SCENE I.— In the fore-ground a Farm House— A view of a Castle at a distance.

WELL, Dame, welcome whoam. What news does thee bring vrom market?

What news, husband? What I always told you; that Farmer Grundy's wheat brought five shillings a quarter more than ours did.

All the better vor he.

Ah! the sun seems to shine on purpose for him.

Come, come, Missus, as thee has not the grace to thank God for prosperous times, dan't thee grumble when they be unkindly a bit.

[Page 6]

And I assure you Dame Grundy's butter was quite the crack of the market.

Be quiet, woolye? aleways ding, dinging Dame Grundy into my ears—what will Mrs. Grundy zay? What will Mrs. Grundy think?— Casn't thee be quiet, let ur alone, and behave thy­zel pratty?

Certainly I can—I'll tell thee, Tummas, what she said at church last Sunday.

Canst thee tell what parson zaid? Noa— Then I'll tell thee—A' zaid that envy were as foul a weed as grows, and cankers all wholesome plants that be near it—that's what a'zaid.

And do you think I envy Mrs. Grundy indeed?

What dant thee letten her aloane then—I do verily think when thee goest to t'other world, the vurst question thee't ax 'il be, if Mrs. Grundy's there—Zoa be quiet, and behave pratty, do'ye— Has thee brought whoam the Salisbury news?

No, Tummas; but I have brought a rare wadget of news with me. First and foremost I saw such a mort of coaches, servants, and wag­gons, all belonging to Sir Abel Handy, and all coming to the Castle—and a handsome young man, dressed all in lace, pull'd off his hat to me, and said— ‘Mrs. Ashfield, do me the honour of presenting that letter to your husband.’—So, there he stood without his hat—Oh, Tummas, had you seen how Mrs. Grundy looked!

Dom Mrs. Grundy—be quiet, and let I read, woolye?

"My dear Farmer"

, Thankye, Zur—zame to you we all my heart and soul—" My dear Farmer"—

Farmer—Why, you are blind, Tummas; it is—" My dear Father"—'Tis from our own dear Susan.

[Page 7]

Odds! dickens and daizeys! zoo it be, zure enow!—"My dear Feyther, you will be sur­prized"—Zoo I be, he, he! What pretty writing, beant it? all as strait as thof it were ploughed— ‘Surprised to hear that in a few hours I shall em­brace you—Nelly, who formerly was our servant, has fortunately married Sir Abel Handy Bart.’—

Handy Bart—Pugh! Bart. stands for Baronight, mun.

Likely, likely—Drabbit it, only to think of the zwaps and changes of this world!

Our Nelly married to a great Baronet! I wonder, Tummas, what Mrs. Grundy will say?

Now, woolye be quiet, and let I read— ‘And she has proposed bringing me to see you; an offer, I hope, as acceptable to my dear feyther’—

"And mother"—

Bless her, how prettily she do write feyther, dant she?

And mother.

Ees, but feyther first, though— ‘As acceptable to my dear feyther and mother, as to their affectionate daughter—Susan Ashfield’— Now beant that a pratty letter?

And, Tummas, is not she a pretty girl?

Ees; and as good as she be pratty— Drabbit it, I do feel zoo happy, and zoo warm,— for all the world like the zun in harvest.

Oh, Tummas, I shall be so pleased to see her, I shan't know whether I stand on my head or my heels.

Stand on thy head! vor sheame o'thyzel— behave pratty, do.

[Page 8]

Nay, I meant no harm—Eh, here comes friend Evergreen the gardner, from the Castle. Bless me, what a hurry the old man is in.

Good day, honest Thomas.

Zame to you, measter Evergreen.

Have you heard the news?

Anything about Mrs. Grundy?

Dame, be quiet, woolye now?

No, no—The news is, that my master, Sir Philip Blandford, after having been abroad for twenty years, returns this day to the Castle; and that the reason of his coming, is to marry his only daughter to the son of Sir Abel Handy, I think they call him.

As sure as twopence, that is Nelly's husband.

Indeed!—Well, Sir Abel and his son will be here immediately; and, Farmer, you must attend them.

Likely, likely.

And, mistress, come and lend us a hand at the Castle, will you?—Ah, twenty long years since I have seen Sir Philip—Poor Gentleman! bad, bad health—worn almost to the grave, I am told.—What a lad do I remember him—till that dreadful—

But where is Henry? I must see him—must caution him

That's his gun, I suppose— he is not far then—Poor Henry!

Poor Henry! I like that indeed! What, though he be nobody knows who, there is not a girl in the parish that is not ready to pull caps for [Page 9]him—The Miss Grundys, genteel as they think themselves, would be glad to snap at him—If he were our own, we could not love him better.

And he deserves to be loved—Why, he's as handsome as a peach tree in blossom; and his mind is as free from weeds as my favourite car­nation bed. But, Thomas, run to the Castle, and receive Sir Abel and his son.

I wool, I wool—Zo, good day,

Let every man make his bow, and behave pratty— that's what I say—Missus, do'ye shew un Sue's letter, woolye? Doye letten see how pratty she do write feyther.

Now Tummas is gone, I'll tell you such a story about Mrs. Grundy—But come, step in, you must needs be weary; and I am sure a mug of harvest beer, sweetened with a hearty welcome, will refresh you.

SCENE II.— Outside and Gate of the Castle.— Servants cross the Stage, laden with different Packages.

Drabbit it, the wold castle 'ull be hardly big enow to hold all thic lumber—Who do come here? A do zeem a comical zoart ov a man—Oh, Abel Handy, I suppoze.

Gently there! mind how you go, Robin.

Zounds and fury! you have killed the whole county, you dog! for you have broke the patent [Page 10]medicine chest, that was to keep them all alive!— Richard, gently!—take care of the grand Archime­dian corkscrews!—Bless my soul! so much to think of! Such wonderful inventions in concep­tion, in concoction, and in completion!

Well, Peter, is the carriage much broke?

Smashed all to pieces. I thought as how, Sir, that your infallible axletree would give way.

Confound it, it has compelled me to walk so far in the wet, that I declare my water­proof shoes are completely soaked through.

Zarvent, Zur! Zarvent!

What's that? Oh, good day.—Devil take the fellow!

Thankye, Zur; zame to you wi' all my heart and zoul.

Pray, friend, cou'd you contrive gently to inform me, where I can find one Farmer Ash­field.

Ha, ha, ha!

Excuse my tittering a bit—but your axing myzel vor I be so domm'd zilly

—Ah! you stare at I beceas I be bashful and daunted.

You are very bashful to be sure. I declare I'm quite weary.

If you'll walk into the Castle, you may zit down, I dare zay.

May I, indeed! you are a fellow of extraordinary civility.

[Page 11]

There's no denying it, Zur.

No, I'll sit here.

What! on the ground? Why, you'll wring your ould withers—

On the ground—no, I always carry my fear with me

Here I'll sit and examine the surveyor's account of the Castle.

Dickens and daizeys! what a gentleman you wou'd be to shew at a vair!

Silence, fellow, and attend— ‘An ac­count of the castle and domain of Sir Philip Blandford, intended to be settled as a marriage portion on his daughter, and the son of Sir Abel Handy, by Frank Flourish, surveyor.— Imprimis—The premises command an exqui­site view of he isle of Wight.’—Charming! delightful! I don't see it though

—I'll try with my [...]ew glass—my own invention—

Yes, there I caught it—Ah! now I see it plainly—Eh! no—I don't see it, do you?

Noa, Zur, I doant—but little zweepy do tell I he can zee a bit out from the top of the chimbley—zoa, an you've a mind to crawl up you may zee un too, he, he!

Thank you—but damn your titter!

—"Fish ponds well stocked"—That's a good thing, Farmer.

Likely, likely—but I doant think the vishes do thrive much in theas ponds.

No! Why?

Why, the ponds be always dry i' the zum­mer; and I be tuold that beant wholesome vor the little vishes.

Not very, I believe—Well said sur­veyor! "A cool summer-house."

[Page 12]

Ees, Zur, quite cool—by reason the roof be tumbled in.

Better and better— ‘The whole ca­pable pable of the greatest improvement.’—Come, that seems true however—I shall have plenty to do, that's one comfort—I'll have such contrivances! I'll have a canal run through my kitchen.—I must give this rustic some idea of my consequence

You must know, Farmer, you have the honour of conversing with a man who has obtained patents for tweezers, tooth-picks, and tinder-boxes—to a philosopher who has been consulted on the Wapping docks and the Gravesend tunnel; and who has now in hand two inventions which will render him immortal—the one is, converting saw-dust into deal boards, and the other is, a plan of cleaning rooms by a steam engine—and, Farmer, I mean to give prizes for industry—I'll have a ploughing match.

Will you, Zur?

Yes; for I consider a healthy young man between the handles of a plough, as one of the noblest illustrations of the prosperity of Britain.

Faith and troth! there be some tightish hands in theas parts, I promize ye.

And, farmer, it shall precede the hy­meneal festivities—

Nan!

Blockhead! the ploughing match shall take place as soon as Sir Philip Blandford and his daughter arrive.

Oh, likely, likely!

Sir Abel, I beg to say, my master will be here immediately.

[Page 13]

And, Sir, I beg to ask who possesses the happiness of being your master?

Your son, Sir, Mr. Robert Handy.

Indeed! and where is Bob?

I left him, Sir, in the belfrey of the church.

Where?

In the belfrey of the church.

In the belfrey of the church! What was he doing there?

Why, Sir, the natives were ringing a peal in honour of our arrival—when my master finding they knew nothing of the matter, went up to the steeple to instruct them, and ordered me to proceed to the Castle—I have the honour—

Wonderful! My Bob, you must know, is an astonishing fellow!—you have heard of the admirable Crichton, may be? Bob's of the same kidney! I contrive, he executes—Sir Abel invenit, Bob fecit. He can do everything—every­thing!

All the better vor he. Izay, Zur, as he can turn his hand to everything, pray, in what way med he earn his livelihood?

Earn his livelihood!

Ees, Zur—How do he gain his bread?

Bread! Oh, he can't earn his bread. Bless you! he's a genius.

Genius! Drabbit it, I have got a horze o' thic name, but dom' un he'll never work—never.

Egad! here comes my boy Bob!— Eh! no—it is not! no.

Why who the devil are you?

I am the postboy, your Honour; but the Gem'man said I did not know how to drive, so he mounted my horse, and made me get inside—Here he is.

Ah, my old Dad, is that you?

Certainly; the only doubt is, if that be you?

Oh, I was teaching this fellow to drive—Nothing is so horrible as people pretending to do what they are unequal to—Give me my hat— That's the way to use a whip.

Sir, you know you have broke the horses knees all to pieces.

Hush, there's a guinea

You see Bob can do every thing. But, Sir, when you knew I had arrived from Germany, why did you not pay your duty to me in London?

Sir, I heard you were but four days married, and I would not interrupt your honey­moon.

