Hor. We last night fixed on it for surer secresy. The landlord, settling but lately here, was less likely to discover me.

Ced. Your wife-poor little soul-shall stay here with Esther. Your father I must take into my hands.

Hor. Stay with Esther!-and I to remain at the inn ?—

Ced. Till called for.

you know my discipline.

Silence! I am again your master, and

Enter SHILLING, through Porch.

Shilling. Discipline! Hem! A mighty fine word, Master Cedar.

Cedar. Nicholas !

Shil. Mr. Nicholas Shilling, no longer schoolboy, but a houseowner—a man of bricks and land—a man of property, sir. My father left

Ced. I can, any day, see his last testament for twelvepence, but am not curious in such reading. Your father was a rich tradesman; a tailor, whose goose brought him golden eggs; and the produce of the goose has come to you by natural descent. Briefly; your father was a plain, quiet man. Respect his memory, by imitating him.

Shil. Respect! I think I've shown that in his monument; the most expensive marble; enough to have worked up-for only last Sunday I made the calculation-into six chimney-pieces. Respect, sir! when I've the stonemason's receipt for the money; no trifle, for cutting and carving, though I made him throw in the corner honeysuckles for nothing. All this I should despise myself to hint at. The affair that brings me here isn't mine only; but the affair of every man, that is, every man of property, in the neighbourhood.

Ced. What affair?

Shil. The peace of families, sir. If houses are to be no more than birds' nests-girls no better than young linnets! To be sure, teachers who'd keep up their schools, may think it part of their trade to bring about marriages.

Ced. (Restraining himself, and taking MARION to Porch.) In, my child; go you in to Esther. (Exit MARION. TO HORACE.) Hold your tongue. (Going up to SHILLING.) Mr. Shilling, did I ever cane you?

Shil. Me-who was the genius of the school; who won nine medals for arithmetic? (Aside: for they brought me a guinea as old silver.) Cane me? No, sir.

Ced. 'Twas a sad omission; for it might perchance have spared me the future trouble.

Shil. Mr. Cedar, these are words-words sir, which any man, but especially a man of property

Ced. I was wrong. I still thought you one of my schoolboys, I ask pardon; first of your property-next of yourself. And now, Mr. Shilling, your business?

Shil. As I said, not mine alone. For when a school is made a house of call for foolish couples

Hor. (Aside: The impudent meddler!)

Shil. When a schoolmaster turns go-between

Hor. (Aside to CEDAR: Do, sir, let me throw him into the road.)

Shil. When, instead of setting virtuous copies, he fosters rebellion to family authority-then, I say-but no, I hope I've said enough.

Ced. Too much, or not enough.

Shil. No, sir, I've done. I wish to treat you with respect.

Ced. 'Tis my wish towards you; but pray don't make the task so difficult.

Shil. It's sufficient to say, I know the whole affair. I watched both here.

Ced. Indeed!

Shil. Both my lady and the gentleman.

Hor. You were well employed, sir.

Shil. No matter, sir, 'twas my pleasure.

Ced. Nicholas, I fear he who turns spy for pleasure, wouldn't tickle to be hangman for business.

Shil. Spy! hangman! Let me observe, schoolmaster

Hor. (Advancing to SHILLING,) Let me observe, schoolfellow. If I catch you on the scent-or know you to drop a syllable of vulgar gossip-I'll beat you past all former beatings.

Shil. Beat a man for watching his own sister!

Ced. Your sister?

Shil. Sister Phillis! I know she comes here-is here now; to learn botany, forsooth, of old Pronoun.

Ced. (Aside to HORACE: Come, we are safe-leave us, while we are so.) Go. (Exit HORACE into the house.) And why shouldn't Phillis study botany?

Shil. Botany! She doesn't know chickweed from asparagus. 'Tis to meet Jack Marigold, the Barbican apothecary.

Ced. Your old schoolfellow; and, as you know, an honest lad. Shil. I know-a beggar; and for his honesty, that may only serve to keep him one. A pretty prospect for the sister of a man of property. No: Phillis may marry for love, but it shall be love with a cash account. Self-preservation, master! I don't like young cannibals.

Ced. Cannibals !

Shil. Yes. I am not to keep single, and save money, to be at last eaten alive by nephews and nieces. A rich bachelor uncle, may be a standing family dish; but I shall not provide it. Honesty! 'tis well enough in a fable: but hav'n't I studied mankind?

Ced. Aye, Nicholas; but I fear only as thieves study a house -to take advantage of the weakest parts of it.

Shil. Why, that's the true scholarship-for see how rich it makes the best professors. In brief, sir, I respect you-for you taught me arithmetic,—but for sister Phillis, her thousand pounds sha'n't buy physic-'tis a bad investment. When she marries, she shall have a man of land and houses-a man of bricks. Talking of bricks, I have to view Juniper cottages-a capital bargain.

Ced. Again for sale?

Shil. Yes; Tom Drops-the sot-mortgaged 'em for his bottle. The present owner cannot longer hold 'em; and I hope to-morrow, they'll be part and parcel of the Shilling estate.

