First performed at the Theatre Royal, Covent Garden, on February 8th, 1800
Black velvet coat and breeches, white satin waist coat, silk stockings, shoes, buckles, powdered hair, ruffles, and cocked hat.
A dark suit, boots, round hat, and large cloak.
Court suit, white silk stockings, shoes and buckles, powdered wig, three-cornered hat, long white lace cravat, ruffles, and cane.
Body coat, bright buttons, white waistcoat, white breeches, silk stockings, buckles.
Light coat, red waistcoat, corduroy breeches, worsted stockings, shoes, buckles, and round hat.
Henry. — Shooting coat, pouch, shot belt, drab breeches, gaiters.
Light brown coat, coloured waistcoat, drab breeches, blue stockings, gardener's apron, one corner turned up, and countryman's round hat.
Brown suit, dark grey coat, and boots.
Red jacket, with white buttons, yellow breeches, and top boots.
Smart livery coat, waistcoat, and breeches, white stock ings, and shoes.
Handsome white muslin dress, trimmed with white ribbon, hat, with white feathers, white kid gloves, white shoes, and scarf.
An extravagant silk dress, satin shoes, hat and feathers.
Neat flowered muslin dress, black shoes, light straw or chip hat, trimmed with white ribbon.
Light blue quilted petticoat, neat chintz gown, white stockings, black shoes and buckles, white apron, muslin cap and hankerchief, black mittens, red cloak, and black silk bonnet.
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 hast not the grace to thank God for prosperous times, dan't thee grumble when they be unkindly a bit.
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—Canst thee be quiet, let ur alone, and behave thyzel pratty?
—Certainly I can—I'll tell thee, Tummus, 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?
Why dant thee letten her aloane then—I do verily think when thee goest to t'other world, the vurst question thee ax 'il; be, if Mrs. Grundy's there—Zoa be quiet, and behave pratty, do'e — Has thee brought whoam the "Salisbury News."
No, Tummus: 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, pulled 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, Tummus, had you seen how Mrs. Grundy looked!
Dom Mrs. Grundy—be quiet, and let I read, woolye?
Farmer—Why, thee're blind, Tummus, it is—"My dear Feyther"—Tis from our own dear Susan.
Odds dickens and daizies! zoo it be, zure enow!—"My dear Feyther, you will be surprized"—Zoo I be, he, he! What pretty writing, bean't it? all as straight as thof it were ploughed—"surprised to hear, that in a few hours I shall embrace you—Nelly, who was formerly 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, Tummus, 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", dan't she?
And mother.
Ees, but feyther first, though——"As acceptable to my dear feyther and mother, as to their
affectionate
And, Tummus, 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, Tummus, 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.
Nay, I meant no harm—Eh, here comes friend Evergreen, the gardener, from the castle. Bless me, what a hurry the old man be in.
Good day, honest Thomas.
Zame to you, measter Evergreen.
Have you heard the news?
Any thing 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 tuppence, 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—
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 him. The Miss Grundys, genteel as they think
themselves, would
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.
But, come step in, and I'll tell you such a story about Mrs. Grundy. You must needs be
weary; and I am sure a mug of harvest beer, sweetened with a hearty welcome, will refresh
thee.
Drabbit it, the wold castle 'ull be hardly big enow to hold all thie lumber. Who be this? A do zeem, a comical zoart of a man. Oh, Abel Handy, I suppose.
Zounds and fury! you have killed the whole county, you dog! for you have broke the patent
medicine chest, that was to keep them all alive!
Smashed all to pieces. I thought as how, sir, that your infallible axletree would give way.
Confound it! and I declare my water-proof shoes are completely soaked through.
Thankye, zur; zame to you wi' all my heart and zoul.
Pray, friend, could you contrive gently to inform me, where I can find one Farmer
Ashfield.
Ha, ha, ha!
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.
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 seat with me
Dickens and daizeys! what a gentleman you would 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 the
Isle of Wight."—Charming! delightful! I don't see it though
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 curse your titter.
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 tould that bean't wholesome vor the little vishes.
Not very, I believe—Well said surveyor! "A cool summer house."
Ees, zur, quite cool—by reason the roof be tumbled in.
Better and better—"the whole capable of the greatest improvement."—Come, that seems true
however—I shall have plenty to do, that's one comfort—I have such contrivances! I'll have a
canal run through my kitchen.
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.
Indeed! and where is Bob?
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. Will you
allow me to take this chair in for you?
Wonderful! My Bob, you must know, is an astonishing fellow!—you have heard of the
admirable Crichton, maybe? 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. I zay, zur, as he can turn his head 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.
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.
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!
Any thorns?
A few.
I must be introduced—where is she?
Not within thirty miles; for I don't hear her.
Who is that?
