First Produced at The New Strand Theatre,March 4th, 1850.
Time in Representation, Two Hours and Forty Minutes
Old-fashioned black suit, white cravat, black stockings, shoes and black buckles, three-cornered hat.
2nd Dress.—Same, with top boots.
3rd Dress.—Same, shoes and buckles, ruffles.
Old-fashioned grey pepper-and-salt coat and breeches, chintz waistcoat, speckled stockings, shoes and buckles, black cravat, three-cornered hat.
2nd Dress.—Same, with green waistcoat and white stockings.
Old-fashioned brown suit, grey stockings, shoes and buckles, black handkerchief.
Old-fashioned drab suit, grey stockings, shoes and buckles, black handkerchief.
Old-fashioned light drab coat, meanly trimmed with narrow gold lace, and waistcoat, brown breeches, grey stockings, shoes and buckles, three-cornered hat, brown wig, white cravat.
2nd Dress.—Old-fashioned black coat, figured silk waistcoat, jack-boots.
3rd Dress. —Green great-coat with gilt buttons, richly trimmed with gold lace, black velvet cape and cuffs, hat trimmed with feathers and gold lace, powdered wig, jack-boots, lace ruffles.
Old-fashioned scarlet hunting-coat richly trimmed with gold lace, blue satin waistcoat trimmed with gold lace, buckskin pantaloons, top-boots, spurs, white lace cravat, hunting-cap trimmed with gold lace, lace ruffles.
2nd Dress.—Light blue velvet old-fashioned coat, richly trimmed with silver lace; hat, gold lace and feather trimming; jack-boots and spurs.
3rd Dress.—Brown great-coat, steel buttons, silver lace; black velvet cape and cuffs.
Old-fashioned dark blue hunting-coat trimmed with gold lace, red satin waistcoat, buckskin breeches, white cravat, top-boots, hunting-cap trimmed with gold lace, lace ruffles.
Old-fashioned red coat trimmed with lace, dark flowered waistcoat, white kerseymere breeches, three-cornered hat, jack-boots, white cravat, plain ruffles
2nd Dress.—Long red damask dressing-gown, high bushy white wig, and beard.
3rd Dress.—Light drab countryman's coat, chintz waistcoat, white cord breeches, red speckled stockings, lace ancle boots, white countryman's hat, belt and buckle, red silk handkerchief.
4th Dress.—Long brown gown, old man's long white wig and beard, spectacles.
5th Dress.—Plum velvet coat and breeches, steel buttons, trimmed with silver lace; blue satin waistcoat, silver-laced ; white lace cravat and ruffles, silk stockings, shoes and buckles, ringlet wig, hat with silver lace and feather trimming.
Old-fashioned drab coat and breeches, figured waistcoat, leather leggings, three-cornered hat, bald old man's wig, coloured neckhandkerchief.
Old-fashioned brown coat, cord breeches, red waistcoat grey stockings, shoes and buckles, three-cornered hat, red neckhandkerchief.
Brown waistcoat, black breeches, white apron, speckled stockings, shoes and buckles.
Green velvet coat, red waistcoat, brown breeches, white apron.
Smock frock, drab breeches, countryman's hat, white stockings, ancle boots.
Blue coat with gold lace, three-cornered hat, top-boots.
Brown ragged coat, drab breeches, figured waistcoat, red stockings, shoes and buckles.
Red coat, drab breeches, striped waistcoat, boots.
Similar dresses to Clink.
Similar dresses to Clink.
Jack-Pudding's dress.
Countrymen's coats and smock frocks.
Black velvet dress, white neckhandkerchief and cap, white apron.
Cream challis tuck-up dress, blue quilted petticoat, blue handkerchief tied round head, locket round neck.
2nd Dress.—Same, with blue cap.
3rd Dress.—Same, with black hat trimmed with blue, and swan's-down tippet.
4th Dress.—Fawn merino tuck-up dress, white petticoat, lace cap trimmed with black, black lace shawl.
Chintz tuck-up dregs, white petticoat, lace cape, straw hat.
2nd Dress.—Brown merino tuck-up dress.
Blue brocade tuck-up dress, white muslin skirt emoroidered with red, white lace shawl, black hat with black and yellow feathers, red shoes and buckles, fan.
2nd Dress.—Dark brown merino dress, black apron trimmed with pink, straw hat, cotton handkerchief tied round head, red cloak and hood.
Red and white brocade tuck-up dress, blue brocaded petticoat, scarlet hat trimmed with white satin and large feathers, green velvet shoes with buckles.
Dark chintz dress tucked-up, green petticoat, yellow figured shawl, black bonnet, white cap, spectacles.
Chintz tuck-up dresses, pink petticoats, white lace capes, white aprons, straw hats.
Chintz tuck-up dress, blue petticoat, cap, white apron.
Scenery by Mr. W. Shatters, and Assistants.
There, I've marked down the covey—old cock, old hen, and cheepers
No Mall! no tea-houses!
No Gray's Inn Gardings, with spruce templars to ogle.
How I 'ate lambs, and 'aycocks, and hinnocence, and all that 'ere !
But, where's this pretty lambkin of a shepherdess, that the Squire's run wild after?
Some awkward wretch, I'll warrant, with cheeks—
Quality? there's good and bad qualities, d'ye see, Molly?
Oh! don't be alarmed, Jenny.
Why it's—
Why, my gallant captain!
Give as your hand, my bold boy!
Why, I'm recommended country air, for a sort of tickling in the throat, which
London does not agree with just now—hem! especially about Bow-street. So as my
friend, Squire Thornhill, wanted a little assistance here
Have you seen her ?
I've been watching her at romps in the hayfield, with her brothers and
sisters this half-hour—and be hanged to me
Poor thing! but care killed a cat. I see we are on the same lay.
Excuse me, my business is to tempt her to the edge of the pit; you have the more delicate task of pushing her in. I've a letter for her here, if she'll take it, and then—
Ah! the old plan! Honest Frank, the Squire's chaplain, was to have introduced us this morning; but he rather overdid the claret last night—which is she?
'Ow 'orrid ungenteel!
Shall we join 'em, Capting?
Why, I'm not exactly the figure to attend ladies of quality, and, then, I
must plant my lime twig alone
Ah! the Squire does pay 'ansum.
Quite the man of honour, every inch of 'im!
A friend of yours?
I sold him a horse last week.
For a few shiners more than he was worth? Eh, Capting?
Au contraire, for half his value—pon honour— you see I got him cheap.
But why run away, if you sold the horse a bargain ?
Why the awkward fact is, I had a fit of remorse, and stole him back again yesterday.
Well, as the Capting has an engagement, we can't introduce ourselves. I should sink into my shoe 'eels.
No, its only your real high-bred ones that 'as your genuine easy assurance. Best trapes back to the Squire's, and see if that fat 'edded parson 'ave slept off his wine yet.
And then we can drop in on the family here, in a degagee way with the Squire,
in the cool of the evening.
After you, the Right Honourable the Lady Blarney ! Ha! ha!
Oh!
Wilt hold thy chatterin' tongue, Dame? What's to be done wi' un?
All! What's to be done wi' un?
Now, why can't you do as I do?
How's that say'ee?
Ah! How's that, say'ee?
You can't get any money, no more can I. I'm patient, why aren't you?
Ecod, he'd anger a saint, Dame!
Let alone thee and me, Varmer.
Wilt hold thy clapper, I say?—and he's a zittin there as cool as a dairy pan, and a whistlin, and a zwitchin, and a zmilin, as sweet as the stone babes a top of the Thornhill tomb.
I've told you an unnecessary number of times, my good Farmer, that I've no money.
What? Ecod! What do'st say to that, Dame?
No money?
And to see thee flinging half-crowns away, like potato-peelings, on gypsies, and beggars, and vagabonds.
Ah!
And a keeping thy lawful landlord and landlady out of their own.
It's zinful.
It's scandalous.
Tis abominable
'Tis—what's the Vicar's word?—'tis deuterogamous!
Yes, church. This field, with its sweet air, its wild flowers, and its summer
stillness, what is it, but a temple of the Great Being
How can you, when your'e always talking?
And a gave three guineas, yesterday was two days, to the beadle to spare the
broken old soldier they'd ha' whipped through the village for dog stealing.
Extravagant youth.
Nay, Sir, 'tis true I have just exchanged affluence for poverty; but, what then—I am not so poor, but that I have a spare guinea or two for the occasion.
You seem to take the fall from wealth to want, like a philosopher.
Sir, I have those supports which philosophers are often without, trust in a Higher Being, and the will to do my duty. I am blessed with sound health, a notable wife, a good and loving family; and I mean to allow of no wants in my parish, but three.
And they?
Are strange wants. A parson wanting pride, young men wanting wives, and alehouses wanting customers. You see, I am frank with you, Sir. In return, tell me something of yourself.
I have little to tell, Sir; except that I am a sort of well-read, well-bred vagabond; too proud to beg, too lazy to work, and who asks no more than to saunter carelessly through life, and play with the children—the only human beings I have found to be harmless. Still, I can honour learning, charity, and humility when I find them, as I did in your last Sunday's sermon.
Ah! then you heard me in support of that great man, Dr. Whistom? You were
with me there, Sir, I hope?
Nay, Sir, the sermons I prefer are those preached out of the pulpit, like
yours just now, by good example.
Come, Dame! Is the 'oman going to stand like a cherry-clack, clatter,
clatter, all day, with a wanion to thee?
There, Dame, thee hears ! no scolding!
