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 Yv'hers to Find a Prisnd 
 Comedy in Five Acts 
 
 By 
 Richard Leigh
 
 WHERE TO FIND A FRIEND. 
 
 COMEDY— IN F/FE AC^. 
 
 RICHARD J.EIGH, ESQ. 
 
 AS IT IS PERFORMED AT 
 
 Cfte Cfteatre Eopal, Drutp iLane* 
 
 SECOND EDITION. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 PRINTED FOR WHITTINGHAM AND ARLISS, 
 PitTERNOSTER ROW. 
 
 1816. " 
 
 ' ' Price Three Sliimngs.''!F^''' '^^^"^
 
 Whittin^Brham and Rowland, Printers, Goswell Street, Londaru.
 
 09 
 
 a. 
 
 CJ3 
 
 Q 
 
 9R- 
 16 1 G 
 
 TO 
 
 MR. DOWTON. 
 
 MY DEAR SIR, 
 
 For the perseverance of your 
 friendly zeal, which procured this Comedy to 
 be introduced on the Stage, and for the dis- 
 play of your powerful talents (never surpassed 
 by those of any other performer), accept the 
 sincere thanks of one who cannot be more gra- 
 tified than by having the privilege of sub- 
 scribing himself, 
 
 Your Friend, 
 
 RICHARD LEIGH. 
 
 Bex LEY, 
 Nov. 27, 1815. 
 
 1^ , \;fs).^^ I
 
 MO'v in: 
 
 nH'f lo H*j{i;n 

 
 THE IRISH DUEL, 
 
 BY 
 
 MR. T. DIBDIN. 
 
 SUNG BY MR. JOHNSON, 
 
 AT THE END OF THE THIRD ACT. 
 
 N.B. The Song, as sung at theTheatre, begins at the Second Verse. 
 
 Potatoes grow in Limerick, and beef at Ballyraore, 
 And buttermilk is beautiful, but that you knew before ; 
 And Irishmen love pretty girls, yet none could love more true 
 Than little Paddy Whackmackcrack loved Kate O'Donohoo. 
 
 With his fal de ral, &c. 
 
 Now Katty was as neat a lass as ever tripp'd the sod. 
 And Paddy bore with equal grace a musquet or a hod; 
 With trowel and with baganet, by turns, the hero chose 
 To build up houses for his friends, and then to charge his foes. 
 
 With his fal de ral, &c. 
 
 When gentlepeople fall in love, Love s never at a loss 
 To find some ugly customers their happiness to cross ; 
 And Paddy found no little trouble from a rival swain 
 Who kept the Cat and Cowcumber in Cauliflower Lane. 
 
 With his fal de ral, &c. 
 
 This youth was named Mackirkincroft, a very dapper elf. 
 Whose clothes they fitted neatly, for he made them all himself: 
 A tailor blade he was by trade, of natty boys the broth. 
 Because he always cut his coat according to his cloth. 
 
 With his fal de ral, &c.
 
 But Paddy knew the feelings of a gentleman it hurts. 
 
 To find another ungenteely sticking in his skirts ; 
 
 So sent a challenge, without fear ; for though he wasn't rich, 
 
 He call'd himself a gentleman, and still behaved as slch. 
 
 With his fal de ral, &c, 
 
 Mackirkey too, good manners knew, for he, as it appears, 
 To Paddy wrote for leave, that he might cut off both his ears ; 
 Says Pat to that in style polite, as well you may suppose. 
 My ears you're very welcome to, but first I'll pull your nose. 
 
 With his fal de ral, &cc. 
 
 The when and where was settled fair, when Pat, as bold as brass^ 
 Cried i/ou know what we fight about, Mackirkey cried alas ! 
 And then in haste, and not to waste such very precious time. 
 One primed without a loading, t'other loaded without prime. 
 
 With his fal de ral, &c. 
 
 Then back to back they stood, good lack ! to measure yards a 
 
 score, 
 Mackirkincroft such honest measure never gave before ; 
 He walk'd so light, that out of sight full fairly he was seen, 
 And Paddy shot a finger-post some half a mile between. 
 
 With his fal de ral, &c. 
 
 Now Pat and Kat soon after that in wedlock's bands were 
 
 join'd, 
 Mackirkey he kept walking on and never look'd behind ; 
 And till this day, his ghost, they say, for he of love expir'd, 
 Keeps walking round the finger-post at which bold Paddy fir'd. 
 
 With his fal de ral, &c. 
 
 The Music to the above Song is published by Messrs. 
 Button, Whitaker, and Beadnell., St. Paul's 
 Church Yard.
 
 PROLOGUE, 
 
 Written by Mr. Rae, and spoken by Mr. Powell. 
 
 In days of yore, a sage, the story ran, 
 Went grumbling forth to find an honest man ; 
 With lantern glimmering in the open day 
 The cross old Cynic purblind pok'd his way ; 
 With jaundic'd eye his fellow man survey'd. 
 And swore that honesty from earth had fled : 
 To what, you'll say, does this allusion tend ? 
 To this; — I'm puzzled Where to find a Friend; 
 To you I bow, grave censors of the stage. 
 We prize your plaudits, and we dread your rage ; 
 To you, who hold the scales of praise and blame. 
 The critics here peculiar homage claim ; 
 If on our Play this night your brows you bend, 
 Where shall an Author hope to find a Friend ? 
 Dread is the task in this enlighten'd age, 
 To face the terrors of the scenic Stage ; 
 To dare the gaze of England's classic mind, 
 Endow'd with judgment, and with taste refin'd ; 
 Anxious our Author comes, with fear opprest, 
 Tumultuous feelings agitate his breast ; 
 He sees the sphere where Shakspeare's muise hath shone. 
 And, trembling, shrinks to plunge the Rubicon : 
 Illusion all ! for here indulgence reigns, 
 Sheds her enchanting beams, and here her throne 
 maintains. 
 Friends to this ground ! to all I now appeal ; 
 To British minds, Avhich ever kindly feel. 
 Your smiles can all our apprehensions end, 
 On this occasion prove the Author's friend ; 
 Grant him the Olive, if denied the bays, 
 And yield him, " pardon, where you cannot praise." 
 b2
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONM. 
 
 Sir Harry Morden Mr. Wallack. 
 
 General Torrington Mr. Bartley. 
 
 Heartly Mr. Dowton. 
 
 Jack Bustle Mr, Knight. 
 
 Bamy Mr. Johnstone. 
 
 Timothy Scamp Mr. Oxberry. 
 
 Servant to General Mr. Ebsworth. 
 
 Servant to Sir Harry Mr. Coveney. 
 
 Lady Morden Mrs. Davison. 
 
 Maria Miss Kelly. 
 
 Mrs. Bustle Mrs. Sparks. 
 
 Susan Mrs. Scott.
 
 WHERE TO FIND A FRIEND. 
 
 ACT L— Scene I. 
 
 The Tap Room of a Country Inn. 
 Enter Mrs. Bustle. 
 
 Mrs. Bustle. 
 
 Jack, Barny, Susan, Jack Bustle! mercy on 
 me, was ever poor forlorn widow plagued as I 
 am ? where are all my people ? 
 
 Enter Susan, running. 
 
 Susan. Here, here, ma'am, did you call ? 
 
 Mrs. B. Call ! grant me patience, wench, where 
 have you got to } if my back is turned out for a 
 minute, off you are gadding, and customers may 
 go away without being served. 
 
 Susan. I am sure, madam, I was not gadding, 
 I only stepped up stairs to the young lady who 
 came here last night in the stage coach. 
 
 Afr^. 2^. Stage coach indeed, a pretty way of 
 ^travelling for young ladies, and a pretty lady, by 
 my truly ! go to bed without supper ! Keep 
 such customers from the Black Lion, say I.
 
 10 
 
 Susa?i. I'faith, mistress, I fancy you are right, 
 
 for when I offered to undress her, she said she 
 
 would not give me the trouble, and was so mild, 
 
 and so civil, I thought she could not be much of 
 
 a lady by that. And would you think it, when I 
 
 left the room I peeped through the key-hole, and 
 
 there I saw her on her knees, crying for dear life ! 
 
 Mrs. B. No doubt such creatures have enough 
 
 to repent of j but mind, Susan, when she comes 
 
 down, don't shew her into the parlour, let her 
 
 have her breakfast here in the tap-room, though 
 
 perhaps she may choose to go on in the stage 
 
 without any J and be sure Jack Bustle don't 
 
 serve her with liquor without having the money 
 
 first. 
 
 Susa?i. There's no danger of that, for master 
 Jack is'nt up yet. 
 
 Mrs. B. Not up, ecods my life, was ever 
 woman so plagued with a good for nothing boy ! 
 Well, girl, be stirring, the Leeds coach will soon 
 be here, and do you be ready to serve the pas- 
 sengers ; remember we have any thing they want, 
 if the ladies call for a glass of cinnamon or ratafie, 
 don't blunder and say we have none in the house j 
 carry them brandy, if they find it out, say its a 
 mistake, and I warrant they'll be perfectly satis- 
 fied : (Exit Susan.) nothing's done in our business 
 without a little contrivance. AVhy, Jack, Jack 
 Bustle, was ever such an ungracious varlet ! and
 
 11 
 
 to such a mother, wlio never encouraged him in 
 idleness or extravagance ; but gave him an excel- 
 lent education at the parish expense, in our cha- 
 rity school, then sent him to London to a fashion- 
 able tavern to learn his business : and what's the 
 good of it ? he's uncivil to my customers, he 
 spends his nights in riot, and lies in bed all day. 
 Ah ! my poor husband, my poor Jerry Bustle, now 
 I grow old. I find the miss of you ; whilst you was 
 living, I thought I could do as well without you, 
 and when I followed you to your grave, little did 
 I expect to shed so many tears on your account. 
 Why, Jack, Jack Bustle. (Jack Bustle ivithout.) 
 Hallo ! 
 
 Mrs. B. Oh ! here comes the undutiful varlet 
 
 Enter Jack. 
 
 Jack. Here, mother, what do you bawl so for ? 
 
 AIj^s. B. Bawl so, its enough to make a body 
 bawl, when you are wasting half your time in 
 bed ; did not I send you to London to learn the 
 business of a waiter, and what have you learned ? 
 idleness, impudence. 
 
 Jack. Yes, mother, that's what most London 
 waiters learn. 
 
 Mrs. J5. Why, you villain, you'll drive all my 
 company away, the best frequented inn in the 
 town, and such civil quiet customers. 
 
 Jack. And let them go, who ever got anything
 
 12 
 
 by civil quiet customers ? No, no, mother ! you 
 know better than that, its your open hearted dis- 
 satisfied gentry are our best guests, and when they 
 abuse the dinner at every mouthful, find fault with 
 the wine, and damn the attendance, that's a good 
 twenty per cent to the bill, and an additional half 
 crown for the waiter. * 
 
 Mrs. B. To be sure, and for your roistering 
 swearing chaps, if a body does overcharge them a 
 httle, its no more than must be expected in a 
 house that pays any regard to its morals. 
 
 Jack. And your's is certainly the most moral 
 public house in the country ; for the quality of 
 your wine promotes sobriety, your cookery makes 
 temperance a necessary virtue, and you lay a 
 heavy fine on your guests for profane cursing and 
 swearing. 
 
 Mrs. B. My cookery, puppy ! 
 
 Jack. Why, you know at the last dinner the 
 company complained you half poisoned them ; to 
 be sure they were the churchwardens and over- 
 seers, and had you done it effectually the poor 
 would not have been the worse provided for. 
 
 Mrs. B. Ah, you let your silly tongue run so, 
 you'll never learn the art of managing a public 
 house. 
 
 Jack, Yes I shall, it lies in a nutshell, draw pints, 
 score pots, froth the beer, lower the spirits, and 
 trick the exciseman.
 
 IS 
 
 Enter Susan tvith Breakfast Things, which she 
 sets down. 
 
 Susan. Things for the young lady's breakfast. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Jack. A young lady, who is she ? 
 
 M7's. <B. Who is she ! a pretty lady by my 
 truly. 
 
 Jack. I'm glad of that — I'll wait on her myself, 
 I like to wait on pretty ladies. 
 
 Mrs. B. Do you, you save yourself that trouble. 
 
 Jack. Where did she lodge? 
 
 Mrs. B. Lodge ! in the Rising Sun to be sure. 
 
 Jack. The Rising Sun ! mercy on me ! the 
 worst room in the house. Oh ! mother, mother ! 
 
 Mrs. B. And good enough for such trumpery j 
 but you, I suppose, would have put her in the 
 best bed, and treated her with all respect, when 
 'tis probable she may be a guilty one. 
 
 Jack. And if she was, I would not treat her 
 with harshness, nor with disrespect, when 'tis 
 possible she may be an innocent one. 
 
 Mrs. B. What! retire and lock herself up, cry- 
 ing in her chamber; ah, I hate to be uncharitable 
 in my opinions, but I never knew one of those 
 snivelling creatures better than she should be — 
 she may think to blind people with her tears and 
 her meekness, but it wont do with me, she'll find 
 I am pretty clear sighted.
 
 14 
 
 Jack, No doubt you are, except mother when 
 you reckon up the beer chalks, and then you 
 know you are very apt to see double. 
 
 Mrs. B. Me, sirrah ! that was never found out 
 in such a things no, rogue, I'd have you to know 
 1 have a conscience. 
 
 Jack. Have you ? I never yet found it out. 
 
 (Aside.) 
 
 Mrs. B. Oh ! here she comes. 
 
 Enter Maria. 
 
 Jack. An angel by this light ! 
 
 Maria. Good morning to you, madam ; I be- 
 lieve 'tis Mrs. Bustle — the late hour at which I ar- 
 rived, and the fatigue of a long journey, unfitted 
 me for society — 
 
 Jack. Yes, miss, and my mother was just ex- 
 pressing her fears that our accommodation may 
 not have given satisfaction to so charming a lady. 
 
 Mrs. B. f Aside to Jack.) Hold your tongue, 
 whelp, your mother was afraid of no such thing. 
 
 Maria. Of your accommodation I do not com- 
 plain, if better, it had little contributed to my re- 
 pose, if worse, perhaps more suited to my state; 
 once indeed — but of that no more, for poverty levels 
 all distinctions, and 'tis fit the mind should be as- 
 similated to the fortune. 
 
 Mrs. B. There — poverty ! did you hear that, 
 puppy ? but I see you have got your things on
 
 15 
 
 ready to pack off again, and certainly home is 
 the properest place for poor people ; but you need 
 not have been in such a hurry, the stage will not 
 be here these three hours. 
 
 Maria. Indeed it was not that, but long im- 
 mured in confined lodgings in the capital, I was 
 eager to seize the opportunity this fine morning 
 presented, to try if the malady of my mind would 
 at all yield to the exhilarating freshness of the 
 country air. 
 
 Mrs. B. Air ! indeed, air's a very unwhole- 
 some thing; surely, young woman, you would not 
 live upon air — I should think after so long a fast 
 you'd be glad of some refreshment, and here I 
 have had your breakfast set ready. 
 
 Maria. What here — this room is very public — 
 if there was any other where 1 could be free from 
 interruption. 
 
 Jack. Yes, miss, we have a nice neat parlour, 
 where you can be quite private, and Susan, she 
 shall take the things there directly. 
 
 Mrs. B. And why in the parlour, surely, young 
 woman, you must be very difficult if this room is 
 not good enough, the best company often sit here, 
 not a topping tradesman in the village thinks much 
 of smoking his pipe in it. 
 
