SCENE. I. The North Parade at Bath.

IS there any thing in the papers, Barriſter?—

Nothing but medical noſtrums, and liſts of idle company at theſe watering places.—One would think the whole kingdom was infected with the plague.

With two at leaſt, credulity, and diſſipation.

By both which, doctor we thrive, and have therefore no reaſon to complain.

I don't know that:mdash;they are uſeful indeed, to you liberal adventurers, who depend on tre doc⯑trine of chances.

Ay, and to you medical adventurers too. The practice of phyſick depends as much on the doctrine of chances as that of gaming. Beſides, cre⯑dulity breeds quacks, as diſſipation does gameſters; and both may become too general for us regular practitioners.

They may ſo;—but you ſeem, Barriſter, to have thrown up the cards, with regard to public parties at leaſt;—you play a higher game, I ſuppoſe, in private; eh!—

Why, faith, cards and dice are but paultry tools in the hands of a real artiſt. The paſſions and foibles of mankind are not only more effectual, but more entertaining implements.

True, —but you can play upon them at the card-table; I have ſeen you do it, Barriſter; I have ſeen you do it.

What, when you were at the ſame game, doctor?—Ah! You ſpiders of the faculty ſpin your thread as fine as any of the fraternity; woe be to the poor flies that are entangled in your web.

Nay, but we phyſicians do let our patients recover.

Ay, ſometimes; as we gameſters let novices win, and for the ſame reaſon; to hook them only deeper into play. Do you ever cure any body of coming to Bath?

Why, to be ſure, we have ſome regard to the proſperity of the corporation.

And to your own doctor.—Every crazy conſtitution that arrives, becomes to you phyſicians a good annuity; a copyhold inheritance, of which you are tenants for life. For your own ſakes, there⯑fore, you muſt keep the tottering tenements from tumbling. But that's all: if you patch them up to ſtand wind and weather, from ſeaſon to ſeaſon, it is as much as you require. A thorough repair might bring on a writ of ejectment, and undo you.

Nay, Barriſter, you are now too ſevere; do you think the faculty quite void of the milk of human kindneſs? Have we no nature?

The milk of human kindneſs, ha! ha! ha! —Yes, yes, you make a fine milch cow of poor na⯑ture indeed.—But come let us hear: who are our new comers?

Ay, let us ſee—

— arrived ſince our laſt, the duke and ducheſs of Dangle-court; the earl and counteſs of Squander-field; count Splenetic; baron Podagra; lord and lady Dupe; lord Courtly.—O, pray, is not that he, who had ſuch an ill run the laſt meeting at New-market?

The ſame;—ſix thouſand upon Gimcrack, and four upon Silver-Legs;—faith the turf was a little cruel to him, conſidering the ſtate of his fi⯑nances.

So I ſuppoſe he has now mortgaged his eſtate, and is come to take his revenge of New-market races, on the rooms at Bath.

Entre nous, doctor, his eſtate was dipped before: but let that go no farther. I am under obliga⯑tions to his lordſhip, and have the honour of his confi⯑dence.—Have we any more of the right honourables?

No, —but commoners, like herrings at Shet⯑land in ſhoals.—

Sir Peregrine Peeviſh, and lady; Mr. alderman Lombard; Mr. and Mrs. Fretful; the two Miſs Drinkwaters, Maſter and Miſs Ricketty; and ſo on, with Mr. and Mrs; Maſter and Miſs, to the end of the catalogue.—Do you know any of theſe I have mentioned?

Yes, the alderman is conſigned to me: do you know him?—

Oh, very well. I was called in when he was laſt at Bath, and ſound him laid up with the gout. We ſet him upon his legs again with difficulty, in a month. But the boiſterous wretch ſwore our ſees were ſo exorbitant, that he would hobble upon crutches through the ward of Cripplegate all his life⯑time, [4] ſooner than be ſo fleeced again, by any water-doctors in Chriſtendom.—

Ha, ha, ha! well ſaid Mr. Alderman, you muſt know he is a kind of wit.—He is come down now to ſtand candidate for a vacant borough here in the Weſt: to which he is gone over, to ſhew himſelf to the conſtituents.—He is recommended to me by our old friend Scrutiny Canvaſs, of Lincoln's-Inn; who tells me the curmudgeon rolls in wealth, and, though covetous as a miſer in any laudable purſuit, is laviſh as a prodigal in the proſecution of any abſurd project of his own; at preſent, it ſeems, he is diſ⯑poſed to empty his coffers to get into parliament; ſo that if money will effect it, he is in a fair way of be⯑coming a limb of the legiſlative body of Great-Britain.

And a lame one he is likely to prove; how⯑ever, I wiſh you ſucceſs with him.—Egad, here he comes.—

As I expected. He was to meet me here, on his return, to ſettle the buſineſs of the canvaſs.

Well;—I ſhall only juſt renew my acquaint⯑ance, and take leave of you.

Nay, I believe you need not withdraw. I ſhall affect no ſecrets; for whenever a man wants to take the advantage of another, his ſureſt mode of de⯑ception is the appearance of openneſs and plain-dealing.

Mr. Alderman, your humble ſervant.—

Oh! counſellor! your ſervant.—Well I have—but—

you are not alone, I ſee.

Only a particular friend of mine, and I find an old acquaintance of yours too, Mr. Alderman.

Mr. Lombard your moſt obſequious.—I hope I have the ſatisfaction to ſee you well.

Oh, your ſervant, doctor, your ſervant.— Tolerably well, I thank you; my ſupporters are pretty ſtout at preſent, if you can reap any ſatisfaction from ſeeing that.—I do from feeling it, I aſſure you.

And I from hearing it, believe me, Mr. Alderman.

Indeed, doctor, I can't; but no compli⯑ments. —I don't come to Bath this time to be made ſuch a fool of as I was the laſt.

It will be well for you if you are not made a worſe, conſidering how much better hands you have fallen into.

Wou'd you think it, Squire Furnival, when I was here two years ago, this worthy phyſician and his aſſociates had the conſcience to take above a hun⯑dred guineas of me, only for coaxing the cramp out of my great toe.

A violent paroxyſm of the gout.

You gave it that formidable name indeed, to enhance the merit of your preſcriptions; but what did you adminiſter but a dozen or two of in⯑nocent ſlip ſlops, and as many gallons of inſipid warm water?

Nothing more!

Oh, Sir! Mr. Lombard's was a bad caſe, a very bad caſe indeed! we had frequent conſultations of the faculty upon it.

Yes, yes, my caſe was a bad one ſure enough; for, while you and your accomplices had your hand in my purſe, and merited the diſcipline of the horſe-pond, you hurried me without mercy to be duck'd and pump'd like a pick-pocket.

You are pleaſed to be ſarcaſtical, Mr. Lom⯑bard; but when the ſit returns, I ſhall find you of a [6] different opinion. So, 'till then, your moſt obſequi⯑ous humble ſervant.

Oh! good day to you, Sir.

I am ſorry, Mr. Alderman, you were ſo ſevere on my friend Mineral. The doctor has more intereſt in the borough of Gluttonbury, than, you imagine.

Has he?

He cures the mayor and aldermen of at leaſt a dozen ſurfeits in a year. They cannot poſſibly live without him.

Odſo, I am ſorry for that: and yet I am partly glad of it too; as you ſay he is your friend, you may eaſily excuſe my raillery;—tell him it is my way, —that's an excuſe for any thing, you know: or, egad, for the matter of that, if I thought 'twou'd ſecure him in our intereſt, I'd be taken with a ſlight touch of the gout to-morrow morning.

Not juſt now, Mr. Alderman, if you pleaſe. Electioneering is buſtling work, and if we ſhou'd be hard run, you may have a uſe for your feet, you know.

Ha, ha, ha!—well, —I have been to Gluttonbury!

I hope to good purpoſe, Mr. Alderman.

Egad, I am afraid, to very little. You ſhall judge. As I was quite a ſtranger in the place, I naturally inquired, you know, for the mayor of the corporation; who received me kindly enough for a ſtranger, and civilly offered to call a meeting of the principal town's-people the next day. Accordingly I got a ſpeech ready for them at my inn, over night, and met his worſhip, with Mr. recorder, and the reſt, in the town-hall, in the morning.

Good.

Ay, ſo far ſo good: but you ſhall hear.— I aſſured them, as uſual on theſe occaſions, of my firm attachment to my king and country in general, and of my regard for Gluttonbury in particular.— [7] Then I talked to them a good deal about the conſti⯑tution, and the revolution, and the proteſtant ſuc⯑ceſſion, and all that;—giving them, now and then, a little liberty and property, trade and proſperity, and ſo forth: and, egad upon the whole, I thought I acquitted myſelf with energy.

And what effect had it?

No effect at all, Sir.

No!

No.

You ſurprize me.

No effect at all in the world, Sir, I aſſure you. You may well be ſurprized, indeed.

And yet, its not ſo very ſurprizing neither: Oratory, like every thing elſe, has its day. We have ſeen ſome of our greateſt ſpeakers talk themſelves out of breath, till they talked themſelves out of credit. For, after all, words are but wind, you know, Mr. Alderman.—Had you no bank-pape rabout you? a written plea has ſometimes a better effect than one delivered viva voce; not all the rhetorical flouriſhes of Cicero and Demoſthenes put together, have half the pathos of the plain hand-writing of three or four petty clerks in Thread-needle-ſtreet;—bank-notes, bank-notes, Mr. Lombard, are now a-days, the only prevailing arguments.

Egad, Mr. Furnival, I begin to think we citizens don't rightly underſtand theſe matters.—You gentlemen of the law know how to go about them much better. For my part, I own it is a little out of my way. All I can ſay therefore is, that if you will undertake the canvaſs, you ſhall want no mate⯑rials, that I can furniſh.—But, —pray, what is my rival candidate? He is a man of war, I find;—does he carry any weight of metal?—Has he the ſummum bonum about him? ha!

It ſeems he has a good eſtate, Sir, beſides his commiſſion.—He bears a very great character in the neighbourhood. They tell me he is a patriot, a [8] man of public ſpirit, one whoſe motto is Dulce e [...] decorum—

—pro patria morum. Ha! Mr. Furnival. Ay, I remember the paſſage;—I have conſtrued it formerly at Merchant-Taylor's;—tho', by the way, I remember I thought it mighty ſilly, even in thoſe days. Die for one's country! ha, ha, ha!—That might be patriotiſm among the ancient Romans; but we modern patriots live upon our country, Mr. Fur⯑nival. Ha, ha, ha!

Ha, ha, ha! very well, very well, indeed, Mr. Lombard.—But, as to men of your antagoniſt's profeſſion, they are bound in honour, you know, to die at the word of command without grumbling.

Right, counſellor, right:—But what—he has a regiment, —he is a colonel, I think!

A bloody-minded colonel, I aſſure you, Mr. Lombard; one who makes it his boaſt, that he is ready to ſpill the laſt drop in his veins, in defence of his conſtituents. He'll bleed for 'em, Mr. Lom⯑bard.

Bleed for them! Ha, ha, ha! Yes, yes, he muſt bleed for them, and that pretty freely too, let me tell him, if he intends to ſtand the poll with me.— But ſtay, here's company coming: ſuppoſe we adjourn to my lodgings, and there ſettle our plan of buſineſs.

Or to mine, Sir, which are nearer.

With all my heart.

SCENE II. Mrs. Mildmay's lodgings.

So, couſin Sophy! your papa, I find, is arrived at Bath; we ſhall now ſee what account you will give of yourſelf, for having contracted a violent inclination for a man without his knowledge; and that too for a man whom he never ſaw.

I contract a violent inclination for a man, Narciſſa! what, I ſuppoſe, becauſe Colonel Camply has repeated his viſits pretty frequently of late!

Nay, nay, it is too late to retract now. It is to no purpoſe to play the prude with me, or the co-quet with him any longer. Have not you ſaid an hundred times, that you preferred colonel Camply to all the men in the world?

I muſt have talked in my ſleep then, Nar⯑ciſſa: for I am certain my tongue never ſo betrayed my heart while I was waking.

Oho! you confeſs, then, it wou'd have be⯑trayed your heart, if it had talked ſo. Ah! couſin Sophy!

Pſhaw, that's provoking now.

Ha, ha, ha! a little ſlip of that ſame tongue, my dear. — But, make yourſelf eaſy; for waking or ſleeping, I believe it is very innocent of betraying your regard for colonel Camply, my in⯑formation is founded on better authority, I aſſure you. Thoſe ſpeaking eyes of yours, Sophy, are apter tell-tales.—What you reckon nothing, it ſeems, on the ſignificant nods, expreſſive ſmiles, and lan⯑guiſhing looks, the colonel and you have been re⯑ciprocally exchanging, theſe three months paſt.—

Go, go, you are a giddy girl, Narciſſa.

And you a ſober, ſtay'd, prudent, unmar⯑ried gentlewoman, juſt turn'd of twenty! Prithee caſt off this formality of countenance, and leave it to the wear of mincing abigails, and maiden aunts, with their other weather-beaten remnants of anti⯑quity. I tell you it does not at all become a girl hardly out of her teens, and little older than myſelf. Believe me, thoſe who affect to be grave when they are young, will be glad to be merry when they are old; excuſe me, my dear, but I am a little in ſpirits this morning.

Indeed you have always an aſtoniſhing flow of them.

Have not, I?—Well, but come? How is it to be? The colonel will break the matter, I ſup⯑poſe, to your father; the bargain will be ſtruck, the [10] match huſtled up, cloaths bought, jewels preſented, and the day fix'd immediately. I ſhall be all impa⯑tience till it be ſettled, and we ſtand up to dance at your wedding. I have not had a country dance, no not this half century, as lady Pedigree ſays.

And yet this buſineſs, which you ſeem to have diſpatched ſo expeditiouſly, may be longer in ſettling than you imagine, if, indeed, it be ever ſettled at all.

Hey day! What's the matter now? Your lover and you are, I am ſure, ſo far agreed, that you need only tell each other your minds; if you have not done it already. He has a fine fortune of his own, and is ſatisfied with yours, though not a penny be added to your grandfather's legacy. And then your papa, who loves you ſo tenderly as to ſee you once a year, and write to you by ſome of his clerks once a quarter, will hardly plead paternal fondneſs, to keep you longer on his hands.

I don't know how it will be. There is like to be a ſtrange revolution in my father's affairs. I learn he is going to be married himſelf.

Himſelf! well, but I hope he'll be ſo good as to ſee you married firſt.

At the ſame time, I ſuppoſe, my dear, to ſave charges; for I hear he has partly made up a match for me with ſome noble lord.—

And do you ſigh for that, Sophy? Now for my part, were I in your caſe, I ſhould think it mighty clever; that is, on a ſuppoſition the lord were deſerving of the lady. For as you have no violent inclination, you know, for colonel Camply, it is an eaſy matter to break through a ſlight one for a private gentleman, in favour of a peer.—O gad, that I had but an independent fortune of thirty thou⯑ſand pounds, as you have, and that two or three of theſe lords wou'd pay their court to me!

Why, what wou'd you do? Wou'd you have one of them?

Yes, if I lik'd them well enough. Other⯑wiſe I ſhould be apt to ſhew myſelf a daughter of Eve, and repeat the firſt ſin of diſobedience, if any father of mine ſhould take upon him to know what I lik'd better than I did myſelf. But why do I talk?— Poor I! that am dependent, and can expect barely half that ſum—

Have yet a viſcount for one admirer, and a commoner for another, worth e'er a lord of them all.

