Emily. Then he is a very silly gentleman for 
 coming out of it. 
 
 Tern. He has a noble property, a capital es- 
 tate. 
 
 Emily. Thanks to his ancestors ! — he'll never 
 mend it by discovery of the longitude. 
 
 Tern. Emily, Emily, do you think I have no 
 eyes ? what do you take me for— a mole, a bat, 
 a beetle, not to see where your perverse affec- 
 tions point? You are never out of Mrs. Wood- 
 ville^s house. 
 
 Emily. Can that be a wonder, when persecu- 
 tion drives me out of your doors, and pity draws 
 me into her's? Here I am baited by the silliest 
 animal Folly ever lent her name to, there I am 
 received by the gentlest being Heaven ever 
 formed. 
 
 Tern. Come, come, whilst you are talking 
 thus of the mother, 1 know to a certainty it is 
 the son you are thinking of; and positively, 
 Emily, you must banish Henry Woodville from 
 your thoughts. 
 
WHEEL OF FORTUNE. 37 
 
 Emily. Then I must lose the faculty of think- 
 ing. 
 
 Tern. Don't tell me of your faculties, mine 
 will never consent to marry you to a ruin'd man 
 — Sir David is no gamester — 
 
 Emily. Perhaps not. 
 
 Tern. Nor the son of a gamester. 
 
 Emily. No, nor the son of any thing, I should 
 think, that Nature ever own'd ; for he is so far 
 from being in the likeness of a man, that it 
 would be libelling a monkey to mistake them 
 for each other. 
 
 Tern. Hold your tongue, I never said Sir 
 David was a wit. 
 
 Emily. No, o'my conscience, a tailor might as 
 well look for custom in the court of Feiew, as 
 you for wit in the empty pericranium of my 
 Monmouthshire lover. 
 
 Tern. And if he had wit, what would you do 
 with it ? Who would put a naked sword in the 
 hands of a child ? I like him the better for his 
 being without it ; I have none myself; I had 
 sooner mess with the savages in Africa, than be 
 shut into a room with a company of wits Your 
 downright stupid fellow is the repose of all 
 society ; like a soft cushion in an easy chair, he 
 lulls you into gentle slumbers, and lays all your 
 cares to rest. 
 
 Enter a Servant, l.h. 
 Ser. Sir David Daw — [Exity l.h. 
 
38 WHEEL OF FORTUNE. . 
 
 Tern. Now, now, Emily, behave as you should 
 do, or by living — 
 
 Enter Sir Daivd, l.h. 
 
 Welcome, Sir David ! welcome my good knight 
 of Monmouth ! 
 
 Sir D. Worthy governor, I am your devoted 
 
 servant — Sweet paragon of beauty, I am your 
 
 humble slave. {Crosses to Centre.) 
 
 Tent. Heyday, my friend, where have you 
 
 Culled these flowers of rhetoric ? 
 
 Sir D, Pick'd a sma!! posey from Parnassus to 
 laj' it at the feet of the loveliest of the Muses. 
 
 Emily. Upon my word, Sir David, your pe- 
 Hods are the very embrios of poetry, a kind of 
 tadpoles, more than half frogs, and just ready to 
 hop. 
 
 Sir D. So they can but hop into your good 
 graces, I care not. 
 
 Tern. Right, my gallant heart, that's the way 
 to treat her — Emily is for ever giggling. 
 
 Sir D. She is not singular in that : go where I 
 will, they giggle ; that is rather daunting, you 
 must think. Amongst our Monmouthshire lasses 
 who but I ? Not that I am conscious of more 
 wit than my neighbours, but my jokes always 
 tell ; they do so titter when I am in my merry 
 vein, and the servants grin, and the tenants roar, 
 and then my poor dear mother taps me on the 
 cheek, and calls me her dainty David. — Oh ! we 
 are so merry in the castle. 
 Emily. Ay, to be sure j there's room enough 
 
WHEEL OF FORTUNE. 39 
 
 for your wit to escape without running foul of 
 any body's understanding. 
 
 Sir D. Yes, yes, 'tis a bouncer, and such a 
 hall for battledore and shuttle-cock — 
 
 Emily. Garnish'd round with pikes, and gaunt- 
 lets, and branching horns, the trophies of the 
 family — 
 
 Sir D. Yes, and in a great parlour such a 
 string of Daws hanging by the wall — 
 
 Emily. In ruifs and bands, and picked chins 
 from all antiquity, like the whole court of France 
 in a puppet-shew, with dainty David in the 
 character of Punchinello to close the cavalcade. 
 
 SirD. No so ; but in the place of it your own 
 fair portrait if you please, and under it, in let- 
 ters of gold, "Emily, consort of Sir David Daw" 
 — Lilies and roses ! what a lovely piece will 
 that be ! 
 
 Emily. Let it be a family piece then, and we 
 may all have a part in it. 
 
 Tern. Aye, aye, that's a hook to haul me in 
 with ; I know it is: but let us hear, let us hear 
 what part you have laid out for me. 
 
 Emily. An heroic one, to be sure ; you shall 
 be — let me consider — you shall be drawn in the 
 character of Agamemnon. 
 
 Tern. Agamemnon ! Why in the character of 
 Agamemnon, 1 would fain know ? 
 
 Emily. Because he was a warrior like you, 
 and a governor; but principally because, if 1 
 remember his history — he sacrific'd his daughter. 
 
 Tern. Heh ! how ! there I'm thrown out : that 
 is a history I known nothing of. 
 
40 WHEEL OF FORTUNE. 
 
 Sir D. Nor I neither. — Ah ! my good Gover- 
 nor, speak a kind word for me ; all my hopes 
 are in you. 
 
 Tern. Fear nothing, my man of mettle ; keep 
 a stout heart, and there's none of 'em can resist 
 the allurements of your fortune, though they may 
 all be insensible to the beauties of your person. 
 
 Emily. No, to be sure : if you make love like 
 an elephant, with your castle on your back, who 
 can stand against you ? 
 
 Sir D. I don't know how it is, Governor Tem- 
 pest, but tho' 'tis well known that the first man 
 Nature ever made was a Welshman, and tho' I 
 flatter myself I am pretty nearly on the same 
 model, yet here every ragged-headed fellow 
 with a mahogany face, because he can slip into 
 an eel-skin, and I cannot, slips into favour before 
 me; whilst the ladies stare at me, as if I had 
 dropt out of the moon amongst them. 
 
 Tern. That is because they lay aside the sight 
 they were born with, and have eyes, like their 
 complexions, of their own making. 
 
 Emily. Ah ! Sir David, you do not understand 
 them ; you are happiest with the good old lady 
 in the country; your education has been private. 
 
 Sir D. Quite snug and private ; always at 
 home, always with my mother. 
 
 Emily. And your amusements — 
 
 Sir D. Never went abroad for them; we had 
 plenty of pastime amongst ourselves and the 
 servants — cards 1 never touch ; drinking i have 
 no head for ; and as for naughty women, I can 
 faithfully assure you, I never come near none of 
 
WHEEL OF FORTUNE. 41 
 
 Tern. Keep that to yourself, my friend, if you 
 are wise ; for this world is so wicked, that a man 
 is forced to counterfeit vices, in order to keep 
 well with it. — 
 
 Enter Sydenham, l.h. 
 
 Ah ! Charles, how wears this wicked world with 
 you ? 
 
 Syd. Wears apace, frets itself out, grates most 
 confoundedly upon the hinges : I almost think I 
 shall live to see the end of it. — Don't go away, 
 I want to have a word with you. 
 
 (Aside to Emily.) 
 
 Sir D. Oh ! Mr. Sydenham, I rejoice to see 
 you. (Crosses to Syd.) 
 
 Syd. How fares my venerable Cambro-Briton ? 
 
 Sir D. Terrible ill, for want of you ; house, 
 equipage, every thing is at a dead stop, till you 
 set us going. — I call'd at your lodgings, and they 
 told me you were out of town. 
 
 Syd. They did right ; 1 educate my serv^ants 
 in all innocent untruths. 
 
 Tem. They gave me the same answer. 
 
 Syd. They did wrong : to tell one and the 
 same lie to two several visitors, betrays a po- 
 verty of invention. (Crosses to Emily.) 
 
 Emily. And havn't you been out of town all 
 this while ? 
 
 Syd. Hush ! hush ! ask no questions. — How 
 can I quit the town with an affair of honour on 
 my hands : didn't you challenge me to a game 
 at chess ? and here I am ready to decide it. 
 
42 WHEEL OF FORTUNE. 
 
 Tetti. Oh ! that dull, dilatory, dreaming game, 
 how I detest it ! — Any news, Charles, of the 
 poor Wood villas? 
 
 Syd. That is the very question I was about to 
 ask of you, 
 
 Tern. 'Sblood, you are as mysterious as a pri- 
 vy counsellor : they say Woodville is gone off; 
 nay, they circulate a very black and dismal story 
 about him. 
 
 Syd. As you have been governor of the blacks, 
 I wish you would put the sooty slaves to death 
 that circulate such stories. 
 
 Sii- D. I hear Sir George Penruddock has 
 made a curious will, and given his whole pro- 
 perty to a mad-man, who has been shut «p in a 
 cottage for these twenty years. 
 
 Syd. And do you suppose it would have 
 brought him to his senses if he had liv'd in a 
 castle ? 
 
 Tern. Come, come, Sir David ; don't you see 
 that cuckow won't be caught by you ? Zooks, 
 man, the thumb-screw would not make him 
 plead ; tho' let me tell you, when I've been set 
 upon it, I have put tongues as stubborn as his 
 into motion before now. — As for Emily, leave 
 her to her drowsy game a1 chess; for, depend 
 upon it, my friend, that any thing which tends 
 to stupify her imagination will be a point gained 
 in your favour. 
 
 [Exeunt Tempest and Sir David., l.h. 
 Syd. His Excellency is in one of his accommo- 
 dating humours, and gives me an opportunity of 
 
WFJEEL OF FORTUNE. 43 
 
 telling you that 1 have brought Woodville back 
 with me ; 1 knew his point, and overtook him 
 after about twelve miles riding, in the very cri- 
 sis of his fate. 
 
 Emily. Did you so ? then here's my hand ! for 
 thou art the best soul living ; with a heart of 
 gold, and heels of feather, in the service of hu- 
 manity. Ah ! why did cruel Fortune cramp thy 
 powers, when Nature so enriched thee with 
 benevolence ? 
 
 Syd. Don't complain of fortune in my case ; 
 perhaps the best fortune that can befal me is, 
 that I have nothing to do with her: having little 
 to bestow, I make up for it with good-will ; had 
 I abundance to give, the good-will might be 
 wanting. 
 
 Emily. If fortune, however, would but put 
 you to the trial, 1 should not tremble for the 
 issue of it. Had Fenruddock made you his heir, 
 happy would it have been for poor "voodville. 
 
 Syd. For him (to own the truth to you) I have 
 very little compassion : some old hab.ts of good 
 fellowship perhaps i can't quite shake oif ; but 
 a gamester is in nature such a fool, iii character 
 so little of a gentleman, and by profession so 
 \evy close approaching towards a highwayman, 
 that I am asham'd of his acquaintarxe ; yei^ tor 
 my dear Mrs. Woodville's sake, for my brave 
 Henry's sake, and through them, by implication, 
 for my sweet Emily's, I have shelter'd that poor 
 worthless desperado in ir.y lodgings; which is a 
 secret you must keep for all their sakes. 
 
44 WHEEL OF FORTUNE. 
 
 Emily. Doubt me not, for I can well suppose 
 the consequences would be fatal. In one word, 
 is there any hope for him ? 
 
 Syd. I could not answer that in a thousand 
 words ; for I have seen this strange Penruddock, 
 and know not what to make of him. 
 
 Ernily^ Is he a madman, as they report of 
 him? 
 
