_Shuff._ Yes;--I have had a windfall--Five hundred pounds.

_Frank._ A legacy?

_Shuff._ No.--The patient survives who was sick of his money. 'Tis a loan from a friend.

_Frank._ 'Twould be a pity, then, Tom, if the patient experienced improper treatment.

_Shuff._ Why, that's true:--but his case is so rare, that it isn't well understood, I believe. Curse me, my dear Frank, if the disease of lending is epidemic.

_Frank._ But the disease of trying to borrow, my dear Tom, I am afraid, is.

_Shuff._ Very prevalent, indeed, at the west end of the town.

_Frank._ And as dangerous, Tom, as the small-pox. They should inoculate for it.

_Shuff._ That wouldn't be a bad scheme; but I took it naturally.

Psha! d.a.m.n it, don't shake your head. Mine's but a mere _facon de parler_: just as we talk to one another about our coats:--we never say, "Who's your tailor?" We always ask, "Who suffers?" Your father tells me you are going to be married; I give you joy.

_Frank._ Joy! I have known nothing but torment, and misery, since this cursed marriage has been in agitation.

_Shuff._ Umph! Marriage was a weighty affair, formerly; so was a family coach;--but domestic duties, now, are like town chariots;--they must be made light, to be fashionable.

_Frank._ Oh, do not trifle. By acceding to this match, in obedience to my father, I leave to all the pangs of remorse, and disappointed love, a helpless, humble girl, and rend the fibres of a generous, but too credulous heart, by cancelling like a villain, the oaths with which I won it.

_Shuff._ I understand:--A snug thing in the country.--Your wife, they tell me, will have four thousand a year.

_Frank._ What has that to do with sentiment?

_Shuff._ I don't know what you may think; but, if a man said to me, plump, "Sir, I am very fond of four thousand a year;" I should say,--"Sir, I applaud your sentiment very highly."

_Frank._ But how does he act, who offers his hand to one woman, at the very moment his heart is engaged to another?

_Shuff._ He offers a great sacrifice.

_Frank._ And where is the reparation to the unfortunate he has deserted?

_Shuff._ An annuity.--A great many unfortunates sport a stylish carriage, up and down St. James's street, upon such a provision.

_Frank._ An annuity, flowing from the fortune, I suppose, of the woman I marry! is that delicate?

_Shuff._ 'Tis convenient. We liquidate debts of play, and usury, from the same resources.

_Frank._ And call a crowd of jews and gentlemen gamesters together, to be settled with, during the debtor's honeymoon!

_Shuff._ No, d.a.m.n it, it wouldn't be fair to jumble the jews into the same room with our gaming acquaintance.

_Frank._ Why so?

_Shuff._ Because, twenty to one, the first half of the creditors would begin dunning the other.

_Frank._ Nay, far once in your life be serious. Read this, which has wrung my heart, and repose it, as a secret, in your own.

[_Giving the Letter._

_Shuff._ [_Glancing over it._] A pretty, little, crowquill kind of a hand.--_"Happiness,--innocence,--trifling a.s.sistance--gentleman befriended me--unhappy Mary."_--Yes, I see--[_Returning it._]--She wants money, but has got a new friend.--The style's neat, but the subject isn't original.

_Frank._ Will you serve me at this crisis?

_Shuff._ Certainly.

_Frank._ I wish you to see my poor Mary in the course of the day.

Will you talk to her?

_Shuff._ O yes--I'll talk to her. Where is she to be seen?

_Frank._ She writes, you see, that she has abruptly left her father--and I learn, by the messenger, that she is now in a miserable, retired house, on the neighbouring heath.--That mustn't deter you from going.

_Shuff._ Me? Oh, dear no--I'm used to it. I don't care how retired the house is.

_Frank._ Come down to my father to breakfast. I will tell you afterwards all I wish you to execute.--Oh, Tom! this business has unhinged me for society. Rigid morality, after all, is the best coat of mail for the conscience.

_Shuff._ Our ancestors, who wore mail, admired it amazingly; but to mix in the gay world, with their rigid morality, would be as singular as stalking into a drawing-room in their armour:--for dissipation is now the fashionable habit, with which, like a brown coat, a man goes into company, to avoid being stared at. [_Exeunt._

SCENE III.

_An Apartment in JOB THORNBERRY'S House._

_Enter JOB THORNBERRY, in a Night Gown, and BUR._

_Bur._ Don't take on so--don't you, now! pray, listen to reason.

_Job._ I won't.

_Bur._ Pray do!

_Job._ I won't. Reason bid me love my child, and help my friend:--what's the consequence? my friend has run one way, and broke up my trade; my daughter has run another, and broke my----No, she shall never have it to say she broke my heart. If I hang myself for grief, she shan't know she made me.

_Bur._ Well, but, master--

_Job._ And reason told me to take you into my shop, when the fat church wardens starved you at the workhouse,--d.a.m.n their want of feeling for it!--and you were thump'd about, a poor, unoffending, ragged-rump'd boy, as you were--I wonder you hav'n't run away from me too.

_Bur._ That's the first real unkind word you ever said to me. I've sprinkled your shop two-and-twenty years, and never miss'd a morning.

_Job._ The bailiffs are below, clearing the goods: you won't have the trouble any longer.

_Bur._ Trouble! Lookye, old Job Thornberry--