SCENE I.— A plain Apartment, with a few Books.

HOW well those fellows wrote, those an­tients! How finely they satirize the rich, and what respect they have for virtue in rags! My dear, I will translate the passage—off hand now, d'ye hear, off hand!

‘Poliarchus, the rich Athenian, wantoning in gluttony, looks with contempt on the poor Cassander: Cassander reposing on his bed of straw, thanks the Gods that he has health and virtue; and prays to be preserved from the misfortune of being rich, like Poliarchus, whose floors are stained with the wine of drunkenness, and whose silver couch is con­stantly crowded by physicians.’

Are you sure that is a just translation, Mr. Fancourt?

[Page 2]

What, Madam, do you doubt my knowledge of Greek! Some people can hardly read English at sight; I can translate at sight, thanks to the milk I suck'd in at Oxford. Doctor Johnson and I, were both Oxford men. —I like to read that old Quiz, he was so fond of us Oxford fellows. But he had too much respect for riches—he liked rich people.

To say truth, I have a little of his way of thinking. I had never much respect towards those Philosophers who are always throwing sarcasms on the rich—

I do maintain, Ma­dam, that the rich are the vilest—

Come, come, Mr. Fancourt, your extravagancies have rendered you poor, and therefore you are always raving thus, and pouring your philipics on people of fortune;—as though vice and folly could only be found in palaces, and virtue in garrets.

Hey day! Why Ma'am—why—

For my part, I believe there is as much goodness amongst persons of fortune, as amongst the poor—and I do not see why the power of dressing elegantly, and living in well educated society, should debase the heart, or weaken the understanding.

You do not see! why you are the greatest—the most abominable—upon my soul, you are the most provoking fool that ever—

My dear Sir, I do not doubt it—you have repeated these opinions too often for me not to be convinced of their justice. But really now, between ourselves

as opinion is nothing [Page 3] without example, I will take the liberty to quote yourself in support of mine.

Me! quote me!

Even your great and mighty self! Mr. Fancourt, when I married you, you were not poor—not so poor as you are now; and I think at that time you had no particular vices; but as dissipation has brought poverty upon you, I have observed that by little and little your shallow virtues have disappeared, till—

'Till what?

Till you are capable of al­most any action that will not endanger your neck. Nay, I no longer mind your threaten­ing looks—I am so convinced of what I have said, that my heart feels horror.

I'll make it feel something else.

You cannot. All other power over my heart is over; you can afflict it no more! But observe my deduction. I state you to yourself as a proof that poverty is sometimes the source of wickedness; and that squalid wretchedness is as capable of debasing the heart, as affluence and splendor.

Very well, woman! very well! still the noise of that child there—

what an odious squaling it keeps!

It is not easy, Mr. Fancourt, to still the noise of children who are hungry. Though they are the children of the first Mrs. Fancourt, it pierces my heart to hear them— why will you not do something to get bread for them?

What would you have me do? I was not bred to stand behind a counter, nor [Page 4] to cry " Chairs to mend" in the streets. You know all that—what did you marry me for?

Alas! because I loved you. The sweetness of your manners disguised the emptiness of your heart, and I romantically thought that poverty could never be an evil, when two hearts fondly shared its difficulties. But now—permit me to ask, why you married me?

Because you had a modicum of a fortune—a score of hundreds: and I had not so many shillings.

That little modicum might have been a bank, if properly managed, and—

Pshaw!—stuff! I hate such cant. What do you want?

A person left this parcel, Sir, and said there was no answer.

Such abominable cant!

I am as tired of it as I used to be of my Grandmother's spelling through Hannah Glass's Art of Cookery, and I believe in my conscience —the devil! here is gold!

Gold!

Keep off—you are too good, too pure, to want such vile trash. Twenty guineas by Jupiter—ah, ah!

Here is a note dropt

‘Accept this purse, Sir, from one who is sorry to see such merit in confined circumstances, and who was charmed with your delicate manner of revealing it.’

Who is it signed by?

[Page]

Robert Floyer.

Ay, Sir Robert Floyer, a fine old Welchman, who got himself made Sheriff, then a Knight—those two dignities generally follow, like the Old Bailey and a whipping. I made the old blockhead believe that I was deeply versed in Welch antiquities—that Snowden was once a burning mountain, and that the Ap Morgans and Ap Shoneses were lineally descended from King Priam. You see I know how to turn my wits to account—I can make money, though I can't make shoes.

Yes, and you see there is generosity where there is no poverty; and that but for the beneficence of a man of fortune, a rich man, your children to-day wou'd have wanted a dinner.

Psha! what merit is there in the generosity of a rich man! a fellow who takes out a handful of guineas from his store as you would dip a bucket into a well? give me the virtue of the poor man who divides his last shilling—his last two-pence with his friend; who takes his pint of porter from his thirsty lips, and shares it with his poorer neighbour.

Ah, here is your poor sister —I will go and receive her—you can now assist her distresses—what pleasure it will give you!

None of your documents—if she is in distress, let her pawn her superfluities, as other poor people do.

There is some difference between sharing one's last two-pence with a friend, and one's last twenty guineas.

SCENE II.— A Square.

Rot et, here be three caerds or noates, or what the devil they be, left after all. Dang et, I have delivered seventeen—all the way from Manchester-square to Petty France; from there to Bishopsgate-street after sweet­meats for Miss, and then to the Hay-market about the pianny forty. Hang me if I doant make dead men of these

dead men tell no tales. The people they were for, will never know their loss. I can say I found nobody at hoam; ha, ha, ha! that was amoast the first word I larn'd, when I come to Lunnun—"Not at hoam, Sir." Dad! the gentry here have the cheapest way of entertain­ing their friends; it doesn't cost above a dozen or two lies a day to keep acquaintance with great quality. Hey! did you speak to me, Sir?

Yes, my lad—Pray which is Sir Robert Floyer's?

Which is—

What, don't you know Sir Robert's? Why, Sir Robert is as well known in Wales as the Monument in Lunnun, or my Lord Mayor in his gilt coach.

Very likely: But which is his house in this street?

[Page 7]

Why this house to be sure

Why I live we'en. Pray, Sir, what may be your business we'en?

I am the young lady's staymaker.

Staymaker!

why, I took you for a curnel, or a coptain, or a great knight belonging to a prince, or some'at of that sort. Why, your coate is amoast the colour of scarlet. Aye, I know why that be —you think to pass for one of those brave fel­lows who go over sea to fight for their country, and, i'faith, its pity but you shou'd!

Prithee let your young lady know that I am here. I am recommended by Lady Horatia Horton; I work for all the ladies of fine taste in town.

Fine teaste! Dad! we cut this morning for breakfast the finest pork griskin I ever teasted in my life. Come with me down the eary steps, and I'll give ye a bit with fresh mustard that shall put your teaste in tune for the whole day.

SCENE— An elegant Apartment (within).

Humphrey! Hum­phrey! Where can this loitering rascal stay? So you found Mr. Fancourt's house?

Yes, Sir; in one of the retired streets near Bloomsbury?

Well, I am glad I sent him those few guineas. Fancourt seems to be a lad of merit; and when he opened his distresses to me, [Page 8] he did it in such a delicate, modest way! He is an excellent companion, and he has a pretty taste for antiquities—I like antiquities.

So I guess'd, Sir, by the vast quan­tity of old worm-eaten furniture you have at home, which you never make any use of, but to shew to strangers. All from the old castles be­longing to your forefathers, Sir, I take it?

Yes, all from my forefathers cas­tles. Hum

My grandfather was the first man of his family who ever went to bed, or got up his own master.

Two or three rooms of precious rotten furniture, Sir, give people a notion of the antiquity of your family

I believe the dog has found me out—it was for that very reason I bought it. You may remember, David, the year that I was sheriff—I say that year in which I was high sheriff for the county.—Ho—here comes Humphrey.

Where have you been, you loitering, west-country booby, these three hours?

Three hours! Why, Sir, 'tis my belief you wou'd have loitered six hours, if you had seen what I have seen, and heard what I have heard.

What hast thou seen and heard?

Why, in my way to Bishopsgate-street, I saw folks go into that old fashioned house, where Gog and and Magog stand up to guard the mince-pies, whilst the Lord Mayor dines.

[Page 9]

Guildhall.

Yes, Gilthall—it is all over gilt and finery. So I follow'd a gemman into a great chamber, and there—O, my eyes! there I saw beautiful angels coming down through the clouds, on purpose to hold up the glass candlesticks, thus

Gad! I shou'd like to see them.

And the gemmen were debating. Yes—O! my ears! I heard a city debate, and they called one another Mr. Deputy—and one of them, with a fine red double chin, got up and said, ‘I am sorry to differ from Mr. Deputy (speaking gruffly); but I contend that these innovations bode no good to our con­stitutions. The hour for dining, since my time, was two; it has been three, four, and six; and I suspect shortly it may be eight— hum! I move, therefore, that a petition be presented to the Lord Mayor—hum— hum—’

On which a little squinting gentleman rose, and said

‘I support the worthy Deputy who spoke last. These late hours are ruinous to the body cor­porate. On Lord Mayor's Day we dined so late, that when I went afterwards to Fish­monger's-hall to supper, the turbots were gone, nay, the second course was demolished, the sweetmeats were pocketed, and nothing remained but cheese and pickles.’

You are a pickle! Get out—here is a great lady coming—get out of her way— go!

What, Madam, is your Ladyship going? Has not my daughter had the honour to see you, Lady Charlotte?

Yes; and I have left her with a person of much greater consequence—she is in deep consultation with her milliner. To a girl of eighteen, Sir Robert, a milliner is of as much importance as an aid-du-camp to a general. I knew my distance when she en­tered, and immediately took leave—Pray, Sir, order my chair

Madam, forgive me, if, before you go, I just plump one question. What do you think of Mr. Conway?

Ha, ha, ha! Think of Mr. Conway? That he has all the advantages which belong to fashion, without its vices. He has certainly some vanity, but more good sense. His friends are well chosen; he admires beauty; he loves goodness; and there is a young lady—

Adieu, Sir Robert! Your anxiety about Mr. Conway I perfectly understand, and I hope you are satisfied.

What a thing it is to have a lady of quality so familiar with one!

Well, Georgina, what now? What now?

O, papa! look at this cap—did you ever see so bewitching a thing?

Pho! you little fool!

[Page 11]

Look at this bow—look at the tip of this scarlet feather! Here, Jenny, put it away, with great care.

Care, indeed

it is pity my talents have not better employment than taking care of feathers, and wiping band-boxes.

Good bye, papa; I am going to Lady Horatia Horton's. I do love to go there. And what do you think I long to be? I long to be a sculptor!

I don't understand ye.

O! Lady Horatia does look so charmingly whilst at her labours; her sweet white hands appear like the very marble she is at work upon.

Did I hear right? At work upon marble?

Bless me! Why did I never tell you before that she is a sculptor? She has a large room full of fine things of her own work. O dear! I wish she wou'd teach me her art; I could spend my life amidst fine statues. But pray, papa, when am I to be presented! I am not in town till I am presented.

Not in town!

Nay, indeed, its true; Lady Char­lotte told me so. I can't go any where in pub­lic, nor be spoken to by a single creature, till I have been presented: I am not come out till then.

Not come out! Bless me, Geor­gina, my dear, why then Saint James's has its slang as well as Saint Giles's.

Yes, to be sure it has; and we must make haste and get the slang, or they will [Page 12] find us out to be mere bumpkins. When shall I be presented?

Have patience. I am come to town about a little business of that sort myself. Perhaps we shall be presented together.

How, ha, ha, ha! presented to­gether! Was ever such a thing heard of? Miss and her papa presented together! Then did you never come out till now, papa?

Pshaw! mine is quite a different business. If I am put into a great office, I must be presented in course.

Why, what are you going to be?

That I cannot tell.

If they give you your choice, pray be a duke. O! how I shou'd doat on your being a duke!

Why?

Then I shou'd be a lady—Lady Georgina—delightful! Lady Georgina's name should fly about the town as though it were made with wings to it.

Nonsense! You a duke's daugh­ter, indeed! A pretty figure you'd make as a duke's daughter!

Figure! Where the difficulty? I can do it exactly—you shall see now—When I was last at Lady Horatia Horton's, a countess from the Opera came in, thus

—Bless me, Lady Horatia, how cou'd you be at home to-night? I gal­lopp'd sixty miles to-day, have kill'd one coach-horse, and spoiled another, merely to hear the Banti—O! the Banti!

The bantling! why, whose bant­ling was it!

[Page 13]

O! her upper tones!—and, O! her under tones! whilst she was flying from B to C, hanging upon G, running into cantabile from E, and sinking down by just gradations to D, the whole house were magnetized—I saw a general faint—a minister of state take out his smelling bottle, and a prince of the blood blew his nose.