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 honoured 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 laugh'd at—I'll knock any man down that laughs! Bob, if you can say any thing 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.
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 another's heads, by way of being agreeable, and the like o'that.
Understand all the guards?
Can't zay I do, zur.
What! hit in this way, eh?
Noa, zur, we do hit thic way.
Zounds and fury!
He did, indeed, Bob.
Hang him! The fact is, I am out of practice.
No, no, thank you—Farmer, what's your name?
No, no—Ashfield! should he be the father of my pretty Susan—Pray have you a daughter?
Ees, I have—any thing 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?
You may depend on it.
I dare say you may. Come, Farmer, I wish to find Miss Blandford — attend us.
Ees, zur; wi' all respect—Gentlemen, please to walk this way, and I'll walk before you.
Now, that's what he calls behaving pratty.
No, sir; but hourly expected.
Tell me, how does the castle look?
I hope, Gerald, you were not observed.
I fear otherwise, sir; on the skirts of the domain I encountered a stripling with his gun; 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.
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 the
price of thy
Come, come, no more of this.
Well!——I visited to-day that young man who was so grievously bruised 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 dropped 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.—Come with me to the castle, for the last time.
The last time!
Aye, boy; for, when Sir Philip arrives, you 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.
Well, I am content.
That's right—that's right, Henry; Be thou but resigned and virtuous, and he who clothes the lily of the field, will be a parent to thee.
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
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.
Than I do! that's vastly well;—My dear madam, I passed two months at Mechlin
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
I vow, Miss Blandford, fair as I ever thought you, the air of your native land has given
additional lustre to your charms!—
Pray, sir, is he making lace, or is he making love?
Curse me if I can tell.
Hush! I'll make you a thousand yards another time.
Is not she, Bob?
Oh no, sir, I could not so soon venture into the beau monde; a stranger just
arrived from Germany—
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!
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 no 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. 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—
Yes; and a precious run it is—full gallop all the way: first they run on—then their fortune
is run
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 worth your possession, I know no
way of obtaining it so certain as by your shewing every attention to my dear father.
Dame! Dame! she be come!
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 prefers that word.
Adieu! Sir Abel.
How condescending! Oh, you are a pratty behaved fellow!
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.
Oh! now I shall be caressed to death; but I must endure the shock of their attentions.
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 tould.
Is not she a sweet girl?
That she is.
Oh, Lud! I'm sure, my dear wife, I never forget that you are in the room.
Drabbitit! 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 han't 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.
That you do, my lady! you remember the old house?
Aye; and all about it, doant ye? Nelly! my lady!
Oh! I'm quite shocked. Susan, child! prepare a room where I may dress before I proceed to
the castle.
I don't see Susan.
Oh! beg pardon, most honoured parent.
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.
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.
Some difference between thic stick and mine, beant there, zur?
Sir, you shall find
Bravo! passion becomes her. She does that vastly well.
Yes; practice makes perfect.
Oh, Robert!
At present, my love, no more.
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 muslin; —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
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 any thing on earth I can do, it is that.
What?
I rather fancy I can plough better than any man in England.
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 gallopping a maggot for a thousand, or eating a live cat, or any other fashionable achievement.
So it is—Egad! I will—I will carry off the prize of industry.
But should you lose, Bob!
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!
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.
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.
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?
Ha, ha, ha!
I tell ye, I zee'd un gi' Susan a letter, an I dan't like it a bit.
Nor I: if shame should come to the poor child—I say, Tummus, what would Mrs. Grundy say then?
Dom Mrs. Grundy; what would my poor wold heart zay? but I be bound it be all innocence.
Ah, Henry! we have not seen thee at home all 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. 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 could please me more.
Tummus, 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,
dishonourable 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 began to
cry.
Yes, Tummus; she locked it in that box sure enough.
What be doing, Dame? what be doing?
A good tightish bunch!
Yes; they are of all sizes.
Indeed!—Well—Eh!—Dame, why dan't ye speak? thou canst chatter fast enow zometimes.
Nay, Tummus—I dare say—if—thee knows best—but I think I could find——
Well, eh!— thee can just try, thee know
Nay, Tummus! thee told me!
Did I?
There be the letter!
Well, why do ye gi't to I?—I dan't want it, I'm sure.
Nay, Tummus——
You did—I zaw you do it myself!— thee look like a thief, now, thee do. Hush!—no—Dame—here be the letter—I won't read a word on't; put it where thee vound it, and as thee vound it.
With all my heart.
Yes, my dear father.
Sue, we do wish to give 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 a bit, 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.
Nay, Tummus, 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.
You shall not find your confidence ill-placed—it is true the gentleman declared he 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 a bit, 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 lather un a bit?
Oh, no! I've 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.
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's your son?
What! Bob? Oh, you'll see him presently—
Ees, 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 pleased to
zee we as we be to zee
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?