Four days! oh, you might have come

I hear you have taken to your arms a simple rustic, unsophisticated by fashionable follies,—a full blown blossom of nature.

Yes!

How does it answer?

So, so!

[Page 15]

Any thorns?

A few!

I must be introduced—where is ihe?

Not within thirty miles; for I don't hear her.

Ha, ha, ha!

Who is that?

Oh, a pretty behaved tittering friend of mine.

Zarvent, Zur—no offence I do hope— Could not help tittering a bit at Nelly—when she were zarvent maid wi' I, she had a tightish prattle wi' her, that's vor zartain.

Oh! so then my honored Mamma was the servant of this tittering gentleman—I say, father, perhaps she has not lost the tightish prattle he speaks of.

My dear boy, come here—Prattle! I say, did you ever live next door to a pewterer's?— that's all—you understand me—did you ever hear a dozen fire-engines full gallop?—were you ever at Billingsgate in the sprat season?—or—

Ha, ha!

Nay, don't laugh, Bob.

Indeed, Sir, you think of it too seriously. The storm, I dare say, soon blows over.

Soon! You know what a trade wind is, don't you, Bob? why, she thinks no more of the latter end of her speech, than she does of the latter end of her life—

Ha, ha!

But I won't be laughed at—I'll knock any man down that laughs!

[Page 16]

I beg your pardon—but how in the name of Babel did she wheedle you into matri­mony?

Why, she dealt with me as the devil deals with a witch—humoured me for a time, that I might be her slave for ever! I thought I was marrying a notable woman, who would have eased my head of part of its burthen: — instead of which—

She has added to its burthen.

You know, my dear boy, my aim is to make my head useful—

And her aim, I suppose, is to make it ornamental.

Bob, if you can say anything pleasant, I'll trouble you; if not, do what my wife can't— hold your tongue.

I'll shew you what I can do—I'll amuse you with this native

Do—do—quiz him—at him, Bob.

I say, Farmer, you are a set of jolly fellows here, an't you?

Ees, Zur, deadly jolly—excepting when we be otherwise, and then we beant.

Play at cricket, don't you?

Ees, Zur; we Hampshire lads conceat we can bowl a bit or thereabouts.

And cudgel too, I suppose?

At him, Bob.

Ees, Zur, we sometimes break oon an­others heads by way of being agreeable, and the like o'that.

Understand all the guards?

Can't zay I do, Zur.

[Page 17]

What, hit in this way, eh?

Noa, Zur, we do hit thic way.

Zounds and fury!

Why, Bob, he has broke your head.

Yes; he rather hit me—he some­how—

He did indeed, Bob.

Damn him—The fact is, I am out of practice.

You need not be, Zur; I'll gi'ye a belly full any day wi' all my heart and soul.

No, no, thank you—Farmer, what's your name?

My name be Tummas Ashfield—anything to say against my name?

No, no—Ashfield! shou'd he be the father of my pretty Susan—Pray, have you a daughter?

Ees, I have—anything to zay against she?

No, no; I think her a charming creature.

Do ye faith and troth—Come, that be deadly kind o'ye however—Do you zee, I were frightful she were not agreeable.

Oh, she's extremely agreeable to me, I assure you.

I vow, it be quite pratty in you to take notice of Sue. I do hope, Zur, breaking your head will break noa squares—She be a coming down to theas parts wi' lady our maid Nelly, as wur—your spouse, Zur.

The devil she is! that's awkward!

I do hope you'll be kind to Sue when she do come, woolye, Zur?

[Page 18]

You may depend on it.

I daresay you may. Come, Farmey, attend us.

Ees, Zur; wi' all respect—Gentlemen, pray walk thic way, and I'll walk before you.

Now, that's what he calls behaving pretty.

Susan Ashfield coming here!

What, Bob, some intrigue, eh?

Oh fie!

Consider, Sir, you come here to marry the beautiful and accomplished Miss Blandford— and consider on the other hand, you have already got a slight memorandum of the Farmer's agreeable way.

SCENE III.— A Grove.

Here, Gerald! Well, my trusty fellow, is Sir Philip arrived?

No, Sir; but hourly expected.

Tell me, how does the Castle look?

Sadly decayed, Sir.

I hope, Gerald, you were not observed.

I fear otherwise, Sir: on the skirts of the domain I encountered a stripling with his gun; [Page 19]but I darted into that thicket, and so avoided him.

Have you gained any intelligence?

None: the report that reached us was false—The infant certainly died with its mother— Hush! conceal yourself—we are observed—this way.

Hold! as a friend, one word!

Again they have escaped me— ‘The infant died with its mother’—This agony of doubt is in­supportable.

Henry, well met.

Have you seen strangers?

No!

Two but now have left this place—They spoke of a lost child—My busy fancy led me to think I was the object of their search—I pressed forward, but they avoided me.

No, no; it could not be you; for no one on earth knows but myself, and—

Who, Sir Philip Blandford?

I am sworn, you know, my dear boy; I am solemnly sworn to silence.

True, my good old friend; and if the knowledge of who I am can only be obtained at [Page 20]the price of thy perjury, let me for ever remain jgnorant—let the corroding thought still haunt my pillow, cross me at every turn, and render me insensible to the blessings of health and liberty— yet, in vain do I suppress the thought—who am I? why thus abandoned? perhaps the despised off­spring of guilt—Ah! is it so!

Henry, do I deserve this?

Pardon me, good old man! I'll act more reasonably—I'll deem thy silence mercy.

That's wisely said.

Yet it is hard to think that the most de­tested reptile that Nature forms, or man pursues, has, when be gains his den, a parent's pitying breast to shelter in; but I—

Come, come, no more of this.

Well!—I visited to-day that young man who was so grievously bruifed by the breaking of his team.

That was kindly done, Henry.

I found him suffering under extreme torture, yet a ray of joy shot from his languid eye—for his medicine was administered by a father's hand—it was a mother's precious tear that dropt upon his wound—Oh, how I envied him!

Still on the same subject—I tell thee, if thou art not acknowledged by thy race, why, then become the noble founder of a new one The most valuable carnations were once seedlings— and the pride of my flower-bed is now a Henry, which, when known, will be envied by every florist in Britain—Come with me to the Castle for the last time.

The last time!

[Page 21]

Aye, boy; for when Sir Philip arrives, hou must avoid him.

Not see him! where exists the power that shall prevent me?

Henry, if you value your own peace of mind—if you value an old man's comfort, avoid the Castle.

I must dissemble with this honest creature—Well, I am content.

That's right—that's right, Henry—Be but thou resigned and virtuous, and he who cloaths the lily of the field, will be a parent to thee.

SCENE I.— A Lodge belonging to the Castle.

A SINGULAR situation this my old Dad has placed me in; brought me here to marry a woman of fashion and beauty, while I have been professing and I've a notion feeling the most ardent love for the pretty Susan Ashfield—Propriety says, take Miss Blandford—Love says, take Susan—Fashion says, take both—but would Susan consent to such an arrangement?—and if she refused, would I con­sent to part with her? Oh time enough to put that question when the previous one is disposed of—

How do you do? How do you do?—Making lace I perceive—Is it a com­mon employment here?

Oh! no, Sir, nobody can make it in these parts but myself!—Mrs. Grundy indeed pre­tends—but, poor woman! she knows no more of it than you do.

[Page 23]

Than I do! that's vastly well— My dear Madam, I passed two months at Mechlin for the express purpose.

Indeed!

You don't do it right—now I can do it much better than that. Give me leave, and I'll shew you the true Mechlin method

First you see, so—then, so—

I vow Miss Blandford, fair as I ever thought you, the air of your native land has given additional lustre to your charms!—

If my wife looked so—Ah! But where can Bob be— you must know, Miss, my son is a very clever fellow! you won't find him wasting his time in boyish frivolity!—no; you will find him—

Is that your son, Sir?

Yes, that's Bob!

Pray, Sir, is he making lace, or is he making love?

Curse me if I can tell

Get up you dog! don't you see Miss Blandford?

Zounds! how un­lucky! Ma'am, your most obedient servant

Curse the cushion!

Oh! he has spoiled my lace!

Hush! I'll make you a thousand yards another time—You see, Ma'am, I was ex­plaining to this good woman—what—what need [Page 24]not be explained again—Admirably handsome by Heaven!

Is not she, Bob?

In your journey from the coast, I conclude you took London in your way? Hush!

Oh no, Sir, I could not so soon venture into the beau monde, a stranger just arrived from Germany—

The very reason—the most fashion­able introduction possible! but I perceive, Sir, you have here imitated other German importations, and only restored to us our native excellence.

I assure you, Sir, I am eager to seize my birth-right, the pure and envied immunities of an English woman!

Then I trust, Madam, you will be patriot enough to agree with me, that a [...] a nation is poor, whose only wealth is importation—that therefore the humble native artist may ever hope to obtain from his countrymen those fostering smiles, without which genius must sicken and in­dustry decay. But it requires no valet de place to conduct you through the purlieus of fashion, for now the way of the world is, for every one to pursue their own way, and following the fashion is differing as much as possible from the rest of your acquaintance.

But surely, Sir, there is some distin­guishing feature by which the votaries of fashion are known?

Yes; but that varies extremely— sometimes fashionable celebrity depends on a high waist—sometimes on a low carriage—sometimes on high play, and sometimes on low breeding—last winter it rested solely on green peas!

[Page 25]

Green peas!

Green peas!—that Lady was the most enchanting who could bring the greatest quantity of green peas to her table at Christmas! the struggle was tremendous! Mrs. Rowley Powley had the best of it by five pecks and a half, but it having been unfortunately proved, that at her ball there was room to dance and eat conve­niently—that n [...] lady received a black eye, and no coachman was killed, the thing was voted decent and comfortable, and scouted accordingly.

Is comfort then incompatible with fashion?

Certainly!—Comfort in high life would be as preposterous as a lawyer's bag cram­med with truth, or his wig decorated with coque­licot ribbons! No—it is not comfort and selection that is sought, but numbers and confusion! So that a fashionable party resembles Smithfield market, only a good one when plentifully stocked—and ladies are reckoned by the score like sheep, and their husbands by droves like horned cattle!

Ha, ha! and the conversation—

Oh! like the assembly—confused, vapid, and abundant; as ‘How do, Ma'am!—no accident at the door?—he, he!’— ‘Only my carriage broke to pieces!’— ‘I hope you had not your pocket picked!’— ‘Won't you sit down to faro?’—"Have you many to-night?" —"A few, about six hundred!"— ‘Were you at Lady Overall's?’— ‘Oh yes; a delicious crowd and plenty of peas, he, he!’—and thus runs the fashionable race.

Yes; and a precious run it is—full gallop all the way: first they run on—then their fortune is run through—then bills are run up— [Page 26]then they are run hard—then they've a run of luck —then they run out, and then they run away!— But I'll forgive fashion all it's follies in considera­tion of one of its blessed laws.