Blew his nose! very affecting in­deed! and countesses are charming creatures. But, dear Georgina, the warmth of thy ima­gination would disturb my peace, did not thy extreme giddiness prevent its fastening on any one object for more than ten minutes together. Hah! take care of thyself, my dear Georgina, thou art treading upon men-traps and spring­guns. Thy paths, though seemingly covered with flowers, are full of thorns, prickles, and adders.

Thorns, prickles, and adders! law, Papa, why people never seem to feel them, and I dare say I shall dance over them as lightly as my neighbours.

Yes, DISSIPATION! thou art the enemy of female honour. It is on thy accursed altar that the peace of the wife, the repose of the husband, and the welfare of whole families, are continually offer'd up. O! shield my child.

from the corrup­tion of DISSIPATION!

SCENE—ASGILL's Lodgings.

My master is engaged, Sir, but I will acquaint him that you are here.

Hah, Conway, I saw you come in, so I follow'd you up—I know you are at home in Asgill's lodgings.

Are you acquainted with Mr. Asgill.

No; notwithstanding he keeps good company, and is nephew to a rich old Sir Simon in the City, who between loans and lum­ber, makes money faster than he tells lies! but there are an odd sort of three corner'd mortals one can never close with—they present a point at every turn; you may as easily come into contact with a porcupine. I know all the people in town except himself, and I came in on purpose to ask you to make us inti­mate.

That will be impossible. Pray Fancourt, how do you get acquainted with every body, for—let me say it in a whisper—your reputation is not of the very first water.

Pho! what men are diamonds in the way of reputation? French paste does as well, and one is not so much afraid to damage it. If I were such a fellow as you, with a character of the true water, I should be in eternal anxiety —never dare to turn to the right or the left— fearful of a speck here, of a flaw there; as it is, I brush on through the world—my French paste makes a shew, and if I lose it—why I lose a thing of no value.

Amazing!

Hang me if I would be trou­bled with a first rate character, any more than with a first rate beauty—it would only [Page 15] create envy, and my friends would never rest 'till they had robb'd me of it.

O! that talents should be thus en­listed in the service of vice.

That I swear you learnt from our old one-eyed Proctor of Brazen Nose—I re­member the very words; I have heard them fifty times whilst I stood on his blind side. O! that a man should thus live on the scraps of others all his life, and never dare coin a prin­ciple for himself! So, you won't introduce me to Asgill?

very well —very well—I'll introduce myself to an Arch­bishop before I am a week older, and get my­self made a Prebend in revenge.

Asgill, I am come to disengage my­self from the hunt; I cannot be with you to­morrow.

Very well—I shall not enquire your reasons; nor shall I pretend to guess that there is a little Welch Diana in the way of the hunt— you have not seen her I dare swear.

Be not so daring—I have seen her; but I have only seen her. She is as wild as one of the kids on her father's mountains.

Where have you met with her?

At Lady Horatio Horton's; but her volatility is so great, that it wou'd be as easy to catch quicksilver.

I cannot say I think so—she does not want life; but it is the sweet pensiveness of her character that charms me—a thousand graces [Page 16] hang about pensiveness which mere animal spirits destroy.

I have not seen her in that humour.

And then her fine taste.

Her taste is as fine as other people's I dare swear; but she will bear a little polish.

She bear polish—ha, ha, ha! where will you find such a mind, such an under­standing?

I have no doubt of its native excel­lence, and I hope to have the pleasure of im­proving it.

You! what do you mean, Sir? of whom are you speaking?

Of whom do you speak?

Of Lady Horatia Horton—did you not name her?

Ha, ha, ha! so this is confidence by chance! dear Asgill, I have blundered on your secret very undesignedly—I was speaking of the daughter of Sir Robert Floyer.

But you mentioned Lady Horatia; and the moment her idea is presented to me, every other is swallowed up. O! Conway, she engrosses my whole soul—to see her is bliss, and the sound of her voice is rapture.

Heyday!

You have the secret by chance; but you are welcome to it, and I am prepared for all your jests on my passion for a woman who is devoted to sculpture.

Faith, I perceive no room for jests. I think it must be charming to see a fine wo­man sit with a chissel, and bring out of a block of marble, a form as graceful as her own; every feature glowing with animation beneath [Page 17] her eye, and every stroke of the mallet warm­ing the cold mass into mind and expression.

I thank you; but your eulogy is not compleat, for the purity of my Horatia chastises the art she loves. The subjects she selects, Delicacy itself would paint out: with an enchanting modesty she seeks for models only in the graces of her own sex, the daughters of Britain, and the matrons of Greece.

Very well: but you are a Son of Britain—does Lady Horatia—

Yes—no—I can not tell. She treats me with rigour, yet I think her heart has passion. I sometimes fancy I see it shine like the sun in November—unwillingly, and by starts.

Why do you not lead to an ex­planation.

I cannot; for she is rich, and I am as you know, dependent on the will of an Uncle.

He has the reputation of being a Croesus.

True; but a fortune, whose basis is commerce, may be doubled, or dissolved in a month.

Well. Pray for me, my dear Asgill, that I may catch my little Welch fawn; I have no prayers to make for you; for I perceive your's is one of those sober passions, that, end as it may, your mind will keep its equilibrium. O! how delightful it must be to love with so much good sense.

O! how he mistakes! it is in souls like mine that love rages with all his fury. [Page 18] The gay, the volatile, can scarcely maintain a passion; but in the serious and reflective mind, love raises a despotic throne, and, like the burning sun of Africa, he pours his chiefest ardors upon slaves.

Perkins! how now! your looks alarm me. What news from the City?

O! Sir!

My good friend, speak. You very much distress me. Something is amiss.

Would I could say your fears were unfounded. Something is amiss — your Uncle—

Nay, speak at once! I can bear any thing rather than suspence.

Then summon all your fortitude! your Uncle, the good Sir Simon, has sent me to tell you that—he—is—undone.

Oh!

undone! did you say so, Perkins? did you?

The misfortunes which have shaken the trade of Europe have at last reached him. He who lately ranked on Change a two hun­dred thousand pound man, may not, when his creditors are satisfied, be able to com­mand one thousand pound.

Your news is heavy, very heavy! leave me, dear Perkins! I want to ruminate on my misfortunes alone.

My worthy, my unhappy Uncle! the tide of affliction must roll [Page 19] heavy on him.

It is determined—I see Lady Horatia no more. No—never more—

never shall her delicacy be insulted by seeing a beggar court her to his arms.

But what can I do? bred to no pro­fession, knowing nothing; ignorant of every art by which independence, or even bread may be obtained; I am thrown a vagabond upon the world. O! my too indulgent Uncle, when you sent me to Cambridge, had you placed me, rather, in a counting-house, I might now have been in a situation to have soften'd all your afflictions—instead of which—O, horror! my soul sickens—my head is dizzy—I sink to death.

SCENE I.— A Lodging House.

Nay, Mr. Tippy— stay, Sir, you shall hear—you shall hear me.

Shall hear;—why how the devil can I avoid it? a pound of cotton stuff'd into my ears would not keep out the sound—I wonder you can open your mouth so wide, with such a pain in it.

Aye—between my tooth-ache and you, I am almost mad. Sir, I tell you plainly I do not like your goings on, and I de­sire you to quit my lodgings.

Not for the world; for then I must quit you, my dear, good humour­ed, quiet Mrs. Bullrush.

None of your jeers. I don't like the sort of company you keep

That's odd; for my friends are of all sorts and complexions.

And of all characters too, I be­lieve. They seem most of them to be men who live by their wits.

Yes;—I like to have my wits about me.

And, Sir, you have been in my lodgings fourteen weeks, and I have never yet seen the colour of your money.

[Page 21]

No!—that's a reproach I am asham'd of—you shall make it no more

There—bright yellow gold as ever came from the mint—does not the colour charm ye

Good morning!

Nay, this is too bad—stop— stop!

SCENE II.— St. James's Street.—the Palace, Fruit Shop, &c.

The sun always brings out butter­flies—a fine shew of women to-day.

Tippy—Tippy—hey!

Who is so familiar with my name?

Hah! Fancourt—I have not seen you these six months—are you engaged there?

No—I'll come to you.

The fellow looks as well as ever; I wonder what he's upon now

Well, my boy—how goes the world?

How goes the world—round, I suppose; for its inhabitants seem all giddy— where have you been since we parted at Bath?

Bath? that was a twelvemonth since. I have been in a thousand shapes, and a thou­sand places since then. The last was Italy.

Italy! how the devil could you get there? was you bear driver? I mean did you hold the leading strings of some pretty Master, running the tour?

[Page 22]

How I got there you may know here­after; but there I have been. Zounds, man, I learnt to be a critic there—I talk of statues and intaglios—of busts and medallions—I find fault where ever I go—my judgment is asked—my satire is feared—I am courted and hated—O! its a glorious thing to be a critic.

Why you don't pretend that you are really a connoisseur?

I pretend to any thing that will either get me into a dining parlour, or a wine cellar. I pronounce on Paintings and Tokay—on Statues and Old Hock; I know exactly the grapes from which the one was pressed, and the age in which the other was chissell'd—psha! man, there requires little to be a connoisseur, but impudence.

Well—but how do you live— plainly—how do you eat?

For the last three months I have eat on the strong likeness I bear to Lord Beechgrove.

The resemblance is astonishing— they call you his polygraph.

You are mistaken. They call his Lordship my polygraph.

I stand corrected. But how have you lived on this resemblance, has he taken you up for the sake of the likeness?

Taken me up! you are curst unlucky in your phrases to-day. No, no—he has been useful to me without his knowledge: for instance, I pass'd one night through Portland Place, and saw a great route. I dash'd into the hall, cursing the crowd of carriages which prevented my chariot from coming up. The porter in­stantly knew me; gave my name—and LORD [Page 23] BEECHGROVE resounded all the way up the stairs. The lady of the house received me; placed me immediately at a Loo table, and in two hours I brought off two hundred guineas.

Lucky rascal!

I lately walk'd down to Barnet; took a chaise and four, and bade them whisk me to the Royal Hotel, Pall-Mall. Away we flash'd; roads all mud—horses plunging—post-boys cutting; measured Finchley Common in seven­teen minutes, ten seconds. Rode over a smoak­ing Common Councilman at the Adam and Eve—run in at Tottenham Court Road, and came neatly up

Ha, ha, ha!

The waiters recognized my Lordship, gave me the best apartments, the very rooms the Turkish Ambassador had, and there I lived in first style; no epicure—never chose more than five things at table; drank Champaigne: in ten days took my leave to visit my Cumber­land estate, and ordered the bill to be ready against my return.

Gad, I advise you to take his Lord­ship up, and swear that he's an impostor—you may then enjoy his Cumberland estate.

I have taken a fancy to an estate in another county; a better scheme, my boy!

A plan which sometimes forces me to take shelter, like Her­cules, under the disguise of a petticoat. Yes, like him, I exchange my club for a distaff, or like Achilles, transform my surtout to a gauze robe, and my waistcoat to a lace tucker.

Hah—high examples! Come, tell me—No, defer! defer! here comes a lovely [Page 24] Welch girl, whose father I sometimes do the honour to call upon.

O! dear Mr. Fancourt, how do you do? Nay, do not stop me. I hate to stand in the street, people stare at one so.

For that very reason you do not hate to stand in the street. What is beauty good for, if it is not to be looked at?

Oh, ho—now I find where­about you are. I know more of this family than you guess at, mon ami.

Whilst these gentlemen are talk­ing to Miss, I'll step in here for a hap'eth of apples.

How came you here without your carriage?

It is so charming a morning that I bid it follow me from Pall-mall, where I have been shopping. Nay, I beg you let me pass. Bless me! where is my servant?

I am going to Lady Horatia Horton's on the most particular business in the world.

O! such extortioning! such cheatery!—I never heard the like—I wonder they are not afraid to stand in their shoes.

What is the matter, Humphrey?

Miss, as I hope to be—I did but just pop into my mouth a little bit of a peach —'twere no bigger than a walnut—it went down at a gulp like a pill—and they have made me pay a shilling for it.

[Page 25]

Why, how could you think of going into such a shop?

Such a shop! why not? A shop's a shop, if honest people did but keep it, and as free for me as another.

Follow me—I am ashamed of the noise you make.

A shilling! Upon my say-so if— aye, I'll mark you, never fear.

She's a lovely girl! an heiress? I'll pretend ignorance for the present

She is—we'll speak of that hereafter. Her father is coming towards us from the Park. Now her father is a rich old fool, and we are two wits. Folly has been the natural food of wit, since the sun first threw his burning glance upon mankind.

I understand ye—But I'll lend no as­sistance unless we halve it—remember that— halves or nothing.

Why, to be sure.

Are you upon honour?

