Hollinger Corp. pH 8.5 THE JEW. A COMEDY, IW FIVE ACTS. BY RICHARD CUMBERLAND, ESQ, ■Afi performed at the Philadelfihia TheatYe, PHILADELPHIA^ PUBLISHED BY THOMAS H. PALMER, 18S3.

— that is goot lad, but don't you swear. Jabal. No, though I may be starved in your service, I will die in your defence. Sheva. Well, well ; you are a merry knave— but my eyes do water a little : the air is sharp, and they are weak. Go your ways, go your ways —send Dorcas to me. (^exit Jabal) I cannot tell what ails my heart all this day long, it is so troublesome. I have spent ten thousand pounds, to make it quiet; but there must be a little fraction more — I must give the poor knave something for his good will — oh, dear, oh, dear ! What will become of me ? enter dorcas. So, so ! come hither, Dorcas. Why do you look sad ? what ails you, girl ? Why do you cry ? Dorcas. Because you are going to turn away Jabal : he is the kindliest, willingest, good-na- turedest soul alive — the house will be a dungeon without Jabal. Sheva. Then tell him, 'tis at your request I let him stay in this dungeon. Say, that I was very angry with him, but that you pacified my anger. Dorcas. Lord love your heart ! that is so like you. Sheva. Hark you, Dorcas, I will give you this piece of money to make the poor knave merry 1 but mind that you bestow it on him as your own little present, and promise not to say it comes from me. Dorcas. Well ! to be sure you do not give your money like other people. If ever I do a 46 THE JEW. [Cumberland good turn, I take care the person I favour should know from whence it comes, that so he may have the pleasure of returning it. Here comes your friend and neighbour, Mrs. Goodison; she will take care of you. \_exU enter mrs. goodison. Mrs. G. Ah ! my good sir, I perceive you are at your old sport ; no smoke in your chim- ney, no cloth upon your table, full coffers and an empty cup-board. Sheva. No, no, my coffers are not full, I am very poor just now. Mrs. G. Come, then, and partake with one whom your bounty has made rich. Sheva. Do not talk of my bounty; I do ne- ver give away for bounty's sake ; if pity wrings it from my heart, whether I will or not, then I do give : how can I help it ! Mrs. G. Well, sir, I can be silent, but I can- not forget — and now, if you will come and share my grateful meal, perhaps I can show you one of the loveliest objects in creation, a beautiful and amiable young bride, who, with her husband and mother, is now my lodger. She was mar- ried this very morning, to your friend sir Ste- phen Bertram's son, who, between you and me, has brought himself into sad trouble with his father by the match. But surely, if there is a woman upon earth worth a man's being ruin- ed for, it must be this young creature-— so mo- dest, so sweet-tempered, so engaging— oh that sir Stephen had your heart I Sheva. It might be inconvenient to him, if he had ; it is not kept fornothing, I assure you. Act IV] THE JEW. 47 Mrs. G. You would not turn such a daugh- ter-in-law from your doors — Sheva. Nor will he, perhaps. Mrs. G. Ah, sir I I know a little better : this poor young gentleman himself told me he was ruined. " But don't be afraid to take me into your house," added he, with a sigh that went to my heart, " I am provided with the means of doing justice to you, by a generous friend," showing me a bank bill of one hundred pounds — heaven bless the generous friend ! quoth I — and at that moment I thought of you, my good Mr. Sheva, who rescued me from the like distress when my poor husband died. Sheva. You may think of me, Mrs. Goodison ; but I beg you will not speak of me in the hear- ing of your lodgers. Mrs. G. Well, well, sir, if I must not speak, I must not ; yet a strange thing came out in conversation with the mother of the bride, a very excellent lady, from whom I found out that she is the widow of that very gentleman we knew at Cadiz by the name of don Carlos. Sheva. Mercies upon his heart I he was the preserver of my life ! but for his charitable suc- cour, this poor body would have fed the fires of an auto da fe. Is it possible Mrs. Ratcliffe is the widow of my benefactor ? Mrs. G. Most certain that she is ; which you may soon be convinced of j but I perceive you know the lady's name. Sheva. Did you not name the lady yourself? Mrs. G. No, on my word. Ah, sir 1 you are fairly caught; you have betrayed yourself: ill 48 THE JEW. [Cumberland deeds, they say, will come to light, and so will good ones, it should seem. Sheva. Hold your tongue, hold your tongue; you forget that I am fasting, and without a din- ner ; go your ways, and I will follow ; you are nimble, I am slow ; you will