gazing on it from a distance with longing eyes and a sick heart, without
daring to advance: at length she perceived that all the inhabitants
had quitted their cottages to attend vespers; then she stole from the
thicket, and approached, with faint and timid steps, the spot which
contained her hearths treasures. She entered, and found her infants left
alone, and playing together on a mat: they screamed at her appearance,
so changed was she by suffering; but when she called them by name, they
knew her tender voice, and stretched out their little arms towards her.
In that moment, the mother forgot all she had endured--all her anguish,
all her fears, every thing on earth but the objects which blessed her
eyes. She sat down between her children--she took them on her knees--she
clasped them in an agony of fondness to her bosom--she covered them with
kisses--she shed torrents of tears on their little heads, as she hugged
them to her. Suddenly she remembered where she was, and why she was
there: new terrors seized her; she rose up hastily, and, with her babies
in her arms, she staggered out of the cabin--fainting, stumbling, and
almost blind with loss of blood and inanition. She tried to reach the
woods, but too feeble to sustain her burthen, which yet she would not
relinquish, her limbs trembled, and sank beneath her. At this moment
an Indian, who was watching the public oven, perceived her. He gave the
alarm by ringing a bell, and the people rushed forth, gathering round
Guahiba with fright and astonishment. They gazed upon her as if upon
an apparition, till her sobs, and imploring looks, and trembling and
wounded limbs, convinced them that she yet lived, though apparently nigh
to death. They looked upon her in silence, and then at each other; their
savage bosoms were touched with commiseration for her sad plight, and
with admiration, and even awe, at this unexampled heroism of maternal
love.
While they hesitated, and none seemed willing to seize her, or to take
her children from her, Father Gomez, who had just landed on his return
from Javita, approached in haste, and commanded them to be separated.
Guahiba clasped her children closer to her breast, and the Indians
shrunk back.
"What!" thundered the monk: "will ye suffer this woman to steal two
precious souls from heaven?--two members from our community? See ye not,
that while she is suffered to approach them, there is no salvation for
either mother or children?--part them, and instantly!"
The Indians, accustomed to his ascendancy, and terrified at his voice,
tore the children of Guahiba once more from her feeble arms: she uttered
nor word nor cry, but sunk in a swoon upon the earth.
While in this state, Father Gomez, with a cruel mercy, ordered her
wounds to be carefully dressed: her arms and legs were swathed with
cotton bandages; she was then placed in a canoe, and conveyed to a
mission, far, far off, on the river Esmeralda, beyond the Upper Orinoco.
She continued in a state of exhaustion and torpor during the voyage;
but after being taken out of the boat and carried inland, restoratives
brought her back to life, and to a sense of her situation. When she
perceived, as reason and consciousness returned, that she was in a
strange place, unknowing how she was brought there--among a tribe who
spoke a language different from any she had ever heard before, and from
whom, therefore, according to Indian prejudices, she could hope nor
aid nor pity;--when she recollected that she was far from her beloved
children;--when she saw no means of discovering the bearing or the
distance of their abode--no clue to guide her back to it:--_then_,
and only then, did the mother's heart yield to utter despair; and
thenceforward refusing to speak or to move, and obstinately rejecting
all nourishment, thus she died.
The boatman, on the river Atabapo, suspends his oar with a sigh as he
passes the ROCK OF THE MOTHER. He points it out to the traveller, and
weeps as he relates the tale of her sufferings and her fate. Ages hence,
when these solitary regions have become the seats of civilization, of
power, and intelligence; when the pathless wilds, which poor Guahiba
traversed in her anguish, are replaced by populous cities, and smiling
gardens, and pastures, and waving harvests,--still that dark rock shall
stand, frowning o'er the stream; tradition and history shall preserve
its name and fame; and when even the pyramids, those vast, vain monuments
to human pride, have passed away, it shall endure, to carry down to the
end of the world the memory of the Indian Mother.
MUCH COIN, MUCH CARE.
A DRAMATIC PROVERB.
WRITTEN FOR HYACINTHE, EMILY, CAROLINE, AND EDWARD.
CHARACTERS.
DICK, the Cobbler, a very honest man, and very merry withal,
much given to singing.
MARGERY, his wife, simple and affectionate, and one of the best
women in the world.
LADY AMARANTHE, a fine lady, full of airs and affectation, but
not without good feeling.
MADEMOISELLE JUSTINE, her French maid, very like other French maids.