To the last breath—The old fool —hang it—he is no fool neither. In ten words, for here he comes, he was of use on a late election, and the parliament-man

ad­vised him to come up to town to receive ac­knowledgments from the minister. He was afraid to leave his daughter behind, so wisely brought her up.

My dear, Sir, how I rejoice to see you! I call'd at your house to return thanks for the great—

[Page 26]

O! not a word, not a word, Mr. Fancourt. Silence will oblige me—

Permit me, Sir Robert, to make you known to my Lord Beechgrove.

Lord Beechgrove

Is he not a near relation of the Duke of—

First cousin, and his most parti­cular adviser.

My Lord, I am your Lordship's very obedient, very humble servant.

Sir Robert, I am rejoiced to see you. We have long look'd for you in town. I have heard you much spoken of at a certain table. We know our friends, Sir Robert. Pray, Mr. Fancourt, bring Sir Robert to dine with me. I am sorry to leave you, but it is a cabi­net morning, and the concerns of Europe, you know, must not be neglected. Adieu!

That's right—never neglect bu­siness. O! I wish all the peers were like this peerless peer. Ay, there he goes into the Pa­lace, I see. Mr. Fancourt, I am prodigiously obliged to you for making me known to his lordship. Is he a man of large fortune?

Yes; but a little out at present. It is amazing what vast sums he has expended for the public. He was just asking me if I knew any honest man who could lend him a thousand pounds. He could have ten times that of the Jews—But he hates the Jews—O! he has never any dealings with the Jews.

Perfectly right.

O! I always say, my lord, what­ever you do, borrow money of the Christians —always borrow of the Christians. He only wants it for a month, just till quarter-day. [Page 27] Sir Robert, its an opportunity now—he has amazing interest—a single sentence, whilst he is swallowing a glass of Burgundy, would do your business.

Indeed! Whilst he is swallow­ing a glass of Burgundy?

I'll shew you now. This is my glass

you shall be the great man; we'll suppose his name to be SNAPPER, and I am Lord Beech­grove. Come, SNAPPER, "here's to the girl we love!"

I say, SNAPPER, we must do something for that Welch knight; he who was sheriff there t'other day—

High sheriff for the county.

Pardon me! High sheriff for the county

He is the saddest old rascal

he

is the greatest enemy we have in the principality.

Why, Sir, what do you mean? They never had such a friend; I spent more money to favour the cause than I care to own. I was for ever on horseback; there was not a cottager who could influence the sixteenth cousin of a voter, whom I did not en­tertain; and the fact is, it was solely owing to me—

What, do you take me to be such a ninny as to plead your services. You are a mere chicken! Listen. I say, SNAPPER, we must have him on our side

The old scoundrel killed his set of coach greys, and fifteen nags in riding about the country to oppose us

He is a great fool, but he is related to all the ap Morgans, and the ap Shoneses in three coun­ties. [Page 28] In short, we must have him—so here goes— "the girl we love!" Thus, I swallow the girl, he swallows the hint, and the business is done. Will you lend me the thousand pounds?

I will—I understand; this is what you call kicking a man up stairs.

Only for a month.

Nay, if it is for six weeks. I shall not stand upon a fortnight.

Thus it is to deal with men of generosity.

Call upon me after dinner. I am hurried just now; our member lives in the next street, and I am going to him; but I'll write a draft on my banker for the thousand pounds against you call. O! I like to oblige a lord.

Well, now to him who is rich in expedients, of what consequence is being pen­nyless? Let gross, plodding spirits dig and labour; it is ours to gather the fruit.

SCENE— Lady HORATIA's Drawing-room.

Here, I have brought this odd garment for Miss. What is she going to do with it?

I can't tell.

Could a body see that fine place they talk about, where Madam makes men and women all in marble.

Perhaps you may get a peep at it. There is company there at present. It is called a school.

[Page 29]

School! Zooks, I am glad to hear great folks go to school. Some of them, mayhap, may larn better manners.

SCENE— A large, elegant Apartment, with va­rious Pieces of Sculpture, Statues, Urns, &c.

This is, indeed, a school! Here are copies of all that is valuable in the art she loves. Ah, the lovely artist herself.

Dear Lady Charlotte, I re­joice to see you. They did not tell me you were here.

I have been here a long while; de­lighting myself with your charming works. But how full of labour is the amusement you have chosen?

I do not find it so.

So different from fashionable life.

O! the labour of a fashion­able life wou'd kill me; I should sink under it. Chipping marble is playing with feathers compared to that.

How so?

The discipline of a life in fa­shion is by no means of the mildest sort

Consider, for instance, the necessary vi­gils and abstinence of a gamester. It is expe­dient [Page 30] that she works hard and lives sparingly; for if she does not keep her spirits perfectly cool, instead of cheating her friend, her friend may cheat her ^*. My labours are less and more innocent than hers.

O! I perceive you will be able to defend yourself.

In the next place reflect on the toils of a determined beauty. Whether she wakes or sleeps; whatever she does, whereever she goes, it is all with relation to the one great object which engrosses her meditations. After hours wasted, murder'd, in the hard work of the toi­lette, away she springs! Her wheels thunder rapidly through the streets—she flies from as­sembly, to assembly. Does the music of the concert fascinate her? No. Does polish'd conversation interest her? No. Some other beauty has been the belle of the evening; her heart has been torn with envy; she returns home; drags off her ornaments in disgust, and throws herself on a sleepless bed in anguish. Are my labours less pardonable than hers?

You will be too hard for me in argument, so I drop your statues, to talk of yourself. Something, I see, is wrong. What is it?

Come, be explicit— You will not speak! In plain language, when did you see Mr. Asgill?

Not this week—no—not for a whole week! I will conceal nothing from you. I find now that my tenderness more than equals his. I have no joy left—the chissel [Page 31] drops from my hand, the marble block is no longer moulded into flesh, my taste has no em­ployment, and my heart is breaking.

How do you account for his absence?

Tired with my haughty coldness, he has forsaken me. I die with jealousy and self-reproach. He has found an object more amia­ble and more tender. I knew he loved me, and I gloried in my conquest.—

O, Asgill! thou art revenged!

What hearts we possess! Always too cold, or too feeling. My dear Horatia, stonify your's a little. As you give spirit to marble, transfuse the marble to your heart. See, here is your little Welch friend.

O! Lady Horatia! I am so re­joiced! Bless me! you are weeping—what has happened?

A favourite goldfinch has happened to die, my dear.

And last night I lost a Canary bird. I am sure I cried for half an hour. Give me your goldfinch, and we will bury them to­gether. O, dear! and you shall copy them in marble; that will be a sweet task for you.

You know what I have hurried here for?

[Page 32]

No.

No! Why did not you tell me you wanted to give my form to the statue of Andromache—Andromache mourning for her husband; that you have just began to chip out there, you know.

I did so; but I am out of spirits to-day.

O! I will not be disappointed. Your favourite work will put you in spirits. I have brought a dress for the purpose; Hum­phrey, bring it in.

I shall be sadly mortified if you send me away.

Come, sit down, Lady Ho­ratia, it will amuse you.

Yes, do; and 'tis very fortunate that I lost my Canary bird. I'll think of that, and then I shall look sad enough for Hector's widow.

Pho! you little chit! Well, stand on the pedestal, and lean on the broken column now, with proper pensiveness and grace.

Yes, I will be exactly the thing.

O! my poor Ca­nary bird!

Ha, ha, ha! Come, let us place your drapery in statue like order.

Now, keep steady, and think of your Canary bird.

Mr. Conway.

Who?

Mr. Conway.

Dear! Mr. Conway.

Some Gentlemen are with him, and they wish to see the school.

Dear Lady Charlotte, receive them, then—I cannot—I cannot indeed!

Gracious! now I think of it, I have a great mind to run up again; I will, I declare, and see what Mr. Conway says to me as a statue.

A statue—why, surely, you do not expect to impose on him?

O yes, I do—I am sure he will not find me out

Now, dear Lady Char­lotte, just place my veil a little on this side. O! make haste—make haste—I hear them coming.

I must gra­tify you. What a giddy thing you are!

Lady Charlotte, you have heard of Mr. Tippy?

Ah, ah, what, this is the place! don't mind me, Ma'am; don't mind me, I am used to run about this town, and correct its follies; 'tis a damn'd good town, that is certain; one [Page 34] always finds subjects for ridicule! well, what the devil am I to see?

Look around.

I, just warm from the School of Florence; I who have trod the Roman Way; have seen the Baths of Trajan, and the Dog Kennels of Nero, I look at the works of an English artist. Ha, ha, ha!

Heavens! it is—it is she! ah! how well do you represent yourself: for you are yourself all marble; at least your heart is so. Yes, flinty-hearted charmer! you are ever cold and insensate. O! I could stand and gaze my life away, like Pygmalion, had I, like him, the power to warm my statue into love! what, will you not bless me with one glance. Ah, you act your part too well.

Here is an arm; faith, it would make a very good leg; and this fine Grecian lady is like a Kentish hop-picker!

Critic! come hither; come this way; here is a new subject—has not this the true Grecian character?

What is this? is this Lady Horatia's chissel?

No—it is by a greater artist.

An English one, I'll be sworn

Grecian indeed! a mere block-chipper!

Is it ill proportioned?

Pshaw! nonsense! talk of proportions to scale makers and carpenters; the thought is mechanical! a mere wax doll! where are the inflexions? a human figure made on this prin­ciple, could never move. Now I will convince [Page 35] you—nothing like conviction; observe the muscle of this foot!

O! do not touch me

There, Sir, you see I can move; and I can dance

What, Mr. Tippy! the breath­ing form of beauty a wax doll! the work of a block chipper! ha, ha, ha.

Why, Tippy, how is this? is it the First of April to-day?

Accept my smelling bottle; you seem ready to sink.

Who! I am done up as a connoisseur.

Mr. Tippy! Critic! Mr. Tippy!

Ha, ha, ha! done up indeed; they pursue him as small birds do a hawk. Angel!

Why, you were the person whom I wanted to make a fool of—pray follow him.

How is it possible for me to quit the spot where you—

I declare, Mr. Conway, I will not hear you; I have told you so twenty times. And as to your kneeling, one finds such things in novels; but no man who really loves, thinks of such fooleries.

How do you know that?

I am sure of it; there was a young man who came down to Glamorganshire from College, and almost broke his heart about me! and he never knelt once.

[Page 36]

O, roses and carnations!

then—did—how—how, I say, were you sure that he loved you?

How! O, I was sure of it.

Was he always telling you so?

He never told me so once. He used to run away from me; and, at last, he had a fever, and in his ravings, he talk'd of no one but me.

Who told you so?

His sister told me so!

And did you not pity him?

Yes, I pitied him, because I could not love him.

O, that saves my life.

And where is he now?

I don't know; but I have heard he is recovered, and makes a very great figure somewhere. They always get over it.

But if you should not love me, I should die.

Love! I wou'd not love for all the world. Miss Gwatkin was in love once, and she grew as pale as horse-radish. Foolish creature, if she had kept her colour, perhaps the Gentleman would have liked her.

O! let me teach you to love; I see you are yet as ignorant of it, as—

As that fine Mr. Tippy was of sculpture, ha, ha! teach me to love; what, teach me to be wretched, to weep, to be sleep­less, to lose my bloom. O! if I ever thought it possible that I could love you, I should hate you beyond all bearing—I would fly from you, and never see you more.

[Page 37]

She flies! O happy omen! let her but dread me, and I have advanced one step; if she fears to love me, the business is half com­pleated.

SCENE— A Counting-House.

Has not my Nephew been here yet?

He was here last night, Sir—I took care that he saw no one but me, and he went away in such distress, that my heart ach'd for him.

Dear lad!

Here he comes—here he comes—

O! how shall. I speak to him? I have given myself a task that I can hardly bear.

My dear boy!

O! Sir, what shall I say to you—words cannot utter—

Come, come, hope the best— perhaps matters may not turn out so badly.

Yes, I will hope and pray for you. But in the mean time

my dear Sir, I am ashamed, I blush at such an offering. But it is my all—

What, what is it you mean?

You know I have by inheritance a little land; it is but one hundred pounds a year —O! that it were thousands. In this paper, [Page 38] Sir, it is made over to you

And now

O! my father!

O! stop, stop—my dear Sidney, stop!

He has rushed into the street like a flash. Let him go, Sir. Such a moment as this does good to the heart of man. He will be better for this affliction as long as he lives.

But does he not deserve all my love; all my anxiety; all my care?

He does—he does—

This Lady Horatia, whom I am told of, must be an angel if she deserves him. I wonder now, Perkins, what effect the news of his poverty will have upon her. I have a good mind to wait upon her myself, to see how she takes it.

Will you, Sir?

I have no great opinion of these fine ladies. She may be good for something; but in general, I believe, you may take them by the bushel; there is not much choice.