be ashamed with your lodgers, if they see you with a poor old Jew like me. Mrs. G. Ah ! you are cunning in your cha- rities ; but I'll do as you would have me, and be ready at the door, to receive and welcome you. [exit Sheva. The widow of my preserver from the inquisitors of Cadiz, and the mother of my res- cuer from the mob of London I — Dear me, dear mie ! How Providence disposes all things ! — the friend, that's dead, wants nothing ; the friend that is alive, shall likewise want nothing, that I can give him ; goot lack I goot lack 1 I did always think, when I did heap up monies with such pains and labour, that I should find an use for them at last. \^ea:U SCENE III — 3Irs. Goodison's house. MRS. RATCLIFFE, ELIZA, and CHARLES. Char. I have cleared myself to his father, and I'll clear myself to all the world. Mrs. R. Charles, Charles, you soar too high. Char. Madam, madam I Mrs. R. How is your honour slighted, when your friend did not even consult his father ? Char. He knew his father's mind too well Afr.9. R. And what would you have done ' Act IV] THE JEW. 49 Char. I would have saved my friend. Eliza. And sacrificed your sister — that, let me say, is a high strain of friendship, but no great proof of brotherly affection. Char. Sister, there is more peace of mind sacrificed by indulging in an act to be repented of, than by foregoing a dishonorable propensity. The woman without fortune, that consents to a clandestine marriage with a man whose whole dependence is upon an unforgiving father, never can be justified. Eliza. You argue from the unforgiving nature of sir Stephen Bertram : you had experience of it, I had none. Char. You might have had, by an appeal to his consent before you gave your own. Mrs. R. You bear too hard upon your sister. You forget her sex, her situation, your own tenderness, and the affection you have ever borne her. Char. No, madam, if I could forget how proudly I have thought of her, I should not be so humbled by her conduct as I am. I own I stand in amaze at your indifference. You think I am too proud ; you tell me, that I soar too high. How was it when I was this Bertram's clerk \ I bore my lot with patience ; I submit- ted without murmuring to poverty : I cannot brook disgrace. Eliza. Well, Charles, if you could love me only whilst you thought me faultless, I must wonder how it was that we were friends so long: And now you have said all that rigid justice can enforce against me : had you said less, I should have felt it more. E 50 THE JEW. [Cumberland enter Frederic. Fred. Charles— brother — friend ! — Will you not give me joy ? Come, man, shake off this cloud, and smile upon my happiness ; we catch it but by gleams. Char. Yes, sir, we sometimes catch it by sur- prise and stealth ; we catch it by a breach of promise and good faith — then to congratulate a man, in my sense of the word, would be to libel him. Fred. I have frequently seen cause to applaud your philosophy, Charles : now I must think you carry it too far. Char. It touches you too near, therefore you like it not. Fred. To that remark I should return an an- swer, were not these dear pledges present, that might a little ruffle your philosophy, perhaps, but it would fully vindicate my principle. Char. Postpone it, then, but don't forget it. Fred. When friends fall into altercation on such points as these, there should be none to witness their folly. Char. Folly!— Mrs. R. Son, son, no more of this. Eliza. Stop, I conjure you both ! — Charles, Charles, if you have love or pity left, let this dissension go no further.—- And you, Frederic — husband ! You, whose generous heart has put to hazard every hope for me, add yet ano- ther proof of love, by suffering these rebukes with patience ; perhaps my brother thinks am- bition, meanness, artifice might have some part, some influence, in moving me to what I've done Act IV] THE JEW. 51 — -I spurn such motives, disavow them all— were I in Frederic's place, and he in mine, I should have done as he did ; I should have thought no sacrifice too great to have secured a lasting in- terest in a heart like his. Char. This had been only ruin to yourself, and would have had the plea of spirit, therefore more excusable : but this no man of honour would have suffered ! therefore 'tis only said, not done. Fred. Whatever my Eliza says is done ; her actions verify her words, and he, that doubts them, would dispute against the light of heaven. 