Pereg. Now for my friend, Thornberry; then hither again, to interest myself in the cause of this unfortunate: for which many would call me Quixote; many would cant out "shame!" but I care not for the stoics, nor the puritans. Genuine nature and unsophisticated morality, that turn disgusted from the rooted adepts in vice, have ever a reclaiming tear to shed on the children of error. Then, let the sterner virtues, that allow no plea for human frailty, stalk on to paradise without me! The mild associate of my journey thither shall be charity:—and my pilgrimage to the shrine of mercy will not, I trust, be worse performed for having aided the weak, on my way, who have stumbled in their progress.
Enter Dan, from the House.
Dan. I be ready, zur.
Pereg. For what, friend?
Dan. Measter says you be a-going to Penzance; if you be agreeable, I'll keep you company.
Pereg. Oh—the guide. You belong to the house?
Dan. Ees, zur; Ise enow to do: I be head waiter and hostler:—only we never have no horses, nor customers.
Pereg. The path I fancy, is difficult to find. Do you never deviate?
Dan. Na, zur,—I always whistles.
Pereg. Come on, friend.—It seems a dreary rout: but how cheerily the eye glances over a sterile tract, when the habitation of a benefactor, whom we are approaching to requite, lies in the perspective!