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. your Job. "Job Thornberry," sure enough! And what's in it? Per. The harvest of a kind man's charity; the produce of 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. Per. Why do you reject it? Job. I'll tell you as soon as I'm able. T'other day I had a friend -pshaw! rot it! I'm an old fool! (Wiping his eyes). I lent a friend t'other day the whole profits of my trade, to save him from 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. Per. 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 for get 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. [Exeunt SCENE FROM THE LADY OF LYONS. EDWARD BULWER LYTTON. [See p. 360.] CHARACTERS: GENERAL DAMAS and CLAUDE MELNOTTE. Damas. The man who sets his heart upon a woman Is a chamelion, and doth feed on air; From air he takes his colours,-holds his life,— Or pallid with despair-just as the gale Varies from north to south-from heat to cold! Oh, woman! woman! thou should'st have few sins That it would need the tears of all the angels Enter MELNOTTE, pale and agitated, R. 2 E. I need not tell thee! Thou hast heard- I have! Damas. Be cheer'd; others are fair as she is! Mel. Others!-The world is crumbled at my feet! She was my world; fill'd up the whole of beingSmiled in the sunshine-walk'd the glorious earthSate in my heart-was the sweet life of life. The Past was hers: I dreamt not of a Future That did not wear her shape! Mem'ry and Hope Alike are gone. Pauline is faithless! The universal space is desolate ! Damas. Hope yet. Henceforth Mel. Hope, yes!-one hope is left me still- (After a pause.)-But am I not deceived? Damas. Thy rival and her father. Arm thyself for the truth-He heeds not- Will never know how deeply she was loved! B B "Is henceforth leagued with misery! Sleep, farewell, "Or else become eternal! Oh, the waking "From false oblivion, and to see the sun, "And know she is another's!". Damas. Be a man! Mel. I am a man ;-it is the sting of woe Like mine that tells us we are men! Damas. The false one Did not deserve thee. Mel. Hush!-No word against her! Why should she keep, through years and silent absence, True to a traitor's name? Oh, blame her not! They said "To-day!" This day, so wildly welcomed- And mark'd for bliss! This day! oh, could I see her, See her once more unknown; but hear her voice. "So that one echo of its music might “Make ruin less appalling in its silence." Damas. Easily done! Come with me to her house; Your dress-your cloak-moustache-the bronzed hues Of time and toil-the name you bear-belief In your absence,-all will ward away suspicion. Keep in the shade. Ay, I would have you come. There may be hope Pauline is yet so young, They may have forced her to these second bridals "Out of mistaken love." Mel. "No," bid me hope not! Bid me not hope! I could not bear again To fall from such a heaven! One gleam of sunshine, And now I-I (Bursts into an agony of grief). Damas. What, comrade! all the women That ever smiled destruction on brave hearts Were not worth tears like these! Mel. 'Tis past-forget it. "I am prepared; life has no further ills! "The cloud has broken in that stormy rain, "And on the waste I stand, alone with Heaven." Damas. "His very face is changed; a breaking heart Does its work soon!"-Come, Melnotte, rouse thyself: One effort more. Again thou'lt see her. Mel. See her! There is a passion in that simple sentence That shivers all the pride and power of reason Damas. Time wanes ;-come, ere yet Mel. Terrible words-" Too late!" Lead on. One last look more, and then Damas. Forget her! Mel. Forget her, yes!-For death remembers not. [Exeunt, L. THE FIRST ACT OF LONDON ASSURANCE DION BOUCICAULT. [Mr. Boucicault is, without doubt, the most prolific English dramatist of our own or any other epoch. His constructive skill is extraordinary, and his power of delineating character in a few lines remarkable. Amongst his best-known works which are destined to live, and have held the stage with unabated success for many years, may be enumerated "The Colleen Bawn," "Arrah-na-Pogue," "The Shaughraun," and "The Streets of London." His earliest play "London Assurance," was produced in 1841, when the author was barely out of his teens. The first Act of this play employs male characters only.] CHARACTERS: SIR HARCOURT COURTLY, MAX HARKAWAY, CHARLES COURTLY, SCENE.-An ante-room in SIR HARCOURT COURTLY's house in Belgrave Enter CooL, R. door. Cool. Half-past nine, and Mr. Charles has not yet returned: I am in a fever of dread. If his father happen to rise earlier than usual on any morning, he is sure to ask first for Mr. Charles. Poor deluded old gentleman-he little thinks how he is deceived. Enter MARTIN, lazily, D. L. 2 E. Well, Martin, he has not come home yet? Martin. No; and I have not had a wink of sleep all night-I cannot stand this any longer; I shall give warning. This is the fifth night Mr. Courtly has remained out, and I am obliged to stand at the hall window to watch for him. Cool. You know if Sir Harcourt was aware that we connived at his son's irregularities, we should all be discharged. Martin. I have used up all my common excuses on his duns"Call again," ," "Not at home," and "Send it down to you," won't serve any more; and Mr. Crust, the wine-merchant, swears he will be paid. Cool. So they all say. Why he has arrests out against him already. I've seen the fellows watching the door-(loud knock and ring heard, L.)-there he is just in time-quick, Martin, for I expect Sir Harcourt's bell every moment (small bell, R. rings)-and there it is. (Exit MARTIN, slowly, R.) Thank heaven! he will |