 | The Beggar of Bethnal Green |  |
SCENE II.
—A Chamber in Old Small's.Enter Old Small.
Old S.
Who'd have a son—a plague—to drive him mad?
To hunt for, or to watch, from morn till night,
To coax, to scold, and with no better thrift
To-day, than yersterday! A lackwit, caught
By this and that, and held by nothing. Now
At bowls; next hour at cocking; presently
A race, a show, a feast; and, after that,
Perchance a quarrel. Anything but work.
What, Peter! Peter!
Enter Peter.
Peter.
Master, here am I.
Old S.
Well, Peter, where's my son?
Peter.
I could not find him
In all Whitechapel, seek him where I would.
I call'd in at the Cock, he wasn't there;
The Fox and Geese, but came no better speed;
The Fountain was burn'd down last Tuesday night;
The Rising Sun has stopp'd since Lady-day;
The Crown and Mitre swore at me when last
I sought him there, so thither went I not;
The Duke of Buckingham and he are out
E'er since he broke the drunken tapster's pate;
And never goes he to the Loggerheads,
Except o' Sundays.
Old S.
Peter! Peter!
Peter.
Master?
Old S.
I sore mistrust thee, Peter.
Peter.
Master! me?
Old S.
Ay, by my troth, I do! mistrust thee, sore
Thou'rt in his secrets! I'll be sworn thou art.
I saw you wink to him, on Sunday last,
At dinner-time. Last Tuesday night, you said,
'Twas only ten when he came in; and not
A minute from the bolting of the door,
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You took a bundle in, and said 'twas from
The laundress; when I open'd it, and found
A spendthrift cloak and jerkin, spick and span
New from the tailor's board; and, worse than that,
The whole of Thursday morning wast thou out;
And when I ask'd thee where, thou couldst not tell!
Canst tell me now?
Peter.
I went an errand, sir,
To Barbican—an errand of mine own.
Old S.
An errand of thine own to Barbican!
How came I then to see thee at Mile-end?
Peter.
At Mile-end, sir?
Old S.
At Mile-end, sir! Thou runn'st
An errand well.
Peter.
You saw me at Mile-end?
Old S.
When thou wast gone to Barbican! well, sir?
Peter.
From Barbican, I went, sir, to Mile-end,
Not finding what I sought at Barbican.
Old S.
I have thee now, my piece of innocence!
My spice of honesty! my serving-man,
That runs so well on errands! At Mile-end
I saw thee not, but saw thee at the foot
Of London Bridge!
Peter.
The foot of London Bridge?
Old S.
Ay, sir!
Peter.
And where should you have seen me else?
When what I sought and miss'd, at Barbican;
And miss'd again in seeking, at Mile-end;
At London Bridge I found.
Old S.
O didst thou so?
Would thou wast o'er the bridge! thou jackanapes!
Wast thou not too at Hackney that same time?
At Greenwich down, and Chelsea up, the Thames?
At Kensington and Islington besides?
The Tower, St. Paul's, and Westminster to boot?
Didst thou not foot, from breakfast-time till noon,
Ground it would take a man a week to ride?
Thou knave of nimble toe, but nimbler tongue!
Varlet! thou went'st not to Mile-end, nor yet
To foot of London Bridge, no more than I,
That never saw thee there! I know not where
Thou went'st, but whither thou wilt go I'll tell—
To Tyburn, sirrah! [Knock.]
Let thy master in!
[Peter goes out.
His kennel never likes your chainéd dog,
And there are men like dogs, who loathe the thing,
Howe'er it profit them, to which you tie them;
Who, like your dog, would forfeit house and mess
To break their chain, and forage for a bone.
What if I take the collar from his neck,
And leave him, like the prodigal of old,
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That freedom's is the bitterest mastery.
It shall be so. He cannot come to worse,
He may to better. I will do it straight.
Enter Young Small and Peter.
Young S.
Good morning, father!
Old S.
Morning, dog! 'tis noon.
Young S.
Well then, good noon!
Old S.
