The Parent’s Assistant by Maria Edgeworth (page 4)

“Yes,” said Laura, smiling; “she whispered so loud that I could not help hearing her too. She said I was a little miser.”

“But did not you hear her say that I was very GENEROUS? and she’ll see that she was not mistaken. I hope she’ll be by when I give my basket to Bell–won’t it be beautiful? There is to be a wreath of myrtle, you know, round the handle, and a frost ground, and then the medallions–“

“Stay,” interrupted her sister, for Rosamond, anticipating the glories of her work-basket, talked and walked so fast that she had passed, without perceiving it, the shop where the filigree-paper was to be bought. They turned back. Now it happened that the shop was the corner house of a street, and one of the windows looked out into a narrow lane. A coach full of ladies stopped at the door, just before they went in, so that no one had time immediately to think of Rosamond and her filigree-paper, and she went to the window where she saw her sister Laura looking earnestly at something that was passing in the lane.

Opposite to the window, at the door of a poor-looking house, there was sitting a little girl weaving lace. Her bobbins moved as quick as lightning, and she never once looked up from her work. “Is not she very industrious?” said Laura; “and very honest, too?” added she in a minute afterwards; for just then a baker with a basket of rolls on his head passed, and by accident one of the rolls fell close to the little girl. She took it up eagerly, looked at it as if she was very hungry, then put aside her work, and ran after the baker to return it to him. Whilst she was gone, a footman in a livery, laced with silver, who belonged to the coach that stood at the shop door, as he was lounging with one of his companions, chanced to spy the weaving pillow, which she had left upon a stone before the door. To divert himself (for idle people do mischief often to divert themselves) he took up the pillow, and entangled all the bobbins. The little girl came back out of breath to her work; but what was her surprise and sorrow to find it spoiled. She twisted and untwisted, placed and replaced, the bobbins, while the footman stood laughing at her distress. She got up gently, and was retiring into the house, when the silver laced footman stopped her, saying, insolently, “Sit still, child.”

“I must go to my mother, sir,” said the child; “besides, you have spoiled all my lace. I can’t stay.”

“Can’t you?” said the brutal footman, snatching her weaving-pillow again, “I’ll teach you to complain of me.” And he broke off, one after another, all the bobbins, put them into his pocket, rolled her weaving-pillow down the dirty lane, then jumped up behind his mistress’ coach, and was out of sight in an instant.

“Poor girl!” exclaimed Rosamond, no longer able to restrain her indignation at this injustice; “poor little girl!”

At this instant her mother said to Rosamond–“Come, now, my dear, if you want this filigree paper, buy it.”

“Yes, madam,” said Rosamond; and the idea of what her godmother and her cousin Bell would think of her generosity rushed again upon her imagination. All her feelings of pity were immediately suppressed. Satisfied with bestowing another exclamation upon the “Poor little girl!” she went to spend her half-guinea upon her filigree basket. In the meantime, she that was called the “little miser” beckoned to the poor girl, and, opening the window, said, pointing to the cushion, “Is it quite spoiled?”

“Quite! quite spoiled! and I can’t, nor mother neither, buy another; and I can’t do anything else for my bread.” A few, but very few, tears fell as she said this.

“How much would another cost?” said Laura.

“Oh, a great–GREAT deal.”

“More than that?” said Laura, holding up her half-guinea.

“Oh, no.”

“Then you can buy another with that,” said Laura, dropping the half- guinea into her hand; and she shut the window before the child could find words to thank her, but not before she saw a look of joy and gratitude, which gave Laura more pleasure probably than all the praise which could have been bestowed upon her generosity.

Late on the morning of her cousin’s birthday, Rosamond finished her work- basket. The carriage was at the door–Laura came running to call her; her father’s voice was heard at the same instant; so she was obliged to go down with her basket but half wrapped up in silver paper–a circumstance at which she was a good deal disconcerted; for the pleasure of surprising Bell would be utterly lost if one bit of the filigree should peep out before the proper time. As the carriage went on, Rosamond pulled the paper to one side and to the other, and by each of the four corners.

“It will never do, my dear,” said her father, who had been watching her operations. “I am afraid you will never make a sheet of paper cover a box which is twice as large as itself.”

“It is not a box, father,” said Rosamond, a little peevishly; “it’s a basket.”

“Let us look at this basket,” said he, taking it out of her unwilling hands, for she knew of what frail materials it was made, and she dreaded its coming to pieces under her father’s examination. He took hold of the handle rather roughly; when, starting off the coach seat, she cried, “Oh, sir! father! sir! you will spoil it indeed!” said she, with increased vehemence, when, after drawing aside the veil of silver paper, she saw him grasp the myrtle wreathed handle. “Indeed, sir, you will spoil the poor handle.”

“But what is the use of THE POOR HANDLE,” said her father, “if we are not to take hold of it? And pray,” continued he, turning the basket round with his finger and thumb, rather in a disrespectful manner, “pray, is this the thing you have been about all this week? I have seen you all this week dabbling with paste and rags; I could not conceive what you were about. Is this the thing?”

“Yes, sir. You think, then, that I have wasted my time, because the basket is of no use; but then it is a present for my Cousin Bell.”

“Your Cousin Bell will be very much obliged to you for a present that is of no use. You had better have given her the purple jar.”

“Oh, father! I thought you had forgotten that–it was two years ago; I’m not so silly now. But Bell will like the basket, I know, though it is of no use.”

“Then you think Bell is sillier now than you were two years ago,–well, perhaps that is true; but how comes it, Rosamond, now that you are so wise, that you are fond of such a silly person?”

“_I_, father?” said Rosamond, hesitating, “I don’t think I am VERY fond of her.”

“I did not say VERY fond.”

“Well, but I don’t think I am at all fond of her.”

“But you have spent a whole week in making this thing for her.”

“Yes, and all my half guinea besides.”

“Yet you think her silly, and you are not fond of her at all; and you say you know this thing will be of no use to her.”

“But it is her birthday, sir; and I am sure she will EXPECT something, and everybody else will give her something.”

“Then your reason for giving is because she expects you to give her something. And will you, or can you, or should you, always give, merely because others EXPECT, or because somebody else gives?”

“Always?–no, not always.”

“Oh, only on birthdays.”

Rosamond, laughing: “Now you are making a joke of me, papa, I see; but I thought you liked that people should be generous,–my godmother said that she did.”

“So do I, full as well as your godmother; but we have not yet quite settled what it is to be generous.”

“Why is it not generous to make presents?” said Rosamond.

“That is the question which it would take up a great deal of time to answer. But, for instance, to make a present of a thing that you know can be of no use to a person you neither love nor esteem, because it is her birthday, and because everybody gives her something, and because she expects something, and because your godmother says she likes that people should be generous, seems to me, my dear Rosamond, to be, since I must say it, rather more like folly than generosity.”

Rosamond looked down upon the basket, and was silent. “Then I am a fool, am I?” said she looking up at last.

“Because you have made ONE mistake? No. If you have sense enough to see your own mistakes, and can afterwards avoid them, you will never be a fool.”

Here the carriage stopped, and Rosamond recollected that the basket was uncovered.

Now we must observe, that Rosamond’s father had not been too severe upon Bell when he called her a silly girl. From her infancy she had been humoured; and at eight years old she had the misfortune to be a spoiled child. She was idle, fretful, and selfish; so that nothing could make her happy. On her birthday she expected, however, to be perfectly happy. Everybody in the house tried to please her, and they succeeded so well, that between breakfast and dinner she had only six fits of crying. The cause of five of these fits no one could discover: but the last, and most lamentable, was occasioned by a disappointment about a worked muslin frock; and accordingly, at dressing time, her maid brought it to her, exclaiming, “See here, miss, what your mamma has sent you on your birthday. Here’s a frock fit for a queen–if it had but lace round the cuffs.”

“And why has not it lace around the cuffs? mamma said it should.”

“Yes, but mistress was disappointed about the lace; it is not come home.”

“Not come home, indeed! and didn’t they know it was my birthday? But then I say I won’t wear it without the lace–I can’t wear it without the lace, and I won’t.”

The lace, however, could not be had; and Bell at length submitted to let the frock be put on.

“Come, Miss Bell, dry your eyes,” said the maid who educated her; “dry your eyes, and I’ll tell you something that will please you.”

“What, then?” said the child, pouting and sobbing.

“Why–but you must not tell that I told you.”

“No,–but if I am asked?”

“Why, if you are asked, you must tell the truth, to be sure. So I’ll hold my tongue, miss.”

“Nay, tell me, though, and I’ll never tell–if I AM asked.”

“Well, then,” said the maid, “your cousin Rosamond is come, and has brought you the most BEAUTIFULLEST thing you ever saw in your life; but you are not to know anything about it till after dinner, because she wants to surprise you; and mistress has put it into her wardrobe till after dinner.”

“Till after dinner!” repeated Bell, impatiently; “I can’t wait till then; I must see it this minute.” The maid refused her several times, till Bell burst into another fit of crying, and the maid, fearing that her mistress would be angry with HER, if Bell’s eyes were red at dinner time, consented to show her the basket.

“How pretty!–but let me have it in my own hands,” said Bell, as the maid held the basket up out of her reach.

“Oh, no, you must not touch it; for if you should spoil it, what would become of me?”

“Become of you, indeed!” exclaimed the spoiled child, who never considered anything but her own immediate gratification–“Become of YOU, indeed! what signifies that–I sha’n’t spoil it; and I will have it in my own hands. If you don’t hold it down for me directly, I’ll tell that you showed it to me.”

“Then you won’t snatch it?”

“No, no, I won’t indeed,” said Bell; but she had learned from her maid a total disregard of truth. She snatched the basket the moment it was within her reach. A struggle ensued, in which the handle and lid were torn off, and one of the medallions crushed inwards, before the little fury returned to her senses.

Calmed at this sight, the next question was, how she should conceal the mischief which she had done. After many attempts, the handle and lid were replaced; the basket was put exactly in the same spot in which it had stood before, and the maid charged the child, “TO LOOK AS IF NOTHING WAS THE MATTER.”