 Syd. That I can't tell ; for so many people 
 are mad, who yet have senses enough to conceal 
 it, that he may be so without m_y discovering it. 
 He is as sullen as a bear, and inveterate against 
 Woodville to the length of any species of re- 
 venge. 
 
 Emily. That is not the character Mrs. Wood- 
 ville describes ; she conceives better of him. 
 
 Syd. I wish she may not be mistaken ; we 
 must leave the event to time : — And now, my 
 dear lady, when are we to mount the wedding 
 favours ? 
 
 Emily. So you will suppose I am cast for 
 transportation to the enchanted castle ? 
 
 Syd. Enchanted it will be when you are in it ; 
 but how can I suppose, or even wish, any other- 
 wise, when ruin is attach'd to the alternative ? 
 
 Emily. You strike upon a motive, that may 
 drive me upon wonderous self-denials. If my 
 beloved Mrs. Woodville falls, if my deargaliant 
 Henry is beaten down and crush'd by poverty 
 and distress, at any sacrifice I'll raise them up. 
 
 Syd Will you ? then by the powers of good- 
 ness you are an angel ! 
 
 Emily' But in that wreck of happiness I shall 
 
WHEEL OF FORTUNE. 45 
 
 need all the help that friendship can bestow ; 
 and you, Charles Sydenham, whom 1 place ever 
 in the front of those few firm hearts I most 
 prize and most depend on, must not desert me. 
 
 Syd. Desert you ! Damn it, my throat aches 
 so, and my eyes dazzle that I can neither right- 
 ly speak to you nor see you — but, by the Lord, 
 I'll die for you. 
 
 Ernily. Not so ; but you must come to me in 
 the country : there you and I will tell old stories 
 over a winter's fire, and be as comfortable as 
 two feeling hearts will let us. 
 
 Syd. I'll come ; I'll come to you — walk, ride, 
 fish, fowl, milk the cows, feed the poultry, nurse 
 the children, laugh, cry, do any thing and every 
 thing you would have me — I will, upon my soul 
 I will ! 
 
 Emily. Enough said : upon this promise we 
 will part ; I shall be call'd for by ray father, and 
 you know his humour, 
 
 Syd. I know him well for a most absolute 
 and all to-be-respected governor ; but if he had 
 as numerous an offspring as Muley Ishmael, and 
 as large an empire as Timur Khan, the proud- 
 est title he could boast would be that of being 
 father to such an angel of a daughter. 
 
 [Exeunt, l.h. 
 
 SCENE IL— ^ Street. 
 
 Enter Penruddock, l.h. 
 
 Pen. So ! I am in London once more. — From 
 5 
 
46 WHEEL OF FORTUNE. 
 
 solitude and silence how sudden is the transition 
 to crowded streets, where all without is noise, 
 and all within me anarchy and tumult! Thoughts 
 uncollected, jarring resolutions, avarice, re- 
 venge, ambition, all the turbid passions arming, 
 like soldiers rous'd from sleep, to rush into the 
 battle. Pity I have none ; my heart is chang'd : 
 I stopt in a bye-place to reconsider Mrs. Wood- 
 ville's interceding letter ; a naked, shivering 
 wretch approach'd and begg'd my charity ; she 
 was importunate, and I with a remorseless frown 
 bade her begone. — " Alas !" she cried, "If 1 had 
 look'd you in the face 1 might have seen there 
 was no hope for me." I have the mark of Cain, 
 the stamp of cruelty imprinted on my forehead. 
 — She cut me to the heart; I would have call'd 
 her back and aton'd, but sullenness or pride for- 
 bade it. How rich was I in my contented pover- 
 ty ! how poor has Fortune made me by these 
 soul-tormenting riches! — 
 
 Enter Weazel, r.h.d. 
 
 ^— Well, Sir, is Mrs. Woodville in her house ? 
 
 Wea. She is not there, nor any body that can 
 tell me where she is : the servants are dispersed, 
 the chamber-doors all lock'd and seal'd, save 
 one, in which a solitary guard keeps watch, 
 holding possession in due form of law : I have 
 seen it in its splendour ; it is now revers"'d, a 
 melancholy change. 
 
 Pen. I'll visit it, nevertheless: it will be a 
 wholesome preparative to the scene of luxury 
 
WHEEL OF FORTUNE. 47 
 
 which you tell me I am to be saluted with in 
 the stately mansion of Sir George Penruddock. 
 
 [Exeunt^ r.h.d. 
 
 SCENE III. — An unfurnished Room. 
 Enter Penruddock, Weazel, and an Officer, r.h. 
 
 Pen. You are here, Sir, I presume, in office 
 by authority from the late Sir George Penrud- 
 dock. 
 
 Offi. I am. Sir ; and tho' it is against our rules 
 to admit any stranger, yet as I know Mr. Wea- 
 zel, and he warrants for you, I make no objec- 
 tion to your coming in. 
 
 Pen. Nor to leaving us, I should suppose, 
 within these bare walls ; they defy robbery : the 
 scythe of the law cuts close, and those, who 
 follow it, will not be enrich'd by their gleanings. 
 
 Offi. A pleasant gentleman, I shou'd guess, 
 and knows a thing or two. — Mr. Weazel, with 
 your leave, I will speak a word with you. 
 
 Wea. By all means, sir ; ever happy to assist 
 when you want anythmg in my way. 
 
 [Exit with Officer^ l.h. 
 
 Pen. Here, then, was the residence of my 
 once beloved Arabella ; here she reign'd, here 
 she revell'd ; and here, perhaps, in a desponding 
 moment, she wrote that melancholy appeal, 
 which wrung the weapon from my hand, when 
 rais d against her husband's life. Pil read it 
 once again , the scene conspires, a sympathetic 
 gloom comes over me ; and solitude the friend 
 of meditation, prompts me to review it : — 
 
48 WHEEL OF FORTUNE, 
 
 " By the death of Sir George Penruddock you 
 will find us your debtors in no less a sum than all 
 that we possess ; if you are extreme^ we are un- 
 done ; my husband., who expects no mercy^ flies from 
 me in despair^ and in his fate mine is involv d : if 
 then you find an orphan in the world., whose parents 
 coidd not move your pity^ you may think revenge 
 has done enough^ and take my Henry into your pro- 
 tection.^'' 
 
 Enter Henry Woodville, r.h. 
 
 Hen. Where am I? What has happea'd ? Why 
 is this house so changM in its appearance ? 
 
 Pen. Whom do you seek ? 
 
 Hen. A father and a mother, who dwelt here. 
 If you have heard the name of Woodville, and 
 can ease my anxious terrors, tell me they sur- 
 vive. 
 
 Pen. Be satisfied — They live. 
 
 Hen. Devoutly I return Heaven thanks, and 
 bless you for the tidings : long absent, and de- 
 barred all correspondence with my family, I 
 came with trembling heart, uncertain of their 
 fate : and, I confess, the ominous appearance of 
 a deserted house struck me with alarm ; but I 
 may hope they have some other residence at 
 hand — If you know where, direct me. 
 
 Pen. If I knew where, I would; but — 
 
 Plen. But what? Why do you pause? 
 
 Pen. Because I can't proceed. 
 
 Hen. Why not proceed ? You know they live, 
 can vou not tell me where ? 
 
WHEEL OF FORTUNE. 49 
 
 Pen. I cannot. 
 
 Hen. What is your business here? 
 
 Pen. None. 
 
 Hen. Do you not live in London ? 
 
 Pen. No. 
 
 Hen. What is your name, occupation? where 
 do you inhabit? How comes it to pass you know 
 so well to answer me one question, and are 
 dumb to all the rest ? 
 
 Pen. 1 am not us'd to interrog-atories, nor quite 
 so patient as may suit with your impetuosity. 
 
 Hen I stand corrected ; I am too quick. — You 
 will excuse the feelings of a son. 
 
 Pen. Most willingly; only I'm sorry to per- 
 ceive they are so sensitive, because this world 
 abounds in misery. 
 
 Hen. Now I am sure you know more than 
 you yet reveal ; but having said m}' parents are 
 alive, you fortify me against lesser evils: 1 know 
 my father's failings, and can well suppose that 
 his affairs have fallen into decay. 
 
 Pen. To utter ruin. Gaming has undone him. 
 
 Hen. Oh! execrable vice, tiend of the human 
 soul, that tears the hearts of parent, child, and 
 friend ! What crimes, what shame, what com- 
 plicated misery, hast thou brought upon us ! 
 This house was swallow'd in the general wreck? 
 
 Pen. With every thing else : Sir George Fen- 
 ruddock had it for a debt, as it is called, of 
 honor. 
 
 Hen. A debt of infamy — and may the curse 
 entail'd upon such debts descend on him and all 
 that may inherit from him ! 
 5 * 
 
50 WHEEL OF FORTUNE. 
 
 Pen. There you outrun discretion : he is 
 dead, and jou would not extend your curse to 
 him that now inherits. 
 
 Hen. Light where it will, I will not revoke 
 it. He that is fortune's minion well deserves it. 
 
 Pen. But he that is innocent, does not. 
 
 Hen. Can he be innocent, who stains his hands 
 with ore drench'd in the gamester's blood, dug 
 from the widow's and the orphan's hearts with 
 tears, and cries, and agonies unutterable ? 'Tis 
 property accurst : were it a mine as deep as to 
 the centre, I would not touch an atom to pre- 
 serve myself from starving. 
 
 Pen. You speak too strongly, sir. 
 
 Hen. So you may think : i sp 
 Who is the wretched heir? 
 
 Pen. Roderick Penruddock. 
 
 Hen. What I Roderick the recluse ? 
 
 Pen. The same. 
 
 Hen. My father knew him well — a gloomy 
 misanthrope, shunning and shunn'd by all man- 
 kind. When such a being, after long seclusion, 
 lost to all social charities, and harden'd into sav- 
 age insensibility, comes forth into the world 
 arm'd with power and property, he issues like 
 a hungry lion from his den, to ravage and de- 
 vour. 
 
 Pen. Stop your invective ! Know him before 
 you damn him. 
 
 Hen. I do not wish to know him ; but if you 
 do, and think him wrong'd by my discourse, con- 
 vince me of the wrong, and you shall find me 
 ready to atone. 
 
WHEEL OF FORTUNE. 51 
 
 Pen. I would not have you take his character 
 from me, and yet I think him to be somewhat 
 better than your report of him ; however you 
 have put it fairly to the issue, and if your leisure 
 serves to meet me at his house, the late Sir 
 George Penruddock's, within two hours from 
 this, you may perhaps see cause to blush for 
 the severity of your invective : in the mean time 
 I promise to make no report of what you have 
 said, and neither aggravate his mind against you, 
 nor warn him of your coming. 
 
 Hen. if 1 can find my friends within the time 
 you mention, I will not fail to meet you ; but I 
 should know your name. 
 
 Pen. You shall know every thing in proper 
 time and place— till then farewell. 
 
 [Exit Henry, r.h. 
 Insolent libeller ! he has undone himself, and 
 stabb'd the mercy in my bosom, whilst in the 
 very act of rising to embrace him. [Exit. l.ii. 
 
 END OF ACT II. 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 SCENE I. — A mean Apartment in the Lodging 
 House of Mrs. Woodville. 
 
 Enter Henry, l.h. ushered in by a Maid Servant. 
 
 Maid. Walk in, sir, pray walk in. Madam 
 Woodville will be quickly at home. 
 
52 WHEEL OF FORTUNE. 
 
 Hen, Are you her servant? 
 
 Maid. I do the work of the house, and wait 
 upon the lodgers. 
 
 Hen. Has she none else belonging to her? 
 
 Maid. No, no, good lady, she has none else 
 but me — If you are Captain Woodville, her son, 
 1 hope it will be in your power to comfort her. 
 