I don't ſay that.—I have not the vanity to compare Mr. Melmoth, my Sir Frederic that may be, to the flower of the Britiſh nobility; tho' I own I would not exchange him for the beſt of the bunch of baronets.—But yonder comes the colonel, in his uſual ſorrowful ſaunter, with his hands in his boſom, and ſuch a penitential countenance! What, in the name of wonder, can be the matter with him now? Had you a quarrel with him laſt night? Did he win of you at cards, tear the mount of your fan, tread upon the train of your new ſack, or make a loud whiſper of a ſecret that has been publicly talked of among your acquaintance for theſe four months?

Prithee, what can that be, Narciſſa?

Oh! the old ſtory, man's conſtancy and woman's caprice, the ſubject of half the love ſongs and halfpenny ballads that has been chanted ſince Cupid was an arch wag, and his mother an errant jilt. Upon my word, Sophy, you ſometimes treat that poor gentleman very ill; and if you don't be⯑have more conſiſtently, I will as ſurely tell him, as it is true, that your cruelty is all affected; that you are as much in love with him, as he is with you; and, in ſhort, that you doat on him to abſurdity.— Therefore look to it, Sophy, look to it.

Go thy ways, my chearful, chatty, agree⯑able couſin.

Good morrow, colonel.

My deareſt Sophia, good morrow.

You look grave, Mr. Camply.—

But I gueſs the reaſon, and will, for once, divert myſelf with it.

It is impoſſible I ſhould not be concerned at every accident that throws an obſtacle in the way be⯑tween me and my Sophia.

Oh, Sir, obſtacles are to be ſurmounted;— the more difficulty, the more honour.

Yes, Madam, and the more danger too.

O fie, colonel! a ſoldier and apprehenſive of danger!

Of whatever I may be apprehenſive, Ma⯑dam, I fear none but that of loſing you.

And is there any danger of that? Methinks I ſhould be glad of an accident of that kind, that I might ſee how gallantly you wou'd behave on the oc⯑caſion. For, to ſay the truth, I have been ſo ſparing of giving you trouble, colonel, that, if I ſhould yield ſo, I am afraid you would hardly ſet any ſtore by what coſt you ſo very, very little pains in the ac⯑quiſition.

How can you take a delight, Sophia, in giving pain to a heart ſo intirely devoted to your pleaſure?

Poor heart! well, come, tell us its griev⯑ance. What is the matter with it? What are theſe dreadful obſtacles you talk of? Are they of my raiſing?

No, my deareſt Sophia, I have ſo much confidence in your generoſity, that I believe I ſhould not [...] uneaſy at any difficulties of your [...]

[...] is [...]olerably preſuming however, [...] and confident enough in all conſcience. [13] Yet, whatever you may think, Sir, thoſe obſtacles wou'd be the hardeſt for you to remove, I aſſure you; and, you may depend on it, 'twill be your own fault, if any difficulties, thrown in the way by others, prove either formidable or dangerous.

Kind, generous Sophia! a thouſand times let me thank thee for that aſſurance.

Oh! how this declaration revives me!

Well then, colonel, as you are now come to yourſelf again, tell me plainly what's the matter. You have been already with my father, I ſup⯑poſe?

No, Madam; but I purpoſe to do myſelf that honour to-morrow; tho' it is probable, from what I have heard to-day, it will be to no manner of purpoſe.

What, you have heard, I ſuppoſe, that he intends to marry me to a title.

I have, Sophia; and this piece of intelli⯑gence is attended with that of another unlucky cir⯑cumſtance: Mr. Lombard is come down to canvaſs in the borough for which I have declared myſelf a candidate.

Call you that an unlucky circumſtance? If you have a mind to take any advantage of it, it may, on the contrary, prove a lucky one; for if I know any thing of my father, he will certainly give up to you all his authority over his daughter Sophy, if you will give up to him all your intereſt in the borough of Gluttonbury.—And, indeed, now I think on't, you are rather too young, colonel, for a ſenator.— Beſides, I ſhould not chuſe to have a huſband taken up with the buſineſs of the nation, when he ſhould be employed in mine.

Sophia!

It ſeems as if you intended to be no longer my humble ſervant, when you are ſo ready to enter into the ſervice of your conſtituents.

By heavens, Madam, if you require it—

You'd give up your country for your miſ⯑treſs, I ſuppoſe.—I thank you, Sir.—No, no, colo⯑nel, I did but jeſt with you; I am not ſo unreaſon⯑able as that comes to neither. Here's my hand; I have made my election; do you go and do your beſt to make ſure of yours, —or, ſtay, I was juſt go⯑ing to take my chocolate; Will you drink a diſh before you go?

With pleaſure, Madam.—My deareſt So⯑phia!—

Bleſs me, mama, what harm can there be in the indulgence of a little harmleſs mirth? Is it poſſible my chearfulneſs can give any body offence?

I am fearful, my dear, leſt it ſhould offend nobody ſo much as yourſelf. When I was of your age, I was juſt ſuch another wild unthinking thing as you are. Careleſs of cenſure, and pre⯑ſumptuous that while I preſerved my innocence, I might laugh at decorum, as mere formality; but the world is come to ſuch a paſs, Narciſſa, that vir⯑tue itſelf is often of leſs conſequence to the peace and happineſs of our lives than the appearance of it. It is not enough to be innocent, unleſs we ſeem ſo.

And in what do I appear ſo heinouſly guilty, madam? In laughing at the rueful dejection of the poor colonel, or in giving encouragement to the addreſſes of Mr. Melmoth, to whom you have never before made any objection.

It is true, my dear, I have hitherto made none, becauſe I wou'd not aſſume too great an influence over you, in making a choice of ſo much [15] importance to the future happineſs of your life. But I ſhou'd but ill diſcharge the duty of a mother, Nar⯑ciſſa, if I did not confeſs, and that without any par⯑ticular objection to Mr. Melmoth, that I think you would be much happier with my lord Courtly, who hath made the faireſt offers, and of whoſe regard for you, I am now more than ever convinced.

I am obliged to lord Courtly, Madam, for his good opinion of me; and under other circum⯑ſtances he might poſſibly have had leſs reaſon to com⯑plain of my indifference.

Well, my dear, I only ſpeak my ſen⯑timents. I have no objection to your engaging the affections or encouraging the addreſſes of any de⯑ſerving lover; but I muſt inſiſt on your indulging yourſelf leſs in raillery, at the expence of your friends.

But I ſhou'd think, Madam, one's friends would be the leaſt apt to take offence, and that the behaviour you complain of might be a good method to put their friendſhip to the proof.

Then you think wrong, Narciſſa. I know, by woful experience, the danger of trifling with a heart that loves one. It was this fatal indiſ⯑cretion in me that gave riſe to a groundleſs jealouſy in the breaſt of the fondeſt of huſbands, and de⯑prived you of the tender affections of a father.

I am happy, Madam, in having that loſs ſo well ſupplied by yours, that I never felt it; but, my dear mama, why do you ſo often touch of late on this ſubject? You know it always makes you melancholy. —If my father were living, indeed!— but that is ſurely impoſſible.

And yet I know not of a certainty that he is dead; tho' I own 'tis moſt probable, as I learned he embarked for India near twelve years ago, and, as I before have told you, I have not once heard of him ſince.

What pity, Madam, you did not retain his name! for now, if even living, and anxious for re⯑conciliation, his patience might be exhauſted in fruit⯑leſs inquiries after you.

Under the forgotten name of Wild⯑man! True, Narciſſa; but your rigid uncle, to whoſe kindneſs we are nevertheleſs indebted for our whole fortune, ſo highly reſented your father's injurious uſage of me, that he inſiſted on my renouncing the name, and, if poſſible, even the memory, of a man who had ſo cruelly wronged me.

And yet I have heard you ſay, my father was not altogether to blame.

No, my dear Narciſſa. It is the recol⯑lection of the ſhare I had in contributing to that fatal ſeparation that diſtreſſes me. It is that which makes me look upon your union with Frederic Mel⯑moth, under the moſt fearful apprehenſions, leſt a ſimilar diſpoſition to mine, ſhou'd make you fall into the ſame errors.—Good heav'n! what wou'd have become of us, if my relations, ſatisfied of the inno⯑cence of my conduct, had not forgiven its abſurdity, and continued their protection to me after the depar⯑ture of Mr. Wildman!—unhappy Wildman! fond, frantic man!—And yet favoured as I have been ever by them, how have I ſince lived in the eye of the world!—in a ſtate of ſolitary, neglected, doubtful widowhood!—I had once a ſon too, and you a bro⯑ther; but whether he be living, or loſt to us for ever, with his father, heav'n only knows.

Nay, my dear mama, you now carry your ſurmiſes too far. You certainly do us wrong to in⯑dulge your melancholy, as I my chearfulneſs.

I cannot help it, Narciſſa. In you my hopes are now all centered. Let me not be deprived of the only comfort left me, in the proſpect of your happineſs.

Be aſſured, mama, that if it depend on me, you ſhall not. I will check the vivacity of my tem⯑per, and be more on the reſerve.

Do, my dear, and in return be aſſured, that I ſhall be no farther an advocate for lord Courtly, than his merit will juſtify. But you muſt excuſe my ſtill indulging a wiſh, that you had leſs partiality for young Melmoth.

Indeed, madam, he is poſſeſſed of ſo much goodneſs of heart, that I ſhou'd hope it out of his power to make a bad huſband.

I hope ſo too: but the goodneſs of a man's heart, Narciſſa, is not always a ſufficient guard againſt the impetuoſity of his paſſions; witneſs your unhappy father.

Pray, mama, no more, I beg of you.— Let us join the colonel and my couſin Sophy.—

I have done, my dear, —lead the way.

SCENE I. Young Melmoth's lodgings.

NOT know whether your maſter be at home!

Syllogiſm, his gentleman, is at home, Sir.

His gentleman! eh!—What the ſupercili⯑ous coxcomb with the ſtarch phyz, that called at my lodgings this morning, I ſuppoſe.—An affected, formal raſcal!—I had a good mind to have broken his head, for the flippancy of his tongue, and the im⯑pertinent gravity of his countenance;—well! ſend him to me then.

Here Mr. Syllogiſm comes, Sir.

Is your maſter within, fellow?

Sir, my godfathers gave me a name, and you ſee I wear my own livery.

But you have a maſter notwithſtanding; ſuch a one as he is.

True, Sir, ſuch as he is; talis qualis; herus, non magiſter, nec preceptor. He learned more of me than of his tutor, and is too grateful to treat me as a menial.

Zounds, Sir, was not you at my lodgings an hour ago, with a draught from Frederic Mel⯑moth?—Don't you ſerve him?

Faithfully, and all his ſecrets keep.

Is it a ſecret then if he be within?

None, Sir, unleſs he were within, and then there might be a doubt whether he was within or no. But when he is actually gone out, Sir, there's no miſtery in the caſe; it is clear as day-light that he is not at home.—

What pedantic puppy, are you! Some catch-penny caſuiſt that our young ſpendthriſt picked up among the ſtarving book-worms at college, I ſup⯑poſe.

I was indeed a ſervitor at Brazen-Noſe when Mr. Melmoth was matriculated.

And was expelled for a pimp, when he was ruſticated for a rake: ha!

I can't deny, Sir, that I took more to him than either of us did to our books; and, being thought too diſorderly to enter into orders, I determined to abandon ſhort commons and the claſſicks, to follow the fortunes of my young maſter. That, Sir, is my hiſtory.

And ſo you may now deſervedly ſtarve to⯑gether. Tell your maſter that from me.

I hope, Sir, you are not going.—It is ſo very civil a meſſage, that I ſhould take it as a parti⯑cular favour if you might be prevailed on to ſtay a minute or two, and tell him yourſelf.—I expect him in every moment to dreſs: ſo that if your worſhip pleaſes to ſtep into the next room, and juſt ſit down a little.—

I think I will: as I have ſomething to ſay to him, —

—that may prevent his troubling me with any more of his draughts.

Now, if any thing ſhould have touched the heart of this old Turk, and ſent him hither with the money for the bill he refuſed to accept juſt now.— But, —Oh, here comes my maſter.

Well, Syllogiſm, have you preſented the draught, with my compliments, to alderman Lombard, as I ordered you?

Yes, Sir; and he accepted the compliments civilly enough, but the draught itſelf he has churliſhly proteſted.

Proteſted! how?

Why, Sir, he proteſted he would not pay it; and though there was no notary by, I am afraid he will be as good as his word.

Impertinent! This covetous old fellow can't bear the thoughts of my ſpending my father's money, though he gets ſo much per cent for its remittance. Did you tell him I was under an imme⯑diate neceſſity for it?

I did, Sir: and for that reaſon he ſaid, if he had no other, he would not accept it.

What can the penurious old ſcoundrel mean?

So I thought to myſelf, Sir, exactly! What cap this penurious old ſcoundrel mean, thought I.— But to ſave us both the trouble of gueſſing, Sir, ſup⯑poſe we aſk him: he is but in the next room, waiting your honour's return.—

Why did you not tell me that before? Go and let him know I am here.

What can have brought the churl hither? good man⯑ners, or ill nature? It muſt be the latter; for of the former, he has not a ſingle grain.—

Well, young gentleman—

I think not quite ſo well, old gentleman. You refuſed, it ſeems, to pay the bill I drew upon you this morning.

I did ſo; and ſhall refuſe to pay any other you may draw in the afternoon.

Come, come, Mr. Alderman, you may think you are acting the part of my father's friend in theſe indirect endeavours to reſtrain, what you are pleaſed to call, my extravagance. But if I know any thing of his diſpoſition, from the tenour of his corre⯑ſpondence with me, he'll not think himſelf obliged to you for reducing me to the neceſſity of applying elſewhere for the ſupplies requiſite to ſupport the character of a gentleman.

Your father's friend! No, Sir, I act as my own friend; as you ought to do, and as every wiſe man will do.—The character of a gentleman! I ſhould be glad to know how many cent. per-annum your modeſty thinks neceſſary to the ſupport of this fine character. It is not a month ſince you drew for the laſt five hundred, and now you are preſſed for another. By the exigence of the preſent demand, indeed, this ſhou'd ſeem deſtined to ſtop ſome gaming gap; to pay ſome debt of honour; that, right or wrong, muſt be inſtantly diſcharged, to ſupport the character of a gentleman.

It is in part, Sir; therefore, without any more words, let me have the money; or a bill upon your houſe in London may do as well

May it, Sir? But for the future you will pleaſe to diſcharge your debts of honour with your own bills of credit.—To be plain with you, young man, I am very ſorry your father did not take my advice, in having you bred up to ſome creditable employment.—Had you condeſcended to have been one of my clerks, you might, by conſtantly fingering of money for ſeven years together, have learned the value of it.—Or, had you been bound apprentice to—

Sir!—

I ſay, Sir, had you been brought up to any profeſſion but that idle and unprofitable one of a [22] gentleman, as you call it, you might have had a proper reſource when any ſiniſter accident had befallen you.

What accident then hath befallen me?

Oh, none but what is very natural.—Sir John Melmoth, your father, is dead.

My father dead! —I am ſorry for it.

You have reaſon; for he hath, with great juſtice, cut you off with a ſhilling.

You aſtoniſh me!—But it cannot be.— I'll not believe it.

Nor I—for it does not ſeem to be orthodox.

You may, Sir: I have ſeen the copy of his will: which hath been duly authenticated, and by which he hath bequeathed his whole fortune to the lady, his ſecond wife; to whom he was married ſome time before his deceaſe.

Married again! Bequeathed his whole fortune to his wife! and forgot his ſon!

Forgot him! No, no. Did not I tell you he had remembered him in a very moderate bequeſt; which is expreſsly juſtified by the mention of his pro⯑fligate character.

Profligate! So then I am reduced to beggary by your malicious miſrepreſentations of my conduct! What a wicked, vile, incendiary!

