ACT I.

I Don't know whose house we've got into here, John, but I think when he knows me, we may hope for some refreshment. Zounds, I'm as dry as touch-wood; and to sail at the rate of ten knots an hour, over stubble and farrow, from my own house, but half a league on this side of Gosport, and not to catch these deserters that received the King's bounty, and run from their ships.

You've ill luck.

Mine, you swab!

Ah, you've money and gold;—but grace and good fortune have shook hands with you these nineteen years, for that rogue's trick you play'd Miss [Page 6] Amelia, by deceiving her with a sham marriage, when you passed yourself for Captain Seymor, then putting to sea, leaving her to break her heart, then marrying another lady.

But was I not forc'd to that by my father?

Ay, because she had a great fortune—her death was a judgment upon you,

Why, you impudent dog-fish—upbraid me for running into false bay, when you was my pilot, wasn't you—even got me the mock clergyman that perform'd the sham marriage with Amelia?

You think so, but I took care to bring a real clergyman.

But is this a time or place for your lec­tures?—at home, abroad, at sea and land, will you still badger me? Mention my Wild Oats again, and —you scoundrel, since the night my bed-curtains took fire, when you were my boatswain aboard the Eagle, you've got me quite into leading strings—you snatch'd me up on deck, toss'd me into the sea to save me from being burnt, and I was almost drown'd.

You would, but for me.

Yes, you dragg'd me out by the ear like a water dog. Last week, because you saw the tenth bottle uncorked, you rushed in among my friends, and ran away with me, and the next morning Captain O'Shanaghan sends me a challenge, for quitting my chair when he was toast-master—so to save me from the head ach, you'd like to have got my brains blown out.

Oh, very well—be burnt in your bed, and tumble into the water, like a tight fellow as you are, and promise yourself with sloe juice, see if John cares a piece of mouldy biscuit about it. But I thought you had laid yourself up in ordinary, retired to live quiet upon your estate, and had done with sea affairs.

John, a man should forget his own con­venience for his country's good.

[Page 7]

But I wish you hadn't made me your valet-de-chambre—no sooner wa [...] I got on shore, after five years dashing upon rocks, shoals, and breakers, then you set me upon a hard trotting cart-horse, that toss'd me up and down like an old b [...]m-boat in the Bay of Biscay—and here's nothing to drink at all. Because at home you keep open house▪ you think every body else does the same. Holloa! holloa!—I'll never cease piping till it calls a drop to my whistle.

Yes, as John Dory remarks, I fear my trip through life will be attended with heavy squalls and foul weathers—When my conduct to poor Amelia comes athwart my mind, it's a hurricane for all that day; and when I turn in at night the ballad of Wil­liam and Mary's ghost

—Oh, zounds, the dis­mals are coming upon me, and I can't get a cheering glass to—Holloa!

Friend, what would'st thou have?

Have? why I would have grog.

Neither man nor woman of that name abi­deth here.

Ha, ha, ha! Man nor woman—then if you'll bring me Mr. Brandy and Mrs. Water, we'll couple them, and the first child probably will be Mas­ter Grog.

Thou do [...]t speak in parables, which I under­stand not.

Sheer off with your sanctified poop, and send the gentleman of the house.

The owner of this mansion is a maiden, and she approacheth.

Do I behold—it is—how dost thou do, unc [...]e?

Is it possible you can be my niece, Lady Amaranth Thunder?

[Page 8]

I'm the daughter of thy deceased bro­ther Loftus, called Earl Thunder, but no Lady—my name is Mary.

But zounds, how is all this?—unexpect­edly find you in a strange house, of which old Sly tells me you're mistress, turn'd quaker, and disown your title.

Thou knowest the relation to whose care my father left me.

Well, I know our cousin, old Dovehouse, was a quaker, but didn't suspect he would have made you one.

Being now gathered to his father's, he did bequeath unto me his worldly goods, and amongst them this mansion, and the lands around it.

So thou becomest and continue one of the faithful. I'm executor of his will, and by it cannot give thee possession of these goods but upon these con­ditions.

Tell me of your thee's and thou's, qua­ker's wills, and mansions—I say, girl, though on the death of your father, my eldest brother, Loftus Earl Thunder, from your being a female, his title devolves to his next brother, Robert; though as a woman you can't be an Earl, nor as a woman you can't make laws for your sex nor for our sex; yet, as the daughter of a peer, you are, and by heavens shall be called, Lady Amaranth Thunder.

Thou makest too much noise, friend.

Dam'me, call me friend, and I'll bump your block-head against the capstern.

Yea, this is a man of danger—I will leave Mary to abide it.

S'fire my Lady.

Title is vanity.

Shall thy cook this day dress certain birds of the air called woodcocks, and ribs of the oxen likewise?

[Page 9]

All—my uncle sojourneth with me per­adventure, and my meal shall be a feast, friend Zacha­riah.

My tongue shall say so, friend Mary.

Sir George Thunder bids thee remem­ber to call thy mistress Lady Amaranth.

Verily, George.

George, sirrah!—Tho' a younger bro­ther, the honour of Knighthood was my reward for placing the glorious British flag over that of a daring enemy—therefore address me—

Yea, good George.

George and Mary—here's levelling— here's abolition of title with a vengeance! S'blood, in this house they think no more of an English knight than if he was a French duke.

Kinsman, be patient; thou and thy son Henry, whom I have not beheld these twelve years, shall be welcome to my dwelling. Where now abi­deth you?

At the Naval Academy at Portsmouth.

May I see the young man?

What, to make a quaker of him? No, no—but hold—as she is a wealthy heiress, her marry­ing my son Harry will keep up and preserve the title in our family

Would thou be really glad to see him. Thou shalt Mary—John Dory—Ah, here's my valet-de-chambre.

Sir!

Avast, old man of war; you must instantly convoy my son from Portsmouth.

Then I must first convoy him to Portsmouth, for he happens to be out of dock already.

What wind now?

You must know, on our quitting harbour—

Damn your sea-jaw, you marvellous [Page 10] dolphin, give me the contents of your log-book in plain English.

Why then, the young 'Squire has cut and run.

What?

Got leave to come to you, and the master did not find out before yesterday, that instead of mak­ing for home he had sheer'd off towards London, di­rectly sent notice to you, and Sam has trac'd us all the way here to bring you the news.

What a boy of mine quit his guns—I'll grapple him—come John.

Order the carriage for mine uncle.

No, thank'ye, my Lady, let your equi­page keep up your own dignity—I've horses here, but won't knock them up—next village is the channel for the stage. My Lady, I'll bring the dog to you by the bowsprit, weigh anchor, croud sail, and after him.

The man of noise doth not tarry—then my spirit is glad.

Let Sarah prepare chambers for my kinsman, and hire the maiden for me that thou didst mention.

I will, for this damsel is passing fair, and hath found grace in mine eyes. Mary, as thou art yet a stranger in this land, and just taken possession of this estate, the law of society doth command thee to be on terms of amity with thy wealthy neighbours.

Yea, but while I entertain the rich, the hearts of the poor shall also rejoice. I myself will now go forth into the adjacent hamlet, and invite all that cometh to good cheer.

Yea; and I will distribute among the poor good books.

[Page 11]

And meat and drink too, friend Ephraim, in the fulness of plenty—they shall join in thanks­giving for those gifts of which I'm unworthy.

I say, Dick Buskin, harkee, my lad.

What keeps Rover?

I'm sure I don't know: as you desired I paid for our breakfast—but the devil's in that fellow, every inn we stop at he will always hang behind, chat­tering with the bar-maid or the chamber-maid.

Or any, or no maid—but he's a worthy lad, and I love him better, I think, than my own bro­ther, had I one.

Oh, but Dick, mind my boy.

Stop, Midg, tho' 'twas my orders, when I set out on this scamp with the players, the better to conceal my quality, for you before people to treat me as your companion, yet you at the same time should have had discretion enough to remember when we are alone, that I am your master, and son to Sir George Thunder.

Sir, I ask your pardon; but by making yourself my equal, I've got so us'd to familiarity, that I find it curs'd hard to shake it off.

Well, Sir, pray mind that familiarity is all over, my frolic is out, I now throw off the player, and shall return directly. My father must by this time have heard of my departure from the academy at Portsmouth; and tho' I was deluded away by my rage for acting, 'twas bad of me to give the gay old fellow any cause of uneasiness.

And, Sir, shall you and I never act another scene together?—shall I never again play Sir Harry Wildair, for my own benefit, nor ever again have the pleasure of caneing your honour in the character of Alderman Smuggler?

[Page 12]

In future act the part of a smart coat and hat brusher, or I shall have the pleasure of caneing you in the character of one that gives mighty blows. You were a good servant, but sirrah, I find by letting you crack your jokes and sit in my company, you're grown quite a rascal.

Yes, Sir, I was a modest well-behaved lad, but evil communications corrupt good manners.

Run back, and tell Rover to make haste. To bring you down, I'll clap a livery on you—wear that, to find another master.

Well, Sir, I don't mind wearing a livery, but when one has so long had a halbert, its damn'd hard to be again put into the rank.

Well, if my father but forgives me, this three months excursion with the players has shewed me some life, and a devilish deal of fun—for one cir­cumstance I shall ever remember it with pleasure— it's bringing me acquainted with Jack Rover—how long he stays—Jack

In this forlorn stroller I have discovered qualities that honour human nature, and accomplishments that might grace a prince. My poor friend has often lent me his money, though he supposed me a poor needy devil, that could never be able to repay him. He shan't know who I am till it's in my power to serve him; only the rogue always marr'd the grand design of my frolic—I had no chance among the pretty women where he was; he had the knack of winning their hearts by his gaiety. Tho' so devilish pleasant in his quotations, which on the moment he dashes in a parody whimsically oppo­site to every occasion as it happens, I hope he won't find the purse I've hid in his pocket before we part. I dread the moment—but it's come.

The brisk lightning I!

Aye, there's the rattle—hurried on by the impetuous flow of his own volatile spirits, his life is a rapid stream of extravagant whim; and while the serious voice of humanity prompts his heart to the best actions, his features shine in laugh and levity—

Studying Bays, Jack?

I'm the bold Thunder.

I'm—if he knew but all

—keep one standing in the road.

Beg your pardon, my dear Dick, all the fault of—plague on't, that a man can't sleep and break­fast at an inn, then return to his bed-chamber for his gloves, but there he must find chamber-maids thump­ing feathers and knocking pillows about, and keep one, when one has affairs and business—upon my soul, these girls' conduct to us is intolerable, the very thought brings blood into my face, and when ever they attempt to serve and provoke me so—Dam'me but I will—An't I right Dick?

All in the wrong.

No matter, that's the universal play all round the wrekin. But you're so conceited, because, by this company we're going to join at Winchester, you're engaged for high tragedy.

And you for Ranger's plumes, and Fop­pington.

Our first play is Lear—I was devilish im­perfect in Edgar t'other night at Lymington; I must look it over

"Away! the foul fiend follows me"—Holloa! stop a moment, we shall have the whole country after us.

What now?

That rosy fac'd chambermaid put me in such a passion, that by heavens I walk'd out of the house and forgot to pay the bill.

Never mind, Rover, it's paid.

Paid! why neither you nor Midg had money enough.

I tell you 'tis paid.

You paid—oh, very well: every honest fellow should be a stock purse. Let's push on—ten miles to Winchester—we shall be there by eleven.

[Page 14]

Our trunks at the inn are book'd for the Winchester coach.

Our hero, Tom Stately, stept into the chaise with his tragedy-phiz, ha, ha, ha!—rides Botti­kin between our Thalia and Melpomene—but I prefer walking to the car of Thespis. What do you wait for now?

Which is the way?

Here.

Then I go there

Eh!

My dear boy, on this spot, and at this moment, we must part—

Part!

Rover, you wish me well.

Well, and suppose so—part.

Yes, part!

What mystery and grand—what are you at; do you forget, you, Midg, and I, are engaged to Truncheon the manager, and that the bills are up with our names to play to night at Winchester?

Jack, you and I hope often to meet on the stage, in assumed characters, if it's your wish we should ever meet again in our real ones of sincere friends, without asking whither I go, or my reasons for leaving you, when I walk up this road, do you turn down that.

Joke.

I'm serious—good bye.

If you repent your engagement with Truncheon, I'll break off too, and go with you where­ever—

Attempt to follow me, and even our ac­quaintance ends.

Eh!

Don't think of my reasons, only that it must be.

Have I done any thing to Dick Buskin? leave me.

[Page 15]

I'm as much concern'd as you.—Good bye.

I can't even bid adieu!—I won't either— if any cause could be given—farewell.

Bless my poor fellow. Adieu.

Well good—oh, damnation!—

ACT II.

WELL, Master Ephraim, I may depend on thee, as you quakers never break your word.

I have spoken to Mary, and she, at my re­quest, consenteth to take thy daughter Jane for her handmaid.

That's hearty—I intended to make a pre­sent to the person that does me such a piece of ser­vice, but I shan't afront you with it.

I am meek and humble, and must take affronts.

Then, here's a guinea, Master Ephraim.

I expected not this; but there's no harm in a guinea.

So, I shall get my children off my hands. My son Sim is robbing me day and night, giving away my corn and what not among the poor; my daughter Jane—when girls have nought to do, this mischief love creeps into their minds, and then, hey, they're for kicking up their heels.—Sim, son Sim!

Yes, feyther.

Call your sister?

Jane, feyther wants you.

Did you call me?

I often told you both, but its now settled— you must go into the world and work for your bread.

[Page 17]

Feyther, whatever you think right must be so; and I am content.

And I'm sure, feyther, I'm willing to do any thing you would have me.

There's ingratitude for you!—when my wife, your mother, died, I brought you up from the shell, and now that you're fledg'd, you want to fly off and forsake me.

Why, no, I'm willing to live with you all my days.

And I'm sure, feyther, if its your desire, I'll never part from you.

Here's an unnatural pair—what, you want to hang upon me like a couple of leeches, aye, to strip my branches, and leave me a wither'd hawthorn. See who's yonder?

Jane, Ephraim Smooth has hired you for Lady Amaranth.

La, then I shall live in the great house.

Her Ladyship has sent [...]s all presents of good books, here, to read a chapter in; it gives a man patience when he is in a passion.

Thank her good Ladyship.

My being incumbered with you both is the cause why old Banks here won't give me his sister.

That's a pity; if we must have a step­mother, madam Amelia would make us a very good one—but I wonder how she should refuse you, feyther, for I'm sure she thinks you a very portly man, in your scarlet coat and new scratch.

However, if Banks still refuses, I have him in my power, I'll turn them out of their cottage yonder, and the bailiff shall procure them a lodging. Here he comes.—

Well, neighbour Banks, once for all, am I to marry your sister?

That she best knows.

[Page 18]

She says she won't.

Then I dare say she won't; for tho' a woman, I never knew her to prevaricate.

Then she won't have me. Fine things that you and she, who's little better than paupers, dare to be damn'd saucy.

Why, I confess we are poor, but while that's the worst our enemies can say of us, we are content.

Damn it, I wish I had a fair occasion to quarrel with him, I'd make him content with a devil to him—I'd knock him down, send him to gaol, and —but—I'll be up with him.

Oh, feyther, here's one Mr. Lamp, a ring­leader of the shew-folks, came from Andover, to act in our villages—he wants a barn to play in, if you'll hire him yours.

Surely, boy, I'll never refuse money; but least he should engage the great room at the inn, run and tell him—stop, I'll go myself, a short cut through the garden—

Why, you, or any neighbour is welcome to walk in it, or partake of any thing it produces, but making it a common thoroughfare is—

Here, son, kick down that gate.

What!

Does the lad hear?

Why, yes, yes.

Does the fool understand.

Dong't I'm but yet young, but if under­standing teaches me how to wrong my neighbours, I hope I may never live to years of discretion.

What, you cur, do you disobey your fey­ther?—burst open the garden gate, as I command you.

Feyther, he that made both you and the garden gate, commands me not to injure the un­fortunate.

[Page 19]

Here's an ungracious rogue—then I must do it myself.

Hold, neighbour—small as the spot is, its now my only possession, and the man shall first take my life, who sets its foot in it against my will.

I'm in such a passion—

Feyther, if you're in a passion, read the book you gave me.

Plague on the wench—but you hussy, I'll— and you unlucky bud.

Zounds, here's a pelting shower, and no shelter—poor Tom's a cold, I'm wet through; here's a good promising house.

Hold my lad, can't let folks in till I know who they are: there's a public house not above half a mile on.

Step in here, young man, my fire is small, but it shall cheer you with a hearty welcome.

The poor co [...]tager and the substantial farmer.

Hear nature, dear goddess, hear; if ever you design to make his corn-field fertile, change your purpose: that from the blighted ears no grains may fall to fat his stubble goose. And when to town he drives his hogs (so like himself) o [...] let him feel the soaking rain, then he may curse his crimes, to taste and know how sharper than the serpent's tooth is his! —Dam'me, but I'm spouting in the rain all this time.

[Page 20]

Ah, neighbour, you'll soon scratch a beggar's head, if you harbour every ma [...] vagrant; this may be one of the footpads that it seems have got about the country, but I'll have an execution and seize on thy goods this day, my honest neighbour. Eh—the sun strikes out—quite clear'd up.

La! Feyther, if there isn't coming down the village—

Oh thou hussy.

Bless me, Feyther, no time for anger now— Here's Lady Amaranth's chariot—la it stops!

Her Ladyship is coming out, and walks this way. She may wish to rest herself in my house—Jane we must always make rich folks welcome.

I'll run in and get all the things to rights; but Feyther your cravat and wig is all—

Well, master Gammon, as you desired me, I am come to serve this copy of a writ, and arrest Master Banks, Where is he?

Yes! now I'm determin'd on't—waunts, stand aside, I'll speak to you anon.

Friend Jane, whom I have taken to be my handmaid, is thy daughter.

So her mother said, arn't please your Lady­ship.

Ephraim Smooth acquainted me thou'rt a wealthy ye [...]man. I am come to thy hamlet, to behold with mine eyes the distresses of my poor tenants—I wish to relieve their wants.

[Page 21]

Right, your Ladyship, for charity hides a deal of sin. How good of you to think of the poor: that's so like me. I'm always contriving how to re­lieve my neighbours—you must lay Banks in prison to night.

And if it please you, will your Ladyship enter our humble dwelling, and rest your Ladyship?

Do my Lady—to receive so great a Lady from her chariot is an honour I dreamt not of—for the hungry and weary foot travellers my doors are always open, and my morsel ready. Knock, and when he comes out, touch him.

Thou art benevolent, and I will enter thy doors with satisfaction.

Eh, where's the writ?

Master Twich, what's your busimess with me?

Only a little business here against you.

Me?

Farmer Gammon has brought a thirty pound bank note of hand of yours.

I did not think his malice could have stretched so far. I thought the love he possessed for my sister might—Why, it's true, master Twitch—to lend our indigent cottagers small sums, when they were unable to pay their rent, I got a lawyer Quick to pro­cure me the money, and hoped their industry would have put it in my power to take up the note before now: however I'll go round and try what they can do, and call on you and settle it.

No, no, that won't do; you must go with me.

Old gentleman, come quick, or I'll draw another bottle of your currant wine.

[Page 22]

You'd better not make no noise, and go with me.

Oh, you're here—rain over—quite fair. I'll take a sniff of the open air too—Eh! what's the mat­ter?

What's that to you?

What's that to me!—Why you're very un­mannerly.

Here's a rescue.

Nay, my dear Sir, I'd wish you not to bring yourself into trouble about me.

Now, since you don't know what's civil, if the debt an't paid, to jail you go.

My kind hospitable good old woman to jail —what's the sum, you scoundrel?

Better words, or I'll—

Stop—after me, good or bad, except to tell what's your demand upon this gentleman, and I'll give you the greatest beating, you ever had since you com­menced rascal.

Why, master, I dont want to quarrel with you, because—

You'll get nothing by it—Do you know, you villain, that I am this moment the greatest man living?

Who, pray?

I am the bold Thunder, Sirrah—know that I carry my prize of gold in my coat pocket, tho' dam' me if I know how it came there.

There's twenty pictures of his Majesty: there­fore, in the King's name, I free his legal subject, and now who am I?

Ten pieces short, my master: but if you're a housekeeper, I'll take this and your bail.

Then for bail you must have a housekeeper —what's to be done?

Oh, here's old hospitality—I know your a house­keeper, though your fire-side was too warm for me. Look here, some rapacious griping rascal has had this worthy gentleman arrested—now a certain good-for-nothing rattling fellow has paid twenty guineas of the sum—you pass your word for the other nine, we'll run back into the old gentleman's house, and over his cur­rant wine our first toast shall be, Liberty to the honest debtor, and confusion to the hard-hearted creditor.

I shan't.

No—what's your name?

Gammon.

Then dam'me, you're the Hampshire hog.— S'death, what shall we do to extricate?—Damn the money.

What tumult's this?

A lady—Ma'am, your most obedient humble servant—a quaker too—they're generally kind and humane, and that face is a prologue to a play of a thousand good acts—may-be she'd help us here

Ma'am, you must know that I know this gentleman: —I mean, he got a little behind hand, from bad crops, as every honest well-principled man may, and from rain lodging in his corn, and his cattle from murrain and rot—rot the murrain, you understand—and then in steps I with my—in short, Madam, I'm one of the most out of the way story-tellers in the world, when myself is the hero of the tale.

Mr. Banks has been arrested for thirty pounds, and this gentleman has paid twenty guineas of the sum.

My litigious neighbour to expose me thus!

The young man and maiden within have pictured thee as a man of irreproachable morals, tho' unfortunate.

[Page 24]

Madam, he's an honest fellow, I've known him above forty years—he's the best hand at stirring a fire—if you was to taste his currant wine.

Madam, I never aspired to an invincible rank in life, yet hitherto pride and prudence kept me above the reach of pity—but obligation from a stranger—

He really a stranger, and attempt to free thee. Friend, thoa hast usurped a right which here alone belongeth to me: as I enjoy the blessing which these lands produce, I own also the heart-de­lighting privilege of dispensing those blessings to the wretched. Thou madest thyself my worldly banker, and no cash of mine in thy hands, but here I balance my account

Madam, my master pays me, nor dare I take money from any other hand, without injuring his honour, or disobeying his command.

But Sir, I insist you'll return him his money—Stop

Aye, stop

Where dwelleth he?

I fancy, Ma'am, where he can. I under­stand, from his discourse, that he is on his way to join a company of actors in the next town,

A profane stage player with such a gentle generous heart, yet so whimsically wild, like the unconscious rose, modestly shrinking from the recollec­tion of its own grace and sweetness.

Now, my Ladyship, I'm fit to attend your Ladyship.

This maiden may find out for me whither he go [...]th

Call on my steward, and thy legal demands shall be satisfied.

Here coachman, drive up my Lady's chariot nearer our door

[Page 25]

Friend, be chearful, thine and thy sister's sorrows shall be but as an April shower.

Hilloa, friend, when does the coach set out for London?

In about an hour, Sir.

Has the Winchester coach set out for London?

No, Sir.

That's lucky, my trunk is here still—then I will not, since I've lost the fellowship of my friend Dick Buckskin, I'll travel no more. I'll try a London audience—who knows but I may get an engagement. This celestial lady quaker must be rich, and how ridi­culous for such a poor dog as I am, even to think of her [...] how Dick would laugh at me if he knew—I dare say by this she has released my kind host from the gripe—I should like to be certain though.

You'll dine here, Sir—I'm honest Bob Johnson—kept the sun these twenty years—excellent dinner on table at two.

Yet my love indeed is appetite; I'm as hungry as the sea, I can digest as much.

Hungry as the sea—then you won't do for my shilling ordinary. Sir, there's a very good or­dinary at the Saracen's Head at the end of the town. Should'nt have thought indeed, of hungry foot-tra­vellers to eat like—Coming, Sir!

Ill not join this company at Winchester—no, I'll not stay in the country, hopeless e [...]er to expect a look, except of scorn, from this lady. I wonder if she's sound out that I'm a player—I'll take a touch at the London theatre, the public there are candid and [Page 26] g [...]nerous, and before my merit can have time to raise enemies, I'll save money, and a fig for the sultan and sophy.

Aye, that's he.

But if I fail, by heavens I'll overwhelm the manager, his empire, and himself, in one prodigious ruin.

Ruin! O Lord!

What can you expect else, when you follow the young men—I've dogg'd you all the way·

Well, was'nt I sent?

O, yes, you were sent—very likely—who sent you?

I won't tell it's my lady, because she bid me not

I'll keep you from shame—A find life I should have in the parish, rare fleering, if a sister of mine should stand some Sunday at church in a white sheet— and to all their flouts what could I say?

Thus, I say—My sister's wrong'd, my sister blows a bella born as high and noble as the attorney; do her justice, or by the gods, I'll lay a scene of blood shall make this hay [...]mow horrible to beadles. Say that, young Chamont.

Ecod, I believe it's full moon. You go home to your place, and mind your business.

My lady will be so glad I found him—I don't wonder at it, he's a fine spoken man.

Dang it, will you stand grinning here at the wild bucks.

Will you be quiet: the gentleman might wish to send her Ladyship a compliment. Ar'n't please you, Sir, if it is even a kiss between you and me, it shall go safe; for tho' you should give it to me, bro­ther Sim can take it my lady.

La, will you go?

[Page 27]

To a nannery, go—to a nunnery, go, go—I'm cursedly out of spirits—but hang sorrow, I may as well divert myself—'tis meat and drink for me to see a clown—Shepherd, was't ever at court.

Not I.

Then thou art damned.

Eh!

Yes, like an ill-roasted egg, all on one side. Ah, little hospitality.

Eh, where's the shewman that wants my barn?—Ah, son Sim.

Is he your son, young Clodpole—take him to your wheat-stacks, and there teach him manners.

Oh, thou art the fellow that would boult out of the dirty roads into people's houses—Sim's schooling is mightily thrown away, if he has not more manners than thou.

Why, feyther, it is one of the players: he acted Tom Fool in King Larry, t'other night at Ly­mington—I thought, I know'd him, by the face, thof he had a straw hat and a blanket about'n.—Ha, how comical that was you said.

Pellicock sat upon Jellicock-hill—pillo loc—loc.

Why feyther, that's it, he's at it again— feyther, laugh.

Hold your tongue, boy, I believe he's no better than he should be; the moment I saw him, says I to myself, he's a rogue.

There thou spoke truth to thyself for once in thy life.

I'm glad you confess it; but her ladyship shall have all the vagrants whipt out of the country.

Vagrants, wretch —despite overwhelm thee! —only squint, and by heaven I'll beat thy blown-up body, 'till it rebound like a tennis ball.

[Page 28]

Beat my feyther—no, no—thou must first beat me

Though love cool, friendship fall off, brother's divide, subjects rebel; oh, never let the sacred bond be crack'd betwixt son and father. Thou art an honest reptile

I never a father's protection knew —never had a father to protect.

Ecod, he's not acting now.

Landlord, is this Mr. Lamp here?