The SCENE lies partly in the Garret of the Cobbler, and partly in LADY
AMARANTHE's Drawing-room.
MUCH COIN, MUCH CARE.
SCENE I.
_A Garret meanly furnished; several pairs of old shoes, a coat,
hat, bonnet, and shawl hanging against the Wall. DICK is seated
on a low stool in front. He works, and sings._
As she lay on that day
In the Bay of Biscay O!
Now that's what _I_ call a good song; but my wife, she can't abear them
blusteration songs, she says; she likes something tender and genteel,
full of fine words. (_Sings in a mincing voice._)
Vake, dearest, vake, and again united
Ve'll vander by the sea-he-he-e.
Hang me, if I can understand a word of it! but when my wife sings it
out with her pretty little mouth, it does one's heart good to hear her;
and I could listen to her for ever: but, for my own part, what I like
is a song that comes thundering out with a meaning in it! (_Sings, and
flourishes his hammer with enthusiasm, beating time upon the shoe._)
March! march! Eskdale and Tiviotdale,
All the blue bonnets are over the border!
MARGERY--(_from within._)
Dick! Dick! what a noise you do keep!
DICK.
A noise, eh? Why, Meg, you didn't use to think it a noise: you used to
like to hear me sing!
MARGERY--(_entering._)
And so I did, and so I do. I loves music with all my heart; but the whole
parish will hear you if you go for to bawl out so monstrous loud.
DICK.
And let them! who cares?
[_He sings, she laughs._
MARGERY.
Nay, sing away if you like it!
DICK--(_stopping suddenly._)
I won't sing another bit if you don't like it, Meg.
MARGERY.
Oh, I do like! Lord bless us! not like it! it sounds so merry! Why,
Dick, love, every body said yesterday that you sung as well as Mr.
Thingumee at Sadler's Wells, and says they, "Who is that young man
as sings like any nightingale?" and I says (_drawing herself up_),
"That's my husband!"
DICK.
Ay! flummery!--But, Meg, I say, how did you like the wedding yesterday?
MARGERY.
Oh, hugeously! such heaps of smart people, as fine as fivepence, I
warrant; and such gay gowns and caps! and plenty to eat and drink!--But
what I liked best was the walking in the gardens at Bagnigge Wells, and
the tea, and the crumpets!
DICK.
And the punch!
MARGERY.
Yes--ha! ha! I could see you thought _that_ good! and then the dancing!
DICK.
Ay, ay; and there wasn't one amongst them that footed it away like my
Margery. And folks says to me, "Pray, who is that pretty modest young
woman as hops over the ground as light as a feather?" says they; and
says I, "Why, that there pretty young woman is my wife, to be sure!"
MARGERY.
Ah, you're at your jokes, Dick!
DICK.
I'll be hanged then!
MARGERY--(_leaning on his shoulder._)
Well, to be sure, we were happy yesterday. It's good to make holiday
just now and then, but some how I was very glad to come home to our own
little room again. O Dick!--did you mind that Mrs. Pinchtoe, that gave
herself such grand airs?--she in the fine lavender silk gown--that
turned up her nose at me so, and all because she's a master shoemaker's
wife! and you are only--only--a cobbler!--(_sighs_) I wish _you_ were a
master shoemaker, Dick.
DICK.
That you might be a master shoemaker's wife, hay! and turn up your nose
like Mrs. Pinchtoe?
MARGERY--(_laughing._)
No, no; I have more manners.
DICK.
Would you love me better, Meg, if I were a master shoemaker?
MARGERY.
No, I couldn't love you better if you were a king; and that you know,
Dick; and, after all, we're happy now, and who knows what might be if
he were to change?
DICK.
Ay, indeed! who knows? you might grow into a fine lady like she over the
way, who comes home o'nights just as we're getting up in the morning,
with the flams flaring, and blazing like any thing; and that puts me in
mind----
MARGERY.
Of what, Dick? tell me!
DICK.
Why, cousin Tom's wedding put it all out of my head last night; but
yesterday there comes over to me one of those fine bedizened fellows we
see lounging about the door there, with a cocked hat, and things like
stay laces dangling at his shoulder.
MARGERY.
What could he want, I wonder!
DICK.
O! he comes over to me as I was just standing at the door below, a
thinking of nothing at all, and singing Paddy O'Raffety to myself, and
says he to me, "You cobbler fellor," says he, "don't you go for to keep
such a bawling every morning, awakening people out of their first
sleep," says he, "for if you do, my lord will have you put into the
stocks," says he.
