[]LIBERTY-HALL, &c.

Letters for your honour.

Have I leave?

from India—Sir—hum—hum—my truſty Bengal factor gives me lively hopes, that many months will not elapſe before I embrace a beloved ſiſter I have not ſeen ſince her infancy—here is her own letter, hum—hum—Aurelia.

Well, Rupee—hey—how is it?—is your father really dead, and is the fortune equal to your expecta⯑tions?

Oh! the old gentleman's as peaceable as an embalmed Egyptian; and as to the fortune, 'tis beyond my hopes.

I am ſorry for it.

Sorry, Nettle!—why ſo?

Why! becauſe it will be all thrown away upon ſuch flies as Fidget here.

You would have no objection, I ſuppoſe, to his throwing it away upon waſps like yourſelf—don't be ſo envious, Nettle.

I envious, Sir!

Envious—Aye, as a lady's monkey of her lov⯑er's careſſes.

You only think ſo becauſe I am not like you, a poſſeſſor of no pleaſures but what are diſtant or impoſ⯑ſible, a ſtupid, ſenſeleſs, anticipater of enjoyment.

Well, and what then! I appeal to Rupee, if there is any harm in ſuch a character.

None in the world—I think you the moſt ac⯑commodating little creature alive; and for pinning a lady's tucker, catching a poney, being bound for a thouſand pounds, or ſtropping a razor, I don't think there's your fellow in the county.

I knew Rupee would praiſe me.

And you really think a flexibility of temper a puſillanimity of ſoul, a placid, inſipid, damned unfeeling ſerenity?

Oh! the moſt deſpicable thing in nature; why a man might as well be a piece of informed freeſtone.

I have heard, and audited, and peen wit⯑neſs, look you, of your tiſputes and tifferences, and as I am confinced and perſuaded you are fery good friends in the mane, I to teſire and peſeech you to ſhake hands.

You are a pretty accommodater of differences! a Welchman full of pride, petulance, and pedigree, hot as a leek, and amorous as a goat.

Why, look you, Mr. Nettle, it is petter to be proud of a good heart than a malicious one; it is petter to be exaſperated at receiving a wrong than toing one; and as to hur peticree, if hur happens to be more honorably teſoended than thoſe who enfy hur, it is the fault of hur anceſtors and not hurſelf.

Well ſaid, Ap Hugh.

Ay, and truly ſaid too. I have heard him talk with pleaſure a hundred times of his Judors and his Llwel⯑lins, and his Walladers and his Gummeries; and as to being amorous, who would not excuſe it, when there is ſuch a temptation as this?—to be ſure, as to reputation, we won't ſay much about that; but what then? there are many demure ones with better characters and worſe ſentiments.

It is a ferry juſt, and a ferry generous re⯑mark, look you. Oh! 'tis an angel, a fallen one to be ſure; put when her peholds hur poor Ap Hugh, pecomes plind to hur errors and pack ſlidings, look you, and can ſee nothing put hur charms and fifacities—

SCENE II.

Thus have I an extempore Comedy in my houſe, nature not only ſupplying me with matter but ſcenes and decorations, and here comes a principal cha⯑racter, an Engliſhman, who traces his origin from the Saxon Heptarchy, prodigal of pleaſure as Henry the 5th with his mad aſſociates, and eſtimable as that exemplary prince after he had renounced his extravagancies. Ha! Engliſh, the honour of a viſit from you is as kind as it is unexpected.

Why, faith, 'tis a ſatisfaction I ſhould give my⯑ſelf oftner, but our purſuits are different, and why ſhould we meet to diſagree?—I am bound by a ſingular though indulgent father—

I know it—his dying injunctions were, that you ſhould never ſee London, that you ſhould dine four times a year with the veſtry, hang a ſtag's horns in your hall, brew your own October, and roaſt an ox at Chriſt⯑mas. Mine, I thank him, enjoin'd me no ſuch con⯑duct—he went abroad—accumulated a large fortune—died—and left me to ſpend it.