I've just opened a bottle for him in the other parlour.

Gis's thy hand—I like thee, I don't know how 'tis, I think I could lose my life for him— but mus'nt let feyther be lick'd neither.

I'll make my entrance on the London stage boards in Bays: yes, I shall have no competitor against me. Egad, it's very hard, that a gentleman and an author, can't come to teach them, but he must break his noise, and all that. So the players are gone to dinner

Any passengers for the fly?

No such people frequent the sun, I assure you, Sir.

Sun, moon, and stars, now mind the eclipse, Mr. Johnson.

I heard nothing of it, Sir.

Sir, two gentlemen in the parlour wish to speak with you

I attend them with all respect and duty.

[Page 29]

Sir, you go in the stage; as we book the passengers, what name?

I'm the bold Thunder.

Mr. Thunder.

I want two places in the stage coach, because I and another gentleman are going a journey.

Just two vacant—what name?

Avast, I go upon deck, but let me see who is my master's messmates in the cabin.

Capt. M'Clallough, Counsellor Flahergan, Miss Gos [...]ing, Mr. Thunder—what's this, speak man—is there any person of that name going?

Book'd him this moment.

If our voyage should be at an end before we begin; if this Mr. Thunder should be my master's son—what sort of a gentleman is he?

An odd sort of a gentleman—I suspect he's one of the players.

True, Sam said 'twas some of the player's people forced him from Portsmouth school—it most be the 'Squire—shew me where he's moor'd, my old purser.

This same old Gammon seems a surly spark.

No-matter, his barn will hold full thirty pounds, and if we can but engage this young fellow, this Rover, he'll cram it every night he plays—he's certainly a very good actor. Now, Trap, you must enquire out a good carpenter, and be brisk about the building. I think we shall have smart business, as we stand so well for women too—Oh, here he comes.

Knap him on any terms.

Gentlemen, your most obedient—the waiter told me—

Pray sit down, good Sir. Sir, to our bet­ter acquaintance

Hav'n't a doubt, Sir.

Only suffer me to put up your name to play with us six nights, and twelve guineas are yours.

I thank you: I must confess your offer is liberal, but my friends have flattered me into a sort of opinion, that encourages me to take a touch at the capital.

Oh, my dear Sir, a London theatre is very dangerous ground.

Why I may fail, and Gods may groan, and ladies cry, the aukward creature; but should I top my part thus, shall not gods applaud, and ladies sigh, the charming fellow, and managers take me by the hand, and treasurers smile upon me, as they count the shining guineas.

But suppose—

Aye, suppose the contrary, I have a certain friend here in my coat pocket

—Zounds, where is it—Oh, the devil, I gave it to discharge my kind host. Going to London, and not master of five shillings

Well, Sir, if you'll make it twenty pounds.

Well, be it so.

Sir, I engage with you; call a rehearsal when and where you please, and I'll attend you.

Sir, I'll step for the cast book, and you shall choose your characters.

And I'll write the play-bill directly.

Since I must remain here some time, and hav'n't the most distant hope of ever speaking to this goddess again, I wish I had enquired her name, that I might know how to keep out of her way.

There's the gentleman.

Very well.

What cheer, mas­ter 'Squire?

What cheer, eh, my hearty.

The very face of his father—And ar'n't you asham'd of yourself.

Why, yes, I am sometimes.

Do you know, if I had you at the gang-way I'd give you a neater dozen than ever you got from your schoolmaster's cat-o-nine-tails.

You woud'n't sure?

I would sure.

Indeed, pleasant enough. Who is this genius?

I've dispatch'd a shallop to tell Lady Ama­ranth you're here.

You hav'n't?

I have.

Now who the devil's this Lady Amaranth?

I expect her chariot every moment, and when it comes, you'll get into it, and I'll set you down genteely at her house, then I'll have obeyed my or­ders, and hope your father will be satisfied.

My father—who is he, pray?

P [...]ha, leave off your fun, and prepare to ask his pardon.

Ha, ha, ha!—my worthy friend, you're quite wrong in this affair—upon my word, I'm not the per­son you take me for

You don't go, tho' you've got your name down in the stage-coach book.

Mr. Thunder—stage-coach book—this must be some curious mistake—ha, ha, ha!

Oh, my lad, your father, Sir George, will soon change your note.

Will he?—he must first give me one. Sir George—then my father's a Knight, it seems—very good, faith—ha, ha, ha. I'm not the gentleman you think, upon my honour.

[Page 32]

I ought not to think you any gentleman, for giving your honour in a false word.

Her Ladyship's carriage is at the door, and I fancy, Sir, it's you the coachman wants

Yes, it's me.

I attend your honour.

The choice is made, and I've my Ran­ger's dress in my trunk, Cousin of Buckingham, thou sage grave man.

What!

Since you will buckle fortune on my back, to bear the burthen whether I will or no, I must have patience to endure the load; but if black scan­dal, or foul fac'd—

Black, foul-fac'd—dam'me, my face was as fair as yours before I went to sea.

Your mere enforcement shall acquaintance me.

Man, don't stand preaching parson Palmer, come to the chariot.

Aye, to the chariot bear me—Bucephalus among the billows.

ACT III

THO' thou hast settled that distressed gentleman's debts, let his sister come unto me, and remit a quarter's rent to all my tenants.

As thou biddest it, I have discharged from the pound, the widow's cattle; but shall I let the law­suit drop against the farmer's son, who did shoot the pheasant?

Yea; but instantly turn from my service the gamekeeper's man, that did kill the fawn while it was eating from his hand—we should hate guile, tho' we love venison.

Since the death of old Dovehouse (who, tho' one of the faithful, was an active man) this part of the country is infested with covetous men, called rob­bers; and I have, in thy name, said unto the people, whoever apprehendeth one of these I will reward, yea with thirty pieces of gold,

That beating of one brass against another at thy door, pro­claimeth the approach of vanity, whose heart swelleth at an empty sound.

But my heart is possessed with the idea of that wandering youth, whose benevolence induced him to part with, perhaps his all, to free the unhappy debtor. His person is amiable, his addresses (ac­cording [Page 34] to the worldly modes) formed to please and to delight—but he's poor—is that a crime?—perhaps meanly born—but one good action is an ill [...]strious pe­digree. I feel I love him, and in that word are birth, same, and riches.

Oh, Madam, my Lady, an't please you.

Did'st thou find the young man, that I may return him the money he paid for my tenant?

I found him, Ma'am, and I found him, and he talked of what he said.

What did he say?

He said, Ma'am, and says he—I'll be hang'd, Ma'am, if he didn't talk about ruin, now I think of that—but if he hadn't gone to London in the stage coach.

Is he gone?

Oh, my Lady, mayhap John Dory is not the man to be sent after young Gentlemen that scam­per from school, and run about the country a play act­ing. Pray walk up stairs, Master Thunder.

Hast thou brought my kinsman hither?

Well then, I ha'n't—will you only walk up if you please, Master Harry?

Will you walk up, if you please, Master Harry?

Friendship requireth, yet I'm not dis­posed to communicate with company.

Oh, bless me, Ma'am, if it isn't—

'Tis I, Hamlet the Dane—thus far into the bowels of the land we march'd on—John, the bloody devouring bear—

[Page 35]

He call'd me b [...]l in the coach.

This Lady Amaranth—by heavens, the very angel quaker.

The generous youth, my cousin Harry.

He's for you, make the most of him.

Oh, how happy my Lady is—he looks so charming now he's fine.

Harkee—she's as rich as an India-man, and I tell you, your father wishes you would grapple her by the heart. There's an engagement between these two vessels, but little Cupid's the only man that's to take'em in tow, so come.

Ma'am, a'n't I to wait on you?

No, my lass you're to wait on me.

Wait on you!—lack-a-day, am I?

By this, Sir George is come to the inn. Without letting the younker know, I'll bring him here, and surprise both father and son with a joyful meeting

Now court her, you mad devil

Come, now usher me down like a lady,

Yes, there's love between them, I see it in their eyes—bless the dear couple—this way, Mr. Sailor Gentleman.

By heavens, a most delectable woman.

Cousin, when I saw thee in the village free the sheep from the wolf, why did'st not tell me thou wer't son to my uncle, Sir George?

Because, my Lady, I did not know it my­self.

Why wou'd'st thou vex thy father, and quit thy school?

A truant disposition—good my Lady brought me from Whittemberg.

Thy father designs thee for his dange­rous profession—but is thy inclination turned to the voice of trumpets and sounds of mighty slaughter?

Why, Ma'am, as for old Boreas, my dad, when the blast of war blows in his ears, he's a tyger in his fierce resentment; but for me I think it a pity [Page 36] —so it is—that villainous saltpetre should be digg'd-out of the bowels of the harmless earth, which many a good tall fellow hath destroy'd, with wound and guns and drums—Heaven save the mark.

Indeed thou art tall, my cousin, and grown of comely stature—our families have long been separated.

They have, since Adam I believe

—then Lady, let that sweet bud of love now ripen to a beauteous flower.

Love!

Excellent wench—perdition catch my soul but I do love thee: and when I love thee not—Chaos is come again.

Thou art of a happy disposition▪

If I were now to die, it were to be happy! Let our senses dance in concert to the joyful minutes; and this, and this, the only discord make

Ma'am, an't please you, Mr. Zachariah bid me—

Why you fancy yourself Cardinal Wolsey in this family

No, Sir, I'm not Cardinal Woolsey, I'm only my Lady's maid here.

A bowl of cream for your Catholic Ma­jesty.

Cream! no, Sir;—that's wine and water.

You get no water—take the wine, great po­tentate

Madam, my father begs leave—

Go, go, thou s [...]allow Pomona.

Eh! zouns, my manager!

I hope her Ladyship hav'n't found out 'twas I had Banks arrested

Wou'd your Ladyship give leave for this honest man and comrades to act a [Page 37] few plays in this town, 'cause I have let 'em my barn —'twill be some little help to me, my Lady.

My Lady, I understand these affairs; leave me to settle them.

True, these are delusions; as a woman I understand not—but by my cousin's advice I will abide —ask his consent?

So, I must pay my respects to the young 'Squire

An't please your honour, if a poor man like me

dare offer his humble duty.

Can'st thou bow to a vagrant, eh, little hos­pitality!

Please your honour, if I may presume to hope, you'll be graciously pleased to take our little squadron under your honour's protection.

What say'st thou, Henry?

Aye, where's Henry?—true—that's me— strange I should always forget my name, and not half an hour ago I was christened

Hark ye, do you play yourself, fellow?

Yes, Sir, and I've just now engaged a new actor one Mr. Rover—such an actor!

If such is your best actor, you sha'nt have my permission—my dear Madam, the damndest fellow in the world—get along out of the town, or dam'me, I'll have you all, man, woman, and child, rag and fiddle-stick, clap'd into the whirligig.

Good man, abide not here.

What, you scoundrel—now if this new act [...]r you brag of, that crack of your company, was any thing like a gentleman.—

Why, since it isn't—

It is, my dear friend, if I was really the poor strolling dog you thought me, I should tread your four boards, and crow the cock of your barn-door fowl —but as Fate has ordain'd, I'm a gentleman, and son to Sir—what the devil's my father's name

You must be content to murder Shakespear, without making me an accomplice.

But, my most gentle Sir, I and my trea­surer Trap, have trumpeted your fame ten miles round [Page 38] the country—the bills are posted, the candles bought, the stage built, the fiddlers engag'd—all on the tip-toe of expectation—we should have to-morrow night an overflow—ay, thirty pounds, dear worthy Sir; you would not go to ruin a whole community and their fam [...] ­lies, that now depend on the exertion of your brillant talents?

I never was uniform but in one maxim, that is, though I do but little good, to hurt nobody but myself.

Since thou hast promised, much as I prize the adherence to the customs in which I was brought up, thou shalt not sully thy honour, by a breach of thy word; for truth is more shining than beaten gold—play, if it can bring good to these people.

Shall I?

This falleth out well; for I have bidden all the gentry round unto my house warming, and these pleasantries may afford them innocent and chear­ful entertainment.

True, my Lady, your guests an't Quakers, though you are; and when we ask people to our house we study to please them, not ourselves; but if you do furbish up a play or two, the Muses shan't honour that churlish fellow's barn.

Barn! no, that gallery shall be thy theatre; and inspite of the grave doctrine of Ephraim Smooth, my friends and I will behold and rejoice in thy pranks, my pleasant cousin.

My kind, my charming Lady! —Hey!— brighten up bully Lamp, carpenters, taylors, mana­gers, distribute your box tickets for my Lady's gal­lery—come, gentle cousin, the actors are at hand, and by their shew you shall know all that you are like to know.

Though I went back to Portsmouth Aca­demy with a contrite heart to continue my studies, yet from my father's angry letter, I dread the woful storm at our first meeting. I fancy the people at the inn [Page 39] don't recollect me: it reminds me of my pleasant friend poor Jack Rover; I wonder where he is now.

And brings to my mind a certain strolling acquaintance of mine, poor Dick Buskin.

Then I desire, Sir, you'll turn Dick Bus­kin out of your head.

Can't Sir; the dear, good-natur'd, wicked son of—I beg your honour's pardon.

Midg, you must, soon as I am drest, st [...]p out and enquire whose house my father is at—I didn't think he had any acquaintance in this part of the coun­try; sound what humour he is in, and how the land lies, before I venture into his presence.

Sir, the room is ready for you to dress

I shall only throw off my boots, and you'll shake a little powder in my hair,

Then, hey puff, I shoulder my curling-irons.

I can hear nothing of these deserters— by my first intelligence, they'll not venture up to London; they must be still lurking about the country; Landlord, have any suspicious looking person put in at your house?

Yes Sir, now and then.

What did you do with them?

Why, Sir, when a man calls for liquor, that I think has got no money, I make him pay before-hand.

Damn your liquor, you self-interested porpoise, chattering about your own private affairs, when public good, or fear of general calamity, should be the only compass. These fellows I am in pursuit of, run from their ships; and if our navy is unmanned, what becomes of you and your house, you dunghill cormorant?

This is a very abusive sort of a gentleman, but he has a full pocket, or he wou'd not be so saucy

[Page 40]

This r [...]scal, I believe, does not know [...]m Sir George Thunder—wind, still variable, blows my affairs athwart each other—Do not know what's become of my runagate son Harry—and when my Lady niece, squeezing up the plumage of our illustrious family in her little mean Quaker's bonnet—I must to town after—' [...]blood, when I catch my son Harry— Oh, here's John Dory.

Have you taken the places in the London coach for me?

Ha!—Hey, your honour, is that yourself?

No, I'm besides myself—where's my son?

What's o'clock?

Why do you talk of clocks or time-pieces?—all glass's, reckoning and log-line, are run wild with me.

If it's two, your son is this moment walking with Lady Amaranth in her garden.

With Lady Amaranth?

If half after, they're cast anchor, to [...]est themselves among the pos [...]es; if three, they're got up again; if four, they're picking a bit of cramm'd fowl; and if half after, they're picking their teeth, and crack­ing walnuts over a bottle of calcavella.

My son!—my dear friend, where did you find him?

I found him where he was, and I left him where he is.

What!—and he come to Lady Ama­ranth's?

No, I brought him there from this house in her carriage—I won't tell him Master Harry went among the players, or he'd never forgive him

—Oh, such a merry, civil, crazy, crack-brain'd—the very picture of your honour.

What, he's in high spirits—ha, ha, ha! the dog—I hope he had discretion enough tho', to throw a little gravity over his mad humour, before his prudent cousin.

[Page 41]

He threw himself upon his knees before her, and that did quite as well.

Made love to her already!—ha, ha, ha!—oh, the impudent, cunning villain—what, and may be he—

Indeed he did give her a smack.

Indeed, ha, ha, ha.

Oh, he threw his arms about her as eager, as I wou'd to catch a falling decanter of Madeira.

Huzza, victoria!—here will be a junc­ture of two bouncing estates—but confound the money! —John, you shall have a bowl for a jolly-boat to swim in. Roll in a puncheon of rum, a hogshead of sugar, shake an orchard of oranges, and let the landlord drain his fish-pond yonder—a bumper, a bumper, &c.

Then, my good master, Sir George, I'll order a bowl, since you're in the humour for it.

And so the wild rogue is this instant rat­tling up her prim Ladyship? Eh? is'n't this he? Left her already.

I must have left my cane in this room— Eh, my father?

Just half after four: why Harry, you've made great haste in crack­ing your walnuts.

Yes; he has heard of my frolics with the players

Dear father, if you'll but forgive me—

Why indeed, you have acted very bad.

Sir, it should be considered I was but a novice.

However, I shall think of nothing now but your benefit.

Very odd his approving of—

I thank you, Sir; but if it's agreeable to you, I have done with Benefits.

If I was not the best of fathers, you might indeed hope none from me; but no matter if you can but get the Fair Quaker.

[Page 42]

Or the Humours of the Navy, Sir.

What! how dare you reflect on the Hu­mours of the Navy? The Navy has very good hu­mours, or I'd never see your dog's face again, you vil­lain. But I'm cool—eh, boy, a snug easy chariot.

I'll order it; desire my father's carriage to draw up.

Mine, you rogue, I've none: I mean Lady Amaranth's.

Yes, Sir, Lady Amaranth's chariot.

What are you at? I meant that you left this house in.

Sir, I left this house on foot.

What, with John Dory?

No, Sir, with Jack Rover.

Why John has been a rover to be sure; but now he's settled: I've made him my valet-de-chambre.

Made him your valet! why Sir, where did you meet with him?

Zounds! I meet him abroad, and meet him on shore—in the cabin and steerage—gallery and forecastle—He sail'd round the world with me.

Strange this: I understood he had been in the East Indies, but he never told me he knew you; but indeed, he only knew me by the name of Dick Buskin.

Then how came he to bring you to Lady Amaranth's?

Bring me where?

Answer me: an't you now come from her Ladyship?

Not I.

Ha, this is a lie of John's to enhance his own services. Then you have not been there.

I don't know where you mean, Sir.

Yes, it's all a brag of John's; but I'll—

The rum and sugar is ready; but as for the fish-pond—

[Page 43]

I'll kick you into it, you thirsty old grampus.

Will you? Then I'll make a comical roasted orange.

How dare you say you brought my son to Lady Amaranth's.

And who says I did'n't?

He that best knows only, Dick Buskin here.

Then Mr. Buckskin mus'n't shoot off great guns for his amusement.

There, what do you say to that?

I say, 'tis false.

False!—shiver my hulk, Mr. Buckskin, if you were a lyon's skin I'd curry your hide for this.

No, no—John's honest—I see through it now—the puppy has seen her; perhaps he has the impudence not to like her—and so blow up this confu­sion and perplexity only to break off a marriage.

What does he mean—I'll assure you—

Damn your assurance, you ungrateful, disobedient—but I'll not part with you till I confront you with Lady Amaranth herself, face to face: and if I prove you have been deceiving me, I'll launch you into the wide ocean of life, without a rudder, compass, grog, or tobacco.

ACT IV.

THE fanciful flights of my pleasant cousin enchant my senses; this book he gave me to read con­taineth good morals. The man Shakespear, that did write it, they call immortal; he must indeed have been filled with divine spirit. I understand, from my cousin, the origin of plays were religious mysteries; [Page 44] that, freed from the superstition of early, and grossness of latter times, the stage is now become the vehicle of delight and morality;—if so, to hear a good play is taking the wholsome draught of precept from a gol­den cup, emboss'd with gems: yet giving my counte­nance to have one in my house, and even to act in it myself, prove the ascendancy my dear Harry has over my heart. Ephraim Smooth is much scandalized at these doings.

This mansion is now become the tabernacle of Baal.

Then abide not in it.

'Tis full of the wicked ones.

Stay not among the wicked ones.

I must shut my ears

.

And thy mouth also, good Ephraim: I have bidden my cousin Harry to my house, and will not set bounds to thy mirth, to gratify thy spleen, and shew my own inhospitality.

Why dost thou suffer him to put into the hands of thy servants books of tragedies, and books of comedies, preludes, and interludes—yea, all lu [...]es; my spirit doth wax wrath. I say unto thee, a play­house is a school for the old dragon, and a play-book the primer of Beelzebub.

This is one; mark.

"Not the King's crown, nor the deputed sword, the marshal's truncheon, nor the judge's robe, becometh them with one half so good a grace as mercy doth. Oh! think on that, and mercy then will breathe within your lives like men new made." Doth Belzebub speak such words?

Thy kinsman hath made all thy servants actors.

To act well is good service.

Here cometh the damsel for whom my heart yearneth.

Oh, Ma'am! his honour, the Sq [...]ire, says the play's to be As You Like It.

[Page 45]

I like it not.

He's given me my character; I am to be Miss Audrey, and brother Sim's to be William of the Forest, as it were; but how am I to get my part by heart?

By often reading it.

Well, I don't know but that's as good as any other.—I must study my part—the Gods give us joy.

Thy maidens skip like young kids.

Then do thou go skip along with them.

Mary, thou should'st be obey'd in thine own house, and I will do thy bidden.

Ah, thou hypocrite, to obey is easy, when the heart commands.

Oh, my charming cousin, how agree you and Rosalind? Are you almost perfect? What, old Clytus! why you're like any angry fiend broke in amongst the laughing gods; come, come, I'll have nothing here but quips, and cranks, and wreathed smiles.

He says we must not have this amuse­ment.

But I have a voice potential, double as the Duke's, and I say we must.

Nay.

Yea, by Jupiter I swear—Aye,

The man of sin rubbeth the hair of the horse to the bowels of the cat.

Now, if agreeable to your Ladyship, we'll go over your song.

I'm content.

What, Sir, do you mean?

[Page 46]

Now do, my good friend, be quiet—Come begin.

Friend, this is a land of liberty, and I've as much right to move my elbows, as thou hast thine.

Why dost thou do so friend?

Friend, this is a land of liberty, and I have as much right to move my elbows as thou hast to move thine

A fanatical puppy.

But, Harry, do you people of fashion act these follies themselves?

Aye, and scramble for the top parts as eager as for stars, ribbands, place, or pension: Lamp, decorate the seats out smart and theatrical, and drill the servants that I have given the small parts

I wish'd for some entertainment, in which people now take delight, to please those I have invited, but will convert those follies into a charitable purpose: tickets of this play shall be delivered to my friends gratis, but money to their amount I will, from my own purse (after rewarding the assistants) distri­bute among the indigent of the village; thus, while we amuse our friends, and perhaps please ourselves, we shall make the poor happy.

An angel!—if Sir George does'n't soon arrive to blow me, I may, I think, marry her angelic Ladyship—but will that be honest?—she's nobly born —tho' I suspect I had ancestors too, if I knew who they were. I entered this house the poorest wight in England, and what must she imagine when I'm dis­covered? That I'm a scoundrel; and consequently, though I should possess her hand and fortune, instead of loving she'll despise me

I want a friend now to consult with—deceive her I will not—poor Dick Buskin wants money more than myself, yet this is a measure I'm sure he'd scorn. No no, I must not.

Now I hope my passionate father will be convinced that this is the first time I was ever under this roof, What beau is here?—astonishing! my old strolling friend

[Page 47]

I don't know what to do.

Nor what to say.

Dick Buskin, ha, ha, ha,—my dear fellow —think of the devil, and—I was just thinking of you, —'pon my soul, Dick, I am happy to see you.

But, Jack, how the devil have you found me out?

Found you, I'm sure I wonder how the deuce you found me out—oh, the news of my intended play has brought you.

He does not as yet know who I am, so I'll carry it on.

Then you have broke your engagement with Truncheon, at Winchester?—figur­ing away in your stage-cloaths too, really.—Tell me what you are here, Jack?

Will you be quiet with your Jacking, I'm now 'Squire Harry.

What!

I've been press'd into this service by an old man of war, who found me at the inn, and insisted I'm son to Sir George Thunder. In that character, I flatter myself, I have won the heart of the charming lady of this house.

Now the mystery is out—

—then it's my friend Jack has been brought here for me.— Do you know the young gentleman they take you for?

Not I; but I flatter myself he is honoured in his representative.

Upon my soul, Jack, you're a tight fellow.

Now I can put some pounds in your pocket —you shall be employed—we're getting up As You Like It—let's see in the cast, have I a part for you— egad, I'll take Touchstone from Lamp, you shall have it, my boy—I'd resign Orlando to you, with any other Rosalind, but the lady of the mansion plays it herself.

The very lady my father intended for me.

Do you love her, Jack?

To distraction—but I'll not have her.

No—why?

[Page 48]

She thinks me a gentleman, and I'll not convince her I'm a rascal; I'll go on with our play, as the produce is appropriated to a good purpose, then lay down my 'Squireship, bid adieu to my heavenly Rosalind, and exit for ever from her house, poor Jack Rover.

The generous fellow I ever thought him, and he shan't lose by it—if I could make him believe

—Well, this is the most whimsical affair— you've anticipated me—you'll scarce believe that I'm come here purposely to pass myself for this young Harry.

No.

I am.

Harry, where are you?

Who's that?

I'll try it—my father will be cursedly vext—no matter.

Somebody called Harry—zounds, if the real Simon Pure, that is, should be arrived, I'm in a pure way.

Be quiet, that's my confederate, he's to personate the father, Sir George, he started the scheme —having heard that an union was intended, and Sir George immediately expected, our plan is, if I can, before his arrival, flourish myself into the lady's good graces, and whip her up, as she's an heiress.

So, you have turn'd fortune hunter. Then 't'was for this plan you parted from me on the road, standing like a figure-post, you walk up this way, and I'll walk down this—why, Dick, I did not know you was so great a rogue.

I did not know my fort lay that way, till convinc'd by this experienced stranger.

He must be a damn'd impudent old scoun­drel—who is he, do I know him?

Why, no, I hope not.

I'll step down stairs, and have the honor of kicking him.

Stop, I wou'd'n't have him hurt, neither.

What's his name?

[Page 49]

His name is Abrawang.

Abrawang, Abrawang—I never heard of him—but, Dick, why did you let him persuade you into this affair?

Why, faith, I would have been off it, but when once he takes a project into his head, the devil can't drive it out of him.

Yes, but the constables may drive him into Winchester goal.

Your opinion of our intended exploit has made me ashamed of myself—Harkee, Jack, do you punish and frighten my adviser, do you still keep up your character of young 'Squire Thunder—you can easily do that, as he, no more than myself, has never seen the 'Squire.

But, by heavens, I'll not be such a damned rogue.

Yes, but Jack, if you can marry her, her fortune is a snug thing; besides, if you love each other, I tell you—

Hang her fortune—my love's more noble than the world, prizes not quantity of dirty lands— Oh, Dick, she's the most lovely—think of her conde­scension—why she consented to play in our play, and you shall see her, you rogue, you shall.