Nay, nay, young man, don't be abuſive, and call names. Don't put yourſelf in a paſſion.—To convince you I am more your friend than you are diſpoſed to think me, I will recommend you to the favour of lady Melmoth, your mother-in-law; who is returned to England, and has put the management of her affairs into my hands. Nay, with her lady⯑ſhip's good leave, I may probably ſoon ſtand in a nearer relation to you myſelf than you are aware of: in which caſe, I ſhall take proper care of you, on your good behaviour:—in the mean time, as you are [23] ſhort of caſh, there, — there's a note for a hundred. But no more five hundreds to pay gaming debts, and ſupport the character of a gentleman.—Mark that.

And there, Sir; take your paultry paper again. I ſcorn to be obliged to a man who has acted by me ſo baſe, ſo villainous, a part. —No, Sir; if what you have told me be true, I muſt bear my misfortune as I may. Yet even then I hope to find friends that will ſet me above being indebted to my greateſt enemy.

Nay, if you are ſo proud and prodigal as that comes to—to throw bank-bills under foot, I have done with you.

Excuſe me, Sir; your worſhip ſeems to miſunderſtand us here a little. My maſter by no means intended you ſhould take the trouble to ſtoop ſo low; he would not affront you ſo much, Sir. The truth of the matter is, he never carries ſuch trifling bits of paper as theſe in his pockets, for fear of flirt⯑ing them out with his handkerchief. The conſerva⯑tion of theſe, Sir, is my duty, as his purſe-bearer. Depend on it, I'll take proper care of it. Teſtudo intra tegumen tuta eſt.

Well, well; as it is the laſt you are likely to receive, and I can place it to account, I leave you to make your beſt of it.

Ha! gone! and left the note behind!— Let us ſee if it be no impoſture; no ſham upon us. —No, —Good as the Bank itſelf.—Now do I ſhrewdly ſuſpect that all this old fellow has been telling us is apocryphal, if not a downright lie. Would this ten-per-cent [24] Mammon elſe ſo readily truſt a diſinherited ſpendthriſt with an hundred pounds, on the mere verbal ſecurity of his valet-de-chambre?—This ſtory is certainly trumped up, to carry on ſome ſcheme of Sir John's, to reſtrain the extravagance of his ſon. —He has a mind, I ſuppoſe, to make the youngſter bite on the bridle a bit.—Egad, a laudable deſign! and it cannot be for my intereſt, or his, to ſpoil the project.—

Dead! my father dead!

He takes it ſadly to heart. But as there is certainly nothing in the ſtory, I'll venture to humour it, without taking part in his afflictions.

Dead, Sir! and cut your honour off with a ſhilling!

It is impoſſible!

Impoſſible! To be ſure, Sir, it is impoſſible for a man to die! Such a thing never happens: the grave-rails in the church-yard, and the tombs in the abby are all lyars. Haud diſputandum eſt. Indeed, fathers do ſometimes cut off their ſons with a ſhilling. Mine did ſo by me.

Prithee hold thy peace. I am ſhocked at your inſenſibility. But if my ruin cannot affect you, ſure your own might; which is involved in it!

Believe me, Sir, I am very ſorry that yours ſhould be ſo unhappily connected; but it would be impertinent in me to repine at being found in ſuch good company.

Ceaſe your ribaldry: I am in no diſpo⯑ſition to bear with it.—

I wiſh with all my heart you were, Sir; you would be in a better temper. But I beg your pardon; I only meant to divert your melancholy.

What an unfeeling mortal!—[A knocking without.]—See who knocks there.

Is your honour pleaſed to be at home, Sir?

To colonel Camply only.

What an unaccountable being is this fellow! grateful and ſincere in his attachment to others, yet as inſenſible of their ſufferings as deſtitute of all re⯑gard to himſelf; ſo much is he taken up with the lu⯑dicrous diſplay of the peculiarity of his diſpoſition. If we were not too unfeeling ever to be happy, I ſhou'd envy his indifference.

My dear Frederic, how do you do this morning?

Faith, melancholly enough, and with reaſon.

Then I am not the firſt meſſenger of ill-news—you have heard of your father's death, I ſup⯑poſe. But come, though it be an afflicting circum⯑ſtance, you parted from him too early in life to feel much for his perſonal loſs.

I own it; and had his fortune died with him, I ſhou'd have ſupported the loſs of that too, with equanimity: but to receive ſuch a cruel inſtance of his want of paternal regard, as that of bequeathing the whole of it away from me.

I heard nothing of this. — By a letter I re⯑ceived from general Melmoth, a relation of your fa⯑ther's, juſt now arrived from India, I learn that Sir John is dead; but nothing more.

Sir, I have learned much more. It ſeems, the late Sir John Melmoth, no long before his death, was married to a ſecond wife, to whom he left his whole fortune.

Are you well aſſured of this?

Too well aſſured of it. — A father! heavens, and earth!

Nay, but compoſe yourſelf. Things may not be ſo bad as you apprehend.—I expect the general himſelf hourly in Bath; who, I dare ſay, when he comes to know your real character, will, if things are thus circumſtanced, be your friend. At worſt, if you have a mind for the army, I will en⯑gage, on my own intereſt, to ſet you preſently at the head of a company. Then, Narciſſa will have a handſome fortune; and I cannot ſuppoſe, after mat⯑ters have been carried ſo far between you, that this accident will prove any obſtacle to your marriage.

It is there, there, my dear colonel, I feel this reverſe of fortune the moſt ſeverely. For, though Narciſſa ſhould be too generous to reject me merely from mercenary motives, ought I to have leſs generoſity than ſhe? ought I to take the advantage of her partiality for me, to make a prey of her for⯑tune, and permit her to throw herſelf away on a young fellow without a penny in his pocket, or a profeſſion by which he might have the proſpect of getting one? No, colonel, till I am maſter of a competency, at leaſt equal to hers, I will relinquiſh my pretenſions.—But when that may be, or what may happen in the interval! O colonel—

Prithee, Frederic!—

What a cruel diſappointment is this! When Narciſſa had juſt conſented to reward my paſ⯑ſion, and I expected my father in England to ratify our fond engagements.

Nay, but no more of this. Why ſhould you diſtreſs yourſelf at the doubtful conſequences of perhaps an imaginary evil? I cannot help thinking you are under ſome miſtake: but be it as it will, I will venture to anſwer for it Narciſſa is ſtill yours. Keep only this piece of information a ſecret from her, 'till it be farther confirmed. When I ſee you again, we may be able to judge of it, and proceed with more certainty.

Keep it a ſecret from Narciſſa!—No, I will fly and diſcloſe it to her immediately; ſhe may elſe hear of it from ſome other quarter, and I would not be thought guilty of deceiving her in the ſlighteſt in⯑ſtance. She ſhall know the worſt of my misfortune without delay.—Who waits there?

Here, Syllogiſm, get ready to dreſs; I am going out.

I don't think I can equip your honour decently with mourning 'till to-morrow, Sir.

No matter, let me have the clothes I wore yeſterday. I am only going to acquaint Narciſſa of my ill fortune.

Under correction, Sir; would it not be as well if ſhe heard of it from ſomebody elſe? Or, if ſhe never was to hear of it at all, I ſhould think it might be better ſtill. Narciſſa is undoubtedly a worthy young lady: but I would not have you place too great a confidence on the generoſity of the ſex. If you have loſt your fortune abroad, Sir, it is probable you will not find your miſtreſs at home.

Then ſhall I know the utmoſt rigour of my fate, and that at once.

But to what purpoſe, Sir?—Things may not poſſibly be ſo deſperate as you conceive; or if they are, why make them worſe, by bringing one misfortune ſo cloſe on the heels of another?

Inhuman father! — Attend me, I ſay, in the dreſſing-room.

SCENE II. Colonel Camply's Lodgings.

I am glad, my dear colonel, to find you thus happily ſituated; and alſo to hear that Mr. Melmoth has merit enough to engage you ſo warmly in his favour. A young fellow capable of making ſuch valuable friendſhips, can never be ſo bad as he has been repreſented. I own we had but very ſorry accounts of my wild kinſman tranſmitted us to India.

My friend Frederic, Sir, is young and vola⯑tile; but having ſenſe and principle, is in the way of reformation: for he has not only good qualites enough to make himſelf friends among the men, but to en⯑gage the eſteem of a young lady of the firſt diſtinc⯑tion for perſonal merit.

I am pleaſed to hear it. An amiable and virtuous monitor of the other ſex is certainly the beſt reformer of ours.

And I am no leſs pleaſed, for the ſake of both, to find his father hath not left him deſtitute, as he hath been informed.

And yet if lady Melmoth, his new mo⯑ther-in-law, had not ſet out for England before Sir John's deceaſe, that would probably have been the caſe; her ladyſhip having taken advantage of the boy's irregularities to get her huſband to make his will intirely in her favour. Being no ſtranger how⯑ever to her art and avarice, I prevailed on him to make a ſubſequent teſtament juſt before his death; by which the lady is more moderately provided for, and the bulk of his fortune more equitably left to his ſon. I am myſelf executor to this laſt will, and ſhall take a proper opportunity to undeceive the young man, as well as his father's agent; on whom I find [29] the widow hath greatly impoſed, by means of the former will.

This will be moſt agreeable news to my young friend.—I am impatient to communicate it.

With your leave, colonel, I had rather that were deferred. I could not hope indeed to find a youth of his education and fortune as grave and pru⯑dential as a rigid moraliſt; yet, having received ſuch an indifferent impreſſion of his character, I could wiſh to put his diſpoſition a little to the proof. His pre⯑ſent miſtake affords a favourable opportunity. I wou'd therefore have him kept a while in the dark, as to his real circumſtances.

Will not that be cruel, general?—Conſider the young gentleman's anxiety.

I do; but he will be ſo much the happier for it when he comes to be undeceived. — Beſides, I have my reaſons; and you may depend on it, if he has real merit, the required delay will turn out to his advantage. It may be the means alſo of trying the diſpoſition of his miſtreſs; whom I ſhould wiſh to have a diſintereſted regard for him. —If ſhe loves him in ſpite of his ſuppoſed poverty, her conſtancy may be rewarded with a better fortune.

Nay, Sir, I ſhall be ruled by you, ſince you ſeem ſo much concerned for his welfare.

I am indeed greatly concerned for it, colonel: for though I am but a diſtant relation to him, he is perhaps the neareſt now living to me.— Beſides, I am bound to it, in gratitude to his father; to whoſe friendſhip I was much indebted for my own ſucceſs in life. Nay, I am not only obliged to Sir John Melmoth for my fortune, but even for his name; which I long ago aſſumed, on my departure from Europe.

Aſſumed his name! was yours not always Melmoth?

No, Camply. Many years before you knew me, it was Wildman; which, on the ſuppoſi⯑tion of having kill'd my antagoniſt in a duel, I chang'd, and wiſh'd might be forgotten.

You raiſe my curioſity, general.

Another time I may be more explicit: for oh! my Campley, I have a painful ſecret labour⯑ing here, that needs a friendly ear and heart like thine, to eaſe me of its burthen.—Good heav'n! or have, or have I not a wife or daughter!

I am ſorry to ſee you thus affected, general: but, I hope, at nothing very eſſential to your happi⯑neſs. Yet, whatever it be, you know you may com⯑mand my confidence and ſervice.

I know it, colonel: but I now muſt leave you. Some letters, that arrived at Bath before me, require immediate attention: thoſe diſpatch'd, I'll call on you again. Nay, no ceremony.

SCENE III. Mrs. Mildmay's lodgings.

A meſſage from your papa, Sophy?

Yes, my dear; he is returned from his bo⯑rough, it ſeems, and muſt ſpeak with me.

What does he want you to canvaſs for him, or to produce you to your lordly huſband, that is to be? Pray do you know who he is?

What think you of lord Sweepſtakes?

A gameſter?

A Gameſter, child! What imputation is that, among people of faſhion?

Nay, but, if what I have heard of his lordſhip be true, he'd give up his pretenſions to any of our ſex for the queen of trumps at any time.

Then we ſhall never make a match, that's certain; but, in obedience to my papa, you know it is my duty to hear what he has to ſay for himſelf.

Oh, commend me to your obedience; a moſt dutiful daughter I profeſs; witneſs your attach⯑ment to colonel Camply, my dear.

I wou'd not be ſo firmly attached to colonel Camply as you are to Frederic Melmoth for all the world.

Yes, you would, Sophy, for one half of it; nay, for either of the four quarters, Europe, Aſia, Africa, or America. The world is a great thing, child, and contains a number of pretty little things in it.

The beſt of which I wou'd venture to lay, if I had it, that you have ſome appointment this morning with your lover.

I make appointments with men, my dear! oh, fie! but I ſhall ſtumble upon him by ac⯑cident, ten to one elſe, at your aunt Pedigree's.— To tell you the truth, I want my ſpark to do ſome⯑thing to get himſelf into the good graces of my mama. He does not ſtand ſo fair in her books as I cou'd wiſh; and his rival, lord Courtly, has a power⯑ful advocate of her.

Ladies, the chairs are at the door.

Ay, come, Sophy; we only loſe time here. Let us about our buſineſs.

So, there they go, to pay their morning viſits, and have left me to ſet things to rights after [32] them.—What a litter do theſe girls make with their love-letters and their billet-doux! I proteſt, if it were not for the pleaſure that ſome people take in know⯑ing other people's buſineſs, I would not ſtoop to pick up their blotting-papers off the floor; but Mrs. Sift, my lady's woman, would lead me an uncom⯑fortable life of it, if I did not furniſh conſtant in⯑formation for her inquiſitive temper.—What a pity 'tis I can't read writing myſelf—I might then perhaps take as much pleaſure in theſe things as ſhe does. But ſhe has the advantages of education, and was brought up at a boarding-ſchool. To be ſure, the daughter of a Quaker clergy-woman, as ſhe is— Ods my life, here's ſomebody coming.—

A chair — a chair, Suſan, for my lady, quickly.

Here—here—Madam—fainting as I live!— Good heavens! my dear lady.

—Oh! Wild⯑man! oh! my—

Oh! help, here!—Suſan, where are the young ladies?

Both juſt gone out, and I know not whither.

Bleſs me, how unlucky!—Ring the bell.— Here, John! Thomas! where are you?—

—Run immediately to Dr. Mineral's, tell him my miſtreſs is taken ſuddenly ill; he muſt come away directly.

Quite gone!—For heaven's ſake, Mrs. Sift, what has happened?

Nothing in the world that I know of, ex⯑cept that a gentleman had like to have run againſt [33] us, as he was paſſing to his coach, out of colonel Camply's; upon which my miſtreſs was ſeized with ſuch a fit of trembling, that I had much ado to ſup⯑port her home.—But ſhe recovers.

—And do I live to ſee thee once again?— To hold thee thus!—Indeed I never wrong'd thee.

Madam!

—Where? Where is he? Gone again!

Poor lady!

Run, fly, call him back.—Tell him I muſt, I will ſpeak to him.

Whom? Madam!

—Oh!—nothing, Sift.—I talked at random.—This grievous ſwimming in my head diſtracts me.—But 'twill go off.—Give me the ſalts—there—now—go—you may leave me.

Had you not better permit us to ſtay, Ma⯑dam? You may relapſe.

