ACT. I.

SCENE I.-An Apartment in the house of Sir Stephen Bertram

SIR STEPHEN BERTRAM and FREDERICK.

Sir Step. Why do you press me for reasons I'm not bound to give? If I choose to dismiss an assistant clerk from my counting-house, how does it concern you?

Fred. That clerk you took at my recommendation and request: I am therefore interested to hope you have no reasons for dismissing him, that affect his character.

Sir Step. I am your father, sir, and in this house sole master; I have no partners to account to; nor will I brook any comments on my conduct from my son.

Fred. Yet, as your son, may I not, without risking your displeasure, offer one humble word upon the part of a defenceless, absent friend?

Sir Step. A friend!

Fred. Yes, sir; I hope I need not blush to call Charles Ratcliffe friend. His virtues, his misfortunes, bis integrity, (you'll undeceive me if I err,) have much endeared him to me.

Sir Step. Say rather his connexions. Come, I see where all his friendship points-to folly, to disgrace-therefore no more of it! Break off; new friendships will cost you dear; 'tis better you should cease to call him friend, than put it in his

to call you brother. In one word, Frederick, Power never will accept of Ratcliffe's sister as my daughter-in-law; nor, if I can prevent it, shall you so far forget yourself as to make her your mistress. Fred. Mistress! Good heaven!-But I'll restrain myself. You never saw Miss Ratcliffe,

Sir Step. I wish you never had.-But you have seen your last of her, or me-I leave it to your choice. [Exit,

Fred. I have no choice to make; she is my wifeand if to take beauty, virtue, and elegance, without fortune, when my father would have me take fortune without them, is a crime that merits disinheritance, I must meet my punishment as I can. The only thing I dread is the severe but honourable reproach of my friend Ratcliffe, to whom this marriage is a secret, and whose disinterested resent, ment I know not how to face: I must dissemble with him still, for I am unprepared with my de, fence, and he is here.

Enter CHARLES RATCLIFFE,
Char. Well met, Frederick.
Fred. I wish I could say so.
Char. Why, what's the matter now?
Fred. I have no good news to tell you,

Char. I don't expect it; you are not made to be the bearer of good news: knavery engrosses all fortune's favour, and fools run up and down with the tidings of it.

Fred. You are still a philosopher,

Char. I cannot tell that, till I am tried with prosperity: it is that which sets our failings in full view; adversity conceals them.-But come, discuss: tell me in what one part of my composition the ingenious cruelty of fortune can place another blow.

Fred. By my soul, Charles, I am ashamed to tell you, because the blow is now given by a hand I wish to reverence. You know the temper of Sir Stephen Bertram: he is my father, therefore I will not enlarge upon a subject that would be painful to us both. It is with infinite regret I have seen you (nobly descended, and still more nobly endowed,) earning a scanty maintenance at your desk in his counting-house: it is a slavery you are now released from.

Char. I understand you; Sir Stephen has no further commands for me. I will go to him, and deliver up my keys. (Going.)

Fred. Have patience for a moment. Do you guess his reasons for this hasty measure? Char. What care I for his reasons, when I know they cannot touch my honour!

Fred. Oh, Charles, my heart is penetrated with your situation: what will become of those beloved objects?

Char. Why, what becomes of all the objects misery lays low? they shrink from sight, and are forgotten.-You know, I will not hear you on this subject; 'twas not with my consent you ever knew there were such objects in existence.

Fred. I own it; but in this extremity, methinks you might relax a little from that rigid honour.

Char. Never; but, as the body of a man is braced by winter, so is my resolution by adversity. On this point only we can differ. Why will my friend persist in urging it?

Fred. I have done. You have your way. Char. Then, with your leave, I'll go to your father.

Fred. Hold! Here comes one that supersedes all other visitors-old Sheva, the rich Jew, the merest muckworm in the city of London. How the old Hebrew casts about for prodigals to snap at!-I'll throw him out a bait for sport.