 Hen. Heaven grant it may ! — 1 am the per- 
 son ; you may leave me. — [Exit Maid, l.h. 
 What a sad change is this ! My mother in this 
 place— thus lodg'd, and thus attended ! — O Na- 
 ture ! let me not forget it was a father that ilid 
 this, else — but that thought is horror — Hark, 
 she is coming — 
 
 Enter Emily Tempest, l.h. 
 
 May I believe my eyes? The lovely phantom 
 of my visions realiz'd ! 
 
 Emily. The gallant prisoner, we bewail'd, set 
 free ! — This is a joy most welcome. I was in- 
 formed you call'd at our house for a direction 
 hither; 1 can make all allowances for your im- 
 patience ; but surely, surely, Henry, you made 
 none for mine, when all that you bestowed on 
 me, was a cold inquiry at the door, if such a 
 being was still in existence. 
 
 Heji. Chide not, but pity me ; the unfortunate 
 are fearful of intruding. 
 
 Emily. Say rather they are unkind, and wrong 
 their friends, when they suppose them shaken 
 ty every breath of fortune. 
 
 Hen. The world revolts from poverty. 
 
WHEEL OF FORTUNE. 53 
 
 Emily. Are these the sentiments that you re- 
 turn with? For shame! a soldier to talk thus 
 — Have you seen no misfortunes where you 
 have been, or do you feel them only when they 
 fall upon yourself? Your noble mother does 
 not reason thus. 
 
 Hen. Her''s are no common evils, I confess : 
 but still, adversity is a fair enemy ; patience can 
 check it, fortitude can conquer it, religion can 
 convert it to a blessing. Even I, whom you re- 
 prove, bore it without a murmur, for honor was 
 not lost, hope was yet alive — your image, ever 
 present to my mind, brighten'd captivity, and 
 dreams of future happiness cheer'd my warm 
 glowing fancy ; but now — 
 
 Emily. What now ? stop there, and let me only 
 dwell upon those objects that delight, altho' 
 they may delude : joy at the best is fugitive ; 
 paint hope in brilliant hues, and it is joy : the 
 picture fades indeed, and its warm tints fly off, 
 but whilst they fly, they charm, and memory 
 feasts upon them, even when they are vanish'd. 
 
 Hen. Oh ! well applied, and genuine philoso- 
 phy. — But now, my Emily, what means this mis- 
 chievous efl'usion of so much light that my weak 
 eyes can't bear it ? Why all this blaze of beauty ? 
 
 Emily. Hush ! don't be silly ; it is no such 
 thing — a little glad to see you, perhaps, a little 
 animated by an unexpected pleasure. 
 
 Hen. I left you, as I thought, perfect in every 
 charm ; but time I see still brings fresh tributes 
 to adorn and beautify perfection. — How many 
 hearts have you this moment in your chains ? 
 
54 WHEEL OF FORTUNE. 
 
 Emily. Nonsense ! not one : the lover I most 
 reckon'd upon has just thrown off his chains, and 
 is at Hberty. 
 
 Hen. Only to yield it up again with double de- 
 votion at your feet. Did you know him as 1 do, 
 you would know, that tho' impossibilities oppose 
 his hope, reason can make no progress in the re- 
 form of his incurable passion. 
 
 Emily. Indeed! then what is to be done with 
 such a man? How would you advise me to treat 
 his case ? 
 
 Hen. With pity, as for one who suffers with- 
 out prospect of a cure ; with caution towards 
 yourself, as holding it unfair to flatter where 
 you cannot save. 
 
 Mrs. W. ( Without.) Where, where is he ? ^ 
 
 Enter Mrs. Woodville, l.h. -who embraces Henry. 
 
 Mrs. W Henry, my son, my hero ! welcome 
 to my arms. 
 
 Hen. Oh ! my dear mother — suffering, injur'd 
 excellence ! {Kneels.) 
 
 Mrs. W. Stand up ! Let me survey you — 
 Why, you credit your campaigning ; yet you 
 have far'd hardly — well, 'tis a good practice for 
 bad times : we have not wherewithal to feast 
 you, my poor Henry. — There is no gold grows 
 on the soldier's laurels. 
 
 Hen. I have a sword, madam. 
 
 Mrs. W. Go then, and let it earn for you both 
 food and fame. A British matron sends her 
 warrior to the fight, and scorns to damp his ardor 
 
WHEEL OF FORTUNE. 65 
 
 with a tear : I'll share jou with my country. — 
 Oh ! my sweet Emily, my generous friend, I 
 know you can forgive me. 
 
 Emily. Not easily, if you devote a single 
 thought to ceremony : I am here a party upon 
 sufiference, not quite indifferent to the scene be- 
 fore me, but certainly no principal. 
 
 Mrs. W. You must be ever such with me ; 
 you have shar'd my sorrows, hard indeed if you 
 might not partake my joys. — Well, Henry, we 
 must meet the time, and all its troubles, with 
 what face we can ; cowards and fools shrink at 
 the blasts ot fortune, the solid temper of a noble 
 mind sets them at nought. 
 
 Henry. I'll not disgrace your heroism with a 
 murmur ; when your instruction points the way 
 to virtue, and the example of my father warns 
 me against vice, how can I stray? 
 
 Mrs. W. Alas ! your father — he is indeed-*- 
 but we'll not speak of him: stand firm yourself, 
 and give me cause to love you : for errors of 
 prosperity the world has candour more than 
 enough ; now you have nothing left but your 
 good name, of that be jealous in the extreme ; 
 so shall I be justified for having thought you 
 worthy of that hand, which cruel fortune irrevo- 
 cably has snatch'd from you. 
 
 Emily. Madam ! Mrs. Woodville !— I'll take 
 my leave ; your business grows too interesting. 
 — ril not intrude upon your secrets. (/« with- 
 drawing^ L.H. hut is stopped by Henry. ^ 
 
 Henry. Tear not my heart away, but stop, for 
 mercy's sake. 
 
56 WHEEL OF FORTUNE. 
 
 Emily. No, let us part. Your mother speaks 
 the truth ; but I was then so happy, I lost sight 
 of it. 
 
 Mrs. W. My Emily, my life, my comforter, 
 forgive me ! Amidst a throng of sorrows, some 
 unguarded words will e^^ermore escape us .; we 
 vent them as we do our sighs, and know not 
 what we say. 
 
 Emily. Fray don't apologize ; I am quite 
 asham'd of it : His nothing, 1 am often thus ; 
 you've seen me so a hundred times. — Only poor 
 Henry made up such a face — his eyes set me a 
 crying — and now, good Heaven, how I could 
 laugh ! — Oh ! that is horrid — stop that if you 
 can. 
 
 Mrs. W. My dear, my dear ! come with me to 
 my chamber. 
 
 Henry. Rest, rest on me, thou fascinating 
 charmer ! 
 
 Emily. Look, look at him ! — I wonder what 
 he thinks of me — a fool, a fool, a foolish feeble 
 creature. [^Exeimt^ l.h. 
 
 SCENE II. — A saloon in the house of Sir George 
 Penruddock. 
 
 Enter Weazel l.h.s.e. followed by Jenkins, Cook, 
 and Coachman in mourning. 
 
 Wea. {With much ceremony.) Gentlemen of 
 the second table ! Chiefs of the lower regions ! 
 I am your very humble servant. I condole with 
 you on our general loss : your late w^orthy mas- 
 
WHEEL OF FORTUNE. 57 
 
 (er has paid the debt of nature ; poor Sir George 
 is no more ; but you are serious reflecting men, 
 that weigh these natural events, and know that 
 Death (as the great poet sings) will come when 
 he will come. 
 
 Jen. True, sir, and all our wonder is he did 
 not come before, seeing what pains Sir George 
 took to quicken him. 
 
 Wea. Aptly remarked, most worthy sir ; and 
 I am greatly edified to see that you have put 
 yourselves in mourning ; 'tis somewhat prema- 
 ture, perhaps, seeing the deceasd is not yet in- 
 terred, but it is a tribute of gratitude to your old 
 master, and an earnest of respect to your new 
 one. 
 
 Cook. Of the past we have nothing to com- 
 plain; of the present we are a little doubtful. 
 
 Wea. You speak like sage experienced men well 
 versed in all the dues and perquisites of service. 
 1 have my doubts like you ; Penruddock, I should 
 fear, may be too much of a philosopher for your 
 purposes, and you perhaps not quite enough for 
 his. 
 
 Jen. We can't live without our comforts, Mr. 
 Weazel. 
 
 Wea. And fit it is you should have them. — 
 You, Mr. Jenkins, ! well know, are a man of 
 taste, and have your little gentlemanly recreations 
 — a stable at Epsom, with a bit of blood, that 
 gives you the fresh air upon the Downs ; an- 
 other bit of blood, in the corimodious pur- 
 lieus of Marybone, which soorhes your softer 
 hours : I doubt if this philosopher's wages would 
 6 
 
58 WHEEL OF FORTUNE. 
 
 buy body-clothes for either. — In short, my good 
 friends, I much suspect the golden age with all 
 of us is past, the iron coming on. 
 
 Jen. Well, sir, we shall see : report speaks 
 strangely of the gentleman, to be sure. When 
 may we look for his arrival ? 
 
 Wea. Momentarily. — I perceive you have a 
 whole battalion of livery servants drawn up in 
 the outer hall. 
 
 Jen. We thought for the credit of the estab- 
 lishment to have them all in attendance and full 
 livery. — Does the gentleman bring any of his 
 own domestics with him ? 
 
 Wea. Not many. 
 
 Jen. Let him come as strong as he will, we 
 have provided ; he will find a very handsome 
 dinner, and a vveli-furnish'd sideboard. 
 
 Wea. ' fwiU be a novelty, at least. 
 
 Jen. We have some very pretty wenches in 
 the house ; 6ir George was very particular in 
 that way. 
 
 Wea. And you, Mr. Jenkins, are no mean au- 
 thority ; but Mr. Roderick's taste seems to lie 
 mostly towards old women of seventy. 
 
 Coach. Pray, sir, with what equipage does he 
 travel hither. 
 
 Wea. With one of Nature's providing. — Hey- 
 day ! what's a-coming now ? 
 
 Ji party of Livery Servants rush in^ r.h. 
 
 Livery Serv. No offence to you Mr. Weazel, 
 but we would fain know what lay we are to be 
 
WHEEL OF FORTUNE. 59 
 
 upon ; and whether the strange gentleman will 
 be agreeable to continue to allow us for bags, 
 canes, and nosegays. 
 
 Wea Bags you must wear, the graces of your 
 persons claim them ; canes you shall have- your 
 merits well bespeak them ; and as for nosegays, 
 gentlemen, it is so modest a request, thai even 
 the hangman furnishes them to his clients. — But, 
 hark ! your master is arrived. 
 
 Jen. Stand by ; make way ! 
 
 Enter Fenruddock, r.h. Servants how to him. 
 
 Pen. Are all these persons of Sir George^s 
 household? 
 
 Wea. All of his town establishment. 
 
 Pen. So man}' for the use of one ? they've 
 females in proportion, I should hope, else 'tis a 
 most impolitic establishment. 
 
 Wea There are plenty of female servants in 
 the house, but it is not usual for that sex to show 
 themselves in the hall. 
 
 Pen. If there is ever an old woman amongst 
 them, send her to wait upon me. 
 
 Wea. I told you how it would be. • {Aside.) 
 
 Jen. Please your honour, there is no such 
 thing in the family. 
 
 Pen. Shew me into your library then. 
 
 Jen. I beg pardon, there is no library. 
 
 Pen. Right! why should wealth be wise? 
 Who, that could feed upon the leavings of the 
 dead, would keep so n)any living men in pay to 
 pamper his appetite ? You would be useless 
 
60 WHEEL OF FORTUNE. 
 
 ministers to a philosopher ; therefore, whilst I 
 am with you, I'll be none. — Shew me your gay- 
 est chamber. - [Exit^ attended^ L.H. 
 
