SCENE I.

MERCY on me! what is become of Simon? Some bad accident or other has happened to the poor, dear fellow. What shall we do, if he should never return? No victuals in the house; no messenger to go for any, and little, very little mo­ney remaining. I never suspected, when I turn­ed cook, that things would come to this pass. Our family at times might as well have a coach with a fifth wheel to it, as a cook. Now and then we get a comfortable meal; now and then, I say. But in general we lead the life of a dog—hunger and ease.—False-hearted Simon! thou worst of cannibals! thus to desert master and mistress, our promising young gentleman, and thy own Debby—The fellow is certainly taking his swing in some tavern or other, drinking, and gormandizing; or perhaps making love to some draggled-tail'd—But I'll match him; I'll match him.

But here comes my master. A very good sort of a man in the main; but a little too proud. Pride and poverty never agree well together,— that is a clear case.

SCENE II.

DEBORAH! is Simon returned?

No, Sir—he is always in a hurry to go to town; but before he thinks of coming home, his hurry is over.

What can detain him? No sustenance procured from abroad, and none to be found at home! Where is your mistress?

She is mending some old clothes; and now and then she sings a hymn to keep up her spirits.

At once pious and industrious!—Let the fire be ready against Simon returns. He at least will not come back empty-handed, as he took with him that which commands a selfish world.

Yes, Sir.

SCENE III.

Exposed to the chilling damps of the morning, and to the scorching rays of the noon-day sun, I have unceasingly wandered in pursuit of food for my family—but in vain. The distresses of my mind affect my bodily faculties. My once uner­ring hands have forgot their office. The birds ho­ver over my head, as if unapprehensive of my gun, whilst the deer, no longer timid, feed in securi­ty, and seem to defy my feeble efforts. Once more let me enter my cottage; the abode—O Heaven!—the abode of innocence and afflic­tion.

SCENE IV.

The fire is ready, Sir; but I see nothing of Simon.

Where is William?

Gone a walking to get an appetite.—A very foolish errand in our starving condition.

Let your mistress know, I should be glad to speak with her; and put up my gun.

Yes, Sir.

SCENE V.

Incomparable woman! how piously resigned to, the will of Heaven! Alone, she indulges in the extreme of sorrow; but at my approach the smiles of conjugal affection add new lustre to her charms. Joy seems to triumph on her countenance, lest grief should lour on mine. The wife is studious to cheer the bosom of her desponding husband, whilst the woman and the mother feels internally all the horrors of her situation. Such virtue is entitled to reward. But as for me, O! that dis­tress were my lot only!—that I alone were doom­ed to misery—provided that she and my son were happy! Our poverty increases. Age, accelerated by grief and sickness, advances with rapid strides. My money is nearly exhausted; and alas! I have no credit. Deserted by my father, from whom can [Page 13] I expect relief? The exertions of my industry have been destroyed by the late storm. Twelve years have elapsed, since I entreated forgiveness from my father in a letter fraught with filial con­trition. Alas! can the fault, which I have com­mitted, excuse his severity? Detesting treachery towards a woman, who united herself to me in consequence of my most solemn promises, I have discharged the duty of a man of honour, although in so doing I acted contrary to his commands. Not all the glare of riches, not all the pride of dominion, could have soothed the horrors of my mind, had I consigned to obloquy and disgrace a woman, who justly lays claim to universal esteem. But let me not despond. Nature will as­sert her rights, and the heart of my father must at length relent. My son approaches! Gracious Heaven! to what misery may he not be exposed! I will conceal my sorrow, and assume the sem­blance of contentment, whilst anguish preys upon my heart. Hitherto secluded from the world, his conversation is necessarily puerile, but his heart, I trust, is good, and his understanding not defective.

SCENE VI.

My dear, dear father!

My beloved child! What have you been do­ing? You appear quite cheerful.

I have been this hour or two with the boy, who minds the sheep on the hill. The poor fellow made me quite sorrowful.

But why?

He burst into tears as we were sitting down together. "I have not had a morsel to eat all day," says he—"Here!" says I—"take this piece of bread, and much good may it do you"—and so I gave him all I had saved from my own dinner. Although I felt a little hungry myself, it did my heart good to see how eagerly he swallowed it.

May Heaven reward my son!

I hope, Sir, you are not angry with me. I am certain, the little fellow would have shared any thing he had with me, if I had been hungry.