No; leave me, I ſay.—

—I find myſelf much better.—

—He lives—my huſband lives, and I may ſtill be happy! What full amends for all my ſufferings paſt! for all the anxious moments of his abſence! But hold;—alas! this tranſport may be groundleſs.—May he not live, and yet not live for me?—Did he not ſhun me, think me falſe, aban⯑don me? Yet then he loved me; ah, too fondly loved me! 'Twas my prepoſterous conduct drove him hence.—Still in the midſt of all his wild upbraid⯑ings; amidſt the raving of his jealous frenzy; even when he madly flung me from his arms, his heart o'erflow'd with tenderneſs.—Cruel tenderneſs!—now turn'd, perhaps, to hate, or cold indifference!— Long loſt to me, he now may be another's, and I excluded ever from his thoughts, a ſcorn'd, rejected, [34] and forgotten ſtranger!—It is, it muſt be ſo; an⯑othes wife has robb'd me of his heart;—even now, perhaps, he fondly dotes upon her, tells her the ſtory of his former love, and teaches her to triumph in my ruin.—Diſtracting thought! I cannot, will not bear it.—

—No—they muſt, they ſhall be parted.

SCENE I. Furnival's Lodgings.

THIS meſſage from lord Courtly comes very op⯑portunely, Mr. Lombard; and the expedient it has ſuggeſted, is a moſt admirable one.

Why, as you ſay, if his lordſhip has the electors of Gluttonbury under his thumb, and is looking out for a wife, I don't know that we could both do better than to make up a match between him and my daughter Sophy. For, as I am alſo going to marry again, a daughter by a firſt wife will be a kind of incumbrance on the family, you know. I had partly agreed indeed with lord Sweepſtakes, to take her off my hands for ſixty thouſand pounds.—The girl has thirty of her own; left her by her grand⯑Father.—

Lord Sweepſtakes!

Ay.—In going to market for titles, I thought one lord as good as another.

Of the ſame rank, I grant you; but a viſ⯑count is as much preferable to a baron as ſeven pearls on a coronet are to four, which is almoſt two to one: ſo that the odds in a match with lord Courtly will be greatly in your favour.

Then I'll be off with the baron.

By all means.—I'll take the firſt opportu⯑nity of making the propoſal to my lord Courtly; and depend on't, you ſhall be return'd member for Glut⯑tonbury. [36] —But here his lordſhip comes. I'll intro⯑duce you to him.

My lord Courtly! you lordſhip's moſt obe⯑dient ſervant.

Well, Furnival, you arrived before me, I ſee.—Sir—

The worſhipful Mr. Lombard, my lord, al⯑derman of London. Give me leave to preſent him to your lordſhip, as a profeſs'd admirer of your cha⯑racter and virtues.

My lord, your lordſhip's humble ſervant.

You are well met at Bath, Mr. Alderman, what you are come for the waters, I ſuppoſe? You citizens live ſo luxuriouſly, ſince the increaſed impor⯑tation of turtle, that you ſoon have a good excuſe for viſiting Bath.

No faith, my lord, that's not my errand now.

Pray, what might bring you hither then, Mr. Lombard?

What brought me hither, my lord! my own carriage, my lord, my own carriage, I aſſure you, ha, ha, ha!

That is, Mr. Lombard never travels in the ſtages, my lord.

No, never travel in the ſtages, my lord, except now and then to Hampſtead or Camberwell, when my horſes are out of order.

Well, Mr. Alderman, and pray what wind blew your carriage hither, then?

Wind, my lord!—good again faith, very good indeed. It was a wind, my lord;—a whirlwind, my lord, a whirlwind! It took us up at Hyde-park-corner, and ſet us down here at the town's end.—Jehu, we came, envelop'd with clouds of dirt all the way.

I thought you were more tender of your horſes, Mr. Lombard!

Ay, my lord, my own horſes; but theſe were hacks, my lord, hacks! four legged machines, that are wound up every morning with a few oats and a whiſp of hay, and ſet going along a turnpike⯑road, with a boy on their backs all day, till, like a Dutch clock, they run themſelves down at night. Why—why—ſome of our heathen philoſophers ſay, we are not much better ourſelves, my lord, ha! ha! ha!

It is Mr. Alderman's way, I preſume, to be jocular.

Nay, my lord, I hope no offence. I uſe no ceremony to be ſure. And indeed, as Mr. deputy Purſeproud ſays, a man that has the revenue of a Subah in his pocket, need not ſtand upon ceremony with any body but the Great Mogul.

True, Mr. Alderman, therefore ſtand upon no ceremony with me.

I won't, my lord, I won't: for though your lordſhip may be a great man at court, I am a great man in the city: and the courtiers and citizens have always been upon a footing, to carry on a ſmuggling trade together. It has been the cuſtom time out of mind, to make an exchange between your manners and our money, my lord; and egad you generally have had the better of the bargain too, let me tell you that.

Your friend is quite a wit, Barriſter. I did not think the ſpirit of raillery had been ſo prevalent within Temple-bar.

Oh, my lord, there have been ſtrange revo⯑lutions of late in the city. The citizens have their wits and men of letters among them now a days, as well as the courtiers.

Men of letters! ay, and letters of credit too, my lord; which is more than can be ſaid by moſt of the literati at your end of the town. Yes, [38] my lord, and we have made great improvements in the arts, too.

Nay, I thought the city was always famous for the arts.

What the arts of pin-making and the ma⯑nufacturing of thimbles, ha! ha! ha! No, my lad, no; theſe have been long ago trundled down in the broad-wheeled waggons to Birmingham; to make room for architecture, painting, paving, and ſculp⯑ture

Sculpture! Mr. Alderman! ſure the grim ſavages at St. Dunſtan's ſtill ſtand centinel, to ſtrike the hours on the clock!—Then the giants in Guild⯑hall look as tremendous as ever? Gog and Magog are but bad proofs of your improved taſte in ſculp⯑ture, Mr. Alderman. Thoſe monuments of Gothic barbariſm, ſhou'd be demoliſhed before you ſet up for Virtù.

Egad that's true. I thank your lordſhip for the hint: they muſt come down. But you know my lord, Rome was not built in a day—but when I come to be lord-mayor, or get into parliament.

How Sir, not in parliament?

It is indeed a loſs to our country, my lord: a man of Mr. Lombard's abilities cou'd not fail of making a ſhining figure.

You are very obliging, Mr. Furnival; but though I am not at preſent in the houſe, I hope, with yours and his lordſhip's aſſiſtance, I ſhan't be long out of it.

With my aſſiſtance, Mr. Alderman!

Yes, my lord, Mr. Lombard, has offered himſelf a candidate for the borough of Gluttonbury, in which I know your lordſhip has great intereſt.

Then you are better acquainted with my intereſt than I am, Barriſter.—I hope Mr. Lombard does not mean to ſolicit my influence.

You ſee his lordſhip is on the reverſe, Mr. Lombard, it wou'd be better per⯑haps [39] you were out of the way, while I break the ice for you.

Egad like enough: I'll leave you—

—Why, my lord, to be ſure, I have but ſmall pretenſions; but, as a man who wou'd exert his utmoſt abilities in the ſervice of his country, if your lordſhip ſhou'd think favourably of me, I ſhall be ready to fulfil any engagements Mr. Furnival may enter into in my behalf.—And ſo, my lord, your lordſhip's moſt obedient.—

And, depend on't, my lord, that as ſoon as ever I come to the chair, or get into the houſe, I'll attack the giants.

Ha, ha, ha! what a mixture of wit and abſurdity! Prithee, Barriſter, what do you mean by bringing me acquainted with this heterogeneous ani⯑mal? You know I have no intereſt in his dirty bo⯑rough of Gluttonbury.

That's true, my lord; but he does not know it: and as I am likely to reap ſome emolument from him myſelf, my regard for your lordſhip ſuggeſted a thought may poſſibly be agreeable to you.

Take care, Furnival, of making my ho⯑nour a cloak for your knavery: you have done it too often, even to the wearing it ſo threadbare, that, if I were not kept in countenance by the example of other perſons of rank, I ſhould be really aſhamed of myſelf.

Nay, but the preſent expedient is an honour⯑able one, my lord.

For the firſt, then, of your ſuggeſting, pray let us know what it is?

You will excuſe me, my lord, if I am miſ⯑taken, as I don't mean to be impertinent: but I own I conceived, that either your lordſhip's conſtitution or eſtate might, by this time, have ſuggeſted the ex⯑pediency of your entering again into the ſtate of ma⯑trimony. I took the liberty therefore to give a hint of your having ſuch an intention to Mr. Lombard, [40] who has a marriageable daughter, with whom he ſeems diſpoſed to give, at leaſt, ſixty thouſand pounds.

I underſtand you; and ſo you would have me impoſe on him, as having influence enough to get him returned member, in order to prevail on him to accept me for a ſon-in-law! a very honourable ex⯑pedient, truly!

Why not, my lord; as I dare ſay we ſhall be ſure of carrying our election?—But I beg pardon if your lordſhip does not chooſe—

I own, Barriſter, there are prudential reaſons for my repairing my fortune with that of a wife; but ſo long as Narciſſa keeps ſuch hold of my heart, I can't reſolve on making my addreſſes to any other women.

I thought, my lord, that her avowed pre⯑ference of a rival had determined you to think no more of her.

I thought ſo too: but I find my paſſion to be inſuperable. At the ſame time her mother gives me encouragement: ſo that, till her hand be actually given to another, I cannot think of putting it out of my power to receive it.

I am ſorry, my lord, my intention to oblige you is fruſtrated.

And yet, Furnival, I ſtand in preſent need of your aſſiſtance. I want money, ready mo⯑ney, to ſupply the common exigences of public places. My curſed ill luck has made a beggar of me.

Alderman Lombard will furniſh you with any ſum you require.

I am afraid not. He knows better than to lend his money to a loſing gameſter, without more ſubſtantial ſecurity than I can eaſily give him.

Never ſear, my lord: I will ſo manage him, that he ſhall be your ſpaniel, to fetch and carry, and lay down his bank-bills at your feet. Don't your lordſhip ſee that Mr. Lombard is a wit?

And do you urge that as a proof of his folly?

I do, my lord—When animals are once out of their element, their very ſtrength degenerates into weakneſs. A man's forte becomes his foible. Now probity and plain common ſenſe I take to be the proper element of worthy citizens and worſhipful common-council-men; if any one of them ſoars, therefore, after artificial qualifications beyond thoſe, he becomes like a bladder-blown fiſh, that floats on the ſurface of the water, till he is ſnapped up by a ſea gull.

Well, he is in good hands; but be ſparing of him as you can.—You will let me know how you proceed.

Aſſuredly, my lord, I can do nothing with⯑out you.

SCENE II. Mrs. Mildmay's Lodgings.

A little thought has calm'd my ruffled ſpirits.—Kind Providence, I thank thee! But whe⯑ther thou haſt gratified my longing eyes to make me happy or miſerable, thou only knoweſt. If my once fond huſband ſhould ſtill harbour his groundleſs reſentment againſt me, —yet that I can remove by the cleareſt proofs of my innocence;—but if, thinking me unworthy of his heart, he ſhould indeed have beſtowed it on another, it were in vain to diſcover myſelf.—No, if it be ſo, I will retire from the world, unſeen and unknown.

I am glad to find your ladyſhip ſo purely re⯑covered, Ma'am.—What could put you into ſuch a tremulous taking?

A ſudden ſurprize, Sift.—I thought I ſaw a gentleman, ſuppoſed to have been dead and buried many years ago.

Dead and buried, Ma'am! It muſt then have been his ghoſt.—Did I ſee it, Ma'am? I proteſt I begin to be ſurpriz'd too.

Mild. No, Sift, it was no ghoſt! the object I ſaw was certainly living;—his looks are hardly al⯑tered; he is almoſt the ſame in appearance he was twelve years ago.

O Lord, Ma'am, men are often ſo much alike in appearance, that we might be ſadly deceived indeed, if we truſted to our eyes.—Beſides, Ma'am, if he looks the ſame as he did twelve years ago, he muſt either be a ghoſt, or a ſad cheat; for there muſt be a prodigious difference in him in reality.

Mild. Did you take notice of the gentleman, who got into his coach at colonel Camply's door, as we came by?

In ſcarlet, Madam, with the mulatto ſer⯑vants. Yes, Ma'am; ſome India governor or other, I ſuppoſe; or perhaps it is Sir John Melmoth, Mr. Frederic's father.—You know, Ma'am, he was daily expected.

No, Sift, that gentleman's name is not Melmoth.

Doctor Mineral, Madam.

Doctor Mineral!

Yes, Madam; I ſent for him in my flurry, when your ladyſhip was ill.

Well, let him come up then.—

—Now muſt I bear with a little formal im⯑pertinence.

Madam, your moſt obſequious.—I am ex⯑tremely glad to find you better than I expected.— I ſhould have been here ſooner; but—

They need not have troubled you, I believe, doctor; I was only taken with a fainting, occaſioned by a little ſurprize, which is now gone off.

I don't know that, Madam; I don't know that. Give me leave.

I will be bold to ſay, there is not a gentleman of the faculty has the tactus eruditus in a higher perfection than myſelf.—

Why, Madam, you muſt have been terribly ſur⯑prized indeed! your very pulſe is frighted out of its wits. It is abſolutely afraid to beat. Low, low, — very low, upon my word.

Indeed, doctor, I find myſelf too much indiſpoſed to bear with trifling.

True, Madam; to be ſure caſes of this kind are not be trifled with. I believe I have hit upon yours to an Iota. Leave the remedy to me.—I only wiſh I had been ſent for a little ſooner; though I ſhould have been here at leaſt half an hour ago, had I not been detained at colonel Camply's.

Colonel Camply's! Sir!

Yes, Ma'am, I call'd in there, as I was going my rounds this morning, and was very agreeably detained by the converſation of a gentleman, who has been theſe twelve years a Nabob-hunting in Bengal, and is now returned home loaden with the ſpoils of the chaſe: one general Melmoth, Madam; who as far as I cou'd learn, for I am never inquiſitive, is a very near relation, if not own father, to Mr. Frederic Melmoth, with whom you are well acquainted.

Oh, gracious providence!

You ſeem affected, Madam—I hope no re⯑turn of your diſorder?

I fear it may, doctor, therefore if you think of any thing that may prevent it, I ſhou'd be glad you wou'd haſten your preſcription.

I will, Madam, your moſt obſequious.—I ſhall diſpatch my ſervant immediately with ſome of my nervous elixir, Ma'am, the moſt powerful ana⯑leptick in the whole materia medica.

Can my eyes have deceived me?— Cou'd I miſtake—miſtake the features of that well known face?—Ah, no! it was my huſband. He too hath changed his name; thinking perhaps, even ſtill, he killed his friend: but Frederic Melmoth, is he too my ſon? is he Narciſſa's brother? If ſo, how timely this diſcovery!—O, for a clue to guide me through the maze, which yet I fear to enter!—Yet I muſt know more.—Sift is cloſe and truſty—ſhe ſhall inquire into circumſtances, —and if his hand and heart are not another's, I may yet be happy.

Come hither, Sift.

Yes, Ma'am,

That gentleman, Sift, we were ſpeak⯑ing of, who came out of colonel Camply's—

Yes, Ma'am.—

My lady's mightily concerned about this ſtrange gentleman—She cannot, at her time of life, ſurely, be taken with a red coat and a feather.—Perhaps it is ſome old ſweetheart.— Ha! like enough.—

You obſerved him, Sift?

I did, Ma'am: a fine perſonable gentleman indeed.

Doctor Mineral tells me his name is really Melmoth.

I told you, Ma'am, you know, how eaſily you might be deceived.—And ſo, Ma'am, it was not [45] the perſon you imagined, and you were frighted for nothing?

The doctor tells me, the gentleman we ſaw is young Melmoth's father.

As I gueſſed, Ma'am: I have a remarkable good gueſs.

But cou'd not you, Sift, enquire a little into particulars. Mr. Melmoth, you know, paſſes for an only ſon; but if his father ſhould marry again, or be married already—or—

True, Ma'am; but intruſt me with the commiſſion, and I'll inform you of every thing you want to know, I warrant you.