 Maria. Yet a female — a stranger might surely 
 wish to avoid such public observation, and could [
 
 16 
 
 be indulged j for the trouble I occasion, your own 
 terms shall be cheerfully complied with. 
 
 Mrs. B. Indeed J well, you speak reasonably 
 there — 
 
 Maria. Then for your security on this head, 
 and thinking it may be safer in your custody than 
 my own, to your care I commit this Pocket Book, 
 containing notes of the value of one hundred 
 pounds. 
 
 Jack. (Aside.) One hundred pounds ! mercy 
 on me ! what a sop for the old dragon. Susan ! 
 
 Enter Susan. 
 
 I suppose, mother, she may take the things into 
 the parlour now ? 
 
 Mrs. B. Oh! if the lady wishes it, take the 
 things there by all means. [Exit Susan. 
 
 Mrs. B. Widow Bustle was always noted for 
 her readiness to give satisfaction to her guests, 
 and nothing can be too good for a lady like this, 
 who would not suffer a poor body to lose by her; 
 and who, I am sure, is a person of character. 
 
 Jack. There can be no doubt of that, her cha- 
 racter is in your hands. 
 
 Mrs. B. Now I know the lady I shall treat her 
 accordingly ; but one should be cautious with 
 strangers; a poor widow like me, who have no- 
 thing but the character of her house to depend on ;
 
 17 
 
 and I dare say the lady herself will think the better 
 of me for my scruples. 
 
 Maria, Indeed I do; she who really loves 
 virtue will reverence even its errors, and though 
 awhile the object of unjust suspicion, must still 
 respect the caution which flows from an unwil- 
 lingness to commence with the vicious. 
 
 Mrs. B. Why there ! the lady sees it all in its 
 true light, and if there's any thing she wishes she 
 has only to say the word, and it shall be done. 
 
 Maria. I have a letter 1 wish should be de- 
 livered to Lady Morden ; she lives, I think, near 
 this village. 
 
 Jack. About two miles, and Barny, our ostler, 
 shall step with it directly. 
 
 Mrs. B. Aye, that he v/ill, and you won't find 
 a handier lad ; there is not one in this house gives 
 more satisfaction, or is a greater favourite with all 
 companies than my Barny; I'll find him directly 
 for you. Hoo, Barny ! Barny ! [Exit calling. 
 
 Maria. And, when he comes, may I request 
 you will give him this letter for Lady Morden ? 
 (Aside.) Yet do I not presume too far? Alas! 
 'tis a last resource, which I trust her ladyship (and 
 I know her amiable) will excuse in one who has 
 hitherto been unaccustomed to solicit. I shall 
 return directly to breakfast. [Exit. 
 
 Jack. What a lovely creature ! there is some-
 
 18 
 
 thing very interesting in her appearance. Rut 
 here comes Barn -v. 
 
 Enter Barny. 
 
 Barny. Did you please to be axing for me, 
 Mr. Jack ? 
 
 Jack. Yes, Barny, you must do something for 
 me. 
 
 Barny. And think you I will deny you ? If 
 you want me to run on your errands, tell lies for 
 you to old Mother Bustle, or take part of a bowl 
 of punch or bottle of wine when she is gone to 
 bed, was Barny ever the ill-natured spallpeen to 
 say you no ? 
 
 Jack. Well, here is a letter you must take. 
 
 Barny. Faith and I will. 
 
 Jack. To Lady Morden ; you know your way 
 there ? 
 
 Barny. O be aisey 1 leave Barny alone for find- 
 ing his way there. I know the house well enough, 
 though I never yet was farther than the cellar ; 'tis 
 the way back always bothers me so. 
 
 Jack. Only be careful in delivering it, the young 
 lady seems particularly anxious about it. 
 
 Barny. Sure ! and is it not the sweet young 
 creature who came last night ? 
 
 Jack. The same • and if you do this well, you 
 don't know what your reward may be.
 
 19 
 
 Barny. Well, and rewards are mighty good 
 things J there's nothing like them to promote dis- 
 interested actions. 
 
 Jack. And yours perhaps no slight one, a smile 
 from the loveliest pair of eyes that ever shone. 
 
 Barny. You don't say so ! Eyes ! Och ! the 
 creatures ! I'd trot night and day, and ax for no 
 better postage j Eyes! I'll go — eyes! I hope, 
 Mr. Jack, its a double letter. I'll go spruce a 
 bit and be off. 
 
 Jack. Why sure, Barny, that dress may do to 
 carry a letter. 
 
 Barny. This dress ! oh, hubbaboo 1 And do you 
 suppose, now, that the butler to Sir Harry Mor- 
 den, or his gentleman out of livery, or any of his 
 gentlemen in livery, would like to drink a bottle 
 of his honour's wine with any body in such a 
 pickle ? Oh, fie upon you, Mr. Jack Bustle, is 
 
 that your London manners and be d d to 
 
 you ? [Exit. 
 
 Jack. Well, as you will, only don't stay long. 
 Now, then, to my daily task, superintending Mrs. 
 Bustle's accounts, and derive an admirable lesson 
 on the art of tliriving in this world. 
 
 {Sits down and writes.) 
 
 Enter General Torrington and Servant. 
 
 Gen. T. See the horses in the stable, then pro- 
 ceed to Morden Hall to inform Sir Harry of my
 
 so 
 
 arrival, and that I shall shortly be with him (Exit 
 Servant.) But as probably the fashionable hours 
 at Morden Hall will ill accord with the stomach 
 of an old campaigner after a long ride, 'twill be as 
 well to secure a breakfast here ; that is, if the 
 house will afford one, for certainly the appear- 
 ance promises little. Now is that puppy one of 
 the household ? if so, I can't say much for his at- 
 tention j however I'll try. Here, waiter! (Jack 
 looks at him, then continues writing.) Coming 
 directly! 
 
 Geji. T. Coming directly. Why, d — n you, you 
 rascal, is that your way of coming to a gentleman ? 
 
 Jack, (jumping up.) I beg ten thousand par- 
 dons; yes, sir, I am sure you're a gentleman. 
 What would your honour like to take ? we have 
 any thing. 
 
 Enter Mrs. Bustle. 
 
 Gen T. I would have some breakfast, and let 
 it be got ready directly. 
 
 Mrs. B. Oh yesj your honour, 'tis ready now : 
 this way, your honour, this way. 
 
 [Exit showing General Torr. 
 
 Jack. Now that was provided for the young 
 lady, another specimen of Mrs. Bustle's fairness. 
 Yet why should I feel so interested about her? 
 I certainly should like to know her name, and the 
 cause of her melancholy. But have a care, Mr.
 
 21 
 
 Jack Bustle ; — are you not trenching a little on 
 your honoured mother's part, who suffers no one's 
 concerns to escape her scrutiny? No ; I deny the 
 imputation. The curiosity that unnecessarily 
 pries into the distresses of the unfortunate may 
 be justly deemed reprehensible; yet surely it par- 
 takes of somewhat a better quality when the wish 
 to know proceeds only from an anxiety to relieve. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 SCENE 11. 
 
 A Parlour at the Black Lion. General Tor- 
 RiNGTON discovered at Breakfast, Mrs. Bustle 
 waiting. 
 
 Gen. T. Then Sir Harry Morden, since Iws 
 marriage, has not resided much on his estate in 
 this country ? 
 
 Mrs. B. He ; O no ! He never considers his 
 country neighbours. I am sure I may safely say, 
 not a sixpence of his ever crossed my hands. 
 
 Gen. T. From this I conclude Sir Harry is 
 no great favourite with his tenants and poorer 
 neighbours. 
 
 Mrs. B. Why how should he, when he never 
 notices them — never comes among them. Then, 
 when a lease expires, rack, rack, is the word ; and 
 all the fine oaks his worthy father was so proud 
 of, cut down, and the money hurried away to
 
 22 
 
 London; which, if spent here, would have glad- 
 dened the hearts of all the country. 
 
 Gen. T. His oaks! then I know hov/ it is with 
 him. 
 
 Mrs. B. Not that I take pleasure in such tittle 
 tattle; Widow Bustle was never suspected of 
 prying into the concerns of others ; but one can- 
 not always stop one's ears. 
 
 Gen. T. To do you justice, Mrs. Bustle, your 
 reluctance to hear can be equalled only by your 
 unwillingness to communicate. 
 
 Mrs. B. Aye, to be sure; your Honour found 
 out my character at once. 
 
 Gen. T. 'Twould be difficult to mistake it. 
 
 Mrs. B. Though for that matter, there are 
 those who think 'tis not altogether Sir Harry's 
 fault. 
 
 Gen. T. No ;— Who's then ? 
 
 Mrs. B. His Lady's, a haughty, fantastic, 
 London madam; who, they say, quite governs 
 poor Sir Harry. But, mayhap, as you came from 
 there, you may have seen her ? 
 
 Gen. T. I have been but little in London for 
 some years ; notwithstanding I have seen the 
 lady. 
 
 Mrs. B. An acquaintance, perhaps? 
 
 Gen. T. A very near relation. 
 
 Mrs. B. Your Honour's near relation! Well, 
 I am sure she always appeared to me like a free
 
 23 
 
 spoken, good kind of lady; bless her. How 1 
 detest such malicious devils ! 
 
 Enter Maria. 
 
 Maria. I did not know this room was occu- 
 pied ; — I beg pardon for my intrusion; — I will 
 retire. 
 
 Gen. T. Nay, young lady, I will not be the 
 occasion of your retiring ; an old soldier knows 
 better the respect due to the fair. What do I 
 see ! Maria Heartly ? 
 
 Maria. General Torrington ! — my father's va- 
 lued friend ! 
 
 Gen. T. My dear girl, to what do I owe this 
 unexpected pleasure? 
 
 Maria. I arrived last night, in the stage-coach, 
 from London. 
 
 Gen. T. Stage-coach ! What does this mean ? 
 Explain. (Maria luoks at Mrs. B. hesitatingly) 
 Oh, I understand. Good woman, you may leave 
 the room ; this lady and I must a little while be 
 private. 
 
 Mrs. B. (Aside) Be private, must you. I 
 should not have thought of such a thing. Good 
 woman, too. By my truly, to look at him, one 
 would suppose he might be safely trusted ; but 
 these old fellows are often the most dangerous 
 of all. [Exit Mrs. B. 
 
 Gen. T. And now we are alone, inform me 
 c 2
 
 24 
 
 why thus I meet you, the daughter of an opu- 
 lent tradesman, travelling in a stage-coach, the 
 inhabitant of a miserable inn. 
 
 Maria. Is it then possible that you are a 
 stranger to those occurrences that have banished 
 me a father's house j that have (I fear) for ever, 
 steeled against her a father's heart ? 
 
 Gen. T. Entirely so. I returned but last week 
 from my command in the West Indies, after a 
 three year's absence ; I did not, however, quit 
 London without enquiries after my old friend 
 Heartly, but was informed he had relinquished 
 business, and retired into the country on account 
 of some afflictions of a domestic nature. Is this 
 true, Maria? 
 
 Maria. Oh, yes, 'tis true — Alas! too true. — 
 'Twas the misconduct of a child. 
 
 Gen. T. Yours, Maria? — But I guess how it 
 is; the old story, love — love, no doubt. 
 
 Maria. Yes, General j in an evil hour, duty 
 vainly combating with inclination, I left my fa- 
 ther's house, trusting to the honour of one in 
 whom I was assured of finding a kind, a safe 
 protector. 
 
 Gen. T. And you were deceived ; 'tis generally 
 the case. Tell me the name of your betrayer. 
 
 Maria. Betrayer 1 O no ! — But hold ; for on 
 this subject I am restricted by promises solemnly, 
 though rashly, plighted. And O, my early, my
 
 25 
 
 revered friend, much as I need your comfort and 
 support, much as I dread your censure on my 
 conduct, still I must endure it, unless the kind- 
 ness you have ever shewn me induces you to 
 pause in condemnation, trusting hereafter she may 
 be found less criminal than unfortunate, and 
 though not void of error, unstained by guilt. 
 
 Gen. T. Maria, 1 have known you long, and 
 there is now that air of candour, that look so 
 like to innocence, that should he still be inex- 
 orable, remember, though deserted by your na- 
 tual protector, old Torrington, the friend of your 
 youth, has a heart to feel for you, a purse to re- 
 lieve, aye, and if necessary, a sword to avenge 
 you. Have you never seen your father ? 
 
 Maria. Rudely driven from his doors, by let- 
 ters I have sought to soften him ; now, after two 
 years of absence, have I come hither, in hopes 
 he may relent. 
 
 Gen. T. Perhaps my intercession, the recol- 
 lection of former services, may prove of some 
 avail. 
 
 Maria. Oh, Sir; — and will you, my story thus 
 involved in mystery, extend your pity, your pro- 
 tecting goodness? 
 
 Gen. T. My conduct may perhaps draw on me 
 the censure of the rigid moralists ; but I care 
 not ; an old soldier is generally less inclined to 
 follow the impulse of his head than of his heart,
 
 26 
 
 and perhaps 'tis as well sometimes to be led 
 astray by tiie feelings of the one, as always to be 
 restrained by the cold prudential caution of the 
 other. 
 
 Maria. My excellent, my revered friend! 
 
 Gen. T. I must now, child, leave you. — You 
 may soon expect me here again. — At present I 
 am obliged to pay a visit to Sir Harry Morden. 
 My last act, ere I left England, was bestowing 
 on him the hand of my niece, Harriet Falkner ; 
 and, on my return, I find letters filled with com- 
 plaints of her misconduct, and urging me to be 
 present at his determined separation. 
 
 Maria. Sir Harry Morden's! — ^you surprise 
 me. General! 
 
 Gen. T. What, that a man of fashion should 
 wish to separate from his wife? 
 
 Maria. I have just dispatched a letter to her 
 ladyship, requesting permission to wait on her. 
 My father much respected her. I thought her 
 intercession But at such a time — Her mis- 
 conduct, did you say? — Surely there can be no- 
 thing very serious. 
 
 Gen. T. Not unlikely, some mere trifle. Ah, 
 Maria! these divorces and separations are the 
 devil. Did every silly couple, who so readily 
 make a rash vow, believe they were really to live 
 together till death did them part, many inconsi- 
 derate marriages would be prevented ; but now
 
 27 
 
 they boldly venture, knowing that gold can un- 
 clasp the strongest fetters ; and scarcely has the 
 priest pronounced a hard sentence, when the law- 
 yer is called in, in mitigation of punishment. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 The Tap Room. 
 Enter Mrs. Bustle and Barny. 
 
 Mrs. B. And would you believe it, Barny, he 
 turned me out of the room. You may leave 
 the room, good woman; this lady and I must 
 needs be private. Pretty goings on. 
 
 Barny. 'Faith, not amiss. She's a charming 
 creature, sure enough. I'm very much of the 
 gentleman's mind myself. 
 
 Mrs. B. You. I should not have thought of 
 it. But then, good woman ; as if I was no- 
 body. Good woman, truly! 
 
 Barny. Oh, 'twas clear a mistake of his; for 
 certainly he could not mean you, Mrs. Bustle. 
 
 Mrs. B. Well, you may go with the letter, 
 but don't stay long ; and don't be running to the 
 fair ; this is fair day. On my conscience, I can't 
 see the use of such things, but to turn the heads 
 of all the idle fellows with their flaunting hussies; 
 but don't let them inveigle you; don't go near 
 them, Barny.
 