But, my dear! did you not know, that we had not a morsel of food in the cottage?

Yes Sir, I did—but I could not bear to see him starve. Besides, you have often told me, that God will be kind to us, if we are kind to one another.

Come to my arms, my Son!—Creator of heaven and earth! Can so much innocence and tenderness be long afflicted?—

What makes you weep, Sir; your tears distress me exceedingly.

Go up the hill, and let me know if Simon be coming.

SCENE VII.

Now indeed is my wretchedness complete. Let me, great Power! let me implore thee to protect the best of women, and this unoffending child. Add strength to my mind, lest I should presume to censure thy decrees, or yield to despair! If I enter the cottage, I must have recourse—hard task indeed!—to dissimulation; conceal my anguish, and assume an air of contentment. Happily the keenness of the air seconds my wishes, and dries up those tears, which nature demanded.

SCENE VIII.

You are welcome home, my dear.

Heaven bless you, my love!—How have you spent this afternoon?

As cheerfully as possible during your absence.

What a heroine have you approved yourself throughout our sufferings!

Sufferings!—On you my happiness, or unhap­piness depends. Incited by your virtues, and se­cure of your love, I am—as I ought to be—content­ed. When her husband suffers, then is his Ame­lia distressed.

What tenderness do you not bear towards the man, who has heaped such misery on you, as [Page 16] might have turned love into hatred, and blessings into execrations!

Your self-reproaches are injurious to my love. Most solemnly I declare, that the serenity of my countenance is the true picture of the tranquility of my heart. Whilst possessed of you, I am tru­ly happy. Bereft of you, no earthly considerati­on could afford me any comfort.

And can you enjoy tranquility of mind, whilst afflicted with poverty, and threatened with ex­treme distress?

Discontent and grief are ever strangers to my bosom, 'till I observe, that they disturb your qui­et. Reflect on those, whose distresses are by far greater than ours. Shall we, who boast the bless­ings of education, suffer by a comparison with such? As we know more than they, let our know­ledge teach us greater resignation.

They more unhappy than we!—Less fortunate than a bird of prey, I have in vain this after­noon traversed those mountains in pursuit of game. As I departed, I return—utterly unprovided. My own sufferings I could bear, especially as your resignation furnishes a bright example. But the present and future distress of my son overcomes my resolution, particularly as I know, he endea­vours to conceal his sorrow, lest they should add horror to my woes.

Best of husbands! why should you give way to despondence, since the extremity of distress is as yet at a distance? Fruits at least we may reason­ably expect from our son at his return. But should [Page 17] his exertions prove vain, Simon will undoubtedly bring a supply from town.

I am ashamed—I confess it—quite ashamed—of my despondency.

Besides this embroidery may be sold to the mil­liner, who has never failed to pay me for my la­bor. Despondence is unworthy of you. Recol­lect that, in our gloomiest hours relief has always been at hand.

Your mind is a never-failing spring of consola­tion. Yet the situation of my son distresses me. What must finally be his lot!

If he follows virtue, she will conduct him to happiness.

The prospect, at least with regard to this world, is gloomy. Few are the comforts, which virtue communicates to those who are oppressed by pover­ty. Not only his immediate wants, but his future destiny excite apprehension. Doomed to pover­ty, how fortunate will he be, should he remain uninfected by the vices of the outcasts of society. O my father! may thy heart be a stranger to such sorrow, as I now experience, even should thy offspring, unpitied and unknown, be compel­led to beg a morsel of bread at thy door.

Misery is not necessarily his portion. By innu­merable and inscrutable means Providence can effectuate human happiness.

True. But great must be his trials. Reflect on our own sufferings. No sooner had I experienced [Page 18] the frowns of my father, and expended our little property, than every trace of friendship and conso­lation vanished. Deserted by mankind, on what can we rest our hopes?

On Heaven!—On Heaven! who pours bles­sings on us even in this retreat, and by adversity has reclaimed us from vanity.

Be it so. But can any situation in life be con­ceived for our William, consistently with proba­bility, in which he will not be exposed to tempta­tions, which may exceed his strength?

Again I repeat, we may confidently rely on Providence.

Admirable woman!