Well then, attend me preſently at my toilet, and I'll give you more particular inſtruc⯑tions.

And if I don't fulfil them, if the gentleman has either man, woman, or child about him with a tongue in their heads, ſay my name is not—

But you'll mind, Sift, to be no leſs cautious than curious in your enquiries; and commu⯑nicate nothing of what you hear to any one but me.—At the ſame time, you may caution Suſan and the reſt of the ſervants to ſay nothing to the young ladies, when they return, of my ſudden indiſpoſition. It is not expedient they ſhould know any thing of the matter.—

'Till I know my own fate, Narciſſa ſhall be kept ignorant of hers.

You may depend upon Sift, Ma'am. But I ſee a chair coming into the hall. I fancy one of them is come home.

Poor Narciſſa! If I were leſs anxious for myſelf, I ſhould be ſtrangely concerned for her. It may not be improper, however, to take ſome ſtep to abate the ardour of her paſſion for Mr. Melmoth, as a lover.

I ſee you are returned before me, Madam.

Yes, my dear; I ſeldom make my morning viſits ſo long as yours. I ſuppoſe you, have been whiling away your time ſome where with Mr. Melmoth.

Nay, I have not once ſet eyes on him to-day. Though to ſay the truth, Mamma, I believe I waited for him half an hour, or ſo, at lady Pedigree's; for, as I expected he would call there, I did not find myſelf haſtily diſpoſed to come away.

And you promiſed to meet him there!

He promiſed to meet me there.

Fie, Narciſſa!—Is this keeping your promiſe with me? Is this being more on the re⯑ſerve?

I did not think, Madam, you required me to alter my behaviour to Mr. Melmoth.

Indeed, indeed, Narciſſa, I do require it: and if you have that ſenſe of duty a fond mother could wiſh you to entertain, you will not think I lay you under any ſevere reſtraint.

Doth this new injunction proceed, madam, from the generally ſuppoſed want of diſcretion in me, or from any particular reaſon you may have to change your good opinion of Mr. Melmoth?

Perhaps both. You muſt have heard, that Frederic hath been very wild; he left the uni⯑verſity at beſt but abruptly: then he plays deep; and it is very natural to ſuppoſe, he may have in⯑trigues enough, to make it imprudent for a young woman to place too great a confidence in his profeſ⯑ſions of love.

Bleſs us, Madam, you ſhock me. In⯑trigues!

Nay, my dear, don't be too much alarmed; Mr. Melmoth may be as deſerving as moſt [47] young gentlemen of the age: but for all that, I would not have you ſet your heart upon him. I have my reaſons, and thoſe prevailing ones: therefore, re⯑flect, Narciſſa, and be well adviſed.

Reflect, and be well adviſed! What need of ſo much reflection and advice! My mamma hath ſurely met with ſomething to ruffle her temper this morning. I proteſt ſhe is quite peeviſh.—Not ſet my heart on Mr. Melmoth!—That advice comes now too late. Yet ſtill ſhe ſeems to allow him as much merit as any young gentleman of the age.— How unreaſonable is this! If I am to be married at all, can I expect a better huſband than the market affords? and if I am ſatisfied with my bargain, what is that to my mamma, I wonder! —Oh, here he comes! I'll rattle him off, for not being where he promiſed; and thence expoſing me to this lecture.

So, Sir Frederic, and lover of mine! you are punc⯑tual to your appointments, I ſee.

Sir Frederic! and with ſuch formality too! She hath heard of my loſs then, al⯑ready.—

Yet I could not have thought my Narciſſa would have triumphed over my misfortune. I could not have thought ſhe would ſo ſoon begin to upbraid and receive me coldly. Oh, woman! woman!

Hoity, toity! what's the matter now? The man's ſeriouſly ſorrowful, as I live.

Cruel Narciſſa! what can I think of this?

Think of it! Upon my word; I am full as much at loſs what to think of it as you are. Sure the people are all at croſs-purpoſes, or are eat up with the vapours this morning! My mama was here juſt now, and peeviſhly chid me forſooth, for being too kind to you: and now you come, in woful ſadneſs [48] to complain of my cruelty! What, in the name of conſiſtency, am I to do with you both?

I don't wonder, Narciſſa, that your ma⯑ma hath changed her thoughts of me. A reverſe of fortune is with fathers and mothers a ſufficient motive for a reverſe of ſentiments. But can they, whoſe vows have been reciprocally exchang'd, whoſe hearts have been once united; can they, my Narciſſa, be ever divided from motives of ſordid intereſt? What tho' my father be dead, and, through dotard fondneſs has reduced his ſon to beggary, I have ſtill friends, real friends, able and willing to ſerve me.

Your father dead! reduced to beggary! I now underſtand you, Sir.

Diſingenuous mama! Theſe then were your reaſons for depreciat⯑ing the character of my lover!

Indeed, Sir, I beg your pardon, I had heard nothing of your father's death, nor of any change in your circum⯑ſtances: but I own the converſation I had juſt now with my mama, a good deal ſurprized me.

Then ſhe muſt have heard it.

No doubt of it: and that accouuts for her behaviour.—

She may find, however, that people may ſometimes be as much too reſerved as too open.—

But can it really be, Sir, as you ſay?

Too certainly; though I received the news myſelf from my father's agent but this morning, and came directly to impart it to you.

Was that prudent? to yourſelf at leaſt? was it impoſſible to conceal it from me 'till after our marriage?

It was Narciſſa, though no human being had known it but myſelf. Thoughtleſs and indiſcreet as I am, my heart is too faithful to you, and too juſt to the world, to ſuffer me to act the part of an impoſtor, a ſingle moment. Nay, I come now with a deſign to relinquiſh my pretenſions, 'till the happier circum⯑ſtances [49] of ſome future day might entitle me to aſpire to the heighth from which I am fallen.

To give up your pretenſions, Mr. Mel⯑moth! and was that ſo eaſy a taſk as to be readily reſolved on?

However raſhly reſolved, you have ſeen it was not ſo eaſy to be executed. For what have I done but ſolicit for that, which I came to reſign?

And you would now marry me, notwith⯑ſtanding I may have fifteen thouſand pounds to my fortune, and you, as you ſay, not a farthing?

Narciſſa!—

Oh! you heſitate, do you?—To he ſure there is ſome little inequality of condition in the caſe: but to let you ſee that I am more aſpiring, I am ready to venture with you on the ſame terms.

And is it poſſible you can be ſo good as to rate my merit above your fortune?

Nay, don't give me time to weigh one againſt the other. Money is heavy, and worth is light, you know: if you take me at my word, I ſhall keep it: but if I am left to cool and ponderate, I won't anſwer for myſelf.—Grave faces and good advice may have a ſtrange effect upon me. At preſent, I ſay, I'll venture with you.

Generous Narciſſa! But whether will you venture?

Any where:—to Scotland, if you are ſo raſh as to inſiſt upon it.

Spirited girl! charming Narciſſa! but when?

Now, this very day, as ſoon as you pleaſe. My mama has dealt diſingenuouſly by me. I will therefore beg leave of duty to ſtand aſide a little, 'till I pay the debt I owe to love and honour. If it be a fault, I ſhall truſt to her forgiveneſs this one time.— It is a fault one cannot make a practice of, you know.—So, come, let us go in, and concert proper meaſures for our expedition.

Charming creature! I'll accompany you to the world's end.

O yes, I intend you ſhall, if we ſhould live to the end of the world.

SCENE III. Young Melmoth's Lodgings.

So, ſo, ſo. I have been playing with a ſeeming dead coal, that hath been all the while burning my fingers. A plague of theſe potential cauteries, ſay I.—Sir John Melmoth, it ſeems, is really dead; my young maſter is a beggar, and I may carry his wallet. Sic tranſit gloria mundi! Had I thought the old baronet really defunct, I ſhould not have been ſo pleaſant with the young one's circumſtances. But he is a deſerving youth; and though I am horribly diſ⯑appointed in my own expectations, I declare I am Ieſs ſorry for myſelf than for him.—What will be⯑come of him!—For my own part I am qualified to ſtruggle with the world.—Oh! here comes Sir Frederic—in a mighty good humour too! what the devil, ſure his father's not come to life again!

Well, Syllogiſm, who hath called ſince. I have been out.—

Nobody, Sir;—I expected to have been able to preſent your honour with at leaſt a hundred viſit⯑ing cards, full of compliments of condolance: but I find the world is not ſo impertinent; it civily chuſes to leave people under misfortunes to comfort them⯑ſelves.

It is the improved mode of good man⯑ners, Syllogiſm, not to be troubleſome. You ſeem, however, to ſtand in need of conſolation! what's [51] the meaning of this? It is not above an hour or two ago ſince you braved the ſtorns of fortune with the fortitude of a ſtoick, and recommended patience to me with the eloquence of a Seneca.

Yes, Sir; but, like Seneca too, I find I cou'd preach that to others which I cannot practice myſelf. But ſurely, Sir, I may conclude, from the pleaſantry of your preſent diſpoſition, that what you heard in the morning cannot be true!

True! Syllogiſm. How ſhou'd it be true, when you know you obſerved it to be impoſſible.

Nay, but Sir, joking apart, if your father be dead, how do you intend to live, now he has diſ⯑inherited you?

I ſhall do the beſt: to ſupply my wants by induſtry. I ſhall find friends to put me in a way, and am only ſorry it will be out of my power to reward your ſidelity as it deſerves

Nay, Sir, make yourſelf eaſy about me; a philoſopher is eaſily provided for. Jacta eſt alea, Sir. When I have the misfortune to leave your ſervice, I devote myſelf immediately to that of the muſes.

What, turn poet! then art thou con⯑demned to be poor as long as thou liveſt. Why, the poverty of poets, man, is notorious; it hath been a hackneyed jeſt for ages.

Yes, Sir, it hath been hackneyed ſo long, that it is fairly worn out. When poets had no patrons but the great, the poor devils, ſure enough, were obliged to live upon little: but ſince the publick have taken them under their protection, a bard, like another man, may have two coats to his back, and every thing handſome about him.

And yet, Syllogiſm, 'till the lawyers can decide the diſpute about literary property.

I grant you, Sir, that a freehold on Parnaſſus does not intitle the poſſeſſor to vote for member of parliament; but let a man of genius once merit the [52] favour of the town, and he may levy contributions on it, whenever his affairs require it.

Levy contributions! is not that too ar⯑bitrary? I thought the convocation of criticks had ſomething to do in the ſyſtem of literary legiſlation.

Yes, Sir, they are the lower houſe, and have the privilege of deciding in all money-matters. They hold their ſeſſions in the pit, at the repreſentation of every new play, and proceed directly to the conſider⯑ation of ways and means.—To be ſure, Sir, we can⯑not raiſe a ſhilling without the conſent of the houſe.—But if they approve the bill, they paſs it with a plau⯑dit, and their generoſity is boundleſs.

Well, Syllogiſm, if you are obliged to go upon the town, I can only wiſh you ſucceſs: but perhaps you may be better provided for, yet: in the mean time, you muſt not leave me abruptly—I ſhall want your ſervice, for ſome time at leaſt, I am going a journey of three hundred miles an end; will you go with me, if I ſhould have occaſion for you?

Te duce Teucro, to the antipodes, Sir.

Come this way then, you muſt take a let er for me to Narciſſa.

Of leave, I ſuppoſe, ah! poor girl! ſhe'll be diſappointed too! Oh! 'tis a bitter buſineſs.

SCENE IV. Colonel Camply's Lodgings.

So then I find, colonel, you are engaged in a matrimonial expedition as well as my kinſman.— Well, I wiſh you ſucceſs, and if you need my aſſiſt⯑ance, command me.

I thank you, general, and hope ere long to be able to return the compliment. Come, come, [53] when you have recovered your ſpirits a little, we ſhall have you looking out for a wife as well as we younger folks.

Ah! my dear colonel!

Ah! my dear colonel! with a ſigh too! I have hit the mark then, general? What did you leave your heart in India? or hath a ſudden conqueſt been made of it ſince your arrival in Europe?

Neither, Camply. I was married many years ago, and was too unhappy in that ſtate, ever to think of entering into it again, even if I knew myſelf at liberty.

I never heard you had been married, general.

Yes, colonel, when I went over to India, I left a wife and infant daughter in England behind me.

And are they living?

Alas! heaven knows! I have heard no⯑thing of them for years, except from the very man, of whom being abſurdly jealous, I thought I had killed.—He came over with our troops ſome time ago to Bengal, and convinced me by a number of corroborating circumſtances, that I had injured both him and my wife; but to my ſorrow, he could give me no farther information of her.

How fruitleſs then was that!

Fruitleſs as unhappy! for though my heart was ſomething lighter, from knowing he had recovered of the wounds I had given him; yet I ſhou'd have much eaſier ſupported the reflection of having killed an adulterer, than that of having in⯑jured, abandoned, and perhaps ultimately deſtroyed, am innocent wife and daughter.

But why deſtroyed? from this relation it is not impoſſible they may ſtill be living.

I dare not flatter myſelf with ſuch a ſug⯑geſtion. Nay, I hardly know whether I ought to wiſh it true: for if ſhe lives, muſt ſhe not long ſince have [54] transferred that heart to anothet which I ſo unjuſtly ſuſpected, ſo cruelly ſlighted?

But what ſucceſs has attended your enquiries ſince?

None; though I have made every enquiry the diſtance of time and place would admit.

Perhaps in your long abſence, thinking you were dead, ſhe may have married again; and thus, by her change of name, have eluded your re⯑ſearches.

If it be ſo, I will be no intruder on her happineſs.—I will therefore carry on my future ſearch in perſon; that, if I ſhould ſucceed in it, I may be en⯑abled to act as circumſtances ſhall determine. But what a taſk! How dreadful is't to ſeek that which we hope, and yet we fear, to find! Though to be cer⯑tain even of what we fear, is better far than labouring ſtill in doubt.

Mr. Melmoth, Sir, deſires to know if your honour is alone.

Your kinſman, general, —Shall he come up?

By all means. He may have ſome buſi⯑neſs with you; I'll retire into your ſtudy till you have done with him; you know I have my reaſons for de⯑clining to ſee him at preſent.

How unlucky is this!—I muſt not tell Melmoth who is ſo near; and yet, if I don't, 'tis ten to one he'll ſay ſome extravagant thing or other; which, if over-heard, may give the general no good opinion of him. I wiſh my old friend were at Ben⯑gal again only for one half hour, with all my heart.

My dear colonel, how is it?

Nay, how is it with you? You ſeem in rap⯑tures, and it is not three hours ago ſince I left you in a ſtate of deſpondency.

Ay, you grave rogue, you—you ſtare to ſee a young fellow dejected at his ill luck in the morning, intoxicated with his good fortune before noon. But Narciſſa's my own, my boy.

Who doubted it?

No; it wou'd have been a ſacrilege to doubt it.—So that as to my father—

Nay, but Mr. Melmoth, nothing againſt your father I beg of you—

The general will certainly overhear him.—[To Melmoth.] Well, but you did not tell Narciſſa of your being diſinherited!

Did not I?—But I did. I told her the whole ſtory.

The deuce you did!

Without omitting a ſingle circumſtance.

And—and—and—

Egad, I believe I had better aſk him no more queſtions—He ſeems in a humour to ſay any thing.

And—and—and—what a plague do you mean by your and—and—and?—Why do you look ſo confoundedly ſerious? What the devil is the matter with you?—Ah, colonel! colonel! if you did but know all!

Nay, but I don't deſire to know all—

This ſpark's going to ſay ſome wild thing or other, now.

Nay but you ſhall know all; for I came on pur⯑poſe to tell you.

Well then, ſome other time.

No, no other time will do: for I intend to be in Scotland by to morrow night, if poſſible.

