The Hunchback by James Sheridan Knowles

This etext was produced by David Price, email, from the 1887 Cassell & Company edition. THE HUNCHBACK by James Sheridan Knowles INTRODUCTION James Sheridan Knowles was born at Cork in 1784, and died at Torquay in December, 1862, at the age of 78. His father was a teacher of elocution, who compiled a dictionary,
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  • 1832
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This etext was produced by David Price, email, from the 1887 Cassell & Company edition.


by James Sheridan Knowles


James Sheridan Knowles was born at Cork in 1784, and died at Torquay in December, 1862, at the age of 78. His father was a teacher of elocution, who compiled a dictionary, and who was related to the Sheridans. He moved to London when his son was eight years old, and there became acquainted with William Hazlitt and Charles Lamb. The son, after his school education, obtained a commission in the army, but gave up everything for the stage, and made his first appearance at the Crow Street Theatre, in Dublin. He did not become a great actor, and when he took to writing plays he did not prove himself a great poet, but his skill in contriving situations through which a good actor can make his powers tell upon the public, won the heart of the great actor of his day, and as Macready’s own poet he rose to fame.

Before Macready had discovered him, Sheridan Knowles lived partly by teaching elocution at Belfast and Glasgow, partly by practice of elocution as an actor. In 1815 he produced at the Belfast Theatre his first play, Caius Gracchus. His next play, Virginius was produced at Glasgow with great success. Macready, who had, at the age of seventeen, begun his career as an actor at his father’s theatre in Birmingham, had, on Monday, October 5th, 1819, at the age of twenty-six, taken the Londoners by storm in the character of Richard III Covent Garden reopened its closed treasury. It was promptly followed by a success in Coriolanus, and Macready’s place was made. He was at once offered fifty pounds a night for appearing on one evening a week at Brighton. It was just after that turn in Macready’s fortunes that a friend at Glasgow recommended to him the part of Virginius in Sheridan Knowles’s play lately produced there. He agreed unwillingly to look at it, and says that in April, 1820, the parcel containing the MS. came as he was going out. He hesitated, then sat down to read it that he might get a wearisome job over. As he read, he says, “The freshness and simplicity of the dialogue fixed my attention; I read on and on, and was soon absorbed in the interest of the story and the passion of its scenes, till at its close I found myself in such a state of excitement that for a time I was undecided what step to take. Impulse was in the ascendant, and snatching up my pen I hurriedly wrote, as my agitated feelings prompted, a letter to the author, to me then a perfect stranger.” Bryan Procter (Barry Cornwall) read the play next day with Macready, and confirmed him in his admiration of it.

Macready at once got it accepted at the theatre, where nothing was spent on scenery, but there was a good cast, and the enthusiasm of Macready as stage manager for the occasion half affronted some of his seniors. On the 17th of May, 1820, about a month after it came into Macready’s hands, Virginius was produced at Covent Garden, where, says the actor in his “Reminiscences,” “the curtain fell amidst the most deafening applause of a highly-excited auditory.” Sheridan Knowles’s fame, therefore, was made, like that of his friend Macready, and the friendship between author and actor continued. Sheridan Knowles had a kindly simplicity of character, and the two qualities for which an actor most prizes a dramatist, skill in providing opportunities for acting that will tell, and readiness to make any changes that the actor asks for. The postscript to his first letter to Macready was, “Make any alterations you like in any part of the play, and I shall be obliged to you.” When he brought to the great actor his play of William Tell–Caius Gracchus had been produced in November, 1823–there were passages of writing in it that stopped the course of action, and, says Macready, “Knowles had less of the tenacity of authorship than most writers,” so that there was no difficulty about alterations, Macready having in a very high degree the tenacity of actorship. And so, in 1825, Tell became another of Macready’s best successes.

Sheridan Knowles continued to write for the stage until 1845, when he was drawn wholly from the theatre by a religious enthusiasm that caused him, in 1851, to essay the breaking of a lance with Cardinal Wiseman on the subject of Transubstantiation. Sir Robert Peel gave ease to his latter days by a pension of 200 pounds a year from the Civil List, which he had honourably earned by a career as dramatist, in which he sought to appeal only to the higher sense of literature, and to draw enjoyment from the purest source. Of his plays time two comedies {1} here given are all that have kept their place upon the stage. As one of the most earnest dramatic writers of the present century he is entitled to a little corner in our memory. Worse work of the past has lasted longer than the plays of Sheridan Knowles are likely to last through the future.

H. M.



Julia Miss F. KEMBLE.
Helen Miss TAYLOR.
Master Walter Mr. J. S. KNOWLES. Sir Thomas Clifford Mr. C. KEMBLE.
Lord Tinsel Mr. WRENCH.
Master Wilford Mr. J. MASON.
Modus Mr. ABBOTT.
Master Heartwell Mr. EVANS.
Gaylove Mr. HENRY.
Fathom Mr. MEADOWS.
Thomas Mr. BARNES.
Stephen Mr. PAYNE.
Williams Mr. IRWIN.
Simpson Mr. BRADY.
Waiter Mr. HEATH.
Holdwell Mr. BENDER.
{ Mr. J. COOPER.
Servants { Mr. LOLLETT.


SCENE I.–A Tavern.

On one side SIR THOMAS CLIFFORD, at a table, with wine before him; on the other, MASTER WILFORD, GAYLOVE, HOLDWELL, and SIMPSON, likewise taking wine.

Wilf. Your wine, sirs! your wine! You do not justice to mine host of the Three Tuns, nor credit to yourselves; I swear the beverage is good! It is as palatable poison as you will purchase within a mile round Ludgate! Drink, gentlemen; make free. You know I am a man of expectations; and hold my money as light as the purse in which I carry it.

Gay. We drink, Master Wilford. Not a man of us has been chased as yet.

Wilf. But you fill not fairly, sirs! Look at my measure! Wherefore a large glass, if not for a large draught? Fill, I pray you, else let us drink out of thimbles! This will never do for the friends of the nearest of kin to the wealthiest peer in Britain.

Gay. We give you joy, Master Wilford, of the prospect of advancement which has so unexpectedly opened to you.

Wilf. Unexpectedly indeed! But yesterday arrived the news that the Earl’s only son and heir had died; and to-day has the Earl himself been seized with a mortal illness. His dissolution is looked for hourly; and I, his cousin in only the third degree, known to him but to be unnoticed by him–a decayed gentleman’s son–glad of the title and revenues of a scrivener’s clerk–am the undoubted successor to his estates and coronet.

Gay. Have you been sent for?

Wilf. No; but I have certified to his agent, Master Walter, the Hunchback, my existence, and peculiar propinquity; and momentarily expect him here.

Gay. Lives there anyone that may dispute your claim–I mean vexatiously?

Wilf. Not a man, Master Gaylove. I am the sole remaining branch of the family tree.

Gay. Doubtless you look for much happiness from this change of fortune?

Wilf. A world! Three things have I an especial passion for. The finest hound, the finest horse, and the finest wife in the kingdom, Master Gaylove!

Gay. The finest wife?