We hope that both children and parents will here pause for a moment to reflect. The habits of tyranny, meanness, and falsehood, which children acquire from living with bad servants, are scarcely ever conquered in the whole course of their future lives.

After shutting up the basket they left the room, and in the adjoining passage they found a poor girl waiting with a small parcel in her hand. “What’s your business?” said the maid.

“I have brought home the lace, madam, that was bespoke for the young lady.”

“Oh, you have, have you, at last?” said Bell; “and pray why didn’t you bring it sooner?” The girl was going to answer, but the maid interrupted her, saying–“Come, come, none of your excuses; you are a little idle, good-for-nothing thing, to disappoint Miss Bell upon her birthday. But now you have brought it, let us look at it!”

The little girl gave the lace without reply, and the maid desired her to go about her business, and not to expect to be paid; for that her mistress could not see anybody, BECAUSE she was in a room full of company.

“May I call again, madam, this afternoon?” said the child, timidly.

“Lord bless my stars!” replied the maid, “what makes people so poor, I WONDERS! I wish mistress would buy her lace at the warehouse, as I told her, and not of these folks. Call again! yes, to be sure. I believe you’d call, call, call twenty times for twopence.”

However ungraciously the permission to call again was granted, it was received with gratitude. The little girl departed with a cheerful countenance; and Bell teazed her maid till she got her to sew the long wished-for lace upon her cuffs.

Unfortunate Bell!–All dinner time passed, and people were so hungry, so busy, or so stupid, that not an eye observed her favourite piece of finery. Till at length she was no longer able to conceal her impatience, and turning to Laura, who sat next to her, she said, “You have no lace upon your cuffs. Look how beautiful mine is!–is not it? Don’t you wish your mamma could afford to give some like it? But you can’t get any if she would, for this was made on purpose for me on my birthday, and nobody can get a bit more anywhere, if they would give the world for it.”

“But cannot the person who made it,” said Laura, “make any more like it?”

“No, no, no!” cried Bell; for she had already learned, either from her maid or her mother, the mean pride which values things not for being really pretty or useful, but for being such as nobody else can procure. “Nobody can get any like it, I say,” repeated Bell; “nobody in all London can make it but one person, and that person will never make a bit for anybody but me, I am sure. Mamma won’t let her, if I ask her not.”

“Very well,” said Laura, coolly, “I do not want any of it; you need not be so violent: I assure you that I don’t want any of it.”

“Yes, but you do, though,” said Bell, more angrily.

“No, indeed,” said Laura, smiling.

“You do, in the bottom of your heart; but you say you don’t to plague me, I know,” cried Bell, swelling with disappointed vanity. “It is pretty for all that, and it cost a great deal of money too, and nobody shall have any like it, if they cried their eyes out.”

Laura received this declaration in silence–Rosamond smiled; and at her smile the ill-suppressed rage of the spoiled child burst forth into the seventh and loudest fit of crying which had yet been heard on her birthday.

“What’s the matter, my pet?” cried her mother; “come to me, and tell me what’s the matter.” Bell ran roaring to her mother; but no otherwise explained the cause of her sorrow than by tearing the fine lace with frantic gestures from her cuffs, and throwing the fragments into her mother’s lap. “Oh! the lace, child!–are you mad?” said her mother, catching hold of both her hands. “Your beautiful lace, my dear love–do you know how much it cost?”

“I don’t care how much it cost–it is not beautiful, and I’ll have none of it,” replied Bell, sobbing; “for it is not beautiful.”

“But it is beautiful,” retorted her mother; “I chose the pattern myself. Who has put it into your head, child, to dislike it? Was it Nancy?”

“No, not Nancy, but THEM, mamma,” said Bell, pointing to Laura and Rosamond.

“Oh, fie! don’t POINT,” said her mother, putting down her stubborn finger; “nor say THEM, like Nancy; I am sure you misunderstood. Miss Laura, I am sure, did not mean any such thing.”

“No, madam; and I did not say any such thing, that I recollect,” said Laura, gently. “Oh, no, indeed!” cried Rosamond, warmly, rising in her sister’s defence.

No defence or explanation, however, was to be heard, for everybody had now gathered round Bell, to dry her tears, and to comfort her for the mischief she had done to her own cuffs. They succeeded so well, that in about a quarter of an hour the young lady’s eyes, and the reddened arches over her eyebrows came to their natural colour; and the business being thus happily hushed up, the mother, as a reward to her daughter for her good humour, begged that Rosamond would now be so good as to produce her “charming present.”

Rosamond, followed by all the company, amongst whom, to her great joy, was her godmother, proceeded to the dressing room. “Now I am sure,” thought she, “Bell will be surprised, and my godmother will see she was right about my generosity.”

The doors of the wardrobe were opened with due ceremony, and the filigree basket appeared in all its glory. “Well, this is a charming present, indeed!” said the godmother, who was one of the company; “MY Rosamond knows how to make presents.” And as she spoke, she took hold of the basket, to lift it down to the admiring audience. Scarcely had she touched it, when, lo! the basket fell to the ground, and only the handle remained in her hand. All eyes were fixed upon the wreck. Exclamations of sorrow were heard in various tones; and “Who can have done this?” was all that Rosamond could say. Bell stood in sullen silence, which she obstinately preserved in the midst of the inquiries that were made about the disaster.

At length the servants were summoned, and amongst them, Nancy, Miss Bell’s maid and governess. She affected much surprise when she saw what had befallen the basket, and declared that she knew nothing of the matter, but that she had seen her mistress in the morning put it quite safe into the wardrobe; and that, for her part, she had never touched it, or thought of touching it, in her born days. “Nor Miss Bell, neither, ma’am,–I can answer for her; for she never knew of its being there, because I never so much as mentioned it to her, that there was such a thing in the house, because I knew Miss Rosamond wanted to surprise her with the secret; so I never mentioned a sentence of it–did I, Miss Bell?”

Bell, putting on the deceitful look which her maid had taught her, answered boldly, “NO;” but she had hold of Rosamond’s hand, and at the instant she uttered this falsehood she squeezed it terribly. “Why do you squeeze my hand so?” said Rosamond, in a low voice; “what are you afraid of?”

“Afraid of!” cried Bell, turning angrily; “I’m not afraid of anything,– I’ve nothing to be afraid about.”

“Nay, I did not say you had,” whispered Rosamond; “but only if you did by accident–you know what I mean–I should not be angry if you did–only say so.”

“I say I did not!” cried Bell, furiously; “Mamma, mamma! Nancy! my cousin Rosamond won’t believe me! That’s very hard. It’s very rude, and I won’t bear it–I won’t.”

“Don’t be angry, love. Don’t,” said the maid.

“Nobody suspects you, darling,” said her mother; “but she has too much sensibility. Don’t cry, love; nobody suspected you. But you know,” continued she, turning to the maid, “somebody must have done this, and I must know how it was done. Miss Rosamond’s charming present must not be spoiled in this way, in my house, without my taking proper notice of it. I assure you I am very angry about it, Rosamond.”

Rosamond did not rejoice in her anger, and had nearly made a sad mistake by speaking aloud her thoughts–“I WAS VERY FOOLISH–” she began and stopped.

“Ma’am,” cried the maid, suddenly, “I’ll venture to say I know who did it.”

“Who?” said everyone, eagerly. “Who?” said Bell, trembling.”

“Why, miss, don’t you recollect that little girl with the lace, that we saw peeping about in the passage? I’m sure she must have done it; for here she was by herself half an hour or more, and not another creature has been in mistress’ dressing-room, to my certain knowledge, since morning. Those sort of people have so much curiosity. I’m sure she must have been meddling with it,” added the maid.

“Oh, yes, that’s the thing,” said the mistress, decidedly. “Well, Miss Rosamond, for your comfort she shall never come into my house again.”

“Oh, that would not comfort me at all,” said Rosamond; “besides, we are not sure that she did it, and if–” A single knock at the door was heard at this instant. It was the little girl, who came to be paid for her lace.

“Call her in,” said the lady of the house; “let us see her directly.”

The maid, who was afraid that the girl’s innocence would appear if she were produced, hesitated; but upon her mistress repeating her commands, she was forced to obey. The girl came in with a look of simplicity; but when she saw a room full of company she was a little abashed. Rosamond and Laura looked at her and one another with surprise, for it was the same little girl whom they had seen weaving lace.

“Is not it she?” whispered Rosamond to her sister.

“Yes, it is; but hush,” said Laura, “she does not know us. Don’t say a word, let us hear what she will say.”

Laura got behind the rest of the company as she spoke, so that the little girl could not see her.

“Vastly well!” said Bell’s mother; “I am waiting to see how long you will have the assurance to stand there with that innocent look. Did you ever see that basket before?”

“Yes, ma’am,” said the girl.

“YES, MA’AM!” cried the maid; “and what else do you know about it? You had better confess it at once, and mistress, perhaps, will say no more about it.”

“Yes, do confess it,” added Bell, earnestly.

“Confess what, madam?” said the little girl; “I never touched the basket, madam.”

“You never TOUCHED it; but you confess,” interrupted Bell’s mother, “that you DID SEE it before. And, pray, how came you to see it? You must have opened my wardrobe.”

“No, indeed, ma’am,” said the little girl; “but I was waiting in the passage, ma’am, and this door was partly open; and looking at the maid, you know, I could not help seeing it.”

“Why, how could you see through the doors of my wardrobe?” rejoined the lady.

The maid, frightened, pulled the little girl by the sleeve.

“Answer me,” said the lady, “where did you see this basket?” Another stronger pull.

“I saw it, madam, in her hands,” looking at the maid; “and–“

“Well, and what became of it afterwards?”

“Ma’am”–hesitating–“miss pulled, and by accident–I believe, I saw, ma’am–miss, you know what I saw.”

“I do not know–I do not know; and if I did, you had no business there; and mamma won’t believe you, I am sure.” Everybody else, however, did believe; and their eyes were fixed upon Bell in a manner which made her feel rather ashamed.

