John Bull Part 6

_Shuff._ No more can I. 'Tis the fas.h.i.+on to be absent--that's the way I forgot your little bill. There, run along. [_Exit JOHN._] I've the whirl of Bobby's chaise in my head still. Cursed fatiguing, posting all night, through Cornish roads, to obey the summons of friends.h.i.+p! Convenient, in some respects, for all that. If all loungers, of slender revenues, like mine, could command a constant succession of invitations, from men of estates in the country, how amazingly it would tend to the thinning of Bond Street! [_Throws himself into a Chair near the Writing Table._] Let me see--what has Sir Simon been reading?--"Burn's Justice"--true; the old man's reckoned the ablest magistrate in the county. he hasn't cut open the leaves, I see. "Chesterfield's Letters"--pooh! his system of education is extinct: Belcher and the Butcher have superseded it.

"Clarendon's History of----."

_Enter SIR SIMON ROCHDALE._

_Sir Simon._ Ah, my dear Tom Shuffleton!

_Shuff._ Baronet! how are you?

_Sir Simon._ Such expedition is kind now! You got my letter at Bath, and----

_Shuff._ Saw it was pressing:--here I am. Cut all my engagements for you, and came off like a shot.

_Sir Simon._ Thank you: thank you, heartily!

_Shuff._ Left every thing at sixes and sevens.

_Sir Simon._ Gad, I'm sorry if----

_Shuff._ Don't apologize;--n.o.body does, now. Left all my bills, in the place, unpaid.

_Sir Simon._ Bless me! I've made it monstrous inconvenient!

_Shuff._ Not a bit--I give you my honour, I did'nt find it inconvenient at all. How is Frank Rochdale?

_Sir Simon._ Why, my son is'nt up yet; and before he's stirring, do let me talk to you, my dear Tom Shuffleton! I have something near my heart, that--

_Shuff._ Don't talk about your heart, Baronet;--feeling's quite out of fas.h.i.+on.

_Sir Simon._ Well, then, I'm interested in----

_Shuff._ Aye, stick to that. We make a joke of the heart, now-a-days; but when a man mentions his interest, we know he's in earnest.

_Sir Simon._ Zounds! I am in earnest. Let me speak, and call my motives what you will.

_Shuff._ Speak--but don't be in a pa.s.sion. We are always cool at the clubs: the constant habit of ruining one another, teaches us temper.

Explain.

_Sir Simon._ Well, I will. You know, my dear Tom, how much I admire your proficiency in the New school of breeding;--you are, what I call, one of the highest finished fellows of the present day.

_Shuff._ Psha! Baronet; you flatter.

_Sir Simon._ No, I don't; only in extolling the merits of the newest fas.h.i.+on'd manners and morals, I am sometimes puzzled, by the plain gentlemen, who listen to me, here in the country, most consumedly.

_Shuff._ I don't doubt it.

_Sir Simon._ Why, 'twas but t'other morning, I was haranguing old Sir Noah Starchington, in my library, and explaining to him the s.h.i.+ning qualities of a dasher, of the year eighteen hundred and three; and what do you think he did?

_Shuff._ Fell asleep.

_Sir Simon._ No; he pull'd down an English dictionary; when (if you'll believe me! he found my definition of stylish living, under the word "insolvency;" a fighting crop turn'd out a "dock'd bull dog;" and modern gallantry, "adultery and seduction."

_Shuff._ Noah Starchington is a d.a.m.n'd old twaddler.--But the fact is, Baronet, we improve. We have voted many qualities to be virtues, now, that they never thought of calling virtues formerly. The rising generation wants a new dictionary, d.a.m.nably.

_Sir Simon._ Deplorably, indeed! You can't think, my dear Tom, what a scurvy figure you, and the das.h.i.+ng fellows of your kidney, make in the old ones. But you have great influence over my son Frank; and want you to exert it. You are his intimate--you come here, and pa.s.s two or three months at a time, you know.

_Shuff._ Yes--this is a pleasant house.

_Sir Simon._ You ride his horses, as if they were your own.

_Shuff._ Yes--he keeps a good stable.

_Sir Simon._ You drink our claret with him, till his head aches.

_Shuff._ Your's is famous claret, Baronet.

_Sir Simon._ You worm out his secrets: you win his money; you----.

In short, you are----

_Shuff._ His friend, according to the next new dictionary. That's what you mean, Sir Simon.

_Sir Simon._ Exactly.--But, let me explain. Frank, if he doesn't play the fool, and spoil all, is going to be married.

_Shuff._ To how much?

_Sir Simon._ d.a.m.n it, now, how like a modern man of the world that is! Formerly they would have asked to who.

_Shuff._ We never do, now;--fortune's every thing. We say, "a good match," at the west end of the town, as they say "a good man," in the city;--the phrase refers merely to money. Is she rich?

_Sir Simon._ Four thousand a-year.

_Shuff._ What a devilish desirable woman! Frank's a happy dog!

_Sir Simon._ He's a miserable puppy. He has no more notion, my dear Tom, of a modern "good match," than Eve had of pin money.

_Shuff._ What are his objections to it?

_Sir Simon._ I have smoked him; but he doesn't know that;--a silly, sly amour, in another quarter.

_Shuff._ An amour! That's a very unfas.h.i.+onable reason for declining matrimony.

_Sir Simon._ You know his romantic flights. The blockhead, I believe, is so attach'd, I shou'dn't wonder if he flew off at a tangent, and married the girl that has bewitch'd him.

_Shuff._ Who is she?

_Sir Simon._ She--hem!--she lives with her father, in Penzance.

_Shuff._ And who is he?