Mrs. V. B. Mr. Fitz Partington, I did you an injustice when I saw you last-I doubted you. Will you forgive me? [Holding out her hand. Fitz. [much affected, takes it.] Ma'am, this is the most unprofessional moment of my career. No one ever apologized to me before. It is very unmanning. It is like having a tooth out. I hope no one will ever apologize to me again.

Eve. Have you brought us any news, Mr. Fitz Partington? I am sure you are here for some kind purpose.

Fitz. It is my fate to appear continually before you in the character of the Mysterious Warner of penny romance. Mrs. Van Brugh, once more, beware of Smailey! That abject man is going at you again.

Mrs. V. B. Has he not done with me yet? Can I be poorer than I am-or more unhappy—or more despised?

Fitz. He proposes to make you so, but he will be sold.

Eve. But with what motive does he do this? Fitz. Revenge. To adapt the words of the poet to Smailey's frame of mind, "Revenge is sweet, especially on women."

Mrs. V. B. Revenge on me! Through him, whom I have never injured, I have lost my home, my fortune, and my good name, and he seeks revenge on me?

Fitz. Mrs. Van Brugh, if it is a source of pain to you to know that your friends have cut you, it may console you to know, that in their strict impartiality they have also cut him. He is hooted in the streets. His windows are a public cockshy. Nobody is at home to him, and though he is at home to everybody, it is to no purpose. The very tradesmen refuse to supply him. He is a desolate and a hungry being, and nobody calls on him except the taxes.

Eve. I fear, Mr. Fitz Partington, that you may yourself have suffered from your association with

this man.

Fitz. [to EvE.] I? I believe you! Why, I go about in fear of my life. Not only am I deprived of the necessaries of existence, but I have become the very focus of public execration. I couldn't be more unpopular if I had come down to stand for the borough.

Eve. But, Mr. Fitz Partington, how in heaven's name does he propose to injure my mother? What can he do to her that he has not already done?

Fitz. He is advertising for the present Mrs. Van Brugh's marriage certificate, and the late Mrs. Van Brugh's burial certificate, with a view to a prosecution for bigamy.

Eve. Mamma, mamma, do you hear this?

[Crosses to her.

Mrs. V. B. Yes, I hear it. I knew that he had conceived this monstrous idea, but I have already assured him there is no ground for his suspicion. I have told him-[after a pause, and with much shame] the truth.

Fitz. Yes; but he don't believe you. Read that. [Hands newspaper to EVE, who gives it to MRS. VAN BRUGH, pointing out advertisement.] Such is the snake-like and foxy character of that unparalleled old Pharisee, that he don't believe you. Why, I am a professional skeptic at two guineas a day, and even I believe you.

Mrs. V. B. [who has been reading the advertise

ment.] This is most shameful. This is monstrous beyond expression. I have borne my terrible punishment to this point patiently, and without undue murmur, but I will bear no more. Let that man know this. He has roused me at last, and I will meet him face to face. Let him know that, helpless and friendless as he believes me to be; crushed as I am under the weight of the fearful revelation he has extorted from me; shunned as I am, and despised even by those whom all despise but I, I am yet strong in this, that I have nothing more to lose. He has made me desperate, and let him beware. There are men in these days as hot in the defense of an insulted woman as in the days gone by, and he shall have a legion of them about his ears. I have been punished enough. I will be punished no further.

Eve and Mrs. V. B. You!

Fitz. I. I drew up the advertisement, put it in, and paid for it. It's a dodge-I've put him on a wrong scent.

Mrs. V. B. How am I to understand this?

Fitz. That's just it; you are not to understand -at present. You are to do me justice to believe that, when you do understand it, you will like it very much. I've put him on a wrong scent, and if I'm not very much mistaken, it will have the effect of taking him in his own toils. For the present it is enough to tell you that his advertisement has been answered, and that the person who answered it is to meet him here this afternoon.

Mrs. V. B. Here? Why does he come to me? Fitz. Because he conceives, with some reason, that you are not likely to go to him. But don't be alarmed. I shall accompany him, as per [Exit FITZ PARTINGTON.

usual.