Well I bean't a scolding!
And I was going to be very wise, and tell you all about the place, though we only came hither last week; but you must be my guide instead. What think you of our Squire, Mr. Thornhill?
Why, that he ought to be much obliged to his uncle, Sir William, who leaves his nephew a fine house and five-sixths of his income, and lives himself on the other sixth, up two pair of stairs in London.
They tell me, Sir William, is one of the best, and most generous men living.
But whimsical.
Do they?
Some say absurd.
Some go as far as to say, a perfect fool!
No, d—n it, not a fool.
Do you know him ?
I know his history pretty well. In his youth he loved all mankind—for fortune prevented him from knowing that there were rascals. He relieved all who asked ; and found numbers disposed to solicit. His profusion gradually impaired his fortune; till,on the verge of ruin, he found that a man must give, not benefits alone; but his own heart, if he wished to gain the hearts of others. So he resolved to respect himself, and restore his shattered fortune. He travelled over Europe on foot; and, now, though he is scarce thirty, he is richer than ever; not quite such a fool as before—but still a greater fool than he is willing the world should take him for.
Young man, you've a smart gift of sketching character, I wish Moses had heard you;—you see the lad yonder— a young philosopher, Sir, reading Epictetus among the haycocks. He shall conduct you an argument in mood and figure, or draw you a parallel after the manner of Plutarch, as well as many an Oxford master. He is my pupil, Sir, and I am proud of him.
I am afraid his light will be rather under a bushel here.
And there are my girls, bless 'em, Olivia and Sophia— romantic names, but I protest I had no hand in 'em. I tried for Grizel, after their aunt; but their mother would not let me. But my Deborah must introduce them, for here she comes, with a bottle of our famous old gooseberry, and a rustic treat from our orchard, "dapes inemptas," as Horace hath it. You must stay and partake, Sir.
Burchell; at present a lodger with Farmer Flamborough, and no stranger to the notable qualities of Mrs. Primrose.
Sir, your most obedient.
Come, dame—bustle, bustle.
Allow me to assist you.
I hope he is not a footman out of place.
And catting whistles is another.
Sir!
And trying the merits of Mrs. Primrose's famous old gooseberry, will be a third, if she will invite me.
Never mind the dignity of the family, just now, my dear; but think of their
appetites. I'll give them the signal for dinner, the rogues,
And we shall have them coming up all blown about and blowsy, as rough as colts, and with faces as red as peonys.
And, now, I'll faint.
Don't be a fool, woman.
If you have no feelings of your own, Doctor, respect mine. I insist upon fainting.
But you'll ask Mr. Burchell to return and taste our country fare here?
Oh, please! she doesn't want to go to bed, and she hates tansey tea, and she has such an appetite for dinner —at least, I have, and it's all the same;—so, if we might both come back—do, Papa!
Agreed—agreed! Come, Dame, spare her the tansey tea—we'll give them ten minutes to change, and then —hey for gratitude and gooseberry!
The conclusion I draw—
Conclusion, quotha! Draw the cork, boy!
Pooh, pooh! The lad's well enough—well enough!
What a pity I did not know of this strange gentleman's visit, my dear! I might have put on my crimson Paduasoy.
Yes, and ordered thy coach, my dear!
My coach?
If you did not wish to have the parish children hooting after you. Dame Deborah Primrose, wife of Dr. Primrose, on a living of fifteen pounds per annum, carrying the family dinner to the hay-field, in a crimson Paduasoy!
Indeed, you used to say that it became me vastly. There was a time when you were proud to see your wife and daughters neat and handsome about you;
Finery, my love, does not become us who have barely the means of decency,—I hardly know if it becomes even the wealthy. Consider that the nakedness of the poor might often be clothed from the trimmings of the rich.
Ah! here comes our water party.
Nay, nay, girl, next to Mr. Burchell.
Oh! no, it wasn't the bath; it was Mr. Burchell.
Dick! how can you?
Ah! Didn't I see you, as I dropped behind Livy and Bill, and didn't you lean
on Mr. Burchell's arm, and didn't he speak ever so softly, and didn't you get
ever so red.
I saw no such sight, saucebox.
Ah! then it was because you were looking at the Squire in his laced coat
Oh, Dick! I never once looked at him, nor he at me; for it was just then—wasn't it, Sophia?—he caught the lash of his whip in the hawthorn tree, and was ever so long getting it out again, for I watched him.
And never once looked at him—Livy!
Well, if he did look, I'll warrant me—fine gentleman, as he is—he never saw more breeding, or a finer figure, at Ranelagh, or the Rotunda, than our Livy's; though I say it that shouldn't, Mr. Burchell.
Madam?
Deborah, Deborah, hast thou still to learn that pride must have a fall, after
thy tumble from old Blackberry? They must needs ride to church last Sunday, Mr.
Burchell; the girls on the wall-eyed colt, and Moses and my lady on old
Blackberry—when the straps of my lady's pillion broke, and the crimson Paduasoy
was landed in the mire
Dr. Primrose, Dr. Primrose, thou art incorrigible!
We learn, from Athenaeus, that it was the custom among the ancients, at their
banquets, to pass round a lyre, and a branch
His scullion, child?
His scullion, mother!—No, his scholion: so called in Greek. We have no
laurel, Sir, and no lyre—hut here's sister Livy's guitar
Well thought of, Moses: come, Mr. Burchell.
Nay, Mr. Moses, I don't know Greek, and I can't sing; so, like other inventors of tortures, you must fall the first victim to your own design.
Do, Moses: and give us something cheerful—"Death and the Lady," or '"Johnny Armstrong's Last Good Night," or "The Cruelty of Barbara Allen.
Most of his mother's family could sing a good song. 'Twas a common saying, in our county, that the Blenkinsops could never look straight before them; nor the Higginsons blow out a candle—that there were none of the Grograms but could sing a good song, or of the Marjorams but could tell a good tale.
Oh! the hounds—the hounds !
And there bounds the poor stag!—how it sobs and strains! See, the hounds are
upon its haunches—it mast turn at the brook—no, it plunges in; the dogs follow;
it struggles up the opposite bank, under the pollard. Oh! here comes the hunters
over the fallow—one, two, three—with the Squire leading.
Well, for a nice, noble, genteel sport, give me stag hunting!
The excitement of a savage, followed by the achievements of a butcher.
But, your servant, Doctor and ladies, I have important business to attend to.
Important business. indeed
Truly important, I have to carry a whistle to one of Farmer Flamborough's children.
Important business, indeed! but as I am a living woman, here comes the
Squire! Run into the house, Livy, and set me out a pair of lace pinners. No !
it's too late. Come hither, child.
Now, Frank, keep thy mouth shut, or strike me dumb if I don't unfrock you.
Never fear me, Squire-the Vicar's one of us; and we black sheep always keep up appearances before one another.
Mrs. Primrose, I kiss your hand—ladies, I am your slave: I must welcome you
to our country side, country fashion
You're welcome, Squire, and you too, Sir. The cloth is always welcome here,
whatever the cut of it—
This is Olivia, Squire, our eldest; and this is Sophia, our second
Mr. Moses, your most obedient.
A ripe scholar, Squire, bashful as he looks.
Odso: Frank, I must turn Moses over to thee; if the ghosts of thy classics be
not long ago laid in a Red Sea of claret
Nay, I am his man.
Methinks I need not go far for my "Ass in presenti," in your
Reverence's company.
Ha! ha! well said, Master Moses! drop him, Frank, he bites.
He considers himself one of the family, already !
And can only boast her own grace, instead of the dancing-master's.
Strike me classical; but such a Hebe is fit cupbearer for such nectar.
Delicious!
Strike me stupid, Vicar, I could foreswear cards, claret, and the chase, if Miss Olivia would but condescend to turn Iphigenia to such a Cymon.
Such a what Sir, please?
Cymon—you know.
Oh yes! I've read about Simple Simon in the story books.
Ah, you will find the girl well-read, I warrant me, Squire, I have directed her studies myself.
Especially with the mysteries of pickling, preserving, and pudding making.
My dear, wilt thou never learn good manners?
Egad, Miss Sophia—'ware honest Frank, he is the very Lovelace of parsons. Come tell us honestly Frank, suppose your mistress, the Church, on one hand, and Miss Sophia on the other—which would you be for?
For both, to be sure.
Right, Frank—Egad! a fine woman is worth all the priestcraft in creation,
How, Sir?
And I can prove it.
I think I should be able to prove to the contrary.
Very well Sir.
I am for managing it rationally.
Good again, and firstly of the first—I hope you will not deny that whatever is, is—If you don't grant me that, I can go no further.
I think I can grant you that, and make the most of it.
I hope, too, that you will grant that a part is less than the whole.
I grant that too—It is but just and reasonable.
I hope you will not deny, that three angles of a triangle are equal to two right angles.
Nothing can be plainer.
Very well, the premises being thus settled, I proceed to observe that the concatenation of self-existence, proceeding in a reciprocal duplicate ratio, naturally produces a problematical dialogism, which in some measure proves that the essence of spirituality may be referred to the second predicable.
Hold, hold, I deny that. Do you think I can thus tamely submit to such heterodox doctrines?
What? not submit! Answer me one plain question. Do you think Aristotle right, when he says relatives are related?
Undoubtedly.
If so, then answer me directly to what I propose. Whether do you judge the analytical investigation of the first part of my entheymeme deficient secundum quoad, or quoad minus? And give me your reasons, I say, directly.
