_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 his system of education is extinct: Belcher and the Butcher have superseded it.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;--n.o.body 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 pa.s.sion. 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 d.a.m.n'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, d.a.m.nably.

_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 pa.s.s 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._ d.a.m.n 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?