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 blot; and——. Come here, Williams. Do let me hear you, once more. Why the devil don't you come here?

Williams. I am here, sir.

Frank. Well, well; my good fellow, tell me. You found means to deliver her the letter yesterday?

Williams. Yes, sir.

Frank. And, she read it——and——did you say, she—she was very much affected, when she read it?

Williams. I told you last night, sir;—she look'd quite death struck, as I may say.

Frank. [Much affected.] Did——did she weep, Williams?

Williams. No, sir; but I did afterwards—I don't know what ail'd me; but, when I got out of the house, into the street, I'll be hang'd if I did'nt cry like a child.

Frank. You are an honest fellow, Williams. [A Knock at the Door of the Room.] See who is at the door.

[Williams opens the Door.

Enter John.

Williams. Well, what's the matter?

John. There's a man in the porter's lodge, says he won't go away without speaking to Mr. Francis.

Frank. See who it is, Williams. Send him to me, if necessary; but don't let me be teased, without occasion.

Williams. I'll take care, sir.

[Exeunt Williams and John.

Frank. Must I marry this woman, whom my father has chosen for me; whom I expect here to-morrow? And must I, then, be told 'tis criminal to love my poor, deserted Mary, because our hearts are illicitly attach'd? Illicit for the heart? fine phraseology! Nature disowns the restriction; I cannot smother her dictates with the polity of governments, and fall in, or out of love, as the law directs.

Enter Dennis Brulgruddery.

Well, friend, who do you come from?

Dennis. I come from the Red Cow, sir.

Frank. The Red Cow?

Dennis. Yes, sir!—upon Muckslush Heath—hard by your honour's father's house, here. I'd be proud of your custom, sir, and all the good looking family's.

Frank. [Impatiently.] Well, well, your business?

Dennis. That's what the porter ax'd me, "Tell me your business, honest man," says he—"I'll see you damn'd first, sir," says I:—"I'll tell it your betters;—and that's Mr. Francis Rochdale, Esquire."

Frank. Zounds! then, why don't you tell it? I am Mr. Francis Rochdale.—Who the devil sent you here?

Dennis. Troth, sir, it was good nature whisper'd me to come to your honour: but I believe I've disremembered her directions, for damn the bit do you seem acquainted with her.

Frank. Well, my good friend, I don't mean to be violent; only be so good as to explain your business.

Dennis. Oh, with all the pleasure in life.—Give me good words, and I'm as aisy as an ould glove: but bite my nose off with mustard, and have at you with pepper,—that's my way.—There's a little crature at my house;—she's crying her eyes out;—and she won't get such another pair at the Red Cow; for I've left nobody with her but Mrs. Brulgruddery.

Frank. With her? with who? Who are you talking off?

Dennis. I'd like to know her name myself, sir;—but I have heard but half of it;—and that's Mary.

Frank. Mary!—Can it be she?—Wandering on a heath! seeking refuge in a wretched hovel!

Dennis. A hovel! O fie for shame of yourself, to misbecall a genteel tavern! I'd have you to know my parlour is clean sanded once a week.

Frank. Tell me, directly—what brought her to your house?

Dennis. By my soul, it was Adam's own carriage: a ten-toed machine the haymakers keep in Ireland.

Frank. Damn it, fellow, don't trifle, but tell your story; and, if you can, intelligibly.

Dennis. Don't be bothering my brains, then, or you'll get it as clear as mud. Sure the young crature can't fly away from the Red Cow, while I'm explaining to you the rights on't—Didn't she promise the gentleman to stay till