I protest, I don't rightly comprehend the force of your reasoning; but, if it be reduced to one single proposition, I fancy it may then be answered.
Oh, Sir! your most humble servant—I find you want me to furnish you with
argument and intellect too. No, Sir; there, I protest, you are too hard for me.
Ha—ha—ha! Poor Moses!
But, egad! in this charming company I must not forget my serious duties. I
make it a point, Dr. Primrose, always to see the dogs made comfortable after
their day's work. Good day to you, Doctor. Mrs. Primrose, I shall beg to wait
upon you again. Young ladies, your slave.
What wit!
What humour!
What good-breeding!
He thought I'd admit his quoad minus; but I was up to him there, Sir.
Nay, my poor boy, he used three hard words to your one. But didst thou notice, my dear, how smitten he seemed with Livy?
I'm sorry for it—sorry for it.
And I hope we may soon see the day, when we shall hold up our heads with any of them. Why should the Miss Wrinklers marry great fortunes, and not our Livy and Sophy? Answer me that, Doctor?
Nay, I see no reason, nor why Mr. Simpkins drew the £10,000 in the lottery, when we sat down with a blank.
This is the way you always damp my girls and me, when we are in spirits. But what think you of the Squire, girls?
We can't think so well of him, as he thinks of himself, mama!
And how he can talk—the more trifling the subject. the more he has to say about it. But I can't bear him, he's so impudent and familiar—and as for his swearing, its quite shocking.
And as for argument—I don't value him not a pin.
I protest he's charming—and you Doctor?
I say nothing, my dear, except this, that there's no character more contemptible than a fortune-hunting man—except a fortune-hunting woman.
Why, Dr. Primrose, what do you mean ?
Nothing, my love, I give you the text, you can apply it. Livy, darling
Oh, never fear, I'll keep watch and ward over my heart, never fear.
Thou hast more to guard than that darling—thy parents' happiness, the peace and honour of their grey hairs; bless thee, child.
Dear father.
Your servant, Doctor, and ladies. Honest Ned sent me back—
And who may honest Ned be, Sir—of whom do you speak so familiarly?
The Squire—'tis honest Ned, and honest Frank, with us, as you saw, Doctor,
for I am highly private with him, I assure you. Honest Ned sends me back to say;
that he has ordered a well-kept haunch down to the vicarage for supper, and a
dozen of the yellow seal; though the gooseberry is of a delicious flavour!
There, Doctor, our Livy's hand. And who knows how it may end, Doctor?
No, you may leave out Doctor Primrose.
That I and Doctor Primrose are proud of the honour he does us, and
that our daughter Olivia—
Would rather it were a roundabout, or a jig, than a minuet.
Hold thy peace, thou vulgar chit—will be glad to walk a minuet with him. I have taught her as well as e'er a Bath dancing-master.
He takes the liberty to bring with him Miss Carolina Wilhelmina Amelia Skeggs, and my Lady Blarney, two ladies of quality, now on a visit to the hall, who are very desirous to be made known to Mrs. Primrose.
They're vastly obliging. Did I not tell you, Doctor, the family should hold up its head again?
Ladies, your most obedient.
I thank you, Sir; but it is not the first haunch I have seen cooked, by a great many.
Assuredly and spare not for the currant jelly, as you love me.
As the Doctor says "jam satis."
Oh! cassock, cassock—like charity, thou coverest a multitude of sins.
Ha, Patty! ha, Letty! with cheeks as bright as your top-knots. Welcome, girls.
The farmer insisted on my walking down with Letty and Patty, to make his peace with you for his very excusable passion this morning.
Pooh! pooh! that's all over. Here, girls, a glass of wine.
Oh! do come, and have a romp in the hay; it's such fun !
Oh! a romp! a romp! Egad I'm with you, boys!.
Oh! yes a romp! Bait the bear.
Blind man's buff—you be blinded, Mr. Burchell.
Oh, I know—hunt the slipper! hunt the slipper ! it's such fun.
Yes! hunt the slipper—Come Moses!
Nay, I would rather read Epictetus.
Hang thee, coxcomb; to be ever poring over books is the worst of idleness.
Nay! but my daughters romping among the hay-cocks, like dairy-maids! Think of
the family prospects, girls.
There! it's with you, Patty—no, there, Papa's got it!—Mr. Burchell! Moses!—nay, one at a time. Fair play! Fair play ! Sophy !
The ladies of quality! Oh! if the earth would be so kind as to open and swallow us up!
Capital fun, egad! I'm for hunt the slipper.
Well, I'm sure.
Why, I protest, child, thy blushes become thee vastly. Stand as thou art, and let me look at thee!
Thornhill here! he must not see my face.
Mrs. Primrose, Lady Blarney and Miss Carolina Wilhelmina Amelia Skeggs.
I'm overwhelmed with confusion. But girls will be girls, your ladyships.
I protest they're charming. Introduce us.
This is Olivia, our eldest; if your ladyship pleases; and this is Sophia our second, under your ladyship's favour.
There's a shape your ladyship.
I vow and declare, they would play the devil among the sparks at Ranelagh. Lord Spindle would rave.
And Sir Ricketts Ricketts would go distracted.
You're a wood-nymph and your confusion brightens your charms.
Hang me! if I don't doat upon Sophia.
And hang me ! if I would give my little Olivia here, for a bushel of Sophias.
Oh! I never,—the likeness to her Grace, the Duchess of Cinqpace—her very moral, by all that's "commy fo," your ladyship.
The very moral of a duchess—Doctor, did you hear?
None the more moral for that, my dear.
Strike me, ladies, a winter in town would turn Miss Sophy into a grace, and
Miss Olivia into a divinity.
By jingo! you've said it, Squire. Would'st like to come up to town, child
Oh, yes! my lady! I do so dote upon town, though I've never been there. I
dream about it often, and all its sights and pleasures
Livy!
No, not of you, papa
All I know of the matter is this, that the whole rout was in amaze; his lordship turned all manner of colours; my lady fell into a swound; but Sir Tomkyn Tomkyns, drawing his sword, swore he was her's to the last drop of his blood.
Fudge!
Mr. Burchell!
Madam!
Well, the Duchess never told me a syllable of the matter. This you may depend on for a fact, that the next morning my Lord Duke called three times to his vally-de-sham—Jernigan! Jernigan! Jernigan!—bring me my garters.
Fudge!
Are you aware, my dear, my reader and companion has left to be married to Captain Roach, and I can assure you a proper person is no easy matter to find. To be sure, thirty pounds is a small stipend for a well-bred girl of character, that can read, write, and behave in company; as for the chits about town, there is no bearing them.
Dr. Primrose—Dr. Primrose —do you hear? thirty pounds, a year, going a-begging.
So is my wife, I can see.
Your ladyship will pardon my present presumption, but I will be bold to say that my two girls have had a pretty good education. They can read, write, and cast accounts; they understand their needle; my eldest can cut paper, and my youngest has a very pretty way of telling fortunes upon the cards.
Fudge!
Well, we will talk with our cousin Thornhill about it.
Your ladyship's vastly kind.
And now, ladies! what do you say to a dance—a dance?
Miss Sophia?
Nay, Sir, here is a gentleman who has worked with me all day, and 'tis fit he should dance with me now.
I can't dance—
Faugh, the clodpole!
And now, hey for Sir Roger de Coverley.
Come, dame, you and I will sit on one side, and watch their harmless sport.
Come boys!
There! you've made his buckles as bright as your eyes, Sophy, when Mr. Burchell opens that rusty mouth of his to let out a compliment.
Ah! who blushes reddest when a certain Squire—
Is that the way to set a hat, Sophy? Why there's no more spirit in that pinch, than in the lop ears of Edward's—the Squire's—Spaniel—
Come—come—how long wilt thou be loitering, boy?
Oh, we must send him out a credit to the family; mama—just one more touch at
his hat. There Moses! and now nobody that didn't know you, would take you for a
Simpleton,
Buss me, boy.
Good bye, girls—good bye, mother
Mind don't forget my ribbons, Moses.
Never fear.
Bless his wits—Moses,
Oh, bother!
And the cordial waters, boy—and enquire at the potticary's for—let me see—some borax and pomecitron, and yes—two scruples of "fat musk'—remember, "fat musk," Moses—the delicatest perfume, girls—mind to ask for "fat musk," Moses.
I'll tell you what it is, if any one reminds me of anything any more, I shall go and forget everything.
And a very pretty figure he cuts, dear fellow, in his thunder and lightning coat, and gosling green waistcoat.
And I hope he'll bring back a good price for the colt; we shall need it all
to prepare you both for town my dears. There's the amber satin I was married in,
I shall clean and cut it up to make thee a saque, Livy; and Sophy shall have a
Joseph out of my crimson Paduasoy. A mother must make sacrifices for her
children.
Oh, no! never, mama.
And if I am, dear mama, you have only to ask dear papa to look angry at me, if he can, and I shall be a good girl again.
Ah! bless you both, you're as good girls, though I say it, and as handsome as ever mother had. But thou art sadly sunburned, my Livy. These walks in Three-acre Copse, with a certain fine gentleman—
Mamma.
But the wash will take it all away, so get the pipkin, Sophy.
"To make a wash for beautifying the skin, and removeth freckles and sunburns, and maketh the old appear young "—
Oh, a rare wash!
