and three rounds of applause are sufficient to justify any interpolation.  This piece was well acted, and brought ample receipts to the treasury of the Coburg.

D—G.

Costume.

AMBROSE GWINETT.—First dress—Short brown tunic and vest, with full trunks—hose and half boots.—Second dress—Tunic and long cloak—hat and feathers.

NED GRAYLING.—First dress—That of a Blacksmith.—Second dress—A short plain tunic—full trunks—hose, and a small round hat.—Third dress—that of a mere mendicant.

GILBERT.—First dress—A short close tunic—shoes and stockings.—Second dress—Suitable to the advanced age of the wearer.

COLLINS.—First dress—Short tunic.—Second dress—A morning gown.

LABEL.—Barber’s dress—three cornered hat and cane.

WILL ASH and BLACKTHORN.—Short tunics, &c.

GEORGE.—Sailor’s dress.

BOLT.—Dark tunic, &c.

OFFICER.—The usual costume.

REEF.—Blue jacket—white trowsers—straw hat.

LUCY FAIRLOVE.—First dress—Plain bodied gown—straw hat.—Second dress—A black open gown with train.

JENNY.—First dress—That of a peasant girl.—Second dress—Gown—cap—and apron.

MARY.—Peasant’s dress.

Villagers, Peasants, &c. in the usual costume.

Cast of the Characters

As sustained at the Coburg Theatre.

A Lapse of Eighteen Years is supposed to have taken Place between
the Second and Third Acts.

ACT.  I.

SCENE I.—View of the Country.

Enter Grayling and Collins.  R.

Gray.  Softly, master Collins, softly,—come, there is life in you yet, man.

Col.  To be thrown from a horse after my experience—

Gray.  Oh, the best man may be thrown, and the best horse throw too; but come, you have no bones broken.  Had any man but myself, Ned Grayling, shoed your horse, I should have said something had been amiss with his irons—but that couldn’t be.

Col.  No matter, I can now make my way homeward: but, hark’ye, not a word about this accident, not a syllable, or I shall never be able to sit in a saddle again, without first hearing a lecture from my wife and Lucy.

Gray.  Lucy—aye, master Collins, she has a tender heart I warrant—I could work at my forge all day in the hottest June, so that Lucy would but smile, when—

Col.  There must be no more of this.  You know I have told you more than a hundred times that Lucy cannot love you.

Gray.  How do you know that?

Col.  She has said so, and do you suppose she would speak any thing but truth?

Gray.  Why, perhaps she would, and perhaps she wouldn’t.  I tell you, master Collins, my heart’s set upon the girl—if she refuse me—why I know the end on’t.—Ned Grayling, once the sober and industrious smith, will become an outcast and a vagabond.

Col.  This is all folly—a stout able fellow turning whimperer.

Gray.  Stout, able,—yes, I was, and might be so again; but thoughts will sometimes come across me, and I feel—I tell you once more, master Collins, my heart is set upon the girl.

Col.  You’ll get the better of this, think no more of her: nothing so easy.

Gray.  There are some matters very, very easy.  It is easy for you, a man well in trade, with children flourishing about you, and all the world looking with a sunny face upon you—it is easy for you to say to a man like me, “You are poor and friendless—you have placed your affections on a being, to sweeten the bitterness of your lot, to cheer and bless you on the road of life, yet she can never be yours—think no more of her,” this is easy—“nothing so easy.”

Col.  Farewell, good fellow, I meant not to insult or offend you.  If you can obtain my niece’s consent, why, to prove that I love honesty, for its own sake, I’ll give you whatever help my means afford.  If, however, the girl refuses, strive to forget her.  Believe me, there is scarcely a more pitiable object than a man following with spaniel-like humility, the woman who despises him.

[Exit L.

Gray.  Despises!—did she ever say,—no! no! she couldn’t, yet when I met her last, though she uttered not a sound, her eyes looked hate—as they flashed upon me, I felt humbled—a wretch! a very worm.

Enter Gilbert R.  (singing.)  “A merry little plough Boy.”

Gil.  Well, now master’s gone out, I think I have a little time to see my Jenny—master and mistress have no compassion for us lovers—always work, work; they think once a week is quite enough for lovers to see one another, and unfortunately my fellow servant is in love as well as I am; and being obliged to keep house, I could only get out once a fortnight, if it wasn’t for Lucy.

Gray.  (starting.)  Lucy! who said any thing about Lucy?

Gil.  I did!  It’s a good Christian name, isn’t it? and no treason in it.

Gray.  No, no, but you startled me.

Gil.  I should like to know what right a man has to be startled when I say Lucy—why one would think you were married, and it was the name of your wife.

Gray.  Lucy my wife, no, no.

Gil.  No, I should think not indeed.

Gray.  And why should you think? but I’m wrong to be so passionate—think no more of it, good Gilbert.

Gil.  A cool way of settling matters: you first fly at a man like a dragon—make his heart jump like a tennis ball—and then say, think nothing of it, good Gilbert.

Gray.  I confess I am very foolish.

Gil.  Oh, spare your confession: people will