Wilf. Yes, sir; I marry. Once the earldom comes into my line, I shall take measures to perpetuate its remaining there. I marry, sir! I do not say that I shall love. My heart has changed mistresses too often to settle down in one servitude now, sir. But fill, I pray you, friends. This, if I mistake not, is the day whence I shall date my new fortunes; and, for that reason, hither have I invited you, that, having been so long my boon companions, you shall be the first to congratulate me.

[Enter Waiter]

Waiter. You are wanted, Master Wilford.

Wilf. By whom?

Waiter. One Master Walter.

Wilf. His lordship’s agent! News, sirs! Show him in!

[Waiter goes out]

My heart’s a prophet, sirs–The Earl is dead.


Well, Master Walter. How accost you me?

Wal. As your impatience shows me you would have me. My Lord, the Earl of Rochdale!

Gay. Give you joy!

Hold. All happiness, my lord!

Simp. Long life and health unto your lordship!

Gay. Come!
We’ll drink to his lordship’s health! ‘Tis two o’clock, We’ll e’en carouse till midnight! Health, my lord!

Hold. My lord, much joy to you!

Simp. All good to your lordship!

Wal. Give something to the dead!

Gay. Give what?

Wal. Respect!
He has made the living! First to him that’s gone, Say “Peace!”–and then with decency to revels!

Gay. What means the knave by revels?

Wal. Knave?

Gay. Ay, knave!

Wal. Go to! Thou’rt flushed with wine!

Gay. Thou sayest false!
Though didst thou need a proof thou speakest true, I’d give thee one. Thou seest but one lord here, And I see two!

Wal. Reflect’st thou on my shape?
Thou art a villain!

Gay. [Starting up.] Ha!

Wal. A coward, too!

[Drawing his sword.]

Gay. Only mark him! how he struts about! How laughs his straight sword at his noble back.

Wal. Does it? It cuffs thee for a liar then!

[Strikes GAYLOVE with his sword.]

Gay. A blow!

Wal. Another, lest you doubt the first!

Gay. His blood on his own head! I’m for you, sir!


Clif. Hold, sir! This quarrel’s mine!

[Coming forward and drawing.]

Wal. No man shall fight for me, sir!

Clif. By your leave,
Your patience, pray! My lord, for so I learn Behoves me to accost you–for your own sake Draw off your friend!

Wal. Not till we have a bout, sir!

Clif. My lord, your happy fortune ill you greet! Ill greet it those who love you–greeting thus The herald of it!

Wal. Sir, what’s that to you?
Let go my sleeve!

Clif. My lord, if blood be shed
On the fair dawn of your prosperity, Look not to see the brightness of its day. ‘Twill be o’ercast throughout!

Gay. My lord, I’m struck!

Clif. You gave the first blow, and the hardest one! Look, sir; if swords you needs must measure, I’m Your mate, not he!

Wal. I’m mate for any man!

Clif. Draw off your friend, my lord, for your own sake!

Wilf. Come, Gaylove! let’s have another room.

Gay. With all my heart, since ’tis your lordship’s will.

Wilf. That’s right! Put up! Come, friends!

[WILFORD and Friends go out.]

Wal. I’ll follow him!
Why do you hold me? ‘Tis not courteous of you! Think’st thou I fear them? Fear! I rate them but As dust! dross! offals! Let me at them!–Nay, Call you this kind? then kindness know I not; Nor do I thank you for’t! Let go, I say!

Clif. Nay, Master Walter, they’re not worth your wrath.

Wal. How know you me for Master Walter? By My hunchback, eh!–my stilts of legs and arms, The fashion more of ape’s than man’s? Aha! So you have heard them, too–their savage gibes As I pass on,–“There goes my lord!” aha! God made me, sir, as well as them and you. ‘Sdeath! I demand of you, unhand me, sir!

Clif. There, sir, you’re free to follow them! Go forth, And I’ll go too: so on your wilfulness
Shall fall whate’er of evil may ensue. Is’t fit you waste your choler on a burr? The nothings of the town; whose sport it is To break their villain jests on worthy men, The graver still the fitter! Fie for shame! Regard what such would say? So would not I, No more than heed a cur.

Wal. You’re right, sir; right,
For twenty crowns! So there’s my rapier up! You’ve done me a good turn against my will; Which, like a wayward child, whose pet is off, That made him restive under wholesome check, I now right humbly own, and thank you for.

Clif. No thanks, good Master Walter, owe you me! I’m glad to know you, sir.

Wal. I pray you, now,
How did you learn my name? Guessed I not right? Was’t not my comely hunch that taught it you?

Clif. I own it.

Wal. Right, I know it; you tell truth. I like you for’t.

Clif. But when I heard it said
That Master Walter was a worthy man, Whose word would pass on ‘change soon as his bond; A liberal man–for schemes of public good That sets down tens, where others units write; A charitable man–the good he does,
That’s told of, not the half; I never more Could see the hunch on Master Walter’s back!

Wal. You would not flatter a poor citizen?

Clif. Indeed, I flatter not!

Wal. I like your face –
A frank and honest one! Your frame’s well knit, Proportioned, shaped!

Clif. Good sir!

Wal. Your name is Clifford –
Sir Thomas Clifford. Humph! You’re not the heir Direct to the fair baronetcy? He
That was, was drowned abroad. Am I not right? Your cousin, was’t not?–so succeeded you To rank and wealth, your birth ne’er promised you.

Clif. I see you know my history.

Wal. I do.
You’re lucky who conjoin the benefits Of penury and abundance; for I know
Your father was a man of slender means. You do not blush, I see. That’s right! Why should you? What merit to be dropped on fortune’s hill? The honour is to mount it. You’d have done it; For you were trained to knowledge, industry, Frugality, and honesty,–the sinews
That surest help the climber to the top, And keep him there. I have a clerk, Sir Thomas, Once served your father; there’s the riddle for you. Humph! I may thank you for my life to-day.

Clif. I pray you say not so.

Wal. But I will say so!
Because I think so, know so, feel so, sir! Your fortune, I have heard, I think, is ample! And doubtless you live up to’t?

Clif. ‘Twas my rule,
And is so still, to keep my outlay, sir, A span within my means.

Wal. A prudent rule!
The turf is a seductive pastime!

Clif. Yes.

Wal. You keep a racing stud? You bet?

Clif. No, neither.
‘Twas still my father’s precept–“Better owe A yard of land to labour, than to chance Be debtor for a rood!”

Wal. ‘Twas a wise precept.
You’ve a fair house–you’ll get a mistress for it?

Clif. In time!

Wal. In time! ‘Tis time thy choice were made. Is’t not so yet? Or is thy lady love
The newest still thou seest?

Clif. Nay, not so.
I’d marry, Master Walter, but old use – For since the age of thirteen I have lived In the world–has made me jealous of the thing That flattered me with hope of profit. Bargains Another would snap up, might be for me:
Till I had turned and turned them! Speculations, That promised, twenty, thirty, forty, fifty, Ay, cent-per-cent. returns, I would not launch in, When others were afloat, and out at sea; Whereby I made small gains, but missed great losses. As ever, then, I looked before I leaped, So do I now.

Wal. Thou’rt all the better for it!
Let’s see! Hand free–heart whole–well-favoured–so! Rich, titled! Let that pass!–kind, valiant, prudent – Sir Thomas, I can help thee to a wife,
Hast thou the luck to win her!