“What do you all look at me so for? Why do you all look so? And am I to be put to shame on my birthday?” cried she, bursting into a roar of passion; “and all for this nasty thing!” added she, pushing away the remains of the basket, and looking angrily at Rosamond.

“Bell! Bell! O, fie! fie!–Now I am ashamed of you; that’s quite rude to your cousin,” said her mother, who was more shocked at her daughter’s want of politeness than at her falsehood. “Take her away, Nancy, till she has done crying,” added she to the maid, who accordingly carried off her pupil.

Rosamond, during this scene, especially at the moment when her present was pushed away with such disdain, had been making reflections upon the nature of true generosity. A smile from her father, who stood by, a silent spectator of the catastrophe of the filigree basket, gave rise to these reflections; nor were they entirely dissipated by the condolence of the rest of the company, nor even by the praises of her godmother, who, for the purpose of condoling with her, said, “Well, my dear Rosamond, I admire your generous spirit. You know I prophesied that your half-guinea would be gone the soonest. Did I not, Laura?” said she, appealing, in a sarcastic tone, to where she thought Laura was. “Where is Laura? I don’t see her.” Laura came forward. “You are too PRUDENT to throw away your money like your sister. Your half-guinea, I’ll answer for it, is snug in your pocket–Is it not?”

“No, madam,” answered she, in a low voice.

But low as the voice of Laura was, the poor little lace-girl heard it; and now, for the first time, fixing her eyes upon Laura, recollected her benefactress. “Oh, that’s the young lady!” she exclaimed, in a tone of joyful gratitude, “the good, good young lady, who gave me the half- guinea, and would not stay to be thanked for it; but I WILL thank her now.”

“The half-guinea, Laura!” said her godmother. “What is all this?”

“I’ll tell you, madam, if you please,” said the little girl.

It was not in expectation of being praised for it, that Laura had been generous, and therefore everybody was really touched with the history of the weaving-pillow; and whilst they praised, felt a certain degree of respect, which is not always felt by those who pour forth eulogiums. RESPECT is not an improper word, even applied to a child of Laura’s age; for let the age or situation of the person be what it may, they command respect who deserve it.

“Ah, madam!” said Rosamond to her godmother, “now you see–you see she is NOT a little miser. I’m sure that’s better than wasting half a guinea upon a filigree basket; is it not, ma’am?” said she, with an eagerness which showed that she had forgotten all her own misfortunes in sympathy with her sister. “This is being REALLY GENEROUS, father, is it not?”

“Yes, Rosamond,” said her father, and he kissed her; “this IS being really generous. It is not only by giving away money that we can show generosity; it is by giving up to others anything that we like ourselves: and therefore,” added he, smiling, “it is really generous of you to give your sister the thing you like best of all others.”

“The thing I like the best of all others, father,” said Rosamond, half pleased, half vexed. “What is that, I wonder? You don’t mean PRAISE, do you, sir?”

“Nay, you must decide that yourself, Rosamond.”

“Why, sir,” said she, ingenuously, “perhaps it WAS ONCE the thing I liked best; but the pleasure I have just felt makes me like something else much better.”

ETON MONTEM.

[Extracted from the “Courier” of May, 1799.]

“Yesterday this triennial ceremony took place, with which the public are too well acquainted to require a particular description. A collection, called Salt, is taken from the public, which forms a purse, to support the Captain of the School in his studies at Cambridge. This collection is made by the Scholars, dressed in fancy dresses, all round the country.

“At eleven o’clock, the youths being assembled in their habiliments at the College, the Royal Family set off from the Castle to see them, and, after walking round the Courtyard, they proceeded to Salt Hill in the following order:–

“His Majesty, his Royal Highness the Prince of Wales, and the Earl of Uxbridge.

“Their Royal Highnesses the Dukes of Kent and Cumberland, Earl Morton, and General Gwynne, all on horseback, dressed in the Windsor uniform, except the Prince of Wales, who wore a suit of dark blue, and a brown surtout over.

“Then followed the Scholars, preceded by the Marechal Serjeant, the Musicians of the Staffordshire Band, and Mr. Ford, Captain of the Seminary, the Serjeant Major, Serjeants, Colonels, Corporals, Musicians, Ensign, Lieutenant, Steward, Salt Bearers, Polemen, and Runners.

“The cavalcade was brought up by her Majesty and her amiable daughters in two carriages, and a numerous company of equestrians and pedestrians, all eager to behold their Sovereign and his family. Among the former, Lady Lade was foremost in the throng; only two others dared venture their persons on horseback in such a multitude.

“The King and Royal Family were stopped on Eton Bridge by Messrs. Young and Mansfield, the Salt Bearers, to whom their Majesties delivered their customary donation of fifty guineas each.

“At Salt Hill, his Majesty, with his usual affability, took upon himself to arrange the procession round the Royal carriages; and even when the horses were taken off, with the assistance of the Duke of Kent, fastened the traces round the pole of the coaches, to prevent any inconvenience.

“An exceeding heavy shower of rain coming on, the Prince took leave, and went to the ‘Windmill Inn,’ till it subsided. The King and his attendants weathered it out in their great-coats.

“After the young gentlemen walked round the carriage, Ensign Vince and the Salt Bearers proceeded to the summit of the hill; but the wind being boisterous, he could not exhibit his dexterity in displaying his flag, and the space being too small before the carriages, from the concourse of spectators, the King kindly acquiesced in not having it displayed under such inconvenience.

“Their Majesties and the Princesses then returned home, the King occasionally stopping to converse with the Dean of Windsor, the Earl of Harrington, and other noblemen.

“The Scholars partook of an elegant dinner at the ‘Windmill Inn,’ and in the evening walked on Windsor Terrace.

“Their Royal Highnesses the Prince of Wales and Duke of Cumberland, after taking leave of their Majesties, set off for town, and honoured the Opera House with their presence in the evening.

“The profit arising from the Salt collected, according to account, amounted to 8OO pounds.

“The Stadtholder, the Duke of Gordon, Lord and Lady Melbourne, Viscount Brome, and a numerous train of fashionable nobility, were present.

“The following is an account of their dresses, made as usual, very handsomely, by Mrs. Snow, milliner, of Windsor:–

“Mr. Ford, Captain, with eight Gentlemen to attend him as servitors. “Mr. Sarjeant, Marechal.
“Mr. Bradith, Colonel.
“Mr. Plumtree, Lieutenant.
“Mr. Vince, Ensign.
“Mr. Young, College Salt Bearer; white and gold dress, rich satin bag, covered with gold netting.
“Mr. Mansfield, Oppidan, white, purple, and orange dress, trimmed with silver; rich satin bag, purple and silver: each carrying elegant poles, with gold and silver cord.
“Mr. Keity, yellow and black velvet; helmet trimmed with silver. “Mr. Bartelot, plain mantle and sandals, Scotch bonnet, a very Douglas. “Mr. Knapp, flesh-colour and blue; Spanish hat and feathers. “Mr. Ripley, rose-colour; helmet.
“Mr. Islip (being in mourning), a scarf; helmet, black velvet; and white satin.
“Mr. Tomkins, violet and silver; helmet. “Mr. Thackery, lilac and silver; Roman Cap. “Mr. Drury, mazarin blue; fancy cap.
“Mr. Davis, slate-colour and straw. “Mr. Routh, pink and silver, Spanish hat. “Mr. Curtis, purple, fancy cap.
“Mr. Lloyd, blue; ditto.

“At the conclusion of the ceremony the Royal Family returned to Windsor, and the boys were all sumptuously entertained at the tavern at Salt Hill. About six in the evening all the boys returned in the order of procession, and, marching round the great square of Eton, were dismissed. The captain then paid his respects to the Royal Family, at the Queen’s Lodge, Windsor, previously to his departure for King’s College, Cambridge, to defray which expense the produce of the Montem was presented to him.

“The day concluded by a brilliant promenade of beauty, rank, and fashion, on Windsor Terrace, enlivened by the performance of several bands of music.

“The origin of the procession is from the custom by which the Manor was held.

“The custom of hunting the Ram belonged to Eton College, as well as the custom of Salt; but it was discontinued by Dr. Cook, late Dean of Ely. Now this custom we know to have been entered on the register of the Royal Abbey of Bec, in Normandy, as one belonging to the Manor of East or Great Wrotham, in Norfolk, given by Ralph de Toni to the Abbey of Bec, and was as follows:–When the harvest was finished the tenants were to have half an acre of barley, and a ram let loose; and if they caught him he was their own to make merry with; but if he escaped from them he was the Lord’s. The Etonians, in order to secure the ram, houghed him in the Irish fashion, and then attacked him with great clubs. The cruelty of this proceeding brought it into disuse, and now it exists no longer.–See Register of the Royal Abbey of Bec, folio 58.

“After the dissolution of the alien priories, in 1414, by the Parliament of Leicester, they remained in the Crown till Henry VI., who gave Wrotham Manor to Eton College; and if the Eton Fellows would search, they would perhaps find the Manor in their possession, that was held by the custom of Salt.”

MEN.

Alderman Bursal, Father of young Bursal.

Lord John, )
Talbot, )
Wheeler, ) Young Gentlemen of Eton, from 17 to 19 years of age. Bursal, )
Rory O’Ryan )

Mr. Newington, Landlord of the Inn at Salt Hill. Farmer Hearty.
A Waiter and crowd of Eton Lads.

WOMEN.

The Marchioness of Piercefield, Mother of Lord John. Lady Violetta–her Daughter, a Child of six or seven years old. Mrs. Talbot.
Lousia Talbot, her Daughter.
Miss Bursal, Daughter to the Alderman. Mrs. Newington, Landlady of the Inn at Salt Hill. Sally, a Chambermaid.
Patty, a Country Girl.

Pipe and Tabor, and Dance of Peasants.

SCENE I.

The Bar of the “Windmill Inn” at Salt Hill.

MR. and MRS. NEWINGTON, the Landlord and Landlady.