'Tis I that am advanced, she is abased ; 'tis I that am enriched, Eliza is impoverished : I only risk a few sharp words from an ungentle father, she suffers keen reproaches, undeserved, from an injurious brother. Char, Urge me no further — I can bear n a more. Eliza. Oh, my dear mother ! {^falls into her arms) Fred. There, there ! You've struck her to the heart, and that's a coward's blow ! (apart to Charles in an under voice) My life, my soul, look up ! Dear madam, take her hence. {Mrs. Ratcliffe takes Eliza out) Char. A coward's blow! — you recollect those words, and know their meaning, I suppose— Fred. Yes, and will meet your comment when you will, and where you will. Char. Then follow me, and we'll adjust that matter speedily. Fred. I will but drop a tear upon the ruin you have made, and then be with you. Char. I'll wait for you below. [exit 52 -THE JEW. [Cumberland enter eliza, hastily. Eliza. Where are you both, rash men ? Ah, Frederic ! alone ! what is become of Charles ? why is he gone away ? what have you said to him ? I am sure you have quarrelled. Fred. No, no, not quarrelled— only jarred, as friends will sometimes do — all will be set to rights. Eliza. IJow ? when ? why not this moment, in my hearing ? I shall be happy to make peace between you. Fred. Peace will be made, assure yourself, sweet love : these little heats are easily ad- justed. Eliza. But I could do it best ! you are too hot, both, both too hot and fiery. Fred. We shall be cooler soon ; such heats soon spend themselves, and then the heart is laid to rest. Eliza. Heaven grant such rest to yours ! Fred, Indeed ! Eliza. What says my Frederic ? you struggle to get loose — are these soft toils uneasy to you ; will not your proud swelling heart endure such gentle fond imprisonment. Fred. Oh 1 thou angelic virtue, soul dissolv- ing softness, would I might thus expire, enfold- ed in these arms ! Love, I conjure thee to bear up I I am sure my father will take pity, and be kind to thee : I shall assail his feelings in a man- ner, that no parent can resist. I am going now to put it to the proof. — Farewell ! Act IV] THE JEW. 53 Eliza. Why in such haste ? — Stay yet a little while— if you depart so soon, you'll meet with Charles again, and then — Fred. What then ? Eliza. Some fatal accident will be the issue of it. Alas ! you know not what his passions are when once inflamed ! let them burn out, and then he*s as calm as water. Fred. Where does this tend ? You would not make a coward of your husband ? Eliza. No ; nor would you make a distracted wretch of your poor Eliza : therefore I will not let you loose, till you have promised me not to provoke him to more violence : promise me this, and you shall go. Fred. Well, then, if that will set your mind at rest, I promise you I'll have no further alter- cation with him, not another word to gall him. Eliza. You'll not renew your quarrel ? — Fred. No, my Eliza, we will end it and dis- miss it. Eliza. And this you promise on your hon- OUl' — Fred. Yes, I do promise. Eliza. Then all my fears are over— now you may go. — Well ! what withholds you ? what more do you wish than freedom, and release from my fond arms. Fred. To snatch one last dear moment, and then die within them — oh ! my soul's better part, may Heaven preserve and bless you ! [exeunt E 2 54 THE JEW. [Cumberland ACT V. SCENE I — a tavern. enter frederic, attended by a waiter. Fred. Is the porter returned, who went with my mesage to Mr. Saunders, at sir Stephen Bertram's ? Wait. He is, sir : the gentleman will be with you presently. Fred. Show him up, as soon as he comes — there will be another gentleman call ; I believe you know Mr. Ratcliffe ? Wait. Yes, we know Mr. Ratcliffe very well. Fred. If he comes while Mr. Saunders is with me, request him to wait a few minutes, till he is gone. Wait. I shall, sir — any other commands ? Fred. None, {exit waiter) I scarce know what I've written to my father ; yet perhaps these few lines, in such a moment, may dispose him to protect the widow, if fate will have it so, of a discarded son.' — Now I am ready for this an- gry champion ; and since he is resolved to vin- dicate his courage by his sword, let him pro- duce his weapons when he will. Til not refuse the satisfaction he demands. ActV] THE JEW. 55 enter jabal, hastily. Jabal. Oh, sir, sir ! I'm overjoyed to find you —come, I pray you, come away to my old mas» ter, who is pining till he sees you. Fred. Who is your master, and who are you ? Jabal. As if you did not know Jabal, who lives— no, hold there, who does not live, but starves with your old friend, in Duke's Place. Why, lud-a-mercy, I knew your honour at the length of the street, and saw you turn into this tavern : the puppy waiter would have stopped me from coming up to you. Fred. I wish you had taken his advice. Jabal. That would not be your wish, if you knew all. Sure enough I must hunt up Mr. Ratcliffe also : for there is an iron in the fire for each of you : master is making his will— « lawyer Dash is at his elbow. Fred. If the devil was at his elbow, I cannot come to him. Jabal. I would not carry such a message back for all the world— why, when lawyer Dash has pen and ink in hand, and a will under his thumb, he'll dash you in, or dash you out, in a crack. Fred. Then temper the apology to your taste, only let your master understand I cannot come, Jabal. I'll tell him, then, you are married-— that will be a silencer at once.