 28 
 
 Barjiy. What, me? O fie upon you, Mrs. 
 Bustle, to suspect that thing (Aside) to be sure, 
 and I wont be taking a peep at the hussies though 
 for all her. 
 
 Mrs. B. That's right, Barny, besides you've 
 horses now to take care of, I suppose you have fed 
 them. 
 
 Barny. Fed them ! Oh hubbaboo ! fed them> 
 yes, they have had the Black Lion allowance. 
 
 Mrs. B. What allowance .? 
 
 Barny. They've had the manger to eat, no- 
 thing more; devil an oat has there been these six 
 weeks j mighty good entertainment, you've for 
 man and horse, Mrs. Bustle. 
 
 Mrs. B. Why I never heard any complaint of 
 this before. 
 
 Barny. No, how should you ? It falls upon those 
 who are not able to complain. I thought I had 
 quite forgot how to blush; but upon my consci- 
 ence, your barbarity to the poor dum creatures is 
 enough to bring the shame into my face again. 
 
 Mrs. B. O here he comes, don't let him know 
 it ; 'twould ruin the character of my house, dear 
 Barny, don't betray me. 
 
 Barny. Well, be easy, I'll bring you off this 
 time ; I've not lived so long with you, Mrs. Bustle, 
 to learn nothing, you'll see how I'll hum him.
 
 29 
 
 Enter Gen. Torrington. 
 
 Gen.T. Mrs. Bustle, I am now going to ^(lordeii 
 Hall, but shall return in a few hours ; meantime 
 let every respect and attention be paid to that 
 young lady. 
 
 Mrs. B. O! certainly; your honour may depend 
 on that. 
 
 Barny. Blessings on your honor's goodness* 
 she's a sweet young creature, sure enough ; my 
 heart quite warmed to her when she came out of 
 the stage coach, with her beautiful eyes drowned 
 with crying ; if Barny can be any comfort to her, 
 she may be as happy as the day's long. 
 
 Gen. T. Upon my word, very kind ; yet to 
 judge from your appearance, 1 fear she will be 
 more indebted to your good wishes than to your 
 services. Pray who is this benevolent youth } 
 
 Mrs. B. Lord, Sir, he's only our Barny, an ho- 
 nest simple lad. 
 
 Barny. Yes, sir, Barny O Mulshinoge, Ostler 
 at the Black Lion, nothing more, no offence to 
 your honor; I'm an Irishman, and when an Irish- 
 man sees a fellow creature floundering in the mire 
 of this dirty world, he is more apt to stretch forth 
 a hand to help than to bother his brains considering 
 whether the person who wants assistance is above 
 him or below him in the world.
 
 30 
 
 Gen. T. My good fellow, your humanity wants 
 not the confirmation of your brogue to denote your 
 country. But at present fancy, if that's your post, I 
 shall only request your attention to my horses. 
 
 Barny. To be sure your honor, such nice tits 
 deserve attention ; and as far as depends on 
 Barny, he'll do them justice. (Aside to Mrs. B.) 
 Don't be alarmed, I am not going to peach. 
 The bay your honor rides seems a choice bit of a 
 gelding ; nay, for that matter, so is the black mare. 
 
 Gen. T. Ha, ha, ha ! 
 
 Barny. Mayhap you'd like me to get some 
 peas or beans to mix with their manger, (Mrs. B. 
 checks him) I mean to mix with the corn in their 
 manger, unless you order them they wont have 
 them. (Aside.) All's safe you see, or if you make 
 a long stay, you might like to keep them at board 
 wages. 
 
 Ge7i. T. Keep horses at board wages ! 
 
 Barny. No your honor, I don't mean board 
 wages, that would not do at all ; I mean keep them 
 at livery ; a bit of a trip of mine (Aside) of no 
 consequence, though certain the d — d manger 
 does run in my head. 
 
 Gen. T. Well, well, no matter, I shall be ex- 
 pected at Morden Hall, so must trust them en- 
 tirely to your care, 
 
 Barny. That's right, your honor, trust them to
 
 31 
 
 Barny, he'll rub them till they shine like our pewter 
 pots ; then for stopping and greasing he'll not 
 forget that, or if he should, its sure to be put in the 
 bill, and that's all one you know. 
 
 [ExeiiJit Gen. T. conducted by Mrs. B. 
 
 END OF ACT I.
 
 ACT II. Scene I. 
 
 A?i Apm^tment i?i Sir Harry Morden's. 
 Enter Sir Harry and General Torrington. 
 
 Sir H. My dear General ! this early attention 
 fills me with the sincerest gratitude ; believe me, 
 Morden Hall never received a more welcome visi- 
 tor than General Torrington. 
 
 Gen. T. Sir Harry, I believe you, and have 
 come at your request to assist in separating you 
 from your wifej I dare say on the like occasion I 
 should be a welcome visitor in many married 
 families. 
 
 Sir H. I assure you, sir, nothing but extreme 
 provocation could induce me to damp the joy of 
 your return, by complaints of one so nearly allied 
 to you. 
 
 Geji. T. Damp the joy ! not at all — you are a 
 very fashionable husband ; my lady, I suppose, 
 has become a very fashionable wife j that is to say, 
 a faulty one ; it frequently happens to husbands in 
 your sphere, but 'tis what in a great measure 
 they may thank themselves for. 
 
 Sir H. Surely, sir, 'tis sufficient to suffer from 
 the misconduct of an offending wife, without
 
 33 
 
 being involved in the censure attached to her 
 errors. 
 
 Gen. T. And yet were there fewer instances 
 of negh'gent husbands, I fancy we should not hear 
 so many complaints of erring; wives. Are not men 
 unjust to exact the performance of most arduous 
 duties, when they will neither prove the guides 
 to direct, nor the friends to admonish; to proclaim 
 the weakness of the sex, yet withdraw from that 
 weakness its firmest props, the delicate attention, 
 the tender solicitude, the affections of a husband ? 
 
 Sir H. Yet surely, General, you who so well 
 know my affection for your niece. 
 
 Gen. T. Know your affection for my niece, 
 not I indeed. Sir Harry ; but since you have ap- 
 plied to me as the trustee of Lady Morden, I 
 should wish to hear what are those particular in- 
 stances of misconduct. 
 
 Sir H. Many provocations the most intolera- 
 ble, faults in abundance, follies innumerable, it 
 would puzzle me to name them half. 
 
 Gen. T. (Aside.) Not unlikely. -Nay, but 
 some ^evf of the most glaring, perhaps that would 
 not puzzle you — for instance, her reputation. 
 
 Sir H. Her reputation? Oh, I have nothing 
 to urge against her reputation ; that is undoubt- 
 edly without taint, so circumspect her conduct, 
 malice or slander never glanced at it ; that ex- 
 ception I ought to have made.
 
 34 
 
 Gen. T. I think you ouglit, 'tis an essential 
 one; then in the article of prudence, this perhaps 
 in my niece's education was not sufficiently at- 
 tended to J heiress to a large fortune, rigid max- 
 ims of prudence were not inculcated, and amongst 
 your fine ladies, ceconomy is not exactly the order 
 of the day. 
 
 Sir H. I have no cause to complain of any 
 want of ceconomy. 
 
 Gen. T. Why, zounds! not faulty here either? 
 
 Sir H. No, General, here I entirely acquit 
 her, and to give you a proof of my fairness, in 
 this respect I am more inclined to take shame to 
 myself than to impute it to Lady Morden. 
 
 Gen. T. Then, perhaps, involved in the vortex 
 of fashionable dissipation, her maternal duties have 
 been too much neglected ? 
 
 Sir H. Sir, a fonder mother never existed, she 
 hates all dissipation. 
 
 Gen. T. The devil ! then I'll guess no more, 
 but really must ask. I am sorry to puzzle you, 
 Sir Harry ; What are those intolerable provoca- 
 tions, abundant faults, innumerable follies, that 
 have determined you to discard my niece. 
 
 Sir H. Oh, 'twont puzzle me at all ; for though 
 I acquit Lady Morden of misconduct in the par- 
 ticular instances you have mentioned, and may 
 allow she has merits ; but then so greatly over- 
 shadowed by an unceasing levity, by such thought-
 
 35 
 
 less inconsistency ; however. General, your pre- 
 sence in the family will afford you opportunities 
 for noticing, and 'twill be better you formed your 
 opinion rather from your own observance. 
 
 Gen. T. If you think so, you must have a bet- 
 ter opinion of my discernment than of your own ; 
 and now, dismissing this subject, there is one to 
 which you must naturally expect I should be- 
 speak your attention. 
 
 Sir H. Any subject from General Torrington 
 will command it. 
 
 Gen. T. You are aware my brother Faulkner, 
 fearing that his large fortune descending to this 
 his only child, might render her unwariness a 
 prey to the designing, directed me, as her guar- 
 dian and trustee, to retain possession of the estate, 
 and all profits, for three years after her marriage, 
 at the expiration of which term, I, with her con- 
 currence, was empowered to deliver the whole to 
 her husband. 
 
 Sir H. Then, sir, in the event of our separa- 
 tion, I freely acknowledge I can urge no claim to 
 Lady Morden's fortune. 
 
 Gen. T. 'Tis fair at least, and particularly so 
 at this time, when, if rightly informed, your own 
 estate is confoundedly dipped -, without my niece's 
 I don't see how you'll be able to live with your 
 equals. 
 
 Sir H. On equal terms ! you may depend
 
 36 
 
 on it; besides, you should recollect my connec- 
 tions are most respectable, my friends powerful, 
 numerous. 
 
 Gc?i. T. Friends ! Sir Harry, I don't believe 
 you have one ; hang me if I think you know — 
 Where lo find a Friend. 
 
 Sir H. You astonish me ! 
 
 Gen. T. Why, who are they ? such as fastening 
 on your credulity, urge you to extravagance be- 
 yond your means, to excesses destructive of health, 
 fortune, reputation, and taking advantage of the 
 moment when reason nods under intemperance, 
 strip you of your fortune, by acts a highwayman 
 might blush to practise; such, I am told, are your 
 boasted friends. 
 
 Sir H. You are severe. 
 
 Gen, T. I may be so, for so old fashioned are 
 my notions, I cannot help thinking the road a 
 fitter place, the mask and the pistol- more honour- 
 able instruments of plunder, llian the roof of hos- 
 pitality prostituted to the basest of purposes, the 
 packed card and loaded die. But I hear a car- 
 riage. Lady Morden no doubt returning from her 
 morning ride, then 'tis fit I retire, and get rid of 
 my dishabille ere I encounter the view of so fine 
 a lady. \^Exit Gen. T. 
 
 Sir H. Now that I call a very empty selfwilled 
 old man ; I find, let me say what J will, there's no 
 making him believe any thing to the prejudice of
 
 37 
 
 his neice, such gross partiahty ; but there are some 
 so perverse, so infatuated, reason and argument 
 are utterly thrown away upon them. But here 
 comes Lady Morden. 
 
 Enter Lauy Morden. 
 
 Just returned, my lady j a long round, I pre- 
 sume ? 
 
 Lady M. Yes, Sir Harry, visits to the neigh- 
 bouring families, the vicars, the curates, the apo- 
 thecaries, country squires, who fancy themselves 
 fine gentlemen, and fine farmers, who call them- 
 selves squires. ^ 
 
 Sir H. So many your ladyship must be ter- 
 ribly ennuy'd. 
 
 Lady M. Ennuy'd, delighted, transported, every 
 where such respect, such admiration, my person, 
 my manners, my dress, the dear notable creatures, 
 half envy, half astonishment, exclaiming, "Every 
 body allows lady Morden is a pattern for elegance 
 in dress, every thing she wears so becoming, from 
 Bond-street, no doubt; What charming things there 
 are in Bond -street, but so monstratiously dear, 
 they are quite out of our reach ;'* then such accom- 
 plishments they possess and so communicative of 
 them. 
 
 Sir II. I should scarcely expect you would dis- 
 cover any extraordinary accomplishments in the 
 circles you have just described. 
 
 D
 
 38 
 
 Lady M. You are very much mistaken, they 
 understand the whole economy of the kitchen, the 
 art of pickling and preserving, making raised pies, 
 diet drink, puff paste, blanc mange, and savary 
 
 Sir H. 'Tis possible your ladyship's taste may 
 find gratification in such company and conversa- 
 tion — mine, 1 confess, is essentially different. 
 
 Lady M. Aye, we are man and wife you know, 
 and that, as they say, accounts for it ; but to 
 change the subject, my uncle Torrington they 
 tell me is arrived. 
 
 Sir H. He is, he arrived within this hour. 
 
 Lady M. Delightful ! I shall be so happy to 
 see him. 
 
 Sir H. Perhaps not. 
 
 Lady M. What ! not happy to see so dear a 
 friend and relation after a three year's absence -, 
 and pray why not, most sagacious Sir Harry ? 
 What, you have been complaining of me to him, 
 you wretch ! 
 
 Sir H. Why, lady Morden, though I allow the 
 man who makes others parties to his domestic 
 differences to be in general a ridiculous charac- 
 ter — 
 
 Lady M. Very ridiculous indeed, I agree with 
 you. Sir Harry. 
 
 Sir H. In general, no doubt, he is so ; yet 
 there may be instances where excessive provo-
 
 39 
 
 cation ; I say ray lady, where excessive provoca- 
 tion — 
 
 Lady M. But you need not repeat that, I heard 
 it very plain the first time. 
 
 Sir H. Provoking ! then to prevent further in- 
 terruption, I freely acknowledge he has heard all 
 your faults. 
 
 Ladif M. Has he indeed ! then he has heard a 
 great deal j I am afraid you sadly tried his pati- 
 ence. 
 
 Sir H. On the contrary, he was so indulgent 
 as to afford me a most patient hearing ; and avail- 
 ing myself of so favourable an opportunity, without 
 reserve or hesitation, I told him all. 
 
 Lady AI. What all ! bless me. Sir Harry, what 
 a wonderful memory you must have ! all my faults j 
 well, 'twas a fertile subject ; was idleness one } 
 that's a shocking fault and ought to be corrected, 
 I'll set about it directly. I'll work, work, I think 
 I'll knot J do you like knotting, Sir Harry? Oh no ! 
 I forgot, poor man, your head runs too much upon 
 one unfortunate knot you find it so difficult to 
 get loose from. 
 
 Sir H. Lady Morden ! Lady Morden ! is it 
 possible for one minute to make you serious ? 
 
 Lady M. What with that grave face ? Oh, no ! 
 you must excuse me ; but really. Sir Harry, whilst 
 you retain that countenance, 'tis impossible I can 
 keep mine. 
 
 d2
 
 40 
 
 Sir H. Was ever such ill placed, such teazing 
 levity ; if I attempt serious expostulation she al- 
 ways flies oflf thus, but 'tis my own fault ; yes, 
 yes, I may thank myself for it ; happy as I was, 
 what infatuation could induce me to marry. 
 
 Lady M. " There lived a man in Ballyno, crazy, 
 " Who wanted a wife to make him uneasy," 
 
 Was that your case, Sir Harry ? 
 
 " Long did he sigh for his dear Ally Croker, 
 " And thus the gentle youth bespoke her — 
 " Will you marry me, my dear Ally Croker ?" 
 