Landlady. ‘Tis an unpossibility, Mr. Newington; and that’s enough. Say no more about it; ’tis an unpossibility in the natur of things. (She ranges jellies, etc., in the Bar.) And pray, do you take your great old fashioned tankard, Mr. Newington, from among my jellies and confectioneries.

Landlord (takes his tankard and drinks). Anything for a quiet life. If it is an impossibility, I’ve no more to say; only, for the soul of me, I can’t see the great unpossibility, wife.

Landlady. Wife, indeed!–wife!–wife! wife every minute.

Landlord. Heyday! Why, what a plague would you have me call you? The other day you quarrelled with me for calling you Mrs. Landlady.

Landlady. To be sure I did, and very proper in me I should. I’ve turned off three waiters and five chambermaids already, for screaming after me Mrs. Landlady! Mrs. Landlady! But ’tis all your ill manners.

Landlord. Ill manners! Why, if I may be so bold, if you are not Mrs. Landlady, in the name of wonder what are you?

Landlady. Mrs. Newington, Mr. Newington.

Landlord (drinks). Mrs. Newington, Mr. Newington drinks your health; for I suppose I must not be landlord any more in my own house (shrugs).

Landlady. Oh, as to that, I have no objections nor impediments to your being called LANDLORD. You look it, and become it very proper.

Landlord. Why, yes, indeed, thank my tankard, I do look it, and become it, and am nowise ashamed of it; but everyone to their mind, as you, wife, don’t fancy the being called Mrs. Landlady.

Landlady. To be sure I don’t. Why, when folks hear the old fashioned cry of Mrs. Landlady! Mrs. Landlady! who do they expect, think you, to see, but an overgrown, fat, featherbed of a woman, coming waddling along with her thumbs sticking on each side of her apron, o’ this fashion? Now, to see me coming, nobody would take me to be a landlady.

Landlord. Very true, indeed, wife–Mrs. Newington, I mean–I ask pardon; but now to go on with what we were saying about the unpossibility of letting that old lady, and the civil-spoken young lady there above, have them there rooms for another day.

Landlady. Now, Mr. Newington, let me hear no more about that old gentlewoman, and that civil-spoken young lady. Fair words cost nothing; and I’ve a notion that’s the cause they are so plenty with the young lady. Neither o’ them, I take it, by what they’ve ordered since their coming into the house, are such grand folk, that one need be so petticular about them.

Landlord. Why, they came only in a chaise and pair, to be sure; I can’t deny that.

Landlady. But, bless my stars! what signifies talking? Don’t you know, as well as I do, Mr. Newington, that to-morrow is Eton Montem, and that if we had twenty times as many rooms and as many more to the back of them, it would not be one too many for all the company we’ve a right to expect, and those the highest quality of the land? Nay, what do I talk of to-morrow? isn’t my Lady Piercefield and suite expected? and, moreover, Mr. and Miss Bursal’s to be here, and will call for as much in an hour as your civil-spoken young lady in a twelvemonth, I reckon. So, Mr. Newington, if you don’t think proper to go up and inform the ladies above, that the Dolphin rooms are not for them, I must SPEAK myself, though ’tis a thing I never do when I can help it.

Landlord (aside). She not like to speak! (Aloud.) My dear, you can speak a power better than I can; so take it all upon yourself, if you please; for, old-fashioned as I and my tankard here be, I can’t make a speech that borders on the uncivil order, to a lady like, for the life and lungs of me. So, in the name of goodness, do you go up, Mrs. Newington.

Landlady. And so I will, Mr. Newington. Help ye! Civilities and rarities are out o’ season for them that can’t pay for them in this world; and very proper. [Exit Landlady.]

Landlord. And very proper! Ha! who comes yonder? The Eton chap who wheedled me into lending him my best hunter last year, and was the ruination of him; but that must be paid for, wheedle or no wheedle; and, for the matter of wheedling, I’d stake this here Mr. Wheeler, that is making up to me, do you see, against e’er a boy, or hobbledehoy, in all Eton, London, or Christendom, let the other be who he will.

Enter WHEELER.

Wheeler. A fine day, Mr. Newington.

Landlord. A fine day, Mr. Wheeler.

Wheel. And I hope, for YOUR sake, we may have as fine a day for the Montem to-morrow. It will be a pretty penny in your pocket! Why, all the world will be here; and (looking round at the jellies, etc.) so much the better for them; for here are good things enough, and enough for them. And here’s the best thing of all, the good old tankard still; not empty, I hope.

Landlord. Not empty, I hope. Here’s to you, Mr. Wheeler.

Wheel. Mr. Wheeler!–CAPTAIN Wheeler, if you please.

Landlord. YOU, Captain Wheeler! Why, I thought in former times it was always the oldest scholar at Eton that was Captain at the Montems; and didn’t Mr. Talbot come afore you?

Wheel. Not at all; we came on the same day. Some say I came first; some say Talbot. So the choice of which of us is to be captain is to be put to the vote amongst the lads–most votes carry it; and I have most votes, I fancy; so I shall be captain, to-morrow, and a pretty deal of salt* I reckon I shall pocket. Why, the collection at the last Montem, they say, came to a plump thousand! No bad thing for a young fellow to set out with for Oxford or Cambridge–hey?

*Salt, the cant name given by the Eton lads to the money collected at Montem.

Landlord. And no bad thing, before he sets out for Cambridge or Oxford, ‘twould be for a young gentleman to pay his debts.

Wheel. Debts! Oh, time enough for that. I’ve a little account with you in horses, I know; but that’s between you and me, you know–mum.

Landlord. Mum me no mums, Mr. Wheeler. Between you and me, my best hunter has been ruinationed; and I can’t afford to be mum. So you’ll take no offence if I speak; and as you’ll set off to-morrow, as soon as the Montem’s over, you’ll be pleased to settle with me some way or other to-day, as we’ve no other time.

Wheel. No time so proper, certainly. Where’s the little account?–I have money sent me for my Montem dress, and I can squeeze that much out of it. I came home from Eton on purpose to settle with you. But as to the hunter, you must call upon Talbot–do you understand? to pay for him; for though Talbot and I had him the same day, ’twas Talbot did for him, and Talbot must pay. I spoke to him about it, and charged him to remember you; for I never forget to speak a good word for my friends.

Landlord. So I perceive.

Wheel. I’ll make bold just to give you my opinion of these jellies whilst you are getting my account, Mr. Newington.

(He swallows down a jelly or two–Landlord is going.)

Enter TALBOT.

Talbot. Hallo, Landlord! where are making off so fast? Here, your jellies are all going as fast as yourself.

Wheel. (aside). Talbot!–I wish I was a hundred miles off.

Landlord. You are heartily welcome, Mr. Talbot. A good morning to you, sir; I’m glad to see you–very glad to see you, Mr. Talbot.

Talb. Then shake hands, my honest landlord.

(Talbot, in shaking hands with him, puts a purse into the landlord’s hands.)

Landlord. What’s here? Guineas?

Talb. The hunter, you know; since Wheeler won’t pay, I must–that’s all. Good morning.

Wheel. (aside). What a fool!

(Landlord, as Talbot is going, catches hold of his coat.)

Landlord. Hold, Mr. Talbot, this won’t do!

Talb. Won’t it? Well, then, my watch must go.

Landlord. Nay, nay! but you are in such a hurry to pay–you won’t hear a man. Half this is enough for your share o’ the mischief, in all conscience. Mr. Wheeler, there, had the horse on the same day.

Wheel. But Bursal’s my witness–

Talb. Oh, say no more about witnesses; a man’s conscience is always his best witness, or his worst. Landlord, take your money, and no more words.

Wheel. This is very genteel of you, Talbot. I always thought you would do the genteel thing as I knew you to be so generous and considerate.

Talb. Don’t waste your fine speeches, Wheeler, I advise you, this election time. Keep them for Bursal or Lord John, or some of those who like them. They won’t go down with me. Good morning to you. I give you notice, I’m going back to Eton as fast as I can gallop; and who knows what plain speaking may do with the Eton lads? I may be captain yet, Wheeler. Have a care! Is my horse ready there?

Landlord. Mr. Talbot’s horse, there! Mr. Talbot’s horse, I say.

Talbot sings.

“He carries weight–he rides a race– ‘Tis for a thousand pound!” (Exit Talbot.)

Wheel. And, dear me! I shall be left behind. A horse for me, pray; a horse for Mr. Wheeler! (Exit Wheeler.)

Landlord (calls very loud). Mr. Talbot’s horse! Hang the hostler! I’ll saddle him myself. (Exit Landlord.)

SCENE II.

A Dining room in the Inn at Salt Hill.

MRS. TALBOT and LOUISA.

Louisa (laughing). With what an air Mrs. Landlady made her exit!

Mrs. Talbot. When I was young, they say, I was proud; but I am humble enough now: these petty mortifications do not vex me.

Louisa. It is well my brother was gone before Mrs. Landlady made her entree; for if he had heard her rude speech, he would at least have given her the retort courteous.

Mrs. Talb. Now tell me honestly, my Louisa–You were, a few days ago, at Bursal House. Since you have left it and have felt something of the difference that is made in this world between splendour and no splendour, you have never regretted that you did not stay there, and that you did not bear more patiently with Miss Bursal’s little airs?

Louisa. Never for a moment. At first Miss Bursal paid me a vast deal of attention; but, for what reason I know not, she suddenly changed her manner, grew first strangely cold, then condescendingly familiar, and at last downright rude. I could not guess the cause of these variations.

Mrs. Talb. (aside) I guess the cause too well.

Louisa. But as I perceived the lady was out of tune, I was in haste to leave her. I should make a very bad, and, I am sure, a miserable toad eater. I had much rather, if I were obliged to choose, earn my own bread, than live as toad eater with anybody.

Mrs. Talb. Fine talking, dear Louisa!

Louisa. Don’t you believe me to be in earnest, mother! To be sure, you cannot know what I would do, unless I were put to the trial.

Mrs. Talb. Nor you either, my dear. (She sighs, and is silent.)

