Job. (Throwing it on the floor violently). I'd as lieve go into my coffin! she'll have me there soon. Pshaw! rot it! I'm going to snivel! Bur, go and get me another. Bur. Are you sure you wont put it on? Job. No, I wont. (BUR pauses). No, I tell you!—(Exit BUR, L.) How proud I was of that waistcoat five years ago! I little thought what would happen now, when I sat in it, at the top of my table, with all my neighbours to celebrate the day. There was Collop on one side of me, and his wife on the other, and my daughter Mary sat at the further end, smiling so sweetly-like an artful good-fornothing—I shouldn't like to throw away the waistcoat neither— I may as well put it on. Yes, it would be poor spite not to put it on. (Putting his arms into it). She's breaking my heart! but I'll wear it, I'll wear it!-(Buttoning it as he speaks, and crying involuntarily). It's my child's-she's undutiful, ungrateful, barbarous-but she's my child, and she'll never work me another. Re-enter JOHN BUR, L. Bur. Here's another waistcoat, but it has laid by so long, I think it's damp. Job. I was thinking so myself, Bur; and so Bur. Eh? What! you've got on the old one? Well, now, I declare I'm glad of that! Here's your coat. (Putting it on him). 'Sbobs! this waistcoat feels a little damp about the top of the bosom. Job. (Confused). Never mind, Bur, never mind. has dropped on it; but it wont give me cold, I believe. A little water [A noise without, R. Bur. Heigh! they are playing up old Harry below! I'll run and see what's the matter. Make haste after me-do now! [Exit, R. Job. I don't care for the bankruptcy now; I can face my creditors like an honest man; and I can crawl to my grave afterwards, as poor as a church mouse. What does it signify! Job Thornberry has no reason now to wish himself worth a groat; the old ironmonger and brazier has nobody to hoard his money for now! I was only saving for my daughter; and she has run away from her doting, foolish father, and struck down my heart-flat-flat! Well-who are you? Enter PEREGRINE, R. Job. Then I'm sorry to see you. I have just been ruined by a friend, and never wish to have another friend again as long as I live; no, nor any ungrateful, undutiful-Poh!-I don't recollect your face. Per. Climate and years have been at work on it. While Europeans are scorching under an Indian sun, time is doubly busy in fanning their features with his wings. But do you remember no trace of me? Job. No, I tell you. If you have anything to say, say it. I have something to settle below with my daughter-I mean, with the people in the shop; they are impatient; and the morning has half run away before she knew I should be up-I mean, before I have had time to get on my coat and waistcoat, she gave me—I mean— I mean, if you have any business, tell it at once. You seem agitated. Per. I will tell it at once. The harpies whom I passed in your shop informed me of your sudden misfortune; but do not despair yet. Go Job. Ay, I'm going to be a bankrupt; but that don't signify. on; it isn't that; they'll find all fair-but go on. Per. I will. 'Tis just thirty years since I left England. Job. That's a little after the time I set up in the hardware business. Per. About that time a lad of fifteen years entered your shop: he had the appearance of a gentleman's son, and told you he had heard, by accident, as he was wandering through the streets of Penzance, some of your neighbours speak of Job Thornberry's goodness to persons in distress. Job. I believe he told a lie there. Per. Not in that instance, though he did in another. Per. He had lost his parents, he said; and, destitute of friends, money, and food, was making his way to the next port, to offer himself to any vessel that would take him on board, that he might work his way abroad, and seek a livelihood. Job. Yes, yes, he did: I remember it. Per. You may remember, too, when the boy had finished his tale of distress, you put ten guineas in his hand. They were the first earnings of your trade, you told him, and could not be laid out to better advantage than in relieving a helpless orphan; and giving him a letter of recommendation to a sea captain at Falmouth, you wished him good spirits and prosperity. He left you with a promise that if fortune ever smiled upon him, you should one day hear news of Peregrine. Job. Ah, poor fellow! poor Peregrine! He was a pretty boy; I should like to hear news of him, I own. Per. I am that Peregrine. Job. Eh? what! you are-no! let me look at you again. Are you the pretty boy that- -Bless us, how you are altered! Per. I have endured many hardships since I saw you-many turns of fortune: but I deceived you (it was the cunning of a truant lad) when I told you I had lost my parents. From a romantic folly, the growth of boyish brains, I had fixed my fancy on being a sailor, and had run away from my father. Job. (With great emotion). Run away from your father? If I had known that, I'd have horsewhipped you within an inch of your life. Per. Had you known it, you had done right, perhaps. Job. Right! ah; you don't know what it is for a child to run away from a father! Rot me! if I wouldn't have sent you back to him, tied neck and heels, in the basket of a stage-coach! Per. I have had my compunctions-have expressed them by letter to my father; but I fear my penitence had no effect. Job. Served you right. Per. Having no answers from him, he died, I fear without forgiving me. [Sighs. Job. (Starting.) What! died without forgiving his child!