 SCENE III. — A magnificent Ball Room^ richly 
 decorated. 
 
 Enter Fenruddock, Weazel, Jenkins and Servants, 
 
 L.H.S.E. 
 
 Pen. What's all this ? for what perverted race 
 of beings was this abominable farrago of aburdi- 
 iy collected ? 
 
 Jen. This, sir ! we call this the ball-room. It 
 was thus prepar'd for the fete Sir George intend- 
 ed to have given on his return out of Cornwall, 
 as this very night, if Death had not prevented 
 him. 
 
 Pen. Death saved his credit ; and as guardian 
 of his memory, I will have this libel burnt by 
 the common hangman, and its author prosecuted 
 with the utmost rigour of the law. 
 
 Jen. We have other apartments, sir, if this is 
 not to your liking. 
 
 Pen. Leave me, if you please. [Exit Jen- 
 kins and Servants, r.h.] — Oh ! my beloved cot- 
 tage, when shall I re-visit thee ? — I told you of 
 my adventure with young Woodville, and the 
 hard names he gave me : would it not be a wor- 
 thy punishment to imprison him for life ? 
 
 Wea. A moderate correction he well merits ; 
 but imprisonment for life would be too severe a 
 punishment. 
 
WHEEL OF FORTUNE. 61 
 
 Pen. I think it would, in such an execrable 
 dungeon as this. — How long, sir, might it take 
 to starve a naked man to death in a cold frosty 
 night ? 
 
 Wea. Truly, sir, the calculation never enterM 
 my thoughts. 
 
 Pe7i. I'll tell you then — about as long as it 
 would take to drive me mad, where Ito be here 
 shut up without the powerof an escape. 'Sdeath ! 
 can a man that has look'd Nature in the face 
 gaze on these fripperies? Why, sir, my cobwebs, 
 which old Deborah's purblind eyes leave undis- 
 turb'd, have twenty times the grace of these 
 unnatural festoons. What did Sir George Pen- 
 ruddock mean by thus lampooning me? Til not 
 wear a fool's cap and bells for any man s hu- 
 mour, not I. — Sir, 1 must ever curse the mo- 
 ment when 3'^ou broke up my repose in my 
 small unsophisticated cottage. 
 
 Enter Jenkins, r.h. 
 
 Jen. Captain Woodville is at the door, and 
 desires to know if there is not a person here he 
 was to call upon. 
 
 Pen. Introduce Captain Woodville directly. 
 [Exit Jenkins., r.h.] — Mr. Weazel, you will ex- 
 pedite those matters 1 instructed you upon, and 
 remember secrecy. 
 
 Wea. I shall act faithfully in all things, to the 
 best of my understanding. — What a mysterious 
 jmimal it is ! 'Twould puzzle CEdipus to unrid- 
 dle what he means. [Exit, l.it. 
 6 * 
 
WHEEL OF FORTUNE. 
 
 Enter Henry, r.h. 
 
 Henry. Bless me ! can this be so ? Am 1 in 
 company with Mr. Penruddock ? 
 
 Pen. For the second time. — I recollect we 
 met by accident, and had some interesting con- 
 versation. 
 
 Henry. Then I must throw myself upon your 
 candour, and abide by any measures you may 
 choose to dictate in consequence of what has 
 passed between us. 
 
 Pen. You hardly can expect much candour in 
 a character such as you painted — savage, insen- 
 sible, lost to all social charities, a gloomy misan- 
 thrope. 
 
 Henry. I spoke, as men are apt to speak, 
 what I belie v'd upon report. — If you mean only 
 to retort the words on me as their retailer, you 
 still leave the original authority in force ; but if 
 you can refute that, you at once vindicate your 
 own character from aspersion, and bring me to 
 shame for my credulity and levity. 
 
 Pen. If I remember right, you quoted your 
 own father as the authority on which you rest- 
 ed : of him, therefore, in the first place, I will 
 speak; of myself in the last. — Your father and 
 myself were intimates through all that happy 
 age, when nature wears no mask : our boyish 
 sports, our college studies, our travelling excur- 
 sions, united us in friendship. — This may be te- 
 dious talk, and yet I study to be brief, for my 
 own sake as well as yours. 
 
WHEEL OF FORTUNE. 63 
 
 Henry. I'm all attention — pray proceed. 
 
 Pen. On our return from travel it was my for- 
 tune to enj^age the affections of a lady — whom 
 at this distant period 1 can't name without emo- 
 tions that unman and shake my foolish heart — 
 therefore no more of her. Your father was our 
 mutual confidant, pass'd and repass'd between 
 us on affairs of trust and secrecy, whilst i was 
 busied in providing for our marriage settlement: 
 I struggled against difficulties, that tortured my 
 impatience, and at length overcame them. In 
 that interval a villain had belied my character, 
 poisoned her credulous mind, and by the display 
 of a superior fortune, prevailM upon her pa- 
 rents to revoke their promises to me, and marry 
 her to him. — What did this wretch deserve ? 
 
 Henri). Death from your hands, and infamy 
 from all the world. 
 
 Pen. And yet upon his credit you arraign my 
 character ; — for that wretch is — your own fa- 
 ther. 
 
 Henry. I'm dumb with horror. 
 
 Pen. Can you now wonder, if, when arm'd 
 with power to extinguish this despoiler of my 
 peace, this still inveterate defamer of my cha- 
 racter, I issue, as your own words describ'd me, 
 like a hungry lion from his den, to ravage and 
 devour? 
 
 Henry. I'll answer that hereafter; and by the 
 honour of a soldier, I will answer it as truth and 
 justice shall exact of me ? But a charge so 
 strong, so serious, so heart-rendmg to a son, 
 who feels himself referr'd to in a case so touch- 
 
64 WHEEL OF FORTUNE. 
 
 ing, demands a strict discussion : 1 shall imme- 
 diately seek out my father, whom I have not 
 yet seen. 
 
 Pen. If I accuse him falsely, it is not restitu- 
 tion of the debt he owes me, nor all that I pos- 
 sess besides, no, nor my life itself, that cai) atone 
 for the calumny. If 1 have spoken truth, con- 
 fess, that though 1 have the fury of the lion you 
 compare me to, I have, like him, instinct to jus- 
 tify the ravages I make. 
 
 Henry. I close upon those terms : when next 
 we meet, we meet decisively. [Exit., r.h. 
 
 Pen. He that is once deceivVl may plead a 
 Tenial error; but he that gives himself to be a 
 fool twice dup'd, has nothing but his folly to ex- 
 cuse him. I parted from this strumpet world 
 because she jilted me ; protesting never to be- 
 lieve her more, I cast her off; she now ap- 
 proaches me with syren smiles, throws out her 
 lures, and thinks to dazzle me with these vile 
 scraps of tawdry patch-work finery. — Away with 
 all such snares ! there's whore upon the fnce of 
 them. 
 
 Enter Jenkins, r.h. 
 
 Jen. Is it your pleasure to be at home, sir ? 
 
 Pen. It shall be before long. 
 
 Jen. Do you choose to see Mr. Sydenham ? 
 
 Pen. By all means. [Exit Jenkins., r.h.] — The 
 whole town are welcome to break in and plun- 
 der all they find : encumber\i with the trappings 
 of folly, the sooner 1 am stript the better. 
 
WHEEL OF FORTUNE. 65 
 
 Enter Sydenham, r.h. 
 
 Sir, I am proud to see yon. This is indeed a 
 kindness greater than 1 look'd for, even from 
 you, of whom 1 had conceived so highly, to vi- 
 sit one that must appear to you in the last stage 
 of human misery. 
 
 Syd. How so, sir ? What is it you can allude to ? 
 
 Pen. These symptoms of insanity. These — 
 
 Syd. You surprise rae, sir ; if you advert to 
 the decorations of this ball-room, be assured they 
 are executed to a miracle; conceiv'd, dispos'd, 
 and finish'd with great elegance, and in the very 
 last taste. 
 
 Pen. Heaven grant it may be the last ! 
 
 Syd. You have liv'd long out of the world ; 
 your eyes are used lo Nature ; but in ihese 
 times we never prize what we can enjoy for no- 
 thing : of course Nature and all her works are 
 out of fashion. 
 
 Pen. And may I ask which fashion you are of? 
 
 Syd. Sir, I am, as I told you, a mere idler, a 
 roving drone without a hive, 'fo call upon me 
 for an opinion is to expose me to danger, for I am 
 too honest to disguise my sentiments, and my 
 sentiments are too sincere to please the gene- 
 rality of those I keep company with — I am poor, 
 but still such a plain-spoken fool, that if you 
 were to ask me what 1 thought of you, I should 
 infallibly give 3'ou my opinion to your face. 
 
 Pen. Then give it, I conjure you : 1 have still 
 my own conscience to refer to. 
 
66 WHEEL OF FORTUNE. 
 
 Syd. Perhaps I may not treat you with the 
 civility you require- Your conscience and I 
 may differ in that respect. 
 
 Pen. Proceed nevertheless. 
 
 Syd. The first predicament I saw you in was 
 a peculiar one— Encountered by a man, a guilty 
 one J own, who confessed to the wrongs he had 
 done you, and threw himself upon your pardon : 
 he was in misery and at your mercy — a glorious 
 moment was then in your reach; for the ho- 
 nour of human nature I wish'd you to have 
 seiz'd it; you seiz\l the pistol, instead, which 
 he tendered you, and when you might have con- 
 quered him by generosity, preferr'd the doubt- 
 ful chance of revenging yourself in his blood. 
 
 Pen. Go on, go on ! Cut deep, and never spare 
 me. 
 
 Syd. A mediating angel stopt your hand, but 
 still you slunk away in silence, sullen and mys- 
 terious : what the contents of Mrs. Woodville's 
 letter were, I know not ; but whatever vliey 
 might be, I understand they are unanswer'd ; for 
 1 came this instant irom the lady who addressed 
 you. — Here you are not less wanting in polite- 
 ness than humanity. 
 
 Pen. Facts, but not comments, if you please. 
 What next? 
 
 Syd. The son of your neglected correspon- 
 dent is come home, a braver, nobler, more in- 
 genuous youth, his country does not boast; I 
 met him as he parted from your door ; what 
 was in his heart I know not, but in his features 
 all was sadness, horror, and despair — I threw 
 
WHEEL OF FORTUNE. 67 
 
 my arms about him ; he press\] me to his bo- 
 som, sigh'd, and broke away from me without a 
 word. 
 
 Pen If vou held no discourse, how could you 
 dive into his thoui^hts? 
 
 Syd. Because I know how deep and keen the 
 pangs of disappointed love. 
 
 Pen. Do you know that ? I know it too. Tell 
 me bis case ; what is the lady's name, and 
 whence his disappointment ? 
 
 Syd. The mistress of his soul is Emily, the 
 fair and lovely daughter of j^our neighbour, Mr. 
 Tempest : plung'd in his father's ruin, all his 
 hopes are wrecked; honour forbids the match, 
 for Tempest is not rich, and Henry (curse upon 
 that dajmon gaming !) is undone : meantime Sir 
 David Daw, a fellow cramm'd with money to a 
 surfeit, proposes for the lady — 
 
 Pen. What then, what then ? she will not 
 marry him. 
 
 Syd. I should suppose she will. 
 
 Pen. Infamous prostitution ! is there a second 
 woman to be found so base of soul, so lost to 
 every sense — 
 
 Syd. Stop ! on your life no more : I must not 
 hear the noblest sacrifice, that generosity e'er 
 made to save a sinking family, so grossly treated 
 by the very man, who is himself the source and 
 fountain-head of their calamity.— -And now pro- 
 ceed, fulfil your whole design, complete their ruin 
 — tear this devoted victim from the heart of her 
 beloved (lenry — drive her into the arms of folly 
 —immolate affection, beauty, innocence, every 
 
68 WHEEL OF FORTUNE. 
 
 grace and every virtue, to the luxury of revenge, 
 and Wiien you've done it — fall to your dinner 
 with what appetite you may. 
 