Louisa (takes her mother’s hand). What is the matter, dear mother? You used to say, that seeing my brother always made you feel ten years younger; yet even while he was here, you had, in spite of all your efforts to conceal them, those sudden fits of sadness.

Mrs. Talb. The Montem–is not it to-morrow? Ay, but my boy is not sure of being captain.

Louisa. No; there is one Wheeler, who, as he says, is most likely to be chosen captain. He has taken prodigious pains to flatter and win over many to his interest. My brother does not so much care about it; he is not avaricious.

Mrs. Talb. I love your generous spirit and his! but, alas! my dear, people may live to want, and wish for money, without being avaricious. I would not say a word to Talbot; full of spirits as he was this morning, I would not say a word to him, till after the Montem, of what has happened.

Louisa. And what has happened, dear mother? Sit down,–you tremble.

Mrs. Talb. (sits down and puts a letter into Louisa’s hand.) Read that, love. A messenger brought me that from town a few hours ago.

Louisa (reads). “By an express from Portsmouth, we hear the Bombay Castle East Indiaman is lost, with all your fortune on board.” ALL! I hope there is something left for you to live upon.

Mrs. Talb. About 15O pounds a year for us all.

Louisa. That is enough, is it not, for YOU?

Mrs. Talb. For me, love? I am an old woman, and want but little in this world, and shall be soon out of it.

Louisa (kneels down beside her). Do not speak so, dearest mother.

Mrs. Talb. Enough for me, love! Yes, enough, and too much for me. I am not thinking of myself.

Louisa. Then, as to my brother, he has such abilities, and such industry, he will make a fortune at the bar for himself, most certainly.

Mrs. Talb. But his education is not completed. How shall we provide him with money at Cambridge?

Louisa. This Montem. The last time the captain had eight hundred, the time before a thousand, pounds. Oh, I hope–I fear! Now, indeed, I know that, without being avaricious, we may want, and wish for money.

(Landlady’s voice heard behind the scenes.)

Landlady. Waiter!–Miss Bursal’s curricle, and Mr. Bursal’s vis-a-vis. Run! see that the Dolphin’s empty. I say run!–run!

Mrs. Talb. I will rest for a few moments upon the sofa, in this bedchamber, before we set off.

Louisa (goes to open the door). They have bolted or locked it. How unlucky! (She turns the key, and tries to unlock the door.)

Enter WAITER.

Waiter. Ladies, I’m sorry–Miss Bursal and Mr. Bursal are come–just coming upstairs.

Mrs. Talb. Then, will you be so good, sir, as to unlock this door? (Waiter tries to unlock the door.)

Waiter. It must be bolted on the inside. Chambermaid! Sally! Are you within there? Unbolt this door.

Mr. Bursal’s voice behind the scenes.

Mr. Burs. Let me have a basin of good soup directly.

Waiter. I’ll go round and have the door unbolted immediately, ladies. (Exit Waiter.)

Enter MISS BURSAL, in a riding dress, and with a long whip.

Miss Bursal. Those creatures, the ponies, have a’most pulled my ‘and off. Who ‘ave we ‘ere? Ha! Mrs. Talbot! Louisa, ‘ow are ye? I’m so vastly glad to see you; but I’m so shocked to ‘ear of the loss of the Bombay Castle. Mrs. Talbot, you look but poorly; but this Montem will put everybody in spirits. I ‘ear everybody’s to be ‘ere; and my brother tells me, ’twill be the finest ever seen at HEton. Louisa, my dear, I’m sorry I’ve not a seat for you in my curricle for to-morrow; but I’ve promised Lady Betty; so, you know, ’tis impossible for me.

Louisa. Certainly; and it would be impossible for me to leave my mother at present.

Chambermaid (opens the bedchamber door). The room’s ready now, ladies.

Mrs. Talb. Miss Bursal, we intrude upon you no longer.

Miss Burs. Nay, why do you decamp, Mrs. Talbot? I ‘ad a thousand things to say to you, Louisa; but am so tired and so annoyed–

(Seats herself. Exeunt Mrs. Talbot, Louisa and Chambermaid.)

Enter MR. BURSAL, with a basin of soup in his hand.

Mr. Burs. Well, thank my stars the Airly Castle is safe in the Downs.

Miss Burs. Mr. Bursal, can you inform me why Joe, my groom, does not make his appearance?

Mr. Burs. (eating and speaking). Yes, that I can, child; because he is with his ‘orses, where he ought to be. ‘Tis fit they should be looked after well; for they cost me a pretty penny–more than their heads are worth, and yours into the bargain; but I was resolved, as we were to come to this Montem, to come in style.

Miss Burs. In style, to be sure; for all the world’s to be here–the King, the Prince of WHales, and Duke o’ York, and all the first people; and we shall cut a dash! Dash! dash! will be the word to-morrow!– (playing with her whip).

Mr. Burs. (aside). Dash! dash! ay, just like her brother. He’ll pay away finely, I warrant, by the time he’s her age. Well, well, he can afford it; and I do love to see my children make a figure for their money. As Jack Bursal says, what’s money for, if it e’nt to make a figure. (Aloud). There’s your, brother Jack, now. The extravagant dog! he’ll have such a dress as never was seen, I suppose, at this here Montem. Why, now, Jack Bursal spends more money at Eton, and has more to spend, than my Lord John, though my Lord John’s the son of a marchioness.

Miss Burs. Oh, that makes no difference nowadays. I wonder whether her ladyship is to be at this Montem. The only good I ever got out of these stupid Talbots was an introduction to their friend Lady Piercefield. What she could find to like in the Talbots, heaven knows. I’ve a notion she’ll drop them, when she hears of the loss of the Bombay Castle.

Enter a WAITER, with a note.

Waiter. A note from my Lady Piercefield, sir.

Miss B. Charming woman! Is she here, pray, sir?

Waiter. Just come. Yes, ma’am. (Exit Waiter.)

Miss B. Well, Mr. Bursal, what is it?

Mr. B. (reads). “Business of importance to communicate–” Hum! what can it be?–(going).

Miss B. (aside). Perhaps some match to propose for me! (Aloud). Mr. Bursal, pray before you go to her ladyship, do send my OOMAN to me to make me presentable. (Exit Miss Bursal at one door.)

Mr. B. (at the opposite door). “Business of importance!” Hum! I’m glad I’m prepared with a good basin of soup. There’s no doing business well upon an empty stomach. Perhaps the business is to lend cash; and I’ve no great stomach for that. But it will be an honour, to be sure. (Exit.)

SCENE III.

Landlady’s Parlour.

LANDLADY–MR. FINSBURY, a man-milliner, with bandboxes–a fancy cap, or helmet, with feathers, in the Landlady’s hand–a satin bag, covered with gold netting, in the man-milliner’s hand–a mantle hanging over his arm. A rough looking Farmer is sitting with his back towards them, eating bread and cheese, and reading a newspaper.

Landlady. Well, this, to be sure, will be the best dressed Montem that ever was seen at Eton; and you Lon’on gentlemen have the most fashionablest notions; and this is the most elegantest fancy cap–

Finsbury. Why, as you observe, ma’m, that is the most elegant fancy cap of them all. That is Mr. Hector Hogmorton’s fancy cap, ma’m; and here, ma’m, is Mr. Saul’s rich satin bag, covered with gold net. He is college salt bearer, I understand, and has a prodigious superb white and gold dress. But, in my humble opinion, ma’m, the marshal’s white and purple and orange fancy dress, trimmed with silver, will bear the bell; though, indeed, I shouldn’t say that,–for the colonel’s and lieutenant’s, and ensign’s, are beautiful in the extreme. And, to be sure, nothing could be better imagined than Mr. Marlborough’s lilac and silver, with a Roman cap. And it must be allowed that nothing in nature can have a better effect than Mr. Drake’s flesh-colour and blue, with this Spanish hat, ma’m, you see.

(The farmer looks over his shoulder from time to time during this speech, with contempt.)

Farmer (reads the newspaper). French fleet at sea–Hum!

Landlady. O gemini: Mr. Drake’s Spanish hat is the sweetest, tastiest thing! Mr. Finsbury, I protest–

Finsb. Why, ma’m, I knew a lady of your taste couldn’t but approve of it. My own invention entirely, ma’m. But it’s nothing to the captain’s cap, ma’m. Indeed, ma’m, Mr. Wheeler, the captain that is to be, has the prettiest taste in dress. To be sure, his sandals were my suggestion; but the mantle he has the entire credit of, to do him justice; and when you see it, ma’m, you will be really surprised; for (for contrast, and elegance, and richness, and lightness, and propriety, and effect, and costume) you’ve never yet seen anything at all to be compared to Captain Wheeler’s mantle, ma’m.

Farmer (to the Landlady). Why, now, pray, Mrs. Landlady, how long may it have been the fashion for milliners to go about in men’s clothes?

Landlady (aside to Farmer). Lord, Mr. Hearty, hush! This is Mr. Finsbury, the great man-milliner.

Farm. The great man-milliner! This is a sight I never thought to see in Old England.

Finsb. (packing up band boxes). Well, ma’m, I’m glad I have your approbation. It has ever been my study to please the ladies.

Farm. (throws a fancy mantle over his frieze coat). And is this the way to please the ladies, Mrs. Landlady, nowadays?

Finsb. (taking off the mantle). Sir, with your leave–I ask pardon–but the least thing detriments these tender colours; and as you have just been eating cheese with your hands–

Farm. ‘Tis my way to eat cheese with my mouth, man.

Finsb. MAN!

Farm. I ask pardon–man-milliner, I mean.

Enter LANDLORD.

Landlord. Why, wife!

Landlady. Wife!

Landlord. I ask pardon–Mrs. Newington, I mean. Do you know who them ladies are that you have been and turned out of the Dolphin?

Landlady (alarmed). Not I, indeed. Who are they, pray? Why, if they are quality it’s no fault of mine. It is their own fault for coming, like scrubs, without four horses. Why, if quality will travel the road this way, incognito, how can they expect to be known and treated as quality? ‘Tis no fault of mine. Why didn’t you find out sooner who they were, Mr. Newington? What else, in the ‘versal world have you to do, but to go basking about in the yards and places with your tankard in your hand, from morning till night? What have you else to ruminate, all day long, but to find out who’s who, I say?