Then will you go yourself, Sir Simon?

Yes, I think I will go; and if I find her worthy my SIDNEY—O! but she can­not be worthy! birth, and beauty and riches are all fine things; but when put into the scale against such innate goodness; such an upright mind; such rectitude of character, it is weighing jewels against dross!

SCENE I.—FANCOURT's.

Affected pleasantry, Mr. Fan­court, is the poor refuge of an uneasy heart. The conversation which has passed in the next room with Mr. Tippy, I have heard; and I fear you have an action in contemplation which will hereafter give you remorse.

Remorse, ha, ha, ha!

Pray do not think that every thing is to be carried off with a laugh.

Not carried off with a laugh! Let me tell you, my, dear, that as long as you can get the world to laugh with you, you may carry any point you please. Only make wickedness pleasant, and they'll heartily forgive you.

But, Sir, remorse of heart— Do you never feel that?

Oh, exceedingly. Yes, I feel re­morse very much, when in any of my—little —odd—excentricities, which you, in your vulgar dialect, call wickednesses, I cannot get the laugh on my side.

What, then, do the world really laugh at wickednesses?

O! yes, always, my dear, always— when they do not suffer by it. A man will be [Page 40] horridly mad if I cheat him of a thousand pounds; but if I swindle his neighbour out of it, he laughs, and says, ‘That Fancourt is a sad, wicked fellow, but he's clever; hang the dog, tho' he does deserve the gallows, I like him after all.’

Monstrous!

If one seduces any one's wife, the injured husband rages, but his friend simpers; and when he meets the aggressor he takes him under the arm, and says, "Come, tell us the story."

O flagitious! Well, Sir, and a daughter?

A daughter! O! what—what you heard Tippy just now, did you? You heard what was said about Sir Robert Floyer's daughter?

I did.

Well, then, my dear, keep silence; for if you do not, I will slit that pretty tongue of your's, and make it chatter double, like a starling's.

Oh, horrible! I cannot con­tain myself! Here is a plot laid for the bitter anguish of a father, for the ruin of a child!

I will—that dress—yes, that dress of the Savoyard—I still have it—and in that—

Hark ye, woman, lest you should mistake the good humour I have shewn, I tell you, that if you dare to utter—to whisper with the slightest breath, what your impertinent cu­riosity [Page 41] has put you in possession of, every mi­sery that I can inflict awaits you! I have a dagger

not for your body, but for your mind. I have something that shall pierce your spirit, through, and through!

I tremble at your threats— yet I cannot forbear to bid you remember, that the young woman, whose fortune and peace you design to ruin, is the daughter of the man who, touched by your distresses, sent you yesterday noble relief.

Yesterday is past, and a thousand to-morrows are to come; I must provide for them; my opportunities are few, and my wants are pressing!

Now, Mr. Fancourt, what say you—is POVERTY the nurse of virtue?

Woman! I cannot argue—Re­member!

O! how has necessity hardened his heart! Yes, poverty, thou hast a thousand ills besides thy nakedness and want! But this young creature shall not be its victim. I must try to save her—I feel it a duty, and will not be deterr'd.

SCENE II.— The Room of statues, at Lady HO­RATIA's.

Yes, tell your lady, Sir Simon As­gill from the city

Why, what an odd place this [Page 42] is! Your servant, Madam

Why, you look as melancholy as the wife of a lame duck just waddled home from the Alley. O! here comes the lady herself.

Lady Horatia Horton, I am your most obe­dient servant.

Sir, I am—

I Lady Horatia—ha, ha, ha!

I wonder who he is.

Madam, I wait on you on a me­lancholy occasion.

I'll keep it up. Then, Sir, I wish you had staid away. I hate melancholy. Sir, this is my birth-day. I am this day eighteen years of age, and I will not be made melancholy.

Eighteen years; my nephew is ten years older. A happy age, Madam; the union of youth and manhood! Were I a lady I would never take a boy to guide me through life. Eight and twenty is the age, and that is the age of my nephew.

Ha, ha, ha! And pray, Sir, ha, ha, ha! Now pray, Sir, who is your nephew?

How flippant she is! My nephew, Madam—Gad, I don't much like her

My nephew is that unfortunate young man, who has been so long in love with you— Sidney Asgill.

So—I shall have some of Lady Horatia's secrets presently. How I will teize her about Sidney Asgill.

[Page 43]

I understand he has possessed your good opinion.

Yes, I admire him exceedingly— I never saw him in my life

Then, Madam, it must give you pain to know that he is undone. I am his uncle, on whom he depends; but the misfortunes of trade—In short, Madam, if you will be so ge­nerous on account of his great merit as to marry him, you will marry a beggar.

I marry a beggar on account of his great merit—Law, Sir! ha, ha, ha!

Consider, Madam, how he loves you.

What signifies his love—a beggar! I am sure if my papa shou'd—O, dear! I for­get—I am Lady Horatia

I did not know you had a father.

Yes, Sir, I have a father, and a dear father; and if I should—Pho! I blunder again

Well, that's not to the point. You say, Madam, you will not marry my ne­phew, because he's a beggar. You will not marry Sidney Asgill, though he is dying for you.

Certainly I will not.

I am safe in saying that, for I am sure Lady Horatia will not marry a beggar.

I desire I may hear no more of your nephew, Sir; a frightful, ugly, disagreeable, odd tempered mortal! I can't abide him.

Then, Madam, as it wou'd not be civil to correct you, I have a great mind to lay my stick about your ridiculous mummery [Page 44] here!

You say you will not marry my Nephew?

I do say I will not, Sir,

I never will! The winter shall scorch first, and the summer freeze.

Then by—you shall not, hang me if you do! I will look amongst the girls in the City. We have as much beauty, more money, and more goodness east of Temple Bar, than can be found in all the squares west of it. So, Madam, I leave you, I leave you to your follies

Refuse my Nephew! I am glad of it; I am glad of it! he shall have a City girl! I have one in my eye, ten times as handsome as you are—old Simon says so!

Then let him have a City girl, old Simon! ha, ha, ha! law, what a fury he went off in!

O! Lady Horatia, I have been so diverted— ha, ha, ha!

What has so amused you, my dear?

Yes, yes, I know all about Sidney Asgill—O! how fly you were, ha, ha, ha!

You amaze me; where is Sir Simon?

O! here has been the queerest old Cit! storming and raving because I would not marry his Nephew.

What can this mean?

He took me for you; and he came to tell you that his Nephew was a beggar, and [Page 45] that he was dying for you, and I know not what stuff.

Is Mr. Asgill dying?

Do not look so frightened. For love of you—no otherwise dying; but he'll get over it; they always do.

And does he say Sidney is a beggar?

O! yes, he repeated that, as though it was a recommendation. You cannot think what a passion he went away in; for I vowed nothing on earth shou'd make me marry a beggar; and he took me all the while for you, ha, ha, ha!

O! I had forgot; the best of all is, he swears his Nephew shall marry a City beauty, with a great, large, clumsy City fortune.

Marry! marry!

I shou'd like to see the bride. He declares she is twenty times as handsome as I am —I mean, as you are.

O! you know not what you have done!

And she is very handsome? cruel Georgina! and I shall appear to Sidney Asgill, mean, sordid, detesta­ble! he is in poverty, and will think that I despise him! he—you have undone me! and beautiful too—beautiful and rich—O! I am lost!

Why, what can the matter be? I certainly have done something wrong. But to be sure she will not marry a beggar; and yet I don't know—perhaps she may; one hears for ever of the whims of fine ladies, who sit and contrive what odd thing they shall do, to sur­prize the town with next.

SCENE III.— A Drawing Room at SIR ROBERT's.

Such an impudent, insolent clown as you are; you to pretend for to talk; you! one who never learnt his horn-book.

Better never larn a horn-book, than such books as you have learnt to read, you trumpery! I tell you, I doant like your goings on, and I'll tell master. You are always filling Miss's head with stuff; and I doant like many things as I do see.

You see! you don't know what you see.

Doant I? yes, I do, and what I hear too. I yeard a fine tale of you in Wales— yes, yes, it is not for nothing that you are drawn forth in your silk gowns, and all this fine rufflety-tufflety; and going half naked, as though you were a lady of fashion. D'ye remember the Coptain who used to come on pretence of admiring the old tattered velvet furniture, that came out of my master's great grandfather's castle, three hundred years ago?—

Heyday!

Quarrelling about my tattered velvet furniture! I am proud of those rags: the rags of a man's ancestry ought to be dear to him. I would [Page 47] give fifty acres for the rags of the old doublet of that ancestor of mine, who came over with the Ambassador of King Priam.

I am sorry you interrupted them; I like those children of nature; I am fond of natural characters; no disguise—all open ho­nesty—what their hearts prompt, their tongues utter.

True, Sir, true: I am glad you like plainness; and therefore tell you, Mr. Fancourt, that the draft I promised you for my Lord Beechgrove, I have altered my mind about.

Sir!

All that affair about Mr. Snapper was very pleasant to be sure; but I have met with a thing that has stagger'd me a good deal.

The devil! staggered, Sir?

Yes, Sir; I do not understand a man's wanting favours, and then treating those ill who would do them service.

My very heart shrivels like scorch­ed parchment

Treat you ill, Sir! who has dared to accuse me of treating you ill, Sir Robert? I defy the man; I defy the human being. Whu! I wish I was out of the house

Dear, Mr. Fancourt, I have not the least suspicion that you wou'd use me ill. I believe it to be impossible. No, Sir, it is my Lord Beechgrove of whom I complain. Why, Sir, do you know I met him in the Park, and he would not speak to me! would scarcely return my bow! tho' an hour before [Page 48] he invited me to visit him, as you know. Bless me! what's the matter, Mr. Fancourt.

O! Sir Robert, I am seized with a vertigo, which is sometimes very troublesome

If I had a glass of hartshorn and water—

Here—Thomas—Humphrey— I'll go myself.

Ha, ha, ha! he has seen the real Lord Beechgrove. O! my back cracks like an old wainscot. The thousand is gone like last year's moonshire, if I can't—

O! you devil, out of the house!

What has happen'd?

What has happen'd! why old Taffy has seen—out of the house—do not stay to ask questions; he has seen your polygraph— out—out—here he comes!

O! this will be too much for me, I fear, at last. Sir Robert you are very good

O! bless me every spring and fail! I am better now. You were pleased to say something, Sir, about my friend, Lord Beechgrove. O! I re­member now—he met you, and did not re­collect you.

That was very odd tho'! and I said—says I— ‘My Lord, the thousand pounds which Mr. Fancourt spoke to me of—’

[Page 49]

Did you—did you?

Well, Sir Robert, and what said my Lord?

Never a word—never a word. Stared as though I had been a new caught monster. I had not changed my dress, though he had changed his. The difference of dress made me almost think once, that I might be mistaken; but on looking again, I was sure of my man.

Aye—pray what was his dress, Sir?

Regimentals.

Regimentals? a hint!

O! he had his regimentals on—aye—he is a Colonel in the Guards. Rather odd not speaking, I confess; but a man, whose head is stuff'd with the business of all Europe, must be forgiven if a slight acquaintance slips out of it.

Why, I can make allowances, Mr. Fancourt; I remember myself, when I was High Sheriff for the county, I once passed an acqaintance, but I made him an apology; and, Sir, I shall expect an apology from my Lord, for not returning my bow, before I ad­vance the thousand pounds. A thousand pounds is money, Mr. Fancourt.

It is—it is, Sir, and the man who will not make a bow for a thousand pounds, ought never to possess a thousand pence

I will go, Sir, and bring his Lordship here

He dines to-day at the Dutchess's in his own square; but I'll engage to bring him away in spite of wit, and beauty, and cham­paigne. [Page 50] I'll be a match for thee yet, old Taffy!

I wish my Lord wou'd invite me to dine at a Dutchess's. I never did dine with a Dutchess. It must be very delightful! I should go back to Glamorganshire, and be able to amuse my neighbours with all her Grace's bons mots, and repeat her Grace's toasts; I would hold my ass-skin slily under the table, and pencil down her good things. 'Tis all the fashion now. Many a man gets a dinner by being known to write down the wit of his host or hostess; tho', after long watching, he frequently brings away empty tablets.

Aye, Miss, you may laugh, but for my part, I doesn't see any thing in your ala­blaster statutes—all of one colour, like a duck's egg. Give me a fine large picture, with robes of red, and blue, and rich damask car­tains.

Your taste is excellent!

But if you talk of statuary, go to Mrs. Silvertip's.

Who is she?

Why, a lady who makes the finest statutes in the world, all in wax. There are generals,— and sailors — and princesses — and dukes—and old women, more natural than life. Now if I can raise her curiosity to go there, Jack's business is done

[Page 51]

Dear Jenny, how can I see them?