 SiJ^ H. Plagues ! Furies ! But I see how it is, 
 you want to provoke me. The chief pleasure of 
 your life consists in doing every thing to vex and 
 provoke me ; however, for once I'll disappoint 
 you ; I'll keep my temper. Yes, my Lady, death 
 and damnation ! I'll keep my temper, because I 
 know that's the sure way to make you unhappy. 
 
 Lady M. Never mind that, stand upon no ce- 
 remony with me, keep your temper by all means. 
 Sir H. Yes, Madam, and you shall find that 
 when most provoked, I can be most calm ; when 
 most exasperated, most master of myself; and that 
 though hitherto taking advantage of the easiness 
 of my disposition, you have too much had your 
 own way ; when occasion calls for it, I can be a 
 man ! a man, lady Morden ! 
 
 Lady M. Why, my dear Sir Harry, did 1 ever 
 wish you not to be a man ? 
 
 Sir H. But I know the cause of all this, 'tis the
 
 41 
 
 independence your silly father was so anxious to 
 secure for you j you are not the first woman has 
 been ruined by being made independent : yes, 
 yes, madam ! 'tis the fortune you have the power 
 of withholding, makes you presume thus. 
 
 Lady M. Sir Harry, you have at length hit 
 upon a subject which compels me to be serious ; I 
 detest meanness, and should despise myself could 
 I be actuated by mercenary motives in the most 
 important affair of my life ; no. Sir Harry, when 
 you received this hand at the altar, you received. 
 Heaven be my judge, my heart also ! Had I been 
 mistress of my fortune, you, from that moment, 
 should have been master of it ; for I would not 
 have it be imagined that, when freely giving my 
 hand, my heart, my person, I could look only to 
 the security of my purse ; as if that were more 
 valuable than all 1 had to bestow. 
 
 Sir H. Why now, indeed, you talk reasonably, 
 if you would always do so. 
 
 Lady M. Well, well, some other time ; now I 
 must offer my congratulations to the General, 
 before my seriousness infects you ; a shocking 
 thing. Sir Harry, and our hitherto sprightly con- 
 versation degenerates into a mere dull insipid 
 matrimonial tete a tele ; so adieu ! you'll soon 
 follow au revoir. Sir Harry. \^Exii Lady Morden. 
 
 Sir H. There again ! such levity, nothing 
 fixed, no steadiness, even for a moment ; that any
 
 42 
 
 body can be so versatile ; yet there was something 
 very generous in her way of expressing herself, 
 something disinterested : to be sure I was in a 
 great rage when I wrote to the General, proposing 
 a separation, and several times since have wished 
 I had not been quite so hasty ; as yet he has had 
 no opportunity of mentioning the subject to Lady 
 Morden ; suppose I follow and request he will 
 defer it, defer it for a few days ; I will do so, for 
 though her levity and giddiness are most pro- 
 voking, to do her justice, the woman has some 
 good qualities notwithstanding. [Exit. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 A Country View; at the back of the Stage is seen 
 part of a Country Fair, Country Lads and 
 Lasses : on one Side a neat Cottage : Timothy 
 Scamp standing before the Door^ Barny 
 enters. (L.aughing and shouting.) 
 
 Barny. That's right, keep it up, keep it up, my jolly 
 lads and merry lasses, I'll soon make one with you ; 
 good luck to you, Mrs. Bustle, and send you plenty 
 of customers, to keep you safe housed at the 
 Black Lion; how the old cat would pounce to find 
 her darling Barny frisking here amongst the
 
 43 
 
 kittens ; (observing Tjm.) and is it your tall self, 
 Mr. Timothy Scamp, that stands there peeping 
 over the house like a may pole ? 
 
 Tim. Yes, its me, I only corned to the door just 
 to look about me a little. 
 
 Barny. Well, that's right, and a nice look out 
 you have; good luck to the creatures, I would not 
 wish for a prettier: some may like your moun- 
 tains, your woods, and your lakes, but show an 
 Irishman a little of Nature's pure red and white, 
 he'll desire no better prospect in the creation. 
 
 Tim. E'cod, I thinks as you does. 
 
 Harny. Not exactly Tim, I can't say I'm over- 
 fond of very distant views. 
 
 Tim. Oh ! I dursn't leave the door ; if master 
 should come back from London and find me out, 
 he'd be in such a carnation rage. Ah ! you 
 don't know my master, he's so cross and so 
 passionate, I never goes out, never gets no holidays, 
 no pleasure, no nothing. 
 
 Barny. Then altogether you must have a com- 
 fortable kind of a decent hard service of it. 
 
 Tim, What me ? lord help you, I leads the life 
 of a dog. 
 
 Barny. Now in that case, were I you, I'd be 
 for making the best leg I could, andr unning away 
 from him. 
 
 Tim. I can't, he has me bound hand and foot.
 
 44 
 
 Barny. The devil he has; what is it binds you? 
 
 Tim. Gratitude ! he saved my Hfe. 
 
 Barny. Well, that was kind ; and let me tell 
 you, Mr. Tim, it is not every body would do that 
 for you. 
 
 Tim. When father failed in the chandlery line, 
 and creditors had him to jail, would you believe 
 it, for no other varsal reason than owing money. 
 
 Barny. Och ! the Philistines ! send a man to 
 gaol for owing money, they must have been 
 mighty unfashionable creditors ; if this was to 
 spread, what a devil of a run there would be upon 
 Bond-street. 
 
 Tim. I thought t'would have gone well nigh 
 to break the old man's heart, and certain that 
 would have broke mine ; but master heard of his 
 hard case, gave him money to pay his debts, and 
 now he be so happy, and so smiling, I quite loves 
 to see him smile again. 
 
 Barny. Give him money to pay his debts ! I 
 like your master's notions much, and should be 
 proud of the honour of his better acquaintance ; 
 whenever he calls at the Black Lion, I hope he'll 
 ax for Barny the ostler. 
 
 Tim. E'cod vou'd find him a rummish one, and 
 our house be so dull and melancholy, but I don't 
 care much for that either ; when I find it so, I 
 recollect that father's prison were worse; if master
 
 45 
 
 be angry and frown at me, I think on father's 
 smiles, and I am sure they be a good set off 
 against t'other ; I lead the hfe of a dog with him 
 'tis true, but blessings on his goodness, I'd be 
 content to be hung up like one so I could do him 
 service by it. 
 
 Barny. Tim, give me your hand, you're a good 
 lad, and for your kind heartedness I'll trust you 
 with a secret. 
 
 Tim. No, will you? 
 
 Barny. Yes, I'll place you in my confidence. 
 
 Tim. Come, that's friendly I must say. 
 
 Barny. Timothy, I'm in love. 
 
 Tim. The devil ! with a woman? 
 
 Barny. Not a bit ; with a woman's goods and 
 chattels, 'tis a much commoner thing. 
 
 Tim. Aye, many do love them better than the 
 woman. 
 
 Barny. Exactly my case. Tim, I like you, 
 and therefore I trust you, and when I marry old 
 mother Bustle, come to the Black Lion when you 
 will, call for what you like, there's nothing tp pay. 
 
 Tim. Then mayhap you've got her consent. 
 
 Barny. No fear of that, so now nothing's want- 
 ing but to get my own, and there lies all the diffi- 
 culty. 
 
 Tim. Well, Mr. Barny, I'll certainly come and 
 see you, and you'll like me better then, for though 
 I be glum and melancholy here, yet with good
 
 46 
 
 company and good liquor, you'll find I quite an- 
 other guess-sort of a body ; I be pure, funny, and 
 frolicksome. 
 
 Barny. Och ! to be sure we won't make the 
 bumpers fly, and when in our toasts, we remember 
 our best friends, though your master may be some- 
 what of the grumpy sort, depend upon it we'll not 
 forget who sets the prisoner free (Fiddles ivithin) 
 but hark ! coming, coming ! I must leave you, Tim, 
 remember silence, keep my secret, mum, Tim, 
 mum. (Shout.) [Exit. 
 
 Tim. There he's off, what a happy man is Mister 
 Barny! he can go to fairs, or where he likes, he 
 can change from place to place, he has no grati- 
 tude to stop him. Oh no ! nobody ever saved his 
 father's life I'll be bound for it ; (shunts, &ic.) dear 
 me, dear me ! how pleased and happy every body 
 looks, I declare its quite melancholy to see them j 
 I don't think master wHl return to day — if I was 
 sure of that, I might venture just for a little 
 while, I would not stay long, no, that would not 
 be right; but a little while, there could be no harm 
 in that, only just a very Httle while. [Shouts, 8Cc. 
 [Tim, during the latter part of his speech, 
 goes slowly up the stage, by the end of it 
 he gets among the crowd.
 
 47 
 
 Enter Heartly. 
 
 Heartly. At length I am got safe to my cot- 
 tage, escaped from the hurry of business. What 
 satisfaction again to behold it ; here at least I 
 may expect tranquillity, (shouts behind) Why, 
 what is this, a rejoicing village fair, tranquillity 
 did I say? zounds, 'tis uproar and confusion, 
 worse than the Babel I have left ! but 'tis ever 
 thus, always something to thwart me, plague 
 and vexation wherever I go; here, where I 
 thought 1 might set down in quiet, in solitude, to 
 the recollection of my sorrows; I am to be tor- 
 mented by the tumultuous merriment of the 
 neighbours, who will not allow me to have the 
 least peace under my own roof; or to be miserable 
 with any comfort, (shouts) O, curse your mirth ! 
 however, I'll in and try if by any means I can 
 escape it. (discovers Tim endeavouring to steal 
 into the house unperceived) Why, zounds ! do my 
 eyes deceive me? no, 'tis certainly he, my rascal, 
 Timothy Scamp. 
 
 Tim. Yes, 'tis I! I was just going in — 
 
 Heartly. Going in, rascal ! how did you dare 
 go out ? 
 
 Tim. I only went for a very little while — all 
 the neighbours were there, and every body was 
 so pleasant and so happy, that I thought I might 
 be a little happy too. 
 
 Heartly. Why, you infernal ! have you dared
 
 48 
 
 act contrary to my orders, so pleased and so 
 happy, hav'nt I often told you I detest all such 
 vile mummery, that I would have nobody happy 
 in my house. 
 
 Tim. Well, and I've always obeyed you like a 
 dutiful servant, for I defy you to say you ever 
 knew me happy when you was at home. 
 
 Heartly. Rascal ! but tell me the meaning of, 
 all this, 
 
 Tim. Yes, 1 will tell you directly: you see, Mr. 
 Barny came, and this be fair day ; and then Sir 
 Harry Morden and Lady Morden be come to the 
 great house, and that makes every body happy ; 
 and so Sir Harry came to I. No, I don't mean 
 Sir Harry, I mean Mr. Barney came to my lady. 
 No, not so : but I declare you quite frighten me, 
 you be so hasty and passionate. 
 
 Heartly. What, me ! I hasty, I passionate, that 
 was always noted for being so mild ; and now to 
 be called hasty by you ! But 'tis ever thus ; they 
 who are most passionate themselves are the rea- 
 diest to suspect others of being so ; and here I'm 
 arrived just in the nick to spoil your sport, and 
 that provokes you. Yes, yes, I see you're in a 
 passion now, only you are afraid of showing it 
 before me. 
 
 Tim. Lord bless me! I'm sure I'm not in a 
 passion. 
 
 Heartly. Yes you are, but there's no use in it. 
 Why can't you learn of me to check every ap-
 
 49 
 
 proacli of passion ? why can't you keep your in- 
 fernal temper under as 1 do ? 
 
 Tim. Yes, I will ; I'll do any thing rather than 
 see you so cross j but I suppose 'tis all along of 
 your daughter, 
 
 Heartly. Daughter ! my daughter ! how dare 
 you mention her ? how dare you touch upon a 
 theme enough to drive me mad ? 
 
 Tim. No, pray don't be mad ; but I thought 
 you might have seen her whilst you were out, and 
 that distresses you so. 
 
 Heartly. What, she distress me ! Come, that's 
 good ! that's excellent ! Why, dolt ! idiot ! sot ! 
 do you suppose I'm distressed ? No, I may be 
 provoked, vexed, irritated, by an ungrateful, 
 abandoned ; but that's all, she cannot distress me 
 now; no, thank Heaven, that's quite out of her 
 power. 
 
 Tim. Then, I'm sure, if I was you, I'd think no 
 more of her. 
 
 Heartly. What, not think of rny child, the dar- 
 ling of my age, that I so loved, and not think of 
 her ! Why you inhuman ! Yet you may be right ; 
 you are right, very right. Now, you fool, you 
 talk sensibly. Yes, I'll think no more of her; 
 I'll banish her from my thoughts, from my heart : 
 my heart ! that I have long since done ; she has 
 no hold there now ; once she had. 
 
 Tim. And that will serve her right.
 
 50 
 
 Heavily, So it will. Besides, why should I wish 
 to remember her? She has quite forgot me, lean 
 have no pleasure in thinking of her now ; once 
 I thought of nothing else ; but that's over, and I 
 shall be happy when she's forgot ; yes, I feel I 
 shall be easy then, quite easy, quite happy! I'!] 
 go in now, Tim, and you'll see; ha, ha, ha ! you'll 
 see how happy I shall be ! 
 
 [Exeunt into the Cottage. 
 
 END OF ACT U.
 
 ACT III. Scene I. 
 
 An Apartment at Sir Harry Morden's. 
 Enter General Torrington and Lady Morden. 
 
 Gen. T. Well, Harriet, whatever other changes 
 matrimony may have wrought in you, it has not 
 had the effect of lowering your spirits. 
 
 Lady AI. No, uncle, heaven be praised, they 
 seldom flag, they are not, indeed, of that head- 
 strong impetuous sort that on every occasion fly 
 off at score, exhausting themselves in their outset ; 
 they have hitherto borne me through life, with a 
 tranquil, cheerful pace, and I trust with proper 
 care and good management they will be enabled 
 to jog on with me to the end of my journey. 
 
 Gen. T. Upon my word, Sir Harry must be 
 considered a most happy man, possessing a wife 
 of so cheerful a disposition. 
 
 Lady M. Thank ye, uncle, thank ye j I per- 
 fectly comprehend you, that's a fling at me ; but 
 I don't wonder, you have heard a world of com- 
 plaints of my levity and other faults; true, I 
 ought to be more sedate, more serious ; I am 
 wrong, no doubt, must endeavour to mend, but 
 obstinate habits are only to be rooted out by 
 time.
 
 52 
 
 Gen. T. That I have been concerned to hear 
 many complaints of my niece is true, I expected 
 to find her faultless. 
 
 Lady M. No, not faultless j come, that's rather 
 too much from one who knew me so well ; I am 
 sure, uncle, you did not expect that ? 
 
 Gen. T. Yes, Harriet, for in an age where ex- 
 alted rank 
 
 Lady M. (Puts her hand upon his mouth.) 
 O, I know very well, I have heard that a great 
 many times, no need to repeat it. 
 
 Gen. T. Giddy inconsiderate madcap. 
 
 Lady M. O no, for I am going to be very 
 serious, to make a serious request, but I must 
 have no grumpy looks, for positively you must 
 comply with my wishes ; they relate to that un- 
 fortunate clause in my father's will which restricted 
 the possession of my fortune. 
 
 Gen. T. An unfortunate clause do you call that 
 by which your father, with a view to your se- 
 parate interest, secured for you a noble inde- 
 pendence. 
 
 L.ady M. I do not wish to be independent of, 
 or have an interest separate from tiie father of my 
 children. 
 