Ha, ha, ha, this is the drollest adven­ture—Rover little suspects that I am the identical 'Squire Thunder that he personates—I'll lend him my character a little longer—yes, this offer is a most ex­cellent opportunity of making my poor friend's fortune, without injuring any body. If possible, he shall have her, I can't regret the loss of charms I never knew, and for an estate, my father is competent to all my wishes. Lady Amaranth, by marrying Jack Rover, will gain a man of honour, which she might lose in an Earl—it may teaze my father a little at first, but he's a good old fellow in the main, and when I think he comes to know my motive!—Eh, this must be she—an elegant woman, faith—now for a spanking lie, to continue her in the belief that Jack is the man she thinks him.

Who art thou, friend?

Madam, I've scarce time to warn you against the danger you're in, of being imposed upon by your uncle, Sir George,

How!

He has heard of your Ladyship's parti­ality for his son, but is so incensed at the irregularity of his conduct, he intends, if possible, to disinherit him, and to present me hither, to pass me on you for him, designing to treat the poor young gentleman himself as an impostor, in hopes you'll banish him from your heart and house.

I thank thee, friend, for thy caution —is Sir George such a parent—what's thy name?

Richard Buskin, Ma'am, the stage is my profession—in the 'Squire's late excursion we contracted an intimacy, and I saw so many good qualites in him, that I could not think of being the instrument of his ruin, nor deprive your Ladyship of so good a husband as I am certain he will make you.

Then Sir George intends to disown him.

Yes Ma'am, I've this moment told the young gentleman of it; he's determined, for a jest, to return the compliment, by seeming to treat Sir George himself as an impostor.

Ha, ha, ha, t'will be a just retaliation, and indeed what my uncle deserveth, for his cruel in­tentions both to his son and me.

What has he run away again?

That's mine uncle.

Yes, here's my father, and my standing out that I'm not his son, will raise him into the heat of a battle, ha, ha, ha,

Here he is, Madam, now mind how he'll dub me a 'Squire.

Well my Lady, was'nt it as my wild rogue set you, all tho' calcavell as capers, you've been cutting in the garden. You see here I have brought him into line of battle again—you villain, why do you drop a stern there, throw a salute shot, buss her bob-stays, [Page 51] bring to, and come down straight as a mast, you dog.

Uncle, who is this?

Who is he—egad, that's an odd question, to the fellow that has been cracking your walnuts.

He's bad at his lesson.

Certainly, when he ran from school— why don't you speak, you lubber, you are cursed mo­dest—before I came, 'twas all down among the po­sies; here, my Lady, take from a father's hand, Harry Thunder.

That is what I may not.

There, I thought you would disgust her, you flat fish.

Here, take from my hand Harry Thunder.

Eh!

Oh, this is your sham Sir George,—

Yes, I've been telling the Lady, and still seem to humour him.

I shan't though; how do you Abrawang?

Abrawang!

You look like a good actor; aye, that's very well indeed. Never, never lose sight of your cha­racter; you know Sir George is a noisy, turbulent, wicked old knave; bravo! Pout your under lip, purse your brows:—Very well; but damn it, Abrawang, you should have put a little red on your nose—mind a rule, never play an old man without a red nose.

I'm in such a fury.

Well we know that.

Who is this?

Some puppy unknown.

And you don't know this gentleman?

Excellent well! he's a fishmonger.

Ah, What!

Yes; father and son are determin'd not to know each other.

Come, Dick, give the Lady a specimen of [Page 52] your talent, Motleys, your only wear, ha, ha, ha, a fool I met, a fool in the forest. Here comes Audry.

La! warrent, what features!

'Sblood! what's this?

A homely thing, Sir, but she's my own.

Your's, you most audacious!—What this slut?

I thank the Gods for my slutishness.

You know this youth.

My friend, Horatio; I wear him in my heart, yea, in my heart of hearts, as I do this—

Such freedom with my niece, before my face. Do you know that Lady? Do you know my son, Sir?

Be quiet; Jaffier has discovered the plot, and you can't deceive the senate.

Yes, my conscience would not let me carry it through.

Aye, his conscience hanging about the neck of his heart, says good Launcelot and good Gobbo, or as aforesaid good Launcelot Gobbo, take to thy heels and run away.

Why, my Lady, explain—scoundrel and puppy unknown.

Ma'am, I forgot to tell you our old neigh­bour Banks and his sister wants you.

I come—Uncle, I've heard thy father was kind to theee; return that kindness to thy child— if the lamb in wanton play doth fall amongst the waters, the shepherd taketh him out, instead of plunging him in deeper till he dieth—though thy hairs now be grey, I'm told once was flaxen; in short, he's too old in folly, who cannot excuse youth.

I'm an old fool! well, that's damn'd civil of you, Madam Niece; and I'm a grey shepherd, with his lambs in the ditch; but as for you, Mr. Goat, I'll—

My dear Abrawang, give up the game; her Ladyship in seeming to take you for her uncle, has been only humming you—What, the devil, don't you think the divine creature knows her own true-born uncle?

[Page 53]

Certainly, to be sure she knows me.

Will you have done?—Zounds, man, my honored father was here himself this day—her ladyship knows his person.

Your honored father, and who the devil's your honor'd self?

Now, by my father's son, that's myself it shall be sun, or moon, or Cheshire-cheese—I budge still crop and cropp'd.

What do you bawl out to me about Che­shire-cheese.

And I say; as the saying is, your friend has told me all; but to convince you of my forgiveness, in our play, as you're rough and tough, I cast your character the Wrestler—I'll do Orlando, kick up your heels before the whole court.

I'll—why, dam'me, I'll—and you, you undutiful chick of an old pelican

What are you at here, cudgelling people about?—But, Mr. Buckskin, I've a word to say to you in private.

Buckskin, take that

Why dam'me, Mr. Abrawang, you're a most obstinate drum, and very—

All the world's a stage, and all men and women—

The men are rogues, and the women hussies.

A blow, Essex, a blow, an old rascally im­postor; stigmatize me with a blow—I must not put up with it.—Zounds! I shall be tweak'd by the nose all round the country. If I can get the country lad to steal me a pair of pistols, strike me, so may this arm dash him to the earth like a dead dog, despite, pride, shame, and the name of villain light on me, if I don't bring you Mr. Abrawang.

Madam, I would have paid the rent of my little cottage; but I dare say it was without your Ladyship's consent that your Steward has turned me out, and put my neigbour in possession.

My Steward oppress the poor! I did not know it indeed.

The pangs of adversity I could bear; but the innocent partner of my misfortunes, my unhappy sister—

I did desire Ephraim to send for thy sister; did she dwell with thee, and both now without a home? let her come to mine.

The hand of misery hath struck me beneath your notice.

Thou dost mistake; to need my assistance is the highest claim to my attention—let me see her.

I could chide myself that these pastimes have turned mine eyes from the house of woe. Ah, think ye proud and happy affluent, how many in your dancing moments pine in want, drink their salt tears —their morsel the bread of misery, and shrinking from the cold blast, into their cheerless hovels!

Thou art welcome: I feel myself interested in thy concern.

Madam—

I judge thou wert not always unhappy, tell me thy condition, then I shall better know how to serve thee: is thy brother thy sole kindred?

I had a husband and a son.

Widow, if it is real, not images, thou wouldest forget—impart to me thy story, 'tis rumour'd in the village thy brother was a clergyman, tell me.

Madam, he was; but he has lost his early patron, and he's now poor and unbeneficed.

But thy husband.

By this brother's advice now (twenty years [Page 55] since) I was prevailed on to listen to the addresses of a young sea officer, for my brother had been chaplain in the navy; but, to our surprize and mortification, we discovered, by the honesty of a sailor, in whom we put confidence, that the Captain's design was only to decoy me into a seeming marriage; our humble friend intreated of us to put the deceit on his master, by concealing from him that my brother was not in orders; he, flattered with the hopes of procuring me an establishment, gave into supposed imposition, and performed the ceremony.

Duplicity, even with a good intent, is ill.

Madam, the event has justified your censure, for my husband, not knowing himself really bound by any legal tie, abandoned me—I followed him to the Indies; distracted, till seeing him, I left my infant at one of our settlements; but after a fruitless search, on my return, I found the friend, to whose care I committed my child, was compelled to retire from the ravages of war, but where I could not hear—rent with agonizing pangs, without a child or husband, I again saw England, and my brother, who wounded himself with remorse for being the cause of my misfortunes, secluded himself from all joys of social life, and invited me to partake the comforts of solitude in that asylum, from whence we have both just now been driven.

My pity can do thee no good, yet must I pity thee; but resignation to what must be, may restore peace; if my means can procure thee comfort, they are at thy pleasure—come let thy griefs subside—in­stead of thy cottage, accept thou and thy brother every convenience that my mansion can afford.

Madam, I can only thank you with

My thanks are here—come thou shalt be chearfully—I will introduce thee to my sprightly cousin Harry, and his father, my humorous uncle— we have delights going forward that may amuse thee.

Kind Lady.

Come, uncle, though a quaker, thou see'st I'm merry—the sweetest joy of wealth and power is to cheer one another's drooping heart, and wipe from the palid cheek the tear of sorrow!

ACT V.

WELL, lads, what's to be done?

We've long been upon our shifts, and after all our tricks, twists, and turns, as London was too hot for us, a trip to Portsmouth was a hit.

Aye, but since the cash we touched upon, pretending to be able bodied seamen, is now come to the last shilling, and as we deserted, means of fresh supply must be thought on to take us to London.

Aye, now to recruit the pocket, with­out hazarding the neck.

By an advertisement posted on the stocks yonder, there are collectors on this road, thirty guineas offered by the quaker lady, owner of the esta [...]s round here—I wish we could knap any straggler to bring before her, a quaker will only require yea for an oath, we might pick up this thirty guineas.

Yes, but we must take care, if we fall into the hands of this gentleman that's in pursuit of us—'Sdeath, is not that his man, the old boatswain?

Don't run, I think we three are a match for him.

Let's keep up our characters of sailors, we may get something out of him; a pitiful story makes such an impression on the soft heart of a true tar, that he'll open his hard hand and drop you his last guinea—if we can but make him believe we were pressed, we have him, only mind me.

To rattle my lanthorn, Sir George's tem­per now always blows a hurricane.

What cheer?

Ha, boy.

Bob up with your speaking trumpet.

D'ye see, brother, this is the thing—

We three hands, just come home after a long voyage, [Page 57] were pressed in the river, and without letting us see our friends brought round to Portsmouth, and then we entered freely—'cause why, we had no choice— then we run—we hear some gentleman's in chace of us, and as the shots are all out, we'll surrender.

Surrender—then you have no shots left, indeed—let's see

I hav'n't the load­ing of a gun about me now, and this same Monsieur Poverty is a bitter enemy.

'Tis the deserters I'm after.

Meet me in an hour's time in the little wood yonder, I'll raise the wind to blow you into a safe lattitude—Keep out to sea, my masters the rock you'll cetainly split upon.

This is the first time we ever saw you, but we'll steer by your chart, for I never knew one seaman betray another.

Then they have been pressed— I can't blame them so much for running away.

Yes, Sir George would certainly hang them.

You lie; they shall eat beef and drink the King's health—run and tell them so—stop, I'll tell them myself.

Now you are yourself, and a kind gentleman, as you used to be.

Since these idle rogues are inclined to return to their duty, they shan't want sea stores; take this money—but I'll meet them myself, and advise them as I would my own children.

Which way did this Mr. Abrawang take?— Dick Buskin, I think, has no suspicion of my intention, and since Sim has, without making an alarm, pro­cured these pistols, such a cholerick spark will fight. I dare say. If I fall, or even survive this affair, I'll leave the field of love and the fair prize to the young gentleman I've personated, for I'm determined to see Lady Amaranth no more—Oh, here comes Abrawang.

Now to relieve these sea gulls—they must be hovering about this place.—Ha, puppy unknown!

You're the very man I was seeking for— you're not ignorant, Mr. Abrawang?

Mr. What?—

You'll not resign your title—oh, very well, I'll indulge you—Sir George Thunder, you honored me with a blow.

Did'n't hurt you.

'Sdeath, Sir, but let me proceed like a gen­tleman; as it's my pride to reject even favors, no man shall offer me an injury.

Eh!

In rank we're equal.

Are we, faith?—the English of all this is, we're to fight.

Sir, you have mark'd in me an indelible stain, only to be wash'd out by my blood.

Why I've only one objection to fight­ing you.

What's that, Sir?

That you're too brave a lad to be kill'd.

Brave! no, Sir; at present I wear the stigma of a coward.

Zounds, I like a bit of fighting— hav'nt had a morsel a long time—don't know when I smelt gunpowder, but to bring down a woodcock.

Take your ground.

I'm ready—but are we to thrust with bull-rushes, like two frogs, or like two squirrels, pelt one another with nut-shells, for I don't see any other weapons here.

Oh, yes, Sir, here are the weapons.

Well, this is bold work for a privateer to give battle to a King's ship.

Try your charge, Sir, and take your ground.

I woud'n't wish to sink, burn or destroy what I thought was built for good service, but dam'me if I don't bring wing to you, to teach you better [Page 59] manners; so take care, or I'll put some red on your nose.

Ah, here's the honest fellow has brought us some cash.

We're betray'd, it's the very gentleman that's in pursuit of of us, and this promise was only a decoy to throw us into his power—the pistol!

Good charge

Ha, boys!

You'd have our lives, and we'll have yours.

Rascals!

My brave lad I'll —

No, you shan't.

The rogues will—

Never mind the rogues.

S'blood, must I see my preserver perish?

I'm your preserver, and I will perish, but I'll bring you out of harm's way,

Tho' he'd fight me himself—

We all know you'd fight the very devil.

He sav'd my life.

I'll save your life—

—hawl up, my noble little jolly-boat.

Boy, go on with the inventory.

How unlucky, feyther, to lay hold on me, when I wanted to practice my part.

[Page 60]

This proceeding is too severe—to lay an execution on my wretched trifling goods, when I thought—

Aye, you've gone up to the big house with your complaint—her Ladyship's steward, to be sure, has made me give back your cottage and farm, but your goods I seized for my rent.

Leave me but a few necessaries; by my own labour, and the goodness of my neighbours, I may soon redeem what the law has put in your hands.

The affair is now in my lawyer's hands, and plaintiff and defendant chattering about it is all smoke.

Feyther, don't be so cruel to Mr. Banks.

I'll mark what I may want for myself—stay you and see that not a pin's point be removed.

Dam'me, if I'll be a watch dog to bite the poor, that I won't. Mr. Banks, as my feyther intends to put up your goods to auction, if you could but get a friend to buy the choice of them for you again; sister Jane has got steward to advance her a quarter's wages, and when I've gone to sell corn for feyther, I've made a market penny now and then —it is'n't much, but every little helps.

I thank you, my good natured boy, but keep your money.

I remember, about eight year ago you sav'd me from being drown'd at Black Poole—if you'll not take this, I'll fling it into Black Poole directly.

My kind lad, I'll not hurt your feelings, by opposing your liberality.

He, he, he!—He's given my heart such pleasure, as I never felt, nor I'm sure my feyther before me.

But, Sim, whatever may be his opinion of worldly prudence, still remember he's your parent.

I will—One elbow chair, one claw table.

The confusion into which Lady Amaranth's family is thrown, by the sudden departure and ap­prehended danger of her young cousin, must have prevented her Ladyship from giving that attention to our affairs that I'm sure was her inclination—if I can but prevail on my brother to accept of her protection —Heavens, what's this?

What a race— I've got clear of those blood-hounds at last; if Abra­wang had but followed and back'd me, we'd have tickled their catastrophe, but three to one is odds, so safe's the word. Who's house is this I've run into— the friendly cottage of my hospitable old gentleman— are you at home?

I had a hard struggle for it, murder was certainly their intent—it was well for me I was born without brains—I'm quite weak and faint.

Sir, a'n't you well?

Madam, I ask your pardon—yes, Madam, very well, I thank you, now exceedingly well—got into a kind of rumpus with some worthy gentlemen— not gentlemen, but simple farmers, who mistook me, I fancy, for a sheath of barley, for they had me down, and their flails flew merrily about my ears, but I got up, and when I could no longer fight like a mastiff, I run like a greyhound—but, dear Madam, pray excuse me—this is very rude, faith.

You seem disturb'd, will you take any re­freshment?

Madam, you're very good—only a glass of some currant wine, if you please; I think it stands somewhere thereabouts.

Madam, I've the honor of drinking your health.

I hope you're not hurt, Sir.

A little better, but very faint still; I had a sample of this before, and lik'd it so much that Ma'am won't you take another?

Ma'am if you'd [Page 62] been fighting as I have, you'd be glad of a drop

Now I'm as well as any man in Illyria—got a few hard knocks, tho'.

You'd better repose a little, you seem'd much disordered coming in.

Why Madam you must know that it was—

Come Ma'am, Mr. Gammon wants this chair to make up the half dozen above.

What's all this?

Why, the furniture's seiz'd on execution, and a man must do his duty.

Then scoundrel know, that a man's first duty is civility and tenderness to a woman.

Heaven's where's my brother, this gentle­man will bring himself into trouble.

Master, d'ye see, I'm representative for his honor the High Sheriff.

Every High Sheriff should be a gentleman, and when he's represented by a rascal, he's dishonored; damn it, I might as well live about Covent Garden, and every night get beating the watch, for here among groves and meadows, I'm always squabling with constables.

Come, come, I must—

As you say Sir, last Wednesday so it was, Sir, your most obedient humble servant, pray, Sir, have you ever been astonished?

What?

Because Sir, I intend to astonish you,

Now Sir, are you astonished?

Yes, but see if I don't suit you with an action.

Right—suit the action to the word, and the word to the action. See if the gentleman be not af­frighted, damme, but I'll make thee an example.

A fine example when goods are seized by the law.

[Page 63]

Thou worm and maggot of the law, hop me over every kennel house, or you shall hop without my custom.

I don't value your custom.

I have astonish'd, now I'll amaze you.

No Sir, I won't be amazed, but see if I don't.

Hop!

Madam these sort of gentry, are but bad company for a lady, so I'll just see him to the door—Ma'am I'm your most humble servant.

I feel a strange kind of curiosity to know who this young gentleman is. I find my hear interested, I can't account for it; he must know the house by the freedom he took: but then his gaiety, (without familiar rudeness) elegance of manners and good breeding, seem to make him at home every where— my brother I think must know him.

Amelia, did you see the young gentleman that was here?—some ruffians have bound and dragg'd him from the door, on the allegation of three men who means to swear he has robbed them, and have taken him to Lady Amaranth's.

How! he did enter in confusion as if pur­sued, but I'll stake my life on his innocence, I'll speak to her Ladyship, and in spite of calumny he shall have justice; he wou'dn't let me be insulted, because he saw me an unprotected woman, without a husband or a son and shall he want an advocate brother? come—

I believe there is no soul in the house but myself; my Lady has sent all the folks round the country, to search after the young 'Squire; she'll cer­tainly break her heart if any thing happens to him. I dont wonder, for sure he's a dear sweet gentleman. His going has spoiled our play, and I had almost got [Page 64] my part by heart, but must, must go and do up the room for Mr. Banks's sister, whom my Lady has in­vited here—

The man John Dory hath carried the man George here in his arms, and he locked him up; co­ming in they did look, like a blue lobster with a shrimp in its claw. Here is the damsel I love alone.

They say when folks look in the glass, they see the black gentleman.

La, there he is!

Thou art employed in vanity.

Well, who are you?

It's natural for woman to love man.

Yea, but not such ugly men as you are, why did you come in to frighten me? when you know there's nobody here but ourselves.

I'm glad of that; I'm the elm, and thou'rt the honey-suckle, let thine arms entwine me.

What a rogue is here, but yonder comes my Lady. Ill shew him off in his true colours.

Cla [...] me round.

I will, if you will pull off your hat and make me a low bow.

I cannot bend my body, nor take off my beaver.

Then you're very impudent, go along.

To win thy favor.

Well, now read me a speech out of that fine play book.

Read a play book! abo-mi-nation! but wilt thou kiss me?

I Kiss a man! abomination, but you may take my hand.

Oh, 'tis a comfort to the lip of the faithful.

How!

Ah, thou sly and deceitful hypocrite!

[Page 65]

Verily Mary I was buffetted by Satan in the shape of a damsel.

Begone,

My spirit is sad tho' I move so nimbly,

But oh, heavens! no tidings of my dear­est Harry, Jane, let them renew their search.

Here's Madam Amelia—but I'll make brother Sim look for the young 'Squire.

Oh, Madam might I implore your influence with—

Thou art ill accomodated here, but I hope thou wilt excuse it, my mind is a sea of trouble, my peace is shipwrecked! Oh, had'st thou seen my Cousin Harry! all who know him must be anxious for his safety! how unlucky, this servant to prevent Sir George from giving him that assistance, which pater­nal cares and indeed gratitude demanded, for 'twas filial affection bade him to pursue those wicked men, callous to every feeling of humanity—they may—yes my Henry in the opening bud of manliness is nipp'd!

Heave a-head.

Rascal, whip me up like a pound of tea, dance about like a young bear! make me quit the preserver of my life, yes, puppy unknown will think me a paltroon, and that I was afraid to follow and second him.

You may as well turn into your hammock, for out to night you shall not go.

Mercy of heaven is'n't it—only look.

'Tis my Amelia.

Reef your foresail first, you crack'd her heart by sheering off, and now you'll overset her by bringing to.

Are you at length return'd to me, my Sey­mour?

[Page 66]

Seymour!—her mind's disturbed—this is mine uncle, Sir George Thunder.

No, no, my Lady, she knows what she's saying, well enough.

Niece, I have been a villain to this lady, I confess; but, my dear Amelia, providence has done you justice in part; for from the first month I quitted you, I have never entered one happy hour on my journals—hearing that you foundered, and con­sidering myself the cause, the worm of remorse has knaw'd my timbers.

You're not still offended with me.

Me—can you forgive me my offence, and condescend to take my hand as an atonement?

Your hand—do you forget we're already married?

Aye, there was my rascality.

You may say that.

That marriage, my dear, I'm ashamed to own it—but it was—

As good as if done by the chaplain of the Eagle.

Hold your tongue, you impudent crimp, you [...] pandar, you bad adviser—I'll strike my false colours, I'll acknowledge the chaplain you provided was—

A good man, and a greater honor to his black, than your honor has been to your blue cloth; by the word of a seaman, here he is himself.

Your brother!

Capt. Seymour! have I found you, Sir?

My dear Banks, I'll make every repa­ration—Amelia shall really be my wife.

That, Sir, my sister is already; for when I performed the marriage ceremony, which you took only as a cloak of your deception, I was actually in orders.

Now who's the crimp and the pandar?— I never told you this, because I thought a man's own [Page 67] reflections were the best punishment for betraying an innocent woman.

You shall be a post captain for this, sink me, if you shan't.

Madam, my inmost soul partaketh of thy gladness and joy for thy reformation:

but thy prior marriage to this lady annuls the subsequent, and my cousin Harry is not now thine heir.

So much the better, he's an unnatural cub—but, Amelia, I flatter myself I have an heir— my infant boy.

Ha, husband, you had, but—

Gone—well, well, I see I have been a miserable scoundrel—I'll adopt that brave kind lad, that wou'd'n't let any body kill me but himself, he shall have my estate, that's my own acqusition—my lady marrying him—Puppy Unknown's a fine fel­low! Amelia, only for him, you'd never have found your husband.—Captain Seymour is Sir George Thunder.

What!

Are you Sir George Thunder.

Please you, Madam, they have got a foot-pad in custody.

I'm come to sit in judgment, for there is a bad man in thy house, Mary—bring him before me.

Before you, old Squintabus! perhaps you don't know I'm a magistrate.

I'll examine him.

You be damn'd; I'll examine him my­self—tow him in here, I'll give him a passport to Winchester bilbows.

Oh, Sir, as you hope for mercy, extend it to this youth, and even should he be guilty, which from our knowledge of his benevolent and noble nature, I think next to an impossibility, let the services he has rendered us plead for him—he protected your forsaken wife, and her unhappy brother, in the hour of want and sorrow.

[Page 68]

What, Amelia plead for a robber!— consider my love, Justice is above bias or partiality; if my son violated the laws of his country. I'd deli­ver him up as a public victim to disgrace and punish­ment.

Oh, my impartial uncle! Had thy country any laws to punish him, who instead of pal­try gold, would rob the artless virgin of her dearest treasure, in the rigid judge, I should now behold the trembling criminal.

Speak thou—

Hold thy clapper, thou—you wretched person, who are the prosecutors.

Call in—

Will nobody stop his mouth

Where are the prosecutors?

There, tell his worship the justice.

A justice—oh, the devil!—I thought we should have nothing but quakers to deal with

Come, how did this fellow rob you?

Why, your honour, I swear—

Oh, ho!

Zounds, we're in the wrong, this is the very—

Clap down the hatches, secure these sharks.

I'm glad to find you here, Abrawang, as I believe you have some knowledge of these gentlemen.

Heaven's, my cousin Harry!

The Devil! is'n't that my spear and shield?

My young master, what have you been at [...]ere,

this rope may be wanted yet.

My dear fellow are you safe?

Yes, Dick, I was brought here very safe, I assure you.

[Page 69]

A confederate in custody has made a con­fession of their villainy, that they concerted this plan to accuse him of a robbery, first for revenge, then in hopes to share the reward for apprehending him; he also owns they are not sailors but depredators on the public.

What, could you find no jacket to disgrace by your wearing than that of an English Seamen— a character, whose bravery is even the admiration of his enemies, and genuine honesty of heart, the glory of human nature? Keep them safe.

Aye, I knew the rope would be wanted,

Not knowing that the Justice of Peace whom they brought the lad before, is the very man they attacked, ha, ha, ha! the rogues have fallen into their own snare.

What now you're a Justice of Peace?—well said, Abrawang.

Then, Sir George you know him too?

Know him! to be sure I do.

Still Sir George—what then you will not resign your Knighthood! Madam, I'm happy to see you again. Ah, how do you do, my kind host?

I rejoice at thy safety, be reconcil'd to him.

Reconcil'd! if I don't love, respect and honor him, I should be unworthy of the life he rescued —but who is he?

Sir, he is—

Dick, I thank you for your good wishes, but I'm still determined not to impose on this Lady. Madam, as I first told that well-meaning tar, when he forc'd me to your house, I'm not the son of Sir George Thunder.

Then I wish you was the son of an Admiral, and I your father.

You refuse the lady—to punish you, I have a mind to take her myself, my dear Cousin.

[Page 70]

Stop Dick, if I who adore her won't, you shall not; no, no, Madam, never mind what the fellow says, he's as poor as myself, is'n't he Abrawang?

Then my dear Rover, since you are so obstinately interrested, I'll no longer teize my father, whom you here see, and in your strolling friend, his very truant Harry that ran from Portsmoth Academy, and joined you and fellow Comedians.

Indeed!

Dear cousin forgive me, if thro' my zeal for the happiness of my friend, I endeavoured to pro­mote your's, by giving you a husband, more worthy than myself.

Am I to believe, Madam, is your uncle Sir George Thunder in the room?

He is.