Char. No, let him pass; what sport can his infirmities afford?

Enter SHEVA.

Sheva. The goot day to you, my young master! How is it with your health, I pray? Is your fader, Sir Stephen Bertram, and my very good patron, to be spoken with?

Fred. Yes, yes, he is at home, and to be spoken with, under some precaution, Sheva: if you bring him money, you would be welcome.

Sheva. Ah! that is very goot. Monies is welcome every where.

Fred. Pass on, pass on! no more apologies. Good man of money, save your breath to count your guineas. [Exit Sheva.] That fellow would not let his shadow fall upon the earth, if he could help it. Char. You are too hard upon him. The thing

is courteous.

Fred. Hang him! he'll bow for half a crown. His carcase and its covering would not coin into a ducat, yet he is a moving mine of wealth.

Char. You see these characters with indignation: I contemplate them with pity. I have a fellowfeeling for poor Sheva: he is as much in poverty as I am, only it is poverty of another species: he wants what he has; I have nothing, and want every thing. Misers are not unuseful members of the community; they act like dams to rivers, hold up the stream that else would run to waste, and make deep water where there would be shallows.

Fred. I recollect you was his rescuer; I did not know you were his advocate.

Char. 'Tis true, I snatched him out of jeopardy. My countrymen, with all their natural humanity, have no objection to the hustling of a Jew. The poor old creature was most roughly handled. Fred. What was the cause?

Char. I never asked the cause. There was a hundred upon one; that was cause enough for me to make myself a second to the party overmatched.— I got a few hard knocks, but I brought off my man. Fred. The synagogue should canonize you for the deed.

SHEVA returns.

Sheva. Aha? there is no business to be done: there is no talking to your fader. He is not just now in the sweetest of all possible tempers. Anything, Mr. Bertram, wanted in my way?

Fred. Yes, Sheva, there is enough wanted in your way, but I doubt it is not in your will to do it.

Sheva. I do always do my utmost for my principals: I never spare my pains when business is going: be it ever such a trifle I am thankful. Every little helps a poor man like me.

Fred. You speak of your spirit, I suppose, when you call yourself a poor man. All the world knows you roll in riches.

Sheva. The world knows no great deal of me. I do not deny but my monies may roll a little, but for myself I do not roll at all. I live sparingly, and labour hard, therefore I am called a miserI cannot help it; an uncharitable dog-I must endure it; a bloodsucker, an extortioner, a Shylock, -hard names, Mr. Frederick; but what can a poor Jew say in return, if a Christian chooses to abuse him?

Fred. Say nothing, but spend your money like a Christian.

Sheva. We have no abiding place on earth, no country, no home: everybody rails at us, everybody flouts us, everybody points us out for their maygame and their mockery. If your play writers want a butt or a buffoon, or a knave to make sport of, out comes a Jew to be baited and buffeted through five long acts, for the amusement of all good Christians. Cruel sport!--merciless amusement! Hard dealings for a poor stray sheep of the scattered flock of Abraham! How can you expect us to shew kindness, when we receive none?

Char. (Advancing.) That is true, friend Sheva, I can witness: I am sorry to say there is too much justice in your complaint.

Sheva. Bless this goot light! I did not see you'tis my very goot friend, Mr. Ratcliffe, as I live.— Give me your pardon, I pray you, sir, give me your pardon. I should be sorry to say in your hearing, that there is no charity for the poor Jews. Truly, sir, I am under very great obligations to you for your generous protection t'other night, when I was mobbed and maltreated; and, for aught I can tell, should have been massacred, had not you stood forward in my defence. Truly, sir, I bear it very thankfully in my remembrance; truly I do; yes, truly.

Fred. Leave me with him, Charles; I'll hold him in discourse whilst you go to my father.