Why, zounds, where's Bob?—I don't see Bob—Bless me, what has become of Bob and my plough?
The dater of Sir Philip Blandford.
What exquisite sweetness! Ah! should the father but resemble her, I shall have but little to fear from his severity.
Miss, thic be the young man that ha got'n the goulden prize.
This; I always thought ploughmen were coarse, vulgar creatures, but he seems handsome and diffident.
Ees, quite pratty behaved—it were I that teached un.
What's your name?
Henry!
And your family!
Generous lady! to merit his esteem is the
Receive your merited reward.
Sir!
Did not you see a remarkable clever plough, and a young man——
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.
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 have been.
And what have you got in your hand?
What! All I could keep of your nonsensical ricketty plough.
Where? ha, ha, ha! I'll tell you as nearly as I can — ha, ha! What's the name of the next county?
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. 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 in.
Ees, zur; I suppose you can sheake a leg a bit?
I fancy 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 jig it a bit wi' un.
Bob's an excellent dancer.
I dare say he is, sir; but on this occasion, I think I ought to dance with the young man,
who gained the prize—I think it would be the most pleasant—most proper, I mean; and I am glad
you agree with me.
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.
Are we secure from observation?
Yes.
Then tell me, does the boy live?
He does.
Has care been taken he may not blast me with his presence?
Hush! your daughter.
Leave me—we'll speak anon.
Dear father, I came the moment I heard you wished to see me.
My good child, I fear my wish for thy company deprives thee of much pleasure.
'Tis the pale reflection of the lustre I see sparkle there. 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, whom 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 surprised at seeing a young man so handsome and elegant as Henry is.—Then I placed the medal round Henry's neck, and was told, that poor Henry—
Henry!—So, my love, this is your account of Mr. Robert Handy!
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.
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
Such was the day my youthful fancy pictured! How did it close!
I promised Henry your protection.
Indeed! that was much. Well I will see your rustic here. This infant passion must be crushed. Poor girl! some artless boy has caught thy youthful fancy!
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?
Tell me, is that Sir Philip Blandford, who leans on that lady's arm?
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 clothed with my beneficence, no anguish assuaged by my care.
Then I am sure my dear father wishes to show his kind intentions. So I will begin by
placing one under his protection
Yes; of marble. Cold and obdurate to the world—ponderous and painful 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,
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 of 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 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 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!
Tis now twenty years, since I sueceeded as elder sdn to the ample fortune of my father.’ I had a brother, whom as my life I loved, I felt no joys, but what he shared, and the moment the law gave me power, I divided, equal portions, my father’s large possessions, one of which I with joy presented to my brother.
’Twas like my noble ‘father
You shall hear how I was rewarded. I loved, deeply, passionately, and. fondly thought I
was beloved again. The-evening previous to my intended marriage, with a mind serene as the
departing sun whose morning ray was to light me to my happiness, I sought a favourite tree,
where, lover-like I had carved the name of my destined bride; and with every nerve braced to
the tone of ecstacy, I was proceeding to wound the bark with a still deeper impression of her
name—when there, where heaven heard and registered our vows, what did I behold ? the only two
beings who had wound themselves about my heart, my brother and my betrothed bride, were
sitting clasped in each other's arms. I heard arrangements made for instant flight—that
morning they had been secretly married; the perjured brother pitied me, and told her he had
prepared. a vessel to bear her for ever from my sight.
Oh, my father!
Whom think you was the offspring of these treacherous friends?
Henry.
Now ask me, have I cause to hate him? After the deed was done, I hurried from my native land, with a heart lacerated by every wound, that the falsehood of others, or my own conscience could inflict, and madly plunged into every dissipation to stupify my maddened brain; I rushed to the gaming table, and soon became the dupe of villains.—My ample fortune was lost. The man, who, by his superior genius, stood possessed of all the mortgages and securities of which I had been plundered was one Morrington. Collecting the scattered remnant of my fortune, I wandered, wretched and desolate, 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. Thus circumstanced, this good man, Sir Abel Handy, proposed to unite our families by marriage. 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? nit let it pass — my bitter task is ended — yours begins; you must forget, nay, hate this boy.
Bitter indeed; oh my dear father, if he be the worthy child of such ungrateful parents, does he not deserve my pity rather than my hate?
I have said it, so speak no more; my word and yours is plighted to Sir Abel Handy; prepare to wed his son.
Father, be composed; let me wipe away those drops of anguish from your brow:—I will be all you wish—indeed I will, my father!
Was ever any thing 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 carry a packsaddle, 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 with 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?
Yes; a faithful fellow—rather ruled his wife too severely.
Did he!
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 be picked, it is a patent lock.
Then break it open, 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—
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!
Yes, my lady—I say
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.
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.
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?
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.