Our situation is not absolutely desperate, and may even be productive of bliss. Both religion and fortitude condemn our discontent. I lately visited a female neighbour. How much more [Page 19] grievous are her sufferings than ours? Poorer than ourselves, she is moreover aged, infirm and help­less. All her prospects terminate in pain and dis­tress. Yet calamity has not entirely depressed her mind. Death alone can administer comfort to her; but longer sufferings must precede that consolation.—And shall an uneducated woman exhibit an example to us, which we are incapable of following?

It ought not to be so.

It ought not indeed. Both reason and religi­on forbid it. From him, my love, let us expect relief, who preserves that bird, chirping on yon­der bough; the bee humming near us, and those worms, which crawl at our feet. And shall we murmur, because our circumstances are not such, as may create envy? Be cheerful, my dear; be­hold, how enchanting is the scene around us! How magnificent is that lustre, gilding the clouds of this evening, which brings us nearer to the completion of our wishes!

Amelia, you are entitled to my warmest ac­knowledgments. What a blessing do I not pos­sess in you! You have spoken peace to my des­ponding mind, and added strength to my waver­ing reason. The sensations I now feel resemble the serenity of the midnight hour rendered plea­sing by the gentle effulgence of the moon, more than the fervid splendor of the meredian fun. My distress has its source in the implacability of my father. O! if at the hour of his death, I should not be present to receive his benediction, still he will remember his son, and bless the unhappy being, to whom he gave existence!

Best of men! your melancholy would have soon yielded to the exertion of your own reason. Ani­mated by the best intentions, I have endeavour­ed to discharge the duty of a wife in suggesting those consolatory ideas, which after a short space would have occurred to yourself. With respect to a reconciliation with your father, would to Heaven your wishes were speedily accomplished! But as for me—unhappy woman!—the object of his fixed, his unalterable resentment—

I conjure you by all my hopes, not to give ut­terance to the unkind sentiments, which you were about to express. You are free from reproach. I should be unworthy of the happiness, you have bestowed, and continue to bestow on me, should I patiently listen to your unfounded and cruel self-accusations.

The delicacy of your love is great. Henceforth I shall abstain from offending it. But surely my fond hopes may plead admission to your bosom. How transporting would be the change, should your relenting father, anxious concerning a son, whom—

Such thoughts, my Amelia, I have frequently indulged, when ardently, but vainly, I expected answers, replete with love, to my affectionate let­ters; letters, which might have drawn tears even from an alien in blood—from an entire stranger— from the most unfeeling of human beings, had he accidentally found them. But my father—yes, my father, Amelia!

Had he received them, it were an outrage to nature to suppose, that—

An outrage indeed!—You, who once loved me with all the ardour of paternal affection; who delighted in every juvenile display of my ripen­ing talents—how could you entail on me your inexpiable anger!—In the hour of serious reflec­tion, when your displeasure calls tears from my eyes, my conscience is free from remorse. Had I justly incurred your wrath, how should I have endured existence! I yet hope, I yet claim, your affection!—Let me indulge the rapturous idea! Perhaps his anger is appeased! Perhaps he pities a son, whom he has exposed to the storms of misfortune. I will write to him, and endea­vour to rouse the latent sparks of affection in his bosom. They cannot be utterly extinguished. This day, this hour I will write to him. Come, my Amelia! and assist me in the arduous under­taking.

I obey with pleasure.

SCENE IX.

Is the coast clear? Yes; they are gone. I am heartily glad of it. I do not wish, they should see me yet awhile—But why so, Simon!—A bad con­science is the reason; otherwise the sight of your best friends would be as agreeable to you as ever.—What a bustle in my bosom! My heart is in a terrible uproar. It strikes against my side like a tennis-ball;—and my pulse too—it gallops like a troop of horse. My breast feels as if a mountain were on it. Simon! you are a cow­ard!—not I; I am no coward; a little afraid or [Page 22] so.—If I am a knave, I am at least a well-meaning, praise-worthy sort of a knave. I have acted from the best of principles; a wish to relieve the distres­sed. Who calls me a robber?—I say, he is a good for nothing, lying son of a—I am an ho­nest, trust-worthy, tender-hearted fellow. So, Mr. Conscience! I beg of you to be quiet, and give me no further trouble. If I had committed this robbery—I say, if I had made free with the old gentleman's purse from bad motives—why—it might have been called a robbery. But as I acted from pure, disinterested motives—it is no robbe­ry at all; not in the least. Intention and circum­stances quite alter the nature of things. I'll be hanged, if there is any crime at all in it. Yet— I do not know how it happens—I tremble in eve­ry limb, as if I deserved to be hanged indeed. I would not for the world old Deborah should see me. She would swear the gallows was in my face.

