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“The greatest fires are out, and glimmering night succeeds.”

On his taking a final leave of the Dublin stage, Mr. Lewis spoke the following address:

 
From ten years old till now near fifty-six,
Of all I’ve gained, the origin I fix
Here on this fav’rite spot; when first I came
A trembling candidate for scenic fame,
In numbers lisping, here that course began
Which, through your early aid, has smoothly ran;
Here too, returning from your sister land,
Oft have I met your smile, your lib’ral hand:
Oft as I came Hibernia still has shown
That hospitality so much her own.
But now the prompter, Time, with warning bell,
Reminds me that I come to bid farewell!
With usual joy this visit I should pay,
But here, adieu is very hard to say.
Yet take my thanks for thousand favours past —
My wishes that your welfare long may last —
My promise that, though Time upon this face
May make his annual marks, no time can chase
Your memory here, while memory here has place.
My meaning is sincere, though plainly spoke —
My heart, like yours, I hope, is heart of oak;
And that although the bark, through years, may fail ye,
The trunk was, is, and will be true shillaly.
 

MAN AND WIFE

The Comedy annexed to this number

The favourable reception which this comedy met in London, will no doubt induce the managers of America to produce it on their boards. For this reason it has been selected by the editors.

In the general reception of this comedy on the stage, the author has been more successful than in the judgment it has received from the press. Of the criticisms which have appeared in the London publications, we have seen two, which disagree with each other on its merits. That the reception by a large audience and the opinion of a critic should differ, is not at all surprising. In the present instance one of those critics is at complete variance with the audience, and says “it is as dull as the ministerial benches, and yet as patriotic as the opposition.” The editors reserve their opinion till they see it acted.

CORRESPONDENCE

The conductors thank “Dramaticus” for his communications, to which they will pay the proper attention. Though the series for the month of February is complete, they have made room for four of the articles with which he has favoured them.

MAN AND WIFE; OR, MORE SECRETS THAN ONE. A COMEDY

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

ACT I

SCENE I. – Abel Grouse’s cottage. Enter Abel Grouse and Fanny

Ab. Gr. Don’t tell me of your sorrow and repentance girl. You’ve broke my heart. Married hey? and privately too – and to a lord into the bargain! So, when you can hide it no longer, you condescend to tell me. Think you that the wealth and title of lord Austencourt can silence the fears of a fond father’s heart? Why should a lord marry a poor girl like you in private, if his intentions were honourable? Who should restrain him from publicly avowing his wife?

Fanny. My dearest father, have but a little patience, and I’ll explain all.

Ab. Gr. Who was present, besides the parson, at your wedding?

Fanny. There was our neighbour, the attorney, sir, and one of his clerks, and they were all —

Ab. Gr. My heart sinks within me – but mark me. You may remember I was not always what now I seem to be. I yesterday received intelligence which, but for this discovery, had shed a gleam of joy over my remaining days. As it is, should your husband prove the villain I suspect him, that intelligence will afford me an opportunity to resume a character in life which shall make this monster lord tremble. The wrongs of Abel Grouse, the poor but upright man, might have been pleaded in vain to him, but as I shall soon appear, it shall go hard but I will make the great man shrink before me, even in his plenitude of pride and power.

Fanny. You terrify me, sir, indeed you do.

Ab. Gr. And so I would. I would prepare you for the worst that may befal us: for should this man, this lord, who calls himself your husband —

Fanny. Dearest father, what can you mean? Who calls himself my husband! He is my husband.

Ab. Gr. If he is your husband, how does he dare to pay his addresses, as he now publicly does, to the daughter of sir Willoughby Worret, our neighbour. I may be mistaken. I’m in the midst here of old acquaintances, though in this guise they know me not. They shall soon see me amongst them. Not a word of this, I charge you. Come girl, this lord shall own you. If he does not, we will seek a remedy in those laws which are at once the best guardians of our rights and the surest avengers of our wrongs. [Exeunt.