" With other marvellous virtues. At the wane of the moon, or when she is in
the sign Virgo, take the yolks of ten eggs; of maiden-hair, rosemary, and
pimpernel, each one handful; an ounce of white copperas, and four and twenty red
snails." Delightful. " Let all simmer till they come to a pottle, strain, and
put into a close vessel for use—It is exceeding sovereign.—Where there be no red
snails to come
Nay, I doubt that.
We have got snails, mamma.
See that it simmers, Sophy.
Oh, mama! here comes papa from the stable.
Spread yourselves, children.
There mamma, nobody can see a bit of the fire.
Bless the man! Is he going hunting with the Squire?
I will but ride Blackberry over to the fair.
To the fair, Charles? What hast thou to do with fairs?
I must buy two more reams of paper for my controversy.
More paper! Hast thou not spoiled paper enough already with thy deuteronomies, and bigamies, and thingamies?
Nay.
Would'st thou not have been in prison already, for thy printer's bill, but that the Squire kindly lent thee the forty pounds to pay it?
It was like him—so good and generous.
Nay, Deborah, leave me controversy as I leave thee to thy goose pies.
Nay, Charles, that's not one of your books, Charles—
" Markham's Complete Gentlewoman," I guessed as much; doubled down at
"Conceited secrets of sovereign washes for the complexion." It smells very nice—
Ah!
Papa!
It's my awkwardness; I always am awkward when I see one of those pipkins on the fire, and I'm afraid, my dears, I always shall be—so don't put any more there, that's good creatures.
Where we are to find four and twenty red snails again, I can't think. And how you can bear to see Livy looking like a dairy-maid, when she walks with the Squire !
Oh—pray—hold thy peace—do, there's a dear good mamma.
Nay, never blush for it, child, 'tis no treason. Ah, you may stare, Doctor, but if our Squire be not as fond of our Livy, and she of him, say that Deborah Primrose has never had her own young days, that's all.
Silence!
A little, dear father.
And you have met him, and walked with him?
Sometimes.
And never told me, nor thy mother, child? It was wrong, my child, silence in such a case is deception; and she who begins by deceiving her parents, may end by dishonouring them.
Oh, I have been very wicked,
Hate thee, my child—nay, let me bless thee, rather,
Who knows, my dear, that our Livy may not convert him?—to my knowledge, the child is well skilled in controversy.
Indeed, papa, I have read a great deal of controversy; I've read all the disputes between Thack'em and Square, in Tom Jones.
And the arguments between Robinson Crusoe and Friday the savage.
Good girl, good girl, I see you are perfectly qualified for making converts
Gooseberry pie, indeed! I hope, my dears, you may come to spend your time in very different occupations from that; for I saw a ring in the candle last night, as plain as the nose on my face.
And what do you think I dreamt of, mama?—a coffin and cross-bones; and that's the sign of a wedding all the world over.
And there was a true lover's knot at the bottom of my teacup at breakfast.
Ah! let me but once see my girls fairly launched in London, and I should like to know why they should not both come to be persons of quality just as much as Miss Wilhelmina Carolina Amelia Skeggs, or my Lady Blarney? And now come, Sophy, and help me with the black puddings.
Cross the poor Gypsey's hand with a piece of silver, my pretty lady, and let her tell your fortune by the stars, or the lines of your hand.
Now go away, my good woman. Papa's very kind to the poor; but he doesn't like Gypsies. I have nothing for you.
Ah! my pretty lady; but I've something for you—it's in your fate, my pretty
lady—you shall leave home shortly.
Let me go, you foolish woman, or I will call mamma.
Keep your own secret, my pretty lady, and none will find it out—you have been distressed in your mind, lately; but you will soon see one who will bring you comfort, if you will only listen to love and the stars. I tell you, my pretty lady, you will leave home shortly—
Leave home! Oh! no—no.
And there will be a mad gallop, and a happy wedding, and a happy bringing home of the bride; but you must not cross the stars, for love is true, and the crooked is straight, and a bold course is a good course, my pretty lady —so cross the poor Gypsey's hand with a piece of silver, and she will tell you more that she learns from the stars.
No, no—there
Don't mock the stars, my pretty lady,—I see a gay coach—and a bold, merry gentleman—and a yielding, dark lady,—so don't cross the stars, for they bode you great fortunes.
What a little fool I am to listen to such jargon! She shoots her words at
random; and for half the girls in the village, they would hit the mark as well
as me.—A bold
A letter for Mrs. Primrose.
Yes.
Then here's a letter for you too, Miss.
Edward's hand
Well, child?
A letter from the Hall, mamma.
No doubt to arrange for your visit to town, my child. I trust their ladyships
will leave me time to make up the amber satin and the crimson Paduasoy.
But the enclosed letter, mamma?
Oh, read it child,
" To the ladies of quality at Squire Thornhill's.—The writer of this is a friend of innocence"—
Innocence, quotha!
" He is informed that you have some intention of bringing to town two young ladies of his acquaintance"—
His acquaintance! Marry, come up, my dirty cousin.
" In the character of companions. As he would not have simplicity imposed on, or virtue contaminated, he must offer his opinion that such a step would have dangerous consequences. So take the admonitions of a friend, against introducing infamy and vice into retreats where peace and innocence have hitherto resided."
Here's a Gunpowder Plot! Oh! I shall faint!—vice and infamy?—my daughters! Oh! support me, my child.
Yes, I was sure I knew the hand—why it is—
Whose? Let me but find out.
Mr. Burchell's, as I live, mamma!
And so it is!—
Hey, hey hey!—holloa! here I am—Don Waltero Von Clatterbank, High German
Doctor, native of Arabia Deserts, seventh son of a seventh son; who has studied
under Galen, Hippocrates, Paracelsus, and Albumezar. All persons, young or old,
blind or lame, deaf or dumb, curable or incurable—come here for cure of all
cephalalgias, paralytic paroxysms, palpitations of the pericardium, syncopes,
vertiginous vapours, hydrocephalous dysentries, odontalgic or podagrical
inflammations, the hogpox, the hen-pox, the chicken-pox, or the small pox;
ascites, ascarides, anasarca, or anthropophagi.—
Lord preserve us! I do feel queerish.
Let her buy a box of my anti-pamphustic pills, the same that cured
Prester-John's Jugler's wife of a dogmatism in her elbow, of which she died.
Here, doctor, my good man is woundily troubled with the falling sickness after market days.
And here is my balsamum swallosordusticum, good against all cuts and green wounds. If any honest man among you has hurt himself with sword, gun, or pitchfork, spit, jack, or gridiron, glass-bottle, or pint-pot, one application of the balsam will cure him, without sending to an illiterate surgeon.
Ah! them doctors does take a plaguy long time, and wonderful sight o' money. Here's for thy balsam, doctor.
This is the "Unguentum cataphon," which is sovereign for all strains, sprains, and bruises. It was this that prevented the old woman at Exeter from running into a wine cellar, and cured the Morocco ambassador of a lapsus linguæ.
Lapsus lingua? I must protest—
And here's the secret of secrets, the "Tankapon Tolos," that performed the wonderful cure on Captain Nonsuch, of the Non-nomen galley, in the service of the Emperor of Terra Incognita, who had a cannon ball lodged in his little finger; likewise the carpenter of the same ship, who had accidently swallowed a handspike.
No ! that I can't swallow.
Here's a simpleton doesn't believe. If I hadn't so many patients waiting inside, I could show him the very identical—
Carpenter?
No—handspike!
That man must be an impostor! How can a cannon ball lodge in a little finger?
The less cannot contain the greater. What a busy scene
A wonderful man! A wonderful man!
Ah, a patient of that impudent quack doctor.
Quack doctor, Sir? Would there were more such! One draught of his aqua
soliginus has cured me of a sweating sickness, that was on me now these six
years; and carried a large imposthume off my throat, that scarce let me eat,
drink, or sleep, except in an upright posture—and now it is gone as clean—saving
your presence—as
A customer for the colt,—he seems a simple fellow. I have a horse to sell, Sir.
Oh! but I warrant me you are one of those cozening horse jockies that take-in poor honest folk. I know no more of horses than you do of Greek.
Nay—
Well, as for that, I don't care if I do; but, Lord bless me! I was forgetting my wares.
What have you there?
Ah! that's a secret. They're my wares. There's a good twelve pounds' worth under the lid of that box. But you'll not talk about it, or I might be robbed; the fair's full of rogues—perhaps you're one of 'em—you look mighty sharp.
Nay, my good man, I am as honest as thyself— though, perhaps, not quite such
a simpleton
Well, I don't care if I do look at thy horse—
I've driven him myself, and I am not one that driveth furiously; and you may
believe he's quiet to ride, when I tell you he's carried my mother, an old lady,
and never thrown her.
Then, I don't care if I say a bargain. How much is it to be. I don't like paying more than ten guineas.
What say you to nine guineas—and the odd halfguinea for saddle and bridle?
Nay, I would not drive a hard bargain—I'm content.
Stop a bit, and I'll give the money.
Robbed? This comes of carrying money; "Cantabit vacuus coram latrone viator," as Juvenal says. But I will lend thee enough to take thee home again.
Why, the practice of barter was much used amongst the ancients; and, indeed, the Lacedemonians had no coined money until after the time of Lycurgus, as you are aware.
Nan—I can't say I know the family. But will you exchange your horse against my wares? There's a good twelve pounds worth of 'em.
What are they? Deprome—that is, bring them forth.
A gross of green spectacles.
A dozen-dozen.
Let's see
Nay, nay—I'll give you the box when you've given me the colt—so, come!
A gross of green spectacles! Huzza!
Of all the green spectacles ever sold, I must say you're the greenest.