His

We

Mrs. V. B. [covering her face.] Oh, the shame of it! Oh, the shame of it! To know that my terrible story is the common gossip of every plowboy in the village; to feel that there is not a flighty servant-girl who does not gather her skirts about her as she passes me; to be certain when women cross the road it is to escape the contamination of my presence; and when they meet me face to face, it is that they may toss their head and tell each other that they knew it from the first! Oh, the shame of it! Oh, the shame of it! Eve. But Mr. Smailey can do nothing. wicked schemes must recoil upon himself. will leave Locroft; we will leave this fearful place. Dr. Athelney sails in a fortnight, and he has made arrangements that we may accompany him. There, in a new world, with new friends and new duties, we shall forget all that is bitter in the past, and gather new stores of happiness from the future that is before us. [They embrace. Enter DR. ATHELNEY, L. D. Crosses to EVE. Dr. A. Mrs. Van Brugh; Eve, my dear, prepare yourself for a surprise. This morning Mrs. Van Brugh and I were discussing Frederick Smailey's probable course of action. That very good or very bad young man is at this moment crossing the lawn with my son, Ted. He is coming with the view, no doubt, of setting all future discussion on that point at rest. Let us suspend

judgment on that admirable or detestable lad until he has explained himself.

Eve. I knew he would come; I was sure of it. Mamma, dear, I told you he loved me, I told you he would come.

Enter FRED and TED ATHELNEY, arm in arm. Fred. Eve!

Eve. [running to him.] Fred, my dear Fred! [He embraces her. Ted. Here he is, I was sure of him; Eve and I were both sure of him. We knew him, Eve, didn't we?

Fred. Edward came to me, Mrs. Van Brugh, and told me that—that you doubted me.

[Much affected.

because I love her deeply, I will fight with the great love that is within me; I will act as becomes a man of honor; I will at once, and of my own free will, release her from this engagement. Eve, my dear Eve, you are free!

[EVE faints in MRS. VAN BRUGH's arms. Mrs. V. B. My darling! My poor, poor darling! Dr. A. [c.] Sir, I have been a clergyman of the Church of England for five-and-forty years, and, until to-day, I have never regretted the restrictions that my calling has imposed upon me. My hands, sir, are tied. Ted, my boy, these remarks do not apply to you.

Ted. [crosses to FRED SMAILEY.] You infernal villain! You unutterably mean and sneaking villain! [Seizing him.

Mrs. V. B. Edward! Edward!

Fred. Mrs. Van Brugh, will you take my hand? [Shakes her hand. Crosses to DR. ATHELNEY, then shakes his hand.] Dr. Athelney, my very dear friend, this is very, very kind of you. You are too noble-hearted a man to confound the son with the father.

Dr. A. I hope and trust, sir, that I have done you an injustice. [Goes up. Fred. Mrs. Van Brugh, I know not how to express my opinion of my father's behavior in terms that would be consistent with my duty as a son. I am most painfully situated. Permit me to content myself with offering you my deepest and most respectful sympathy.

I'll

Mrs. V. B. Mr. Smailey, you speak very kindly. Ted. And he means kindly, mind that. stake my life he means kindly.

Fred. Thank you, Edward; thank you very heartily. My father, Mrs. Van Brugh, is, I have learnt, a very hard man; a good man, a truly good man, but a very hard one. He is unaccountably incensed against you; I have pleaded for you, but alas, in vain! I have implored him to allow you, at least, to continue to occupy the cottage which is endeared to me by so many happy recollections, dear Eve, but in vain. [He takes EVE'S hand.] He-he answered me harshly for the first time in his life! [Much moved.

Ted. My dear fellow, heaven bless you for that! Fred. Under these circumstances I said to myself, How can I lighten this intolerable burden to them? If not to Mrs. Van Brugh, at least to Eve. I lay awake all last night, thinking it over, and at last at last I saw my way.

Ted. [to DR. ATHELNEY.] Trust Fred Smailey to find the right thing to do.

Mrs. V. B. Dr. Athelney, pray, pray stop him! Dr. A. Stop him? No, certainly not. I'm too fond of plain truth, and I hear it too seldom, to stop it when I do hear it. Go on with your remarks, my boy, if you've anything else to say. Enter SMAILEY, followed by FITZ PARTINGTON, L.

Mr. S. When your son has quite finished shaking my son, perhaps you will kindly devote a little attention to me.

Fred. Edward, I sincerely hope you may live to apologize for this.

[Offers to shake hands; TED refuses. Dr. A. Mr. Smailey, I must tell you that your presence here is an act of audacity for which I was not prepared.