SCENE II. – A parlour in sir W. Worret’s house. The breakfast prepared, urn, &c. Sir Willoughby reading the newspaper. He rises and rings the bell; then pulls out his watch

Sir W. Three quarters of an hour since breakfast was first announced to my wife. My patience is exhausted. Oh wedlock, wedlock! why did I ever venture again into thy holy state – of misery! Of all the taxes laid on mankind by respect to society and the influence of example, no one is so burthensome as that which obliges a man to submit to a thousand ills at home, rather than be suspected of being a bad husband abroad. (enter servant) Go to your lady.

Serv. I told her ladyship five times before, sir Willoughby, that breakfast was waiting.

Sir W. Then tell her once more, and that will make six, and say I earnestly request the favour she will hasten to breakfast, as while she stays I starve.

Serv. Yes, sir Willoughby, but she’ll stop the longer for the message. (Aside going out.) [Exit.

Sir W. My wife is the very devil. It seems that she’d be miserable if she did not think me happy; yet her tenderness is my eternal torment; her affection puts me in a fidget, and her fondness in a fever.

Enter servant

Serv. My lady says she wont detain you a moment, sir Willoughby. [Exit.

Sir W. The old answer. Then she’s so nervous. A nervous wife is worse than a perpetual blister; and then, as the man says in the play, your nervous patients are always ailing, but never die. Zounds! why do I bear it? ’tis my folly, my weakness, to dread the censure of the world, and to sacrifice every comfort of my fire side to the ideal advantage of being esteemed a good husband. (Lady Worret is heard speaking behind) Hark! now she begins her morning work, giving more orders in a minute than can be executed in a month, and teasing my daughter to death to teach her to keep her temper; yet every body congratulates me on having so good a wife; every body envies me so excellent an economist; every body thinks me the happiest man alive; and nobody knows what a miserable mortal I am.

Lady W. (behind) And harkye, William, (entering with servant) tell the coachman to bring the chariot in a quarter of an hour: and William, run with these books immediately to the rector’s; and William, bring up breakfast this moment.

Will. Yes, my lady: (aside) Lord have mercy upon us! [Exit.

Lady W. My dear sir Willoughby, I beg a thousand pardons; but you are always so indulgent that you really spoil me. I’m sure you think me a tiresome creature.

Sir W. No, no, my life, not at all. I should be very ungrateful if I didn’t value you just exactly as highly as you deserve.

Lady W. I certainly deserve a good scolding: I do indeed. I think if you scolded me a little I should behave better.

Sir W. Well, then, as you encourage me, my love, I must own that a little more punctuality would greatly heighten the zest of your society.

Lady W. And yet, sir Willoughby, you must acknowledge that my time is ever dedicated to that proper vigilance which the superintendance of so large an establishment undoubtedly requires.

Sir W. Why, true, my love; but somehow I can’t help thinking, that, as my fortune is so ample, it is quite unnecessary that you should undergo so much fatigue: for instance, I do think that the wife of a baronet of 12,000l. a year owes it to her rank to be otherwise employed than in hunting after the housemaid, or sacrificing her time in the storeroom in counting candles, or weighing out soap, starch, powder-blue, and brown sugar.

Lady W. (in tears) This is unkind, sir Willoughby, this is very unkind.

Sir W. So! as usual, here’s a breeze springing up. What the devil shall I say to sooth her? Wife, wife! you drive me mad. You first beg me to scold you, and then are offended because I obligingly comply with your request.

Lady W. No, sir Willoughby, I am only surprised that you should so little know the value of a wife who daily degrades herself for your advantage.

Sir W. That’s the very thing I complain of. You do degrade yourself. Your economy, my life, is downright parsimony: your vigilance is suspicion; your management is meanness; and you fidget your servants till you make them fretful, and then prudently discharge them because they will live with you no longer. Hey! ods life, I must sooth her: for if company comes, and finds her in this humour, my dear-bought reputation as a good husband is lost forever. (Enter servant with breakfast.) Come, come, my dear lady Worret, let us go to breakfast, come (sitting down to breakfast) let us talk of something else. Come, take your tea.