Hist, Capting! Bing back when you're nabbed the prancer.
Ah, Molly!—more devil's business afoot, that thou art here on the Roumany lay?
Bing back, and we'll go shares.
Then drop thy sodden carcass into that booth
Aha! You run roguish, Squire!
That will do—and now off with you by the first stage to London, and see all
ready in the old place.
Yes, yes! But, I say, Ned, must she go?—come now!
Must she? Speak out—what are you stammering at?
Oh, Ned! she's not what we were. I was about the cottage all this morning—and her pretty ways, and that white-headed old man,—and I saw her at his knee—and he blessed her. I've had that old man's face before my eyes, and his prayer in my ears, ever since—and it frightens me, Ned!
Pooh! Molly, this is something new—you're not half old or ugly enough for psalm-singing yet. Drink a glass of brandy, and drown your new-born babe of a conscience, old girl!
I've tried that, but it will whisper me, Ned. I
Sink the whimpering slut! Have you given my message to Jenkinson?
Oh, Ned, Ned! drop this pursuit—it is not too late—I have not given any orders for the chaise and men yet.
Curse you ! is this the way you serve me? I must do my own dirty work, must I, and be hanged to you?
Oh, Ned! you once said you loved me!
Stand aside, you snivelling jade, I say!
Oh, Ned—Ned!
I will do my best to save the poor thing yet. That moody Burchell is about
the fair,—I won't betray Ned —but he doesn't take his own carriage and servant
for this job; and if the Captain can be laid by the heels, all may be safe yet.
Yes, yes—I've done the mischief—I'll repair it.
I tell thee, wench, I am in no humour to listen to thy fooleries.
And I tell you, that those who are too proud to listen may be too late to learn. You know Dr. Primrose— one of his daughters is in danger.
Ha! Sophia?
No—the other. See that she does not leave the house at dusk to-night. Be about the lane that skirts the Three-acre Copse—and armed. You carry a sword?
My stick will do as good service—but who—
Ask no questions, for I cannot answer them. You see yon ill-looking fellow with the silly lad, the Vicar's son?
My friend Moses—well?
Do not lose sight of that man. If you see him about the spot I spoke of, seize him—knock him down if he resist—he is there for no good purpose.
But I must know more of this.
Not a word. If you are a wise man, you will not need it. If you are a bold man, you will want all your courage. It's no use to follow me. If I say "Mum," neither whips, stocks, nor darbies can get a word out of me. Be alive, and good luck to you.
This is strange! There is some wickedness on foot, or why my cool reception
from Mrs. Primrose and Sophia? Thornhill is at the bottom of this. I'll be on
the watch, as this Gypsey tells me.
Ha, ha, ha! Moses seems to have got a customer. Poor lad! he little thinks
his old father is in the fair, selling too. I've had no offer for old
Blackberry—he's not an attractive horse—his wall-eye gives an absurd expression
to his countenance. I ought to get four guineas for him, I believe; but I'm no
great judge. I hope the money will be turned to a good account. I shall not be
sorry to get the girls away to London. Livy's fancy for that jackanapes of a
Squire grieves me. He's a bad man—I feel he is—and she loves him—she loves him !
I've disposed of the nag to one of my pals—so now to put on a fresh face to catch a fresh cully.
That's my scoundrel! I'll sit down here till he cames out.
Yes, here I am, Mr. Burchell, "to catch the manners living as they rise," as the ingenious Mr. Pope hath it. I often think we divines mix too little with the crowd. How are we to learn the secrets of the enemy's camp, unless we come out, now and then, to reconnoitre it?
Nay, not altogether. I've my secret, Mr. Burchell; but I think I may trust you. You know the girls start for London?
They must rub off their rust, poor things. My wife's a good, notable woman, but she's a thought rusty herself. However, to travel costs money—and so I'm here to raise the wind a little, Mr. Burchell.
How, Sir?
The fact is, we are selling our stud. I didn't put
I will join you in one, Sir, with all my heart. Here, landlord, pipes, and a pint of your mildest ale.
Very.
How absorbed he is! A scholar that, Mr. Burchell, as sure as my name's Dr. Primrose.
Primrose? Did I hear aright? May I ask, with much respect, any relation of the famous Dr. Primrose, that courageous champion of the Church?
No offence, my dear Sir—no offence. I trust you will accept my friendship,
Sir, as you have my esteem already.
And do I indeed behold? that glorious pillar of unshaken orthodoxy?—do I indeed behold?— "
You overpower me. Ah! Sir, the world does not share your opinions.
The world, Sir? The world is in its dotage.
What, Sir! have philosophers like you business at a fair? But it is odd enough, so have I.
You'll laugh when you learn I've come here to sell a horse.
And you'll smile when you hear that I have come to buy one.
If I could sell old Blackberry to carry such a learned rider!
You shall, Sir—what is your price?
I believe he is worth four guineas.
Say six, worthy Sir—I must give six.
Nay, if you will—but I should have been content with four.
Nay, not I—I've ne'er so much gold in the world, nor will you easily get it.
This is awkward; but hold—your cure is hard by. Do you know one Farmer Flamborough of your part of this country?
My next-door neighbour.
Capital! Then you shall have a draft upon him, payable at sight.
And yonder stands old Blackberry, little dreaming of the learned load he is henceforth to trot under.
Ah, Sir! the horse that has carried a pillar of the Church
And finish our argument on the cosmogony, for I don't agree with Manethon myself.
The rogue has given me the slip. The booth is empty—and yet I watched like a ferret at a rabbit-hole. I must make a cast for the scent. Good bye, Doctor, for the present!
Now for home again. I've made a famous bargain. How astonished poor Moses will be—poor lad ! I dare say he has been vilely cozened—poor lad!—vilely cozened—poor lad!
Ha! ha! ha! I'm afraid I've been a sad rogue to take that poor simpleton's valuable wares. But barter is barter; and I dare say the Lacedemonians always took as much as they could get. Father thought I should be cheated. How I shall crow over him, and all of them. Cheated indeed! I think after such a bargain I may indulge a little, as I have a long walk before me. Here, landlord, half a pint of your smallest ale—or say a pint—yes. a pint —and quick, do you hear.
Is all ready? Your men posted to keep off intruders?
Pshaw! are all my knaves turned canters? Curse me if I shan't be throwing up the whites of my own eyes next. To thy post rogue—and remember, if thou attempt to play me false, I have that will hang thee ten times over.
That's true. You have the advantage of me. I have offended the Law—you, Squire, have only offended the Law-giver.
So, every rogue has his fling in my teeth. But who's afraid?—this is my grand coup of all. The rest were half-ruined to my hand. 'Twas but first come, first served, with them. But Olivia— young, lovely, and good—egad, 'tis that gives the smack to this adventure. Innocence—pshaw! What is it? The mask that hypocrisy puts on cowardice! She must be married, must she? She shall be married—ha, ha!—noosed with a rotten halter. And yet there are moments when I feel as I never felt yet. The thought of that old man will cross me; and sink me if I don't sometimes fancy I love the girl as well as desire her. She is here! My Olivia!
Oh, hush, hush, Edward—'tis my own fault—I should not he here. They do not know at home what I am doing: my father blessed me to-day; and when his dear hand was upon my head, and his kind eyes looked into mine —and his good old voice trembled as he called me his darling—I knew how wicked I had been, and determined to see you no more, till he knew and sanctioned our love. You will ask me of him, Edward ?
It is useless—he misjudges me too much. Time alone can overcome his prejudice.
Then let us wait till he learns, as I have learnt, how good and kind you are, and that your rough ways and wild words are but bad habits that I can soon cure you of. You know you will not be so loud, and hard, and proud any longer, when you have your little Livy to love and care for, and chide you, Edward—for mind, I shall be a very strict schoolmistress.
And so you shall, my darling, and rate me when I bolt over the ropes, as I rate one of my hounds for false chiding.
Then you will wait till my father knows you better?
Nay, what hope is there in that, when you know he designs you for another, that Farmer Williams?—a fit husband for one who has graces to adorn a coronet!
It would break my heart to marry any but you. You know it would—so why not wait in patience?
Wait! my passion for you, Olivia, cannot wait; you have made a new man of me already, by your love. Think what I shall be as your husband. Come, dearest, cannot you trust yourself with me?
Trust myself? oh yes! But where, Edward? whither would you take me?
Away from hence, but for a few days
No Edward, it is not thus a woman should pass from a father's arms to those
of a husband. How can a blessing rest on the double life, that begins in flight
and deception. I love you, I do indeed, but I love them too
Hear me, my Olivia, I have not come here to hear pretty stories, or to see how charming you look with those pearls in your eyes, and that colour in your cheeks—I am come for my love—for my wife, if you will—and I am prepared to use force, if force is necessary; so make up your mind to submit to what you cannot prevent, so come, I say!
Oh, help ! Edward, Edward, I dare not! Father, father!
My wife, my wife!
Just in time, or that stout fellow, yonder, with the cudgel, would have been in on him. Ha, he has bowled down my two aid-de-camps like nine-pins. He comes this way—so!
Not a step, or you're a dead man.
Stand aside, scoundrel!
Too late—too late. They drive off. Fire and fury!—had I not wasted time in
searching the fair for this scoundrel, I should have saved her. Is he dead, I
wonder?
Eh?—where?—what? I must say, Sir, you're as good a back-hand as Figg himself.
Rascal!—whither is that chaise bound?
Excuse me, Sir—honour to my friend.