With which you purchaſe pleaſure at the expence of happineſs—laſt night, for example.

Oh! I am with you; but what mighty harm! a nobleman's carriage breaks down in a quagmire, occa⯑ſioned by the late floods, and I invite my lord and his ſuite to my houſe.

Yes, and a ſtage-coach, in about a quarter of an hour after breaks down in the ſame quagmire, in which are a venerable old man and his lovely daughter, whoſe appear⯑ance being leſs ſplendid than my lord's, they are left to ſhift for themſelves.

Oh! they are ſafe at Seabright's, my ſteward.

No thanks to you—I ſaw them there this morn⯑ing—they are lately arrived from India, and their buſi⯑neſs it ſeems no leſs concerns you than themſelves.

And they have choſen you, I ſuppoſe, for their advocate—their cauſe will have weight in ſuch able hands. Will you dine here? Believe me, I long to cultivate the cloſeſt intimacy with you.

Try the teſt, which life is the moſt rational, and I accept, this gage of friendſhip—I'll dine with you, and you and your friends ſhall ſup with me, and if before we part, you do not confeſs my conduct to be more reaſonable than your's, I'll change my ground and be⯑come as errant a votary of diſſipation as you or the mad⯑deſt of your adherents.

A match—when am I to ſee this Indian queen?

Preſently—Ah! Rupee—I wiſh I could plead as ſucceſsfully the cauſe of another.

Whom?

Lucy—Seabright's charming daughter.

What would you ſay of her, Sir?

That ſhe is miſerable, and you have made her ſo; that you have ſtolen her heart, and I fear her honor.

That's very well faith, I did not expect this—what! man—are not you and I young, high-blooded? will you make me believe, while your companions have been beating the buſhes of a morning, you have never ſtolen away to the arms of ſome cherry-cheeked farmer's daughter?

Sir, I am incapable of the crime you inſinuate; a true Engliſh ſportſman holds his tenants comfort and ſecurity as inviolate as his own. The chaſe ought to be for the deſtruction of beaſts of prey and the extermination of vermin.

SCENE III.

Why I never heard of ſuch a devil of an ex⯑travagant villain in my life.

Indeed, Sir Ephraim, his exceſſes are without end.

Well well, we muſt endeavour to cure them; he believes me to be dead, and his ſiſter in India, he has forgot her of courſe; and as for me, I have nothing to do but keep aloof till our plot is wrought to its height; but what gives me the greateſt pleaſure in this buſineſs is, that the ſon of my old friend Hengiſt Engliſh will join our deſigns againſt my ſon. I remember his father and I talked of him and my Aurelia when they were little ones; I ſhould not be ſorry to revive the idea.

You could not chooſe a worthier ſon-in-law; he is the idol of the county.

Well, well, we'll make my boy the idol of the county too. We, ſtarched old fellows, Seabright, don't give latitude enough to the fiery feelings, and tow⯑ering ſpirits of a mettled young dog like him; conſider his princely fortune, his elegant connections.

Theſe, Sir, are ſo many mirrors for mens ac⯑tions, which will reflect nothing as a beauty, but what has a tendency to honour.

And I hope there are a great many ſuch ten⯑dencies in my Ephraim; what has he done? accuſe him of ſomething; has he neglected to relieve indigent me⯑rit? has he pitifully ſold his principles for the ſmiles of power? has he ſeduced the wife or daughter of his friend?

Daughter of his friend, Sir!

Ay—I'd never forgive that.

Sir, it's very hard—

'Tis very ſevere judging; but if you know any thing, ſpeak out.

What a queſtion! Miſs Aurelia Sir—good heaven!

SCENE IV.

Oh! Aurelia! well but, Seabright—how, gone!—he has left me very abruptly methinks—afraid of offending I ſuppoſe—that's nonſenſe; he might have ſaid what he pleaſed.