— (asif/e) What^ has he got a sword ! Some mischief going for- ward—I'll tell my old master. Fred. Begone 1 make haste [•^^{exit Jabal) Married ! How cutting is that recollection ! Joys just in sight, shown only to be snatched away. Dear, lost, undone, Eliza ! — But I won't 56 * THE JEW. [Cumberland think, for that is madness— inexorable honour must be obeyed. enter mr. saunders. Saun. Mr. Bertram, I came to you the first moment I could get away ; for I longed to give you joy. Fred. Be silent on that subject, I conjure you. The favour I have to ask you, is simply this— here is a letter for my father : deliver it to him with your own hands— you seem surprised. Saun. I am, indeed — the impatience of yout* looks — the hurry of your speech — the place in which I meet you — Fred. The letter will explain all that— I could not give it you in presence of my — well, no matter— I take you for a man of honour, and my friend. Will you give the letter ? Saun. Assuredly ; but, if I am a man of hon- our, and your friend, why will not you let me stay with you ? In truth, dear Frederic, I am a friend, that, if you want him, will not flinch. Fred. The friend I want, is one that will not force his services upon me when I can't accept of them ; but take my word at once and leave me. Saun. Enough ! I am gone. [exic Fred. I have been harsh with that good man ; but this suspense is terrible. enter waiter. Wait. Mr. Ratcliffe desires to know if you are at leisure. Fred. Perfectly— let him know I*m at his service. [exit waiter Act V] THE JEW. 57 enter charles ratcliffe. Char. I have brought my sword ; I presume you have no objection to the weapon. Fred. None on my own account ; a little, perhaps, on the score of vanity, as thinking I have some advantage over you in point of skill and practice. Char. As far as that opinion goes, you are welcome to all the advantages it gives you. Oh I sir, this is a sorry business— will nothing else convince you I am incapable of giving a cow- ard's blow ? Fred. You have offered nothing else : it is a mode of your own chusing. Char. Your language forced it on me : you have touched my feelings to the quick. Words, such as you made use of, cannot be passed over without absolute disgrace, unless you will re- voke them by apology. Fred. You may well conceive, Mr. Ratcliffe, with what repugnance I oppose myself to you on this occasion. Whether the event be fatal to you or to myself, small consolation will be left for the survivor. The course you take is war- ranted by every rule of honour, and you act no otherwise than I expected ; but, as my expres- sion justifies your challenge, so did your provo- cation justify my expression : and your lan- guage being addressed to a lady, whom I have the honour to protect, it is not in my power to retract one tittle of what I said ; for, was you to repeat the same insult, I should follow it with the same retort. 58 THE JEW. [Cumberland Char. If you hold to the words, I know not how we can adjust it amicably. Fred. I will speak plainly to you, and the ra- ther as I am now perhaps speaking to you for the last time — admitted by your sister's favour into a family, whose representative resents her conduct, I will not so disgrace her choice in your eyes, who have opposed it, as to submit in the first instance to the most distant hint at an apology. Char. No more — defend yourself. {they Jight) Fred. What's that ? I've wounded you ! Char. No. Fred. Yes ; I'm sure of it. 