 Gen. T Yet, niece, I should think a fine estate 
 might have its charms in your eyes ? 
 
 L.ady M. Yes, uncle, a fine estate is certainl}''
 
 53 
 
 a very charming thing, so is the approbation of 
 one's own heart. 
 
 Gen. T. (Aside.) Sir Harry's out of his senses. 
 But you forget 'twas with me to be an act of 
 discretion ; ere I relinquished a trust so valuable, 
 I was to be satisfied the person on whom you 
 bestowed your hand was worthy of it ? 
 
 Lady M. Surely 'tis sufficient that I think 
 him so. 
 
 Gen. T. I believe you would have thought so 
 had you married the veriest spendthrift upon 
 earth. 
 
 Lady M. Had I married such a person, I be- 
 lieve I should with great reluctance have thought 
 otherwise. 
 
 Gen. T. And would you, really, without the 
 necessary caution of a guardian, or due security 
 of law, have me relinquish the sacred trust of a 
 departed friend ? 
 
 Lady M. Yes, uncle ; for 'tis my maxim, that 
 with the hearts all minor interests should be joined, 
 but I hate your modern policy that calls in the 
 aid of law with its train of settlements, in ali- 
 mony, separate maintenance, calculated to disunite 
 the affections and divide the interests of husband 
 and of wife ; nor need we wonder that infidelity 
 and disunion are so often the fruits of the marriage 
 vow, when they are so essentially provided for in 
 the marriage contract.
 
 54 
 
 Enter Sir Harrv. 
 
 Sir H. My dear General, a thousand pardons 
 for my inattention ; but attracted by the cheerful 
 shouts of the neighbours, I could not resist being 
 a short time witness of their rustic merriment. 
 
 Gen. T. There needs no apology. Sir Harry. 
 Besides, I had no occasion to regret your ab- 
 sence. Lady Morden having honoured me with 
 a tete a tete. 
 
 Lady M. Yes; and a very pleasant one it 
 was, till he came and interrupted it ; was it not, 
 uncle ? 
 
 Sir H. No doubt, madam, you think so. But 
 I trust, General, you are by this time satisfied re- 
 specting your niece's conduct. 
 
 Gen. T. You are right. Sir Harry. I am sa- 
 tisfied respecting my niece's conduct; — I am most 
 perfectly satisfied. 
 
 Sir H. I was sure you would be ; her thought- 
 lessness and imprudence cannot be concealed. 
 
 Gen. T. Why I have had a tolerable specimen 
 of them, I must confess. 
 
 Sir H. And you are now, I flatter myself, 
 convinced my behaviour has not merited such a 
 return at her hands. 
 
 Gen. T. Upon my soul. Sir Harry, I don't 
 think it has. 
 
 Sir H. Ah ! Sir ; had she been often favoured
 
 55 
 
 with the advice of her worthy uncle, I might, 
 indeed, hope to possess a faultless wife. 
 
 Lady M. (comes down in centre.) You'd be 
 very unreasonable, then, to hope a blessing might 
 be your lot which never yet was man's. O' my 
 conscience, what Pope says of a poem, might be 
 more properly applied to a wife : 
 
 " A faultless one ne'er was, nor is, nor e'er will be!" 
 
 Gen. T. (Aside.) But 'tis time to think of my 
 friend Heartly. — Sir Harry, as your dinner hour 
 is yet distant, I will request you to excuse me 
 for a short time. 
 
 Lady M. Not going to leave us, uncle ? 
 
 Gen. T. Merely a visit to an old friend just by. 
 Besides, 'twill be best for me to get off whilst I 
 am well, lest Sir Harry concludes with you a 
 league against his former ally, and you join forces' 
 to be revenged on my officiousness. 
 
 [Exit General. 
 
 Lady M. O, you need not be afraid of that ; 
 we are too partial to our little bruilleries to waste 
 them on a third person, are we not, Sir Harry ? 
 
 Sir H. Such, I believe, is your taste. Lady 
 Morden. For my part, I would not willingly 
 offend the General by our daily jarrings ; there- 
 fore, whilst he remains in the house, I shall en- 
 deavour, however provoked, to keep a curb upon 
 my temper. 
 
 e2
 
 56 
 
 Lady M. Well, I'm glad of that. But I hope 
 its a strong one, or you'll find your temper an 
 unruly animal, that will break away with you 
 notwithstanding. 
 
 Sir H. To prevent it doing so now, till the 
 General returns, I will amuse myself with a walk 
 in the Park. 
 
 Lady M. I was thinking of a walk myself; if 
 it would not be too great an honour, you might 
 take me with you. 
 
 Sir H. An honour, Lady Morden! You well 
 know, if you are serious in asking it, I should be 
 most happy in your company. 
 
 Lady M. You are very obliging. Sir Harry, 
 and I'll endeavour to shew my gratitude by being 
 very serious, very good. 
 
 Sir H. Dear, provoking creature, that I could 
 always find you so — that I indeed possessed your 
 love. 
 
 Lady M. My love, silly man, so you do. But 
 would you have me shew nothing but love, love ; 
 mere mawkish love ; — like an old rusty weather- 
 cock, eternally fixed to ^le point? — ^It wants 
 variety, to divest it of its insipidity, as fine wea- 
 ther derives additional charms from the preceding 
 storm ; therefore, sometimes it portends the gentle 
 gales of affection ; then again the furious whirl- 
 wind of rage ; and all so eternally varying, that 
 scarcely does it seem fixed in one quarter, than
 
 57 
 
 puff, round goes the vane, and in an instant it 
 points to another. 
 
 Sir H. Nay, I wish not for the variety ; give 
 me the insipidity — the love. 
 
 Lady M. Well, it shall be so during our walk. 
 We'll have only the gentle gales of affection j or 
 if the weathercock, meaning thereby a woman's 
 resolution — the same thing, you know — should 
 veer a little, you have only yourself to blame ; 
 you might have avoided the evil. So remember, 
 for this time, I bar all complaints to my uncle. 
 
 [ExeimL 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 Room in Heartly's Cottage, Table and two 
 Chairs. 
 
 Enter Heartly and Tim. 
 
 Heartly. So, rascal ! have I again caught you 
 disobeying my orders, opening my doors, not- 
 withstanding my commands to the contrary ? 
 
 Tim. I only opened the door, 'cause there's a 
 gentleman. 
 
 Heartly. A gentleman at my door, is there? 
 Then pray tell the gentleman to go about his 
 business. 
 
 Tim. Yes, I will. But he said his business 
 was with you. 
 
 Heartly. He lies, then.
 
 58 
 
 Tim. And, moreover, that he knew you'd be 
 glad to see him. 
 
 Heartly. He'll pretty soon find his mistake. 
 
 Tim. For that his name was Torrington. 
 
 Heartly. How, Torrington ! — General Tor- 
 rington! that best of friends? Glad to see him! 
 I shall, indeed ; admit him instantly. What 
 does the booby stand staring for? Shew him in, 
 I say. 
 
 Tim. (Aside) Yes, that I would, were it the 
 old one himself, and the sight of him could put 
 you in better humour. [Exit Tim. 
 
 Heartly. General Torrington returned! the 
 friend to whom I owe my all. I hope he has not 
 heard of Maria's misconduct. — He was ever par- 
 tial to her, and would, no doubt, feel it deeply. 
 I will, for the present, let him remain ignorant 
 of it. Yes, 'twill be best. I'll be careful not to 
 drop even a hint of it before him. 
 
 Enter General Torrington. 
 
 Gen. T. What, my old friend Heartly -, give 
 me your hand. 
 
 Heartly. Oh, Sir, this is indeed an honour ; to 
 permit me, in my poor cottage, to congratulate 
 you on your return to England. 
 
 Gen. T. Thank ye, thank ye, my old friend. 
 Yes J I'm returned in good health, and have no 
 particular reason to complain. Occasional rubs
 
 59 
 
 I have met with, but few, I behave, enjoy their 
 cup of happiness so unmixed, as not to find some 
 bitter drops on it, 
 
 Heartly. (Aside.) Yes, and some find the bit- 
 ter ones cursedly the most prevalent. 
 
 Geji. T. But what, you've quitted business 
 during my absence, made your fortune, and pur- 
 chased your neat country box, where you miglit 
 retire, live snug, and be comfortable in your old 
 days ? 
 
 Heavily. Yes, sir, I began to think I had al- 
 ready more than I wanted, and as I had nobody 
 now to toil for longer, I mean as I grew old, and 
 was not so well able to toil longer — retirement 
 from cares and bustle seemed to me the wisest 
 plan I could adopt. {They sit. 
 
 Gen. T. The wisdom of your plan I shall not 
 dispute, notwithstanding the example of many 
 notable families transplanted from the eastern 
 side of Temple Bar, where so wonderful are the 
 changes, that had I found you mixing in the 
 circles of fashion, opening a fine house, sporting 
 a fashionable equipage, or, the very height of 
 fashion, driving it yourself, it would not have sur- 
 prized me. 
 
 Heartly. What, me driving a fashionable equi- 
 page ! me mixing in fashionable society ! a pretty 
 figure truly I should cut there; an old fool ex- 
 posing ray own ignorance and absurdity.
 
 60 
 
 Gen. T. You don't suppose ignorance and ab- 
 surdity are any bars to mixing there j no, no, 
 friend Heartly, you possess the universal passport ; 
 now-a-days few trouble themselves to ascertain 
 what a man zV, what he has is the essential con- 
 sideration. 
 
 Heartly. Well, old Heartly, thank heaven, you 
 hav'nt disgraced yourself by such follies, which 
 would make you ashamed to stand in the pre- 
 sence of thy benefactor. 
 
 Geji. T. Benefactor ! nonsense, a mere com- 
 mon place piece of service ; you was an honest 
 industrious man without money, to set you out 
 in the world, and where was the great merit of 
 lending you, when I had no occasion for it my- 
 self? besides, you discharged the debt long ago. 
 
 Heartly. Yes, I discharged the debt, but not 
 the sense of the obligation ; no, sir, I can safely 
 declare, it has never been expunged; I remem- 
 bered it in my dealings — true, they were pros- 
 perous, I trust they were fair j for I knew the 
 return most acceptable to your feelings would be 
 never to gain a shilling by unworthy means. 
 
 Gen. T. Pooh, pooh, no more of this; in pro- 
 moting your prosperity and happiness, I had my 
 gratification ; though somehow, friend Heartly, 
 your prosperity don't seem to have made you very 
 happy. 
 
 Heartly. Yes, it has, I am very happy ; why
 
 61 
 
 should you doubt it ? (Aside.) I dare say he 
 knows the whole story. 
 
 Gen. T. Then, for a happy countenance — I 
 must say, yours is the most melancholy looking 
 one I ever saw ; but I can account for it— some- 
 thing of your family afflictions, I have heard. 
 
 [They rise. 
 
 Heartly. Aye, its all out ; I guessed as much ; 
 my dishonour buzzed every where : when a man's 
 happy and prosperous no one thinks of him, no 
 one talks ot him j but his embarrasments and dis- 
 grace are very entertaining subjects, and there are 
 always kind officious friends ready to publish 
 them. 
 
 Gen. T. Nay, I know but little, the particulars 
 I would hear from you ? 
 
 Heartly. Oh, there's nothing particular, its a 
 very common case: my daughter has run away, 
 that's all ; Maria, your favourite Maria, gone off 
 with some profligate young man of fashion, no- 
 thing more ; but that concerns me little : at first 
 I was silly enough to be vexed at it, but I've quite 
 got the better of such weakness ; I never think of 
 her now. 
 
 Gen. T. Not think of her ! Is this a case where 
 a father can cease to think of his child ? Can he 
 see her sinking in an abyss of guilt, and not stretch 
 forth a hand to save her ? Know her afflicted, and 
 not console ? Distressed, and not relieve her ?
 
 62 
 
 Heartly. What ! distressed : is she distressed ? 
 1 am glad of it, ha, ha, ha ! it serves her right, ha, 
 ha, ha ! she left me to turn to folly, and now she's 
 distressed ; *tis what I wished : now comes my 
 triumph, ha, ha, ha ! Once she was happy in a 
 father's love, she never knew distress then, now 
 she finds what it is to desert a father, ha, ha, ha 1 
 a fond a doting father; now she feels the conse- 
 quence of it, ha, ha, ha ! 
 
 Gen. T. And are you then so uninformed of 
 what concerns your child ? Have you not heard 
 of her ? During two years have you not seen her ? 
 
 Heartly. Seen her I no, to be sure, that would 
 not have done at all. I vowed never to forgive 
 her ; I resolved to show that when determined, I 
 can be as firm as any one : when she sent letters, 
 I would not read them ; when she came to my 
 door, I would not admit her ; I knew better than 
 to see her, to be made a fool of by her supplica- 
 tions and tears. I don't think even my firmness 
 would have been proof against her tears. 
 
 Gen. T. (Aside.) Enough,' tis as I wished. My 
 worthy friend, you war with your own peace; 
 call back your daughter ere habits become con- 
 firmed, and want perpetuate errors, so may her 
 penitence find reward in your forgiveness. 
 
 Heartly. What, forgive her ? pardon her faults ? 
 never ! I should not grudge her a trifle in her dis- 
 tress, but I'll never forgive her, that would be bad
 
 63 
 
 example for fathers : how would they blame me 
 for holding out such encouragement to other silly 
 girls ! How would the world condemn me ! 
 
 Gef2. T. And shall a harshly judging world 
 mislead you by specious false refinements, blunt- 
 ing every generous, every social feeling ? Rather 
 take counsel with your heart, 'tis the best monitor, 
 and in the case of parent and of child it seldom 
 errs ; the spark of virtue not quite extinct, a pa- 
 rent's breath will foster, will revive, should you see 
 her, reclaimed from error, once more exploring 
 the virtuous path from which she swerved, think 
 of your triumph J and whilst the tears of joy flow 
 down your aged cheeks, mingling with her re- 
 pentant ones, then ask your heart, whether the 
 feelings of the stern obdurate father can equal 
 yours ? [Exit. 
 
 Heartly. I know not what to do ; this 'tis to 
 be a father: — take counsel with my heart — oh 
 no, 'tis a partial advocate, I dare not trust it here; 
 yet sometimes I have thought 1 could be well 
 pleased to see her once again, see her repentant, 
 to take my last blessing, my forgiveness ; then 
 with her dear hands to close these eyes for ever. 
 
 [^Exif.
 
 64 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 Slack Lion. — Enter Mrs. Bustle and Jack. 
 
 Mrs. B. And do you not know who the gen- 
 tleman is ? 
 
 Jack. Some lawyer, I take it, who has business 
 at Morden Hall, for he asked his way there, and 
 was very inquisitive about Sir Harry and his con- 
 cerns. 
 
 Mrs. JB. Was he ? 'Twou'd have been lucky 
 if he had seen one, I could have told him a great 
 deal. Will he return ? 
 
 Jack. Yes, very shortly, he said, and desired 
 his dinner might be ready for him. 
 
 Mrs. B. That's what it shall, pity you did'nt 
 find out his business here j his dinner, I'll warrant 
 he's a right gentleman : have you taken care of 
 his horse ? 
 
 Jack. Not I, I left that for the ostler to do j 
 taking care of horses is not the waiter's depart- 
 ment. 
 
 Mrs. J5. Upon my word, puppy, things are 
 corne to a pretty pass ; department, indeed ! I 
 expected when I sent you to London, you'd learn 
 to do every thing ; instead of which, all you seem 
 to have learned, is to find excuses for doing 
 nothing : what party was that in the parlour ?
 
