John Bull | Page 7

Money.
Dennis. Mighty pretty handsel for the Red Cow, my lambkin!
Mrs. Brul. A couple of guineas! Lord, sir! if I thought you had been
such a gentleman!--Pray, miss, walk in! your poor dear, little feet must
be quite wet with our nasty roads. I beg pardon, sir; but character's
every thing in our business; and I never lose sight of my own credit.
Dennis. That you don't--till you see other people's ready money.
Pereg. Go in, child. I shall soon be with you again.
Mary. You will return, then, sir?
Pereg. Speedily. Rely on me.
Mary. I shall, sir;--I am sure I may. Heaven bless you, sir!
Mrs. Brul. This way, miss; this way! [Courtesying. [Exeunt MARY and
LANDLADY, into the House.
Dennis. Long life to your honour, for protecting the petticoats! sweet
creatures! I'd like to protect them myself, by bushels.
Pereg. Can you get me a guide, friend, to conduct me to Penzance?
Dennis. Get you a guide! There's Dan, my servant, shall skip before
you over the bogs, like a grasshopper. Oh, by the powers! my heart's
full to see your generosity, and I owe you a favour in return:--never you
call for any of my beer, till I get a fresh tap. [Exit into the House.
Pereg. Now for my friend, Thornberry; then hither again, to interest
myself in the cause of this unfortunate: for which many would call me
Quixote; many would cant out "shame!" but I care not for the stoics,
nor the puritans. Genuine nature and unsophisticated morality, that turn
disgusted from the rooted adepts in vice, have ever a reclaiming tear to
shed on the children of error. Then, let the sterner virtues, that allow no

plea for human frailty, stalk on to paradise without me! The mild
associate of my journey thither shall be charity:--and my pilgrimage to
the shrine of mercy will not, I trust, be worse performed for having
aided the weak, on my way, who have stumbled in their progress.
Enter DAN, from the House.
Dan. I be ready, zur.
Pereg. For what, friend?
Dan. Measter says you be a-going to Penzance; if you be agreeable, I'll
keep you company.
Pereg. Oh--the guide. You belong to the house?
Dan. Ees, zur; Ise enow to do: I be head waiter and hostler:--only we
never have no horses, nor customers.
Pereg. The path I fancy, is difficult to find. Do you never deviate?
Dan. Na, zur,--I always whistles.
Pereg. Come on, friend.--It seems a dreary rout: but how cheerily the
eye glances over a sterile tract, when the habitation of a benefactor,
whom we are approaching to requite, lies in the perspective! [Exeunt.
* * * * *
ACT THE SECOND.
SCENE I.
A Library in the House of SIR SIMON ROCHDALE; Books scattered
on a Writing Table.
Enter TOM SHUFFLETON.
Shuff. No body up yet? I thought so.

Enter SERVANT.
Ah, John, is it you? How d'ye do, John?
John. Thank your honour, I----
Shuff. Yes, you look so. Sir Simon Rochdale in bed? Mr. Rochdale not
risen? Well! no matter; I have travelled all night, though, to be with
them. How are they?
John. Sir, they are both----
Shuff. I'm glad to hear it. Pay the postboy for me.
John. Yes, sir. I beg pardon, sir; but when your honour last left us----
Shuff. Owed you three pound five. I remember: have you down in my
memorandums--Honourable Tom Shuffleton debtor to---- What's your
name?
John. My christian name, sir, is----
Shuff. Muggins--I recollect. Pay the postboy, Muggins. And, harkye,
take particular care of the chaise: I borrowed it of my friend, Bobby
Fungus, who sprang up a peer, in the last bundle of Barons: if a single
knob is knocked out of his new coronets, he'll make me a sharper
speech than ever he'll produce in parliament. And, John!
John. Sir!
Shuff. What was I going to say?
John. Indeed, sir, I can't tell.
Shuff. No more can I. 'Tis the fashion to be absent--that's the way I
forgot your little bill. There, run along. [Exit JOHN.] I've the whirl of
Bobby's chaise in my head still. Cursed fatiguing, posting all night,
through Cornish roads, to obey the summons of friendship! Convenient,
in some respects, for all that. If all loungers, of slender revenues, like

mine, could command a constant succession of invitations, from men of
estates in the country, how amazingly it would tend to the thinning of
Bond Street! [Throws himself into a Chair near the Writing Table.] Let
me see--what has Sir Simon been reading?--"Burn's Justice"--true; the
old man's reckoned the ablest magistrate in the county. he hasn't cut
open the leaves, I see. "Chesterfield's Letters"--pooh! his system of
education is extinct: Belcher and the Butcher have superseded it.
"Clarendon's History of----."
Enter SIR SIMON ROCHDALE.
Sir