Why, by going to her Exhibition on Fish-street-hill.

Fish-street-hill—where is that?

Hang me if I know

O! Miss, every body knows where that is. 'Tis just by Grosvenor Square.

I wonder if she wou'd teach me her art?

Yes, to be sure she wou'd. All arts are to be learnt by those who have money, ex­cept the art of being happy.

Then the first use I would make of it, should be to imitate the features of Mr. Conway in wax. I then shou'd be able to look at him without blushing, and even talk to him without his being a bit the wiser.

Mr. Conway, indeed!

O dear! yes I will, I will learn the art. I know his countenance so well, that I shou'd be able to copy it without ever seeing him more. And yet there is one look, which no art can imitate!

Devil take him!

Well, Miss, I'll carry you there to-morrow. But Sir Robert must not know it.

O not for the world! I will go— I will go—I will go.

Yes, so you shall; but Mr. Conway shall never be the better for it. You have a large fortune, my dear, and are handsome; my brother is handsome, and has no fortune—the best reason for to bring you together.

Where is my daughter?

Just gone to her dressing-room, Sir.

Then I'll go and hear her on the harp a little. She has a sweet finger; aye— and she is a sweet girl; but my heart has a thou­sand aches about her, and dearly as I love her, I am ready sometimes to exclaim with the old song, ‘"I wonder any man alive, would ever have a daughter."’

O! you old— if you'd had wit enough for to have put a proper value on my charms, I would have taken every care about your daughter off your hands;—but I'll be re­venged for all your tricks! here I have been spending anxious days, and sleepless nights, for two years;—making up the smartest caps of wash'd gauze and dyed ribbons;—buying new braids of hair, of a nice nut brown—and all without being able to touch the old goose, any more than if his heart was made of leather. But I'll match you! since you will not make me your wife, I'll give your daughter a husband; and if you should die of the mortification, I know where to find a place to dance on.

SCENE IV.—ASGILL 's Lodgings.

O! 'tis in vain! never, Conway, will I sue for compassion from a proud beauty, who [Page 53] treated me with haughtiness, even when she believed me heir to prosperity.

Pride and loveliness ought to go together. I dislike the vulgar railing against the haughtiness of conscious beauty. She, who over values herself, will never sink too low; and the lady of whom we speak, perhaps loves you.

For that very reason, I will not again appear before her. I am too proud to raise a conflict in her bosom between her pride, and her tenderness, and to owe at length, perhaps, to her compassion, the acceptance to which her love would never have acceded.

You are very nice. If my heart were not pre-occupied, and so fine a woman had an inclination to make me master of herself and for­tune, I would not quarrel with her about the motive; I wou'd thank the pretty creature, and give her all the love I could.

Yes; but you are a man of fortune. By this time, I suppose, people begin to talk of my distress'd state.

I have heard it mentioned.

What has been said?

A lady observed, that it was pity a man so handsome shou'd be sunk so low; and her husband said he was sorry, because you were such a good kind of young man.

Good kind of young man! I am sorry I have incurr'd such an ap­probation.

No, no, do not imagine

that I wish for the re­putation of a bad heart. But the term, " Good kind of young man," in our days, is so [Page 54] applied, that I desire not to be honoured with it. An idle fellow, who hangs loose on so­ciety, without merit or avocation, or one who corrupts the sister of his friend, or runs away with his daughter, or does all those things which mankind ought to execrate, is said, in excuse, to be a good kind of young man. In short, good kind of young man, in the pre­sent acceptance, may very fairly be translated scoundrel.

Sir, here is the person you ordered from Tower-hill. Slopseller, I think he calls himself.

Slopseller! How do you translate that? Apothecary, I suppose?

Ha, ha, ha! No, I assure you. A Tower-hill slopseller does not deal in emulsions and syrups, he—but you must excuse my telling you what he deals in.

My dear Conway, adieu! Often think of me, and speak of me as I deserve; but be sure you never suffer people to call me a good kind of young man.

Asgill, though there is some plea­santry in your manner, there is also a seriousness which shocks me. What are you going to do?

What I ought to do. What, do you imagine I intend to stay at home, to parade Bond-street, and make the circle of Picca­dilly, Saint James's-street, and Pall-mall? No, no, my burning brain cannot be cooled by such expedients; 'tis only the powerful voice of my country can regulate its distraction—Ask no questions—my resolution is fixed—Farewell!

[Page 55]

What! and is the frenzy of your brain regulated by the hope of serving your country? Do all your private woes sink be­fore that powerful principle! O! glorious effect of patriotic love! Every selfish feeling vanishes—to tear myself from you becomes a DUTY. I go—despise not this weakness—I venerate, I pity you!

Friend of my heart! He goes in tears! Oh! the drops which manly friendship forces from the eye, are more precious than those collected in the groves of rich Arabia— They sink into my heart—they cherish it!— Now come in, Sir.

Have you brought what I ordered?

Yes; here are the things, Sir.

This, then, is the complete dress of an English sailor?

Complete!

O! the sight of it warms my heart! In this dress what heroes have bled—what gal­lant acts have been atchieved! Those who have worn it, have given England all her glory—have given her the boundless empire of the ocean.

Ay, Sir, it was your Raleighs, and your Drakes, and your Boscawens who did all that.

O! whilst our grateful retrospection twines laurels around the heroes of departed days, let us not forget what is due to those of our own! Let us look with gratitude towards a HOWE, and hang, with tributary tears, over [Page 56] the names of MONTAGUE, HARVEY, and HUTT!

Ah! the three last are gone.

But some remain. There only wants occasion, and other Montagues, and other Harveys will start out like meteors, and glide along the British sky, blazing in glory!

Gad! he's a fine fellow, and will make a noble sailor; but our fleets, thank heaven, are full of such.

There are still two bills unpaid—go and discharge them. That purse contains suffi­cient.

Now, all my debts paid, and a few guineas in my pocket, I quit my country; but I quit her, to serve her! O! may the boundless bles­sings of heaven descend upon her; may my arm contribute to restore peace to her; and may GLORY and MONARCHY be hers, till time shall be no more!

SCENE I.— Lady HORATIA's Drawing-room.

Yes—order the horses in­stantly—and yet —no—I shall not want them— Go to his uncle in the city! How strange that will be! But can I hesitate on decorums, when EXISTENCE is at stake? Can I suffer Sidney Asgill to believe that Georgina's fooleries are my sentiments? Can I suffer another to have the transport of lifting him from poverty, whilst I am despised! The thought breaks my heart-strings! Ah! Mr. Conway!

I flew the moment I received your commands.

My commands! Sir, I only sent to ask—it was only with an intention to —

Speak, Lady Horatia.

Do me the honour to repose confidence in me.

Yes, Sir, I believe I can— I believe I ought—but shame weighs down my very soul. In one moment what will you think of me?

What I have always thought, that you are one of the first of your sex.

[Page 58]

I must speak, for the conflict is too great for me to endure. You are the friend of Asgill—the friend of his youth—the chosen of his heart.

— Permit me to then to ask, even though your an­swer shou'd be a breach of confidence, did you ever hear him mention any other lady as one —as one—with whom he wished to unite his fate?

O never! You are the object of his adoration.

Then find him out—pursue him! What have I said? My soul shrinks at the sound of the words I have uttered.

Would my Asgill's ears could have received them! Go on, Madam.

Go on! Alas! need I add an­other sentence! You see that—humble me not too far—I am proud—Had Asgill con­tinued the heir of splendid possessions, perhaps my pride and coldness would never have abated; but he is poor; he is undone!

Peerless woman!

My fortune is his—my heart —my soul!

O! suffer me to kneel for him! For him I thank you, adorable, transcendent woman!

I feel your kindness in endea­vouring to abate my confusion. The step I have taken I shou'd yesterday have thought less easy than to die. Permit me to leave you, nor dare to think

that, be­cause my passion is strong, my conduct shall be [Page 59] weak! My reputation is in your hands— preserve it as you wou'd your own life and ho­nour.

I accept the glorious deposit, and I will deserve the trust. What grace can dig­nity of soul bestow! The very conduct which from a vulgar mind would disgust, from such elegance and virtue becomes fascinating. Now, Asgill, I will dare to seek thee; and I will pour such transport on thy heart, as shall make thee confess, the hour of thy poverty the most blessed of thy life.

SCENE II— Sir ROBERT FLOYER's Library.

Bring up his lordship and Mr. Fancourt directly—fly down—never keep a lord in waiting.

No, I won't receive his lordship sitting

that will look like want of respect. I will be standing. No—that will not be the thing neither; for then I shall have no opportu­nity to shew my veneration, by rising at his entrance. No—I must sit, and—Yes, there I've hit it—I'll be reading—deeply employed in reading. Then, when the great man enters, start up, and dash away the book. Let me see—it shall be a large book. I'll get up and reach one down.

—Chambers's Dic­tionary—that will do.

"The Fall of the Roman Empire." Bless me—my lord!

O, dear! I am quite confounded. My lord, I beg your lordship's pardon a million of times. Mr. Fancourt—O, my knee!

Reach his lordship a chair. A most untoward ac­cident, my lord; but pray accept it as an omen. You found me sprawling at your feet—it shews how devoted I am to your service.

Sir Robert, I have often heard of the politeness of the Welch gentlemen, and you really confirm all that has been said. The year in which you were sheriff, Sir Robert, was such a year of splendour and magnificence, as Gla­morganshire will long remember. We heard a vast deal of it at Saint James's; it amused the Royal Circle for a month.

Why, my lord, I did my best on that occasion. When I was high sheriff for the county, I neither spared myself or my purse. A hanging in the morning, and an as­sembly at night; giving the judges a dinner to-day, and to-morrow consulting Jack Ketch about a new gallows. Such a variety of busi­ness, my lord, demands a man's whole atten­tion.

Certainly, certainly. A little thing happened this morning, Sir Robert, which has given me pain. You addressed me in the Park, I really was, at that moment, throwing over in my mind the compact between Russia and Po­land. In short, I had almost determined to go to Saint Petersburgh, ambassador myself; for I think one or two points might be revised. At that very moment, Sir Robert, just as I was [Page 61] delivering my credentials to the Empress, and receiving one of those delicious smiles, which—

You will go too far.

I say, just then, Sir Robert, you ad­dressed me.

No wonder, my lord, that you overlooked me; I am ashamed to have made a complaint of such a trifle.

Pray, my lord, examine Sir Ro­bert's shelves; you will find them well stocked.

All dead stock, my lord; heavy dead stock.

Pardon me, Sir, pardon me! Such stock is never dead. You have here in calf's-skin and sheep's-skin, the very souls of the au­thors. Well chosen, I dare say.

Why, my lord, as to the choice, I left that to my broker. He furnished the whole house, from the kitchen to the garret; the pots and the poets; the frying-pans and the philoso­phers were all of his choosing.

Now, Sir Robert, if you would do the thing genteely, write the draft without his observing it, and I'll present it to him after we have left the house. Great men must not have services tendered them coarsely.

I understand you; there is a nice way of doing things. Pray, my lord, amuse yourself with a folio or two. A certain deli­cate—it shall be so.

"The debates of Leadenhall-street." Pleasant reading—light— pretty reading in a heavy morning!

Leadenhall-street—A thought strikes me.

[Page 62]

Then strike again.

I say, my lord, as Sir Robert is a liberal man, and fond of patronage, suppose you give him, by way of outset, a place at the Board of Controul for Indian affairs, just till a better thing offers.

The thought was too obvious to be missed—exactly suits his discernment and spirit.

The na­bobs

—the begums

—mus­lins, alaballas, mul-muls, and nansooks

Nankeen china

Patna rice

O, my lord! my lord!

Not a word—mum!

Faith, I had better go about it di­rectly—no time to be lost—let us finish the bu­siness at once.

Sir Robert, your servant.

Sir Robert, your servant.

"Sir Robert, your servant"—mighty short! Well, but they're in a hurry to serve me—a little rudeness, when it proceeds from kindness, may be par­doned.

O! dear papa, there is a woman in the square with some odd music; I am going to the bow-window to hear her.

[Page 63]

Get along, madcap!

be­gums, nabobs, Patna rice—Sir Robert, your servant—mighty short!

SCENE III.— The square.

This is the house; here will I place myself—fortunately I may attract the lovely victim.

Make von curtesy to de lady, you lit impudent ting.

Do not chide her. Where did you come from?

[Page 64]

From von great vay off; I live among de mountains, and I be come to make please de prit lady of dis country.

Take up l'argent, ma petite, and put it in votre poche—Bless your charité. Lady, I can tell de fortune by looking at de vite hand.

Can you? O! dear Jenny, let us have her up.

Laws, Miss, don't let such creatures come in; they may steal something; there's a wicked look in her eyes; I understand eyes as well as she does hands.