In Scotland!

Ay, I am going off with Narciſſa to Scotland, and am come to borrow your chaiſe, if you'll lend it me.

And what are you going to do there?

Ha! ha! ha! There's a queſtion! I thought every body knew what penny-leſs young fellows took girls of fortune to Scotland for.—

Well, but—

Nay, nay, will you lend me your chaiſe? I'll tell you more of the affair by and by—I ſhall want a couple of your ſervants, too; as, for reaſons of ſtate, I ſhall take none of my own with me.

Yes, if I am to ſee you again—[Aſide.] any thing to get rid of you now—

but I ſhall certainly ſee you again before you go.—

Certainly.—Certainly.

To Scotland! egad, Narciſſa has an enterprizing ſpirit. If the general hath overheard nothing of our conver⯑ſation, I muſt communicate this piece of intelligence to him; it may perhaps induce him to vary his plan of operation, and ſave them the trouble of the journey.

So, colonel, your young friend hath ſoon left you.—I thought I heard high words within.— I hope no new cauſe of diſcontent?

Oh no, Sir; quite the reverſe. Your lively kinſman is now as much elated with joy, as he was in the morning depreſſed with ſorrow.

How ſo? He can have heard nothing, ſure, of the real ſtate of his circumſtances!

Nothing at all; but it ſeems he hath informed his miſtreſs of his ſuppoſed loſs of his father's for⯑tune; and ſhe, like a generous girl, hath agreed to give him her own inſtead of it.

Indeed!

They are juſt going to ſet off for Scotland; he came to borrow my chaiſe.

And you ſhall lend it them, or I will clap ſix horſes to my own travelling coach, and that ſhall convey them. I like their ſpirit, and would encourage their expedition, were the young lady ev'n my own daughter.

Nay, but, general, why let them take ſo unneceſſary a ſtep?—They will certainly be better pleaſed, if you ſhould diſcover Mr. Melmoth's real ſituation, and prevent them.

I know not that. No, let them a while enjoy the ſatisfaction they feel in their mutual love and gratitude. There is more pleaſure in the diſplay of true generoſity, than in the poſſeſſion of mines of wealth. Let them proceed, therefore, on their jour⯑ney. —I warrant it will be a pleaſant one.—In the mean time, however, if it be neceſſary, I'll endea⯑vour to reconcile the young lady's relations to the conſequences of it.—But come, I called to take you home to dinner with me; we will there toaſt the young couple, and drink ſucceſs to their ſpirited en⯑terprize.

SCENE I. Mrs. Mildmay's Lodgings.

So, Mr. Syllogiſm, you are going to have old doings at your houſe, I ſuppoſe.

No, no, Mrs. Sift, our old doings won't do any longer; we muſt have new doings now, if we intend to keep doing at all.

What do you mean, Mr. Syllogiſm?

Nay, what do you mean, Mrs. Sift, if you come to that?

Mean! why rejoicings, entertainments, to be ſure.

Rejoicings! entertainments!—

—O, the jade has heard of our misfortune I find, and has a mind to be merry with it.—

—You are pleaſed to banter, I ſee, Mrs. Sift.—Pray what ſhould we rejoice at?

Rejoice at! why, the arrival of Mr. Melmoth's father from the Indies—Have you not expected him any time theſe ſix months?

Oh, yes; and he ſet out from thence, it ſeems, near a twelve month ago; but which road he took, or whether he is arrived at his journey's end, is at preſent a little problematical!

Problematical! I am ſure you ſcholars, Mr. Syllogiſm, are very pragmatical. Will you perſuade [59] me I did not hear the bells ring for him this morn⯑ing?

The bells ring for him! O lud! only think of tolling the bell at Bath for a man who died at Bengal!

Dead! Sir! What would you inſinuate?

What you know, I find, as well as I, and therefore I may venture to tell you.—My old maſter is dead, and hath left my young one nothing to live upon.

Nay, nay, Mr. Syllogiſm, I ſee you have a mind to banter me now; but come, to buſineſs. You have brought ſomething for Narciſſa, I ſup⯑poſe.

Yes, I have got a letter for her.

—Why there's no reading this letter without opening it!

What do you think it is ſealed up for, but to hinder you?

Pooh! I would not give a farthing to carry ſuch letters. Sealed! What did you never open a letter without breaking the ſeal? Did you never take off the impreſſion on wax, nor coax it with a hot to⯑bacco pipe?

No, Mrs. Sift, they are arts I have not been bred to.

Well, I have done it an hundred times, who was never bred to the arts at all: though I remem⯑ber I once loſt the beſt place I ever had in my life, for breaking open a letter, and ſealing it up again with my thimble.

And deſervedly.

Yes, I paid for my peeping that time, it's true; but I ſhould have done it, had I been to die for it. I am aſtoniſhed to think how any body can have ſo little curioſity, as not to long to know every thing that other people want to keep from them.

I would as ſoon put my hand into my maſter's purſe, as pry into his ſecrets; and think a ſervant deſerves to be hanged as much for the one as the other.

That is, if it be done with intent to betray them, Mr. Syllogiſm; but otherwiſe—and yet, to be ſure, one does ſometimes do a deal of miſchief by getting into ſecrets by halves; but that is the fault of one's maſters and miſtreſſes, you know, in not truſting us with the whole.—You will not pretend to tell me, however, that you have no curioſity to know your maſter's buſineſs.

Faith I have no curioſity to know more than he thinks proper to intruſt me with. I have plague and trouble enough with that; if I knew leſs, I ſhould live a much eaſier life: for what between his money-matters and thoſe of his miſtreſs, which you know, Sift, are both tickliſh affairs, I have but a very troubleſome time on't.

There muſt be ſomething very curious, Syl⯑logiſm, in this letter. It is doubled into ſo many pleats, and folded up as carefully as the Welch-man's guinea—there is certainly ſomething choice in it.

Ay, all love I ſuppoſe, Sift.

Love! eh!—that's choice ſtuff, to be ſure! —Well, I ſee the direction.

And you'll deliver it ſafely—you underſtand me—you need not be at the trouble of quartering my maſter's coat of arms with the milliner's.

O! the thimble! no, upon my honour.—

You ſee the creſt is a lion rampant, beware of the top of your middle finger.

Nay, but when I ſay upon my honour, Mr. Syllogiſm.

I beg your honour's pardon, Madam. To be ſure, after having ſo frankly confeſſed its influ⯑ence over your curioſity in theſe caſes, it wou'd be [61] cruel to diſtruſt you —

If I had my letter again however, I would as ſoon leave it with the printer of the Public Advertiſer.

They think they are mighty cloſe here—It is writ⯑ten with lemon juice, ſurely!—Well I have a trick for that; my miſtreſs ſhan't ſet me upon the enquiry for nothing I am too good a ſervant for that too— Ha! our young ladies coming this way!—I am deter⯑mined to have another peep at it, be the conſequence what it will.

Well, really Sophia, this is ſomething ex⯑traordinary that you ſhou'd affect to tutor me, for diſobedience to my mama, in the preference I give to Mr. Melmoth: hath not ſhe, 'till this very day, al⯑ways approved of his addreſſes.

Therefore I am afraid, Narciſſa, ſhe has ſome better reaſons for her ſudden change of behaviour than you are aware of: at leaſt I ſhou'd be for com⯑ing to a farther explanation with her before I took ſo irretrievable a ſtep as you are going inconſiderately to do.

Oh! my dear, we ſhall take a great many ſteps before we get to Scotland. We ſhall not be acroſs the Tweed ſo ſoon as we might be at the next pariſh church. I ſhall have time to conſider of it again and again, therefore, before the buſineſs is done yet.—Nay, I can aſſure you that even when we get there, if I ſhou'd not happen to be perfectly of the opinion I am in at preſent, we may come back again no wiſer than we ſet out. If the matrimonial appa⯑ratus does not wear a very agreeable aſpect—if Meſs-John does not put on one of his beſt faces, and his cleaneſt band;—or—

Nay, but be ſerious.

Well, I am: and ſay as I did before, that if there were really any thing wrong in what I am going to do, you ſhou'd be the laſt perſon in the world, my dear Sophy, to diſſuade me from it.

Why ſo?

Becauſe I ſhould never liſten to a lecture on diſobedience from one as diſobedient as myſelf.

How! cannot I entertain a proper regard for colonel Camply, without incurring the guilt of diſ⯑obedience? I don't intend to run away with him, or even to marry him, without my father's conſent.

Not unleſs he refuſes to give it you; there is no occaſion for't, my dear. But if by a proper re⯑gard, you mean that the colonel is in poſſeſſion of your heart, I warrant your hand will ſoon follow. And, tho' you may want courage to ſcamper away to the North, before you come of age, you may only have juſt patience enough to ſtay in the South 'till you do; when we ſhall find you ſneaking into the back-door of Walbrook-church, or St. Swithins, to commit the like horrid ſin of diſobedience.

I find, my dear, there is no talking to you on this ſubject: ſo, like a naughty girl, you muſt go on your own way.

And you, like a naughty girl, Sophy, wou'd go my way too, if you dar'd.

The devil take the inventors of ſealing-wax, and inviſible ink;—I can pick nothing out of this letter— ſo I think may as well give it to my young miſtreſs. If ſhe can read it, I may poſſibly pick ſomething of it out of her, and that will do as well.—A letter for you, Madam

From Mr. Melmoth!

Yes, Madam.

You will excuſe me, Sophy, I muſt go and read my billet-doux; it may poſſibly require an an⯑ſwer.

So!—now for a peep over the left ſhoulder.—Let the writing be but any how viſible, and if young madam reads any more of it than I, why then, I am grown ſhort⯑ſighted—that's all.

Was ever any thing ſo determinedly inconſiderate? —and yet Narciſſa does not want for prudence, when the vivacity of her temper will ſuffer her to make uſe of it.—I wiſh I cou'd any how prevent this raſh expedi⯑tion, without betraying the confidence ſhe has placed in me.

SCENE II. The Parade.

Urge this affair no farther, Furnival. I can be of no ſervice to you in it.—I have conſulted my heart, and find it repugnant to all my ſentiments. The love I bear Narciſſa, and the regard due to my own honour; both forbid it.

Give me leave to ſay, my lord, your ſcruples are too refined for a man ſo well acquainted with the world.

Yes, barriſter, I know the world too well to ſacrifice ſo much of my own happineſs, either to its pleaſures or opinions, as I have done.

But if your lordſhip has no hopes of Narciſſa, what objection can be made to your repairing your fortune by marrying another? Surely, my lord, nei⯑ther the laws of love or honour forbid this!

Perhaps not— but I feel an invincible re⯑luctance to the making my addreſſes elſewhere. It is [64] true; Narciſſa herſelf gives me no encouragement; but her mother is ſtill my friend, and affords me hopes that ſomething may turn out in my favour: I have even juſt now received a meſſage from her, deſir⯑ing to ſee me in the evening, on particular buſineſs.— Who knows what may have happened? But be it as it may, I cannot reſolve to devote myſelf to another, 'till it be impoſſible for Narciſſa to be mine.

And your lordſhip is determined to decline the obliging offers of Mr. alderman Lombard, with regard to the money matters I was ſpeaking of?

If they are made on a preſumption that I ſhall ſerve him where I have neither the power nor incli⯑nation.

I am heartily ſorry for it, my lord; as this is not the way to pay off the mortgage on your eſtate.

Then it muſt remain unpaid, barriſter, 'till a more honourable method offers for its diſcharge.

His lordſhip is in one of his moral moods to day. —I muſt reſume the ſubject at a gayer moment.— And yet I'm half afraid he's loſt.—Theſe partial attachments to the ſex are the ruin of many a noble ſpirit. While he was only a general lover, he was the moſt enterprizing genius on the turf.—But now—'Tis ſtrange; but we ſometimes find it in the power of one virtuous woman to reform in a few months what the libertine part of both ſexes have been labouring to corrupt for years.—Theſe modeſt wenches make as many converts as the me⯑thodiſt parſons—Whom have we here?—the very ladies in queſtion, as I live!—and engaged in earneſt diſcourſe!—It may be worth liſtening to— I have an excellent knack of hearing at a diſtance.

And you are really determined, Narciſſa, to put this wild ſcheme in execution.

Poſitively, my dear Sophia.—I ſhall not break my word with Mr. Melmoth, if he keep his with me. We are to have your colonel's chaiſe wait⯑ing for us at the town's end. I ſhall juſt go to the rooms with you for form's ſake, and ſee you ſet in for cards, and then vaniſh; ſlip into a chair, and be with my ſpark in a twinkling: leaving you, my dear, or your colonel, to make the beſt apology you can for me to my mama.—I have left a ſhort one indeed myſelf in a letter ſhe will find on her return in the evening.

As you have made me your confident, my dear, I ſhall not betray you. But I cannot ſay I ap⯑prove of this ſtep. Indeed I really think it unneceſ⯑ſary. I am certain your mama might be brought to give her conſent to your marriage.

Nay then there is the leſs harm, my dear, in going to be married without it. If ſhe has no ob⯑jections, you know, but what might be removed by ſolicitation, the ſolicitation would be merely a matter of form, a piece of childiſh ceremony.—Beſides, my dear Sophy, to anſwer all your petty ſcruples about diſobedience at once, I am determined on the thing preciſely, becauſe I would not be diſobe⯑dient.

Ay; make that out, Narciſſa.

Very plainly.—My mama has not yet poſitively told me ſhe would not have me marry Mr. Melmoth:—on the contrary, ſhe has hitherto encouraged his addreſſes: but as I ſhrewdly ſuſpect ſhe might tell me ſo in plain terms the next time we converſe on the ſubject, I don't intend to give her an opportunity of laying me under any ſuch injunction. —Becauſe, in that caſe, you know, it would be [66] downright diſobedience to act directly againſt her poſitive commands.

Well; for ſuch a mad-cap, thou art cer⯑tainly a very extraordinary caſuiſt.—So joy go with you.

I warrant it will. I only wiſh we may bring it back again; and make it laſt as long as the wed⯑ding ring and the parſon's benizon hold us together. —So come along.

So, ſo, ſo—Here's an affair broke out!— What will his ſcrupulous lordſhip ſay to this?— Egad, we juſt nicked the time. The bird is feather⯑ed, and juſt on the wing. But the lime and twigs ſhall be ready, my dear. No, no, my pretty flut⯑terer, you muſt not take flight, and leave us yet, neither.—What if I worked by ſtratagem, and en⯑trapped my little lapwing in her own ſnare!— Her chairmen may poſſibly be prevailed on to miſtake the place of rendezvous.—If I can but decoy her to his lordſhip's apartments, he may ſet her at liberty himſelf, if he chuſes it. It is a pretty Canary-bird, and would become a gilt cage mightily.

SCENE III. Mrs. Mildmay's Lodgings.

To Scotland! and with young Mel⯑moth—raſh, unadviſed girl!—Diſpatch ſomebody to colonel Camply. Tell him I muſt ſpeak with him inſtantly, on buſineſs of the utmoſt cenſequence.

Yes, Madam.

Oh! Narciſſa!

But why, Madam, ſhould you make yourſelf ſo very uneaſy? Mr. Melmoth is a worthy young gentleman.

Talk not to me of his worth—

And the young people, heaven bleſs them! were paſſionately fond of one another.

Mild. Ah! too paſſionately—

Then Mr. Melmoth is—

You know not what he is, Sift: nor can I tell you.

My lord Courtly, Madam.

Shew him up.

See that colonel Camply be found immediately, Sift.

Oh! my lord, I am the moſt terrified and diſtreſſed of women. The delight of my heart, the wiſh of yours, my darling Narciſſa—

Narciſſa! what of Narciſſa, Madam? you alarm me beyond expreſſion. Surely no accident—

Yes. the moſt dreadful accident!— in the moſt ſudden and unexpected manner is ſhe gone off with young Melmoth for Scotland.