Clif. Master Walter!
You jest!

Wal. I do not jest. I like you! mark – I like you, and I like not everyone!
I say a wife, sir, can I help you to, The pearly texture of whose dainty skin
Alone were worth thy baronetcy! Form And feature has she, wherein move and glow The charms, that in the marble, cold and still, Culled by the sculptor’s jealous skill and joined there, Inspire us! Sir, a maid, before whose feet, A duke–a duke might lay his coronet,
To lift her to his state, and partner her! A fresh heart too!–a young fresh heart, sir; one That Cupid has not toyed with, and a warm one – Fresh, young, and warm! mark that! a mind to boot; Wit, sir; sense, taste;–a garden strictly tended – Where nought but what is costly flourishes! A consort for a king, sir! Thou shalt see her!

Clif. I thank you, Master Walter! As you speak, Methinks I see me at the altar-foot!
Her hand fast locked in mine!–the ring put on! My wedding-bell rings merry in my ear;
And round me throng glad tongues that give me joy To be the bridegroom of so fair a bride!

Wal. What! sparks so thick? We’ll have a blaze anon!

Servant. [Entering.] The chariot’s at the door.

Wal. It waits in time!
Sir Thomas, it shall bear thee to the bower Where dwells this fair–for she’s no city belle, But e’en a sylvan goddess!

Clif. Have with you!

Wal. You’ll bless the day you served the Hunchback, sir!

[They go out.]

SCENE II.–A Garden before a Country House.

[Enter JULIA and HELEN.]

Helen. I like not, Julia, this your country life. I’m weary on’t!

Julia. Indeed? So am not I!
I know no other; would no other know!

Helen. You would no other know! Would you not know Another relative?–another friend –
Another house–another anything,
Because the ones you have already please you? That’s poor content! Would you not be more rich, More wise, more fair? The song that last you learned You fancy well; and therefore shall you learn No other song? Your virginal, ’tis true, Hath a sweet tone; but does it follow thence, You shall not have another virginal?
You may, love, and a sweeter one; and so A sweeter life may find than this you lead!

Julia. I seek it not. Helen, I’m constancy!

Helen. So is a cat, a dog, a silly hen, An owl, a bat,–where they are wont to lodge That still sojourn, nor care to shift their quarters. Thou’rt constancy? I am glad I know thy name! The spider comes of the same family,
That in his meshy fortress spends his life, Unless you pull it down and scare him from it. And so thou’rt constancy? Ar’t proud of that? I’ll warrant thee I’ll match thee with a snail From year to year that never leaves his house! Such constancy forsooth!–a constant grub That houses ever in the self-same nut
Where he was born, till hunger drives him out, Or plunder breaketh through his castle wall! And so, in very deed, thou’rt constancy!

Julia. Helen, you know the adage of the tree; – I’ve ta’en the bend. This rural life of mine, Enjoined me by an unknown father’s will, I’ve led from infancy. Debarred from hope Of change, I ne’er have sighed for change. The town To me was like the moon, for any thought I e’er should visit it–nor was I schooled To think it half so fair!

Helen. Not half so fair!
The town’s the sun, and thou hast dwelt in night E’er since thy birth, not to have seen the town! Their women there are queens, and kings their men; Their houses palaces!

Julia. And what of that?
Have your town-palaces a hall like this? Couches so fragrant? walls so high-adorned? Casements with such festoons, such prospects, Helen, As these fair vistas have? Your kings and queens! See me a May-day queen, and talk of them!

Helen. Extremes are ever neighbours. ‘Tis a step From one to the other! Were thy constancy A reasonable thing–a little less
Of constancy–a woman’s constancy – I should not wonder wert thou ten years hence The maid I know thee now; but, as it is, The odds are ten to one, that this day year Will see our May-day queen a city one!

Julia. Never! I’m wedded to a country life: O, did you hear what Master Walter says! Nine times in ten the town’s a hollow thing, Where what things are is nought to what they show; Where merit’s name laughs merit’s self to scorn! Where friendship and esteem that ought to be The tenants of men’s hearts, lodge in their looks And tongues alone. Where little virtue, with A costly keeper, passes for a heap;
A heap for none that has a homely one! Where fashion makes the law–your umpire which You bow to, whether it has brains or not! Where Folly taketh off his cap and bells, To clap on Wisdom, which must bear the jest! Where to pass current you must seem the thing, The passive thing, that others think; and not Your simple, honest, independent self!

Helen. Ay: so says Master Walter. See I not What can you find in Master Walter, Julia, To be so fond of him!

Julia. He’s fond of me!
I’ve known him since I was a child. E’en then, The week I thought a weary, heavy one,
That brought not Master Walter. I had those About me then that made a fool of me,
As children oft are fooled; but more I loved Good Master Walter’s lesson than the play With which they’d surfeit me. As I grew up, More frequent Master Walter came, and more I loved to see him! I had tutors then,
Men of great skill and learning–but not one That taught like Master Walter. What they’d show me, And I, dull as I was, but doubtful saw, – A word from Master Walter made as clear
As daylight! When my schooling days were o’er – That’s now good three years past–three years–I vow I’m twenty, Helen!–well, as I was saying, When I had done with school, and all were gone, Still Master Walter came! and still he comes, Summer or winter–frost or rain! I’ve seen The snow upon a level with the hedge,
Yet there was Master Walter!

Helen. Who comes here?
A carriage, and a gay one–who alights? Pshaw! Only Master Walter! What see you, Which thus repairs the arch of the fair brow, A frown was like to spoil?–A gentleman! One of our town kings! Mark!–How say you now? Wouldst be a town queen, Julia? Which of us, I wonder, comes he for?

Julia. For neither of us;
He’s Master Walter’s clerk, most like.

Helen. Most like!
Mark him as he comes up the avenue; So looks a clerk! A clerk has such a gait! So does a clerk dress, Julia!–mind his hose – They’re very like a clerk’s! a diamond loop And button, note you, for his clerkship’s hat, – O, certainly a clerk! A velvet cloak,
Jerkin of silk, and doublet of the same, – For all the world a clerk! See, Julia, see, How Master Walter bows, and yields him place, That he may first go in–a very clerk!
I’ll learn of thee, love, when I’d know a clerk!

Julia. I wonder who he is!

Helen. Wouldst like to know?
Wouldst for a fancy ride to town with him? I prophesy he comes to take thee thither!

Julia. He ne’er takes me to town! No, Helen, no! To town who will, a country life for me!

Helen. We’ll see!

[Enter FATHOM.]

Fath. You’re wanted, madam.

Julia. [Embarrassed.] Which of us?

Fath. You, madam.

Helen. Julia! what’s the matter? Nay, Mount not the rose so soon! He must not see it A month hence. ‘Tis loves flower, which once she wears, The maid is all his own.

Julia. Go to!

Helen. Be sure
He comes to woo thee! He will bear thee hence; He’ll make thee change the country for the town.

Julia. I’m constancy. Name he the town to me, I’ll tell what I think on’t!

Helen. Then you guess
He comes a wooing?

Julia. I guess nought.

Helen. You do!
At your grave words, your lips, more honest, smile, And show them to be traitors. Hie to him.

Julia. Hie thee to soberness.

[Goes out.]