 65 
 
 Jack. A few friends, gentlemen of my ac- 
 quaintance, just called in to taste your wine. 
 
 Mrs. JB. Indeed ! pretty doings ; my house 
 filled with rioters, my cellars thrown open to your 
 noisy boozing companions, and this, I suppose, 
 you call generosity ! Ah ! I hate the word ; I 
 wonder where you got it ; not from me, I'll war- 
 rant. 
 
 Jack. No, mother, nor from your wine, for 
 curse me if there's any thing of a generous quality 
 in either. 
 
 (Barny singing zvithout.) 
 
 Jack. Oh! here's Barny returned, he seems 
 rather merry. 
 
 Mrs. B. Aye ! I don't wonder at it ; your 
 example is enough to corrupt the whole house : 
 and I wish that Barny, who was as innocent as 
 a lamb till you returned, mayn't be the worse 
 for it. 
 
 Enter Barny. 
 
 Mrs. B. So, truant, where have you been 
 loitering j wasting your time thus? 
 
 Iiar7iy. What me ? devil burn me if any 
 time I've wasted : I came awav the moment the 
 bottle was out. 
 
 Mrs. B. Tiie bottle ! have you than been 
 drinking, making a beast of yourself? 
 
 Jack. Yes ! quite a lamb.
 
 66 
 
 Mrs. S. Hold your tongue ! ungrateful 
 Barny, is this the way you regard my precepts ? 
 
 Bai^ny. Well, now, havn't I been following your 
 precepts, and your examples too, you Adonis ? 
 
 Mrs. B. Mine, Barny ! 
 
 Barny. Havn't you often said to me, Barny 
 when a customer offers you part of a pot of beer, 
 or a bowl of punch, take it, it helps trade, and is 
 all for the good of the house ; and here, when a 
 worthy gentleman, like Sir Harry Morden, Ba- 
 ronet, gives good old Port and Madeira ; blessings 
 on his kind heartedness, would you have one so 
 cross grained as not to give him a bit of a lift in 
 his turn ? 
 
 Jack. But did you bring any answer to the 
 young lady's letter. 
 
 Barny. Yes, I brought the answer. 
 
 Jack. Where is it ? 
 
 Barny. It's all by word of mouth, so if you 
 please I'll deliver it myself into the young crea- 
 ture's own hands. 
 
 Mrs. B. You deliver \t; I should not have 
 thought of that ; no Barny, I think I'm the proper 
 person to deliver it. 
 
 Barny. What, and rob me of my reward, now 
 would that be fair; why, 'twould be nothing at 
 all to you, Mrs. Bustle. 
 
 Jack. No, more it would Barny; 'twould be 
 thrown away upon her, deliver it yourself by all 
 means.
 
 67 
 
 Mrs. B. And who bid you put in your oar, 
 whelp ? ^et out of the room, and lay the cloth for 
 the gentleman's dinner; that, I take it, is in your 
 department ! 
 
 Jack. Oh, yes ! I'll lay the cloth ! I understand. 
 I'm off ! ha, ha, ha ! Barny, you've the luck of it ; 
 but don't be angry with him, mother, for staying 
 too long : don't be too severe with the poor lamb ; 
 ha, ha, ha ! [Exit. 
 
 Mrs. JB. An impudent unmannerly whelp ! but 
 every body conspires to torment me ; and you, 
 you ingrate ! on whom I have lavished so much 
 tenderness ; you, to trifle with the delicate sen- 
 sibilities of a too susceptible heart ; but it was 
 not always so : when my poor dear Jerry Bustle 
 was alive ! Ah ! he had a tender heart. 
 
 Barny. Yes ! you broke it one day. 
 
 3Irs. B. But I know the cause of this, 'tis your 
 fine young madam ! however I'll soon send her 
 packing ; she shall not stay long to enjoy her 
 triumph; and then you may follow her pretty 
 face, (which for my part I see no beauty in) and 
 her paltry one hundred pounds, that might do so 
 much better any day in the week. 
 
 Barny. Why, fire and thunder, have you got 
 more than one hundred pounds, Mrs. Bustle ? 
 
 Mrs. B. More than a hundred pounds ? more 
 than ten times that sum. 
 
 Barny. What ten times more than ten times?
 
 68 
 
 (counting his ^fingers) Och ! hubbaboo, why its a 
 thousand pounds ; what a bewitching creature ! 
 (Aside.) A thousand pounds, I must bother the 
 old one. 
 
 Mrs. B. And you, had you any spirit, might 
 raise your views above such trumpery ; you might 
 Jook a httle higher, methinks. 
 
 JBarny. To be sure I will ; I'll look to the Black 
 Lion : so I mean I'll look to the thousand pounds 5 
 Oh! you deluder; (aside.) Barny you're a made 
 man. 
 
 Mrs. B. What, you begin to understand do 
 you ? yet I think I've given you hints enough of 
 this before. 
 
 JBarny. But they were all such distant hints ; 
 you never gave me so plump to the purpose before ; 
 one thousand pounds ! I understand very well now, 
 and no more curry-combing for Barny. 
 
 Mrs. JB. Yes ! I fancy you do understand ! 
 and you'll find a sedate body, like me, better than 
 one of these idle flaunting young things -, I know 
 what are the duties of a wife ; I have practised 
 them : but it does not become one to boast of 
 one's own merits. 
 
 Barny. Oh ! there's no occasion. I know 
 them all ; you've a thousand ! is it your pleasure 
 I go speak to the priest, Mrs. Bustle ? 
 
 Mrs. B. Lord, Barny ! you're in such a hurry. 
 Barny. To be sure 5 there's nothing like it !
 
 69 
 
 in these cases, when we've agreed, *tis pity, you 
 know, to loose one thousand pounds ; I mean, its 
 pity to loose a moment. 
 
 Mrs. JS. You've such winning ways there's no 
 resisting you ; I am doomed to be the victim of 
 the tender passions : I must consult my attorney. 
 
 Jiarny, An attorney. Sure, Mrs. Bustle, a priest 
 would be more to our purpose. 
 
 Mrs. JB. All in good time, Barny, all in 
 good time ; but a poor widow should take care of 
 her few valuables; let the lawyers settle them, 
 the priest may follow as soon as you will. [Exit. 
 
 Barny. The priest follow ! what a shame to 
 have no more respect for the clergy ; devil's in't if 
 Barny O Mulshinoge, don't manage better than 
 that ! no, the priest first, by all means ; and the 
 lawyer after, as soon after as you please. By the pow- 
 ers, I think she's mine ! I'm married to the Black 
 Lion ! and if any gentleman in the parish at- 
 tempts to make me a unicorn, I'll call him out ; 
 as my friend. Mister Whackmacrack, called out 
 Mister MackirkincrofF, for making love to Katty 
 O'Donoughoo. 
 
 SONG.
 
 ACT IV. Scene I. 
 
 J?i Apartment at Sir Harry Morden's. 
 Eiiter Sir Harry and Lady Morden. 
 
 Sir H. But let me tell you, Lady Morden — 
 
 Lady M. And let me tell you, Sir Harry, its 
 very unfair of you ; again complaining of my 
 faults. 
 
 Sir H. Then why, madam, provoke me by 
 this daily repetition of them ? Do you think a 
 husband has nothing to do but endure ? 
 
 Lady M. No, to be sure : if you could not en- 
 dure a great deal you were very silly to marry me. 
 
 Sir H. Ridiculous ! 
 
 Lady M. And pray. Sir Harry, what at present 
 constitutes my very great offence ? You men- 
 tioned, for the first time, your intention of remov- 
 ing to London ; I, not forgetting my own abject 
 state of vassalage, or at all renouncing the alle- 
 giance due to the sovereign authority of a husband, 
 (too good a wife for that) with all due humility 
 ventured to entreat we might remain a few weeks 
 longer in the country. 
 
 Sir H. But why urge your request before the 
 General, when you know too I hate the country ?
 
 Lady M. Hate the country ! and is it possible 
 you feel no delight in the cheerful smiles that 
 everywhere mark your approach, the joy your pre- 
 sence diffuses amongst your tenants, your humble 
 neighbours ; no grateful pride in inhabiting this 
 noble mansion of your ancestors ? 
 
 Sir H. Pshaw! nonsense! AVhat man of fash ion, 
 now-a-days, ever thinks of his ancestors or their 
 cumbrous antiquated seats ? In London persons 
 of any consequence may escape the insipidity of 
 one vacant hour ; there they are known, respected 
 in fashionable society. 
 
 Lady M. Respected in fashionable society ! 
 so much the worse. 
 
 Sir H. Very extraordinary doctrine this. 
 
 Lady M. Not at all ; a very short intercourse 
 with fashionable society has convinced me, 'tis one 
 thing to be respected, another to be respectable. 
 
 Sir H. From you. Lady Morden, opposition 
 to my wishes is what I naturally expect -, but, as I 
 trust, I am my own master. 
 
 Lady M. To be sure, Sir Harry, nobody con- 
 troverts that: you are your own master, and, 
 heigho ! mine too ! 
 
 Sir H. And now, weary of your eternal levity, 
 I am determined it shall be the last time I will 
 converse with you on this subject. 
 
 Lady M. Well, I am glad to hear it : I think 
 it high time you started a new one. 
 
 f2
 
 72 
 
 Sir H. Lady Morden, Lady Morden, can you 
 for one moment listen to reason? 
 
 Lady M. Why, Sir Harry, were you going to 
 talk reasonably ? Well, that would be something 
 new. 
 
 Sir H. I see 'tis vain to attempt it ; but in 
 three days I am resolved to quit this country. 
 ( Throxvs himself into a chair.) 
 
 Lady M. What allow me three days to pre- 
 pare ? 'Tis very kind of you. Sir Harry ! (Sir 
 Harry turns away in a rage.) I am very much 
 obh'ged to you for it. Do you make a long stay 
 in town ? Do you travel post. Sir Harry ? Not 
 a word ! Well, I am a wife, and if a husband 
 chooses to amuse himself with a sullen fit, we 
 meek creatures have only to submit (sitting down.) 
 And yet to see the change matrimony can effect ! 
 I can scarcely believe I am the same Harriet 
 Faulkner, whom, three years ago. Sir Harry Mor- 
 den swore was an angel, whom he worshipped as 
 his idol, and would think himself overpaid for hours 
 of supplication by one kind word : that was my 
 day. Now I am married, now comes my turn to 
 supplicate; the tyrant husband has mounted his 
 throne ; the idol sinks from her pedestal ; the angel 
 sues in vain. (Sings.) 
 
 Sir M. Madam, madam ! you provoke me 
 beyond the limits of patience, and I am deter- 
 mined on an immediate separation.
 
 7S 
 
 Lady M. Aye, so you told my uncle. 
 
 Sir H. I did, madam, and will instantly en- 
 force it ; for may every torment woman can in- 
 flict on man, be heaped upon me, if from this mo- 
 ment I see, or converse with you again. 
 
 [Exit Sir Harry. 
 
 Lady M. Was ever any thing so ridiculous ! 
 Oh, man ! man ! lords of the creation as you boast 
 yourselves, be proud of your authority, glory in 
 the fancied superiority of your wisdom; but de- 
 pend on it, in womans' hands you are weak sorry 
 creatures at best. 
 
 Enter General Torrington. 
 
 Gen. T. Lady Morden alone! I thought I heard 
 voices as in dissention in this room. 
 
 Lady M. Most likely ; Sir Harry has just left it. 
 
 Gen. T. And pray, niece, as an old bachelor, 
 of course little versed in the secrets of your free- 
 masonry; allow me to ask, are these jarrings the 
 usual comforts of matrimony? 
 
 Lady M. I fancy they occur in the best regu- 
 lated families. 
 
 Gen. T. Well, 'tis an enlightened age, so I sup- 
 pose that old fashioned doctrine of obedience is — 
 
 Lady M. Much oftener vowed than practised. 
 
 Gen. T. Doubtless, and the duties of a wife— 
 
 Lady M. An obsolete phrase against which 
 we plead custom, custom which has established.
 
 74 
 
 time immemorial, a wife ought to have her own 
 way. 
 
 Gen. T. But ought not a husband sometimes 
 to have his own way ? 
 
 Lady M. What, a husband ! oh, my dear uncle, 
 you know not your own sex, they resemble their 
 favourite spaniels, letting them have their own way 
 is sure to spoil them — but tease them a little, then 
 coax them a little, and huff them into due sub- 
 jection, they become the best, the most docile 
 animals in the creation. 
 
 Gen. T. But though this may be a very con- 
 venient mode, did it never occur to you that by 
 presuming too far — 
 
 Lady M. Oh, don't alarm yourself, women are 
 cowardly creatures at best, and if ever we do pre- 
 sume too far, depend on't 'tis like cowards of the 
 other sex, when we perfectly know our man. 
 
 Gen. T. If you presume on the affection Sir 
 Harry has ever borne you — surely, gratitude, ge- 
 nerosity — 
 
 Lady M. Oh, no more of that, Hal, if thoulovest 
 me ; 'tis a tender point, and to confess the truth, 
 my conscience begins sadly to take part against 
 me; I had, however, no bad motive, 'twas 
 merely to laugh him out of some follies and fop- 
 peries, and I had even now desisted, had n'ot his 
 silly complaints and proposals of separation jus- 
 tified a longer penance; but I will not give him
 
 75 
 
 pain, I will rather relinquish my follies — these, 
 I have done with you — away! begone! thus I 
 blow you to the winds ! " Othello's occupation's 
 o'er — " Oh, I'm quite an altered creature ; 
 though I wish even my reformation may not 
 alarm poor Sir Harry, he'll think it too sudden to 
 be lasting. 
 
 Gen. T. On the contrary, he will with grateful 
 pride acknowledge it as the most pleasurable 
 moment of his life, when he finds in his embar- 
 rassments, he still retains the affections of his wife. 
 Lady M. His embarrassments ! For heaven's 
 sake, what mean you ? Sir Harry embarrassed ? 
 
 Ge7i. T Deeply, deeply ! so much involved, I 
 fear his utter ruin is inevitable 3 is it possible you 
 can be ignorant of this ? 
 
 Lady M. Acting as I have done, is it possible 
 I could know it? 
 
 Gen. T. But did Sir Harry never reveal to 
 you the embarrassment of his affairs ? 
 
 Lady M. Never, on my honour ; I thought his 
 estate ample for every necessary, every liberal ex- 
 pense, and delicately circumstanced as I was with 
 respect to my own fortune — I would not bear he 
 should suspect me of being either a spy upon his 
 actions, or a restraint upon his pleasures. 
 
 Gen. T. His estate had indeed proved ample, 
 had he not suffered himself to be decoyed to the 
 gaming table, that most infallible mode of disen-
 
 76 
 
 cumbering young men of the fatigue attendant on 
 a large estate. 
 
 Lady M. That fills me with concern above the 
 rest, but 'tis time for me to decide how in such a 
 case a wife ought to act — I trust a few minute's 
 reflection will be sufficient for that. I will then, 
 uncle, request the favour of your ear in my own 
 apartment, when I hope to convince you. Sir 
 Harry will have no reason to doubt the affection 
 of his wife, nor you to be ashamed of the conduct 
 of your niece. [Exeunt severally. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 Before Heartly's Cottage. 
 Enter Maria and Jack Bustle. 
 