What may that be?

That husband and wife must never be seen together.

Miss Blandford, your father expects you.

I hope I shall find him more composed.

Is Sir Philip ill?

His spirits are extremely depressed, and since we arrived here this morning his dejection has dreadfully increased.

But I hope we shall be able to laugh away despondency.

Sir, if you are pleased to consider my esteem as an object worthy your possession, I know of no way of obtaining it so certain as by your shew­ing every attention to my dear father.

Dame! Dame! she be come!

Who? Susan! our dear Susan

Ees—zo come along—Oh, Sir Abel! Lady Nelly! your spouse—do order you to go to her directly!

Order! you mistake—

No, he don't—she generally presers that word.

[Page 27]

Adieu! Sir Abel.

Oh! if my wife had such a pretty way with her mouth!

And how does Susan look?

That's what I do want to know, zoa come along—Woo ye though—Missus, let's behave pratty—Zur, if you pleaze, Dame and I will let you walk along wi' us.

How condescending! Oh, you are a pretty behaved fellow!

SCENE II. Farmer ASHFIELD'S Kitchen.

My dear home, thrice welcome! what gratitude I feel to your Ladyship for this indul­gence.

That's right, child!

And I am sure you partake my pleasure in again visiting a place where you received every protection and kindness my parents could shew you, for I remember while you lived with my father—

Child! don't put your memory to any fatigue on my account—you may transfer the re­membrance of who I was, to aid your more per­fect recollection of who I am.

Lady Handy!

That's right, child! I am not angry.

How luxuriantly the honey­suckle has grown that I planted—Ah! I see my dear father and mother coming through the garden.

[Page 28]

Oh! now I shall be caressed to death but I must endure the shock of their attentions.

My dear Susan!

My sweet child! give me a kiss.

Hald thee! Feyther first though—Well, I be as mortal glad to zee thee as never war—and how be'st thee? and how do thee like Lunnun town?—it be a deadly lively place I be tuold.

Is not she a sweet girl?

That she is.

Does it occur to any one present that Lady Handy is in the room?

Oh, Lud! I'm sure, my dear wife, I never forget that you are in the room.

Drabbit it! I overlooked Lady Nelly, sure enow; but consider, there be zome difference be­tween thee and our own Susan! I be deadly glad to zee thee however.

So am I, Lady Handy!

Don't ye take it unkind I ha'nt a buss'd thee yet—meant no slight indeed

Oh! shocking!

No harm I do hope, Zur.

None at all.

But dash it, Lady Nelly, what do make thee paint thy vace all over we rud ochre zoo? Be it vor thy spouse to knaw thee?—that be the way I do knaw my sheep.

The flocks of fashion are all marked so, Farmer.

Likely! Drabbit it! thee do make a tightish kind of a Ladyship zure enow.

[Page 29]

That you do, my Lady! you remember the old house?

Aye; and all about it, doant ye? Nelly! my Lady!

Oh! I'm quite shock'd—Susan, child! prepare a room where I may dress before I proceed to the Castle.

I don't see Susan—I say, Dad! is that my Mamma?

Yes—speak to her.

A fine girl upon my soul!

Fine girl indeed! Is this beha­viour?

Oh! beg pardon, most honoured parent

—that's a damned bad curtsey. I can teach you to make a much better curtsey than that!

You teach me, that am old enough to—hem!

Oh! that toss of the head was very bad indeed—Look at me!—That's the thing!

Am I to be insulted? Sir Abel, you know I seldom condescend to talk.

Don't say so, my Lady; you wrong yourself.

But when I do begin, you know not where it will end.

Indeed I do not

I insist on receiving all possible respect from your son.

[Page 30]

And you shall have it, my dear girl!—Madam, I mean.

I vow I am agitated to that degree— Sir Abel, my fan!

Yes, my dear—Bob, look here, a little contrivance of my own. While others carry swords, and such like dreadful weapons in their canes, I more gallantly carry a fan

a pretty thought, isn't it?

Some difference between thic stick and mine, beant there, Zur?

Yes, there is—

Do you call that fanning yourself

My dear Ma'am, this is the way to manoeuvre a fan.

Sir, you shall find

I have power enough to make you repent this be­haviour —severely repent it—Susan!

Bravo! passion becomes her—She does that vastly well.

Yes; practice makes perfect.

Did your Ladyship call?—Heavens! Mr. Handy!

Hush! my angel! be composed! that letter will explain

Lady Handy wishes to see you.

Oh, Robert!

At present my love, no more.

[Page 31]

What were you saying, Sir, to that young woman?

Nothing particular, Sir. Where is Lady Handy going.

To dress.

I suppose she has found out the use of money.

Yes; I'll do her the justice to say she encourages trade.—Why, do you know, Bob, my best coal-pit won't find her in white muslins—round her neck hangs a hundred acres at least; my noblest oaks have made wigs for her; my fat oxen have dwindled into Dutch pugs, and white mice; my India bonds are transmuted into shawls and otto of roses; and a magnificent mansion has shrunk into a diamond snuff-box.

Gentlemen, the folks be all got together, and the ploughs be ready—and—

We are coming.

Ploughs!

Yes, Bob, we are going to have a grand agricultural meeting.

Indeed!

If I could but find a man able to ma­nage my new invented curricle plough, none of them would have a chance.

My dear Sir, if there be anything on earth I can do, it is that.

What?

I rather fancy I can plough better than any man in England.

[Page 32]

You don't say so! What a clever fel­low he is—I say, Bob, if you would—

No; I can't condescend.

Condescend! why not?—much more creditable, let me tell you, than galloping a mag­got for a thousand, or eating a live cat, or any other fashionable achievement.

So it is—Egad! I will—I'll carry off the prize of industry.

But should you lose, Bod.

I lose! that's vastly well!

True, with my curricle plough you could hardly fail.

With my superior skill, Dad— Then, I say, how the newspapers will teem with the account.

Yes.

That universal genius, Handy, junior, with a plough—

Stop—invented by that ingenious ma­chinist, Handy, senior.—

Gained the prize against the first husbandmen in Hampshire—Let our Bond-street butterflies emulate the example of Handy, junior.—

And let old City grubs cultivate the field of science, like Handy, senior—Ecod, I am so happy.

Sir Abel.

Ah! there comes a damper.

Courage, you have many resources of happiness.

Have I? I should be very glad to know them.

In the first place you possess an ex­cellent temper.

[Page 33]

So much the worse; for if I had a bad one, I should be the better able to conquer hers.

You enjoy good health—

So much the worse; for if I were ill she wouldn't come near me.

Then you are rich—

So much the worse; for had I been poor she would not have married me. But I say, Bob, if you gain the prize, I'll have a patent for my plough.

Sir Abel, I say.—

Father, could not you get a patent for stopping that sort of noise?

If I could, what a sale it would have!—No, Bob, a patent has been obtained for the only thing that will silence her—

Aye—What's that?

A coffin! hush!—I'm coming my dear.

Ha, ha, ha!

SCENE III.— A Parlour in ASHFIELD's House.

I tell ye, I zee'd un gi' Susan 2 letter, an' I dan't like it a bit.

Nor I: if shame should come to the poor child—I say, Tummas, what would Mrs. Grundy say then?

Dom Mrs. Grundy; what wou'd my poor wold heart zay? but I be bound it be all inno­cence.

Ah! Henry, we have not seen thee at home ail day.

And I do zomehow fanzie things dan't go zo clever when thee'rt away from farm.

My mind has been greatly agitated.

Well, won't thee go and zee the ploughing match?

Tell me, will not those who obtain prizes be introduced to the Castle?

Ees, and feasted in the great hall.

My good friend, I wish to become a candidate.

You, Henry!

It is time I exerted the faculties heaven has bestowed on me; and though my heavy fate crushes the proud hopes this heart conceives, still let me prove myself worthy of the place Providence has assigned me.—

Should I succeed, it will bring me to the presence of that man, who (I know not why) seems the dictator of my fate.—

Will you furnish me with the means?

Will I!—Thou shalt ha' the best plough in the parish—I wish it were all gould for thy zake— and better cattle there can't be noowhere.

Thanks, my good friend—my benefactor —I have little time for preparation—So receive my gratitude, and farewell.

A blessing go with thee!

I zay, Henry, take Jolly, and Smiler, and Captain, but dan't ye take thic lazy beast Genius —I'll be shot if having vive load an acre on my wheat land cou'd please me more.

[Page 35]

Tummas, here comes Susan reading the letter.

How pale she do look, dan't she?

Ah! poor thing!—If—

Hauld thy tongue, woolye?

Is it possible? Can the man to whom I've given my heart write thus:— ‘I am com­pelled to marry Miss Blandford; but my love for my Susan is unalterable—I hope she will not, for an act of necessity, cease to think with tenderness on her faithful Robert.’—Oh man! ungrateful man! it is from our bosoms alone you derive your power; how cruel then to use it, in fixing in those bosoms endless sorrow and despair. —"Still think with tenderness"—Base, dis­honorable insinuation—He might have allowed me to esteem him.

Poor thing!—What can be the matter— She lock'd up the letter in thic box, and then bursted into tears

Yes, Tummas, she locked it in that box sure enough

What be doing, Dame? what be doing?

Nothing; I was only touching these keys.

A good tightish bunch!

Yes; they are of all sizes

[Page 36]

Indeed!—Well—Eh!—Dame, why dan't ye speak; thou can'st chatter vast enow zometimes.

Nay, Tummas—I dare say—if—you know best—but I think I could find—

Well, Eh!—you can just try you knaw

You can try, just vor the vun on't; but mind, dan't ye make a noise

Why, thee hasn't open'd it?

Nay, Tummas, you told me!

Did I?

There's the letter!

Well, why do ye gi't to I?—I dan't want it, I'm zure

—She's coming! she's coming!

No, she's gone into t'other room

What mun that feyther and mother be doing that do blush and tremble at their own dater's coming

Dang it, has she desarv'd it of us—Did she ever deceive us?—Were she not always the most open-hearted, dutisullest, kindest—and thee to goa like a dom'd spy and open her box, poor thing?—

Nay, Tummas—

You did—I zaw you do it myzel—you look like a thief, now—you doe—Hush!—no— Dame—here be the letter—I won't reead a word on't, put it where thee wound it, and as there vound it.

With all my heart

Now I can wi' pleasure hug my wold wife, and look my child in the vace again—I'll call her and ax her about it; and if she dan't speak without disguisement, I'll be bound to [Page 37]be shot—Dame, be the colour of sheame off my face yet?—I never zeed thee look ugly before— Susan, my dear Sue, come here abit, woolye?

Yes, my dear father.

Sue, we do wish to gi' thee a bit of admo­nishing and parent-like conzultation.

I hope I have ever attended to your ad­monitions.

