John Bull Part 11

_Pereg._ 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 alter'd!

_Pereg._ I have endur'd many hards.h.i.+ps 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 fix'd 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 horse-whipp'd you, within an inch of your life!

_Pereg._ 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 wou'dn't have sent you back to him, tied, neck and heels, in the basket of the stage coach.

_Pereg._ I have had my compunctions;--have express'd them by letter to my father: but I fear my penitence had no effect.

_Job._ Served you right.

_Pereg._ Having no answers from him, he died, I fear, without forgiving me. [_Sighing._

_Job._ [_Starting._] What! died! without forgiving his child!--Come, that's too much. I cou'dn't have done that, neither.--But, go on: I hope you've been prosperous. But you shou'dn't--you shou'dn't have quitted your father.

_Pereg._ 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 ama.s.s'd considerable wealth, in the Factory at Calcutta.

_Job._ And have just landed it, I suppose, in England.

_Pereg._ 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 sh.o.r.e. 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 won't touch a penny of your hundred pounds--not a penny.

_Pereg._ I do not desire you: I only desire you to take your own.

_Job._ My own?

_Pereg._ 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?

_Pereg._ 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. 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.

[_Giving him the Box._

_Job._ [_Squeezes PEREGRINE'S Hand, returns the Box, and seems almost unable to utter._] Take it again.

_Pereg._ Why do you reject it?

_Job._ I'll tell you, as soon as I'm able. T'other day, I lent 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 walk'd off with them, and made me a bankrupt.

Don't you think he is a rascal?

_Pereg._ Decidedly so.

_Job._ And what should I be, if I took all you have saved in the world, and left you to s.h.i.+ft for yourself?

_Pereg._ But the case is different. This money is, in fact, your own. I am inur'd to hards.h.i.+ps; better able to bear them, and am younger than you. Perhaps, too, I still have prospects of----

_Job._ I won't take it. I'm as thankful to you, as if I left you to starve: but I won't take it.

_Pereg._ 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 now a widower; but, it seems, you have a daughter to provide for.

_Job._ I have no daughter to provide for now!

_Pereg._ Then he misinform'd me.

_Job._ No, he didn't. I had one last night; but she's gone.

_Pereg._ Gone!

_Job._ Yes; gone to sea, for what I know, as you did. Run away 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.

_Pereg._ This morning, did you say?

_Job._ Aye, before day-break;--a hard-hearted, base----

_Pereg._ And could she leave you, during the derangement of your affairs?

_Job._ She did'nt know what was going to happen, poor soul! I wish she had now. I don't think my Mary would have left her old father in the midst of his misfortunes.

_Pereg._ [_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--d.a.m.n the gridirons and warming-pans!--I could begin again--but, now, my Mary's gone, I hav'n't the heart; but I shall hit upon something.

_Pereg._ 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----

_Pereg._ Will you receive the money?

_Job._ Yes, yes; on those terms--on those conditions. But where is Mary?

_Pereg._ 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, 'sbud! when I see her safe, what a thundering pa.s.sion 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.

_Pereg._ 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 dropt from the clouds, all on a sudden, to comfort an old, broken-hearted brazier.

_Pereg._ I rejoice, my honest 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._