Honour among thieves, truly, A bargain with thee. Tell me who it was carried off that young lady —whither they have gone—and what is his design. If thou make a clean breast of it, I spare thee, and use thee. If not, thou swing'st.
Needs must when the hangman drives. The gentleman—heaven save the mark!—was Ned Thornhill; as great a rogue, saving your presence, as any here. The lady you know. They are bound for the Moat-house, a score of miles from here—and their design is to ruin her, under pretext of marriage.
The double-dyed villain!
There is the mock license, and at the Moat-house waits the mock priest. She loves him, and will tumble into the snare as innocently as the cushat into a gin.
Twenty miles! I shall be too late to undo this work of villany.
And no ways welcome, perhaps: besides, the house is guarded—you cannot gain admission.
True—true!
There's the Squire's sorrel mare, in the Copse, can beat them to the Moat-house. But what then?
Harkye! You carry word to the Vicar that his daughter is gone—say Burchell sent thee. I will take the sorrel, and do my best to prevent mischief. But give me the forged license.
And here is the pass for the mock priest.
Does Thornhill know him ?
No; he is a new hand, a friend of mine—college-bred, but has had his troubles.
Then the false parson's gown may cover a true priest for once—'tis generally the other way,—and now, away with you!
Well! I feel a kind of a relish in helping an honest action!
Let me see!—the Bishop is at Lord Carberry's only five miles off. I may save her—and if she loves this graceless dog, perhaps save him too; I'll try it; if I break Sorrel's wind, 'twill be in a better cause than fox-hunting!
How late your father is to-night, children! I hope his wits have not gone wandering after his deuteronomies, forsooth! and that he be not now sitting on the side of a ditch, with old Blackberry kicking up his heels over Plashy Common.
Hark! I hear papa's footstep.
Ha, Dame!—ha, Sophy!—ha, boys!
What have you brought me for a fairing, papa?
And me, papa?
Why, Bill, as thou art an industrious lad at thy books, I have brought thee a large bit of gingerbread without any letters. And as thou, Dick, art an idle rogue, I have brought thee thy letters without any gingerbread. But where's my Livy?
The girl is romantic, and loves walks in the twilight—I did so myself at her age.
She will be here soon, bless her! Ah, Deborah! what would our cottage be without her bright face and merry laughter? I love you all—but Livy is the apple of my old eyes!
I trust nothing has happened to Moses. I warrant he will bring back a good price for the colt—and good need, for I shall have a world of fine things to buy for the girls' journey to London.
Nay, mama, you forget.
Ah, bless my stupid brains! so I did. Alas! my dear, all our hopes are ruined;—our girls are not to have their Town polishing after all—the more's the pity!
Thank our stars for it!
Some evil-disposed person has aspersed them to their Ladyships—aspersed the daughters of Deborah Primrose—marry come up!—as though we had not our reputations like richer folks, though we have come down from keeping our carriage!
Aspersions, say'st thou, Dame? Who has been wicked enough ?
Who but that dangling, snarling, good-for-nothing Burchell!
Mama!
Burchell? I would have given bail for his honesty! —but "fronti nulla fides!"
We have it under his own hand, Dr. Primrose— an insinuating, indirect, round-about-the-bush letter, Dr. Primrose.
I grieve to hear it, my dear—as I always do at everything that makes me think worse of my fellow-creatures. But never mind—we are well rid of him. Cheer up, Sophy darling!
Oh! I am sure I never cared for him, papa—never! —I hated him!
Poor child! poor child !—but a truce to gloomy thoughts! Dick, run out and look for Livy—you'll be sure to find her on the Common, among the purple heather and golden broom.
And I'll put Blackberry into the stable-mayn't I, papa, as Moses isn't here?
Ha, ha! Blackberry into the stable!—that may scarce be—ha, ha!
Why, my dear?
For a very good reason, my love—there's no Blackberry to put into the stable.
No Blackberry!—why, thou hast not gone and lost thy horse, Charles?
Lost him! Ha, ha! No, wife—but sold him.
Sold him! Sold Blackberry? What hast thou got for him?
Six guineas, wife, and he was worth but four, on the authority of Farmer
Flamborough
Here comes Moses, papa.
Welcome, Moses, welcome! Well, my boy, what have you brought us from the fair?
First and foremost, I have brought you myself.
But the colt, boy, the colt.
I've sold him, father, and pretty well, I flatter myself. I've sold him, saddle, bridle, and all, for ten guineas.
A great price, I protest—ten guineas!
Well done, indeed—the money, boy, the money.
Why, Sir, I've brought back no money.
Ah! a draft, doubtless, like your father.
No; but I've got a great bargain.
Good lad! but what is this bargain? Let's see!
A gross of green spectacles, with silver rims and shagreen cases.
A gross of green spectacles! and you have parted with the colt, and brought us nothing but a gross of paltry green spectacles.
Dear mother, why won't you listen to reason, I got them a dead bargain, I can tell you. The silver rims alone would sell for twice the money.
Silver rims, indeed! they won't sell for half the money as old silver, at five shillings the ounce.
Make yourself quite easy about the rims, my dear, they're only copper varnished over, and not worth sixpence.
Not silver?
No more silver than your saucepan.
The blockhead has been cozened, he should have known his company better.
Excuse me, my dear, he should not have known them at all.
Give me the trash, I'll throw it into the fire.
There again, you are wrong, my dear, for though they are copper we will keep them by us, for copper spectacles, you know, are better than nothing. Ah, Moses, Moses, youth-like, thou hast trusted to appearances! I expected this, 'tis lucky I sold Blackberry myself.
Thy father did not let himself be thus cozened, I warrant me.
Nay, Deborah, he has not my experience, thou knowest, we must allow for his years. I dealt with a scholar and a philosopher, though I did not clearly apprehend his doctrine of Cosmogony.
And what had his mahogany to do with the selling of a horse?
Ah! Here comes the Farmer to pay the draft.
Ecod! Vicar—I'm main sorry, but you may e'en use the draft to light your pipe, for all its good for.
How?
Not good ?
Eh?
A vorgery of that rogue, Ephraim Jenkinson's, the greatest rascal unhung.
He's zold me a horse, and he's stole me a horse; and now he's vorged my name!
Never was such a play-actor in rogue's parts. He's highwayman,
A quack doctor!—a young man?
Nay—an old venerable man.
Ecod! he's as many ages as trades. He'd cheat Belzebub himself.
The man who sold me the spectacles, for a hundred.
But he was a scholar—well read in the Cosmogony.
Ha, ha, ha! He had thee there, Doctor—he had thee there. I know 'un. Sink me—Jonathan, and Merrythoughts, and Brosus! It's the one bit of book-learning he has got to his back, and he always brings it out to take scholars in with. Well, they do say scholars he woundy easy to take in, Doctor—but I am zorry he hath nicked thee! Good night, all—good night. But I'll hang the rascal yet.
Dr. Primrose!
Deborah!
Father!
Moses!—my children!—we have been all cozened together. Let the misfortunes of the day teach us humility.
Our two horses gone, and nothing to show for them but these nasty green spectacles. Oh, I hate the sight of them!
Nay, Deborah, to grieve over the past is multiplying sorrow by two. Livy shall sing us some merry ditty or other. Where can the little minx be lingering?
Oh, papa! Oh, mother! Oh, the man—the man!
What is it? What's the matter, child?
Oh! the man told me that sister Livy's gone—gone away.
Livy!—gone ?—gone ?
She has ridden away with a gentleman in a post-chaise.
But who?—who?
The man said Mr. Burchell.
Moses—Moses—look to your father!
Oh, may Heaven's everlasting fury light on him and his! To rob me of the
child I was leading up to heaven!
Father—father! is this your fortitude?
Fortitude?—yes, he shall see I have fortitude. Boy, reach me my pistols! I'll
follow him all over the world! Old as I am, he shall find I can sting him yet,
the villain!
Husband! dearest husband!—Here
Sir, your rage is too violent—villain as he is, you should not have cursed him.
Did I curse him, boy?—did I?
Indeed, Sir, you did.
Then may Heaven forgive me and him! But my child !—to undo my child—the light of my eyes—my treasure! Had she but died!—but she is dishonoured! Oh! may a curse—
Father!
Heaven forgive me! what was I going to say? Poor thing!—poor thing!
We shall never call her daughter more! She may bring us to shame, but she shall never darken these doors again!
Woman—woman! I will go forth and find her. If I may not save her from shame, I may bring back a lost lamb to the fold of a father's heart—where she shall be welcome, were she ten thousand times a sinner!—Boy, give me my hat and staff.
Nay, Sir, another glass will hearten you up after your fever. Your reverence had very nigh given the doctors the slip.
A fortnight here, and not strength to travel yet; but I will start to-day, if I die. I must find her.
Your reverence will not be strong enough to leave the Harrow for this
month—
Nay, it's not the body, Master Symonds
Mr. Symonds, you use me very ill, and I'll bear it no longer. Here's three parts of the business left for me to do, and the fourth left undone, while you do nothing but soak with the guests all day long; whereby, if a spoonful of liquor were to cure me of a fever, I never touch a drop.
Nay, dame, you must not be angry. Take a glass to my health, and your husband's.
Sir, your health
Mrs. S., Mrs. S., remember you're the weaker vessel, and should put up with the disagreeables.
There, now, we've a young woman lodging up stairs, and I don't believe she's got a rap, by her over civility. She's mighty slow of asking for her bill.
Never mind, if she's slow, she's sure.