'Tis you in reality; what I've had the im­pudence to assume, and have perplex'd your father with my ridiculous effrontery. I told you

I was not the person you took me for, but you must bring your damn'd chariot—I am asham'd and mor­tified—Madam, I take my leave.

Thou art welcome to go.

Sir George, as the father of my friend, I can­not lift my hand against you, but I hope, Sir, you'll apoligize to me apart.

Aye, with pleasure, my noble splinter. Now tell me from what dock you were launch'd, my heart of oak?

I heard in England, Sir; but from my earliest knowledge, till within a few years I've been in the East Indies.

Beyond seas—well, and how?

It seems I was committed an infant to the care of a lady, who was herself obliged by the gentle Hyder Ally to strike her toilet, and decamp without beat of drum, leaving me a chubby little fellow, squatted on a carpet; a serjant's wife alone returned, and snatched me off triumphant, thro' fire, smoke, cannon, cries, and carnage.

[Page 71]

Dost thou mark?

Sir, can you recollect the name of the town where—

Yes Madam, the town was Negapatam.

I thank you, Sir.

An officer, who had much rather act Hotspur on the stage, than in the field, brought me up behind the scenes at Calcutta theatre; I was enroll'd on the boards, acted myself into the favour of a colonel, pro­mised a pair of colours; but impatient to find my parents, hid myself in the steerage of a homeward­bound ship, assumed the name of Rover, from the un­certainty of my sate, and have murdered more Poets, than Rajahs, stopped on English ground unincumbered with rupees or pagodas.—Ha, ha, ha, wouldst'st thou have come home so, little Ephraim?

I would bring myself home with some money.

Excuse my curiosity, Sir—what was the lady's name in whose care you was left?

Oh, Madam, she was the lady of a Major Linstock, but I heard my mother's name was Seymour.

Why, Amelia!

My son!

Madam!

It is my Charles.

Tol de rol!—

—Tho' I never heard it before, my heart told me he was a chip of the old block. Your father

Can it—

Yes, my son, Sir George Thunder here is Captain Seymour, in search of whom you may have heard I quitted England.

Heavens, then have I attempted to raise my hands against a parent's life.

My brave boy—then have I a son with spirit to fight me as a sailor, yet defend me as a father.

Uncle, you'll recollect 'twas I first in­troduced this son to thee.

[Page 72]

And I hope you'll next introduce a grandson to me, young Slyboots.—Harry, you have lost your fortune.

Yes, Sir—but I've gained a brother, whose friendship, before I knew him to be such, I prized before the first fortune in England.

My dearest Rosalind.

Then, you will take our Charles?

Yea; but only on conditions, thou be­stow thy fortune on his friend and brother—mine is sufficient for us both, is it not?

Angelic creature! to think of my generous friend. But now for As You Like It; where's Lamp and Trap! I shall ever love a play; a spark from Shakespeare's muse of fire, was the star that guided me through my desolate and bewildered maze of life, and brought me to these unexpected blessings.

ACT I.

Well said, Dy; thank you, Dy. This, master Jen­kins, is the way I make my daughter entertain me every morning at breakfast. Come here and kiss me, you slut; come here and kiss me, you baggage.

Lord, papa, you call one such names—

A fine girl, master Jenkins, a devilish fine girl! she has got my eye to a twinkle. There's fire for you!— spirit!—I design to marry her to a Duke; how much money do you think a Duke would expect with such a wench?

Why, Colonel, with submission, I think there is no occasion to go out of our own country here; we have never a Duke in it, I believe; but we have many an ho­nest gentleman, who, in my opinion, might deserve the young lady.

So you would have me marry Dy to a country Squire, eh! How say you to this, Dy? Would not you rather be married to a Duke?

[Page 6]

So my husband's a rake, papa, I don't care what he is.

A rake! you damned confounded little baggage; why, you would not wish to marry a rake, would you? So her husband is a rake, she does not care what he is!— Ha, ha, ha, ha!

Well, but listen to me, papa—When you go out with your gun, do you take any pleasure in shooting the poor tame ducks and chickens in your yard? No, the partridge, the pheasant, the woodcock, are the game; there is some sport in bringing them down, because they are wild; and it is just the same with an husband or a lover. I would not waste powder and shot to wound one of your sober pretty behaved gentlemen; but to hit a libertine, extravagant, madcap fellow, to take him upon the wing—

Do you hear her, master Jenkins? Ha, ha, ha!

Well, but good Colonel, what do you say to my worthy and honorable patron here, Sir John Flowerdale? He has an estate of eight thousand pounds a year as well, paid rents as any in the kingdom, and but one only daugh­ter to enjoy it; and yet he is willing, you see, to give this daughter to your son.

Pray, Mr. Jenkins, how does Miss Clarissa and our university friend, Mr. Lionel? That is the only grave young man I ever liked, and the only handsome one I ever was acquainted with, that did not make love to me.

Ay, master Jenkins, who is this Lionel? They say he is a damned witty, knowing fellow; and egad I think him well enough for one brought up in a college.

His father was a general officer, a particular friend of Sir John's, who, like many more brave men that live and die in defending their country, left little else than honour behind him▪ Sir John sent this young man, at his own expence, to Oxford; where, while his son lived, they were upon the same footing: and since our young gentleman's death, which you know unfortunately hap­pened about two years ago, he has continued him there. During the vacation he is come to pay us a visit, and Sir John intends that he shall shortly take orders for a very [Page 7] considerable benefice in the gift of the family, the pre­sent incumbent of which is an aged man.

The last time I was at your house, he was teach­ing Miss Clarissa mathematics and philosophy. Lord! what a strange brain I have! If I was to sit down to dis­tract myself with such studies—

Go, hussey, let some of your brother's rascals in­form their master that he has been long enough at his toilet; here is a message from Sir John Flowerdale— You a brain for mathematics, indeed! we shall have women wanting to head our regiments to-morrow or next day.

Well, papa, and suppose we did. I believe, in a battle of the sexes, you men would hardly get the bet­ter of us.

Well, master Jenkins! don't you think now that a nobleman, a Duke, an Earl, or a Marquis, might be con­tent to share his title—I say, you understand me—with a sweetener of thirty or forty thousand pounds, to pay off mortgages? Besides, there's a prospect of my whole estate; for, I dare swear her brother will never have any children.

I should be concerned at that, Colonel, when there are two such fortunes to descend to his heirs, as yours and Sir John Flowerdale's.

Why, look you, master Jenkins, Sir John Flower­dale is an honest gentleman; our families are nearly re­lated; we have been neighbours time out of mind; and if he and I have an odd dispute now and then, it is not for [Page] want of a cordial esteem at bottom. He is going to marry his daughter to my son; she is a beautiful girl, an elegant girl, a sensible girl, a worthy girl, and—a word in your ear—damn me, it I an't very sorry for her.

Sorry! Colonel?

Ay—between ourselves, master Jenkins, my son won't do.

How do you mean?

I tell you, master Jenkins, he won't do—he is not the thing, a prig—At sixteen years old, or thereabouts, he was a bold sprightly boy, as you should see in a thou­sand; could drink his pint of port, or his bottle of claret —now he mixes all his wine with water.

Oh! if that be his only fault, Colonel, he will ne [...]er make the worse husband, I'll answer for it.

You know my wife is a woman of quality—I was prevailed upon to send him to be brought up by her brother Lord J [...]samy, who had no children of his own, and promised to leave him an estate—He has got the estate indeed, but the fellow has taken his Lordship's name for it. Now, master Jenkins, I would be glad to know how the name of Jessamy is better than that of Oldboy?

Well! but, Colonel, it is allowed on all hands, that his Lordship has given your son an excellent educa­tion.

Psha! he sent him to the university, and to travel, for sooth; but, what of that? I was abroad, and at the university myself, and never a rush the better for either. I quarrelled with his Lordship about six years before his death, and so had not an opportunity of seeing how the youth went on; if I had, master Jenkins, I would no more have suffered him to be made such a monkey of— He has been in my house but three days, and it is all turned topsey-turvey by him and his rascally servants— then his chamber is like a perfumer's shop, with wash-balls, pastes, and pomatum—and do you know he had the impudence to tell me yesterday at my own table, that I did not know how to behave myself.

Pray, Colonel, how does my Lady Mary?

[Page 9]

What, my wife? In the old way, master Jenkins; always complaining; ever something the matter with her head, or her back, or her legs—but we have had the devil to pay lately—she and I did not speak to one ano­ther for three weeks.

How so, sir?

A little affair of jealousy—You most know, my game-keeper's daughter has had a child, and the plaguy baggage takes it into her head to lay it to me—Upon my soul, it is a fine fat chubby infant, as ever I set my eyes on; I have sent it to nurse; and, between you and me, I believe I shall leave it a fortune.

Ah, Colonel, you will never give over.

You know my Lady has a pretty vein of poetry; she writ me an heroic epistle upon it, where she calls me her dear false Damon; so I let her cry a little, promised to do so no more, and now we are as good friends as ever.

Well, Colonel, I must take my leave; I have de­livered my message, and Sir John may expect the pleasure of your company to dinner.

Ay, ay, we'll come—pox o' ceremony among friends. But won't you stay to see my son; I have sent to him, and suppose he will be here as soon as his valet-de-chambre will give him leave.

There's no occasion, good sir; present my hum­ble respects, that's all.

Well, but, zounds, Jenkins, you must not go till you drink something—let you and I have a bottle of hock—

Not for the world, Colonel; I never touch any thing strong in the morning.

Never touch any thing strong! Why, one bottle won't hurt you, man—this is old, and as mild as milk.

Well, but, Colonel, pray excuse me.

Shut the door, why don't you shut the door there? Have you a mind I should catch my death?— This house is absolutely the cave of Aeo [...]us; one had as good live on the eddystone, or in a wind-mill.

I thought they told your Ladyship that there was a messenger here from Sir John Flowerdale?

Well, sir, and so there was; but he had not pa­tience to wait upon your curling-irons. Mr. Jenkins was here, Sir John Flowerdale's steward, who has lived in the family these forty years.

And pray, sir, might not Sir John Flowerdale have come himself? If he had been acquainted with the rules of good breeding, he would have known that I ought to have been visited.

Upon my word, Colonel, this is a solecism.

'Sblood, my Lady, its none. Sir John Flowerdale came but last night from my sister's seat in the West, and is a little out of order. But I suppose he thinks he ought to appear before him with his daughter in one hand, and his rent-roll in the other, and cry, Sir, pray do me the favour to accept them.

Nay, but, Mr. Oldboy, permit me to say—

He need not give himself so many affected airs; I think it's very well if he gets such a girl for going for— she's one of the handsomest and richest in this country, and more than he deserves.

That's an exceeding fine china jar your Ladyship has got in the next room; I saw the fellow of it the other day at Williams's, and will send to my agent to purchase it; it is the true matchless old blue and white. Lady Betty Barebones has a couple that she gave an hundred guineas for, on board an Indiaman; but she reckons them [Page 11] at a hundred and twenty-five, on account of half a dozen plates, four Nankin beakers, and a couple of shading mandarins, that the custom-house officers took from under her petticoats.

Did you ever hear the like of this! He's chatter­ing about old china, while I am talking to him of a fine girl. I tell you what, Mr. Jessamy, since that's the name you choose to be called by, I have a good mind to knock you down.

Knock me down, Colonel! What do you mean? I must tell you, sir, this is a language to which I have not been accustomed; and if you think proper to conti­nue to repeat it, I shall be under a necessity of quitting your house?

Quitting my house?

Yes, sir, incontinently.

Why, sir, am not I your father, sir? and have I not a right to talk to you as I like? I will, sirrah. But, perhaps I mayn't be your father, and I hope not.

Heavens and earth, Mr. Oldboy!

What's the matter, madam! I mean, madam, that he might have been changed at nurse, madam; and I believe he was.

Huh! huh! huh!

Do you laugh at me, you saucy jackanapes!

Who's there—somebody bring me a chair. Really, Mr. Oldboy, you throw my weakly frame into such repeated convulsions—but I see your aim; you want to lay me in my grave, and you will very soon have that satisfaction.

I can't bear the sight of him.

Open that window, give me air, or I shall faint.

Hold, hold, let me tie a handkerchief about my neck first. This cursed sharp north wind— Antoine, bring down my muff.

Ay, do, and his great-coat.

Margaret, some hartsharn. My dear Mr. Oldboy, why will you fly out in this way, when you know how it shocks my tender nerves?

[Page 12]

'Sblood, madam, its enough to make a man mad.

Hartshorn! Hartshorn!

Colonel!

Do you hear the puppy?

Will you give me leave to ask you one question?

I don't know whether I will or not.

I should be glad to know, that's all, what single circumstance in my conduct, carriage, or figure, you can possibly find fault with—Perhaps I may be brought to re­form—Pr'ythee, let me hear from your own mouth then, seriously what it is you do like, and what it is you do not like.

Hum!

Be ingenuous, speak and spare not.

You would know?

What's the matter with the Colonel, madam; does your Ladyship know?

Heigho! don't be surprised, my dear; it was the same thing with my late dear brother, Lord Jes­samy; they never could agree: that good-natured, friendly soul, knowing the delicacy of my constitution, has often said, sister Mary, I pity you. Not but your father has good qualities, and, I assure you, I remember him a [Page 13] very fine gentleman himself. In the year of the hard frost, one thousand seven hundred and thirty-nine, when he first paid his addresses to me, he was called agreeable J [...]ck O [...]dboy, though I married him without the consent of your noble grandfather.

I think he ought to be proud of me: I believe there's many a Duke, nay Prince, who would esteem themselves happy in having such a son—

Yes, my dear; but your sister was always your father's favourite: He intends to give her a prodi­gious fortune, and sets his heart upon seeing her a woman of quality.

He should wish to see her look a little like a gen­tlewoman first. When she was in London last winter, I am told she was taken notice of by a few men. But she wants a [...]r, manner—

And has not a bit of the genius of our fa­mily, and I never knew a woman of it, but herself, without. I have tried her. About three years ago, I set her to translate a little French song: I found she had not even an idea of versification; and she put down love and joy for rhyme—so I gave her over.

Why, indeed, she appears to have more of the ' T [...]atestris than the Sappho about her.

Well, my dear, I must go and dress myself, though I protest I am fitter for my bed than my coach — And condescend to the Colonel a little—Do, my dear, if it be only to oblige your mamma.

Let me consider—I am going to visit a country Baronet here, who would fain prevail upon me to marry his daughter: the old gentleman has heard of my parts and understanding; Miss, of my figure and address — But, suppose I should not like her when I see her?— Why, positively, then I will not have her; the treaty's at an end, and, sans compliment, we break up the congress. But, won't that be cruel, after having suf­fered her to flatter herself with hopes, and shewing my­self to her. She's a strange dowdy, I dare believe: however, she brings provision with her for a separate maintenance.

[Page 14] Antoine, appretez la toilette. I am going to spend a cursed day; that I perceive already; I wish it was over, I dread it as much as a general election.

My dear lady, what ails you?

Nothing, Jenny; nothing.

Pardon me madam, there is something ails you, indeed. Lord! what signifies all the grandeur and riches in this world, if they can't procure one content. I am sure it vexes me to the heart, so it does, to see such a dear, sweet, worthy young lady, as you are, pining yourself to death.

Jenny, you are a good girl, and I am very much obliged to you for feeling so much on my account; but in a little time, I hope, I shall be easier.

Why, now, here to day, madam—for certain, [Page 15] you ought to be merry to-day, when there's a fine gen­tleman coming to court you, but, if you like any one else better, I am sure, I wish you had him, with all my soul.

Suppose, Jenny, I was so unfortunate as to like a man without my father's approbation—would you wish me to marry him?

I wish you married to any one, madam, that could make you happy.

Heigho!

Madam! madam! yonder's Sir John and Mr. Lionel on the terrace. I believe they are coming up here. Poor, dear, Mr. Lionel, he does not seem to be in over great spirits either. To be sure, madam, it's no business of mine; but, I believe, if the truth was known, there are those in the house who would give more than ever I shall be worth, or any the likes of me, to prevent the marriage of a certain person that shall be nameless.

What do you mean? I don't understand you.

I hope you are not angry, madam?

Ah! Jenny—

Lauk, madam! do you think when Mr. Lionel's a clergyman, he'll be obliged to cut off his hair. I'm sure it will be a thousand pities, for it is the sweetest co­lour, and looks the nicest put up in a queue— and your great pudding-sleeves! Lord! they'll quite spoil his shape, and the fall of his shoulders. Well! madam, if I was a lady of large fortune, I'll be hanged if Mr. Lionel should be a parson, if I could help it.

I'm going into my dressing-room— [...]t seems then Mr. Lionel is a great favorite of yours; but pray, Jen­ny ▪ have a care how you talk in this manner to any one else.

Me talk! madam—I thought you knew me bet­ter; and, my dear lady, keep up your spirits. I'm sure I have dressed you to day as nicely as hands and pins can make you.

Indeed, Lionel, I will not hear of it. What! to run from us all of a sudden, this way; and at such a time, too; the eve of my daughters wedding, as I may call it, when your company must be doubly agreeable, as well as necessary to us? I am sure you have no studies at present that require your attendance at Oxford: I must therefore insist on your putting such thoughts out of your head.

Upon my word, sir, I have been so long from the university, that it is time for me to think of return­ing. It is true, I have no absolute studies; but really, sir, I shall be obliged to you if you will give me leave to go.

Come, come, my dear L [...]onel, I have for some time observed a more than ordinary gravity grow­ing upon you, and I am not to learn the reason of it: I know, to minds serious and well inclined, like yours, the sacred functions you are about to embrace—

Dear sir, your goodness to me, of every kind, is so great, so unremitted —Your condescension, your friendly attentions—in short, sir, I want words to express my sense of obligations—

Fie, fie, no more of them. By my last letters, I find, that my old friend the Rector still con­tinues in good health, considering his advanced years. You may imagine, I am far from desiring the death of [Page 17] so worthy and pious a man; yet, I must own, at this time, I could wish you were in orders, as you might then perform the ceremony of my daughter's marriage; which would give me a secret satisfaction.

No doubt, sir, any office in my power that could be instrumental to the happiness of any in your family, I should perform with pleasure.

Why, really, Lionel, from the character of her intended husband, I have no room to doubt, but this match will make Clarissa perfectly happy: to be sure the alliance is the most eligible for both families.

If the gentleman is sensible of his happiness in the alliance, sir.

The fondness of a father is always suspected of partiality; yet, I believe, I may venture to say, that few young women will be found more unexceptionable than my daughter: her person is agreeable, her temper sweet, her understanding good; and, with the obliga­tions she has to your instructions—

You do my endeavours too much honour, sir; I have been able to add nothing to Miss Flowerdale's ac­complishments, but a little knowledge in matters of small importance to a mind already so well improved.

I don't think so; a little knowledge, even in those matters, is necessary for a woman, in whom I am far from considering ignorance as a desireable character­istic. When intelligence is not attended with impertinent affectation, it teaches them to judge with precision, and gives them a degree of solidity necessary for the compa­nion of a sensible man.

Yonder's Mr. Jenkins: I fancy he's looking for you, sir.

I see him; he's come back from Colonel Oldboy's; I have a few words to say to him, and will re­turn to you again in a minute.

To be a burthen to one's self, to wage continual war with one's own passions; forced to combat, unable to overcome! But see, she appears, whose presence turns all my sufferings into transport, and makes even misery itself delightful.

Perhaps, madam, you are not at leisure now; other­wise, if you thought proper, we would resume the sub­ject we were upon yesterday.

I am sure, sir, I give you a great deal of trou­ble.

Madam, you give me no trouble; I should think every hour of my life happily employed in your service; and as this is probably the last time I shall have the satis­faction of attending you upon the same occasion—

Upon my word, Mr. Lionel, I think myself ex­tremely obliged to you; and shall ever consider the enjoy­ment of your friendship—

My friendship, madam, can be of little moment to you; but if the most perfect adoration, if the warmest wishes for your felicity, though I should never be witness of it—if these, madam, can have any merit to continue in your remembrance, a man once honoured with a share of your esteem—

Hold, sir—I think I hear somebody.

If you please, madam, we will turn over this oelestial globe once more—Have you looked at the book I left you yesterday?

Really, sir, I have been so much disturbed in my thoughts for these two or three days past, that I have not been able to look at any thing.

I am sorry to hear that, madam; I hope there was nothing particular to disturb you. The care Sir John takes to dispose of your hand in a manner suitable to your birth and fortune—

I don't know, sir—I own I am disturbed; I own I am uneasy; there is something weighs upon my heart, which I would fain disclose.

Upon your heart, madam!—did you say your heart?

I did, sir—I—

Madam! madam! Here's a coach and six driv­ing up the avenue: It's Colonel Oldboy's family; and, I believe, the gentleman is in it that's coming to court you. [Page 19] Lord, I must run and have a peep at him out of the win­dow.

Madam, I'll take my leave.

Why so, sir?—Bless me, Mr. Lionel, what's the matter!—You turn pale.

Madam!

Pray speak to me, sir—You tremble—Tell me the cause of this sudden change.—How are you?— Where's your disorder?

Oh fortune! fortune!

My dear Clarissa—I'am glad I have found you alone.—For Heaven's sake, don't let any one break in upon us—and give me leave to sit down with you a little —I am in such a tremor, such a panic—

Mercy on us, what has happened?

You may remember, I told you, that when I was last winter in London, I was followed by an odious fellow, one Ha [...]man: I can't say but the wretch pleased me, though he is but a young brother, and not worth sixpence; and—in short, when I was leaving town, I promised to correspond with him.

Do you think that was prudent?

Madness! But this is not the worst—for, what do you think?—the creature had the assurance to write to [Page 20] me about three weeks ago, desiring permission to come down and spend the summer at my father's.

At your father's!

Ay, who never saw him, knows nothing of him, and would as soon consent to my marrying a horse joc­key. He told me a long story of some tale he intended to invent, to make my father receive him as an indifferent person; and some gentlemen in London, he said, would procure him a letter that should give it a face; and he longed to see me so, he said, he could not live without it; and if he could be permitted but to spend a week with me—

Well, and what answer did you make?

Oh! abused him, and refused to listen to any such thing—But—I vow, I tremble while I tell it you— Just before we left our house, the impudent monster ar­rived there, attended by a couple of servants, and is now actually coming here with my father.

Upon my word this is a dreadful thing.

Dreadful my dear!—I happened to be at the window as he came into the court, and I declare I had like to have fainted away.

Isn't my Lady below?

Yes, and I must run down to her. You'll have my brother here presently too; he would fain have come in the coach with my mother and me, but my father in­sisted on his walking with him over the fields.

Well Diana, with regard to your affair—I think you must find some method of immediately informing this gentleman, that you consider the outrage he has com­mitted against you in the most heinous light, and insist upon his going away directly.

Why, I believe that will be the best way—but then he'll be begging my pardon, and asking to stay.

Why, then, you must tell him positively, you won't consent to it; and if he persists in so extravagant a design, tell him you'll never see him again as long as you live.

Must I tell him so?

How easy to direct the conduct of others, how hard to regulate our own! I can give my friend advice, while I am conscious of the same indiscretion in myself. Yet is it criminal to know the most worthy, most amiable man in the world, and not to be insensible to his merit? But my father, the kindest, best of fathers, will he ap­prove the choice I have made? Nay, has he not made another choice for me? And, after all, how can I be sure that the man I love, loves me again? He never told me so; but his looks, his actions, his present anxiety, sufficiently declare, what his delicacy, his generosity, will not suffer him to utter.

Well, and how does my old friend, Dick Rantum, do? I have not seen him these twelve years: he was an honest worthy fellow, as ever breathed; I remember he kept a girl in London, and was cursedly plagued by his wife's relations.

Sir Richard was always a man of spirit, Colonel.

But as to this business of yours, which he tells me of in his letter—I don't see much in it—An affair with a citizen's daughter—pinked her brother in a duel— is the fellow likely to die?

Why, sir, we hope not; but as the matter is du­bious, and will probably make some noise, I thought it was better to be for a little time out of the way; when hearing my case, Sir Richard Rantum mentioned you; he said, he was sure you would permit me to remain at your house for a few days, and offered me a recommenda­tion.

And there's likely to be a brat in the case—And the girl's friends are in business—I'll tell you what will be the consequence then—They will be for going to law with you for a maintenance—but, no matter; I'll take the affair in hand for you—make me your solicitor; and if you are obliged to pay for a single spoonful of pap, I'll be content to father all the children in the Foundling Hospital.

You are very kind, sir.

But hold—hark you—you say there's money to be had—suppose you were to marry the wench?

Do you think, sir, that would be so right, after what has happened? Besides, there's a stronger objec­tion—To tell you the truth, I am honorably in love in another place.

Oh! you are?

Yes, sir, but there are obstacles—A father—In short, sir, the mistress of my heart lives in this very county, which makes even my present situation a little irksome.

[Page 23]

In this county! Zounds! Then I am sure I am acquainted with her; and the first letter of her name is—

Excuse me, sir, I have some particular reasons.—

But, look—who comes yonder?—Ha! ha! ha! My son, picking his steps like a dancing-master. Pr'y­thee, Harman, go into the house, and let my wife and daughter know we are come, while I go and have some sport with him: they will introduce you to Sir John Flowerdale.

Then, sir, I'll take the liberty—

But, d'ye hear?—I must have a little more dis­course with you about this girl; perhaps she is a neigh­bour of mine, and I may be of service to you.

Well, remember, Colonel, I shall try your friendship.

Why, zounds! one would think you had never put your feet to the ground before; you make as much work about walking a quarter of a mile, as if you had gone a pilgrimage to Jerusalem.

Colonel, you have used me extremely ill, to drag me through the dirty roads in this manner; you told me the way was all over a bowling-green; only see what a condition I am in!

Why, how did I know the roads were dirty? is that my fault? Besides, we mistook the way. Zounds, man, your legs will never be the worse when they are brushed a little.

[Page 24]

Antoine! have you sent La Roque for the shoes and stockings? Give me the glass out of your pocket: not a dust of powder left in my hair, and the frissure as flat as the foretop of an attorney's clerk—get your comb and pomatum; you must borrow some powder; I suppose there's such a thing as a dressing-room in the house?

Ay, and a cellar too, I hope; for I want a glass of wine, cursedly—but, hold! hold! Frank, where are you going? Stay, and pay your devoirs here, if you please; I see there's somebody coming out to welcome us.

Colonel, your most obedient, Sir John is walk­ing with my Lady in the garden, and has commissioned me to receive you.

Mr. Lionel, I am heartily glad to see you—come here, Frank—this is my son, sir.

Sir, I am exceeding proud to—

Can't you get the powder then?

Miss Clary, my little Miss Clary—give me a kiss, my dear—as handsome as an angel, by Heavens— Frank, why don't you come here? This is Miss Flowerdale.

Oh, Heavens, Clarissa! Just as I said, that im­pudent devil is come here with my father.

Hadn't we better go into the house?

[Page 25]

ACT II.