Ees, bless thee, I do believe thee hast, lamb; but we all want our memories jogg'd abit, or why else do parson preach us all to sleep every Zunday—Zo thic be the topic—Dame and I, Sue, did zee a letter gi'd to thee, and thee—bursted into tears, and lock'd un up in thic box—and then Dame and I—we—that's all.

My dear father, if I concealed the con­tents of that letter from your knowledge, it was be­cause I did not wish your heart to share in the pain mine feels.

Dang it, didn't I tell thee zoo?

Nay, Tummas, did I say otherwise?

Believe me, my dear parents, my heart never gave birth to a thought my tongue feared to utter.

There, the very words I zaid!

If you wish to see the letter I will shew it to you

Here's a key will open it.

Drabbit it, hold thy tongue, thou wold fool!

No, Susan, I'll not zee it—I'll believe my child.

You shall not find your confidence ill­placed —it is true the gentleman has declared he [Page 38]loved me; it is equally true that declaration was not unpleasing to me—Alas! it is also true, that his letter contains sentiments disgraceful to himself, and insulting to me!

Drabbit it, if I'd knaw'd that, when we were cudgelling abit, I wou'd ha' lapt my stick about his ribs pratty tightish, I wou'd.

Pray, father, don't you resent his con­duct to me.

What, mayn't I leather un abit?

Oh, no! I have the strongest reasons to the contrary!

Well, Sue, I won't—I'll behave as pratty as I always do—but it be time to go to the green, and zee the fine zights—How I do hate the noise of thic dom'd bunch of keys—But bless thee, my child—dan't forget that vartue to ayoung woman be vor all the world like—like—Dang it, I ha' gotten it all in my head; but zomehow—I can't talk it— but vartue be to a young woman what corn be to a blade o'wheat, do ye zee; for while the corn be there it be glorious to the eye, and it be call'd the staff of life; but take that treasure away, and what do remain? why naught but this worthless straw, that man and beast do tread upon.

SCENE IV.— An extensive View of a cultivated Country—A ploughed Field in the centre, in which are seen six different Ploughs and Horses—At one side a bandsome Tent—a number of country People assembled.

Make way! make way for the gentry; and do ye hear, behave pratty, as I do—Dang thee stond back, or I'll knack thee down, I wool.

It is very kind of you to honour our rustic festivities with your presence.

Pray, Sir Abel, where is your son?

What, Bob? Oh, you'll see him pre­sently.

. Here are the prize medals; and if you will condescent to present them. I'm sure they'll be worn with additional pleasure. —I say, you'll see Bob presently—Well, Farmer, is it all over?

Ecs, Zur; the acres be plough'd and the ground judg'd; and the young lads be coming down to receive their reward—Heartily welcome, Miss, to your native land; hope you be as pleas'd to zee we as we be to zee you, and the like o'that.—Mortal beautizome to be zure—I declare, Miss, it do make I quite warm zomehow to look at ye.

Now you'll see Bob—now my dear boy, Bob—here he comes

'Tis he, he has don't—Dang you all, why dan't ye shout? Huzza!

Why, zounds, where's Bob?—I don't see Bob—Bless me, what has become of Bob and my plough?

Well, Henry, there be the prize, and there be the fine Lady that will gi'it thee.

Tell me who is that lovely creature?

The dater of Sir Philip Blandford.

What exquisite sweetness! Ah! should the father but resemble her, I shall have but little to sear from his severity!

[Page 40]

Miss, thic be the young man that ha got'n the guolden prize.

This; I always thought ploughmen were coarse, vulgar creatures, but he seems hand­some and diffident.

Ees, quite pratty behaved—it were I that teach'd un.

What's your name?

Henry!

And your family?

Madam, I beg pardon, but nobody knows about his parentage; and when it is mentioned, poor boy! he takes on sadly—He has lived at our house ever since we had the farm, and we have had an allowance for him—small enough to be sure—but, good lad! he was always welcome to share what we had.

I am shocked at my imprudence.—

Pray pardon me; I would not insult an enemy, much less one I am inclined to admire —

—to esteem —you shall go to the Castle—my father shall pro­tect you.

Generous creature! to merit his esteem is the fondest wish of my heart—to be your slave, the proudest aim of my ambition!

Receive your merited reward

I can't see Bob; pray, Sir, do you happen to know what is become of my Bob?

Sir!

Did not you see a remarkable clever plough, and a young man—

[Page 41]

At the beginning of the contest, I ob­served a gentleman; his horses, I believe, were unruly, but my attention was too much occupied to allow me to notice more.

How dare you laugh?

That's Bob's voice!

Dare to laugh again, and I'll knock you down with this—Ugh! how infernally hot

Why, Bob, where have you been?

I don't know where I've been.

And what have you got in your hand?

What? All I could keep of your nonsensical ricketty plough

Come, none of that, Sir.—Don't abuse my plough to cover your ignorance, Sir; where is it, Sir? and where are my famous Leicestershire horses, Sir?

Where! ha, ha, ha! I'll tell you as nearly as I can, ha, ha! What's the name of the next county?

It be called Wiltshire, Zur.

Then, Dad, upon the nicest calcu­lation I am able to make, they are at this moment engaged in the very patriotic act of ploughing Salisbury plain, ha, ha! I saw them fairly over that hill, full gallop, with the curricle plough at their heels.

Ha, ha! a good one, ha, ha!

But never mind father, you must again set your invention to work, and I my toilet —rather a deranged figure to appear before a lady [Page 42]in

. Hey dey! What, are you going to dance?

Ecs, Zur; I suppose you can sheake a leg abit?

I sancy I can dance every possible step, from the pas ruse to the war dance of the Catabaws.

Likely—I do hope, Miss, you'll join your honest neighbours; they'll be deadly hurt an you won't gig it a bit wi'un.

With all my heart.

Bob's an excellent dancer.

I dare say he is, Sir; but on this occa sion, I think I ought to dance with the young man who gained the prize—I think it would be most pleasant—most proper, I mean; and I am glad you agree with me—So, Sir, if you'll accept my hand

Very pleasantly settled upon my soul —Bob, won't you dance?

I dance!—No, I'll look at them— I'll quietly look on.

Egad, now as my wife's away, I'll try to find a pretty girl and make one among them.

That's hearty—Come, Dame, hang the rheumatics—Now, lads and lasses, behave pratty, and strike up.

SCENE I.— An Apartment in the Castle.

Is not my daughter yet returned?

No, Sir Philip.

Dispatch a servant to her.

Sir, the old gardener is below, and asks to see you.

Ad­mit him instantly, and leave me.—

Does this desolation affect the old man? Come near me—Time has laid a lenient hand on thee—

[Page 44]

Oh, my dear master! can twenty years have wrought the change I see?

No

; 'tis the canker here that hath withered up my trunk;—but are we secure from observation?

Yes.

Then tell me, does the boy live?

He does; and is as fine a youth—

No comments.

We named him—

Be dumb! let me not hear his name, Has care been taken he may not blast me with his presence?

It has; and he cheerfully complied.

Enough! Never speak of him more. Have you removed every dreadful vestige from the fatal chamber?

O speak!

My dear master! I confess my want of duty. Alas! I had not courage to go there.

Ah!

Nay, sorgive me! wiser than I have selt such terrors!—The apartments have been care­sully locked up—the keys not a moment from my possession—here they are.

Then the task remains with me. Dreadful thought! I can well pardon thy fears, old man—O! could I wipe from my memory that hour, when—

Hush! your daughter.

Leave me—we'll speak anon.

Dear father! I came the moment I heard you wished to see me.

[Page 45]

My good child, thou art the sole support that props my feeble life. I fear my wish for thy company deprives thee of much pleasure.

Oh no! What pleasure can be equal to that of giving you happiness? Am I not re­warded in seeing your eyes beam with pleasure on me?

'Tis the pale reflection of the lustre I see sparkling there. My love! did you enjoy the scenes you beheld?

Greatly. How strongly they contrast with those we witnessed abroad!

True. Happy country! which, in the midst of direful war can draw out its rustic train to join the festive dance, as securely as if peace again had blessed the world!—But tell me, did your lover gain the prize?

Yes, papa.

Few men of his rank—

Oh! you mean Mr. Handy?

Yes.

No; he did not.

Then, who did you mean?

Did you say lover? I—I mistook—No —a young man called Henry obtained the prize!

And how did Mr. Handy succeed?

Oh, it was so ridiculous! I will tell you, papa, what happened to him.

To Mr. Handy?

Yes; as soon as the contest was over Henry presented himself; I was surprized at seeing a young man so handsome and elegant as Henry is—then I placed the medal round Henry's neck, and I was told that poor Henry—

Henry!—So, my love! this is your account of Mr. Robert Handy?

[Page 46]

Yes, papa—no, papa—he came after­wards, dressed so ridiculously that even Henry could not help smiling.

Henry again!

Then we had a dance.

Of course you danced with your lover?

Yes, papa.

How does Mr. Handy dance?

Oh! he did not dance till—

You danced with your lover?

Yes—No, papa!—Somebody said (I don't know who) that I ought to dance with Henry, because—

Still Henry! Oh! some rustic boy. My dear child, you talk as if you loved this Henry.

Oh! no, papa—and I am certain he don't love me.

Indeed!

Yes, papa; for when he touched my hand, he trembled as if I terrified him; and in­stead of looking at me as you do, who I am sure love me, when our eyes met, he withdrew his and cast them on the ground.

And these are the reasons which make you conclude he does not love you?

Yes, papa.

And probably you could adduce proof equally convincing that you don't love him?

Oh yes—quite; for in the dance he sometimes paid attention to other young women, and I was so angry with him! Now, you know, papa, I love you—and I am sure I should not have been angry with you, had you done so.

[Page 47]

But one question more—Do you think Mr. Handy loves you?

I have never thought about it, papa.

I am satisfied.

Yes; I knew I should convince you.

Oh, Love! malign and subtle tyrant, how falsely art thou painted blind! 'Tis thy votaries are so; for what but blindness can prevent their seeing thy poisoned shaft, which is for ever doomed to rankle in the victim's heart.

Oh! now I am certain I am not in love; for I feel no rankling at my heart. I feel the softest, sweetest sensation I ever experienced. But, papa, you must come to the lawn. I don't-know why, but to-day Nature seems enchanting; the birds sing more sweetly, and the flowers give more perfume.

Such was the day my youth­ful sancy pictured! How did it close?

I promifed Henry your protection.

Indeed! that was much. Well, I will see your rustic here. This infant passion must be crushed. Poor wench! some artless boy has caught thy infant fancy!—Thy arm, my child!

SCENE II.— A Lawn before the C sile.

Well! here thee'rt going to make thy bow to Sir Philip. I zay, if he should take a fancy to thee, thou'lt come to farm and zee us zometimes, wo'tn't Henry?

[Page 48]

Tell me, is that Sir Philip Blandford who leans on that lady's arm?