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 I 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 argufy the topic, and then you may wait upon me, and I'll tell ye.
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 myself hang'd first, and you too, zur—I would 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.
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 would, I'll never hit thic hand against here, but when I be zure that zumeit at
inside will jump against it with pleasure.
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.
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.
Tummus, my dear Tummus, what's the matter?
It be lucky vor he I be's zoo pratty behaved, or dom if I—
Nothing at all; where's Henry?
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.
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, Tummus?
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 a 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 sha't budge one step out of this house. Drabbit it! what can he do? he can't send us to jail. Why, I have corn will zell for half the money I do owe'un—and han't I cattle and sheep? deadly lean to be zure—and han't 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, Tummus—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 looked to vind a purse in the path. But I didn't though.
Ah! here they are, coming to sell, I suppose.
Lettun—lettun zeize and zell; we ha gotten here
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.
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 confoundedly.
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 wi' 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 me.
Indeed! misfortune has made him cruel. That should not be.
Noa, it should not, indeed, zur.
It shall not be.
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 £1,000, 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 so bold—
Nay, friend——
Don't be angry, I hadn't thanked you, zur, nor I won't.—Only, zur, I were going to ax, when you wou'd call again. You shall have my stamp 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 honour put a couple of turkeys in your pocket?
Or pop a ham under your arm? don't ye zay no, if it's agreeable.
Farewell, good friends, I shall repeat my visit soon.
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.
I thank you, sir. The unhappy Henry.
What of him?
Nay, be not angry, he is without, and entreats to be admitted.
I 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
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.
To the business that brought you hither.
Thus then—I believe this is your signature.
Ah!
Affixed to a bond of £1,000, 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
A stranger, whose kind benevolence stept in and saved—
His name?
Morrington.
Fiend! 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
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. 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.
On your soul, is Morrington that man?
On my soul, he is.
Thus, then, I annihilate the 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.
Noble boy!—Oh! Blandford!
Ah!
What have I said?
You called me Blandford.
'Twas error—'twas 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.
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 shan't have the pleasure of seeing you above once a-week.
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, though 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's 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.
Ah! how shall I act?
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.
I am proud of your confidence, and, by your permission, will fulfil an important engagement awaiting me at this hour, but I speedily return to you prepared to receive it.
Not here. I will meet you at 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.
Come, dame.
Do you not despise me?
Is it possible ?
Yes; those charms have conquered.
Oh! no; do not so disgrace the victery 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 misfortune, knows how to appreciate happiness. Then: poor Miss Blandford—upon my soul, I feel for her.
Nay, don’t say so—she will be unhappy.
No.
What does he mean ?
My father’s voice.
Then I'll leather ’un wi’ my stick.
Zounds! —no—come here.
your —she’s mine—mine by a husband’s right.
Husband! what! thee Sue’s husband ?
I soon shall be.
But how though? What, faith and troth! what, like as I married dame?
Yes.
What, ax’d 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, the
Huzza! only to think now—my blessing go with you, my children !
And heaven's blessing too. Ecod, I believe now, as thy feyther zays, thee canst do everything.
No; for there is one thing 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.
I say, Tummus, 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 asham’d of myself, which I am resolved not to be again.
Heydey, Bob! why an’t you gallanting your intended bride? But you are never where you ought to be.
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?
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 approve, without—
Health to this worthy company!
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.
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—
So, sir, I have found you at last?
My honoured mamma, 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!
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!—
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
I must to the castle, father.
Have with you Bob.
Bless her! how nicely she do trip it away with the gentry!
And then, Tummus, think of the wedding.
I shall shake hands agreeably wi' all my friends.
What an wold fool thee bee'st, dame—Come along, and behave pratty, do'e.
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, every thing 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—
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?
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!
My child! my child! where is she? Speak!
Alas! she remains in the Castle!
Ah! then will I die with her!
There is your daughter.
My child! my Emma, revive!
My dear friend safe! and the lovely Emma in his arms! Then let the bonfire blaze.
I wish to thank you.
Sir Philip, I have saved your daughter from a dreadful death — while passing from the chamber which concealed a secret of crime and blood.
Then all is discovered?
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 forced the doors — a firebrand was my guide, and among many evidences of blood and guilt,
I found—this!
Ah!
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.
Crawling in the dust, behold a repentant wretch!—
After the dreadful hour that parted us, agonized with remorse, I was about to finish what
your arm had left unaccomplished; when some angel whispered—"Punishment is life, not death—
live and atone!" I flew to you—I found you surrounded by sharpers—What was to be done?
Ah! is it possible!
Oh, is that atonement? No—But my Henry has saved that angel's life—Kneel with me, my son and beg for mercy from that injured man
Henry, forgive me—Emma, plead for me—There—there.
But my father——
Brother, I forgive thee.