WELL, but, Mr. Lionel, consider, pray consi­der, now, how can you be so prodigious un­discreet as you are, walking about the hall here, while the gentlefolks are within the parlour! Don't you think they'll wonder at your getting up so soon after dinner, and before any of the rest of the company?

For Heaven's sake, Jenny, don't speak to me: I neither know where I am, nor what I am doing; I am the most wretched and miserable of mankind.

Poor dear soul, I pity you. Yes, yes, I believe you are miserable enough, indeed; and, I assure you, I have pitied you a great while, and spoke many words in your favour, when you little thought you had such a friend in a corner.

But, good Jenny, since, by some accident or other, you have been able to discover what I would wil­lingly hide from all the world, I conjure you, as you re­gard my interest, as you value your Lady's peace and ho­nour, never let the most distant hint of it escape you; for it is a secret of that importance—

[Page 26]

And, perhaps, you think, I can't keep a secret. Ah! Mr. Lionel, it must be hear, see, and say nothing in this world, or one has no business to live in it: Besides, who would not be in love with my Lady? There's ne­ver a man this day alive, but might be proud of it: for she's the handsomest, sweetest tempere'dest!—And I am sure, one of the best mistresses ever a poor girl had.

Oh, Jenny, she's an angel.

And so she is, indeed —Do you know that she gave me her blue and silver sacque to-day, and it is every crum as good as new, and, go things as they will, don't you be fretting and vexing yourself; for I am mortally certain, she would lieverer see a toad than this J [...]my. Though I must say, to my thinking, he's a very likely man; and a finer pair of eye-brows, and a more del [...]cate nose, I never saw on a fa [...]e.

By Heavens I shall run mad.

And why so? It is not beauty that always takes the fancy: moreover, to let you know, if it was, I don't think [...]im any more to compare to you▪ than a thistle is to a carnation: and so's a sign; for▪ mark my words, my Lady loves you as much as she hates him.

What you tell me, Jenny ▪ is a thing I neither merit nor expect▪ No, I am unhappy, and let me conti­nue so—My most presumptuous thoughts shall never carry me to a wish that may effect her quiet, or give her cause to repent.

That's very honourable of you, I must needs say! but, for all that▪ liking's liking, and one can't help it; and if it should be my lady's case, it is no fault of yours. I am sure, when she called me into her dressing-room, before she went down to dinner, there she stood, with her eyes brim full of tears; and so I tell a crying, for company—and then she said she could not abide the chap in the parlour; and, at the same time, she bid me take an opportunity to speak to you, and desire you to meet her in the garden this evening, after tea; for she has something to say to you.

Jenny, I see you are my friend; for which I thank you, though I know it is impossible to do me any service; take this ring, and wear it for my sake.

[Page 27]

I am very much obliged to your Honour; I am your friend, indeed—but, I say, you won't forget to be in the garden now?—and, in the mean time, keep as little in the house as you can, for walls have eyes and ears; and I can tell you, the servants take notice of your uneasiness, though I am always desiring them to mind their own business.

Pray, have a care, Jenny; have a care, my dear girl—a word may breed suspicion.

Psha! have a care yourself; it is you that breeds suspicion, signing and pining about: you look, for all the world, like a ghost; and if you don't pluck up your spirits, you will be a ghost soon—letting things get the better of you. Though, to be sure, when I thinks with myself, being crost in love is a terrible thing—There was a young man in the town where I was born, made away with himself upon the account of it.

Things shan't get the better of me, Jenny.

No more they don't ought. And, once again, I say, 'Fortune is thrown in your dish, and you are not to fling it out; my lady's estate will be better than three bishoprics, if Sir John could give them to you. Think of that, Mr. Lionel, think of that.

Think of what?

Very well, my Lady, I'll come again to you pre­sently, I'm only going into the garden for a mouthful of air. Aha! my little Abigail! Here, Mo [...]ly, Jenny, Betty! what's your name? Why don't you answer me, hussey, when I call you?

[Page 28]

If you want any thing, Sir, I'll call one of the scotmen.

The footman! the footman! Damn me, I never knew one of them in my life, that wou'dn't prefer a ras­cal to a gentleman—Come here, you slut, put your hands about my neck and kiss me.

Who, I, Sir?

Ay, here's money for you; what the devil are you afraid of? I'll take you in keeping; you shall go and live at one of my tenant's houses.

I wonder you are not ashamed, Sir, to make an honest girl any such proposal—you that have a worthy gentlewoman▪ nay, a lady of your own. To be sure, she's a little stricken in years; but why shou'dn't she grow elderly as well as yourself?

Burn a lady, I love a pretty girl.

Well, then, you may go look for one, Sir; I have no pretensions to the title.

Why, you pert baggage, you don't know me.

What do you pinch my fingers for? Yes, yes, I know you well enough, and your character's well known all over the country, running after poor young creatures as you do, to ruinate them.

What, then people say—

Indeed, they talk very bad of you; and what­ever you may think, Sir, though I'm in a menial station, I'm come of people that wou'dn't see me put upon— there are those that would take my part against the proudest he in the land, that should offer any thing un­civil.

Well, come, let me know now, how does your young lady like my son?

You want to pump me, do you? I suppose you would know whether I can keep my tongue within my teeth.

She dosn't like him then?

I don't say so, Sir—Isn't this a shame now?— I suppose to-morrow or next day it will be reported, that Jenny has been talking— Jenny said that and t'other— But here, Sir, I ax you, Did I tell you any such thing?

[Page]

Why, yes, you did.

I!—Lord bless me, how can you—

Ad, I'll mouzle you.

Ah! ah!

What do you bawl for?

Ah! ah! ah!

Mr. Oldboy, won't you give me your hand to lead me up stairs, my dear?—Sir, I am prodigiously obliged to you; I protest I have not been so well, I don't know when: I have had no return of my bilious com­plaint after dinner to-day; and eat so voraciously! Did you observe, Miss—'The whole wing of a partridge!'— Doctor Arsenic will be quite astonished when he hears it; surely his new-invented medicine has done me a pro­digious deal of service.

Ah! you'll always be taking one stop or other till you poison yourself.

It brought Sir Barnaby Drug from death's door, after having tried the Spa and Bristol waters with­out effect—It is good for several things, in many so­vereign, as in colds and consumptions, and lowness of [Page 30] spirits; it corrects the humours, rectifies the juices, re­gulates the nervous system; creates an appetite, pre­vents flushings and sickness after meals; as also vain fears and head-achs; it is the finest thing in the world for an asthma; and no body that takes it is ever troubled with hysterics.

Give me a pinch of your Ladyship's snuff.

This is a mighty pretty sort of man, Colonel, who is he?

A young fellow, my Lady, recommended to me.

I protest he has the sweetest taste for poetry! —He has repeated to me two or three of his own things; and I have been telling him of the poem my late brother, Lord Jessamy, made on the mouse that was drowned.

Ay, a fine subject for a poem; a mouse that was drowned in a—

Hush, my dear Colonel, don't mention it— to be sure, the circumstance was vastly indelicate; but for the number of lines, the poem was as charming a morsel —I heard the Earl of Punley say, who understood La­tin, that it was equal to any thing in Catullus.

Well, how did you like your son's behaviour at dinner, madam? I thought the girl looked a little askew at him—Why, he found fault with every thing, and contradicted every body.

Softly—Miss Flowerdale, I understand, has desired a private conference with him.

What, Harman, have you got entertaining my daughter there? Come hither, Dy; has he been giving you a history of the accident that brought him down here?

No, papa, the gentleman has been telling me—

No matter what, Miss—'tis not polite to repeat what has been said.

Well, well, my Lady, you know the compact we made; the boy is yours, the girl mine—Give me your hand, Dy.

Colonel, I have done.—Pray, sir, was there any news when you left London—any thing about the East [Page 31] Indies, the ministry, or politics of any kind? I am strangely fond of politics; but I hear nothing since my Lord Jessamy's death—He used to write to me all the af­fairs of the nation, for he w [...] a very great politician himself. I have a manuscript speech of his in my cabinet —he never spoke it; but it is as fine a thing as ever came from man.

What is that crawling on your ladyship's petti­coat?

Where! where!

Zounds, a spider! with legs as long as my arm!

Oh, heavens! Ah, don't let me look at it— I shall faint, I shall faint! A spider! a spider! a spider!

Hold; zounds, let her go; I knew the spider would set her a galloping, with her damn'd fuss about her brother, my Lord Jessamy. Harman, come here▪— How do you like my daughter? Is the girl you are in lose with as handsome as this?

In my opinion, sir.

What, as handsome as Dy? I'll lay you twenty pounds she has not such a pair of eyes. He tells me he's in love, Dy—raging mad for love; and, by his talk, I begin to believe him.

Now, for my part, papa, I doubt it very much; though, by what I heard the gentleman say just now within, I find he imagines the lady has a violent partial­ity for him; and yet he may be mistaken there too.

For shame, Dy; what the mischief do you mean? How can you talk so tartly to a poor young fellow under misfortunes? Give him your hand, and ask his pardon. Don't mind her, Harman. For all this, she is as good-natur'd a little devil as ever was born.

You may remember, sir, I told you before din­ner, that I had for some time carried on a private corres­pondence with my lovely girl; and that her father, whose consent we despair of obtaining, is the great obstacle to our happiness.

Why don't you carry her off in spite of him, then? I ran away with my wife—ask my lady Mary— [Page 32] she'll tell you the thing herself. Her old conceited lord of a father thought I was not good enough; but I mount­ed a garden wall, notwithstanding their chevaux-de-frize of broken glass bottles—took her out of a three pair of stairs window, and bro't her down a ladder in my arms. By the way, she would have squeezed through a cat-hole to get at me: And I would have taken her out of the tower of London, damme, if it had been surrounded with three regiments of guards.

But surely, papa, you would not persuade the gentleman to such a proceeding as this is; consider the noise it will make in the country; and if you are known to be the adviser and abettor—

Why, what do I care? I say, if he takes my ad­vice, he'll run away with her; and I'll give him all the assistance I can.

I am sure, sir, you are very kind: and to tell you the truth, I have more than once had the very scheme in my head, if I thought it was feasible, and knew how to go about it.

Feasible! and knew how to go about it! The thing's feasible enough, if the girl's willing to go off with you, and you have spirits sufficient to undertake it.

O, as for that, sir, I can answer.

What, sir! that the lady will be willing to go off with you?

No, ma'am, that I have spirit enough to take her, if she is willing to go: and thus far I dare venture to promise, that between this and to-morrow morning, I will find out whether she is or not.

So he may; she lives but in this county; and tell her, Harman, you have met with a friend who is inclined to serve you. You shall have my post-chaise at a minute's warning; and if an hundred pieces will be of any use to you, you may command 'em.

And you are really serious, sir?

Serious! damme, if I an't. I have put twenty young fellows in the way of getting girls that they never would have thought of—And bring her to my house.— Whenever you come, you shall have a supper and a bed; [Page 33] but you must marry her first, because my Lady will be squeamish.

Well, but, my dear papa, upon my word, you have a great deal to answer for—Suppose it was your own case to have a daughter in such circumstances, would you be obliged to any one—

Hold your tongue, hussey, who bid you put in your oar? However, Harman, I don't want to set you upon any thing; 'tis no affair of mine, to be sure; I only give you advice, and tell you how I would act if I was in your place.

I assure you, sir, I am quite charmed with the advice; and since you are ready to stand my friend, I am determined to follow it.

You are?—

Positively.

Say no more then; here's my hand—You under­stand me—No occasion to talk any further of it at pre­sent—When we are alone, — Dy, take Mr. Harman into the drawing-room, and give him some tea.—I say, Har­man, mum—

O, Sir.

What do you mean by your grave looks, mis­tress?

[Page 34]

Sir, I desire to know, what gross acts of impru­dence you have ever discovered in me, to authorize you in this licence, or make you imagine I should not shew such marks of my resentment as your monstrous treat­ment of me deserves?

Nay, my dear Diana, I confess I have been ra­ther too bold—but consider, I languished to see you; and when an opportunity offered to give me that plea­sure, without running any risk either of your quiet, or reputation, how hard was it to be resisted 'Tis true, I little thought my visit would be attende [...] with such happy consequences as it now seems to promise.

What do you mean?

Why, don't you see your father has an inclina­tion I should run away with you, and is contriving the means himself?

And do you think me capable of concurring? Do you think I have no more duty?

I don't know that, madam; I am sure, your re­fusing to seize such an opportunity to make me happy, gives evident proofs that you have very little love.

If there is no way to convince you of my love, but by my indiscretion, you are welcome to consider it in what light you please.

Was ever so unfortunate a dog!

Very pretty this, upon my word; but is it 'possible you can be in earnest?

It is a matter of too much consequence to jest 'about.

And you seriously think I ought—

You are sensible there are no hopes of your fa­ther's coolly and wittingly consenting to our marriage, chance has thrown into our way a whimsical method of surprizing him into a compliance—and why should not we avail ourselves of it?

And so you would have me—

I shall say no more, ma'am.

Nay, but, for Heaven's sake—

No madam, no; I have done.

And are you positively in this violent fuss about the matter, or only giving yourself airs?

[Page 35]

You may suppose what you think proper, ma­dam.

Well, come; let us go into the drawing-room and drink tea, and afterwards, we'll talk of matters.

I won't drink any tea.

Why se?

Because I don't like it.

Not like it! ridiculous!

I wish you would let me alone.

Nay, pr'y thee—

I won't.

Well, will you, if I consent to act as you 'please.

I don't know whether I will or not.

Ha, ha, ha! poor Harman!'

Say'st thou so, my girl! Then Love renounce me, if I drive not old Truepenny's humour to the utter­most. Let me consider—What ill consequence can pos­sibly attend it?—The design is his own, as in part will be the execution. He may perhaps be angry when he finds out the deceit.—Well—he deceives himself; and faults we commit ourselves, we seldom find much diffi­culty in pardoning.

Come, brother, I undertake to be mistress of the ceremony upon this occasion, and introduce you to your first audience.—Miss Flowerdale is not here, I perceive; but no matter.—

[Page 36]

Upon my word, a pretty elegant dressing-room this; but, confound our builders, or architects, as they call themselves, they are all errant stone-masons; not one of them know the situation of doors, windows or chim­nies; which are as essential to a room as eyes, nose, and mouth, to a countenance. Now, if the eyes are where the mouth should be, and the nose out of proportion and its place, quelle horrible phisiognomie!

My dear brother, you are not come here as a virtuoso, to admire the temple; but as a votary, to ad­dress the deity to whom it belongs. Shew, I beseech you, a little more devotion, and tell me, how do you like Miss Flowerdale?—don't you think her very hand­some?

Pale—but that I am determined she shall re­medy; for as soon as we are married, I will make her put on rouge—Let me see—has she got any in her boxes here— [...]eretable toilette a l'Angloise. Nothing but a bottle of Hungary-water, two or three rows of pins, a paper of patches, and a little bole-armoniac, by way of tooth powder.

Brother, I would fain give you some advice up­on this occasion, which may be of service to you. You are now going to entertain a young lady—Let me pre­vail upon you to lay aside those airs, on account of which some people are impertinent enough to call you a cox­comb; for, I am afraid, she may be apt to think you a coxcomb too, as, I assure you, she is very capable of dis­tinguishing.

So much the worse for me.—If she is capable of distinguishing, I shall meet with a terrible repulse.—I don't believe she'll have me.

I don't believe she will, indeed.

Go on, sister—Ha, ha, ha!

I protest, I am serious—Though, I perceive, you have more faith in the counsellor before you there, the looking-glass. But give me leave to tell [...], it is not a powdered head, a laced coat, a grimace, a shrug, a bow, or a few p [...]rt phrases, learnt by rote, that constitute the power of pleasing all women.

[Page 37]

You had better return to the gentleman, and give him his tea, my dear.

These qualifications we find in our parrots and monkies. I would undertake to teach Fo [...] in three weeks the fashionable jargon of half the fine men about town; and, I am sure, it must be allowed, that pug, in a scarlet coat, is a gentleman as degagé and alluring as most of them.

Upon my honour, that's a charming India ca­binet—But Miss Flowerdale will be here presently— You had better return to give the gentleman his tea, and it is ten to one but we shall agree, though I should not profit by your sage advice.

Well! I will leave you.

Sir, I took the liberty to desire a few moments private conversation with you—I hope you will excuse it —I am really greatly embarrassed. But, in an affair of such immediate consequence to us both—

My dear creature, don't be embarrassed before me; I should be extremely sorry to strike you with any awe; but this is a species of mauvaise honte, which the company I shall introduce you to, will soon cure you of.

[Page 38]

Upon my word, sir, I don't understand you.

Perhaps you may be under some uneasiness, lest I should not be quite so warm in the prosecution of this affair, as you could wish. It is true, with regard to quality, I might do better; and, with regard to fortune, full as well; but, you please me—Vpon my soul, I have not met with any think more agreeable to me a great while.

Pray, sir, keep your seat.

Manvaise honte, again. My dear, there is no­thing in these little familiarities between you and me— When we are married, I shall do every thing to render your life happy.

Ah! sir, pardon me. The happiness of my life depends upon a circumstance—

Oh! I understand you—You have been told, I suppose, of the Italian Opera girl—Rat people's tongues. However, 'tis true, I had an affair with her at Naples, and she is now here. But, be satisfied—I'll give her a thou­sand pounds, and set her about her business.

Me, sir! I protest nobody told me—Lord! I never heard any such thing, or enquired about it.

Nor have they been chattering to you of my af­fair at Pisa, with the Principessa del—

No, indeed, sir.

Well, I was afraid they might; because, in this rude country—But, why silent on a sudden? Don't be afraid to speak.

No, sir—I will come to the subject, on which I took the liberty to trouble you—Indeed, I have great re­liance on your generosity.

You'll find me generous as a prince, depend on't.

I am blest, sir, with one of the best of fathers: I never yet disobeyed him: In which I have had little me­rit; for his commands hitherto have only been to secure my own felicity.

Well, my dear, don't imagine I will prevent your being dutiful to your father: no, no; continue to love him; I than't be jealous. —Apres ma chere.

But now, sir, I am under the shocking necessity of disobeying him, or being wretched for ever.

[Page 39]

Hem!

Our union is impossible—therefore, sir, since I cannot be your wife, let me entreat you to make you my friend.

Who's there?

Do you call, sir?

Hark you, old gentleman; who are you?

Sir, my name is Jenkins.

Oh! you are Sir John Flowerdale's steward; a ser­vant he puts confidence in.

Sir, I have served Sir John Flowerdale many years: he is the best of masters; and, I believe, he has some dependance on my attachment and fidelity.

Then, Mr. Jenkins, I shall condescend to speak to you. Does your master know who I am? Does he know, sir, that I am likely to be a Peer of Great Britain? That I have ten thousand pounds a year? That I have passed through all Europe with distinguished eclat? That I refused the daughter of Mynheer Van Slokenfolk, the great Dutch burgomaster? And that, if I had not had the misfortune of being bred a Protestant, I might have mar­ried the neice of his present Holiness the Pope, with a fortune of two hundred thousand piasters?

I am sure, sir, my master has all the respect ima­ginable—

Then, sir, how comes he, after my shewing an inclination to be allied to his family—how comes he, I say, to bring me to his house to be affronted? I have [Page 40] let his daughter go; but, I think, I was in the wrong; for a woman that insults me, is no more safe than a man. I have brought a lady to reason before now, for giving me saucy language; and left her male friends to revenge it.

Pray, good sir, what's the matter?

Why, sir, this is the matter, sir—your master's daughter, sir, has behaved to me with damn'd insolence, and impertinence; and you may tell Sir John Flowerdale, first, with regard to her, that I think she is a silly, igno­rant, aukward, ill-bred country puss.

Oh! sir, for Heaven's sake—

And that, with regard to himself, he is, in my opinion, an old doating, ridiculous country squire; with out the knowledge either of men or things; and that he is below my notice, if it were not to despise him.

Good Lord! good Lord!

And advise him and his daughter to keep out of my way; for, by gad, I will affront them in the first place I meet them—And if your master is for carrying things further, tell him I fence better than any man in Europe.

[Page 41]

I must go and inform Sir John of what has hap­pened; but I will not tell him of the outrageous beha­viour of this young spark; for he is a man of spirit, and would resent it. Egad, my own fingers itched to be at him, once or twice; and, as stout as he is, I fancy these old fists would give him a bellyful. He complains of Miss Clarissa; but she is incapable of treating him in the manner he says. Perhaps, she may have behaved with some coldness towards him; and yet, that is a mystery to me too— for she has seen him before; and I have heard Sir John say a thousand times, that she expressed no re­pugnance to the match.

Hist—methought I heard a noise—should we be surprized together, at a juncture so critical, what might be the consequence!—I know not how it is; but at this, the happiest moment of my life, I feel a damp, a tremor, at my heart—

Then, what should I do? If you tremble, I ought to be terrified indeed, who have discovered senti­ments, which perhaps I should have hid, with a frankness that, by a man less generous, less noble minded than your­self, might be construed to my disadvantage.

[Page 42]

Oh? wound me not with so cruel an expression— You love me, and have condescended to confess it—You have seen my torments, and been kind enough to pity them—The world, indeed, may blame you—

And yet, was it proclaimed to the world, what could the most malicious suggest? They could but say, that truth and sincerity got the better of forms; that the tongue dared to speak the honest sensations of the mind; that, while you aimed at improving my understanding, you engaged and conquered my heart.

And is it—is it possible!

Be calm, and listen to me—What I have done has not been lightly imagined, nor rashly undertaken: it is the work of reflection, of conviction; my love is not a sacrifice to my own fancy, but a tribute to your worth; did I think there was a more deserving man in the world—

If, to doat on you more than life, be to deserve you, so far I have merit; if, to have no wish, no hope, no thought, but you, can entitle me to the envied dis­tinction of a moment's regard, so far I dare pretend.

That I have this day refused a man, with whom I could not be happy, I make no merit; born for quiet and simplicity, the crowds of the world, the noise at­tending pomp and distinction, have no charms for me: I wish to pass my life in rational tranquility, with a friend, whose virtues I can respect, whose talents I can admire; who will make my esteem the basis of my affection.

O charming creature! yes, let me indulge the flattering idea; formed with the same sentiments, the same feelings, the same tender passion for each other; Nature designed us to compose that sacred union, which nothing but death can annul.

One only thing remember.—Secure in each other's affections, here we must rest; I would not give my father a moment's pain, to purchase the empire of the world.

Command, dispose of me as you please; angels take cognizance of the vows of innocence and virtue; and, I will believe that ours are already registered in Heaven.

I will believe so too.

Who's there?— Lionel!

Heavens! 'tis Sir John Flowerdale.

Who's there?

'Tis I, sir—I am here— Lionel.

My dear lad, I have been searching for you this half hour, and was at last told you had come into the garden. I have a piece of news, which, I dare swear will shock and surprize you—My daughter has refused Colo­nel Oldboy's son, who is this minute departed the house in violent resentment of her ill-treatment.

Is he gone, sir?

Yes, and the family are preparing to follow him. Oh, Lionel! Clarissa has deceived me—In this af­fair she has suffered me to deceive myself. The measures which I have been so long preparing, are broken in a moment; my hopes frustrated; and both parties, in the eye of the world, rendered light and ridiculous.

I am sorry to see you so much moved: pray, sir, recover yourself.

I am sorry, Lionel, she has profited no better by your lessons of philosophy, than to impose upon and distress so kind a father.

Have juster thoughts of her, sir: she has not imposed on you; she is incapable—Have but a little pa­tience, and things may yet be brought about.

No, Lionel, no; the matter is past, and there's an end to it; yet I would conjecture to what such an un­expected turn in her conduct can be owing, I would fain be satisfied of the motive that could urge her to so ex­traordinary [Page 44] a proceeding, without the least intimation, the least warning to me, or any of her friends.

Perhaps, sir, the gentleman may have been too impetuous, and offended Miss Flowerdale's delicacy— certainly nothing else could occasion—

Heaven only knows—I think, indeed, there can be no settled aversion; and surely her affections are not engaged elsewhere?

Engaged, sir! No, sir.

I think not, Lionel.

You may be positive, sir, I am sure—

O worthy young man, whose integrity, open­ness, and every good quality, has rendered dear to me as my own child—I see this affair troubles you as much as it does me.

It troubles me indeed, sir.

However, my particular disappointment ought not to be detrimental to you, nor shall it: I well know how irksome it is to a generous mind to live in a state of dependance, and have long had it in my thoughts to make you easy for life.

Sir John, the situation of my mind is at present a little disturbed—spare me—I beseech you, spare me— Why will you persist in a goodness that makes me asham­ed of myself?

There is an estate in this county, which I purchased some years ago. By me it will never be missed, and whoever marries my daughter, will have little rea­son to complain of my disposing of such a trifle for my own gratification. On the present marriage, I intended to per­fect a deed of gift in your favour, which has been for some time prepared: my lawyer has this day completed it, and it is yours, my dear Lionel, with every good wish that the warmest friend can bestow.

Sir, if you presented a pistol with a design to shoot me, I would submit to it: but you must excuse me—I can­not lay myself under more obligations.

Your delicacy carries you too far. In this I confer a favour on myself: however, we'll talk no more on the subject at present—Let us walk towards the house; [Page 45] our friends will depart else without my bidding them adieu.

So the [...], my dear Clarissa, you really give cre­dit to the ravings of the French wretch, with regard to a plurality of worlds?

I don't make it an absolute article of belief; but I think it an ingenious conjecture, with great probability on its side.

And we are a moon to the moon! Nay, child, I know something of astronomy, but that—that little shining thing there, which seems not much larger than a silver plate, should, perhaps, contain great cities like London; and who can tell but they may have kings there, and parliaments, and plays and operas, and people of fashion! Lord, the people of fashion in the moon must be strange creatures.

Methinks, Venus shines very bright in yonder corner.

Venus! O pray, let me look at Venus—I sup­pose, if there are any inhabitants there, they must be all lovers.

Was ever such a wretch!—I can't stay a moment in a place—where is my repose?—fled with my virtue. Was I then born for falshood and dissimulation? I was, I was, and I live to be conscious of it; to impose upon my friend; to betray my benefactor, and lie to hide my ingratitude—a monster in a moment—No, I may be the most unfortunate of men, but I will not be the most odious; while my heart is yet capable of dictating what is honest, I will obey its voice.

Dy, where are you? What the mischief, is this a time to be walking in the garden? The coach has been ready this half hour, and your mamma is waiting for you.

I am learning astronomy, sir; do you know, papa, that the moon is inhabited?

Hussey; you are half a lunatic yourself; come here; things have just gone as I imagined they would— [Page 46] the girl has refused your brother; I knew he must dis­gust her.

Women will want taste now and then, sir.

But I must talk to the young lady a little.

Well, I have had a long conference with your father about the elopement, and he continues firm in his opinion that I ought to attempt it: in short, all the ne­cessary operations are settled between us, and I am to leave his house to-morrow morning, if I can but persuade the young lady—

Ay, but I hope the young lady will have more sense—Lord, how can you teaze me with your nonsense? Come, sir, isn't it time for us to go in? Her Ladyship will be impatient.