Helen. Ay, will I, when,
Thy bridemaid, I shall hie to church with thee. Well, Fathom, who is come?

Fath. I know not.

Helen. What! Didst thou not hear his name?

Fath. I did.

Helen. What is’t?

Fath. I noted not.

Helen. What hast thou ears for, then?

Fath. What good were it for me to mind his name? I do but what I must do. To do that
Is labour quite enough!

Wal. [Without.] What, Fathom!

Fath. Here.

Wal. [Entering.] Here, sirrah! Wherefore didst not come to me?

Fath. You did not bid me come.

Wal. I called thee.

Fath. Yes.
And I said “Here;” and waited then to know Your worship’s will with me.

Wal. We go to town.
Thy mistress, thou, and all the house.

Fath. Well, sir?

Wal. Mak’st thou not ready then to go to town? Hence, knave, despatch!

[FATHOM goes out.]

Helen. Go we to town?

Wal. We do;
‘Tis now her father’s will she sees the town.

Helen. I’m glad on’t. Goes she to her father?

Wal. No:
At the desire of thine she for a term shares roof with thee.

Helen. I’m very glad on’t.

Wal. What!
You like her, then? I thought you would. ‘Tis time She sees the town.

Helen. It has been time for that
These six years.

Wal. By thy wisdom’s count. No doubt
You’ve told her what a precious place it is.

Helen. I have.

Wal. I even guessed as much. For that I told thee of her; brought thee here to see her; And prayed thee to sojourn a space with her; That its fair space, from thy too fair report, Might strike a novice less–so less deceive her. I did not put thee under check.

Helen. ‘Twas right, –
Else had I broken loose, and run the wilder! So knows she not her father yet: that’s strange. I prithee how does mine?

Wal. Well–very well.
News for thee.

Helen. What?

Wal. Thy cousin is in town.

Helen. My cousin Modus?

Wal. Much do I suspect
That cousin’s nearer to thy heart than blood.

Helen. Pshaw! Wed me to a musty library! Love him who nothing loves but Greek and Latin! But, Master Walter, you forget the main
Surpassing point of all! Who’s come with you?

Wal. Ay, that’s the question!

Helen. Is he soldier or
Civilian? lord or gentleman? He’s rich, If that’s his chariot! Where is his estate? What brings it in? Six thousand pounds a year? Twelve thousand, may be! Is he bachelor, Or husband? Bachelor I’m sure he is
Comes he not hither wooing, Master Walter? Nay, prithee, answer me!

Wal. Who says thy sex
Are curious? That they’re patient, I’ll be sworn; And reasonable–very reasonable –
To look for twenty answers in a breath! Come, thou shalt be enlightened–but propound Thy questions one by one! Thou’rt far too apt A scholar! My ability to teach
Will ne’er keep pace, I fear, with thine to learn.

[They go out.]

SCENE III.–An Apartment in the House.

[Enter JULIA, followed by CLIFFORD.]

Julia. No more! I pray you, sir, no more!

Clif. I love you!

Julia. You mock me, sir!

Clif. Then is there no such thing
On earth as reverence; honour filial, the fear Of kings, the awe of supreme heaven itself, Are only shows and sounds that stand for nothing. I love you!

Julia. You have known me scarce a minute!

Clif. Say but a moment, still I say I love you! Love’s not a flower that grows on the dull earth; Springs by the calendar; must wait for the sun – For rain;–matures by parts;–must take its time To stem, to leaf, to bud, to blow. It owns A richer soil, and boasts a quicker seed! You look for it, and see it not; and lo! E’en while you look, the peerless flower is up. Consummate in the birth!

Julia. Is’t fear I feel?
Why else should beat my heart? It can’t be fear! Something I needs must say. You’re from the town; How comes it, sir, you seek a country wife? Methinks ’twill tax his wit to answer that.

Clif. In joining contrasts lieth love’s delight. Complexion, stature, nature, mateth it,
Not with their kinds, but with their opposites. Hence hands of snow in palms of russet lie; The form of Hercules affects the sylph’s; And breasts, that case the lion’s fear-proof heart, Find their meet lodge in arms where tremors dwell! Haply for this, on Afric’s swarthy neck, Hath Europe’s priceless pearl been seen to hang, That makes the orient poor! So with degrees, Rank passes by the circlet-graced brow,
Upon the forehead, bare, of notelessness To print the nuptial kiss. As with degrees So is’t with habits; therefore I, indeed A gallant of the town, the town forsake, To win a country wife.

Julia. His prompt reply
My backward challenge shames! Must I give o’er? I’ll try his wit again. Who marries me
Must lead a country life.

Clif. The life I’d lead!
But fools would fly from it; for O! ’tis sweet! It finds the heart out, be there one to find; And corners in’t where store of pleasures lodge, We never dreamed were there! It is to dwell ‘Mid smiles that are not neighbours to deceit; Music, whose melody is of the heart;
And gifts, that are not made for interest, – Abundantly bestowed by Nature’s cheek,
And voice, and hand! It is to live on life, And husband it! It is to constant scan
The handiwork of Heaven. It is to con Its mercy, bounty, wisdom, power! It is
To nearer see our God!

Julia. How like he talks
To Master Walter! Shall I give it o’er? Not yet. Thou wouldst not live one half a year! A quarter mightst thou for the novelty
Of fields and trees; but then it needs must be In summer time, when they go dressed.

Clif. Not it!
In any time–say winter! Fields and trees Have charms for me in very winter time.

Julia. But snow may clothe them then.

Clif. I like them full
As well in snow!

Julia. You do?

Clif. I do.

Julia. But night
Will hide both snow and them, and that sets in Ere afternoon is out. A heavy thing,
A country fireside in a winter’s night, To one bred in the town,–where winter’s said, For sun of gaiety and sportiveness,
To beggar shining summer.

Clif. I should like
A country winter’s night especially!

Julia. You’d sleep by the fire.

Clif. Not I; I’d talk to thee.

Julia. You’d tire of that!

Clif. I’d read to thee.

Julia. And that!

Clif. I’d talk to thee again.

Julia. And sooner tire
Than first you did, and fall asleep at last. You’d never do to lead a country life.

Clif. You deal too harshly with me! Matchless maid, As loved instructor brightens dullest wit, Fear not to undertake the charge of me!
A willing pupil kneels to thee, and lays His title and his fortune at your feet.

Julia. His title and his fortune!

[Enter MASTER WALTER and HELEN.–JULIA, disconcerted, retires with the latter.–CLIFFORD rises.]

Wal. So, Sir Thomas!
Aha! you husband time! Well, was I right? Is’t not the jewel that I told you ’twas? Wouldst thou not give thine eyes to wear it? Eh? It has an owner, though,–nay, start not,–one That may be bought to part with’t, and with whom I’ll stand thy friend–I will–I say, I will! A strange man, sir, and unaccountable:
But I can humour him–will humour him For thy sake, good Sir Thomas; for I like thee. Well, is’t a bargain? Come, thy hand upon it. A word or two with thee.

[They retire. JULIA and HELEN come forward.]

Julia. Go up to town!

Helen. Have I not said it ten times o’er to thee? But if thou likest it not, protest against it.

Julia. Not if ’tis Master Walter’s will.

Helen. What then?
Thou wouldst not break thy heart for Master Walter?

