Stock. I thank you. What happiness has this hour brought to pass! O'Fla. Why don't we all sit down to supper then, and make a night on't? Enter BELCOUR, introducing Miss RUSPORT. Bel. Mr. Dudley, here is a fair refugee, who properly comes under your protection; she is equipped for Scotland; but your good fortune, which i have related to her, seems inclined to save you both the journey. Nay, madam, never go back; you are amongst friends. Charles, Charlotte! Miss R. The same; that fond, officious girl, that haunts you everywhere: that persecuting spiritCharles. Say rather, that protecting angel; such you have been to me. Miss R. O Charles, you have an honest, but proud heart. Charles, Nay chide me not, dear Charlotte. Bel. Seal up her lips, then; she is an adorable girl; her arms are open to you; and love and happiness are ready to receive you. Charles. Thus, then, I claim my dear, my destined wife. [Embracing her. Enter Lady RUSPORT. Lady R. Hey-day! mighty fine! wife, truly mighty well! kissing, embracing; did ever anything equal this? Why, you shameless hussy! But I won't condescend to waste a word upon you. You, sir, you, Mr. Stockwell; you fine, sanctified, fair-dealing man of conscience; is this the principle you trade upon? Is this your neighbourly system, to keep a house of reception for runaway daughters, and young beggarly fortune-hunters? O'Fla. Be advised now, and don't put yourself in such a passion: we were all very happy till you came. Lady R. Stand away, sir; haven't I reason to be in a passion? O'Fla. Indeed, honey, and you have, if you knew all. Lady R. Come, madam, I have found out your haunts; dispose yourself to return home with me. Young man, let me never see you within my doors again: Mr. Stockwell, I shall report your behaviour, depend on it. Stock. Hold, madam, I cannot consent to lose Miss Rusport's company this evening, and I am persuaded you won't insist upon it; 'tis an unmotherly action to interrupt your daughter's happiness in this manner, believe me it is. Lady R. Her happiness truly! upon my word! and I suppose it's an unmotherly action to interrupt her ruin; for what but ruin must it be to marry a beggar? I think my sister had a proof of that, sir, when she made choice of you. [To Capt. DUDLEY. Dud. Don't be too lavish of your spirits, Lady Rusport. O'Fla. By my soul, you'll have occasion for a sip of the cordial elixir by-and-by. Stock. It don't appear to me, madam, that Mr. Dudley can be called a beggar. Lady R. But it appears to me, Mr. Stockwell; I am apt to think a pair of colours cannot furnish a settlement quite sufficient for the heiress of Sir Stephen Rusport. Miss R. But a good estate, in aid of a commission, may do something. Lady R. A good estate, truly! where should-he get a good estate, pray? Stock. Why, suppose now, a worthy old geman, on his death-bed, should have taken it in mate leave him one Lady R. Ha! what's that you say? O'Fla. O ho! you begin to smell a piti? Stock. Suppose there should be a paper a the world, that runs thus-" I do hereby give and be queath all my estates, real and personal, to Ches Dudley, son of my late daughter Louisa, &c. &LE O' Fla. There's a fine parcel of etceteras for par ladyship. Lady R. Why, I am thunderstruck' by m contrivance, what villainy, did you get pas of that paper? Stock. There was no villainy, madam in possession of it; the crime was in concealing in bringing it to light. Lady R. Oh, that cursed lawyer, Varland! O'Fla. You may say that, 'faith; he is a cus lawyer, and a cursed piece of work I had to g the paper from him; your ladyship now was to he paid him five thousand pounds for it: I forced h to give it me of his own accord, for nothing a at all! Lady R. Is it you that have done this? Amed by your blundering contrivances, after all? O'Fla. "Twas a blunder, 'faith, but as natural one as if I had made it o'purpose. Charles. Come, let us not oppress the fallen; do right even now, and you shall have no cause to complain. Lady R. Am I become an object of your pity, ! then? Insufferable! Confusion light amongst you! marry, and be wretched: let me never see you more. Eri Miss R. She is outrageous; I suffer for her, and blush to see her thus exposed. Charles. Come, Charlotte, don't let this angry woman disturb our happiness: we will save her, in spite of herself; your father's memory shall not be stained by the discredit of his second choice. Miss R. I trust implicitly to your discretion, and am in all things your's. Bel. Now, lovely, but obdurate, does not this example soften? Lou. What can you ask for more? Accept my hand, accept my willing heart. Bel. O, bliss unutterable! brother, father, frire, and you, the author of this general joy O'Fla. Blessing of St. Patrick upon us all' tis a night of wonderful and surprising ups and downs: I wish we were all fairly set down to supper, and there was an end on't. Stock. Hold for a moment! I have yet one word to interpose. Entitled by my friendship to a voice in your disposal, I