John Bull | Page 8

Simon. Ah, my dear Tom Shuffleton!
Shuff. Baronet! how are you?
Sir Simon. Such expedition is kind now! You got my letter at Bath,
and----
Shuff. Saw it was pressing:--here I am. Cut all my engagements for you,
and came off like a shot.
Sir Simon. Thank you: thank you, heartily!
Shuff. Left every thing at sixes and sevens.
Sir Simon. Gad, I'm sorry if----
Shuff. Don't apologize;--nobody does, now. Left all my bills, in the
place, unpaid.
Sir Simon. Bless me! I've made it monstrous inconvenient!
Shuff. Not a bit--I give you my honour, I did'nt find it inconvenient at
all. How is Frank Rochdale?
Sir Simon. Why, my son is'nt up yet; and before he's stirring, do let me
talk to you, my dear Tom Shuffleton! I have something near my heart,
that--

Shuff. Don't talk about your heart, Baronet;--feeling's quite out of
fashion.
Sir Simon. Well, then, I'm interested in----
Shuff. Aye, stick to that. We make a joke of the heart, now-a-days; but
when a man mentions his interest, we know he's in earnest.
Sir Simon. Zounds! I am in earnest. Let me speak, and call my motives
what you will.
Shuff. Speak--but don't be in a passion. We are always cool at the clubs:
the constant habit of ruining one another, teaches us temper. Explain.
Sir Simon. Well, I will. You know, my dear Tom, how much I admire
your proficiency in the New school of breeding;--you are, what I call,
one of the highest finished fellows of the present day.
Shuff. Psha! Baronet; you flatter.
Sir Simon. No, I don't; only in extolling the merits of the newest
fashion'd manners and morals, I am sometimes puzzled, by the plain
gentlemen, who listen to me, here in the country, most consumedly.
Shuff. I don't doubt it.
Sir Simon. Why, 'twas but t'other morning, I was haranguing old Sir
Noah Starchington, in my library, and explaining to him the shining
qualities of a dasher, of the year eighteen hundred and three; and what
do you think he did?
Shuff. Fell asleep.
Sir Simon. No; he pull'd down an English dictionary; when (if you'll
believe me! he found my definition of stylish living, under the word
"insolvency;" a fighting crop turn'd out a "dock'd bull dog;" and
modern gallantry, "adultery and seduction."
Shuff. Noah Starchington is a damn'd old twaddler.--But the fact is,

Baronet, we improve. We have voted many qualities to be virtues, now,
that they never thought of calling virtues formerly. The rising
generation wants a new dictionary, damnably.
Sir Simon. Deplorably, indeed! You can't think, my dear Tom, what a
scurvy figure you, and the dashing fellows of your kidney, make in the
old ones. But you have great influence over my son Frank; and want
you to exert it. You are his intimate--you come here, and pass two or
three months at a time, you know.
Shuff. Yes--this is a pleasant house.
Sir Simon. You ride his horses, as if they were your own.
Shuff. Yes--he keeps a good stable.
Sir Simon. You drink our claret with him, till his head aches.
Shuff. Your's is famous claret, Baronet.
Sir Simon. You worm out his secrets: you win his money; you----. In
short, you are----
Shuff. His friend, according to the next new dictionary. That's what you
mean, Sir Simon.
Sir Simon. Exactly.--But, let me explain. Frank, if he doesn't play the
fool, and spoil all, is going to be married.
Shuff. To how much?
Sir Simon. Damn it, now, how like a modern man of the world that is!
Formerly they would have asked to who.
Shuff. We never do, now;--fortune's every thing. We say, "a good
match," at the west end of the town, as they say "a good man," in the
city;--the phrase refers merely to money. Is she rich?
Sir Simon. Four thousand a-year.

Shuff. What a devilish desirable woman! Frank's a happy dog!
Sir Simon. He's a miserable puppy. He has no more notion, my dear
Tom, of a modern "good match," than Eve had of pin money.
Shuff. What are his objections to it?
Sir Simon. I have smoked him; but he doesn't know that;--a silly, sly
amour, in another quarter.
Shuff. An amour! That's a very unfashionable reason for declining
matrimony.
Sir Simon. You know his romantic flights. The blockhead, I believe, is
so attach'd, I shou'dn't wonder if he flew off at a tangent, and married
the girl that has bewitch'd him.
Shuff. Who is she?
Sir Simon. She--hem!--she lives with her father, in Penzance.
Shuff. And who is he?
Sir Simon. He----upon my soul I'm asham'd to tell you.
Shuff. Don't be asham'd; we never blush at any thing, in the New
School.
Sir Simon. Damn me, my dear Tom, if he isn't a brazier!
Shuff. The devil!