Farm. Clapper! clapper! clapper! like my mill in a high wind, landlord. Clapper! clapper! clapper!–enough to stun a body.

Landlord. That is not used to it; but use is all, they say.

Landlady. Will you answer me, Mr. Newington? Who are the grandees that were in the Dolphin?–and what’s become on them?

Landlord. Grandees was your own word, wife. They be not to call grandees; but I reckon you’d be sorry not to treat ’em civil, when I tell you their name is Talbot, mother and sister to our young Talbot, of Eton; he that paid me so handsome for the hunter this very morning.

Landlady. Mercy! is that all? What a combustion for nothing in life!

Finsb. For nothing in life, as you say, ma’m; that is, nothing in high life, I’m sure, ma’m; nay, I dare a’most venture to swear. Would you believe it, Mr. Talbot is one of the few young gentlemen of Eton that has not bespoke from me a fancy dress for this grand Montem?

Landlady. There, Mr. Newington; there’s your Talbot for you! and there’s your grandees! O trust me, I know your scrubs at first sight.

Landlord. Scrubs, I don’t, nor can’t, nor won’t call them that pay their debts honestly. Scrubs, I don’t, nor won’t, nor can’t, call them that behave as handsome as young Mr. Talbot did here to me this morning about the hunter. A scrub he is not, wife. Fancy-dress or no fancy-dress, Mr. Finsbury, this young gentleman is no scrub.

Finsb. Dear me! ‘Twas not I said SCRUB. Did I say scrub?

Farm. No matter if you did.

Finsb. No matter, certainly; and yet it is a matter; for I’m confident I wouldn’t for the world leave it in anyone’s power to say that I said– that I called–any young gentleman of Eton a SCRUB! Why, you know, sir, it might breed a riot!

Farm. And a pretty figure you’d make in a riot!

Landlady. Pray let me hear nothing about riots in my house.

Farm. Nor about scrubs.

Finsb. But I beg leave to explain, gentlemen. All I ventured to remark or suggest was, that as there was some talk of Mr. Talbot’s being captain to-morrow, I didn’t conceive how he could well appear without any dress. That was all, upon my word and honour. A good morning to you, gentlemen; it is time for me to be off. Mrs. Newington, you were so obliging as to promise to accommodate me with a return chaise as far as Eton. (Finsbury bows and exit.)

Farm. A good day to you and your bandboxes. There’s a fellow for you now! Ha! ha! ha!–A man-milliner, forsooth!

Landlord. Mrs. Talbot’s coming–stand back.

Landlady. Lord! why does Bob show them through this way?

Enter MRS. TALBOT, leaning on LOUISA; Waiter showing the way.

Landlady. You are going on, I suppose, ma’am?

Waiter (aside to Landlord). Not if she could help it; but there’s no beds, since Mr. Bursal and Miss Bursal’s come.

Landlord. I say nothing, for it is vain to say more. But isn’t it a pity she can’t stay for the Montem, poor old lady! Her son–as good and fine a lad as ever you saw–they say, has a chance, too, of being captain. She may never live to see another such a sight.

(As Mrs. Talbot walks slowly on, the Farmer puts himself across her way, so as to stop her short.)

Farm. No offence, madam, I hope; but I have a good snug farm house, not far off hand; and if so be you’d be so good to take a night’s lodging, you and the young lady with you, you’d have a hearty welcome. That’s all I can say and you’d make my wife very happy; for she’s a good woman, to say nothing of myself.

Landlord. If I may be so bold to put in my word, madam, you’d have as good beds, and be as well lodged, with Farmer Hearty, as in e’er a house at Salt Hill.

Mrs. Talb. I am very much obliged–

Farm. O, say nothing o’ that, madam. I am sure I shall be as much obliged if you do come. Do, miss, speak for me.

Louisa. Pray, dear mother–

Farm. She will. (Calls behind the scenes.) Here, waiter! hostler! driver! what’s your name? drive the chaise up here to the door, smart, close. Lean on my arm, madam, and we’ll have you in and home in a whiff. (Exeunt Mrs. Talbot, Louisa, Farmer, Landlord and Waiter.)

Landlady (sola). What a noise and a rout this farmer man makes! and my husband, with his great broad face, bowing, as great a nincompoop as t’other. The folks are all bewitched with the old woman, I verily believe. (Aloud.) A good morning to you, ladies.

END OF THE FIRST ACT.

ACT THE SECOND.

SCENE I.

A field near Eton College;–several boys crossing backwards and forwards in the back-ground. In front, TALBOT, WHEELER, LORD JOHN and BURSAL.

Talbot. Fair play, Wheeler! Have at ’em, my boy! There they stand, fair game! There’s Bursal there, with his dead forty-five votes at command; and Lord John with his–how many live friends?

Lord John (coolly). Sir, I have fifty-six friends, I believe.

Talb. Fifty-six friends, his lordship believes–Wheeler inclusive, no doubt.

Lord J. That’s as hereafter may be.

Wheeler. Hereafter! Oh, fie, my LUD! You know your own Wheeler has, from the first minute he ever saw you, been your fast friend.

Talb. Your fast friend from the first minute he ever saw you, my lord! That’s well hit, Wheeler; stick to that; stick fast. Fifty-six friends, Wheeler INclusive, hey, my lord! hey, my LUD!

Lord J. Talbot EXclusive, I find, contrary to my expectations.

Talb. Ay, contrary to your expectations, you find that Talbot is not a dog that will lick the dust: but then there’s enough of the true spaniel breed to be had for whistling for; hey, Wheeler?

Bursal (aside to Wheeler). A pretty electioneerer. So much the better for you, Wheeler. Why, unless he bought a vote, he’d never win one, if he talked from this to the day of judgment.

Wheeler (aside to Bursal). And as he has no money to buy votes–he! he! he!–we are safe enough.

Talb. That’s well done, Wheeler; fight the by-battle there with Bursal. Now you are sure of the main with Lord John.

Lord J. Sure! I never made Mr. Wheeler any promise yet.

Wheel. O; I ask no promise from his lordship; we are upon honour: I trust entirely to his lordship’s good nature and generosity, and to his regard for his own family; I having the honour, though distantly, to be related.

Lord J. Related! How, Wheeler?

Wheel. Connected, I mean, which is next door, as I may say, to being related. Related slipped out by mistake; I beg pardon, my Lord John.

Lord J. Related!–a strange mistake, Wheeler.

Talb. Overshot yourself, Wheeler; overshot yourself, by all that’s awkward. And yet, till now, I always took you for “a dead-shot at a yellow-hammer.”*

*Young noblemen at Oxford wear yellow tufts at the tops of their caps. Hence their flatterers are said to be dead-shots at yellow-hammers.

Wheel. (taking Bursal by the arm). Bursal, a word with you. (Aside to Bursal.) What a lump of family pride that Lord John is.

Talb. Keep out of my hearing, Wheeler, lest I should spoil sport. But never fear: you’ll please Bursal sooner than I shall. I can’t, for the soul of me, bring myself to say that Bursal’s not purse-proud, and you can. Give you joy.

Burs. A choice electioneerer!–ha! ha! ha!

Wheel. (faintly). He! he! he!–a choice electioneerer, as you say. (Exeunt Wheeler and Bursal; manent Lord J. and Talbot.)

Lord J. There was a time, Talbot–

Talb. There was a time, my lord–to save trouble and a long explanation- -there was a time when you liked Talbots better than spaniels; you understand me?

Lord J. I have found it very difficult to understand you of late, Mr. Talbot.

Talb. Yes, because you have used other people’s understandings instead of your own. Be yourself, my lord. See with your own eyes, and hear with your own ears, and then you’ll find me still, what I’ve been these seven years; not your understrapper, your hanger-on, your flatterer, but your friend! If you choose to have me for a friend, here’s my hand. I am your friend, and you’ll not find a better.

Lord J. (giving his hand). You are a strange fellow, Talbot; I thought I never could have forgiven you for what you said last night.

Talb. What? for I don’t keep a register of my sayings. Oh, it was something about gaming–Wheeler was flattering your taste for it, and he put me into a passion–I forget what I said. But, whatever it was, I’m sure it was well meant, and I believe it was well said.

Lord J. But you laugh at me sometimes to my face.

Talb. Would you rather I should laugh at you behind your back?

Lord. J. But of all things in the world I hate to be laughed at. Listen to me, and don’t fumble in your pockets while I’m talking to you.

Talb. I’m fumbling for–oh, here it is. Now, Lord John, I once did laugh at you behind your back, and what’s droll enough, it was at your back I laughed. Here’s a caricature I drew of you–I really am sorry I did it; but ’tis best to show it to you myself.

Lord J. (aside). It is all I can do to forgive this. (After a pause, he tears the paper.) I have heard of this caricature before; but I did not expect, Talbot, that you would come and show it to me, yourself, Talbot, so handsomely, especially at such a time as this. Wheeler might well say you are a bad electioneerer.

Talb. Oh, hang it! I forgot my election, and your fifty-six friends.

Enter RORY O’RYAN.

Rory (claps Talbot on the back). Fifty-six friends, have you, Talbot? Say seven–fifty-seven, I mean; for I’ll lay you a wager, you’ve forget me; and that’s a shame for you, too; for out of the whole posse-comitatus entirely now, you have not a stauncher friend than Poor little Rory O’Ryan. And a good right he has to befriend you; for you stood by him when many who ought to have known better were hunting him down for a wild Irishman. Now that same wild Irishman has as much gratitude in him as any tame Englishman of them all. But don’t let’s be talking sintimint; for, for my share I’d not give a bogberry a bushel for sintimint, when I could get anything better.

Lord J. And pray, sir, what may a bogberry be?