have approved your match; there yet remains a father's consent to be obtained. Bel. Have I a father? Stock. You have a father; did not I tell you! had a discovery to make? Compose yourself, you have a father, who observes, who knows, who love pring from this night's unforeseen events, to enear us to each other. O'Fla. O'my conscience, I think we shall be all elated by-and-by this excellent young lady makes me glory in ac knowledging you to be my son. Bel. I thank you; and in my turn, glory in the father I have gained. Sensibly impressed wita Stock. Yes, Belcour, I have watched you with a gratitude for such extraordinary dispensations, I atient, but inquiring eye, and I have discovered beseech you, amiable Louisa, for the time to come, hrough the veil of some irregularities, a heart beam-whenever you perceive me deviating into error or ng with benevolence and animated nature: fallible offence, bring only to my mind the providence of adeed, but not incorrigible; and your election of this night, and I will turn to reason and obey. [Exeuni. THE JE W; A COMEDY, IN FIVE ACTS; BY RICHARD CUMBERLAND. DRAMATIS PERSONE. SIR STEPHEN BERTRAM FREDERICK CHARLES RATCLIFFE JABAL. MRS. RATCLIFFE ELIZA RATCLIFFE MRS. GOODISON ACT I. Sir S. I am your father, sir, and in this house sole master: I have no partners to account to; nor will I brook any comments on my conduct from my son. Fred. Yet, as your son, may I not, without risk. ing your displeasure, offer one humble word upon the part of a defenceless, absent friend? Sir S. A friend! Fred. Yes, sir; I hope I need not blush to call Charles Ratcliffe friend. His virtues, his misfortunes, his integrity, (you'll undeceive me if I err,) have much endeared him to me. Sir S. Say rather his connexions. Come, I see where all his friendship points-to folly, to disgrace -therefore, no more of it. Break off; new friendships will cost you dear; 'tis better you should cease to call him friend, than put it in his power to call you brother. In one word, Frederick, I never will accept of Ratcliffe's sister as my daughter-in-law; SCENE I-An Apartment in the House of Sir nor, if I can prevent it, shall you so far forget your Stephen Bertram. Sir STEPHEN BERTRAM and FREDERICK. Sir S. Why do you press me for reasons I'm not bound to give? If I choose to dismiss an assistant clerk from my counting-house, how does it concern you? self as to make her your mistress. Fred. Mistress! Good heaven!-But I'll restrain myself. You never saw Miss Ratcliffe. Sir S. I wish you never had.--But you have seen your last of her, or me-I leave it to your choice. Erit. Fred. I have no choice to make; she is my wife Fred. That clerk you took at my recommenda--and if to take beauty, virtue, and elegance, withtion and request: I am therefore interested to hope you have no reasons for dismissing him, that affect his character out fortune, when my father would have me take fortune without them, is a crime that merits disinheritance, I must meet my punishment as I can. Fred. Pass on, pass on! 110 Sheva. Ah! that is very goot. The only thing I dread is the severe but honourable | reproach of my friend Ratcliffe, to whom this mar-come every where. riage is a secret, and whose disinterested resentment I know not how to face: I must dissemble with him still, for I am unorepared with my defence, and he is here, Enter CHARLES RATCLIFFE. 1 Char. Well met, Frederick. Fred. I wish I could say so. Char. Why, what's the matter now Fred. I have no good news to tell you. Char. I don't expect it; you are not made to be the bearer of good news: knavery engrosses all fortune's favour, and fools run up and down with the tidings of it. Fred. You are still a philosopher. Char. I cannot tell that, till I am tried with prosperity it is that which sets our failings in full view; adversity conceals them.-But come, discuss tell me in what one part of my composition the ingenious cruelty of fortune can place another blow. Fred. By my soul, Charles, I am ashamed to tell you, because the blow is now given by a hand I wish to reverence. You know the temper of Sir Stephen Bertram: he is my father, therefore I will not enlarge upon a subject that would be painful to us both. It is with infinite regret I have seen you (nobly descended, and still more nobly endowed,) earning a scanty maintenance at your desk in his Counting-house: it is a slavery you are now released from. Char. I understand you; Sir Stephen has no further commands for me. I will go to him and deliver [Going. up my keys. Fred. Have patience for a moment. Do you guess his reasons for this hasty measure? Char. What care I for his reasons, when I know they cannot touch my honour. Fred. Oh! Charles, my heart is penetrated with your situation: what will become of those beloved objects? Char. Why, what becomes of all the objects misery lays low? they shrink from sight and are forgotten.