Friend Lionel, good night to you; Miss Clarissa, my dear, though I am father to the puppy who has dis­pleased you, give me a kiss; you served him right, and I thank you for it.

[Page 47]

ACT III.

PR'YTHEE, hear me.

My dear, what would you say?

I am afraid of the step we are going to take; indeed, I am—'Tis true my father is the contriver of it; but, really, on consideration, I think I should appear less culpable if he was not so; I am at once criminal myself, and rendering him ridiculous.

Do you love me?

Suppose I do, you give me a very ill proof of your love for me, when you would take advantage of my tenderness, to blind my reason. How can you have so little regard for my honour, as to sacrifice it to a vain triumph? For it is in that light I see the rash action you are forcing me to commit; nay, methinks my con­senting to it should injure me in your own esteem. When a woman forgets what she owes herself, a lover should set little value upon any thing she gives to him.

Can you suppose then, can you imagine, that my passion will ever make me forget the veneration— And, an elopement is nothing, when it is on the road to matrimony.

[Page 48]

At best, I shall incur the censure of disobedience and indiscretion; and, is it nothing to a young woman what the world says of her? Ah! my good friend, be assured, such a disregard of the world is the first step to­wards deserving its reproaches.

But the necessity we are under—Mankind has too much good sense, too much good nature—

Every one has good sense enough to see other people's faults, and good nature enough to overlook their own. Besides, the most sacred things may be made an ill use of; and even marriage itself, if indecently and improperly—

Come, get yourself ready: where is your band­box, hat, and cloak? Slip into the garden; be there at the iron-gate, which you shewed me just now; and, as the post-chaise comes round, I will stop and take you in.

Dear Harman, let me beg of you to desist.

Dear Diana, let me beg of you to go on.

I shall never have resolution to carry me through it.

We shall have four horses, my dear, and they will assist us.

In short—I—cannot go with you.

But before me—Into the garden—Wont you?

Ha, ha, ha.

Hey-day! what's the meaning of this? Who is it went out of the room there? Have you and my daugh­ter been in conference, Mr. Harman?

[Page 49]

Yes, faith, sir, she has been taking me to task h [...]e very severely, with regard to this affair; and she has said so much against it, and put it into such a stra [...]e light—

A busy, impertinant baggage; egad, I wish [...] had caught her meddling, and after I ordered her no [...] but you have sent to the girl, and you say she is [...] go with you; you must not disa [...]oint her [...]ow.

No, no, Colonel; I always have politeness enough to hear a lady's reasons, but constancy enough to keep a will of my own.

Very well—now let me ask you—Don't you think it would be proper on this occasion, to have a letter ready writ for the father, to let him know who has got his daughter, and so forth?

Certainly, sir; and I'll write it directly.

You write it! You be damned? I won't trust you with it; I tell you, Harman, you'll commit some cursed blunder, if you don't leave the management of this whole affair to me: I have writ the letter for you myself.

Have you, sir?

Ay—Here, read it; I think it's the thing; how­ever, you are welcome to make any alteration.

SIR, I have loved your daughter a great while se­cretly; she assures me there are no hopes of your consenting to our marriage; I therefore take her without it. I am a gen­tleman, who will use her well; and, when you consider the matter, I dare swear you will be willing to give her a for­tune. If not, you shall find I dare behave myself like a man —A word to the wis [...]—You must expect to hear from me in another style.

Now, sir, I will tell you what you must do with this letter: as soon as you have got off with the girl, sir, send your servant back to leave it at the house, with or­ders to have it delivered to the old gentleman.

Upon my honour I will, Colonel.

But upon my honour, I don't believe you'll get the girl—Come, Harman, I'll bet you a buck and six dozen of burgundy, that you won't have spirit enough to bring this affair to a crisis.

[Page 50]

And I say done first, Colonel.

Then look into the court there, sir; a chaise, with four of the prettiest bay geldings in England, with two boys in scarlet and silver jackets, that will whisk you along.

Boys! Colonel? Little cupids, to transport me to t [...] [...]ummit of my desires.

Ay, but for all th [...] it mayn't be amiss for me to talk to them a little out of the window for you. Dick, come hither; you are to go with this gentleman, and do whatever he bids you; and take into the chaise whoever he pleases; and drive like devils, do you hear?—but be kind to the dumb beasts.

Leave me to that, sir—And so, my dear Colo­nel, bon voyage!

Mr. Oldboy, here is a note from Sir John Flowerdale; it is addressed to me, entreating my son to come over there again this morning. A maid brought it: she is in the anti-chamber—We had better speak to her— Child, child, why don't you come in?

I choose to stay where I am, if your Ladyship pleases.

Stay where you are!—why so?

I am afraid of the old gentleman there.

Afraid of me, hussey

[Page 51]

Pray, Colonel, have patience—Afraid?— Here is something at the bottom of this,—What did you mean by that expression, child?

Why, the Colonel knows very well, madam, he wanted to be rude with me yesterday.

Oh, Mr. Oldboy!

Lady Mary, don't provoke me, but let me talk to the girl about her business. How came you to bring this note here?

Why, Sir John gave it to me, to deliver it to my uncle Jenkins, and I took it down to his house; but while we were talking together, he remembered that he had some business with Sir John, so he desired me to bring it, because he said it was not proper to be sent by any of the common servants.

Colonel, look in my face, and help blushing, if you can.

What the plague's the matter, my Lady! I have not been wronging you now, as you call it.

Indeed, madam, he offered to make me his kept madam—I am sure, his usage of me put me into such a twitter, that I did not know what I was doing all the day after.

I don't doubt it, though I so lately forgave him; but as the poet says, his sex is all deceit. Read Pamela, child, and resist temptation.

Yes, madam, I will.

Why, I tell you, my Lady, it was all a joke.

No, sir, it was no joke; you made me a proffer of money—so you did—whereby I told you, you had a lady of your own; and that though she was old, you had no right to despise her.

And how dare you, mistress, make use of my name? Is it for such trollops as you to talk of persons of distinction behind their backs?

Why, madam, I only said you was in years.

Sir John Flowerdale shall be informed of your impertinence, and you shall be turned out of the family; I see you are a confident creature, and I believe you are no better than you should be.

[Page 52]

I scorn your words, madam.

Get out of the room; how dare you stay in this room to talk impudently to me.

Very well, madam, I shall let my Lady know how you have used me; but I shan't be turned out of my place, madam; nor at a loss, if I am—and if you are angry with every one that won't say you are young, I believe there is very few you will keep friends with.

What is the matter here?

I will have a separate maintenance—I will, indeed. Only a new instance of your father's infidelity, my dear. Then with such low wretches, farmers daugh­ters, and servant wenches: but any thing with a cap on, 'tis all the same to him.

Upon my word, sir, I am sorry to tell you, that those practices very ill suit the character which you ought to endeavour to support in the world.

Is this a recompence for my love and regard; I, who have been tender and faithful as a turtle-dove?

A man of your birth and distinction, should me­thinks have views of a higher nature, than such low, such vulgar libertinism.

Consider my birth and family too—Lady Mary Jessamy might have had the best matches in Eng­land.

[Page 53]

Then, sir, your grey hairs—

I, that have brought you so many lovely, sweet babes —

Nay, sir, it is a reflection on me.

The henious sin, too.—

Indeed, sir, I blush for you.

'Sdeath and fire! you little effeminate puppy, do you know who you talk to?—And you, madam, do you know who I am?—Get up to your chamber, or, zounds, I'll make such a—

Ah! my dear, come away from him.

Am I to be tutored, and called to an account?— How now, you scoundrel, what do you want?

A letter, sir.

A letter—from whom, sirrah?

The gentleman's servant, an't please your ho­nour, that left this just now in the post-chaise—the gen­tleman my young lady went away with.

Your young lady, sirrah! Your young lady went away with no gentleman, you dog! What gentleman? What young lady, sirrah?

There is some mystery in this—With your leave, sir, I'll open the letter: I believe it contains no secrets.

What are you going to do, you jackanapes? You shan't open a letter of mine. Dy—Diana— Somebody call my daughter to me there— To John Oldboy, Esq. —SIR, I have loved your daughter a great while secretly . . . . Consenting to our marriage—

So, so.

You villain! you dog! what is it you have bro't me here?

Please your honour, if you'll have patience, I'll tell your honour. As I told your honour before, the gentleman's servant, that went off just now in the post-chaise, came to the gate, and left it after his master was gone. I saw my young lady go into the chaise with the gentleman.

A very fine joke, indeed. Pray, Colonel, do you generally write letters to yourself? Why, this is your own hand.

[Page 54]

Call all the servants in the house—Let horses be saddled directly—Every one take a different road.

Why, your honour, Dick said it was by your own orders.

My orders, you rascal? I thought he was going to run away with another gentleman's daughter. Dy— Diana Oldboy!

Don't waste your lungs to no purpose, sir; your daughter is half a dozen miles off by this time.

Sirrah, you have been bribed to further the scheme of a pick-pocket here.

Besides, the matter is entirely of your own con­triving, as well as the letter and spirit of this elegant epistle.

You are a coxcomb, and I'll disinherit you; the letter is none of my writing; it was writ by the devil, and the devil contrived it. Diana, Margaret, my Lady Mary, William, John!—

I am very glad of this—prodigiously glad of it, upon my honour—He! he! he! It will be a jest this hundred years. But, what shall I do with myself? I can't think of staying here any longer. Rot the coun­try; I wish I had never returned to it, with their vul­gar trade and liberty. What's the matter now? —

O! her ladyship has heard of it, and is at her bell; and the Colonel answers her. A pretty duet! but a little too much upon the forte, me­thinks. It would be a diverting thing now to stand un­seen at the old gentleman's elbow.

She's gone, by the Lord; fairly stole away, with that poaching, coney [...]catching rascal! However, I won't follow her, no, damme. Take my whip, and my cap, and my coat, and order my groom to unsaddle the horses: I won't follow her the length of a spur-leather.—Come here, you sir, and pull off my boots—

She has made a fool of me once; she shan't do it a second time— not but I'll be revenged, too; for I'll never give her six­pence: the disappointment will put the scoundrel out of temper, and he'll thrash her a dozen times a-day. The thought plases me—I hope he'll do it.— Zounds, who would ever have dependance on any thing female? She that seem'd so well contented in my house, and in the very moment when I was best contented with her, and contriving to make her fortune—But why should I vex myself? I am no worse off than every father may be, if an opportunity offers.

What do you stand gaping and staring at, you impu­dent dogs? Are you laughing at me? I'll teach you to be merry at my expence.—

Jenny, set my work here.

Yes, ma'am, and my own, too. I'm sure I've been very idle this week, and I am in no very good working humour, at present.

Where have you been, Jenny? I was enquiring for you. Why will you go out, without letting me know?

Dear ma'am, never any thing happened so unluc­ky: I am sorry you wanted me—But I was sent to Colo­nel Oldboy's with a letter, where I have been so used— Lord have mercy upon me!—quality, indeed! I say, quality!—Pray, madam, do you think that I looks any ways like an immodest person? To be sure, I have a gay air, and I can't help it—and I loves to appear a little genteelish, that's what I do.

Jenny, take away this book.

Heaven preserve me, madam, you are crying

O, my dear Jenny!

My dear mistress, what's the matter?

I am undone.

No, madam, no; Lord forbid!

I am, indeed—I have been rash enough to disco­ver my weakness for a man, who treats me with con­tempt.

Is Mr. Lionel ungrateful, then?

I have lost his esteem forever, Jenny. Since last night, that I fatally confessed what I should have kept a secret from all the world, he has scarce condescended to cast a look at me, nor given me an answer when I spoke to him, but with coldness and reserve.

Then he is a nasty, barbarous, unhuman brute.

Hold, J [...]nny, hold; it is all my fault.

Your fault, madam! I wish I was to hear such a [Page 57] a word come out of his mouth; if he was a minister to­morrow, and to say such a thing from his pulpit, and I by, I'd tell him it was false, upon the spot.

Somebody's at the door; see who it is.

You in fault, indeed!—that I know to be the most virtuousest, nicest, most delicatest—

How now?

Madam, it's a message from Mr. Lionel. If you are alone, and at leisure, he would be glad to wait upon you: I'll tell him, madam, that you are busy.

Where is he, Jenny?

In the study, the man says.

Then go to him, and tell him I should be glad to see him—But do not bring him up immediately, be­cause I will stand in the balcony a few minutes for a little air.

Do so, dear madam, for your eyes are as red as ferrets: you are ready to faint, too—Mercy on us!—for what do you grieve and vex yourself?—If I was as you—

Oh!

So then the mystery is discovered—but is it possible that my daughter's refusal of Colonel Oldboy's son should proceed from a clandestine engagement, and that engagement with Lionel?

My niece, sir, is in her young lady's secrets, and, Lord knows, she had little design to betray them; but having remarked some odd expressions of her's yesterday, when she came down to me this morning with the letter, [Page 58] I questioned her; and, in short, drew the whole affair out: upon which I feigned a recollection of some business with you▪ and desired her to carry the letter to Colonel Ol [...]boy's herself, while I came up hither.

And they are mutually promised to each other, and that promise was exchanged yesterday?

Yes, sir, and it is my duty to tell you; else I would rather die than be the means of wounding the heart of my dear young lady; for if there is one upon earth of truly delicate sentiments—

I thought so once, J [...]nkins.

And think so still: O, good Sir John, now is the time for you to exert that character of worth and gentle­ness, which the world so deservedly has given you. You have indeed cause to be offended; but consider, sir, your daughter is young▪ beautiful, and amiable; the poor youth unexperienced, sensible, and at a time of life when such temptations are hard to be resisted—Their opportu­nities were many, their cast of thinking the same.—

Jenkins, I can allow for all these things; but the young hypocrites—there's the thing, Jenkins—their hypocrisy, their hypocrisy wounds me.

Call it by a gentler name, sir—modesty on her part, apprehension on his.

Then what opportunity have they had?— they never were together but when my sister or myself made one of the company; besides, I had so firm a reli­ance on Lionel's honour and gratitude—

Sir, I can never think that Nature stamped that gracious countenance of his, to mask a corrupt heart.

How! at the very time that he was conscious of being himself the cause of it, did he not shew more concern at this a Fair than I did? Nay, don't I tell you that last night, of his own accord, he offered to be a me­diator in the a [...]fair, and desired my leave to speak to my daughter? I thought myself obliged to him▪ consented; and, in consequence of his assurance of success, wrote that letter to Colonel Oldboy, to desire the family would come here again to-day.

Sir, as we were standing in the next room, I [Page 59] heard a message delivered from Mr. Lionel, desiring leave to wait upon your daughter— dare swear they will be here presently: suppose we were to step into that closet and overhear their conversation?

What, J [...]ns, after having lived so many years in confidence with my child, shall I become an e [...]es-dropper, to detect her?

It is necessary at present —Come in my dear master— [...]et us only consider that we were once young, like them; subject to the same passions, the same indis­cretions; and it is the duty of every man to pardon er­rors incident to his kind.

Sir, you desired to speak to me—I need not tell you the present situation of my heart—it is full. What­ever you have to say, I beg you will explain yourself; and if possible, rid me of the anxiety under which I have laboured for some hours.

Madam, your anxiety cannot be greater than mine— come indeed, to speak to you; and yet, [...] know not how, I come to advise you—shall I say, as a friend? Yes! as a friend to your glory, your felicity—dearer to me than my life.

Go on, sir.

[Page 60]

Sir John Flowerdale, madam, is such a father as few are blessed with. His care, his prudence, has pro­vided for you a match—Your refusal renders him incon­solable. Listen to no suggestions that would pervert you from your duty; but make the worthiest of men happy, by submitting to his will.

How, sir, after what passed between us yesterday evening, can you advise me to marry Mr. Jessamy?

I would advise you to marry any one, madam, rather than a villain.

A villain, sir?

I should be the worst of villains, madam, was I to talk to you in any other strain: nay, am I not a vil­lain, at once treacherous and ungrateful? Received into this house as an asylum—what have I done? Betrayed the confidence of the friend that trusted me! endea­voured to sacrifice his peace, and the honour of his fami­ly, to my own unwarrantable desires.

Say no more, sir; say no more. I see my error too late; I have parted from the rules prescribed to my sex: I have mistaken indecorum for a laudable sincerity; and it is just I should meet with the treatment my impru­dence deserves.

'Tis I, and only I, am to blame. While I took advantage of the father's security, I practised upon the tenderness and ingenuity of the daughter; my own ima­gination gone astray, I artfully laboured to lead yours af­ter it: But here, madam, I give you back those vows which I insidiously extorted from you; keep them for some happier man, who may receive them without wounding his honour, or his peace.

For heaven's sake —

Why do you weep?

Don't speak to me.

Oh! my Clarissa, my heart is broke; I am hate­ful to myself for loving you: yet, before I leave you for ever, I will once more touch that lovely hand. Indulge my fondness with a last look—Pray for your health and prosperity.

Can you forsake me?—Have I then given my [Page 61] affections to a man who rejects and disregards them?— Let me throw myself at my father's feet: he is generous and compassionate—He knows your worth—

Mention it not: were you stript of fortune, re­duced to the meanest station, and I monarch of the globe, I should glory in raising you to universal empire; but as it is—

Yet hear me—

Farewel, farewel!

O Madam! I have betrayed you. I have gone and said something I should not have said, to my uncle Jenkins; and, as sure as day, he has gone and told it all to Sir John.

My father!

Go, Jenkins, and desire that young gentle­man to come back— tay, where are you?—But what have I done to my child? How have I deserved that you should treat me like an enemy? Has there been any undesigned rigour in my conduct, or terror in my looks?

Oh, sir!

Here is Mr. Lionel.

Come in—When I tell you that I am in­structed in all your proceedings, and that I have been ear-witness to your conversation in this place, you will, pe [...]haps, imagine what my thoughts are of you, and the measures which justice prescribes me to follow.

[Page 62]

Sir, I have nothing to say in my own defence; I stand before you self-convicted, self-condemned, and shall submit without murmuring to the sentence of my judge.

As for you, Clarissa, since your earliest in­fancy, you have known no parent but me; I have been to you, at once, both father and mother; and that I might the better fulfil those united duties, though left a widower in the prime of my days, I would never enter into a second marriage—I loved you for your likeness to your dear mother; but that mother never deceived me— and there the likeness fails—you have repaid my affec­tion with dissimulation— Clarissa, you should have trusted me.

O, my dear sweet Lady —

As for you, Mr. Lionel, what terms can I find strong enough to paint the excess of my friendship! —I loved, I esteemed, I honoured your father: he was a brave, a generous, and a sincere man; I thought you inherited his good qualities—you were left an orphan, I adopted you, put you upon the footing of my own son; educated you like a gentleman, and designed you for a profession, to which, I thought, your virtues would have been an ornament.

Dear me, dear me!

Hold your tongue.

What return you have made me, you seem to be acquainted with yourself: and, therefore, I shall not repeat it—Yet, remember, as an aggravation of your guilt, that the last mark of my bounty was conferred upon you in the very instant when you were undermining my designs. Now, sir, I have but one thing more to say to you—Take my daughter: was she worth a million, she is at your service.

To me, sir!—your daughter▪—do you give her to me?—Without fortune—without friends!—without—

You have them all in your heart? him whom virtue raises, fortune cannot abase.

O, sir, let me on my knees kiss that dear hand —acknowledge my error, and entreat forgiveness and blessing.

[Page 63]

You have not erred, my dear daughter; you have distinguished. It is I should ask pardon for this little trial of you; for I am happier in the son-in-law you have given me, than if you had married a prince—

My patron—my friend—my father—I would fain say something; but as your goodness exceeds all bounds—

I think I hear a coach drive into the court— it is Colonel Oldboy's family; I will go and receive them. Don't make yourself uneasy at this; we must endeavour to pacify them as well as we can. My dear Lionel, if I have made you happy, you have made me so. Heaven bless you, my children, and make you deserving of one another.

O, dear madam, upon my knees I humbly beg your forgiveness—Dear Mr. Lionel, forgive me—I did not design to discover it, indeed; and you won't turn me off, madam, will you? I'll serve you for nothing.

Get up, my good Jenny—I freely forgive you, if there is any thing to be forgiven. I know you love me; and, I am sure, here is one who will join with me in rewarding your services.

Well, if I did not know, as sure as could be, that some good would happen, by my left eye itching this morning.

'Tis all in vain, my dear; set me down any where; I can't go a step further.—I knew, when Mr. Oldboy insisted upon my coming, that I should be seized with a meagrim by the way; and it's well I did not die in the coach.

But, pr'ythee, why will you let yourself be affect­ed with such trifles? Nothing more common than for young women of fashion to go off with low fellows.

Only feel, my dear, how I tremble! Not a nerve but what is in agitation; and my blood runs cold, cold!

Well, but Lady Mary, don't let us expose ourselves to those people; I see there is not one of the rascals about us, that has not a grin upon his countenance.

Expose ourselves my dear! Your father will be as ridiculous as Hu [...]ibras, or Don Quixotte.

Yes, he will be very ridiculous, indeed.

I give you my word, my good friend and neighbour, the joy I feel on this occasion, is greatly al­layed by the disappointment of an alliance with your fa­mily; but I have explained to you how things have hap­pened. You see my situation; and as you are kind enough to consider it yourself, I hope you will excuse it to your son.

Sir John Flowerdale, how do you do? You see we have obeyed your summons; and I have the plea­sure to assure you, that my son yielded to my intreaties with very little disagreement: in short, if I may speak metaphorically, he is content to stand candidate again, notwithstanding his late repulse, when he hopes for an unanimous election.

Well, but, my Lady, you may save your rheto­ric; [Page 65] for the borough is disposed of, to a worthier mem­ber.

What do you say, sir?

Here are my son and daughter.

Is this pretty, Sir John?

Believe me, madam, it is not for want of a just sense of Mr. Jessamy's merit, that this affair has gone off on any side; but the heart is a delicate thing; and af­ter it has once felt, if the object is meritorious, the im­pression is not easily effaced—It would, therefore, have been an injury to him, to have given him in appearance, what another in reality possessed.

Upon my honour, upon my soul, Sir John, I am not in the least offended at this contretemps.—Pray, Lady Mary, say no more about it.

Tol, lol, lol, lol.

But, my dear Colonel, I am afraid, after all, this affair is taken amiss by you; yes, I see you are an­gry on your son's account; but, let me repeat it, I have a very high opinion of his merit.

Ay! that's more than I have. Taken amiss! I don't take any thing amiss; I never was in better spirits or more pleased, in my life.

Come, you are uneasy at something, Co­lonel?

Me! Gad, I am not uneasy.—Are you a justice of peace? Then you could give me a warrant, cou'dn't you? You must know, Sir John, a little accident has happened in my family since I saw you last; you and I may shake hands—Daughters, sir, daughters! Your's has snapt at a young fellow without your approbation— and how do you think mine has served me this morning? —only run away with the scoundrel I brought to dinner here yesterday.

I am excessively concerned.

Now I'm not a bit concerned—No, damn me, I am glad it has happened; yet, thus far I'll confess, I should be sorry that either of them would come in my way, because a man's temper may sometimes get the [Page 66] better of him; and I believe I should be tempted to break her neck, and blow his brains out.

But pray, sir, explain this affair.

I can explain it no farther— Dy, my daughter Dy, has run away from us.

No, my dear papa, I am not run away; and, upon my knees I entreat your pardon for the folly I have committed; but let it be some alleviation, that duty and affection were too strong to suffer me to carry it to ex­tremity: and, if you knew the agony I have been in, since I saw you last—

How's this?

Sir, I restore your daughter to you, whose fault, as far as it goes, I must also take upon myself; we have been known to each other for some time; as Lady Richly, your sister, in London, can acquaint you—

Dy, come here—Now, you rascal, where's your sword; if you are a gentleman, you shall fight me; if you are a scrub, I'll horse whip you—Draw, sirrah— Shut the door there, don't let him escape.

Sir, don't imagine I want to escape; I am ex­tremely sorry for what has happened, but am ready to give you any satisfaction you think proper.

Follow me into the garden, then—Zounds! I have no sword about me—Sir John Flowerdale—lend us a case of pistols, or a couple of guns, and come and see fair play.

My dear papa!

Sir John Flowerdale—O my indiscretion!—we came here, sir, to beg your mediation in our favour.

Mr. Oldboy, if you attempt to fight, I shall expire.

Pray, Colonel, let me speak a word to you in private.

Slugs and a saw-pit—

Why, Miss Dy, you are a perfect heroine for a romance—And, pray, who is this courteous knight?

O sir, you that I thought such a pretty be­haved gentleman!—

What business are you of, friend?

[Page 67]

My chief trade, sir, is plain dealing; and as that is a commodity you have no reason to be very fond of, I would not advise you to purchase any of it, by imperti­nence.

And is this what you would advise me to?

It is, indeed, my dear old friend: as things are situated, there is, in my opinion, no other prudent method of proceeding; and it is the method I would adopt myself, was I in your case.

Why, I believe you are in the right of it—say what you will for me then.

Well, young people, I have been able to use a few arguments, which have softened my neighbour here, and in some measure pacified his resentment. I find, sir, you are a gentleman by your connections?

Sir, till it is found that my character and family will bear the strictest scrutiny, I desire no favour—And for fortune—

Oh! rot your fortune, I don't mind that—I know you are a gentleman, or Dick Rantum would not have re­commended you: and so, Dy, kiss and friends.

What, sir, have you no more to say to the man who has used you so ill?

Used me ill! That's as I take it. He has done a mettled thing; and, perhaps, I like him the better for it. It's long before you would have spirit enough to run away with a wench— Harman, give me your hand; let's hear no more of this now—Sir John Flowerdale, what say you? shall we spend the day together, and dedicate it to love and harmony?

With all my heart.

Then take off my great coat.

[Page 68]

ACT I.

Heigho— Rosetta!

Well, child, what do you say?

'Tis a devilish thing to live in a village an hun­dred miles from the capital, with a preposterous gouty father, and a superannu [...]ed maiden aunt.—I am hear­tily sick of my situation.

And with reason—But 'tis in a great measure your own fault: here is this Mr. Eustace, a man of cha­racter and family; he likes you, you like him; you know one another's minds, and yet you will not resolve to make yourself happy with him.

And this is your advice?

Positively.

Here's my hand; positively I'll follow it—I have already sent to my gentleman, who is now in the country, to let him know he may come hither this day; we will make use of the opportunity to settle all preli­minaries—And then—But take notice, whenever we decamp, you march off along with us.

Oh! madam, your servant; I have no inclination to be left behind, I assure you—But you say yo [...] got acquainted with this spark, while you were with your mother, during her last illness, at Bath, so that your father has never seen him.

Never in his life, my dear; and I am confident he entertains not the least suspicion of my having any such connexion: my aunt, indeed, has her doubts and surmises; but, besides that my father will not allow any one to be wiser than himself, it is an established maxim between these affectionate relations, never to agree in any thing.