-Come! that's too much! I couldn't have done that, neither. But go on; I hope you've been prosperous. But you shouldn't have quitted your father. Per. I acknowledge it; yet I have seen prosperity, though I traversed many countries on my outset in pain and poverty. Chance at length raised me a friend in India, by whose interest and my own industry I amassed considerable wealth in the factory at Calcutta. Job. And have just landed it, I suppose, in England? Per. I landed one hundred pounds last night in my purse, as I swam from the Indiaman, which was splitting on a rock, half a league from the neighbouring shore. As for the rest of my property, bills, bonds, cash, jewels, the whole amount of my toil and application, are, by this time, I doubt not, gone to the bottom: and Peregrine is returned, after thirty years, to pay his debt to you, almost as poor as he left you. Job. I wont touch a penny of your hundred pounds-not a penny! Per. I do not desire you; I only desire you to take your own. Job. My own? Per. Yes; I plunged with this box, last night, into the waves. You see, it has your name on it. Job. "Job Thornberry," sure enough! And what's in it? Per. The harvest of a kind man's charity; the produce of your bounty to one whom you thought an orphan. I have traded these twenty years on ten guineas (which from the first I had set apart as yours), till they have become ten thousand; take it-it could not, I find, come more opportunely. (Giving him the box). Your honest heart gratified itself in administering to my need; and I experience that burst of pleasure a grateful man enjoys, in relieving my reliever. Job. (Squeezing PEREGRINE's hand, returning the box, and seeming almost unable to utter). Take it again. T'other day I had a friend (Wiping his eyes). I lent a my trade, to save him from Per. Why do you reject it? Job. I'll tell you as soon as I'm able. -pshaw! rot it! I'm an old fool! friend t'other day the whole profits of sinking. He walked off with them, and made me a bankrupt. Don't you think he is a rascal? Per. Decidedly so. Job. And what should I be if I took all you have saved in the world, and left you to shift for yourself? Per. But the case is different. This money is, in fact, your own. I am inured to hardships; better able to bear them, and am younger than you. Perhaps, too, I still have prospects to Job. I wont take it. I'm as thankful to you as if I let you starve; but I wont take it. Per. Remember, too, you have claims upon you which I have not. My guide, as I came hither, said you had married in my absence: 'tis true, he told me you were a widower; but, it seems, you have a daughter to provide for. Job. I have no daughter to provide for now. Per. Then he misinformed me. Job. No he didn't. I had one last night, but she's gone. Job. Yes; gone to sea, for what I know, as you did. Run from a good father as you did. This is a morning to remember; my daughter has run out, and the bailiffs have run in; I shan't soon forget the day of the month. Per. This morning did you say? Job. Ay, before daybreak; a hard-hearted, base Per. And could she leave you, during the derangement of your affairs? Job. She didn't know what was going to happen, poor soul! I wish she had now. I don't think Mary would have left her old father in the midst of his misfortunes. Per. (Aside.) Mary! it must be she! What is the amount of the demands upon you? Job. Six thousand: but I don't mind that; the goods can nearly cover it-let 'em take 'em-rot the gridirons and warming-pans! I could begin again, but now my Mary's gone, I haven't the heart; but I shall hit upon something. Per. Let me make a proposal to you, my old friend. Permit me to settle with the officers, and to clear all demands upon you. Make it a debt if you please; I will have a hold, if it must be so, on your future profits in trade; but do this, and I promise to restore your daughter to you. Job. What! bring back my child? Do you know where she is? -Is she safe ?-Is she far off?-Is Per. Will you receive the money? Job. Yes, yes, on these terms-on these conditions-but where is Mary? Per. Patience-I must not tell you yet! but in four-and-twenty hours I pledge myself to bring her back to you. Job. What here? to her father's house, and safe ?-Oh 'sbut! when I see her safe, what a thundering passion I'll be in with her! But you are not deceiving me? You know the first time you came into my shop, what a bouncer you told me, when you were a boy. Per. Believe me, I would not trifle with you now. Come, come down to your shop, that we may rid it of its present visitants. Job. I believe you dropped from the clouds, all on a sudden, to comfort an old, broken-hearted brazier. Per. I rejoice, my friend, that I arrived at so critical a juncture; and if the hand of Providence be in it, 'tis because Heaven ordains that benevolent actions like yours, sooner or later, must ever meet their recompense. [Exeunt, R. 20.-PRIULI AND JAFFIER. THOMAS OTWAY. [See page 339.] Pri. No more! I'll hear no more! begone, and leave me. You think me. Patience! where's the distance throws In right, tho' proud oppression will not hear me Jaff. Could my nature e'er Have brook'd injustice, or the doing wrong, Pri. Yes, wrong'd me. In the nicest point, To I treated, trusted you, and thought you mine, Childless you had been else, and in the grave |