Lady W. (to servant) Send William to speak to me. [Exit servant.

Sir W. Where’s Helen?

Lady W. I have desired her to copy a few articles into the family receipt book before breakfast; for as her marriage will so shortly take place, it is necessary she should complete her studies.

Sir W. What, she’s at work, I suppose, on the third folio volume.

Lady W. The fifth, I believe.

Sir W. Heaven defend us! I don’t blame it; I don’t censure it at all: but I believe the case is rather unprecedented for an heiress of 12,000l. a year to leave to posterity, in her own hand writing, five folio volumes of recipes, for pickling, preserving, potting, and pastry, for stewing and larding, making ketchup and sour krout, oyster patties, barbacued pies, jellies, jams, soups, sour sauce, and sweetmeats.

Lady W. Oh, sir Willoughby! if young ladies of the present day paid more attention to such substantial acquirements, we should have better wives and better husbands.

Sir W. Why that is singularly just.

Lady W. Yes, if women were taught to find amusement in domestic duties, instead of seeking it at a circulating library, assemblies, and balls, we should hear of fewer appeals to Doctor’s Commons and the court of King’s Bench.

Sir W. Why that is undeniably true (aside) and now, as we have a moment uninterrupted by family affairs —

Enter William

Lady W. Is the carriage come?

Will. No, my lady.

Lady W. Have you carried the books?

Will. No, my lady.

Lady W. Then go and hasten the coachman.

Will. No, my lady —yes, my lady.

Lady W. And William, send up Tiffany to Miss Helen’s room, and bid her say we expect her at breakfast.

Will. Miss Helen has been in the park these two hours.

Sir W. (Laughs aside.)

Lady W. How! in the park these two hours? Impossible. Send Tiffany to seek her.

Will. Yes, my lady. [Exit.

Sir W. So, as usual, risen with the lark, I suppose.

Lady W. Her disobedience will break my heart.

Sir W. Zounds! I shall go mad. Here’s a mother-in-law going to break her heart, because my daughter prefers a walk in the morning to writing culinary secrets in a fat folio family receipt book!

Lady W. Sir Willoughby, sir Willoughby, it is you who encourage her in disregarding my orders.

Sir W. No such thing, lady Worret, no such thing: but if the girl likes to bring home a pair of ruddy cheeks from a morning walk, I don’t see why she is to be balked of her fancy.

Lady W. Ruddy cheeks, indeed! Such robust health is becoming only in dairy maids.

Sir W. Yes, I know your taste to a T. A consumption is always a key to your tender heart; and an interesting pallid countenance will at any time unlock the door to your best affections: but I must be excused if I prefer seeing my daughter with the rosy glow of health upon her cheek, rather than the sickly imitations of art, which bloom on the surface alone, while the fruit withers and decays beneath – but zounds! don’t speak so loud, here’s somebody coming, and they’ll think we are quarrelling. (Helen sings behind) So here comes our madcap.

Enter Helen

Helen. Good morning, good morning. Here, papa, look what a beautiful posy of wild flowers I have gathered. See, the dew is still upon them. How lovely they are! To my fancy, now, these uncultivated productions of nature have more charms than the whole garden can equal. Why can we not all be like these flowers, simple and inartificial, with the stamp of nature and truth upon us?

Lady W. Romantic stuff! But how comes it, Miss Helen, that my orders are thus disobeyed?

Helen. Why lord, mamma, I’ll tell you how it was; but first I must eat my breakfast; so I’ll sit down and tell you all about it. (sits down.) In the first place, I rose at six, and remembering I was to copy out the whole catalogue of sweetmeats, and as I hate all sweet things, (some sugar, if you please, papa) I determined to take one run round the park before I sat down to my morning’s work: so taking a crust of bread and a glass of cold water, which I love better than (some tea, if you please, mamma) any thing in the world, out I flew like a lapwing; stopped at the dairy; and (some cream, if you please, papa) down to the meadows and gathered my nosegay; and then bounded home, with a heart full of gayety, and a rare appetite for – some roll and butter, if you please, mamma.