'Tis in your arm ; you cannot poise your sword. {Charles is disarmed) Char. It is too true : your point has hit me through the guard : I'm at your mercy. Fred. I am at yours, dear Charles, for par- don and forgiveness : now I retract my words, and blush for having used them — let me bind up your wrist : here is a handkerchief— shall I call for assistance ? Char. No, no ; a scratch ; 'tis nothing. It scarce bleeds — hark ! somebody is at the door —take up the swords. Sheva. {without) Let me in ; I pray you, gentlemen, let me in. I am Sheva, your friend. Char. Open the door, Frederic. enter sheva. Sheva. Dear me ! dear me ! what have you been about ? Gootness defend me ! is it come to this ? are you not friends ? are you not bro- Act V] THE JEW. 59 thers ? is that a reason you should quarrel ? And if you differ, must you fight ? can your swords argue better than their masters ? You call that an affair of honour, I suppose ; under your fa- vour, 1 do not think it a very honourable affair; 'tis only giving a fine name to a foul deed. Goot lack, goot lack ! what is the matter with your wrist ? Char. Nothing to signify ; a trifling scratch. Sheva. A scratch, you call it ; I pray you come to my poor house, and let that scratch be healed ; you had great care for me, let me have some for you : that is my sense of an affair of honour; to pay the debt of gratitude that I do owe to you, and to your fader, who preserved my life in Spain, that is my point of honour. Char. My father ! did you know my father ? Sheva. That you shall hear, when I have shown you how I purpose to dispose of my af- fairs.- — As for you, Mr. Bertram — come, come, let us depart : put up your swords, I hope we have no further use for them. \_exeunt SCENE II — Mrs, Goodison*s. SIR STEPHEN BERTRAM and MRS. GOODISON. Mrs. G. Your son is not at home. Sir Ste- phen ; but Mrs. Bertram is ; and if you will al- low me to call her down, I'm sure she will be happy to pay her duty to you. Sir S. A moment's patience, Mrs. Goodison. — you seem much interested for this young bride, your lodger. 60 THE JEW. [Cumberland Mrs. G. It is impossible to be otherwise. She has beauty to engage the eye, and manners to interest the heart. Sir S, Some pride of family about her, I should guess ; a little of her brother's vivacity perhaps. Mrs. G. None that appears : mildness, and modesty, and every gentle grace, inherently her own. Sir S. Be pleased to tell her, I attend to pay^ my compliments ; and, as young ladies* char- acters are not so easily developed in the com- pany of their mothers, I would be glad she would allow me to confer with her alone. [^exii Mrs. Goodison Now I shall have this mystery unravelled. Saunders's notion, that the fortune comes from Sheva, is romantic in the extreme. Why should he portion her ? She has no Jew's blood in her veins, we'll hope ; and as to a deception, that he dare not practise.*— 'She comes ! By heavens, a lovely creature ! enter eliza. Eliza. You honour me most highly, sir— Sir S. Not so, madam ; the honour is confer- red on me. Eliza. How have I merited this condescen- sion ? Sir S. Gall it not condescension ; it is no more than is due from one, who is proud to embrace the title you have allowed him to as- sume. Eliza. This is beyond my hopes. Will you permit me then to call myself your daugb- Act V] THE JEW. 61 ter, and entreat a blessing and a pardon on my knees ? Sir S. Not for the world, in that submissive posture. All you can ask is granted, with ac- knowledgments on my part for the happiness you have bestowed upon my son— had certain circumstances occurred before your marriage, that have since turned up, I presume you would not have precipitated matters, at least not in the secret manner they were carried. Eliza. What circumstances, sir, may you allude to ? Sir S. The death, as I suppose, in your family— Eliza. Good Heaven forbid ! What death ? is it my brother — Sir S. No ; your brother, madam, no ! Pray be not thus alarmed 1 — I know your brother's circumstances too well, to suppose your sudden fortune could proceed from him perhaps some distant relation, or some friend, may have bequeathed Eliza, What ? let me ask. — I know of no be- quest. Sir S. Call it a gift, then, a donation on your marriage— it must have been an agreeable sur- prise to my son, to have been presented with a fortune so unexpected. Eliza. I am loth to think sir Stephen Ber- tram can descend to ridicule my poverty ; — that I should be regarded by you as an unwelcome intruder upon your family, I can well believe. Conscious that I have incurred your displea- sure, I shall patiently endeavour to soften it by -ubmission and obedience. F 62 THE JEW. [Cumberland Sir S. Madam, that answer is at once so paci- fying and so candid, that if the information I have had of your being possessed of ten thous- and pounds for your fortune, be false, though I thought I had pretty strong evidence of it Eliza. Impossible !