I don't know, by reason d'ye zee I never zeed'un. Well, good bye! I declare thee doz look quite grand wi' thic golden prize about thy neck, vor all the world like the lords in their stars, that do come to theas pearts to pickle their skins in the zale zea ocean! Good b'ye, Henry.

He approaches! Why this agitation? I wish, yet dread, to meet him.

The joy your tenantry display at seeing you again must be truly grateful to you.

No, my child; for I feel I do not merit it. Alas! I can see no orphans cloathed with my beneficence, no anguish assuaged by my care.

Then I am sure my dear father wishes to shew his kind intentions. So I will begin by placing one under his protection

Ah! do my eyes deceive me? No, it must be him! Such was the face his father wore!

Spake you of my father?

His presence brings back recol­lections which drive me to madness! How came he here? Who have I to curse for this?

Your daughter.

Oh, Sir, tell me! on my knees I ask it! do my parents live? Bless me with my father's name, and my days shall pass in active gratitude— [Page 49]my nights in prayers for you.

Do not mock my mi­sery! Have you a heart?

Yes; of marble. Cold and obdu­rate to the world—ponderous and painsul to myself —Quit my sight for ever!

Go, Henry, and save me from my fa­ther's curse.

I obey: cruel as the command is, I obey it—I shall often look at this

and think on the blissful moment when your hand placed it there.

Ah! tear it from his breast.

Sooner take my life! It is the first honour I have earned, and it is no mean one; for it assigns me the first rank among the sons or industry! This is my claim to the sweet rewards of honest labour! This will give me competence, nay more, enable me to despise your tyranny!

Rash boy, mark! Avoid me, and be secure—Repeat this intrusion, and my vengeance shall pursue thee—

I defy its power!—You are in England, Sir, where the man, who bears about him an upright heart, bears a charm too potent for tyranny to humble. Can your frown wither up my youthful vigour? No!—Can your malediction disturb the slumbers of a quiet conscience? No! Can your breath stifle in my heart the adoration it feels for that pitying angel? Oh, no!

Wretch! you shall be taught the difference between us!

I feel it now! proudly feel it!—You hate the man that never wronged you—I could [Page 50]love the man that injures me—You meanly triumph o'er a worm—I make a giant tremble.

Take him from my sight! Why am I not obeyed?

Henry, if you wish my hate should not accompany my father's, instantly begone.

Oh, pity me!

Supported by my servants! I thought I had a daughter!

O, you have, my fa­ther! one that loves you better than her life!

Leave us.

Emma, if you feel, as I fear you do, love for that youth—mark my words! When the dove woos for its mate the ravenous kite; when Nature's fixed antipathies mingle in sweet concord, then and not till then, hope to be united.

O heaven!

Have you not promised me the dis­posal of your hand?

Alas! my father! I didn't then know the difficulty of obedience!

Hear, then, the reasons why I de­mand compliance. You think I hold these rich estates—Alas, the shadow only, not the substance.

Explain, my father!

When I left my native country, I lest it with a heart lacerated by every wound that the falsehood of others or my own conscience could inflict. Hateful to myself, I became the victim of dissipation—I rushed to the gaming table, and soon became the dupe of villains.—My ample fortune [Page 51]was lost; I detected one in the act of sraud, and having brought him to my feet, he confessed a plan had been laid for my ruin; that he was but an humble instrument; for that the man who, by his superior genius, stood posseffed of all the mortgages and securities I had given, was one Mortington.

I have heard your name him before. Did you not know this Morrington?

No; he, like his deeds, avoided the light—Ever dark, subtle, and mysterious. Col­lecting the scattered remnant of my fortune, I wan­dered wretched and desolare, till, in a peaceful village, I first beheld thy mother, humble in birth, but exalted in virtue. The morning after our marriage she received a packet, containing these words: ‘The reward of virtuous love, presented by a repentant villain;’ and which also contained bills and notes to the high amount of ten thousand pounds.

And no name?

None; nor could I ever guess at the generous donor. I need not tell thee what my heart suffered when death deprived me of her. Thus circumstanced, this good man, Sir Abel Handy, proposed to unite our families by mar­riage; and in consideration of what he termed the honor of our alliance, agreed to pay off every in­cumbrance on my estates, and settle them as a portion on you and his son. Yet still another wonder remains.—When I arrive, I find no claim whatever has been made, either by Morrington or his agents. What am I to think? Can Mor­rington have perished, and with him his large claims to my property? Or, does he withhold the blow, to make it fall more heavily?

[Page 52]

'Tis very strange! very mysterious! But my father has not told me what misfortune led him to leave his native country.

Ha!

May I not know it?

Oh! never, never, never!

I will not ask it—Be composed—Let me wipe away those drops of anguish from your brow.—How cold your check is! My father, the evening damps will harm you—Come in—I will be all you wish—indeed I will.

SCENE III.— An Apartment in the Castle.

Was ever anything so unlucky! Henry to come to the Castle and meet Sir Philip. He should have consulted me; I shall be blamed—but, thank heaven, I am innocent.

I will be treated with respect.

You shall, my dear.

But how! but how! Sir Abel, I re­peat it.—

For the fiftieth time.

Your son conducts himself with an in­solence I won't endure; but you are ruled by him, you have no will of your own.

I have not indeed.

How contemptible!

Why, my dear, this is the case—I am like the ass in the fable; and if I am doomed to [Page 53]carry a pack-saddle, it is not much matter who drives me.

To yield your power to those the law allows you to govern!—

Is very weak indeed.

Lady Handy, your very humble servant; I heartily congratulate you, Madam, on your marriage this worthy gentleman—Sir, I give you joy.

Not before 'tis wanted.

Aye, my Lady; this match makes up for the imprudence of your first.

Hem!

Eh! What!—what's that—Eh! what do you mean?

I mean, Sir—that Lady Handy's former husband—

Former husband!—Why, my dear, I never knew—Eh!

A mumbling old blockhead!—Didn't you Sir Abel? Yes; I was rather married many years ago; but my husband went abroad and died.

Died, did he?

Yes, Sir; he was a servant in the Castle.

Indeed! So he died—poor fellow!

Yes.

What, you are sure he died, are you?

Don't you hear?

Poor fellow! neglected perhaps—had I known it, he should have had the best advice money could have got.

You seem sorry.

Why you would not have me pleased at the death of your husband, would you?—a good kind of man!

[Page 54]

Yes; a faithful fellow—rather ruled his wife too severely.

Did he?

Pray do you happen to recollect his manner?— Could you just give a hint of the way he had?

Do you want to tyrannize over my poor tender heart?—'Tis too much!

Bless me! Lady Handy is ill—Salts! salts!

Here are salts, or aromatic vinegar, or essence of—

Any—any.

Bless me, I can't find the key!

Pick the lock

It can't b [...] picked, it is a patent lock.

The br [...]k i [...] o [...]en, Sir.

It can't be broke open—it is a con­trivance of my own—you see, here comes a hori­zontal bolt, which acts upon a spring, therefore—

I may die while you are describing a horizontal bolt. Do you think you shall close your eyes for a week for this?

What has occasioned this distur­bance?

Ask that gentleman.

Sir, I am accused—

Convicted! convicted!

Well, I will not argue with you about words—because I must bow to your superior prac­tice —But, Sir—

Pshaw!

Lady Handy, some of your people were inquiring for you.

[Page 55]

Thank you, Sir. Come, Sir Abel.

Yes, my Lady—I say

cou'dn't you give me a hint of the way he had—

Sir Abel!

Coming, my soul!

So! you have well obeyed my orders in keeping this Henry from my presence.

I was not to blame, Master.

Has Farmer Ashfield left the Castle?

No, Sir.

Send him hither.

That boy must be driven far, far from my sight— but where?—no matter! the world is large enough.

—Come hither. I believe you hold a farm of mine?

Ees, Zur, I do, at your zarvice.

I hope a profitable one?

Zometimes it be, Zur. But thic year it be all t'other way as 'twur—but I do hope as our landlords have a tightish big lump of the good, they'll be zo kind hearted as to take a little bit of the bad.

It is but reasonable—I conclude then you are in my debt.

Ees, Zur, I be—at your zarvice.

How much!

Sir, I do owe ye a hundred and fifty pounds—at your zarvice.

Which you can't pay?

Not a varthing, Zur—at your zarvice.

Well, I am willing to give you every indulgence.

[Page 56]

Be you, Zur? that be deadly kind. Dear heart! it will make my auld Dame quite young again, and I don't think helping a poor man will do your Honour's health any harm—I don't indeed, Zur—I had a thought of speaking to your worship about it—but then thinks I, the gentleman may­hap be one of those that do like to do a good turn; and not have a word zaid about it—zo, Zur, if you had not mentioned what I owed you, I am zure ! never should—should not indeed, Zur.

Nay, I will wholly acquit you of the debt, on condition—

Ees, Zur.

On condition, I say, you instantly turn out that boy—that Henry.

Turn out Henry!—Ha, ha, ha! Excuse my tittering, Zur; but you bees making your vun of I, zure.

I am not apt to trifle—send him in­stantly from you or take the consequences.

Turn out Henry! I do vow I shou'dn't knaw how to zet about it—I should not indeed, Zur.

You hear my determination. If you disobey, you know what will follow—I'll leave you to reflect on it.

Well, Zur, I'll argusy the topic, and then you may wait upon me, and I'll tell ye.

—I shou'd be deadly awk­ward at it vor zartain—however, I'll put the case—Well! I goes whiztling whoam—noa, drab­bit it! I shou'dn't be able to whiztle a bit, I'm zure. Well! I goes whoam, and I zees Henry zitting by my wife mixing up someit to comfort the wold zoul, and take away the pain of here rheu­matics—Very well! Then Henry places a chair [Page 57]vor I by the vire zide, and zays— ‘Varmer, the horses be fed, the sheep be folded, and you have nothing to do but to zit down, smoke your pipe, and be happy!’ Very well!

Then I zays— ‘Henry, you be poor and [...]end­less, zo you must turn out of my houze directly.’ Very well! then my wife stares at O—reaches her hand towards the vire place, and throws the poker at my head. Very well! then Henry gives a kind of aguish shake, and getting up, sighs from the bottom of his heart—then holding up his head like a king, zays— ‘Varmer, I have too long been a burthen to you—Heaven protect you, as you have me—Farewel! I go.’ Then I says, ‘If thee docz I'll be domn'd!’

Hollo! you Mister Sir Philip! you may come in.—

Zur, I have argufied the topic, and it wou'dn't be pratty—zo I can't.

Can't! absurd!

Well, Zur, there is but another word— I won't.

Indeed!

No, Zur, I won't—I'd zee myzelf hang'd first, and you too, Zur—I wou'd indeed

You refuse then to obey.

I do, Zur—at your zarvice

Then the law must take its course.

I be zorry for that too—I be indeed, Zur; but if corn wou'dn't grow I cou'dn't help it; it wer'n't poison'd by the hand that zow'd it. Thic hand, Zur, be as free from guilt as your own.