 Maria. Detained at Morden Hall, affairs of 
 moment, will he not then come back to me ? 
 
 Jack. O yes, shortly, though urgent business 
 for awhile prevented his return, meantime he bid 
 me tell you to expect all would be well, and with 
 that hope keep up your spirits. 
 
 Maria. I shall endeavour so to do, and in truth 
 my curiosity is much gratified by sights so novel. 
 Morden Hall is a most noble mansion, and that 
 cottage has a pleasing cheerful appearance, there 
 is an air of neatness, — to whom does it belong ? 
 
 Jack. To an odd whimsical sort of man, who 
 purchased it about two years since j he seldom
 
 77 
 
 goes any where, and the neighbours say, though 
 in fact they know but httle of him, he is very 
 reserved, and at times much given to melancholy. 
 
 Maria, Do you know his name ? 
 
 Jack. His name is Heartly, he came from 
 London J — but what is this? you seem agitated, 
 alarmed ! What can so suddenly have caused these 
 strong emotions ? 
 
 Maria. Oh, 'tis nothing — a trifle — heed it not. 
 I am often thus, 'tis of no consequence. 
 
 Jack. You tremble too, were it not better we 
 returned ? 
 
 Maria. I feel a little weary, nothing more ; 
 perhaps the owner of this cottage, — I knew him 
 formerly, will not refuse permission to rest myself 
 awhile J once I am sure he would not, I think I'll 
 try. 
 
 Jack. Shall I request it for you ? 
 
 Maria. (Stopping him.) Oh no, there is no 
 need, you may leave me now, I am thankful for 
 your kindness, but will not further trespass on it. 
 I am here, I trust, in friendly hands ; you may 
 safely leave me, I am better now, shall soon, I 
 hope, be well, quite well j good bye ; thanks to 
 your kindness. [Exit Jack.) So here my father 
 dwells. After two years of absence, chance, shall I 
 not hope it may prove lucky, has brought me to 
 his door J the General, too, bids me expect all will 
 be wellj may it be so, for I will venture. {Goes
 
 78 
 
 to the door, rings a bell.) Oh heaven ! if merely 
 a deviation from duty can cause such pangs, what 
 must guilt feel ? 
 
 Enter Timothy. 
 
 Maria. Pray, friend, can you inform me if 
 Mr. Heartly is vi^ithin ? 
 
 Tim. Why, that be somewhat of a puzzling 
 sort of a question for servants in the country ^ 
 now, in London, there be an answer ready for all 
 comers j for your genteel visitors, that nobody is 
 within J for tradesfolks, that they must call again 
 to-morrow. 
 
 Maria. Then, I suppose, he is within j have the 
 goodness to shew me to him. 
 
 Tim. What, me, shew you to master; come, 
 that be a good one, and who do you think would 
 be the fool then ? 
 
 Maria. Nay, but I have business, business of 
 importance ; indeed, most urgent, and I have tra- 
 velled far to see him ; prithee, friend, indulge me ; 
 but here, my purse, (offers it) take it, sure you 
 will not refuse me. 
 
 Tim. (Taking the purse.) Pooh, not to take 
 your purse, there'd be no sense in refusing that 
 you know, but for seeing master, that be clear 
 another thing j why, bless you, he wont let no 
 woman come into the house, he hates them so. 
 
 Maria. Indeed !
 
 79 
 
 Tim. Yes, and all on account of a good-for- 
 nothing daughter, whom he hates worse than all. 
 
 Maria. Oh no ! not hate her, I know he is 
 incensed, is angry, but sure he cannot hate his 
 child ? 
 
 Tim. Oh, but he does, she's so wicked and 
 abominable; why, its all along of her he's un- 
 happy, and, for my part, if I was to see her, I am 
 sure I should hate her too. 
 
 Maria. You see her now. — I am that daughter. 
 
 Tim. What, you ? Oh lud. Oh lud ! you, the 
 wicked, abominable ! — let me look at your face ; — 
 why it can't J>e, 'tis all a mistake,! am sure there's 
 nothing aborninable there. 
 
 Maria. Let me see him, perhaps his anger has 
 now subsided, and he may vouchsafe a pardon to 
 his repentant, supplicating child ; 'tis my last re- 
 source, my only hope ; then prithee, friend, do 
 not, do not refuse me ! 
 
 Tim. (Aside.) 1 wish I dare let her in, but 1 
 dare not, indeed Miss I dare not. 
 
 Maria. Then I will hence ; now farewell ail, 
 for you, — well, I should not blame what duty 
 to a master prompts, you cannot judge what my 
 sufferings are ; you perhaps have never known 
 what it is to be divided from a parent's love, or 
 what the bliss after long doubts and sufferings to 
 be restored to him once more ? 
 
 Tim. (Returning the purse.) Take it again.
 
 80 
 
 Maria. For heaven's sake what mean you ? 
 
 Tim. No matter, only take it, but walk in, 
 pray Miss walk in, come what will of it, I'll take 
 you to master. [Exit. 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 Room in Cottage. 
 
 Enter Heartly. 
 
 Heartly. Surely I heard voices at the door, 
 can it be the General returned ? That were too 
 much, such another conflict and I am lost. Oh 
 nature ! nature ! why keep tugging here — why 
 take the part of an ungrateful — (Tim. without. 
 Come along.) Hark ! Oh ! 'tis Tim. 
 
 Enter Tim, and Maria behind. 
 
 Tim. There, there ! be master. [Exit. 
 
 Heartly. [Looking round.) Who's there, Maria ? 
 
 Maria. One whose approach in happier times 
 you never greeted but with smiles, though now, 
 hard fate) constrained to tremble at a father's 
 presence. 
 
 Heartly. And well you may, I don't at all 
 wonder at it, you feel the consequences of dis- 
 obedience and folly, do you ? It ever must be so ;
 
 81 
 
 but I expected something of this when General 
 Torrington called. — Aye, I see clearly 'twas a 
 concerted plan between you, he was to bring you 
 down in hopes of soft'ning the old fool, but it 
 wont do, I am fixed — adamant. 
 
 Maria. No, on my life, I knew not of his 
 coming, of his return to England, but met him at 
 the inn by accident. 
 
 Heartly. {Rather softened.) And did you take 
 this journey purposely to see your father? 
 
 Maria. I did, in hopes that time had somewhat 
 softened your resentment, that you would now 
 recall your dreadful malediction ; for they told me, 
 in the first moments of your rage, you cursed your 
 daughter. 
 
 Heartly. No, I did not- I don't think I did, I 
 know I was in a furious rage, as well I might be, 
 and abused you pretty roundly as you richly de- 
 served ; but surely I did not curse, no, somehow 
 I don't think I could have cursed my child. 
 
 Maria. Blessings on you for those kind words 1 
 they have restored a world of peace, nor for my- 
 self would I solicit farther, but there is one has 
 claims he cannot urge himself, he is no party to 
 his mother's faults ; him you might see, my babe, 
 he never offended you. 
 
 Heartly. What, me see your child! very pretty 
 indeed, though, as you say, he ought not to be
 
 82 
 
 blamed for what you did, he could not help that, 
 certainly not; I think I might s6e him, yes, 
 somehow, I think I should like to see him, but 
 you need not be so alarmed, I don't want to 
 frighten you, there's no occasion to stand trem- 
 bling there. 
 
 Maria. (Adva7icing.) Blessed hearing! my 
 father no longer banishes me his presence, he bids 
 his child approach him ; unhoped for happiness ! 
 {Seizes his hand.) 
 
 Heartly. [Apparently struggles to get loose ^ yet 
 detains her hand.) Nay, nay, I can no more — 
 presume not further, your fault was great ; I can- 
 not, must not pardon it. 
 
 Maria. Alas! for pity. 
 
 Heartly. How could you leave your father to 
 turn to folly, you that was the joy of these old 
 eyes, that was my darling ? Maria, you have cut 
 me to the heart, you have destroyed my peace ; 
 I never can be happy more, never again, no 1 — 
 What's here, a ring ! a wedding ring ? 
 
 Maria. Placed there by Selwyn, when at the 
 altar our vows were registered. 
 
 Heartly. What's that? Selwyn I vows! altar! 
 what, married ? 
 
 Maria. I am Selwyn's wife. 
 
 Heartly. His wife — really his wife — really mar- 
 ried, virtuous, innocent ?
 
 Maria. I am. Though I erred in duty, from 
 virtue I never swerved. 
 
 Heartly. My child ! my child !• — Come to my 
 arms — come to my heart — to your old father's 
 heart! Still good — still innocent ! But why was 
 iiot this explained before? Why conceal your 
 marriage ? 
 
 Maria. Because that Selwyn, dreading the re- 
 sentment of his family, had bound me by a so- 
 lemn promise, except to you, never to reveal it. 
 
 Heartly. Thea why did not you reveal it to 
 me? 
 
 Maria. I did. Denied admission to you, I 
 sent you letters explaining all. 
 
 Heartly. You sent me letters — 
 
 Maria. Many. Did not you receive them ? 
 
 Heartly. Why, yes. I think — I recollect — 
 there were some letters ; but then, I — Well, well, 
 — I believe I was a little hasty there. (Aside) A 
 wrong-headed, obstinate old fool, not to open 
 them. But we'll not think of the past. I have 
 you again, Maria, and that's enough. So now 
 we'll go to the inn ; I lonis: to see him. 
 
 Maria. See him. — See who. Sir? 
 
 Heartly. Ah, you baggage, as if you did not 
 know who ; — why, my grandson, to be sure, 
 your little boy. I'll make him a rich rascal. — 
 I'm glad its a boy — you said it was a boy, didn't 
 you?
 
 84 
 
 Maria. I did j — sweet innocent — but he is not 
 there. 
 
 Heartly. Not there j then where the devil is 
 he ? Sure you have not come without him ? 
 
 Maria. O yes. I feared the journey — his 
 tender age. — I could not then foresee the happi- 
 ness of this moment j and though the pang was 
 great to part with him, to leave him but for a i^yt 
 days 
 
 Heartly. A few days ! — You should not have 
 left him for one day. — Leave him to strangers too. 
 How do you know they'll take care of him? — 
 *Twas wrong of you ; it looks like deserting him 
 — like unkindness to your child j and that's d — n'd 
 unnatural in a parent 
 
 Maria. Ah, Sir! 
 
 Hearth). However, I'll send for him. I'll find 
 some careful person to fetch him — not you — I 
 cannot part with you, Maria j you must stay with 
 me. — Here, Tim. — Hang it, you should not have 
 come without him. — Why, Tim. 
 
 Enter Tjm. 
 
 7Vm. I be coming. 
 
 Heartly. Then why don't you come a little 
 faster ? Do you know I'm mad ? 
 Tim. To be sure I does. 
 Heartly. Then how dare you come crawling
 
 85 
 
 with that damn'd ugly, melancholy face, when 
 your master's stark staring mad for joy ? 
 
 Tim. Why, what does all this mean ? 
 
 Heartly. Mean ! — It means that I am a fool — 
 that I am a hasty old blockhead. 
 
 Tim. To be sure; I've told you so many'sthe 
 good time, but you never believed it before. 
 
 Heartly. That for years my life has been a 
 burthen to me, whilst blindness and folly ren- 
 dered me insensible to the distresses of a beloved 
 child ; that when happiness courted me, I shut 
 her out, and obstinately barr'd my doors against 
 her approach ; but now my heart is opened once 
 more to joy, my house shall be opened, my purse 
 be opened, my cellar be opened. Tim, you can 
 find the key? 
 
 Tim. O, if you be in that mind, curse the 
 key, I'll break open the door. 
 
 Heartly. Aye, so do, Tim ; and invite my 
 neighbours J assemble them all, young and old, 
 men and women, be sure you don't forget the 
 young women, I like young women. But first, 
 Tim, find out Dame Carter, tell her I want her ; 
 she must prepare for a journey \ and bid her come 
 directly. 
 
 Tim. This be a joyful day. When I looked 
 at that sweet face, I said master was wrong. I 
 be so happy I let you in. \Exit. 
 
 Heartly. But, come, we'll meet the old dame ;
 
 86 
 
 I shall be very impatient for her return. Hang 
 it, Maria, you should not, you should not have 
 left the child! I could find in my heart to scold 
 you well for it. But no ; this — this makes amends 
 for all. [Exit Heart ly, kissing Maria's ha?id. 
 
 END OF ACT IV.
 
 •^'^ ACT V.-SCENE I. 
 
 The Black Lion Tap Room. 
 
 ■J i. •!• 
 
 Enter Jack Bustle and Susan. 
 
 Jack. My mother from home, and the young 
 lady not returned ? 
 
 Susan. Mistress has been out these three hours. 
 I assure you, I never saw her so cheerful and good- 
 humoured before; there was even a smile upon 
 her countenance. 
 
 Jack. A smile ! that's a very unusual thing. 
 But where is Barny ? 
 
 Susan. I can't say, unless in the stable ; he has 
 not been in-doors lately. 
 
 Barny. {Without) Why, Jack! Jack Bustle! 
 Susan I Where have you all got to ? 
 
 Susan. I declare 'tis Barny. /Who'd have 
 thought of his calling about him so ? 
 
 Enter Barny, dressed in white ; a Wedding Fa- 
 vour in his Hat ; a large Nosegay. 
 
 Barny. Upon my word, here's pretty goings 
 on. How do you suppose the business of my 
 house is to be minded when you two get col- 
 Q 2
 
 88 
 
 oquing in a corner ? — Room not cleaned — cloth 
 not laid — customers not served. — See the end of 
 this — house out of windows — trade fall off — 
 deary and I fall out — smash — Gazette— won't do 
 at all ! 
 
 Jack. Why, Barny, what does all this mean ? 
 
 Barny. Mean ! I'll tell you what. Master Jack 
 Bustle, I'd have you learn a little more duty and 
 obedience; and next time you come out with 
 your Barnys, please to put Mister before it, by 
 way of a little addition, unless you prefer saying 
 honoured father, which will do as well. 
 
 Jack, Barny, the ostler, my father ! that would 
 be a good one. 
 
 Sarny. Ostler! — curse horses! — done with 
 them.— Master of house — master of Mrs. Bustle 
 —dealer in wine, spirituous liquors, ale, and to- 
 bacco — great promotion. This morning I was 
 only a groom in the stables, but now I am lord of 
 the bedchamber. 
 
 Jack. 1 r mother ! 
 
 c, > Married to my \ ,_ , 
 
 ousan. J "^ j mistress ! 
 
 JBarny. To be sure ; — there was no other way 
 of getting at the Black Lion and all the property; 
 and here I'm quite in the fashion all at once, for 
 my property is saddled with a d — n'd heavy in- 
 cumbrance. 
 
 Susan. Well, to see how oddly things turn out. 
 Barny my master, ha, ha, ha! If I was to die
 
 89 
 
 for it, I could not help laughing, master, indeed, 
 ha, ha, ha ! [Exit Susan. 
 
 Barny. That's a very impertinent young wo- 
 man, and I discharge her : by the powers I must 
 show off a bit, or these servants of mine won't 
 know who's master. Well, Jack Bustle, as an 
 old friend, sure it would not cost you much to 
 say — wish you joy, or good luck to you : do you 
 think if you was to marry my mother I'd serve 
 you so ? 
 
 Jack, Faith, Barny, I should be but an awk- 
 ward hypocrite to express satisfaction I cannot 
 feel. 
 