Nor morning, noon, nor night,
Thou bringest good to me; so wish me none;
Where hast thou been?
Young S.
Hard by, at Master All-gain's.
Old S.
And what about?
Young S.
Playing at loggats, sir.
Old S.
At loggats? Spendthrift! Idler! Play at pence,
Shillings, and pounds!
Young S.
I do what's next to that,—
Play for them, sir.
Old S.
To lose them, cur! to lose them;
Hast thou not lost to-day?
Young S.
No, by my troth.
I'm winner, save a halfpenny, by a groat;
And should have doubled that, but for foul play.
But three we wanted, and the bowl was mine—
There stood the loggats, sir, a glorious sight,
And only three to score! and here stood I—
There's not a lad in all Whitechapel, sir,
Is such a hand at loggats!—Here stood I,
With victory in hand, sure as the bowl
With which I thus took aim—A steady aim
Is half the game at loggats, sir—You mind
We wanted only three; the bowl was mine;
There stood the loggats; here stood I—they say
I have an air at loggats!—Thus I stand,
My left leg planted like a buttress, so—
My body poised upon the right, with knee
Bent neither more nor less; I'd like you, sir,
To see me play at loggats—Look, sir—
Old S.
Pshaw!
Come, throw the bowl, and make an end.
Young S.
An end
I should have made on't, had I thrown the bowl!
Old S.
What hinder'd thee?
Young S.
A needle-full of thread!
A nail of tape! a button-mould! a piece
Of list! the vapour of a smoothing-board!
Thus, as I said, I held the bowl—'Twas all
But thrown. Ne'er out of cannon-mouth look'd shot
More certain of its aim, than from my hand
The bowl look'd at the loggats. In a twink
Six of the nine at least were lying low!
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'Tis not your turn to play”—The pair of shears,
To clip me so, and thus cut up the game!
Old S.
Now mark me, Thomas Small; thou'rt twenty-one!
What art thou master of?
Young S.
Of quarter-staff,
Rackets, and fives.—I'm capital at fives!—
Hop but the ball, I'm sure to make it fly
Like bullet from a gun.—I play at bowls
And quoits.—At quoits I'm famous for a ringer!—
And then I'll putt the stone with any man.
Old S.
Master thou art, I know, of idleness!
But name to me the craft thou'rt master of.
Art fit to be a turner?
Young S.
Burn the lathe!
Old S.
A cooper?
Young S.
Sooner I'd be staved to death!
Old S.
A smith?
Young S.
As lieve you'd hammer out my brains!
Old S.
A tailor?
Young S.
Slay me with a needle first!
Old S.
What then art fit to be?
Young S.
A gentleman!
Old S.
A gentleman? Thou scarce canst read!
Young S.
What then?
That's nothing in a gentleman!
Old S.
Thou writ'st—
But such a hand, the clerk's a cunning one
That makes it out.
Young S.
That's like a gentleman!
Old S.
Thou canst not cipher. Hand thee in a bill
Of twenty items, and 'twill puzzle thee
To add it up.
Young S.
That's quite the gentleman!
Father, thou truly saidst I'm twenty-one,
And he that's twenty-one by law's a man;
So I'm a man, and as a man am free.
I'm master now of handsome twenty pounds,
Left to me by my godfather; to them
Add thou what grace thy graciousness may please,
And, in my own way, let me try the world.
Old S.
Thou'rt like a wayward horse that will not break;
The training thee's all labour, profit none,—
And thrift of fruitless toil's to give it up.
Thy will would have thee free before thine age;
Thine age, like a false friend, now backs thy will;
Both are too strong for me, and so I yield.
Wait for me. I'll be with you presently.
[Old Small goes out.
Young S.
Does he consent, and am I free indeed!
New bonds I fear'd to curb me in new rights,
And he takes off the old.—I thrive apace.
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Must needs fair ending have!
Peter.
You play'd that game
Of loggats passing well.
Young S.