[Page 58]

Oh!

It were never held out to clinch a hard bar­gain, nor will it turn a good lad out into the wide wicked world because he be poorish a bit. I be zorry you be offended, Zur, quite—but come what wool, I'll never hit thic hand against here, but when I be zure that zomeit at inzide will jump against it with pleazure

I do hope you'll repent of all your zins—I do indeed, Zur; and if you shou'd, I'll come and zee you again as friendly as ever—I wool indeed, Zur.

Your repentance will come too late!

Thank ye, Zur—Good morning to you— I do hope I have made myzel agreeable—and so I'll go whoam.

SCENE I.— A room in ASHFIELD' s house.

COME, come, Henry, you'll fret yourself ill, child. If Sir Philip will not be kind to you, you are but where you were.

My peace of mind is gone for ever. Sir Philip may have cause for hate;—spite of his unkindness to me, my heart seeks to find excuses for him—for, oh! that heart doats on his lovely daughter.

Here comes Tummas home at last. Heyday! what's the matter with the man? He does'nt seem to know the way into his own house.

Tummas, my dear Tummas, what's the matter?

[Page 60]

It be lucky vor he I h [...] zoo pratty behaved, or dom if I—

Who—what?

Nothing at all, where's Henry?

Here, farmer.

Thee woult'nt leave us, Henry, wou't?

Leave you! What, leave you now, when by my exertion I can pay off part of the debt of gratitude I owe you? oh, no!

Nay, it were not vor that I axed, I promise thee; come, gi' us thy hand on't then

Now I'll tell ye. Zur Philip did send vor I, about the money I do owe 'un; and said as how he'd make all strait between us—

That was kind.

Yes, deadly kind. Make all strait on con­dition I did turn Henry out o' my doors.

What!

Where will his hatred cease?

And what did you say, Tummas?

Why, I zivelly tould un, if it were agree­able to he to behave like a brute, it were agreeable to I to behave like a man.

That was right. I wou'd have told him a great deal more.

Ah! likely. Then a zaid I shou'd ha a bit of laa vor my pains.

And do you imagine I will see you suffer on my account? No—I will remove this hated form—

No, but thee shat'un—thee shat'un—I tell thee. Thee have givun me thy hand on't, and dom'me, if thee shat budge one step out of this house. Drabbit it! what can he do? he can't send [Page 61]us to jail. Why, I have corn will zell for half the money I do owe 'un—and ha'nt I cattle and sheep? deadly lean to be zure—and ha'nt I a thumping zilver watch, almost as big as thy head? and Dame here a got—How many silk gowns have thee got, Dame?

Three, Tummas—and sell them all— and I'll go to church in a stuff one—and let Mrs. Grundy turn up her nose as much as she pleases.

Oh, my friends, my heart is full. Yet a day will come, when this heart will prove its gra­titude.

That day, Henry, is every day.

Dang it! never be down hearted. I do know as well as can be, zome good luck will turn up. All the way I comed whoam I look'd to vind a purse in the path, but I did'nt though.

Ah! here they are coming to fell I sup­pose—

Lettun—lettun, zeize and zell; we ha gotten here

what we won't zell, and they can't zell.

Come in —dang it, don't ye be shy.

Ah! the strangers I saw this morning. These are not officers of law.

Noa! walk in, Gemmen. Glad to zee ye wi 'all my heart and zoul. Come, Dame, spread a cloth, bring out cold meat, and a mug of beer.

That is the boy.

[Page 62]

Take a chair, Zur.

I thank, and admire your hospitality, Don't trouble yourself, good woman.—I am not inclined to eat.

That be the case here. To-day none o'we be auver hungry: misfortin be apt to stay the stomach confoundely.—

Has misfortune reached this humble dwelling?

Ees, Zur. I do think vor my part it do work its way in every where.

Well, never despair.

I never do, Zur. It is not my way. When the sun do shine I never think of voul weather, not I; and when it do begin to rain I always think that's a zure zign it will give auver.

Is that young man your son?

No, Zur—I do wish he were we all my heart and zoul.

Sir, remember.

Doubt not my prudence. Young man, your appearance interests me;—how can I serve you?

By informing me who are my parents.

That I cannot do.

Then, by removing from me the hatred of Sir Philip Blandford.

Does Sir Philip hate you?

With such severity, that even now he is about to ruin these worthy creatures, because they have protected med.

Indeed! misfortune has made him cruel. That should not be.

Noa, it should not indeed, Zur.

It shall not be.

[Page 63]

Shan't it, Zur? But how shan't it?

I will prevent it.

Wool ye faith and troth? Now, Dame, did not I zay zome good luck would turn up?

Oh, Sir, did I hear you rightly? Will you preserve my friends;—will you avert the cruel arm of power, and make the virtuous happy? my tears must thank you

Young man, you oppress me—forbear! I do not merit thanks—pay your gratitude where you are sure 'tis due—to Heaven. Observe me—here is a bond of Sir Philip Blandford's for £. 1000—do you present it to him, and obtain a discharge for the debt of this worthy man. The rest is at your own disposal— no thanks.

But, Sir, to whom am I thus highly in­debted?

My name is Morrington. At present that information must suffice.

Morrington.

Zur, if I may be zo bold—

Nay, friend—

Don't be angry I had'nt thanked you, Zur, nor I wont.—Only, Zur, I were going to ax when you wou'd call again. You shall have my stampt note vor the money, you shall indeed, Zur. And in the mean time, I do hope you'll take zomeit in way of remembrance as'twere.

Will your Honor put a couple of tur­kies in your pocket?

Or pop a ham under your arm? don't ye zay no, if it's agreeable.

Farewel, good friends, I shall repeat my visit soon.

[Page 64]

The sooner the better.

Good bye to ye, Zur—Dame and I wool go to work as merry as crickets. Good bye, Henry.

Heaven bless your Honour—and I hope you will carry as much joy away with you, as you leave behind you—I do indeed.

Young man, proceed to the castle and demand an audience of Sir Philip Blandford. In your way thither I'll instruct you further.—Give me your hand.

SCENE. II.— An apartment in the castle.

Shall I proceed to the next essay?

What does it treat of?

Love and friendship.

A satire?

No, father;—an eulogy.

Thus do we find in the imaginations of men, what we in vain look for in their hearts.— Lay it by

Come in.

My dear master, I am a petitioner to you.

None possesses a better claim to my favour—ask, and receive.

I thank you, Sir. The unhappy Henry.

What of him—

Emma—go to your apartment.

Poor Henry—

Imprudent man—

Nay, be not angry, he is without, and en­treats to be admitted.

I cannot, will not again behold him.

I am sorry you refuse me, as it compels me to repeat his words: "If," said he, "Sir Philip denies my humble request, tell him I demand to see him."

Demand to see me! well, his high command shall be obeyed then

; bid him approach.

By what title, Sir, do you thus intrude on me?

By one of an imperious nature, the title of a creditor.

I your debtor!

Yes; for you owe me justice. You, perhaps, withhold from me the inestimable trea­sure of a parent's blessing.

[Page 66]

To the business that brought you hither.

Thus then—I believe this is your signa­ture

Ah!

it is—

Affixed to a bond of £. 1000, which by assignment is mine. By virtue of this I discharge the debt of your worthy tenant Ashfield; who, it seems, was guilty of the crime of vindicating the injured and protecting the unfortunate. Now, Sir Philip, the retribution my hate demands is, that what remains of this obligation may not be now paid to me, but wait your entire convenience and leisure.

No; that must not be.

Oh, Sir, why thus oppress an innocent man?—why spurn from you a heart that pants to serve you? No answer, farewell

Hold—one word before we part— tell me—I dread to ask it

How came you possessed of this bond?

A stranger, whose kind benevolence stept in, and saved—

His name?

Morrington.

Fiend! tormentor! has he caught me!—You have seen this Morrington?

Yes.

Did he speak of me?

He did—and of your daughter. "Con­jure him," said he, "not to sacrifice the lovely Emma by a marriage her heart revolts at." Teil him the life and fortune of a parent are not his own. He holds them but in trust for his offspring. [Page 67]Bid him reflect, that while his daughter merits the brightest rewards a father can bestow, she is by that father doomed to the harshest fate tyranny can inflict.

Torture

Did he say who caused this sacrifice?

He told me you had been duped of your fortune by sharpers.

Aye. He knows that well. Young man, mark me—This Morrington, whose precepts wear the face of virtue, and whose practice seems benevolence, was the chief of the hellish banditti that ruined me.

Is it possible?

That bond you hold in your hand was obtained by robbery.

Confusion!

Not by the thief who, encountering you as a man, stakes life against life, but by that most cowardly villain, who, in the moment when reason sleeps and passion is roused, draws his snares around you, and hugs you to your ruin; then fat­tening on the spoil, insults the victim he has made.

On your soul is Morrington that man?

On my soul he is.

Thus, then, I annihilate the detested act—and thus I tread upon a villain's friendship

Rash boy! What have you done?

An act of justice to Sir Philip Blandford.

For which you claim my thanks?

Sir, I am thanked already—here

Curse on such wealth; com­pared with its possession, poverty is splendour. Fear not for me—I shall not feel the piercing cold; for in that man whose heart beats warmly for his fel­low [Page 68]low creatures, the blood circulates with freedom— My food shall be what few of the pampered sons of greatness can boast of, the luscious bread of inde­pendence; and the opiate that brings me sleep, will be the recollection of the day passed in inno­cence.

Noble boy! Oh! Blandford!

Ah!

What have I faid?

You called me Blandford.

'T was error—'T was madness.

Blandford! a thousand hopes and fears rush on my heart. Disclose to me my birth—be it what it may, I am your slave for ever. Refuse me, you create a foe, firm and implacable as—

Ah! am I threatened? Do not ex­tinguish the spark of pity my breast is warmed with.

I will not. Oh, forgive me.

Yes, on one condition—leave me: Ah! some one approaches. Begone, I insist—I entreat.

That word has charmed me. I obey, Sir. Philip—you may hate, but you shall respect me.

At last, thank heaven, I have found somebody. But, Sir Philip, were you in­dulging in soliloquy—You seem agitated.

No, Sir, rather indisposed.

Upon my soul, I am devilish glad to find you. Compared with this Castle, the Cretan labyrinth was intelligible; and unless some kind Ariadne gives me a clue, I shant have the pleasure of seeing you above once a week.

[Page 69]

I beg your pardon, I have been an inattentive host.

Oh, no; but when a house is so devilish large, and the party so very small, they ought to keep together; for to say the truth, tho' no one on earth feels a warmer regard for Robert Handy than I do—I soon get heartily sick of his company—whatever he may be to others, he's a cursed bore to me.

Where is your worthy father?

As usual, full of contrivances that are impracticable, and improvements that are re­trograde; forming, altogether, a whimsical instance of the confusion of arrangement, the delay of ex­pedition, the incommodiousness of accommodation, and the infernal trouble of endeavouring to save it —he has now a score or two of workmen about him, and intends pulling down some apartments in the east wing of the Castle.