Dat prit young voman's by your side, lady, be born to von great luck— she vill ave de grande offer.

Well, Miss, if you will have her in— I'll go and open the door.

Thus far I am successful. O! horrid! that such youth and goodness should be­come the prey of two villains! Ah! the door opens.

Come, come—make haste.

SCENE— Changes to the Drawing-room.

Come, let me look at your prit vite hand.

Ah, I see—I see— But I ave not de power to tell de fortune before any von—dat gentle—sweet temper young vo­mans must go.

[Page 65]

Go, Jenny, d'ye hear? Leave the room; go directly.

I shou'd not have thought of that foreign woman's impudence, to have me sent out of the room—I don't like her—I'll listen, I am determined.

Now, Miss, me vill tell you —you be born to be ver happy, if you be ver good.

Dear! Do you think I am not good?

Bau! Bau! dere be von— two vicked mens, who ave de vicked design upon you—Il faut, you must not see gentle­mens, but in de presence of your papa. Your papa be your bon friend.

I never heard any thing so ridi­culous. Never see gentlemen, but in my papa's presence. O! you are a fine fortune-teller! Good-day

Madam, if you would not be lost beyond redemption, observe what I have said. Two villains have laid such a train—

Amazing! Why, you now speak good English.

Hah! I had forgot; but when the heart feels it is hard to dissemble. You have detected me. Charming young wo­man, slight not the cautions which I wear this disguise to give! Surely they must have weight with you, when I tell you, that it is perhaps at the hazard of my life, that I appear before you.

You freeze me!

Treat not lightly then the advice of one, who runs such risks to press it [Page 66] upon you—I know not exactly what is designed —I have awakened your caution, and my duty is compleat.

Get out of the house, you impostor—you deceiving jezabel. If you do not go this minute, I will order the footman to sweep you out.

Young lady think upon my words.

Think upon her words—a vagabond! did you ever see such assurance, Miss? I have a great mind to beat her hurdy-gurdy about her ears.

Be silent! what I have heard shall sink into my heart. I will be circumspect

Here's a pretty kettle of fish! who can that vile woman be? Jack has let somebody into our secret, who has betrayed us. What labour it will cost me to throw her off her guard! but I'll try

Yes, yes; this letter will bring Jack. Hang me, if I don't believe I have spelt disguise wrong. Well, no matter—the mean­ing is undisguised enough

Here Humphrey!

Humphrey!

Come, none of your flummery.

Nay, don't be cross—you know we have made it up—here, take this letter, and carry it to my brother Jack. Come now,

you know I am working you the [Page 67] corners of a new handkerchief, twenty times as pretty as this

Shall I have it by Friday, when I go to Bob's wedding?

You shall.

Well, give it me

The old place, I suppose.

Yes, yes, the old place

Hang the bell—go directly.

The wafer's wet, ha, ha, ha! now she thinks I can't read wroiting—help her sappy head! ha, ha, ha! I can read and wroite too, but that's a secret between me and my ownself

I would not break a seal for the world—for that I know would be a most unhonorable thing; but as to a chamber­maid's wet wafer—there—it opens like a boil'd oyster.

'Tis a dainty scrawl. The lines run as straight as the zig-zag of a screw.

‘"LovingBrother,"’—well that's koind— ‘"cum here to-morrow in your old disguise—I mean the (spelling) f—e—m—fem. ( looking earnestly) f—e, fe. M. by itself M."’ Yes, it is female— ‘"and call yourself, as before, Miss Sally Mar­tin."’ So, so! then that strapping wench that I have let in sometimes, is all the while her brother Jack.

‘"There's something in the wind—we must make short work—be sure you come— your affectionate sister, Jane."’

So Jack and Jane are a pretty pair; now, what can they be upon? that's nothing to I— I think I won't carry it—yes,

yes, I think I will—I [Page 68] will carry it—I will see Jack in petticoats once more.

SCENE V.— St. James's Park.

O! you are come

I have been waiting here these two hours. I began to fear that you were slippery —that you were upon your tricks.

What, with each other? O fye! never. I drove to the banker's and back as fast as the horses of a wretched hack could carry me. In my way I met a fellow in his chariot, who two years since borrowed money of me for shoes.

I never shall meet such a fellow, for I never lend—make a point of that. Come, give me the money—my moiety of the thou­sand pounds.

Directly—directly— ha! how d'ye do?

Here is the—

Ha! I saw you last night

a full concert. I shall be at the tennis-court presently

Rot the tennis-court! give me the notes.

The notes! well, there are the notes.

[Page 69]

Well, what are these?

What are they? why, the notes— your share of the thousand pounds procured by me this morning

Here are five notes, five and twenty pounds each.

What, can't you reckon? four notes, five and twenty pounds each, make one hundred—one hundred pounds, principal mo­ney. Dear Tippy, do not look so thunder­struck—you are very welcome. I confess I had some thoughts of making it fifty; but re­collecting our antient friendship, when I bought into the four per cents. with the rest, I re­served a whole hundred for you. Good day, Tippy.

Stay, Sir—stay you shall

Nay, my good fellow, do not make an uproar in the Park; because you know if you do, Tippy, I shall be under the necessity of relating some little anecdotes of you, which may end in a procession to Newgate.

So, you have bought nine hundred pounds stock?

I have.

And you are determined I shall touch but one.

Only one, Tippy.

Very well—very well.

Zounds! what wou'd the man have? an hundred pounds for only just walking into an old sprawling fellow's library —and—the devil!—he's here—I'm off!—

[Page 70]

Is he? he is—no, I'll not run—he's coming towards me—I'll not flinch. Now you shall see, Mr. Fancourt, what it is to use a brother rascal ill. Is not the world wide enough for our tricks, but we must cheat one another? I'll sacrifice myself rather than not be revenged.

Hah! there's his Lordship—he seems very busy—perhaps I had better pass on —no, I won't—surely, after such a favour— Hah! my Lord, your most obedient.

Well now I declare

My Lord, I say, your most obedient.

Pray, Sir, who are you?

I am astonished!

Who, I say, are you; who thus, twice have taken the freedom to address me in public?

Who am I? what, does not your Lordship know me now? O! perhaps the de­licious smiles of the Empress are in your Lord­ship's head again—perhaps the Polish treaty— perhaps—

Perhaps neither of these! I am engrossed by your impertinence. Who are you, Sir?

Who am I? why, the man who, two hours since, lent you a thousand pounds, principal money, to keep you from the gripe of the Jews.

[Page 71]

A thousand pounds. Eh, eh!

Lent me a thousand pounds! Sir,

I am full of concern for you—I see you have been imposed on. Sir, there is a fellow about this town so like me, that we might play the two Socias, or the two Dromios, or pass for two brown russetans grow­ing on the same twig. He resembles my per­son; he imitates my very dress—Sir, depend on it, he has also assumed my name, and has swindled you out of one thousand pounds, prin­cipal money.

Why, my Lord, I am thunder-struck. Then, what you said to me this morn­ing—I mean what he said, concerning the Be­gums, and the Nansooks—

Was all to cozen you, depend on't. You are cheated, I see clearly. Sorry for you —can't stay—clearly cheated, Sir, depend on't

My Lord—my Lord, grant me a moment—permit me to ask one question—do you know Mr. Fancourt?

Do I know Mr. Fancourt, Sir! there are a sort of people one may be said to know, because one meets them every where. But as to Mr. Fancourt, why, Sir, I would not keep a groom who was acquainted with such a —such a person.

Oh!

If you want to find his character, you will hear of it in Bow-street; if you want to find his lodgings, you must go to St. Giles's. Do I know Mr. Fancourt indeed!

Is it ground I stand upon? I am amazed—never were two men so alike on earth. [Page 72] The look—the voice—the dress—but can Fancourt be a villain? no, it is not possible; to me he cannot be a villain—yet—I know not what to conjecture.

No—his looks are innocent—it is not possible that he can be guilty.

How d'ye do, Knight? how d'ye do?

Yet I'll try him

Sir, I have seen a man who tells me you are a villain.

'Tis well he does not let me see him. But who is the man—who is he, Sir?

Lord Beechgrove—the real Lord Beechgrove, Sir.

Hell and ten thousand furies!

explain, Sir, explain! I really cannot possibly comprehend you.

He tells me, Sir, that the man you brought to me to-day, is an impostor, and that in concert with him, you have cheated me of a thousand pounds.

How, Sir, an impostor!

but I'll be cool—I'll be cool—where was you told of this—where, Sir?

On this very spot, Sir.

Hah! I begin to smoke— what, Lord Beechgrove has just left you then?

This moment—I found him here.

So, this is Tippy's damn'd re­venge!

ha, ha, ha! O what a—ha, ha, [Page 73] ha! what a droll dog! why, Sir, do you not know that my noble friend is the greatest joker in England? ha, ha, ha! I suppose he might tell you there was a man about town who re­sembled him?

He did—he did sure enough— he said they were as like as two drums.

Ay, ay, he plays those tricks con­tinually—he is inexhaustible as a joker. O! the rascal!

That's very odd in a Privy Coun­sellor.

It is by way of unbending, Sir— those great men must unbend. The lion must dandle the kid sometimes—the villain!

I could tell you such tales of him. Hah! here his Lordship comes.

You shall have the other four hundred

Ah, ah, Sir Robert—what, I frighten­ed you, did I?—I shan't trust you

Take it—here it is—the dog has been up to me this time

Really, my Lord, it was not right to play on Sir Robert's credulity. He could not know but that you might be in earnest. But I must particularly insist on one thing, my Lord, that you do not speak of my character in such terms, though in jest. The jest which laughs away a man's reputation, is deadly poison admi­nistered in honey.

Well, I won't—I won't. What do [Page 74] you think I told him, Fancourt? I told him you lived at St. Giles's, ha, ha, ha!

No!—did you?

He did indeed, ha, ha, ha! and that you were known in Bow-street, ha, ha, ha!

Ha, ha, ha!

Well, now I propose that we three jolly fellows, full of good humour, and lovers of fun, dash off to the Star and Garter—Cham­paigne and a song shall cheer our hearts, and set us above the cares of the world.

With all my heart. Rattle glasses with a Lord—h—m—m—

it will be as good as dining with a Dutchess.

Come along, my little fellow; I'll in­troduce you to three Lords, and a Duke.

Here then we go—jest, mirth and pleasure inspire us!

SCENE I.—TIPPY's Lodgings.

I'll take possession of his room myself, hang me if I don't!

here am I obliged to mend my gowns instead of buy­ing new ones, because my lodgers won't pay me

No, no, Mr. Tippy— I'll fit you! I spoke to my neighbour Holdfast, yesterday; no one ever got out of his clutches yet, if once Holdfast touch'd him on the shoulder

Bless me! how my teeth tor­ment me again

Betty! Betty—bring me a little brandy to hold in my mouth. I'll e'en go myself, she always brings such a drop!

Yes, yes—tell them so—

no, my artful sister, it won't do

‘Wear the same disguise, and come as Miss Sally Martin.’ That is not possible—my landlady's maid, who used to lend me that smart dress, is off. What the devil can I do? to go there as a man, after having just been there as Lord Beechgrove, would be kicking down the milk pail with a vengeance! and yet to lose that sweet girl and her sweet estate— well, I can't go—I cannot go to Sir Robert's, [Page 76] pos!

What's this? my landlady's gown? gad it is!

if it fits me, I'll borrow it to personate Miss Sally Martin

Hang me, but it does very well. She has often said, she would fit me, and now she has done it. And the smart bonnet too

Freeze me, but I look as well as my landlady. Who—who the devil is this?

HOLDFAST, the Bailiff? whu! I am in the jaws of the lion!

Well, Madam, is Mr. Tippy come home? I have been watching for him the whole day

I have been hunting him through every tavern, coffee-house, and gaming-house. I have been within three minutes of him, fifteen times. O! that I had but hold of his skirts!

Alack-a-day, Mrs. Bullrush, still plagued with your teeth?

Well, Madam, don't speak. If I once catch the young villain, we sha'n't part,

I have one room double grated, and if he slides out of that, it must be thro' the keyhole.

Very well—I understand you. I'll stay here till you come back, Mrs. Bullrush; yes—I will.

Poor creature! her teeth torment her like— what the dickens! why there's Mrs. Bullrush!

a trick! a trick!

no— yes—'tis all in white!

perhaps— [Page 77] Mrs. Bullrush—Mrs. Bullrush! oh!

SCENE II.—SIR SIMON ASGILL's Counting-Houses.—He is seated, looking melancholy and oppress'd.

Sir, Sir—I pray you, Sir, speak!

Perkins! I have carried it too far. My boy can no where be found. Why did I hit on such a plan? I ought to have known that the sensibility of his heart, and the noble­ness of his soul, could neither support seeing my distress, or living a useless member of society.

Sir, be comforted—it is not yet noon; perhaps the evening may bring us tidings.