MARGERY.
The stocks! O goodness gracious me! and what for, pray?
DICK--(_with a grin._)
Why, for singing, honey! So says I, "Hark 'ee, Mr. Scrape-trencher,
there go words to that bargain: what right have you to go for to speak
in that there way to me?" says I; and says he, "We'll have you 'dited
for a nuisance, fellor," says he.
MARGERY--(_clasping her hands._)
A nuisance! my Dick a nuisance! O Lord a' mercy!
DICK.
Never fear, girl; I'm a free-born Englishman, and I knows the laws well
enough: and says I, "No more a fellor than yourself; I'm an honest man,
following an honest calling, and I don't care _that_ for you nor your
lord neither; and I'll sing _when_ I please, and I'll sing _what_ I
please, and I'll sing as loud as I please; I will, by jingo!" and so he
lifts me up his cane, and I says quite cool, "This house is my castle;
and if you don't take yourself out of that in a jiffey, why, I'll give
your laced jacket such a dusting as it never had before in its life--I
will."
MARGERY.
O, Dick! you've a spirit of your own, I warrant. Well, and then?
DICK.
Oh, I promise you he was off in the twinkling of a bed-post, and I've
heard no more of him; but I was determined to wake you this morning with
a thundering song; just to show 'em I didn't care for 'em--ha! ha! ha!
MARGERY.
Oh, ho! that was the reason, then, that you bawled so in my ear, and
frightened me out of my sleep--was it? Oh, well, I forgive you; but
bless me! I stand chattering here, and it's twelve o'clock, as I live!
I must go to market--(_putting on her shawl and bonnet._) What would you
like to have for dinner, Dick, love? a nice rasher of bacon, by way of
a relish?
DICK--(_smacking his lips._)
Just the very thing, honey.
MARGERY.
Well, give me the shilling, then.
DICK--(_scratching his head._)
What shilling?
MARGERY.
Why, the shilling you had yesterday.
DICK--(_feeling in his pockets._)
A shilling!
MARGERY.
Yes, a shilling. (_Gaily._) To have meat, one must have money; and folks
must eat as well as sing, Dick, love. Come, out with it!
DICK.
But suppose I haven't got it?
MARGERY.
How! what! you don't mean for to say that the last shilling that you put
in your pocket, just to make a show, is gone?
DICK--(_with a sigh._)
But I do, though--it's gone.
MARGERY.
What shall we do?
DICK.
I don't know. (_A pause. They look at each other._) Stay, that's lucky.
Here's a pair of dancing pumps as belongs to old Mrs. Crusty, the
baker's wife at the corner--
MARGERY--(_gaily._)
We can't eat _them_ for dinner, I guess.
DICK.
No, no; but I'm just at the last stitch.
MARGERY.
Yes--
DICK--(_speaking and working in a hurry._)
And so you'll take them home--
MARGERY.
Yes--
DICK.
And tell her I must have seven-pence halfpenny for them. (_Gives them._)
MARGERY--(_examining the shoes._)
But, Dick, isn't that some'at extortionate, as a body may say?
seven-pence halfpenny!
DICK.
Why, here's heel-pieces, and a patch upon each toe; one must live, Meg!
MARGERY.
Yes, Dick, love; but so must other folks. Now I think seven-pence would
be enough in all conscience--what do you say?
DICK.
Well, settle it as you like; only get a bit of dinner for us, for I'm as
hungry as a hunter, I know.
MARGERY.
I'm going. Good bye, Dick!
DICK.
Take care of theeself--and don't spend the change in caps and ribbons,
Meg.
MARGERY.
Caps and ribbons out of seven-pence! Lord help the man! ha, ha, ha!
(_She goes out._)
DICK--(_calling after her._)
And come back soon, d'ye hear? There she goes--hop, skip, and jump, down
the stairs. Somehow, I can't abear to have her out of my sight a minute.
Well, if ever there was a man could say he had a good wife, why, that's
me myself--tho'f I say it--the cheerfullest, sweetest temperedst,
cleanliest, lovingest woman in the whole parish, that never gives one
an ill word from year's end to year's end, and deserves at least that a
man should work hard for her--it's all I can do--and we must think for
to-morrow as well as to-day. (_He works with great energy, and sings at
the same time with equal enthusiasm._)
Cannot ye do as I do?