Except being absurd; you must allow they sym­pathize perfectly in that—But now we are on the sub­ject, I desire to know what I am to do with this wicked old justice of peace, this libidinous father of yours? He follows me about the house like a tame goat.

[Page 7]

Nay, I'll assure you he has been a wag in his time—you must have a care of yourself.

Wretched me! to fall into such hands, who have been just forced to run away from my parents to avoid an odious marriage—You smile at that now; and I know you think me whimfical, "as you have often told me;" but you must excuse my being a little over deli­cate in this particular.

Well, but my dear mad girl—

Lucinda, don't talk to me—Was your father to go to London, meet there by accident with an old fellow as wrong-headed as himself, and in a fit of absurd friendship, agree to marry you to that old fellow's soil, whom you had never seen, without consulting your in­clinations, or allowing you a negative, in case he should not prove agreeable—

Why, I should think it a little hard, I confess —yet when I see you in the character of a chamber­maid—

It is the only character, my dear, in which I could hope to lie concealed: and I can tell you, I was reduced to the last extremity, when, in consequence of our old boarding-school friendship, I applied to you to receive me in this capacity; for we expected the parties the very next week.

But had not you a message from your intended spouse, to let you know he was as little inclined to such ill concerted nuptials as you were?

More than so; he wrote to advise me, by all means, to contrive some method of breaking them off, [Page 8] for he had rather return to his dear studies at Oxford: and after that, what hopes could I have of being happy with him?

Then you are not at all uneasy at the strange rout you must have occasioned at home, I warrant, dur­ring this month you have been absent?—

Oh! don't mention it, my dear; I have had so many admirers since I commenced Abigail, that I am quite charmed with my situation—but hold, who stalks yonder into the yard, that the dogs are so glad to see?

Daddy Hawthorn, as I live! He is come to pay my father a visit; and never more luckily, for he always forces him abroad. By the way, what will you do with yourself, while I step into the house to see after my trusty messenger Hodge?

No matter, I'll sit down in that arbour, and listen to the singing of the birds: you know I am fond of me­lancholy amusements.

So it seems indeed: sure, Rosetta, none of your admirers had power to touch your heart; you are not in love, I hope?

In love! that's pleasant: who do you suppose I should be in love with, pray?

Why, let me see—What do you think of Thomas our gardener? There he is at the other end of the walk—He's a pretty young man, and the servants say he's always writing verses on you.

Indeed, Lucinda you are very silly.

Indeed, Rosetta, that blush makes you look very handsome.

Blush! I am sure I don't blush.

Ha, ha, ha!

Psha, Lucinda, how can you be so ridiculous?

Well don't be angry, and I have done—But suppose you did like him, how could you help yourself?

Let me see—

on the fifteenth of June, at half an hour past five in the mor­ning, I left my father's house, unknown to any one, having made free with a coat and jacket of our gardener's which fitted me, by way of disguise;

so says my pocket-book; and chance directing me to this village, on the twentieth of the same month, I procured a recommendation to the worshipful Justice Woodcock, to be the superintendant of his pumpkins and cabbages, because I would let my father see I chose to run any lengths, rather than submit to what his obstinacy would have forced me, a marriage against my inclinations, with a woman I never saw. Here I have been three weeks, and in that time I am as much altered as if I changed my nature with my habit. 'Sdeath, to fall in love with a chambermaid! And yet, if I could forget that I am the son and heir of Sir William Meadows—But that's im­possible.

Ha! who was it I had a glimpse of as I past by that ar­bour? Was it not she sat reading there? The trembling of my heart tells me my eyes were not mistaken—Here she comes.

Lucinda was certainly in the right of it, and yet I blush to own my weakness even to myself—Marry, hang the fellow, for not being a gentleman.

I am determined I won't speak to her,

Now or never is the time to conquer myself: besides, I have some reason to believe the girl has no aversion to me: and, as I wish not to do her an injury, it would be cruel to fill her head with notions of what can never happen.

"Psha! rot those roses, how they prick one's fingers?"

He takes no notice of me; but so much the bet­ter. I'll be as indifferent as he is. I am sure the poor lad likes me; and if I was to give him any encouragement, I suppose the next thing he talked of would be buying a ring, and being asked in church—Oh, dear pride! I thank you for that thought.

Hah, going without a word! a look!— I can't bear that

Mrs. Rosetta, I am gathering a few roses here, if you please to take them in with you.

Thank you, Mr. Thomas, but all my ladies flower­pots are full.

Will you accept of them for yourself, then?

What's the matter? you look as if you were angry with me.

Pray let go my hand.

Nay, pr'y thee, why is this? you shan't go, I have something to say to you.

Well, but I must go, I will go: I desire, Mr. Thomas—

[Page 11]

This girl is a riddle—That she loves me, I think there is no room to doubt; she takes a thousand opportunities to let me see it; and yet, when I speak to her, she will hardly give me an answer; and, if I attempt the smallest familiarity, is gone in an instant—I feel my passion for her grow every day more and more violent— Well, would I marry her? would I make a mistress of her if I could? Two things, called prudence and honour forbid either. What am I pursuing, then? A shadow, Sure my evil genius laid this snare in my way. How­ever, there is one comfort—it is in my power to fly from it; if so, why do I hesitate? I am distracted, unable to determine any thing.

House, here, house! what all gadding, all abroad! house I say, hilli ho ho!

[Page 12]

Here's a noise, here's a racket! William, Robert, Hodge! why does not somebody answer? Odds, my life, I believe the fellows have lost their hearing!

Oh master Hawthorn! I guessed it was some such mad-cap—Are you there?

Am I here? Yes: and if you had been where I was three hours ago, you would find the good effects of it by this time: but you have got the lazy unwhole­some London fashion, of lying a [...]bed in a morning, and there's gout for you—Why, sir, I have not been in bed five minutes after sun-rise these thirty years, am gene­rally up before it; and I never took a dose of physic but once in my life, and that was in compliment to a cousin of mine, an apothecary, that had just set up business.

Well, but master Hawthorn, let me tell you, you know nothing of the matter; for I say sleep is necessary for a man; ay, and I'll maintain it.

What, when I maintain to the contrary?— Look you, neighbour Woodcock, you are a rich man, a man of worship, a justice of peace, and all that; but learn to know the respect that is due to the sound from the infirm; and allow me that superiority a good consti­tution gives me over you—Health is the greatest of all possessions; and 'tis a maxim with me that [...]n hale cob­bler is a better man than a sick king.

Well, well, you are a sportsman.

And so would you too, if you would take my advice. A sportsman! why there is nothing like it: I would not exchange the satisfaction I feel while I am beating the lawns and thickets about my little farm, for all the entertainments and pageantry in christendom.

Did your worship call, sir?

Call, sir; where have you and the rest of these rascals been? But I suppose I need not ask— You must know there is a statute, a fair for hiring ser­vants, held upon my green to-day▪ we have it usually at this season of the year, and it never fails to put all the folks hereabouts out of their senses.

Lord, your honour, look out, and see what a nice show they make yonder; they had goe pipers and fiddlers, and were dancing as I came along, for dear life. —I never saw such a mortal throng in our village in all my born days again.

Why, I like this now: this is as it should be.

No, no, 'tis a very foolish piece of busi­ness; good for nothing but to promote idleness and the getting of bastards: but I shall take measures for pre­venting it another year, and I doubt whether I am not sufficiently authorized already; for, by an act passed An­no undecimo Caroli primi, which impowers a justice of peace, who is lord of the manor—

Come, come, never mind the act; let me tell you this a very proper, a very useful meeting; I want a servant or two myself; I must go see what your market affords;—and you shall go, and the girls, my little Lucy, and the other young rogue, and we'll make a day on't as well as the rest,

I wish, master Hawthorn, I could teach you to be a little more sedate; why won't you take pat­tern by me, and consider your dignity!—Odds, heart, I don't wonder you are not a rich man; you laugh too much ever to be rich.

Right, neighbour Woodcock! health, good humour, and competence, is my motto: and if my exe­cutors have a mind, they are welcome to make it my epitaph.

Hist, hist, Hodge!

Who calls? here am I.

Well, have you been?

Been, ay, I ha' been far enough, an that be all: you never knew any thing fall out so crossly in your born days,

Why, what's the matter?

Why, you know, I dare not take a horse out of his worship's stables this morning, for fear it should be missed, and breed questions: and our old nag at home was so cruelly beat i'th'hoofs, that, poor beast, it had not a foot to set to ground; so I was fain to go to farmer Ploughshare's, at the Grange, to borrow the loan of his bald filly: and, would you think it? after walking all that way—de'el from me, if the cross-grained toad did not deny me the favour.

Unlucky!

Well, then I went my ways to the King's-head in the village, but all their cattle were at plough: and I was as far to seek below at the turnpike: so at last, for want of a better, I was forced to take up with dame Quickset's blind mare.

Oh, then you have been?

Yes, yes, I ha' been.

Psha! why did not you say so at once?

Aye, but I have had a main tiresome jaunt on't, for she is a sorry jade at best.

Well, well, did you see Mr. Eustace, and what did he say to you?—Come, quick—have you e'er a letter?

[Page 15]

Yes, he gave me a letter, if I ha' na lost it.

Lost it, man!

Nay, nay, have a bit of patience: adwauns, you are always in such a hurry.

I put it somewhere into this waistcoat pocket. Oh here it is.

So, give it me.

Lord-a-mercy! how my arms ache with heat­ing that plaguy beast; I'll be hang'd if I won'na rather ha'thrash'd half a day, than ha' ridden her.

Well, Hodge, you have done your business very well.

Well, have not I, now?

Yes—Mr. Eustace tells me in this letter, that he will be in the green lane, at the other end of the village, by twelve o'clock—You know where he came before.

Ay, ay.

Well, you must go there; and wait till he ar­rives, and watch your opportunity to introduce him across the fields, into the little summer-house, on the left side of the garden.

That's enough.

But take particular care that no body sees you.

I warrant you.

Nor for your life drop a word of it to any mortal.

Never fear me.

And Hodge—

[Page 16]

How severe is my case! Here I'm obliged to carry on a claudestine correspondence with a man in all respects my equal, because the oddity of my father's tem­per is such, that I dare not tell him I have ever yet seen the person I should like to marry—But perhaps he has quality in his eye, and hopes, one day or other, as I am his only child, to match me with a title: vain imagination!

What does the wench follow me for? Odds flesh, folk may well talk, to see you dangling after me every where, like a tantony pig: find some other road, can't you; and don't keep wherreting me with your nonsense.

Nay, pray you, Hodge, stay, and let me speak to you a bit.

Well; what sayn you?

Dear heart, how can you be so barbarous? and is this the way you serve me after all; and won't you keep your word, Hodge?

Why no, I won't, I tell you: I have chang'd my mind.

Nay, but surely, surely—Consider, Hodge, you are obligated in conscience to make me an honest woman.

[Page 17]

Obligated in conscience! How am I obligated?

Because you are; and none but the basest of rogues would bring a poor girl to shame, and afterwards leave her to the wide world.

Bring you to shame! Don't make me speak, Madge, don't make me speak.

Yes, do speak your worst.

Why then, if you go to that, you were fain to leave your own village down in the West, for a bastard you had by the clerk of the parish, and I'll bring the man shall say it to your face.

No, no, Hodge, 'tis no such thing, 'tis a base lie of farmer Ploughshare's—But I know what makes you false-hearted to me, that you may keep company with young madam's waiting woman, and I am sure she's no fit body for a poor man's wife.

How should you know what she's fit for? She's fit for as much as you, mayhap; don't find fault with your betters, Madge.

Oh! Master Thomas, I have a word or two to say to you. Pray did not you go down the village one day last week with a basket of something upon your shoulder?

Well, and what then?

Nay, not much, only the hostler at the Green-Man was saying as how there was a passenger at their house as see'd you go by, and said he know'd you; and axt a mort of questions—So I thought I'd tell you.

The devil! ask questions about me! I know no body in this part of the country; there must be some mistake in it—Come hither, Hodge.

A nasty, ungrateful fellow, to use me at this rate, after being to him as I have. —Well, well, I wish all poor girls would take warning by my mishap, and never have nothing to say to none of them.

This way, your worship; this way. Why don't you stand aside there! Here's his worship a-coming.

His worship!

Fie, fie, what a crowd's this! Odd, I'll put some of them in the stocks.

Stand out of the way, sirrah.

For shame, neighbour! Well, my lad, are you willing to serve the king?

Why, can you list ma? Serve the king, master! no, no, I pay the king, that's enough for me. Ho, ho, ho?

Well said, Sturdy-boots.

Nay, if you talk to them, they'll answer you.

I would have them do so. I like they should. —Well, madam, is not this a fine sight? I did not know my neighbour's estate had been so well peopled.—Are all these his own tenants?

More than are good of them, Mr. Hawthorn. I don't like to see such a parcel of young huffies fleering with the fellows.

There's a lass.

Come hither, my pretty maid. What brings you here?

Do you come to look for a service?

Yes, an't please you.

Well, and what place are you for?

[Page 19]

All work, an't please you.

Ay, ay, I don't doubt it: any work you'll put her to.

She looks like a brazen one—Go, hussey.

Here's another.

What health, what bloom!—This is nature's work; no art, no daubing. Don't be ashamed, child; those cheeks of thine are enough to put a whole drawing-room out of countenance.

Now, your honour, now the sport will come. The gut-scrapers are here, and some among them are going to sing and dance. Why there's not the like of our statute, mon, in five counties; others are but fools to it.

Come, good people, make a ring; and stand out, fellow-servants, as many of you as are willing, and able to bear a bob. We'll let my master and mistress see we can do something at least; if they won't hire us, it shan't be our fault. Strike up the Servants' Medley.

ACT II.

WELL, am not I a bold adventurer, to bring you into my father's house at noon-day? Though, to say the truth, we are safer here than in the garden; for there is not a human creature under the roof besides ourselves.

Then why not put our scheme into execution this moment? I have a post-chaise ready.

Fie: how can you talk so lightly? I protest I am afraid to have any thing to do with you: your pas­sion seems too much [...]ounded on appetite; and my [...]unt Deborah says—

What! by all the rapture my heart now feels—

Oh, to be sure, promise and vow; it sounds prettily, and never fails to impose on a fond female.

Well, I see you've a mind to divert yourself with me; but I wish I could prevail on you to be a little se­rious.

Seriously then, what would you desire me to say? I have promised to run away with you; which is as great a concession as any reasonable lover can expect from his mistress.

Yes; but, you dear provoking angel, you have not told me when you will run away with me.

Why that, I confess, requires some considera­tion.

Yet remember, while you are deliberating, the season, now so favourable to us, may elapse, never to re­turn.

Why, here is nothing in the world in this house but caterwauling from morning till night, no­thing but caterwauling. Hoity, toity, who have we here?

My father and my aunt!

The devil! what shall we do?

Take no notice of them, only observe me.

Upon my word, sir, I don't know what to say to it, unless the justice was at home; he has just stepp'd into the village with some company; but, if you will sit down a moment, I dare swear he will return—

Oh! sir, here is my papa!

Here is your papa, hussey! Who's this you have got with you? Hark you, sirrah, who are you, ye dog? and what's your business here?

Sir, this is a language I am not used to.

Don't answer me, you rascal—I am a justice of the peace; and if I hear a word out of your mouth, I'll send you to jail, for all your laced hat.

Send him to jail, brother, that's right.

And how do you know it's right? How should you know any thing's right.—Sister Deborah, you are never in the right.

Brother, this is the man I have been telling you about so long.

What man, goody Wiseacre?

Why, the man, your daughter has an in­trigue with; but I hope you will believe it now, [Page 23] though you see it with your own eyes—Come, hussey, confess, and don't let your father make a fool of him­self any longer.

Confess what, aunt? This gentleman is a mu­sic-master: he goes about the country teaching ladies to play and sing, and has been recommended to instruct me; I could not turn him out when he came to offer his ser­vice, and did not know what answer to give him till I saw my papa.

A music master!

Yes, sir, that's my profession.

It's a lye, young man, it's a lye. Brother, he is no more a music-master, than I am a music-master.

What, then, you know better than the fellow himself, do you? and you will be wiser than all the world?

Brother, he does not look like a music-master.

He does not look! ha! ha! ha! Was ever such a poor stupe! Well, and what does he look like then? But I suppose you mean, he is not dressed like a music-master, because of his ruffles, and this bit of gar­nishing about his waistcoat—which seems to be copper too—Why, you silly wretch, these whippersnappers set up for gentlemen, now-a-days, and give themselves as many airs as if they were people of quality—Hark you, friend, I suppose you don't come within the vagrant act? You have some settled habitation?—Where do you live?

It is an easy matter for him to tell you a wrong place.

Sister Deborah, don't provoke me.

I wish, brother, you would let me examine him a little.

You shan't say a word to him, you shan't say a word to him.

She says he was recommended here, bro­ther; ask him by whom.

No, I won't now, because you desire it.

If my papa did ask the question, aunt, it would be very easily resolved.

[Page 24]

Who bid you speak, Mrs. Nimble-chop [...]! I suppose the man has a tongue in his head, to answer for himself.

Will nobody stop that prating old wo­man's mouth for me? Get out of the room.

Well, so I can, brother, I don't want to stay; but remember, I tell you, you will make yourself ridiculous in this affair; for through your own obstina­cy, you will have your daughter run away with before your face.

My daughter! who will run away with my daughter?

That fellow will.

Go, go, you are a wicked censorious old woman.

Why, sure, madam, you must think me very coming, indeed.

Ay, she judges others by herself; I re­member when she was a girl, her mother dared not trust her the length of her apron-string; she was clambering upon every fellow's back.

I was not.

You were.

Well, but why so violent?

Well done Lucy, send her about her business; a troublesome, foolish creature, does she think [Page 25] I want to be directed by her—Come hither, my lad; yo [...] look tolerable honest.

I hope, sir, I shall never give you cause to alter your opinion.

No, no, I am not easily deceived; I am generally pretty right in my conjectures.—You must know, I had once a little notion of music myself, and learned upon the fiddle; I could play the Trumpet Mi­nuet, and Buttered Peas, and two or three tunes. I re­member when I was in London, about thirty years ago, there was a song, a great favourite at our club at Nando's coffee-house; Jack Pickle used to sing it for us; a droll fish: but 'tis an old thing, I dare swear you have heard of it often.

Very well, Sir, upon my word.

No, no, I forget all those things now; but I could do a little at them once:—Well, stay and eat your dinner, and we'll talk about your teaching the girl. — Lucy, take your master to your spinnet, and shew him what you can do—I must go and give some orders; Then hoity-toity, &c.

My sweet, pretty papa, your most obedient humble srvant; hah, hah, hah! was ever so whimsi­cal an accident! Well, sir, what do you think of this?

Think of it! I am in amaze.

[Page 26]

O, your aukwardness! I was frightened out of my wits, lest you should not take the hint; and if I had not turned matters so cleverly, we should have been ut­terly undone.

'Sdeath! why would you bring me into the house? we could expect nothing else: besides, since they did surprise us, it would have been better to have disco­vered the truth.

Yes, and never have seen one another after­wards. I know my father better than you do; he has taken it into his head, I have no inclination for a hus­band; and let me tell you, that is our best security: for, if once he has said a thing, he will not be easily per­suaded to the contrary.

And pray what am I to do now?

Why, as I think all danger is pretty well over, since he has invited you to dinner with him, stay; only be cautious of your behaviour; and, in the mean time, I will consider what is next to be done.

Had not I better go to your father?

Do so, while I endeavour to recover myself a little out of the flurry this affair has put me in.

Well, but what sort of a parting is this, without so much as your servant, or good bye to you? No cere­mony at all? Can you afford me no token to keep up my spirits till I see you again?

Ah, childish!

My angel!

If ever poor creature was in a pitiable condition, surely, I am. The devil take this fellow, I cannot get him out of my head, and yet I would fain persuade my­self I don't care for him: well, but surely I am not in love: let me examine my heart a little: I saw him kissing one of the maids the other day; I could have boxed his ears for it, and have done nothing but find fault and quarrel with the girl ever since. Why was I uneasy at his toying with another woman? what was it to me?— Then I dream of him almost every night—but that may proceed from his being generally uppermost in my thoughts all day; Oh! worse and worse!—Well, he is certainly a pretty lad; 'he has something uncommon 'about him, considering his rank:'—And now let me only put the case, if he was not a servant—In short, I'll ask no more questions, for the further I examine, the less reason I shall have to be satisfied.

Do you come into the garden, Mrs. Rosetta, to put my lillies and roses out of countenance; or to save me the trouble of watering my flowers, by reviv­ing them? The sun seems to have hid himself a little, to give you an opportunity of supplying his place.

[Page 28]

Where could he get that, now? he never read it in the Academy of Compliments.

Come, don't affect to treat me with con­tempt; I can suffer any thing better than that; in short, I love you; there is no more to be said: I am angry with myself for it, and strive all I can against it: but in spite of myself I love you.

Really, Mr. Thomas, this is very improper lan­guage; it is what I don't understand; I can't suffer it; and, in short, I don't like it.

Perhaps you don't like me.

Well, perhaps I don't.

Nay, but 'tis not so; come, confess you love me.

Confess! indeed I shall confess no such thing: besides, to what purpose should I confess it?

Why, as you say, I don't know to what purpose; only it would be a satisfaction to me to hear you say so, that's all.

Why, if I did love you, I can assure you, you would never be the better for it—Women are apt enough to be weak; we cannot always answer for our inclina­tions, but it is in our power not to give way to them; and, If I was so silly—I say, if I was so indiscreet, which I hope I am not, as to entertain an improper regard, when people's circumstances are quite unsuitable, and there are obstacles in the way that cannot be surmount­ed—

Oh! to be sure, Mrs. Rosetta, to be sure; you are entirely in the right of it—I know very well, you and I can never come together.

[Page 29]

Well, then, since that is the case, as I assure you it is, I think we had better behave accordingly.

Suppose we make a bargain, then, never to speak to one another any more?

With all my heart.

Nor look at, nor, if possible, think of one another.

I am very willing.

And, as long as we stay in the house to­gether, never to take any notice?

It is the best way.

Why, I believe it is—Well, Mrs. Rosetta—

Well, now I think I am somewhat easier; I am glad I have come to this explanation with him, because it puts an end to things at once.

'Hold, Mrs. Rosetta, pray stay a mo­ment'—The airs this girl gives herself are intolerable: I find now the cause of her behaviour; she despises the meanness of my condition, thinking a gardener below the notice of a lady's waiting-woman: 'sdeath, I have a good mind to discover myself to her.

Poor wretch! he does not know what to make of it: I believe he is heartily mortified, but I must not pity him.

[Page 30]

It shall be so; I will discover myself to her, and leave the house directly—Mrs. Rosetta—

—Pox on it, yonder's the Justice come into the garden!

O Lord! 'he will walk round this way;' pray go about your business; I would not for the world he should see us together.

The devil take him:—he's gone across the parterre, and can't hobble here this half hour: I must and will have a little conversation with you.

Some other time.

This evening, in the green-house, at the lower end of the canal; I have something to communi­cate to you of importance. Will you meet me there?

Meet you!

Ay; I have a secret to tell you; and I swear, from that moment, there shall be an end of every thing betwixt us.

Well, well, pray leave me now.

You'll come, then?

I don't know, perhaps I may.

Nay, but promise.

What signifies promising; I may break my pro­mise—but I tell you I will.

Enough—yet before I leave you, let me desire you to believe I love you more than ever man loved woman; and that, when I relinquish you, I give up all that can make my life supportable.

What can this be that he wants to tell me? I have a great curiosity to hear it, methinks—well—

Hem: hem: Rosetta!

So, I thought the devil would throw him in my way; now for a courtship of a different kind; but I'll give him a surfeit—Did you call me, sir?

Ay, where are you running so fast?

I was only going into the house, sir.

Well, but come here: come here, I say.

How do you do, Rosetta!

Thank you, sir, pretty well.

Why you look as fresh and blooming to­day—Adad, you little slut, I believe you are painted.

O! sir, you are pleased to compliment.

Adad, I believe you are—let me try—

Lord, sir!

What brings you into this garden so often, Rosetta? I hope you don't get eating green fruit and trash; or have you a hankering after some lover in dowlas, who spoils my trees by engraving true-lovers knots on them, with your horn and buck-handled knives? I see your name written on the ceiling of the servants hall, with the smoak of a candle; and I suspect—

Not me, I hope sir,—No, sir; I am of another guess mind, I assure you; for, I have heard say, men are false and fickle—

Ay, that's your flaunting, idle young fel­lows; so they are; and they are so damn'd impudent, I wonder a woman will have any thing to say to them; be­sides, all they want is something to brag of, and tell again.

Why, I own, sir, if ever I was to make a slip, it should be with an elderly gentleman—about seventy, or seventy-five years of age.

No, child, that's out of reason; though I have known many a man turned of threescore with a hale constitution.

Then, sir, he should be troubled with the gout, have a good, strong, substantial, winter cough—and I [Page 32] should not like him the worse—if he had a small touch of the rheumatism.

Pho, pho, Rosetta, this is jesting.

No, sir, every body has a taste, and I have mine.

Well, but Rosetta, have you thought of what I was saying to you?

What was it, sir,

Ah! you know, you know, well enough, hussey.

Dear sir, consider, my soul; would you have me endanger my soul?

No, no—Repent.

Besides, sir, consider what has a poor servant to depend on but her character? And, I have heard, you gentlemen will talk one thing before, and another after.

I tell you again, these are the idle, flashy young dogs; but when you have to do with a staid, sober man—

And a magistrate, sir!

Right; it's quite a different thing— Well, shall we, Rosetta, shall we?

Really sir, I don't know what to say to it.

Why, you silly girl, I won't do you any harm.

Won't you, sir?

Not I.

But won't you indeed sir?

Why, I tell you I won't.

Ha, ha, ha!

[Page 33]

Hussey, hussey.

Ha, ha, ha!—Your servant, sir,—your servant.

Why, you impudent, audacious—

So, so, justice at odds with gravity! his wor­ship playing at romps! Your servant, sir.

Hah! friend Hathorn!

I hope I don't spoil sport, neighbour: I thought I had the glimpse of a petticoat as I came in here.

Oh! the maid. Ay, she has been ga­thering a sallad— But come hither, master Hawthorn, and I'll shew you some alterations I intend to make in my garden.

No, no, I am no judge of it; besides, I want to talk to you a little more about this—Tell me, Sir Justice, were you helping your maid to gather a fal­lad here, or consulting her taste in your improvements, oh? Ha, ha, ha! Let me see, all among the ro [...]es: egad, I like your notion; but you look a little blank upon it; — you are ashamed of the business, then, are you?

I profess, master Hawthorn, this is all Indian, all Cherok [...]e language to me; I don't understand a word of it.

No, may be not; well, sir, will you read this letter, and try whether you can understand that? it is just brought by a servant, who stays for an answer.

[Page 34]

A letter, and to me!