— I'm sure your son, I'm sure my brother never told you this ? Sir S. I did not say they did. Eliza. No, they would disdain so gross and palpable a deceit. Sir S. Well, be it as it may, with, or with* out a fortune, portioned or pennyless, I feel my- self so irresistibly impelled to open my arms to you as a father, that whether Sheva has or has not deceived me, I here deposit my resentment ; and, by what I experience of your power over my heart, most thoroughly acquit my son for having surrendered his. Eliza. It is the impulse of your own gene- rosity, not any impression of my giving, that moves your heart to pity and forgiveness. But who is Sheva, that you seem to point at as the author of this falsehood ? Sir S. Sheva, the Jew surely you know the man ? Eliza. Thank Heaven, I do not; I can safely say, I never, to my recollection, heard his name before. — Some vile impostor, I suppose. Sir S. Not quite that, though bad enough to be so treated, if he has practised this deceit on me. — Sheva is my broker ; your husband knows him well ; a miserly methodical old Alley drudge, who showed me what I believed a true receipt for ten thousand pounds, vested in your name, in the funds.— -One of my people Act V] THE JEW. 63 would have persuaded me, it was his own vol- untary benefaction. — But if you don't know him, never saw him, never heard his name, the thing's impossible. Eliza. Totally so, whithout one ray of pro- bability. No Jew of that or any other name, do I know. Sir S. Your merit, then, and not your fortune, shall endear you to me. I will strike out ten thousand pounds, that I perceive you are not possessed of, and write in ten thousand graces, which I perceive you are possessed of, and so balance the account. — Now, Saunders, what's the matter ? enter saunders. Sau7i. Your son requested me to give this letter into your hands. Sir S. No, no — there needs no letter — tell him, it is done ; say, that you found me conquered in less time than he was. Bid him make haste hither in person, before I run away with his wife ; and let him write no more letters, for I won't read a word of them. [^exit Saunders Eliza. Won't you be pleased to open your letter ? Sir S. Positively I will not read it, because Frederic shall not have to say, that his rhetoric had any share in making me a convert. If it is, as I suppose, a recital of your graces and good qualities, I do not want his description to assist my sense of what I see; but if you have a wish to see your own fair person painted by his hand, you are welcome to indulge it. (takes the letter and g-ives it to Eliza) Break the seal €4 THE JEW. [Cumberland Eliza. 'Tis short — I'll read it to you — / am this instant summoned^ by Charles Ratcliffe^ on a point of honour^ sword to sword Oh ! Hea- vens ! — I can no more {drofis the letter) Sir S. What is it ? What alarms you ? Eliza. Oh ! that letter ! that letter !— My husband and my brother ! — or one or both have fallen I Sir S. Merciful powers forbid it ! (takes up. the letter) Eliza. Stop not to read it ! fly ! and take me with you — plant me between them ; I am the cause of quarrel I — enter FR1EDY.-RIC, followed by charles. Fred. My love, my life, my ever dear Eliza ! Eliza. Where is your wound ? — Are you not dying ? — What is become of Charles ? Char. Here is your happy brother— all is well. Fred. We are both here, with friendly hearts, and joyful news, to greet you. Eliza. Don't speak of joy too soon : 'twill overthrow my senses — let me survey you both. Don't deceive me ; you have wounds about you Ah ! Charles, what's this ? Char. The least, but luckiest wound that ever man received : — this little glance of your brave husband's sword, disarmed me of my weap- on, and both our rash hearts of their anger. Now lay aside your fears, and prepare your- selves for wonders. Fred. Oh 1 sir, I have offended you ; but— Sir S. But what ? You have an advocate, that makes all hearts her own. Spare your appeal ; you will but waste your words. ActV] THE JEW. 65 enter mrs. ratcliffe. Eliza. Oh, my dear madam ! I h^ve joy to give you— let me present you to my Frederic's father. Sir S. Yes, madam ; and the greatest joy that son ever conferred upon me, is, the title he has given me, to claim a father's share with you in this angel of a daughter. Mrs. R. Such she has been to me. I am blest to hear you say, that you approve her. Sir S. Frederic, give me your hand — if you had bFought me half the Indies with a wife, I should not have joined your hand to hers with such sincere delight. Fred. How generous is that declaration ! Now, Charles, 'tis time to introduce our friend. \_exit Charles Mrs. R. What does he mean, Eliza ? Eliza. I know no more than you : some new wonder, I suppose. Sir 5. Ha ! Sheva here ? This is indeed a wonder. enter charles, nvith sheva. Char. This is the man — my benefactor ; yours, Eliza ; Frederic's ; yours, dear mother ! all mankind's : the widow's friend, the orphan's father, the poor man's protector, the universal philanthropist. Sheva. Hush, hush ! you make me hide my face. {^covers his face with his hands) Char. Ah, sir ! 