A lady, Sir, desires to see you.

I can see no lady

She is particularly pressing, and re­quests to see you alone.

Who is she?

I have never seen her. Her ser­vants are in mourning

Shall I con­duct her to the drawing-room, Sir?

No—if I must see her, bring her in here. The counting-house of an English merchant is respectable enough for the reception [Page 78] of a prince;—I should not be ashamed to re­ceive my king in it.

Well, Perkins, you find the lady will have me alone—if I was in spirits to joke now, I could make myself merry at the fancy.

Well, Sir, I hope your spirits and your jokes will soon come back. Faith, she's a pretty lady

Your humble servant, Madam.

Pray sit down.

I thank you.

You seem faint, Madam.

No, Sir—no. In a moment I shall be better.

Not used, perhaps, to the bustle of driving thro' the City?

Not often. O! how shall I begin? my heart bursts with feeling, yet my tongue cannot give it utterance

Pray may I ask—what brought you here to-day?

To-day, Sir—I came to-day

on a business so important—that— I scarcely know how to mention it, Sir—but— you have a nephew

I hope so, Ma'am.

You have heard of Lady Ho­ratia Horton,

Heard of her—yes—I have heard of her!

[Page 79]

It is believ'd, Sir, that Mr. Asgill has some regard for her.

I hope not. My nephew, I be­lieve, knows better than to regard such a gill-flirt.

Gill-flirt! Lady Horatia Hor­ton, a gill-flirt.

Yes—the greatest gill-flirt I ever saw in my life.

Ah, he means Geor­gina, who saw him yesterday. I am so con­fused, I know not how to explain

My nephew in love with a stone-cutter!

Sir!

A hewer of marble! why he may as well live in a quarry.

Monstrous!

Her study is a work-shop—her drawing-room a mason's saw-yard.

Insupportable! can this be the uncle of Sidney Asgill?

There she chissels out wo­mens' faces with young serpents hanging in drop curls, by way of a new fashion'd tete.

Nay, I can bear it no longer! Sir, this more than gothic ignorance, is a disgrace to the age in which we live, and to your own situation. The head of the beautiful MEDUSA is amongst the wonders of the art. O! the more than martial skill, which could make BEAUTY horrible!

Hey! The dumb lady cured! what is she crazy?

At the same place you saw

the touching NIOBE, mourn­ing over her children;—the light ATALANTA flying from her lover—the graceful GANYMEDE caught up to Olympus for his beauty, did none of those strike ye? none of those awaken your adoration for the sublime art,—for SCULPTURE! whose long enduring beauties bid defiance to time, and laugh at ages!

"I am mad Bess, believe me."

Your coarseness, Sir, is hardly to be borne! how different from yours is the mind of your nephew! he has sat whole hours admiring those wonders of the art, and patiently watching the strokes of the chissel, which pre­sumed at distant imitation.

It is the first instance of his folly I ever heard. I thought Sidney had been a dif­ferent sort of a man.

I suppose you have been em­ploying your talents to the more exalted pur­poses of importing verdigrease, and blubber, and in making monopolies.

Monopolies! no, Madam, never! there is one monopoly, and only one, to which I give my assent;—may the posterity of English­men continue to monopolize this little island, as long as the sea fills its channel, or the winds blow upon its rocks! have you any commission for me, Madam?

Commission—Sir—I came— I intended—it was my design—no, Sir, I have no commission.

When you have, Madam, I shall be happy to see you again, but I really have not [Page 81] had time to read my letters, which I must beg to do directly. Order the lady's carriage.

Sir—I really feel myself so insulted that—perhaps, Sir—but no matter. Perhaps you are right—yes, Sir, you are very right

Perkins! come in Perkins!

why I was never so stunn'd in my life. Here's a woman comes on pretence to speak about my nephew, and then begins some gib­berish about sculpture,—and talks of Gany­mede, and Atalanta, and Olympus, and such vile trash as lads learn out of Ovid; books, that if I was a member of parliament, I'd bring in a bill to make it felony for any bookseller to vend.

It would do you more honor, Sir, than any canal bill, bill for roads, or any other improvement that was ever brought before the House.

Hah, Mr. Conway, what news— what news?

Alas! none, Sir. I have follow'd our poor Sidney by every possible clue that I could obtain; but he has pass'd away like a vapour— not a trace remains

O! fye—O! fye.

I suppose Lady Horatia Horton has been here to make enquiries.

Who?

[Page 82]

Lady Horatia Horton. She stept into her carriage as I came up to the gate— but she seem'd to be weeping, so I avoided her.

Bless me, Sir—there has been some mistake.

I don't know—I am all in a wood! why, was that lady in mourning, Lady Horatia Horton?

Assuredly.

Why 'tis quite a different person from her I saw, yesterday, at her house.

O yes, ha, ha—I have heard about that. The lady you saw was quite a different person.

Gad I hope I shall never have the luck to see her again.

Why, Sir?

I can't endure her.

Sir! not endure her? why, she is the most charming of her sex. That lady, Sir, has more sweetness of disposition, more playful innocence of heart, and more beauty than half the women in the world.

I hope I may form a different opi­nion, Mr. Conway.

No, Sir—no man shall form a dif­ferent opinion—or if he does, he must take care to conceal it in my presence.

I shall take no care, Sir. I will use the freedom of an Englishman to speak all I think of you, and of every man, and of every woman too. How dared she assume a character she was not?—how dared she say such things of my nephew to my face?

[Page 83]

Sir! whatever that lady says, I make myself answerable for.

O, Gentlemen, let me entreat you! —you will both be sorry—you have been both too warm.

I advise you to persuade Sir Simon that he has been so!—I shall expect his apology.

Why, what's in the wind to-day, Perkins! I affront every one who comes near me, without designing it, I am sure.

Your temper has been a little ruffled, Sir; you are sore about Mr. Asgill.

Sore indeed! and my heart will be sore soon, as well as my temper, if I do not hear of him, But about this Lady Horatia— 'tis very odd! what could bring her here? per­haps she came to tell me some news. I think I will go to her.

It would be best, Sir.

I certainly will—after change. But I hope I shall not see her marble mon­sters again—they'll put me out of sorts if I do. What a taste!

Dear Sir, any taste is better than no taste, and a lady who employs her thoughts and her chissel on works of art, is, at least, not idle; and, therefore, as Doctor Johnson says, not in the way of being wicked.

SCENE changes to SIR ROBERT's Drawing-Room.

Why, what a noddy have I been, to take this strapper always for a girl!

What is the oaf grinning at? do as I bid you—tell Mrs. Jenny her friend Miss Sally Martin is here.

Gad, I had a good run. I was hardly safe in the hack, before the bailiff and my landlady were in pursuit.

O! Jack, I am so—

Hush! come to the point. I am in danger every moment that I stay. What pro­gress have you made with your mistress! What is to be done?

Why what is to be done, is to get her any way into your power—once get her to your lodgings, and a marriage must follow.

Good!

I have prevail'd on her to go with me alone, to the famous wax-work. She knows not where it is, so I'll bring her in a hack to your lodgings; and then—mercy! here she comes—what shall we do?

Do!—upon my soul she's a sweet creature! I hope she won't detect the Con­noiseur, in petticoats.

Bless me, Jenny—who is this?

A— stranger Ma'am—a lady that. Did you not say, Madam, that you ran into the hall to avoid some gentlemen who were rude to you?

and then, Miss, that blunder­ing fellow, Humphrey, brought him up—I mean brought the lady up here.

Yes, Ma'am, he brought me up here. Really a modest woman can hardly walk the streets, men are so impertinent. One gentle­man seiz'd my hand; d—n you, Sir, says I— I mean I said, bless me, Sir, I beg you won't be rude.

A very odd lady, Jenny!

Curse the petticoats! Madam I scorn to impose on you—no, Madam, I have a soul above it—I am not a lady. I put on this dis­guise to procure admission here, that I might tell you how I adore you, Madam

my passion for you is so great, that if you do not look on me with pity—if you do not listen to me with compassion—

A lady at my daughter's feet!

some great favour sure she is asking. What did you shriek for?

Shriek, Sir—O, Sir, the poor lady —she was saying as how that she had a cruel husband—I never heard of such a villain! and she was deploring Miss to speak to you in the [Page 86] affair, for you know him. He seems a most sweet young fellow, Ma'am, it would be great pity to betray him!

The Savoyard! O, I remember all at this moment!

Do I know your husband, Ma'am! Pray do not wheel round in this manner— there's nothing shameful in having a bad hus­band—if there were, few married women would care to shew their faces.

O, Sir, I should die with confusion.

Pray, Madam, is the fault all your husband's?

O, entirely, Sir;—my behaviour to him is quite angelic.

I dare say your face is angelic, if one could but see it

Perhaps you live a little too gaily for him, poor man!

Not at all! I am a pattern of prudence —generally at home by four in the morning. Charming creature! pity my distress!

Pray Ma'am turn, and shew your­self to my Papa, and if you tell him the same affecting story you began to me—

Nay pray, Ma'am, do not betray him! how can you have the heart? he would die rather than do you an ill turn. Did you observe what teeth he has?

Sweet lady, speak! a design so pure, and eloquence so irresistable, will affect Sir Robert as it ought.

[Page 87]

Sweet lady turn round! gad, there's some fudge here—I am sure there is. Sir Robert take my advice—look in the lady's face.

Nay, Madam, 'tis in vain. I will see your bright eyes, or never —

A Thalastris, by Jupiter!

nay, I will have a peep, spite of your dexterity, Miss!

come, to the right about! by Heavens this must be a man— Sir Robert, I smell a rat

Zounds! what Tippy! I am a bit of a Marplot here. This comes of your entrusting your friends by halves

What it is a man, then! I thought it was the most robust damsel I had ever met with.

Get out of the house

You might well hide your face! get out, or I will make you shew it at the Old Bailey

Who is he?

Oh, a fellow who lives by his wits; one whose stock in trade is all in the pia mater.

How came he here in this disguise? where have you seen him? I insist on knowing the truth.

She seems sadly puzzled—the girl has been taught that 'tis a sin to tell lies.

Why don't you speak, Georgina? come be bold! your prompter I see is at your elbow.

[Page 88]

Pray speak, Miss. Say it is your staymaker.

Yes, I will speak. I assure you, Sir,

I never saw that person till now; but a circumstance which, I believe, must relate to him, has struck my recollection, and makes me shudder.

What is it, child?

Sir—I—yesterday, Sir, I had my fortune told.

Pho!

Nay, Sir, mine was no common fortune-teller; she was certainly a well-bred wo­man in disguise.

Why, what did she say to you?

She told me that two men—two most unprincipled monsters, had laid a plot for my destruction

Her disguise was that of a Savoyard, with music.

Whu!

I remember you ran through the library to go to listen to her.

Pray—pray, Madam, what sort of a person was this pretended Savoyard?

An agreeable little woman, with eyes full of intelligence, and manners full of good sense.

Yes, it was my devil, I see clearly.

This seeming lady is probably one of the two men I had notice of, who introduced himself here, to carry on designs which make me tremble.

I believe you do, my dear. I never saw you so grave, nor heard you talk so discreetly before; a little fright has done you [Page 89] good. May you never cease to tremble, Georgina, when you recollect the hazards of this hour!

You, Jenny, have always nourish'd my follies, and cherish'd my absurdities; I will never hold communication with you more. Go directly to the housekeeper, receive your wages, and leave my father's house. Begone!

Why, she can never mean this in earnest; this must be all fudge before her father.

O! that every misguided daughter would retrieve her errors before it be too late, and, like you, take shelter in the arms of a fond and forgiving father!

My dear Georgina, I wish thou hadst either a mo­ther, or a husband!

A most edifying scene, this!

Mr. Fancourt, you know who this fellow is.

Not absolutely know him—I have seen him; and I will trace him out, Sir, if it be possible. And I'll find your little Savoyard too, Madam; your pretty fortune-teller; it shall go hard but I'll meet with her!

O! I wish he may discover her, for I shall cherish burning gratitude towards her, to the last hour of my existence! My dear Sir, I feel like one of our little Welch kids at home, trembling on the brink of a monstrous precipice, when its sond parent ap­pears, and guides back its feeble steps, to crop the flow'ry herbage in safety.

SCENE— Lady HORATIA's Drawing-room.

Madam, your most obedient. I did not know that you were Lady Horatia Horton this morning; so I came to apologize, and all that.

An unncessary trouble, Sir.

Not at all, Madam, not at all. If I offend, I am always ready to make amends. A little gipsey yesterday took your name, and railed at Sidney; I could not bear it.

And was it therefore, Sir, that you insulted my art? Was it therefore that you laughed at, and abused my—

Your monsters, Madam. O! keep clear of them, whatever you do! Don't talk of them!