 Barny. Well, but you and I have been good 
 friends hitherto, and that's no reason we should 
 quarrel now we are father and son j mayhap you 
 think I have rather jumped over your head, into 
 the old girl's strong box ; but Barny O'Mulshi- 
 noge scorns to wrong you or any man ; so if that 
 will content you, take half the cash and wel- 
 come — we'll be partners, — and good luck to the 
 firm of O'Mulshinoge and Bustle. 
 
 Jack. Say you so ? Then here's my hand, your 
 offer is liberal, and I accept it thankfully; 1 could 
 not expect to control my mother's choice, but 
 think myself fortunate it has fallen on so worthy 
 a fellow. 
 
 Barny. Faith, you may ; for let me tell you
 
 90 
 
 it can't be every one's good luck to have an Irish- 
 man for his father. 
 
 Tim. (Without.) Hollo! here! house! 
 
 Sarny. Hark ! customers aheady ; to be sure 
 they won't flock to the new landlord; oh, no! 
 gentility's notiiing in our business. 
 
 Enter TY^oiwi. 
 
 Tim. Pray, sir, asking pardon for my boldness, 
 can you inform me if I may speak to the mistress 
 of this house ? 
 
 iBarny. To be sure you may ; that's myself, 
 honey. 
 
 Tim. Well, that be comical enough. Why, ha, 
 ba, ha! 'tijijlje; dang me, but he's done it. I be 
 main glad of this. 
 
 JBarny. What, you did not know me, Tim ? 
 though that's not to be wondered at ; being well 
 dressed makes a difference. 
 
 Tim. And thee be'st so desperate smart ; but. 
 Madam Maria sent me, the young lady who was 
 hiere, master's daughter. 
 
 Jack. Mr. Heartly's daughter? then this ac- 
 counts for her agitation when she was at his door. 
 
 TVw. She wishes you would send her things and 
 the bill, my lady have sent for her, so she be going 
 to Morden Hall.
 
 91 
 
 Barny. Well, she's not to be blamed for that ; 
 nobody gives better wine than Sir Harry Morden. 
 
 Tim. Master be now quite an altered man j he 
 thought she was wicked and all that ; but, bless 
 you, she be married. 
 
 JBarny. Married is she? poor creature ! Well, 
 Jack, write out the bill, you've been used to writ- 
 ing, so I may as well leave that to you; I'll step 
 with it myself: but don't charge her much. And 
 now I'll take the small liberty of requesting my 
 beloved to return her one hundred pounds. 
 
 Jack. Faith, Barny, I like your notions much, 
 they do you credit. But will Mrs. Bustle — 
 
 Barny. Please to say Mrs. Omulshinoge, my 
 dear ; that's her name now. 
 
 Jack. I forgot 3 at present, no doubt, you are 
 high in favour ; but you'll find this a tender point, 
 which may rouse the Lion. 
 
 Barny. That for her Lion ; who cares ? But if 
 she treats a young creature in distress, or any 
 creature, with barbarity in my house, by my 
 soul, she'll rouse the Black Lion, and that's my- 
 self 
 
 Tim. Ah, Master Barny, you had always a 
 warm heart. 
 
 Barny. Faith, and its rather a spendthrift one, 
 for it has run through half my fortune before I 
 am well got into possession : but. Jack, whilst J
 
 92 
 
 go to Sir Harry's, you must take care of my friend 
 Tim. 
 
 Jack. Aye, aye, by all means ; leave him to 
 me. Come, honest Tim, you and I must take a 
 cheerful glass. 
 
 , Tim. Oh ! I can't stay, I have a mort to do ; 
 to be sure 'twould be unkind to refuse a glass or 
 so, just to drink a health to Mr. Barny, and hap- 
 piness and long life to his spouse. 
 
 3arny. Oh, don't think of that, drinking toasts 
 is a mighty unfashionable practice. (To Jack 
 Bustle arid Tim Scamp as they go out.) Well, to 
 be sure, Barny, you a'nt nobody ; oh, no ! 'tis 
 nothing at all to be a housekeeper; and now 
 you're lord over the Black Lion, and all the move- 
 ables, you won't lay about you a little. But I 
 must be off to Sir Harry Morden's. Now how 
 to manage to get the young creature's one hun- 
 dred pound — to be sure it won't be the thing to 
 fall out on one's wedding-day ; but I have always 
 thought the honestest path the safest, and as I 
 fancy my spouse has a great deal yet to learn in 
 this way, why the sooner she takes her first lesson 
 the better. [Exit.
 
 93 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 An Apartment in Sir Harry Morden's. 
 
 Enter Sir H. Morden, Letters in his Hand, and 
 Servant. 
 
 Sir II. From whom did you receive it ? 
 
 Serv. A gentleman left it himself. 
 
 Sir H. 'Tis very well. (Exit Servant.) A law- 
 yer no doubt ; harsh, I confess ; but gentlemen 
 of his profession are not strict observers of cere- 
 monials. This is no more than I expected j but 
 this (looking at another letter), this 1 own cuts 
 deep, here I was unprepared : what will the Ge- 
 neral say to find me now a convert to his doctrine, 
 to hear me acknowledge the melancholy truth in 
 my distress, I know not Where to find a Friend. 
 
 Enter General Torrington. 
 
 Gen. T. Agreeable to your wishes, Sir Harry, I 
 have waited on your Solicitor, who, by my in- 
 structions, has prepared this draft of a deed of 
 separation, which may be immediately engrossed, 
 and the business concluded at once, unless you 
 have again changed your mind. 
 
 SirH. On the contrary, I am now more anxious 
 for its completion, which leaves me at liberty to
 
 94 
 
 evade some of the ill effects of the ruin that hourly 
 stares me in the face, by a temporary absence from 
 England. 
 
 Gen. T. Leave England ! 
 
 Sir H. By this letter I am led to expect an im- 
 mediate execution in the house, whilst one on whom 
 I thought I might rely in my distress, whose means 
 are ample, whose offers of service were unsolicited, 
 contains, M'ith a refusal of the least assistance, 
 threats of public exposure, if play debts, to a 
 large amount, are not immediately liquidated. 
 
 Gen. T, Sir Harry, your present disappoint- 
 ment is just what I expected: the friendship that 
 is plighted at the gaming-table, that springs from 
 riot and extravagance, we shall find but a fragile 
 plank, when we would cling to it in the hour of 
 worldly peril. 
 
 Sir Hk Such too late I find it j and if any thing 
 can increase the bitterness of the moment, it is 
 that the recollection of confidence so misplaced, 
 adds stings to disappointment. 
 
 Gen. T. Then, Sir Harry, you have yet no 
 occasion to despair j amidst all your distresses 
 you have one friend left. 
 
 Sir H. Can it be possible } have I, indeed, a 
 friend ? 
 
 Gen. T. You have a firm, a faithful one, whom 
 poverty cannot estrange, calamity cannot aUe- 
 toate.
 
 95 
 
 Sir H. Oh, instant let me see him ! Give him 
 to my heart ! that I may pour it out in thankful- 
 ness to this unknown, this best of benefactors ! 
 
 Gen. T. (Knocks at the door.) That summons 
 is sufficient ; your benefactor you now will see, will 
 know ; and then, I trust, will also learn the worth 
 which, in your hours of folly, you have slighted : 
 but now, when wants assail you, stands forward, 
 far superior to selfish mercenary views, sacrifices 
 its own to a friend's welfare. Happy the man who 
 calls such a person friend j happier he who calls 
 that friend a wife ! (Presents Lady Morden.) 
 
 Sir H. Lady Morden ! Am I indeed so blessed 
 to find in you my benefactor, my preserver, my 
 friend ! 
 
 Lady M. Sir Harry, I but perform what I deem 
 a wife's duty : by the General's concurrence, the 
 estates of my father are at your entire disposal ; 
 believe me, had my wishes been acceded to, they 
 had long since been yours. 
 
 Gen, T. Sir Harry, when the accounts come 
 to be looked over, you'll find I've been no very 
 negligent steward. The savings are considerable, 
 I trust, sufficient to extricate you ; if not, why an 
 old battered fellow retiring from the bustle of 
 active life, cannot have many wants ; and a few 
 thousands, the wages of some hard blows, may be 
 easily found to prevent the sacrifice of your estates. 
 
 Lady M. My kind, ray dear uncle !
 
 96 
 
 Enter Heartly and Maria. 
 
 Lady M. My dear Maria, how rejoiced am 
 1 to see you ! 
 
 Gen. T, My old friend! 
 
 Heartly. Sir Harry, though not included in 
 Lady Morden's invitation, I have made bold to 
 attend my daughter: — I believe I ought to apo- 
 logize for having formerly rather too abruptly 
 declined the honour of your notice ; but 1 was as 
 obstinate and wrong-headed in that respect as I 
 have been in some others. 
 
 Sir H. No apology, I beg, Mr. Heartly : I 
 sincerely congratulate you on your daughter's 
 being restored to you, and trust we shall have 
 many opportunities of cultivating yours and Miss 
 Heartly's friendship. 
 
 Heartly. Mrs. Selwyn's, Sir Harry ! 
 
 Lady M. What, married ! 
 
 Gen. T. Married ! If Selwyn be the man, you 
 must prepare to welcome a hero ; and you will 
 think him not the less worthy your esteem when 
 he claims also the gratitude of his country. 
 
 Heartly. Say you so ! he has behaved honour- 
 ably to my daughter, and shall have her with a 
 fortune of sixty thousand pounds. 
 
 Gen. T. Sixty thousand pounds ! Why he'll be 
 here in a few days. 
 
 Maria. A few days ! — Then shall I indeed be
 
 97 
 
 happy, bless'd in my father's forgiveness and Sel- 
 wyn s presence. Wliat can I wish for more ? 
 
 HeartLy. What more? why, another person's 
 presence, to be sure; you know who. O hang 
 it, I can't suffer him to be left out. 
 
 Enter Barny. 
 
 Gen. T. Why, who have we here? 'Tis my 
 good friend, honest Peas and Beans. 
 
 Barny. The same, your honour, but quite dif- 
 ferent ; I'm not Peas and Beans now : I'm no 
 longer ostler, that's all the better for your horses ; 
 they won't be cheated of their corn now. Well, 
 I've brought your things and left them in the 
 hall ; and here's your hundred pounds all safe ; 
 a tight job I had to get it ; I've lost the flitch by 
 it, that's clear : but, blessings on your sweet 
 countenance ! I'd quarrel with all the old wives in 
 England, and Ireland to boot, rather than see you 
 wronged of a rap. 
 
 Maria. 'Tis very right; and you must now 
 point out the way by which I can reward you for 
 this and other services which I shall ever thank- 
 fully acknowledge. 
 
 Barny. Sure and that's overpaying me; be- 
 sides, where'd be the use of giving one money, 
 seeing that already I've more of my own than I 
 want, or I should never have married ? 
 
 Maria. Married !
 
 98 
 
 Barny. Yes, miss, the Black Lion's my own ; 
 that's why I'm so well dressed ; and if you'd 
 honour the day by wearing some small token, if it 
 was but a favour, or one of those roses : (pulling 
 one out) 'tis my wedding itosegay, and O, d — n 
 the thorns ! 
 
 Gen. T. I fear, my honest fellow, you will have 
 but too much reason to complain of them ; whilst 
 you. Sir Harry, 1 trust, will henceforth be blessed 
 with an unfading garland of love and delight. But 
 I forgot these articles of separation ; I suppose 
 you have no occasion for them now, so they may 
 as well be destroyed. 
 
 Barny. (Aside.) 'I'will be a pity though to 
 destroy them. As his Honour don't want those 
 same articles, if he'd give them to me, I think in a 
 very short time they may be wanted at the Black 
 Lion. 
 
 Lady M. Yet, may they not serve as useful 
 monitors to check every approach to former follies ; 
 and bringing to recollection the events of this 
 day, teach us hereafter to avoid them ? 
 
 Sir H. You, Lady Morden, want no monitor 
 - — for myself, I trust I have a better one within, 
 which can never cease to beat with love and gra- 
 titude to that transcendent goodness, which has 
 averted the evils wherewith I was surrounded, 
 restored me to happiness, and taught me, Where 
 to find a Friejid. [Exeunt omnes.
 
 EPILOGUE. 
 
 Written by the Honoin^able George Lamb . 
 And spoken hy Miss Kelly. 
 
 Mean is the fame the Comic Bard can reach, 
 
 (Howe'er amusing) if he fails to teach. 
 
 Has then the lesson that this play imparts, 
 
 Enforc'd its moral on our hearers' hearts ? 
 
 Will one wife here (if one, oh ! let me find her) 
 
 Become less teasing, or one husband kinder ? 
 
 Can man, can lordly man, put up, through life, 
 
 With but one female friend, and that his wife ? 
 
 Or virtuous ladies be content to close 
 
 Their harmless friendships Avith platonic beaux ? 
 
 " Friendship" — a poet writes — " like love's a name." 
 
 Are they not often, ladies, both the same ? 
 
 Friendship's a light that beams in safe control, 
 
 To help, to guide, to gladden, or console; 
 
 Should it the touch of fiercer passion know. 
 
 Blaze into love, and with its madness glow. 
 
 It mounts like raging fires in stormy weather. 
 
 And love and friendship both burn out together. 
 
 Enough of marriage; a trite theme that fits 
 
 The brains of all that are, or would be, wits. 
 
 Now let us ask, what kind of friendship aids 
 
 The wiser lives of bachelors and maids. 
 
 Oh ! from what various causes, acts, aud things. 
 Friendship, or what at least is call'd so, springs ! 
 From wine, from law, from quarrels, illness, want, 
 Congenial folly, and conspiring cant, 
 Agreeing hatred, undeserv'd reproaches. 
 Falls, fits, mistakes, and journeys in stage-coaches.
 
 100 
 
 " Sir," says the challenger, with courtliest grace, 
 *' You'll answer soon, and fix both tinme and place." 
 
 " Tho' quite a stranger, I'll your call attend, ^ 
 ** I know no soul here, but I'll find a friend." 
 
 The good man, ruin'd by deceit and fraud, 
 Burns to proclaim the villain's name abroad. 
 " Learn," he exclaims, " learn caution from my fall, 
 ^' Trust not the wretch, for he'll betray you all." 
 
 " Say that no more," cries one, " I recommend." 
 " Not say 't! 'tis true." — <' Yes, Sir, — but he's my friend." 
 
 The lawyer, viewing with malicious breast 
 A rival's bag, that bursts with briefs compress'd, 
 Still keeps that amity, with spite though big. 
 That's still assum'd each morning with his wig ; 
 And feels convinc'd his lordship won't attend 
 *' To the gross ignorance of my learned friend." 
 
 Such friendship is, such is its rise and aim, 
 All give, all take, all misapply the name. 
 Who sold you that vile nag, that risk'd your life ? 
 Who stole your daughter ? who seduc'd your wife ? 
 Who won your money ? who still makes you lend. 
 And ne'er repays? One answer serves — my friend. 
 
 Yet there are ways to find and make your own. 
 Some true, some real friends, as I have known. 
 
 I have some friends, too : such this hour demands ; 
 Whose fav'ring hearts speak by applauding hands. 
 The best I know — and 'twas our Author's whim, 
 That sent me here to find some such for him ; 
 Well, then, ^' speak hands for him" — a cheering sign ; 
 But let the hearts that prompt them still be mine. 
 
 FINIS. 
 
 Wlunuigham and Rowland, Fritters, GosweU Street, London. 

 
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