Come, come, is not every thing ready?
Is not the ball-room prepared yet? It is
past ten o'clock.

We have only to fix up the new chandelier.

I'll have no new chandelier.

My master said the last ball he gave, the company
were in the dark.

And if you blind them with too much light,
they will be in the dark still.

The musicians, sir, wish for some wine.

What, before the ball begins? No, tell them
if they are tipsy at the end of it, it will be quite
soon enough.

You are always so cross, Mr. Bluntly, when
my master is going to have company.

Have not I a right to be cross? For while
the whole house is in good humour, if there was
not one person cross enough to take a little care,
every thing would be wasted and ruined through
extreme good temper. (A man crosses the stage.)
Here, you—Mister——Pray are you the person
who was sent with the chandelier?

Yes, sir.

Then please to take it back again—We don't
want it.

What is your objection to it, sir?

It will cost too much.

Mr. Bluntly, all the trades-people are more
frightened at you than at your master.—Sir
George, Heaven bless him! never cares how
much a thing costs.

That is, because he never cares whether he
pays for it or not——but if he did, depend
upon it he would be very particular. Tradesmen
all wish to be paid for their ware, don't
they?

Certainly, sir.

Then why will they force so many unnecessary
things, and make so many extravagant
charges as to put all power of payment out of
the question?

How do you do, Mrs. Evans? [Sullenly.

What makes you sigh, Mr. Bluntly?

What makes you smile?

To see all the grand preparations for the ball
this evening. I anticipate the joy my lady will
take here, and I smile for her.

And I sigh for my master.—I foresee all the
bills that will be brought in, for this evening's
expence, and I anticipate the sorrow it will one
day be to him.

But consider, Mr. Bluntly, your master has
my lady's fortune to take.

Yes, but I consider he has your lady to take
along with it; and I prophecy one will stick by
him some time after the other is gone.

For shame.—My lady, I have no doubt, will
soon cure Sir George of his extravagance.

It will then be by taking away the means.—
Why, Lady Caroline is as extravagant as himself.

You are mistaken.—She never gives routs,
masquerades, balls, or entertainments of any
kind.

But she constantly goes to them whenever she
is invited.

That, I call but a slight imprudence.—She
has no wasteful indiscretions like Sir George.
For instance, she never makes a lavish present.

No, but she takes a lavish present, as readily
as if she did.

And surely you cannot call that imprudence?

No, I call it something worse.

Then, although she loves gaming to distraction,
and plays deep, yet she never loses.

No, but she always wins—and that I call
something worse.

Here's the company. Will you permit me,
Mr. Bluntly, to stand in one corner, and have a
peep at them?

If you please. (Rapping again.) What spirit
there is in that, Rat, tat, tat, tat.—And what
life, frolic, and joy, the whole house is going to
experience except myself. As for me, I am
ready to cry at the thoughts of it all.

Here, the first of the company. I am sorry
for it. (Evans comes forward.) Evans, what
has brought you hither?

I came, my lady, to see the preparations making
on your account—for it is upon your account
alone, that Sir George gives this grand fÊte.

Why, I do flatter myself it is.—But where
is he? What is it o'clock?—It was impossible to
stay at the stupid opera.—How do I look? I
once did intend to wear those set of diamonds
Sir George presented me with the other morning
—but then, I reflected again, that if——

Ah, my lady, what a charming thing to have
such a lover—Sir George prevents every wish—
he must make the best of husbands.

And yet my father wishes to break off the
marriage—he talks of his prodigality—and, certainly,
Sir George lives above his income.

But then, Madam, so does every body else.

But Sir George ought undoubtedly to change
his conduct, and not be thus continually giving
balls and entertainments—and inviting to his
table acquaintance, that not only come to devour
his dinners and suppers, but him.

And there are people malicious enough to
call your ladyship one of his devourers too.

As a treaty of marriage is so nearly concluded
between us, I think, Mrs. Evans, I am at liberty
to visit Sir George, or to receive his presents, without
having my character, or my delicacy called
in question. (A loud rapping.) The company
are coming: is it not strange he is not here to
receive them.

Ladies, I entreat your pardon; dear Lady
Caroline excuse me. I have been in the country
all the morning, and have had scarce time to
return to town and dress for your reception.

Dear Lucre, I am glad to see you.

My dear Sir George, I had above ten engagements
this evening, but they all gave place to
your invitation.

Thank you.—My dear Lady Bridget—

It is impossible to resist an invitation from the
most polished man alive. (Sir George bows.)
What a superb dress! (in his hearing, as he turns
away) and what an elegant deportment.

No, I am not in a state to take any part at
Pharo—I am ruin'd.—Would you believe it
Sir George, I am not worth a farthing in the
world.

Yes, I believed it long ago.

Now we are on that subject—could you lend
me a hundred pounds?

I have about me, only this bill for two hundred.

That will do as well—I am not circumstantial.
(Takes it.) And my dear Sir George command
my purse at any time—all it contains, will ever
be at your service.

I thank you.