Ah! ruin!—Within there!

Fly to Sir Abel Handy—Tell him to desist; order his people, on the peril of their lives, to leave the Castle instantly. Away.

Sir Philip Blandford, your conduct compels me to be serious.

Oh! forbear! forbear!

Excuse me, Sir,—an alliance, it seems, is intended between our families, founded on ambition and interest. I wish it, Sir, to be formed on a nobler basis, ingenuous friendship and mutual confidence. That confidence being withheld, I must here pause, for I should hesitate in calling that man father, who refuses me the name of friend.

[Page 70]

Ah! how shall I act?

Is my demand unreasonable?

Strictly just—But, oh!—you know not what you ask—Do you not pity me?

I do.

Why then seek to change it into hate?

Confidence seldom generates hate— Mistrust always.

Most true.

I am not impelled by curiosity to ask your friendship. I scorn so mean a motive. Be­lieve me, Sir, the folly and levity of my character proceed merely from the effervescence of my heart —you will find its substance, warm, steady, and sincere.

I believe it from my soul.—Allow me a moment's thought.—

—Suspicion is awakened, does not prudence as well as justice prompt me to confide in him. Does not my poverty command me. Perhaps, I may find a sympathizing friend—the task is dreadful—but it must be so—perhaps, he will perform the awful task of visiting the chamber, and removing every vestige of guilt.

Yes, you shall hear my story, I will lay before your view the agony with which this wretched bosom is loaded.

I am proud of your confidence, and am prepared to receive it.

Not here—let me lead you to the eastern part of the Castle, my young friend—mark me: This is no common trust I repose in you; for I place my life in your hands.

And the pledge I give for its secu­rity is what alone gives value to life, my honour.

SCENE III.— A gloomy Gallery in the Castle—in the Centre a strongly barred Door.—The Gallery hung with Portraits.

Whenever curiosity has led me to this gallery, that portrait has attracted my attention— the features are peculiarly interesting. One of the House of Blandford—Blandford!—my name— perhaps my father. To remain longer ignorant of my birth, I feel impossible. There is a point when patience ceases to be virtue—Hush. I hear foot­steps —Ah! Sir Philip, and another, in close con­versation. Shall I avoid them?—No—Shall I conceal myself and observe them—Curse on the base suggestion!—No—

That chamber contains the mystery.

Ah!

Observe that por­trait

Who's there?

Sir, we wish to be private.

My being here, Sir, was merely the effect of accident. I scorn intrusion

But the important words are spoken—that chamber contains the mystery

Who is that youth?

You there behold his father—my brother—

—I've not beheld that face these [Page 72]twenty years.—Let me again peruse its lineaments.

Oh, God! how I loved that man!—

Be composed.

I will endeavour. Now listen to my story.

You rivet my attention.

While we were boys, my father died intestate, So I, as elder born, became the sole possessor of his fortune; but the moment the law gave me power, I divided, in equal portions, his large possessions, one of which I with joy pre­sented to my brother.

It was noble.

At least it was just—we lived toge­ther, Sir, as one man; as my life I loved him, and selt no joys but what he shared—Sorrow I knew not.

Such love demanded a life of grati­tude.

You shall now hear, Sir, how I was rewarded. Chance placed in my view a young woman of superior personal charms; my heart was captivated—For­tune she possessed not—but mine was ample. She blessed me by consenting to our union, and my brother approved my choice.

How enviable your situation.

Oh!

On the even­ing previous to my intended marriage, with a mind serene as the departing sun, whose morning beam was to light me to happiness, I sauntered to a fa­vourite tree, where, lover like, I had marked the name of my destined bride, and with every nerve braced to the tone of ecstacy, I was wounding the [Page 73]bark with a deeper impression of the name—when, oh, God!—

Pray proceed!

When the loved offspring of my mother, and the woman my soul adored—the only two beings on earth who had wound themselves round my heart, by every tie dear to the soul of man, placed themselves before me; I heard him— even now the sound is in my ears, and drives me to madness—I heard him breathe vows of love, which she answered with burning kisses—He pitied his poor brother, and told her he had prepared a vessel to bear her for ever from me.—They were about to depart, when the burning fever in my heart rushed upon my brain—Picture the young tiger, when first his savage nature rouses him to vengeance—the knife was in my gripe—I sprung upon them—with one hand I tore the faithless woman from his damned embrace, and with the other—stabbed my brother to the heart.

What followed?—

At that dreadful moment my brother's servant appeared, and the vessel that was to wast him to happiness bore away his bleeding body; a few days brought the news that he had died sud­denly in France, and all inquiry ceased

You are faint—But let me lead you from this place—Yet hold!—the wretched woman—

Was secretly conveyed here—even to that chamber.—She proved pregnant, and in giving birth to a son, paid the forfeit of her per­jury by death.

[Page 74]

Which son, is the youth that left us.

Even so—Tell me, could wretch be born possessed of a more solid title to my hate?

Yet, he is innocent.

My task being ended, yours begins.

Mine!

Yes, that chamber contains evidence of my shame; the fatal instrument, with other guilty proofs, lie there concealed—can you won­der I dread to visit the scene of horror—can you wonder I implore you, in mercy, to save me from the task. Oh! my friend, enter the chamber, bury in endless night those instruments of blood, and I will kneel and worship you.

I will.

Will you

I am unused to kindness from man, and it affects me. Oh! can you press to your guiltless heart that blood-stained hand.

Sir Philip, let men without faults condemn; I must pity you.

SCENE I.— A wooded view of the country.

I FEAR my conduct is very imprudent.—Has not Mr. Handy told me he is engaged to another? But 'tis hard for the heart to forego, without one struggle, its only hope of happiness; and conscious of my own honor, what have I to fear? Perhaps he may repent his unkindness to me—at least I'll put his passion to the proof; if he be worthy of my love, happiness is for ever mine; if not, I'll tear him from my breast, tho' from the wound my life's blood should follow. Ah, he comes—I feel I am a coward, and my poor alarmed heart trem­bles at its approaching trial—pardon me, female delicacy, if for a moment, I seem to pass thy sacred limits.

By Heavens, the misfortunes of Sir Philip Blandford weigh so heavily on my spirits, that —but confusion to melancholy! I am come here to meet an angel, who will, in a moment, drive away the blue devils like mist before the sun. Let me again read the dear words;

‘I confess I love you still,’

but I dare not believe their truth till her sweet lips con­firm it. Ah, she's there—Susan, my angel! a thousand thanks. A life of love can alone repay the joy your letter gave me.

Do you not despise me?

No; love you more than ever.

Oh, Robert, this is the very crisis of my fate.—From this moment we meet with honor, or we meet no more. If we must part, perhaps when you lead your happy bribe to church, you may stumble over your Susan's grave. Well, be it so.

Away with such sombre thoughts!

Tell me my doom—yet hold—you are wild, impetuous—you do not give your heart fair play—therefore promise me (perhaps 'tis the last favor I shall ask), that before you determine whe­ther our love shall die or live with honour, you will remain here alone a few moments, and that you will give those moments to reflection.

I do—I will.

With a throbbing heart I will wait at a little distance. May virtuous love and sacred honour direct his thoughts!

Yes, I will reflect—that I am the most fortunate fellow in England. She loves me still— [Page 77]what is the consequence? that love will triumph—that she will be mine—mine without the degrada­tion of marriage—love, pride, all gratified—how I shall be envied, when I triumphantly pass the circles of sashion! one will cry, ‘Who is that angel?’ another, "Happy fellow!" then Susan will smile around—will she smile? oh yes—she will be all gaiety—mingle with the votaries of pleasure, and—what! Susan Ashfield, the companion of licentious women! Damnation! no; I wrong her —she would not—she would rather shun society— she would be melancholy—melancholy,

would the time were over. Pshaw! I think of it too seriously—'tis false—I do not—should her virtue yield to love, would not remorse affect her health? should I not behold that lovely form sicken and decay—perhaps die—die! then what am I? a villain—loaded with her parent's curses and my own. Let me fly from the dreadful thought—But how fly from it—

by placing before my imagination a picture of more honourable lineaments—I make her my wife. Ah! then she would smile on me—there's rapture in the thought —instead of vice producing decay, I behold virtue emblazening beauty—instead of Susan on the bed of death, I behold her giving to my hopes a dear pledge of our mutual love. She places it in my arms—down her father's honest face runs & tear, but 'tis the tear of joy. Oh, this will be luxury— paradise!—Come, Susan—come, my love, my soul, my wife!

Is it possible?

Yes; those charms have conquered.

Oh! no; do not so disgrace the victory you have gained—'tis your own virtue that has triumphed.

My Susan! how true it is, that fools alone are vicious. But let us fly to my father, and obtain his consent. On recollection, that may not be quite so easy. His arrangements with Sir Philip Blandford are—are—not mine, so there's an end of that. And Sir Philip, by missortune, knows how to appreciate happiness. Then poor Miss Bland­ford —upon my soul, I feel for her.

Come—don't make yourself miserable. If my suspicions be true, she'll not break her heart for your loss.

Nay, don't say so—she will be unhappy.

There he is. Dame, shall I shoot at un?

No.

What does he mean?

My father's voice.

Then I'll leather un wi' my stick.

Zounds—no—come here.

What do thee do here wi' my Sue, eh?

With your Sue—she's mine—mine by a husband's right.

Husband! what, thee Sue's husband?

[Page 79]

I soon shall be.

But how tho'—? what, faith and troth, what, like as I married Dame?

Yes.

What, axed three times?

Yes; and from this moment I'll maintain that the real Temple of love is a parish church —cupid is a chubby curate, his torch is the sexton's lantern, and the according paean of the spheres is the profound nasal thorough bass of the clerk's Amen.

Huzza! only to think now—my blessing go with you, my children!

And mine.

And Heaven's blessing too. Ecod, I believe now, as thy feyther zays, thee canst do every thing.

No; for there is one think I cannot do—injure the innocence of woman.

Drabbit it, I shall walk in the road all day to zee Sue ride by in her own coach.

You must ride with me, father.

I say, Tummas, what will Mrs. Grundy say then?

I do hope thee will not be asham'd of thy feyther in laa, woolye?

No; for then I must also be ashamed of myself, which I am resolved not to be again.

Heyday, Bob! why an't you gallant­ing your intended bride? but you are never where you ought to be.

[Page 80]

Nay, Sir, by your own confession I am where I ought to be.

No; you ought to be at the Castle— Sir Philip is there, and Miss Blandford is there, and Lady Handy is there—and therefore—

You are not there—in one word, I shall not marry Miss Blandford.

Indeed! who told you so?

One who never lies—and therefore, one I am determined to make a friend of—my conscience.

But, zounds, Sir, what excuse have you?

A very fair one, Sir—is not she?

Why, yes, I can't deny it—but, 'sdeath Sir, this overturns my best plan.