Then are my hopes at an end.

Not ſo, my lord, if their deſign be prevented. They cannot be got far as yet. Your lordſhip will aſſiſt me in immediately purſuing them.

If my preventing Narciſſa's marriage with Mr. Melmoth, might induce her to beſtow her heart on me, Madam, you might command me: but I fear hearts are not to be transferred, and ſhe has now [68] given a ſufficient proof on whom ſhe has freely be⯑ſtowed hers. I cannot therefore think of robbing another of what he has ſo good a right to poſſeſs, becauſe I had not the merit of a ſucceſsful rival.

Alas, my lord, Mr. Melmoth can be no rival.

You flattered me indeed, Madam, with the diſcovery of a circumſtance in my favour.

It is this very circumſtance, my lord, that aggravates my preſent diſtreſſes; as I now fear, that, inſtead of contributing to your happineſs, it will only tend to my miſery.

What is it then, Madam?

In the preſent ſituation of things, my lord, I cannot refuſe to impart it to you; though I have reaſon for concealing it a while from all the world beſides.—Mr. Melmoth is—Narciſſa's bro⯑ther.

Narciſſa's brother!

By the moſt providential means, I this day diſcovered it; therefore, my lord—

Nay, Madam, if that be the caſe;—but are you certain I

Moſt certain;—therefore make no delay. Narciſſa cannot be Mr. Melmoth's; ſhe may be yours, and be happy.—All depends on the moment.

Then depend on't, Madam, I will give you a good account of my time. Your ſervants will aſſiſt me to procure the means of purſuit, and be aſſured you ſhall ſpeedily hear from me.

One thing more, my lord. If either perſuaſion or force may effect their return, let the circumſtance of their affinity be as yet kept a ſecret from them.— I have particular reaſons for it.

I ſhall obey your commands, Madam.

Who waits there? John! Thomas! attend upon his lordſhip.—Well, now I am ſome⯑thing eaſier. The inconſiderate ſugitives will be [69] overtaken. Inconſiderate indeed! but alas, had it been otherwiſe, how innocent had been their crime! Yet happy is it, that, through all the various acci⯑dents of life, there is an over-ruling providence, which often preſerves us from the ill conſequences even of our own indiſcretions.

SCENE IV. A Street near Lord Courtly's Houſe.

This way, Patrick.—

1ſt Chairm. Which way your honour pleaſes. 2d Chairm. Ay, I thought young madam would not be after going out of town to night.

What a round-about way have theſe fel⯑lows taken! but I was only bid to follow them, and and ſo, ite, pre, ſequar.—

— Hey day! they turn into a houſe!—Sure that is more than we bargained for.—I hope there is no miſtake here.—Drinking to beſure depreſſes the judgment, though it elevates the imagination: if potation, however, deprives a man of his diſcretion, it gives him courage to face the peril it leads him into. Not that I am ſo tipſy as to be very valiant neither, though I did get rather a cup too much in waiting, ere the dog-trotting ſcoundrels were put in motion.—But I have claſſical authority for taking a chearful glaſs in the evening, Ut vites poenam de polibus incipe caenam.

Syllogiſm! What are you doing here? Where is Narciſſa? Did not I bid you watch her coming out of the rooms, and follow her chair?

You did, Sir, and ſo I have. It is juſt gone into that houſe.

Into a houſe! you muſt have miſtaken ſome other chair for her's. What a blockhead! why you're half drunk;—you can't ſee.

No, no, Sir, it is no deception; as ſure as you ſtand there, I ſaw the chair, that brought Nar⯑ciſſa from the rooms, go into that houſe.

Is't poſſible! For heaven's ſake who lives there?

Why, Sir, that I was poſing myſelf about, when you came in.

As I live, lord Courtly's old lodgings.

Yes, Sir, and now I recollect, I believe his new ones too. I think I ſaw ſome of his ſervants about the door to-day.

Was ſhe brought hither by her own di⯑rection?

Faith, Sir, I can't tell; but it certainly muſt be with her own conſent, or otherwiſe ſhe would have prevented it.

And why did not you?

Nay, Sir, you know my orders were only to ſee the chair ſafe where it was carried to, and there to leave it. So, Sir, I walked a chalk after it, as ſtill as a mouſe all the way.

But you knew whither it was going, why did not you make the fellows keep ſtrait for⯑ward.

Upon my word, Sir, I found it a little dif⯑ficult to keep quite ſtrait forward myſelf. Beſides, Sir, I thought theſe fellows muſt know their way about the town better than I did.

What can be the meaning of this? Sure Narciſſa does not intend to jilt me! to give her hand to lord Courtly after all! O no! that is impoſſible.

Impoſſible! ah, Sir! ſo you ſaid, you know, when you heard of your father's death; but, under correction, Sir, it is juſt as poſſible for a young lady to give away her heart, as for an old gentleman to give up the ghoſt.—Inconſtancy and intemperance are both fatal in their conſequences;—

—But then thoſe conſequences are ſo very common, that there are matches broke off, and funerals performed to every part of England daily; and for that matter, Sir, under correction—

Ha! the door opens! ſtand back, Syllogiſm, ſomebody is coming.

Narciſſa and Furnival.

—I inſiſt upon going, Sir; let go my hand, Sir; What is the mean⯑ing of this inſolence?

You muſt not riſk the danger, Madam, of going at this time of night alone.

I can be no where in ſo much danger as in ſtaying with you.

Nay, but Mr. Melmoth will be here imme⯑diately, Madam.

He is here already, Sir.

Ha!

Oh! Mr. Melmoth what a villainous trick has been play'd us?

Pray, Sir, how came this lady here? and to what purpoſe?

You ſhou'd ask the one of the chairmen who brought her, Sir; and the other of the lady who doubtleſs directed them.

Come, Sir, no ſhuffling. How came you to mention my name, as a pretence for detaining [72] her?—Expect to be called to a ſevere account for this piece of treachery.

Faith, Sir, my deſign was merely to oblige my friend lord Courtly, in preventing the lady's elopement.

And what right had either you or he, Sir, to pry into, or controul her actions?

Nay, Sir, I ſhall not enter into the matter of right, as the lady has nothing to complain of, but being prevented committing an act of diſobedience.— But, yonder I ſee comes my lord himſelf with the ſer⯑vants of the family, to conduct the young lady home.

Confuſion! how cou'd we be thus be⯑tray'd?

Betray'd indeed! and by what infamous means! I did not think my lord Courtly cou'd have deſcended to ſuch baſeneſs, or my mama have abet⯑ted it. But they ſhall reap no advantage from the ſuc⯑ceſs of it.—Lead the way, Mr. Melmoth, and I'll follow you through all oppoſition.

Syllogiſm, ſtand to your arms.—

Yes, Sir, and I'll make any body elſe ſtand too, or fall, that offers to moleſt you.

Ha; Narciſſa! and Mr. Melmoth! fortu⯑nate encounter.—

Stand back till you are called for.

Perhaps not ſo fortunate as you imagine, my lord.—

For you I am ſure it is: and as for myſelf, the ſervice I may do you both, will at leaſt entitle me to your gratitude.

If you are ſerious, my lord, your abſurdity borders on impertinence; if you mean to be ironical you are extremely ridiculous.

I flatter myſelf, Madam, you will ſoon think otherwiſe; and that however unſucceſsful I have hitherto been, I ſhall, for my aſſiduity to night, be rewarded with your good opinion.

Indeed, my lord, you are egregiouſly miſtak⯑en. What extravagance! To employ your baſe para⯑ſite to decoy me to your houſe, and flatter yourſelf to obtain my good opinion of it. Indeed, indeed, my lord, this is one of the groſſeſt inſtances of ſelf-adula⯑tion I ever met with.

Decoy you to my houſe, Madam! I don't underſtand you.

Indeed, Madam!—

I can an⯑ſwer for his lordſhip's innocence in that particular.

Yes, yes, we ſhall certainly take your word for his innocence.

Be prepared, Sir, to anſwer for your own —But come, Narciſſa, —

we loſe time.

Let me intreat you not to be too precipitate. Mrs. Mildmay entreats, nay inſiſts that you will proceed no farther without conſulting your friends.—

One of which, I preſume, is to be your lordſhip. No, no, my lord, we have loſt too much time by your contrivance already.—Therefore ſtand aſide, if you pleaſe.—

Nay, but for your own ſakes.—

For our own ſakes, my lord, or yours! Ha, ha, ha!

This is no place to enforce my own preten⯑ions: I act now only in obedience to Mrs. Mildmay; who charged me, to ſay, that all laws human and di⯑vine, oppoſe your union.

Very pathetic indeed, my lord! Ha, ha, ha!

I muſt ſecond this motion.—

Yes, Sir, and as the lady is a minor, the laws of England too—

Oh, Sir, we ſhall not venture to break the laws of England, 'till we get into Scotland: ſo that you may ſpare your rhetorick.

On my honour, Madam, you cannot be the wife of Mr. Melmoth.

But I ſuppoſe I might be your's, my lord, if I aſpired to that dignity; and ſo in return for your extraordinary friendſhip I promiſe you, that when I find I cannot be Mr. Melmoth's, I will give my hand to your lordſhip.

If I ſhould take you at your word, Madam.

I will certainly keep it, and ſo now, I hope, you are ſatisfied.

But Narciſſa!

Your humble ſervant, my lord.

Mr. Melmoth!

My lord, your moſt obedient.—Come Narciſſa, we'll take this way—poor lord Courtly! Ha, ha, ha!

Madneſs and folly! How raſh and reſolute! At all hazard they muſt be prevented. Mrs. Mild⯑may muſt unfold the ſecret.—Advance there—Bar⯑riſter, purſue and detain them till I return with the lady's mother.

Follow me.

Hold, hold, Mr. Barriſter, not a ſtep farther, if you pleaſe—and you, gentle⯑men, keep back I charge you, as you ſet a ſtore by your reſpective pericraniums.—

What does the fellow mean?

I'll ſhew you that, Mr. Lawyer.

Do you ſee this curious piece of ca⯑ſuiſtry? it contains very weighty reaſons againſt you I aſſure you.

A blunderbuſs loaded with ſlugs, I ſuppoſe a powerful way of arguing indeed!

This, Sir, is the ultima ratio dialectici, and and is the moſt effectual argumentum ad hominem in the whole ſyſtem of logic.

Is the man mad, or drunk?

Be which he will, Sir, we had better retire, for fear of miſchief.

Yes, Sir, you had better take good advice, and retire, for fear of miſchief.

Wou'd the wretch commit murder?

Not downright murdrum, Mr. Barriſter, as you wou'd call it; but being a little inebriated, one's hand is liable to ſhake, and this damned trigger here has no catch.

Beſides, Sir, I am placed here upon duty; and by all the rules of war and logic, if you proceed vi et armis, I muſt oppoſe you by the ſame mode of ratiocination; there⯑fore give up the point, ye ſcoundrels,

or I will let fly ſuch a ſhower of majors and minors among you, that ſhall make you tremble for the conſequences.

What, all gone! then I think I may as well withdraw my plea too. His lordſhip will certainly be nonſuited.

So! the enemy hath made his retreat, and the day's my own. Egad I think I have diſplayed my prowiſs pretty well here.—I hope by this time my general hath carried off the ſpoils of the field, and then I ſhall have nothing to do but make an end of my ſupper, and ſing Te deum for the victory— with a health to the King.—Tol de rol, tol de rol.—

SCENE the Parade.

THAT was unlucky, colonel—and ſo the young folks were intercepted in their flight.

By the lady's mother, Sir; who, being early informed of their intention, was by the aid and advice of lord Courtly at the place of rendezvous be⯑fore they ſet off. For my own part, apprehenſive that my aſſiſtance would be called for, I purpoſely kept out of the way.

And how takes my kinſman his rival's in⯑terpoſition in this affair? Have you ſeen him to day?

Juſt now; and horribly mortified at his diſappointment, I aſſure you. He had juſt diſpatch'd a note to lord Courtly.

A challenge! ha! colonel!—a mettled ſpark! But we muſt have no fighting, if it can be de⯑cently prevented: the conſequences may be fatal.

I don't ſee how Mr. Melmoth can recede, general; he muſt call his lordſhip to account for his laſt night's miſbehaviour.

Well, but you may be his ſecond, colonel, and prolong the ceremonials 'till I have had ſome talk with the young lady's mother. I promiſed yeſ⯑terday to endeavour to conciliate matters with her re⯑lations, had ſhe gone off with my kinſman to Scot⯑land; [77] I can do no leſs than try how far my influence may extend now. If Mrs. Mildmay's objections to young Melmoth be merely founded on his ſuppoſed want of fortune, they are readily obviated; and if lord Courtly be as you ſay, a man of ſenſe and principle, he will give up the point; and no longer endeavour to divide two young people, whoſe hearts ſeem form'd for each other. O! here comes Mr. Alderman Lombard.

I had a meeting with him laſt night, to ſettle the affair of my executorſhip; when I took an opportunity to mention yours with his daughter, Sophia; as alſo your electioneering buſineſs; in which he does not meet with the encouragement he expected; ſo that you may not find him ſo refractory as you imagined.—I have taken ſome ſteps towards your reconciliation.

This is ſo kind and obliging in you, ge⯑neral—

Nay, no compliments, my dear colonel; while dead to family connexions myſelf, I live but for the ſervice of my friends.

Good-morrow, Mr. Alderman.—

Good-morrow to you, general.—(to Camply) your humble ſervant, Sir.

Colonel Camply, Mr. Lombard, a gentle⯑man extremely deſirous of a more intimate acquaint⯑ance with you.

I know it, Sir.—Tho' a ſtranger to his per⯑ſon, I am none to his name, and pretenſions.—

To both which, Sir, I hope you will ſoon be reconciled.

I don't know that, Sir.—You ſet up for a borough, it ſeems, that I want to get for myſelf.

I do, Sir, at the general requeſt of the con⯑ſtituents.

And you put up for a daughter too, whom perhaps I have a mind to keep to myſelf.

What, if you can diſpoſe of her to advan⯑tage, and make her happy in a good huſband, Mr. Lombard! No, no. I dare ſay you are too good a father for that.

Why, to be ſure, general, if I could promote her happineſs, and my influence in the borough at the ſame time—

Both which I dare ſay you will, in concilia⯑ting matters with my friend, the colonel. You own, Mr. Lombard, the force of the arguments I made uſe of laſt night.—I ſhall now, therefore, leave the diſcuſ⯑ſion of the matter to yourſelves; having ſome buſi⯑neſs of conſequence to diſpatch elſewhere. Mr. Lom⯑bard, your moſt obedient.—

General, your ſervant.—Well, young gentle⯑man, what is it you have to propoſe?

Sir, if you pleaſe to ſtep to my lodging, we may there talk the matter over a little.

Look'ye, Sir, if you love my daughter, you muſt give up the borough.

Sir, I have the higheſt regard for both, and doubt not I ſhall be able to ſatisfy you.

I am not ſo ſoon ſatisfied, Sir.—

This way, Sir, if you pleaſe.—

My daughter or the borough, Sir, —take your choice—Sophy or Gluttonbury—mind, I ſtick to that.

SCENE II. Mrs. Mildmay's.

Well, Sift, and can you learn whether the ſtory Mr. Melmoth hath told Narciſſa be true.

O lord, Madam, it is exactly as I gueſs'd yeſterday. What Mr. Melmoth told Narciſſa, Mr. Syllogiſm told me; but I knew it was a ſib the mo⯑ment I heard it.

But how are you aſſur'd of it to⯑day!