Julia. That follows not!

Helen. What follows not?

Julia. That I
Should break my heart, because we go to town.

Helen. Indeed?–Oh, that’s another matter. Well, I’d e’en advise thee then to do his will; And, ever after, when I prophesy,
Believe me, Julia!

[They retire. MASTER WALTER comes forward.]

[Enter FATHOM.]

Fath. So please you, sir, a letter,–a post-haste letter! The bearer on horseback, the horse in a foam–smoking like a boiler at the heat–be sure a posthaste letter!

Wal. Look to the horse and rider.

[Opens the letter and reads.]

What’s this? A testament addressed to me, Found in his lordship’s escritoire, and thence Directed to be taken by no hand
But mine. My presence instantly required.

[SIR THOMAS, JULIA, and HELEN come forward.]

Come, my mistresses,
You dine in town to-day. Your father’s will, It is, my Julia, that you see the world; And thou shalt see it in its best attire. Its gayest looks–its richest finery
It shall put on for thee, that thou may’st judge Betwixt it, and this rural life you’ve lived. Business of moment I’m but thus advised of, Touching the will of my late noble master, The Earl of Rochdale, recently deceased, Commands me for a time to leave thee there. Sir Thomas, hand her to the chariot. Nay, I tell thee true. We go indeed to town!

[They go out.]


SCENE I.–An Apartment in Master Heartwell’s House.

[Enter FATHOM and THOMAS.]

Thos. Well, Fathom, is thy mistress up?

Fath. She is, Master Thomas, and breakfasted.

Thos. She stands it well! ‘Twas five, you say, when she came home; and wants it now three-quarters of an hour of ten? Wait till her stock of country health is out.

Fath. ‘Twill come to that, Master Thomas, before she lives another month in town! three, four, five six o’clock are now the hours she keeps. ‘Twas otherwise with her in the country. There, my mistress used to rise what time she now lies down.

Thos. Why, yes; she’s changed since she came hither.

Fath. Changed, do you say, Master Thomas? Changed, forsooth! I know not the thing in which she is not changed, saving that she is still a woman. I tell thee there is no keeping pace with her moods. In the country she had none of them. When I brought what she asked for, it was “Thank you, Fathom,” and no more to do; but now, nothing contents her. Hark ye! were you a gentleman, Master Thomas,–for then you know you would be a different kind of man,–how many times would you have your coat altered?

Thos. Why, Master Fathom, as many times as it would take to make it fit me.

Fath. Good! But, supposing it fitted thee at the first?

Thos. Then would I have it altered not at all.

Fath. Good! Thou wouldst be a reasonable gentleman. Thou wouldst have a conscience. Now hark to a tale about my lady’s last gown. How many times, think you, took I it back to the sempstress?

Thos. Thrice, may be.

Fath. Thrice, may be! Twenty times, may be; and not a turn too many, for the truth on’t. Twenty times, on the oath of the sempstress. Now mark me–can you count?

Thos. After a fashion.

Fath. You have much to be thankful for, Master Thomas. You London serving-men have a world of things, which we in the country never dream of. Now mark:- Four times took I it back for the flounce; twice for the sleeves; three for the tucker–How many times in all is that?

Thos. Eight times to a fraction, Master Fathom.

Fath. What a master of figures you are! Eight times–now recollect that! And then found she fault with the trimmings. Now tell me, how many times took I back the gown for the trimmings?

Thos. Eight times more, perhaps!

Fath. Ten times to a certainty. How many times makes that?

Thos. Eighteen, Master Fathom, by the rule of addition.

Fath. And how many times more will make twenty?

Thee. Twice, by the same rule.

Fath. Thou hast worked with thy pencil and slate, Master Thomas! Well, ten times, as I said, took I back the gown for the trimmings; and was she content after all? I warrant you no, or my ears did not pay for it. She wished, she said, that the slattern sempstress had not touched the gown, for nought had she done but botched it. Now what think you had the sempstress done to the gown?

Thos. To surmise that, I must be learned in the sempstress’s art.

Fath. The sempstress’s art! Thou hast hit it! Oh, the sweet sempstress! the excellent sempstress! Mistress of her scissors and needles, which are pointless and edgeless to her art! The sempstress had done nothing to the gown; yet raves and storms my mistress at her for having botched it in the making and mending; and orders her straight to make another one, which home the sempstress brings on Tuesday last.

Thos. And found thy fair mistress as many faults with that?

Fath. Not one! She finds it a very pattern of a gown! A well- sitting flounce! The sleeves a fit–the tucker a fit–the trimmings her fancy to a T–ha! ha! ha! and she praised the sempstress–ha! ha! ha! and she smiles at me, and I smile–ha! ha! ha! and the sempstress smiles–ha! ha! ha! Now, why did the sempstress smile?

Thos. That she had succeeded so well in her art.

Fath. Thou hast hit it again! The jade must have been born a sempstress! If ever I marry, she shall work for my wife. The gown was the same gown, and there was my mistress’s twentieth mood!

Thos. What think you will Master Walter say when he comes back? I fear he’ll hardly know his country maid again. Has she yet fixed her wedding-day?

Fath. She has, Master Thomas. I coaxed it from her maid. She marries, Monday week.

Thos. Comes not Master Walter back to-day?

Fath. Your master expects him. [A ringing.] Perhaps that’s he. I prithee go and open the door; do, Master Thomas, do; for proves it my master, he’ll surely question me.

Thos. And what should I do?

Fath. Answer him, Master Thomas, and make him none the wiser. He’ll go mad, when he learns how my lady flaunts it! Go! open the door, I prithee. Fifty things, Master Thomas, know you, for one thing that I know! You can turn and twist a matter into any other kind of matter; and then twist and turn it back again, if needs be; so much you servants of the town beat us of the country, Master Thomas. Open the door, now; do, Master Thomas, do!

[They go out.]

SCENE II.–A Garden with two Arbours.


Heart. Good Master Walter, welcome back again!

Wal. I’m glad to see you, Master Heartwell!

Heart. How,
I pray you, sped the mighty business which So sudden called you hence?

Wal. Weighty, indeed!
What thou wouldst ne’er expect–wilt scarce believe! Long-hidden wrong, wondrously come to light, And great right done! But more of this anon. Now of my ward discourse! Likes she the town? How does she? Is she well? Canst match me her Among your city maids?

Heart. Nor court ones neither!
She far outstrips them all!

Wal. I knew she would.
What else could follow in a maid so bred? A pure mind, Master Heartwell!–not a taint From intercourse with the distempered town; With which all contact was walled out, until, Matured in soundness, I could trust her to it, And sleep amidst infection!

Heart. Master Walter!

Wal. Well?

Heart. Tell me, prithee, which is likelier To plough a sea in safety?–he that’s wont To sail in it,–or he that by the chart
Is master of its soundings, bearings,–knows Is headlands, havens, currents–where ’tis bold, And where behoves to keep a good look-out. The one will swim, where sinks the other one?

Wal. The drift of this?

Heart. Do you not guess it?

Wal. Humph!

Heart. If you would train a maid to live in town, Breed her not in the country!

Wal. Say you so?
And stands she not the test?