-You know I will not hear you on this subject; 'twas not with my consent you ever knew there were such objects in existence. Fred. I own it; but in this extremity, methinks you might relax a little from that rigid honour. Char. Never; but, as the body of a man is braced by winter, so is my resolution by adversity. On this point only we can differ. Why will my friend persist in urging it? Fred. I have done. You have your way. Char. Then, with your leave, I'll go to your father. Fred. Hold! Here comes one that supersedes all ether visitors-old Sheva, the rich Jew, the merest muckworm in the city of London. How the old Hebrew casts about for prodigals to snap at!-I'll throw him out a bait for sport. Char. No, let him pass; what sport can his infirmities afford? Enter SHEVA. Sheva. The goot day to you, my young master! How is it with your health, pray ? Is your fader, Sir Stephen Bertram, and my very good patron, to be spoken with? Fred. Yes, yes, he is at home, and to be spoken with under some precaution, Sheva: if you bring him money, you would be welcome. Monies i a more qugs. Good man of money, save your breath to r guineas. [Erit SHEVA.] That fellow would vis his shadow fall upon the earth, if he couli vit Char. You are too hard upon him. Thengs courteous. Fred. Hang him! he'll bow for balla-com His carcase and its covering would not can in A ducat, yet he is a moving mine of wealth. Char. You see these characters with ingre: I contemplate them with pity. I have feeling for poor Sheva: he is as much in your as I am, only it is poverty of another species vas what he has; I have nothing, and want evang Misers are not unuseful members of the community they act like dams to rivers, hold up the stream t else would run to waste, and make deep water whe there would be shallows. Fred. I recollect you was his rescuer; I did ar know you were his advocate. Char. 'Tis true, I snatched him out of jeopar My countrymen, with all their natural hom have no objection to the bustling of a Jew. The poor old creature was most roughly handled. Fred. What was the cause. Char. I never asked the cause. There was 2 hundred upon one; that was cause enough for me to make myself a second to the party overmatched.— I got a few hard knocks, but I brought off my man. Fred. The synagogue should canonize you for the deed. Re-enter SVA. Sheva. Aha! there is no business to be done; there is no talking to your fader. He is not just now in the sweetest of all possible tempers. Anything Mr. Bertram, wanted in my way? Fred. Yes, Sheva, there is enough wanted in your way, but I doubt it is not in your will to do it. Shera. I do always do my utmost for my principals: I never spare my pains when business is going: be it ever such a trifle I am thankful. Every little helps a poor man like me. Fred. You speak of your spirit, I suppose, when you call yourself a poor man. All the world knows you roll in riches. I Sheva. The world knows no great deal of me do not deny that my monies may roll a little, but for myself I do not roll at all. I live sparingly, and labour hard, therefore I am called a miser-I can not help it; an uncharitable dog-I must endure it; a bloodsucker, an extortioner, a Shylock-hard names, Mr. Frederick; but what can a pour Jew say in return, if a Christian chooses to abuse him? Fred. Say nothing, but spend your money like a Christian. Shera. We have no abiding place on earth, 19 country, no home: everybody rails at us, everybody flouts us, everybody points us out for their magame and their mockery. If your play-writers wa butt or a buffoon, or a knave to make sport of comes a Jew to be baited and buffetted through fre long acts, for the amusement of all good Chrstane, Cruel sport!-merciless amusement! Hard dealings for a poor stray sheep of the scattered flock of Abraham! How can you expect us to shew kind ness, when we receive none? Char. [Advancing.] That is true, friend Shera, I can witness: I am sorry to say there is to ca justice in your complaint Shera. Bless this goot light! I did not see youis my very goot friend, Mr. Ratcliffe, as I live. ive me your pardon, I pray you, sir, give me your ardon. I should be sorry to say in your hearing, at there is no charity for the poor Jews. Truly, r, I am under very great obligations to you for your euerous protection t'other night, when I was mobed and maltreated; and, for aught I can tell, hould have been massacred, had not you stood forvard in my defence. Truly, sir, I bear it very hankful in my remembrance; truly I do; yes, ruly. Fred. Leave me with him, Charles; I'll hold him n discourse whilst you go to my father. [Exit CHARLES. Shera. Oh! it was goot deed, very goot deed, to ave a poor Jew from a pitiless mob; and I am very grateful to you, worthy Mr.Ah! the gentleman s gone away; that is another thing. Fred. It is so, but your gratitude need not go away at the same time; you are not bound to make good the old proverb-"Out of sight, out of mind." Shera. No, no, no; I am very much obliged to h.m, not only for my life, but for the monies and the valuables I had about me; I had been hustled out of