[Exit Charles. Sheva. Oh! it was goot deed, very goot deed, to save a poor Jew from a pitiless mob; and I am very grateful to you, worthy Mr.- -Ah! the gentle

man is gone away: that is another thing.

Fred. It is so, but your gratitude need not go away at the same time; you are not bound to make good the proverb- Out of sight, out of mind.'

Sheva. No, no, no; I am very much obliged to him, not only for my life, but for the monies and

Fred. Well, then, having so much gratitude for his favours, you have now an opportunity of making some return to him.

Sheva. Yes, yes, and I do make him a return of my thanks and goot wishes very heartily. What can a poor Jew say more? I do wish him all goot things, and give him all goot words.

Fred. Good words, indeed! What are they to a man who is cast naked upon the wide world, with a widowed mother and a defenceless sister, who look up to him for their support?

Sheva. Good lack, good lack! I thought he was in occupations in your fader's counting-house. Fred. He was; and from his scanty pittance, piously supported these poor destitutes: that source is now stopped, and as you, when in the midst of rioters, was in want of a protector, so is he, in the midst of his misfortunes, in want of some kind friend to rescue him.

Sheva. Oh dear, oh dear! this world is full of sadness and of sorrow; miseries upon miseries! unfortunates by hundreds and by thousands, and poor Sheva has but two weak eyes to find tears for them all.

Fred. Come, come, Sheva, pity will not feed the hungry, nor clothe the naked. Ratcliffe is the friend of my heart: I am helpless in myself; my father, though just, is austere in the extreme; I dare not resort to him for money, nor can I turn my thoughts to any other quarter for the loan of a small sum in this extremity, except to you.

Sheva. To me! good lack, to me! What will become of me? What will Sir Stephen say? He is full of monies; but then again, he is a close man, very austere, as you say, and very just, but not very generous.

Fred. Well, well, let me have your answer.

Sheva. Yes, yes; but my answer will not please you without the monies: I shall be a Jewish dog, a baboon, an imp of Beelzebub, if I don't find the monies; and when my monies is all gone, what shall I be then? An ass, a fool, a jack-a-dandy!— Oh dear! oh dear! Well, there must be conditions, look you.

Fred. To be sure: security twice secured; premium and interest, and bond and judgment into the bargain. Only enable me to preserve my friend, give me that transport, and I care not what I pay

for it.

Sheva. Mercy on your heart! what haste and harry you are in! How much did you want? One hundred pounds, did you say?

Fred. More than one, more than one. Shera. Ah, poor Sheva! More than one hundred pounds; what! so much as two hundred? 'tis a great deal of monies.

Fred. Come, friend Sheva, at one word-three hundred pounds.

Sheva. Mercies defend me, what a sum! Fred. Accommodate me with three hundred pounds; make your own terms; consult your conscience in the bargain, and I will say you are a good fellow. Oh, Sheva! did you but know the luxury of relieving honour, innocence, and beauty, from distress!

Sheva, Oh! 'tis great luxury I dare say, else you would not buy it at so high a price. Well, well, well! I have thought a little, and if you will come to my poor cabin in Duke's Place, you shall have the monies.

Fred. Well said, my gallant Sheva! Shall I bring a bond with me to fill up?

Sheva. No, no, no; we have all those in my shop. Fred. I don't doubt it: all the apparatus of an asurer. (Aside.) Farewell, Sheva! be ready with your instruments, I care not what they are: only

Enter CHARLESS RATCLIFFE, not noticing the Jew.

Char. Unfeeling, heartless man, I've done with you. I'll dig, beg, perish, rather than submit to such unnatural terms! I may remain: my mother and my sister must he banished to a distance. Why, this Jew, this usurer, this enemy to our faith, whose heart is in his bags, would not have used me thus-I'll question him. Sheva! Sheva. What is your pleasure? Char. I do not know the word.

Sheva. What is your will, then? speak it. Char, Sheva!-You have been a son-you had a mother-dost remember her?

