It will be observed that Goodman is a butcher.
Goodman. It is said that our laws do not allow a butcher to serve upon a jury in a case of life and death—supposing, from his business, that he must have less humanity than others.
Mr. Shepherd. But that, I believe, is not the case; and within my own confined experience I have known several truly respectable and humane butchers. Our laws themselves are sanguinary; and they do not make the same exception to the military or naval characters, both which professions have too much to do with the effusion of blood.
Goodman. What do you think, sir, of the post-boy who cuts and over-drives his horses?
Mr. Shepherd. What do I think of the gentleman who sits behind him, and permits it—nay, encourages him, and pays him extra for distressing them, merely to bring him a few minutes sooner to the end of his stage?
Goodman. Sir, I had rather be what I am.
Mr. Shepherd. And so had I—it is a consolation to me often, in my journeys on foot, that no beast suffers for my accommodation.
The vein of morality which runs through the dialogue is exquisitely touching, and in the hands of Terry or Macready we think Goodman might be made highly effective—Young would be excellent in the "Rev." Mr. Shepherd, and in the latter part of the act, where Goodman discovers in the clergyman a friend who "put up at the Wheat Sheaf, at Blessbury, twenty-five years before," would make a decided hit—when pushing away his ease and comfort, the Reverend Gentleman returns thanks for having made the butcher what he finds him.
The conclusion of the first act is happily imagined, and highly theatrical:—