John Bull | Page 8

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!
Sir Simon. A dealer in kitchen candlesticks, coal skuttles, coppers, and cauldrons.
Shuff. And is the girl pretty?
Sir Simon. So they tell me;--a plump little devil, as round as a tea kettle.
Shuff. I'll be after the brazier's daughter, to-morrow.
Sir Simon. But you have weight with him. Talk to him, my dear Tom--reason with him; try your power, Tom, do!
Shuff. I don't much like plotting with the father against the son--that's reversing the New School, Baronet.
Sir Simon. But it will serve Frank: it will serve me, who wish to serve you. And to prove that I do wish it, I have been keeping something in embryo for you, my dear Tom Shuffleton, against your arrival.
Shuff. For me?
Sir Simon. When you were last leaving us, if you recollect, you mention'd, in a kind of a way, a--a sort of an intention of a loan, of an odd five hundred pounds.
Shuff. Did I? I believe I might.--When I intend to raise money, I always give my friends the preference.
Sir Simon. I told you I was out of cash then, I remember.
Shuff. Yes: that's just what I told you, I remember.
Sir Simon. I have the sum floating by me, now, and much at your service. [Presenting it.
Shuff. Why, as it's lying idle, Baronet, I--I--don't much care if I employ it. [Taking it.
Sir Simon. Use your interest with Frank, now.
Shuff. Rely on me.--Shall I give you my note?
Sir Simon. No, my dear Tom, that's an unnecessary trouble.
Shuff. Why that's true--with one who knows me so well as you.
Sir Simon. Your verbal promise to pay, is quite as good.
Shuff. I'll see if Frank's stirring. [Going.
Sir Simon. And I must talk to my steward. [Going.
Shuff. Baronet!
Sir Simon. [Returning.] Eh?
Shuff. Pray, do you employ the phrase, "verbal promise to pay," according to the reading of old dictionaries, or as it's the fashion to use it at present.
Sir Simon. Oh, damn it, chuse your own reading, and I'm content. [Exeunt severally.

SCENE II.
A Dressing Room.
FRANK ROCHDALE writing; WILLIAMS attending.
Frank. [Throwing down the Pen.] It don't signify--I cannot write. I blot, and tear; and tear, and