Sheva. Goot lack, goot lack! do I remember her!

Char. Didst love her, cherish her, support her? Sheva. Ah me! ah me! it is as much as my poor heart will bear to think of her, I would have diedChar. Thou hast affections, feelings, charitiesSheva. I am a man, sir, call me how you please. Char. I'll call you Christian, then; and this proud merchant, Jew.

Sheva. I shall not thank you for that compliment.
Char. And hadst thou not a sister too?

Sheva. No; no sister, no broder, no son, no daughter; I am a solitary being, a waif on the world's wide common.

Char. And thou hast hoarded wealth, till thou art sick with gold, even to plethora. Thy bags run over with the spoils of usury, thy veins are glutted with the blood of prodigals and gamesters.

Sheva. I have enough; something perhaps to spare.

Char. And I have nothing, nothing to spare but miseries, with which my measure overflows. By heaven, it racks my soul, to think that those beloved sufferers should want, and this thing so abound! (Aside.) Now, Sheva, now, if you and I were out of sight of man, benighted in some desert, wild as my thoughts, naked as my fortune, should you not tremble?

Sheva. What should I tremble for?-You could not harm a poor defenceless, aged man?

Char. Indeed, indeed, I could not harm you, Sheva, whilst I retained my senses.

Sheva. Sorrow disturbs them: yes, yes, it is sorrow. Ah me, ah me! poor Sheva in his time has been driven mad with sorrow.-'Tis a hard world.

Char. Sir, I have done you wrong. You pity me, I'm sure you do: those tones could never proceed but from a feeling heart.

Sheva. Try me, touch me; I am not made of marble.

Char. No, on my life you are not.

Sheva. Nor yet of gold extorted from the prodigal: I am no shark to prey upon mankind. What I have got, I have got by little and little, working

hard and pinching my own bowels.-I could say something; it is in my thoughts; but no, I will not say it here. This is the house of trade; that is not to my purpose. Come home with me, so please you; 'tis but a little walk, and you shall see what I have shewn to no man-Sheva's real heart: I do not carry it in my hand. Come, I pray you, come along. [Exeunt.

ACT II.

SCENE I.-Mrs. Ratcliffe's Lodgings.

Enter ELIZA RATCLIFFE.

Eliza. Oh, happy me! possessed of all my heart delights in; and miserable me, for having ruined what I love. Alas! poor Bertram, fond to desperation, generous to thy destruction!-Why then did I marry? Wherefore did I suffer him to be the victim of fatal passion? What power perverted understanding, heart, humanity? What power, but that which can do all things, good or ill, make virtue, and unmake it, animate our courage, and extinguish it?-Love is at once my crime and my excuse. Good heavens! my mother.

Enter MRS. RATCLIFFE.-Eliza takes her hand and kisses it.

Mrs. R. Eliza! child! what means this more than usual agitation?

Eliza. Is it then more than usual?
Mrs. R. You weep.

Eliza. Do I? "Tis natural, when I contemplate a face so dear and so decayed, furrowed with cares and sorrows for my sake.-Ah! my dear mother, you have loved me much too well.

Mrs. R. My darling, can that be, seeing I love your brother also? You share my heart between

you.

Eliza. Give all to him; he has deserved it better. Mrs. R. Heaven bless him to the extent of his deservings! On him rests all our hope; to him we eling, as to the last dear relic of our wrecked nobility. But he's a man, Eliza, and endowed with strength and fortitude to struggle in the storm; we are weak, helpless women, and can do no more than suffer and submit.

Eliza. True; but there is a part allotted to the weakest, even to me; an humble one indeed, and easily performed, since nothing is required but to obey, to love you, and to honour you.

Mrs. R. And you have done it faithfully, my

child.

Eliza. You think so, my dear mother; but your praise is my reproach.-Oh! had I now a crime upon my conscience, and should I kneel thus, and beg for pardon at your feet, what would you say? Mrs. R. Astonishment might keep me silent for a while, but my first words would be to pity and forgive you.