Cannot ye do as I do ?
Spend your money, and work for more;
_That's_ the way that I do!
Tol de rol lol.
_Re-enter MARGERY in haste._
MARG.--(_out of breath._)
Oh, Dick, husband! Dick, I say!
DICK.
Hay! what's the matter now?
MARGERY.
Here be one of those fine powdered laced fellows from over the way comed
after you again.
DICK--(_rising._)
An impudent jackanapes! I'll give him as good as he brings.
MARGERY.
Oh, no, no! he's monstrous civil now; for he chucked me under the chin,
and says he, "My pretty girl!"
DICK.
Ho! monstrous civil indeed, with a vengeance!
MARGERY.
And says he, "Do you belong to this here house?" "Yes, sir," says I,
making a curtsy, for I couldn't do no less when he spoke so civil; and
says he, "Is there an honest cobbler as lives here?" "Yes, sir," says I,
"my husband that is." "Then, my dear," says he, "just tell him to step
over the way, for my Lady Amaranthe wishes to speak to him immediately."
DICK.
A lady? O Lord!
MARGERY.
Yes, so you must go directly. Here, take off your apron, and let me comb
your hair a bit.
DICK.
What the mischief can a lady want with me? I've nothing to do with
ladies, as I knows of.
MARGERY.
Why, she won't eat you up, I reckon.
DICK.
And yet I--I--I be afeard, Meg!
MARGERY.
Afeard of a lady! that's a good one!
DICK.
Ay, just--if it were a man, I shouldn't care a fig.
MARGERY.
But we've never done no harm to nobody in our whole lives, so what is
there to be afraid of?
DICK.
Nay, that's true.
MARGERY.
Now let me help you on with your best coat. Pooh! what is the man
about?--Why, you're putting the back to the front, and the front to
the back, like Paddy from Cork, with his coat buttoned behind!
DICK.
My head do turn round, just for all the world like a peg-top.--A lady!
what _can_ a lady have to say to me, I wonder?
MARGERY.
May be, she's a customer.
DICK.
No, no, great gentlefolks like she never wears patched toes nor
heel-pieces, I reckon.
MARGERY.
Here's your hat. Now let me see how you can make a bow. (_He bows
awkwardly._) Hold up your head--turn out your toes. That will do
capital! (_She walks round him with admiration._) How nice you look!
there's ne'er a gentleman of them all can come up to my Dick.
DICK--(_hesitating._)
But--a--a--Meg, you'll come with me, won't you, and just see me safe in
at the door, eh?
MARGERY.
Yes, to be sure; walk on before, and let me look at you. Hold up your
head--there, that's it!
DICK--(_marching._)
Come along. Hang it, who's afraid?
[_They go out._
_Scene changes to a Drawing-room in the House of LADY AMARANTHE._
_Enter _Lady Amaranthe_, leaning upon her maid, MADEMOISELLE JUSTINE._
LADY AMARANTHE.
Avancez un fauteuil, ma chere! arrangez les coussins. (_JUSTINE settles
the chair, and places a footstool. LADY AMARANTHE, sinking into the
arm-chair with a languid air._) Justine, I shall die, I shall certainly
die! I never can survive this!
JUSTINE.
Mon Dieu! madame, ne parlez pas comme ca! c'est m'enfoncer un poignard
dans le coeur!
LADY AMARANTHE--(_despairingly._)
No rest--no possibility of sleeping--
JUSTINE.
Et le medecin de madame, qui a ordonne la plus grande tranquillite--qui
a meme voulu que je me taisais--moi, par exemple!
LADY AMARANTHE.
After fatiguing myself to death with playing the agreeable to disagreeable
people, and talking common-place to common-place acquaintance, I return
home, to lay my aching head upon my pillow, and just as my eyes are
closing, I start--I wake,--a voice that would rouse the dead out of their
graves echoes in my ears! In vain I bury my head in the pillow--in vain
draw the curtains close--multiply defences against my window--change from
room to room--it haunts me! Ah! I think I hear it still! (_covering her
ears_) it will certainly drive me distracted!
[_During this speech, JUSTINE has made sundry exclamations and gestures
expressive of horror, sympathy, and commiseration._]
JUSTINE.
Vraiment, c'est affreux.
LADY AMARANTHE.
In any more civilized country it never could have been endured--I should
have had him removed at once; but here the vulgar people talk of laws!
JUSTINE.