Why, is this possible?

Madam, this life is too short to squander time upon trisles; so, let us come to the point! I am told that you have a great re­gard for my nephew, and I love and admire you for it; talk of him, and we shall agree to the end of the chapter.

The person who told you so, Sir, took an unwarrantable freedom.

Why, you told me so yourself. Would any lady fly into the city, to talk to a cross old fellow about his nephew, if she had not set her heart upon him? Pho! pho! that spoke your sentiments pretty plainly.

[Page 91]

O dear! I tell you, I hate your nephew?

Do you? O, you woman! You downright woman! I see how it is. When he was rich, you loved him; when you looked forward to fine equipage, splendour and ex­pence, you acknowledged his merits; but now that you have heard he is poor, you despise him. O! woman, woman!

Sir, it is false. You injure me in every part of your opinion. When he was rich, he never knew that he had caused a tender thought in me; it was only his poverty that made my passion break out with­out disguise. It was his distress that made me feel, and acknowledge I adore him.

What, then, you do love him?

What have I said?

What you ought never to recal. Speak on; you now talk like a sensible wo­man.

Well, then, receive my full confession. You, his second father! Mr. As­gill has twined himself into my soul; his po­verty has endeared him to me a thousand times. Go, Sir, search him out; bring him from his retreat, and tell him, that Horatia Horton knows no value in wealth, but in the plea­sure of dividing it with him.

Huzza, huzza! here's a woman for ye! Madam, he is not poor. I'll put down for Asgill thousand for thousand, as long as you please, and when I die, leave him a plumb!

Sir!

It was all a sagacious trick of [Page 92] mine. I wanted to try if the dear lad really loved me, and if he possessed real worth of soul. Sentiments, truly noble, he often ut­tered; but noble sentiments are uttered by scoundrels, who do not possess one feeling, which, if brought to the touchstone, would not disgrace humanity.

Mr. Asgill not poor!

Nay, then I understand the flimsy contrivance. A pitiful plot, to force me to reveal a secret, which I chose to bury in the bottom of my heart. Presuming!

Make me a dupe! Now, Sir, know that your nephew rich, and your nephew poor, are two distinct persons. I detest his art, and recal all I have said. The rich Mr. Asgill, I shall teach myself henceforward to despise.

Whu! Why, what's in the wind now? Upon my soul, I would rather cast up the most intricate account of compound interest, than attempt to calculate what will please a woman. Refuse a man because he is rich!!!

O, Sir! I followed you here with­out your permission, my tidings are so good, Mr. Asgill is found.

Ah, Perkins, I saw it in thy eyes, without a word. Thou art an honest fellow, Perkins

In what street or alley was he found?

Street, Sir! A very wide, and a very turbulent street. You will be surprised to hear. I employed my own brother in the bu­siness. He traced him last night down to [Page 93] Portsmouth, where he had entered himself on board a man of war before the mast!

Oh!

Nay, come, Sir, he is returned.

Is he come back?

William prevailed on him; put him into a chaise and four, and brought him back to his own lodgings.

Come along, come along! It shall be the best day William ever saw.

SCENE—FANCOURT's.

Yes—no, my dear— yes—

I hope you have been well amused since yesterday, Mr. Fancourt?

Perfectly so, Mrs. Fancourt.

You shou'd let me know when you do not mean to return. It is rather unpleasant to sit up all night watching.

O! you can find amusement.

How?

You are fond of masquerading, you know.

I do not understand you; I never was at more than one masquerade, nor ever formed a wish to repeat it.

And the habit you then wore, I remember, was that of a Savoyard.

It was.

And did you then tell fortunes too?

[Page 94]

I die with fear. Surely I am betrayed.

Come, tell me, Madam, have you not lately repeated the scene of the Savoyard?

Sir! O! he will have no mercy on me!

But, why need I ask? I know you have. That fortune-telling was a pretty thought, my dear; but did it occur to you to tell your own fortune? Did you foretel to your­self your own fate on the discovery.

Alas! I know too well I must expect all that malice and revenge can inspire; but if I have saved an innocent from destruc­tion, and turned away the arrow which was about to pierce the heart of her benevolent father, I am resigned.

Who are you, who enter with so little ceremony into my apartments?

What, Master Fancourt, don't you remember us? Mayhap you'll know this?

And this?

Here is a coach waiting below with two of our companions; so the quicker you are, the better.

This sudden surprise has overpowered me. On whose ac­count do I see you?

You'll know that in proper time. I never likes to answer trogatories.

Where am I going?

[Page 95]

You'll see when we arrive.

Wherever it is, I will not stir without this woman. She shall accompany me wherever I go.

Why, you have a very fond hus­band, Madam.

Not so; but he is my hus­band: I therefore follow without a murmur.

Go first; I will not leave you in the room?

Come, gentlemen, let us follow the lady. Bear witness that I am a polite husband to the last.

SCENE— Sir ROBERT 's Drawing-room.

A sad, sad slut! Why, what a town this is! A stranger, like me, should go about in leading-strings. Plotters, deceivers in every corner of it. Whether the people one associates with, are what they appear to be, or whether it may not be all one universal mas­querade, there is no guessing.

Come—come forth!

Now art thou a woman, or a griffin, prithee tell me?

Dear Sir, I can tell you no more than I have; I have confess'd every thing; and, on [Page 96] my bended knees, I ask for mercy.

I am not a griffin, Sir.

Get up; your flummery of kneel­ing has no effect. How far I shall have mercy on a wretch, who plann'd the dishonour of my child, I shall consider. I have never met with so atrocious a jade, since the year I was high sheriff for the county. Retire. Your brother, my Lord Beechgrove, approaches.

I care not that for your sneers!

I'll teach you, my old gentleman, what it is for sixty to have the impudence to slight five and twenty. I have wasted as many tender blushes, soft ogles, and enamoured glances on your shrivell'd chops, as might have fubdued half the gallant soldiers in the allied armies; but I'll be up with you yet!

O, a hussy! What a sad thing it is for a young man, like me, to have wanted gallantry.

My Lord, I am your lordship's most obe­dient. Why, you have made great haste in undressing, my lord; you are a quick hand at a toilette, I see.

Hey!

I did not exactly know, at first, how to direct to you, to summon your lordship hither, but your sister, the lady Jenny, help'd me out—Mr. Tippy!

The devil!

Pray, when do you publish, Sir? [Page 97] Your life must be an amusing one. Put me down as a subscriber.

Nay, since all is out, I'll brazen it. I'll put you down for something else, Sir, when I publish.

Aye.

Be assured the public shall not want the story of Taffy, the Welch knight; who came up a wool-gathering from Glamorgan­shire, after Begums, Nansooks, and Patna-rice.

Well, well, I feel that I deserve this, so I take it patiently. Here comes more company; some of your friends, my lord.

So, Tippy—all is up!

Faith, I think, all is down—we have rather a tumble.

Be it so! I have aim'd high; re­solved if I did fall, to fall from an eminence. Well, Sir Knight, you'll give us a bottle of Champaigne at parting, and let us be merry once again! You thought it celestial happiness, last night, to get tipsey with a lord, and hear him roar out an indecent catch. Do you re­member, Tippy, how he oped his mouth, and how his eyes water'd with joy? Ha, ha!

I can bear all this, for I really have been so preposterously ridiculous, that, I think, I deserve even more than your malice can suggest.

"I say, SNAPPER, we must have him on our side." Ha, ha, ha! "The old [Page 98] scoundrel had like to have undone us

He is a great fool, but he is related to all the ap Morgans, and ap Shoneses in the county." Ha, ha, ha! That was well, I never hook'd a gudgeon with so little trouble in my life!

It is, it is herself! My charming Savoyard, how I rejoice to see you! You are my mother, sister, friend—

You, Madam, to whose officiousness my friend and I, owe our disgrace—you shall be rewarded. Now listen

for I am going to plunge a dagger into your heart—you are not my wife.

Not your wife?

No. Your affectation and delicacy would not permit you to be married in a Church, you may remember, so I took advan­tage of your folly, and brought a man, who was never priest till that moment.

It is very true, and I am he; it was I who married you.

Can it be possible? Do I hear right? Am I releas'd from obedience to a man whom I abhor? Is it no longer my duty to associate with vice? Is it no longer my fate to eat the bread of wickedness? O, blissful moment!

I am surprised you feel so; he is a very good kind of young man.

O! welcome poverty and want!

Never! Your fate is united to [Page 99] mine. You are my mother, sister, friend! I must quit you a few moments, for Lady Ho­ratia Horton has sent Mr. Conway for me; but I will leave you in my own apartment. My father's roof is your everlasting protection!

This is, indeed, a stroke! Is she to be happy?

Yes, that she shall, if my pro­tection can make her so.

Unhappy man, farewell! The ruin of my peace and fortune I can forgive! O! whilst innocence and friendship invite me to repose, may you find it in repentance.

And now, gentlemen, leave my house this moment, or the next you shall be returned into the hands of the constables. Go! turn out upon the world!

We will turn out upon the world; so let the world beware! Come, Tippy, the field before us is a wide one—let us erect our banners! Talents are our armed forces, with which we encounter Vanity and Foll. Where-ever they appear, we wage war. Allons!

Be of good heart, my boy! The foe is numerous, but weak. Conquest and pillage are our own!

I am glad you are off! These gentlemen have given me some amusement, together with some experience, and it has cost me only one thousand pounds —a cheap bargain!

SCENE— Lady HORATIA's Drawing-room.

No—no—Adieu to low spirits for ever! My heart is as light as the feather in your hair; I know all; Mr. Conway has told me every thing; there was no plot on me! No, my Asgill has proved himself in the hour of trial, as noble, as delicate, as brave as my fancy had always painted him.

Well, happiness is a most be­coming thing; it gives fire and expression to every feature. But can it be possible that Mr. Asgill should design to serve as a sailor? I thought the party with whom he—

Mention parties at an hour like this! O! let such distinctions melt into air, and be obliterated for ever! Let every party join hand and heart to save this country, and to cherish its BLESSED CONSTITUTION!

See, here comes Georgina, playing the little tyrant with her enamour'd Conway.

I protest I will not hear such things, Mr. Conway.

Why will you teaze me thus? Lady Horatia, I beg you chide him; for he has been talking nonsense to me all the way in your coach.

It will give him more plea­sure if you chide him. Nay, I will be more [Page 101] malicious still, spite of your frowns; I abso­lutely will tell you—

You do not hate him.

O! that sound is bliss to me!

Ah, but I am sure I do not love him.

How do you know, angel?

Why, I never keep wakeful about you, nor ever dream about you. And I do not grow pale, like Miss Gwatkin; and I eat my breakfast with pleasure, and I dine very well; and if I do not see you for a whole day together, I only think—well, to-morrow I shall be more lucky.

Enough, enough— more than I hoped. On these terms I am con­tent to bind my fate to yours. Such artless candour renders you enchanting.

Well, then—but do not speak to my papa about it for whole week. Bless me— here's old Simon.

Here, Madam, I have brought ye your sailor; and if you do not receive him with kindness, and welcome him back with your whole soul, you are no woman for me!

Adored mistress of my heart! am I welcome?

Welcome! O, Asgill, there are characters so high, so noble, that to be chained in by common decorums, would be to have no taste for excellence, and my heart [Page 102] bounds with disdain from such frozen rules! I, who have hitherto treated you with coldness, almost bordering on disdain, now declare, in the presence of my friends, that I am proud to make you master of my fate; that I feel exalted in having it in my power to confer happiness on you.

O! woman unequall'd!— Blessed be the hour in which you believed me poor and undone! Sir Simon has been feeding my soul with exstacy.

Mr. Asgill, you must, indeed, love Sir Simon; but I know not how I shall set about doing so; he hates the arts; he thinks there is nothing dignified in sculpture; he hears, without veneration, the names of Phidias, and Michael Angelo.

Come, come, Madam, throw away your chisel and your marble blocks, and set about making a good wife. That ART is the noblest pride of an Englishwoman.

Lady Horatia, you are all smiles! I declare I should not so easily have forgiven a man

who could fly from me to the boisterous ocean, and prove such insensibility to beauty and love.

Misjudge me not! I, insensible to beauty, and to love! O! my glowing soul confesses their force, and adores their power. Yet the enthusiasm which seized me, when I trod the deck of the Victory, can never be chill'd! In the glorious tars around me, va­lour, intrepidity, heroism, shone forth with all their fires; they flashed through my heart! And, I swear, that should my country need my assistance, I will again resume the trowsers, [Page 103] and sail before the mast, wherever she bids her cannon roar, or her proud pendants fly.

Ah! repose on us! And when you look on the gallant spirits, who do honour to this habit, let every fear subside; for, whilst the sea flows, and English sailors are themselves, ENG­LAND MUST BE THE MISTRESS OF THE GLOBE!