Lady W. Daughter, this levity of character is unbecoming your sex, and even your age. You see none of this offensive flightiness in me.

Sir W. Come, come, my dear lady Worret. Helen’s gayety is natural. Helen, my love, I have charming news for you. Every thing is at last arranged between lord Austencourt and me respecting your marriage.

Helen. Why now, if mamma-in-law had said this, I should have thought she meant to make me as grave as herself.

Lady W. In expectation that Helen will behave as becomes her in this most important affair of her life, I consent to pass over her negligence this morning in regard to my favourite receipts.

Helen. I hate all receipts, sweet, bitter, and sour.

Lady W. Then we will now talk of a husband.

Helen. I hate all husbands, sweet, bitter, and sour.

Sir W. Whoo! Helen, my love, you should not contradict your mamma.

Helen. My dear papa, I don’t contradict her; but I will not marry lord Austencourt.

Lady W. This is too much for my weak nerves. I leave you, sir Willoughby, to arrange this affair, while I hasten to attend to my domestic duties.

Sir W. (aside to lady W.) That’s right; you’d better leave her to me. I’ll manage her, I warrant. Let me assist you – there – I’ll soon settle this business. (Hands lady Worret off.)

Helen. Now, my dear papa, are you really of the same opinion as her ladyship?

Sir W. Exactly.

Helen. Ha! ha! lud! but that’s comical. What! both think alike?

Sir W. Precisely.

Helen. That’s very odd. I believe it’s the first time you’ve agreed in opinion since you were made one: but I’m quite sure you never can wish me to marry a man I do not love.

Sir W. Why no, certainly not; but you will love him; indeed you must. It’s my wife’s wish, you know, and so I wish it of course. Come, come, in this one trifling matter you must oblige us.

Helen. Well, as you think it only a trifling matter, and as I think it of importance enough to make me miserable, I’m sure you’ll give up the point.

Sir W. Why no, you are mistaken. To be sure I might have given it up; but my lady Worret, you know – but that’s no matter. Marriage is a duty, and tis incumbent on parents to see their children settled in that happy state.

Helen. Have you found that state so happy, sir?

Sir W. Why – yes – that is – hey? happy! certainly. Doesn’t every body say so? and what every body says must be true. However, that’s not to the purpose. A connexion with the family of lord Austencourt is particularly desirable.

Helen. Not to me, I assure you, papa.

Sir W. Our estates join so charmingly to one another.

Helen. But sure that’s no reason we should be joined to one another.

Sir W. But their contiguity seems to invite a union by a marriage between you.

Helen. Then pray, papa, let the stewards marry the estates and give me a separate maintenance.

Sir. W. Helen, Helen, I see you are bent on disobedience to my lady Worret’s wishes. Zounds! you don’t see me disobedient to her wishes; but I know whereabouts your objection lies. That giddy, dissipated young fellow, his cousin Charles, the son of sir Rowland Austencourt, has filled your head with nonsensical notions and chimeras of happiness. Thank Heaven, however, he’s far enough off at sea.

Helen. And I think, sir, that because a man is fighting our battles abroad, he ought not to be the less dear to those whom his courage enables to live in tranquillity at home.

Sir W. That’s very true: (aside) but I have an unanswerable objection to all you can say. Lord Austencourt is rich, and Charles is a beggar. Besides sir Rowland himself prefers lord Austencourt.

Helen. More shame for him. His partial feelings to his nephew, and unnatural disregard of his son, have long since made me hate him. In short, you are for money, and choose lord Austencourt: I am for love, and prefer his poor cousin.

Sir W. Then, once for all, as my lady Worret must be obeyed, I no longer consult you on the subject, and it only remains for you to retain the affection of an indulgent father, by complying with my will (I mean my wife’s) or to abandon my protection. [Exit.

Helen. I won’t marry him, papa, I won’t, nor I won’t cry, though I’ve a great mind. A plague of all money, say I. Oh! what a grievous misfortune it is to be born with 12,000l. a year? but if I can’t marry the man I like, I won’t marry at all; that’s determined: and every body knows the firmness of a woman’s resolution, when she resolves on contradiction. [Exit.