 Pen. Stay, sir ! — I could reply to you, but my 
 heart swells against this tyranny of tongue. The 
 time may come— nay it shall come — when you'll 
 repent this language. 
 
 Syd. Wot I, by Heaven — I have a sword, that 
 never yet was backward to come forth upon the 
 call, and second what Tve said. And now, he- 
 cause Vl\ ifive your vengeance its full range, 
 and suffer none that 1 call triend to skulk behind 
 my shield, 1 tell you, Woodville will be found 
 with me, whenever you think tit to seek him. 
 — Your servants know the house and will direct 
 you to it. [Exit., r.h. 
 
 Pen. Here's a bold spirit ! These are the 
 loud-tongu'd moralists, who make benevolence a 
 bull}^, and mouth us into mercy by the dint of 
 noise and impudence — but I shall lower his tone. 
 Who waits ? — Tell my attorney I would speak 
 with him. [Exit., l.u. 
 
 END OF ACT III. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 SCENE I. — An apartment in Sydenham's house. 
 Enter Woodville, and Mrs. Woodville, l.h. 
 
 Wo&d. You strive in vain to comfort me j my 
 spirit sinks under a load of guilt, which all your 
 
WHEEL OF FORTUNE. 69 
 
 pity and forgiveness cannot lighten. — Is there a 
 gleam of hope to catch at? 
 
 Mrs. W. There seems an awful pause in our 
 fate ; I dare not call it hope ; I do not think it 
 warrants us to treat it as despair. 
 
 Wood. Have you had any answer from Pen- 
 ruddock? 
 
 Mrs. W. None. 
 
 Wood. Heartless, unfeeling monster — 
 
 Mrs. W. Hush, hush ! you should not rail. 
 
 Wood. I'll hide myself no longer ; I'll go forth 
 and face his persecution. 
 
 Mrs. W. Hold, be not rash. Where's Syden- 
 ham ? 
 
 Wood. Gone to Penruddock. 
 
 Mrs. W. Vm sorry for it; that will blow the 
 flame ; their tempers never can accord. 
 
 Wood. I saw the danger, and strove to divert 
 him from the undertaking — but you know his 
 zealous temper ; no remonstrance stops him. 
 
 Mrs. W. I'll go to Penruddock myself. 
 
 Wood. Not for the world. 
 
 Mrs. W. Why what shou'd hinder me ? 
 
 Wood. Consideration for yourself— and, though 
 I have justly forfeited all right to counsel you, 
 let me add, my earnest dissuasion. 
 
 Mrs. W. This is no time for pride — think of 
 your son I 
 
 Wood. Oh ! agony of soul ! Oh, monstrous, 
 monstrous villain that I am. — And look ! protect 
 me, save me from the sight of him. 
 
 {Falls on her neck.) 
 7 
 
70 WHEEL OF FORTUNE, 1 
 
 i 
 
 Enter Henry, r.h. and after a pause speaks. i 
 
 Hen. Sir, be a man ! You % too late to that j 
 protecting virtue ; if it is painful to abide this \ 
 meeting, why did you risk the pain? What was 
 the good you might have gain'd, compar'd with j 
 what you have lost? — A wife, a son, the sacred * 
 trust of husband, father, all that Heaven com- ■ 
 mitted to your keeping, stak'd (Oh I dispropor- ; 
 tionM stake !) against a gambler's coin ! i 
 
 JVood. Truly, but sternly urg'd.— I thank you: ' 
 It has rous'd me. i 
 
 Hen. Vm glad it has, for it requires some en- i 
 ergy to meet the appeal that I am bound to \ 
 make: Penruddock charges you with acts, long I 
 past indeed, but of the blackest treachery. How ! 
 stands the truth? I'm deeply pledg'd upon the ' 
 issue of your answer: if you are falsely charg'd, | 
 1 shall do what becomes me as your son ; if not, ; 
 I've done him wrong, and have much to atone ; 
 for. 
 
 Wood. V\\ give no answer : I am your father, i 
 sir, and will not thus be question'd. | 
 
 Hen, Alas! you are my father; and my honor, j 
 which is all that you have not taken from me, ' 
 is so far engag'd that 1 must have an answer. = 
 
 Mrs. W. Take it from me ! — 'Tis true. i 
 
 Wood. Hah ! do you turn against me ? ' 
 
 Mrs. W. No ; but I cannot turn aside from '\ 
 truth, and shrink as you do from confession, , 
 when a brave son demands it. — Penruddock has' 
 been wrong'd. j 
 
WHEEL OF FORTUNE. 71 
 
 Wood. I've canceli'd all his wrongs; I've ten- 
 der'd him the satisfaction of a gentleman, and he 
 accepted it; Sydenham was present, and can 
 witness it. 
 
 Mrs. W. And what ensued ? 
 
 Wood. Your letter was produc'd, and he de- 
 clin'd the duel. 
 
 Mrs. W. Did he ? Now Heaven be thank'd . 
 I've sav'd your heart one agony at least — What 
 would have been your crime, had you destroy'd 
 that man? 
 
 Wood. Perhaps I did not mean to put it to 
 the risk. 
 
 Hen. I hope you did not — I have now my an- 
 swer, and jnust take my leave. 
 
 Enter Sydenham, b.ii. 
 
 Sijd. (Stopping Henry.) One moment, one 
 short moment, my dear lad ! — Forever on the 
 wing? — I must shoot flying then ; for come what 
 may, 1 must and will embrace you. 
 
 Hen, Measure not my affection, my good friend, 
 by the few moments it can spare ; you have the 
 soul of honour in you, know all its feelings, its 
 refinements, and can trust that nothing but it's 
 duties would compel me to break from you thu3 
 abruptly— farewell ! [Exit, r.ii. 
 
 Syd. There, there he goes — unfortunate, tho' 
 brave, the darling of my heart, his country's 
 gallant champion, redeem'd from long captivity 
 to encounter sorrows at home, enough to rend 
 li^s rpanly heart asunder — Who would not pity 
 
72 WHEEL OF FORTUNE. 
 
 him ? who but must love him ? I do from my 
 soul. 
 
 Airs. W. Aye, Charles, you have a heart. 
 
 Syd. 1 have a heart to honor hiai, a sword to 
 serve him, and a purse — no, not that — confound 
 it, curse it, for its emptiness ! hang dog, 1 would 
 it were as big and as full as a sack for his sake 
 — Damn that old crabbed cottager, that book- 
 worm — 
 
 Mrs. W. Peace ! you have visited Penrud- 
 dock — 
 
 Syd. Yes, you may call it visiting — He re- 
 ceiv'd me planting himself in the very centre of 
 Sir George's splendid ball-room, like a gloomy 
 night-piece in a gilded frame. He ask'd me if 
 I did not think him mad — 1 civilly said, no ; 
 which was a lie for your sake ; — but presently 
 he led me on to give him his full character, and 
 then the truth came out ; I told him my whole 
 mind. 
 
 Wood. What did you tell him ? can you recol- 
 lect? 
 
 Syd. As for you, I told him fairly I had no- 
 thing to say in your behalf, but that I thought it 
 would have been a very gallant act to have forgiv- 
 en you, simply because you had so little title to 
 expect it. 
 
 Wood. There was no great flattery in that, 
 methinks. 
 
 Syd. Hang it, flattery ! no : I was past flatter- 
 ing; for when 1 came to speak of Henry, and 
 how all hopes of his beloved Emily were blasted 
 by 3-our curst itch of gaming, 'sdeath, I was all 
 
WHEEL OF FORTUNE. 73 
 
 on fire, and shot philippics thick and terrible as 
 red-hot balls. 
 
 Mrs. W. Why? what provok'd you to it? 
 
 Syd. What but to think how glorious an op- 
 portunity he let slip of rescuing the brave lad 
 from disappointment, and defeating that rich 
 blockhead of a baronet, that dunder-headed 
 Daw, who waits to snap her up ; wasn't that 
 enough to do it? Zooks ! had I swallowed Hec- 
 la, 1 could not have fumed more furiously. 
 
 Mrs. W. Still you don't answer to my question : 
 Did Mr. Penruddock give you to understand that 
 Henry had nothing to expect from him? 
 
 Syd. No; but I understood it well enough 
 without his giving — 1 saw it in his looks ; if you 
 would paint a head of Caius Marius in his pri- 
 son, he was the very model for it. It chill'd 
 benevolence to look upon him ; Spitzbergen 
 could not freeze me more effectually than his 
 marble face. 
 
 Mrs. W. My friend, my friend ! you are too 
 volatile ; you only saw the ruggedness of the 
 soil, and never search'd for the rich ore beneath 
 it. — And now, Woodville, for a short time, fare- 
 well! To your benevolent friend 1 recommend 
 you; and, if my auguries don't deceive me, I'll 
 bring you better tidings when next we meet. 
 
 [Exit.^ R.H. 
 
 Syd. By Heavens, Woodville, you must have 
 had a most intolerable bad taste, when you could 
 prefer the company of a crew of gamesters to 
 the society of that angelic woman. 
 
 Wood. Oh ! Sydenham, I reflect with horror 
 7* 
 
74 WHEEL OF FORTUNE. 
 
 on that monster gaming ; that with the smiles al 
 a syren to allure, has the talons of a harpy to 
 destroy us, [Exeunt^ l.h. 
 
 SCENE II. — An Apartment in Penruddock''s 
 House. 
 
 Enter Penruddock, l.h. 
 
 Pen. I'm weary, sick, discomfited. This world 
 and I must part once more. That it has virtues, 
 I will not deny ; but they lie buried in a tide of 
 vanities, like grains of gold in sand wash'd down 
 by mountain torrents : I cannot wait the sifting 
 — Sydenham has a heart — what then ? his zeal, 
 like a rich cordial drank to intoxication, loses 
 its sweet nature, and becomes pernicious by 
 abuse. — Henry is young ; and like the pro- 
 mise of a forward spring, tiatters our hopes of 
 harvest; 'twere hard to let him wither in the 
 bud : he too is thoughtless, rash, impetuous — but 
 he's a soldier and a lover; with them I sympa- 
 thize — besides, his mother's in his face. 
 
 Enter Henry, r.h. 
 
 Hen. They tell me you would see me; if I 
 come unseasonably, appoint some other time. 
 
 Pen. The present is your own ; command it 
 as you please. 
 
 Hen. I have done you flagrant wrong ; but as 
 I cannot charge my memory with slandering 
 your good name in any other person's hearing 
 
WHEEL OF FORTUNE. lb 
 
 but your own, and that unknowingly, I have no 
 other person to atone to but yourself. 
 
 Pen. You haA'e seen your father, and ex- 
 plain'd ? 
 
 Hen. I have ; my mother too was present. 
 
 Pen. Your mother present ! — May I request 
 you to describe what pass'd ? 
 
 Hen. You shall know all. — My father at first 
 sight shrunk from me, conscious and abash'd ; 1 
 urg'd your charge upon him strongly, perhaps 
 (for I was gall'd with many griefs) more strong- 
 ly than became me : my high tone offended him, 
 and he refused to answer ; a second time I urg'd 
 the same demand ; my mother instantly replied, 
 that your appeal was true — you had been grossly 
 wrong'd. — Her candor drew forth his confession, 
 qualified with this excuse, that he had tendered 
 satisfaction : hinting withal, that had the affair 
 taken place, he would not have returned your 
 fire. 
 
 Pen. It is enough, I am satisfied ; you know 
 me now to have been an injur'd man, betray'd 
 by him I trusted, wounded in the tenderest part, 
 and robb'd of all 1 held most dear ; if, therefore, 
 I am become savage., insensible, and all that you 
 once thought me, 1 have some natural plea ; and, 
 should you find me a hard creditor to one that 
 was so false a friend, what can you say ? 
 