You are in fine ſpirits this morning, Aurelia; you'll never forget the ſprightly wildneſs of the eaſt; I wiſh I could ſee your companion half ſo merry.

Oh lord, Sir, you'll get nothing from her but ſighs.

I have obſerved it, and if I miſtake not, di⯑vined the cauſe too; 'twas a wicked Sylvan to ſteal ſo tender a heart—hey! Lucy,—well well, don't bluſh, but come tell me, daughters judge more charitably of young fellows than fathers, what do you think of my ſon?

Think of him, Sir?

Ay, ay, is he not an elegant, fine young fellow?

I believe there is no doubt of that, Sir.

And now as to his vices and follies, as they are called.

Dear Sir, how ſhould I?

I beg your pardon, you young girls make ſhrewd remarks—I have had hints.

Hints, Sir?

Ay, hints; in ſhort, do you believe him capable of a premeditated diſhonourable action?

Oh!

She's crying ready to break her heart, Sir.

Hey-day, what's all this?

My dear Lucy, an't you well?

I beg your pardon, ma'am, I am lately ſo low-ſpirited, and ſo little fit for company.

Why really, Lucy, this is very unaccountable. I have noticed a ſort of coolneſs between you and your father, but it looked rather like unhappineſs than anger; let me intercede. You know, Lucy, you are my god-daughter, and ſhould conſider me as a ſecond father; come, come, be chearful.

Sir, I am obliged to you for your advice, but the beſt precepts are thrown away upon an impractica⯑ble ſubject; you add to my griefs by bringing them to my recollection, but when the thorn of affliction rankles in the heart, buſy remembrance may irritate, but con⯑not extract it.

SCENE V.

Old Seabright ſurely gets crabbed and pee⯑viſh; how can this poor girl have offended him?

My dear papa, that's not her grief.

What is then?

One I fancy you would not be very fond of curing.

What do you mean?

I mean that after ſo much anxiety for a beloved ſon, you would hardly conſent that he ſhould throw him⯑ſelf away upon your ſteward's daughter.

Phoo, phoo—nonſenſe—impoſſible!

Then, my dear Sir, you have no obſervation, didn't you perceive her ſenſible confuſion whenever you ſpoke of him? didn't ſhe ſigh, faulter, tremble, and heſitate, and then burſt out a crying?

Yes, 'tis very true; her father too was ter⯑ribly ſhocked.

And I ſhould not wonder if it was a ſcheme be⯑tween them—As to the lady ſhe is ſo ſoft and ſentimental!

And ſo was the papa; he had his tenden⯑cies, and his mirrors, and his afflictions; we muſt think of this.

SCENE VI.

Sir Ephraim you muſt diſappear from hence as faſt as can, unleſs you wiſh your ſon to ſee you, for here he comes in full ſail.

In full ſail indeed! why zounds, he and his company look like a troop of Bacchanals—Ah! I'll make one in their pious orgies before long.

SCENE VII.

Fidget, ſhew his lordſhip the avenue leading to the Park, and I'll wait for you here.

Rupee, I have the pleaſure to introduce to you a fair ſupplicant, whoſe ſtory you will find ſingular and intereſting: you are alſo concern'd in it.

How ſo?

I'll tell you, ſir—My father acquir'd a conſi⯑derable fortune, which my brother ſquanders away in looſe and idle pleaſures—In his affairs your's are cloſely involved, the wealth of both having ſprung from the ſame ſource.

Very likely: I have extenſive India connections—His name, pray?

You will hear it from my father, ſir; at preſent I require your ſpeedy interference in this buſineſs, left it come too late.

Why too late?

His exceſſive diſſipation and blind partiality for diſreputable and worthleſs objects may leave him without the means of aſſiſting me or himſelf.

A ſad fellow, this ſame brother of your's, ma'am!

One would think ſhe was deſcribing you, Rupee.

