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weeks ago, as zurely as the morning came I used to be upHebe. At very early hours, Robert.
Robert. Yes, just about the time your fashionable folk were going to bed-fashionable folk! what have we to do with fashion ? Poor mother thought it was carrying matters far enough when, to follow a great lady's advice, she christened you after one Mr. Jupiter's waiting maid. However, before day the waggon was loaded, old Joan in the thill, and I on my road to Phila. delphia with a light heart, and a heavy assortment of turnips, and cabbages, and geese, and turkies, and
Hebe. But was it then you first saw the signs of foul weather ?
Robert. No, it was every afternoon on my return home with the load of a ton upon my heart and not the weight of a half cent in my pocket-it was then I saw a thousand mists floating about the waggon, of a thousand different shapes.
Hebe. Pray tell ine- -of what?
Robert. Of callimancoes, bandanoes, and comboys, and moories, and -dom it, an Indian or a woman couldn't name the one half of them.
Hebe. Don't I love you, Robert? You seem unkind to day-I never saw you so before.
Robert. Ah, I fear I have loved you too much.
Hebe. You are unkind to-day! What have I done to deserve your anger ?
would do any thing for your sake. Robert. I knew you would- -that made me love you
-that makes me love you still (pressing her to his bosom)-But these muslins, these laces, Hebe ! they have all chang'd into such domnable shapes !
Hebe. What are you talking of? dear Robert, tell me What, what shapes ?
Robert. A dungeon, a musty loaf of bread, a broken pitcher of water, and a vile heap of straw*.
Hebe. (aside) He seems bewildered! Great heaven, save my brother ! -Oh, Robert, are you well? speak; I will be to you a sister.
Robert. (taking her hand) You always have been, yes, you always have been,- I don't charge you with unkindness, but I think we have both been struck with folly : you to be always craving after finery; and I to run seventy dollars into debt
Hebe. Seventy dollars ! Robert. That I might never zay no to a zister whom I loved as I do you.
Hebe. Why did you not tell me before? I thought so much on the dresses that the money never once entered
-But your produce ? Robert. My produce? (whistles) Many a time have I turned a hundred of hay into an ounce of rose drops, and a rood of corn into a yard of muslin; but a yard of muslin wouldn't make a gown.
Hebe. (sighing) Oh no, with a long fashionable trail it would require twenty
-But your apples, your Robert. They were the last of all my produce, and the very last bushel that I had of them was turned into a dish of macaroons. For your zake I was going the other day to change poor old lazy Joan into a little grey monkey; but honest Joan had zarved me long and faithfully ; and I didn't like to part with the poor beast for any new acquaintance.
Hebe. Yet, Robert, you have something left?
Robert. (classing his hands) No, I have nothing left!
Hebe. Yes, you have you have your sister (falling on his neck) Who is it you are in diebt to?
Robert (after a pause) No, I will not name him but listen, Hebe : when all that I could zay was but a
* These expressions must be understood to arise from an exaggeration natural to Robert's fears.
feather on the breeze my creditors were raising, I call. ed upon him, and hinted that it was in my power to af. ford him the pleasure of lending me seventy dollars : zo he zeemed very thankful for the favour, and lent the money.
Hebe. That certainly was kind.
Robert. This morning he zent for me, and zaid he was very willing to better our condition to remove us from our present humble spot to a large farm.
Hebe. Indeed ?
(with in. dignation) he wanted me first to betray my friend!
Hebe. Cruel, wicked man! And what did you tell him?
Robert. I told him I was zorry he had lived so long in the world, and did not know that a sapling taken from the poor soil where it had sprung from an acorn, would never flourish in a richer one if its root were lopped away
-and I told him that though I thanked him for his offer, I would zee him to the devil before I would accept it!
Hebe. (with great anxiety) Then
Robert. No, nothing else don't look zo pale, don't no, nothing else.
Hebe. Yes, Robert, you told me of a dungeon! wait, wait till I return! (goes out, and returns in a few moments with a bundle) Here are the richest dresses I am worth- -take them.
Robert. No, no, I wont.
-here, take them sell them!
-(forces them into his hands) take them, and sell them !
Robert. (wiping away his tears) Good girl, I'll try!
Hebe. Yes, yes, they will bring something (exit Ro-and I will beg the rest !
SCENE 11.-A great road. Dusk.
Enter INFERENCE and MOONSHINE, two meagre
forms in very scant habits. Moonshine. (groaning) We are fatigu’d.
Inference. Then let us rest awhile.
Moonshine. Indubitably, Mr. Inference, not.
Moonshine. If our grand scheme do fail,
air. Moonshine. Sir, I'm no bubble, and Inference. You will return ? Moonshine. Yes, (sarcastically) if your logic long
avail us naught. Inference. Or if the compass e’er point east and west. Moonshine. I've seen it point due east and west. Inference. (staring) Pray when ?
Moonshine. When, sailing closely on the arctic pole,
Inference. You had made your line so tensile
Moonshine. How, sir ?
With copulative or disjunctive logic.
blood-letter of high extraction.
Moonshine. Our skins, 'tis true, hang loosely.
rites Have wander'd nine and ninety years upon The burning borders of the river Styx, Without an obolus at the century's close To pay our passage o'er the infernal stream. Inference. (tittering) Though I infer that you at
least would not
Inference. (giving his hand) My friend ! (aside) Mephitic vapour from the gulph of sin ! Moonshine. Dear Mr. Inference !- -(aside) Cursd
blockhead, outline Of a mere vacuum !