'tis now too late to cover your good deeds : You have long masked your cha- rities beneath this humble seeming, and shrunk 66 THE JEW. [Cumberland back from actions, princes might have gloried in : You must now face the world, and transfer the blush from your own cheeks to theirs, whom prejudice had taught to scorn you. For your single sake we must reform our hearts, and in- spire them with candour towards your whole na- tion. Sheva. Enough, enough ! more than enough —I pray you spare me : I am not used to hear the voice of praise, and it oppresses me : I should not know myself, if you were to describe me ; I have a register within, in which these merits are not noted. Simply I am an honest man, no more ; fair in my dealings, as my good patron here, I hope, can witness. — That lady, I believe, is Mrs. Ratcliffe; she does not know me : I will not touch upon a melancholy subject, else I could tell a story — merciful Heaven ! what horrors was I snatched from by her husband, now, alas ! no more ! Mrs. R. Oh, gracious powers ! — the Jew of Cadiz — Sheva. The very same — your debtor in no less a sum than all that I possess, the earnings of a life preserv'd first by your husband, and now again by your son. Why am I prais'd then, if I am merely honest and discharge my debts ? Sir S. Ah ! now the mystery's solv'd. The ten thousand pounds were your's.— Give them to Ratcliffe ; I will have nothing from fortune, where nature gives so much. Sheva. That is a noble speech — but monies does not lessen merit, at least not always, as I hope, for Mr. Ratcliffe's sake ; for he is heir of all that I possess. Act V] THE JEW. 67 Mrs. R. What can I say ? My heart's too full for utterance. O Charles, the fortunes of your house revive ; surely the blessed spirit of your departed father now sympathizes in our joy. Remember, son, to whom you owe this happiness, and emulate his virtues. Char. If I forget to treat my fortune, as be- comes the son of such a father, and the heir of such a benefactor, your warning will be my con- demnation. Fred. That it will never be : the treasure that integrity has collected, cannot be better lodg'd than in the hands of honour. Sir S. It is a mine of wealth. Sheva. Excuse me, goot sir Stephen, it is not a mine, for it was never out of sight of those who searched for it : the poor man did not dig to find it ; and where I now bestow it, it will be found by him again. I do not bury it in a syna- gogue or any other costly pile ; I do not waste it upon vanity or public works : I leave it to a charitable heir, and build my hospital in the human heart. END OF THE JEW. EPILOGUE. Tkxjth has declar'd, and question it none can. Woman was once a rib of lordly Man ; And some perhaps would risque a' little pain To hitch that rib into its place ag-ain ; For let the heart-ache, or what aught betide. They're sure to trace it to the peccant side, Till fix'd at leng-th they centre all the blame In tiiat one rib, from whence the Woman came, Now this is downright prejudice and spleen, A plea for thrusting us behind the scene ; And there we stood, for many a long, long age, Nor let to steal one foot upon the stage ! Till now, when all their tyrant acts are past, Curtsying we come like Epilogue at last ; And you so little are inclin'd to rout us. You wonder how your fathers did without us. Sure we can lightlier touch those feeling parts, That twine about the region of your hearts ; Passion that from the lips of woman flows. Warm to man's soul with magic swiftness goes; And tho' the sphere be small in which we move. Great is the recompence when you approve. Whilst nature and your candour hold their course, So long our charter will remain in force ; Nor will you grudge the privilege you g-ave, 'Till we forget to smile upon ihe brave. Still in the slip'ry path, that brings us near Forbidden precincts, we must tread with fear, Does my weak cast in tragic pathos lie ? Why then so dismal, gentle poet, why ? In mirth oft' times the nuptial knot I've ty'd. But never was till now a mourning bride. If to my share some moving speeches fall, " Look in my face and they'll not move at all.'* Yet, not to drop at once Eliza's stile. One word in earnest and without a smile — Thro' all the characters of varied life. All tbj fond casts of parent, child, or wife. What part soe'er our author has assign'd, To that we must conform with patient mind ; So at the drama's close M'hen we appear, We may obtain a parting plaudit here. LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 014 159 041 8 i