Ah, oui, madame, mais il faut avouer que c'est ici un pays bien barbare,
ou tout le monde parle loi et metaphysique, et ou l'on ne fait point de
difference entre les riches et les pauvres.
LADY AMARANTHE.
But what provokes me more than all the rest is this unheard-of
insolence! (_rises and walks about the room_,)--a cobbler too--a cobbler
who presumes to sing, and to sing when all the rest of the world is
asleep! This is the march of intellect with a vengeance!
JUSTINE.
C'est vrai, il ne chante que des marches et de gros chansons a boire--s'il
chantait bien doucement quelque joli roman par exemple--(_She
sings_)--_dormez, dormez, mes chers amours_!
LADY AMARANTHE.
Justine, did you send the butler over to request civilly that he would
not disturb me in the morning?
JUSTINE.
Oui, miladi, dat is, I have send John; de butler he was went out.
LADY AMARANTHE.
And his answer was, that he would sing in spite of me, and louder than
ever?
JUSTINE.
Oui, miladi, le monstre! il dit comme ca, dat he will sing more louder
den ever.
LADY AMARANTHE--(_sinking again into her chair._)
Ah! the horrid man!
JUSTINE.
Ah! dere is no politesse, no more den dere is police in dis country.
LADY AMARANTHE.
If Lord Amaranthe were not two hundred miles off--but, as it is, I must
find some remedy--let me think--bribery, I suppose. Have they sent for
him? I dread to see the wretch. What noise is that? allez voir, ma chere!
JUSTINE--(_goes and returns._)
Madame, c'est justement notre homme, voulez-vous qu'il entre?
LADY AMARANTHE.
Oui, faites entrer.
[_She leans back in her chair._
JUSTINE--(_at the door._)
Entrez, entrez toujours, dat is, come in, good mister.
_Enter DICK. He bows; and, squeezing his hat in his hands, looks
round him with considerable embarrassment._
JUSTINE--(_to Lady Amaranthe._)
Bah! comme il sent le cuir, n'est-ce pas, madame?
LADY AMARANTHE.
Faugh! mes sels--ma vinaigrette, Justine--non, l'eau de Cologne, qui est
la sur la table. (_JUSTINE brings her some eau de Cologne; she pours some
upon her handkerchief, and applies it to her temples and to her nose,
as if overcome; then, raising her eye-glass, she examines DICK from
head to foot._) Good man--a--pray, what is your name?
DICK--(_with a profound bow._)
Dick, please your ladyship.
LADY AMARANTHE.
Hum--a--a--pray, Mr. Dick--
DICK.
Folks just call me plain Dick, my lady. I'm a poor honest cobbler, and
no mister.
LADY AMARANTHE--(_pettishly._)
Well, sir, it is of no consequence. You live in the small house over the
way, I think?
DICK.
Yes, ma'am, my lady, I does; I rents the attics.
LADY AMARANTHE.
You appear a good civil sort of man enough. (_He bows._) I sent my
servant over to request that you would not disturb me in the night--or
the morning, as you call it. I have very weak health--am quite an
invalid--your loud singing in the morning just opposite to my windows----
DICK--(_eagerly._)
Ma'am, I--I'm very sorry; I ax your ladyship's pardon; I'll never sing
no more above my breath, if you please.
JUSTINE.
Comment! c'est honnete, par exemple.
LADY AMARANTHE--(_surprised._)
Then you did not tell my servant that you would sing louder than ever,
in spite of me?
DICK.
Me, my Lady? I never said no such thing.
LADY AMARANTHE.
This is strange; or is there some mistake? Perhaps you are not the same
Mr. Dick?
DICK.
Why, yes, my lady, for that matter, I be the same Dick. (_Approaching a
few steps, and speaking confidentially._) I'll just tell your ladyship
the whole truth, and not a bit of a lie. There comes an impudent fellow
to me, and he tells me, just out of his own head, I'll be bound, that if
I sung o' mornings, he would have me put in the stocks.
LADY AMARANTHE.
Good heavens!
JUSTINE--(_in the same tone._)
Grands dieux!
DICK--(_with a grin._)
Now the stocks is for a rogue, as the saying is. As for my singing,
that's neither here nor there; but no jackanapes shall threaten _me_.
I _will_ sing if I please, (_sturdily_,) and I won't sing if I don't
please; and (_lowering his tone_) I don't please, if it disturbs your
ladyship. (_Retreating_) I wish your ladyship a good day, and better
health.