Eliza. That I can err, this guilty hand will witness. Well may you start. That hand is Bertram's; and that ring, pledged at the altar, was put on by him this very morning: I am Bertram's wife.

Mrs. R. Rise, quit this supplicating posture, till you find yourself in presence of some person less disposed to pardon you than I am.

Eliza. How mild is that rebuke! how merciful! Your eye, like nature's, penetrates my heart; you see it weak as woman's resolution is impassioned, not impure; conquered, but not corrupted.

Mrs, R. I see myself reflected in my child. Justice demands a censure; conscious recollection checks me from pronouncing it; but you have a brother, whose high soaring spirit will not brook

clandestine marriages: your husband has a father of another spirit, as I fear. Alas! my child, betwixt the lofty and the low, you must steer well to keep a steady course.

Eliza. I see my danger; and though Bertram's ardour painted it in fainter colours than its true complexion may demand, yet I should hope the nature of a father cannot be so stern as never to forgive a choice that disappoints; but, let me hope, does not disgrace him.

Mrs. R. The name of Ratcliffe cannot. A daughter of your house, in better days, would hardly have advanced his knighthood higher than her foot-cloth.

Eliza. Ay, madam ; but the pride of birth does bat add stings to poverty. We must forget those days. Mrs. R. Your father did not.

Eliza. Ah, my father!

Mrs. R. Your brother never will.

Eliza. Yet he is humble for our sakes. Think what he does. Good heavens, my husband's father's clerk! Dear madam, tell me why he did not rather go where his courage called him, where his person would have graced the colours that he carried?

Mrs. R. Child, child, what colours? Surely you forget the interdiction of a father barred him from that service.

Eliza. Alas, alas!

Mrs. R. The bread would choke him that he earned under a father's curse.

Eliza. We have bled for our opinions, and we have starved for them; the axe, and sword, and poverty, have made sad havoc with our family: 'tis time we were at peace. The world is now before us on this hour depends the fate of all perhaps that are to come. Frederick is with his father; he is determined to avow his marriage, and to meet the consequences. I never saw Sir Stephen, and have nothing but conjecture to direct me; I tremble for the event.

Mrs. R. 'Tis a distressful interim; and it is now the hour when I expect your brother.

Eliza. Oh! that is worse than all; for pity's sake hide me from him till Frederick returns: let me retire.

Mrs. R. Come, then, my child! I know not what it is, but something whispers me that all will yet

be well.

Eliza. Ten thousand blessings on you for that cheering hope: how my heart bounds to embrace it! 'Tis an auspicious omen, and I hail it like the voice of inspiration. [Exeunt.

SCENE II.-Sheva's House.

Enter DORCAS.

Dorcas. Why, Jabal! I say, Jabal! Where are you, sluggard?'

Enter JABAL.

Jabal. Here am I, Mother Dorcas! Oh! what a starving star was I born under, to be the rich Jew's poor servant. No rest, no peace, whilst you are awake. Lud-a-mercy! if you did but know how your pipe echoes in this empty house!—

Dorcas. Child! child! you must not think to be idle here.

Jabal. What would you have me do? Brush the bare walls for a breakfast? A spider could not make a meal upon them.

Dorcas. I warrant thou hast filled thy belly, cormorant.

Jabal. I have not had a bellyful since I belonged to you. You take care there shall be no fire in the kitchen; master provides no prog upon the shelf;

SCENE 2.]

so, between you both, I have plenty of nothing but cold and hunger.

Dorcas. Hunger, indeed! How should thy stomach ever be filled, when there is no bottom to it? 'tis like the Dead Sea, fathomless.

Jabal, 'Tis like the Dead Sea so far, that neither fish nor flesh are to be found within it.

Dorcas. Sirrah! you have a better master than you think for. It is unknown the charities he gives

away.