Ced. Poor Tom!

the

Shil. A barbarous hound! T'other night, at Belsize tavern -'twas pitch dark-he held my horse for an hour. I staid, on purpose to spite him. Well, when I mounted, and laughing at him, let him know whose lacquey he had been savage so struck the dear creature - the bay mare that cost me forty pounds-that if my riding wasn't always wonderful, I had broken my neck. That's humanity, and from a schoolfellow.

Ced. 'Twas a great mistake to strike the-horse.

Shil. There's one comfort; I shall have his houses every brick while he's in straw. (Looking at his watch,) I'faith! I've overstaid my time, and I mustn't lose the lot. Farewell, sir-farewell. (Aside: But I'll return and watch my lady.)

[Exit.

Ced. 'Twould admit of question which was the worst; the intemperance of the one, or the sobriety of the other. But this imprudent couple! "Tis well it is the holidays, and the boys away. If I can get Sir Luke here-can possess him with a liking for his daughter, and after, tell all—

(Enter ESTHER.)

Ha, Esther! Why, child, what has disturbed thee?

Est. Disturbed, sir?

Ced. There while I speak-thy colour comes and goes. What is the matter, Esther?

Est. Nothing, sir.

Ced. Then hang nothing, if it makes a young maid blush and stammer. Didst come to seek me?

Est. Some one--a gentleman-would see you.

Ced. A stranger?

Est. I never saw him till to-day. I-I was at my window, as he came towards the house. Suddenly, he stopt, looking earnestly at all about him. As he gazed, he smiled, and then looked sad again. His manner fixed me where I stood. He approached the gate; when, with his finger on the latch, again he paused. I think, he sighed; but at that moment, our eyes met; ashamed to be so caught, I was hastening away, when he quickly asked, if you were in the house-then begged to see you.

Ced. A stranger! What kind of—

Est. He is here.

[JASPER appears at the Porch comes down; ESTHER curtseys to him, and exit through Porch.

Ced. (Aside: So-young, and of likely looks.) Your pleasure, sir; or shall we talk within ?

Jas. With your leave, here, sir. (Aside: He is but little changed. How beautiful can time with goodness, make an old man look!) My business, sir—(Aside: It seems but yesterday, that we were face to face!) (They sit.) I would enquire of one, who was once your scholar. Though years since of man's estate, 'tis possible you may remember him?

Ced. I have been schoolmaster forty years; did not lightly take the trade, nor ever looked upon my boys as so much stock to turn the penny with. No: I have ever loved them; for children, sir, are sacred things. Remember! I think you can scarcely speak a scholar's name, that, old as I am, he shall notI may almost say it-stand before me.

Jas. You recollect an orphan boy-a friendless child-oh, yes -you would remember him better than any other?

Ced. His name?

Jas. I have a powerful wish to learn his fate

Ced. His name?

Jas. He was an orphan and a friendless child.

Ced. I wish I need not ask it, but-his name?

Jas. Jasper. I see you know the name?

Ced. Poor Jasper! Still he should not have run from me. Jas. Did he so? Surely he had no cause ?

Ced. I cannot say that-'twould many a time have eased me if I could. I was harsh to the poor boy-and he had a spirit, gentle as a girl's. I was harsh; but he did not know my suf

ferings. He left me, and I heard no word of him. 'Tis seventeen years, last fall. I remember the very night. I had planted that vine, then the merest twig

Jas. And now, a glorious tree. It is become a thing of beauty to the wall that first sustained it, teaching a lesson, sir, I would we all did follow. How hung with fruit! Seventeen years! Yet there's scarce a bunch but doth, I fear, reproach me with my barrenness.

Ced. You!

Jas. (Kneeling to him.) Master, forgive your truant schoolboy!

Ced. What! No-do not speak. (Having gazed intently at him.) He is alive! I thank God! he is alive! [Sinks in chair. Jas. Can you forgive me?

Ced. My poor Jasper! Forgive? I-but I cannot speak yet. Thou wert the meekest boy-and I was severe and wayward-I say, I was. I knew it when you left me. I sought you tried every means to find you-all was vain. I was punished; you do not know the horrid thoughts that beset my pillow, when I pictured you, a helpless infant in the worlda strayed lamb, wandering near the wolves. No parent-no friend

The

Jas. Oh, say, who were my parents? That has been-is the question of my life. It perplexed my childhood-sent me, at eight years' old, a baby pilgrim from your roof. voice that spoke to me in yonder school-room has never yet been hushed; it cried loudly within me when I fled from you; still, went with mẻ: on the dreary sea, in storms and darkness, I have heard it; in crowded cities it hath made me lonelyin the fulness of fortune it hath kept me poor. I left your door, a friendless beggar boy-I have endured afflictions, but have known kindness gathered competence. Still, poorer than I left, I now return-that mystery unexplained—that wearying riddle of my life-that torturing enigma-who were my parents?

Ced. Jasper !

Jas. That mystery clouded my childhood - darkened the days of infancy with the shadows of too early thought. Doubts, and fears, and haggard wonderings, that waylay manhood, met me when a boy. I have seen my happy schoolfellows leave for their happy homes. I have watched them, one by one, depart, some fast in a parent's hand, but all to meet a parent's touch. I have watched the last away-then gone into the school-room; its solitude has fallen like death on my young heart. Then I have felt myself a lonely, unclaimed thing