Here is the ri­no!—What charming music it makes in the old green purse! This will put Debby in tune, and make her pot boil merrily for some weeks at least. But it was obtained unjustly—and on the high-way too—if I had tricked a man out of it in the way of a bargain, there would have been no harm done— But to act so barefacedly!—Simon! you old knave! you will certainly pay for this one day or another. Good Mr. Conscience! forgive me for this time—it is my first offence—and I will never do so any more. You pull an honest fellow's heart­strings so severely, that I vow and protest, it is better to die peaceably with hunger, than to live in luxury after having once offended you. It is very true, that, because our worthy family are in a starving condition, I did presume to ask a traveller—perhaps rather in a peremptory style—for [Page 23] a trifle, of which he can be in no great want. He will soon have recourse to his bureau, which will make him ample amends for the pityful sum I bor­rowed from him. But after all is it not a burning shame, that the rich should wallow in excess, whilst my worthy master, his charming Amelia, the young gentleman, their son; and honest Si­mon, not forgetting greasy Deborah—are ready at times to perish with hunger in these regions of misery? I say, it is a scandalous thing; and who dares say to tne contrary?—O Lud! O Lud!— I hear somebody coming.—No—What a simple­ton I am!—Simon! take heart; you have given proofs of courage; you must now display your wisdom. But, as I hate to be cross-questioned, let me think on what I may safely say.—Honest Simon! stick to the truth.—You old fool! do you mean to tie the rope about your own neck?—A hard tax upon my veracity!—I'll tell him—what? That will never do—worse, and worse, you block-head!—I am at my wits ends. I'll tell him—yes— this will do; now I have it. I'll tell him, that a great man, whom I do not know, met me—I have forgot where—and asked me, if I was yet in Mr. George Wilson's service; told me, that he had heard lately of his distressed circumstances; piti­ed him much—and a great deal more to the same purpose—and so—this good, worthy gentleman— Who is coming?—Only Mr. William—I am so stinted in time, that I fear I shall make but a sor­ry piece of work of it. Whilst I am thinking of a plausible story, I will trifle away a minute or two with this over-grown boy, who knows no more of the world, than if he did not belong to it.—Honest Simon, I fear after all, you will turn out but a pitiful liar, and a paltry politician.

SCENE X.

You are welcome home, Simon; I am heartily glad to see you.

Thank you, thank you!

What makes you look so melancholy?

Because I am not in a very good humour.

You come very late from town to-day.

No wonder—I had a good deal to do there.

Have you brought any thing with you?

Yes; some supply for the cupboard.

That is a dear clever fellow. I have been busy gathering fruit.

Well done. We shall live now like emperors.

This news, Simon! will be of great comfort to father and mother. Till you came, we had not a morsel in the house. To-day, I saw mother in tears, as she was at work. She did not see me, but she sighed and wept in such a manner, that I could not help weeping too. As she turned round, she perceived me, and then wiped her eyes, be­cause she did not wish I should see her tears; but I saw them plain enough. Simon! pray, tell [Page 25] me what makes father and mother weep so much. It always makes me sad to see them so sorrowful.

I am inclined to think, it is because they are poor.

They poor! Our neighbours in the mountains may be poor; but that is not our case, I am certain.

How much he knows of the world.

If we can be said to be poor at all, it is but for a little while. This morning we were in a sad condition; but now we have victuals enough, and some to spare.

Charming youth! excellent reasoning!

I fancy, Mr. William, you will be a philosopher— ha! ha! ha!—

What makes you so merry, Simon? Those, I think, who suffer no want, cannot be said to be poor. We have enough for to-day, and to-mor­row, and next day too.

What a sensible lad!

But, Simon! if we are poor, how do the rich live?

Why, in abundance to be sure; they have more than they know what to do with.

But of what use is it to them to have too much?

No improper question!—Yet these people are still grasping after more riches, and are often more unhappy than the poor.

That is very extraordinary—Do they never share with the poor?

They share with the poor!—not they truly; they would rather take from the poor what little they have, and add it to their own monstrous heaps.

Can this be possible?

Very possible, I assure you; and what is more, it is very common.

Simon! you certainly wish to deceive me. Don't you know you must never tell a fib?

A fib!—I never told a greater truth in my life. The town swarms with such sort of gentry.