them all but for him. Fred. Well, then, having so much gratitude for his favours, you have now an opportunity of making some return to him. Sheva. Yes, yes; and I do make him a return of my thanks and goot wishes very heartily. What can a poor Jew say more? I do wish him all goot things, and give him all goot words. Fred. Good words, indeed! What are they to a man who is cast naked upon the wide world, with a widowed mother and a defenceless sister, who look up to him for their support? Sheva, Good lack, good lack! I thought he was in occupations in your fader's counting-house. Fred. He was and from his scanty pittance, piously supported these poor destitutes: that source is now stopped, and as you, when in the midst of rioters, was in want of a protector, so is he, in the midst of his misfortunes, in want of some kind friend to rescue him. Sheva. Oh dear, oh dear! this world is full of sadness and of sorrow; miseries upon miseries! unfortunates by hundreds and by thousands, and poor Sheva has but two weak eyes to find tears for them all. Fred. Come, come, Sheva, pity will not feed the hungry, nor clothe the naked. Ratcliffe is the friend of my heart: I am helpless in myself; my father, though just, is austere in the extreme; I dare not resort to him for money, nor can I turn my thoughts to any other quarter for the loan of a =small sum in this extremity, except to you. Sheva. To me! good lack, to me! What will become of me? What will Sir Stephen say? He is full of monies; but then again, he is a close man, very austere, as you say, and very just, but not very generous. Pred. Well, well, let me have your answer. Sheva. Yes, yes; but my answer will not please you without the monies: I shall be a Jewish dog, a baboon, an imp of Beelzebub, if I don't find the monies; and when my monies is all gone, what shall I be then? An ass, a fool, a jack-a-dandy !— Oh dear! Oh dear! Well, there must be conditions, look you. Fred. To be sure: security twice secured; premium and interest, and bond and judgment into the bargain. Only enable me to preserve my frierd give me that transport, and I care not what I pay for it. Sheva. Mercy on your heart! what haste and hurry you are in! How much did you want? One hundred pounds, did you say? Fred. More than one, more than one. Shera. Ah, poor Sheva! more than one hundred pounds; what! so much as two hundred? 'tis a great deal of monies. Fred. Come, friend Sheva, at one word-three hundred pounds. Shera, Mercies defend me, what a sum! Fred. Accommodate me with three hundred pounds; make your own terms; consult your conscience in the bargain, and I will say you are a good fellow. Oh Sheva! did you but know the luxury of relieving honour, innocence, and beauty, from distress! Shera. Oh! 'tis a great luxury, I dare say, else you would not buy it at so high a price. Well, well, well! I have thought a little, and if you will come to my poor cabin in Duke's Place, you shall have the monies. Fred. Well said, my gallant Sheva! Shall I bring a bond with me to fill up? Sheva. No, no, no; we have all those in my shop. Fred. I don't doubt it: all the apparatus of an usuter. [Aside.] Farewell, Sheva! be ready with your instruments, I care not what they are: only let me have the money, and you may proceed to dissection as soon after as you please. [Exit. Shera. Heigho! I cannot choose but weep. Sheva, thou art a fool. Three hundred pounds, by the day, how much is that in the year?-Oh dear, oh dear! I shall be ruined, starved, wasted to a watch light. Bowels, you shall pinch for this: I'll not eat flesh this fortnight: I'll suck the air for nourishment: I'll feed upon the steam of an alderman's kitchen, as I put my nose down his arca.Well, well! but soft, a word, friend Sheva! Art thou not rich? monstrous rich, abominably rich? and yet thou livest on a crust. Be it so! thou dost stint thine appetites to pamper thine affections; thou dost make thyself to live in poverty, that the poor may live in plenty. Well, well! so long as thou art a miser only to thine own cost, thou mayest hug thyself in this poor habit, and set the world's contempt at nought." Enter CHARLES RATCLIFFE, not noticing the Jew. Char. Unfeeling, heartless man, I've done with you. I'll dig, beg, perish, rather than submit to such unnatural terms! I may remain: my mother and my sister must be banished to a distance. Why, this Jew, this usurer, this ene:ny to our faith, whose heart is in his bags, would not have used me thusI'll question him. Sheva! Sheva. What is your pleasure? Sheva. What is your will, then? speak it. Char. Sheva!-You have been a son-you had a mother-dost remember her? Sheva. Goot lack, goot lack! do I remember her! Char. Didst love her, cherish her, support her? Shera. Ah me! ah me! it is as much as my poor heart will bear to think of her. I would have died— Char. Thou hast affections, feelings, charitiesSheva. I am a man, sir, call me how you please. Char. I'll call you Christian, then; and this proud merchant, Jew |