Rory. Phoo! don’t be playing the innocent, now. Where have you lived all your life (I ask pardon, my LARD) not to know a bogberry when you see or hear of it? (Turns to Talbot.) But what are ye standing idling here for? Sure, there’s Wheeler, and Bursal along with him, canvassing out yonder at a terrible fine rate. And haven’t I been huzzaing for you there till I’m hoarse? So I am, and just stepped away to suck an orange for my voice–(sucks an orange.) I am a THOROUGH GOING friend, at anyrate.

Talb. Now, Rory, you are the best fellow in the world, and a THOROUGH GOING friend; but have a care, or you’ll get yourself and me into some scrape, before you have done with this violent THOROUGH GOING work.

Rory. Never fear! never fear, man!–a warm frind and a bitter enemy, that’s my maxim.

Talb. Yes, but too warm a friend is as bad as a bitter enemy.

Rory. Oh, never fear me! I’m as cool as a cucumber all the time; and whilst they tink I’m tinking of nothing in life but making a noise, I make my own snug little remarks in prose and verse, as–now my voice is after coming back to me, you shall hear, if you plase.

Talb. I do please.

Rory. I call it Rory’s song. Now, mind, I have a verse for everybody– o’ the leading lads, I mean; and I shall put ’em in or lave ’em out, according to their inclinations and deserts, wise-a-wee to you, my little frind. So you comprehend it will be Rory’s song, with variations.

Talbot and Lord John. Let’s have it; let’s have it without further preface.

Rory sings.

“I’m true game to the last, and no WHEELER for me.”

Rory. There’s a stroke, in the first place, for Wheeler,–you take it?

Talb. O yes, yes, we take it; go on.

Rory sings.

“I’m true game to the last, and no Wheeler for me. Of all birds, beasts, or fishes, that swim in the sea, Webb’d or finn’d, black or white, man or child, Whig or Tory, None but Talbot, O, Talbot’s the dog for Rory.”

Talb. “Talbot the dog” is much obliged to you.

Lord J. But if I have any ear, one of your lines is a foot too long, Mr. O’Ryan.

Rory. Phoo, put the best foot foremost for a frind. Slur it in the singing, and don’t be quarrelling, anyhow, for a foot more or less. The more feet the better it will stand, you know. Only let me go on, and you’ll come to something that will plase you.

Rory sings.

“Then there’s he with the purse that’s as long as my arm.”

Rory. That’s Bursal, mind now, whom I mean to allude to in this verse.

Lord J. If the allusion’s good, we shall probably find out your meaning.

Talb. On with you, Rory, and don’t read us notes on a song.

Lord J. Go on, and let us hear what you say of Bursal.

Rory sings.

“Then there’s he with the purse that’s as long as my arm; His father’s a tanner,–but then where’s the harm? Heir to houses, and hunters, and horseponds in fee, Won’t his skins sure soon buy him a pedigree?”

Lord J. Encore! encore! Why, Rory, I did not think you could make so good a song.

Rory. Sure ’twas none of I made it–’twas Talbot here.

Talb. I!

Rory. (aside). Not a word: I’ll make you a present of it: sure, then, it’s your own.

Talb. I never wrote a word of it.

Rory. (to Lord J.). Phoo, Phoo! he’s only denying it out of false modesty.

Lord. J. Well, no matter who wrote it,–sing it again.

Rory. Be easy; so I will, and as many more verses as you will to the back of it. (Winking at Talbot aside.) You shall have the credit of all. (Aloud.) Put me in when I’m out, Talbot, and you (to Lord John) join–join.

Rory sings, and Lord John sings with him.

“Then there’s he with the purse that’s as long as my arm; His father’s a tanner,–but then where’s the harm? Heir to houses, and hunters, and horseponds in fee, Won’t his skins sure soon buy him a pedigree? There’s my lord with the back that never was bent–“

(Lord John stops singing; Talbot makes signs to Rory to stop; but Rory does not see him, and sings on.)

“There’s my lord with the back that never was bent; Let him live with his ancestors, I am content.”

(Rory pushes Lord J. and Talbot with his elbows.)

Rory. Join, join, both of ye–why don’t you join? (Sings.)

“Who’ll buy my Lord John? the arch fishwoman cried, A nice oyster shut up in a choice shell of pride.”

Rory. But join or ye spoil all.

Talb. You have spoiled all, indeed.

Lord J. (making a formal low bow). Mr. Talbot, Lord John thanks you.

Rory. Lord John! blood and thunder! I forgot you were by–quite and clean.

Lord J. (puts him aside and continues speaking to Talbot). Lord John thanks you, Mr. Talbot: this is the second part of the caricature. Lord John thanks you for these proofs of friendship–Lord John has reason to thank you, Mr. Talbot.

Rory. No reason in life now. Don’t be thanking so much for nothing in life; or if you must be thanking of somebody, it’s me you ought to thank.

Lord J. I ought and do, sir, for unmasking one who–

Talb. (warmly). Unmasking, my lord–

Rory (holding them asunder). Phoo! phoo! phoo! be easy, can’t ye?– there’s no unmasking at all in the case. My Lord John, Talbot’s writing the song was all a mistake.

Lord J. As much a mistake as your singing it, sir, I presume–

Rory. Just as much. ‘Twas all a mistake. So now don’t you go and make a mistake into a misunderstanding. It was I made every word of the song out o’ the face*–that about the back that never was bent, and the ancestors of the oyster, and all. He did not waste a word of it; upon my conscience, I wrote it all–though I’ll engage you didn’t think I could write a good thing. (Lord John turns away.) I’m telling you the truth, and not a word of a lie, and yet you won’t believe me.

*From beginning to end.

Lord J. You will excuse me, sir, if I cannot believe two contradictory assertions within two minutes. Mr. Talbot, I thank you (going).

(Rory tries to stop Lord John from going, but cannot.–Exit Lord John.)

Rory. Well, if he WILL go, let him go then, and much good may it do him. Nay, but don’t you go too.

Talb. O Rory, what have you done?–(Talbot runs after Lord J.) Hear me, my lord. (Exit Talbot.)

Rory. Hear him! hear him! hear him!–Well, I’m point blank mad with myself for making this blunder; but how could I help it? As sure as ever I am meaning to do the best thing on earth, it turns out the worst.

Enter a party of lads, huzzaing.

Rory (joins.) Huzza! huzza!–Who, pray, are ye huzzaing for?

1st Boy. Wheeler! Wheeler for ever! huzza!

Rory. Talbot! Talbot for ever! huzza! Captain Talbot for ever! huzza!

2nd Boy. CAPTAIN he’ll never be,–at least not to-morrow; for Lord John has just declared for Wheeler.

lst Boy. And that turns the scale.

Rory. Oh, the scale may turn back again.

3rd Boy. Impossible! Lord John has just given his promise to Wheeler. I heard him with my own ears.

(Several speak at once.) And I heard him; and I! and I! and I!–Huzza! Wheeler for ever!

Rory. Oh, murder! murder! murder! (Aside.) This goes to my heart! it’s all my doing. O, my poor Talbot!– murder! murder! murder! But I won’t let them see me cast down, and it is good to be huzzaing at all events. Huzza for Talbot! Talbot for ever! huzza! (Exit.)

Enter WHEELER and BURSAL.

Wheel. Who was that huzzaing for Talbot?

(Rory behind the scenes, “Huzza for Talbot! Talbot for ever! huzza!”)

Burs. Pooh, it is only Rory O’Ryan, or the roaring lion as I call him. Ha! ha! ha! Rory O’Ryan, alias O’Ryan, the roaring lion; that’s a good one; put it about–Rory O’Ryan, the roaring lion, ha! ha! ha! but you don’t take it–you don’t laugh, Wheeler.

Wheeler. Ha! ha! ha! O, upon my honour I do laugh; ha! ha! ha! (Aside). It is the hardest work to laugh at his wit. (Aloud.) Rory O’Ryan, the roaring lion–ha! ha! ha! You know I always laugh, Bursal, at your jokes–he! he! he!–ready to kill myself.

Burs. (sullenly). You are easily killed, then, if that much laughing will do the business.

Wheel. (coughing). Just then–something stuck in my throat; I beg your pardon.

Burs. (still sullen). Oh, you need not beg my pardon about the matter. I don’t care whether you laugh or no–not I. Now you have got Lord John to declare for you, you are above laughing at my jokes, I suppose.

Wheel. No, upon my word and honour, I DID laugh.

Burs. (aside). A fig for your word and honour. (Aloud.) I know I’m of no consequence now; but you’ll remember, that if his lordship has the honour of making you captain, he must have the honour to pay for your captain’s accoutrements; for I sha’n’t pay the piper, I promise you, since I’m of no consequence.

Wheel. Of no consequence! But, my dear Bursal, what could put that into your head? that’s the strangest, oddest fancy. Of no consequence! Bursal, of no consequence! Why, everybody that knows anything–everybody that has seen Bursal House–knows that you are of the greatest consequence, my dear Bursal.

Burs. (taking out his watch, and opening it, looks at it). No, I’m of no consequence. I wonder that rascal Finsbury is not come yet with the dresses (still looking at his watch).

Wheel. (aside). If Bursal takes it into his head not to lend me the money to pay for my captain’s dress, what will become of me? for I have not a shilling–and Lord John won’t pay for me–and Finsbury has orders not to leave the house till he is paid by everybody. What will become of me?–(bites his nails).

Burs. (aside). How I love to make him bite his nails! (Aloud.) I know I’m of no consequence. (Strikes his repeater.)

Wheel. What a fine repeater that is of yours, Bursal! It is the best I ever heard.

Burs. So it well may be; for it cost a mint of money.

Wheel. No matter to you what anything costs. Happy dog as you are! You roll in money; and yet you talk of being of no consequence.

Burs. But I am not of half so much consequence as Lord John–am I?

Wheel. Are you? Why, aren’t you twice as rich as he!

Burs. Very true, but I’m not purse-proud.

Wheel. You purse-proud! I should never have thought of such a thing.

Burs. Nor I, if Talbot had not used the word.

Wheel. But Talbot thinks everybody purse-proud that has a purse.