Yes, it is to me; and yet I am sure it comes from no cor­respondent that I know of. Where are my spectacles? not but I can see very well without them, master Haw­thorn; but this seems to be a sort of a crabbed hand.

‘SIR, I am ashamed of giving you this trouble; but I am informed there is an unthinking boy, a son of mine, now disguised and in your service, in the capacity of a gardener: Tom is a little wild, but an honest lad, and no fool either, though I am his father that say it.’ Tom—oh, this is Thomas, our gar­dener; I always thought that he was a better man's child than he appeared to be, though I never mentioned it.

Well, well, sir; pray let's hear the rest of the letter.

Stay where is the place? Oh here: ‘I am come in quest of my runaway, and write this at an inn in your village, while I am swallowing a morsel of dinner; because, not having the pleasure of your acquaintance, I did not care to intrude without giving you notice. ’ (Whoever this person is, he understands good manners). ‘I beg leave to wait on you, sir; but desire you will keep my arrival a secret, particu­larly from the young man. WILLIAM MEADOWS.’

I assure you, a very well worded, civil letter. Do you know any thing of the person who writes it; neighbour?

'Let me consider'— Meadows—by dad, I be­lieve it is Sir William Meadows, of Northamptonshire; and now I remember, I heard, some time ago, that the heir of that family had absconded, on account of a marriage which was disagreeable to him. It is a good many years since I have seen Sir William, but we were once well ac­quainted; and if you please, sir, I will go and conduct him to the house.

Do so, master Hawthorn, do so— But, pray what sort of a man is this Sir William Meadows? Is he a wise man?

[Page 35]

There is no occasion for a man that has five thousand pounds a year, to be a conjuror; but I suppose you ask that question because of this story about his son; taking it for granted, that wise parents make wise chil­dren.

No doubt of it, master Hawthorn, no doubt of it—I warrant we shall find now, that this young rascal has fallen in love with some mynx, against his fa­ther's consent—Why, sir, if I had as many children as king Priam had, that we read of at school in the de­struction of Troy, not one of them should serve me so.

Well, well, neighbour, perhaps not; but we should remember when we were young ourselves; and I was as likely to play an old don such a trick in my day, as e'er a spark in the hundred; nay, between you and me, I had done it once, had the wench been as willing as I.

Ah, you were always a scape-grace rat­tle cap.

Odds heart, neighbour Woodcock, don't tell me, young fellows will be young fellows, though we preach till we're hoarse again; and so there's an end on't.

So, mistress, who let you in?

Why, I let myself in?

Indeed! Marry—come—up! why, then pray let yourself out again. Times are come to a pretty pass; [Page 36] I think you might have had the manners to knock at the door first—What does the wench stand for?

I want to know if his worship's at home.

Well, what's your business with his worship?

Perhaps you will hear that—Look ye, Hodge, it does not signify talking, I am come, once for all, to know what you intends to do; for I won't be made a fool of any longer.

You won't!

No, that's what I won't, by the best man that ever wore a head; I am the make-game of the whole village upon your account; and I'll try whether your master gives you toleration in your doings.

You will!

Yes, that's what I will; his worship shall be acquainted with all your pranks, and see how you will like to be sent for a soldier.

There's the door; take a friend's advice, and go about your business.

My business is with his worship; and I won't go till I sees him.

Look you, Madge, if you make any of your orations here, never stir, if I don't set the dogs at you— Will you be gone?

I won't.

Here, Towzer,

whu, whu, whu.

Sure I heard the voice of discord here—as I live, an admirer of mine, and, if I mistake not, a rival—I'll have some sport with them—how now, fellow servant, what's the matter?

Nothing, Mrs. Rosetta, only this young wo­man wants to speak with his worship—Madge, follow me.

No, Hodge, this is your fine madam; but I am as good flesh and blood as she, and have as clear a skin too, tho's I mayn't go so gay; and now she's here, I'll tell her a piece of my mind.

Hold your tongue, will you?

No, I'll speak if I die for it.

What's the matter, I say?

Why, nothing, I tell you:—Madge—

Yes, but it is something; it's all along of she, and she may be ashamed of herself.

Bless me, child, do you direct your discourse to me?

Yes, I do, and to nobody else; there was not a kinder soul breathing than he was till of late; I had never a cross word from him till he kept you company; but all the girls about say, there is no such thing as keeping a sweetheart for you.

Do you hear this, friend Hodge?

Why, you don't mind she, I hope; but if that vexes her, I do like you, I do; my mind runs upon nothing else: and if so be as you was agreeable to it, I would marry you to-night, before to-morrow.

You're a nasty monkey, you are perjured, you know you are, and you deserve to have your eyes tore out.

Let me, come at her—I'll teach you to call names, and abuse folk.

Do strike me;—you a man!

Hold, hold—we shall have a battle here pre­sently, and I may chance to get my cap tore off—

Never exasperate a jealous woman, 'tis taking a mad bull by the horns—Leave me to manage her.

You manage her!—I'll kick her.

[Page 38]

No, no, it will be more for my credit, to get the better of her by fair means—I warrant I'll bring her to reason.

'Well, do so then'—But may I depend upon you?—when shall I speak to the parson?

We'll talk of that another time—Go.

Madge, good bye.

The brutality of this fellow shocks me!—Oh man, man—you are all alike—A bumkin here, bred at the barn-door! had he been brought up in a court, could he have been more fashionably vicious? shew me the lord, 'squire, colonel, or captain of them all, can out-do him.

I am ready to burst, I can't stay in the place any longer.

Hold, child, come hither.

Don't speak to me, don't you.

Well, but I have something to say to you of consequence, and that will be for your good; I suppose this fellow promised you marriage.

Ay, or he should never have prevailed upon me.

Well, now you see the ill consequence of trusting to such promises: when once a man hath cheated a wo­man of her virtue, she has no longer hold of him; he despises her for wanting that which he hath robbed her of; and, like a lawless conqueror, triumphs in the ruin he hath occasioned.

Anan!

However, I hope the experience you have got, though somewhat dearly purchased, will be of use to you [Page 39] for the future; and as to any designs I have upon the heart of your lover, you may make yourself easy, for I assure you, I shall be no dangerous rival: so go your ways, and be a good girl.

Yes—I don't very well understand her talk, but I suppose that's as much as to say she'll keep him to herself; well, let her, who cares? I don't fear getting better nor he is any day of the year, for the matter of that: and I have a thought come into my head that may be will be more to my advantage.

Ha! ha! ha! Oh admirable, most delectably ridiculous. And so your father is content he should be a music-master, and will have him such, in spite of all your aunt can say to the contrary.

My father and he, child, are the best compa­nions you ever saw; and have been singing together the most hideous duets! Bobbing Joan, and Old Sir Simon the King: Heaven knows where Eustace could pick them up; but he has gone through half the contents of Pills to pu [...]ge Melancholy with him.

And have you resolved to take wing to-night?

This very night, my dear: my swain will go from hence this evening, but no farther than the inn, where he has left his horses; and at twelve precisely, he will be with a post-chaise at the little gate that opens from the lawn into the road, where I have promised to meet him.

Then depend upon it, I'll bear you company.

We shall flip out when the family are asleep, [Page 40] and I have prepared Hodge already. Well, I hope we shall be happy.

Never doubt it.

Lucy, where are you?

Your pleasure, sir?

Mr. Hawthorn, your servant.

What, my little water-wagtail! The very couple I wish'd to meet: come hither, both of you.

Now, sir, what would you say to both of us?

Why, let me look at you a little—have you got on your best gowns, and your best faces? If not, go and trick yourselves out directly; for I'll tell you a secret—there will be a young batchelor in the house, within these three hours, that may fall to the share of one of you, if you look sharp—but whether mistress or maid—

Ay, marry, this is something; but how do you know whether either mistress or maid will think him worth acceptance?

'Follow me, follow me;' I warrant you.

I can assure you, Mr. Hawthorn, I am very difficult to please.

And so am I, sir.

Indeed!

[Page 41]

ACT III.

WELL, this is excellent, this is mighty good, this is mighty merry, faith; ha! ha! ha! was ever the like heard of? that my boy Tom, should run away from me, for fear of being forced to marry a girl he never saw! that she should scamper from her father for fear of being forced to marry him! and that they should run into one another's arms this way in disguise, by mere accident; against their consents, and without knowing it, as a body may say; master Haw­thorn, [Page 42] may I never do an ill turn, if it is not one of the oddest adventures, partly—

Why, Sir William, it is a romance, a novel, a pleasanter history, by half, than the loves of Dorastus and Faunia; we shall have bellads made of it within these two months, setting forth, how a young 'squire became a serving man of low degree; and it will be stuck up with Margaret's Ghost and the Spanish Lady, against the walls of every cottage in the country.

But what pleases me best of all, master Haw­thorn, is the ingenuity of the girl. May I never do an ill turn, when I was called out of the room, and the ser­vant said she wanted to speak with me, if I knew what to make on't: but when the little gipsey took me aside, and told me her name, and how matters stood, I was quite astonished, as a body may say: and could not be­lieve it, partly; till her young friend, that she is with here assured me of the truth on't: Indeed, at last, I began to recollect her face, though I have not set my eyes on her before since she was the height of a full-grown grey-hound.

Well, Sir William, your son as yet knows nothing of what has happened, nor of your being come hither: and, if you'll follow my counsel, we'll have some sport with him.—He and his mistress were to meet in the garden this evening by appointment; she's gone to dress herself in all her airs: will you let me direct your proceedings in this affair?

With all my heart, master Hawthorn, with all my heart, do what you will with me, say what you please for me; I am so overjoyed, and so happy—And may I never do an ill turn, but I am very glad to see you too: ay, and partly as much pleased at that as any thing else, for we have been merry together before now, when we were some years younger: well, and how has the world gone with you, master Hawthorn, since we saw one another last?

Why, pretty well, Sir William, I have no reason to complain: every one has a mixture of sour with his sweets; but, in the main, I believe, I have done in a degree as tolerably as my neighbours.

Sir William, I beg pardon for detaining you, but I have had so much difficulty in adjusting my bor­rowed plumes—

May I never do an ill turn, but they fit you to a T, and you look very well, so you do: Cocks­bones, how your father will cuckle when he comes to hear this!—Her father, master Hawthorn, is as worthy a man as lives by bread, and has been almost out of his senses for the loss of her—But tell me, hussey, has not this been all a scheme, a piece of conjuration between you and my son? Faith, I am half persuaded it has, it looks so like hocus-pocus, as a body may say.

Upon my word, Sir William, what has happened has been the mere effect of chance; I came hither un­known to your son, and he unknown to me: I never in the least suspected that Thomas the gardener was other than his appearance spoke him; and least of all, that he was a person with whom I had so close a connection. Mr. Hawthorn can testify the astonishment I was in when he first informed me of it; but I thought it was my du­ty to come to an immediate explanation with you.

Is not she a neat wench, master Hawthorn? May I never do an ill turn, but she is.—But, you little plaguy devil, how came this love affair between you?

I have told you the whole truth very ingenuous­ly, sir: since your son and I have been fellow-servants, as I may call it, in this house, I have had more than reason to suspect he had taken a liking to me; and I will own with equal frankness, had I not looked upon [Page 44] him as a person so much below me, I should have had no objection to receiving his courtship.

Well said, by the lord Harry, all above board, fair and open.

Perhaps I may be censured by some for this can­did declaration; but I love to speak my sentiments; and I assure you, Sir William, in my opinion, I should prefer a gardener with your son's good qualities, to a knight of the shire without them.

Well, but, sir, we lose time—is not this about the hour you appointed to meet in the garden?

Pretty near it.

Oons, then, what do we stay for? Come, my old friend, come along, and by the way we will consult how to manage our interview.

Ay, but I must speak a word or two to my man about the horses first.

Well—What's the business?

Madam—Mercy on us, I crave pardon!

Why, Hodge, don't you know me?

Mrs. Rosetta!

Ay.

Know you! ecod I don't know whether I do or not: never stir, if I did not think it was some lady belonging to the strange gentlefolks: why, you ben't dizen'd this way to go to the statute-dance presently, be you?

[Page 45]

Have patience, and you'll see;—but is there a­ny thing amiss, that you came in so abruptly?

Amiss! why there's ruination.

How! where!

Why, with Miss Lucinda; her aunt has catch'd she and the gentleman above stairs, and over-heard all their love discourse.

You don't say so!

Ecod, I had like to have popped in among them this instant; but, by good luck, I heard Mrs. De­borah's voice, and run down again, as fast as ever my legs could carry me.

Is your master in the house?

What, his worship? no, no, he is gone into the fields, to talk with the reapers and people.

Poor Lucinda, I wish I could go up to her, but I am so engaged with my own affairs—

Mrs. Rosetta!

Well.

Odds bobs, I must have one smack of your sweet lips.

Oh, stand off, you know I never allow liberties.

Nay, but why so coy, there's reason in roast­ing of eggs; I would not deny you such a thing.

That's kind; ha, ha, ha!—But what will be­come of Lucinda? Sir William waits for me? I must be gone. Friendship, a moment by your leave; yet as our sufferings have been mutual, so shall our joys? I al­ready loose the remembrance of all former pains and anxieties.

H [...]st, stay! don't I hear a noise?

[Page 46]

Well, but dear, dear aunt—

You need not speak to me, for it does not signify.

Adswains, they are coming here! ecod I'll get out of the way—Murrain take it, this door is bolt­ed now—So, so.

Get along, get along;

you are a scandal to the name of Wood­cock: but I was resolved to find you out, for I have suspected you a great while, though your father, silly man, will have you such a poor innocent,

What shall I do?

I was determined to discover what you and your pretended music-master were about, and lay in wait on purpose: I believe he thought to escape me, by slipping into the closet when I knocked at the door; but I was even with him, for now I have him under lock and key, and, please the fates, there he shall re­main till your father comes in: I will convince him of his error, whether he will or not.

You won't be so cruel, I am sure you won't: I thought I had made you my friend by telling you the truth.

Telling me the truth, quotha! did I not overhear your scheme of running awa [...] to-night through the partition? did not I find the very bundles packed up in the room with you, ready for going off? No, brazen-face, I found out the truth by my own sagacity, though your father says I am a fool; but now we'll be judged who is the greatest—And you, Mr. Rascal, my brother shall know what an honest servant he has got.

Madam!

You were to have been aiding and assist­ing them in their escape, and have been the go be­tween, it seems, the letter-carrier!

Who me, madam!

Yes, you, sirrah.

Miss Lucinda, did I ever carry a letter for you? I'll make my affidavy before his worship—

Go, go, you are a villain, hold your tongue.

[Page 47]

I own, aunt, I have been very faulty in this affair; I don't pretend to excuse myself; but we are all subject to frailties; consider that, and judge of me by yourself; you were once young and inexperienced as I am.

This is mighty pretty romantic stuff! but you learn it out of your play-books and novels. Girls in my time had other employments; we worked at our needles, and kept ourselves from idle thoughts: before I was your age, I had finished with my own fingers, a complete set of chairs, and a fire-screen, in tent-stitch; four counterpanes in Marseilles quilting; and the creed and the ten commandments in the hair of our family: it was framed and glaz'd, and hung over the parlour chimney-piece, and your poor dear grandfather was prouder of it than of e'er a picture in his house. I ne­ver looked into a book, but when I said my prayers, except it was the Complete Housewife, or the great fa­mily receipt book: whereas you are always at your stu­dies! Ah, I never knew a woman come to good, that was fond of reading.

Well, pray, madam, let me prevail on you to give me the key to let Mr. Eustace out, and I pro­mise I never will proceed a step farther in this business, without your advice and approbation.

[Page 48]

Have not I told you already my resolu­tion?—Where are my clogs and my bonnet? I'll go out to my brother in the fields. I'm a fool, 'you know,' child; now let's see what the wits will think of them­selves—Don't hold me—

I'm not a going—I have thought of a way to be even with you, so you may do as you please.

Well, I thought it would come to this, I'll be shot if I didn't—'So, here's a fine job'—But what can they do to me?—They can't send me to jail for carry­ing a letter, seeing there was no treason it; and how was I obligated to know my master did not allow of their meetings?—The worst they can do to me is to turn me off, and I am sure the place is no such great purchase—indeed, I should be sorry to leave Mrs. Rosetta, seeing as how matters are so near being bro't to an end betwixt us; 'but she and I may keep com­pany all as one;' and I find Madge has been speaking with Gaffes Broadwheels, the waggoner, about her car­riage up to London: so that I have got rid of she, and I am sure I have reason to be main glad of it, for she led me a wearisome life—But that's the way of them all.

I am glad I had the precaution to bring this suit of cloaths in my bundle, though I hardly know myself in them again, they appear so strange, and feel so unwieldy. However, my gardener's jacket goes on no more.—I wonder this girl does not come▪

perhaps she won't come—Why then I'll go into the village, take a post-chaise, and depart without any farther ceremony.

Hark! she comes.

Confusion! my father? What can this mean?

Tom, are not you a sad boy, Tom, to bring me a hundred and forty miles here—May I never do an ill turn, but you deserve to have your head broke; and I have a good mind, partly—What, sirrah, don't you think it worth your while to speak to me?

'Forgive me,' sir; I own I have been in a fault.

In a fault! to run away from me because I was going to do you good.—Master Hawthorn, may I never do an ill turn, if I did not pick but as fine a girl for him, partly, as any in England; and the rascal run [Page 50] away from me, and came here and turn'd gardener. And pray what did you propose to yourself, Tom? I know you were always fond of botany, as they call it; did you intend to keep the trade going, and advertise fruit-trees and flowering-shrubs, to be had at Meadows's nur­sery?

No, Sir William, I apprehend the young gen­tleman designed to lay by the profession; for he has quit­ted the habit already.

I am so astonished to see you here, sir, that I don't know what to say; but 'I assure you,' if you had not come, I should have returned home to you directly. Pray, sir, how did you find me out?

No matter, Tom, no matter; it was partly by accident, as a body may say; but what does that sig­nify—Tell me, boy, how stands your stomach towards matrimony; do you think you could digest a wife now?

Pray, sir, don't mention it: I shall al­ways behave myself as a dutiful son ought; I will never marry without your consent, and I hope you won't force me to do it against my own.

Is not this mighty provoking, master Haw­thorn? Why, sirrah, did you ever see the lady I designed for you?

Sir, I don't doubt the lady's merit; but at present I am not disposed—

Nay, but young gentleman, fair and softly, you should pay some respect to your father in this matter.

Respect, master Hawthorn! I tell you he shall marry her, or I'll disinherit him! there's once. Look you, Tom, not to make any more words of the matter, I have brought the lady here with me, and I'll see you contracted before we part, or you shall delve and plant cucumbers as long as you live.

Have you brought the lady here, sir!— I am sorry for it.

Why sorry? what then you won't marry her? we'll see that! Pray, master Hawthorn, conduct the fair one in.—Ay, sir, you may fret, and dance [Page 51] about, trot at the rate of fifteen miles an hour, if you please, but marry, whip me, I'm resolved.

Here is the lady, Sir William.

Come, in madam, but turn your face from him—he would not marry you because he had not seen you: but I'll let him know my choice shall be his, and he shall consent to marry you before he sees you, or not an acre of estate—Pray, sir, walk this way.

Sir, I cannot help thinking your conduct a little extraordinary; but, since you urge me so closely, I must tell you my affections are engaged.

How, Tom, how!

I was determined, sir, to have got the better of my inclination, and never have done a thing which I knew would be disagreeable to you.

And pray, sir, who are your affections en­gaged to? let me know that.

To a person, sir, whose rank and fortune may be no recommendation to her; but whose charms and accomplishments entitle her to a monarch. I am sorry, sir, it's impossible for me to comply with your commands, and I hope you will not be offended if I quit your presence.

Not I, not in the least; go about your business.

Sir, I obey.

Well, Tom, will you go away from me now?

Perhaps, S [...]r William, your son does not like the lady; and if so, pray don't put a force upon his in­clination.

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You need not have taken this method, sir, to let me see you are acquainted with my folly, what­ever my inclinations are.

Well, but Tom, suppose I give my consent to your marrying this young woman?

Your consent, sir!

Come, Sir William, we have carried the jest fa [...] enough; I see your son is in a kind of embarrassment, and I don't wonder at it; but this letter, which I re­ceived from him a few days before I left my father's house, will, I apprehend, expound the riddle. He cannot be surprized that I ran away from a gentleman who expressed so much dislike to me; and what has happened since chance has brought as together in masquerade, there is no occasion for me to inform him of.

What is all this? Pray don't make a jest of me.

May I never do an ill turn, Tom, if it is not truth; this is my friend's daughter.

S [...]r!

Even s [...]; 'tis very true indeed. In short, you have not been a more whimsical gentleman than I have a gen­tlewoman; but you see we are designed for one another, 'tis plain.

I know not, madam, what I either hear or see; a thousand things are crowding on my imagina­tion; while, like one just awakened from a dream, I doubt which is reality, which delusion.

Well then, Tom, come into the air a bit, and recover yourself.

Nay, dear sir, have a little patience;— do you give her to me?

Give her to you! ay, that I do, and my blessing into the bargain.

Then, sir, I am the happiest man in the world; I enquire no farther; here I fix the utmost limits of my hopes and happiness.

Give you joy, sir; and your fair lady— And, under favour, I'll salute you too, if there's no fear of jealousy.

And may I believe this?—Pr'ythee tell me, dear Rosetta.

Step into the house, and I'll tell you every thing —I must intreat the good offices of Sir William and Mr. Hawthorn, immediately; for I am in the utmost uneasi­ness about my poor friend Lucinda.

Why, what's the matter?

I don't know, but 'I have reason to fear I left her just now in very disagreeable circumstances; how­ever,' I hope, if there's any mischief fallen out between her father and her lover—

The music-master! I thought so.

What, is there a lover in the case? May I never do an ill turn, but I am glad, so I am; for we'll make a double wedding; and, by way of celebrating it, take a trip to London, to shew the brides some of the plea­sures of the town. And, master Hawthorn, you shall be of the party—Come, children, go before us.

Thank you, Sir William; I'll go into the house with you, and to church to see the young folks married; but as to London, I beg to be excused.

Why, brother, do you think I can't hear, or see, or make use of my senses? I tell you I left that fellow locked up in her closet; and, while I have been with you, they have broke open the door, and got him out again.

Well, you hear what they say.

I care not what they say: it's you encou­rage them in their impudence—Hark'e, hussey, will you face me down that I did not lock the fellow up?

Really, aunt, I don't know what you mean; when you talk intelligibly, I'll answer you.

Seriously, madam, this is carrying the jest a little too far.

What then, I did not catch you together in her chamber, nor over-heat your design of going off to­night, nor find the bundies packed up?—

Ha, ha, ha!

Why, aunt, you rave.

Brother, as I am a christian woman, she confessed the whole affair to me from first to last; and in this very place was down upon her marrow-bones for half an hour together, to beg I would conceal it from you.

Oh Lord! Oh Lord!

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What, sirrah, would you brazen me too? Take that.

I wish you would keep your hands to yourself; you strike me, because you have been telling his worship stories.

Why, sister, you are tipsey!

I tipsey, brother?—I—that never touch a drop of any thing strong from year's end to year's end; but now and then a little anniseed-water, when I have got the cholic.

Well, au [...], you have been complaining of the stomach-ach to-day: and may have taken too powerful a dose of your cordial.

Come, come, I see well enough how it is; this is a lye of her own invention, to make her­self appear wise: but, you simpleton, did you not know I must find you out?

Bless me, sir! look who is yonder.

Cocks [...]ones, Jack! honest Jack, are you there?

Plague on't, this rencounter is unlucky

—Sir William, your servant.

Your servant again, and again, heartily your servant; may I never do an ill turn, but I am glad to meet you.

Pray, Sir William, are you acquainted with this person?

What, with Jack Eustace! why he's my kinsman: his mother and I are cousin-germans once removed, and Jack's a very worthy young fellow; may I never do an ill turn if I tell a word of a lye.

Well, but Sir William, let me tell you, you know nothing of the matter; this man is a music-master; a thrummer of wire, and a scraper of cat-gut, and teaches my daughter to sing.

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What, Jack Eustace a music-master! no, no, I know him better.

'Sdeath,' why should I attempt to carry on this absurd farce any longer?—What that gentleman tells you, is very true, sir; I am no music-master, indeed.

You are not, you own it then?

Nay, more, sir, I am, as this lady has represented me,

your daughter's lover; whom, with her own consent, I did intend to have car­ried off this night; but now that Sir William Meadow [...] is here, to tell you who, and what I am; I throw my­self upon your generosity, from which I expect greater advantages than I could reap from any imposition on your unsuspicious nature.

Well, brother, 'what have you to say for yourself now?' You have made a precious day's work of it! Had my advice been taken: Oh, I am ashamed of you: but you are a weak man, and it can't be help'd; however, you should let wiser heads direct you.

Dear papa, pardon me.

Ay, do, sir, forgive her; my cousin Jack will make her a good husband, I'll answer for it.

Stand out of the way, and let me speak two or three words to his worship.—Come, my dear sir, though you refuse all the world, I am sure you can deny me no­thing: love is a venial fault—you know what I mean.—Be reconciled to your daughter, I conjure you by the memory of our past affections—What, not a word!

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Come, turn out of the house, and be thankful my brother does not hang you, for he could do it, he's a justice of peace;—turn out of the house, I say:—

Who gave you authority to turn him out of the house?—he shall stay where he is.

He shan't marry my niece.

Shan't [...]e? 'but I'll shew you the differ­ence now,' I say he shall marry her, and what will you do about it?

And you will give him your estate too, will you?

Yes, I will.

Why, I'm sure he's a vagabond.

I like him the better, I would have him a vagabond.

Brother, brother!

Come, come, madam, all's very well; and I see my neighbour is what I always thought him, a man of sense and prudence.

May I never do an ill turn, but I say so too.

Here, young fellow, take my daughter, and heaven bless you both together;—but h [...]rk'e,— no money till I die; observe that.

Sir, in giving me your daughter, you bestow upon me, more than the whole world would be without her.

Dear Lucinda, if words could convey the trans­ports of my heart upon this occasion—

Words are the tools of hypocrites, the pretend­ers to friendship: only let us resolve to preserve our esteem for each other.

Dear Jack, I little thought we should ever meet in such odd circumstances—but here has been the strangest business between this lady and me—

What then, Mrs. Rosetta, are you turned false-hearted after all; will you marry Thomas the gardener? and did I forsake Madge for this?

Oh lord! Hodge, I beg your pardon; I protest [Page 58] I forgot; but I must reconcile you and M [...]dge, I think, and give you a wedding-dinner to make you amends.

N—ah.

Adds me, sir, here are some of your neigh­bours come to visit you, and I suppose to make up the company of your statute ball; yonder's music too, I see: shall we enjoy ourselves? If so, give me your hand.

Why, here's my hand, and we will enjoy ourselves; Heaven bless you b [...]th, children, I say— Sister Deborah, you are a fool.

You are a fool, brother; and mark my words—But I'll give myself no more trouble about you.

Fiddlers, strike up.

ACT I.