 Hen. Less than I wish : your own benevolence 
 must be my father's advocate. 
 
 Pen. He has undone his family, lost great 
 sums by play, and chiefly, as I find, to Sir George 
 Penruddock, who supplied him also with loans, 
 
76 WHEEL OF FORTUNE. 
 
 till his estate was mortgaged to its value, his 
 town-house seiz'd, and bond debts hanging over 
 him, that put his person at my mercy — If re- 
 venge were my object, these are tempting op- 
 portunities for indulging it ? if avarice were my 
 passion, here are ample means for gratifying it. 
 — What have you now to offer on your father's 
 part? 
 
 Hen. To justice nothing ; some little plea 
 perhaps upon the score of mercy. 
 Pen. State it. 
 
 Hen. I am a soldier, sir ; and, were I circum- 
 stanc'd as you are, I could not suffer myself to 
 deprive that man of his liberty, who had tender'd 
 me an honourable satisfaction at the peril of his 
 life. 
 
 Pe7i. Well, sir, I love a soldier ; and, tho' 
 your arguments are not to be found in law or 
 gospel, yet they have weight, and I will give 
 them full consideration : we shall meet again. 
 Henry. Have you any further commands? 
 Pen. A word before we part — You bear a 
 strong resemblance to your mother — will you 
 be troubled with a message to her? 
 Henry. Most readily. 
 
 Pen. 1 have to apologize for the neglect of 
 an unanswered letter — Say to her,, 1 beseech 
 you, that I am collecting spirits to request an in- 
 terview with her here, before I finally retire to 
 my cottage. — This to your mother — now to 
 yourself a word in secrecy and pure good-will — 
 I am told you are attach'd to a most amiable 
 young lady, daughter of the honourable Mr. 
 
WHEEL OF FORTUNE. 77 
 
 Tempest, my near neighbour — by sad experi- 
 ence I exhort you, trust not to chance and time ; 
 make suit without delay, lose not a moment, but 
 repair forthwith to Mr. Tempest. 
 
 Henry. Ah ! sir, what hope for me ? 
 
 Fen. A soldier, and despair ? For shame ! go, 
 go, announce yourself, and take your chance for 
 a reception : if he admits you, well ; if he de- 
 clines your visit, you have lost your labour, and 
 1 have given you mistaken counsel. Come, I'll 
 attend you to the door. [Exeunt, r.h. 
 
 SCENE III.— Mr. Tempest's House, 
 
 Enter Tempest, and Sir David Daw, l.h. 
 
 Sir D. With your leave. Governor Tempest, I 
 would fain crave your patience, whilst I open 
 a bit of my mind to you, in a quiet way and 
 without offence. 
 
 Ttm. You may open it too without a preface, 
 good Sir David ; I am ready to hear you. 
 
 Sir D. That's kind, that's courteous! and I 
 must say it to your face, aye, and I'll say it in 
 the face of the whole world, that 1 have always 
 found you as obliging and civil-spoken a gentle- 
 man, as 1 ever cross'd upon in my whole life 
 before — I speak it from my heart, I do indeed, 
 1 speak the truth, and nothing but the truth. 
 
 Tem. Yes, but I don't want to hear it just 
 now : speak to the business, and leave truth to 
 speak for itself 
 
 Sir D. But why do I say it ? Why, but because 
 
t8 WHEEL OF FORTUNE. 
 
 I hear the people talk so mwch of your want of 
 temper, and of the violent passions you throw 
 yourself into ? Now I say — 
 
 Tern. Who cares what you say ? The people 
 are not half so provoking as you, the retail 
 hawker of their paltry nonsense — you, that 
 with silly acquiescence make men sick of their 
 own opinions by always chiming in with them — 
 3^ou, that pelt us with ill-savour'd compliments, 
 till rotten eggs and the pillory would be a re- 
 creation in comparison of them — you that — 
 
 Sir D. Oh dear, oh dear ! who could have 
 thought it ? now you have driven all I had to 
 say clear out of my head. 
 
 Tern. Well, 'tis no loss, if this is a sample of 
 its contents. 
 
 Sir D. I cannot for the soul of me get the 
 words together again ; though I had conn'd them 
 over pretty closely, if you had notbounc'd upon 
 me in such a fashion ; but, under favour, I could 
 explain myself to your fair daughter, she is kind- 
 ly and good-humour'd. 
 
 Tem. Make your own way with her then as 
 you can, for here she comes. 
 
 Enter Emily, l.h. 
 
 Well, child, if you can make any thing of this 
 gentleman, it is more than 1 can ; all I under- 
 stand is, that he has been flattering my patience 
 till he has put me in a passion. 
 
 Emily. Oh fie, Sir David ! don't you know you 
 shou'd never speak of patience in my father's 
 
WHEEL OF FORTUNE. 79 
 
 company ? 'Tis like complimenting a man upon 
 his wife, after he is divore'd from her. 
 
 Tem. Hussey, is your wit so unmanageable, 
 that it runs foul of your father? — Hark'ye, child, 
 a word in your ear — 
 
 Emily. Nothing else, I hope — but indeed. Sir, 
 I am half afraid of you. 
 
 Tem. And well you may, you little slut, for 
 you deserve — I'll tell you what you deserve — a 
 better husband than this David Dunce. — Mind 
 now ! (but this is a secret) 1 don't quite insist 
 upon your liking him as well as Harry Wood- 
 ville. {^Aside.) 
 
 Emily. No, sir, that would be to debar me 
 from the use of eyes, ears, and understanding. 
 
 Tem. And hark 'ye ! — If you give him a 
 smooth answer, and a civil passport into Mon- 
 mouthshire, f am not sure, provided you are 
 very penitent and beg hard, but I shall tind in 
 my heart to forgive you. [^Aside — and Exit.) l.h. 
 
 Sir D, O Jubilate ! I'm glad to my heart he 
 is gone. Never did I hear such a roysterer in 
 my days. What ! does he take me for one of 
 his black negro-slaves in Africa ? Have not I 
 danc'd attendance long enough upon his humours, 
 foUow'd him like his shadow, laugh'd at his 
 jokes, echo'd his opinions, put up with his swear- 
 ing, and been as mute as a fish whilst he rated 
 at the servants ? and now to fall upon me like 
 a cat o'mountain on a harmless kid !^0h ! if it 
 was not for you, Miss Emily, if my love for you 
 did not keep me cool and calm, 1 would shew 
 him a Httle of the spirit of the Daws : I should 
 
so WHEEL OF FORTUNE. 
 
 be as hot and snappish as himself— Bub you 
 don't listen to me, I'm afraid. 
 
 Emily. What can this whisper mean? He has 
 had a stranger with him — a coarse, clownish 
 man — but that can argue nothing — Henry he has 
 not seen — (Aside.) 
 
 Sir D. Will you not let me speak to you ? 
 
 Emily. Oh ! yes, for ever : talk without stint 
 or measure ; only let me meditate the whilst : 
 my thoughts won't interrupt you, nor your dis- 
 course my thoughts. 
 
 Sir D. {Sits down.) I should hope, lovely 
 charmer — 
 
 Emily. Lovely what ? (Sits down.) 
 
 Sir D. Lovely charmer was my expression. 
 
 Emily. Oh ! very well : it's all the same. Go 
 on ! 
 
 Sir D. I should hope, lovely Miss Emily Tem- 
 pest, (for I won't say charmer) after the long 
 attendance I have paid, and the proofs I have 
 given of my patience as well as of my passion, 
 that I have now waited the full time, which 
 young ladies usually require to make up their 
 minds whether to say Aye or No to a plain pro- 
 posal. 
 
 Emily. What proposal do you allude to ? 
 
 Sir D. Surely you can't ask that question se- 
 riously at this time o'day ; surely you must know 
 that I mean a proposal of marriage. 
 
 Emily. Right ! very true — I recollect you 
 propos'd to marry me — Well ! what would you 
 do with me when you had got me ? 
 
 Sir D. Lud-a-mercy ! well; what would I do 
 
WHEEL OF FORTUNE. 81 
 
 with you ? That's comical, i'faith — why, in the 
 first place I'd whisk you down to the castle — 
 
 Emily. Whisk me down to the castle — 
 
 Sir D. To be sure I wou'd, for why ? things 
 are ail at sixes and sevens for want of me : no- 
 thing like a master's eye ; a gentleman, who 
 trusts to servants in his absence, is sure to be 
 cut up. 
 
 Emily. Cut up ! what's that ? 
 
 Sir D. Why, 'tis a common phrase — 
 
 Emily. With the slaughterers of Clare-mar- 
 ket — but let it pass. — What am 1 to be done 
 with then ? 
 
 Sir D. Oh ! as for that, we shall soon set 
 things upon their right bottom again, and then 
 we will be as happy and as merry as the day is 
 long. 
 
 Emily. Hold there ! 1 never bargain'd to be 
 happy ; you may as well teach the towers of 
 your castle to dance, as me to be merry. 
 
 Sir D. Why, what should hinder you, when 
 every thing, that money can command, shall be 
 purchas'd to content you? But I'm afraid, Miss 
 Emily, there is a little double-dealing in this bu- 
 siness : I suspect your heart inclines to Captain 
 Woodville ; and now he is come to England, I 
 suppose I am likely to be cut out. 
 
 Emily Poor man ! what between cutting up 
 and cutting out, how you will be mangled ! 
 Wouldn't it be better to live single in a whole 
 skin, than marry and be hutcher'd in so barba- 
 rous a manner ? 
 
 Sir D. I don't know but it might— I won't say 
 8 
 
82 WHEEL OF FORTUNE. 
 
 but it may be so — if I'm not agreeable to one, I 
 may be agreeable to another — rich folks need not 
 go a-begging — If Captain Woodville is the man, 
 why then perhaps I don't covet to be the master 
 — if Captain Woodville — Hush i who's commg? 
 
 Enter Henrv Woodville, l.h. 
 
 Emily. Henry ! 
 
 Sir D. Oh Lord ! my death warrant. 
 
 {Aside. — Rises.) 
 
 Hen. Well may you be surpris'd to see me 
 here, and your wonder will be increas'd when I 
 tell you that I have your father's privilege for 
 my intrusion ; but if you and this gentleman, 
 whom I understand to be Sir David Daw, are 
 upon business of consequence, I retire upon the 
 word. 
 
 Sir D. A very civil person, I must say. 
 
 Emily. Sir David, was the busmess we were 
 upon of any consequence 1 
 
 Sir D. To me of most immediate ; how did 
 you consider it, I pray 1 
 
 Emily. As I do every other harmless common 
 talk ; very entertaining whilst it lasts, very soon 
 forgot when it is over ; but this gentleman has 
 conversation of a sort that is apt to drive all oth- 
 er out of my recollection. 
 
 Hen. Oh Emily, Emily! for Heaven's sake — 
 
 Emily. Hold your tongue. 
 
 Sir D. Nay, madam, the gentleman seems to 
 understand himself very properly ; but 1 must 
 think that you, Miss Emily, oonsidering who I 
 
WHEEL OF FORTUNE. 83 
 
 am, and how I came here, do not understand me 
 quite so properly ; and I must say — 
 
 Hen. What must you say ? Not a single word 
 to this lady that in the slightest degree borders 
 on disrespect : and now, with that caution for 
 your government, let me hear what it is you 
 must say — 
 
 Sir D. Nay, nothing more ; I think I've said 
 enough — Your very humble servant. [Exit^ r.h. 
 
 Hen. This absolute repulse of your rich sui- 
 tor flatters but frightens me. What will your 
 father say ? whilst I am wholly in the fault, you 
 will bear all the blame. 
 
 Emily. If I am never blam'd but for your 
 faults — 
 
 " Why let the stricken deer go weep., 
 '' The hart ungalled play.^^ — 
 
 Hen. Can you account for his indulgence ? 
 