No, Sir: for a parent's best plan is his son's happiness, and that it will establish. Come, give us your consent. Consider how we admire all your wonderful inventions.

No; not my plough, Bob—but 'tis a devilish clever plough.

I dare say it is. Come, Sir, con­sent and perhaps, in our turn, we may invent some­thing that may please you.

He! he! he! well—but hold—what's the use of my consent without my wife's—bless you! I dare no more say I approve, without—

Health to this worthy company.

The same to you, Sir.

[Page 81]

Who have we here, I wonder?

I wish to speak with Sir Abel Handy.

I am the person.

You are married?

Damn it! he sees it in my face.—Yes, I have that happiness.

Is it a happiness?

To say the truth—why do you ask?

I want answers, not questions—and de­pend on't, 'tis your interest to answer me.

An extraordinary fellow this!

Would it break your heart to part with her?

Who are you, Sir, that—

Answers—I want answers—would it break your heart, I ask?

Why, not absolutely I hope. Time, and philosophy, and—

I understand—what sum of money wou'd you give to the man who would dissolve your mar­riage contract?

He means something, Sir.

Do you think so, Bob?

Would you give a thousand pounds?

No.

No!

No; I would not give one; but I would give five thousand pounds.

Generously offered—a bargain—I'll do it.

But, an't you deceiving me?

What should I gain by that?

Tell me your name?

Time will tell that.

[Page 82]

Sir Abel—where are you▪

That's your wife's voice—I know it.

So do I.

I'll wait without—Cry, "Hem!" when you want me.

Then you need not go far—

I dare not believe it—I should go out of my wits —and then if he fail, what a pickle I shall be in! Here she is.

So, Sir, I have found you at last?

My honoured mama, you have just come in time to give your consent to my marriage with my sweet Susan.

And do you imagine I will agree to such degradation?

Do'e, Lady Nelly, do'e be kind hearted to the young loviers—Remember how I used to let thee zit up all night a sweethearting.

Silence! and have you dared to con­sent?

Oh, no, my Lady.

Sir, you had better cry—"Hem!"

I think it's time, Bob—Hem!

Hem!

What do you mean by—Hem?

Only, my dear, something trouble­some, I want to get rid of—Hem!

There he is—never was so frightened in all my life.

Gerald!

Yes.

An't you dead, Gerald? Twenty years away and not dead?

No, wife.

Wife! Did you say, wife?

Yes.

Say it again.

She is my wife.

Once more.

My lawful, wedded wife.

Oh, my dear fellow!—Oh, my dear boy! Oh, my dear girl!—

Oh, my dear!

No—yes, now she an't my wife, I will— well—how will you have the five thousand? Will you have it in cash, or in bank notes—or stock, or India bonds, or lands, or patents, or—

No—land will do—I wish to kill my own mutton.

Sir, you shall kill all the sheep in Hampshire.

Sir Abel, you have lost five thousand pounds, and with it, properly managed, an excel­lent wife, who, though I cannot condescend to take again as mine—you may depend on't shall never trouble you. Come! this way

—important events now call on me, and prevent my staying longer with this good com­pany. Sir Abel, we shall meet soon. Nay, come, you know I'm not used to trifle; come, come—

[Page 84]

Come, come—That's a damn'd clever fellow! Joy, joy, my boy! Here, here, your hands—The first use I make of liberty, is to give happiness—I wish I had more imitators —Well, what will you do?

Where will you go? I'll go anywhere you like—Will you go to Bath, or Brighton, or Petersburgh, or Jerusalem, or Seringapatam? all the same to me—we single fellows—we rove about —nobody cares about us—we care for nobody.

I must to the Castle, father.

Have with you, Bob

. "I'll sip every flower—I'll change every hour." —

—Come, come—

Bless her! how nicely she do trip it away with the gentry!

And then, Tummas, think of the wed­ding.

I declare I shall be just the zame as ever—may be I may buy a smartish bridle, or a zilver backy stopper, or the like o'that.

And, then, when we come out of church, Mrs. Grundy will be standing about there—

I shall shake hands agreeably wi' all my friends

Then I just look at her in this manner.

How dost do, Peter—Ah, Dick —glad to zee thee wi' all my zoul

Then, with a kind of half curtesy, I shall—

[Page 85]

What an wold fool thee bees't, Dame— Come along, and behave pratty, do'e.

SCENE II.— The same as Act fourth, Scene third,

Now to fulfil my promise with Sir Philip Blandford—by—entering that chamber, and removing—'Tis rather awful—I don't half like it, somehow, everything is so cursedly still. What's that? I thought I heard something—no—why, 'sdeath, I am not afraid—no—I'm quite su—su— sure of that—only every thing is so cursedly hush, and—

What the devil's that?

I swear I hear some one—lamenting—who's there?

Father!

Bob!

Have you seen anything?

Oh, my dear boy!

Damn it, don't frighten one—

Such an accident! Mercy on us!

Speak!

I was mixing the ingredients of my grand substitute for gunpowder, when, somehow, it blew up, and set the curtains on fire, and—

Curtains! zounds, the room's in a blaze.

Don't say so, Bob.

What's to be done? Where's your famous preparation for extinguishing flames?

[Page 86]

It is not mixed.

Where's your fire escape?

It is not fixed.

Where's your patent fire-engine?

'Tis on the road.

Well, you are never at a loss.

Never.

What's to be done?

I don't know. I say, Bob, I have it —perhaps it will go out of itself!

Go out! it increases every minute —Let us run for assistance—Let us alarm the family.

Yes—dear me! dear me!

Here, John! Thomas! some villain has set fire to the Castle. If you catch the rascal, throw him into the flames.

SCENE III.— The Garden of the Castle.—The effects of the Fire shewn on the Foliage and Scenery.

The Castle in flames!—What occa­sioned it?

Alas, I know not!

Are the family in safety?

Sir Philip is.

And his daughter?

Poor lady! I just now beheld her look­ing with agony from that window!

Ah! Emma in danger!—Farewell!

[Page 87]

Are you mad? the great staircase is in flames.

I care not! Should we meet no more, tell Sir Philip I died for his daughter!

Yet reflect.

Old man, do not cling to me thus— 'Sdeath! men will encounter peril to ruin a woman, and shall I hesitate when it is to save one?

Brave, generous boy! Heaven preserve thee!

Emma, my child, where art thou?

I fear, Sir, the Castle will be destroyed.

My child! my child! where is she! speak!

Alas! she remains in the Castle!

Ah! then will I die with her!

Hold, dear master! if human power can preserve her, she is safe—The bravest, noblest of men has flown to her assistance.

Heaven reward him with its choicest blessings!

'Tis Henry.

Henry! Heaven will reward him— I will reward him!

Then be happy! Look, Sir!

Ah! dare I trust my eyes!

He bears her safe in his arms.

Bountiful Creator, accept my thanks!

There is your daughter.

My child! my Emma, revive!

Aye—now to unfold the mystery —The avenue to the eastern wing is still passable —the chamber not yet in flames—the present mo­ment lost, and all is closed for ever. I will be satisfied, or perish.

Am I restored to my dear father's arms?

Yes, only blessing of my life! In future thy wishes shall be mine—thy happiness my joy.

My dear friend safe! and the lovely Emma in his arms! Then let the bonfire blaze.

My young friend, do you mark? the flames will save the trial I imposed on you. Be­hold —they already burst from the eastern turret! Ere this they must have reached the chamber— that consumed, the secret is with us secure.

Oh, father, this unkind man has re­fused me, and given his hand to that sweet girl.

I confess 'tis true—Your eyes can only fail to conquer those who are before subdued.

But, Emma, where is your Henry? I wish to be just to him—I wish to thank him.

He has withdrawn to avoid our gra­titude.—

No—he again rushed into the Castle, exclaiming, ‘I will penetrate that chamber, or perish in the attempt.’

[Page 89]

Then all is discovered.

Hush! for heaven's sake collect yourself!

Ah!

Thank heaven he's safe. What urged you, Henry, again to venture in the Castle?

Fate! the desperate attempt of a desperate man!

Ah!

Yes; the mystery is developed. In vain the massy bars, cemented with their cankerous rust, op­posed my entrance—in vain the heated suffocating damps enveloped me—in vain the hungry flames flashed their vengeance round me! What could oppose a man struggling to know his fate? I sorced the doors, a firebrand was my guide, and among many evidences of blood and guilt, I found —these!

It is accomplished! Just heaven, I bend to thy decree!—Blood must be paid by blood! Henry, that knife, aimed by this fatal hand, murdered thy father!

Ah!

Henry!

Oh, believe him not! 'Twas madness! I've heard him talk thus wildly in his dreams! We are all friends! None will repeat his words—I am sure none will! My heart will break!—Oh, Henry! will you de­stroy my father?

Would I were in my grave!

Ah, Gerald here! How vain con­cealment! Well, come you to give evidence of my shame?

I come to announce one, who for many years has watched each action of your life.

Who?

Morrington.

I shall then behold the man who has so long avoided me—

But ever has been near you—he is here.

Well, behold your victim in his last stage of human wretchedness! Come you to in­sult me?

Ah! can even you pity me? Speak—still silent— still mysterious—Well, let me employ what re­mains of life in thinking of hereafter—

Oh, my brother! we soon shall meet again—And let me hope, that stript of those pas­sions which make men devils, I may receive the heavenly balm of thy forgiveness, as I, from my inmost soul, do pardon thee.

Ah, what means that agony? He faints! give him air!—

Angels of mercy! my brother! 'tis he! he lives! Henry, support your father!

[Page 91]

Ah, my fa­ther! he revives!

Hush!

Crawling in the dust, behold a repentant wretch!—

My brother, Morrington!

Turn not away—in mercy hear me!

Speak!

After the dreadful hour that parted us, agonized with remorse, I was about to punish home what your arm had left unaccomplished; when some angel whispered— ‘Punishment is life, not death—Live and atone!’

On! go on!

I flew to you—I found you surrounded by sharpers—What was to be done? I became Mor­rington! littered with villains! practised the arts of devils! braved the assassin's steel! possessed my­self of your large estates—lived hateful to myself, detested by mankind—to do what? to save an in­jured brother from destruction, and lay his fortunes at his feet!

Ah! is it possible?

Oh, is that atonement? No—By me you first beheld her mother! 'Twas I that gave her fortune! Is that atonement? No—But my Henry has saved that angel's life—Kneel with me, my boy— lift up thy innocent hands with those of thy guilty father, and beg for mercy from that injured raint.

O, God! how infinite are thy mer­cies! Henry, forgive me—Emma, plead for me— There—there

[Page 92]

But my father—

Charles!

Philip!

Brother, I forgive thee.

Then let me die—blest, most blest!

No, no

Here —I want thee here—Raise him to my heart.

Again!

If forgiveness be an attribute which ennobles our nature, may we not hope to find pardon for our errors—here?