Heart. As snow stands fire!
Your country maid has melted all away, And plays the city lady to the height;
Her mornings gives to mercers, milliners, Shoemakers, jewellers, and haberdashers; Her noons, to calls; her afternoons, to dressing; Evenings, to plays and drums; and nights, to routs, Balls, masquerades! Sleep only ends the riot, Which waking still begins!

Wal. I’m all amaze!
How bears Sir Thomas this?

Heart. Why, patiently;
Though one can see with pain.

Wal. She loves him? Ha!
That shrug is doubt! She’d ne’er consent to wed him Unless she loved him!–never! Her young fancy The pleasures of the town–new things–have caught, Anon their hold will slacken; she’ll become Her former self again; to its old train
Of sober feelings will her heart return; And then she’ll give it wholly to the man Her virgin wishes chose!

Heart. Here comes Sir Thomas;
And with him Master Modus.

Wal. Let them pass:
I would not see him till I speak with her.

[They retire into one of the Arbours.]


Clif. A dreadful question is it, when we love, To ask if love’s returned! I did believe Fair Julia’s heart was mine–I doubt it now! But once last night she danced with me, her hand, To this gallant and that engaged, as soon As asked for? Maid that loved would scarce do this? Nor visit we together as we used,
When first she came to town. She loves me less Than once she did–or loves me not at all.

Mod. I’m little skilled, Sir Thomas, in the world: What mean you now to do?

Clif. Remonstrate with her;
Come to an understanding, and, at once, If she repents her promise to be mine,
Absolve her from it–and say farewell to her.

Mod. Lo, then, your opportunity–she comes – My cousin also: –her will I engage,
Whilst you converse together.

Clif. Nay, not yet!
My heart turns coward at the sight of her. Stay till it finds new courage! Let them pass.

[CLIFFORD and MODUS retire into the other Arbour.]

[Enter JULIA and HELEN.]

Helen. So, Monday week will say good morn to thee A maid, and bid good night a sober wife!

Julia. That Monday week, I trust, will never come, That brags to make a sober wife of me!

Helen. How changed you are, my Julia!

Julia. Change makes change.

Helen. Why wedd’st thou, then?

Julia. Because I promised him!

Helen. Thou lovest him?

Julia. Do I?

Helen. He’s a man to love!
A right well-favoured man!

Julia. Your point’s well favoured.
Where did you purchase it? In Gracechurch Street?

Helen. Pshaw! never mind my point, but talk of him.

Julia. I’d rather talk with thee about the lace. Where bought you it? In Gracechurch Street, Cheapside, Whitechapel, Little Britain? Can’t you say Where ’twas you bought the lace?

Helen. In Cheapside, then.
And now, then, to Sir Thomas! He is just The height I like a man.

Julia. Thy feather’s just
The height I like a feather! Mine’s too short! What shall I give thee in exchange for it?

Helen. What shall I give thee for a minute’s talk About Sir Thomas?

Julia. Why, thy feather.

Helen. Take it!

Clif. [Aside to Modus.] What, likes she not to speak of me?

Helen. And now
Let’s talk about Sir Thomas–much I’m sure He loves you.

Julia. Much I’m sure, he has a right! Those know I who would give their eyes to be Sir Thomas, for my sake!

Helen. Such too, know I.
But ‘mong them none that can compare with him, Not one so graceful.

Julia. What a graceful set
Your feather has!

Helen. Nay, give it back to me,
Unless you pay me for’t.

Julia. What was’t to get?

Helen. A minute’s talk with thee about Sir Thomas.

Julia. Talk of his title, and his fortune then.

Clif. [Aside.] Indeed! I would not listen, yet I must!

Julia. An ample fortune, Helen–I shall be A happy wife! What routs, what balls, what masques, What gala-days!

Clif. [Aside.] For these she marries me! She’ll talk of these!

Julia. Think not, when I am wed,
I’ll keep the house as owlet does her tower, Alone,–when every other bird’s on wing. I’ll use my palfrey, Helen; and my coach; My barge, too, for excursion on the Thames: What drives to Barnet, Hackney, Islington! What rides to Epping, Hounslow, and Blackheath! What sails to Greenwich, Woolwich, Fulham, Kew! I’ll set a pattern to your lady wives!

Clif. [Aside.] Ay, lady? Trust me, not at my expense.

Julia. And what a wardrobe! I’ll have change of suits For every day in the year! and sets for days! My morning dress, my noon dress, dinner dress, And evening dress! Then will I show you lace A foot deep, can I purchase; if not,
I’ll specially bespeak it. Diamonds too! Not buckles, rings, and earrings only–but Whole necklaces and stomachers of gems!
I’ll shine! be sure I will.

Clif. [Aside.] Then shine away;
Who covets thee may wear thee;–I’m not he!

Julia. And then my title! Soon as I put on The ring, I’m Lady Clifford. So I take
Precedence of plain mistress, were she e’en The richest heiress in the land! At town Or country ball, you’ll see me take the lead, While wives that carry on their backs the wealth To dower a princess, shall give place to me; – Will I not profit, think you, by my right? Be sure I will! marriage shall prove to me A never-ending pageant. Every day
Shall show how I am spoused! I will be known For Lady Clifford all the city through,
And fifty miles the country round about. Wife of Sir Thomas Clifford, baronet –
Not perishable knight–who, when he makes A lady of me, doubtless must expect
To see me play the part of one.

Clif. [Coming forward.] Most true;
But not the part which you design to play.

Julia. A listener, sir!

Clif. By chance, and not intent,
Your speech was forced upon mine ear, that ne’er More thankless duty to my heart discharged! Would for that heart it ne’er had known the sense Which tells it ’tis a bankrupt, there, where most It coveted to be rich, and thought it was so! O Julia, is it you? Could I have set
A coronet upon that stately brow,
Where partial nature hath already bound A brighter circlet–radiant beauty’s own – I had been proud to see thee proud of it, So for the donor thou hadst ta’en the gift, Not for the gift ta’en him. Could I have poured The wealth of richest Croesus in thy lap, I had been blest to see thee scatter it, So I was still thy riches paramount!

Julia. Know you me, sir!

Clif. I do. On Monday week
We were to wed–and are–so you’re content; The day that weds, wives you to be widowed. Take The privilege of my wife; be Lady Clifford! Outshine the title in the wearing on’t!
My coffers, lands, all are at thy command; Wear all! but, for myself, she wears not me, Although the coveted of every eye,
Who would not wear me for myself alone.

Julia. And do you carry it so proudly, sir?

Clif. Proudly, but still more sorrowfully, lady! I’ll lead thee to the church on Monday week. Till then, farewell and then, farewell for ever! O Julia, I have ventured for thy love,
As the bold merchant, who, for only hope Of some rich gain, all former gains will risk. Before I asked a portion of thy heart,
I perilled all my own; and now, all’s lost!

[CLIFFORD and MODUS go out.]

Julia. Helen!

Helen. What ails you, sweet?

Julia. I cannot breathe–quick, loose my girdle, oh!



Wal. Good Master Heartwell, help to take her in, Whilst I make after him! and look to her! Unlucky chance that took me out of town!

[They go out severally.]

SCENE III.–The Street.

[Enter CLIFFORD and STEPHEN, meeting.]

Ste. Letters, Sir Thomas.