SCENE III. – O’Dedimus’s office. Boxes round the shelves. O’Dedimus discovered writing at an office table. A few papers and parchments, &c

O’Dedimus. There! I think I’ve expressed my meaning quite plainly, (reads) “Farmer Flail, I’m instructed by lord Austencourt, your landlord, to inform you, by word of letter, that if you can’t afford to pay the additional rent for your farm, you must turn out.” I think that’s clear enough. “As to your putting in the plea of a large family, we cannot allow that as a set off; because, when a man can’t afford to support seven children with decency, he ought not to trouble himself to get them.” I think that’s plain English.

“Your humble servant,

“CORNELIUS O’DEDIMUS,

“Attorney at law.

“P.S. You may show this letter to his lordship, to convince him I have done my duty; but as I don’t mean one word of it, if you’ll come to me privately, I’ll see what can be done for you, without his knowing any thing of the matter,” and I think that’s plain English.

Enter gamekeeper with a countryman in custody

O’Ded. Well, friend, and what are you?

Countryman. I be’s a poacher: so my lord’s gamekeeper here do say.

O’Ded. A poacher! Faith that’s honest.

Gamekeeper. I caught him before day-light on the manor. I took away his gun and shot his dog.

O’Ded. That was bravely done. So, you must pamper your long stomach with pheasants and partridges, and be damned to ye! Will you prefer paying five pounds now, or three month’s hard labour in the house of correction?

Countrym. Thank ye, sir, I don’t prefer either, sir.

O’Ded. You must go before the justice. He’ll exhort you, and commit ye.

Countrym. Ees, I do know that extortion and commission, and such like, be the office of the justice; but I’ll have a bit of law, please punch. He ha’ killed my poor dog, that I loved like one o’ my own children, and I’ve gotten six of ’em, Lord bless ’em.

O’Ded. Six dogs!

Countrym. Dogs! No, children, mun.

O’Ded. Six children! Och, the fruitful sinner!

Countrym. My wife be a pains-taking woman, sir. We ha’ had this poor dog from a puppy.

O’Ded. Shut your ugly mouth, you babbler. – Six children! Oh! we must make an example of this fellow. An’t I the village lawyer? and an’t I the terror of all the rogues of the parish? (aside to him.) You must plead “not guilty.”

Countrym. But I tell you, if that be guilt, I be guilty.

O’Ded. Why, you blundering booby, if you plead guilty, how will I ever be able to prove you innocent?

Countrym. Guilty or innocent, I’ll have the law of him, by gum. He has shot my poor old mongrel, and taken away my musket; and I’ve lost my day’s drilling, and I’ll make him pay for it.

O’Ded. A mongrel and a musket! by St. Patrick, Mr. Gamekeeper, and you have nately set your foot in it.

Gamekeeper. Why, sir, its a bad affair, sir. ’Twas so dark, I couldn’t see; and when I discovered my mistake, I offered him a shilling to make it up, and he refused it.

O’Ded. (aside to gamekeeper.) Harkye, Mr. Gamekeeper; he has one action against ye for his dog, and another for false imprisonment. (aloud) I love to see the laws enforced with justice: (aside) but I’ll always help a poor man to stand up against oppression. (to gamekeeper) He has got you on the hip, and so go out and settle it between yourselves, and do you take care of yourself: (to countryman) and do you make the best of your bargain. [Exeunt.

Parish officer brings forward the sailor

Officer. Here’s a vagrant. I found him begging without a pass.

O’Ded. Take him before his worship directly. The sturdy rogue ought to be punished.

Sailor. Please your honour, I’m a sailor.

O’Ded. And if you’re a sailor, an’t you ashamed to own it? A begging sailor is a disgrace to an honourable profession, for which the country has provided an asylum as glorious as it is deserved.

Sailor. Why so it has: but I an’t bound for Greenwich yet.

O’Ded. (aside to him.) Why, you’re disabled, I see.