Oh yes! I dare ſay I ſhall get juſt ſuch another ſermon from my ſiſter when ſhe arrives.—What, he is incorrigible, is he, ma'am?

As much ſo as vanity, affluence, and intercourſe with knaves and flatterers can make him; beſides, I fear we ſhall be too late on another account.

Ay, what's that?

There was a rumor, as I came over, that your title to your fortune is very equivocal.

Indeed.

Nay, I have ſeen a gentleman who means to lay claim to it.

Faith, Rupee, this ſeems to be a ſerious buſineſs.

Not at all—We Nabobs, according to rumor, hold our fortunes at the pleaſure of the public; but while we keep unaccounted thouſands for ſops to an enquiring Cerberus, he may growl, but in the end he'll be ſure to fawn, and let us paſs.

SCENE VIII.

Upon my conſequence, 'tis a ſhame you ſhould have this trio ſo long to yourſelves—by my diſ⯑tinction, ſhe is a lovely creature—Rupee.

My lord.

This girl's come to you about diſagreeable buſineſs.

She is, my lord.

I am in love with her; I'll take her off your hands.

A gallant propoſal.

O lord! tis nothing at all for me: I always catch them on the wing—at firſt ſight—ha—pop down they come.

Bravo!

But perhaps ma'am, I can't tempt you—youth, a fine figure, talents, white teeth, an earldom, and fifty thouſand a year won't be worth your acceptance—Hey, Rupee?

Sir, ſhall I beg you'll ſee me to my father?

By my title, it muſt not be—my dear ma'am, it will kill me; ſtretch me, by my condition I ſhall ex⯑pire with grief.

Don't be uneaſy, my lord, you'll ſee the lady again.

Hartſhorn to my fainting fancy, or may I die a plebeian, you'll leave hope with me at leaſt, ma'am.

SCENE IX,

An angel! or may I die without heirs.

Upon my ſoul, Nettle, you uſe his lo [...]dſhip very ſcurvily; what can be more noble than to be, as I may ſay, the ſun of generoſity to the world of ſcience?

Or rather the moon, for 'tis but a borrowed light.

No, 'tis you are the moon, for all the light you give is by reflection.

Well ſaid, Fidget.

Oh, let Nettle alone, I know him of old; his head is like the Denaides with their ſieves, always overflowing and always empty.

Something like your taſte then, my Lord—how often have I ſeen you ſit with rapture to ſee a fellow mincing along like a figure cut out in ſpermaceti, per⯑ſonating [20] Julius Caeſar, or Marc Antony, and giving command to an army, or laws to an empire, in the tone of a bullfinch or a child's three-penny whiſtle.

Faith, Nettle, I ſo far join you in this laſt re⯑mark, that I would rather hear my friend Engliſh ſing the old plaintive ſong of Jack Ratling in his manner, than the fineſt warbling the Hay-Market can afford us.

Perhaps the gentleman will favour us with it.

With great pleaſure, my Lord.

Bravo!

Ay, ay, while you have ſuch goods as theſe, you need not go to foreign markets.

Rupee, yonder comes Ap Hugh: we have been teazing him to death, till the poor Welſhman's like a horſe in the pillars, he neither ſtands nor goes.

Here he comes, what ſhall we ſay to him?

The comicaleſt notion alive; let us ſend him to Coventry.

Well thought of; will you join him, my lord?

Oh, I'll be as errant a ſchool-boy as the beſt of you.

SCEN X.

Saaf you ſaaf you, coot people—I be⯑lieve I have ſome favours and obligations, and firſt of all, Mr. Nettle, what is the reaſon—

Goats and monkeys.

Yes, it is ferry pretty monkeys you are inteed, and it is ferry pretty chipes and cheres, but I counſel and warn you. Ah! Mr. Engliſh, I pray you—

Oh he de nos.

Odds my cholers and my paſſions, is hur to be be played a paſs and moreover a ſcurvy trick? but all is one—Mr. Rupee, I too teſire—

you ſay very true, my lord, the paſſions of Welchmen are like mad bleak, they ſwim upon the ſurface, but nothing can ſink them to the level of reaſon.