Mr. S. I fear that the surprise of my appearance here is but the first of a series of surprises in store for you.

Fitz. And I am convinced of it.

Dr. A. [to SMAILEY.] Leave my house, sir!

Mr. S. Nay, nay. I am here in the discharge of a high public duty, and I propose to remain. Come, Dr. Athelney, is this quite considerate? Is this quite as it should be? You are a minister of the Church, about to be invested with the very highest Colonial functions. In affording shelter to this unhappy person, have you not allowed your sympathy for her misfortunes to blind you to the fact that you are a clergyman?

Dr. A. Sir, I never had my duty as a clergyman so strongly before my eyes, as when I placed my home at the disposal of this admirable lady. And believe me, sir, I never felt so strongly disposed to forget my duty as a clergyman as I do at this moment. My hands are tied. Ted, my boy, these remarks do not apply to you. Ted. Mr. Smailey, if you'll come with me I'll see you out.

TRAGEDIES,

A

FARCES, ETC.,

Enter WAITER, R., and SAM, L., meeting. Waiter. [R.] Well, Sam, there's a little difference between this and hay-making, eh?

Sam. Yes; but I get on pretty decent, don't I? Only, you see, when two or three people call at once I'm apt to get flurried; and then I can't help listening to the droll things the young chaps say to one another at dinner-and then I don't exactly hear what they say to me, you see. Sometimes, too, I fall a laughing wi' 'em, and that they don't like, you understand.

Wai. Well, well, you'll soon get the better of all that. [A laugh without, R. Sam. [L.] What's all that about? Wai. [looking out.] Oh, it's Mr. Diddler, trying to joke himself into credit at the bar. But it won't do they know him too well. By the bye, Sam, mind you never trust that fellow. Sam. What, him with the spy-glass? Wai. Yes, that impudent short-sighted fellow. Sam. Why, what for not?

Wai. Why, because he'll never pay you. The fellow lives by sponging-gets into people's houses by his songs and his bonmots.

Sum. Bonmots! what be they?

Wai. Why, saying smart, witty things. At some of the squires' tables he's as constant a guest as the parson or the apothecary.

Did. [aside.] Disastrous accents! A Yorkshireman! What is your name, my fine fellow ?

Sam. [L.] Sam. You need not tell me yours—I know you, my fine fellow!

Did. [aside.] Oh, Fame, Fame! you incorrigible gossip! But nil desperandum-at him again! [To SAM.] A prepossessing physiognomy, open and ruddy, importing health and liberality. Excuse my glass, I'm short-sighted. You have the advantage of me in that respect.

Sam. Yes, I can see as far as most folks.

Did. [turning away.] Well, I'll thank you to– Oh, Sam, you haven't got such a thing as ten pence about you, have you?

Sam. Yes-[they look at each other, DIDDLER expecting to receive it] and I mean to keep it about me, you see.

Did. Oh-aye-certainly! I only asked for information. [Crosses to L.

Sam. [R.] Hark! there's the stage-coach comed in. I must go and wait upon the passengers. You'd better ax some of them-mayhap they mun gi' you a little better information.

Did. [L.] Stop! Hark ye, Sam! you can get me some breakfast first. I'm devilish sharp set, Sam; you see I came a long walk from over the hills, and

Sam. Aye, and you see I come fra-Yorkshire.

Did. You do; your unsophisticated tongue declares it. Superior to vulgar prejudices I honor you for it, for I'm sure you'll bring me my breakfast as soon as any other countryman.

Sam. Aye; well, what will you have? Did. Anything! tea, coffee, an egg, and so forth.

Sam. Well, now, one of us, you understand, in this transaction, mun have credit for a little while. That is, either I mun trust you for t'money, or you mun trust me for t'breakfast. Now, as you're above vulgar preju-prejudizes, and seem to be vastly taken wi' me, and as I'm not so conceited as to be above 'em, and ain't at all taken wi' you, you'd better give me the money, you see, and trust me for t'breakfast. He, he, he!

Did. What d'ye mean by that, Sam?
Sam. Or, mayhap, you'll say me a bonmot.
Did. Sir, you are getting impertinent !

Sam. Oh, what-you don't like the terms? Why, then, as you sometimes sing for your dinner, now you may whistle for your breakfast, you see. He, he, he! [Exit R.