Sailor. Disabled! What for? Why I’ve only lost one arm yet. Bless ye, I’m no beggar. I was going to see my Nancy, thirty miles further on the road, and meeting some old messmates, we had a cann o’ grog together. One cann brought on another, and then we got drinking the king’s health, and the navy, and then this admiral, and then t’other admiral, till at last we had so many gallant heroes to drink, that we were all drunk afore we came to the reckoning; so, your honour, as my messmates had none of the rhino, I paid all; and then, you know, they had a long journey upwards, and no biscuit aboard; so I lent one a little, and another a little, till at last I found I had no coin left in my locker for myself, except a cracked teaster that Nancy gave me; and I couldn’t spend that, you know, though I had been starving.

O’Ded. And so you begged!

Sailor. Begged! no. I just axed for a bit of bread and a mug o’ water. That’s no more than one Christian ought to give another, and if you call that begging, why I beg to differ in opinion.

O’Ded. According to the act you are a vagrant, and the justice may commit ye; (aside to the officer) lookye, Mr. Officer – you’re in the wrong box here. Can’t you see plain enough, by his having lost an arm, that he earns a livelihood by the work of his hands; so lest he should be riotous for being detained, let me advise you to be off. I’ll send him off after you with a flea in his ear – the other way.

Officer. Thank ye, sir, thank ye. I’m much obliged to you for your advice, sir, and shall take it, and so my service to you. [Exit.

O’Ded. Take this my honest lad; (gives money) say nothing about it, and give my service to Nancy.

Sailor. Why now, heaven bless you honour forever; and if ever you’re in distress, and I’m within sight of signals, why hang out your blue lights; and if I don’t bear down to your assistance, may my gun be primed with damp powder the first time we fire a broadside at the enemy. [Exit.

O’Dedimus rings a bell

O’Ded. Ponder! Now will this fellow be thinking and thinking, till he quite forgets what he’s doing. Ponder, I say! (enter Ponder.) Here, Ponder, take this letter to farmer Flail’s, and if you see Mrs. Muddle, his neighbour, give my love and duty to her.

Ponder. Yes, yes, sir; but at that moment, sir, I was immersed in thought, if I may be allowed the expression; I was thinking of the vast difference between love and law, and yet how neatly you’ve spliced them together in your last instructions to your humble servant, Peter Ponder, clerk. – Umph!

O’Ded. Umph! is that your manners, you bear-garden? Will I never be able to larn you to behave yourself? Study me, and talk like a gentleman, and be damn’d to ye.

Ponder. I study the law; I can’t talk it.

O’Ded. Cant you? Then you’ll never do. If your tongue don’t run faster than your client’s, how will you ever be able to bother him, you booby?

Ponder. I’ll draw out his case; he shall read, and he’ll bother himself.

O’Ded. You’ve a notion. Mind my instructions, and I don’t despair of seeing you at the bar one day. Was that copy of a writ sarved yesterday upon Garble, the tailor?

Ponder. Aye.

O’Ded. And sarve him right too. That’s a big rogue, that runs in debt wid his eyes open, and though he has property, refuses to pay. Is he safe?

Ponder. He was bailed by Swash the brewer.

O’Ded. And was the other sarved on Shuttle, the weaver?

Ponder. Aye.

O’Ded. Who bailed him?

Ponder. Nobody. He’s gone to jail.

O’Ded. Gone to jail! Why his poverty is owing to misfortune. He can’t pay. Well, that’s not our affair. The law must have its course.

Ponder. So Shuttle said to his wife, as she hung crying on his shoulder.

O’Ded. That’s it; he’s a sensible man; and that’s more than his wife is. We’ve nothing to do with women’s tears.

Ponder. Not a bit. So they walked him off to jail in a jiffey, if I may be allowed the expression.

O’Ded. To be sure, and that was right. They did their duty: though for sartin, if a poor man can’t pay his debts when he’s at liberty, he wont be much nearer the mark when he’s shut up in idleness in a prison.

Ponder. No.