 Emily. Can you expound the changes of the 
 moon ? Can you explain why, when all other 
 female hearts are fickle, mine alone is fixt ? 
 
 Hen. Ought I to suffer that ? honour should 
 teach me to avoid your presence. 
 
 Emily, Ves; but if you practice that honour 
 upon me, I never will forgive you. Come down 
 from these high flights, if you please, and walk 
 upon your feet, as other men do. If you are 
 alarm'd at being poor, I'll marry that money-bag, 
 and enrich you with the pillage of it : — will that 
 be honourable ? No, no ! most execrable mean- 
 ness ; therefore away with it ! Spinster as 1 am,. 
 
84 WHEEL OF FORTUNE. 
 
 I may struggle on to a good old age and give 
 offence to nobody ; but a wife, without a heart 
 to bestow upon her husband, is a cheat and an 
 impostor. 
 
 Hen. Oh ! cruel, cruel fortune, why was it my 
 lot to be the son of a gamester ? 
 
 Emily. Rather say why was it not my lot to 
 be the heiress of Penruddock, instead of that 
 old fusty philosopher, who, when he and the 
 spiders have stood centinels over his coffers, till 
 watching and fasting have worn him to a ske- 
 leton, will sink into the grave, and leave his 
 wealth to be bestow'd in premiums for discove- 
 ries in the moon. 
 
 Hen. Come, come, take care how you fall 
 into the same trap as I did : we must suspend 
 opinions of Penruddock. 
 
 Emily. Must we ? Nay, now I swear there's 
 something in your thoughts ; aye, and my father 
 too looks wise and whispers : well, if you have 
 a secret, and won't tell it me, be it at your pe- 
 ril ! I'll keep mine as close as you keep yours. 
 
 Hen. ril compromise with you, and exchange 
 confessions. — Answer me this. If Fortune should 
 turn round and smile upon your poor disconso- 
 late admirer, will you, who sway each move- 
 ment of my heart, inspire its hopes, allay its 
 fears, animate its ambition, and engross its love ? 
 —Will you, Oh Emily— 
 
 Emily. Will I do what ? 
 
 Hen. I dare not ask the question — 'tis pre- 
 sumptuous, base, dishonourable — 
 
 Emily. And very disappointing, let me tell 
 
WHEEL OF FORTUNE. 85 
 
 you, to one whose answer was so ready. — 
 Henceforth I've done with you; I shall now 
 retreat into the citadel and stand upon my de- 
 fences : when you want another parley, you 
 must treat with the Governor. [Exeunt, l.h. 
 
 KND OF ACT IV. 
 
 ACT V. 
 SCENE l.^Jl Chamber. 
 
 Penruddock, l.h. Weazel, r.h. discovered. 
 
 Pen. Thus then it stands — This house, and 
 all that its voluptuous owner had amass'd within 
 it, we doom to instant sale ; some modern Lu- 
 cullus will be found to purchase it : the mour- 
 ners in black, and the mountebanks in their par- 
 ty-coloured jacket?, must be paid their wages 
 and dismiss'd. — So far we are agreed. 
 
 Wea. Perfectly, sir; and if any young heir is 
 in haste to be rid of his estate, these are the 
 gentlemen that will soonest help him to the end 
 of it. 
 
 Pen. Mrs. Woodville's settlement, which in 
 her husband's desperate necessity she had as 
 desperately resign'd to him, is now made over, 
 and secured in trust to her sole use and benefit. 
 
 Wea. The deed is now in hand, and a deed 
 it is, permit me to say, that will make your fame 
 resound to all posteritv. 
 8 * 
 
86 WHEEL OF FORTUNE. 
 
 Pen. Thank Heaven, I shall not hear it ! The 
 fame I covet blows no trumpet in my ears ; it 
 whispers peace and comfort to my heart. — The 
 obligations, bonds, and mortgages, of whatever 
 description, covering the whole of Woodville's 
 property, are consign'd to Henry his son. 
 
 Wea. They are, and give him clear posses- 
 sion of his paternal estate. 
 
 PeTi. 'Tis what I mean, and also of the house 
 in town. 
 
 Wea. They are effectual to both purposes ; 
 and take it how you will, good sir, I must and 
 will pronounce it a most noble benefaction. 
 
 Pen. In this particular I'll not decline your 
 praise ; for doing this I've struggled hard 
 against an evil spirit that had seiz'd dominion of 
 my heart, and triumph'd over my benevolence — 
 this conquest I may glory in. 
 
 Wea. There yet remains, of solid and origi- 
 nal estate, possessions to a great amount. 
 
 Pen. Them I shall husband as untainted 
 stock : 1 do not cut into the heart of the tree, 1 
 only lop off the excrescences and funguses, that 
 weakened and disgrac'd it. Now, sir, if these 
 points are clearly understood by you, and no 
 difficulties occur that require explanation, we 
 will separate, with your leave, to our respec- 
 tive occupations. 
 
 Wea. Your pardon for one moment — My pro- 
 fession is the law : It has been my lot to execute 
 many honourable and benevolent commissions ; 
 some, I confess, have fallen into my hands, that 
 have put my conscience to a little strain, though 
 
WHEEL OF FORTUNE. 87 
 
 a man of my sort must not start at trifles ; but 
 the instructions you have now honoured me with 
 exceed all I have ever handled, all I have heard 
 of; and when this charitable deed shall come to 
 be register'd in the Upper Court, I hope my 
 name as witness will go along with it ; and if 
 the joy with which I signM it be remember'd in 
 my favour, I fancy few attornies will stand a 
 better chance than Timothy Weazel. [Exit^ r.h. 
 Pen. 'Tis done ! the last bad passion in my 
 breast is now expell'd, and it no longer rankles 
 with revenge : in the retirement of my cottage 
 I shall have something in store, on which my 
 thoughts may feed with pleasing retrospection : 
 courted by affluence, I resort to solitude by 
 choice, not fly to it for refuge from misfortune 
 and disgust. Now I can say, as I contemplate 
 Nature's bold and frowning face — " Knit not 
 your brows at me; I've done the world no wrong." 
 — Or if I turn the moral page, conscious of hav- 
 ing triumph'd in my turn, I can reply to Plato, 
 — '^ I too am a philosopher." 
 
 Enter Jenkins, r.h. 
 
 Jen. Mrs. Woodville desires leave to wait 
 upon you. 
 
 Pen. Am I a Philosopher now? {Aside.) — Ad- 
 mit the lady. — [Exit Jenkins^ r.h.] — Where is 
 my boasted courage ? Oh ! that this task was 
 over. 
 
 Enter Mrs. Woodville, r.h. 
 
 Your servant, madam. 
 
88 WHEEL OF FORTUNE. 
 
 Mrs. W. If you are not as totally revers'd in 
 nature as you are rais'd in fortune, 1 shall not 
 repent of having hazarded a step so humbling to 
 my sex, so agonizing to my feelings ; for I am 
 sure it was not in your heart, when I partook of 
 it, to treat a guiltless woman with contempt, or 
 wreak unmanly vengeance on your worst of 
 enemies, when fallen at your feet- — Shall I pro- 
 ceed, or pause ? Give me the sign ; I urge you 
 not to answer. — Ah, sir ! you are greatly agitat- 
 ed. Let me retire. 
 
 Fen. Fray do not leave me. Did you know 
 what struggles I have surmounted, you would 
 say I perform wonders. — I could not write to 
 you, judge what it is to see you. 
 
 Mrs. W. I thought that these emotions had 
 subsided, and that solitude and study had made 
 you a philosopher. 
 
 Pen. Ah, madam! you see what a philosopher 
 I am. Arabella, you never knew me rightly. I 
 had a heart for friendship and for love ; I was 
 betray'd by one, and ruin'd in the other. 
 
 Mrs. W. You have been deeply injur'd, I must 
 own : I too have been to blame, but I was young 
 and credulous, and caught with glittering snares. 
 
 Pen. Aye, snares they have been : fatal ones, 
 alas! 
 
 Mrs. W. I have livM in dissipation, you in 
 calm retirement ; how peacefully your hours 
 have pass'd, how unquietly mine ! One only so- 
 lace cheer'd my sad heart — my Henry, my son. 
 
 Pen. I've seen him; I've conversed with him: 
 he spoke unguardedly, but disappointment sours 
 
WHEEL OF FORTUNE. 89 
 
 the mind ; he treated me unjustly — but he re- 
 sembles you, and I forgave him. 
 
 Mrs. W. If you are thus retentive of affection., 
 
 I must suppose you are no less so of resentment; 
 
 why then should I repeat my sorrows ? You 
 
 know them. 
 
 Pen. I know them ; I have felt them ; I have 
 
 redress'd them. 
 
 Mrs. W. Redress'd them ! What is it I hear ? 
 Pen. What I have done I have done ; 1 cannot 
 
 talk of benefits. 
 Mrs. W. Oh! sir- 
 Pen. Nor will I hear acknowledgments. You 
 
 would have sunk — I could not choose but save 
 
 you. 
 
 Enter Henry, r.h. 
 
 Hen. You must forgive me. Though your 
 servants were drawn up to oppose my entrance, 
 I broke through all their files, forc'd on by gra- 
 titude that nothing could withstand, till I beheld 
 my benefactor. 
 
 Pen. Not much of a benefactor ; I have only 
 restor'd to you what my conscience could not 
 keep. 
 
 Mrs. W. In the name of goodness, what is it 
 you have done? 
 
 Pen. Nothing, but wanted stomach for a ban- 
 quet where your son was serv'd up ; — in plainer 
 words, prefer'd my own cottage to his country 
 house : Henry wanted a wife, a wife wanted a 
 settlement, and 1 stood in need of neither. — I 
 hope you and Tempest are agreed. {To Hen.) 
 
90 WHEEL OF FORTUNE. 
 
 Hen. A word from your lawyer silenced all 
 objections. — If I have not felt the vicissitudes of 
 fortune, who has ? — from the depth of despair, 
 lifted on the instant to the summit of felicity.— 
 Oh ! my dear mother, help me to some words 
 that may express my gratitude. 
 
 Pen. No, no, she is mute by compromise : 
 when I am quietly retiring from the stage of this 
 vain world, call me not back to lose the little 
 grace that I have gain'd ; I would not be made 
 a spectacle in my decline and dotage. 
 
 Mrs. W. Will you again sequester yourself, 
 and renounce the society even of your most 
 grateful friends ? 
 
 Pen. Madam, I have yet perused but half the 
 history of man ; the pages are alternate, dark, 
 and bright ; I have read the former only : let 
 Henry's virtues stand the test, and I have all 
 the pleasurable study still to come. 
 
 Hen. But how shall I abide the trial, if you 
 only furnish the temptation, and withhold the 
 precept that should teach me to resist it? What 
 if my virtue be hard press'd ; where but to your 
 cottage should 1 resort for armour to defend it ? 
 
 Pen. What can you want of me? Go to your 
 mother, drink at the fountain's head ; look back 
 upon your father, mark how the stream is sul- 
 lied. Thus arm'd on each hand, I may say to 
 you, in the words of Cato — 
 
 Your bane and antidote are both before you. 
 
 Enter Tempest and Emily, r.h. 
 Tern. I have broke through all forms, worthy 
 
WHEEL OF FORTUNE. 91 
 
 sir, in bringing you a saucy girl, who will fancy 
 she is privileg'd to pay her court to every gen- 
 erous character, that does honour to humanity, 
 and is bountiful to her friends. 
 
 Pen. I confess to you, Mr. Tempest, I was 
 ambitious to behold your fair daughter, but did 
 not presume to expect the visit should spring 
 with her. — I hope, madam, there is something 
 here present more amusing to your eye-sight 
 than a crabbed old clown, who happens to have 
 a little more kindness at his heart than he car- 
 ries in his countenace. 
 
 Emily. True generosity is above grimace ; it 
 is not always^ that the eye which pities is ac- 
 companied by the hand that bestows : some there 
 are, who can smile without friendship, and weep 
 without charity. 
 