Nay, though I have no money of my own,
yet you know I can always raise friends—and by
heaven! my dear Sir George, I often wish to see
you reduced to my circumstances, merely to
prove how much I could, and would, do to serve
you.

I sincerely thank you.

And one can better ask a favour for one's
friend than for one's-self, you know: for
when one wants to borrow money on one's own
account, there are so many little delicacies to
get the better of—such as I felt just now.—I was
as pale as death, I dare say, when I asked you
for this money—did not you perceive I was?

I can't say I did.

But you must have observed I hesitated, and
looked very foolish.

I thought for my part, that I looked as foolish.
—But I hope I did not hesitate.

Nor ever will, when a friend applys to you,
I'll answer for it—Nor ever shall a friend hesitate
when you apply.

The obligations I am under to you for extricating
me from that dangerous business—

Never name it.

Not only name it, Sir George, but shortly I
hope to return the kindness; and, if I do but
live——

Permit me to conduct you to the next apartment.

Most willingly, Sir George. I was the first
who arrived; which proves my eagerness to
dance.

But let me hope, passion for dancing was not
the only one, that caused your impatience.

Oh! there never was such a man in the world
as the master of this house; there never was
such a friendly, generous, noble heart; he has
the best heart in the world, and the best taste
in dress.

SCENE II. An Apartment, which denotes
the Poverty of the Inhabitants. Henry
and Eleanor discovered.

It is very late and very cold too, brother;
and yet we have neither of us heart to bid each
other good night.

No—beds were made for rest.

And that noise of carriages and link-boys at
Sir George Splendorville's, next door, would keep
us awake, if our sorrows did not.

The poor have still more to complain of,
when chance throws them thus near the rich,—it
forces upon their minds a comparison might
drive them to despair, if—

—If they should not have good sense enough
to reflect, that all this bustle and show of pleasure,
may fall very short of happiness; as all the
distress we feel, has not yet, thank Heaven, reached
to misery.

What do you call it then?

A trial; sent to make us patient.

It may make you so, but cannot me. Good
morning to you.

Nay, it is night yet. Where are you going?

I don't know.—To take a walk.—The streets
are not more uncomfortable than this place, and
scarcely colder.

Oh, my dear brother! I cannot express half
the uneasiness I feel when you part from me,
though but for the shortest space.

Why?

Because I know your temper; you are impatient
under adversity; you rashly think providence
is unkind; and you would snatch those
favours, which are only valuable when bestowed.

What do you mean?

Nay, do not be angry; but every time you
go out into this tempting town, where superfluous
riches continually meet the eye of the poor,
I tremble lest you should forfeit your honesty
for that, which Heaven decreed should not belong
to you.

And if I did, you would despise and desert
me?

No: not desert you; for I am convinced you
would only take, to bring to me; but this is to
assure you, I do not want for any thing.

Not want?—Nor does my father?

Scarcely, while we visit him. Every time he
sees us we make him happy; but he would never
behold us again if we behaved unworthy of him.

What! banish us from a prison?

And although it is a prison, you could not
be happy under such a restriction.

Happy!—When was I happy last?

Yesterday, when your father thanked you for
your kindness to him. Did we not all three
weep with affection for each other? and was
not that happiness?

It was—nor will I give up such satisfaction,
for any enticement that can offer.——Be contented,
Eleanor,—for your sake and my father's,
I will be honest.—Nay, more,—I will be scrupulously
proud—and that line of conduct which
my own honour could not force me to follow,
my love to you and him, shall compel me to.—
When, through necessity, I am tempted to
plunder, your blushes and my father's anguish
shall hold my hand.—And when I am urged
through impatience, to take away my own life,
your lingering death and his, shall check the
horrid suggestion, and I will live for you.

Then do not ever trust yourself away, at least
from one of us.

Dear sister! do you imagine that your power
is less when separated from me? Do you suppose
I think less frequently on my father and
his dismal prison, because we are not always
together? Oh! no! he comes even more forcibly
to my thoughts in his absence—and then,
more bitterly do I feel his misery, than while
the patient old man, before my eyes, talks to
me of his consolations; his internal comforts
from a conscience pure, a mind without malice,
and a heart, where every virtue occupy a place.—
Therefore, do not fear that I shall forget either
him or you, though I might possibly forget myself.

If before him I am cheerful, yet to myself I
must complain. [Weeps] And that sound of
festivity at the house adjoining is insupportable!
especially when I reflect that a very small portion
of what will be wasted there only this one
night, would be sufficient to give my dear father
liberty.

[A rapping at the door of her chamber, on the
opposite entrance.]

Who's there?

Open the door. [Without.

The voice of our landlord. [Goes to the door.
Is it you, Mr. Blackman?

Yes, open the door. [Rapping louder.

What a time have you made me wait!—And
in the name of wonder, why do you lock your
door? Have you any thing to lose? Have not
you already sold all the furniture you brought
hither? And are you afraid of being stolen
yourself?

Is this the chamber?

Yes, Sir, yes, Mr. Bluntly, this is it.

This! [Contemptuously.