Did. This it is to carry on trade without a capital! Once I paid my way, and in a pretty high road I traveled; but thou art now, Jerry Diddler, little better than a vagabond. Fie on thee! Awake thee, rouse thy spirit! honorably earn thy breakfasts and thy dinners too! But how? my present trade is the only one that requires no apprenticeship. How unlucky that the rich and pretty Miss Plainway, whose heart I won at Bath, should take so sudden a departure that I should lose her address, and call myself a foolish romantic name that will prevent her letters from reaching me. A rich wife would pay my debts and heal my wounded pride. But the degenerate state of my wardrobe is confoundedly against me. There's a warm old rogue, they say, with a pretty daughter, lately come to his house at the foot of the hill. I've a great mind- It's d-d impudent, but if I hadn't surmounted my delicacy I must have starved long ago.

Enter WAITER, L.; crosses in haste to R. George, what's the name of the new family at the foot of the hill?

Wai. I don't know; I can't attend to you now. [Exit R.

Did. There again! Oh, I mustn't bear this any longer-I must make a plunge. No matter for the name. Gad! perhaps it may be more imposing not to know it! I'll go and scribble her a passionate billet immediately-that is, if they'll trust me with pen and ink. [Exit L. Enter FAINWOULD and RICHARD, R. SAM shows them in, crosses to L., and exit.

Fain. Bring breakfast directly. Well, Richard, I think I shall awe them into a little respect here, though they're apt to grin at me in London.

Rich. That you will, I dare say, sir.

Fain. Respect, Richard, is all I want. My father's money has made me a gentleman, and you never see any familiar jesting with your true gentleman, I'm sure.

Rich. Very true, sir. And so, sir, you've come here to marry this Miss Plainway without ever having seen her?

lived at a distance from one another ever since, for Plainway always hated London. But my father has often visited him, and about a month ago, at Bristol, they made up this match. I didn't object to it, for my father says she is a very pretty girl; and, besides, the girls in London don't treat me with proper respect, by any means.

Rich. At Bristol then they're new inhabitants here. Well, sir, you must muster all your gallantry.

Fain. I will, Dick; but I'm not successful that way-I always do some stupid thing or other when I want to be attentive. The other night, in a large assembly, I picked up the tail of a lady's gown, and gave it to her for her pocket-handkerchief. Lord, how the people did laugh!

Rich. It was an awkward mistake, to be sure, sir. Fain. Well, now for a little refreshment and then for Miss Plainway. Go and look after the luggage, Richard. [Sits down. Exit RICHARD, R. Enter DIDDLER, with a letter in his hand, L. Did. Here it is, brief but impressive. If she has but the romantic imagination of my Peggy, the direction alone must win her. [Reads.] "To the beautiful maid at the foot of the hill." The words are so delicate, the arrangement so poetical, and the tout ensemble reads with such a languishing cadence, that a blue-stocking gardenwench must feel it! "To the beautiful maid at the foot of the hill." She can't resist it!

Fain. I am very hungry; I wish they would bring my breakfast. [Sitting on R. of table.

Did. Breakfast! delightful sound! Oh, bless your unsuspicious face, we'll breakfast together. [DIDDLER goes to the table, takes up a newspaper, and sits in L. chair.] Sir, your most obedient. From London, sir, I presume?

Fain. At your service, sir.
Did. Pleasant traveling, sir?
Fain. Middling, sir.

Did. Any news in town when you came away? Fain. Not a word, sir. [Aside.] Come, this is polite and respectful."

Did. Pray, sir, what's your opinion of affairs in general?

Fain. Sir? Why, really, sir- [Aside.] Nobody would ask my opinion in town, now.

Did. No politician, perhaps? You talked of breakfast, sir; I was just thinking of the same thing-shall be proud of your company. [Rises.

Fain. [rises. You're very obliging, sir; but really, I'm in such haste

Did. Don't mention it. Company is everything to me. I'm that sort of man that I really couldn't dispense with you.

Fain. Sir, since you insist upon it- Waiter! Sam. [without, L.] Coming, sir!

Fain. Bless me, they're very inattentive here they never bring you what you call for. [Sits again in R. chair. Did. No; they very often serve me so! [Sits in chair, L.

Enter SAM, L.

Fain. Let that breakfast be for two. Did. Yes, this gentleman and I are going to breakfast together.

Sam. [to FAINWOULD.] You order it, do you, sir?