For my part, if I could afford it, I would do as father and mother do, and share with the poor. I can't tell how it happens, but joy makes me cry, whenever a poor body thanks us and prays to God to bless us for any trifle, which we can well enough spare.

That is because you are young, and tender-hearted.

And why should I not be always tender-hearted?

Perhaps you may—

unless you take after the old rogue, your grand-father.

But, Simon! I had almost forgot. Tell me what makes my dear parents so sad?

It is, I believe, because they are not able to do as much good as they wish.

You have hit it, Simon! as sure as a gun. I am often sorry, because I am not rich; and for the same reason too. I am however contented.

Let us go in. Come along, Simon!

SCENE I.

MY master is asleep yet. I wish he may not awake for an hour at least. I am still at a loss what to say. But courage, Simon! What is the story I was framing? Fear, I think, has put kna­very out of my head. Why do you tremble, you old simpleton! Look like a judge with a grave, placid countenance, and deceive with the easy dignity of a man of quality. You may plead many precedents in your favour.

After all, I believe, I am rather too old to learn a new trade, especially as it is contrary to [Page 29] my natural disposition. I shall certainly make but a clumsy piece of work of it. What would I not give to be fairly out of this scrape! I have conjured up a great man in my brain; and now what must I make this great man say? I have it; I have it—But here comes my master. Mind your hits, Simon!—Sharp is the word!

SCENE II.

Honest Simon! I am glad to see you. Are you not tired? It is no short walk from town.

I am not in the least tired.

Tell Deborah to prepare supper; and then come back to me.

SCENE III.

Worthy creature! Now may I indulge the plea­sing hope of being enabled to reward his services. The letter is begun, and shall be finished this e­vening. How tormenting is doubt! how enchant­ing is hope! My rapture will exceed all bounds, should the answer to it speak the language of pa­ternal love. That answer, the forerunner of bliss, shall be bathed in the tears of filial affection. But should my supplications be rejected—there is hor­ror in that thought!—Thou universal Father! hear my humble petition! Let me not be tempted be­yond my strength! Suffer not the grave to receive an unrelenting father!—But what if Simon should conduct my son to him?—Alas! the journey would [Page 30] answer no good purpose; and, as he has hitherto been educated in extreme simplicity, his ignorance of the world, although he is not deficient in natu­ral good sense, might expose him to irreparable evils. But surely if the unoffending youth were placed before his grand-fire; should he deliver to him my letter; and, clasping his knees, implore a blessing for himself and parents—flattering idea!—but vain and illusive! Such is the situati­on of the unhappy man! He forms a thousand and a thousand projects. Disappointed in all, he ex­periences still greater misery. But should they go on this embassy of love, what support can they expect during their absence?

SCENE IV.

What recompense, Simon! can I make you for your fidelity?

Recompense!—your good opinion, Sir, is a sufficient recompense.

No; your services can never be adequately re­warded. Forsaken by my friends, your attach­ment to me has been inviolable. Destitute and helpless, what could be expected from me? You followed me into this wilderness, endured with me the bitterness of want, and neglected the means of advancing yourself in life.

Pray, good Sir! do not make me proud of my poor services. You will find it is no easy matter [Page 31] to persuade me that I have even done my duty.— Be pleased, Sir, to accept—

What?

Take it; take it, Sir—that is all.

Take what?

Only a small sum of money, which I got in town.

A small sum do you call it? What makes your hand shake so?

My—hand—shake!—That is because—I am— overcome with joy.

You stammer too—what can be the matter with you?

Take the money, I beg of you.—This is very strange—a little while ago we were in the greatest distress; and now you seem angry at receiving relief.

Your behaviour makes me doubtful, whether I should rejoice, or not. Answer this question plainly. Where did you get this money?

The gentleman, Sir—a very bashful sort of a gentleman—would not tell me his name.

Simon! trifle no longer with my feelings. Take back the money. I shall not receive it, till I know how you became possessed of it.

That is out of my power. I never knew so squeamish a man in my life.

Be candid, Simon!—and tell me all about it.

Why then, since you must know—I found it as I was coming out of town—just at the bottom of the hill.

Can I believe my ears? Does honest Simon prevaricate? Your story contradicts itself.

I believe you can see through my very soul.

There is no necessity for so much penetration. Whenever you wander from truth, your counte­nance alone is sufficient to betray you.