Why yes, sir,—this is the only place I have
left in my own house, since your master has been
pleased to occupy that next door, while his own
magnificent one has been repairing.—Lock yourself
up, indeed! (Looking at Eleanor.)—You
have been continually asking me for more rooms,
Mr. Bluntly, and have not I made near half a
dozen doors already from one house to the
other, on purpose to accommodate your good
family.—Upon my honour, I have not now a
single chamber but what I have let to these
lodgers, and what I have absolute occasion for
myself.

And if you do put yourself to a little inconvenience,
Mr. Blackman, surely my master—

Your master, Mr. Bluntly, is a very good man
—a very generous man—and I hope at least he has
found me a very lucky one; for good luck is all
the recommendation which I, in my humble
station, aspire to—and since I have been Sir
George's attorney, I have gained him no less than
two law-suits.

I know it. I know also that you have lost
him four.

We'll drop the subject.—And in regard to
this room, sir, it does not suit, you say?

No, for I feel the cold wind blow through
every crevice.

But suppose I was to have it put a little into
repair? That window, for instance, shall have
a pane or two of glass put in; the cracks of
the door shall be stopt up; and then every thing
will have a very different appearance.

And why has not this been done before?

Would you have me be laying out my money,
while I only let the place at a paltry price, to
people who I am obliged to threaten to turn into
the streets every quarter, before I can get my
rent from them?

Is that the situation of your lodgers at present?

Yes.—But they made a better appearance
when they first came, or I had not taken such
persons to live thus near to your master.

That girl (looking at Eleanor) seems very
pretty—and I dare say my master would not care
if he was nearer to her.

Pshaw, pshaw—she is a poor creature—she is
in great distress. She is misery itself.

I feel quite charmed with misery.—Who belongs
to her?

A young man who says he is her brother—
very likely he is not—but that I should not enquire
about, if they could pay my rent. If
people will pay me, I don't care what they are.
(Addressing himself to Eleanor) I desire you
will tell your brother when he comes in, that I
have occasion for the money which will be due
to me to-morrow—and if I don't receive it before
to-morrow night, he must seek some other
habitation.

Hush, Mr. Blackman—if you speak so loud,
you will have our company in the next house
hear you.

And if they did, do you think it would spoil
their dancing? No, Mr. Bluntly.—And in that
respect, I am a person of fashion.—I never suffer
any distress to interfere with my enjoyments.

Dear sir, have but patience a little while
longer.—Indeed, I hope you will lose nothing.

I won't lose any thing. [Going.

Sir, I would speak a single word to you, if
you will be so good as to hear me?

Ay, stay and hear her.

But I wish to speak to him by ourselves.

Then I'll withdraw.

What have you to say? [In anger.

Hear her, Mr. Blackman—or may none of
her sex ever listen to you.

If it is only to entreat me to let you continue
here, I am gone in an instant.——Come, speak
quickly, for I have no time to lose.—Come,
speak, speak.

But are you resolved to have no pity? You
know in what a helpless situation we are—and
the deplorable state of my poor father.

Ay, I thought what you had to say—farewel,
farewel.

Oh! do not plunge us into more distress
than we can bear; but open your heart to compassion.

I can't——'tis a thing I never did in my life.

Well, have you granted her request?

I would do a great deal to oblige you, Mr.
Bluntly—and if you will only give your word
for the trifle of rent owing, why, I am not so
hard-hearted but I will suffer her to stay.

Well, well,—I will give my word.

But remember, it is not to be put down to
your master's account, but to your own.—I am
not to give credit.

Nor am I to lay my brother under an obligation
of this nature. (To Bluntly) I thank you
for your offer, sir, but I cannot accept it.

What do you mean by that?

Perhaps she is right.

My brother would resent my acceptance of a
favour from a stranger.

Your brother resent! A poor man resent!
Did you ever hear of any body's regarding a
poor man's resentment?

No—nor a poor woman's prayers.

Yes, I will regard your prayers, if you will
suffer this gentleman to be your friend.

Any acquaintance of your's, Mr. Blackman,
I must distrust.

Do you hear with what contempt she treats
us both?

But perhaps she is right—at least, in treating
one of us so, I am sure she is—and I will forgive
her wronging the one, for the sake of her doing
justice to the other.

Who are these?

"Who are these?" Did you ever hear such
impertinence? (Going up to him) Pray who are
you, sir?

I am a man.

Yes—but I am a lawyer.

Whatever you are, this apartment is mine,
not your's—and I desire you to leave it.

But to-morrow it will be mine, and then I
shall desire you to leave it, and force you to
leave it.

Eleanor, retire to the other chamber; I am
sorry I left you.

And I am sorry that I and my friend should
come here to be affronted.

Mr. Blackman, I won't be called names.

Names, sir! What names did I call you?

Did not you call me your friend? I assure
you, sir, I am not used to be called names.
I am but a servant whose character is every
thing—and I'll let you know that I am not your
friend.

Why, you blockhead, does not your master
call himself my friend?

Yes, my master is a great man, and he can
get a place without a character,—but if I lose
mine, I am ruined; therefore take care how you
miscal me for the future, for I assure you I
won't bear it. I am not your friend, and you
shall find I am not.