Burs. (aside). Well, this Wheeler does put one into a good humour with one’s self in spite of one’s teeth. (Aloud.) Talbot says blunt things; but I don’t think he’s what you can call clever–hey, Wheeler?

Wheel. Clever? Oh, not he.

Burs. I think I could walk round him.

Wheel. To be sure you could. Why, do you know, I’ve quizzed him famously myself within this quarter of an hour!

Burs. Indeed! I wish I had been by.

Wheel. So do I, ‘faith! It was the best thing. I wanted, you see, to get him out of my way, that I might have the field clear for electioneering to-day. So I bowls up to him with a long face–such a face as this. Mr. Talbot, do you know–I’m sorry to tell you, here’s Jack Smith has just brought the news from Salt Hill. Your mother, in getting into the carriage, slipped, and has BROKE her leg, and there she’s lying at a farmhouse, two miles off. Is not it true, Jack? said I. I saw the farmer helping her in with my own eyes, cries Jack. Off goes Talbot like an arrow. Quizzed him, quizzed him! said I.

Burs. Ha! ha! ha! quizzed him indeed, with all his cleverness; that was famously done.

Wheel. Ha! ha! ha! With all his cleverness he will be all the evening hunting for the farmhouse and the mother that has broke her leg; so he is out of our way.

Burs. But what need have you to want him out of your way, now Lord John has come over to your side? You have the thing at a dead beat.

Wheel. Not so dead either; for there’s a great independent party, you know; and if YOU don’t help me, Bursal, to canvass them, I shall be no captain. It is you I depend upon after all. Will you come and canvass them with me? Dear Bursal, pray–all depends upon you.

(Pulls him by the arm–Bursal follows.)

Burs. Well, if all depends upon me, I’ll see what I can do for you. (Aside.) Then I am of some consequence! Money makes a man of some consequence, I see; at least with some folks.

SCENE II.

In the back scene a flock of sheep are seen penned. In front, a party of country lads and lasses, gaily dressed, as in sheep-shearing time, with ribands and garlands of flowers, etc., are dancing and singing.

Enter PATTY, dressed as the Queen of the Festival, with a lamb in her arms. The dancers break off when she comes in, and direct their attention towards her.

1st Peasant. Oh, here comes Patty! Here comes the Queen o’ the day. What has kept you from us so long, Patty?

2nd Peasant. “Please your Majesty,” you should say.

Patty. This poor little lamb of mine was what kept me so long. It strayed away from the rest; and I should have lost him, so I should, for ever, if it had not been for a good young gentleman. Yonder he is, talking to Farmer Hearty. That’s the young gentleman who pulled my lamb out of the ditch for me, into which he had fallen–pretty creature!

1st Peasant. Pretty creature–or, your Majesty, whichever you choose to be called–come and dance with them, and I’ll carry your lamb. (Exeunt, singing and dancing.)

Enter FARMER HEARTY and TALBOT.

Farmer. Why, young gentleman, I’m glad I happened to light upon you here, and so to hinder you from going farther astray, and set your heart at ease like.

Talb. Thanks, good farmer, you have set my heart at ease, indeed. But the truth is, they did frighten me confoundedly–more fool I.

Farm. No fool at all, to my notion. I should, at your age, ay, or at my age, just the self-same way have been frightened myself, if so be that mention had been made to me, that way, of my own mother’s having broke her leg or so. And greater, by a great deal, the shame for them that frighted you, than for you to be frighted. How young gentlemen, now, can bring themselves for to tell such lies, is to me, now, a matter of amazement, like, that I can’t noways get over.

Talb. Oh, farmer, such lies are very witty, though you and I don’t just now like the wit of them. This is fun, this is quizzing; but you don’t know what we young gentlemen mean by quizzing.

Farm. Ay, but I do though, to my cost, ever since last year. Look you, now, at yon fine field of wheat. Well, it was just as fine, and finer, last year, till a young Eton jackanapes–

Talb. Take care what you say, farmer; for I am a young Eton jackanapes.

Farm. No; but you be not the young Eton jackanapes that I’m a-thinking on. I tell you it was this time last year, man; he was a-horseback, I tell ye, mounted upon a fine bay hunter, out a-hunting, like.

Talb. I tell you it was this time last year, man, that I was mounted upon a fine bay hunter, out a-hunting.

Farm. Zooks! would you argufy a man out of his wits? You won’t go for to tell me that you are that impertinent little jackanapes!

Talb. No! no! I’ll not tell you that I am an impertinent little jackanapes!

Farm (wiping his forehead). Well, don’t then, for I can’t believe it; and you put me out. Where was I?

Talb. Mounted upon a fine bay hunter.

Farm. Ay, so he was. “Here, YOU,” says he, meaning me–“open this gate for me.” Now, if he had but a-spoke me fair, I would not have gainsaid him: but he falls to swearing, so I bid him open the gate for himself. “There’s a bull behind you, farmer,” says he. I turns. “Quizzed him!” cries my jackanapes, and off he gallops him, through the very thick of my corn; but he got a fall, leaping the ditch out yonder, which pacified me, like, at the minute. So I goes up to see whether he was killed; but he was not a whit the worse for his tumble. So I should ha’ fell into a passion with him then, to be sure, about my corn; but his horse had got such a terrible sprain, I couldn’t say anything to him; for I was a- pitying the poor animal. As fine a hunter as ever you saw! I am sartain sure he could never come to good after.

Talb. (aside). I do think, from the description, that this was Wheeler; and I have paid for the horse which he spoiled! (Aloud.) Should you know either the man or the horse again, if you were to see them?

Farm. Ay, that I should, to my dying day.

Talb. Will you come with me, then, and you’ll do me some guineas’ worth of service?

Farm. Ay, that I will, with a deal of pleasure; for you be a civil spoken young gentleman; and, besides, I don’t think the worse on you for being FRIGHTED a little about your mother; being what I might ha’ been, at your age, myself; for I had a mother myself once. So lead on, master. (Exeunt.)

END OF THE SECOND ACT.

ACT THE THIRD.

SCENE I.

The garden of the “Windmill Inn,” at Salt Hill.

MISS BURSAL, MRS. NEWINGTON, SALLY, the Chambermaid.

(Miss Bursal, in a fainting state, is sitting on a garden stool, and leaning her head against the Landlady. Sally is holding a glass of water and a smelling bottle.)

Miss Bursal. Where am I? Where am I?

Landlady. At the “Windmill,” at Salt Hill, young lady; and ill or well, you can’t be better.

Sally. Do you find yourself better since coming into the air, miss?

Miss B. Better! Oh, I shall never be better! (Leans her head on hand, and rocks herself backwards and forwards.)

Landlady. My dear young lady, don’t take on so. (Aside.) Now would I give something to know what it was my Lady Piercefield said to the father, and what the father said to this one, and what’s the matter at the bottom of affairs. Sally, did you hear anything at the doors?

Sally (aside). No, indeed, ma’am; I never BE’S at the doors.

Landlady (aside). Simpleton! (Aloud.) But, my dear Miss Bursal, if I may be so bold–if you’d only disembosom your mind of what’s on it–

Miss B. Disembosom my mind! Nonsense! I’ve nothing on my mind. Pray leave me, madam.

Landlady (aside). Madam, indeed! madam, forsooth! Oh, I’ll make her pay for that! That MADAM shall go down in the bill, as sure as my name’s Newington. (Landlady, in a higher tone.) Well, I wish you better, ma’am. I suppose I’d best send your own servant?

Miss B. (sullenly). Yes, I suppose so. (To Sally.) You need not wait, child, nor look so curious.

Sally. CUR’OUS! Indeed, miss, if I look a little CUR’OUS, or so (looking at her dress), ’tis only because I was FRIGHTED to see you take on, which made me forget my clean apron, when I came out; and this apron- –

Miss B. Hush! Hush! child. Don’t tell me about clean aprons, nor run on with your vulgar talk. Is there ever a seat one can set on in that _H_arbour yonder?

Sally. O dear ‘ART, yes, miss; ’tis the pleasantest _H_arbour on _H_earth. Be pleased to lean on my _H_arm, and you’ll soon be there.

Miss B. (going). Then tell my woman she need not come to me, and let nobody INTERUDE on me–do you ‘EAR? (Aside.) Oh, what will become of me? and the Talbots will soon know it! And the ponies, and the curricle, and the vis-a-vis–what will become of them? and how shall I make my appearance at the Montem, or any WARE else?

SCENE II.

LORD JOHN–WHEELER–BURSAL.

Wheeler. Well, but my lord–Well, but Bursal–though my Lady Piercefield–though Miss Bursal is come to Salt Hill, you won’t leave us all at sixes and sevens. What can we do without you?

Lord J. You can do very well without me.

Bursal. You can do very well without me.

Wheel. (to Burs.). Impossible!–impossible! You know Mr. Finsbury will be here just now, with the dresses; and we have to try them on.

Burs. And to pay for them.

Wheel. And to settle about the procession. And then, my lord, the election is to come on this evening. You won’t go till that’s over, as your lordship has PROMISED me your lordship’s vote and interest.

Lord J. My vote I promised you, Mr. Wheeler; but I said not a syllable about my INTEREST. My friends, perhaps, have not been offended, though I have, by Mr. Talbot. I shall leave them to their own inclinations.

Burs. (whistling). Wheugh! wheugh! wheugh! Wheeler, the principal’s nothing without the interest.

Wheel. Oh, the interest will go along with the principal, of course; for I’m persuaded, if my lord leaves his friends to their inclinations, it will be the inclination of my lord’s friends to vote as he does, if he says nothing to them to the contrary.

Lord J. I told you, Mr. Wheeler, that I should leave them to themselves.

Burs. (still whistling). Well, I’ll do my best to make that father of mine send me off to Oxford. I’m sure I’m fit to go–along with Wheeler. Why, you’d best be my tutor, Wheeler!–a devilish good thought.

Wheel. An excellent thought.

Burs. And a cursed fine dust we should kick up at Oxford, with your Montem money and all!–Money’s THE GO after all. I wish it was come to