Well then, as I told you at first, I did not find it.

What was it you told me at first?

That a gentleman in town gave it to me.

O Simon, Simon!—Is this gentleman acquaint­ed with me?

I suppose so. He asked me if I still lived with you.

Well; and what then?

I told him, I did—and then he gave me the money, telling me to give it to you.

And have you no knowledge of this worthy gentleman?

I told you already, I never saw him before. —I wish this confounded cross-examination was over.

I readily believe, it was indeed the first time you ever saw him. Till this unfortunate day, you never swerved from truth. How can you persist in endeavouring to deceive me?

There is not a word of falshood in all I have said from beginning to end. Excuse me, Sir— I am rather in a hurry—I have a little business in the garden.

SCENE V.

There is some mystery in this affair, which I cannot comprehend. What can create such confu­sion in the poor man's brain? His second story is as problematical as his first. I will follow him into the garden. Till this affair is explained, I shall be incapable of rest.

SCENE VI.

I come, Sir, most humbly to crave your par­don. I cannot bear to deceive you any longer. Be pleased to listen to the whole affair, that I may know from you, whether I am really as guil­ty, as my troublesome conscience tells me I am.

Go on; and speak with candor.

This purse, Sir—with its contents—I received from a traveller in those mountains.

What! did you take it by force?

Be patient, Sir—and I shall relate to you eve­ry circumstance of the affair.—In crossing those solitary mountains on my return to our dreary abode, casting my eyes towards the city, I be­held those lofty mansions, whose roofs are lost in the clouds; and called to mind the debaucheries of their owners, who live as if fortune were at their beck; lavishing their ill-gotten wealth in a most scandalous manner, whilst their unhappy fel­low-creatures are suffered to perish at their doors, unpitied and even despised.

There is too much truth in what you say. But speak to the purpose.

I grew angry—very angry, Sir—when I recol­lected, that such should engross the good things of the world, whilst the finest, the wisest, and the most virtuous man on earth—whom, at present, I shall not presume to name—together with the best, and most accomplished of her sex—meaning your lady, Sir—should live in want and misery.

A truce with compliments—proceed—

I took a survey of our deplorable situation, and was reminded by an importunate, but faithful, mo­nitor near my heart—I mean, Sir, my stomach— that we were often without a morsel of bread in the house, whilst many an idle profligate fellow— not worthy to clean your honor's shoes—is living in a palace in riot and profusion, and often risques on a single card more money than a so­ber pains-taking labourer can earn all his life. Your honour knows I tell nothing but the truth. They storm at a poor man worse than a mercena­ry magistrate, when asked for a penny by the old, the lame, or the blind. Your honour also knows, when they want to trick an innocent mai­den out of her virtue, they spend more money, than would suffice to fill the bellies of a large fa­mily for a twelvemonth.

You are in a moralizing humour—but go on—

With these thoughts in my head, I could not help losing my temper. Is it right, says I—is it right that such knaves should possess almost all the gifts of nature, in which their fellow-creatures ought to share? Shall one man waste what would be enough for thousands? My heart ready to [Page 36] break, I took up my burthen, and jogging on in a very bad humour saw a well dressed man in a cross-road on horse-back, advancing towards me. Suppose, thought I on a sudden, I should fright­en this fine spark into a little charity? He might very well share with me his superfluities; and where there is no harm done—there can be no injury received. In this manner I reasoned.

An acute logician!

Courage told me to accost him boldly; but conscience wanted to make a coward of me. Af­ter some altercation, I compromised the matter between them in this manner. One half of his money, says I to courage, swearing like a troop­er, he shall give me. The other half, whispered I to conscience, he may keep. I want the means of subsistence, not wealth; and it is a great pity, so many worthy people—including myself—should perish with hunger.

Compassionate, as well as logical!

I then threw my bundle amongst the bushes, and felt—as the man on horse-back approached me—I can't tell you how I felt. At one time I was as bold as a lion, and then again I trembled like a hare. "Please to stop a little," cried I, taking hold of the bridle with my left hand, whilst I accidentally flourished my cudgel with my right; "be so kind as to lend me half of your money; and do not keep me long waiting, for I am in a confounded hurry. My friends expect me." His courage was certainly less than mine; otherwise he would have seen my confusion and tremor, as I held the bridle. In short he threw down this [Page 37] old green purse. I took it into the wood, and after some time, seemed as if just awaking from a dream.—Now, Sir, if you will condescend to consider all the circumstances of this affair, I humbly presume you will by no means condemn honest Simon to the gallows.