A mad pleak! is hur a fiſh, or a bleak or a trout? if hur is a trout, I can tell you, you do not go the way to tickle her. My deer Patience, I too be⯑ſeech you.

Mr. Rupee, don't you remember one Ap Hugh we had with us?

Yes, he fell in love with you.

Yes poor fellow, I firſt ſlighted him, and he firſt went mad and then hanged himſelf.

Hur believes hur ſhall co mad inteed.

I cannot bear to ſee him ſo unhappy; they have ſent you to Coventry, Ap Hugh—'twas all Nettle's doings.

I do not tout it, and if I was to ſent him to the tiffels and belzebubs he would be only among his relations.

Sir, dinner's ſerved.

Come, gentlemen, firſt for the dinner, and then for the Burgundy.

Bravo!

SCENE I.

ENGLISH ſeems to have got hold of this buſineſs pretty well—I remember old Ratſbane was the lawyer fellow, well enough; and if he really has joc⯑key'd Rupee, ſo much the better for Lucy.

Well, Hairbrain, do you think we ſhall be a match for Rupee?

What, about Lucy—ay, ay?

Well I am glad to find you are ſo confident of ſucceſs.

Confident! come—to ſpeak in your ſporting way—I'll bett you five hundred to fifty, that if that young filly is but guided by me, tho' he jockey'd her acroſs the flat, and run away from the ditch, ſhe catches him at the turn of the lands, and wins the race in a canter.

Thou art a generous girl.

Why as to that, I was acceſſary to Lucy's miſ⯑fortunes; and I ſhould give but a bad ſample of my promis'd Reformation, if I did not aſſiſt to get her out of them—beſides this is not half the miſchief on foot—there's a pretty deep ſtake to play with my lord; he has [24] his plots too—there are more folks to be ruin'd, I can tell you, if matters could be brought to bear; but no, no—that won't do—there's miſery enough in the world without his aſſiſtance.

You have ſome excellent ſentiments: 'tis a pity you could not be brought to a little reformation.

Why, to tell you the truth, I am not without hope that when Ap Hugh finds I rigidly purſue the re⯑form I have planned, he may be wrought on to make, in the language of the world, an honeſt woman; and then, ſhould fortune bleſs me with a daughter, the care of her morals ſhould be an atonement for the neglect of mine.

Nobly reſolv'd!

SCENE II.

My dear Aurelia, a thouſand impertinent things have maliciouſly prevented me from paying my devoirs to you; however, 'twill not be difficult to woo you; we are both children of nature.

Ay, but where's my oriental ſplendor, that lan⯑guid happineſs, that ſickening delight, which, from its exceſs of luxury, was at once both pleaſure and ſatiety?

In theſe arms what Nabob can boaſt ſo extenſive an empire as my heart; or ſlave, ſo perfect an obedience to your will?—Then for amuſement, I'll turn you out a deer ſhall keep his hunters at bay like the ſubtil pard; and if you wiſh to lounge in litters and palanquins, I have ploughmen as agile as Laſcars, and horſes as ſtrong as elephants.

Charming!—you are not a bit like an Indian galant—I'll deſcribe one to you—He comes out with an anticipated conſumption, holds a timorous command, eſcapes aſſaſſination by miracle, gets hated abroad, cen⯑ſured at home—marries, and dies of a catalogue of un⯑titled diſeaſes.

What a deſcription!—thank fortune, then who reſerved me for you.

Upon my word—I don't know that I ſhall marry you. Apropos—now I think of it, I am offended with you—how came you to conceal all this fine buſi⯑neſs of Miſs Lucy from me?

I! my dear Aurelia?

Oh! no not you, you know nothing of her in⯑tention to cheat my brother, firſt of his ſenſes and then of his fortune; but I would have you, for your own ſake, take care how you tamper in this buſineſs, for in my mind, he who abets the brother's folly can have but little regard for the ſiſter's happineſs.