Clif. Take them home again,
I shall not read them now.

Ste. Your pardon, sir,
But here is one directed strangely.

Clif. How?

Ste. “To Master Clifford, gentleman, now styled Sir Thomas Clifford, baronet.”

Clif. Indeed!
Whence comes that letter?

Ste. From abroad.

Clif. Which is it?

Ste. So please you, this, Sir Thomas.

Clif. Give it me.

Ste. That letter brings not news to wish him joy upon. If he was disturbed before, which I guessed by his looks he was, he is not more at ease now. His hand to his head! A most unwelcome letter! If it brings him news of disaster, fortune does not give him his deserts; for never waited servant upon a kinder master.

Clif. Stephen!

Ste. Sir Thomas!

Clif. From my door remove
The plate that bears my name.

Ste. The plate, Sir Thomas!

Clif. The plate–collect my servants and instruct them To make out each their claims, unto the end Of their respective terms, and give them in To my steward. Him and them apprise, good fellow, That I keep house no more. As you go home, Call at my coachmaker’s and bid him stop The carriage I bespoke. The one I have
Send with my horses to the mart whereat Such things are sold by auction. They’re for sale; Pack up my wardrobe, have my trunks conveyed To the inn in the next street; and when that’s done, Go round my tradesmen and collect their bills, And bring them to me at the inn.

Ste. The inn!

Clif. Yes; I go home no more. Why, what’s the matter? What has fallen out to make your eyes fill up? You’ll get another place. I’ll certify
You’re honest and industrious, and all That a servant ought to be.

Ste. I see, Sir Thomas,
Some great misfortune has befallen you?

Clif. No!
I have health; I have strength; my reason, Stephen, and A heart that’s clear in truth, with trust in God. No great disaster can befall the man
Who’s still possessed of these! Good fellow, leave me. What you would learn, and have a right to know, I would not tell you now. Good Stephen, hence! Mischance has fallen on me–but what of that? Mischance has fallen on many a better man. I prithee leave me. I grow sadder while
I see the eye with which you view my grief. ‘Sdeath, they will out! I would have been a man, Had you been less a kind and gentle one. Now, as you love me, leave me.

Ste. Never master
So well deserved the love of him that served him.

[STEPHEN goes out.]

Clif. Misfortune liketh company; it seldom Visits its friends alone. Ha! Master Walter, And ruffled too. I’m in no mood for him.


Wal. So, Sir–Sir Thomas Clifford! what with speed And choler–I do gasp for want of breath.

Clif. Well, Master Walter?

Wal. You’re a rash young man, sir;
Strong-headed and wrong-headed, and I fear, sir, Not over delicate in that fine sense
Which men of honour pride themselves upon!

Clif. Well, Master Walter?

Wal. A young woman’s heart, sir,
Is not a stone to carve a posy on!
Which knows not what is writ on’t; which you may buy, Exchange, or sell, sir, keep or give away, sir: It is a richer–yet a poorer thing;
Priceless to him that owns and prizes it; Worthless, when owned, not prized; which makes the man That covets it, obtains it, and discards it – A fool, if not a villain, sir.

Clif. Well, sir?

Wal. You never loved my ward, sir!

Clif. The bright Heavens
Bear witness that I did!

Wal. The bright Heavens, sir,
Bear not false witness. That you loved her not Is clear–for had you loved her, you’d have plucked Your heart from out your breast, ere cast her from your heart! Old as I am, I know what passion is.
It is the summer’s heat, sir, which in vain We look for frost in. Ice, like you, sir, knows But little of such heat! We are wronged, sir, wronged! You wear a sword, and so do I.

Clif. Well, sir!

Wal. You know the use, sir, of a sword?

Clif. I do.
To whip a knave, sir, or an honest man! A wise man or a fool–atone for wrong,
Or double the amount on’t! Master Walter, Touching your ward, if wrong is done, I think On my side lies the grievance. I would not say so Did I not think so. As for love–look, sir, That hand’s a widower’s, to its first mate sworn To clasp no second one. As for amends, sir, You’re free to get them from a man in whom You’ve been forestalled by fortune, for the spite Which she has vented on him, if you still Esteem him worth your anger. Please you read That letter. Now, sir, judge if life is dear To one so much a loser.

Wal. What, all gone!
Thy cousin living they reported dead!

Clif. Title and land, sir, unto which add love! All gone, save life and honour, which, ere I’ll lose, I’ll let the other go.

Wal. We’re public here,
And may be interrupted. Let us seek Some spot of privacy. Your letter, sir.

[Gives it back.]

Though fortune slights you, I’ll not slight you; not Your title or the lack of it I heed.
Whether upon the score of love or hate, With you and you alone I settle, sir.
We’ve gone too far. ‘Twere folly now to part Without a reckoning.

Clif. Just as you please.

Wal. You’ve done
A noble lady wrong.

Clif. That lady, sir,
Has done me wrong.

Wal. Go to, thou art a boy
Fit to be trusted with a plaything, not A woman’s heart. Thou knowest not what it is! And that I’ll prove to thee, soon as we find Convenient place. Come on, sir! you shall get A lesson that shall serve you for the rest Of your life. I’ll make you own her, sir, a piece Of Nature’s handiwork, as costly, free
From bias, flaw, and fair, as ever yet Her cunning hand turned out. Come on, sir! come!

[They go out.]


SCENE I.–A Drawing-room.


Tin. Refuse a lord! A saucy lady this. I scarce can credit it.

Roch. She’ll change her mind.
My agent, Master Walter, is her guardian.

Tin. How can you keep that Hunchback in his office? He mocks you.

Roch. He is useful. Never heed him.
My offer now do I present through him. He has the title-deeds of my estates,
She’ll listen to their wooing. I must have her. Not that I love her, but that all allow
She’s fairest of the fair.

Tin. Distinguished well!
‘Twere most unseemly for a lord to love! – Leave that to commoners! ‘Tis vulgar–she’s Betrothed, you tell me, to Sir Thomas Clifford?

Roch. Yes.

Tin. That a commoner should thwart a lord! Yet not a commoner. A baronet
Is fish and flesh. Nine parts plebeian, and Patrician in the tenth. Sir Thomas Clifford! A man, they say, of brains! I abhor brains As I do tools: they’re things mechanical. So far are we above our forefathers
They to their brains did owe their titles, as Do lawyers, doctors. We to nothing owe them, Which makes us far the nobler.

Roch. Is it so?

Tin. Believe me. You shall profit by my training; You grow a lord apace. I saw you meet
A bevy of your former friends, who fain Had shaken hands with you. You gave them fingers! You’re now another man. Your house is changed – Your table changed–your retinue–your horse – Where once you rode a hack, you now back blood; – Befits it, then, you also change your friends!


Will. A gentleman would see your lordship.

Tin. Sir!
What’s that?

Will. A gentleman would see his lordship.

Tin. How know you, sir, his lordship is at home? Is he at home because he goes not out?
He’s not at home, though there you see him, sir; Unless he certify that he’s at home!
Bring up the name of the gentleman, and then Your lord will know if he’s at home or not.

[WILLIAMS goes out.]

Your man was porter to some merchant’s door, Who never taught him better breeding
Than to speak the vulgar truth! Well, sir?