LADY AMARANTHE.
Stay; you are not then the rude uncivil person I was told of?
DICK.
I hopes I knows better than to do an uncivil thing by a lady.
[_Bows and retreats towards the door._
LADY AMARANTHE.
Stay, sir--a--a--one word.
DICK.
Oh, as many as you please, ma'am; I'm in no hurry.
LADY AMARANTHE--(_graciously._)
Are you married?
DICK--(_rubbing his hands with glee._)
Yes, ma'am, I be; and to as tight a bit of a wife as any in the parish.
JUSTINE.
Ah! il parait que ce monsieur Dick aime sa femme! Est-il amusant!
LADY AMARANTHE.
You love her then?
DICK.
Oh, then I do! I love her with all my heart! who could help it?
LADY AMARANTHE.
Indeed! and how do you live?
DICK.
Why, bless you, ma'am, sometimes well, sometimes ill, according as I
have luck and work. When we can get a bit of dinner, we eat it, and when
we can't, why, we go without: or, may be, a kind neighbour helps us.
LADY AMARANTHE.
Poor creatures!
DICK.
Oh, not so poor neither, my lady; many folks is worser off. I'm always
merry, night and day; and my Meg is the good temperedst, best wife in
the world. We've never had nothing from the parish, and never will,
please God, while I have health and hands.
LADY AMARANTHE.
And you are happy?
DICK.
As happy as the day is long.
LADY AMARANTHE--(_aside._)
This is a lesson to me. Eh bien, Justine! voila donc notre sauvage!
JUSTINE.
Il est gentil ce monsieur Dick, et a present que je le regarde--vraiment
il a une assez jolie tournure.
LADY AMARANTHE--(_with increasing interest._)
Have you any children?
DICK--(_with a sigh._)
No, ma'am; and that's the only thing as frets us.
LADY AMARANTHE.
Good heavens! you do not mean to say you wish for them, and have scarce
enough for yourselves? how would you feed them?
DICK.
Oh, I should leave Meg to feed them; I should have nothing to do but to
work for them. Providence would take care of us while they were little;
and, when they were big, they would help us.
LADY AMARANTHE--(_aside._)
I could not have conceived this. (_She whispers JUSTINE, who goes out._)
(_To DICK._) Can I do any thing to serve you?
DICK.
Only, if your ladyship could recommend me any custom; I mend shoes as
cheap as e'er a cobbler in London, though I say it.
LADY AMARANTHE.
I shall certainly desire that all my people employ you whenever there
is occasion.
_Re-enter JUSTINE, holding a purse in her hand._
DICK--(_bowing._)
Much obliged, my lady; I hopes to give satisfaction, but (_looking with
admiration at LADY AMARANTHE's foot as it rests on the footstool_) such
a pretty, little, delicate, beautiful foot as yon, I never fitted in all
my born days. It can't cost your ladyship much in shoe leather, I guess?
LADY AMARANTHE--(_smiling complacently._)
Rather more than you would imagine, I fancy, my good friend.
JUSTINE.
Comment donc--ce Monsieur Dick, fait aussi des complimens a Madame? Il
ne manque pas de gout,--(_aside_) et il sait ce qu'il fait, apparemment.
LADY AMARANTHE--(_glancing at her foot._)
C'est a dire--il a du bon sens, et ne parle pas mal. (_She takes the
purse._) As you so civilly obliged me, you must allow me to make you
some return.
DICK--(_putting his hand behind him._)
Me, ma'am! I'm sure I don't want to be paid for being civil.
LADY AMARANTHE.
But as I have deprived you of a pleasure, my good friend, some amends
surely--
DICK.
Oh, ma'am, pray don't mention it; my wife's a little tired and sleepy
sometimes of a morning, and if I didn't sing her out of bed, I do think
she would, by chance, snooze away till six o'clock, like any duchess;
but a pinch or a shake or a kiss will do as well, may be: and
(_earnestly_) she's, for all that, the best woman in the world.
LADY AMARANTHE--(_smiling._)
I can believe it, though she _does_ sleep till six o'clock like a
duchess. Well, my good friend, there are five guineas in this purse; the
purse is my own work; and I request you will present it to your wife
from me, with many thanks for your civility.
DICK--(_confused._)
Much obliged, much obliged, but I can't, I can't indeed, my lady. Five
guineas! O Lord! I should never know what to do with such a power of
money.
LADY AMARANTHE.