From colonel Camply's own mouth, madam; who call'd me into the parlour this morning, and be⯑gan to catechiſe me like a ſchool-maſter. Mrs. Sift, ſays he, what makes you abroad ſo early? What, your ladies have ſent you out upon the enquiry, I ſuppoſe, I know they are curious and inquiſitive.—Indeed, Sir, ſays I, you know no lady in our houſe half ſo inquiſi⯑tive as myſelf. Well, ſays he, what's the news then, at home? Why, Sir, ſays I, we hear that Mr. Mel⯑moth's father is dead, and has diſinherited him.— Diſinherited him! ſays he, an idle ſtory, Sift, an idle ſtory, there is nothing in it.—So I thought, an pleaſe your honour, ſaid I, for I underſtood Mr. Melmoth was ſon to the ſtrange gentleman who viſited you yeſterday. Ay, Sift, ſays he, while that gentleman lives, Mr. Melmoth's fortunes are in the hands of a father.—Oh, ma'am, I'm poſitively certain it is as I firſt ſuggeſted.—

Then ſo far all is well; but did you learn nothing more?

Oh, yes, ma'am; you wanted to know if the gentleman was married or not: but that ſeems to be a doubt.

A doubt! Did colonel Camply ſay it was a doubt!

No; madam, I did not think that a proper queſtion to put to the colonel. But Mrs. Tiptoe, his honour's houſe-keeper, with whom I had a little confab afterwards, over-heard the gentleman tell her maſter yeſterday that he was married.

How then is it a doubt?—

Oh no! my fears are true, and I muſt ſtill be wretched.

Why, it ſeems, madam, the gentleman has loſt his wife.

Loſt her! How?

Nay, ma'am, I know nothing more than that he can't find her; ſo that at leaſt ſhe is loſt to him. He has not ſeen her, I find, theſe twelve years paſt though, by his own account, which is a little extra⯑ordinary, he has been looking for her almoſt from one end of the world to the other.

Good heavens! my hopes revive.

The colonel, adviſes him, if he don't find her ſoon, to look out for another: but he is one of your conſtant ſwains it ſeems; and declares, that if his firſt love cannot be found, ſhe ſhall certainly be his laſt.— Whether the gentleman will keep his word or not, is another affair. But this is all I could learn of the matter, madam, as it ſtands at preſent.

I am ſatisfied.

Is he then true to one he thought unfaithful? and can he ſtill remem⯑ber me with tenderneſs?

Go, leave me, Sift; I ſee Narciſſa coming.—

Well, Narciſſa, I hope, that, on reflection, you are convinc'd of the danger and impropriety of your be⯑haviour. Think, my dear, into what frightful perils your indiſcretion had betray'd you. Believe me, child, ſuch unadvis'd proceeding, differs little from wilful diſobedience.—

Indeed, madam, I ſhudder at the reflection, and am hardly recover'd from the terrour into which your relation had thrown me.—But, with regard to Mr. Melmoth's affinity, how was it poſſible for me, to have any ſuſpicion of it?

It certainly was not: but, in a matter of ſo much importance, you ſhould not have acted ſo precipitately.

Nor ſhould I, mama, had not you been ſo much on the reſerve, and ſpoken of Mr. Melmoth ſo diſreſpectfully yeſterday morning.—But, for the fu⯑ture, I am all obedience.—How would you have me behave to him now?—as you ſaid ſo little to him laſt night, he will undoubtedly make me a viſit this morn⯑ing. —How am I to reſiſt his ſolicitations, without giving him my reaſons for it.

Cannot you turn the converſation on another ſubject? I ſhall now very ſoon come to an ex⯑planation with your father.

My father! madam.

Yes, Narciſſa, that long-loſt father, whom you have heard me ſo often lament, is now in Bath. I ſaw him yeſterday by accident, and to-day in⯑tend to procure an interview; which ſhould have been over, before I had imparted this circumſtance, had not your laſt night's adventure anticipated the diſ⯑covery of Mr. Melmoth's being your brother.

But, is it not ſtrange, madam, that he ſhould ſay nothing to me of his father's arrival? But, on the contrary, ſhould tell me he was dead, and had diſin⯑herited him?

I cannot divine his reaſons for ſuch be⯑haviour. But, men in love, Narciſſa, are ſtrange creatures. He might do it, poſſibly, to make a trial of your regard for him.—

It muſt have been a ſcheme ſure to miſlead me into that dangerous project of elopement, which might have prov'd ſo fatal.

It might be ſo; and therefore it would not be amiſs, my dear, if you affect to reſent it as ſuch; nay, I would have yon do it, were it only to give a preparatory check to his paſſion, before he knows that you're his ſiſter. It will be improper for me to ſee him yet, as well in regard to what has paſs'd, as to the danger of betraying a mother's affection too ſoon. I muſt ſpeak firſt with your father.

In what a ſituation then, madam, do you leave your Narciſſa? Is it for me to act ſo hard a part? Can I affect to treat with diſregard, the man ſo late I lov'd? Alas! I find his image wanting here. The. void it left, no brother can ſupply.—Oh! my poor heart!

I ſhare, my dear Narciſſa, your diſtreſs; and would not taſk you with a mother's weakneſs, But, for this once, call up your reſolution: an expla⯑nation yet were premature.—But here he comes—I muſt retire.

Then let my duty teach me to diſſemble.

Not at all, Sir, I never was in better ſpirit in my life.

Indeed! I wiſh I could ſay ſo—but our unlucky diſappointment!

Unlucky!

Cruelly ſo: we might, ere this, have been half-way on our journey; and, in a few hours more, at the end of it;—where we might have put it out of the power of accident to part us.

For that very reaſon, Mr. Melmoth, may it not be as well we were prevented?—What! to be tied together for life! never to be parted! Might we not, in time, have been tir'd of one another; and, after that, have been moſt diſagreeable companions?

Glad we were prevented! tir'd of one ano⯑ther! diſagreeable companions! How different is this language, and this behaviour, Narciſſa, to that of yeſterday?

What if I ſhould have chang'd my mind ſince yeſterday, Sir?

Chang'd your mind, Narciſſa!

Is it impoſſible, Sir?—Did you never hear of a woman's changing her mind?

Yes, madam, I have heard of wonderful changes in women's minds:—but you are not in ear⯑neſt, Narciſſa?

Indeed, Sir, I am at preſent in no diſpoſition for jeſting.—

And you are really glad we were prevented going to Scotland to be married? Surely you diſſem⯑ble with me?

Not in that, believe me, Sir.—I would not have gone off with you to Scotland, and been married to you, for the world.

Nay, then there is a change indeed.—But, for heaven's ſake, why? What can have work'd this aſtoniſhing alteration? What have I done, or ſaid, or thought? How am I chang'd, that ſuch a change ſhould have happened in you? Some villain, envious of my happineſs, muſt have unjuſtly traduc'd, and blacken'd my reputation.

Why, ſomething has been ſaid of you, it muſt be confeſs'd. But it was ſo far from be⯑ing to your diſadvantage, that, had I never had any knowledge of you before, it would have induc'd me to love and eſteem you as a brother.—But, with re⯑gard to your own behaviour to me, Mr. Melmoth, I [84] muſt own it has been very exceptionable. How could you tell me, Sir, that your father was dead?

He is, Narciſſa.—

Fie, fie, Mr. Melmoth.—I am well aſſur'd your father is ſtill living; and, muſt freely declare, that were there not another man in the world, I would not give my hand to his ſon.—

—Now, I hope, my mama will be ſatisfied.

Do I live? Am I awake?—

—Was that Narciſſa? or am I Frederic Melmoth? What can be the meaning of all this?—If ſhe be loſt, I know at leaſt who to thank for it.—Lord Courtly ſhall pay dear for this officiouſneſs. —I muſt and will have this behaviour explained.

SCENE III. Another apartment in the ſame houſe.

Pleaſe to walk this way, Sir.—Mrs. Mild⯑may deſires to be at preſent excus'd; but my young miſtreſs will wait on you immediately.

Madam, your moſt obedient.

—Another painful taſk! Is this my father? certainly it is—he ſtrikes me with an awe I never felt before.

I am ſorry, madam, I cannot have the pleaſure of ſeeing Mrs. Mildmay.

You have then buſineſs with my mama, Sir.

I have, madam; but, as you are princi⯑pally concerned in it, I ſhall, with your leave, impart it to you.

If it be of immediate conſequencc, Sir— otherwiſe I ſhould rather—

Nay, but young lady, it is of conſequence, and to you too: I am not to learn, with regard to your late generous behaviour to Mr. Melmoth.—I am a relation of his; and, apprehending your laſt night's diſappointment might have ſome diſagreeable con⯑ſequences, which I am able to remove, I have taken the liberty of the preſent intruſion.

This openneſs of behaviour on your part, Sir, would be a reproach to any mean reſerve on mine. But I am only at liberty to ſay, that the diſ⯑appointment, as you call it, was a fortunate one.

Is it poſſible you can think ſo? Then muſt I have been miſinform'd.

You will excuſe me, Sir; but my mama hath fully convinc'd me, that my intended marriage with Mr. Melmoth, would have been highly improper.

Improper!

Dreadful!—

You aſtoniſh me, madam.—Dreadful! What new folly hath he committed, then? to what baſeneſs deſcended, that ſhould make an alliance with him deſerving ſuch an epithet?

Don't miſtake me, Sir;—I have ſtill the higheſt eſteem for Mr. Melmoth; but my mama—

Objects to his want of fortune; I know it. But if I convince her ſhe is miſtaken.—

Yet even then, Sir, notwithſtanding the ſincere regard I ſtill entertain for Mr. Melmoth, and the great reſpect which, though a ſtranger, I feel for yon, I could not be induc'd to liſten to the ſolicitations of either.—No, Sir, I never can marry any man who calls you father.—But I can explain myſelf no far⯑ther. My mama is, by this time, diſengag'd, and will herſelf attend you.

What is all this? Reſpect for me!—not marry any man who calls me father!—I am not young [86] Melmoth's father; and if I were, what then?—unleſs —but here comes the mother; ſhe may ſpeak more plainly.

I beg pardon, madam, but—

Sure—that face—I—

Mr. Wildman!

Her voice too!—Gracious powers!—It is —'tis ſhe—it is—it is—my wife.

Yes; I am your wife, your once be⯑loved wife.

And ſtill belov'd!—Come to my arms, thou long-loſt, injur'd woman.—

Oh, my wife!

And art thou ſtill my husband?—I thought thou hadſt forgotten me.

Forgotten thee! Oh, never, never.

Haſt thou forgiven me too?—

Forgiven thee, love!—Why, thou didſt never wrong me.

Indeed, I did not; even when you thought me guilty, I was innocent.

I know thou waſt; and 'tis in knowing that, that I've ſo long been wretched.—Yes, thou waſt in⯑nocent; but it was I, 'twas I, forgot the father and the huſband, and wrong'd both thee and thine.

Yet, I was indiſcreet, and much to blame.

Idle recrimination! no; you never were to blame—and yet, your name is Mildmay.

Nay, turn not from me—I perceive your doubts; but they are vain and groundleſs; my name's aſſum'd like thine.—For your embraces [87] form'd, and yours alone, theſe have been widow'd arms e'er ſince you leſt me.

My faithful wife! Come then again to mine, and dwell for ever there.

Alas, my love, this meeting's like a viſion. You ſeem as one new riſen from the dead.—

'Tis the re-union of departed ſouls, favour'd by heav'n to meet again above, with joy unut⯑terable.—

Oh! let us, then, thank heav'n for ſuch a meeting.—

I cannot thank it better than I do. Heav'n knows the heart; and, from the fulneſs of my pre⯑ſent joy, ſees mine o'erflow with gratitude.

Narciſſa, come, and take a father's bleſſing.

Is this my daughter too!

Oh! my father.

I will, but need not, bleſs thee. Heaven hath been ſo much kinder to thee than thy father.

Welcome, my Frederic, to a mother's arms.

Do you, then, give your daughter to my wiſhes? Thus let me thank you for the precious gift. —

—But will Narciſſa ratify the grant?

Indeed, brother— I know not what to ſay.—

Brother! Narciſſa!

Whence this miſtake?—

We have alas! no ſon: our Frederic died, poor boy, long ſince, in India.

Then have my hopes and fears alike been fruitleſs.

—Again I feel my ſwelling heart replete.—

How! what!

And you are not my brother then at laſt?

Your brother, Narciſſa! No; dear as I might love a ſiſter, I would not be your brother for the world. I ſee through the whole of your ſtrange behaviour now.

—This young gentle⯑man, my dear, is ſon to a diſtant relation lately dead: to whoſe fortune he is heir, and to whoſe laſt will I am executor.

Hoity toity! here's a tangled ſkain un⯑ravell'd.

—And general Melmoth is Nar⯑ciſſa's father!

Lord Courtly, madam.

Ladies and gentlemen your ſervant. Hap⯑pily aſſembled, I hope.—[turning to Young Melmoth.]— I preſume, Mr. Melmoth is, by this time, convinc'd of the impropriety of the angry billet he ſent me this morning.

The miſtake we both lay under, my lord, at once juſtifies your behaviour and my reſentment.

Fortunately for me, however, that miſtake drew a promiſe from the amiable Narciſſa; which, I flatter myſelf, ſhe is too generous to forget.

It is true, my lord, I did promiſe to give you my hand, if Mr. Melmoth could not accept it: and, if you had come ſome few minutes ago, I ſhould have been terribly puzzl'd what to ſay to you. But I can now keep my word, without your reaping any advantage from my promiſe.—

Madam! Mrs. Mildmay, what have I to hope?

Indeed, my lord, my preſent perplex⯑ity of joy and ſurprize, makes me as incapable of ex⯑preſſing my obligations, as the event puts it out of my power to requite them. Narciſſa is not Mr. Mel⯑moth's ſiſter; but, inſtead of a brother, ſhe hath found a father, and I a huſband; to whoſe guidance and protection we now are ſubject.

With your leave then, madam, Mr. Mel⯑moth ſhall be yet your ſon.

Then have I found, inſtead of loſt, a father.

As to the preference I once gave your lordſhip—

It lays me under an obligation, madam, that, in the preſent circumſtances, makes all apology needleſs.

Generouſly ſaid; is not it, Mr. Melmoth? —Indeed, my lord, I wiſh you a better wife than I ſhould have made you.

And I you, madam, all happineſs, with a huſband that deſerves you.

I ſhall endeavour to merit the compliment, my lord.

Your ſervant, gentlemen and ladies. You ſeem to be mighty well pleas'd here: my daughter Sophy and the colonel have let me a little into ſome⯑thing—

Oh, Camply! oh, my friend, behold my injur'd, much-wrong'd wife and daughter!

Is it poſſible!

How, how! the widow Mildmay general Melmoth's wife!

I ſee you're fill'd with wonder! I could indeed, relate a tale moſt wonderful, but that exceſs of joy prevents its utterance.

Well then, we'll wait, general, 'till you are a little more ſorrowful.—In the mean time, I muſt in⯑form you, that I have ſettled matters with your friend Camply.

I am glad of it, Sir.

Ay, ay, my daughter and the borough go together. There, take her, colonel; and make her juſt as good a huſband as ſhe proves a wife—for my own part, I ſhall defer my matrimonial project to another opportunity: and, I think, it would not be amiſs if his lordſhip follows my example.

Sir, I hope I ſhall always have generoſity of temper enough, to rejoice in the happineſs of others, though not directly conducive to my own.

Such a diſpoſition, my lord, cannot go long unrewarded. Your lordſhip will do me honour in permitting me to cultivate a farther acquaintance with it. But, from the events of to-day, we may ſee how ineffectual are all attempts to ſeparate thoſe whom love hath united, and heaven preſerv'd for each other.