I play'd a game—
But not at loggats, Peter. Never more
I'll play at loggats! Peter, nought I've done
But walk, since morning, up and down Cheapside,
Feasting my eyes on ladies of the court
And its precincts, that come to bargain there.
O Peter, homely are the silks they wear
To their more silken looks! A city coif
Hath twice their pride! No tossing of the head;
No turning of the shoulder, in disdain;
But eyes that drop when they your glances catch,
As if to let you gaze! Peter, I'll make
My fortune!
Peter.
Prithee, how?
Young S.
Now try and guess!
Peter.
I could not guess, were I to try a week!
Young S.
Peter, thou canst be shrewd. Look at me, Peter;
Scan me from head to foot. Premising, now,
Thou knew'st me not, wouldst take me for the son
Of Gilbert Small, the pin-maker?
Peter.
More like
I'd take you for the son of Walter Husk,
The baker, to the east of Aldersgate.
Young S.
A baker's son! A crust hath pith, as much
As thou hast wit! Take me for son of him!
Peter.
He's tall, and so art thou.
Young S.
What's tall?—What's tall?
Pronounce me son unto a barber's pole,
Because 'tis tall! To say a man is tall
Is nothing, Peter! Look at me again,
And guess what way I'll make my fortune. There,—
I fancy that's a leg.
Peter.
It is a leg!
Young S.
And thereunto's a foot.
Peter.
Yea is there, of
A verity!
Young S.
Go to! You flatter, now.
You think me vain; but I am not vain, although
I have a leg and foot,—ay, and a face
Moreover!
Peter.
Certainly you have a face.
He'd have a face who'd say thou hadst not one.
Young S.
Thou hast a wit, good Peter. Show thee but
A thing, thou see'st it.
Enter Old Small unperceived.
Look at my waist!
Now lift your eye a little farther up,
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Now on the whole—to speak it modestly—
Taking me altogether, am I not
A very personable man? Now, Peter,
How shall I make my fortune?—Why, you fool!
By love!
Old S.
[Coming forward.]
Who marries thee, loves not herself:
She goes a voyage in a fair-weather bark,
That scuds while wind and current favour it,
But, in itself, hath no sea-worthiness
To stand their buffeting! Here, have thy wish;
Thou'lt find no niggard hand has fill'd that purse.
I give it thee to feed thy wantonness;
But, e'en for that, I'd have thee chary on't!
There's not a piece in it that's not made up
Of grains of fractions, every one of which
Was slowly gather'd by thy father's thrift,
And hoarded by his abstinence! It holds—
How many minutes, torn from needful sleep!
How many customary wants, denied!
How many throbs of doubting—sighs of care,
Laid out for nothing through thy waywardness!
But take it with a blessing!—Fare thee well!
Thou never yet couldst suit thee, Thomas, to
Thy father's house; but, should there come the time,
Thou know'st the door, that still was open to thee!
[Old Small goes out.
Young S.
Peter, I'll stay at home. The good old man!
He loves me, Peter! Take him back the purse,
And say I'll stay at home.
Peter.
And keep at home?
Wait like his ledger on the desk?
Young S.
I will!—
That is—I would.
Peter.
And follows, if I could.
Young S.
I fear it does.
Peter.
What's got, return'd, may not be got again.
Young S.
Peter, you counsel like an oracle!
Peter.
You've rubb'd your eyes till they are red.
Young S.
Indeed?
Peter.
Look in the glass!
Young S.
A pity not to make
My fortune, Peter! Give me back the purse.
I'll make my fortune! Go and get my trunk,
And bring it after me to Cripplegate.
Thou saidst, as I came in, thy place was lost
On my account. I'll find for thee a new one.
[Peter goes out.
There's no controlling fate; and fate, I see,
By love, has destined me to make my fortune.
So farewell to my father's house! I could
Be sad at bidding it good-bye—but will not.
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When love fulfils what fate decrees for me;
Bids Thomas Small a golden wedding hail,
And sends him home a very gentleman!
[Young Small goes out.
| The Beggar of Bethnal Green | |