 Pen. Certainly the world is a great polisher ; 
 it makes smooth faces and slippery friendships. 
 — Are you, may I ask, very fond of this fine 
 town ? 
 
 Emily. My father lives in it ; I should be loth 
 to say i had a preference for any other. 
 
 Pen. 1 suppose, Mr. Tempest, you are one of 
 the vainest men in England. 
 
 Tern. One of the happiest I am, and of your 
 making; for Henry Woodville ever had my 
 warmest wishes. 
 
 Pen. And 1 hope your lovely daughter meets 
 those wishes with all dutiful compUance ? 
 
 Tern. With the best grace in life ; she does 
 not object to take the man of her heart, though 
 I wish to join their hands. 
 
92 WHEEL OF FORTUNE. 
 
 Mrs. W. Now, my Henry, you are without 
 comparison the happiest, or without pity the 
 most miserable of mankind ; here if you fail in 
 merit, you offend beyond the reach of mercy. 
 
 Pen. True, madam ; but the sons of Cornelia 
 did not disgrace their mother. 
 
 Tern. There again! that's something out of a 
 book, like Emily's Agamemnon, and if it were 
 treason 1 could not find it out. — But come, Hen- 
 ry ! here, in the presence of your benefactor, I 
 bestow upon you all I am worth — a virtuous 
 daughter, the only joy and blessing of my Hfe : 
 money I have none, for I did not understand the 
 arts of government ; and when Emily is gone 
 from me, I am without resources ; for I cannot, 
 like Mr. Penruddock, take shelter with the 
 sciences ; and as for the arts, damn me if I believe 
 I have genius enough to aspire to the composi- 
 tion of a cabbage-net. 
 
 Emily. Oh ! my dear father, let me conjure 
 you to believe that these resources which my 
 duty, my affection have hitherto supplied, shall 
 be doubled to you in future, when I find so kind 
 a partner in that pleasing task. 
 
 Hen. When you are not welcome to me, I 
 must cease to be worthy of my Emily — If books 
 do not serve for a resource, and ancient history 
 is too remote, we can find heroes in modern 
 times and you shall fight over your battles as 
 often as you please. 
 
 Tern. That is very pleasant, I confess, for 
 there I can come on a little : Ijut then I grow 
 warm with the subject, and Emily snubs me for 
 
WHEEL OF FORTUNE. 93 
 
 swearing; which you know, Mr. Penruddock, 
 every soldier is privileg'd to do. 
 
 Pen. I did not know it was amongst their pri- 
 vileges ; but this I know, they cannot, in my 
 opinion, have too many ; and heartily I wish 
 they had more and better than what you have 
 nam'd. 
 
 Enter Sydenham, r.h. 
 
 Syd. I must either have the impudence of the 
 devil, or a veneration for your character, Mr. 
 Penruddock, which apologizes for impudence, 
 when I venture to appear in your presence, after 
 what I foolishly said to you in our late conver- 
 sation. 
 
 Pen. Mr. Sydenham, I cannot allow you to 
 call that language foolish, which springs from a 
 heart that runs over with benevolence : as well 
 may you blaspheme the bounty of the Nile, be- 
 cause it breaks loose from its channel, and over- 
 flows its banks. 
 
 Syd. Thank you, my dear sir, thank you 
 heartily ; I have been as sour as crab-juice with 
 the malice of mankind, now I am all oil and 
 honey, and shall slip through the rest of my days 
 in harmony and good humour. — Ah ! Henry — 
 Tempest — Emily — Mrs, Woodville — all smiling ! 
 — Why I am like the man in the almanack, 
 turn which way I will, a happy constellation looks 
 me in the face. 
 
 Pen. Now you have join'd us, our circle is 
 complete. 
 
 9 
 
94 WHEEL OF FORTUNE. 
 
 Syd. Ah ! no, no, no ; whilst contrition asks ad- 
 mittance to atone for injuries, humanity can 
 never shut its door, and say, My circle is com- 
 plete. {Aside to Pen.) 
 
 Pen. What do you mean ? 
 
 Syd. Woodville is in your house. 
 
 {Aside to Penruddock.) 
 
 Pen. Hah ! Woodville ! have you brought him 
 hither? {Aside.) 
 
 Syd. No ; we call'd at Tempest's, heard of 
 your generous acts, and his poor wounded heart 
 now melts with gratitude. Even my flint was 
 soften'd. 
 
 Pen. Well then, it shall be so — keep this com- 
 pany together in my absence — such meetings 
 should be private. [Exit^ r.h.d. 
 
 Mrs. W. Oh ! Sydenham, generous friend ! I 
 heard the name of Woodville, and 1 know your 
 intercession points at him. Heaven prosper it! 
 But can it be ? I doubt, i doubt this injury is too 
 deep. 
 
 Syd. Doubt nothing. I am confident of suc- 
 cess — when the ice thaws, the river flows ; so is 
 it with the human charities, when melted by 
 benevolence. 
 
 Hen. Oh ! what a soul is thine ! whose ar- 
 dour even impossibilities can't check. 
 
 Emily. The attempt is bold ; but mark if this 
 is not amongst the impossibilities that sometimes 
 come to pass. 
 
 Hen, Look, look ! your angry lover— 
 
WHEEL OF FORTUNE. 9^5 
 
 Enter Sir David Daw, r.h. 
 
 Emily. Alas ! has this poor gentleman no friend 
 to save him from exposing himself? 
 
 Syd. The Governor begins to bristle — walk 
 aside, take no notice, and I'll accost him. — Now, 
 my brave knight ! 
 
 Why glows that angry spot upon your cheek ? 
 
 What do those boots portend ; and whither bound? 
 
 Sir D. Mr. Sydenham, I am just now in no 
 humour for jesting ; neither does my business 
 lie with you. 
 
 Tern. With me then — what would my noble 
 baronet be pleas'd to say ? [Crosses to r.h.) 
 
 Sir D. I'm not pleas'd at all, Governor Tem- 
 pest, and therefore it matters little what I say : 
 I call'd at your door, and was directed to you 
 hither, so I made free to step in ; and now, to 
 say truth, I don't care how soon 1 step out, for 
 my chaise is in waiting, and I am equipped as 
 you see, for my peremptory departure. 
 
 Tern. Let us part friends, however : if you 
 can charge me fairly, do so ! I'll not flinch. 
 
 Sir D. No, but you'll fly out, and that's worse. 
 
 Tern. Not I: carry no grievances with you 
 into Wales ; I'll be calm as water, say what you 
 will. 
 
 Sir D. Oh ! then I can say enough. — Did you 
 not consent to my proposing for your daughter ? 
 
 Tern. Why I did consent, 1 don't deny it ; and 
 if Emily had not objected to your proposals, I 
 should not have quarrell'd with your property ; 
 
96 WHEEL OF FORTUNE. 
 
 but I'm not such a Blue beard to deliver my 
 daughter bound bands and feet into your castle. 
 If you had not the gift of recommending your- 
 self, am I to blame for that? 
 
 Sir D. Am I ? Miss Emily can witness I took 
 due pains. 
 
 Emily. Oh ! yes ; and let not my obstinacy 
 discourage you, for be assur'd that half those 
 pains, bestow'd upon a heart less constant to its 
 first attachment, and more regardful of its world- 
 ly interests, will command success, whenever 
 you think fit to repeat the experiment. 
 
 Tern. There — there — what more is to be 
 said ? — ^you see how the case stands : I had no 
 absolute controul over my daughter's affections, 
 and somebody else had. 
 
 Sir D. Well, sir, I understand you now ; and 
 if you are only Governor abroad, and not at 
 home, I am your very humble servant. 
 
 \^Exit^ R.H. 
 
 Tern. Well — your humble servant, if you 
 
 come to that ; and a good journey to you — aye, 
 
 and a good riddance to boot. Isn't it so, my 
 
 Emily ? What does that David think 
 
 " I wear my heart upon my sleeve. 
 
 For Daws to peck at ?" {Crosses to l.h.) 
 
 Enter Penruddock, followed by Woodville, r.h.d. 
 
 Pen. [Crosses to Mrs. W.) Mrs. Woodville, 
 your husband and I have concurr'd in opinion 
 that the only way of adjusting such differences 
 
WHEEL OF FORTUNE. 97 
 
 as subsisted between us, is by consigning them at 
 once to oblivion, trusting that jou and Henry 
 will also do the same by those errors, which 
 now are fortunately heal'd, and can never be 
 repeated. (Puts her over to Wood.") 
 
 Wood. Humbled as I am in conscience, and 
 overwhelm'd by generosity, I am ill able to find 
 words for what, in circumstances like mine, I 
 ought to say to each here present in particular, 
 and all in general. Wherever 1 direct my eyes, 
 they are saluted with a countenance, which, tho' 
 entitled to reproach me, seems to hold forth 
 promises of pardon : but perhaps, even from 
 guilt like mine, some good may be extracted^ 
 and my son, when he shall be blest with a wife, 
 lovely and virtuous as his mother, will recollect 
 the follies of his father, and avoid his fate. 
 
 Pen. Here we conclude. — We all have cause 
 of thankfulness, but I the most ; for I've escaped 
 the perils of prosperity : the sudden onset stag- 
 ger'd me : but temperate recollection, and the 
 warning calls of some here present, taught me 
 to know, that the true use of riches is to share 
 them with the worthy ; and the sole remedy for 
 injuries, to forgive them. 
 
98 
 
 WHEEL OF FORTUNE. 
 
 Disposition of the Characters when the Curtain falls. 
 
 EMii^r, 
 
 ^^j^, 
 
 H.H. 
 
 CURTAIN. 
 
 L.H. 
 
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 rranged in a style of novelty and excellence unknown to 
 
 nifold selections of a comparative nature by which this 
 
 as been preceded. Not to expatiate upon the glaring 
 
 of inadvertence or design, by which the best works of 
 
 id are degraded, the present attempt to correct mistake, 
 
 ,e redundancy, and supply omission, will be coupled with 
 
 matures of utility as it is, perhaps, in the power of ijs 
 
NEW ENGLISH DRAMA. I 
 
 I 
 
 ostensible Editor alone to afibrd. The theatrical reader will at| 
 once be enabled to appreciate the magnitude and importance of; 
 tills plan, by a disclosiue of those points upon which the pub- ( 
 lishcrs, with most respectful firmness, have founded their claimsl 
 
 to support. 
 
 / 
 
 ' <* Every Play, Farce, Melo-dramc, or Opera, will be printed^ 
 from its respective official copy. The exact time that each act; 
 takes in representation will be correctly stated. Parties who 
 wish to leave the Theatre at the end of the play may thus order 
 their carriages to an exact hour. 
 
 " The sides of entrance and exit will be careially noled; and 
 the Stagepj^ot, or disposition of the characlrfers, given, upoijt 
 every change, in a form of perfect originality, and luminous?; 
 information. Such an addendum must prove of incomparable';; 
 value to provincial performers, by whom the business of the;D 
 scene is at all times a matter of laborious attainment, anrl can ; 
 thus alone be rendered an object of easy, and authentic acqui- ' 
 sition. ] 
 
 <' Obscure passages in the earliest Poets will be clearly ex- ' 
 plained, the predominant Costume correctly described, and a 
 critical Estimate affixed to every Production, of its literary and 
 dramatic pretensions. 
 
 "The Supcrmtendence of this publication will be assumed 
 by W. OXBERRY, of the TJieatre Royal^ Drury Lane, assist- 
 ed, in the editorial department, by public Writers of acute ob- 
 servation, and erudite research. Under such auspices, the 
 New English Drama will be fully entitled, it is hoped, to that 
 Approbation and Encouragement, which no endeavour or ex- 
 pense shall be spared to procure and enlarge." 
 
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 Neutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide 
 Treatment Date: March 2009 
 
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