Honest! honest, do you say?—No man, pos­sessed of the smallest portion of honesty, could have committed so vile an action.

Is it come to this?—I wish all the money was at the bottom of the sea.—But, my dear Sir, con­sult your usual good sense. Reflect with coolness on our circumstances, our deplorable situation.

No situation, however distressing, can warrant injustice.

But I cannot conceive it to be so very unjust an action.

My mind, once for all I tell you, must be a stranger to rest, till the money is restored to the rightful proprietor.

Where shall I find him?—The devil take the money, I say. But after all he parted with it in a manner, that shewed he could very well do with­out it.

That is nothing to the purpose. We are for­bidden to wrong our fellow-creature in any, even the smallest, degree. Go up the moun­tain. Perhaps you will see him on one or other of the roads leading to town.

And if I see him, must I in good earnest—

What?

Must I restore him the money with my own hands?

Without doubt. Take it, and act like an honest man.

Well, well—I will trudge up the mountain, and keep a good look out for him▪ I warrant you. But listen—listen—I hear a horse. Who can it be? What if I should be taken up, tied neck and heels, and hanged like a dog! What a fool I am! always in dread of the worst—There is somebody coming however. He is fastening his bridle to the rails—O Lud! O Lud! it is he! the very same!

SCENE VII.

Excuse, Sir, my intrusion. I have lost my way, and cannot find my servant, who left me for [Page 39] the purpose of discovering the right road.

Heaven! be merciful to me, or I shall certainly be murdered!

That is he sure enough. O! I am tried, con­demned, and executed.

You appear, Sir, unaccountably agitated.

Good Mr. Highwayman! have pity on a weak, defenceless old man. That worthy gentleman

was humane enough to con­tent himself with a part of my money. The little that is left will barely suffice to defray my travel­ling expences.

You labour, Sir, under a great mistake. We are not robbers, but unfortunate people, who have taken refuge in this forest from the frowns of an ungenerous world. Pardon us, I beseech you, for the terror you have undergone. Simon! bring the gentleman his money.

SCENE VIII.

I am—as you see, Sir—overwhelmed with shame and sorrow. Be pleased to receive what desperati­on and the dread of starving compelled me to take from you. Alas! Sir, I was driven to undertake this business, by no means suited to my talents, by my master—I mean, Sir—by my master's dis­tresses, and those of his family. Heaven, I hope, as well as your worship, will pardon me for an action, which I abhor in my heart. Here is [Page 40] your purse, Sir—take it, and with it its full con­tents; a load, which would have lain heavy up­on my mind the longest day I have to live. I was looking out for your worship for this very pur­pose.

I have misconceived, Sir, your character. Pardon my error. I now find, that you have eve­ry claim to compassion and relief. Oblige me in accepting this trifle. Nay, Sir—I am in earnest. A larger sum should be at your service; but a traveller is seldom overburthened with money.

It must not be. We should be altogether un­deserving of your good opinion, should we deprive you of what is absolutely necessary for your jour­ney.

Will you not allow me the pleasure of evincing my esteem for you? Surely I am the most proper judge of what is sufficient for my expences. At least, Sir, I may present it to your worthy atten­dant.

I thank you, Sir, from the bottom of my heart. —Honest Simon lays no claim to mock-modesty.

Accept, Sir, my warmest gratitude. Better circumstances were once my lot. I could then enjoy the supreme delight or conferring a benefit.

My worthy friend! (pardon the liberty I take in thus addressing you) your conversation and behaviour convince me, that your mind is—and ought to be—superior to your present condition. [Page 41] Your misfortunes must have flowed from no com­mon source.

Alas! Sir, all I now possess is undeviating pro­bity, and an unfullied conscience.

How enviable is your situation! I am rich, ve­ry rich; yet would I part with all my possessions in exchange for tranquility of mind. Like an avenging fiend, conscience unceasingly afflicts me; nor can I promise myself the satisfaction of being able to expiate my offence at least in this world. Merciful Heaven! should I not succeed in my endeavours to find those, who suffer from my in­justice, how severe must be the anguish, which is reserved for my last hours!

Your tears, Sir, afflict me.

I begin to think the old fellow is the greatest knave in company.

