“Stop there!” cried I, in a rage—“unprovoked!—know that I am John Buckthorne, and you have insulted the memory of my mother.”
The lout was suddenly struck by what I said. He drew back and reflected for a moment.
“Nay, damn it,” said he, “that’s too much—that’s clear another thing. I’ve a mother myself, and no one shall speak ill of her, bad as she is.”
He paused again. Nature seemed to have a rough struggle in his rude bosom.
“Damn it, cousin,” cried he, “I’m sorry for what I said. Thou’st served me right in knocking me down, and I like thee the better for it. Here’s my hand. Come and live with me, and damme but the best room in the house, and the best horse in the stable, shall be at thy service.”
I declare to you I was strongly moved at this instance of nature breaking her way through such a lump of flesh. I forgave the fellow in a moment all his crimes of having been born in wedlock and inheriting my estate. I shook the hand he offered me, to convince him that I bore him no ill will; and then making my way through the gaping crowd of toad-eaters, bade adieu to my uncle’s domains forever. This is the last I have seen or heard of my cousin, or of the domestic concerns of Doubting Castle.
As I was walking one morning with Buckthorne, near one of the Principal theaters, he directed my attention to a group of those equivocal beings that may often be seen hovering about the stage-doors of theaters. They were marvellously ill-favored in their attire, their coats buttoned up to their chins; yet they wore their hats smartly on one side, and had a certain knowing, dirty-gentlemanlike air, which is common to the subalterns of the drama. Buckthorne knew them well by early experience.
These, said he, are the ghosts of departed kings and heroes; fellows who sway sceptres and truncheons; command kingdoms and armies; and after giving way realms and treasures over night, have scarce a shilling to pay for a breakfast in the morning. Yet they have the true vagabond abhorrence of all useful and industrious employment; and they have their pleasures too: one of which is to lounge in this way in the sunshine, at the stage-door, during rehearsals, and make hackneyed theatrical jokes on all passers-by.