[WILLIAMS having re-entered.]

Will. His name,
So please your lordship, Markham.

Tin. Do you know
The thing?

Roch. Right well! I’faith a hearty fellow, Son to a worthy tradesman, who would do
Great things with little means; so entered him In the Temple. A good fellow, on my life. Nought smacking of his stock!

Tin. You’ve said enough!
His lordship’s not at home.

[WILLIAMS goes out.]

We do not go
By hearts, but orders! Had he family – Blood–though it only were a drop–his heart Would pass for something; lacking such desert, Were it ten times the heart it is, ’tis nought!


Will. One Master Jones hath asked to see you lordship.

Tin. And what was your reply to Master Jones?

Will. I knew not if his lordship was at home.

Tin. You’ll do. Who’s Master Jones?

Roch. A curate’s son.

Tin. A curate’s! Better be a yeoman’s son! Was it the rector’s son, he might be known, Because the rector is a rising man,
And may become a bishop. He goes light, The curate ever hath a loaded back!
He may be called the yeoman of the church, That sweating does his work, and drudges on, While lives the hopeful rector at his ease. How made you his acquaintance, pray?

Roch. We read
Latin and Greek together.

Tin. Dropping them –
As, now that you’re a lord, of course you’ve done – Drop him–You’ll say his lordship’s not at home.

Will. So please your lordship, I forgot to say, One Richard Cricket likewise is below.

Tin. Who?–Richard Cricket! You must see him, Rochdale! A noble little fellow! A great man, sir! Not knowing whom, you would be nobody!
I won five thousand pounds by him!

Roch. Who is he?
I never heard of him.

Tin. What! never heard
Of Richard Cricket!–never heard of him! Why, he’s the jockey of Newmarket; you
May win a cup by him, or else a sweepstakes. I bade him call upon you. You must see him. His lordship is at home to Richard Cricket.

Roch. Bid him wait in the ante-room.

[WILLIAMS goes out.]

Tin. The ante-room!
The best room in your house! You do not know The use of Richard Cricket! Show him, sir, Into the drawing-room. Your lordship needs Must keep a racing stud, and you’ll do well To make a friend of Richard Cricket. Well, sir: What’s that?


Will. So please your lordship, a petition.

Tin. Hadst not a service ‘mongst the Hottentots Ere thou camest hither, friend? Present thy lord With a petition! At mechanics’ doors,
At tradesmen’s, shopkeepers’, and merchants’ only, Have such things leave to knock! Make thy lord’s gate A wicket to a workhouse! Let us see it – Subscriptions to a book of poetry!
Cornelius Tense, M.A.
Which means he construes Greek and Latin, works Problems in mathematics, can chop logic, And is a conjurer in philosophy,
Both natural and moral.–Pshaw! a man Whom nobody, that is anybody, knows!
Who, think you, follows him? Why, an M.D., An F.R.S., an F.AS., and then
A D.D., Doctor of Divinity,
Ushering in an LL.D., which means
Doctor of Laws–their harmony, no doubt, The difference of their trades! There’s nothing here But languages, and sciences, and arts.
Not an iota of nobility!
We cannot give our names. Take back the paper, And tell the bearer there’s no answer for him:- That is the lordly way of saying “No.”
But, talking of subscriptions, here is one To which your lordship may affix your name.

Roch. Pray, who’s the object?

Tin. A most worthy man!
A man of singular deserts; a man
In serving whom your lordship will serve me, – Signor Cantata.

Roch. He’s a friend of yours?

Tin. Oh, no, I know him not! I’ve not that pleasure. But Lady Dangle knows him; she’s his friend, He will oblige us with a set of concerts, Six concerts to the set.–The set, three guineas. Your lordship will subscribe?

Roch. Oh, by all means.

Tin. How many sets of tickets? Two at least. You’ll like to take a friend? I’ll set you down Six guineas to Signor Cantata’s concerts, And now, my Lord, we’ll to him; then we’ll walk.

Roch. Nay, I would wait the lady’s answer.

Tin. Wait! take an excursion to the country; let Her answer wait for you!

Roch. Indeed!

Tin. Indeed!
Befits a lord nought like indifference. Say an estate should fall to you, you’d take it As it concerned more a stander by
Than you. As you’re a lord, be sure you ever Of that make little other men make much of; Nor do the thing they do, but the right contrary. Where the distinction else ‘twixt them and you?

[They go out.]

SCENE II.–An Apartment in Master Heartwell’s House.

[MASTER WALTER discovered looking through title-deeds and papers.]

Wal. So falls out everything, as I would have it, Exact in place and time. This lord’s advances Receives she,–as, I augur, in the spleen Of wounded pride she will,–my course is clear. She comes–all’s well–the tempest rages still.

[JULIA enters, and paces the room in a state of high excitement.]

Julia. What have my eyes to do with water? Fire Becomes them better!

Wal. True!

Julia. Yet, must I weep
To be so monitored, and by a man!
A man that was my slave! whom I have seen Kneel at my feet from morn till noon, content With leave to only gaze upon my face,
And tell me what he read there,–till the page I knew by heart, I ‘gan to doubt I knew, Emblazoned by the comment of his tongue! And he to lesson me! Let him come here
On Monday week! He ne’er leads me to church! I would not profit by his rank, or wealth, Though kings might call him cousin, for their sake! I’ll show him I have pride!

Wal. You’re very right!

Julia. He would have had to-day our wedding-day! I fixed a month from this. He prayed and prayed; I dropped a week. He prayed and prayed the more! I dropped a second one. Still more he prayed! And I took off another week,–and now
I have his leave to wed, or not to wed! He’ll see that I have pride!

Wal. And so he ought.

Julia. O! for some way to bring him to my foot! But he should lie there! Why, ’twill go abroad That he has cast me off. That there should live The man could say so! Or that I should live To be the leavings of a man!

Wal. Thy case
I own a hard one!

Julia. Hard? ‘Twill drive me mad!
His wealth and title! I refused a lord – I did!–that privily implored my hand,
And never cared to tell him on’t! So much I hate him now, that lord should not in vain Implore my hand again!

Wal. You’d give it him?

Julia. I would.

Wal. You’d wed that lord?

Julia. That lord I’d wed; –
Or any other lord,–only to show him That I could wed above him!

Wal. Give me your hand
And word to that.

Julia. There! Take my hand and word!

Wal. That lord hath offered you his hand again.

Julia. He has?

Wal. Your father knows it: he approves of him. There are the title-deeds of the estates, Sent for my jealous scrutiny. All sound, – No flaw, or speck, that e’en the lynx-eyed law Itself could find. A lord of many lands! In Berkshire half a county; and the same In Wiltshire, and in Lancashire! Across
The Irish Sea a principality!
And not a rood with bond or lien on it! Wilt give that lord a wife? Wilt make thyself A countess? Here’s the proffer of his hand. Write thou content, and wear a coronet!

Julia. [Eagerly.] Give me the paper.

Wal. There! Here’s pen and ink.
Sit down. Why do you pause? A flourish of The pen, and you’re a countess.

Julia. My poor brain
Whirls round and round! I would not wed him now, Were he more lowly at my feet to sue
Than e’er he did!

Wal. Wed whom?

Julia. Sir Thomas Clifford.