You are yet young. Listen to the advice of an old man, who counsels you to lay up in your youth the treasure of a good conscience, as the chief comfort of your age. How sharp is self-reproach in the evening of life! Its stings incessantly goad the unhappy wretch, till they hurry him to a pre­mature grave. Long have I been in pursuit of those, who from my cruelty—excruciating reflec­tion!—from my cruelty have probably either expi­red in misery, or still experience all the horrors of extreme distress.

I am heartily glad, he has not been guilty of murder.

What spot of earth contains their dust! What pitying skies shed their dews on their graves! Guide me, gracious Heaven! to where they rest from anguish. There will I tear up by the roots my grey hairs, scatter them to all the wind of heaven, and in the bitterness of woe await my ar­dently expected dissolution. O! most unfortu­nate of fathers!—But perhaps I have no child!

You sympathize with me. Indeed, my friend! your pity is not ill-bestowed. I am—Heaven knows, I am—an object of compassion.

Wonderful resemblance!—But how powerful is fancy in suggesting what we wish—It cannot be,

You have my compassion, Sir.—You are an afflicted father; and I—

SCENE IX.

My dear! you detain our venerable guest too long in the damp evening-air. You are certainly fatigued, Sir—Be pleased to enter our humble ha­bitation. Your great coat and boots must be cum­bersome to you.

Your humane invitation, Madam, is extremely acceptable.

What is this I read? or am I in a dream? Is this paper yours?

What paper?

Worthy Sir! excuse my freedom—Is this your name?

It is.

O! I am wild with joy. Master! fall down on your marrow-bones, and embrace the old gentle­man's knees. Mistress! throw your lily-white arms round his neck. He is your father.—Blessings on the old green purse, I say, that brought him here.

—This gentleman, Sir, is your son; and this lady is Madam Amelia—your daugh­ter—and I am honest Simon at your worship's ser­vice.

O! my father! am I once more blest in behold­ing you!

May I too presume thus humbly to implore your favour, to claim you as my father, and to dedicate my days to your future ease and comfort!

My children!—Joy almost deprives me of the power of utterance. Rise, my son!— my daugh­ter!—George! you are considerably altered. Now I recollect your features, although greatly impaired by affliction. Much have you suffered from my cruelty; but you are still my son—Nature asserts her rights. Good Heaven! how unexpect­edly am I restored to peace of mind!

Kneel down, my brave lad! and ask grand-papa's blessing. Now ye are all happy—and I as much as any of you. A moment has driven away all [Page 44] our sorrows; thanks to Simon's cleverness, and the virtues of the old green purse. A little while ago I was half mad with grief, and now I am quite foolish with joy.

Rise, my child! support me, my son! my trans­ports exceed my strength. Embrace me, both of ye, embrace your father. Is this youth your son? Henceforth he shall be mine; and Amelia my daughter.

I am, I am; and will ever approve myself your daughter.

Providence has at length put an end to my woes. Three years have I suffered the torments of a disturbed conscience. A severe fit of sick­ness had almost reduced me to the grave, and my mind was pierced with sorrow at the appre­hended approach of death, because of my injus­tice to you. Great was my affliction, my chil­dren! How did I, almost in despair, call upon the Almighty! Great Power! I exclaimed, snatch me not away in this agony of mind, till I have once more seen my son; till I embrace him, and acknowledge to him my injustice! Let me then expire in his arms with a reconciled and cheerful mind!

You must have been in a terrible taking, old gentleman! and well you might.

—Here is a chair for your honour.

As you quitted your first place of residence, my inquiries were fruitless. I have traversed various regions in quest of you. Blessed be the hour, which ensures felicity to my declining age! For­give [Page 45] me, my son! for my unrelenting severity. In truth it brought with it its own punishment.

Forgive you, my father!—I alone am the ob­ject of pardon.

SCENE the last.

Supper is ready, Madam.

Who wants your company, Mrs. Deborah Dishclout?

The fellow, I believe, is crazy. You graceless varlet! you scape-gallows! how dare you speak to me in this manner—before so much company?

For shame, Simon!—Peace, Deborah! Let all be harmony. Notwithstanding your little quarrels, I know you love one another in your hearts. Let me beseech you, Sir,

no longer to reproach yourself; but enter our cot­tage. We all stand in need of composure, after having experienced the extremes of grief, of hope, and of joy. Let us now bend in gratitude to Heaven!