O’Ded. And when he that sent them there comes to make up his last account, ’tis my belief that he wont be able to show cause why a bill shouldn’t be filed against him for barbarity. Are the writings all ready for sir Rowland?

Ponder. All ready. Shall I now go to farmer Flail’s with the letter?

O’Ded. Aye, and if you see Shuttle’s wife in your way, give my service to her; and d’ye hear, as you’re a small talker, don’t let the little you say be so cursed crabbed; and if a few kind words of comfort should find their way from your heart to your tongue, don’t shut your ugly mouth, and keep them within your teeth. You may tell her that if she can find any body to stand up for her husband, I shan’t be over nice about the sufficiency of the bail. Get you gone.

Ponder. I shall. Let me see! farmer Flail – Mrs. Muddle, his neighbour – Shuttle’s wife – and a whole string of messages and memorandums – here’s business enough to bother the brains of any ordinary man! You are pleased to say, sir, that I am too much addicted to thinking – I think not. [Exit Ponder.

O’Ded. By my soul, if an attorney wasn’t sometimes a bit of a rogue, he’d never be able to earn an honest livelihood. Oh Mr. O’Dedimus! why have you so little when your heart could distribute so much!

Sir Rowland, without

Sir Row. Mr. O’Dedimus – within there!

O’Ded. Yes, I’m within there.

Enter sir Rowland

Sir Row. Where are these papers? I thought the law’s delay was only felt by those who could not pay for its expedition.

O’Ded. The law, sir Rowland, is a good horse, and his pace is slow and sure; but he goes no faster because you goad him with a golden spur; but every thing is prepared, sir; and now, sir Rowland, I have an ugly sort of an awkward affair to mention to you.

Sir Row. Does it concern me?

O’Ded. You know, sir Rowland, at the death of my worthy friend, the late lord Austencourt, you were left sole executor and guardian to his son, the present lord, then an infant of three years of age.

Sir Row. What does this lead to? (starting)

O’Ded. With a disinterested view to benefit the estate of the minor, who came of age the other day, you some time ago embarked a capital of 14,000l. in a great undertaking.

Sir Row. Proceed.

O’Ded. I have this morning received a letter from the agent, stating the whole concern to have failed, the partners to be bankrupts, and the property consigned to assignees not to promise, as a final dividend, more than one shilling in the pound. This letter will explain the rest.

Sir Row. How! I was not prepared for this – What’s to be done?

O’Ded. When one loses a sum of money that isn’t one’s own, there’s but one thing to be done.

Sir Row. And what is that?

O’Ded. To pay it back again.

Sir Row. You know that to be impossible, utterly impossible.

O’Ded. Then, sir Rowland, take the word of Cornelius O’Dedimus, attorney at law, his lordship will rigidly exact the money, to the uttermost farthing.

Sir Row. You are fond, sir, of throwing out these hints to his disadvantage.

O’Ded. I am bold to speak it – I am possessed of a secret, sir Rowland, in regard to his lordship.

Sir Row. (alarmed.) What is it you mean?

O’Ded. I thought I told you it was a secret.

Sir Row. But to me you should have no secrets that regard my family.

O’Ded. With submission, sir Rowland, his lordship is my client, as well as yourself, and I have learned from the practice of the courts, that an attorney who blabs in his business has soon no suit to his back.

Sir Row. But this affair, perhaps, involves my deepest interest – my character – my all is at stake.

O’Ded. Have done wid your pumping now – d’ye think I am a basket full of cinders, that I’m to be sifted after this fashion?

Sir Row. Answer but this – does it relate to Charles, my son?

O’Ded. Sartinly, the young gentleman has a small bit of interest in the question.

Sir Row. One thing more. Does it allude to a transaction which happened some years ago – am I a principal concerned in it?

O’Ded. Devil a ha’porth – it happened only six months past.

Sir R. Enough – I breathe again.

O’Ded. I’m glad of that, for may-be you’ll now let me breathe to tell you that as I know lord Austencourt’s private character better than you do, my life to a bundle of parchment, he’ll even arrest ye for the money.

Sir R. Impossible, he cannot be such a villain!