But, Aurelia—

Nay, it is the ſame thing to me; it ſhall be either peace or war, India or Engliſh—ſay but the word.

SCENE III.

So ſo, now muſt I make an enemy of either my miſtreſs or my honor—to affront the latter might be to loſe both, and as our miſtreſſes are often offended and pleaſed they know not why, I'll e'en keep my ho⯑nor, which I am ſure will never be out of humour with me, unleſs I deſerve it.

I beg your pardon, I thought Miſs Rupee had been here.

She is this inſtant gone, and in a perfect pet, I can tell you, at my entering the liſts as your champion.

How, Sir?—I don't underſtand you.

My dear Lucy, I wou'd be cautious of offend⯑ing your gentleſs and delicacy, but 'tis neceſſary I ſhould ſpeak out—In a word, I have conſulted your father on the ſubject of Rupee's treachery towards you, who, but for my perſuaſions, would have carried his reſentment to a length more becoming the honeſt feelings of a man then the wary prudence of a peaſant—I appeaſed him however, and am, I think, now by the help of one of Rupee's engines, on the eve of ſuch a diſcovery as muſt be of ſervice to us.

I fear, Sir, you know not what you under⯑take.

Yes, yes, I do—take courage, Lucy—you'll be happier, and then in the words of my favourite ſong, you ſhall pardon the treaſon for the ſake of the traitor.

Ah! that ſong—how often have I ſung it and wept!

Then ſing it now, and rejoice that the diſagree⯑able part of it is paſt, and all that's pleaſurable in it to come.

SCENE III.

Engliſh—If I had not the greateſt regard for you I ſhould laugh in your face.

Indeed!—'tis lucky then your friendſhip ſhields me from your ridicule. Why ſo much mirth, pray?

Nothing—Your fine Indian adventurer has con⯑ſented to an elopement with my lord, that's all.

For ſhame, Mr. Rupee! the lady in queſtion is a woman of honor.

I tell you ſhe is an errant town bite, and but that the title and fortune of his lordſhip are more ſplendid than your's, ſhe would have tricked you as compleatly as ſhe means to gull him.

I cannot bear it, Mr. Rupee—you know not who you abuſe—but I will not reproach you, you'll endure enough before you ſleep, your Liberty-Hall is convulſed to the very center, Sir; it totters over your head.

Indeed! and did your woman of honour tell you that too?

Both her and her father—he who has a better right here than you have.

Oh! oh! oh! I ſhall never have done laugh⯑ing—her father!

Yes, Sir, before many hours are over your head, you will confeſs yourſelf a dependant on his very bounty.

Why zounds, man, I poſſeſs my fortune by my father's will.

I know it—but there was one material circum⯑ſtance omitted, which alone could give you a title to it.—he forgot to die.

So they have told you, and I dare ſay, under the influence of your oriental empreſs, you believe it.—However, to ſnatch you at once from your infatuation, I am going to lend Lord Lofty my coach, and five thou⯑ſand pounds, to accelerate his project.

SCENE V.

Lend him five thouſand pounds! that muſt be prevented—but what does he mean by an elopement?—oh! I ſee it—Hairbrain's deep ſtake, I'll bett a thou⯑ſand.

And I'll go your halves—I have made an ap⯑pointment in the Indian gentlewoman's name, where his Lordſhip may kick his heels long enough to no pur⯑poſe.

Excellent!—well, what ſucceſs?

What with the old pettifogger, all bank; as good a licence as ever ſtarted from Doctors Commons.

And he'll come.

Who? the lawyer! why he's to get ſomething by it, is not he?

Now for Rupee's probation—'twill be ſevere, but 'tis neceſſary; he muſt ſmart to be cured—thank Heaven his affairs are retrievable—a ſpendthrift in his career is like the racer on which he betts his money,

Coxcombs and ideots!

