John Bull | Page 7

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 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