Sure, quotha! There's one thing sure, that she's been here close on a fortnight, and we've never seen the cross of her money.
Consider, wife, she's a gentlewoman.
Gentle or simple, she pays to-day, or out she shall pack, with a sassarara. Gentry may be fine things, where they take; but for my part, I never saw much good of them at the sign of the Harrow.
Poor creature! Alas, for the helplessness that falls into the hands of thy better half, Mr. Symonds.
Ah, women will be women, your reverence, but Mrs. Symonds' is a strong case.
Out, I say, hussey! tramp this moment, or I'll mark thee for a three months. Out, I say.
Oh! dear madam, pity me, a poor abandoned creature; but for one night, and death will soon do the rest.
Stand off there, fiend.
Oh! my own, dear—
We are not wanted here, wife; come. This comes of not knowing a gentlewoman.
Welcome! any way welcome; my dearest lost one, my treasure, to your poor old father's bosom. Though the vicious forsake thee, there is one in the world that will never forsake thee; though thou hast ten thousand crimes to answer, he will forgive them all.
Oh, my dearest, best, papa! I do not deserve this. You cannot forgive me—I know you cannot.
I do—I do—from my heart—only repent, and we shall see many happy days yet.
Never, never, my life, henceforth, must be infamy abroad, and shame at home.
Thou shalt not die my lamb.
But you look so thin and pale, papa. It was not for me, papa? You did not grieve over your poor Livy. You are too good—too wise.
Too wise, young woman.
Oh! no, no, papa; you never called me by so cold a name before.
Forgive me, darling; but we are fools the wisest of us, and bad the best. But how cam'st thou here, dear, and in this sad plight?
Oh! I will tell you all—all. That villain from the first day he professed love for me, made me honourable though private proposals.
Villain, indeed—who would have thought that a man of Mr. Burchell's seeming good sense and honesty could step into our family to undo it.
Mr. Burchell! Nay, papa, he was ever my friend, and warned me often against the arts of him I loved too well—alas !-of Mr. Thornhill.
Thornhill!
Yes, it was he seduced me from you under promise of marriage. I loved him then, and believed him. The ceremony was performed—for a while he was kind. I urged him to come back to you, with me; or to send me back and acknowledge our marriage; weary at last of my prayers and tears, he told me the shameful truth, that license and priest were false, and that I was his mistress and not his wife.
Heaven pardon him and comfort thee.
I think I was mad for some days after that. But so soon as I was myself again, I fled from him, I so longed father, to creep back near you all—not home, father—I durst not come home; but thought if I could get to the village perhaps, and die there, I should die happier.
Thou shalt not die, my own lamb—thou shalt come home with me, and their hearts will leap for joy at the poor prodigal's return, as mine doth now.
It is too much joy—father—dear father, I feel so faint—so happy.
Come, darling, thou shalt lie down awhile, and I will watch thee
Sophy, child, shut the door—
'Tis Epictetus, mother—a book that teaches patience under misfortunes.
Drat the boy! Thou dost not see thy mother learning patience out of books. But I've none to comfort me since our Livy—since thy sister left us.
Why make our regret bitterer by always harping on it?
You judge her too severely, mamma.
Judge?—you cannot judge a mother's feelings; and now thy father's left us, too, a fortnight, and no news of him.
Perhaps he has been ill, mother.
Why, thou unnatural child, dost thou wish to frighten me to death? How canst
thou be so cruel, Sophy?
Is Parson Primrose within, an't please you?
My father is not at home—he has been absent for these three weeks. Did you want him?
Hum! yes—that is, the law wants him, young man.
And here's the law come upon us, as if we hadn't misery enough already!
We've a writ against him.
A writ against my father!—at whose suit?
Squire Thornhill's, for forty pounds.
The Squire? Squire Thornhill, who wanted to marry into the family—the best friend we have in the world? Why, he lent him the money to pay his printer's bill!
And now he wants it back again. The best of friends must be paid, ma'am.
Why, all we have in the house isn't worth the money; but we are honest, Sir, and proud, though we are poor—take it all, and we'll live like Robinson Crusoe on a desolate island.
I'm afeard you won't have much left in the house when the law has had its share.
The law again, man? Isn't the law satisfied with taking all we have in the world?
The law's never satisfied, ma'am. We've a distress warrant for the rent due at Michaelmas to Squire Thornhill.
Squire Thornhill again—and distraining for his rent? Oh! if ever there was a serpent in a red coat and laced hat, 'tis this Squire Thornhill!
The unfeeling scoundrel!
But there must be some mistake.
The law never makes mistakes, ma'am; or if it do, it never owns 'em—and 'tis all one. Take your inventory, Jonathan—the Squire must be paid.
He is a hard-hearted scoundrel!—tell him so from me; and if I had him here, I'd thrash him as soundly with my fists as I ever did with my arguments!
Cheer up, dear mamma!
And just now, when your wicked sister has left us, and your father has gone in search of her, and we have had no news of him for a fortnight—Oh! it's too much—too much!
We must seize the sticks, ma'am, now we've taken the inventory.
Touch a chair or a table, and I'll annihilate you!
Oh! Moses—Moses! if you go and get yourself hanged, I shall have nobody to protect me!
Be calm, dear brother.
Come, be reasonable, young man—we're two to one, without counting the majesty of the law.
Stand back, I say.
What means this?
My husband! How thin and pale thou art.
Dear, papa.
Father !
I have been ill, but I am strong again, my loves. And now explain, what is going on here? Who are these men? Why do I find thee in tears? And why this passion, boy?
You're our prisoner
You know me friends, and can trust my word; leave us together for a few minutes, I promise you not to attempt escape.
Oh, Charles, Charles, this is a sorry return for thee. And thou hast been
ill, my poor husband, and among strangers—not in thy home—home, alas, alas! it
is no home now, for she we loved most of all, is gone; there stands her empty
chair, and her work, and her guitar, as she left it. What does it do here,
reminding us of her?
Nay, my love, let us acknowledge the goodness that blesses with one hand, while it chastens with the other. What is all we lose here—what is a prison compared to the comfort I bring with me? Our lost lamb is found—our Olivia is come back.
Come back! my Livy! my darling! But no—this may be the scene of ruin; but still it is the abode of innocence—we know no daughter Olivia, now.
Woman, woman! What mercy can they look for, that show none? For shame—hearken to the mother's heart that is working in thee even now, and not to the devil of pride that plucks it down.
Livy, dear sister! Forgive her, mother.
Forgive her, mother.
So madam, this is but a poor place you are returned to. Look around you, girl, you left a happy home—a home of comfort, and love, and happiness. You come back to a scene of ruin, of sadness, and shame, and broken hearts—'tis your making. Yes, your poor father and I have suffered very much of late; but I hope Heaven will forgive you.
Oh! mother, mother, if you but knew all I have suffered. How, from the day I
left you, lured by the falsehoods of a villain, your grief has been in my
thoughts by day and my dreams by night. How I have prayed and prayed for
strength to return and ask forgiveness—forgiveness for your poor Livy, that you
loved so, and made so much of, and who has been so wretched. Oh! if you knew
all, you would not—you would not look so cold,
Oh! Livy! Livy! my poor, lost girl, how wan and wasted thou art, child—and thy poor eyes heavy and red with crying; and there is the locket still round thy neck, that I hung there when thou wert an innocent babe in thy cradle—and now—I forgive thee. Bless thee, poor child! bless thee!
And now let the worst come—strong in our love and faith—we will meet it with
resignation—
Curse him!
Do not lift thy hand, boy. See there, your victim, Sir. Do you come to gloat over the misery you have made?
Stand back! I am her mother. Think of your own, and respect her grey hairs in mine. Leave this house. You did your worst when you brought her to shame. What terrors has a prison for broken hearts like ours?
I told her what would come of leaving me; but it is not yet too late. I love her still, let her return to me and you are a free man.
Age has cooled my passions, and my calling restrains them—I loathe and scorn you!
So, you reject my offer, the worst has not yet come upon you. We shall soon see which is the fittest object for scorn; you or I.
My friends this is severe weather to take me to prison. I am not yet well
recovered of a fever, and I am too weak and old to walk far through the snow.
But, if it must be so, get together the little that is ours, my love
My work—my work.
Look to your poor sister, Sophy; let her but come to herself, and then, Sirs, we are ready.
Where are the rogues that would take our good pastor from us. Seize them, lads—duck 'em—hang 'em. Sheep-faced rascals.
What, my friends, is this the way you love me ? Is this what I have taught you, to fly in the face of justice—to bring ruin on yourselves and me? Alas! my dear friends, return to the duty you owe to your God, your country, and to me. Go, go. Good bye—good bye.
—Caged at last—and with Flamborough's indictment for forgery against me at
the next Assizes. Yes, 'tis the nab cheat this time. No more cantering across
commons for Ephraim Jenkinson! The only horse I shall ever ride again will be
the colt foaled of an acorn, and he is ridden in a halter—But hang care; our
host here keeps a mighty pretty Nantz. So, ho! Clink, my boy!
Nay, you must wait, Captain—here's fresh company come, and we have to get their rooms ready—'tis a clergyman, and I know what is due to the cloth—ask our chaplain else, he hath ever the longest score in the prison tap-room.
The old parson, by all that's unsophisticated!
What a scene! Instead of weeping, and wailing, and repentance—riot, and laughter, and profanity !—a hell upon earth!
Garnish!—garnish!
Eh?
Twig the parson!
Smoke his reverence!