What's the matter, Nettle?

Why there's that fool Ap Hugh drunk with ex⯑tacy; becauſe this pretty lady has given him ſome encou⯑ragement, he is ſputtering, ſinging, and ejaculating his tranſports in broken Welſh—here he comes.

Kif her a crate deal of burgundy, and kif her luff, and kif her ſweet kiſſes look you—oh! it is her pretty Patience.

So Ap Hugh, how art lad?

Hur is not Ap Hugh, hur is a Cod and a Jupiter, and moreover a happy mortal to poot look you; oh! her could ſing matricals like a dying ſwan, and hur could caper as high as a plue mountain—oh! it is hur pretty Patience.

How the ideot's taken with this wench!

It is not ſo crate a wench as you are a coxcombe, Mr. Nettle, and Mr. thiſtle, and Mr. prior; you are an adder, and a fiper, and a ſnake; for you have a ſting in your mouth, and you carry poiſon in your worts, put hur will make you eat your worts, poiſon and all.

Pacify him.

Oh yes, I'll pacify him—come, Ap Hugh, don't be in a paſſion.

Hur is not in a paſſion, hur is in love—Oh! it is pretty to be in love.

Better put him to bed.

Oh! I pray you let her be put to ped—where is hur Patience? it is ferry pretty to be put to ped, when by hur ſide, and—

Is it not a pretty Patience, my little Fitchet?

Oh! ſhe has the carnation of Titian, and the ſoftneſs of Carlo Dolce.

Oh! it is ferry tolce, and it is ſweet, and it is exſtatic, and it is angels and cherubims, and hea⯑vens, and paradice;

Oh! there is hur Patience.

Why you don't love her.

Not luff her!

Was there ever ſuch a houſe?—full of confu⯑ſion and extravagance!—juſt as I propheſied, the fel⯑low's ruined.

Who, poor Rupee?

Finiſhed, done up.

I pity him from my very ſoul.

'Tis more than I do—a diſſipated, low-born, purſe-proud—

He is gone to Sir Edward Engliſh's; let us fol⯑low him—we ſhould all unite to comfort the poor fellow.

Yes, yes, I'll comfort him with a good whole⯑ſome lecture; an upſtart, pitiful—

Poor, good-natured, honeſt, worthy—

Get along with your ſtupid pity.

SCENE VII.

Very well, Sir; I'll wait for your maſter here—There is a noble, bold honour, in the actions of Engliſh, which I vainly endeavour to imitate—that I love Lucy, is true—that I have ſeduced her, I bluſh, and confeſs—but I hate to be forced into any thing—we ſhall ſee what's to be done.—So, Engliſh, where are the mighty perils I was threatened with? every thing here wears an air of tranquillity, and the place announces itſelf by the title you have given it—the Manſion of Content.

Mr. Rupee, be aſſur'd, the taſk I have under⯑taken is an unwilling one; but it proceeds from the pureſt eſteem—I ſhall touch you home, but you ought to thank me—he who has the courage to wring his friend's heart, merits more from him, than he who flat⯑ters his vanity.

Well, this is ſhaking hands before we go to fifty-cuffs, at leaſt—come, come, perhaps I am not ſo [34] bad as you imagine—I was thinking how to do Lucy juſtice as you came in.

Suppoſe it ſhould not be in your power, Sir.

What do you mean?

Suppoſe one of thoſe marriages which were ſo many decoys to ſeduction, and all which you thought counterfeit, ſhould prove real.

Come, come, no falſe alarms.

The alarm is too juſt—you are married.

Death, and Hell!—married!

Your confidential friend, Mr. Ratſbane, has tricked you into a marriage, not with a view of ſerving the lady, or you; but himſelf.

Infamous raſcal!—I'll ſacrifice him to appeaſe that juſtice he has ſo often violated.

Patience—the lady and the credentials are within; all that troubles me at preſent, is the ſituation of poor Lucy.