Jabal. You're right, it is unknown; at least I never found the secret out. If it is charity to keep an empty cupboard, he has that to boast of: the very rats would run away from such a caterer. If it is charity to clothe the naked, here is a sample of it; examine this old drab; you may count the threads without spectacles; a spider's web is a warm blanket to it. If it is charity to feed the hungry, I have an empty stomach at his service to which his charity, at this present moment, would be very seasonable.

Dorcas. You must mortify your carnal appetites; how often shall I teach you that lesson?

Jabal. Every time I set eyes upon you. Dorcas. Haven't you the credit of belonging to one of the richest men in the city of London?

Jabal. I wish I was turnspit to the poorest cook's-shop instead. Oh! if my master had but fixed his abode at Pye-Corner, or Pudding-Lane, or Fish-Street-Hill, or any of those savoury places! What am I the fatter for the empty dignity of Dake's Place? I had rather be a miser's heir than a miser's servant.

Dorcas. And who knows what may happen? Master has not a relation I ever heard of in the universal world.

Jabal. No, he has starved them all out. A chameleon could not live with him: he would grudge him even the air he feeds on.

Dorcas. For shame, slanderer! His good deeds will shine out in time.

Jabal. I sha'n't stand in their light; they may shine through me, for I am grown transparent in his service. Had not he like to have been torn to pieces t'other day by the mob, for whipping a starved cat out of his area?

Dorcas. And whose fault was that but thine, ungracious boy, for putting it there? I am sure I have cause to bless the gentleman that saved him. But, hush! here comes my good master; and, as I live, the very gentleman with him. Ah! then I guess what is going forward.

I

[Exit.

had it.

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a miser.

fel

Sheva. That is true, that is very true: I love my monies, I do love them dearly; but I love my low-creatures a little better.

Cha. Seeing you are so charitable to others, why then can you not spare a little to yourself?

Sheva. Because I am angry with myself for being such a baby, a child, a chicken. Your people do not love me, what business have I to love your people? I am a Jew; my fathers, up to Abraham, all were Jews. Merciless mankind, how you have persecuted them! My family is all gone, it is extinct, my very name will vanish out of memory when I am dead. I pray you pardon me! I'm very old, and apt to weep; I pray you pardon me.

Cha. I am more disposed to subscribe to your tears than to find fault with them.

Sheva. Well, well, well! 'tis natural for me to weep, when I reflect upon their sufferings and my own. Sir, you shall know-but I won't tell you my sad story: you are young and tender-hearted. It is all written down-you shall find it with my papers my death.

at

Cha. Sir! At your death?

Sheva. Yes, sure, I must die some time or other: though you have saved my life once, you cannot save it always. I did tell you, Mr. Ratcliffe, I would shew you my heart. Sir, it is a heart to do you all possible good whilst I live, and to pay you the debt of gratitude when I die. I believe it is the only one I owe to the pure benevolence of my fellow-creatures.

Cha. I am sorry you have found mankind so ungrateful.

Sheva. Not so, not so; I might, perhaps, have found them grateful, if I had let them know their benefactor. I did relieve their wants, but I did not court their thanks: they did eat my bread, aud hooted at me for a miser.

Enter JABAL.

Jabal. A gentleman, who says his name is Berfancy he comes to tram, waits to speak with you. borrow money, for he looks wondrous melancholy. Sheva. Hold your tongue, knave; what is it to you what he comes for?

Jabal. I am sure he does not come for dinner, for he has not brought it with him. Sheva. I pray you, Mr. Ratcliffe, pass out that way. I would not have you meet.-Admit Mr. Bertram. [Exeunt Jabal and Charles.

Enter FREDERICK.

You are welcome, Mr. Bertram : our business may quickly be despatched. You want three hundred pounds: I bave made shift to scrape that sum together, and it is ready for you.

Fred. Alas, Sheva! since last I saw you I am so