Ha, ha, ha!
Stand back, you queer cuffins, or I'll put some of your glims into mourning!
This gentry cove is a friend of mine.
Here, Clink, a gallon of rum bouse, into the parlour—and pipes for the party, you rogue!
Ay, ay, gentlemen!
Have you provided yourself with a bed, Sir?
Nay, I knew not—
That's unfortunate, for they allow nothing but straw—and 'tis cold lying on
the flags at this time of year. But
Sir, you are very kind—sweet is company in affliction ! If we are alone, the world is but a prison.
The world, Sir?—the world, Sir, is in its dotage. The cosmogony or creation of the world has puzzled philosophers—Sanconiathon, Manetho—
Eh?—why, surely I have heard those opinions before! Had I not once the pleasure of seeing you at Welbridge Fair?—and is not your name Ephraim Jenkinson? I sold you a horse there.
Yes, and I remember I forgot to pay for him. And there was that draft on your
neighbour Flamborough. Curse my taste for letters! He intends to swear against
me for a forger, at the next Assizes, before the harman beak—the judge, Sir, I
mean—and then—
Nay, your kindness in offering to assist me shall be rewarded. I think I can soften or suppress Flamborough's evidence, and you need not fear me; but one thing you must promise.
Sir, I am a man of my word—I promise anything.
Repent of your past sins, and leave this life for an honester.
'Tis easy said, Sir; but who will give me the chance? No, I've the gaol brand upon me, and must carry it to the gallows, I fear—but I'll do my best.
Surely, with your ingenuity—
Ah, Sir, had I but bestowed half the pains in learning a trade, that I have in learning to be a scoundrel, I might have been a rich man at this day; but rogue as I am, I may be your friend when you least expect it. Heaven bless and prosper you, Sir.
This way, old gentleman, we must put you in the common ward for the present. 'Tis a little rough at first; but you'll soon get used to it.
I may have my wife and children with me?
Why, it's against the rules; but one might do it
There—
I'll show 'em into you, Sir, directly.
I thank thee, friend—thou art too good for this trade.
Nay, Sir, one has one's feelings, like another.
Yes, if I could find the gentleman with the crabstick, who broke my head,
when the Squire carried off his
And, now, away with these blocks, till after dinner. we expect company, and I'd have the ward tidy. Come, bustle, or I'll smarten some of you with my rattan; and see that you hide your brandy bottles. I'll shew them a well-ordered prison, I warrant.
And how dost thou feel now, my poor love?
The damp of these walls chills me to the bone. But cold, and wet, and hunger, are nothing to the wretchedness and wickedness round about us. Still, cheer up, my little ones. We should have light hearts, for our consciences are clear.
Not mine, not mine.
I wish I was big enough to fight the wicked man that put you in this nasty plce—I'd like to kill him.
What—and is this the way thou rememberest thy father's lesson. What should we do to our enemies, sirrah?
Thresh 'em.
Ah, nature is stronger than preaching, in the little wretches; but my heart migives me about Moses.
Not so mine—he is a good, brave boy—and come what will, he will do his duty. Perhaps he is seeking succour for us.
Oh, that abominable Squire! and how you have wronged poor Mr. Burchell—
I told you so, mamma—for my heart assured me he was honest from the first.
Nay, I ever said so.
This way with the murdering villain— and see that he hath the forty pound irons—a blood-thirsty ruffian!
Oh, pray, Mr. Gaoler, do not bring any murdering villain, or blood thirsty ruffian here.
Them as can't afford private apartments, ma'am. must take up with such company as we chooses, saving your presence.
Moses!
My boy!
Brother!
Dear brother!
My boy! bleeding! oh, thou art hurt! And in fetters! Oh, why is this, Sir?
Innocent, quotha! A bloodthirsty highwavman!
What hast thou done, unhappy boy?
Done? Why he stopped and nearly murdered a gentleman on the King's highway, a rascally footpad, as he is. Done, indeed! But, I'll go and have our Little Ease got ready for him. 'Tis ancle deep in snow, and his hot spirit needs a cooling
A robber—my boy a robber? Speak, and say it is not true.
It is a lie, Sir. Almost mad with grief and rage at the misery that this villain has brought upon my poor sister, and his cruelty to you, Sir, I followed him. I scarcely knew what I meant to do. I had no weapon. I came up with him, and told him the truth—that he was a coward, a liar, and a villain. He drew upon me. I wrested his sword from his hand, and broke it. We were both wounded in the scuffle, and his people, by his desire, seized me, and brought me hither, on a charge of having attempted to rob their master.
Ah! my poor Moses!
But this was wanted to fill the cup of our sorrows, The wicked shall not always triumph.
Your servant, ladies, I have spoken with honest Clink, Doctor, for a more suitable room for you and your family. These children are too handsome and too good for a place like this.
Bless them all! you are very kind.
I see one here that I have injured, in my late way of business, and by whom I wish to be forgiven.
Nay, I protest, I never saw you before, Sir.
You remember a certain gross of green spectacles.
It was a vile trick to play on an innocent lad.
It was his white stockings and the black ribbon in his hair, that were fatal to him. I may say, for your comfort, Sir, that I never, in a long experience of the greener sort—for I have been quite a pigeon fancier—saw an honester face, or a simpler. But how came you by that broken pate. and these darbies? Oh! Egad, they do you honour, Sir. They put you ten pounds above me.
Ah! we may thank Squire Thornhill for this.
Oh! if the law would but let me loose a little to do justice, I'd gibbet Ned Thornhill to scorn, like a kite on a barn-gable.
Burchell!
Ah, Mr. Burchell.
My dear friends, this is a sad sight; but how—
Ah, you may well say "How?" Mr. Burchell. How indeed, but by the arts of a villain—that Squire Thornhill, who, not satisfied with undoing the daughter, must throw the father into this horrid prison, and accuse this dear inoffensive lad here of highway robbery, that never had courage to fire off our old blunderbuss at the sparrows!
Remove those irons—
But we owe you a reparation, Mr. Burchell; we have injured you by our suspicions—forgive us all!
What! Sophia too? But all that is over now. I bring you comfort. Cheer up, my sweet Olivia!—heartless as your husband is—
Husband? Alas! Sir, do not mock me!
Ha, my dear Sir! what lucky chance brings you here?
No fawning, Sir! The way to my heart is by the road of honour. I have watched your conduct, Sir, and find in it but falsehood, cowardice, and oppression.
Another than yourself, Sir, would not dare to use this language.
Some reparation you may yet make.
There has been no binding ceremony between us. I love her, and will take her to my heart—but my wife she is not.
That's a lie! saving your presence, Doctor.
Ha! Jenkinson?
Yes, Jenkinson! who is about quitting the devil's service, in which his wages for some time past have been—a mouthful of oaths, an empty belly, and a promissory note for the gallows. Here stands Ephraim Jenkinson, who, rogue as he is, dares to look without blushing in the face of Ned Thornhill!
This fellow comes just in time to convince you and all here that the license
was a forgery, and the priest a
Comfort yourself as to that, Squire—'twas a true license and a true priest, or the sorrel mare dropped for it.
Neither the world nor the law will take this rogue's word for it—and what other witness is there?
Sir William Thornhill, Sir.
Sir William Thornhill!
Burchell no longer; but Sir William Thornhill, your friend. Yes, Sir, informed of your design by one of your own instruments, I reached your place of meeting too late to rescue this lady from your hands; but not too late to overpower your agent here—
Then the crab-stick cudgel?—
—
Come to my arms,—my child—my darling —thou wilt be a credit to thy family yet, as I ever said thou wouldst.
Sir, you have foiled me at my own weapons. Perhaps you will hardly credit my assurance now, that I came here to undo part of the misery I had caused, by releasing Dr. Primrose and his son from this place; to which, in my first flush of anger at Olivia's flight, I had consigned them. As for Olivia here, my wife, I dare not ask her to return to me.
We will give you time, Sir, to test the sincerity of your repentance. I will continue to you, Sir, one sixth of the allowance you now receive of me, on condition that you leave this lady unmolested, till she choose to recall you to her affections.
Much as you have wronged me, my heart still pleads for you; but my better judgment tells me that after so long a course of cruelty and deceit, you should be tested by something more than the hasty repentance of a moment. If the end of a year should find you, indeed, changed in your habits, you will find Olivia still unchanged in her love.
Your sentence is just, and if I may indeed hope by the efforts of a year, to blot out the crimes and follies of a life, I shall return to you changed in all things, dear Olivia, but my affection for thee.
He promises well, and I think we may trust him. But. where is this honest rogue, who has set the fashion of repentance? Come, thou hast done enough of good to day to make up for all thy sins in the way of robbing and cozening,
Indeed, Sir William, I would fain hope so; your kindness gives me pride in my new trade of honesty—to say nothing of a certain easiness about the throat, which I have long been a stranger to. And I trust this deed will be a little item on the creditors' side, to set off against the heavy per contra of Ephraim Jenkinson's last account.
And now, my good friends—here is a dear girl for whom we must find a husband—what say you, Mrs. Primrose?
Nay, Sir William, nobody takes my advice, so I'll offer none. But if I were to make a choice, methinks I know where the child's inclinations point.
And said I not truly, my love, that the wicked would not always prosper?
True, my dear, and have I not always supported thee in thy becoming sentiments?
Time will heal thy wounds, my darling, and then I have nothing this side of the grave to wish for. And may all those who suffer, when they feel disposed to repine at their lot, draw consolation from the source where we have found it.