Oh! villain!—till this moment I never look'd upon my enormities otherwiſe than as youthful folly, and pardonable vivacity.

SCENE VIII.

Was ever man ſo compleatly the object of his own contempt? By one curſed contrivance of an inſi⯑dious knave, I am not only involved in a marriage with ſome wretch I deſpiſe; but prevented from redreſſing a beautiful creature I adore.

I am happy to find theſe are your feelings; for this is the very object to whom you are really married.

Come to my arms, poſſeſs my love, and partake my fortune!

You have no fortune to give her, Rupee.

Nay, Engliſh, no more trials; you have car⯑ried your point handſomely.

I wiſh they were but trials.

Your ſervant, Mr. Rupee; 'tis all up with you, I find.

Where's Rupee? Oh lord! there's the devil to pay at the houſe yonder—ten or twelve ſwarthy ill-looking ſcoundrels are in poſſeſſion—and our poor, dear—Liberty-Hall is put under an arreſt.

This is a very comical jeſt, gentlemen; but if you have any regard for your bones, you'll cary it no farther.

Poor fellow, how he looks? How do you do, Rupee?—upon my ſoul, I pity you.

Pity from thee!—thou worm, thou nothing!

Come, come, Mr. Rupee, be humble and know yourſelf.

And are you to teach me, ſnarling maſtiff? I'll go and know the truth of all this. What villain can be hardy enough to pretend a claim to my fortune?

SCENE IX.

What do you think of me, you dog?

My father, thank heaven!

And well you may for putting a project in my head to ſhew you the uſe of riches before you came to the poſſeſſion of them.

I do from my ſoul, ſir—Your attention to my welfare ſets my unworthineſs before me in ſuch a light—

Well, well, profit by the reflection, for fear I ſhould take it in my head to die in good earneſt.

Far, far, be that day—No, ſir, live, and let me merit your forgiveneſs.

Why I believe there are hopes of your re⯑formation ſince this laſt conduct to Lucy.

How, ſir! do you approve?

Why this ſurpaſſes my hopes! I thought nothing could have moved you on that ſubject.

Not while there appeared to be a deſign on my fortune: but as it is, it is your affair—mine, the cauſe of every honeſt man.

But in the midſt of all this, where's my ſiſter!

Who, the Indian adventurer? Gone off with my lord, to be ſure.

A truce, a truce, I beſeech you—I confeſs my⯑ſelf conquered, and call for quarter.

And I give it you: My lord is ſafe, and to⯑morrow we'll requeſt his repayment of the five thouſand pounds.

But my ſiſter.

SCENE the laſt.

I am here, and happy in this proof of my dear brother's affections.

My dear Aurelia!

Well, ma'am, have you nothing to ſay to me?

Yes: you have been very good, and I'll requite your kindneſs in any way that you ſhall aſk and my fa⯑ther approve.

That's generous!

How's this? ſigning and ſealing without the lawyer! 'tis too late for him or the parſon to-night; but that's no reaſon we ſhould not have the fiddles.

What, the fiddles! oh, I'll go and fetch 'em.

And I'll get away from ſuch a ſet of fools and madmen.

Well, Ephraim, you have eſcap'd a pretty tumble.

Oh, ſir, I am giddy when I think of the pre⯑cipice.

Never was ſuch a providential intervention; where muſt your career have finiſhed? when in four and twenty hours you have ſhut your two deareſt relations out of your houſe to make room for a ſtranger, to whom you have lent your ſervice, your coach, and your money, to ſeduce your own ſiſter.

Becauſe, forſooth, this ſtranger happened to be a lord, and thoſe are the hopeful idols you have wor⯑ſhipped in your temple of Liberty.

I reſign it with pleaſure, Sir—This day has convinced me, that freedom is no longer the gift of Hea⯑ven, when it degenerates into licentiouſneſs, and that a work began in the Temple of Liberty is beſt ſanctified when finiſhed in the manſion of content.